alberich

                             he clears his throat , euphonic laughter shortlived from a disingenuous mouth :         ❛      my ,    i fail to see why we still can’t be .      ❜ 

                             𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐑        &&.        𝐏𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 ,      filled by a piceous ,      rotten lacquer of a milled god on the bartop.       Kaeya’s glass lingers centimeters from his lips ,     the tilted wine teetering from the furrow of its rim        &&.        spilling with the monotony of his expression .       𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 ?       TOO WISTFUL A THING    /    too clamorous a question for what’s spoken amongst him        &&.        the bard who seldom he’s seen in 𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥’𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞 on nights harangued by the shadow of Diluc’s absence       (     still the tavern careers nautically     as if set on a supernal tide in which his forebears may visit        &&.        imbibe the gaudy rejoicing of drunkards with exuberance        &&.        eccentricity while the liquor finally padding on his tongue dizzies him        &&.        the typography labeling the lined bottles on the cedar shelves behind Charles soften into cottony ,    illegible hazes for his eye .     )      

                            𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥  —   neither is Kaeya .       He doesn’t have to voice his suspicions of a god’s shortcomings five hundred years too soon when Dvalin’s to his beck        &&.        call .        He does not want to face his own reality yet :      what does the ameno archon possibly know of him ,    then ?       Are their secrets both like snake’s shed skin ,    waiting only for the serpent itself to be found ?       

                           He sets his glass on the counter        &&.        as Charles slides over to refill it he raises a hand signaling that’s the last he’ll have for the night .        ❛      Would we have been friends ?       Well ,    I got along well enough with most the people I met .       I don’t see why not .       ❜        

                            𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 perhaps serves to hide some murderous intent as the harbinger slithers his way into the booth       &     situates at his hip,       the 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚗  —   angel's share,       the bar,       a disgracefully withering tree in a manmade heaven  —  turning 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝:       much too bitter for the tip of his tongue,       suddenly,       &        he sets his glass coldly atop the table.        He hums,       eying the floors dusted        &        clean even at this hour,       the vintage wood        &        ornate wainscotting adorning the walls.        

                            It's not that he recognizes the portrait forebears hung on the upstairs floors out of the eyes of 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚜 entwining himself in a legacy of blood        &        redeemable only in blood     or that he has any respect for the man behind the counter who has rag in hand         &        shines an empty wine glass as though he could change the shape of the bowl if he commits enough in so much as the ghost of the man that sometimes peers through the terse pinch of his brows     as if the strix himself a supplicant of 𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬,       a spectre of lines at corners of his eyes        &         the details that have escaped him in the solemn passage of years twisting         &         righting in the eviscerating pulse of the gaslamps like a 𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 for him to reach out descry that stop him from dirtying the floorboards with 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞’𝐬 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝.        Kaeya flicks the corner of a coin against the bottom of the cup,       a lost toll drowned in the gossip of drunkards.        

                             @windsettled​ said:        ❝      You seem troubled my friend,      could it be that you've been having issues with your poems again?    ❞

                             lilted laughter escapes his chest.        hearty        &        fecund with illusive liveliness.        his chin digs into his palm        &        he lowers his hand onto the desk.        peeling his gaze from the flowered traffic climbing about the street like a windtilted garden        &        likewise from his thoughts with a jovial grin,      this habitual slinking transition,      a cognitive memory.        he is writing his name in the ancient orthography harbored by the rich alluvial of 𝐈𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐥 trees,      the abated dialect whispered by the last few obelisks        &        among curious marble architecture rent with ruin.        he is sliding on another shirt or a different boot.        The motion is all the same.       

Barbatos,   floated  with   grace   as   he   played  with  the  half  empty  wine  glasses   that  he  held  in  place.    Mondstadt   had   been  driven  into  a   dark  shamble   and   yet   who  would  have   thought   that   ,   even  in  it’s   darkest   hours,  there’s  still    people   who  plans   to  put  them  further   in  shambles. 

One  lone  khaenri'ahan   descendant  mingled   with   his  people,  playing  the   innocent   act ,  loving   and   being  loved   but   when  the   night  is   at  it’s  peak,  he   would  plan  a  course  of  action  to   his   revenge   for   his  people,  and  the  Lost  God  could   only   laugh ,   such  deceit   makes   his   cruelty   lust  upon.   How  many  heart  aches  could  this  man  even  create   once   his   facade   had   been  liberate? 

“ for someone  who seeks   for    revenge,  you  do  seemed  to  enjoy   being   around  with  your mondstadt  friends. “ Barbatos  stated   darkly.   “  or   are   you   starting  to  feel   a  ‘ change   of   heart ‘ ,  little   prince ? “ 

                              [       the drunks had not yet washed up in cobbled corridors        &        the sun sat red        &        elliptic under the reef of terracotta shingles where in the old stone walls of the alley shadows make a gothic harp of cellar windows across the floors that paled        &        deepened        &        paled        &        deepened like the heart of the city their god had come to lay claim to at last.       

                             𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐔𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐓.        a beautiful city built in the ramparts of its forebears gilded in tudor architecture,      all history lodged in limestone brick,      legacy redolent in the evening dew of fresh blooming flowers.        living        &        flourishing in the incavated silhouette of its archon.       ]          how the first few years had made his skin crawl.        primordial,      all - seeing,      all - knowing.        the first sight of the cathedral with its stainedglass eyes that followed his every step.        he had not been wrong,      then.        to think they did.       

                             ❝      barbatos...      ❞       he mutters.        after a moment,      much clearer:        ❝      𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐬.      ❞