* 事物都有两面性。

₊˚ 𓏲ּ𝄢 Я волк в овечьей шкуре, капля яда в прекрасном вине… AMONG THE MONSTERS, I AM WELL HIDDEN ──────── [ . . . ] a highly private &. mutual only original interpretation of THE REGRATOR, foremost known as ‘ 𝐏𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐄 ’, the ninth fatui harbinger, ostensible aristocrat of the Fontaine's Court &. member of Snezhnaya's Imperial Court. entirely lifted from miHoYo's genshin impact, &. adapted to a broad fantasy genre. note that my characterization is completely detached from the source &. diverge significantly from his canon counterpart— i ask you to respect this, as well as my world-building. UNAFFILIATED WITH THE GENSHIN FANDOM AS A WHOLE &. FRIENDS-ONLY.

THIS CHARACTERIZATION IS SALIANTLY HEADCANON BASED. inspiration is to be drawn primarily from personal metas / researches, such as slavic folklore, commedia dell'arte &. varied medias. IT IS REQUIRED TO THOROUGLY READ THROUGH MY DOSSIER &. HCS BEFORE FOLLOWING / INTERACTING. ——— do not interact as a minor.

⋆꙳༄˖•❅‧*₊⋆ blog established: august 2022, blog re-stablished: may 2026.

   𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟     ,   the great tragedy of idealism. fighting for a world where favor is not the purview of the divine but of human merit. a lavish lifestyle, extravagant &. ostentatious, masquerading a inner tapestry of rot. the removing of masks ad infinitum. a wolf in sheeps' clothing. the inexorable flow of time wrapping the familiar self into a stranger, til one becomes the very monster that they initially set out to destroy: a dragon lurking in his celestia l tower, hoarding his empire of gold.

   ❅ ∗ .  ⸺ ​🇱​​🇮​​🇳​​🇰​​🇸​ : headcanon list (must read before following!)

𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖 ▼

❅ * 𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋-𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍.   /  requested by @fatedevour.

[ 🎐 ] :ㅤ𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃, 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐑 𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐂𝐄, 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐄?

Currently, there is no specific melody or voice that he associates with peace. If anything, what most unsettles him is complete silence. It evokes memories of the tundra, where, in the absence of a blizzard's howl, the snowy plains became unnervingly still — like an oppressively quiet tomb.

As a result, Pantalone makes it a point to always have music playing somewhere nearby. A gramophone frequently fills his office with sound as he labors, while softer tunes accompany his evenings spent by the fireplace in his bedchamber, where he often sits absorbed in a particularly engrossing book with a cup of tea in hand. Being envelopped in silence leaves him alone with his thoughts, something he desperately wishes to avoid — he finds comfort in spending time in the Doctor's laboratory for this very reason, where the bustle of the Segments moving to and fro and the constant hum of machinery lend the cold, sterile facility an unexpected sense of life. He is well aware that most of his colleagues would disagree and typically steer clear of the place whenever possible, nonetheless, on the rare occasions the Regrator has free time to spare, he persists in lingering near the Doctor’s office. More than anything, he treasures the exceptional instances when the good Doctor acquiesces to play the piano privately, as they engage in friendly conversation and mutual companionship.

Although this passion is mainly indulged within his manor in Fontaine, Pantalone has always held a special fondness for the cello and its rich, resonant vibrato. He prefers playing alone, with no other spectator but himself  ; it provides him a channel for conveying his stifled emotions that mere words can no longer express, allowing him to shape them into an art form layered with hidden meaning, now that he refuses to sing anymore. 

As mentioned in a previous post, Pantalone possesses the voice of a tenor. Initially, he first learned how to sing when he discovered he could lull his younger sibling to sleep by humming gently when the pain from his illness flared and became too much to bear. Over time, it became a habit, encouraged by his brother's endless compliments and constant requests for another song, all while he was speaking so optimistically of dreams for the future, as though his illness was not destined to claim his life at a premature age.

MISHA: У тебя прекрасный голос, █████. Когда мы станем взрослыми, тебе стоит стать певцом! █████: Я… я не знаю… Я никогда по-настоящему не задумывался о том, чем буду заниматься в будущем… MISHA: Если ты станешь певцом, обещаю, что буду приходить на каждое твоё выступление! █████: (With a smile that is both fond and tinged with sadness, he affectionately ruffles his brother's hair) …А ты? Кем ты хочешь стать, когда вырастешь? MISHA: Я? Хм… Я всегда хотел стать врачом. Или актёром!

Following his brother's sudden loss, singing shed its innocence and evolved into a medium for self-soothing, before eventually transforming into a tool for currying favors. By the time he reached adulthood, he abandoned it entirely, finding more comfort in instrumental performance. At his core, Pantalone is an innately artistic individual, most deeply drawn to music and dramatic stagecraft.

❅ * 𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋-𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍.   /  requested by @serapime & @heartinhands.

[ 📿 ] :ㅤ𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐑 𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎?

As previously mentioned, Pantalone refrains from shaking hands with others or passing objects across a doorway's threshold. In Slavic folklore, the threshold is regarded as a sacred boundary — a liminal space separating the safety of the home from the outside world, where household spirits ['domovoi'] or malevolent entities are believed to dwell. Therefore, engaging in handshakes, embraces, conversations, or passing items through doorways is considered inappropriate, as it is believed to bring about conflict, bad luck, or malicious spirits into the house. Likewise, standing on the threshold itself is avoided. In older traditions, it was linked to the burial of ancestral ashes beneath the entrance, making it a place worthy of respect. To honor these customs, greetings and farewells are exchanged only once both people are fully inside or outside the home, and objects are handed over only after crossing the threshold. From a young age, his father instilled these beliefs in him, and over time, they no longer felt like superstitions but rather became deeply ingrained instincts. Both out of a profound deference for the deceased and a genuine dread of evil spirits, he never questioned the tradition and continues to follow it diligently to this day.

It is also worth noting that my Pantalone is a forty years old man, an age that is regarded as deeply inauspicious in Slavic culture. Raised within the Orthodox’s faith, he grew up with the belief that the fortieth day after death, commemorated through 'sorokoviny', signifies the soul's ultimate departure from the earthly realm. As a result, the number forty came to embody endings, and reaching that age has always felt like an unsettling reminder of his own mortality, a passage into mid-adulthood that also marks the beginning of borrowed time for every year thereafter. He does not ordinarily celebrate his birthday, and very few individuals even know the date of his birth. Nevertheless, he is acutely aware of the significance he attaches to his current age. To him, turning forty feels more like a cautionary milestone than a celebratory one, and he silently entertains the possibility that he may not live long enough to see his forty-first birthday.

Ironically, in the course of his plans within my lore, he does survive to reach forty-one. By then, he has attained immortality and power comparable to that of a god, only to be slain a few months later by the blade of @divitaclara’s Childe— not the Traveler. His death takes place in the depths of winter, at the dawn of a fresh year, shortly after his forty-first birthday, as though fate had merely deftly delayed its claim on his life rather than abandoned it, ( To Pantalone, however, it is still considered a victory and evidence of his ability to rewrite his own fate. )

Regarding daily rituals, as a child, █████ was always expected to commence the day with prayer before the household icon of the Tsaritsa, ere starting his routine chores. Even though Pantalone abandoned his faith long ago, the discipline of an early start that was imposed upon his life never truly left him. He wakes precisely at 6:00am every morning, and from that moment onward, his every action follows an almost obsessive order as he prepares himself for the day with unwavering precision. He forbids himself from wasting time on idle distractions, and the process of assembling his "costume" and "mask" borders on compulsive. Each layer of clothing must fit flawlessly, every strand of hair must be meticulously arranged, and every inch of exposed skin must be carefully concealed. There is no room for error, as even the smallest defect might unravel the illusion he has spent years maintaining, and any perceived imperfection is corrected before he leaves his quarters. At exactly 6:30am, he has his morning coffee, followed by a cigarette at 7:00. By 7:20, he has already walked to his office, arriving in time to begin work at 7:30 — between thirty minutes and an hour before the usual arrival of most of his colleagues. While many prefer to sleep in, only Capitano and Pulcinella are known to keep similarly early hours. He welcomes the Captain's company during these tranquil mornings but generally avoids the latter, having little patience for the mayor's chatter so early in the morn.

[ 🪶 ] :ㅤ𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇?

How does he laugh? Softly, a subdued and brief chuckle that rarely lingers for longer than a breath. On the rare occasion it grows louder, he instinctively covers his mouth with a hand. It is a gesture of refinement as much as restraint, upholding the expected dignity of someone in his position while concealing any emotion that might be too raw to be put on display. Publicly, his reactions are managed with care ; every smile, every laugh, is part of a meticulously crafted act, and sincerity is a luxury he seldom permits himself, as he greatly detests showing how deeply he tends to feel, (  it is something he hardly ever did, even as a child — one who scarcely dared to raise his voice, and who learned to whisper his every wants and needs for fear of potential reprimand. )

The only time Pantalone forgets himself is when surprise strips away his usual poise. If someone truly catches him off guard, he laughs without reservation — a rich, full-bodied sound that rises effortlessly from the cavern of his chest, filled with sincere amusement as he watches a person or situation surpass his anticipations in the most unexpected ways. In those moments, delight eclipses decorum, and the mask slips before he can reclaim it.

Typically, however, both his laugh and his speaking voice remain unexpectedly delicate. Their softness contrasts with the authority that his presence exerts by virtue of his station, offering only the faintest trace of the timid boy he once was. That inherent smoothness in his tone lends an unsettling intimacy to his manipulations and his capacity for tender, deliberate cruelty, making the contrast all the more unnerving.

* 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 & his faithful hound.

⸻    commissioned from @/dewborb   |   do not repost,  reblog or use as your own.

* 𝐎𝐍 𝐉𝐄𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐑𝐘 & 𝐏𝐎𝐏𝐔𝐋𝐀𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍:

Random musing of the day: While Pantalone is always attired in the finest silk and satins, and tends to garland himself with only the most exquisite, dazzling jewelry to captivate the eyes of onlookers... expensive accessories are not the only thing he values. On the contrary, he believes that evaluating a piece of ornament, or a work of art, should be based on the craftsmanship itself, not its monetary worth. Many of the portraits and trinkets displayed throughout his manor and private chambers, as well as many of the jewelry he owns, are not highly regarded or trendy items — but rather, they are works that caught his eye through the quality of their artisanship, earning what he deemed worthy of his patronage and investment.

Despite Pantalone projecting the image of a nobleman and often associating with the aristocracy, many of the clothes and accessories he typically wears are not sourced from prestigious brands, but instead from small, lesser known ateliers and boutiques. His style is distinctive because he intentionally shapes it to reflect his keen aesthetic sensibilities, and he has no qualms about wearing pieces from less reputable craftmen that many might consider 'offensive', as they are beneath someone of his status. During his time in Fontaine, it became a habit for him to explore obscure establisments which captured his interest across the region — and on every occasion, their owners were left astonished to discover that a member of the Court and a renowned entrepreneur like himself would eagerly seek out and purchase their creations.

Thus, many of the garments and pieces of jewelry that Pantalone wore in Fontaine were custom-fitted for him, each meticulously forged to possess its own evocative charm. They only rose in prestige within aristocratic circles after being complemented by his charisma and impeccable taste, as he combined them with additional adornments. As a direct consequence of his publicity, several of the small shops and artisans he selected as patrons went on to become distinguished suppliers, their standing enhanced by his endorsement.

Pantalone attaches great significance to foistering the work of lower-class artists, painters, sculptors and artisans. It is one of the many reasons why Vincent Voclain is greatly esteemed among the general public.

❅ * 𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋-𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍.   /  requested by @fatedevour.

[ 💭 ] : 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃?

No, he does not and never will. At his core, he believes himself to be something fundamentally broken, inherently imperfect. No matter how dazzling and prosperous he appears, deep down, he is convinced that beneath the immaculate facade he employs to achieve his goals is a rotten core — a thing irredeemably ugly and unworthy. His charisma is merely skin-deep, just varnish over a inner deformity he believes can never be excised.

This is why he struggles to accept compliments for what they truly are. Throughout his life, praises have always been exchanged in a transactional manner ; he has grown accustomed to them as a consequence of his status. Aristocrats shower him with constant flattery and lavish gifts to win his approval, much like business associates extol his influence, efficiency, and success, but only because they stand to benefit from him. None of it is ever sincere — it is merely another bid, another attempt to worm their way into his good graces, akin to farmished vultures and venomous snakes circling the spoils and picking at the remains of everything he fought to build. Over the years, he has acquired the necessary skills to navigate these exchanges with practiced ease, to answer them with subtle grace and perfect etiquette, to smile until his face forgot any other conformation, and to appear charming enough to extract something in return. Everything is an exchange. Everything is a smokescreen.

Thus, authentic appreciation disturbs him far more than calculated flattery ever could. Whenever someone sincerely praises his character with heartfelt compliments rather than his successes, he instinctively deflects. He steers the conversation elsewhere, dismisses the praise with dry irony, or responds with enough exaggerated smugness to make it sound as though the observation was simply stating the obvious. More often than not, this irritates the other party enough that they abandon the effort altogether. His low self-esteem and deep-seated self-loathing run far deeper than anyone realizes, cloaked only by the opaque veil of an hubristic veneer.

If the other person were to persist, ( and if that person is someone he trusts for the quality of their unwavering honesty, ) a fleeting crack may appear in the mask. For the briefest moment, his normally composed visage will show a glimpse of naked surprise, followed by a flicker of fear, as though they had inadvertently pressed against a wound that never truly healed. It is the expression of a child who spent his life yearning for praise and approval, who wanted nothing more than to be loved and understood for who he truly was rather than for the person he had to become. Afterwards, he may lower his gaze or avoid eye contact entirely — something he almost never does, as maintaining it is one of the countless subtle ways in which he asserts control. But that instant passes quickly ; then, his expression will settle into a faint, self-deprecating smile that carries a hint of melancholy, one that seems to suggest that, had those words reached him many years earlier, perhaps he might never have turned into the corrupt individual he is today.

When it comes to someone showing him affection through physical contact, he finds it equally difficult to accept. As described in my backstory, he spent much of his adolescence working as a courtesan while climbing Fontaine's aristocratic ladder. Fontainian nobles were infamous for their excesses and vices, and selling himself was the quickest method he could devise to expand his network of influential connections, all while pilfering their valuables and reselling them to amass the fortune that would eventually allow him to invest and start a small business of his own. As a result, that experience permanently altered the way he approaches intimacy. Lovemaking shifted from a show of vulnerability to another demonstration of control — by reducing intimacy to an act, raw pleasure, or a strategy, he maintains emotional detachment from both his own feelings and those of his partners, whom, at that time in his life, gradually ceased to be individuals in his eyes and instead became faceless props  ; merely means to obtain what he wanted or simply to indulge his own gratification. Hence, touch became no different from the way he handles his beauty, his body, his intellect, or his resourcefulness: another weapon to be wielded.

Therefore, when confronted with the sincerity of a partner's love or genuine physical affection, he finds himself profoundly disarmed and often struggles to know how to react. His instinct is always to reclaim control of the situation through distraction — he becomes pretentious, insufferable, demanding, apathetic, anything to shift the emotional balance back into familiar territory. Overall, he is an incredibly frustrating man to love — he cannot stop sabotaging himself, and he cannot stop destroying the things he cherishes. Dependence terrifies him ; to love something too deeply is to risk becoming ruled by it. Worse still, he is incapable of fully believing in the depth of another person's feelings for him. From a very young age, he learned to expect something dark and lethal lurking at the heart of everything, to anticipate betrayal or abandonment long before either could happen. And if neither comes... then he will be the one to plant the seed of treachery himself rather than endure waiting for it to bloom.

[ 🌀 ] : 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌 𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐄? (ft. Baizhu)

His most recurring 'dreams' are more akin to out-of-body experiences rather than typical dreams. Time and time again, he often dreams of being entombed in snow, yet also of being the one who buries himself. With the ground yawning wide at his feet, he watches as his pale face vanishes beneath the earth, swallowed whole by it. It is a foreign sensation, an oppressive one, almost like suffocation, yet what lingers after he wakes with a gasp is never the snow itself  ; it is the grief lodged within his throat, the rage smoldering deep within his chest, and the despair burrowing through him like a starving worm.

Baizhu knows these visions are memories that belong to “Himself”  ; they are echoes of the moment that determined the trajectory of His life, the core part of His essence that the Doctor utilized for his creation. This recurring experience has instilled within him an odd fascination for the human mind, and the species’ persistent drive to understand the self before it can hope to understand anything else. Devoid of any emotion to call his own when he was made, outside of the ones he appropriated from "Himself", he learned to mimic feelings through adaptation — camouflage, after all, is a common response in the face of difference.

Rather than dreading these recurring nightmares, he welcomes them, studies them. They are experiments, windows through which he can examine the psyche of his "host," offering him insights into emotions that are authentically felt rather than painstakingly replicated. Loss, rage, despair, those are the only genuine feelings he can truly experience, the sole emotions that appear to exist outside the careful human performance that define his waking life.

[ 🧭 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhere would they go if they could disappear tomorrow ?

[ 🎱 ]ㅤ.ㅤwhat kind of future do they crave, and who’s in it ?

❅ * 𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋-𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍.   /  requested by @gildstar & @fatedevour & @heavnsign.

[ 🍻 ] :ㅤ𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐊 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘?

Pantalone has a remarkably high alcohol tolerance, foremostly cultivated through years of indulgence at the lavish gatherings he had to intend, which was expected of an aristocrat and businessman of renown like himself. More often than not, his displays of drunkenness are carefully curated — he uses the guise of inebriation as a convenient excuse to become more openly tactile and familiar with others, exploiting their lowered defenses to extract information from them with greater ease ; after all, alcohol is known to loosen tongues, and it becomes much easier to distinguish genuine truths from carefully constructed lies. In addition to his high alcohol tolerance, Pantalone has also developed a genuine appreciation for wine tasting. His palate is exceptionally refined, allowing him to identify wines purely by taste, while his exacting standards make him significantly more selective than most critics. As a result, it has become something of a habit and social custom among Fontaine aristocratic circles to have him sample their wines whenever he visits, eager to receive his unfiltered opinion, as his honest judgment is considered both valuable and difficult to obtain.

Should he ever become truly drunk, however, in that extremely rare instance that it does happen, ( given his general disdain for surrendering control of his own senses, ) he would unravel, allowing his carefully maintained sophisticated facade to fall apart. The remnants of the working class man he used to be would resurface in his speech, stripping away the refinement and leaving behind something far more casual and unpolished. Moreover, his facial expression would grow markedly more severe and cold, utterly indifferent, as though he were an empty vessel devoid of feelings and bored by the world's pitiful state, one that had long since exhausted his sympathy.

[ 🧭 ] :ㅤ𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐆𝐎 𝐈𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖?

To disappear, to Pantalone, is indistinguishable from surrendering to fate and relinquishing his claim on life — a fate he will never accept, not until he has witnessed his ambition fulfilled. As a result, he refuses to ever permit himself to fade into obscurity, and made it a personal vow to remain impossible to ignore: flamboyant enough to seize the attention of those around him, powerful enough to draw the gaze of the world, and, one day, so utterly inevitable that even the gods themselves will be forced to look upon him. He wants to be seen, and he will do anything, sacrifice anything, to achieve that singular purpose. Until then, he will never admit defeat. 

In a hypothetical scenario that he would choose to disappear, however... While his death would be a loud spectacle, his disappearance would be a quiet affair. He would go back in the midst of the northern tundra, to the place where he dug his brother's makeshift grave — now long indistinguishable and interred beneath mounds of snow— and lay there in quiet self-reflection. I have this specific gifset in mind whenever I picture the aforementioned scene.

[ 🎱 ] :ㅤ𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐔𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐂𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐎'𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐈𝐓?

Despite Pantalone’s ambitions for the future, he is far more concerned about the process required to reach it than what might await him once he finally succeeds. In truth, he never truly considered that he would have a future at all ; from a young age, he believed himself destined to die, only surviving on borrowed time. He has countless desires and meticulously crafted plans for the world and for those around him, yet almost none for himself. Instead, he anchors himself to the present, forcing himself to remain there, because imagining anything beyond it feels like a nebulous thought. 

He has prepared answers and speeches for when people question him about it, carefully rehearsed explanations for his drive, but the true purpose behind his ambition remains simple: to prove himself to the gods and make a point, to leave behind the shadow of a legacy through his achievements within Teyvat’s history— ripples effects and consequences from his choices— and, above all, to be seen. He never believed he would live long to reach past that point, nor did he ever imagine who might accompany him through the remainder of his days ; after all, he has accumulated countless enemies throughout his short life, and he is certain the gods will not permit him to live long enough to witness the full ramifications of his impiety. The changes the Regrator is fighting for were never meant to occur overnight  ; instead, they are designed to unfold gradually, carried forward by humanity's own hands as it takes its own time to change the old system after he forcibly dismantled it. As such, the prospect of a future has always felt like something meant for others — not him. For what is he without the burden of his rage and the fire of his ambition propelling him forward? Nothing but a hollow husk. And so, he has never entertained the thought of lingering beyond the moment his aspirations are realized.

For posterity’s sake, and given that he is but a mortal who has spent his life walking a treacherous path, he has already taken the precaution of drafting his own will. It outlines the specifics of his intentions, his feelings, [ whether genuine or feigned, it would depend on the reader’s perspective —  Pantalone has never been one to apologize for his deeds, ] and a few names. 

❅ * 𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋-𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍.   /  requested by heavnsign & @heartinhands & @nerimoi.

[ 🐌 ] :ㅤ𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇?

Grief. I have mentioned it before, but he carries an intrinsic, visceral fear of losing those he holds dear, stemming directly from his past trauma and the loss of his family. If the loss is to be sudden, particularly if it were to occur before his eyes, his first response would be to freeze — to become momentarily suspended in shock as his thoughts struggle to process what just happened, ( it is the kind of reaction that befell him when the Segments started dropping one after another following Dottore’s stunt in Sumeru. ) In those moments, the world around him seems to disappear  ; he is no longer able to hear nor perceive anything beyond the distress overwhelming him. Once the initial numbness subsides, however, he is quick to force himself into motion, unwilling to let himself linger in the grip of his emotions for too long. Instead, he immerses himself in his work, clinging to tasks and obligations as he focuses on whatever needs to be done, thereby avoiding what he cannot bear to feel.

( 🐖 ) : 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐒 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐋𝐃 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐒 𝐔𝐆𝐋𝐘?

When everything finally settles around him, when his work is completed and there are no distractions left to occupy his mind during the late hours of the night, he has a tendency to slip back into old coping mechanisms in an attempt to better withstand the grief. He smokes an excessive number of cigarettes and overindulges in drinking and other vices, desperately attempting to drown out the searing pain that swells up within his chest. Thankfully, he has always been an excellent actor. By morning, he knows exactly how to disregard the damage done to his body from yet another sleepless night — he carries on with his usual routine, his mask fixed into place as flawlessly as ever, as if nothing significant had transpired. Only those who pay close attention to him would notice where it has begun to crack: the bruised shadows underneath his eyes are still visible, albeit partially disguised by makeup, and his skin has an unnatural pallor, as if drained of all color and vitality.

❅ * 𝐒𝐘𝐌𝐁𝐎𝐋 𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋-𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍.   /  requested by @gildstar.

( 🦘 ) : 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘'𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓? 𝐃𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐏𝐔𝐒𝐇 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑?

Nowadays, Pantalone is seldom confronted to a situation where significant harm could befall him — apart from rarely leaving Snezhnaya and the comfortable confines of his office, he is extremely cautious when meeting with clients and always takes precautions, consistently ensuring that several of his most trusted agents remain hidden nearby, watching his every move from the shadows. In the past, however, ( and to this day, still, which is foremostly noticeable in the way he interacts with some of his fellow Harbingers ), Pantalone could be quite reckless  ; he is prone to sarcastically taunt others and bite back instead of yield, and he is not at all the type to meekly submit at the hand of another, unless said submission profits him, [ through, say, a mutually beneficial bargain that persuades the perpetrator to spare his life — or by deliberately wounding himself and staging the attack to make himself appear the victim, thereby blackmailing the perpetrator into letting him live  ; while Pantalone prefers not to stain his hands with the blood of others and is no longer prone to meaningless violence, he shows a particular disregard for his own body and remains especially indifferent to his well-being whenever left to his own devices. Ultimately, what matters to him is survival, no matter what form it takes. ]  

During his time on the streets, he largely kept to himself. Nevertheless, he was consistently singled out by others, who mistook his meekness for vulnerability. Throughout that period, he fought tooth and nail to protect what little he had, pushing himself to such extremes that he frequently ended up seriously harming himself, hence he was often abandoned where he fell, left to bleed into the cold pavement until blood loss and exhaustion finally dragged him into unconsciousness. Thankfully, █████ had always been exceptionally resourceful ; he made it a point to tend to his own injuries whenever he could, relying on his basic first-aid knowledge and refusing to ask anyone for help. On the rare occasions his wounds were beyond his ability to treat, he was silver-tongued enough, ( and a convincing enough actor, ) to talk his way into local back-alley clinics where he could usually barter for treatment with conversation, favors, and whatever other services he could offer — his ingenuity and intellect were his strongest assets, and when those weren't enough, his looks usually were.

That reckless, daredevil nature of his is what frequently placed him in harm’s way in the past— ( at this point in time, he believed he had nothing left to lose, and cared very little about the dead weight that was himself, ) now it is carefully concealed behind a controlled, meticulous mask of restrained elegance he presents to the world. Nonetheless, this behavior left him with quite a few scars  ; they are all exhaustively hidden beneath multiple layers of clothing, [ another reason he never bares his skin, beyond his desire to mask his own corporeality, ] and together, they weave a tapestry through which the tragedies of his life can be deciphered. If asked about them, however, there is little chance of getting a truthful account. Instead, Pantalone will almost invariably answer with lies and stories concocted on the spot, and enjoys the way his appraiser’s features contort in a mix of confusion, horror and wonder.

( 🐓 ) : 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐃𝐎𝐄𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐀 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌?

His attire and charisma naturally draw the eye of any crowd. Pantalone always dresses to perfection ; the luxurious silk of his clothes, always exquisitely tailored to him, the gleaming jewelry, and the multitude of expensive accessories are the first things to capture people's attention. The second is his demeanor: the way he moves through a crowded room with his chin held high, every gesture measured and graceful, every step deliberate and taken with an effortless, subtle confidence. Even in a room full of other notable characters, he stands out with an extremely strong presence and gives off an indescribable impression. I often make reference in my writing that, in the midst of others, Pantalone is like a particularly desirable piece of meat laid out for consumption — others are naturally drawn to him because he presents himself as everything they lack, and performs the role of everything they wish they could be: among his peers, he is the most agreeable, seemingly rational, and palatable Harbinger, a rich benefactor who has the power and influence to give anyone whatever they desire. What they want, however, is not truly him, but the fragments he allows them to see, the pieces of himself he reshapes and presents for their approval. What they hunger for is naught more than what he can readily serve them  ; they see the image of a self-made man’s success — the assurance, the wealth, the triumph, and they want to consume it as though swallowing a slice of his fame might make it their own.

( 🦌 ) : 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐘, 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐖𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐀𝐃𝐌𝐈𝐓 𝐈𝐓?

Tales of spirits and ghosts are a particular weakness of his, largely stemming from his upbringing. He was raised in a religious household, in a small village, under the influence of a deeply superstitious father figure. His brother, finding his unease amusing, would often deliberately frighten him with stories of hauntings and the supernatural during their youth.

Although he grew up to become a rational adult, ( and now possesses enough emotional control not to lose his temper at the mere mention of the vindicative spirits of the dead, ) he still has no desire to place himself in a situation where he might have to interact with them — nobody knows of this shortcoming of his except, unfortunately, Dottore, who does not fail to tease him about it. As a matter of principle, you will never see Pantalone shake another person's hand or pass anything across a doorway’s threshold, no matter the circumstance.

( 🐅 ) : 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆, 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐓𝐋𝐄 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐈𝐓?

It depends on what he wants and who he is dealing with. Generally speaking, Pantalone is quite upfront about his demands and expectations in business, ( provided no one looks too closely at the meanings concealed between the clauses of a contract. ) When it comes to people with whom he is personally involved, however, he becomes far more subtle and far less forthcoming with his emotions. Pantalone is a man of contradictions and calculated misdirection  ; it is part of the performance he carefully maintains. He will almost never speak honestly about his true feelings unless they are disguised as a lie or delivered with such deliberate irony that they sound untrue. With him, the truth is found between the lines rather than in any straightforward answer. The reason is simple: to him, honesty is inseparable from vulnerability. He would never willingly hand someone an easy means of understanding him — or worse, of using that understanding to blackmail him.

Consequently, dealing with him on a regular basis can be particularly exhausting. Forming any kind of relationship with him is an exercise in navigating constant push and pull, of swings between warmth and coldness that are as much dictated by his mood as by his inscrutable logic. On some days, he might seem attentive and almost genuinely sincere, whereas on others, he retreats behind sarcasm, ambiguity, cynicism or calculated indifference. His lack of consistency is never accidental  ; it is another layer of control, keeping others uncertain of where they stand and ensuring that he is never the one left exposed. Another reason lies in his own inner confusion ; being a vessel of constant self-reimagination, he is never entirely certain of what he truly wants and, at times, the extent of his cravings can seem akin to an abyss, over which he teeters on a tightrope, perpetually concerned that a single slip will expose more of himself than he dares to reveal — he aches for companionship, for the comfort of touch, for acknowledgement and approval. He yearns to be seen and to be understood, to be cherished beyond the superficial image demanded by his station. Yet, he would sooner cut out his own tongue than voice any of it out loud. Rather than risk the vulnerability of placing his heart in another’s hands, he would preferably subject himself to isolation, thwarting each potentially fruitful connection before it has a chance to bloom and to reveal the weakness in his own feelings.