#avcnturine

all of this, though, had become part and parcel of his life a long time ago——a background hum to his everyday, neither holding much back nor moving much forward. galas, showcases, red carpet events, product placements ; he's seen it all.

some just get more creative than others.

"qliiiipoth's endurance tournament, round three underway! who will be our next bold contestant that thinks they might have a chance at shattering the Preservation's very own immovable wall!"

both belobog and the IPC followed the path of the Preservation, ordaining their modus operandi to the beat of the aeon's world-ringing hammer strikes. that was the idea behind this ' tournament ', anyway: use this opportunity as a chance to highlight the partnership between the buried snow-city and the cosmos' greatest megacorporation, and, in doing so, emphasize the resilience of the city's people and culture in tandem with the company's resounding fortitude.

he just hadn't expected he'd be the guinea pig for the occasion. but maybe he really should have. the man who strolls out from the contestant's walk under the cold headlamps of the fighting ring is both a surprise to see. . . and not at all, once he thinks about it. whatever faint widening of the eyes had passed his face for a moment quickly mellows into his typical easy smile, the moneyed shine of his golden shield gleaming in a pass of the cameras.

"compared to the last time we saw each other, this is pretty different, isn't it——your grace?" prisoner's common garb replaced with the fine-threaded regalia of the stonehearts, he extends a handshake by way of acknowledgement and acceptance of the other as his opponent. if he's feeling any anxiety about the matchup, it doesn't show. "unlike the other contestants, i'm pretty familiar with your qualifications. if you think you'll be the one to break the Preservation's shield, be my guest. remember, you only get four hits, but other than that, any tactic is allowed."

”Four hits?” And no protection except for the gold shimmer in the air around him. “You’re pretty confident.”

But had Aventurine been anything but? From his bold gamble to win an audience with the Duke, to his effort as a prisoner to negotiate business with his warden, Aventurine had shown himself to be every bit the charismatic daredevil. Wriothesley prowled in a semi-circle a few feet from where the Stoneheart stood, unarmed and unperturbed, his easy conversational tone masking the incisive cut of his eyes. Confidence usually served as a disguise for something else; a shield impervious from the front hid the weakness at its back.

“Usually with sideshow gimmicks like this, it’s one and done. Any more, and the trick risks coming unraveled.”

The Stoneheart’s eyes followed him as he paced, calculating in their own way despite his inviting smile. If Wriothesley couldn’t crack him on his own turf in the Fortress, he’d be far less successful here. Still, there was little risk to it now. For either party, it would seem.

The spectators who’d fallen into silent anticipation after Wriothesley’s introduction now began to murmur restlessly. They’d come for a show, after all.

The toe of his boot squeaked softly as it dug into the ring’s mat. He’d been here plenty of times before - the surprise face against a reigning champion, or the underdog against the insurmountable giant - and he hadn’t always won. In fact, he’d lost more rounds than he could count. His rematches, on the other hand, were a near perfect streak.

With a sharp exhale, Wriothesley darted forward as metal gloves encased his fist. THWACK. Right in the center of Aventurine’s chest. But he recoiled, shaking his hand out. The shield shimmered like a golden wall, and it’d felt like one, too.

The crowd waited on the edge of their seats.

For the second strike, the vents opened along the backside of his gloves, spilling icy air out over his arms. THWACK. The same place, right at the center of Aventurine’s chest. Jagged ice spidered out from the point of impact. Most contestants, by now, would have expended all four of their hits in one go, but Wriothesley was not most contestants. He began to pace again.

”No wonder you’re so unflappable,” Wriothesley said lightly. “If Fontaine’s Maison Gardiennage had technology like this—“ Consideration of the idea brought him pause, like it’d suddenly turned from joke to possibility in that very moment. Then he flashed a wry smile. “—I’d be much busier.”

The third hit came right off the end of his sentence, his glove blasting a new round of frigid air from its vents as he struck, once again, the exact same place. The melting ice from the last hit froze back into rigid shapes, this time dusting the shimmer of the shield in frost, as if infecting it with cold. Wriothesley didn’t take his time for the fourth, instead following the jab with one last solid hit right into the center of this array of ice.

CRRRACK.

A dagger of ice had managed to wedge itself into a hairline fracture when it melted the first time. Now, a jagged crack zigzagged up and down from the point of impact a solid three inches in either direction. A round of gasps filled the audience.

”AND THE WINNER OF THIS ROUND IS— ONCE AGAIN AVENTURINE!” shouted the MC over an eruption of excited cheers. The shield hadn’t broken, but they’d gotten a show, just like they’d wanted.

And Wriothesley had figured out something about this so-called immovable wall of the Preservation. The ice melted and the fracture swiftly sealed again. He offered his hand to the Stoneheart.

as a result, it's one of aventurine's favorite places for serendipitous, chance encounters. "mister yang, the astral express' own seasoned veteran. haha, can't say i took you for someone interested in a fighting ring."

whether or not he was either was another thing altogether.

gloved hand slides a tumbler of dark brown liquid across the metal table to the man as he slides into the stool, contents like leather oil, dark enough to almost be black. with his other hand, he downs his own similar glass, exhaling as he sets the now-empty container on his side of the rim and closes his eyes briefly against the cotton-like fumes of a headrush, beating pleasantly behind the temples before gently receding like the humidity after a strong rainfall. the taste punches the senses, acrid and bitter——the kind of thing guaranteed to wake someone up. when his eyes open again, the rings of hypnotic blues and fuschia seem even brighter in the dingy low light. "speaking of which, how are things with the express these days? it's not like we've had the chance to cross paths much since everything on penacony. for trailblazers, i'm sure it's not easy to make time to come back and visit all the friends you've made in old places."

WELT LEANS BACK INTO THE STOOL, gaze held steady on the ring before the Stoneheart is calling out to him, breaking the monotonous silence with a simple greeting that pulls his attention away from what can only be called a thinly veiled bloodsport. There is little elegance or restraint to be found in the way the combatants duke it out, that Welt can barely keep his attention on them before the man had approached. "Ah, Mister Aventurine, I was rather shocked to see you and Miss Topaz were among the list of offworld competitors. I can hardly call myself a seasoned veteran, merely an old animator from some distance backwater world. Unless, of course, you're referring to the incident with Phantylia, I assure you I was... barely involved."

Yet that look in the eye of the Pathstrider of Nihility is almost bloodthirsty, as if measuring the Pathstrider of Preservation to determine if a conclusion to that... misguided grudge match on Penacony warranted casting off the veil of a feeble old man.

A pause, before laughter breaks the seriousness that seems to have fallen over their little table, a gloved hand reaching for the whiskey slid across with a grateful nod of his head. If there's one thing Joachim can appreciate, it's the gambling Stoneheart's affinity for the more top shelf variety of Belobog's finest, feeling the whiffs of a rather ancient oak curl against his senses, making the almost harsh lighting dull to a more pleasant hum. A shift of his gaze, his body, turning to meet the more unique features of the Avgin, the hypnoti hues met with a golden cog set against faded crimson, an honour he rarely has reason to offer to most.

"Rather... uneventful to say the least in truth." And what a lie that truth was, yet the journey to Amphoreus was hardly something to be discussed so openly among a group that had only recently begun to venture into space once more, no, that was a story better shared in the wilderness where none could overhear, instead the once Herrscher pivots to a more... amicable topic.

"We're both here so... how about a wager, Trailblaze versus Preservation in the ring, the loser owes the winner more than merely a tumbler of whiskey for the trouble?" The smirk on his features is full of teeth, a warning sign that the self-proclaimed old man had no intention of losing to the formidable opponent before him, as a gloved hand is outstretched to seal the agreement between them.

Character Development Questions | not accepting

I think there are two major questions that underlie Boothill's character. I'll start with the more global, abstract one that his design as a character embodies, and that's the question of humanity. What sets a human apart from a machine? What draws the line between the dead and the living? These aren't questions that we see Boothill explicitly ask himself (or others) in canon but they nevertheless seem to be thematic to most of his story involvement.

Boothill's body is, most obviously, almost entirely machine. He frequently talks about it in this sort of distant way, like you might talk about a personal tool and not your physical being. His brain and his heart seem to be the only two parts of him that are still organic, as his teeth and eyes have both been augmented, and likely the rest of his head/face as well. His brain isn't entirely untouched either and does have at least a memory chip of some kind. I point all of this out because in contrast, Boothill is probably among the most human in the cast. He's empathetic, compassionate, and down-to-earth, and he's not afraid to be emotional or sentimental.

Likewise, he refers to himself as a dead man once or twice, and that his motivation for getting his cyborg body is because vengeance is the only thing he has left so he might as well turn himself into a weapon. This serves as the crux of his hypnosis in the 2.6 Penacony chapter, when the Slumbernana Assistant tries to erode his spirit by walking him through giving up all the things that drive him, including his anger and revenge. There's a brief moment when we're made to think that the hypnosis worked, and that Boothill had been reduced to a husk once he gave up his quest for vengeance, but in the end, we see that there's this innocent, childish core that he still harbors underneath it all. Instead of letting external factors, like the absolute destruction of his home, the colonization of his planet, and the herding of his people into reservations, turn him into a broody living dead man on a single-minded quest for revenge, he has managed to stay tethered to his younger self. So Boothill the cyborg, who calls himself the walking dead, is not so different from the young boy called Loaded Gun.

Since Boothill does call himself a dead man, he probably still questions his humanity. It doesn't seem to come up often, but he does occasionally lament his missing functions, like the fact that he can't cry anymore. While we, as the players, get to see his overarching narrative and how the writers have developed his character into this paradox of humanity, Boothill doesn't get this top-down view of his life. How human he still is will likely remain a question he keeps asking himself for the rest of his existence, sort of like a periodic check-in.

The second recurring question is one of justice. It's come up twice in canon. The first was during the hypnosis scene in 2.6, where it wasn't really the question itself so much as Boothill's answer to it.

Boothill: Phew... Wanna know somethin’? I was worried I had it all wrong just now! But now, there ain't no problem, 'cause only an evildoer asks "why" before he dies. I ain't deaf, alright? While you were yappin' so loud, did it ever cross your mind I could tell good from evil? Controlled Assistanana 71: ... Boothill: It's as Nick said: Revenge needs no excuses, just like how there's one thing in the world that doesn't need to be taught… Takin’ a shot at bad guys. Controlled Assistanana 71: How did things take such a turn...? You're just a child… Even for someone born with a bad nature, the first time doing something like this should weigh heavily on their conscience... Boothill: Is that so? Well, I reckon you got that wrong. Be it a wanted criminal with the blood of many on their hands or a young cowboy who's never fired a gun, both share a common instinct in every sense of the word... ...And that's to put a bullet in anything evil, muddle-fudger!

And the second comes from his visitor conversations on the Astral Express, where he asks the Trailblazer what justice is:

Boothill: My mind's a complete jumble… Does punishing evildoers not count as justice? Does fighting violence with violence count as justice? Trailblazer: Of course it counts! Evildoers must be punished! Boothill: What counts as "punishment"? What if I break their legs… Or just put them lil' fudgeheads in the ground directly, you know! To be honest, I don't care for this kind of mind-numbing philosophy. But the other day, I got lectured by a little kid about this! Apparently you have to consider your methods when upholding justice. Bullets can't hit vital parts, you can't steal criminals' property… and you have to give them a chance to repent! Trailblazer: The world of a child is so pure. Boothill: Hah! I agree, everyone should have a bottom line. But when it comes to evil, the best way to end it is a single fatal blow. I'll leave these restrictive "moral principles" for the pure-hearted folk!

"by that same ' logic ', do you you think my gun's reloaded too?" it's the first thing he's said to the young man close by, looking over to dan heng with an amicable laugh.

that same look trails casually over the other's altered appearance, the new coral-like features adorning head and body——draconic, vidyadharan. the coruscating waters he'd called come to mind again, a synecdochratic snapshot of the luofu's infamous waterscape. was there some connection, or was he just drawing at straws? this is just a dream, after all. but if penacony's shown him anything, it's that dreams are hardly ever just dreams.

"mister dan heng." a change of subject, his tone says, without giving the space for an answer to his rhetorical question. the gun is tucked away and re-concealed, saved for later as if it's unimportant to whatever's at hand now. "whose dream do you think this is? mine, or yours? or one of the others'? and if it really is you. . . just when were you planning to reveal," still smiling, he gestures to the length of the other's unprecedented majesty, "all this?"

Whatever injuries they had sustained in the previous battle vanish just like that, as though they had never been there to begin with. In one moment, Mr Aventurine was pointing out the enemies' leader almost in desperation as the minions descended upon him with merciless abandon, and the next - he is casually chatting away, as though he had not just experienced a brush with death.

... Granted, Dan Heng supposes that if this really is a dream, then in a way, he hadn't. As for the nature of this dream itself... much as he dislikes this thought, perhaps dreaming oneself into combat and strife is not unique to him.

Now, while the moment of respite they're granted also provides a heal for their injuries, it does not free him from this form. Try though he may, any call of cloudhymn to conceal his horns and long hair is met with rejection, as though some kind of blockade had been set in his mind.

After a handful of fruitless and increasingly frustrating attempts, he simple resigns himself to it, before it can bother him further to the point of distraction. He can only hope that his impromptu allies will not speak on it... but almost as soon as the thought passes through his mind, the hope is dashed as the IPC manager sweeps aside the idly asked rhetorical question he'd posed earlier, and addresses him directly.

Dan Heng meets his smile with a calm gaze - a little cold, perhaps - before he turns away with a quiet sigh as he keeps going up the staircase. For a second it looks as though he will not grace the man with an answer, but then, he speaks.

"The last time I was here, it turned out to be a shared dream of sorts. In the sense that everyone who was in it remembered it upon waking. I guess we'll see how it goes for us when we're out. But, in the interest of not lying to you, I can say this..."

A small glint of light flickers before them, indicating they are close to the next floor.. His lips press tightly together, before he finishes.

"... I am indeed Vidyadharan. The part where I look like this is not anybody's dream."

He feels a painful sting in his chest, right above the heart.

in his line of work, these things happen too. quick fixes, emergency deadlines, sudden setbacks that seemingly can't hope to be recovered from. some of them have set him back too ; some have set the company back as a whole. but all of this, even failure here and there, is still better than the alternative: a stagnant, unchanging bottom line.

he smiles, two-toned gaze soft where it hides, as poorly as ever, behind colored lenses. in their frustrated chaos, rapidly descending to a hopelessness befitting nihility, he sees opportunity more comparable to some other path——whether that was preservation, or trailblaze, or even elation fell to the eye of the beholder. he sees a chance for great chance, unprecedented change——and not far away from him in another direction, a force that excelled at causing just that.

head tilts, rolling leisurely along neck until he can look the dark-haired woman's way. broody as ever, that impenetrable emanator, even when there were celebrations to be had and vicissitudes of life——supposedly——to enjoy. her expression barely changes, and she doesn't even show any sign of noticing him, so he'll have to be the one to break the ice. "how about it, friend? don't you happen to excel exactly in making the impossible, possible? with just one act. . . i'm sure you wouldn't have any problem turning their fortunes around."

In essence, the entire debacle unfolding before her is reminiscent of IX's outlook on the universe-- despite their best efforts and their hours of preparation, it's all for naught in the face of destiny interfering with their plans. While there are those who can effortlessly pluck at the threads of fate, these souls are not of that subset; and as such, they flail and fumble in a desperate attempt to mend the situation that seems hopeless. Not unlike her own fight, she supposes. To rage against a being with no form, tainting all in THEIR Shadow in the same way that her existence had been. A strange, twisted since of "optimistic" nihility-- a living, breathing oxymoron. Though all is lost, what matters is the journey to the end; not its inevitability. The dancers' hours of grueling practice have provided them with experience that cannot be replaced. Regardless of whether their performance succeeds, those moments-- though fleeting-- will remain etched in their souls as a fond memory of time spent together. Much like her time with companions from the past, and much like her time with Nameless girl who fearlessly ventured deep into the depths of IX.

Her reverie is not meant to last long, however, as a familiar voice breaks into her thoughts with little effort. The gambler who staked his life on mere chance has managed to find his way to her once again, and she sets her piercing gaze on his visage without hesitation-- he's nearly see-through, as he was before, filled with an emptiness he desperately chases to fill. Perhaps, with time, he'll find his purpose... and at the Horizon of Existence, Acheron believes that Aventurine has finally grasped the beginning of understanding his actuality in this universe. Or she hopes, at least. As much as she can still hope. "You overestimate my capabilities," Acheron huffs in her usual flat tone, one hand resting on her hip. "I wouldn't say that fortune bends in my favor." A pause follows, her fingers tapping on the end of Naught's hilt. It's nearly hesitation that flashes across her features, head tilting slightly to make an attempt at judging her companion's goal. "The regrets they face are inevitable. You intend to make a fruitless gamble on whether or not I hold the ability to change their fate?"

visible. cozy. quaint. he's actually never been much of a coffee shop patron, but there's always a first time for everything when seeing new sights.

"it feels a little different from you, doesn't it. of course, i don't mean that as a bad thing——plenty of people don't resemble their homelands much." once the latte's reached a nicer temperature, he lifts the cup and takes a shallow sip, blowing lightly across the surface. the fluff of air and whipped cream wobbles. hm. too much sugar.

"anyway, i've since learned that you run an orphanage here in fontaine. suddenly a lot of things from that temple make sense. that young magician——lyney——i think i understand things a little better now. you must have a really extraordinary institution."

it's been far too long since she last encountered her unlikely ally -- nearly two seasons ago, in fact, with winter approaching. even by a window, the light inside the café is dimmer than the outside patio, but surroundings are also quieter, better for asking questions. what brings him back here, now? if he's truly from beyond the stars, what value can be taken from teyvat?... and, of course, there's only so much she can offer, for whatever value his organization's superior technology can offer. arlecchino stirs her own coffee mindlessly as he settles in --- his second comment almost prompts an offer to clarify something she suspects he's been wondering about for some time. "ah... well, to belong in a particular place is a luxury only some of the children in my organization can afford. lyney is lucky to count himself amongst those children," and she herself is not one of them. nevertheless, to address the third, "...the house of the hearth offers home for any child missing it, no matter the capacity in which it is needed. but from what you've described, it sounds like you've learned more about what we are, or what we do."

Let's here your thoughts, Caelus! || Accepting.

❛ First meeting him in the lobby where after just saying "Hi" and trying to hand me credits just for being a bro was.. odd, but amusing in a way. Something about him, maybe how he carried himself, kept catching my attention. Was excited to get to know another I.P.C. member after Topaz and the Jarilo complication. Though...After Penacony, my feelings about Aventurine are... complicated, to say the least. ❜

A moment to collect his thoughts, one hand coming to squeeze the pointer finger on the other hand to settle his nerves.

❛ I don't hate the guy- I like him on a personal level. He's fun and funny. But just because I like hanging out with him, doesn't mean I can trust him, or be fully comfortable with him..

Now I can't claim to be some sort of genius tactician- or even just smart in general. But.. I don't see why someone would go out of their way to be super friendly, make a deal to be allies, then turn around and throw said allies "under a bus"--- I think that's the saying.

I don't know what caused him to do what he did, and I can only be thankful we had Acheron there with us-- But just.. why..? What purpose does it serve to reveal that... reveal my.. ❜

Another pause, finger in a near choke hold. He doesn't know why saying it aloud is so unnerving- why it bothers him so much. But it's not as if people don't know now-

❛ Thanks to Aventurine, my status as the host of a Stellaron is now public knowledge. And that, alone, terrifies me, because who knows what kinds of people are out there that will now come after the Nameless.. After me..

Send me “About [NAME]” for my character’s thoughts on another character! - accepting!

About FURINA.

"perhaps it should be none of my concern, but I do wonder at times what fontaine's beloved former goddess finds herself preparing for her meals without the staff she was once accustomed to crafting them for her. lady furina couldn't be surviving on cakes and macarons alone, could she...?" a pause as though she's listening, then a short laugh before she continues. "...starches and carbohydrates then, for the most part? I suppose that shouldn't be shocking, she has always seemed quite fond of sweets... the meals we prepare at the house would be much better for her health in the long term, though. next time the children wish to bring her something, I'll see if they want to offer a little pork steak alongside the confectionaries... it would be such a shame for them to see her lose her mortality to a sugary end."

About AVENTURINE.