#fatui reader

Masha’s anger is valid — out of all the people here in Lomas, she’s had the worst run-in with the Fatui. Her late child’s tombstone is a heavy sight at the edge of town. Still, this choice was the best option, or she would have been buried in the snow alongside him.

You don’t know the right words to say, nor can you think of the right thing to do but stand there in anger, sadness, and despair. You want to tell them everything will be fine, that it’s just some formality — but having the head of one of the world’s greatest organizations here offers no reassurance.

Your door opens suddenly, and all heads turn.

The rifleman from earlier enters, a sour expression on his face. “Enough goodbyes. We’re leaving. His Grace awaits.”

You adjust the items you carry. There will probably be no coming back here; you don’t know if you’ll ever see any of them again, and all you can offer is a sad smile. The weight of farewell fills the room, and all at once they rise to embrace you. It’s a brief moment — watched closely by the eyes at the door — but one you’ll cherish for as long as you can.

They pull away, and you steel yourself before moving past the rifleman and out into the village plaza. All the families have left their homes; each offers a nod, and some children wave as you pass, as if this were some official send-off. The moment feels too sweet for what you’re about to walk into.

A carriage waits at the village entrance. The horses leading it are bulky, fitting for the size of the carriage — large and heavily built. The interior is spacious, wide enough to house a small table between the seats. Pierro ushers you in first, and with one last sorrowful glance over your shoulder, you step inside.

It’s only the two of you when the door closes. His men walk beside the carriage in case of an attack you know no one would be foolish enough to make. Pierro leans back in the seat across from you, eyes closed. The gesture reminds you of younger years, and you wish they were fonder memories.

You don’t bother asking where you’re going; you know it would fall on deaf ears, and it’s not hard to guess you’re heading straight into the heart of the capital. The journey is silent. You pass through the thick forests and travel farther still until you reach the first enclosure of the city’s high walls.

Snezhnaya’s capital is divided into three sections: the lower district, home to common citizens, vendors, and restaurants; the mid-level, housing the Northland Bank and other influential landmarks; and finally, the third level — home to the Fatui’s main base and another building you glimpse in the distance, encased in ice.

That last place is what truly catches you off guard — and it’s the only thing that makes Pierro speak.

“The Fair Lady rests at peace. Her Majesty granted her a front-row seat for the battle to come.”

You stare at him, unsure what he means, but when it comes to the Cryo Archon, you know better than to question what lies beyond mortal comprehension. You drop the subject.

You don’t have time to ask anything else anyway; the carriage halts in front of a giant mansion you know all too well.

The doors open, and Pierro gestures for you to exit first. The quiet of the night greets you as you gaze up at the building in disdain. It wasn’t so long ago that you fled this very place, and now you walk back into it willingly. You want to curse yourself, but it would do little good — you’ve already walked into his hands again.

The Jester places a hand on your shoulder, like salt on a wound.

“Welcome home.”

He speaks plainly, and you do nothing but let him lead you through the doors. The hallways are long and just as tall as you remember. Like the exterior, little has changed — besides a few unfamiliar faces. Various soldiers stop and bow in respect, and you feel their lingering gazes as you walk close behind him. Being near him might seem like protection, but you know it only paints a target on your back.

Pierro leads you to a spare room. It’s larger than the inn rooms in Lomas — perhaps twice the size — and holds two beds with identical dressers on either side.

“Am I expecting a partner?” you finally ask, your throat dry from hours of silence.

The man doesn’t answer at first. He goes to the other bed, running a hand along the comforter before stopping at the end and glancing back at you.

“You know the answer to that,” he says. You turn away, choosing not to play his game. Moving to place your things in a drawer, you stop short when you find clothes already inside.

Pierro continues.

“Rest well. We’ll meet tomorrow for the start of the trials. Be ready. Think of that as my gift for your return.”

He gestures toward the clothes. A familiar design from your past, re-tailored to fit your build now. When you lived under the Jester as his disciple, you wore nothing else, for anything different would have killed you. The clothing is insulated to keep you warm and made of material strong enough to resist a hilichurl’s blade. You learned that through his cruel training — the hard way.

“I’ll come for you in the morning,” he says at last before he’s gone.

The door closes, leaving you alone. Standing in the quiet room, you should feel peace — but this is the Fatui. Peace never lasts long.

You move quickly, shoving the heavy mattress of the second bed against the door. Locking it won’t be enough to ensure safety, nor will the unbarred windows. You hurry to lock and shutter the window too, dragging the vacant dresser to block it as well. The heavy scraping might attract attention, but at least there will be a struggle if anyone decides to test the No. 1’s new recruit.

You take a moment to change. You hate the man, but you value your life — and these clothes are your best defense against the unknown.

Just as you throw your last leg through the pants, the doorknob rattles. You freeze.

The shaking stops, then starts again moments later. You move as quickly and quietly as you can, changing and reaching for your dagger just as you hear the telltale clicks of lockpicking.

You weren’t planning to sleep tonight anyway, and given how long it takes before the intruder gives up, you know it’s for the best. You glance at the clock on the nightstand.

3:42 a.m.

The clicking starts again.

It’s going to be a long night.

You wake to the sound of Pierro’s voice. It startles you enough to spring from bed, dagger drawn and pointed at him.

“I see you slept well.”

You can’t tell through the haze of fatigue, but you’re certain he’s mocking you. Your eyes dart around the room as you try to steady your breathing and lower the blade. You hadn’t slept long — you remember the sun barely peeking through the cracks in the curtains before you must have dozed off for a moment. That doesn’t surprise you. What does is how Pierro entered without you waking — and how the room somehow looks exactly as it did before you barricaded it, with no sign of disturbance.

The man pats down a pillow and looks you over, faint approval flickering in his eyes.

“You remember. That’s good. Come now, you should eat before the trials begin.”

He doesn’t wait for questions. With his usual, unreadable calm, he leaves the room expecting you to follow.

You take a second to get your bearings, grab your polearm, and fall into step behind him. The halls stretch long, your footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floors. You continue to feel the weight of curious eyes from passing soldiers as you’re escorted toward what you can assume is the dining hall.

Your suspicions are confirmed when Pierro pushes open the double doors to reveal a room full of people gathered around a lavishly set table. The moment the two of you enter, conversation dies. Every person rises to attention.

Pierro strides to the head of the table while you remain by the door, scanning for a seat. Of course, the only empty ones are the two flanking his own. You hesitate, then stalk forward, feeling the pressure of judgement following your every move.

As you pass, you take stock of the attendees. It isn’t just anyone — the entire roster of current Harbingers is present, each accompanied by their own chosen candidates at either side. The ages range wildly: children sit by the Knave, while seasoned veterans flank the Rooster. The sight alone promises that the trials ahead will be… lively.

You rest your polearm beside your chair and sit, reaching for a slice of bread — only for a man to cough delicately into his hand. You glance up, bread still in your fingers. The man stands near the Regrator — Pantalone, as he prefers to be called — and gestures beside you, though clearly directing his attention to Pierro.

You ignore him, choosing instead to continue filling your plate. You aren’t here for pride or honor or whatever illusions drive the other recruits. Making a good impression serves no purpose. Most of the Harbingers already know you as a runaway, and it’s not as though they respect one another — so the formalities are meaningless to you.

Pierro doesn’t react. He sits, and the room follows his cue. Breakfast resumes, subdued. No one dares raise their voice above a whisper. From the murmurs that reach your ears, it’s clear the other candidates are already plotting. Forming alliances, testing who might be friend or foe.

You study them carefully. Many meet your gaze; most look away quickly. It’s obvious — you’re either the greatest threat in the room or the most dangerous unknown. For a few their eyes are sharp with malice, a reminder to stay alert. The empty seat on Pierro’s other side doesn’t help. Every other Harbinger has two with them. Unlike you. You’re alone, isolated, an easy target.

You pluck a grape from its stem and chew slowly, thoughtful. Maybe you should consider a plan of your own — forge an alliance, perhaps, or play the waiting game and let the rest destroy each other first.

Pantalone is the one to shatter the silence, laughing far too loudly for the room’s tense decorum. The sound draws a roll of the eyes from the Marionette and a small, stifled laugh from the Damselette. Too perfectly timed to be spontaneous. You don’t doubt it’s rehearsed.

“Although this feast is a perfectly good show, dearest director,” Pantalone drawls, “what exactly are we doing here?”

The room stills again. All eyes turn from one figure of power to the next. Pierro dabs his lips with a napkin before standing. His voice is calm, almost lifeless, yet every word cuts clean through the silence.

“You are gathered here today because it will be the last time you see one another as comrades. You all serve under some branch of the Fatui but from this point forward, you stand as equals, fighting for a single goal: to join our union at its pinnacle. There will be no special treatment, no cutting corners. The next moment could very well be your last.”

“This feast is a good show,” he continues. “I allow the melodramas to play now so that business may proceed undistracted. The trials have been chosen. All that remains is to begin.”

His words freeze the air. No one dares move or speak.

No one except one.

The youngest Harbinger — Childe, the one whose name travels quickest through rumor — lets out a laugh, smacking one of his recruits on the shoulder as he teases him for looking terrified. Across the table, the Knave — head of the House of the Hearth — sighs audibly and rises.

“Well, now that the pleasantries have been spoiled,” she says, “you are all to report to the courtyard. There, you will learn the details of the first trial, and the journey will begin.”

She says nothing more. Her candidates move first toward the doors, and gradually, the rest follow including you.

Though Pierro seems indifferent, he’s not called the Jester for nothing. He thrives on theatrics, always pulling strings for a larger purpose or spectacle. Still, you admit — just for a moment — it almost felt pleasant. The clinking of plates, the murmured conversation… if you closed your eyes, it could almost have been the Larimar Tavern again. Home.

You hope they’re all well.

The walk to the courtyard is short. There, you can finally see your rivals firsthand: fifteen of you in total, all vying for a single place.

The chatter dims as the Harbingers emerge on a balcony above. It isn’t Pierro who speaks first, but the Marionette, hoisted high by her ever-present ruin guard. Her voice, amplified through unseen speakers, carries easily across the courtyard.

“You all know who I am, so I’ll skip the introductions. I will proctor the first trial, and it goes as follows: several crates containing confidential Fatui technology have been… misplaced. You will locate these crates and establish a clear retrieval point for collection. Do not attempt to carry them yourselves — or I will disqualify you for so much as a speck of dust on my precious equipment.”

A few murmurs ripple through the crowd, but no one dares voice a complaint.

“Whether you work together or alone, I couldn’t care less,” she admits dryly. “Recovering what was lost is your only priority. Any questions can be directed to Katherine of the Adventurers’ Guild. You have two days. In the name of Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa — begin.”

Her words snap like frost. She lowers her paper and fixes her gaze on all of you below, waiting for the inevitable scramble.

It doesn’t take long. A few voices whisper echo before someone breaks into a run for the exit. You watch as one of the mayor’s candidates tries to request a horse — only to be flatly denied. “No special treatment,” the guard reminds him. His rank means nothing here.

To your right, you hear others forming small alliances — the Marionette’s and Pantalone’s candidates leaving together.

Slowly, the courtyard empties. You linger, the last to move — not out of any grand plan, but to assess what you’ve learned. The Marionette is the only Harbinger truly obsessed with machines, which means she likely tailored this trial for her own advantage.

It’s a standard task, something given to rookies. You shouldn’t have expected much — especially from someone who despises humanity as she does. There is a catch somewhere along the lines. Still, you’ll need to make your move before the others get too far ahead.

With no real leads and only fragments of information, you descend the mountain, passing through the upper districts until you reach the lowest level in search of the Adventurers’ Guild.

By the time you arrive, the sun has reached its peak, and the working class is on break. The streets bustle with structured chaos, workers moving in streams toward cafés and market stalls, voices blending with the toll of the distant bell tower. You keep your head low.

The Guild’s booth stands at the square’s edge. Behind it, a woman waits, gaze forward and posture unnaturally straight.

You step directly in front of her before she reacts and realizes you're there.

She greets you in a rehearsed tone — “Ad astra, abyssosque” — introducing herself as Katherine. You don’t bother with pleasantries. Instead, you reach into your pocket and flash your Fatui insignia.

Instantly, her demeanor shifts. The mechanical rhythm of her voice doesn’t falter as she recites the details.

“Recruit registered: The Jester’s faction. Welcome. Out of the six packages marked for retrieval, two have been located and are currently en route to base. Four crates of confidential material remain unaccounted for. I cannot provide exact coordinates, but reported sightings are as follows.”

You didn’t expect specifics — it would be too easy. However, you’re grateful when she pulls out a map and marks several key landmarks to narrow your search.

She lists three locations you barely recognize: a Frostmoon Scion encampment, a clearing near a prohibited zone, and a shoreline you vaguely remember from childhood. None seem worth the trouble until she names the fourth.

“…and finally, a pack of hilichurls were spotted within Rosgrave Forest, tampering with a discarded Fatui convoy. Would you like me to repeat the selection?”

“No, that’s fine. I’ll be heading there now.”

Rosgrave Forest. Another woodland just off the main city road. The difference between it and the Gopeysk Forests lies in the sheer number of monsters that roam its depths. From hilichurls to abyssal corruption, it isn’t a place ordinary people can traverse without hiring a mercenary to watch their backs. That being said, it’s the only area familiar enough for you to form a potential escape route… should things go astray.

You turn away, ready to leave, until Katherine calls after you. Looking back, you see her extend a device you don’t recognize.

“This is a recommended tool from Marionette. Please establish a retrieval point and use it to bring the materials home.”

The tool looks somewhat like a beacon crossed with a remote control, though it has no buttons to press. You take it anyway, and the woman smiles faintly before returning to her rigid, lifeless stance — the same she held when you first arrived.

You decide not to think too much about it and glance up at the sky. No clouds. The sun still sits high. It’ll be dark by the time you reach Rosgrave on foot, you assume — and with a heavy sigh, it’s back to walking.

Thankfully, your time in Lomas kept you active, and traveling long distances has become second nature. Although you hate to admit it, you owe Pierro some credit as well. The thermal suit helps ward off the growing chill of Snezhnaya as you make your way toward the forest. Without you would have stopped to make camp several times due to frostbite.

Hours pass, and soon night consumes the bright sky. Rosgrave is as dismal as you remember — trees growing thick and clustered, only breaking near the mountains or where other vegetation forces its way through. In the dead of night, the darkness works both for and against you: it hides you from sight, but it also hides everything else. The monsters here are adapted to the cold, far more than you, and memorizing your route feels impossible. Still, you leave a trail by marking the trees, piercing their bark with your blade.

Even so, with the moon rising, the convoy remains unfound. Doubt creeps in.

What if the convoy has already been scavenged? What if the cargo’s been retrieved and you’re just wandering aimlessly? With fifteen candidates and only six objectives, there’s no telling how quickly this could all be over. Maybe you’ve already failed.

Your insecurities fester until the guttural cry of a hilichurl snaps you back to reality. Instinct takes over. Quickly, you stumble back and duck behind a tree for cover.

Peeking over, you spot two of them. Their blue skin and frost-covered masks mark them as Cryo-affiliated. Luckily, you haven’t been noticed yet. They grunt and gesture at each other, their strange language echoing through the quiet. Beyond them, you see nothing but more trees. One — the one with the crossbow — yells and swats at the other, irritated by his aimless digging. After a few moments, they stalk off together.

You can’t tell whether they were part of the group that ransacked the convoy, but you’re done second-guessing. You follow, keeping a safe distance.

Hilichurls aren’t known for their intelligence — at least, not these types — so the risk of being spotted is low. They’re noisy, too, making it impossible to lose them. After a few twists and turns, they lead you to what looks like a small camp near a cave.

Hidden behind the trees, you count four: the two you followed, one a Cryo archer and the other a Cryo grenadier; another archer; and a red-skinned Pyro berserker. Not the worst odds, if you plan it right. With the element of surprise, you could take them out one by one before the others react. The only real issue is the open terrain — fighting in the clearing would leave you exposed, but drawing them into the trees could throw off their aim.

No more waiting. You set your plan in motion.

Kicking through the snow, you find a rock. You lift it carefully, take aim at a nearby branch, and throw. The idea is simple: make a noise to draw one away, take them out, and repeat until the camp is clear. No room for error.

Unfortunately, you didn’t account for the uninvited company.

A sudden thud makes you flinch. A body hits the snow from where you threw the rock.

“Ow.”

A boy — no older than fifteen, and one you recognize as the one sitting beside the Knave — rubs his shoulder, grimacing. It’s not broken, but the fall’s loud enough to alert the camp. The hilichurls turn, spotting him instantly.

The boy laughs nervously, even offering a small wave. Then comes the war cry.

An arrow flies past, narrowly missing him. He dives behind a tree, rolling for cover, but his safety is short-lived. The Pyro berserker ignites his weapon and charges.

You hesitate.

The right thing to do is to save him. That’s who you are. But deep down, somewhere darker, you hear another voice. It tells you to leave him. To take the prize and run. To stop letting mercy weigh you down. You didn’t come here for friends.

Another scream cuts through the air.

Not from the boy. Something worse.

He’s nimble, darting from tree to tree, dodging the berserker’s blows and the Cryo arrows. But then, from the cave, the ground trembles. A Mitachurl emerges, massive and snarling. It slams into the snow pulling up a Cryo slime, then it forces it into his arm fusing the ice into a solid shield.

The danger spikes instantly.

A child can’t survive this, not alone.

Without thinking, you charge.

With all your strength, you hurl your polearm. It whistles through the air and pierces one of the archers square in the chest. The others react too late — then too fast. A volley of arrows rains down, forcing you to dive aside just as a Cryo slime bomb explodes nearby. You sprint to the trees, ducking another arrow and circling around a large oak.

Your only weapon lies skewering a corpse.

The Mitachurl bellows, charging without warning. Quickly, you move again. Its impact shatters its own ice shield and splinters the tree you hid behind. Heart hammering, you don’t sit for long.

The boy’s nowhere to be seen, but you can’t afford to think about that now. You have to survive this.

You dart back toward the camp, making for your polearm. As they reload, you shove the dead body off the weapon and grab its fallen crossbow as well. You move for the trees again, struggling to string it. The effort costs you awareness.

“Look out!”

The boy’s voice cuts through the chaos — but too late.

The explosion hits first. A hurled Cryo slime detonates beside you, sending you crashing into the leg of a construct. Frost bites through your suit. You gasp, trying to recover, but the Mitachurl is already charging again.

You brace for the end—

—and flames erupt.

A molotov, or something like it, shatters against the Mitachurl’s shield. The fire eats through it, melting the ice to water in an instant and burning the fur on its flesh.

Another follows, landing at the monster’s feet and sending it stumbling back a few steps. The boy appears at your side moments later, tossing yet another molotov at the remaining hilichurls before scooping you up and leading you into the trees. In his arms, your body heat rises instantly — the Pyro Vision hanging at his hip explains why.

He props you against a tree and offers your polearm. You take it gratefully, and he peers past the trunk to check if you were followed.

The boy’s hair is brown, and his clothes mimic that of a Pyro slinger like a child playing dress-up. You notice the small vials strapped near his Vision, glowing faintly orange the closer they sit to it. He looks back at you, giving a quick once-over to see if you’re hurt, and for a fleeting moment, you feel like the child instead.

“Uhmm— I can get the big one if you handle the little guys,” he says timidly, as though afraid to push you too far.

It’s dangerous — leaving a kid to deal with a Mitachurl isn’t something you’d ever be proud to admit — but given his Vision and your current condition, there’s little room for argument. You nod, and a small smile flickers across his face before he quickly grabs for his vials.

Using the tree for support, you force yourself to stand. The earlier explosion left you battered, but not beaten.

The boy offers two vials, then spits lightly on both, and they flare to life with Pyro energy. Visions work in strange ways, and you try not to grimace as you take the volatile orbs in hand. He nods once, determined, and runs back toward the camp. You follow out of instinct and worry.

You both charge the camp. He veers left while you break through the trees into the clearing.

A war cry echoes.

The Mitachurl digs into the snow, reaching for another Cryo slime but stops short when a bomb bursts against its back, flames licking its fur. It howls in pain.

You don’t have time to focus on the boy. Arrows whistle past as you charge headlong into their line of fire. Hilichurls train, but they lack precision. Their shots are easy enough to dodge until the grenadier starts hurling slimes, each one shaking the ground on impact. The combined assault leaves no opening to advance.

You can’t throw your polearm again, not after that last hit. Clutching one of the glowing vials, you aim for the grenadier mid-reload and hurl it.

The vial bursts against the ground, erupting into a wave of fire. Snow sprays in every direction, and when the haze clears, only a pair of charred legs remain.

You’d comment on the destructive power — but there’s no time.

With one down, you charge the last archer. Its shots are frantic now, wide and clumsy. Panic is your ally. You close the distance and slice its throat cleanly. The body collapses face-first into the snow, you kick the crossbow away.

You don’t rest. You turn ready to help the boy only to find a mound of burning flesh where the Mitachurl once stood.

The boy stands before it, the monster’s mask in hand, eyes gleaming with something wild. For a heartbeat, your chest tightens.

Don’t forget — these are a Harbinger’s chosen.

The thought strikes you like a blade, and your grip tightens around your polearm.

After finding himself, the boy’s expression softens. He runs over, smiling wide.

“We did it!” he shouts, raising his hand for a high five.

You think to turn away — to remind him there’s still work to do — but the joy in his eyes stops you. He’s just a child.

Your palms meet with a sharp clap, and his laughter rings through the night. He grins up at you, a tooth missing from his smile.

“What’s your name?” you ask.

“Call me Boris the Bombardment! It’s what they call me back at the Hearth.”

Fitting, you think. But what on earth is the Knave letting these kids get away with?

“Alright, Boris. Let’s see if these guys left anything useful.”

You toss the words over your shoulder as you head toward the cave. Beyond the large entrance, there’s not much: tracks in the dirt, clusters of crystal in the walls, signs of an abandoned mining effort. More hilichurl structures crowd the area, but there’s no sign of the convoy or the cargo.

Doubt creeps in again. But Boris wouldn’t have been staking this place out for nothing. Something must be here.

You search deeper, shoving aside rags and poking through the makeshift shelters until you spot a crate with a cracked lid. You approach cautiously. It’s intact. The hilichurls must have tried to pry it open before giving up.

Relief washes through you. The fight wasn’t for nothing.

You pull out the retrieval device Katherine gave you, turning it over in your hands to find a way to activate it — until the sound of splintering wood snaps your attention to the crate.

Boris is there, swinging a club at the lid.

“Wait—” you start, but the top’s already off.

The boy peers inside, curiosity bright in his eyes — until it isn’t.

He stumbles back with a scream, falling hard onto the ground.

You rush over and look for yourself — and your stomach turns.

The crate is filled not with materials, but bodies. Or rather, parts. Mechanical limbs and heads — each one identical to Katherine’s. Arms. Legs. Multiple faces. Their hollow eyes stare up at you through the dim light.

The sight chills you deeper than the frost ever could.

You slam the lid shut.

Boris still sits on the ground, chest heaving. You toss him the device gently, and he fumbles to catch it.

“Do you know how it works?” you ask.

He looks it over, then nods slowly.

“Can you start it for me? We’ll get you home after.”

He stands, fiddling with the device. You watch him closely. You’re not great with children—but Lev’s daughter taught you one thing: they’re stronger than they look.

After a few tense moments, Boris returns. The beacon glows faintly, pulsing in a steady rhythm. He smiles, proud but uncertain of what it’ll do. You don’t know either, so you both decide to stand guard outside until help arrives.

The “help” comes in the form of a Ruin Guard.

You hear it before you see it — the rhythmic thud of heavy footsteps shaking the trees. You brace for a fight, but the machine doesn’t attack. It marches past, straight toward the cave. Without hesitation, it reaches in, lifts the crate as if it weighs nothing, then turns and leaves.

You and Boris exchange a look. Then he grabs your hand.

“Come on!”

You barely manage to protest before he’s dragging you after the machine.

Following it seems smart — it knows where it’s going — but your confidence falters as Boris scrambles up its side, climbing until he’s perched proudly on its shoulders. Dangerous, reckless…but he’s laughing.

You climb after him, less graceful but determined, until you reach the top. From this height, the world stretches far and clear. The capital glimmers in the distance.

Boris raises his hands in triumph, shouting a cry of victory that echoes through the cold.

And you realize, almost numbly—

The first trial is over.

Two more to go. And the next Harbinger will be decided.

The thought hits you full force, heavy as stone.

You told yourself you weren’t doing it for the illusions the others have and yet you are one step closer to his goal.

What will you do if you reach the finish line?

Now imagine someone from Nod Krai with an Oprichniki reader specifically. Let’s go with Lauma first.

Warning this is wordy and incredibly open ended.

She’d been on edge since you arrived in the area, large form and concealed features put her and many others on edge. But the animals are calm, the Rimehorn don’t tense when you walk past with heavy thumping steps, the Blunthorn Rhinos don’t charge you, Puffins don’t scatter, and yet she can’t get answers, to the animals your just the large person that comes through sometimes. what finally gets her attention and eventual answers are you and Chic Badgers. They roll happily over for your hands to scratch, reach up your legs to demand pets or food from you without fear. It’s with them she finds out how you’d freed one from a trap, and despite its dismay had tended to it wound and given it a piece of food before simply leaving. You hadn’t left them or harmed them, you simply aided them left them be, and of course word had traveled among the animals. While others were still weary the badgers loved you. You were warm, you give great pets with your large hands and didn’t get angry when they nabbed a piece or two of food from you.

nobody saw you. nobody at all. not your absent mother, not the caretaking mistresses, not your “siblings”, nobody. you had managed to get through it for the first year, but your peace had cracked quickly after. loneliness had irreparably, irreversibly, permanently been changed into a different person. at some point in your childhood, you became violent, scratching at anyone who came too close, and sneering at just about anyone with cutting words. you had hoped your outbursts of anger would have made you more noticeable, and the scolding of others made you beam with satisfaction. 

only until of course, the scoldings thinned out, and the house left you be, hoping to satiate you with silence and alone-time. you could have laughed at the irony of it if you didn’t feel so ridden with despair, your ears perpetually ringing from the quiet, your efforts truly were useless weren’t they?

your only method of releasing any pent up energy and dismay was the training your mother insisted every child in the house must participate in. beating at dummies with a stupid wooden club to hopefully beat away at your steadily growing morosity as well. 

your… vigor, if you could call it that, finally got you noticed. by one person, an old lady who patrolled the corridors, playing the role of a “captain” for all the children who trained.

she alone patted at your scars, giving you the simple opportunity of being more. more than your siblings. your depravity allowed you to cling onto any such praise, lighting a bit of a darker competitive streak in you, a blaze of fury stifling down anybody else who even tried to overtake you.

your “captain” prodded at the monster you were becoming, encouraging scuffles rather than reprimanding you for them. she didn’t defend you when the mistresses shrieked over your teeth biting into a girl’s arm, or your foot to a boy’s jaw, letting you snarl back at them yourself.

she created a small young beast, wrapping the thread of your broken heart and fragile soul around her wrinkled fingers, letting you rely on a person you thought truly valued you. perhaps she truly did. you chose to ignore, to forget the bite in her voice when you couldn’t perform well, pushing with more determination to make her proud of you again. you chose to remember her wired hands pulling at your face, joyful of your violent drive and cold sophistication.

your wooden club was replaced by a sword in a month, and your opponents went from dummies to the nice men with big guns who agreed to the lady’s offer to spar with you. you’d always stop at a blade to their throats, a victory, or a breathless lean against your weapon, a failure.

you, for once, felt complete. worthy. useful. even more so when your opponent grumbled congratulations, surely you were allowed a little smugness at fighting grown men and winning.

your mentor passed shortly after you came of age. you mourned for two months and a half, grieving the one person who gave you a glance that lasted longer than a second. the familiarity of your life fell and faded quickly, your spars less frequent and your days more empty.

you didn’t feel upset. she had been ailing for a while, and her death must have brought her peace. peace that you would cherish for her, in the place of her withering corpse. you were old enough to contribute to what she and the house had trained you and your siblings so long for, the mother government of snezhnaya, a nation you’d never even gotten close to visiting. 

your years there, however few, got you a strange reputation. right from the very start of your soldiership you were avoided by those under the knave, your mother, and the others caught along quickly. your team of weaker gunmen and hammer-wielding men were assigned to you simply so you could keep them alive long enough to fulfill their own duties. you found it nearly disgusting, the lack of their ability and their belief in their own contribution to the motherland. what did they think they were contributing to, sitting around while you hunted food and intruders alike? useless folk. all of them.

you tuned it out, your irritation, as you have and would many times over. your goals did not sit still like your comrades, but changed by the will of your leaders. did you consider them worthy enough to listen to? maybe not, but the sense of security you got in following orders, anchoring yourself in a community, gave you life.

then came the abyss, with her gentle hands, whisking your alice liddell self away into a wonderland, and you found security in being powerful.

dear, (name), how does it feel to hate enough to floor cities to the ground? to feel angry enough to swipe your claws at any man remotely brave enough to approach you? to be stealthy enough to evade your weak life in the overworld for centuries, and strong enough to keep yourself from dwelling over it? you have become one of the many gems from the abyssal cave. 

beautiful thing, do hope that the prince and his people do not bore themselves out at musing over you.

your peace comes in fragments, make them whole. at least, live trying. your stillness becomes that of a lynx, and your unblinking eyes that of a snake. your harshness is the beak of a loon. your claws are sharp and your canines sharper. they adore you more than anyone else ever has. 

value it, value them.

don't forget.

interaction appreciated !

ㄟ( ▔, ▔ )ㄏ i will probably continue the sagau series as well, but i'm a little demotivated to finish it. i am planning to turn this into a series, please do share ideas and thoughts >< it does help in keeping that drive to write a bit.

You weren't that good at that fighting, nor you could spy that well. And yet for some reason here you were again, in some training area with Tarta- Childe. He'd rather you call him that.

Being in the fatui was mostly caused by your desperate want to get out of poverty. Being in the Fatui gave you many opportunities, whether it was the financial stability, or traveling to fulfill your duties.

Most importantly, being in the Fatui easily allowed you access to information from around the world. Even if now it was unnecessary.

After finally snapping out of your thoughts you noticed that the harbinger had his hand out for you, and you took it. With ease he pulled you from the floor. "If you keep being such a lightweight you'll hardly stand a chance in combat"

He always said that. It didn't matter if you exercised to put on more muscle, or took heavier weapons. Childe only said it to make fun of you in some way or another, these dead ocean blue eyes focused on you for a moment, before he looked to the entrance of the training area.

"I will hardly need to stand a chance in combat" you murmured, still in thought. Maybe you didn't realise what you said, taking your weapon to walk over to the wall, leaning against the pillar. At least you had some water near you, taking the bottle to drink.

You weren't sure why, but the harbinger had an odd habit of flexing his vision, simply using it to collect a round droplet of water, popping it into his mouth. It sure felt odd.

"Why?"

Maybe the question only clicked now. "Why what?"

"You said you'd hardly need to stand a chance in combat, I'm asking why. Or is it that you want to keep being beaten by your superior?" He snickered, jabbing you lightly in the side with his elbow. "Hey- no?"

Truth was, you hardly had the will to fight. It was always terribly hard to get out of the Fatui, but aside from having somewhat of a stable life now, you had no much reason to be there.

Working under the eleventh Harbinger was odd, in fact you applied to work under Columbina. And yet you only had the qualities that barely fit for Tartaglia's standard.

So you took the job that was left for you, to work under him. It wasn't the most desirable, but after months you simply get used to that.

Uncomfortable things become eased into you as your brain adapts to reduce stress.

Increase survival. And working with Childe was hardly ever a stable experience.

"Oh, sorry. I was honestly really deep in thought, theoretically speaking. The seargant I was working with left the Fatui, so I wonder what happened with him"

You played with the bottle that held your water, not daring to look at Childe. By then you knew his tricks; even if he'd ask and avoid the topic, play pretend, he was smart. Like a fox, cunning. Quiet.

Waiting.

"After a while you simply get used to other people, so I meant to ask if he's still alive, even after committing such a thing."

Childe was quiet, his gloved fingers swiping down the edge of his bow. "Whatever happened to him, it's not something you should worry about." He started. Oh man. "After all it's not like you'd be dumb enough to want to meet the same fate as him, hm?"

"Oh n-no of course not. But, if they.. if they had a good reason?"

You were in the Fatui, and you knew how to lie. How to twist and manipulate, but Childe? He had such a weird effect on you. Even if you weren't lying you'd stutter and stumble over your own words. Usually you avoided as much as being in the presence of men for too long, sticking with the lovely cicin Mage's. They fought well, but if you got to know them in person, they were lovely most of the time.

Ah you digressed again. Childe didn't seem convinced, raising his brow at you with a blank expression, at which you looked away again, focusing on your water.

Water.

Your bottle was empty.

"..a good reason? No reason is good enough to do such a foolish mistake. What good reason could you have? What could he so convincing that you'd turn against the Fatui? Against the Lord Tsaritsa and, well, me?"

You felt the need to make sure he didn't have wrong ideas. (He figured you out)

"Don't worry– I was just teasing. I may be stupid but I'm not THAT stupid" you tried to joke to release some of the tension.

It did not work.

Awkward silence followed, one that tightened your gut. It was a game of cat and mouse by then, you knew he knew. And he was aware that you realised it, and still neither of you spoke about it straight up.

"I knew as much! You certainly couldn't betray the Fatui and have it work out. The Fatui would haunt you to the ends of the earth for treason, they would never let you rest until you'd be punished accordingly.

So you would certainly never do something so foolish, right?"

"No, no I was just teasing-"

"Just teasing, you say.. well, you certainly had me going! It would've been truly foolish to do such a thing, which is why the thought never crossed people's mind's"

Both his blood thirsty and that mocking, condescending side were true. He was like a coin. That drove you insane.

"I'm glad you were just teasing, because frankly, I didn't know how to respond! Enough of my prattle, how about another sparring match? Just to prove you seriously were never considering such treasonous thoughts?"

"I think I had enough for today, tho-"

"Nonsense. A good fatui soldier always looks for opportunity to indulge in self improvement"

Childe was too good at fighting, and you hardly ever beat him. You never even came close to beating him in the first place, because for some reason he always went so easy on you that you felt humiliated to even show your face.

He stood there out in the open, always giving you an opportunity to strike. At least his bow was charged.

"Come on, what are you waiting for?"

With a sigh you took the spear instead, to keep him at a distance. You didn't really use any elemental power for combat with Childe, you found that if you did (if you had a vision), then he'd be more likely to beat you down. In a way that was less than pleasant.

Aiming your weapon you decided to join him in the dance, for now taking the offensive stance, watching him dodge with ease, the end of your weapon scraping his shoulder.

"You're getting awfully good with that thing!"

Another dodge.

"You'd give me a real headache if you ever turned traitor and came to fight me with a real intent!"

Your blood went cold, and hot at the same time.

"But then again, I know you'd never do such a thing.."

Before you knew it, you had to start and be defensive instead, hardly managing to dodge the bow that he used to try and hit you. "Right?"

You were aware he figured you out, andd in that little stun he managed to take a hit on you this time, end of the bow hitting you in the ribs. With a wince you jumped back, it was a little weird to breathe.

The fight didn't go for long, he did tire you earlier after all, and before you knew it you were knocked off your feet, stumbling down on your back. "sshit-"

Childe simply grinned, close by then as his foot ended on your chest the moment you tried to get up. "ah-ah-ah, you lost."

It wasn't the first time. And you learned to take that loss. Maybe this time Childe didn't plan to just let you leave without giving him a reward.

"You are getting awfully unmotivated in these fights, ah it almost bores me. By suggesting such an offense, I should've killed you by now"

Once he saw you didn't try to get up again he crouched next to you, noticing the way you looked at your weapon. Before you could properly reached it he simply used his hand to shove it away. "As I said, you lost. And your punishment is up to me" he murmured, fingers grabbing your chin to force some eye contact at once.

"Come on Tartaglia, I was ju-"

"Childe"

"Childe- i just wanted to get a reaction out of you, come on" you laughed.

He wasn't convinced.

"Doesn't change the fact you've lost now, does it?"

He tapped at your jaw for a moment, staring into your eyes.

Everytime you saw that dead sea on his face, it felt like all the energy and motivation you had was lost.

Childe was such an ambitious man, and yet he felt like the most dead person you've met.

To say he was enthusiastic and void of life was both true and false at the same time, a living contradiction you needed to bear with.

Sometimes it was hard to predict which side peeked through to react. Working under him was simply like running on a path that changed directions constantly. That either had flowers or all sorts of broken glass shards, rocks.

Sticks.

Soon enough he finally let your chin go, looking at how the light shone at the center of the practice grounds. "oh, that won't do" standing up he grabbed your foot, hiss leaving you as he dragged you towards the center of the round hall. "Don't act feisty on me now, girly"

You were dragged all the way to where the light reflected from the windows, hissing as he stared down at you. Maybe you seemed compliant, but you knew how angry he could get at his plans being ruined. Maybe it was more fun to play along.

Before you could tell, Childe was sat near your legs, fingers walking up your thigh. At least Fatui uniforms were somewhat decent, modest. "let's just put you under one more trial. To really make sure if you were kidding"

"H-huh- I think I proved myse- hhA what the ffUck-" he held your thigh up, intrusive thoughts winning him over when he bit it despite the clothing on top.

Seeing you like that just made him bite, he was unsure why.

"–anyway. Now that you lost it's my turn to take my reward. Two birds with one stone, isn't that right?" His hands slid up your thighs to your hips, suddenly tugging you over to himself, even more so then before.