#generalforesight

When asked what kind of character a good leader must have…

Jing Yuan would laugh lightly, sidestepping the conversation with enough idle pleasantries to fill the space of the interview. Far be it for his own opinions to shape the nature and expectations to those rising through the ranks.

Pleasant silence fills the space, the gentle click of a hand-carved chess piece ringing a note that only enhances the false sway of an evening breeze. As he does after every move, Jing Yuan’s attention shifts to study the man at the other end of the board.

What will you do next? He doesn’t ask it, respectful of the concentration that’s made him momentarily silent. They’ve played a few games – virtual starchess has been something he hasn’t indulged in often, far preferring the physical company of another. There are still some that surprise him in how enjoyable they can be.

Sometimes, Jing Yuan’s victories are swift. Other times, like now, the board arranges itself into a map of certain destruction. Should his opponent choose, he could make the move that would end the game immediately. Or, he could linger within the general’s well-laid trap for a slow, painful defeat…perhaps hoping that the General would make a misstep that would turn the tide.

Whichever path he would take, the thrill is in the answer. Perseverance, willpower, strategy, hope – all the kind of steadfast qualities that might make a desirable leader.

At least, in his very humble opinion.

nonverbal meme: oh my god these are ancient but if you still want to send please do

the game the man across from him is playing seems to have a strategy to it: pieces with different shapes and sizes, vaguely familiar with rules he only somewhat recalls. this game does exist somewhere in amphoreus, even if he didn't frequently play, even if it looked much more like tangible pieces of wood and ivory instead of part of a digital display. what he could recall was that the two pieces in the center of the last row were the most important, with one being the piece that would cost the game and another being the strongest player: the little horse-like ones also move in an odd pattern, don't they?...

of the board games he does know better than this one, where it is played with two players working against one another... one of the best strategies is always playing the other player, more than actual game. silver brows furrow as he watches the other man's hand move pieces across the board, and his own slide in almost a strange mirror, slightly twisted and a few spaces off. his opponent has something in mind, that much is clear from his movements: phainon tries to keep track of what the other pieces do as they move.

finally, when a look on the other man's face seems to indicate that his strategy is fully set, phainon glances down at the board again: he's waiting for something, isn't he? which piece does he expect him to move? the queen, probably... there's a clear opening there to take several pieces in a few turns. but that would leave the king open, wouldn't it?...

Naivety can often be charming. A novelty or an art form - to watch others discover the world around them. Cause and effect rather than actions and consequences, if only because the general person will hear a negative ring in the tune of consequences and fail to take away anything more. 

Belobog’s eager acceptance of the outside worlds is no exception, suddenly overrun with information and technology. But it is the people, who bring personal prejudices that poison every open mind they can reach. 

It’s a shame that he’s going to miss the show, he mourns, but he has always been cursed with the kind of awareness that changes plans from one second to the next. 

The alleyway is a block from the theater. Jing Yuan notes that the guard stationed here daily is conveniently absent, so the only outsider around to hear the jarring thud of Aventurine’s back being slammed into stone is himself. “I know it was you!” The person is snarling, and the three others chime in with slurs that even Jing Yuan has not heard for at least a decade or so. “Don’t even try to deny it! IPC or not, all you people can do is lie!” Another laughs, adds, just cut out his tongue! 

If only because there was only one known living man to aim it towards. Up close, Jing Yuan can tell that these are not natives of Belobog.

In an instant motion, there is a knife in that hand, Jing Yuan’s expression tightens. By luck, by miracle, the knife catches a ray of sunlight that doesn’t extend to this alley, the general’s reflection shining for a second, announcing his presence. 

As a unit, they turn to face him. “Hey, this doesn’t concern you! That ticket in your hand? Just take it and enjoy the show.” 

There is nothing to be read in Aventurine’s easy posture, the Avgin's eyes half-shadowed. Jing Yuan allows himself to blink slowly, assessing. Finally, a yawn overtakes him, subtly stretching his shoulders as he lifts a hand to cover it. “Of course,” His tone turns mild, “I merely thought you looked familiar from a distance. While I was not present for your proposal, you and your colleagues of the Space Station’s Galactic Geopolitical department have made significant strides in recent years. The excerpt detailing the Xianzhou’s specific seclusion was well informed.”

In unison, the group flounders. Pales. Panics. Jing Yuan’s eyes remain sincere. “Oh! Uh. Th-thank you…sir? Gen-general Jing Yuan. Uh…we…”

“Don’t mind me. I’m sure there are more important places for you to be than indulging an old man’s appreciation for the finer details.” These are minor researchers. Which means, their names aren’t known to him…yet. They scatter down the alleyway and Jing Yuan’s pleasant smile is neutral once more, a friendly distance from the Stoneheart. “Pardon the intrusion,” He's confident that this man was in no danger at all, won't ask after potential injuries unless Aventurine speaks concern into existence.“Were you planning to see the show? I’m sure we’ve missed the opening act…”

NAIVETE WAS ALL TOO OFTEN A DEATH FLAG.　♤　it's hardly the first time it's happened to him: when the senses blur and the perilous fog starts to take over, and the golden whispers start to peter in, his brain supplies him the strangest thoughts——old, unnameable sensations ; memories buried in the subconscious ; feelings so lost to former lives that they might as well be relics worthy of archaeology, worthless things only jackpots in the eye of the right beholder.

"dya, look at this i found! the colors are so bright." "naive child! where did you get that?! throw it away, right now. that is a katican knife holder. it will bring us terrible misfortune."

they said that the sheaths the katicans used to house their notorious skinning knives were made from the hair and clothes of their avgin victims. whether or not this was true wasn't important ; the lessons they formed on survival protected and served them better than whatever was real. but naivete? that was unlearned quick, shaved off down the genetic tree like bad branches halfway to dead already when natural selection had its way. it was the naive who were caught ; the cunning survived.

the only time dya ever talked about his dad, she'd called him naive. without knowing it, he'd always assumed that this must be what had landed him in the quicksand the day that'd claimed his life.

"i know it was you!"

the wind is driven out of him in a sharp stab——of a fist, or a knee, or the butt of a weapon——into his gut, and nausea wells up dizzyingly fast, wetting his mouth. he spits bitter saliva on the ground, roughly aiming blindly at their feet, barely seeing. "all you people can do is lie!"

and there's it, a suggestion about cutting out his tongue. playful, casual——a throwaway joke, in theory easily laughed off. but the cloth in his hand, carefully clutched behind his back, told another story, whispered a different line of probability etched, all these years later, just as deeply into his bones as the need to eat, to sleep. for now, the three were too focused on beating him to notice, and if his lip weren't so sore from what he's sure is a thick split, he'd dare a smile just to test fate.

but instead he stands there, somehow still keeping his balance against the rough stone wall, waiting for whatever came next. some possibilities:

more pain. a symphony of it, dealt from fate's very own rigged hand. more old memories, dya calling him naive like a mantra, her substitute for ' audacious ' because avja didn't have a word that big and, even if it did, calling him that would be like inviting Her to take him right back, would be as good as sending him to death 　

the true end(?), or something close enough to it, the kind he used to spend his life fearing until it stood so close that it practically walked his days alongside him, until it became an anesthetic instead of a boogeyman——if hell manufactured anesthetics, that is. until he learned to love and kiss it just as well as he hated and abhored it, much like everything else in those days 　

his thrice——cursed, blessed, damned ; pick what you want——luck again

"pardon the intrusion."

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　7 ... 7 ... and——

oh, there's the sunlight, slanting across the stone. soft and bleak, through overcast clouds, casting its long shadow across a bar of wire. a thunderstorm ready to come, or maybe just-receded. through the golden fog, he claps a hand on the general's forearm, and that's the first step away from the tricks his mind likes to play, appreciating his light demeanor, something as easy as a question when he remains miraculously——if it was even worth it to call it that——untouched on the outside, but is sure without a doubt that there's at least one or two things wrong on the inside.

a broken rib.

a fractured psyche.

smoke and mirrors. small prices to pay for the wins he took with both hands and held onto for dear life. "ahaha. . . maybe, before that——i should. . . catch a nurse around here for a check-up."

and from his palm it unfurls, presents itself in strands of sandy blond and earthen red just for his eyes, artifact-made-jackpot, stitched hollow and preciously worn. he smiles for satisfaction, finality falling into place. the one who'd talked about cutting out his tongue. . .

Jing Yuan’s laugh is resonant, radiant in how it catches stone walls. It is also practiced; the kind of sound meant to capture attention and direct it somewhere else. The multicolored canisters strung up from every available surface adds…personality.  “A love confession? You’re beginning to sound like my secretary.” Wearing an amused expression, he shares a conspiratorial look to the sharply dressed woman who has been his companion at this sequestered table, a young volunteer prodding the two of them for intimate secrets.

Could she be a reporter of some kind?

Eventually, the would-be informant drifts away, likely towards more promising targets. Not that his new company didn’t surprise and delight – masterfully executing verbal evasions that were on par with Jing Yuan himself. “Anonymity is a hard thing to come by,” He says, after a moment of much-needed silence. “The canisters are numbered…I wonder…” No, he didn’t wonder. Any information could sell, if presented to the right buyer.

He huffs, between laughter and exasperation as he uses his canvas to present a scandal in elegant writing. If he was right…well, at least it would give his media handlers something to do that didn’t detail the politics between each Commission. It’s enough to lighten his mood, raising a brow, “And you…I’m sure your secrets are much more compelling than mine.” Teyvat was young to this universe, after all, so he takes the time to introduce himself. “My name is Jing Yuan…though after our interrogation, I’m certain you know more about me than most.”

here, instead of building things with the children who reside in this underground settlement, she's brought a canteen of hot tea, and placed one of two tin cups that detached from the lid in front of the man across from her. unconventional, with little of fontaine's beauty in its design --- but functional, practical. now, with the lantern she could construct herself still sitting blankly in front of her at the table, arlecchino takes a slow sip as she listens to the exchange between him and the stranger who's come to try and ask them both for secrets.

arlecchino imagines the offer of tea to share drew him towards the table she's at in the first place. had it not been for that, would a man so intent on keeping his life private be in a place where wishes are written on lit cans. the little plastic cup eventually comes back down to sit on the table. "my secrets... are not of any importance in a place like this: even the ones I keep close to my chest are likely to be of relatively little interest to those here. I am not from this place, nor am I from anywhere that would interest the people in this underground city." she reaches for the canteen again after a moment, and offers to refill the portable metal cup that sits in front of the man across from her. "but you... don't seem to have that sort of luxury, do you? think they're waiting to see what you put on your lantern?"