#tsaritsan

♢  — @tsaritsan : [ blend in ] dottore tries to blend in at the ball and remain unseen, but anastasya notices and approaches him. / LMAOO EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS: PROMPTS FOR LAVISH BALLS

Zaporlany Palace’s gleaming halls are adorned with frost-diamonds and warm illumination that cast everything within the celebratory ball into a DREAM-LIKE, SURREAL VISUAL. It is further amplified by the outfits that those in attendance wear ; silks and furs of the highest degree, jewelry of the most precious gems, cufflinks and tie clips of the purest metal. NO ONE DARES BE ANYTHING BUT THEIR BEST BEFORE THE TSARITSA. Anything lesser would be an insult to the motherland and their pride as fatui members and Snezhnayan aristocrats.

It takes nothing short of the Tsaritsa's order that all harbingers attend that forces even The Doctor to make an appearance. ( And, unfortunately, not Delta but Prime. )

He attends - that does not mean he opts to be a MAIN ATTRACTION beyond the grand initial entrance expected of the second harbinger. Too gaudy for his tastes but tolerated nonetheless before he slip to the edges. HE IS BOUND TO STAND OUT REGARDLESS ; if only for the mask alone - except for an occasion like this the harbingers done the personal gifts of her Majesty. Or Dottore has elected to at least. Even if he plans to do nothing but observe amongst the chatter of attendees and the enchantment of music flooding the hall. IDLY, HE WONDERS HOW LONG IT WOULD TAKE THEM TO NOTICE IF THIS WAS A DREAM. It wasn't. But it could be.

The night seems favorable ; he manages to lurk at the edges with only a few gregariously bold people engaging with him to speak for a time. Fortunately, none dare to ask him to dance. Perhaps he might take flight from this soon enough. The night is too young however ; should he disappear he knows it will only look bad and that there would be consequences to pay. His goal is to merely AVOID ATTENTION.

Naturally, that is when Dottore's masked visage freezes when he sees the Tsaritsa looking at him. And approaching. Run.

" Your Majesty. " The words slide out like sliding across smooth ice ; POLITE AND RESPECTABLE. She's drawing all the eyes to him and he suspects it is done on purpose.

She doesn't need to say a word ; greeting nothing more than formality when the extended hand is the TRUE PURPOSE. Infuriating. Clever. He cannot turn her down. Tension coils tighter in his shoulders with something unsettling. He merely needs to entertain a dance or two. He bows his head ever so slightly in acceptance, lifting his hand to take hers as the beast is forced from the shadows and to the spotlight. THERE IS NO OTHER TERM FOR IT ; where they reach the very core of the ballroom. Like wrapping your hand around a heart and feeling it beat against the thin gloves. From here is the life of the party.

The waltz begins not long after they've taken their places. This too is dreamy. Or nightmarish. He is, unfortunately, going to have pay silent thanks to both Pantalone and Crucabena for this refreshment upon the knowledge of this dance that he possesses. HE WILL NOT TELL THEM THAT, or they'd gloat like beasts feasting beyond their limits. It is knowledge that will simply stick like stubborn taffy caught upon the teeth and tongue

✉: @tsaritsan / do not offer your prayers to the skies, sweet dove. they are not listening. sing them to me instead.. ࣪✩࿐⋆*

just like a mourning dove on a quiet winter morning, columbina is seated on the stone railing of her majesty's balcony. long winter coat discarded somewhere inside rather disgracefully, her ribbons she adorned over her body wet with the snowy blanket covering her unconventional seat. the snezhnayan blizzards are harsh on her skin, perhaps they must have taken after her majesty. nonetheless, the cold does not bother her.

"i'm afraid you are mistaken, her majesty." her empty eyes gaze up at the sky, and she huffs indifferently, "my gaze to the heavens is but a cursing one, not to be confused with a longing gaze. "

gracefully off the railing, she is making her way back inside. her veil collects some snow off the ground, following her like a python approaching her prey. her regular, laced mask nowhere to be found, and columbina feels seen. she is not fond of this feeling. she shall endure it, out of respect. "should you ask for a song from me, you shall receive." her steps halt in front of the queen's glorious throne.

"this one is very dear to me, so listen closely."

a quiet tapping on the glass. it's late at night, the snow wrapping around unseen currents of winter-spring air⸻the figure crouched on the pathfinder's balcony is shrouded by darkness, something that disappears once lights flick on. hey, they mouth, making a knocking motion with their fist. would you mind letting me in? they follow the charade with a fake shiver, exaggerated for the sake of clarity. it's cold out here.

Aether had sought REFUGE within the solace of his private quarters once he’d been dismissed. Here he was rarely disturbed, the thick double doors closing his space off from all the rest of the world. A nice warm bath, a change into more comfortable clothing, a quiet moment away from the oppressive gravity of his responsibilities beneath the Tsaritsa’s shadow - that was enough for now.

The warmth of the fireplace radiated through the space like a languid kind of creature SPRAWLING out, soaking into the rugs and bedding, gentle against his skin. It made him drowsy. But as he began to contemplate seeking out the reliable comfort of his bed, there came a sharp rhythm like HAIL against the ice, a shadow at the window that spurred him into abrupt alertness.

“Who’s there?” Elemental energy hummed at his fingertips. Aether approached with caution. He unlatched the door with all the readiness to incapacitate the intruder at a moment’s notice… only to find himself lurching into a pause as he tried to ascertain their identity.

leave + drabble. ft anastasya.

DRABBLE MEME

Aether had COURTED the notion of lucidity for approximately two days. This was the estimated time-frame he'd allowed himself to believe had lapsed since he'd returned from his latest assignment in very poorly condition. There was little way of knowing how much time had passed for sure. His memories of this period were incomplete and largely turbulent, like a zoetrope skipping along an imperfect motor - looping back, distorting, SHUDDERING its uneasy way through time.

But the last few instances where he'd awoken had been to a similar scene : a painfully dry mouth, sterile white walls, the tinny beeping of medical equipment and a LEADEN exhaustion that made moving impossible ( Had he been sedated? It would have been well within Dottore's repertoire ). All the while, the clock mounted on the far wall ticked away its steady and unchanging rhythm. Each time without fail, he'd eventually drift quietly back to sleep.

He dreamed, though only sparsely. He dreamed of Mondstadt, of the open sea, of Lumine and of the unending cold, of his entry to this world and all that had elapsed since then. He dreamed of the Cryo Archon and her frigid touch, her eyes like ice-chips behind a mask that branched and tangled like a great stag's antlers, a mouth like a knife's edge drawn in a frown. He dreamed of her and thought now that he saw her at his bedside, a pillar of ice, a damning spectre immediately distinguishable from the Doctor’s ominous silhouette.

They'd spoken recently, the two of them in her office; Aether recalcitrant as always and She who'd sought to ensnare him ever further. Even now, her voice echoed in his dreams and in his nightmares; hollow like the sound of sobbing from within a confessional. " Tell me about your grief - " There was a species of absence that was characteristic to GRIEF. Aether knew it well. It was unique in the method where it gaped beneath one's feet like a rickety staircase giving way into the void of not knowing; yawning into an abyss of uncertainty and emptiness; landing in a shattering impact upon the concrete understanding that something irreplaceable had been forever lost. What did it feel like to embrace it at the end of a long journey spent running? Was this acceptance the only probable outcome, and was this precisely where she found herself now?

He looked up at her ( her? ) in the haze of his delirium and wondered : was this what She- queen of ice and endless winter - had had to contend with when her lover had been struck down all those centuries ago? He couldn't form the words to speak. Under the laboratory lights, her hair might have been golden.

The fingers of his right hand curled as if trying to seek purchase amidst the intangible. Her touch closed around his wrist, as cold and alien as the starlight from which he'd come; a hollow and terribly bleak frost, empty as death itself.

♢  — @tsaritsan said: A SOFT SILHOUETTE & LONG COAT. only anastasya's eyes pass through bars, gaze cast on a tall figure. il dottore is shackled to the wall before her⸻ chained in place by a dozen assorted irons, frozen and cold. her slow vision does not meet another; it finds only a mask, a small indication of her favour. “ you know well of your transgressions. ” there is no need for explanation between them. it is clear enough their mutual intelligence, shared despite for the heavens; all non-factors now, with him behind steel. she does not wish to lose her harbingers, far and few between⸻ for them, she has grown to spare her fragmented trust. it would be a fragrant annoyance to lose them now. the tsaritsa does not concede her followers, not to that primordial one. not again. she takes one pace forward, and the sound of her movement echoes through a dungeon devoid of life. “ you seem composed. will your other selves ambush me for your freedom, the moment i step outside? ” EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS: UNPROMPTED ASKS - ALWAYS ACCEPTING !

COLDNESS CRAWLS THROUGH THE CELLS, icy fingers that grasp between bars and press against flesh in the form of chains. Like a dangerous beast caught, his limbs are restricted and confined. He is not permitted full freedom. Wise if infuriating. There is something rather amusing about it. FINALLY HE IS BOUND LIKE THE MONSTER THE WORLD SAYS THAT HE IS. Has she, too, finally rejected him after all these years? He has to wonder. But she has not killed him either when it might be wiser to do so if HOSTILITY were the goal. Noteworthy. No one would cry if Il Dottore died ; a trial would be unnecessary. And the Tsaritsa's will is absolute regardless.

He does not react upon hearing footfalls approach NOR WHEN THEY CEASE. A weaker soul might lift their head and plea and grovel. He will not. Dottore has always been a PROUD CREATURE. Even when he ( or more accurately, the original ) was brought in, shivering and shaking from the change of desert to the HEART OF WINTER. Defiant enough to lift red eyes to gaze upon the Tsaritsa directly upon first steps. Besides, he had modified his ability to tolerate more extreme temperatures - benefits upon being a segment rather than the ORIGINAL.

She stands on the other side of the bars ; WHO STANDS BEFORE WHO?

Indeed he does. MULTIPLE as a matter of fact, thought some are more significant than other. DIVINITY STILL LURKS IN THE SPACES BETWEEN HIS TEETH. One segment may felt it, but all carried it. They were all Dottore after all. And they know precisely what has occurred ; of his transgressions. Thus he does not deign it worth replying for it serves no further purpose.

Only upon her question does Dottore lift his head towards her. His eyes may be concealed but the WEIGHT OF HIS STARE is easily felt regardless. What a question. Is she concerned over such matters? Then again - he alone has been deemed worth this: the deepest cells, the many chains and restraints ; the isolation. SHE KNOWS BETTER THAN MANY HIS GENIUS AND HIS SCHEMES. And there are still four more segments actively above.

He scoffs. " Hardly. If anything, I'm sure they'll consider this a vacation of sorts. " Another might lie, but Dottore sees little reason to. The conflict with his own segments is no secret within these palace walls or those who are most familiar with its halls. He sits up a bit straighter, back pressed to stone while the chains rattle and click. " Panic would be USELESS here ; its ability to increase reflexes due to the nervous system is only useful in very selective situations. Of which this is not within the parameters of. Otherwise panic merely serves to cloud judgement and reason. You should know well I do not like such outcomes when I pride myself upon logic above all else. "

SO WHY IS SHE HERE? It is not necessary.

the palace, his second home. It's welcomed him when the first chose to send him away. Its halls are committed to memory, its rules etched into him as deep as instincts. There's not a single custom he hasn't mastered. Yet even with all familiarity, it remains a place of decorum, a place of awareness of his place among its residents.

Despite maintaining a respectable posture during the conferences that have been growing more frequent lately, Tartaglia heads toward the exit of the meeting room visibly disgruntled. It's by default. His disdain for the constitutional obligations that force him to sit alongside most of the other Harbingers is barely a secret, their decisions rarely come from or lead to places he agrees with, and his questions go unanswered at every attempt he makes.

He's made it to one of their seats, but, in the end, it's clear that his rank doesn't give him meaningful sway on most matters.

Before Tartaglia can leave, he sighs, almost petulant at it if not for the split second in which he completely rewires his attitude at the mere motion done by Her Majesty herself. The shift is immediate, with his walk halted by her wordless will, and his deference eclipses any previous discontentment.

♢  — @tsaritsan said: perhaps lithe is the best description for the figure that leans over him— the inquisitive face that looks down and observes is no harbinger, not even fatui. saarelainen blinks and reaches out, skin cooled by cryo energy, and puts their index finger on dottore's neck to check his pulse. when he stirs— well, they should've known he would stir, who takes kindly to freezing cold hands?— they hop back, with an apologetic expression. "sorry, my friend," they say, inclining their head slightly. "you looked so peaceful— you simply also looked quite dead. i only wanted to see if you were alright." EXPERIMENT IN PROGRESS: UNPROMPTED ASKS - ALWAYS ACCEPTING !

Perhaps this incident will serve, at least temporarily, as a reminder of why Dottore should try to sleep more regularly rather than pushing his already enhanced form to the limits. ( It will not stick; ambitions and motives too strong and a base core that WILL NOT CHANGE DESPITE THE FLOW OF TIME. ) Had he been properly rested, he certainly would have awoken at the faintest step directed to him. But he hasn't. And it is not until there comes the touch of ice and absence of warmth that he awakens with a violent recoil. Grace does not matter for survival. HE IS A WILD ANIMAL SPOOKED, TEETH BARED IN THE FORM OF HIS SIGNATURE WEAPONS MANIFESTING IN THE AIR ; bronze and silver gleaming on the target before them while Dottore stumbles backwards.

A quick assessment assures him there has been no harm inflicted nor introduction of chemicals in his veins that should not be there. ( Injecting someone can be quietly easily achieved by skilled hands without waking or disturbing the patient so long as one knew what they were doing. ) The most pressing concern is thusly addressed and discarded to make way for a far more pressing one.

WHO IS THAT?

Dottore does not recognize them, but no mere subordinate would have access to his office so easily nor would they be AUDACIOUS enough to attempt it. But he is not a harbinger either, nor the one in his records that had evidently erased himself. If not any of those, then who? And to speak so - well, meekly would not be quite accurate, but the speech and mannerism are far too kind and gentle in a rather volatile place such as this.

" my lady..... " seija greets. it has been a long time since she has caught glimpse of the tsaritsa. it has been even longer since she has been part of the fatui. having found her own identity, she fears that the frost may end her story before it truly begins. " how are you ? "