𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐀𝐑𝐘 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏

✦˚ · 𝟎𝟏 | 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑

Teyvat was a weary place, battered and beaten by the history of war. Mortals come across these barren lands to dream. While very few make it out as heroes and survivors, many come and go as quietly as the wind. One woman stands against the story of time, destined to tread upon this unholy ground with nothing more than an outstretched, soft hand. Darkness can rise to her neck but she never once dared to look down. Her followers wish to be beside her as she veers to the land of defeated gods, hoping to solve a forgotten mystery.

The Tsaritsa's right hand is a lonesome soul, constantly wandering the snow-covered grounds of Snezhnaya. Those serving beneath her swear their loyalty by the blade, guided truthfully by the sound of her gentle voice. Her youthful face shields a thousand years of unspoken torment, yet she continues forth her journey in overseeing the future, hoping there might be change.

✦✦✦

Pressing your thumbs together, you slowly close yourself, letting yourself open up to the gentle breeze of the wind. Its soft calling guides your mind to a peaceful and quiet resolution. Leaning slightly against the carriage wall, you smell pinewood whiffing through the air. It's been quite some time since you've longed for the feeling of open skies and plains. You suppose that after countless expeditions to the dark Abyss, it would leave you desperate for the sun's warm rays. It was a complete world above the surface.

Cracking your eyes open slightly, you stare at your tinted windows, noticing the way your carriage passes through lush, green forests. Their arms graze the side of the vehicle, reaching out to you. Grasses dance alongside the breeze, blowing ever so meekly. You seemed too fascinated by your surroundings to have noticed the way your navy-haired companion sighed under his breath.

He finds the prosaic task of researching meteorite strikes to be too mundane. He dares call it a disrespect if it had not been ordered by the Jester. If he had any choice in the matter, he would have wanted to explore the Abyss for it would have made great work of his time. But at last, he was left on a journey of a lifetime. What was more exciting than learning about some rocks? He drowned, his sarcasm dripping ever so poisonously. He leans into his open palm, raising one leg over the other. Nevertheless, when he looks to meet your dull eyes, he is reminded why he accepted such a mediocre job.

He notes that your face is as young as freshly bloomed flowers of spring, the colors of your eyes bringing him back to the days in which he enriched himself in the beauty of Inazuma's gardens. While they seemed dull and muddy, they hold a glimmer of light from deep within, something he occasionally wishes to gauge from your form. He swears that he is the only person who can bear witness to your luster. Black sleeves contrast your battered skin, scars so jagged it was violent. When he lowers his gaze, he can see small, transparent wrinkles which glide across your hand. It was like an elaborate constellation that functions as a map to your heart.

And while you may hide your glory behind a thin, white veil, you bear thorns so sharp and thick that he fears being swallowed up by them. Flowers grow on your shoulders. They lean into your collarbone and remind him about how elusive you are. They blossom alongside your snowy veil, dancing along the bottom edges of your neck.

You raise your hand to caress the collar of your clothes, fidgeting a smooth gem. You remember the day the Tsaritsa lovingly held you in her arms, a gift that perhaps weighed heavier than your small trinket. She calls you her child as she brushes aside strands of your hair. While the world prides itself in its darkness, let your light be your only guide. You let her graze your cheek with her frigid hands, her eyes filling you with a sense of adoration and worship. You would have never thought that a nation's ruler could look at you in such a way. You think this service is fleeting.