Erison

Pain

artaglia rolled his eyes at the cold numbing his cheeks. He was used to it; there was a reason he decided to live in the mountains, but it was annoying if you wanted to take that home with you.

He didn't know how to do it discreetly. Sure, he could have just asked the Fatui to send someone over and collect it, but how would he know if it was the correct size and shape? Besides, almost all the Fatui - besides the other harbingers - were idiots. For all he knew, they could be attacked by treasure hoarders and get it stolen.

Now, Tartaglia didn't exactly like getting his hands dirty, but if anyone were to do it, it would be him. The little brat had been standing in the way for far too long, and he was easily replaceable.

Tartaglia highly doubted many would care, sure, it'd spark fear inside the locals - but they didn't' really matter. What were a few regular to one vision users? Or even, what were a few humans to an Adeptus? Nothing. Dirt.

Besides, if he just threw some bucks for a statue, then everyone would forget.

As for the next in line? Tartaglia didn't really care, maybe one of Arlecchino's rats could have it. Lynette maybe - She had some brains in that thick skull of hers.

Wangsheng's sign shimmered in against the milk-white snow. The wind hissed at Tartaglia angrily, messing his hair up and clawing at him like a bird's talons.

"Hello?" He called lazily, into the building.

The doors opened politely, a man around Tartaglia's height behind it. He blinked once upon the others appearance.

"Evening, my lord. Please, come in." He offered. Tartaglia did so. It was warm inside, almost unbearably so. There was a neat cup of tea on the desk, still steaming. It wrecked like the stuff Xiao always whined for. There were papers messily scattered around, and a small fire tucked on the wall Fontaine style, it was very different to the old funeral parlor, much more advanced. The man was quick to pile up the papers and recorrect them into a file draw. "Feel free to take a seat." He said softly, eyes and tone as gentle as summer breeze against the rolling tides. Tartaglia did so, looking at his name tag with mild interest. Zhongli. A boring name. "How may Wangsheng funeral parlor assist you?" He asked, pulling out a notebook and brush.

"I need a casket." Tartaglia responded flatly. Zhongli's hand paused over his notes and he sucked his tongue before rising his golden eyes to Tartaglia. He was suspicious, clearly.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Zhongli mumbled, lowering his head back to his notes and writing down one casket in very neat writing. Tartaglia didn't respond. He knew that Wangsheng was completely private, no information should be spread, and they weren't allowed to question any deaths - even if the sappy Hu Tao often broke those terms. Then again, she was gone now - missing.

Shame .

"Are they any colors you're searching for?" He asked. Tartaglia instinctively rolled his eyes at the question, but he managed to get a grip. He knew what he wanted, he wasn't an idiot, he planned ahead, he had some random guard kill himself a few days ago, any questions and he could play it off as that.

"Just one for a guard," He lied "Nothing too expensive, of course, just traditional black and gold." Zhongli was quick to write it down in soft graceful strokes, then inky brush dribbled onto the paper like a lazy river painting stones. His hands were precise, almost scarily so, he would have made a good fighter if he didn't spend his time lecturing about random peoples deaths or changing dead people's clothes who were already subject to rigor mortis. It was a disgusting and sad career, Tartgalia would never touch dead people, well, aside from the ones he killed; but that was simply a different story.
People who fought often had nothing to live for. Wealth. Fame. Sure, but they often had no family that desired them, no friends to comfort them and show them what else they could do. That's why they fought - and with fighting came death - that was just a fact.

At least for the people who got some sort of a funeral, there was someone who gave a fuck. So it was different. Very different.

But fucks or not, some people just had to die.

Besides, Xiao had been living his miserable pathetic life for far too long, if anything, Tartaglia was doing him a favor. Perhaps he'd see those friends of his, the ones he'd always whine about endlessly.

"Would you like any recommendations to some good florists? I understand now that it's winter they're harder to come across." Zhongli asked. Tartaglia huffed with boredom.

"No." He responded. Zhongli's eyes twitched ever so slightly, surprise, maybe annoyance - whatever it was, Tartaglia couldn't care less. He had half an hour at best until Xiao and friends came home, and he most certainly did not want Xiao to see his early surprise.

"Ah," Zhongli said softly, voice at the verge of cracking like glass with a mountain of pressure upon it. "Right this way, my lord," he corrected. Good. Much better.

He led Tartaglia to a small warehouse filled with premade coffins. Wooden, metal, stone - anything a corpse could ever dream about. The warehouse smelt of incense - it only added to the feeling of heat. Tartaglia felt like he was melting. He felt as if he was a cryo slime that just teleported its way into Sumeru's deserts.

"That one." Tartaglia said quickly, wanting to remove himself from the fire pit that was the funeral parlor. He pointed to one almost matching his description, dark oak painted in a shine that made it appear black with a gold trimming upon the outside. It was simple, very much so, but it'd work. Zhongli's eyes traveled to the casket and nodded, pulling it out in a grand dance. It was alarming how strong he was for just a simple funeral parlor worker. Maybe he was the person to move dead bodies around, scratch that, he had to be the person to move dead bodies around, that was the only proper way to explain it.

The casket was slightly larger than Xiao - then again, what wasn't larger than Xiao? It's coating shimmered in the flickering candle lights, so much so that Tartaglia could see his own reflection inside the coffin.

"Price?"

"Four hundred mora, my lord,"

Tartaglia didn't know why he bothered asking the price, he was rich. Stupidly so. He took all of Second Liyue's funds after all. He was their god at this point, because being real, Xiao was about as godlike a bird that just hatched - all skin and bones, foreign from what it was supposed to be. Shame he'd never get the chance to spread his wings.

Shame? Was it really? It was just Xiao. His life was meaningless in the bigger picture.

Tartaglia frowned at the heat which was starting to make him sweat as Zhongli took his sweet ass time trying to do the paperwork. If Tartaglia wanted to feel like he was melting, he would have told Arlecchino that her children just died.

She was stupidly protective of those brats despite claiming she didn't care for them at every harbinger meeting ever.

Tartaglia stuffed the casket under one arm and stepped into the snow that was now heel-length. It crunched under him like the dreams he was going to murder.

Shame.