Scarlet Proof Scarlet Proof
Scarlet Proof Scarlet Proof
Set Bonuses
4-Piece Set
Increases the equipping character's CRIT Rate by 16%, and their Stellar Swirl reaction dealt by 40%, for 10s when they trigger a Stellar Swirl reaction or deal Stellar Swirl reaction DMG.
Increases the equipping character's CRIT Rate by 16%, and their Stellar Swirl reaction dealt by 40%, for 10s after they trigger a Stellar Swirl reaction.
Story
Honor to Your Devotion
No description No story
Honor to Your Devotion
A bright red flower ornament that symbolizes blazing glory. Miss Guillotin sits in Snezhnograd's central square, enjoying borscht outdoors and hot coffee spiked with liquor, just like a local. The coffee has barely been served before the frigid wind turns it cold, yet each sip still burns all the way from her throat to her stomach. Exceptionally perceptive as ever, Miss Guillotin immediately understands why the pointy-eared waiter recommended a double Fire-water.
Getting from Fontaine to Snezhnaya takes Miss Guillotin no small amount of effort, with most of the journey spent crossing the snowfields. The weather is colder than she expects, though the roads themselves prove surprisingly manageable. It is this strange place that keeps slowing her down instead. She sees people leap bare-chested from trees over ten meters tall into snowdrifts, and children race across frozen lakes to see who can break through the ice and fall into the water first. Whoever suffers the worst luck wins, and is therefore the happiest of them all. She finds it even harder to understand than Alain's little stories about heroes slaying dragons. None of it seems to serve any purpose, yet everything feels wonderfully new.
A few months earlier, she sat on a bench in the Court of Fontaine with a teacup in hand, watching through the damp, misty air as the building across the street was being renovated. She passed the time by pointing out flaws in the construction crew's work. Rather than taking offense, the man overseeing the project thanked her, leaving her with a favorable impression of him. She therefore allowed him to carry on with his unsolicited conversation. The man, who introduced himself as the president of some association branch, spoke in such a mild, measured tone that made her drowsy listening to him. Normally, it would have been a fine opportunity to rest. Unfortunately, since Alain's departure, she always had far too much time to sit idle and doze, and had grown accustomed to handling trivial matters unrelated to her research while only half awake.
For instance, the Palais Mermonia granted her an enormous sum in compensation following the death of Duke Alain Guillotin. She had no intention of sitting on the Mora like some miser until she died of old age. For one thing, she obviously never would. Nor did she wish to become the subject of some horror story centuries later about a haunted doll lurking in a basement. She heard that the bank nearby offered some attractive investment plans, but a bank from a foreign nation seemed like a trap in and of itself. No matter how highly the branch president beside her praised the bank for its generous support, it was not enough to convince the ever-astute Miss Guillotin.
Then there was the question of how bread could possibly be as bitter as black coffee, or how a drink could taste like bread. Alain had carefully equipped her with taste and thermal perception systems indistinguishable from a human's, so how was she supposed to test whether they could continue operating reliably under prolonged exposure to low temperatures?
The overly friendly branch president continues to entertain her with tales of adventures in other nations, occasionally slipping in a compliment or two. He claims that even the most well-traveled adventurers would rarely encounter a lady of such insight, and that merely helping to correct flaws in a building's design is hardly a worthy use of her talents.
And so, Miss Guillotin sets down her empty teacup and decides to go try the drink that tastes like bread.
At a table amid the ice and snow, she met the Director of the Fatui.
At the time, she was wondering just how old the Podvorye truly was as she watched a Volkodlak, clumsier even than Pulonia, struggle to keep an entire tray of overflowing glasses level. Against this precariously balanced backdrop, the masked man spoke to her of an ideal that sought to save the world.
He said that a fate devoid of reason was a shackle meant to be broken, and that to destroy the old world was to save it.
Fate and salvation were both familiar subjects to her, yet now they felt somewhat pointed. Oh, Alain... she thought. You gave me a free and exceptional soul, but did you ever wonder what I might choose to do with it? Then again, she immediately reflected, that was never Alain's question to answer. It was hers, a question she would have to confront in her own life.
The hero who wielded the holy sword and the dragon he was meant to slay, whether it deserved to be slain or not, it was a story of the past. And yet, the world was still waiting to be saved.
Not long after, she came to be known as Marionette, or Sandrone, and took on the responsibilities that came with the name. In her spare moments, she returned to that familiar seat and gazed across at the Adventurers' Guild window. Behind it stood a receptionist named Katheryne, poised and graceful, seemingly untouched by even the fiercest winter winds and snow.
Someone pinned a theater program to the nearby noticeboard, followed by a Fatui recruitment poster. The latter bore a scarlet flower, brighter than the actresses' skirts. It was a medal promised to those who would devote themselves to the cause. Ever since Sandrone learned of the Adventurers' Guild's deeper purpose in Snezhnaya, none of this strikes her as unusual. The Fatui's grand ideal is a voracious beast, and both talent and intelligence are vital to its nourishment.
Sometimes, she feels as though she too is part of it.
Getting from Fontaine to Snezhnaya takes Miss Guillotin no small amount of effort, with most of the journey spent crossing the snowfields. The weather is colder than she expects, though the roads themselves prove surprisingly manageable. It is this strange place that keeps slowing her down instead. She sees people leap bare-chested from trees over ten meters tall into snowdrifts, and children race across frozen lakes to see who can break through the ice and fall into the water first. Whoever suffers the worst luck wins, and is therefore the happiest of them all. She finds it even harder to understand than Alain's little stories about heroes slaying dragons. None of it seems to serve any purpose, yet everything feels wonderfully new.
A few months earlier, she sat on a bench in the Court of Fontaine with a teacup in hand, watching through the damp, misty air as the building across the street was being renovated. She passed the time by pointing out flaws in the construction crew's work. Rather than taking offense, the man overseeing the project thanked her, leaving her with a favorable impression of him. She therefore allowed him to carry on with his unsolicited conversation. The man, who introduced himself as the president of some association branch, spoke in such a mild, measured tone that made her drowsy listening to him. Normally, it would have been a fine opportunity to rest. Unfortunately, since Alain's departure, she always had far too much time to sit idle and doze, and had grown accustomed to handling trivial matters unrelated to her research while only half awake.
For instance, the Palais Mermonia granted her an enormous sum in compensation following the death of Duke Alain Guillotin. She had no intention of sitting on the Mora like some miser until she died of old age. For one thing, she obviously never would. Nor did she wish to become the subject of some horror story centuries later about a haunted doll lurking in a basement. She heard that the bank nearby offered some attractive investment plans, but a bank from a foreign nation seemed like a trap in and of itself. No matter how highly the branch president beside her praised the bank for its generous support, it was not enough to convince the ever-astute Miss Guillotin.
Then there was the question of how bread could possibly be as bitter as black coffee, or how a drink could taste like bread. Alain had carefully equipped her with taste and thermal perception systems indistinguishable from a human's, so how was she supposed to test whether they could continue operating reliably under prolonged exposure to low temperatures?
The overly friendly branch president continues to entertain her with tales of adventures in other nations, occasionally slipping in a compliment or two. He claims that even the most well-traveled adventurers would rarely encounter a lady of such insight, and that merely helping to correct flaws in a building's design is hardly a worthy use of her talents.
And so, Miss Guillotin sets down her empty teacup and decides to go try the drink that tastes like bread.
At a table amid the ice and snow, she met the Director of the Fatui.
At the time, she was wondering just how old the Podvorye truly was as she watched a Volkodlak, clumsier even than Pulonia, struggle to keep an entire tray of overflowing glasses level. Against this precariously balanced backdrop, the masked man spoke to her of an ideal that sought to save the world.
He said that a fate devoid of reason was a shackle meant to be broken, and that to destroy the old world was to save it.
Fate and salvation were both familiar subjects to her, yet now they felt somewhat pointed. Oh, Alain... she thought. You gave me a free and exceptional soul, but did you ever wonder what I might choose to do with it? Then again, she immediately reflected, that was never Alain's question to answer. It was hers, a question she would have to confront in her own life.
The hero who wielded the holy sword and the dragon he was meant to slay, whether it deserved to be slain or not, it was a story of the past. And yet, the world was still waiting to be saved.
Not long after, she came to be known as Marionette, or Sandrone, and took on the responsibilities that came with the name. In her spare moments, she returned to that familiar seat and gazed across at the Adventurers' Guild window. Behind it stood a receptionist named Katheryne, poised and graceful, seemingly untouched by even the fiercest winter winds and snow.
Someone pinned a theater program to the nearby noticeboard, followed by a Fatui recruitment poster. The latter bore a scarlet flower, brighter than the actresses' skirts. It was a medal promised to those who would devote themselves to the cause. Ever since Sandrone learned of the Adventurers' Guild's deeper purpose in Snezhnaya, none of this strikes her as unusual. The Fatui's grand ideal is a voracious beast, and both talent and intelligence are vital to its nourishment.
Sometimes, she feels as though she too is part of it.
Glory to Your Legacy
No description No story
Glory to Your Legacy
A bright red quill pen, granted to the youngest blood. In theory, aside from the Belyi Tsar who accepted divine authority bestowed from on high, no other fae bears any responsibility to care for humans. Evidently, however, that has never stopped some among them from longing for human life. As though roaming freely across the tundra offered them no pleasure, and only bundling up in heavy coats and struggling to kindle a fire were truly worth enjoying.
In truth, Mirko was indeed one of those who chose to enter the human world. But he would never claim to love or admire humanity. He would only say that it was a remarkably farsighted decision.
He was fond of observing the world and drawing conclusions from what he saw. For instance, examining a group member by member could be a complicated affair, but generally speaking, they could be divided into three categories: the youngest, the oldest, and the hopeless lot in between.
Young fae, or young creatures of any other kind, tend to be very adaptable. They are often molded by their surroundings, then call it discovering themselves and finding purpose. Full of youthful fervor, they enlist in the military or devote themselves to research, doing their part to magnify the glory of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa.
Once they pass an absurdly high threshold of age, however, they tend to adopt a different sort of noncommittal, go-with-the-flow attitude. When the Tsaritsa ascended the throne, for example, one of the first letters of congratulations she received came from the uninhabited reaches of the far north. Had it not borne the name of one of the princes, one might well have wondered whether its sender was still among the living.
As for those in between, perhaps they refused to believe that His Majesty had truly perished in the calamity, or perhaps they could not accept that the crown had passed beyond the hands of their own kind. Either way, their stubborn fury did manage to blaze rather fiercely, if only for a little while. Mocking one's own kin would generally be condemned as despicable, but Mirko simply could not help himself. There was little point denying it. After all, among the qualities by which politicians are judged, despicable is a remarkably mild one. Combine it with foresight, and it instead becomes the virtue known as knowing which way the wind is blowing.
After giving it some thought, Mirko decided to apply to join the Fatui.
In fact, he would be disappointed if the Tsaritsa failed to see through his intentions. Assuming, for the moment, that the witch still counted as human, this organization of self-proclaimed fools had yet to make room for a fae. Mirko had no intention of dressing up his motives as a struggle for the rights of all fae. He merely reasoned that, if a new world was soon to be born, he had no wish to find that it held no place for him.
The Fatui's response to his application was rather concise. "Mr. Mirko Radovidovich Veleshek," he read, "Please report to the Mayor."
Mayor Ioanna Ivanovna also served as Speaker of the Snezhnograd Veche, and different observers naturally drew different conclusions from the arrangement. To outsiders, compelling a fae to bow his head and become the pupil of a human was Her Majesty's warning to the old order. As for "The Rooster," his willingness to endure such an indignity for a seat among the Fatui could be taken as either naked ambition or an admirable ability to swallow his pride.
A far-sighted politician wouldn't rush to deny these interpretation. Ambition he certainly had, as evidenced by Speaker Ivanovna's high opinion of him making him a likely successor to her position. Indignities, meanwhile, he had suffered in no small measure. Ioanna Ivanovna was exceptionally skilled at weaving elaborate conspiracies while erasing every trace of her own involvement, and Pulcinella, perhaps on account of his short legs, initially struggled to keep up the pace.
All things considered, Pulcinella had learned all manner of things from humans, useful and otherwise: loyalty and the sowing of discord, strategic mastery and the appearance of it, a foul temper and how best to conceal it. Thus was he able to preside calmly over the Veche while wishing he could drive a spear straight through Pantalone's calf. Admittedly, he had been outmaneuvered when it came to lobbying the Adventurers' Guild. That was only to be expected when most of his own work was confined to Snezhnaya. Just you wait, he thought. That grinning madman might be the Guild's nominal president, but Pulcinella would not allow all its wealth and influence to fall into his hands.
Humans had also left their mark on some of the Domovoy gentleman's habits. After Ioanna Ivanovna's death, Pulcinella found himself considering who might one day succeed him. The thought was rather absurd, since with sufficient caution, he could probably live until the end of time. Perhaps one day he would grow weary of it all, weary of devising new ways to deal with his oddly assorted colleagues. Yet the ideal the Tsaritsa had once laid before them aligned with the greater vision he held in his own heart. He would have to endure at least until the day that ideal was fulfilled, would he not?
Of course, putting the matter of a successor out of his mind did not prevent Pulcinella from taking notice of a certain young man many years later. Ajax plainly lacked every quality required of a politician. For one thing, he had already chosen his master and had no desire to become anyone else's pupil. And if someone had to guide him, The Captain was clearly far better suited to the role.
And so, just as Ioanna Ivanovna had once watched him, Pulcinella watched "Childe" grow. After one morning meeting, he discreetly broached the subject with Capitano, who was preparing to depart for Natlan. The very next day, Pulcinella spotted Tartaglia's beaming smile from afar.
"Look! I just went to see The Captain off, and he gave me this..."
Pulcinella recognized the object in the box at once. It was one of the quill pens issued to soldiers during the Fatui's earliest recruitment. Its color had not faded even after several centuries, proof that it had been carefully preserved all this time.
Pulcinella nodded with a kindly smile. Like the future, passed onward from one hand to the next, this too was part of his foresight.
In truth, Mirko was indeed one of those who chose to enter the human world. But he would never claim to love or admire humanity. He would only say that it was a remarkably farsighted decision.
He was fond of observing the world and drawing conclusions from what he saw. For instance, examining a group member by member could be a complicated affair, but generally speaking, they could be divided into three categories: the youngest, the oldest, and the hopeless lot in between.
Young fae, or young creatures of any other kind, tend to be very adaptable. They are often molded by their surroundings, then call it discovering themselves and finding purpose. Full of youthful fervor, they enlist in the military or devote themselves to research, doing their part to magnify the glory of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa.
Once they pass an absurdly high threshold of age, however, they tend to adopt a different sort of noncommittal, go-with-the-flow attitude. When the Tsaritsa ascended the throne, for example, one of the first letters of congratulations she received came from the uninhabited reaches of the far north. Had it not borne the name of one of the princes, one might well have wondered whether its sender was still among the living.
As for those in between, perhaps they refused to believe that His Majesty had truly perished in the calamity, or perhaps they could not accept that the crown had passed beyond the hands of their own kind. Either way, their stubborn fury did manage to blaze rather fiercely, if only for a little while. Mocking one's own kin would generally be condemned as despicable, but Mirko simply could not help himself. There was little point denying it. After all, among the qualities by which politicians are judged, despicable is a remarkably mild one. Combine it with foresight, and it instead becomes the virtue known as knowing which way the wind is blowing.
After giving it some thought, Mirko decided to apply to join the Fatui.
In fact, he would be disappointed if the Tsaritsa failed to see through his intentions. Assuming, for the moment, that the witch still counted as human, this organization of self-proclaimed fools had yet to make room for a fae. Mirko had no intention of dressing up his motives as a struggle for the rights of all fae. He merely reasoned that, if a new world was soon to be born, he had no wish to find that it held no place for him.
The Fatui's response to his application was rather concise. "Mr. Mirko Radovidovich Veleshek," he read, "Please report to the Mayor."
Mayor Ioanna Ivanovna also served as Speaker of the Snezhnograd Veche, and different observers naturally drew different conclusions from the arrangement. To outsiders, compelling a fae to bow his head and become the pupil of a human was Her Majesty's warning to the old order. As for "The Rooster," his willingness to endure such an indignity for a seat among the Fatui could be taken as either naked ambition or an admirable ability to swallow his pride.
A far-sighted politician wouldn't rush to deny these interpretation. Ambition he certainly had, as evidenced by Speaker Ivanovna's high opinion of him making him a likely successor to her position. Indignities, meanwhile, he had suffered in no small measure. Ioanna Ivanovna was exceptionally skilled at weaving elaborate conspiracies while erasing every trace of her own involvement, and Pulcinella, perhaps on account of his short legs, initially struggled to keep up the pace.
All things considered, Pulcinella had learned all manner of things from humans, useful and otherwise: loyalty and the sowing of discord, strategic mastery and the appearance of it, a foul temper and how best to conceal it. Thus was he able to preside calmly over the Veche while wishing he could drive a spear straight through Pantalone's calf. Admittedly, he had been outmaneuvered when it came to lobbying the Adventurers' Guild. That was only to be expected when most of his own work was confined to Snezhnaya. Just you wait, he thought. That grinning madman might be the Guild's nominal president, but Pulcinella would not allow all its wealth and influence to fall into his hands.
Humans had also left their mark on some of the Domovoy gentleman's habits. After Ioanna Ivanovna's death, Pulcinella found himself considering who might one day succeed him. The thought was rather absurd, since with sufficient caution, he could probably live until the end of time. Perhaps one day he would grow weary of it all, weary of devising new ways to deal with his oddly assorted colleagues. Yet the ideal the Tsaritsa had once laid before them aligned with the greater vision he held in his own heart. He would have to endure at least until the day that ideal was fulfilled, would he not?
Of course, putting the matter of a successor out of his mind did not prevent Pulcinella from taking notice of a certain young man many years later. Ajax plainly lacked every quality required of a politician. For one thing, he had already chosen his master and had no desire to become anyone else's pupil. And if someone had to guide him, The Captain was clearly far better suited to the role.
And so, just as Ioanna Ivanovna had once watched him, Pulcinella watched "Childe" grow. After one morning meeting, he discreetly broached the subject with Capitano, who was preparing to depart for Natlan. The very next day, Pulcinella spotted Tartaglia's beaming smile from afar.
"Look! I just went to see The Captain off, and he gave me this..."
Pulcinella recognized the object in the box at once. It was one of the quill pens issued to soldiers during the Fatui's earliest recruitment. Its color had not faded even after several centuries, proof that it had been carefully preserved all this time.
Pulcinella nodded with a kindly smile. Like the future, passed onward from one hand to the next, this too was part of his foresight.
Time Gifted Unto You
No description No story
Time Gifted Unto You
A bright red pocket watch marking the time allotted for a conversation. Almost as soon as recruitment posters began appearing on noticeboards across Snezhnaya, Pulcinella had several quiet, comfortable rooms prepared for use as counseling rooms.
"Counseling rooms" was what they call them internally. To everyone else, they were usually known as "meeting rooms" or simply "the little rooms," as though needing counseling were some shameful affliction best kept hidden. Then there was "the dark room," a nickname of uncertain origin that Capitano categorically rejected.
At first, the Fatui trained properly qualified counselors to deal with all manners of problems. In practice, however, many soldiers were reluctant to open up to strangers. They preferred to turn to someone they trusted and, somewhere they would not be disturbed, speak of things they didn't want brought into the light. Or simply break down and cry.
So the considerate Pulcinella relaxed the rules to some degree. Once a booking was approved, anyone could spend a few hours inside talking with a companion of their choice. The Harbingers were naturally no exception. Capitano once saw Lohefalter coming out from one of the rooms, dabbing at her face with a powder puff, with Pulcinella close behind, holding up her handbag. He had no intention of prying into a lady's private affairs, and the Mayor was a man who knew how to keep a secret. Neither of them ever mentioned it again.
On another occasion, Capitano saw Dottore and Pantalone leaving that floor together late one evening, both grinning from ear to ear. As expected, Pulcinella soon gave them a furious scolding ("Those two could talk anywhere they wanted to! Did they really have to take up a shared facility?!"). He then announced that measures would be taken to put a stop to such behavior ("Tell whoever's in charge to reject those bastards' applications outright next time!"). Unfortunately, neither of them ever booked a counseling room again. With no chance to deliver the punishment he had prepared, Pulcinella was left to stew in frustration all over again.
Capitano didn't know what to say, either. Later, he bought Pulcinella a bottle of good wine, though he never asked whether he ever opened it.
When it came to private lives, Capitano was practically invisible. Whether he was present or not made little difference to others' casual chatter, unless the conversation became too outrageous. Everyone agreed that The Captain would never tell on anyone. At times, he felt like a walking counseling room, silently taking in every whispered secret.
The chatter didn't bother him. After all his years of training, his own heart could sometimes be louder than any of his colleagues. Sitting in the counseling room, he felt as though he were a little room enclosed within another, and then another still... until his soul was squeezed into the very center, hemmed in from above and below, front and back, left and right.
The meeting room was small, with heavy curtains drawn across the windows. This was not because Pulcinella had been stingy, but because of a theory that people found it easier to trust one another in close, warm surroundings. Capitano had no idea where the theory came from. After giving it some thought, he removed his helmet and gently set it aside.
At the time, his face was not yet so horrific. It looked merely marked by more scars than most, wounds that stubbornly refused to heal, and in the dim light, the sight was not quite horrifying. The man who invited him to talk was a former student of his who had joined a special operations unit after completing his training. Capitano knew what happened to the man's squad and therefore had some idea of what he wished to talk about. They were sent to a remote region to quell a disturbance. It should have been a relatively straightforward mission, yet every survivor who returned was left deeply shaken. In the end, with no other options remaining, they were forced to call in Dottore. Only then was the situation finally brought under control.
Capitano was present at the time and, feeling responsible for the men, asked, "What did you give them?"
"This?" Dottore produced another unopened glass vial on the spot and generously handed it to him. "A potent sedative."
The vial was still in his pocket. Hopefully, he would have no need for it today. The soldier across from him looked utterly exhausted. With his only remaining hand, he opened his pocket watch, closed it, then opened it again, as though checking that time was still passing.
"I know many still don't believe it, but I swear, everything in the report is true," the soldier said with a bitter smile. "Those people never even heard of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa. They thought it's still the age of the Belyi Tsar. At first, they called us lackeys of the fae and four-eyed monsters. They threw water over us, claiming they would wash away our sins of apostasy and our false faith..."
"Yeah, that was how absurd it all seemed at first! They didn't even have any proper weapons. Someone beside me were even laughing. Our squad leader approached them slowly and tried to reason with them. He told them that now is the age of humanity, that we no longer needed to..."
"And then... then..."
Capitano read the report. It consisted of accounts recorded after the survivors regained consciousness, followed by several notes Dottore had added after examining them. The locals had long been suffering from a virus-induced form of mass hysteria brought on by cannibalism. That, at least, was how Dottore had summarized it. The soldiers sent to suppress the unrest developed the same symptoms after coming into contact with the contaminated water. Their infections were less severe, however, and they could still be saved. Dottore later produced a new course of treatment. As he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, observing its effects, he looked almost like a real doctor.
Perfectly reasonable. The doctor adjusted his glasses. The way he narrowed his eyes made him look strangely like someone else. They lived in a place so isolated and inhospitable that one could hardly expect them to have anything else to eat. Capitano sighed. He had no desire to waste time arguing with reasoning so cold, yet so correct. But whose throat had been torn open? Whose arm had ended up in whose stomach? Was that really something the word "reasonable" could explain?
"Never mind." The soldier abruptly broke off, pulling Capitano from his memories as well. "The counselor told me that if I could one day recount everything that happened without getting upset, it would mean I was recovering. What a load of bullocks... Forgive me." He immediately lowered his head in apology, then glanced at his pocket watch again. "I only booked an hour. I don't want to take up too much of your time. The truth is... I came to say goodbye."
After the soldier left, Capitano looked over the things he had left behind: a red flower medal, a quill and a bottle of liquor he had carried with him, a patched helmet that looked almost new, and a pocket watch that might have been left deliberately or simply forgotten. Capitano suspected that they weren't all belonged to the same person. They merely happened to be reunited here. "I'd like you to keep these, my lord," the soldier, having already decided to retire, said. "Or you could pass them on to those who come after me. I hope they'll be luckier than we were. Or perhaps... a little stronger."
You shouldn't think that way, Capitano thought, though he never spoke the words aloud.
In fact, those who can survive are already strong enough.
"Counseling rooms" was what they call them internally. To everyone else, they were usually known as "meeting rooms" or simply "the little rooms," as though needing counseling were some shameful affliction best kept hidden. Then there was "the dark room," a nickname of uncertain origin that Capitano categorically rejected.
At first, the Fatui trained properly qualified counselors to deal with all manners of problems. In practice, however, many soldiers were reluctant to open up to strangers. They preferred to turn to someone they trusted and, somewhere they would not be disturbed, speak of things they didn't want brought into the light. Or simply break down and cry.
So the considerate Pulcinella relaxed the rules to some degree. Once a booking was approved, anyone could spend a few hours inside talking with a companion of their choice. The Harbingers were naturally no exception. Capitano once saw Lohefalter coming out from one of the rooms, dabbing at her face with a powder puff, with Pulcinella close behind, holding up her handbag. He had no intention of prying into a lady's private affairs, and the Mayor was a man who knew how to keep a secret. Neither of them ever mentioned it again.
On another occasion, Capitano saw Dottore and Pantalone leaving that floor together late one evening, both grinning from ear to ear. As expected, Pulcinella soon gave them a furious scolding ("Those two could talk anywhere they wanted to! Did they really have to take up a shared facility?!"). He then announced that measures would be taken to put a stop to such behavior ("Tell whoever's in charge to reject those bastards' applications outright next time!"). Unfortunately, neither of them ever booked a counseling room again. With no chance to deliver the punishment he had prepared, Pulcinella was left to stew in frustration all over again.
Capitano didn't know what to say, either. Later, he bought Pulcinella a bottle of good wine, though he never asked whether he ever opened it.
When it came to private lives, Capitano was practically invisible. Whether he was present or not made little difference to others' casual chatter, unless the conversation became too outrageous. Everyone agreed that The Captain would never tell on anyone. At times, he felt like a walking counseling room, silently taking in every whispered secret.
The chatter didn't bother him. After all his years of training, his own heart could sometimes be louder than any of his colleagues. Sitting in the counseling room, he felt as though he were a little room enclosed within another, and then another still... until his soul was squeezed into the very center, hemmed in from above and below, front and back, left and right.
The meeting room was small, with heavy curtains drawn across the windows. This was not because Pulcinella had been stingy, but because of a theory that people found it easier to trust one another in close, warm surroundings. Capitano had no idea where the theory came from. After giving it some thought, he removed his helmet and gently set it aside.
At the time, his face was not yet so horrific. It looked merely marked by more scars than most, wounds that stubbornly refused to heal, and in the dim light, the sight was not quite horrifying. The man who invited him to talk was a former student of his who had joined a special operations unit after completing his training. Capitano knew what happened to the man's squad and therefore had some idea of what he wished to talk about. They were sent to a remote region to quell a disturbance. It should have been a relatively straightforward mission, yet every survivor who returned was left deeply shaken. In the end, with no other options remaining, they were forced to call in Dottore. Only then was the situation finally brought under control.
Capitano was present at the time and, feeling responsible for the men, asked, "What did you give them?"
"This?" Dottore produced another unopened glass vial on the spot and generously handed it to him. "A potent sedative."
The vial was still in his pocket. Hopefully, he would have no need for it today. The soldier across from him looked utterly exhausted. With his only remaining hand, he opened his pocket watch, closed it, then opened it again, as though checking that time was still passing.
"I know many still don't believe it, but I swear, everything in the report is true," the soldier said with a bitter smile. "Those people never even heard of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa. They thought it's still the age of the Belyi Tsar. At first, they called us lackeys of the fae and four-eyed monsters. They threw water over us, claiming they would wash away our sins of apostasy and our false faith..."
"Yeah, that was how absurd it all seemed at first! They didn't even have any proper weapons. Someone beside me were even laughing. Our squad leader approached them slowly and tried to reason with them. He told them that now is the age of humanity, that we no longer needed to..."
"And then... then..."
Capitano read the report. It consisted of accounts recorded after the survivors regained consciousness, followed by several notes Dottore had added after examining them. The locals had long been suffering from a virus-induced form of mass hysteria brought on by cannibalism. That, at least, was how Dottore had summarized it. The soldiers sent to suppress the unrest developed the same symptoms after coming into contact with the contaminated water. Their infections were less severe, however, and they could still be saved. Dottore later produced a new course of treatment. As he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, observing its effects, he looked almost like a real doctor.
Perfectly reasonable. The doctor adjusted his glasses. The way he narrowed his eyes made him look strangely like someone else. They lived in a place so isolated and inhospitable that one could hardly expect them to have anything else to eat. Capitano sighed. He had no desire to waste time arguing with reasoning so cold, yet so correct. But whose throat had been torn open? Whose arm had ended up in whose stomach? Was that really something the word "reasonable" could explain?
"Never mind." The soldier abruptly broke off, pulling Capitano from his memories as well. "The counselor told me that if I could one day recount everything that happened without getting upset, it would mean I was recovering. What a load of bullocks... Forgive me." He immediately lowered his head in apology, then glanced at his pocket watch again. "I only booked an hour. I don't want to take up too much of your time. The truth is... I came to say goodbye."
After the soldier left, Capitano looked over the things he had left behind: a red flower medal, a quill and a bottle of liquor he had carried with him, a patched helmet that looked almost new, and a pocket watch that might have been left deliberately or simply forgotten. Capitano suspected that they weren't all belonged to the same person. They merely happened to be reunited here. "I'd like you to keep these, my lord," the soldier, having already decided to retire, said. "Or you could pass them on to those who come after me. I hope they'll be luckier than we were. Or perhaps... a little stronger."
You shouldn't think that way, Capitano thought, though he never spoke the words aloud.
In fact, those who can survive are already strong enough.
Chalice of Your Blood and Sorrow
No description No story
Chalice of Your Blood and Sorrow
A bright red wine bottle. May you never learn what's been in it. On the first night, he stood with his hands behind his back in a birch forest swept by biting winds. Flecks of snow clinging to his glasses were slightly more of a nuisance than those landing on his face, so he took them off and slipped them into his coat pocket.
Contrary to what others might have thought, Zandik understood humans very well.
First, a complete human being has two hundred and six bones. Most use their brains to think and usually feel fear when startled or threatened.
Second, to be precise, he carefully included qualifiers such as "complete," "most," and "usually" in his description, thereby avoiding any potential objections based on individual outliers.
Ultimately, his deepest understanding of humanity lay in knowing that its possibilities were limitless.
On the second night, he sat beside a feeble campfire, sharing a meal of plants mixed with scraps of animal flesh with several villagers. A black-haired woman with a deeply lined face prodded at the firewood, trying to coax the flames higher. Zandik was certain she had no idea why doing so made the flames suddenly leap higher. She did it only because those before her had done the same and got the result they wanted, and so this unwritten method had been passed down from generation to generation.
Zandik further concluded that she must be younger than her appearance suggested, and that the same was true of the others. Harsh living conditions invariably caused premature aging and bred resentment. This time, their resentment was directed at the cold, hunger, the fae, the higher-ranking fae, and the debased humans who submitted to them. Zandik had already been warned that this place held an exceedingly antiquated view of the world, which spared him the step of being surprised.
Curiously, neither illness nor death figured among the villagers' grievances. Perhaps people instinctively struggled for as long as they lived, whereas in death, they spared everyone the trouble. Under such circumstances, a stranger appearing out of nowhere would naturally be perceived as a threat and frighten the locals. Fortunately, well-versed in human nature, Zandik came prepared: the animal scraps were his contribution.
What a perfect place. Ice and snow sealed away all outside interference, forming a world within a world, each enclosed in its own shell. Human behavior remained primitive, while history itself had ground to a halt.
This place should have given rise to even more possibilities. And when Zandik spoke of humanity's possibilities, he by no means intended the word as praise.
Setting aside its connections to the outside world, a human brain placed in a water tank is no different from one housed within a skull. So long as the appropriate signals can be simulated, it will produce the predetermined response.
As Dottore poured the experimental materials into the tank, a child's voice came up nearby. He asked, "Is that a butterfly on your bottle?"
This child must be very curious to venture out on a night cold enough to freeze a person to death just to watch him conduct his experiment. If he had been a little more curious and ventured a little farther, beyond the birch forest, perhaps he could have gone on to live a much better life.
To reward the child's curiosity, Dottore tossed him the empty bottle and said, "That isn't a butterfly. It's a four-eyed monster!" The child took a frightened step back, and the bright red bottle fell into the snow. The boy's fear was entirely as expected, so Dottore quickly lost interest and went back to what he had been doing.
On the tenth night, the food and water in his pack had noticeably dwindled, replaced by detailed records of his psychotropic drug trials. The results were exactly as he anticipated, drug-induced mental control could work in either direction. Stimulation and sedation each had their uses, and whether applied to interrogation or therapy, both appeared to offer considerable profit potential.
The experiments yielded fantastic results, but that also meant Zandik's time as himself was drawing to a close. Soon, he would return to the castle of Fatuus, become Dottore once more, and attend to matters of a somewhat more humane nature.
"So far away," he thought with regret as he gazed in the direction of Snezhnograd.
If only he could perform surgery on his own brain, then he could sit back and travel in comfort like everyone else.
Contrary to what others might have thought, Zandik understood humans very well.
First, a complete human being has two hundred and six bones. Most use their brains to think and usually feel fear when startled or threatened.
Second, to be precise, he carefully included qualifiers such as "complete," "most," and "usually" in his description, thereby avoiding any potential objections based on individual outliers.
Ultimately, his deepest understanding of humanity lay in knowing that its possibilities were limitless.
On the second night, he sat beside a feeble campfire, sharing a meal of plants mixed with scraps of animal flesh with several villagers. A black-haired woman with a deeply lined face prodded at the firewood, trying to coax the flames higher. Zandik was certain she had no idea why doing so made the flames suddenly leap higher. She did it only because those before her had done the same and got the result they wanted, and so this unwritten method had been passed down from generation to generation.
Zandik further concluded that she must be younger than her appearance suggested, and that the same was true of the others. Harsh living conditions invariably caused premature aging and bred resentment. This time, their resentment was directed at the cold, hunger, the fae, the higher-ranking fae, and the debased humans who submitted to them. Zandik had already been warned that this place held an exceedingly antiquated view of the world, which spared him the step of being surprised.
Curiously, neither illness nor death figured among the villagers' grievances. Perhaps people instinctively struggled for as long as they lived, whereas in death, they spared everyone the trouble. Under such circumstances, a stranger appearing out of nowhere would naturally be perceived as a threat and frighten the locals. Fortunately, well-versed in human nature, Zandik came prepared: the animal scraps were his contribution.
What a perfect place. Ice and snow sealed away all outside interference, forming a world within a world, each enclosed in its own shell. Human behavior remained primitive, while history itself had ground to a halt.
This place should have given rise to even more possibilities. And when Zandik spoke of humanity's possibilities, he by no means intended the word as praise.
Setting aside its connections to the outside world, a human brain placed in a water tank is no different from one housed within a skull. So long as the appropriate signals can be simulated, it will produce the predetermined response.
As Dottore poured the experimental materials into the tank, a child's voice came up nearby. He asked, "Is that a butterfly on your bottle?"
This child must be very curious to venture out on a night cold enough to freeze a person to death just to watch him conduct his experiment. If he had been a little more curious and ventured a little farther, beyond the birch forest, perhaps he could have gone on to live a much better life.
To reward the child's curiosity, Dottore tossed him the empty bottle and said, "That isn't a butterfly. It's a four-eyed monster!" The child took a frightened step back, and the bright red bottle fell into the snow. The boy's fear was entirely as expected, so Dottore quickly lost interest and went back to what he had been doing.
On the tenth night, the food and water in his pack had noticeably dwindled, replaced by detailed records of his psychotropic drug trials. The results were exactly as he anticipated, drug-induced mental control could work in either direction. Stimulation and sedation each had their uses, and whether applied to interrogation or therapy, both appeared to offer considerable profit potential.
The experiments yielded fantastic results, but that also meant Zandik's time as himself was drawing to a close. Soon, he would return to the castle of Fatuus, become Dottore once more, and attend to matters of a somewhat more humane nature.
"So far away," he thought with regret as he gazed in the direction of Snezhnograd.
If only he could perform surgery on his own brain, then he could sit back and travel in comfort like everyone else.
Testament to Your Faith
No description No story
Testament to Your Faith
A bright red helmet. Hopefully it has, once upon a time, protected someone. Pantalone sits in the theater like a statue, with only his index finger showing any sign of life as it occasionally taps along to the music.
Today's performance features neither a celebrated artist nor a renowned play, and plenty of seats below remain empty. Still, he comes and he sits alone. His doctor prefers him to spend his leisure time in public, where he has no opportunity to engage in anything detrimental to his health. Besides, in the private box reserved for the Fatui, he is unlikely to be attacked by anyone other than his colleagues. All things considered, it's nearly the best place he could be.
The performers onstage sing of love and acceptance, but heartwarming tales rarely find much favor with audiences here. Not that the people of Snezhnaya dislike happy endings. Rather, before such an ending can be earned, the characters must endure trial after trial, giving voice to all that lies pent up in the hearts of those who inhabit these frozen lands. You must shatter the shackles of a decaying world and struggle onward, through forests and cold wind, before you can hope to glimpse the rooftops of a warmer world from afar.
But that is not the end. This seemingly warm world is no home of yours, either. If you have no value and can do nothing but beg for compassion never meant for you, nothing will change. Even so, there is no turning back. That is the lesson he has learned: once the shackles seize you again, the chains only tighten. To break free a second time, all you can do is wait for an opening, even if it may lead you somewhere worse.
He once touched on the subject in casual conversation. His birthplace sought to tame those who refused to comply through violence and confinement, while his friend's homeland chose exile instead. Even the same narrow-minded thinking could take different forms and give rise to different possibilities. At that, they both laughed, as though each took pleasure in the other's suffering.
For the first twenty years of his life, happiness came only in fleeting moments, such as the day his mother sold him to debt collectors, or those times when he made a fortune off powerful officials and nobles and mistakenly believed he might have a chance to join their ranks.
Make no mistake: he wasn't pleased with the price he fetched, nor with the fortune he made later. Rather, somewhere in his subconscious, he sensed his potential to appreciate in value (After all, how many people get sold twice in one lifetime? Ha). That woman finally found the chance to rid herself of the disobedient freak, but in doing so, she also gave him the chance to escape that frozen wasteland, a place even wild beasts wanted nothing to do with. From the makeshift life of his "foster father," he learned money could be made to multiply. The nobles in league with the criminal underworld lured him into a trap with the illusion of profit, but at the bottom of that trap lay a path to powers greater than the nobility themselves.
And since every one of these bizarre turns of fortune came only after he stopped praying to the heavens, he began to question the established rules of this world all the more. It was only after he abandoned his reverence for the gods and cast his lot with the world's outcasts that he became eligible to be recruited by those very gods. Whether audiences would condemn such a horror story is anyone’s guess. Fortunately, he has no intention of sharing it.
As the final song of the performance rings out, someone pushes open the door without warning. Only one person would be inconsiderate enough to interrupt someone enjoying the ending. If the newest Harbinger were here, the ensuing barrage of curses would make the disturbance twice as bad.
Speaking of his new colleague, Pantalone finds her very interesting. She begins voicing her displeasure with every manner of procedure the moment she arrives, perfectly embodying the rebellious spirit expected of a Harbinger. Pulcinella's attempt to use her to secure a share of the Adventurers' Guild's profits has plainly failed. The girl would never heed the honeyed words of that hypocritical politician. Besides, her creations have taken on the burden of all that tedious reception work. Though he cannot appear too willing, Pantalone has nevertheless ceded to Sandrone the share that is rightfully hers, and done so in complete sincerity. It is only fair exchange, a principle he fully approves.
Pantalone has spent much of the performance lost in thought, so naturally, he has little interest in its ending. He rises and turns to Dottore, who has evidently only just returned to Snezhnograd, and reads from his expression that all has gone smoothly. Some time ago, Dottore proposed a new idea for an experiment, and Pantalone happened to know the perfect place for it.
This, too, is part of a fair exchange, and he fully approves.
Today's performance features neither a celebrated artist nor a renowned play, and plenty of seats below remain empty. Still, he comes and he sits alone. His doctor prefers him to spend his leisure time in public, where he has no opportunity to engage in anything detrimental to his health. Besides, in the private box reserved for the Fatui, he is unlikely to be attacked by anyone other than his colleagues. All things considered, it's nearly the best place he could be.
The performers onstage sing of love and acceptance, but heartwarming tales rarely find much favor with audiences here. Not that the people of Snezhnaya dislike happy endings. Rather, before such an ending can be earned, the characters must endure trial after trial, giving voice to all that lies pent up in the hearts of those who inhabit these frozen lands. You must shatter the shackles of a decaying world and struggle onward, through forests and cold wind, before you can hope to glimpse the rooftops of a warmer world from afar.
But that is not the end. This seemingly warm world is no home of yours, either. If you have no value and can do nothing but beg for compassion never meant for you, nothing will change. Even so, there is no turning back. That is the lesson he has learned: once the shackles seize you again, the chains only tighten. To break free a second time, all you can do is wait for an opening, even if it may lead you somewhere worse.
He once touched on the subject in casual conversation. His birthplace sought to tame those who refused to comply through violence and confinement, while his friend's homeland chose exile instead. Even the same narrow-minded thinking could take different forms and give rise to different possibilities. At that, they both laughed, as though each took pleasure in the other's suffering.
For the first twenty years of his life, happiness came only in fleeting moments, such as the day his mother sold him to debt collectors, or those times when he made a fortune off powerful officials and nobles and mistakenly believed he might have a chance to join their ranks.
Make no mistake: he wasn't pleased with the price he fetched, nor with the fortune he made later. Rather, somewhere in his subconscious, he sensed his potential to appreciate in value (After all, how many people get sold twice in one lifetime? Ha). That woman finally found the chance to rid herself of the disobedient freak, but in doing so, she also gave him the chance to escape that frozen wasteland, a place even wild beasts wanted nothing to do with. From the makeshift life of his "foster father," he learned money could be made to multiply. The nobles in league with the criminal underworld lured him into a trap with the illusion of profit, but at the bottom of that trap lay a path to powers greater than the nobility themselves.
And since every one of these bizarre turns of fortune came only after he stopped praying to the heavens, he began to question the established rules of this world all the more. It was only after he abandoned his reverence for the gods and cast his lot with the world's outcasts that he became eligible to be recruited by those very gods. Whether audiences would condemn such a horror story is anyone’s guess. Fortunately, he has no intention of sharing it.
As the final song of the performance rings out, someone pushes open the door without warning. Only one person would be inconsiderate enough to interrupt someone enjoying the ending. If the newest Harbinger were here, the ensuing barrage of curses would make the disturbance twice as bad.
Speaking of his new colleague, Pantalone finds her very interesting. She begins voicing her displeasure with every manner of procedure the moment she arrives, perfectly embodying the rebellious spirit expected of a Harbinger. Pulcinella's attempt to use her to secure a share of the Adventurers' Guild's profits has plainly failed. The girl would never heed the honeyed words of that hypocritical politician. Besides, her creations have taken on the burden of all that tedious reception work. Though he cannot appear too willing, Pantalone has nevertheless ceded to Sandrone the share that is rightfully hers, and done so in complete sincerity. It is only fair exchange, a principle he fully approves.
Pantalone has spent much of the performance lost in thought, so naturally, he has little interest in its ending. He rises and turns to Dottore, who has evidently only just returned to Snezhnograd, and reads from his expression that all has gone smoothly. Some time ago, Dottore proposed a new idea for an experiment, and Pantalone happened to know the perfect place for it.
This, too, is part of a fair exchange, and he fully approves.