Chapter Text
The bank employees at Northland had long since ignored the rumors in Liyue regarding the Fatui, (which they were not a part of, thank you,) and most especially the ones regarding their representative Harbinger. Tartaglia, or the title he went by, Childe, supposedly was up to a lot of no-good according to a lot of no-ones.
The list of complaints and rumors after he had come to reside in Liyue was endless: complaints of frequent sexual escapades that had the people of Liyue Harbor fretting over their adult children’s safety, despite the fact most employees knew the Eleventh Harbinger usually ended up asleep in his office atop of unfinished paperwork; complaints of sneaking around at odd hours, when all the Harbinger was doing was finally returning to his own lodgings to properly sleep and do laundry; complaints of running gambling rings during his lunch break, when in reality it was obvious he just didn’t have much restraint in using his exorbitant paycheck to tip his servers; even complaints of eating out too frequently at a particular restaurant meaning that they couldn’t dine there… which, anyone on staff having to listen to this drivel would try to politely point out that such a thing was completely outside their jurisdiction to begin with.
Needless to say, the bank employees were tired and weary of the mundanity that was Liyue inhabitants finding some way to complain about Childe, or the Fatui, in some way shape or form. They had grown numb to it in the same way most of them had the Snezhnayan winters, and did their best to interact with the harbinger as little as possible to avoid being implicated as part of the never ending rumor mill. This was also partially due to the fact that being around the harbinger also meant getting accidentally caught up in fairly dangerous missions, and hey, those jobs belonged to the guy with the biggest paycheck for a reason.
At some point, Childe had become aware of their efforts, as minimal as they were, and in turn, respected them in his own way. Unlike Pantalone, the previous harbinger to have been stationed there, Childe would frequently intervene when customers became too rowdy, be the guy that came in to put his foot down on a matter when customers became too stubborn, and take the blame for things that he didn’t have to, all just to keep the heat off the employee’s backs. They had been... touched, to say the least, and in the end, they established an unspoken, mutual code of “don’t ask, don’t tell.” The whole of the bank would look the other way with whatever their harbinger decided to do, regardless of how strange some of his choices might seem, and everyone would collectively pretend not to know each other when they were out of uniform (which was the only real way any of them could have a semblance of a social life in the harbor given the people’s suspicions). This mentality, however, did not crossover outside of Northland Bank.
The day before their beloved harbinger was to depart (not that they would ever let him know they had enjoyed his presence) was the last day they thought they’d have to protect him. Really, as much as they loathed to admit that that’s what they had been doing, the small staff at the Northland Bank had realized that it’s exactly what they had been doing, and the unspoken query of whether or not they had grown more loyal to their redheaded harbinger than to their icy Tsaritsa was a question no one dared to ask, but it was one they all knew the answer to.
Regardless, they also all knew that this idea of privacy was not shared amongst the rest of the Fatui. He was still considered the wild child: a whirlwind of destruction and violence, and a finely honed tool of the Tsaritsa’s. The rumors from where he had visited and held post prior, and the ones that permeated from within the main Fatui ranks, were usually far off base from what he was actually like. They’d even say that it was contrary to his true nature, not that Tartaglia had ever minded them.
The rumors were judging him based off a single facet of his character, and he openly laughed at any who did take them to heart. Once, at a rare company dinner, he had even divulged he’d never thought much about his reputation other than when it concerned the Tsaritsa, and that there was no point trying to salvage what others would work twice as hard to tarnish anyways. (Looking back, that had likely been when the bank employees started to protect him in their own way.) Whatever the case, these sporadic, and often cruel rumors, were the lump sum of what most people knew of the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger, and the bank employees had been discouraged by the man himself to try to change them.
Something along the lines of it being futile, and that while he appreciated the enthusiasm, it’d be better for them to just lay low. They hadn’t been entirely convinced, his hold on his emotions so tight sometimes it became obvious when he was withholding them, but they let it go, just as they had to let Childe go. With only a week’s warning, Childe, or rather, the Fatui’s Tartaglia, was to return to Snezhnaya, his purpose in Liyue fulfilled for the time being. And as the Tsaritsa commanded, he did.
The early morning dew had barely formed when the large Fatui sea vessel had arrived in Liyue Harbor, docked and ready to safely escort their youngest harbinger back to his homeland. None of them went to say goodbye. It would break the fragile social contract that had allowed them to live in relative peace during the time Childe had been amongst them, and who were they to break a contract in the land of Liyue?
Well, that, and they were too tired to bother and try to wake up that early. It’s exactly the excuse they gave too, when it had been posed as an open ended question some time that week, and Childe had only smiled on understandingly, a whispered “I’ll miss you guys too,” barely heard amongst the comings and goings of bank patrons. They pretended not to hear what had been said.
Similarly, the sailors who had come to port were also tired, having rolled up just as the warm colors of the sun began to trickle across the waves, kissing the tops of the large mountains that cradled the harbor from its spot on the horizon. They yawned as they went about their work, unloading cargo that they had been told to transport along the way. Once they had almost completed unloading everything and allocating the crates to the correct merchants, Tartaglia had arrived. The captain went out to greet the Eleventh Harbinger, who looked just as weary as the rest of them did, though no one mentioned that. They greeted each other amicably, the breath of a new day yet to liven their words as Tartaglia chirped out something about how he looked forward to returning home - though the sag in his shoulders might’ve indicated otherwise after the captain stated how long it’d be before they actually make landfall.
The captain excused herself to go back to the bridge to begin departure preparations, and the harbinger was left alone on the deck of the ship. The crew did their best to keep their heads down and to not draw any attention to themselves. The rumors of the Eleventh Harbinger were crazy and numerous, and any amount of them could be true with what they knew of the others under the Tsaritsa’s command. Some time in the hectic schedule of trying to wrap up their dealings in Liyue to make departure time, Tartaglia had been called off the ship. Or he had stepped off. No one had time to really care why he had done so, just so long as he was back on by the time they were to leave. A big ship like theirs couldn’t stay in the harbor very long before they began to block traffic and get very strange looks.
Even despite wanting to stay uninvolved, an ordinary deckhand began to get anxious: What if the harbinger had like, left left. He had forgotten something, or worse yet, was lost somewhere amongst all the unloaded cargo and the rows of merchants and couldn’t find a path back to the ship? Their fellow sailor tried to calm them down, because it was highly unlikely the man who had spent a good couple months in Liyue Harbor would be that unfamiliar with the area, but they were waved off. The deckhand rushes to the side of the ship to try to spot the familiar sprig of red hair somewhere amongst the steadily increasing crowd, and was surprised to find it so close. Right below the starboard side stood the Eleventh Harbinger, talking earnestly with another fellow on the dock, an object held out between them in the darkly clothed person’s hands.
The sailor couldn’t discern what was being said, couldn’t really discern what was being proffered, and didn’t really wait to try to do so either. They had a schedule to keep to dammit, and this was no time to make others worry because they were idly chattering with the residents. As they go to say something to remind the harbinger about the time in a brief bout of frustration, the harbinger does something unexpected. So unexpected, in fact, that the words get stuck in their throat, and that despite going silent, the sailor quickly claps their hands over their mouth to prevent themselves from making any other noises. A brief second passes before Tartaglia spins around quickly, and the deckhand shrinks back behind the reinforced bulwark faster than they could blink, hoping that they weren’t spotted. Tartaglia comes back onto the ship a couple heartbeats later, somehow just right before the signal to begin departure is called.
The deckhand doesn’t have any time to think about what they’ve seen before their body is moving for them, joining everyone else in the middle of the deck to get out of Liyue Harbor. Their comrade from earlier, whom had tried to stop them with no success, was ready to greet them with an “I told you so,” but stopped short at the expression on their face. For a brief moment, they wondered what kind of face they were making to elicit such a reaction, but they just shook their head, and mumbled out that they would tell them once they were out of the harbor.
The Eleventh Harbinger disappeared to the stern, and for a while, the crew was able to forget that he was onboard at all as they went through the motions. When they were called back in to wash up for breakfast, his absence was not noted as they were all much to busy finding food and seats in the mess hall. The deckhand whom had seen Tartaglia on the dock earlier, was desperately trying to whisper what had happened to their buddy in coherent words, and when asked to clarify, said their sentence a little too loud. The people nearby, whom had been listening in on the conversation, paused before asking for them to repeat.
They refused.
Curiosity piqued at this, more people beginning to gather around to hear what had happened, to try to verify if what was being said was real.
An officer, who had finally finished their safety check ups, comes in without noticing the atmosphere and innocently asks if anyone knew why the Eleventh Harbinger hadn’t come in for breakfast yet. The gathered crowd turns with almost hungry eyes to the newcomer and pulls them into the fray, and whispers in hushed tones what one of their own had seen:
The Eleventh Harbinger, Tartaglia, had kissed someone on the dock before boarding.
The deck supervisor reels back, shaking her head as she tries to make sense of it. That can’t possibly be why he was still sitting out on the stern, watching Liyue recede into the horizon. Her thoughts end up spoken out loud, causing a sizable crowd of people to go rushing out of the mess hall to take a peek at the back deck, and sure enough, Tartaglia still sits, watching the peaks of the mountains of Liyue Harbor. His lone shape paints a picturesque image of the landscape behind him, his hair blending with the warm orange hues of the sky as the sun steadily climbed, the ocean and fading city a harmonic contrast to it all. The harbinger doesn’t turn, doesn’t give any indication that he realizes people are watching him, just simply continues to lean against the side of the ship, utterly absorbed in his task of watching the harbor disappear. Tartaglia sighs, or at least one of them murmurs that he does, and, feeling like they’re intruding on something, they all return to relay the news that he was indeed still out there.
A more seasoned sailor shakes his fingers and tuts at the crew for being so gossipy as they trail back in. Didn’t they know that kissing someone was a common way to greet and say farewell to someone in Fontaine? This shouldn’t be the news that they’re skipping breakfast over.
“He’s Snezhnayan though,” one of them points out, fork waggling the man’s direction for emphasis as a small sausage dangles from its end. “For what reason would he need to use a Fontainian custom in the middle of Liyue Harbor?”
“The harbingers are well traveled,” another reminds them, opting to push his meal over to another as he leans into the crowd still lingering, “it’s not impossible that he would’ve picked up on things while away and employ them subconsciously.”
“He was in Liyue for too long for that to have happened,” a woman from the bridge insists, sipping her coffee lightly. “The customs there are much more rigid. It’s doubtful such a habitual display of invading someone’s personal space would’ve lasted long.” The group murmurs, some agreeing with the new conjecture, others saying that they’re missing the point entirely.
The chef walks out then, clearing their throat a bit before asking what should’ve been the most obvious question to ask: but who exactly had the Harbinger kissed anyways? Because, if the person in question was from Fontaine, then it would explain what the seasoned sailor from earlier had said.
At that, they all visibly deflate. Seems like they had made a mountain out of a molehill, one of the deckhand’s laughs, before getting hit lightly upside the head. The one who had done the hitting looks back at the group and explains that the stranger’s relationship with the Harbinger was certainly more than just acquaintances, and with such conviction was this said that it had the crew’s ears perking up. Dramatically, they put up a finger to their lips for silence before going to check the corridor outside of the cafeteria. After making sure it was clear, they walked back to where they had been standing and bent down close to the gathered few.
They explained that they had seen Tartaglia come back on board with a glowing weapon. Now, they had at first thought nothing of it – amongst the things a Fatui Harbinger could possibly bring aboard, this was one of the least suspicious items – however, after thinking back on it, it hadn’t been with him when he had first greeted the harbinger with the captain. This, of course, could only mean one thing: the mysterious person from the dock had given it to him!
Rolling their eyes, a bridge engineer points out that this person, whomever they were, could’ve simply been fetching an item that their Lord Harbinger had forgotten, and that this was not necessarily an indication of deeper bonds.
“Where’s your romanticism?” a man next to her cries in exasperation, a piece of hash brown flying off his plate in protest. “The weapon of which they speak is unique! One of a kind!” He gestured a bit wildly then in trying to explain what it looks like, only to end up confusing the crowd. He shakes his head in pity before coughing once into his hand and moving on. “Listen, in the many years spent in the blacksmithing trade, nothing has ever so obviously been a product of love as the weapon that hangs on the Harbinger’s waist.”
“That doesn’t mean the person who brought it is the person who made it,” the engineer retorted, leaning away from the weepy eyed man next to her. “Besides, who’s to say it was made for him? It could easily be a gift from a rich patron of some sorts, not necessarily a weaponsmith.”
The man mumbles something about not being able to fool his eyes while another crew member leans back from their table, tray clean of food as she chugs the rest of her drink. “What need would a Fatui Harbinger have of a rich patron anyways?” She proposes artlessly, swinging her legs out from under the table in a childlike-motion. “It’s not like his paycheck or wallet is lacking in mora after all,” she pointed out, and many were inclined to agree.
“Greed is easy to fall into when it is so readily available, and especially in a place such as Liyue Harbor,” the onboard sister says with a disheartened sigh. “The Tsaritsa, bless her name, may she reign forever, even with her overflowing love for her Harbingers, perhaps this was not enough to satisfy the avarice of our youngest harbinger.” The crew looked around a bit uneasy, not sure about what love the sister might be talking about, but knew it best not to question the overly devoted. The idea, however, wasn’t shot down completely.
“Tartaglia could be making bank while working at the bank!” Two sailors laughingly shouted together, as if the conjecture was the most valid of them all. The sous chef shakes their head as they collect abandoned trays, the pile rising dangerously high as they lecture them about losing sight of the fact that the notoriously battle hungry harbinger had kissed someone, and that straying from that would only bring about more questions than answers. Most of the crew still present in the mess hall agreed, and leaned back into the romantic angle, re-focusing in on who the mysterious stranger was, but a few were disenchanted by the idea. What Harbinger worth their salt would do something that obvious right in front of a Fatui vessel?
“Not a sentimental bone in ya’ guys’ bodies,” a deckhand mutters under their breath as they rise to help put away dishes. Eventually, the topic turns to point out that no one could properly describe the person Tartaglia had been with, other than wearing dark clothes and seeming to be of similar height. Even those traits couldn’t be confirmed, since, with the chaos that was departure, no one had gotten a real good look at who had been on the dock prior to or after leaving.
By the time the Eleventh Harbinger does finally come into the mess hall, the excitement in the air is palpable: everyone bursting at the seams with questions they wanted to ask, but not one of them daring to jump the gun on a potentially sensitive topic.
Tartaglia grabs his tray and gathers his breakfast bit by bit, making sure to thank the chef pleasantly before going to sit down at a table on his own. They all try to move on to different conversation topics, try to pick at the scraps of food that remained in front of them, try to not make it obvious that they’re waiting for someone to open the flood gates on the queries they all had for the man, and at this, they fail miserably.
The conversations that had flowed so organically beforehand had come to a screeching halt, and now on top of the crews’ nervous energy, was this other, much more tense energy, coiled tight like a bound spring in a child’s toy. After a suffocating and agonizingly long time of hushed sentences and a cringe-worthy attempt at starting up talk on the weather, Tartaglia seemed to have had enough. He rose, an obviously strained smile on his face as he goes to return his tray with mostly half eaten food when a Fatui pyro agent also stands up abruptly, pulling everyone’s attention to her – including the harbinger’s.
She opens her mouth to speak, a visible drop of sweat streaking down past her mask as the mess hall holds their breath. “Hello, Lord Harbinger. If you don’t mind, I have a question I’d like to ask you.” Her declaration echoes through the crew’s chests as they watch Tartaglia’s every move, not sure if this type of boldness was the way to go about such a situation. The harbinger doesn’t seem to relax any, but does cock his head to the side, recently wind-tousled locks bouncing at the movement.
“Hello agent,” he greets back lazily, tone distinctly lacking any emotion as he takes a single step toward her, movement slow and calculated as everyone shifts uncomfortably in their seats. “If I may ask, does this question have anything to do with why this room seems to lack oxygen?”
“I dare not speak for everyone, sir,” She gets out, impressively with no warble to her voice as she stands up straighter under the harbinger’s gaze. “But as for me, there’s only one thing I’d like to know.” Tartaglia, seemingly amused by the rigidness to which she spoke, gives a small wave of his hand to indicate that she should ask her question. “Sir, who was it that you met on the dock before departure?”
With everyone’s eyes glued to the harbinger, not a single reaction escaped them as they noticed his shoulders tense, quickly, momentarily, before slumping back down into a calm curve, curling inwards as he began to chuckle. The crew exchange glances, the pyro agent looking increasingly uncomfortable as she waits to see if this was all really worth it. Tartaglia crosses the rest of the space between the two of them, a hand landing on the agent's shoulder, causing her to flinch with her whole body.
“Is that really it?” he asks, another snicker escaping him at the stiff nod given in response. “Oh, I almost forgot how little you all know about Liyue Harbor. The person I had met with was the funeral parlor consultant,” he states, as if the answer he had given cleared up everything and didn’t just add on to the pile of questions they wanted to ask him.
“Ah, yes, of course,” the Fatui agent gets out, just as lost as everyone else was. She pauses for a moment, trying hard to think of something to say in response and to not let the conversation end so stagnantly, the crew behind Tartaglia trying to silently motion her into saying something, anything, to which she ends up blurting out “Well, they were really handsome,” in a squeaky tone. In an instant, the woman’s face is as red as her uniform is, and she can barely process her embarrassment at what she’s said, despite never having seen this person, before the harbinger drops another bomb on them:
“Of course they’re handsome!” The harbinger responds matter-of-factly. No - rather, had that swell in his words instead been… prideful? Yes - it was definitely with pride that he said that sentence, and the crew doesn’t have much more time to analyze this before Tartaglia chuckles again, and moves back from the pyro agent to look around at everyone still sitting straight up in their seats. “Listen, I do actually have to go, but next time, instead of staring, just come ask me, okay? I promise, I don’t usually bite.” He sends them all a charming wink before setting down his tray in the designated area and throwing a hand behind him in a brief farewell motion.
When the doors had finished swinging closed and the sound of his footsteps disappeared from the area, the pyro agent collapsed back into her seat, knees finally giving out from the pressure of having to interact with the harbinger so closely. A few encouraging words are said as the agent mutters how she didn’t know if she’d die by the harbinger’s hand or by embarrassment first, and a sailor promises to give her their dessert during dinner for her sacrifice.
The contents of the conversation find their way to the deck, and later to the break room, then back to the deck, as the whole ship becomes aware of what happened later at breakfast.
“Perhaps it’s like… a Liyuen funeral… thing.” One sailor says when trying to defend Tartaglia from having a romantic interest. “We know too little about Liyue to rule out the possibility.”
“But Lord Harbinger called him handsome.” Another piped up as he tugged on some rope. “That’s gotta mean something, right?”
“He never specified their gender, actually,” said another, as they hopped down from their seat on a barrel. “but I do agree that it sounds suspiciously like something you’d say about a crush or significant other.”
“People can find others attractive without being attracted to them,” the sailor huffed as he tied the final knot on his own rope.
“Okay, but he did say it with pride,” a veteran deckhand mentions, gruff voice giving her a tone of finality that wouldn’t allow others to argue. “I was present - I know what I saw and what I heard. Kid’s down bad.”
“So he is in love?” A Fatui mage mused coquettishly from behind a deckhand, causing them to drop their rope in surprise at the sudden appearance. The mage giggles at the overreaction before taking a seat on top of the recently vacated barrel. “Guess that means I don’t have a chance then, huh?” They joke, hand to their face as they give a dreamy exhale before getting a flick to the forehead for not doing their job properly. An additional remark about not having a chance with that attitude was made, causing the sailors to laugh before they all begrudgingly returned to their duties.
The whole day passes in much of a similar manner. Unlike the bank employees of Northland, they had no problem with latching onto the little bit that they knew about the Eleventh Harbinger and trying to figure out and guess the rest. After all, what else were they to do with their down time rather than theorize and gossip about the man with the highest rank on the ship?
A few ideas began to circulate about if the person from the dock was indeed an employee of a funeral parlor, or if, in fact, they were something else entirely. The job profession was too obscure to just make up on the spot many had said, voicing that they had caught a glimpse of honesty from the harbinger and that it was unlikely that he had spun the entire tale immediately - there was too much omitted for it to be fake information.
Others didn’t necessarily care about the man at the dock, so much as they cared about who had made the weapon the Eleventh carried. The ex-blacksmith from the bridge had convinced a handful of people with his idea that it was specifically hand-crafted for the harbinger. This particular group did note that up until lunch he had been carrying it with him by hand, and that by after lunch, he had already fashioned a sheath for it to be carried around in.
Whether for better or for worse, no one got around to asking him about these details, as Tartaglia didn’t actually end up at dinner with the rest of the crew: he had, instead, been invited to dine with the captain the first night, as per custom. Not that the crew needed to corner him at the mess hall to be able to ask him questions, but this was still the Eleventh Harbinger, “Eye of the Storm,” Tartaglia. Despite his words that bid them to ask their questions, it was a lot easier said than done when he was such an intimidating personality. Most of the newer recruits still refused to be in the same room as him whenever he started making his rounds, quickly finding excuses as to why they needed to leave the room that instant for one reason or another.
Somehow, Tartaglia hadn’t picked up on this. Or if he had, he made a point to never address it. The crew was, understandably, unused to this unsaid kindness the harbinger was exhibiting, a habit they didn’t know stemmed from his months working at Northland. However, in a turn of events, his subconscious attitude towards their actions actually ended up endearing a couple of the recruits to him. Recruits that, to the delight of those still engaged in the rumors revolving around Tartaglia, began to ask him innocuous questions about Liyue during lunch the following day after figuring out that the Eleventh was actually delighted to talk about the city he had stayed in for so long. In fact, the course for lunch that day just happened to be a specialty cuisine from Liyue according to the chefs, and the harbinger had been especially giddy for it.
So giddy, in fact, that he had pulled out his own pair of intricately designed chopsticks from his bag after sitting down at a table. One of the new recruits next to him cooed, saying how pretty they were and praising him for how well he used them, despite the fact that any sailor with experience in using them could tell the man was struggling. The harbinger thanked them regardless, before a piece of food dropped unceremoniously back onto his plate. He laughs a bit sheepishly and says he’s still learning, causing the Fatui members around him to shake their heads and insist that he’s doing great, and he visibly brightens at their words.
“Where did you buy those anyways, Lord Harbinger? They’re very nice.” One of the few non-recruits at the table asks, trying to keep the conversation on track to gain more information about the man’s stay in Liyue.
“Oh, I don’t know where actually.” Tartaglia responds without much thought, a hand to his chin as his other hand barely keeps hold of a piece of pork. “I didn’t buy it. Well, not technically at least.” He adds, like an afterthought. The pause from the people around him makes him say, “It was a gift,” rather quickly before he puts his food in his mouth before it falls. He chews thoughtfully for a moment, apparently realizing that his answer was hardly an adequate explanation to the young sailors around him, who raise their brows in confusion. He swallows. “Okay, so, it was my money, but I let… a friend, a good connoisseur of Liyuen wares, pick them out for me. They did well, don’t you think?” Tartaglia asks with a flourish of his wrist, showing off the dragon and phoenix patterns. He gets the response he’s looking for from the recruits, but the rest of the crew present take note of his flushed face, and their thoughts start churning.
The rosy tint on his cheek could mean a handful of things, but even less given the context: either the food was just spicy enough to make the fairly pale harbinger finally have some color or the weapon smith and funeral parlor worker had a new rival. But, that idea led to a new line of questioning, a line that some accidentally found themselves tumbling down into like a fictitious rabbit hole. With people like this surrounding the Eleventh Harbinger, with jobs or hobbies that were not always the most lucrative, there wasn’t a way that… that the Tartaglia… was a sugar daddy… right? Forget the fact that the very opposite had been proposed just the day before, this line of reasoning was obviously far closer to the truth, something they had all left themselves blind to. Who were they kidding? They had been so fascinated by who rather than why that even when a similar solution had been presented to them, they had all overlooked it in arrogance – what fools they were!
The co-captain, who had decided to eat with the crew for once rather than in his cabin, could only look on in confusion as he watched heads bow in deep contemplation as the harbinger continued idly chattering away at his table. He was, admittedly, a bit lost, and so he struck up an unrelated conversation with a bridge technician near him to distract from… whatever was going on with the crew.
Said crew, who was experiencing some form of shock, looked up at each other, as the same thought seemed to be shared between all of them with just a glance. What did their harbinger have that could draw people to him other than his charms and looks? The answer was obviously mora! In a harbor city run by rules and contracts and businesses, people lived and died by the mora. Who else would be so coveted in Liyue Harbor other than the incredibly wealthy and archon-favored Eleventh Fatui Harbinger himself?
The fact that he was a looker was just a bonus, or maybe even, perhaps the most alluring part of him when combined with everything else? It wasn’t an impossible scenario. In fact, its chances of being correct were far likelier than they would like to admit to it being. Could it even open the doors to some sort of harem situation? Many recoiled at the thought, as if taking psychic damage and someone finally got out a hushed, “No, no, it just sounds like the guy got paid to find an item, this doesn’t mean anything.”
“Ye,” someone beside them cautiously agreed in a whispered tone, sounding like they were in a stage of denial. “I mean, it’s not like he paid for their company. Besides, the guy’s allowed to make friends. That’s a normal thing to do.” Everyone looked over, eyeing the harbinger again as he continued on, not noting the change in his surroundings.
Emboldened by this fact, some of the sailors began side conversations in low tones, backtracking in an attempt to make sense of the scene that replayed in their heads. “What if the blush was misinterpreted?” the logistics specialist at the end of a table began, pushing a dumpling with his fork. “Some of these foods are pretty spicy,” he adds, after disbelieving eyebrows are raised at him. The electro agent across from his scoffs.
“Say we accept that,” he says, scowling at the way the food in front of him was being pushed around on the tray. “It still doesn’t explain his actions up till this point.”
“What do you mean?” A vanguard asks, setting her bowl down with a soft clunk of terracotta. “The only thing Lord Harbinger did was show off his chopsticks a bit.” The others at the table nod, causing the agent to roll his eyes as he readjusts how he’s sitting to lean in a bit more, voice lowering a few decibels.
“Even when pulling out the chopsticks from its case, he was extremely careful. Not only that, but he’s avoided allowing anyone to touch or get too close to them.” He motions upwards, and everyone’s eyes follow Tartaglia as he fluidly moves the chopsticks out of the way of a recruit's reach by dropping another piece of food. “I’ll even bet his clumsy chopstick handling is just to throw people off guard,” he concludes with a click of his tongue.
With the shake of their head, a technician’s pointed gaze looks over to the agent, eyes squinted in suspicion. “What exactly are you advocating for here?”
“Nothing much.” The electro user shrugs, leaning back a bit from the table, “I’m just saying that I’ve seen the accounting ledgers, and the money he claims to have spent at the market is quite a bit. I can understand paying a lot to eat out, but what’re the chances of everything he’s bought having been for himself? We barely have any cargo for him here on board. If he spent so much money there, where are all those items?” The people at the table look down at their trays in consideration of this as the agent sits back up, a smirk barely visible behind his mask, “I’m betting that most of the goods went to this connoisseur that bought the harbinger his chopsticks. If this person was also a merchant, they wouldn’t need Tartaglia’s mora, but since they did, that means that they depend on wealthy patrons to operate.”
“Or,” a whispered voice from behind them says, a slim figure leaning over the aisle with a hand over their mouth, “He bought things for the Tsaritsa and sent them back before he was scheduled to leave.” The table turns to be greeted by an out of uniform mirror maiden, their chilling voice causing them to shiver despite the weather still being fairly warm. “He’s the most loyal of them all to the Tsaritsa, and it was well known back in Fontaine with how often he sent cargo back to Snezhnaya. I wouldn’t say it beyond the realm of possibility.”
The vanguard shifts in her seat more to see the maiden better, and asked back: “What about his family? Surely he’s got-” she gets cut off by a shush from the logistics specialist, his hand waving at her to lower her voice even more as his eyes dart to where Tartaglia, who was still not paying them any mind, continued his meal next to the overly chatty recruits.
“I’d advise against that topic. The captain apparently brought it up last night and the wait staff said they were all excused from the room. I don’t know what happened, but let’s just, not bring that up, okay?” They all nod, falling silent to listen in on other tables' much louder and more normal conversations while they collected their thoughts. Apparently, the harbinger had done the same thing, as he paused mid bite to look over at a table not too far from him.
“Actually, about that-'' he spoke up, chopsticks waving about as he gesticulated and began talking about… a specific kind of… flower? Everyone paused their talks and whispers and, one by one, began to inadvertently focus in on the harbinger’s voice. It was an incredibly mundane spiel about how violetgrass, a plant that grew along cliffs and mountainsides in Liyue, were actually quite crucial to a very specific bee species. Apparently, this species of bee would’ve otherwise died out if not for the actions and protective measures put forth by the Qixing sixty-eight years ago, and that now, due to their progressive legislation, they had also managed to save sister species of this bee as well. Even with their currently thriving population, the current Qixing maintains the violetgrass harvesting sanctions so as to continue to protect them until they return to their original numbers.
Despite how incredibly useless the information had been, they had all been enraptured by his voice, as it had turned slow and near-melodic (a stark contrast to how he usually sounded), warming them from the inside out in a way that had them briefly recalling the sunrise they’d seen over a bustling Liyue Harbor.
“How do you know so much?” A recruit uttered in wonder, causing Tartaglia to snap out of whatever reverie he had been in. His voice back to its normal cheer and pitch as he ducked his head bashfully.
“Oh, my bad. I didn’t realize how long that’d take to explain, hopefully I didn’t bore you all. My friend, who’s kind of a historian, would’ve relayed that all a lot better.” He turns to the recruit a bit before saying cheekily, “They taught me most of what I know about Liyue outside of textbooks, actually.” With their harbinger back to how he usually was, the rest of them also snapped out of it, and resumed their conversations in earnest. Some turned to ask him more random trivia about Liyue, while the others discussed what this all meant.
The Eleventh Harbinger had met with many people while in Liyue it seemed. Amongst them, not a single name had been given, which meant they only had titles to go on. According to a paper a marine engineer had started drawing out in order to keep track of the vast web of people Tartaglia interacted with, there were now a few notable people present. These being the funeral parlor consultant, the weaponsmith, the recently added connoisseur, and now, apparently, the historian.
Said marine engineer hums over the paper as they finished writing out the job title. The crew had mostly eliminated the possibility of the “traveler” being a romantic interest by the way his thirst for battling them outweighed any other visible emotions, and the opposite went for whoever the “quirky chef” was, as he had expressed visible distress when trying to relay some of the dishes he’d been forced to eat at their restaurant. Looking at the paper now, the engineer tentatively puts a heart with a question mark above the line connecting Tartaglia and the historian.
He could be a player, one of the people at the table mused quietly. No money involved, just hustling all these random people on the side. Another responded that he didn’t seem the kind of person to do that while they casually slurped at the rest of their water. If he was a player, he would’ve tried hitting on someone on this ship by this point, wouldn’t he? The other makes a disgruntled noise as the engineer continues to stare at the paper intensely, looking back and forth between it and Tartaglia. After a while, they slowly erase the question mark and sit back with a nod, a satisfied grin on their face.
One of the line cooks, walking out with their own tray of food, casually observes the chart as they sit down, and taps their finger on the line connecting the harbinger and the historian. “I suppose I missed something, but what makes you so sure it’s romantic?” They chewed quietly as the marine engineer signed something about his eyes softening, and the way he took on a more calming demeanor when relaying the information he had been told by the historian. The line cook nodded understandingly, but then stopped mid-movement, bowing their head more to look better at the paper.
“We’re speculating romantic attractions with multiple people, right?” The ones gathered at the table looked between each other before nodding, one of them giving a quietly murmured, “well, yeah,” as they watched the line cook’s brows furrow in concentration.
“What if, and hear me out here,” she says, finger tapping the air as her thoughts churned, “what if they’re all actually the same person?”
“That’s ridiculous,” the engineer signed with a disbelieving shake of their head, as the others voiced their agreement about how incredibly unlikely that could be. As the line cook goes to make her defense, the deck supervisor puts a hand on her shoulder. None of them could even be sure when she had entered the room, but it startled them into silence, her voice barely audible as she spoke.
“I think,” she says thoughtfully, mind clearly elsewhere as she gazed at the harbinger from their spot in the back of the mess hall, “that you might be right to an extent, for Lord Harbinger’s expression is the same wistful look he had when we left Liyue.”
None of them respond to that as their gazes too sweep back over to where Tartaglia recited Liyue’s history like he had experienced it himself. His blue eyes, usually churning like cold ocean depths, echoed the same soft color of tide pools when he seemed to recall particular information, the look of longing embedded deep within in them like a call to return to the sea, and the graceful movements with which he seemed to use the chopsticks while speaking almost making one forget how he had so clumsily used them to unsuccessfully eat noodles earlier. The expression, just as the deck supervisor had said, was pensive and wanting any time he thought the attention had drifted away from him. How no one else had noticed was beyond them, or maybe they had all gotten caught up in the rules of unspoken courtesies that the harbinger had brought aboard with him.
This revelation no longer shook them in the way that it would have when he first boarded. Rather, it was becoming more of a regular occurrence for this sort of thing to happen, despite it only being the second day. But it did spark new questions.
Even if some, or all of these occupations, were the same person, it wouldn’t matter. The identity of this mysterious person to have captured the heart of a Fatui Harbinger (and really, there was no other way to describe what was happening to Tartaglia than this) rocked the boat in a completely different, more profound way than they had been expecting. This brought up a question of loyalty, something they had never doubted from him before, but which crept at the edges of their mind – a question which would, no doubt, have them in death’s embrace if ever spoken aloud: did Tartaglia actually value someone more than the Tsaritsa?
This idea didn’t really occur to most of the crew members, as they hadn’t thought to think quite that deeply about the whole affair. It was easy enough to sweep under the rug for those minds it had crossed, however, because who were they to compare the value of two different types of relationships to each other? They were not evenly remotely alike, and that a comparison with no input from the actual source would just be slanderous. Besides, who, or even what, could compare to the thrall of an archon? There was no reason to question his loyalty like this, since he was obviously here, on their boat and heading to Snezhnaya, and not in Liyue. Yes, that seemed to abate their concerns as they turned to more important matters: Who did he love?
Exiting lunch with a rather quick departure from the harbinger, they were still at square one. What others would have viewed as a setback only fueled the tenacity of this crew. They were members of the Fatui after all, and they were not the type to give up so easily. The higher ups had even encouraged it a bit, knowing that there could not be a better investigative exercise than to try to unravel some sort of truth from their most straightforward harbinger. Even despite his personality, it would not be an easy feat with his training, but surely, the crew thought, with all of them working together, they’d be able to uncover something.
Over the next day and a half, the crew had done as much as they could to try to elicit more details from the harbinger. More people, locations, schedules, names perhaps, maybe even frequent activities, but either the Lord Harbinger’s life in Liyue was boring and filled mostly with paperwork (obviously not true, nothing to investigate there) or Tartaglia was beginning to suspect something with all the questions. When asked to drink with them on the third night, he had tried to evade them, by saying some excuse about being a Hydro user and it being best if he just stuck to plain old water, and yet, despite all that, when he had finally caved to their requests, he had drunk them all under the table. He didn’t even try to act intoxicated by the end of it, just laughing and saying something about how they all needed to work on their stamina if they wanted to be able to swindle information out of future clients.
Whether this was a light jab at their futile attempts at getting him to divulge some of his own intel or not wasn’t entirely clear, as other than the resident bartender, no one had the capacity to think beyond the need for a good long rest. It hurt, the next morning, to see that the Eleventh Harbinger himself had gone around and checked on all of them, leaving small glasses of water and medicine at each of their bedside tables. It caused, perhaps, the first inklings of guilt they had felt since beginning the whole thing, but they shook off the feeling quickly. No, this was obviously a test. If he knew that they knew something was up, and knew that they were probing for something, then perhaps he was also testing their resolve? With a newfound determination to prove themselves, they all got up (with the help of bunk mates for those who stumbled from a hangover) and collectively decided to give it their all.
Just short of going through his personal defects, the crew began scouring for information on Tartaglia in earnest. They asked only the most innocuous seeming questions now, their initial shyness lost to ambition as they tried to connect the dots, find any sort of clue, anywhere that they could. The more bold directly asked him about his time at Northland Bank, which caused a bit of a heart attack during lunch on the fourth day, but ultimately didn’t lead to any new information they hadn’t already uncovered. With such differing opinions on the “who” side of the Tartaglia Romance Equation, there now existed multiple hidden relationship charts as each person tried to draw out their conclusions. (All rejected or disregarded ideas were safely burned in the nearest furnace, as the only thing worse than being discovered you were investigating someone’s personal life would be having evidence that you had been doing so.) Later on the fourth day, they lamented on how little time they had left to investigate the matter.
The next day they would arrive in Snezhnaya, and they hadn’t gotten any closer to discovering the truth. Harbingers really were on another level in keeping their personal life both so open and so secretive. They knew so much, and yet, when looking back, he hadn’t given away any personal information of those he spoke about: no names, appearances, personality traits, genders, nothing. They should’ve known better than to underestimate him and think that he had let his guard down. What clues could they possibly begin to uncover if investigating the man himself had turned out to be futile?
“Hey, guys?”
A group of deckhands in a semi-circle look up at their friend. “Yeah?” One asks in response, as the bartender from the night before hums into the darkness, lantern light flickering faintly over his form as he shuffles a deck of cards.
“I had a thought earlier today. So, you know how all those titles being the same person– “
“–is not possible.” One of them dismisses with a sigh, hand coming up to scratch at their head in exasperation. “Those sorts of professions take lots of time to curate, so they’d either have to be incredibly rich or–”
“–ancient.” The bartender confirms, a slight nod as he finishes shuffling and moves on to dealing. “That got me thinking, you know? Who, or what, could possibly fit this description. So, since I had some spare time this afternoon before my shift, I headed to the library-”
“We have a library?” A deckhand exclaims before being immediately shushed by her peers as the bartender continues on as if nothing had been said at all, eyes glazing over as he passed out their cards.
“–and started doing some research on Liyue myths. Lord Harbinger seemed particularly fond of telling a couple of them last night to entertain the drunk higher ups, so I thought I’d look a bit into it. Turns out, there are a few things that fit this description. However, the ones that piqued my interest were of those referred to as adepti in Liyue: mythical beings of fluctuating appearances, undetermined longevity, and abilities beyond that of any mortal. They’re rare, but acknowledged as real beings, and have a whole part of Liyue as land said to be their jurisdiction. In fact, the prime adeptus was apparently the Geo Archon, Morax, himself.”
By this time, all the hands had been dealt, but none of them moved to begin the next game. One of them set their cards face down in front of them, legs crossed and hand coming to their chin in a thoughtful pose not unlike that of an archon statue. “So you think that Lord Harbinger fell in love with…” the deckhand rotated their hand in the air in a habit of recollection, a look of contemplation crossing their features, “…an adeptus?”
“Not just any adeptus.” The bartender said, pointer finger up for emphasis. “Specifically, I think he fell for one of the most elusive of them all.” They looked around at each other, not sure how to reply. He gathered them in close, excitement in his voice as he whispered to them. “He fell in love with a Yaksha.”
“A yaksha? Haven’t they all disappeared?” One of them whispered back in disbelief, as the others clamored on about not knowing what a Yaksha was. After they were given a quick abridged definition, the group fell back into deep rumination.
“Putting aside that you’re proposing this is all one person, why do you suppose it’s a yaksha and not any other adepti?” The youngest of them asked pointedly
“Easy. Battle aptitude.” The bartender shrugs. “As much as the Lord Harbinger may harbor romantic feelings now, I think that his lust for battle is what started it, and that sort of relationship, for the Eleventh at least, could easily turn into something more. You can’t tell me that wouldn’t peak his interest even a little bit, right?” The others grumbled a bit, conceding the fact that it was quite possible, but that didn’t mean they had to like it. The bartender chuckles as he flips through the cards in his hands idly. “I mean, come on. Who else could keep up with and entertain a guy so obviously born to fight other than an overpowered adeptus?”
“I don’t know, I feel like he’s a bit more sensitive than that.” One of the deckhands says as they regard their own hand of cards, not bothering to meet any of their eyes. “Call it a gut feeling, but I feel like he’s a romantic at heart. You all should give the guy some credit and maybe not assume he’s all about fighting.”
“There’s that,” another said, gesturing to the previous deckhand in indication of their opinion, “and that we’d have to assume they’re all the same person.” The bartender’s shoulders drop as he leans back up against the bed behind him. “Plus, this is also assuming the yaksha still exist, which given the lack of official records, I’m gonna have to say it’s a no there, chief.”
“You all wouldn’t get it.” He dismisses their criticisms with a wave. “You all either weren’t present or were too drunk to hear what Lord Harbinger talked about in length at the bar. Besides, you should trust my intuition as a bar worker. I’ve done this sort of thing for years.”
“Okay, but how many times have you been right?” The youngest pipes up snarkily, a smug grin on her face.
“That’s hardly the point,” The bartender frowns, adjusting his glasses. “But you can doubt me all you want. You’ll be weeping when I win the pot.”
“You bet on that?” They all exclaimed in unison.
“Not yet.” The man hissed, making shushing noises to ensure they hadn’t been too loud. “I got off my shift late and couldn’t find the group in time.” They mumble their condolences before the bartender changes the topic completely, eager to get back to their card game anew and push this topic to tomorrow, when they would have more brain power to deal with the influx of information he had given them.
For the uninitiated, the gambling habits of the veteran sailors were thought of negatively. "There was no fun in losing money," it was usually insisted, but when at sea with little else to do, this habit easily spreads to the rest of the crew, and rapidly so during the time Tartaglia had been aboard. In fact, a betting pool had been set up and been running since day one, though it had mostly been a joke at first; the vets, as usual, betting their dessert to prove someone else wrong or betting their deck duties to show another one up. This didn’t last long, however, as by the end of the second day, people began to take it more seriously, and the organizers had ended up with more mora than they knew what to do with, and quickly found a way to secure the bets and keep a tally of who bet what.
Rules were established, too. Much in the ways of roulette, the more vague one was, the less winnings a sailor could get, but the more specific one got, the more mora one could win, but only at the risk of losing it all due to decreased chances. Many people had already put out random bets just for the sake of shaking things up and hoping to sweep the winnings. One such bet detailed that the Fatui Harbinger had been having an affair with a Sumerian fruits saleswoman in the harbor, which is why, in his luggage, he’d had a vast array of foreign fruits.
No one believed it, but in the end, it was all for fun. Most of the bets were low amounts anyways: 1,000 mora here, 2,500 mora there, and another 1,200 mora on the bet over there. While it wasn’t that big of an operation, to the sailors who couldn’t find themselves interested in Tartaglia’s personal life before, they suddenly had a profound interest in it afterwards. Not only did it offer the normal thrill of gambling, but also the risk of being caught by the Fatui for such scandalous behaviors. They dare not let it get to the captain of the crew, who might shut the whole thing down before anyone had a chance to win. Even more importantly, they dare not let the Eleventh catch wind of it either.
Well, they could at this point. As dastardly as it may seem, they had gotten almost the whole crew in on the gambling, or participating in the ever churning rumor mill, and they highly doubted that the Tsaritsa would allow him to annihilate the entire crew without a really good reason. This, hopefully, did not count as one.
Thankfully for them though, they wouldn’t have to be as secretive with it soon. As around noon of the next day, their beloved harbinger was to depart (not that they would ever let him know just exactly how exciting it had been to have him aboard). In the morning preparations to reach Snezhnaya, the group also collected bets for a bit during breakfast.
Tartaglia had not shown up in the cafeteria, instead choosing to dine with the captain for the last time before landing, meaning everyone was safe to talk freely. This is when the bartender, more confident in his theory than the night before despite his friends’ protests, explained his bet to the organizers. They scoffed and chuckled a good bit about it, before asking how much he was betting. With a dangerous glint in his glasses, he set down a hefty bag of mora on the table and crossed his arms before saying “10,000 mora if you would.”
Loud and incredulous cries came after that, as there was no need to hold back on their reactions when everyone here was in the know. Many asked if he was kidding – he wasn’t. Surely he must know something they didn’t – not anything that they couldn’t have found out themselves he’d reply with a sly smile. The organizers, not sure about how to feel about this crazy theory, marked it down without much complaint and gave him a slip to verify participation. They opened the bag of mora, counting out the sum carefully before putting it into a separate bag for bets, and returned the rest.
Someone asked where he had gotten so much mora, and the bartender tilted his head good-naturedly before letting them know that the Eleventh was a very courteous tipper. It dawned on them, perhaps, that in their attempts to draw information out of Tartaglia, they had let someone else in on a huge advantage. Few could recall the full events of what had happened the night they had been drinking, and those who could recall, did so blearily. Had… had the Harbinger mentioned a yaksha? He had mentioned a lot of different divine beings, had mentioned encountering at least one adeptus… but had it been a yaksha? They couldn’t recall, but it wouldn’t be impossible, as it still counted as a title, and also… the confidence to which it had been said... the sailors couldn’t shake the feeling that it was incredibly bold move either way, as it had shaken their own convictions. How could they reason away now that it wasn’t serious when a bet like that had gotten placed?
Well, the organizers thought to themselves as they packed up the gambling stand, it’s not like one bet would change the game entirely anyways.
Everyone left the mess hall and headed to their stations, putting aside thoughts of bets for the time being to get ready for landfall. By ten, those on the deck could see the mountain range of Snezhnaya poking up above the horizon, and by eleven, the shore city they intended to dock at. With much less cargo on board than on the way to Liyue, the crew had arranged it so that the goods would be easy to handle and lift from the bed of the ship, and that they would only have to be on standby till the okay was given.
Since there was nothing left to do other than stand around and wait until the signal was given, they all got to be witness to what Tartaglia, the Fatui’s Eleventh Harbinger, was supposed to be like. Decked in his official military uniform, marking him as one of the Tsaritsa’s own even to those who didn't recognize him, his silhouette left a deep impression to how exactly he was viewed within the organization: sharp, commanding, and dangerous; even the way he walked had changed just by putting on the uniform, and it took everything the crew had to not greet him as casually as they had been doing up till now, but in the official manner expected of them to use towards higher status individuals.
As much as they had dreaded the trip to escort a Fatui Harbinger, having heard of the many stories and tales from other crews in similar positions, it hadn’t been all bad. They had expected to be filled with misery and tension for the whole week if the battlefield’s famous Tartaglia was anywhere near as frightening in real life, but he hadn’t been, or at least, not in the ways they had been expecting. He certainly could scare someone by sneaking up behind them without meaning to, or simply by being in a room full of recruits. He had even had the captain assure them that he would not be doing any impromptu sparring practices (as the last time had been both poorly received and not great exercise for him anyways). But now, terrifying was the only way to describe him. Unlike the morning he had shown up to board their ship, he was fully awake and giving commands of his own as they neared their homeland.
Weirdly enough, none of them were opposed to this version of Tartaglia. He had treated them kindly, unknowingly provided them with entertainment, and hadn’t been a hindrance to have on board, and for a harbinger? For a harbinger, that was a great performance. To not have anyone complain about them being on board a vessel for nearly a week was unheard of. Forget that they couldn’t locate him unless he purposefully showed up or let himself be found, he hadn’t been a complete disturbance on board, and that within and of itself felt like something to write home about. The crew thought that he had even, somehow, gained the approval of the captain, who had come out personally to see him off the ship.
Perhaps they had joked about the beloved Harbinger thing, and they still didn’t really mean it, not really. However, they did have an odd soft spot for the man, regardless of how intimidating he was donned in all black and red, new weapon glowing faintly gold at his side, giving him an ethereal halo that contrasted starkly with the all-white environment of Snezhnaya. The crimson mask, usually found on the side of his head, had been moved to the front, and was gleaming in a way that unnerved even older Fatui members as he paced across the deck to check over things. It left a fluttering in their hearts that wasn’t quite admiration, but something a lot more akin to fear, to be so close to someone, something, so incredibly powerful. The steely gaze he wore now was so unlike his usual self that it made it impossible to treat him as anything other than what he presented himself as: superior. Superior in rank, superior in battle, and superior in presence alone.
So much so, that upon docking, with just a single look from Tartaglia, the deckhands had sprung to work quicker than the captain had ever seen them do to unload the cargo. Vanguards moved forward, finding a set of cargo to assist with and then protect upon disembarking as well in a rare display of incredibly cohesive teamwork that would make even the cold Tsaritsa crack a smile. After a while of making sure everything was running smoothly, the captain went over to the harbinger to begin his own departure process. It wasn’t much, but even for a lone Harbinger returning from a long mission away from home, it was more fanfare than what was needed. Because of his status, certain customs had to be followed, including having an entourage of Fatui agents come to escort him off the boat and into a sleigh carriage that would take him straight to the Tsaritsa herself.
As the crew stood aside to let them off, the captain seemed to ask him something along the lines of if he enjoyed his stay on their ship, causing the harbinger to stop right at the top of ramp to get off and lay a gentle hand on the bulwark. He turned back to her, his free hand going to take his mask off as he flashed her a brilliant grin, cheeks and nose already a flattering red from the blistering cold as he give her a radiant affirmation. With the removal of his mask, the deckhands seemed to recall who he was (not as the harbinger, but as Tartaglia, or maybe even, someone completely different). While everyone else’s training was thoroughly embedded in them, keeping them from moving from their spots to clamor around him in their usual way, it wasn’t true for everyone.
The youngest deckhand on board, at the age of fifteen, did not seem to have retained this, or perhaps it was simply the raw allure the Harbinger had, an inspiration of sorts to he who was also the youngest in their respective rank. He had dashed forward, stopping just short of the entourage from the mainland, who glared at him with weapons raised in defense until Tartaglia laughed heartily and told them to relax. Relief flooded the boy’s face, a smile overtaking his features as he took an excited step forward and nervously posed his question.
“Lord Harbinger sir, I wanted to ask you something before you left, but…” he trailed off at a huff from one of the mainland skirmishers. The harbinger’s kind smile (a harbinger could do that?) still hadn’t faded from his face as he encouraged the boy to try again. Nodding, he started back up, but this time, much more direct than before, “I heard that there are a lot of adepti in Liyue, and you mentioned that you had met some, but did you ever get to meet a yaksha?”
The question was so unexpected, that without the context of what had been going on in the ship, the Fatui members who had come to escort Tartaglia and the captain, who had been purposefully left out of the loop, had no reason to not allow the question to be answered. The harbinger, who must be weak to children, (cause really, the preferential treatment to this kid’s break in protocol was just unfair,) smiles before answering with a “Yeah, actually I did. He’s a fun guy to tease.” The crew is left gaping as the harbinger answers another question that, no, he had not been able to fight him, before being told by a nearby agent that they had to leave if they were going to meet the Tsaritsa on time. Tartaglia sighs, bids farewell to the young deckhand, and puts his mask back in place before disembarking from the ship, the rest of his way to his carriage uneventful. Afterwards, the child, blissfully unaware of what carnage he had wrought upon the boat, nimbly returned to his post, and due to the harbinger’s good mood, somehow escaped a long lecture from the captain as well.
Not only had the Eleventh revealed that adepti existed, but also that he had met a legendary yaksha! And that he had also teased said yaksha? And that said yaksha was male? With this singular question, the doorway to even more expanded string theories was opened, and it was all thanks to a child who either was stupendously oblivious or incredibly devious. Due to the uproar that followed, it made something all the more clear to them: they had to return to Liyue and do some investigating.
Starting at the Northland Bank.