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The weather in Snezhnaya was one lost in eternal winters. Where the sun floods the skies with it's blazing flames, it is a downpour of snow in the land of blizzards and storms, hated by the sun, avoided from it's warmth. Truly a fitting domain for the cryo archon.
The snowflakes drizzle from afar, twirling in their descend like frozen ribbons dancing around the frosty breeze. They collapse above the bark of a withered tree incased in icicles and rimes, even the smallest plants acquire massive ears, and what those trees hear is this:
"Would you care to put away that enormous robot? Dawn had just risen upon us, and I have yet to clear my eyes from the fog of sleep that ensnares upon me, yet the first thing I see is the lifeless eyes of machinery piercing into my soul like it is mere seconds away from beheading me! Have some sympathy, would you?!" Columbina shrieks from where she's seated, her eyes shut tight and brows furrowed in discomfort. In her grasp, she holds a silver spoon that cleanly glistens against the palace's grandiose lights while she animatedly swung it around as if to prove a point.
"Oh my sincerest apologies to our darling damsel, It did not come upon me that her elegance would fear the gaze of a harmless robot when she had stopped the hearts of many using hers." Sandrone bitterly spits out, a glare shot at the third using the corner of her slanted eyes as she balances a milky white teacup on her pinky finger.
"Would you two cease arguing like infants?! I am trying to enjoy my breakfast here!" Pantalone huffs and cards through his silky raven locks, tone exasperated yet laced with the familiarity of someone who's experienced this plenty times already now.
"Shut it, Pantalone!" Both Columbina and Sandrone simultaneously yelled out from behind before instantly returning back to jabbing at eachother with petty remarks.
This was, you see, a typical morning inside the celestial walls of Zapolyarny Palace.
The arguments only increase in number as each resident makes their way towards the dining table. With Scaramouche snorting at Childe's horrific bed hair that made him look like he'd barely fled from a jungle full of wild bears, Arlecchino attempting to choke the life out of Pantalone the minute she'd set a foot into his sight. It would continue like that all the way until Pierro's broad footsteps could be heard, to which they all wisely keep quiet.
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Pierro was blabbering on and on about their plan to conquer the electro archon's gnosis, poker face fixed into his expression. His fur coat would ruffle as he vaguely moves during his lectures, the brightness would coruscate in strands of twinkles over his ashen blonde hair.
All of a sudden, he quits explaining, quietly choosing to examine the dining table where the harbingers were seated, his grim stare burned into their minds as he analyzed.
"Uhm, is something amiss?" Pulcinella weakly questioned, a drop of sweat trickling down his cheek.
Finally, Pierro shifted his gaze to the empty seat lying beside the Regrator, "where is the Doctor?" he asked, though it sounded more of a demand with his stern voice.
"Probably holed up in his lab somewhere. That man would rather stay dissecting dead bodies and cackling in his lab all day rather than taking some time to rest while having a meal like any sane person would, apparently." Pantalone responded back, now eyeing the seat occupied by air aswell as he tapped his gloved fingers against the glinting table.
"Heh, it is quite odd to see the words sane and Dottore in one full coherent sentence." Arlecchino chuckled under her breath.
"Tch, he's not important in this part of the operation to begin with." The khaenrian scoffed, and turned back to proceed with his teachings.
"By the way, Scaramouche and Signora you will be taking on this mission together."
Both the ones mentioned yowled out in shock, and for some unknown reason a few other harbingers joined in aswell.
"PARDON ME?!"
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If there was anything he wished for at the moment, it was for somebody to kill him. Someone, anybody, just end his misery.
Scaramouche would've rathered the bliss of death than working side by side with the haughty Signora, and he is very much aware that he is most likely the same but that doesn't make it less bothersome!
(It was only right when he does it, not when the puny humans imitated him in an attempt to feel superior.)
He stared out at the window with intricate designs woven on it, palms placed against the glass, it imprinted the shape of his hands above the surface. The snow collapsed, a pure white drop atop the dried ground, and it gave life to the once vacant earth. It was a scenic sight, the skies bombarded with flocculent clouds and the snowy climate of Snezhnaya.
He would enjoy his few moments of peace and quiet, for it will be gone by midnight.
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(Hey, comrade! I heard you're going on a mission soon today, would you like to spar and warm up befo-)
(Shut it.)
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Signora was sitting on the other side of the carriage, right by his shoulder. She held her head high on a throne of arrogance while placing a leg on top of another. She side-eyed him, her round grey eyes closer to a hawk's luminescent against the night's gentle hue, the moon showers her as it slightly bounces with the carriage's movement against rocks and earthy grounds, with what could be a plethora of light as if she was it's beloved.
Scaramouche thinks she would've been a sight to behold then and there, if she weren't fucking sneering at him with that god awfully punchable face of hers.
Who does she believe herself to be? A queen in her castle layered with scintillating gold? She had no right to be glaring down at him like this even with their height differences because, mind you, he was three ranks above hers at the end of the day. She may be the taller one but he possesed a larger authority.
To hell with you, La Signora.
"Watch it, Balladeer. That wide hat of yours was about to bump into my shoulder." She threatened in a low voice. Her hands were crossed together, and she kept kicking her free leg onto the air almost impatiently, like she wanted to get away from him as soon as possible.
The nerve of this woman..
"And your hair keeps smacking my face, we're equal here." Scaramouche refuted, lips unconsciously forming a pout. His hat stowes shade to his face, the shadows quivering over him, which made him look like a serial killer about to dismember Signora in this very moment. She grimaced in disgust at him, and then turned away to look at the other side.
Good, he needed every bit of intimidation to show her who's in control here.
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(Oh Arlecchino, you handsome, striking woman. Let's talk over some tea in the gardens, they were always a beautiful scenery, you know?)
(What the fuck, Columbina?)
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The moon has completely uncovered, proudly standing and leaving the skies to brim with it's gentle shine. The insects were free, roaming and crawling across the grimy ground.
Signora was practically out cold, crushing him with her head and shoulders as she brazenly snored, a line of drool dribbling from the side of her lips stained with a bright pink lipstick... And seeping onto his sleeves.
"Signora? Signora?! You rowdy pig, wake the hell up! You're crushing me!" Scaramouche senselessly yelled out, his words falling onto deaf ears as she somehow snored loud enough to overpower his screams.
He attempted to push her out, shoving his hands to get her away from him, kicking his legs to send her flying to the other side, wiggling to the side, none of it even remotely affected her. Goddamn him and his fucking height, why did Beelzebul have to make him the shortest gremlin possible?
"Mm, stop moving.. It's annoying.." Signora whined, sleep evident in her voice.
"So you are awake! Get up, you son of a bitch!"
She infact, did not get up, choosing to make him her personal pillow instead.
Scaramouche swallowed back his anger, and stiffly sat the entire way to their trip with her head lying on his shoulders and her hair tickling his neck.
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"So I suppose this is where we part ways, Balladeer." Signora mused aloud, strutting her way inside of the run-down factory oozing with cursed energy as her heels clicked across the mass. The wilting violet engulfs her into an embrace the more she steps inside, thriving with her presence. The reek of miasma wriggles around the factory, always hovering over the air.
"Yes, I hope to see you never again, Eighth." Scaramouche followed her from behind, the bells of his hat chiming within each step like a ringing reminder. He blended in with the purplish hues surrounding this place, like he belonged here.
"Oh don't get cocky, Sixth. I do hope you enjoy your stay in this.." she scrunched up her nose, repulsion clear in her expression, "...Interesting factory."
"I very much won't."
Signora barked out a laugh, "huh, well that doesn't matter to me anyways. Farewell, Scaramouche."
"Goodbye, Signora."
She reached out her hands to slightly wave, and then stepped back outside to the carriage. Her backside facing him, he continued to stare from where he was standing until her silhouette was but a dot among the nature.
"See you at the victory feast."
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( Dottore, is it just me or are you looking fairly young today? Have you been taking care of yourself?)
( You—)
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