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By the time that familiar figure arrives at the doorway, the once-hushed whispers have risen into audible mutterings of discontent.
The tavern is rowdy tonight, the evening young enough that the drinks are still flowing freely, but late enough that most are already three drinks in. If Diluc has learnt one thing from his time behind the bar, however, it is that wine is a strange substance with unpredictable effects. It encourages pleasure just as equally as it does displeasure.
“Look who's here!” Nimrod crows.
At that cry, the tides seem to subtly shift, the disgruntled murmurs immediately ceasing as the tavern rouses itself in warm welcome.
“You're late today,” Payne chides jokingly. “We've all already started!”
That results in a round of good-natured laughter and jeers, to which Venti only laughs.
“Ah, but a well-lubricated audience is one well-sought for any bard, is it not?” he teases. “Or has my late arrival denied me my welcome?”
“You're not the unwelcome individual here,” Norman mutters from the table nearest to the counter, just loud enough for Diluc to catch.
“Come, sing us a song!” Nimrod cries.
A sea of voices rise in cheerful agreement, washing away that single grain of malcontent.
As the night progresses, Diluc continues to keep a watchful eye on the situation, but it seems that Venti's arrival has only had a mellowing influence on the crowd, his song very much like the wine he so loves in that aspect. Diluc has never quite understood the sway he seems to hold with the inebriated of Mondstadt, and perhaps he never will, given his own avoidance of the substance. Tonight, however, he is thankful.
A straight-backed figure sits alone in the corner, faced away from the rest of the tavern and dressed pompously in cravat, coat, and cloak. The faint aura of disapproval radiating from him only seems to grow as the crowd, under the influence of wine and song, gets ever more raucous. At a particularly raunchy choice of song, he finally turns, pinning Venti with a sharp glare, but occupied as he is with his lyre and his audience, the bard does not see.
The man downs his drink, setting his glass back down with a firm clunk, before he stands, heading for the bar just as the song begins to draw to a close. Laughing, Venti backs accidentally into him, trodding unwittingly on the tip of one shoe.
“Oh goodness,” Venti gasps. “I must be drunker than I thought, huh? Sorry about that.”
As the crowd laughs with him, the man only seems to stiffen in offense at his easy-going tone. “Do you not know how to give a proper apology to someone you've rudely stepped on?”
Venti turns to look at him with some surprise. All at once, the mood in the room seems to sour.
“He did apologize,” Payne says stiffly. “Or did you not hear?”
“His apology rings insincere.”
“What's sincere to you then?” Norman challenges. “Do you expect a grovelling apology?”
There's an undercurrent of tension all throughout the tavern now, those discontented whispers back again.
“Now, now,” Venti quickly interjects, seeming to sense the tension. “There's no need for discord.” Turning to the man with a more sober smile, he offers a graceful bow, gaze lowered and posture humble. “My apologies, good sir.”
With a harrumph, the man steps around him and heads for the bar without another word.
“Another song then! Any requests?” Venti calls, successfully distracting the crowd before they can get too unhappy at the man’s lack of response.
“Another glass of the same red?” Diluc asks stiffly as the man approaches the counter.
“Yes,” he says shortly.
Diluc turns, retrieving a bottle off the shelf, silently beginning to pour.
“Your wine, sir,” he says when he's done. With another harrumph, the man retreats back to his table in the corner, not acknowledging Diluc’s reply.
“Another round here too!”
“And one for the bard!” Nimrod calls. “It's on me!”
Diluc eyes the table, then quickly fills six more mugs of ale and one glass of dandelion wine, bringing the drinks to the table on a tray. Once everyone has received their drinks, he begins to load the empty mugs on the table onto the tray, seizing everyone's moment of distraction as they take their first hearty gulp to lean down.
“Oi, you okay?”
Venti pauses with his glass raised halfway to his lips, clearly surprised. “Me?”
“Who else?” Diluc says crossly, but Venti only laughs.
“I'm fine, my good Master Diluc,” he says. “Though I wonder if you might entertain my curiosity — who is that man sitting in the corner?”
“No one of consequence,” Diluc says. Having retrieved all of the empty mugs, he promptly lifts the tray back up and returns behind the bar.
Back upon his perch on a high stool, Venti gives his lyre a testing strum, before silencing the strings with the flat of his palm.
“Song requests?” he calls again. “Otherwise, you'll be subjected to a song of my own choice.”
“Sing a song about the rebellion!” someone cries.
Diluc immediately stiffens from behind the counter. He looks up, trying to catch Venti's eye with a warning glance, but Venti does not notice, laughing as he pulls his thumb across a string, before briefly reaching up to one of the tuning pegs, adjusting the tension to such minute precision that Diluc does not truly hear a difference.
Needless to say, he does not notice Diluc’s gaze.
“A song about the rebellion, huh?” he says, somewhat playfully. “We’ve had more than one rebellion in our history. Ballads that have survived from Decarabian’s fall are few and far between, though I certainly know a tale or two. Or shall we go with the Ballad of Vennessa?”
“The Ballad of Vennessa!” his audience cries eagerly.
It's a tavern favourite by this point, given the number of times it's been requested. The crowd never seems to grow tired of it, though that is perhaps owed in part to the cheeky additions Venti is known to make to that well-loved song, differing slightly with every rendition, but never failing to spark laughter as he pokes humorous fun at the antagonists of his tale.
Today is possibly the worst day for Venti’s mischievous line of humour, however. Still, before Diluc can do anything to stop it, Venti is already bursting into song.
“Children of Mondstadt, let us revel!” he cries heartily. “For I have a story to tell!” He slams his fist against the tabletop. “To freedom!”
“Aye!” the tavern choruses, bringing their fists down as well.
“To the Anemo Archon!”
“Aye!” comes the roar, even louder than before.
“To Vennessa, the first Knight of Mond!”
The bellow of the eager crowd is practically loud enough this time to raise the roof, the drum of eager fists against the table drowning out all other sounds but the sound of voices raised in deafening unison.
“Aye!”
With that intro over with, Venti lifts his hand to the strings with a laugh, beginning the song proper. “Friends, do forgive me for improvising, but I fear this tale you're already familiarised with.”
Despite the changes he makes to his every rendition of this ballad, he always begins it the same way. The song has barely even started, but the crowd is already beginning to laugh in recognition of that familiar beginning.
“So let me tell this story anew—” Venti cries, before offering a cheeky wink. “Any inaccuracies, you'll have to excuse!”
The tavern is alight with laughter, but Diluc tunes out the rest of the song, instead carefully watching the man in the corner. With each one of Venti’s mischievous additions, with each pointed joke at the expense of the despicable Lord Lawrence and his pampered son, the man grows visibly more enraged. His face gets increasingly ruddy as the song wears on, due in part to his fury, but likely due in other part to the aggressive swigs he is taking of his beverage.
By the time the song ends to thunderous applause and laughter, the glass is all but empty. The man empties the last of it, before standing with a slam of his palm against the table. Diluc immediately comes out from behind the counter, weaving briskly between the tables to insert himself between him and Venti’s exposed back, making a pretense of collecting the empty mugs on the nearest table. It seems that in the end, however, the man had only stood to order another drink, because his expression eases slightly at Diluc’s approach. He lets out an arrogant huff as he sits back down.
“Another glass, Master Ragnvindr,” he demands imperiously.
“The same red as before?”
“Indeed.”
Diluc takes the empty mugs back behind the counter. To his relief, Venti seems to have earned enough from his appreciative audience after that last song that he follows Diluc to the bar, presumably to purchase a bottle of his favourite dandelion wine, as he does at the end of most of his evenings at the tavern.
“Don't sing anymore songs about the rebellion tonight,” Diluc cuts in, before the bard can even speak, earning a vague look of surprise. “If anyone else makes a request, turn them down.”
“Any particular reason?” Venti asks curiously.
With a quiet huff, Diluc turns around to retrieve a bottle of Venti's usual. “You want a glass or the bottle?”
“That depends if I have enough for the bottle,” Venti says, and lifts his arms. He's holding the hem of his cloak stretched between both hands, a generous heap of mora pooled in the fabric between them, which he empties eagerly onto the counter. Diluc immediately gives up on counting all of the loose change.
“Yes, it's enough.”
He takes the bottle off the shelf and hands it to Venti. To his surprise, Venti does not immediately scamper off with his prize, instead giving Diluc an expectant look.
“What,” Diluc intones flatly.
Venti raises an eyebrow, and when that garners no response, sighs, shaking his head with an amused curl to his lip.
“Alright then, keep your secrets,” he says with an indulgent smile. “I'm done for the night anyway. I'm going to sit down and enjoy this lovely bottle of wine, maybe pen a verse or two while the inspiration still lives.”
“If it's about the rebellion, then keep the penning silent. Don't do it aloud.”
Venti flaps his hand dismissively, taking the bottle with him as he goes. The tavern is nearly full tonight, as it is on most nights. The only empty table is the one closest to the man in the corner, no one else seeming willing to sit there, and so there Venti sits.
“Won’t you sit with us?” Payne calls in invitation.
“Don't think I don't know that you'll just seize the excuse to ply another song out of me,” Venti says mildly, smiling as that sparks a round of playful jeering. “That last song was a good warm up. I’d like to pen a few verses while the inspiration is fresh.”
It seems entirely possible that he'd also like a moment of peace and quiet, since he does not take anything out to write with. He just closes his eyes, fingers moving idly over the strings of his lyre as he sits quietly by himself. He might possibly be humming, but from this distance, both his playing and his voice are too quiet for Diluc to hear. The man at the table next to him only seems to grow increasingly irritated just looking at him, however, and Venti has unfortunately seated himself at the one table directly in the man’s line of sight. With every pointed glare in Venti's direction, the man takes an angry swig of his drink.
Wine, as Diluc has observed many times before, encourages pleasure just as equally as it does displeasure. The man only seems to grow more vexed as his glass empties.
“Do you not have a job,” he finally snipes, “that you debase yourself entertaining drunkards for cheap wine?”
The wine Venti favours is not, in fact, cheap, which is the source of many of Diluc’s woes, but that's not important at the moment. It seems to take Venti a moment to realize that he is being spoken to, but when he does, he only smiles.
“I’m a bard,” he says simply. “Storytelling is my profession.”
“Not a respectable one,” remarks the man snidely.
“Ah, but is it not a proud profession?” Venti returns laughingly, with wit and with humor. “To bring laughter and joy, solace and relief; to sing of the great deeds of humanity and ensure that the names of yesteryears’ heroes live on and are never forgotten? Indeed, it is the proudest of professions, and that is why I chose to follow in the footsteps of the bards that came before me. Who else will carry the stories of our forgotten heroes if not for a bard?”
“Hero?” the man demands furiously. “Bah! A foreign usurper is what she was! Your humour is trite, your sense of rhyme dry, and your choice of ‘profession’ an insult to the dignity of people everywhere.”
At this point, his tirade seems to have drawn some eyes from the nearest tables.
“Now, now,” Venti says calmly, “is this all necessary, good sir? Please, let us be at peace.”
He goes back to his drink without further comment. The other man, however, does not seem content to leave things be.
“You speak of honouring the past,” he continues angrily, “but you speak only untruths— blatant lies!”
Venti does not reply, just sips from his glass, and then closes his eyes, fingers beginning to play near-silently over his lyre once more.
“Charlatan,” the man spits.
At a nearby table, Quinn finally seems unable to listen on, sitting by himself with his palms cupped around his ale.
“Sod off, Karl, and leave Venti alone,” he grunts.
But the man, Karl, just ignores him. “A mere entertainer— you think that laughter makes your entertainment a proud endeavour? You're no better than a clown.”
When Venti does not react, just continuing to play quietly, Karl stands.
“Do you not know common courtesy?” he snaps. “When someone is speaking to you, you answer.”
“Leave him alone, Karl,” Quinn snarls.
The rest of the tavern seems consumed in their revelry, laughing and toasting, but Diluc stands, alarmed, from where he'd been watching in the chair behind the counter as Karl strides towards Venti’s table, reaching out as if to grip Venti’s shoulder and wrench him around to face him.
“Do you sleep with your audience too?” he accuses more quietly, and laughs cruelly. “With the way they react to you— who knows how many you’ve slept with?”
Quinn slams his palm down on the table with force. The sound is loud enough that the surrounding tables fall silent as he rises to his feet, striding forward to yank Karl back before he can touch Venti.
“Get the fuck out of here, Karl!” he hollers, incensed. “Or I'm going to hand your ass to you— and I don't care if I get kicked out of here as well!”
Wine has the tendency to encourage displeasure just as equally as it does pleasure. Diluc has never seen Quinn quite so angry. Several tables down, Norman stands, his eyes narrowed.
“What did he do?”
“I'm not repeating the vile things he said,” Quinn spits.
“We’re just commoners after all, hm?” Norman says sardonically, folding his arms. “He can say whatever the fuck he wants to us. It's his right.”
“No fighting in my bar,” Diluc warns them, low, but loud enough to be heard in the sudden silence.
Every eye in the tavern is now turned towards the confrontation, and Karl seems to realize that, seems also to realize that the bar is riled up enough that the other men might actually throw him out and give him a beating on the street if he continues. And so, in the end, he just sneers as he steps back from Quinn. Then, he leans over and spits in Venti’s drink, before turning away, as if to finally leave.
“Entertainer,” he mutters again, clearly phrased as an insult.
Venti is turned away from the bar, so Diluc does not see his expression as he finally speaks. His tone is mild, however, strangely unassuming.
"Those who do not appreciate the blessings of good wine enough to refrain from ruining it should be careful,” he remarks calmly. “It is a blessing, after all, and blessings can be taken away.”
No matter the lightness of his tone, no matter that he's not even looking at Karl — there's a strange gravity to his utterance. No one else seems to notice, consumed as they are with their inebriated fury, but Diluc feels the weight of those words almost like a pair of firm hands, pressing down upon his shoulders.
“Piss off,” Karl mutters as he begins to make his way for the exit, speeding up ever so slightly as Payne stands, looking quite enraged, as he passes.
“Sit down,” Diluc snarls.
As Karl vanishes out the door into the night, as the door swings quietly shut behind him, the rest of the patrons sit back down, seemingly reminded of the last time Diluc had escorted a rowdy customer out of the bar — at the business end of a claymore. Deeming that no fight will now be ensuing, Diluc takes a fresh glass from under the counter and brings it to Venti, replacing the soiled glass with the new one.
“The bard’s next drink is on me,” Quinn says.
“And the rest of his drinks for tonight are on me,” Nimrod says quickly from the next table.
“Noted,” Diluc says. The rest of the tavern seems to turn their attention away as Diluc sets the clean glass down in front of Venti, as if giving Venti some privacy. Diluc leans down, lips barely moving as he speaks. “Are you okay?”
Venti smiles wryly, eyes twinkling as he looks up at Diluc. “Do I seem that fragile to you?”
Diluc does not reply, and after a moment, Venti laughs.
“So,” he begins, quietly amused, “are you going to tell me now who that man was?”
Dluc produces a rag to wipe the table down. In light of everything that had just happened— perhaps he should have answered Venti when he had first asked that question.
“He's a Lawrence,” is all he finally says.
Venti seems surprised for only a moment, and then he smiles wryly, an air of irony about his lips.
“A Lawrence,” he murmurs, and then laughs, quietly, as if to himself.
He lays his hand across the strings of his instrument, but does not play, just keeps his hand there as he closes his eyes.
“What a coincidence,” he murmurs.
While some tales live, others die — lost to time, unrecorded in the annals of history.
When the rebellion was done, and the Knights of Favonius formed, the Order established by Vennessa began to discuss the details of how things would be run, including possible sanctions against their old masters for their actions. As the talks stretched into weeks, the common people of Mondstadt grew increasingly discontent, and although the Order tried to pacify them, it soon became clear that the people wanted the Lawrences gone.
For fear of their safety, the Lawrences had holed themselves up in their grand manors, afraid to walk the streets in presence of the growingly hostile public. Finally, after weeks of protests and near-rioting, Vennessa capitulated to the will of the people.
On the first day, the Dandelion Knight went in person to the Lawrence Manor and asked that Lord Lawrence and his kin leave the city. The Lawrences had long become used to holding power, and refused Vennessa at the door with only the following message—
What right and power does a foreigner have to exile the Lawrence Clan, when we are the true children of this land?
On the second day, Sir Ragnvindr of the Order came with a representative of the people to again ask that the clan leave the city. They were again turned away with only a message, uttered through the bolted door—
What right and power do subordinates and slaves have to exile the Lawrence Clan, when we are the rightful lords of this city?
On the third day, it seemed clear that a mob was gathering outside the manor. Amidst the angry chatter, an intent was seemingly forming among the riled up public: if the Lawrences would not leave by their own will, then they would storm the family’s stronghold and drag them out by force. As the mob grew, so did the bloodlust in their hearts, and the Order was dispatched to mediate before blood could stain the streets once more, but their intervention only caused greater dissatisfaction.
Barbatos descended again on that day. Before the crowd gathering in front of the manor, he spoke through the closed door to a representative of the family—
I am the archon of this land; I have the right and the power, and with it, I exile you from the city of Mondstadt. Take up residence elsewhere, wherever it may be, but not within the walls of this blessed city.
But the Lawrences had long turned their backs on even their god. The doors remained bolted as they slyly asked him—
And by what power does our Lord intend to exile us? Will the God of Freedom coerce us from our homes with force and with violence?
No, said Barbatos, for I am the God of Freedom.
He asked that they leave willingly, but the Lawrences refused.
Then I lay a curse upon your house, so that no wine shall ever taste sweet upon your lips again. As long as you remain within these city walls, it shall be so, for I am the God of Wind and Freedom, but also of Wine and Song.
The next day, Karl Lawrence returns at noon. At so early an hour, the tavern is empty, with only Nelson in the corner, half-dozing over his drink, and Payne on the second floor on his first ale of the day.
“Still in the city?” Diluc enquires as Karl seats himself at the counter.
“I have business with an important business associate at the Goth Grand and will be staying there until it's over,” Karl says. “A glass of your best red.”
Turning around, Diluc pulls a bottle of the same red that Karl had ordered the night before, pouring a sampling portion as is customary. At his first sip, however, Karl wrinkles his nose.
“Has the quality of this establishment declined such that it now serves stale wine to distinguished customers?”
Diluc frowns at that, pouring himself a sampling portion from the same bottle. He swirls the glass and takes a quick whiff, but the smell is the same as the night before — cherry, oak, with a hint of plum. He takes a careful sip, before setting the glass down with pursed lips.
“If the wine no longer suits your tastes,” he says, stiffly but politely, “I will pour you a glass from another bottle.”
Retrieving the used glass, he pours it out into the sink, replacing it with a fresh glass and pouring out a sampling portion of a different red, leaning back to wait for his customer to taste it once more. After his first sip, however, Karl sets his glass down again, expression snide.
“Has the wine in your cellars been left to sit with no one to purchase them, Master Ragnvindr?” he asks. “Is this truly the quality of wares produced by the Dawn Winery these days?”
“Speak plainly,” Diluc says, and Karl’s lips curl back in a sneer.
“This bottle is also stale.”
Once more, Diluc pours himself a tasting sample from the same bottle. Once more, the wine tastes exactly as it should. He sets his own glass down. “I thought it above a Lawrence to falsely claim issue with their purchases in order to score a free drink.”
Karl’s sneer deepens. “Speak plainly.”
“The wine is not stale. Not this bottle, nor the last.”
“I thought it above a Ragnvindr to swindle customers of their mora,” Karl returns sardonically.
“I will pour you a third and final glass,” Diluc says stoically, not bothering to hide his displeasure. “If that too does not meet with your exacting standards, you are free to take your business elsewhere.”
He turns, taking yet another bottle off the shelf, and again pouring a tasting portion. Karl Lawrence takes one sip, sets his glass down, and stands.
“I do believe I'll be taking my business elsewhere,” he says stiffly.
As the door swings shut behind his retreating back, Diluc pours the wine out into the sink, and continues wiping down the mugs.
A retelling of a tale that never made it into the history books—
Barbatos left after his final proclamation, bidding the crowd to disperse and asking that no more blood be spilled within the city. The mob was thus reluctantly dissolved, not wishing to directly oppose the words of their Lord.
With that done, the Lawrences retreated back within their stronghold in good cheer, wishing to celebrate their apparent victory, but soon opened their cellars to a foul stench. When they poured out their fine wines, they discovered that every last bottle had curdled, the surface filmed over, and the foul substance riddled completely with live, squirming maggots.
The joyous laughter immediately turned to horrified screams. The wine was thrown out, with the Lawrences shakily retiring to their rooms, their celebratory banquet postponed. The next day, a fresh shipment of wine came in at the urgent behest of their elderly butler. It was then that they discovered that their archon’s curse had rung true.
No matter the quality of the wine when poured out, the moment the hand of a Lawrence touched the glass, the wine would immediately film over, developing a foul stench. Dead flies would float to the surface, and maggots would begin to squirm out of the film — a stomach-turning sight, shocking and horrific. Frightened and now quite fearful, the Lawrences immediately packed up, shaken, and left the city, taking up residence in Dornman Port where they could live in freedom from their archon’s curse.
In later decades, however, they would eventually discover that the curse lasted precisely three generations. The children of the Lawrences that ruled during the aristocracy would find during later visits to the city that the wine they touched would invariably turn stale, but would not curdle like it had in the hands of their parents. Their children, upon reaching adulthood, found that wine within the city walls was actually still drinkable, if somewhat over-oxidized. A pain, really, one that kept them from taking up permanent residence in the city, but not one so terrifying that they would refuse to return for business or leisure.
And so, in such a way, the anemo archon’s curse faded within three short generations, and with it, faded from history altogether.
Karl Lawrence returns once more in the evening, this time with Ludwig Goth of the Goth Grand.
“Come now, Sir Lawrence, peace,” Goth soothes. “I apologize that the service at the Cat’s Tail was not up to expectation, but the Dawn Winery is the best in all of Tevyat. I'm sure you will not be disappointed at the Angel’s Share.”
“Has all the wine in Mondstadt gone stale?!” Karl demands furiously. “And to think that serving wench had the gall to kick me out for complaining about the subpar quality of their beverages!”
They settle at the table nearest to the counter.
“Serve me some wine that isn't stale,” Karl spits.
Taking a fresh bottle off the shelf, Diluc uncorks it, pouring himself a tasting portion again. He holds Karl’s gaze pointedly as he drinks it, before pouring both Karl and Goth a tasting portion as well, serving it to them promptly. Karl takes a sip, and then sets the glass roughly down. “At this point, this is clearly an insult.”
“Are you insinuating that I cannot taste when my own wine is stale?” Diluc asks acidly.
“Evidently that is the case,” Karl retorts.
Goth takes a sip of his own portion, then turns to Karl with a placating squeeze of his shoulder. “Oh, come now, there's nothing wrong with the wine, my dear Sir Lawrence. If the flavor profile does not meet your preference, we can simply request a different bottle, hm?”
“Nothing wrong?” Karl demands incredulously. “The wine is clearly stale.”
“The wine,” Diluc says, “is not stale.”
“How about we go with my usual,” Goth offers, in a clear attempt to prevent further confrontation. “The oak-aged Dawn Winery reserve? You know the one.”
Diluc brings the unopened bottle to the table along with three clean glasses, uncorking it right there in front of them, before pouring three tasting portions. He takes another sip out of one glass, staring Karl down as he does. Goth is already taking his own sip, sighing contentedly at the familiar taste.
“Excellent as always, Master Ragnvindr,” he praises.
Karl lifts the glass to his nose, breathes in— and then puts the glass back down, glaring wordlessly at Diluc. He does not even speak this time, but his expression conveys it all.
There comes a huff from the next table. “If the wine in this fine establishment is not up to Lord Lawrence’s tastes, maybe he should take his business elsewhere, preferably out of the city altogether,” says Leno.
“Was I speaking to you, peasant?” Karl hisses.
“Pour me a glass of that, Master Diluc,” Leno says. “Let's see if the wine truly is stale.”
Diluc pours another sampling portion from the now-open bottle, before bringing it over. Leno swirls the glass once, breathes in the scent, and then takes a slow sip.
“It's good wine,” he pronounces.
“It's very much like a peasant to be unable to distinguish good wine from stale wine,” says Karl stiffly.
“Let me have a taste,” Norman calls from the next table over. The conversation has evidently drawn the eyes of the other nearby tables.
Diluc folds his arms, scowling sternly. “The bottle will be empty by the time all of you have sated your curiosity,”
“Let’s have ourselves a wager then,” Norman challenges, turning to look at Karl with a raised eyebrow. “If everyone in this tavern declares that the wine is fine, then Sir Lawrence must pay for the bottle.”
Karl scoffs. “Do you really think I would trust this tavern not to collude against me?”
“For pity’s sake, Karl, the wine isn't stale,” Leno groans.
“Oh, come now, come now,” Goth placates. “My apologies, Master Diluc, I will pay for both bottles.”
With a final harrumph, Karl stands and heads for the exit.
“My apologies, Master Diluc,” Goth offers again, depositing a generous sum of mora on the counter, not even bothering to count it out, before leaving just as quickly in pursuit of his departed associate. The amount is more than enough, so Diluc says nothing to stop them.
The door swings open with cheerful force just as they reach it, Venti standing on the other side of it.
“Oh, hello,” Venti says, seeming a little taken aback at the infuriated flush on Karl’s face. “Do excuse me. I did not know there was someone on the other side of the door.”
Karl snarls wordlessly at him, but leaves without further insult. Venti steps into the tavern as the door swings shut behind them, looking quite bemused. “Wow, what’s gotten his knickers in a twist?”
Diluc sighs, collecting the used glasses and opened bottles back onto the tray, before retreating behind the counter. Venti hops up onto one of the high stools with a cheery grin. “A glass of dandelion wine?”
Setting the tray aside, Diluc pours Venti a glass of his usual, before going to empty out Karl’s and his own glasses with a sigh. Goth had finished his tasting portion, but Karl had taken only the smallest of sips of the first, and refused to even touch the second. Curious despite himself, Diluc swirls the glass and raises it to his nose.
After a quick whiff, he frowns.
“What's wrong, Master Diluc?” Venti asks.
Diluc swirls the glass again, taking another whiff. Then, with some hesitation, he finally takes a small sip.
“Master Diluc?” Venti calls.
After a moment, Diluc picks up the other glass, the first one Karl had actually drunk from, sipping from it as well. Finally, he sets the glass down, now very confused. He wouldn't go so far as to call the wine stale, but…
“It’s over-oxidized,” he muses quietly.
“The wine?” Venti asks, sounding quite confused.
Diluc pours away the rest of Karl’s glass into the sink. “Karl Lawrence was in here again, but was displeased with the wine. The rest of us had tried the bottle and it had been fine, so I thought he was just being difficult, but I just tasted the wine in his glass, and it's definitely over-oxidized.”
He pours himself yet another tasting portion from the bottle, swirls it vigorously in the glass for a good minute, and then sips from it.
”It’s still nowhere near oxidized as the wine in Karl’s glass,” he says, extremely bemused. “He had the same issue with the three other glasses I poured him earlier at noon, and when he came in for the evening, it sounded like he ran into problems at the Cat’s Tail after leaving the tavern.”
He swirls the wine again, this time for about thirty seconds. Venti slowly enjoys his own drink on the other side of the counter as Diluc takes another careful sip.
“I just don't get it,” he finally confesses, putting the glass down with growing confusion. “It's like his touch is cursed or something. How is it that the wine in his glass, fresh from the same bottle, tastes different from the rest of ours?”
“Oh,” Venti says then, and nods. “Yeap.”
Diluc blinks once, before turning slowly to face him.
“What do you mean yeap?” he asks, but Venti just laughs, leaning with those luminous eyes of his twinkling faintly.
“Have you never heard of the saying,” he begins, cupping a hand by the side of his mouth in a stage-whisper— “The fine wines of Mondstadt are a blessing from the anemo archon?”
Diluc just stares at him for a long, long moment. The odd words that Venti had uttered the day before come back to him in a strange haze — those odd words that had been spoken so lightly, and yet had lingered in the room with a strange weight.
“And blessings can be taken away,” Diluc repeats slowly.
“Bingo,” Venti says. He leans back, takes a long sip of his dandelion wine, and sighs contentedly. “Ah, that hits the spot.”
“You cursed him,” Diluc says, with slow realization.
Venti shrugs. “He shoved me and spat in my drink.”
“You cursed him,” Diluc says again, in growing disbelief.
“Not the first time I've cursed a Lawrence,” Venti laughs. “During the aristocracy though, the curse only worked within the city walls. For Karl, however, let's just say he's not going to be enjoying a good glass of wine inside or outside the city for a while.”
During the aristocracy? Diluc repeats incredulously to himself, before reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose, deciding to dismiss the thought before it opens a whole can of worms he doesn't want to deal with.
“I… am just going to pretend I didn't hear that,” he finally mutters. “I don't want to get into it right now. How long is a while?”
Venti shrugs again, sipping from his glass. “Remind me about it in ten years time, and if I'm no longer annoyed, I'll think about lifting it.”
“Ten years?!” Dilluc demands.
Venti tilts his head, before putting a finger to his chin, looking a little pensive now. “Is that not long enough?” he muses, and then nods determinedly to himself. “Maybe twenty then — but you’ll have to remind me, or I'll forget! He may be annoying, true, but a lifetime of bad wine is probably too harsh a punishment for anyone.”
Diluc just stares at the bard before him for a long moment as he obliviously enjoys his wine. After a moment, he reaches numbly for the rest of the tasting portion he'd only had a sip of, knocking the rest of it down in one gulp. Then he looks at the other portion he'd poured for himself, the reserve Goth had always favoured, and knocks that back too.
Finally, he puts all the glasses in the sink, and just stands there for a good while, staring down into the basin as the last remnants of stale wine washes down the drain. The numerous portions of wine he had ingested over the last half an hour is starting to add up.
“Master Diluc, are you quite alright?” Venti asks.
Diluc turns back around. “You,” he begins, and then, “I—”
He stares at the sink again, then back at Venti, who just blinks, seeming quite bemused.
“How is wine-cursing a thing you can do now?!” Diluc demands.
“Hey,” Venti says, mock-crossly. “I cultivated the God of Wine title very diligently, I'll have you know that. Unfortunately, it never gave me any useful abilities— like the power to turn water to wine! Wouldn't that have been amazing? But no, that never manifested.”
He goes back to his drink with a long-suffering sigh, swirling his wine quite morosely in its glass. Diluc blinks once, and again. If asked later, he would probably blame it on the wine he'd had, but after a moment, he just sighs, picks up the bottle of Venti’s favourite dandelion wine, and tops his half-empty glass back up.
Venti brightens. “For me? Really? A free refill? Keep this up, and I may just decide to bless your wine!”
Diluc stares at him for another long moment as he immediately gurgles down half the glass. In the end, however, he never knows when Venti is being serious, when he's just joking, and when he's blatantly making things up for his own amusement. Wine-cursing or wine-blessing— he isn't really sure he wants to think too deeply into the wine-powers that be.
“Just… shut up and finish your damn drink,” he finally mutters, topping Venti's glass up for a second time.