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Excerpt from Alcohols and Drinks for Leisure
…Mondstadt is a nation of drunkards - a commonly known fact even in the furthest reaches of Teyvat. Mondstadtians, as a general rule, love a good drink, especially dandelion wine.
In fact, here is a good recipe for wine-based refreshment that comes straight from Mondstadt:
- Three (3) shots of dandelion wine
- One (1) shot of fizzy water
- One (1) sprig of mint
Chop the leaves of the mint finely. Add them to a shaker along with the dandelion wine, fizzy water, and ice. Shake gently for thirty seconds. Strain the drink into a wide-rimmed cup with a long stem, then garnish with the flowering part of the mint plant.
And voilà!
Barbatos' Boon.
The people of Mondstadt could quite agree with the author of Alcohols and Drinks for Leisure. They did enjoy a good drink, but they would never say that they were drunkards. Well, most of them, at least.
There were a select few who did drink while drunk, and they were seen not as outcasts, but as pitiful. The most well-known of these was Diona's father, Draff.
They felt pity for the man, yes, but they also understood that he needed help. There had been attempts, of course. Mondstadt was not a place that easily abandoned its own.
A few hunters had tried talking to him. Some had tried bringing him home after particularly bad nights. Others had tried taking the bottles away, only to discover that a determined hunter was remarkably difficult to reason with when he had already decided that he wanted another drink.
Eventually, a few of the citizens had planned an intervention. Sister Rosaria had been present for that particular discussion. She had listened to the plans, listened to the arguments, listened to several people explain what they intended to say to Draff, and then had quietly pointed out the rather obvious flaw:
One could not help someone who refused to be helped.
That had been the end of the intervention. Not because Mondstadt stopped caring, quite the opposite. They simply changed their approach. If Draff would not accept help for himself, then there was still someone who could be helped.
Diona.
Sweet little Diona, who held such love for her father and such hatred for the alcohol her father so loved. Everyone knew the story. Draff loved his daughter. Diona loved her father. Draff also loved drinking. Diona despised drinking.
It was a peculiar sort of tragedy, especially because neither of the first two facts made the third disappear.
Diona could adore her father and still hate what the alcohol did to him. She could climb into his arms when he came home and still wrinkle her nose at the smell on his breath. She could proudly tell anyone who asked that her daddy was the best hunter in Mondstadt and, in the very next breath, declare that alcohol was the worst invention ever created.
The citizens understood. Perhaps that was why they were so gentle with her. No one made her choose. No one told her that she was being unfair to her father. No one told her that she ought to forgive him for drinking. And no one told her that she ought to hate him because of it.
Instead, they simply made certain that there was somewhere for her to go.
If Draff was drinking at the tavern, Diona could wander into the bakery. There would always be something for her. A slightly misshapen loaf that had been deemed unsuitable for sale. A warm roll fresh from the oven. A little pastry that had supposedly been made by mistake. The baker would always sigh dramatically and say that they had far too much food and certainly could not possibly finish it all.
Diona, who was not nearly as gullible as the adults seemed to think she was, would narrow her eyes suspiciously. Then she would eat it anyway.
Good Hunter was much the same. Whenever Diona appeared, there somehow seemed to be an extra portion. No one ever admitted to making it specifically for her. It was simply there. A little more meat. An extra serving of vegetables. Sometimes a dessert.
If Diona protested that she had not ordered that much, Sara would simply shrug and say that the kitchen had prepared too much. Diona would grumble then she would eat.
The older citizens were worse. They were forever finding excuses to give her things. An apple, a sweet, a small toy, a ribbon, a freshly baked biscuit wrapped in cloth. One elderly woman once spent nearly ten minutes insisting that she had absolutely no use for the honey cake she had made, despite the fact that Diona had watched her carrying it through the city specifically looking for her.
Diona accepted it. She also pretended not to notice.
That was the arrangement. They pretended these things happened by coincidence. She pretended to believe them. And everyone was satisfied.
There were other things, too.
If Draff had been drinking particularly heavily, someone would make certain Diona knew that she was welcome at their home. If she showed up at the Knights' headquarters looking tired, someone would find her a quiet chair and something warm to drink. If she fell asleep somewhere she shouldn't have, she would wake beneath a blanket. If she complained about being hungry, food appeared. If she complained about being cold, someone found her a coat. If she complained about her father, no one laughed.
That last part was perhaps the most important.
Mondstadt loved to laugh. It was a city of songs, festivals, taverns, jokes, and stories. Its people could turn almost anything into a drinking song if given enough time.
But when Diona spoke about her father, they listened. If she was angry, they let her be angry. If she was frightened, they reassured her. If she insisted that her father was wonderful, they agreed. If she insisted that alcohol was evil and must be destroyed, they very carefully did not mention how many bottles of dandelion wine were currently sitting in their own cupboards.
They did not make her feel foolish for loving him. They did not make her feel guilty for hating what he did. And, most importantly, they never asked her to fix him.
That was an adult's burden. Diona was a child. She was allowed to simply be one.
There were, of course, limits to what the citizens could do. Mondstadt was a free nation, and freedom meant that people were allowed to make their own choices - even foolish ones.
Draff could choose to drink. He could choose to refuse help. He could choose to spend his evenings at Angel's Share rather than at home. The citizens could not make those decisions for him.
But Diona was not Draff. Her father's choices did not mean that she had to suffer every consequence of them.
And so Mondstadt compensated where it could, quietly, without ceremony, without asking for gratitude.
It became something of an unspoken agreement. If Diona came by, feed her. If she was upset, listen. If she needed somewhere safe to sit, give her one. If Draff came looking for her while drunk, make certain that someone sober was nearby. If Diona wanted to talk, listen. If she did not want to talk, don't push. And if she ever needed something that no one knew how to provide- Well. Someone would figure it out.
That was how Mondstadt worked. People took care of one another. Sometimes loudly, with songs and festivals and great declarations of friendship. Sometimes quietly, with an extra piece of bread slipped into a child's hands.
Diona noticed more than they thought she did. She noticed that the bakery always seemed to have something left over. She noticed that Good Hunter's portions became mysteriously larger when she was hungry. She noticed that certain adults watched her a little more closely when Draff was drinking. She noticed the way conversations stopped whenever she entered a room, only to start again once someone was certain she was all right.
She noticed. She simply never complained. Because, for all her fury at the world and all her determination to destroy every last bottle of alcohol in existence and all her forced pride, Diona knew one thing with absolute certainty. Mondstadt loved her. And perhaps that was enough. At least for now.
No one said anything about it. Diona never asked why.
And if the people of Mondstadt happened to keep a closer eye on her than they did other children, well, Mondstadt had always been rather fond of its children.
It simply happened to be especially fond of this one.
Excerpt from Mondstadt: A Traveller’s Guide
…A less commonly-known fact about Mondstadt is that its people adore children.
At first, this may not seem particularly unusual. Most nations like children. Most people like children. Children are, after all, children.
However, after spending enough time in Mondstadt, one begins to suspect that the people of the City of Freedom possess a rather different interpretation of the word adore.
Mondstadtians do not merely like children. They love them. Not just their own children, either.
A Mondstadtian will happily feed a child who is not theirs, comfort a child who is not theirs, scold a child who is not theirs, and, if necessary, threaten an adult who has mistreated a child who is not theirs. They will then insist that they were doing nothing particularly unusual. This is considered normal, expected even.
A child crying in the street will attract attention within moments. Perhaps an elderly woman will kneel down first. Perhaps a merchant will offer them a sweet. Perhaps a Knight will crouch beside them and ask where their parents are. Perhaps three complete strangers will begin searching for the child's family before anyone has even thought to ask them to.
It is not uncommon for the child to be reunited with their parents within minutes. It is also not uncommon for the parents to discover that half the city has already learned their child's name.
Mondstadt is, in this regard, remarkably efficient. It is also remarkably nosy.
A child who regularly comes home with scraped knees may find themselves surrounded by concerned adults asking who caused them. A child who appears hungry will be fed. A child who appears cold will be given a coat. A child who appears lonely will inevitably find someone willing to sit beside them. And a child who has been crying for long enough will eventually attract the attention of someone who has decided that whatever caused those tears needs to be dealt with.
The latter is perhaps the most concerning part for visitors.
Mondstadtians are generally peaceful people. Generally. There is, however, a peculiar exception made for children. Visitors are advised not to test it.
There is a story - likely exaggerated, although no Mondstadtian seems particularly interested in correcting it - about a merchant from Snezhnaya who once shouted at a group of local children for getting in his way.
According to the story, he turned around to find six adults staring at him. Then eight. Then twelve. The Knights arrived shortly afterward. The merchant reportedly left Mondstadt that evening and never returned.
Whether every detail of the story is true is difficult to determine. What is true is that the merchant never did return.
There is another peculiar custom. Children are allowed to wander. This is not to say that Mondstadt lacks rules concerning children, it does.
Rather, the city seems to operate under the assumption that if a child wanders far enough, someone will notice. A child may spend an afternoon chasing pigeons through the plaza, watching the bards perform, visiting the bakery, pestering a Knight, climbing a tree, and somehow end up at Good Hunter for dinner.
No one finds this particularly strange. If anything, the adults seem surprised when a child doesn't wander into their workplace. Many shops keep small portions of food specifically for this purpose. Some deny it. Others insist that the extra biscuits, fruit, bread, and sweets are simply leftovers.
Few visitors believe them. The children certainly do not.
There is also an odd tendency among Mondstadt's adults to remember things about children that the children themselves have forgotten or just hadn't thought remember.
Which pastries they like. Which songs frighten them. Which adults they trust. Which streets they dislike. Who their friends are. What time they usually come home. Whether they have been eating properly. Whether they have been sleeping properly. Whether they have seemed quieter than usual.
This last one is especially important.
Mondstadtians may be carefree, but they are not inattentive. A child who suddenly becomes quiet will be noticed. A child who stops playing will be noticed. A child who stops visiting the places they usually frequent will be noticed. And if a child who is normally loud and energetic suddenly becomes subdued, there is a very good chance that several adults will quietly begin investigating why.
They will not necessarily ask the child directly. Mondstadtians understand that children sometimes refuse to speak when asked.
Instead, they watch, they listen, they wait. Someone will talk to the baker. Someone else will speak with the child's teacher. A Knight may happen to ask whether anything unusual has happened recently. An elderly neighbor may casually mention that they saw the child walking home alone.
By the end of the day, half a dozen people may have quietly assembled enough information to determine that something is wrong. And if something is wrong? Well, Mondstadt takes care of its own. This extends to children who have no family. Perhaps especially to those children.
The city has a long history of orphans, abandoned children, children who have lost their parents to monsters, illness, war, accidents, or simply the unfortunate cruelty of life. Visitors might expect such children to be placed in an institution. Mondstadt has institutions, for example, the Church of Barbatos. But more often than not, a child simply ends up being absorbed into the community.
A baker discovers that they need an assistant. A hunter needs someone to help sort supplies. A Knight has a spare room. A family has an extra chair at the dinner table. A scholar needs someone to turn pages or write down notes. A bard needs someone to carry an instrument. And somehow, eventually, the child has a home.
No one seems to remember exactly when it happened. There is no ceremony. No announcement. One day the child is simply there. And after enough time passes, everyone behaves as though they always have been.
This may be why Mondstadt has such a peculiar relationship with the concept of family.
Family, in Mondstadt, does not always mean blood. Sometimes it means the person who gives you the last piece of bread. Sometimes it means the neighbor who leaves their door unlocked. Sometimes it means the Knight who walks you home. Sometimes it means the old woman who scolds you for climbing on her roof and then gives you an apple afterward. Sometimes it means the tavern keeper who remembers your favorite drink. And sometimes it means an entire city.
Visitors often mistake Mondstadt's freedom for a lack of structure.
They see children running through the streets and assume no one is watching. They see young people wandering wherever they please and assume no one cares where they go. They see adults drinking in taverns while their children play nearby and assume the city is careless.
This is a misunderstanding. Mondstadt simply has a different way of caring. It does not always look like rules. Sometimes it looks like trust. Sometimes it looks like a hand held out without explanation. Sometimes it looks like an extra serving at dinner. Sometimes it looks like a blanket placed over a sleeping child. And sometimes - very rarely - It looks like an entire city quietly deciding that one small person is theirs to protect.
The people of Mondstadt will laugh when asked about this. They will deny it. They will insist that they are doing nothing unusual. They will point out that children are children everywhere.
And perhaps they genuinely believe this. Perhaps they do not realize that other nations do not necessarily work this way. Perhaps they have simply forgotten that what they consider ordinary kindness is, to many outsiders, extraordinary.
There is one final peculiarity worth mentioning.
Ask a Mondstadtian about Barbatos and children, and the answer will almost always be some variation of the same thing. Of course he loves them. He is the God of Freedom. He loves everyone.
The statement is usually delivered with such absolute certainty that further questioning feels almost rude.
Whether this affection comes from their god or whether the people of Mondstadt simply attribute their own affection to him is difficult for an outsider to determine. Perhaps it is both. Perhaps, after centuries of living beneath the same wind, the distinction has ceased to matter.
After all, the wind carries many things. Songs, seeds, memories, prayers, and, occasionally, the sound of a child laughing somewhere in the streets below.
Mondstadt seems to believe that such things are worth protecting. It may be one of the few things upon which the entire nation agrees.