"Aye, watch y'self y'worthless bum."
"Only worthless bum in all o' Mond is your mother's-"
The young alchemist student sends his fist into the vagrant's mouth. Although it is accustomed more to writing than fighting, a satisfying pop transitions into a loud crash as the drunk victim goes down and finally gets out of the alchemist's way. However, instead of taking the passage through the seating area of the bar as he originally intended, the alchemist laughs heartily and clasps his hands into that of the man he had just knocked down. He helps him up from the splintered, beer-drenched wood, and walks him over to the table he was going to sit at anyway.
This is the company Carl keeps around him on working nights. He loves the academics, nobles, and self-hating failures of Mondstadt, especially in the Angel's Share the night after work. They not only have the freedom to be who they are, but also the freedom to be any mix of these three identities, and to dip them into as much inebriation as a barkeep would allow — the home of dandelion wine allows for plenty of room for this.
"Tall glasses of spiked wolfhook, windwheat beer, and one dandelion wine for Torrsson," says Ann, a waitress for the night, as she passes by tables of stumbling and swaying patrons to reach Carl's table. Once she reaches it, she leans over to set mugs and glasses down. Out of the corner of Carl's eye, he notices some of his buddies trying to get a peek under Ann's skirt. As much as he would like to enjoy the view, he has a more important matter to settle with her, so he scowls.
"Who do you think you are, wench?" He spits.
"Wh-what do you mean, Master Torrs-"
"Who do you think you are?" He repeats, kicking the table and forcing her to stumble. Ann spills some beer over a noble sitting across the table from her, and before she can recoil in shock, Carl snatches her collar and keeps her bent over the table. She's slapped across the face by the noble she spilled drink on, is forced to smell the rank stench of pyro slime toothpaste and too much alcohol rushing out of Carl's mouth, and is completely vulnerable to the eyes of the intoxicated wretches behind her skirt.
"P-please, Master Torrsson, I-"
"So you think a filthy peasant like yourself can just pass through here without kissing the boots of each and every noble here who stands far above your position, eh? You think it proper to mockingly serve wine to your academic superior after outright slandering him before those who respect him, mm?" Carl hisses, his saliva spotting Ann's face.
"I-I...p-please, I didn't mean any disrespect-"
"Oh? Is that right? You went around the entire city, badmouthing my name to shopkeepers, commoners, aristocrats, clergy, and even that disgusting whore of a Lawrence daughter — and you say you meant no disrespect?"
"N-no-"
"You publish bald-faced lies, ridiculously claiming that the Lawrences and their spawn share no opinion in the public's unbiased judgement, that their eldest feminine stain upon all of Mondstadt's aristocracy actually hardly occupies a negative thought in the minds of the people, if at all, and you mean no disrespect?"
"P-please, Mast-" before she can plead anymore, Ann's collar squeezes tighter between her neck and Carl's knuckles. The ridges of her throat grate against his fist.
"You discredit the tireless work of my enlightened colleagues and I, putting your sham research, that you tossed your pretty lips and shameless rump about to suck out from your corrupt donors, above the wealth of truth we have gifted upon the ignorant masses...and you claim no disrespect?"
"Eh, Torrsson, we might be attracting some unwanted attention," whispers the wet friend. Carl's glare glances towards the counter at the entrance of the bar, and notices the eyes of the Knights' Cavalry Captain, as well as those of the rogue Sister of the Church. Only the nun showed a piercing displeasure, but the Captain shared her icy stare despite his seemingly unbothered smirk. Carl feels a dreadful chill shoot down his spine and he releases Ann from his grip. She stays as rigid as a rod as he stands up, takes his handkerchief from a pocket, and does a few superficial dabs on and dusts of her ruined uniform. When finished, he folds his handkerchief, puts it into the pocket of her apron, then pats her shoulder with a forced smile.
"Thank you for your service, maid. Off you go," he says, his commanding tone contradicting what is supposed to be a friendly front.
"O-okay…" she begins to scurry off, and Carl gives her an encouraging slap on the ass to get her moving faster. His fierce scowl returns, burning holes into the two watchmen at the bar now that they aren't looking. His front was enough to ward off their attention, but it was just a front, so the sickening swirl of spite within his chest remains and only grows ever more rancid.
"You sure showed that bitch, Carl!" cheers a friend a few tables away.
"Yeah! SCAMPER OFF YOU RAT WHORE" spits another.
"LOOK AT HER RUN!"
"TRIP HER UP! TRIP HER UP!" another demanded.
"RUN LITTLE GIRL, RUN BEFORE WE LOCK YA UP AND BREAK THOSE PRETTY LEGS!"
"Awh, imagine the things we could do to a peasant like her, lads!"
"Rip that shabby dress off and see what goods she's got for us merchants!"
"AIN'T SHE GOT A PRETTY LITTLE SISTER TOO?"
"Yah, and we'll violate'em both in front o' that penniless rag of a father they've got!"
Ann dodges stuck-out limbs and the sounds of abuse to reach the cover of her fellow workers, then finally reaches the temporary salvation of the kitchen. Carl doesn't join in the jeering and threatening of his fellows as she does so, though, instead choosing to ruminate over his wine. Ann isn't even as good-looking of a broad as the others claim — certainly not as pure and beautiful of a lily as his Alicia is. The image of Carl's sister frosts over in his mind when a new, unexpected breeze coldly blows into the tavern.
"IT'S THE LAWRENCE GIRL!" calls out an academic before his knees buckle across the bench behind them and he tumbles backward.
Carl grits his teeth and stares at the elegant mist flower which glides from the door to the bar counter. She captures everyone's attention. It's not enough to completely stop the raucous crowd, but enough to cause an entire shift in the atmosphere. The sleepy warmth of the amber lighting upon hickory wood is offset by the aura of Eula's cascading glacial brilliance. She isn't wearing her Knights of Favonius uniform, opting instead for a noble garb of an airy top flowing long past her short pants, pants which would be imperceptible if it weren't for her nimble steps swaying the rivers of lace lining her shirt. The sight of her smart uniform would've incensed Carl to the point of starting conflict, but the absence of it stirs a different expression of disturbance within him. The absence allows him to draw a contrast between his memory of her body prepared for combat, and this casualwear she has on now.
"If it isn't to lord over us in her pretentious martial fashion, IT'S TO MAKE US MEN OUT TO BE SLATHERING FOOLS!" Carl stands from his seat, pointing at Eula.
"TORRSSON'S RIGHT, THE SOW IS TRYNA GET A RISE OUTTA US!" joins another rowdy member.
Amidst the insults hurled from across the establishment, Eula seeks a drink. The bartender refuses her, and Carl watches with satisfaction as her fellow Captain attempts to reason with the stubborn man.
"Oi, she's gettin' a rise outta me alright, boys, sorry," says a man before he lets out a hacking cough of a laugh.
"She uses big swords, eh? A master with her hands?"
"YEAH, LET'S SEE IF SHE CAN SWING MINE WITH THEM FANCY MOVES," a researcher yells, standing on a table and swinging his mug in front of his pelvis, doing a crude imitation of a sacred ritual.
Carl simply stands and stares, his eyes glazed over in drink and memory as saliva, beer, and bodies slow and fade around him. Eula's dejected expression is a face he has been dying to see ever since he was a younger man, yet it pains him to see it. It hurts to acknowledge that even in Eula's suffering, there is a superior quality of beauty in comparison to the woman whose humiliation he has sought to avenge all this time.
Oh, Alicia. The delicate Torrsson Rose, the prettiest display of grace to ever bless the illustrious stages of the Dance of Sacrifice. His ascendant sister's perfect leadership of the resplendent second act of the Dance, in which she balances the talents of several noble, yet lesser, women along with her own skill and coordination to execute a work of bodily art which transcends the bounds of mortality. The sashes which represent the affluent anemo slipping through every crevice of her body, from the sleek curves around her neck and waist, through the cleft between her legs and the ravines of muscle in her strong thighs. Across her entire aerodynamic form, the sashes accentuated the godliness which she was born into and cultivated to express. And, oh, did she embody those sashes and their winds so well.
Yet, it was never enough. Alicia, in her measured modesty, would claim it was enough. Yet, Carl knew his beloved sister deserved so much more. She may have been delicate, but she certainly was not decadent — it was her fate to dance across and above the competition of her sex, as she did so across and above the sensibilities of his heart, body, and mind. The warm zephyrs of the second act would give way to a gradual, deep freeze. From the paralyzed stillness left behind by the conclusion of the second act, not even the breath of the audience providing any hot affront, a thick crack would emerge. Eula's commencement was never a rude shattering, or a clean break, but rather a comfortable, crawling settlement of frost over the flesh, into the muscle, and before anyone knew it, they were absolutely captivated within the wintry embrace of her Flickering Candlelight. Though the act's name suggested some semblance of heat, the beauty rather came forward in the suggestion of the transience of the heat; Eula embodied the encapsulating, gelid air threatening to snuff out the flame which once burned so brightly. Eula was the humbling force. And much to Carl's surprise, as tears roll down his face, he realizes Eula remains the humbling force. The second act's bright, communal arrogance was nothing in the face of her solitary performance. Eula's capability to extinguish Alicia's flame, despite the fuel of the rest of the haughty nobility, is in itself a beauty to behold like no other. The lithe forms of the windy women are truly ephemeral, merely weak atmospheric disturbances, in the face of Eula's shapely cold front.
Like the release of energy from the separation of particles, the rupture between Carl's incestuous bias and the frigid reality before him gives him the force necessary to begin moving again.
"Sh-she thinks she's so special…" he growls, the surrounding drunks loudly agreeing. "Using the Dance of Sacrifice as some base weapon against...against an audience of savage hilichurls," he curses her talents. The empty glass of wine in his hand transforms into the sword he used to wield when he wanted to join the Knights and resume the ascension of the Torrsson name in the modern era… just to be embarrassed before the trainers by that just-as-wretched Gunnhildr girl. Her preposterous birthright to warrior titles which originate in the primitive arm-swinging and skull-bashing of stupid, incompetent slaves shouldn't have any place among the upper ranks of Mondstadt's righteous institutions; yet, skill within the unskilled gave her the authority necessary not only judge, but outright reject and tread upon his refined Torrsson fencing.
"If SHE IS A REAL WARRIOR, SHE WILL FIGHT US ALL FAIRLY, AND PROVE SHE'S WORTH THE RAGS ON HER BACK!" Carl riles up the men of knowledge, men of class, and men of sense around him, and they follow him out of the tavern as he follows Eula. Eula, the woman whose gaudy parade of steps, an insult to the revered body art of the nobility, are valued higher than his specially refined combat art, and so she is deserving...no, entitled! To the position of Captain.
"It should have been me," Carl spits as he busts through the door with the mob behind him. "I should've been Captain…" he mutters. His wine glass had shattered on his way out, but he can't feel his own bleeding fist. The blood and glass reminds him of ice shards cutting down his sister's art, stalactites he both hates and covets.
"Don't be lethal now, you know that wouldn't be very Sister-ly of you," teases a voice he hears, yet cannot process as his mates surround a vulnerable Spindrift Knight who is incapable of avoiding the many mouths justly degrading her.
"Consider this their penance. But, don't tell Barbara," declares another approaching the scene as Eula can't avoid the hands which touch, caress, pat, push, grope, shove, and-
and then a flash of wine and blood before black swallows his vision.
Dazed and aching, Carl awakens. He swings back and forth, and that swirl of hate within him rises to the surface and spews from his mouth in chunks of gastric sewage. It splats upon the backs and faces of some of his compatriots several feet below his hanging, swinging body. He struggles to breathe and recover from the vomiting, his ribcage constricting his lungs due to this crucifixion by crosses of cryo embedded in his jacket, pinning him to...the Angel's Share sign. Whether it happened in an instant, or as a gradual process while Carl was blacked out, Carl can't tell. What he does know, though, is that a woman who had cleared a row of shots has just successfully quelled his insurrection against tyranny. Dejected and drowsy, Carl lets his head hang.
"Master Diluc might have you pay for the bloodstains," Kaeya says, clapping as he walks out of the bar to survey the scene.
"My consumption of so many lilyshots is your responsibility, so this is as well," Rosaria replies as she takes one of her actual daggers out of an unconscious aristocrat's trousers, letting him slump to the ground from the light pole he had been pinned against. Carl realizes he should have been much more alert to these voices, but he was far too consumed in his thoughts of-
"Captain! How has your night been? It seems like you've had your share of the night's hospitality," Kaeya observes, stepping over limp men to reach Eula. The rogue sighs, dusting herself off and inspecting what parts of her outfit may have been ruined. Carl wishes her skin could have been stained as dark and deep as her blouse had been.
"Is your assistance limited by convenience, Captain Kaeya? It would seem so, since you have a bad habit of being late to the aid of anyone farther than 10 steps away from you," Eula says gruffly, trying her best to deal with wrinkles, stains, and tears.
"Of course it isn't, but you must understand, a gentleman only has so much diligence to spare to the women he must protect," Kaeya answers.
"Insinuate some crippling inebriation of mine again and you'll be the next one to suffer under penance," Rosaria hisses as she steals a drink off a victim to enjoy.
"Give me some time to confess my sins first, at least," he says over his shoulder with a wink before turning his attention back on Eula, missing Rosaria's flushed pout. "Anyway, I would like to help you improve your night. As a fellow drink enthusiast, I can understand the need to unwind after a long week with something kind to the taste and strong on the mind," he offers.
"Are you sure you wish to lengthen your list of offenses I must seek vengeance for?" Eula threatens.
"If it lengthens the time span of your company, so be it. Here is what I propose: We battle right here. Should you dominate me, I will throw my influence around and allow you access to all options of all Mondstadt taverns free-of-charge whenever you please until the wind no longer blows your sails. However, should you falter against me, you forfeit all of the access, both paid and unpaid, to any and all taverns within the charge of our order," he explains, his smile melting to match his challenging gaze.
"Even for an outcast like her, that is a little too cruel…" Rosaria shudders.
"Remember, Bacca, how I've said it since we were young: we are both orphans, but you found a real family sooner. It is of no surprise to me that the Captain would be so cold, and I can even understand it to an extent," Eula begins to slowly walk around Kaeya. He matches her pace.
"Please, we are all friends here. Wine is thicker than blood, so you should not be so unfamiliar with me — I am truly not the coldest of us here," Kaeya arms open for an embrace, though neither close their gap.
"Ah, right. The distress of your comrades is your love language. Well, in that case, I accept your terms," Eula's vision glows brilliantly, and Kaeya's replies with a matching illumination. Carl's head perks up, the rare powers bedazzling him out of nausea and soreness.
"However, I will return your love with a bite," a snowflake bursts in Eula's right hand, its frost coalescing into the handle of a claymore. Its blade grows out of the handle around extending paths of crackling ice.
"And I'll appreciate every single one," Kaeya blasts a frigid wind from his right hand, the excess melting away in the warm night to reveal a sleek sword which catches the lighting of the tavern excellently; Eula prepares her dance, ready to sacrifice her social movement, while Kaeya appears to wield both his own chilly disposition towards the discomfort of a friend, as well as the yearning blaze of care which burns underneath.
Carl is barely able to keep up with the show of force. He is already disoriented from his own lack of oxygen and self-poisoning, and now the dizzying winter wonderland, the relentless flurry of blows, fracturing the humidity is piling onto his increasing delirium. Kaeya utilizes a foreign style, undoubtedly high-class in its own right and no adventurer's vulgar swing, to mix the manipulation of cryo with his sword strikes. It is apparent Eula has yet to master a countering style for her blouse and pants tear occasionally from a well-placed blade slice or unexpected cutting wind.
However, that is not to say Eula is on the backfoot. Biting his lip to prevent his baser instincts from making his position any more uncomfortable, Carl watches as Eula is capable of cutting close to most cuts with subtle adjustments to how she wields the weight of her claymore, and how she lets it lead her dance. Her image itself appears to flicker away from most attacks which seem to pierce her, and this precision is Kaeya's downfall many a-time, forcing him to adjust for the slab of ice threatening to lop his head off his shoulders, or his arm from its socket. Dodging is made more difficult by how the dance doubles as a form of wielding the blade and a form of wielding the vision; the bitter sweeps of her twirls threaten to lock Kaeya in place if he doesn't break through the oncoming blizzard or run away from it, and each swing of her blade carries behind it the force of an avalanche which he must glance away from lest he be crushed, frozen, and shattered beneath the disaster.
Carl is unaware of when he began falling from the Angel's Share sign, and he is even unaware of the fact that he is falling. That is until he realizes he is spectating not just the battle between the cryo Captains, but also the clash of a stabbing iceberg against an inferno roaring from the darkness of the city street, from an altitude even with the combatants. Then, his vision goes black once again.
Awakening yet again, he is in an even worse bodily position. Even if his body didn't feel like it's being stabbed across the back, arms, and legs, this crater in the middle of a table would still be difficult to climb out of. Through the splintered wood, as his mind struggles to fight off the fuzziness and focus on the stars above, he can hear a new voice.
"What happened?" asks the stern cadence of Diluc Ragnivindr. A man with enough class on his deathbed can recognize that voice immediately, not to mention such a man teetering the liminal areas of consciousness.
"Don't you think it more appropriate to ask the troublemakers themselves, instead of their innocent friend? Or has indiscriminate abuse become your modus operandi?" Kaeya's swift blade is only overcome by his eagerness to instigate.
"The sinners you see in various states of repentance are my doing, their crime being the harassment of the innocent… Beyond this, wine has been my chief concern," Rosaria answers Diluc.
Carl hears blades whistle against one another for the last time.
"I simply wanted relief from both my duties and my stress, especially since the Acting Grand Master and the Librarian recommended it," Eula sighs. "But, unsurprisingly, social obstacles stood in my way."
"I assume Master Kaeya is chief among those obstacles," Carl imagines Diluc's hot glare falling upon his brother.
"No, actually, I was trying to alleviate those obstacles. But, I'm not surprised you would jump to the conclusion you made. You have a passion for flipping your way into unpleasant revelations courtesy of your assumptions," Kaeya sharply corrects with the same cool air to his voice as always.
"He is correct...though, we aren't sure of where his help stands now that you and Bacca intervened," Eula admits.
"Delectable breakfast wine directly served to me at the Winery was on the line, so I had little choice in my decision," Rosaria snaps.
"Whatever offer Master Kaeya has made, forget about it. I will serve you like I have before," Diluc groans, and Carl hears their footsteps approach the door of the tavern. However, the door swings open before they can reach it, and the bartender's strained breath struggles to exhale an excuse.
"Master Diluc! I deeply apologize for the damages and messes caused by tonight's crowd, I had very little I could do in the matter and I hoped Master Kaeya, as well as Sister Rosaria, could handle the situation in a more orderly fash-"
"Don't worry about it. Go home, Michael. I'll take over from here," Diluc assures him. Carl hears the sound of clinking mora, though it is interrupted by Michael.
"Th-thank you for your generosity, Ma-Master Diluc. But, one more thing-"
"Ah, Ann, how are you doing? Wonderful piece you published recently! Your insights into the relationship between Mondstadt and certain members of the aristocracy are fascinating. I knew you were writing something great when you approached me for an interview a while ago," Kaeya says.
"Y-yes, Ann has a complaint to make against-" the bartender's explanation is cut off by a table leg snapping under the weight of another falling body, causing its splintered structure to completely collapse and give way to a rolling Carl who is too far gone to do anything about his tongue lolling out and tasting the cobblestone. His eyes, about the only parts of his body willing to move at all, see Ann point at him.
"Ann is in bad shape, did you get a clear sight of what exactly was going on back there earlier, Kaeya?" Rosaria asks, studying the girl. If Carl could, he would stand right up and wallop the lot of them for being more concerned for the shivering wench while him and his boys are all beaten and broken in some fashion or another.
"Not quite, no. Just had enough to pierce through the crowd and see just who was causing so much of a ruckus…" Kaeya gives Carl that same, haunting look from before. "But, not enough to see what exactly happened. I lack Master Diluc's haste, so I'm willing to bet on an assumption that Ann went through much more than we were able to see," Kaeya glances at Diluc to see his brother's deadpan die further and transform into obvious distaste.
"Everyone we see here on the floor and hanging from tavern property was involved in the incident, yes?" Diluc asks Michael.
"Y-yes, Master Diluc! At least, the ones willing to do anything at the command of Master Torrsson. The ones left behind were either too drunk to follow, or too spineless," he reports.
"Alright, Sister Rosaria, bring the Captains in. I will take care of both our bartender here as well as Ann, and make sure their issues are fully resolved. Can I trust you to serve our guests for the little while it will take?" Diluc asks.
"Can I trust you to give me more wine at your estate come morning?" she responds, absent-mindedly twirling one of her hanging daggers.
"You have my word on both that, and your service being kept secret from the Church," he assures.
"I am your blade in the night, then," Rosaria begins walking toward the tavern ahead of Diluc, the bartender, and the waitress.
"Once justice is served for Ann...and I finally read her renowned scholarly literature of the month… I will crack down on the both of you, as well as Master Diluc, for this," Eula swears to Rosaria and Kaeya.
"I'm glad to hear it. If there's anyone I'd like to watch over my shoulder for, it would be you, Eula," Kaeya laughs.
‿︵‿︵ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ・❉・ ʚ˚̣̣̣͙ɞ‿︵‿︵
Gremory's Notes
I ship KaeyaxRosaria, KaeyaxEula, EulaxRosaria, and DilucxEula.
A headcanon working throughout this piece is that Diluc, Kaeya, Eula, and Rosaria all have known one another since they were very young.
Eula and Rosaria share an especially close relationship, and part of this is Eula's nickname for Rosaria: "Bacca". It comes from the black baccara rose.