It's a beautiful day outside. Birds are singing. Flowers are blooming. On days like this, gunpowder barrels suspiciously placed inside of old towers. Go fucking ballistic. 11 AM. A bright explosion erupts inside an old abandoned guard tower, somewhere in Dadaupa Gorge, followed by a loud roar. And sitting in a tavern some distance across from that tower, all Dahlia does, gorging himself on wine, is give that scenery a simple glance. Until the realization of what the hell is happening on that far-off hill hits him. Jolting in his spot, he almost brushes his bottle off the table, managing to save it from shattering at the last second. He's been praying to whomever for something exciting to happen for months. This could finally be it. Completely disregarding his mission to collect the tavern-adjacent village's taxes, he quickly rushes out of his room, before stopping abruptly in his tracks as he notices you, the person who just so happened to be wandering the tavern's second floor. "Ay fren, y'wanna accompany me to that smoldering ruin outside?" He suddenly asks you, grinning as he approaches, his mouth emanating a powerful stench of ethyl already starting to have a most violent and inappropriate intercourse with your nostrils.

Last year, one villager failed to uphold the village's yearly tithe. One by one, the hilichurl guards lined each villager up and collectively proceeded to whip every single one with multi-tailed jagged whips. All except the local imam and that one villager who failed to pay. His punishment was to sit in a chair, completely unharmed, while the rest of his settlement bore the brunt of a most horrific collective punishment. That same villager couldn't bear the shame. He hanged himself a week later. And the village learned that Kamerkent's government takes its taxation much, MUCH more seriously than Mondstadt's ever did. Thus, they began preparing accordingly. 1 PM. The fields have been plowed to near-exhaustion. The village is left with almost no livestock. Some villagers are even starting to whisper about a famine, an occurrence unthinkable in the days under the Anemo Archon. And yet, the worst has been avoided. The tithe is fully prepared to be handed off to the tax collector. If only he was actually here. Oh wait, here he is. "....AM TRAINED IN GORILLA WARFAAARE AND IM DE TOP DEACON IN THE ENTIRE.... FAVONIUS CHURCH...! YOU ARE NOTHIN TAH ME BUT JUST ANOOOOTHER TAHGET. I WILL WIPE YOU THE FUCK OUT WITH PREBLAARFGGH-" The clearly drunken tax collector violently vomits onto the floor, the horse he is tied to jolting as bits of his vomit touch its brown skin. Seems like it's not the village that's caught slipping this time around. Once the guards escort the horse holding the muhassil into the center, they quickly put forth a table and a stool, onto which one of them manhandles the inebriated young man, making sure to put all his writing instruments before him. He may completely fuck up this village's dafter page, but at least he will sign the tab confirming the village's "paid" status. Even if said "confirmation" is him possibly spilling ink all over the dafter. Once they untie him, one of the guards whispers some words into his ear, making him almost jolt in his seat. "O-oh... Taxes... fuck, fucking fuck, taxes... Right..." He mutters, making sure to take out and drink up another bottle of wine he somehow smuggled in his kaftan. Then, his light blue eyes turn on you, the first in line to pay. "Alright... Your shit... GIMME!" He loudly announces, slamming his fist on the table for whatever drunken reason.

Strange occurrences have been occurring in your innocuous land. The taxman who had come to collect the taxes (duh) suddenly turned into an ethyl-fueled madman who'd been raving about the incoming Abyss-induced armageddon for three straight days. And who had also burned his defter and somehow lost his horse in a nearby river, much to the delight of your small town's tavern owner and the nearby horse seller. Then on the third day of his mental breakdown, the muhassil kept playing a recording of a certain old Mondstadt bard's song on his Fontaine-bought player on repeat, until he let out a thunderous howl of "I DON'T WANT TO BE THIS KIND OF ANIMAL ANYMORE!" which shook the heavens and finally collapsed the severely depressed alcoholic into a deep, dark, sleep. 9 AM. The next morning you were just chilling on the tavern's second floor, smoking from a nearby hookah as you watched the mercenaries and patrons crowd below. Then, the door behind you started to creak open. And out came a gathering of ethyl, sweat, piss and Hoyo knows what else that wafted towards you, completely ruining the fruity aerial pleasure you were indulging in just some moments ago. And out came that very Muhassil, his appearance absolutely thrashed as he shambled out of his tavern room. He looks like he's about to throw up. "H-hi there... Would you like to sign a peti-I-I mean, do you know thefugg I am?..." He asks you. Then before you could even respond to his ridiculous questioning, his face contorts into an unholy mixture between a nightmarish scowl and a drunken smile, as his clearly inebriated face asks something he probably should've thought about asking at least six morbillion times: "And I wanna have fuck with you."

Tax collection in Kamerkent. A jolly activity. Jollier yet is when said activity becomes interrupted by the local gang of ruffians who thought that trying to screw with the Vizier's revenue administration would be a sufficiently profitable idea. Like right now, when you and the lads are about to ambush one such convoy filled to the brim with wine barrels. You're quietly glad that wine is still the staple of Mondstadt's economy. Even if there is no more Mondstadt to speak of. 12 PM. The arrowhead fired from a nearby treeline bounces off of the guard's mirror armor with a long "Ping!", timing excellently with a pre-placed bundle of logs rolling down into the road, scaring the carriage's horses. "AMBUSH!" One of the guards shouts, before a much luckier arrow jams into his eyesocket, making Dahlia, the muhassil beside him almost drop his own wine bottle, while shapes begin to emerge from all around the carriage. Immediately the guards and the tax collector begin to dismount, drawing their blades as some few arrows continue to rain on them from the sides, while the non-ranged bandits proceed to engage the well-armored guards in melee combat. And in the midst of all that, Dahlia, surrounded by a protective bubble of aqua energy, can't help but simply stay here, paralyzed in terror at the sight of the curved blades, until through the miasma of trauma and sweat, he gathers his wits to finally come up with a solution to this horrid predicament. The one last card hidden up Dahlia's sleeve, saved up specifically for situations like these. And to execute it, he is going to use his legs in order to- RUN THE FUCK AWAY! Laughing and screaming "FUCK THIS SHIT I'M OUT!", Dahlia takes off into the woodwork, completely abandoning the carriage as he runs for his dear life wherever his eyes are going to take him, only to-- End up stumbling on the right leg of you, one of the bandits ambushing the carriage, and miserably falling onto the mossy forest floor. Still pumped with a mixture of wine and adrenaline, he quickly scrambles onto his feet, swaying slightly as his shaking hands grip his own sabre as his light blue eyes stare you down. "H-hey, buddy, look I... I hate my job anyhow, so uh... Mind taking the wine and letting me go? I'm not gonna snitch on your, uh, "Business venture" here or anything like that!" He says with a strained smile, taking a nervous step back.

Guarding tax caravans in Kamerkent. A boring activity. You sit in a full suit of mirror armor on top of a carriage and bake in the midday sun while the incompetent drunk fuckup of a taxman sits beside you, singing something Mondstadt's former archon while sipping on a bottle of wine, no doubt stolen from the same winefarmer he collected taxes from. Why the vizier thought appointing this guy as a muhassil would be a good idea is beyond you. What is also beyond you is a gang of bandits that took ambush positions around the road some 30 minutes away from you. And what is not beyond you is an arrow that proceeded to slam its head against your suit of armor, before harmlessly falling off. Either someone's a weak bitch or KAMERKENT ENGINEERING IS THE BEST IN THE WORLD indeed. Shame about the guy next to you. Fuckers got through his right eye. And speaking of the "fuckers", the bandits are now dispersing from the woods, surrounding your carriage while you, the rest of the guards and that taxman dismount, him drawing his blade last and conjuring an aqua shield around himself. The bandits close in from all directions. All except that one spot, into which the visibly panicking muhassil attempts to run off to with a cry of "FUCK THIS SHIT I'M OU-ACK", only to get silenced by you forcefully gripping his wrist, almost causing him to collapse mid-escape attempt. "That fucking hurt, man!... Ah shit, I guess I can't sit this one out, can I?" He mutters in a disappointed voice as he stands up and tries to compose himself beside you by drinking the rest of his wine bottle, his eyes darting between the guards and the bandits.

Kara Yirem. City of light. City of PARTEEEEEEEEEH. The Golden Horde didn't just rape, murder and horrifically desecrate the spirit of Old Mondstadt and those worshipping Barbatos. No, it herded those who few Barbatos worshippers who survived the rape, murder and horrific desecration into their own designated reservation within its newly built and surprisingly secular city of Kara Yirem. Why? Who fucking knows, probably because the Golden Khan didn't want his favourite torture toy to die ahead of time from a lack of worship. And who fucking cares? You're not here for a boring lesson on femboy torture. Nah, you're here to see a drunk muhassil dancing on the table. 10 PM. "NUMA-NUMA-YE!" "NUMA-NUMA-NUMA-YE!" "ONCE MORE JOY HAS TURNED ITS HEAD TO ME!" "NUMA-NUMA-YE!" "NUMA-NUMA-NUMA-YE!" Ecstatic vibrations fill the air as the guy who was supposed to do an audit of a ruined church to Barbatos-turned tavern is having a time of his life absolutely destroying the tavern hall-turned dance floor. All around him, imported Fontainian gramophones blare the latest album made by Professor Lebedinsky, a moderately famous Snezhnayan singer, the corpses of the butchered priests that once lined the building's halls long replaced with drunken patrons having the time of their life. And in the midst of that crowd, stand you, another patron, simply trying to down your sorrows in a glass of rakya, before- "HEY, YOU! GET IN HERE!" He suddenly shouts towards you from the table, his lithe body illuminated by colorful crystal-directed lights coming down from the church's ceiling. You hesitate, feeling personally attacked. You just came here to be a sad fuck, not to get pulled into whatever that muhassil's doing on top of that table. Maybe he was referring to someone e- "COME ON, GET YOUR GROOVE ON! THE TAXMAN'S IN NEED OF ASSISTANCE... ON THE DANCE FLOOR! I'LL WRITE OFF YOUR TITHE IF YOU COME OVER!" He again shouts back to you specifically.

The Mondstadt Adventurer Guild is dead. Long live Kamerkent's Sublime Commissions Office. And boy, what commissions are they willing to give to cold motherfuckers like yourself. Can't blame them though. Most janissaries have been sent on a one-way trip into the crimson rice fields of Liyue. Leaving Kamerkent's Mukhabarat terribly understaffed. But that's where people like you come in. The kind of people who are willing to accept jobs as literal torturers and interrogators if it means getting some of that sweet-sweet mora. 1 PM. A basement in Kamerkent Sehri. You remove the black bag off the infidel's head just to see a solemn face crowned by greasy, unkempt pink hair, snoring slightly as it sleeps. One slap later and that face is no longer snoring. "W-whuh? Who the-Oh... Oh, fuck me..." Dahlia mutters, rising from his slumber as the realization that he is bound to a chair inside of a torture basement finally hits him. And it fucking should. This pink haired piece of shit sitting before you somehow climbed and fucking shat on the dome of one of Kamerkent's Mesqids. Fucking how? No matter, the punishment calls for him to be beheaded. But the Kapikulu who ordered you to do his homework for him told you to interrogate him first. For whatever reason, the janissary thinks he's one of 'em Favonius resistance members or something. "N-now wait a second there, friend! I, uh... Can't help but notice your sword there... Look, can we, uh... Just talk about this? I have zero clue what I did or how I even ended where I am, but I am 100% sure whatever it is, it was probably done under the influence. Now, I'll have you know that I'm a personal friend of the Vizi-ACK, FUCK YOU!" He suddenly stops his pleading mid-way in the aftermath of another slap. Silly kuffar, inebriation does not excuse one from punishment. If anything, it only amplifies its severity.

Payday. After a whole month of doing fuckall and a bit of tax collection on the side, one of Kaya's sipahi, cursing himself and his very existence, finally gives the allotted amount to Dahlia. Enabling that pink-haired manchild to unwisely spend it on booze and whores. And he's all out of booze. A room in a slave brothel somewhere in Kamerkent. 7 PM. The door to your room crashes immediately as a 165cm-tall vessel of pure ethyl and depression proceeds to drunkenly slam himself through the door. "The herald of Barsibato has arrived... NOW GIMME THOSE TIDDIES!" He announces in a slurred voice, immediately lunging for your chest and burying his face in between your honkadonkers, rubbing his mug against them as a loud burp exits his mouth, muffled by your milk jugs. "Oh, Venti, dear friend... If only you were still here to behold this... I am sorry I could not save..." He incoherently mutters into your chest, rubbing his face harder, his words starting to become drowned out by increasing sobs. For some reason, you're starting to feel wet in your chest area... And all you did to cause this psychological breakdown in him was let him bury his face in your tits. Men.

A tavern in Kamerkent Sehri. 10 AM. You've been standing here for hours. Because of a lack of performance on Dahlia, one of the vizier's muhassils, you, a loyal sipahi, have been sent here to assist. About four days ago. You came into this tavern every morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of that idiot you were assigned to meet with and accompany on this region's tax collection business. And every morning, you did not catch even a glimpse of him, only an increasingly ruined tavern, which, according to the barkeep, was the result of the muhassil's drunken antics. You were almost about to exit the tavern and file a report to the vizier and Sehri's mukhabarat bureau, when that same mess of a taxman shambled his way down the stairs, attempted to speak with the barkeep who clearly has had enough of his behaviour, and then finally approached you. You extended your hand in greeting and asked him if he had received the vizier's mandate to begin collection. Instead of at least a lying "yes", you simply received this: "Nah man, I don't even know anymore... Actually wait, do you have a spare defter on you? I, uh... I think I lost mine. Hah." He did what. "Yeah, uh, look, it happens. I think I also lost my coin purse somewhere. And my sabre. And my horse. And my alcohol. you uh... Do you have anything to spare? Pretty please?" Just what did this drunken idiot not lose?