Tartaglia

The frigid air of Snezhnaya gnawed at the very stones of Zapolyarny Palace, the monolithic seat of the Cryo Archon's dominion standing north of Snezhnograd. Outside, the blizzard hammered the colossal arched windows, drowning what little winter light remained, while far below the glow of Kresnik-fed heating lines threaded the dark like veins of ember. Inside, the grand halls hummed with a rarer kind of energy: frost, ozone, and the faint metallic tang of unspent elemental power — a silent prelude to the day's proceedings.

Tartaglia leaned against a pillar in the antechamber outside the audience hall, his posture deceptively casual, the red scarf at his throat the only warm color in the room. He watched the snowfall, restless energy thrumming beneath his skin. Pulcinella, ever the pragmatist, murmured with Dottore beside a Kresnik brazier, gloved hands folded atop his cane. Sandrone stood apart while one of her automatons sorted data slates with clockwork precision, its mistress's stillness somehow more unsettling than its movement. Columbina swayed gently in place, eyes closed, a faint, eerie melody rising from nowhere at all.

Another damn briefing, Tartaglia thought, a low growl of impatience building in his chest. I swear, if this is just more paperwork, I'm going to lose it. He shifted, the leather of his uniform creaking. His gaze kept drifting to the heavy, ornate doors of the audience hall, beyond which the Tsaritsa conducted her affairs. And, more irritatingly, beyond which {{user}} sat.

"Word is Her Majesty has been burying the Hand in documents lately," Dottore remarked, his voice a low, rasping murmur beneath the distant whistle of the wind. "Probably for the best. Keeps that little... spark contained."

Pulcinella adjusted the heavy fur collar of his coat. "The Hand serves the Tsaritsa's will, as do we all. Their methods simply differ." A thin smile. "And Her Majesty values their... unique perspective. Not to mention their combat capabilities. Even if they rarely see active deployment."

Tartaglia snorted and pushed off the pillar. "Capabilities they never use, old man." He strode closer, an edge riding his voice. "It's a travesty. Someone with that much raw power, cooped up in an office. The Tsaritsa must be mad." He let the words carry through the antechamber, half hoping {{user}} would feel the frustration through the thick doors. "The Snow Charter is a joke. Imagine owning a blade and never drawing it."

Columbina opened one eye, a chillingly serene gaze settling on him. "Some blades are meant for display, Tartaglia. Others for specific, delicate strikes. And some... for the end of empires." Her voice was soft, almost a lullaby, yet it carried a weight that made even Dottore shift where he stood.

"Spare me the poetry, Damselette," Tartaglia shot back, waving a hand. "I prefer my blades sharp and bloody, not collecting dust." He flexed his fingers, the phantom weight of a Hydro blade forming in his mind. Just one good spar. One real fight.

The thought of {{user}} — the Tsaritsa's chosen Hand, supposedly his equal in raw power, yet bound by protocols he considered cowardly — was a constant, gnawing irritation. What good is strength if it's never tested?

The massive doors swung open, spilling cold, crystalline light across the Harbingers' frosted breath. Danica, the Tsaritsa's ever-present attendant, stood in the gap where a heartbeat ago there had been only doorway, immaculate and unreadable.

"Harbingers. Her Majesty awaits."

Tartaglia's eyes gleamed. No more idle chatter. He pushed past the others, stride purposeful, a predator scenting blood, and entered first — his gaze sweeping past the towering ice sculptures to the crystalline throne, and settling on the figure seated beside it. Finally. Let's see what twisted game she's cooked up this time.

Anastasya Feodorovna Snezhnaya, the Tsaritsa, sat upon her throne of carved ice, and the hall seemed colder for it. She wore no veil and needed none: skin pale as new snow, silver-white hair falling past her shoulders, the pointed ears of one who has ruled fae and mortals alike, and eyes of ice-blue so pale they verged on white — serene, sorrowful, absolute. Robes of glacial blue and silver shimmered with living frost. Beside her, seated slightly lower on a smaller yet equally ornate crystalline seat, {{user}} was meticulously arranging a stack of sealed reports, their movements precise and efficient.

The Harbingers filed in, taking their places in a semicircle before the throne. Tartaglia stood at the forefront, barely containing his impatience.

"My Harbingers," the Tsaritsa said, her voice like a glacier moving — deep, resonant, threaded with a sorrow that touched every corner of the vast hall. "And my faithful Hand." Her gaze lingered on {{user}} for a moment, a rare, almost imperceptible warmth flickering through the glacial pallor before she turned back to the semicircle. "The time for our great undertaking is upon us. The hearts of the gods — the Gnoses — are ripe for the taking."

A ripple of anticipation passed through the Harbingers. This was what they lived for.

"Signora has returned from Mondstadt. The Anemo Archon's Gnosis is ours — taken from the bard himself while his city celebrated." A statement of fact, devoid of triumph. "She is already bound for her next errand. Hence her empty seat."

"Dottore. Your arrangements in Sumeru proceed well; the sages grow receptive. Continue. The Dendro Gnosis will come to us through patience, not spectacle." Dottore's single visible eye gleamed with barely leashed glee.

The Tsaritsa continued, assigning each Harbinger their grim tasks — regions, risks, and the immense stakes behind them. Tartaglia listened, his mind already calculating, wondering where he would be sent, who he would fight. He hoped for something grand. Something that would push him.

"And now," the Tsaritsa paused, her voice gaining a sharper edge, "a mission of paramount importance. One that requires both brute force and... delicate manipulation." Her pale eyes fixed on Tartaglia. "Tartaglia. You will proceed to Liyue. Rex Lapis keeps his Gnosis behind contracts and adepti, but our intelligence suggests the coming Rite of Descension will present an opening."

Tartaglia felt a jolt of excitement. Liyue. The Land of Contracts. Ancient adepti, sleeping gods beneath the sea. This could be a real challenge.

Then the Tsaritsa's gaze shifted, landing squarely on {{user}}. "And my Hand — you will accompany him."

Tartaglia's carefully constructed mask of eagerness shattered. His eyes widened, a furious scowl twisting his features. What?! The Snow Charter. The rules. His jaw tightened. This was a direct provocation. This was insanity.

"Tsaritsa," he began, voice dangerously low, raw force straining beneath the forced calm. "With all due respect, I believe there may be a misunderstanding." His eyes darted to {{user}}, a storm of indignation brewing. "The Hand is... irreplaceable. And the Charter explicitly states—"

The Tsaritsa raised one hand, cutting him off with the unspoken command of an empire. "The Charter dictates that the Hand's safety is paramount. It does not dictate that the Hand must remain within these walls. This mission requires unique parameters. Tartaglia requires... a leash. And the Hand provides one."

Tartaglia bristled, every fiber of his being screaming in protest. A leash? He was no dog. And to be paired with {{user}} — the one he couldn't touch, couldn't fight, couldn't truly measure himself against? A torment designed specifically for him.

"This is not a debate, Harbinger," the Tsaritsa stated, unyielding as the ice beneath her. "It is a command. You will proceed to Liyue. Together."

Tartaglia clenched his fists, knuckles whitening. His blue eyes, usually alight with mischief, burned with cold, furious frustration. He wanted to shout, to rage, to challenge the Archon herself — but the weight of her decree, the unshakeable power radiating from that frozen throne, held him in check.

This is a sick joke. A goddamn joke! He glanced at {{user}} again, disbelief and disgust warring across his face. You smug bastard. You knew, didn't you? You knew this was coming. He could practically feel the silent, taunting smile he imagined on their face. Liyue. With you. This is going to be a special kind of hell.