[The boat ride feels quiet, somehow relentless. Zhongli doesn't really remember in the moment whether he cries for his lost city, but he suspects it's a likely circumstance. After all, he spent so long protecting it, watching it grow.
But... he's handed over the reins now. Perhaps it isn't what he wanted, but there is no end to the bodies reminding him that life itself is seldom played to one's whims. Death is an incontrovertible fact of life, strewn across the land in the indelible inks of disaster, sickness, and time. He supposes he should be thankful that he was left at least partially alive, though there are negatives to that as well.
It's worth noting that Childe is the one who sees to him personally. It's worth noting that Zhongli has no reaction to it, and that he doesn't refuse the scraps he's given. He's not giving up, despite the desolate place they're approaching.
How long has it been? Zapolyarny Palace has changed relatively little, he thinks. Cold bites at his skin, but it soothes his aches somewhat in the interim. It's hard to say, in the heart of her home, if this is her design or if the carnage was largely this man's. In the end, it doesn't matter.
Left to his own devices, likely with a warning to behave, Zhongli takes in the state of the room. He may not have been able to understand their conversation, but he can guess whose room he's in. Being called pet hadn't exactly been subtle. He still needs a good bath and new clothes...
There's plenty of items to defend himself with, true. He doesn't feel the need to arm himself too much - just something small and easily hidden, perhaps a pen or a quill or some such. After that, it's just a case of waiting. In the silence, there's time to consider his situation more fully. Escaping will be a long task, especially considering the location itself. Snezhnaya isn't somewhere he can just blend in, either, even at the best of times. As footsteps approach, he straightens up some, cold gaze turning toward the door.
As such, what he sees when he enters is a chamber that's been largely undisturbed, his prize settled on the corner of the chaise lounge. He sits, silent and glaring, in the scraps of what cloth he was left with and blood streaked across skin. Outside of this stare, he asked no acknowledgement of the harbinger.]
no subject
But... he's handed over the reins now. Perhaps it isn't what he wanted, but there is no end to the bodies reminding him that life itself is seldom played to one's whims. Death is an incontrovertible fact of life, strewn across the land in the indelible inks of disaster, sickness, and time. He supposes he should be thankful that he was left at least partially alive, though there are negatives to that as well.
It's worth noting that Childe is the one who sees to him personally. It's worth noting that Zhongli has no reaction to it, and that he doesn't refuse the scraps he's given. He's not giving up, despite the desolate place they're approaching.
How long has it been? Zapolyarny Palace has changed relatively little, he thinks. Cold bites at his skin, but it soothes his aches somewhat in the interim. It's hard to say, in the heart of her home, if this is her design or if the carnage was largely this man's. In the end, it doesn't matter.
Left to his own devices, likely with a warning to behave, Zhongli takes in the state of the room. He may not have been able to understand their conversation, but he can guess whose room he's in. Being called pet hadn't exactly been subtle. He still needs a good bath and new clothes...
There's plenty of items to defend himself with, true. He doesn't feel the need to arm himself too much - just something small and easily hidden, perhaps a pen or a quill or some such. After that, it's just a case of waiting. In the silence, there's time to consider his situation more fully. Escaping will be a long task, especially considering the location itself. Snezhnaya isn't somewhere he can just blend in, either, even at the best of times. As footsteps approach, he straightens up some, cold gaze turning toward the door.
As such, what he sees when he enters is a chamber that's been largely undisturbed, his prize settled on the corner of the chaise lounge. He sits, silent and glaring, in the scraps of what cloth he was left with and blood streaked across skin. Outside of this stare, he asked no acknowledgement of the harbinger.]