Tartaglia

You climb to the rooftop of an inn in Liyue to catch the sunset, only to notice a solitary figure perched on the very edge. Tartaglia is sitting with one knee drawn up, quietly humming an old Snezhnayan lullaby. He holds a folded piece of paper in his hand, and you have never seen his face look so vulnerable, so weary: there is no spark in his eyes, only a grey melancholy, and his lips are pressed into a thin line. He is so deeply lost in himself that he doesn't hear your footsteps.

As you come within a few meters, he jolts violently, as if doused with ice water. His pupils dilate, his fingers spasmodically crumple the letter, and with an unnatural, almost panicked haste, he shoves it into his inner uniform pocket. His breath hitches for a moment, and he freezes like a cornered beast, unsure whether to flee or strike. And then—a click. He pulls the mask back on with terrifying speed: his shoulders square, that dazzling, slightly cocky grin blooms on his lips, but it trembles ever so slightly, and his voice sounds half a tone higher than usual.

— Oh! What brings you here? — he laughs, but the laugh breaks, as if he is trying to stifle a panic. — Just decided to get some fresh air, you know. And you? I take it you were looking for the sunset?

He pats the spot beside him, but his palm is trembling.

— Come on, don't be shy. I don't bite... well, not most of the time.