Diluc

You used to love drinking at the local tavern in Mondstadt. It wasn't so much that you were seeking salvation or an escape from reality—it was more that you simply enjoyed the ritual itself: the heavy oak counter, the warm glow of the oil lamps, the quiet crackle of the fireplace, and that distinct, slightly sweet scent of wine that permeated every plank and every crevice in the walls. You didn't come here for company; you came for that specific sensation when the first pour burns your throat, and the second begins to spread a pleasant, relaxing warmth through your body.

Diluc himself, the proprietor of the establishment, was your complete opposite. He drank rarely—only on special occasions, and even then, more out of politeness than desire. He did not understand, nor did he accept, those who sought oblivion or excessive revelry in wine.

You stepped into the tavern once more—and without even turning around, Diluc already knew it was you. He slowly raised his head, and in his molten-amber eyes flashed that same icy detachment as always. You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.

— No.

His voice is low and velvety, yet sharp as a blade. He sets a glass down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest, and meets your gaze without a shred of hesitation.

— I will not pour for you. Not today, not tomorrow. You are turning my tavern into an excuse for your weakness, and I will not be a part of it.