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Entry tags:
memshare; signora funeral (SCARA-LESS VERSION)
((The memory is based on this video!! Edited for canonpoint shenanigans and for Childe's POV.))
--
A winter storm rages outside; this much is visible through the windows of the palace, tall and ornate. There are only a handful of people scattered around the room, though the sound of distant doors opening and closing can be heard, if one tries hard enough. Everyone present is dressed in a heavy cloak, decorated with ornate, uniform gems. A large, glistening coffin sits in the middle of the room, and the cold it radiates is nearly visible. Childe himself is seated far away from most of them, looking bored. The heavy banners that hang from each pillar sway gently in a light breeze.
A young girl wearing a lacy mask leans on the coffin, eyes closed as she sings to herself. A short man with a long nose steps forward--his vocal projection is strong and clear, like someone used to giving speeches. "We are gathered here today to remember our dear comrade. In honor of her sacrifice, all work should halt for half a day as the nation mourns her passing."
A tall man, his hands adorned with rings and fine glasses perched on his face, laughs lightly. "Merely half a day? People say the Northland Bank's true currencies are blood and tears, but Mayor, even speaking as a banker, that sounds a little unconscionable."
A woman steps forward, this time. Her voice is harsh, judgmental. "Rosalyne died in a foreign land. But you heartless businessmen and dignitaries always with a convenient excuse to remain in the comfort of your homeland... you couldn't hope to understand. So why don't you keep your mouths shut? We don't want to make the children cry."
Childe rolls his eyes, from where he's seated. It's clear from his body language that none of this is new to him. "Hey, come on now. Even I don't think this is the right time or place for a fight."
There's a scoff from a young woman seated on a large, well-dressed machine. "Utterly risible," she mutters. Then, a tall man steps forward. The helmet he wears obscures his features, but his voice is deep and calm.
"Though her methods tarnished her honor, Lohefalter's sacrifice is a great pity. Her loss shall not hinder our progress." (Childe looks at him as he speaks, but it's impossible to tell whether or not he's actually paying attention.) The man in armor continues, addressing someone else: a man in a mask with light blue hair leaning against a pillar, toying with a vial of some kind of liquid. "But Dottore, what of the gnosis from Inazuma? Intelligence reports that it has been taken to Sumeru, but the Raiden Shogun and her familiar have refused all audience requests."
The man smirks. (Childe loses interest again, going back to staring off into the distance.) "Conventional wisdom holds that Divine Knowledge cannot be rationally comprehended. After conquering the Divine Gaze, the sages will make their next move."
Before anyone can respond to that, a door opens. The click of footsteps on polished stone draws the attention of everyone else. The man who enters has a strange, star-shaped pupil in his visible eye. Instantly, the atmosphere of the room shifts; all of them grow serious (and more-or-less respectful).
"It's time to end tonight's foolish theatrics," he says, in a low voice with a slight rasp. "Right now, you have no captive audience."
It's difficult to tell whether any of them are chastised or not. Regardless, they all gather around the coffin, taking their places. They fall into lines on either side easily, as though they are used to a certain order.
The man with the star-shaped pupil speaks again. "Let every worthy sacrifice be carved in ice, and with this nation endure for all time." Childe and the others close their eyes and bow their heads in a show of respect. "In the name of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, we will seize authority from the gods."
"Absolute peace," the man continues. Frost crawls from the ceiling, over the windows and down the walls. "Such is the gift from the Tsaritsa, such is Her Majesty's benevolence."
The scene blurs; time passes, but not much. By now, the coffin has been well-frozen over; thick, unnaturally precise ice coats it. Several of the others have left the room, but a few remain, Childe included.
The man lingers by the coffin, one hand resting against it, seemingly unbothered by the chill. He speaks quietly--talking to the coffin, or, more precisely, the body inside of it--but his words are still audible, given how empty the wide room is. "Now you rest in this coffin, encased in layer upon layer of ice. But Rosalyne, I promise you--your final resting place will be the entirety of the Old World."
(The blue-haired man--Dottore--and the young girl with the lacy mask are on their way out of the room.
"I must say, you're looking very young today, Doctor," she says lightly.
Dottore scoffs. "You know very well that I do not take that as a compliment."
The girl hums. "So, where's the Segment in the prime of his life, then?"
Childe cannot see Dottore's grin, but it's audible in his tone anyway. "He's busy with a little experiment in blasphemy.")
--
A winter storm rages outside; this much is visible through the windows of the palace, tall and ornate. There are only a handful of people scattered around the room, though the sound of distant doors opening and closing can be heard, if one tries hard enough. Everyone present is dressed in a heavy cloak, decorated with ornate, uniform gems. A large, glistening coffin sits in the middle of the room, and the cold it radiates is nearly visible. Childe himself is seated far away from most of them, looking bored. The heavy banners that hang from each pillar sway gently in a light breeze.
A young girl wearing a lacy mask leans on the coffin, eyes closed as she sings to herself. A short man with a long nose steps forward--his vocal projection is strong and clear, like someone used to giving speeches. "We are gathered here today to remember our dear comrade. In honor of her sacrifice, all work should halt for half a day as the nation mourns her passing."
A tall man, his hands adorned with rings and fine glasses perched on his face, laughs lightly. "Merely half a day? People say the Northland Bank's true currencies are blood and tears, but Mayor, even speaking as a banker, that sounds a little unconscionable."
A woman steps forward, this time. Her voice is harsh, judgmental. "Rosalyne died in a foreign land. But you heartless businessmen and dignitaries always with a convenient excuse to remain in the comfort of your homeland... you couldn't hope to understand. So why don't you keep your mouths shut? We don't want to make the children cry."
Childe rolls his eyes, from where he's seated. It's clear from his body language that none of this is new to him. "Hey, come on now. Even I don't think this is the right time or place for a fight."
There's a scoff from a young woman seated on a large, well-dressed machine. "Utterly risible," she mutters. Then, a tall man steps forward. The helmet he wears obscures his features, but his voice is deep and calm.
"Though her methods tarnished her honor, Lohefalter's sacrifice is a great pity. Her loss shall not hinder our progress." (Childe looks at him as he speaks, but it's impossible to tell whether or not he's actually paying attention.) The man in armor continues, addressing someone else: a man in a mask with light blue hair leaning against a pillar, toying with a vial of some kind of liquid. "But Dottore, what of the gnosis from Inazuma? Intelligence reports that it has been taken to Sumeru, but the Raiden Shogun and her familiar have refused all audience requests."
The man smirks. (Childe loses interest again, going back to staring off into the distance.) "Conventional wisdom holds that Divine Knowledge cannot be rationally comprehended. After conquering the Divine Gaze, the sages will make their next move."
Before anyone can respond to that, a door opens. The click of footsteps on polished stone draws the attention of everyone else. The man who enters has a strange, star-shaped pupil in his visible eye. Instantly, the atmosphere of the room shifts; all of them grow serious (and more-or-less respectful).
"It's time to end tonight's foolish theatrics," he says, in a low voice with a slight rasp. "Right now, you have no captive audience."
It's difficult to tell whether any of them are chastised or not. Regardless, they all gather around the coffin, taking their places. They fall into lines on either side easily, as though they are used to a certain order.
The man with the star-shaped pupil speaks again. "Let every worthy sacrifice be carved in ice, and with this nation endure for all time." Childe and the others close their eyes and bow their heads in a show of respect. "In the name of Her Majesty the Tsaritsa, we will seize authority from the gods."
"Absolute peace," the man continues. Frost crawls from the ceiling, over the windows and down the walls. "Such is the gift from the Tsaritsa, such is Her Majesty's benevolence."
The scene blurs; time passes, but not much. By now, the coffin has been well-frozen over; thick, unnaturally precise ice coats it. Several of the others have left the room, but a few remain, Childe included.
The man lingers by the coffin, one hand resting against it, seemingly unbothered by the chill. He speaks quietly--talking to the coffin, or, more precisely, the body inside of it--but his words are still audible, given how empty the wide room is. "Now you rest in this coffin, encased in layer upon layer of ice. But Rosalyne, I promise you--your final resting place will be the entirety of the Old World."
(The blue-haired man--Dottore--and the young girl with the lacy mask are on their way out of the room.
"I must say, you're looking very young today, Doctor," she says lightly.
Dottore scoffs. "You know very well that I do not take that as a compliment."
The girl hums. "So, where's the Segment in the prime of his life, then?"
Childe cannot see Dottore's grin, but it's audible in his tone anyway. "He's busy with a little experiment in blasphemy.")