❝ WOULD YOU HAVE FOLLOWED ME TO THE LEFT OF ELYSIAN? ❞
As heiress to Teyvat's greatest trading company, you sat at the summit of nobility and wealth. Thus at the age of twenty, you were arranged to marry someone befitting your wealth and status- wh...
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SMOG CLOAKED YOUR vision as Scaramouche fought off the assailant. Flares of fire met the galvanism of your fiancé's lightning and storms; creating smoke to cloud the room in a darkness you feared. Death loomed in that murky tenebrosity; certain and immediate death if any of those arrows were to hit you. Since your younger years, you've always feared death greatly and having it's presence so close, your body shuddered in inquietude.
Death presided over most of your life. You've witnessed some of the greatest, most wretched tragedies any human could ever endure— again and again. Orphans thrown onto the street, starved and dejected by humanity. The sight of frozen, unmoving limbs of fellow orphans; the scent of death encased by frost. Even when you were adopted into the great (l/n) family, you witnessed the archangel of death escort the souls of those closest to you once again. Board members were assassinated, maids and butlers were tortured, your own adoptive mother— brutally killed.
At the time of your adoptive mother's death, she had divorced your adoptive father. He had a tendency of infidelity as he had a medical ailment that prevented him from being able to help conceive a child. Thus he sought an heir, any suitable child who would be able to endure the valleys of torture and the summits of wealth. Though your adoptive mother loved you like any mother would, her own psychological turmoil got the best of her— haunted and preyed upon by her very own mind. She knew of her husband's adultery but couldn't live with it; the paranoia, the falsity of love she believed in, her very own delusions. She couldn't live with them anymore.
Divorce was something you couldn't quite grasp as a child. Never having parents was likely the root cause of this lack of apathy but you recalled some sort of woe in seeing her leave the home in which she raised you in. Weeks later, the news of her murder was brought to you— supposedly the cause of death was eight stab wounds to the chest. Your life only brought upon catastrophe and misfortune to those around you; one who has witnessed the archangel of death will never escape its hold.
Your melancholic thoughts snapped you back to the present where the sounds of loud explosions drummed in your ears. Crackled lightning and fire danced as Scaramouche destroyed the barrage of arrows with ease. His amethyst hues darkened with murderous intent, glaring down the assailant.
