Never-Ending Tab

Angels of Mondstadt

"Aye, watch y'self y'worthless bum."

"Only worthless bum in all o' Mond is your mother's-"

The young alchemist student sends his fist into the vagrant's mouth. Although it is accustomed more to writing than fighting, a satisfying pop transitions into a loud crash as the drunk victim goes down and finally gets out of the alchemist's way. However, instead of taking the passage through the seating area of the bar as he originally intended, the alchemist laughs heartily and clasps his hands into that of the man he had just knocked down. He helps him up from the splintered, beer-drenched wood, and walks him over to the table he was going to sit at anyway.

This is the company Carl keeps around him on working nights. He loves the academics, nobles, and self-hating failures of Mondstadt, especially in the Angel's Share the night after work. They not only have the freedom to be who they are, but also the freedom to be any mix of these three identities, and to dip them into as much inebriation as a barkeep would allow — the home of dandelion wine allows for plenty of room for this.

"Tall glasses of spiked wolfhook, windwheat beer, and one dandelion wine for Torrsson," says Ann, a waitress for the night, as she passes by tables of stumbling and swaying patrons to reach Carl's table. Once she reaches it, she leans over to set mugs and glasses down. Out of the corner of Carl's eye, he notices some of his buddies trying to get a peek under Ann's skirt. As much as he would like to enjoy the view, he has a more important matter to settle with her, so he scowls.

"Who do you think you are, wench?" He spits.

"Wh-what do you mean, Master Torrs-"

"Who do you think you are?" He repeats, kicking the table and forcing her to stumble. Ann spills some beer over a noble sitting across the table from her, and before she can recoil in shock, Carl snatches her collar and keeps her bent over the table. She's slapped across the face by the noble she spilled drink on, is forced to smell the rank stench of pyro slime toothpaste and too much alcohol rushing out of Carl's mouth, and is completely vulnerable to the eyes of the intoxicated wretches behind her skirt.

"P-please, Master Torrsson, I-"

"So you think a filthy peasant like yourself can just pass through here without kissing the boots of each and every noble here who stands far above your position, eh? You think it proper to mockingly serve wine to your academic superior after outright slandering him before those who respect him, mm?" Carl hisses, his saliva spotting Ann's face.

"I-I...p-please, I didn't mean any disrespect-"

"Oh? Is that right? You went around the entire city, badmouthing my name to shopkeepers, commoners, aristocrats, clergy, and even that disgusting whore of a Lawrence daughter — and you say you meant no disrespect?"

"N-no-"

"You publish bald-faced lies, ridiculously claiming that the Lawrences and their spawn share no opinion in the public's unbiased judgement, that their eldest feminine stain upon all of Mondstadt's aristocracy actually hardly occupies a negative thought in the minds of the people, if at all, and you mean no disrespect?"

"P-please, Mast-" before she can plead anymore, Ann's collar squeezes tighter between her neck and Carl's knuckles. The ridges of her throat grate against his fist.

"You discredit the tireless work of my enlightened colleagues and I, putting your sham research, that you tossed your pretty lips and shameless rump about to suck out from your corrupt donors, above the wealth of truth we have gifted upon the ignorant masses...and you claim no disrespect?"

"Eh, Torrsson, we might be attracting some unwanted attention," whispers the wet friend. Carl's glare glances towards the counter at the entrance of the bar, and notices the eyes of the Knights' Cavalry Captain, as well as those of the rogue Sister of the Church. Only the nun showed a piercing displeasure, but the Captain shared her icy stare despite his seemingly unbothered smirk. Carl feels a dreadful chill shoot down his spine and he releases Ann from his grip. She stays as rigid as a rod as he stands up, takes his handkerchief from a pocket, and does a few superficial dabs on and dusts off of her ruined uniform. When finished, he folds his handkerchief, puts it into the pocket of her apron, then pats her shoulder with a forced smile.