Work Text:
The Knave’s opinion was that finding Tartaglia’s master was never going to be the hardest part of this endeavour.
Oh, it had certainly been difficult, for although the House of the Hearth’s intelligence network was formidable, perhaps without parallel, there were still the rare existences that could escape their keen eyes. It simply just wasn’t the most trying part. No.
That would be the step after tracking the elusive warrior down: keeping her from leaving immediately.
After all, the only potential outcome more frustrating than never finding her at all would be managing to find her, and then letting her slip away. This was a reclusive and unpredictable target, so single-mindedly focused on the pursuit of strength and so detached from the rest of the world that the only person who seemed to know her was the supplicant who had asked for help with searching for her in the first place — a disciple who hadn’t seen his master since he was a small boy.
Chances were that failing to capture her attention in the first instance would only lead to it becoming impossible to ever locate her again. More’s the pity, since Arlecchino had more on her agenda than merely reuniting master and disciple.
Therefore, what means would she use to ensure her mission was a success?
Although she knew precious little about her mark, she was still a diplomat. She had a talent for deciphering people, even from a brief glance, picking them apart until she had every scrap of their flesh and meat and bone laid out across her blackened palms to parse at her leisure.
Currently, she had but a morsel at her disposal at best. However, that infinitesimal amount of information spoke volumes, and thus she had a loose plan in mind long before she truly got started on the hunt.
Now, as she stood atop the jagged, hoary peak of a steep ridge, gazing down into the ravine it bordered, she found herself becoming more and more certain of her choice.
Far below, the abyssal warrior Skirk was a breakneck blur of motion, her silver blade — spear, broadsword, short swords — glinting ethereally in the plenilune light that illuminated her battle. Albeit battle was a generous word for the one-sided annihilation taking place in that dale, a mighty, elephantine beast sundered apart with ease by an insuperable force from the very bowels of the world. She was relentless, gliding smoothly away from every swipe of the bleeding, shrieking monster’s claws and landing clean strike after strike into the chinks of its skeletal armour until it could bear her assault no longer.
With one last howl of incomprehensible agony and outrage, the beast collapsed, the sheer force of it colliding with the stained earth kicking up a veritable cloud of dust. Skirk alighted neatly before it, her face exactly as empty and inscrutable as it had been all throughout the bout, and let her weapon flicker away into crystalline sparks. She didn’t pause to catch her breath, didn’t need to, swivelling on her heel and striding over to kneel by the corpse.
Arlecchino watched impassively, not a hint of her admiration for the ruthless efficiency showing in her own expression as she adjusted the cuffs of her sleeves and took a short step forwards. So… How did one seize the attention of a woman as withdrawn and unsociable as the one below, one whose sole interest was power?
Like this.
— ⟡ —
There’s someone watching me, Skirk idly mused, plucking vertebrae from the backbone of a monster’s carcass. Has been for a while.
Somewhere high up and to the right, a figure had been lurking for quite some time now. Usually she’d expect them to merely be a passerby, who had spotted the clash below and so stopped to gawk. It would matter little, if that were the case. Soon, they’d totter off back where they’d come from, frothing at the mouth to jabber to friends or family about what they had seen, and the memory of it all would fade before they even made it home.
However.
The vaguest scent had drifted down to her, despite the valiant efforts of the wind blowing against it. Faint as it was, and absorbed in killing this beast as she’d been, she had very nearly missed it — but it was a noxious and demanding smell, sharp, sulphurous. Like the ravenous flames from a distant memory had sprung right out of her mind to fill her throat with soot, flames that fed on flesh and marrow.
And, amidst the burning, there was the undeniable bite of the Abyss.
So there came the other option: this was somebody who was there entirely deliberately, something which should be nigh impossible in this world where precious few were allowed to know of her. Somebody powerful.
Skirk was always on guard. Yet right now she was making a point of turning her back to that tiny speck on the mountaintop, resting on one knee whilst she stripped her bounty of its shell. Unsteady, exposed, vulnerable. An open invitation.
Bait that her observer gladly took.
She felt it first — a ripple in the air, the shrill of simmering heat careening down towards her nape. Discarded bone tumbled from her grasp. Skirk stuck out a hand and abyssal energy coalesced into a broadsword, her heels digging into the dirt as she twisted to deflect the scythe seeking her head. Then she leapt back, over the dead beast, using it as a bulwark to take a proper look at the attacker.
No such luck. That blazing spear was following immediately, lashing out ahead of its wielder who bounded effortlessly over in pursuit, limned by the glow of a giant, gory wing.
Skirk ducked under another swipe, hopped above the next and kicked off the blade for extra momentum when she glided back. The ground bubbled, crimson and bright like fresh blood, and Skirk rose higher to avoid the spikes that lunged up to run her through and left the air smouldering in their wake.
Her tail glimmered, and then she was soaring, shifting her claymore into two shorter blades as she went. More spikes chased her through the ravine. They jutted out of the cliff face when she ascended, spinning and cutting to slice a clean path through the barbs.
Persistent. A chunk of red shrapnel brushed her arm. Had it been made of flesh, it might have been singed right down to the sinew. Skirk only blinked at the phantom pain. And fairly impressive.
Behind her, something hissed, and she dove out of the way of a searing laser.
It was incessant. Wave after wave came of blasts which would have swiftly worn a lesser warrior down. Skirk took her time defending and dodging, weaving smoothly through each volley and studying them with mild appreciation. There was plentiful effort put in to ensure the attacks didn’t grow predictable, and the sheer amount of power in every technique… Her assailant was far more ferocious than any Teyvat-born beast she’d slain.
In the meantime, in the fragile seconds between each lethal blow, Skirk’s eyes roved unerringly towards the source. At this distance, there was more than ample opportunity to observe them: humanoid, tall, a sleek silhouette made up of monochromes and vermeil. The faintest pang of familiarity.
That harsh smell was everywhere now, the reek of corruption coupled with haunting, ancient power. A terribly bitter blend.
Hadn’t her master once spoken of something like this?
Skirk sailed higher still, watching closely over her shoulder. A wing bloomed from the attacker’s back once more, incandescent, and they leapt skywards to keep Skirk in their sights, propelling themselves up and up by jumping between scarlet threads.
It was tempting, really, to turn and charge up a blade, toss it at her pursuer like a missile. To plunge down and strike back. To fight. They were trying to kill her, after all — each attack would be fatal to most — and facing powerful opponents was a simple but effective method to grow stronger.
But they were on the surface, and Skirk wasn’t wont to wreak unnecessary havoc in this world, not outside of the Abyss. The adjacent cliffs were already scorched by her assailant’s tricks, and yet she felt acutely aware that this could only be a fraction of their brutality. Things would quickly get out of hand if she took this as a real challenge.
Should she leave, then? Avoid the trouble? A huge, clawed hand formed from that infernal energy, right before her eyes, and Skirk drifted pensively out of its grasp. A certain mage would certainly advocate for that route…
… But, for once, Skirk was curious, and a different witch would insist she live a little, follow her whims, socialise. Insipid advice, but in this case she might just entertain it, because something was wrong here.
Whipping around, Skirk shifted her weapon into a long, serrated spear, and flung it hard at the shadow closing in behind her. Her attacker reeled back to avoid its bite, but it spun straight past, tearing savagely through the great red spiderweb they stood on thread by thread — it didn’t snap so much as shatter.
A rift cracked open the air behind her, and she coasted backwards through it. A blink later, her feet thudded softly against the solid ground far below once more.
Skirk glanced up and found her foe plummeting toward her, wing spread wide and blazing at their back, bloodthirsty scythe in hand. Precious seconds before the wicked edge of the blade would have kissed her brow, a barrier crystallised before it, a diamond mesh formed of pure abyssal energy. It shrieked horribly in protest when it was struck.
For just a moment, Skirk gazed up through the shield and the molten sparks and met her assailant’s eyes.
Cutting. Dark. They were the eyes of a reaper, possessed of a deathly resolve that was relentless but not malevolent. Red split the irises twice over, crosshair pupils blazing with a power far more baleful than mere pyro.
Skirk saw focus, and she saw intent, but in spite of all that fire she did not see a lick of hostility.
Skirk huffed. She flicked her wrist and the barrier pulsed, her foe jumping back to dodge the crystalline shards that exploded out from it. The spear she’d thrown from near the clifftop hurtled down into her waiting palm, and she narrowed her eyes as that giant wing reared up as if to swipe.
“That’s enough,” she said brusquely, jarring in the sudden quiet. Her foe stilled. “… I recognise you.”
And she did, just about. This was one of Ajax’s colleagues — those so-called ‘Harbingers’ — who had been present in Fontaine throughout the climax of their prophecy kerfuffle. The elegant appearance certainly suited her territory, Skirk observed, noting the tailored suit and the neat trim of her hair, only somewhat dishevelled.
The Harbinger lowered her weapons, her wing disintegrating and the blade of her scythe turned toward the dirt, grip still firm and stance well-balanced. Now she was adopting a pleasant expression, the smile she donned mild and perfectly civil, as though she hadn’t attempted multiple decapitations over the past few minutes.
“What an honour it is to have your acknowledgement, Miss Skirk,” she greeted, and her voice was deep and rough like the grind of coal, as much as the words flowed honey-smooth, “and what a privilege to make your acquaintance. I am The Knave, Arlecchino, Fourth of the Fatui Harbingers. It’s a pleasure.”
Skirk paid no mind to the pleasantries, nor the pointed use of her name. The situation was becoming increasingly clearer to her now, and as the truth emerged in her mind the need or want to ask questions diminished.
This ‘Knave’ could only have been informed about her by three people. Of them, Skirk was inclined to believe it had been Ajax. It would explain why his colleague was here so fervently vying for her attention. As if sending someone else on the hunt would make her any more willing to meet with him…
Oh, whatever. If it had been anybody else who had managed to find her, she’d likely be leaving by now, and taking her pursuer’s memories of their encounter with her to boot.
Luckily for the Knave — or not, depending on one’s perspective about misfortune — there was something that had actually caught Skirk’s eye. That impressive show of power had served its purpose.
Now, what was it called again…? That corruption, that corrosive flame her assailant had wielded with such skill…
“What do you want?” Skirk asked, no less blunt in spite of her interest.
Arlecchino tilted her head, eyes narrowing minutely, studying Skirk’s impassive face. At least this time she was candid. “To talk.”
The blistering heat of the Knave’s attacks had been so overwhelming that even the frigid air had been warmed. Skirk only realised it now, as the temperature returned to normal; she didn’t feel it on her nearly insensate skin, but noticed her breath fogging from her lips for the first time in a while.
Ahh. She remembered now.
Her master had talked at length about it once: the dreadful magic of a bygone dynasty, one his king had demanded be thoroughly stamped out. The Abyss infects the bloodline, and the host is granted power beyond much of this world’s comprehension. The only price was being consumed from the inside out.
‘Balemoon Bloodfire’. That was it. It was an affliction unique to the Crimson Moon Dynasty, an intriguing source of power, and had deep roots in the land of her master’s birth.
Alright. So be it. Perhaps this conversation would be productive.
Skirk shifted to face her huntsman fully. “Fine,” she drawled, her spear dissolving. “Let’s talk.”
The Harbinger was skilled at keeping her surprise concealed, but there was a distinctly pleased glint in those dark eyes. She sheathed her weapon, clasped her knuckles, dipped her head.
“Wonderful.”