[ There is no floor, no walls-- in fact, it seems like Childe's room has been transformed into a place that does not exist here or there, but on the very border of two planes of existence. Slightly disoriented, Zhongli glances down at the back pool of corruption that should spill out into the hallway and drown the entire house yet stays confined to the space in which it was created. Gold eyes blink at it - an emotionless gaze of a soul who was simply looking for the most efficient way to solve a problem rather than someone who had returned on a rescue mission. To touch that much of the corruption was inadvisable, so instead of sludging through the knee-high muck, Zhongli simply takes a step atop of it. And then another and another. The god leaves a trail of amber footprints in his wake as he walks across the liquid and makes his way to the other side - to where Childe is still strung up in the black-red sinewy threads.
When the wave of black tar come for Zhongli, he merely raises his hand and from the muck comes a stone stele, breaking the wave in two like a divine figure parting a sea. With no walls in this space, the ichor splashes back to the pool below save for the small portion of it that clings and drips off the hem of Zhongli's clothes. It burns - this corruption's disdain for him, the burning command to leave and flee and to never return.
But that too is wiped away with an amber tipped hand as Zhongli sheds more and more of his mortal guise - eyes that narrow sharply like a dragon's, limbs of onyx that taper to amber geometric shapes that glow with an unmistakable elemental energy, flecks of scales across his jaw.
Morax approaches Childe as only Tartaglia knows him to be in this world of lost souls. Perhaps the loneliest part of his existence - to be a god without his peers and without his people and without his home. It's a much heavier weight than that of a old-fashioned awkward funeral parlor consultant. Carefully, he reaches out a hand to touch the mask again, this time the back of his fingers brushing against Childe's temple.
The tips of Morax's hair burn amber for just a moment. ]
cw: eldritch horror
When the wave of black tar come for Zhongli, he merely raises his hand and from the muck comes a stone stele, breaking the wave in two like a divine figure parting a sea. With no walls in this space, the ichor splashes back to the pool below save for the small portion of it that clings and drips off the hem of Zhongli's clothes. It burns - this corruption's disdain for him, the burning command to leave and flee and to never return.
But that too is wiped away with an amber tipped hand as Zhongli sheds more and more of his mortal guise - eyes that narrow sharply like a dragon's, limbs of onyx that taper to amber geometric shapes that glow with an unmistakable elemental energy, flecks of scales across his jaw.
Morax approaches Childe as only Tartaglia knows him to be in this world of lost souls. Perhaps the loneliest part of his existence - to be a god without his peers and without his people and without his home. It's a much heavier weight than that of a old-fashioned awkward funeral parlor consultant. Carefully, he reaches out a hand to touch the mask again, this time the back of his fingers brushing against Childe's temple.
The tips of Morax's hair burn amber for just a moment. ]
Tartaglia.
This is not the end of your journey.