[ the discord does not like such disturbance despite the chaos it has gone and wrought on its own, but there is something that seems to keep it strangely lethargic in being able to amount much of a defense against Zhongli. When the stone hands dig in search of what was consumed, it even seems as if the corruption is repelled by the presence as much as being physically forced apart.
The other's efforts are not in vain: when the hands resurface with what they have caught it's what Zhongli hoped for— although Childe's body is limp, liquid tar still covering him in harrowing streaks like soaking rain. The corruption now wails an ear piercing and ugly cry, attempting to latch onto the large hands futilely and weigh them back down to return what they stole. It's no use, though, and that alone only agitates the corruption even more. It "turns" on Zhongli, amassing into a large eye-filled blob before a "Foul Legacy" shadow made entirely of the corruption steps out to confront the intruder.
Zhongli will feel an odd buzzing, a frantic gibberish that he'll make out if he listens— but the direct source is not immediately clear. Nevertheless, it being some personification of the corruption is the only sensible answer. ]
[ a sharp pain will thrust itself into Zhongli's mind like a thrusted knife, pieces of memory friends glitching and crushing together while splintering apart, but he won't need the whole picture laid out to get it: Childe leaving the Northland Bank, the Traveler, Zhongli, and La Signora disappearing with the closing of the door only for that door to be one to a bedroom as the eleventh harbinger clutches his head and sinks to the floor with his back against it. The overwhelming flow of emotions are suffocating and they build and build with no end in sight—until Childe chokes and vomits from the stress, breaking the pressure. But like a child, that physical response makes him panic and become agitated all over, and the aching pain now radiates down to where Zhongli's heart is as Childe curls up on himself and buries his face against his knees as he hugs them close—and it's like an explosion of shrapnel splintering through everything it can.
It isn't personal. I know that. He didn't do it to hurt me.
So why does knowing that only make it worse?
... Was anything personal between us? I thought... We...
I...
(I thought I finally made a friend.)
I was wrong? I was wrong. Why am I always...
...wrong?!
the imagery shifts, Childe now at the entrance to Wangsheng Funeral Parlor about to enter before his hand falls away from the door and he backs away with an self-depreciating smirk as he stares at his hand.
What a bad joke. This hurts, I hate it.
I want it to go away. I don't want to remember any of this. I want to run away and never look back.
— what does it matter if I'm a coward if there's no one that is bothered by whether I'm one or not?
If I'm honest with myself... I really don't want to be alone. But that's all there is for me, isn't it..? I want to go home—
Like being let up for air, Zhongli will be released from the emotional cage and its visions, and the garbled rants from earlier now have a distinct and clear voice to them. ]
gIVE It BAcK. I'll kEEP IT. YOu didn'T WANT it wHEn it wAS ALl youRS—SO WHY dO yoU COMe tAKe WHat you won't eVER wANT?
cw: eldritch horror, brief vomitting
The other's efforts are not in vain: when the hands resurface with what they have caught it's what Zhongli hoped for— although Childe's body is limp, liquid tar still covering him in harrowing streaks like soaking rain. The corruption now wails an ear piercing and ugly cry, attempting to latch onto the large hands futilely and weigh them back down to return what they stole. It's no use, though, and that alone only agitates the corruption even more. It "turns" on Zhongli, amassing into a large eye-filled blob before a "Foul Legacy" shadow made entirely of the corruption steps out to confront the intruder.
Zhongli will feel an odd buzzing, a frantic gibberish that he'll make out if he listens— but the direct source is not immediately clear. Nevertheless, it being some personification of the corruption is the only sensible answer. ]
M̵͉̭̘̙̹̫͔̉̏̉͑̊̋͐ǫ̶̯͎̤̣͉͈͒͋͛̈̍̅͠ɿ̸̅̀̑͛͌̕Ą̸̛̮͔͕̩̥͆̒͌͗͐̕ͅẌ̴͇̳͙̭̬͇͇́̔̏͑́̀̚.̶̛͙̙͉̬̩̦̞̔͆͐͐̒̚.̶̨͓̻̪̦͈̱̂̀̈́͗̓̏̇.̴̧̛̛̻̘͓̳͇͖͗͌̏̆̅ ̴̧͚̫̻͇̻̻̈́͆̎̄̒͌͘w̶̦̞͓͙͈̫͔̍͒̅͆̆̾̆ʜ̵̹̙̟͍͇̹̹̐̆̔̆̍̈́͐γ̶̨͎̘̰̟͇̃͊̏͐̕͝͝ͅ ̵̨̨̞͚̯̤͕͛̀͊̌̈͌̽b̸̺̲̪̱͓̝̝͒́̔̽͌̎͘ǫ̷̼̪̝̜̼̱͂̀̌́̈͆͝ ̷̧͍̩̯͙͎̩̉̄̒̎̎̈́̎γ̵̡̻̼̩̼͙̙͗̀̏̓̓̕͝ơ̶̢̜͎͎̣̠̗͛̍͊̈́́́ὔ̶̠̲̤̝̲̥̠̀̽̆̏̑ ̶̡̛̮̠̘͍̟͕̏̂͌̉̃̌ɔ̵̧̳͍̦̱̱̇̑̆͂͂̑͝ͅǫ̴̢̦͙̹͎̖̈̒̆͛̃͊̚m̶̙͚͈̲͓͚̲͒̿͆͊̈́̂͘ɘ̶̢̛̣͎͓̹̜̳̾͗͛͌̚͘ ̴͕͉̠̯̙̪̪̃̆̌́̑̊́Ɉ̶̢̳̣͕̲̼̟̌̀͑̀̆͂͝o̸̬͈͙͍̩̞͍͊̄̇́̂̍͠ ̷̩̟̜͔̦̥͂̍͊͐̇͘͠ͅɈ̵̨̘̮̘̼̀̀̎͂̐̈́͒ͅͅɒ̶̨̛̠̰̥̫̣̀̍̂̒͗̚ͅʞ̶̝͚̩̮̜̣̞̀̀̇͌̂̈́̔ɘ̴̨̖̲̲̰͖̃̊͐̚̕͜͝͝ ̸̢̢̛̪̰͇̏̽͗̽̃̚͜͜w̸̛͉͕̫̮̟͉̄̽͂̍̽͘ͅʜ̶͈̣̤̜̳̹̟͌̓͐̾͑̀͑ɒ̵͉̲̘̝̘͕̟͂͗͑̌̑̿͒Ɉ̸̠̳͙̮̩̰̞̍̑̒̈́̀̋̀ ̸̧̧̦̙͚̻̰̑͛̽́̉͌͛í̶̧̛̳̞̹̩͍̯́̂͐̚͝ƨ̵̛̭̪̭͚̞̬̎̓͐́̀̑ͅ ̴͇̹̫̬̰͕͍̿̽̎̋̍͘͘n̶̡̤̭̝͇̳͚̈́͋́͑̏̿͝ó̵͕̝̠̟̪̘͎̓̈͂͂̎̂Ɉ̴̦̖̬̺͈̰̉̄́̀̊͛͘ͅ ̶̨̗̞͔͓̬̺̈́̀̀̓̊̾͒γ̷̧̡͍̼̹͎͉̔͒͒̽̃̈́͑o̵̗̼̙̣̗̪͑̏͊̅̑̄̚͜ὑ̸̧͕̦̜̙̭͎̂̋̉̀͑͝ɿ̵̛̟͙̲͔̦̭̹͂̃͛͒͐̃ƨ̴̧̬̜͇̣͈̓̑̓̋̈̀͘ͅ&̴̨͕̺͇͍͍͇͛̓̀̍̿̌̈́m̷̯̣͈̯̲̐̑́̾͗͒͠ͅͅb̷̢̰͎̩̘̦̼́͊̒͒͑̀̚ɒ̴̻̦̭̮͓̤̟̈̾̍̐̔͑͝ƨ̵̫̲͕̦͔͓͓̒̍̈́̊̽̈́̈ʜ̸̻̱͚̪̣̞͖̆̾̋̇̚̕͠;̵̜̙̣͈̠̥̌̌͆̓̚̚͘ͅm̷̡̛̫͖̳̮̬̙͊̃́̀̉͘Ő̶̫͓̥̱̹͚͉̊̉͛̀͒̚Я̵̨̛̘̞̭̺͔̼̎̍́͌͘͠A̴̛̖̥̘͚̪̹̫͊̃̐̊̊͝X̷̬̫̯̭͓͓̑̓̇͂̑̽́͜,̶͕̞͖̗̪̺̹̌̓̅͊̏̽̚ ̸̦͎͉̹͇̪̈́͐̎̍̆͘̚͜γ̶̗͙̲̠̖͍͎̎͛̽̒̏̅͘ǫ̶̩̳̭̈́͋̈́̎̓͆͒ͅͅͅυ̸̦̤̮͉̞̼̠̏̐̇̃̈́̈͘ ̴̡̢͇̫͓̙͎̓̎̾͒̉̂̀H̶̛͚̱͕̲̳̬̫̾̓̊͌̑̚A̷̺͚͎͈̺̖͇͌̎̽̓̔͗̕b̴̧̨̺̱̠͔̗̈́̑̂̽͛͘͠ ̶̧̬͇̤̭̮̩̆̍̅̈́̃̚͠γ̷̡̢̛͔̠̩͈͇͌̾͗͌͒͑o̸̡̯͇̦̠̪̱̿̏͐̾̓̀̚Ū̴͎̪͙̘̠͕͕̃͋̑̎͑̕ɿ̴̧̦͙͎͔̫̬̉͛̃̄̇̈́̀ ̵̧̗̹̙̥̖̦́͛̀̂̊̏͝ɔ̷̡̢̯̭͎͉̙̐̑͑̑͘͝͝ʜ̸̫͚̼̫̯̠̘͛̀́̍̕͝͝ɒ̵̘̝̤̲̟̲̍̓͑̋̽̀͂ͅṇ̷͓͚̱̺̰̠̌̈̾̉̅͑̋ɔ̶̛͓̩̝͙͈̗̦̽̽̅̂͌̆ɘ̴̨̞̲̰̬̭̹͒͗͑͛̓̉͘,̸̧̡̙͍̖̻̝̌͊͑̂̋̎̎ ̸̨̛̫̜̖͚̜̩̈͌̆́̾͠γ̵̹͔̝̲̻͕̰̆̓́̄̿̈́̾o̶̱̖̝̰̰̘͌̈́̓̓́̊͜͠υ̵̺̠͖̣͕̰̠͛̔̑͐̚̕͝ ̴̳͚̼̰̗̟̩̆̀͐͛̃͋̚Ɉ̴̧̡̨͓͖̞̰̂̿̂͒̀̕͠ʜ̶̭̯͚͙̬͈̖͂̂̉̃́̍̄Я̵̧̢̛̱̜̞̰̗͛́́̂̎̚Ǝ̷̠̳̹̗̥̘͓̓̆̇̎͛͗͝W̷̳͓̘̱̬̲̗͗̔̊̆͂̇̆ ̵͓̰̗̥͈̯̦̇̒͆͌͋̄͝T̸̢̮̦̤͍͍̬̑͑͛̉͐͌͌H̷̡̫̥̫̯̘̄̓̍͆͐̀̕͜i̷̧̗͇̦͕͓̺͌͊̃̄̇́͠ƨ̵̧̥͚̣̗̟̦̿̾͋̉͐̈́̽ ̸̨̩͚̟̥͓̳͋͐́́̑̕͝A̸̰̟̮̗̜͚͖͊̾͛̂͂̈́͑W̷̤̟͕͙̤͈͈̄̈̉̌̇̆̿Ā̷̡̢̪̱̘͕̯̔̈́͛̊͋͝Ÿ̸̡̥͔̰̫͍̪́̿̋̈́̍̚͝ ̸̢̧̫̻͕͚͆̂͂͂̾͘͜͝w̶̲̯̺͈̞̣̫̔̉̎̊̋̾͝H̴̡̥̮͚̱͙̥̆͆̄̄̽̕̕Ý̴̨̬͚̪̼̗̤̈́͗͛̄͝͝ ̶̟̰̺̝̜͉̣͋̍̉̀͐̏͝Ɉ̸̛̪̩̹̦̩̩̦͐̆͂̊͂͝ɒ̴̨̱̥͚̲̻͍́̀̓͂̄̕͠ʞ̸̨͕̟̮͚͎̀̍̅̓̓̋͘͜Ǝ̸̨͕̱͔̱͖̙̏̎̋̄̅̕̚Į̵̨̲̘͈̣̒̈́́̃̒̑͘ͅT̷̘̺̱̘̝͉̝͗̊̅͘̚̕͝ ̶̧̣̫̬̺̦̠̄̽̍̽͊̚̚n̶̼̪͇̫͔̖̳̋́̍̔̍̈͛O̴̠̗̦͎͍̤̫̎̎̊͆͆͝͝W̴̖̪̮̲̪̙̝̍͆̂̏̿̆̚ ̶̨̢̳̗̬̗̩̈́̉͆̅̅͝ƨ̴̳̱͓̻͔̙̣̏͒̈̏̅̈͝ɘ̵̢͔͙̘͔̲̱̃̔̈́̈͆̔͑⅃̵̛͚̺̘̬̼̣̀̉̑͗̚͜͝ᆿ̷̭͇̳̞͙̻̥̏̽̌͊̿̾͘i̵̛̬͚̖̹̹̜̩̇̾̅͘͘͘ƨ̸̻͓̲̩̥͍̹̎̇̌͂̋̍͝H̴̛͔̳̯̙̘̜͑̀̅͐́́͜Ƨ̴͉̫̫͕̼̿͂̌͐̓̉̕ͅͅO̷̢̢͔̭̘̩̬̎̏̇̇͗̍̿Ƨ̸̦͔͕͕̙̻̰̉̿͆́̎̀̕Ǝ̸̠̖͓̻̩͓̙̒̽̊̒̄͠͝⅃̵̧͕̪͙̙͖͔̂̌̂̐́̓̔Ә̴̧̧͍̮͇̥̫́͋̓͗̃̽͗U̴̫̞̭̰͙̞̗͆̽̉̈́̈̈́͘Ⴇ̵̨̲͖̲̫̹̫̑̋̀̊̈́̚̚H̴͖͕̳̰͓̮̤͐͐̎̑̎͘͠Ǝ̵̨̞͓̻̟̤͎̏̃̈́͐̎̌͝ᆿ̴̱̺͎̹͖͍͂̑͑̈́̄͒̄͜Ƨ̸̨͍̠͕̮̹̦́̿͋̈́̒̽͐Ǝ̷̭͙̞͇͓͍̘͂͌̂̀̓̌͠⅃̸̖̗̟͎̩͉́̈́͊̊̊͊͝ͅᆿ̵̲̜͚͇̤͎͇̈́̈́̓͐̋̀̔I̶̜̰̪̞̬͚͇͂̒̐̇̎̄͝Ƨ̶̱̮̫̗̰̹̗̔̈͗̈́̔̕͝ʜ̵̫̞̞̮͚̫͉͆̄̆͆̅̔͘
[ a sharp pain will thrust itself into Zhongli's mind like a thrusted knife, pieces of memory friends glitching and crushing together while splintering apart, but he won't need the whole picture laid out to get it: Childe leaving the Northland Bank, the Traveler, Zhongli, and La Signora disappearing with the closing of the door only for that door to be one to a bedroom as the eleventh harbinger clutches his head and sinks to the floor with his back against it. The overwhelming flow of emotions are suffocating and they build and build with no end in sight—until Childe chokes and vomits from the stress, breaking the pressure. But like a child, that physical response makes him panic and become agitated all over, and the aching pain now radiates down to where Zhongli's heart is as Childe curls up on himself and buries his face against his knees as he hugs them close—and it's like an explosion of shrapnel splintering through everything it can.
the imagery shifts, Childe now at the entrance to Wangsheng Funeral Parlor about to enter before his hand falls away from the door and he backs away with an self-depreciating smirk as he stares at his hand.
Like being let up for air, Zhongli will be released from the emotional cage and its visions, and the garbled rants from earlier now have a distinct and clear voice to them. ]
gIVE It BAcK. I'll kEEP IT. YOu didn'T WANT it wHEn it wAS ALl youRS—SO WHY dO yoU COMe tAKe WHat you won't eVER wANT?