[ Tartaglia turns immediately at the sound, stance taut in preparation for an attack on any side. But when none comes, he takes a step back and seems to disappear into the surrounding shadows, the subtle crunch of ice the only sign that he has not yet left the room.
As he stalks around the edge of shelves and counters, Tartaglia does the mental math to see if this distraction is even worth it. Of course, if it was a possible ambush, he should get rid of the threat immediately and mercilessly. But if this was a planned attack, it was a poorly executed one indeed. And the lack of that tangible thrill in the air or tension (that sixth sense that has both kept him alive and drawn him to the most masterful of battles) means that whoever was hiding was probably no combatant.
But the Vanguard still is so curious.
It's silent for a handful of seconds — until the crunch of ice is right next to Zhongli, behind as much as the sitting man's position is allowed. One kitchen knife is missing from the block, Tartaglia having swiped it nearly effortlessly in his vault over the counter. That same knife finds the flat of it pressed to the side of Zhongli's neck, slipped past the serving tray but presses no father (there was no glory to be found in slaughtering the kitchen staff after all).
Close as they are, Zhongli will see Tartaglia's eyes (a deep shade of almost violet in the dark) narrow as he tries to get a closer look at him, a playful grin that had no right to be there twisting his lips. ]
no subject
As he stalks around the edge of shelves and counters, Tartaglia does the mental math to see if this distraction is even worth it. Of course, if it was a possible ambush, he should get rid of the threat immediately and mercilessly. But if this was a planned attack, it was a poorly executed one indeed. And the lack of that tangible thrill in the air or tension (that sixth sense that has both kept him alive and drawn him to the most masterful of battles) means that whoever was hiding was probably no combatant.
But the Vanguard still is so curious.
It's silent for a handful of seconds — until the crunch of ice is right next to Zhongli, behind as much as the sitting man's position is allowed. One kitchen knife is missing from the block, Tartaglia having swiped it nearly effortlessly in his vault over the counter. That same knife finds the flat of it pressed to the side of Zhongli's neck, slipped past the serving tray but presses no father (there was no glory to be found in slaughtering the kitchen staff after all).
Close as they are, Zhongli will see Tartaglia's eyes (a deep shade of almost violet in the dark) narrow as he tries to get a closer look at him, a playful grin that had no right to be there twisting his lips. ]
Boo.