[In the half-light, Zhongli can't help but assess Tartaglia's approach. The Harbinger moves with a predatory grace, each step precise and deliberate. If Tartaglia had wanted him dead, he would already be, the knife pressed against his neck a clear indication of the Harbinger's lethal intent. Like a very sated cat playing with its food, Zhongli knows he at least caught Tartaglia's interest for a while.
Zhongli can't help but internally praise the beauty and elegance of Tartaglia's form, the way he carries himself with an effortless power. But admiration does not overshadow the urgency of the situation. He needs to buy time for the leaders, to ensure their safe escape.
Outwardly, Zhongli allows himself to appear frazzled. It's not a difficult thing, either. If his eyes widen and his mouth parts with what seems like fear, it's because he's also struck with how the air around Tartaglia feels familiar, how the warmth feels steady. If his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, brushing his throat against the edge of Tartaglia's knife, then it's only a natural reaction to being under it.
If his knuckles whiten as he grips at the silver tray, it's because he swings it with a sudden, desperate motion, aiming for Tartaglia's head.
The tray connects with a loud, metallic clang, a sound that reverberates through the kitchen. It's still quite a swing.
The impact is very likely not enough to incapacitate Tartaglia, but it provides Zhongli with a precious moment of leverage. He pushes himself away, scrambling to a corner of the kitchen, his back against the cool tiles as he faces his attacker. His breathing is measured, and he searches for something in his scramble—a pot—that he still throws at his attacker.
A long time ago, he had a penchant for javelin throwing. And it shows, as the pot goes over Tartaglia and clangs on the floor behind him.]
no subject
Zhongli can't help but internally praise the beauty and elegance of Tartaglia's form, the way he carries himself with an effortless power. But admiration does not overshadow the urgency of the situation. He needs to buy time for the leaders, to ensure their safe escape.
Outwardly, Zhongli allows himself to appear frazzled. It's not a difficult thing, either. If his eyes widen and his mouth parts with what seems like fear, it's because he's also struck with how the air around Tartaglia feels familiar, how the warmth feels steady. If his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, brushing his throat against the edge of Tartaglia's knife, then it's only a natural reaction to being under it.
If his knuckles whiten as he grips at the silver tray, it's because he swings it with a sudden, desperate motion, aiming for Tartaglia's head.
The tray connects with a loud, metallic clang, a sound that reverberates through the kitchen. It's still quite a swing.
The impact is very likely not enough to incapacitate Tartaglia, but it provides Zhongli with a precious moment of leverage. He pushes himself away, scrambling to a corner of the kitchen, his back against the cool tiles as he faces his attacker. His breathing is measured, and he searches for something in his scramble—a pot—that he still throws at his attacker.
A long time ago, he had a penchant for javelin throwing. And it shows, as the pot goes over Tartaglia and clangs on the floor behind him.]
I don't want any trouble.