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"Seeds of stories, brought by the wind and cultivated by time. Stories brought on the wind will bloom into legends in due time."
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It all started with a single thread.
A thread born from a being of unimaginable power, who existed outside the normal flow of causality.
This being, born during the era 'When the Doves Held Branches' was molded by the Usurper from the Sea of Stars. She along with her sisters and creator battled the original sovereigns of the world and ultimately prevailed, ushering in the age of Humanity.
She was what the inhabitants of this world called Istaroth, the Mother of Time, one of the four Shades of the Heavenly Principles and the Weaver of Fate.
Her job was simple, to write the story of the world. She engraved upon her memory all people, all events, all encounters….and all farewells.
She is the living embodiment of Time's unending march, her power weaving past, present, and future into a single, grand tapestry.
From this infinite, ever-moving tapestry of existence, came the threads of life, the winds that connect all things. Most were formless, elemental currents, but some, through chance or design, coalesced into consciousness. From these threads, a thousand wisp-like wind spirits were born, to glide through the world she wrote. The Thousand Winds.
From the Thousand Winds, a single, tiny thread began to glow with an unusual curiosity.
Unlike its brethren, who were content to ride the currents of destiny, this particular spirit wanted to explore. It wanted to touch the leaves on the trees, to chase the clouds across the sky, to see the faces of the mortals scurrying on the ground below.
The Little Wind Spirit became 'Free', an absolute concept to him, yet he didn't truly understand its meaning. Was it merely to act on one's whim? Or was it something deeper, a responsibility woven into the very act of existence?
The little spirit's journey brought it to a place where the wind howled with perpetual fury, a land encased in ice and snow, presided over by a tyrant of towers and storms. There, in the shadowed edge of the tyrant's realm, the Little Wind Spirit had an encounter that would change the course of history. It came face to face with a fragment of its own creator, a manifestation of Istaroth's will.
It told her of its wish, its desire to understand the meaning of freedom.
The Mother of Time, whose gaze encompassed all of eternity, regarded this tiny, insignificant spark of her own power. To her, the life and death of a single wind spirit was comparable to a single grain of sand on a vast shore. Yet, in its earnest plea, she saw something. Aunique potential. A thread that, if left to its own devices, might weave an interesting pattern in her tapestry.
With a detached, indifferent grace, Istaroth granted the little Wind Spirit a small fragment of her power and a sliver of her authority.
"Go," she whispered, her voice the rustle of a billion pages turning at once.
"Go forth and see what the winds will show you. Find your own answer."
The Little Wind Spirit, abiding to the words of his creator then set forth in his journey, its spirit soaring. It experimented with its new power.
In one random encounter, the little spirit took advantage of a lax guard's negligence, making a pile of apples ferment under a blanket of autumn leaves. The guard later found them, and upon tasting the strange, bubbly fruit, he began extracting its juice and thus discovered the joy of wine!
This little prank gave the spirit a taste of its ability to influence the world, to spark joy and chaos in equal measure.
But its greatest adventure came about 2600 years ago, when the little spirit came upon a small group of stragglers in the snow covered fields of Decarbian's realm. A clan, huddled together, their faith for a better life was their only shield against the biting cold. They had fled from Decarabian's despotic rule yet came to wander among the desolate frost lands of the tyrant, their hope dwindling with each passing day.
The daughter of their chief, a young woman named Gunnhildr, led them in desperate prayers of survival, praying to any god, anyone to save them. The Little Wind Spirit, drawn by their unwavering faith, felt something new stir within it. It drew power from their collective belief and, for the first time, shaped the very wind itself with a purpose. It created a small, sheltered valley, a haven against the blizzards, a sanctuary where the clan could survive. In that act of protection, it felt a flicker of what it meant to be free for others. The clan would then begin to worship the nameless spirit, and through its interaction with them, would push the Little Wind Spirit into an unexpected friendship with a young boy living under a tyrant's oppressive gaze.
It was during this time that the Little Wind Spirit would befriended a Nameless Bard. They shared stories and songs, their spirits intertwined in a joyful rebellion against the oppression of the Lord of Towers.
The bard's lyre, the spirit's wind, their shared laughter - it was the truest friendship the spirit had ever known.
The Nameless Bard wished to see the world outside the wind-domed city of Decarbian, to feel the true freedom the wind spirit was only beginning to understand. Yet, the bard cannot for he and the rest of the people were trapped within Decarabian's capital.
Then, after a spark ignited by years of oppression, the Bard decided to raise a rebellion. He, along with a Red-Haired Warrior, the Tyrant's ex-lover, Amos, Gunnhildr and her clan, and the Little Wind Spirit, stood against the tyrannical storm god. The spirit, no longer so powerless, hurled gales and squalls, protecting its friends and tearing at the tower's foundations. After a fierce, heartbreaking struggle, Decarabian, the Lord of the Storms and Towers was vanquished. But victory came at a terrible cost. Amos and the bard were fatally wounded.
The Little Wind Spirit hovered over the bard's broken body, the wind around it stilling into a dead, silent calm. For the first time, it felt grief. A profound, soul-crushing sorrow that was the antithesis of freedom.
This was the yoke of love, the price of connection. The Nameless Bard, with his last breath, smiled and whispered a melody, a song of freedom that the wind carried across the newly broken lands. The little spirit, now filled with a purpose forged in grief and love, took on the bard's form, honoring the friend who had taught it the true meaning of its own existence.
With Decarabian's rival, Boreas, relinquishing his life to avoid the divine seat, the newly empowered wind spirit ascended to godhood. The faith of the newly freed people and the fragment of power from Istaroth cemented its divine nature. It took the name Venti as well as the divine title bestowed by Celestia, Barbatos, the Anemo Archon. But it was the memory of the bard that it carried in its now-divine heart.
As Archon, Barbatos then used his power to heal the land ravaged by war. It plucked the bard's lyre and summoned winds to scour the ice and snow, to split mountains, and to guide warm monsoons, nourshing and healing the war-strickened land.
Through his actions, Mondstadt was transformed from a blizzard-ridden wasteland into a paradise. He guided his newly formed people to Cider Lake and oversaw the building of the new city, a new nation, Mondstadt.
He saw them celebrate with festivals like Ludi Harpastum and the Windblume, a way for the people to commemorate the achievements of the god. Their joy a balm to his grieving heart.
Yet, even amidst the celebration, the weight of divinity settled upon him.
He was a god of freedom, but he was not free. He was a symbol, an icon, a king in all but name. The very people he loved looked to him for guidance, for answers, for miracles, things that deep down were not of his nature, yet he continued to comply for he was their Archon.
He saw their lives unfold and end in the blink of an eye - Gunnhildr, the Red-Haired Warrior, and so many others whom he had shared a bond with, one by one fell to the march of time. Each loss was another crack in his spirit, another link in the chain of his immortality and divinity.
***
When the Archon war came to a close, and the last divine throne was claimed, Barbatos decided to go on a journey to the other nations of the world. In the process, he disregarded his duties to his newly formed realm, duties that would somewhat remind him of his loss and the friends who were now gone.
He first went to Mondstadt's nearest neighbor, Liyue, there he shared a bottle of wine with the stern, unyielding Rex Lapis.
Barbatos also attempted various pranks towards his fellow archon, including pouring wine all over the Geo Archon and trying to forge his inimitable seal. Even some of the adepti we're not safe from his playful pranks.
Eventually, all seven Archons, winners of the long war and some of their close allies began attending gatherings in Liyue on the behest of Rex Lapis. Those gatherings forged new bonds and friendship not only for Venti, but for everyone who were present. Under the influence of osmanthus wine, they began sharing stories of adventure and grief towards one another. Friendships blossomed yet the march of time was once again unforgiving and over time these friends would drift away from one another, going through their own separate ways, another blow to the ever increasing list of heartbreaks in the Lord of Anemo's heart.
***
According to his own tale, following the Archon War, Barbatos set about trying to heal the world's wounds by using the power of music to facilitate communication. In his story, he tried singing to "the sky, the stones, the sea and the stars," eventually getting "replies" in the forms of Dvalin and Rex Lapis.
Dvalin, a newborn Anemo Dragon, grew curious upon hearing Barbatos' music during a certain performance and went to investigate, leaving his birthplace in the clouds.
Despite the history of enmity between dragons and gods, Barbatos accepted Dvalin, teaching his people not to fear the young dragon and teaching Dvalin how to communicate in human language and sing. From it, Barbatos would once again forge a strong friendship, this time with the newly born dragon, a friendship that would soon be tested by the burden carried by Barbatos himself.
Overtime, seeing that his nation was stable, Barbatos began to believe that the independent people of Mondstadt should be ruled by the will of its people, and not by a god imposing his will on them.
A noble aspiration, yet deep down it was somehow rooted on the profound weight of loss and grief had started to erode Barbatos from the inside, a free spirit burdened by numerous losses and sorrows.
He thus disappeared from public view, leaving behind a legacy of freedom, a freedom that he wanted to experience for himself, yet cannot due to the shackles of godhood.
Because of these things and some other unknown reasons, the Anemo Archon Barbatos decided to submit himself into long deep slumbers that would span for centuries, trying in vain to sleep away the pain and grief in his heart, the grief that he shoulders alone.
In his slumber, he would often be absent in the lives of his people for hundreds of years. But even more so, he would be absent in the lives of his friends such as Dvalin, who would slowly felt a crushing sense of loneliness deep in his heart.
***
Barbatos, though asleep, is still connected to the Leylines of Mondstadt and was thus aware of any threat that would befall his nation.
He would often wake up from his slumber during times of crisis. The first was during the climax of the Aristocracy's Rule in Mondstadt, were he helped the slave Vennessa in overthrowing the nobles and established the Knights of Favonius.
The second was during the Cataclysm, were he woke up in order to defend Mondstadt from the black dragon Durin, a perverted creation of alchemy who appeared in Mondstadt, unwittingly releasing toxic fumes which caused deadly black rain to fall from the skies.
Barbatos awoke from his slumber to answer his people's cries for help, summoning Dvalin to his side to help battle against the dark dragon.
Barbatos designated the abandoned mountain of Dragonspine as Durin's burial site, intent on harnessing the region's inherent power to contain the toxic substances emanating from the dragon's corrupted form and safeguard Mondstadt from contamination.
Dvalin, empowered by Barbatos' music, took his battle against Durin to the skies over Dragonspine, eventually getting the upper hand and delivering a fatal bite to the other dragon's neck. To recover from his injuries, Dvalin retreated to a deep sleep within Decarabian's old tower, unaware that the corrupted blood he ingested from Durin would cause him immense torment and would amplify his loneliness.
Later, Barbatos, along with the rest of the seven (with the exception of the Dendro Archon) was summoned to Khaenri'ah in a clash between Celestia and the mortal nation now overrun by the Abyss.
During this final phase of the Cataclysm, he would bare witness to countless horrors and though at the end, he and the forces of Celestia prevailed, the sheer amount of destruction and loss of life, especially to his own people in Mondstadt coupled by the deaths of at least three fellow Archons were too much for him to bare, thus, after performing one last task which involved blowing Mare Jivari off Teyvat to prevent the Abyss' contamination from further spreading into the lands of the seven, Barbatos, now deeply traumatized and further saddened by the countless loss and tragedies in his life, once again fell into deep slumber.
All he ever WANTED was to be FREE, ever since he began to think for himself while he was still a nameless Wind spirit
He wanted to be free
He wanted to be free...
Yet, here he was...a god...shackled by expectations...by responsibilities...by grief...
He was the god of freedom, yet at the same time..
He wasn't free at all...
____________________
"Still, the winds change direction.
Someday, they will blow towards a brighter future...
Take my blessings and live leisurely from this day onward."
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In the heart of the Whispering Woods, where the trees grew so close together that they blotted out the sky, and the wind spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones, a figure is seen layinh in a state of suspended animation.
He was nestled in the roots of an ancient, gnarled oak, his body covered in a thick blanket of moss and fallen leaves, a part of the forest itself.
For an untold number of years, centuries in fact, he had slept. A deep, dreamless slumber, a retreat from the burdens of past, his loss, his grief, his divinity. A vacation from the endless cycle of prayers and politics that came with being a god. He was Barbatos, the Anemo Archon.
But here, in the heart of his wild land, he was just Venti. A simple bard, a free spirit, enjoying a well-deserved rest, trying to hide from his burdened life.
But now, something was stirring him from his sleep.
It was not a loud noise, nor the intuition of an impending threat. It was a feeling. A shift in the very air of his nation.
It was a song, a melody he had not heard in centuries. Asong of order, of purpose, of structured freedom. It was the song of a kingdom thriving, a people happy, a nation at peace with itself, something that he couldn't remembered ever happening to his nation.
He stirred, his eyes fluttering open.
He blinked, his vision blurry, his mind a whirlwind of half-remembered dreams and information all coming from the Leylines.
He sat up, the moss and leaves falling from his clothes, his lyre, a simple, wooden instrument, clutched in his hand.
He stood up, his body stiff from his long sleep, and stretched, a long, leisurely stretch that made his bones crack.
He looked around, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim, green light of the forest. He was in the same place he had gone to sleep five hundred years ago, a secluded grove he had discovered during the time of Vennessa. But the world outside, he could sense it... the world outside had changed.
He could feel it in the wind.
The wind, which had been his domain, his confidant, his very essence, was different. It was still free, still playful, but it carried with it a new undercurrent of order, of purpose.
It was the wind of a well-run city, a prosperous nation, not the wind of a chaotic, backwater town he had left behind.
He had to see it for himself. He had to see what had happened to his city, his people.
With a graceful flicker of his hands, he summoned forth unto himself a set of clothes that we're near and dear to him. The clothes that he had worn in memory of the first friend he ever made.
He then slung his lyre over his shoulder and took a deep breath, savoring the scent of damp earth and wildflowers. Then, he started to walk. He didn't flew nor used any of his divine powers - whose nature reminded him of the shackles of his throne, he simply walked, savoring the freedom that comes along with this simple act.
He walked for what felt like hours, his footsteps silent on the soft, mossy ground.
The forest seemed to part before him, a silent, respectful escort. He was the Anemo Archon, after all, and even in his self-imposed exile, the land itself recognized his presence.
After an hour or so, he finally reached the edge of the forest, the familiar, comforting scent of the city of Mondstadt filling his nostrils. But when he stepped out of the trees and onto the dirt path that led to the city, he stopped, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and wonder.
The path was no longer a dirt path.
It was now a wide, well-maintained road made of smooth, grey cobblestones, a drainage channel carved into its side to carry away rainwater!
The path he remembered, a muddy, rutted track that was a nightmare to traverse after a heavy rain, was now gone. In its place was a highway, a thoroughfare fit for a king!
He looked up, his eyes scanning the landscape.
The fields that had once been a patchwork of small, struggling farms were now vast, orderly estates, their fences neat, their buildings well-maintained.
He could see smoke rising from chimneys, a sign of life, of prosperity. He could hear the distant sound of hammers, the lowing of cattle, the laughter of children.
This was not the sleepy, pastoral country he had left behind. This was a thriving, bustling nation!
He continued his journey, his lyre carefully clutched in his hand, his mind a whirlwind of questions.He saw more houses, more farms, more signs of life.
He saw a group of Knights of Favonius on patrol, their armor polished, their movements synchronized, their posture a model of discipline. They were different, far different from the military group he remembered, a force that had been slowly declining for years, and was ultimately brought near extinction by the wrath of the Cataclysm.
What he saw was a professional army, a well-oiled machine.
He continued his trek, his heart trembling from the scenes that he saw, when he finally reached the city walls, and he had to stop again, his breath catching in his throat!
The walls, which had once been crumbling, a testament to centuries of neglect, were now whole, towering, imposing!
They had been rebuilt, strengthened, reinforced. A sizable contingent of knights stood guard at the gates, their movements a clockwork symphony of efficiency.
The once-humble gate that he remembered had been widened, its heavy wooden doors reinforced with iron, a grand, welcoming portal befitting a prosperous city.
With fear and excitement coursing through his veins, he walked through the gates for the first time in five hundred years, his heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. He was a stranger in his own city, a god in disguise, a ghost from a forgotten past. He had to be careful. He had to observe, to listen, to learn.
He entered the city, and the sheer scale of the transformation hit him like a physical blow!
Gone was the simple, homey atmosphere, the quiet, almost sleepy charm that he had so fondly remembered.
In its place was a sea of people, a kaleidoscope of activity that was almost overwhelming.
Merchants in vibrant silks from Liyue haggled with stern-faced traders from Snezhnaya.
The air was thick with the scent of baking bread, roasting meat, and a dozen different spices.
The clang of a blacksmith's hammer mingled with the cheerful chatter of the crowd and the distant strains of a street musician's song.
Yet, for all the noise, there was an underlying order. The crowd moved in a uniform, almost choreographed manner. Knights in their distinctive teal and white armor acted as traffic enforcers, their presence a calming, reassuring force.
He saw a citizen approach a knight, his face a mask of frustration, pointing towards a lost cart. The knight listened patiently, then offered clear, concise directions, his posture respectful, his demeanor helpful, yet it hides a barely contained sense of authority and honor.
This was not the force of enforcers of old; this was the true spirit of the Knights of Favonius, the guardians of the people, reborn.
Venti's gaze was drawn to the side of the city that led to Cider Lake. The humble, little-used pier he remembered was gone. In its place was a bustling, sprawling harbor.
Large, sea-worthy ships, their sails furled, were moored at long wooden piers, their hulls heavy with cargo from distant lands. He could see ships from Liyue, Inazuma, Sumeru, Fontaine and even from Nod-Krai as well as Snezhnaya, all docked in a uniformed order!
Dockworkers swarmed over the ships, their movements efficient, their voices a cheerful cacophony of shouts and commands. In their shoulders they carry the fuel that gives life to this nation's growing economy. The trade in Mondstadt was booming, a clear sign of a nation's prosperity.
He moved with the crowd, a small, unassuming figure in his green and white bard's attire, his lyre clutched in his hand. He was a master of going unnoticed, of being the quiet observer in the corner of the tavern, the silent listener in the square. And as he listened, he began to hear a name, a name that was sung in taverns, a name that was whispered in alleyways, a name that was on everyone's lips.
'Artoria Pendragon Gunnhildr.'
He heard it first from a group of merchants, who were discussing a new trade policy that had streamlined the flow of goods from Liyue.
"A stroke of genius by the Grand Master," one said, his voice filled with admiration.
"She cut through the old red tape like it was cobwebs!"
He heard it again from a young couple, who were looking at a new townhouse, its windows gleaming, its flowerboxes filled with bright, cheerful blooms.
"The quality of life has improved so much since she took over," the young woman said, her hand resting on her husband's arm.
"I feel safe, secure. I feel... free."
He heard it one more time from a pair of off-duty Knights, who were sharing a drink at an outdoor cafe.
"I joined the Order under Randolf," one of them said, his voice low, embarrassed.
"It was a joke. We were glorified bodyguards. But now... now I'm proud to wear this uniform. She's given us back our honor. She's reminded us what it means to be a knight."
The name was everywhere.
It was in the air, on the wind, a song of praise, a story of success.
He heard about her reforms, her vision, her unwavering dedication to her city and her people.
He heard about the trial by combat where she had defeated the corrupt Grandmaster Randolf with a simple training sword, a feat that had already passed into legend.
He heard about the restructuring of the Knights, the creation of the specialized Companies, the re-establishment of the patrols. He heard about the economic boom, the new roads, the bustling port, the thriving agriculture.
He listened, and he felt a strange, unfamiliar emotion stirring deep in his heavy heart. It was not jealousy, not anger, not resentment. It was... something else. It was a feeling of... wonder. Of awe. Of... pride.
This was his city. His nation. His dream. And it was thriving, not under his guidance, but under the guidance of another.
A mortal. A woman. A possible descendant of his dear friend, Gunnhildr herself. A Grandmaster named Artoria Pendragon Gunnhildr.
He had left his people to their own devices, trusting in the power of freedom to guide them, to shape them, to help them find their own way. He had believed that the best thing he could do for them was to be absent, for his heart was already full of grief and sorrow that might affect them. To allow them to govern themselves, to make their own mistakes, to forge their own destiny.
But he had been wrong.
For the first time since his ascension, Freedom, he now realized, was not a destination. It was a journey. And on that journey, a shepherd was sometimes needed. A guide. A leader.
This Artoria... she had become that shepherd. She had become that guide. She had become that leader.
She had taken his dream, his vision of a free and happy nation, born from his grief and loss, and she had made it a reality.
She had done what he, in his sorrow, in his grief, in his laziness, in his complacency, in his fear of responsibility, had been unable, or unwilling, to do.
He had to find her.
He had to meet her.
He had to understand!
He asked a friendly-looking street vendor where he might find the Grandmaster. The vendor, a round, jolly man with a flour-dusted apron, pointed him towards the massive, fortified headquarters of the Knights of Favonius.
"She's usually there this time of day, good bard. Though a word of warning," he added with a conspiratorial wink.
"Don't get on her bad side. The Lioness has claws, even if she only shows them to those who deserve it."
Venti thanked him, a small, thoughtful smile on his face.
The Lioness.
He liked that. It was a name that commanded respect, a name that spoke of strength, of courage, of a fierce, protective love.
It was a name worthy of a ruler.
He made his way towards the headquarters, his steps light, his heart a strange mix of excitement and apprehension.
He was about to come face to face with the woman who had taken his place, the woman who had usurped his role, the woman who had succeeded where he had failed.
He had no idea what he would say, what he would do. He only knew that he had to see her, to understand the truth of this new Mondstadt she had built.
He reached the grand plaza in front of the headquarters, a space that had been transformed from a muddy, uneven square into a wide, open area of pristine stonework, its centerpiece a magnificent fountain carved in the likeness of a great, roaring lion.
Platoons of Knights patrolled with a disciplined grace, their presence a comforting, reassuring sight. The air was filled with the cheerful chatter of citizens going about their business, the scent of fresh flowers from the nearby market stalls, and the distant, melodious peal of the Cathedral's bells.
He took a deep breath, savoring the vibrant, harmonious atmosphere.
This was not a city living in fear.
This was not a city groaning under the weight of a tyrant's rule.
This was a city celebrating its own prosperity, its own freedom. This was the Mondstadt he had always dreamed of!
He walked towards the main entrance of the headquarters, his mind racing, his heart pounding.
He was just about to climb the grand, stone steps when a firm, but not unkind, hand was placed on his shoulder. He turned to see a stern-faced knight, his armor polished to a mirror shine, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
"Halt, bard," the knight said, his voice a low, steady rumble. "This is a restricted area. Only authorized personnel are permitted beyond this point."
"I... I was hoping to see the Grandmaster," Venti said, his voice a soft, hesitant whisper.
"I have traveled a long way, and I have a song I wish to sing for her. A song of thanks, for the prosperity she has brought to this city."
The knight's stern expression softened slightly. He was a veteran, a man who had served under the corrupt rule of Randolf, a man who had seen the city fall into decay. He had also seen it rise from the ashes, a phoenix reborn under the guidance of the Grandmaster, a woman he respected, admired, and yes, religiouslyworshipped in the quiet corners of his heart.
"A song for the Grandmaster," the knight mused, a flicker of interest in his eyes.
"She is a busy woman, bard. Her time is precious. But... she has a fondness for music especially for those who bring a genuine, heartfelt tribute."
He then took a closer look at Venti, his eyes narrowing, his gaze sharp, his inquisitive mind trying to piece together the puzzle.
He saw the green and white bard's attire, the simple, wooden lyre, the youthful, almost female face. He saw a resemblance to the old statues of the Archon, a faint echo of the carefree, free-spirited god he had once known.
But he dismissed it.
A coincidence, nothing more. The Grandmaster was the goddess, the living, breathing embodiment of the Anemo Archon. This was just a bard, a traveler, a wanderer. A coincidence, a trick of the light!
"Tell you what," the knight said, a slow, thoughtful smile spreading across his face.
"The Grandmaster is currently in a meeting with the Captains of the Second and Fourth Companies. But I can take a message in your behalf. If your song is worthy, if it can truly capture the spirit of the new Mondstadt, she will surely grant you an audience."
He then leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But be warned, bard. She has a keen ear for music. A discerning palate. She has heard the finest bards from Sumeru, the most talented musicians from Fontaine. She has even been known to sing herself, a voice that can soothe the raging storms and calm the troubled hearts. Your song will have to be something truly special to impress her."
Venti's heart leaped into his throat.
She sings? A voice that can soothe the raging storms?!
The words echoed in his mind, a strange, unfamiliar melody. He had to meet her. He had to hear her voice!
"I understand," he said, his voice a soft, determined whisper.
"My song is my life's work. It is a song of freedom, of hope, of a dream realized. It is a song for the honorable Grandmaster, and for the people of Mondstadt."
The knight nodded, a gesture of respect, of admiration. "Then I will pass on your message. Return to this spot tomorrow at noon. If the Grandmaster is intrigued, you will be granted an audience."
He then gave a crisp, formal bow, a gesture of respect for a fellow artist, a fellow admirer of the woman who had changed their world.
"I amCaptain Hemlock, of the First Company. It is an honor to meet a true artist."
Venti returned the bow, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts, of emotions, of a strange, unfamiliar sense of anticipation. "The honor is mine, Captain Hemlock."
He then turned and walked away, his steps light, his heart a strange, wild rhythm.
He had a plan. He had a purpose. He had a song to write. A song that would capture the essence of the new Mondstadt, the spirit of the woman who had become its heart, its soul!
He spent the rest of the day wandering the city, his lyre in his hand, his mind a whirlwind of inspirations!
He listened to the cheerful chatter of the merchants, the laughter of the children, the distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer. He watched the disciplined, graceful movements of the Knights, the bustling activity of the port, the vibrant, colorful tapestry of a city at peace with itself, a city celebrating its own prosperity, its own freedom.
He found a quiet spot in a small, secluded park, a place of beauty and tranquility, Doug's Square, just a few blocks away from the Knights of Favonius Headquarters.
He then began to play. His fingers danced over the strings of his lyre, the melody a soft, gentle whisper, a story in sound. He poured his heart, his soul, his very essence into the music, a tribute to the city he loved, the mysterious woman he was about to meet.
He played for hours, acquiring a small crowd of on lookers. He played until he noticed that the sun had began to set, casting a warm, golden glow over the city.
Venti stopped playing, his fingers aching, his heart a strange, wild rhythm. He looked at the city, his eyes filled with a mixture of awe, and a profound, overwhelming love.
This was his city. His nation. His dream.
And for all the burdens and sorrows that he had carried throughout his life, this city, the final promise that he made to his long dead friend who first showed him true friendship, had become even more beautiful than he had ever imagined.
A tear flowed from his eye.
He had a plan. He had a purpose. He had a song. And he had a feeling, a deep, intuitive sense, that the woman he was about to meet would understand him more so than anyone had ever done.
(End of Chapter)
____________________
"An ancient tale from a far away land comes whisked in the wind... In time, it will grow and sprout once again…"
____________________
The Gunnhildr Clan
- One of the three most influential clans of Mondstadt, and one of its four founding clans, alongside the Ragnvindr Clan, the Lawrence Clan and the Imunlaukr Clan.
- Their lineage trace as far back as the era of Decarbian's reign, during the era known as the 'Age of Kings' where the Lord of Storms Decarbianwould do battle with his sworn enemy, the Tyrant of the North, Boreas.
- The clan's namesake came from a legendary figure, a female warrior named Gunnhildr.
Gunnhildr was a daughter of the chieftain of a clan who escaped Decarbian's city in search of freedom, yet at that time, most of what would later be called Mondstadt was a desolate snow covered wasteland. Desperate to find some respite, she prayed earnestly, and those prayers were heard by a formless wind spirit. Her faith, as well as her people's cries for help, empowered the spirit and gave it the ability to create a small shelter for them. As the clan's faith grew, it empowered the spirit further, eventually giving Gunnhildr the power to protect.
- Gunnhildr would then participate in the rebellion that would topple Decarbian leading to the ascension of the Anemo Archon Barbatos and the creation of Mondstadt.
- The Gunnhildr clan remained a prominent clan throughout the period of the Aristocracy, but they stayed true to their oath to protect Mondstadt and did what they could to help the people. During Vennessa's rebellion the Gunnhildr clan sided with the people and were spared from exile unlike the rest of the Aristocracy.
- Currently, Artoria Pendragon 'Gunnhildr' serves as the Head and Matriarch of the Clan. The main branch is now composed of her and her three children, with Jean Gunnhildr, her eldest being her designated heir.
- The clan is known for their annual get-together celebration known as The Gunnhildrs' Return, a week-wide celebration instituted by Artoria herself, were all members of the clan, from the most distant relations and to those living from afar, come together in a reunion to celebrate the legacy of the ancient house.
- The solemn words of the Gunnhildr Clan are: 'For Mondstadt, as always'.
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