[ He nearly confides it, then. His real name. No idea why his father bestowed him with it, when Tartaglia hasn't inherited any of its gravitas yet. Lacking for so much in talent, it isn't how he recognizes himself at all. There's far too much sincerity here, like light striking his eyes after so much overwhelming darkness. Still lying on the ground after Achilles has risen, he still can't let go of this mediocrity inside himself. All he has are these nightmares from the Abyss to confront.
Ajax. Please call me Ajax.
That he seeks out approval so terribly isn't confided to Achilles in the end. Tartaglia distrusts himself completely, so the words don't come. Even so, when bidden, he reaches out with great care to take that hand. His grip is severe and painstaking. If Achilles can see that desperation in him, he hasn't let on. ]
It's Tartaglia! My name, that is. Within the ranks of the Fatui, I serve the Tsaritsa as the eleventh Harbinger and as her devoted blade. Some do know me as Childe, but it's simply an alias I've picked up in my travels. [ The young lord, not yet knighted and still below everyone's notice: Childe is a horrible title, actually, but fitting given his placement as the lowest of his fellow colleagues. Someday, he'll displace it. For now, though, he likes it plenty. Far more fitting than Tartaglia, some title that stutters the tongue. ] Address me however you like.
[ Releasing that hand, Tartaglia's glancing over at Achilles, attempting to recall how his father would describe the Trojan War's destined hero. The thought hasn't entered his mind in a long time. He's long-since traded sentiment for the pursuit of power. ]
When you say Achilles... you mean the warrior, Achilles?
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[ He nearly confides it, then. His real name. No idea why his father bestowed him with it, when Tartaglia hasn't inherited any of its gravitas yet. Lacking for so much in talent, it isn't how he recognizes himself at all. There's far too much sincerity here, like light striking his eyes after so much overwhelming darkness. Still lying on the ground after Achilles has risen, he still can't let go of this mediocrity inside himself. All he has are these nightmares from the Abyss to confront.
Ajax. Please call me Ajax.
That he seeks out approval so terribly isn't confided to Achilles in the end. Tartaglia distrusts himself completely, so the words don't come. Even so, when bidden, he reaches out with great care to take that hand. His grip is severe and painstaking. If Achilles can see that desperation in him, he hasn't let on. ]
It's Tartaglia! My name, that is. Within the ranks of the Fatui, I serve the Tsaritsa as the eleventh Harbinger and as her devoted blade. Some do know me as Childe, but it's simply an alias I've picked up in my travels. [ The young lord, not yet knighted and still below everyone's notice: Childe is a horrible title, actually, but fitting given his placement as the lowest of his fellow colleagues. Someday, he'll displace it. For now, though, he likes it plenty. Far more fitting than Tartaglia, some title that stutters the tongue. ] Address me however you like.
[ Releasing that hand, Tartaglia's glancing over at Achilles, attempting to recall how his father would describe the Trojan War's destined hero. The thought hasn't entered his mind in a long time. He's long-since traded sentiment for the pursuit of power. ]
When you say Achilles... you mean the warrior, Achilles?