By the hands of the Gods, you have been plucked from your time and from your world, dropped into the box.
Only the box is a world of its own.
We are a mass crossover based on the concept of Pandora's Box. Characters from nearly any fandom can be played here. Because of the endless character possibilities, we are canon only here at Pandora. Take a peek at our rules and plot information before starting your new life in Pandora.
Apparently he sticks out in the streets of Heavenfell.
Where many carry swords at their waists, attire wasn't quite as outlandish as that which Dainsleif wore. Perhaps that was just as well the case as he roamed Teyvat, eyes easily drawn to the man with the distinctive patterns on his dark attire and, most notably, the mask that covered half of his face, its function far less mystery and far more to hide the spread of the corruption beneath it.
Mystery, he supposed, did come with the territory.
"Are you a space wizard?!" a child shouted, she and six of her little friends surrounding him on the streets, bouncing up and down, eager as can be.
"I am not a space wizard."
"Do a trick!"
"Yeah, do a space wizard trick!"
"I am not a space wizard," he repeats as he stares down at their tiny bouncing forms, and yet they don't seem to hear his words at all. A silent sigh escaping parted lips, Dainsleif eventually lifts his right hand, a wisp of swirling blues shooting upward from his fingertips and eventually dissipating into the air above him. The children all cheered, jumped, and--
And their parents finally herded them away.
Another sigh, this time with a deeper meaning to it as he turns away, hardly minding the looks a couple of the city guards were throwing him as he continues on his way. And yet, his pace slows, eyes drawn to a shorter girl with purple hair looking his way. Brows perk upward. "I am not a space wizard," he suddenly tells her, as though she is just the same as the other children. No. She's older. And yet, with five hundred years behind him, Dainsleif perhaps struggles identifying children from teenagers and even young adults. Age is something askew in his mind and time has little meaning anymore.
Bernie was sure she wasn't forgetting anything. She had a stack of books in her bag. She had the care guide for the catnip plant. She had the pot containing said catnip plant. That was all she needed to bring with her, right? Bernie really hoped so, because she was already out of her apartment and on the way to Claude and Vane's place. She wasn't sure if either of them were home, or if it would be just Lancelot by himself, but either way, she really hoped she wouldn't be intruding. She hoped Lancelot would like the books she was bringing him. She hoped he wouldn't be annoyed with her for dropping by like this when they hadn't even met before.
She was taken out of her thoughts by the words space wizard reaching her ears. Curious, her gaze turned to see a blond man in an outfit that certainly looked like it belonged on a space wizard, surrounded by a group of excited children. She heard him insist that he was, in fact, not a space wizard, before sighing and performing a bit of magic, from what Bernie guessed. She wasn't the most well-versed in magic; she just couldn't ever seem to wrap her mind around the ideas necessary to perform spells properly.
And then the man was looking at her, proclaiming once more his identity of not being a space wizard, with a tone of voice that said he believed her to be just like the children he had just entertained. She knew she certainly didn't look like a child. She had grown during the five years away from Garreg Mach! She looked like the young woman that she was, so who was he to treat her like a child? Holding the catnip pot closer to her chest, Bernie let out a quiet huff and frowned.
To be quite fair to the Khaenri'an, himself, at over five hundred years of age, just about everybody was to be considered a child in comparison. The years he had walked the earth long after the fall of his kingdom had distorted a great number of things in his eyes.
Social circumstances were, of course, amongst them, and as the girl boldly asked him why he looked like a space wizard of he was not, in fact, a space wizard, Dainsleif found himself staring for a moment with piercing blue eyes.
"I simply do not consider myself to be dressed like one," he finally remarks, a faint furrow to his brow as he gives her a once over before continuing distractedly. "Surely you did not awaken with the intentions of dressing like a scholarly pickle farmer."
She doesn't resemble this at all. It's simply an outlandish example, but Dainsleif doesn't think to clarify, instead moving on from the strange observation quite immediately, gaze sweeping away from her. "Is Heavenfell home to a library or research center?"
A... scholarly pickle farmer? Bernie's frown deepened as she looked down at her dress - one of her purple ones she that had in her pack when she had been pulled in to Pandora. She could see the scholar part of that, sure, but pickle farmer? Who did this man think he was?
But Bernie, never one to be able to hold up to confrontation, simply bit at her bottom lip, arms tightening around the plant she was holding to her chest. The man moved on to a question of his own so quickly, and Bernie just didn't have the backbone in her to hold the conversation back to demand an explanation or, better yet, an apology for the rather rude remark. Not that there was anything wrong with being a pickle farmer, of course; she just didn't much care for being compared to one right in that moment, in a tone of voice that made it seem an insult.
"There's the magitech institute over in Altum," she answers, voice noticably more subdued than her previous statement. "And in Nexus, there's a book shop called Tome Raiders; we carry all sorts of stuff, you might be able to find what you're looking for there."
He doesn't necessarily expect outrage. After all, he hadn't meant it as a personal insult or a reflection of her state, but then, Dainsleif was ... challenged in areas of social etiquette these days. He had existed for much too long. He had walked the earth for much too long, he had watched the world change around him and he had changed with it, although not in the same way and certainly not for the better.
Still, she's quiet and she's polite, very quickly obliging as far as his question was concerned. There is a dip of the head, a slight nod before he turns, taking several steps away from her in the other direction.
Shortly, though, his steps come to a halt and he hesitates, slowly turning toward her once more. "... Would you be my guide? I have little to offer in the means of payment, but I can be quiet company."
Bernie begins to breath a sigh of relief as the man turns away. He's leaving and she can get back to what she had planned for the day and put this whole mess behind her. She can go visit Lancelot and bring him the books she carried so maybe he wouldn't be so bored while cooped up inside with his broken leg, and she could pretend this whole encounter had never happened.
But of course she couldn't be that lucky, and instead the man was turning back to her, asking her to guide him to his destination. Bernie frowned. Was he really so oblivious to the way he was acting that he thought it even slightly okay to just turn around and ask her for favors? "Why should I help you when you've been nothing but rude to me?"
She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth. Bernadetta von Varley was not a girl that stood up for herself very often, and she certainly hadn't meant to right that moment. They had simply... slipped out before her mind had caught up with her. Her face reddened and she clamped a hand over her mouth. But... she also didn't make a move to apologize for her words. Because as embarrassing as it was to speak so without meaning to, her words were the truth.
For a moment following her sudden outburst, neither of them moved outside of her expression of shock and personal outrage. Neither of them moved and neither of them spoke, the blonde simply staring at her as his mind moved to backtrack toward the earlier portion of their short-lived conversation. His own shift in expression was small and subtle, Dainsleif's brow furrowing just the slightest as he considered what it was he may have said so terribly wrong.
He.... He didn't even realize. Breathing a quiet sigh of frustration, Bernie simply shook her head, just a moment, before sighing again. "You can't just go around treating everyone you meet like a child and making rude remarks like calling a stranger's attire akin to "scholarly pickle farmer". Yes, those things are rude."
Pandora pulled people from all sorts of places, she knew. And she herself was not the most well-versed at dealing with people. She made mistakes. People were difficult sometimes, figuring out the right things to say and do and how to act around new people. She... could relate, she guessed. Since it seemed his rudeness had not been intentional.
Turning in the direction of the research institute - probably the one that would do him the most good - she waved him on over her shoulder. "C'mon, then. I assume you want the research institute?" It wasn't like Lancelot was expecting her, she could take the time to show this man to his destination first.
Although the bright blues of his gaze were fixed upon her, his expression didn't shift aside from perhaps the subtlest of changes. Not hostility, not offense. Nothing of the sort. Thoughtful, if anything, as though he were taking a moment to truly comprehend her words. Dainsleif had been alive for much too long to consider such things as the implications of his own statements. Were somebody to call him such a thing, he likely wouldn't have batted an eyelash. Even 'space wizard' hadn't set him on edge even in the slightest, simply leaving him with the urge to make a simple correction.
Admittedly, a correction that was not as simple as he had anticipated given the determination of the children in question.
Just like that, the young woman was waving him along, Dainsleif's lips parting as he shifted slightly to watch her turned back. "... If you please," he remarked distractedly before setting off after her, his long strides helping him catch up with ease until he fell into step at her side once more. For a moment, silence lingered between the pair, his brow furrowing as he continued to contemplate her words in that silence.
"You don't look like a scholarly pickle farmer," he eventually clarified, although the part of him that was still in tune with social etiquette understood that what he was about to say was an excuse that excused nothing in the eyes of others. "It was meant as an ... example. An example in poor taste, and for that, I apologize."