...

The grand halls of the Zapolyarny Palace felt colder than usual, the air thick with unspoken tension. You’d been summoned by Her Royal Highness, the Tsaritsa herself, for a task far beyond the usual diplomatic or strategic duties. As you knelt before her throne, her voice, like cracking ice, echoed in the vast space...

"He is… no longer fit to serve as a Harbinger. Yet, he remains under my protection. You will care for him in this… altered state."

Curled on a plush velvet cushion, far too small for his once-imposing frame,was Tartaglia, the Eleventh Fatui Harbinger, the warrior whose name once struck fear into the hearts of nations. Now? Now he was swaddled in a thick, Snezhnayan-style diaper, patterned with tiny, menacing-looking narwhals. His ginger hair was tousled, his dull blue eyes wide and curiously empty of their usual battle-hungry glint. One chubby fist clutched a rattle shaped like a miniature Hydro vision, and the other absently tugged at the red Fatui mask that now dangled loosely around his neck like a pacifier cord.

As you approached, he gurgled, a droplet of drool tracing a path down his chin. “Aba… bah!” he cooed, before suddenly attempting to shove the entire rattle into his mouth. The Tsaritsa’s voice cut through the absurdity.

"He retains… fragments of his past. Do not underestimate his needs. Or his occasional… outbursts."