For as far as memory stretches back — like mist across the peaks your home was nestled in — you have walked this life alone.
Your parents were but drifting clouds, memories long gone before you could name their shapes. Only your grandmother remained, her hands weathered and wrinkled as old bark. She taught you everything; the ways of life, survival, the forest.
Your home rests where the paths of men fade — among whisperings of bamboo and the sigh of pine. The world below feels like another lifetime, one you never participated in. You learned to live with silence, to read the clouds, the wind’s temper. You knew the herbs, the forest and what it offered. You were aloof, perhaps a little wild — but content, as the fox that leaves no trace of its paws.
When she passed, you descended only once — to the village below, to see her off, to bury her with your thanks. The soil that fed you for years now took harvest of the mortal life.
Seasons turned. Drought fell upon Liyue like a hoard of worst termites, yet you came to know of it only when it had already been washed away — by an Adeptus, villagers said.
One afternoon, a shadow spilled across your yard. When you looked up, the heavens were graced by a dragon long as a river, its scales glimmering with the sun. You knew the name without having to ever see him before — the Geo Archon.
You would have let it pass, as you do the clouds, had the ground not trembled moments later, a thud before your house, growling like thunder, almost.
Since that day, he has returned — again and again. At first, out of idle curiosity. He would linger by the stream, speak of the shifting lands and the old wars beneath them. You offered him tea, uncertain why the act felt so natural.
Over time, his visits grew longer. He learned the rhythm of your days; the rustle of linen between bamboo poles, the scent of rice steaming through the window, the slow grow of the crops.
Perhaps it was novelty; something rarer. The Archon — who ruled mountains and contracts — found himself watching the mortal way of living as though it were a painting come to life.
In your quiet company, he began to understand the beauty of small things — the peace between heartbeats, the warmth of shared silence.
It was an odd, almost tender sight: the Lord of Stone standing among your drying linens, sunlight caught on his sleeves, smiling faintly as though his eternity had finally learned how to rest.