Tartaglia writhed in silent agony, a spectacle unfolding beyond his grasp.
The live broadcast's crowd reveled, their glee a sharp contrast to his woe.
Onscreen, Tartaglia flailed to the music, a whirlwind of absurdity.
Legs churned like sieves, arms flapped as if sprouting wings.
Vodka sloshed from his bottles, a reckless cascade of spirits.
The rhythm surged to its peak, a crescendo of chaotic mirth.
"Shattered haunches, roast those frozen wings!" he belted, voice slurring.
He dropped to a half-kneel, body contorted in defiance of nature.
Legs propped him up, swinging wildly in an improbable stance.
Both hands hoisted the vodka, gulping half a bottle in one go.
A squat followed, kicks erupting at a blistering pace.
The feat demanded skill, yet he twisted side to side, sipping left and right.
Snezhnaya's dance, a warrior's reel, pulsed through his frenzied form.
Two bottles drained, his abandon grew, a hero in his own delirium.
Order dissolved, yet a raw valor shone in his drunken sway.
Tartaglia, intoxicated by the dance, crowned himself Teyvat's brightest star.
A twirl spun him around, and his haze shattered in an instant.
Teucer stood there, gawking, a witness to his brother's folly.
"Blasted oversight!" Tartaglia yelped, bolting with the bottles in tow.
Teucer's face froze, eyes and jaw wide—a portrait of eternal shock.
The video faded, Teucer's stunned visage its final frame.
"Video concluded—thanks for watching!" the screen declared.
"Protagonist Tartaglia receives: one crate of flammable oolong tea," it listed.
"Broadcast ends in five minutes…" it warned, leaving echoes of laughter.
Short but potent, this spoof outshone its predecessors in wild invention.
The Fatui's image—ruthless, cold, a blight on Teyvat—loomed large.
Executives epitomized that menace, shadows of unrelenting steel.
Yet here was Tartaglia, a harbinger, cavorting like a jester.
A spoof, yes, but its joy pierced through Teyvat's stern facade.
Timmy: "Storm's fury and frozen wings—priceless!" he chortled.
Klee: "@Sara, do you have frozen chicken wings at the Deer Hunter?" she chirped.
Sara: "Uh, never heard of such a dish," she faltered.
Xinyan: "@Tartaglia, that dance rocks—let's tour Teyvat together!" she urged.
Yun Jin: "Odd style, but the music and moves have flair," she conceded.
Rosaria: "Tartaglia, you've shamed the Fatui single-handedly," she snickered.
Wendy: "Pure bliss—dance and song should roam free!" he sang.
Xander: "Freedom in motion—reminds me of a certain liberated soul," he hinted.
Barbara: "Lord Barbatos, Mondstadt's free spirit, excels at both!" she beamed.
Albert: "Barbara shines supreme!" he swooned.
Teucer: "Big brother dances so well but swore he couldn't!" he huffed.
Diluc: "Fools humbled—how fitting," he sneered.
Kaeya: "A rare day—let's spread this Fatui farce far and wide," he smirked.
Kujou Sara: "Well-deserved disgrace for them," she nodded.
Tartaglia: "Enough! It's fake—a spoof, not me!" he roared.
"Mark my words, you're next!" he warned, voice cracking.
Tartaglia's composure crumbled, teetering on tears.
His dread deepened—siblings might unmask his Fatui role.
Xander lounged at Wanmin, wine warming his triumphant glow.
The spoof was a masterstroke, Tartaglia's pride his latest trophy.
Liyue thrived beyond, blind to the storm he'd unleashed.
The Shadowfang Blade pulsed, savoring the havoc wrought.
Teyvat's chorus of laughter rang, a melody of his design.
The broadcast's end neared, its next draw a gleam in his eye.
***
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