English
Viper's Ballad
Increases Energy Recharge by 20%. When the equipping character hits the opponent with their Elemental Skill or Elemental Burst, they gain a stack of "Hymn of the Pure." This effect can trigger once every 0.03s, max 3 stacks, and at 3 stacks, all instances of "Hymn of the Pure" are cleared to give the equipping character "Thus Lied the Viper" instead. This grants nearby party members a 24% Stellar Glimmer reaction DMG boost for 12s, during which no stacks of "Hymn of the Pure" can be obtained. The aforementioned effects can still trigger even when the equipping character is not on the field.
Users — Bow
Lore
In the years before the holy torch of the Pale Star was lit, the Silver Court of Veneter had been a haven of renown equal to Kitezhgrad. Fae from various clans praised the Lady of the Vila merciful ways, hailing her a saint who had banished the bitter cold and soothed their pain. Indeed, though war raged and blood stained the frozen rivers, Vaselisa von Strivozha was never the enemy of any. Pure, benevolent, and true. So countless songs of later ages would praise her, as gentle and warm as the soft breeze of spring. And so it was that, on a bitter night cold as frost and snow, a noble with nowhere left to turn came knocking at the splendid gates of Veneter. He was a war hero who had served the Blood-Devourer, a renowned commander who had routed the armies of the Pale Star in battle time and again. Yet, for speaking plainly against his brutal liege, for urging him not to slaughter the Water Imps who were still his allies, he had been stripped of every title and office. His wife and children had been subjected to the ultimate penalty of the Blood Eagle, while the people who paid him tribute were brutally plundered and murdered by his liege's own guards, leaving the fields strewn with corpses. He had come knocking at the gates of Veneter, asking only that the merciful saint pave the way and grant him an audience with the young Tsar so he might submit himself to the latter. The saint of Veneter listened quietly to his tale, and soon tears of pity glimmered in her jade-green eyes. "Alrekr Jarizleivich, my good man, my gallant hero... How could I not weep for those who have died unjustly? Bring the surviving people under your care, the weary and impoverished with nowhere else to go, those who have suffered so grievously, all to my lands. My estate shall always keep its gates open to every soul battered by hardship, and you... may you find rest here as well." The beauteous saint, famed for her mastery of perfumery, personally filled a cup with fragrant warming mead for her weary guest, then knelt to remove the old commander's boots... ...And as the golden drink caught in his throat the metal of his blood, she calmly drew the sorrow from her eyes. Before dawn had even broken, a secret powerful enough to turn the tides of war had already been carried by the wind to the table of the king of the Volkodlak. Days later, a coffin draped in red and white silk was placed upon a sled and escorted by attendants to the royal court of the Pale Star. The saint of Veneter walked beside it herself, then fell before the young Emperor Monomakh, weeping inconsolably. Grief had left her without words. No lament was sung; only tears fell like pearls, soaking her white robes. Gluvasha, who was at the time still a maidservant, bowed her head in mourning before the Tsar. Her voice trembled as she recounted the Volkodlak's savagery. "Though my mistress had taken the survivors into her care, she could not prevent the Blood-Devourer's spies from poisoning the valiant general... Now, only Your Majesty's mercy can save the countless weeping souls upon this cold and desolate land." Through the veil of her tears, she saw in the youth's sky-blue eyes a hatred both righteous and compassionate. Indeed. Let the noblest of angers surge like a great wave, let order clash against order, steel against steel, While the wind remains forever the wind: gentle, elusive, and free, formless and ever-changing, never bound by delusion. ... The carriage on the journey home rolled through the deep snows that had lain unmelted since time immemorial. The saint brushed away the glistening tear at the corner of her eye, and turned her gaze upon her somber attendant. "Photius, you may as well speak plainly. There is no need to wear such a look all the time. Say what it is that displeases you." The young Vila, who had been chosen for her service for his skill in preparing elixirs, hurriedly lowered his eyes as he tried desperately to hide the thoughts that had just crossed his mind. "No... Your judgment has ever seen through what lies hidden. How could one as foolish and lowly as I dare show the slightest disrespect toward your wisdom..." Her words were greeted by a tinkling laugh. "There you go again, Photius. You place such faith in those you deem wise that you would sooner persuade yourself to stop thinking. You worry that the Pale Star King will learn the truth, and you question what I have done. These are all perfectly good questions. But he will suspect nothing. Indeed, I trust in his mercy. What reason has he to doubt my tears? On the one hand, the king of the Volkodlak would have the wind become a blade that cleaves bone. On the other, the Emperor of the Pale Star would have it become a holy sword to cleanse all that is corrupt. Yet in the end, they both wish the wind to bend to their will, to follow the banners of the mighty and blow where they would have it go. But Photius, the wind belongs to no one. So long as it continues to blow, none can know where it will carry itself." The saint of Veneter let her gentle smile fade, her jade-green pupils reflecting the youth's still-innocent face. "Best you learn from Gluvasha. Pride and vanity are poisons that only bring ruin to a clan. Only the gentle wind can blow on forever."