Harbinger XII's Story

Tallyho perked up to see Dorian approach. Before the man even got to sit down she was reaching for his pocket, only stopping when she realized that she could not play the art game because Arians simply wouldn’t get it what with the moving picture box and all. Without thinking so much she used him as a counter, her elbow jabbing into his leg and upper body slewed over his lap as the side of her face rested in her palm, smushed and painted with a look of utter boredom. She looked like an impossibly spoiled, angry cat as she imagined how long it would take for the others to get what they needed.

“Any reason you’re wearing a scarf?”

“Any reason why you’re not?” she snapped quickly, sporting her most discontent or, “bitchiest face” only to have it melt into a stupid chuckle upon meeting his glance. When she finished her subtle laugher she spoke again, hardly noticing that he was fixing her fashion statement as she spoke.

“No it’s just a thing I do. Sun people aren’t that popular, and my hair is a dead giveaway when it comes to that sort of thing. Keeps me out of trouble.”


An adequate amount of time passed and after rounding the warriors back up Haru paid what many locals referred to as a carriage train to get them into the walls of Ve Marie. Three carriages hitched together with rope and pulled by six horses. It was nothing like Mr. Vo’s Ox cart. In fact the carts themselves, not including the beasts that pulled them, were pretty grand. The carriages weren’t iron cast or anything but the wood was well crafted and, dare I say, quite pretty. The horses weren’t too shabby either. They weren’t bulls but well fed brown pelted beauties who were just fancy enough to be much fancier than the ragtag group at first glance.

Tallyho climbed into the carriage with a bit of anxiety. This felt wrong. This felt so, so wrong. She shouldn’t have been out in the open like this. Instead of indulging in a nice carriage ride she should be ducking from building to building.

The ride didn’t take very long but sure enough they went through a lot of residences. The people they passed didn’t stare nearly as much as Tallyho did. In fact, for them it must have been another facet of everyday life, to have tourists coo and point and stare, and just become plain charmed with the way these people lived—paupers or not. Women wore pain corsets in colors like navy or brown and white and pastel under dresses. Men were no different with their muted trousers and loose vests. A man who was chucking barrels of hay onto the back of a cart, probably a very proud man, wore his vest without a shirt. If the constant flexing and comments towards a group of ladies down the road didn’t say enough, one might think the man was fishing for swoons. Perhaps. Maybe.

Farther down the road someone’s grandmother was milking a cow.
A wife was peeling potatoes.
A brother was kicking a ball on the side of the road.

To Tallyho this was probably the most peaceful stop of their journey. And perhaps that was why it lasted the least amount of time. Before they knew it they were parading through Ve Marie’s walls and the scenery changed drastically. Grass and plaster roofs were replaced by terracotta. Bare chested men in vests were replaced by dapper gentlemen in bright suits, tights and ascots, thicker trousers, shoes with buckles. Women with clean hair dragged petticoats thick as their dowries, and wore the reddest of red lipsticks. Hanging lines dashed across the streets from roof to master-carved roof with tapestries telling of battles won hanging against the will of the wind with pride.

Tallyho’s stupor was broken by the soft blare of trumpets. Not like the musical ones heard at the port. But trumpets that called for authority.

Suddenly the fancies Tallyho had seen on her way in were dashing past their carriage and stopping dead at the end of the street, clotting on the edges of a grander road where uniformed soldiers were marching with their brass instruments. And all of the women and all of the men began to cheer as they marched by. Even their driver, who hadn’t said much to begin with, stepped down from his seat. Haru urged the others to do the same, his movements were too sharp to question and Tallyho moved quickly. He led the group closer to the mob and Tallyho had a better look. From the balconies facing the parade rose petals rained on those marching. She squinted trying to see who was coming up the path but she could not make it out. All she could see was a large golden box being carried by a dozen men, six on each wing, with white curtains blowing from either side.

“Why a man could fit in that box…”

And she could see, down the line that people were, honest to goddess, bowing to this box as it passed. Soon everyone around them knelt to the ground. Mothers were forcing their children’s heads down. The carriage driver bowed, Haru bowed, and so Tallyho did too. But she didn’t neglect to take a peek at who might be behind the white curtains of this golden box. A man in a tall white hat, and long white robes and a noble posture. Taking everything that she had heard about this sort of thing into account she reasoned that this was not the king but the twelfth fantastic, the father of the church, the grand Harbinger.

It seemed like forever that Tallyho was on her knees watching this grand old man as he moved past them. And when he was far enough and the last soldiers finished marching through, the mob dissolved. Some went to kiss the ground while others meandered back into the smaller streets to mind their own business. Haru nodded goodbye to the carriage driver, deciding that they could survive on foot.

The redhead turned to the warriors who were probably wondering what in the world was going on. He could have gone into this whole spew about how the harbinger was equivalent to the Pope on earth, or how they couldn’t risk doing anything to disrespect people like him in the Rose Kingdom, but he didn’t have to say too much to get his point across.

“That is the man who will make us or break us.”

It didn’t take long after that fantastic show for Haru to find them an inn. He was pretty ambitious, he had to admit. His initial plan was to go straight to the Harbinger’s court and file for testing but he imagined that the others were pretty tried.

With a promise of taking them out to dinner and clear instructions on how they should act and where they could go, Haru left the team at a quaint inn called “The Yellow Rose”, deciding that they should, at least, get the process started. And it had to be the easiest part not just because he was getting it done on his own but because it only required simple paper work.

One would be surprised at how many claims the Harbinger’s office gets about Month Warriors each week. Especially with what happened to those shmucks at the gallows some time ago. But usually the majority of claims are upheld as jokes. People make appointments to see the harbinger and they try to sell their stories, he usually rejects them and the next person comes. That was, in fact, his job. But on the chance that a party of imposters is particularly convincing, like those hung last time with their own disciples and following, and they are proven to be frauds in a later meeting, the Harbinger decides that he has no choice but to charge them with civil disobedience, public indecency, treason, fraud, and every other felony under the sun to dispel false rumors that could “disturb the peace.”

So Haru wasn’t so worried about the first round. It was the second round that worried him. The round where, the Harbinger is forced to acknowledge them as threats (simply because no one would ever believe it if the actual warriors showed up) and plan their punishment as they prepared for a test they would never pass because no one was ever the real deal.

For sixteen years, Kyle lived in one of the biggest cities in the United States, the biggest city in the state of New York, yet he was uncomfortable coming into Port Angels and Ve Marie. Any fascination or excitement he had with the bright colors of the different ships and various flags found in port or the upbeat music and voices of the merchants and reveling tourists faded with the knowledge of that painful weight that nearly paralyzed him on Nikita's ship, the weight that his life and at least eleven other lives were at stake. The only difference was the presently lighter weight of the longbow he carried. He no longer had a problem picking it up and using it.

In the month between leaving Ryou's Academy and finally regaining his strength to hold the weapon, his skill slipped slightly, but he consistently practiced to do better, covering the points of his arrows to protect the ship. He understood more than simple respect for Nikita's property, but also that this ship was the only thing standing, or actually floating, between them and death by sea. His lack of skill with his weapon wouldn't put the rest at risk, but now Haru said anything they say or do out of step could put them at risk. Why couldn't he just run away right now? How could someone NOT mess up?

Actually, there was one person most likely to mess up and be selfish. Harper. As such they'd have to freakin' babysit him. Ugh! He was definitely NOT in the mood for that! In that case, it was good luck that they only had minimal respite. There didn't seem too much damage to be done in the time they had to get new clothes. With a slight sense of relief, he climbed into one of the carriages and peacefully watched the countryside and its people pass through the window.

Too soon they came to the city flooded with what he thought were aristocrats. He did not expect shiny buckled shoes and fancy dresses belonged to commoners, and even the merchants back at the port weren't so well-dressed. Kyle used the merchants' clothing as an example for his own purchases. Anyone who asked questions he told that he looked to join a guild he remembered from one of his classes. Guilds always belonged to merchants of different crafts, so the style worked for him. The tale was effective to get him good quality clothing for low prices. Even so, he felt under-dressed in the midst of the fancies.

The trumpet's call only increased his anxiety, and Haru confirmed it. This Harbinger expected to be treated like a king, so obviously this test would be unpleasant. In his opinion, there was no such thing as a pleasant test anyway, but someone with a superiority complex would make it that much worse.

He couldn't decide if the walk to the inn was a good or bad thing. One way it could be good was that he'd have a chance to burn off some of his anxiety, but it was bad that there would be witnesses if he did mess something up. UGH! He needed to kick and scream and run! Kyle even unconsciously started running, but upon realizing it, he turned back and disappeared into the middle of the group again.

Inside "The Yellow Rose" Inn, they were temporarily safe from prying eyes and they even had their own rooms again, well almost. His room had two single beds and a dresser under the window. He dropped off his bow on the right hand bed to claim it, and wrapped his lightened money pouch in his old clothes from the ship and hid it. There wasn't much to steal at the moment, but it helped him feel a little safer.

He needed something to do while he waited for Haru to return from wherever he went. After showing which rooms he paid for and making his traditional speeches to lay out the rules, which did nothing for Kyle's anxiety, the cat guardian disappeared. Ugh! the blond really wished he wouldn't do that type of thing right now! Technically he was an adult and should be independent from the guardian watchdogs, but he knew that his experience on Aires was limited and all the dire warnings just scared him. Haru was definitely not the most upbeat and encouraging person, but he knew and trusted him.

Even though Haru named 'safe zones' for the month warriors to go, Kyle did not feel safe. He paced in his room, trying not to tear his hair out or break something. While pacing, a new face joined him, Kit. Kit had always kept to himself, so Kyle never bothered him. He didn't expect to see the other redheaded guardian, but he supposed the thinner fellow didn't have a choice.

He noted the guardian rubbing his neck and asked, "Kit? um... Is something wrong?"

Over the months at sea, Falke's time was rather uneventfully spent, and to be fair, having a broken leg left you without many options from the get go. Through the first week and a half, he was stuck in the infirmary (often hastily tied down to the swinging hammock bed, in case of a unpredictable storm occurring) and was often left to his own devices and thoughts - of which mostly included staring at the wooden ceiling and twiddling his thumbs.

The only exceptions being for the daily visits of the 'Doctor's on board the ship, crew or group members needing various aid for their ailments, and the oddly constant gargoyle like presences of the silent and ever judging fellow warrior Gwen and Kit the November Guardian. Food and water was brought to him, and hell, someone even helped his sorry ass stumble back and forth from the restroom.

Every. Single. Day.

Falke was sick of it, or frankly, was just going out of his mind… He escaped in the middle of that night, somehow managing to drag himself up a flight of slick ship stairs up unto the starlit deck. Where he sat, er, collapsed technically, and neatly dragged himself into sitting, cursing the pain shooting from his crippled leg, but beyond grateful for the bout of fresh (if sort of unpleasantly salty) air. No one found him until the following morning.

This first escape from the infirmary room wasn't the last of his nightly activity (and only done then because most who would nag him were often well asleep by then), soon leading to mid-day 'adventures, and eventually gimping his way around without a 'care'. Okay, there was some care. It still hurt even on the best of days, a slow, torturous ache that wouldn't go away, but he could make it through the better part of the day without a limp most of the time - aided by a walking cast that had been reluctantly constructed some time before in response to his wanderings. On the not so great days, well, it wasn't so great we’ll leave it at that.

Still, Falke found exasperated enjoyment in the freedom of movement itself, again. Frustrating as the pain was, of course; but, eh... Dancing was fun. Even being dragged around in a stupid, flowy, wood-stock esque movement; with Tallyho singing that weird but beautiful musical inspired language she'd eagerly (or hungrily would probably be a better term to describe it, as this was Tallyho he was talking about) learned from Lillian. He didn't seem to mind how stupid they, no doubt, looked to everyone else, or how his muscles tended to seize making the limp seem worse for hours following.

Training, with his weapon and meditation, was almost nearly 'regular' routine. Especially during the stops given to allow them some time on dry land, just lacking an secluded Academy. It was only a little different given the rolling sea and a wooden deck at times, even the sailors were exceedingly skeptical about an obviously blind fellow hobbling about with a healing, however still broken, leg could do much of anything

And powers? Well, they seemed frizzed out ever since the attack on the Academy. Sometimes they worked or they didn't work at all, and other times it was pick and choose - with a definite migraine sure to be on the way. However...

During the last month of the journey, he'd woken up in a startled panic from the storm battering the ship or a simple night terror, and found blood leaking out the corner of his mouth. He'd thought of it as nothing more than biting his tongue or cheek (all though he found no marks later and figured he'd imagined it, even when he thought he could still taste iron days later whenever he coughed), and went back to sleep warily with an uncomfortable, completely unreasonable feeling something else had happened - but what? Who bloody knew...

---

The sheer noise was the first thing Falke latched unto upon being told they had finally arrived to their destination. The smells and sounds were abruptly overwhelming, in more ways than one. But all of it seemed oddly reminiscence to his home town of Hamburg, give or take a few centuries or more of course, and he felt oddly at ease - even in the hustle and bustle of the crowd with the fishy smells of the port's seawater, the calls of merchants and sailors of varying nationalities and ships.

Falke listened intently to Haru’s every world. It was simply common sense as far as he was concerned, from the very beginning being an alien in a strange world, you listened to any advice or news that the actual people of Aires provided, especially one so long lived as a Guardian, to help one be able to survive – especially now with the stacks as high as they were. He was quite fond of his head, and wouldn’t mind keeping it, thank you.

He wouldn’t have minded cleaner clothes, but he wasn’t one of the warriors who worked, or well, there hadn’t been many opportunities made available for him to earn his own money through chores and errands. The most he had on him at any given time, and it wasn’t anything exciting, was more likely due to what amounted to little more than he seemed like a charity case. It was perhaps enough for a shirt, at least somewhat nicer than his own saltly, weather-beaten, sweat-stained one? He would question Lillian about it.

“Perhaps,” She’d hummed softly in response, after Falke had handed her his coin sack - weighing the leather lightly with her gentle touch, before slipping it out of site underneath her faded but well covering cloak. Her tone and accent especially guarded that he couldn’t quite tell if she was being skeptical about his amount of cash or not. “I’ll go get something, stay with the others.” Lillian offered, which he followed with a thankful nod. She disappeared into the hustle and bustle of the crowd with a wary glint of her eyes, of a fox that knew the hounds were too close for comfort, hidden mostly in the offered dark covering of a hood.

Everyone soon returned to the group, finishing the brief shopping trip with fuller bags and hopefully newer clothing. Falke managed to get into the carriage under his own power, but winced in minor annoyance at the dull ache rearing its’ ugly head again from the brief time being on land again and walking the ridiculously short distance from port to town to the awaiting carriage train.

The carriages stopped as a parade began in a near, far grander side street. Lillian stepped down without hesitation; with quick and sure movements made sure (much like a shadow of Haru) everyone was coming to witness the rain of rose pedals, the passing of armed but decorative escort, and the golden box itself – also, more importantly, kneel or bow. It wouldn’t due to make a mistake of religious punishment or consequences, of course. Falke followed suit, cued to bow but listened to others shuffling around him to know when to stand back up.

It didn't take long after the passing of the parade, that they left the carriage train driver, and Haru had found them an inn. Falke figured it was a pretty good idea to give everyone a time to rest, hopefully collecting their thoughts, preparing themselves, and most importantly keeping their mouths shut until the following day when one could suppose the testing would begin. He listened again to another round of clear instructions of how they should act and where they could go without any frustration, before Haru then disappeared to do something important before promised dinner later.

Shortly he found himself in a small room, being in such a large city the larger multiple bedding rooms were not as widespread he supposed, sitting down wearily with a soft sigh. Hauling his splinted leg into his lap with a muffled growl whistling past his lips, as he wriggled his pant legs over the construction, idly pulling and picky at the wraps to loosen it where it seemed to be attempting to swell after the extended walking they had done. Oh, that was better. Hopefully the prickling twinges would go away before he had to re-wrap and tighten it before they went to dinner, even then, a small time without the 'suffocating' material wrapped around was never the less a relief.

Harper, for one, quite enjoyed life on the ship.

In fact, he quite enjoyed life in general. Especially considering how life in general was going at the moment.

Oh yeah. Things were going great.

Of course, it had taken a while. There'd been three days of confusion, hurt feelings, uncertainty...three days where smiling was hard, where everything was hard. It didn't help that he had still hoped. That almost made it worse...trying to tell himself to let go, but refusing to because what if, just in case...

Not to mention his ass still hurt from the beating Ondine had distributed. For someone who was supposed to be looking out for him, she certainly didn't hold back with the paddle.

Dorian had been one of the few to notice and care about his funk. In fact, the third day, Dorian had actually tried to tell him jokes to cheer him up. Very stupid jokes...popsicle stick jokes. But Harper had laughed at each one, especially the last one. Just the thought of Dorian trying to be funny was funny. He had mentally approved his friendship with Sadie for the umpteenth time afterwards.

And then, lo and behold. On the fourth day, He emerged. And after that day, Harper had a difficult time NOT grinning like a stupid idiot.

Not that he'd tell anyone why. They had both agreed that this thing between them had to stay secret. Besides, they both had very different circles of friends...Harper didn't even want to know what Kyle might do to him if he found out...he definitely knew the blond would hit him. At the very least.

Still, Harper was happy, even with the arrangement. In fact, it was kind of exciting. Trying to find pockets of time and space to be together, the adrenaline rush whenever they kissed in a location that wasn't entirely hidden away, the tightening in his stomach whenever he stole away to their secret room. And then whenever they were in public...the glances he'd slide to him, small innocent inside remarks that were actually inside jokes to something racier...the semi-flirtatious jests, which he had always done before, to everyone, but were now more prominent than ever, and masked the deeper implications whenever these were targeted at Xabi...yes, it was like a delicious game of tension. Of pushing boundaries. Trying to see what he could get away with before anyone caught on. And then doing something else to completely confuse everyone.

Yes, life on the ship had grown interesting indeed.

Whenever he wasn't teasing Xabi or chatting up his friends, he'd practice his abilities. Already fairly advanced in them, at least compared to some of the other warriors, his practice sessions were less about getting actual results and more on refining the results he did get, as well as amping up the scale. Besides the usual drills that Ondine would put him through, he'd experiment, working on waves, and then shaping the waves. On one stop, about a week after his leg had healed, he'd managed to successfully surf a few of his own creation. In the latter days of their travel, he'd been able to keep up with the ship, the waves rippling and pushing beneath his feet as he skipped and ran across the surface, Ondine diving in and out next to him. His newfound transport usually resulted in rocking the ship more, an unwelcome thing to the seasick.

The storms, when they happened, still proved too much for him to control. One night he had tried to tame the waves, but had nearly fallen off the ship instead. Ondine had grabbed him by the collar, pulling him back from the angry sea and dragging him back under. She had thrown him into a spare room and screamed at him, the angriest he had ever seen her. He hadn't tried it again.

~

When they finally reached land, Harper for one wished he could still stay on the boat. Well, maybe not this boat. But another boat. Just to stay on the ocean...away from other people, free to swim every day. Just him and Xabi on a yacht. Or a little house boat. In the middle of the ocean. A man could dream.

During Haru's "welcome" speech, Harper couldn't help but feel that the guardian was specifically talking to him, especially during the "please do not be a selfish ass" bit. Harper could have snorted. He'd lived in big cities his entire life. If there was one thing he'd learned, it was that people tended not to care if it didn't affect them specifically. If this was New York, he could announce to everyone that they were month warriors, and the worst he'd receive would be a few judgmental glares.

Still, he wasn't very keen on hanging. And after Ondine had pulled him aside to reiterate everything Haru had said (something that the other guardians didn't do with their wards...at least that he noticed) he decided to behave...for now.

Harper actually had been one of the few guardians who had taken on jobs. Granted, they were odd jobs, that never really lasted long, and the whole working thing was mostly Ondine's idea, but he had enjoyed them. Mostly delivery things...a few metalworking gigs...blacksmith assisting and such. Being thrust below the poverty line of his own accord years ago had given him a rude awakening to just how much a dollar was worth, and he was actually quite frugal with his money. For the most part.

As such, he was able to buy his own clothes, and with some guidance from Ondine, settled on an ensemble that looked a cross between Mozart and a New World colonist..

"Aren't you getting something for yourself?" he asked Ondine as they returned to the others. She shook her head.

"Eventually," she allowed, but added under her breath, "The fashion of the Rose Kingdom has never been one I fancied, to say it politely."

Travelling to the city was a bit like travelling through time. He felt like he had somehow blue-skidoo-ed into an art history textbook...with the chapters melded together. Sadie, he knew, would love it. She actually knew the different styles. He could see her now, pointing out the Renaissance, Tudor, Rococo...

Ve Marie would have blown her mind for sure.

When they reached the inn, Harper had immediately changed into his new clothes. "I look like I belong in the Met!" he exclaimed to Ondine as he strutted about in his new garb, jacket and all. She didn't look too impressed, but he repeated the joke to everyone at dinner, particularly Dorian, who he knew would appreciate it. At the table he'd channel his inner Amadeus, acting the ever-pompous sort, and whistling small bits of Mozart's various works intermittently throughout dinner. Every so often he'd interrupt people's conversations, an urgent look on his face, only to say that the British were coming.

Although, if you asked him, he would prefer if it were the Spanish who came that night...

~

Surprisingly or not, depending on who you were and what you thought of the curly-haired ruffian, Harper was very well-behaved the next day. Haru had stressed so much on maintaining the best appearances, and Harper knew that he in particular was cause for worry. So, in an act of seeming goodwill (although, in all honesty, it was more out of spite to prove naysayers that he just chose to act like an uncivilized bum) Harper drew from his roots and acted the perfect upper-class youngun...old enough to be noticed, but too young to actually be taken seriously. When you grew up in Upper Manhattan with a corporate lawyer for a father and an heiress for a mother, with a party every weekend at least, old habits were hard to forget.

As they reached the cathedral, Harper was no longer just Harper. He was Harper C. Fields, who could tell the difference between Armani and Vuitton and took his coffee black, thank you very much. Even Ondine seemed surprised.

Harper couldn't help smirking as he stood in line next to her. "Betcha thought I'd have screwed everything up by now," he whispered to her out of the corner of his mouth.

"It had crossed my mind," she replied quietly, hands folded in front of her dress, loosely fitted and flowing, barely appropriate, but not obnoxious, like some of the other dresses he'd seen in the audience and in line. While her voice was soft, her tone was still sharp as ever.

"Hey now," he murmured with a smile, "When Harper C. Fields needs to clean up, he stands and delivers."

"Careful now," Ondine warned, "You might have spoken too soon."

"Please," Harper said with a shrug, lifting his chin and straightening his shoulders, "I know more about this game than you think."

That was all it was, really. A game. A game of appearances, invisible walls and lines, of dos and do nots, and endless rules. He hated the game, but he knew how to play, and play it well. Haru's advice the previous night? He had lived it. For seventeen years.

When he stepped inside the large structure, it almost felt like home. The home he had run away from.

~

Harper would be lying if he said he wasn't at least a little nervous during the ordeal. His nerves, he would say, were mostly attributed to the fact that everyone else seemed so damned nervous. He could feel it in the air. When Dorian was called to perform, he held his breath the entire time.

There was also the matter of staying focused. More than once he had found himself zoning out, or zoning in too much on a distant pillar. Much as his cool outward demeanor came easily, so to did his old tricks of not being bored out of his mind during the endless and dull dinner parties.

He snapped back to attention when Tallyho stood up. He followed suit. His eyes widened when he watched the Harbinger walk by, holding a small crystal. As the man passed by, Harper couldn't help realizing just how mundane his own stone was. Everyone had had such personal connections and stories with theirs...family heirlooms, prized gifts, personal treasures. Whereas he...he had found the ring in a public pool, the day he'd been whisked away.

To think he'd wanted Sadie to have it...

He tried not to imagine her in his place, standing before an old man with a glowing stone, surrounded by strangers. Well, except for Dorian.

It would have been better if he hadn't kept the ring at all. If he'd dropped it back into the pool, dramatically reenacting the last scene in Titanic...or perhaps Lord of the Rings.

Even if it meant he'd never get to know Dorian, or SKylar, or Xabi.

Well, Dorian he was certain he'd meet eventually regardless. And Skylar too, maybe. But Xabi? He hadn't been with them in the beginning...

The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Talk of the flock brought him back. As collected as he seemed, though, the more he heard of what the flock entailed, the more worried he grew. Yes, he had fought cyclopeans before, but only singularly. And in a contained environment. This was true for all of them. How the hell...

And then this talk of wards of the state? He thought they believed them! What with the glowing stone and...had he missed something while he was zoning out?

His face stayed a mask, albeit a cracking one, as they were ushered outside, Haru assuring everyone to trust him. Right.

If they were going to end up hanged, Harper was going to sue.

Why couldn’t the fashion in the Rose Kingdom include light clothing? Autumn felt like she was going to faint under the heavy clothing. She was hardly used to clothing of such weight. Or perhaps it was the nerves that made her feel like she was going to fall. The annoying vendors didn’t help. Throughout the whole process she had been showed so much jewelry she felt like she would go blind. Some shoved topaz in her face, insisting that it looked far better than what she had on. That was just insulting.
Tallyho nearly hit a vendor. Autumn did her best not to smile. Honestly, she wanted to do the same thing. However, Haru probably wouldn’t fancy two warriors flying off the handle right before the appointment. Autumn kept her hands to herself, but thought about praising Tallyho later.

Time pressed on and Autumn felt as if she were falling. With each step they took, her confidence shrank. Quiet voices, ones only she could hear, assured her of victory. It was the dark voices again, difficult to understand completely but so incredibly kind. She let out a sigh and held her head high. Yes, of course she could do this. She WOULD be victorious. Even as the receptionist taunted them, she was comforted by the fact that chills ran up her spine. Surely, the depletion of energy wasn’t fake. There was no way anyone could deny that.

Eventually, they were before the Harbinger himself. Haru spoke and she came forward, looking as regal as she possibly could. She bowed, despite her terror.

Autumn’s eyes nearly bugged out when she heard the Harbinger call Haru “little man”. She had always seen the February Guardian as an authority figure, so to hear him belittled like that was a shock. No, it was an insult.

Dorian was called forward to demonstrate his powers. It was a good thing, really. Anyone else and it might have been bad. The wind lifted up stray hairs from her braid as the air moved around the room. Thank god for Dorian.

She rose as the Harbinger requested, careful not to trip over her own dress. Her necklace glowed when his crystal came near. This was it? This was the stone test? Relief washed over her. Surely, they passed.

A cardinal mentioned the other group passing the test. Oh. Oh no. They weren’t going to be hanged, were they? No, Haru was already on that. Another test. The flock.

Autumn listened to the description fearfully. Sure, she had fought plenty of cyclopeans before. However, that was always at the academy and always under supervision. Though she still had scars from her encounters she knew she would never die. This time, however, there was no one protecting her from her untimely death. Even worse, they were prisoners. This was the price of their powers? Prison? Or was it jail?

Haru told them to trust him. She did, with her life. Besides, it wasn’t as if she had any other choice. Autumn took comfort in the fact that Haru was there for them. She also took comfort in the cardinal that believed them.

The bell, however, quickly brought fear to her again. She lined up with the night, curious as to why the voices weren’t reassuring her. Perhaps they didn’t like being around the Harbinger? She couldn’t blame them for that. Even without the voices, at least she had the knights to protect her. For the time being, at least.

Dorian stayed in position, curled into his uncomfortable bow like a hyper-realistic statue etched in stone. Gray eyes stared at the floor beneath him, unblinking and unmoving apart from the shallow, unnoticeable breaths he allowed himself. It was a silly fear, of course it was, but he couldn’t help but feel that any twitch, and movement not necessary to life, would break the pause in the scene before him and carry them off to the unknown future, a place he wasn’t sure that he wanted to visit.

But he could hear rustling behind himself now, heavy fabric shifting as the Month Warriors rose to their feet behind him. He stood as well, a half second behind the rest and moved backwards, back to the relative safety the group provided him. The Harbinger was moving forward now, a milky white crystal grasped in aged hands. He was confused at first until he saw the first stone light up, casting a marvelous, colorful light. Even before the old man, moving regally and finally as if this wasn’t just a tedious chore, stood in front of him, Dorian rolled back his sleeve.

The aquamarine glowed dimly at first, a weak, pale blue light, but as he moved forward and finally paused in front of him, the gem shone brilliantly, a tiny blue star captured in the tiny jewel, fighting to let its power shine. All of the stones were shining now, twisting in a visual spectacle that Dorian had never seen before, unnatural but not unsettling.

“I do believe you have passed the stone test.”

There it was. Confirmation from the highest religious authority in the land. Relief, an alien feeling these days, welled up within Dorian. And then it was gone. Ah, well, it had been kind of nice while it lasted, even if now it was being replaced by fear.

Dorian had never truly been able to shake the terror he’d felt the first time he’d met a Cyclopean. He’d killed many by this point, seen the obsidian shards litter the ground, such beautiful remains from such horrific monsters, but he’d never been able to shake that small voice in his head, eager to suggest what might happen if he moved just so and lost his balance, if he hesitated too long before swinging his axe. A flock of Cyclopean, such a tender and delicate name for a group of monsters who could rip a man in half if given the chance, that they would have to face down, to survive just so they could save the world? Where was the justice in that?

He couldn’t help but feel as they were herded along in a single file line, like they were being sent to their own executions. Captured, for lack of a better phrase, by the Church and State and marched like prisoners through the streets as their names and nations, all but one at least partially false, rang out alongside the tolling of the bell.

Unable to move, squeezed as he was between two knights he didn’t wish to irritate for his own safety, he glanced around at the line. There was Ryou, standing two people in front of him, turning his head this way and that as he searched the crowds before pausing as he made eye contact with Dorian. He winked and the gesture was so ridiculous that Dorian winked back (a slightly terrifying gesture for those who didn’t know him).

‘It’ll be fine,’ Ryou’s expression seemed to say as he turned his head to face the front once more.

‘I hope so,’ Dorian tried to convey in return, but, due to the problem that was his sharp eyes, stoic face, and general displeasure at the situation, it probably turned out more like ‘We're going to have some serious problems if I don’t get my personal space’.

“Buh!”

Falke muttered, causing the hastily scuffle backward and indignant squeak of a vendor who had been one of the few brave enough to come closer and had been getting a little too close from comfort. She had been waving her hand suspiciously in front of his face even as her voice had died off begging him to by something she was calling a blood-orange sapphire, oddly abruptly, confused as to why he didn’t even blink an eye, or look at her in acknowledgment. The older woman vendor huffed, scowling up her thick nose at him, before hastily taking herself and her false jewels somewhere else down the line that didn’t have those weird, ghosty eyes to distract, or haunt her nightmares later. Not his fault, however, mind you.

The exchange was a distinct difference to Tallyho nearly hitting a vendor and flying off the handle, very much to the ill benefit of Haru's poor laboring heart, Falke wasn't bothered as much from eagerly aggressive jewel vendors coming into his face. Probably more so do to the fact, standing behind his friend, but also could be befitted to his eyes - blind as they were, something very different for a young man especially to have plastered on his features.

...

Finally, Falke's wandering thoughts, purposeful in their intent to keep nervousness at bay, faded as time pressed on, finally stepping through the grand cathedral doors and into the grand room to be judged. He held tightly unto a face of complete confidence, stoic but strong, as Haru spoke and beckoned them to come forward to bow one at a time, before resettling in a line - hunched at their hands and knees in reverence.

Dorian was called forward to demonstrate his powers. A good choice, something simple, but could say more than anything that could be easily dismissed or accidentally hurt someone. The wind twirled playfully for a brief few moments, before fading. Yes, a good show. Thank the Goddess, it seemed to have worked, more or less.

He rose as the Harbinger requested, at Haru's whispered insistence and the rising shuffles of the others beside him and down the line more so technically, careful of his balance on his sore leg. He raised his hand as the brief, familiar shiver of awareness came from his hand as the dark blue glowed bright and light in the presence of the religious man and his crystal coming near. Ahh, the stone test, he could only supposed they'd passed that one test then - there would be more, of course, he was certain.

The Flock. Falke didn't seem to regard the description as fearfully and wearily as some of the others, more so taking the brutally logical thought process that at the very least if they failed this one it would be a quicker way to go then a public hanging would have been. Yes, they had all fought plenty of cyclopeans before, perhaps not a host before and not in an environment that is was due or die. But at the very least, they weren't on the way of the gallows yet and political prison and/or jail was still better than hanging. Thinking on the 'bright' side, or attempting too anyhow even if how unnerving their situation was rapidly becoming.

Trust. Yes, trust was a fickle thing. Falke obliged willingly, however, as Haru told them to trust him, the bell tolled, a single cardinal believed in them, and another ordered them to line up between the knights. Narrowing his eyes, cautiously, he stepped forward as they went outside, past the hovering crowd of false warriors, Guardians, and newer groups of citizens with downcast eyes and hearts already praying for there lost, wrenched souls. Great. Wonderful welcome party.

It took all of his will power not to physically flinch every time they entered a new room in the dungeon, being so accustomed to using every other sense but sight - it was a nightmare of sound, smell, and horrible feelings, expressions, and remarks amongst the cries of the imprisoned. He ground his back molars, even as his eyes widened a touch, struggling to remain looking calm and keeping his cool.

Finally they resumed an upward trek into part of the castle proper, of court rooms and relative quiet hallways compared to the horror show they'd just been experienced, until being shoved into a large cell, reserved for POWs or other important members of political arrest, of nicer accommodations than that of below - even if sharing with an already large group already there, clustered on the other side watching them curiously.

The girls tended to drift watchfully toward the male members of the team, taking the cue from Haru and other Guardian's that backs would need to watched in such close quarters with a lot of men, solider men, that they didn't know, let alone would want to let them know who they were. Which meant, everyone dispersing to their bunks, left Falke a rather alone. He didn't mind really, except for the fact that he had grown over the three years - and was resting at 6ft and 140-150lbs - you'd think he'd be more intimidating. But, he suspected that the image of a little fluffy kitten in the corner that could mess you up but looked still to innocent to do so was himself, and the comparable image of another, like Dorian, probably a stoic rottweiler that could mess you up and looked like it. Well, yes, that was pretty self explanatory...

Falke dozed for awhile before sleep finally carted him away late into the night into unsettling, whispering dreams, some of which awoke him briefly, until he rolled over unto the next shoulder wordlessly, dozing, only to crash quickly again. Lillian, like Ryou and Haru, stayed up during the night. Unable to sleep, or taking it also upon herself to help watch, and used to having stayed up in her animal form for odd hours and/or situations such as this before. She seemed easy, sitting upright at rest, leaning against a post of her bunk, eyes wide and watchful of their surroundings the whole night.

...

"Is this really necessary?”
/Careful…/

He couldn’t help agreeing with her, of course, and his brief mental warning reflected some of the likewise feelings into her mind. However, this was an uneasy game to play, and accidental dyslexia of the mouth wouldn’t help their situation. He felt briefly the worried press of Haru's mind, something that came easier because of high emotions of stress and the bare aura of tolerance echoing from the cat guardian, as he tried to turn the situation back unto the task at hand - learning more about the flock, their next test - only to be overruled, again, by the demanding of introductions on the month warrior's parts.

“Sire,” Falke wasn’t sure what compelled him to introduce himself first, out of all the warriors, but perhaps the strong feeling he was likely one of the few that could still remain a stoic civility (that would allow them all to keep their heads for a little while longer hopefully, thank you very much) especially the face of the young noble lord, General Cress, with an obviously lacking hospitable attitude and crude language demeaning guardians and month warriors alike. He went with it, however, rising from his bunk to stand on steady limbs, briefly bowing at the waist, and adverting eye contact as best as his blearily unfocused eyes could managed.

“I am Falke of Hales, sire, the warrior of September.” He finished, lightly; cautiously dipping his head once again for good measure. His English had gotten surprising good, enough to full even himself with his faded accent at times (of course, forgetting other times his mood flicked during the day or in the middle of the conversation, his natural German accent came right back, heavy and thick) – he could, being nitpicky on himself, could pick out bare German elements still in it, but in all honesty it could seem a plausible enough rough voice to come from the icy expanse of Hales.

Lillian remained silent, as she had not been called to introduce herself, but watchful, even despite the aura of the potential for shadows appearing soon on pale skin underneath her eyes - especially so as her own warrior stood forward first. It was a known fact Lillian, nor Haru or even Ryou to an extent, didn't bond specifically with her own designated warriors like some of the other Guardian's; her distance was not rebelliousness or a simple lack of care, but had developed from a greater meaning of her purpose - she was a Guardian of all, not just one. All the same, in the controlled, politely reverent clenched grasp of her hands, perhaps one could surmised a faint worried tremor in the tendons and fine bones of her fingers; as her own warrior spoke, one of the weakest physical links of the team relatively. A reminder perhaps again deeply hidden in her inner mind, the Guardian's were cursed with immortality, the warriors... Not so much.

It was easy enough to say that the battle had taken a toll on everyone. But it was over now, and the citizens were still cheering and chanting—throwing their expensive alcohol over the side of the great wall with red, gleeful faces. Tallyho, though not completely coherent and probably unconscious, could somehow feel the presences about her body. She did not however feel comforted by them until a cloth steaming with a familiar warmth dabbed her face dry.

Haru had not moved from his spot. Instead he sat there on the ground—knees bent and spread on the cobblestone like a child’s in the grass of a meadow. Breath shallow, eyes unblinking. Time seemed to run slowly for him and he did not resume the normal standard of time until callused fingers pressed into his shoulder. He looked up to see a decorated officer, one of a substantial ranking but not nearly as high as General Cress. He did not introduce himself but delved right to the point:

“All of you are to come with us.”

His voice was not authoritative however. It was actually quite accommodating. Almost as if he were saying, “Don’t have a place to sleep? Here we’ll take care of you—hospitality.”
And Haru found this particularly ironic because as his gaze panned back he caught sight of knights in the same uniforms that escorted them off to jail.

But Haru knew that they had nothing to fear this time and gave the blessing. Medics from the group moved in without warning, scooping up warriors who had collapsed from exhaustion or were significantly injured.
The walk they shared was no walk of shame. She knights did not bind the warriors by the arms and march them down the street. But meandered around them like agents of protection, offering a hand if someone stumbled. They were taken to a military occupied house where each party member was given a comfortable bed to share in the presence of about three others. They were fed, allowed to clean themselves up, and redressed (quite simply) before being left to rejuvenate before moving to what the knights assured them was going to be a more fitting location.

But they weren’t to leave until certain agreements where made. Haru was made aware of the required session well into the beginning of their stay and on the third day he was preparing to go to the courthouse.

“So what is this for again?” Tallyho asked flatly as she appraised Haru from the doorway for the main room, her thick hair pulled into swollen twin braids, a partially opened pomegranate clasped in her right hand.

Haru straightened his tie as he plucked at his form in the mirror.
“It’s politics.”

“What?”
“I am going out there to meet with the important people. To ensure the government’s support of the group and our protection.”
“…Okay?”
“All of you should be ready to move on to the next place by the time I get back.”
“And what if this doesn’t work?”
“Trust me, we can’t lose now.”

Haru didn’t leave much time for Tallyho to express her doubt before fleeing the scene. Black coattails slipping out the door.

Haru would be lying if he said that he wasn’t at least a little bit worried. His palms were sweating a bit—why he hadn’t felt this way since he was alive the first time. He guessed over and over in his head which authorities would be at the table: A cardinal from the church and a man from the military perhaps? Members from the king’s council? He tried to plan out what they would say, how he would respond to their questions, try to appeal to their interests.

But when he walked into the room he was a bit surprised to see who he saw. There were about twelve men in the room, all in various uniforms and from varying occupations in the government but towards the end of the table were three noble chairs. The first contained a more familiar body. There sat General Cress, a small scowl on his face but nothing overtly vicious. Across from him was an older man clad in regal apparel. A feather in the hat, puffy sleeves, a grand get up. It was only after a moment of pondering that Haru realized that this was King Rembrandt the Wholesome. The low key but celebrated king of Ve Marie, and unlike General Cress the King offered an expression of genuine welcome. Between them, at the head of the table was none other than the Grand Harbinger himself, his frail, ring clad fingers posed on the table like a mannequin’s.

And so the negotiations were to begin.

Those who stayed behind at the inn before the group was arrested were welcome to reunite with the group the day they prepared to relocate. When Karma caught sight of her adoptive father (Ryou) she clung to him mercilessly. On the day that Haru went to his meeting he came back with little more to say than a firm, “Let’s get out of here everyone.” And so she followed, not entirely sure of the situation at hand. They ended their escorted walk by the time it was sunset on a finely paved path before a grand gate. Before this gate stood a tiny, almost doll-like woman.

The little woman pushed her spectacles up to the bridge of her nose, with round frames that, despite how uncomplimentary they were to her face, long and thin as a grain of white rice, somehow grew to look fashionable the more one looked at her. And it wasn’t hard not to look at her. Her mousy hair was cut into a demure bob with bangs that hung over thin brows in heavy, even layers. Her aging ears peaked out from her locks occasionally, as she bobbed her head this way and that when speaking, revealing lobes that were beginning to grow downwards, and reminisced over heavy earrings worn in her youth. Fine wrinkles made vertical lines on the area above her lips and under her nose. It seemed as though she had pinched too many babies’ cheeks and made too many kissy faces for a normal person’s taste. She was small in stature, substantially shorter than Haru or Tallyho at least, with slender, no, dare I say, ‘twiggy’ limbs that moved with so much expression you might think they’d break by sheer velocity. She was a sharp dresser though despite her unconventional look. Her dress was red, a bold bright red with grand shoulder pads that squared out her frame nicely and long buttoned sleeves that cropped right at the wrist, and a petticoat that was fuller in the back, making her breast-less profile a bit more of a representation of what men in songs say when they mention ‘womanly curves’. As she pulled open the gates and walked them further down the path she did not neglect to mention that she made her own dresses. She hadn’t even introduced herself.

“I’m sure many of you have heard of the plaza, the most famous part of Ve Marie’s castle, but most of you might not have ever dreamed of entering. Yes, this has been the living complex of the royal family since its construction in 1300 A.B. Many of the royal family’s cohorts have lived here also, most recently our great Harbinger and now you.”

Tallyho shuffled slowly, taking it all in. The plaza was already supposed to be the most well-manicured thing on the continent and she hadn’t even gotten over the courtyard which was impeccably groomed and full of shrubbery cut into various, visually tantalizing shapes. Tallyho felt quite simple really. How did the flowers grow in perfect square plots according to color? How could nature do that? Grow red roses next to yellow with such a bold transition? Poor girl hadn’t even considered the fact that the gardener’s might have transplanted them. Nonetheless, her attention was taken to the assortments of marble people who posed frivolously around the grounds, heads thrown back, and water spewing from their puckered lips and onto fountains and pavement.

Soon they were entering the building. Two armored soldiers pulled open grand doors that were about as high as three Haru’s put together. As the group filed in, the chatty woman, now identified as Mildred, continued her speech.

“This is the stair room. Giovanni Rembrandt—who was the king in power at the time of the plaza’s construction—had marble imported all the way from the Sea of Milk in order the pave the floor. On the walls there are paintings of some of the Kingdom’s most valuable and legendary knights done by visual masters and national treasures such as Piku, Geoffrey the Red and Fenwick. And of course those two spiral staircases—which is why this is called the stair room—“

Mildred snorted at her own joke.

“The story behind these magnificent pieces of architecture was that when his Royal Highness Giovanni’s wedding anniversary was coming up he asked his wife what she wanted for such an occasion and she told him that she wanted more space. This surely put him in a dilemma because most of the castle’s important buildings such as the great library were already being built around the plaza, so he couldn’t knock those projects down. But she wanted more space. So he contacted a few skilled architects and they found that the only solution was to build upwards and they just never stopped. The plaza is already up to four stories, which is well over the limit if you ask me! Nevertheless, Kings after Giovanni realized this also and expansion on the plaza officially stopped in 1463 A.B, BUT there are still spots at the top of the plaza where fifth floor construction already started and was never attended to. Anyway, later on today I will show you how to get upstairs and how to get to your respective rooms. Did I mention you are living here? We have enough space in here for all of you to have your own spaces if you so choose. The royal family isn’t nearly as expansive as it was in years before. Come, come…”

Mildred made a turn down the hall and began to show the group other facets of the plaza. They stumbled across studies, baths, relaxation areas, most of which Haru found rather indulgent and unnecessary. Nonetheless, he listened when Mildred insisted on talking about what scandals the plaza has kissed and where and why.

Tallyho was the most excited about the dining room which was, in essence, the size of the academy’s dining hall but with one long food ridden table that everyone who lived in the plaza was allowed to sit at and partake in. Her mouth welled with warm saliva as she eyed the food which was continentally diverse and abundant in every way:
Baskets of produce, white corn grilled over the fire ready to be peeled from their husks and slathered with fresh butter. Strawberries and bananas huddled into bowls with peaches whose pits where buried in soft orange flesh, uncooked banya complete with its prickly peel and ready to be cleaved by prying, hungry fingers. Pies, meat and fruit alike, some small enough to warm just the palm of one’s hand, rose jelly of many varieties and colors, breads and puddings drowned in cinnamon and sugar. Fine cuts of tender meat, pork and beef and chicken and fish that wafted delicious aromas down the hall. Large shrimp and salmon wrung from eastward piers. Cabbage and ginger soups and hot cereals. Finger sized cakes accented with coco beans for decoration. Tallyho was extremely hesitant about leaving this room, and wished that the tour had ended there. Not just because she put more thought into foods than her actual peers but because that was probably the most well put together spread she had ever seen and she wanted to experience it before someone messed it up for all of them.

As they left the room Tallyho’s senses were overtaken by a soft, melodious sound. The calming whistle of strings and the ting of the harpsichord and suddenly a voice, a voice that upheld itself with a humble beauty.

“It seems she is practicing,” Mildred hummed quietly.

Just as she said this the voice died down, allowing the harpsichord and violin to dominate the melody, each chord and note vibrating with certainty and precision down the echo of the hall. Fingers bounced on the harpsichord’s keys with a special pep in a solo before the violin bellowed in with sharp, firm strokes of the bow. Mildred led them closer and the voice rang again, not singing actual words but frivolous ‘ah’s’ and ‘lah’s’ that were just enough to convey the chipper tone of the composition.

Tallyho, along with the others lumbered towards the room where two young women chimed away with their instruments and the third, very much like a candid song bird who slipped her way into someone else’s practice twittered away, her back to the door as the strangers entered.

Mildred urged them to be quiet until the young woman finished the piece, her soprano sent calming reverberations that could have urged the baby blue paint on the walls to shudder and melt.
Soon her voice became softer and softer until it was nothing. The young woman on the harpsichord peered at the large audience with curiosity. The violinist turned too. And soon the singer, with a slow grace turned her attention to the new distraction, a host of strangers fumbling through her plaza with saucer eyes.

Tallyho studied the young woman. Honey hair hosted a set of curls and not the kind of curls that Tallyho or Lillian wore. These were curls most likely for fashion if anything else—a purposeful beauty trend. Her heart shaped face and high cheekbones gave way to gray eyes that glimmered with a lust for life. Her lips were tight, as if she were trying to suppress a smile or a laugh, small white hands fidgeted at the skirt of her yellow dress. With a slight tilt of the head, the kind that, instead of for confusion, was used to condemn a rascal in the act while still being polite, the young woman spoke to Mildred.

“Now certainly you weren’t standing there the whole time?”

Her face was becoming pink and it was apparent that she was a bit embarrassed.

Mildred laughed, “Oh, don’t be silly Princess!” She turned to the warriors and gestured towards the girl who she had just referred to as a princess.

“This is Princess Morgan, the only daughter of King Rembrandt and the younger cousin of General Cress.”

Then she turned to Morgan.

“Princess, these are the Month Warriors. The only and true.”

Any grace the young woman had prior to introductions was thrown away in one brief moment. As the musicians behind her exploded into their own chatter of excitement. Morgan hopped slightly, her hands moving from the fabric of her dress towards the group in a gesture of disbelief.

“Oh! Oh, oh, oh! You were the ones who did the flock! Oh! How I wish I could have seem that! Oh I heard so much about it though from my cousin! I heard that all of you were Za-ping and pow-ing and the boom and bam!”

As the princess howled relatively unbelievable sound effects she moved with purpose, her tight fists punching the air daintily as she posed like a super hero from a 1950’s comic book.

“Okay, okay that’s enough Princess…”

“Oh do they have plans already? Let me take over the tour huh? I’ll show them their rooms, and take them to the gardens down the way if they really want!”

“Princess… I’m sure they don’t—”

“Ooooh Oh pleeeaaaase Mildred? Please?”

Mildred looked to Haru for approval. The cat guardian glanced around the room, relatively caught off guard. Why were they asking him anything? He thought he was off duty.

“Ah…Whatever is most convenient for you Princess…” he struggled to switch to his diplomatic cap.

“Oh just call me Morgan!”

/I want you, Autumn, Kyle, and Tallyho to get on a platform and come up for the second wave. Tell the others to hold ground.\
/Yes, sir.\

"Ouff..." Lillian muttered as she was stumbled into by Haru, clenching the wall she leaned on tightly to keep her balance. Her look of absolute calm faded with a sharp glance at the other Guardian in obvious confusion and concern, until she caught the glint of his eyes regaining a sense of self. Humm. She remembered that look and the feeling that came with it well, and not just on anyone (all though, like Haru, they weren't insignificant by any means) - but specifically, herself. That had been a long time that talking verbally was scarce in asking others assistance or announcing plans or anything really. It was good to see Falke seemed to have worked his rather small achieved chunk of September's gifts enough in order to use it in the midst of battle successfully, even though that hit on his head early that she'd caught the end of with an inward sympathetic wince hadn't helped him much she suspected. “Alright let’s lower a platform.” Lillian nodded, moving to aid Haru and other guardians near the cranks to help haul up the warriors that were called up for the second wave.

Falke back-pedaled from his latest kill, blowing a shaky, hot breath, whirling his weapon into a defensive hold, as he collected his bearings to the direction of the platform and the others' scattered mental activity. He took off shortly in a painful, gimping, but ground-covering lope toward the wall, even as he called on his mental powers with a struggle to be heard over the ringing in his head.

/Tallyho, Autumn, Kyle: Get to the platform and come up for the second wave.\
/Everyone else hold ground!\

"FALKE! TALLYHO! AUTUMN! KYLE!"

Falke arrived the last at the platform, struggling against the soapy muck sticking to his boots and water weighing down armor and clothes alike, hauling himself unto it with a grunt of pain and wistful snarl of the sheer effort on his lips. The damped wood of the platform creaked and groaned as it began steadily moving upward, and it wasn't long until they had reached the top of the wall. Uneasily, he swung himself over the lip, with careful emphasis as he landed of not putting any more weight than necessary on his bad left leg with its' tattered and splintered brace and screaming muscles and achingly sore bones. Tilting his head to listen with a painful wince of focusing over his own weariness and exhaustion and others' similar thoughts and emotions weighing heavy on his mind on Haru as he pointed and divided out orders.

“Do exactly what you were doing down there but without the fighting part. Focus more.”

Falke nodded warily in ascent, stalking back to lean against the wall, hands gripping tight the stony lip. He looked for all the world to be resting from the battle, but the reality as he scowled down from above on the battle like a particularly cranky gargoyle, sightless eyes looking bemused as they floated here or there, focusing for a moment before moving on, he was bringing his passive mental powers (what little he had) up to play more, without the added distraction of being killed. Quelching the doubts of his power on the back burner, and focused.

It was much easier than he had imagined, a floating, ethereal short of feeling, of moving around in the minds of those fighting, those trying to eat them, and relaying the viable or worth wild information back to Haru. He'd always had a sharper will and resulting knack for the physical training he supposed, especially with how comfortable he'd become with using his weapon and love of fighting despite his disability. He'd worked hard to be able not to just rely on these supposed mental powers eventually becoming more useful than knowing the latest gossip before everyone else or knowing anyone's else secrets (sometimes before they themselves knew they had one, or more), and just kicking in to save him one day. But now with a couple steadying breaths, not busy worrying about being eaten, and ignoring the slight but growing pressure beating on the instead of temples; his abilities were proving to be a little more useful.

On, and on, and on the battle went, until...
Falke paled, blinking in shocked disbelief as he intently glanced with as much focus as he could toward the dark hills in the distance. He didn't have any words to really describe it for Haru, because all he were the screams of 'little' cyclopean trampled underfoot - it was big and it was coming. Nor did he really need to speak as a growing sense of panic and dread was emitted from those of the city, as the top of this monstrosity head rose above the hills in the distance, coming closer, and visually becoming a larger threat. No one would appreciate a running commentary of what they could see for themselves.

“Call them all back!"
/Fall back! Get to the platform now!\

When the others finally returned to the top of the wall, the behemoth moved closer, crushing its' shrieking brethren beneath its' massive appendages with each heavy, lingering step. He could hear as much as feel Tallyho's thick, snob-covered sobs of anguish of pulling herself and her energy together, but did not dare give her anything more than the presence of mind, in order not to distract her; Kyle's wavering confidence and determination as exhaustion pulled hard at his abilities for his attention, but like Tallyho he did not offer any what he deemed distracting support (not that the April warrior would even bother to listen for some absurd reason); and Haru's howling commands.

In a magnificent finale of a climactic battle: Water roared. Nearly invisible electricity crackled. The bang of the cannon, and wiz of the cannon ball careening through the air, striking its target dead in the center with a thundering thud. Then the shattering of the beast, shards sleeting down in an oddly beautiful crystalline melody. It was over, they had all managed to survive.

A select few of the Month Warrior group was left standing, while others crumpled into unconsciousness via sheer exhaustion of battle fatigue or overwhelming use of their powers sapping them of their strength, and/or more pressing concern like an open, bleeding red, red human blood, wounds causing their falls. Falke was one of those that had remained barely staying upright, exhausted from the battle and strenuous use of his abilities, but had not moved to help like some who were still able could and did. Frankly he did not think he would have been able to if he tried...

His eyes were impossibly wide, glinting in confused, fearful, and silent agony, air in their depths. With the start of the sudden, wild roar of hope and disbelief from the entirety of Ve Marie, followed continuously by joyous cheers and shrieks of triumph, at the battles' conclusion; came the influx of similar to his own emotions and thoughts without a purpose of being use for some rhyme or reason, bashed into his open mind, hard. He supposed he'd opened himself to much, and overextend his abilities. It was hard enough to remember himself as Falke, instead of so-in-so, crammed and pressuring in terrific migraine that would make anyone's sanity run for the hills; but it was bad enough to mask the soreness of his bad leg, and the ringing blow on his head that would no doubt bruise in time he suspected.

In short order, things began moving as medics hurried onto the scene to collect the unconscious and too wounded to walk and prodded at those still standing so see if they too wouldn't suddenly collapse on the walk to a place of rest. Falke as battered as he was physically and felt mentally, waved off the ministrations of a medic, not wanting any contact to inspire anymore of the painful hiccup he was already experiencing due to his powers. He gimped an uneasy, weary gait, between the guards that gave him personal space quite unlike there first time. Head down, and teeth gritted in a snarl hidden under pursed lips, as they made their way through the crowd, trying to collect his scattered mind and ignore the celebration of being a 'hero' of the city folks around them.

Arriving at the safe house, Falke had managed to calm himself down enough to have enough presence of mind necessary for a bath to clean him of the blood, sweat, and grime from the battle, and dress himself in fresh, clean clothes. Before passing out in an uneasy slumber, too queasy to attempt to eat anything as of yet...

---

To say things were getting better for every warrior over the three days of rest would have been an understatement. Certainly the better treatment, living conditions, food, and the ability to a much needed bath; definitely helped, no doubts about it. But Falke found himself struggling to remain silent as he hid what felt at times a fading of his sanity.

What could only be truly described as the result of an overextending on his grasp of his mental powers during the battle of the Flock. It was having too many others' reckless thoughts and emotions running rampant, and doubling his own mindset's similar thoughts and emotions with each recurring person. Twelve had already felt like too much rattling around in one head, but then considering the addition of the few Guardians their group contained thus far and the various Cyclopean on top of that, AND then... The crowd, nigh the whole city of Ve Marie in all reality, had roared in exhilaration and disbelief that the battle had been won by beating the monstrosity and the month warriors were officially back. Nor, he supposed, did his battered head with a bruised temple ending with a sweep into a black eye, and likely concussion to match, did not help matters much either.

It was like having PTSD in a matter of speaking plainly. Not that his thoughts and emotions would have normally bothered him so drastically to feel like he was losing himself and his mind. All though he wouldn't have put himself past the stray nightmare or two after the fact, if thinking honestly about what they had all gone through. But the sheer struggle of having so many similar post traumatic thoughts and emotions of everyone from the battle still lingering fresh on his mind, having not petered off like they hopefully would have by now, that felt horrible to have to experience over, and over, and over again. He didn't know what to do to fix himself, except silently suffer through it, riding it out like a bad migraine, and hope it would get better over time. Oh, bloody hell, really, what other disorder would be able to match quite as well to magic power issues from another world suck sometimes on the disorder list other than that.

There was an odd flutter of his shoulders, a repressed jerking spasm of anxiety, and twittering, clasping repeatedly into a fist, fingertips, that wasn't uncommon now in the three days after the battle. It was the only way his roughly PTSD condition came out was by quivering muscles, being that he had had learned quickly to bite his tongue over the shuttering, pitiful moans that had occurred with them at first (right after one of the first haunting nightmares, very difficult to ignore or forget for hours afterword). However, he mostly put it off that he'd stepped off wrong on or hit his bad leg again, or a breeze had just caught him right for some jitters, only if anyone brought it up after noticing it and asked him about it. A white lie or two seemed a higher alternative than saying he felt he was losing himself, during the effort to regain his own mind again. Otherwise, Falke kept to himself, quiet, and avoiding any additional attention.

On the day of relocation, Haru had disappeared out the door with political purpose on his mind, and the Academy three (well, the three Elites that were still with them) and Karma returned shortly after there departure - Falke found himself reluctantly trying to force himself out of the room where he'd hid himself and his shaking issue for most of the day, under the guise of not feeling up to standing on his feet more than need-be at a given time, to give them a warm nod of a greeting from afar and a thankful murmur in return for the praises for what they had done the older two gave. It wasn't long before Haru returned, rounded everyone up for another escorted walk until they arrived at a grand gate.

Mildred certainly made an verbal impression at the very least. She played a smart and well put together tour guide extremely well as she discussed the history of the palace grounds with an astute and studied air. But the talk of unnecessarily extravagant but grand enough for its' purpose to awe and humble of the architecture, especially the two sets of bloody staircases, was wearing thin on him. Or, a better use and precision of language would instead discuss how he knew a shuddering episode would come soon and despite the finer materials used to construct a new splint around his leg to aid his walking (it really got sore after a while, truthfully).

The music was the first thing to distract Falke from Mildred's and his own internal monologue. The sweet sounds of violin stings humming and the harpsichord twinkling, dancing together with a fragile but pretty voice intertwining with the musical instruments in a high but easy on the ears tune. As they appeared at the edge of the room near the song's end, the singer was introduced as Princess Morgan. Her lady-like impression and carefully articulated words fell flat quickly, as she exuberantly whooped and darted into a display of the story of the battle like an comic character.

Then she begged to take them on the tour, and while it wasn't nearly as educational as Mildred's dutiful recounting, he thought it was just as tiring if not more so by her wandering thoughts, and varied stories. Falke found himself slowly but surely gimping further behind than the main group, the lagging tail of the comet as it were. Wordlessly, he would catch up until as they started moving on again to the next distracted lead would take them.

Eventually the tour bled into dinner, with the Princess refusing to leave and offering cheerful continued conversation with anyone who would continue. Falke obliged not to join, and remained silent - as he carefully cut up his meal into bite sized pieces, and enjoying the ability to be able to sit down for a time without being required to move any further. Having finished his meal, he waited for their next destination after everyone else finished their own plates, hands clenching and fingers shaking (thankfully his shoulders didn't feel like joining them, this time) as they were hidden under the table.

The evening ended as they were dropped off at the stair room, with instructions on how to find to find their rooms, rooms for individuals. After a painful, but steady climb, Falke retreated to his own room automatically. The promise of soft beds, clean sheets, getting off his feet, and out of the presence of 'people'; were expressly inciting for him, especially given that any amount of sleep would be nice - knowing full well a handful of nightmares was always a possibility...

Note: This post is going to be a big skip briefly going over some of the weekend’s events leading to the ceremony thing. Hooray~~~

Tallyho was able to force tears back into her head. But this didn’t stop her mind from wandering in the night. They had found her. And under any circumstances she might have been upset about this, yet she felt happy to know that they found her in this state. Mounted on the kings horses, celebrated by the oppressors. Imagine that—a sun person—a month warrior.
The next couple of days had the same glamor and appeal that the parade day had. But it seemed that as each day zipped past the total luxury of the events and all of the work put into them became more obvious. Tallyho thought that the parade came across as a bit disorganized (and oh, when in Goddess’ name did she start critiquing organized celebration anyway?) but she came to realize the next day that getting the performers in line, their costumes, and the military men out of their drunken stupors from a night of debauchery really had Mildred running. Even though the month warriors did their final measurements for their custom made gowns and suits, Mildred still had to find clothes for them to wear at other events. Saturday before the mass, the king requested a sudden breakfast with the month warriors—a get to know you of sorts. Mildred seemed to come up with clothes for that and had them sent to each warrior and guardian’s door early in the morning.

King Rembrandt wasn’t what a naïve girl like Tallyho would imagine a king to be. To Tallyho, Kings were disgustingly pompous, self-serving, stoic figures of power whose life objectives were to squander and steal land from opposing kingdoms and bend the tax system in the favor of their gold pouches. Rembrandt was almost a horribly done parody of such a figure and Tallyho thought this in the nicest way possible. Every time he started to say something pompous—something that could also be accompanied by an upward pointing pinky—he did something ridiculous: A large crumb of bread hanging very obviously from his rusty beard or a ridiculous belch escaping him. And every time it happened, he recognized how stupid he seemed. And instead of getting mad about it, he laughed it off. Tallyho could certainly see where Morgan got her jolly disposition.

The way that Morgan interacted with her father was also an interesting sight. While most girls might be embarrassed of their father’s gas, Morgan laughed giddily with him. At some point during the breakfast she attempted to make herself burp only to be scolded by a very stressed Mildred. During the meal Morgan and the King spoke fondly of a missing family member. A brother—Tallyho couldn’t quite remember his name off the top of her head—who was the head of the military. The blonde’s thoughts instantly turned to Trent but her speculations were squashed when Morgan clarified.

Trent was the official head of the military while her brother was off on a military campaign. He was her cousin—the first born and only son of King Rembrandt’s younger brother.

Trent came in to eat with them a little bit later but he was unusually detached. It was almost as if he was bored with taunting the month warriors which, knowing him, wouldn’t be that far from the truth. He did however, to Tallyho’s surprise, greet Dorian by name upon sitting down. He didn’t sit next to the March warrior, or even continue a conversation with him, but the fact that he recognized Dorian in a respectful enough way baffled the blonde. She wasn’t sure if Dorian would catch her gaze, but after the fact she turned to him, green eyes full of confusion and interest.

Later they had to change again. For mass, Mildred made sure that everyone wore white. However, she didn’t bother to make that a requirement for party members like Dae, Liam, Mori, and Karma. Tallyho had never done anything like it before, but the mass was exactly what she would expect. It took place in the same great chapel where they tested themselves as month warriors. It was funny to Tallyho, being there again. And what killed her the most was that there was still a sizable amount of people hovering around the building, claiming to be month warriors!

Even though the event was supposed to be highly spiritual—a candle lit sermon and prayer with all the pews filled armrest to armrest with international royals and diplomats—Tallyho could feel nothing at all. Maybe it was because she wasn’t used to worshiping like this (or worshiping at all for that matter) but the entire display just went over her head. But there were some that seemed to genuinely immerse themselves in the experience. Haru—who was very noticeably not sitting next to Ryou—seemed like he would fall to pieces if his attention was taken away from anything the Harbinger had to say. And she couldn’t blame Haru for listening so closely to him. The Harbinger wasn’t a screamer or a preacher but he spoke with such an ethereal presence that it felt like he was telling you the meaning of life and that everything he was saying was indisputably true. It was just too bad that Tallyho couldn’t bring herself to become as involved as Haru. She only hoped that the goddess wouldn’t smite her.

Hours before the party, Tallyho decided that it would be a good idea to bathe before squeezing into yet another dress. She was a little surprised at herself for bathing so frequently considering the fact that the Month Warriors had done without regular bathing for quite some time since the academy was burned down. And even at the academy they only managed to get a bath every few days just because the lake would get a little too crowded or they had training or chores. After a servant woman warmed and filled the tub, she helped unlace Tallyho from her constraining dress. As this went on, Tallyho appraised her body. She wasn’t one to look in mirrors but she couldn’t help but notice a few changes since the last time she observed herself. She always had a more angular face than most children, but these days her jaw and cheekbones seemed to mold into straighter angles, her face more feline like, more womanly. She looked more like Lillian, not that Tallyho particularly minded, but it was…different. Where Tallyho had once developed a tan back in her days at the academy and on the ship, she was now fairly pale from being trapped underground in prison—probably paler than she was when the journey first began.

Her corset was undone and the servant left. With little effort, Tallyho shed the dress like a snake from its old scales, seething and hissing with mild disgust at the contours of her figure. How the outlines of ribs ran so close to the surface of her thin, cold skin. She stepped into the water. Never before had she noticed herself having body issues. So why was it now, after achieving a comfortable living condition and nothing to do but eat and be praised, that she was beginning to swallow these spoonfuls of self-loathing? She had only been living this way for what? A week and a half? So why was it that in the days of struggling in that goddess-forsaken prison, on the boat, at the academy, goddess, even in the days prior to the adventure, that Tallyho hadn’t thought twice about her own quality? She usually resigned to knowing that she was good enough. Period. And on the battlefield, while some quivered about what a liability they were for the team, she threw herself into the fray blindly. Not because she was more capable or more of a hero but because what else was she supposed to do? She felt that she was capable so she did it! And now that she’s here, taking a bath in an actual tub of all things (what a daisy she’s become) she has nothing better to do but suck her teeth at how the shadow of her ribs are superimposed on her much-too-pasty figure? And oh! She was doing it again.

Perhaps people were happier when they had something to work for…

As she pondered, a streak of blood wiggled down and pooled at her mouth’s cupid bow. With a disinterested movement, she swiped it from her face with her thumb.

/Not this again…/

She was tired of these things—whatever they were—that had been plaguing her body since the ship. These wretched, pointless seizures! It was embarrassing enough to have one in a prison bed. But did they really have to follow her everywhere she went? As she moved to step out of the tub, which she had not yet descended into, a gasp escaped her. Her muscles, all at once pulled tight and she lost control and thrust herself onto the floor—chin first—her wet feet slipping under her velocity as she tried to catch herself on hands and toes.

/Not this again. Not this again./

“Miss are you alright? I heard something fall.”
This was the servant through the door, not yet opened.

“I’m fine,” Tallyho hollered. By then she had regained control of her hands which were splayed below her, attempting to push upwards.

The knob turned.
“I SAID I’M FINE!”
“Are…Are you sure miss?”
It was all over now.
“I am… I am…”
“Yes miss…”


By no means was the small gathering a small gathering. The King wasted no time in bringing notable people from the western hemisphere, though a few people from Eastern Isle and Ira managed to make it. Tallyho, now over her instance in the bath, was just happy to find that there was unlimited alcohol being walked around by servers across the dancehall. And best of all, Haru didn’t seem like he was going to limit the amount they drank. They were in now, and they could be fools as long as they weren’t fools to the wrong people.

Haru begrudgingly came to this event. Having had his fair share of international relations when he was alive, he had no interest in the event at hand. He wasn’t even particularly keen on his face being publicly associated with the whole month warrior thing. Not that he was ashamed of the kids (okay maybe a little) but he was more content with being behind the scenes at this point.
Haru sat in the corner of the dancehall at one of the small, sparse tables available and drank idly. He watched as Tallyho downed drink after drink as she spoke to those who made conversation. He wondered if she knew that she was talking to the elderly Duke of Le Fay. Nonetheless, she held her alcohol well so he wasn’t so worried.

There were more pressing things for Haru Karokav to worry over and one of those was fairly obvious. Haru watched Ryou attentively, waiting for a moment when he wasn’t occupied by a diplomat, or his students, or Karma. Karma was probably the most trying obstacle. The young one, who had never heard the classical instruments live before, used all of her pent up energy to engage Ryou in a very intense dance completion. Well at least she considered it a competition. So as Ryou danced with her, Karma danced against him. And even though their motives for dancing were different, they seemed to enjoy themselves all the same.

When the time was right, Haru set his empty glass on the table, dusted his coat, and meandered over. He kept a distance, not sure how startled Ryou would be by his sudden approach from behind. And then he spoke.

“Sorry about the other night.” Well that was cliché. “I didn’t mean to come off so…so cold.”
One thing about Haru was that he rarely apologized.

Meanwhile on the dancefloor, Morgan scoped the crowd. She had no interest in sharing words with the diplomats as she found their company ordinary, tedious, and a little too boring for her attention span. She meandered towards a small group of month warriors (because let’s face it there are bound to be a few of them clustered up together somewhere) and offered a curl of the lips.

“Why, I do hope you lot are enjoying yourselves,” her neck cocked forward, “And if any of you are hungry, we can get them to circulate horsderves! My favorites are the little crab cakes!”

Without any room for silence she pitched in again.

“How about we all dance, huh?” She hummed as she did a little jig with her arms. Her optimism was…endearing.

Since the beginning of the cocktail, Trent gravitated to Dorian. Dorian, he decided, was the least annoying person he’d met thus far. And that was saying a lot considering Trent hated and considered most things extremely annoying.

He made his presence known, tossing Dorian casual conversation:

Attempting friendship through mutual disdain:

“The alcohol here is wretched!”

Attempting suggestive humor:

“The arms on that lady…” [Insert snooty chuckle here]

Attempting to be complimentary:
“I like your shoes… I have five pairs of them.”

And even trying to learn more about Dorian himself:

“So…Are you excited about the ceremony thing tomorrow?”

By the end of it Trent finally resigned to inviting Dorian to join him in what he knew best.
“Listen. Parties aren’t necessarily my thing. Me and a few of my men are going to ah… hit the town. I’d like it if you came. I mean, think of the fun we’d have with an actual month warrior in our crew.”
That was about as nice as Trent was getting. And with a curl of his brow he lifted his glass for a toast, waiting for Dorian’s reply.

Tallyho watched the Trent and Dorian exchange closely, meandering nearby so that she could hear just enough of their conversation to be a little embarrassed at Trent’s attempt at socialization. She wasn’t sure if she liked the idea of Dorian befriending Trent. Dorian was… well Dorian. A stone-faced sweetheart who gave Tallyho his banya just because he knew she liked it and showed her art on his cellular device. And Trent was… Trent. No explanation needed. Effectively tuning out the elderly Duke of Le Fay she too waited on his answer to Trent’s invitation.

The entire hunting trip ordeal with General Cress or Trent (as Dorian would probably never call him) went far better than Dorian had ever imagined. This was mostly due to the fact that Dorian had only imagined scenarios that involved in bodily harm (for him) or some Airian, grown-man version of Mean Girls. His taciturn expressions and unique ability to keep anything unsavory to himself served him well throughout the trip as he focused on the hunting aspect as opposed to Trent and his troop of nameless faces (no one had bothered to introduce themselves to him, even if he did slowly begin to learn who was who from the occasional irritated remarks spat at them by Trent). All in all it was a… tolerable outing, even when Trent actually began to speak with him. It started off as long monologues, usually insulting something, but slowly began to morph into things resembling conversations where Dorian actually had to respond and give his opinion, no matter how careful he had to be about it. Honestly, by the end of the trip Dorian was entirely convinced that for all of his prestige and royal blood, Trent was just as painfully socially awkward as he was hateful. Which, of course, made Trent's parting message feel more like Trent had given him a medal (and Dorian totally deserved said medal after the awkwardness he'd dealt with today).

The parade the next day was an entirely different kind of tedious and awkward. Clad in garments far too heavy and flamboyant, he felt like he was attending a costume party. And then there were the crowds, howling and cheering in a way he thought he didn't deserve and knew he didn't desire. His face remained impassive, staring ever forward in the visage of a stern warrior, but the hand clenched in his horse's mane and the splash of color on his cheeks, an embarrassed blush that looked more like he'd seen too much sun recently, showed just how he felt being paraded around like this. Oh, God, should he be waving? Smiling? For a moment he made the mistake of searching the crowd for familiar faces- Ryou having gone "missing" before the parade began partially to spend it with his loved ones and partially, as Dorian was beginning to suspect, to stay out of the other Guardians' ways- and was met instead with a wall of screaming people. Cheeks flared a stronger read and he was staring even more intently ahead now.

He didn't dare look up again until the music began, softly at first before quickly growing in volume and overpowering even the most fervent hollers. When he looked, he didn't notice the source at first but the reaction, the disgust and fear that flickered across some faces. Then he noticed Tallyho, tears prickling stubbornly in her eyes as they attempted to escape. Then he saw the people, proud and raucous with blonde, curly hair and flowers adorning their persons. They were all singing, the words lost on him, but the meaning clear from the joy on their faces and the tears forcing their way down Tallyho's cheeks, even as she attempted to stall their progress. He'd never asked Tallyho about her family knowing full well that she would tell him when she wanted to and not a moment sooner, and here was another piece to the puzzle that was her past. It was one of those obnoxious middle pieces that you couldn't tell really what was on them, but it was a piece nevertheless.

The pageantry of the day before bled into the next day as another new set of clothes was thrust upon them by Mildred, who Dorian was beginning to suspect was the actual ruler of the Rose Kingdom(because, really, Mildred). Their first duty was breakfast with the king which quickly turned from him wondering if he could remember the proper use of a dessert spoon to him realizing where exactly Morgan got her joviality from. The King was big and booming, but so warm and, not that Dorian would ever say it aloud, almost silly that the atmosphere shifted from tense to more relaxed in a heartbeat. It was nice, he thought, to see Morgan and her father interact, all giggles and great beaming grins, the picture of a loving family as they spoke so warmly of the missing Prince.

Trent's arrival was hardly enough to disintegrate the atmosphere, but the mere fact that he greeted Dorian by name was enough to almost give him a heart attack and almost miss replying with his own polite good morning. A few curious eyes flickered in his direction, but he caught Tallyho's gaze first and shrugged. Apparently he'd given a better first impression than he'd first imagined.

After breakfast, it was time to change into another set of clothes, this time all white in what Dorian had to assume was a symbol of purity instead of a brave fashion statement. More fakes lingered outside, smaller in number but the very fact that they had the audacity to keep trying was a whole other level of depressing. The event took place in the same stifling room as before, but now they sat as honored guests instead of the nervous group waiting for their death sentence to be handed down to them. Dorian was not a particularly religious person, even back on Earth, but he allowed himself to be drawn into the ceremony with the Harbinger's words, spoken with the charisma and eloquence that befitted his situation. Still, on occasion his eyes wandered to others in the room. Ryou seemed politely interested, hands carding through Karma's hair constantly as if to keep her calm with the gesture. He was seated far from Haru, surrounded on all sides by his students. Liam made an effort to look politely interested, but the stillness in his body was hardly from being enraptured with the ceremony. Dae was faring far worse, fiddling with his hands constantly until Mori took hold of one, effectively stilling the knight.

He felt more like a fashion model now as they were guided back to their rooms, specially made clothing thrust into weary arms. He took the time to enjoy his solitude if only for a moment. He rolled over in his bed, pulling out his cellphone and began to scroll. This was easier sometimes, a small but powerful grounding device that reminded him who he really was. He wasn't just the March Warrior, he was Dorian Roberts. The cellist, he reminded himself as the strains of cello music hummed softly from his phone's speaker, the Earthling, he knew as he continued flicking through his pictures, the son of Avery Roberts he felt as the stabbing longing of homesickness twisted in his stomach when a picture of his father, grinning goofily at the screen finally appeared. But the moment was always only a moment as a knocking at the door encouraged him to finally get changed, combing his hair- he really needed to get a haircut- to some semblance of neatness.

The small gathering was predictably far larger than Dorian had been led to believe. The room was full of important looking people milling about, sipping idly at alcohol Dorian couldn't name and some chatting among themselves as others began to filter towards the middle of the room to dance. There was Ryou, twirling Karma and apparently unaware that his daughter had challenged him to a dance off. Then, twirling in the midst of the crowd was Liam, a tall woman in a long, dark green dress held tightly in his arms. Liam whispered something in her ear and the crooked grin could not be mistaken. It wasn't just any woman but Dae Grimm, the Academy knight, short hair finally tamed and hints of makeup painted onto his(her?) features.

"Don't look to surprised," It was Mori by his elbow, carrying his own fine outfit with more ease than a child ever should.

"He- She- But Dae's wearing a dress."

"Well, of course she is. Liam doesn't have the hips for it." And on that mysterious and bizarre note, Mori wandered away, relieving Ryou of his pink-haired dance partner, dragging the only other child off for whatever mischief he had planned (it more than likely involved Princess Morgan who always seemed thrilled when the youngest members of the party indulged her).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ryou watched Karma be guided away with a fond smile before taking a moment to find the rest of his responsibilities scattered across the dance floor. There were Liam and Dae, enjoying an odd moment with themselves as they twirled and sashayed with the best of them, eyes never once leaving each other. Then there was Dorian doing his best impression of a turtle as he hid himself alone at one of the tables. But that was bound to change with General Cress sidling over now to talk with (or at) the March Warrior. He found the General disconcerting and more than a little concerning, even if he knew that him taking an interest in any of the Month Warriors was a particularly good thing. It was just-

Whatever "it was just", Ryou would never know because his train of thought was effectively stopped in its tracks with an achingly familiar voice behind him. He whirled around, golden eyes wide and more than just a little disbelieving because, for one Haru was talking to him and two, of course, Haru was actually apologizing. Haru didn't apologize, it just wasn't his style, but here he was doing just that.

"I… I know you didn't, Haru," Ryou replied voice sincere if a bit sad. He really could never begrudge Haru anything, no matter how much he wanted to. "It was my fault, though. I shouldn't have… Well, no hard feelings, eh?" He reached out to clap Haru on the shoulder, thought better of it, and settled on attempting to smile at the shorter man.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Perhaps it wasn't Kyle's intention to be heard in the ballroom, much less by the person he was addressing, but Liam had always had impeccable timing in these situations and that timing spread to Dae simply because they hardly ever separated from one another. The two paused their seemingly endless dance- it was indeed only a pause, neither out of breath or prepared to permanently stop for the evening- to stand behind Kyle, casual despite everything right now being quite topsy-turvy.

"Don't be so gloomy," Dae's raspy voice replied, her- and it was indeed her- tone sympathetic. "Things like this never do. That's why we make the best of things and try to live up to what we're supposed to do." She glanced at Liam whose hand never strayed from hers. "Now, try to smile- have to make good impressions, now don't you?" Her eyes flickered over to Ryou for a moment, then to Dorian as both men tried to make the best of their own situations.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Yes, Trent was socially awkward. Dorian had called it during the hunting trip and now he knew for certain as Trent worked admirably hard at his version of casual conversation. It was endearing, the way he kept trying, in a depressing sort of way and he attempted to humor him, his own attempts at conversation steering it towards less… awful topics.

The offer itself surprised him- and somewhat relieved him because both of them were struggling at this moment- and he knew that he didn't really want to go. He didn't like doing the whole running around town sort of thing, especially with what he envisioned Trent and his… crew(because even he could recognize that they were hardly friends, more like lackies than anything) enjoyed doing on a night out. But Haru's words echoed in his head- saying so to royalty most certainly went under the unfavorable label- and something about Trent actually saying that he'd like Dorian to come along struck a chord, and he found himself meeting the toast with a clink of his untouched glass.

"Of course. I'd like that." It wasn't necessarily a lie, even if it did feel a tiny bit like be was whoring himself out for the sake of the group and not embarrassing himself or the other man. Besides, maybe this way he could keep at eye on the General. For the group's sake. That was right. The group's sake.

Autumn chuckled and smiled back to Skylar, an obvious sign of emotional improvement. She remained the same in the days to follow and happily went along with the events. It was not unusual to see her admiring the many dresses she was put into. It felt so nice to have energy again. She hadn’t felt this good in a long time. She had been useful, she had been strong, and she was so happy.

The breakfast was enjoyable and Autumn could finally eat without wondering how much energy the food would give her. To live without thinking of those numbers, it was almost intoxicating. She was more than happy to go to mass, even though her belief in the goddess was shaky at best. The blonde was still trying to accept it as fact, despite all of the evidence in front of her.

Kit, however, was obviously a firm believer. Despite his disdain for wearing all white, something Autumn had only recently grown to understand the reason for, he was incredibly serious during mass. He listened closely to the Harbinger. In a way, his obedience seemed wrong to Autumn. It just didn’t seem like him. Here was a sarcastic man who had trouble holding his tongue and the almost constant impulse to prove himself to be the best in the room, following along like a lamb. It seemed odd, but then again there were people far stranger and actions far more puzzling.

As much as she had tried before the gathering, Autumn couldn’t twirl in her party dress. The large ball gown was simply too heavy and stiff. This time it was mostly black, save the skirt underneath the large beaded bustle. The lace trimmed sleeves and beaded top gave it an elegant look, though Autumn hardly considered herself to be such. She wouldn’t complain, though. Just because the dress didn’t suit her personality didn’t mean she didn’t like it. It was far better than what her guardian was wearing, but Autumn found most mens fashion in the Rose Kingdom was questionable at best.

Despite his (and by extension most mens) fashion choice, Kit was doing well at the party. While Autumn had nothing else to do but sit on the side and wonder if she remembered how to fox trot, the redhead mingled with ease and even danced from time to time. Autumn wasn’t too surprised by this. After all, he had grown up in the Rose Kingdom. From what she had heard, he had actually been quite wealthy. Things like this were probably second nature to him now.

Autumn spoke to a few people, but soon found them too hard to follow. Unlike Kit, she had no idea how to respond to topics of great literature from Aires or which painting in the plaza struck her as the most magnificent. These were Kit topics, not Autumn topics. Try as she might, she just couldn’t find the conversation interesting. Then there was the minor problem of seeing Liam dance with who she assumed to be Dae. Autumn had known for a while that she wouldn’t be getting anywhere with Liam, but it still hurt. Adding the fact that Harper and Xabier were now dating, well that just made it even more difficult. Sometime during her conversation with so and so from such and such family, Autumn felt the weight in her heart.

She eventually drifted over to Skylar, happy to chat with her friend for a while. She might never be able to be with those she was fond of, but at least she had friends. It dulled the pain a little.

“… and then he just throws the turkey!” Autumn laughed, retelling a scene of some thanksgiving reality show she had seen to which ever warriors were near her.

“I mean, sure it’s a little burnt but that’s just overboard.” Now she was feeling better. There were probably other ways to go about heartbreak, but pushing it back and ignoring it seemed to be working just fine. As long as she didn’t look at them, ignorance was bliss.

She smiled at the princess as she approached.

“I’d love to, but to be honest I don’t really know how.” Autumn shrugged, though it was a comical gesture.

“And I can’t do the worm in this dress.” She chuckled.

Falke had never been one to be overwrought with anxiety at the prospect of being touched. Enough family gatherings of pinched cheeks, cooing words of encouragement from any passerby that happened to notice his disability, and having one of the most protective mother's on planet Earth; should have given him an unconcerned and indifferent air regarding such matters. But still, even with the plausible excuse of his abilities now (seriously how many more people needed to be rattling around in his noggin, he was having enough issues as it was coping after the battle) being the cause of it, he was uneasy just listening to Miss Mildred's 'to do list' speech for them all over the following weekend. He did not like being touched much regardless of powers or not. Period.

The Tailors' were pretty much as bad as anyone could suspect. Poking and prodding, alongside, well, if you called that a measuring tape - Falke could share breathing space at times. Exchanging CO2 for additional CO2, with people who really needed a couple tooth-leaves or less alcohol before ten in the morning, was not what you'd call his highlight of the day. Upon being one of the last finishing with fitting, he was told he was going to be made a 'darling' of the city (whatever that meant) dressed in light, fair colors of blue, silver, and gold.

For the rest of what Falke had begun to deem as particularly lazy, maddeningly lazy days honestly, he surprisingly spent his time in the gardens. Even despite the occasional disruption of the Princess twittering away like an over-excited songbird and /needing/ to smell this new, positively delightful flower, or giving polite conversation until an errant thought took her away again; it was quiet, peaceful. He found an ability to relax, to meditate, and the shakes of his shoulders and hands that brought memories (and thoughts, and feelings) resurfacing did not happen to find their way to him for hours.

All to soon, the day was over and done with, and Falke attended the evening meal. He retired early to practice silently a few swings and imaginary hits with his weapon, exceedingly careful to not knock anything over; after a feeling he wouldn't be getting much time for doing it again between getting dressed between events, and the sheer mental and physical strain of heavy garments and public appearances to come.

---

The parade the following was one part embarrassment, and another terrifying. It was long, tedious, and awkward process getting into their, well, for lack of a better word, costumes. His own looked like a mixture of renaissance with a dash a Rome: A fine, powder blue brocade doublet, light brown leather riding pants and boots, hell even his splint had been decorated to complete the medieval requirement of his get-up; but the silver cape, er-cloak, or really blanket of sorts, that draped 'fashionably' across his arms and one shoulder and spilled across part of the rump of the fine, white horse he was astride, seemed quite frankly from a different era entirely.

Additionally the cheering, howling crowds lined the streets, created another hard pill to swallow. Yes, they had rotted in prison for two weeks, had still managed to defeat the flock and their leader monstrosity with lacking team work and abilities without anyone kicking the bucket thankfully, and the month warriors had 'returned' again, oh whoopie. He understood a little of their perspective somewhat, but... really... all this?

Falke struggled to remain a calm mask , in the onslaught of noise battering his ears and mind alike; biting the inside of his lip, mimicking the look of a thin, but confident line. His eyes wandered blearily in small snapping motions, observing the loudest, most fervent hollers and musicians behind and to the side for a small time, and to the other warriors in their group (all having some emotional rip-roar of one kind or another, to prick his attention now and again). And the blush that rose across his cheeks hardly showed, thanks to Mildred and tailors' insistence at covering his black eye and bruised temple (that had just started to turn a putrid yellow-green, it was not pretty by any means) with powdered make-up.

...

Lillian, like the other Guardians' had disappeared at the start of the parade; finding it to be a rare moment of luck to be free of feather as it were. Instead of being stuck in a jostling crowd, that could meet with unkind consequences should her shawl's hood fall (even with Tallyho's acceptance of being a warrior by TRK and Grand Harbinger); unnoticed, a lithe owl had flown into the soft breeze above the city streets, caressing softer feathers in short bursts from roof top to roof top.

She had kept along with the warriors progress throughout the parade watchfully, but hadn't been able to avoid to side street of the joyous Sun People. She lingered a moment longer there, listening to their singing and celebrations, a song of old of triumph for a village member, even though they'd forgotten much of the original words; it was still... Nice...

---

The 'excitement' of one day bled into the next. Another new set of clothes was thrust upon each of them by Mildred early into the morning, for a breakfast with jolly and warm King. It was clear where Morgan had exactly gotten her silliness from, and their interactions were as sincere as a family without any royal requirements or duties. The event was an odd moment of ease, in their tense and extremely busy schedule.

The all white mass was their next appearance, and despite the 'struggle' of being primped up again, this was something Falke could do, and do well. He had gone to enough church services with his mother, at the small Roman Catholic venue up the road from their family home in the outskirts of Hamburg. He was specialized in sitting still with head bent slightly down, wordlessly vigilant, and poised in thoughtful contemplation for hours on end. Much of the Grand Harbinger's sermon had gone over his head, due to his lack really of truly understanding the Goddess completely (schooling at the Academy had helped, but still he felt at a loss really), but it didn't mean he couldn't remain proper and play the part as needed.

...

Lillian seemed to as intent as Haru, watching the Grand Harbinger with a quiet sort of ferocity most had never seen from her actively. While she had always been openly religious with anyone who had asked about or seen or heard her 'to the One' phrases, she had never been so devout. Or, being more politically correct, trying so hard to be devout. The One above, she was sorry but it still felt wrong, even after so many years of trying so hard, to be sitting here, still as they could be, all attention on the sermon - her cold, bitter heart was not in it.

...

Oh, what a darling! What a pretty young man! That little, blind and broken babe.

Fei. No matter how often the words we're repeat in his presence since the beginning of the "small" yet exceeding extravagant gathering of nobility from all over mostly western Aires (with a small group of Eastern Islanders and those hailing from Ira too as well), Falke did not find himself ever getting used to it.

It was unnerving how quickly news had traveled or had been told in second-person, but the young September warrior found himself known immediately by name or at the very least one of the above statements. Nor was it a surprise really, being the only warrior that happened to be blind and was seen limping occasionally in a decorated walking splint. The inability of being able to disappear to a corner for a brief moment of respite was frustrating as it was alarming.

Most encounters were quick, brutal things, that Falke managed relatively well. Which usually meant he could flash a small, reluctant smile, a soft rumbling chuckle (that was obviously decisively false to the extreme few that had been able to get a geniue, deep, rolling belly laugh out of him twice, he couldn't be soft if he tried), and idle, empty conversation. Thankfully no one discussed the palace's artwork or fine Airian literature, because accurately enough how would he have seen any of it.

He'd only recently escaped from a group from Hales. The men had called him tiny brother, or something about an icicle in terms of his slim figure maybe, he hadn't been quite sure. Especially given that half of the conversation was in-between drunken laughter and bashing his shoulders and arms good naturedly with meaty fists. The one woman in the party had been more subdued, and had only left him with a soft kiss of farewell as they parted - leaving him now standing in a corner, with Skylar and Autumn chatting nearby about a turkey tossing competition or reality show or something, as he gently rubbed the red lipstick stain from his cheek in quick, determined movements from a small cloth a passing servant had handed him.

He glanced up as the Princess approached, still bounding with energy even after the long day at large as she urged them all to join her, dance with her, she would teach them. Autumn and Skylar answered quickly enough, that Falke believed he was safe enough from answering verbally. He tilted his head gently in the negative in response.

It wasn't that he wouldn't enjoy it, because really he loved dancing - whether, well, years ago now, learning the waltz from his mother; or the times on the ship, Tallyho hauling him into an elegant but rather silly and wildly swinging display. Nor his leg's fault, while still sore, it was getting better he kept telling himself day to day. But in all honesty the swirling crowd around them was the main problem... He had enough people recognizing him, just walking out of the blue into him. He did not feel the need to go in the middle where everyone could go 'oh look, the darling, that pretty young man, the little, blind and broken babe - he can dance too!'

...

Lillian moved quickly, departing from a conversation gone sour. An older noblewoman had been admiring her delicate coiled up-do, but had accidentally bumped a clip in her inspection and caused a chunk to fall out long, it's golden hues coiling naturally down. Her husband had taken the offensive, and had assumed correctly 'what' she was - using a drunken, heavy-handed slap to send her on her way when she'd declined a song, or dance, or the implied threesome later on in the night. Luckily enough, the hand hadn't been remotely close, due to too many under his belt; and she had been on her way, before anything additional could occur.

A thin fingered hand escaped the confining folds of her long-sleeved flowing dress, reaching up to pull the hair back with sure motions to clip back the errant dark golden lock into place. Pausing at the edge of the gathering, weariness clear in the depths of her washed-out, gray-blue eyes. Her already lean and angular face seemed rather pinched as she scowled, as her eyes narrowed as they made an idle attempt of locating the exit. It would likely be wise for her to depart sooner rather than later.