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Cyril Eisner

"I have little past, and think little of the future. Perhaps this moment is simply enough."

0 · 231 views · located in Fódlan

a character in “Fire Emblem: Apotheosis”, as played by Aethyia

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xxImageImageImagexxxxxxCyrilEisner
xxxxxxxxx◙◙◙◙* Male xxxxx◙◙◙◙* ??? xxxxx◙◙◙◙* 6'2" xxxxx◙◙◙◙* 195 lbs. xxxxx◙◙◙◙* The Professor

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AASPD x ▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌ AAACHA x ▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌


--Image- BRAWL very skilled with barehanded fighting
REASON some skill with black/dark magic
LANCE fairly good with lances
FELL STAR [LOCKED]
CREST OF FLAMES major Crest of Flames



Image When I was a child, I heard voices / some would sing and some would scream
- - - - - - - You soon find you have few choices / I learned the voices died with me .


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Cyril Eisner is a strange one.

Raised almost exclusively by his father, legendary mercenary Jeralt the Blade Breaker, among the band of swords for hire he leads, he's a rather odd duck. Perhaps the lack of socialization in this upbringing accounts for part of why he's so unusual, but even mercenaries often find time for more human interaction than Cyril seems to have had. He's a quiet fellow, not given to speaking unless spoken to, and there's a touch of awkwardness about him even then, like he's not quite sure how to handle himself around anyone who isn't part of the rough-and-tumble lifestyle he comes from.

For all that, though, he's neither rude nor a boor. Rather, he seems to be more of the observational type, the kind of person who studies a situation and considers it before either speaking or acting. This is true most often, to be sure, though he also has a strangely impulsive streak at times. Though he has a very keen mind for strategy, Cyril can be quite spontaneous, and willing and able to break time-honored tactical rules when the situation seems to call for it. He has an almost instinctive grip on gambits and long shots, and has learned to be unafraid of taking the outside chance when it's what he has to work with.

He is not an expressive man, and can come across as blank, almost dead, from his eyes and expression to his conscience, when he fights. The serene face he maintains even in battle earned him the nickname "The Ashen Demon," or "The Ashen Ghost" for the way he moves over a battlefield: strong, efficient, swift, and silent. That dark magic is ready to his hands, and that he often fights barehanded with the kind of strength that might break lesser weapons, only contributes to the fittingness of the name.

Cyril has never had much opportunity to live a peaceful life, or to form strong or lasting bonds with most anyone. He and his father are much too transient for that kind of thing, and as a result he's never really been attached to anyone or anything, and lacks much of the conventional knowledge that even the ordinary citizens of Fódlan have. As if to compensate for this, his intuition is keen, and he seems to have an instinct for drawing things out of people.

There's something about him, too. It's hard to put one's finger on, but aside from the dissonant serenity and the keen edge of his thinking, there's something about Cyril that just seems different. Perhaps it is in the way he carries himself—as though he were as much hunter on the prowl as anything, but with a native grace and ease that suggests confidence and an unusual sort of poise. Either way, he has little difficulty getting along in the world, for all he doesn't know and as peculiar as he is.


Image When I was a man I thought it ended / when I knew love's perfect ache
- - - - - - - But my peace has always depended / on all the ashes in my wake.


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Much of Cyril's past is a mystery, even to him. Truthfully, he isn't even sure exactly how old he is, though he figures he's probably somewhere in the vicinity of twenty summers, perhaps as few as eighteen or as many as twenty-five. His own memory is unreliable on the point, too, which doesn't help much. His father hasn't told him, and truthfully he's never really cared enough to ask. What he does know is that he was born on the last day of the Ethereal Moon, somewhere around two decades ago, and that his mother died shortly after his birth.

He was raised entirely by his father, Jeralt Eisner, who has to Cyril's knowledge always been a mercenary. He doesn't know anything about his grandparents, save that they are also dead, a significant amount of time ago, from the way his father discusses it. Cyril was a strange child, inexpressive and quiet even when he was very young. Though odd, this had its conveniences, as well, and he integrated fairly easily and without fuss into a lifestyle of constant travel and work. When he was young, he cleaned and maintained the mercenary company's equipment and animals, which taught him several vital stills.

Almost as soon as he could walk, his father had all kinds of weapons in his hands. Swords, axes, lances—he learned how to use them all. It was almost singleminded, the way Cyril devoted himself to the training, as if some part of him had a deep instinct for it, one that went beyond mere talent and into something about his very nature. The footwork of martial disciplines became the basis for the way he moves at all times. The reflex and reaction of the battlefield are simply automatic, making his balance and reaction times uncanny, nearly flawless. It wasn't long before he was joining his father and the company on jobs, probably around the time he turned thirteen or so.

Given Jeralt's fame, and the profile of the kind of jobs he could pull, it wasn't that long before Cyril had entirely unknowingly crafted a reputation for himself as well. An adolescent boy, moving over battlefields as quietly as a ghost, golden eyes glittering in the dark, a strange, passive calm etched into his features even as he hewed down foes twice his size, who should have been more than he could handle. It was, in retrospect, a thing that could very much terrify grown men, and the names "Ashen Demon" and "Ashen Ghost" came about as a result of this. Between his father, himself, and the mercenaries they trained with, the group was formidable.

Of late, they've set up residence in Remire Village. The band has recently downsized after the retirement of some of the older lieutenants, and Jeralt intends to rebuild its numbers by training locals, or so he says the plan is. Cyril is fine going along with it, save for one troubling consideration. For some reason, since they settled in Remire, the dreams he's had as long as he can remember, of ancient battlefields, destruction and blood and death, have grown more frequent and powerful. And with them, he has begun to dream of a strange, green haired child who speaks like someone's grandmother and sits upon a throne of stone.

Something about the dreams disturbs him in a way nothing ever has. It feels like something is changing, either in him or the world around him or both, and he isn't sure what to make of it all. Nor, indeed, what to make of the fact that his father has so little to say about any of it. It's put an itch under his skin, and he has no idea what would even begin to ease it.


Image All you have is your fire / and the place you need to reach
- - - - - - - Don't you ever tame your demons / but always keep 'em on a leash .


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Senka
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This line is here to take space.
I could not stand to add to her problems.

He can't quite decide what she makes him feel. Some part of him is concerned about how much he cares. It's different, somehow, from the way he cares about the others, and that is the part that worries him. It's been implied on more than one occasion now that there is something inappropriate about their closeness, and Cyril has no desire to burden Senka with that kind of reputation. She has enough difficulties already.

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Amalthea
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AARivalry xxx ▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌▌
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This line is here to take space.
She has a bright spirit, despite efforts to crush it.

Amalthea is a curiosity to Cyril. She seems to be of a similarly-limited upbringing to himself, with little knowledge of the wider world. This, combined with the Archbishop's treatment of her for a minor infraction, has made him suspicious of certain things, and, he thinks, oddly... protective of her. At least he believes that's what the feeling is called. It's interesting.

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Mercer
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This line is here to take space.
I think I understand a little better now.

The trip to the Alliance was enlightening, in certain ways. Though Cyril has little to do with the politics of it himself, he got a sense for what they're like, and he understands the point of the face Mercer wears now. It is politic, and enables him to achieve more than putting all of his feelings right on his sleeve would. A clever deception, but now that he understands it he wonders just how much it's hiding. What does Mercer feel but refuse to say?

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Sorcha
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This line is here to take space.
She seems to be coming into her own.

Sorcha will never be suited to the uglier realities of battle. But she seems to be able to accept them, at least for now, without allowing them to break her, and this is the balance he was hoping for with her. She remains a singularly noble soul, to his estimation, and there's something profoundly admirable in that. Time will tell on the rest, but he at least no longer fears that the worst will come to pass, psychologically.

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Vridel
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This line is here to take space.
He, too, is much more savvy than he appears.

Like Mercer, Vridel wears a mask. His is one of incompetence and shallow skirt-chasing, but it tends to be discarded remarkably quickly in the presence of the Saturday class, whose presence he rather seems to like. Cyril gets the impression that there is a weight of some kind on Vridel's shoulders, and that one day soon, he may need help carrying it.

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Coding by Aethiya, inspired by maccotango's guide to the same.


So begins...

Cyril Eisner's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal

0.00 INK



Mercer von Riegan

Mercer wasn't the kind of person who had exact faith in the Goddess. As Sorcha whispered for the Goddess to protect them, Mercer felt a bitter feeling go through him, however; he hoped for the same. Death was not something he was afraid of, but it was too soon. He had ambitions, things he needed to accomplish before his time came to an end. If he died here, on this field with Sorcha and Vridel...

He pushed the thought from his head and held his sword close to his body. Goddess or no Goddess, he was going to use whatever remaining strength he had left to keep himself alive. He didn't need the Goddess's protection, and perhaps she knew that. Perhaps she already knew that they were going to succeed. Somehow, they were going to live to see another day. Mercer had to believe in that thought, that they would make it through this with their own strength.

“We just need to hold out a little longer," he gritted through his teeth. “Just a little longer," he repeated. For what, he did not know. He could see that the other two were as tired as he was. They were not trained soldiers; they weren't ready for this. Not yet. But he supposed that's how his life was, being thrown from one situation into the next. He just wished that it didn't have to involve Sorcha or Vridel. All he had to do was survive. Even if it wasn't him who survived. As long as the other two lived... he'd be okay with that. They just needed to survive a little longer.

Live.

The crude lance Sorcha had picked up from the ground on their way out of the field was by this point covered in blood. The Princess herself was slicked with sweat, tendrils of blonde hair plastered to her face and neck. Her grip was shaky, Mercer could tell; she looked unwell, like she was fighting down the desire to be sick right here in the middle of the burning forest clearing. But still, she neither quit nor faltered in her stance, even though some of that blood had to be slick on her hands now, and even though she herself was bleeding, from the first leg wound and a few others she'd taken since.

On her other side, the Imperial Prince looked more winded than anything. His eyes were narrow, lips slightly parted to accommodate his breathing, sword still held at the ready. If he had any magic left, he was conserving it, though in a slightly lull in the action, he did reach over and tap Sorcha on the shoulder. Healing spells weren't quite as good as a proper rest and recovery, but it seemed to close up a few of her wounds, at least; she stood a little straighter.

The brigands, meanwhile, had figured out that they weren't dealing with average prey here, and slowed down their approach, fanning out and drawing closer all at once. One, a large fellow with a thick leather breastplate lined in fur, seemed to be the leader. He was definitely carrying the nicest axes, one in each hand—a large steel one, and what seemed to be one of the smaller throwing sorts that was enchanted to return on command.

He assessed them with dark eyes, face pulling into a sneer. “Three little whelps, givin' ya this much trouble?" he snarled the question at his underlings, pointing his axe at the trio. “S'pose I gotta do everything m'self."

“Hey now, I'm sure they're doing their best to take us down. We just aren't willing to do so," Mercer replied, a small quirk to his lips. He knew this wasn't the best situation for that kind of reply, but there were few precious minutes left. And at this point he was willing to draw those few minutes out with light talk.

“And hey, if you did everything yourself, maybe you wouldn't need your band of followers with you. Imagine all the money you'd have if that were the case. Why... I'm sure you'd be as rich and fat as the next noble," he continued baiting. That was likely to end their time, faster, but Mercer knew that people made mistakes when they were angry. And those mistakes would be the difference between life and death for the three of them.

“You first," the brigand decided, drawing back with the axe in his left hand and letting it fly towards Mercer.

Before he could even react, it was met in midair by a javelin, both clanging fiercely and falling to the ground some distance away. The bandit barely had time to more than blink in confusion before two figures, one mounted and one afoot, burst through the treeline from the side of the village.

The man on his feet seemed to have thrown the javelin. It was back in his hand a moment later, and even as he ran he lined up his next throw, hurling it with seemingly no effort at all for the nearest bandit while the mounted man—older, it seemed, and carrying an ordinary lance—charged his horse into their left flank with a short battle cry.

Of the two, the younger was by far the quieter, seeming to make almost no sound at all as he darted for the next bandit in the knot, leaving the lance through the other's chest. His hands seemed to light up with crackling magic; he loosed two bolts of it at different targets before flowing into a high kick, slamming his foot into the leaders jaw and turning aside the awkward retaliatory axe blow with the bracer on his right arm.

“What the—" the bandit leader managed no more than that before another bolt of lightning struck him in the chest, delivered by a heavy punch.

Vridel was the first to capitalize, lunging for another bandit distracted by the spectacle of his fellows falling like hewn wheat before the two newcomers. He landed two slashes, and the third stab felled his opponent, but another was coming in from behind, recovered and intent on attacking an easier foe.

Mercer didn't hesitate, and reacted with a deft hand. He lifted his sword in order to block the attack that would have sliced Vridel's back open. His eyes narrowed, and his teeth clenched at the strain of the axe he pushed against. His strength was almost depleted at this point, but he wasn't going to allow one of his comrades to fall as long as he took breath. He managed to make the bandit stagger, and took the opportunity to swipe his bow, now useless without any arrows, at the man's hand, disabling him for the moment.

Whoever these people were that were helping was of little consequence to Mercer. That they were helping at all was small relief to him, and it meant that they were going to be okay. Or about as okay as they could be. The two warriors were skilled, from the way they were fighting, but something about the younger man's face was unnerving to Mercer. There was nothing; no joy, no disdain, no revel. It was as if he were simply just existing and nothing more.

He wasn't allowed more time to assess the man as a sword came swinging in his view. It sliced a few strands of his hair, but Mercer managed to duck his head in time to avoid losing it. Better his hair than his life, he supposed. He twisted his arm around, bringing the sword up just in time to block another attack before unleashing a small flurry of aggressive attacks on the man. It wasn't the best idea, using so much strength at once, but it at least was enough to force the bandit into a defensive stance.

Hya!" Unbalancing him was enough; the Princess moved in with a surprisingly graceful whirl of her lance, building enough momentum with a twist of her body to cleave into his back and drop him. She was breathing heavily, hard gusts of air sawing in and out of her lungs, but she maintained the wherewithal to meet his eyes and nod once.

“I think... it might almost be over."

She wasn't wrong, either. The man on the horse and the younger fellow—still ignoring most of the fallen weapons and fighting with some strange combination of his fists and what seemed to be black magic—were quickly mopping through the remaining brigands. It wouldn't be surprising if those trapped on the other side of the fire just... fled, really. Certainly even as the magical fire guttered out, none of them dared to approach.

When the last bandit fell, the man on horseback dismounted, summoning the other with a nod. Both approached the trio, stopping at a respectable distance.

“What're a buncha brats doing out here?" the older man asked. He had fair hair, Mercer could see now, pulled into a short tail and shorn on the sides. His tunic was a burnt orange, bearing some kind of unfamiliar pattern in white. Several heavy pieces of armor lay around and beneath it, and the lance he bore was unadorned but seemingly of quality. He had a craggy face with a few faded scars, and a short, half-kempt goatee. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but his eyes might have been a light brown.

“Watch your tongue, old man," Vridel replied sharply, straightening to his full height.

The man only sighed, turning to Mercer and Sorcha as though they might offer a better answer.

She at least didn't seem to be in much shape to do so. It was easy to tell, with the immediate danger gone for now, that the adrenaline leaving her wasn't doing her any favors. She was clearly doing her best to hide it, but she was shaking—he could just barely hear the light plates of her armor shivering together with it. It seemed to be taking her momentous effort to remain upright; either her leg was about to go or it was just the aftereffects of the battle. Perhaps both. She leaned heavily on where her lance was planted in the ground, trying much too hard to look as though she weren't. Her face was drawn tightly; she didn't so much as acknowledge the Prince's rudeness, or the man's question.

“Uh, don't mind Vi. He's just very excited that you saved us," Mercer replied, rolling his eyes as he did. He glanced towards Sorcha again, pursing his lips together as he laid a hand on her shoulder. He stood closer to her, offering her any support she might need or want before addressing the two people. “I'm Mercer, and this is Sorcha and Vridel," he introduced himself first before he continued. “As for why us brats were out here," he paused and shifted his gaze back out towards what was left of the battlefield.

“We were doing training exercises when those bandits attacked us," he finally spoke after a minute of silence. “Our teach abandoned us the moment they did. We're really grateful to you for saving us, even if the grump over there might not appear it." The least Vridel could do was show some appreciation or thanks to these guys. It wasn't as if it would be beneath him to do it. One should always show proper thanks to someone for saving their life. Shaking his head lightly so that he did not disturb Sorcha, he glanced at the older man before his eyes landed on the younger one. He could feel a small shiver go down his back, but he couldn't tell if it was actually his, or Sorcha's.

“Uh, so. Thanks. Again. For saving us."

The younger man tilted his head slightly to the side, shifting his eyes from Mercer to Vridel before they landed on Sorcha. They were an unsettlingly-bright gold. His brows, some indistinct dark color to match his hair, furrowed just faintly, before his face blanked again.

It was the older man who did the talking, though, waving a hand dismissively. “Don't mention it." He frowned slightly, narrowing his eyes. “Teacher? You're not from Garreg Mach, are you?"

“Yeah. We're students at the Officers Academy," Mercer replied, offering a lopsided smile. “Like I said, we were doing a training exercise when we were attacked," even though the school year hadn't officially started. That would be in two days, if he remembered correctly. He glanced at Sorcha, though, and let his brows furrow slightly. They needed to rest before they made their way back to the Monastery. That, or if the teacher somehow made it back and they sent the Knights for them. Who knows how long it would be, though, before they arrived?

“You don't happen to know where the village is, do you? Remire, I think it's called?" he asked, hoping they would have an answer. “We could use some rest," he stated, placing his hand on top of Sorcha's head in a somewhat affectionate manner. She had a gentle heart, and he did not doubt that this was more than she could deal with at the moment. He wanted to get her some rest, or at least a place where she could clean up and get the blood and grime off of her.

The older man sighed heavily, and for a moment looked almost inclined to refuse, but then his eyes fell on Sorcha and he grimaced. “Sure, kid. Village is back this way. You can rest up at ours for the night, I guess. We've got a spare room."

Almost as if it were automatic, the younger man took the horse's reins and the rear position in the group, while the other led them from the forest. “Name's Jeralt, by the way. That's Cyril." He nodded over his shoulder to the blank-faced fellow. It didn't take them long to find the path, and it quickly became clear why they'd been able to arrive in such a timely manner: the place he led them to was a small complex, almost like a guardhouse or maybe a mercenary barracks. Not sizable, for such a thing, but then in a village this small it was more than expected.

Cyril disappeared for a moment, presumably to stable the horse, while Jeralt led them all to a squat cabin sitting on one corner of the complex, shouldering open the door and ushering them all inside. The room inside was cozy, with a small sofa and a couple of chairs, as well as a circular dining table with two more.

“Have a seat," Jeralt said, a bit awkwardly. “Cyril'll probably make tea when he shows up. It'll take a bit for the water to heat for any baths or anything."

Vridel took one of the chairs, pausing long enough to shed the red cloak he wore and at least smear the worst of the blood off so he wouldn't be getting it on Jeralt's furniture. “Thank you," he said after a moment, sinking into the chair.

Sorcha took one of the seats at the dining table, glancing once at Mercer with what might have been a flicker of gratitude. She'd taken her boots off just inside the door, and settled her cloak on her lap, twisting her hands into the fabric.

Mercer supposed he counted himself luckier than the other two. While he had bloodstains on his person, he wasn't nearly as covered in it as the other two. Thanks in part to the bow he'd used earlier, was his guess. At the mention of tea, though, Mercer turned his attention towards Jeralt. The name sounded familiar, but he couldn't place it. It didn't matter, though. He and Cyril, his subordinate from the looks of it, had saved their lives. And tea sounded really good at the moment. It would help ease the tension for him, at least.

“Maybe you should wash up, first, Sorcha?" he stated, taking a seat in the other chair at the table. The sooner she was cleansed, the better she would feel, was his hope. Once the water was warm enough, she should take the first wash. Mercer was used to being covered in dirt and grime, but not necessarily blood. His attention went back to Jeralt, though, and he tilted his head.

“So... are you guys Knights of some sort?" he asked, though he knew it was a redundant question. If they were Knights, they didn't look like it. And the way they fought, organized and methodical, spoke more of mercenaries tactics. He just wanted to assume that they were Knights. Mercenaries were not as bad as bandits; they didn't go around killing or stealing from people. But they were, essentially, blades for hire. If the bandits had attacked them with the intention of killing them, and not robbing them... well, that would be a different story and mercenaries would be the logical next step. Mercer forced himself to reel in his thoughts, though.

Maybe the events were finally catching up to him?

Before Jeralt could answer, the door opened again and Cyril came through, giving the group a small nod before he passed down the hallway to the left of the kitchen, disappearing into some other room. From the sound of old pipes creaking, he might be starting on heating the water, as promised. He appeared again a few seconds later, walking behind the same counter Jeralt had taken up a spot behind and pulling down what indeed seemed to be the accoutrements or tea from one of the shelves. He flicked the stove on with a snap of his fingers—it seemed to be the open-flame kind—and set the full kettle down on top.

Jeralt, meanwhile, was regarding them assessingly. “We're mercs, not knights," he said, evenly if a bit gruffly. “Is that gonna be a problem?"

“No." Vridel answered first, tilting his head to the side with a thoughtful frown. “Besides, you're not just any mercenaries. You're the Blade-Breaker, and he's the Ashen Ghost." The names seemed to mean something to him, though if anything, Cyril looked confused to hear them.

Mercer snapped his fingers in realization as soon as Vridel spoke. “That's why your name sounded so familiar!" he stated. “To think we'd be in the presence of such... such," he started, but couldn't find the right word he wanted to use. Greatness was too mild of a word, but he shook his head. “But like Vi said, I don't think it'll be a problem," now that he knew they wouldn't try to kill them at least. Plus, Jeralt the Blade-Breaker had been something of an idol for Mercer when he was a child. It also made sense to Mercer as to why he felt so strange around Cyril.

The young man was notorious on the battle field for his calm demeanor. Mercer could feel the grin forming on his lips as he recalled the stories he'd heard. “So, does that mean you're headed back towards the Monastery?" he asked curiously. The Blade-Breaker was known to be one of the greatest Knights of Seiros, but not much else was known about his departure. Or at least there was not much information pertaining to it.

Jeralt pinched the bridge of his nose. “No," he said flatly. “And I'd really prefer if you left me out of it when you told Rhea this story, thank you."

“Here." At some point, Cyril had made his way to the table with a tray balanced in one hand, apparently without any sound at all. His voice was quiet, but not quite raspy with disuse, a lower tone than either Mercer's or Vivi's, but smoother than Jeralt's gruff one. He set a cup and saucer carefully in front of where Sorcha sat with the word, and a tiny container of sugar cubes with a spoon next to it. “The sugar will help."

Her eyes widened; she'd mostly seemed zoned out of the conversation, but being directly addressed seemed to snap her out of it. “Th-thank you."

Cyril nodded once, then set another in front of Mercer—no sugar, though. Vi got a third, and a finger-sized container of milk, which he dumped unceremoniously into the cup immediately.

Mercer pursed his lips in disappointment. He was hoping that Jeralt would at least escort them back, however; he supposed he could understand. He would admit, though, that he was slightly surprised that Cyril knew how he took his tea. He didn't like sugar nor milk in it, and took the cup from its place. “Thanks," he spoke in Cyril's direction before turning his attention back to Jeralt.

“I suppose it's the least we can do since you saved us. And it would be poor of us if we didn't repay that debt," he stated. If there was one thing Mercer didn't like, it was being in someone's debt. “We promise not to tell the Archbishop of your involvement," though they would have to come up with some believable story as to how they'd survived. No doubt their good-for-nothing teacher might have exaggerated the number of bandits if he made it back to where the Knights had been stationed.

Jeralt nodded, apparently satisfied for the moment, and for a while there was silence as everyone drank their tea.

After a few minutes, Cyril spoke up again. “Water's usable. We've got spare uniforms if you need something to use until your clothes are clean. Bathroom cupboard."

Sorcha set her teacup down. “Thank you," she said again. “I'll... try not to take too long." Standing, she disappeared down the hallway Cyril had come from. There was a decisive sound of a door shutting and a latch being thrown, and then silence.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd

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#, as written by Aethyia


I.Y. 1180 - Great Tree Moon - Friday the 3rd
Remire Village - Morning - Sunny
Cyril Eisner


While the guests slept and his father ran the men through drills, Cyril went about the morning's chores.

They weren't complicated, really; it was all things he'd been doing since he could remember. Feed and water the horses. Clean the stalls. Tidy the practice yard. Check all the equipment and set aside anything that needed a clean or a sharpen for later. Make sure the mess was in order before breakfast, that kind of thing. He'd done a fair share of the cooking too, but they'd actually hired someone for that here, a village fellow who didn't mind making food in mass quantities for a steady wage.

Not that the quantities were that large anymore. The mercs were only about ten these days, since the last ones had left. It was something that happened sometimes. People retired, or wanted to settle down, or just decided they were done risking their lives for pay. His father never blamed them for leaving, never tried to persuade them to stay, and Cyril thought he understood why. It was a lot to ask of most people, to live this kind of life. It was the only one he knew; maybe that was why he'd never really felt the desire to live a different one.

You're a strange one, all right. The girl's voice was only in his mind, he knew, but Cyril was quite convinced that she was real. In whatever sense that could have.

As usual, he didn't reply much to the commentary, exiting the stables and moving to the well. The guests would probably want something to drink when they woke up, after all.

“Hey!" a voice, loud and boisterous even from the distance it had been shouted, filled the air. A group of men clad in heavy armour stood at least a yard or two away from the well, and seemed to be searching for something. The loud one was the first to approach Cyril, his brows furrowed and almost knotted. He was on the larger side, and appeared to be near or around his father's age. “You haven't seen three kids, one about this high," he continued, using his hands to measure the different heights of the people he was searching for.

“They are students of the Officers' Academy at Garreg Mach," he continued. The man seemed to be the leader of the group of men since he was the only one to approach Cyril. It was also possible that they had just sent the one man to investigate before joining.. “The Knights of Seiros are searching for them!" he continued, still in a loud volume, as if he were explaining who he was affiliated with.

Cyril had never met a Knight of Seiros. He wasn't even sure exactly what they were, except that Seiros was some kind of prophet or goddess or something. But if he had to guess what a knight like that would look like, he probably would have picked something close to this man. Dressed in white armor with a cape to match, clasped at his shoulder with some kind of fancy emblem design. He blinked.

“They're here," he said, much more quietly than the man was speaking. “They were chased by bandits last night. They're resting, now."

He might have invited the man a little further into the compound, but just then his father approached, probably drawn by the volume of the knight's voice. “Who the flames is—oh, great. It's you." He didn't look terribly pleased to see the man, but he did apparently recognize him.

“Captain!" the man's voice seemed to increase in volume when Cyril's father appeared, though he addressed him as Commander. “Woaah! It's been a long time! Do you remember me? It's me, Alois, your self-proclaimed right hand man!” Alois, as he introduced himself as, continued. He blinked, though, before grabbing his chin with his hand and leaned to the side a bit.

“You haven't changed a bit!" he finally spoke. “Oh, wait, I was here for a reason. This kid said that there are three Academy students here. Is that true? They were attacked by bandits and we're searching for them."

Cyril thought it rather obvious that his father remembered this Alois, though he'd never mentioned him before. Not that he could remember anyway.

Still, Jeralt rolled his eyes and sighed. “Yes, Alois, I remember you. And yeah, the kids are here. Cyril and I had to pull their asses out of the fire last night. They're lucky we were around, and got there when we did." He frowned outright, and crossed his arms. “What's she thinking, sending them out on an exercise with no protection? I doubt they're even majority age; that girl looked like she'd never seen a dead person before."

He wasn't derisive, Cyril thought, but defensive. In a way, he could sort of understand. He thought perhaps it would be disturbing, to someone who hadn't gotten used to the reality of such things.

Alois frowned slightly at Jeralt's statements. “It's not like they were completely without protection. They were with their teacher, and we'd cleared the place beforehand. It was supposed to be safe training exercise," he finally spoke, crossing his arms over his chest. It looked like the armour made it slightly difficult, and he dropped his arms back to his side. He cast his gaze downwards, though, for a second before meeting Jeralt's.

“So, is this your kid?" he finally stated, turning his attention towards Cyril as if he were asking Cyril the question.

Cyril was well aware that he didn't look much like his father. Not really at all, in fact, save that their builds were sort of similar—the efficient muscularity of a warrior who also had to march for days at a time to get anywhere. So he shrugged a little. “I'm a bandit, actually," he deadpanned.

He could have sworn his father sighed again.

The reply was enough to bring forth a loud, boisterous laugh from Alois. He laughed to the point that it brought tears to his eyes, however; he managed to recompose himself and cleared his throat. “I see the humor skipped you and was passed to your kid," he finally spoke, his shoulders shaking slightly still from the laugh. “Hey!" he shouted suddenly.

“Why don't you come back to the Monastery with us? I'm sure the Archbishop would want to thank you for saving the kids," he stated, his eyes going large as if he were anticipating a favorable answer.

“Can we not?" Jeralt replies, but his tone is a resigned one Cyril has heard him use before. “Never thought I'd be seeing that woman again," he mutters, almost under his breath.

Still, Cyril can tell the difference between his father reluctantly accepting a thing and actually refusing, so he nods a little at Alois. “I'll get them."

It doesn't take too long, though the one calling himself Mercer proves more difficult to rouse than the other two. Vridel was already up when Cyril reached the house; Sorcha woke when he knocked. He had to actually call out to wake the third, though; fortunately they were all ready to move out rather quickly. It was a good thing he'd done most of their laundry before the sun rose; their uniforms weren't in bad shape, at least.

His father spent most of the trip up front with Alois and the other knights, leading his horse instead of riding, but Cyril dropped back to linger with the others. Though they might have been 'kids' to the others, he didn't think he was much older than them—or at least appearances didn't suggest so.

“Thanks again, for last night," Sorcha said after a while. “Aside from our own lives, I don't like thinking about what might have happened if all of us had died."

Something about the way she said it puzzled him. “What do you mean, besides your lives?" he asked.

“She means there would have been a big diplomatic incident over it," Vridel clarified, narrowing violet eyes at the path ahead of them. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but you're walking with the heirs to all three countries in Fódlan right now. Not even the Church would be able to escape blame for letting all of us die on their watch."

Cyril was surprised to hear it, though his face gave no indication of the fact. They did seem to be different, from the people he'd met. He wondered if that was because they were nobility. He didn't think he'd ever met many nobles before. His father handled contract negotiations, and so while Cyril had been in the estates of a few minor regional lords, and sort of interacted with their staffs, it wasn't like any of them had ever deigned to speak to a hired soldier like him.

How odd that these three didn't seem to mind.

Mercer had remained quiet for the most part, occasionally yawning as if he were still tired. Perhaps bored, since he didn't appear to be tired at all. There was a faint smile on his face, and like Vridel, his eyes were kept forward. They did wander towards Sorcha a couple of times, but it appeared he was checking her over as one would to ensure someone was not harmed in any particular way. He seemed satisfied for the time being, and finally turned his attention towards Cyril.

“Yeah, but luckily we didn't," he finally spoke, resting his hands behind his head. “Hopefully news doesn't get out about the incident, though. I don't want to have to deal with all the Are you okay?! and stuff," he muttered the last part, and visibly shuddered.

“So, Cyril, have you ever been to Garreg Mach? Since your dad was a captain before?" he asked.

Cyril shook his head, considering the knights that walked ahead of them. Despite his initial reluctance to make the trip at all, Jeralt had fallen in among the others with seemingly no trouble at all; the conversation up ahead was animated, and Alois's loud laughter occasionally rang back towards the four of them. “I didn't even know he had been," he replied after a slight pause. It was difficult, sometimes, to remember which answers needed elaboration and which did not. “The monastery... that's a religious place?"

“You mean you don't know?" The young woman—Sorcha—was looking at him with a puzzled expression. He supposed she must be royalty from somewhere, but he had no way of knowing which, except that her name sounded more like a Kingdom name than one from the Alliance or the Empire. They weren't that different, overall, but there were some distinctions.

Vridel—that was probably an Imperial name—was looking at him with vague incredulity, too.

He shrugged. “I know that the Church of Seiros is some kind of religion," he said. “But it's never really been any of our concern. They have their own knights, so they don't really need to hire the likes of us. Or maybe my father just avoided the jobs because of all this." He couldn't honestly be sure.

Sorcha blinked, pursing her lips faintly, but the expression soon disappeared. “That's all... correct," she admitted. “I'm sorry if I was rude; it's just I don't think I've ever met anyone whose contact with Church teachings was so limited before. It surprised me."

Cyril tilted his head. “So what do most people know that I don't?"

She hummed thoughtfully. “Well... the Church of Seiros is named after Saint Seiros, the central figure in the War of Heroes a thousand years ago," she started, almost as if unsure where to begin. She glanced at him as if for confirmation that he knew that much already; when all he gave her in return was an attentive stare, she cleared her throat and continued. “Ah, anyway. The Church teaches that Saint Seiros received a divine revelation from the progenitor goddess of our world. Times were difficult, then; the kings of the world had grown greedy, and the people suffered under their tyrannical rule. So alongside the Four Saints and the Ten Elites, Seiros rose up to fight them. The Goddess gifted them with Crests and sacred relics, and with her blessings they were able to overcome the much greater numbers of their opponents. Nemesis, the most powerful of the tyrants, was slain by Saint Serios in single combat on the Tailtean Plains in the Imperial Year 91."

“And thereafter her Church was established to spread the teachings of the goddess and punish the wicked." Vridel's contribution was much harder to read in tone. Though Sorcha sounded like she was reciting a story she knew by heart and liked, his voice was much more neutral, almost like it was forced to be so. “No other religions are permitted within the bounds of Fódlan, though of course they do exist elsewhere. Brigid, Dagda, Sreng, Almyra—" he paused, flicking a glance at Sorcha and lowering his voice. “Duscur."

She nodded. “But in Fódlan, the Goddess and the Church of Seiros are ubiquitous, which is why it's so surprising you haven't heard of them."

Cyril absorbed this evenly, nodding a bit at the end of the explanation. There were other pieces in there he didn't understand—crests, relics, saints, elites... for now though it seemed better to betray the depths of his ignorance no further. Why had his father taught him none of this? Even if he wasn't himself a believer, it seemed... well, if it was as ubiquitous as Sorcha said, it was important to at least know of.

“But if this monastery is a holy building, why do they train political royalty in the arts of war?"

“So that we can handle ourselves if any of the surrounding regions decided to attack us. The Officer's Academy was built sometime in 980 by the Archbishop of that time. Supposedly it was because they believed that the Church of Seiros had a duty to prepare the continent's leadership for whatever wars we might encounter. Almyra might have had something to do about that, or some other," Mercer responded this time, shrugging his shoulders. Unlike Sorcha and Vridel, he spoke as if he'd learned the information not as something he liked or was forced, but as something that was needed.

“Personally," he paused to glance at Cyril through the sides of his eyes, “I think it's because the Church wants to make sure that the descendents of the Elites, or whoever bears their Crest, can be useful if something like Nemesis ever happened again. I mean... it's kind of unimaginable that it would happen, but why else have the nobility and leaders in one place?" he stated as if it were just on a whim. He shrugged again, before shaking his head.

“You should be careful what you say," Vridel put in mildly. “You never know whose ears it will eventually reach."

Sorcha just looked uncomfortable, but they both let it drop so Mercer could continue.

“If you and your dad end up staying for a while, we can give you a tour of the place. The Library has all kinds of books with information that might be useful to you if you want to learn more," he stated, glancing towards Sorcha and Vridel with a smile.

“I'm sure you'd be welcome!" Sorcha added, the cheer in her tone sounding slightly forced. Maybe some residue from the last exchange. “Personally, uh... I could stand to learn a thing or two from you. I've never seen anyone throw a javelin that well on the run like you did. I can barely get enough distance most of the time."

Cyril wasn't entirely surprised to hear that. While not exactly *diminutive*, Sorcha was thinner than she was muscular, and not quite possessed yet of a warrior's build. Still, there was no reason she couldn't develop one, and he figured if she was getting any force with javelins at *all*, her technique must be pretty good.

“Well I don't know how long we'll be staying," he admitted, “but I'm sure I could find the time to practice with you at least once before we go, if you like?" He extended the invitation to all three with a slight tilt of his head.

“Man, that sounds like a lot of work," Mercer murmured beneath his breath, pursing his lips together with a deep frown. His shoulders went slack, almost as if he were already burdened with a large work load. “But I suppose it couldn't hurt to learn a few things," he added with a grin. He was very expressive, it appeared. His attention seemed to be taken by something as they cleared the forest.

“Speak of the place," he spoke, pointing forward. “Welcome to the Monastery." The Monastery was fairly large, perhaps the size of a Lord's castle rather than a simple Church. They were approaching a large iron gate that was already raised, perhaps in anticipation of the Knights' return. A guard stood on each side of the entrance, though one of them held a banner flag. The symbol of the Church, perhaps. Mercer's lips pursed into a fine line, and sighed.

“I suppose we'll have some explaining to do, unless Alois covers for us," he murmured. “Really hope Alois covers for us. I just want to go back to my bed. I can hear it calling to me."

Sorcha huffed and Vridel rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. Cyril felt the barest twitch of his mouth, but it was gone a moment later as though it had never happened.

“I wouldn't count on it," the probably-imperial said. “But either way I'm sure we won't be called up until she's done with Captain Jeralt and you." The last part, he directed to Cyril.

Almost as if to confirm, Jeralt turned back over his shoulder and gestured Cyril up to walk beside him. “Thanks for the company," he told the others with a small nod. “And the information. See you later, I guess."

They parted ways there, along with the other knights. Jeralt tipped his head up as they passed through what seemed to be some kind of entrance hall, frowning slightly and muttering almost under his breath. “Rhea. Careful what you say to her, kid. The Church is..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

He did that kind of thing a lot. Cyril had learned to read between the lines, and understood that did not trust this Rhea person.

“You know her?" he prompted.

His father sighed. “Yeah, in a way. She's the Archbishop here. If you can avoid getting on her bad side, do it, but don't take anything you see here at face value." That seemed to be all he was willing to say on the matter, perhaps due to the possibility of being overheard.

The two of them were led to a small waiting room; no doubt Alois had to make a report before they'd be seen, or something of the kind. Cyril hadn't been around nobility much, but even he understood that there were a lot of rules and procedures to follow and that some people were considered more important than others. It was about an hour after they'd been admitted that they were let in to see the Archbishop. Jeralt entered slightly ahead; Cyril followed with customary silence.

The woman in front of them was dressed in a long dress, white in color with the sleeves covering the middle of her hands. The cape she wore was dark blue in color and had intricate gold designs on the front portion of it. There were gold lines through the collar of it that flowed outwards, almost like a sunflower. The headdress that sat on her head like a golden crown, was perhaps the one thing that stood out against the seafoam color of her hair. There was a gentle smile on her face, but the smile itself did not seem to reflect in her eyes. There was something else lurking behind, though it was hard to say what, exactly.

“Jeralt," she greeted his father, first. “It has been a long time. I wonder... was it the will of the goddess that we have another chance meeting like this?" she continued, her eyes narrowing lightly before she turned her gaze towards Cyril. “But where are my manners. I am Archbishop Rhea, and this is my advisor, Lyanna von Kreuz," she spoke, introducing a woman to her left.

The second woman was even younger in appearance than the archbishop, perhaps in her mid to late twenties, if Cyril had to take a guess. Her hair was a dark, almost emerald-green, braided loosely forward over one shoulder. She too wore white, though the construction of her gown was much simpler, and the mantle that adorned her shoulders, while blue and gold, was shorter and less elaborate than the Archbishop's. She wore a thick golden torc necklace that sat against her collarbones, some kind of symbol engraved into its face, and rimless glasses, but was otherwise without jewelry or adornment. She offered a short nod, spring-green eyes narrowed in assessment.

“It seems that the miracle of fatherhood has blessed you. That is your child, is it not?" she asked, keeping her gaze on Cyril.

Oddly, Jeralt looked a little thrown by the question for a split second, but he nodded slowly. “Yeah," he said quietly. “This is my son. He was born a couple of years after I left the monastery, but we uh... we lost his mother to childbirth."

“I see. My condolonces," she spoke, nodding her head in Jeralt's direction.

That much, Cyril did know. He nodded slightly. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Archbishop," he said in his muted sort of way, offering a small bow more because it seemed appropriate to the woman's manner than anything. He wasn't sure of the conventions on any of this, but his father had warned against getting on her bad side, so he could at least try to guess at the right ones.

“As for you," she addressed Cyril once more with the same empty smile on her face. “I have heard all of your valiant efforts from Alois. What is your name?" she asked, her head tilted slightly in a curious manner.

“Cyril, milady," he replied, rising to his full height again. He was sort of used to being the tallest person in most rooms since he'd overtaken his father, but neither Rhea nor the Lyanna woman were short, either. “Cyril Eisner."

“A fine name indeed," she stated, the smile inching a bit wider on her face. “I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for saving those students of the Officers Academy," she continued, nodding her head just slightly before she turned her attention towards Jeralt. “You already know what it is I wish to say, do you not?" it sounded more like a statement rather than a question.

“You want me to rejoin the Knights of Seiros, don't you?" he asked, rubbing at his nose with his thumb. He sounded tired. “I won't say no, but..."

Cyril was honestly surprised. They'd only just settled in Remire, and his father had been talking about rebuilding the company. Did he really intend to become a knight again?

“Your apprehension stings," she replied, the smile falling from her face as she frowned. “I had expected Alois would have already asked this of you," she continued, sighing softly before turning her attention back towards Cyril. “I must step away for now, however; we have a position for Cyril, as well," she stated, the smile returning to her face.

“Since the original professor no longer occupies the position, Cyril is being made the professor to the Blue Lion's House. The other two House Professors will brief you, shortly, but I surmise the Knights will desire a word with you, Jeralt," she stated as if it were something Cyril had no say in.

“Yeah, all right." Jeralt didn't seem to much question it either, though as the Archbishop and her adviser took their leave, he did mutter underneath his breath. “Forced back into the Knights of Seiros... I can't fucking believe it." A heavy breath passed from his nose, and he shook his head before turning to Cyril. “Sorry to drag you into this mess; I thought I'd left it all behind a long time ago. But she knows now, and I think it's probably best to stay, at least for a while."

Perhaps, had Cyril had any particularly strong feelings for the life of a mercenary, he might've objected. But as it was, he really didn't, and something about the way his father was acting made it seem as though there wasn't a great deal of choice to be had in the matter. He wondered if the Archbishop had some kind of leverage that she was using to arrange things this way. It would have to be the kind that was simply understood, because she definitely hadn't directly applied any in their conversation. She'd just kind of... expected to be obeyed.

Clapping his son briefly on the shoulder, Jeralt took his own exit through a different door, at just about the same time as a woman entered, her heels clicking hurriedly on the stone floor. Dressed in a dark blue gown with a deep neckline and high slits, she also wore a white over-robe with bell sleeves, accented in cream-orange. Her hair was fawn-colored and short, swept back from her brow in a bob style he'd seen before in parts of the Empire.

She blinked at him, scanning the room as if looking for someone else, but when Cyril was the only person to be found, she approached at a more sedate pace. “You're awfully young to be the new professor, aren't you?" she remarked, voice strong and lilting.

Cyril shrugged. “Old enough by the Archbishop's standards," he replied.

She huffed softly through her nose, a strange little smile curling her mouth. “So it seems," she said, agreeably enough. “I'm Manuela Casagranda: professor, physician, songstress, and available."

Cyril blinked. “That's a lot of things to be," he noted.

She laughed, the sound ringing in a way that suggested the songstress part was at least true. “What can I say? I'm a woman of many talents."

“Spare our collegue the needless chatter, Manuela. Competence and age are not necessarily correlated, as you well know," another voice stated as an older man appeared. His hair was a dark grey, signaling his age to be around the early fifties. He was dressed in a taupe colored robe, though, no white save for the handkerchief located in his right breast pocket. There was an olive green tie with a diamond shape clip to hold it in place. “Apologies for the tardiness. I am Hanneman, a Crest scholar and professor here at the Officers Academy," he stated, introducing himself to Cyril.

“I wonder," he began, his eyes narrowing slightly at Cyril. “Perhaps you bear a Crest of your own. The next time you have a moment to spare, I insist that you pay me a visit so we can delve further into the subject," he continued, a sort of amused tone to his voice.

“Now then, it seems that you'll be in charge of the academy's Blue Lion's house as their homeroom professor. I expect you haven't yet been briefed on the nature, have you?"

Crests... that had definitely come up in Sorcha's story. Cyril wasn't sure how uncommon it was not to know anything about that, so he only nodded slightly to that part of what Hanneman said. Maybe he'd be able to learn.

“I'm not sure how any of it works, to be honest."

Manuela made a sympathetic sort of noise in the back of her throat, clasping her hands in front of her. “Well," she said, “we can help. To start with, the Officers' Academy is divided into three student houses. The Black Eagle House is for students hailing from the Adrestian Empire. You've already met their house leader for this year, I believe—Vridel von Hresvelg is the Imperial Prince, and next in line to be Emperor. That's the house I teach."

“The Golden Deer House is for students who are part of the Leicester Alliance. Their house leader this year is Mercer, grandson to Duke Riegan, the leader of the Alliance. They are also the house I instruct," Hanneman spoke next in a matter-of-fact tone. “The Blue Lion house is for students from the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. Their house leader this year is Princess Sorcha. She is to be the next Queen of Faerghus."

“To think that the next emperor, queen, and sovereign duke are all here. It certainly is a promising year for the academy," he stated, folding an arm over the other.

“And I... teach the Blue Lions?" he asked, not sure how unusual it was to have three heirs running around.

Manuela nodded slightly. “To an extent. You're the homeroom teacher for the Blue Lions, which means you teach them every morning and guide them three afternoons of five in every week. The other two afternoons, they'll be attending special lectures from either Hanneman or myself. You, in turn, will be giving a special lecture to one of our houses, in your... areas of expertise." She raised an eyebrow slightly.

“I, for example, excel in holy magics, the use of herbs and medicines, and swordplay. Hanneman here is very good with black magic, bows, and history. It's not a bad idea to have two combat-related and at least one non-combat area to lecture on. It helps keep an interesting rotation for our darling little treasures." She sounded the faintest bit sarcastic, but it seemed to be good-natured.

“Anyway, other afternoons are usually given to special instruction from our adjunct faculty, or Knights who want to give a special topic lesson. So we have a fencing instructor, who might do a clinic on swordfighting, or sometimes Alois likes to let them play with axes for a while. But overall, you're the one who will be deciding how to tutor them, so be sure to consider their talents and preferences. Our goal is to make them all well-educated officers and effective fighters, but they don't all have to be experts in everything."

“Hm, quite," Hanneman spoke, nodding his head in agreement. “Regardless, it'll be interesting to see how they grow. Classes start on Monday, so for now, I suggest you take the time to acquaint yourself with your surroundings, before then. It'll be easier on you if you know where every thing is at before the school year starts. Manuela and I have already informed the Blue Lion house leader of your new role," he continued.

“Oh, and when you find yourself a free moment, do drop by my research laboratory. I would like to investigate whether or not if you possess a Crest," he stated, smiling widely enough that it forced his eyes to close.

Cyril made a mental note to do that, but only after he'd figured his way around the campus and also decided what he was going to do for his first day of teaching.

“Sure thing," he said quietly. “And thank you both."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd

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I.Y. 1180 - Great Tree Moon - Monday the 6th
Officers Academy - Morning - Overcast
Senka Rinaldi


Senka sighed softly as she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. The uniform for the Officers Academy was strange to her, however; she pulled at the hem of her skirt to fix it. Smoothing out her shirt, she was satisfied with the over all appearance. Her hair, loose and curly behind her back, was another thing entirely, though. She had grown used to not doing much with it over the past three years. Growing up with various ornaments and pins through it was a habit hard to kill, but she'd mostly managed. The only item in her hair, now, was a pin in the shape of a lily, fastened to keep half of her hair up.

Sorcha had given it to her last year for her seventeenth year of life, and she'd worn it without fail, every day since. It was a memento she cherished, dearly. Sighing once more, Senka made her way towards the staircase for the upper levels of the dormitory. They were reserved for the nobles's children and those of royalty, a position Senka no longer occupied. It seemed like a life time ago, despite it only being three years. She had to enroll under her mother's birth name of Argyris. Even if they were a noble house in Faerghus, it wasn't quite as reputable as any of the other Crest houses. She was just a commoner from Almyra to the people here, and she was fine with that lie.

With her hands at her sides, she waited patiently at the bottom of the stairs for Sorcha. Even if the princess had expressed multiple times that she was allowed to greet her upstairs, Senka refrained from doing so. Even if she was under a different guise, people still spoke; still whispered behind her back of how she earned her position in the princess's good graces. And she pushed those voices from her ears and thoughts.

It wasn't that Sorcha was hard to rouse from sleep. Quite the opposite actually; she was often earlier to rise than the sun itself. But she did have a way of getting caught up in her training, and she'd never been the most concerned with her own appearance, either. So it was hardly surprising that when she came down the stairs from the second floor, it was at a sprightly run that suggested she'd already been up for a while, and also a touch disheveled. She tended to pin her long, cornsilk-blonde hair up behind her so it was well out of the way, but she was still in the process of doing that as she hit the landing, and grimaced when she poked herself a bit too hard with one of the pins, sighing heavily.

“Senka, good morning!" she said, smiling perhaps a tad too brightly. She'd been a little off all weekend, but hadn't seemed to want to speak of why. Still, she seemed much like her normal self this morning. “I uh... don't suppose you could maybe, um... help?" She gestured vaguely with the pin.

She nodded, a faint smile briefly touching her lips before it faded. Sorcha knew by now that she could tell Senka anything, however; Senka knew when to push for something that was bothering Sorcha greater than normal. Since it was the first day of class, she was going to refrain from doing so... for now. She retrieved the pin from Sorcha, and walked so that she was behind her. Running her fingers through Sorcha's hair to pull out any of the tangles, she pulled it up and placed the pin to secure the tresses. Once she was finished, she moved so that she was back in Sorcha's view.

“Is it sufficient?" she asked. She would fix it again if it were not up to Sorcha's expectations, but in the back of her mind, she already knew the answer.

Sorcha breathed an immediate sight of relief, reaching up with both hands to feel along the contours of her hair. It was rather lovely, as hair went; the color was clear and the strands thick and soft, but able to lay smoothly, with only a few pieces loose at the front. “You're a lifesaver, Sen. Thanks so much!" She shook her head. “I swear I learned about all this feminine stuff, but I can't ever remember a lick of it."

Smoothing down her uniform skirt—she'd chosen the knee-length one, and wore fitted shorts underneath in case of activity—she patted herself down to be sure she was in order. Seemingly satisfied, she tossed her blue cloak back over her shoulder to rest mostly out of the way. “Anyhow, let's get going. First day of class and all—are you excited?"

She blinked for a moment, chewing on the bottom of her lip as she thought about the question. Excited was an irrelevant term to Senka. She wasn't sure what to find exciting, but for the sake of her friend, she was trying to be. “I am... anticipating how the first day will go," she spoke truthfully. “Excited is not the word I would use," she continued, not wanting to be dishonest.

“What about you? Are you prepared for the year?" she asked, turning so that she could walk with Sorcha towards the main hall. It wasn't too far from the dormitory. It would take them through the courtyard which meant that they would be passing the other students. Taking in a deep breath to steel herself, she began walking with Sorcha. “And are you prepared to meet our professor?" she added. She'd been told by Sorcha that their new professor was hand chosen by the Archbishop, and for a moment, she wondered what kind of person they could be.

Sorcha smiled broadly, nodding a little. “Actually... I've already met him," she confessed. “I didn't know he was going to be our professor at the time, though—neither did he, I'm sure. He's really..." She trailed of, apparently trying to find the right word. “Different. And interesting, I think. He was a mercenary, before."

They turned north before they reached the main hall, skimming the dining hall to head into the small courtyard in front of the classrooms. The three were quite close together; students milled around outside, enjoying the last little while before classes started. Some were still eating breakfast as they went, it seemed.

“I think you'll like him," Sorcha continued, lifting a hand to wave to another student who'd waved at her. Most of them only wore small pins to indicate which house they belonged to, but Sorcha's bright blue cloak would have stood out even if the Princess herself was not so distinctive as she was. Though there was some mixing of the houses out here, they did still tend to cluster; it seemed a rather large collection of Black Eagles were gathered around a man who had to be the so-called Silver Prince. Clearly, the name had been given to him for the distinctive white color of his hair.

The Golden Deer were gathered around a young man who shared the same skin tone as Senka. He was talking animatedly to one of the students, smiling as if he had no care in the world. She had to quash the envious feeling in her chest, quickly, and turned to Sorcha. She nodded at the statement and made to reply, however; Senka felt something collide with her back, and tipped her forward. She managed to catch herself, twisting so that her left foot was further out than her right in order to keep her balance.

“Ow, ow," a young woman stated, rubbing her forhead. She was dressed in the same uniform as Sorcha, the one with the knee-length skirt, and her hair was a vibrant green. While not quite emerald, it did stand out quite a bit. “Oh, oh, I'm so, so sorry! I didn't mean to bump into you like that! Are you alright?" she stated, taking Senka aback. She blinked slowly before straightening out her composure.

“I am not harmed, if that is what you mean," she replied. The young woman smiled brightly at the statement, looking relieved. Senka found it slightly strange, but she did not comment on the behavior.

“I'm so glad. I'm just so excited! I just joined and was looking for my Houses' main room. Oh," she spoke in quick succession. Senka almost found it difficult to keep up. “Do either of you know where I can find the main room to the Blue Lion house?"

Sorcha snorted softly. “As a matter of fact, we do," she said, picking up the edge of the cape and flapping it a little. “I'm Sorcha, the Blue Lions House Leader. This is my friend Senka. Can I ask your name?" By now the both of them were familiar with the noble houses in Faerghus that had children of their own age. Not only was this girl not someone they'd seen before, but she didn't look much like any of the noble families Senka had met either. Apparently the same was true of Sorcha.

“Oh! That makes you Princess Sorcha! Oh what a pleasure to meet you! I'm Amalthea! I've heard so much about you," she greeted. The energy that poured from her was a little overwhelming to Senka, but she kept her face smoothed. Amalthea turned towards Senka, though, and the smile seemed to brighten. “It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Senka. I hope we can all be friends. It's just... I've never had the chance to actually join before," she continued.

Senka, however, narrowed her eyes slightly at the statement. Friends? With her? Sorcha, she could understand. Why did she want to be her friend? “Have you applied before?" she decided to ask, treading on careful waters. Amalthea laughed lightly, though it sounded a bit nervous as well.

“I have, but this is the first year that my sister actually allowed me to participate."

“Sister?" Sorcha asked, tilting her head a bit to the side. She seemed to bear none of Senka's slight suspicion of the girl, nor any particular reserve at the sentiment. But then, that was the kind of person she had always been: constantly willing to extend her hand in trust and friendship, even to people who were cold and reluctant. To someone who reached back, it was probably the easiest thing in the world for her to do.

Amalthea nodded her head violently. Enthusiastically, perhaps? Senka didn't know the proper word, however; Amalthea continued to speak. “She's Archbishop Rhea's advisor: Lyanna von Kreuz. I'm Amalthea von Kreuz!" she clarified, causing Senka's eyes to widen faintly. Taking a closer inspection of her features, she did bear some similarities to the Archbishop's advisor. She supposed it was true.

“Oh, can I join the two of you, then? I mean, if you're heading towards class?" she asked. Senka glanced in Sorcha's direction for a moment. She already knew what the answer was going to be, and decided to nod her head in agreement. They were headed that way, and she supposed it would be okay if Amalthea wanted to follow them. Sorcha would have agreed to it, regardless.

“If that is what you wish, I will not stop you," she stated, watching as the young woman fell in line with Sorcha and herself.

“Sure you can!" Sorcha agreed with considerably more verve, though definitely not as much excitement as Amalthea seemed to have. “And welcome to the Blue Lions. I'd ask why you chose us, but... we're going to be great, so it's really not that surprising." That was definitely a joke—though many nobles thought rather too highly of their status and such, Sorcha had never been like that.

The classroom they led Amalthea to was the middle of three, its entranceway decorated with blue banners in the same shade as Sorcha's mantle. There were several rows of desks, all arranged to face one at the head of the room, where a young man stood, apparently paging through some kind of book. He couldn't have been much older than Senka; though he had the fairer complexion shared by many in Fódlan, he also clearly saw sun, and regularly. He wore a neat tunic in dark teal, some unfamiliar insignia embroidered at the wide collar of it, and a dark, close-fitted turtleneck shirt beneath. Neither did much to conceal the obvious musculature of his build, and he was quite tall, apparently.

It would seem no other students had yet entered—perhaps they found him intimidating?

Whatever it was, it did not deter Senka. How could one expect to improve if they found simply looking at a young man, intimidating? Senka could understand the why aspects of the intimidation. It was evident enough that the young man knew a life of battle or some equivalent life style. He didn't seem to have the bearings of a noble, but there was something to him that could certainly pass for it if he chose. Amalthea, however, seemed excited that this person was here as well.

“Hello!" she greeted, making her way towards the young man. “It seems we're early. Are you part of the Blue Lion house as well?" she asked, clearly intrigued by this person. Senka supposed that Amalthea didn't have the same reservations as the other people who were not yet present. She seemed almost immune to intimidation, or she wasn't quite aware of what it could do to someone. Senka was not going to be the teacher on that subject, though. Everyone learned in their own way.

The question drew a quiet snort from Sorcha for some reason, but it was the man himself who answered, speaking in a voice with a smooth, low timbre. “In a manner of speaking," he replied, his visage rather blank in much the same manner as Senka's often was. That alone gave no clue as to why, however.

“Hello again, Cyril," Sorcha said, taking a seat at one of the desks in the front row and patting the seat next to her in invitation to Senka. “Or I guess I should call you Professor now?"

Senka took the seat as she heard a light gasp from Amalthea. “Oh, how very rude of me! I should have addressed you properly." she stated, causing Senka to shake her head lightly. She did not say anything, though, and glanced towards the Professor. It did not make sense as to why Sorcha thought she would like him. Perhaps because there was some similar manner of their expressions? She did not think that was the case.

“It's quite fine," he said mildly, shaking his head as though it were indeed of no consequence to him.

“That would make you Professor Eisner, correct?" she spoke, her voice soft and flat.

His eyes shifted to Senka's, locking with an almost uncanny sort of accuracy, with all the intentness of a cat tracking motion. That, and the vivid golden color of them, stopped his face from looking dead, despite the passivity of the rest of his expression. “In theory," he replied. It might have actually been a rather deadpan joke. “Until a few days ago, however, I was simply Cyril, so if you prefer that, I do not mind. The choice is yours."

The choice was hers, he'd said. She made a soft noise in the back of her throat as way of acknowledging it. She wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that. Whether or not in theory if he was a professor, then he should be addressed as such, however; she knew Sorcha preferred to be spoken to on friendly terms. If the professor was giving her a choice, she would honor that.

“Oo, professor Cyril sounds really cool," Amalthea spoke again. She was... energetic to the point that Senka felt slightly overwhelmed by it. She had never known someone with the energy and innocence of a child who wasn't a child. She made her way towards Sorcha and Senka, though, and took a seat on the other side of Senka that was empty. Senka titled her head slightly in confusion, but the expression didn't make it to her face.

She did, however, place her arm behind Amalthea when she took a seat. Her excitement caused her to sit down rather roughly, and she almost fell backwards. “You should be careful," she spoke softly, earning a nervous chuckle from Amalthea.

“I'm sorry. I'll be more careful from now on. It's just—"

“You're excited, yes I am aware," she answered before Amalthea could finish. For some reason, the statement brought a large smile to Amalthea's face before she turned towards Cyril.

“What were you doing before this, Professor?" she asked, the same curiosity littering her eyes as it did earlier.

“I'm a—" he paused, considered, and amended. “I was a mercenary."

It's an occupation to which there are varying attitudes. Some see the exchange of loyalty for coin to be base and distasteful. Others think it's a job like any other. It's likely Cyril can't be sure which they are, but if it bothers him, he gives no sign of the fact.

“He saved my life," Sorcha said, calmly enough that it almost qualified as nonchalant, except something like that would never be nonchalant with her. There's a note of genuine admiration, almost something like awe, buried well beneath it. “Last Friday, during the House Leaders' training exercise."

Cyril didn't deny it, though he didn't rush to confirm or claim credit either.

Senka pursed her lips at Sorcha. Was that why she'd been acting weird when she returned? “Why did you not tell me this?" she stated, but her voice wasn't reprimanding. She sighed, though, and turned her attention back to Cyril. “I express my thanks to you for doing so," she stated, nodding her head in Cyril's direction as a way of a bow. She wasn't standing at the moment, and it would be strange if she stood in order to do so.

He simply returned the nod.

“So that means you were able to travel all over the world! When there's time, because it would be impossible to do now," Amalthea didn't seem to have any reservations on how she addressed the Professor, and was speaking almost amicably now. “I would love to hear the stories you have. You must have plenty of them, right?"

Senka would admit that it would be slightly beneficial to hear these stories. After all, what was a mercenary but a trained soldier? And soldiers who were not bound to the teachings of the Church or Lord were able to find ways to fight that worked for them. “I, too, wish to hear these stories. If you are amenable to the idea," she added. Class would be starting soon, but perhaps after would be a good time. Or, if they were fortunate enough, he would include some of his stories in the lecture.

This seemed to puzzle Cyril a little bit, if the way he tilted his head was any indication, but then he shrugged and nodded again. “I understand there is a break for lunch between morning and afternoon classes," he said after a moment. “Perhaps you would prefer to hear them over something to eat."

It was then that the bell rang, signaling that students needed to finish making their way to the classroom lest they be counted tardy. There were about ten Blue Lions students in total, including Amalthea. Senka had gleaned the impression that the other classes were about the same—the Academy didn't admit everyone who applied, by any stretch of the imagination. The assembling group were clearly somewhat astir to note that the professor was... well definitely not the one they'd been told they'd have in their admittance materials, to say the least. That fellow had been some kind of Church person—a minor bishop of some kind or something like that.

Whatever else he may have been, Cyril did not look like a bishop.

When they'd settled, he cleared his throat, and the effect is oddly instantaneous. Something in his body language changed, and suddenly he was the center of the room's attention, not in the sort of hurried-glance way that meant people were talking about him and trying to be surreptitious, but in the sense that—it was almost as though his very presence had changed, exuding a kind of authority that Sorcha would probably envy.

When he spoke, though, it was simple. His voice carried without needing to shout, the low, quiet tone of it almost forcing the silence so that he could be more clearly heard. “Welcome to class," he said. “My name is Cyril Eisner, and I've been hired to replace Professor Morrow, who abandoned his students when their training exercise was attacked." The words were blunt, direct, and honest, and he let them sink in for several moments before continuing.

“Unfortunately that's something that happens when some people see real battle. They get scared, and they can't think of anything but protecting themselves, saving their own lives. They abandon their comrades, even if they believe they are the sort who could never do such a thing. It is a human weakness, and it is understandable." He paused, then shook his head faintly.

“I will not. I know this because I have not. Whatever else you may think of me, you may rest assured in that much at least." His tone didn't sound very assuring, but at the same time it was abundantly clear that he was being truthful. “And my job, as I see it, is to turn you into people who will not, either. And to give you the skills to succeed when you choose to fight. I have no noble title to offer you. No knowledge of prayers or blessings or rituals. But I have experience, and for as long as you are my students, it is at your disposal. Are there questions before we begin?"

Senka respected that statement. It wasn't a matter of whether or not she left anyone behind, but moreso that she was left behind. If it came down to it, Senka would gladly allow herself to be left behind if it meant that Sorcha would be safe. She glanced towards her friend, before her gaze shifted back to Cyril. A student had raised their hand when Cyril invited the questioning.

“What do you mean, exactly?" he asked, his entire face pulled into confusion. “If the situation is lost, then wouldn't it make sense to flee?" he continued. Senka felt the slightest twitch pull at her lips.

“I believe what the professor means is that he is to instruct us so that we may be courageous enough to stay and fight. Not flee no matter how dire the situation may seem," she replied in earnest. The student huffed lightly, whispering beneath his breath about not asking her. She knew he had not addressed her, but that didn't mean she couldn't explain what she thought he meant.

“That makes sense. I wouldn't want to leave my friends behind, ever," Amalthea spoke, a strange determination behind her eyes. “And if Professor Cyril can teach me to be stronger, I'll gladly take as many notes as possible," she continued, the strange smile never leaving her face. Senka supposed she could respect that.

“It will be more than just note taking. You cannot write something down and expect it to work when you are in actual combat. You must also apply it so that you can learn and master it," she stated to Amalthea. It was something she'd read in a book, long ago.

“Oh... I suppose that makes sense, too!" Amalthea exclaimed as she seemed to write what Senka stated, down.

“It's not a matter of never retreating," Cyril clarified. “There may be times when tactical withdrawal is the smartest option. However... a tactical withdrawal is a very different thing from fleeing. It is organized, deliberate, and well-executed, driven by analysis and not fear or other emotions. Being able to distinguish the times to withdraw from the times to stand is vital, and if you learn to master your fear, you'll be able to do it."

Cyril paused, then shrugged. “I suppose since there's some interest in the question, we'll start with a tactics lesson. I'll draw you all a scenario, we'll discuss it, and then I'll tell you what I'd do and why. My answers may not be the only viable ones. They may not even be right. Tactics is a matter of a lot of factors, and how I weigh them may well be different from how you do. It is rarely a matter of one right answer and the rest wrong."

He turned, diagramming a scenario out on the board with smooth strokes. The rendering was precise, and it wasn't hard even for the inexperienced class to tell that it represented a group of soldiers about to fall into a pincer maneuver. They were in the middle of a field, a river to one side and forest to the other, with flanks of enemy troops closing in.

“You're the group in the middle. What do you do? Open discussion; no need to raise hands, but let each other talk."

“That's easy," one student stated, seemingly confident in what they were about to say. “You cross the river to the other side to make sure that they can't execute the pincer." Senka pursed her lips together. That didn't make sense to her.

“That wouldn't work, though," Amalthea interjected, causing Senka's attention to be drawn to her. “If you have heavy armored units, they would drown depending on the depth of the river, and if there are soldiers who couldn't swim, they'd also drown. You would, effectively, kill yourselves and fail," she stated. Senka could see the reasoning behind that logic, but there seemed to be something missing.

“But staying in the middle means you get attacked either way," another student chimed in. “Wouldn't it make sense to push forward and block the enemy with a counter attack?"

“There would be no time for a proper counter-attack," she finally spoke, pointing to one of the flanks. “Here, you are exposed. And here, you would not see the enemy from the forest lines. The enemies to the back, however, are not as well-covered and are at a disadvantage, sight wise. We could possibly line up those who have bows to take out the ones across the rivers while a magic user there," she stated, pointing to the front of the circle facing the forest, “would allow them to set a small fire to at least partially disrupt the pincer attack. The heavy armored units could build a shield wall to push the ones who make it past and be our defense."

“In other words, we would be able to attack from the inside of the encirclement to escape if we dug in, first?"

“But what if we didn't have any archers or magic users?"

“Even if you did it'd probably be suicide for them," Sorcha added. “Posting them on the high ground is good, but there's no cover. It's harder to fire up a hill but not impossible, and if the enemy used their shields to make a charge up, you've got your most lightly-armored units in front. Plus it's hard to start a fire that'll last, and the magic users don't get to control the burn." She sounded as if she were speaking from personal experience. “It's inherently risky to use up their magic like that. Maybe if there was no other way, but..." She frowned, humming thoughtfully.

“Well..." another boy piped up, this one maybe Sorcha's age and rather short. “What exactly do we have in terms of troops, Professor?"

“The first and perhaps most important question," Cyril replied with a small nod. He tilted his head in clear invitation.

The student recognized it a moment later and flushed pink. “Oh! Devon," he said hurriedly. “Devon Margrave."

“Good. To answer your question, Devon, you have a total of thirty soldiers. Half of them are a detachment of pegasus knights. The other half are mixed cavalry and infantry—you've got two warlocks and a bishop for the whole troop." He shaded in the appropriate units with colored chalk.

“And... what does the enemy have?" Sorcha asked.

“On the other side of the river are wing of wyvern riders, which is how this is a pincer at all," he said, nodding briefly in Senka's direction. “They need not worry about drowning. On the other side you've got mainly ground troops, soliders and fighters mixed with some mages and archers."

“Well, I don't like the idea of sending the pegasus knights that close to a substantial number of arrows," Sorcha noted. “Nothing hurts a sky cavalry like being shot down. Are their numbers better than the wyvern riders'?"

“Slightly. The enemy has more ground troops than you do, however."

Senka hummed thoughtfully as she digested the information. Amalthea seemed to be writing things down, perhaps so that she didn't forget something. Sorcha had a point about the pegasus riders, though. They were susceptible to arrows quite easier than their wyvern counterparts, perhaps partly because wyvern's were slightly thicker to penetrate.

“We only have two warlocks, so shouldn't we pit them against the fighters?" another student asked. “Fighters usually don't have high resistance to magic."

“That doesn't make the warlocks invincible, though. Two people against ten isn't exactly fair odds, and magic isn't something you can just summon. You need to build up the mana for it and that usually takes a couple of seconds. It's enough time for enemies to attack the two warlocks. They could probably take down four or five fighters before they're killed. We don't want to get them killed." Amalthea frowned at the thought of people being killed, it seemed.

“If we send some of the cavalry after their mages and archers to pick them off, we could use a mix of the infantry to support a warlock to attack fighters. Keep one to help defend the warlock through their lag in magical abilities, but also make sure the mage has a means of defense as well. Mages do not have an endless supply of magic at their disposal, after all."

“You would still have Wyvern's to contend with. If some of the cavalry unit uses lances, they would be most effective against a rider. The ground soldiers would be best to hold out against other soldiers, but fighters sport a higher strength. Their flaw is that they sacrifice their speed for their strength. Take advantage of that with the Pegasus Knights and have them move with swift attacks," another student stated, leaning forward on her hands.

“But don't forget that a lot of non-regimented fighter types can use bows, too," Sorcha remarked. “They may not be specialized archers, but we never asked what they were armed with." She looks to Cyril, but he shakes his head.

“From where you are, you cannot say."

Sorcha frowned. “Then I'd rather be safe than sorry, I think. I'd send the pegasus knights to fight the wyverns, fast and as quickly as possible, and then have my more armored cavalry units just try to hold off the ground troops long enough for them to circle back and reinforce."

Cyril nods. “And the rest of you? Plans?"

“I think I'd go into lockdown," Devon said. “Put everyone's backs to each other, and try to weather the assault. I don't know how the pegasus knights would do, but the rest of my team sounds more defensive than the enemies anyway."

“Wyvern's have a higher defense than a Pegasus Knight, though. Chances are, you'd loose a majority of them before you've whittled the wyvern riders down," the young woman stated before nodding in Devon's direction. “But I agree with Devon on the lockdown. You'd be able to see on all sides where the attacks are coming, and bishops know a few offensive spells. The one we have could hurl a few magic spells from within the wall and be protected at the same time."

“Oh, I forgot about the bishop!" Amalthea interjected, turning towards the young girl and smiling as if she'd figured something out. “And what would you do..." she trailed off, as if the young girl would fill in the rest. From the looks of it, she wasn't much older than Sorcha, maybe a year younger than Senka, herself.

“Sylvi. Galatea," she stated as if reading Amalthea's intentions. “And I would be on the offensive trying to break through the lines. I'm learning to be a War Master," she stated, winking in Amalthea's direction. Senka blinked slowly. So that meant she was a physical fighter who wanted to do mostly hand-to-hand and some training with the axe.

Cyril nodded, eliciting answers from the remaining four members of the class as well. More than a few of them seem really hesitant, but none of the answers seem especially bad, especially due to all the discussion that went on before. It was hard to tell if he found any of the answers better or worse than any of the others, honestly; his face was mostly unreadable.

In the end, he set down the chalk and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the edge of the desk. “As it happens, this is a battle I was actually in," he said. “The pegasus knight detachment was from a local kingdom lord's domain, and the rest of the troops were my father's mercenary company."

He tilted his head to the side, a soft breath escaping him in what was almost a huff. “What we ended up doing was setting the warlocks up on the backs of two of the pegasi. Their riders focused on steering them, and the magic along with the rest of the riders was plenty to deal with the wyverns, who weren't expecting it and have serious trouble with electricity in particular. Meanwhile, the bishop and the ground soldiers moved back into the forest, to draw the enemy in."

“Wouldn't that be a disadvantage for cavalry, though?" Devon asked.

Cyril lifted one of his hands, tilting it back and forth in a so-so motion. “Typically yes. But the cavalry all dismounted. The horses were a good distraction, too—drew a lot of attention moving around, and enabled the dismounted riders to join the infantry and fall on the opponents. The most important part was preventing the pincer from actually becoming one, which we were able to do because of the ground/air difference. If we'd been all ground, I'd have drawn us all back, and made the wyverns try to contend with flying around trees, but it would have been just as hard for the pagasi, so they needed something different."

“Oh, that's smart. Thinking outside of the box and using that as a surprise," Amalthea stated, writing down more information. Senka followed suit, and wrote down what Cyril had done during that battle. She wanted to learn as much as she possibly could, the different tactics that could be employed. But as she'd said earlier, writing wasn't the same as applying it. She was certain they would have practice battles, eventually.

“To think that there could be so many strategies for one simple battle. One wrong move is the difference between life and death. I guess you have to be a really good strategist in order to come up with something like that, and have the complete and utter faith of the ones you command in order for them to see it through," she spoke as if she were in awe and some kind of reverence.

Senka doubted that was the case. Perhaps they did respect him and trust him, but they also had to put their trust in the plan to work. If one person doubted it for a second, chances were that they would not have succeeded.

“Trust is helpful," Cyril admitted, “but if it were enough then a pack of puppies could have won. Skill makes a difference, too. And since for the most part you'll all be leading different groups someday, it's the skill I'm going to try and teach you. When you're done writing, we'll take a break for lunch. Try not to eat too heavily—this afternoon we're going to run a version of this same scenario on our feet."

Amalthea giggled lightly, but continued writing down information. Senka, however, was looking forward to the scenario.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner

0.00 INK

#, as written by Aethyia


I.Y. 1180 - Great Tree Moon - Saturday the 11th
Hanneman's Office - Early Afternoon - Overcast
Cyril Eisner


Lyanna von Kreuz was... intense was probably one way to put it. Cyril wasn't sure what he'd been expecting out of this apparent progress meeting with the Archbishop's right-hand woman, but he left with the feeling he'd been quite interrogated, and that she hadn't much cared for his answers. Or rather, his lack of them.

There simply wasn't a great deal about himself Cyril could tell her. He didn't know his age, or his place of birth, or much of anything about his mother. He didn't know much about most things, really. What he knew was battle, and everything that surrounded it. Tactics, equipment, magic, how to march, how to lay siege, how to organize troops, at least on a reasonable scale. He didn't know royalty or religion or history or farming or any such things as those, and while he gathered that most people here found that strange, he didn't. Most people only really knew the things they used; everything else tended to fade in memory.

The average commoner didn't know anything much about history or politics or magic or war or any of the rest. They knew the seasons, and trade, and however they made their living, and whatever little piece of the world they were from, and that was it. Was it really so strange that he would be similar? He couldn't quite understand why his answers had seemed to frustrate her so, but he didn't think it was directed at him, necessarily. This fact did not demystify it any.

Sighing quietly, he closed the door to Lyanna's office behind him. He'd said he'd pay Hanneman a visit when his appointment was over, and so made his way to the room next door. His father's office was just across the hall, and Manuela's next to that and across from Hanneman's, so they were all grouped quite comfortably. Cyril supposed it might be a while before he was offered much of an office, as there didn't seem to be many left. He doubted he'd use it for much—Hanneman was a researcher and Manuela had the infirmary, but Cyril taught from memory and experience, and went to the library when he needed space to think quietly or diagram something, so it was all well enough.

Hanneman's door was open, so Cyril knocked on the frame to get his attention before going inside.

“Hmm, fascinating," was the only response Cyril received. It took a moment longer before Hanneman turned around, and spotted Cyril. “Ah, come in, Professor," he stated, motioning for Cyril to step inside. “If you would, I'd like to use this device I designed to determine whether or not you possess a Crest. It won't hurt a bit. Promise," he stated, getting straight to the point. He was standing in front of a large crystal-like object, and had pointed to it

“As I've mentioned before, I wonder whether or not you possess a Crest of your own. Do you know what Crests are, Professor?" he continued, his gaze keeping with Cyril's in a rather curious manner.

That was certainly on the list of things he knew nothing about. Cyril shook his head. “I don't." He stepped into the room, stopping slightly to the side of the device in question. It seemed to be built into the floor, with a pedastal bit and what looked like a receptacle of some sort, though he really hadn't the faintest idea what it was or how it would function.

“You don't know about Crests?" he stated in a shocked tone, his eyes widening slightly before receding. “Well, allow me to tell you absolutely everything about them. They are power incarnate." He paused to take a breath, as if he were about to go on a long-winded speech about how Crests worked, and what they were.

“It is said that Crests have been bestowed upon Humans by the goddess countless ages ago. They exist within the flesh, and are passed down through bloodlines. Those who possess a Crest may excel at magic, display exceptional strength, or any number of boons."

“Each Crest has its own particular power, the nature of which is beyond mortal understanding. For now," he explained, his lips curling slightly at the last statement.

Cyril tilted his head. “Through bloodlines?" he echoed. “So people keep track of these?" His father had never mentioned being of such a bloodline, and considering that he knew nothing of his mother, he somehow doubted she was of any particularly notable heritage. This made him wonder how likely it would be that he possibly had such a thing. He could certainly do magic, and was he supposed reasonably strong, but...

“Yes, bloodlines. Those who have ties to the ten elites who fought beside the goddess so many years ago," he explained. “Just because someone carries a Crest, however, does not necessarily mean their descendants will inherit it as well. Only a scarce few descendants of a Crest's bloodline will inherit that Crest's power."

“It is possible that you just so happened to inherit a Crest one of your ancestors bore. Given your talents, I suspect you do, but we won't know for sure unless I look into the matter. That is how a Crest usually presents itself, after all."

So it was possible he had one that had just... skipped a lot of generations or something. Cyril wasn't quite sure what to make of that, but he figured it couldn't hurt to see. “What do you need me to do?" he asked. Then, after a beat: “do any of the students have these Crests?"

“Quite a few of them, yes. The Princess of Faerghus possess a minor Crest of Blaiddyd, the Duke of Leicester possess a minor Crest of Riegan, the Imperial Prince possess a minor Crest of Seiros, and there are few more who possess a Crest of Daphnel and Gonreil as well," he answered with a smile as he listed the students off.

“I'll get to the bottom of it, straight away, though. Now then," he spoke, holding his hand out over the device in front of him. “Go ahead and hold out your arm over this device here," he continued as he dropped his arm to his side.

Cyril figured he was beginning to see the pattern here. Apparently, nobles carried these Crests in high proportion, yet another reason to suspect he had none. Still, if it was as easy as holding his hand out to have it confirmed, he saw no reason not to.

Stepping a little closer to the device, he regarded it warily for a moment. Hanneman had said bloodlines, so he'd sort of expected it would require, well, blood. There didn't seem to be any instrument for acquiring such, however, and in the end he merely led his arm hover over it, as he'd been instructed.

The device did nothing for a mere second, remaining blank while his hand was held over the device. Suddenly, it made a whirring sound, and an image appeared on the device. There were lines, some intersecting and others flowing away from each other, however; the appearance of the image seemed to startle Hanneman.

“What is this?!" he exclaimed as he investigated the image. “I've never seen this pattern before... is it possible an as-yet undiscovered Crest has been detected?" he was speaking more to himself at the moment, and he seemed entirely focused on the design. “To think there are still Crests out there that even I am unaware of! How thrilling!" he continued, grinning as he turned his attention to Cyril and cleared his throat.

“Pardon my unrestrained jubilation. I have much to consider. You may leave now. I have more research to do in regard to this Crest. Yes, so very much more research. But for now, your work here is done. I will notify you if I find anything out," he stated before turning his back to Cyril.

“Hmm... What could this line here be indicating? Perhaps it represents a lack of symmetry... or perhaps..." the professor was talking to himself at this point. “What in the world? Oh, I see... It may be connected to that, but to a greater degree than usual..."

Cyril knew enough to recognize when he'd been summarily dismissed, so it was with a shrug and no sound that he exited the other professor's office, making his way down the hall to the small kitchen available to the faculty. He figured it was right around teatime, and he'd gone down to the marketplace yesterday and bought several new varieties with his first week's wage. He didn't really have a lot to spend the money on; the Academy was paying him much more generously than he was used to, even before the stipend for his students' equipment was considered.

About ten minutes later, he emerged from the kitchen carrying a full tea tray easily in one hand. He supposed he might as well work up Monday's lecture while he had the time; he suspected the common room might be empty at this time on a weekend, and headed in that direction first.

As it was, it was occupied when he arrived, by one of his students: Senka. She was sitting quietly, by herself, reading a book of some sort. Upon closer inspection, it seemed to be a tome on fire. She turned the page before she glanced up from the book, and turned towards him. She blinked slowly as if she were refocusing her vision.

“Professor Cyril," she spoke as her way of greeting. She'd greeted him as such the first week of class. “Do you need the room to yourself? I will leave if that is the case," she stated, placing a marker in her book perhaps so that she did not lose where she was at, and closed it.

“No," he replied simply, shaking his head a little. “I was planning to work but you won't disturb me." He was actually not sure if he would count as disturbing her, for that matter, but he figured if that was the case she could simply leave.

He took a seat at the same table as her, setting the tray down with ease and removing the satchel from his shoulder to withdraw the books and parchment inside. One of them was just a journal—he'd bought it at the marketplace with the intention of recording his lecture notes in it. Not that he lectured a great deal—he preferred to have the students work actively with what he presented them, mentally as well as physically in the afternoon practices. But still, it might be nice to have more concrete plans than condensing lessons out of the first memory that came to him on the day.

He poured a cup of tea for himself, then glanced up and met Senka's eyes. “Would you care for some? There's milk." he indicated the small metal carafe with his chin. He wasn't sure how or why, but he'd always sort of had an instinct for how other people preferred their tea or coffee, and he figured Senka was a milk tea person, more akin to Vridel in the preference than Mercer who took it straight, or Sorcha who liked sugar.

Her eyes narrowed a fraction before she hesitantly reached for a cup. “Thank you, it will help me concentrate," she stated as she took the cup and poured herself the tea. After she added the milk, she simply held the cup and inhaled softly. Her features softened considerably as if she were recalling some distant memory she was fond of.

“What leaves did you use, if you do not mind me asking, Professor?" she asked as she glanced up to meet his eyes.

“It's a four-spice blend," he admitted. “Not something most people enjoy, but I like it for afternoons." His voice was quiet; he saw no need to speak loudly when it was only the two of them in here anyway. Of all his students, he suspected Senka's outward mannerisms were the most similar to his own: she was never loud or especially expressive, and her tone had little variation to it on most occasions. But unlike him, who struggled to make sense of things like feelings, he thought that perhaps hers were just very subtly expressed.

For this reason, he found her particularly interesting to observe. It didn't strike him as odd that her eye contact was so steady; his remained much the same. Without looking, he shifted the small dish of dried fruits on the tray slightly towards her with a finger. “It doesn't overwhelm these, but doesn't get lost in them, either."

“Mother used to make this blend for me," she stated, her eyes shifting towards the dried fruits. “It has been a few years since I last had it," she continued, picking up a dried apricot and taking a bite of it. She chewed quietly for a minute before washing it down with her tea. She returned her gaze to his, though, and her eyes narrowed slightly. It was almost as if she were trying to figure something out before she blinked.

“If you do not mind me asking," she began, setting her cup down and sitting straight in her chair. “What was it like traveling with... your father?" she asked. “From what I've read, Captain Jeralt was a respected Knight of Seiros. Was he the one who taught you to fight?" she continued.

He considered the question, unsure what kind of answer would be appropriate and eventually deciding that if the truth wasn't then he didn't know what else would be. “He is," He said, picking up his own cup and holding it beneath his nose for a moment. “I... can't really remember a time when I wasn't. Fighting. That's just kind of what mercenary life is like when you're raised in it. I suppose not many of them have children while they're still active." He spoke the words into the rim of his cup, then tipped it to take a sip, exhaling softly after he swallowed. “At least not unless there's someone else to look after them."

He set the cup down on its saucer with a soft clink. The light in the room was rather dim; though it was the middle of the afternoon, the sky was dark with clouds. He recognized an incoming storm when he saw one. Drawing a spark of magic to his fingertips, he lit one of the nearby candles on the table, then placed its glass cover back over it. “I suppose it was..." No one had ever really asked him these kinds of questions before, so the answers were not ready to his tongue.

“Simple," he decided after a moment. “It had a rhythm and the rhythm was one I'm used to. I don't think I'd call it easy, but I'd call it simple." He paused, then, to pick up a dried apple slice, and only when he was finished did he return the question.

“And yourself? I don't really know what the difference is, but you don't come across quite the same way most of your classmates do. You seem sadder." The declaration was perhaps overly blunt, but he didn't really know how to put that in a delicate way.

It wasn't hard to tell that his statement caught her by surprise. Her cup stopped midway to her lips, and her eyes were wide with surprise. She cast her gaze away from his for a moment, as if she were trying to regain herself. Once she did, she cleared her throat softly before she managed to meet his gaze, again. “I lost my parents a few years ago," she spoke, but her voice was barely above a whisper. “I suppose their deaths have not yet left me," she spoke after a moment of silence.

“Before that, though... it was as you said: simple," she did not elaborate further, and took a drink of her tea.

“My condolences," Cyril murmured. He knew better than to press further; he had that much social grace at least. If she wanted to talk more about it she could; he certainly wasn't going to force the issue.

“I never knew my mother," he offered, feeling as though it might be... reciprocal, in some way. “My father says she died in childbirth. I grew up with his mercenary company. The Aegis. People come and go from that kind of life a lot, and most of the time we were on the road. Didn't keep much of a base, and never the same one for more than a couple of years. He used to say it was a cycle. We'd stay in one region, clear it of bandits and the like, and move onto the next. But those sorts of people always reappear, and the cycle starts again."

She hummed a soft note as he spoke. “I can understand why, though," she stated, setting her now empty cup on the table. “When people are forced out of their way of life, they feel like they only have two choices: die or resort to stealing in order to survive. If it's the latter, they adopt that way of life, ruining families and people alike, and end up repeating the cycle, as you say," she continued, speaking as if she'd had experience in the matter. She shook her head, though, and took another piece of dried fruit. She chewed it softly with a contemplative look, which was the most expressive she's been.

“Father used to take me riding to explore the... country side. He'd also baked sweets with me, which mother never liked. She claimed it took me away from my studies, but..." she paused, her brows furrowing lightly. “It was pleasant. Bandits were the reason my parents died, though. If Princess Sorcha hadn't been there... if she'd been a minute too late," she seemed to struggle for a moment, perhaps searching for the words she wanted to say. “I, too, would be dead. I am indebted to her in more ways than I could ever repay. But she is a gentle heart, and I wish to protect that." Her hands clapsed tightly around the cup as she spoke.

Cyril could certainly understand where she was coming from, when it came to the point about banditry. The truth was, most bandits weren't all that different from most mercenaries. It was just a matter of who was gainfully employed and who was working outside the bound of the law. Mercenaries had to be more professional, but not all of them were all that different. He'd heard stories of companies preying on the people of the regions they were nominally supposed to be protecting. Extorting people for their protection, demanding lodging and supplies instead of paying for them—taking advantage of desperation, in other words.

Desperation, in his experience, was everywhere. There never seemed to be enough to go around somehow. In the Kingdom especially, living was hard, and even the nobles lived quite austere lives compared to some of those he'd encountered in the Empire or even the Alliance. That said, there was some measure of shortage everywhere, though the causes differed. He could hardly blame people for doing what it took to survive.

By comparison, Senka's stated goal was positively idealistic. Even if it was narrow in scope. He could understand that, too, though. The world itself seemed far too big to think about as something to be protected. At least to him. He didn't know how monarchs did it. Maybe they didn't. But protecting a person... he'd never really set himself to that, either. His father of all people didn't need it, and he'd never been close to anyone else. Maybe...

“Gentleness is hard to keep," he said softly. “But I think it's a valuable thing to protect." He took another sip of his tea and passed a breath quietly through his nose. It wasn't quite a sigh; as with most things he did, it wasn't expressive enough to qualify as anything like that. “I hope you succeed."

For a fraction of a second, there was the barest smile on her face. “It is the gentle heart's dreams I wish to protect," she spoke as if clarifying herself. “Thank you, Professor. No one..." she paused, clearing her throat as if something had been caught, “it's been a long time since someone told me that they hope of anything for me."

Cyril wasn't entirely sure what to make of that. Had she no one who would do such things? She'd mentioned having lost her parents, of course, but even he knew that most people had more than simply that. They had other family, or friends, or mentors, or things of the like. It sounded very much, however, as though Senka had none. Perhaps Sorcha was her friend, but then she seemed the type to express it in a different way, perhaps.

In such a context, he couldn't make sense of the smile. A strange contrast to the melancholy; stranger still that it seemed to have been prompted by his words of all things. He blinked, then nodded slowly.

“You are welcome," he said, simply but not untruthfully. “I expect that as your teacher I will eventually hope a great many things for you, but that seems a fair place to start."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal

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I.Y. 1180 - Great Tree Moon - Saturday the 18th
Garreg Mach Grounds - Early Afternoon - Sunny
Amalthea von Kreuz


Amalthea hummed quietly to herself. Today was the day they were going to do lawn work, or maintenance. Something like that, and she was excited. It meant that she'd get to spend more time with her classmates in a setting that wasn't a classroom or a field exercise. She didn't mind those, really, but interacting with them outside had a certain appeal to it. Perhaps because she'd never really had the chance to bond with people, at least not fully. For as long as she could remember, it was always either her sister, Archbishop Rhea, or one of the other priests of the Church. There were occasionally people who visited the Church, but Amalthea always had limited contact with them.

Lyanna always said it was to protect her, though she never understood from what. The people she'd met were always very kind and warm. She didn't think those people were capable of harming her, at least not in a way that was dangerous. Shaking the thoughts from her head, she waited for the first of her classmates to arrive. She had been too excited the night before to sleep properly, which resulted in her being up near dawn. The first people to arrive were the princess and her friend. Amalthea thought they had a very lovely friendship, and it was easy to see how close they were. For a moment, she wondered if she'd ever be able to make a friend like that.

“Good morning, er... afternoon, Sorcha! Good afternoon, Senka!" she greeted, waving happily in their direction. Senka merely regarded her with a passive stare, and nodded her head in Amalthea's direction. She never understood why that always seemed to catch Senka off guard, but it did not deter her.

“Good afternoon, Thea," she greeted, causing Amalthea to smile. She finally addressed her by the shortened version of her name, something Amalthea had tried previously to get her to do. She felt a little giddy inside.

“Hello Thea!" Sorcha still seemed to be securing her hair in place, trying to get it to stay pinned up. She'd otherwise come dressed for the work they were supposedly doing, down to a pair of gardening gloves hooked presently into her belt.

Just when she seemed to have the hair in place, a piece fell forward to rest next to her face. Sighing, she appeared to give up, and just tucked it behind her instead. “How are you?"

“Very well!" she replied, a slight break in her voice causing her to laugh nervously. Her voice cracked whenever she got too excited about something, but she cleared her throat and shook her head. “And what about the two of you? Are you both well? Do you need anything?" she stated, knowing full well there wasn't much she could get them at the moment. Still, the offer was out in the air if they did.

Senka merely regarded her with a stare before slowly shaking her head. “I... am fine, thank you. I do not need anything at the moment, but," she paused, turning her attention to Sorcha as if she were seeking approval to continue. “Perhaps if there is something that requires your help, I will seek your assistance?" she stated, almost as if she were unsure of herself. Amalthea didn't quite understand it, but she nodded her head, regardless.

“Of course! I'd be glad to help in anyway I can," she stated, feeling her smile stretch across her face.

Sorcha huffed softly, but before she could say much by way of addition, a different familiar voice cut into the conversation. “Don't you all have somewhere to be?"

It belonged to Vridel, who approached with a wrist resting casually on the sword all students of the Academy wore with their uniforms. The bright red cape of his house was a sharp contrast to the stark white of his hair, and the deep purple of his eyes, but it sort of worked, giving him a harsh, but striking, appearance.

Sorcha crossed her arms and rolled her eyes at him, though she didn't seem upset or anything. “I could ask you the same question, Vivi. We happen to be waiting for chores to get underway."

“Well, well," put in the man walking slightly behind Vridel and to the left. He looked older than most of the others, a bit of stubble darkening his jaw, and sharp grey eyes. He also appeared to be smoking from a long-stemmed pipe. “What a coincidence."

Vridel spared the man a glance before returning his eyes to the three of them. “Wouldn't you be better served doing that at the stables? Where your chores are? I just saw some of your classmates over there."

Amalthea felt her heartbeat quicken at the arrival of Vridel and one of his classmates, it seemed. She didn't know why, but she would push that thought for another time. Maybe she could ask Lyanna about it? “But this is where we were scheduled to be, Vridel," she stated, smiling in his direction.

“Wait, am I in the right place?" it was Mercer who spoke this time, startling Amalthea slightly and she lurched forward. “Sorry, Thea, didn't mean to scare you," he apologized as Amalthea shook her head. “But seriously, why are you all here?" he asked, confusion evident in his voice.

“Move it, blockhead!" another voice pierced through, throwing Amalthea off for a second. She glanced towards the owner of the voice, and spotted a young woman, a bit shorter than herself, with vibrant red hair and pale green eyes. She didn't look too happy to be there, but she merely stood behind Mercer, arms crossed against her chest.

“Is that any way to treat your House Leader, Dierdre?" he responded in a flat tone, though he did look amused by something. Amalthea stared at both of them rather incredulously. Were they close friends to be speaking to each other like that? Or... maybe they were in an arrangement of sorts? She'd always read stories about arranged marriages and the like. Maybe that was the case with Mercer and Dierdre.

“Wouldn't have to if you weren't blocking the way," she muttered, pursing her lips in his direction. Senka had remained mostly quiet at the introduction of the newer people, and stood slightly behind Sorcha. Perhaps she was shy?

“But that still doesn't explain why you're all here? I thought the Blue Lion House was responsible for the lawn care, today?" She really was confused.

“And we thought it was us, and I'm sure His Highness over there thought it was the Eagles." The speaker was a very tall, powerfully-built woman with long, dark blue hair pulled into a ponytail on her head. She seemed to be following the red-headed one, a bit of fond exasperation on her features when she called Mercer 'blockhead.' Lyanna wore that look sometimes.

“Quite," Vridel replied, sparing the woman a nod.

Of course, matters were only further complicated when Devon and Sylvi appeared, this time in the company of Professor Cyril. He, at least, did not look surprised at all. Dressed in a sleeveless tunic and dark work pants, he looked quite as though he planned on getting into the dirt with them, not merely supervising.

“Good, you're all here." He gave them what seemed to be an approving nod. He must have observed some confusion, however, because he blinked slowly once, then clarified. “Saturday chores are mixed class. The other professors and I drew lots for who would supervise which groups. As such you are stuck with me for the remainder of the year." He paused, then added dryly: “my condolences."

“Wait, so that means we're stuck doing chores with them?" Dierdre asked, jabbing a finger towards Amalthea's group and Vridel. Amalthea, however, was more than estatic. She was going to have Saturday chores with all of the beautiful people, and hopefully she was going to make friends with them all. “All year?" she continued, as though she were in some disbelief.

“It would seem that way," Senka stated, but Amalthea almost didn't hear what she said. It was stated in a low tone, and she was almost sure Senka hadn't spoken at all, however; Mercer groaned in an exasperated manner.

“And here I was planning on shirking all my duties to you, Sorcha," he mumbled, but he didn't appear to be in a foul mood, despite his groan. Dierdre rolled her eyes, but dropped her hands to her sides.

“Well, it's a pleasure to meet you all," Sylvi was the first one to speak in a friendly manner, and bowed towards the others who were not part of the Blue Lion's. “I'm Sylvi Galatea," she greeted, her eyes falling onto her fellow Lion's. Amalthea already knew Vridel, but she supposed it was a good idea to introduce herself to the others.

“I'm Amalthea von Kreuz, but you can just call me Thea!" she stated, bowing, perhaps, a little too excitedly.

“Dierdre," she began, however; Mercer elbowed her in the side as she glared at him. “Dierdre Allard," she continued, narrowing her eyes in Mercer's direction. She moved away from him, though, and made her way towards the rather tall woman.

She, for her part, offered a calm nod. “My name is Sofia Esparsa." That explained who all the Golden Deer were, at least.

Vridel sighed. “Vridel," he offered, touching his fist briefly to his chest. “That is, not Vi, or Vivi, or any of the other nonsense those two—"he gestured briefly at Sorcha and Mercer—“use." He glanced to the man beside him. “This is Reynard Voight."

For his part, Reynard only nodded, exhaling a pale cloud of smoke, though he was polite enough to do so such that it wouldn't end up in anyone's face.

Devon introduced himself next, and with that it passed to Sorcha and Senka. “I'm Sorcha," the princess said, before gesturing to her friend. “This is Senka Argyris, my best friend."

“You all know me, I hope," Cyril deadpanned. “I think even Mercer's been awake for enough time to catch on to that much."

Sorcha coughed; it sounded like she was trying not to laugh. Vridel actually smiled. Mercer snorted unceremoniously.

“In any case, our chore for today is to maintain the lawns and flowerbeds. We're going to rotate the tasks, so we all do part of everything, but first I would like your suggestions on what those tasks ought to be." It seemed very unlikely he didn't know; rather, he seemed to be doing what he usually did and giving them the opportunity to figure things out and decide for themselves how to tackle an obstacle.

“We should probably clear these loose rocks off the lawn," Sofia said. She had a soft voice, deep for a woman's but soothing and calm. “I'm sure there are buckets in the supply storage we can use to make hauling easier."

“There's probably a wagon or some barrels we can fill up to make the haul a little easier. People can fill and haul at the same time," Mercer stated, shrugging his shoulders in a nonchalant manner. Amalthea chewed the bottom of her lip, thoughtfully, as she rolled a couple ideas around. They were doing lawn maintenance and also maintaining the flowerbeds.

“Some of us can pull weeds that are around the flowers. It'll help them grow, better," she stated. Senka glanced in her direction, but did not say anything before her attention was returned towards the other group of people.

“While the weeds are being pulled, some of us can fertilize the flowers. There are a total of ten of us; we should be able to divide the work between us, easily," she spoke, still just as softly, but loud enough that Amalthea could hear it. Dierdre must have heard, too, since she huffed lightly.

“I agree. If we split into a group of three, it should make rotating the work, easy. We just have to let whoever takes over for one of us, know what we've already done, and where they can start," Sylvi spoke, folding her hands behind her back, and rocking on her heels.

“Properly," Cyril said, arching one eyebrow ever so slightly. “You have eleven." It seemed he did intend to work with them.

“Why don't we do three groups of three, and one group of two?" Sorcha suggested. “The groups of three can move between rock removal, weeding, and fertilizing, and the two can float around to help with whatever seems to be going the slowest. Then we rotate every hour so everyone gets a chance to do a bit of everything and no one's stuck with the hardest job all afternoon?"

Amalthea liked that idea. Not only did it mean that they would be in small groups, it also meant that she would be able to socialize with some of the newer members. Even if they were of a different house, it didn't mean she couldn't make friends with them. There only seemed to be one problem, though. How were they going to decide who was in each group?

“It makes sense to have Professor Cyril be one of the two in a group, but maybe each House Leader should be grouped with someone not in their own house?" Sylvi spoke, almost as if she were reading Amalthea's mind. Senka's features seemed to tighten for a second, but Amalthea put it down as a trick of her eyes.

“Which means Sorcha, Mercer, and Vridel need at least two people from one of the other houses. There are more Blue Lions, though," Dierdre spoke, her brows furrowing in a tight manner. Amalthea supposed that was true, considering that almost everyone in her House was present. There were three Golden Deer and only two Black Eagles. That meant Reynard would go to either Sorcha or Mercer. It seemed fair, to Amalthea, that each leader get at least one other non-house member.

“If that's the plan, I'll split you," Cyril said matter-of-factly. “So you can resent me if you don't enjoy yourselves." It was hard to tell if he was being completely serious or not, but in any case, he did in fact do as he said. “Sorcha, take Reynard and Dierdre with you, and get started on the weeds. Mercer: you, Sylvi, and Devon can work on fertilizing. Vridel, Sofia, and Amalthea can get started on the stones in the yard. Senka, you and I will float. We'll begin with the weeding group, so they can get and stay a bit ahead of where the fertilizing group comes in behind. Does that work for everyone?"

“Works for me," Mercer replied first, giving Cyril a grin before turning to Vridel with a strange grin on his face. Amalthea didn't understand why, but she was glad that she was going to be working with Vridel and Sofia. Sofia seemed nice enough, and Vridel had been nice to help her out with her knowledge on plants. Of course, she still had a long way to go, but she thought she understood a bit more thanks to him.

“Fine by me," Dierdre stated, crossing her arms over her chest, however; her eyes briefly slid towards Sofia before she glanced in Sorcha's direction.

“I suppose it is settled, then," Sylvi spoke, bringing her hands to the front of her. “Let's get started, shall we?" she continued. Amalthea shook her head, and made her way towards Vridel and Sofia while everyone else grouped together. This was going to be exciting, or at least to Amalthea, it was.

“Hello again, Vridel!" she stated, smiling up at him before turning towards Sofia. “I'm looking forward to working with you, too, Sofia."

Sofia smiled gently. She had a very calm, cool sort of aspect to her, but the smile softened it, giving her an unexpected warmth. “And I with the both of you. If nothing else, I suppose we can look at it as good strength training. I'll fetch a barrow, if you two don't mind waiting a moment."

Vridel gave her a short nod of acknowledgment before she left, and he shifted his attention to Amalthea. “What are you training for?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

Amalthea grinned up at him. “A Great Knight! I want to be like the ones in the stories, so I'm training in order to pass the required exams to achieve that," she stated in one breath. She took a breath in order to catch it. She hadn't meant to just spill everything like that, but she supposed the excitement was still running its course.

“Plus, I'm not really good with an axe, but I need to be in order to pass. I've never really had someone to practice with, and Lyanna didn't like me practicing with sharp objects," she stated, pursing her lips together. Something about poking an eye out or hurting herself more than others. Amalthea had to admit that it did sting to know that her sister didn't trust her that much, but she supposed it was for her own protection.

“A great knight?" he echoed. His eyes narrowed, a bit assessingly, but in the end he expressed neither skepticism nor doubt. “In that case, I suppose hauling stones around will make for useful exercise. Make sure you get turns at the wheelbarrow, too." He nodded, then pursed his lips. “And if you've never chosen an axe before, let me know when you visit the armory. I prefer swords, but axes are something of a... tradition. In Adrestia."

Amalthea felt her eyes grow rather largely. Had he just... volunteered to help her? Again? She blinked rapidly a few times before she shook her head. “Really? You'll... you'll help me with them?" she asked, though she felt strangely afraid for asking. Maybe he'd take it back now that she seemed unsure? Or maybe she was just a little too excited about it to think properly?

“I'd really, really appreciate it! Oh, but... I don't want to take up too much of your time. You're already helping me with the plants," she murmured, frowning slightly. Her ears also, strangely, felt warm.

Vridel seemed to notice that something had changed, because his expression did, too, a flicker of surprise passing over it before a strange smile curled his mouth. It wasn't the benign one he usually wore, the one that didn't quite light his eyes. Nor was it the same as the one he got sometimes when he and Mercer were bantering, though it was closer to that. It looked... like the kind of way a cat might smile, when it had spotted a mouse. If cats could smile, that was.

“No trouble," he said, and in some odd way his voice matched the smile. “I'm sure we'll come up with some way for you to make it up to me, if you're set on it."

Before either of them could say anything further, though, Sofia reappeared with the wheelbarrow in tow. “All right," she said, exhaling softly. “Shall we get to it?"

At once, Vridel's face returned to its usual expression of vague disinterest, and he nodded. “Let's."

Amalthea felt strange, and didn't move even when Sofia returned with the wheelbarrow. Her cheeks felt like they were burning, and there was a strange tingling sensation in them. Her heart was also beating fairly fast against her chest, and for a moment, it felt like she couldn't breathe. Why is that? She took in a deep breath, trying to calm herself, and nodded her head.

“And I'll definitely find a way to make it up to you, Vridel!" she stated once she found her voice. She was set on it, and if he was going to help her, she wanted to repay him in any way she could. Whatever it was, she would do it. If it was extra chores, or taking over his particular duties, she wouldn't mind.

“Let's get to it!" She'd never been this excited about anything, before.

Vridel laughed softly, more of a chuckle than anything, and that strange expression flashed briefly across his face before dropped eye contact and started working. “Sounds like a plan to me."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd

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#, as written by Aethyia


I.Y. 1180 - Great Tree Moon - Saturday the 25th
Dining Hall - Noon - Drizzle
Vridel von Hresvelg


When Professor Cyril's group finished with their morning chores—they'd moved lawn maintenance to mornings so as to keep their afternoons free—they sort of collectively headed towards the dining hall for lunch. One benefit to getting up earlier than Professor Manuela's or Professor Hanneman's groups was that they got the Dining Hall basically to themselves, as those two sets had just left to prepare for their chores.

The mood was rather high; perhaps that was to be expected. Their mock battle was tomorrow, when each of the three houses would grab training weapons and specially-designed tunics that would turn grey after some amount of 'damage' and pretend to be murdering each other on a battlefield. Vridel didn't really understand the appeal, but perhaps that was because he'd already had more than a taste of actual battle. At least it might serve as an interesting gauge of skills for some of them.

As one of the first in, he was also one of the first to be seated, and chose an unoccupied table to do it. Reynard had already disappeared; he tended to do that whenever large groups were interacting in a non-mandatory sort of way. This was fine by Vridel; he had plenty of uses for the other man's particular talents, and he knew Reynard was perfectly capable of remembering to eat on his own.

Picking up the small pomegranate on his plate, he scored it with a short knife and cracked it open before setting it back down on his tray.

It wasn't more than a minute later that another tray was set in front of him, on the opposite side of the table. “Hi Vridel!" it was easy to tell it was Amalthea. Only she had that sort of high, energetic pitch to her voice. “Is it alright if I sit with you?" she asked, though she didn't seem to wait for his answer as she sat down across from him. She was still holding onto her tray, though, and staring at him with a bright smile on her face.

“I... I can move somewhere else if you don't want me to," she added, but the smile never faltered.

He sort of hated this about himself. Realistically, everything about him wanted to reject her company. She was a woman of the Church, and however lovely or interesting the person, that tended to be something Vridel could not overlook. He needed to keep all such people at arms' length. And yet even as little as a month was enough time to tell that Amalthea had not one ill intention in her entire makeup. It was quite as though she was simply composed of benevolence and a bit of obliviousness and little else. He found it very difficult to resent her, as much as he wanted to.

So he simply shook his head. “Stay." Deciding his tone was rather too inviting, he hastened to amend. “I don't really care." He cleared his throat quietly and occupied himself slicing deftly into the fish he was eating. The dining hall tended to feature such dishes often, probably because many of them could be pulled from the monastery's massive lake. He understood that several of the knights and such were hobbyist fishermen.

She made a light sound, something akin to a giggle, and released her tray. “Thank you, Vi—Vridel," she corrected herself, perhaps remembering what he'd spoken of a week ago of how to address him. She began working the fruit on her tray; an orange, a couple of grapes, and an apple. She also seemed to have a bowl of the fish and bean soup. It was quiet for a moment longer before she set her fork down, and glanced in his direction.

“I, uh, this will probably annoy you, and I'm sorry, but I just want to say thank you, again," she stated, her gaze dropping as if she couldn't keep his. “For teaching me. I am really grateful! And like I said, I promise I'll pay you back! It's just... no one's ever really offered their hand to me like that. If... if I become annoying or if you don't want to teach me anymore, please tell me! I don't want to bother you!" she seemed to be rambling at this point.

Vridel's brows knit. He had trouble conceiving of anything he'd done as being all that much. He'd answered a few botany questions and offered to help her choose an axe and give her a few tips on its use. It hardly qualified as teaching, and was far from a significant drain on either his time or resources. Was she overblowing it to curry favor, or really that unaccustomed to basic consideration? Both were hard to believe, but for different reasons.

“As I said, you need not think anything of it," he replied simply. It felt like there was something else he wanted to add, but he wasn't entirely sure what. Instead, he shifted the topic of the conversation, choosing something she might speak about with more enthusiasm. She got very... animated, at times. “How do you think you will fare in the mock battle tomorrow?" he lifted a piece of fish to his mouth and took a bite. As usual, it was simple, but not at all bad.

“Personally, I think my House has a good chance at winning. As for myself," she stated, pausing only to chew on a piece of fruit in a thoughtful manner. “Poorly. I'll likely get trampled beneath everyone, but that's okay. Practice makes perfect, and I'm going to use this experience as a valuable teaching moment. Even if the mock battle is, in itself, a teaching moment," she spoke all of this with the same smile on her face.

“I've learned a lot in the last week, with the axe and trying to move around in a suit of armor, but I'm not that good yet. Everyone has had some experience in their training, or some other sort, but I'm..." she paused, pursing her lips together as her brows furrowed.

“I'm still behind everyone. I have a lot of catching up to do, but if I train extra hard, I'm going to catch up sooner rather than later!" she stated it as if she were truly confident she would succeed.

He almost couldn't fathom such a carefree attitude as that. His whole life, it had been made abundantly clear to Vridel that failure, being less than the best at anything, was simply unacceptable. He was an Imperial Prince, and even before he was the Imperial Prince, it was expected that he do justice to the pride of his bloodline, and live up to the damn Crest with which he'd been blessed. Even if no one expected him to inherit, even if he was just the son of a concubine—even if. He had to be better. For his mother and uncle, he had to be the best of his siblings, because he was the one who would elevate House Arundel to the very highest of positions.

Sometimes he wondered if the Insurrection hadn't happened because he was deemed too poor a candidate to place such hope on. If Volkhard hadn't chosen to seize power from the throne because he felt he lacked a sufficiently-talented puppet to put on it later. Never mind that he'd been a child—childhood was an illusion for people of a certain status.

And here was this girl, well aware that she was going to be bested and seeing the opportunity in it. There was no shame, no soreness, nothing. He didn't think even Sorcha was capable of seeing such things quite this way. She, too, knew shame, after all, for all her earnestness. But it seemed Amalthea was different from all of them.

“Find me," he said after a moment. “If it doesn't contradict your orders. Find me and we'll have a duel." He didn't say so because he expected an easy win. Rather... he wanted to make sure she got something out of it like she thought. That she wouldn't just be hit by a bunch of things and find herself out of the game before anything useful had happened. And besides that... he knew some members of his own house would be quite cruel, given the opportunity to assert themselves over a rival. There would be nothing useful in that. If she ended up engaging the Deer instead, so much the better. But if her goal was to attack the Eagles, then, well.

This seemed like the best plan.

“Deal. I'll come find you on the battlefield and we can duel! I want to see just how much I've improved in the last week, if at all," she stated, the smile returning to her face, though it seemed a little brighter than it had been. “Oh, look! It's Mercer! Merc!" she stated, tearing her gaze from his and glancing behind him. She waved excitedly towards Mercer who came up beside her and took a seat. He glanced between Amalthea and Vridel, raising a questioning brow as he did.

“Is this table exclusive for just the two of you, or am I allowed to join?" he stated, but he was already sitting down next to Amalthea, and pushing around the food on his plate. Amalthea's smile stretched a little further across her face as she glanced at Mercer.

“Hm, we were talking about the upcoming mock battle!" she explained, causing Mercer to snort, and shake his head.

“You mean the one where the Golden Deer House decimates the Black Eagles, and Blue Lions?"

“Well, well... someone's confident." Vridel propped one elbow on the table and leaned his chin into it. “You'd best be careful with talk like that, lest you provoke your enemies into forming an alliance against your oh-so-formidable strength."

“Who's strong?" Sorcha approached, plonking down unceremoniously next to Vridel and nudging him a bit with her elbow, a slight smile tilting her mouth. Those were rather uncommon; she must be in a good mood.

He hummed. “According to Mercer, the Golden Deer House can take both the Black Eagles and Blue Lions at once. Rather arrogant of him, no?" That of course wasn't at all what Mercer had actually said, but Vridel recognized bait when he heard it. Retaliation was only fair.

Senka had taken a seat on Sorcha's other side, the one not occupied, and glanced in Mercer's direction. Her head tilted just slightly, but Mercer was already laughing. “It's not arrogance if it's fact," he stated, shoving a piece of poultry into his mouth and grinned at Vridel. “Besides, little Thea here will be in our cheer section. You're going to cheer for me, right, Thea?" he stated, leaning his shoulder into hers. She giggled softly.

“I can't be your cheer person if I'm on the other team, silly. But I will root for all of us to win!" she replied, causing Mercer to laugh.

“That's not possible, Thea. Only one house will win," Senka spoke before turning her attention to her own plate of food. It was mostly fruits, and perhaps a few slices of meat. She didn't seem inclined to start eating, though, and merely poked at it.

Sorcha rolled her eyes slightly and shook her head, but whatever she might have said was interrupted when she glanced over and happened to see that Professor Cyril had entered the dining hall. Presumably he'd checked over the results of their chores before making his way here. She raised a hand and waved it at him. “Professor! Come sit with us!"

It would seem Vridel's table was getting quite full. He supposed he didn't mind the addition of the professor, though.

Cyril nodded slightly, blank-faced as ever, before retrieving some food and taking the last spot at the table, on the far side of Mercer. “Hello, everyone. I gather the mock battle is being discussed?"

“Discussed is a bit of an overstatement," Sorcha replied wryly. “Mostly it's just trash talk right now."

Cyril tilted his head slightly. “'Trash talk'? I do not know this term."

“Really? You've never heard the term before?" Mercer spoke, though thankfully he had the decency to speak when his mouth wasn't full. “It's like... taunting your enemies, only," he paused to tap his fork to his chin. “Actually it's a lot like taunting your enemies. For example, I said the Golden Deer House was going to decimate both the Black Eagles and the Blue Lions."

“But Vridel says that Mercer's just being arrogant and overconfident."

“You wound me, Thea. You're supposed to be on my side."

“She's in our house."

“Doesn't matter," he stated, waving a dismissive hand, “but anyway, that's essentially what trash talk is. It's just talking a bunch of nonsense to each other on who's going to be the best. It's obviously the Golden Deer."

“Ah." Cyril nodded in apparent understanding, then paused for a moment. “So if I were to say, for example, that it was extremely unlikely that the Golden Deer House would win because their leader is likely to fall asleep during the match, this would qualify as trash talk?" He looked, for some reason, to Senka for confirmation.

“Correct," she stated, keeping his gaze for an unusual amount of time. Amalthea pursed her lips in confusion, and Mercer almost choked on the piece of food he'd shoved into his mouth. “Which is true. Unlike the Black Eagles, who have a slight advantage, the Golden Deer House would be the first to fall," Senka continued, speaking in a way that didn't quite resemble trash talk, but more as if she were just stating simple facts.

“First off, that's a low blow, Teach. And secondly, really, Sen? You think so poorly of us? I'm genuinely hurt," he stated, placing a hand over his heart as if to emphasize it.

“On the contrary. I think very highly of you and your House. I just believe the Blue Lion House is superior to yours, and that the Black Eagle House is our only true competition."

Vridel couldn't help but smile at that, giving Senka a respectful nod. He had to admit, though, the byplay of her interactions with the Professor was... interesting. They were both rather unusual people, but still, the lingering eye contact had a very specific read, and he wasn't sure either of them had caught on to that. His eyes flicked to Mercer, suspecting he thought something much the same, but when he spoke it was only to continue the thread of the conversation.

“I suppose that if they take after their leader, the Golden Deer might prove good at least in the art of running away. Quite like their namesakes in that manner."

Sorcha's eyes went wide; she elbowed him in the ribs. “Vivi! That was rude. I think the Golden Deer have a lot of impressive members. Besides, you'd best watch out for arrow barrages with them. Leicester archers are the best in the world." She sniffed, turning her eyes resolutely down to her plate, which seemed to consist mostly of fruits and vegetables.

Well, well. Vridel narrowed his eyes slightly, but offered no further comment.

“And this is why Sorcha is the House favorite at the Golden Deer. At least she believes in us," he stated, winking in Sorcha's direction. Senka rolled her eyes softly, but didn't respond to what Mercer said. Sorcha appeared to become slightly pink in the face.

“We'll all have to do our best, in that case," Amalthea finally spoke, seemingly done with her food. She appeared interested in everyone's conversation that she'd remained quiet for the time. “Oh! How about, after the mock battle, we can all come back and celebrate, regardless of who wins? They make the best chocolate cupcakes!" she stated.

“I'm into it."

“It sounds... agreeable."

“Definitely!"

Cyril nodded as well, and Vridel shrugged. Celebrating anything but total victory sounded just as strange to him as looking forward to such, but if anything was proving true, it was that this place was nothing like home.

“Very well. Consider it a plan."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal

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I.Y. 1180 - Great Tree Moon - Sunday the 26th
Garreg Mach Monastery (Outskirts) - Morning - Cloudy
Senka Rinaldi


Senka had woken rather earlier than normal. She wanted to be sure she would be ready for the morning's mock battle, and didn't want to leave anything unchecked. She'd pulled her hair back into a high tail, mostly so that it wouldn't be in her face, and to keep it out of her eyes. It wouldn't be beneficial if she were distracted or her vision impaired. She was slightly grateful that she had, since the air was rather warm outside. A bit humid, perhaps, because of yesterday's light drizzle, but the tunics they were wearing were helpful in keeping cool. According to the information they'd been given, these tunics were designed to bleed out the color once they'd take a certain amount of damage.

Each house had their respective colors: Golden Deer were given yellow tunics, Black Eagles were red, and Blue Lions had a pale blue. The blue contrasted with Senka, but she didn't mind. They were here for a battle, if nothing else, and she was rather excited about it. She'd spent the last few days practicing her magic spells, and a couple of ones Vridel had taught her. She wasn't quite confident in those spells, yet, but she was satisfied with them, nonetheless. She glanced over her team, watching as Amalthea fiddled with her tunic, and her axe. Sylvi had also chosen an axe, but seemed more comfortable with it than Amalthea did hers.

Senka had elected to use a sword along with her magic. After all, magic was not infinite, and she wouldn't be able to use it endlessly. She still needed a way to defend herself. “I'm so excited, I can't wait!" Amalthea spoke excitedly, turning her attention towards Senka.

“I know the feeling. This is our first battle; I'm excited to put to use what Professor has taught us," Sylvi added. Senka only nodded in agreement.

Sorcha wore her tunic over very light chainmail; rather than just pulling her hair back, she'd braided it around her head to keep it firmly in place and to avoid her usual problems with pins and such. She was equipped with both a training lance and a bow, including a quiver of soft-tipped arrows. It was hard to check blows with arrows and magic especially, so they'd all been instructed in ways to compensate: spells were to be cast at minimum power only, and the blunt arrows were not to be aimed for the head or eyes. There was still some risk, of course, but the school had brought along several additional healers besides just those on each team.

Healing spells would apparently return some color to the tunics if applied, so that should work basically as normal, at least.

For his part, Professor Cyril carried no weapons at all; his own version of the tunic had no sleeves whatsoever, though his arms from the elbows down were wrapped in bandage-like fabric, protecting them a bit, it seemed. He had a few scars on his upper arms, but it was rather clear just from looking at them that he was in exceptional fighting shape. Certainly moreso than Professors Hanneman or Manuela seemed to be, or any of the students besides. He raked a hand back through his dark hair, slightly mussed from the breeze drifting over the field. A rogue strand of it fell across his nose, but if it impeded his vision, he gave no indication.

Across the field, the other teams were getting set up as well. Vridel was easily identifiable by the bright white color of his hair; the tall man next to him had to be Reynard. The Golden Deer were slightly closer, but partly shielded by a small copse of trees, a tactical advantage designed to compensate for their somewhat middling position.

The Professor's eyes swung to his assembled students; he exhaled the slightest huff at Devon struggling to string his bow. He managed it, though, and slung it over his back. At his waist were several knives. Making sure he had everyone's attention, Cyril spoke. “The other teachers and I have decided that the first part of this battle is yours to decide how to handle. We don't have much time, so we have to decide quickly on a strategy. What would you like to do?"

That was not unusual given their trainings, she supposed. She merely glanced at her teammates, Amalthea lost in her own thoughts it seemed, and Sylvi seemed to contemplate what Professor Cyril had stated. “At the moment, the Golden Deer House has the advantage with their position. And it wouldn't be wise to split up and attack both houses at once," she began speaking. Senka could see some logic to that. If they split up their forces, they'd be outnumbered either way they went.

“Let's go after the Black Eagles, then," Amalthea suggested. “If we take them out, first, then the Golden Deer will be an easy sweep, right? After all, you said they would provide the least resistance to us," she continued, glancing in Cyril's direction.

“That does not mean you underestimate them, Thea. Even if we said that they weren't as much of a challenge, does not mean they wouldn't give us one," Senka spoke, watching as Amalthea's face fell, slightly. She didn't mean to be so straightforward, but that had been the first basic rule of war: never underestimate your opponent no matter how favorable the odds are.

“Perhaps we should go after the Golden Deer, then. The quicker we deal with them, the quicker we can move on to our biggest competitors," Sylvi spoke, but Senka merely narrowed her eyes.

“I agree; we should hit the Golden Deer, first. They are closer, and it will give us some time to deal with them before the Black Eagles have a chance to reach us," she stated, glancing in Sorcha's direction.

“Don't forget that they're able to move unimpeded, too," Sorcha pointed out. “I could see Mercer waiting it out if we attacked the Eagles because his position is so good, But Vivi's isn't better or worse than ours. He might choose to fall on our flank as soon as we're committed to the attack. Splitting up might not be good, but we should definitely keep some people watching for that."

Devon nodded. “Maybe those of us in the back line keep an eye on them since we aren't in quite as much danger from the front? If they come around we can be ready to switch to melee. As long as we keep each other updated on where we're needed and what's going on, we can focus on downing the Deer first and just fend off the Eagles as much as we absolutely have to until we're ready to fight them as a team."

“Very well," Cyril said evenly. “Then who are our front and back lines?"

“Amalthea and I can take the front lines," Sylvi stated, grinning in Thea's direction. Her attention went towards Devon and Sorcha, after that. “Devon, since you and Sorcha are the best archers we have, you two can stay in the back." Senka could see that. It would mean that the archers could at least engage from behind and keep each other updated. Sorcha was also good with a lance, so if the need did arise to switch to melee, Sorcha could defend herself. Finally, Sylvi's eyes landed on Senka, a strange light in them that she wasn't sure what to make of.

“And you, you're pretty decent with magic, right?" she asked. Senka could only nod in response. “Good, then you can come with Thea and myself on the front lines," she stated.

“Very well," she replied, glancing at her classmates. “Does that mean Professor will be staying behind, as well, in the back lines?" she stated, her eyes drifting towards Cyril. If they were going to split up, it made sense to keep the numbers even. Sorcha and Devon could provide support from a distance with their arrows, and Cyril bring up the rear if they had to resort to melee. Knowing how talented each House was, Senka did not doubt that it would come down to that.

“I think the Professor should stay fluid, so he can go anywhere he needs to," Sorcha offered. “A lot of this I think is going to depend on being adaptable, so we should all be ready to move, but having someone who's already planning on it would help shore up any defenses we need to reinforce quickly."

It would seem Cyril found this agreeable enough, for he nodded.

If he'd been about to say something, though, it was cut off when a loud voice rang out over the field. “All right everyone!" The speaker appeared to be Jeralt, his voice magically amplified to carry easily. He stood atop the nearby hill, the Archbishop and Lady Lyanna nearby, along with the spare healers the monastery had brought. “Only attack like you were instructed to, because only hits to tunics count. As soon as someone's tunic turns grey they're out, and should come to this hill. Hitting someone after they're out means you're out too, automatically. We're here to learn, not kill each other for real. Last person standing wins for their House. Begin!"

Sylvi wasted no time, and began moving towards the Golden Deer, a strange smirk adorning her features. Senka would have put it down to excitement, but it seemed a little different than that. Amalthea was right behind Sylvi, and with a spare glance towards Sorcha and Cyril, so was Senka. They moved at a rather even pace. Not too fast that they would tire themselves out before they even reached the Golden Deer, and not too slow that they were leaving their ranged fighters in the back for too long.

“Man, here I was hoping you and the Black Eagles would fight among yourselves, first. Not come after us," Mercer spoke when they were close enough. He didn't seem too disappointed, though, if the smile on his face was anything to go by. Sylvi merely laughed, but said nothing as they closed in. “I really don't want to do this, but..." he started, trailing off as his eyes went to Dierdre and Sofia, “Dierdre, you and Sofia are up. I'll provide you with some support."

“Let's give it our all!" Amalthea stated, raising her axe over her head as she ran towards them. Senka sighed softly, stopping a good distance away as Mercer fixed an arrow to his bow. She, at least, knew what he was capable of, having seen him training with Sorcha. She could try and provide cover for Sylvi and Amalthea from the arrows, but that would leave her exposed to the other archers on his team. She would have to make due with her sword, for now.

“Hey you! Fight me!" a voice called out, causing Senka to turn her attention towards the source, narrowly dodging a small fire attack. It was Dierdre, and it seemed she wanted to make Senka her opponent. Gripping her sword in her hand, she obliged.

In the line behind, there was time enough to provide ranged support, it seemed. Spells and arrows alike went flying for the very front line, where Sylvi had engaged Sofia, who was set firmly in position to defend Mercer. As promised, though, they kept themselves flexible, and so when the Black Eagles appeared on their flank, they were prepared, leaving the softened Golden Deer line for their melee fighters and turning their attention on where Vridel, Reynard, and a heavily armored man were making a swift charge forward, supported mostly by mages, from the look of it.

Cyril was quickest to react, rolling out of the way of a wind spell and sending a dark magic blast of some sort back towards the mage-in-training who'd fired it. The color on his tunic flashed, dangerously close to greying out before it stabilized. He fended off the armored fellow with the axe, smoothly catching his arm on the downswing and twisting to disarm before sending him back with a kick square to the chest. It looked like he could have done something more damaging, but his motions were clearly restrained.

Sylvi looked like she was having some trouble with Sofia. The woman had a slight height advantage, and from their physique's alone, was more muscled than Sylvi. She had more strength, and was probably able to hit just a bit harder. Sylvi had been mostly on the defensive side, blocking attacks when she couldn't do them, herself, and attacking only when there had been an apparent opening. Most of the color on their tunics were dangerously close to grey, but Sylvi seemed determined to win.

She brought her axe up, swinging down hard towards Sofia. “You've been a good opponent, but I think it's time we end this!"

Sofia's only response was to stab forward with her lance. Both attacks hit at the same time, and both bled the remaining color from their tunics, signaling that both girls were out. They vacated quickly, heading towards the hill so as not to obstruct things.

Meanwhile, Cyril, Devon, and Sorcha were doing their best to hold the Eagles at bay. The axe-wielding man had been knocked out by a solid chest-shot from the Princess, but another front-liner had stepped up to fill his spot—mostly distracting Cyril, by the looks of it. Vridel was haranguing both Sorcha and Devon at the same time, while Reynard had seemingly disappeared. Maybe he was out?

By the time Senka had managed to deal with Dierdre—she'd left for a different opponent who must have taken her out since she was scowling on the hill with Sofia—Senka still had color on her tunic, but not quite as much as she'd started with. Amalthea, still full of color, had made her way back towards the other three, and Senka followed suit. Immediately, though, Amalthea's smile grew on her face as she headed straight towards Vridel.

“Vridel! You promised to be my opponent!" she shouted, causing someone to laugh. From the sounds of it, it was likely Mercer who laughed. He'd joined the fray as well, making his way towards the group fighting, but still keeping a relatively safe distance from it all. He was likely waiting for the others to drop before he made his own move. Senka was fine with that. She sent a small fire ball in the direction of the front-liner distracting her Professor.

“I will be your opponent," she stated softly, raising a hand out in front of her while keeping her sword in the other. To anyone else, it might have seemed like she were mocking the person, however; that was not her intention.

Sorcha had turned her attention on the people immediately in front of Mercer, perhaps intending to carve a line to the Duke's heir herself. Cyril nodded when Senka drew off one of his opponents, and proceeded to swap his attention to the other. Devon started in on the Black Eagles' nearly untouched back line, trying to make each shot count by standing behind Senka and Cyril to prevent counterattacks.

Vridel had abandoned his previous course, making it easier for Devon and Sorcha to switch tacks, as soon as Amalthea had called out. He wore a smile of all things as he sheathed his sword and reached back, drawing an axe from his belt. “So I did," he said, lunging into a run to meet her halfway, swinging the axe with controlled strength and the momentum of his charge.

Amalthea let out a strange sound, something mixed with delight and frustration as she tried to block Vridel's attack. Even with his controlled strength, Amalthea was pushed back a bit, and staggered. She was barely able to get her balance back before she charged at Vridel, axe raised once more as she flung her entire body in his direction. It appeared she was throwing all of her weight into that one attack, which was strangely endearing to Senka.

Or it would have been if she weren't fending off her own opponent. Mercer seemed slightly surprised when Sorcha came his way, but grinned and pulled his bow from his back. “Let's see just how much you've improved, eh, Princess?" he stated, clearly trying to rile her up as he usually did. He fit an arrow to his bow and aimed it in Sorcha's direction, one eye closed and the other narrowed, before releasing it.

Vridel turned Amalthea's strike aside, though he seemed almost surprised by the strength of it for a moment, before his smile widened and he retaliated with a flurry of quick blows. “Not bad," he said, “but don't unbalance yourself now. You need to keep solid feet if you want to defend anything."

On the other side, Mercer's taunting seemed to be having an effect; Sorcha used her lance to strike the last blow on the only soldier between them, and then tried to duck the arrow. She wasn't quite successful; it struck her in the shoulder regardless, leeching more of the blue from her tunic, and she threw the lance down and drew an arrow instead, twisting away from the chaotic tangle not far from her flank and firing. To her credit, it was quick, and there was no hesitation in the shot—it flew unerringly for Mercer's chest.

“Right, keep balance and solid feet!" she echoed, trying her best to defend against Vridel's attacks. One of them did manage to hit her near her shoulder, though, causing some of the color to bleed from her tunic. She did her best to dig her feet into the ground, though, as she made a horizontal swipe towards Vridel.

Mercer seemed genuinely surprised by the accuracy of Sorcha's arrow and moved so that it caught him on his right shoulder blade, causing some of his color to fade. “Shouldn't have underestimated you," he stated in a leisurely tone, an arrow already fitted to his bow. Unlike Sorcha's quick release, he waited, watching Sorcha's movements with a strange intensity, before he released his arrow.

Sorcha, apparently knowing trying to dodge that would be futile, used the time to release one more quick arrow before the one Mercer had fired caught her dead-on the sternum. Though there'd been quite a bit of blue left in her tunic, it faded completely then—it seemed striking 'vital' areas was proportionately effective, then.

The Princess looked down at her tunic, sighed heavily, and smiled just a bit, giving Mercer a wry salute before shuffling off the field to join the others. By this point, the competitors had thinned considerably, only one or two left from each side, plus teachers. The Blue Lions were doing slightly better than most, at least until Vridel landed another quick hit on Amalthea.

“Nice work," he said simply, replacing the axe and drawing his sword. “You're already better." White light briefly engulfed him, brightening his tunic back to blood-red, but he and professor Hanneman appeared to be the only ones left on the field for the Eagles. Professor Manuela and Mercer were the sole representatives of the Deer, while the Lions had Senka, Devon, and Professor Cyril.

For his part, the Professor cracked his knuckles. “They're going to join up and attack us first," he said, apparently completely certain. “Stay behind, and watch for Reynard. I don't think he's out yet. Otherwise, cover me. Can you do that?"

“I will," she replied, nodding her head in his direction. I can, didn't seem like the right words to her, and it was something she felt she had to do. She hadn't had time to assess Reynard's skills on the field, and it was likely that he was just biding his time. Smart, if she were being honest, and so she gripped her sword a little tighter, and scanned the field. There was no obvious sign of him, but Senka knew better than most that just because it wasn't obvious didn't mean it wasn't there.

Mercer had begun his next assault on Devon, perhaps because he was trying to take out their only archer. He had a strange smile on his face, though. It wasn't the grin he usually wore when he teased Sorcha, nor was it the same one that he wore with Vridel. It seemed more genuine, as if something had made him happy.

Devon fired back as much as he could, but it was evident that he was the worse shot, and he quickly ducked a bit behind Cyril for cover. The professor didn't seem to mind. When Hanneman and Manuela sent two offensive spells at him at once, he blasted them out of the air with the force of his own. “Let's go."

He charged, meeting the Eagles' front line first, which at the moment was, well, Vridel. Somehow, he managed to dodge the Professor's first swing, but he had to throw himself to the ground to do it, and before his retaliatory flames could do more than singe the very edge of Cyril's tunic, he'd let fly another of the dark magic spells, and Vridel's tunic lost all the color it had previously regained.

“S-Senka, I don't think I can hold him on my own," Devon said. There were only slight traces of blue left in his tunic. While Mercer's had seen better days, too, he was clearly doing better than the other archer was.

Senka felt her eyes narrow in Mercer's direction, and she moved towards Devon just in time to knock one of Mercer's arrows away from Devon with her sword. She released a fire attack towards Mercer to get his attention, and when she did, she sighed softly. With her hand outstretched, she summoned her black magic: Miasma. It probably wasn't the best spell to use at the moment, considering it took a decent amount of time to gather, but Senka needed to get Mercer away from Devon. Otherwise they would be down one more person.

And Senka would rather it be her, than Devon.

“Sorry, lady, but you left yourself wide open." The voice, roughened probably by all the smoking he did, belonged obviously to Reynard, and the point of his practice blade touched the base of her spine a moment later. Once, twice, three times before she could so much as react to his presence. It registered easily with the magic on the tunic, which turned promptly completely grey, only for Vridel's attendant to slide out from behind her.

He didn't manage to retreat before a heavy hand caught him by the collar and yanked him back, Cyril landing two body blows and putting him out. He took a hit from Manuela while thus distracted, leeching a little more blue, but this time the magic he shot back took her out too, until the only people left on the field were Hanneman, Mercer, Devon, and Professor Cyril.

It was strange. Senka hadn't registered the time when she was attacked, and when she left the field. She had blinked, a strange chill going down her spine, and when her eyes opened, she was in the company of Amalthea and Sorcha. Something felt off and she wasn't quite sure what it was. She was brought from her thoughts when a small body latched itself to her, and she had to lower her gaze to see what it was.

“We were cheering for you, Senka!" Amalthea stated, turning her head so that she was staring up at Senka. “You did great! Now you can cheer with us for Professor Cyril and Devon! Oh, and Mercer, since Vridel's with us, too," she stated, finally releasing Senka. The words hardly registered in Senka's mind, though.

“I'm not cheering for him," Sorcha groused. “I hope the Professor teaches him a lesson." she sniffed, then seemed to notice Senka's absent state, because she tilted her head and spoke a little more quietly. “You okay, Sen?"

She blinked slowly at Sorcha, but nodded her head. “I'm fine. I was just caught off guard. I should not have allowed myself to be open like that," she replied, but it felt too... automatic. There was nothing in her voice, too, and Senka furrowed her brows. Shaking her head, she pulled in a deep breath, before releasing it slowly. “I think we are on the cusp of winning, though," she stated, turning her attention back towards the field.

Mercer had renewed his assault on Devon, and it seemed that Professor Hanneman had focused most of his magic attacks on Cyril.

“Okay," Sorcha said, reaching over to squeeze Senka's shoulder gently. She didn't quite seem sure of the answer either, but she rarely pushed when it came to things like this.

On the field, Devon held off as long as he could, but eventually succumbed to Mercer's arrows, leaving them down to the final three. Professor Cyril must have judged Professor Hanneman to be the greater threat, because he ducked a barrage of flames and charged across the field towards him. Curiously, thrumming, curling magic surrounded his hands, licking up his arms like dark fire, and when he threw a fist forward, the impact took Professor Hanneman off his feet, his tunic immediately draining of all color.

Cyril whirled then, throwing a bolt of the same magic for Mercer.

Mercer wasn't as quick, though. He was hit with the magic, draining the rest of his tunic's color. Senka could see he was groaning, but what should have been a joyous occasion didn't quite reach Senka the way it should have. She registered the fact that they won, and that Amalthea and the others were cheering, but she couldn't bring herself to do the same. She didn't understand why; something felt vaguely familiar, a situation, perhaps, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

Instead, she clapped slowly along with the others as her way of cheering. It would have to do, for now. She could hear the crowds calming, though, as Jeralt cleared his throat, perhaps to make the announcement official.

“And that's that," he said, gruffly but with an apparent smile in his tone, too. “The winner of this mock battle is the Blue Lion House!"

The Archbishop wore a strange little smile at the announcement, her attention focused rather keenly on where Professor Cyril was helping Mercer to his feet. Beside her, it almost seemed that Lady Lyanna looked worried for a moment before she suppressed it, face returning to her usual stern expression.

“We won!" Amalthea shouted enthusiastically, making her way towards Vridel. Senka wasn't quite sure what Amalthea was going to do, until the young woman threw herself in his direction, and latched onto him the same way she'd done to Senka, earlier. “And thank you for helping me, and teaching me a valuable lesson on the field!" she stated, squeezing a little tighter as she hugged Vridel.

Vridel's eyes immediately went wide; honestly he was so stiff it was hard to tell if he even knew what a hug was, let alone if he'd ever been given one before. Tentatively, he patted her head, grimacing and looking rather unsure of himself. “You're... welcome," he said after a moment. “And congratulations, I suppose."

“Don't I get a hug, too?" Mercer's voice cut in, a lopsided grin on his face. His attention was on Sorcha, though, when he spoke. He'd apparently made his way towards their spot on the hill without Senka noticing.

Sorcha looked unsure for a moment, almost as though she were actually considering it. Her face flushed, but then she cleared her throat. “I'm sure Thea would be happy to," she replied with a sniff, but she sounded almost like she was sulking.

“But I was asking, you," he stated, his lips pursing into a fine line. The smile never left his eyes, though, as he laughed. “And in all honesty, I have to admit, I'm kind of surprised, Sorcha. I'm really proud of how far you've come. Hell, my shoulder still kind of hurts from where you hit me," he stated, sounding rather genuine. He rubbed his shoulder as if to emphasize the point, however; Senka merely felt her features smooth out. It was almost as if she wanted to smile, but she couldn't quite bring herself to.

Sorcha cleared her throat, looking down at her feet and mumbling something that sounded vaguely like “thank you."

Amalthea had finally released Vridel at this point, and was smiling just as brightly as she usually did. “We still need to thank Professor, too! Oh, and we'll need to celebrate! You and Vridel and the others are coming, too!" she stated, earning a light chuckle from Mercer. She was rather excited, it seemed, at the idea.

It was at this point that the professor himself appeared, looking much the same as he always did. Aside from a few scorch marks on his tunic, he could have simply gone for a morning run, for all that his expression showed any strain from his exertions.

“I believe I heard something about a celebration," he said. “Shall we?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal

0.00 INK

#, as written by Aethyia


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I.Y. 1180 - Harpstring Moon - Thursday the 1st
Garreg Mach Monastery - Early Evening - Clear
Cyril Eisner


The celebration had needed to wait a couple of days, in the end, and the first day of Harpstring Moon had rolled around before they got to it, but that was all right. It had enabled the staff to throw together a large meal for everyone with plenty of food from the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, as well as a number of Blue Lion-themed desserts, including a cake modeled after the house banner, which was currently serving as a rather impressive centerpiece to everyone's enjoyment.

Before he'd had much opportunity to partake, however, he'd been summoned to see the Archbishop in her receiving room. He counted it fortunate that these celebrations were not like mercenary ones, else someone might have tried to convince him to imbibe, and he doubted the Archbishop would much approve of such things, even if they had negligible effect on him.

As it was, it was completely sober and still a bit hungry that he made his way to see Rhea, who as usual was flanked on one side by Lady Lyanna. He dropped into a shallow bow, as seemed appropriate, and then rose, expression blank as usual.

Rhea was smiling in a soft manner, gentle almost. Her hands were folded in front of her, and she nodded her head in Cyril's direction, perhaps as an acknowledgment to his bow. “Your work with the students was remarkable," she began, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I can see Jeralt has trained you well," she continued, gesturing towards Cyril with her hand. “I do hope you were able to use the occasion to bond with the students," she stated, though the smile on her face didn't seem to reach her eyes. They seemed a bit darker than they usually were.

Cyril considered this for a moment. “They are..." he wasn't quite sure how to finish the sentence. It was true that the students seemed to be unusually fond of him compared to how other people in his life had been. They regularly sought his company at mealtimes, and seemed to possibly even enjoy being taught by him. And he would not deny that since coming here he'd felt...

At ease. Not completely—there were certain things about this place that he was not sure would let him rest easy. But when it came to everyday routine, to training and instructing and making lesson plans and eating in the dining hall and all that sort of thing, there was a marked difference between this and the life he'd always lived, where his father was distant and the men were wary of him because of his reputation. The students at least showed from no wariness at all to not much after a while, and it felt... nice.

“I believe so," he said, remembering well his father's distrust of Rhea and his own instinct towards not exposing his weaknesses. “They seemed satisfied with the result, at least."

There was a strange smile on her face when he'd answered. It wasn't quite one that was genuine, but moreso on the wary side. As if she'd expected him to answer poorly. “I am so happy to hear it. Nothing would please me more than if you used this coming year to grow closer, still," she finally stated, her smile turning somewhat melancholy. She turned her attention towards Lyanna, though, as if she were expecting her to speak.

“Of course," Lyanna continued smoothly, “the mock battle is merely practice. The real fight is the Battle of Eagle and Lion, which will take place during the Wyvern Moon." She straightened slightly, adjusting her glasses. “You are expected to properly train your students so as not to humiliate the academy during the long-held tradition that is the coming battle."

Cyril gave her a short nod. It sounded straightforward enough.

“As for today," Rhea began, glancing towards Lyanna before returning her attention to Cyril. “I have called you here to tell you of your mission for the month ahead," she continued, pausing only to smile lightly. “Your class is to dispose of some bandits causing trouble nearby." She spoke with a calm and even tone, as if disposing bandits seemed rather natural to her. It was obvious that she meant that his class was to kill them, however; she didn't seem fazed by it.

“Bandits?" Cyril's tone only barely belied his skepticism. His students were talented, there was no mistaking that. But he did not yet think most of them ready to see real combat. To take human life.

Lyanna seemed to sense his hesitation. “Those affiliated with Garreg Mach Monastery have a moral obligation to help those in need, regardless of social standing."

Cyril almost said something—that hadn't been his protest at all, but he bit his tongue. The more they talked and the less he did, the better.

“Students are no exception. Each month, before the newly-birthed moon departs, all students must complete their assigned mission. You shall work to complete the task at hand alongside your students and report back to the Archbishop after your deployment. Understood?"

Cyril narrowed his eyes slightly, but nodded, just slightly. Lyanna almost mirrored the expression, and did return the tight nod.

“I will provide you with the necessary details later."

Rhea looked like she was about to say something more, however; it was at this time that someone else entered the room. “Ah, Professor!" it was Amalthea, and she had the same happy smile on her face that she always wore. “The others said you'd be here! We're getting ready—"

“Amalthea von Kreuz, you will hold your tongue," Rhea spoke, her voice loud and almost domineering. It was enough that even Amalthea had a shocked expression on her face. “We are discussing matters of importance; you are not welcome here. Return to the main hall. At once." Her eyes were narrowed, and it was easy to see that she was vexed by the interruption.

From the corner of his eye, Cyril saw Lyanna flinch, then quickly suppress it. For a moment her expression darkened, but a mere second later it was smoothed over, as though it had never occurred at all. For his own part, he felt a flash of—something. An emotion he didn't know, sharp and hot, lanced through his chest like a tiny bolt of lightning, but his tongue did not know what words to give it.

“Apologies, Lady Rhea, I didn't..." Amalthea spoke, but Rhea fixed her with a stare, and Amalthea bowed in an apologetic manner. Her head almost went to her knees with the force of it, and she turned on her heel and hurried out of the room. Rhea turned her attention back to Cyril, though, her eyes narrowed and the smile still on her face, but still just as dark as it had been.

“I can sense something special within your heart... I have high hopes for you." She departed afterwards.

Lyanna lingered a moment longer, staring out the way Amalthea had gone, then back the way Rhea had departed. Her eyes, strangely pained somehow, landed on Cyril. “Professor." She spoke quickly, but without the crispness that usually characterized her words. “Amalthea. Would you—?"

Cyril at once understood what she was asking, but not why. Shouldn't this be something she did? Still, he nodded, and her shoulders slumped with relief. “The Archbisop is expecting me. I must—" She pursed her lips together, then turned and hastened after Rhea.

Unsettled, Cyril left the same way Amalthea had, using his long strides to catch up to her and place a hand on her shoulder to stop her progress forward. “Thea," he said quietly, recalling what some of the other students called her. “May I refer to you as Thea?" His tone was quiet, but he was surprised by the amount of... something, in it. Like it had lost a little of the usual flatness.

She had visibly flinched when his hand landed on her shoulder, and she'd spun around so fast that her eyes were wide with fear. As if she'd been caught by something and wasn't sure how to flee. Her eyes were slightly red, and there were fresh water marks trailing down her cheeks. When it seemed she recognized him, she immediately brought her hands up and tried to wipe her face. She made a light hiccup sound as she attempted to dry her face, and once she seemed ready, she smiled at him. It wasn't quite the same, though.

“I'm sorry, Professor. I didn't... I didn't mean to interrupt," she stated, but she was still shaking lightly. “And... and of course! You can call me Thea. I'd... it's..." she didn't seem to know what she wanted to say, and fell silent, her eyes going from his, and landing on the floor.

Crying wasn't something Cyril knew how to deal with, even if he could at least identify it. If anything, it only sharpened that crackle in his gut, and he felt his jaw tighten, but relaxed it. He didn't want to make her think he was angry—

Anger.

Was that it? The heat? He was... angry, on behalf of Thea. At Rhea, for speaking to her like that. For making her cry over something that was neither her fault nor, as far as he could tell, even a significant matter. “It's all right," he said, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. A month of training had made a difference, but she was still so thin. And young enough to feel fragile in his grip. Like if he squeezed too hard, something would break. And here she was, weeping after a scolding from the archbishop.

It wasn't that he thought she shouldn't be. Only that he had no idea how he was supposed to prepare someone like her for the reality of taking life. Even criminals were still people, and these were children, being asked to kill.

Of course, he'd killed long before he was an adult, too. But he'd been acquainted with the reality of such things his whole life, not raised in a monastery, or a noble household, or even a merchant one. Places where death was a rare tragedy, an extraordinary and momentous occurrence, not a mundane, everyday thing like it had become for him. If it were up to Cyril, he and people like him would do what fighting there was to be done, so that others never had to get so used to it.

“There was no cause for her to yell like that," he continued, more firmly. “If she'd expected not to be interrupted, we could have met in her office, but we didn't. You didn't do anything wrong, okay?"

Her lower lip trembled, but she shook her head. “No, she was right. I shouldn't have interrupted like that. I should have waited outside for you, but..." she paused to take in a breath, and seemed to calm herself, “but I didn't. I'll just wait next time. I just... wanted to say they were getting ready to cut the cake for us, and... I didn't want you to miss it."

She swallowed thickly, her tears stopping for the moment, as she glanced up at him. He was nearly a foot taller than her, after all. “Thank you, Professor." Her smile, at least, seemed to regain some of its brightness. “I'm fine, now. We... we should go back before they start without us."

He wanted to argue, almost. To make sure she understood that there was nothing rude or improper about what she'd done, but somehow he thought she was just... going to think that. It seemed the Archbishop's words had more weight than his own, and perhaps that was to be expected. He did fish a handkerchief out of his pocket, though, one of several he owned, and handed it to her.

“Then we'll go eat some cake," he said quietly. “And you can use this so no one notices you cried." He had a feeling she wouldn't want that kind of attention—that she preferred to put on a happy face even when the situation didn't call for it. He couldn't understand that, exactly, but he could respect it, and respect her wish for it.

She took it, her lips trembling still with her smile as she glanced at him. “Thank you, Professor," she stated, wiping her face with it. Once she appeared to be presentable, she tucked his handkerchief away in her pocket, and took in a deep breath. Slowly, she released it before her usually bright smile was back on her face. She folded her hands behind her back, and tilted forward a bit.

“Now... let's go get us some cake! It always makes everything better!" She at least sounded better.

Cyril huffed gently, but nodded as though the acquisition of cake was in fact a serious mission they needed to undertake.

“Cake it is."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner

0.00 INK



I.Y. 1180 - Harpstring Moon - Saturday the 3rd
Dormitory (Bottom Floor) - Midnight - Thunderstorm
Senka Rinaldi


Blood stains, they covered everything. Fire, smoke, and the screams of people were so loud that frightened eyes darted back and forth, searching for someone. Anyone. Where were they? Her mother had just grasped her hand and yanked so hard that Senka thought her shoulder was dislocated. Now, her mother was nowhere in sight. Everything was burning; charred bodies were strewn across the floors of the palace and outside in the gardens. They were the bodies of people she knew, people she'd grown up with: friends, servants, inncocent people. Their eyes were void of life, and fear marred their faces.

It was horrifying, and she tried to scream. She made no sound, though, and felt her legs pushing her towards the city. Surely her father and mother were there, waiting for her. Then, there was nothing. Darkness. She felt as if she were suspended in thin air, floating. Just as suddenly, there was a bright light, and her father's back was to her. His long dark hair was matted against his royal robe, and the dark red stains were a large contrast to the pale blues and whites of it. He was trembling, one of his arms out in front of him, holding a curved sword, while the other was reaching back towards her. She reached for it and held it.

He was mouthing something to her, but she couldn't understand what he was saying. Where was her mother? Why couldn't she find her? Her eyes landed back on her father's face, and he was smiling. The wrinkles in his skin were smoothed out, and he was smiling at her.

“Senka... I love you," were his last words to her, just as the sword in front of him connected with his neck. She felt a scream tear through her throat...


Senka shot up in her bed, drenched in cold sweat. There was a loud scream coming from somewhere, and it wasn't stopping. It just continued, melding with the sounds of thunder outside, and something wet was streaming down her face. Wait... was she screaming? Why was she screaming? Why was she crying? She reached up to her face, and felt the tears on the tips of her fingers. As if her acknowledgment of her condition made something in her aware, her screams died, and a quiet sob tore through her throat.

“Father. Mother. Why?" why did they still haunt her, so?

With the way sound filtered so slowly back into her awareness, it was almost a surprise she heard the door at all. A hard blow forced it open, and it slammed back against the opposite wall, almost in time with a heavy crack of thunder. The Professor, damp from the rain pouring down outside, stepped in, eyes wide and almost luminous in the dark. Senka." There was an unusual urgency to his tone, one that didn't raise its volume much but changed the entire way it sounded, as though he were... worried.

A moment later, he snapped his fingers, and a small flame appeared over them, lighting his face from beneath and casting parts of it into deep shadow. “Are you all right?" He'd obviously scanned the room for... something. An intruder, perhaps, or a danger, but found only Senka herself. “You were..." he cleared his throat, not moving from the doorway for some reason. “Screaming. You were screaming. I thought—"

Her eyes were slightly wide; whether from surprise or something else, she didn't know. “I'm..." she began, her voice quiet. She wasn't entirely sure how to answer him. Was she all right? The tears were still falling on her face, but she did little else to stop them. She knew, from her facial muscles, that her face was as impassive as it usually was, and little to nothing was showing. But was she all right? She glanced towards her hands, curled tightly against the blankets before shifting her attention towards the Professor.

“I... I don't know," she confessed slightly. “I am unharmed... but," something in her chest clenched painfully. For a moment, she felt she couldn't breath. “I don't know," she repeated.

For a long moment, the professor studied her face, still not moving. Outside the thunder rolled, raindrops continuing to spatter heavily against the stone walkway just past the door. “May I enter?" he asked, still with that strange emotion in his voice. “If you would prefer I leave, I understand."

“Please stay," she replied with such urgency it surprised her. She didn't want him to leave, not yet. Her hand had instintively shot out, almost as if she were reaching for his own, but she pulled it back, and set it back on her sheets. “I don't... I think I was dreaming," but dreams were supposed to be pleasant. Perhaps it was a nightmare that had awoken her? She blinked slowly, clearing her vision from the tears before glancing back at Professor Cyril.

“Of father, and... mother," she continued. She glanced around her room, organized and neat, and spotted the chair in the corner next to her bed. “You... there's a chair if you wish to sit," but she didn't have anything to offer him so that he could at least dry himself.

He didn't seem to mind, though, only stepping into the room and shedding his cloak, hanging it carefully on the hook just inside the entrance, where it wouldn't damage her rug. He took the chair, pulling it slightly closer to her bedside and turning it so he was sitting in it backwards, arms crossed over the back so he could rest his chin there. He'd shut the door, dimming the sound of the rain outside, but it sat uneasily in the frame, probably because of the damage he'd done to it to get in. He was dressed in a way that suggested he hadn't yet taken to his own sleep, so she probably hadn't woken him.

After a moment, he seemed to remember something, and patted down his pockets until he found a handkerchief, which he offered towards her without comment on it. Instead, he spoke about something else. “You said they were killed by bandits?" he inquired gently. “Are you seeing it again, in the dreams?"

She took it, hesitantly, and nodded her head. She didn't do anything with the handkerchief, at first, and kept it curled in her hands. “I am," she answered, turning so that she could meet his gaze. Strange that they always seemed calming to her, but she did not move her gaze away. “But I have not dreamed of them for nearly a year and half, now," she continued. They were killed three years ago during the Tragedy, and for a second, Senka wondered if she should tell him that. He wasn't of any territory, and didn't have the same prejudices that the other students harbored. Even if she had claimed she was from Almyra with Faerghus heritage, the people still held a grudge against her. Who knows what they would do, what he would do, if they knew she was from Duscur? Deciding against it, she sighed softly.

“I don't know what brought it back, and... it was so vivid," she explained. She didn't recall her nightmares to be so clear. They were always small pieces, blurred in other areas, but otherwise not as clear. “Father was... he died trying to protect me, and mother," she paused, her lips pursing into a fine line. “Mother died doing the same thing." They had both died, protecting her. They shouldn't have had to die at all. If she'd been the one, instead, Sorcha might have arrived in time to save them, and not her. It wasn't fair.

“The people who killed mine... my parents," she paused, taking in a shuddering breath, “I'll never forget it." No matter how much she wanted to.

The Professor was quiet through her recounting, face almost as impassive as usual, except... there was something just a little bit different about the expression. Maybe it was his eyes, but it was hard to tell for sure.

When she'd finished, though, he found his words again. “I'm sorry," he said, releasing a soft breath. “Sometimes, when there's violence like that in someone's memory, battlefield conditions can... bring it up again. It might be that the mock battle it what's caused this."

His brow furrowed faintly. “I... dream often. Of war, and old battlefields. Rarely the ones that I've seen personally, but those are always the worst. When it's the old ones, it feels like someone else's memories, and as terrible as they are I can somehow remember that it isn't really... anything to do with me. But sometimes I dream about the ones where I've been. About people we couldn't save, or people that I have killed." Almost as though he wasn't aware of it, he shifted one of his arms, rubbing his fingers together. The little flame he'd conjured still hovered near his head, almost ghostlike in its drift.

“I can't tell you they'll go away," he continued. “Or even that it gets easier from here. There's a chance that real battle, real death, will only make it worse."

Senka remained quiet for a moment. Real death. Real battle. She had thought herself prepared for that. To make the required sacrifices in order to ensure that her people received justice, however; it appeared she was far from ready. Would she be able to take a life as easily as those who'd taken her own people's lives? Perhaps, in time, she could harden herself further to it, but was she truly capable of doing that? It didn't matter; she had to be. She had to be stronger. She had to survive so that one day, she might rebuild her country.

“I don't expect it to get easier, but..." she started, feeling a strange warmth in her chest. “I can at least try to make it so that they don't haunt me as much," she continued. “Sorcha has been trying to help me fill those memories with new ones, happier ones, but," it didn't feel right to just replace them. She brought her eyes back up to meet his.

“How do you deal with it?"

It was a question he seemed surprised to receive, if the fractional widening of his eyes was anything to go by. It disappeared a moment later, though, and he frowned thoughtfully, clearly considering it. “I don't know that I'm the best example to follow," he admitted. “They always come back, no matter what I do. They never stop—" he paused, considering something. “Never stop feeling the way they do. Sometimes it feels like all I really do is distract myself. When I was young, it was training. Every morning, my father had me up before dawn, doing drills and chores and whatever would keep me busy. Things to occupy my body and my mind. After a while it wasn't enough."

The professor shook his head. “Lately, it hasn't been so bad. I don't know if it's because it's been a while, or because I have something to..." He blinked, which for him was an expression of great surprise. “Maybe it's just because there's something to live for. Even if it's small. Maybe it's better that it's small—I think a lot of the talk about nations and empires and goddesses goes over my head, to be honest. But I don't have to fight myself to get out of bed in the morning to teach all of you. It wasn't always that way with mercenary work."

Something to live for? Did she have something like that? Glancing at the Professor, and then to her hands, Senka believed she might. She had a friend in Sorcha, and was slowly gaining one in Amalthea as well as the others. And with the professor, perhaps...

“Something to live for," she repeated his words. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and there was a fraction of a smile on her face. “Will..." she began, turning her head so that she was fully facing him, “will you stay? At least... until I fall back to sleep?" she asked. It was, perhaps, not a decent thing to ask, but Senka didn't want to be alone at the moment. If he could stay, only until she fell asleep, it might chase the nightmare away. She almost wanted to ask if he would hold her hand, instead, but that would have been too childish. Even if it were comforting, to have someone hold her hand as her parents once did, as she tried to fall asleep, it was too much of a request.

He tilted his head at her. “Of course," he murmured. “If you don't mind, actually... I broke the lock on your door, so—I thought I might stay until you woke, just in case." While there had been no intruder in her room, it was quite obviously what he'd initially thought had happened, and ironically his response to that had made it possible for someone to enter after all.

“I'll fix it in the morning, I promise." standing from the chair, he resettled on the floor next to the bed, closer to her feet than her head, with his back to the side. Almost awkwardly, he set one arm up over the edge, his hand laying loose with the fingers slightly curled not too far away from hers.

“Is... this all right?" There wasn't a trace of ulterior motive detectable in the question. If anything, he seemed a bit nonplussed by having to ask. Sometimes, it was very clear the Professor hadn't spent much time at all with other people.

Senka was slightly surprised by the smile that crossed her face. It wasn't forced, and it wasn't soft or small like they usually were. It was enough to force her eyes to narrow, and she reached towards his hand. She placed her own on top of his, gave it a light squeeze, and pulled her hand back. That would have to be enough. “Thank you, Cyril," she stated.

Her nightmare did not come back, after that.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd

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#, as written by Aethyia


I.Y. 1180 - Harpstring Moon - Saturday the 10th
Courtyard - Early Afternoon - Sunny
Sorcha Blaiddyd


The courtyard was proving to be an excellent place to have lunch, now that the weather suited it. After they'd all freshened up after their yard chores, the group Sorcha was privately coming to think of as "Professor Cyril's class" would grab food from the dining hall and take all the little tables under this arches gazebo, along with the Professor himself, who never seemed to be too busy to spend time with them. Of course, they tended to end up here on an increasing number of regular days, too, after class was done, to do homework together or when the load was lighter simply... spend time together.

It was really nice, and she'd certainly never expected to spend so much time with people outside her own house. The majority of the people here were Blue Lions, but there were Sofia and Deirdre along with Mercer from the Golden Deer, and Reynard even showed up with Vivi sometimes, giving them probably the only two Black Eagles she wanted to spend much time with, if her stepbrother's characterization of the group was correct.

She sighed. “There's no reason for me to go home for Saint Macuil Day," she said, frustration seeping into her tone. “But uncle wants me to anyway. I wish he'd just... let me have the year to prepare, you know? I'll be taking over all the official stuff pretty soon anyway, but I was kind of... hoping for a chance to not think about that for a while." What she didn't say was that her uncle spent too much time chasing after women to want to bother with boring things like ceremonial duties, and as a Church-sponsored state, the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus had a lot of them.

“I don't envy you. We don't necessarily celebrate Saint Macuil Day, but I at least know what it entails," Mercer spoke, rolling his fork in Sorcha's direction. “We have our own holidays back in Almyra, but they're more festival-like," he continued before taking a bite out of his food. Dierdre rolled her eyes, and snorted softly, but didn't say anything. She was too focused on her food at the moment to seem to care.

“Is that so? I thought some parts of Almyra, did?" Senka spoke, poking at the fruit on her tray as she stared at Mercer. He seemed a little unnerved under her gaze; Senka had a rather intense one, and he chuckled lightly.

“I mean, they do; you should know, you're also from Almyra, right?" he stated, causing her gaze to fall to her plate.

“Those sound nice, but," Amalthea stated, the smile disappearing from her face into something more serious. Or as serious as it could be for Amalthea. “What's a holiday?" The question seemed to catch Dierdre off guard, as she began to choke on her food. Mercer gave her an incredulous look, and Senka merely regarded her evenly. Sylvi was laughing too hard to properly respond.

Reynard actually looked a little surprised at the question. “Who doesn't know what a holiday is?" he asked, a trace of incredulousness in his raspy tone. “Don't you at least do the Churchy ones around here?"

Cyril glanced back and forth between several of those present and shrugged. “They do seem kind of serious," he pointed out, slowly. Devon nodded.

It was Vridel who actually answered the question, though. “A holiday is a form of celebration," he told Amalthea, peeling an orange as he spoke. “Typically they occur on the same calendar date every year, and commemorate some event or person in a nation's history, or the Church's, as with Saint Macuil Day. The form the celebrations take varies with the nature of both the occasion and the character of the celebrants. For example, when the Empire celebrates its Founding Day, it does so with parades and fireworks, as well as some more solemn official remembrances and the like, over which the Emperor typically presides. Given the recent... tensions between Adrestia and the Church, we do not put quite the same effort into commemorating the saints as the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus does, however."

“And the Eastern Church is much smaller, and holds much less sway, than the Central Church, so... the Alliance doesn't do as much for religious holidays, either," Sofia added mildly.

“Oh," Thea drawled the word out, and sounded amazed at the explanation. “That explains why certain days of the year, Lyanna was too busy to play with me," she stated, smiling as if she'd just figured something out. “She hardly ever had time, though, but those days seemed especially strenuous," she added as if it were completely natural.

“It's a bit different in Faerghus," Sylvi finally spoke, having recovered from her bout of laughter, it seemed. “We complete certain rites, and give our prayers to that particular Saint. There's also a great feast at the end of it all," she continued.

“Is food all you ever think of, Sylvi?" Dierdre shot, causing Sylvi to smirk.

“Food and sometimes you," she stated, winking in Dierdre's direction. Dierdre pursed her lips together, and narrowed her eyes at Sylvi before moving a bit closer towards Sofia. The taller woman only rolled her eyes, but obligingly made room.

“They sound fun, though. I've never celebrated one, before." It seemed strange that a person of the Church hadn't celebrated a holiday before.

Sorcha blinked at this bit of information. “Well that's silly," she said bluntly, then winced. “Er. I just mean we should fix that, is all. Maybe we could take turns teaching you about holidays and celebrations from our countries. I'd like to learn more about what the rest of you do, after all. So it could be really fun!"

Devon's eyes widened; he nodded with some enthusiasm. “Oh! And we could make food too, to share and explain how it fits into the tradition. And maybe teach each other customs, like dancing or other kinds of celebration we do. I'd love to learn that kind of thing."

“It does sound... nice," Sofia admitted. “I could stand to learn more about other places, if I'm going to travel someday."

“Why is he so cute, like that?" Sylvi stated, leaning over so that she was staring at Devon with a large, cat-like smile on her face. Dierdre snickered softly, but didn't say anything. Senka had kept her eyes on her plate, pushing the fruit around with her spoon and did not seem to want to say anything about it.

“I'm not that good of a cook, but I can make some decent Almyran dishes if you'd like," Mercer spoke, shoving another spoonful of food into his mouth, gracelessly. He didn't seem to care, though, about his mannerisms. “Or I can just give some of the recipes to Senka if you can cook them, or if you have ones of your own," he stated, allowing his eyes to drift towards her. She looked slightly taken aback, but nodded her head, slowly.

“I can make some of the dishes from Almyra. If there's a particular one you'd like to try, I'd be willing to make it," she spoke, turning her attention towards Sorcha.

“We should definitely make tons of food, then!" Amalthea stated, grinning as she leaned on her elbows on the table. “Oh, and I bet you all have the best dances. I'd like to learn those, too!" she continued.

“You sure you're going to be able to learn all of that?" Dierdre finally spoke, one of her brows arched in a questioning manner. “I mean, it's a lot of information, and there's at least four different customs to learn," she added, but Amalthea just nodded her head.

“It doesn't have to be all at once. Maybe we can do it on Saturdays after chores, or maybe on Sundays on our free days?" she suggested.

Sorcha knew what was making Senka uncomfortable, and she put a scowl on her face, pointing her fork at Mercer. “Don't you foist off all your work on Senka, you jerk," she said, sniffing at him. “Since Deirdre and Sofia are here, I'm sure they can help with the Alliance stuff, but don't go slacking on teaching us about Almyra just because Sen knows some things too." She figured playing it off this way would make it seem less strange... and demand less information of Senka that she didn't really have.

Whether because he sensed the discomfort or not, Professor Cyril broke in then as well. “I think Sundays would be a good opportunity," he said benignly. “They will allow us to choose the appropriate meal or time of day, and give us plenty of time if there's a skill to learn. I'd be quite happy to join, if you all don't mind teaching me for a change."

Mercer laughed a whole-hearted kind of laugh. He seemed to find Sorcha's response amusing in some way, but he shook his head. “I didn't say I would give her all the work. I'd be willing to help, too, you know. Besides," he stated, leaning his chin on his hand with his elbow propped on the table, “I'm shirking all my responsibilites on you, remember?"

Sylvi snorted softly before chuckling. “Then we'll have to plan Sundays, accordingly. It'll be fun to teach, Professor, a thing or two, on the different customs. And it'll give little Thea, here, some experience in holidays," she stated, reaching over to pat Thea's shoulder. Thea seemed delighted about everything. Her eyes were strangely brighter, more gold than amber, and she was grinning rather widely.

“And you, too, Vridel?" she asked, turning her large eyes towards him.

Sorcha knew Vivi just well enough to recognize his surprise at being asked. He cleared his throat. “I... suppose I could add some things from the Empire, certainly." He shot a sideward glance at Reynard, who only grinned slyly. “I'm not sure how much fun they'll be, but... yes. I'll participate."

Thea smiled so much that she was showing teeth. “This is gonna be great," she stated, giggling lightly as she went to work on the fruit on her plate. “I can't wait!" she added before taking a bite from the pear. “We'll just have to make sure they're fun so you can enjoy yourself, too, Vi!"

Mercer was laughing uncontrollably at this point, and had nearly fallen out of his chair. He would have if Dierdre hadn't pulled him back.

Sorcha rolled her eyes. Just what was so funny, anyway? Sure, Thea's enthusiasm for all this was cute, but it didn't exactly seem like the kind of thing to laugh so uproariously at.

“Next time you should let him fall out of the chair," Vivi said matter-of-factly to Deirdre. “It would serve him right for being insufferable."

Honestly. She didn't get either of those two, but whatever.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal

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I.Y. 1180 - Harpstring Moon - Wednesday the 14th
Garreg Mach Monastery (Training Grounds) - Afternoon - Sunny
Mercer von Riegan


“You fight like a girl!" Dierdre shouted, hurling a fireball towards Mercer. He snorted at the statement, and deflected it with the axe in his hand. He'd lost his training sword somewhere, and he had to replace it with the only other available weapon. Axes were not his thing, really, but it was the only thing available to him since the other weapons were currently being used by other students.

“So you're saying I fight like you?" he retorted, watching as she momentarily froze. He used this opportunity to switch to his bow, and aimed it at her shoulder. The arrows were flat, and non-lethal for practice, so when it hit her shoulder, the most damage it would do was bruise her.

“Mercer, you jerk! That wasn't fair," she shouted in his direction. He merely waved at her, and laughed.

“Oh, on the contrary, it was fair," he stated, grinning almost wryly. “On the battlefield, you're opponents are going to use whatever advantages they can," he continued, pursing his lips together. Enemies would do anything to ensure they won, or completed their task. He knew that from the multiple attempts on his own life. That's just how it was growing up in Almyra, however; he shoved those dark thoughts to the back of his mind, and watched as something caught Dierdre's attention.

“They're going to have a tournament at the end of the month," she stated, handing him the flyer she'd grabbed. “I wonder if Sofia would be interested," she asked, glancing up at him.

“Maybe. You should go ask her," he stated as she nodded and walked away. He knew another person who might be interested in it, and allowed a grin to form on his lips. “Now if only I could find little Thea," he muttered to himself. He might as well search around the training grounds, first.

Of course, it was the training grounds, and so it wasn't really all that surprising to run across Sorcha. She seemed to be having a one-on-one practice match with Professor Cyril, both of them wielding lances. Though as he approached, he could tell it was more lesson than proper match; every time Cyril did something that got an advantage over Sorcha—which was pretty much all the time—he stopped, and they spoke about it.

As Mercer got closer, he noted that their teacher was having Sorcha practice some kind of low sweep, perhaps designed to take the feet out from under an enemy with poor or unbalanced stance. Almost as if he sensed him approaching, though, Cyril called a halt and looked up, one brow arched in query.

It took Sorcha a moment longer to realize what was going on; when she did spot him, she blinked, then dropped her eyes to her lance, rubbing at the flat of it with her thumb. “Something you need, Mercer?" she asked.

Mercer grinned at Sorcha, before glancing towards Teach. “Acutally, no, I don't need anything at the moment, however; I thought I might come see how you're doing with the Teach," he stated. A complete lie, but they didn't need to know that. At least not at the moment. “And maybe see if you wanted to get some training in with the bow later on," he added, the offer actually genuine, for once.

For some reason, the tips of Sorcha's ears reddened. “We're doing fine, thank you," she said primly, glancing once at Cyril. “Or, uh... at least I think so."

He nodded in his mild sort of way. “You are improving with admirable celerity," he added.

That actually got a smile out of Sorcha. Just a small one, but one that was real enough to reach her eyes, and give the clear blue of them a little light. “Then yes," she said. “We're doing just fine." She finally met Mercer's eyes then, tilting her head slightly and inadvertently letting a strand of blonde hair come loose from her pins. “And more bow practice sounds good, if you don't, uh... mind."

She looked adorable like that. He wondered if she knew that? Inwardly rolling his eyes at himself, he laughed lightly. “I guess if Teach says so, then it must be true," he stated, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “And sure, just name the time and place, but first," he paused, dropping his hands to his side.

“Have either of you seen Thea? There's an axe-throwing competition coming up at the end of the month, and I'm sure she'd like to join. She's training with axes, right?" he asked, finally, arching a brow in both of their directions.

They exchanged a glance with almost comically-accurate timing. “I believe I saw her enter the greenhouse on my way up to the training grounds an hour ago," Cyril offered after a moment, leaning a bit on where he'd planted his lance in the ground. His posture was always so relaxed and alert at the same time; it was a little different from the knights, who were often kind of... uptight by comparison.

“I think that's a good idea," Sorcha said with a nod. “She's been training really hard, and having some competition who are also beginners might help her confidence. I'm not sure she realizes how far she's come." She paused, tapping the butt end of her own lance against her toe. “But about the bow thing. Um. How about tonight? The usual time?" She looked as though she half-expected him to refuse; as though she had in fact braced for it somehow.

He visibly rolled his eyes this time, but he smiled nonetheless. “Sure thing, Sorcha," he stated, grinning in her direction. “Same time, tonight, and don't be late! You were late last time," which was another lie. She was always on time, sometimes early. It was a little unnerving to him how dedicated to something she was, but he supposed that was another reason he was so proud of her. He clicked his tongue as the thought crossed his mind.

“And don't sell yourself, short, Sorch," he spoke, smoothing out his grin to something more of a smile. “You've come a long way, too. You don't give yourself enough credit," he was sure it was a confidence issue, but he couldn't be too sure. “Have fun with the Teach!" he stated, waving them off as he made his way towards the Greenhouse. It wasn't too far from the training grounds, perhaps a ten minute walk. When he arrived, though, Thea was no where in sight. He pursed his lips together at that.

“Oh, hey Mercer," it was Sylvi who spoke, bringing his attention towards her. She was with Devon, holding a basket of herbs. Perhaps for the kitchen staff since they were on kitchen duty today. “Looking for something?" she asked, causing him to sigh heavily.

“Yeah, Thea. Have you seen her?" Sylvi pursed her lips together and shook her head.

“Nope. I haven't seen her, here, today. What about you, Dev?" she asked, turning towards Devon.

Devon shifted slightly, adjusting his basket. “I did actually! Earlier she was down by the pond? I think she was talking to Reynard about something. He might still be on the dock? He spends a lot of his free time fishing, I think."

Mercer sighed dramatically, flailing his arms up before he let them fall to his sides. “Thanks, guys," he stated, watching as Sylvi shrugged her shoulders and returned to her work with Devon. Mercer, on the other hand, made his way towards the pond. Sure enough, there was Reynard, reel in hand, and looking rather content. Or about as content as one could be from Mercer's distance. He really couldn't tell. When he was close enough, he called out.

“Hey, Reynard! Have you seen Thea?"

The man tilted his head in acknowledgment of the question, languidly enough that it was almost like he'd been expecting it. Removing one hand from the reel, he grasped the bowl of his long-stemmed pipe and exhaled, a cloud of fragrant smoke drifting away from the both of them. “She came by about a half-hour ago," he said, replacing the pipe in his mouth and speaking around it. he seemed to be slowly pulling the bobber back towards himself, legs dangling over the dock.

“She was looking for Vridel. I told her he was in the library. My guess is they're both still there. He's been awfully interested in botany lately." A half-smile curled one side of his mouth, and he shot Mercer a narrow-eyed look from the corner of his eye.

“Wonder why that could be."

Mercer couldn't help but laugh at the statement so hard that he had to grip his sides. “Man, that's never going to get old," he stated, glancing towards Reynard's position. “I'd wager it has a lot to do with a post-victory hug from a certain green-haired person," he stated, his grin turning a bit more cheshire.

“Thanks for the intell," he stated, waving a dismissive hand in Reynard's direction. The library wasn't too far, he supposed, but part of him really didn't want to make the walk. He could have just left the information with Sorcha and called it a day, but he supposed he might as well finish what he started. Once he managed to reach the library, he heaved a big sigh, and pushed forward.

“Oh, hey Senka. Wasn't expecting you to be here," he stated, watching as she turned pale amethyst eyes in his direction. She blinked in that slow motion she usually did before her head tilted.

“Plenty of students come to the library to learn, Mercer. How would I be any different?" she retorted, earning a light chuckle from Mercer. “If you're looking for Sorcha, she's at the training grounds with Cyril," she stated, turning her attention towards the book in her hands. He raised a brow at that. She'd always addressed him as Professor Cyril. When had she dropped Professor?

“I'm actually looking for Thea. I was told she was here, but I can't seem to find her. Have you seen her?" he asked, her attention back on him. She nodded. “Great! Where is she?"

“Second floor with Vridel. We were studying a new tome when she came to ask his advice on something axe related. Supposedly there is an event at the end of the month and she was excited about it," she replied languidly. Mercer blinked a little stupidly at Senka. Did Thea already know about the tournament? Well, whatever. He could at least still tell her since he'd made it all this way.

“Thanks, Sen," he stated before making his way to the second level of the library. There, he spotted Vridel, but not Thea. He pursed his lips together.

Vridel, as it turned out, spotted him as well. His eyes, a much darker shade of purple than Senka's, narrowed. “What do you want?" he asked. He could come off as so grouchy sometimes; it really was kind of hilarious. He appeared to have an array of books spread in front of him; at least one of the illustrations depicted a poleaxe, the sort of heavy steel thing used by and against cavalry units.

Mercer snorted at his reaction. “Obviously I want you, otherwise I wouldn't have spent my entire afternoon searching high and low for you," he responded without missing a beat, flittering his eye lashes in Vridel's direction. He could have sworn he heard someone cough, as if they were trying not to laugh, but Mercer paid it no mind.

“Alas, our time apart has made the heart fonder," he stated, crossing his arms over his chest. Before he could say anything further, though, another voice took his attention.

“Ugh." Vridel rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner and proceeded to turn back to his books, quite ignoring Mercer.

“That's what they say in the books about Knights," it was Amalthea, who seemed to appear out of nowhere, to Mercer. He blinked in her direction before pursing his lips at her.

“You! Do you know how long it took me to find you!?" he stated, momentarily forgetting about Vridel. She blinked, large innocent eyes, up at him and tilted her head.

“I didn't know you were looking for me, Mercer! Sorry!" she stated, bowing in an apologetic way. He groaned. She didn't need to do that.

“Don't... you don't need to bow, silly. I just wanted to let you know about the axe tournament at the end of the month, but I couldn't find you," he stated, watching as a bright smile blossomed on her face.

“I know! I saw the flyers they were putting up, and I came to ask Vridel for advice on which axes would be the best to practice with!" she stated, her eyes turning up towards Vi. It was adorable, really.

For his part, Vridel did look up again then, offering her a short nod. There was unease in his body language, but he was also curiously oriented so as to be inclusive of her, rather than shutting her out of his space or anything like that. “Realistically, the Monastery has access to most of the Imperial varieties of throwing axe, and if that's the case there's no point in using the kinds from the Kingdom or the Alliance, as they're patently inferior. I suspect such a competition will use the standard returning hand axe, so you'll want to familiarize yourself with those. You can worry about things like balance and heft differences once you have the fundamentals established. I have a tomahawk I believe might interest you. It's a little lighter, but more aerodynamic, so you get better force for less effort."

It took every ounce of control for Mercer to not laugh at the situation. It was obvious that Amalthea wasn't as aware of the unease in Vridel's body language as Mercer was, however; he decided to let Vridel be, for now. “Oh, that would be great, Vridel!" she stated, and Mercer could have sworn she might have jumped with excitement. She really was overly excited, like a puppy. It was slightly endearing.

“Well, it seems you two lovebirds have everything handled. Guess I can be on my way now that my job is done," he stated, watching as confusion flickered across Thea's face. She glanced up at Vridel, the question evident on her face.

“What's a lovebird?" she asked, though from the way her ears were slightly red, she might have had an idea, but wasn't sure of it. Mercer had never laughed so hard. He was sure he broke something.

Vridel looked to be about on the verge of unsheathing the sword all Academy students carried around and stabbing him with it. Not that they were generally very sharp; the practice blades could be used for defense in a pinch but mostly they were there so that students would get used to the weight and feel of carrying one around, as many of them would be expected to later in life, either symbolically or for very practical reasons. Still, the prince seemed almost willing to give it a try anyway.

“They're a genus of parrot," he replied, tone unnaturally calm for the murderous expression on his face. “I've no idea why Mercer should compare either of us. If there is a noisy, squawking bird in the room, it is most certainly him."

“Ouch, that hurts," Mercer replied, but he ducked down the stairs with all the intent of getting as far away from Vridel before he actually was stabbed. Maybe he'd go tell Reynard about this new, little... development?

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd

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I.Y. 1180 - Harpstring Moon - Sunday the 18th
Garreg Mach Monastery (Training Grounds) - Morning - Clear
Amalthea von Kreuz


Amalthea was excited, to say the least. So excited that she'd woken up before everyone else had, even Sorcha, and had already dressed into her training outfit. She'd grabbed the tomahawk she borrowed from Vridel, and had waited patiently at the training grounds for the others to arrive. Sorcha arrived not too long after Amalthea had, Senka in tow, and both of them helped Amalthea set up the targets. By the time they had finished, the sun had already started peaking over the horizon.

The competition was a matter of accuracy and fluidity. She had to hit as many targets as she possibly could near their vital areas, however; they weren't going to be stationary targets. They were going to be moving, and Amalthea wasn't quite sure if she was ready for that. She'd been training, but throwing an object was a lot different than that, and it wasn't something she actively did during training sessions. She almost regretted it, however; she had her friends to help her with her shortcomings. She was particularly excited that Vridel had agreed to help her, too.

She really valued everything he told her, and she took it to heart, trying her best so that she didn't disappoint him. It felt different than it did with her sister, though. It wasn't the same kind of disappointment she was trying to keep Lyanna from feeling; that felt too... something. With Vridel, it seemed more vital, more important, so she trained as hard as she could.

“Thea," Senka called out, snapping Amalthea from her thoughts. She turned towards the woman, and nodded. “The others will be here soon; are you sure you are prepared?" she asked, causing Amalthea to nod her head.

“I am! I think... with all of you here to help me, I should be fine." She'd be better than that, actually.

Next to Senka, Sorcha had been studying Amalthea's axe, curiosity evident in her expression. “Thea, do you mind if I see that for a moment?" she asked, gesturing to the weapon.

“Hm? Oh! Sure, here you go," she stated, handing the axe towards Sorcha.

The other girl took the thing by the haft, running her thumb along the flat of the axehead and testing its balance. Flipping it over deftly, she spotted the crest design on the polished wooden handle and huffed softly, a strange smile crossing her face. “Vivi, you idiot," she murmured, shaking her head and handing it carefully back to Amalthea. “Did he tell you what this was, when he gave it to you?" Somehow, she seemed to know the object had originally belonged to Vridel.

Amalthea did not find that fact, strange. Didn't everyone know that axe was Vridel's? It had a very specific design, after all. Or perhaps only she thought that, and everyone didn't know? “Nope," she responded, smiling at Sorcha. “He just told me that I was free to use it if I wanted to. It would be easier to handle, and a little more aerodynamic. It was a good choice for the competition, he said." She thought it was a good choice, too. And it was lighter than her own training axe had been.

“Is something wrong with it?" she asked, her eyes going slightly wide. “Did I damage it somehow!?" she was slightly panicked now. She didn't mean to destroy his tomahawk, if that were the case. She really didn't want him to be angry with her, if she did manage to somehow damage his weapon. She should have taken better care of it!

Sorcha shook her head immediately. “No, no, nothing like that." She still wore the odd smile, and shrugged a bit. “It's just... that's Aymr. It's not a sacred relic or anything, but it is an Imperial heirloom. A weapon that's been around since ancient times. See the Crest of Seiros on the handle there? That's the proof. It's probably the single best throwing axe there is, and it's got a boatload of enchantments on it to guard against damage and rust and such. It's... also Vivi's birthright as Imperial Prince." The smile widened.

“He probably just gave it to you like it's no big deal, right?"

Amalthea blinked once. Then twice. It was a what? Senka made a slight huffing sound, but it didn't quite register what it could have been. Amalthea was too distracted by Sorcha's words to notice anything else. An heirloom? He'd given her an heirloom? Weren't those supposed to be extremely valuable and meant to be protected? She had to admit that she didn't quite understand the context of what an heirloom was, but hearing Sorcha describe it as something... important, Amalthea felt her eyes widen.

“He did," she replied. “Well, he let me borrow it, but..." he didn't necessarily say she could have it, so that meant that she was supposed to take really good care of it. But she wasn't, was she? She was using it, throwing it at inanimate objects and practicing her own techniques with it. And it was a valuable weapon he had given to her. Why would he do that?

“Why would he do that!?" she repeated the question out loud.

“Perhaps because he thought you might have made better use of it?" Senka spoke, causing Amalthea to turn her attention on her. He had told her that he preferred swords to axes, and that they were an Imperial specialty. But... “If that is the case, you should not feel bad about using it, Thea. He entrusted something to you that was..." she glanced towards Sorcha, special?" She didn't seem quite sure if that was the right word.

“Well, it's definitely symbolically important," Sorcha said, humming thoughtfully. “But Vivi's practical. Honestly, I think he probably just figured that it was a weapon, and made to be used, and since he prefers the sword, it wouldn't have seen much use with him. So I wouldn't worry about treating it like some delicate object. It's made to be thrown at things, or used in battle."

“Well, when you put it like that," she really couldn't find the fallacy in that logic.

She set her hands on her hips. “Speak of the devil... it looks like he and Professor Cyril are here."

Sure enough, Vridel and the professor both approached, each dressed in the usual manner for a free day at the monastery: Vridel in his uniform with the red half-cloak, and the professor in a long-sleeved, deep blue tunic with those odd patterns that Jeralt also wore at the neck and sleeves.

“Good morning, everyone," Cyril said mildly. “I understand we're going to throw axes today?"

“Good morning, Professor, Vridel!" she stated, grinning at both of them. “And yes, well... in a manner of speaking. I'm the one throwing axes! Er, well, for the competition." She pursed her lips at herself and took a deep breath. “I'm training with throwing axes for the competition at the end of the month!" There, that was better.

“Not just you, Thea," Senka spoke softly, causing her to purse her lips in confusion. Were they also going to join the competition? Senka's features smoothed out slightly as if she were reading Amalthea's mind. “It's good practice for all of us to learn about throwing objects. And," she paused, glancing towards Professor and Vridel, “It'll be like we are your competitors. Professor Cyril and Vridel are here to help us with that."

Sorcha smiled a little. “Exactly. I for one am going to be working on my javelin form, but magic or arrows would work just as well. Besides, if we all train together it's more fun, right?" She turned to the professor, then. “I've set up all the targets, so they're ready to go whenever you like."

“Excellent. Let's get those moving, then." They moved off to see about the moving targets.

Vridel, carrying what seemed to be an ordinary practice hand-axe, stepped a little closer to Amalthea, his arms crossed. “How's practice been?" he asked. “Feeling any more confident with the throwing?"

She turned and pursed her lips up at him. “Why didn't you tell me this was an heirloom?" she stated, holding out the axe, Aymr. “I mean, thank you for letting me use it, but it's... it's a," she furrowed her brows tightly, before sighing softly and shaking her head. She was going to try and think of it as Senka and Sorcha said: a weapon meant to be used.

“Training has been nice. I'm still a little bad, but I'm not as bad as I used to be. But that was against stationary targets. Practicing with moving ones is going to be tougher than that," she decided to say. “I guess, having your guidance has been really helpful. In a lot of a ways, actually," she continued, feeling the tips of her ears, burning again. She'd have to ask Lyanna about that, one day. For now, she'd just assume that it was probably because she was excited about something.

“Now, I'm going to need your help with these moving targets."

Vridel had an inscrutable look on his face as he regarded her in turn. He wasn't often blank-faced like the Professor or Senka could be, but nonetheless it was hard to figure out exactly what he was thinking most of the time. Narrowed eyes and slight frowns, for example could mean a lot. After a moment more, he shrugged. “I didn't tell you because it didn't matter. It is in fact an object my family has owned for a long time, but that doesn't mean much to me. It's a weapon like any other, and I gather that you don't have any of your own. Until you find something you like better, I think it will serve you in good stead. As for hitting moving targets..."

As if on cue, the targets set up on the training ground began to move, mostly traveling in a wide circle. Vridel took the axe from his belt and hefted it, throwing it decisively for one headed in their direction. It whistled through the air, landing dead-center on the target. “It's not that different. You just need to learn the timing, and how to throw from different body positions. Give it a try on that red one coming up." He called the axe back to his hand, the returning enchantment responding and pulling it back to him from its place in the target, where it left behind only a wedge of destroyed paper.

That was easy for him to say; he'd probably practiced a lot more than she had. Still, she wouldn't let that deter her. “Okay," she stated, bringing Amyr up and staring at the red target. Taking a breath, she leaned forward and threw with as much strength as she could muster. Amyr was wobbly, unlike Vridel's axe had been. It missed the target, and Amalthea pursed her lips together. She hadn't even grazed the target. It didn't miss by a wide berth, though. She'd only missed by a foot, at least.

She took a deep breath and jogged after her weapons, picking it up before returning back towards Vridel. She decided against glancing at him; she didn't want to meet his eyes until she could hit a target, proper. With pursed lips, she repeated the process, and missed again. “Can you..." she stopped herself from asking for his help, and shook her head. She relied on him, too much, for things, and right now, she wanted to at least get one hit before she asked.

The process was repeated for at least ten minutes. Every time she threw the axe, she still missed it. It either went over the head, off to the side, or, oddly enough, underneath it. How was she still not able to get one hit? “What am I doing wrong!?" she stated, finally glancing towards Vridel.

He was regarding her with a keen expression, like she was some sort of puzzle he couldn't quite put together to his satisfaction. Uncrossing his arms, he summoned the axe towards him; Amyr flew unerringly from beneath the target into his hand. On the other side of the grounds, the professor, Sorcha, and Senka were busy at their own practice; Vridel gave them a glance before he sighed, murmuring something under his breath that she could not hear and returning Aymr to her haft-first. The weapon looked no worse for wear: both the wooden handle and the metal axehead gleamed under the light.

“All right," he said. “Assume your stance, please." Once she'd done so, he paused. His next words were unusually hesitant. “May I... hm. I think it would help if I could adjust your posture and so on. That would require touching you, however. May I?"

“Please," she replied automatically, relaxing her body. If it meant that he could help her with her stance, she'd let him. “Whatever you need to do to help," she added, taking in a deep breath.

Vridel nodded, stepping forward and taking up her right wrist in his hand. He used the other to shift Amyr slightly forward in her grip. “The hold for throwing is slightly different from the hold for melee," he informed her. “Which you knew. What I think is new is that it's a little more of a difference with one of these over the standard hand-axe." Curling her fingers firmly but not too tightly over the new spot, he shifted back, placing a hand on each shoulder and squaring them.

“Your shoulders should always be like this. Even if you have to shift at the waist or do something unusual with your arms while you're on the move, they always need to be relaxed, but like this relative to each other. If they aren't it'll ruin your follow-through. And you're small enough that your form has to be better than idiots who just chuck them over the field."

His hands moved to grasp her jaw from behind, then, and he positioned her head so that she was looking directly forward. “Relax. You don't need that much advance warning. Look at where you want the throw to land, and then wait until the target's almost there. Every rule can be broken eventually, but when you're still learning you should follow them until it's instinct." There was nothing improper about the contact, but he was standing close enough that his heat could be felt at her back.

It disappeared a moment later, though, as he stepped back. “Next yellow." he said. “Don't look for it, just wait until you can target, and then throw."

It wasn't that hard to listen to his advice. She'd done so on countless occasions, however; something felt a little different. More intense and more focused, however; she couldn't quite place a finger to it. Whatever it was, it allowed her to clear her mind and focus on his voice, and instructions. When he finished, and had stepped back, she nodded in way of response, and glanced at the yellow target. Taking her stance, she eyed the target, watching it as it moved before she threw.

There was a loud thud as she managed to land the hit. It was on the shoulder aspect of the target, but she at least hit it. And that was enough to cause her to literally jump in her spot. “Yes! I hit it!" she stated, still jumping. She whirled in her spot, smile plastered on her face as she glanced up at Vridel. “Did you see that!? I actually hit it!"

“Don't know how I could have missed it," he replied wryly, a half-smile touching his mouth. “Well done, Amalthea." The smile widened even as his eyes narrowed. “...now do it again, and we'll be getting somewhere."

“Okay!" she responded, running to retrieve her axe. She pulled it from the target, and made her way back towards Vridel. Assuming her stance, she threw the axe again, managing to get another hit. And once again, very excitedly, she jumped in her spot. It was a process that was repeated over the course of a few hours until she was hitting almost every target. Not where the vitals were, but she would take what she could get.

When training came to an end, she glanced at the others and smiled at them. “Thank you all for training with me. You were right, Sorcha! Training with others is more fun than I thought it could be," she stated towards the princess. “And thank you, Vi for helping me! Again! I really need to find a way to pay you back for all of this. I promise you, I will!" She really was glad that they were there to help her.

For a moment, Vridel's eye twitched, perhaps at the application of the nickname, but he didn't scold her for it, instead shaking his head. “It was good practice for all of us. No need to make a fuss."

Sorcha rolled her eyes. “What he means is you're welcome," she added. “Keep improving like this and you'll be in good shape for the competition!"

She really hoped so.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd

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#, as written by Aethyia


I.Y. 1180 - Harpstring Moon - Saturday the 31st
Zanado, the Red Canyon - Early Afternoon - Clear
Cyril Eisner


Though he'd informed his students of their grim mission over a week ago, Cyril still could not help the faint feeling of unease that drew over him as they approached their destination. Someplace called the Red Canyon, apparently. Though the mission had originally been assigned to the Blue Lions, the simple matter of it was that some of his students were simply not yet at the level where they stood a reasonable chance of survival. He'd spoken with Lady Lyanna about it, and whatever she'd said to Lady Rhea must have been effective, for he was thereafter given permission to hand-select the students who'd be going with him.

He didn't especially like that, either, but at least he knew which among them were the best in a fight, and which would be most likely to be cautious enough to survive, and conscientious enough to make sure their companions did as well: namely, his Saturday class. It was the bond that was the most important thing, he thought, and though they were still getting to know each other, he knew they at least coordinated well, and wouldn't hesitate to do as he asked of them, should that become necessary.

None of that helped him shake the feeling that he could be condemning any of them to death—or to the trauma of taking life. All he could muster in defense of his was that they had all come here knowing what was taught. At least this way, he would be here for them when they did at last confront what it meant to kill. If they faltered, he would be able to intercede. If they were scared, he would be able to step in front of them. If they were in danger, well...

He would be there to stop a blow.

If he achieved nothing else, could shelter them from nothing else, he could at least make sure they didn't die. That they lived past this moment, this day. The first battlefield, for most of them. He didn't know why it was so important to him that they all made it, but it was. He felt as though... as though he could not lose them to this.

As the group approached the edge of the canyon, Cyril called them to a halt. Catching Reynard's eyes, he nodded slightly and jerked his head to the side. The other man understood—that one had been on many battlefields, of this Cyril was certain. Perhaps almost as many as he had. He would make a fine scout, and was not in need of the discussion he was about to have with the rest of them.

“This is it," he said softly. “Reynard is going to find the bandits for us, and then we go to battle." He paused, scanning their faces. “There is a lot that could be said, about killing and about death. It won't be easy. I want you to blame everything on me."

“What—what do you mean, blame it on you?" Sorcha asked. She'd looked vaguely unwell for the entire march. He didn't doubt she was remembering the bandits in the forest, on the night they'd met. The night she'd killed for the first time.

That was exactly why he was saying this, though. “I mean that if what you're about to do makes you sick. If it gives you nightmares. If it makes you numb. Whatever it does to you, I want you to understand that it's my fault. I'm the one who led you here. I'm the one who put you in this situation. When we're down there on that field, it's because I told you to go there. What you are going to do is survive." He shook his head. “And there is no blame for that. Perhaps one day, you will deserve some of the blame, when it is you who orders people to fight. I don't want you to ever forget what it feels like, to be commanded to take life. But I don't want you to blame yourselves, either. This is my doing. There may come a time when you have to decide whether to make it yours. But today is not your fault."

Amalthea hadn't smiled during the march, either. Her expression had been as Sorcha's had, but for a different reason, perhaps. She did, however, swallow rather thickly, and seemed to shake her head at something. Senka laid a hand on her shoulder, though, causing the young woman to glance up at her. She wasn't smiling, or anything, but there was a brief gentleness in her expression that caused Amalthea to nod her head. Her eyes were back to Cyril, after that.

Mercer, however, didn't seem fazed at all. As if this were just another day to him. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were forward and unusually dark. “Yeah, but that's just it, Teach. We can't blame you for something they did. Taking their lives won't be easy, but it's not like they didn't bring this on themselves," he spoke in a nonchalant fashion, almost cold.

“Fault or not, doesn't make it easier, Mercer. Taking a life... shouldn't be as easy as that," Senka retorted, her eyes narrowing just slightly. Mercer huffed lightly, but shook his head.

“I didn't say it should be," he stated, his eyes sliding towards Sorcha.

“That's just how things are, though. Let's just... do as the professor says, and survive," Dierdre stated, looking vaguely uncomfortable about it all. She'd stood a little closer to Sofia and almost seemed to be holding on to her arm.

Sofia swallowed thickly, doing her best to maintain a calm, stoic presence, perhaps for Deirdre and the others. Devon was having clear difficulty keeping his nerve; he kept fiddling with his arrows, and checking to make sure his backup knife was still strapped to his thigh. He nodded, though, as if to agree with Deirdre.

If anything, Vridel was taking it somewhere between the relaxation of Mercer and the quiet stoicism of Senka. It had been clear to Cyril even on that first night that both the imperial prince and the Alliance heir had prior combat experience; there would come a time when those faces would be what the majority of them wore in a situation like this.

“Don't forget that these people have done their fair share of killing, too," he pointed out. “And they thought much less for the innocent people they slew and stole from than we're thinking for them. We shouldn't stoop to their level, but nor should we forget that the fault—" there he looked at Cyril, not entirely without gratitude, it seemed. “Lies also with them. Whatever their circumstances, they chose to murder to live. They cannot be allowed to continue."

“I just... wish there was another way. Without killing them," Amalthea murmured, but Sylvi shook her head. She was about as composed as Sofia was, but her eyes were slightly wide. It was apparent that she too was feeling the effects of this upcoming battle, and she rolled out her shoulders as if she were trying to calm herself.

“Unfortunately that's just the nature of things. Whether or not there are other ways, the best option, here, is to put them down. Like his Highness stated; best not to let them continue. Their lives against the lives of many innocents is well-worth what we have to do," she spoke in an even tone. It was flat, though, as if she were struggling against her own words.

“Heh, if it helps, just think of them as rabid dogs," Mercer stated, pulling his bow from his back, and holding it out in front of him. He pulled on the string, as if he were checking it, and dropped his hand to his side. “They need to be put down before they cause more harm; simple as that."

Senka sighed, but she did not say anything. Instead, she fiddled with her sword strapped to her side. They weren't carrying their practice weapons, for this battle. The ones they had were iron, sharp, and very real. From the arrow tips, to the iron lances and axes, these were made to kill.

“We can do this," Dierdre whispered, almost as if she were trying to convince herself that they could.

So we are taking children into battle, are we? Cyril wasn't all that surprised that the voice in his head had an opinion about this, too. He couldn't even disagree with her. Perhaps she sensed it.

Reynard soon returned, gesturing for the group to follow him down a safe path into the canyon.

As they walked, looming red-brown walls of stone loomed to either side, only growing as they increased the grade of their descent. It would have been somewhat difficult for the Knights to maneuver horses down here, but he doubted that had much to do with why the students had been chosen to do the work instead. A pegasus or wyvern, after all, would have had no trouble, and there were plenty of those. He had rather the impression that they'd been chosen to do this not only because the knights were understaffed as Lyanna said, but because this was rather beneath the knights. The kind of thing that mercenaries would typically be hired to do.

Unbidden, a thought leapt into his head. This used to be a peaceful place. Cyril's step almost faltered; he was certain what he'd thought was right, but could identify the source of neither the thought nor the certainty. If it had been a contribution of his passenger, it would have felt... different.

She did, however, jump in then. Oh? I wonder why it is that you remember it. As far as I can tell, this is your first time here.

Have you been here before?

He could feel her uncertainty, as if she were reaching back in her memory as well as his own. I must admit I am unsure, she replied. Beyond the name and this strange feeling of familiarity, I can't seem to remember anything about this place. And yet... a great depth of emotion is tied to that familiarity. Like joy and sorrow, pain and love. And all things in between. She paused. If I was somehow here before, I wonder what took place...

There wasn't much time to consider it now, however. As they drew closer it became clear that there were ruins built into the canyon, crumbling now but evidence of great buildings having stood long ago.

Sorcha seemed to have noticed them, too. “Strange," she murmured.

“What is?" Vridel asked, regarding her keenly.

“The architecture," she replied, squinting down into the canyon. “It's like nothing I've seen before, even in books. It's not Imperial, or Kingdom, and it's much too old for Alliance, either. Unless I've just completely missed a major trend in historical architecture that is."

For some reason, Vridel shot a glance at Mercer then, a grim look on his face.

“I don't think there's anything like that mentioned in the books at the Monastery," Amalthea chimed in, but she seemed just as confused as Sorcha. “I've read quite a few of them, but not a lot," she continued, pursing her lips.

“They're not modeled after Almyran architecture, I can tell you that much," Mercer stated, his eyes sliding towards Senka, who merely nodded her head. “Perhaps this was here before the Empire was established?" he stated it in such a way that it was more of a statement than a question, as if it were some kind of small observation.

“Some designs have been known to get lost through translations," Sylvi spoke, though she didn't seem as interested in the design as the others had been. She was scanning the area as if she were checking to make sure they wouldn't be ambushed, or something of the sort. “It's possible that something was mistranslated throughout the years," she added.

“It's a possibility, but you'd think that the Church, or the nations would keep up with things like that," Mercer stated, but remained quiet after that.

Cyril, who knew precious little of history, wasn't sure why it should be surprising that traces remained of things that had been before the Empire, but perhaps the interest had more to do with the fact that they, who had quite complete educations by most standards, had never been taught of such things. Perhaps this represented lost knowledge, and how strange it should be that it was lost, if the Church knew of this place.

Suddenly, he could understand the issue.

As with those belonging to the girl in his head, however, there were other things to worry about right now. “There," he said, pointing down to what appeared to be a ruined stone structure of some sort, only a section of floor slightly alit with verdant light and a few vestigial traces of walls remaining. In it stood a bandit, apparently having an argument with several of his comrades.

Unfortunately, they were spotted at just about the same time. A sharp whistle raised the alarm, and the bandit reacted immediately, arming themselves and fanning out to meet the intruders.

“Archers and mages to the back. Everyone else, with me. Stick together. Protect each other. Leave no one behind." Cyril reacted immediately, firming his grip on his javelin. There was no time for anything else anymore. Now, it was do or die.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal

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I.Y. 1180 - Harpstring Moon - Saturday the 31st
Zanado, the Red Canyon - Afternoon - Clear
Mercer von Riegan


Mercer clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Teach ordered the archers to the back, but Mercer decided he wasn't going to do that. Instead, he stayed close to Sorcha, watching as the bandits scurried to arm themselves, proper, and begin their own assault. This wasn't going to be an easy fight; for someone who'd had to fight most of his life, he was okay with what they had to do. But the way Sorcha had reacted to their first encounter, he didn't want her to be alone through it a second time. Dierdre had looked a little hesitant to remain in the back, her eyes focusing on Sofia for a brief moment, before she seemed to steel herself.

He couldn't blame her; it was a very real possibility that they were about to lose each other. And love like theirs was very rare to find. He almost envied the two of them. Sylvi and Amalthea had stayed close to the Teach, and Senka had, oddly, remained somewhere in the middle. She wasn't in the back, but she wasn't as close to the others as Amalthea and Sylvi were. Perhaps she too felt the need to fight at a closer range? He knew she was decent with magic, but still... he allowed his gaze to focus back on the bandits.

The least he could do is try and take out one or two of the bandits. In total, there must have been about fifteen to twenty of them. It was, by no means, a small group, but against the eleven of them, it shouldn't be too difficult. This was under the assumption that the others would be able to do what they needed: kill.

Vridel was about even with Senka, sword drawn but from the look of it magic also at the ready. His facility with white magic was almost certain to see some use today. Sofia glanced back to her fiancee only once, nodding firmly before hefting her axe in her hand and firming up the front line with Teach and the others. Devon had the rear, and Reynard had once again seemingly disappeared. There was enough cover in this part of the canyon that he might well have found somewhere to snipe from, or to launch a sneak attack of some description.

“I'm here for you, Sorcha, just so you know," he stated, though he didn't quite understand the need to say it. He just thought it would be reassuring to her, somehow. Like it was to him. He didn't want any of his friends to die on the battlefield, and he was going to make sure of that, one way or another.

Her hands trembled where they held her bow. She, too, wasn't content to stay all the way at the back; probably because she had melee options as well and wanted to be in range to help support the front line if necessary. She pursed her lips, but looked suddenly up at him as he spoke, almost as if she was surprised to see him there. “Mercer! I, um..." She swallowed audibly. “You too. I mean. I'm here if you... need me."

She grimaced, mumbling something to herself that sounded like “not likely."

“Of course I need you," he responded almost immediately, fixing his eyes into serious state. “One person alone is only so strong, but as long as you're with me," he began, offering her a small smile, “I'd like to think we'll both make it through this, alright?" He wanted her to know that she was also going to be providing strength to him. She, and the others, were the reason he was going to give it his all today. To ensure that everyone lived, even if he didn't.

It wasn't long after that, they finally met the first wave of bandits. Mercer had notched an arrow almost immediately before letting it fly. Unfortunately the bandit he aimed for was wearing an armored chest plate, and the arrow merely hit it with a soft thud before falling. He pursed his lips together, and readied another arrow, letting it loose on another bandit. This time, the arrow found its mark, but it was lodged into the bandit's shoulder. He cried out from the obvious pain, but Mercer didn't have much time to think about it. He readied another arrow, and aimed again.

Beside him, Sorcha kept up a steady rhythm of fire, though he could tell from as close as he was that her fingers trembled on every draw. It didn't seem to hurt her accuracy much, nor did the way she gasped softly after the first bandit fell to her arrow in his throat.

“Survive," she whispered, turning her next shot on someone trying to approach Senka from the side. “Survive."

The reminder to herself did not stop the tears from beginning to flow.

In the front, their line was making efficient work of the bandits. Some of them were definitely burn-scarred, and dressed similarly to the ones who'd attacked the three of them during the training exercise. It was no great leap to assume they were the same group. Two of them, bearing the scars of his magic, apparently recognized Vridel and went straight for him. He cut one down, and the other fell to a pair of arrows from Devon.

Sofia kept her side of the line steady with measured, calculated blows. She wasn't a quick striker, but she was patient and sudden when she did decide to hit, and one of her axeblows cleaved a man's head, covering her in gore. She looked like she was about to be sick, but grimaced and held out. The incident, however, blinded her to the man trying to flank on her left.

Dierdre released a wind spell, pushing the man away from Sofia as her eyes were wide with fear. She was trembling as well, but she didn't have much time to react as another tried to attack her from behind. Mercer was quick with his arrow, notching it in place and releasing it in time to catch the bandit in the head. His body slumped forward, and Dierdre nearly jumped out of her skin as she turned in time to deflect an incoming arrow.

Amalthea didn't seem to be doing so well, though. She was visibly trembling, but she had yet to engage an enemy. Senka had kept close to her, deflecting swords here and there, but she could only do so much. Amalthea had gripped her axe, raised it as high as she could, before she brought it down in time to knock a dagger out of a man's hand. And in doing so, she lopped his hand off. His scream, and the blood that poured from his now-missing hand, seemed to startle her and she took a step back. She screamed as the blood covered her, and Senka had to pull her out of the way from arrow. It grazed her shoulder, the arrowhead slicing into it and producing a thin line of blood, but she did not appear to be fazed.

Sylvi had, at this point, worked her way through two of the bandits. She too seemed to be having trouble, though, and it was easy to tell that she had been crying, but her expression seemed strange. Her lips were pressed into a fine line, and her eyes seemed to be relaxed. Mercer knew that look. It was the look of someone who wasn't quite there, and was losing themselves in some other thought. That wasn't a good sign, though, and Mercer called out to her.

“Sylvi, stay sharp!" otherwise it would get her killed. She seemed to snap back to reality as her axe became more swift. More accurate, and she was able to push the bandit back. When he'd no more arrows to use, Mercer switched to his sword.

Sorcha ran out at about the same time as he did, and shifted to her lance. Even Devon was on his backup knife now, and Reynard had joined the fray in earnest, a short blade in each hand, cutting down from behind a bandit who'd almost gotten Sylvi.

Vridel shifted in, briefly touching a hand to Amalthea's back. Her bleeding stopped immediately, only what had already soaked into her clothes likely to remain. He hurdled a blast of fire at some of the incoming bandits; their rear line was now making the charge, and they were much more numerous now, in the thick of things.

Over Vridel's shoulder, Sorcha stabbed her lance, catching one who'd managed to duck under the fire and tried to retaliate. Teach, meanwhile, drew back and hurled his javelin, finishing off one of the incoming group and following up with a spell, which took out their left flank. It thinned the numbers considerably, but the incoming collision was still going to be a hard one.

“Brace yourselves!"

Before Mercer could react, there was a loud scream. He could tell it belonged to Amalthea, and immediately his eyes scanned the area for her. There was something wrong with Senka. She was as covered in blood as the rest of them were, however; something was off. She had an arrow stuck in her back, near her shoulder, and was standing in front of Amalthea. From the way it looked, it was as if she'd taken the arrow that had been meant for Amalthea. It was a sudden turn, though. She flung herself, sword in had, at the nearest bandit, catching him in the gut, and pushing him towards the ground. Immediately, there was a flame in her hand, and she was pushing it in the bandit's face, burning it off. The man screamed in anguish, and for a moment, even Mercer winced. It was bloodcurling and painful. She pulled the sword from his stomach, and plunged it once again, almost in a repetitive motion until the bandit moved no more.

She was screaming something, but he was too far to hear what it was. When her eyes flickered towards his, however; Mercer felt his stomach drop. It was a feral look, one that only cornered and frightened animals had. But it was also void of everything. Typically she had an impassive face, but there were small tells of what she was feeling. Now... there was nothing. She jumped to her feet, and charged towards another group of bandits, flinging another fire spell at one and clashing swords with another. If Mercer hadn't known better, he would have thought she were an expert with the sword, but there was still something feral and wild about it. She was thrashing about wildly, fighting two at once. A third bandit seemed to join the fray, but Senka showed no signs of letting up. It was like watching a caged animal, fight, and Mercer was certain that Senka wasn't quite there.

Amalthea had, at this point, retreated towards Mercer, tears clear as day in her eyes. “Mercer! She's not... she won't stop! She's not listening," she stated in a panic. He clenched his jaw tightly, and glanced around the field to see if there was someone close by.

“Sorcha, Teach! Something's not right with Senka," he shouted once he spotted them. It was at this point that most of the bandits seemed to focus their attacks on her, and she was being surrounded by at least three more. She wasn't going to last much longer, if the way she was breathing heavily was anything to go by. A couple of the bandits managed to slice her arms, and one tried to get her legs, however; she moved so that it caught her in the side. And then there was rage. Mercer wasn't sure if he'd ever seen so much emotion on her face, before. It was unnerving. “Amalthea, go," he stated, ushering her in the direction of Devon and the others. She nodded her head, and immediately, her eyes went wide. Without hesitation, her grip on her axe tightened, and she threw it at a bandit trying to get to Devon. It landed square in his chest, deep enough that it would likely take a great deal of strength to remove it, however; she stretched her arm out and used the enchantment to call it back to her.

Mercer turned his attention back towards Senka. She was still surrounded, and he was out of arrows.

“Sen! Senka!" Sorcha's tone was desperate; she broke from the line to try and get to her friend, only to find herself quickly accosted by two more bandits. She scored a quick jab to one of them, sending him reeling backwards, but before she could finish him, the other stepped in and disarmed her. Left with few options for defense, she scrambled, blocking the next blow with her bow. It broke under the bandit's sword, and she screamed as it cut into her shoulder afterward, but remained standing.

“Mercer!" Cyril was suddenly beside him, hurling the javelin into the uninjured bandit before he could finish her. “Get to Sorcha. Pull her back behind the line. Vridel, you're on standby for her and Senka."

So saying, he sprinted for where Senka was still tangled with her foes, arms cracking with lightning magic. He drove his fist for the first, landing a heavy blow at the base of the bandit's spine with a wet crack. If that hadn't killed him outright, the magic surely would have, and it jumped to the next foe, jolting him as he was about to make a swing. Cyril grabbed him, still on the move, and physically threw him into his compatriots, knocking them away from Senka. A blast of dark magic went at the lot, but the professor didn't so much as wait to see the result.

Instead, he grabbed Senka by the collar, disrupting her balance and deftly disarming her. With one arm, he hoisted her onto his shoulder, and the other held the sword, which he used to run through the one bandit who'd survived the magic and tried to lunge for him now that he was encumbered with the weight of another person.

Mercer was quick to move, finding Sorcha's side in a matter of seconds. She was holding the javelin Teach had thrown, but she didn't seem to be handling it well. Probably because her arm had been injured. When that had happened, Mercer felt something in his stomach, twist. He'd felt sick, as if he'd somehow failed to do something he said he was going to do. Protect. She had been injured because he wasn't quick enough when he needed to be.

When Teach had grabbed Senka, she'd immediately started slamming her fists into his back, screaming at him to let her go, that she needed to get back to them. Whoever they were. He turned his attention back to Sorcha, though, and pursed his lips together. “Hey, are you all right?" he asked, knowing it was a stupid question to ask. Still... he couldn't... he needed to know she would be okay. That she was okay, physically.

She grimaced; there were smears of blood all over her clothes and light leather armor. Most of it wasn't hers, he could tell, but a fair amount of it was, too. “I'll be—better when this is over," she admitted, shifting the javelin to her left hand, and hurling it. She wasn't nearly as good with it as her right, but it still connected with enough force to knock a bandit off-balance, and Reynard quickly finished him.

She summoned the weapon back and lined up another throw. Despite all the viscera on her face, clear tracks were obvious from her eyes to her jaw. It was hard to tell if she were still crying, but it almost didn't matter. The damage had clearly been done. To all of them.

The bandits were almost done for, though, and even as Cyril brought Senka back for healing, ignoring both the fists pounding into his back and her desperate cries, he made eye contact with the last man standing, pointing over the intervening distance with Senka's sword. A crackle of electricity sparked along the surface, coalescing at the tip and striking out, traveling over the field in a hard, shuddering bolt. It struck the bandit leader square in the chest, and he collapsed, unmoving atop the glowing green floor tiles.

There were types of magic capable of such distance. From description alone, that was probably Thoron. Whatever it was, it ended the battle.

Sorcha immediately fell to the ground, hugging her knees to her chest and looking to Teach. “Is she going to be okay?" her voice was tight, cracked with worry, even now.

He hesitated, holding Senka in place while Vridel worked.

“I hope so," was all he said.

Mercer doubted she was going to be okay for a long while, but he decided to keep that to himself. Instead, he sighed heavily, and rolled out his shoulders. They'd all survived, and that was all that mattered, in the end. Even if some of them were likely to have nightmares, or be haunted by the images. All that mattered was that they had all survived. Even himself.

The journey back to Garreg Mach had been relatively silent. No one spoke; Dierdre walked so close to Sofia that it looked like she was occasionally tripping over the woman's feet. Amalthea had nearly tucked herself into Sorcha, but kept a respectful distance between them. Sorcha, though, didn't seem to mind, and readily put her uninjured arm over Amalthea's shoulders, pulling her a little closer, so they were walking in step. And Senka, she'd stayed near Vridel and Teach, her eyes on the floor every step of the way. They were all going to need some time, after this.

“You should take Senka and yourself to Professor Manuela, get a look over," he stated in a low voice to Sorcha. Vridel's magic could only do so much for them, and he was certain they could both use it. All of them could, but out of the group, they'd sustained more injuries. Amalthea had a scratch on her face that would heal, given some time, and Dierdre had sustained some injuries. But they weren't anything she couldn't handle. The others were likely to have injuries as well, but Mercer considered himself rather lucky that he just had a couple of bruises.

“I will," she replied just as quietly. “Maybe Vivi will come too. He doesn't act like it but he's got to be about to pass out from all that healing." They didn't have too many other people who could do it, and one of the only passable healers was Senka, who was obviously in no shape to help.

As they approached the monastery entrance, Teach dropped back to walk for a moment beside Mercer. His eyes didn't leave Senka's back even as he spoke; it would seem he was still wary of her wounds. “I'm required to report to the Archbishop as soon as we arrive," he said, tone flat but somehow harder than the one he usually used. Certainly not nearly the same one he used with his students. “Would you be interested in coming with?"

“Fine by me," he replied almost instantly. He wanted to see what Rhea had to say for herself, sending them into a battle like that. He could understand if it were him, and maybe Vridel and Teach, but the others? They were clearly not ready for this. Taking another person's life wasn't something that people could easily do, especially people with relatively soft hearts like Thea and Sorcha. That... he felt his chest clench painfully as he walked with Teach towards the Archbishop's office.

When they'd arrived, Rhea's face immediately furrowed from the smile she had been wearing. Clearly she wasn't expecting Mercer to be there, but she ignored him for the moment, and turned back towards Cyril. “So, you have safely disposed of those bandits. I pray that their souls find salvation," she stated, sincerity laced in her voice, but Mercer knew that it was not genuine. Her brows furrowed once more, her eyes shifting towards Mercer.

“But why did they target the students to begin with?" she questioned, closing her eyes for a moment before she continued, “We must further investigate the true cause of all that took place. Until we know more, I ask that you support the students and relieve them of any unnecssary worry." Her eyes were still on Mercer when she spoke.

Cyril's face was blank as ever, but with time, Mercer was getting a read on the subtle differences in it. It would have been hard for someone like Rhea to tell, who never saw him with his students, but this kind of blankness was much harsher than the kind he had with them. “I'll do what I can for them," he said, but something about it suggested it wasn't really a promise to relieve 'unnecessary worry.'

Her expression shifted slightly, but it was so quick that Mercer wasn't sure he'd seen it properly. Instead, she nodded her head. “Good, I have high expectations for you." That was a rather odd statement, to Mercer. Why would she have high expectations for Teach? “By the way," she began, eyes sliding back to Cyril, “how was your time in Zanado?"

“Legend has it, in ancient times, a goddess alighted upon this world in that very canyon. For a goddess from the heavens, Zanado could only have been a temporary haven," she spoke, her voice light, as if she were recalling a fond memory.

Teach tilted his head, something about the information apparently catching his interest. “And this would be... your goddess? The one worshipped here?" Apparently he hadn't been exaggerating his lack of knowledge on the subject.

She didn't bother hiding the flash of disappointment across her face. She nodded her head, nonetheless, and sighed softly. “Long ago, the divine Seiros received a revelation from the goddess. A gift, to help guide the lost," she began, causing Mercer to purse his lips together. “The goddess is always watching over Fódlan from her kingdom above, however; in ancient times, the goddess graced this world with her presence," she explained, causing Mercer's frown to deepen, “and offered salvation to the people here."

“She is the mother of all life, the arbiter of every soul," she continued, but the way her voice sounded caused Mercer to take a mental note of it. It wasn't of someone who truly believed in the goddess, but of someone who had experienced it before. That, in itself, was strange. He'd have to tell Vridel about it, later.

Before Teach could reply to this, Lady Lyanna entered, walking somewhat briskly, the skirt of her white gown rippling with the motions. “Your pardon, Lady Rhea," she said, executing a neat bow. “As you requested, I have arranged matters with the knights for the Professor's next mission." She half turned, showing no outward surprise at Mercer's presence.

When Rhea gave a small nod, she elaborated. “We have received reports that Lord Lonato has rallied troops against the Holy church of Seiros." There was something curiously flat about her voice when she named the Church.

Teach's eyes narrowed slightly. “Why would he do that?"

Rhea shook her head, “Lord Lonato is a minor lord of the Kingdom. He has been showing hostility toward the church for some time now." She didn't sound affected by it, though. Wasn't Lonato the one who sponsored Devon? To his credit, Mercer kept the surprise from his face, glancing towards Lyanna and Rhea with a face to rival Senka's and Teach's impassive one.

“A vanguard unit of the Knights of Seiros will soon be dispatched to his stronghold, Castle Gaspard," Lyanna added, crossing her arms. “His army poses no threat to the Knights, ultimately. It is possible the rebellion will be suppressed within a day of initial contact." She shook her head, as if she found it all quite senseless.

“Even so, I would like for your class to travel with the knights' rear guard to deal with the aftermath." Another battle? That meant they would be required to kill again, to fight in another bloody battle for the Church. Something just didn't add up, to Mercer. Something was missing, off, and he didn't like it.

If Teach thought so, too, he was doing a good job of hiding it, at least until he spoke. “This army Lonato has raised... in whom does it consist?" There was the faintest edge of suspicion to his tone.

“Exactly who you'd expect," Lyanna replied slowly. “His house's army, and volunteers to his cause."

Volunteers? But that would mean—

“You intend to send children barely off their first battlefield to kill innocents?" Cyril pressed.

Lyanna's eyes went wide. She darted a quick glance at the Archbishop, and spoke rapidly. “Those who defy the Church are never innocent, Professor. And those you call children are adult enough to lead countries. Armies. They will not be kept from reality." Her jaw tightened, and there was a flicker of something—fear?—in her eyes.

Whatever it was, it kept Teach from replying further. He crossed his arms, but nodded slightly.

Clearing her throat, Lyanna continued as though the interruption had never taken place. “As you know, war zones are unpredictable. We do not expect you will have cause to actually battle, but be prepared for the worst." She expelled a breath. “The knights you will be accompanying will be led by Lady Catherine, the Sacred Knight."

If Teach's response fazed Rhea, it did not show. She merely smiled, as if she were expecting that kind of response. “Catherine is one of our bravest knights, and that is no small feat. Only an exceptional few have what it takes to join the Knights of Seiros," she explained, her eyes sliding to Mercer with a strange uncanniness. “This mission should prove useful in demonstrating to the students how foolish it would be to ever turn their blades on the church..." Mercer felt his jaw tighten.

She might not have speaking about him directly, but damn did it feel like she was. It was enough that Mercer swore he felt a chill go down his spine as she and Lyanna exited, leaving him and Teach behind.

“Did that sound like a threat to you, or was it just me?" Teach's voice was back to its usual dryness, but his eyes were quite sharp.

“And here I thought I was the only one who thought so," Mercer replied, his eyes narrowing in the direction of where Rhea had left. “And to be honest, it didn't sound like one; it was a threat," Mercer knew enough to know a threat when he heard it. “But why would she go about threatening kids? We don't pose much of a threat to her," at least not now.

“Well three of you are set to lead countries," Teach noted. “I don't know much about politics, but if she can scare you young, maybe she hopes it'll stick." He wore a slight grimace, and shook his head before giving Mercer a soft clap on the shoulder. “For now I don't suppose there's anything to be done. Get some rest; I'll tell Professor Manuela you'll be late tomorrow, if you'd like some extra shut-eye."

“You're a life-saver, Teach, you know that?"

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd

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#, as written by Aethyia


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I.Y. 1180 - Garland Moon - Tuesday the 3rd
Blue Lions Classroom - Midmorning - Light Rain
Sorcha Blaiddyd


Two days wasn't really enough time, Sorcha didn't think, to process everything that had happened at Zanado. She found she had questions she could not answer, emotions she could not purge from herself, and a strange heartache that didn't seem to go away. She'd spent all of Sunday indoors, just curled in her bed, only leaving long enough to check up on Senka and be sure she'd eaten. Apparently the professor had brought her lunch from the dining hall, and sure enough, when she returned to her own room, another tray was waiting for her. Maybe it should've weirded her out that he'd somehow gotten in while she was away, but in truth she was just touched by the thoughtfulness, and she had a feeling he'd known that would be the case.

Yesterday she'd been a little more functional, but he hadn't made the class do anything. Instead they'd played card games while it rained outside. Not unexpectedly, the Professor and Senka were the only real competition for bluffing games, but she had a fair chance at ones that involved calculating odds and things. It was funny, how even something so simple could teach her something, about herself and the people around her.

The members of the class who hadn't participated in the mission looked at them differently; she could sense it more than she could see it. It was some combination of envy, and maybe pity, or maybe resentment—whatever it was, mixed together she wondered if it might not put a wedge between them that would never come out. The professor didn't treat anyone unfairly, but everyone knew he'd left half the class behind and taken some Eagles and Deer because that was the group he thought best for the mission.

Judging by the fact that they'd all come back alive, he was probably right. Even if Sorcha didn't feel very suited to any of this at all.

But today things would have to go back to normal. They couldn't not study forever, and when the professor entered that morning, shedding his cloak and draping it over the desk chair he never used, Sorcha sensed they were going to get a proper class session today. She cracked her notebook and dipped her quill into its inkwell.

“I have just been informed that there is a round of certification exams at the end of this month," he said. He rarely bothered with preamble like "good morning" or anything, unless it was a more personal interaction. She thought it might have something to do with how unused to the setting he was, but Sorcha found she didn't mind it. She'd always found it a little... weird, when other people did it. How they wanted a chorus of voices to echo back to them, even when the students were in a poor mood.

“For those of you who don't know, a certification is a practical skill assessment that serves to benchmark your particular abilities. Only after passing certain certification levels are you permitted to take the written exams for classification. Ordinarily, I can see why that wouldn't matter—it's hardly a concern what someone calls you if you're good at that you do. However, here at Garreg Mach certain resources are restricted to those who meet the appropriate classifications. For example, bows made with steel will only be issued to those with archery certifications of level C or higher; the assignment of mounts and commission of armor is linked to your classification directly."

“So for weapons it's just cert level but for anything else it's classification?" Devon raised his hand as he asked the question rather than before, but the professor never cared about that kind of thing.

He nodded. “Yes. And you can only take the written exams for a classification if you have the right levels. As such, you'll want to plan which tests you take rather carefully. As such, I'd like to spend today's lecture time talking to all of you about what you interests are. In order to plan the most effective route through the certification process and ensure you know what you need to do to get the equipment you need to survive."

“Finally!" Sylvi had stated, looking rather relieved. She had put up a decent front after the ordeal in Zanado, but it was easy to tell that it had affected her, too. Her hand would occasionally quiver with her pen, and she'd been a little more easily startled, lately. But like Amalthea had, she'd just smiled, but did a better job of it. “I already know what classification I'll be taking," she continued, earning Senka's attention. She glanced towards her, as well, and a small smirk adorned her features.

“I told you my goal was to be a War Master, so..." she trailed off to straighten herself in her seat. “I'm going to take the classification for Brawler." the answer seemed to confuse Senka for a moment.

“I thought you were training with axes? A brawler trains with gauntlets, do they not?" she stated, but Sylvi shook her head.

“Yes and no. I need to be proficient in axes and in hand-to-hand combat in order to achieve that high-tiered classification, but since I've mostly focused on my axe training, I need something that will help me with my hand-to-hand. I'm good, but I need to be better," she replied. Senka's expression smoothed out and she nodded her head. She was a little more expressive lately, but it might have been because of what happened to her at Zanado. She'd seemed a little off, and hadn't spoken much until today. Her eyes had been unusually dark, as well.

Cyril nodded slightly. “As it is, you'll need to have your C-Certs in barehanded fighting to even sit the exam, which if I'm not mistaken means you'll have to skip up two steps this month. It's not impossible, but you'll need to work hard." He paused, tilted his head, and Sorcha thought he almost smiled. It was a decidedly pleasant sort of expression, at least. “Fortunately I can help with that."

It had become evident over the last couple of months that Professor Cyril was good at just about everything. There were some things that he was really good at, like brawling ad lances and magic and tactics, but he was at least better than his students at, well, everything. As they specialized more, that might not be the case, but Sorcha was willing to bet that even by the end of this year that would still be true. It made sense, of course; he was a professional. And it was reassuring to know that she wasn't going to miss out on anything because he had nothing to teach about it.

“What about you?" Sylvi turned the question back to Senka, and she seemed to contemplate it with a thoughtful expression. Or about as thoughtful as Senka could make it.

“Cavalier," she responded after a moment of silence. “I do not know what I wish for as a high-tiered classification, but having the Cavalier classification seems like the right first step," she continued, glancing towards Sorcha.

“Ah, good. This is something worth explaining to everyone. As some of you might know, the cavalier classification has previously required a C-level lance certification. It, as well as the Paladin, Holy and Dark Knight classes, is now accepting certifications for any melee weapon. The rest remain unchanged, however. So there's a little bit more room there, but if you plan to be cavalry I do advise picking up at least some familiarity with the longest version of your preferred weapon. The reach is a serious advantage. So longswords, poleaxes, and so on should become part of your repertoire if you're a non-lance cavalry unit. The requirements for wyvern riders have been changed as well; that class has been dropped a tier and now requires either an axe or sword cert of C level, as well as the flying one."

Sorcha raised her hand. “Have the pegasus knight requirements changed? I was going to try sitting for those certs, as well as archery."

Cyril shook his head. “That's still the same. And you're encouraged to take exams in addition to the ones you need for your classifications, but remember that cert tests come by more often than you will realistically meet qualifications to change classes, so don't feel like you must take everything this time around."

Sorcha nodded. Worth keeping in mind, to be sure, but it wasn't going to change her plans this time. She wanted to be able to get the bows she needed from the armory, pegasus knight or not.

“I've got it easy compared to some of you," Devon said, a bit nervously. “I just need bow certs to become an archer. Though... I might take the swords one as well. They let you use knives for that, right?"

“They do. It will be noted that you took the knives version, but little will change because of that."

Amalthea had remained quiet as everyone listed off their preferred classes. She glanced around, waiting until everyone had spoken before she called out in a quiet voice. “I... want to take the necessary certifications to be an armored knight." She had stated she wanted to be a great knight, before, and it seemed like a good start for her. She probably wouldn't have suggested it, otherwise. Sylvi glanced in her direction, brow arched, and a look of confusion crossed her face.

“Are you sure? I mean, you're so... small," she stated, earning a small smile from Amalthea who just nodded. “Well, I'm sure given more time you'll gain some more muscle. It's a lot of heavy lifting and hard work, but you seem to enjoy it," she continued, the smile stretching just a little further across Amalthea's face.

“I want to be a great knight, but in order to do that, you're right," she paused, glancing in Sorcha's direction before her eyes turned towards the professor, “I've a lot more work to do, and a lot more muscle to gain if I'm going to be one."

“You've come a long way, already. I'm certain you'll be able to achieve your dream." Amalthea nodded her head as if she were agreeing with Senka.

“You can definitely do it, Thea!" Sorcha added, half-smiling. It was a truer version of the expression than she'd managed in days, she thought. Honestly, wearing heavy armor, definitely took some conditioning, but it was more a matter of knowing how to work with it than being a bodybuilder or anything.

Professor Cyril's face took on that oddly-soft expression he got sometimes, and he nodded. “Very good. Fortunately for all those of you looking to get into mounted or flying classifications, this month the last group will be put on stable rotation. So everyone will have had a chance to try out some of the skills and see how comfortable you are there. Mounts aren't assigned until the relevant classification exams are passed, but you are allowed to put in requests if you feel you get along with a particular creature."

“Out of curiosity, professor, what are your cert levels?" Sorcha knew it could be seen as an impertinent question, but something told her he wouldn't mind, and she was curious.

He blinked, then shrugged. “I've never taken any certification tests," he said mildly. “It was recommended that I do so this month, actually, so I'm going to be studying along with the rest of you."

“That sounds like it's going to be fun," Thea stated, smiling still at the others. “And we'll help you out, too, professor! As much as we can, at least," she added, pursing her lips together and nodding her head in what looked to be a somewhat serious manner. If she were trying to be serious about it, she was doing a poor job. Her face cracked into a small smile as she huffed slightly to herself.

“Quite," Sylvi stated, leaning forward to rest her chin on her hand. “I'm not sure we'll be much use to the Prof, but studying with us will definitely be beneficial for everyone, I'd say," she continued, her eyes sliding across the room.

“We should all help each other study!" Sorcha declared, knocking on her desk with her knuckles. She mostly meant the afternoon group, honestly, but she'd never stop the others from joining if they wanted to. Still, she worried the divide there was only going to grow. “Since the certs are physical tests, we could all use sparring partners or live people to try stuff on, and study partners for the written exams next month. And it's not like it's completely useless for the other person, even if they aren't taking those exams. We all need to know more about what we might be facing, and what better way than to teach each other? Er—other than you, Professor."

He huffed softly, sounding almost amused. “On the contrary. I endorse this. The more ways you practice and learn, the better."

“That sounds like a good idea. I can help you, Thea, with your certs, and you can help me as well since we are doing similar things," Sylvi spoke, grinning widely. Amalthea nodded her head in agreement, and she folded her hands out in front of her. “And whoever else is doing something like us. I think Sofia, too, even if she's not in our house, but it'll still be fun," she added. She had a strange rivalry with the Golden Deer member.

“Yes, I agree! It'll be fun, and a valuable teaching moment for everyone!" Amalthea chimed in, smiling as if she'd never lost her smile. Senka looked to be on the verge of smiling, but it didn't quite make it to her face. She'd smile, fully, one day.

“We can possibly use Saturdays as our studying sessions for our written exams, after our chores, and Sundays as a means of practicing the physical aspects of it," Senka spoke quietly, glancing towards the professor before turning her attention to Sorcha.

For the first time in days, Sorcha felt the painful tightness in her chest ease, just a little bit. “That's a great idea, Sen," she said, then turned to the Professor. “Would you mind helping us out, Professor Cyril? I know it's outside normal school hours, but..." He'd never seemed to care about that kind of thing as much as most people would.

“Of course I will. Just let me know where to be and what to bring."

It seemed like they had a plan.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal

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I.Y. 1180 - Garland Moon - Sunday the 8th
Garreg Mach Monastery - Early Afternoon - Overcast
Senka Rinaldi


The day they had returned to Garreg Mach from the Red Canyon, Senka had been asked by Professor Hanneman to see him when she had the chance, after she had recovered. He was there when they went to the infirmary to see Professor Manuela, and he wore a curious expression when they recounted their battle. Senka, of course, had no recollection what happened after she'd been shot with the arrow, only that she had come to and she was on Professor's shoulders. Thea had filled in small details, causing Senka to become worried that something was wrong with her, however; Professor Hanneman had told her that there could have been another explanation for it all.

And if they wanted to know, that she should seem him in his office once she had recovered enough. Senka wasn't entirely sure if she truly was recovered. Her hands were stained with the blood of a person, forevermore. That was a reality she had to come to terms with, but it wasn't easy. She knew she shouldn't lose sleep over their lost lives, but at one point, they had been people. They were still human, and taking a life should not have been that easy. Perhaps that was just her body's natural reaction to the stress of it? To take over and just survive.

Whatever it was, it had startled Senka. So, with a sigh, she made her way to Hanneman's office, slowly.

Her path took her past the courtyard where the Saturday group tended to congregate, but today there were only two occupants: Sorcha and Cyril. They both looked up when she approached, Sorcha with a half-smile when she recognized Senka and the professor with his customary blank-faced expression.

“Sen!" Sorcha called, waving her over. “Where are you headed?"

Senka felt her face soften at seeing her friend, and made her way towards the two. Once she was at a respectable distance, she answered, “I am on my way to see Professor Hanneman." She tilted her head slightly as she regarded her friend, and the professor. “Would... you like to join me?" she asked hesitantly. Perhaps they were too busy at the moment, but Senka didn't want to go alone, necessarily.

“Professor Hanneman?" Sorcha blinked. “Is this about your magic certs?"

The professor seemed to pick up on some of her internal discomfort, at least if the way his brows furrowed slightly was anything to go by. His reply was a beat too late by most standards, but not at all insincere. “Of course I would," he said simply.

This seemed to remind Sorcha of the question, and she nodded immediately, closing over the book that was in front of her and putting it in the satchel near her feet. “Definitely!"

“Thank you," she spoke softly, waiting until they were walking in stride. When they arrived at Professor Hanneman's office, she knocked briefly on the edge of his doorframe and waited until he spotted them.

“Ah, you may all come in," he stated, motioning them towards him. He looked rather pleased with himself, as if he had just discovered something important. Once they were all situated around a large device, he cleared his throat to get their attention. “How much do you know about Crests, Senka?" he asked, causing her to purse her lips.

“Very little. We do not have them in Almyra," she replied, watching as Hanneman's brow quirked in curiosity.

“Fascinating, well," he muttered, straightening out his posture, “you've also stated that your mother was from Faerghus, correct?" Senka nodded. “I'm surprised she said nothing about them, to you. Or is it, perhaps, that she came from a family that bore none?"

“I do not know," Senka replied, casting her gaze to the ground. The only thing she'd known about her mother's family was that they were from Faerghus, and that they had been a small, noble family. Crests had never come up, before, and she didn't think that they were as important as the Church had made them out to be. They were, essentially, just symbols of power that people could shape and use however they wanted. It wasn't something Senka thought highly of.

“And what about you, Sorcha? You carry a Minor Crest of Blaiddyd, after all. What do you know of them?" His attention was on Sorcha, at that.

Sorcha tilted her head. Senka knew she didn't much care about Crests, either, as important as they were to the Kingdom. Still, there was a difference between thinking they determined a person's worth, which Senka knew her friend hated, and academic study like Professor Hanneman's, so she answered without complaint. “I do," she said quietly. “I don't think I've ever used it though. People used to talk about my father being so strong in battle he could break someone's sword with his bare hands, but... he had the Major, so I doubt I'd be able to do anything like that." She pursed her lips a little.

It had always been something of a sore spot for Sorcha that she only had the Minor Crest of Blaiddyd. Prior to her, the family line had carried it strongly, with almost every generation having the Major version, something Faerghus as a country was proud of. There were some who said it was because she was to be the first daughter in a long line of sons, and who had thought the King would have been better off trying for more children, or that it had been the first Queen's fault somehow. It was even whispered, from time to time, that his marriage to Patricia had been an attempt to do just that: have a son with the Major Crest to make the next king instead.

Of course, both Lambert and Patricia had died before that came to be.

“Indeed, no one truly knows what they are capable of," he stated, though there was a strange smile on his face. “I suspect that, because they are considered blessings of the goddess, each crest has something to do with the Ten Elites, and what they were particularly gifted at. For example, for you, Sorcha, I imagine that Blaiddyd was a particularly strong fellow who was known for his extraordinary might," he continued his explanation, before his attention shifted towards Cyril.

“Of course, like Cyril's Crest, there are still Crests out in the world that have not yet been discovered, so it is difficult to discern exactly what they are." Senka glanced towards the professor and tilted her head. Professor had a Crest? That... explained some things, if Hanneman's explanation was anything to go by.

Cyril himself certainly didn't deny it, only crossing his arms over his chest. His expression seemed thoughtful—at least she'd known him to wear it when deep in thought before. “So you think that what happened to Senka the other day is because she has a Crest?" he asked. “I don't think I've ever seen one activate before. Is it always like that?"

“Precisely," Hanneman stated, causing Senka to furrow her brows slightly. “And each Crest is activated differently, depending on the situation. It might have been that Senka's Crest, dormant in some way, was forced to activate when she was in peril. You were injured with an arrow protecting Amalthea, correct?" Senka nodded. “It's possible that your desire to protect her is what activated it."

“But... I do not believe I possess a Crest. Even if my mother was from Faerghus, she has no bloodlines to the Ten Elites," she stated, causing Professor Hanneman to smile in a strange way.

“Ah, but you see, I just said there are Crests that are yet to be discovered," he stated, motioning for her to come closer to him. “We can use my device, here, to see if you do, indeed, possess one. Don't worry, though, it is painless," he explained. She shot a glance towards Cyril and Sorcha before obliging him. “Now, just hold out your arm," he stated, holding his hand out as if to grab hers. She reached out and set it where his was, and waited.

The machine made a whirring sound, and for a moment there was nothing. Suddenly, an image appeared, startling Senka somewhat, but not as much as Professor Hanneman had been. He nearly dropped the pen he'd been holding as he stared at the image. “It's... this... this is absolutely amazing!" he stated, as Senka retracted her hand. The image on the device was strange to her, almost shaped in the way of a bull of some sort.

“It's the lost Crest of Maurice! To think that we'd see it again after all these years," he was rambling at this point, and Senka furrowed her brows before turning her attention to Cyril and Sorcha.

“Lost... Crest?" Sorcha blinked, her eyes wavering uncertainly between the three others in the room. Mostly, she looked concerned, probably because of the bit about the Crest manifesting involuntarily. “Of Maurice? But that's impossible. Church lore says he had no descendants after he—" She grimaced, turning worried eyes on Senka.

“Indeed. I did not think it was possible that he had descendants," he stated, turning his attention towards Senka. “But it is clear as day that he had, and has. Tell me, Senka, have you ever heard of the Crest of The Beast?" he asked, causing Senka to shake her head. His eyes fell slightly, as if he were hoping she had. His next words made sense.

“Lore says that, after the war against Nemesis, Maurice was cursed into a demonic beast from overtaxing his own Crest and Hero's Relic," he began, causing something in Senka to tighten. It felt like her lungs were refusing to work, and she couldn't breathe. “After that, he lost control and killed innocent people in such a gruesome manner, that," he paused pursing his lips together.

“People say that if he had any descendants, that they were cursed to suffer the same fate. The Crest of Maurice was considered bad luck, and was renamed the Crest of The Beast, after that." Something felt hot inside of Senka. Did... did that mean she was cursed? Was she going to turn into a demonic beast, like he said, and kill people?

“Is... is that going to happen to me? Am... am I going to kill..." she couldn't seem to find the words she wanted to say. Something hot lanced through her, an emotion she'd been intimate with, before. It was fear.

“Don't be ridiculous!" Sorcha's voice, unusually sharp, cut through the silence like a hot knife. Her hand, firm and cool, landed on Senka's shoulder. “Everything that happens with Crests happens because the user wills it. You might be able to accidentally trigger the Crest, but something like that... if you learn how to control the Crest carefully, that won't happen. Maurice was greedy for power and regularly overtaxed his Crest to get to that point, right Professor Hanneman?"

Professor Hanneman winced at Sorcha's words, which did little to ease Senka's fears. “That... is easier said than done, I'm afraid," he replied, and she felt her heart drop. “Because Senka's Crest reacted the way it did, controlling it will not be that easy for her. If she had prior knowledge of her own Crest, she might have been able to deal with it, properly, but unfortunately, that wasn't the case. Now, it is possible to learn control, but there has to be someone whose Crest is greater, if you will. Your Crest, Senka, is not only that of Maurice's, but it is a Major Crest. It is going to be difficult for you than it would be for someone like Sorcha, who bears a Minor Crest. That is simply how they work."

“But... what if I don't? What if... what if there's no use in controlling it? What if..." she couldn't stop the questions in her head, the What ifs.

“Then you just find someone who can handle your strength, right?" Professor Cyril hadn't spoken for some time, but he did then, drawing everyone's attention back to himself. He shrugged. “I don't know what kind of Crest mine is, and to be honest I don't really care. But we know I can deal with yours." He was surely referring to the fact that he'd somehow gotten her off the battlefield safely in the fight with the bandits.

“So you can practice control on me. And if anything funny looks like it's about to happen, I'll knock you out. No point wondering about what might happen if the worst is true when we haven't even tried the other options yet, right?" He met her eyes steadily, without even a trace of the fear she was feeling, or of Sorcha's and Professor Hanneman's apprehension.

“Professor Cyril is correct, my dear. If he was able to deal with your unknown state, it is possible that his Crest can handle yours. You should not fret," he stated, but it still did not ease her doubts and fears. She kept her gaze with Cyril's just a moment longer before she finally dropped it. Maybe he was right? Maybe she just needed to try first, before she gave up on something? Taking a slow breath, she calmed her heart that seemed to be beating a strange rhythm in her chest. It was unusually fast, but she put it down to her near-panic.

“Alright," she spoke softly. It did not make her feel better, though, that she bore a Crest that was considered cursed. “Alright," she repeated once more. “Thank you, Professor Hanneman, Cyril, Sorcha," she stated. She was certain she wouldn't have been able to do this alone.

Professor Cyril nodded slightly, but Sorcha smiled. A small one, but a smile nevertheless. “Don't worry, Sen. We're with you, and we'll figure it out together."

She hoped so.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal

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#, as written by Aethyia


I.Y. 1180 - Garland Moon - Friday the 13th
Courtyard - Midafternoon - Clear
Cyril Eisner


Cyril observed his students with knitted brows. As usual, his Saturday group was meeting on the afternoon of a day that wasn't Saturday, but the mood seemed particularly low today. Even as they studied and worked on assignments, their shoulders were hunched, eyes more distant than usual. Even those not so directly affected by the events of two weeks ago were certainly feeling it by proxy of the others; even Reynard looked rather dispirited as he worked his way through a text on historical blade variations.

In one sense, he supposed, there was little to be done about it. When he'd seen his first real battle, his father and the others had just... given him space. There had been no conversations, no acknowledgment beyond the fact that he hadn't been assigned chores in the week following. Even that was something Jeralt had called an "error" in scheduling, though both of them knew differently. It was not an easy thing to talk about, and he supposed thus far he'd taken his father's tack, assuming that it was something that everyone had to come to terms with on their own.

And maybe, ultimately, it was. But that didn't mean he couldn't try something to help. Reaching into the inside pocket of the vest he wore over his tunic today, Cyril withdrew the parchment therein, unfolding it carefully at the creases.

“Dear Garreg Mach students," he read, quite sure the start apropos of nothing would draw their attention. Indeed, when he glanced up, he found he had everyone's attention, and almost everyone's eyes, at that. “We wanted to say thank you for what you did in the canyon. The bandits who lived there were always showing up to our village to take our crops. They killed anyone who fought them, and some families lost their daughters, too." He paused, suppressing the grimace of distaste that threatened. He hoped he wouldn't have to make what that part meant any more explicit.

“We were really worried about what we were going to do this year. It's been a hard one for the fields, and if they took as much as they usually do, some of us wouldn't have made it. The man writing this letter for us says that it was your first battle. We're sure that was hard—none of us could bear to stand up to those bandits. We hope you're all okay. The whole village is grateful to you; we were worried we wouldn't be important enough for anyone to take notice of, what with the troubles everywhere else. But you noticed us. You saved us. My daughter turns fifteen this year—and now I know I don't have to worry about her being hurt. Thank you. Thank you so much."

He folded the letter back up, passing it to Devon, who was nearest to him on that side. “That's really what it says. You can all read it, if you like." Blinking slowly at them, he tilted his head.

“It doesn't change what we did. But if you're going to think about that, you have to think about this, too. It's only fair—the lives of those villagers are worth just as much. And they get to keep living, because of you."

Sylvi was closest to Devon, and seemed to be reading it over his shoulder. Her eyes went soft, but she didn't say anything. She remained quiet for a moment before the letter was passed to the next person. Amalthea's lip was quivering a bit, and it was clear that she was trying to hold back tears. She was doing a good job until a tear escaped, but she didn't seem upset. Rather, she seemed happy about the letter. Dierdre's eyes had remained down on her hands, but she was smiling softly and sniffling. She was, perhaps, trying not to cry as well, but doing a better job than Amalthea. Sofia's hand rested at her back, moving up and down in comforting motions. Her eyes were a little wet, but she didn't cry.

“I'm glad we were able to save them," Sylvi finally spoke, glancing towards Devon before her eyes went to the others. Senka had remained quiet, her face strangely hard to read. She didn't appear to be upset nor happy. She was just simply there. Her mind might have been elsewhere, however; the letter had been handed to her, next, and her eyes scanned the contents. A flicker of a smile appeared on her face, but it was quick enough that the others might have missed it if they weren't looking.

“A reminder that the sacrifice of one life is worth the continued lives of many," she stated softly, causing Mercer to nod his head.

“Agreed, though in this case, I think the lives of a few bad apples was well worth it," he added.

Even Reynard took a moment to read the words before passing the letter to Vridel. “Someone took dictation for the villagers," he pointed out, eyes flickering to Cyril. “Don't suppose that was you, Professor?"

“It was," Cyril said simply. “The village is called Remire. My father's mercenaries worked out of there for a month or so, but since they've moved up here, there wasn't anyone around to take care of the problem." He swept his eyes over the students. “Until you, that is."

Vridel quietly passed the letter to Sorcha, but for the moment, she seemed more interested in studying Cyril. “You went all the way back there just for this?"

He shrugged. “There's no 'just' about it, Sorcha. You saw firsthand the worst part of work like this. You deserve to know the best parts, too. I thought you should hear it as directly as possible, that's all."

“We should take the good where we can. It's not often that it happens, but when it does," Mercer started, pausing only to take a momentary glance at Cyril before continuing, “it's the best feeling in the world, isn't it?" Amalthea nodded slowly while Sylvi gave a single nod.

“I'm glad that they'll be able to celebrate a birthday, and be able to survive, now," Dierdre spoke, placing her hand over Sofia's and giving it a light squeeze. “They'll be able to possibly harvest enough for themselves to last through the winter, too, I bet, now that they don't have the bandits to feed," she added.

“And maybe, just maybe we can slowly start a real change," Thea spoke softly. “I want to try and save as many people as possible if it means we can do this for them," she continued, glancing in Vridel's direction, briefly, before turning her attention to Cyril. “And... I don't think we'd have been able to do that without your guidance, Professor."

Cyril felt an unexpected thing at that, perhaps at the totality of this. A warmth he could not recall ever having felt before. He felt his face shift, almost into a smile, but it didn't quite manifest. He shook his head, faintly. “You've all got this in you," he said simply. “All I'm doing is teaching you how to use it."

He really did think they were an extraordinary group of people. Talented, yes, but more than that... good people. He'd seen all sorts, in the mercenary life, but never this many good ones at once, that was for sure. It was true that his father demanded a code of ethics from his people, but Cyril hadn't made any such demands of these nine. He hadn't needed to. They already had that, quite on their own.

“I know this doesn't make it all go away," he continued. “And I'm not telling you you need to be all right tomorrow, or at any particular time. But I want you to know that... you can talk to me about this, if you want to. I promise it's no imposition on me, and if at any time you feel you cannot go on a mission, whatever the reason, all you have to do is say the word." He exhaled heavily. “Even professionals get tired of it, sometimes. A lot of people retire early from this kind of life. The ones who stay with it are the ones who are either just naturally inclined to it... or the ones who have a reason to fight. But even if that's not you, I hope you know that last month, you protected each other, and you saved those people. You have the right to be proud of that."

“I have a reason," Vridel replied simply. “But... I appreciate it, Professor. Truly." He nodded once, then dropped his eyes back to the book he was working on.

Sorcha pursed her lips, frowning thoughtfully. “I... I do, too," she said after a moment, exchanging a glance with Senka. “Like Thea said... sometimes we have to fight to make the world a better place. I can't... I can't run from that, even if it's going to be hard sometimes."

“And I will be there every step of the way with you, to help, Sorcha," Senka replied, placing her hand on Sorcha's shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. “I too, have something to fight for, people I..." she paused, her eyes widening slightly as if what she were about to say were some strange revelation, “want to protect."

“A single reason is usually enough to want to do that," Mercer chimed in, shrugging his shoulders lightly before turning his attention towards the others.

“It's the small things that count, the differences we can make. And... I am proud that we were able to survive, and protect each other. Even if you guys aren't part of the Blue Lion House, the obviously best house," Sylvi stated, smirking just slightly as her eyes slid towards Sofia. Dierdre visibly rolled her eyes at the statement.

“Sure, and Mercer's a serious and reliable person," Dierdre shot back, causing Mercer to purse his lips slightly.

“I feel like you just insulted me. I'm insulted."

Sofia sighed, but a small smile played at her face. “I have such a reason, too," she mused. “I think I needed to be reminded, though. So thank you, Professor, everyone."

Devon nodded solemnly. “Me too. I'm... I'm glad I get to fight with all of you. I think it could have been much worse, to be honest. It wasn't easy, but... at least we're in this together."

“Good," Cyril said softly. He could see it—the way they were slowly coming to terms with this. Ultimately, he thought that was a good thing. There would be trials ahead of them, still, but if they could build these foundations strongly now, they would stand in good stead later as well. “I'm here if you need anything, but it seems you may not." He allowed himself a bit of gentleness, there—or perhaps it was more accurate to say they simply... drew it out of him, somehow. Perhaps this was simply what it felt like to have students. He would have to ask his father.

Senka pursed her lips together slightly, and tilted her head. “I'll need you for a long time, yet, professor," she stated in regards to his statement, but it must have sounded strange to Mercer because he started laughing. Harshly to the point that he fell out of his chair. Once he seemed to gather her bearings, he wiped at his eyes as if pulling something away.

“I think what she means to say is that we will continue to rely on you, Teach, and we may still need you," he stated, causing Senka's head to tilt a bit further to the side.

“Is that not what I said?" she asked, causing Dierdre to snicker softly.

“Not even close."

Cyril rather thought it was what she'd said, and blinked with some confusion at Mercer on the ground before shrugging inwardly. Sorcha and Devon looked as confused as he felt, but everyone else appeared to know something he did not. In any case, he shook his head.

“Regardless," he said slowly. “Please don't forget that we have stable duty tomorrow morning. I appreciate your diligence, but if you're up too late studying you'll burn out sooner rather than later. Or possibly laugh so much you fall over and rupture something."

Sorcha snorted. “Don't worry about him; he's made of bricks."

“That's a new record. I've been insulted twice today." But Mercer was smiling and didn't seem to mind what Sorcha had stated. “And yeah, stable chores, not looking forward to that," he muttered softly, his lips pursing into a fine line. Dierdre rolled her eyes, and Sylvi laughed softly.

“Oh, that's right! I forgot. It's going to be awesome! We'll get to play with the horses and wyverns and all the animals," at least Amalthea seemed excited for it.

Cyril huffed. Her enthusiasm really did seem boundless at times.

But the smile she wore wasn't a false one, and he'd absolutely take that.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal

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I.Y. 1180 - Garland Moon - Saturday the 14th
Garreg Mach Stables - Morning - Clear
Mercer von Riegan


Mercer might have said he wasn't a morning person, that he liked his sleep and didn't want to be bothered, but the truth was he was a morning person. He was usually up before most of the school was, often taking an hour to skim through the library and see if he could find more information. This morning was no exception, and for once, he thought he'd meet his friends... Mercer blinked at the thought. Friends? Huh, that's new, he thought, shaking his head to himself. He supposed he did consider them his friends after all they've been through together.

He dressed in his chore clothes; usually just a sleeveless tunic, colored with the gold and dark browns of the Leicester Alliance, and a pair of shortened pants. He had a gold band in his hair to keep it from falling into his eyes. Plus, it would help control the sweat. He didn't need to burn his eyes during the chore session. Standing by the stable gates, he stood against it and waited for his class to arrive.

As usual, Sorcha and Senka were the first to arrive. Always together, he'd noted, and dressed ready for their chores. Senka, however, seemed to be wearing a sleeveles light blue tunic that was a few shades lighter than the symbolic blues of Faerghus. He'd seen a shade like that before, somewhere, as a certain color that represented something, but perhaps he was just being too analytical? She was wearing thick white leggings beneath it, though, and a pair of black shorts on top. She looked ready to work, at least, with her hair braided down her back, close to her head. For a design like that, it was likely they had been up around the time Mercer was.

She blinked at him, though, a sign that she was clearly surprised to see him there. He felt almost proud of himself for being able to read some of her tells. She'd been a hard one when they first met, but she tilted her head and her features smoothed out. Her way of smiling, he'd learned, which made him almost smile. It was endearing to him, for some reason, like he was able to bring forth a smile from someone so inexpressive as she. He wondered, briefly, if Sorcha was the only one lucky enough to receive a true smile.

“Good morning, Mercer," she greeted, causing Mercer to grin.

“Good morning to you, as well, Senka, and you too, Sorcha," he replied, placing a hand on his hip and popping his leg out in an over dramatic manner. “To think that I beat the legendary early-riser here, I'm shocked," but he was just teasing her at this point.

Sorcha, for her part, always seemed slightly overdressed for the weather, perhaps a habit she hadn't yet kicked from growing up in such a cold place? Her tunic was long sleeved, but she'd at least rolled it to her elbows, exposing the fact that her arms were dotted with freckles, not unlike her face. She'd chosen sturdy trousers tucked into boots otherwise, black to the tunic's green. A cord around her neck disappeared beneath the neck of the shirt, and she'd pinned her hair up as usual.

She sniffed at his joke, and harrumphed. “Oh look," she replied primly. “Miracles do happen. Someone call the priests. Whoever made this happen might qualify for their own sainthood."

Mercer hid his smile beneath a grin, but he was certain it was showing in his eyes. At least she seemed well enough to be responding to his jokes like that. He'd take the small victories where he could get them. Instead, he placed a hand over his heart, and feigned a hurt look. “I'm hurt," he stated, pursing his lips in her direction. Senka looked like she wanted to roll her eyes, but she merely cast them towards Sorcha.

“Yeah, well if you weren't such an idiot, you wouldn't tease the princess like that," Dierdre's voice cut through, causing Mercer to snort unceremoniously. It was almost as if she'd popped out of nowhere, and Mercer allowed himself to jump to give that appearance of being startled. “Besides, it's not like she can help that you're a blockhead. I worry about our country's future with you," ever so blunt, and ever so appreciated. She was dressed similar to Mercer had been, though the colors she wore were just black and white. Her tunic was black, outlined in white, but her trouses were a dark grey color. It made her hair, pulled into a tight bun, stand out in contrast along with her eyes.

“And now I feel like this is your fault, Sorcha, turning my ally against me," he murmured in good fun.

“That was your own fault, Mercer, not hers."

Sofia, following much more sedately than her fiancee but dressed similarly, sighed quietly, as she often seemed to find herself doing. Her dark blue hair was pulled up into a high tail, but otherwise she didn't seem particularly disturbed by the prospect of any dirt. “You're all lively this morning," she noted, blinking slowly. She was certainly not a morning person, but tended to compensate for it by getting lots of coffee with her breakfast, so she'd probably be about as energetic as she ever got within half an hour or so.

“Understatement if I ever heard one," a voice called out, sounding groggy and tired. Mercer allowed his eyes to slide to the source, and snorted softly at Sylvi's appearance. She had lazily pulled her hair back, some of the strands still falling into her eyes and sticking out of its tie. Her attire looked like she'd slept in it. She was wearing a pink long-sleeved shirt that was rolled up to her elbows, probably because they'd be doing a lot of manual labor, and her trousers, beige in color, were as sturdy as Sorcha's looked.

“I'm so tired. Someone come help me fix my hair!" she stated, her eyes glancing around the current group. Mercer chuckled softly, but held his hands up in defense.

“Sorry, love, no can do," he wouldn't be able to pull a miracle like that, after all. Senka, however, stepped forward in a tentative manner.

“May I?" she asked, and Sylvi wasted no time making her way towards the taller woman. Once Senka appeared to be comfortable, she pulled Sylvi's hair from its tie, and began working her fingers through it. Satsified, it seemed, she began twisting and pulling it, tying it in a similar braid to her own, however; it wasn't as intricate. He wondered if she did Sorcha's hair, too? Once she was finished, and Sylvi's hair was tied up properly, she turned around and smiled brightly at her.

“Thanks, Senka, you're a life saver," she stated, giving her a hug. It was obvious that it caught Senka off guard because she tensed so stiffly that Mercer almost mistook her for a statue. He tried not to laugh, as she seemed to recover, and patted Sylvi's back. Dierdre rolled her eyes, hard, and groaned.

“Where's the rest of us? I want to finish early so I can go back to studying for my exams!" Dierdre stated, furrowing her brows.

“Callum, really?" At the moment, Vi's voice distinguished itself from the ambient noise. He and Reynard seemed to be heading towards the group from the direction of the dinging hall. Both were dressed in short-sleeved tunics of imperial red, Vi's with a bit more embellishment at the hems, but nothing fancy. Curiously, Reynard seemed to have red lines inked onto his forearms, disappearing up beneath his sleeves, in a pattern Mercer had never seen before.

“No lie, Your Highness," he drawled.

“Hm. Well. I think you made the right choice, then." He pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, rubbing away some last vestige of sleep. He yawned as he reached the group, looking them over with disinterested eyes. “I'd say good morning, but I'm not convinced. Where's the Professor and the small ones?" He had to be referring to Devon and Amalthea.

“Uh, we're here," Devon said, approaching with Teach. He'd worn a blue sleeveless shirt and shorter pants like Mercer and some of the others. Teach was dressed like usual, only he'd lost the outermost layer so he had no sleeves either. Unlike the students had to, he almost never wore the sword that was part of the uniform, and he hadn't today, either.

“The other small one usually isn't late," Mercer stated, pursing his lips together. Part of him was worried that something might have happened to her, however; there was a loud crash, and a groan. All eyes turned towards the source, and Mercer did his best not to laugh. Amalthea had been running, from the looks of it, and she'd tripped over something, landing near a barrel. She was currently face down on the ground, but Sylvi immediately ran over to her, and helped her up.

“Are you alright, Thea?" she asked, helping her to dust her shirt and pants. Amalthea nodded rather enthusiastically, and grinned.

“I am! Sorry, I just... I didn't see that broom on the floor and I saw all of you gathered already. I didn't want to be later than I already am!" she stated as way of excuse. Dierdre had snickered lightly, but Senka's lips pursed lightly towards them.

“You should be more careful, though, Thea," Mercer added, furrowing his brows in her direction. She simply nodded in response. She was something, really. Funny, if anything. “Alright, so it seems the group's all here. We're basically cleaning around the stalls and the stables, right?" he stated, his eyes sliding towards Teach.

He tilted his hand back and forth in a 'so-so' motion. “Well first we're letting all the animals outside into the field behind the stables so we can clean. We've been assigned Barn C, which I understand is our lot as third to the activity." It was established that Barn C was the least-desirable of the ones for students, all three of which were separate from the two the Knights used. Apparently most of the animals in it were considered subpar for some reason, or at least not as good as the ones in Barns A or B. It figured.

“Then we're cleaning. After that, though, we'll be spending some time with the animals themselves. Grooming, maybe exercising them so you can all get some experience. You'll want to know if there's anyone you want to request if you're going into a mounted or flying class, after all." With a small gesture, Teach bit them all follow him inside.

The barn was quite large, organized into separate sections for horses and flyers. Wyverns and pegasi were known not to get along in general, but there didn't seem to be quite enough space to keep them entirely separately. Several of the animals poked their head out over the stall doors at the entrance of the students, a few horses nickering.

Teach unhooked a clipboard from the wall just inside, moving silently over the straw-strewn floor. He read down what seemed to be a list of some kind. “All right. Looks like we've got three wyverns, four pegasi, and a dozen horses. They all go into the same field, so let's get them moving. Your leads and halters for equines are there—" He pointed to a door, which probably led into a tack room—“and there for the wyverns." They seemed to have a different room, probably because their tack tended to be larger and shaped differently.

“If you don't know how to lead an animal, feel free to ask me. It's not something everyone knows to begin with. Sorcha, if you can get the pegasi, I'll ask Mercer to handle the wyverns. The rest of you can take out the horses. Does that work?"

Sorcha nodded. “Of course!" She actually looked... rather delighted, actually, and all but skipped towards the tack room to get her halter and lead.

He nodded. “Oh, and Mercer. Be careful of the one in Stall 17. He's apparently a bit cantankerous."

“Nothing I can't handle," he stated with all the confidence he could muster. Senka followed after Sorcha much more casually than Sorcha had, to grab a halter and lead as well. Dierdre made her way towards the other tack room for the wyverns with Sylvi following suit. Mercer figured he might as well grab one, too. Besides, wyverns, in his opinion, were superior to everything else. Sylvi had been the first to grab her lead and halter, and made her way towards a stable. She pursed her lips together before moving towards another one.

“I don't think anyone should deal with that one," she stated, pointing towards the stall she'd just passed. “There's a black pegasus in it, and they're considered bad luck," she murmured. Senka had, at that moment, appeared in time to hear what Sylvi stated, and pursed her lips slightly, her hands gripping the halter in her hand unusually tight.

“Why does the color of the animal matter in whether or not they are good or bad luck?" she asked, curious for some reason, it seemed.

“They're very rare, for one thing, and often times bring bad omens to those who ride them," she explained, shrugging her shoulders in a nonchalant fashion.

“Well then," Sorcha said simply, throwing her lead over her shoulder to grip the door to that stall, “we'll match. Fine by me." She said it lightly, but Mercer could sense the underlying seriousness, and she did in fact not hesitate to open the stall door. It wasn't more than a few moments later that she was leading the pegasus out. It was in fact black, from head to toe, even its mane and tail. Its coat definitely looked like it could use some attention, and it regarded the students with wary eyes and a vaguely skittish posture, but Sorcha either didn't notice or was choosing not to make a point of it, simply leading the creature out through the open barn doors.

Devon shrugged, then followed with a horse, a docile-looking bay mare.

Mercer grinned as Sorcha led the pegasus from the stall, and out of the barn. He had a feeling she felt a kinship to it for certain reasons he would find out, later. Instead, the others followed suit, grabbing their horses as well and leading them out. Sylvi had grabbed a dapple gray colt that seemed very curious about his surroundings. He occasionally pulled on the halter, causing Sylvi to stop and turn around. He nipped her shoulder a couple of times before she managed to get him out. Thea had chosen a gentle-looking chestnut mare who seemed to follow Thea with little to no hesitation. She'd occasionally raise her head, but not enough to disturb Thea.

Dierdre had chosen a blood bay stallion with a strong personality it seemed, as he seemed to immediately try and take the lead from her. She struggled for a moment before she, too, made it out of the barn. Senka had steered clear from the pegasus stalls, a strange look in her eyes, as she pulled a black gelding from his stables. It was oddly calm, an almost mirror reflection of Senka's own calmness, as they left the barn. He huffed lightly as he made his way towards stall 17. He peeked inside to see a white wyvern curled near the back corner. It looked like it was sleeping, however; it had fixed Mercer with intense golden eyes the moment he approached. He arched a brow, and opened the stall.

“They told me you're a bit of a trouble maker," he stated, his voice calm so as to not startle it. It rose to its feet, and immediately, baring its teeth in a show of aggression. “Really? You want to prove them right?" he stated, placing the halter down for a moment and crossing his arms over his chest. It merely continued to stare at him, and Mercer rolled his eyes. “Alright you, what's the problem? Someone put a thorn in your side and now you don't want to trust anyone?" he spoke, watching as the wyvern eyed him. They were intelligent creatures; Mercer knew this from experience, so he didn't feel too out of place for talking to it.

“I bet they left you, didn't they? Thought you were too much of a risk being out in the open as you are. You'd give the position away if someone spotted you, right?" he continued, watching as the wyvern seemed to narrow its eyes at him. “Look, all I want to do is clean your stall. Don't you want to get some fresh air, and have a clean place to come back to?" he stated. After a closer inspection, it appeared that this wyvern was in similar shape to the pegasus Sorcha had taken. He frowned and shook his head, deciding to take a step forward. The wyvern didn't seem to like that, though, as it growled in his direction.

“You need a bath; you stink. C'mon, let me take you out so you can be groomed. You'd like that wouldn't you? I'll even convince them to give you fish instead of the usual stuff for dinner, tonight, how about that?" he continued, watching as the wyvern's expression shifted at the word 'fish'. He grinned. “Is that what you want, fish? Alright, you scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours. I'll even sneak in a few extra for you if you let me take you out," he stated. The wyvern regarded him with a wary gaze, but seemed to capitulate as it lowered its head in Mercer's direction. He grabbed the halter from floor, and slipped it over the wyvern's head and secured it. Scratching the snout, Mercer smiled.

“See? Isn't this better?" he stated as he led the wyvern out, and smirked in everyone's direction. “Cantankerous, my ass," he stated as he passed by them.

He met Teach at the doorway; there were two horses behind him, a blue roan and a large stallion with a deep grey coat and a pale mane and tail. Neither wore a halter; he'd simply looped leads loosely at the base of their necks and was guiding them out. He paused, though, gesturing Mercer ahead of him with a nod. Neither of the horses seemed panicked by the wyvern's presence. Though they were mostly fish and bird-eaters, some horses spooked easily around them. These ones seemed almost to have been infected by Teach's stoic demeanor, though, and Mercer could hear them following out not more than five feet behind.

Once everyone was out of the barn, the students got to work. Though monastery workers probably took care of the place on some kind of schedule, overall it still had an air of some neglect to it. No doubt something they were collectively meant to rectify. The group got to work, either mucking stalls with pitchforks or moving in new straw and feed, or running water back and forth to refresh the buckets in the stalls. Even Teach got right into it, throwing open all the doors and windows to circulate fresher air and sweeping the central walkway, coordinating the others to scrub it down with hard lye soap. Vi and Senka helped him rinse with water magic.

Once they were done with the barn, Mercer made his way out to the field so they could start grooming the animals. The wyvern immediately made his way towards Mercer, and laid his head on Mercer's shoulder. He nudged it a bit as if he were asking for something. Mercer rolled his eyes at the creature, and scratched his snout. “No fish for you until we wash you down, alright? And then you'll get a full bucket's worth," he stated as he pused the wyvern from his shoulder. It was kind of heavy, after all. The wyvern merely nudged his back with his snout, and made a light grunting sound.

“It's bad to eat before you've been cleaned, you know. You need to look your best for dinner, or lunch in this case," he stated, earning another grunt from the wyvern. It fixed him with a strange look, one that he could have sworn Sorcha used on him once. Was he begging Mercer for the fish?

Something metal and cool pressed into Mercer's free hand; Sorcha half-smiled at him. “Got you covered," she said, reaching into the bucket she'd just handed him and picking up a fish. Apparently with not the faintest hint of revulsion at the sliminess of it, either. She fed it to the wyvern with a conspiratorial expression. “But he can have a snack before bath time, can't you, love? Who's a handsome wyvern?" she made a cooing noise of pure delight and gave the beast's nose a scratch. “You are! Yes you are!" She actually leaned forward, apparently not even slightly afraid of the creature's reputation, and gave him a kiss right on the end of his snout, which was still sort-of resting on Mercer's shoulder.

“I'm off to groom my other new friends now, but don't let this fiend bully you, sweetheart." Patting his cheek, she grinned, nodded at Mercer, and headed towards where the black pegasus was standing by itself in a far corner of the field, a second bucket still in hand.

“Oh, I see how it is. You'll give Fluffy here a kiss but not me?!" he called out after her, loud enough that everyone who was near could hear him. He could hear someone laughing, Dierdre or Sylvi, and he shook his head. 'Fluffy', however did not seem to appreciate the name, and nipped Mercer's shoulder lightly. He chuckled lightly and scratched the wyvern's snout. “Yeah, I know, you don't like the name, here," he stated, grabbing another fish and tossing it in the direction of the wyvern who caught it with ease. There was a satisfied rumble from his throat as he glanced in Sorcha's direction, before turning it towards Mercer. Mercer supposed today was going to be a good one.

Sorcha was doing a pretty good job of pretending she hadn't heard him... except for the redness of her ears. She seemed to give it up, glaring back over her shoulder at him before straightening in that way she always seemed to do when she was gathering her nerve for something. “Maybe you should try harder," she called back, promptly turning away with her head held high and marching over to the dark-winged pegasus. It seemed a little wary of her, but its ears pricked forward when she held out a shiny apple towards it, from the other bucket.

Behind him, Vi snickered. “Sounds like a challenge, hm?" He appeared to be working on the dark grey horse Teach had led out earlier. With them, it was a matter of getting bigger chunks of dirt off first, followed by finer dust, and then a good soak. The latter wouldn't be needed every time, but considering how poorly-attended some of these seemed to be, they definitely needed it now.

Well... that was interesting. “If that's what she wants, I guess challenge accepted," he replied, cracking his knuckles as he grinned towards Vi.

Sofia, meanwhile, was struggling to keep the blue roan still. It wasn't being aggressive, just fidgety, and she clearly didn't know how to handle it. “Never learned a thing about animals," she admitted. Teach jogged over to help, and the horse stilled quickly under his hand.

“They take a little getting used to," he assured her.

“It helps if you approach them calmly," Senka stated from her side, working a brush through the gelding's coat. She seemed to know what she was doing, as the horse merely stood still for her, occasionally shaking his coat, or flicking his tail. She glanced towards Sofia and nodded her head. “Like any animal, they are sensitive to others' emotions. If you approach it like you are afraid, it will be wary and skittish around you." She went to work on the gelding's mane, after that.

“Easier said than done, Senka. Did you work in stables before?" Dierdre asked, apparently having the same issue as Sofia was. That was likely due to the fact that the stallion she'd taken out, was a little more aggressive and confident. He pawed the ground and bucked his head up and down. Senka shook her head, and made her way towards Dierdre, to assist, it seemed. She placed a hand on the stallions snout, scratched it briefly before running the brush through its mane.

“Not exactly," she whispered, “father used to maintain a small stable. We used to go riding whenever he wasn't busy, and he taught me about their care." That explained it, he supposed. But he found it strangely odd how she kept clear of the pegasus in the field. When one would get too close, she'd stiffen before abruptly walking away. She handed the brush back to Dierdre, though, and went back to her own horse to continue.

Amalthea seemed to be having fun with her horse, braiding its mane after she was done brushing it, and occasionally weaving a flower that she found, into it.

The process of brushing and washing everyone took some time, but by the end of it, all the animals were quite clean, and looked rather less bedraggled than they had before, at that. They also all had flower crowns or wreaths, courtesy of Amalthea, as did most of their tenders. Sorcha wandered back over towards Mercer and the wyvern, followed much more comfortably this time by her new pegasus friend. It seemed to have no aversion to the wyvern, either, in fact nudging its soft equine nose into one of his wings and flicking its tail.

“Friend of yours, girl?" Sorcha asked the pegasus, who nickered softly in response. “Well that's only slightly adorable, it's fine." She smiled at Mercer, earlier contention forgotten, it seemed. “So Professor Cyril says none of these guys have names. Apparently the students get to do that. What's his?" She offered her hand towards the wyvern again, as if volunteering to scratch him.

“He should name you Sir Brightscales, shouldn't he?" she crooned. “Because you're so handsome and shiny."

He wasn't going to let her forget about it. Not that easily, he supposed. He slipped an arm over her shoulder and leaned against her as if he were using her for support and hummed a thoughtful note. Sir Brightscales didn't quite seem like a name for wyvern, but he clicked his tongue in a thoughtful manner. The wyvern seemed to nudge the pegasus back, perhaps to acknowledge that they were, indeed, friends. A strange one, if Mercer had a say about it.

“Ladon. He'll be Sir Ladon Brightscales," he stated, glancing back towards Sorcha, his face just a little closer to hers as he grinned at her. 'Ladon' seemed to approve of the name as he nudged Mercer's shoulder, pushing him a little closer to Sorcha.

She leaned slightly away, seemingly by reflex, but was otherwise apparently either unable to move or not quite aware that it was an option. This close, he could almost count the tiny, light freckles on her face. They were easy to miss, from greater distance. Even now, they were being somewhat overtaken by the pink flush rising to her cheeks. Her eyes were wide; a little shiver jolted her slightly beneath his arm. Sorcha swallowed.

“That's, uh—that's a g-good name," she stuttered, before seeming to get ahold of herself and pressing a hand to his chest to push him away from her person at the same time as she cleared her throat. “Anyway, I think he looks like a 'Sir' for a nickname. I'm less certain what to call this lady here."

The pegasus readily accepted the rub she gave her velvety nose, stretching her wings a little in something that might have been enjoyment, actually. “A-any ideas?"

It took a lot of restraint on Mercer's part not to laugh at her. She looked absolutely adorable, and the flush on her face, well... he thought it was a rather fitting color for her. It brought out the color in her eyes, so bright and vibrant as they were. He tapped his chin in a thoughtful manner, though, giving Sorcha the impression that he was not at all affected like she was, and thinking of a name for the pegasus.

“I think you've already named her," he stated, turning his attention back to her. “Lady. She looks like an absolutely gorgeous lady, so it's only fitting that she be named as such. What do you think, Sir?" he asked the wyvern who merely grunted. He'd take that as a yes, he supposed. He stepped closer to Sorcha, though. He wasn't about to let her get away that easily, and reached over her shoulder to rub the pegasus's snout.

She was clearly trying to behave as though nothing were amiss, though there was no hiding the way she stiffened a bit as he got close again. She focused quite intently on Lady, though, making a thoughtful sound that was only a little bit strained. The blush did not recede. “Lady what though?" she murmured, pressing her forehead gently to the pegasus's brow. With a quiet hum, she seemed to catch a thought she liked, because her smile brightened. “Lady Luck. You can show everyone who thinks you're unlucky that they're wrong." The words were soft, accompanied by a gentle scratch behind the creature's ears.

“Sounds perfect," he stated, deciding he'd done enough damage, and stepped back to give her a decent amount of space. “Lady Luck, and Sir Ladon Brightscales. They're going to prove everyone wrong," he stated, earning a light nudge from the wyvern. He'd help them prove it, too.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal

0.00 INK

#, as written by Aethyia


I.Y. 1180 - Garland Moon - Tuesday the 17th
Blue Lions Classroom - Afternoon - Clear
Cyril Eisner


With class dismissed, most of the students started to filter out of the room, many off to study for their certifications, or to collect the materials to do so so they could meet up later at the courtyard, or in someone's room, or in the library. He could be reliably sure that when he found somewhere to settle and write up the next lesson plans he had to work on, at least a few would wander by, and a few more would stop and settle a while. It was... nice, he thought. Just to have the company.

Moving a few things around on the surface of his desk, he opened the right-hand top drawer. Ah, that was right. He meant to teach a brief starter course on lockpicking next week. There were some among his class who could already do it, but it was a useful skill to have. The front gates of castles had to be taken down the old-fashioned way, of course, but there were other situations they might find themselves in, where getting quickly and quietly through a door might be an advantage, or even essential. No few of them had politics as well as war to think about, and at the very minimum, understanding how various lock mechanisms worked was good for choosing the ones that would be most secure against intrusion.

Removing his lockpick set from the drawer, he set it on the surface of the desk, closing over the notebook he'd kept open during the lecture. He didn't ever seem to forget what he wanted to talk about, but it was helpful to have them there just in case, and the initial act of writing information there seemed to cement its ordering in his mind.

Across the room, Devon seemed to be struggling a bit with his books. Though he had only one certification that he absolutely had to take this month, he seemed to be exploring other options as well, especially since their first run at stable chores a few days ago. Cyril was only too pleased to see this, but it did mean he harried several thick books around with him at all times, more or less.

“Did you need some help, Devon?" he asked mildly.

“Oh! Uh..." the young man's dark eyes went wide. “I'm all right, I think. I just need to actually do this in a good sequence instead of trying to manage it all at once." Flushing under his dark complexion, he hefted the books onto his desk with a thunk and started to feed them into his satchel one at a time.

“Hey, Devon!" Mercer had entered the room, apparently passing by and stopping in after spotting Devon. “Hey Teach," he greeted in his usual way as his eyes went back towards the other young man. “You ready to get some practice in with the bow?" he asked Devon, glancing back towards Cyril. His eyes must have spotted something interesting because they widened slightly.

“Hey, now, Teach, I didn't know you had a nice set of lockpicks. Those are nice, where'd you get them from?" he asked, meandering towards them. He was a bit of a dramatic sort, but it had only been in good-fun, apparently.

Devon had nodded at Mercer's question, but now his interest seemed to be drawn also. “Oh," he said, tilting his head. “Those are nice. Much better than mine—er. Not that I've used them recently! Or at the Monastery at all I mean!"

Cyril felt a flicker of amusement, waving a hand slightly to indicate he wasn't inclined to take it poorly. He did, after all, own a set of his own. “I think these ones are... from Brigid?" He recalled having been told such, but the information had meant nothing to him at the time, being only a place name with no information attached other than that his lockpicks were from there. “Apparently they do something with sand when they're filing; gives them a really crisp edge." He willingly handed the leather case to Mercer, only further amused when Devon abandoned the task of putting books away for the moment to dig a similar case out of his bag instead.

“I hear Brigid ones are really good! Mine are from Sreng, I think. A hand-me-down from my father. They don't make a lot of locksmithing tools in Faerghus. Or, well, they do, but they don't just sell them to anyone, or leave them laying around, if you know what I mean."

“Do I hear someone discussing infiltration tools?" The voice belonged to Reynard, who'd just entered alongside Vridel. “The best ones are from Brigid, and it has nothing to do with being a nation or pirates and thieves."

Vridel rolled his eyes, but Devon nodded. “I know. The professor just said it was sand in the filing process?"

For once, Reynard looked surprised, dark brows briefly arching as he turned an assessing gaze on Cyril. “Well well, Professor. You are a man of many persuasions, aren't you?"

Cyril snorted quietly, shaking his head and relaxing a little further back against the desk. “Just a man with a paranoid teacher."

“So does that make you just as paranoid?" Mercer inquired, but it was easy to tell that he was joking. They all knew Cyril at this point, and paranoid he was not. “I wonder what kind Senka uses. She picked the lock to my door rather easily not too long ago, and that one had been personally changed by me," he stated, pursing his lips together and shaking his head.

“Apparently they're Almyran," Vridel replied with a shrug.

“The ones I have, though, are from the Leicester Alliance, made in copy to those in Brigid. They're not as good of quality, but they're decent enough," he stated with a light shrug of his shoulders. “Kinda wish I brought them with me, but I left them in my drawer," he added.

Cyril hummed. “Would you mind bringing them to class next Thursday?" he asked. “I was planning for my skills lecture that week to be about lock mechanisms and so on. Having sets for comparisons would be helpful. Also if any of you are willing to volunteer old locks for your classmates to practice on, that would be helpful. I have a few, but might lose one or two in the process." Those new to the skill could be clumsy, after all.

“I won't let anyone use your picks; I've got beginner sets for that, and I'm planning on making sure everyone gets one at the end of the class to keep. But if you don't mind running demonstrations I could use a student in each class able to do so."

“I'd be happy to!" Devon replied brightly, “though Senka's probably better than me. She seems to be good at everything." He didn't sound envious in the least; only happy for a friend.

“I can certainly help, too," Reynard added. “Though my picks are also from Brigid."

“Not a problem."

“I don't mind if someone uses mine; I have two sets. Plus, I think it'll be good for everyone to at least be familiar with each set of lockpicks from the different countries. Well, minus yours, Reynard since they're from Brigid like Teach's," Mercer stated in a nonchalant fashion, but it was easy to tell he, too, was looking forward to it.

“I also think I might have a few locks I can donate to the cause," he added, glancing back towards Cyril. “How'd you learn to pick locks, anyway, Devon? Aren't you a member of the Gaspard household?" he asked, turning his attention back to Devon.

“Uh." Devon grimaced, shuffling his feet a bit against the stone floor before he shook his head. “Actually, Lord Lonato adopted me and my siblings. When I was a lot younger. I was—my parents were farmers. My mother grew up on a farm not far from Lonato's holdings, and my father was from Sreng. He came in with a trade caravan but fell in love with my mom and stayed. He's the one who taught me how to pick a lock, but I never did until, uh..."

“He died?" It was a guess, quietly issued, but Cyril was fairly confident in it. It seemed to be quite the running theme with his students. He supposed he wasn't so different. Perhaps... perhaps that was just the kind of place Fódlan was.

Devon nodded. “Sickness. Not the same plague that got the Queen, but... they think it might have been the last vestiges of something similar. We tried to stick it out on the farmstead, but we were just too young. So we moved to the city, and I, uh. Stole. For a while. I tried to do honest work! Just... there were three of us, you know? But when Lord Lonato caught me trying to filch one of his books, he uh... he offered to take us all in."

A heavy silence descended for a moment. “This is the man the Church wants to go after?" Vridel said, a faint trace of scorn in his tone.

“Yes," Cyril confirmed, dipping his chin and studying Devon's face. The young man's jaw was tight; he wasn't making direct eye contact with anyone. Clearly, he was trying his best to suppress his emotions, but his eyes easily gave him away. The thought alone made him miserable.

Mercer's jaw tightened as well. He had been present when Rhea had told Cyril about the month's mission, and it seemed to still be sitting about as well as it had been the first time with Mercer. Which wasn't at all. “Lonato sounds like he's a decent guy, I wonder what he has against the Church that he'd... rebel," Mercer murmured softly, his lips pursing into a fine line.

“It doesn't add up. He wouldn't have sent you here, either, if he planned on doing something like that." Mercer seemed to be lost in thought, after that.

“I hope..." Devon grimaced. “I hope we're not too late to talk to him. He's a good man, I know he is."

Truthfully, Cyril knew they were only expected to be on cleanup duty. To put down any rebel stragglers, if that. It was a mission that would most likely involve no combat at all, and it was unlikely that Lonato would still be alive by the time they got there, unless the Church somehow managed to capture him.

“I don't understand it," Vridel murmured. “Why someone with so few troops would go against the Church to begin with. It's foolish, and he does not seem a fool from the way you describe him."

“I don't know," Devon said, shaking his head and resting one hand at the back of his neck. “He hasn't... he hasn't quite been the same since his son died, but no one would be. And I never thought anything had happened that would lead to this."

“Someone must have pushed him into it," Mercer murmured softly. “How did his son die, if I may ask?" Mercer spoke, but he stated it in a gentle tone as if he were trying his best not to upset Devon in some capacity. “Because it sounds to me that he died in a Church-related incident. That would be the only reason I could see that would drive an otherwise decent Lord into doing something like this."

Devon pursed his lips, rocking back on his heels, hand still mussing the hair at his nape. “I don't know," he admitted. “This was four years ago; I was barely twelve and I don't think he really..." A sigh. “He's not really the kind who confides in people a lot, you know? Kind of the strong, silent type usually."

Cyril could relate; his own father was much the same. He didn't even know much of anything about his mother, or anything about her death other than that it was apparently childbirth-related.

Vridel shot a quick glance at Mercer, an unusual sort of urgency to it. Whatever had moved him to do so, however, he kept quiet about at just this moment.

“At the very least," Cyril said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “I can make you that promise. If we do encounter him, we'll find a way for you to talk to him. If this could be ended without violence, I would prefer that path." Not least for the sake of the boy in front of him, but also because Rhea was so set on this man's death, and something about her adamancy made Cyril suspicious. If Lonato's army was really so small as to be such an insignificant threat, why did she care so much? It should be beneath her concern, almost. That it wasn't made him wonder what else could be going on here.

Devon looked relieved; enough to smile a bit, at least, though it didn't reach his eyes. “Thank you, Professor. Really."

Mercer locked eyes with Vridel for a moment and nodded his head. “Agreed. I'll see if I can come along, too, to help," Mercer stated, patting Devon on the shoulder in a friendly manner. “I'm sure he has his reasons, but for now, how about we go make some practice shots with the bow, now? I'm sure Teach can come along and correct us if we mess up. And I'm sure Vi and Reynard would like to get some jabs in as well, right?" he stated, his gaze going towards everyone else.

Reynard snorted softly. “I don't know, Mercer. You might be almost as good as me."

Vridel rolled his eyes. “Perhaps you can have a match then, and decide it." He gestured out the door, and Cyril stood as well, giving Devon's shoulder a brief squeeze.

The young man smiled a little more honestly this time, and nodded. “Thanks, guys. I'd be happy for the help."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal

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I.Y. 1180 - Garland Moon - Sunday the 22nd
Common Room - Early Afternoon - Cloudy
Senka Rinaldi


Senka arranged the baked goods on the platter as neatly as she could. There were a few jelly-filled doughnuts, some with chocolate and others with fruit fillings, and a few custard jars topped with caramel. They were specialties of her homeland, and she didn't make them often, however; she wanted to make something from home, something she loved, and share it with her friends. Even if it was just going to be Vridel in the study session, she at least wanted him to try them. She also wasn't too sure on his preferences; did he even like sweets? She wouldn't be offended if he didn't, but she had woken earlier than normal to make sure everything was set for today.

Once she was satisfied with her assortment of desserts, she balanced the tray on one arm, grabbed her books, and made her way towards the common room. It served as Cyril's make-shift office, but he'd told them they could use it whenever they needed to for their studies. She found she'd used it more than most since it was away from most people, and she wasn't near prying eyes. She'd always felt slightly uncomfortable about it.

She set the platter down on the table once she'd arrived at her destination, and arranged the sweets out so that they could be easily grabbed from wherever Vridel sat. She sat down, thereafter, and opened one of her books, content on waiting for his arrival.

It didn't take him much longer to arrive, but as it happened he wasn't alone when he did. Professor Cyril was with him, carrying a tea tray with three cups, a container of milk, and a large pot of something that smelled like a spicy fruit tea. Something changed in his eyes when they made contact with hers—like when she smoothed out her face, it seemed to be a way of smiling without actually moving his mouth.

“Hello, Senka," he said mildly.

Vridel's eyes widened a little at the tray of sweets before he, too, greeted her. “Hey. I invited the Professor here to help us out. I figured you wouldn't mind." Why he thought this he did not specify, instead simply taking the seat across from her and setting his satchel down in the one next to him.

This left the only open seat the one next to her, and Cyril shifted around, setting the tea tray down before resting his hand on the carved wooden chair-back. Like most of the things in this room it was a dark wood, the seat and back-pad upholstered in burnt orange and cream. “May I?" he inquired politely.

“Of course," she replied, nodding her head, “I do not mind." She was glad that she'd made a decent amount of the pastries with the arrival of Cyril. Her eyes widened a fraction at the thought. He could try them as well. With that in mind, she regarded both of them with a stare. “I hope you do not mind, but I made these for your enjoyment," she stated, pointing towards the platter. “You are welcome to them as well, Professor," she stated. She wanted him to know that he could partake in the pastries, as well, if he so desired.

“Mind?" Vridel echoed skeptically. “I could hardly mind." So saying, he picked up one of the chocolate-filled ones, biting into it with a contented sound before he remembered himself and swallowed, clearing his throat. “Ah, that is to say, thank you." When he flipped open his book, he resumed eating at a much more sedate pace.

“They are... from my homeland," she stated tentatively. Over the past few months, Senka had grown to trust Vridel and Cyril a great deal. Enough that she was willing to allow them a glimpse into who she really was. Where she was really from. She did not wish to deceive them, but she couldn't tell them more than that. If they asked, she would oblige, however; she would have to be careful in how she explained it to them.

Cyril tilted his head. He'd been pouring the tea, but not that it was distributed, the milk settled firmly between Vridel and Senka, he picked one up and set it on his saucer, delicately slicing into it with his fork. He seemed to take great care with fine tasks like this one, almost as if he had to mind the amount of force he used with everyday objects. “Faerghus?" he asked curiously, tilting his head as he took a bite. His brows inched up, and he made a much softer hum of approval than Vridel had before swallowing. “That's good. Is it Almyran?"

Vridel's eyes had narrowed; he was now regarding his food with renewed interest. “This is definitely not from Faerghus," he said, shaking his head. “It's much too light. And the Almyrans favor spicier chocolate." He lifted his eyes to Senka, clearly puzzled but not accusatory in any way. “Where are you really from, Senka?"

Cyril seemed to catch on to the importance of the question, at least; he looked back and forth between them almost warily. “You don't have to answer that if you don't want to," he said slowly, perhaps mindful of what else he knew about her history.

She shook her head, though, and took a deep sigh. It would have only been a matter of time before someone figured it out, and perhaps, this way was safer. More controlled. She could tell two of the people she trusted the most with this information, and then, perhaps, she'd be able to tell more. She regarded Vridel with a stare before dropping it.

“Vridel is correct. I did not lie when I said my mother was from Faerghus, however," she paused to glance towards Cyril, “my father is not Almyran. To be honest, I know very little of Almyran customs, and was only able to pick up on a few through books I read." There were not a lot of books, unfortunately, but she had managed to make due with what she had.

“Do you recall when I told you my parents were killed by bandits?" she asked, glancing towards Cyril. “They were killed in what was known as the Tragedy of Duscur. I am from Duscur," she stated, dropping her gaze to the table. She felt... ashamed, almost for having kept that from them, but she also felt ashamed for telling them. She was from Duscur; people from Duscur were, naturally, hated. They were blamed for regicide, a crime her father did not commit. And she would take that blame, that hatred for however many years it took to clear her nation's name.

“The Tragedy of Duscur?" Cyril repeated, his tone perhaps as delicate as she'd ever heard it. It was quite clear he'd never heard of the events, and was a little uncomfortable asking her about them.

Vridel, on the other hand, looked like a lot of things suddenly made sense to him. He shot Cyril a glance, paused long enough to give Senka the opportunity to speak if she wished, and then explained. “Four years ago," he said, his voice much lighter and softer than it usually was, “Duscur was an independent nation. Just a small one, on a northern peninsula adjacent to the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. There had been some... tensions, in previous generations, though nothing that went to outright war or anything. But the border was contested, to put it mildly, and Duscur was fairly close to Fhirdiad, the capital of Faerghus, which some people worried about more than they needed to."

He leaned back in his chair, dashing some milk into his tea and stirring it before taking a sip. “But Sorcha's father, King Lambert, and King Disma of Duscur were negotiating a more settled peace. As a sign of good faith, Lambert, his family, and a small detachment of Royal Knights made the trip into Duscur to finish the negotiations." Vridel paused, grimaced, and then sighed, disturbing a strand of stark-white hair. “The caravan was attacked within Duscur's borders. Everyone in it was killed, except... except for Sorcha."

Another drink from the teacup, this one longer than the last. “The people of Duscur were immediately blamed for the death of the King, the Queen Consort, and all the knights that had gone with them. Lambert's brother Rufus was appointed Sorcha's regent, Viscount Kleiman and several other small but influential houses started pushing for retaliation, and before the dust had even settled over the King's grave there was..." He pursed his lips, regarding Senka with obvious sympathy.

“Tragedy is too light a word. It implies that what happened could not have been helped. But what happened was a massacre, and those lords are to blame. Kleiman wound up with the land, as I'm sure you can guess. And a whole people would up with something less than a home."

There was a thick silence for several moments after that. Only when it had almost become unbearable did Cyril break it. “So the..." he halted, glancing towards Vridel before turning his eyes to Senka and gesturing vaguely at his head. “It's because of... that?"

She knew he was referring to the nightmares. “The nightmares, yes. They are because of that. Father only wanted to make peace with Faerghus, to show them we were not a threat. But people are hateful, and they are spiteful of those who are not like them. We were no threat; father only wanted peace, but it..." she found a lump in her throat made it hard to speak, and she shook her head. “He even took a Faerghus wife with my mother in hopes that it would have brought peace."

But he had taken her mother because he actually loved her, and she had loved him. It was a sight that Senka found herself missing. “I hope one day to help my people and clear their names. They are innocent," she stated, finding her voice with much more emotion than normal. She didn't understand, but she chanced a glance at the both of them.

As if by instinct, Cyril's hand reached for her, but he drew back at the last moment, as though unsure of something, and let it fall back to his side. “I believe you," he offered in its stead, nothing but complete sincerity in the words.

“As do I," Vridel added. “Even if I hadn't known you personally, the circumstances were always far too suspicious. But now that I do, I'm sure of it." He exhaled quietly, picking up another of the treats. “From all accounts, your father was a good king," he continued, sidewardly acknowledging what she'd inadvertently let slip. “I am sorry for your loss."

She felt the barest flicker of her lips tilt upward, but she smoothed them back out. “He was the best person I'd ever known," she whispered softly. “You... remind me of him sometimes," she stated glancing towards Cyril. “He just wore his heart on his sleeve, better," she stated, her eyes softening for a fraction.

“If you'd like," she paused for a moment and glanced back towars Vridel, “I can bake some more desserts for the two of you, ones that are native to Duscur. And also... introduce you to some of our customary meals." It would be nice for once, to be able to do that. To make meals from her homeland for the only people she trusted.

“Well I certainly won't turn down more of these," Vridel noted, putting a bit of levity back in his tone. Not in a way that seemed like he was making light of anything she'd just said, but perhaps simply an attempt to move the conversation from darker places.

Cyril nodded, turning slightly to reorient himself back towards the table. His arm brushed hers, only incidentally, but he didn't seem to mind. “I'd be glad to try anything you wanted to share," he said simply.

She smiled at the both of them, one that surprised her. It'd been a long time since she'd felt her face pull into a smile like that, and before she could say anything, someone cleared their throat. She felt eyes on her back, and a familiar heat about them. She knew that feeling; it was the feeling of the people who looked at her with such disdain in their eyes. Hatred. Anger. She turned to the source and was slightly surprised to see Lady Rhea standing at the entrance to Cyril's office.

“It seems you are getting a long, well, with your students, Cyril," she stated, a strange emotion laced in her voice. It seemed the Archbishop was interested in Cyril, for whatever reason Senka did not know. “What is it that you would be sharing, Senka," she stated, her eyes fixed on Senka's. She decided, then, that she did not like the way Lady Rhea was regarding her. It was predatory, as if she would, at any second, bring harm to Senka.

“I have learned of a new recipe for a dessert that I wanted to bake. I was simply asking them if they would like to test it for me," she stated. Lady Rhea's eyes moved towards Cyril, almost as if she were asking him if it were true.

“And I mentioned quite looking forward to it," he added simply, confirming what she'd said without the faintest hint of hesitation. His posture shifted, something about it suggesting a... defensiveness, almost? Like he was prepared to stand and shift in front of her or Vridel at any moment. The Professor often seemed wary, that way, like someone who was accustomed to danger and reacting quickly, but over the past few months it had become less obvious, like he was relaxing.

He certainly didn't seem that way now, though.

The smile on Lady Rhea's face was not genuine. It was bitter, and there was a touch of disgust about it when she directed it towards Senka. “Perhaps you will allow me to partake in them as well, when you have the time," she stated. Senka merely nodded; it was the only thing she could do. “Very well, I will leave you to your studies. It seems the both of you will be taking your certifications this month. May the goddess bless you with positive results," she stated, nodding her head before she departed.

“I do not trust that woman, nor do I like her," Senka stated the moment she knew Rhea was no longer near the vicinity.

“Me either," Vridel said bluntly. His attention shifted to Cyril. “I don't think you do, either, do you Professor?"

“No." If anything, his reply was even more blunt. “She outright said this month's mission was a way to remind you what happens to people who turn their blades on the Church. And I..." Something changed in his expression; like he was trying to recall something that remained just beyond his reach. “I don't know. There's something about her. I can't explain it, but it... puts me on edge."

“She seems quite... interested in you," Vridel mused. “I doubt she talks half as much to Professor Hanneman or Professor Manuela. From the sounds of it, Lady Lyanna handles all their missions and reports herself." He paused, finishing off his tea. “What about you interests her so much, I wonder?"

Cyril shook his head. "I wish I knew. At first I thought it had something to do with my father, but... the more time passes the more I think it's the other way around. But it doesn't make sense. I'd never even have met her but for the coincidence of the three of your running towards Remire that day."

“Maybe she's just a sucker for a handsome face," Vridel suggested, the sharp cynicism of the words a sure giveaway that he didn't mean it as a serious guess.

For his part, the professor looked slightly confused for a moment, then shrugged. “Whatever it is... if you can avoid ever being alone with her, please do. I can sense her magic sometimes, I think, and it's... very strong. Stronger than mine."

Senka was slightly startled by the sound that came out of her throat. The smile was something she'd thought she wouldn't be able to do much of, however; the laughter that came out of her voice was... strange. She couldn't recall the last time she'd laughed like that. Before everything, perhaps, but she rather missed it. Something about Vridel and Cyril made things easier, like they were natural. That they should have been there all along. When she managed to calm herself, her eyes were narrowed by the strength of her smile.

“I do not plan on being alone with that woman, however; I must agree with Vridel. I believe it's your face she is so interested in," because she would not deny that her Professor had a sort of pleasantness to his features. Vridel was quite the same way, and so were most of her classmates.

“That's it," Vridel said, leaning back in his chair and smirking. “That's all the luck I will ever have in my life. Little did I know all the misfortune until now was balancing out this moment." He huffed softly. “Not only did Senka smile and make me pastries, she laughed. At my joke. Mercer would never believe me, but I even got a witness. And some interesting gossip on top of that." He did not specify what the 'gossip' was, but the rest was obvious enough.

Cyril still looked faintly puzzled, but seemed to accept that she was furthering the joke Vridel had made. “Maybe I should get myself a mask, like Professor Jeritza."

She huffed slightly. “It would be a shame to keep your face covered because of her," she stated, turning her attention to her books. “But I do believe we were here to study for an upcoming certification. Shall we?" she stated, arching a brow in Vridel's direction. She... liked this, being more expressive with herself.

“Quite so," he replied easily. “So Professor. I'm pretty sure I saw you use Thoron last month..."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd

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#, as written by Aethyia


I.Y. 1180 - Garland Moon - Thursday the 26th
Training Grounds - Evening - Light Rain
Cyril Eisner


Rain pattered gently on the roof of the indoor training grounds. Cyril had invited those of his students who had Crests to this additional practice, but only those Senka was comfortable with. It was something he'd like to offer to all of them, eventually, but his first priority for the moment was helping her with the immediate aftermath of her discovery, and to that end he had no desire to populate the event with anyone she did not trust to keep her secret.

It meant the group was small, only himself, Vridel, Mercer, and Sorcha besides Senka herself, but for now that was plenty. They were all inside the ring, but as of yet none of them were armed or anything. In fact he wanted to get a little more information first, and give some, in turn.

“I invited you here because I've been told that training Crest use can be difficult," he said, glancing between them. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest. “I understand all of you have Crests of some kind. I admit this was not a concept I was familiar with before coming here, but apparently I have one too. I'd like to hear what you all know about yours, and more about how they've affected your lives, if you do not mind sharing. I think it might help me figure out how to help you train them. If worse comes to worse, I think I can force you into needing to use them, but I would much prefer not to use that method, so if those of us who don't know how to activate them could learn from those of us that do, I believe that would help."

Senka winced a bit, but otherwise remained calm. Mercer's lips, however, were pursed into a fine line. “I've never really had to use mine. As far as I know, the Riegan Crest has always made its bearers uncannily accurate with their shots. I mean, I'm good, but there are times when I'm damn good, and... that's actually a little unnerving now that I think about it," he stated, crossing his arms over his chest. “So... I actually don't know how to use my Crest. I just put it down to luck. If it happens, it happens." He shrugged his shoulders.

“I... am not aware what mine does, or how it benefits me in anyway," Senka replied, her gaze down and not meeting Cyril's. It seemed she was still having a difficult time accepting what her Crest was.

Sorcha had rolled her eyes at Mercer, but when Senka spoke, she grimaced. “Mine's the Minor Crest of Blaiddyd, as I'm sure you all know," she said, opening her hand in front of her as if she expected to find an actual mark on her palm. “I've... never used it, that I know of. My father had the Major one, and there are stories of his strength and speed in battle, which might have had something to do with it, but..." she shrugged, a bit listlessly, and looked back up at the others.

“He was a beloved King, and people always tell stories like that about beloved Kings, especially where I'm from."

Vridel studied the others with an increasingly furrowed brow until it was his turn. “Am I... really the only one who can activate a Crest at will?" he asked. He seemed more confused than anything, certainly not condescending. Clearing his throat, he continued. “Well... mine's the minor Crest of Seiros, which the Empire's had forever. Its effects are pretty well-documented, actually; the people in my family who have it are too strong for their builds, and too precise for their strength, especially when they're well-trained otherwise. My grandmother could apparently just casually lift furniture by herself even without activating it—I think they call it Crest Bleed. It just kind of... happens, eventually. Some part of the Crest's power turns on and stays on. Not most of it, just enough for the Crest-bearer to be noticeably different from an ordinary person."

He paused, tilting his head at Sorcha. “Do you really not remember Lambert complaining that any weapon but Areadbhar broke after only a few swings? Only a few of his Crest-bearing retainers could tolerate sparring with him."

She shook her head, looking vaguely troubled. “I... wasn't aware, no."

“Interesting, I wasn't aware of that," Mercer spoke, however, something flashed across his face, surprise, maybe. “Hey, I didn't know you had a Crest, Sen," he stated, as he regarded her with a smile. “I didn't even know Almyrans had Crests so it must be from your mom's side, right?" he continued. Mercer and Vridel were the only ones who weren't present when Senka found out about her Crest, which made sense as to why he didn't know.

Senka, however, pursed her lips together. She seemed to contemplate his question for a minute before she exhaled slowly. “I, honestly do not know if it was my mother's side, or my father's," she answered. “From what... Professor Hanneman told me, my Crest is the Major Crest of Maurice," she continued in a soft voice. Mercer pursed his lips together in a fine line.

“Maurice? That... can't be, I thought he didn't have any descendants," he stated, clearly confused.

“So the Church said," Vridel mused. He didn't seem especially surprised, but then perhaps he had no reason to be. Cyril had observed no interest in Crests on his part, and it was quite likely he'd never asked Senka whether she had one, or bothered to consider it. “Anyway, if we're talking about voluntary activation, it's..." he made a small noise, akin to a hum.

“Well learning the way I did won't work, but I can tell you that it feels a little like... reaching for magic. Only you're tapping something even deeper in yourself than that, if it makes sense to say so."

Like magic, but deeper. Cyril frowned slightly. “Is there any particular feeling that goes with it?" To him, lightning felt different from fire, felt different from darkness or the little recovery magic he knew.

“How to put it... each Crest, I'm given to understand, has a sort of... character. I do not know where the metaphor comes from, but I learned of the Crest of Seiros as associated with 'the Sky Dragon.'" He shrugged. “A silly story told to a child, I'm sure. But there is truth in it. When I tap the Crest, it tastes like petrichor and feels like flying. The same rush, like cold air on my face, but without the physical thing." He pursed his lips. “Do your houses not tell these stories?"

Cyril and Senka had no 'houses' to speak of in the relevant sense, but Sorcha shook her head too.

“All right, well..." he pointed at Sorcha first. “Grim Dragon." He shifted his hand to indicate Mercer. “Star Dragon." Last, it fell on Senka. “Storm Dragon." He shrugged. “I can't help you, Professor, as I have no idea what your Crest is."

“Nor do I," Cyril admitted.

“I always knew I was a star," was Mercer's light reply. Senka seemed to be in a contemplative mood, though, once Vridel had explained. “So, what you're saying is that, in order to tap into our Crests, we have to associate it with the sign? How do you associate with a star, though? They're bright, but they're so far away... distant," he stated, pursing his lips together as he trailed off.

“I... do not know if I should," Senka stated mildly. “Storms are not pleasant, and they are dangerous and destructive," she continued, causing Mercer to place a hand on her shoulder. She turned and regarded him with a soft stare.

“That's not entirely true, Sen," he stated, smiling at her. “They can be calming, too," he continued, earning a confused look from her. He shook his head and continued, “like rainstorms. They make it easier to fall asleep. At least for me, they do." She didn't seem to be too convinced, though.

“Try not to read too much into it," Vridel advised. “Like I said, it's a kid's story. A metaphor for how the power feels to reach for. It's only meant to teach. I bet the Professor's lightning magic doesn't feel so different from a storm, right?" Vridel flicked his eyes to Cyril, who nodded.

He wasn't sure how best to put it to words, but he tried. “Some power is more... raw," he said with a slight purse of his lips. “It takes more effort to shape, and you always have to be conscious of it, but it's just as usable as anything else." Electing to demonstrate, he pulled a ball of crackling lightning into one hand, and a sphere of still-looking darkness into the other. “If anything, this stuff has a bad reputation," he added, rolling the sphere of darkness around in his palm and over his fingers like it was just a simple toy.

“But I've been using it since I was a child. It doesn't feel inherently evil to me. If it is, I suppose that says something about me, since it was the first thing I ever learned how to cast."

“Of course it's not evil," Sorcha said firmly. “It isn't what power you have that matters. It's what you do with it. Dark magic, or an 'unlucky' Crest used in service of a better world is a million times better than all the light and healing there is used to keep people down."

“Well said," Cyril agreed, letting both spheres wink out harmlessly. “Now. If the others vacate the ring, are you willing to try calling it up? I won't let you hurt anyone. I promise." He met Senka's eyes steadily, but did not exert any pressure on her.

She pursed her lips into a fine line. She seemed to contemplate his statement for a moment more before she nodded. “Very well," she finally stated, her expression smoothing back out. Mercer was already moving out, though he didn't seem to be in too much of a rush. She, however, moved so that she was standing directly in front of Cyril, at a respectable distance. “It is the feel of it," she spoke softly, casting her eyes to the ground for a moment.

“You've got this, Sen. We're all here for you," Mercer stated, causing her expression to soften a bit, like when she was smiling in the way she knew how to around them. “And Teach is there, too, so you'll be fine!"

She took a deep breath before she turned back to Cyril. “Alright," was the only word she spoke before she pulled her magic to her. It was a small snow flurry she'd summoned, Blizzard, perhaps. She stared at it for a moment as if she were concentrating on something. Something in her expression seemed to blank, though, as the flurry grew. It had started out small, encompassing most of her hand until it grew large enough that she was surrounded by a large flurry of snow. Wind whipped wildly around her, her hair flying and clothes rustling. She didn't seem to be aware, though, of what she was doing, until the flurry grew larger, and she abruptly dismissed her magic. “I... can't."

Vridel and Sorcha were quiet in their places outside the ring. While Sorcha looked very much like she wanted to say something, perhaps encourage her friend, the both of them were regarding him with obvious expectancy. Like they thought he would know what to do, because he was their teacher. Even what Mercer had said—Cyril did not think anyone had ever trusted him to such a degree as that. Not even his own father.

Trust.

Maybe...

He took a couple of steps forward, ducking his head slightly so he could speak quietly to Senka, enough so that even the others wouldn't be able to hear him. “You don't have to trust yourself yet, Senka. But if you can, trust me. When it happens, even if last time repeats itself, I'm going to be fine. And I won't let you hurt yourself, or them. What I'm going to do is try and talk you through it." Maybe knowing what was coming would be of some assistance. “If I have to physically restrain you, I will, but I won't hurt you. This is a much more controlled setting than last time, and I'm right here, all right? I'm going to stand right here, and I'll react just as soon as anything looks off."

The expression she'd given him when he spoke was one she'd never had before. It almost seemed vulnerable, and her eyes seemed to be searching his for something. She regarded him for a moment longer before she released a breath, as if she'd been holding it. “Alright," she finally replied, her eyes never leaving his. She summoned her magic once more, allowing it to stay small in her hand before it grew once more. It continued to grow, slowly, like a small snow flurry before something started to crackle.

“I..." she stated, but refrained from speaking. Once it was as large as it had been earlier, Senka regarded him with a questioning look. “What should I do?

“It's not the same as the magic, like Vridel said," he reminded her. “You have to dig deeper. Try to find the way it felt, just before what happened in the battle. The storm, but not the rage." He didn't know if he had a better way to put it than that, but he almost thought it was more important that he say something than anything in particular. Wind whipped around him, chill air stirring his hair and clothes, throwing dark strands in front of his eyes, but he didn't so much as waver.

She furrowed her brows lightly as she closed her eyes. “The storm, but not the rage," she repeated. Her brows furrowed further until it appeared that she was stressed about something. “Storm, rage," she murmured as if she were trying to keep the two separate. There was a brief glow on her forehead, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared. “Storm," she murmured once more, the air becoming colder as her magic seemed to increase. “Storm, storm," it was repetitive this time, as if she were chanting it.

When she opened her eyes, however, the Blizzard around them had grown significantly, encompassing the entire area in a snow flurry. There, on her forehead, though, was a glowing symbol. He could easily recognize it as the Crest Hanneman had showed them, of Maurice. She did not seem to let up her magic, though, and it seemed to be growing stronger, still, her expression blank.

That had to be it. The sign that she'd properly manifested the thing. The fact that the magic only seemed to be growing meant she probably wasn't totally in control of herself, though, and so Cyril did as he'd promised: he interfered.

“Senka." He pitched his voice just loud enough to be heard over the rising winds, not yet approaching in case she interpreted that as hostile in her current state. He kept his tone flat, modulated, no more urgent or panicked than the way he usually spoke, but eased his arms down to his side, to present a more open posture. “Senka, can you hear me?"

She didn't respond, immediately, and merely continued to stare out. She was still repeating storm, and the winds were growing stronger with each passing moment.

Well that wouldn't do. One way or another, he had to at least have her attention for this to work. Deciding it was worth risking her ire, he took another half-step in and lifted his hands. He considered placing them on her shoulders, but that was something he'd done before. Not that difficult to ignore in a fugue state like the one she seemed to occupy. So he went for surprising, instead, and gently took hold of either side of her face, tilting up so her field of vision changed and there was no way to avoid him being in it.

“Senka. It's Cyril. You're at Garreg Mach, in the training grounds. I need you to show me you understand."

She regarded him with the blank stare, however; something in her expression shifted slightly. There was a brief moment of conflict before the winds finally died down, and the mark on her forehead disappeared. A small spark behind her eyes seemed to signal her return, and she brought one of her hands up to rest on his wrist. “Professor? Where... where am I? What happened?" she stated, glancing around at her surroundings before her attention was back on him.

He let his hands fall away, brushing over her shoulders for just a moment before settling at his sides. “You did it," he said simply. “You called up your Crest, and you didn't hurt anyone. You didn't even try to. It seemed like you were... somewhere else, for a moment, but that was all. How do you feel?"

She didn't immediately reply. There was something glistening in her eyes before she closed them, and shook her head. “Sick," was the only reply she gave him before her shoulders dropped. “I was... there again, the anger, the..." she didn't seem to know what to say, though, as her gaze fell to the floor.

“It looks like you did it, Sen!" Mercer shouted from his spot, seemingly happy for her, but she did not seem to share the sentiment. “See, told you we'd all be here for you," he continued, grinning rather largely. Senka did not look up from the floor, though.

“Sen?" Sorcha seemed to notice that something was amiss; she made to hop over the fence and into the ring, but Vridel caught her shoulder and shook his head before she could.

Cyril frowned, moving his attention back down to Senka. After a moment's consideration, he called up what little white magic he knew and brought it to his hands, raising then back to hover at her temples before tilting his head in query. “May I?" He always asked, when circumstances permitted, well aware that she could have any number of reasons for not wanting to be touched, or by him in particular.

“Do what you will," was her only response, soft and quiet in sound. She did not move, nor raise her head. She simply stood still, as if she were half-expecting him to leave, for some reason.

He wasn't sure why she would expect something like that, but everyone had their own backgrounds, and he knew hers to be especially bad, in some ways. Her response was hardly a ringing endorsement of the idea, but he doubted she would endorse much at all right now, so he took it for the permission it was, carefully brushing a bit of hair back from each of her temples to rest his fingertips there. He left the touch of the magic light and soft, too; she wasn't physically injured, but healing itself sometimes had a bolstering effect, removing fatigue and lingering grogginess. It felt nice, at least in his experience.

Her hair was rather softer than he expected, even from the way it looked; Cyril made an effort not to think about it as he let the warmth of the magic seep in. An odd feature of his physiology was that he seemed to run a little warmer than most people, and his magic felt the same. Perhaps why he'd never had much luck with blizzard-type spells compared to others.

“You didn't fail, you know," he said mildly. “This was progress. Leaps and bounds' worth. You just did something even I can't do. I'm sorry it made you feel ill; if you'd rather not do this again, I understand. But I think you can, and I think you'll keep making progress at it."

“Why?" she whispered softly, finally glancing up to meet his gaze. “It's my fault, so why..." she took a shuddering breath before shaking her head. “It's not that I don't want to do this again. I don't..." she paused again, seemingly to swallow thickly, “I don't want want to fail. I don't want to lose control like that, again, and I don't want this Crest to define me. You say that it doesn't define someone, that a cursed Crest or power can be used to better things, but..."

“If all it's ever done is cause misfortune, how am I to believe anything else?" She was looking at him as if he had the answer somehow, but shook her head. “Perhaps, we should let the others practice theirs. I... believe I am done for the day."

Cyril had knit his brow and was about to reply when he noticed a motion in his peripherals. Instinctively, he moved to intercept it, as it was heading for Senka's back, but with a start he realized it was Sorcha. Apparently she'd decided she'd had enough of waiting for the verdict, and from the look on her face, she'd heard at least the last part of that.

“Hey!" she said, grasping Senka's upper arms with her hands and turning the other woman towards her. Her eyes, usually bright and clear, all but flashed now. “You don't get to say things like that about my best friend. Not ever. People—" She swallowed, voice thick with emotion. People are not bad luck. Ever. And neither are Crests." Frustrated, she stomped her foot into the loose dirt of the practice ring. “There's no such thing as luck! There's bad circumstances, and challenges, and all kinds of ways the odds can be arrayed against you, but 'misfortune' is a word people use when they don't know what really caused something, or when they won't take responsibility for it."

She expelled a breath, heavy and harsh, but her eyes softened. “Only you get to decide who and what you are. You know that, Sen. You don't let people knowing where you're from bring you down, and you can't let this either. You've still got things to do. A whole—" She hesitated, throwing a quick glance back at the others. “A whole lot of things. You can't stop just because other people are superstitious and stupid! Or is what you want really worth that little to you after all?" She said it like a challenge, but only the most well-meant kind. The kind designed to help someone else stand, instead of knocking them down.

If she had been at all affected by Sorcha's words, she did not show it. She merley held Sorcha's gaze before she spoke, “But am I truly fit to do that?" She stayed quiet for a beat longer before she continued, “If it is true, then who is to say I am fit for any of that, regardless of what I want." Her eyes narrowed slightly before she dropped her gaze from Sorcha, unable to hold her gaze much longer, it seemed.

“Who and what I am... what does it matter if all I bring is... unpleasant rumors to you, and misfortune to them? You don't understand, Sorcha. What... what if I do lose control and I hurt you. Or them? Do you know how important you are to me? How important they are to me? I don't... I can't... I..." she was struggling now for words she could not seem to find.

“Fit?" Sorcha echoed, eyes returning to a state of snapping, hard clarity. Fit?" Quick as a flash, she struck Senka on the cheek. It didn't seem to be a hard hit, from the sound, but clearly was intended for something similar to what Cyril had done in the first place: shock value.

“It doesn't matter if you're fit, Sen! You're the only hope they've got, so start acting like it!" Her eyes welled with tears; she looked disgusted with herself. Perhaps for striking a friend that way. “You can't give up on them," she said, much more quietly. “And you can't give up on yourself. Not for such a—such a stupid reason. It didn't matter when you had no Crest at all, and it doesn't matter now." She sniffled, clearly suppressing a sob.

It seemed to have the desired effect as Senka's arms wrapped around Sorcha's shoulders, and she pulled her closer to her in an embrace. Senka's shoulders were shaking softly, but she made no sounds at first. “Thank you, Sorcha," she whispered softly, “please... even when I forget to do it myself," she paused for a moment to release Sorcha, “please don't stop believing in me." It sounded like a plea, if anything.

“Don't stop."

“Never," she promised, looping her arms around her friend's back and squeezing. “And uh... you can get me back for that slap whenever you want, okay?"

“Never."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal

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I.Y. 1180 - Garland Moon - Friday the 25th
Training Grounds - Afternoon - Overcast
Amalthea von Kreuz


Amalthea pursed her lips together as she tried to roll her shoulders out. The armor she'd put on wasn't quite to her fitting, but it was the only one that could work for her practices. She was much smaller than the other students who were trying to pass their certifications for the armored knight class, and Thea couldn't help but wonder if she should change classes? It wasn't because it was difficult; she enjoyed what she did, throwing axes, practicing with Vridel and the others. But it felt like the armor made for knights were not suited to people like her? She puffed out her cheeks, earning a curious glance from Sylvi. At least she had the right build for an armored knight.

“Stuck in your armor, Thea?" she stated, clearly amused at Amalthea's frustrated state. She shook her head at Sylvi, though, and furrowed her brows.

“I'm not stuck, I just... I'm trying to figure out the best way to manage the armor that isn't quite suited to me. I'm... it's kind of heavy, and I can't really maneuver in it." Sylvi hummed a thoughtful note as she stood from her spot on the bench. Amalthea glanced in Sofia's direction, too. They were all trying to do something similar, and had decided to study together. Even Sofia looked like she had the right build to be whatever knight she wanted to be, and Amalthea felt a little envious of it. Pushing out a breath, she furrowed her brows.

“I'll just have to show that anyone can be a knight, even someone as small as me!" she declared out loud, causing Sylvi to chuckle.

“Dierdre's smaller than you, Amalthea. You're not that tiny. You've grown a little since the last time, you know," she stated, causing Amalthea to smile. She did feel like she had grown somewhat in the last few months.

Sofia nodded, distinctly calmer and less expressive as tended to be her way. She wasn't blank-faced like the professor or Senka, just... mild. Quiet, even, though she spoke easily enough when she had something to say. “I'm sure once you get your classification, they'll have a set better made to your specifications," she noted. “That's the only reason why there's a separate certification for heavy armor anyway. They want to know you know how to use it before they go to the expense."

She approached, half-crouching to check some of Amalthea's straps and buckles and the like. She adjusted a few, making it slightly better, but in the end she pushed a sigh from her nose and shook her head faintly. “This set was made for someone at least a few inches taller than you, and longer in the legs, but... it's the smallest they have."

“I'll just have to improvise, then," she replied, nodding her head in thanks. “But it does feel a little better so I think I might be able to move around a little easier. I think, in the end, that is what'll help me the most. Getting familiar with the armor, even if it's not quite to my specifications," she stated glancing towards Sylvi who was chuckling.

“You have a very optimistic outlook on things, Thea, you know that? I don't think I've ever heard you say anything mean about anything or anyone," she stated, causing Amalthea to purse her lips in confusion.

“Why would I do that? Everything is a teachable moment, and why would I want to miss out on that? Looking at it in a negative light won't help me to understand it, so..." she trailed off not knowing how else to put it. Everything to her was, in some ways, new. She was still young, and for the first time in her life, experiencing the outside world. Reading about it was different than actually being a part of it, and Amalthea felt like she was learning something almost every day.

It was at about this point that the Professor walked by, carrying what seemed to be most of a suit of armor himself. It didn't look nearly sized for him, though—it might have fit someone of Devon's dimensions, but no larger. He paused when he saw them, making his way over to the group. Sofia smiled and nodded; the latter, the Professor returned.

“Practicing with armor?" he asked, surveying the three of them. “You're all taking the axe certifications as well, yes?"

“Oh, hello professor!" she greeted, smiling in his direction. She blinked as she turned her attention towards Sylvi and Sofia. “I'm studying for both the heavy armor certifications and the axe ones," she replied. She would need to pass both of them if she wanted to be an armored knight. She was decent with the axe, better than when she'd first started at least, and she didn't think she would have too much trouble passing that exam.

“Yeah, I need to be proficient in the axe if I'm to pass my certifications. I had to change them mid-way, through, though. Apparently my original class was only for men," she sounded bitter about it, but she shrugged her shoulders lightly. “I'm studying for the brigand class, now. That just needs an axe certification of at least C, and I think I'm good enough to be able to do it," she continued, confident in her abilities. Amalthea couldn't help but be amazed by it.

“Wait, so does that mean your dream of being a war master has changed?" she asked, watching as Sylvi grinned.

“Of course not. Even though it might be for just men, I'm going to still prove to them that I, Sylvi Galatea, can be just as good, if not better. I'm going to be the first female war master! Just you watch," she replied, an unusual fire in her eyes.

“Well I should hope you'd allow us to do more than watch," Cyril noted with a faint trace of amusement. “But for now..." he set down the suit he was carrying, laying out the pieces and sifting through them with a hum. Every once in a while, he glanced up at Amalthea as though trying to decide something. When he was done, the armor was in two separate piles. He gestured her forward.

“Some of these seem closer to your size, and they're a bit more flexible. If you mix them together, you might get a set that'll do well enough for practice."

“Oh, why didn't I think of that!" Amalthea stated as she bounded over towards the sets. “That's a very smart idea," she continued, grinning at the piles as she glanced them over. She could hear Sylvi snickering softly, but she decided to ignore her for now. She picked a few pieces out before pursing her lips. She turned towards Sofia and Sylvi her brows furrowing lightly.

“Can you help me with my armor?" she asked. She couldn't take it off, herself, considering, but they had helped her put it on, to begin with. She could get her legs and the metal boots, but she needed help with everything else. Sylvi laughed at her, but shook her head. She motioned for Amalthea near her and Sofia, and she obliged. Once they had helped her out of her armor, they helped her into the new set. Sylvi seemed to do a once over to make sure everything was secured properly, before clicking her tongue in a satisfied manner.

“I think this looks better, Thea. Can you move?" she asked, as Amalthea nodded her head. She moved her shoulders a bit, and twisted a couple of times to make sure she was a little more limber.

“Thanks, Professor!" she stated, moving every so often to get comfortable with the armor. She made her way towards the racks that held the practice weapons, and pulled a practice axe from it. Amyr wasn't allowed in the certifactions, something about being above her certs, but she didn't mind. If she passed her C-certs, she'd be able to use Amyr, proper, for the other exams she'd have to take.

“You're welcome," he said simply, moving away from the center to take a seat on the fence. The rest of the armor, he set down behind him. “Don't mind me if you want to practice."

Sofia offered a smile, hefting her own weapon. She favored long arms, and the poleaxe was no exception. She said the forms were closer to the lance ones she preferred anyway, but with more chop and less thrust, as it were. “I'll have a go with you to test it out if you like, Thea."

“I'd like that!" she replied, nodding her head as she jogged—about as well as she could in a full suit of armor—towards Sofia. “And don't feel the need to take it easy on me!" she addeed, grinning up at the taller woman. “I can handle it, and... practice makes perfect, so," she stated, hoping Sofia would catch on to what she was saying.

They spent almost two hours sparring, Amalthea occasionally landing a hit. Sofia had started off on the defensive side, as if she were just watching Amalthea make her moves. It made sense after awhile when she shifted into an offensive stance, knocking the practice axe out of Amalthea's hands every so often. It didn't hurt like she expected it to, but her hands were a little sore from the force of which Sofia attacked. She was patient, calculative, and seemed to make every attack count whereas Amalthea was merely using most of her strength to try and wear her down.

Perhaps she'd been going about it the wrong way? Sofia seemed to be doing the complete opposite, as if she were waiting for Amalthea to wear herself down. That seemed to be the case since Amalthea was currently tired. Her muscles were sore, and her arms felt heavy, like iron. A side-effect of wearing armor, she supposed. She took a deep breath, and called for a halt in their practice bout.

“It looks like I still have a lot to learn," she stated, smiling in Sofia's direction. “Thank you for being my sparring partner!" she added, bowing towards Sofia to show her gratitude. Sylvi snickered softly, but shook her head.

“If you keep practicing, Thea, you'll be able to succeed in no time. And the fact that you can acknowledge that you have a lot to learn, still, means you're on the right path," she stated, placing her hand on her hip. “What do you say, Prof?" she asked, glancing in Professor's direction.

“You're all improving," he remarked simply. “You're getting better on the horizontal, Sofia. Good work."

She smiled at that, a little more brightly than usual. “Thank you, sir."

He turned next to Amalthea. “You're getting better with the armor, Thea. You shouldn't overtax yourself all at once, though. Endurance isn't built in a day."

“I think he's telling us to take our rest for the day," Sofia noted. “Not a bad idea, I think."

“Agreed. I need to go bug Devon and see how he and Mercer are doing with their bow training," Sylvi stated, a mischievous grin crossing her face, causing Amalthea to giggle. She tucked the books she'd brought with her, under her arm, and waved good bye before leaving the area. Amalthea waved after her and Sofia, leaving just her and the professor. She turned to him with a bright smile, though.

“Thanks, Professor! I'd hope I was improving," she stated, making her way to remove her armor. Luckily, she could do it herself, this time, and once everything was removed, she turned back towards the professor, and grinned as an idea formed in her head. “Oh, we should go get some tea! I hear it helps soothe sore and aching muscles and helps you relax after training," she suggested. She paused, though, and titled her head slightly to the left. “Unless, of course, you're too busy! If that's the case, I can go bug Lyanna!" because Lyanna always made time for tea, and sweets. Usually sweets, but Amalthea promised she wasn't going to tell anyone that about her sister.

If she remembered correctly, it was something Lyanna swore her to secrecy about. She probably didn't want people to know she ate a lot of sweets.

“Of course I'm not too busy," he replied simply, stepping down off the fence and gathering up the pieces of armor he'd brought, as well as the ones she was no longer using.

After a stop to store his in the armory and hers in her room, they made their way to the dorm building, where the professor made tea. They took it outside, though, simply seating themselves on the lawn with the tea tray between them where they faced each other. He'd apparently found some cookies somewhere, because they were on the tray too, along with plenty of sugar for the tea, though the professor didn't take any. It seemed to be a sweeter berry flavor, warm and fragrant.

Once they'd settled in, he regarded her quietly for a few moments. “You grew up in the monastery, didn't you?" he asked. “Were you born here?"

She'd been halfway through a cookie when he'd spoken, so she washed it down with her tea, and nodded. “I was... I think. Lyanna doesn't talk about it, often," she stated, smiling still. “I think she said mother passed right after I was born, so I didn't know her growing up. She doesn't speak of father, though," and she never thought to question it. For as long as she'd been alive, it was always her and Lyanna.

“She basically raised me," she added, glancing around before turning her attention back towards him. “The Church is all I've ever known, so I was excited when Lyanna said I could join the Officer's Academy instead of devoting my time to the goddess. Not that I wouldn't devote to her. From the way Lady Rhea speaks of her, she sounds amazing," she continued, taking another bite out of her cookie. She loved the stories Lady Rhea and Lyanna would tell of the goddess, and she thought they were romantic and divine.

“What do you know about the goddess?" she asked, curiously. For as long as she'd known the professor, he never seemed to know much about the teachings of Seiros nor the Church. She would gladly tell him everything she knew, though, if that's what he wanted.

The Professor looked down into his teacup, as if studying his own distorted reflection in the liquid. “I would... appreciate that, I think," he said after a pause. “I know the basic story, about the War of Heroes, but little beyond that. The Archbishop hopes for me to convert, I think, but..." He shrugged.

“Religion has never been a part of my life. I suppose I can see why some people would embrace it, but I am not sure there is—" A faint crease appeared between his brows. “I'm not sure there is any void in my life that it would fill."

“Oh, that's understandable. You didn't know anything about the Church until you came here, right?" she asked, though she already knew the answer to that. Instead, she washed down the rest of her cookie, and dusted the crumbs off of her person before turning to face him fully. “Well, first thing is first," she began, folding her hands in front of her.

“We devote ourselves to the goddess, Sothis. She is the one who gave the Divine Seiros the revelation and power that helped put down Nemesis. Without it, we... might not have existed at all. Well, maybe, but not quite the same as we are today. Divine Seiros's actions would later be considered miracles, to the people, and thus the Church was founded to remind people of how she defeated Nemesis in single combat, and basically saved our lives." It had been a fantastical story, to Amalthea when she'd read that in one of the books. In single combat, with no help whatsoever.

“Essentially, we worship Sothis for giving the Divine Seiros the power to save us, and the blessings she bestowed upon us. Not like the Crests, though," she quickly waved her hands in front of her. “I mean, like, blessing us with good fortune and other things like that."

His eyes had widened just fractionally when she first said 'Sothis.' It was the sort of thing easily missed on most people. But for someone like the Professor, who habitually expressed so little, it was a clearer contrast, and something that someone watching his face could pick up on, if they were practiced at talking to him as she was. Through the story, his attention seemed to shift; it was like he were half-listening with rapt attention, but half somewhere else entirely, and when she was done, the silence stretched for an unusually long time.

“That name," he murmured, almost as if speaking more to himself than her. “Sothis. It is... familiar, somehow. Like something I knew once, but have forgotten. It's the name of the Goddess?"

She nodded her head. “It is. The goddess, Sothis. At least, that's what Lady Rhea said," she answered, pursing her lips together. “I'm surprised she didn't tell you; Lady Rhea always makes a point to make sure anyone who isn't a believer, knows the name," she was, honestly surprised. Maybe it slipped Lady Rhea's mind, however; Lady Rhea was a bright woman. She wouldn't neglect to tell Professor, that, if she wanted to convert him.

At the mention of Rhea, the Professor's eyes seemed to darken a little; he passed a quiet sigh from his nose and took a draught from his tea. “I have the feeling a great deal is being hidden from me," he mused. “I don't even understand the real reason I was hired to work here. My father operated as a mercenary for many years. His name was well-known, and yet these Knights never came looking for him then. Why go to such lengths to bring us into the fold now?"

With a faint shake of the head, he lifted his eyes back to hers. “I'm sorry. I should not unburden myself on you, Thea. You've exams to study for, and plenty to keep you busy."

Amalthea shook her head, and smiled. “Oh, I don't mind, Professor! If you need someone to talk to, I've been told I'm a good listener," she stated, offering him her ears if he ever needed them. “And... I believe they did search for Captain Jeralt, but gave up after a few years of searching. I think it's because they thought he died," she stated, but perhaps she'd been mistaken. Shaking her head, she offered him a smile, still.

“If you ever need someone to speak with, Professor, to let out your own worries and other things, I'm always here for you! Just like you're always here for us, that's the least I can do," she wanted to return the favor, after all that he's done for them.

He huffed gently, then nodded. “Thank you, then. I will keep that in mind."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg Character Portrait: Sorcha Blaiddyd Character Portrait: Jeralt's Journal

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I.Y. 1180 - Garland Moon - Monday the 30th
Magdred Way - Morning - Foggy
Mercer von Riegan


Mercer pursed his lips together as he scanned the area. They had left Sunday in order to travel to Castle Gaspard. It had taken them a day, but by the time they'd arrived, it was strangely foggy outside. He was slightly regretting not bringing a torch with him, or something as a means of light. Fire magic could fulfill that, but it meant using magic, and he was certain the mages would like to conserve it. Even if they were there as the cleanup, there could still be a battle to be fought. He glanced around at the others, his eyes landing on Sorcha for a moment before turning towards everyone else. A soldier, a young man perhaps not more than twenty, seemed excited about something.

“Are you anticipating a fight?" Mercer decided to ask. It was unusual for someone to be excited to do nothing after all. Chances are, they wouldn't even be needed for this. The soldier shook his head, though.

“I'm excited at the chance of being with Catherine! No matter how powerful our enemies may be, there's no need to worry as long as the mighty wielder of Thunderbrand is with us!" he stated, causing Mercer to huff lightly. He supposed having someone on their side who could wield a Hero's Relic might have been a slight advantage, but he didn't think too much of it.

Most of the others seemed to know what he was talking about, but Cyril, who was in fact walking beside the woman herself, looked vaguely confused for a moment. “Thunderbrand?"

“You mean you don't know?" Catherine stated, vaguely surprised. She stared at Teach with a confused brow, before she continued. “My weapon is called Thunderbrand. It's one of the Heroes' Relics." Everyone almost seemed to nod in unison at the explanation.

“Yeah, supposedly a long time ago, the goddess bestowed divine weapons upon ten heroes, which were passed down to their descendants," Mercer stated, causing Catherine to nod her head. “For instance, House Blaiddyd has Areadhbar, and House Riegan has Failnaught. We're each expected to inherit those relics when we ascend to our position as leaders, but in the mean time..." he trailed off with a shrug of his shoulders.

“They're an honor to wield, but I'm afraid there won't be any chance for that today," Catherine stated, holding out her arms with a shrug. “Our mission is to help clean up the aftermath, not fight." Which was true, for the most part. That, however, did not seem to ease the unsettled feeling in Mercer's stomach.

“I wonder why Lord Lonato would start such a rebellion, though," Sylvi asked, glancing towards Devon with a sympathetic gaze. Catherine looked vaguely uncomfortable for a moment before she sighed. Mercer had a feeling she at least knew part of the reason.

“It all goes back to the Tragedy of Duscur..." she began, curiously catching Senka's attention. Her eyes were on Catherine as soon as she'd said it.

This, Teach actually seemed to know about. At least, he didn't ask what it was. “I don't understand," he admitted. “The Tragedy of Duscur wasn't a Church dispute, as I understand. Why would someone rebel against the Central Church because of it?"

“There's more to that story than it seems," Catherine explained, expelling a heavy sigh. “They had accomplices within the Kingdom as well," she stated, shaking her head as she glanced at the group. Senka's brows were furrowed, and Amalthea looked vaguely confused. Catherine chanced a glance in Devon's direction, and Mercer found his lips pursing into a fine line.

“Accomplices," Sorcha muttered, shaking her head. If Mercer hadn't been as close as he was, he wouldn't have been able to hear what came next. “Ridiculous." She didn't, however, dispute what Catherine was saying, probably for the sake of the mission they were all here to do.

“Lonato's son was part of it, wasn't he?" Mercer questioned, bringing Catherine's attention back to him.

“He was one of them, and so he was handed over to the church for execution," she explained, shaking her head once more.

“What is the church doing, executing criminals?" Senka finally spoke, calling Catherine's attention.

“Speaking from the church's perspectice, we simply passed judgment according to our doctrine in place of the Kingdom, which was in complete chaos. Whatever the truth behind that incident may be, Lord Lonato has harbored resentment toward the church, ever since." That explained why Lonato was attacking the church, but nothing more, to Mercer.

“Well... to be more specific, his grudge isn't only against the church. It's also against the one who turned Christophe over to them..." she added, glancing away from the group. Mercer had an idea, but he chose to keep it to himself for now.

Devon winced, but said nothing.

Teach apparently shared Mercer's hypothesis, but not his instinct to keep it to himself. “I take it that was you?" The question was blunt, but in that weird way Teach had about him, it didn't come across as harsh or unkind.

She glanced up, ready to reply when a church soldier hurriedly interrupted them. “The enemy is approaching! Their numbers are far greater than we predicted," he spoke, glancing between the group. “They used the fog to slip past the knights' perimeter!" he continued, panic laced in his voice. Mercer didn't blame him; they weren't supposed to have to fight.

“It looks like our mission just changed, Professor. Everyone, prepare for battle!" Catherine shouted as if to rally the troops together. Some of the troops nodded in unison, and departed to do as they were told.

“Well, I guess so much for being a cleanup crew," he muttered, shaking his bow loose from his shoulder and glancing at the others. “Uh, not to make anyone alarmed, but they are using this fog as cover. Be careful out there, alright?" he stated, glancing at everyone before his eyes landed on Sorcha. “Especially you," he added, pursing his lips in her direction.

She frowned, glancing away from him, but she did nod a little, tightening her grip on her own bow.

“Agreed. With this fog, it's impossible to tell where the enemy might be... or how many of them there are. Keep your guards up; the enemy could be trying to surround us. They shouldn't have enough soldiers to form a tight circle, but it's best to stay focused and alert," Catherine stated before she departed.

Teach squinted after her for a moment before sighing. “Dierdre, Sofia, Thea. Go with her. Deirdre, fire magic into the air if you need help. It should be visible through the fog." When that group had departed after Catherine, Teach simply made eye contact with Reynard, who half smiled and saluted casually, drawing a knife from the sheath at his thigh and seemingly melting into the fog.

“The rest of us are going to make small units, and follow the same plan. There has to be a cause to this fog; it's not natural." He didn't elaborate on how he knew that, but there was no doubt whatsoever in his words. “Our first priority is finding that mage, and taking them out. Mercer, Vridel, Sorcha. You're a group. Move quietly. Senka, Devon, Sylvi: you're with me. We're going to make the noise."

“Fine by me," Mercer replied, saluting Teach in the process as he glanced at Sorcha and Vridel. Senka had spared a glance towards Sorcha, but merely nodded her head and departed with Sylvi and Devon with Teach. He wished, at the moment, that he'd brought a torch with him, but he supposed that would defeat the purpose of moving quietly, now.

“Alright, I can't see too much in this thick fog, but," he stated, glancing at his surroundings, “we can at least form a tight circle to watch each other's backs for now. Also, I know this is prime opportunity, with the fog and all, but please don't accidently stab me, Vi." He'd given the man plenty of reasons to want to stab him, after all.

“Oh believe me, Mercer. If ever I stab you, it will be very much on purpose." Vridel replied simply, drawing his blade with a slight rasp.

Sorcha glanced between them once and rolled her eyes slightly, but where ordinarily she might have made some comment, she was silent now.

“Teach said the fog wasn't natural, so..." he trailed off, making eye contact with Vi, “any idea how to track the source? If it's not natural then there has to be someone making it, and that usually requires magic, right?"

“I'm not some kind of weird magic bloodhound like the Professor, if that's what you're asking," Vridel said dryly. “There's magic all over the battlefield right now and it's not easy to tell what's what. That said..." he paused, frowning. After a moment, he stopped moving and shut his eyes.

Sorcha moved immediately to cover him, squinting warily out into the fog. The quality of the air around seemed to change for a moment, almost brightening, somehow, or... freshening. It smelled like early spring, when the grass was new, and the flowers were coming in, but the change had no obvious source.

After another moment, though, Vridel cracked his eyes open, tossing his head to clear a strand of hair from his face. “I think it's that way." he pointed with his sword to the northwest, more west than north. Teach's group was going more north, and Catherine's headed almost due west, so if he was right, they'd surely run into the source first.

Probably what Teach had thought, come to think of it. Why else have the noisy groups draw attention in the other directions?

Mercer nodded, moving in the direction Vridel had pointed to. The fog was thicker than Mercer had anticipated, and he had to switch from his bow, to his sword. He didn't want to use his bow until he could see, clearly. As much as he favored it, he didn't want to accidentally hit someone with it. He wanted to make sure it was an enemy and not one of his friends, even if they'd gone in the opposite direction. He wanted to be sure.

They'd encountered a few soldiers along the way. One had managed to nick him in the shoulder with a spear. Mercer had reacted too late when he'd spotted it coming out of the fog, and barely managed to get out of the way in time. He cut the man down, but even Mercer felt a slight hesitation in his blade. These were civilians, and possibly innocent people. He wondered if they wanted to be in this fight, this battle fighting against the church. They had to know they couldn't win this. So why... he pushed the thought out of his mind as an arrow whistled towards him. It nicked him in the face as he dodged it, drawing a thin line of blood as he sighed.

“I take it we're getting close. There are more soldiers around," he spoke to Vridel and Sorcha. Chances were they would want to keep the mage as protected as possible to keep the advantage. But there was also a chance that they were just trying to confuse them and make them believe that. Mercer did not want to have to kill more people, but he gripped his sword tighter as he moved forward. He didn't have a choice.

Neither Vridel nor Sorcha looked any happier to be there. Vridel's face was set into a grim frown; at a small break in the fighting, he reached back and tapped Mercer with a quick healing spell, wordlessly resetting his stance a moment later to fend off another blade from the fog.

“W-why are you doing this?" behind them, another man faced Sorcha, a spear held in his trembling hands. “Lord Lonato is a good man! The Church is wicked and corrupt! They—they're liars!" Behind his ill-fitting helmet, it was clear that he wasn't much older than any of them, and his lack of experience in battle was just as clear. He had the build and patchy clothes of a workman, perhaps a farmer's son or something of the kind from the outlying region.

He thrust forward with his spear. Sorcha deflected with her own, crisply enough to knock his weapon right from his hands. He fell to the ground, mostly from surprise and terrible balance, probably. She leveled her spear, and he threw his hands up as if to stave off her blow. “Please! Please don't kill me!"

Mercer was close enough to hear the soft sound Sorcha made in the back of her throat. Her expression was pinched, pained; in the strange pall of the fog, she looked wan and ill.

The tip of her lance shuddered, a scant few inches from the man's hands. “Go then," she said, voice hoarse. “Leave, and don't come back."

He looked at her, then, eyes wide with disbelief, but didn't second-guess the mercy, scrambling to his feet and disappearing into the fog.

Sorcha looked stricken, and swallowed thickly. “He's probably gone to warn someone we're here," she said, still soft and scratchy. “We should hurry."

He wanted to tell her that it was going to be alright, but the truth of it was that Mercer didn't know. As much as he didn't want to kill someone, there was no room for mercy on the battlefield. An enemy was an enemy. It didn't matter if they had experience or not on the field. He had half a mind to grab his bow and finish him off, but a quick glance at Sorcha had him sighing heavily. Shaking his head, he glanced her way.

“Do it, next time. Battle is life or death; there is no mercy on the field, Sorcha," he spoke, his voice unusually harsh. He reeled in on himself, though. He hadn't meant to be that harsh, nor say that. They continued pushing forward, Mercer positioning himself to the front so as to keep Sorcha behind him. He did not want her to do what he was now doing, cutting people down whether or not they were innocent.

It didn't matter.

Mercer narrowed his eyes into the fog, spotting something almost like light. He turned his attention to Vridel, “I think we're closing in. Vi, can you use a fire spell to dispel the fog in that direction?" He pointed in the direction where he'd seen the light. The sooner they lifted this fog, the better.

“Leave it to me," he replied grimly. He'd remained quiet through the disagreement, but Mercer knew quite well that Vridel felt much the same way he did about these things.

Lighting the spell in one hand, he took a moment to close his eyes again, then adjusted his aim and let loose. The flames sliced through the fog like a hot knife through butter, their roar a much more fearsome thing than it had been during their desperate flight from the bandits a couple months ago. It burned away the fog it passed through, and at the end of the trajectory there was a short yelp, and the air around them seemed to shudder.

“Found him. If you two can hold off his friends, I can get this fog off the field."

Sorcha pressed her lips together, but nodded, readying her lance. “Do it."

With a nod, Vridel surged ahead, just as several soldiers closed in around them.

Mercer merely nodded, readying his sword in his left hand. He glanced in Sorcha's direction before turning back towards the field. Taking a deep breath, Mercer deflected a soldier's attempt on him, knocking the soldier back in the process. He struggled to get back to his feet, and Mercer grimaced when his sword went through the man's throat. He could hear him, feel him in a way he had to shake off. There was no mercy on the field. None. He felt his nerves steel themselves as he continued fending off the soldiers who continued their onslaught.

At his back, Sorcha seemed to have done the same. Or at the very least there was no time to do anything but stay alive, no room for anything but killing so as not to be killed. Every once in a while a metallic clang would ring out from the direction Vridel had gone, or magic would flash in the corner of Mercer's eye, but for the most part it was just the two of them, dealing with the onslaught.

She was unnaturally quiet, for her; it was hard to even tell how things were going for her, except that her presence at his back remained there, steadfast and stubborn if nothing else.

It wasn't more than a couple minutes more before the fog began to thin, almost all at once, dissipating into the air as if it had never been there at all. The morning sun fell over the field, bodies strewn in three distinct arcs from east to west. To the south of them a figure in white—Catherine—had fixed her gaze north, where a small palisade wall served as fortification for the rest of the forces and with them—

“Lonato!" Devon, not more than fifty yards to the north with Teach's group, was looking at the same thing: a dignified-looking man mounted on a barded horse behind the wall, lance in hand.

“It's you, Thunderstrike Cassandra," he spoke, glaring at Catherine. His eyes landed on Devon for a moment, and Mercer saw a pained expression flash across his face before he turned his attention back to Catherine. She merely furrowed her brows in his direction, and dropped Thunderbrand to her side. “It was your wretched zealotry that killed my son!" Catherine, however, turned to face Lonato, scoffing lightly before pointing her weapon at him.

“The only name I answer to is Catherine!" she stated, gripping her weapon a bit tighter. “Prepare to taste the blade of one who serves the goddess. Now you face a Knight of Seiros!" she shouted. Lonato merely huffed as he glanced at his soldiers.

“The fog has cleared. There's nothing left to hide you or the filthy Central Church from the judgement of the goddess!" he declared. Mercer grabbed his bow, this time. He wasn't close enough, but he could at least try and pick off a few soldiers from a distance.

Someone else had the same idea; and arrow went sailing over the palisade, landing at the feet of Lord Lonato's horse. Tracing its path back, Lonato met eyes with Devon, where he stood in the middle of his group, protected on two sides by Teach and one each by Sylvi and Senka.

“Lonato, why are you doing this?!" he called, doing his best to straighten to his full height. “You're putting all of your people in danger, leading them into a fight you cannot win, and for what? Please—tell me why this is happening!" There was an edge of desperation to his voice, but there was hope, too. Like he really did believe it might be possible to talk down Lonato's army. Like the Church wasn't already planning to kill them all.

Lonato seemed to have no such illusions. “You wouldn't understand, Devon. Know that the Church had betrayed us all. That woman who sits at the very top of this world... her claws are deep in every nation in Fódlan, and no one will ever be free until they have been torn out!"

Devon hesitated, clearly unsure what to do or say in response to that. But then a soldier slipped past Sylvi's guard, and he had other, more immediate things to worry about.

Mercer grunted under the force of a battle axe that came down on his sword, and he struggled to push it back. He managed to get his footing, using his bow to sweep the man's feet from underneath him before plunging the sword deep within the man's gut. He pushed out a breath as he glanced towards Catherine and Lonato. Catherine was upset, it was obvious to tell with the furrow of her brow, and she charged Lonato, who rushed to meet her on the field. Their weapons clashed as Catherine deflected his lance. “You! I will be the one to kill you, no other!" Lonato declared, twirling his lance towards Catherine.

“You have lost all sense of justice, Lonato," she retorted, thrusting Thunderbrand in his direction and eyes heavy with something. It wasn't quite sorrow, but Mercer would say it was close to it. Perhaps regret? “You want to fight me? So be it; I'll send you to meet your goddess," she continued, dodging his attack as he continued his onslaught.

Thunderbrand sparked and crackled as it glowed red. It would have been an awe-inspiring sight if Mercer didn't already know what Catherine was planning to do. He had to turn his gaze as she slashed at Lonato, the force pushing him back and breaking his guard. Mercer didn't need to hear the strangled cry that left Lonato as Catherine's attack made contact, slicing through the metal of his armor. He fell to his knees, glancing defiantly up at Catherine as she pointed her weapon at him.

“Vile woman..." he spat, his voice ragged with each breath he took. “Christophe, forgive me," he stated out loud, perhaps on purpose so that everyone could hear him. Catherine grimaced as she swung her blade, ending the battle as she turned away.

“I... never thought I'd see Lonato meet this fate," she spoke, her voice cracking just slightly. She seemed to steel herself, though, and glanced at everyone as the other members of the army, retreated. “Well done, everyone. Let's... gather our troops and go," she stated. Mercer couldn't agree more, as he glanced in Sorcha's direction.

“We should regroup with the others," he muttered in her direction.

Her eyes were fixed on the scene; he had the distinct impression she'd forced herself to watch the whole, bloody thing. After a moment, she tore them away, nodding.

“I think if we—"

Abruptly, Sorcha's eyes went wide, a strangled cry that never had a chance to form parting her lips silently as a blade bloomed from her stomach. Her knees gave out beneath her, and the sword withdrew with a slick sound. Behind her stood the same soldier she'd spared what seemed like hours ago, but had likely only been about twenty minutes. His face was twisted into an expression equal parts anger and terror.

“You've ruined everything!" he said, voice trembling as he prodded her off the end of the sword with his foot. He must have picked it up on the field somewhere. Blood seeped over the grass beneath her; Sorcha was entirely still. “You've killed him, and now—now there's nothing!" Tears streaming down his face, he raised his sword, slick with Sorcha's blood, and charged Mercer with a shout.

Mercer's eyes went wide as Sorcha fell over. He could hear Senka shouting from over the field, but everything went numb. Cold. He reacted without much thought, his blade deflecting the man's sword as he tried to attack Mercer. Without much effort, Mercer's blade found its home in the man's neck, severing his head from his shoulders as Mercer threw his blade to the ground. He rushed towards Sorcha's side, eyes wide, and a strange sense of panic seeping through him.

“Sorcha!" he shouted, moving to her side to cradle her towards him. “Sorcha," he continued, not registering the small body falling to his side. Amalthea had reached them first, having run from the other side of the field, it seemed. Mercer would have thought it strange since she was so small compared to Senka's longer strides, however; he couldn't seem to focus.

“Oh, no... no, no, no, Sorcha!" she spoke, placing her hands over Sorcha's wounds. “Mercer, we need to get her bleeding to stop. She's going to bleed to death!" she shouted, but Mercer already knew that. He was trying to get his body to move, to do something other than shut down, but he couldn't seem to take control. He was paralyzed. “Mercer!" Amalthea shouted. Tears were starting to bubble up in her eyes, and she continued to put pressure on Sorcha's wound.

“Don't... you're going to be okay, Sorcha. You'll be fine. Vridel and Senka are on their way!" she couldn't stop the sob that tore through her throat, and the force of her tears had caused her to shut her eyes. “Goddess, please help me," she whispered. Whether it was the prayer, or some latent ability of Amalthea's, her hands began to glow. Mercer recognized white magic when he saw it, but he never recalled her having it. He chanced a glance at Amalthea, her eyes still closed as the tears continued to fall, however; there was a light glow coming from where her heart was.

Did she have a Crest, too? Whatever it was, it seemed to knit Sorcha's wounds closed, but it wasn't enough. She was still bleeding. If Amalthea had a Crest, and did little training with her own magic, it wasn't going to be enough. Her Crest would likely only be able to do so much. He glanced at Senka who came into his vision. “Help her," was his only plea.

“I need you to let her go, Mercer. Vridel and I can take over from here, Thea. Let her go, and let us help," she stated, clearly out of breath, but wearing an expression Mercer had seen before on other people, even himself. It was fear and anguish.

It wasn't long before the whole class had gathered there, even Devon wearing a worried expression on his already tear-streaked face.

“Out of the way," Videl snapped, pushing past several people to drop next to where Thea had begun the work. His hands were already lit with the light of a healing spell—a pore powerful one than the standard kind, from its brightness. “Mercer, you need to put her down or she is going to die. Do you understand me? Senka and I both need to be able to get at that wound."

He was trying to do what they wanted him to do, but his body wasn't responding. He was screaming at his muscles to move, but they wouldn't listen to him. Couldn't they see that!? He was trying, but his body was not in his control. Both Senka and Amalthea were now pleading with him, their eyes wide. Amalthea's were wet with tears, and Senka's looked to be on the verge of her own tears.

“Mercer! Let her go! I'm begging you!" Senka shouted at him, reaching towards Sorcha. He'd never heard her yell like that, before. There was so much emotion behind it. His grip only tightened on Sorcha and he cursed himself. He was going to be the reason she died, even though he desperately wanted her to live.

Vridel cursed and went to work, clearly at least trying to do what he could alone.

Perhaps it was his magic added to what Amalthea had already done. Perhaps it was something else. Either way, Sorcha's eyelashes flickered, and her eyes opened just a little, hazy, indistinct slivers of foggy blue. She seemed to struggle to focus, perhaps unable to process all of what was going on, but somehow, her eyes found his, and with what seemed to be great effort, she lifted the hand closer in to his side. Her fingers were smeared with blood—most likely her own, though there was no way to tell for sure.

“'msorry," she slurred, like her tongue was too thick and heavy in her mouth. Her fingertips found his cheek, and she half-smiled in that particular way she had, where it was a little bit wry, even if this one was dreamier than usual, actually. It wouldn't have been surprising if she was delirious from blood loss at this point. “You can... let go," she mumbled, quietly enough that it was probably only he and Vridel who were close enough to hear now.

“An' smile, 'kay?" her head lolled, hand dropping away as though both were too heavy to hold in place any longer. She left a crimson smear on his face. “'It's..." her eyes slipped closed again, and she went limp.

Mercer," Vridel repeated urgently.

The force of her words was enough to cause Mercer's body to relinquish his hold. That, or perhaps it was the force with which Senka pushed him out of the way as she grabbed hold of Sorcha. He swallowed thickly, watching as both Vridel and Senka immediately went to work on Sorcha's wounds. It felt like hours. Long, drawn out, and angry, for whatever reason Mercer could not name. When they were done, Senka's shoulder's were shaking. It was clear to Mercer that she had been crying, but it wasn't until she turned to face him, that he realized that it was his fault.

“What were you thinking! You could have..." she shouted abruptly at him, but stopped when something caught in her throat. “You could have gotten her killed! Why didn't you let go!?" she continued, causing Mercer to avert his gaze from her. He knew. He knew, but he couldn't bring himself to let go. “She's... she's all I have left and you almost let her die!" And he deserved her wrath, and her anger.

“Senka, I... don't think he did it on purpose. He was worried, scared just like you are," Amalthea stated, briefly touching Senka's arm as she turned to face her. Senka glanced back at Mercer before turning her gaze from him, and refusing to look at him the rest of the time. He deserved it.

“We need to get her back to the Monastery so she can rest." She said no more after that.

Vridel stood last, rising with Sorcha in his arms. “We can put her on one of the horses for now, but someone should ride with her." From the way he was swaying on his feet, he wasn't in any shape to be doing so himself.

“Senka." Teach nodded to the horse Sofia was leading over. “If you need to switch off let me know." He seemed to deem it best that Senka be the one to travel back with Sorcha, and given the fright she'd just had, perhaps that was a kindness. At least this way she'd be able to know if anything about her condition changed right away.

“As for the rest of us... let's get back to the monastery."

Senka nodded at Teach, though glanced over her shoulder one last time at Mercer. He knew, then, that she hated him. And he did not blame her. He hated himself.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner

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#, as written by Aethyia


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I.Y. 1180 - Blue Sea Moon - Wednesday the 2nd
Monastery Second Floor - Afternoon - Clear
Cyril Eisner


It had been a hell of a few days.

The journey back to Garreg Mach from Lonato's castle had been an uncomfortable one for just about everyone, from Catherine's lingering discomfort, to Devon's poorly-disguised grief to the worrying everyone was doing about Sorcha. The last, at least, turned out all right; she'd woken at the tail end of the trip yesterday, and though she would be on bedrest in the infirmary for several more days on Manuela's orders, she was expected to make a full recovery.

There was also, of course, the building tension between Senka and Mercer, and the latter's obvious melancholy. Cyril thought he sort of understood where both of them were coming from; hopefully, it was one of those wounds that time would be sufficient to heal. In either case, he'd be able to check in a bit later with Senka, as they were both assigned to the kitchen rotation tonight. But first... he had to make his report to Rhea and receive his next assignment.

When he reached the small chapel that sat adjacent to Rhea's office, he found only Lyanna. She was dressed much as usual, and caught his eye, gesturing him over as he entered. “Professor Eisner. The Archbishop has been slightly delayed in a meeting. She desired for me to catch you up on certain developments before her arrival. I trust this is acceptable to you?" She narrowed her eyes at him slightly, though she had to tilt her head up to do it. She was taller than her sister, but certainly not gifted in the height department either.

Cyril inclined his head. “Of course. What has changed?"

She pursed her lips, clearly suppressing a sigh. “Catherine found a note on Lord Lonato's corpse. It describes a plan to assassinate the Archbishop during the Goddess's Rite of Rebirth." She paused, then seemed to anticipate his next question. “It is perhaps the most important ceremony conducted by the Church of Seiros, and requires the Archbishop and I to both enter the Goddess Tower, otherwise unaccompanied."

“And the concern is that people could infiltrate this tower in an attempt to kill her?" he asked.

She shook her head. “Not... especially. Honestly the plan seems very... slapdash, to me. Nevertheless, we must take all threats seriously. We have as many of the knights on this as we can spare, but we would also like to put you and your students to the task of guarding the monastery during the ceremony. They have, by this point, accumulated a great deal more experience than their peers, and this seems a relevant occasion on which to use it."

To that, he said nothing. He wouldn't have been able to suppress something sharper than he thought she really deserved.

As though she sensed it, Lyanna released the sigh she'd been holding in. “I... I heard that the Princess was severely injured," she said softly, glancing at her feet before hesitantly lifting her eyes to his. “I know Professor Casagranda is a capable healer, but if you are not averse, I would also like to pay her a visit. There may be... more, I can do."

Cyril was genuinely surprised at the offer, something that must have shown through at least a bit on his expression.

Lyanna smiled mirthlessly. “Don't make that face. I have a heart, too, you know. And... you've taken good care of my—of Amalthea. She never stops talking about you, or her friends. If I could shied them all from this, I—" She cut herself off abruptly as the door to Rhea's office opened.

Rhea glanced in Cyril's direction, a smile forming on her lips as she approached. “Apologies, there was something I needed to take care of," she stated, nodding her head in a mock bow. “I am glad to see that you have retruned safely. The goddess is gracious with her divine protection," she continued, her eyes narrowing slightly with her smile. “But it was not only her divine protection that shielded you, was it? You are just as skilled as I had hoped."

Hoped? I have no idea what she's up to, but it sure seems like she knows you from somewhere, doesn't it?

Cyril wasn't entirely sure how to take it, either, and a glance at Lyanna's face revealed nothing more than a slight unease, which could have been a lot of things. “I owe much to my students," he said simply. “They've been through much, but they continue to improve."

“I am not so sure," was her reply, and the smile on her face seemed rather strange. It seemed a bit strained. “I heard that some of the students were... hesitant about fighting militia. One of them was even injured, the foolish girl. She should have known better than to spare an enemy life that way. Look at what happened to her, because of it," she continued, referring to Sorcha, it seemed. She shook her head, though, before the smile returned to her face.

Cyril had to fight to keep the emotion from his face at the casual way she dismissed what had become of Sorcha. Lyanna winced slightly.

“We must punish any sinner who may inflict harm upon believers, even if those sinners are civilians," she didn't seem too fazed about saying that. She smiled, then, something more akin to a grin of someone who was plotting something. “I pray the students learned a valuable lesson about the fate that awaits all who are foolish enough to point their blades towards the heavens."

“I am aware that Lyanna has filled you in on this month's mission, correct?" She didn't wait for Cyril to answer. “It is my hope that you will accept this mission. You will have my gratitude. While there is no need to fear for my safety," she paused and glanced towards Lyanna, “we cannot turn a blind eye to those who would blaspheme so heinously."

“We accept, of course," Cyril said. He wasn't stupid enough to think it a genuine request—he knew an order when he heard one. “I will use some of our time together this month to plan patrol routes for the day, and submit them to you via Lady Lyanna, perhaps?"

“Very well," she nodded, “Oh, and one more thing, Professor," she paused long enough to regard him with a stare, “do make sure you and your students are fully prepared to do whatever it takes to see the mission through. We cannot have another setback. If the princess is deemed unsuitable for this type of work, perhaps you would do well to find another student to replace her." She dismissed herself, after that. Lyanna threw him a knowing look as she followed.

Thoroughly disgusted with the conversation, Cyril shook his head faintly and left the other way. He had kitchen duty to get started on, after all.

He found that he actually managed to arrive a little early, so he checked over the menu before pulling down the pots, pans, and spices he and Senka would need for the dish in question. Apparently they were to make saghert and cream for the following day. It was a little more complicated than most of the dishes, but seemed to be rather universally popular, so he could see why it was on the rotation.

It wasn't long before Senka arrived, regarded him with a nod of her head, but mostly remained quiet. She'd been like that for the last couple of days ever since Sorcha had been injured. She had mostly kept to herself, and seemed to ignore just about everyone except for Cyril. “Professor," she greeted, her voice a little harsh from wear. She'd nearly screamed at Mercer the day of the battle, and seemed to have overworn her vocal cords from it. She sighed softly, though, before she moved to the other side.

“What is the menu for today?" she asked, keeping her gaze elsewhere.

“Saghert and cream," he said quietly, setting the recipe sheet down on the counter so she could read it while he retrieved the tomatoes they would need to dice. The only really complicated thing about kitchen duty was adjusting to cooking in such large quantities. Dividing the tomatoes, he gave her a fair chunk less than half, pulling down a cutting board for her and making sure her knife was properly sharpened before seeing to his own.

Cyril didn't really know how to help people in situations like this one. He was surprised by the degree to which he desired to. But then, even he recognized that his students were having... some sort of effect on him. He found that he wanted to help them, to protect them, and more than anything to see them happy. It was a peculiar thing, a complicated feeling he didn't remember having ever felt before.

Perhaps considering how new it was, it was hardly surprising that he didn't know what to do with it. “How is she?" he asked. He doubted Senka had left her side for long.

“She's recovering about as well as she can," was her soft reply. “She speaks, she's in and out of consciousness, but for the most part," she paused to swallow a lump in her throat, it seemed, “she's alive." She went to work on her tomatoes, dicing them in slow motions. It was clear that she wasn't quite aware of her surroundings, or wasn't as focused as she usually was. Perhaps she hadn't been getting enough sleep?

“Her... birthday is this month," she finally spoke, glancing towards Cyril for a moment before turning her attention back to her tomatoes. “I want to make her something, and to invite her other friends to spend the day with her, however," she paused, wincing slightly as he placed her knife down. She walked towards the sink to wash her hand where the knife had nicked her, and wrapped it in a clean cloth. “I do not think I, alone, will be sufficient enough, to convince everyone," she continued.

Cyril set his knife down, making a small motion with his hand, asking for her own without words. The strange thing about healing was that it was downright difficult to do on oneself, even for really simple things like a cut.

“Why don't you think you'd be enough?" he asked, patiently awaiting her decision.

“She has many friends," she began, hesitantly giving him her hand. “And..." she paused, her brows furrowing lightly, “they do not like me. Other than our group, I am not well-received by many of the students here. And they know nothing of my past, not even my heritage." She must have been referring to her Duscur heritage. She'd said, before, that she had enrolled under the identity of someone who was from Faerghus with Almyran heritage.

“And I am certain she would like to have Mercer there as well," her lips pursed into a fine line at that. “Hence why I would not be sufficient enough to convince them."

Carefully, Cyril eased away the cloth. The cut was still bleeding a little; carefully he focused on what remedial healing he knew. “I understand why you are unhappy with him," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on what he was doing. “But I don't think he would refuse to come if you asked. And... forgive me if I overstep in observing, but I do not believe Sorcha considers anyone a friend of hers who is unfriendly towards you."

The magic snapped into place, and the wound disappeared. Cyril dabbed away the remaining blood with the cloth. Senka's hand was quite cool, compared to his own, small and soft, with elegant, tapered fingers. Not so soft as to suggest she'd never done work—none of his students had hands like that anymore. But still very much so compared to his, rough with calluses and scars from battles he could barely remember. He found himself hoping that hers, at least, would never reach such a state. That there would not be so much violence and death in her life that it left the physical marks to match the impressions it had already left on the rest of her.

Thoughtlessly, he traced her fingers with the tips of his own, until all that remained of the contact was four little points, his digits curled up a little to balance the very ends of hers on their own ends. Distantly, he wondered if he shouldn't let go, shift his hand the rest of the way away, but if she wasn't doing that, he saw no need to, either.

What a strange thing.

She didn't seem to pull away, at least, and merely regarded him with an even stare. She took a deep breath, though, exhaling slowly and shaking her head. “I'm afraid of what I might say if I asked him. You know I am not... gentle in my words. I am angry with him, yes, but I know how much he means to Sorcha. She values him as her friend, and I would not want to be the one who ruins her birthday for her. If... I invite her friends and not attend, that will be enough. I can do something on my own for her. But the least I can do is make her cake, and some food for the friends who do go," she answered. She still spoke with little confidence in herself, and perhaps she was still struggling with the events at Magdred, or perhaps before.

“Thank you, Professor. It means a lot that..." she paused, furrowing her brows before she slipped her hand with his, “you care enough about us. I would appreciate the help in making her favorite dishes, if... you would be so kind," she stated, keeping her gaze with his.

Slowly, Cyril shook his head. Only slightly, so as not to break eye contact. It felt important, somehow, not to do that. “And what if she did that for you?" he asked. “Invited other people to attend a party for you on your birthday, but did not appear herself? I suppose I have not known you both for very long but..." His eyes narrowed, in thought rather than irritation.

“It is true that she is more outwardly sociable. But you are as much her best friend as she is yours. I do not believe she would enjoy a celebration you were not a part of, regardless of who else was there." He tilted his head. “I will help you with the food... if you will agree to go." His expression softened into a near-smile.

“Even if you don't talk to anyone but me."

“How can I refuse an offer like that," she stated, a slow smile crawling across her face. “I will accept the conditions with the terms," she continued, her expression softening with her smile. It was the first time she'd smiled since she'd told Vridel and himself about her history. “Even if you are the only person I speak with, I will go. I don't want Sorcha to be upset with me, and..." she paused, her hand clenching his a little tightly. It was unclear if it was intentional or unconsciously.

“I want to join my friends as well," she added. She was smiling softly at this point, her gaze never leaving his.

“Good," he said, eyes narrowing at the corners. Reflexively, he squeezed her hand back when he felt the pressure increase.

You know, if anyone else sees this, they're going to think something's going on with you and this girl, the one in his head piped up. She'd been doing that more lately. Especially since his conversation with Amalthea, just before the mission.

Like what? he asked, almost absently.

You really don't know? What a dense vessel you are, she replied. Then stopped short. Wait—

All at once, pain lanced through Cyril's head, whiting out his vision for a moment. He flinched, reaching for his temple with his free hand, and hissed softly. It felt like he'd been struck in the skull with one of his own lightning spells.

“Cyril?" Senka stated, concern evident in her voice. “Professor Cyril, are you alright? Do you need to go to the infirmary?" she asked, her hand tightening around his as her other came to the spot where his free hand rested on his temple. “Do you need me to do anything?" she continued.

“No," he replied, voice rough with the effort of managing the pain. Fortunately, it was already starting to fade. But with it, the girl's presence had receded, and before he could ask her about what she'd said, at that. “I'm... I'll be fine." He released a hard sigh, lifting his eyes back to meet hers.

He could have left it there, he knew. Senka wasn't the pushy type. But...

“It's my memory," he said, which was more or less true. “Sometimes it's like I'm close to remembering something, and then it—" he grimaced, shrugging slightly. “Hurts. To be honest, I hardly remember anything beyond a few years ago. Just pieces. I don't even know how old I am." It was an absurd sort of thing to not know. He could understand that now, where before he hadn't really known what he didn't know, so to speak.

Senka furrowed her brows and tilted her head to the side. She dropped her free hand when he seemed to be fine, and sighed. “It sounds like something doesn't want you to remember. If it's painful to recall something in your past, chances are you are either suppressing it because it was traumatic, or it's your body's natural defense against causing unwanted strain to it. I cannot say for sure, but I do know the former is a possibility." She pursed her lips and regarded him with a quiet stare. There was no judgement to it; simply observation and curiosity.

“Where were you recently when this happened?" she asked.

Cyril hummed. “You mean when's the last time it happened?" He blinked. “I was having tea with Amalthea. I asked her more about the Church and what they teach. She told me the Goddess's name is Sothis, and for some reason, that—"

The girl had reacted very strangely to that name, though it wasn't clear to him why. “It was like that meant nothing and everything to me, all at once. I can't explain it. I thought I remembered something about the Red Canyon, too. I knew its name was Zanado, even though no one uses that, anymore." He exhaled heavily, then shrugged. “I don't expect I'll ever know why any of it happens. I... get the impression that there are people around me who know more than I do, but they don't tell me anything."

She regarded him quietly, humming a thoughtful noise in the back of her throat as she tilted her head down in a contemplative manner. It was another moment of silence before she met his gaze again. With a quick glance around, she must have deemed it safe before she spoke, “It is possible that they cannot tell you because it is forbidden," It was quiet the way she spoke, as if she were being cautious not to be over heard.

“There are things in the library, books and tomes, from before the Church, however; they keep those in places not accessible to students. I am perplexed as to how they have not burned them yet; they burn anything that predates the Church," she continued, her brows furrowing lightly. “If you desire, we can see if anything there will help you with your memories, also," she paused, raising her free hand towards his face, “may I? I wish to do for you what you did for me during our Crest training. I don't think it will be much, but it might help for the time being."

He nodded slightly, lowering his head towards her so it would be easier. “I wasn't sure if that helped," he admitted. She'd been going through a lot, quite understandably. “Or if I did, at all. All of this—having people that I really," he paused, trying to find the right words, and went with the simple ones. “Care about. That's new. I've never tried to help someone that way before. There was never anyone to help." His father was... distant, in some ways. Not the type of person to lean on his son in any case.

As for the suggestion about the books... he didn't see why not. It wasn't as though he was too concerned with keeping Rhea's rules, or the Church's. And if she thought there was something in there that might really give him answers, then he figured it was worth a shot.

“It did... help, I mean," she answered, touching her magic-laced fingers to his temples. Her magic, naturally cooler perhaps because of where she's from, filtered through as she smiled at him, softly still. “I am not very good at caring about other people. It... has been hard to convince myself into thinking that there can be people who will not..." she paused, furrowing slightly, “who will not leave, and who will not hate me; people who I can care about, but..."

“I care a great deal about all of you, including you. If there is anyway I can be of further service, I will gladly do what I can." She sounded sincere about it.

“Thank you," he said simply. He may have even leaned a little into the touch, glad perhaps that for the moment there would be no voice in his head to scold him for it. The magic was soothing, chasing away the vestigial remnants of his pain, and he felt himself relax, the line of his shoulders easing.

He could understand it, the difficulty with trust. “And... I feel the same. So if I may assist you in any way... please ask."

She hummed a soft note as way of response, it seemed. “Of course, Professor. Actually," she paused, smiling still as she stared at him, “if you could help me with Sorcha's celebration, I would appreciate it, immensely. You know as well as I do that Vridel has a rather large stomach, and Sorcha is no stranger to large meals, either. Mercer... I am aware of his gluttony as well, and Amalthea adores her sweets. Preparing that much food might be a little out of my capabilities, but if you would be so kind as to help?"

He huffed softly, feeling the tiniest of answering smiles curl his mouth.

“I would do so gladly."

She looked vaguely surprised by something, and there was a faint color to her face. “You should smile more often. It suits you," she stated, pulling her hand from his and walking towards her station. She cleared her throat a little, “Perhaps we should... finish the menu, for now."

The smile inched just a little higher, and Cyril nodded, finally relinquishing her hand with a faint flicker of reluctance. “As you wish."

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Senka Rinaldi Character Portrait: Amalthea von Kreuz Character Portrait: Mercer von Riegan Character Portrait: Cyril Eisner Character Portrait: Vridel von Hresvelg

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#, as written by Aethyia


I.Y. 1180 - Blue Sea Moon - Sunday the 6th
Training Grounds - Midafternoon - Warm
Vridel von Hresvelg


As the first Sunday of the month, it was someone's turn to teach the others something about their culture. For reasons Vridel wasn't entirely sure of, the Professor had been nominated to go first, and in lieu of being from a specific country or region, he'd invited the group of them to the training grounds this afternoon.

When Vridel arrived, most of the others had not arrived yet, but both Cyril and his father the captain were there, talking in low voices about something or other. Jeralt chuckled, though as usual his son's face remained impassive. They were both holding lances, the Captain casually leaning on his while the Professor had braced the other over his shoulders. He raised a hand in greeting to Vridel, who nodded slightly as he took up a spot at the edge of the ring, leaning on the rail.

“So... I suppose we'll be seeing some part of mercenary culture today?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Jeralt barked a laugh. “Culture? I dunno if anything we do is sophisticated enough to be called that. But you'll be getting a show, all right?"

Cyril huffed quietly. “The point of the exercise is to teach each other how different kinds of people live," he explained to his father. “Since they already do barn chores, I thought I should give them a taste of the rest of what you put me through." It was mostly deadpan, but Vridel could sense the undercurrent of humor.

As, apparently, could the Captain. “Ah, so that's how it is. I gotcha. Well, I s'pose it can't hurt to show 'em how it's done."

“So, what you're saying is that we're going to watch you and Captain beat each other senseless?" Mercer stated, making his way towards Vridel. He yawned, stretched his arms over his head until there was a popping noise, and he sighed. “I'm down for that," he stated, rolling out his shoulders.

“I think it might be more than that, Merc," Amalthea spoke next, having been behind him. “Mercenaries train differently than soldiers would, or like we would, and they have their own tactics. It'll be really nice to see that, plus..." she pursed her lips and shook her head as if what she was going to say didn't need to be said. She glanced up at Vridel, smiled, and then turned her attention towards Cyril and Jeralt.

Senka was the next to arrive, though she spared a glance in Mercer's direction, nodded, and stood on the other side of Vridel. At least she didn't seem too upset with Mercer at the moment. She didn't say anything, though, and merely remained quiet.

While everyone else was gathering, Vridel noticed another newcomer to the area as well. It looked like Professor Jeritza had intended to use the ring; or at least her stopped at the edge of it, about ninety degrees away from the students.

Professor Cyril clearly noticed him, too. “Ah, Jeritza. Were you needing the ring? We can move our demonstration elsewhere."

Jeritza shook his head. “No," he said, with his strange, melancholy lilt. Sometimes Vridel swore he recognized it from somewhere. “But if you do not mind, I would like to... observe."

Cyril shrugged, turning to his father.

Jeralt didn't seem to care, either. “Go ahead," he said with a belabored sigh. “One more witness to me getting my old ass beaten, I guess." Vridel snorted softly, even as Professor Cyril clapped his father on the shoulder.

“Old? Never." Jeralt barked a laugh, apparently a little surprised at the gesture, but grinned broadly afterwards.

“All right, kids. So the most important thing to recognize about the mercenary way of doing things is that we don't give a shit about honor, or chivalry, or any of that fancy stuff. If you can win by throwing dirt in the other guy's face, you do it. If you can win by tripping him, you do it. If you can win by ganging up..." he paused, making a gesture as if he expected someone to complete his sentence.

“We do it," Thea stated, seemingly proud of herself for completing Jeralt's sentence. “But, basically you're saying that, in order to make sure we win, that it's okay to cheat?" she asked, furrowing her brows slightly. “Is that... really okay, though?" she asked, causing Mercer to snort softly.

“Not everyone fights with a sense of chivalry or honor; Captain just said that, Thea," he stated, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving it a light squeeze. “And it's not just mercenaries who fight that way. You'll, hopefully never, come across people who will do whatever they can in order to ensure they live, and that you die," he stated, causing her brows to furrow deeply.

“Mercer is correct, Thea. This is just a demonstration, though. You can take whatever you want from it and apply it to yourself, if that makes you more comfortable," Senka finally spoke, her lips twitching just lightly as if she were trying to smile, but couldn't. Thea nodded her head in reply.

“I suppose so," was her reply as she glanced back at Cyril and Jeralt.

Vridel folded his arms across his chest, tilting his head at the two men in the ring. The Captain didn't seem perturbed by the discussion any more than Professor Cyril did, which was not at all.

“We also don't bother with too many practice conventions. We don't care if our weapons match, or if the other guy throws in whatever magic he's got, or any of that. Not in a spar between equals. This ain't quite that, anymore, so Cyril here's gonna keep his magic out of it for the sake of his old man's bones." Despite the words, he wore the jagged grin of a man very much looking forward to a fight.

“Anything else is fair game."

Cyril and Jeralt faced each other, each taking a few paces back so they were just out of reach of one another's lances. Jeralt firmed his grip on his. Cyril cracked his neck to either side, face settling back into that uncanny stillness he'd always worn when they first met him. Funny, now, how different it seemed from his usual expression, even if both could be loosely described as impassive. This one was cold, too, just utterly void of anything, in a way his usual face was not.

Before it even seemed that they'd settled, Jeralt lunged. In a chivalric duel, they would have had to bow first, and wait for a signal that the match could begin. Then again, this was clearly not that.

Cyril, at least, seemed to have been expecting it. He raised his lance, somehow instantly in a ready grip, and swatted the thrust aside, bending so that it passed through only air to the left of his head. Jeralt barked a short laugh, grin still very much in place, and took a hard step in, swinging low. Cyril jumped, propelling himself forward and using the shorter distance to throw a hard punch, one that nearly cracked into the Blade Breaker's jaw. It did force him back, and then he was under pressure from the Professor's lance, forced onto the defensive. It was a masterful reversal, and a patient one, that had completely changed the roles of aggressor and defender around.

But the Captain was fearsome, and, managing a quick block, retaliated by driving the butt of his lance into Cyril's stomach, doubling him over. The punishment strike missed, though—the professor launched himself to the side and rolled, coming back up to his feet and thrusting again before Jeralt could guard properly.

The practice lance caught him in the side, not quite enough to upset his balance, but he did have to move out of range again to avoid the follow-up.

“Ooh, that look like it hurt," Mercer stated, wincing slightly when the lance made contact. Amalthea merely mirrored his movements, wincing every time someone was hit, however; Senka merely watched. She was following their movements with a strange calculative gaze, but it might have been that she was simply studying their spar.

“I hope that doesn't bruise," Amalthea murmured, folding her hands in front of her as if to keep them from doing something else. Mercer shrugged his shoulders, though. “I'm sure they're used to it, but still," she continued, pursing her lips together.

The spar raged on. And that was sort of a good word for it. Neither the Professor nor his father seemed at all interested in checking their blows, nor in the conventional rules of combat. At one point, Jeralt did in fact throw sand, and Cyril blended lance forms with barehanded ones in a manner that would have seen him thrown out of most weapon-specific tournaments and the like. The way they fought was all about winning. Was all about survival, and they did absolutely everything they could to guarantee it.

By the time it seemed to be winding down, Jeralt had a blossoming back eye and Cyril's lower lip was split, blood dripping down his chin and neck to soak into his collar. Both men's breathing was elevated, but it was clear enough that the Professor had come out of it a little better: his injuries were mostly superficial cuts and scrapes, whereas it seemed Jeralt might actually be nursing a broken rib from a particularly well-placed kick.

“C'mon, kid," he said, shaking his head as if to clear his vision. “Let's finish it."

Without giving any chance to respond, Jeralt lunged, somehow stronger than ever, despite the fatigue and injuries. In an instant, Vridel understood why—a Crest shone on his brow, bright white with the faintest flicker of cerulean blue. His eyes widened. That was—

The blow struck hard, but Cyril's block was there to meet it. Both lances snapped under the strain; the Professor was the first to recover, seizing his father by the throat and twisting around behind him in a fluid motion, placing his head into a sleeper-lock. Jeralt tapped his arm twice, yielding the match, and Cyril released him immediately.

“Vridel, would you mind...?" he asked, shaking his head and losing the coldness to his expression at the same time.

He nodded immediately, hopping the bar and entering the ring. “Of course."

Jeralt was an easy enough patient to treat, merely standing still and quiet while Vridel got to work.

“And that's that," Cyril said, wiping the blood beneath his lip with his thumb. “We're not idiots, so we go easier when there aren't healers around, but any company can tell you that the most common use of vulneraries and things is patching people up after practice. Harder to use effectively one the field, after all." He paused. “If you've a mind to try practicing like this... remember to bring some with you, and make sure you stop the second someone yields."

“Noted," Amalthea stated, nodding her head at the same time. They had all at this time, entered the ring with Cyril and Jeralt, Amalthea making her way towards Cyril with the other two. Senka regarded Cyril for a moment, her eyes slightly narrowed before she tilted her head.

“Do you want me to take care of your lip?" she asked, referring to at least healing it so it would stop bleeding. Mercer must have taken it the wrong way, because he snickered beneath his breath as Amalthea looked vaguely confused. Senka merely attempted to roll her eyes, but she half succeeded and turned her attention back to Cyril.

He nodded slightly, murmuring a word of thanks, and ducked his head slightly to facilitate the assistance.

“Both of you don't pull your punches, do you?" Mercer stated, lacing his hands behind his head. “And I'm sure we'd all like to practice like that, eventually, especially Sofia and Sylvi. They're the ones who are doing mostly the bare-fisted stuff," he stated, sighing softly as he dropped his hands. “I'll just stick to my arrows, thank you."

“Light weight," Senka stated, earning a light chuckle from Mercer.

“I suppose I am."

“On the contrary, Mercer," Cyril said after Senka had finished with his cut. “I've an assignment for you. As Sorcha couldn't be here, I'd like you to convey the lesson to her when she's recovered." It seemed that there was almost a trace of amusement in his tone, but at the same time his expression was perfectly serious—he was really asking Mercer to do it.

Vridel thought he could see the reasoning, too. It would prevent Sorcha from feeling left out, force Mercer to practice his melee techniques against someone who would take things seriously... and perhaps, let him feel as if he'd gone some way to making up for his earlier error. Quite apt, really.

He finished with Jeralt's injuries and stepped back. The captain gave him a nod of gratitude, rolling one of his shoulders and setting his opposite hand on it as if to rest the joint. “You said this was some kinda cultural thing, right kid?" At Cyril's nod, the professor continued. “Any of you kids ever been fishing? Was thinkin' about taking trip out onto the lake this afternoon."

Vridel was struck by a fuzzy memory, something about bad fish and then a boat capsizing in the middle of the night, and exchanged a glance with Mercer, a smile twitching at his lips. “I'm terrible at it," he admitted, “but it sounds... like a good idea."

“I'm offended, Teach, but sure. I can relay the info to Sorcha," Mercer replied with a light shrug of his shoulders. Amalthea's eyes brightened, though at the idea of fishing.

“I've never gone fishing, either! Even though we have a pond, here, I've never been able to go. It sounds like it could be fun!" Amalthea stated as she glanced excitedly at everyone else. Senka merely nodded her head in agreement as Mercer snorted softly, his eyes briefly meeting Vridel's.

“I've been fishing once, but... I guess it wouldn't hurt to try it again," Mercer spoke as he grinned.

“I suppose that means we're going fishing. Perhaps you can instruct us on what the best techniques are for catching them?" Senka stated, turning her attention on Jeralt with a light tilt of her head.

He snorted quietly. “I guess I know a few tricks, but it ain't really that complicated," he said. “Let's get ourselves some boats and go from there."

As it turned out, the number of them meant that two boats were necessary, so Cyril and Jeralt split the students between themselves. Vridel wound up on Jeralt's boat, which didn't bother him. After a bit of an impromptu lesson on bait, he cast his line off the side, and settled down as Jeralt seemed to be, though admittedly he couldn't make himself hunch over quite that far.

Mercer and Thea had joined Vridel on the boat. It should have been an even number, three on one boat and three on another, however; Mercer seemed intent on joining Vridel's group for some reason. That left Cyril and Senka taking the other boat, but they didn't seem to mind. Amalthea seemed to be having trouble hooking her bait, though, and was frowing as she attempted to try again. She glanced at Vridel for a moment before Mercer took her bait from her.

“Let me help you, Thea," he stated, snickering softly as he tried hooking her bait. It took him a couple of tries as well before he succeeded. She beamed at him with a large smile and took her pole back.

“Thank you, Merc!" she stated before finally casting her line off to the other side.

“No problem, Thea," he stated, winking at her. She seemed to be slightly embarrassed by it as a light pink dusted her cheeks, and she cast her gaze away from him. Mercer snickered again.

Vridel narrowed his eyes at Mercer, quite certain that he'd done that on purpose, probably hoping to provoke some kind of reaction from him. Annoyingly, it was at least somewhat successful; he felt a flash of irritation when Amalthea blushed, and pointedly turned his eyes out towards the lake. “So do we just sit until something bites, or what?"

Jeralt hummed. “Well, you can. I think it helps a little to reel it in slowly. Fish can kinda see the motion, and will go after it. If you bring it all the way back in and the bait's still on it, you can just cast it out again. No need to reel too quick, though."

From the other boat, not too far away, Cyril cast his line, propping his feet up on the side and leaning his back against the other. Rather a more relaxed posture even than Jeralt's, but perhaps it worked just fine, too.

Senka had seemed to be doing a bit better than Amalthea had, hooking her bait with some ease before casting her line out, too. She spoke something Cyril, though it was too low to hear what it was. She was probably asking him the same thing about fishing since she began reeling her line in, slowly. Mercer smirked in Vridel's direction, not content on leaving it be, though.

Amalthea had started reeling her line in, slowly, as Jeralt had stated. Mercer had followed suit, but he was sitting relatively close to Amalthea. She might have not noticed how close he was, but the blush on her face had not receded. “Oh?" she stated suddenly, pulling her line a little. “Oh! I think I got one!" she stated, reeling in her line a little quickly. Mercer had placed his down as she tried reeling in her catch, however; it must have been slightly stronger than her as she was losing her grip.

“Here let me help, Thea," Mercer stated, shooting a quick smirk at Vridel as his hands clapsed over hers, and he pulled as she reeled. Her face was a furious red, though it was hard to tell if it was the exertion, or how close Mercer was. The line broke, however, and Amalthea shook Mercer's hands from hers, pursing her lips as she glanced out into the pond.

“Aw, my line broke," she murmured, causing Mercer to raise a brow. “How... um, how do I fix it?" she asked, turning her attention to Vridel and Jeralt. Mercer sat back in his spot, though, seemingly satisfied with his work. Amalthea's face was still red.

“Mercer," Vridel said lowly, aware that his displeasure was probably clear to the two other men in the boat, at least. “Maybe you should worry about your own line."

Jeralt sighed, bracing his line on the small boat bench he occupied and gesturing for Amalthea to hand him hers. “Nothin' too complicated. You've lost the hook and bobber, and the bait, but that's why we brought extra. Vridel, grab me one of each from the box, would you?"

Under many other circumstances, Vridel would perhaps have bristled at being so casually told what to do, but honestly he didn't mind here. Was sort of grateful for the opportunity not to have to take offense at every little thing. Even as much pride as he had, it got tiring after a while, having to posture like that to maintain the appearance of strength. An especially important and difficult task, since his return from exile.

So he opened the lid of the tackle box, handing over the hook and bobber, then dug around in the bait container with no concern for the dirt until he found a blowfly larva, which he promptly skewered on the hook when Jeralt held it out towards him.

“There," he said, handing the line back to Amalthea. “Good as new." He paused a moment, then shook his head. “I can understand the nobles not having fished before, but I thought you might have, being from the monastery and all. This is a great lake for it. Feels like the fish never run out, even though it feeds so many people."

There was something a little sad in the way Amalthea smiled, and clutched her pole closer to her. “I wasn't really allowed out of the monastery," she stated, sitting back down in her spot. She kept her gaze to the floor as she seemed to contemplate something. “I... was only recently able to leave the monastery when I was able to join the Blue Lion House. Before that..." she paused, glancing towards Vridel and Jeralt.

“I spent a lot of my time confined to the Monastery. I wasn't allowed to talk to anyone, or make that many friends. It became dangerous, or at least that's what my sister said. Lady Rhea thought I was putting myself in unnecessary danger, so she had me... locked away until a year or so ago. I know she was only looking out for my best interests, I think, but I wasn't able to experience things like fishing. It's why... it's why I enjoy learning all these new things with you all."

“Sounds rough," Jeralt said, an odd tone to his gruff voice. Clearly it didn't come as especially welcome news to him, but he didn't seem surprised, either.

Vridel was considerably closer to livid. He knew a thing or two about confinement, what it could do to a person, and the false assurances of safety and protection that were so often used to justify it. Sometimes it felt like his life had been nothing but a succession of cages with gilded bars, until they weren't gilded anymore and he'd finally been shown the truth of them.

It's for the good of the Empire, you know. It's your duty as Prince. You would't shirk your duty, would you, Vridel?

Tightening his jaw, he banished the memory.

Mercer's brows were furrowed deeply as he glanced in Vridel's direction. “And I've learned so much because of all of you! Even you, Captain! I'm even able to do this, now!" Amalthea stated in an excited manner, trying to hide whatever sadness she was feeling about it.

He didn't know when he'd lost that. The ability to see anything so innocently. Perhaps ignorantly, even, but he couldn't bring himself to disdain it. Most likely, her cage had only gotten bigger. But Vridel knew even that could feel like a gift.

Someday. Someday the door would open.

Even if he had to tear it off the hinges himself.

Sighing quietly, he settled a little further into his spot, shifting sideways just a bit. The boat was kind of cramped with just the four of them in it, so doing so brought his arm into the slightest contact with Amalthea's shoulder. He doubted he had any words in him right now that meant anything, or would be any kind of real comfort, so... he figured the least he could do was remind her that he was present. Maybe that would mean something.

Or maybe he was just an idiot. It was getting harder and harder to tell.

Amalthea smiled at him, the same bright smile she always wore, when his arm made contact with her. “Well I guess that's what these culture Sundays are for, then. Teaching little Thea about the outside world in order to help her adapt," Mercer stated, grinning lightly as he reeled his fishing line in. Amalthea's smile widened, forcing her eyes to narrow as she nodded her head.

“I'm grateful to have friends like you," Amalthea stated as she glanced towards Vridel, as if she were directing the statement specifically for him. “I've gotten better with axes because of Vi, and now I'm learning how to fish. Even though I lost it, I still managed to catch one, so that's one more victory for me," she continued, earning a chuckle from Mercer.

“Pretty good for a first effort," Jeralt added, jerking up sharply on his own line before beginning to reel faster. The pole in his hands bent at a rather alarming curve, but he didn't seem too concerned, simply pulling the fish in steadily until it was right at the side of the boat. Hauling it up with both hands, he deposited it, flopping around, in the boat next to him, then picked it up just behind the gills. “Teutates pike," he observed. “Not bad grilled." With a swift cut from the knife at his belt, he ended its struggles, dunking it briefly back in the water to shake off some of the excess blood, then set it in a bucket and re-baited his line.

“So how's the kid doing as a teacher?" he asked, casting again.

“I'd say he's doing a decent job, so far," Mercer was the first to reply, still reeling his line slowly. He didn't have a bite, yet, but didn't seem to concerned about it. “I don't think any of us would be so far along in our training without his guidance," he continued, his eyes glancing towards Cyril's boat. He huffed lightly, but shook his head.

“I think he's doing an amazing, job, though. I was able to pass my heavy armor certs because of him!" Amalthea stated, looking rather proud of herself. “If he hadn't shown me the different pieces of armor I could put together, I'm not sure I would have been able to do what I needed to," she continued.

“Heavy... armor?" Jeralt blinked a little at Amalthea, no doubt confronting the same oddity that almost everyone did when she mentioned that. For a moment Vridel tensed just slightly—while there was some humor in the image, he didn't particularly wish for anyone to laugh at her, even if it was well meant.

Jeralt only huffed, though. “Alois mentioned you," he said simply. “Glad the kid could help. He's pretty good with that sort of thing, but I wasn't sure about his people skills. Don't think I've ever seen him so happy, though. It's hard to tell because he never smiles. Never cried as a baby, either. But he does like you all. I guess I can tell after all."

Mercer grinned, somewhere caught between mischeivous and scheming. “Well," he drawled, throwing a glance back towards Cyril's boat, “rumor has it that he actually smiled. At her," he gestured towards Senka who seemed on the verge of smiling herself. He snickered softly as Amalthea turned her attention towards Cyril's boat, and smiled brightly.

“Oh, wow. I don't think I've ever seen the both of them smile like that, before. Senka usually doesn't smile. She tries, but she's not that good at it, kind of like Professor," Amalthea stated as Mercer snickered.

Jeralt followed their collective eyes and sighed heavily. “Oh great," he mumbled, though he didn't elaborate. Vridel had a feeling he knew what that was about, though he didn't ask for confirmation.

“Good grief, Mercer. Could you make it any more obvious we're talking about them?" Vridel groused, rolling his eyes when the Professor did in fact look rather quizzically over in their direction. Well, quizzically for him. Perhaps, like his father, his students were simply getting to the point where they could tell what his face meant, even though its variants were subtle.

His compatriot was saved from answering, however, by the fact that Vridel felt a tug on his line, and then another. That was more than just the flow of the water. “I think I might have something," he observed.

“Sharp jerk up. You want to get the hook stuck in there as well as you can," Jeralt said. Vridel complied, then started reeling.

“Not so fast. Ease it in first, and pick up speed as you go. Less chance of losing the line that way. Let it wear itself out."

By the time he'd hauled the fish over the side of the boat, Vridel's arms were surprisingly tired. It flopped around on the boat's floor, splashing both him and Amalthea until Jeralt grabbed it in much the same way as the other one, and showed them all how to make the same cut he had on the pike earlier. “Huh. Caledonian Gar. Not bad, kid. This one makes a nice stew." It was quite a large fish, too, something that made Jeralt nod approvingly before he deposited it in the bucket with the other.

“I'm getting hungry, now. All this talk about grilled fish, and now fish stew..." Amalthea stated, pursing her lips together as she stared at the fish. She didn't seem to mind that it had splashed her, though, and merely kept her eyes on the fish. Mercer laughed at the statement, nearly falling out of his side of the boat. Amalthea grabbed his arm, though, and managed to pull him back in.

“And you tell me I need to be careful!" she stated, frowning at him. Mercer laughed again as he merely shook his head.

“How ever shall I thank you, then? A kiss, maybe?" Mercer stated, his lips pulling into a large grin. Amalthea's face turned a bright red before she took one of the fish out of the bucket and shoved it in Mercer's face.

“You can kiss that!" she muttered, frowning slightly and crossing her arms over her chest as she huffed. The blush on her face only deepened.

Vridel couldn't help himself at that one. He laughed outright, unable to prevent the shake of his shoulders as Amalthea brandished a fish in Mercer's face.

“You heard the lady," he said with a sly grin. “Kiss the bad fish, if you want to show your gratitude." He trusted that Mercer would remember what that meant, aside from the obvious.

Mercer, at this point, was laughing uncontrolably until Vridel's statement. He looked slightly sick at the statement, and gagged. “No thanks. I'd rather not be poisoned by the slimy stinky fish," Mercer responded, catching on to what Vridel had meant. “Besides, I'd like to keep my head, thank you," he continued, snorting softly.

“What about you, Vi? I know you'd just love the chance at giving the bad, stinky fish face a big smooch," Mercer spoke as he shoved the fish near Vridel's face. “C'mon, give your Queen Fish a little kiss. I'm sure she'd like it."

Vridel frowned. “I'm not the one who was talking about kissing anything," he replied, face contorting. Even fresh, the fish smelled strongly of its own blood.

And then it occurred to him. Really, he'd been doing a good job tolerating Mercer's nonsense for the past while, and it wouldn't do to leave things as they were, lest he feel he'd won or something. So, with a quick motion, Vridel yanked the fish from Mercer's hand, deftly shifting one foot up and over Amalthea's legs to capitalize on Mercer's thrown balance. At exactly the right moment, he let go.

He didn't even watch the splash, casually tossing the fish back into the bucket and putting his foot back in front of him. “Sorry," he told the others, not really sounding sorry at all. “I might have scared the fish away."

Jeralt looked torn for all of a moment before he chuckled. “Kid's from Derdriu, right? Might be part fish himself."

Amalthea didn't hide her laughter. It was light and bubbly as she tried to contain it. She looked slightly torn between feeling bad about Mercer's condition and laughing at him. Mercer, however, glared at Vridel from the water's edge, not quite fully submerged in the water, but enough so that only his nose and top part of his head was breaching the surface.

“Serves you right, Mercer," Amalthea finally stated as Mercer rolled his eyes and made bubbles in the water as if he were grumbling.

“It does," Vridel agreed, still smiling rather wickedly. “And no, I am not offering to help you out of there. I'm not an idiot."