Setting
Default Location for Fire Emblem: Apotheosis
Fódlan
A continent divided into three different factions: The Adrestian Empire, The Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, and the Leicester Alliance.
Minimap
northwest |
north |
northeast |
west |
You are here. |
east |
southwest |
south |
southeast |
Fódlan is a part of 
Fire Emblem: Apotheosis.
7 Characters Here
Mercer von Riegan [119] "It's been so long..."
Jeralt's Journal [118] [ Codex of Information ]
Cyril Eisner [118] "I don't know if I can atone for these failures. But I know I have to try."
Sorcha Blaiddyd [114] "..."
Vridel von Hresvelg [113] "Time is running out. All I can do is make the most of it."
Senka Rinaldi [111] "Never again..."
Amalthea von Kreuz [104] "So much pain and suffering. I just want to help."
Start Character Here »
Library - Late Evening - Thunderstorm
Cyril Eisner
The roll of thunder outside was still a distant sound, but Cyril could sense it getting closer. He wasn't exactly sure why, but he'd always been able to predict the weather with some accuracy, including whether a particular season was going to be a drought, and things like that. He'd been surprised to learn that other people generally could not do this, in fact. In any case it wasn't one to be concerned about; though the rain would lash the buildings and likely provide an unpleasant surprise for anyone who left a window open, the winds would at worst knock over old trees. Nothing to worry the stone buildings of Garreg Mach.
Inside the library, a pair of candles flickered on the single table shared between himself and Senka, the only illumination in the darkened room. It's last other occupants had left an hour ago; at the moment there was no one else around. He supposed it might be past proper curfew for students, but considering he was here, he doubted there would be any trouble for it.
Turning a yellowed page, he inhaled the scent of old parchment and vanilla, and sighed it softly back out. Histories were interesting enough, but most of them ultimately said the same thing in more or less detail, and nothing seemed to be striking upon his memory. The girl was quite quiet, too, as though she had little to say, or was afraid of triggering another episode of some kind.
Gently closing the book over, Cyril leaned back in his chair. The aged wood made a soft creak of protest at the movement, and another when he propped his feet up on the empty chair directly in front of him. Senka sat next to that one, at corners with him. “I appreciate the help," he said, at his natural speaking volume since they were the only two here and there was no need to be heard at the back of a lecture hall. He supposed he was soft-spoken compared to most. He'd never had much occasion to think about those kinds of qualities before.
“I think we're unlikely to make much more progress today though. Is there anything you'd like help with? For your upcoming exams, perhaps?"
Senka closed the book she had been reading to regard him as he spoke. “I don't believe so," was her response, a soft sigh escaping her. “Written exams are much different than the certifications; I am not too worried about them," she continued, her eyes softening in the way that usually meant she was smiling. Physically, she smiled at least three times; once when she'd told him and Vridel where she was from, another during their kitchen duties, and again when they'd gone fishing with Jeralt. She seemed to be smiling more often, at least, or attempting to.
“I am a little worried about passing it, though. I know I am good at riding, and my swordskills are not that bad, but..." she paused to furrow her brows lightly, “I'm not confident enough in them, even though I know I should be. It is... something I am still struggling with, I suppose." She glanced back up at him with the same smile, as if nothing were wrong with what she just said.
Cyril had a feeling he might know from where the confidence problem stemmed. After all, it was in physical and magical combat where she was most likely to end up triggering that Crest of hers, and he didn't have to think very hard to imagine why that might bother someone. Bother her.
And yet at the same time, he wasn't certain it was an issue he had any right to address. He was used to thinking of things that way—in terms of what he did or did not have a right to ask or say. Noble employers were insistent on certain lines being drawn beyond which their mercenaries were not permitted to question or offer opinions, and his father had at least taught him that even in everyday conversations there were some things one just didn't bring up. And yet in telling him of her parents, in letting him at least try to help with her Crest, he wondered if she hadn't given that kind of permission.
Setting his book aside, Cyril leaned a bit forward and braced his forearms on the table. “I've no doubt you'll pass a written exam," he said simply, “and you already passed your live certification, so... is it more of a battlefield confidence issue?" He tried to ask the question without exactly asking it, hoping that would let her feel comfortable choosing not to answer if she preferred.
“It is," she replied, sighing softly as she sat up straight in her chair. “My fear keeps me from doing what I know I need to do, should do, but..." she trailed off as she glanced towards her hands. “I know I can be better, I just... I can feel it, you know. It's always there at the recesses of my mind," she began, lifting her hand to press two fingers to her temple, “the Crest. And it's been there since before I even knew about it. There's just something I can't explain about it, and it makes me afraid. I feel... like if I lose control again, even if you're there, I just... I can't help myself."
She didn't glance back up at him, and dropped her hand back in front of her. “Have you ever felt like that? Of not being able to control something and letting the fear keep you from doing more?"
Of not being able to control something...
Cyril's lips thinned slightly as he considered this. “After a while," he said, hearing a strange hesitation in his own tone. Perhaps because he'd never tried to describe this to anyone before. “The things my father was teaching me became instinct. I remember once, I..." He pushed a breath out through his nose, dropping his eyes to his hands. “We were working with another company, both hired by the same lord to deal with organized highwaymen blocking a trade route. We didn't know at the time that they'd been put there by a rival, and that he'd hired the second merc group out from under our employer. At least not until we found ourselves between the bandits and the mercs with weapons on all sides."
Their group, smaller even than the other mercenary company, was simply not going to last. Especially not when the initial surprise betrayal had taken a hefty chunk of causalities out of their fighting capacity. “I don't even remember being surprised. I sensed an axe being swung at me, and I think that was the last true thought I had for hours. The rest was just... automatic."
He remembered it, of course, in excruciating detail. But even now, he could recall feeling nothing at the time. It was the battle that had earned Cyril, then perhaps somewhere around fourteen or fifteen summers, the name people sometimes used for him. Ashen Ghost.
“I don't know how many people I killed that day, but I do know that none of the decisions felt like mine. It felt like there just weren't any decisions at all. Just instinct. A survival response, and not for any reason so noble as to save anyone. I just... refused to die, is all. I think—" he pressed his fingertips together, calluses blunting the feel of it. “I think it was because that was the only way I would be strong enough to live. And so... I decided I had to be strong enough to survive without resorting to that, so that the decisions would always be mine."
Knowing that had its own difficulties, but they were the set he would much rather deal with.
“But... what if I'm not strong enough? What if—" she expelled a heavy sigh as she paused, slumping forward a bit, her hands crossed in front of her. “I'm sorry, Professor," she spoke, glancing up at him with a small smile. “I shouldn't burden you with my issues. I... just need..." she furrowed her brows as she paused, unsure of what she wanted to say. She took a slow breath, relaxing her shoulders a bit. She had tensed up at the end, and closed her eyes. She opened them, glanced his way, and seemed to be searching for something. With a shake of her head, she huffed lightly.
“I need to believe that I can be enough, one day. That I can live for something... something more. And I..." she paused, as if something caught in her throat, “I don't want to be defined by those who say I'm not, or that I'm wor—" she didn't say the word. It seemed difficult for her to express it, despite the soft smile that was on her face.
“I want to belive that I'm not." She whispered it so softly that it was almost as if she didn't say it at all.
“You're not a burden." It wasn't quite what she'd apologized for, but Cyril thought it might have been the thought beneath that. “Or if you are, then I've been just as much a burden on you." She was perhaps the only person he'd voluntarily told, about anything to do with his memory, and the only person he'd told at all about the difficulties he was having with it most recently.
Sighing quietly, he lifted his eyes at last from his hands and settled them on her. “I don't think I'd mind that, actually. Being able to share them like that. It feels like I've been carrying the same ones for so long." But this wasn't about him, really, and he was keenly aware of the fact, so he returned the subject to her.
“I don't know who told you those things, but... you don't have to believe them." No doubt that was sometimes a thing easier said than done, but still. Extending one of his hands towards her, he laid it down on the table, palm up, like an invitation. He didn't quite understand what he was inviting her to do, or why, only that contact had been a form of reassurance to him before, and he wanted to return it in kind. “Strong isn't something anyone is. Rather... I think strength is something people do. By making the right choices, for the right reasons. And I think... that if you decide you don't want this to control you, don't want to let it define you—then you're already strong. You just have to keep at it, work to stay that way."
Hesitantly, she extended her own hand. She hovered a few seconds over his, her eyes staring at his own as if she were trying to determine something. She must have settled on something since her hand was now in his, and she closed it over his. “Is it alright, though?" she finally spoke, her eyes going to their hands. “Is it alright to... talk about them to each other? I don't want you to..." she pursed her lips together as if she were trying to figure something out.
“Will you help me? To continue?" she asked, finally, her eyes going back up to him.
Gently, Cyril gave her hand a squeeze, trying to convey the same comfort she'd once provided him with a similar gesture. “Of course it's all right," he said simply, then paused. “I... I would like it if you did, honestly. And I'd appreciate it if you'd let me. If I can help you, then I want to." For him, it was that simple. Not just because he was her teacher and it was his job in some sense, for some problems. Rather, because he was her friend, he thought.
He didn't have much experience with having them, but he thought that surely if anyone had ever qualified, she must.
She smiled, the same bright smile that had first appeared on her face. “Alright," she responded, her hand squeezing his, though it did not let up. It was as if she were clenching his hand for something, desperate almost. “When I feel like I doubt myself, or if I can't do something, I will come to you. And... I want you to do the same. You are a good friend, Cyril," she spoke, dropping the title, Professor, from his name.
“And I hope you will continue to be mine," she added, her hand finally relaxing in his.
“As long as you want me to be," he replied simply. The fact that she'd used the same word felt like it brightened something in him, and he had no trouble smiling either, slight as it was.
It would be, he sensed, an easy promise to keep.
Inside the library, a pair of candles flickered on the single table shared between himself and Senka, the only illumination in the darkened room. It's last other occupants had left an hour ago; at the moment there was no one else around. He supposed it might be past proper curfew for students, but considering he was here, he doubted there would be any trouble for it.
Turning a yellowed page, he inhaled the scent of old parchment and vanilla, and sighed it softly back out. Histories were interesting enough, but most of them ultimately said the same thing in more or less detail, and nothing seemed to be striking upon his memory. The girl was quite quiet, too, as though she had little to say, or was afraid of triggering another episode of some kind.
Gently closing the book over, Cyril leaned back in his chair. The aged wood made a soft creak of protest at the movement, and another when he propped his feet up on the empty chair directly in front of him. Senka sat next to that one, at corners with him. “I appreciate the help," he said, at his natural speaking volume since they were the only two here and there was no need to be heard at the back of a lecture hall. He supposed he was soft-spoken compared to most. He'd never had much occasion to think about those kinds of qualities before.
“I think we're unlikely to make much more progress today though. Is there anything you'd like help with? For your upcoming exams, perhaps?"
Senka closed the book she had been reading to regard him as he spoke. “I don't believe so," was her response, a soft sigh escaping her. “Written exams are much different than the certifications; I am not too worried about them," she continued, her eyes softening in the way that usually meant she was smiling. Physically, she smiled at least three times; once when she'd told him and Vridel where she was from, another during their kitchen duties, and again when they'd gone fishing with Jeralt. She seemed to be smiling more often, at least, or attempting to.
“I am a little worried about passing it, though. I know I am good at riding, and my swordskills are not that bad, but..." she paused to furrow her brows lightly, “I'm not confident enough in them, even though I know I should be. It is... something I am still struggling with, I suppose." She glanced back up at him with the same smile, as if nothing were wrong with what she just said.
Cyril had a feeling he might know from where the confidence problem stemmed. After all, it was in physical and magical combat where she was most likely to end up triggering that Crest of hers, and he didn't have to think very hard to imagine why that might bother someone. Bother her.
And yet at the same time, he wasn't certain it was an issue he had any right to address. He was used to thinking of things that way—in terms of what he did or did not have a right to ask or say. Noble employers were insistent on certain lines being drawn beyond which their mercenaries were not permitted to question or offer opinions, and his father had at least taught him that even in everyday conversations there were some things one just didn't bring up. And yet in telling him of her parents, in letting him at least try to help with her Crest, he wondered if she hadn't given that kind of permission.
Setting his book aside, Cyril leaned a bit forward and braced his forearms on the table. “I've no doubt you'll pass a written exam," he said simply, “and you already passed your live certification, so... is it more of a battlefield confidence issue?" He tried to ask the question without exactly asking it, hoping that would let her feel comfortable choosing not to answer if she preferred.
“It is," she replied, sighing softly as she sat up straight in her chair. “My fear keeps me from doing what I know I need to do, should do, but..." she trailed off as she glanced towards her hands. “I know I can be better, I just... I can feel it, you know. It's always there at the recesses of my mind," she began, lifting her hand to press two fingers to her temple, “the Crest. And it's been there since before I even knew about it. There's just something I can't explain about it, and it makes me afraid. I feel... like if I lose control again, even if you're there, I just... I can't help myself."
She didn't glance back up at him, and dropped her hand back in front of her. “Have you ever felt like that? Of not being able to control something and letting the fear keep you from doing more?"
Of not being able to control something...
Cyril's lips thinned slightly as he considered this. “After a while," he said, hearing a strange hesitation in his own tone. Perhaps because he'd never tried to describe this to anyone before. “The things my father was teaching me became instinct. I remember once, I..." He pushed a breath out through his nose, dropping his eyes to his hands. “We were working with another company, both hired by the same lord to deal with organized highwaymen blocking a trade route. We didn't know at the time that they'd been put there by a rival, and that he'd hired the second merc group out from under our employer. At least not until we found ourselves between the bandits and the mercs with weapons on all sides."
Their group, smaller even than the other mercenary company, was simply not going to last. Especially not when the initial surprise betrayal had taken a hefty chunk of causalities out of their fighting capacity. “I don't even remember being surprised. I sensed an axe being swung at me, and I think that was the last true thought I had for hours. The rest was just... automatic."
He remembered it, of course, in excruciating detail. But even now, he could recall feeling nothing at the time. It was the battle that had earned Cyril, then perhaps somewhere around fourteen or fifteen summers, the name people sometimes used for him. Ashen Ghost.
“I don't know how many people I killed that day, but I do know that none of the decisions felt like mine. It felt like there just weren't any decisions at all. Just instinct. A survival response, and not for any reason so noble as to save anyone. I just... refused to die, is all. I think—" he pressed his fingertips together, calluses blunting the feel of it. “I think it was because that was the only way I would be strong enough to live. And so... I decided I had to be strong enough to survive without resorting to that, so that the decisions would always be mine."
Knowing that had its own difficulties, but they were the set he would much rather deal with.
“But... what if I'm not strong enough? What if—" she expelled a heavy sigh as she paused, slumping forward a bit, her hands crossed in front of her. “I'm sorry, Professor," she spoke, glancing up at him with a small smile. “I shouldn't burden you with my issues. I... just need..." she furrowed her brows as she paused, unsure of what she wanted to say. She took a slow breath, relaxing her shoulders a bit. She had tensed up at the end, and closed her eyes. She opened them, glanced his way, and seemed to be searching for something. With a shake of her head, she huffed lightly.
“I need to believe that I can be enough, one day. That I can live for something... something more. And I..." she paused, as if something caught in her throat, “I don't want to be defined by those who say I'm not, or that I'm wor—" she didn't say the word. It seemed difficult for her to express it, despite the soft smile that was on her face.
“I want to belive that I'm not." She whispered it so softly that it was almost as if she didn't say it at all.
“You're not a burden." It wasn't quite what she'd apologized for, but Cyril thought it might have been the thought beneath that. “Or if you are, then I've been just as much a burden on you." She was perhaps the only person he'd voluntarily told, about anything to do with his memory, and the only person he'd told at all about the difficulties he was having with it most recently.
Sighing quietly, he lifted his eyes at last from his hands and settled them on her. “I don't think I'd mind that, actually. Being able to share them like that. It feels like I've been carrying the same ones for so long." But this wasn't about him, really, and he was keenly aware of the fact, so he returned the subject to her.
“I don't know who told you those things, but... you don't have to believe them." No doubt that was sometimes a thing easier said than done, but still. Extending one of his hands towards her, he laid it down on the table, palm up, like an invitation. He didn't quite understand what he was inviting her to do, or why, only that contact had been a form of reassurance to him before, and he wanted to return it in kind. “Strong isn't something anyone is. Rather... I think strength is something people do. By making the right choices, for the right reasons. And I think... that if you decide you don't want this to control you, don't want to let it define you—then you're already strong. You just have to keep at it, work to stay that way."
Hesitantly, she extended her own hand. She hovered a few seconds over his, her eyes staring at his own as if she were trying to determine something. She must have settled on something since her hand was now in his, and she closed it over his. “Is it alright, though?" she finally spoke, her eyes going to their hands. “Is it alright to... talk about them to each other? I don't want you to..." she pursed her lips together as if she were trying to figure something out.
“Will you help me? To continue?" she asked, finally, her eyes going back up to him.
Gently, Cyril gave her hand a squeeze, trying to convey the same comfort she'd once provided him with a similar gesture. “Of course it's all right," he said simply, then paused. “I... I would like it if you did, honestly. And I'd appreciate it if you'd let me. If I can help you, then I want to." For him, it was that simple. Not just because he was her teacher and it was his job in some sense, for some problems. Rather, because he was her friend, he thought.
He didn't have much experience with having them, but he thought that surely if anyone had ever qualified, she must.
She smiled, the same bright smile that had first appeared on her face. “Alright," she responded, her hand squeezing his, though it did not let up. It was as if she were clenching his hand for something, desperate almost. “When I feel like I doubt myself, or if I can't do something, I will come to you. And... I want you to do the same. You are a good friend, Cyril," she spoke, dropping the title, Professor, from his name.
“And I hope you will continue to be mine," she added, her hand finally relaxing in his.
“As long as you want me to be," he replied simply. The fact that she'd used the same word felt like it brightened something in him, and he had no trouble smiling either, slight as it was.
It would be, he sensed, an easy promise to keep.
Training Grounds - Afternoon - Cloudy
Amalthea von Kreuz
Amalthea huffed lightly, pursing her lips as she held her hand out for Amyr to return. She was practicing throwing her axe; she wasn't proficient enough in it, yet. She had been at it the last few days, after classes were finished. She used whatever free time she had in order to train, or spend it with her friends. Lately, though, she'd been spending her time on the training grounds. She needed to get stronger, better, so she could be of more use to them. Even her trainings with Lyanna and Vridel were occupying much of her time, lately, but she didn't mind. She enjoyed spending time with her sister and Vridel. For obvious reasons. She liked her sister, and she was immensely helpful, and Vridel, well... she wasn't going to dwell on that thought, for now.
Once Amyr was back in her hand, she glanced back at the targets, huffing lightly as they continued to move. At least she was hitting them more consistently, now, and she wasn't having too much difficulty aiming. Vridel had taught her a lot about that, actually, and just thinking of him seemed to summon the same, strange warmth in her cheeks and ears. She really needed to get that under control. Sorcha had told her it was called a blush, and that it was usually visible. She didn't need to be red in the face every time she saw, or thought, about Vridel.
“Crushes are ridiculous, they shouldn't make your face do that!" she shouted to herself. She was, after all, alone on the training grounds.
“Oh? What's this about a crush?"
Of course, at the very worst moment, the object of her wayward thoughts appeared, as if by thinking of him, she'd summoned him. That was impossible, of course, and to be fair he used the training grounds a lot, too, but still.
He came into view not a moment later, hopping the fence without using his hands, which were both occupied: one carried a cloth bundle of some sort and the other a canteen. He landed smoothly, approaching her with a raised white eyebrow and half a mischievous smile. His hair, longer than that belonging to most men but not yet sufficient to reach his shoulders, had been pulled back into a small tail, from which many strands had already escaped to lay aside his face.
“What? What crush? Who has a crush? Certainly not I, no sir." She shook her head violently, feeling her face burning, now. Oh, goddess, why of all moments? she thought as she turned to fully face him. She was blushing, she knew she was, but there wasn't much she could do about it. She hadn't quite learned how to tone it down, so to speak. She blinked a few times and puffed her cheeks lightly. She was doomed, wasn't she?
“What brings you here, Vi?" she decided to ask, trying to get control of her blush that seemed to be going against her wishes.
“I think I like it when you call me sir," he replied, apparently unfazed by her denial and topic change both. His eyes narrowed with the force of his amusement, and he laughed softly, perhaps at whatever shade her face had turned in the meantime. “As for what I'm doing..." he held up the bundle and extended it towards her.
“Your provisions, milady," he declared, inclining himself in just the shortest bow. “If I'm not mistaken, you've been at that for quite a while, so I brought you something to tide you over until dinner." It was his turn to look faintly embarrassed, somehow; or at least she thought there was the faintest bit of pink to the otherwise unyielding porcelain of his skin.
“Oh? Thank you, Vi," she stated, taking the bundle from his hands. “We should, uh, probably take this to the table over there," she stated, pointing to the table on the far side of the ring. She started towards it, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was following, and placed the bundle on the table when she approached it. Carefully, she undid the bundle and her eyes went wide at the sight of the pastries.
“Oh, goddess, I love you right now," she stated, taking one of the pastries and mostly shoving it in her mouth to keep her from saying anything else embarrassing, never mind what she just said. She wasn't paying too much attention, after all, with the pastries in sight.
Vridel, on the other hand, gave her a look that said he'd quite caught that, and the smile inched just a little wider. “Just right now?" he inquired blithely, taking a seat across from her with obvious relaxation. “How unfortunate for me; I must not be the lucky crush-ee." His tone was light, something about the words not quite as they would have been in a more serious inflection.
He huffed softly, reaching forward and smoothing the corner of her lips with his thumb. When he brought it back towards him, she could see that there was a smear of chocolate on it—probably from the pastry she'd just scarfed. He winked at her and popped it nonchalantly in his mouth, humming as if in thought for a moment.
“Not bad."
Amalthea swallowed thickly, adverting her gaze from Vridel as she shoved another pastry in her mouth. She was careful not to smear any chocolate this time, though. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and she felt a little light headed. It felt like she was going to faint, but it wasn't an entirely bad feeling, she didn't think. Clearing her throat, she forced herself to glance back at him, well aware that her face was probably a scarlet hue.
“I would hope it was good. You chose them, after all," she replied, referring to the pastries. She decided against commenting on the crush statement. If she did, she'd only further embarrass herself, or worse, she'd admit to him that she had a crush on him. She furrowed her brows, though. Would that be a bad thing, though, if she told him?
“Vridel," she stated, glancing at him with lightly puffed cheeks. Would it be okay to tell him? She pushed a sigh through her nose, though, and inwardly shook her head. “Thanks for the pastries! They really are good," she stated, instead. “But... you didn't have to come all this way just to give them to me. I'm sure you had other things you needed to do. Oh, but... I hope it doesn't sound like I'm ungrateful or anything, because I'm not! I am grateful you... I'm just gonna stop talking now." She couldn't look him in the face now.
He chuckled, low and rich, and in the corner of her eye, his posture shifted so that he was leaning on the table with his chin in his hand. “Worry not, Thea," he said, tapping her foot underneath the table with his own. “I assure you this has been a perfectly good use of my time. I got to see something quite interesting, after all." He did not specify what this interesting things was, though.
Apparently taking mercy on her, he changed the topic. “Are you finding your training productive?"
She smiled and nodded her head. “I am, actually. I've even learned to summon Amyr back using the enchantment," she was very proud of that fact, actually. She'd spent a lot of time running back and forth retrieving it before she'd learned the enchantment. She felt a bit bad, though, because she'd seen him use it before, but she just... forgot. She did that a lot. “As for other training," she pursed her lips together and furrowed her brows.
“I'm not really all that good with magic. I've never really been, and even with Lyanna's and your help, I just... I don't know. I can't seem to get it quite right?" she questioned. “It just doesn't flow the same way, I guess. It's a bit different than throwing an axe or... you know, moving around in heavy things and stuff like that," she murmured, taking a slow bite from another pastry, deciding to savor this one, at least.
Vridel tilted his head. “Your sister's fairly demanding," he mused. “I think I'm used to learning that way, but it's certainly not the best for everyone. I take it you haven't done much healing before, have you?" He didn't seem to be judging her for it; on the contrary there was something almost melancholy in his tone. The mirth had faded from his face a bit, too, and his brows had drawn together.
She shook her head, pursing her lips together. “I haven't. I've... never had the need to, I suppose." She'd grown up in the Monastery where it was safe, and no one ever required it. “I told you I grew up here. I've never had the need to heal anyone. I've studied white magic and healing magic but... studying and actually practicing it are two very different things. I'm afraid all I did was learn about it, but I've never really applied it to anything. Never had a reason to," until she had friends. She smiled softly at that thought. They were her precious friends, and she wanted to do whatever she could to help them.
“It's why I appreciate you and Lyanna taking the time out of your busy schedules to help me with it. It means a great deal to someone like me," she stated, smiling brightly. It really did. It meant she would be able to use it if she ever needed to, but she needed to practice, first.
“Someone like you?" he echoed curiously. “A bit of an odd thing to say." With the hand not holding his chin, he set the canteen down in front of her. “I only brought one, but it's tea. Feel free to have some."
“Of course," she stated, glancing at the canteen. “To someone like you, or even Sorcha and Mercer, I'm just..." she pursed her lips together, unsure of the word she wanted to use. She was, technically, just a commoner. She wasn't as special as the three heirs. Not that she minded, though. She rather liked her simple life. “I'm just a simple person compared to you, Sorcha, and Mercer. I don't have the weight of an entire nation on my shoulders, but to someone like me who can have someone like you, spare their time for... it means a great deal to me."
“I mean, like I've said, I'm sure there are more important things you have to tend to than spend your time with me, but..." she giggled lightly, unsure why she did, “I'd like to think that's being a little selfish of me, but I'm glad. I... don't want things often for myself, but this, what we do, I actually value it. Our time together has been fun and I don't... I don't want that to change." She smiled at him as she took the canteen and drank from it.
He gave her a strange look, then, eyes narrowed almost suspiciously, before all at once he sighed and relented, expression softening to something almost... bemused? “On the contrary," he said, tapping a light rhythm on the wood of the table with his empty hand. “I think that simplicity of yours is exactly why you're worth spending time on."
Before she could respond, he shook his head. “You know... I won't pretend I've had it as hard as some people. I've never been at risk of dying from starvation, or had to worry too much personally about whether there's a drought or it's a good or bad year for trade. But one of the challenges of being someone like me is that people almost never show me their true face. They always want something, and usually they hide what they want until they think they can get it, because I like them enough or because they have the right leverage over me. It's exhausting." He said it flatly, dully, expelling a soft breath from his nose.
“To be quite honest, when we met I thought you would be much the same. But I could never figure out what you wanted from me. When you finally did ask for something, it was for book recommendations about plants." He snorted softly. “I thought you were strange. Still do. But to someone like me... well, your lack of ulterior motives means a great deal. So I could hardly see you as a waste of time, now could I?"
Amalthea felt her eyes widen slightly. She never thought about it that way. She pursed her lips and let her gaze fall to the table. She didn't know why, but she felt... sad? Not for herself, but for him. It was a strange feeling, really. Now she felt slightly bad about having a crush on him and not telling him. She opened her mouth, but found herself saying no words. She sighed softly, willing her heart beat to calm. Funny, when had it become so erratic? Shaking her head, mostly at herself, she smiled at him.
“Well... would it be too late to ask for something else?" she stated, glancing at him with hopeful eyes. “Would it be too much to ask for you to be my friend? And... to stay my friend? I don't have many of those, but I feel like I do... with all of you and especially you, because," she paused to take a deep breath, “well I rather like you, Vi. You're a good person. And no one can say otherwise because I have proof!" She was referring, of course, to the pastries that were left, and Amyr. She would keep her crush to herself for just a little longer.
He gave her an odd little sideward smile at that. “Aha," he said, eyes narrowed this time in something like amusement, it seemed. “So you did want something after all." He paused, as if considering her, or the offer, and then shrugged.
“Then again... I suppose I like you enough to grant the request. Friends it is."
“I promise I want nothing else!" she stated, smiling and almost standing with the force of her statement. She was rather content to leave it at that. Friends. For now.
Once Amyr was back in her hand, she glanced back at the targets, huffing lightly as they continued to move. At least she was hitting them more consistently, now, and she wasn't having too much difficulty aiming. Vridel had taught her a lot about that, actually, and just thinking of him seemed to summon the same, strange warmth in her cheeks and ears. She really needed to get that under control. Sorcha had told her it was called a blush, and that it was usually visible. She didn't need to be red in the face every time she saw, or thought, about Vridel.
“Crushes are ridiculous, they shouldn't make your face do that!" she shouted to herself. She was, after all, alone on the training grounds.
“Oh? What's this about a crush?"
Of course, at the very worst moment, the object of her wayward thoughts appeared, as if by thinking of him, she'd summoned him. That was impossible, of course, and to be fair he used the training grounds a lot, too, but still.
He came into view not a moment later, hopping the fence without using his hands, which were both occupied: one carried a cloth bundle of some sort and the other a canteen. He landed smoothly, approaching her with a raised white eyebrow and half a mischievous smile. His hair, longer than that belonging to most men but not yet sufficient to reach his shoulders, had been pulled back into a small tail, from which many strands had already escaped to lay aside his face.
“What? What crush? Who has a crush? Certainly not I, no sir." She shook her head violently, feeling her face burning, now. Oh, goddess, why of all moments? she thought as she turned to fully face him. She was blushing, she knew she was, but there wasn't much she could do about it. She hadn't quite learned how to tone it down, so to speak. She blinked a few times and puffed her cheeks lightly. She was doomed, wasn't she?
“What brings you here, Vi?" she decided to ask, trying to get control of her blush that seemed to be going against her wishes.
“I think I like it when you call me sir," he replied, apparently unfazed by her denial and topic change both. His eyes narrowed with the force of his amusement, and he laughed softly, perhaps at whatever shade her face had turned in the meantime. “As for what I'm doing..." he held up the bundle and extended it towards her.
“Your provisions, milady," he declared, inclining himself in just the shortest bow. “If I'm not mistaken, you've been at that for quite a while, so I brought you something to tide you over until dinner." It was his turn to look faintly embarrassed, somehow; or at least she thought there was the faintest bit of pink to the otherwise unyielding porcelain of his skin.
“Oh? Thank you, Vi," she stated, taking the bundle from his hands. “We should, uh, probably take this to the table over there," she stated, pointing to the table on the far side of the ring. She started towards it, glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was following, and placed the bundle on the table when she approached it. Carefully, she undid the bundle and her eyes went wide at the sight of the pastries.
“Oh, goddess, I love you right now," she stated, taking one of the pastries and mostly shoving it in her mouth to keep her from saying anything else embarrassing, never mind what she just said. She wasn't paying too much attention, after all, with the pastries in sight.
Vridel, on the other hand, gave her a look that said he'd quite caught that, and the smile inched just a little wider. “Just right now?" he inquired blithely, taking a seat across from her with obvious relaxation. “How unfortunate for me; I must not be the lucky crush-ee." His tone was light, something about the words not quite as they would have been in a more serious inflection.
He huffed softly, reaching forward and smoothing the corner of her lips with his thumb. When he brought it back towards him, she could see that there was a smear of chocolate on it—probably from the pastry she'd just scarfed. He winked at her and popped it nonchalantly in his mouth, humming as if in thought for a moment.
“Not bad."
Amalthea swallowed thickly, adverting her gaze from Vridel as she shoved another pastry in her mouth. She was careful not to smear any chocolate this time, though. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, and she felt a little light headed. It felt like she was going to faint, but it wasn't an entirely bad feeling, she didn't think. Clearing her throat, she forced herself to glance back at him, well aware that her face was probably a scarlet hue.
“I would hope it was good. You chose them, after all," she replied, referring to the pastries. She decided against commenting on the crush statement. If she did, she'd only further embarrass herself, or worse, she'd admit to him that she had a crush on him. She furrowed her brows, though. Would that be a bad thing, though, if she told him?
“Vridel," she stated, glancing at him with lightly puffed cheeks. Would it be okay to tell him? She pushed a sigh through her nose, though, and inwardly shook her head. “Thanks for the pastries! They really are good," she stated, instead. “But... you didn't have to come all this way just to give them to me. I'm sure you had other things you needed to do. Oh, but... I hope it doesn't sound like I'm ungrateful or anything, because I'm not! I am grateful you... I'm just gonna stop talking now." She couldn't look him in the face now.
He chuckled, low and rich, and in the corner of her eye, his posture shifted so that he was leaning on the table with his chin in his hand. “Worry not, Thea," he said, tapping her foot underneath the table with his own. “I assure you this has been a perfectly good use of my time. I got to see something quite interesting, after all." He did not specify what this interesting things was, though.
Apparently taking mercy on her, he changed the topic. “Are you finding your training productive?"
She smiled and nodded her head. “I am, actually. I've even learned to summon Amyr back using the enchantment," she was very proud of that fact, actually. She'd spent a lot of time running back and forth retrieving it before she'd learned the enchantment. She felt a bit bad, though, because she'd seen him use it before, but she just... forgot. She did that a lot. “As for other training," she pursed her lips together and furrowed her brows.
“I'm not really all that good with magic. I've never really been, and even with Lyanna's and your help, I just... I don't know. I can't seem to get it quite right?" she questioned. “It just doesn't flow the same way, I guess. It's a bit different than throwing an axe or... you know, moving around in heavy things and stuff like that," she murmured, taking a slow bite from another pastry, deciding to savor this one, at least.
Vridel tilted his head. “Your sister's fairly demanding," he mused. “I think I'm used to learning that way, but it's certainly not the best for everyone. I take it you haven't done much healing before, have you?" He didn't seem to be judging her for it; on the contrary there was something almost melancholy in his tone. The mirth had faded from his face a bit, too, and his brows had drawn together.
She shook her head, pursing her lips together. “I haven't. I've... never had the need to, I suppose." She'd grown up in the Monastery where it was safe, and no one ever required it. “I told you I grew up here. I've never had the need to heal anyone. I've studied white magic and healing magic but... studying and actually practicing it are two very different things. I'm afraid all I did was learn about it, but I've never really applied it to anything. Never had a reason to," until she had friends. She smiled softly at that thought. They were her precious friends, and she wanted to do whatever she could to help them.
“It's why I appreciate you and Lyanna taking the time out of your busy schedules to help me with it. It means a great deal to someone like me," she stated, smiling brightly. It really did. It meant she would be able to use it if she ever needed to, but she needed to practice, first.
“Someone like you?" he echoed curiously. “A bit of an odd thing to say." With the hand not holding his chin, he set the canteen down in front of her. “I only brought one, but it's tea. Feel free to have some."
“Of course," she stated, glancing at the canteen. “To someone like you, or even Sorcha and Mercer, I'm just..." she pursed her lips together, unsure of the word she wanted to use. She was, technically, just a commoner. She wasn't as special as the three heirs. Not that she minded, though. She rather liked her simple life. “I'm just a simple person compared to you, Sorcha, and Mercer. I don't have the weight of an entire nation on my shoulders, but to someone like me who can have someone like you, spare their time for... it means a great deal to me."
“I mean, like I've said, I'm sure there are more important things you have to tend to than spend your time with me, but..." she giggled lightly, unsure why she did, “I'd like to think that's being a little selfish of me, but I'm glad. I... don't want things often for myself, but this, what we do, I actually value it. Our time together has been fun and I don't... I don't want that to change." She smiled at him as she took the canteen and drank from it.
He gave her a strange look, then, eyes narrowed almost suspiciously, before all at once he sighed and relented, expression softening to something almost... bemused? “On the contrary," he said, tapping a light rhythm on the wood of the table with his empty hand. “I think that simplicity of yours is exactly why you're worth spending time on."
Before she could respond, he shook his head. “You know... I won't pretend I've had it as hard as some people. I've never been at risk of dying from starvation, or had to worry too much personally about whether there's a drought or it's a good or bad year for trade. But one of the challenges of being someone like me is that people almost never show me their true face. They always want something, and usually they hide what they want until they think they can get it, because I like them enough or because they have the right leverage over me. It's exhausting." He said it flatly, dully, expelling a soft breath from his nose.
“To be quite honest, when we met I thought you would be much the same. But I could never figure out what you wanted from me. When you finally did ask for something, it was for book recommendations about plants." He snorted softly. “I thought you were strange. Still do. But to someone like me... well, your lack of ulterior motives means a great deal. So I could hardly see you as a waste of time, now could I?"
Amalthea felt her eyes widen slightly. She never thought about it that way. She pursed her lips and let her gaze fall to the table. She didn't know why, but she felt... sad? Not for herself, but for him. It was a strange feeling, really. Now she felt slightly bad about having a crush on him and not telling him. She opened her mouth, but found herself saying no words. She sighed softly, willing her heart beat to calm. Funny, when had it become so erratic? Shaking her head, mostly at herself, she smiled at him.
“Well... would it be too late to ask for something else?" she stated, glancing at him with hopeful eyes. “Would it be too much to ask for you to be my friend? And... to stay my friend? I don't have many of those, but I feel like I do... with all of you and especially you, because," she paused to take a deep breath, “well I rather like you, Vi. You're a good person. And no one can say otherwise because I have proof!" She was referring, of course, to the pastries that were left, and Amyr. She would keep her crush to herself for just a little longer.
He gave her an odd little sideward smile at that. “Aha," he said, eyes narrowed this time in something like amusement, it seemed. “So you did want something after all." He paused, as if considering her, or the offer, and then shrugged.
“Then again... I suppose I like you enough to grant the request. Friends it is."
“I promise I want nothing else!" she stated, smiling and almost standing with the force of her statement. She was rather content to leave it at that. Friends. For now.
Stables - Early Afternoon - Clear
Mercer von Riegan
Mercer had to admit, it was rather lovely outside. The air was crisp, there was a light breeze passing through, and Sir Ladon nipped at his hair every once in a while. It was nice. Perfect weather for a race. He had asked Sorcha to join him at the stables, but he didn't tell her why. She needed to get outside, to enjoy the weather like he was, and to have a bit of fun. Being cooped up in the infirmary did not treat her well, and he knew her thoughts well. He didn't want her to think like that, but there wasn't much he could do to change her mind. He could at least try and make things lighter for her. She was his friend, and he needed to see her smiling again.
He blinked at the thought. Needed. He needed to see her smile. He rolled his eyes to himself, earning a light huff from Sir. “What? You reading my thoughts now, Sir?" he stated, scratching the wyvern's snout. Sir merely made a rumbling sound in the back of his throat, causing Mercer to shake his head. “Yeah, yeah, you want fish. You can't have your fish until after we're done. And if we do well, I'll bring you two buckets," he stated, holding up two fingers in the process. Sir seemed to like the idea, and stretched out his wings, causing Mercer to laugh.
“All we have to do is wait for Sor to arrive, and then we can begin, alright? It won't take long, I promise," he continued, pushing on Sir's snout.
It did not, in fact, take long at all for Sorcha to arrive. She seemed to be habitually punctual, neither extremely early nor even slightly late to anything, as far as he could tell. She'd dressed for a ride, though whether this was because she'd anticipated his reason for asking her here or simply because she'd intended to visit Lady afterwards was unclear. She also appeared to be, of all things, in fact carrying a fish in one hand.
Approaching Sir's stall door, she gave it a deft toss to the wyvern, wearing a small, uncertain smile. Certainly not a robust one, not a real one. Her eyes moved to Mercer then, and it wavered a little before falling away entirely. “You wanted to see me?" she asked, sounding a bit like she didn't quite believe her own words.
She looked... not unwell, precisely, but worn-down somehow. There were violet-ish half-moons beneath her eyes, and her skin had paled, washing out even the light freckles dusting it. Even the color of her eyes seemed a bit dimmer than it had been a month ago, but at last she wasn't carrying herself as though her wound was bothering her anymore. She'd been cleared to returned to class and activities about a week ago, and had by all accounts thrown herself back into both right away and without hesitation.
“Yep," he replied casually. He hated that she did that to herself, but that was the reason for what he was doing. He couldn't let her see that the way she was affected him. If he did, she would probably blame herself for making him feel bad, or something of that nature. And so he smiled, genuinely at her. “I thought you could use a nice day for some fresh air," he stated, his eyes going towards Sir who happily snatched the fish she'd tossed. He was never not going to get a fish whenever Sorcha was around, was he? Not even when Mercer said no. He huffed lightly, and shook his head.
“What say you? Care for a ride?" he asked, allowing his smile to turn into a light grin.
It seemed to take a moment for the question to sink in with her. “I—what?" she asked, blinking before shaking her head slightly. “You want to just... go flying? With—with me?" Her expression was skeptical, almost as though she were expecting a trick of some kind. “Or wait, no, sorry I'm an idiot. Of course you're asking to train, why wouldn't you be? Erm—yes. Sure. I'll go... get Lady ready."
She seemed more than a little flustered, abruptly turning on her heel and heading for the tack room, muttering something under her breath at herself, it seemed.
Mercer sighed a bit heavier than he meant to, and shook his head. “Come on, Sir, let's get you ready," he stated, motioning for the wyvern to follow him. Once he had Sir saddled, he waited for Sorcha to arrive, outside of the stables. When she arrived, he glanced in her direction, and grinned. “And no, we are not training. I, of course, want to go flying with you," he stated, pausing intentionally to let the words sink in properly. He knew she had liked him, probably still did from the way she reacted to everything, but he needed to be careful with this.
She didn't seem to know how to react to that; though her lips parted as if to speak, she closed them again a moment later, still wordless.
“I actually asked you to join me for a flight, however; given how beautiful it is outside, I thought we might have a little race. You know, just to see how fast Lady and Sir can really go. Plus... I thought it might be fun," he stated, shrugging his shoulders in a nonchalant fashion.
“I—" Sorcha looked down at the toes of her long boots, absently patting Lady's neck with the hand that wasn't holding her reins. She'd properly saddled her this time, probably to avoid any near-falls like last time. The tips of her ears warmed to a pinkish color, but it did little to put any life back in her face otherwise. “Okay," she said softly. She managed a tiny smile, but then turned away to swing astride Lady.
If nothing else, she seemed to be quite back to form, lacking in none of her customary grace, which suggested her wounds were indeed fully healed. The pegasus nickered as Sorcha settled in her saddle, tapping her flanks gently. It was enough to spur her forward, and then with a leap and a mighty downward stroke of the creature's black-feathered wings, she was airborne.
Mercer frowned slightly before he mounted Sir. Before he went airborne, he tapped Sir's neck. “Alright, let's make her smile, alright? No matter what, but that doesn't mean we aren't going to not try. Whether we win or lose this race, the main thing is to make sure she's smiling by the end of it, deal? If we manage that, I'll bring a third bucket of fish, maybe a fourth," he was bribing his own wyvern at the moment, but Sir merely regarded him with all too yellow eyes before he went airborne. Mercer would take that as a yes. Once he was next to Sorcha, he glanced in her direction.
“The conditions of the race are as follows. The first person to complete three laps around the entire Monastery wins. What that person wins is up to the other person. So, if I win, you get to decide what it is I win, and if you win, well... I get to decide what it is that you win, deal?" he stated glancing in her direction. It was certainly a bit different as far as stakes went.
She looked at him from the corner of her eye for a moment, considering, before she gave him a little nod. “All right; I think I can do that. Should we call this the starting line, then?"
“Sure, we'll consider this the starting line. Once we pass this line three times, we'll have a winner," he replied. He already knew what he was going to ask her for if she won. She would have to oblige regardless, however; he didn't know what she would ask for if he won. Some part of him really did want to win, and he supposed he would hold on to that feeling for now. “Okay, so I'm going to count down to one. Once I reach one, we'll begin," he stated holding up three fingers in the process.
“One..." he pulled one finger down.
“Two..."
“THREE!" he shouted, spurring Sir forward.
“That's the wrong way around!"
Lady surged forth at the same time, Sorcha bent low over her back, face set with determination.
It was a close race from the get-go—while Sir was probably faster in a straight line, Lady seemed to have the edge in maneuverability, and Sorcha was clever in how she steered her, almost mathematical in her calculation of turns and angles. The wind rushed past their ears, drowning out nearly all sound but the wingbeats of their steeds and the sounds of their own hearts in their ears. The air passed by so quickly it almost seemed to sting.
If anything, though, Sorcha was in her element, even as the dragging air tugged at her hair and clothes, the was focused ahead, intent on the race and every new maneuver. It was enough to put her just barely ahead as they crossed the line for the third time, and she pulled up Lady slowly afterwards, letting her take a lap slowly so as to cool her down after all the exertion.
“I guess this one's mine," she said, a soft note of pride in her voice, though it was far from obnoxious. She turned her head to regard him, tilting it to the side. “I guess that means you decide what I win? Or am I giving you something? I wasn't exactly clear on what you were deciding now."
He hummed and nodded his head. “That's right; I get to decide what it is you win," he stated, motioning for them to land. Once they dismounted, Mercer held onto Sir's reigns and regarded Sorcha for a moment. Tilting his head slightly, he smiled at her. “You get your own personal attendant dedicated to making you smile, again. And I don't mean this... whatever smile you've been wearing, lately. I mean your actual smile. It's a very beautiful thing to not have, you know," he stated, bowing in her direction. “And I mean, me, of course. I don't think Sir could be much help, but I'm sure he'd try" he added, glancing up from his position with a grin. Sir snorted in his direction, and pushed him with his snout, almost knocking Mercer off his balance.
Sorcha looked entirely bewildered by the declaration. “What?" The word came out flatter than she probably meant it to, almost more of a statement than a question. “I don't—I mean, I'm not—" Her face was turning pink, though something about the rest of her expression seemed... different from the face she usually made when he flustered her. It was more... vulnerable, was the word. As though he'd slipped past some defense she had in a way she hadn't expected. Perhaps she'd thought the smile seemed genuine. Perhaps she'd thought it was genuine.
“Mercer, you can't do that, it's ridiculous." Her fingers curled into Lady's reins. “What's more, you don't have to. I'll be fine, eventually, and you don't—" she pursed her lips, shaking her head and glancing away. “You don't... owe me anything. For what happened. It's not your fault, and I don't blame you for anything. The fault was mine so..." She trailed off, swallowing and still resolutely not looking at him.
Mercer sighed heavily, rolling his shoulders out before Sir laid his head on them. “It was no one's fault, Sorcha. Shit just happens sometimes; the only thing you can do is learn from it and just try to be better. Trust me, I blamed myself for a long time before realizing that... it's just something you can't control," he stated, moving Sir's head so that he could step closer to Sorcha. Gently, he lifted her chin so that she could look him in the eyes. What he wanted to say was important, and he wanted her to know how important.
“You have a good heart, Sorcha. What happened to you was no more your fault than it was mine. The blame lies on the man you spared, not you. Even if you want to blame yourself for not killing him, don't. A heart like yours, one that wants to show mercy, is very rare in this world. I... cannot afford to have a heart like that, but maybe," he paused, keeping eye contact with her before he continued, “maybe you can keep doing what I can't. And of course I can do that. Just... let me be a source of your happiness. It's what friends do, right?"
He rather liked Sorcha, his friend.
It seemed that in that moment, Sorcha lost some kind of internal battle. Or at least, one he could easily imagine she'd been waging, if her words the other day were any indication. Tears welled in Sorcha's bright blue eyes, changing the color somehow and giving them a swimmy, hazy quality they usually lacked. She fought them, blinking as if to clear them away, but then a sob tore free of her throat and all at once they fell, streaking down her cheeks.
“I'm sorry," she said miserably, letting go of Lady's reins and swiping ineffectually at the tears. “I just—I don't even know why I'm—I shouldn't be—" she hiccuped, shaking her head and sniffling.
Mercer smiled at Sorcha and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her in for a hug. “Hey, it's alright, Sor," he whispered softly. “You go ahead and cry until you don't feel like it anymore. I'll just be right here until you do," he continued, taking in a soft breath. “Like I said, I'm your friend and I'm here for you. Whatever you need, just tell me and I will do what I can until you smile again, alright?" He really did want to see her smile.
At first she only sobbed again, unmoving in his hold. Her shoulders shook beneath his arms; it seemed she was still trying to stem the tide of the tears. “Why—" she took a shuddering breath in, resting her brow against his chest and murmuring into his shirt, arms limp at her sides. “Why are you so nice to me?" she asked, the question almost pleading. “I'm not—" Her hands clenched into fists; raising one of them, she struck him with the side of it, right next to where her head rested. It didn't hurt, and clearly wasn't meant to.
“Why would you promise th-things like that? I can't—" she hiccuped again. “Dry all my tears and make me smile?" A sniffle, and then another slow, soft blow. “P—presumptuous bastard. Don't you know I'm not—" She shuddered, this time when her fist landed she opened her fingers, sliding them down to bunch in his shirt near the waist.
“I'm not worth it. Everyone knows so."
For a moment, he wondered if this was some recurring theme in Faerghus. Senka seemed to have almost the same issues as Sorcha did, but they were still very different. Taking a deep breath, he stroked her hair in a soothing manner. “Why would you think you're not worth it, Sor? You're a good person, of course you deserve it. And that's not true," he pursed his lips together. He wondered who had told her she wasn't worth kindness. He wanted to find that person and put an arrow through their heart. It was already dead to begin with if they had told someone like Sorcha that she wasn't.
“You're very much worth being nice to. You've a gentle heart, you're brave, strong, resilient, and so very dedicated. And if that makes you feel better by calling me a presumptuous bastard, then maybe I am. But I know a lot of people who think that you're worth being nice to because you're a good person, Sor. If you don't believe me, ask anyone of our friends. Hell, ask Teach, you know he's incapable of lying," he wasn't actually sure about that. Teach wouldn't lie to Sorcha, though.
“You should stop thinking yourself undeserving of things, and maybe think that you are. It's hard, I know, but like I said, I'll be here every step of the way if you want me to. Until you can believe in the things we say about you, and find your own sense of self-worth, I'll be here. I promise," he didn't usually promise things he couldn't keep, but this... this was something he knew he could.
Sorcha's other arm curled around his back, though she shook her head a little against him, too, as if to deny what he was saying. Still she didn't move away, didn't give voice to the denial, merely clung to him like he was an anchor in a storm and she very much in danger of being swept away.
Eventually, probably before she was really ready, the crying ceased, but she remained there just a heartbeat longer, fingers tightening where she gripped him. She took a deep breath, swallowed thickly, and then stepped back.
Her face was streaked with tears, eyes red-rimmed and still too bright when she looked up at him. “It is hard," she murmured softly. “Knowing that I'm not what Faerghus needs me to be. That I'm always going to—to fall short, somehow. I want—" She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “I keep trying to be better but no matter what I do, they—"
She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I'm sure it's... you must have problems too, right? I don't know much about how things work in the Alliance, but I know it's cutthroat." One of her hands still held the hem of his shirt; she dropped her eyes to it, smoothing her thumb over the line of stitching there. “Have you ever felt like... like you don't belong? Like it would be better if someone else was heir, instead of you?"
Ah, so that was where some of it stemmed from. He rubbed the back of his neck, and smiled wryly at her. “No, not really," he answered truthfully. “I'm not going to lie; the Alliance is like you said. It's cutthroat and you only survive if you're strong enough, but I want to change that. I want to make it so that you don't have to be just strong, that you can be just and kind, and... everything that you are, actually," he admitted, glancing at her.
“Whether they think I'm fit or not, all that matters is that I believe that I am. They might not want me as their next leader, and they might keep sending their... blades, but I'm not going to lie down and die like some dog. I'm going to show them, prove them wrong and make them believe that I am what they need. It doesn't matter if they don't want you because you are all they have. They need you, and in time, you'll prove it to them."
“You really don't give yourself enough credit, Sor. A heart like yours... you could change the entire world if only you believed in yourself more. Try soaking up the good words everytime they're given to you, and drown out what people say. Let them think ill of you, but... keep your head up. Show them you're not afraid to be who you are. It's... something I actually admire about you," he gave a soft smile this time.
“You... blades?" Perhaps understandably, that part seemed to stick with her; her eyes went wide. “You mean they've tried to kill you, too?" Despite her expression, she didn't sound surprised, exactly. Or at least not surprised that it could happen. Her brow creased with worry; she looked him up and down almost as though she expected to find some evidence of a recent attack. “So that's why..."
Her lips pursed, and then dropped into a frown. “You—you have a good heart, too, you know. You wouldn't be standing here trying to cheer me up right now if you didn't." She finally met his eyes of her own volition, then. “I'll... I'll accept your promises, Mercer, but on one condition: you have to let me make you one, too. If... if you ever need anything I can do, you have to ask me. If we're going to be friends, we both—we both have to lean on each other, right? That means I help you, too."
“What kind of friend would I be if I didn't let you?" he stated, giving her a lopsided grin. “Deal. You lean on me, and I'll lean on you, alright? But do me a favor," he paused, leaning in closer to her. He was smiling this time, his eyes narrowing with the force of it. “I want you to mimic what I'm doing right now. I want you to smile for me. That's how we seal the deal, alright? And I want it to be genuine."
“You can't just make people smile for real," she replied, whacking him gently over the sternum. “That's not how that works at all."
Nevertheless, there was one, just a little one, that turned the corners of her mouth up just enough to qualify. More importantly even than that perhaps, it was the first one he'd seen in almost a month that reached her eyes.
“Hey Mercer? Thanks."
“You're welcome, Princess."
He blinked at the thought. Needed. He needed to see her smile. He rolled his eyes to himself, earning a light huff from Sir. “What? You reading my thoughts now, Sir?" he stated, scratching the wyvern's snout. Sir merely made a rumbling sound in the back of his throat, causing Mercer to shake his head. “Yeah, yeah, you want fish. You can't have your fish until after we're done. And if we do well, I'll bring you two buckets," he stated, holding up two fingers in the process. Sir seemed to like the idea, and stretched out his wings, causing Mercer to laugh.
“All we have to do is wait for Sor to arrive, and then we can begin, alright? It won't take long, I promise," he continued, pushing on Sir's snout.
It did not, in fact, take long at all for Sorcha to arrive. She seemed to be habitually punctual, neither extremely early nor even slightly late to anything, as far as he could tell. She'd dressed for a ride, though whether this was because she'd anticipated his reason for asking her here or simply because she'd intended to visit Lady afterwards was unclear. She also appeared to be, of all things, in fact carrying a fish in one hand.
Approaching Sir's stall door, she gave it a deft toss to the wyvern, wearing a small, uncertain smile. Certainly not a robust one, not a real one. Her eyes moved to Mercer then, and it wavered a little before falling away entirely. “You wanted to see me?" she asked, sounding a bit like she didn't quite believe her own words.
She looked... not unwell, precisely, but worn-down somehow. There were violet-ish half-moons beneath her eyes, and her skin had paled, washing out even the light freckles dusting it. Even the color of her eyes seemed a bit dimmer than it had been a month ago, but at last she wasn't carrying herself as though her wound was bothering her anymore. She'd been cleared to returned to class and activities about a week ago, and had by all accounts thrown herself back into both right away and without hesitation.
“Yep," he replied casually. He hated that she did that to herself, but that was the reason for what he was doing. He couldn't let her see that the way she was affected him. If he did, she would probably blame herself for making him feel bad, or something of that nature. And so he smiled, genuinely at her. “I thought you could use a nice day for some fresh air," he stated, his eyes going towards Sir who happily snatched the fish she'd tossed. He was never not going to get a fish whenever Sorcha was around, was he? Not even when Mercer said no. He huffed lightly, and shook his head.
“What say you? Care for a ride?" he asked, allowing his smile to turn into a light grin.
It seemed to take a moment for the question to sink in with her. “I—what?" she asked, blinking before shaking her head slightly. “You want to just... go flying? With—with me?" Her expression was skeptical, almost as though she were expecting a trick of some kind. “Or wait, no, sorry I'm an idiot. Of course you're asking to train, why wouldn't you be? Erm—yes. Sure. I'll go... get Lady ready."
She seemed more than a little flustered, abruptly turning on her heel and heading for the tack room, muttering something under her breath at herself, it seemed.
Mercer sighed a bit heavier than he meant to, and shook his head. “Come on, Sir, let's get you ready," he stated, motioning for the wyvern to follow him. Once he had Sir saddled, he waited for Sorcha to arrive, outside of the stables. When she arrived, he glanced in her direction, and grinned. “And no, we are not training. I, of course, want to go flying with you," he stated, pausing intentionally to let the words sink in properly. He knew she had liked him, probably still did from the way she reacted to everything, but he needed to be careful with this.
She didn't seem to know how to react to that; though her lips parted as if to speak, she closed them again a moment later, still wordless.
“I actually asked you to join me for a flight, however; given how beautiful it is outside, I thought we might have a little race. You know, just to see how fast Lady and Sir can really go. Plus... I thought it might be fun," he stated, shrugging his shoulders in a nonchalant fashion.
“I—" Sorcha looked down at the toes of her long boots, absently patting Lady's neck with the hand that wasn't holding her reins. She'd properly saddled her this time, probably to avoid any near-falls like last time. The tips of her ears warmed to a pinkish color, but it did little to put any life back in her face otherwise. “Okay," she said softly. She managed a tiny smile, but then turned away to swing astride Lady.
If nothing else, she seemed to be quite back to form, lacking in none of her customary grace, which suggested her wounds were indeed fully healed. The pegasus nickered as Sorcha settled in her saddle, tapping her flanks gently. It was enough to spur her forward, and then with a leap and a mighty downward stroke of the creature's black-feathered wings, she was airborne.
Mercer frowned slightly before he mounted Sir. Before he went airborne, he tapped Sir's neck. “Alright, let's make her smile, alright? No matter what, but that doesn't mean we aren't going to not try. Whether we win or lose this race, the main thing is to make sure she's smiling by the end of it, deal? If we manage that, I'll bring a third bucket of fish, maybe a fourth," he was bribing his own wyvern at the moment, but Sir merely regarded him with all too yellow eyes before he went airborne. Mercer would take that as a yes. Once he was next to Sorcha, he glanced in her direction.
“The conditions of the race are as follows. The first person to complete three laps around the entire Monastery wins. What that person wins is up to the other person. So, if I win, you get to decide what it is I win, and if you win, well... I get to decide what it is that you win, deal?" he stated glancing in her direction. It was certainly a bit different as far as stakes went.
She looked at him from the corner of her eye for a moment, considering, before she gave him a little nod. “All right; I think I can do that. Should we call this the starting line, then?"
“Sure, we'll consider this the starting line. Once we pass this line three times, we'll have a winner," he replied. He already knew what he was going to ask her for if she won. She would have to oblige regardless, however; he didn't know what she would ask for if he won. Some part of him really did want to win, and he supposed he would hold on to that feeling for now. “Okay, so I'm going to count down to one. Once I reach one, we'll begin," he stated holding up three fingers in the process.
“One..." he pulled one finger down.
“Two..."
“THREE!" he shouted, spurring Sir forward.
“That's the wrong way around!"
Lady surged forth at the same time, Sorcha bent low over her back, face set with determination.
It was a close race from the get-go—while Sir was probably faster in a straight line, Lady seemed to have the edge in maneuverability, and Sorcha was clever in how she steered her, almost mathematical in her calculation of turns and angles. The wind rushed past their ears, drowning out nearly all sound but the wingbeats of their steeds and the sounds of their own hearts in their ears. The air passed by so quickly it almost seemed to sting.
If anything, though, Sorcha was in her element, even as the dragging air tugged at her hair and clothes, the was focused ahead, intent on the race and every new maneuver. It was enough to put her just barely ahead as they crossed the line for the third time, and she pulled up Lady slowly afterwards, letting her take a lap slowly so as to cool her down after all the exertion.
“I guess this one's mine," she said, a soft note of pride in her voice, though it was far from obnoxious. She turned her head to regard him, tilting it to the side. “I guess that means you decide what I win? Or am I giving you something? I wasn't exactly clear on what you were deciding now."
He hummed and nodded his head. “That's right; I get to decide what it is you win," he stated, motioning for them to land. Once they dismounted, Mercer held onto Sir's reigns and regarded Sorcha for a moment. Tilting his head slightly, he smiled at her. “You get your own personal attendant dedicated to making you smile, again. And I don't mean this... whatever smile you've been wearing, lately. I mean your actual smile. It's a very beautiful thing to not have, you know," he stated, bowing in her direction. “And I mean, me, of course. I don't think Sir could be much help, but I'm sure he'd try" he added, glancing up from his position with a grin. Sir snorted in his direction, and pushed him with his snout, almost knocking Mercer off his balance.
Sorcha looked entirely bewildered by the declaration. “What?" The word came out flatter than she probably meant it to, almost more of a statement than a question. “I don't—I mean, I'm not—" Her face was turning pink, though something about the rest of her expression seemed... different from the face she usually made when he flustered her. It was more... vulnerable, was the word. As though he'd slipped past some defense she had in a way she hadn't expected. Perhaps she'd thought the smile seemed genuine. Perhaps she'd thought it was genuine.
“Mercer, you can't do that, it's ridiculous." Her fingers curled into Lady's reins. “What's more, you don't have to. I'll be fine, eventually, and you don't—" she pursed her lips, shaking her head and glancing away. “You don't... owe me anything. For what happened. It's not your fault, and I don't blame you for anything. The fault was mine so..." She trailed off, swallowing and still resolutely not looking at him.
Mercer sighed heavily, rolling his shoulders out before Sir laid his head on them. “It was no one's fault, Sorcha. Shit just happens sometimes; the only thing you can do is learn from it and just try to be better. Trust me, I blamed myself for a long time before realizing that... it's just something you can't control," he stated, moving Sir's head so that he could step closer to Sorcha. Gently, he lifted her chin so that she could look him in the eyes. What he wanted to say was important, and he wanted her to know how important.
“You have a good heart, Sorcha. What happened to you was no more your fault than it was mine. The blame lies on the man you spared, not you. Even if you want to blame yourself for not killing him, don't. A heart like yours, one that wants to show mercy, is very rare in this world. I... cannot afford to have a heart like that, but maybe," he paused, keeping eye contact with her before he continued, “maybe you can keep doing what I can't. And of course I can do that. Just... let me be a source of your happiness. It's what friends do, right?"
He rather liked Sorcha, his friend.
It seemed that in that moment, Sorcha lost some kind of internal battle. Or at least, one he could easily imagine she'd been waging, if her words the other day were any indication. Tears welled in Sorcha's bright blue eyes, changing the color somehow and giving them a swimmy, hazy quality they usually lacked. She fought them, blinking as if to clear them away, but then a sob tore free of her throat and all at once they fell, streaking down her cheeks.
“I'm sorry," she said miserably, letting go of Lady's reins and swiping ineffectually at the tears. “I just—I don't even know why I'm—I shouldn't be—" she hiccuped, shaking her head and sniffling.
Mercer smiled at Sorcha and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her in for a hug. “Hey, it's alright, Sor," he whispered softly. “You go ahead and cry until you don't feel like it anymore. I'll just be right here until you do," he continued, taking in a soft breath. “Like I said, I'm your friend and I'm here for you. Whatever you need, just tell me and I will do what I can until you smile again, alright?" He really did want to see her smile.
At first she only sobbed again, unmoving in his hold. Her shoulders shook beneath his arms; it seemed she was still trying to stem the tide of the tears. “Why—" she took a shuddering breath in, resting her brow against his chest and murmuring into his shirt, arms limp at her sides. “Why are you so nice to me?" she asked, the question almost pleading. “I'm not—" Her hands clenched into fists; raising one of them, she struck him with the side of it, right next to where her head rested. It didn't hurt, and clearly wasn't meant to.
“Why would you promise th-things like that? I can't—" she hiccuped again. “Dry all my tears and make me smile?" A sniffle, and then another slow, soft blow. “P—presumptuous bastard. Don't you know I'm not—" She shuddered, this time when her fist landed she opened her fingers, sliding them down to bunch in his shirt near the waist.
“I'm not worth it. Everyone knows so."
For a moment, he wondered if this was some recurring theme in Faerghus. Senka seemed to have almost the same issues as Sorcha did, but they were still very different. Taking a deep breath, he stroked her hair in a soothing manner. “Why would you think you're not worth it, Sor? You're a good person, of course you deserve it. And that's not true," he pursed his lips together. He wondered who had told her she wasn't worth kindness. He wanted to find that person and put an arrow through their heart. It was already dead to begin with if they had told someone like Sorcha that she wasn't.
“You're very much worth being nice to. You've a gentle heart, you're brave, strong, resilient, and so very dedicated. And if that makes you feel better by calling me a presumptuous bastard, then maybe I am. But I know a lot of people who think that you're worth being nice to because you're a good person, Sor. If you don't believe me, ask anyone of our friends. Hell, ask Teach, you know he's incapable of lying," he wasn't actually sure about that. Teach wouldn't lie to Sorcha, though.
“You should stop thinking yourself undeserving of things, and maybe think that you are. It's hard, I know, but like I said, I'll be here every step of the way if you want me to. Until you can believe in the things we say about you, and find your own sense of self-worth, I'll be here. I promise," he didn't usually promise things he couldn't keep, but this... this was something he knew he could.
Sorcha's other arm curled around his back, though she shook her head a little against him, too, as if to deny what he was saying. Still she didn't move away, didn't give voice to the denial, merely clung to him like he was an anchor in a storm and she very much in danger of being swept away.
Eventually, probably before she was really ready, the crying ceased, but she remained there just a heartbeat longer, fingers tightening where she gripped him. She took a deep breath, swallowed thickly, and then stepped back.
Her face was streaked with tears, eyes red-rimmed and still too bright when she looked up at him. “It is hard," she murmured softly. “Knowing that I'm not what Faerghus needs me to be. That I'm always going to—to fall short, somehow. I want—" She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “I keep trying to be better but no matter what I do, they—"
She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I'm sure it's... you must have problems too, right? I don't know much about how things work in the Alliance, but I know it's cutthroat." One of her hands still held the hem of his shirt; she dropped her eyes to it, smoothing her thumb over the line of stitching there. “Have you ever felt like... like you don't belong? Like it would be better if someone else was heir, instead of you?"
Ah, so that was where some of it stemmed from. He rubbed the back of his neck, and smiled wryly at her. “No, not really," he answered truthfully. “I'm not going to lie; the Alliance is like you said. It's cutthroat and you only survive if you're strong enough, but I want to change that. I want to make it so that you don't have to be just strong, that you can be just and kind, and... everything that you are, actually," he admitted, glancing at her.
“Whether they think I'm fit or not, all that matters is that I believe that I am. They might not want me as their next leader, and they might keep sending their... blades, but I'm not going to lie down and die like some dog. I'm going to show them, prove them wrong and make them believe that I am what they need. It doesn't matter if they don't want you because you are all they have. They need you, and in time, you'll prove it to them."
“You really don't give yourself enough credit, Sor. A heart like yours... you could change the entire world if only you believed in yourself more. Try soaking up the good words everytime they're given to you, and drown out what people say. Let them think ill of you, but... keep your head up. Show them you're not afraid to be who you are. It's... something I actually admire about you," he gave a soft smile this time.
“You... blades?" Perhaps understandably, that part seemed to stick with her; her eyes went wide. “You mean they've tried to kill you, too?" Despite her expression, she didn't sound surprised, exactly. Or at least not surprised that it could happen. Her brow creased with worry; she looked him up and down almost as though she expected to find some evidence of a recent attack. “So that's why..."
Her lips pursed, and then dropped into a frown. “You—you have a good heart, too, you know. You wouldn't be standing here trying to cheer me up right now if you didn't." She finally met his eyes of her own volition, then. “I'll... I'll accept your promises, Mercer, but on one condition: you have to let me make you one, too. If... if you ever need anything I can do, you have to ask me. If we're going to be friends, we both—we both have to lean on each other, right? That means I help you, too."
“What kind of friend would I be if I didn't let you?" he stated, giving her a lopsided grin. “Deal. You lean on me, and I'll lean on you, alright? But do me a favor," he paused, leaning in closer to her. He was smiling this time, his eyes narrowing with the force of it. “I want you to mimic what I'm doing right now. I want you to smile for me. That's how we seal the deal, alright? And I want it to be genuine."
“You can't just make people smile for real," she replied, whacking him gently over the sternum. “That's not how that works at all."
Nevertheless, there was one, just a little one, that turned the corners of her mouth up just enough to qualify. More importantly even than that perhaps, it was the first one he'd seen in almost a month that reached her eyes.
“Hey Mercer? Thanks."
“You're welcome, Princess."
Rhea's Office - Midafternoon - Clear
Cyril Eisner
He supposed that a personal summons from the Archbishop wasn't something a person could really refuse. When Lyanna had delivered it to him, she'd looked mildly concerned, in that odd way she had that convinced him not everything was as harmonious between herself and Rhea as most people assumed. Either way the summons was for the middle of the afternoon, right around teatime for those who got to it a touch later than average. The monastery seemed to run on a stretched daily schedule, starting earlier and finishing later than most every ordinary enterprise did. He was more or less used to it; since mercenary life was hardly regular in the first place, he'd always found he could adjust easily to most any routine.
On the grounds that it probably wasn't meet to show up at the Archbishop's office wearing the same gear he used to train his students, Cyril had washed down and donned a black tunic with his father's sigil at the neck in white, sleeves rolled to his elbows in deference to the weather, and a sturdy pair of trousers tucked into his boots. He carried no weapons; they were rather wholly unnecessary to him to begin with, and he didn't have much desire for the Archbishop to think of him as someone who'd come to meet her armed, even if he in fact rather was.
There was much to dislike about Rhea, even as little as he knew of her overall. Perhaps he had only seen the stern face she must put on in front of those she led—he knew well that some people's public and private faces were much different. But still, anyone who thought of killing militia, real people, as first and foremost a lesson for his students about defying the Church needed, at the very least, an adjustment of priorities and a better idea of just what it had done to them. Sorcha was only barely beginning to look and act like herself again, Senka still didn't trust herself, Mercer and Vridel were beginning down a winding and ruthless, bitter road. To say nothing of Amalthea, or the others, or how personally torn Devon had been by what they'd been commanded to do.
It was with no small amount of discomfort, then, that he reached the Archbishop's office door. Fortunately, he had a very good expressionless face, one he easily employed now, knocking thrice on the wood panel before stepping back.
The door opened almost immediately after he knocked, as if she were anticipating he would arrive exactly when he did. She smiled at him, the same smile she usually donned, and ushered him in. “Welcome, Professor," she greeted, waiting for him to step inside. Once he did, she moved so that she stood in the middle, and regarded him with an even gaze. “This is the first time I have welcomed you here, is it not?" She laughed lightly as she shook her head, though.
The sound was rather strange, almost affectionate in some way. “There is no need to be nervous, though. Please, come closer." she stated, holding her hand out for a moment before she brought it back to her and folded it by her stomach. “When you speak with me in this room, you are not speaking with the archbishop, but simply me: Rhea."
He supposed that answered his question, in a way. He certainly knew now that she perceived herself as having two distinct sides, at least.
In spite of the words, he wasn't really any less wary, though he made a conscious effort to visibly relax. “I see," he said quietly, casting his eyes over the office. It was decorated with items of furniture that were clearly expensive, but like much of the monastery it had a certain... spareness to it as well. He wondered if this had something to do with her particular aesthetic sense.
He took an obliging step closer, tilting his head slightly. He didn't have to look as far down as he did with most people to meet her eyes, but he was still considerably taller than her. There was a power to her, though, a subtle thing that he could only place because, he thought, of experience with people who were stronger than they might first appear.
There is something about this woman, the girl said from her spot in the back of his mind. But I cannot be sure what.
Her smile widened if slightly when he stepped closer. “Such a sweet child," she spoke, tilting her head light as if to regard him. “Oh," she spoke suddenly, inclining her head towards Cyril. “My apologies, I should not be treating you like a child," she stated, her eyes narrowing in mirth, it seemed. “As Jeralt's kin, somehow you don't seem at all a stranger to me..." she paused to glance at him. There was something in the way she looked at him, like she was searching for something that wasn't quite there.
She didn't seem to find it, though, as a flash of disappointment crossed her face. “Speaking of Jeralt," she stated, tilting her head in an inquisitive manner, “may I ask if he ever spoke of me to you?" She seemed to be expecting a postive answer of some sort.
Expectation aside, Cyril had only the truth to give. He had no idea what she was looking for that she didn't see, but he wasn't entirely unused to being on the other end of that. His father had used to look at him similarly, as had many of the people he'd met, actually. He never seemed to quite be what anyone wanted, but it was something he'd grown accustomed to.
“He almost never spoke of the past," he said, lifting his shoulders briefly. “And never of this place, or anyone in it." His father had told him to be cautious about what he revealed, but he thought there wasn't really any good way to avoid this particular truth. He somehow doubted she didn't already guess.
“Oh dear," she stated, folding her hand beneath her head, but leaving it just far enough so that her head wasn't resting on it. “How heartless of him," she continued, her lips pursing into a fine line. She seemed upset by the declaration, as if she'd expected his father to have mentioned her at some point. “I suppose it cannot be helped, however; let us endeavor to become closer from here on out," she stated, dropping her hands to her sides and smiling at him.
“Since you are here, shall I tell you about the Jeralt that I knew?" she stated, a strange lilt to her voice. “By the look of it, you haven't heard much about his time at the monastery, have you?" she questioned, though she already knew the answer to that. Cyril had told her before that he was not familiar with the Church, nor his father once being part of it.
“When I first met Jeralt, he was quite young. Why," she seemed amused by her next set of words, “he could not even grow a full beard at that point!"
He arched his brows slightly at that. It was honestly difficult to imagine his father looking any other way than he did now, because in all honesty, it was the way he'd looked as long as Cyril had been alive... or at least as long as he could remember. “That's... not the easiest thing to picture," he admitted. “He's never been without it entirely. Not that I recall, anyway."
“Hm, indeed. It's hard to imagine, now, but there was a time, long ago," she stated, smiling somewhat as she nodded her head. “On one fateful occasion, though, the band of mercenaries he belonged to fought alongside the Knights of Seiros," she began, closing her eyes as if to recall the memory. “I was traveling with the knights at the time, and Jeralt jumped in front of an attack meant for me. He was gravely wounded, on the verge of death, even," her lips pursed into a fine line as she opened her eyes to regard Cyril.
“I tended to his wounds in a desperate attempt to save his life. Thankfully," she paused to place a hand over her heart, “my efforts were not in vain. Jeralt managed to escape a seemingly certain death." Her face smoothed back over, and the same, empty smile she had before, was back. “I made arrangements for him to receive further care at Garreg Mach. The moment he was deemed fully recovered, I invited him to join the knights."
“That sounds like something he would do," Cyril admitted, something almost wry entering his tone. He could certainly imagine a younger, more impulsive version of his father jumping in front of a blow meant for another, much as he'd—
Do you think she might know something about that? he asked the girl, suddenly uncertain. The time thing?
Maybe, the girl said softly. But do you want her to know you can do that?
The answer was immediate, and he expelled a soft breath from his nose. “I suppose I owe you my thanks, then," he said to Rhea. “The literal truth aside, I wouldn't be who I am without my father. He means..." He wasn't sure what the right words were, really. He never had been. “He means a great deal to me."
“Every parent means the world to their child," she stated suddenly, a strange, hard look to her eyes. She shook her head, though, and her posture seemed to relax. “It is not a story I have often repeated," she spoke, shaking her head softly. “Even at the monastery, there are not many who know that." She paused, her facial features smoothing out as if to make her appear younger than she looked. “I tell you this because... to me, you are the child of the one who saved my life all those years ago. And also..." she paused again, diverting her gaze to the floor before she closed her eyes. She didn't speak for at least a few minutes before shaking her head.
“Never mind, it is nothing. I simply wanted to say that I trust you. By coming to visit with me today, you have... well..." she began, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Suffice it to say that my day is brighter than it otherwise would have been. I thank you for that," she inclined her head towards him, bowing lightly in the process.
“If there is anything you should ever need, please do not hesitate to ask."
Cyril wasn't entirely sure what to make of that. There was definitely something else she wasn't saying there, but he doubted very much he'd be able to prompt her into it, either. His shoulders relaxed a little further, though, and he sighed quietly. “Thank you," he said simply. He could not tell her he would, or even that her words were reassuring, because frankly neither of those things was especially true, and he'd always had an instinctive aversion to lying. So he settled on something that implied almost the same, but was not false.
“I'll keep that in mind, Rhea."
That seemed to make a smile cross her face, something more genuine and life-like. “You are welcome, Cyril," she responded. She seemed quite curious about something, though, and tilted her head at him. “I do have a question for you," she began, pausing only for a second before she asked him, “how are you getting along with your students? I've heard a few... interesting things." She did not seem to care to elaborate on what those things were, though.
He blinked, immediately wary of the question for a reason he couldn't explain. “They are exceptional," he replied simply. “Interesting how?"
Her eyes narrowed with her smile. “Interesting in that they all seem rather fond of you. You'll forgive my forwardness, but there have not been many instances when students are particularly fond of their professors. And to have the fondness of not only your main house, but of those in different houses as well..." she trailed off at the end, her eyes narrowing in what seemed like displeasure.
“You would do well to remember that it is not always so. These students are merely that: students. The three heirs will be leaving at the end of their year to return back to their countries as, perhaps, better rulers." She didn't seem to include Amalthea or Senka, as if she were anticipating something would keep them from leaving the monastery. Amalthea's home was the monastery, though.
So the remaining exclusion made little sense to him, except as a thing of intention. He had other students, of course, the rest of the Blue Lion House and the rest of his Saturday group. But he knew it would be fairly easy to tell that he spent the most time with those five, and so he wondered.
“I understand that they'll be leaving," he said slowly. “I don't see any reason not to want to be on good terms with them while they're here, however. It makes teaching them easier." The truth, though certainly not all of it.
If anything she looked disappointed in his response. “While it may seem that way, they will leave, and you will be left behind. If you are quite certain that is something you can handle, then by all means, continue to cultivate your bonds with your students. It will make things that much more difficult when it comes time to say goodbye." She shook her head, though, and regarded him with a flat stare.
“I believe that will be all for today, Professor. You may spend the rest of your day however you'd like. There are things I must return to," she stated, bowing softly in his direction as her way of dismissing him.
He could not help but feel that something about the words was a threat, albeit one lightly-applied. Unsure what to make of that, especially contrasted with other things she'd said, Cyril furrowed his brows, returning the bow. “Archbishop," he said simply, turning on his heel and exiting the office.
Something wasn't right about that woman, but he'd be damned if he knew what.
On the grounds that it probably wasn't meet to show up at the Archbishop's office wearing the same gear he used to train his students, Cyril had washed down and donned a black tunic with his father's sigil at the neck in white, sleeves rolled to his elbows in deference to the weather, and a sturdy pair of trousers tucked into his boots. He carried no weapons; they were rather wholly unnecessary to him to begin with, and he didn't have much desire for the Archbishop to think of him as someone who'd come to meet her armed, even if he in fact rather was.
There was much to dislike about Rhea, even as little as he knew of her overall. Perhaps he had only seen the stern face she must put on in front of those she led—he knew well that some people's public and private faces were much different. But still, anyone who thought of killing militia, real people, as first and foremost a lesson for his students about defying the Church needed, at the very least, an adjustment of priorities and a better idea of just what it had done to them. Sorcha was only barely beginning to look and act like herself again, Senka still didn't trust herself, Mercer and Vridel were beginning down a winding and ruthless, bitter road. To say nothing of Amalthea, or the others, or how personally torn Devon had been by what they'd been commanded to do.
It was with no small amount of discomfort, then, that he reached the Archbishop's office door. Fortunately, he had a very good expressionless face, one he easily employed now, knocking thrice on the wood panel before stepping back.
The door opened almost immediately after he knocked, as if she were anticipating he would arrive exactly when he did. She smiled at him, the same smile she usually donned, and ushered him in. “Welcome, Professor," she greeted, waiting for him to step inside. Once he did, she moved so that she stood in the middle, and regarded him with an even gaze. “This is the first time I have welcomed you here, is it not?" She laughed lightly as she shook her head, though.
The sound was rather strange, almost affectionate in some way. “There is no need to be nervous, though. Please, come closer." she stated, holding her hand out for a moment before she brought it back to her and folded it by her stomach. “When you speak with me in this room, you are not speaking with the archbishop, but simply me: Rhea."
He supposed that answered his question, in a way. He certainly knew now that she perceived herself as having two distinct sides, at least.
In spite of the words, he wasn't really any less wary, though he made a conscious effort to visibly relax. “I see," he said quietly, casting his eyes over the office. It was decorated with items of furniture that were clearly expensive, but like much of the monastery it had a certain... spareness to it as well. He wondered if this had something to do with her particular aesthetic sense.
He took an obliging step closer, tilting his head slightly. He didn't have to look as far down as he did with most people to meet her eyes, but he was still considerably taller than her. There was a power to her, though, a subtle thing that he could only place because, he thought, of experience with people who were stronger than they might first appear.
There is something about this woman, the girl said from her spot in the back of his mind. But I cannot be sure what.
Her smile widened if slightly when he stepped closer. “Such a sweet child," she spoke, tilting her head light as if to regard him. “Oh," she spoke suddenly, inclining her head towards Cyril. “My apologies, I should not be treating you like a child," she stated, her eyes narrowing in mirth, it seemed. “As Jeralt's kin, somehow you don't seem at all a stranger to me..." she paused to glance at him. There was something in the way she looked at him, like she was searching for something that wasn't quite there.
She didn't seem to find it, though, as a flash of disappointment crossed her face. “Speaking of Jeralt," she stated, tilting her head in an inquisitive manner, “may I ask if he ever spoke of me to you?" She seemed to be expecting a postive answer of some sort.
Expectation aside, Cyril had only the truth to give. He had no idea what she was looking for that she didn't see, but he wasn't entirely unused to being on the other end of that. His father had used to look at him similarly, as had many of the people he'd met, actually. He never seemed to quite be what anyone wanted, but it was something he'd grown accustomed to.
“He almost never spoke of the past," he said, lifting his shoulders briefly. “And never of this place, or anyone in it." His father had told him to be cautious about what he revealed, but he thought there wasn't really any good way to avoid this particular truth. He somehow doubted she didn't already guess.
“Oh dear," she stated, folding her hand beneath her head, but leaving it just far enough so that her head wasn't resting on it. “How heartless of him," she continued, her lips pursing into a fine line. She seemed upset by the declaration, as if she'd expected his father to have mentioned her at some point. “I suppose it cannot be helped, however; let us endeavor to become closer from here on out," she stated, dropping her hands to her sides and smiling at him.
“Since you are here, shall I tell you about the Jeralt that I knew?" she stated, a strange lilt to her voice. “By the look of it, you haven't heard much about his time at the monastery, have you?" she questioned, though she already knew the answer to that. Cyril had told her before that he was not familiar with the Church, nor his father once being part of it.
“When I first met Jeralt, he was quite young. Why," she seemed amused by her next set of words, “he could not even grow a full beard at that point!"
He arched his brows slightly at that. It was honestly difficult to imagine his father looking any other way than he did now, because in all honesty, it was the way he'd looked as long as Cyril had been alive... or at least as long as he could remember. “That's... not the easiest thing to picture," he admitted. “He's never been without it entirely. Not that I recall, anyway."
“Hm, indeed. It's hard to imagine, now, but there was a time, long ago," she stated, smiling somewhat as she nodded her head. “On one fateful occasion, though, the band of mercenaries he belonged to fought alongside the Knights of Seiros," she began, closing her eyes as if to recall the memory. “I was traveling with the knights at the time, and Jeralt jumped in front of an attack meant for me. He was gravely wounded, on the verge of death, even," her lips pursed into a fine line as she opened her eyes to regard Cyril.
“I tended to his wounds in a desperate attempt to save his life. Thankfully," she paused to place a hand over her heart, “my efforts were not in vain. Jeralt managed to escape a seemingly certain death." Her face smoothed back over, and the same, empty smile she had before, was back. “I made arrangements for him to receive further care at Garreg Mach. The moment he was deemed fully recovered, I invited him to join the knights."
“That sounds like something he would do," Cyril admitted, something almost wry entering his tone. He could certainly imagine a younger, more impulsive version of his father jumping in front of a blow meant for another, much as he'd—
Do you think she might know something about that? he asked the girl, suddenly uncertain. The time thing?
Maybe, the girl said softly. But do you want her to know you can do that?
The answer was immediate, and he expelled a soft breath from his nose. “I suppose I owe you my thanks, then," he said to Rhea. “The literal truth aside, I wouldn't be who I am without my father. He means..." He wasn't sure what the right words were, really. He never had been. “He means a great deal to me."
“Every parent means the world to their child," she stated suddenly, a strange, hard look to her eyes. She shook her head, though, and her posture seemed to relax. “It is not a story I have often repeated," she spoke, shaking her head softly. “Even at the monastery, there are not many who know that." She paused, her facial features smoothing out as if to make her appear younger than she looked. “I tell you this because... to me, you are the child of the one who saved my life all those years ago. And also..." she paused again, diverting her gaze to the floor before she closed her eyes. She didn't speak for at least a few minutes before shaking her head.
“Never mind, it is nothing. I simply wanted to say that I trust you. By coming to visit with me today, you have... well..." she began, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Suffice it to say that my day is brighter than it otherwise would have been. I thank you for that," she inclined her head towards him, bowing lightly in the process.
“If there is anything you should ever need, please do not hesitate to ask."
Cyril wasn't entirely sure what to make of that. There was definitely something else she wasn't saying there, but he doubted very much he'd be able to prompt her into it, either. His shoulders relaxed a little further, though, and he sighed quietly. “Thank you," he said simply. He could not tell her he would, or even that her words were reassuring, because frankly neither of those things was especially true, and he'd always had an instinctive aversion to lying. So he settled on something that implied almost the same, but was not false.
“I'll keep that in mind, Rhea."
That seemed to make a smile cross her face, something more genuine and life-like. “You are welcome, Cyril," she responded. She seemed quite curious about something, though, and tilted her head at him. “I do have a question for you," she began, pausing only for a second before she asked him, “how are you getting along with your students? I've heard a few... interesting things." She did not seem to care to elaborate on what those things were, though.
He blinked, immediately wary of the question for a reason he couldn't explain. “They are exceptional," he replied simply. “Interesting how?"
Her eyes narrowed with her smile. “Interesting in that they all seem rather fond of you. You'll forgive my forwardness, but there have not been many instances when students are particularly fond of their professors. And to have the fondness of not only your main house, but of those in different houses as well..." she trailed off at the end, her eyes narrowing in what seemed like displeasure.
“You would do well to remember that it is not always so. These students are merely that: students. The three heirs will be leaving at the end of their year to return back to their countries as, perhaps, better rulers." She didn't seem to include Amalthea or Senka, as if she were anticipating something would keep them from leaving the monastery. Amalthea's home was the monastery, though.
So the remaining exclusion made little sense to him, except as a thing of intention. He had other students, of course, the rest of the Blue Lion House and the rest of his Saturday group. But he knew it would be fairly easy to tell that he spent the most time with those five, and so he wondered.
“I understand that they'll be leaving," he said slowly. “I don't see any reason not to want to be on good terms with them while they're here, however. It makes teaching them easier." The truth, though certainly not all of it.
If anything she looked disappointed in his response. “While it may seem that way, they will leave, and you will be left behind. If you are quite certain that is something you can handle, then by all means, continue to cultivate your bonds with your students. It will make things that much more difficult when it comes time to say goodbye." She shook her head, though, and regarded him with a flat stare.
“I believe that will be all for today, Professor. You may spend the rest of your day however you'd like. There are things I must return to," she stated, bowing softly in his direction as her way of dismissing him.
He could not help but feel that something about the words was a threat, albeit one lightly-applied. Unsure what to make of that, especially contrasted with other things she'd said, Cyril furrowed his brows, returning the bow. “Archbishop," he said simply, turning on his heel and exiting the office.
Something wasn't right about that woman, but he'd be damned if he knew what.
Library - Early Afternoon - Light Rain
Senka Rinaldi
Senka sighed softly, closing the book she'd been reading and crossed her hands in front of her. Things were becoming more lively in the monastery; the knights were making more patrols, seemingly almost stretched thin by the looks on their faces. With the possible assassination attempt, everyone seemed to be getting worked up about protecting the archbishop. The woman didn't seem to need protecting, though. Senka knew strength and power when she saw it; the woman held herself in high regards, and it was clear that hardly anyone else mattered. Anyone not the professor, at least. She felt a light shiver go down her spine. She still hadn't forgotten the way Rhea had glared at her the day they were studying in the library. It was unnerving, however; her thoughts were occupied elsewhere.
Why would someone go to the trouble of making an assassination plan, but leave it on their person when they knew there was a possibility of death? It was just... too poorly planned. It didn't make any sense to Senka. She wondered if her friends felt the same way. She knew Vridel and Cyril were not particularly fond of the archbishop, but she knew they wouldn't allow the woman to come to harm. They had a mission to complete, and they would do it without fail as they always have. It still felt strange, as if the assassination attempt were smokescreen for something else. Something more important, but Senka did not know the monastery well-enough to know what it was. Perhaps that was why she had asked her friends to meet her in the library. The rain made it difficult to meet outside, light as it was, and the library wouldn't seem as suspicious if they met there.
Written exams were coming up, after all, and it would simply look like a study group to most people who cared to look. And she knew there was one person in particular who would. Even though she was the first one there, she would wait patiently for her friends to finish whatever it was they were doing. She wanted to see if they shared her suspicions as well. Maybe her lack of sleep was causing her to see things that were not there, though?
Sorcha, of course, was already there. It wasn't clear exactly what had happened, but she seemed to be doing better in the last few days. At least she was sleeping enough that the dark circles had lifted from her eyes, and though she rarely smiled, that wasn't so unusual. She wasn't as inexpressive as Senka, but true smiles from the Princess had been rare in all the time Senka had known her. Part of it was of course what had happened to her family, but she knew part of it was also pressure from the court, to be many things that she was not in order to make herself a more suitable ruler for Faerghus.
It wasn't too long before Vridel and Reynard appeared, speaking about something in low voices. It was almost certain that they'd share her suspicions; they seemed to have the demeanors for that kind of thing. Devon wasn't far behind, carrying an overstuffed satchel full of books as usual and entering with Sylvi, a genuine grin on his face at something she'd said, it seemed. He was still mourning his foster father, and all of them knew it, but the news that his siblings had both survived the uprisinghad come as a great relief to him, and enabled him to keep up with his studies.
It wasn't long before Mercer appeared, hair disheaveled as if he'd just woken from a nap. For all intents and purposes, that was what he wanted people to believe. Senka knew him a little better than she'd like to admit. Amalthea was next to him, smiling as if she'd found out something entertaining. She waved at the group, though, causing Senka's lips to twitch just slightly upward. It wasn't quite a smile, but she knew they would know she was. That had still been a little strange to her; having people who could read her expressions as if they were clear as day was... nice.
Dierdre and Sofia were next to arrive, Dierdre grinning as she had her arm looped with Sofia's. Senka thought they were a rather lovely couple. Almost complete opposites as far as their personalities went, but it was obvious enough that they cared deeply for one another; loved one another. When everyone was settled at the table, Senka glanced around to make sure everyone was present.
“Is that everyone?" Sylvi seemed to ask, as Mercer shook his head.
“You invited Teach, didn't you?" he asked, glancing towards Senka. She nodded her head. She invited everyone that she could, including their professor. He just hadn't arrived, yet.
It took Cyril another few minutes to appear. He entered the library slightly damp from the rain outside, reaching up to slick his hair back away from where it had fallen in his face. As often seemed to be the case, one particular stubborn strand of inky-black fell in front of his nose anyway, but the rest stayed mostly put.
“I apologize for my tardiness," he said quietly, glancing back over his shoulder with a slightly narrow-eyed expression. He didn't elaborate, however, merely moving towards the tables. The seat left was rather far from Senka, but he along with everyone else was in view, at least.
“And I thought I was usually the late one," Mercer murmured, causing Dierdre to elbow his side. “I kid, Dierdre," he stated, rubbing at his side. Senka merely pursed her lips together as she shook her head. “So I take it we're all here for the same thing?" he asked, earning a nod from just about everyone around.
“Good. This will make it that much easier, then," he began, leaning his forearms against the table. “What do you think the real target is?" he asked, his voice low so that it wouldn't be overheard by unnecessary ears. Senka shook her head, though. She had not the slightest clue.
“Why wouldn't it be Lady Rhea?" Amalthea asked in a confused manner.
“Because they're not actually targeting Lady Rhea," Sylvi spoke, glancing towards Devon for a second before turning her attention back to the others. Senka nodded her head in agreement.
“The assassination plot is a cover for something else, but we don't know what that is, quite yet. You grew up here, Amalthea. Is there anything that comes to mind that would be of importance to this place?" she asked, watching as Thea shook her head.
“I can't really think of anything. "
“What about the timing?" Sorcha asked. “What happens on the day of the Rite of Rebirth that doesn't usually happen?"
Vridel hummed quietly. “The Archbishop and Lady Lyanna spend much of the day in the Goddess Tower, I know that much," he said. “I think... maybe other parts of the Monastery open to the public also?" He looked to Amalthea, as though he expected her to know this. Probably not an unreasonable instinct.
Amalthea pursed her lips together and seemed to be thinking about the question that was asked. “There are a few places that will open up, yes," she finally answered. It seemed that all eyes were on her, now, and she fidgeted a little under their gazes. She took in a deep breath, lips still pursed as she still seemed to think about it. “The Holy Masuoleum, for one, will be open to the public," she finally spoke.
“What's that?" Dierdre asked, narrowing her eyes as she did. Thea chewed the bottom of her lip in a thoughtful manner, and Senka sighed softly.
“It's where the tomb of the divine Seiros, lies. It's said that she slumbers there, eternally," Amalthea finally answered. “It's mostly just a rumor, though. Only Lady Rhea and, occasionally, Lyanna are allowed down there. During the Rite, the public is allowed to go in there, but usually not for very long."
If that were true, why open it at all? Why not just keep it closed off to the public? If Seiros truly slumbered there, why would they risk her being exposed to people?
“After all, it's just an ancient coffin down there." Still, it seemed important enough to warrant being closed off through most of the year. “Oh, the Goddess Tower might also be open to the public," she added.
Cyril shook his head. “The way Lady Lyanna described it to me, she and the Archbishop will be in complete seclusion, there. Not even the Knights are allowed inside. It's why there was concern about the legitimacy of the threat—because if someone could get in there, they could attack those two alone."
“I suppose it would also be a good chance for people to go unnoticed other places, even if they're strangers," Devon pointed out. “On the average day, an outsider in the greenhouse or the library would be obvious, but on that day there are visitors all over the place, so no individual one would be that noticeable. If I wanted to steal something from the Monastery, for instance, I'd pick a day like that."
“Hide in plain sight," Reynard agreed, tipping Devon a respectful nod. The younger man looked genuinely pleased.
“I think we can safely eliminate the greenhouse and the library though," Vridel said. “If they just needed to wander into one of these places, which aren't usually even under guard, they'd want the patrols and guard postings to be normal, not to stir them up with a fake assassination threat. Now there will be moving patrols everywhere. We need to think about places that means fewer guards."
“The crypt," Sorcha said quietly. “If people are only allowed down for a short time, it follows that they're supervised. Someone has to enforce the time, after all. But if the guards are being shuffled around to protect Lady Rhea, then chances are there will be fewer there to do that."
“Giving someone more time to search the tomb," Cyril finished, lifting a hand to rub at his jaw. “But for what? Is anything kept down there except the dead?"
“As far as I know, it's only the tombs. Ah," she stated abruptly as if something just came to her. “I overheard Lyanna say that there are Crest Stones down there," she stated.
“Crest Stones? What are those? I know that people who are descendants of the ten have Crests, but what are Crest Stones?" Dierdre asked, confusion written over her face. Amalthea smiled as if she could answer that question with ease.
“Well, you remember Catherine wielding Thunderbrand?" Dierdre nodded her head. “That was a Crest Stone in the handle. It's like a physical representation of the Crest you bear, if you have one," she explained, though she pursed her lips together. “I don't know much about how they work, but your Crest has to be compatible with that Crest Stone. Catherine said only she could wield Thunderbrand, which means she has a Crest," that was obvious enough for everyone around.
“What is so important about Crest Stones, though?" It sounded as if not just anyone could wield it, so why would they be important if someone had a Crest?
Vridel sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Every Hero's Relic is fitted with a Crest Stone," he said, his voice quiet, almost as if he were reluctant to speak. “It helps synchronize the relic with the wielder's Crest. It's possible to wield a Relic without one, if you have a particularly strong major Crest and you're willing to risk overtaxing yourself. It wouldn't especially surprise me if the Church had extra stones, though I suspect this is something the nobility would be interested to know..."
He looked almost ill for some reason. “They can also be used to... well, never mind. Suffice to say they interact with Crests and allow their power to be tapped more efficiently. Thus they are fitted to Relics."
“Are they of any use without a Relic?" Cyril asked.
Vridel pursed his lips. “Not... to most people. There are a few in the Empire who might have a... different use for them, but those people already have what they need." He fell silent, eyes on the table in front of him, clearly not interested in saying anything further on the topic.
“Okay, so..." Sorcha carefully picked up the thread of conversation, shooting Vridel a concerned glance before continuing. “It's at least conceivable that someone might want to steal the Crest Stones. If they help power Relics, they're certainly worth having. At the very minimum, I'm sure most noble families would jump at the chance to own a spare, just in case something happened to the one in their Relic. That makes the Mausoleum seem like the most likely target to me. How about the rest of you?"
Vridel nodded tightly.
Senka had to agree as well. The Mausoleum was looking more likely to be the place that the culprits truly intended to ask. It wouldn't do any good to notify the knights, or Rhea, about it. Senka doubted that they would believe them. Mercer seemed to agree as well since he nodded his head after Vridel had. Amalthea looked vaguely sick, but that could have been because there were people who would desecrate a sacred tomb. Sylvi pursed her lips tightly, but didn't say anything. Dierdre seemed to acknowledge the statement with a light nod before she turned her attention towards Devon, shooting him a sympathetic smile before she dropped her gaze to her hands.
He smiled back, a little awkwardly—that much was obvious. But he nodded, too, clearly unwilling to let his personal circumstances interfere with getting to the bottom of this.
Senka could understand why, though. The people who planned on targeting the Masuoleum used Lonato's rebellion as a means to do it. They planted the assassination note on him; there was no doubt in Senka's mind about that. Whether or not it he was carrying it willingly or not, the fact remained that those people knew Lonato was not going to survive the battle. Senka clenched her fists tightly at the thought. Those people were despicable.
“I suppose that means that we will focus our efforts on the Mausoleum when the time comes," Senka stated.
Cyril leaned forward there, picking up a piece of parchment and a charcoal pencil. “We'll split into three groups..."
Why would someone go to the trouble of making an assassination plan, but leave it on their person when they knew there was a possibility of death? It was just... too poorly planned. It didn't make any sense to Senka. She wondered if her friends felt the same way. She knew Vridel and Cyril were not particularly fond of the archbishop, but she knew they wouldn't allow the woman to come to harm. They had a mission to complete, and they would do it without fail as they always have. It still felt strange, as if the assassination attempt were smokescreen for something else. Something more important, but Senka did not know the monastery well-enough to know what it was. Perhaps that was why she had asked her friends to meet her in the library. The rain made it difficult to meet outside, light as it was, and the library wouldn't seem as suspicious if they met there.
Written exams were coming up, after all, and it would simply look like a study group to most people who cared to look. And she knew there was one person in particular who would. Even though she was the first one there, she would wait patiently for her friends to finish whatever it was they were doing. She wanted to see if they shared her suspicions as well. Maybe her lack of sleep was causing her to see things that were not there, though?
Sorcha, of course, was already there. It wasn't clear exactly what had happened, but she seemed to be doing better in the last few days. At least she was sleeping enough that the dark circles had lifted from her eyes, and though she rarely smiled, that wasn't so unusual. She wasn't as inexpressive as Senka, but true smiles from the Princess had been rare in all the time Senka had known her. Part of it was of course what had happened to her family, but she knew part of it was also pressure from the court, to be many things that she was not in order to make herself a more suitable ruler for Faerghus.
It wasn't too long before Vridel and Reynard appeared, speaking about something in low voices. It was almost certain that they'd share her suspicions; they seemed to have the demeanors for that kind of thing. Devon wasn't far behind, carrying an overstuffed satchel full of books as usual and entering with Sylvi, a genuine grin on his face at something she'd said, it seemed. He was still mourning his foster father, and all of them knew it, but the news that his siblings had both survived the uprisinghad come as a great relief to him, and enabled him to keep up with his studies.
It wasn't long before Mercer appeared, hair disheaveled as if he'd just woken from a nap. For all intents and purposes, that was what he wanted people to believe. Senka knew him a little better than she'd like to admit. Amalthea was next to him, smiling as if she'd found out something entertaining. She waved at the group, though, causing Senka's lips to twitch just slightly upward. It wasn't quite a smile, but she knew they would know she was. That had still been a little strange to her; having people who could read her expressions as if they were clear as day was... nice.
Dierdre and Sofia were next to arrive, Dierdre grinning as she had her arm looped with Sofia's. Senka thought they were a rather lovely couple. Almost complete opposites as far as their personalities went, but it was obvious enough that they cared deeply for one another; loved one another. When everyone was settled at the table, Senka glanced around to make sure everyone was present.
“Is that everyone?" Sylvi seemed to ask, as Mercer shook his head.
“You invited Teach, didn't you?" he asked, glancing towards Senka. She nodded her head. She invited everyone that she could, including their professor. He just hadn't arrived, yet.
It took Cyril another few minutes to appear. He entered the library slightly damp from the rain outside, reaching up to slick his hair back away from where it had fallen in his face. As often seemed to be the case, one particular stubborn strand of inky-black fell in front of his nose anyway, but the rest stayed mostly put.
“I apologize for my tardiness," he said quietly, glancing back over his shoulder with a slightly narrow-eyed expression. He didn't elaborate, however, merely moving towards the tables. The seat left was rather far from Senka, but he along with everyone else was in view, at least.
“And I thought I was usually the late one," Mercer murmured, causing Dierdre to elbow his side. “I kid, Dierdre," he stated, rubbing at his side. Senka merely pursed her lips together as she shook her head. “So I take it we're all here for the same thing?" he asked, earning a nod from just about everyone around.
“Good. This will make it that much easier, then," he began, leaning his forearms against the table. “What do you think the real target is?" he asked, his voice low so that it wouldn't be overheard by unnecessary ears. Senka shook her head, though. She had not the slightest clue.
“Why wouldn't it be Lady Rhea?" Amalthea asked in a confused manner.
“Because they're not actually targeting Lady Rhea," Sylvi spoke, glancing towards Devon for a second before turning her attention back to the others. Senka nodded her head in agreement.
“The assassination plot is a cover for something else, but we don't know what that is, quite yet. You grew up here, Amalthea. Is there anything that comes to mind that would be of importance to this place?" she asked, watching as Thea shook her head.
“I can't really think of anything. "
“What about the timing?" Sorcha asked. “What happens on the day of the Rite of Rebirth that doesn't usually happen?"
Vridel hummed quietly. “The Archbishop and Lady Lyanna spend much of the day in the Goddess Tower, I know that much," he said. “I think... maybe other parts of the Monastery open to the public also?" He looked to Amalthea, as though he expected her to know this. Probably not an unreasonable instinct.
Amalthea pursed her lips together and seemed to be thinking about the question that was asked. “There are a few places that will open up, yes," she finally answered. It seemed that all eyes were on her, now, and she fidgeted a little under their gazes. She took in a deep breath, lips still pursed as she still seemed to think about it. “The Holy Masuoleum, for one, will be open to the public," she finally spoke.
“What's that?" Dierdre asked, narrowing her eyes as she did. Thea chewed the bottom of her lip in a thoughtful manner, and Senka sighed softly.
“It's where the tomb of the divine Seiros, lies. It's said that she slumbers there, eternally," Amalthea finally answered. “It's mostly just a rumor, though. Only Lady Rhea and, occasionally, Lyanna are allowed down there. During the Rite, the public is allowed to go in there, but usually not for very long."
If that were true, why open it at all? Why not just keep it closed off to the public? If Seiros truly slumbered there, why would they risk her being exposed to people?
“After all, it's just an ancient coffin down there." Still, it seemed important enough to warrant being closed off through most of the year. “Oh, the Goddess Tower might also be open to the public," she added.
Cyril shook his head. “The way Lady Lyanna described it to me, she and the Archbishop will be in complete seclusion, there. Not even the Knights are allowed inside. It's why there was concern about the legitimacy of the threat—because if someone could get in there, they could attack those two alone."
“I suppose it would also be a good chance for people to go unnoticed other places, even if they're strangers," Devon pointed out. “On the average day, an outsider in the greenhouse or the library would be obvious, but on that day there are visitors all over the place, so no individual one would be that noticeable. If I wanted to steal something from the Monastery, for instance, I'd pick a day like that."
“Hide in plain sight," Reynard agreed, tipping Devon a respectful nod. The younger man looked genuinely pleased.
“I think we can safely eliminate the greenhouse and the library though," Vridel said. “If they just needed to wander into one of these places, which aren't usually even under guard, they'd want the patrols and guard postings to be normal, not to stir them up with a fake assassination threat. Now there will be moving patrols everywhere. We need to think about places that means fewer guards."
“The crypt," Sorcha said quietly. “If people are only allowed down for a short time, it follows that they're supervised. Someone has to enforce the time, after all. But if the guards are being shuffled around to protect Lady Rhea, then chances are there will be fewer there to do that."
“Giving someone more time to search the tomb," Cyril finished, lifting a hand to rub at his jaw. “But for what? Is anything kept down there except the dead?"
“As far as I know, it's only the tombs. Ah," she stated abruptly as if something just came to her. “I overheard Lyanna say that there are Crest Stones down there," she stated.
“Crest Stones? What are those? I know that people who are descendants of the ten have Crests, but what are Crest Stones?" Dierdre asked, confusion written over her face. Amalthea smiled as if she could answer that question with ease.
“Well, you remember Catherine wielding Thunderbrand?" Dierdre nodded her head. “That was a Crest Stone in the handle. It's like a physical representation of the Crest you bear, if you have one," she explained, though she pursed her lips together. “I don't know much about how they work, but your Crest has to be compatible with that Crest Stone. Catherine said only she could wield Thunderbrand, which means she has a Crest," that was obvious enough for everyone around.
“What is so important about Crest Stones, though?" It sounded as if not just anyone could wield it, so why would they be important if someone had a Crest?
Vridel sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Every Hero's Relic is fitted with a Crest Stone," he said, his voice quiet, almost as if he were reluctant to speak. “It helps synchronize the relic with the wielder's Crest. It's possible to wield a Relic without one, if you have a particularly strong major Crest and you're willing to risk overtaxing yourself. It wouldn't especially surprise me if the Church had extra stones, though I suspect this is something the nobility would be interested to know..."
He looked almost ill for some reason. “They can also be used to... well, never mind. Suffice to say they interact with Crests and allow their power to be tapped more efficiently. Thus they are fitted to Relics."
“Are they of any use without a Relic?" Cyril asked.
Vridel pursed his lips. “Not... to most people. There are a few in the Empire who might have a... different use for them, but those people already have what they need." He fell silent, eyes on the table in front of him, clearly not interested in saying anything further on the topic.
“Okay, so..." Sorcha carefully picked up the thread of conversation, shooting Vridel a concerned glance before continuing. “It's at least conceivable that someone might want to steal the Crest Stones. If they help power Relics, they're certainly worth having. At the very minimum, I'm sure most noble families would jump at the chance to own a spare, just in case something happened to the one in their Relic. That makes the Mausoleum seem like the most likely target to me. How about the rest of you?"
Vridel nodded tightly.
Senka had to agree as well. The Mausoleum was looking more likely to be the place that the culprits truly intended to ask. It wouldn't do any good to notify the knights, or Rhea, about it. Senka doubted that they would believe them. Mercer seemed to agree as well since he nodded his head after Vridel had. Amalthea looked vaguely sick, but that could have been because there were people who would desecrate a sacred tomb. Sylvi pursed her lips tightly, but didn't say anything. Dierdre seemed to acknowledge the statement with a light nod before she turned her attention towards Devon, shooting him a sympathetic smile before she dropped her gaze to her hands.
He smiled back, a little awkwardly—that much was obvious. But he nodded, too, clearly unwilling to let his personal circumstances interfere with getting to the bottom of this.
Senka could understand why, though. The people who planned on targeting the Masuoleum used Lonato's rebellion as a means to do it. They planted the assassination note on him; there was no doubt in Senka's mind about that. Whether or not it he was carrying it willingly or not, the fact remained that those people knew Lonato was not going to survive the battle. Senka clenched her fists tightly at the thought. Those people were despicable.
“I suppose that means that we will focus our efforts on the Mausoleum when the time comes," Senka stated.
Cyril leaned forward there, picking up a piece of parchment and a charcoal pencil. “We'll split into three groups..."
The Holy Mausoleum - Midmorning - Clear
Vridel von Hresvelg
The morning of the Rite, Cyril's class had assembled as planned. They were split into three groups, with instructions to concentrate their patrols in the area of the Holy Mausoleum. Vridel's group consisted of Reynard, Amalthea, and Dierdre, a rather varied mix of approaches to combat designed to be flexible. The other two groups were more specialized: Sorcha, Mercer, and Devon had found higher ground within the Mausoleum, concealing themselves among the columns and figures carved into the walls with bows at the ready, watchful.
The Professor, Senka, Sofia, and Sylvi were the frontline distraction team, and as soon as Mercer had fired the signal arrow, they burst through the front door of the Mausoleum.
Vridel, who had never seen the inside before, followed with his team. The room was enormous, a cavernous space with stone caskets arranged in two columns, one to either side. The center was mostly empty, but let up to a large dais, on which was perched a grander sarcophagus still. He could sense the magic in the air, thick and pungent enough that it was almost a taste on the back of his tongue.
The thieves they had interrupted were clearly surprised to see them; Vridel couldn't exactly blame them. He wondered, sometimes, how it was that of all the people in the place, it was sometimes only this group who seemed to bother thinking things through. But they had, and here they were.
“Keep them busy!" one of the thieves demanded. They seemed to be dressed largely in black and red, the style of the robes vaguely Imperial but not officially so by any means. He wasn't sure exactly what, if anything, to make of that. “I need time to complete the ritual!"
Probably to break the seal on that casket—even from across this huge room, Vridel could tell it was a strong one. What on earth these people would want with what was probably Seiros's corpse wasn't totally clear to him, but he figured it was better to make sure they didn't get it and ask the questions later.
The Professor had given them permission to act autonomously if the situation demanded, and it seemed to at the moment: while Cyril's group kept the main force of the enemies busy, Vridel's could rush the magician, to try and cut him down before he could complete the unsealing.
Drawing his sword, Vridel strafed to the left, gesturing the others after him. “We're stopping that ritual," he said simply. “Trust the others to cover—just take down anyone in our way."
Amalthea nodded, following after him. Dierdre wasn't too far behind, either, however; they were intercepted by a few of the soldiers who were intent on protecting the magician. Amalthea reacted rather quickly, throwing Amyr at one of the soldiers and rushed him. Her attack had been anticipated, and the man dodged out of the way, however; she summoned Amyr back as she forcefully shoved the handle into the man's stomach, causing him to double over.
Dierdre threw a fireball at one of the other soldiers who tried to attack Amalthea from the side, causing the woman to jump back, but singed her robes. It was hard to tell what expression the woman was wearing, but her attention was on Dierdre as she attacked with a magic of her own. Dierdre countered it with a strong wind spell, but it left her defenses open, which another soldier tried to take advantage of.
Reynard was there immediately, sinking his knife into the man's side. With a twist, he brought him down, tearing the weapon free and ducking the broad swing from the next in line, a swordsman, by the look of things.
Knowing he'd be fine, Vridel focused down the mage, so that Deirdre and Thea could work together to handle the remaining soldier. A blast of light drew her attention from Deirdre, who immediately switched her focus to Thea's opponent. Vridel threw another, following it up with a jolt of electricity he'd picked up from studying with Senka and Cyril, and the mage was down.
The last soldier followed, and after checking over everyone to ensure that no emergency healing was necessary, they continued forward.
Cyril's group were making fast work of the unprepared thieves elsewhere; they'd even begun to advance up the other side. Mercer's team, still unseen, was providing steady cover fire, suppressing any enemy attempts at major charges or flanking maneuvers by harassing those who tried to get strategic advantage over the others.
They made some progress, Amalthea disarming a soldier every so often with Dierdre finishing them off. It seemed to be that Amalthea still did not wish to kill anyone, at least not yet, and was leaving that to Dierdre who seemed to have no problem finishing off their opponents. She turned her attention towards a mage who seemed to be throwing a lightning bolt in random directions, perhaps trying to locate Mercer's group, and threw Amyr at the mage. It hit the mage's arm, nearly cutting it off, however, it still hung off by some of the flesh. The mage screamed, causing Amalthea to wince lightly as an arrow pierced the mage's heart, silencing them.
He was going to have to talk to her about that.
When they'd managed to move up again, they were confronted by a small ring of soldiers, trying to act as a wall of sorts. A barricade so that Vridel and the others couldn't move any further. They were with a rather large and brutish looking man. He had gauntlets in his possession, perhaps a brawler. Amalthea pursed her lips together before she glanced in Vridel's direction. With a light nod, she and Dierdre were charging the group, Dierdre readying what seemed to be a miasma spell and Amalthea trying to get the attention of the others so that Dierdre had the time.
Reynard didn't need to be directed, really, and darted to the side, no doubt to begin whittling down the edges of the grouping. Keeping an eye on the other two, Vridel decided to do the same from the other side, and lunged, slashing a lightly-armored fighter over the abdomen. When she doubled over, clutching her wound, he followed through with a hard stroke to the back of her neck, blade cleaving into her spinal cord between two vertebrae and killing her instantly.
Flicking the blood from the blade, he shifted aside from the next incoming blow, a downward lance-stroke. The reach advantage would normally bother a swordsman, but Vridel was even before this a mage, and he shot a blast of fire directly for the spearman's chest. He reeled back, smoking, but did not quite fall. A well-placed arrow to the throat from somewhere behind Vridel finished him off.
This was taking too much time. Hopefully Cyril's group was having better luck.
From the looks of it, they were still making steady progress. Senka was wielding her sword, only resorting to magic when it looked like she needed to, however; Sylvi looked to be having a somewhat harder time against the mages. When she would advance, a mage would force her back with a lightning spell, and another would try to flank her with a fire spell. Senka looked like she was trying to cover Sylvi, but was dealing with her own opponents. An axe-wielder swung in her direction, forcing her to duck, however; it seemed that one of the mages took the opportunity to attack with a wind spell, Cutting Gale, from the looks of it. Sylvi was barely able to move in time, however; Senka repositioned them so that she took the hit, and not Sylvi.
The attack cut into the skin of her back, but she looked mostly unfazed by it, quickly turning around and summoning her Blizzard. Sylvi covered for her, hacking away at a soldier with the axe who attempted to take advantage of their distraction, and pursed her lips into a fine line. Dierdre looked worried for a second as her eyes landed on Sofia, but she managed to push back a mage who tried to take advantage of her brief distraction.
Amalthea was mostly still, defending against a taller, more muscular brute who seemed to be wailing on her with his own axe. She seemed to be able to take it, though, as she was still standing, defending as her eyes glanced for an opening.
Vridel found himself with a conundrum, and as ever decided to try both. Summoning up his magic, he called a spell he'd never used in a real fight before, directing the healing all the way across the field to Senka, and then again to Sylvi. The concentration required left him open, but Reynard covered smoothly, taking down the last of the opponents who wasn't Thea's.
Across the room, Cyril was juggling several soldiers at once. He managed to get some breathing room, though, hurling his javelin for the troublesome mage, hard enough to impale him rather entirely, before falling on the ones in front of him with his fists and his magic.
That, along with continuous suppressive arrow fire, was enough to get their group through and onto the top level of the dais first, where Vridel lost track of them. They'd be fine, now. They were mostly healed, and the Professor was in front. If anyone on the field was safe right now, it was them.
In the meantime, the rest of them had this fellow to deal with.
Dierdre turned her attention to the man who was still attacking Thea. She summoned a fire spell, and hurled it at the man. He didn't seem to have any trouble dodging it, though, and whirled around so that his attention was focused on Dierdre. Amalthea took the opportunity to hurl herself onto the man's back, digging Amyr in as well. The man didn't seem fazed by it, though, and merely reached behind him, grabbing Amalthea by her arm, and flipping her over his shoulders. Amyr was still stuck in his back as she landed with a hard thud.
He swung his axe downwards in a finishing motion, however; Dierdre mimicked Amalthea's earlier actions, flinging herself into the man's side in time that his axe missed Amalthea by a couple of inches. She rolled from underneath the man, and summoned Amyr back to her. Dierdre seemed to have abandoned her magic, though, in favor of her fists. She wasn't a physical fighter, though.
Fortunately, Reynard was there to assist, and while Vridel helped Thea back to her feet, Aymr in-hand, the other man got several quick stabs in on the enemy soldier, who miraculously still seemed to be standing.
Knowing that Thea was likely to balk at the idea of finishing him off, Vridel stepped forward to do it himself, plunging his blade into the man's lower back from behind, hard enough that emerged out the other side with a gout of blood. Setting his foot against the man's spine, he pushed him off at the same time as he pulled the sword, freeing it from his body as he toppled forward.
There was little time for relief. The ritual—
Vridel whirled even as the Professor landed a hard, barehanded blow on the mage attempting to unseal the casket. The robed man staggered backwards, but it seemed he'd already accomplished his aim. The lid of the sarcophagus was cracked, and he reached inside quickly, yanking out what seemed to be—a sword?
It had a longer blade than most, slightly serrated along one edge, with a thick crossguard. Vridel had seen enough relics to know one when he encountered it, and this seemed to be made of the same unusual material that all of them were. He doubted Cyril recognized it for what it was, but it had come out of Seiros's casket, so anyone could tell it was important.
The man attempted to swing it at the Professor, but he sidestepped the blow easily and caught one of the fellow's wrists, twisting and forcing him to drop the blade. Cyril caught it easily, but just when Vridel was going to warn him not to try and use it, the whole thing took on a crimson glow, one that seemed to catch the entire room by surprise.
The mage was the first to recover, trying to use this as leverage for a surprise attack, but the Professor caught him by the throat almost automatically, it seemed, a large hand applying pressure to the man's windpipe until he went slack. The glow of the sword died down at the same time, leaving Cyril looking rather, well... perplexed.
Vridel couldn't blame him for that.
Before anyone had a chance to say anything, Catherine and a couple of soldiers burst into the tombs, Thunderbrand at the ready. “Is the intruder here?!" she shouted, blinking in a confused manner at the group. “Oh," she began, her posture relaxing a bit, “looks like you have this under control." She turned her attention to both of the soldiers and gave them a command: “You! Round up any stragglers. We can't afford any more mistakes." The soldiers nodded their heads in unison and went to do as she commanded.
Amalthea walked next to Vridel, and touched his elbow lightly with her hand. “Are you alright?" she asked, clearly worried for his well-being and not her own. She had a streak of blood on her face, probably from when she stabbed the man in the back or when he'd flung his blood-covered axe in her direction. Senka was tending to the professor, Sylvi, and Sofia, and Dierdre was making her way towards their group, as well. Probably to check on Sofia.
Vridel exhaled quietly, nodding his head. Thoughtlessly, he reached up and dabbed the blood away from her face with his sleeve. It just didn't look right, there of all places, though he was sure he was wearing a fair bit of it himself. “I'm fine," he said quietly. “Didn't even get hit. What about you?"
She nodded her head. “I'm fine, too. See? Not... not a single scratch," she spread her arms out as if to show him that she was, indeed, fine. She winced slightly, though, but smiled through it. Her back was likely sore from when the man had thrown her to the ground. “I should probably go check on the others, too. Make sure they're alright. I'm sure Lady Rhea will want to see Professor," she stated, her eyes going towards Cyril.
“You're right, Amalthea," Catherine cut in, glancing between Vridel and Amalthea. “We're going to escort the prisoners to her; she wants your professor to come along as well, but," she paused, moving her gaze towards Cyril before she looked back at Vridel. “Perhaps you'd like to ask him to come. The others can tend to their wounds and get them looked after if you want to come, too," she seemed to suggest, directing the last part of the statement towards Vridel.
Brows furrowing, Vridel nodded slightly at Catherine. It wasn't a bad idea for someone to be there. Since he and Mercer were sharing information, it didn't much matter which one of them it was, but it might be slightly less suspicious if it wasn't always the same person. Calling a touch of healing to his hand, he placed it gently at Amalthea's back before stepping away smoothly.
“I think I will," he said, making his way towards the Professor.
Cyril showed not even the slightest inclination to disagree, and the two of them split off from the group to head for the Archbishop's office. She'd almost certainly be called away from the Rite for this, but it might take some time for that to be possible. Vridel wasn't exactly sure what was involved.
They took seats outside the area, Cyril still loosely holding the sword. “Be careful, when we're in there," he said, staring straight ahead with a rather flat expression. “The Archbishop doesn't seem to like you all very much."
“It's mutual," Vridel grumbled. “Though I can't imagine why she'd bother to form much of an opinion on most of us."
The Professor grimaced. “I think it might be my fault," he admitted. “I've... mentioned your merits, on more than one occasion. I don't think she likes it, for some reason."
Ordinarily such a thing would have seemed unbelievable, but Vridel had been there, in the common room that time. The Archbishop really did have some strange fixation on the Professor. It sounded like the sort of thing an obsessed lover would do—not want that someone to have connections of import with anyone else. Not healthy, by any means. But why the Archbishop, and why the Professor?
He doubted Cyril had any more idea than he did. “Sounds unnerving," he said quietly. Vridel understood a thing or two about obsession and being the object of it. Whether 'romantic' or not, it was disturbing in the extreme, and uncomfortable.
“It is."
There was no time to say more about it, though, for the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. Both of them stood as the Archbishop approached, a small group of the captured being led behind her in chains by some of the knights. Lyanna did not seem to be with her this time—maybe she was still in the Goddess Tower, doing whatever the Rite of Rebirth required.
Rhea's eyes were immediately on Vridel, a look of displeasure quickly flashing across her face before it disappeared. There was a different woman with her, this time, deep violet hair similar to the shade Senka had. Her eyes were rich, deep violet as well, nothing like Vridel's or Senka's. The woman glanced at Vridel, and then towards the archbishop before her eyes went to Cyril.
“Good, you're all here," she stated, inclining her head towards Cyril. “No time for proper introductions," she continued, speaking directly to Vridel and Cyril before her attention went to those in chains. “As all of you have committed a breach of faith, the archbishop will now pass judgment," she spoke, her voice and demeanor oddly calm. “Inciting a Kingdom noble to rebel, unlawful entry, the attempted assassination of the archbishop, and an attack on the Holy Mausoleum," she listed off what seemed to be their crimes. “It is unnecessary to go on, followers of the Western Church."
One of the priests looked shocked at the statement. “What?! We have nothing to do with the Western Church!" he shouted in defense, it seemed. The woman merely shook her head, though.
“You have already been identified, there is no need for your second-rate theater," Rhea spoke, her eyes narrowing at the priest. “Dishonoring a holy ceremony is worthy of death for a member of the church," she continued, pausing only to shift her gaze slightly towards Vridel and Cyril, “You are well past the hope of redemption. If you have any grace remaining, you will willingly offer your life as atonement for this crime."
The priest's face turned white as he tried to take a step back. “No!" he shouted, anger in his voice, “This isn't what we were told would happen! We've been deceived!" This statement seemed to anger the other woman, and she glared at the priest.
“It's no use arguing. Whatever your excuse, the punishment stands."
Vridel thought it was rather stupid to go ahead and pronounce such a judgment so swiftly. Even looking at it from the most brutal perspective, saying it now removed much of their incentive to talk, to explain who had hired them to do this, or tricked them into it, as they claimed. Unless, of course, the Archbishop had no need of such information because she already knew what they were going to say.
“Should we not at least hear them out?" The Professor inquired quietly. “Surely it's important to know if there are... further people targeting the Church?" He was careful to couch it in terms that would likely be acceptable to Rhea, Vridel noticed. Not at all a simpleton, their teacher. Certainly far from the typical thickheaded mercenary stereotype. But then, he'd known that for a while now.
“Wait! Please!" the man begged, his eyes almost pleading. “Listen to him! The goddess would never forgive you for our execution!" The other man to his side merely grimaced, though, and took a step forward.
“Monster!" he shouted, pointing a finger in Rhea's direction. “We know you've already slaughtered many of our fellow brethren like this!" he seemed to be accusing of her of murdering people before. Rhea did not look pleased with the accusation, and lifted her hand in a silencing motion.
“This concludes the investigation," she stated, malice in her voice, though it seemed disguised by a calmness she was known for, “Please remove these poor, lost souls from my sight." It was clearly a command. The soldiers bowed their heads and took the prisoners away, to await their fate. Rhea turned towards Vridel and Cyril, disappointed, perhaps, at Cyril's statement.
“They are from the Western Church. It is well-known that they have never appreciated the Central Church," she stated, her brows still furrowed.
Vridel barely avoided a skeptical snort. More like they tried for an iota of independence from the Archbishop. Not that he had any fondness for the Western Church. Not in the slightest.
Cyril pursed his lips, shaking his head faintly but apparently knowing better than to argue the point. “Ah, Archbishop. They were trying to get this, I think." Adjusting his grip on the blade, he extended it carefully towards her, handle-first.
Frankly, Vridel admired his courage. He'd have never handed the Archbishop his weapon, no matter how good he was with his hands.
She didn't look at all surprised when Cyril presented the sword. She merely smiled and shook her head. “I cannot thank you enough for defeating those invaders in the Holy Mausoleum, and especially for protecting the Sword of the Creator," she stated, inclining her head towards the sword Cyril held. “That sword is one of the Heroes' Relics, and the most precious artifact in the church's possession," her expression hardened for a second before she continued, “It is also a weapon of terrifying power." She smiled again, and glanced towards the woman still at her side.
“For now... I will entrust the sword to you. Please, use it wisely. I have faith that you will not be corrupted by the wickedness that once took Nemesis." She seemed to believe her own words. “Since his death, none have been able to wield the Sword of the Creator. None... until now. After all those long years of being sealed away, it has returned and found a new master," this seemed to please her, as her eyes softened with the smile on her face as she glanced at Cyril.
The Sword of the—
That Relic was the Sword of the Creator? And she was just letting the professor keep it?
Moreover, that he could even use it meant... well it meant he must somehow be related to Nemesis, the King of Liberation. Crests were hereditary, after all, unless...
Unless. Vridel would have to think about that one. The Professor's hair wasn't white, but his memory wasn't good, either, and maybe... hm. For the moment, he kept his silence, as the Archbishop surely expected.
“Since the two of you are already here, an update for next month's mission should suffice. Lord Kleiman of Faerghus has requested our aid. There have been unsettling rumors of late in the Kingdom near the Duscur region," she paused to regard Cyril before she continued, “of an unsightly beast. It has killed countless of the Lord's men and you and your students will go to eliminate it."
“A beast?" Cyril echoed. “Like wild wyvern or a bear or something?"
Vridel wasn't exactly sure what she meant by it, either. What a nonspecific way to put something like that.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Not exactly," she began, turning her attention towards the sword the professor had. “It is nothing that you will not be able to handle, especially now that you wield the Relic," she continued. She seemed to be putting a lot of faith in Cyril. “They claim it is a demonic beast, but none have returned alive to confirm this report. Nevertheless, I am certain there will be interested parties in visiting Duscur, after all." Her eyes narrowed slightly at that statement as if she were displeased with it.
“Unfortunately, most of the Knights of Seiros will be away from the monastery, purging the apostates of the Western Church. We are entrusting this mission to you, after all. The Sword of the Creator is a powerful weapon, well beyond the other Relics. If it happens to be a demonic beast, you have nothing to fear," she stated, her eyes glancing towards Vridel.
Demonic beast... those words had once been used to describe what had happened to the fallen hero Maurice, but even then he wasn't sure exactly what they meant. Besides that, that legend was from a thousand years ago. It was possible the Archbishop meant something different, but then why be so squirrelly about it? Something wasn't adding up here, though Vridel didn't know exactly what yet.
It may well be that there was only one way to find out.
“Duscur," Cyril said, his brows drawing down faintly. “I see. As you wish, Archbishop."
The Professor, Senka, Sofia, and Sylvi were the frontline distraction team, and as soon as Mercer had fired the signal arrow, they burst through the front door of the Mausoleum.
Vridel, who had never seen the inside before, followed with his team. The room was enormous, a cavernous space with stone caskets arranged in two columns, one to either side. The center was mostly empty, but let up to a large dais, on which was perched a grander sarcophagus still. He could sense the magic in the air, thick and pungent enough that it was almost a taste on the back of his tongue.
The thieves they had interrupted were clearly surprised to see them; Vridel couldn't exactly blame them. He wondered, sometimes, how it was that of all the people in the place, it was sometimes only this group who seemed to bother thinking things through. But they had, and here they were.
“Keep them busy!" one of the thieves demanded. They seemed to be dressed largely in black and red, the style of the robes vaguely Imperial but not officially so by any means. He wasn't sure exactly what, if anything, to make of that. “I need time to complete the ritual!"
Probably to break the seal on that casket—even from across this huge room, Vridel could tell it was a strong one. What on earth these people would want with what was probably Seiros's corpse wasn't totally clear to him, but he figured it was better to make sure they didn't get it and ask the questions later.
The Professor had given them permission to act autonomously if the situation demanded, and it seemed to at the moment: while Cyril's group kept the main force of the enemies busy, Vridel's could rush the magician, to try and cut him down before he could complete the unsealing.
Drawing his sword, Vridel strafed to the left, gesturing the others after him. “We're stopping that ritual," he said simply. “Trust the others to cover—just take down anyone in our way."
Amalthea nodded, following after him. Dierdre wasn't too far behind, either, however; they were intercepted by a few of the soldiers who were intent on protecting the magician. Amalthea reacted rather quickly, throwing Amyr at one of the soldiers and rushed him. Her attack had been anticipated, and the man dodged out of the way, however; she summoned Amyr back as she forcefully shoved the handle into the man's stomach, causing him to double over.
Dierdre threw a fireball at one of the other soldiers who tried to attack Amalthea from the side, causing the woman to jump back, but singed her robes. It was hard to tell what expression the woman was wearing, but her attention was on Dierdre as she attacked with a magic of her own. Dierdre countered it with a strong wind spell, but it left her defenses open, which another soldier tried to take advantage of.
Reynard was there immediately, sinking his knife into the man's side. With a twist, he brought him down, tearing the weapon free and ducking the broad swing from the next in line, a swordsman, by the look of things.
Knowing he'd be fine, Vridel focused down the mage, so that Deirdre and Thea could work together to handle the remaining soldier. A blast of light drew her attention from Deirdre, who immediately switched her focus to Thea's opponent. Vridel threw another, following it up with a jolt of electricity he'd picked up from studying with Senka and Cyril, and the mage was down.
The last soldier followed, and after checking over everyone to ensure that no emergency healing was necessary, they continued forward.
Cyril's group were making fast work of the unprepared thieves elsewhere; they'd even begun to advance up the other side. Mercer's team, still unseen, was providing steady cover fire, suppressing any enemy attempts at major charges or flanking maneuvers by harassing those who tried to get strategic advantage over the others.
They made some progress, Amalthea disarming a soldier every so often with Dierdre finishing them off. It seemed to be that Amalthea still did not wish to kill anyone, at least not yet, and was leaving that to Dierdre who seemed to have no problem finishing off their opponents. She turned her attention towards a mage who seemed to be throwing a lightning bolt in random directions, perhaps trying to locate Mercer's group, and threw Amyr at the mage. It hit the mage's arm, nearly cutting it off, however, it still hung off by some of the flesh. The mage screamed, causing Amalthea to wince lightly as an arrow pierced the mage's heart, silencing them.
He was going to have to talk to her about that.
When they'd managed to move up again, they were confronted by a small ring of soldiers, trying to act as a wall of sorts. A barricade so that Vridel and the others couldn't move any further. They were with a rather large and brutish looking man. He had gauntlets in his possession, perhaps a brawler. Amalthea pursed her lips together before she glanced in Vridel's direction. With a light nod, she and Dierdre were charging the group, Dierdre readying what seemed to be a miasma spell and Amalthea trying to get the attention of the others so that Dierdre had the time.
Reynard didn't need to be directed, really, and darted to the side, no doubt to begin whittling down the edges of the grouping. Keeping an eye on the other two, Vridel decided to do the same from the other side, and lunged, slashing a lightly-armored fighter over the abdomen. When she doubled over, clutching her wound, he followed through with a hard stroke to the back of her neck, blade cleaving into her spinal cord between two vertebrae and killing her instantly.
Flicking the blood from the blade, he shifted aside from the next incoming blow, a downward lance-stroke. The reach advantage would normally bother a swordsman, but Vridel was even before this a mage, and he shot a blast of fire directly for the spearman's chest. He reeled back, smoking, but did not quite fall. A well-placed arrow to the throat from somewhere behind Vridel finished him off.
This was taking too much time. Hopefully Cyril's group was having better luck.
From the looks of it, they were still making steady progress. Senka was wielding her sword, only resorting to magic when it looked like she needed to, however; Sylvi looked to be having a somewhat harder time against the mages. When she would advance, a mage would force her back with a lightning spell, and another would try to flank her with a fire spell. Senka looked like she was trying to cover Sylvi, but was dealing with her own opponents. An axe-wielder swung in her direction, forcing her to duck, however; it seemed that one of the mages took the opportunity to attack with a wind spell, Cutting Gale, from the looks of it. Sylvi was barely able to move in time, however; Senka repositioned them so that she took the hit, and not Sylvi.
The attack cut into the skin of her back, but she looked mostly unfazed by it, quickly turning around and summoning her Blizzard. Sylvi covered for her, hacking away at a soldier with the axe who attempted to take advantage of their distraction, and pursed her lips into a fine line. Dierdre looked worried for a second as her eyes landed on Sofia, but she managed to push back a mage who tried to take advantage of her brief distraction.
Amalthea was mostly still, defending against a taller, more muscular brute who seemed to be wailing on her with his own axe. She seemed to be able to take it, though, as she was still standing, defending as her eyes glanced for an opening.
Vridel found himself with a conundrum, and as ever decided to try both. Summoning up his magic, he called a spell he'd never used in a real fight before, directing the healing all the way across the field to Senka, and then again to Sylvi. The concentration required left him open, but Reynard covered smoothly, taking down the last of the opponents who wasn't Thea's.
Across the room, Cyril was juggling several soldiers at once. He managed to get some breathing room, though, hurling his javelin for the troublesome mage, hard enough to impale him rather entirely, before falling on the ones in front of him with his fists and his magic.
That, along with continuous suppressive arrow fire, was enough to get their group through and onto the top level of the dais first, where Vridel lost track of them. They'd be fine, now. They were mostly healed, and the Professor was in front. If anyone on the field was safe right now, it was them.
In the meantime, the rest of them had this fellow to deal with.
Dierdre turned her attention to the man who was still attacking Thea. She summoned a fire spell, and hurled it at the man. He didn't seem to have any trouble dodging it, though, and whirled around so that his attention was focused on Dierdre. Amalthea took the opportunity to hurl herself onto the man's back, digging Amyr in as well. The man didn't seem fazed by it, though, and merely reached behind him, grabbing Amalthea by her arm, and flipping her over his shoulders. Amyr was still stuck in his back as she landed with a hard thud.
He swung his axe downwards in a finishing motion, however; Dierdre mimicked Amalthea's earlier actions, flinging herself into the man's side in time that his axe missed Amalthea by a couple of inches. She rolled from underneath the man, and summoned Amyr back to her. Dierdre seemed to have abandoned her magic, though, in favor of her fists. She wasn't a physical fighter, though.
Fortunately, Reynard was there to assist, and while Vridel helped Thea back to her feet, Aymr in-hand, the other man got several quick stabs in on the enemy soldier, who miraculously still seemed to be standing.
Knowing that Thea was likely to balk at the idea of finishing him off, Vridel stepped forward to do it himself, plunging his blade into the man's lower back from behind, hard enough that emerged out the other side with a gout of blood. Setting his foot against the man's spine, he pushed him off at the same time as he pulled the sword, freeing it from his body as he toppled forward.
There was little time for relief. The ritual—
Vridel whirled even as the Professor landed a hard, barehanded blow on the mage attempting to unseal the casket. The robed man staggered backwards, but it seemed he'd already accomplished his aim. The lid of the sarcophagus was cracked, and he reached inside quickly, yanking out what seemed to be—a sword?
It had a longer blade than most, slightly serrated along one edge, with a thick crossguard. Vridel had seen enough relics to know one when he encountered it, and this seemed to be made of the same unusual material that all of them were. He doubted Cyril recognized it for what it was, but it had come out of Seiros's casket, so anyone could tell it was important.
The man attempted to swing it at the Professor, but he sidestepped the blow easily and caught one of the fellow's wrists, twisting and forcing him to drop the blade. Cyril caught it easily, but just when Vridel was going to warn him not to try and use it, the whole thing took on a crimson glow, one that seemed to catch the entire room by surprise.
The mage was the first to recover, trying to use this as leverage for a surprise attack, but the Professor caught him by the throat almost automatically, it seemed, a large hand applying pressure to the man's windpipe until he went slack. The glow of the sword died down at the same time, leaving Cyril looking rather, well... perplexed.
Vridel couldn't blame him for that.
Before anyone had a chance to say anything, Catherine and a couple of soldiers burst into the tombs, Thunderbrand at the ready. “Is the intruder here?!" she shouted, blinking in a confused manner at the group. “Oh," she began, her posture relaxing a bit, “looks like you have this under control." She turned her attention to both of the soldiers and gave them a command: “You! Round up any stragglers. We can't afford any more mistakes." The soldiers nodded their heads in unison and went to do as she commanded.
Amalthea walked next to Vridel, and touched his elbow lightly with her hand. “Are you alright?" she asked, clearly worried for his well-being and not her own. She had a streak of blood on her face, probably from when she stabbed the man in the back or when he'd flung his blood-covered axe in her direction. Senka was tending to the professor, Sylvi, and Sofia, and Dierdre was making her way towards their group, as well. Probably to check on Sofia.
Vridel exhaled quietly, nodding his head. Thoughtlessly, he reached up and dabbed the blood away from her face with his sleeve. It just didn't look right, there of all places, though he was sure he was wearing a fair bit of it himself. “I'm fine," he said quietly. “Didn't even get hit. What about you?"
She nodded her head. “I'm fine, too. See? Not... not a single scratch," she spread her arms out as if to show him that she was, indeed, fine. She winced slightly, though, but smiled through it. Her back was likely sore from when the man had thrown her to the ground. “I should probably go check on the others, too. Make sure they're alright. I'm sure Lady Rhea will want to see Professor," she stated, her eyes going towards Cyril.
“You're right, Amalthea," Catherine cut in, glancing between Vridel and Amalthea. “We're going to escort the prisoners to her; she wants your professor to come along as well, but," she paused, moving her gaze towards Cyril before she looked back at Vridel. “Perhaps you'd like to ask him to come. The others can tend to their wounds and get them looked after if you want to come, too," she seemed to suggest, directing the last part of the statement towards Vridel.
Brows furrowing, Vridel nodded slightly at Catherine. It wasn't a bad idea for someone to be there. Since he and Mercer were sharing information, it didn't much matter which one of them it was, but it might be slightly less suspicious if it wasn't always the same person. Calling a touch of healing to his hand, he placed it gently at Amalthea's back before stepping away smoothly.
“I think I will," he said, making his way towards the Professor.
Cyril showed not even the slightest inclination to disagree, and the two of them split off from the group to head for the Archbishop's office. She'd almost certainly be called away from the Rite for this, but it might take some time for that to be possible. Vridel wasn't exactly sure what was involved.
They took seats outside the area, Cyril still loosely holding the sword. “Be careful, when we're in there," he said, staring straight ahead with a rather flat expression. “The Archbishop doesn't seem to like you all very much."
“It's mutual," Vridel grumbled. “Though I can't imagine why she'd bother to form much of an opinion on most of us."
The Professor grimaced. “I think it might be my fault," he admitted. “I've... mentioned your merits, on more than one occasion. I don't think she likes it, for some reason."
Ordinarily such a thing would have seemed unbelievable, but Vridel had been there, in the common room that time. The Archbishop really did have some strange fixation on the Professor. It sounded like the sort of thing an obsessed lover would do—not want that someone to have connections of import with anyone else. Not healthy, by any means. But why the Archbishop, and why the Professor?
He doubted Cyril had any more idea than he did. “Sounds unnerving," he said quietly. Vridel understood a thing or two about obsession and being the object of it. Whether 'romantic' or not, it was disturbing in the extreme, and uncomfortable.
“It is."
There was no time to say more about it, though, for the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. Both of them stood as the Archbishop approached, a small group of the captured being led behind her in chains by some of the knights. Lyanna did not seem to be with her this time—maybe she was still in the Goddess Tower, doing whatever the Rite of Rebirth required.
Rhea's eyes were immediately on Vridel, a look of displeasure quickly flashing across her face before it disappeared. There was a different woman with her, this time, deep violet hair similar to the shade Senka had. Her eyes were rich, deep violet as well, nothing like Vridel's or Senka's. The woman glanced at Vridel, and then towards the archbishop before her eyes went to Cyril.
“Good, you're all here," she stated, inclining her head towards Cyril. “No time for proper introductions," she continued, speaking directly to Vridel and Cyril before her attention went to those in chains. “As all of you have committed a breach of faith, the archbishop will now pass judgment," she spoke, her voice and demeanor oddly calm. “Inciting a Kingdom noble to rebel, unlawful entry, the attempted assassination of the archbishop, and an attack on the Holy Mausoleum," she listed off what seemed to be their crimes. “It is unnecessary to go on, followers of the Western Church."
One of the priests looked shocked at the statement. “What?! We have nothing to do with the Western Church!" he shouted in defense, it seemed. The woman merely shook her head, though.
“You have already been identified, there is no need for your second-rate theater," Rhea spoke, her eyes narrowing at the priest. “Dishonoring a holy ceremony is worthy of death for a member of the church," she continued, pausing only to shift her gaze slightly towards Vridel and Cyril, “You are well past the hope of redemption. If you have any grace remaining, you will willingly offer your life as atonement for this crime."
The priest's face turned white as he tried to take a step back. “No!" he shouted, anger in his voice, “This isn't what we were told would happen! We've been deceived!" This statement seemed to anger the other woman, and she glared at the priest.
“It's no use arguing. Whatever your excuse, the punishment stands."
Vridel thought it was rather stupid to go ahead and pronounce such a judgment so swiftly. Even looking at it from the most brutal perspective, saying it now removed much of their incentive to talk, to explain who had hired them to do this, or tricked them into it, as they claimed. Unless, of course, the Archbishop had no need of such information because she already knew what they were going to say.
“Should we not at least hear them out?" The Professor inquired quietly. “Surely it's important to know if there are... further people targeting the Church?" He was careful to couch it in terms that would likely be acceptable to Rhea, Vridel noticed. Not at all a simpleton, their teacher. Certainly far from the typical thickheaded mercenary stereotype. But then, he'd known that for a while now.
“Wait! Please!" the man begged, his eyes almost pleading. “Listen to him! The goddess would never forgive you for our execution!" The other man to his side merely grimaced, though, and took a step forward.
“Monster!" he shouted, pointing a finger in Rhea's direction. “We know you've already slaughtered many of our fellow brethren like this!" he seemed to be accusing of her of murdering people before. Rhea did not look pleased with the accusation, and lifted her hand in a silencing motion.
“This concludes the investigation," she stated, malice in her voice, though it seemed disguised by a calmness she was known for, “Please remove these poor, lost souls from my sight." It was clearly a command. The soldiers bowed their heads and took the prisoners away, to await their fate. Rhea turned towards Vridel and Cyril, disappointed, perhaps, at Cyril's statement.
“They are from the Western Church. It is well-known that they have never appreciated the Central Church," she stated, her brows still furrowed.
Vridel barely avoided a skeptical snort. More like they tried for an iota of independence from the Archbishop. Not that he had any fondness for the Western Church. Not in the slightest.
Cyril pursed his lips, shaking his head faintly but apparently knowing better than to argue the point. “Ah, Archbishop. They were trying to get this, I think." Adjusting his grip on the blade, he extended it carefully towards her, handle-first.
Frankly, Vridel admired his courage. He'd have never handed the Archbishop his weapon, no matter how good he was with his hands.
She didn't look at all surprised when Cyril presented the sword. She merely smiled and shook her head. “I cannot thank you enough for defeating those invaders in the Holy Mausoleum, and especially for protecting the Sword of the Creator," she stated, inclining her head towards the sword Cyril held. “That sword is one of the Heroes' Relics, and the most precious artifact in the church's possession," her expression hardened for a second before she continued, “It is also a weapon of terrifying power." She smiled again, and glanced towards the woman still at her side.
“For now... I will entrust the sword to you. Please, use it wisely. I have faith that you will not be corrupted by the wickedness that once took Nemesis." She seemed to believe her own words. “Since his death, none have been able to wield the Sword of the Creator. None... until now. After all those long years of being sealed away, it has returned and found a new master," this seemed to please her, as her eyes softened with the smile on her face as she glanced at Cyril.
The Sword of the—
That Relic was the Sword of the Creator? And she was just letting the professor keep it?
Moreover, that he could even use it meant... well it meant he must somehow be related to Nemesis, the King of Liberation. Crests were hereditary, after all, unless...
Unless. Vridel would have to think about that one. The Professor's hair wasn't white, but his memory wasn't good, either, and maybe... hm. For the moment, he kept his silence, as the Archbishop surely expected.
“Since the two of you are already here, an update for next month's mission should suffice. Lord Kleiman of Faerghus has requested our aid. There have been unsettling rumors of late in the Kingdom near the Duscur region," she paused to regard Cyril before she continued, “of an unsightly beast. It has killed countless of the Lord's men and you and your students will go to eliminate it."
“A beast?" Cyril echoed. “Like wild wyvern or a bear or something?"
Vridel wasn't exactly sure what she meant by it, either. What a nonspecific way to put something like that.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Not exactly," she began, turning her attention towards the sword the professor had. “It is nothing that you will not be able to handle, especially now that you wield the Relic," she continued. She seemed to be putting a lot of faith in Cyril. “They claim it is a demonic beast, but none have returned alive to confirm this report. Nevertheless, I am certain there will be interested parties in visiting Duscur, after all." Her eyes narrowed slightly at that statement as if she were displeased with it.
“Unfortunately, most of the Knights of Seiros will be away from the monastery, purging the apostates of the Western Church. We are entrusting this mission to you, after all. The Sword of the Creator is a powerful weapon, well beyond the other Relics. If it happens to be a demonic beast, you have nothing to fear," she stated, her eyes glancing towards Vridel.
Demonic beast... those words had once been used to describe what had happened to the fallen hero Maurice, but even then he wasn't sure exactly what they meant. Besides that, that legend was from a thousand years ago. It was possible the Archbishop meant something different, but then why be so squirrelly about it? Something wasn't adding up here, though Vridel didn't know exactly what yet.
It may well be that there was only one way to find out.
“Duscur," Cyril said, his brows drawing down faintly. “I see. As you wish, Archbishop."
Dining Hall - Early Afternoon - Humid
Amalthea von Kreuz
Amalthea couldn't keep the smile off of her face. She was excited about the results of the written exams they took last month. Of course, they took the exams after their mission, and Amalthea had been extremely tired that day, however; she was excited to know how she did. The results had not been released yet, and she assumed that they were going to do it after classes, or after their lunch period. She supposed she could wait until then, however; she was looking forward to eating lunch with her friends. They didn't often sit together during their break, mostly because they were either busy studying at the library during this time, or getting some practice in.
Since they no longer needed to do that, Amalthea had suggested they meet in the dining hall for lunch. She grabbed a plate of the day's special, dried plums and fried gar, and happily made her way towards a table. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Professor Jeritza, and tilted her head curiously. He was hardly in the dinning hall; she assumed it was because there was always a lot of people. Thinking nothing much of it, she waved in his direction and made her way to a table, waiting for the others to appear. Mercer was the first, strangely enough, and he grinned at her, plate in hand as he set it down next to her.
“Hey, Thea," he greeted as she smiled at him. “Waiting for the others, I take it?" he continued. She nodded in response and hummed softly.
“You're the first one, here," she replied, watching as his grin shifted into something more mischievous.
“Lucky me, that means I get the best spot right next to you," he stated, bumping his shoulder into hers. She giggled softly at his statement. Sometimes he said the strangest things, but she didn't mind. They weren't enough to make her blush, at least.
Professor Cyril was next to arrive. As with the certifications the month before, he'd had to take these exams too, just to get caught up to speed with the Academy's other professors. He picked up a tray as well, exchanging several words with the head chef, who smiled brightly at him for some reason that Amalthea couldn't discern.
Making his way over to them, he took the seat across, giving them both a small nod. “Thea, Mercer. Excited for your results?"
Amalthea nodded her head at Professor, and hurriedly swallowed the plum that was in her mouth. “I am!" she stated, coughing lightly. She choked a little at the end of it, but managed to recover well-enough. “I'm a little nervous, too. I'm either going to be classified as an armored knight, or..." she pursed her lips together as she frowned, “I might have to take the exams again. I think I did well-enough, though, that I might have passed! What about you, Merc?"
“Hm, well, all things considered, I think I did really well. Written exams are way easier than the physical ones. They require less work," he replied, grinning in Amalthea's direction. She supposed that was true, but they did require a lot of studying. Didn't that count as work?
The Professor regarded Mercer with a slightly-raised eyebrow, but ultimately didn't offer comment on that. “I happen to have been given the results," he said. “For my class at least. I checked with the others, too, so I know how everyone in our Saturday group did. I thought perhaps we might wait and see who comes to lunch, so we could all discuss it then. I'd like to try something in advance of this month's mission if you're all so inclined."
No doubt if some of them had passed, they'd need to work on additional strategy to accommodate the fact that some people would be mounted, others flying, and so on.
It was at this point that Vridel appeared, visible first as a white spot in the corner of her eye. His hair really was easy to spot, even from all the way across a room. He took up a tray and the spot next to the Professor, frowning slightly.
“Not to suggest that you have a second unwelcome admirer, Professor, but Professor Jeritza is watching you."
“I know," Cyril said. “I believe he wants a duel."
Amalthea blinked in a confused manner. Professor Cyril had admirers? Unwelcomed or welcomed, she supposed that made sense. Professor Cyril was a handsome person, not as handsome as Vridel, of course, but nonetheless. She cleared her throat awkwardly, at best, and nodded her head. “I suppose that makes sense. We can wait a little longer for the others to arrive," she stated, earning a raised brow from Mercer. He seemed curious about something, but Amalthea refused to glance his way.
“Hopefully you have not waited long," Senka spoke, taking a seat next to Professor. It left little room for anyone else, and the next person either had to sit next to Mercer, or on Amalthea's other side. And Amalthea knew Sorcha was never far from where Senka was. “Has anyone received their results, yet?" she asked, apparently missing Professor's earlier statement.
“Nope, we're just waiting on everyone else. Teach, here, has our results so we're mostly just playing the waiting game, now," Mercer answered with a light shrug of his shoulders. Senka seemed satisfied with the answer as she huffed lightly and nodded her head.
Sorcha was indeed the next to arrive, looking slightly surprised when there was nowhere to sit next to Senka, perhaps. She hesitated a moment, then sat on the other side of Mercer with a soft hello to him, glancing around the table. “Sylvi and Devon send their apologies," she said, mostly speaking to Amathea, it seemed. “He has dish duty in the kitchen and she apparently needed to write her dad a letter about something right away. It seemed kind of urgent."
“Reynard's fishing," Vridel added, as if just remembering it. “He said he already knows what his results are, but thanks for checking for him, Professor." It was apparently unsurprising to him both that Cyril had checked and that Reynard already knew the fact.
“Aw, I was hoping everyone would be here," Amalthea murmured, furrowing her brows lightly. She supposed that it couldn't be helped, though. At least Sylvi and Devon would know later on in the day when they returned to class. “We'll just have to tell them when we go back," she stated happily. Mercer huffed lightly in his spoon, but didn't say anything. Senka glanced at Sorcha for a moment before she began pushing on her dried plums with her fork. It almost looked like she was either playing with them, or not at all hungry.
“So, Teach, how'd we do?" Mercer finally asked, glancing in Professor's direction.
“You all passed, of course," Cyril replied simply. “I wouldn't have wanted to tell you publicly if you hadn't. Everyone in the Saturday group has the classification they applied for. Including me, actually. I qualify as a grappler, now." That was a level above where they'd all tested into, but that made sense, of course. The Professor was an experienced mercenary, after all.
“Exellent," murmured Vridel. He'd actually taken exams for both the mercenary and mage classes, Amalthea knew, being unable to decide between the two. It had been rather a lot of studying; lots of times when the others had left for the night, he'd remained to keep at it. He always seemed to do things like that: like no matter what, there wasn't enough time for everything he wanted.
Sorcha, on the other hand, grinned brightly, a rare sight these days, and nudged Mercer with her elbow. “I guess this means we can apply to have Sir and Lady officially assigned to us," she said, referring to the wyvern and pegasus they'd taken to.
“Yep. We should probably do that as soon as possible. I mean, not like anyone else will put in for them, but the sooner the better, right?" Mercer spoke as he grinned in Sorcha's direction. He turned towards Senka, though, and tilted his head. One of those rare smiles Senka had, bloomed on her face as she heard the results. “You applied for cavalier, right? Did you decide on a mount, too?" he asked her. She nodded as her way of response.
“Libi," she replied, the smile still on her face. “His name is Libi," she seemed to clarify even though they knew what she was referring to. Amalthea, however, had a large smile on her face, and she couldn't resist the urge to do a little twirl. Since she was sitting, though, she opted for an excited giggle.
“I'm gonna be an armored knight! I can't wait to tell Lyanna!" she stated, bouncing a little in her seat.
“Congratulations," the Professor told her, before shifting his attention to the others. “All of you. Don't forget to pick up all the equipment they're issuing you. That'll be steel weapons for some of you, uniforms, and the like. Thea, you'll want to make sure to get them your measurements as soon as possible so you can have armor and a shield fitted accordingly. Piecemeal might be fine for practice, but you should have a full set for the actual field. We're not sure what we're up against this time, so everyone should be prepared."
Though that note was a little solemn, he seemed to relax a moment later. “As for what I was hoping to try—I thought it might make sense to reorganize ourselves a little. I want to try a battle-partners system. Obviously there will be times when we need to split up, but if you can all get used to working in minimal units of two, it should better our odds of success. It will take some extra work—I'll want to run each pair through extra drills, and since some of you aren't Blue Lions I won't be able to use class time for it. So it's only if you're willing."
“I don't see why that should be a problem. We don't have the exams or certs to study for, any longer, so we can use the days after our chores, or even Sundays as those days to practice," Mercer seemed to suggest. Amalthea nodded her head in agreement, and she knew Professor was right. The sooner she gave her measurements to the armorer, the sooner she could have her armor fitted to her, and she could train with it. She would have to get used to it, as with anything new that came there way.
“What is the mission, anyway, Teach? You said we're not sure what we're up against. What does Lady Rhea have us doing, now?" Mercer inquired. Amalthea would admit that she was curious. They hadn't been told their mission, yet.
“Apparently some sort of wild animal or creature is causing trouble in the Duscur region," he said quietly. “The exact nature of it is unclear from the reports. It's one of the reasons I want to start this strategy now: we don't know what we're up against, and so we need tactics that are good for most anything."
Sorcha chewed over a bite, looking at Senka with wide eyes.
The smile had disappeared from Senka's face, and she was staring intently at her plate. Amalthea didn't quite know why she seemed so upset. Senka was from Faerghus with Almyran ties, did she have some ties to the Duscur region, as well? “Hey, Sen, you alright?" Mercer was the first to speak, pursing his lips in her direction. She didn't regard him, and merely continued staring at her plate. She stood abruptly, though, grabbed her plate, and left without saying a word.
“Senka!" Amalthea called after her, but she was gone before anyone else could stop her. “I hope she's alright. Sorcha," she stated, turning towards Sorcha. “Is she alright? She looked... pale, almost." Sorcha must have known something, right? She and Senka were best friends, after all. She'd certainly known Senka longer than anyone at the table.
“Probably not," Sorcha said quietly. “Excuse me, everyone; I'm going to go talk to her."
“I'll take care of your tray," Vridel said with a small nod. Sorcha returned it before jogging off after Senka.
Cyril looked perhaps more troubled than Amalthea had ever seen him: his brow was furrowed, and a look of something akin to guilt crossed his face. “Perhaps I should have mentioned it to her first," he said lowly.
Amalthea was vaguely confused. Why would the professor have to mention it to Senka, first? She sighed, though, and shook her head. If there was a reason, she was certain Senka would tell them, eventually. They were all friends, right? Amalthea had even told them as such, if they needed someone to talk to, they could talk to her.
“She'll be fine, Thea. Don't worry too much about it. She has her best friend looking after her right now. She maybe has an upset stomach from the food she was playing with," Mercer stated as if trying to provide a reason. Amalthea didn't quite believe him, but she wasn't going to push the issue any further.
“Well, we should probably start planning our practice sessions, then. How about, we start them next Saturday after chores?" she suggested. Mercer groaned lightly.
“How about next Sunday? I'm still kind of sore from the last mission, you know," Mercer replied, grinning lightly.
“You barely did anything," Vridel groused.
“Hm, that may be true, but I did save your ass a couple of times with arrows, you know. Those aren't as easy as they look to pull back."
Amalthea rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Professor. “When do you think we should start, Professor? You're the one who will be training us, after all."
“Saturday might be preferable," he said. His tone was distant, as though he were still distracted by something. “As I believe the Sunday is an exchange day, yes?" He glanced up at her then, clearly referring to the cultural exchanges the others were doing to help her learn more about the outside world.
“Oh, that's right. I forgot," she replied. She seemed to forget things like that. It's not like they weren't important to her, because they were. She supposed her mind was on other things... other people. And she could feel a blush burning her cheeks. Mercer must have noticed as he grinned in her direction.
“Oh? Pleasant thought, there, Thea? Maybe... about something, or someone in particular?" Mercer spoke. Amalthea pursed her lips.
“You hush, Mercer von Riegan," she replied, puffing her cheeks out in his direction.
Vridel snorted softly. “And now the lady's said so. No gentleman could refuse, Mercer. So are you going to shut up or prove yourself a cad? Decisions, decisions." Though the words could be interpreted as harsh, he seemed to mean them in a friendly sort of way, if his light tone was anything to go by.
“Hm, indeed. Decisions, decisions. Guess I'm not as much of a gentleman as you thought," he replied, grinning in Amalthea's direction. At that moment, she wished she had a fish to throw at him.
Since they no longer needed to do that, Amalthea had suggested they meet in the dining hall for lunch. She grabbed a plate of the day's special, dried plums and fried gar, and happily made her way towards a table. From the corner of her eye, she spotted Professor Jeritza, and tilted her head curiously. He was hardly in the dinning hall; she assumed it was because there was always a lot of people. Thinking nothing much of it, she waved in his direction and made her way to a table, waiting for the others to appear. Mercer was the first, strangely enough, and he grinned at her, plate in hand as he set it down next to her.
“Hey, Thea," he greeted as she smiled at him. “Waiting for the others, I take it?" he continued. She nodded in response and hummed softly.
“You're the first one, here," she replied, watching as his grin shifted into something more mischievous.
“Lucky me, that means I get the best spot right next to you," he stated, bumping his shoulder into hers. She giggled softly at his statement. Sometimes he said the strangest things, but she didn't mind. They weren't enough to make her blush, at least.
Professor Cyril was next to arrive. As with the certifications the month before, he'd had to take these exams too, just to get caught up to speed with the Academy's other professors. He picked up a tray as well, exchanging several words with the head chef, who smiled brightly at him for some reason that Amalthea couldn't discern.
Making his way over to them, he took the seat across, giving them both a small nod. “Thea, Mercer. Excited for your results?"
Amalthea nodded her head at Professor, and hurriedly swallowed the plum that was in her mouth. “I am!" she stated, coughing lightly. She choked a little at the end of it, but managed to recover well-enough. “I'm a little nervous, too. I'm either going to be classified as an armored knight, or..." she pursed her lips together as she frowned, “I might have to take the exams again. I think I did well-enough, though, that I might have passed! What about you, Merc?"
“Hm, well, all things considered, I think I did really well. Written exams are way easier than the physical ones. They require less work," he replied, grinning in Amalthea's direction. She supposed that was true, but they did require a lot of studying. Didn't that count as work?
The Professor regarded Mercer with a slightly-raised eyebrow, but ultimately didn't offer comment on that. “I happen to have been given the results," he said. “For my class at least. I checked with the others, too, so I know how everyone in our Saturday group did. I thought perhaps we might wait and see who comes to lunch, so we could all discuss it then. I'd like to try something in advance of this month's mission if you're all so inclined."
No doubt if some of them had passed, they'd need to work on additional strategy to accommodate the fact that some people would be mounted, others flying, and so on.
It was at this point that Vridel appeared, visible first as a white spot in the corner of her eye. His hair really was easy to spot, even from all the way across a room. He took up a tray and the spot next to the Professor, frowning slightly.
“Not to suggest that you have a second unwelcome admirer, Professor, but Professor Jeritza is watching you."
“I know," Cyril said. “I believe he wants a duel."
Amalthea blinked in a confused manner. Professor Cyril had admirers? Unwelcomed or welcomed, she supposed that made sense. Professor Cyril was a handsome person, not as handsome as Vridel, of course, but nonetheless. She cleared her throat awkwardly, at best, and nodded her head. “I suppose that makes sense. We can wait a little longer for the others to arrive," she stated, earning a raised brow from Mercer. He seemed curious about something, but Amalthea refused to glance his way.
“Hopefully you have not waited long," Senka spoke, taking a seat next to Professor. It left little room for anyone else, and the next person either had to sit next to Mercer, or on Amalthea's other side. And Amalthea knew Sorcha was never far from where Senka was. “Has anyone received their results, yet?" she asked, apparently missing Professor's earlier statement.
“Nope, we're just waiting on everyone else. Teach, here, has our results so we're mostly just playing the waiting game, now," Mercer answered with a light shrug of his shoulders. Senka seemed satisfied with the answer as she huffed lightly and nodded her head.
Sorcha was indeed the next to arrive, looking slightly surprised when there was nowhere to sit next to Senka, perhaps. She hesitated a moment, then sat on the other side of Mercer with a soft hello to him, glancing around the table. “Sylvi and Devon send their apologies," she said, mostly speaking to Amathea, it seemed. “He has dish duty in the kitchen and she apparently needed to write her dad a letter about something right away. It seemed kind of urgent."
“Reynard's fishing," Vridel added, as if just remembering it. “He said he already knows what his results are, but thanks for checking for him, Professor." It was apparently unsurprising to him both that Cyril had checked and that Reynard already knew the fact.
“Aw, I was hoping everyone would be here," Amalthea murmured, furrowing her brows lightly. She supposed that it couldn't be helped, though. At least Sylvi and Devon would know later on in the day when they returned to class. “We'll just have to tell them when we go back," she stated happily. Mercer huffed lightly in his spoon, but didn't say anything. Senka glanced at Sorcha for a moment before she began pushing on her dried plums with her fork. It almost looked like she was either playing with them, or not at all hungry.
“So, Teach, how'd we do?" Mercer finally asked, glancing in Professor's direction.
“You all passed, of course," Cyril replied simply. “I wouldn't have wanted to tell you publicly if you hadn't. Everyone in the Saturday group has the classification they applied for. Including me, actually. I qualify as a grappler, now." That was a level above where they'd all tested into, but that made sense, of course. The Professor was an experienced mercenary, after all.
“Exellent," murmured Vridel. He'd actually taken exams for both the mercenary and mage classes, Amalthea knew, being unable to decide between the two. It had been rather a lot of studying; lots of times when the others had left for the night, he'd remained to keep at it. He always seemed to do things like that: like no matter what, there wasn't enough time for everything he wanted.
Sorcha, on the other hand, grinned brightly, a rare sight these days, and nudged Mercer with her elbow. “I guess this means we can apply to have Sir and Lady officially assigned to us," she said, referring to the wyvern and pegasus they'd taken to.
“Yep. We should probably do that as soon as possible. I mean, not like anyone else will put in for them, but the sooner the better, right?" Mercer spoke as he grinned in Sorcha's direction. He turned towards Senka, though, and tilted his head. One of those rare smiles Senka had, bloomed on her face as she heard the results. “You applied for cavalier, right? Did you decide on a mount, too?" he asked her. She nodded as her way of response.
“Libi," she replied, the smile still on her face. “His name is Libi," she seemed to clarify even though they knew what she was referring to. Amalthea, however, had a large smile on her face, and she couldn't resist the urge to do a little twirl. Since she was sitting, though, she opted for an excited giggle.
“I'm gonna be an armored knight! I can't wait to tell Lyanna!" she stated, bouncing a little in her seat.
“Congratulations," the Professor told her, before shifting his attention to the others. “All of you. Don't forget to pick up all the equipment they're issuing you. That'll be steel weapons for some of you, uniforms, and the like. Thea, you'll want to make sure to get them your measurements as soon as possible so you can have armor and a shield fitted accordingly. Piecemeal might be fine for practice, but you should have a full set for the actual field. We're not sure what we're up against this time, so everyone should be prepared."
Though that note was a little solemn, he seemed to relax a moment later. “As for what I was hoping to try—I thought it might make sense to reorganize ourselves a little. I want to try a battle-partners system. Obviously there will be times when we need to split up, but if you can all get used to working in minimal units of two, it should better our odds of success. It will take some extra work—I'll want to run each pair through extra drills, and since some of you aren't Blue Lions I won't be able to use class time for it. So it's only if you're willing."
“I don't see why that should be a problem. We don't have the exams or certs to study for, any longer, so we can use the days after our chores, or even Sundays as those days to practice," Mercer seemed to suggest. Amalthea nodded her head in agreement, and she knew Professor was right. The sooner she gave her measurements to the armorer, the sooner she could have her armor fitted to her, and she could train with it. She would have to get used to it, as with anything new that came there way.
“What is the mission, anyway, Teach? You said we're not sure what we're up against. What does Lady Rhea have us doing, now?" Mercer inquired. Amalthea would admit that she was curious. They hadn't been told their mission, yet.
“Apparently some sort of wild animal or creature is causing trouble in the Duscur region," he said quietly. “The exact nature of it is unclear from the reports. It's one of the reasons I want to start this strategy now: we don't know what we're up against, and so we need tactics that are good for most anything."
Sorcha chewed over a bite, looking at Senka with wide eyes.
The smile had disappeared from Senka's face, and she was staring intently at her plate. Amalthea didn't quite know why she seemed so upset. Senka was from Faerghus with Almyran ties, did she have some ties to the Duscur region, as well? “Hey, Sen, you alright?" Mercer was the first to speak, pursing his lips in her direction. She didn't regard him, and merely continued staring at her plate. She stood abruptly, though, grabbed her plate, and left without saying a word.
“Senka!" Amalthea called after her, but she was gone before anyone else could stop her. “I hope she's alright. Sorcha," she stated, turning towards Sorcha. “Is she alright? She looked... pale, almost." Sorcha must have known something, right? She and Senka were best friends, after all. She'd certainly known Senka longer than anyone at the table.
“Probably not," Sorcha said quietly. “Excuse me, everyone; I'm going to go talk to her."
“I'll take care of your tray," Vridel said with a small nod. Sorcha returned it before jogging off after Senka.
Cyril looked perhaps more troubled than Amalthea had ever seen him: his brow was furrowed, and a look of something akin to guilt crossed his face. “Perhaps I should have mentioned it to her first," he said lowly.
Amalthea was vaguely confused. Why would the professor have to mention it to Senka, first? She sighed, though, and shook her head. If there was a reason, she was certain Senka would tell them, eventually. They were all friends, right? Amalthea had even told them as such, if they needed someone to talk to, they could talk to her.
“She'll be fine, Thea. Don't worry too much about it. She has her best friend looking after her right now. She maybe has an upset stomach from the food she was playing with," Mercer stated as if trying to provide a reason. Amalthea didn't quite believe him, but she wasn't going to push the issue any further.
“Well, we should probably start planning our practice sessions, then. How about, we start them next Saturday after chores?" she suggested. Mercer groaned lightly.
“How about next Sunday? I'm still kind of sore from the last mission, you know," Mercer replied, grinning lightly.
“You barely did anything," Vridel groused.
“Hm, that may be true, but I did save your ass a couple of times with arrows, you know. Those aren't as easy as they look to pull back."
Amalthea rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Professor. “When do you think we should start, Professor? You're the one who will be training us, after all."
“Saturday might be preferable," he said. His tone was distant, as though he were still distracted by something. “As I believe the Sunday is an exchange day, yes?" He glanced up at her then, clearly referring to the cultural exchanges the others were doing to help her learn more about the outside world.
“Oh, that's right. I forgot," she replied. She seemed to forget things like that. It's not like they weren't important to her, because they were. She supposed her mind was on other things... other people. And she could feel a blush burning her cheeks. Mercer must have noticed as he grinned in her direction.
“Oh? Pleasant thought, there, Thea? Maybe... about something, or someone in particular?" Mercer spoke. Amalthea pursed her lips.
“You hush, Mercer von Riegan," she replied, puffing her cheeks out in his direction.
Vridel snorted softly. “And now the lady's said so. No gentleman could refuse, Mercer. So are you going to shut up or prove yourself a cad? Decisions, decisions." Though the words could be interpreted as harsh, he seemed to mean them in a friendly sort of way, if his light tone was anything to go by.
“Hm, indeed. Decisions, decisions. Guess I'm not as much of a gentleman as you thought," he replied, grinning in Amalthea's direction. At that moment, she wished she had a fish to throw at him.
Professor Hanneman's Office - Afternoon - Hot
Cyril Eisner
Cyril knocked lightly on the doorframe leading into Professor Hanneman's office, clearing his throat expectantly. It would seem news had gotten around about the whole 'Sword of the Creator' business, and while he wasn't entirely sure what to make of it himself, it had apparently granted the other professor some insight into his Crest. He supposed that made sense, since Relics and Crests were closely related.
Peering inside, he could see that Professor Manuela was present as well, draped sideways over Professor Hanneman's chair and apparently quite contentedly filing her nails while their colleague searched through some of his research notes. She looked up and smiled when he knocked. “Oh, Cyril! Please do come in; don't mind him, he's just getting his thoughts together. At his age, it takes a while." She smiled, genuine and bright, rolling her eyes playfully at Hanneman's back.
“I'll have you know my ears still work, Manuela."
“That's news to me," she drawled.
He stepped in, sure enough that Hanneman wouldn't mind Manuela asking him in on his behalf. He'd noticed they tended to bicker a lot, but there seemed to be a trust underneath it. He'd assumed them married when first he met them, though he'd since learned this was not actually the case. He didn't know if they were involved or not, but in either case there was a certain harmony to the way they interacted that belied the surface-level contradictions in their personalities. Perhaps that was just what happened when two people worked closely together for long enough.
“Please, ignore her. It is her birthday today and she has seen fit to spend it harrassing me," Hanneman spoke, clearing his throat as he regarded Cyril. “Thank you for coming, Professor. I've heard much about you, lately," he began, his eyes narrowing in Manuela's direction before he continued, “Specifically, that you were able to awaken the Sword of the Creator's power. Thusly, it seems the true nature of your Crest has been uncovered."
“I had, of course, seen your Crest before, however; I faild to recognize its true nature, at first. Eventually, it dawned on me that what is visible is perhaps merely a small part of a greater whole," he paused to shoot a glance in Manuela's direction, eyes narrowed slightly before he turned back to Cyril.
“In other words, your Crest is too significant to be detected when using normal instruments."
“Do mark the moment, Cyril," Manuela said with a sniff. “Hanneman's just admitted he doesn't always know best. It probably won't ever happen again, so you really should consider this an occasion. I, for one, will be considering it a little birthday gift."
They were certainly... something. “Happy birthday, Professor Manuela," he said first.
She grinned at him. “You don't have to use titles with us, dear. We're colleagues, after all. Please, do just call me Manuela."
He nodded, which seemed to be sufficient to satisfy her, then turned to Hanneman. “I don't really understand," he admitted. “The Archbishop said the Sword was much stronger than other Relics; can Crests be more or less significant as well? I know there are Major and Minor ones, but I thought that was just variance within the same Crest."
“Yes, well," he began, folding a hand beneath his chin. “It is speculated that Major Crests and Minor Crests differ depending on how strongly the bloodline runs in that particular person. The stronger the bloodline, it is more likely that a person will inherit a Major Crest. Minor Crests usually mean that the bloodline is present, but distant."
“After this discovery, though, I began researching Crests that might fit the description of yours. It allowed for a temporary hypothesis," he stated, inclining his head towards Cyril. “I could not be certain, however. The Crest my conclusions led me to was far too unusual." He closed his eyes for a moment as if some inner turmoil was plaguing him. “A Crest thought to have disappeared from this world in the millennium since the fall of Nemesis, the King of Liberation. What you possess... it's the Crest of Flames." He opened his eyes, a strange mirth to them, as he grinned at Cyril.
“Your ability to wield the Sword of the Creator has unequivocally proven my hypothesis. A legendary power, dormant since time immemorial, and now resurrected..." Hanneman sounded rather excited about the prospect of such a Crest existing. “There can be no doubt that this ancient power resides within you."
“Well, aren't you special?" Manuela sounded more amused than anything, perhaps at Hanneman's excitement. “Don't go letting it get to your head, now."
Cyril certainly wasn't planning on it. As far as news went, he wasn't so sure this was the good kind. After all... Maurice's Crest was considered a curse, and all he did was overstrain himself fighting for the side the Church considered right. According to the story Sorcha had told him, Nemesis was quite literally the thing all those people were fighting against. He could understand why Hanneman would be so interested—he likely didn't care—but why on earth would Rhea treat this as though it were good news? Especially considering the way she treated those she believed were against the Church?
Manuela regarded him sympathetically, perhaps sensing the direction of his thoughts. “Try not to let it bother you," she said simply. “There are very few people who believe the ancestors who first bore Crests have any impact on the kind of people their descendants are today. Honestly not everyone cares about Crests at all in the first place; I certainly don't." She glanced almost mischievously at Hanneman there, as though she were expecting an entertaining response.
Hanneman regarded her with a flat stare. “Don't be absurd, of course they have no impact on their descendants. You cannot pass on personality traits through a Crest, after all," Hanneman retorted, pursing his lips in Manuela's direction. “And you wouldn't care about Crests because you do not bear one. I study them so as to see how we can achieve a way not to rely on them," he answered, his eyes narrowing lightly in the process.
“For what it's worth, having the Goddess' Crest is not entirely without merit. How you came to possess it, though, is a rather intriguing detail. I must research, further. Could it be that Nemesis had a descendant, lost to the pages of history?" The idea seemed exciting to him. “But do not let us keep you, Cyril. If I come across anything further, I will be sure to let you know.
“I suppose we should go and see about your birthday cake, Manuela," he stated, a faint color dusting his cheeks. It disappeared just as quickly, though, as if it were never there to begin with.
Manuela smiled the cat's own grin, putting away her nail file and standing. “Hmm, I could get behind that idea," she replied. “See you around, Cyril."
With a wink, she took her leave behind Hanneman, and Cyril exited as well, so the other man could lock his office door. Choosing a random route through the monastery, he began to walk, seeking out the place in his head the girl resided. It was difficult, for him to find her, whereas she seemed to be able to speak to him whenever she wanted.
As it happened, she seemed to be interested enough now to answer the summons.
The Goddess's Crest, she said, sounding more perplexed than anything. Why would you of all people bear such a thing, I wonder. And what does it mean that this Nemesis person had it, if he was supposedly the enemy of this Church's founder?
There's also the fact that the Goddess's name meant something to you. Or me, or... us. Sometimes, the distinction wasn't entirely clear to him, to be honest. Especially considering that they were both missing what seemed to be large pieces of their memories. And that one or both of us recognized that canyon...
Where the goddess supposedly alighted, yes, the girl replied, sounding almost distracted to him. I feel as though the answer is close, and yet... I fear that if we push for it, it might be like last time. She could only be referring to the splitting pain in his head; it seemed she didn't want to put him through it if it were avoidable. He supposed that was something to be grateful for, although—
Perhaps tonight, he said, expelling a breath. If there's no one around and I can sleep afterwards, it shouldn't be that bad.
He felt her silent agreement, and then she receded to the back of his mind again. He'd wound up in the courtyard, unsurprisingly, and at the moment it seemed to be occupied by a few of his students. Sorcha and Amalthea were there, along with Mercer and Vridel. The others must be elsewhere.
Immediately, he felt that strange sense of warmth that seeing them so often provoked, though it felt as well like something was missing, and he identified the cause with a stab of unfamiliar guilt. Senka. He really should have pulled her aside and told her first about the mission—he felt like a fool for not doing so.
“Professor!" It would seem that Sorcha had noticed him; she waved him over with a small smile.
Without any reason to refuse, he joined them, taking a seat beside Vridel. “Perhaps you might have some input, Professor," the prince said by way of greeting. “We are attempting to plan birthday festivities for Senka. Apparently hers is three days hence."
“I'm thinking it should be small," Sorcha said. “Maybe just us here, even, but... I'm kind of stumped on what to do. She's not really much of a party person, usually, and I don't want to make her do anything she's uncomfortable with. Normally at home we'd just go out in Fhirdiad for a day but... there's not really much of the same stuff to do here."
"Would she enjoy an afternoon outside the Monastery?" he asked. "The far side of the lake might be a peaceful area."
Sorcha's eyes widened. “There's a field," she murmured, glancing once at Mercer before quickly looking away. “With lots of wildflowers. We used to swim a lot when we were kids, maybe... maybe we could pack a lunch and spend the day by the lake?"
“Would there be swimming involved?" Amalthea asked, her brows furrowed lightly. Mercer snorted softly and nodded his head.
“I'm sure there would be if there's a lake," he responded, causing the furrow to deepen. “Why, Thea? Afraid of the water?" he stated, raising an amused brow in her direction. Amalthea narrowed her eyes at him.
“I can't swim," she murmured.
“Well I'm sure some of us can teach you, if you'd like."
Cyril nodded his agreement, as did Sorcha. Swimming was something he knew how to do, though oddly he couldn't remember learning, exactly.
“And you don't have to swim," Sorcha pointed out. “We can bring other things to do, like field games and things." She seemed to be getting excited about the prospect. “I don't think Senka's ever really been a gift person, but I saw this scarf down at the market the other day if anyone wants to chip in for a group gift. It's really colorful—I know she'll like it."
“Certainly," Vridel agreed.
Cyril made a soft noise of affirmation, though he thought he had another idea as well. He didn't think both would be too much; he'd gotten Sorcha something for hers, too, though he'd waited until after the others had cleared away from the party to give it. He planned to make sure everyone he taught got something on their birthdays, or at least at the end of the year if he missed the right day.
“Oh, I'll chip in, too!" Amalthea stated. Mercer nodded his head as well in agreement. “We should probably not surprise her, though. Senka doesn't look like the type who likes surprise birthdays. How are we going to convince her to come with us?" Amalthea asked. Mercer seemed to have an idea as he grinned rather widely.
“We get Teach to do it. Or Sorcha, one of the two," Mercer spoke, causing Amalthea to smile. “I'm sure she wouldn't refuse Teach if he asked, and of course she wouldn't say no to Sorcha at all, right?" he continued, winking in Sorcha's direction.
Sorcha seemed to consider this for a moment. “Well I don't want to surprise her on the spot," she agreed, “but I would like it to be kind of spontaneous, for her. But that means I'll have to do a lot of the setup earlier in the day. Maybe if the rest of you can help me, Professor Cyril wouldn't mind explaining the situation closer to the time and asking her to come?"
He was sort of surprised so much confidence was being placed in him, here. Persuasiveness was not a trait he'd ever been accused of having before, but he supposed Senka was a reasonable person and probably wouldn't mind a quiet afternoon with a few friends like this. It shouldn't be too difficult to convince her, he hoped.
"I'll try," he said with a small nod.
“Oh, trust me, Teach, you won't have to try very hard," Mercer retorted, rolling his eyes slightly before he turned and grinned at Vridel as if the Prince would catch on to what he said. “So, we have three days to do this. Thea, I love you and all, but please try not to get too excited about it and accidentally let it slip, alright?" he stated, causing Amalthea to give him a flat stare.
“I'm not the one who admitted to trying to kiss a fish. It's no wonder you and Sir Ladon get a long so well," was her flat response. Mercer laughed at the response, either not ashamed of it or taking it in a completely different way.
Vridel snorted, far more amused by this exchange than it seemed to really warrant.
Cyril figured it was something only he and Mercer knew about, but in any case he was... oddly happy to see them enjoying themselves. It had a way of making the rest of it seem to matter less.
Peering inside, he could see that Professor Manuela was present as well, draped sideways over Professor Hanneman's chair and apparently quite contentedly filing her nails while their colleague searched through some of his research notes. She looked up and smiled when he knocked. “Oh, Cyril! Please do come in; don't mind him, he's just getting his thoughts together. At his age, it takes a while." She smiled, genuine and bright, rolling her eyes playfully at Hanneman's back.
“I'll have you know my ears still work, Manuela."
“That's news to me," she drawled.
He stepped in, sure enough that Hanneman wouldn't mind Manuela asking him in on his behalf. He'd noticed they tended to bicker a lot, but there seemed to be a trust underneath it. He'd assumed them married when first he met them, though he'd since learned this was not actually the case. He didn't know if they were involved or not, but in either case there was a certain harmony to the way they interacted that belied the surface-level contradictions in their personalities. Perhaps that was just what happened when two people worked closely together for long enough.
“Please, ignore her. It is her birthday today and she has seen fit to spend it harrassing me," Hanneman spoke, clearing his throat as he regarded Cyril. “Thank you for coming, Professor. I've heard much about you, lately," he began, his eyes narrowing in Manuela's direction before he continued, “Specifically, that you were able to awaken the Sword of the Creator's power. Thusly, it seems the true nature of your Crest has been uncovered."
“I had, of course, seen your Crest before, however; I faild to recognize its true nature, at first. Eventually, it dawned on me that what is visible is perhaps merely a small part of a greater whole," he paused to shoot a glance in Manuela's direction, eyes narrowed slightly before he turned back to Cyril.
“In other words, your Crest is too significant to be detected when using normal instruments."
“Do mark the moment, Cyril," Manuela said with a sniff. “Hanneman's just admitted he doesn't always know best. It probably won't ever happen again, so you really should consider this an occasion. I, for one, will be considering it a little birthday gift."
They were certainly... something. “Happy birthday, Professor Manuela," he said first.
She grinned at him. “You don't have to use titles with us, dear. We're colleagues, after all. Please, do just call me Manuela."
He nodded, which seemed to be sufficient to satisfy her, then turned to Hanneman. “I don't really understand," he admitted. “The Archbishop said the Sword was much stronger than other Relics; can Crests be more or less significant as well? I know there are Major and Minor ones, but I thought that was just variance within the same Crest."
“Yes, well," he began, folding a hand beneath his chin. “It is speculated that Major Crests and Minor Crests differ depending on how strongly the bloodline runs in that particular person. The stronger the bloodline, it is more likely that a person will inherit a Major Crest. Minor Crests usually mean that the bloodline is present, but distant."
“After this discovery, though, I began researching Crests that might fit the description of yours. It allowed for a temporary hypothesis," he stated, inclining his head towards Cyril. “I could not be certain, however. The Crest my conclusions led me to was far too unusual." He closed his eyes for a moment as if some inner turmoil was plaguing him. “A Crest thought to have disappeared from this world in the millennium since the fall of Nemesis, the King of Liberation. What you possess... it's the Crest of Flames." He opened his eyes, a strange mirth to them, as he grinned at Cyril.
“Your ability to wield the Sword of the Creator has unequivocally proven my hypothesis. A legendary power, dormant since time immemorial, and now resurrected..." Hanneman sounded rather excited about the prospect of such a Crest existing. “There can be no doubt that this ancient power resides within you."
“Well, aren't you special?" Manuela sounded more amused than anything, perhaps at Hanneman's excitement. “Don't go letting it get to your head, now."
Cyril certainly wasn't planning on it. As far as news went, he wasn't so sure this was the good kind. After all... Maurice's Crest was considered a curse, and all he did was overstrain himself fighting for the side the Church considered right. According to the story Sorcha had told him, Nemesis was quite literally the thing all those people were fighting against. He could understand why Hanneman would be so interested—he likely didn't care—but why on earth would Rhea treat this as though it were good news? Especially considering the way she treated those she believed were against the Church?
Manuela regarded him sympathetically, perhaps sensing the direction of his thoughts. “Try not to let it bother you," she said simply. “There are very few people who believe the ancestors who first bore Crests have any impact on the kind of people their descendants are today. Honestly not everyone cares about Crests at all in the first place; I certainly don't." She glanced almost mischievously at Hanneman there, as though she were expecting an entertaining response.
Hanneman regarded her with a flat stare. “Don't be absurd, of course they have no impact on their descendants. You cannot pass on personality traits through a Crest, after all," Hanneman retorted, pursing his lips in Manuela's direction. “And you wouldn't care about Crests because you do not bear one. I study them so as to see how we can achieve a way not to rely on them," he answered, his eyes narrowing lightly in the process.
“For what it's worth, having the Goddess' Crest is not entirely without merit. How you came to possess it, though, is a rather intriguing detail. I must research, further. Could it be that Nemesis had a descendant, lost to the pages of history?" The idea seemed exciting to him. “But do not let us keep you, Cyril. If I come across anything further, I will be sure to let you know.
“I suppose we should go and see about your birthday cake, Manuela," he stated, a faint color dusting his cheeks. It disappeared just as quickly, though, as if it were never there to begin with.
Manuela smiled the cat's own grin, putting away her nail file and standing. “Hmm, I could get behind that idea," she replied. “See you around, Cyril."
With a wink, she took her leave behind Hanneman, and Cyril exited as well, so the other man could lock his office door. Choosing a random route through the monastery, he began to walk, seeking out the place in his head the girl resided. It was difficult, for him to find her, whereas she seemed to be able to speak to him whenever she wanted.
As it happened, she seemed to be interested enough now to answer the summons.
The Goddess's Crest, she said, sounding more perplexed than anything. Why would you of all people bear such a thing, I wonder. And what does it mean that this Nemesis person had it, if he was supposedly the enemy of this Church's founder?
There's also the fact that the Goddess's name meant something to you. Or me, or... us. Sometimes, the distinction wasn't entirely clear to him, to be honest. Especially considering that they were both missing what seemed to be large pieces of their memories. And that one or both of us recognized that canyon...
Where the goddess supposedly alighted, yes, the girl replied, sounding almost distracted to him. I feel as though the answer is close, and yet... I fear that if we push for it, it might be like last time. She could only be referring to the splitting pain in his head; it seemed she didn't want to put him through it if it were avoidable. He supposed that was something to be grateful for, although—
Perhaps tonight, he said, expelling a breath. If there's no one around and I can sleep afterwards, it shouldn't be that bad.
He felt her silent agreement, and then she receded to the back of his mind again. He'd wound up in the courtyard, unsurprisingly, and at the moment it seemed to be occupied by a few of his students. Sorcha and Amalthea were there, along with Mercer and Vridel. The others must be elsewhere.
Immediately, he felt that strange sense of warmth that seeing them so often provoked, though it felt as well like something was missing, and he identified the cause with a stab of unfamiliar guilt. Senka. He really should have pulled her aside and told her first about the mission—he felt like a fool for not doing so.
“Professor!" It would seem that Sorcha had noticed him; she waved him over with a small smile.
Without any reason to refuse, he joined them, taking a seat beside Vridel. “Perhaps you might have some input, Professor," the prince said by way of greeting. “We are attempting to plan birthday festivities for Senka. Apparently hers is three days hence."
“I'm thinking it should be small," Sorcha said. “Maybe just us here, even, but... I'm kind of stumped on what to do. She's not really much of a party person, usually, and I don't want to make her do anything she's uncomfortable with. Normally at home we'd just go out in Fhirdiad for a day but... there's not really much of the same stuff to do here."
"Would she enjoy an afternoon outside the Monastery?" he asked. "The far side of the lake might be a peaceful area."
Sorcha's eyes widened. “There's a field," she murmured, glancing once at Mercer before quickly looking away. “With lots of wildflowers. We used to swim a lot when we were kids, maybe... maybe we could pack a lunch and spend the day by the lake?"
“Would there be swimming involved?" Amalthea asked, her brows furrowed lightly. Mercer snorted softly and nodded his head.
“I'm sure there would be if there's a lake," he responded, causing the furrow to deepen. “Why, Thea? Afraid of the water?" he stated, raising an amused brow in her direction. Amalthea narrowed her eyes at him.
“I can't swim," she murmured.
“Well I'm sure some of us can teach you, if you'd like."
Cyril nodded his agreement, as did Sorcha. Swimming was something he knew how to do, though oddly he couldn't remember learning, exactly.
“And you don't have to swim," Sorcha pointed out. “We can bring other things to do, like field games and things." She seemed to be getting excited about the prospect. “I don't think Senka's ever really been a gift person, but I saw this scarf down at the market the other day if anyone wants to chip in for a group gift. It's really colorful—I know she'll like it."
“Certainly," Vridel agreed.
Cyril made a soft noise of affirmation, though he thought he had another idea as well. He didn't think both would be too much; he'd gotten Sorcha something for hers, too, though he'd waited until after the others had cleared away from the party to give it. He planned to make sure everyone he taught got something on their birthdays, or at least at the end of the year if he missed the right day.
“Oh, I'll chip in, too!" Amalthea stated. Mercer nodded his head as well in agreement. “We should probably not surprise her, though. Senka doesn't look like the type who likes surprise birthdays. How are we going to convince her to come with us?" Amalthea asked. Mercer seemed to have an idea as he grinned rather widely.
“We get Teach to do it. Or Sorcha, one of the two," Mercer spoke, causing Amalthea to smile. “I'm sure she wouldn't refuse Teach if he asked, and of course she wouldn't say no to Sorcha at all, right?" he continued, winking in Sorcha's direction.
Sorcha seemed to consider this for a moment. “Well I don't want to surprise her on the spot," she agreed, “but I would like it to be kind of spontaneous, for her. But that means I'll have to do a lot of the setup earlier in the day. Maybe if the rest of you can help me, Professor Cyril wouldn't mind explaining the situation closer to the time and asking her to come?"
He was sort of surprised so much confidence was being placed in him, here. Persuasiveness was not a trait he'd ever been accused of having before, but he supposed Senka was a reasonable person and probably wouldn't mind a quiet afternoon with a few friends like this. It shouldn't be too difficult to convince her, he hoped.
"I'll try," he said with a small nod.
“Oh, trust me, Teach, you won't have to try very hard," Mercer retorted, rolling his eyes slightly before he turned and grinned at Vridel as if the Prince would catch on to what he said. “So, we have three days to do this. Thea, I love you and all, but please try not to get too excited about it and accidentally let it slip, alright?" he stated, causing Amalthea to give him a flat stare.
“I'm not the one who admitted to trying to kiss a fish. It's no wonder you and Sir Ladon get a long so well," was her flat response. Mercer laughed at the response, either not ashamed of it or taking it in a completely different way.
Vridel snorted, far more amused by this exchange than it seemed to really warrant.
Cyril figured it was something only he and Mercer knew about, but in any case he was... oddly happy to see them enjoying themselves. It had a way of making the rest of it seem to matter less.
Garreg Mach Monastery (Courtyard) - Late Morning - Clear
Senka Rinaldi
Senka took in a deep breath, clearing her mind as best as she could. Today was not a particularly fond day for her; her birthday never was, after what happened. It was only two years ago that she'd told Sorcha when her day of birth actually was. Sorcha had been rather adamant at finding out, and Senka had finally given in. Part of her hoped that it would be forgotten, that Sorcha wouldn't insist on celebrating it in some fashion, but she never did. This year, though, perhaps would be the year. She had not seen Sorcha all day, nor any of her other friends. She was highly suspicious at first, but then she began to think that they finally wised-up; that they no longer wanted to spend time with her.
That was for the best, perhaps.
She was worthless to them; she didn't matter. That thought alone brought a strange, cold comfort to her. Shaking the thought from her head, she made her way across the courtyard, ignoring the way the other students were staring at her. She was used to it, she had to be. Spending today, alone, would be for the best, or so she thought. With that in mind, she decided to make her way towards the Greenhouse. She had heard that they had received a shipment of Duscur flower seeds, and weren't exactly sure what to do with them. She knew that certain flower seeds required certain environments, and a part of her wanted to share those beautiful flowers with the world.
Maybe that could be her gift to herself?
When she reached the greenhouse, however, it was to find that someone was already at work planting the new seeds in a far corner. Cyril was sitting on his knees, a book open in one hand and the drawstring of a seed pouch dangling from the index finger of another. He glanced up as she entered, expression softening in that way that was almost a smile.
“I thought you might be by," he said with a small nod. “I only just heard about this shipment yesterday, but I suppose you can imagine why they caught my attention." He extended the bag towards her, as if inviting her to take it for herself. “I read that these need special conditions to flourish, so I asked the greenhouse keeper to make sure this section doesn't get over-watered, and the soil type should be right for a cold, mineral-rich desert."
Senka was genuinely surprised. She wasn't expecting to see Cyril in the greenhouse, let alone planting the seeds from her country. She felt her eyes narrow slightly as she took the bag from him. “Why... you didn't have to do that," she murmured softly, holding the bag closer to herself. It would have been fine if no one else did this, but that he was doing it, well... it seemed to warm something in her heart. She wasn't quite sure what it was, so she shook her head, instead.
“Thank you," she opted to say that, instead. “A few of these flowers do not require water, though. They thrive in dry soil," she decided to explain. “If you water them, you'll kill them," she continued, placing the bag down.
He inclined his head, pointing at the section of soil closest to the wall. “Well then if you'll teach me which those are, we can plant them here, and tell her not to water that part at all."
He paused a moment, looking back at her with something akin to hesitation. “I... wanted to apologize," he murmured. “I should have mentioned the mission to you before everyone else. I'd even thought to do it, but then it came up at the table and... I'm sorry." He seemed genuinely contrite, a line appearing between his brows as he regarded her steadily.
Senka shook her head. “It is no fault of your own. You shouldn't have to apologize for something like that, I... I shouldn't have reacted that way. I am sorry," she stated, bowing deeply as she did. She stayed that way for a moment longer before she straightened her posture back up. “It's just... it's been a long time since I last saw Duscur. I... didn't know if I was ready or not to see it again, but I want to," she muttered softly. She wanted to see her homeland, where she grew up, and to see how the people were doing.
There were only a handful of survivors, but she didn't know if they were okay, or if they were suffering under Kleiman's rule. It hurt to know there was nothing she could do for them. She was their princess, and she could do nothing. “You shouldn't put it that way, though," she added, trying to smile softly in his direction. “I am no one special that you should have mentioned anything to. The fact that it was related to Duscur should have had no priority as to whether or not I was told first."
She didn't understand why he would think that, in the first place. She had told him of her heritage, but not because she wanted him to be delicate around the matter. On the contrary, she trusted him enough to tell him that because she wanted him to know who she was. If he knew, then maybe... maybe he wouldn't have wanted her as a student or a friend. But that did not seem the case.
“Of course you are," Cyril replied bluntly. “You deserve the same consideration as anyone else. It's the right thing to do—people have all kinds of different stories, backgrounds. To not pay attention to that would be..." He pursed his lips, evidently searching for a word and not coming up with one. Instead he shrugged. “Well, it's not something I'm interested in doing. Especially to you."
He stood, then, closing the book over and setting it carefully on the small shelf of horticultural references the greenhouse kept. “In any case, those are all the new seeds, and this patch is reserved for them now, so if you'd like to plant them sometime, you're welcome to it." He tilted his head slightly. “I was... sent to ask you something, though. If you say yes there may not be time to plant them today."
Senka wasn't entirely sure what he had meant by that, but she decided to ignore it, for now. Instead, she focused on his last statement, immediately becoming wary. “Ask me something?" As much as she wanted to plant the seeds today, she would admit that she was slightly curious about what it was. What could possibly take up the rest of the day that she would not be able to plant the flowers? “May I ask what it is?" she decided to ask, still slightly wary. Part of her wondered if Mercer put Cyril up to it, whatever it was.
“Sorcha and the others have arranged an outing," he explained. “Nothing too crowded or busy, but they wanted to invite you to a field on the other side of the lake. For a picnic, swimming, field games, that sort of thing. Because of your birthday." He dusted off his trousers, regarding her with a subtle curve to one side of his mouth. “They've been setting it up for most of the morning; I dismissed class early and asked for permission for Vridel and Mercer to leave theirs as well. Only had to give Hanneman a couple inches of hair for it." He picked up a piece of hair on the side of his head, holding it out so she could see that it was, indeed, about an inch and a half shorter than most of those around it.
“You don't have to come—Sorcha was quite insistent about that, and I think that was right of her. But... we'd like it if you did."
Senka felt the corners of her mouth tilt up at his statement. Before she knew it, her shoulders were shaking slightly, and the strange sound of laughter was escaping her. She was touched by how thoughtful they were, though. Here... she was thinking the worst thoughts of them and all this time, they were doing something for her. On her birthday.
“I think... I think I would like that," she stated once she managed to speak properly. “And Professor Hanneman is a strange man to request your hair. I would..." she paused, blinking slowly before clearing her throat. She wasn't entirely sure where that thought was going; she was grateful to stop it. “I suppose I should let you lead the way, since you are aware of the location."
He huffed softly, something that might not have been far away from laughter itself, and nodded. “Of course. This way."
It was a bit of a trek on foot, but Cyril didn't suggest that they take horses or fly. The day was balmy, too, but that only made it more suited to swimming, perhaps. After a short stop by their rooms to outfit themselves for their activities, they were on their way.
Shortly after they exited the monastery, Cyril removed something from his pocket and handed it to her. “Sorcha said you're not much for gifts," he said. “But if it helps, I didn't spend any money on it. It's just sort of a hobby of mine." Whatever it was was wrapped in a pristine white cloth, perhaps meant to protect it, for the object inside was light and quite possibly fragile.
Unwrapping it revealed what seemed to be a handmade hair ornament, though the end that went into one's hair looked suspiciously like a lockpick. The other end was a delicate silver lotus flower, seemingly made of many fine filaments of metal bent into just the right shape and wrapped around one another to give the impression of petals and leaves arranged around a center. “I... didn't really know what you liked," he admitted. “So if it's not to your taste you don't have to use it, but I figured a backup might be useful. Especially disguised as something no one would pay attention to."
He lifted his shoulders in half a shrug, but his eyes were fixed on the path ahead.
“It's lovely," she responded, keeping her eyes on the ornament, and trusting her feet to lead her. It was beyond lovely, though. Without much thought, she loosened the tie that held her hair, and pulled it into a half-up style so that she could place the ornament in it. “Thank you, Cyril. I... appreciate it," she stated, offering him another smile as her way of thanks. She hoped she would never have to use the secondary purpose of the ornament, though. She didn't want to ruin it.
“I like it, quite a bit," she admitted, feeling a strange warmth in her cheeks. Perhaps it was the weather becoming slightly warmer?
It didn't take them much longer until they arrived at the destination. Indeed, Sorcha, Mercer, Vridel, and Amalthea were all waiting for them. Amalthea was the first to spot them, and she waved excitedly in their direction. It really did warm Senka to see her friends gathered as they were.
“Told you, Teach!" Mercer shouted, causing Senka to purse her lips in confusion.
“I wasn't sure I was the best person to bring you here," Cyril explained in a low voice. The gold of his eyes was warm in the sunlight, or perhaps it was some trace of emotion?
To Mercer, he only shook his head.
“Happy birthday, Sen!" Sorcha said, beaming brightly. “And welcome to your party! Well... it's not exactly a party, because I know how you feel about those, but it's a day for you, anyway. We have food, and the lake, and uh... game things. Anything you feel like doing first?"
The smile, soft as it was, caused Senka to shake her head. “I think it would be nice to eat, first. And then, perhaps," she paused, glancing between her friends. She felt something warm in her eyes, but nothing came of it. For the first moment in a long time, Senka considered herself lucky to have these people in her life. They were truly... something. “Perhaps we can enjoy the lake?" she stated. They didn't need to go swimming, but she thought it would be nice to just sit on the dock and sink her feet into the water.
“Oh, good, I was hoping you'd say food, first," Mercer stated, giving Senka a lopsided grin. “I'm starving," he continued, causing Senka to huff lightly.
“But, Merc, you ate before we came, how can you be starving?" Amalthea stated, clearly confused. He chuckled lightly at her, and placed a hand on her head to give her hair a quick shake. It was in an affectionate manner, it seemed.
“I'm always hungry, Thea."
“Well let's get to it, then. What did you even pack, Sorcha?" Vridel opened the large basket that was centered on one of the many large blankets spread around, peering inside curiously.
It turned out to be mostly food that could be assembled into sandwiches, and sweets, which made a certain kind of sense. Vridel loaded his bread up with an absurd amount of tomatoes in addition to the other ordinary sandwich materials. Sorcha, as usual, opted for mostly vegetables and cheese on hers. Other than an interesting preference for the spicy cured meats available, Cyril's was quite sane.
When everyone was settled, Sorcha nudged a small, wrapped package over towards Senka. “Happy birthday, Sen. From all of us."
From all of them? She took it gingerly, and held it in her hands for a few moments. They gifted her something for her birthday? She glanced at the others, Mercer was too busy trying to shove a rather large sandwich into his mouth, and Amalthea seemed to be interested in the large amounts of tomatoes in Vridel's. Glancing back towards the gift, she slowly unwrapped it to reveal a rather colorful scarf. It wasn't the coloring that caught her attention, though.
The material used to make it and the stitching technique used all belonged to Duscur. Only someone from Duscur was capable of making these kinds of stitchings and patterns. That, or someone who had learned it. She sniffed lightly, feeling something burning at the back of her eyes. She wasn't sure what to make of it, and just let it be. It wasn't until she noticed her cheeks were wet, and that she knew she was crying. Amalthea looked rather alarmed by it, and Mercer looked slightly worried as if they'd done something wrong.
“Oh, Senka, are you alright? Do you not like the present!? Should we not have gotten you something?" she stated, but Senka shook her head. She was touched, actually. Touched that her friends, even if Mercer and Amalthea didn't know, gave her something so beautiful and... well, she didn't know what else to think of it. Cyril's gift had been beautiful as well, but the scarf was from everyone.
“I... am not upset, Thea. This," she stated, lifting the scarf up and wrapping it around herself. It was a little warm to be wearing something like it, but she didn't care. It was a gift from her friends. “This means a lot to me; thank you all."
Sorcha looked to be tearing up just the faintest bit, as well. She had to have been the one who knew, who'd been able to identify the material and craftsmanship as being from Duscur, and convince the others to help. Probably Vridel and Cyril had understood it, too, from the explanation, whatever it had been. She didn't let the tears fall, though, blinking them away and smiling instead. “You're welcome, Sen. Always."
Even Vridel's characteristic sarcastic expression had shifted into something softer, and he nodded, polishing off his sandwich. Perhaps seeking to make sure that she didn't endure much scrutiny or teasing for her reaction, he cleared his throat. “All right, who likes the water? I suppose if we're here we ought to take advantage."
Mercer was the first one up, already heading towards the lake without waiting for anyone, it seemed. Amalthea was running after him, too, something about being taught how to swim. Senka closed her eyes, trying to keep the tears from falling.
This... she could get used to birthdays like this.
That was for the best, perhaps.
She was worthless to them; she didn't matter. That thought alone brought a strange, cold comfort to her. Shaking the thought from her head, she made her way across the courtyard, ignoring the way the other students were staring at her. She was used to it, she had to be. Spending today, alone, would be for the best, or so she thought. With that in mind, she decided to make her way towards the Greenhouse. She had heard that they had received a shipment of Duscur flower seeds, and weren't exactly sure what to do with them. She knew that certain flower seeds required certain environments, and a part of her wanted to share those beautiful flowers with the world.
Maybe that could be her gift to herself?
When she reached the greenhouse, however, it was to find that someone was already at work planting the new seeds in a far corner. Cyril was sitting on his knees, a book open in one hand and the drawstring of a seed pouch dangling from the index finger of another. He glanced up as she entered, expression softening in that way that was almost a smile.
“I thought you might be by," he said with a small nod. “I only just heard about this shipment yesterday, but I suppose you can imagine why they caught my attention." He extended the bag towards her, as if inviting her to take it for herself. “I read that these need special conditions to flourish, so I asked the greenhouse keeper to make sure this section doesn't get over-watered, and the soil type should be right for a cold, mineral-rich desert."
Senka was genuinely surprised. She wasn't expecting to see Cyril in the greenhouse, let alone planting the seeds from her country. She felt her eyes narrow slightly as she took the bag from him. “Why... you didn't have to do that," she murmured softly, holding the bag closer to herself. It would have been fine if no one else did this, but that he was doing it, well... it seemed to warm something in her heart. She wasn't quite sure what it was, so she shook her head, instead.
“Thank you," she opted to say that, instead. “A few of these flowers do not require water, though. They thrive in dry soil," she decided to explain. “If you water them, you'll kill them," she continued, placing the bag down.
He inclined his head, pointing at the section of soil closest to the wall. “Well then if you'll teach me which those are, we can plant them here, and tell her not to water that part at all."
He paused a moment, looking back at her with something akin to hesitation. “I... wanted to apologize," he murmured. “I should have mentioned the mission to you before everyone else. I'd even thought to do it, but then it came up at the table and... I'm sorry." He seemed genuinely contrite, a line appearing between his brows as he regarded her steadily.
Senka shook her head. “It is no fault of your own. You shouldn't have to apologize for something like that, I... I shouldn't have reacted that way. I am sorry," she stated, bowing deeply as she did. She stayed that way for a moment longer before she straightened her posture back up. “It's just... it's been a long time since I last saw Duscur. I... didn't know if I was ready or not to see it again, but I want to," she muttered softly. She wanted to see her homeland, where she grew up, and to see how the people were doing.
There were only a handful of survivors, but she didn't know if they were okay, or if they were suffering under Kleiman's rule. It hurt to know there was nothing she could do for them. She was their princess, and she could do nothing. “You shouldn't put it that way, though," she added, trying to smile softly in his direction. “I am no one special that you should have mentioned anything to. The fact that it was related to Duscur should have had no priority as to whether or not I was told first."
She didn't understand why he would think that, in the first place. She had told him of her heritage, but not because she wanted him to be delicate around the matter. On the contrary, she trusted him enough to tell him that because she wanted him to know who she was. If he knew, then maybe... maybe he wouldn't have wanted her as a student or a friend. But that did not seem the case.
“Of course you are," Cyril replied bluntly. “You deserve the same consideration as anyone else. It's the right thing to do—people have all kinds of different stories, backgrounds. To not pay attention to that would be..." He pursed his lips, evidently searching for a word and not coming up with one. Instead he shrugged. “Well, it's not something I'm interested in doing. Especially to you."
He stood, then, closing the book over and setting it carefully on the small shelf of horticultural references the greenhouse kept. “In any case, those are all the new seeds, and this patch is reserved for them now, so if you'd like to plant them sometime, you're welcome to it." He tilted his head slightly. “I was... sent to ask you something, though. If you say yes there may not be time to plant them today."
Senka wasn't entirely sure what he had meant by that, but she decided to ignore it, for now. Instead, she focused on his last statement, immediately becoming wary. “Ask me something?" As much as she wanted to plant the seeds today, she would admit that she was slightly curious about what it was. What could possibly take up the rest of the day that she would not be able to plant the flowers? “May I ask what it is?" she decided to ask, still slightly wary. Part of her wondered if Mercer put Cyril up to it, whatever it was.
“Sorcha and the others have arranged an outing," he explained. “Nothing too crowded or busy, but they wanted to invite you to a field on the other side of the lake. For a picnic, swimming, field games, that sort of thing. Because of your birthday." He dusted off his trousers, regarding her with a subtle curve to one side of his mouth. “They've been setting it up for most of the morning; I dismissed class early and asked for permission for Vridel and Mercer to leave theirs as well. Only had to give Hanneman a couple inches of hair for it." He picked up a piece of hair on the side of his head, holding it out so she could see that it was, indeed, about an inch and a half shorter than most of those around it.
“You don't have to come—Sorcha was quite insistent about that, and I think that was right of her. But... we'd like it if you did."
Senka felt the corners of her mouth tilt up at his statement. Before she knew it, her shoulders were shaking slightly, and the strange sound of laughter was escaping her. She was touched by how thoughtful they were, though. Here... she was thinking the worst thoughts of them and all this time, they were doing something for her. On her birthday.
“I think... I think I would like that," she stated once she managed to speak properly. “And Professor Hanneman is a strange man to request your hair. I would..." she paused, blinking slowly before clearing her throat. She wasn't entirely sure where that thought was going; she was grateful to stop it. “I suppose I should let you lead the way, since you are aware of the location."
He huffed softly, something that might not have been far away from laughter itself, and nodded. “Of course. This way."
It was a bit of a trek on foot, but Cyril didn't suggest that they take horses or fly. The day was balmy, too, but that only made it more suited to swimming, perhaps. After a short stop by their rooms to outfit themselves for their activities, they were on their way.
Shortly after they exited the monastery, Cyril removed something from his pocket and handed it to her. “Sorcha said you're not much for gifts," he said. “But if it helps, I didn't spend any money on it. It's just sort of a hobby of mine." Whatever it was was wrapped in a pristine white cloth, perhaps meant to protect it, for the object inside was light and quite possibly fragile.
Unwrapping it revealed what seemed to be a handmade hair ornament, though the end that went into one's hair looked suspiciously like a lockpick. The other end was a delicate silver lotus flower, seemingly made of many fine filaments of metal bent into just the right shape and wrapped around one another to give the impression of petals and leaves arranged around a center. “I... didn't really know what you liked," he admitted. “So if it's not to your taste you don't have to use it, but I figured a backup might be useful. Especially disguised as something no one would pay attention to."
He lifted his shoulders in half a shrug, but his eyes were fixed on the path ahead.
“It's lovely," she responded, keeping her eyes on the ornament, and trusting her feet to lead her. It was beyond lovely, though. Without much thought, she loosened the tie that held her hair, and pulled it into a half-up style so that she could place the ornament in it. “Thank you, Cyril. I... appreciate it," she stated, offering him another smile as her way of thanks. She hoped she would never have to use the secondary purpose of the ornament, though. She didn't want to ruin it.
“I like it, quite a bit," she admitted, feeling a strange warmth in her cheeks. Perhaps it was the weather becoming slightly warmer?
It didn't take them much longer until they arrived at the destination. Indeed, Sorcha, Mercer, Vridel, and Amalthea were all waiting for them. Amalthea was the first to spot them, and she waved excitedly in their direction. It really did warm Senka to see her friends gathered as they were.
“Told you, Teach!" Mercer shouted, causing Senka to purse her lips in confusion.
“I wasn't sure I was the best person to bring you here," Cyril explained in a low voice. The gold of his eyes was warm in the sunlight, or perhaps it was some trace of emotion?
To Mercer, he only shook his head.
“Happy birthday, Sen!" Sorcha said, beaming brightly. “And welcome to your party! Well... it's not exactly a party, because I know how you feel about those, but it's a day for you, anyway. We have food, and the lake, and uh... game things. Anything you feel like doing first?"
The smile, soft as it was, caused Senka to shake her head. “I think it would be nice to eat, first. And then, perhaps," she paused, glancing between her friends. She felt something warm in her eyes, but nothing came of it. For the first moment in a long time, Senka considered herself lucky to have these people in her life. They were truly... something. “Perhaps we can enjoy the lake?" she stated. They didn't need to go swimming, but she thought it would be nice to just sit on the dock and sink her feet into the water.
“Oh, good, I was hoping you'd say food, first," Mercer stated, giving Senka a lopsided grin. “I'm starving," he continued, causing Senka to huff lightly.
“But, Merc, you ate before we came, how can you be starving?" Amalthea stated, clearly confused. He chuckled lightly at her, and placed a hand on her head to give her hair a quick shake. It was in an affectionate manner, it seemed.
“I'm always hungry, Thea."
“Well let's get to it, then. What did you even pack, Sorcha?" Vridel opened the large basket that was centered on one of the many large blankets spread around, peering inside curiously.
It turned out to be mostly food that could be assembled into sandwiches, and sweets, which made a certain kind of sense. Vridel loaded his bread up with an absurd amount of tomatoes in addition to the other ordinary sandwich materials. Sorcha, as usual, opted for mostly vegetables and cheese on hers. Other than an interesting preference for the spicy cured meats available, Cyril's was quite sane.
When everyone was settled, Sorcha nudged a small, wrapped package over towards Senka. “Happy birthday, Sen. From all of us."
From all of them? She took it gingerly, and held it in her hands for a few moments. They gifted her something for her birthday? She glanced at the others, Mercer was too busy trying to shove a rather large sandwich into his mouth, and Amalthea seemed to be interested in the large amounts of tomatoes in Vridel's. Glancing back towards the gift, she slowly unwrapped it to reveal a rather colorful scarf. It wasn't the coloring that caught her attention, though.
The material used to make it and the stitching technique used all belonged to Duscur. Only someone from Duscur was capable of making these kinds of stitchings and patterns. That, or someone who had learned it. She sniffed lightly, feeling something burning at the back of her eyes. She wasn't sure what to make of it, and just let it be. It wasn't until she noticed her cheeks were wet, and that she knew she was crying. Amalthea looked rather alarmed by it, and Mercer looked slightly worried as if they'd done something wrong.
“Oh, Senka, are you alright? Do you not like the present!? Should we not have gotten you something?" she stated, but Senka shook her head. She was touched, actually. Touched that her friends, even if Mercer and Amalthea didn't know, gave her something so beautiful and... well, she didn't know what else to think of it. Cyril's gift had been beautiful as well, but the scarf was from everyone.
“I... am not upset, Thea. This," she stated, lifting the scarf up and wrapping it around herself. It was a little warm to be wearing something like it, but she didn't care. It was a gift from her friends. “This means a lot to me; thank you all."
Sorcha looked to be tearing up just the faintest bit, as well. She had to have been the one who knew, who'd been able to identify the material and craftsmanship as being from Duscur, and convince the others to help. Probably Vridel and Cyril had understood it, too, from the explanation, whatever it had been. She didn't let the tears fall, though, blinking them away and smiling instead. “You're welcome, Sen. Always."
Even Vridel's characteristic sarcastic expression had shifted into something softer, and he nodded, polishing off his sandwich. Perhaps seeking to make sure that she didn't endure much scrutiny or teasing for her reaction, he cleared his throat. “All right, who likes the water? I suppose if we're here we ought to take advantage."
Mercer was the first one up, already heading towards the lake without waiting for anyone, it seemed. Amalthea was running after him, too, something about being taught how to swim. Senka closed her eyes, trying to keep the tears from falling.
This... she could get used to birthdays like this.
Lake Seiros - Noon - Balmy
Sorcha Blaiddyd
As the group made their way closer to the lakeside, Sorcha remained behind a moment to secure the picnic basket against bugs, then toed off her boots and rolled the legs of her trousers up to her knees. She supposed she might swim, later, but for the moment she just wanted to sit on the edge of the dock and dip her feet into the water.
Settling down at the edge, she let out a sift sigh of contentment as her toes hit the water and sank beneath the surface. Leaning back on her hands, she watched the others. Vridel and Professor Cyril stood on the edge of where the thin strip of sandy shore faded into the lake. The Professor was rolling up the legs of his pants in much the same manner as she had. He also took hold of his tunic by the collar and pulled it over his head, pausing to fold it before setting it down in the grass.
Sorcha knew it wasn't uncommon for men to swim in such a manner, but she'd sort of... forgotten. The Professor didn't seem to think anything of it, heading into the water and swimming out some distance. He was really... quite well-built, wasn't he?
Grimacing, she turned her eyes back to the shore, unsure if she hoped for or hoped against someone else making the same decision.
It seemed that even Mercer was following in Professor's footsteps. He didn't seem to want to roll up his pants, though he did remove his shirt. He blinked before his eyes landed on Sorcha. He waved at her with a grin on his face before he waded into the water. He didn't swim off too far, though, holding his hand out towards Amalthea. She looked a bit perplexed and almost hesitantly took his hand as he guided her through the water. She didn't know how to swim, after all, and it seemed the Mercer was trying to help her. He was nice, that way, always trying to help in some way or another.
“Sorcha," Senka's voice called out to Sorcha as she came into view. She took a seat next to her, and dipped her legs into the water as well, slowly moving them back and forth as she regarded Sorcha with an even gaze. “I... want to say thank you, for this. It... this is the first time I can say I'm actually enjoying myself," she stated, smiling softly in Sorcha's direction.
Honestly, she was glad Senka was there, for more than one reason. It enabled her to focus on her friend instead of the water, an opportunity she welcomed, as the verdict there had been rather... not in her favor. Sen's smile was more than enough to push all that to the background, though, and Sorcha returned it, genuinely warmed by her words. “I'm so glad to hear that, Sen. Really."
She had one more surprise left for the day, and the reason she hadn't already explained it was because, well... it wasn't really hers to explain. She just happened to be the person who'd figured it out. Hopefully it would go as well as she was expecting; Rodrigue was one of the best people Sorcha knew, and perhaps the only noble in Faerghus who'd never looked down on her.
Before she could say anything else, Vridel approached, plonking down on the deck on Senka's other side with a sigh. He glared out at the water for a moment before turning his attention to the other two. “Hello, Sorcha. Happy birthday, Senka. I hope you are finding your festivities sufficiently lacking in obnoxiousness, despite Mercer's presence."
Senka's smile softened somewhat as she nodded her head. “It has been a mostly pleasant experience, thus far. Though I do wonder," she stated, her eyes sliding towards Vridel, “does his presence upset you that much? He is only helping her to learn, you know. Perhaps you'd like to be her teacher, instead?" Senka's brow was lightly raised, almost as if she were teasing Vridel in that sense. Perhaps she was?
“It does not upset me, and I would not prefer that." Vridel frowned at her and sniffed imperiously. Sorcha suppressed a smile.
“Either way, thank you for joining in as well, Vridel. Your presence here, means a lot to me. More than I thought it would, so thank you," she continued, inclining her head in Vridel's direction. “I don't believe this day could be... any more pleasant than it already is." She shook her head, though, and huffed lightly.
That got a little half-grin out of him, at least. “Well, I'm glad I could be part of it then."
“Why aren't you in the water, anyway, Vivi?" Sorcha cocked an eyebrow at him. “You taught me to swim; I know you can." What was more, the Empire was warm enough that he'd have been able to do it much more often than they could in Faerghus, where it was usually limited to the two or three warmest months. She could remember him quite enjoying it, too, back then.
He shrugged, though. “I suppose I don't really feel like it," he replied. It sounded like an excuse for something, but something subtly cued her into the fact that she probably shouldn't ask. Normally Sorcha was terrible at picking up on such things, but this was Vivi. Even after all this time, she still sort of had a read on him, somehow.
“Hm, well you can at least enjoy yourself with us," Senka replied, repeating the slow movements of her legs in the water. She had stopped when Vridel appeared, but seemed content enough to resume. “We can at least enjoy and appreciate your company more-so than the others," she stated, her small smile returning to her face. She remained quiet for a moment, seemingly content.
Mercer and Amalthea seemed to be making progress, though. Mercer was helping her through some of the deeper parts of the water, showing her how to move her arms, and occasionally doing a display of whatever it was he was showing her. Amalthea seemed rather happy at the new experience.
The Professor, meanwhile, had sum what seemed to be several laps around the area, as if reacquainting himself with how it felt to do so. When he was done with that, however, he contemplated Mercer and Thea for a moment before swimming over to the dock instead. He had little trouble hauling himself up and out of the water onto it, pulling his legs up beneath him to cross them.
“This is relatively few people in the lake for a lake excursion," he noted, with what seemed to be a trace of amusement.
Sorcha huffed. She supposed it was. “I'll go in in a little while," she said. “You're not supposed to swim for a half hour after eating."
He blinked, clearly not aware of this rule. Truth be told, Sorcha wasn't exactly sure where it came from or why it was a rule in the first place, but she distinctly remembered it for some reason. “Ah. I see."
“Hm, but that doesn't seem to apply to some people, though," Senka replied, nodding her head in Mercer and Amalthea's direction before her eyes settled on the professor. “I suppose some people are just made differently than others," she continued, narrowing her eyes lightly. She brought her hand up to her hair, though, as if to check something before she dropped it. “I think I might exclude myself from the swimming, though. This is nice, being able to enjoy the water without being in it all the way," she seemed to explain.
“But please do keep swimming if that is what you all want. I can sit here with Vridel and watch you all enjoy yourselves. It'll make..." she paused, brows furrowing slightly before she smiled again, “It'll make me happy to see you all happy."
“Hey now! That's not fair. Everyone is sitting out while I'm here teaching! Teach! This is supposed to be your job!" Mercer shouted from the other side of the lake. He didn't look entirely upset, though, and Amalthea pursed her lips at him. She mouthed something to him, that made him laugh, though, and shake his head.
“Oh?" Cyril replied, arching his brow and raising his voice just enough to be heard. “It rather looked like a party of two. I'd hate to interrupt." The faint edge of amusement to his voice was reflected in his face. Sitting there, with little drops of water dripping off the end of his nose and a stubborn strand of hair refusing to stay slicked back by the water, he looked... like one of them, really. Like someone really around their own age, whose life experiences did not, for once, seem to put him in his own world apart. It was an odd thing to realize, maybe, but she couldn't help feeling it all the same.
Vridel laughed softly at the joke. “Entirely your fault for excluding everyone," he added.
“That is not what it is!" Amalthea shouted back, her face taking on a rather interesting shade of red. She glanced in Vridel's direction, huffed at Mercer, and made her way back to the shore where she plopped down, folding her legs beneath her. Mercer laughed and shook his head, glancing at the others as they all sat on the dock. Senka huffed lightly in amusement, however; something seemed to catch her attention.
“Is that... a banner? From the Kingdom?" she stated, glancing at Sorcha before nodding her head in the direction she'd spotted it. There seemed to be a small company of maybe five to six people. At the front was a man Sorcha easily recognized. It was Rodrigue. It looked like he was heading in the way of the monastery with only a handful of people. “What are they doing all the way out here?" Senka questioned, her head titled slightly in a curious manner.
Oh, he was early. Sorcha supposed that was to be expected from Rodrigue, though. “Ah, actually... I asked him to come visit. Was sort of thinking he might not get here until evening, though." Pulling her feet from the water, she stood. “I should go say hello."
Of course, the trickier part of this whole thing was the bit that came next. “Actually, uh... not to interrupt your day, Sen, but would you mind coming with me? I don't think you've met Rodrigue yet and I really think you should." She hoped this would be enough for her friend to understand the importance of it, though she would have to let Rodrigue do the explaining, for the most part.
Senka seemed confused for a moment, “Rodrigue?" She muttered the name as if she'd forgotten it, but maybe she had? It wasn't until her eyes went wide, and she quickly removed her feet from the water to stand. “I will accompany you," she stated, glancing towards Vridel and Professor. “We'll return soon, but please continue to enjoy yourselves," she stated, bowing lightly at them before walking beside Sorcha. When they were far enough from the group, Senka turned her attention towards Sorcha.
“Is it really un—Rodrigue?" she stated, pursing her lips together as she seemed to correct herself at the last moment. “As in, Rodrigue Fraldarius?"
“You know who he is?" Sorcha's eyes widened. “To you?" It was a curious thing. Sorcha knew both of these people very well, but it wasn't until recently that she'd figured out that Rodrigue's deceased sister was in fact Queen of Duscur, because he was modest enough that he'd simply said she'd married a man from there and died in the Tragedy, and Sorcha had of course never wanted to press. Nor had she pushed Senka to speak more of her family, including what family her mother was from. Sorcha had figured she was noble, but that didn't narrow things down much.
“Because I just figured it out. It's why I wrote him and asked him to come here. I figured he'd want to see you... and I thought you might want to meet him, so..."
“But... I haven't seen him in so long. I didn't even... I didn't even write to him to let him know I was okay, or that I was still alive. I couldn't," Senka stated, her brows furrowing lightly. She took in a soft breath, though, and glanced at Sorcha. “I'm certain he will be surprised to see me, though it has been a long time. I... wonder if he still remembers me," she stated fondly.
“I'm sorry I never told you, though. It's not that I didn't want to, I just..." she paused, pulling the scarf around her neck a little closer to her face. “I didn't trust you at the time. I didn't trust anyone, and... I was afraid of what would happen if I did," she shook her head at herself, it seemed, before she smiled softly. “I trust you now, though. Always will. Rodrigue is my mother's half-brother, which in turn, makes him my uncle."
“I know," Sorcha said quietly. And she didn't blame Senka for any of it. On the contrary, she was just relieved to hear that her friend trusted her now. “And he was surprised to hear you were alive, but you should have seen his last letter, Sen. He's so excited to see you again. He... he lost your cousin in the tragedy too, you know. Glenn. He doesn't have a lot of family left. He's been... he's been really good to me, actually. My whole life, but especially since my parents died. I'm... I'm really glad you two are going to get to meet each other again."
Senka deserved for things like this—good things—to happen to her. And so did Rodrigue. If Sorcha could play some small part in making it happen, well she wouldn't hesitate for a second.
“Hm," was the only reply Senka gave. “He has always been a kind soul. He... mother used to say that he was the epitome of what a Knight should be," she spoke softly, keeping her gaze in front of her. “I am... excited to see him, too," she added. It wasn't long before they approached Rodrigue's group. He happened to glance in their direction, and immediately called for the group to halt. He turned his horse in the direction of Sorcha and Senka, and made his way towards them. When he was close enough, he dismounted. At first, it seemed, he was moving rather fast, his steps hurried and almost impatient.
When he was close enough, he didn't seem to be stopping, and instead, continued walking in a hurried fashion towards Senka. The hug must have caught her off guard since her hands were partially raised to receive him, however; he seemed to tighten his hold on her. From the part of her face that was visible against his fur-lined cloak, Senka looked on the verge to be crying.
“Senka," he whispered, his voice soft and almost raw. “I thought I lost you, too," he continued. Senka finally managed to place her hands on his back, and returned the embrace. “I can't believe it's been four years since..." he didn't need to continue for Senka or Sorcha to understand.
“I'm sorry, uncle. I... I've missed you," she muttered between breaths. It sounded like she was trying to hold back the tears, but she was doing a rather poor job of it. Rodrigue finally pulled away, smiling brightly as he turned to gaze at Sorcha.
“Your Highness," he stated, bowing lightly in front of Sorcha. “Thank you for writing me. I see you are still well," he spoke in Sorcha's direction.
Sorcha felt her heart clench, a little smile for her friends crossing her face and also... also a tiny stab of pain. No one in her life had ever hugged her like that, like it was a profound joy just to see her, to know she was alive. She wished—
But no. This wasn't about her at all. Senka deserved this, and Sorcha was beyond happy that she got to have it, that after everything that had happened to her, she got to get one little piece of happiness back from the jaws of the Tragedy. She swallowed thickly, inclining her head slightly when Rodrigue bowed. “I am; thank you, Rodrigue." She smiled. “I'm sure the two of you have catching up to do, though; please, do not delay on my account."
“There is plenty of time for that," Rodrigue replied, smiling still at Sorcha. “Ah, but I was supposed to meet you at the monastery. What brings you here, to the lake?" he asked.
“It... is my birthday, today, and my friends..." Senka spoke, pausing to glance at Sorcha, “we were celebrating it at the lake. They are still there." Rodrigue seemed surprised at the statement.
“Is it really that time of the year? Well, I suppose I might have a bit of a gift for you, but that can wait until we return to the monastery," he stated happily enough. Senka nodded her head, but glanced over her shoulders.
“I would like you to meet them, when you have the chance," Senka stated, causing Rodrigue to nod his head. “I am sure you will take to them as I have," she continued, smiling just soft enough that her eyes seemed to brighten.
“I'd like that. Perhaps after my meeting with the archbishop, I can meet your friends. While there is catching up to do," he paused to smile at Sorcha, “your letter was not my only summons to the monastery. Lady Rhea has news for me that I must attend to. For now, I will let you enjoy your celebrations." He turned to Sorcha, then, and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“It was good seeing you, Sorcha. And thank you, again," he stated, patting her shoulder before he dropped his hands.
“You're welcome, of course," Sorcha replied, letting out a breath and feeling her shoulders relax. “Please, do come visit us when you're done." She'd have to warn everyone so their clothes would be dry in time.
Settling down at the edge, she let out a sift sigh of contentment as her toes hit the water and sank beneath the surface. Leaning back on her hands, she watched the others. Vridel and Professor Cyril stood on the edge of where the thin strip of sandy shore faded into the lake. The Professor was rolling up the legs of his pants in much the same manner as she had. He also took hold of his tunic by the collar and pulled it over his head, pausing to fold it before setting it down in the grass.
Sorcha knew it wasn't uncommon for men to swim in such a manner, but she'd sort of... forgotten. The Professor didn't seem to think anything of it, heading into the water and swimming out some distance. He was really... quite well-built, wasn't he?
Grimacing, she turned her eyes back to the shore, unsure if she hoped for or hoped against someone else making the same decision.
It seemed that even Mercer was following in Professor's footsteps. He didn't seem to want to roll up his pants, though he did remove his shirt. He blinked before his eyes landed on Sorcha. He waved at her with a grin on his face before he waded into the water. He didn't swim off too far, though, holding his hand out towards Amalthea. She looked a bit perplexed and almost hesitantly took his hand as he guided her through the water. She didn't know how to swim, after all, and it seemed the Mercer was trying to help her. He was nice, that way, always trying to help in some way or another.
“Sorcha," Senka's voice called out to Sorcha as she came into view. She took a seat next to her, and dipped her legs into the water as well, slowly moving them back and forth as she regarded Sorcha with an even gaze. “I... want to say thank you, for this. It... this is the first time I can say I'm actually enjoying myself," she stated, smiling softly in Sorcha's direction.
Honestly, she was glad Senka was there, for more than one reason. It enabled her to focus on her friend instead of the water, an opportunity she welcomed, as the verdict there had been rather... not in her favor. Sen's smile was more than enough to push all that to the background, though, and Sorcha returned it, genuinely warmed by her words. “I'm so glad to hear that, Sen. Really."
She had one more surprise left for the day, and the reason she hadn't already explained it was because, well... it wasn't really hers to explain. She just happened to be the person who'd figured it out. Hopefully it would go as well as she was expecting; Rodrigue was one of the best people Sorcha knew, and perhaps the only noble in Faerghus who'd never looked down on her.
Before she could say anything else, Vridel approached, plonking down on the deck on Senka's other side with a sigh. He glared out at the water for a moment before turning his attention to the other two. “Hello, Sorcha. Happy birthday, Senka. I hope you are finding your festivities sufficiently lacking in obnoxiousness, despite Mercer's presence."
Senka's smile softened somewhat as she nodded her head. “It has been a mostly pleasant experience, thus far. Though I do wonder," she stated, her eyes sliding towards Vridel, “does his presence upset you that much? He is only helping her to learn, you know. Perhaps you'd like to be her teacher, instead?" Senka's brow was lightly raised, almost as if she were teasing Vridel in that sense. Perhaps she was?
“It does not upset me, and I would not prefer that." Vridel frowned at her and sniffed imperiously. Sorcha suppressed a smile.
“Either way, thank you for joining in as well, Vridel. Your presence here, means a lot to me. More than I thought it would, so thank you," she continued, inclining her head in Vridel's direction. “I don't believe this day could be... any more pleasant than it already is." She shook her head, though, and huffed lightly.
That got a little half-grin out of him, at least. “Well, I'm glad I could be part of it then."
“Why aren't you in the water, anyway, Vivi?" Sorcha cocked an eyebrow at him. “You taught me to swim; I know you can." What was more, the Empire was warm enough that he'd have been able to do it much more often than they could in Faerghus, where it was usually limited to the two or three warmest months. She could remember him quite enjoying it, too, back then.
He shrugged, though. “I suppose I don't really feel like it," he replied. It sounded like an excuse for something, but something subtly cued her into the fact that she probably shouldn't ask. Normally Sorcha was terrible at picking up on such things, but this was Vivi. Even after all this time, she still sort of had a read on him, somehow.
“Hm, well you can at least enjoy yourself with us," Senka replied, repeating the slow movements of her legs in the water. She had stopped when Vridel appeared, but seemed content enough to resume. “We can at least enjoy and appreciate your company more-so than the others," she stated, her small smile returning to her face. She remained quiet for a moment, seemingly content.
Mercer and Amalthea seemed to be making progress, though. Mercer was helping her through some of the deeper parts of the water, showing her how to move her arms, and occasionally doing a display of whatever it was he was showing her. Amalthea seemed rather happy at the new experience.
The Professor, meanwhile, had sum what seemed to be several laps around the area, as if reacquainting himself with how it felt to do so. When he was done with that, however, he contemplated Mercer and Thea for a moment before swimming over to the dock instead. He had little trouble hauling himself up and out of the water onto it, pulling his legs up beneath him to cross them.
“This is relatively few people in the lake for a lake excursion," he noted, with what seemed to be a trace of amusement.
Sorcha huffed. She supposed it was. “I'll go in in a little while," she said. “You're not supposed to swim for a half hour after eating."
He blinked, clearly not aware of this rule. Truth be told, Sorcha wasn't exactly sure where it came from or why it was a rule in the first place, but she distinctly remembered it for some reason. “Ah. I see."
“Hm, but that doesn't seem to apply to some people, though," Senka replied, nodding her head in Mercer and Amalthea's direction before her eyes settled on the professor. “I suppose some people are just made differently than others," she continued, narrowing her eyes lightly. She brought her hand up to her hair, though, as if to check something before she dropped it. “I think I might exclude myself from the swimming, though. This is nice, being able to enjoy the water without being in it all the way," she seemed to explain.
“But please do keep swimming if that is what you all want. I can sit here with Vridel and watch you all enjoy yourselves. It'll make..." she paused, brows furrowing slightly before she smiled again, “It'll make me happy to see you all happy."
“Hey now! That's not fair. Everyone is sitting out while I'm here teaching! Teach! This is supposed to be your job!" Mercer shouted from the other side of the lake. He didn't look entirely upset, though, and Amalthea pursed her lips at him. She mouthed something to him, that made him laugh, though, and shake his head.
“Oh?" Cyril replied, arching his brow and raising his voice just enough to be heard. “It rather looked like a party of two. I'd hate to interrupt." The faint edge of amusement to his voice was reflected in his face. Sitting there, with little drops of water dripping off the end of his nose and a stubborn strand of hair refusing to stay slicked back by the water, he looked... like one of them, really. Like someone really around their own age, whose life experiences did not, for once, seem to put him in his own world apart. It was an odd thing to realize, maybe, but she couldn't help feeling it all the same.
Vridel laughed softly at the joke. “Entirely your fault for excluding everyone," he added.
“That is not what it is!" Amalthea shouted back, her face taking on a rather interesting shade of red. She glanced in Vridel's direction, huffed at Mercer, and made her way back to the shore where she plopped down, folding her legs beneath her. Mercer laughed and shook his head, glancing at the others as they all sat on the dock. Senka huffed lightly in amusement, however; something seemed to catch her attention.
“Is that... a banner? From the Kingdom?" she stated, glancing at Sorcha before nodding her head in the direction she'd spotted it. There seemed to be a small company of maybe five to six people. At the front was a man Sorcha easily recognized. It was Rodrigue. It looked like he was heading in the way of the monastery with only a handful of people. “What are they doing all the way out here?" Senka questioned, her head titled slightly in a curious manner.
Oh, he was early. Sorcha supposed that was to be expected from Rodrigue, though. “Ah, actually... I asked him to come visit. Was sort of thinking he might not get here until evening, though." Pulling her feet from the water, she stood. “I should go say hello."
Of course, the trickier part of this whole thing was the bit that came next. “Actually, uh... not to interrupt your day, Sen, but would you mind coming with me? I don't think you've met Rodrigue yet and I really think you should." She hoped this would be enough for her friend to understand the importance of it, though she would have to let Rodrigue do the explaining, for the most part.
Senka seemed confused for a moment, “Rodrigue?" She muttered the name as if she'd forgotten it, but maybe she had? It wasn't until her eyes went wide, and she quickly removed her feet from the water to stand. “I will accompany you," she stated, glancing towards Vridel and Professor. “We'll return soon, but please continue to enjoy yourselves," she stated, bowing lightly at them before walking beside Sorcha. When they were far enough from the group, Senka turned her attention towards Sorcha.
“Is it really un—Rodrigue?" she stated, pursing her lips together as she seemed to correct herself at the last moment. “As in, Rodrigue Fraldarius?"
“You know who he is?" Sorcha's eyes widened. “To you?" It was a curious thing. Sorcha knew both of these people very well, but it wasn't until recently that she'd figured out that Rodrigue's deceased sister was in fact Queen of Duscur, because he was modest enough that he'd simply said she'd married a man from there and died in the Tragedy, and Sorcha had of course never wanted to press. Nor had she pushed Senka to speak more of her family, including what family her mother was from. Sorcha had figured she was noble, but that didn't narrow things down much.
“Because I just figured it out. It's why I wrote him and asked him to come here. I figured he'd want to see you... and I thought you might want to meet him, so..."
“But... I haven't seen him in so long. I didn't even... I didn't even write to him to let him know I was okay, or that I was still alive. I couldn't," Senka stated, her brows furrowing lightly. She took in a soft breath, though, and glanced at Sorcha. “I'm certain he will be surprised to see me, though it has been a long time. I... wonder if he still remembers me," she stated fondly.
“I'm sorry I never told you, though. It's not that I didn't want to, I just..." she paused, pulling the scarf around her neck a little closer to her face. “I didn't trust you at the time. I didn't trust anyone, and... I was afraid of what would happen if I did," she shook her head at herself, it seemed, before she smiled softly. “I trust you now, though. Always will. Rodrigue is my mother's half-brother, which in turn, makes him my uncle."
“I know," Sorcha said quietly. And she didn't blame Senka for any of it. On the contrary, she was just relieved to hear that her friend trusted her now. “And he was surprised to hear you were alive, but you should have seen his last letter, Sen. He's so excited to see you again. He... he lost your cousin in the tragedy too, you know. Glenn. He doesn't have a lot of family left. He's been... he's been really good to me, actually. My whole life, but especially since my parents died. I'm... I'm really glad you two are going to get to meet each other again."
Senka deserved for things like this—good things—to happen to her. And so did Rodrigue. If Sorcha could play some small part in making it happen, well she wouldn't hesitate for a second.
“Hm," was the only reply Senka gave. “He has always been a kind soul. He... mother used to say that he was the epitome of what a Knight should be," she spoke softly, keeping her gaze in front of her. “I am... excited to see him, too," she added. It wasn't long before they approached Rodrigue's group. He happened to glance in their direction, and immediately called for the group to halt. He turned his horse in the direction of Sorcha and Senka, and made his way towards them. When he was close enough, he dismounted. At first, it seemed, he was moving rather fast, his steps hurried and almost impatient.
When he was close enough, he didn't seem to be stopping, and instead, continued walking in a hurried fashion towards Senka. The hug must have caught her off guard since her hands were partially raised to receive him, however; he seemed to tighten his hold on her. From the part of her face that was visible against his fur-lined cloak, Senka looked on the verge to be crying.
“Senka," he whispered, his voice soft and almost raw. “I thought I lost you, too," he continued. Senka finally managed to place her hands on his back, and returned the embrace. “I can't believe it's been four years since..." he didn't need to continue for Senka or Sorcha to understand.
“I'm sorry, uncle. I... I've missed you," she muttered between breaths. It sounded like she was trying to hold back the tears, but she was doing a rather poor job of it. Rodrigue finally pulled away, smiling brightly as he turned to gaze at Sorcha.
“Your Highness," he stated, bowing lightly in front of Sorcha. “Thank you for writing me. I see you are still well," he spoke in Sorcha's direction.
Sorcha felt her heart clench, a little smile for her friends crossing her face and also... also a tiny stab of pain. No one in her life had ever hugged her like that, like it was a profound joy just to see her, to know she was alive. She wished—
But no. This wasn't about her at all. Senka deserved this, and Sorcha was beyond happy that she got to have it, that after everything that had happened to her, she got to get one little piece of happiness back from the jaws of the Tragedy. She swallowed thickly, inclining her head slightly when Rodrigue bowed. “I am; thank you, Rodrigue." She smiled. “I'm sure the two of you have catching up to do, though; please, do not delay on my account."
“There is plenty of time for that," Rodrigue replied, smiling still at Sorcha. “Ah, but I was supposed to meet you at the monastery. What brings you here, to the lake?" he asked.
“It... is my birthday, today, and my friends..." Senka spoke, pausing to glance at Sorcha, “we were celebrating it at the lake. They are still there." Rodrigue seemed surprised at the statement.
“Is it really that time of the year? Well, I suppose I might have a bit of a gift for you, but that can wait until we return to the monastery," he stated happily enough. Senka nodded her head, but glanced over her shoulders.
“I would like you to meet them, when you have the chance," Senka stated, causing Rodrigue to nod his head. “I am sure you will take to them as I have," she continued, smiling just soft enough that her eyes seemed to brighten.
“I'd like that. Perhaps after my meeting with the archbishop, I can meet your friends. While there is catching up to do," he paused to smile at Sorcha, “your letter was not my only summons to the monastery. Lady Rhea has news for me that I must attend to. For now, I will let you enjoy your celebrations." He turned to Sorcha, then, and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“It was good seeing you, Sorcha. And thank you, again," he stated, patting her shoulder before he dropped his hands.
“You're welcome, of course," Sorcha replied, letting out a breath and feeling her shoulders relax. “Please, do come visit us when you're done." She'd have to warn everyone so their clothes would be dry in time.
Marketplace - Evening - Muggy
Mercer von Riegan
Mercer rubbed the back of his neck and yawned. He was supposed to be shopping for supplies, but he wasn't really in the mood. He was slightly sore from Wednesday's events. He hadn't realized how much of a chore it would be to try and teach Amalthea how to swim. She wasn't bad at it, for a beginner, but when he tried getting her to go into the deeper parts, she almost drowned him. For someone so small, he forgot how strong she was. He was just glad that the others were able to keep him from drowning, but it had been a bit of a sore-spot for him. No doubt Vi would use that against him, somehow.
As he made his way past the blacksmith, a familiar shade of blonde caught his attention, and he felt himself grin. As usual, though, Senka was with Sorcha, so sneaking up on Sorcha would be difficult. Rolling his eyes to himself, he decided he'd at least see what they were up to.
“Hey, guys," he greeted, pulling Senka's attention from the vulnerary she was looking at.
“Good evening, Mercer," she replied, inclining her head towards him. “Are you here for supplies as well?" she asked, causing him to nod his head.
“Yeah, I figured I might as well stock up on a few things before the mission this month. Since we really don't know what we're going up against, and Teach's trainings have been a little... overkill," though that was a lie. They weren't as bad as they usually were. It was just trying to learn something new that was giving Mercer trouble. He wasn't quite used to a partner, yet.
Sorcha, of course, was the partner in question, as the two of them were the group's only fliers, so it made sense. She simply nodded, though, certainly not disagreeing with him about the difficulty of the new exercises. “I'm sort of used to teamwork being... well more like a bunch of individuals doing the same thing, or joining forces if it comes up. Working as an actual team from the get-go, and developing tactics around it... that's something I've never done before."
On a certain level, it wouldn't be that useful after graduation. After all, most of them would be returning to very different places. But on the other hand, knowing how to develop close teamwork couldn't hurt, even if the particular partner had to change.
“True. It's something none of us has done, so I think that was the reason Teach wanted us to learn," he replied with a light shrug of his shoulders. “It's not all bad, I suppose," he added. “Speaking of Teach, is that him in the distance?" he stated, narrowing his eyes. It almost looked like Teach in the distance, however; he couldn't be too sure. What caught his attention, though, was the woman standing next to the Maybe-Teach. Mercer felt his stomach twist a bit.
“Uh, Sen, do me a favor and stand over here. Right in front of me," he stated, causing Senka to furrow her brows. She didn't comply with his request, though, and the woman glanced in their direction. He could see a grin forming on her face as she mouthed something to the Maybe-Teach. She waved at him, though, as if trying to summon Mercer to her. He pretended not to notice.
“Mercer von Riegan get your ass over here!" she shouted, causing almost everyone in the market to turn in his direction. He groaned.
“Do you guys mind?" he asked Sorcha and Senka. He really didn't want to go alone to see the woman.
Sorcha snorted. “Friend of yours?" she asked, turning without protest towards the woman, tilting her head as if to prompt Senka to do the same. Senka followed wordlessly behind.
As they got closer it became quite clear that Maybe-Teach was in fact actually Teach, and he looked the faintest bit bewildered by the woman. This didn't stop him from lifting a hand in greeting as the three of them approached, however.
“If it isn't my little Mercer!" Judith stated, causing Mercer to purse his lips together.
“Judith, what are you doing here?" he questioned, earning a flat stare from the woman.
“That's Lady Judith to you, boy. I told you, until you're in charge, I expect you to address me with all due respect." Mercer pursed his lips at Judith as he regarded her with a flat stare. What did she want, anyway? “Anyway, I'm here to retrieve you. Duke Riegan's condition has taken a turn for the worse." That explained what she wanted, at least. Mercer sighed heavily as he groaned.
“So... are you saying gramps is on his death bed, now?" he questioned. Duke Riegan had varying health issues. He would be fine one month, and deathly ill the next. Mercer knew that Riegan was likely just wanting him around for some reason or another. Judith, however, shook her head.
“No, it's not that bad," she began, placing a hand to her forehead, “but in the state he's in, he won't be able to participate in the next roundtable conference." And there it was. Mercer wasn't too sure if he wanted to, but he didn't have much of a choice, he supposed. “He wants you to go in his stead, and I volunteered to play the messenger."
“Gee, thanks. Oh," he glanced at the others, “I guess I should introduce you. This is Judith, my mother." Judith inclined her head towards the group and grinned.
“So, you're the friends I've heard so much about. Tell me, how much trouble has he given you?" she asked, the grin never leaving her face. Mercer inwardly groaned.
“You call your mother by her first name?" Sorcha's eyes widened in rather comical surprise, like she'd never even realized such a thing was possible, let alone considered actually doing it. She glanced between them, initial surprise fading into thoughtfulness. Likely, she recognized the family resemblance, which while not especially strong, was definitely there to some extent.
“Ah, um. Please forgive me, Lady Judith," she said, bowing rather formally. The motion was deep enough to dislodge her necklace from its place beneath her uniform jacket. “We might have actually met before, briefly, though I was very young at the time. I'm Sorcha. Sorcha Blaiddyd. This is my friend, Senka Argyris." She rose from the bow.
Senka bowed, though not as deeply as Sorcha had. Judith seemed rather amused by it, however; her eyes landed near where the necklace lay. Her eyes narrowed, and Mercer knew that she recognized the gem. “You little shit," she stated, glancing in his direction. Mercer took a cautious step backwards, and raised his hands in defense. “You told me you lost it!" she nearly shouted, however; her attention went back to Sorcha.
“Did he give that to you?" she asked, though she seemed rather curious than angry.
Sorcha's surprise took on an element of apprehension. “It's yours? I'm so sorry! I—the wrapping can come off, I mean if you need it to—um." She cleared her throat, fingers folding carefully around the stone, as if to protect it from something, despite her apparent expectation that she'd be giving it back. “Yes, he did. It was—it was honestly my fault, though; I—well apparently I was making quite a nuisance of myself and it made a rather good distraction, so if there's fault, it's mine."
She pursed her lips, throwing an uncomfortable glance at Mercer and for some reason studiously not looking at Senka.
Teach only looked curious at this development, arms folded over his chest and one eyebrow ever so slightly arched.
Senka drew an expression Mercer hadn't seen before. It looked almost sly, if the way her lips tilted up was anything to go by. She didn't say anything, though, but Judith laughed rather loudly. “Well I suppose at one time it was mine, but I gave it to the boy a while back. It seems it's yours now, though I suppose I couldn't want a more adorable daughter-by-marriage," she stated, grinning at Mercer.
“She'll make a beautiful bride for you, one day."
“What?" was the only thing he could say. Senka seemed amused by the sudden turn of events, and her eyes were on Sorcha, now.
“That stone is known as an engagement stone in Almyra. Your dad gave it to me, and I gave it to you. I told this to you when you were old enough to understand; the woman you give that stone to is your intended. It's an Almyran custom, but it still holds merit in the country," she explained, crossing her arms over her chest.
“So, that means Sorcha is to be Mercer's fiancée?" Senka asked, as if confirming the statement. Judith nodded her head.
An amused sound escaped Teach; it sounded like the kind of snort that was meant to keep back a laugh.
“What?" Sorcha repeated, blinking wide eyes. She seemed to have caught the idea, though, from the way a brilliant scarlet blush rose to the surface of her skin. For some reason, she rounded on Mercer, whacking him in the arm in that way she had that didn't really hurt. Unlike when Amalthea had nearly drowned him, she seemed to at least understand how to check her strength. “You idiot, why would you give me something that important?!" Her voice had pitched up to something high and nervous, but well short of shrill.
“I mean it can't count but still!"
“Why does it not count?" Teach asked. Reasonably, since he didn't know all the details of the story.
At least the question distracted her from the enterprise of trying to beat him up very gently. She paused in her motions and sighed. “Oh, right. Well, we were both young children, and I didn't know what it meant, so I'm sure I don't count as having accepted it. Also, Faerghus doesn't recognize the custom, or I assume they must not, because I already have a fiancé."
“Hm, afraid not, kid," Judith spoke. Mercer was still at a loss for words, though. “Faerghus has to recognize the agreement. That means they are either ignoring it, or they really want to piss off the wrong people. Whether or not you were kids, unless the boy, here, takes back the gem, the engagement still stands. When Mercer takes the title Duke von Riegan, the two of you will be married."
“I can't take something back that I gave someone. Plus... wait you have a fiancé?" Mercer stated, focusing in on that one statement for some reason. He didn't understand why, but he was... something felt hot inside of him. Was he jealous? Why would he be jealous?
“You can't legally bind me with something I didn't know!" Sorcha protested, before glancing sideways at him and sighing. “Well... yes. It happens sometimes. The nobles can't seem to decide whether they believe my uncle is going to settle down and have any sons with Crests. When they think he is, they tend to leverage my position into advantageous arrangements. I've had three fiancées—my uncle isn't really the settling type, and none of his bastards have had the Crest yet. They're hopeful for the next one, though, so... I'm engaged to Duke Gloucester."
She spoke of it as though the circumstances were perfectly normal.
“What happened to the other two?" Teach tilted his head, clearly unsure if normal was the right word.
“Well, uh." Sorcha pursed her lips. “Glenn died, and I threw wine in Viscount Kleiman's face at a dinner once and in the last break between them he got married to someone else."
“This is news to me; Gloucester never mentioned an engagement to you," Judith stated, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“Doesn't matter, though, because she's stuck with me," Mercer replied almost immediately. He was not going to let Sorcha marry Gloucester. “We'll have your engagement anulled to him, and announce at the summit you're my fiancée; you are not marrying that pig," Mercer stated, his eyes hardening in Sorcha's direction. She deserved happiness in her life, and if she married someone like Gloucester, a known rake, well... Mercer was certain he'd poison the man. On purpose this time.
“We'll also notify the regent of Faerghus about it so that he doesn't try anything else."
“What makes you think they will let you annul her engagement, Mercer?" Senka asked in a curious fashion.
“Because what's better than a lord of the Alliance than the actual Duke?" he replied, completely serious about the matter.
“Who died and left you in charge of me?" Sorcha snapped, glowering up at him. She set her hands on her hips, eyes narrow and mouth set in a scowl. “I don't suppose anyone cares what my opinion on the matter is?" She looked around at all of them, jaw tightening and glare accusatory.
“I'd rather be married for political advantage than pity, just so you know." Drawing herself up as tall as she could, she gave Judith a very brief, very queenly, nod. “It was nice to meet you, Lady Judith. If you would excuse me." She did not, however, wait for actual permission, turning on her heel and stalking off.
“Sorcha, wait!" Mercer called after her, cursing himself and his mother for saying what she did. But he was also grateful she did, otherwise he wouldn't have known her situation.
“Go get her, boy!"
When he managed to catch up with Sorcha, he moved so that he was completely in front of her and blocking any other way she could leave. She'd have to go back if she wanted to get away from him. “I didn't mean it like that," he stated, eyes fixed with hers. “Of course I care about your opinion in the matter, but..." his jaw tightened somewhat as he fought the urge to sigh.
“It's not out of pity that I said those things. You don't understand how Gloucester is. You'd be miserable, and I... well, you're my friend, Sorcha. I wouldn't want to see you that way. If you really would rather marry Gloucester, then I won't say anything about it, but... don't you deserve the chance to choose who you actually marry? If you're engaged to me, it won't change anything. I can call it off whenever you want, and if you... find someone you want to be with, then I'll be happy for you, Sor. But..." he paused.
“What do you want?"
“Time." She didn't look too pleased with him for blocking her path, but she did draw to a stop. Quite close, actually, almost enough to be in his face, though even frustrated as she clearly was, she wasn't quite that rude about it. Still, she was close enough that he could've counted her freckles if he wanted to. “I want time. I just—this was suddenly sprung on me, and Lady Judith acted like I have no choice and this is the kind of thing that could start wars if we're not careful, Mercer, depending on how much she and my uncle's advisers are willing to push, or how insulted Duke Gloucester might be."
She expelled a heavy breath, turning her eyes to the side. As if by some old instinct, she gripped the pendant at her neck. “I... appreciate your willingness to do this for me. It's... kind. At least now that it doesn't feel like you're trying to tell me what to do." She managed a little bit of a smile at that.
“But honestly I doubt there's anything to worry about. I haven't even met the Duke yet. I'm sure once I do, he'll revoke his agreement just like Kleiman did." She shrugged.
Mercer ran a hand down his face. “I'm sure he wants to, already. Gloucester isn't the marrying type, but... I will respect your wishes," he replied, taking a step back to give her some space. She wasn't wrong, though. Judith shouldn't have phrased it the way she did, but there was some merit to it, he supposed. The wars that would be started, though, would be of Faerghus' own doing. Almyra wasn't a country you just ignored. You didn't ignore a custom from a nation that was likely as large as all of Fódlan, however; he would do what he said. He was going to respect her wishes.
She winced visibly at the part about Gloucester already wanting to rescind things, a dark little huff of laughter escaping her.
“If that is how you really feel, then... I'm not going to force the issue, however," he stated, eyes going towards the necklace. “Keep that hidden for the time being. I'm not going to ask for it back; it was a gift from a stupid kid trying to make another person happy."
Sorcha hesitated, there. “Maybe you should take it back, then?" she asked quietly. “I mean neither of us knew what you were doing, and all this could be avoided. It—it did make me happy. But if what it's doing now is causing so much trouble..." She shook her head. “I don't think anyone would be happy if there was a dispute over something so easily-rectified?" She seemed to think that the primary issue would be one between Faerghus and the Alliance; then again, she only knew of his status within the Alliance, so that wasn't unreasonable of her.
“Sorcha," he began, grabbing her chin lightly and forcing her to meet his eyes. “I need you to understand something," he continued, face set in a completely serious expression. He wasn't sure if he should tell her this, but he needed her to understand something. “It's not something that is easily-rectified. Not when it's someone like me. I am half-Almyran, you know this, but..." this was all or nothing. What he said could likely put himself at more risk, more danger, but he wanted her to know. And to understand why he was doing what he was.
“I am Almyra's Prince. My father is King of Almyra. Do you understand why I am telling you this? Why something like this custom cannot be so easily-rectified? Faerghus would be insulting their royalty if they refused to annul your engagement with Gloucester, and that jewel... it's yours now. Keep it."
“You—but—" she stuttered, seemingly at a momentary loss. Whether it was from the words or the way he'd delivered them or some combination of the two was hard to say. “Lady Judith said it would be fine if you just took it back...?"
Her thoughts seemed to jump from one track to the other quite abruptly, though. “And prince? What—why is Almyra's prince in Fódlan? I don't—I don't understand any of this." She was obviously distressed, but she oddly made no move to step away, nor to free herself from his gentle grip on her face.
He huffed a little. He supposed he should have expected that reaction. “I'm here because I am Duke von Riegan's only living heir. They don't need me in Almyra, yet. And Judith says whatever she wants that she thinks will be of benefit to her. I don't think she was lying when she said she liked you," though that wasn't quite the way she'd phrased it.
“Don't... think too much on it, Sor. I'm still me, Mercer, your idiot friend, alright? I'll... explain more when there's time, but... I need to prepare for the trip to Derdriu. We'll talk when I get back, alright? That is... if you want."
“I... all right." Sorcha still seemed a little troubled but she gave him a small nod. “I don't know exactly what they'll have you doing, but... good luck, Mercer."
He grinned at her. “Thanks, love."
As he made his way past the blacksmith, a familiar shade of blonde caught his attention, and he felt himself grin. As usual, though, Senka was with Sorcha, so sneaking up on Sorcha would be difficult. Rolling his eyes to himself, he decided he'd at least see what they were up to.
“Hey, guys," he greeted, pulling Senka's attention from the vulnerary she was looking at.
“Good evening, Mercer," she replied, inclining her head towards him. “Are you here for supplies as well?" she asked, causing him to nod his head.
“Yeah, I figured I might as well stock up on a few things before the mission this month. Since we really don't know what we're going up against, and Teach's trainings have been a little... overkill," though that was a lie. They weren't as bad as they usually were. It was just trying to learn something new that was giving Mercer trouble. He wasn't quite used to a partner, yet.
Sorcha, of course, was the partner in question, as the two of them were the group's only fliers, so it made sense. She simply nodded, though, certainly not disagreeing with him about the difficulty of the new exercises. “I'm sort of used to teamwork being... well more like a bunch of individuals doing the same thing, or joining forces if it comes up. Working as an actual team from the get-go, and developing tactics around it... that's something I've never done before."
On a certain level, it wouldn't be that useful after graduation. After all, most of them would be returning to very different places. But on the other hand, knowing how to develop close teamwork couldn't hurt, even if the particular partner had to change.
“True. It's something none of us has done, so I think that was the reason Teach wanted us to learn," he replied with a light shrug of his shoulders. “It's not all bad, I suppose," he added. “Speaking of Teach, is that him in the distance?" he stated, narrowing his eyes. It almost looked like Teach in the distance, however; he couldn't be too sure. What caught his attention, though, was the woman standing next to the Maybe-Teach. Mercer felt his stomach twist a bit.
“Uh, Sen, do me a favor and stand over here. Right in front of me," he stated, causing Senka to furrow her brows. She didn't comply with his request, though, and the woman glanced in their direction. He could see a grin forming on her face as she mouthed something to the Maybe-Teach. She waved at him, though, as if trying to summon Mercer to her. He pretended not to notice.
“Mercer von Riegan get your ass over here!" she shouted, causing almost everyone in the market to turn in his direction. He groaned.
“Do you guys mind?" he asked Sorcha and Senka. He really didn't want to go alone to see the woman.
Sorcha snorted. “Friend of yours?" she asked, turning without protest towards the woman, tilting her head as if to prompt Senka to do the same. Senka followed wordlessly behind.
As they got closer it became quite clear that Maybe-Teach was in fact actually Teach, and he looked the faintest bit bewildered by the woman. This didn't stop him from lifting a hand in greeting as the three of them approached, however.
“If it isn't my little Mercer!" Judith stated, causing Mercer to purse his lips together.
“Judith, what are you doing here?" he questioned, earning a flat stare from the woman.
“That's Lady Judith to you, boy. I told you, until you're in charge, I expect you to address me with all due respect." Mercer pursed his lips at Judith as he regarded her with a flat stare. What did she want, anyway? “Anyway, I'm here to retrieve you. Duke Riegan's condition has taken a turn for the worse." That explained what she wanted, at least. Mercer sighed heavily as he groaned.
“So... are you saying gramps is on his death bed, now?" he questioned. Duke Riegan had varying health issues. He would be fine one month, and deathly ill the next. Mercer knew that Riegan was likely just wanting him around for some reason or another. Judith, however, shook her head.
“No, it's not that bad," she began, placing a hand to her forehead, “but in the state he's in, he won't be able to participate in the next roundtable conference." And there it was. Mercer wasn't too sure if he wanted to, but he didn't have much of a choice, he supposed. “He wants you to go in his stead, and I volunteered to play the messenger."
“Gee, thanks. Oh," he glanced at the others, “I guess I should introduce you. This is Judith, my mother." Judith inclined her head towards the group and grinned.
“So, you're the friends I've heard so much about. Tell me, how much trouble has he given you?" she asked, the grin never leaving her face. Mercer inwardly groaned.
“You call your mother by her first name?" Sorcha's eyes widened in rather comical surprise, like she'd never even realized such a thing was possible, let alone considered actually doing it. She glanced between them, initial surprise fading into thoughtfulness. Likely, she recognized the family resemblance, which while not especially strong, was definitely there to some extent.
“Ah, um. Please forgive me, Lady Judith," she said, bowing rather formally. The motion was deep enough to dislodge her necklace from its place beneath her uniform jacket. “We might have actually met before, briefly, though I was very young at the time. I'm Sorcha. Sorcha Blaiddyd. This is my friend, Senka Argyris." She rose from the bow.
Senka bowed, though not as deeply as Sorcha had. Judith seemed rather amused by it, however; her eyes landed near where the necklace lay. Her eyes narrowed, and Mercer knew that she recognized the gem. “You little shit," she stated, glancing in his direction. Mercer took a cautious step backwards, and raised his hands in defense. “You told me you lost it!" she nearly shouted, however; her attention went back to Sorcha.
“Did he give that to you?" she asked, though she seemed rather curious than angry.
Sorcha's surprise took on an element of apprehension. “It's yours? I'm so sorry! I—the wrapping can come off, I mean if you need it to—um." She cleared her throat, fingers folding carefully around the stone, as if to protect it from something, despite her apparent expectation that she'd be giving it back. “Yes, he did. It was—it was honestly my fault, though; I—well apparently I was making quite a nuisance of myself and it made a rather good distraction, so if there's fault, it's mine."
She pursed her lips, throwing an uncomfortable glance at Mercer and for some reason studiously not looking at Senka.
Teach only looked curious at this development, arms folded over his chest and one eyebrow ever so slightly arched.
Senka drew an expression Mercer hadn't seen before. It looked almost sly, if the way her lips tilted up was anything to go by. She didn't say anything, though, but Judith laughed rather loudly. “Well I suppose at one time it was mine, but I gave it to the boy a while back. It seems it's yours now, though I suppose I couldn't want a more adorable daughter-by-marriage," she stated, grinning at Mercer.
“She'll make a beautiful bride for you, one day."
“What?" was the only thing he could say. Senka seemed amused by the sudden turn of events, and her eyes were on Sorcha, now.
“That stone is known as an engagement stone in Almyra. Your dad gave it to me, and I gave it to you. I told this to you when you were old enough to understand; the woman you give that stone to is your intended. It's an Almyran custom, but it still holds merit in the country," she explained, crossing her arms over her chest.
“So, that means Sorcha is to be Mercer's fiancée?" Senka asked, as if confirming the statement. Judith nodded her head.
An amused sound escaped Teach; it sounded like the kind of snort that was meant to keep back a laugh.
“What?" Sorcha repeated, blinking wide eyes. She seemed to have caught the idea, though, from the way a brilliant scarlet blush rose to the surface of her skin. For some reason, she rounded on Mercer, whacking him in the arm in that way she had that didn't really hurt. Unlike when Amalthea had nearly drowned him, she seemed to at least understand how to check her strength. “You idiot, why would you give me something that important?!" Her voice had pitched up to something high and nervous, but well short of shrill.
“I mean it can't count but still!"
“Why does it not count?" Teach asked. Reasonably, since he didn't know all the details of the story.
At least the question distracted her from the enterprise of trying to beat him up very gently. She paused in her motions and sighed. “Oh, right. Well, we were both young children, and I didn't know what it meant, so I'm sure I don't count as having accepted it. Also, Faerghus doesn't recognize the custom, or I assume they must not, because I already have a fiancé."
“Hm, afraid not, kid," Judith spoke. Mercer was still at a loss for words, though. “Faerghus has to recognize the agreement. That means they are either ignoring it, or they really want to piss off the wrong people. Whether or not you were kids, unless the boy, here, takes back the gem, the engagement still stands. When Mercer takes the title Duke von Riegan, the two of you will be married."
“I can't take something back that I gave someone. Plus... wait you have a fiancé?" Mercer stated, focusing in on that one statement for some reason. He didn't understand why, but he was... something felt hot inside of him. Was he jealous? Why would he be jealous?
“You can't legally bind me with something I didn't know!" Sorcha protested, before glancing sideways at him and sighing. “Well... yes. It happens sometimes. The nobles can't seem to decide whether they believe my uncle is going to settle down and have any sons with Crests. When they think he is, they tend to leverage my position into advantageous arrangements. I've had three fiancées—my uncle isn't really the settling type, and none of his bastards have had the Crest yet. They're hopeful for the next one, though, so... I'm engaged to Duke Gloucester."
She spoke of it as though the circumstances were perfectly normal.
“What happened to the other two?" Teach tilted his head, clearly unsure if normal was the right word.
“Well, uh." Sorcha pursed her lips. “Glenn died, and I threw wine in Viscount Kleiman's face at a dinner once and in the last break between them he got married to someone else."
“This is news to me; Gloucester never mentioned an engagement to you," Judith stated, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“Doesn't matter, though, because she's stuck with me," Mercer replied almost immediately. He was not going to let Sorcha marry Gloucester. “We'll have your engagement anulled to him, and announce at the summit you're my fiancée; you are not marrying that pig," Mercer stated, his eyes hardening in Sorcha's direction. She deserved happiness in her life, and if she married someone like Gloucester, a known rake, well... Mercer was certain he'd poison the man. On purpose this time.
“We'll also notify the regent of Faerghus about it so that he doesn't try anything else."
“What makes you think they will let you annul her engagement, Mercer?" Senka asked in a curious fashion.
“Because what's better than a lord of the Alliance than the actual Duke?" he replied, completely serious about the matter.
“Who died and left you in charge of me?" Sorcha snapped, glowering up at him. She set her hands on her hips, eyes narrow and mouth set in a scowl. “I don't suppose anyone cares what my opinion on the matter is?" She looked around at all of them, jaw tightening and glare accusatory.
“I'd rather be married for political advantage than pity, just so you know." Drawing herself up as tall as she could, she gave Judith a very brief, very queenly, nod. “It was nice to meet you, Lady Judith. If you would excuse me." She did not, however, wait for actual permission, turning on her heel and stalking off.
“Sorcha, wait!" Mercer called after her, cursing himself and his mother for saying what she did. But he was also grateful she did, otherwise he wouldn't have known her situation.
“Go get her, boy!"
When he managed to catch up with Sorcha, he moved so that he was completely in front of her and blocking any other way she could leave. She'd have to go back if she wanted to get away from him. “I didn't mean it like that," he stated, eyes fixed with hers. “Of course I care about your opinion in the matter, but..." his jaw tightened somewhat as he fought the urge to sigh.
“It's not out of pity that I said those things. You don't understand how Gloucester is. You'd be miserable, and I... well, you're my friend, Sorcha. I wouldn't want to see you that way. If you really would rather marry Gloucester, then I won't say anything about it, but... don't you deserve the chance to choose who you actually marry? If you're engaged to me, it won't change anything. I can call it off whenever you want, and if you... find someone you want to be with, then I'll be happy for you, Sor. But..." he paused.
“What do you want?"
“Time." She didn't look too pleased with him for blocking her path, but she did draw to a stop. Quite close, actually, almost enough to be in his face, though even frustrated as she clearly was, she wasn't quite that rude about it. Still, she was close enough that he could've counted her freckles if he wanted to. “I want time. I just—this was suddenly sprung on me, and Lady Judith acted like I have no choice and this is the kind of thing that could start wars if we're not careful, Mercer, depending on how much she and my uncle's advisers are willing to push, or how insulted Duke Gloucester might be."
She expelled a heavy breath, turning her eyes to the side. As if by some old instinct, she gripped the pendant at her neck. “I... appreciate your willingness to do this for me. It's... kind. At least now that it doesn't feel like you're trying to tell me what to do." She managed a little bit of a smile at that.
“But honestly I doubt there's anything to worry about. I haven't even met the Duke yet. I'm sure once I do, he'll revoke his agreement just like Kleiman did." She shrugged.
Mercer ran a hand down his face. “I'm sure he wants to, already. Gloucester isn't the marrying type, but... I will respect your wishes," he replied, taking a step back to give her some space. She wasn't wrong, though. Judith shouldn't have phrased it the way she did, but there was some merit to it, he supposed. The wars that would be started, though, would be of Faerghus' own doing. Almyra wasn't a country you just ignored. You didn't ignore a custom from a nation that was likely as large as all of Fódlan, however; he would do what he said. He was going to respect her wishes.
She winced visibly at the part about Gloucester already wanting to rescind things, a dark little huff of laughter escaping her.
“If that is how you really feel, then... I'm not going to force the issue, however," he stated, eyes going towards the necklace. “Keep that hidden for the time being. I'm not going to ask for it back; it was a gift from a stupid kid trying to make another person happy."
Sorcha hesitated, there. “Maybe you should take it back, then?" she asked quietly. “I mean neither of us knew what you were doing, and all this could be avoided. It—it did make me happy. But if what it's doing now is causing so much trouble..." She shook her head. “I don't think anyone would be happy if there was a dispute over something so easily-rectified?" She seemed to think that the primary issue would be one between Faerghus and the Alliance; then again, she only knew of his status within the Alliance, so that wasn't unreasonable of her.
“Sorcha," he began, grabbing her chin lightly and forcing her to meet his eyes. “I need you to understand something," he continued, face set in a completely serious expression. He wasn't sure if he should tell her this, but he needed her to understand something. “It's not something that is easily-rectified. Not when it's someone like me. I am half-Almyran, you know this, but..." this was all or nothing. What he said could likely put himself at more risk, more danger, but he wanted her to know. And to understand why he was doing what he was.
“I am Almyra's Prince. My father is King of Almyra. Do you understand why I am telling you this? Why something like this custom cannot be so easily-rectified? Faerghus would be insulting their royalty if they refused to annul your engagement with Gloucester, and that jewel... it's yours now. Keep it."
“You—but—" she stuttered, seemingly at a momentary loss. Whether it was from the words or the way he'd delivered them or some combination of the two was hard to say. “Lady Judith said it would be fine if you just took it back...?"
Her thoughts seemed to jump from one track to the other quite abruptly, though. “And prince? What—why is Almyra's prince in Fódlan? I don't—I don't understand any of this." She was obviously distressed, but she oddly made no move to step away, nor to free herself from his gentle grip on her face.
He huffed a little. He supposed he should have expected that reaction. “I'm here because I am Duke von Riegan's only living heir. They don't need me in Almyra, yet. And Judith says whatever she wants that she thinks will be of benefit to her. I don't think she was lying when she said she liked you," though that wasn't quite the way she'd phrased it.
“Don't... think too much on it, Sor. I'm still me, Mercer, your idiot friend, alright? I'll... explain more when there's time, but... I need to prepare for the trip to Derdriu. We'll talk when I get back, alright? That is... if you want."
“I... all right." Sorcha still seemed a little troubled but she gave him a small nod. “I don't know exactly what they'll have you doing, but... good luck, Mercer."
He grinned at her. “Thanks, love."
Derdriu (South Gate) - Midmorning - Sunny
Vridel von Hresvelg
Vridel wasn't exactly sure how Cyril had managed to convince the Archbishop that a field trip to the Alliance capital was a good idea, but he certainly couldn't complain. Given the historical tensions between Fódlan's three countries, it was unusual for members of other royal families to visit such places, and he was well aware that he and Sorcha would both be under a great deal of scrutiny from the nobles here during the trip, but he thought perhaps it might be well worth it. He was scrutinized wherever he went and whatever he did, after all; this wasn't so unusual.
Mercer had seemed rather surprised to learn that the Professor's entire Saturday group would be accompanying him home, along with his mother and Lady Lyanna, but not even they as the future sovereigns of countries generally got to say no to the Archbishop, if he'd even have been inclined to in the first place.
As they approached the southern gate of Derdriu, Vridel scanned the landscape from the back of his borrowed horse. Even at march pace on horseback, it was a two-day journey from the Monastery. The temperature was noticeably more moderate here, and less humid, no doubt the ocean's influence. He was looking forward to seeing the so-called Aquatic City, said to be one of the world's most beautiful places, and more in harmony with the bordering ocean than even the Empire's grand ports.
Before they drew too close, the fliers in their group landed, which mostly just meant Sorcha, Mercer, and Lady Lyanna, who sat sidesaddle astride a pristine white pegasus mount. “Something amiss?" he inquired, glancing between them.
Sorcha pursed her lips. “There is a rather large party ahead, waiting at the gates. They appear to be flying the Crest of Gloucester."
“Flashy bastard," Mercer mumbled as he appeared slightly in front of Vridel. “He just wants to be seen; he's like a peacock who has to strut his feathers. Don't mind him, too much, though. Hopefully you all won't have to interact with him, much," he continued, not bothering to hide his disdain. Mercer didn't appear to like the Duke of Gloucester.
“Why is that?" Senka asked, pulling up to Vridel's left on Libi, the black gelding she'd requested. Mercer pursed his lips in her direction.
“Don't be too surprised if he tries to proposition you for... things," he stated, causing Senka's brows to furrow.
“Proposition? Like what?" Amalthea asked, clearly not understanding the reference Mercer had stated. She was on Senka's otherside, mounted on a chestnut mare.
“Don't worry about it, too much, Thea. Just stay close to us, or your sister during the stay," Mercer replied, giving Amalthea a small grin.
Vridel, of course, knew very well what things Mercer was referring to. Honestly someone like that would be lucky to get Thea to understand what he wanted, never mind the rest. He would know—he hadn't yet really succeeded at the first. Perhaps it would have been easier if he knew exactly what he wanted in the first place.
The Professor, riding near the front of the column with Judith, looked rather indifferent as usual, though he did squint a bit at the gate, as if to assess the waiting party.
Sorcha looked slightly upset by something, but nudged Lady forward on foot with nothing more than a sigh.
Vridel figured that was that, and the group resumed its progress towards the gate. He supposed they looked rather less impressive than a company of knights; they were distinctly less unified in bearing, with fliers and pack horses and a small wagon in their midst. If anything, the patchwork of it would resemble merchants traveling with an armed guard, or... mercenaries, perhaps.
He found he didn't hate that so much. Better that marching with Church banners waving obnoxiously over their heads, anyway.
As they drew closer, the figured resolved more distinctly. At the head of the group was who could only have been Gloucester. He rode in polished silver armor, the family standard of a rose crowned with the Gloucester Crest obvious on the bannermen behind him. His horse was an Imperial charger, Vridel was sure of it, a large white one, and he'd foregone the helm of his armor in favor of meeting them barefaced. He was probably quite confident in his looks, as that type so often were. Admittedly, he wasn't unattractive—the dark lavender shade of his hair was unusual enough to be striking, and his features certainly qualified as elegant, in a masculine sort of way.
When the party was close enough, he and his two bannermen detached from the rest of his party, riding forward to meet them. It was all very chivalrous, and entirely unnecessary in Vridel's opinion, though he supposed it was all about knowing one's audience. He knew at least that Faerghus had a great cultural appreciation for this sort of thing. Perhaps he meant to impress Sorcha? He could have done worse if so.
“Hail, visitors!" Gloucester called out, drawing to a stop a polite distance away. “Might I ask if Her Highness Princess Sorcha Blaiddyd is among you?"
There was a beat of silence, during which Vridel threw a look at Mercer, curious as to whether this sort of thing was normal for the Duke.
Mercer mumbled something beneath his breath, but glanced directly at Gloucester. “Couldn't you wait until we were inside? We've been traveling for two days, Matteo, don't you think the Princess would like to rest first? As well as my other guests?" he stated, clearly irritated by something.
“Mercer," the Duke replied, clearly not entirely pleased to be addressed by his first name and returning the insult in kind. “How... pleasant, to see you. As for the occasion, well—that is precisely why I and mine are here. I had thought to give your... party a proper escort through the city, so as to better avoid the crowds and suchlike. I had also intended to invite my intended to board at my estate here in the city. I should hate for House Riegan to find themselves... overtaxed, with such an abundance of guests."
At this point, Sorcha cleared her throat, raising her hand briefly before swinging down from Lady's back. “I'm Sorcha," she said, looking rather like she was bracing herself for something.
Gloucester blinked at her, perhaps slightly taken aback either by her directness or the fact that she had in fact made the journey astride an 'unlucky' beast. He swiftly dismounted himself, and approached her.
“Ah, so the rumors of your exquisiteness are true, Your Highness." Gloucester delivered the line with perfect sincerity. Looked at a certain way, it was almost impressive. Vridel didn't think he could have willingly said that seriously. “No—on second thought, I daresay they have not done you enough credit." Reaching forward, he took up Sorcha's hand, startling her, it seemed, as she'd been about to dip into a bow. Instead, though, he raised her hand to his lips, brushing them lightly over her knuckles. Mercer openly glared at Gloucester when he did.
“Enchanted to meet you, my Princess."
“U—um," Sorcha stammered, flushing a bright pink. “I'm sure it's nothing so—"
“Nonsense!" the Duke cut off her self-effacing reply with a wave of his free hand. “But please—Mercer does have a point. I should hate for our esteemed guests to be kept from the rest they so surely deserve!" Keen eyes swept the group. If Vridel had not been practiced in looking for such things, he probably would have missed the way the Duke subtly lingered on the other women as well, but as it was he definitely noticed.
This, he thought, could get ugly.
Reluctantly parting with Sorcha's hand, Gloucester remounted. “Please: ladies, gentlemen. Allow the Knights of House Gloucester to serve as your honor guard and guides to the fair city of Derdriu. If there is anything you should require during your stay, do not hesitate to ask it of us." Without so much as waiting for a reply, he wheeled his charger and began to lead the way to the gate, his bannermen flanking him.
Mercer didn't say anything, and motioned Sir forward to follow behind Gloucester's company. “This is unnecessary, even if he was being serious about it. This is all for show, is it not?" Senka asked, riding beside Vridel and glancing at him from the corner of her eye. She must have noticed something, otherwise she wouldn't have mentioned it to Vridel. They were close enough that she didn't speak loud so that the others could hear her, though.
“Oh, it's completely unnecessary," Vridel replied, just as quietly. “But he's not doing it because we need an escort. He's doing it to get one over on Mercer. It's plain they don't like each other, even before Sorcha figures into it. And Mercer's all but given himself away with some of his reactions, so I'll wager our 'friend' the Duke just got some information out of this that makes it entirely worth pretending to care about any of us."
This was real politics, not the friendly ribbing they all gave each other at the Academy. And everyone here would be watching them all very closely, looking for weaknesses and exploitable character flaws, anything that might give them any kind of inside knowledge of or leverage over himself, Mercer, Sorcha, or the Church. And like it or not, that meant the others were automatically just as involved.
“This so exciting! We're being escorted by knights, almost. It's... almost romantic!" Thea didn't seem to have any reserves about being led into the city. She was, as usual, very excited about it. She glanced between Vridel and Senka and merely smiled. Mercer had remained in front, though from the way his shoulders were tense, he didn't seem to be happy about any of this. Whether it was because of Gloucester's actions, or the fact that he stated that Sorcha was his intended. It might have been both.
Sorcha hastened to remount, riding a little behind most everyone else. She seemed to be looking down at her hand, as though something about it was suddenly fascinating. Vridel tried not to grimace; he recognized the effect, having intentionally induced it more than once himself. Fortunately, Cyril rode up beside her a moment later and said something he couldn't hear, drawing her into some kind of conversation. That wasn't as bad, perhaps.
“Emphasis on almost," Vridel murmured, a response to Thea that he didn't really intend for her to hear. Of all the people in this group, he figured she was the most likely to fall for even the thinnest pretenses, and made a mental note to keep an eye on her.
They passed through the gate and into the city proper thereafter. It was a lively place; Gloucester had at the very least not been false when he'd implied that the crowds were large. They parted for the knights, though, who formed a protective ring around the group, keeping them apart from those milling on foot. It wasn't too hard to pick out the main threads of conversation, though.
“Duke Gloucester's Knights—"
“Is that young Lord Riegan?"
“That hair—the Imperial Lily?" Vridel frowned at that one, head snapping to the side to glare in the direction it had come from. A cluster of young women startled, then giggled, one or two of the bolder ones waving at him. One of them actually winked. He suppressed a sigh. At least it wasn't meant in insult, he supposed.
“What are they doing here? The Church?"
To his credit, Mercer was back to his normal self, smiling at the crowd and waving. Some of the people seemed to be intimidated by Sir, but the wyvern merely kept his head held high, as if he were strutting. Amalthea had moved a little further up on her horse, and Senka moved with her. They seemed to be spared from any of the chatter. Senka wasn't wearing anything that linked her to the church, save for the fact that she was riding with them. Amalthea was wearing the church's sigil embroidered on her cloak, so that was a giveaway.
Cyril wore only his father's sigils, and otherwise looked exactly like the mercenary he was, so even riding next to Sorcha, he drew no particular attention beyond what an attractive human being in such company would. Sorcha, too, was conspicuously without any of the trappings of anyone who might seem to be the Princess of anywhere, and looked, no doubt, more like she was with the Professor than any of the rest of them.
For his part, Vridel preferred to do what he'd always done; ignore the crowd. He didn't hate commoners by any means; he wasn't the kind of noble who disrespected the contributions of his people to his country. But he wasn't really the kind of bright, open personality Mercer was, and the idea of trying to fake it was... unpleasant.
Mercer had actually fallen back a bit, so that he was now riding next to Vridel. “Man, I hope this goes by fast. I really don't want to be here," he muttered, smile still in place as if nothing was wrong. It was easy to tell, at least for Vridel, that Mercer was upset, and that Gloucester was the one responsible for it. “Sorry you have to be here to witness this little game, though. Maybe you can help a friend out, yeah?" he stated grimly, though not at all serious about the last part.
“It's fine," Vridel replied easily. “I promise you I'm used to them. You want me to stab him or something? I can make it look like an accident. Or Reynard can, whichever."
“I'd say please, but it wouldn't really work that well," he replied, pushing a sigh through his nose. “I honestly don't know what Gloucester has planned. He is laying it on thick, and that's saying something for someone like him. No offense, Vi, but at least you have more class," Mercer stated, his smile turning into a small grin.
“I really don't have to tell you this since you already know, but," Mercer began, but paused as his face took on a more serious note, “watch your back. Closely. People here, you know exactly the kind they are, but they," he nodded towards the others, “they don't know. We should make sure they're at least going to be okay, and... if you could do me a solid. Watch Sorcha. I don't trust Gloucester alone with her. I trust her, but not him."
Ordinarily Vridel would remind Mercer that Sorcha was quite a capable person, and rather able to look out for herself, but... he was fairly sure Gloucester has also attended the Academy, and the years of experience since didn't seem to have been useless. The knightly act was in part an act, to be certain, but the discipline of the Duke's men, the surety of his posture on his horse... he was quite convinced there was real skill underlying that. All the more unfortunate.
So instead he expelled a breath, and gave Mercer a short nod. “Your esteem flatters me," he drawled sarcastically. “But... yes. I will keep an eye on them as well."
Mercer seemed to relax at the statement, almost as if he was not as burdened as he'd been when they arrived. “Thanks, Vi. You're a solid friend," he stated, rolling out his shoulders as he nudged Sir back to the front.
He did wonder about that, but... well, perhaps it would do for now.
Mercer had seemed rather surprised to learn that the Professor's entire Saturday group would be accompanying him home, along with his mother and Lady Lyanna, but not even they as the future sovereigns of countries generally got to say no to the Archbishop, if he'd even have been inclined to in the first place.
As they approached the southern gate of Derdriu, Vridel scanned the landscape from the back of his borrowed horse. Even at march pace on horseback, it was a two-day journey from the Monastery. The temperature was noticeably more moderate here, and less humid, no doubt the ocean's influence. He was looking forward to seeing the so-called Aquatic City, said to be one of the world's most beautiful places, and more in harmony with the bordering ocean than even the Empire's grand ports.
Before they drew too close, the fliers in their group landed, which mostly just meant Sorcha, Mercer, and Lady Lyanna, who sat sidesaddle astride a pristine white pegasus mount. “Something amiss?" he inquired, glancing between them.
Sorcha pursed her lips. “There is a rather large party ahead, waiting at the gates. They appear to be flying the Crest of Gloucester."
“Flashy bastard," Mercer mumbled as he appeared slightly in front of Vridel. “He just wants to be seen; he's like a peacock who has to strut his feathers. Don't mind him, too much, though. Hopefully you all won't have to interact with him, much," he continued, not bothering to hide his disdain. Mercer didn't appear to like the Duke of Gloucester.
“Why is that?" Senka asked, pulling up to Vridel's left on Libi, the black gelding she'd requested. Mercer pursed his lips in her direction.
“Don't be too surprised if he tries to proposition you for... things," he stated, causing Senka's brows to furrow.
“Proposition? Like what?" Amalthea asked, clearly not understanding the reference Mercer had stated. She was on Senka's otherside, mounted on a chestnut mare.
“Don't worry about it, too much, Thea. Just stay close to us, or your sister during the stay," Mercer replied, giving Amalthea a small grin.
Vridel, of course, knew very well what things Mercer was referring to. Honestly someone like that would be lucky to get Thea to understand what he wanted, never mind the rest. He would know—he hadn't yet really succeeded at the first. Perhaps it would have been easier if he knew exactly what he wanted in the first place.
The Professor, riding near the front of the column with Judith, looked rather indifferent as usual, though he did squint a bit at the gate, as if to assess the waiting party.
Sorcha looked slightly upset by something, but nudged Lady forward on foot with nothing more than a sigh.
Vridel figured that was that, and the group resumed its progress towards the gate. He supposed they looked rather less impressive than a company of knights; they were distinctly less unified in bearing, with fliers and pack horses and a small wagon in their midst. If anything, the patchwork of it would resemble merchants traveling with an armed guard, or... mercenaries, perhaps.
He found he didn't hate that so much. Better that marching with Church banners waving obnoxiously over their heads, anyway.
As they drew closer, the figured resolved more distinctly. At the head of the group was who could only have been Gloucester. He rode in polished silver armor, the family standard of a rose crowned with the Gloucester Crest obvious on the bannermen behind him. His horse was an Imperial charger, Vridel was sure of it, a large white one, and he'd foregone the helm of his armor in favor of meeting them barefaced. He was probably quite confident in his looks, as that type so often were. Admittedly, he wasn't unattractive—the dark lavender shade of his hair was unusual enough to be striking, and his features certainly qualified as elegant, in a masculine sort of way.
When the party was close enough, he and his two bannermen detached from the rest of his party, riding forward to meet them. It was all very chivalrous, and entirely unnecessary in Vridel's opinion, though he supposed it was all about knowing one's audience. He knew at least that Faerghus had a great cultural appreciation for this sort of thing. Perhaps he meant to impress Sorcha? He could have done worse if so.
“Hail, visitors!" Gloucester called out, drawing to a stop a polite distance away. “Might I ask if Her Highness Princess Sorcha Blaiddyd is among you?"
There was a beat of silence, during which Vridel threw a look at Mercer, curious as to whether this sort of thing was normal for the Duke.
Mercer mumbled something beneath his breath, but glanced directly at Gloucester. “Couldn't you wait until we were inside? We've been traveling for two days, Matteo, don't you think the Princess would like to rest first? As well as my other guests?" he stated, clearly irritated by something.
“Mercer," the Duke replied, clearly not entirely pleased to be addressed by his first name and returning the insult in kind. “How... pleasant, to see you. As for the occasion, well—that is precisely why I and mine are here. I had thought to give your... party a proper escort through the city, so as to better avoid the crowds and suchlike. I had also intended to invite my intended to board at my estate here in the city. I should hate for House Riegan to find themselves... overtaxed, with such an abundance of guests."
At this point, Sorcha cleared her throat, raising her hand briefly before swinging down from Lady's back. “I'm Sorcha," she said, looking rather like she was bracing herself for something.
Gloucester blinked at her, perhaps slightly taken aback either by her directness or the fact that she had in fact made the journey astride an 'unlucky' beast. He swiftly dismounted himself, and approached her.
“Ah, so the rumors of your exquisiteness are true, Your Highness." Gloucester delivered the line with perfect sincerity. Looked at a certain way, it was almost impressive. Vridel didn't think he could have willingly said that seriously. “No—on second thought, I daresay they have not done you enough credit." Reaching forward, he took up Sorcha's hand, startling her, it seemed, as she'd been about to dip into a bow. Instead, though, he raised her hand to his lips, brushing them lightly over her knuckles. Mercer openly glared at Gloucester when he did.
“Enchanted to meet you, my Princess."
“U—um," Sorcha stammered, flushing a bright pink. “I'm sure it's nothing so—"
“Nonsense!" the Duke cut off her self-effacing reply with a wave of his free hand. “But please—Mercer does have a point. I should hate for our esteemed guests to be kept from the rest they so surely deserve!" Keen eyes swept the group. If Vridel had not been practiced in looking for such things, he probably would have missed the way the Duke subtly lingered on the other women as well, but as it was he definitely noticed.
This, he thought, could get ugly.
Reluctantly parting with Sorcha's hand, Gloucester remounted. “Please: ladies, gentlemen. Allow the Knights of House Gloucester to serve as your honor guard and guides to the fair city of Derdriu. If there is anything you should require during your stay, do not hesitate to ask it of us." Without so much as waiting for a reply, he wheeled his charger and began to lead the way to the gate, his bannermen flanking him.
Mercer didn't say anything, and motioned Sir forward to follow behind Gloucester's company. “This is unnecessary, even if he was being serious about it. This is all for show, is it not?" Senka asked, riding beside Vridel and glancing at him from the corner of her eye. She must have noticed something, otherwise she wouldn't have mentioned it to Vridel. They were close enough that she didn't speak loud so that the others could hear her, though.
“Oh, it's completely unnecessary," Vridel replied, just as quietly. “But he's not doing it because we need an escort. He's doing it to get one over on Mercer. It's plain they don't like each other, even before Sorcha figures into it. And Mercer's all but given himself away with some of his reactions, so I'll wager our 'friend' the Duke just got some information out of this that makes it entirely worth pretending to care about any of us."
This was real politics, not the friendly ribbing they all gave each other at the Academy. And everyone here would be watching them all very closely, looking for weaknesses and exploitable character flaws, anything that might give them any kind of inside knowledge of or leverage over himself, Mercer, Sorcha, or the Church. And like it or not, that meant the others were automatically just as involved.
“This so exciting! We're being escorted by knights, almost. It's... almost romantic!" Thea didn't seem to have any reserves about being led into the city. She was, as usual, very excited about it. She glanced between Vridel and Senka and merely smiled. Mercer had remained in front, though from the way his shoulders were tense, he didn't seem to be happy about any of this. Whether it was because of Gloucester's actions, or the fact that he stated that Sorcha was his intended. It might have been both.
Sorcha hastened to remount, riding a little behind most everyone else. She seemed to be looking down at her hand, as though something about it was suddenly fascinating. Vridel tried not to grimace; he recognized the effect, having intentionally induced it more than once himself. Fortunately, Cyril rode up beside her a moment later and said something he couldn't hear, drawing her into some kind of conversation. That wasn't as bad, perhaps.
“Emphasis on almost," Vridel murmured, a response to Thea that he didn't really intend for her to hear. Of all the people in this group, he figured she was the most likely to fall for even the thinnest pretenses, and made a mental note to keep an eye on her.
They passed through the gate and into the city proper thereafter. It was a lively place; Gloucester had at the very least not been false when he'd implied that the crowds were large. They parted for the knights, though, who formed a protective ring around the group, keeping them apart from those milling on foot. It wasn't too hard to pick out the main threads of conversation, though.
“Duke Gloucester's Knights—"
“Is that young Lord Riegan?"
“That hair—the Imperial Lily?" Vridel frowned at that one, head snapping to the side to glare in the direction it had come from. A cluster of young women startled, then giggled, one or two of the bolder ones waving at him. One of them actually winked. He suppressed a sigh. At least it wasn't meant in insult, he supposed.
“What are they doing here? The Church?"
To his credit, Mercer was back to his normal self, smiling at the crowd and waving. Some of the people seemed to be intimidated by Sir, but the wyvern merely kept his head held high, as if he were strutting. Amalthea had moved a little further up on her horse, and Senka moved with her. They seemed to be spared from any of the chatter. Senka wasn't wearing anything that linked her to the church, save for the fact that she was riding with them. Amalthea was wearing the church's sigil embroidered on her cloak, so that was a giveaway.
Cyril wore only his father's sigils, and otherwise looked exactly like the mercenary he was, so even riding next to Sorcha, he drew no particular attention beyond what an attractive human being in such company would. Sorcha, too, was conspicuously without any of the trappings of anyone who might seem to be the Princess of anywhere, and looked, no doubt, more like she was with the Professor than any of the rest of them.
For his part, Vridel preferred to do what he'd always done; ignore the crowd. He didn't hate commoners by any means; he wasn't the kind of noble who disrespected the contributions of his people to his country. But he wasn't really the kind of bright, open personality Mercer was, and the idea of trying to fake it was... unpleasant.
Mercer had actually fallen back a bit, so that he was now riding next to Vridel. “Man, I hope this goes by fast. I really don't want to be here," he muttered, smile still in place as if nothing was wrong. It was easy to tell, at least for Vridel, that Mercer was upset, and that Gloucester was the one responsible for it. “Sorry you have to be here to witness this little game, though. Maybe you can help a friend out, yeah?" he stated grimly, though not at all serious about the last part.
“It's fine," Vridel replied easily. “I promise you I'm used to them. You want me to stab him or something? I can make it look like an accident. Or Reynard can, whichever."
“I'd say please, but it wouldn't really work that well," he replied, pushing a sigh through his nose. “I honestly don't know what Gloucester has planned. He is laying it on thick, and that's saying something for someone like him. No offense, Vi, but at least you have more class," Mercer stated, his smile turning into a small grin.
“I really don't have to tell you this since you already know, but," Mercer began, but paused as his face took on a more serious note, “watch your back. Closely. People here, you know exactly the kind they are, but they," he nodded towards the others, “they don't know. We should make sure they're at least going to be okay, and... if you could do me a solid. Watch Sorcha. I don't trust Gloucester alone with her. I trust her, but not him."
Ordinarily Vridel would remind Mercer that Sorcha was quite a capable person, and rather able to look out for herself, but... he was fairly sure Gloucester has also attended the Academy, and the years of experience since didn't seem to have been useless. The knightly act was in part an act, to be certain, but the discipline of the Duke's men, the surety of his posture on his horse... he was quite convinced there was real skill underlying that. All the more unfortunate.
So instead he expelled a breath, and gave Mercer a short nod. “Your esteem flatters me," he drawled sarcastically. “But... yes. I will keep an eye on them as well."
Mercer seemed to relax at the statement, almost as if he was not as burdened as he'd been when they arrived. “Thanks, Vi. You're a solid friend," he stated, rolling out his shoulders as he nudged Sir back to the front.
He did wonder about that, but... well, perhaps it would do for now.
Derdriu - Early Evening - Warm
Senka Rinaldi
When they had arrived at the von Riegan manor, Senka had never seen anything so beautiful. The designs of the architecture were beautiful, and not at all like the ones back in Duscur. Not even Faerghus could compare to it. They had been greeted by a few other nobles of the Leicester Alliance when they'd arrived further into Derdriu, however; none of them seemed as elegant as Gloucester made himself. She'd spotted one of the lords, or Dukes—she really didn't know who he was—staring at her, specifically. It didn't make her uncomfortable, though. Senka was used to people staring at her for various and obvious reasons.
Their mounts had been led to the stables, and everyone had been ushered near the foyer of the manor, however; she been separated from Sorcha and the others by the time she'd made it to the foyer. Glancing around, she pursed her lips together until she spotted Lady Judith. The woman noticed her, and grinned. “Hey, kid, you lost?" she asked, making her way towards Senka.
“No," she replied. “I am waiting on the others," she continued, keeping her eyes on the von Riegan woman. Judith huffed lightly, and shook her head.
“You'll be waiting for awhile. Gloucester wanted to speak to your Princess, and the von Kreuz lady and her sister were escorted to their rooms," Judith spoke, causing Senka to purse her lips. “Don't know about the Imperial boy, but your teacher was around here somewhere." She shrugged in a nonchalant manner, reminiscent to Mercer's shrugs. She grinned, then, as if a thought crossed her mind. It was sly, almost mischievous in nature.
“You can join me, though. I'm headed out for a drink, and I'd love to hear all about my future daughter," she stated suddenly, grinning at Senka. She wasn't so sure if she should be seen drinking with a lord of the Alliance, let a lone Mercer's mother, however; Senka thought about it briefly, before shaking her head.
“I couldn't tell you much about them, honestly," she stated. Judith barked a short laugh as if she found something funny. Senka wasn't too sure what it was, though.
It wasn't more than another moment later before Cyril appeared from a side door—one that led into one of the guest hallways. He held it open for a moment, and Vridel stepped out behind him, looking somewhat more irritated than usual. They spotted Senka and Judith, and made their way over.
“Did I hear something about drinks?" Vridel muttered, flicking his eyes between them. “Because I was just going to ask where the nearest tavern is."
“That's right," Judith replied, nodding in Vridel's direction. “I invited your pretty friend, here, for some drinks so that I could learn more about my future daughter," she seemed to explain. “You're her Teach, right Cyril? And you've," she turned her attention to Vridel, “spent some time with her. Care to tell me all about Sorcha Blaiddyd over drinks?" She seemed to be inviting the other two. Senka wasn't so sure that was a good idea, however; some part of her didn't mind.
“I do not mind going if they are as well," Senka stated as she nodded her head in Cyril and Vridel's direction.
“Great. What say you two?"
The two exchanged a glance, after which Cyril shrugged. Vridel seemed to take this as an acceptable answer, because he turned his attention back to Judith. “If you're buying, you can ask me whatever you want about her."
Judith huffed lightly and crossed her arms over her chest. “I can ask, yes, but you better answer them. I know your type, Imperial boy, but yes, I will be buying the drinks," she grinned at them and motioned for them to follow her. It wasn't long before they reached the nearby tavern, and Judith ushered them all inside. They found a table nestled in the back corner of the place while Judith seemed to place an order. She returned not too long afterwards with a large pitcher, and four cups. She placed one in front of Cyril, Vridel, and Senka before she sat down.
“Alright, so, let's start with you since you seem to be glued to Sorcha's hip. What do you know of their current relationship?" Judith seemed to jump right into the questioning. Senka blinked slowly as Judith began filling up her cup, and offering the pitcher to the other two at the table.
“They are friends, however," she paused, her eyes sliding towards Vridel before she returned her gaze back to Judith. “I'm not sure it's my place to say..." Judith pursed her lips together and leaned back in her chair, one of her arms draped casually over the back.
“C'mon kid, take a drink, and then tell me," Judith drawled, motioning towards the cup in front of Senka. Senka furrowed her brows, and sighed. Reaching towards the cup, she lifted it to her face, and breathed in the scent. It smelled fairly strange, stronger than most drinks she remembered her father used to partake in, however; she finally placed the cup to her lips, and took a drink. She immediately regretted it as she coughed, the liquid burning the back of her throat. Judith seemed to find it amusing as she laughed.
Cyril lifted a hand to pat her back, with just enough force to help the cough settle. He seemed to be having no such difficulty with his own drink; half of it had been summarily consumed already. Vridel was a little slower, but he'd clearly had at least a little practice, if the lack of spluttering was any indication.
“It's not that big a deal, Sen," he said with a shrug. “Gossiping about your friends is practically in the rules of friendship. You don't give away anything you were told in confidence, but everything else is fair game if you want to mention it."
That was easy for him to say. Everything Sorcha had told her was in confidence, and if she told... well, she supposed it didn't really matter. Sorcha was, technically betrothed to Mercer, now, and Judith was Mercer's mother. She supposed it wouldn't hurt? “Well, Sorcha has fancied Mercer for quite a while," she began, pursing her lips in the direction of her cup. She took another drink, going a little slower, and winced slightly as the burning sensation in her throat subsided a little.
“For as long as I've known her, which has only been four years." Judith seemed intrigued by that statement.
“But Mercer hasn't been at the Academy not even a year, yet. How could she have fancied him for almost four years?" she asked, tilting her head in Senka's direction.
“She mentioned that she came here when she was a child, did she not?" Senka retorted, causing Judith to snort, and wave a dismissive hand in front of her face.
“Ah, that's right. Sorcha was just a small thing, then. Oh," she seemed to recall something suddenly, and leaned forward to rest her forearms on the table. “Mercer said he lost his stone around that time she was visiting. Does that mean... she's fancied him for that long?" she seemed rather interested in the answer. Senka thought it better to nod in reply, and did.
“She didn't know it was him, I don't think," Vridel added, taking another swallow of his drink. “Her memory's always been sort of patchy, but I met her when I was ten, so she'd have been about nine, and she told me she'd gotten the stone from 'a nice boy who made her smile,' I think were her words. She calls him her 'first love,' though if I'm being honest I doubt she's had a second. And innocent as it was, it meant a lot to her."
He pursed his lips, then, almost as if he were considering whether to say something. He must have decided it was worth doing so, though, because with a soft exhale he continued. “She's never really fit in, in Faerghus. She's too soft in a lot of ways, too radical in others. She's got it in her head that she's not allowed to like anything or be in any way feminine, because she has to be as close to a boy as possible. She used to think they'd like her, if she was. Even asked me how to act more like a boy. Me." He pointed to himself, no doubt an oblique reference to his rather pretty features.
“It was kind of flattering at the time, but only until I figured out why she cared."
“Why does it concern them so much, anyway?" Cyril asked, already refilling his glass from the pitcher.
Vridel sighed. “Since Loog, Faerghus has been a Kingdom. As in, only kings, and all of them with the Major Crest of Blaiddyd. Culturally, they take a lot of pride in being able to weather the harsh conditions of their country, and in being powerful despite their relatively small population. Every man in the country has military training, and they prize physical strength and chivalry, where the Empire favors a mix of magical supremacy and infantry, and the Alliance is best known for their archers, flyers, and cunning. No one says women aren't as important, but..."
“When you consider the average man and the average woman, the man comes out better on the traits they value, in part because he's trained for it," Cyril finished, brows drawing together.
Judith rolled her eyes, hard. “Yeah, well everyone knows Faerghus is ruled by idiots," she muttered, almost as if she were trying to offend the Kingdom. Senka didn't blame her. She knew Sorcha had her issues, but for them to be stemmed that deeply? For those things that were not in Sorcha's control? It made Senka angry. Sorcha was her gentle-hearted friend, the person whom Senka had depended on when her country had been destroyed, and her people killed. To her, Sorcha has always had a strong conviction, and would make a great Queen one day.
In Duscur, that wasn't the case. Everyone who showed the slightest talent, man or woman, in any field was trained for it, however; Duscur wasn't a war-trained nation. They had been much too peaceful, then. Her father had even allowed her to train with some of the knights, and learned the magic of her mother. She was trained in whatever she wanted. It didn't seem fair that Sorcha didn't get that chance.
“Hm, she doesn't have the best confidence in herself," which Senka understood. They shared a lot of those negative traits, but Senka thought that they were working through them. “It is a shame that she doesn't want to be feminine," Sorcha was a beautiful young woman, at least to Senka.
“Indeed, it's a shame. Well, that's going to have to change," Judith stated, throwing back her drink as if it were second nature to her. “There's a merchant in town who specializes in clothes and tunics that are quite beautiful on the right person, but are made in a way that even someone like Sorcha would enjoy them."
“How so?" Senka was quite curious, and Judith grinned.
“Well, there are tunics that shape the figure rather nicely, but they don't restrict movement. They'll make her look and feel like a warrior, but also help remind her that she is, first and foremost, a lady. There might even be a few things that will look lovely on you, kid, especially with your figure," Judith was quite bold in her statements, but it was enough that Senka felt her cheeks warm. She'd never been complimented like that before, and wasn't quite sure how to take it.
“Probably not even necessary," Vridel said with a teasing lilt. “Sen was ogled twice today. Even if you don't count Gloucester, since he stared at every woman with a pulse in our group," his lip curled in a faint sneer before smoothing away. “There was still that other fellow. Redhead, Deirdre was talking to him? I think she said he was her cousin, so that'd make him a Goneril, I suppose."
“Duke Alaric," Cyril supplied mildly. “My father and I did some work for him once, up near Fódlan's Locket. Border skirmish; he wanted it resolved quietly, so it would look like two groups of bandits had a dispute and both countries could overlook it. That was..." he paused, thoughtful. “Five years ago? I think he'd just inherited."
Judith barked a laugh at the remark. “Goneril? Really," she drawled, glancing towards Senka. Senka, however, pursed her lips in Vridel's direction, a strange burning sensation on her face. If she remembered, Sorcha had said that was what a blush felt like. She'd never had a reason to blush before, but now, what these people were saying? They were slightly embarrassing. “Goneril doesn't have a wife, yet, though I've never seen him interested in anyone before. Maybe he intends to woo little Sen, here," she continued, leaning her head onto her fist, her elbow propped up on the table as support.
Senka wasn't entirely sure how to take that. Woo? What did that word mean? “I'm certain he wasn't looking at me," she murmured into the rim of her cup, taking another drink. After all, why would anyone look at her? She wasn't... well, she didn't think she was, anyway.
“Oh, but Vi, here, says he was. It's alright, Sen, you're a beautiful person. I'm sure you've had your fair share of admirers." Judith stated, causing Senka's blush to deepen.
“I... haven't, no." She admitted softly. Her father had never pushed her into an arranged marriage, nor saw it fit to try and find a suitor for her. He wanted her to know what he had known, and fall in love with someone she wanted. She was loved by her people, but it wasn't the same thing. It didn't matter, though.
“Really, now. Well that'll change, I'm sure," Judith stated, her eyes sliding towards Cyril before they landed on Vridel. Senka thought she saw something mischievous in Judith's eyes, but it might have been the poor lighting in the tavern.
Vridel arched an eyebrow back at her, then shifted his attention to Senka with a sniff. He poured himself another drink. “Really. You and Sorcha are ridiculous. It's fine to admit you're attractive, you know. I, for example, am very good-looking. Does it make me a better person? No. But it's the truth; no point denying it." He shrugged. “Lady Judith here is likewise quite lovely, and no doubt partially responsible for the fact that Mercer is." He seemed to have absolutely no issue saying any of this. To him, they really did seem to just be facts.
“Professor Cyril, you'd say Senka's pretty, wouldn't you?" he asked offhandedly.
The table's attention moved at that, but Cyril only blinked, blank-faced as ever, and sat back in his chair, still working on his second drink. “No," he replied with a shrug of his own. “The better word is beautiful." He tilted his head, regarding her with sympathy. “But if you'd rather the topic of discussion change, you need only say so."
Senka could not bring herself to look Cyril in the eye. Her face was burning, and she was certain the color would be visible even against her skin. Judith seemed to find it amusing since she was laughing rather loudly. “Aren't you smooth with the ladies, Cy?" Judith spoke, glancing in Cyril's direction. Senka merely swallowed thickly, and kept her gaze on her cup.
“No?" he replied, seemingly vaguely confused. “Usually people are unnerved by my face. Including women." He pointed at his face, which if the sound of his voice was anything to go by, was characteristically inexpressive still.
Vridel barked a soft laugh. “Oh I'm sure not all of them are. It's a very nice face."
“It doesn't seem to bother the professionals, at least," Cyril agreed with a nod. “But I suppose they wouldn't show it even if it did."
Vridel snorted—hard enough that he immediately had to reach for a cloth napkin and hold it to his nose. He started to cough, interspersed with laughter. “You just—" He coughed again. “Mercer's going to be so mad he missed this."
“Vi has a very good point, though, Sen. Even Cy agrees that you're lovely, so now we just have to show the others how lovely you are. You and my future daughter, and maybe even the little verdant-haired girl. That's, of course, assuming I can steal her away from her sister. That von Kreuz lady seems pretty intense," she stated as if it were the easiest thing in the world to say. For someone like Judith, it probably was.
“I... um. Thank you. Vi. Cy—Cyril," she stuttered. She really couldn't look anyone in the eye right now.
Vridel, still chuckling, shook his head. “No need to thank us for stating facts, Sen."
Cyril, on the other hand, seemed inclined to take mercy on her obvious discomfort. “You were asking us about Sorcha, though? Or perhaps there is something you wish to tell about Mercer?" He seemed to have grasped the concept of gossip fairly quickly, if bluntly. He picked up the pitcher and topped off everyone's drinks as they awaited Judith's answer.
“Ah, you're no fun, Cy," Judith stated, waving a hand in front of her face. “As for the boy, you already know how he is. He's a little shit, but oh, did I tell you he used to be afraid of fish? Couldn't look at 'em at all. He said they were bad, or something like that. The boy was strange in his youth," she stated, throwing her drink back rather quickly. Senka merely pursed her lips together, taking a slow drink from her cup.
Vridel's laughter redoubled, though it wasn't clear why.
“He was also a very chubby kid. Cute as a wyvern, though," she added as if she were recalling a fond memory. Senka couldn't picture Mercer as a heavy-set child. He was lanky, but had strength in him. It was like his frame belied his true capability, but she supposed that might have been the way he carried himself. She could understand wanting to appear less threatening, or even not at all.
“You know, I could see it. Sorcha was this bony little thing—and small enough that she looked like a doll." Vridel shook his head, putting his chin in his hand and bracing his elbow on the table. “She had the fiercest eyes, though. Refused to cry about anything, though I suppose now I know why that is."
“As I remember it, the boy said he gave her that engagement stone as a way to make her stop crying," Judith responded, finishing off her drink. “But it was rather adorable when they were running together. The boy was this little ball of a kid, and Sorcha was chasing after him because of something he'd said. I wish there was a way to have captured that moment. It would be embarrassing to him if I could have shown it to everyone." Senka felt her lips tilting up at that moment.
She missed this. Missed talking with her mother and recalling fond memories with her father. To have her parents talk about her like that when they had visitors. It was nice, and she'd forgotten what that felt like. Even if they were teasing Mercer and Sorcha, she missed things like this.
“Oh, is that I smile I see, Sen?" Judith pulled Senka from her thoughts, and she turned to face the Lady.
“It is," she admitted, though she didn't know why, exactly.
“You really are too much," Judith stated and huffed lightly. “Well now, anything else I should know about the boy and Sorcha? Other than what's been stated? I feel like I have an understanding of my future daughter, but is there anything else I should know?"
Vridel appeared to consider this, then finally shook his head. “Honestly, just watching them will tell you the rest better than I ever could. They're idiots, both of them, and rather oblivious, but I suppose time might wise them up a little."
Judith huffed. “You've a point, Vi. It wouldn't hurt to push them in the right direction, though. The boy is stupid, but he's not dense." She glanced in Cyril's direction before turning to Senka. “I know a couple of people who are like that; they need the right push." Senka wasn't sure what that had meant, but she did not doubt Judith knew plenty of people. She was a Lady, after all.
Their mounts had been led to the stables, and everyone had been ushered near the foyer of the manor, however; she been separated from Sorcha and the others by the time she'd made it to the foyer. Glancing around, she pursed her lips together until she spotted Lady Judith. The woman noticed her, and grinned. “Hey, kid, you lost?" she asked, making her way towards Senka.
“No," she replied. “I am waiting on the others," she continued, keeping her eyes on the von Riegan woman. Judith huffed lightly, and shook her head.
“You'll be waiting for awhile. Gloucester wanted to speak to your Princess, and the von Kreuz lady and her sister were escorted to their rooms," Judith spoke, causing Senka to purse her lips. “Don't know about the Imperial boy, but your teacher was around here somewhere." She shrugged in a nonchalant manner, reminiscent to Mercer's shrugs. She grinned, then, as if a thought crossed her mind. It was sly, almost mischievous in nature.
“You can join me, though. I'm headed out for a drink, and I'd love to hear all about my future daughter," she stated suddenly, grinning at Senka. She wasn't so sure if she should be seen drinking with a lord of the Alliance, let a lone Mercer's mother, however; Senka thought about it briefly, before shaking her head.
“I couldn't tell you much about them, honestly," she stated. Judith barked a short laugh as if she found something funny. Senka wasn't too sure what it was, though.
It wasn't more than another moment later before Cyril appeared from a side door—one that led into one of the guest hallways. He held it open for a moment, and Vridel stepped out behind him, looking somewhat more irritated than usual. They spotted Senka and Judith, and made their way over.
“Did I hear something about drinks?" Vridel muttered, flicking his eyes between them. “Because I was just going to ask where the nearest tavern is."
“That's right," Judith replied, nodding in Vridel's direction. “I invited your pretty friend, here, for some drinks so that I could learn more about my future daughter," she seemed to explain. “You're her Teach, right Cyril? And you've," she turned her attention to Vridel, “spent some time with her. Care to tell me all about Sorcha Blaiddyd over drinks?" She seemed to be inviting the other two. Senka wasn't so sure that was a good idea, however; some part of her didn't mind.
“I do not mind going if they are as well," Senka stated as she nodded her head in Cyril and Vridel's direction.
“Great. What say you two?"
The two exchanged a glance, after which Cyril shrugged. Vridel seemed to take this as an acceptable answer, because he turned his attention back to Judith. “If you're buying, you can ask me whatever you want about her."
Judith huffed lightly and crossed her arms over her chest. “I can ask, yes, but you better answer them. I know your type, Imperial boy, but yes, I will be buying the drinks," she grinned at them and motioned for them to follow her. It wasn't long before they reached the nearby tavern, and Judith ushered them all inside. They found a table nestled in the back corner of the place while Judith seemed to place an order. She returned not too long afterwards with a large pitcher, and four cups. She placed one in front of Cyril, Vridel, and Senka before she sat down.
“Alright, so, let's start with you since you seem to be glued to Sorcha's hip. What do you know of their current relationship?" Judith seemed to jump right into the questioning. Senka blinked slowly as Judith began filling up her cup, and offering the pitcher to the other two at the table.
“They are friends, however," she paused, her eyes sliding towards Vridel before she returned her gaze back to Judith. “I'm not sure it's my place to say..." Judith pursed her lips together and leaned back in her chair, one of her arms draped casually over the back.
“C'mon kid, take a drink, and then tell me," Judith drawled, motioning towards the cup in front of Senka. Senka furrowed her brows, and sighed. Reaching towards the cup, she lifted it to her face, and breathed in the scent. It smelled fairly strange, stronger than most drinks she remembered her father used to partake in, however; she finally placed the cup to her lips, and took a drink. She immediately regretted it as she coughed, the liquid burning the back of her throat. Judith seemed to find it amusing as she laughed.
Cyril lifted a hand to pat her back, with just enough force to help the cough settle. He seemed to be having no such difficulty with his own drink; half of it had been summarily consumed already. Vridel was a little slower, but he'd clearly had at least a little practice, if the lack of spluttering was any indication.
“It's not that big a deal, Sen," he said with a shrug. “Gossiping about your friends is practically in the rules of friendship. You don't give away anything you were told in confidence, but everything else is fair game if you want to mention it."
That was easy for him to say. Everything Sorcha had told her was in confidence, and if she told... well, she supposed it didn't really matter. Sorcha was, technically betrothed to Mercer, now, and Judith was Mercer's mother. She supposed it wouldn't hurt? “Well, Sorcha has fancied Mercer for quite a while," she began, pursing her lips in the direction of her cup. She took another drink, going a little slower, and winced slightly as the burning sensation in her throat subsided a little.
“For as long as I've known her, which has only been four years." Judith seemed intrigued by that statement.
“But Mercer hasn't been at the Academy not even a year, yet. How could she have fancied him for almost four years?" she asked, tilting her head in Senka's direction.
“She mentioned that she came here when she was a child, did she not?" Senka retorted, causing Judith to snort, and wave a dismissive hand in front of her face.
“Ah, that's right. Sorcha was just a small thing, then. Oh," she seemed to recall something suddenly, and leaned forward to rest her forearms on the table. “Mercer said he lost his stone around that time she was visiting. Does that mean... she's fancied him for that long?" she seemed rather interested in the answer. Senka thought it better to nod in reply, and did.
“She didn't know it was him, I don't think," Vridel added, taking another swallow of his drink. “Her memory's always been sort of patchy, but I met her when I was ten, so she'd have been about nine, and she told me she'd gotten the stone from 'a nice boy who made her smile,' I think were her words. She calls him her 'first love,' though if I'm being honest I doubt she's had a second. And innocent as it was, it meant a lot to her."
He pursed his lips, then, almost as if he were considering whether to say something. He must have decided it was worth doing so, though, because with a soft exhale he continued. “She's never really fit in, in Faerghus. She's too soft in a lot of ways, too radical in others. She's got it in her head that she's not allowed to like anything or be in any way feminine, because she has to be as close to a boy as possible. She used to think they'd like her, if she was. Even asked me how to act more like a boy. Me." He pointed to himself, no doubt an oblique reference to his rather pretty features.
“It was kind of flattering at the time, but only until I figured out why she cared."
“Why does it concern them so much, anyway?" Cyril asked, already refilling his glass from the pitcher.
Vridel sighed. “Since Loog, Faerghus has been a Kingdom. As in, only kings, and all of them with the Major Crest of Blaiddyd. Culturally, they take a lot of pride in being able to weather the harsh conditions of their country, and in being powerful despite their relatively small population. Every man in the country has military training, and they prize physical strength and chivalry, where the Empire favors a mix of magical supremacy and infantry, and the Alliance is best known for their archers, flyers, and cunning. No one says women aren't as important, but..."
“When you consider the average man and the average woman, the man comes out better on the traits they value, in part because he's trained for it," Cyril finished, brows drawing together.
Judith rolled her eyes, hard. “Yeah, well everyone knows Faerghus is ruled by idiots," she muttered, almost as if she were trying to offend the Kingdom. Senka didn't blame her. She knew Sorcha had her issues, but for them to be stemmed that deeply? For those things that were not in Sorcha's control? It made Senka angry. Sorcha was her gentle-hearted friend, the person whom Senka had depended on when her country had been destroyed, and her people killed. To her, Sorcha has always had a strong conviction, and would make a great Queen one day.
In Duscur, that wasn't the case. Everyone who showed the slightest talent, man or woman, in any field was trained for it, however; Duscur wasn't a war-trained nation. They had been much too peaceful, then. Her father had even allowed her to train with some of the knights, and learned the magic of her mother. She was trained in whatever she wanted. It didn't seem fair that Sorcha didn't get that chance.
“Hm, she doesn't have the best confidence in herself," which Senka understood. They shared a lot of those negative traits, but Senka thought that they were working through them. “It is a shame that she doesn't want to be feminine," Sorcha was a beautiful young woman, at least to Senka.
“Indeed, it's a shame. Well, that's going to have to change," Judith stated, throwing back her drink as if it were second nature to her. “There's a merchant in town who specializes in clothes and tunics that are quite beautiful on the right person, but are made in a way that even someone like Sorcha would enjoy them."
“How so?" Senka was quite curious, and Judith grinned.
“Well, there are tunics that shape the figure rather nicely, but they don't restrict movement. They'll make her look and feel like a warrior, but also help remind her that she is, first and foremost, a lady. There might even be a few things that will look lovely on you, kid, especially with your figure," Judith was quite bold in her statements, but it was enough that Senka felt her cheeks warm. She'd never been complimented like that before, and wasn't quite sure how to take it.
“Probably not even necessary," Vridel said with a teasing lilt. “Sen was ogled twice today. Even if you don't count Gloucester, since he stared at every woman with a pulse in our group," his lip curled in a faint sneer before smoothing away. “There was still that other fellow. Redhead, Deirdre was talking to him? I think she said he was her cousin, so that'd make him a Goneril, I suppose."
“Duke Alaric," Cyril supplied mildly. “My father and I did some work for him once, up near Fódlan's Locket. Border skirmish; he wanted it resolved quietly, so it would look like two groups of bandits had a dispute and both countries could overlook it. That was..." he paused, thoughtful. “Five years ago? I think he'd just inherited."
Judith barked a laugh at the remark. “Goneril? Really," she drawled, glancing towards Senka. Senka, however, pursed her lips in Vridel's direction, a strange burning sensation on her face. If she remembered, Sorcha had said that was what a blush felt like. She'd never had a reason to blush before, but now, what these people were saying? They were slightly embarrassing. “Goneril doesn't have a wife, yet, though I've never seen him interested in anyone before. Maybe he intends to woo little Sen, here," she continued, leaning her head onto her fist, her elbow propped up on the table as support.
Senka wasn't entirely sure how to take that. Woo? What did that word mean? “I'm certain he wasn't looking at me," she murmured into the rim of her cup, taking another drink. After all, why would anyone look at her? She wasn't... well, she didn't think she was, anyway.
“Oh, but Vi, here, says he was. It's alright, Sen, you're a beautiful person. I'm sure you've had your fair share of admirers." Judith stated, causing Senka's blush to deepen.
“I... haven't, no." She admitted softly. Her father had never pushed her into an arranged marriage, nor saw it fit to try and find a suitor for her. He wanted her to know what he had known, and fall in love with someone she wanted. She was loved by her people, but it wasn't the same thing. It didn't matter, though.
“Really, now. Well that'll change, I'm sure," Judith stated, her eyes sliding towards Cyril before they landed on Vridel. Senka thought she saw something mischievous in Judith's eyes, but it might have been the poor lighting in the tavern.
Vridel arched an eyebrow back at her, then shifted his attention to Senka with a sniff. He poured himself another drink. “Really. You and Sorcha are ridiculous. It's fine to admit you're attractive, you know. I, for example, am very good-looking. Does it make me a better person? No. But it's the truth; no point denying it." He shrugged. “Lady Judith here is likewise quite lovely, and no doubt partially responsible for the fact that Mercer is." He seemed to have absolutely no issue saying any of this. To him, they really did seem to just be facts.
“Professor Cyril, you'd say Senka's pretty, wouldn't you?" he asked offhandedly.
The table's attention moved at that, but Cyril only blinked, blank-faced as ever, and sat back in his chair, still working on his second drink. “No," he replied with a shrug of his own. “The better word is beautiful." He tilted his head, regarding her with sympathy. “But if you'd rather the topic of discussion change, you need only say so."
Senka could not bring herself to look Cyril in the eye. Her face was burning, and she was certain the color would be visible even against her skin. Judith seemed to find it amusing since she was laughing rather loudly. “Aren't you smooth with the ladies, Cy?" Judith spoke, glancing in Cyril's direction. Senka merely swallowed thickly, and kept her gaze on her cup.
“No?" he replied, seemingly vaguely confused. “Usually people are unnerved by my face. Including women." He pointed at his face, which if the sound of his voice was anything to go by, was characteristically inexpressive still.
Vridel barked a soft laugh. “Oh I'm sure not all of them are. It's a very nice face."
“It doesn't seem to bother the professionals, at least," Cyril agreed with a nod. “But I suppose they wouldn't show it even if it did."
Vridel snorted—hard enough that he immediately had to reach for a cloth napkin and hold it to his nose. He started to cough, interspersed with laughter. “You just—" He coughed again. “Mercer's going to be so mad he missed this."
“Vi has a very good point, though, Sen. Even Cy agrees that you're lovely, so now we just have to show the others how lovely you are. You and my future daughter, and maybe even the little verdant-haired girl. That's, of course, assuming I can steal her away from her sister. That von Kreuz lady seems pretty intense," she stated as if it were the easiest thing in the world to say. For someone like Judith, it probably was.
“I... um. Thank you. Vi. Cy—Cyril," she stuttered. She really couldn't look anyone in the eye right now.
Vridel, still chuckling, shook his head. “No need to thank us for stating facts, Sen."
Cyril, on the other hand, seemed inclined to take mercy on her obvious discomfort. “You were asking us about Sorcha, though? Or perhaps there is something you wish to tell about Mercer?" He seemed to have grasped the concept of gossip fairly quickly, if bluntly. He picked up the pitcher and topped off everyone's drinks as they awaited Judith's answer.
“Ah, you're no fun, Cy," Judith stated, waving a hand in front of her face. “As for the boy, you already know how he is. He's a little shit, but oh, did I tell you he used to be afraid of fish? Couldn't look at 'em at all. He said they were bad, or something like that. The boy was strange in his youth," she stated, throwing her drink back rather quickly. Senka merely pursed her lips together, taking a slow drink from her cup.
Vridel's laughter redoubled, though it wasn't clear why.
“He was also a very chubby kid. Cute as a wyvern, though," she added as if she were recalling a fond memory. Senka couldn't picture Mercer as a heavy-set child. He was lanky, but had strength in him. It was like his frame belied his true capability, but she supposed that might have been the way he carried himself. She could understand wanting to appear less threatening, or even not at all.
“You know, I could see it. Sorcha was this bony little thing—and small enough that she looked like a doll." Vridel shook his head, putting his chin in his hand and bracing his elbow on the table. “She had the fiercest eyes, though. Refused to cry about anything, though I suppose now I know why that is."
“As I remember it, the boy said he gave her that engagement stone as a way to make her stop crying," Judith responded, finishing off her drink. “But it was rather adorable when they were running together. The boy was this little ball of a kid, and Sorcha was chasing after him because of something he'd said. I wish there was a way to have captured that moment. It would be embarrassing to him if I could have shown it to everyone." Senka felt her lips tilting up at that moment.
She missed this. Missed talking with her mother and recalling fond memories with her father. To have her parents talk about her like that when they had visitors. It was nice, and she'd forgotten what that felt like. Even if they were teasing Mercer and Sorcha, she missed things like this.
“Oh, is that I smile I see, Sen?" Judith pulled Senka from her thoughts, and she turned to face the Lady.
“It is," she admitted, though she didn't know why, exactly.
“You really are too much," Judith stated and huffed lightly. “Well now, anything else I should know about the boy and Sorcha? Other than what's been stated? I feel like I have an understanding of my future daughter, but is there anything else I should know?"
Vridel appeared to consider this, then finally shook his head. “Honestly, just watching them will tell you the rest better than I ever could. They're idiots, both of them, and rather oblivious, but I suppose time might wise them up a little."
Judith huffed. “You've a point, Vi. It wouldn't hurt to push them in the right direction, though. The boy is stupid, but he's not dense." She glanced in Cyril's direction before turning to Senka. “I know a couple of people who are like that; they need the right push." Senka wasn't sure what that had meant, but she did not doubt Judith knew plenty of people. She was a Lady, after all.
Derdriu - Late Evening - Clear
Sorcha Blaiddyd
Sorcha let the door close, leaning up against it for a moment and exhaling a heavy sigh.
It had taken some doing to convince Duke Gloucester that she really ought not to stay at his manor for the duration of her visit to Derdriu. Part of it was purely practical: if Mercer was really set on announcing their engagement to the Roundtable Conference she absolutely could not be staying unchaperoned at another man's estate, regardless of that man's intentions. Still, even the suggestion that she do so as Matteo's—he'd insisted she call him Matteo—fiancée was a bit... she pursed her lips. Surely it wouldn't have anything to do with that.
Princess she might be, but Sorcha understood that she was quite a plain girl, boyish and unfeminine and not the kind who could really pretty up, either. So she doubted he had any interest in anything untoward. But... sometimes it was appearances that mattered, and it would definitely have the appearance of impropriety.
Still. It was kind of nice to have someone pretend to be interested, even if she knew it wasn't real. Her eyes dropped to her hand. It was a little much, maybe, but he'd even given her a rose. A bright red one, the crimson of it a stark contrast where she held it in a pale hand. He'd trimmed the thorns off, too, which she supposed was a nice thought even if it was entirely unnecessary. And he had such a... well, a knightly way about him, and part of her couldn't help but respond to that. It was a romantic notion, and stupid, but he really did seem like a hero out of one of her favorite stories. How many times had she imagined herself a brave heroine, and wanted nothing more or less than a courageous, goodhearted partner with whom to have their own adventures?
“Stupid," she whispered softly.
Placing the rose on her bedside table, she crossed to her things, changing from her travel gear into a simple, loose white shirt and trousers she could easily fit into her boots. She wanted to go for some air, maybe get a feel for the city at night. She wasn't too worried about being recognized—if there were really stories about the Princess of Faerghus being as pretty as Matteo had said, she had little fear of identification. She hadn't even been noticed earlier, during the escort. For once, the propaganda her uncle's advisors spread about her would be to her advantage.
She tried to pin her hair, but as usual she couldn't get it quite right by herself, and so she put it up in a ponytail instead, almost surprised when she realized it nearly reached the small of her back. She should probably cut it; that might make it easier to deal with. Pausing to strap the knife Professor Cyril had gifted her for her birthday to her back, she checked that her bracelet was still intact, and her necklace was hidden under the shirt. That should be adequate; it wasn't like Derdriu was a crime-ridden city, and she knew how to look after herself.
Considering the rose for a moment, she hummed. It wouldn't hurt to pretend a little longer, right? She tucked it into the base of her ponytail and exited the room, padding down the stairs towards the foyer and the front door.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, though, Mercer was standing in the foyer with another person. A man with hair to his shoulders, and a rich red hue, seemed to be smiling at something Mercer said. Sorcha could recognize him from earlier, when they'd arrived. He was part of the welcome who received Mercer, Duke Goneril. He glanced towards her, pale blue eyes locking with hers before he turned back to Mercer. He muttered something, bowed, and left. Mercer, however, glanced in Sorcha's direction. He grinned at her, but it didn't seem quite right on his face. It was as if it were a forced grin, but he waved in her direction.
“Hey, Sorcha," he greeted once she was closer to him. He glanced at her, as if he were inspecting her attire before he arched a brow. “Headed out?" he asked, tilting his head lightly in an inquisitive manner.
“Uh—yes." She swallowed, a touch uncomfortable for reasons she couldn't place. Maybe it was just the suddenness of everything that had happened. It wasn't every day a person found out they accidentally engaged themself in their childhood, least of all to someone they were only just beginning to get to know again as a friend.
It wasn't that she'd ever expected to have much choice in the matter. Just that she'd sort of thought that would be because her parents or uncle had chosen for her, not because of what basically amounted to a misunderstanding. It was... weird. Weird might be the right word.
“You, um. You don't seem to be really enjoying being home," she ventured, not really sure how else to express a concern that had been sitting with her since they'd started out for Derdriu two days ago. “Are you—is your grandfather all right?" She didn't know how ill the Duke was; Lady Judith hadn't seemed too worried, but the situation could easily have worsened in the time since she'd left to retrieve them.
Mercer smiled wrly at her. “He'll be fine. He's recovering well-enough that he should be able to return by the time the summit ends," he responded, rubbing the back of his neck as he rolled it out. “And I've never really enjoyed it here. Too many people trying to disinherit me, kill me, or just take things that they want because I've no right to it. I told you that I was just recently announced as Duke Riegan's heir. No one is taking that seriously, so why would I enjoy being in a place that doesn't want me around, right now?" His tone was rather flat when he spoke, as if he just didn't care about something.
“Honestly... that's only part of it. I'm not enjoying myself because a certain someone thinks he's going to be able to take the position of Leader of the Alliance. No chance in hell am I letting that happen, though. He's... he'd ruin everything," he stated a bit darkly. Even his eyes seemed to darken with the force of his words.
“But don't let me keep you. If you're going out, be careful and... don't stay out too late. Or if you'd like, I can tag along. Doesn't really matter," he shrugged his shoulders after that, and dropped them.
Some sensitive part of her was inclined to take offense at his apathy, both on behalf of the people of the city, and on her own. But... she knew him just well enough at this point to understand that maybe things weren't really as they seemed.
That made up her mind, somehow. Shaking her head, she darted forward to grab his wrist, and set about tugging him behind her. “Come on, then," she said, glancing back over her shoulder at him. “If it doesn't really matter, then you can come on my walk with me and show me your city. I want to see all the best parts so you better be a good tour guide." More than wanting to see those things for herself, though, she wanted him to see them.
Sorcha had found that sometimes she needed a reminder of why she tried at all in the first place. It was hard to believe that most of the nobility would ever really accept her, and part of her was almost always ready to give up, to abdicate and let her uncle the Regent become King in truth. He wasn't a terrible person, or anything, and though Faerghus was very much struggling in some ways, it was sort of the status quo for Faerghus to struggle. Sometimes the nobles even seemed to take a perverse kind of pride in it. In having fewer fancy things than Imperials or Alliance Dukes or whatever the case.
Of course, their 'hardship' was nothing compared to what their people went through, and that was what she did to remind herself. She went out into Fhirdiad, or the countryside if she could, dressed like an ordinary woman, and tried to immerse herself as much as she could in the lives of those she would one day rule. She couldn't truly know what it was like, but she could do her best, so that when the time came she would remember to ask them what they needed, instead of assuming she knew best. And those people were worth fighting for.
She knew Mercer had to know this in his heart. But maybe, like her, he could sometimes use a reminder.
He huffed lightly, something caught between a laugh and maybe something more akin to disbelief. “I can't promise I'll be a good tour guide, but I'll try my best. After you, Princess," he stated, walking towards the door and holding it open for her to walk through. Once they had exited, and made their way towards the city, Mercer seemed to relax a bit. “How's everything on your end?" he finally spoke, his eyes going towards the rose in her hair. It seemed he'd spotted it, earlier, but hadn't commented on it, yet.
She somehow, suddenly, wished it were not there, but it would have been strange to do anything with it now, so she simply pretended she didn't notice him noticing. “I'm fine," she said quietly, unsure if it was true exactly but not wanting to make a nuisance of herself. This had to be just as sudden and strange for him, really, and on top of all the things he had to deal with for the Conference... Sorcha was already second-guessing her decision to make him do this.
She sighed a little, looking around to take in the city a bit more. The mage-lights were soft, but there were enough of them to gently illuminate the path ahead. “I... suppose that's as much as I'll have to be dealing with Duke Gloucester," she added, pursing her lips. “Since the announcement will be soon and everything."
He raised a brow in her direction. “Have you made a decision on what you'd like to do, then?" he asked, brow still raised and head tilted slightly as if he were curious. “Do you want me to annul your engagement with Gloucester and say you're my intended, or..." his jaw seemed to clench tightly and he swallowed thickly. It was easy enough to see his throat working. “Do you want me to make your engagement with Gloucester official?"
“I told you I was going to respect whatever conclusion you came to, and this is the way I do it. What is it that you'd like to do, Sorcha? Or do you need more time to think it through? The conference is in two days, so there's still time to think about it. I just..." a pause, “want you to be sure."
Sorcha's lips thinned; she dropped her eyes to her feet for a bit. “It's not that simple, though, right?" she asked. “There's Almyra to consider, and what people would think of you..." Expelling a breath from her nose, she shook her head and lifted her eyes. They were approaching the water; she could see lights reflecting off the ocean, and hear a low susurrus that seemed to be the waves rolling onto the shore.
“What—what do you want to do, Mercer? That matters, too." She shook her head again. “I've always known that I wasn't going to choose who I married. And I've come to terms with the fact that whoever it is isn't going to want me." She snorted. That one had been difficult, but she'd managed it, eventually. “But—it seems like you have the chance to choose, you know? When I said I don't want pity, I meant that... but not just for my own sake. I also don't want you to make a decision this important just because you feel bad about something you couldn't have known about. So even if you don't want to do this, I'll be fine." She smiled, huffing quietly. “It'll just be what I always expected in the first place, you know?"
She couldn't pretend she was exactly happy about it; she had enough foolish notions of romance and love in her head that the idea of being married to someone who would not love her was... uncomfortable. But if in so doing she could give her friend a chance at being happy, well—that might be worth it.
“I'd want you," he spoke, his voice soft as if he hadn't meant to say it out loud. He shook his head, though. “And I told you it wasn't out of pity that I would do that. I don't care what they'd think of me, what Almyra would think because they don't care who I decide to marry. To Almyra, who I marry will always be someone they think is worthy because I thought they were worthy. And I told you our engagement would only be temporary, and last however long you wanted it to last. What I want..." he paused to glance at her, his eyes searching hers for something.
“What I want is for you to be happy no matter what you decide. You deserve that, Sorcha. And if you think Gloucester could provide that happiness for you, then who am I to stand in your way? But... if you don't think you would be happy, and that maybe I could help you find your happiness, well..." he didn't seem to need to continue his statement. He kept his gaze with hers, though, and never once broke it.
“I'd like to think our engagement would be the first step."
Sorcha wasn't honestly sure she heard anything beyond the first three words.
I'd want you.
Her heart lurched painfully in her chest; she actually raised a hand to the spot a moment later, pressing the heel of it into her sternum just above where the pendant rested, warm against her skin. She swallowed thickly. What—what kind of hypothetical was that? He'd want her? In what circumstances? In what way? The questions were dizzying, almost painful in a way she didn't understand. Because it was a hypothetical. I would..
Not I do.
The rest caught up with her eventually, though not before her face had heated. She ignored her own blush and cleared her throat, trying to regain her footing. “Do you think he could?" she asked, diverting their course towards an empty dock. She assumed, from the other boats moored nearby, that it was occasionally used for the same, but there were none on it now. It gave her a much better view of the water, and perhaps made the expression on her face a little harder to read.
She tugged the rose out of her hair. In the dim light, the red faded quickly, until it was mostly an indistinct dark grey. “He did his research, I suppose. Some of it, anyway. I don't know if he says things like that all the time, always acts like that, or if it was something he did because he found out I—" she scoffed, pulling a face at herself. “Found out I'm an idiot. But it wasn't a perfect farce. I recognize a wandering eye when I see one—he might have complimented me the most, but the way he was looking at Sen and Lady Lyanna... I can tell what he likes, and I'm not really it."
She smiled, the expression a tinge bitter. That hadn't been anything she didn't expect, which was why she knew how to look for it. “And I guess even the research was only skin deep. I kind of hate roses, actually. Lady Patricia had these rosebushes she really loved. They had to rip out my mother's lilies to plant them, and I fell into them trying to get out of my room one night. I got all scratched up—but at least the thorns taught me something." Trimming them off seemed a little condescending, somehow.
“Still... I think it might be the first time anyone's ever even tried to charm me. It felt kind of nice."
“No," Mercer spoke softly. “Gloucester would... forgive me for being blunt but I have to say this," he stated, wincing slightly as if to himself. “Gloucester wouldn't want you, or anyone for that matter. He doesn't value a person. He only sees an object, and even if he did his research on you, it's only because he wants to get you in bed as soon as possible so he can say he has you. That you belong to him, and to make your engagement to him, solid."
That was... hard to hear, and in some ways surprising, but Sorcha found that like so many things, she could bear it evenly. She supposed it was possible that there might be a certain status in... in bedding her, as it were. Her title had significance to some people; it wasn't entirely unreasonable to suppose it might extend to this arena also. And if what he saw when he looked at her was the title, she supposed even plainness didn't much matter.
She nodded slightly, in acknowledgment of and gratitude for his honesty, even he'd had to say something unpleasant to achieve it.
He pulled in a deep breath, a small smile pulling at his lips. “And what have I been doing this entire time? Making a fool of myself for you? Here I thought I was charming you. Guess I need to work a little harder," he stated, the somewhat familiar Mercer returning. He didn't seem so serious, in that moment, and smiled at her. “But I really guess I'm just trying to get to know Sorcha Blaiddyd, the young woman who doesn't believe in herself, but has a strong and just heart and wants the best for people." He huffed a little to himself.
Some part of her almost wished he weren't so clearly joking. On the other hand, she wasn't sure what she'd have done with herself if he'd tried to say it seriously. At least she knew where she stood with Mercer. He wasn't pretending anything for her, and there was a way in which that was a mercy. He respected her as a person, and... and if nothing else, she would treasure that, and happily return it in kind.
“Thank you, Mercer," she said, finding a soft smile for him. With a careless gesture, she tossed the flower into the ocean, to let the potential of it be carried far away by the waves. If the choice was between a fake love and a real friendship with someone who mattered, well... that was no choice at all.
“You know... I think you are. Getting to know me, I mean. But you should talk more about yourself, sometimes. I feel like we always talk about me, and that's no good." She tilted her head to the side. “Maybe you could start by showing me your favorite place in Derdriu?"
For the first time since they'd arrived, Mercer genuinely smiled. “Sure thing, Sor," he responded, his hand reaching out to lay on her shoulder before he dropped it. “We're actually at my favorite spot. The ocean was always one of my favorite places to be, especially during the summer time. It has a sort of gleam to it, the way it shines. It almost reminds me..." he paused, laughing a bit nervously, “the way your eyes shine when you're genuinely happy about something. Ah, but, um... yeah." He coughed into his hand and glanced away from her.
“I can show you a few other places in town? There's this one merchant who makes custom quivers. We can see if he's still there and maybe have him make one for you?"
She felt like her face was on fire, between the casual touch and the—the compliment? It sounded like a compliment to her. She looked away at the same time he did, setting a hand on her burning cheek and trying to get the flush under control.
The suggestion was a welcome one, and she nodded vigorously. “Oh, um. Yes. That would be really—really nice. I was thinking I might need a larger one. I seem to keep running out of arrows on missions, and..." She grimaced, knowing she probably sounded incredibly inane. “You think anyone would be open this late?"
“Yeah, the merchant is an old friend of mine. He's a bit on in years, now, and can't see very well, but he still retains the muscle memory to make quivers. He's one of the best in Derdriu, and possibly all of Fódlan. He made the one I currently use, and I seem to have more arrows to spare than you do on missions," he stated, grinning at her in the way that meant he was teasing her again.
She sniffed. “It's not my fault I fire faster than you, you know," she groused, heading back up towards the street. Truthfully, she was grateful for the opportunity to get back on even ground, so to speak. She didn't regret being vulnerable earlier, not at all. Mercer hadn't ridiculed her for it, or treated her badly, but that didn't make it easy, either.
This though—banter and ribbing each other. This was easy.
“Oh? Is that what you're calling it? Being a faster shot? And here I thought I was the fastest. I guess I'm just good at being more precise," he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “I shouldn't be too surprised, though. You've always been a faster draw than I have. We'll just have to make it a contest, one day. Just to see who really is the faster one," he stated, grinning at her in that challenging manner he usually did.
Sorcha harrumphed, giving him a gentle whack in the arm. “Fine. But you have to pick something that isn't ridiculous for the wager."
It had taken some doing to convince Duke Gloucester that she really ought not to stay at his manor for the duration of her visit to Derdriu. Part of it was purely practical: if Mercer was really set on announcing their engagement to the Roundtable Conference she absolutely could not be staying unchaperoned at another man's estate, regardless of that man's intentions. Still, even the suggestion that she do so as Matteo's—he'd insisted she call him Matteo—fiancée was a bit... she pursed her lips. Surely it wouldn't have anything to do with that.
Princess she might be, but Sorcha understood that she was quite a plain girl, boyish and unfeminine and not the kind who could really pretty up, either. So she doubted he had any interest in anything untoward. But... sometimes it was appearances that mattered, and it would definitely have the appearance of impropriety.
Still. It was kind of nice to have someone pretend to be interested, even if she knew it wasn't real. Her eyes dropped to her hand. It was a little much, maybe, but he'd even given her a rose. A bright red one, the crimson of it a stark contrast where she held it in a pale hand. He'd trimmed the thorns off, too, which she supposed was a nice thought even if it was entirely unnecessary. And he had such a... well, a knightly way about him, and part of her couldn't help but respond to that. It was a romantic notion, and stupid, but he really did seem like a hero out of one of her favorite stories. How many times had she imagined herself a brave heroine, and wanted nothing more or less than a courageous, goodhearted partner with whom to have their own adventures?
“Stupid," she whispered softly.
Placing the rose on her bedside table, she crossed to her things, changing from her travel gear into a simple, loose white shirt and trousers she could easily fit into her boots. She wanted to go for some air, maybe get a feel for the city at night. She wasn't too worried about being recognized—if there were really stories about the Princess of Faerghus being as pretty as Matteo had said, she had little fear of identification. She hadn't even been noticed earlier, during the escort. For once, the propaganda her uncle's advisors spread about her would be to her advantage.
She tried to pin her hair, but as usual she couldn't get it quite right by herself, and so she put it up in a ponytail instead, almost surprised when she realized it nearly reached the small of her back. She should probably cut it; that might make it easier to deal with. Pausing to strap the knife Professor Cyril had gifted her for her birthday to her back, she checked that her bracelet was still intact, and her necklace was hidden under the shirt. That should be adequate; it wasn't like Derdriu was a crime-ridden city, and she knew how to look after herself.
Considering the rose for a moment, she hummed. It wouldn't hurt to pretend a little longer, right? She tucked it into the base of her ponytail and exited the room, padding down the stairs towards the foyer and the front door.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, though, Mercer was standing in the foyer with another person. A man with hair to his shoulders, and a rich red hue, seemed to be smiling at something Mercer said. Sorcha could recognize him from earlier, when they'd arrived. He was part of the welcome who received Mercer, Duke Goneril. He glanced towards her, pale blue eyes locking with hers before he turned back to Mercer. He muttered something, bowed, and left. Mercer, however, glanced in Sorcha's direction. He grinned at her, but it didn't seem quite right on his face. It was as if it were a forced grin, but he waved in her direction.
“Hey, Sorcha," he greeted once she was closer to him. He glanced at her, as if he were inspecting her attire before he arched a brow. “Headed out?" he asked, tilting his head lightly in an inquisitive manner.
“Uh—yes." She swallowed, a touch uncomfortable for reasons she couldn't place. Maybe it was just the suddenness of everything that had happened. It wasn't every day a person found out they accidentally engaged themself in their childhood, least of all to someone they were only just beginning to get to know again as a friend.
It wasn't that she'd ever expected to have much choice in the matter. Just that she'd sort of thought that would be because her parents or uncle had chosen for her, not because of what basically amounted to a misunderstanding. It was... weird. Weird might be the right word.
“You, um. You don't seem to be really enjoying being home," she ventured, not really sure how else to express a concern that had been sitting with her since they'd started out for Derdriu two days ago. “Are you—is your grandfather all right?" She didn't know how ill the Duke was; Lady Judith hadn't seemed too worried, but the situation could easily have worsened in the time since she'd left to retrieve them.
Mercer smiled wrly at her. “He'll be fine. He's recovering well-enough that he should be able to return by the time the summit ends," he responded, rubbing the back of his neck as he rolled it out. “And I've never really enjoyed it here. Too many people trying to disinherit me, kill me, or just take things that they want because I've no right to it. I told you that I was just recently announced as Duke Riegan's heir. No one is taking that seriously, so why would I enjoy being in a place that doesn't want me around, right now?" His tone was rather flat when he spoke, as if he just didn't care about something.
“Honestly... that's only part of it. I'm not enjoying myself because a certain someone thinks he's going to be able to take the position of Leader of the Alliance. No chance in hell am I letting that happen, though. He's... he'd ruin everything," he stated a bit darkly. Even his eyes seemed to darken with the force of his words.
“But don't let me keep you. If you're going out, be careful and... don't stay out too late. Or if you'd like, I can tag along. Doesn't really matter," he shrugged his shoulders after that, and dropped them.
Some sensitive part of her was inclined to take offense at his apathy, both on behalf of the people of the city, and on her own. But... she knew him just well enough at this point to understand that maybe things weren't really as they seemed.
That made up her mind, somehow. Shaking her head, she darted forward to grab his wrist, and set about tugging him behind her. “Come on, then," she said, glancing back over her shoulder at him. “If it doesn't really matter, then you can come on my walk with me and show me your city. I want to see all the best parts so you better be a good tour guide." More than wanting to see those things for herself, though, she wanted him to see them.
Sorcha had found that sometimes she needed a reminder of why she tried at all in the first place. It was hard to believe that most of the nobility would ever really accept her, and part of her was almost always ready to give up, to abdicate and let her uncle the Regent become King in truth. He wasn't a terrible person, or anything, and though Faerghus was very much struggling in some ways, it was sort of the status quo for Faerghus to struggle. Sometimes the nobles even seemed to take a perverse kind of pride in it. In having fewer fancy things than Imperials or Alliance Dukes or whatever the case.
Of course, their 'hardship' was nothing compared to what their people went through, and that was what she did to remind herself. She went out into Fhirdiad, or the countryside if she could, dressed like an ordinary woman, and tried to immerse herself as much as she could in the lives of those she would one day rule. She couldn't truly know what it was like, but she could do her best, so that when the time came she would remember to ask them what they needed, instead of assuming she knew best. And those people were worth fighting for.
She knew Mercer had to know this in his heart. But maybe, like her, he could sometimes use a reminder.
He huffed lightly, something caught between a laugh and maybe something more akin to disbelief. “I can't promise I'll be a good tour guide, but I'll try my best. After you, Princess," he stated, walking towards the door and holding it open for her to walk through. Once they had exited, and made their way towards the city, Mercer seemed to relax a bit. “How's everything on your end?" he finally spoke, his eyes going towards the rose in her hair. It seemed he'd spotted it, earlier, but hadn't commented on it, yet.
She somehow, suddenly, wished it were not there, but it would have been strange to do anything with it now, so she simply pretended she didn't notice him noticing. “I'm fine," she said quietly, unsure if it was true exactly but not wanting to make a nuisance of herself. This had to be just as sudden and strange for him, really, and on top of all the things he had to deal with for the Conference... Sorcha was already second-guessing her decision to make him do this.
She sighed a little, looking around to take in the city a bit more. The mage-lights were soft, but there were enough of them to gently illuminate the path ahead. “I... suppose that's as much as I'll have to be dealing with Duke Gloucester," she added, pursing her lips. “Since the announcement will be soon and everything."
He raised a brow in her direction. “Have you made a decision on what you'd like to do, then?" he asked, brow still raised and head tilted slightly as if he were curious. “Do you want me to annul your engagement with Gloucester and say you're my intended, or..." his jaw seemed to clench tightly and he swallowed thickly. It was easy enough to see his throat working. “Do you want me to make your engagement with Gloucester official?"
“I told you I was going to respect whatever conclusion you came to, and this is the way I do it. What is it that you'd like to do, Sorcha? Or do you need more time to think it through? The conference is in two days, so there's still time to think about it. I just..." a pause, “want you to be sure."
Sorcha's lips thinned; she dropped her eyes to her feet for a bit. “It's not that simple, though, right?" she asked. “There's Almyra to consider, and what people would think of you..." Expelling a breath from her nose, she shook her head and lifted her eyes. They were approaching the water; she could see lights reflecting off the ocean, and hear a low susurrus that seemed to be the waves rolling onto the shore.
“What—what do you want to do, Mercer? That matters, too." She shook her head again. “I've always known that I wasn't going to choose who I married. And I've come to terms with the fact that whoever it is isn't going to want me." She snorted. That one had been difficult, but she'd managed it, eventually. “But—it seems like you have the chance to choose, you know? When I said I don't want pity, I meant that... but not just for my own sake. I also don't want you to make a decision this important just because you feel bad about something you couldn't have known about. So even if you don't want to do this, I'll be fine." She smiled, huffing quietly. “It'll just be what I always expected in the first place, you know?"
She couldn't pretend she was exactly happy about it; she had enough foolish notions of romance and love in her head that the idea of being married to someone who would not love her was... uncomfortable. But if in so doing she could give her friend a chance at being happy, well—that might be worth it.
“I'd want you," he spoke, his voice soft as if he hadn't meant to say it out loud. He shook his head, though. “And I told you it wasn't out of pity that I would do that. I don't care what they'd think of me, what Almyra would think because they don't care who I decide to marry. To Almyra, who I marry will always be someone they think is worthy because I thought they were worthy. And I told you our engagement would only be temporary, and last however long you wanted it to last. What I want..." he paused to glance at her, his eyes searching hers for something.
“What I want is for you to be happy no matter what you decide. You deserve that, Sorcha. And if you think Gloucester could provide that happiness for you, then who am I to stand in your way? But... if you don't think you would be happy, and that maybe I could help you find your happiness, well..." he didn't seem to need to continue his statement. He kept his gaze with hers, though, and never once broke it.
“I'd like to think our engagement would be the first step."
Sorcha wasn't honestly sure she heard anything beyond the first three words.
I'd want you.
Her heart lurched painfully in her chest; she actually raised a hand to the spot a moment later, pressing the heel of it into her sternum just above where the pendant rested, warm against her skin. She swallowed thickly. What—what kind of hypothetical was that? He'd want her? In what circumstances? In what way? The questions were dizzying, almost painful in a way she didn't understand. Because it was a hypothetical. I would..
Not I do.
The rest caught up with her eventually, though not before her face had heated. She ignored her own blush and cleared her throat, trying to regain her footing. “Do you think he could?" she asked, diverting their course towards an empty dock. She assumed, from the other boats moored nearby, that it was occasionally used for the same, but there were none on it now. It gave her a much better view of the water, and perhaps made the expression on her face a little harder to read.
She tugged the rose out of her hair. In the dim light, the red faded quickly, until it was mostly an indistinct dark grey. “He did his research, I suppose. Some of it, anyway. I don't know if he says things like that all the time, always acts like that, or if it was something he did because he found out I—" she scoffed, pulling a face at herself. “Found out I'm an idiot. But it wasn't a perfect farce. I recognize a wandering eye when I see one—he might have complimented me the most, but the way he was looking at Sen and Lady Lyanna... I can tell what he likes, and I'm not really it."
She smiled, the expression a tinge bitter. That hadn't been anything she didn't expect, which was why she knew how to look for it. “And I guess even the research was only skin deep. I kind of hate roses, actually. Lady Patricia had these rosebushes she really loved. They had to rip out my mother's lilies to plant them, and I fell into them trying to get out of my room one night. I got all scratched up—but at least the thorns taught me something." Trimming them off seemed a little condescending, somehow.
“Still... I think it might be the first time anyone's ever even tried to charm me. It felt kind of nice."
“No," Mercer spoke softly. “Gloucester would... forgive me for being blunt but I have to say this," he stated, wincing slightly as if to himself. “Gloucester wouldn't want you, or anyone for that matter. He doesn't value a person. He only sees an object, and even if he did his research on you, it's only because he wants to get you in bed as soon as possible so he can say he has you. That you belong to him, and to make your engagement to him, solid."
That was... hard to hear, and in some ways surprising, but Sorcha found that like so many things, she could bear it evenly. She supposed it was possible that there might be a certain status in... in bedding her, as it were. Her title had significance to some people; it wasn't entirely unreasonable to suppose it might extend to this arena also. And if what he saw when he looked at her was the title, she supposed even plainness didn't much matter.
She nodded slightly, in acknowledgment of and gratitude for his honesty, even he'd had to say something unpleasant to achieve it.
He pulled in a deep breath, a small smile pulling at his lips. “And what have I been doing this entire time? Making a fool of myself for you? Here I thought I was charming you. Guess I need to work a little harder," he stated, the somewhat familiar Mercer returning. He didn't seem so serious, in that moment, and smiled at her. “But I really guess I'm just trying to get to know Sorcha Blaiddyd, the young woman who doesn't believe in herself, but has a strong and just heart and wants the best for people." He huffed a little to himself.
Some part of her almost wished he weren't so clearly joking. On the other hand, she wasn't sure what she'd have done with herself if he'd tried to say it seriously. At least she knew where she stood with Mercer. He wasn't pretending anything for her, and there was a way in which that was a mercy. He respected her as a person, and... and if nothing else, she would treasure that, and happily return it in kind.
“Thank you, Mercer," she said, finding a soft smile for him. With a careless gesture, she tossed the flower into the ocean, to let the potential of it be carried far away by the waves. If the choice was between a fake love and a real friendship with someone who mattered, well... that was no choice at all.
“You know... I think you are. Getting to know me, I mean. But you should talk more about yourself, sometimes. I feel like we always talk about me, and that's no good." She tilted her head to the side. “Maybe you could start by showing me your favorite place in Derdriu?"
For the first time since they'd arrived, Mercer genuinely smiled. “Sure thing, Sor," he responded, his hand reaching out to lay on her shoulder before he dropped it. “We're actually at my favorite spot. The ocean was always one of my favorite places to be, especially during the summer time. It has a sort of gleam to it, the way it shines. It almost reminds me..." he paused, laughing a bit nervously, “the way your eyes shine when you're genuinely happy about something. Ah, but, um... yeah." He coughed into his hand and glanced away from her.
“I can show you a few other places in town? There's this one merchant who makes custom quivers. We can see if he's still there and maybe have him make one for you?"
She felt like her face was on fire, between the casual touch and the—the compliment? It sounded like a compliment to her. She looked away at the same time he did, setting a hand on her burning cheek and trying to get the flush under control.
The suggestion was a welcome one, and she nodded vigorously. “Oh, um. Yes. That would be really—really nice. I was thinking I might need a larger one. I seem to keep running out of arrows on missions, and..." She grimaced, knowing she probably sounded incredibly inane. “You think anyone would be open this late?"
“Yeah, the merchant is an old friend of mine. He's a bit on in years, now, and can't see very well, but he still retains the muscle memory to make quivers. He's one of the best in Derdriu, and possibly all of Fódlan. He made the one I currently use, and I seem to have more arrows to spare than you do on missions," he stated, grinning at her in the way that meant he was teasing her again.
She sniffed. “It's not my fault I fire faster than you, you know," she groused, heading back up towards the street. Truthfully, she was grateful for the opportunity to get back on even ground, so to speak. She didn't regret being vulnerable earlier, not at all. Mercer hadn't ridiculed her for it, or treated her badly, but that didn't make it easy, either.
This though—banter and ribbing each other. This was easy.
“Oh? Is that what you're calling it? Being a faster shot? And here I thought I was the fastest. I guess I'm just good at being more precise," he replied with a shrug of his shoulders. “I shouldn't be too surprised, though. You've always been a faster draw than I have. We'll just have to make it a contest, one day. Just to see who really is the faster one," he stated, grinning at her in that challenging manner he usually did.
Sorcha harrumphed, giving him a gentle whack in the arm. “Fine. But you have to pick something that isn't ridiculous for the wager."
Duke Riegan Manor (Stables) - Morning - Cool
Senka Rinaldi
Senka pursed her lips together. She wasn't sure if she should be flattered or alarmed at the letter she had found outside her room this morning. It was... beautiful, she would admit. The things it said about her, comparing her to the moon or some ethereal creature, was causing her stomach to do strange flips. She knew the letter belonged to Alaric Goneril, the current Duke of House Goneril, however; she didn't understand why he was so adamant about telling her these things. She had found out that he was the young man who had been staring at her when they'd arrived in Derdriu, yesterday, when she had joined the others at the tavern. He was currently visiting the von Riegan manor, apparently speaking with Mercer. From what she'd been told, they were old friends, so it made sense for him to visit Mercer when he'd returned to Derdriu.
As if her thoughts had summoned him, though, Duke Goneril rounded the corner of the stables and his eyes softened in her direction. They were a pretty shade of blue, almost pale grey in some instances. His hair was fairly long for a noble, but Senka supposed that mattered very little in Derdriu. A lot of the nobles sported hair at least down to their shoulders, and Duke Goneril was no exception. The red was what caught her attention the most. It was rich and deep, and so beautiful. Just as he was, now that she could see his features properly. Not quite like Cyril, though. She dismissed that thought, as Duke Goneril approached.
“Good morning, Lady Senka," he stated, placing a hand on his heart as he bowed. She returned it, and offered him a more softened expression of the one she was wearing. It wasn't quite a smile, but he did seem to put her at ease. “I... hope you found my poem to your liking?" he asked. Senka blinked at him, but nodded her head. His expression shifted into a light smile, as his shoulders seemed to relax.
“It was beautiful," she admitted as he held out his hand, an invitation to give him her own. Hesitantly, she did, laying it with his, but felt her brows furrow. It didn't feel quite the same as when she'd held Cyril's hand. Cyril's hands had been warm and comforting. Duke Goneril's were warm as well, but she didn't quite feel the same comfort as she did from Cyril's. He brushed his lips over her knuckles, though, before releasing her hand.
“I am glad it was to your liking," he stated, straightening out his posture. “I was wondering if you would, perhaps, like to accompany me to dinner tonight? I—" he paused, a faint pink dusting his cheeks as he glanced away from her. His apparent nervousness was causing her to feel awkward, and she felt her own cheeks heat up. He spoke again before she could answer, though.
“I would like ask you if I may court you, properly," he stated, his eyes locking with hers. Senka was genuinely surprised, and she felt her eyes widen at the statement. He wanted to court her? Her? “Ah, you do not have to answer now, if you don't desire. I am willing to wait," he stated, taking a step back as if to give her some space. She appreciated the thought, because she wasn't entirely sure what was wrong with her chest. Her heart was beating rather fast, and it felt like her stomach was doing strange flips, again.
“I'm... flattered, really, Lord Goneril. May I have time to think about it?" she asked, watching as his expression shifted into one of hope. He smiled and nodded his head.
“Of course. Please, take your time. If you must leave Derdriu before you find an answer, please write to me once you do. It would bring me nothing but joy if it were a favorable response, but I will not harbor any ill-thoughts against you if it is not. I wish only the best for you, Senka. May... I call you that? Senka?" he asked. It was so genuine, and so... tender? She didn't know the word for it, and could only nod. He smiled once more before he bowed.
“I will have dinner with you tonight, if you'd like, Duke Goneril." Senka supposed it wouldn't hurt. His smile brightened more, and it made Senka think of the way Amalthea usually brightened. As if something were fascinating and worth smiling about. She was having a hard time believing that he was smiling because of her, though.
“Nothing would please me more, however; if you'd like, you may call me Alaric. I feel like it wouldn't put such a boundary between us," he stated. Senka blinked, swallowed thickly, and nodded. It was the only thing she could do since her words seemed to fail her. He bid farewell to her after that, leaving Senka to her thoughts. Libi stuck his head out of his stall, though, and nickered in her direction. She smiled at him, and laid a hand on his snout, rubbing it gently as she lost herself in her thoughts.
Why would he be interested in her? She was, for all he knew, just a schoolmate of Mercer's. Despite Vridel and Cyril's words, she didn't feel particularly attractive, so what would Duke Goneril gain by trying to pursue her? It didn't make sense. Some, strange, hopeful part of her, though, thought that maybe it was genuine. That he saw her and nothing else, and wanted the chance to be with her. Senka was touched, she really was, but... she felt confused. If she did agree to allow Alaric to court her, where would that leave her friends? Cyril?
That thought alone surprised her. Cyril was her teacher. Why should that matter? Why did that matter? Libi pushed her hand gently with his snout, calling her attention back to him. He snorted softly and she smiled in response. It was getting a little easier to do that, lately: smile. Senka thought that her friends were the root cause of it. They had made her... well, happy was too mild of a word to use. She loved them dearly for what they did to her, how they were bringing her back ever so close to her old self.
“What should I do?" she murmured, leaning to place her forehead against Libi's snout.
A soft humming alerted her to the fact that someone else was heading into the barn; oddly it seemed to be someone familiar to their animals, because several more heads popped over stall doors, as if in anticipation of something. The barn door on the far end slid open gently on its hinges, and then Cyril stepped through, leaving it open to the sunshine and breeze behind him. He had a large bale of hay slung over one shoulder and an oversized bucket of fish in the other—sure enough, he was the source of the humming, some gentle tune she didn't recognize. It could have been a lullaby, even, but perhaps he'd just slowed down something a little faster.
It ceased as soon as he spotted her and realized he was not alone, but he didn't seem startled. Instead, his expression softened slightly. “Good morning, Senka," he said, as if it were any ordinary day at the monastery and she'd arrived early to the classroom. He was dressed in the same manner as usual for their days off—a black and white tunic, black trousers, and boots. The tunic was short-sleeved in concession to the weather, and there were pieces of hay in his hair, but otherwise it could have been a morning at Garreg Mach.
“Come to take a ride? I hear the Duke's property has some nice scenery, and trails." He set the bale and bucket down, breaking the wire holding the former together with his hands and separating it out into flakes in preparation to feed the horses. “I can have Libi's ready for him if you'd prefer to get him some exercise first?" He paused long enough to look over at her inquiringly, one eyebrow slightly raised over the other.
Seeing him always made her feel strangely comfortable. Every little thing that she nitpicked about herself seemed to disappear whenever he was around, and she couldn't help the little smile that appeared on her face. “Ah, not exactly. I was just checking up on Libi to make sure he was doing alright and..." she paused and furrowed her brows, “I ran into Al—Duke Goneril." She corrected herself before she said his name. She didn't know why she didn't want to say it. It was, after all, just that: a name.
“You have hay stuck in your hair," she stated, pointing to a few pieces that seemed to stick out more than others. It was rather, dare she say, cute. She never really thought about Cyril that way, but the way he was now... it made her feel warm inside. She couldn't explain why, so she just smiled.
“Of course I do." Somehow, he managed with very little actual expression to convey the impression of rolling his eyes, and reached up with one hand, brushing it carelessly back and forth through his hair. Most of the hay fell out, but he definitely missed a few bits, and in the process mussed his hair, which was unruly at the best of times. It now stuck out in all directions, save the one piece that still managed to fall in front of his face.
“Did I get it?"
Senka laughed lightly, and shook her head. “No, you didn't," she replied, stepping closer to him for a moment. She reached up, hesitantly at first, almost unsure of herself before she ran her hands through his hair. She pulled the rest of the bits from his hair before running her fingers through it one last time to straighten it out. It would likely get messed up again, but at least now he didn't have to worry about there being hay in his hair.
His hair was softer than it looked, almost downy in its texture, and largely free of tangles despite the careless treatment he'd given it. He was quite quiet as she worked, tipping his chin down as if to make it simpler for her.
“There. Better," she spoke once she was sure she took everything out. “Now you look more presentable," she added blinking slowly before she pursed her lips together. She remained quiet for a few moments, debating whether or not she wanted to ask him something. She decided she wanted to, and glanced in his direction to meet his gaze. “May I ask your opinion on something, Cyril?" she decided to ask. She wanted to know what he would think of Duke Goneril and his... well, what he'd asked her, earlier.
He'd huffed quietly at the word 'presentable,' a vaguely-skeptical expression on his face, but it disappeared when the subject changed, and he tilted his head slightly to the side. “Always," he replied simply. “What is it?"
She opened her mouth to reply, however; she found she couldn't say the words she wanted to. Perhaps because she didn't know how to word them. Instead, she chewed the bottom of her lip, thoughtfully, before she came to a conclusion. “Duke Goneril wishes to court me," she spoke softly, and turned her gaze towards the floor.
“He is very kind, and nice, but... I don't... know." She truly did believe he was a nice person, but she didn't understand why he wanted to court her. Courtship usually meant that the interested party would eventually seek marriage. Senka wasn't too sure if she would want to marry someone who saw her, but didn't know her. “You know parts of my history, and you know who I am, but Duke Goneril does not. I... don't want to deceive him that way, but I also don't want him to be interested in someone who... possibly couldn't return what he wants. What... what would you do?"
Cyril clearly considered this for some time, his own lips pursing faintly. “This seems like the kind of thing worth a longer discussion," he admitted. “Do you mind if I feed everyone while I think about it? Then maybe we could take Libi and Sterling out for some exercise? I'd like to ask you some things before I answer, if you'd be all right with that."
“Of course," she replied. She valued Cyril's opinion, and if he had to think about the answer he wanted to give her, or ask her things in turn, she would gladly wait. And she did. She waited until he fed the animals which took almost half an hour. She didn't mind, though, since she said she would wait. Once she had Libi saddled, and she led the black gelding out of his stall, and mounted with relative ease. Libi seemed rather happy to be out of his stall, and merely snorted, pawing the ground almost impatiently. She supposed he enjoyed their walks as much as she did.
“I am ready when you are," she stated, glancing back towards Cyril.
He swung astride Sterling, one of the other Barn C residents at the monastery. The mare was one of those hotblooded Imperial sorts, with a deep grey-blue dappled coat and a silver mane and tail. She was a spirited horse—too much so for most riders, but she seemed to quite like Cyril, so he was usually the one who exercised her, since all of the grooms and most of the knights were wary of the fact that she tended to bite.
Gathering up the reins—he preferred an unusual, bitless bridle configuration—he steered her out of the barn, then waited for Senka and Libi to draw even before nudging her forward again. He seemed to have some idea where the trails went, because he pointed them down one without hesitating, heading for a copse of trees.
When they'd been walking for a few minutes, he turned to regard her evenly for a moment, expression thoughtful. “Do you want to be courted, Senka?" he asked. “Forget the who, for a moment. Is the what of it something you have any interest in?"
Perhaps, at one time she did. The idea of being courted by someone that had, perhaps, loved her, was something she had thought about when she was younger. It was childish of her to think so, but when she looked at her parents, she'd always wanted something like that.
“I did," she finally answered after a few minutes of silence. “When I was still Princess of Duscur, I always thought... that it would be nice. To find someone like that who could be... I don't know," she pursed her lips together and furrowed her brows. “But I think that is no longer available to me. Why would anyone want to court someone like me? I'm..." she paused, feeling a strange lump in her throat as she sighed softly. “I'm afraid of it. If someone found out who I was, I don't think they would want to court me at all. And... I'm scared of that."
Duke Goneril seemed like a genuinely nice person, who could be a good person to someone he eventually loved, but Senka couldn't picture herself as being that person. And she didn't want to do that to him. He has been nothing but kind to her since their arrival. It was though Cyril said, even if it wasn't Duke Goneril, Senka had a hard time believing that anyone would want to court her, and not hate her if they found out who she was.
Cyril considered this for a moment. “I didn't ask if you thought it was available to you," he pointed out gently, “only if it was something you would want." They emerged from the copse of trees, and suddenly the ocean and sky filled the horizon. There was a beach just a little ways ahead, a long, unoccupied stretch of sand without so much as a dock on it.
“For what it's worth..." he paused, steering them onto the sand before continuing. “I'm just a commoner, so maybe I don't know much about these things, but—I don't think any less of you for being from Duscur. I can't imagine I'm somehow unique. In fact I know I'm not. Vridel clearly doesn't, nor does Sorcha, and I have every confidence that the others wouldn't either."
But didn't he know that he was unique? That he was the exception to all of it? He didn't think any less of her for being from Duscur because he was a mercenary. He didn't have ties to any of the three kingdoms in Fódlan, so how could he have an actual opinion on her?
“Thank you for saying that, Cyril. It means a lot, it really does, but," she paused to sigh softly. “Things are a bit more complicated than that. And to answer your question, yes. It is something I want..." but it wasn't something she could have. She chanced a glance at him, and turned her attention back to the scenery in front of her. The ocean was beautiful, clear and full of life, it seemed. She gripped the reins a little tighter before she turned her attention back to Cyril.
“I suppose that is why I agreed to have dinner with him. Maybe... maybe this could be," she wasn't sure what it could be. This was a chance to get to know him, and he would get to know her. Maybe something would come of it. Maybe nothing would. “It couldn't hurt to try, right?"
“I don't think it would in this case, no," Cyril replied slowly. Sterling tossed her head, dancing sideways a little as they approached the waves, but he hardly seemed to notice, keeping his seat as a matter of reflex rather than conscious decision, by the look of it. “I don't know the Duke well, but he seems a decent man, and I doubt Mercer would be friends with anyone who wasn't. He's a good judge of character, in that way."
He regarded her steadily as their path took them close enough to the ocean for the waves to wet the horses' hooves before turning parallel to the waterline. “So if you don't mind the what, then I suppose the question is... how do you feel about the who?" He blinked. “Not that I think you need to have any definitive answers; you barely know him, after all." He shook his head.
“I'd be... cautious, if he was declaring love at first sight or something like that. I've never known anyone to say that and really mean it. But somehow I don't suppose it's that, right?"
Senka huffed a little before she started laughing lightly. “No, I do not believe that it is anything like that. Father used to tell me, though, that he fell in love with mother at first sight," she stated, smiling a little at the thought. “I think he was just spinning tales about it, but he really did love her. As for the who," she had to pause, and pursed her lips together. Who would she want to court her?
“Well, I suppose someone like you," or even Vridel, for that matter. They were all so nice to her, and treated her as if she were actually worth something. Nevermind that they were her friends.
His eyes widened slightly at that, before he shifted them away from her and towards the ocean. “That's... not exactly what I meant," he murmured. There was something almost slightly... thicker about his tone, though it was hard to identify, and he cleared his throat anyway, rendering the point a rather moot one. “Maybe, uh—" He seemed a bit lost, and when he turned back to face her, there seemed to be just the faintest hint of color to his skin. It was warm out, but the expression he was making was a bit unusual, too, almost as if he were slightly flustered.
“Never mind. It seems to me that if it's something you want and someone you think could potentially be a good fit, well... why not at least give dinner a try? It's not—it's not like you have to decide right then. But if you don't try, you won't know, right?"
“It would be worth a try," she admitted, unable to meet his gaze for some reason. She didn't understand it, herself, but she could feel her cheeks warm lightly. “Thank you, Cyril, for listening to... my... dilemmas. If you do not mind, I'd... like to speak about it with you again. I value your insight and your company a great deal."
“Of course," he said quietly. The request somehow pulled another one of those little smiles from him. “I'm here for you, Senka. Whatever you'd like to talk about."
Tilting his head, he smiled a touch more. “Should we let them run for a bit? The sand should be good exercise."
She nodded her head; that sounded like a good idea, and so she spurred Libi forward.
As if her thoughts had summoned him, though, Duke Goneril rounded the corner of the stables and his eyes softened in her direction. They were a pretty shade of blue, almost pale grey in some instances. His hair was fairly long for a noble, but Senka supposed that mattered very little in Derdriu. A lot of the nobles sported hair at least down to their shoulders, and Duke Goneril was no exception. The red was what caught her attention the most. It was rich and deep, and so beautiful. Just as he was, now that she could see his features properly. Not quite like Cyril, though. She dismissed that thought, as Duke Goneril approached.
“Good morning, Lady Senka," he stated, placing a hand on his heart as he bowed. She returned it, and offered him a more softened expression of the one she was wearing. It wasn't quite a smile, but he did seem to put her at ease. “I... hope you found my poem to your liking?" he asked. Senka blinked at him, but nodded her head. His expression shifted into a light smile, as his shoulders seemed to relax.
“It was beautiful," she admitted as he held out his hand, an invitation to give him her own. Hesitantly, she did, laying it with his, but felt her brows furrow. It didn't feel quite the same as when she'd held Cyril's hand. Cyril's hands had been warm and comforting. Duke Goneril's were warm as well, but she didn't quite feel the same comfort as she did from Cyril's. He brushed his lips over her knuckles, though, before releasing her hand.
“I am glad it was to your liking," he stated, straightening out his posture. “I was wondering if you would, perhaps, like to accompany me to dinner tonight? I—" he paused, a faint pink dusting his cheeks as he glanced away from her. His apparent nervousness was causing her to feel awkward, and she felt her own cheeks heat up. He spoke again before she could answer, though.
“I would like ask you if I may court you, properly," he stated, his eyes locking with hers. Senka was genuinely surprised, and she felt her eyes widen at the statement. He wanted to court her? Her? “Ah, you do not have to answer now, if you don't desire. I am willing to wait," he stated, taking a step back as if to give her some space. She appreciated the thought, because she wasn't entirely sure what was wrong with her chest. Her heart was beating rather fast, and it felt like her stomach was doing strange flips, again.
“I'm... flattered, really, Lord Goneril. May I have time to think about it?" she asked, watching as his expression shifted into one of hope. He smiled and nodded his head.
“Of course. Please, take your time. If you must leave Derdriu before you find an answer, please write to me once you do. It would bring me nothing but joy if it were a favorable response, but I will not harbor any ill-thoughts against you if it is not. I wish only the best for you, Senka. May... I call you that? Senka?" he asked. It was so genuine, and so... tender? She didn't know the word for it, and could only nod. He smiled once more before he bowed.
“I will have dinner with you tonight, if you'd like, Duke Goneril." Senka supposed it wouldn't hurt. His smile brightened more, and it made Senka think of the way Amalthea usually brightened. As if something were fascinating and worth smiling about. She was having a hard time believing that he was smiling because of her, though.
“Nothing would please me more, however; if you'd like, you may call me Alaric. I feel like it wouldn't put such a boundary between us," he stated. Senka blinked, swallowed thickly, and nodded. It was the only thing she could do since her words seemed to fail her. He bid farewell to her after that, leaving Senka to her thoughts. Libi stuck his head out of his stall, though, and nickered in her direction. She smiled at him, and laid a hand on his snout, rubbing it gently as she lost herself in her thoughts.
Why would he be interested in her? She was, for all he knew, just a schoolmate of Mercer's. Despite Vridel and Cyril's words, she didn't feel particularly attractive, so what would Duke Goneril gain by trying to pursue her? It didn't make sense. Some, strange, hopeful part of her, though, thought that maybe it was genuine. That he saw her and nothing else, and wanted the chance to be with her. Senka was touched, she really was, but... she felt confused. If she did agree to allow Alaric to court her, where would that leave her friends? Cyril?
That thought alone surprised her. Cyril was her teacher. Why should that matter? Why did that matter? Libi pushed her hand gently with his snout, calling her attention back to him. He snorted softly and she smiled in response. It was getting a little easier to do that, lately: smile. Senka thought that her friends were the root cause of it. They had made her... well, happy was too mild of a word to use. She loved them dearly for what they did to her, how they were bringing her back ever so close to her old self.
“What should I do?" she murmured, leaning to place her forehead against Libi's snout.
A soft humming alerted her to the fact that someone else was heading into the barn; oddly it seemed to be someone familiar to their animals, because several more heads popped over stall doors, as if in anticipation of something. The barn door on the far end slid open gently on its hinges, and then Cyril stepped through, leaving it open to the sunshine and breeze behind him. He had a large bale of hay slung over one shoulder and an oversized bucket of fish in the other—sure enough, he was the source of the humming, some gentle tune she didn't recognize. It could have been a lullaby, even, but perhaps he'd just slowed down something a little faster.
It ceased as soon as he spotted her and realized he was not alone, but he didn't seem startled. Instead, his expression softened slightly. “Good morning, Senka," he said, as if it were any ordinary day at the monastery and she'd arrived early to the classroom. He was dressed in the same manner as usual for their days off—a black and white tunic, black trousers, and boots. The tunic was short-sleeved in concession to the weather, and there were pieces of hay in his hair, but otherwise it could have been a morning at Garreg Mach.
“Come to take a ride? I hear the Duke's property has some nice scenery, and trails." He set the bale and bucket down, breaking the wire holding the former together with his hands and separating it out into flakes in preparation to feed the horses. “I can have Libi's ready for him if you'd prefer to get him some exercise first?" He paused long enough to look over at her inquiringly, one eyebrow slightly raised over the other.
Seeing him always made her feel strangely comfortable. Every little thing that she nitpicked about herself seemed to disappear whenever he was around, and she couldn't help the little smile that appeared on her face. “Ah, not exactly. I was just checking up on Libi to make sure he was doing alright and..." she paused and furrowed her brows, “I ran into Al—Duke Goneril." She corrected herself before she said his name. She didn't know why she didn't want to say it. It was, after all, just that: a name.
“You have hay stuck in your hair," she stated, pointing to a few pieces that seemed to stick out more than others. It was rather, dare she say, cute. She never really thought about Cyril that way, but the way he was now... it made her feel warm inside. She couldn't explain why, so she just smiled.
“Of course I do." Somehow, he managed with very little actual expression to convey the impression of rolling his eyes, and reached up with one hand, brushing it carelessly back and forth through his hair. Most of the hay fell out, but he definitely missed a few bits, and in the process mussed his hair, which was unruly at the best of times. It now stuck out in all directions, save the one piece that still managed to fall in front of his face.
“Did I get it?"
Senka laughed lightly, and shook her head. “No, you didn't," she replied, stepping closer to him for a moment. She reached up, hesitantly at first, almost unsure of herself before she ran her hands through his hair. She pulled the rest of the bits from his hair before running her fingers through it one last time to straighten it out. It would likely get messed up again, but at least now he didn't have to worry about there being hay in his hair.
His hair was softer than it looked, almost downy in its texture, and largely free of tangles despite the careless treatment he'd given it. He was quite quiet as she worked, tipping his chin down as if to make it simpler for her.
“There. Better," she spoke once she was sure she took everything out. “Now you look more presentable," she added blinking slowly before she pursed her lips together. She remained quiet for a few moments, debating whether or not she wanted to ask him something. She decided she wanted to, and glanced in his direction to meet his gaze. “May I ask your opinion on something, Cyril?" she decided to ask. She wanted to know what he would think of Duke Goneril and his... well, what he'd asked her, earlier.
He'd huffed quietly at the word 'presentable,' a vaguely-skeptical expression on his face, but it disappeared when the subject changed, and he tilted his head slightly to the side. “Always," he replied simply. “What is it?"
She opened her mouth to reply, however; she found she couldn't say the words she wanted to. Perhaps because she didn't know how to word them. Instead, she chewed the bottom of her lip, thoughtfully, before she came to a conclusion. “Duke Goneril wishes to court me," she spoke softly, and turned her gaze towards the floor.
“He is very kind, and nice, but... I don't... know." She truly did believe he was a nice person, but she didn't understand why he wanted to court her. Courtship usually meant that the interested party would eventually seek marriage. Senka wasn't too sure if she would want to marry someone who saw her, but didn't know her. “You know parts of my history, and you know who I am, but Duke Goneril does not. I... don't want to deceive him that way, but I also don't want him to be interested in someone who... possibly couldn't return what he wants. What... what would you do?"
Cyril clearly considered this for some time, his own lips pursing faintly. “This seems like the kind of thing worth a longer discussion," he admitted. “Do you mind if I feed everyone while I think about it? Then maybe we could take Libi and Sterling out for some exercise? I'd like to ask you some things before I answer, if you'd be all right with that."
“Of course," she replied. She valued Cyril's opinion, and if he had to think about the answer he wanted to give her, or ask her things in turn, she would gladly wait. And she did. She waited until he fed the animals which took almost half an hour. She didn't mind, though, since she said she would wait. Once she had Libi saddled, and she led the black gelding out of his stall, and mounted with relative ease. Libi seemed rather happy to be out of his stall, and merely snorted, pawing the ground almost impatiently. She supposed he enjoyed their walks as much as she did.
“I am ready when you are," she stated, glancing back towards Cyril.
He swung astride Sterling, one of the other Barn C residents at the monastery. The mare was one of those hotblooded Imperial sorts, with a deep grey-blue dappled coat and a silver mane and tail. She was a spirited horse—too much so for most riders, but she seemed to quite like Cyril, so he was usually the one who exercised her, since all of the grooms and most of the knights were wary of the fact that she tended to bite.
Gathering up the reins—he preferred an unusual, bitless bridle configuration—he steered her out of the barn, then waited for Senka and Libi to draw even before nudging her forward again. He seemed to have some idea where the trails went, because he pointed them down one without hesitating, heading for a copse of trees.
When they'd been walking for a few minutes, he turned to regard her evenly for a moment, expression thoughtful. “Do you want to be courted, Senka?" he asked. “Forget the who, for a moment. Is the what of it something you have any interest in?"
Perhaps, at one time she did. The idea of being courted by someone that had, perhaps, loved her, was something she had thought about when she was younger. It was childish of her to think so, but when she looked at her parents, she'd always wanted something like that.
“I did," she finally answered after a few minutes of silence. “When I was still Princess of Duscur, I always thought... that it would be nice. To find someone like that who could be... I don't know," she pursed her lips together and furrowed her brows. “But I think that is no longer available to me. Why would anyone want to court someone like me? I'm..." she paused, feeling a strange lump in her throat as she sighed softly. “I'm afraid of it. If someone found out who I was, I don't think they would want to court me at all. And... I'm scared of that."
Duke Goneril seemed like a genuinely nice person, who could be a good person to someone he eventually loved, but Senka couldn't picture herself as being that person. And she didn't want to do that to him. He has been nothing but kind to her since their arrival. It was though Cyril said, even if it wasn't Duke Goneril, Senka had a hard time believing that anyone would want to court her, and not hate her if they found out who she was.
Cyril considered this for a moment. “I didn't ask if you thought it was available to you," he pointed out gently, “only if it was something you would want." They emerged from the copse of trees, and suddenly the ocean and sky filled the horizon. There was a beach just a little ways ahead, a long, unoccupied stretch of sand without so much as a dock on it.
“For what it's worth..." he paused, steering them onto the sand before continuing. “I'm just a commoner, so maybe I don't know much about these things, but—I don't think any less of you for being from Duscur. I can't imagine I'm somehow unique. In fact I know I'm not. Vridel clearly doesn't, nor does Sorcha, and I have every confidence that the others wouldn't either."
But didn't he know that he was unique? That he was the exception to all of it? He didn't think any less of her for being from Duscur because he was a mercenary. He didn't have ties to any of the three kingdoms in Fódlan, so how could he have an actual opinion on her?
“Thank you for saying that, Cyril. It means a lot, it really does, but," she paused to sigh softly. “Things are a bit more complicated than that. And to answer your question, yes. It is something I want..." but it wasn't something she could have. She chanced a glance at him, and turned her attention back to the scenery in front of her. The ocean was beautiful, clear and full of life, it seemed. She gripped the reins a little tighter before she turned her attention back to Cyril.
“I suppose that is why I agreed to have dinner with him. Maybe... maybe this could be," she wasn't sure what it could be. This was a chance to get to know him, and he would get to know her. Maybe something would come of it. Maybe nothing would. “It couldn't hurt to try, right?"
“I don't think it would in this case, no," Cyril replied slowly. Sterling tossed her head, dancing sideways a little as they approached the waves, but he hardly seemed to notice, keeping his seat as a matter of reflex rather than conscious decision, by the look of it. “I don't know the Duke well, but he seems a decent man, and I doubt Mercer would be friends with anyone who wasn't. He's a good judge of character, in that way."
He regarded her steadily as their path took them close enough to the ocean for the waves to wet the horses' hooves before turning parallel to the waterline. “So if you don't mind the what, then I suppose the question is... how do you feel about the who?" He blinked. “Not that I think you need to have any definitive answers; you barely know him, after all." He shook his head.
“I'd be... cautious, if he was declaring love at first sight or something like that. I've never known anyone to say that and really mean it. But somehow I don't suppose it's that, right?"
Senka huffed a little before she started laughing lightly. “No, I do not believe that it is anything like that. Father used to tell me, though, that he fell in love with mother at first sight," she stated, smiling a little at the thought. “I think he was just spinning tales about it, but he really did love her. As for the who," she had to pause, and pursed her lips together. Who would she want to court her?
“Well, I suppose someone like you," or even Vridel, for that matter. They were all so nice to her, and treated her as if she were actually worth something. Nevermind that they were her friends.
His eyes widened slightly at that, before he shifted them away from her and towards the ocean. “That's... not exactly what I meant," he murmured. There was something almost slightly... thicker about his tone, though it was hard to identify, and he cleared his throat anyway, rendering the point a rather moot one. “Maybe, uh—" He seemed a bit lost, and when he turned back to face her, there seemed to be just the faintest hint of color to his skin. It was warm out, but the expression he was making was a bit unusual, too, almost as if he were slightly flustered.
“Never mind. It seems to me that if it's something you want and someone you think could potentially be a good fit, well... why not at least give dinner a try? It's not—it's not like you have to decide right then. But if you don't try, you won't know, right?"
“It would be worth a try," she admitted, unable to meet his gaze for some reason. She didn't understand it, herself, but she could feel her cheeks warm lightly. “Thank you, Cyril, for listening to... my... dilemmas. If you do not mind, I'd... like to speak about it with you again. I value your insight and your company a great deal."
“Of course," he said quietly. The request somehow pulled another one of those little smiles from him. “I'm here for you, Senka. Whatever you'd like to talk about."
Tilting his head, he smiled a touch more. “Should we let them run for a bit? The sand should be good exercise."
She nodded her head; that sounded like a good idea, and so she spurred Libi forward.
Riegan Manor - Afternoon - Warm
Vridel von Hresvelg
Vridel stretched his arms over his head, grunting softly when his spine popped into place. Dropping his arms with a sigh, he contemplated the hallway, trying to pick a direction. Professor Cyril had required only that they spend some time each day doing something that qualified as practice, which most of them had taken care of early in the morning. He didn't doubt the majority of his classmates were now out on the town, enjoying the sights and entertainments of Derdriu. Unlike himself, who was rather annoyingly under the supervision of a much stricter instructor.
Lady Lyanna had only just let him out of healing practice, saying something about needing to talk to Amalthea about something. He hoped it wasn't anything too time-consuming; they'd already been at it for hours. Vridel wasn't certain if he wanted to head out into the city himself or just take a nap. He was feeling rather lethargic, something that occasionally happened to him for no reason at all. He knew why, of course—his body was always overtaxed. It was the same reason he ate so much.
He hated the feeling, and hated giving into it.
Maybe if he stopped in the kitchen and grabbed something, he wouldn't need to sleep. The thought in mind, he altered his course slightly, intent on raiding Mercer's pantry.
He wasn't too far from the kitchen when the sounds of someone running could be heard behind him. The person passed him, however; when they stopped, almost abruptly, it was easy to see that it was Amalthea. She looked slightly out of breath as she regarded Vridel for a moment. She smiled afterwards and made her way back towards him.
“Vridel, do you know where the kitchen is? I told Lyanna I was going to make her some sweets since... well, she's been a little grumpier than usual. I want her to be happy since we get to be in such a beautiful place. Oh, and... well I could try and make something for you, too. I know you like sweets almost as much as Lyanna does," she spoke all in one breath.
He blinked down at her, raising a speculative eyebrow, though he was almost surprised to feel no irritation. He could be a bit clipped himself when he was low on energy like this, not to mention he'd just been stuck in a room with her for six hours with little by way of a break, but... somehow he felt nothing of the kind. In fact, he... was he smiling?
It took a moment to recognize the way it felt on his face, but he was.
“It's this way," he told her simply. “I was heading there myself, but if sweets are on the table I suppose I'd be better off offering my assistance to the chef." He shifted aside a little on the carpet runner, to make room for her to walk beside him, then headed for the kitchen.
It was empty when they got there; the staff wouldn't likely need to use it for another couple of hours. Dinners in Derdriu seemed to be curiously-late affairs, by the standards elsewhere in Fódlan, taken closer to nine in the evening than six.
“I could use the help. I'm not... very good when it comes to baking things. I'm actually not a very good... well, I can't cook very well and I can't bake. But I'm trying to get better at it!" she stated, furrowing her brows almost as if to herself. “I can make very small and basic things, like cupcakes. I can't make the jelly-doughnuts that Lyanna loves, though," her lips pursed into a fine line before she shook her head.
“Oh," she stated suddenly, turning her full attention to him, “I've been meaning to ask! How have you been lately? You... usually look tired and I was... well I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help you with that. I've read a few of the tea books that say certain ones can help you relax and..." she trailed off as if he would understand what she was getting at.
“I usually look tired?" he echoed, snorting quietly. “What a flattering thing to say." He arched an eyebrow at her, opening one of the cupboards to see what was inside. Jelly doughnuts, was it? He supposed he could manage that. The second cabinet yielded flour and sugar, for a start. Bringing both down, he regarded Amalthea from the corner of his eye.
“But to answer your question, I'm fine. I was..." He tried to think of a plausible excuse, ideally one that was also technically true. He didn't much relish the thought of lying to her, woman of the Church or not. “In my childhood, I was sick. It turned my hair this color and occasionally still irritates me in other ways, but it's nothing to worry about." Certainly nothing for anyone to worry about but him. Vridel preferred to take care of his own problems, and it was useless to cause other people concern over things they could do nothing about regardless.
She pursed her lips at him, but didn't say anything. She grabbed a mixing bowl and set it down on one of the tabletops. She made her way to where the utensils were, and grabbed the spoons and whisks she would need to make the baked goods. “If it still bothers you, that means you're still somewhat sick from it, right? Is... can I do anything to help you at least ease it somehow? I don't know what it is that you have, or had, but if it's still bothering you, I would like to help if I can. The monastery has a lot of books on herbs and you've been helping me learn botany..." she trailed off again and grabbed a cup. It didn't seem to be what she wanted, though, and she placed it back.
“Oh, maybe I can ask Lyanna if she knows any healing spells that might help?" Her eyes were wide, almost hopeful for some reason.
“I'm afraid there isn't much to be done. The symptoms I have now are the result of damage to my body that is permanent. Just like no amount of herbs or healing magic can remove a scar, what I have now is irreversible." That was, at least, the conclusion he'd come to after a great deal of research and consultation with dozens of renowned experts. He'd not told any of them what the real root cause of the problem was, because that was information he could not allow to be known, for the sake of the future victims it would mean. But even when all he'd asked for was a way to ease the strain on his body... any solution was temporary.
And still. Somehow he knew this would disappoint her, and somehow he found that he didn't want to leave it at that. “It... helps, sometimes," he said quietly, “if someone casts a restore, or something like that. The ones I can cast on myself aren't too helpful, of course." It was simply an unfortunate truth of healing magic that it never worked nearly as well on oneself as on others, even if one grew to be an expert in the art. “If that happens to be in your repertoire it might make me feel a little better." He almost mumbled the last, feeling rather wrongfooted, to be asking her for such a thing. The battlefield was one thing, of course—everyone did what they could to keep everyone else alive.
This felt... different, though.
“Oh, of course, Vi! I know that spell, and... maybe it'll help even more if I use my Crest with it. Lyanna said that our Crest amplifies our healing spells, so maybe... maybe that'll help you a bit more than just a typical restore?" she stated, the smile crossing her face again as she took a step closer to him.
“That is, of course, if you'd like to try it now. I don't know if you're feeling bad right now, or if... it might happen when I'm not around, but if I can do it now, maybe it'll help you feel better even when it does happen?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to the left in an inquisitive manner. She seemed almost to be studying him with the way she was looking at him, but she was a simple person. She was probably just looking at him and waiting for his answer.
Ugh. If he was going to have to put up with this... sweetness, he resolved that he was at least going to have a little fun with it. Really—he was Vridel von Hresvelg, certainly not the type of person who let himself get pushed so far off-guard by a pretty face. Even if it belonged to someone who was so different from anyone he'd ever known.
“I'd like to try it now," he said simply, picking up her hand and guiding it with his own to settle on his chest, right over the steady thrum of his heart. He kept it trapped there with his overtop of it, though loosely enough that she could pull away if that was really what she wanted. He wasn't a boor, after all.
He did take a step in, though, tilting his chin down to meet her eyes with a hint of challenge. “Unless you'd rather leave me to someone else, that is. I'm sure I could find a volunteer somewhere. You need not go to the effort if you do not wish."
The tips of her ears were turning slightly red, and it slowly spread across her face as he spoke to her. She took in a deep breath, perhaps unintentionally, and shook her head. “It's fine; I can do it here, and now since you'd like to try it. It wouldn't make sense to find someone else if I'm already here," she spoke, clearing her throat softly. She sounded a bit miffed, though, like she was jealous that he suggested he could find someone else. Her eyes went to their hands, though, and she seemed rather focused on them. The blush on her face hadn't receded, though, and she seemed to summon her magic. The faint glow of her Crest appeared where her heart was, perhaps because the tunic she was wearing was a white color. When she was finished, she glanced up to meet his eyes.
“How does that feel? Better? Should I do it again?" she asked in quick succession.
Vridel exhaled softly through his nose. In truth, such spells were only temporary relief, like the kind of herbs one might take to dull the feeling of a headache, but they were a relief all the same. The magic washed over him like cool water, easing what felt like a constant, low-level burn throughout his entire body.
“Much better," he murmured, though he made no move to release her hand, either. It was interesting, the way she seemed now to at least be peripherally aware of the power of a touch, and unless he was mistaken that was at least a little touch of jealousy there. How interesting. Was it possible she was catching on?
Letting his head cant to the side, he arched an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes slightly. “Perhaps I should reward you somehow?" The corner of his mouth turned up slyly. “Is there anything you'd like from me, little one?"
Her face was still as red, but she tilted her head slightly and pursed her lips together. “I'm not... no? I didn't do it so you could reward me, Vi," she murmured softly, her brows still furrowed. She almost looked like she was pouting about something, though she didn't seem to pull her hand away, either. “And... I think I've already received so much from you. I don't think there could be anything else." She smiled a little at that, though.
“I don't want to take advantage of you, or anything like that. It would be wrong," she added, though she didn't seem so sure about that statement.
Like one of the reef sharks off the coast of Enbarr, Vridel could smell blood in the water. Or in this case, a rather delicious, ambiguous uncertainty. He was not, of course, interested in pushing Amalthea anywhere she didn't desire to go, but that didn't mean he couldn't nudge. Unlike other people he had met, who knew what was on the table and what of it they wanted, she had yet, he thought, to really understand the options.
Typically he wasn't interested in this kind of thing, preferring to flirt with those who could flirt back, who had a better idea of themselves and what they were after, so that even if it was meaningless and for personal gain, the terms of it were cut and dried, with no grey areas. But in just this case he thought he might be willing to make an exception.
“I promise you, little one: it's impossible for you to take advantage of me." The thought was laughable, honestly. As though he'd let anyone do anything of the kind since he'd grown old enough to understand the difference.
With his free hand, he took hold of her chin, tilting it upwards and leaning down in a suggestion that should be obvious even to the likes of her. “You're sure? There's nothing you can think of that you want?" His brow inched a little higher. “Nothing at all?"
“I..." she paused, looking slightly surprised by something. “I mean, I don't want anything from you, but there is something I want to give to you," she stated, puffing her cheeks out slightly. She raised one of her hands to pull his away from her chin, but she didn't move away. Instead, she leaned in and placed a rather innocent and chaste kiss on his cheek.
“That's... for being a good friend," she stated, pulling away and turning around. She raised her hand and seemed to place it on her chest, as if trying to cover her heart.
Well it wasn't quite what he'd been aiming for, but Vridel could admit there was something novel in being surprised like that. It certainly explained why his pulse had kicked up in his chest, just for a stuttering second. His smile broadened when she turned away; he suppressed a huff of laughter. He supposed that if doing something like that counted as bold for her, he was probably better off not pressing the point too much. Although...
Leaning a little forward and down, he brushed her ponytail aside and over the opposite shoulder so he could murmur into her ear. “That's not very fair," he lilted. “Here I was looking for a way to repay a favor, and you did me another. Are you trying to put me in debt so you can ask for something in particular, little one?"
He straightened, though, figuring that putting the thought in her head was more than enough for now, and set about untying the sack of flour. If she was intent on bribing her sister with sweets, then sweets they would make.
There was a soft thud from where Amalthea had been standing, however; she wasn't standing. It seemed that her legs had given out on her, but she quickly got back to her feet and dusted her trousers off. She offered him a rather embarrassed smile, and cleared her throat. “Ah, sorry, my legs gave out, but that wasn't my intention at all! I promise." She went to the table that had eggs sitting out, and grabbed a couple of them before making her way back to him.
“Oh, we should try adding vanilla inside of the flour! Lyanna likes things with vanilla," she stated, seemingly trying to change the subject.
Laughter and a rather smug smile warred for control of Vridel's features. “Falling for me already?" he quipped breezily, nodding to a spot on the counter where she could put the eggs. “And we could add a little vanilla, but it's not going to show up much in the flavor profile. Doughnuts, especially with fruit in them, aren't meant to taste that way, and for good reason."
He picked around the spice rack until he found a small bottle of the stuff, handing it off to her along with a tiny measuring spoon. “Any more than that, and it's like combining lemons and chocolate. Not everything that's good goes well together."
It was more than a little unusual for someone of his status to know how to prepare food—of this Vridel was quite aware. But in addition to being something everyone had to learn to some extent during their stay at Garreg Mach, he'd sought out lessons in the subject a few years ago, aware of his tendency to eat a lot and preferring to see to secondary meals himself when possible, to minimize the chance of talk. Any oddity was closely-watched, after all.
Amalthea had looked a little alarmed at his first statement, and the expression hadn't shifted until after he was done explaining the measurements to her. She took the bottle and spoon, tentatively and held them for a moment. “How did you know?" she asked, blinking slowly before she seemed to realize something. “Ah, I mean, how do you know about the measurements? I usually just follow whatever is written into the log book, but you don't seem to have that issue," she stated, instead.
Her face was still rather red, perhaps still affected by his earlier actions. “Do you cook, Vi? Oh, that would be amazing if you did! You're... a very multi-talented person."
He rolled his eyes a little at her, though it wasn't derisive, surprisingly enough to him. “If you get enough practice, and pay attention to the taste of what you make, you start to get a sense for these things," he said simply, letting her question pass. “As for me, yes. I do have a rather diverse set of skills, I suppose." He sifted the flour a few times before adding it to the bowl, and shrugged lightly.
“Most of them are things I've been required to know. When I learned I was to be the next Emperor, a lot had to change." He wasn't sure why he bothered to explain; he usually saw no need to do that. What need had he to justify himself to other people, after all?
The color on her face finally seemed to disappear as she regarded him with a softer smile. It seemed distant, almost, as if she were recalling a fond memory of sorts. It didn't seem to be the case, though, when she spoke. “You must have been able to learn and see a lot of things, right?" she stated, keeping her gaze with his. “Are things always this beautiful outside of the monastery?" she continued, tilting her head lightly as she inquired. “Because I think I'd like to see those things. The ones you have, and the others. Maybe... maybe after we graduate, I can convince Lyanna to let me go see the places that all of you have seen."
He didn't quite know how to answer that. There was the blunt truth, of course—that deep down things were ugly everywhere and the world was rotting from the inside out, but... that was a hell of a thing to tell someone. Instead, he expelled a soft breath. “It depends, honestly," he replied. “There are places that have much to recommend them. Enbarr, for instance, is the oldest city in the world, and perhaps its most beautiful, though that could simply be my bias speaking."
After graduation, though—he didn't know so much about that. Where would he be, in another eight or so months? Who would he be? He couldn't say. “If you'd like to visit at some point I'm sure it could be arranged." He settled on something that sounded... likely to be true, at least. Perhaps she would no longer want to see the heart of the Empire by then, but he suspected the offer would still be open, anyway.
She smiled brightly at him, though. “I'd really like that! I'd like to see Enbarr because if you think it's beautiful, bias or not, then it must be. Especially if it produced someone like... you," she cleared her throat and glanced away for a moment. “But... I think I would like to see it. If... if you're not too busy by then, maybe you can show it to me? You don't have to, of course. I know you'll probably be busy by then, running the Empire, but... if you could, and you did, would you?" She looked at him expectantly, much like the naive child she was.
He shook his head faintly. Sometimes she could make him feel like a cad just by existing. It was the eyes, he thought: big and bright amber, with those long, long eyelashes. “If I'm able, I will," he promised. He couldn't promise he'd be able, though not for the reasons she was citing. Still—
Maybe it was something to look forward to.
Lady Lyanna had only just let him out of healing practice, saying something about needing to talk to Amalthea about something. He hoped it wasn't anything too time-consuming; they'd already been at it for hours. Vridel wasn't certain if he wanted to head out into the city himself or just take a nap. He was feeling rather lethargic, something that occasionally happened to him for no reason at all. He knew why, of course—his body was always overtaxed. It was the same reason he ate so much.
He hated the feeling, and hated giving into it.
Maybe if he stopped in the kitchen and grabbed something, he wouldn't need to sleep. The thought in mind, he altered his course slightly, intent on raiding Mercer's pantry.
He wasn't too far from the kitchen when the sounds of someone running could be heard behind him. The person passed him, however; when they stopped, almost abruptly, it was easy to see that it was Amalthea. She looked slightly out of breath as she regarded Vridel for a moment. She smiled afterwards and made her way back towards him.
“Vridel, do you know where the kitchen is? I told Lyanna I was going to make her some sweets since... well, she's been a little grumpier than usual. I want her to be happy since we get to be in such a beautiful place. Oh, and... well I could try and make something for you, too. I know you like sweets almost as much as Lyanna does," she spoke all in one breath.
He blinked down at her, raising a speculative eyebrow, though he was almost surprised to feel no irritation. He could be a bit clipped himself when he was low on energy like this, not to mention he'd just been stuck in a room with her for six hours with little by way of a break, but... somehow he felt nothing of the kind. In fact, he... was he smiling?
It took a moment to recognize the way it felt on his face, but he was.
“It's this way," he told her simply. “I was heading there myself, but if sweets are on the table I suppose I'd be better off offering my assistance to the chef." He shifted aside a little on the carpet runner, to make room for her to walk beside him, then headed for the kitchen.
It was empty when they got there; the staff wouldn't likely need to use it for another couple of hours. Dinners in Derdriu seemed to be curiously-late affairs, by the standards elsewhere in Fódlan, taken closer to nine in the evening than six.
“I could use the help. I'm not... very good when it comes to baking things. I'm actually not a very good... well, I can't cook very well and I can't bake. But I'm trying to get better at it!" she stated, furrowing her brows almost as if to herself. “I can make very small and basic things, like cupcakes. I can't make the jelly-doughnuts that Lyanna loves, though," her lips pursed into a fine line before she shook her head.
“Oh," she stated suddenly, turning her full attention to him, “I've been meaning to ask! How have you been lately? You... usually look tired and I was... well I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help you with that. I've read a few of the tea books that say certain ones can help you relax and..." she trailed off as if he would understand what she was getting at.
“I usually look tired?" he echoed, snorting quietly. “What a flattering thing to say." He arched an eyebrow at her, opening one of the cupboards to see what was inside. Jelly doughnuts, was it? He supposed he could manage that. The second cabinet yielded flour and sugar, for a start. Bringing both down, he regarded Amalthea from the corner of his eye.
“But to answer your question, I'm fine. I was..." He tried to think of a plausible excuse, ideally one that was also technically true. He didn't much relish the thought of lying to her, woman of the Church or not. “In my childhood, I was sick. It turned my hair this color and occasionally still irritates me in other ways, but it's nothing to worry about." Certainly nothing for anyone to worry about but him. Vridel preferred to take care of his own problems, and it was useless to cause other people concern over things they could do nothing about regardless.
She pursed her lips at him, but didn't say anything. She grabbed a mixing bowl and set it down on one of the tabletops. She made her way to where the utensils were, and grabbed the spoons and whisks she would need to make the baked goods. “If it still bothers you, that means you're still somewhat sick from it, right? Is... can I do anything to help you at least ease it somehow? I don't know what it is that you have, or had, but if it's still bothering you, I would like to help if I can. The monastery has a lot of books on herbs and you've been helping me learn botany..." she trailed off again and grabbed a cup. It didn't seem to be what she wanted, though, and she placed it back.
“Oh, maybe I can ask Lyanna if she knows any healing spells that might help?" Her eyes were wide, almost hopeful for some reason.
“I'm afraid there isn't much to be done. The symptoms I have now are the result of damage to my body that is permanent. Just like no amount of herbs or healing magic can remove a scar, what I have now is irreversible." That was, at least, the conclusion he'd come to after a great deal of research and consultation with dozens of renowned experts. He'd not told any of them what the real root cause of the problem was, because that was information he could not allow to be known, for the sake of the future victims it would mean. But even when all he'd asked for was a way to ease the strain on his body... any solution was temporary.
And still. Somehow he knew this would disappoint her, and somehow he found that he didn't want to leave it at that. “It... helps, sometimes," he said quietly, “if someone casts a restore, or something like that. The ones I can cast on myself aren't too helpful, of course." It was simply an unfortunate truth of healing magic that it never worked nearly as well on oneself as on others, even if one grew to be an expert in the art. “If that happens to be in your repertoire it might make me feel a little better." He almost mumbled the last, feeling rather wrongfooted, to be asking her for such a thing. The battlefield was one thing, of course—everyone did what they could to keep everyone else alive.
This felt... different, though.
“Oh, of course, Vi! I know that spell, and... maybe it'll help even more if I use my Crest with it. Lyanna said that our Crest amplifies our healing spells, so maybe... maybe that'll help you a bit more than just a typical restore?" she stated, the smile crossing her face again as she took a step closer to him.
“That is, of course, if you'd like to try it now. I don't know if you're feeling bad right now, or if... it might happen when I'm not around, but if I can do it now, maybe it'll help you feel better even when it does happen?" she asked, tilting her head slightly to the left in an inquisitive manner. She seemed almost to be studying him with the way she was looking at him, but she was a simple person. She was probably just looking at him and waiting for his answer.
Ugh. If he was going to have to put up with this... sweetness, he resolved that he was at least going to have a little fun with it. Really—he was Vridel von Hresvelg, certainly not the type of person who let himself get pushed so far off-guard by a pretty face. Even if it belonged to someone who was so different from anyone he'd ever known.
“I'd like to try it now," he said simply, picking up her hand and guiding it with his own to settle on his chest, right over the steady thrum of his heart. He kept it trapped there with his overtop of it, though loosely enough that she could pull away if that was really what she wanted. He wasn't a boor, after all.
He did take a step in, though, tilting his chin down to meet her eyes with a hint of challenge. “Unless you'd rather leave me to someone else, that is. I'm sure I could find a volunteer somewhere. You need not go to the effort if you do not wish."
The tips of her ears were turning slightly red, and it slowly spread across her face as he spoke to her. She took in a deep breath, perhaps unintentionally, and shook her head. “It's fine; I can do it here, and now since you'd like to try it. It wouldn't make sense to find someone else if I'm already here," she spoke, clearing her throat softly. She sounded a bit miffed, though, like she was jealous that he suggested he could find someone else. Her eyes went to their hands, though, and she seemed rather focused on them. The blush on her face hadn't receded, though, and she seemed to summon her magic. The faint glow of her Crest appeared where her heart was, perhaps because the tunic she was wearing was a white color. When she was finished, she glanced up to meet his eyes.
“How does that feel? Better? Should I do it again?" she asked in quick succession.
Vridel exhaled softly through his nose. In truth, such spells were only temporary relief, like the kind of herbs one might take to dull the feeling of a headache, but they were a relief all the same. The magic washed over him like cool water, easing what felt like a constant, low-level burn throughout his entire body.
“Much better," he murmured, though he made no move to release her hand, either. It was interesting, the way she seemed now to at least be peripherally aware of the power of a touch, and unless he was mistaken that was at least a little touch of jealousy there. How interesting. Was it possible she was catching on?
Letting his head cant to the side, he arched an eyebrow and narrowed his eyes slightly. “Perhaps I should reward you somehow?" The corner of his mouth turned up slyly. “Is there anything you'd like from me, little one?"
Her face was still as red, but she tilted her head slightly and pursed her lips together. “I'm not... no? I didn't do it so you could reward me, Vi," she murmured softly, her brows still furrowed. She almost looked like she was pouting about something, though she didn't seem to pull her hand away, either. “And... I think I've already received so much from you. I don't think there could be anything else." She smiled a little at that, though.
“I don't want to take advantage of you, or anything like that. It would be wrong," she added, though she didn't seem so sure about that statement.
Like one of the reef sharks off the coast of Enbarr, Vridel could smell blood in the water. Or in this case, a rather delicious, ambiguous uncertainty. He was not, of course, interested in pushing Amalthea anywhere she didn't desire to go, but that didn't mean he couldn't nudge. Unlike other people he had met, who knew what was on the table and what of it they wanted, she had yet, he thought, to really understand the options.
Typically he wasn't interested in this kind of thing, preferring to flirt with those who could flirt back, who had a better idea of themselves and what they were after, so that even if it was meaningless and for personal gain, the terms of it were cut and dried, with no grey areas. But in just this case he thought he might be willing to make an exception.
“I promise you, little one: it's impossible for you to take advantage of me." The thought was laughable, honestly. As though he'd let anyone do anything of the kind since he'd grown old enough to understand the difference.
With his free hand, he took hold of her chin, tilting it upwards and leaning down in a suggestion that should be obvious even to the likes of her. “You're sure? There's nothing you can think of that you want?" His brow inched a little higher. “Nothing at all?"
“I..." she paused, looking slightly surprised by something. “I mean, I don't want anything from you, but there is something I want to give to you," she stated, puffing her cheeks out slightly. She raised one of her hands to pull his away from her chin, but she didn't move away. Instead, she leaned in and placed a rather innocent and chaste kiss on his cheek.
“That's... for being a good friend," she stated, pulling away and turning around. She raised her hand and seemed to place it on her chest, as if trying to cover her heart.
Well it wasn't quite what he'd been aiming for, but Vridel could admit there was something novel in being surprised like that. It certainly explained why his pulse had kicked up in his chest, just for a stuttering second. His smile broadened when she turned away; he suppressed a huff of laughter. He supposed that if doing something like that counted as bold for her, he was probably better off not pressing the point too much. Although...
Leaning a little forward and down, he brushed her ponytail aside and over the opposite shoulder so he could murmur into her ear. “That's not very fair," he lilted. “Here I was looking for a way to repay a favor, and you did me another. Are you trying to put me in debt so you can ask for something in particular, little one?"
He straightened, though, figuring that putting the thought in her head was more than enough for now, and set about untying the sack of flour. If she was intent on bribing her sister with sweets, then sweets they would make.
There was a soft thud from where Amalthea had been standing, however; she wasn't standing. It seemed that her legs had given out on her, but she quickly got back to her feet and dusted her trousers off. She offered him a rather embarrassed smile, and cleared her throat. “Ah, sorry, my legs gave out, but that wasn't my intention at all! I promise." She went to the table that had eggs sitting out, and grabbed a couple of them before making her way back to him.
“Oh, we should try adding vanilla inside of the flour! Lyanna likes things with vanilla," she stated, seemingly trying to change the subject.
Laughter and a rather smug smile warred for control of Vridel's features. “Falling for me already?" he quipped breezily, nodding to a spot on the counter where she could put the eggs. “And we could add a little vanilla, but it's not going to show up much in the flavor profile. Doughnuts, especially with fruit in them, aren't meant to taste that way, and for good reason."
He picked around the spice rack until he found a small bottle of the stuff, handing it off to her along with a tiny measuring spoon. “Any more than that, and it's like combining lemons and chocolate. Not everything that's good goes well together."
It was more than a little unusual for someone of his status to know how to prepare food—of this Vridel was quite aware. But in addition to being something everyone had to learn to some extent during their stay at Garreg Mach, he'd sought out lessons in the subject a few years ago, aware of his tendency to eat a lot and preferring to see to secondary meals himself when possible, to minimize the chance of talk. Any oddity was closely-watched, after all.
Amalthea had looked a little alarmed at his first statement, and the expression hadn't shifted until after he was done explaining the measurements to her. She took the bottle and spoon, tentatively and held them for a moment. “How did you know?" she asked, blinking slowly before she seemed to realize something. “Ah, I mean, how do you know about the measurements? I usually just follow whatever is written into the log book, but you don't seem to have that issue," she stated, instead.
Her face was still rather red, perhaps still affected by his earlier actions. “Do you cook, Vi? Oh, that would be amazing if you did! You're... a very multi-talented person."
He rolled his eyes a little at her, though it wasn't derisive, surprisingly enough to him. “If you get enough practice, and pay attention to the taste of what you make, you start to get a sense for these things," he said simply, letting her question pass. “As for me, yes. I do have a rather diverse set of skills, I suppose." He sifted the flour a few times before adding it to the bowl, and shrugged lightly.
“Most of them are things I've been required to know. When I learned I was to be the next Emperor, a lot had to change." He wasn't sure why he bothered to explain; he usually saw no need to do that. What need had he to justify himself to other people, after all?
The color on her face finally seemed to disappear as she regarded him with a softer smile. It seemed distant, almost, as if she were recalling a fond memory of sorts. It didn't seem to be the case, though, when she spoke. “You must have been able to learn and see a lot of things, right?" she stated, keeping her gaze with his. “Are things always this beautiful outside of the monastery?" she continued, tilting her head lightly as she inquired. “Because I think I'd like to see those things. The ones you have, and the others. Maybe... maybe after we graduate, I can convince Lyanna to let me go see the places that all of you have seen."
He didn't quite know how to answer that. There was the blunt truth, of course—that deep down things were ugly everywhere and the world was rotting from the inside out, but... that was a hell of a thing to tell someone. Instead, he expelled a soft breath. “It depends, honestly," he replied. “There are places that have much to recommend them. Enbarr, for instance, is the oldest city in the world, and perhaps its most beautiful, though that could simply be my bias speaking."
After graduation, though—he didn't know so much about that. Where would he be, in another eight or so months? Who would he be? He couldn't say. “If you'd like to visit at some point I'm sure it could be arranged." He settled on something that sounded... likely to be true, at least. Perhaps she would no longer want to see the heart of the Empire by then, but he suspected the offer would still be open, anyway.
She smiled brightly at him, though. “I'd really like that! I'd like to see Enbarr because if you think it's beautiful, bias or not, then it must be. Especially if it produced someone like... you," she cleared her throat and glanced away for a moment. “But... I think I would like to see it. If... if you're not too busy by then, maybe you can show it to me? You don't have to, of course. I know you'll probably be busy by then, running the Empire, but... if you could, and you did, would you?" She looked at him expectantly, much like the naive child she was.
He shook his head faintly. Sometimes she could make him feel like a cad just by existing. It was the eyes, he thought: big and bright amber, with those long, long eyelashes. “If I'm able, I will," he promised. He couldn't promise he'd be able, though not for the reasons she was citing. Still—
Maybe it was something to look forward to.
Alliance Summit - Dawn - Windy
Mercer von Riegan
Mercer never understood why he got up so early. Even at the academy, he was up at least two or three hours before the sun was crossing the horizon, however; he supposed today was as good as any reason to be up. The conference wasn't supposed to start until a little after dawn, but as usual, Mercer decided to be the first one to arrive. At least that was his intention. When he'd approached the building the conference was to be held at, he'd noticed Matteo's charger, and a couple of his retainers standing by. Immediately he felt his face harden, and something lurched in his chest. He didn't like it. Didn't like Matteo or his claim on Sorcha.
It wasn't that he was jealous. Mercer von Riegan had never been a jealous man in his life, however; it pained him to see Sorcha so... upset. He valued all of his friends, and he wanted nothing but happiness for them. They deserved that, all of them. But Sorcha... she was different somehow. He wasn't lying to her when he told her that he'd want her. He thought she was a rather strong and brave individual. She would make a great Queen one day, or if she'd still have him by then, she'd make a great Lady of the Alliance. He quickly banished that thought, though. It wasn't as if he actually planned on marrying her. She was... well, far too good of a person for someone like him.
Quietly, he slipped past Matteo's retainers, and entered the building. Still polished like marble, and still just as flashy, he supposed, but when he heard voices, Mercer placed himself in a dark corner. He recognized one voice as Matteo's, but he couldn't exactly hear who the other person was. Alaric wouldn't be arriving until just before the summit was to begin. His friend, Duke Goneril, was like that, sometimes. He couldn't seem to keep track of time, and often showed up at the last minute to all of the important events.
“—did it go?" The second voice grew more distinct as the speaker approached. It belonged to Fiona, the captain of Matteo's knights and his younger sister. “I never saw her at the house?"
Matteo sighed in such a way that Mercer could almost feel him rolling his eyes. “No. I forget sometimes that the chivalrous type cling to their virtue like it means anything." He snorted. “Honestly, I don't know why she bothers. She should take what she can get while the getting's still good, and it's never going to be better."
Fiona snorted. “What, is she ugly or something? I can't imagine you marrying ugly, even if there might be a throne in it." That explained it—no doubt Matteo thought marrying an actual Princess upped his chances to secure the Gloucesters the top spot in the Conference, with or without Riegan approval. “Can you imagine you having an ugly child? Even with her Crest—ugh."
And then, of course, there was Faerghus's uncertain situation. With no Major Crest holder alive, there was a chance some child of Sorcha's could end up heir, even if she was never Queen.
“Ugly? No, not exactly. But she dresses like a commoner, and she's horrifically unfeminine. Maybe I'll be lucky and she'll hate parties. Better to go alone than with someone who can't even properly wear a gown." The footsteps drew closer, voices rising in volume; quite clearly, they believed themselves alone. “Though... maybe with a few months of scrubbing, all that mountain dirt will come out. I hear Faerghus women will do just about anything when you fuck them—I've always been interested to see for myself. I'm sure she's plenty pretty with nothing on."
Fiona barked a laugh. “You'll have to let me know. Maybe I'll steal her from you when you get bored. I'm much more charming than you, after all."
“Are you? I'd never noticed."
“Mhm. I have all the advantages of being a knight in shining armor and none of the disadvantages of being a man. So I smell better, for one."
Mercer had half a mind to stick an arrow in Matteo's throat, however; a hand placed itself on his shoulder, and immediately he whirled around. He blinked slowly when he recognized who it was. “He's not worth it, boy," Judith stated, causing him to furrow his brows. “Gloucester is an ass; we all know it, but don't let him rile you up before the conference. You need your head on straight if you're going to wipe the floor with him. You are planning to annul his engagement to Sorcha, are you not?" she asked, quirking her brow up in an amused fashion.
“Because I'd second it, and so will Goneril and Ordelia."
“You told them?" he shouldn't be surprised, really. Judith, while strong and pretty much a fierce warrior, she did like her drink. And she often let things slide without really thinking about it.
“Yep. Now come on, we have a conference to attend," she stated, pushing him towards the double doors where the literal round table was. Smoothing his face over, Mercer placed a rather mild grin on his face, glancing around the room to make a mental note of all the nobles around. Surprisingly, Alaric was there rather early, a rare smile on his face. For a brief moment, Mercer thought he knew the reason, and almost snickered to himself. He'd have to ask about it, later.
He spotted Duke von Edmund, a man with a sunken face and dark eyes. His hair was rather short, and a deep blue, which had become something of a noteable thing in the von Edmund household. Almost all of the heirs had it. Duke Edmund inclined his head towards Mercer, though, and Mercer returned it in kind. The next person he spotted was Lady von Ordelia. She looked rather miffed to be here, and he couldn't really blame her. Her hair was a rich chocolate brown color, and her eyes were a strange mix of colors. One was a rich emerald while the other a deep ruby color. She glanced towards Mercer, though, and narrowed her eyes. That was how she greeted everyone, though, and Mercer merely nodded in response.
And then there was Acheron. The poor old bastard, blonde hair parted down the middle with a strange curl to the ends. And to say nothing of his mustache. He almost looked too noble if Mercer had anything to say about it. He tried to seem more regal than he actually was, and Mercer had to put it down as the man had an inflated ego. He controlled lands to the north of the Airmid River, which were considered rather wealthy.
Once everyone had settled down, Mercer took a seat at the head of the table, where his grandfather usually sat. Judith took a seat to his left and Alaric was seated to his right. The small talk seemed to cease as he regarded everyone. “It has come to my attention that," he began, leaning back in his chair to get the conference started. He pressed his finger tips together, and held his hands in front of him as he regarded the nobles in the room.
“From my understanding, Lord Acheron and Duke Gloucester are having a bit of a dispute. Since the claim seems to be against you, Duke Gloucester, would you like to start us off by telling us what seems to be the problem?"
Matteo, seated almost directly across from Mercer, seemed to barely refrain from rolling his eyes, leaning back a little in his chair. His sister had taken a seat in the gallery. These meetings were technically open to other members of the peerage, though a short-notice one like this wasn't going to be well-attended. The regular sessions, though, often had a full gallery. Since everyone here knew what he was about, he'd rather dropped the facade he'd used around the others over the last couple of days, and adopted instead a coolly-polite demeanor that did little to conceal his almost reptilian coldness.
“Thank you, Lord Riegan," he said, wearing a subtle smile that spoke to his pleasure that Mercer was not yet a Duke himself. “As to the nature of the dispute, I fear it is the same one that House Acheron brings every few years against House Gloucester, and which is inevitably decided in our favor, as well it should be. The matter is the ownership of the land to the northwest of the Great Bridge of Myrddin, to the longitudinal mark of thirty-five. House Gloucester maintains, as it always has, that this land was deeded to us in the Alliance's founding charter, which is clearly a matter of public record."
At this, Acheron harrumphed, standing without invitation. He had no spot at the table, so perhaps he felt the need to command attention in a different way. “And the surveyor I hired has made it clear that your yeoman have begun farming at least three miles past that longitudinal mark, Gloucester! This is clearly an infringement on Acheron land, and some of our most valuable farmland at that!"
Matteo sighed. “Yes, the surveyor that you paid delivered the result you wanted. How very shocking."
Acheron's mouth twitched under his mustache, his face slowly turning a blotchy brick red in the face of Gloucester's measured indifference.
Mercer felt his expression shift, but he trained it back to one of indifference. “Wasn't this matter already settled two years ago? And you're bringing it back up?" Mercer wanted to run a hand down his face, frustrated as he felt, but knew better. Judith merely leaned in her seat, unimpressed by the display as she regarded Acheron and Matteo. Alaric, however, seemed rather neutral on the matter.
“The deeds to those lands northwest of the Myrddin Bridge belong to House Gloucester. The lands to the north of that, belong to Lord Acheron. The deeds were drawn and signed two years ago, but are you saying, Lord Acheron, that you have verifiable proof that Duke Gloucester has infringed upon that?" Alaric stated, his voice as passive as his expression seemed to be.
“I—yes!" Acheron replied, waving his hands in an emphatic gesture. “The survey results—"
“—Are completely meaningless without independent verification," Matteo finished, studying his fingernails dismissively. He couldn't have sounded more bored if he'd tried. “Which you well know. Stop wasting my time."
“You—you knave!" Acheron took a step forward. Several of the people in the room tensed, but Gloucester just stared him down. “We shall settle this like men! I challenge you to a duel. Let our blades and the Goddess' favor decide who is in the right!"
Gloucester did roll his eyes then, snorting audibly. “Calm yourself, Acheron. Killing old men is beneath me."
Mercer wanted to strangle both Acheron and Matteo. They were acting like children, at this point. And he was the youngest one at the table. Lady von Ordelia looked rather amused, though, as if everything was entertaining her, however; Duke von Edmund raised his hand as if to silence the commotion. All eyes were on him, now.
“This needs to be put to an end," he began, his voice raspy from wear, it seemed. He hardly spoke, after all, at the conferences held. “It shall be settled through battle," there was a tense gasp, though Mercer didn't know who it came from. Alaric breathed out slowly before he stood, calling everyone's attention to him.
“I agree with Duke von Edmund, however; it will not be a death battle. This will be settled with a mock battle. Should Duke Gloucester win, he will retain his lands, and Lord Acheron will cease, immediately, all current and future border claims. Should Lord Acheron win," his eyes glanced towards Acheron, narrowing lightly, “we will officially recognize the survey results."
That meant that Lord Acheron would inherit Duke Gloucesters lands, or at least parts of it. Mercer saw this as a win-win situation, really. Lord Acheron had a slightly stronger military presence than Gloucester, and that meant that victory would likely be in Acheron's favor.
“What say you?"
“This is ridiculous," Matteo protested, glaring at Alaric for suggesting it. “You know full well that Acheron brought his entire household guard to Derdriu. I, as the liege of several times his demesne, cannot afford to call the numbers to match them. Where do you propose my supplementary troops come from, hm?"
“Maybe you should have done the same," was Alaric's only response.
“You won't get any help from me," Lady von Ordelia finally spoke, crossing her arms over her chest. Mercer felt his lips quirk up slightly, however; Alaric didn't seem bothered by Matteo's glare. He just regarded the man with a flat stare before his eyes traveled to Duke von Edmund.
“I cannot spare any troops at the moment. We are currently dealing with skirmishes at our borders," he spoke as if sensing Alaric's silent question. Finally, his eyes landed on Mercer. Mercer pursed his lips, though. There was no way he was going to help Gloucester out, however; this was a perfect opportunity.
“I'll help on one condition," he stated, glancing at Matteo. “I'll help on the condition that you recognize my engagement claim on Princess Sorcha that was made years ago when we were children, and nullify yours. She bears my engagement jewel as proof, and you all saw her wearing it when we arrived," he stated, waiting for the reaction he knew Matteo was going to give.
“Your what?" Matteo's expression shifted from annoyed to livid in the space of a second. Mercer could almost see him making the calculation—whether conceding the one was worth the help on the other or not. Clearly, he either believed he could defeat Acheron anyway or he was willing to give three miles of land for his pride, because he sneered at Mercer and shook his head. “Absolutely not. I refuse. That arrangement was made between myself and the King-Regent; the legitimacy of that agreement clearly trumps whatever archaic custom you refer to."
“You will watch your tone, Duke Gloucester," Judith spoke, leaning a fist on the table. “The archaic custom you refer to is Almyran, and it is recognized in the Alliance. I, for one, second Lord Riegan's claim. The King-Regent has been sent a message about it, and it'll be a matter of days when he responds. And whose agreement do you think he'll agree to?" she continued, her eyes narrowed.
“I back Lord Riegan's claim as well. As the next Alliance Leader, it is only fitting that Princess Sorcha become his intended. Their arrangement was made before King-Regent made his with you. That would mean King Lambert made it as well, and we honor the late king, not the current regent." Alaric spoke as if it were a natural conclusion. Mercer felt his lips twitch upward just slightly.
“I, too, back Lord Riegan's claim. As Lady Judith said, we recognize all traditions, including Almyra's. If what Lord Riegan says is true, then we have no other choice than to honor it, and dissolve your engagement to the princess." Lady Ordelia seemed rather pleased by the turn of events, but Mercer recognized it by the gleam in her eyes, and not the passive expression on her face.
“All in favor?" Alaric spoke. Judith immediately raised her hand, followed by Alaric and Ordelia.
Matteo was clearly struggling to maintain his composure. “And what of the Princess herself?" he asked, clearly seeking to either delay or circumvent the vote with an argument. Edmund had not yet decided against him, after all—there was still opportunity to change minds. “Should she not be consulted in such matters? If it is her preference to—"
“My preference to what?" The new voice came from behind Mercer; he recognized it immediately as belonging to Sorcha, but he certainly hadn't asked her to be here for this.
She stepped out of the doorway, heeled boots clicking on the stone floor of the Conference room. At some point she'd been outfitted in one of the Almyran-style tunics that had caught on in parts of the Alliance—three-quarter-sleeved and heavily embroidered, hers was a pale, robins' egg blue with green and gold stitching, fitted close to her body and worn over dark riding trousers. The gem hung outside the tunic, right against her sternum.
Approaching the table, Sorcha bowed respectfully to the five at the table, and then again to Judith and the other peers in the gallery. “Please excuse my intrusion—I was only just informed that the conference had begun. If it is impermissible for me to speak, I would request a seat in the gallery, if I might be allowed one."
Edmund, seemingly impressed by her respect, inclined his head. “As it is your opinion now at issue, please, give it. We are all interested to know. Do you accept Lord Riegan's assertion that the two of you were previously engaged, or recognize Duke Gloucester's suit? Have you intentionally contrived this?" His tone wasn't quite accusatory; it wasn't an invalid question. It could look like a move on the Kingdom's part to destabilize politics in the Alliance, from a certain angle.
“Not intentionally, Your Grace," Sorcha replied softly, folding her hands together in front of her. “My lord uncle, the King-Regent, was not aware of my particular circumstances. Nor was I, in fact, until recently, due to my ignorance of Almyran customs. I fear my oversight has caused undue strife."
Matteo straightened in his chair, trying to regain some of the composure with which he'd appeared in front of her before. “Surely, Your Highness, you cannot mean to legitimize such a thing. As you said, you were unaware of the meaning of your actions." He smiled, but the charm in it was thin, strained.
Sorcha's answering smile, by contrast, was as warm and effortless as summer sunshine. “And yet those actions were mine," she said simply, “and in taking them I promised myself to Lord Riegan. The people of Faerghus honor their promises. You have my apologies for the misunderstanding, Duke Gloucester. I am sincerely sorry for any inconvenience I caused you. I hope at least that this has left you... freer, to pursue that which your heart most desires."
He could hardly say anything to that without looking even more the ass than he usually did.
Duke Edmund cleared his throat. “I add my vote to those of the others. Her Highness has made her stance on the matter clear. Her respect for our customs and inclination to honor her own commitments are respectable traits."
Mercer was extremely proud of Sorcha at the moment. He knew his mother had something to do with why she was here, but he was glad that she was. At least now they could see what he saw in her. He grinned at her, not bothering to keep his facade up. Why should he when he'd just beat Matteo? In more ways than one. If he'd accepted his proposal, earlier, then Matteo would have the help he would need against Lord Acheron in the mock battle, however; he would have no help, now.
“Then it is settled; all votes are in favor of Princess Sorcha being recognized as Lord Riegan's intended. Duke Gloucester no longer holds claim. Lord Riegan and Princess Sorcha will fulfill their engagement when Lord Riegan ascends his role as Duke von Riegan. Use this time wisely to grow closer," Alaric spoke, directing the last statement at Mercer and Sorcha. Mercer wanted to roll his eyes, but he refrained.
“If that is all, there is a land dispute and mock battle to be taken care of," Alaric continued, earning a light huff from Lady von Ordelia. “Lord Acheron and Duke Gloucester may settle this now, or decide on a date for their mock battle."
“Now's as good a time as any," Matteo growled, glaring at Sorcha with a poisonous heat and grabbing his lance. “Let's go, Acheron. We'll see if there's enough life in your body to survive even a false battle."
It wasn't that he was jealous. Mercer von Riegan had never been a jealous man in his life, however; it pained him to see Sorcha so... upset. He valued all of his friends, and he wanted nothing but happiness for them. They deserved that, all of them. But Sorcha... she was different somehow. He wasn't lying to her when he told her that he'd want her. He thought she was a rather strong and brave individual. She would make a great Queen one day, or if she'd still have him by then, she'd make a great Lady of the Alliance. He quickly banished that thought, though. It wasn't as if he actually planned on marrying her. She was... well, far too good of a person for someone like him.
Quietly, he slipped past Matteo's retainers, and entered the building. Still polished like marble, and still just as flashy, he supposed, but when he heard voices, Mercer placed himself in a dark corner. He recognized one voice as Matteo's, but he couldn't exactly hear who the other person was. Alaric wouldn't be arriving until just before the summit was to begin. His friend, Duke Goneril, was like that, sometimes. He couldn't seem to keep track of time, and often showed up at the last minute to all of the important events.
“—did it go?" The second voice grew more distinct as the speaker approached. It belonged to Fiona, the captain of Matteo's knights and his younger sister. “I never saw her at the house?"
Matteo sighed in such a way that Mercer could almost feel him rolling his eyes. “No. I forget sometimes that the chivalrous type cling to their virtue like it means anything." He snorted. “Honestly, I don't know why she bothers. She should take what she can get while the getting's still good, and it's never going to be better."
Fiona snorted. “What, is she ugly or something? I can't imagine you marrying ugly, even if there might be a throne in it." That explained it—no doubt Matteo thought marrying an actual Princess upped his chances to secure the Gloucesters the top spot in the Conference, with or without Riegan approval. “Can you imagine you having an ugly child? Even with her Crest—ugh."
And then, of course, there was Faerghus's uncertain situation. With no Major Crest holder alive, there was a chance some child of Sorcha's could end up heir, even if she was never Queen.
“Ugly? No, not exactly. But she dresses like a commoner, and she's horrifically unfeminine. Maybe I'll be lucky and she'll hate parties. Better to go alone than with someone who can't even properly wear a gown." The footsteps drew closer, voices rising in volume; quite clearly, they believed themselves alone. “Though... maybe with a few months of scrubbing, all that mountain dirt will come out. I hear Faerghus women will do just about anything when you fuck them—I've always been interested to see for myself. I'm sure she's plenty pretty with nothing on."
Fiona barked a laugh. “You'll have to let me know. Maybe I'll steal her from you when you get bored. I'm much more charming than you, after all."
“Are you? I'd never noticed."
“Mhm. I have all the advantages of being a knight in shining armor and none of the disadvantages of being a man. So I smell better, for one."
Mercer had half a mind to stick an arrow in Matteo's throat, however; a hand placed itself on his shoulder, and immediately he whirled around. He blinked slowly when he recognized who it was. “He's not worth it, boy," Judith stated, causing him to furrow his brows. “Gloucester is an ass; we all know it, but don't let him rile you up before the conference. You need your head on straight if you're going to wipe the floor with him. You are planning to annul his engagement to Sorcha, are you not?" she asked, quirking her brow up in an amused fashion.
“Because I'd second it, and so will Goneril and Ordelia."
“You told them?" he shouldn't be surprised, really. Judith, while strong and pretty much a fierce warrior, she did like her drink. And she often let things slide without really thinking about it.
“Yep. Now come on, we have a conference to attend," she stated, pushing him towards the double doors where the literal round table was. Smoothing his face over, Mercer placed a rather mild grin on his face, glancing around the room to make a mental note of all the nobles around. Surprisingly, Alaric was there rather early, a rare smile on his face. For a brief moment, Mercer thought he knew the reason, and almost snickered to himself. He'd have to ask about it, later.
He spotted Duke von Edmund, a man with a sunken face and dark eyes. His hair was rather short, and a deep blue, which had become something of a noteable thing in the von Edmund household. Almost all of the heirs had it. Duke Edmund inclined his head towards Mercer, though, and Mercer returned it in kind. The next person he spotted was Lady von Ordelia. She looked rather miffed to be here, and he couldn't really blame her. Her hair was a rich chocolate brown color, and her eyes were a strange mix of colors. One was a rich emerald while the other a deep ruby color. She glanced towards Mercer, though, and narrowed her eyes. That was how she greeted everyone, though, and Mercer merely nodded in response.
And then there was Acheron. The poor old bastard, blonde hair parted down the middle with a strange curl to the ends. And to say nothing of his mustache. He almost looked too noble if Mercer had anything to say about it. He tried to seem more regal than he actually was, and Mercer had to put it down as the man had an inflated ego. He controlled lands to the north of the Airmid River, which were considered rather wealthy.
Once everyone had settled down, Mercer took a seat at the head of the table, where his grandfather usually sat. Judith took a seat to his left and Alaric was seated to his right. The small talk seemed to cease as he regarded everyone. “It has come to my attention that," he began, leaning back in his chair to get the conference started. He pressed his finger tips together, and held his hands in front of him as he regarded the nobles in the room.
“From my understanding, Lord Acheron and Duke Gloucester are having a bit of a dispute. Since the claim seems to be against you, Duke Gloucester, would you like to start us off by telling us what seems to be the problem?"
Matteo, seated almost directly across from Mercer, seemed to barely refrain from rolling his eyes, leaning back a little in his chair. His sister had taken a seat in the gallery. These meetings were technically open to other members of the peerage, though a short-notice one like this wasn't going to be well-attended. The regular sessions, though, often had a full gallery. Since everyone here knew what he was about, he'd rather dropped the facade he'd used around the others over the last couple of days, and adopted instead a coolly-polite demeanor that did little to conceal his almost reptilian coldness.
“Thank you, Lord Riegan," he said, wearing a subtle smile that spoke to his pleasure that Mercer was not yet a Duke himself. “As to the nature of the dispute, I fear it is the same one that House Acheron brings every few years against House Gloucester, and which is inevitably decided in our favor, as well it should be. The matter is the ownership of the land to the northwest of the Great Bridge of Myrddin, to the longitudinal mark of thirty-five. House Gloucester maintains, as it always has, that this land was deeded to us in the Alliance's founding charter, which is clearly a matter of public record."
At this, Acheron harrumphed, standing without invitation. He had no spot at the table, so perhaps he felt the need to command attention in a different way. “And the surveyor I hired has made it clear that your yeoman have begun farming at least three miles past that longitudinal mark, Gloucester! This is clearly an infringement on Acheron land, and some of our most valuable farmland at that!"
Matteo sighed. “Yes, the surveyor that you paid delivered the result you wanted. How very shocking."
Acheron's mouth twitched under his mustache, his face slowly turning a blotchy brick red in the face of Gloucester's measured indifference.
Mercer felt his expression shift, but he trained it back to one of indifference. “Wasn't this matter already settled two years ago? And you're bringing it back up?" Mercer wanted to run a hand down his face, frustrated as he felt, but knew better. Judith merely leaned in her seat, unimpressed by the display as she regarded Acheron and Matteo. Alaric, however, seemed rather neutral on the matter.
“The deeds to those lands northwest of the Myrddin Bridge belong to House Gloucester. The lands to the north of that, belong to Lord Acheron. The deeds were drawn and signed two years ago, but are you saying, Lord Acheron, that you have verifiable proof that Duke Gloucester has infringed upon that?" Alaric stated, his voice as passive as his expression seemed to be.
“I—yes!" Acheron replied, waving his hands in an emphatic gesture. “The survey results—"
“—Are completely meaningless without independent verification," Matteo finished, studying his fingernails dismissively. He couldn't have sounded more bored if he'd tried. “Which you well know. Stop wasting my time."
“You—you knave!" Acheron took a step forward. Several of the people in the room tensed, but Gloucester just stared him down. “We shall settle this like men! I challenge you to a duel. Let our blades and the Goddess' favor decide who is in the right!"
Gloucester did roll his eyes then, snorting audibly. “Calm yourself, Acheron. Killing old men is beneath me."
Mercer wanted to strangle both Acheron and Matteo. They were acting like children, at this point. And he was the youngest one at the table. Lady von Ordelia looked rather amused, though, as if everything was entertaining her, however; Duke von Edmund raised his hand as if to silence the commotion. All eyes were on him, now.
“This needs to be put to an end," he began, his voice raspy from wear, it seemed. He hardly spoke, after all, at the conferences held. “It shall be settled through battle," there was a tense gasp, though Mercer didn't know who it came from. Alaric breathed out slowly before he stood, calling everyone's attention to him.
“I agree with Duke von Edmund, however; it will not be a death battle. This will be settled with a mock battle. Should Duke Gloucester win, he will retain his lands, and Lord Acheron will cease, immediately, all current and future border claims. Should Lord Acheron win," his eyes glanced towards Acheron, narrowing lightly, “we will officially recognize the survey results."
That meant that Lord Acheron would inherit Duke Gloucesters lands, or at least parts of it. Mercer saw this as a win-win situation, really. Lord Acheron had a slightly stronger military presence than Gloucester, and that meant that victory would likely be in Acheron's favor.
“What say you?"
“This is ridiculous," Matteo protested, glaring at Alaric for suggesting it. “You know full well that Acheron brought his entire household guard to Derdriu. I, as the liege of several times his demesne, cannot afford to call the numbers to match them. Where do you propose my supplementary troops come from, hm?"
“Maybe you should have done the same," was Alaric's only response.
“You won't get any help from me," Lady von Ordelia finally spoke, crossing her arms over her chest. Mercer felt his lips quirk up slightly, however; Alaric didn't seem bothered by Matteo's glare. He just regarded the man with a flat stare before his eyes traveled to Duke von Edmund.
“I cannot spare any troops at the moment. We are currently dealing with skirmishes at our borders," he spoke as if sensing Alaric's silent question. Finally, his eyes landed on Mercer. Mercer pursed his lips, though. There was no way he was going to help Gloucester out, however; this was a perfect opportunity.
“I'll help on one condition," he stated, glancing at Matteo. “I'll help on the condition that you recognize my engagement claim on Princess Sorcha that was made years ago when we were children, and nullify yours. She bears my engagement jewel as proof, and you all saw her wearing it when we arrived," he stated, waiting for the reaction he knew Matteo was going to give.
“Your what?" Matteo's expression shifted from annoyed to livid in the space of a second. Mercer could almost see him making the calculation—whether conceding the one was worth the help on the other or not. Clearly, he either believed he could defeat Acheron anyway or he was willing to give three miles of land for his pride, because he sneered at Mercer and shook his head. “Absolutely not. I refuse. That arrangement was made between myself and the King-Regent; the legitimacy of that agreement clearly trumps whatever archaic custom you refer to."
“You will watch your tone, Duke Gloucester," Judith spoke, leaning a fist on the table. “The archaic custom you refer to is Almyran, and it is recognized in the Alliance. I, for one, second Lord Riegan's claim. The King-Regent has been sent a message about it, and it'll be a matter of days when he responds. And whose agreement do you think he'll agree to?" she continued, her eyes narrowed.
“I back Lord Riegan's claim as well. As the next Alliance Leader, it is only fitting that Princess Sorcha become his intended. Their arrangement was made before King-Regent made his with you. That would mean King Lambert made it as well, and we honor the late king, not the current regent." Alaric spoke as if it were a natural conclusion. Mercer felt his lips twitch upward just slightly.
“I, too, back Lord Riegan's claim. As Lady Judith said, we recognize all traditions, including Almyra's. If what Lord Riegan says is true, then we have no other choice than to honor it, and dissolve your engagement to the princess." Lady Ordelia seemed rather pleased by the turn of events, but Mercer recognized it by the gleam in her eyes, and not the passive expression on her face.
“All in favor?" Alaric spoke. Judith immediately raised her hand, followed by Alaric and Ordelia.
Matteo was clearly struggling to maintain his composure. “And what of the Princess herself?" he asked, clearly seeking to either delay or circumvent the vote with an argument. Edmund had not yet decided against him, after all—there was still opportunity to change minds. “Should she not be consulted in such matters? If it is her preference to—"
“My preference to what?" The new voice came from behind Mercer; he recognized it immediately as belonging to Sorcha, but he certainly hadn't asked her to be here for this.
She stepped out of the doorway, heeled boots clicking on the stone floor of the Conference room. At some point she'd been outfitted in one of the Almyran-style tunics that had caught on in parts of the Alliance—three-quarter-sleeved and heavily embroidered, hers was a pale, robins' egg blue with green and gold stitching, fitted close to her body and worn over dark riding trousers. The gem hung outside the tunic, right against her sternum.
Approaching the table, Sorcha bowed respectfully to the five at the table, and then again to Judith and the other peers in the gallery. “Please excuse my intrusion—I was only just informed that the conference had begun. If it is impermissible for me to speak, I would request a seat in the gallery, if I might be allowed one."
Edmund, seemingly impressed by her respect, inclined his head. “As it is your opinion now at issue, please, give it. We are all interested to know. Do you accept Lord Riegan's assertion that the two of you were previously engaged, or recognize Duke Gloucester's suit? Have you intentionally contrived this?" His tone wasn't quite accusatory; it wasn't an invalid question. It could look like a move on the Kingdom's part to destabilize politics in the Alliance, from a certain angle.
“Not intentionally, Your Grace," Sorcha replied softly, folding her hands together in front of her. “My lord uncle, the King-Regent, was not aware of my particular circumstances. Nor was I, in fact, until recently, due to my ignorance of Almyran customs. I fear my oversight has caused undue strife."
Matteo straightened in his chair, trying to regain some of the composure with which he'd appeared in front of her before. “Surely, Your Highness, you cannot mean to legitimize such a thing. As you said, you were unaware of the meaning of your actions." He smiled, but the charm in it was thin, strained.
Sorcha's answering smile, by contrast, was as warm and effortless as summer sunshine. “And yet those actions were mine," she said simply, “and in taking them I promised myself to Lord Riegan. The people of Faerghus honor their promises. You have my apologies for the misunderstanding, Duke Gloucester. I am sincerely sorry for any inconvenience I caused you. I hope at least that this has left you... freer, to pursue that which your heart most desires."
He could hardly say anything to that without looking even more the ass than he usually did.
Duke Edmund cleared his throat. “I add my vote to those of the others. Her Highness has made her stance on the matter clear. Her respect for our customs and inclination to honor her own commitments are respectable traits."
Mercer was extremely proud of Sorcha at the moment. He knew his mother had something to do with why she was here, but he was glad that she was. At least now they could see what he saw in her. He grinned at her, not bothering to keep his facade up. Why should he when he'd just beat Matteo? In more ways than one. If he'd accepted his proposal, earlier, then Matteo would have the help he would need against Lord Acheron in the mock battle, however; he would have no help, now.
“Then it is settled; all votes are in favor of Princess Sorcha being recognized as Lord Riegan's intended. Duke Gloucester no longer holds claim. Lord Riegan and Princess Sorcha will fulfill their engagement when Lord Riegan ascends his role as Duke von Riegan. Use this time wisely to grow closer," Alaric spoke, directing the last statement at Mercer and Sorcha. Mercer wanted to roll his eyes, but he refrained.
“If that is all, there is a land dispute and mock battle to be taken care of," Alaric continued, earning a light huff from Lady von Ordelia. “Lord Acheron and Duke Gloucester may settle this now, or decide on a date for their mock battle."
“Now's as good a time as any," Matteo growled, glaring at Sorcha with a poisonous heat and grabbing his lance. “Let's go, Acheron. We'll see if there's enough life in your body to survive even a false battle."
Garreg Mach Monastery - Early Evening - Muggy
Cyril Eisner
With the conclusion of the Roundtable Conference, the detachment consisting of Cyril and his students had said goodbye to their hosts and headed again for the Monastery. The two days of travel had been quiet, and there was something almost welcoming about the sight of the stone building sitting atop the hill, crowning the mountains around it. He wasn't sure he was relieved to be back, exactly; there were still too many unanswered questions in the place, sitting against the stones. Or maybe lower, in the very foundations.
But it wasn't so bad, to return. He found he was looking forward to falling back into the rhythm of classes and practices, even if the interruption had been enjoyable, in its way.
After the front gate was opened for them, he led the group inside, surreptitiously turning his eyes to the balcony overhead. Sure enough, there was Rhea. He suppressed a strange grimace at the realization and pretended he had not noticed. When Lyanna split off first and offered to take care of the reporting, he offered her a nod of thanks and took the reins of her pegasus mount.
Brushing down and stabling the horses, pegasi, and wyvern took about half an hour, and then the group splintered a bit more, with some heading off directly for dinner or sleep and others to check in with their respective professors. He found himself accompanying Senka, Sorcha, and Amalthea in the general direction of the dining hall.
The conversation seemed to be about Duke Alaric.
“Sen, you never gave me any details about that dinner you had!" Sorcha said, peering inquisitively at her friend. “How did it go?"
Senka glanced at Sorcha, a small smile crossing her face. She seemed to be doing that with some ease, lately. “That is because you never asked," she replied smoothly, but huffed at Sorcha.
“You had dinner? With who?" Amalthea asked curiously as she tilted her head up to glance at Senka.
“Duke Goneril," Senka replied, causing Amalthea's eyes to widen considerably, “he asked me to dinner with the intentions to court me the day after we'd arrived at Derdriu. The dinner itself was nice, though he'd confessed to not ever doing it before. He is... a kind man." Her expression seemed to soften at that, but she glanced back to Sorcha.
“We are going to keep in touch through letters, but his intentions are no longer there," she continued, causing Amalthea to arch a brow.
“Wait, so he doesn't want to court you?" Senka shook her head.
“He came to the conclusion that I already liked someone. I don't know who it could be, though. I'm only ever in the company of you, and Vridel and Mercer," she stated, her eyes sliding between Sorcha, Amalthea, and Cyril.
Cyril wasn't sure who the Duke could possibly have been talking about, either. He supposed there was Vridel—the two of them did share a rather close friendship, as far as he had observed. He didn't think it was anything other than that—but perhaps it was the kind of thing that could be easily mistaken for something else.
“Huh," Sorcha said, glancing between the others. “You know, if it was just based on your behavior, he might not have any idea who it is either. Maybe he was just reading things into how you acted that made it seem to him like you had someone, you know? When did he come up with this theory?"
“He wanted to know about my friends, and about you," Senka replied, glancing in Cyril's direction. “I explained how you were all important to me, and that you were the reason I was able to smile for the first time in a while," she seemed to explain as she kept Cyril's gaze. “He might have misinterpreted that as me liking someone, but he didn't seem upset by it. He told me that whoever it was, was... um..." she continued, pausing a moment to drop her gaze with the faintest color tainting her cheeks.
“He said they were lucky."
“Oh, that sounds really romantic, though! It's like the Duke fell in love with you at first sight and wanted to win your heart, but is chivalrous enough to know that he cannot," Amalthea stated, seemingly excited about it. Senka huffed a light laugh and shook her head.
“I don't think that's how that works, Thea. He didn't say anything like that, only that he thought I was... erm, well I'd rather not say." She seemed embarrassed by whatever it was the Duke had told her.
“Oh c'mon, Sen. It was probably really flattering, and true! What did he say? That you're beautiful? That you have a great smile? That you're amazing and brave and loyal? Don't leave us hanging here!"
Cyril had the distinct impression that this was probably the kind of thing a young woman would prefer to share with her friends and not her teacher, so he cleared his throat softly. “I can... walk a little ahead?" he offered.
Senka cleared her throat softly as she glanced in Sorcha's direction, the color on her face slowly becoming more visible. “He said I was exquisite," she spoke softly. She turned her attention away from Sorcha, after that.
“Oh... but we already know that," Amalthea stated as if it were, in fact, something they already knew. “He must have been really captivated, though, if he wanted to court you from just seeing you the first time. It really is like one of those stories," she continued, causing Senka to huff lightly.
“Perhaps, but... we have both come to the conclusion that we will be friends. I think... that is proper," Senka spoke, her voice still soft perhaps from her embarrassment.
Cyril could not pinpoint the cause of his discomfort, but he could at least recognize that he was indeed uncomfortable. He turned his eyes away from the conversation, letting them linger on the lake as they headed towards the dining hall's entrance. It looked like there were some guests at the monastery—a small party was clustered between the entrance and the place the small marketplace branched towards the water. It wasn't so unusual, though; he didn't think much of it.
Exquisite, huh?
It sounded like the kind of compliment a nobleman would use, to be sure. It wasn't a lie, and it was clearly meant with genuine intentions, so...
Why was it bothering him so much?
Before they were able to make it to the dining hall, someone called out to the group. It wasn't a regular student, or any member of the faculty. It was a man, perhaps around the same age as Jeralt, and he stalked up to the group as if he had finally found the source of some anger. At least it looked like anger since his eyes were narrowed and his lips were set into a fine line.
“There you are! I finally found you!" he shouted, making a straight line towards Senka. She looked slightly taken aback, but her face smoothed over as she tilted her head. “Come here!" he continued, however; Senka looked as confused as Amalthea did.
“I'm sorry, but I do not know who you are. I cannot fulfill your request," she replied. It only seemed to further agitate the man.
“Don't play coy with me, I know who you are. What you are," he replied, pointing an accusatory finger at her.
Cyril tensed immediately. He didn't like the accusatory tone the man was taking, nor his choice of terms.
It was Sorcha, however, who reacted fastest. “Excuse you, sir," she said sharply, drawing herself up to her full height and stepping slightly forward, protective in front of the others. “You will remove your hand from the proximity of my friend, and the rest of your person as well, unless you can provide a sufficient explanation for its necessity." Her eyes were cold, the clear blue of them hard, almost frosty.
“Don't interefere," the man replied, either not intimidated by Sorcha's display, or did not care. “Just hand the girl over to me. I'm telling you this for your own good. You're all putting yourself in danger by associating with her," he sneered, causing Senka to wince slightly.
“What do you mean? She's not a danger to us." Amalthea stated, standing next to Senka and placing a hand on her arm as if to keep her from moving.
“You have heard of the Wandering Beast stalking the area in Lord Kleiman's territory, right? It attacks people every night and drags them off to feast!" it sounded almost as if he were blaming Senka for it, and she dropped her gaze to the floor. Her hand went to Amalthea's, however; she did not remove it.
“That girl right there!" he continued, nearly reaching his hand out to grab Senka, it seemed, “She's the true identity of the Wandering Beast!"
“But... I'm not. I... I'd never..." Senka retorted, but her voice was low and almost pained.
“Why you—" Sorcha had taken another step forward, looking quite about to throw a fist, but Cyril blocked her progress by getting there first. His students shouldn't damage their reputations in such a way. They were either nobles or people who had other reasons to worry about what others thought of them.
Him, though. He was and always had been just a mercenary. If he could wield that to their advantage, then he wouldn't even hesitate.
He stood directly in front of the man, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down, wearing the dead-eyed expression that he knew unnerved people. The one that had earned him the moniker he'd never cared for. “That's a serious accusation you're making," he said, voice so low it was almost a growl. “And a baseless one. She's been on the opposite side of the continent for the last week, and here before that. I suggest thinking very, very carefully before you speak next."
He knew the effect he could have on people. Intimidation was the only reliable one, honestly. He wasn't sure why, but with the right expression and posture, people were just... afraid. He'd never much cared for it before, but he invoked it now quite on purpose. He wanted this man to be afraid of him. If he wasn't careful, he might even enjoy it.
The man took a step back, but he did not seem too afraid. Not yet, at least, but there were visible signs that he was getting there. He cleared his throat and glanced at Senka, and then back to Cyril. “They are not baseless! It is a known fact that Maurice's Crest is a symbol of disaster. Those who carry his Crest become beasts at night and slaughter innocent people," he stated, glancing back to Senka. “The attacks stopped while she was away. And that's to say nothing of the fact that she bears the cursed Crest of the Beast. It is only a matter of time before she turns back into a beast, and starts killing again."
“Even I know that's absurd! What does bearing a cursed Crest have to do with anything. Sen is the most kind and warmhearted person I know. She would never kill innocent people! And she's not a beast!" Amalthea stated, trying to defend Senka, at least. Senka, however, looked slightly alarmed.
“How... how do you know about that?" she questioned. The man merely glared at her, almost defiantly.
“You didn't think we'd find out? We Crest scholars keep a long history of Crests, lost or otherwise, and we were notified that a Crest-bearer with Maurice's Crest was attending this academy. And now that we know it is you, you will return at once with us to Lord Kleiman's domain so that he may pass judgement on you." Senka's eyes went to Sorcha, and then Cyril. Other than them, Vridel and Mercer were the only ones who knew about Senka's Crest. And none of them would have spoken about it to anyone.
Senka was visibly shaking at this point, and she took a step back. “I... I can't. I don't... you have no proof that I did anything wrong. Just... just because I have this cursed Crest doesn't make me a monster!" she exclaimed.
Cyril only distantly registered it when he lunged for the man, picking up with a fist in the front of his shirt and bodily hauling him off the ground. “The lady asked you a question," he said, tone low and soft in a way that was the very opposite of the gentle one he took with his students. “Who. Told. You?" He tightened his grip, just enough that the fabric started to strain.
The man's hands were around Cyril's, as if trying to pry them off, however; he didn't have the strength to do it. He just merely held on to them. “We received a letter from the monastery. I don't know who sent it!" he stated, staring at Cyril with wide eyes. “It didn't have a seal, only that when we received it, they said it was from here. The messenger. Ask the messenger! Whoever runs the messenger system in this place, ask them!" he was panicking now.
He narrowed his eyes. “Senka does not leave her room at night. As I have the one next door, I would know." Abruptly setting the man down, he roughly forced his head to the side so he was looking at Senka, then shoved him down by the shoulder in the first approximation of a bow. “Your panic does not justify your accusations. We will be dealing with the beast in a matter of days. Apologize to her." It wasn't a request.
The man was not happy about being forced to bow, and he gritted through his teeth. “I... my mistake," he spoke softly, almost too soft that it might have been missed.
“That's not a proper apology!" Amalthea stated, crossing her arms over her chest. The man was able to raise his head just long enough to glare at her, however; he lowered his head back down.
“I apologize," he finally spoke loud enough to be heard. “My accusations were baseless. Forgive me," he stated. Senka merely stared at the man, her expression one of mild fear, and shook her head.
“No. I will not. Because of you," she began, glancing around the small group of people who were gathering around to see what the commotion was about. “Everyone knows. Everyone knows about this stupid Crest!" Her eyes were starting to glisten, and her jaw looked to be tightening as if to keep her mouth from quivering.
Cyril felt his chest clench, a powerful instinct he could not identify welling in him until it felt like there was a hand clutching at his throat. He knew Senka hadn't ever wanted anyone to know about this. Knew it had to be painful, now, revealed like this to people who were strangers. The last months had been enough to teach him how vicious rumor could become, and if not from the mouths of these then eventually, this encounter would be twisted, people less concerned with the truth than with telling the most scandalous and shocking story.
“Leave," he told the man. “I'll bring you the beast's head myself, but when I do you're going to stand on the front steps of the monastery and spend all day telling everyone you see that you were wrong." With a dismissive click of his tongue, he turned back towards his students, feeling the severity leech off his face immediately. Sorcha had an arm around Senka, and slowly started to pull her friend towards the dining hall.
“C'mon Sen. We only have to stay long enough to grab trays if you want. We can eat somewhere private."
Amalthea trailed beside them as Senka shook her head. “It's fine, Sorcha," she spoke softly. “I... don't want them... I don't..." she swallowed thickly and rubbed the back of her hands near her eyes to wipe something off. “I want to eat in the dining area with all of you. I don't want to give them a reason to believe that man's words. If... I do, then... everything I've been working on, all the progress I've made," she paused, taking in a deep breath.
“It will have been for nothing if I let them win, right? And I don't want that," she seemed to force a small smile on her face when she glanced at Sorcha.
Sorcha returned it with a look of clear concern, but she nodded. “Okay," she replied, returning the smile with a small one of her own. “Then you can sit next to me, and... the Professor! How about it, Professor Cyril?"
He blinked, unsure why she'd think to ask him instead of Amalthea, but he nodded slightly anyway. “If you'd like," he said simply, leading the way up towards the building. His presence served to scare away a large number of the gawkers, and by the time they entered the building it was mostly free of such, the level of activity quite ordinary. And the sight of them was ordinary, too, by this point; Cyril took almost all of his meals with some subset of his students, and the three with him now were often spotted together as well.
Senka nodded her head slowly. “I'd... like that. Thank you," she spoke, glancing back in front of her, though her eyes were on the ground. It seemed she was placing her trust in Sorcha to lead the way. Amalthea merely smiled and nodded her head.
“Of course, Senka! You're an amazing person so don't let what that stupid butt of a face-man get you down, alright? We already know how great you are, and it's only a matter of time before the entire school does, too, and everyone else!" Amalthea spoke, causing the smile on Senka's face to soften.
“You all really mean the world to me. I am grateful to have friends like you," Senka stated as she glanced between Sorcha and Amalthea before her eyes landed on Cyril.
He had the sudden and uncomfortable desire to—he wasn't sure, exactly. He thought perhaps that being in Sorcha's place might have satisfied it, but he wasn't entirely sure. Cyril lowered his eyes for a moment as they got in line, collecting himself. Whatever it was, he was almost certain it crossed a line that ought not to be crossed, for her sake. Fighting it down, he pulled in a breath and reset his expression, looking back up.
“We're just as grateful for you," he said simply. “I'm sure it's not easy, but... try to remember that, if you can."
They'd hunt down whatever this beast was supposed to be, and then everyone would know that she'd had nothing to do with it.
In the meantime, though... he would be tracking down whoever managed messengers into and out of the monastery. He knew such information would not have come from any of her classmates. That left Hanneman—or someone Hanneman was required to tell about these things, and that list was exceptionally short. He needed to know if this had been Lyanna—
or the Archbishop.
“Hm, I will," she replied, her smile inching just a little further that it reached her eyes.
“And that's all we ask. Now, let's go eat, I'm starving!" Amalthea stated excitedly as they began to collect their food.
“For such a small person, you really do eat a lot, Thea."
“I'll take that as a compliment!" That at least got a light chuckle out of Senka.
Cyril huffed softly, leaving the other train of thought behind for now. Later would suffice; at the moment he had other things to attend to.
But it wasn't so bad, to return. He found he was looking forward to falling back into the rhythm of classes and practices, even if the interruption had been enjoyable, in its way.
After the front gate was opened for them, he led the group inside, surreptitiously turning his eyes to the balcony overhead. Sure enough, there was Rhea. He suppressed a strange grimace at the realization and pretended he had not noticed. When Lyanna split off first and offered to take care of the reporting, he offered her a nod of thanks and took the reins of her pegasus mount.
Brushing down and stabling the horses, pegasi, and wyvern took about half an hour, and then the group splintered a bit more, with some heading off directly for dinner or sleep and others to check in with their respective professors. He found himself accompanying Senka, Sorcha, and Amalthea in the general direction of the dining hall.
The conversation seemed to be about Duke Alaric.
“Sen, you never gave me any details about that dinner you had!" Sorcha said, peering inquisitively at her friend. “How did it go?"
Senka glanced at Sorcha, a small smile crossing her face. She seemed to be doing that with some ease, lately. “That is because you never asked," she replied smoothly, but huffed at Sorcha.
“You had dinner? With who?" Amalthea asked curiously as she tilted her head up to glance at Senka.
“Duke Goneril," Senka replied, causing Amalthea's eyes to widen considerably, “he asked me to dinner with the intentions to court me the day after we'd arrived at Derdriu. The dinner itself was nice, though he'd confessed to not ever doing it before. He is... a kind man." Her expression seemed to soften at that, but she glanced back to Sorcha.
“We are going to keep in touch through letters, but his intentions are no longer there," she continued, causing Amalthea to arch a brow.
“Wait, so he doesn't want to court you?" Senka shook her head.
“He came to the conclusion that I already liked someone. I don't know who it could be, though. I'm only ever in the company of you, and Vridel and Mercer," she stated, her eyes sliding between Sorcha, Amalthea, and Cyril.
Cyril wasn't sure who the Duke could possibly have been talking about, either. He supposed there was Vridel—the two of them did share a rather close friendship, as far as he had observed. He didn't think it was anything other than that—but perhaps it was the kind of thing that could be easily mistaken for something else.
“Huh," Sorcha said, glancing between the others. “You know, if it was just based on your behavior, he might not have any idea who it is either. Maybe he was just reading things into how you acted that made it seem to him like you had someone, you know? When did he come up with this theory?"
“He wanted to know about my friends, and about you," Senka replied, glancing in Cyril's direction. “I explained how you were all important to me, and that you were the reason I was able to smile for the first time in a while," she seemed to explain as she kept Cyril's gaze. “He might have misinterpreted that as me liking someone, but he didn't seem upset by it. He told me that whoever it was, was... um..." she continued, pausing a moment to drop her gaze with the faintest color tainting her cheeks.
“He said they were lucky."
“Oh, that sounds really romantic, though! It's like the Duke fell in love with you at first sight and wanted to win your heart, but is chivalrous enough to know that he cannot," Amalthea stated, seemingly excited about it. Senka huffed a light laugh and shook her head.
“I don't think that's how that works, Thea. He didn't say anything like that, only that he thought I was... erm, well I'd rather not say." She seemed embarrassed by whatever it was the Duke had told her.
“Oh c'mon, Sen. It was probably really flattering, and true! What did he say? That you're beautiful? That you have a great smile? That you're amazing and brave and loyal? Don't leave us hanging here!"
Cyril had the distinct impression that this was probably the kind of thing a young woman would prefer to share with her friends and not her teacher, so he cleared his throat softly. “I can... walk a little ahead?" he offered.
Senka cleared her throat softly as she glanced in Sorcha's direction, the color on her face slowly becoming more visible. “He said I was exquisite," she spoke softly. She turned her attention away from Sorcha, after that.
“Oh... but we already know that," Amalthea stated as if it were, in fact, something they already knew. “He must have been really captivated, though, if he wanted to court you from just seeing you the first time. It really is like one of those stories," she continued, causing Senka to huff lightly.
“Perhaps, but... we have both come to the conclusion that we will be friends. I think... that is proper," Senka spoke, her voice still soft perhaps from her embarrassment.
Cyril could not pinpoint the cause of his discomfort, but he could at least recognize that he was indeed uncomfortable. He turned his eyes away from the conversation, letting them linger on the lake as they headed towards the dining hall's entrance. It looked like there were some guests at the monastery—a small party was clustered between the entrance and the place the small marketplace branched towards the water. It wasn't so unusual, though; he didn't think much of it.
Exquisite, huh?
It sounded like the kind of compliment a nobleman would use, to be sure. It wasn't a lie, and it was clearly meant with genuine intentions, so...
Why was it bothering him so much?
Before they were able to make it to the dining hall, someone called out to the group. It wasn't a regular student, or any member of the faculty. It was a man, perhaps around the same age as Jeralt, and he stalked up to the group as if he had finally found the source of some anger. At least it looked like anger since his eyes were narrowed and his lips were set into a fine line.
“There you are! I finally found you!" he shouted, making a straight line towards Senka. She looked slightly taken aback, but her face smoothed over as she tilted her head. “Come here!" he continued, however; Senka looked as confused as Amalthea did.
“I'm sorry, but I do not know who you are. I cannot fulfill your request," she replied. It only seemed to further agitate the man.
“Don't play coy with me, I know who you are. What you are," he replied, pointing an accusatory finger at her.
Cyril tensed immediately. He didn't like the accusatory tone the man was taking, nor his choice of terms.
It was Sorcha, however, who reacted fastest. “Excuse you, sir," she said sharply, drawing herself up to her full height and stepping slightly forward, protective in front of the others. “You will remove your hand from the proximity of my friend, and the rest of your person as well, unless you can provide a sufficient explanation for its necessity." Her eyes were cold, the clear blue of them hard, almost frosty.
“Don't interefere," the man replied, either not intimidated by Sorcha's display, or did not care. “Just hand the girl over to me. I'm telling you this for your own good. You're all putting yourself in danger by associating with her," he sneered, causing Senka to wince slightly.
“What do you mean? She's not a danger to us." Amalthea stated, standing next to Senka and placing a hand on her arm as if to keep her from moving.
“You have heard of the Wandering Beast stalking the area in Lord Kleiman's territory, right? It attacks people every night and drags them off to feast!" it sounded almost as if he were blaming Senka for it, and she dropped her gaze to the floor. Her hand went to Amalthea's, however; she did not remove it.
“That girl right there!" he continued, nearly reaching his hand out to grab Senka, it seemed, “She's the true identity of the Wandering Beast!"
“But... I'm not. I... I'd never..." Senka retorted, but her voice was low and almost pained.
“Why you—" Sorcha had taken another step forward, looking quite about to throw a fist, but Cyril blocked her progress by getting there first. His students shouldn't damage their reputations in such a way. They were either nobles or people who had other reasons to worry about what others thought of them.
Him, though. He was and always had been just a mercenary. If he could wield that to their advantage, then he wouldn't even hesitate.
He stood directly in front of the man, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down, wearing the dead-eyed expression that he knew unnerved people. The one that had earned him the moniker he'd never cared for. “That's a serious accusation you're making," he said, voice so low it was almost a growl. “And a baseless one. She's been on the opposite side of the continent for the last week, and here before that. I suggest thinking very, very carefully before you speak next."
He knew the effect he could have on people. Intimidation was the only reliable one, honestly. He wasn't sure why, but with the right expression and posture, people were just... afraid. He'd never much cared for it before, but he invoked it now quite on purpose. He wanted this man to be afraid of him. If he wasn't careful, he might even enjoy it.
The man took a step back, but he did not seem too afraid. Not yet, at least, but there were visible signs that he was getting there. He cleared his throat and glanced at Senka, and then back to Cyril. “They are not baseless! It is a known fact that Maurice's Crest is a symbol of disaster. Those who carry his Crest become beasts at night and slaughter innocent people," he stated, glancing back to Senka. “The attacks stopped while she was away. And that's to say nothing of the fact that she bears the cursed Crest of the Beast. It is only a matter of time before she turns back into a beast, and starts killing again."
“Even I know that's absurd! What does bearing a cursed Crest have to do with anything. Sen is the most kind and warmhearted person I know. She would never kill innocent people! And she's not a beast!" Amalthea stated, trying to defend Senka, at least. Senka, however, looked slightly alarmed.
“How... how do you know about that?" she questioned. The man merely glared at her, almost defiantly.
“You didn't think we'd find out? We Crest scholars keep a long history of Crests, lost or otherwise, and we were notified that a Crest-bearer with Maurice's Crest was attending this academy. And now that we know it is you, you will return at once with us to Lord Kleiman's domain so that he may pass judgement on you." Senka's eyes went to Sorcha, and then Cyril. Other than them, Vridel and Mercer were the only ones who knew about Senka's Crest. And none of them would have spoken about it to anyone.
Senka was visibly shaking at this point, and she took a step back. “I... I can't. I don't... you have no proof that I did anything wrong. Just... just because I have this cursed Crest doesn't make me a monster!" she exclaimed.
Cyril only distantly registered it when he lunged for the man, picking up with a fist in the front of his shirt and bodily hauling him off the ground. “The lady asked you a question," he said, tone low and soft in a way that was the very opposite of the gentle one he took with his students. “Who. Told. You?" He tightened his grip, just enough that the fabric started to strain.
The man's hands were around Cyril's, as if trying to pry them off, however; he didn't have the strength to do it. He just merely held on to them. “We received a letter from the monastery. I don't know who sent it!" he stated, staring at Cyril with wide eyes. “It didn't have a seal, only that when we received it, they said it was from here. The messenger. Ask the messenger! Whoever runs the messenger system in this place, ask them!" he was panicking now.
He narrowed his eyes. “Senka does not leave her room at night. As I have the one next door, I would know." Abruptly setting the man down, he roughly forced his head to the side so he was looking at Senka, then shoved him down by the shoulder in the first approximation of a bow. “Your panic does not justify your accusations. We will be dealing with the beast in a matter of days. Apologize to her." It wasn't a request.
The man was not happy about being forced to bow, and he gritted through his teeth. “I... my mistake," he spoke softly, almost too soft that it might have been missed.
“That's not a proper apology!" Amalthea stated, crossing her arms over her chest. The man was able to raise his head just long enough to glare at her, however; he lowered his head back down.
“I apologize," he finally spoke loud enough to be heard. “My accusations were baseless. Forgive me," he stated. Senka merely stared at the man, her expression one of mild fear, and shook her head.
“No. I will not. Because of you," she began, glancing around the small group of people who were gathering around to see what the commotion was about. “Everyone knows. Everyone knows about this stupid Crest!" Her eyes were starting to glisten, and her jaw looked to be tightening as if to keep her mouth from quivering.
Cyril felt his chest clench, a powerful instinct he could not identify welling in him until it felt like there was a hand clutching at his throat. He knew Senka hadn't ever wanted anyone to know about this. Knew it had to be painful, now, revealed like this to people who were strangers. The last months had been enough to teach him how vicious rumor could become, and if not from the mouths of these then eventually, this encounter would be twisted, people less concerned with the truth than with telling the most scandalous and shocking story.
“Leave," he told the man. “I'll bring you the beast's head myself, but when I do you're going to stand on the front steps of the monastery and spend all day telling everyone you see that you were wrong." With a dismissive click of his tongue, he turned back towards his students, feeling the severity leech off his face immediately. Sorcha had an arm around Senka, and slowly started to pull her friend towards the dining hall.
“C'mon Sen. We only have to stay long enough to grab trays if you want. We can eat somewhere private."
Amalthea trailed beside them as Senka shook her head. “It's fine, Sorcha," she spoke softly. “I... don't want them... I don't..." she swallowed thickly and rubbed the back of her hands near her eyes to wipe something off. “I want to eat in the dining area with all of you. I don't want to give them a reason to believe that man's words. If... I do, then... everything I've been working on, all the progress I've made," she paused, taking in a deep breath.
“It will have been for nothing if I let them win, right? And I don't want that," she seemed to force a small smile on her face when she glanced at Sorcha.
Sorcha returned it with a look of clear concern, but she nodded. “Okay," she replied, returning the smile with a small one of her own. “Then you can sit next to me, and... the Professor! How about it, Professor Cyril?"
He blinked, unsure why she'd think to ask him instead of Amalthea, but he nodded slightly anyway. “If you'd like," he said simply, leading the way up towards the building. His presence served to scare away a large number of the gawkers, and by the time they entered the building it was mostly free of such, the level of activity quite ordinary. And the sight of them was ordinary, too, by this point; Cyril took almost all of his meals with some subset of his students, and the three with him now were often spotted together as well.
Senka nodded her head slowly. “I'd... like that. Thank you," she spoke, glancing back in front of her, though her eyes were on the ground. It seemed she was placing her trust in Sorcha to lead the way. Amalthea merely smiled and nodded her head.
“Of course, Senka! You're an amazing person so don't let what that stupid butt of a face-man get you down, alright? We already know how great you are, and it's only a matter of time before the entire school does, too, and everyone else!" Amalthea spoke, causing the smile on Senka's face to soften.
“You all really mean the world to me. I am grateful to have friends like you," Senka stated as she glanced between Sorcha and Amalthea before her eyes landed on Cyril.
He had the sudden and uncomfortable desire to—he wasn't sure, exactly. He thought perhaps that being in Sorcha's place might have satisfied it, but he wasn't entirely sure. Cyril lowered his eyes for a moment as they got in line, collecting himself. Whatever it was, he was almost certain it crossed a line that ought not to be crossed, for her sake. Fighting it down, he pulled in a breath and reset his expression, looking back up.
“We're just as grateful for you," he said simply. “I'm sure it's not easy, but... try to remember that, if you can."
They'd hunt down whatever this beast was supposed to be, and then everyone would know that she'd had nothing to do with it.
In the meantime, though... he would be tracking down whoever managed messengers into and out of the monastery. He knew such information would not have come from any of her classmates. That left Hanneman—or someone Hanneman was required to tell about these things, and that list was exceptionally short. He needed to know if this had been Lyanna—
or the Archbishop.
“Hm, I will," she replied, her smile inching just a little further that it reached her eyes.
“And that's all we ask. Now, let's go eat, I'm starving!" Amalthea stated excitedly as they began to collect their food.
“For such a small person, you really do eat a lot, Thea."
“I'll take that as a compliment!" That at least got a light chuckle out of Senka.
Cyril huffed softly, leaving the other train of thought behind for now. Later would suffice; at the moment he had other things to attend to.
Old Duscur Border - Midmorning - Hazy
Senka Rinaldi
It had taken almost four days to reach Lord Kleiman's lands after the incident with the Crest scholar, however; the scholar's accusations had managed to spread like wildfire through the academy. Students had been looking at her like she was a beast; that she was as dangerous as the man claimed her to be. Senka knew, without a doubt, that she could be if she didn't learn to control her Crest, but she also knew that she wasn't. She would never hurt people that way. She never wanted to hurt people, but even she knew that sometimes, you had to. But never the innocent. Her people were innocent, and she had seen the kinds of faces they'd worn when they were blamed and attacked.
She would never want that to happen to anyone. It was why she was learning, fighting, doing everything she could so that she could rebuild her home, and, perhaps, have peace. She pushed the thoughts from her head as she gripped Libi's reigns. Most of them were a mounted division now, but they moved at a reasonable pace for those who were not. Cyril had positioned everyone as they had practiced: in pairs. Sylvi walked with Devon, Sofia and Dierdre walked close together, Sorcha and Mercer took to the skies, and Vridel and Amalthea were trailing along as well. Reynard, as he usually was, was no where in sight, but Senka knew he was around somewhere.
That left her traveling near the professor. It made sense, she supposed, that they travel like this. They didn't know what they were up against, and with the fog in the woods, it made it difficult to see anything too far ahead. At least if they were attacked, they would have the advantage of being together, already.
The Professor walked rather close; enough so that one large hand actually rested on Libi's neck, just in front of where the saddle ended. He was looking out into the mist, though, possibly using the point of contact so he didn't lose track of them. Already, the members of the group that were further away were almost impossible to see; Sorcha and Mercer had vanished entirely.
Abruptly, Cyril's eyes snapped slightly to the right. He turned his head, slowing Libi to a stop with his hand. It wasn't for several more seconds that the reason became clear. Out of the mist, Reynard materialized. “I think I found what we're looking for," he said without preamble. Unusually for the rather collected Black Eagle, there was a perceptible anxiety touching his features, pinching his expression.
“Explain, please." By this point, the others had caught on to Cyril's signal and halted as well.
“I'm not sure I can," Reynard replied with a grimace. “They look like... well I saw two things that looked like wolves, but the size of two, maybe three horses, easy. And this other one... might be the size of the greenhouse. I have no idea what in the world it is, but it wouldn't shock me to learn it eats people, to say the least. We might be in over our heads on this one, Professor."
Cyril considered this for a moment, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Eventually, he expelled a breath, then looked up at Senka, speaking low enough that only she could hear.
“I'll fight this for you," he said simply. “I'm sure the others would be willing, too. But that's what it would be—for you. Are you all right with that?"
She shook her head. “No," she began, pulling in a soft breath, “they are fighting this with me. I believe in them and their abilities. And I believe that they also possess sound judgement. If they cannot handle it... I trust them to get away, that they'll be able to." She knew that it was a very real possibility that they could get killed. The descriptions alone of the creatures were enough to put a touch of fear into Senka, but she had to do this. She must do this.
“I'm alright with that."
The smile that spread across his face then was perhaps the truest one she'd ever seen there. Shifting his hand, he patted her knee, giving it a gentle momentary squeeze before releasing it. “Good. You understand now." It wasn't said condescendingly at all—he seemed to be genuinely pleased with the answer. “You can form them up, then. Keep them in their pairs, but otherwise, the initial strategy is yours. We'll adjust if something's off, but you know what you need to."
Senka felt something strange in her heart, like it skipped a beat, perhaps? She pushed the thought out of her mind, and nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, however; the sound of a copse of trees being knocked over caught her attention. She snapped her eyes forward. There, just beyond the mist of the fog was a large creature. It looked like an overgrown lizard, teeth grotesque and sharp points. There were horns, or spikes, protruding through its nose and back, almost as if it were growing straight from its spine.
Glowing red eyes pierced through the fog, and Senka felt her breath catch in her throat. “You... you bear our Crest. For what purpose did you come here?" the creature talked, the sound deep and guttural. It surprised Senka as she glanced in its direction. What did that mean? Did this creature bear a Crest of Maurice as well? Its head lifted, as if sensing something before turning its attention back to her. “It appears that your presence has been detected by bloodthirsty beasts..." it continued speaking. Senka furrowed her brows, though, and shook her head. She couldn't allow this creature to shake her.
“You'll be lucky to make it out alive in this den of beasts." Almost as if on cue, a shrill cry echoed over head where Sorcha and Mercer were. There was also a low rumbling sound, coming from behind where Vridel, Amalthea, Sylvi and Devon were. The beast, whatever it was, disappeared back into the thick of the fog, though, as a giant wolf appeared, charging Amalthea and Vridel's group.
“Everyone, on your guard!" she shouted, pulling her sword from its sheath and glanced at Cyril. “We focus on that demonic creature. Everyone else will deal with those two beasts," she spoke, glancing upwards for a moment. That shrill wasn't anything a wyvern or pegasus could make. They must have encountered a sky creature.
“Uhhhh, yeah I think we can handle this, maybe!" They still couldn't see Sorcha, but a moment of relative quiet yielded the twang of a bowstring, so it was likely she and Mercer had spotted... whatever made that shriek, and were now engaging it.
“There's another!" Reynard called out, ducking past them to reinforce Vridel, Thea, Sylvi, Devon, Sofia, and Deirdre. At least they had a decent number to split the creatures between.
“Straight ahead," Cyril said, swinging up behind her on Libi. They'd sort of practiced this—maneuvers where she'd carry him a short distance on horseback so they didn't get separated by enemies or terrain before they reached their destination. Though the Sword of the Creator was slung across his back, he gripped his javelin in his free hand instead, the other arm banding around her waist to keep himself on Libi. “I can... feel it, I think."
Senka spurred Libi forward, moving in the direction the beast had disappeared to. The fog was becoming airy as they went further in. They didn't have to go too, far, though, that Senka could still hear the fighting between the others, however; the beast merely glowered at them. This is what they'd called a demonic beast, what they thought she would turn into. She could feel something stir inside of her, but she pushed the feeling down. She wouldn't allow herself to answer the calling, whatever it was that was bubbling beneath her skin.
She was stronger than that. She had to be.
“So, you've decided to meet your end, here, inheritor of my Crest," the beast spoke, causing Senka to furrow her brows. Its Crest? What did that mean? It turned in their direction, though, and bellowed. “Then come, oh inheritor of my Crest! My beastly blood is roused! You will not be able to stop me!" it shouted as it charged in their direction. Senka readied her sword.
With a firm squeeze to her shoulder, the professor slid off Libi, probably so the horse would have full speed and maneuverability. As the Beast charged, Cyril threw his javelin, lightning crackling along its length, but did not stop to watch it land, instead sprinting towards the creature's left side.
The javelin struck the beast in the side of the head, burying several inches into its cheek and jerking its face to the side. Despite its prior focus on her, it swung towards him, rearing up onto its hind legs and trying to smash the Professor with one of his massive forelimbs. He was, in fact, nearly the size of the greenhouse, just as Reynard had said. Cyril darted to the side, but the monster seemed prepared, bringing its other arm down, shaking the ground and cracking the earth with the force of impact. A frustrated growl echoed from its chest, and it repeated the smashing actions, apparently unable to catch Cyril. Its snarls of rage and frustration only grew louder, almost enough to put a tremor in the earth on their own, things that could be felt as much as heard.
It was certainly distracted.
It did, however, seem to notice the sword strapped to Cyril's back. “That sword... it's the sword of the king!" it shouted almost in a relieved tone. “Are you the one who can liberate me?!" it continued, thrashing towards Cyril. Senka needed to use this opportunity to attack, though. With the main focus on Cyril, she spurred Libi forrowed and clutched her blade. She didn't know how thick the creature's hide was, nor if she'd be able to penetrate it much with her blade.
She could feel the wind rushing her face as she attacked, bringing the sword down on one of its hind legs. It roared, though it seemed mostly unfazed by her attempt. Pursing her lips together, she directed Libi away from it. The creature didn't seem to like that, though, and began charging a rather large fireball. Once the fire ball was formed, the creature released it in Senka's direction, causing her eyes to widen as she did her best to stir Libi away from it. She narrowly dodged it as the beast turned its attention back to Cyril, attempting to use its tail as a means of attack.
He jumped aside, managing to avoid its blows and peppering it with quicker bursts of magic, though there simply wasn't enough time for him to build up the more powerful strikes of which she knew he was capable.
Senka summoned what she could of her magic, sagittae. The accuracy was low, but she had to try something. Pulling in a breath, she focused on her Crest, willing it forward as best as she could. It would make her magic slightly stronger, and that was all she needed. She needed something stronger, something that would manage to get through the beast's hide. Nearby, she could hear the others struggling with their own beasts. From the sounds of it, Mercer had resorted to using his sword, and Amalthea was shouting something incoherent, perhaps at Sylvi, who'd responded.
Once she could feel her magic strong enough, she directed it at the beast, watching as the arrows penetrated its side. At least Cyril would have the chance to counterattack, now, it seemed, as the beast cried out.
The moment in which it flinched seemed to be all he needed; he shot heavy blasts of magic for where he'd already injured it in the face, driving the steel javelin deeper in the process. The lightning he used first left blackened scorch marks around the pole, the searing heat enough to blind it in one eye, it seemed. It reeled, staggering backwards and shaking its head frantically. The javelin refused to dislodge, though, and the second attack, a heavy miasma spell, came in behind, knocking it almost to the ground before it managed to recover.
Cyril, in the meantime, had made his way back to her. His face and arms bore heavy scratches from debris; one near his eyebrow was bleeding heavily, but he was steady when he spoke. “Do you have anything that can hold it for a bit? I have an idea."
She wasn't entirely sure if she did. The only thing she could think of was to try and use blizzard to freeze it in place, or at least its legs. It wouldn't be for very long, but if she could combine it with her Crest, it might just do the job. “I don't know how much time I can buy you, but I'll do what I can," she responded, kicking Libi gently to spur him towards the beast. Summoning blizzard, she drew on her Crest once more, feeling the magic intensify. When she was close enough she released the spell towards the creature, watching as it wrapped around its legs, creating thick blocks of ice.
“Cyril," she shouted, turning her attention towards him. “Now," whatever he had planned, now was the time to do it as the creature tried to free itself.
He was already running, sprinting past her and Libi at what seemed to be reckless, breakneck speed. When he reached a certain distance from where the beast was trying to tear its limbs free of the ground, he jumped. Maybe it was his own Crest, or just the sheer amount of training and practice he'd had, but he seemed to fly higher and further than any human had a right to, catching onto one of the armorlike plates on the beast's shoulder and using it to swing astride its back. It shook, frantically trying to dislodge him as though it sensed what was about to happen, but even when one of its legs came free, it simply couldn't break his grip.
Grabbing the sword from his back, Cyril stabbed downwards just as the second leg cracked free of the ice. The Sword of the Creator glowed a heated red-gold, sinking into the beast's hide to the hilt, and it gave a massive shudder and a deafening roar, pitching forward to the ground with a massive thud that felt like an earthquake. The rest of the ice cracked off and disappeared; the Professor withdrew the sword and jumped of, flinging hot blood from the blade with a powerful stroke of his arm.
Not more than three seconds later, there was another thudding crash as an enormous birdlike creature fell out of the sky, snapping dozens of tree branches on its way to the ground. “Flames take you!" Sorcha shouted, her voice raw with some kind of strain. She was not yet visible, however.
There were faint whimpers in the direction of where the others were, their beasts falling as well, it seemed. Senka released a breath she did not realize she was holding, and watched as the demonic beast breathed heavily. Its body began to dissipate, as if it were evaporating into the air.
“Well done... Finally, this nightmare of a thousand years is at its end." He seemed almost satisfied, relieved even, that he was no longer going to live. “Inheritor of my Crest... if this body is to decay, then the sword... I leave it to you." He heaved, his breathing becoming labored and difficult, and Senka could only watch as his life faded. His eyes locked with hers, and he spoke his final words, “That vile woman... do not trust her; do not trust Seiros." Seiros? Wasn't she already dead, though?
“Wait, what do you mean?" she spoke, her eyes frantically searching the creature's. There was a strange smile to his beast-like face. The color was fading fast from his eyes, and he lifted his clawed arm with what little strength he had left, and pointed. It was hard to say which direction he pointed in, but it looked like it was in the direction of the monastery. His hand fell limp after, and Senka knew he was gone. They would get no more answers from him. His body dissolved into ashes, a strange phenomenon, however; when nothing was left but human bones, Senka spotted the sword he had referred to.
Gingerly, she reached out, grasping it in her hands and stared at it. The blade itself was slightly curved, and looked almost like a spine. It made her shudder, however; it had to have been one of the Relics, judging by the Crest stone that resided near the hilt. Why would he leave such a thing to her? And did that mean this creature was truly Maurice? From the way he spoke, the way he reacted, it seemed as if this was truly the disgraced hero of legend.
A hand fell gently on her shoulder; Cyril stepped to her side and gave it a squeeze. “You all right?" he asked, blinking mildly as though they had not just been fighting desperately for their lives. Only his lingering injuries gave the difference away; he'd taken more of them this time than she'd ever seen on him, while she had none at all.
“I'm fine, but..." she was confused about what the creature meant. “That beast... it... it was truly Maurice. And he said not to trust Seiros. I'm... confused, but," she paused to regard him, lifting a hand to rest it on his cheek. “You're injured," that much was obvious. “Do you... need me to take care of your wounds?" she stated. The others were making their way towards them, she could hear, and the flapping of both Lady and Sir's wings seemed to disperse some of the fog around them.
He smiled slightly, lifting his own hand to rest it on hers and leaning slightly into the touch. “Only if you're not feeling too depleted," he replied. “I'm in no danger from them."
Amalthea looked relatively untouched, though she was sporting a few pieces of grass in her hair. It was almost difficult to tell with the color. Mercer looked like he was bleeding from his left shoulder and had a large cut on his cheek, perhaps from the bird-like creature they had defeated. Sylvi looked rather worn as did Dierdre, but they were also mostly unharmed. Senka smiled slightly; she knew they would be alright. Sorcha's arm seemed to be broken, which was a little more alarming, and she had a lot of drying blood in her hairline, but Vridel seemed to be taking care of it. He was spattered in so much blood his hair was turning pink, but relatively little of it seemed to be his. Devon was out of arrows and knives, but otherwise seemingly fine. He was helping support Sofia, who was walking with a limp where part of her armor had been torn; perhaps one of the creatures had bitten her leg. Reynard had nary a scratch, which was somehow unsurprising.
“What happened here?" Sorcha asked, blinking at the obviously-human-sized bones and the new sword in Senka's hand.
Senka smiled as she summoned what healing magic she could, and applied it to him. “We felled the demonic beast, but," she began, allowing her eyes to drift towards Maurice had once been, “he has finally found peace after a thousand years." Mercer seemed confused as did Amalthea. Before she could explain further, the sound of a snapping twig caused her to grip her newfound sword, and turned it in the direction of the source. Were there more?
“Wait," a voice called out, as a man approached the group. His eyes were sunken, and his hair was slightly matted to his face. He seemed familiar to Senka, but she couldn't quite figure out why. “That beast... it is finally gone. You have rid us of a plague we were not able to combat," he spoke, staying a safe distance away, it seemed. “We are grateful for your... Senka?" he stated, stepping forward as Senka furrowed her brows in confusion. As he approached, his face came further into view, and her eyes widened in recognition. She was glad he'd whispered, though, as he took another step forward.
“There is no need to thank us," she stated quickly, hopefully enough that the others would not question his hesitation. She thought Espera was dead, that he'd been slaughtered along with the others. As General of her father's army, he'd been one of the first to lead a counterattack against the Kingdom's army. She thought he'd died in the ensuing chaos.
“I am Espera, and we are grateful for your assistance," he spoke, placing a hand towards his heart and bowed. It wasn't a traditional bow, though, and Sorcha would be, perhaps, the only one to recognize it as one of Duscur. Senka wasn't going to pretend to not know her old General, but there were other things to consider. Mercer and Amalthea did not know of her Duscur heritage. Sylvi, Devon, Sofia, and Dierdre were not aware as well. She couldn't risk it, not yet.
From the way Sorcha's eyes widened, she did in fact recognize it. She returned it the same way. “We were happy to help, Espera," she said, throwing Senka a look and pursing her lips. Clearly, she was thinking through something. “Our leader today was Senka, here, so the credit goes mostly to her." She nodded towards Senka, smoothly making it so that the two could refer to each other by name without the need for unnecessary introductions, and if Senka preferred for the others to remain none the wiser, it would be possible.
“We are in your debt, Senka," he stated, bowing once more, and keeping it. Senka felt her lips twitch slightly upward, but she shook her head. “As a handful of Duscur people, we feared that beast would wipe the last of us out. Now that it has been defeated, we can hope to rebuild ourselves. And as natives of Duscur, we always fulfill our debts. Should the need ever arise, please do not hesitate to contact us. Despite what others might say," he paused, his eyes glancing over the group, “we never forget our debts."
“Thank you, Espera. I will... keep that in mind." Part of Senka was overjoyed, and part of her was pained. They were still struggling to keep themselves alive, and there was nothing she could do to make it better. Even with Maurice gone, that was only one hurdle for them. There would be more, and Senka was partially sure that Kleiman would turn his attention on the last remnants of Duscur now that the beast no longer plagued his lands.
“Stay safe," was the only thing she stated as he straightened his posture, and nodded.
“May the Gods of Duscur watch over you," he spoke before departing.
Sorcha edged over subtly to fit her hand in Senka's and give it a squeeze, no doubt understanding at least part of what she was feeling right now, and offering the only support she could in front of people who didn't know what this meant to her.
Cyril, on the other hand, turned, his arm brushing her shoulder for just a moment before he was speaking, setting the others to prepare for their departure, and in so doing, removing their attention from Senka and what had just transpired.
She was just glad to know that her dearest friend was still alive. And she was glad for the comfort of her best friend. Without them... well, she didn't want to think of it.
She would never want that to happen to anyone. It was why she was learning, fighting, doing everything she could so that she could rebuild her home, and, perhaps, have peace. She pushed the thoughts from her head as she gripped Libi's reigns. Most of them were a mounted division now, but they moved at a reasonable pace for those who were not. Cyril had positioned everyone as they had practiced: in pairs. Sylvi walked with Devon, Sofia and Dierdre walked close together, Sorcha and Mercer took to the skies, and Vridel and Amalthea were trailing along as well. Reynard, as he usually was, was no where in sight, but Senka knew he was around somewhere.
That left her traveling near the professor. It made sense, she supposed, that they travel like this. They didn't know what they were up against, and with the fog in the woods, it made it difficult to see anything too far ahead. At least if they were attacked, they would have the advantage of being together, already.
The Professor walked rather close; enough so that one large hand actually rested on Libi's neck, just in front of where the saddle ended. He was looking out into the mist, though, possibly using the point of contact so he didn't lose track of them. Already, the members of the group that were further away were almost impossible to see; Sorcha and Mercer had vanished entirely.
Abruptly, Cyril's eyes snapped slightly to the right. He turned his head, slowing Libi to a stop with his hand. It wasn't for several more seconds that the reason became clear. Out of the mist, Reynard materialized. “I think I found what we're looking for," he said without preamble. Unusually for the rather collected Black Eagle, there was a perceptible anxiety touching his features, pinching his expression.
“Explain, please." By this point, the others had caught on to Cyril's signal and halted as well.
“I'm not sure I can," Reynard replied with a grimace. “They look like... well I saw two things that looked like wolves, but the size of two, maybe three horses, easy. And this other one... might be the size of the greenhouse. I have no idea what in the world it is, but it wouldn't shock me to learn it eats people, to say the least. We might be in over our heads on this one, Professor."
Cyril considered this for a moment, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. Eventually, he expelled a breath, then looked up at Senka, speaking low enough that only she could hear.
“I'll fight this for you," he said simply. “I'm sure the others would be willing, too. But that's what it would be—for you. Are you all right with that?"
She shook her head. “No," she began, pulling in a soft breath, “they are fighting this with me. I believe in them and their abilities. And I believe that they also possess sound judgement. If they cannot handle it... I trust them to get away, that they'll be able to." She knew that it was a very real possibility that they could get killed. The descriptions alone of the creatures were enough to put a touch of fear into Senka, but she had to do this. She must do this.
“I'm alright with that."
The smile that spread across his face then was perhaps the truest one she'd ever seen there. Shifting his hand, he patted her knee, giving it a gentle momentary squeeze before releasing it. “Good. You understand now." It wasn't said condescendingly at all—he seemed to be genuinely pleased with the answer. “You can form them up, then. Keep them in their pairs, but otherwise, the initial strategy is yours. We'll adjust if something's off, but you know what you need to."
Senka felt something strange in her heart, like it skipped a beat, perhaps? She pushed the thought out of her mind, and nodded. She opened her mouth to say something, however; the sound of a copse of trees being knocked over caught her attention. She snapped her eyes forward. There, just beyond the mist of the fog was a large creature. It looked like an overgrown lizard, teeth grotesque and sharp points. There were horns, or spikes, protruding through its nose and back, almost as if it were growing straight from its spine.
Glowing red eyes pierced through the fog, and Senka felt her breath catch in her throat. “You... you bear our Crest. For what purpose did you come here?" the creature talked, the sound deep and guttural. It surprised Senka as she glanced in its direction. What did that mean? Did this creature bear a Crest of Maurice as well? Its head lifted, as if sensing something before turning its attention back to her. “It appears that your presence has been detected by bloodthirsty beasts..." it continued speaking. Senka furrowed her brows, though, and shook her head. She couldn't allow this creature to shake her.
“You'll be lucky to make it out alive in this den of beasts." Almost as if on cue, a shrill cry echoed over head where Sorcha and Mercer were. There was also a low rumbling sound, coming from behind where Vridel, Amalthea, Sylvi and Devon were. The beast, whatever it was, disappeared back into the thick of the fog, though, as a giant wolf appeared, charging Amalthea and Vridel's group.
“Everyone, on your guard!" she shouted, pulling her sword from its sheath and glanced at Cyril. “We focus on that demonic creature. Everyone else will deal with those two beasts," she spoke, glancing upwards for a moment. That shrill wasn't anything a wyvern or pegasus could make. They must have encountered a sky creature.
“Uhhhh, yeah I think we can handle this, maybe!" They still couldn't see Sorcha, but a moment of relative quiet yielded the twang of a bowstring, so it was likely she and Mercer had spotted... whatever made that shriek, and were now engaging it.
“There's another!" Reynard called out, ducking past them to reinforce Vridel, Thea, Sylvi, Devon, Sofia, and Deirdre. At least they had a decent number to split the creatures between.
“Straight ahead," Cyril said, swinging up behind her on Libi. They'd sort of practiced this—maneuvers where she'd carry him a short distance on horseback so they didn't get separated by enemies or terrain before they reached their destination. Though the Sword of the Creator was slung across his back, he gripped his javelin in his free hand instead, the other arm banding around her waist to keep himself on Libi. “I can... feel it, I think."
Senka spurred Libi forward, moving in the direction the beast had disappeared to. The fog was becoming airy as they went further in. They didn't have to go too, far, though, that Senka could still hear the fighting between the others, however; the beast merely glowered at them. This is what they'd called a demonic beast, what they thought she would turn into. She could feel something stir inside of her, but she pushed the feeling down. She wouldn't allow herself to answer the calling, whatever it was that was bubbling beneath her skin.
She was stronger than that. She had to be.
“So, you've decided to meet your end, here, inheritor of my Crest," the beast spoke, causing Senka to furrow her brows. Its Crest? What did that mean? It turned in their direction, though, and bellowed. “Then come, oh inheritor of my Crest! My beastly blood is roused! You will not be able to stop me!" it shouted as it charged in their direction. Senka readied her sword.
With a firm squeeze to her shoulder, the professor slid off Libi, probably so the horse would have full speed and maneuverability. As the Beast charged, Cyril threw his javelin, lightning crackling along its length, but did not stop to watch it land, instead sprinting towards the creature's left side.
The javelin struck the beast in the side of the head, burying several inches into its cheek and jerking its face to the side. Despite its prior focus on her, it swung towards him, rearing up onto its hind legs and trying to smash the Professor with one of his massive forelimbs. He was, in fact, nearly the size of the greenhouse, just as Reynard had said. Cyril darted to the side, but the monster seemed prepared, bringing its other arm down, shaking the ground and cracking the earth with the force of impact. A frustrated growl echoed from its chest, and it repeated the smashing actions, apparently unable to catch Cyril. Its snarls of rage and frustration only grew louder, almost enough to put a tremor in the earth on their own, things that could be felt as much as heard.
It was certainly distracted.
It did, however, seem to notice the sword strapped to Cyril's back. “That sword... it's the sword of the king!" it shouted almost in a relieved tone. “Are you the one who can liberate me?!" it continued, thrashing towards Cyril. Senka needed to use this opportunity to attack, though. With the main focus on Cyril, she spurred Libi forrowed and clutched her blade. She didn't know how thick the creature's hide was, nor if she'd be able to penetrate it much with her blade.
She could feel the wind rushing her face as she attacked, bringing the sword down on one of its hind legs. It roared, though it seemed mostly unfazed by her attempt. Pursing her lips together, she directed Libi away from it. The creature didn't seem to like that, though, and began charging a rather large fireball. Once the fire ball was formed, the creature released it in Senka's direction, causing her eyes to widen as she did her best to stir Libi away from it. She narrowly dodged it as the beast turned its attention back to Cyril, attempting to use its tail as a means of attack.
He jumped aside, managing to avoid its blows and peppering it with quicker bursts of magic, though there simply wasn't enough time for him to build up the more powerful strikes of which she knew he was capable.
Senka summoned what she could of her magic, sagittae. The accuracy was low, but she had to try something. Pulling in a breath, she focused on her Crest, willing it forward as best as she could. It would make her magic slightly stronger, and that was all she needed. She needed something stronger, something that would manage to get through the beast's hide. Nearby, she could hear the others struggling with their own beasts. From the sounds of it, Mercer had resorted to using his sword, and Amalthea was shouting something incoherent, perhaps at Sylvi, who'd responded.
Once she could feel her magic strong enough, she directed it at the beast, watching as the arrows penetrated its side. At least Cyril would have the chance to counterattack, now, it seemed, as the beast cried out.
The moment in which it flinched seemed to be all he needed; he shot heavy blasts of magic for where he'd already injured it in the face, driving the steel javelin deeper in the process. The lightning he used first left blackened scorch marks around the pole, the searing heat enough to blind it in one eye, it seemed. It reeled, staggering backwards and shaking its head frantically. The javelin refused to dislodge, though, and the second attack, a heavy miasma spell, came in behind, knocking it almost to the ground before it managed to recover.
Cyril, in the meantime, had made his way back to her. His face and arms bore heavy scratches from debris; one near his eyebrow was bleeding heavily, but he was steady when he spoke. “Do you have anything that can hold it for a bit? I have an idea."
She wasn't entirely sure if she did. The only thing she could think of was to try and use blizzard to freeze it in place, or at least its legs. It wouldn't be for very long, but if she could combine it with her Crest, it might just do the job. “I don't know how much time I can buy you, but I'll do what I can," she responded, kicking Libi gently to spur him towards the beast. Summoning blizzard, she drew on her Crest once more, feeling the magic intensify. When she was close enough she released the spell towards the creature, watching as it wrapped around its legs, creating thick blocks of ice.
“Cyril," she shouted, turning her attention towards him. “Now," whatever he had planned, now was the time to do it as the creature tried to free itself.
He was already running, sprinting past her and Libi at what seemed to be reckless, breakneck speed. When he reached a certain distance from where the beast was trying to tear its limbs free of the ground, he jumped. Maybe it was his own Crest, or just the sheer amount of training and practice he'd had, but he seemed to fly higher and further than any human had a right to, catching onto one of the armorlike plates on the beast's shoulder and using it to swing astride its back. It shook, frantically trying to dislodge him as though it sensed what was about to happen, but even when one of its legs came free, it simply couldn't break his grip.
Grabbing the sword from his back, Cyril stabbed downwards just as the second leg cracked free of the ice. The Sword of the Creator glowed a heated red-gold, sinking into the beast's hide to the hilt, and it gave a massive shudder and a deafening roar, pitching forward to the ground with a massive thud that felt like an earthquake. The rest of the ice cracked off and disappeared; the Professor withdrew the sword and jumped of, flinging hot blood from the blade with a powerful stroke of his arm.
Not more than three seconds later, there was another thudding crash as an enormous birdlike creature fell out of the sky, snapping dozens of tree branches on its way to the ground. “Flames take you!" Sorcha shouted, her voice raw with some kind of strain. She was not yet visible, however.
There were faint whimpers in the direction of where the others were, their beasts falling as well, it seemed. Senka released a breath she did not realize she was holding, and watched as the demonic beast breathed heavily. Its body began to dissipate, as if it were evaporating into the air.
“Well done... Finally, this nightmare of a thousand years is at its end." He seemed almost satisfied, relieved even, that he was no longer going to live. “Inheritor of my Crest... if this body is to decay, then the sword... I leave it to you." He heaved, his breathing becoming labored and difficult, and Senka could only watch as his life faded. His eyes locked with hers, and he spoke his final words, “That vile woman... do not trust her; do not trust Seiros." Seiros? Wasn't she already dead, though?
“Wait, what do you mean?" she spoke, her eyes frantically searching the creature's. There was a strange smile to his beast-like face. The color was fading fast from his eyes, and he lifted his clawed arm with what little strength he had left, and pointed. It was hard to say which direction he pointed in, but it looked like it was in the direction of the monastery. His hand fell limp after, and Senka knew he was gone. They would get no more answers from him. His body dissolved into ashes, a strange phenomenon, however; when nothing was left but human bones, Senka spotted the sword he had referred to.
Gingerly, she reached out, grasping it in her hands and stared at it. The blade itself was slightly curved, and looked almost like a spine. It made her shudder, however; it had to have been one of the Relics, judging by the Crest stone that resided near the hilt. Why would he leave such a thing to her? And did that mean this creature was truly Maurice? From the way he spoke, the way he reacted, it seemed as if this was truly the disgraced hero of legend.
A hand fell gently on her shoulder; Cyril stepped to her side and gave it a squeeze. “You all right?" he asked, blinking mildly as though they had not just been fighting desperately for their lives. Only his lingering injuries gave the difference away; he'd taken more of them this time than she'd ever seen on him, while she had none at all.
“I'm fine, but..." she was confused about what the creature meant. “That beast... it... it was truly Maurice. And he said not to trust Seiros. I'm... confused, but," she paused to regard him, lifting a hand to rest it on his cheek. “You're injured," that much was obvious. “Do you... need me to take care of your wounds?" she stated. The others were making their way towards them, she could hear, and the flapping of both Lady and Sir's wings seemed to disperse some of the fog around them.
He smiled slightly, lifting his own hand to rest it on hers and leaning slightly into the touch. “Only if you're not feeling too depleted," he replied. “I'm in no danger from them."
Amalthea looked relatively untouched, though she was sporting a few pieces of grass in her hair. It was almost difficult to tell with the color. Mercer looked like he was bleeding from his left shoulder and had a large cut on his cheek, perhaps from the bird-like creature they had defeated. Sylvi looked rather worn as did Dierdre, but they were also mostly unharmed. Senka smiled slightly; she knew they would be alright. Sorcha's arm seemed to be broken, which was a little more alarming, and she had a lot of drying blood in her hairline, but Vridel seemed to be taking care of it. He was spattered in so much blood his hair was turning pink, but relatively little of it seemed to be his. Devon was out of arrows and knives, but otherwise seemingly fine. He was helping support Sofia, who was walking with a limp where part of her armor had been torn; perhaps one of the creatures had bitten her leg. Reynard had nary a scratch, which was somehow unsurprising.
“What happened here?" Sorcha asked, blinking at the obviously-human-sized bones and the new sword in Senka's hand.
Senka smiled as she summoned what healing magic she could, and applied it to him. “We felled the demonic beast, but," she began, allowing her eyes to drift towards Maurice had once been, “he has finally found peace after a thousand years." Mercer seemed confused as did Amalthea. Before she could explain further, the sound of a snapping twig caused her to grip her newfound sword, and turned it in the direction of the source. Were there more?
“Wait," a voice called out, as a man approached the group. His eyes were sunken, and his hair was slightly matted to his face. He seemed familiar to Senka, but she couldn't quite figure out why. “That beast... it is finally gone. You have rid us of a plague we were not able to combat," he spoke, staying a safe distance away, it seemed. “We are grateful for your... Senka?" he stated, stepping forward as Senka furrowed her brows in confusion. As he approached, his face came further into view, and her eyes widened in recognition. She was glad he'd whispered, though, as he took another step forward.
“There is no need to thank us," she stated quickly, hopefully enough that the others would not question his hesitation. She thought Espera was dead, that he'd been slaughtered along with the others. As General of her father's army, he'd been one of the first to lead a counterattack against the Kingdom's army. She thought he'd died in the ensuing chaos.
“I am Espera, and we are grateful for your assistance," he spoke, placing a hand towards his heart and bowed. It wasn't a traditional bow, though, and Sorcha would be, perhaps, the only one to recognize it as one of Duscur. Senka wasn't going to pretend to not know her old General, but there were other things to consider. Mercer and Amalthea did not know of her Duscur heritage. Sylvi, Devon, Sofia, and Dierdre were not aware as well. She couldn't risk it, not yet.
From the way Sorcha's eyes widened, she did in fact recognize it. She returned it the same way. “We were happy to help, Espera," she said, throwing Senka a look and pursing her lips. Clearly, she was thinking through something. “Our leader today was Senka, here, so the credit goes mostly to her." She nodded towards Senka, smoothly making it so that the two could refer to each other by name without the need for unnecessary introductions, and if Senka preferred for the others to remain none the wiser, it would be possible.
“We are in your debt, Senka," he stated, bowing once more, and keeping it. Senka felt her lips twitch slightly upward, but she shook her head. “As a handful of Duscur people, we feared that beast would wipe the last of us out. Now that it has been defeated, we can hope to rebuild ourselves. And as natives of Duscur, we always fulfill our debts. Should the need ever arise, please do not hesitate to contact us. Despite what others might say," he paused, his eyes glancing over the group, “we never forget our debts."
“Thank you, Espera. I will... keep that in mind." Part of Senka was overjoyed, and part of her was pained. They were still struggling to keep themselves alive, and there was nothing she could do to make it better. Even with Maurice gone, that was only one hurdle for them. There would be more, and Senka was partially sure that Kleiman would turn his attention on the last remnants of Duscur now that the beast no longer plagued his lands.
“Stay safe," was the only thing she stated as he straightened his posture, and nodded.
“May the Gods of Duscur watch over you," he spoke before departing.
Sorcha edged over subtly to fit her hand in Senka's and give it a squeeze, no doubt understanding at least part of what she was feeling right now, and offering the only support she could in front of people who didn't know what this meant to her.
Cyril, on the other hand, turned, his arm brushing her shoulder for just a moment before he was speaking, setting the others to prepare for their departure, and in so doing, removing their attention from Senka and what had just transpired.
She was just glad to know that her dearest friend was still alive. And she was glad for the comfort of her best friend. Without them... well, she didn't want to think of it.
Rhea's Office - Afternoon - Drizzle
Cyril Eisner
Cyril had, as promised, brought the head of a so-called demonic beast to the Crest Scholar. Though Maurice's body had dissolved, the rather large, lupine head he'd tossed at the man's feet quite convinced him that the problem was taken care of, and he'd indeed spent an entire day on the front steps of the monastery, recanting his earlier accusations publicly, while Cyril leaned against a wall nearby, arms crossed, watching to make sure he didn't try anything funny.
Regardless of what they thought, people had at least stopped talking about Senka's Crest after that, which he was willing to accept as about the best result they were going to get. Of late, a new rumor seemed to be circulating instead: something about a spirit of Death appearing in the village at night to whisk away young maidens or something of the sort. Cyril knew better than to believe any spirit would be doing such a thing, but he'd decided to have a brief talk with his students about the danger of who would tomorrow morning when class began.
It would be a rather uncomfortable thing to discuss, but he thought they needed to know there might be a threat to their safety out there, and he'd noticed that such things were often left to the discretion of the teachers rather than being a matter the Archbishop saw fit to have dealt with in any official capacity. Perhaps he would talk to Hanneman and Manuela about doing the same—he at least knew enough about the reality of the world to know that such rumors rarely appeared from nowhere, for no reason.
At the moment, though, he had to receive his next monthly assignment from Rhea. He'd accepted the fact that she wouldn't simply send it to him in writing like the other professors got theirs, but he couldn't say he was especially fond of the fact. Still, this time he had a cause to argue himself, so perhaps it would turn out to be for the best.
Mounting the steps, he headed into the small chapel, and knocked on the door leading into the Archbishop's office. “Lady Rhea? It's me." He doubted she'd have trouble recognizing him.
“Professor Cyril, come in," she stated, greeting him with the distant smile she usually wore. Her eyes assessed him, as if to make sure he had not been harmed, before her features softened. She seemed pleased for some reason. “You have done well to complete such a difficult task," she stated, applauding him, it seemed. “You have shown exceptional skill in leading your students. I am forever grateful for the safe return of the Hero's Relic."
He inclined his head slightly, endeavoring to at least pantomime respect, because he was going to need her favor for the next bit, he supposed. “Thank you, Archbishop," he said quietly. “I actually wanted to ask you about that. While I am grateful for the use of the Sword of the Creator—" He'd worn it today, too, just to make the point, though he usually didn't bother. While he was adept with swords, his preference in weapons had always been for lances, and his bare hands above all.
“—I was going to ask if Senka might be granted use of the other, as well. She does seem to have the appropriate Crest for it, and given the increasing gravity of the missions in which they are partaking, it seems appropriate to arm them with every possible advantage." He stood at something like a soldier's rest, straight-backed with his arms folded behind him. While he'd never been a formal part of an army, he could recognize now the ways in which his father's time as a knight influenced the way he ran his company.
“I had heard that the creature accused one of your students of sharing a Crest with it, however; such a dangerous thing cannot be left in the hands of someone unfit for it. She is not ready to wield such a relic, and as such I cannot permit that." She had narrowed her eyes almost as if she were disappointed that he'd request such a thing.
“One Relic is more than efficient for the missions you partake in; I do not see the need to part with another, especially one belonging to the cursed Maurice." She didn't seem like she was going to relent, either.
Behind his back, Cyril's hands tightened; he was careful not to let his eyes narrow or his face lose any of its customary neutrality. “I can appreciate your concern for everyone's safety," he replied, well aware that she was dangerously close to demonstrating a complete lack of it and seeking to remind her. Rhea had always at least paid lip service to the safety of the students before—here she was making no attempt to do so at all, and if she wanted to keep up the fragile facade he was going to force her to walk that back.
“But it could well be that a Relic makes the difference between victory and death for all of us, in the future, and it protects no one locked in the reliquary." He was careful to keep his tone free of accusation, as flat and mild as it always was. He might be able to scare the wits out of a scholar without much effort, but Rhea was the Archbishop. He knew quite well she didn't scare.
Her eyes narrowed at him, but the smile she kept on her face. “I will agree on one condition," she began, her expression smoothing out as she regarded Cyril. “The moment it appears that she lacks in anyway to use it properly, or it overcomes her, you will return it, immediately." She gave him a hardened gaze, clearly unhappy about the situation. She did not comment further, though.
“Of course." He gave no sign of having won a victory in this, because he didn't want it to seem adversarial. Rhea was... touchy, was a good word for it, if a bit mild, and he was learning that though she did have some odd, inexplicable fondness for him, it only extended so far.
Still, he wasn't just going to roll over and do as she pleased, either. Shifting his shoulders back slightly, he tilted his head. “I feel I should also report that the Monastery seems to have a leak somewhere in it," he said slowly. “Prior to the mission, word somehow got out that one of my students in fact possessed Maurice's Crest. A group of them were quite publicly confronted about it, despite the matter being one that only a very small number of people knew about. It concerns me that similarly sensitive information may escape via the same channel in the future."
He did not accuse her. He had no evidence with which to do so. But he wanted to see how she reacted to the information.
If anything, she didn't seem surprised at all. She merely pursed her lips together and ducked her head. “I see... it is a shame. I will have Lyanna look into it," she replied, lifting her gaze back to Cyril's. “In the meantime, I will see Blutgang returned to your student. Since we are here, I shall update you on next month's mission," she began, however; she paused for a moment as if anticipating something.
It took only half a second more for him to hear the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps; he was outright surprised when Lyanna burst into the office, face drawn and pinched with obvious worry. Vridel was only slightly behind her, for some reason. He did not pass the threshold, however, only shooting Cyril a glance that conveyed a similar concern.
“Rhea!" Lyanna lacked her customary cool poise entirely; the word came out rushed, and she looked like she'd run miles to get there. “She's gone! Thea's missing! Please—" Only then did she seem to notice Cyril, and the eyes with which she looked at him were red-rimmed and scared. “Please. We have to find her."
“Lyanna, calm yourself," Rhea spoke, though her voice was not one of concern nor compassion. “Have you checked every where for her?" she asked, glancing in Lyanna's direction. She didn't bother to glance at Vridel, nor motion for him to approach. “You know how she likes to wander," she continued, her eyes narrowing slightly. She almost sounded angry, though it was unclear as to why. Amalthea seemed to be missing, according to Lyanna, however; Rhea seemed angry at the fact, even if her face did not show it.
Lyanna drew in a sharp breath, a wounded look briefly crossing her face before she straightened. “Yes," she said, fighting to keep her tone under control. Cyril couldn't believe she was expected to do so, when her sister was clearly in danger. “We've searched the whole Monastery. I don't... I don't think she came back to her room at all last night."
“She wasn't there this morning?" Cyril asked, gentling his voice.
Lyanna nodded, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “I went to bed early last night, thinking she'd be home later, but her bed doesn't show any signs of having been slept in, and the floor's clean—she—" She swallowed. “She always leaves her laundry on the floor." Her lips trembled; Cyril immediately took a step forward, unsure what to do but knowing he wanted to do something.
It seemed to be all that was required. Lyanna stepped in, too, winding her arms around him. Unsure exactly how to respond, he patted her head gently, sliding his hand down to rest on her upper back.
“Is there any reason she would have been taken?" Vridel asked, stepping into the office despite his lack of an invitation.
Cyril's thoughts immediately went to the rumor he'd heard, but it was much too soon to be jumping to any such conclusion.
Lyanna sobbed, a soft thing, and shook her head faintly. Her arms squeezed around Cyril. “Her blood," she said softly. “Our blood, it's—special." The words hitched before the last one, almost as if she'd meant to say something else. “It should have been me," she said miserably. “Why didn't they take me?"
Rhea's eyes seemed to harden at Lyanna's declaration. She almost seemed to be outright glaring at her, as if she'd said something she wasn't supposed to. “Lyanna von Kreuz, you will calm yourself. You will do well to recall that impatience begets error. At present we know for certain she has not left Garreg Mach," Rhea spoke, her voice loud and commanding. “Despite the troubling rumors," she began, apparently aware that there were rumors running around, “you know I think of your... sister as family as well. You know that." Her voice had softened, perhaps intentionally.
“You will have my support. We shall devote ourselves fully—mind, body, and soul—to recovering her." She didn't seem too happy about it, however; she turned her attention towards Cyril. “Your mission is to help find Amalthea. We will have the knights cover the town, so I ask that you focus your efforts on searching the monastery again. We do no have time to waste; you have your orders."
Lyanna stiffened in Cyril's hold at the rebuke, and he could hear her swallow thickly. He gave her the time she needed to gather herself, and she stepped away with a sniffle and a subtle nod. “I—yes, Archbishop. Thank you." Her tone was almost meek; her eyes dropped to the floor.
Cyril resisted the urge to frown; Vridel did not. “Of course," he said. “We'll begin right away."
Time was of the essence.
Regardless of what they thought, people had at least stopped talking about Senka's Crest after that, which he was willing to accept as about the best result they were going to get. Of late, a new rumor seemed to be circulating instead: something about a spirit of Death appearing in the village at night to whisk away young maidens or something of the sort. Cyril knew better than to believe any spirit would be doing such a thing, but he'd decided to have a brief talk with his students about the danger of who would tomorrow morning when class began.
It would be a rather uncomfortable thing to discuss, but he thought they needed to know there might be a threat to their safety out there, and he'd noticed that such things were often left to the discretion of the teachers rather than being a matter the Archbishop saw fit to have dealt with in any official capacity. Perhaps he would talk to Hanneman and Manuela about doing the same—he at least knew enough about the reality of the world to know that such rumors rarely appeared from nowhere, for no reason.
At the moment, though, he had to receive his next monthly assignment from Rhea. He'd accepted the fact that she wouldn't simply send it to him in writing like the other professors got theirs, but he couldn't say he was especially fond of the fact. Still, this time he had a cause to argue himself, so perhaps it would turn out to be for the best.
Mounting the steps, he headed into the small chapel, and knocked on the door leading into the Archbishop's office. “Lady Rhea? It's me." He doubted she'd have trouble recognizing him.
“Professor Cyril, come in," she stated, greeting him with the distant smile she usually wore. Her eyes assessed him, as if to make sure he had not been harmed, before her features softened. She seemed pleased for some reason. “You have done well to complete such a difficult task," she stated, applauding him, it seemed. “You have shown exceptional skill in leading your students. I am forever grateful for the safe return of the Hero's Relic."
He inclined his head slightly, endeavoring to at least pantomime respect, because he was going to need her favor for the next bit, he supposed. “Thank you, Archbishop," he said quietly. “I actually wanted to ask you about that. While I am grateful for the use of the Sword of the Creator—" He'd worn it today, too, just to make the point, though he usually didn't bother. While he was adept with swords, his preference in weapons had always been for lances, and his bare hands above all.
“—I was going to ask if Senka might be granted use of the other, as well. She does seem to have the appropriate Crest for it, and given the increasing gravity of the missions in which they are partaking, it seems appropriate to arm them with every possible advantage." He stood at something like a soldier's rest, straight-backed with his arms folded behind him. While he'd never been a formal part of an army, he could recognize now the ways in which his father's time as a knight influenced the way he ran his company.
“I had heard that the creature accused one of your students of sharing a Crest with it, however; such a dangerous thing cannot be left in the hands of someone unfit for it. She is not ready to wield such a relic, and as such I cannot permit that." She had narrowed her eyes almost as if she were disappointed that he'd request such a thing.
“One Relic is more than efficient for the missions you partake in; I do not see the need to part with another, especially one belonging to the cursed Maurice." She didn't seem like she was going to relent, either.
Behind his back, Cyril's hands tightened; he was careful not to let his eyes narrow or his face lose any of its customary neutrality. “I can appreciate your concern for everyone's safety," he replied, well aware that she was dangerously close to demonstrating a complete lack of it and seeking to remind her. Rhea had always at least paid lip service to the safety of the students before—here she was making no attempt to do so at all, and if she wanted to keep up the fragile facade he was going to force her to walk that back.
“But it could well be that a Relic makes the difference between victory and death for all of us, in the future, and it protects no one locked in the reliquary." He was careful to keep his tone free of accusation, as flat and mild as it always was. He might be able to scare the wits out of a scholar without much effort, but Rhea was the Archbishop. He knew quite well she didn't scare.
Her eyes narrowed at him, but the smile she kept on her face. “I will agree on one condition," she began, her expression smoothing out as she regarded Cyril. “The moment it appears that she lacks in anyway to use it properly, or it overcomes her, you will return it, immediately." She gave him a hardened gaze, clearly unhappy about the situation. She did not comment further, though.
“Of course." He gave no sign of having won a victory in this, because he didn't want it to seem adversarial. Rhea was... touchy, was a good word for it, if a bit mild, and he was learning that though she did have some odd, inexplicable fondness for him, it only extended so far.
Still, he wasn't just going to roll over and do as she pleased, either. Shifting his shoulders back slightly, he tilted his head. “I feel I should also report that the Monastery seems to have a leak somewhere in it," he said slowly. “Prior to the mission, word somehow got out that one of my students in fact possessed Maurice's Crest. A group of them were quite publicly confronted about it, despite the matter being one that only a very small number of people knew about. It concerns me that similarly sensitive information may escape via the same channel in the future."
He did not accuse her. He had no evidence with which to do so. But he wanted to see how she reacted to the information.
If anything, she didn't seem surprised at all. She merely pursed her lips together and ducked her head. “I see... it is a shame. I will have Lyanna look into it," she replied, lifting her gaze back to Cyril's. “In the meantime, I will see Blutgang returned to your student. Since we are here, I shall update you on next month's mission," she began, however; she paused for a moment as if anticipating something.
It took only half a second more for him to hear the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps; he was outright surprised when Lyanna burst into the office, face drawn and pinched with obvious worry. Vridel was only slightly behind her, for some reason. He did not pass the threshold, however, only shooting Cyril a glance that conveyed a similar concern.
“Rhea!" Lyanna lacked her customary cool poise entirely; the word came out rushed, and she looked like she'd run miles to get there. “She's gone! Thea's missing! Please—" Only then did she seem to notice Cyril, and the eyes with which she looked at him were red-rimmed and scared. “Please. We have to find her."
“Lyanna, calm yourself," Rhea spoke, though her voice was not one of concern nor compassion. “Have you checked every where for her?" she asked, glancing in Lyanna's direction. She didn't bother to glance at Vridel, nor motion for him to approach. “You know how she likes to wander," she continued, her eyes narrowing slightly. She almost sounded angry, though it was unclear as to why. Amalthea seemed to be missing, according to Lyanna, however; Rhea seemed angry at the fact, even if her face did not show it.
Lyanna drew in a sharp breath, a wounded look briefly crossing her face before she straightened. “Yes," she said, fighting to keep her tone under control. Cyril couldn't believe she was expected to do so, when her sister was clearly in danger. “We've searched the whole Monastery. I don't... I don't think she came back to her room at all last night."
“She wasn't there this morning?" Cyril asked, gentling his voice.
Lyanna nodded, tears forming in the corners of her eyes. “I went to bed early last night, thinking she'd be home later, but her bed doesn't show any signs of having been slept in, and the floor's clean—she—" She swallowed. “She always leaves her laundry on the floor." Her lips trembled; Cyril immediately took a step forward, unsure what to do but knowing he wanted to do something.
It seemed to be all that was required. Lyanna stepped in, too, winding her arms around him. Unsure exactly how to respond, he patted her head gently, sliding his hand down to rest on her upper back.
“Is there any reason she would have been taken?" Vridel asked, stepping into the office despite his lack of an invitation.
Cyril's thoughts immediately went to the rumor he'd heard, but it was much too soon to be jumping to any such conclusion.
Lyanna sobbed, a soft thing, and shook her head faintly. Her arms squeezed around Cyril. “Her blood," she said softly. “Our blood, it's—special." The words hitched before the last one, almost as if she'd meant to say something else. “It should have been me," she said miserably. “Why didn't they take me?"
Rhea's eyes seemed to harden at Lyanna's declaration. She almost seemed to be outright glaring at her, as if she'd said something she wasn't supposed to. “Lyanna von Kreuz, you will calm yourself. You will do well to recall that impatience begets error. At present we know for certain she has not left Garreg Mach," Rhea spoke, her voice loud and commanding. “Despite the troubling rumors," she began, apparently aware that there were rumors running around, “you know I think of your... sister as family as well. You know that." Her voice had softened, perhaps intentionally.
“You will have my support. We shall devote ourselves fully—mind, body, and soul—to recovering her." She didn't seem too happy about it, however; she turned her attention towards Cyril. “Your mission is to help find Amalthea. We will have the knights cover the town, so I ask that you focus your efforts on searching the monastery again. We do no have time to waste; you have your orders."
Lyanna stiffened in Cyril's hold at the rebuke, and he could hear her swallow thickly. He gave her the time she needed to gather herself, and she stepped away with a sniffle and a subtle nod. “I—yes, Archbishop. Thank you." Her tone was almost meek; her eyes dropped to the floor.
Cyril resisted the urge to frown; Vridel did not. “Of course," he said. “We'll begin right away."
Time was of the essence.
Common Room - Midmorning - Raining
Mercer von Riegan
Mercer did not bother hiding his displeasure. Amalthea was missing, and no one seemed to know where she was. And that was to say nothing of the rumors he'd heard in town about a Death Knight stealing people's souls. He was certain that wasn't quite the case, but he had noticed how paranoid the people were in town when they'd arrived after last month's mission. He didn't blame them; he couldn't really fault them for fearing something they had no control over. But this... Amalthea missing was something else. It boiled his blood, and he was angry. Why would anyone take Amalthea? She was, perhaps, one of the sweetest people here.
Maybe that was why she was taken? She wasn't quite aware of people's intentions. If someone had asked her to be their friend, or find their lost pet, she was exactly the type to say yes, and not second guess it. Sometimes he wished she were not so naive, but there was nothing to be done about it, now. He caught his chin in his hand, resting it against the table as he waited for everyone to arrive. Cyril had asked them to meet in the common room, seeing as it was the only place they could speak freely without too many prying eyes, or ears.
Senka and Sorcha were the first to arrive. He felt a small smile cross his features, but it disappeared when he noticed Senka's expression. She looked about as well as he felt. Her eyes were slightly hazy, and she looked like she hadn't slept well that night. Sorcha's expression was drawn, but if anything there was a sharpness to her, like she was angry and not containing it well. Her eyes might well have been shards of ice.
“Hey," he greeted, watching as Senka's eyes landed on him. She nodded in way of greeting, but didn't say anything. He didn't blame her. She took a seat at the table, though, and folded her hands in front of her.
“Hey," Sorcha replied, her tone brittle. It wasn't directed at him, of course; he could tell that much without having to think about it. She took the seat next to Senka, eyes falling to the surface of the table.
The others filed in pretty quickly after that: Reynard, Devon, Sylvi, Sofia, Deirdre. Teach and Vridel entered together. Though their professor looked mostly the same as usual, there was a tension in his normally relaxed carriage that gave him away. Vi, though... he looked like he'd seen better days. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair looked like he'd raked his hands through it in frustration several times too many, the normally-disciplined white strands askew. He was, oddly, wearing his reading glasses, though not carrying any books. Less-oddly, he was outright scowling, though probably not aware of it.
Teach waited for everyone to be seated before speaking. “I won't waste time," he said simply. “By now, you all know that Amalthea is missing. We've been tasked with searching the Monastery for her, while the Knights are supposed to handle the town of Garreg Mach."
“Bullshit," Vridel snapped. “What assurance do we have that they even care enough to look with any effort? You heard how Rhea sounded. She's doing this from obligation, not desire. They're probably the same."
Mercer pursed his lips together. “I'm sure the knights are going to do what they can to find her. Whether Lady Rhea is doing it from obligation or desire, I know that some of the knights were fond of Amalthea. Even Alois was fond of her. They often ate together when he was around; you all know this," Sylvi spoke, her brows furrowed deeply.
“That doesn't mean anything, though," Dierdre spoke, her eyes narrowed as if she were glaring at the table. Mercer knew she was upset as well, and that she probably felt as helpless as they all did at the moment. Amalthea was a friend to everyone here at the table. He had to agree with Sylvi, as well. Amalthea made it very difficult to not want to be her friend, and she was always talking with the knights. She often made them floral crowns, or some other strange object to lighten their spirits.
“But where are we supposed to check in the monastery? There are not many places here to hide someone," Senka spoke, her voice soft and hoarse as if from wear. “The last time I saw Amalthea was a couple of days ago after we'd returned," she continued. The same with Mercer. Even though classes were on those days, they had been given those days off to recover. They had to make up their missed notes, of course, but Mercer hadn't minded the extra day to rest.
“When was the last time any of us saw her?" he asked.
Cyril looked immediately at Vi, for some reason, and he sighed. “I'm pretty sure I was the last person to see her," he said. “Or at least the last person who will admit it. Saturday evening. We were at the practice grounds, working on her axe-throwing. She had Aymr with her." His frown deepened, and the reason why was obvious: if Thea had been armed, then the options narrowed: either she'd left on her own, or the person who had taken her had been able to overpower her even with a weapon, or she'd been tricked into going with them somehow.
“We split ways at the dining hall. She said she was going back to her room." The dining hall was quite close to Thea and Lyanna's quarters, and actually meant Vridel had gone farther than he needed to, as the turnoff for the dorms was earlier. He'd walked her far enough that it was obvious he had been walking her back—but not far enough. Mercer could almost see it eating at him.
“At this point, we are reasonably certain that she was therefore taken on her way back. And we do think she was taken. It's a very narrow window of space and time, suggesting either someone familiar with Amalathea's routines or someone who spotted them and followed long enough to see her separate from Vridel. And who was prepared to act on that opportunity, short as it was. It seems unlikely that she was not taken in some way or other."
“Especially if she told Vivi she was going back to her room," Sorcha added. “She'd have no reason not to be honest about that."
Sorcha had a point. Mercer didn't think Amalthea was capable of lying. “Who could have taken her, though?" he mused out loud. He couldn't think of a single purpose as to why she would be taken. It was Amalthea for goddess' sake.
“She's the sister of the archbishop's advisor, but I don't see any other reason as to why someone would want to take her," Senka stated, pursing her lips together.
“I have to admit, Senka has a point. Amalthea doesn't have much use to anyone. Unless someone wanted leverage over Lyanna, or even the Church, considering the position Lyanna holds," he stated, tilting his head lightly. “Amalthea's just a regular person, otherwise."
“That's not quite true," Teach said, shaking his head. “According to Lady Lyanna, her blood has some kind of special property. It's not clear what it is, but—"
“She has—" Vi grimaced. “Don't go spreading this around, but she has the Major Crest of Cethleann. That's the only thing I can think of that makes any sense."
“You think someone wanted her for her Crest?" Reynard asked, sounding vaguely skeptical. “I suppose that's possible, but then why say her blood is special? Crests are carried through bloodlines, but the way that's phrased makes it sound like there's something important about her literal blood."
Vi refused to make eye contact with anyone. “Crests and literal blood are related," he said flatly. “I don't know exactly how, but they are. You can take my word for that or not; it probably doesn't matter. Whatever the exact cause, it's something about Thea in particular that made her a target."
“Unless..." Sofia hesitated. “I don't mean to be bringing up unsubstantiated rumors, but there was all that talk of a Death Spirit last week. It's too fantastical to be real, but it could just be a criminal. And he's supposed to be stealing away young women so... so maybe it really was just a matter of opportunity. He saw a young woman and took her."
Vridel's jaw tightened, but he didn't deny the possibility.
Mercer furrowed his brows, as did Senka and Sylvi. Dierdre glanced at Sofia, but didn't say anything. “If that's the case, then it is possible that, whoever this Death Spirit is, is responsible for taking Amalthea. She wouldn't have gone willingly, if that were the case, I don't think. She might have put up a fight, the only thing is," Sylvi started as her eyes went to Vridel and Cyril. “There was no sign of a struggle, was there?"
“I don't think there was," Dierdre spoke. Mercer rubbed the sides of his temples. The only logical thing would be to investigate the rumors, however; how were they going to do that? People in town were already frightened, and when he had asked some of them about the rumors, they became tightlipped and turned him away.
“But why would they take someone from the monastery? The rumors were that the Spirit was taking people from the town. Why try to take someone from a guarded area where they are likely to get caught?" Sylvi mused out loud.
“It could be that they were feeling bold, or... they knew how the knight's shifts worked," Senka stated, finally lifting her eyes to gaze at the group. “It would have been someone who was familiar, who wouldn't have seemed out of place at the monastery."
“Or someone who lives here," Sorcha said softly, biting her lip uncomfortably. “Think about it. In order to move in or out of the Monastery, you have to either use the front gate or fly. The front gate is always under guard, and can't be open or shut without at least two people. Someone would have seen them leave, but no one did. That means... whoever did this, Death Spirit or not, had somewhere within the Monastery to put her, and can come and go from the town without arousing suspicion, if it was the so-called spirit. Either way, they live here."
It seemed to be a sobering realization for the group; Devon shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Cyril sighed quietly. “There are three avenues of investigation before us," he said after a moment, crossing his arms and shifting his eyes slowly over the group. “These rumors of a death spirit in town, and the people within the monastery itself. Of them, we should be most concerned by anyone who might have knowledge of or use for Amalthea's Crest. That means the people she knew the most and the people who knew the most about her."
He let that sit for a moment; many of those people were in this room, but he regarded none of them with any suspicion. “From now on, no one does anything alone. Not just the women—anyone. Don't go to class, or lunch, or to practice, anywhere without at least one other member of this group. Trust no one else, no matter how well you think you know them or their intentions. And if I have to tell you not to go anywhere alone at night, then I've failed to teach you anything about tactics."
Pursing his lips, he expelled another breath. “Senka, Reynard, Sorcha. You and I will spend the next week investigating the town. It is of paramount importance that the knights do not catch on to what we are doing." He shook his head faintly. “Everyone else will ask around the monastery as discreetly as possible. Mercer, Vridel, and Devon should focus on the Crest angle, but be careful. Sylvi, Sofia, and Deirdre: figure out who Amalthea was closest to and get what you can out of them."
“Understood," Mercer stated as everyone seemed to nod in unison. “Don't worry guys, we'll find her."
No matter what, they were going to find Amalthea.
Maybe that was why she was taken? She wasn't quite aware of people's intentions. If someone had asked her to be their friend, or find their lost pet, she was exactly the type to say yes, and not second guess it. Sometimes he wished she were not so naive, but there was nothing to be done about it, now. He caught his chin in his hand, resting it against the table as he waited for everyone to arrive. Cyril had asked them to meet in the common room, seeing as it was the only place they could speak freely without too many prying eyes, or ears.
Senka and Sorcha were the first to arrive. He felt a small smile cross his features, but it disappeared when he noticed Senka's expression. She looked about as well as he felt. Her eyes were slightly hazy, and she looked like she hadn't slept well that night. Sorcha's expression was drawn, but if anything there was a sharpness to her, like she was angry and not containing it well. Her eyes might well have been shards of ice.
“Hey," he greeted, watching as Senka's eyes landed on him. She nodded in way of greeting, but didn't say anything. He didn't blame her. She took a seat at the table, though, and folded her hands in front of her.
“Hey," Sorcha replied, her tone brittle. It wasn't directed at him, of course; he could tell that much without having to think about it. She took the seat next to Senka, eyes falling to the surface of the table.
The others filed in pretty quickly after that: Reynard, Devon, Sylvi, Sofia, Deirdre. Teach and Vridel entered together. Though their professor looked mostly the same as usual, there was a tension in his normally relaxed carriage that gave him away. Vi, though... he looked like he'd seen better days. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair looked like he'd raked his hands through it in frustration several times too many, the normally-disciplined white strands askew. He was, oddly, wearing his reading glasses, though not carrying any books. Less-oddly, he was outright scowling, though probably not aware of it.
Teach waited for everyone to be seated before speaking. “I won't waste time," he said simply. “By now, you all know that Amalthea is missing. We've been tasked with searching the Monastery for her, while the Knights are supposed to handle the town of Garreg Mach."
“Bullshit," Vridel snapped. “What assurance do we have that they even care enough to look with any effort? You heard how Rhea sounded. She's doing this from obligation, not desire. They're probably the same."
Mercer pursed his lips together. “I'm sure the knights are going to do what they can to find her. Whether Lady Rhea is doing it from obligation or desire, I know that some of the knights were fond of Amalthea. Even Alois was fond of her. They often ate together when he was around; you all know this," Sylvi spoke, her brows furrowed deeply.
“That doesn't mean anything, though," Dierdre spoke, her eyes narrowed as if she were glaring at the table. Mercer knew she was upset as well, and that she probably felt as helpless as they all did at the moment. Amalthea was a friend to everyone here at the table. He had to agree with Sylvi, as well. Amalthea made it very difficult to not want to be her friend, and she was always talking with the knights. She often made them floral crowns, or some other strange object to lighten their spirits.
“But where are we supposed to check in the monastery? There are not many places here to hide someone," Senka spoke, her voice soft and hoarse as if from wear. “The last time I saw Amalthea was a couple of days ago after we'd returned," she continued. The same with Mercer. Even though classes were on those days, they had been given those days off to recover. They had to make up their missed notes, of course, but Mercer hadn't minded the extra day to rest.
“When was the last time any of us saw her?" he asked.
Cyril looked immediately at Vi, for some reason, and he sighed. “I'm pretty sure I was the last person to see her," he said. “Or at least the last person who will admit it. Saturday evening. We were at the practice grounds, working on her axe-throwing. She had Aymr with her." His frown deepened, and the reason why was obvious: if Thea had been armed, then the options narrowed: either she'd left on her own, or the person who had taken her had been able to overpower her even with a weapon, or she'd been tricked into going with them somehow.
“We split ways at the dining hall. She said she was going back to her room." The dining hall was quite close to Thea and Lyanna's quarters, and actually meant Vridel had gone farther than he needed to, as the turnoff for the dorms was earlier. He'd walked her far enough that it was obvious he had been walking her back—but not far enough. Mercer could almost see it eating at him.
“At this point, we are reasonably certain that she was therefore taken on her way back. And we do think she was taken. It's a very narrow window of space and time, suggesting either someone familiar with Amalathea's routines or someone who spotted them and followed long enough to see her separate from Vridel. And who was prepared to act on that opportunity, short as it was. It seems unlikely that she was not taken in some way or other."
“Especially if she told Vivi she was going back to her room," Sorcha added. “She'd have no reason not to be honest about that."
Sorcha had a point. Mercer didn't think Amalthea was capable of lying. “Who could have taken her, though?" he mused out loud. He couldn't think of a single purpose as to why she would be taken. It was Amalthea for goddess' sake.
“She's the sister of the archbishop's advisor, but I don't see any other reason as to why someone would want to take her," Senka stated, pursing her lips together.
“I have to admit, Senka has a point. Amalthea doesn't have much use to anyone. Unless someone wanted leverage over Lyanna, or even the Church, considering the position Lyanna holds," he stated, tilting his head lightly. “Amalthea's just a regular person, otherwise."
“That's not quite true," Teach said, shaking his head. “According to Lady Lyanna, her blood has some kind of special property. It's not clear what it is, but—"
“She has—" Vi grimaced. “Don't go spreading this around, but she has the Major Crest of Cethleann. That's the only thing I can think of that makes any sense."
“You think someone wanted her for her Crest?" Reynard asked, sounding vaguely skeptical. “I suppose that's possible, but then why say her blood is special? Crests are carried through bloodlines, but the way that's phrased makes it sound like there's something important about her literal blood."
Vi refused to make eye contact with anyone. “Crests and literal blood are related," he said flatly. “I don't know exactly how, but they are. You can take my word for that or not; it probably doesn't matter. Whatever the exact cause, it's something about Thea in particular that made her a target."
“Unless..." Sofia hesitated. “I don't mean to be bringing up unsubstantiated rumors, but there was all that talk of a Death Spirit last week. It's too fantastical to be real, but it could just be a criminal. And he's supposed to be stealing away young women so... so maybe it really was just a matter of opportunity. He saw a young woman and took her."
Vridel's jaw tightened, but he didn't deny the possibility.
Mercer furrowed his brows, as did Senka and Sylvi. Dierdre glanced at Sofia, but didn't say anything. “If that's the case, then it is possible that, whoever this Death Spirit is, is responsible for taking Amalthea. She wouldn't have gone willingly, if that were the case, I don't think. She might have put up a fight, the only thing is," Sylvi started as her eyes went to Vridel and Cyril. “There was no sign of a struggle, was there?"
“I don't think there was," Dierdre spoke. Mercer rubbed the sides of his temples. The only logical thing would be to investigate the rumors, however; how were they going to do that? People in town were already frightened, and when he had asked some of them about the rumors, they became tightlipped and turned him away.
“But why would they take someone from the monastery? The rumors were that the Spirit was taking people from the town. Why try to take someone from a guarded area where they are likely to get caught?" Sylvi mused out loud.
“It could be that they were feeling bold, or... they knew how the knight's shifts worked," Senka stated, finally lifting her eyes to gaze at the group. “It would have been someone who was familiar, who wouldn't have seemed out of place at the monastery."
“Or someone who lives here," Sorcha said softly, biting her lip uncomfortably. “Think about it. In order to move in or out of the Monastery, you have to either use the front gate or fly. The front gate is always under guard, and can't be open or shut without at least two people. Someone would have seen them leave, but no one did. That means... whoever did this, Death Spirit or not, had somewhere within the Monastery to put her, and can come and go from the town without arousing suspicion, if it was the so-called spirit. Either way, they live here."
It seemed to be a sobering realization for the group; Devon shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Cyril sighed quietly. “There are three avenues of investigation before us," he said after a moment, crossing his arms and shifting his eyes slowly over the group. “These rumors of a death spirit in town, and the people within the monastery itself. Of them, we should be most concerned by anyone who might have knowledge of or use for Amalthea's Crest. That means the people she knew the most and the people who knew the most about her."
He let that sit for a moment; many of those people were in this room, but he regarded none of them with any suspicion. “From now on, no one does anything alone. Not just the women—anyone. Don't go to class, or lunch, or to practice, anywhere without at least one other member of this group. Trust no one else, no matter how well you think you know them or their intentions. And if I have to tell you not to go anywhere alone at night, then I've failed to teach you anything about tactics."
Pursing his lips, he expelled another breath. “Senka, Reynard, Sorcha. You and I will spend the next week investigating the town. It is of paramount importance that the knights do not catch on to what we are doing." He shook his head faintly. “Everyone else will ask around the monastery as discreetly as possible. Mercer, Vridel, and Devon should focus on the Crest angle, but be careful. Sylvi, Sofia, and Deirdre: figure out who Amalthea was closest to and get what you can out of them."
“Understood," Mercer stated as everyone seemed to nod in unison. “Don't worry guys, we'll find her."
No matter what, they were going to find Amalthea.
Village of Garreg Mach - Midnight - Overcast
Vridel von Hresvelg
Vridel slid his sword home in its sheath, satisfied in some small way by the faint click it made at the end of the motion. Belting it on over his shirt, he picked up the black scarf on his desk and wrapped it around his face and head, obscuring the bright white of his hair and the pale tone of his skin. He was outfitted heat to toe in mottled blacks, greys, and dark blues, colors suited to the kind of skulking he rather planned to do this evening.
Professor Cyril had told them not to go out alone at night, and it wasn't as if Vridel disagreed with the wisdom of that. Anyone who did so was making themselves a potential target. But the thing was, that was exactly his intention.
Amalthea had been missing for four days, and they'd still found absolutely no sign of her. And for four days, Vridel had been able to think about almost nothing but the fact that what had happened was his fault. He'd heard the rumors. Knew that there was supposedly something or someone out there kidnapping young women. He'd even walked her most of the way to her rooms. But then he'd separated from her, and somewhere between there and her destination, she'd been taken. The conclusion was obvious, and he couldn't rest until he'd recovered her.
Even then it wouldn't be enough, but it would be something.
Carefully, he eased open his window. It wouldn't do to be seen leaving from the front of the dormitory. Reynard had taught him a method for exiting out of sight of the Garreg Mach guards; it might well be one the culprit knew as well, but all the better if he ran into him early.
Vridel had very particular plans in mind for what would happen if that were the case.
His feet hit the ground softly, and then he was off, making quick progress over the monastery grounds to the part of the wall that was roughened enough by age to support an ivy growth climbable to a lighter person. He doubted someone would be able to manage it carrying another person, but there was always a chance, he supposed.
Once he was over, he headed towards the town, sticking to shadows for the most part. He wasn't that focused on avoiding being seen; anyone else out here a this time would be automatically suspicous to him anyway, but if he could avoid rumors of someone who looked like him being the Death Knight, he'd prefer it.
It seemed, however, that someone else intended to not be seen. Someone up ahead, using almost the same method as Vridel to keep to the shadows, was more intent on staying there. From what Vridel could tell, the figure was dressed mostly in black with just a single dull grey sash around their waist. They were carrying a sword as well, but there seemed to be a dagger on the opposite side. Whoever it was seemed to be anticipating a fight of sorts, or at least was prepared for one.
It didn't exactly look like someone who'd be mistaken for a spirit—more like the ordinary sort of skulker. But Vridel wasn't going to take any chances. Not with Thea's live in the balance.
Most of his magic was literally too flashy for stealth on a quiet night, but he did have a few tricks Senka and the Professor had taught him, so he aimed a wind spell for the figure's legs, firing it off and drawing his sword to spring forward as soon as it connected, ready to lunge for them.
“Ack!" the person lurched forward, caught off guard by the sudden attack, however; they rolled back to their feet, sword drawn and ready to counter the attack. “Show yourself, you bastard!" from the sound of the voice, it was slightly muffled, but there was a familiar lilt to it. “You won't get away with this, you asshole!" the person continued, however; as they continued to speak, it became clear who the voice belonged to.
It was Mercer, doing a poor job at disguising his voice.
“What the—Mercer?" Vridel steps slightly forward so he's somewhat visible, sheathing his blade. He's confident in his assessment—it's the accent, and the very shoddy attempt to make it sound local. He shakes his head, not trying to conceal his own. “What are you doing?"
“Oh, hey Vi," he replied once it seemed he recognized Vridel. “And I could ask you the same thing! But I think I already know," he stated, sheathing his own sword as he walked closer to Vridel until he was visible. “You're out trying to find the Death Spirit, aren't you? And Thea. You can't deny it because that's exactly what I'm doing, and I know you," he replied, his eyes narrowing just slightly through the cloth covering his face.
“So, what do you say we just keep going? It'll be easier since it's the two of us."
Vridel suppressed a sound of frustration. The entire point of going alone had been being more likely to escape notice, something that was going to be harder with two people than one, but... he supposed the backup wasn't entirely unwelcome. “Fine," he said, the word turning mostly into a sigh by the end. “Let's get moving."
“Great!" he stated, sounding rather chipper about it. “We can split up if you want when we get to the town. Might make it easier to gather information that way," Mercer suggested with a shrug of his shoulders. He took off after that, running ahead of Vridel as if on purpose. When they reached the outskirts of the town, he slowed to a light jog before walking, perhaps to make it seem less conspicuous. They were, after all, trying to be stealthy, and not seen.
“Alright," he murmured softly, glancing in Vridel's direction. “How do you want to do this? Do you want to split up and I take the east side of town, or do you want to do this as one single sweep?" he asked, his eyes holding Vridel's with an uncanny sharpness to them.
Vridel could recognize Mercer being serious when he saw it, even if it didn't happen often. The situation surely warranted it. He considered the options, frowning slightly beneath where the scarf was wrapped around his nose and mouth. Splitting up would allow for stealth and covering more ground, but a sweep would be safer for them, admittedly. If they were dealing with someone who overpowered Amalthea, they could be in for trouble. She was hardly weak, even if she couldn't bring herself to kill people.
“I think—" he paused; a glimmer ahead of them had caught his attention. “What the...?" He squinted into the dark, trying to make it out. Was it the spirit or whatever?
Holding a finger to his lips, he nodded forward and darted between houses, trying to stay unnoticed and trusting that Mercer would keep pace. As they got near, it became clear that the figure was a woman's, from the shape. Bright blonde hair, braided loosely, cascaded down her back; the simple commoner's dress she wore suggested a girl from the town, but something was off. She held herself like.
Like a Princess.
“Sorcha!" he hissed, causing her to startle and whirl around. She had, in fact, acquired a drab, grey dress from somewhere, and had worn a kerchief over her head, but her face was uncovered. Wide eyes scanned the area, but she clearly hadn't spotted them yet.
“Who's there?" she demanded, tone iron. Her hand drifted towards the small of her back, as if reaching for a concealed weapon.
Mercer was the first to step out, his eyes narrowed to show his discomfort. “Damn it, Sorcha!" he stated, though it wasn't too loud. It seemed he didn't want to garner attention towards them. “What are you doing out here? Don't you know how dangerous it is right now!?" he continued, his voice conveying his displeasure.
“You shouldn't be out here! I don't care if you know how to take care of yourself, but..." he paused, his jaw tightening as he slumped his shoulders.
“That's exactly why I'm here!" she replied in an urgent whisper. It seemed she'd recognized them without any trouble once they'd revealed themselves. “I'm bait. Which is sight better than skulking around just hoping to run into him," she added, crossing her arms.
“What? You can't be bait," Vridel protested, fully on Mercer's side on this one.
“I can, and I will," Sorcha replied. “You think I don't want to find her, Vivi? You think I don't care enough to put myself on the line for it? You're dead wrong. Come along if you like, but I'm doing this." Her eyes flashed, and he knew then that she'd got this into her head and wasn't going to let it go. He grit his teeth.
“That's not the point, Sor!" Mercer replied. “We know you care, and we know you want to find her, because we all do, but you can't be bait. What if something were to happen to you? Then we'd have to look for Amalthea and you! Do you really want to do that to me? To Senka? To Vi!?" he continued. Mercer didn't seem like he was going to let this go, either, however; he didn't seem to stop her, either.
“You should have at least told the two of us. We could have helped, and we could have made sure nothing happened to you, too. I can't..." he paused to take a deep breath, “I can't risk you, too."
“And either of you could have told me what you were doing, but you didn't, did you?" She frowns at the both of them, eyes narrow, then sighs quietly. “I knew it was a risk, but it's not like I came completely unprepared. I just—I didn't—" She exhales the rest of the breath, shaking her head. Her expression eases, and she makes a clear attempt at a smile.
“I'd be grateful for the backup, really. But please—let me help. Let me do this."
It's Vridel's turn to sigh, and he glances aside to Mercer. “I suppose it won't hurt, since we're all going to be out here anyway." Stealth might be out the window, but... bait's not the worst idea he's ever heard, at least not now that she has actual backup. Maybe they'll get somewhere.
Mercer still didn't look happy, but he relented and nodded his head. “Fine," he spoke, taking in a deep breath. “We'll use you as bait since it appears that the Spirit is only taking women. Vi is as pretty as a girl, but he's lacking in certain departments to qualify," Mercer stated, retaining some of the lightness in his voice, while also taking a jab at Vridel, it seemed. He rolled his eyes, though, and crossed his arms over his chest.
Vridel made a discontent grumbling noise at the 'compliment,' but otherwise said nothing. It was more important that they get to it.
“Alright, so since we're using you as bait, we should probably focus on the areas where the Spirit has been sighted the most. We can go from there if we need to, but I think that'll be a good start as any. And," he paused to regard Sorcha, “if something seems too overwhelming, don't try to take it on by yourself. We won't be too far, but at least try to get away until we can get to you. We can't be too close, either, so... don't be too reckless."
She nodded firmly. “I might not be as pretty as Thea—or Vivi—" she winked at him there, smiling for just the briefest moment when he rolled his eyes at her— “But I can look pretty helpless if I want to. I promise I'll shout if something happens."
Giving them a salute that was probably supposed to be jaunty but in fact came off shaky, she turned back around, treading forward with just the sort of hasty almost-fear that he supposed a village woman aware of the rumors might adopt.
Vridel gave her a considerable head start before following, veering slightly to the left and supposing that Mercer would take the right. It was possible this Death Knight or Spirit or whatever it was would approach from behind, after all—they didn't want to be directly in his path before he took the bait.
Mercer did, in fact, take the right side, trailing behind Sorcha at the same distance Vridel was keeping. He still didn't seem too happy about the idea of her being bait, but he at least seemed to be focused on her. If something were to happen, it wouldn't be because they weren't looking. After a few minutes of following Sorcha, Mercer pressed against the side of a building and motioned for Vridel to do the same. He pointed in the direction of Sorcha, and mouthed something that looked suspiciously like look.
There was a figure in front of Sorcha, but it was a bit dark to make out entirely. It was still a good distance away, but judging from the outline, the figure was perched on top of a horse. Rather late for a midnight ride, and if it were this Death Knight, they needed to get closer. Mercer did just that, moving as quietly as he could, perhaps to get a better look at the figure.
Vridel frowned, creeping closer on soft feet himself. Sorcha made it a little easier on them by stopping where she was, right in the middle of an open street. It was still difficult to see—he gritted his teeth and chanced another few steps.
As if answering his frustrations, one of the clouds blocking the moon must have shifted, for the entire area suddenly brightened considerably. There—a figure in black armor, its helm fashioned after something like a horned skull. The horse it rode was black as the night itself, as was every piece of its armor and armament, save the glimmering silver blade of its scythe. Its eyes seemed almost to burn from beneath the visor of the helm, a deep crimson that—
Wait. It almost felt like...
Did he know eyes like that?
There was no time to consider it; the figure was riding towards Sorcha with a purpose, now, scythe raised. She had nothing but a knife and her wits to defend herself with. It didn't matter that he couldn't be sure the knight had committed to the charge yet—he wasn't leaving her out there by herself.
Summoning magic to the tips of his fingers behind his back, Vridel drew in a breath. “Eyes!" he shouted, knowing the others would know what he meant.
Sorcha threw a hand over hers just as Vridel let loose the spell, a bright flash heralding the appearance of the Nosferatu spell, chosen here more for the light than the effect, though he noted that it hit well enough. The knight's horse reared; Sorcha dove forward, trying to plunge the knife in for a weak joint on his leg.
He thought she might have succeeded, but it was impossible to tell. A moment later, she was thrown back with a hard yelp, landing forcefully on the cobblestones well behind Mercer and Vridel. She was entirely still.
Mercer seemed to curse beneath his breath as he glanced towards Sorcha. He seemed torn between aiding her, and charging the knight, himself, however; it seemed that his concern for her was a higher priority, and he made his way towards her. He checked her over, perhaps to see if she was still breathing, before his shoulders slumped slightly. It seemed to Mercer that Sorcha was okay, for the moment, before he stood back up, and unsheathed his sword. He made no sound, no cry as he charged at the knight. He was angry; it was easy to tell by the furrow in his brows, and the way his jaw was tight.
The knight seemed to have no problem fending Mercer off, even with his scythe. When Mercer would try a different angle, the knight would shift in his saddle and block with seemingly no effort. It only seemed to aggravate Mercer, though, as he began wailing on the knight with his sword. The knight did not seem affected at all by it, and merely appeared bored. Perhaps that was his intention, to make Mercer angry so that he wouldn't be able to think properly nor defend himself.
Mercer was pushed back with a well-placed kick to his abdomen, causing him to cough a bit violently as if to catch his breath.
Dammit.
Vridel shot a quick healing spell in his direction rather than cast again at the knight. He'd though the rider would have to adjust for how far back they were now, but to Vridel's unpleasant surprise, when he swung the scythe from where he sat, a shockwave rippled outwards from the end of it, knocking both of them back several more steps. Vridel felt it crack across his ribcage, a sensation that at once seemed like burning and cutting, and expelled a hard breath.
Barely getting his feet back beneath him, he tried to ready his sword, but his grip was unsteady, hands shaking until the sword itself rattled, wavered in the air.
The knight appeared to pause, then. Without a word, he lowered his scythe and wheeled his horse, riding away the way he'd come.
“Dammit," Vridel hissed, still struggling to recover his breath. “Get back here, you—"
“Vridel, stop," Mercer wheezed out, moving to Vridel's side as if to offer him support. “He's gone; we can't do anything else, and Sorcha's hurt. We need to get the both of you back and healed before anyone finds out we're gone and how we were injured," he stated, pulling in a deep breath. His face contorted, as if it were a pained one, but he smoothed it back out.
“There's not much else we can do," and it was obvious in Mercer's tone that he wasn't thrilled about the sudden turn of events. His eyes narrowed in the direction the knight rode off, and his jaw was clenched tightly as if he were grinding his teeth.
He was right. Vridel hated it, but he was right. Pushing out a hard breath, he returned his sword to its sheath and made his way over to Sorcha. “No such luck," he said, grunting softly as he lowered himself to kneel next to her. “Unless you learned how to heal in the last couple of days, I'm what we've got. I can take care of you two, but I'm just going to have to sneak a vulnerary from somewhere and call it good." They were never as good as proper healing magic, which was vastly superior in the short-term, but he could cover the gaps with what little self-healing he was capable of. It would have to go.
So saying, he got to work on Sorcha, carefully mending her wounds. There didn't seem to be *many*; but one broad slash had clearly caught her from shoulder to hip. It was bleeding only sluggishly, but if they didn't get it closed, she'd die.
Fortunately, this was what Vridel was best at. It took some doing, but eventually the wound was gone, as though it had never been there. She was still unconscious, but that was to be expected; she needed time to recover from everything. He took care of Mercer's more minor injuries too, then stood, pushing himself with some effort back into a stand. “Can you carry her? I can't."
“Sure thing," Mercer replied, scooping up Sorcha as gently as he could. Once he adjusted her so that her head was tucked into his chest, he glanced at Vridel with narrowed eyes. “We'll have to see what the others can find. I doubt that knight will be back, now that he knows we're looking for him," Mercer spoke gently, but his tone was hard. “We don't have much time if that's the case," he added. Chances were, if that knight knew they were looking for him, he'd either move Amalthea elsewhere, or worse...
“We can't let that happen."
“No," Vridel said, half-muttering and half-snarling the word. “We can't."
He was done failing her.
Professor Cyril had told them not to go out alone at night, and it wasn't as if Vridel disagreed with the wisdom of that. Anyone who did so was making themselves a potential target. But the thing was, that was exactly his intention.
Amalthea had been missing for four days, and they'd still found absolutely no sign of her. And for four days, Vridel had been able to think about almost nothing but the fact that what had happened was his fault. He'd heard the rumors. Knew that there was supposedly something or someone out there kidnapping young women. He'd even walked her most of the way to her rooms. But then he'd separated from her, and somewhere between there and her destination, she'd been taken. The conclusion was obvious, and he couldn't rest until he'd recovered her.
Even then it wouldn't be enough, but it would be something.
Carefully, he eased open his window. It wouldn't do to be seen leaving from the front of the dormitory. Reynard had taught him a method for exiting out of sight of the Garreg Mach guards; it might well be one the culprit knew as well, but all the better if he ran into him early.
Vridel had very particular plans in mind for what would happen if that were the case.
His feet hit the ground softly, and then he was off, making quick progress over the monastery grounds to the part of the wall that was roughened enough by age to support an ivy growth climbable to a lighter person. He doubted someone would be able to manage it carrying another person, but there was always a chance, he supposed.
Once he was over, he headed towards the town, sticking to shadows for the most part. He wasn't that focused on avoiding being seen; anyone else out here a this time would be automatically suspicous to him anyway, but if he could avoid rumors of someone who looked like him being the Death Knight, he'd prefer it.
It seemed, however, that someone else intended to not be seen. Someone up ahead, using almost the same method as Vridel to keep to the shadows, was more intent on staying there. From what Vridel could tell, the figure was dressed mostly in black with just a single dull grey sash around their waist. They were carrying a sword as well, but there seemed to be a dagger on the opposite side. Whoever it was seemed to be anticipating a fight of sorts, or at least was prepared for one.
It didn't exactly look like someone who'd be mistaken for a spirit—more like the ordinary sort of skulker. But Vridel wasn't going to take any chances. Not with Thea's live in the balance.
Most of his magic was literally too flashy for stealth on a quiet night, but he did have a few tricks Senka and the Professor had taught him, so he aimed a wind spell for the figure's legs, firing it off and drawing his sword to spring forward as soon as it connected, ready to lunge for them.
“Ack!" the person lurched forward, caught off guard by the sudden attack, however; they rolled back to their feet, sword drawn and ready to counter the attack. “Show yourself, you bastard!" from the sound of the voice, it was slightly muffled, but there was a familiar lilt to it. “You won't get away with this, you asshole!" the person continued, however; as they continued to speak, it became clear who the voice belonged to.
It was Mercer, doing a poor job at disguising his voice.
“What the—Mercer?" Vridel steps slightly forward so he's somewhat visible, sheathing his blade. He's confident in his assessment—it's the accent, and the very shoddy attempt to make it sound local. He shakes his head, not trying to conceal his own. “What are you doing?"
“Oh, hey Vi," he replied once it seemed he recognized Vridel. “And I could ask you the same thing! But I think I already know," he stated, sheathing his own sword as he walked closer to Vridel until he was visible. “You're out trying to find the Death Spirit, aren't you? And Thea. You can't deny it because that's exactly what I'm doing, and I know you," he replied, his eyes narrowing just slightly through the cloth covering his face.
“So, what do you say we just keep going? It'll be easier since it's the two of us."
Vridel suppressed a sound of frustration. The entire point of going alone had been being more likely to escape notice, something that was going to be harder with two people than one, but... he supposed the backup wasn't entirely unwelcome. “Fine," he said, the word turning mostly into a sigh by the end. “Let's get moving."
“Great!" he stated, sounding rather chipper about it. “We can split up if you want when we get to the town. Might make it easier to gather information that way," Mercer suggested with a shrug of his shoulders. He took off after that, running ahead of Vridel as if on purpose. When they reached the outskirts of the town, he slowed to a light jog before walking, perhaps to make it seem less conspicuous. They were, after all, trying to be stealthy, and not seen.
“Alright," he murmured softly, glancing in Vridel's direction. “How do you want to do this? Do you want to split up and I take the east side of town, or do you want to do this as one single sweep?" he asked, his eyes holding Vridel's with an uncanny sharpness to them.
Vridel could recognize Mercer being serious when he saw it, even if it didn't happen often. The situation surely warranted it. He considered the options, frowning slightly beneath where the scarf was wrapped around his nose and mouth. Splitting up would allow for stealth and covering more ground, but a sweep would be safer for them, admittedly. If they were dealing with someone who overpowered Amalthea, they could be in for trouble. She was hardly weak, even if she couldn't bring herself to kill people.
“I think—" he paused; a glimmer ahead of them had caught his attention. “What the...?" He squinted into the dark, trying to make it out. Was it the spirit or whatever?
Holding a finger to his lips, he nodded forward and darted between houses, trying to stay unnoticed and trusting that Mercer would keep pace. As they got near, it became clear that the figure was a woman's, from the shape. Bright blonde hair, braided loosely, cascaded down her back; the simple commoner's dress she wore suggested a girl from the town, but something was off. She held herself like.
Like a Princess.
“Sorcha!" he hissed, causing her to startle and whirl around. She had, in fact, acquired a drab, grey dress from somewhere, and had worn a kerchief over her head, but her face was uncovered. Wide eyes scanned the area, but she clearly hadn't spotted them yet.
“Who's there?" she demanded, tone iron. Her hand drifted towards the small of her back, as if reaching for a concealed weapon.
Mercer was the first to step out, his eyes narrowed to show his discomfort. “Damn it, Sorcha!" he stated, though it wasn't too loud. It seemed he didn't want to garner attention towards them. “What are you doing out here? Don't you know how dangerous it is right now!?" he continued, his voice conveying his displeasure.
“You shouldn't be out here! I don't care if you know how to take care of yourself, but..." he paused, his jaw tightening as he slumped his shoulders.
“That's exactly why I'm here!" she replied in an urgent whisper. It seemed she'd recognized them without any trouble once they'd revealed themselves. “I'm bait. Which is sight better than skulking around just hoping to run into him," she added, crossing her arms.
“What? You can't be bait," Vridel protested, fully on Mercer's side on this one.
“I can, and I will," Sorcha replied. “You think I don't want to find her, Vivi? You think I don't care enough to put myself on the line for it? You're dead wrong. Come along if you like, but I'm doing this." Her eyes flashed, and he knew then that she'd got this into her head and wasn't going to let it go. He grit his teeth.
“That's not the point, Sor!" Mercer replied. “We know you care, and we know you want to find her, because we all do, but you can't be bait. What if something were to happen to you? Then we'd have to look for Amalthea and you! Do you really want to do that to me? To Senka? To Vi!?" he continued. Mercer didn't seem like he was going to let this go, either, however; he didn't seem to stop her, either.
“You should have at least told the two of us. We could have helped, and we could have made sure nothing happened to you, too. I can't..." he paused to take a deep breath, “I can't risk you, too."
“And either of you could have told me what you were doing, but you didn't, did you?" She frowns at the both of them, eyes narrow, then sighs quietly. “I knew it was a risk, but it's not like I came completely unprepared. I just—I didn't—" She exhales the rest of the breath, shaking her head. Her expression eases, and she makes a clear attempt at a smile.
“I'd be grateful for the backup, really. But please—let me help. Let me do this."
It's Vridel's turn to sigh, and he glances aside to Mercer. “I suppose it won't hurt, since we're all going to be out here anyway." Stealth might be out the window, but... bait's not the worst idea he's ever heard, at least not now that she has actual backup. Maybe they'll get somewhere.
Mercer still didn't look happy, but he relented and nodded his head. “Fine," he spoke, taking in a deep breath. “We'll use you as bait since it appears that the Spirit is only taking women. Vi is as pretty as a girl, but he's lacking in certain departments to qualify," Mercer stated, retaining some of the lightness in his voice, while also taking a jab at Vridel, it seemed. He rolled his eyes, though, and crossed his arms over his chest.
Vridel made a discontent grumbling noise at the 'compliment,' but otherwise said nothing. It was more important that they get to it.
“Alright, so since we're using you as bait, we should probably focus on the areas where the Spirit has been sighted the most. We can go from there if we need to, but I think that'll be a good start as any. And," he paused to regard Sorcha, “if something seems too overwhelming, don't try to take it on by yourself. We won't be too far, but at least try to get away until we can get to you. We can't be too close, either, so... don't be too reckless."
She nodded firmly. “I might not be as pretty as Thea—or Vivi—" she winked at him there, smiling for just the briefest moment when he rolled his eyes at her— “But I can look pretty helpless if I want to. I promise I'll shout if something happens."
Giving them a salute that was probably supposed to be jaunty but in fact came off shaky, she turned back around, treading forward with just the sort of hasty almost-fear that he supposed a village woman aware of the rumors might adopt.
Vridel gave her a considerable head start before following, veering slightly to the left and supposing that Mercer would take the right. It was possible this Death Knight or Spirit or whatever it was would approach from behind, after all—they didn't want to be directly in his path before he took the bait.
Mercer did, in fact, take the right side, trailing behind Sorcha at the same distance Vridel was keeping. He still didn't seem too happy about the idea of her being bait, but he at least seemed to be focused on her. If something were to happen, it wouldn't be because they weren't looking. After a few minutes of following Sorcha, Mercer pressed against the side of a building and motioned for Vridel to do the same. He pointed in the direction of Sorcha, and mouthed something that looked suspiciously like look.
There was a figure in front of Sorcha, but it was a bit dark to make out entirely. It was still a good distance away, but judging from the outline, the figure was perched on top of a horse. Rather late for a midnight ride, and if it were this Death Knight, they needed to get closer. Mercer did just that, moving as quietly as he could, perhaps to get a better look at the figure.
Vridel frowned, creeping closer on soft feet himself. Sorcha made it a little easier on them by stopping where she was, right in the middle of an open street. It was still difficult to see—he gritted his teeth and chanced another few steps.
As if answering his frustrations, one of the clouds blocking the moon must have shifted, for the entire area suddenly brightened considerably. There—a figure in black armor, its helm fashioned after something like a horned skull. The horse it rode was black as the night itself, as was every piece of its armor and armament, save the glimmering silver blade of its scythe. Its eyes seemed almost to burn from beneath the visor of the helm, a deep crimson that—
Wait. It almost felt like...
Did he know eyes like that?
There was no time to consider it; the figure was riding towards Sorcha with a purpose, now, scythe raised. She had nothing but a knife and her wits to defend herself with. It didn't matter that he couldn't be sure the knight had committed to the charge yet—he wasn't leaving her out there by herself.
Summoning magic to the tips of his fingers behind his back, Vridel drew in a breath. “Eyes!" he shouted, knowing the others would know what he meant.
Sorcha threw a hand over hers just as Vridel let loose the spell, a bright flash heralding the appearance of the Nosferatu spell, chosen here more for the light than the effect, though he noted that it hit well enough. The knight's horse reared; Sorcha dove forward, trying to plunge the knife in for a weak joint on his leg.
He thought she might have succeeded, but it was impossible to tell. A moment later, she was thrown back with a hard yelp, landing forcefully on the cobblestones well behind Mercer and Vridel. She was entirely still.
Mercer seemed to curse beneath his breath as he glanced towards Sorcha. He seemed torn between aiding her, and charging the knight, himself, however; it seemed that his concern for her was a higher priority, and he made his way towards her. He checked her over, perhaps to see if she was still breathing, before his shoulders slumped slightly. It seemed to Mercer that Sorcha was okay, for the moment, before he stood back up, and unsheathed his sword. He made no sound, no cry as he charged at the knight. He was angry; it was easy to tell by the furrow in his brows, and the way his jaw was tight.
The knight seemed to have no problem fending Mercer off, even with his scythe. When Mercer would try a different angle, the knight would shift in his saddle and block with seemingly no effort. It only seemed to aggravate Mercer, though, as he began wailing on the knight with his sword. The knight did not seem affected at all by it, and merely appeared bored. Perhaps that was his intention, to make Mercer angry so that he wouldn't be able to think properly nor defend himself.
Mercer was pushed back with a well-placed kick to his abdomen, causing him to cough a bit violently as if to catch his breath.
Dammit.
Vridel shot a quick healing spell in his direction rather than cast again at the knight. He'd though the rider would have to adjust for how far back they were now, but to Vridel's unpleasant surprise, when he swung the scythe from where he sat, a shockwave rippled outwards from the end of it, knocking both of them back several more steps. Vridel felt it crack across his ribcage, a sensation that at once seemed like burning and cutting, and expelled a hard breath.
Barely getting his feet back beneath him, he tried to ready his sword, but his grip was unsteady, hands shaking until the sword itself rattled, wavered in the air.
The knight appeared to pause, then. Without a word, he lowered his scythe and wheeled his horse, riding away the way he'd come.
“Dammit," Vridel hissed, still struggling to recover his breath. “Get back here, you—"
“Vridel, stop," Mercer wheezed out, moving to Vridel's side as if to offer him support. “He's gone; we can't do anything else, and Sorcha's hurt. We need to get the both of you back and healed before anyone finds out we're gone and how we were injured," he stated, pulling in a deep breath. His face contorted, as if it were a pained one, but he smoothed it back out.
“There's not much else we can do," and it was obvious in Mercer's tone that he wasn't thrilled about the sudden turn of events. His eyes narrowed in the direction the knight rode off, and his jaw was clenched tightly as if he were grinding his teeth.
He was right. Vridel hated it, but he was right. Pushing out a hard breath, he returned his sword to its sheath and made his way over to Sorcha. “No such luck," he said, grunting softly as he lowered himself to kneel next to her. “Unless you learned how to heal in the last couple of days, I'm what we've got. I can take care of you two, but I'm just going to have to sneak a vulnerary from somewhere and call it good." They were never as good as proper healing magic, which was vastly superior in the short-term, but he could cover the gaps with what little self-healing he was capable of. It would have to go.
So saying, he got to work on Sorcha, carefully mending her wounds. There didn't seem to be *many*; but one broad slash had clearly caught her from shoulder to hip. It was bleeding only sluggishly, but if they didn't get it closed, she'd die.
Fortunately, this was what Vridel was best at. It took some doing, but eventually the wound was gone, as though it had never been there. She was still unconscious, but that was to be expected; she needed time to recover from everything. He took care of Mercer's more minor injuries too, then stood, pushing himself with some effort back into a stand. “Can you carry her? I can't."
“Sure thing," Mercer replied, scooping up Sorcha as gently as he could. Once he adjusted her so that her head was tucked into his chest, he glanced at Vridel with narrowed eyes. “We'll have to see what the others can find. I doubt that knight will be back, now that he knows we're looking for him," Mercer spoke gently, but his tone was hard. “We don't have much time if that's the case," he added. Chances were, if that knight knew they were looking for him, he'd either move Amalthea elsewhere, or worse...
“We can't let that happen."
“No," Vridel said, half-muttering and half-snarling the word. “We can't."
He was done failing her.
Village of Garreg Mach - Early Evening - Overcast
Senka Rinaldi
There wasn't much information about Amalthea's disappearance. From what they had been able to gather, people were suspicious of each other, and they were pointing fingers in every direction. It wasn't helpful, at least not as far as they needed it to be helpful. People were panicking, and Senka really couldn't fault them for that. No one was safe; not in the monastery, and not in the town. And fear did a strange thing to people. Senka knew what that was like, partially. The fear of not knowing when you'll be next, if you'd be next. She sighed softly, and pushed the thoughts away, though.
Thinking like that wasn't going to help bring Amalthea back. The current rumor, however, placed the supposed Death Knight at the farthest end of town. Senka wasn't entirely sure why it would reside there; most of the town's population was centered towards the middle. It might have been that some of the residents who lived on the outskirts, were easier victims. Senka felt her brows furrow at that thought. A sound brought her out of her thoughts as she glanced at the small group she was currently with.
Her eyes met briefly with Sorcha's. “What do you suppose this spirit is getting out of kidnapping young women?" she asked in a hushed voice. She didn't need people to know what they were doing, after all. Senka couldn't think of a single reason why the spirit needed a young woman other than it was trying to make brides, or sacrifices. She hoped it was the former. It would mean that Amalthea had a greater chance of being found alive.
Sorcha shook her head. She'd been unusually quiet all day, and at lunch, Senka had caught her looking at everyone who entered the dining hall, as if scrutinizing them for something in particular. What it was, she hadn't said, but it didn't seem as though she'd found it.
“Do we know he's actually doing that?" Reynard walked casually beside them, to all appearances completely uninterested in his surroundings. “We know that's what the rumor is, but has anyone actually seen him snatch a girl? Are there any women missing in the village? Maybe it was all a screen, and the only one he wanted was her to begin with." He shrugged, lighting the plant matter packed into the bowl of his pipe with a flicker of conjured flame. His nonchalance was much better feigned than anyone else's lately, if in fact he was feigning it. He was a difficult person to read.
“That, at least, we can find out," Professor Cyril replied. “Even if the knights won't tell us." It was considered an investigation angle of theirs, and therefore hard to ask questions about without arousing suspicion. Pointing at a slightly larger building amidst a cluster of what seemed to be poorer storefronts, he glanced between them. “The Spindlethorn, the only tavern in Garreg Mach Village that operates all night."
“Tavern?" Reynard echoed, expelling smoke in a skeptical sounding huff. “You sure about that?"
But Cyril shrugged. “That's mostly what it is."
It was, Senka supposed, a good place to start. People were quite talkative when they came under the influence of drink. People loved talking, regardless, but they were likely to find out something more true if they waited long enough. They would have to make sure, however, that they appeared to be either passing travelers, or that they weren't seeking information. They weren't regulars, after all, or at least Senka knew herself and Sorcha to not be. She couldn't be too sure what the others did in their free time.
As they approached the tavern, Senka glanced at the others. “Would it be easier to split up into two groups to gather what we can, or should we stay together?" she asked, glancing between the others. If they split into two groups, they could cover a bigger section of the tavern, even if it wasn't that large to begin with, however; if they remained as a single group, they'd be able to speak about what they could hear, easier.
“No need," Cyril replied simply. “Reynard and I both have contacts here. He'll go talk to his, and you two can meet Miss Violet." So saying, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The tavern was warm, even compared to the outside, just barely the right side of uncomfortable, and maybe not for long. The scent of sharp alcohol hung in the air, as well as a faint trace of something floral. A few people were tucked away at various tables here and there, but the mood seemed to be rather quiet overall. Interspersed with the patrons were young women in unusually-elaborate dresses for commoners, though several of them looked a little threadbare in places, evidence that they were often mended and maintained by hand.
Still, it seemed almost homey, somehow; welcoming.
Not three seconds after they'd walked in, a woman with bright red hair approached, not stopping within polite distance but instead flinging her arms around Cyril. “Cy!"
He set his hands carefully on her sides and huffed softly. “Hello, Miss Violet."
She stepped back with a grin and a rustle of blue skirts, gesturing to a table in the corner. “Your usual's open. Who are your cute little friends?"
Senka supposed that was how the employees greeted their regulars, and she tipped her head in a polite nod. It didn't stop, however, a strange warming sensation from passing through her. It made her a little uncomfortable, but she put it down as being in a different environment.
“I am Senka," she introduced herself, allowing her features to smooth over into a small smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Violet," she continued. Cyril wanted them to meet her, for some reason, and the least Senka could do was be polite. She didn't know how else to be, especially with someone she'd never met before. New people always made her a bit uncomfortable, but she was with friends at the moment.
“And I'm Sorcha." She managed a little grin, one the other woman matched a bit before ushering them all over to the table. Reynard had already disappeared; it wasn't clear where he'd gone, but then it seldom was.
Once they were all settled, a waitress, dressed much more simply than Miss Violet, brought them all a small tray of pastries and whatever they wanted to drink. Cyril opted not to order alcohol, and Senka was pretty sure Sorcha had never in fact had any, so that meant two glasses of lemon icewater arrived with hers.
“So, Cy." Miss Violet had taken the seat right next to the Professor's, and was sitting almost against him, wrapped around one of his arms. He seemed to allow this with the same lack of concern he gave most things, and only arched an eyebrow at her when she spoke. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?"
“Information," he replied simply.
She gave a great sigh, smiling wryly, but it was something she seemed to have expected. “Naturally. Information about this mysterious Reaper, perhaps?" She plucked one of the little treats from the tray and bit into it, tilting her head inquiringly at all three of them.
Senka was uncomfortable, and it wasn't because she was out of her element. She was uncomfortable with how close this Miss Violet was sitting next to the professor, and how casual they both seemed about it. She felt her brows furrow slightly, her leg twitching as she accidentally brushed against Sorcha. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and she was having difficulty placing the feeling. It felt like someone was squeezing her heart, and she couldn't breath. Taking in a soft sigh, though, she merely nodded in way of response.
“This Reaper," she began, glancing towards Sorcha and Cyril before she continued, “may have a friend of ours. We are searching for any possible leads that may help us bring her home. We are very worried about her." Worried didn't even begin to cover it, though. None of them could sleep, or at least Senka knew she couldn't. She hadn't slept properly in the last week since Amalthea's disappearance. She folded her hands in front of her, and clasped them tightly.
She just wanted her friend back.
Sorcha slowed in her progress through the tray at the reminder, grimacing slightly. “I doubt there's much solid to go on," she said quietly, “but anything at all would be helpful, considering how little we know."
Miss Violet nodded, humming thoughtfully. “Well I doubt Cy's told you this, but if you want information in the town of Garreg Mach, I'm your girl." She smiled at the both of them, then, a genuinely-friendly thing from the look of it, though it sobered a moment later. “I'm sorry to hear about your friend, but I have to say... it's a little surprising."
“How so?" Cyril asked, brows furrowing.
She tilted her free hand back and forth. “Well, here's the thing. Everyone's been making a big fuss about the Reaper. Cooking up stories, like folk always do. The thing is... while I'm pretty sure there is someone riding around menacing people at night... no one else has actually been taken. Not that I know of, and I know just about everyone in the village pretty well. If you press on the people spreading these rumors, they always kind of deflect, like 'oh I heard it happened to some girl in Riverbend' or wherever else that's not too far from here. But as far as I can tell... nothing. Nothing real, anyway, except for generally making a scary nuisance of himself."
“But... why would anyone do something like that?" Sorcha asked.
Miss Violet sighed. “I can think of a few reasons. It could be a distraction for something else, but that doesn't make sense if he actually took your friend, so..."
“So it's a screen," the Professor finished solemnly. “He wanted to use the rumors to disguise the fact that he was specifically after Amalthea. It wasn't random, and it wasn't mere convenience. She was the target all along."
“But why Thea?" Senka mused out loud. There were quite a few number of reasons as to why Thea had been taken, but none of it had made sense. What could it possibly be that Thea has, that someone would want to kidnap her for? Was it for her blood? Her Crest? If so, why did having a major Crest of Cethleann make her a target?
“If it was just a screen, if he was truly after Amalthea..." she didn't want to think about it. It was possible that now that he had Amalthea, they would be moving, or worse. They could have already disappeared. If that were the case, what hope did they have of finding Thea? Who was to say that they hadn't failed in finding her, and she was lost to them? She took in a slow breath, and pushed the thoughts away. She had to believe that they would find Amalthea. She had to.
“Is... there any rumor as to where this spirit might dwell?" she asked. If the spirit was seen here, chances were it might be coming from somewhere nearby. And if that were the case, maybe... just maybe they had a chance of finding Amalthea before he took her too far.
The woman gave this a moment of consideration, pursing her lips and chewing quite deliberately over a bite of pastry before she replied. “The only thing that seems to be consistent is that people see him coming and going from the direction of the monastery," she said, arching a delicate brow. “But I don't think that should be too surprising; where else in town would there be someone with skill enough to do such things? It's certainly no ordinary kidnapper, either by way of appearance or method."
“But if he's at the monastery, and he wanted someone from there, why bother riding out into town at all?" Sorcha asked.
“Who would you rather have looking for you?" the Professor replied. “Professional knights, or a group of students who can't even access all parts of the monastery?"
Sorcha's eyes widened. “You think he's keeping her somewhere restricted in the monastery?"
Cyril looked faintly troubled for a moment. “I think it's the most likely possibility," he admitted softly.
“Sounds like a problem," Miss Violet said, not without sympathy. “I'll keep my ears open at least. A few of the knights are pretty frequent customers of ours."
The Professor nodded, producing a small satchel of coin from his person and handing it to Miss Violet.
“You know I'd do this for free if you'd just–" she started, but he shook his head.
“Wouldn't be free then, would it?" His tone was just as flat as ever.
She sighed, face pulling into a pout. “You don't have to make it sound like it would be a chore. People pay good money for—" When the Professor gave her a blank look, she sighed again and shook her head. “Fine, fine. Keep depriving yourself. I'm here if you change your mind." Pressing a quick peck to his cheek, she stood, giving a short wave to Sorcha and Senka.
“I hope you guys find your friend safely," she said earnestly. “And if you think of anything else I can do to help, just let me know."
Senka swallowed thickly, and the only reason she paid much attention was because she could feel her throat working. She could feel her brows furrow in Violet's direction, but she didn't understand why Violet was the source of her discomfort. It shouldn't matter what the woman did, or how she was with Cyril. And Senka knew enough to know that was the cause of her discomfort. She pushed it from her mind, though. There were more important matters to tend to, like finding Thea. Whatever she was feeling wasn't important. She could sort through it after Amalthea was found. She felt her eyes narrow in the professor's direction, but she nodded her head at Violet.
“Thank you, Miss Violet," she responded, pursing her lips together as she turned towards Sorcha. When Violet was gone, Senka finally spoke. “If the spirit is truly in the monastery, we need to search everywhere. Even if... if Rhea doesn't approve of it, what she doesn't know won't hurt her." Not that Senka particularly cared. The woman had it out for her for some strange reason. Senka never did anything, that she could recall, to the archbishop. Senka had lost nearly all respect for the woman, and Amalthea's safety was her top priority, otherwise.
Whether or not Rhea approved, Senka would search every nook and corner if she had to do it alone.
Sorcha grimaced, but nodded firmly. “Yeah," she said. “Yeah, we do."
Thinking like that wasn't going to help bring Amalthea back. The current rumor, however, placed the supposed Death Knight at the farthest end of town. Senka wasn't entirely sure why it would reside there; most of the town's population was centered towards the middle. It might have been that some of the residents who lived on the outskirts, were easier victims. Senka felt her brows furrow at that thought. A sound brought her out of her thoughts as she glanced at the small group she was currently with.
Her eyes met briefly with Sorcha's. “What do you suppose this spirit is getting out of kidnapping young women?" she asked in a hushed voice. She didn't need people to know what they were doing, after all. Senka couldn't think of a single reason why the spirit needed a young woman other than it was trying to make brides, or sacrifices. She hoped it was the former. It would mean that Amalthea had a greater chance of being found alive.
Sorcha shook her head. She'd been unusually quiet all day, and at lunch, Senka had caught her looking at everyone who entered the dining hall, as if scrutinizing them for something in particular. What it was, she hadn't said, but it didn't seem as though she'd found it.
“Do we know he's actually doing that?" Reynard walked casually beside them, to all appearances completely uninterested in his surroundings. “We know that's what the rumor is, but has anyone actually seen him snatch a girl? Are there any women missing in the village? Maybe it was all a screen, and the only one he wanted was her to begin with." He shrugged, lighting the plant matter packed into the bowl of his pipe with a flicker of conjured flame. His nonchalance was much better feigned than anyone else's lately, if in fact he was feigning it. He was a difficult person to read.
“That, at least, we can find out," Professor Cyril replied. “Even if the knights won't tell us." It was considered an investigation angle of theirs, and therefore hard to ask questions about without arousing suspicion. Pointing at a slightly larger building amidst a cluster of what seemed to be poorer storefronts, he glanced between them. “The Spindlethorn, the only tavern in Garreg Mach Village that operates all night."
“Tavern?" Reynard echoed, expelling smoke in a skeptical sounding huff. “You sure about that?"
But Cyril shrugged. “That's mostly what it is."
It was, Senka supposed, a good place to start. People were quite talkative when they came under the influence of drink. People loved talking, regardless, but they were likely to find out something more true if they waited long enough. They would have to make sure, however, that they appeared to be either passing travelers, or that they weren't seeking information. They weren't regulars, after all, or at least Senka knew herself and Sorcha to not be. She couldn't be too sure what the others did in their free time.
As they approached the tavern, Senka glanced at the others. “Would it be easier to split up into two groups to gather what we can, or should we stay together?" she asked, glancing between the others. If they split into two groups, they could cover a bigger section of the tavern, even if it wasn't that large to begin with, however; if they remained as a single group, they'd be able to speak about what they could hear, easier.
“No need," Cyril replied simply. “Reynard and I both have contacts here. He'll go talk to his, and you two can meet Miss Violet." So saying, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The tavern was warm, even compared to the outside, just barely the right side of uncomfortable, and maybe not for long. The scent of sharp alcohol hung in the air, as well as a faint trace of something floral. A few people were tucked away at various tables here and there, but the mood seemed to be rather quiet overall. Interspersed with the patrons were young women in unusually-elaborate dresses for commoners, though several of them looked a little threadbare in places, evidence that they were often mended and maintained by hand.
Still, it seemed almost homey, somehow; welcoming.
Not three seconds after they'd walked in, a woman with bright red hair approached, not stopping within polite distance but instead flinging her arms around Cyril. “Cy!"
He set his hands carefully on her sides and huffed softly. “Hello, Miss Violet."
She stepped back with a grin and a rustle of blue skirts, gesturing to a table in the corner. “Your usual's open. Who are your cute little friends?"
Senka supposed that was how the employees greeted their regulars, and she tipped her head in a polite nod. It didn't stop, however, a strange warming sensation from passing through her. It made her a little uncomfortable, but she put it down as being in a different environment.
“I am Senka," she introduced herself, allowing her features to smooth over into a small smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Violet," she continued. Cyril wanted them to meet her, for some reason, and the least Senka could do was be polite. She didn't know how else to be, especially with someone she'd never met before. New people always made her a bit uncomfortable, but she was with friends at the moment.
“And I'm Sorcha." She managed a little grin, one the other woman matched a bit before ushering them all over to the table. Reynard had already disappeared; it wasn't clear where he'd gone, but then it seldom was.
Once they were all settled, a waitress, dressed much more simply than Miss Violet, brought them all a small tray of pastries and whatever they wanted to drink. Cyril opted not to order alcohol, and Senka was pretty sure Sorcha had never in fact had any, so that meant two glasses of lemon icewater arrived with hers.
“So, Cy." Miss Violet had taken the seat right next to the Professor's, and was sitting almost against him, wrapped around one of his arms. He seemed to allow this with the same lack of concern he gave most things, and only arched an eyebrow at her when she spoke. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?"
“Information," he replied simply.
She gave a great sigh, smiling wryly, but it was something she seemed to have expected. “Naturally. Information about this mysterious Reaper, perhaps?" She plucked one of the little treats from the tray and bit into it, tilting her head inquiringly at all three of them.
Senka was uncomfortable, and it wasn't because she was out of her element. She was uncomfortable with how close this Miss Violet was sitting next to the professor, and how casual they both seemed about it. She felt her brows furrow slightly, her leg twitching as she accidentally brushed against Sorcha. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, and she was having difficulty placing the feeling. It felt like someone was squeezing her heart, and she couldn't breath. Taking in a soft sigh, though, she merely nodded in way of response.
“This Reaper," she began, glancing towards Sorcha and Cyril before she continued, “may have a friend of ours. We are searching for any possible leads that may help us bring her home. We are very worried about her." Worried didn't even begin to cover it, though. None of them could sleep, or at least Senka knew she couldn't. She hadn't slept properly in the last week since Amalthea's disappearance. She folded her hands in front of her, and clasped them tightly.
She just wanted her friend back.
Sorcha slowed in her progress through the tray at the reminder, grimacing slightly. “I doubt there's much solid to go on," she said quietly, “but anything at all would be helpful, considering how little we know."
Miss Violet nodded, humming thoughtfully. “Well I doubt Cy's told you this, but if you want information in the town of Garreg Mach, I'm your girl." She smiled at the both of them, then, a genuinely-friendly thing from the look of it, though it sobered a moment later. “I'm sorry to hear about your friend, but I have to say... it's a little surprising."
“How so?" Cyril asked, brows furrowing.
She tilted her free hand back and forth. “Well, here's the thing. Everyone's been making a big fuss about the Reaper. Cooking up stories, like folk always do. The thing is... while I'm pretty sure there is someone riding around menacing people at night... no one else has actually been taken. Not that I know of, and I know just about everyone in the village pretty well. If you press on the people spreading these rumors, they always kind of deflect, like 'oh I heard it happened to some girl in Riverbend' or wherever else that's not too far from here. But as far as I can tell... nothing. Nothing real, anyway, except for generally making a scary nuisance of himself."
“But... why would anyone do something like that?" Sorcha asked.
Miss Violet sighed. “I can think of a few reasons. It could be a distraction for something else, but that doesn't make sense if he actually took your friend, so..."
“So it's a screen," the Professor finished solemnly. “He wanted to use the rumors to disguise the fact that he was specifically after Amalthea. It wasn't random, and it wasn't mere convenience. She was the target all along."
“But why Thea?" Senka mused out loud. There were quite a few number of reasons as to why Thea had been taken, but none of it had made sense. What could it possibly be that Thea has, that someone would want to kidnap her for? Was it for her blood? Her Crest? If so, why did having a major Crest of Cethleann make her a target?
“If it was just a screen, if he was truly after Amalthea..." she didn't want to think about it. It was possible that now that he had Amalthea, they would be moving, or worse. They could have already disappeared. If that were the case, what hope did they have of finding Thea? Who was to say that they hadn't failed in finding her, and she was lost to them? She took in a slow breath, and pushed the thoughts away. She had to believe that they would find Amalthea. She had to.
“Is... there any rumor as to where this spirit might dwell?" she asked. If the spirit was seen here, chances were it might be coming from somewhere nearby. And if that were the case, maybe... just maybe they had a chance of finding Amalthea before he took her too far.
The woman gave this a moment of consideration, pursing her lips and chewing quite deliberately over a bite of pastry before she replied. “The only thing that seems to be consistent is that people see him coming and going from the direction of the monastery," she said, arching a delicate brow. “But I don't think that should be too surprising; where else in town would there be someone with skill enough to do such things? It's certainly no ordinary kidnapper, either by way of appearance or method."
“But if he's at the monastery, and he wanted someone from there, why bother riding out into town at all?" Sorcha asked.
“Who would you rather have looking for you?" the Professor replied. “Professional knights, or a group of students who can't even access all parts of the monastery?"
Sorcha's eyes widened. “You think he's keeping her somewhere restricted in the monastery?"
Cyril looked faintly troubled for a moment. “I think it's the most likely possibility," he admitted softly.
“Sounds like a problem," Miss Violet said, not without sympathy. “I'll keep my ears open at least. A few of the knights are pretty frequent customers of ours."
The Professor nodded, producing a small satchel of coin from his person and handing it to Miss Violet.
“You know I'd do this for free if you'd just–" she started, but he shook his head.
“Wouldn't be free then, would it?" His tone was just as flat as ever.
She sighed, face pulling into a pout. “You don't have to make it sound like it would be a chore. People pay good money for—" When the Professor gave her a blank look, she sighed again and shook her head. “Fine, fine. Keep depriving yourself. I'm here if you change your mind." Pressing a quick peck to his cheek, she stood, giving a short wave to Sorcha and Senka.
“I hope you guys find your friend safely," she said earnestly. “And if you think of anything else I can do to help, just let me know."
Senka swallowed thickly, and the only reason she paid much attention was because she could feel her throat working. She could feel her brows furrow in Violet's direction, but she didn't understand why Violet was the source of her discomfort. It shouldn't matter what the woman did, or how she was with Cyril. And Senka knew enough to know that was the cause of her discomfort. She pushed it from her mind, though. There were more important matters to tend to, like finding Thea. Whatever she was feeling wasn't important. She could sort through it after Amalthea was found. She felt her eyes narrow in the professor's direction, but she nodded her head at Violet.
“Thank you, Miss Violet," she responded, pursing her lips together as she turned towards Sorcha. When Violet was gone, Senka finally spoke. “If the spirit is truly in the monastery, we need to search everywhere. Even if... if Rhea doesn't approve of it, what she doesn't know won't hurt her." Not that Senka particularly cared. The woman had it out for her for some strange reason. Senka never did anything, that she could recall, to the archbishop. Senka had lost nearly all respect for the woman, and Amalthea's safety was her top priority, otherwise.
Whether or not Rhea approved, Senka would search every nook and corner if she had to do it alone.
Sorcha grimaced, but nodded firmly. “Yeah," she said. “Yeah, we do."
Garreg Mach Monastery - Early Afternoon - Overcast
Vridel von Hresvelg
They were swiftly approaching two weeks since.
Vridel was slowly going mad, he was sure of it.
Though there had been a few developments, they had as yet not gotten anywhere near finding Amalthea to his estimation. The Professor thought she was somewhere in the monastery. If so, it was little comfort to know. Especially since this meant the culprit had to be someone they knew at least in passing, and he still had no idea who that was.
“Who's next?" he muttered, glancing to the side. The initial investigation groups had faded out in favor of 'anyone who can, when they have the time,' and so at the moment he and several of the others were working their way through a list of people that seemed to be at least somewhat connected to Thea. The connections were getting more tenuous as they went, though—they'd just finished talking to Professor Manuela, who'd looked thoughtful when Sorcha mentioned that the Death Knight might be either limping or have sought treatment for a leg injury. She hadn't had much to add though, beyond that she'd check her vulnerary stocks and get back to them if anything seemed amiss.
It was all far too slow.
“Professor Hanneman is next," Senka replied, glancing in Vridel's direction. “He is a Crest scholar, is he not?" she stated, causing Mercer to sigh lightly.
“He is, but as far as we know, he isn't aware of Thea's Crest," he stated. Senka narrowed her eyes briefly in his direction.
“That does not rule him out, though. Whether or not he is aware, chances are he might know something. Thea was quite fond of him, perhaps because he is eager to share his knowledge with anyone who asks," she replied, causing Mercer to nod his head.
“Well, we all know Thea was eager to learn about the outside world, and that would explain some things. It is possible that Thea might have mentioned her Crest to him depending on how close they were," he mused, Senka nodding in agreement. “But Hanneman couldn't hurt a fly. Why would he want to take Thea?"
“Why would anyone want to take her?" Vridel snapped back, trying and failing to suppress his irritation. It wasn't directed at the others. Not really. But they were getting the worst of it, of this restless itch under his skin. The desire to do something useful. To find whoever had dared to take someone so... so innocent. Find them, and destroy them for the cruelty of it, and the hubris of thinking they could do it right under his nose.
Their noses. Right. It wasn't like he was special in this regard. Everyone wanted to get her back. Everyone was protective of her, and she—she liked everyone.
He repeated the words in his head as he walked, unsure they were really sinking in but certain that they needed to. He couldn't start thinking that way. Not about her, not about anyone.
Hanneman was nearby the stables of all places, apparently in the middle of an afternoon walk. Knowing it wouldn't be good to approach a professor in the snarly state he was in, he let Sorcha do it instead. She stepped forward, waving a hand slightly so as to catch Hanneman's attention.
“Excuse me, Professor Hanneman? Do you have a minute? We were hoping to ask you a couple of questions."
“Oh, hello, Miss Blaiddyd, Mercer, Senka, Vridel," he greeted, smiling at the small group. “Of course. I was just in the middle of a walk. If you'd like, you may all join me. I need to stretch these old legs of mine, lest they become useless," he continued, almost as if he were joking.
Senka shook her head, though, and offered him a polite smile. “No, Professor Hanneman. We'd just like to ask you some things about..." a pause, “about Thea." The statement alone was enough to cause Hanneman's brows to furrow, and his shoulders slumped.
“I heard she was taken, the poor thing," he seemed a bit distraught about it, but for all they knew, he could be acting. “I shall answer any question as best as I can. I do hope she is found, and quickly."
“Uh, so..." Sorcha seemed to hesitate a moment, then decide it was worth going forward. “Did you know Thea had a Crest, Professor?"
Vridel only narrowed his eyes, watching keenly for any sign that the old man was trying to deceive them.
Hanneman pursed his lips together. “Of course I did," he stated as if it were common knowledge. “She told me not too long ago that she had a major Crest of Cethleann. Oh the things I could do with that knowledge!" he stated, seemingly almost dream-like in his statement. “Unfortunately Lyanna would not let me have even a sample of hair!" he continued, pursing his lips together.
“I do not see how her Crest would be relevant, though. The Crest of Cethleann is rare, but it wouldn't warrant a kidnapping, I don't think," he finally stated, furrowing his brows.
“How rare would you say her Crest is, though?" Mercer asked. Hanneman seemed to think it over as he remained quiet.
“I've only ever seen the Crest, twice. Once in the books, and then with Amalthea's," he finally replied.
So Hanneman didn't know that Lyanna bore the same Crest? Unexpected, but Vridel thought likely inconsequential. “If I said someone probably wanted her for her blood, would that phrase mean anything to you?" he asked it bluntly, directly, with no attempt to hide the fact that as far as Vridel was concerned, everyone outside their group was a suspect.
He really doubted it was Hanneman. If it had been, he'd have been smart enough not to blurt a possible motive like samples for study. Besides, there were easier ways of handling it if that was all he wanted.
But still. He couldn't leave the investigation only mostly done. Doing something most of the way was how he'd gotten her hurt in the first place. He refused to make the same mistake twice.
Hanneman seemed to think that question over, as he tilted his head. “Hm," he mused out loud before glancing up at them. He took a second longer to glance around as if to make sure it were okay. “It is possible that her blood might be promising to certain people," he finally stated. “As you are all aware, Crests and whether or not they are minor or major are all relevant to how deeply rooted the bloodties are. I cannot say for certain, however, but major Crests are always thought to be the closest you'd get to the actual Hero of the past. It is speculated that that is the reason why a major Crest is more powerful."
“If she has a major Crest of Cethleann, it is possible that she has a closer bloodtie to that particular Saint. I've always hypothesized, though, that the bloodties are much more than they seem. It is possible that the actual blood of a saint might flow strongly in those who bear major Crests of Cethleann, Cichol, Macuil, Indech, and even Seiros. Perhaps... they think that Amalthea's blood is the closest they would get. As for why Cethleann..." he paused abruptly as if to give it further thought.
“It's always been speculated that Cethleann's blood was special in a way that revitalizes. I could have told you more if I was allowed a blood sample from Thea, but..." it was obvious he wouldn't be able to do that because she was gone. And because Lyanna would not allow it.
Revitalizing? Revitalizing what?
To be sure, the information was interesting, and not useless, but it didn't get them much further than Lyanna had when she'd told he and the Professor that it was special. Feeling aggravation creeping back up on him, Vridel averted his eyes, trying not to show it.
“Uh, hey guys?" Devon approached the group then, looking a little unsure of himself. His brows were knit, and he looked first to Hanneman. “Um, do you know where Professor Manuela is, Professor Hanneman?"
“I saw her not too long ago," he replied, glancing in Devon's direction. “She had an urgent matter to take care of and needed to see Jeritza, for some reason. The man is as cold as ice, though, so I do not know why she would need to see him when she could have just asked me," Hanneman almost sounded jealous.
“She told us she was going back to her infirmary," Mercer mused, furrowing his brows and pursing his lips.
“Professor Hanneman, do you know where Professor Jeritza is?" Senka asked. Hanneman nodded his head.
“His quarters are located near the knights' hall, to the right side, I believe," he responded. Senka and Mercer both glanced towards Vridel and Sorcha, and then towards Devon.
“Perhaps we should notify Teach and the others."
“That's uh—that's the thing," Devon said, pressing his lips together. “The Professor and the others sent me ahead. It's just—Sylvi saw her hurrying down the hall earlier, saying something about leg wounds and vulneraries, and she was holding Professor Jeritza's mask. So we were thinking of checking his rooms, but uh..." he looked at Professor Hanneman. “They were hoping to get a senior staff key so we didn't have to break in."
Jeritza?
That could almost—
“Senior staff key?" Sorcha asked.
Lyanna had told him about these. “Some trusted members of staff have universal key to the Knights' Hall and quarters in case of emergencies," he explained hastily, turning his attention to Hanneman. “Do you?"
Hanneman at least seemed to sense the urgency and nodded his head. “At once." They were not too far from the knights' hall, and Hanneman seemed to walk with a little more vigor to his step. When they reached the area where Jeritza's room was, Hanneman produced the key from his coat pocket, and unlocked the door. “Quickly now, before anyone sees you," he stated, ushering in the others and closing the door behind him. He led them down the stairs, taking a right before coming to a stop in front of what was likely Jeritza's room.
“Here, this should do it," he stated, placing the key inside the knob before turning it. With a click, he gently pushed the door open before he immediately rushed inside. “Manuela!" he stated, moving so that he was near her side. She seemed to be unconscious on the floor, holding on to Professor Jeritza's mask.
“What is the meaning of this!?" he nearly exclaimed, reaching towards her but pausing. “She's still breathing," he stated, exhaling a relieved breath, “but she needs medical attention immediately! Wait... what is she pointing to." Hanneman's eyes glanced towards a bookshelf, his brows furrowing slightly.
“Who would have thought that there was a secret passage from Jeritza's room," Mercer stated, his eyes hardening as he glanced towards the area.
“You! Don't just stand there! Help me carry her to the infirmary!" Hanneman stated, bringing Mercer's attention towards him.
“But—"
“Mercer, you can join us when you've finished helping Professor Manuela and Hanneman," Senka stated, placing a hand on his shoulder and shaking her head. Mercer sighed in defeat and nodded his head.
“Good luck," he stated, however; his eyes were on Vridel, giving him a knowing nod before helping Hanneman carry Manuela out.
Vridel returned the nod, tightening his jaw and turning towards the bookshelf. Taking hold of it with both hands, he pulled. It scraped a little, but with some effort and a slight assist from Sorcha, he was able to shift it aside.
The passage that loomed ahead was dark, impenetrably so until his eyes adjusted at least. Still, there was no question. If there was even a chance she was down there—and clearly there was—that was where he was going.
He'd taken the first step before someone caught his wrist. Sorcha. He turned back over his shoulder to glare at her, to find her looking back him stubbornly. “Not yet," she said. “The Professor and the others will be here any minute. He knows he's been discovered—it's too dangerous for just the four of us."
He was opening his mouth to protest when the door opened again, Professor Cyril stepping in first, the rest trailing behind. “Mercer told us," he said quickly. “Let's go."
Shrugging away from Sorcha's hand, Vridel waited for no confirmation before plunging into the passageway.
The others followed behind him as Senka took to his right side. The dark was making it difficult to see, however; it wasn't long before the hallway lead into a larger corridor. There were torches hanging from the walls, providing a modicum of light, however; it was Senka who moved first, as if she'd spotted something. She moved with urgency as they came into an open area.
“Thea!" she nearly shouted, making her way towards where Amalthea was. She was unconscious from the looks of it, however; there was another person as well. A young woman, red-haired and unconscious as well. She was wearing the academy uniform, but she didn't look like someone who'd attended recently. “Amalthea," Senka continued, cradling Amalthea in her arms.
“Who is that, though?" Sylvi stated, pointing at the red-haired girl. “A relatvie of yours, Dier?" she asked, glancing in Dierdre's direction.
“No, never seen her in my life." Dierdre looked slightly offended, but also relieved to have found Amalthea mostly unharmed.
Senka's actions stopped Vridel from doing... what might well have been much the same, though he shied away from the thought even as it occurred to him. Sorcha didn't hesitate, though, kneeling on Thea's other side and quickly setting her fingers to the other girl's neck.
“She's alive," she confirmed, leaving the rest to Senka and turning towards whoever the other girl was, probably to check for the same.
Vridel's attention was drawn, however, when he saw the professor tense in the corner of his eye. Immediately he shifted forward, squinting slightly into the dark. A familiar figure in black armor walked ponderously towards them, and in naught but a moment more Vridel's hands were lit with magic. Only the fact that Cyril held out his arm stopped him from loosing it right at the man—and he wasn't sure how long even that would work.
“Professor Jeritza?" Cyril's voice was flat, but tinged with something sharp.
The Death Knight seemingly ignored the question. “So it is you," he said, focused entirely on the Professor as far as Vridel could tell. “One of us will die, the other will live. I will enjoy this dance of damnation."
Like hell. Vridel loosed the Nosferatu he'd been charging, not entirely surprised when the Death Knight avoided it with a large backwards step. He drew his sword in the meantime, stepping forward. “If you want him, you're going through me first," he snarled.
Not again.
Not even one more time was this thing going to hurt anyone he—
“You are not worth my time, pup. Do not interfere."
Before Vridel could respond, the sound of clanking armor met their ears—soldiers, taking up formation behind the Death Knight. The man himself disappeared in a flash of white light a moment later, and Vridel snarled outright. Coward. He was going to pay for this. He owed.
“Vridel, Cyril," Senka started, her tone hard and traces of anger seeping through, “the two of you should take care of the Death Knight. The rest of us can take care of the soldiers while I tend to Thea and this one." She nodded in the direction of the red-haired girl, still cradling Amalthea in her arms. Senka was producing a white magic from the looks of it, a healing tome, and had applied it directly to Amalthea's brow.
“Dierdre, Sorcha, and Devon, set up a perimeter and keep anyone who gets too close, back. Sylvi, Sofia, you can provide the initial offense. Reynard," Senka stated, as her eyes turned towards Reynard. “You do what you do best." She offered him a slight smile as Sylvi and Dierdre nodded their heads in unison.
“We'll be your support, Vridel, Professor. Leave it to us while you go catch that bastard and make him pay!" Sylvi stated, grabbing her axe and charging forward to help clear the first wave. Dierdre slung a dark spell at the crowd to get them to disperse, giving Cyril and Vridel a clear line to continue forward if that was what they wanted to do.
Vridel nodded. It was about all he could do. Glancing aside at the Professor, he firmed his expression. Much as he wanted to kill the Death Knight himself, he hadn't lost sight of the fact that he probably wasn't strong enough to do it on his own. He didn't have quite so much pride that he couldn't accept help. For now.
Sorcha got them started, firing into the knot of approaching soldiers. She, Devon, and Deidre drew them off, clearing the way for Cyril and Vridel to move forward. This chamber seemed to operate with warp panels, so there was no telling what they'd see until they'd stepped through, but they weren't going to get anywhere if they didn't.
He and Cyril cleared the first one, finding themselves in a narrow hallway that seemed to wind around almost pointlessly. Murderholes in the walls gave a fair idea as to why, especially when the first barrage of arrows came through.
“Steady now," Cyril advised, drawing back with his javelin and throwing. It slipped right through the opening, barely wide enough to accomodate it, hitting whoever was on the other side with a hard, wet thunk. He drew it back with the enchantment even as Vridel bombarded the next with fire. He wasn't quite so pinpoint-accurate as that, but with fire it almost didn't matter.
They used the time the archers spent reeling from the smoke and flames to make a break for the door on the other end of the hall, more of a barred gate than anything.
Dierdre kept some of the soldiers at bay, using her magic to either force their attention towards her, or the others. Sylvi went to work, cutting down the first soldier with relative ease, though the second one, a much more heavily armoured man, seemed to be giving her a bit of trouble. Dierdre veered towards that one as well, flinging a fire spell in his direction just in time for Sylvi's axe to make its home embedded in between the man's shoulder blades. He yelled in pain, bringing his arm back with his poleaxe, just barely missing Dierdre with it.
“Look out!" Sylvi shouted, flinging herself in front of Dierdre, and pulling the smaller woman to the side. The lance that had been aimed at Dierdre, nipped Sylvi's shoulder, and she cried out in pain. Before the lance could finish the job, though, it was deflected with a dark magic spell thrown by Senka, who seemed to have joined the battle. She parried the lance with her sword as Dierdre helped Sylvi cover her wound.
“Dierdre, go help Sofia and the others. I'll help Sylvi," Senka spoke, causing Dierdre to purse her lips for a moment. Sylvi nodded her head as if to agree before Dierdre took off towards another group of soldiers, barreling into one of them that seemed to try and get a backstab on Sofia.
The gate led them into a room with several more warp panels and a large lever. Cyril hummed. “I think that might deactivate some of the enchanted ground further up," he said, indicating the switch.
Vridel hadn't seen any such thing, but he'd heard of mechanisms like this.
“If it's set up how they want it now, we should probably change it," he said simply.
Nodding, Professor Cyril pulled the lever. It seemed to deactivate all the warp panels but one, much to Vridel's surprise. He supposed they might as well try that one first.
Cyril reached it just ahead of him. This time, when the lurching magic deposited them on the matching panel, it was right in front of a smaller, central room. And in this one—
“Death Knight." He had several other soldiers around him, and as a unit, they brandished their lances and axes, charging forth. The sounds of battle raged behind them as well, no doubt the others falling upon the forces further back.
Vridel didn't need to ask to know what his teacher's strategy was here. Together, they called the most powerful magic they had, throwing it at the approaching wave of troops. Vridel didn't hesitate to dip into the power of his Crest for it either—the slight feeling of warmth that spread across his back would give no matching glow, not through all his clothes. Honestly, he wasn't sure he even cared if it did. Even if someone put it all together... there were more important things.
The assault took out nearly all of the small squad before the end of the charge; the ones who were not felled by fire or darkness or lightning met their end on his sword, or broke themselves over the Professor's fists, and at last there was only the Death Knight.
Vridel's vision swam as he locked it on the figure. Blinking, he grit his teeth, switching Crests. His breath sawed in and out of his lungs, body protesting so much exertion in such a short span of time. He ignored it. “My name—" he said between breaths, forcing himself to stand straighter and point his blade for the armored figure. “Is Vridel von Hresvelg, Imperial Prince of Adrestia. And for what you've done, I'm going to kill you." His voice shook, low and raspy with the force of his rage.
The figure seemed to cock his head. “Oh? Then let us see what you have, Imperial Prince." He brandished his scythe, taking a step forward.
Vridel tensed, feeling the world tilt slightly to the side but preparing to charge anyway, when a flash of light caught his eye. When it receded, another armored figure, this one just as tall, armored more smoothly, with a strange red-and-white mask on its face, stood in the spot.
“Halt," they said, voice distorted in a strange, metallic fashion. “You're having a bit too much fun."
“You are getting in the way of my game," the Death Knight rumbled.
“Hmph. You'll have more opportunities to play soon. Your work here is done."
There was something that sounded like a grumble of dissatisfaction, and then the Death Knight was again surrounded by the light of a warp.
No—no!
Vridel sprang forward, only for his legs to collapse beneath him as the Death knight disappeared. The new figure regarded them silently for a moment, disdain seeping from them even without an expression to convey it.
“We will cross paths again," they said, utterly certain. “I am the Flame Emperor. It is I who will reforge the world." With yet another flash, they too were gone.
It wasn't long before the others caught up to Vridel and Cyril. Sylvi glanced around, her shoulder mostly mended, however; she pursed her lips together. “Damn it, they got away!' she muttered through clenched teeth. She had a large gash near her side where an axe or sword may have sliced her, but the wound itself seemed healed. Perhaps Senka's doing. Dierdre, on the other hand, was sporting a few cuts and bruises, but seemed relatively unharmed.
“Vridel, let me help you," Senka stated as she approached Vridel's left side. “We have Amalthea, now. That will have to be enough," she didn't seem too pleased that the Death Knight had escaped, but she seemed relieved, nonetheless. “We also need to get her back to the infirmary, and you as well. My healing will only do so much, and you are injured beyond my capabilities, Crest or no Crest." She placed a hand on his shoulder, gently, as she held his gaze.
Vridel pushed himself to his feet, unwilling to accept help for something that simple when he should be able to do it himself. He did lean on her a bit, though, observing that the Professor had lifted Amalthea to carry, and Sofia had taken the girl they didn't know.
“Fine," he said, displeased but too exhausted to do much about it. Even the Professor looked a little weary—those soldiers had definitely been a cut above the types of people they'd fought before. And their numbers had meant that in some ways the battle was just as difficult as the one against the beasts at the end of last month.
It wouldn't, ultimately, be enough for him to leave things here. But for now... for now he had to grit his teeth and take the loss. As Senka said, they had Thea.
That much, they'd managed to do right.
Vridel was slowly going mad, he was sure of it.
Though there had been a few developments, they had as yet not gotten anywhere near finding Amalthea to his estimation. The Professor thought she was somewhere in the monastery. If so, it was little comfort to know. Especially since this meant the culprit had to be someone they knew at least in passing, and he still had no idea who that was.
“Who's next?" he muttered, glancing to the side. The initial investigation groups had faded out in favor of 'anyone who can, when they have the time,' and so at the moment he and several of the others were working their way through a list of people that seemed to be at least somewhat connected to Thea. The connections were getting more tenuous as they went, though—they'd just finished talking to Professor Manuela, who'd looked thoughtful when Sorcha mentioned that the Death Knight might be either limping or have sought treatment for a leg injury. She hadn't had much to add though, beyond that she'd check her vulnerary stocks and get back to them if anything seemed amiss.
It was all far too slow.
“Professor Hanneman is next," Senka replied, glancing in Vridel's direction. “He is a Crest scholar, is he not?" she stated, causing Mercer to sigh lightly.
“He is, but as far as we know, he isn't aware of Thea's Crest," he stated. Senka narrowed her eyes briefly in his direction.
“That does not rule him out, though. Whether or not he is aware, chances are he might know something. Thea was quite fond of him, perhaps because he is eager to share his knowledge with anyone who asks," she replied, causing Mercer to nod his head.
“Well, we all know Thea was eager to learn about the outside world, and that would explain some things. It is possible that Thea might have mentioned her Crest to him depending on how close they were," he mused, Senka nodding in agreement. “But Hanneman couldn't hurt a fly. Why would he want to take Thea?"
“Why would anyone want to take her?" Vridel snapped back, trying and failing to suppress his irritation. It wasn't directed at the others. Not really. But they were getting the worst of it, of this restless itch under his skin. The desire to do something useful. To find whoever had dared to take someone so... so innocent. Find them, and destroy them for the cruelty of it, and the hubris of thinking they could do it right under his nose.
Their noses. Right. It wasn't like he was special in this regard. Everyone wanted to get her back. Everyone was protective of her, and she—she liked everyone.
He repeated the words in his head as he walked, unsure they were really sinking in but certain that they needed to. He couldn't start thinking that way. Not about her, not about anyone.
Hanneman was nearby the stables of all places, apparently in the middle of an afternoon walk. Knowing it wouldn't be good to approach a professor in the snarly state he was in, he let Sorcha do it instead. She stepped forward, waving a hand slightly so as to catch Hanneman's attention.
“Excuse me, Professor Hanneman? Do you have a minute? We were hoping to ask you a couple of questions."
“Oh, hello, Miss Blaiddyd, Mercer, Senka, Vridel," he greeted, smiling at the small group. “Of course. I was just in the middle of a walk. If you'd like, you may all join me. I need to stretch these old legs of mine, lest they become useless," he continued, almost as if he were joking.
Senka shook her head, though, and offered him a polite smile. “No, Professor Hanneman. We'd just like to ask you some things about..." a pause, “about Thea." The statement alone was enough to cause Hanneman's brows to furrow, and his shoulders slumped.
“I heard she was taken, the poor thing," he seemed a bit distraught about it, but for all they knew, he could be acting. “I shall answer any question as best as I can. I do hope she is found, and quickly."
“Uh, so..." Sorcha seemed to hesitate a moment, then decide it was worth going forward. “Did you know Thea had a Crest, Professor?"
Vridel only narrowed his eyes, watching keenly for any sign that the old man was trying to deceive them.
Hanneman pursed his lips together. “Of course I did," he stated as if it were common knowledge. “She told me not too long ago that she had a major Crest of Cethleann. Oh the things I could do with that knowledge!" he stated, seemingly almost dream-like in his statement. “Unfortunately Lyanna would not let me have even a sample of hair!" he continued, pursing his lips together.
“I do not see how her Crest would be relevant, though. The Crest of Cethleann is rare, but it wouldn't warrant a kidnapping, I don't think," he finally stated, furrowing his brows.
“How rare would you say her Crest is, though?" Mercer asked. Hanneman seemed to think it over as he remained quiet.
“I've only ever seen the Crest, twice. Once in the books, and then with Amalthea's," he finally replied.
So Hanneman didn't know that Lyanna bore the same Crest? Unexpected, but Vridel thought likely inconsequential. “If I said someone probably wanted her for her blood, would that phrase mean anything to you?" he asked it bluntly, directly, with no attempt to hide the fact that as far as Vridel was concerned, everyone outside their group was a suspect.
He really doubted it was Hanneman. If it had been, he'd have been smart enough not to blurt a possible motive like samples for study. Besides, there were easier ways of handling it if that was all he wanted.
But still. He couldn't leave the investigation only mostly done. Doing something most of the way was how he'd gotten her hurt in the first place. He refused to make the same mistake twice.
Hanneman seemed to think that question over, as he tilted his head. “Hm," he mused out loud before glancing up at them. He took a second longer to glance around as if to make sure it were okay. “It is possible that her blood might be promising to certain people," he finally stated. “As you are all aware, Crests and whether or not they are minor or major are all relevant to how deeply rooted the bloodties are. I cannot say for certain, however, but major Crests are always thought to be the closest you'd get to the actual Hero of the past. It is speculated that that is the reason why a major Crest is more powerful."
“If she has a major Crest of Cethleann, it is possible that she has a closer bloodtie to that particular Saint. I've always hypothesized, though, that the bloodties are much more than they seem. It is possible that the actual blood of a saint might flow strongly in those who bear major Crests of Cethleann, Cichol, Macuil, Indech, and even Seiros. Perhaps... they think that Amalthea's blood is the closest they would get. As for why Cethleann..." he paused abruptly as if to give it further thought.
“It's always been speculated that Cethleann's blood was special in a way that revitalizes. I could have told you more if I was allowed a blood sample from Thea, but..." it was obvious he wouldn't be able to do that because she was gone. And because Lyanna would not allow it.
Revitalizing? Revitalizing what?
To be sure, the information was interesting, and not useless, but it didn't get them much further than Lyanna had when she'd told he and the Professor that it was special. Feeling aggravation creeping back up on him, Vridel averted his eyes, trying not to show it.
“Uh, hey guys?" Devon approached the group then, looking a little unsure of himself. His brows were knit, and he looked first to Hanneman. “Um, do you know where Professor Manuela is, Professor Hanneman?"
“I saw her not too long ago," he replied, glancing in Devon's direction. “She had an urgent matter to take care of and needed to see Jeritza, for some reason. The man is as cold as ice, though, so I do not know why she would need to see him when she could have just asked me," Hanneman almost sounded jealous.
“She told us she was going back to her infirmary," Mercer mused, furrowing his brows and pursing his lips.
“Professor Hanneman, do you know where Professor Jeritza is?" Senka asked. Hanneman nodded his head.
“His quarters are located near the knights' hall, to the right side, I believe," he responded. Senka and Mercer both glanced towards Vridel and Sorcha, and then towards Devon.
“Perhaps we should notify Teach and the others."
“That's uh—that's the thing," Devon said, pressing his lips together. “The Professor and the others sent me ahead. It's just—Sylvi saw her hurrying down the hall earlier, saying something about leg wounds and vulneraries, and she was holding Professor Jeritza's mask. So we were thinking of checking his rooms, but uh..." he looked at Professor Hanneman. “They were hoping to get a senior staff key so we didn't have to break in."
Jeritza?
That could almost—
“Senior staff key?" Sorcha asked.
Lyanna had told him about these. “Some trusted members of staff have universal key to the Knights' Hall and quarters in case of emergencies," he explained hastily, turning his attention to Hanneman. “Do you?"
Hanneman at least seemed to sense the urgency and nodded his head. “At once." They were not too far from the knights' hall, and Hanneman seemed to walk with a little more vigor to his step. When they reached the area where Jeritza's room was, Hanneman produced the key from his coat pocket, and unlocked the door. “Quickly now, before anyone sees you," he stated, ushering in the others and closing the door behind him. He led them down the stairs, taking a right before coming to a stop in front of what was likely Jeritza's room.
“Here, this should do it," he stated, placing the key inside the knob before turning it. With a click, he gently pushed the door open before he immediately rushed inside. “Manuela!" he stated, moving so that he was near her side. She seemed to be unconscious on the floor, holding on to Professor Jeritza's mask.
“What is the meaning of this!?" he nearly exclaimed, reaching towards her but pausing. “She's still breathing," he stated, exhaling a relieved breath, “but she needs medical attention immediately! Wait... what is she pointing to." Hanneman's eyes glanced towards a bookshelf, his brows furrowing slightly.
“Who would have thought that there was a secret passage from Jeritza's room," Mercer stated, his eyes hardening as he glanced towards the area.
“You! Don't just stand there! Help me carry her to the infirmary!" Hanneman stated, bringing Mercer's attention towards him.
“But—"
“Mercer, you can join us when you've finished helping Professor Manuela and Hanneman," Senka stated, placing a hand on his shoulder and shaking her head. Mercer sighed in defeat and nodded his head.
“Good luck," he stated, however; his eyes were on Vridel, giving him a knowing nod before helping Hanneman carry Manuela out.
Vridel returned the nod, tightening his jaw and turning towards the bookshelf. Taking hold of it with both hands, he pulled. It scraped a little, but with some effort and a slight assist from Sorcha, he was able to shift it aside.
The passage that loomed ahead was dark, impenetrably so until his eyes adjusted at least. Still, there was no question. If there was even a chance she was down there—and clearly there was—that was where he was going.
He'd taken the first step before someone caught his wrist. Sorcha. He turned back over his shoulder to glare at her, to find her looking back him stubbornly. “Not yet," she said. “The Professor and the others will be here any minute. He knows he's been discovered—it's too dangerous for just the four of us."
He was opening his mouth to protest when the door opened again, Professor Cyril stepping in first, the rest trailing behind. “Mercer told us," he said quickly. “Let's go."
Shrugging away from Sorcha's hand, Vridel waited for no confirmation before plunging into the passageway.
The others followed behind him as Senka took to his right side. The dark was making it difficult to see, however; it wasn't long before the hallway lead into a larger corridor. There were torches hanging from the walls, providing a modicum of light, however; it was Senka who moved first, as if she'd spotted something. She moved with urgency as they came into an open area.
“Thea!" she nearly shouted, making her way towards where Amalthea was. She was unconscious from the looks of it, however; there was another person as well. A young woman, red-haired and unconscious as well. She was wearing the academy uniform, but she didn't look like someone who'd attended recently. “Amalthea," Senka continued, cradling Amalthea in her arms.
“Who is that, though?" Sylvi stated, pointing at the red-haired girl. “A relatvie of yours, Dier?" she asked, glancing in Dierdre's direction.
“No, never seen her in my life." Dierdre looked slightly offended, but also relieved to have found Amalthea mostly unharmed.
Senka's actions stopped Vridel from doing... what might well have been much the same, though he shied away from the thought even as it occurred to him. Sorcha didn't hesitate, though, kneeling on Thea's other side and quickly setting her fingers to the other girl's neck.
“She's alive," she confirmed, leaving the rest to Senka and turning towards whoever the other girl was, probably to check for the same.
Vridel's attention was drawn, however, when he saw the professor tense in the corner of his eye. Immediately he shifted forward, squinting slightly into the dark. A familiar figure in black armor walked ponderously towards them, and in naught but a moment more Vridel's hands were lit with magic. Only the fact that Cyril held out his arm stopped him from loosing it right at the man—and he wasn't sure how long even that would work.
“Professor Jeritza?" Cyril's voice was flat, but tinged with something sharp.
The Death Knight seemingly ignored the question. “So it is you," he said, focused entirely on the Professor as far as Vridel could tell. “One of us will die, the other will live. I will enjoy this dance of damnation."
Like hell. Vridel loosed the Nosferatu he'd been charging, not entirely surprised when the Death Knight avoided it with a large backwards step. He drew his sword in the meantime, stepping forward. “If you want him, you're going through me first," he snarled.
Not again.
Not even one more time was this thing going to hurt anyone he—
“You are not worth my time, pup. Do not interfere."
Before Vridel could respond, the sound of clanking armor met their ears—soldiers, taking up formation behind the Death Knight. The man himself disappeared in a flash of white light a moment later, and Vridel snarled outright. Coward. He was going to pay for this. He owed.
“Vridel, Cyril," Senka started, her tone hard and traces of anger seeping through, “the two of you should take care of the Death Knight. The rest of us can take care of the soldiers while I tend to Thea and this one." She nodded in the direction of the red-haired girl, still cradling Amalthea in her arms. Senka was producing a white magic from the looks of it, a healing tome, and had applied it directly to Amalthea's brow.
“Dierdre, Sorcha, and Devon, set up a perimeter and keep anyone who gets too close, back. Sylvi, Sofia, you can provide the initial offense. Reynard," Senka stated, as her eyes turned towards Reynard. “You do what you do best." She offered him a slight smile as Sylvi and Dierdre nodded their heads in unison.
“We'll be your support, Vridel, Professor. Leave it to us while you go catch that bastard and make him pay!" Sylvi stated, grabbing her axe and charging forward to help clear the first wave. Dierdre slung a dark spell at the crowd to get them to disperse, giving Cyril and Vridel a clear line to continue forward if that was what they wanted to do.
Vridel nodded. It was about all he could do. Glancing aside at the Professor, he firmed his expression. Much as he wanted to kill the Death Knight himself, he hadn't lost sight of the fact that he probably wasn't strong enough to do it on his own. He didn't have quite so much pride that he couldn't accept help. For now.
Sorcha got them started, firing into the knot of approaching soldiers. She, Devon, and Deidre drew them off, clearing the way for Cyril and Vridel to move forward. This chamber seemed to operate with warp panels, so there was no telling what they'd see until they'd stepped through, but they weren't going to get anywhere if they didn't.
He and Cyril cleared the first one, finding themselves in a narrow hallway that seemed to wind around almost pointlessly. Murderholes in the walls gave a fair idea as to why, especially when the first barrage of arrows came through.
“Steady now," Cyril advised, drawing back with his javelin and throwing. It slipped right through the opening, barely wide enough to accomodate it, hitting whoever was on the other side with a hard, wet thunk. He drew it back with the enchantment even as Vridel bombarded the next with fire. He wasn't quite so pinpoint-accurate as that, but with fire it almost didn't matter.
They used the time the archers spent reeling from the smoke and flames to make a break for the door on the other end of the hall, more of a barred gate than anything.
Dierdre kept some of the soldiers at bay, using her magic to either force their attention towards her, or the others. Sylvi went to work, cutting down the first soldier with relative ease, though the second one, a much more heavily armoured man, seemed to be giving her a bit of trouble. Dierdre veered towards that one as well, flinging a fire spell in his direction just in time for Sylvi's axe to make its home embedded in between the man's shoulder blades. He yelled in pain, bringing his arm back with his poleaxe, just barely missing Dierdre with it.
“Look out!" Sylvi shouted, flinging herself in front of Dierdre, and pulling the smaller woman to the side. The lance that had been aimed at Dierdre, nipped Sylvi's shoulder, and she cried out in pain. Before the lance could finish the job, though, it was deflected with a dark magic spell thrown by Senka, who seemed to have joined the battle. She parried the lance with her sword as Dierdre helped Sylvi cover her wound.
“Dierdre, go help Sofia and the others. I'll help Sylvi," Senka spoke, causing Dierdre to purse her lips for a moment. Sylvi nodded her head as if to agree before Dierdre took off towards another group of soldiers, barreling into one of them that seemed to try and get a backstab on Sofia.
The gate led them into a room with several more warp panels and a large lever. Cyril hummed. “I think that might deactivate some of the enchanted ground further up," he said, indicating the switch.
Vridel hadn't seen any such thing, but he'd heard of mechanisms like this.
“If it's set up how they want it now, we should probably change it," he said simply.
Nodding, Professor Cyril pulled the lever. It seemed to deactivate all the warp panels but one, much to Vridel's surprise. He supposed they might as well try that one first.
Cyril reached it just ahead of him. This time, when the lurching magic deposited them on the matching panel, it was right in front of a smaller, central room. And in this one—
“Death Knight." He had several other soldiers around him, and as a unit, they brandished their lances and axes, charging forth. The sounds of battle raged behind them as well, no doubt the others falling upon the forces further back.
Vridel didn't need to ask to know what his teacher's strategy was here. Together, they called the most powerful magic they had, throwing it at the approaching wave of troops. Vridel didn't hesitate to dip into the power of his Crest for it either—the slight feeling of warmth that spread across his back would give no matching glow, not through all his clothes. Honestly, he wasn't sure he even cared if it did. Even if someone put it all together... there were more important things.
The assault took out nearly all of the small squad before the end of the charge; the ones who were not felled by fire or darkness or lightning met their end on his sword, or broke themselves over the Professor's fists, and at last there was only the Death Knight.
Vridel's vision swam as he locked it on the figure. Blinking, he grit his teeth, switching Crests. His breath sawed in and out of his lungs, body protesting so much exertion in such a short span of time. He ignored it. “My name—" he said between breaths, forcing himself to stand straighter and point his blade for the armored figure. “Is Vridel von Hresvelg, Imperial Prince of Adrestia. And for what you've done, I'm going to kill you." His voice shook, low and raspy with the force of his rage.
The figure seemed to cock his head. “Oh? Then let us see what you have, Imperial Prince." He brandished his scythe, taking a step forward.
Vridel tensed, feeling the world tilt slightly to the side but preparing to charge anyway, when a flash of light caught his eye. When it receded, another armored figure, this one just as tall, armored more smoothly, with a strange red-and-white mask on its face, stood in the spot.
“Halt," they said, voice distorted in a strange, metallic fashion. “You're having a bit too much fun."
“You are getting in the way of my game," the Death Knight rumbled.
“Hmph. You'll have more opportunities to play soon. Your work here is done."
There was something that sounded like a grumble of dissatisfaction, and then the Death Knight was again surrounded by the light of a warp.
No—no!
Vridel sprang forward, only for his legs to collapse beneath him as the Death knight disappeared. The new figure regarded them silently for a moment, disdain seeping from them even without an expression to convey it.
“We will cross paths again," they said, utterly certain. “I am the Flame Emperor. It is I who will reforge the world." With yet another flash, they too were gone.
It wasn't long before the others caught up to Vridel and Cyril. Sylvi glanced around, her shoulder mostly mended, however; she pursed her lips together. “Damn it, they got away!' she muttered through clenched teeth. She had a large gash near her side where an axe or sword may have sliced her, but the wound itself seemed healed. Perhaps Senka's doing. Dierdre, on the other hand, was sporting a few cuts and bruises, but seemed relatively unharmed.
“Vridel, let me help you," Senka stated as she approached Vridel's left side. “We have Amalthea, now. That will have to be enough," she didn't seem too pleased that the Death Knight had escaped, but she seemed relieved, nonetheless. “We also need to get her back to the infirmary, and you as well. My healing will only do so much, and you are injured beyond my capabilities, Crest or no Crest." She placed a hand on his shoulder, gently, as she held his gaze.
Vridel pushed himself to his feet, unwilling to accept help for something that simple when he should be able to do it himself. He did lean on her a bit, though, observing that the Professor had lifted Amalthea to carry, and Sofia had taken the girl they didn't know.
“Fine," he said, displeased but too exhausted to do much about it. Even the Professor looked a little weary—those soldiers had definitely been a cut above the types of people they'd fought before. And their numbers had meant that in some ways the battle was just as difficult as the one against the beasts at the end of last month.
It wouldn't, ultimately, be enough for him to leave things here. But for now... for now he had to grit his teeth and take the loss. As Senka said, they had Thea.
That much, they'd managed to do right.
Town of Garreg Mach - Late Evening - Drizzle
Mercer von Riegan
Mercer sighed heavily. He had missed the battle with the Death Knight, but they had found Amalthea at last. She had been unconscious for nearly a week since they found her, and had barely opened her eyes, yesterday. They wouldn't let anyone see her, yet, mostly by orders of Rhea. Mercer didn't quite understand, but he knew that it was Rhea's doing that Thea had almost an entire entourage of knights, guarding her room, and the area outside of her window. They didn't seem to be taking any second chances, and Mercer had found that intriguing. Why so many knights for one person? And why didn't Rhea let any of her friends see her?
He was almost certain she wanted to see them, if not Vridel. What was stranger than that, however, was the girl they had found with Amalthea. No one seemed to know her, however; after a little midnight digging, Mercer was able to find a name for her: Monica. She'd been a student of the academy last year, however; it was thought that she'd went home after her year was up. No one thought anything of it, after that.
He hugged his cloak a little closer to him, making sure he was about as unrecognizable as possible, before he approached Reynard's house. He used the key Reynard had given him, and let himself in. “Darlings I'm home!" he stated, announcing his arrival as he closed the door behind him. If anyone had heard him, they would think he was talking to his family. He supposed, in a way, he was.
“Good evening, dear," Reynard drawled in reply, a flicker of amusement seeping into the words. He happened to be in the front hallway, apparently moving some food from the kitchen to the study, where no doubt Vridel was.
When Mercer entered, it was to find his friend with more or less the same broody look on his face that had been there since they'd found Amalthea. He was surrounded by a stack of books, some of them stolen from the monastery library and some of them probably sent to him from home. He did a pretty good job making it less obvious than other people, but it was a fair bet that he still hadn't slept much since the end of last month.
He glanced up as the others entered, vaguely gesturing at the other chairs around the table and shifting some of the books around so that they'd have somewhere to sit. When Reynard did, he set a large glass of some kind of fruit juice in front of Vi with a loud enough thud to constitute an order. The prince glowered briefly, but pulled it towards himself anyway.
“She still under guard?" he asked dully, clearly expecting the answer.
“Unnecessarily so, yeah," Mercer replied, taking a seat so that he was in front of Vridel. He pursed his lips, though, as he sighed. “I don't understand why Rhea's making such a big deal about it. I mean, Thea's safe, now, but why the need to have her under guard? It's not like she's well enough to do something on her own, and I'm sure she wants to see all of us." And it wasn't like any of them were going to harm her. Quite the opposite, in fact. They were all worried about Thea, even if they knew she was there. Not being able to check in on her themselves was maddening. Mercer could only imagine how much so it must be for Vridel.
“After everything we've found out, that still doesn't explain much," he continued, running a hand down his face in an aggravated manner. “Sure, she's a Cethleann Crest holder, but it doesn't make sense for Rhea to put her under guard. Have you been able to find out anything useful?" because Mercer hadn't. Even with the extra nights digging into the deeper parts of the library, he wasn't able to find much. Though... there was that one thing he found in one of Tomas's books. Something about an Immaculate One, and something about Crest stones.
He'd tell them about that, later, though.
“It was definitely Jeritza," Reynard said with a shrug. “I looked into him a bit. Jeritza von Hrym. Minor Crest of Lamine, first son of the von Hrym family in the Empire. His father's a real piece of work—married some woman just for her Crest and then tossed her and her daughter out after he had a son with the Crest. Apparently he's always been a little odd, but nothing in particular to speak of. Excellent fencer, applied to the Monastery for a position and was accepted three years ago. Interestingly, it seems he was the presumptive guy for the position our Professor ended up with, until Rhea undercut completely by hiring Cyril."
Vi's eyes narrowed. “I think I see conspiracies in everything," he admitted. “Everything seems to come back to Cyril somehow, but I'm convinced he doesn't know anything himself." He shook his head, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I've been looking everywhere for any kind of reference to a 'Flame Emperor,' but there's nothing. It's like he came out of nowhere. Pretentious bastard."
Mercer could understand, somewhat. “If Rhea is about the Church and all, which she is," everyone knew that, “then maybe it's because Teach has the Crest of Flames. It's the Crest of the goddess, isn't it? Maybe she thinks that Teach, probably a descendant of Nemesis, is the closest thing she'll get to the goddess herself. Remember what Hanneman said; a major Crest is the closest in bloodties to the Hero. If that is, indeed, true, then that might be why she's so interested in Teach." It didn't seem remarkably romantic, after all.
Teach was a good-looking guy, but so were a lot of the other people at the monastery. Rhea could, literally, have her pick considering she was a beautiful woman, so if it wasn't romantic, it had to be something else. “That, or maybe she thinks Teach can be of some use to her to gain more followers. We know that the Western Church had issues with the Central Church, so if that were the case..." he trailed off. That didn't make much sense, either.
As far as this Flame Emperor, it could have been anyone. Mercer wasn't there, so he had no idea where to even begin gathering information on him, and if Vridel had no such luck, well... what luck did Mercer have? “We'll just have to see what crumbs we can find about the Flame Emperor. There's only one nation that I know of that claims any sort of emperor title; maybe he's someone from the Empire?" Mercer mused. In the Kingdom, there were Kings, and in the Alliance, there were Leaders. The Adrestian Empire was the only nation known to use the word Emperor.
“Not that the title means all that much, anymore," Vi replied with a huff. “It hasn't since the Insurrection. Could be that someone wants the title and the power that used to go with it, but if that was the case he should've just let the Death Knight at me. Cyril might've been able to interfere, but..." He shrugged. “Maybe not, too."
“Actually..." Reynard broke in, leaning back and propping his legs up on the chair. He withdrew his pipe from somewhere, lighting it with a flicker of magic and drawing in a lungful of smoke before exhaling as he spoke. “There's something to that. The Flame Emperor appeared right as the Death Knight might have killed you, and maybe the Professor too." He contemplated this for a moment, head tilted to the side. “Or at least I'll wager they figured he could. I'm not as sure, myself. Regardless... the order to stop from their perspective saved two lives right in the nick of time. Which one was essential to them, I wonder?"
Vi grimaced. “I was two seconds from charging him," he admitted. “But I'm sure the Professor would have gone with. You're saying you think this Flame Emperor specifically wanted one of us alive?"
Reynard shrugged carelessly. “It's a possibility we should consider."
“But why?" Mercer stated, wincing slightly at the way it sounded. “I mean, like you said, Vi. If this Flame Emperor wanted the title, then he could have let Jeritza kill you. It might be that he wants Teach. Think about it. Not many people know Teach has the Crest of Flames, yet. Even with the Sword of the Creator, I highly doubt many people will recognize the weapon for what it actually is. It's been a long time since someone saw it, and I'd wager that the only people who know are at the monastery."
“It's something to go on, for now, though. We'll have to see what else we can come up with. Is there anything else that seems strange, other than that? And the fact that Rhea is a total... uh, witch for keeping Thea away from her friends?" He glanced between Reynard and Vridel, setting his hands in front of them to lean his chin on them.
“Well you know about the part where Lyanna and Rhea were pretty sure Thea was taken because of something to do with her blood," Vi said, a scowl forming over his features. “What I might not have told you is that Lyanna's pretty clearly afraid of the Archbishop. Not in the same kind of way we all think she's up to something either—like actually afraid of her. I can't put my finger on why, but it might be the reason Rhea gets away with the things she's done to Thea. Because fighting her on it would have been even worse for them. I thought at first that Lyanna must not care much about her sister, but she very clearly does."
Reynard nodded. “There is... an unsettling dichotomy, in how people think of the Archbishop," he observed, exhaling another cloud off to the side. “At a certain distance she is almost fanatically loved. Catherine and Alois and Sir Gilbert are good examples of such. Devotion to her almost seems synonymous with devotion to the Church. And yet those in her innermost circle, or who have been there—The Professor, Sir Jeralt, Lyanna... these people are either wary or afraid. I think we should take it seriously that the person who knows more about Rhea than anyone else has that kind of response. What does she know that we do not?"
“It's not like we can outright ask Lyanna about it," Mercer mused. She was likely to say nothing at all if she was truly afraid of Rhea. Who was Rhea that it produced such a strong emotion in Lyanna? And to say nothing of her followers. Mercer knew a thing or two about devout people who believed more in some unknown being rather than what they could see now. Blind faith, as his mother had put it, once.
“Still, it's something to go on. I wonder if I can find anything about it in Tomas's stash of books. He has a relatively large amount of books with interesting information," he stated. He was about to say more, however; there was a brief knock on Reynard's door, causing Mercer's eyes to narrow slightly. “Were we expecting someone?" he asked in a hushed voice.
“No." Motioning for them to be quiet, Reynard approached the door. Mercer could hear him open it, then the low sound of his voice, followed by another that sounded familiar somehow. Two sets of footsteps headed back down the hall, and Reynard reentered the room, shaking his head faintly. “Seems we're not as subtle as we thought, gents."
Cyril's expression was almost mirthful at that, and he regarded them without harshness. “Plenty subtle," he replied. “I just know the best information broker in Garreg Mach, is all. I, uh, hope you do not mind. But I thought perhaps I could guess why you were meeting out here, and I might be able to help you."
Mercer shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose you're not wrong, Teach. We're secretly married, the three of us, and we just like spending some quiet time together out here, you know?" Mercer stated, offering Teach a lopsided grin. He gestured to one of the empty chairs, though, and shook his head. “We don't mind, Teach. It was only a matter of time, I guess, when we'd include you," because Mercer was certain they would, “but do tell. What insight could you give us?"
He snorted softly at the joke, but took a seat easily. “Well if I'm interrupting I'd gladly depart..."
Vi rolled his eye, but there was a flicker of a smile at the edge of his mouth for the first time in a while. “Why leave when you can join?"
“Was that a proposal?"
“Only if you're interested."
“Please say you're interested."
Teach actually chuckled at that, halfway motioning towards the tray of food and drinks. When Reynard nodded easily, he took up what seemed to be a savory pastry of some kind and bit into it before continuing. “You're all suspicious of the Archbishop, right? I've been trying to include you in my meetings with her, but I think it's backfiring. There's some information it might just be better to give you secondhand."
“Any idea why she's obsessed with you?" Vridel asked flatly.
“Not really, but... I think it might be connected to some other things that have been happening. You remember when that 'Crest Scholar' showed up and started harassing Senka?"
“Heard you nearly broke him in half," Reynard remarked, resuming his use of the pipe now that he seemed to be sure all was well. So to speak.
Teach shrugged. “The thing is, I'm pretty sure the information had to come from one of exactly three people: Hanneman, Lyanna, or Rhea. Hanneman because he discovered it, and would have been required to report that information to Lyanna, who in turn is obligated to report it to Rhea. Of the three..."
“It has to be the Archbishop," Reynard finished.
“Can't think of any reason anyone else would do it. And Rhea..." He grimaced. “She doesn't like how well I get along with any of you. She also didn't want Senka to be given her relic weapon."
“But Relics are, technically, birthrights. They've been handed down to each Crest bearer for nearly generations, now. I'm set to inherit Failnaught when I become Duke von Riegan, as I'm sure Vridel will inherit his when he becomes Emperor. Wouldn't Blutgang belong to Senka by right?" Mercer stated out loud. Relics were given to each respective house; why would Rhea try and keep Senka's?
“And what reason would the archbishop have to do that, though? Senka hasn't done anything to offend her, and for as long as we've all known her, she's kept close to all of us. Senka's a good-hearted person, much like her best friend, so why target her at all?" he added. Sure she had her issues, but she was working through them. At least from what Mercer was able to tell.
He also had an idea as to the why, but it only made sense if the archbishop had some emotional attachment to Teach. Since it seemed that she didn't have that kind, why try and bring down Senka and keep her relic from her?
“I don't know," Teach admitted.
“The Relics are birthrights only because the Church at some point said so," Reynard pointed out. “And any but the ones they've officially given away are Church property. Blutgang falls under that rule. In theory, the Archbishop could decide that the next heir of any house isn't 'worthy' of their Relic and demand it back."
“If she wanted to start a war," Vi added with a snort.
Reynard nodded. “It probably would, considering how much people rely on them for survival, but legally... it's her right. It's a threat she can hang over anyone in negotiations, and if she did it to punish only one country well..."
“None of us like each other enough to band together," Vi finished. “The others would probably side with the Church, or at least not interfere. Maybe hope that by lending their armies to enforcement, the Church would grant them land afterwards. It would be an extreme move for her, but possible. And for someone like Sen, who isn't officially part of anyone's government or a recognized noble house, there's nothing to stop Rhea at all."
Mercer furrowed his brows. “She's a relative of Rodrigue's, isn't she? House Fraldarius is recognized by the Church in the Kingdom. Rodrigue could, theoretically, adopt Senka into his household. Wouldn't that put her in some kind of position?" he stated. Not that it would likely happen. She was his niece, from what Mercer understood, and he didn't know if Senka's mother was listed or not in their registry. If she wasn't, well... he supposed that answered that question.
“The more I hear about Rhea, the less I like," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He never liked the woman to begin with, but she was targeting his friends, now. Who was to say she wouldn't go after him, next, or worse, Sorcha? “I just don't get it. Her interest in you has only increased ever since you were given the Sword of the Creator. What makes that so special?" other than the fact that it was supposedly a match for Teach's Crest.
“I don't know that, either, except... there's a couple of things about it that are a bit odd." Teach paused in his eating, expelling a breath through his nose. “So Maurice—the creature from last month that seemed to be him—called it the Sword of the King, not the Sword of the Creator. Also... it doesn't seem to have a Crest Stone. Those are necessary, right?"
“They're what links a Relic to a Crest," Vi replied. “Like... a bridge, between the Crest and the sword or bow or whatever kind of thing it is. Theoretically it should be all but useless without one, but you seem to be able to use it just fine."
Mercer furrowed his brows. “Well that would make some sense. Nemesis was the first known person to wield the sword," he mused out loud. “He was known as the King of Liberation, so... wait a minute," Mercer turned his eyes to Cyril. “You mean to tell me that that creature was actually the Maurice? As in the forgotten hero?" It sounded incredulous to Mercer. “Wouldn't that have made it like almost a thousand years old? How? How is that possible? And if it called your sword the Sword of the King, then that means... ugh." Mercer ruffled his hair with both of his hands.
It didn't make any sense! None. Or... maybe it did and he couldn't seem to make sense of it.
“Here's the thing; I found information about Crests and Crest Stones in one of Tomas's books. It said that Crest Stones are carved with a specific Crest, ones that match a bearers in order to use it safely. That would mean that Crest Stones might actually be what give Relic's their unique power. So... if the Crest Stone to the Sword of the Creator, or King, whathaveyou, is missing..." he trailed off, humming a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat.
“You've always been weirdly strong, right, Teach?"
He looked unsure, pausing as he took a drink from one of the glasses on the table. “What would qualify as 'weird' in this case?" he asked.
Reynard snorted. “How old were you when you could first lift a cart, or keep pace with a warhorse at canter?"
Teach blinked, setting his glass down. “I don't know, exactly," he admitted. “Since I'm not sure how old I am. But I could do either of those things... maybe seven or eight years ago?"
“Then yes," Reynard finished, turning his attention to Mercer. “He has. Why do you ask?"
“I believe Crest Stones might be able to give inhuman power to the Relic's. But... no, 'cause then that would mean that Teach was a Crest Stone of some sort," which didn't seem all that plausible. Crest Stones were physical; Teach was, too, however, just not a Stone. He pushed a sigh through his nose, and shook his head.
“This right here," he stated, pulling the sheet of paper he'd torn out of Tomas's book from his pocket, and showed it to the others. “It's called The Immaculate One. You're familiar with the story, right?" he stated, momentarily forgetting that Teach was not. “It's said that that creature, or dragon, is what the goddess sent to save the followers of Seiros, but it's not mentioned in anything else. Who did it save them from? Was it Nemesis? Because we all know that Seiros led an army, not some strange, whatever that is."
“The Church tells both of these stories?" Teach asked. “Was this creature an ally of Seiros's or something? Sent to help the chosen saint or whatever she supposedly is?" he sounded quite skeptical, perhaps not surprisingly.
“What's that? On its head?" Vi narrowed his eyes, tapping the crature's brow in the picture. “Is that... the Crest of Seiros?"
Mercer glanced closer to the picture. Sure enough, there was a Crest of Seiros in its forehead, however; there was something strange about its location. There was something circular, red-like in appearance. “It's a Crest Stone of Seiros," he stated out loud. “Why does it have a Crest Stone of Seiros, though?" that would imply that this creature, whatever it was, was Seiros.
“That... does that mean that this creature is Seiros? Or at least... somehow bound to her, or something?"
“You sure that's a stone? It looks like part of its body. Not a rock, at least." Reynard was frowning at it. “Unless maybe it's a Relic, the creature. I've seen a few old drawings, of... mechanical weapons. Big ones. It was a long time ago now, though. I'm afraid I don't recall them well."
“Dagdan?" Vi asked, though it wasn't clear why that should be his guess.
Reynard shook his head. “I don't think so. They don't have anything like it now that I'm aware of. The drawings were old, I think. But I was only a kid when I saw them. I don't remember much."
Mercer was almost certain that it was a Crest Stone. “It's not a Relic. I'm not entirely sure how I know that, but it's not. There was something mentioned about it being a beast. And we all know how real those beasts are," he was of course referring to the creatures they'd fought last month. Sighing through his nose, he leaned back in his chair. “It's a lot of information to digest, that's for sure." He glanced towards the others.
“Alright, that's my show-and-tell. Who wants to go next?"
Vridel and Reynard looked at each other and shrugged. “Don't really have anything else at this point. What about you, Professor?"
Teach was silent for a long moment, as if working something out in his head. His expression changed slightly a few times in the process—perhaps his thoughts were at odds with each other. After a moment, though, he sighed quietly. “It's hard to show," he admitted. “But too unbelievable to just tell. I think... maybe I could show you one at a time. So to speak."
What seemed to be no more than a moment later, Vridel's expression morphed into one of shock. “Fuck," he breathed, eyes wide and exhaling with something like wonder. “I can't believe that actually just happened. You really—" He looked for all the world as though some incomprehensible mystery had been set in front of him, and the source of it was Teach.
Mercer was confused. “Uh, what just happened?" or didn't happen? “Did you break Vi, Teach? I'm not sure Thea would appreciate it, or Sorcha, but..." he trailed off. Whatever it was that Teach did to Vridel, Mercer wanted no part of it.
“No, you do. Trust me." Vi shook his head. “It has to be seen to be believed."
“I didn't break anything," Teach confirmed. “Or, well... anything besides the continuum of time, I suppose. That's what it was—I rewound time, and only Vridel and I were aware of it. It's... taxing, to take someone else along, but I can do it for the both of you, as well."
“Sounds terrifyingly useful," Reynard murmured, glancing at Mercer. “After you."
“But hey, ladies first, Rey," Mercer replied glancing back at Reynard. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to do that. He believed Teach, in some sense. After all, what reason would he have to lie to them. If Teach said he could rewind time, or fly, who was Mercer to deny that fact? After all the things they'd witnessed, anything was particluarly possible when it came to Cyril. Sighing in defeat, he slumped his shoulders.
“Alright, fine. But... be gentle. Vi's first time didn't look so fun, and I'm not sure I want to end up like that on my first time."
Reynard snorted a laugh at him.
Teach, on the other hand, reached forward. “If you'd be so kind as to take my hand..."
The moment Mercer did, there was—it was hard to describe. It felt almost like something shuddered through the air, and then Reynard and Vi stopped moving entirely, like figures in a sculpture. Then they, and everything else, even the air itself, took on hairline, black fractures, and in the next moment shattered, and they were standing in a void, lit only by faint traces of green and dark blue light that didn't seem to have a source. Teach's eyes were by far the brightest thing in the gloom, luminous quite on their own; the rest of him seemed almost to fade into the dark.
“At the moment, time is stopped, I think." Teach frowned slightly. “In any case I can choose when to go back to. Only works in reverse, unfortunately. Pick a point in the conversation. Preferably after Vridel was surprised; I would prefer not to have to demonstrate to him again, you see."
“Where would the fun in that, be?" Mercer retorted. “Vivi could handle a second time, I'm sure," he continued, but shook his head. “Alright, how about the moment right after I asked what happened. It's right after Vi, and before... whatever this was," Mercer stated, vaguely gesturing to their surroundings. He would admit, though, that this was... strange. Stopping time? It was like Reynard stated: terrifyingly useful. He wondered, briefly, if Rhea knew Teach could do this. If so... exactly how much did she know, and what was she keeping from them?
“Also, you can answer after this is done, but, how long have you been able to do this?"
Teach wore the faintest smile, but he did not answer before all at once the world reconstituted around them and they were once again seated.
“No, you do. Trust me." Vi shook his head again, just as he had the last time, with the same expression and inflection and everything. “It has to be seen to be believed."
“I didn't break anything," Teach confirmed, then turned directly to Mercer. “Other than the continuum of time."
“I can see why you'd say that, Vi," Mercer replied, gripping on to the table so as to not fall out of his chair. He felt slightly dizzy, but that may have been the fact that he'd just witnessed time stop, rewind, and then begin again. “Well since Vi's had his fun, I've had mine, Rey, you can either believe us or you can take a ride with Teach. Both, I'm sure, are appealing in both ways but I'll let you decide which one you want to do. Also, Teach, you still have to tell me how long you've been able to do that."
Not more than a moment later, Reynard blinked, sitting up abruptly in his chair, then shaking his head emphatically. “That's... quite a trick," he muttered, looking vaguely disturbed.
“I learned how to do it the night I met the three house leaders, actually," he said, frowning slightly. “Sorcha actually..." His brows drew down, and he trailed off, grimacing slightly. “Suffice to say it triggered when it was very needed. I've only used it a few times since then, mostly just to make sure everyone survives. I was too far away at Castle Gaspard, or I would have there, too, I promise you."
Mercer dropped his shoulders, but shook his head. “All that matters is that we did survive." That counted in Mercer's book.
He was almost certain she wanted to see them, if not Vridel. What was stranger than that, however, was the girl they had found with Amalthea. No one seemed to know her, however; after a little midnight digging, Mercer was able to find a name for her: Monica. She'd been a student of the academy last year, however; it was thought that she'd went home after her year was up. No one thought anything of it, after that.
He hugged his cloak a little closer to him, making sure he was about as unrecognizable as possible, before he approached Reynard's house. He used the key Reynard had given him, and let himself in. “Darlings I'm home!" he stated, announcing his arrival as he closed the door behind him. If anyone had heard him, they would think he was talking to his family. He supposed, in a way, he was.
“Good evening, dear," Reynard drawled in reply, a flicker of amusement seeping into the words. He happened to be in the front hallway, apparently moving some food from the kitchen to the study, where no doubt Vridel was.
When Mercer entered, it was to find his friend with more or less the same broody look on his face that had been there since they'd found Amalthea. He was surrounded by a stack of books, some of them stolen from the monastery library and some of them probably sent to him from home. He did a pretty good job making it less obvious than other people, but it was a fair bet that he still hadn't slept much since the end of last month.
He glanced up as the others entered, vaguely gesturing at the other chairs around the table and shifting some of the books around so that they'd have somewhere to sit. When Reynard did, he set a large glass of some kind of fruit juice in front of Vi with a loud enough thud to constitute an order. The prince glowered briefly, but pulled it towards himself anyway.
“She still under guard?" he asked dully, clearly expecting the answer.
“Unnecessarily so, yeah," Mercer replied, taking a seat so that he was in front of Vridel. He pursed his lips, though, as he sighed. “I don't understand why Rhea's making such a big deal about it. I mean, Thea's safe, now, but why the need to have her under guard? It's not like she's well enough to do something on her own, and I'm sure she wants to see all of us." And it wasn't like any of them were going to harm her. Quite the opposite, in fact. They were all worried about Thea, even if they knew she was there. Not being able to check in on her themselves was maddening. Mercer could only imagine how much so it must be for Vridel.
“After everything we've found out, that still doesn't explain much," he continued, running a hand down his face in an aggravated manner. “Sure, she's a Cethleann Crest holder, but it doesn't make sense for Rhea to put her under guard. Have you been able to find out anything useful?" because Mercer hadn't. Even with the extra nights digging into the deeper parts of the library, he wasn't able to find much. Though... there was that one thing he found in one of Tomas's books. Something about an Immaculate One, and something about Crest stones.
He'd tell them about that, later, though.
“It was definitely Jeritza," Reynard said with a shrug. “I looked into him a bit. Jeritza von Hrym. Minor Crest of Lamine, first son of the von Hrym family in the Empire. His father's a real piece of work—married some woman just for her Crest and then tossed her and her daughter out after he had a son with the Crest. Apparently he's always been a little odd, but nothing in particular to speak of. Excellent fencer, applied to the Monastery for a position and was accepted three years ago. Interestingly, it seems he was the presumptive guy for the position our Professor ended up with, until Rhea undercut completely by hiring Cyril."
Vi's eyes narrowed. “I think I see conspiracies in everything," he admitted. “Everything seems to come back to Cyril somehow, but I'm convinced he doesn't know anything himself." He shook his head, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I've been looking everywhere for any kind of reference to a 'Flame Emperor,' but there's nothing. It's like he came out of nowhere. Pretentious bastard."
Mercer could understand, somewhat. “If Rhea is about the Church and all, which she is," everyone knew that, “then maybe it's because Teach has the Crest of Flames. It's the Crest of the goddess, isn't it? Maybe she thinks that Teach, probably a descendant of Nemesis, is the closest thing she'll get to the goddess herself. Remember what Hanneman said; a major Crest is the closest in bloodties to the Hero. If that is, indeed, true, then that might be why she's so interested in Teach." It didn't seem remarkably romantic, after all.
Teach was a good-looking guy, but so were a lot of the other people at the monastery. Rhea could, literally, have her pick considering she was a beautiful woman, so if it wasn't romantic, it had to be something else. “That, or maybe she thinks Teach can be of some use to her to gain more followers. We know that the Western Church had issues with the Central Church, so if that were the case..." he trailed off. That didn't make much sense, either.
As far as this Flame Emperor, it could have been anyone. Mercer wasn't there, so he had no idea where to even begin gathering information on him, and if Vridel had no such luck, well... what luck did Mercer have? “We'll just have to see what crumbs we can find about the Flame Emperor. There's only one nation that I know of that claims any sort of emperor title; maybe he's someone from the Empire?" Mercer mused. In the Kingdom, there were Kings, and in the Alliance, there were Leaders. The Adrestian Empire was the only nation known to use the word Emperor.
“Not that the title means all that much, anymore," Vi replied with a huff. “It hasn't since the Insurrection. Could be that someone wants the title and the power that used to go with it, but if that was the case he should've just let the Death Knight at me. Cyril might've been able to interfere, but..." He shrugged. “Maybe not, too."
“Actually..." Reynard broke in, leaning back and propping his legs up on the chair. He withdrew his pipe from somewhere, lighting it with a flicker of magic and drawing in a lungful of smoke before exhaling as he spoke. “There's something to that. The Flame Emperor appeared right as the Death Knight might have killed you, and maybe the Professor too." He contemplated this for a moment, head tilted to the side. “Or at least I'll wager they figured he could. I'm not as sure, myself. Regardless... the order to stop from their perspective saved two lives right in the nick of time. Which one was essential to them, I wonder?"
Vi grimaced. “I was two seconds from charging him," he admitted. “But I'm sure the Professor would have gone with. You're saying you think this Flame Emperor specifically wanted one of us alive?"
Reynard shrugged carelessly. “It's a possibility we should consider."
“But why?" Mercer stated, wincing slightly at the way it sounded. “I mean, like you said, Vi. If this Flame Emperor wanted the title, then he could have let Jeritza kill you. It might be that he wants Teach. Think about it. Not many people know Teach has the Crest of Flames, yet. Even with the Sword of the Creator, I highly doubt many people will recognize the weapon for what it actually is. It's been a long time since someone saw it, and I'd wager that the only people who know are at the monastery."
“It's something to go on, for now, though. We'll have to see what else we can come up with. Is there anything else that seems strange, other than that? And the fact that Rhea is a total... uh, witch for keeping Thea away from her friends?" He glanced between Reynard and Vridel, setting his hands in front of them to lean his chin on them.
“Well you know about the part where Lyanna and Rhea were pretty sure Thea was taken because of something to do with her blood," Vi said, a scowl forming over his features. “What I might not have told you is that Lyanna's pretty clearly afraid of the Archbishop. Not in the same kind of way we all think she's up to something either—like actually afraid of her. I can't put my finger on why, but it might be the reason Rhea gets away with the things she's done to Thea. Because fighting her on it would have been even worse for them. I thought at first that Lyanna must not care much about her sister, but she very clearly does."
Reynard nodded. “There is... an unsettling dichotomy, in how people think of the Archbishop," he observed, exhaling another cloud off to the side. “At a certain distance she is almost fanatically loved. Catherine and Alois and Sir Gilbert are good examples of such. Devotion to her almost seems synonymous with devotion to the Church. And yet those in her innermost circle, or who have been there—The Professor, Sir Jeralt, Lyanna... these people are either wary or afraid. I think we should take it seriously that the person who knows more about Rhea than anyone else has that kind of response. What does she know that we do not?"
“It's not like we can outright ask Lyanna about it," Mercer mused. She was likely to say nothing at all if she was truly afraid of Rhea. Who was Rhea that it produced such a strong emotion in Lyanna? And to say nothing of her followers. Mercer knew a thing or two about devout people who believed more in some unknown being rather than what they could see now. Blind faith, as his mother had put it, once.
“Still, it's something to go on. I wonder if I can find anything about it in Tomas's stash of books. He has a relatively large amount of books with interesting information," he stated. He was about to say more, however; there was a brief knock on Reynard's door, causing Mercer's eyes to narrow slightly. “Were we expecting someone?" he asked in a hushed voice.
“No." Motioning for them to be quiet, Reynard approached the door. Mercer could hear him open it, then the low sound of his voice, followed by another that sounded familiar somehow. Two sets of footsteps headed back down the hall, and Reynard reentered the room, shaking his head faintly. “Seems we're not as subtle as we thought, gents."
Cyril's expression was almost mirthful at that, and he regarded them without harshness. “Plenty subtle," he replied. “I just know the best information broker in Garreg Mach, is all. I, uh, hope you do not mind. But I thought perhaps I could guess why you were meeting out here, and I might be able to help you."
Mercer shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose you're not wrong, Teach. We're secretly married, the three of us, and we just like spending some quiet time together out here, you know?" Mercer stated, offering Teach a lopsided grin. He gestured to one of the empty chairs, though, and shook his head. “We don't mind, Teach. It was only a matter of time, I guess, when we'd include you," because Mercer was certain they would, “but do tell. What insight could you give us?"
He snorted softly at the joke, but took a seat easily. “Well if I'm interrupting I'd gladly depart..."
Vi rolled his eye, but there was a flicker of a smile at the edge of his mouth for the first time in a while. “Why leave when you can join?"
“Was that a proposal?"
“Only if you're interested."
“Please say you're interested."
Teach actually chuckled at that, halfway motioning towards the tray of food and drinks. When Reynard nodded easily, he took up what seemed to be a savory pastry of some kind and bit into it before continuing. “You're all suspicious of the Archbishop, right? I've been trying to include you in my meetings with her, but I think it's backfiring. There's some information it might just be better to give you secondhand."
“Any idea why she's obsessed with you?" Vridel asked flatly.
“Not really, but... I think it might be connected to some other things that have been happening. You remember when that 'Crest Scholar' showed up and started harassing Senka?"
“Heard you nearly broke him in half," Reynard remarked, resuming his use of the pipe now that he seemed to be sure all was well. So to speak.
Teach shrugged. “The thing is, I'm pretty sure the information had to come from one of exactly three people: Hanneman, Lyanna, or Rhea. Hanneman because he discovered it, and would have been required to report that information to Lyanna, who in turn is obligated to report it to Rhea. Of the three..."
“It has to be the Archbishop," Reynard finished.
“Can't think of any reason anyone else would do it. And Rhea..." He grimaced. “She doesn't like how well I get along with any of you. She also didn't want Senka to be given her relic weapon."
“But Relics are, technically, birthrights. They've been handed down to each Crest bearer for nearly generations, now. I'm set to inherit Failnaught when I become Duke von Riegan, as I'm sure Vridel will inherit his when he becomes Emperor. Wouldn't Blutgang belong to Senka by right?" Mercer stated out loud. Relics were given to each respective house; why would Rhea try and keep Senka's?
“And what reason would the archbishop have to do that, though? Senka hasn't done anything to offend her, and for as long as we've all known her, she's kept close to all of us. Senka's a good-hearted person, much like her best friend, so why target her at all?" he added. Sure she had her issues, but she was working through them. At least from what Mercer was able to tell.
He also had an idea as to the why, but it only made sense if the archbishop had some emotional attachment to Teach. Since it seemed that she didn't have that kind, why try and bring down Senka and keep her relic from her?
“I don't know," Teach admitted.
“The Relics are birthrights only because the Church at some point said so," Reynard pointed out. “And any but the ones they've officially given away are Church property. Blutgang falls under that rule. In theory, the Archbishop could decide that the next heir of any house isn't 'worthy' of their Relic and demand it back."
“If she wanted to start a war," Vi added with a snort.
Reynard nodded. “It probably would, considering how much people rely on them for survival, but legally... it's her right. It's a threat she can hang over anyone in negotiations, and if she did it to punish only one country well..."
“None of us like each other enough to band together," Vi finished. “The others would probably side with the Church, or at least not interfere. Maybe hope that by lending their armies to enforcement, the Church would grant them land afterwards. It would be an extreme move for her, but possible. And for someone like Sen, who isn't officially part of anyone's government or a recognized noble house, there's nothing to stop Rhea at all."
Mercer furrowed his brows. “She's a relative of Rodrigue's, isn't she? House Fraldarius is recognized by the Church in the Kingdom. Rodrigue could, theoretically, adopt Senka into his household. Wouldn't that put her in some kind of position?" he stated. Not that it would likely happen. She was his niece, from what Mercer understood, and he didn't know if Senka's mother was listed or not in their registry. If she wasn't, well... he supposed that answered that question.
“The more I hear about Rhea, the less I like," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He never liked the woman to begin with, but she was targeting his friends, now. Who was to say she wouldn't go after him, next, or worse, Sorcha? “I just don't get it. Her interest in you has only increased ever since you were given the Sword of the Creator. What makes that so special?" other than the fact that it was supposedly a match for Teach's Crest.
“I don't know that, either, except... there's a couple of things about it that are a bit odd." Teach paused in his eating, expelling a breath through his nose. “So Maurice—the creature from last month that seemed to be him—called it the Sword of the King, not the Sword of the Creator. Also... it doesn't seem to have a Crest Stone. Those are necessary, right?"
“They're what links a Relic to a Crest," Vi replied. “Like... a bridge, between the Crest and the sword or bow or whatever kind of thing it is. Theoretically it should be all but useless without one, but you seem to be able to use it just fine."
Mercer furrowed his brows. “Well that would make some sense. Nemesis was the first known person to wield the sword," he mused out loud. “He was known as the King of Liberation, so... wait a minute," Mercer turned his eyes to Cyril. “You mean to tell me that that creature was actually the Maurice? As in the forgotten hero?" It sounded incredulous to Mercer. “Wouldn't that have made it like almost a thousand years old? How? How is that possible? And if it called your sword the Sword of the King, then that means... ugh." Mercer ruffled his hair with both of his hands.
It didn't make any sense! None. Or... maybe it did and he couldn't seem to make sense of it.
“Here's the thing; I found information about Crests and Crest Stones in one of Tomas's books. It said that Crest Stones are carved with a specific Crest, ones that match a bearers in order to use it safely. That would mean that Crest Stones might actually be what give Relic's their unique power. So... if the Crest Stone to the Sword of the Creator, or King, whathaveyou, is missing..." he trailed off, humming a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat.
“You've always been weirdly strong, right, Teach?"
He looked unsure, pausing as he took a drink from one of the glasses on the table. “What would qualify as 'weird' in this case?" he asked.
Reynard snorted. “How old were you when you could first lift a cart, or keep pace with a warhorse at canter?"
Teach blinked, setting his glass down. “I don't know, exactly," he admitted. “Since I'm not sure how old I am. But I could do either of those things... maybe seven or eight years ago?"
“Then yes," Reynard finished, turning his attention to Mercer. “He has. Why do you ask?"
“I believe Crest Stones might be able to give inhuman power to the Relic's. But... no, 'cause then that would mean that Teach was a Crest Stone of some sort," which didn't seem all that plausible. Crest Stones were physical; Teach was, too, however, just not a Stone. He pushed a sigh through his nose, and shook his head.
“This right here," he stated, pulling the sheet of paper he'd torn out of Tomas's book from his pocket, and showed it to the others. “It's called The Immaculate One. You're familiar with the story, right?" he stated, momentarily forgetting that Teach was not. “It's said that that creature, or dragon, is what the goddess sent to save the followers of Seiros, but it's not mentioned in anything else. Who did it save them from? Was it Nemesis? Because we all know that Seiros led an army, not some strange, whatever that is."
“The Church tells both of these stories?" Teach asked. “Was this creature an ally of Seiros's or something? Sent to help the chosen saint or whatever she supposedly is?" he sounded quite skeptical, perhaps not surprisingly.
“What's that? On its head?" Vi narrowed his eyes, tapping the crature's brow in the picture. “Is that... the Crest of Seiros?"
Mercer glanced closer to the picture. Sure enough, there was a Crest of Seiros in its forehead, however; there was something strange about its location. There was something circular, red-like in appearance. “It's a Crest Stone of Seiros," he stated out loud. “Why does it have a Crest Stone of Seiros, though?" that would imply that this creature, whatever it was, was Seiros.
“That... does that mean that this creature is Seiros? Or at least... somehow bound to her, or something?"
“You sure that's a stone? It looks like part of its body. Not a rock, at least." Reynard was frowning at it. “Unless maybe it's a Relic, the creature. I've seen a few old drawings, of... mechanical weapons. Big ones. It was a long time ago now, though. I'm afraid I don't recall them well."
“Dagdan?" Vi asked, though it wasn't clear why that should be his guess.
Reynard shook his head. “I don't think so. They don't have anything like it now that I'm aware of. The drawings were old, I think. But I was only a kid when I saw them. I don't remember much."
Mercer was almost certain that it was a Crest Stone. “It's not a Relic. I'm not entirely sure how I know that, but it's not. There was something mentioned about it being a beast. And we all know how real those beasts are," he was of course referring to the creatures they'd fought last month. Sighing through his nose, he leaned back in his chair. “It's a lot of information to digest, that's for sure." He glanced towards the others.
“Alright, that's my show-and-tell. Who wants to go next?"
Vridel and Reynard looked at each other and shrugged. “Don't really have anything else at this point. What about you, Professor?"
Teach was silent for a long moment, as if working something out in his head. His expression changed slightly a few times in the process—perhaps his thoughts were at odds with each other. After a moment, though, he sighed quietly. “It's hard to show," he admitted. “But too unbelievable to just tell. I think... maybe I could show you one at a time. So to speak."
What seemed to be no more than a moment later, Vridel's expression morphed into one of shock. “Fuck," he breathed, eyes wide and exhaling with something like wonder. “I can't believe that actually just happened. You really—" He looked for all the world as though some incomprehensible mystery had been set in front of him, and the source of it was Teach.
Mercer was confused. “Uh, what just happened?" or didn't happen? “Did you break Vi, Teach? I'm not sure Thea would appreciate it, or Sorcha, but..." he trailed off. Whatever it was that Teach did to Vridel, Mercer wanted no part of it.
“No, you do. Trust me." Vi shook his head. “It has to be seen to be believed."
“I didn't break anything," Teach confirmed. “Or, well... anything besides the continuum of time, I suppose. That's what it was—I rewound time, and only Vridel and I were aware of it. It's... taxing, to take someone else along, but I can do it for the both of you, as well."
“Sounds terrifyingly useful," Reynard murmured, glancing at Mercer. “After you."
“But hey, ladies first, Rey," Mercer replied glancing back at Reynard. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to do that. He believed Teach, in some sense. After all, what reason would he have to lie to them. If Teach said he could rewind time, or fly, who was Mercer to deny that fact? After all the things they'd witnessed, anything was particluarly possible when it came to Cyril. Sighing in defeat, he slumped his shoulders.
“Alright, fine. But... be gentle. Vi's first time didn't look so fun, and I'm not sure I want to end up like that on my first time."
Reynard snorted a laugh at him.
Teach, on the other hand, reached forward. “If you'd be so kind as to take my hand..."
The moment Mercer did, there was—it was hard to describe. It felt almost like something shuddered through the air, and then Reynard and Vi stopped moving entirely, like figures in a sculpture. Then they, and everything else, even the air itself, took on hairline, black fractures, and in the next moment shattered, and they were standing in a void, lit only by faint traces of green and dark blue light that didn't seem to have a source. Teach's eyes were by far the brightest thing in the gloom, luminous quite on their own; the rest of him seemed almost to fade into the dark.
“At the moment, time is stopped, I think." Teach frowned slightly. “In any case I can choose when to go back to. Only works in reverse, unfortunately. Pick a point in the conversation. Preferably after Vridel was surprised; I would prefer not to have to demonstrate to him again, you see."
“Where would the fun in that, be?" Mercer retorted. “Vivi could handle a second time, I'm sure," he continued, but shook his head. “Alright, how about the moment right after I asked what happened. It's right after Vi, and before... whatever this was," Mercer stated, vaguely gesturing to their surroundings. He would admit, though, that this was... strange. Stopping time? It was like Reynard stated: terrifyingly useful. He wondered, briefly, if Rhea knew Teach could do this. If so... exactly how much did she know, and what was she keeping from them?
“Also, you can answer after this is done, but, how long have you been able to do this?"
Teach wore the faintest smile, but he did not answer before all at once the world reconstituted around them and they were once again seated.
“No, you do. Trust me." Vi shook his head again, just as he had the last time, with the same expression and inflection and everything. “It has to be seen to be believed."
“I didn't break anything," Teach confirmed, then turned directly to Mercer. “Other than the continuum of time."
“I can see why you'd say that, Vi," Mercer replied, gripping on to the table so as to not fall out of his chair. He felt slightly dizzy, but that may have been the fact that he'd just witnessed time stop, rewind, and then begin again. “Well since Vi's had his fun, I've had mine, Rey, you can either believe us or you can take a ride with Teach. Both, I'm sure, are appealing in both ways but I'll let you decide which one you want to do. Also, Teach, you still have to tell me how long you've been able to do that."
Not more than a moment later, Reynard blinked, sitting up abruptly in his chair, then shaking his head emphatically. “That's... quite a trick," he muttered, looking vaguely disturbed.
“I learned how to do it the night I met the three house leaders, actually," he said, frowning slightly. “Sorcha actually..." His brows drew down, and he trailed off, grimacing slightly. “Suffice to say it triggered when it was very needed. I've only used it a few times since then, mostly just to make sure everyone survives. I was too far away at Castle Gaspard, or I would have there, too, I promise you."
Mercer dropped his shoulders, but shook his head. “All that matters is that we did survive." That counted in Mercer's book.