hiraeth

"...I know what you mean," he admits slowly. "I'd expect a couples' promotion for some noble trinket shop, but I don't see how it'd be any use to them here." Well, whatever. As long as their wares stayed within reason, what did he care? With a slight inward shrug, his eyes focus on her face again. "Tight security, then?"

But she really likes knives, doesn't she? That's not a bad thing. The ease with which she handles her own speaks to a distinctive level of comfort and skill -- and she makes a fair point, besides.

"That's true. Sometimes I carry a sword for that purpose, but a knife could have different applications." Subtle with a quicker draw, and hardly any extra inconvenience to carry around. Plus it's interesting, and it'll give him a leg up back in-- ...well, it's interesting, anyway. "Let's go there next then. I want to take a look, too." A pause; something like amusement pulls faintly at a corner of his mouth. "You can take first pick."

So it's familiar to her? And it sounds like a decent bow, by her account.

"Is it like a Levin Sword?" He'd gotten good use out of the one he'd used at the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, and it hadn't been too difficult to wield. Judging by name, though, it sounded like a different type of magic... but what did he know? They were all just tomes to him. Actually -- does Fódlan even use tomes? His brows scrunch up as he tries to recall the last time he'd seen one.

Too flashy. Definitely not her style, even if some might be surprised to hear that. Her flashiness on the battlefield needed to be controller, so that she could attract the right amount of attention but not too much. Big flashy shows of magic, that tended to bring a lot of attention your way.

…well, as much as you could get when there were multiple dragons sharing the battlefield.

Nevermind. They walk past the racks of weapons that glimmer with steel or beautiful covers or every other gorgeous little decoration that you could imagine. It’s difficult, but Yunaka manages to keep herself on task until, finally, they reach what she came here for in the first place.

An excited squeal bursts out of her before she rushes forward. The knives are all set up in a neat display case so she can look them over properly. She mumbles to herself as she goes in a low, almost frantic tone as she moves from one to the other. “Oh, they’re all gorgeous! How is anybody supposed to pick?”

The words she'd spoken had been proven true in the end, even if nothing else about her was certain. Letting his hand fall back to his side, he meanders after Yunaka, content to follow at an easy pace.

She follows through on her excitement, letting out a squeal that moves both of his brows in brief surprise. Wolf takes a step back as she takes a step forward, her eyes searing the display with the passion of her interest. And, yep, that's practiced ease with which she juggles it, though this much he finds considerably less unexpected.

"Why that one?" Once she's had a bit of time to indulge her exuberance, he approaches the display as well, much more measured as he shifts the weight of a random knife in his hand. Unsurprisingly, it's pretty good. It's not like any secret shop of value would survive on standard fare or worse, but there was always the risk of something subpar souring the bunch. This one seems... decent, but it doesn't speak to him.

He sets it back and drifts a step further away, examining the next. Better, he thinks, his examination turning a bit more thorough. Whether or not it's 'gorgeous', he can't say, but something in his eyes narrows in a thought.

The sound of metal ringing on stone continues to work at dispelling the fog Wolf's clap had forcefully gusted away.

Matthew is left standing in the other's wake, numb, blinking at the space where Wolf's hands had been - where ███ had been - and, and, and…

'Let's go,' Wolf says,

and Matthew wonders what he's done to deserve such k i n d n e s s, in the end. With a gulp and a wordless nod, he follows. He dares not look back at the piper, at she who had for a fleeting moment granted his deepest, fondest wish. That way there lay nothing but trouble.

'Wildflowers,' Wolf said.

That sounds nice.

The walk to the field had been silent. Not even the insects played their songs along the way. Rainclouds loomed in the far, far distance - a teasing, taunting, amazingly clear sky was painted nearer, mocking the somber weight on shoulders below.

Hands shoved into his pockets, Matthew looks on the wildflowers swaying in the gentle breeze.

Leila would have--

He huffs.

"… I feel like I should be thanking you," he starts, eventually. He kneels to delicately lift a daisy's petals, where its head had bowed on its stem. "But I'm not sure I can yet."

He might have been happy, you know?

Part of Matthew is grateful though. Reality has ever proven a tough herb to chew, but time and again he's remembered what he knows to be true: that She would have wanted him to move on.

Running a hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, he sighs.

"She would have wanted me to thank you though so… thanks for that, back there."

His smile is bitter.

The flowers of Fódlan will never be as beautiful as they could be, to him. He can see the end of the meadow too easily, and how, where it turns upward at its edges, it reaches into stipplings of tall trees and forested hills. Those trees and hills cast shadows, cutting through the soft, golden light that rims the wild grasses, and the delicate flowers that peek from in between them are predominantly lacy threads of white.

Above all, it is not Aurelis, and so he will always find the vision of it just a bit pale.

"Then don't," comes the answer after a beat long enough to throw doubt upon its arrival. It's simply spoken, brusque in its delivery but perhaps not so much in its intent. Truthfully, he doesn't mind; what is there to be thankful about, here? The bard didn't even quite turn out to be a scammer so much as a well-intentioned lady who unintentionally strung her harp with deeper traumas than could sing. The last remark, though -- that puts a slight crease in his brow.

His would-be fiancee would have liked him. There's something in Matthew's demeanor that aches too much, scraped raw by the afternoon's memories, for it to come across as some kind of platitude, objectively unreasonable as it may otherwise be. Maybe he does think she would've liked him for some incomprehensible reason, but... ...well, he supposes he still measures things in what Coyote would think, too.

"Matthew," he begins abruptly, ignoring the sentiment aloud. He steps at an angle, already halfway turned, but despite the way he ignores them, his boot avoids falling upon any of the wildflowers. Not enough colors, he thinks with a distant sigh, already looking toward the road. Not for him, at least; for his coworker, they might be a different story. In any case, it's easy enough to give him another moment -- something between him and... Leila.

He starts making his way up the gently-rolling hill.

"I expected this place to be easier to break into, honestly." She's quick to lower her voice. A glance over to the merchant running the place reveals that he looks as uninterested in what they've got going on as ever, but it never hurts to be careful. "It almost feels like they don't want customers. Totally exhausting. But you made yourself useful when push came to shove."

She never really expects to actually influence people. Like, she tries her best, but she figures most people have their life together enough that she's not really much more than a blip in their trajectory. So when Wolf mumbles about picking up a knife for himself, like he might seriously, actually do it, she stares blankly at him for a moment before brightening.

"Sure! Knives are useful, even outside of combat. And getting familiar with yours gives you more options, you know? Especially as an archer." She's always got at least one on her person. She catches it by the hilt and it cuts through the air easily before she catches it again. "If somebody gets all up close and personal, it's way easier than trying to line up a shot, and way more efficient than trying to get 'em with an arrow or something."

Though running blindly into combat with a knife and a dream is probably also something she should be discouraging in people. You know, as a professor or whatever. That thought is interrupt as he turns their attention back to the bows.

"...I know what you mean," he admits slowly. "I'd expect a couples' promotion for some noble trinket shop, but I don't see how it'd be any use to them here." Well, whatever. As long as their wares stayed within reason, what did he care? With a slight inward shrug, his eyes focus on her face again. "Tight security, then?"

But she really likes knives, doesn't she? That's not a bad thing. The ease with which she handles her own speaks to a distinctive level of comfort and skill -- and she makes a fair point, besides.

"That's true. Sometimes I carry a sword for that purpose, but a knife could have different applications." Subtle with a quicker draw, and hardly any extra inconvenience to carry around. Plus it's interesting, and it'll give him a leg up back in-- ...well, it's interesting, anyway. "Let's go there next then. I want to take a look, too." A pause; something like amusement pulls faintly at a corner of his mouth. "You can take first pick."

So it's familiar to her? And it sounds like a decent bow, by her account.

"Is it like a Levin Sword?" He'd gotten good use out of the one he'd used at the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, and it hadn't been too difficult to wield. Judging by name, though, it sounded like a different type of magic... but what did he know? They were all just tomes to him. Actually -- does Fódlan even use tomes? His brows scrunch up as he tries to recall the last time he'd seen one.

"I am here for the same reason as you: peace cannot protect itself."

Wolf, he thinks, might very well be like himself, but he does not know how much his loyalties lie with the church, if they do at all.

To hear Ephraim speak of the depth of the devastation is another thing entirely. At a time when the church should be focusing on providing relief to its own shattered people, it exerts its 'altruism', its influence, instead.

"I assumed you were here for lances," Wolf replies dryly, not opposed to the more serious turn of the conversation but still somewhat amused. "But I agree. Even if you hate violence, you have to be willing to defend your peace to keep it." And even that will served no guarantee; if there is enough greed, enough lust for power, then rotten roots can be laid even in golden fields.

He scoffs, his gaze traveling to a weapon laid out nearby.

Wolf tells him he has to be more careful, and Joachim knows Wolf is right. Caution played an important part in hunting; perhaps it was the only thing Joachim knew when it came to it.

But if it weren't for Wolf saying so here, reminding him, Joachim's trembling hand might have fired already. The beast's panic threatens to spread to him, its thrashing around violent in a way that seems too instinctual. And when one taps into instincts, Joachim knows it only leads to the worst.

A fate he absolutely cannot let come to pass.

Joachim stops his arrow at Wolf's call, staring at him wide-eyed but listening attentively all the same. He internalizes the instructions, he barely even registers the praise.

He only realizes that's what it is when Wolf's already long gone.

“Oh...”

It serves to calm the tremors in his hands slightly, and it makes his mind slightly clearer. By the time he's reached this state, their quarry is already on the move, and Joachim can trace its anticipated trajectory, knowing Wolf's current location. It's a surprisingly easy shot, all his strength and determination carrying through—

SQUAAAAA...!!

—and the creature is downed, plummeting until it strikes the cliff, completely obscuring each man from the other.

“Wolf! Did it hit you?!”

Dots in the sky start to surface, growing closer from their position in the far distance, each coming from three different cardinal directions. They do not approach at the same rate, the distance not the same, but it becomes clear soon enough that Wolf's hopes are met.

By another arrow is the monster struck, the lurch of its body and its singular dying throe sending its corpse rolling over the rock. For a boy who'd professed to little talent with a bow, he's made some solid shots. Of course, a measure of luck could have directed the critical hits... but skill was just as much a factor.

"I'm fine!" He barks back his answer, rising from the dirt. "Stay alert, Joachim! More are on the way!" At least three have already darkened the skies overhead, by his reckoning, but they'd known going in this could erupt into a trial by fire. Yet they fly in from different directions... seemed demons were solitary creatures, then. Not sure if that's surprising.

"Keep hold of your senses! They're fast, but staggered -- if we deal with them quickly, they won't have a chance to group up on us!"

The wings of the nearest one cast their shadows over the dirt, whipping its armored head toward the body of its kin. Another shriek shakes the sky as it changes course, veering toward it before it's spotted Wolf himself. That moment is all he needs; like Joachim's arrow before, it tears through the beast's wing, sending it careening toward the ground as well. It thrashes for a moment, one wing pierced and the other battered beneath its fall, and Wolf nocks another arrow as the lumbering creature screams and shifts onto its feet.

The attraction of a shop, one so secretive due to its - presumably - rarer wares, was admittedly one that Lachesis found difficult to ignore. The trials that she had gone through to find her blade, only to find that it had been safe the whole time, left her with a flutter in her chest that was difficult to identify. Something akin to excitement, but more familiar to loss.

She wondered, then, whose heirlooms they might have had, whose lost treasures had ended up in their walls and at their discretion, never to be seen again.

It wasn’t fancy, then, that drove her to seeking out the secret of this shop, but justice, or at least a version of it that could be held unspoken. Better her hand, wasn’t it? Than the empty racks of someone looking to gain only coin?

But coin, it seemed, was not entirely what they had wanted, for even spending it on rumors was not entirely enough to secure her entry - or, for that matter, a specific location. It was pure speculation, at this point, perhapses and might bes, looking for patterns in places where there were none to find a shop where one oughtn’t be.

“Lady, if you walk by this alley one more time, someone might think you’re up to something.” The man who spoke to her canted his head in amusement, and there was something in the lean of his body against brick wall and the cross of arms over chest that hinted that within him was the direction she sought - certainly within the crooked slant of his smile, and the crease of his eyes, daring her to ask outright, delighting in the power of being able to say no.

"And what of you?" she snapped in response. "Isn't it so that this alley is otherwise unoccupied? Unless you mean to say that someone is unwelcome to this particular street, at this particular moment?"

"Some someones," he replied, uselessly, lifting a pinky to pick at his teeth in an affectation of being unbothered. "Not all. You for certain," he added, flicking the nail in her direction, an action that made her see red.

"And what does that mean?" The words were only barely to the side of a snarl, and this made the man chuckle - something that raised her hackles further as he lifted a hand and began to lower fingers, until one remained, and he tapped.

A bowman self-estranged from all that he loves has no personal need of heirlooms, but he had not expected to find anyone from Archanea on such distant soil. Yet here he had found Kris, with whom he shares a homeland, albeit only in the broadest sense, and who is worthy of respect, besides. How ironic that such a respect emboldens him to be so shameless, but...

...it's just -- he ought to leave something behind.

But what an annoying rumor it turns out to be. Yes, yes, secret shops and their access cards, he's well aware by now, but he can't be faulted for raising a brow at a stipulation so... asinine. Seriously, couples? He'd thought they were black market weapons vendors, not some noble house's pet chocolatiers. He'd thought that by tracking it down, he might at least find some other way inside, but in the belly of a brick alleyway all he finds is... the woman from the Ethereal Ball? And some sleazy git.

"Knock it off," Wolf interrupts, grabbing the man's wrist and tossing it away from her. A glance to his palm afterward, and he wipes it off on his pants before he continues. Gross bastard. Pointedly ignoring his simmering scowl, vivid eyes land upon his unfortunate dance partner instead.

Had she come looking for the secret shop too? It seems entirely possible, assuming this weird creature was the doorman. Then again, if he was poking someone's neck like that, maybe he was just a creep.

"...Hm." Raising his chin slightly, the bowman attempts to lighten the furrow of his brow. It doesn't need to look affectionate -- at least, not until he knows whether they're on the same page, but hopefully not after, either -- as long as it's less... well, Wolf, than it was looking at the other man. He tests the waters:

And Matthew can but cheerfully, obliviously forge ahead.

"I actually keep meaning to propose," he says with a cheeky grin, followed by a sheepish 'oops, forget you heard that, it should be a surprise, right' and then a wink Leila's -or was it Wolf's?- way.

And then there's a clap, and it reverberates like thunder, then strikes a sharper note like glass shattering, and then,

there is loss,raw as Matthew remembers upon first stumbling across the Black Fang's gift for the visitors to the Dread Isle and finally coming to terms with just exactly what he was seeing.

There is absence,

And in the place of the memory, there is only a crowd listlessly milling about, half awake, and next to him...

"Wolf."

Matthew's gaze is searching, filled with too many emotions to name... but, in the interest of naming just a few: there's grief, there's anger, there's longing, there's shame, there's confusion, and there's hurt, and there's so much more. Mostly, though, there is realization of what has just happened, and the faraway look in his eyes all but disappears, replaced with that of a man come back down to earth.

He takes a shuddering breath.And immediately comes to the conclusion that no, surely he can't have lost her again. But no, that's not- that can't be right--

"Wh-what... did you just do...?"

"Killed a mosquito," the bowman answers bluntly, waving his palm in front of his coworker a second time, bug guts and all. Once satisfied, he brushes it off between his palms. Around them the music has slowed to a trickle, the notes staggered and uncertainly plucked. The hesitation is almost more annoying than if the song had continued on without a care. His hand ducks into his pocket, curls into a fist, and then--

--drops a single copper coin on the street.

"Rethink your good intentions," Wolf scoffs, "Before it kills someone."

The pallor of her face is most infuriating of all. If she didn't care, she wouldn't have changed her songs for each person come to her audience; if she didn't care, her expression would not wrench with such sorrow. Even now, her gaze travels beyond his shoulder, eyes narrowed into regretful, downturned slivers. They follow something back to him -- Matthew's stunned stare, he can only assume; he doesn't have any interest. In the end, what frustrates him the most is that in all her callous kindness, she is still more graceful than him.

"...I understand," is the only thing the bard tells him in response. Her voice is soft like a chord in her music, and uncomfortably sincere; Wolf turns on his heel, stopping briefly a few steps past his coworker.

"I'm sick of this place," he announces brusquely. "I'm leaving."

('I actually kept meaning to propose.' ...He had smiled so happily about his unfulfilled promise, and yet Wolf had reminded him of a grave. Just how far away it was, he wasn't sure, but...)

To him, it might seem easier, preferable, even, to let the matter rest, to even let these flowers close his throat over before he accepts whatever is in his heart. Eirika knows better than to accept the easy path.

She presses a gentle hand to the forearm that cradles his head; a show of silent support.

And that is his defeat. It wears him down just as much as it forces him to endure. Quite suddenly his shoulders slump, their burden and weight shifted to his head, resting in his palm.

"...He sent her away one day," Wolf mutters quietly. "I never... I never met her again." It's technically the truth; after that day he had only seen her from afar, an ensorcelled puppet to Gharnef's whims until the moment that masked coward appeared before her. He had not loved her enough not to make light of her intelligence, had not loved her enough to afford her even a proper farewell, so why--?!

Why was it that bastard's cheap love had been enough to free her?! Why was it that Coyote's love had not been enough simply to live?! The resentment boils in his throat, each breath a short and shallow struggle. And yet-- and yet--

"I don't know what she went through," he admits, the fire snuffed out in an instant, the scent of flowers on his breath, "But she didn't deserve it. I know it now, and I knew it then."

The fingers of his other hand rise up to tap against his throat, pressing lightly against the other side of flowers and leaves.

The merchant clearly doesn't care much for his actual job. That or it's been a long day. Either way, the second they get permission, Yunaka's hands fly out too, running over the different bows and pausing every here and there to test out the strength of it. Bows aren't her go to weapon, but she's practiced with them as well. She prefers the heft of her knives, but it's useful to be prepared for any possible situation, just in case things go belly up.

She's running her finger down a bow with runes or something etched into the side of it when Wolf calls out to her again. Her eyes flick to him with the same speed as the string he tests before she grins. "The knives."

There is nothing better in life than a well taken care of knife. Not the overly-decorated ones that nobles like to wear, as if they actually know how to fight with them, but the ones that are crafted for a job and well maintained and do the job just right? Those are gorgeous. It's still kind of weird to see the knives just jumbled in with all the other swords, but it gives her a chance to look at both, so she doesn't really mind too much.

"I've still got plenty, of course, but I'm curious about what other places seem to have in stock. They don't seem that popular in Fodlan, for some reason, which I don't get at all, but every once in a while they manage to stock up one I've never seen before and that's the exciting part, to me."

He's not ungrateful, though, the objection distinctly shorn of its sharper edges. Still, he returns her gratitude with a short nod: "Thanks to you, too. I wouldn't have gotten in without your help. You're the one who did the convincing." Credit where credit is due; he'd likely be muttering curses under his breath outside just about now without her.

Between her answer and the way she examines the bow, however, he's beginning to understand why she so adamantly wanted to get in. There's an eagerness to her attention that he hardly remembers anymore, buried under sediment and sentiment until it's nearly been forgotten. If he examines the make of the bow, he can tell it's made of an uncommon wood... it's just that he hadn't cared to think much beyond necessity.

"...You're a weapons enthusiast?" He infers as much, though she doesn't make a great secret of it. "I know most of them. Though... they don't use knives where I come form." Even common thieves carried simple swords to battle. "Fódlan is the first place I've seen them in combat. You're saying it's more common where you're from?"

Hm. Maybe that'd occupy some of his time. "Maybe I'll get one too," he mutters idly, returning the bow he'd been looking at to the shelf. It's a perfectly fine bow, to be sure, but it's not what he's looking for; instead he leans over slightly, squinting at the rune-laden weapon in her hands.

"But she's right there," he complains and gestures, much in the fashion of a child trying in vain to convince his parent - I really want this, he mourns. I'll pull a tantrum if I don't get this, he whines. He gestures to no one - just another face in the crowd.

But Leila is there, and she beckons him all the closer. Matthew reaches to her, his hand settling in hers. It's warm, as though her heart and his still beat to the same rhythm.

"I'm sorry," he starts, wistful. "I should have got us out of there so much sooner. Then you wouldn't have..."

He trips over his words here, tongue tied against the reality. For a brief moment, he is seized by... well, not quite lucidity, but something like it. He pulls her closer to him and gestures with renewed cheer to his grouchy companion.

"Leila, this is Wolf! My..." He could say friend. Just to annoy him. "... coworker for today's mission, as it were. I think you'd like him."

At the least, she'd be better about disarming the guy, getting him to open up. All Matthew's managed is piling the bricks in the wall higher.

Anyroad...

"Don't," the plainsman of Aurelis quietly chokes back the word, nearly inaudible in that awful din. Sedgar isn't here to rein in his temper anymore -- he has to hold it back himself, try to be a better man than he is because he left the better part of him behind, but he can't stand this. Teeth gnash as the courier mournfully, suddenly apologizes for something, a hand scoring through his hair in agitation.

Should he rip that gods-damned instrument out of her hands? Break it on the paving stones? He can't. He won't. But he wishes he could just...

"I don't want to hear this," he seethes, still barely under his breath. "Don't."

I don't want to hear your apology, he manages not to say, a heavy glare leveled at the fraud through the swaying crowd. Her hand falters, yet the pity only deepens, and the tune only changes. He doesn't want to hear Matthew apologize for not being fast enough, not getting her out in time, being the one to fail her and being the one left behind -- he's heard it all in his head hundreds, thousands of times before.

It used to be every night, and before that it was every waking moment, and after both of those, when he lives in the cauterization called peace, he can only choke on the shame that he ever could.

What apology? What fucking apology? This selfish siren strums her spell, and now Matthew's stumbled into a world he can't have -- a world that can only last until she packs up her gear, that he will want to return to for the rest of his life. She digs her nails into old wounds and rips open the scar, and the people will thank her for it.

The love of my life, Matthew says, and all the stitches come undone. Just whose, Wolf cannot say; he'd bleed to death if he did. Instead he only measures the distance of his coworker's gaze, hazy as it is.

"Leila, huh." And for everything that bleeds, his voice brushes, just slightly, against the ache in his chest. If he was ever to have met her, it shouldn't have been like this. A grave, maybe. A memory. A smiling woman who filled out the light in his eyes. But not like this. His hands dart out, clapping together in the spot where her face should have been, a sharp sound that bursts the notes of a half-remembered song like an unpleasant bubble.

“Alright. I'll try,” Joachim rises to meet the challenge with a nod, having watched Wolf's demonstration with as much attention as he could muster. Pulling back the bowstring on his own weapon, he tries to mimic what the archer did, first aiming for the prey in the sky as he might normally have.

But then he adjusts. He repeats that instruction from before, quiet as a whisper, as his eyes grow sharp. “The wind will push... gravity will pull...”

And he releases. He's not sure if it's a lucky strike or what, but as the projectile sails the sky, it goes faster and farther than he could have anticipated—

SQUAAAAWK!!

—and strikes true, piercing one of the creature's wings. He'd been aiming for the body, thinking it was the larger target and thus easier for him to try and hit, but the monster begins to flag, its gusts it forces out weaker on its injured side.

"It's good that it's injured," Wolf answers slowly, creeping forward enough to put an arm out in front of the boy, "Especially a demonic beast." The whole reason they'd been put to the task was that hardly anything else could take them down. "But anything is dangerous when it's desperate to survive. The more it panics, the more careful you have to be."

He probably knows that already -- Wolf's well enough aware that he's no fool. Still, it bears reminding. Sharp eyes narrow to knives, the point of his attention scored into the rock and down below.

"...Wait. Don't shoot yet -- another shot might take it down. If we can, we should try to bring it to this side of the cliff first." A pause, brows flattened in quick contemplation. "I'll lure it over. It'll be faster and more erratic when it goes in to attack, so be prepared."

He rises then, yet pauses when he should step forward, throwing a sidewise glance at Joachim a beat later. Then-- a hand on his shoulder, the silent acknowledgement he once gave those who fought alongside him passed on to his student with a single brief phrase:

"...Keep up the good work."

Footfalls steady and purposeful, he advances to their north and west, making himself conspicuous while still playing the act of a foolish hunter. It's no difficult task; as Sanaki had once dryly told him, his hair rather gave him away. The beast spies a predator slinking poorly through the brush, and all its grievances take direction. It throws itself, tumultuously, toward him, talons outstretched.

Well. It worked. But still rude.

Yunaka smiles brightly at the guard's face only to stick her tongue out at his back, holding onto Wolf's arm the entire time.

But they're in, and that's what matters.

The second Yunaka turns her head to catch sights of rows and rows of light catching metals, she lets out a delighted little squeal and bounces excitedly on the balls of her feet. Oh, there's lances over there that look gorgeous, and there's a great, wicked looking axe hanging over one display over there and those knives—

Yunaka starts to move towards a display but is stopped by pink in her peripheral. She flinches, attention snapping back to her surprise partner for the day. Oh. Right. Him.

She deflates a little, glancing back over at the entrance. "Seriously, give it a rest already…" Complaining isn't going to make their ever attentive audience go away though. At least the guy that she grabbed seems to have a head on his shoulders. He's not the worst company to keep playing this game with a little longer.

She falls back into place at his side and winks, flashing a peace sign by her open eye. "Yunaka! And no prob, Bob!"

But what is...? Brows faintly scrunch in vague confusion as the bowman brings a gloved hand up to mimic the gesture. Two fingers... 'v'? What does 'v' stand for?

Regardless, they can at least take it a bit easier now. Wolf withdraws just a bit, still somewhere in her orbit but not physically glued to her side. And she's headed for... the bows? That's kind of her -- he'd seen the way she'd bounced. Literally.

"Yunaka," he acknowledges with a nod. His newly-relaxed expression bunches up again, a brow arched in consternation. Was his name really so odd? No one had ever batted an eye at it in Archanea. If he'd taken anyone off guard with it since coming to Fódlan, it would be Joachim, but-- well, it's hard not to get that one.

"My name is actually Wolf," comes the quiet confirmation as he settles near a handsome display of bows, shifted over slightly to leave room at his side for her to enjoy the view as well. "And I do mostly work in the gate town. I've done a couple jobs with some of the people in the crowd." One would hope they would have vouched for him if he'd needed it, but he doesn't particularly hold the faith. Speaking a bit more loudly now, he turns toward the one tending this corner of the shop: "Can we touch them?"

"Just be careful with it," the man in the chair assents, weight rested lazily on one arm. His gaze doesn't particularly leave, though... tch. How annoying.

"I won't be long," he promises Yunaka, careful to angle himself toward her as he picks a bow from the display. "They don't usually have as many bows here." Mostly killer bows and the occasional silver, if it was anything like the shops in Archanea; the real treasure was usually not among the weapons at all. "I'll take a look and think about it while we visit the other stalls."

This doesn't seem like either of those, though. As he runs his fingers over the wood, it feels oddly light, like it might answer him more quickly if he could master it. It may be this isn't what he's looking for, but it's fascinating. A callused finger tests the string.

So! Wolf, the poor bloke, is simply half deaf, then. Rather unfortunate, that. But it's no skin off Matthew's back. For his part, he's not sure if he's ever heard such a grand melody, as soothing as it is majestic - its weight a warm, comforting blanket laid on his shoulders.

Where he'd been anxious just moments ago, Matthew feels relatively at ease now - aside from the mildest pang of irritation with dear coworker as the man pipes up again in the negative.

"Yeah, I have to." He ignores the bit about her not being there. Ignores the bit about the report, too. He slides closer to the sound. Maybe Wolf sees a crowd - Matthew sees only the fog of the Dread Isle, and he knows he must hurry. "You're wrong, by the way." And with that note of certainty directed Wolf's way, Matthew forges ahead.

What he sees catches his breath in his throat.

Ah, she's beautiful.

Her smile is just as he remembers. He sways, reaches,

And then the man has the gall to turn back to him once he's packed himself among the rest like a fish leaping into the barrel. Willful ignorance gets you far, Wolf thinks hypocritically, meeting Matthew's unearned satisfaction with a distinctly unimpressed stare. Then, just to make sure the courier knows he's wrong, he holds it a few beats longer.

But his temper gnaws away at his patience with a fearsome stubbornness; the Aurelian turns his gaze, furrowed and scathing, to the one drinking deep of rumor and reveling in its fame. Their smile and their fingers play over the strings, and the melody shifts, the plentiful expressions decorating the crowd turning tenderer still. The tempo slows, grandiosity meting itself into something simpler, airy and yet not playful; gentle, yet distinctly unyielding.

Nothing changes. Wolf had known that it wouldn't. No matter how much he wished it otherwise, he could howl his grief until his throat was raw and he would still be here, alive; and Coyote would still be elsewhere, gone. Dead. There is no building any bridges here -- not until Wolf can cross it for the first and final time.

The musician's eyes widen slightly, though none among the crowd seem to notice, and in the modest cant of their head there is a distinct sense of pity. The guttering fire in Wolf's chest spits and crackles, indignant, angry, painful, and tired.

And what is this guard's issue!? Was he seriously giving everyone this hard of a time just because they claimed to be a couple? There was no way this was a sustainable way to run a business. His disdain earns a raised eyebrow and his order earns a scoff.

"What, do you want us to fu-"

Her probably-not-a-good-idea comment is cut off as her randomly picked assistant takes the lead on this one. She tilts her head back just enough to catch sight of the necklace he holds up, its little charm dangling and spinning at the gesture. It's not particularly remarkable, but maybe that can work in their favour if they go the obviously sentimental route. Her eyes briefly meet his and she has to bite back a smile.

Showtime.

"Of course I do." A fake fondness rolls into her words, the same way she's been taught to when pretending to flirt with another actor for the audience's delight. The little charm looks like fletching…an archer? She laughs softly. "You were so proud of yourself for making that shot, it only made sense to commemorate it some way."

Convincing, convincing…Yunaka squeezes his arm lightly and sighs. "But…oh, I know you kept saying you wanted to try to find me something here, but really, I don't need it! I just wanted us to spend time together today, that's all. And if having to listen to people doubt us," Quick glance downstage to the audience, glare, then right back to the show. "is what it takes to get in there, then I don't need it."

(Never mind the fact that Wolf himself stumbles on his words a bit partway through.)

He takes care to direct it toward his partner, a glint of approval in his eyes when she swiftly pivots to his tactic. She's quick on the uptake and observant, too, if she's figured out that's an arrow's fletching in so little time. Her tone may be a bit unpleasant to his ears, but it's a necessary sacrifice. And who is he to judge her, anyway? Wolf is proud, but he isn't stupid; she's the one carrying this farce by far.

That being said, he should really try not to fuck it up. Really. She squeezes his arm and he inhales-- turns his jaw against his shoulder and looks at her-- sighs, no, sighs wistfully, in what measures a face so taciturn may. Shit, but he's no actor like she is, and he's always looked 'ornery'. Supposedly. Something relaxing... something relaxing... someone relaxing...

"...I wanted to make you something," he objects quietly, some of the brusqueness sheared from his voice. It's true -- just not for the one he's speaking to. "Before I... have to leave."

"Alright, fine," the doorman concedes awkwardly, having changed his mind enough to feel a bit guilty about the matter, but not so much that he doesn't still keep his eye on them as he lazily ushers them through. "You can get your passes on the way out."

And finally, they're in. The archer tucks his head toward his partner in crime as they saunter through the entryway together, voice kept low.

"They're still watching us," he whispers tiredly, "So we should stick together." Actually, he barely even knows what she looks like -- he's more familiar with the top of her head, maybe her profile. Angling his head, he peers at her. Red eyes, red hair, a scattering of stars... rolled in like a storm and carried him through, right as rain.

"...Hm." Rising to his feet, there is a slight curl to one corner of his lips, shy of any true expression yet undeniably, subtly changed in demeanor. If the others were here, they would understand him to be laughing, approving... and perhaps roll their eyes at him. "I keep my word." For all the good that had done him. His eyes linger a moment on the dragon's ere he takes up his watch. "And you live up to yours."

Again he turns his ears to the rustling wind, to the sound of the other's voice resting loftily atop it, eyes tracing bark and blades of grass. Did the beast's flesh share the properties of wood and stone? No -- even if it was naught but the demon's wrought hide, there was potential in the leather. Perhaps he might make use of it...

"Rafal. Of a land whose name and existence holds no importance."

A human with such pride in his nation that he would introduce its name as equal to his own. A dragon who boasted unimaginably great pride in himself yet little to none in his own homeland. How diametrically opposed. How agreeable, regardless. Rafal continued in consideration of the plainsman warrior, finding no qualms in the act of further overture. Though he did not consider himself particularly talkative, he certainly could be considered so comparative to the other. Strangely enough, he did not mind playing that role between them, either. An unwitting return to his roots, one might say in knowledge of his once. . .kindly facade.

"I am under the employ of the academy and work as a professor in axemanship," he gave on the last of his adjustments - belt, followed by bootlaces, then back to axe. Retrieved from its rest against the slain tree, he foisted it over his shoulder. On this gesture of finality, narrow lips curved in what might have been a smirk. "Perhaps we shall meet again, Wolf of Aurelis. Or, perhaps not. Regardless that outcome, I would hope this is not the last I see of you and your arrows."

Premonition? Desire? Jest? Perhaps, ultimately, all three. He could not deny that Wolf's impressive archery whetted his intrigue, bade that he seek it out in a contest of strength should they ever cross paths again. With that, he turned on his heel, and without looking, extended one final word: ". . .I recall your dagger delivering the finishing blow to the tree. That makes it your prey. The spoils of it are yours."

Words of perfect time and place. He had not missed the way Wolf of Aurelis eyed the tree's inanimate remains, his glance subtle yet protracted as if he'd taken a shine.

After all, was it not within Rafal's nature to read between the lines of another?

...

Where many of his classmates prepare for the Herald of Spring Festival with ardent fervor, Ephraim's approach is far more practical. Perhaps to some the loss of the monastery and the horrors of war are far flung dreams, but Ephraim cannot — will not — soon forget the hardships he's shouldered. When he first arrived, he had thought the monastery a peaceful place, but now he knows better.

And to be honest, deep down, he's glad when there's a break in monotony.

Still, he would hardly ever wish for such dark times. Which is why he must be prepared even if few others feel the need to be. The blacksmith's is largely empty this time of day, racks of swords, lances, and axes on display alongside a variety of others weapons. He has his Reignleif and little need for another lance, but a new whetstone, perhaps a better axe or a spear he can throw...those would be worthwhile to have.

The door to the shop opens and a familiar blaze of magenta hair catches his attention.

"Wolf." Ephraim greets him with a nod and closes the distance between them. They had not seen each other since the mock battle. "Glad to see I'm not the only one whose come to prepare. It's as if everyone else has forgotten how often the church becomes involved in violent affairs."

"Ephraim," comes the equivalent greeting; the man already stands before him by the time he's shut the door and sidestepped any potential traffic.

"Is it really that often?" Compared to most, he hasn't been here but so long -- and even then, his time is heavily skewed toward time away from the monastery rather than within it. He followed the work worth doing, and when it led him here and there and all over the region, it was hard to consider any skirmishes disproportionate to the breadth of land he'd traveled. Maybe he would find what he wanted that much faster if he just stayed put, but they had always been truest to themselves when riding across the land.

"It's ridiculous," he scoffs. "It's not like I want to need my weapons. I'd rather hunt or spar." As the king himself should well know. Regardless of the way battle brought his blood to song and boil, Wolf would not wish it a necessity for the common person. "But sometimes peace can't protect itself."

Not that they need to get philosophical about anything. His gaze moves from Ephraim, then slowly around the smithy, and back to him once more.