haute couture

You need only mimic the steps I make. "Yeah, yeah, I can do this."

Rhajat's normally downcast gaze works perfectly for this simple instruction, tracing the formal slippers she'd given Forrest as they sweep so gracefully over the floor. Her own tight-fitting shoes mimic the movements, only in slow fascination with the Nohrian's own. Clumsily, they follow as best she can. Forrest doesn't seem to notice, thankfully. More likely, they're ignoring the shoddiness, as they tend to do with things concerning her formality. It's a relief when they finally speak again.

"You can handle yourself, I know. But no one will get the chance while I'm around, it's true," she says. "Don't try to appease me like that. I don't fashion is more art than magic."

The Hoshidan pauses to flick her hair from her eyes, before continuing.

"I can't believe you're right, though. About finding solitude in the middle of a crowd of losers."

SNP!!

     Darkness. Black as pitch. In an instant, the Nohrian’s throughline of motion is cut. The bend they were about to take their Hoshidan on stops, and so too does the gentle, rhythmic sway of their body that had ramped up to matching that of their partner’s. “H-Huh?” they gasp, and they exacerbate the darting of their head at least threefold. Forrest searches for something — anything — claiming responsibility for the outage, though that sand of time spent in total, inky abyss reveals not even the shadow of the woman in their arms. It suddenly becomes their turn to tug closer: to take Rhajat into even tighter a hold and press the auburn-haired woman to their chest. It’s like holding a blanket for comfort. “Rhajat? Do you — is this — n-no, you wouldn’t do this, not in a room I’m in…”

     Just as quickly as they had been cut, the lights loom back on again. But the warm, all-enveloping glow of gold doesn’t reach the corner of the Hoshidan’s face anymore. Frosty blue illuminates only its edges — much too pale and too otherworldly to resume twirling to. And Forrest hardly comes to this realization first, for the collective around them begins their great migration effort deeper into the newly unveiled halls of the event. The bards can’t be seen upon their stage anymore, and a wager might place them tracing the cool outline trailing elsewhere.

She lets herself be led towards the dance floor, slinking along beside Forrest despite the unfamiliar outfit. Her lynx-like movements make her more sinister snake than woman, to most eyes. A squeeze of her hand prompts her eyes to the other's, and she nuzzles closer instinctively.

"I'll follow you," is all Rhajat replies. Normally, she's a fish out of water— but her familiar effects bridge the gap. Here, in unfamiliar garb in unfamiliar atmosphere, though, she wants to cling tighter to the noble. They should let their prior knowledge guide them, she thinks. As always, Rhajat is happy just to hold her, and know that the royal belongs to her, as much as her clothes.

     First, her hands. Unlinked from Forrest’s they are smoothed by the caress of the Nohrian’s digits and gripped only tight enough to suggest her upwards. Upwards, and onto their shoulders: one on either side, able to be linked behind the nape if she so chooses. Then comes Forrest’s own, which slide past Rhajat’s arms, past her figure — docking upon her hips. A quick clutch of the fabric-wrapped flesh there betrays, perhaps, just a sliver of the possessiveness she reserves for her partner. Time spent together tends to rub those kinds of qualities off, doesn’t it? “You need only mimic the steps I make,” they continue, and they take one to elaborate. It isn’t complex — just a quick tap east — but will develop into all kinds of turns & swivels as the two build affinity for each other. For the moment, Forrest cranes their head forward, fighting the pinch of their top, 

Her gaze finds Forrest's.

"...thrilled about." Not compared to you.

Motion returns to idle hands, and she makes for Forrest's own, catching one from the same sleeves that she herself has worn. Really, she doesn't mind the clothing she wears tonight (Forrest's clothing always seems to meet her in the middle), but seeing her in the witch's own clothes has given her heartbeaet accleration. Somehow, although it is an outfit that Rhajat has made herself extremely familiar with, it might as well be entirely new threads draped on the Nohrian. Loose, dark sleeves run about her, snaking from the breast about her shoulders, then coming down around her sides in black tears. Beneath, mesh nets encase the skin. The dress is a somber exoskeleton of fabric, outlining Forrest's glowing shoulders and sensitive palms, and on her back can be viewed the bones. Thin rods hold together the backless garment, truly offering skeletal vestments to the dark witch's robes. Long cords embellish her normally slight figure into one befitting a true sorceress. Forrest's blonde curls, usually an accessory to bright skies, are a beacon from the black ensemble.

At the mention of dance, Rhajat stiffens ever so slightly. Of course Forrest would ask this of her—that is the purpose of this outing. She only looks down at her lover and bites her abnormally pink lips. I don't dance.

     They have to strain their legs not to fall over in those gigantic things.

     “Now, I’ve experience in both, but I need to ask,” they then begin, acknowledging their date with a quick squeeze of her palm. Said squeeze avows a gentle tug of Rhajat closer to Forrest’s arm, because standing just at the precipice of the most populated room of the Ethereal Ball puts them into quite a congested line of traffic. Eager couples dart past the mismatched pair and nearly bump their shoulders. Eager-er bachelors run at twice the speed in search of a partner. And Forrest’s concerns lie not in what they could do to Rhajat, but the opposite: what she would invoke onto them should they sufficiently stoke her ire. In the event that hexes do go flying, Forrest has already taken the liberty of stashing a couple of countercurse talismans in the bouquet cradled in their arms. They come from the Nohrian’s personal stash: protective wards meant for their sake, but utterly useless to them in the looming presence of the bodyguard attached to their hand.

     “Do you lead, or do you follow?” A simple question, asked as capriciously as someone’s favorite color or season. To the princess, the answer would matter little; Forrest intends to shuffle Rhajat in and join the movement of the crowd. Amidst the picture-perfect blazonry of just about every surface the space has to offer, and the bright beams of the spotlights cast upon every duet — seemingly infinite in number — the barrier for entry stands tall. Room to squeeze between other people proves scarce, and the ballgoers sway so tightly-packed that even a single misstep threatens collision. Managing to carve a path forward in the jaunty footwear Rhajat lent would similarly prove challenging, but Forrest would do so anyways. Careful, measured motions guide them toward the center of the room…

Entering into the central hall has got to be the worst part, she knows. Brilliantly lit, and teeming with nearly everyone in the entire monastery, there's really no place she'd rather be less. She spies no one familiar in her first recon either; and so, awaiting her princess, she leans against a wall, as inconspicuous as one can be on such an energetic evening.

     “Even in my finest works, you find a way to seem so gloomy…” The sigh that follows isn’t truly weary, kindling more of the cadence of a joke than any real dismay. Further strides take them closer, until the footwear Rhajat picked out for them comes into view. If the sharpness of their wit hadn’t alerted her, then that length of leg most certainly will. “Is it really so bad, Rhajat? I think that the makeup in particular suits you rather well!” An inspection is then made of her face, and the rosy blush embellishing her cheeks: almost a perfect pair to the pink on her lips. Her black eyeliner had been stolen from her before the pair readied themselves to attend, and in its stead, Rhajat wears Forrest’s white. 

At the door, she doesn't have to wait long before familiar pink and gold enters. She jumps to them, grabbing them about the waist firmly. (Her drink is tossed aside.) Taller, she presses her cheek to the side of their head, lingering in the familiar texture of Forrest's hair. Her own attire, stiff from the frost, is unable to push its way any closer to them, though she tries, insisting her body as close as she can. They're warm, burnt; it sears her skin, but she only clings tighter. "They fucking froze me."

Their voice is much softer than her own. She lets the combination of it and Forrest's gentle movements guide her back to their cot, clambering uncomfortably into the blankets together. With gravity as her ally, she folds much nicely into Forrest's body, and tucking her nose next to their ear, breathes them in deeply. Were she not exhausted her mind would already be all over the place, concocting soothing ointments and rejuvenating potions. But, for now, she's content to just breathe Forrest in deeply, applying an ice cube mage to their burns.

When she feels the fingers in her hair, she initially bristles. She can't help but to, when she's touched, even by Forrest; but her apprehension subsides with every stroke.

As they tilt their head to let loose a gasp — a hopeless gasp — they squeeze their eyelids together. Maybe they can pretend that the wintry plushness they feel is just a blanket of snow putting them to bed for the winter…

“N-nh! Rhajat, that’s—” the Nohrian swallows hard in place of the many things they could say to describe the moment, the many laments of the personal bubble that had been popped by her grasping reach, “—cold. So cold…” Focusing on the sensation keeps their mind away from the impression the two give off with Rhajat’s hand up Forrest’s shirt, and the subtle stir in their legs meant to discharge a glacial buildup in their skin. 

“Um, as for the… healing… My recover staff wasn’t deemed tournament-legal, and I saw no reason to bring an inferior heal staff overseas.” A sigh follows, spurred less by the other’s action and more by the shopping list Forrest will have to create for future monastery events. Their hands had, understandably, stalled as they cinched up and froze. But as the more they converse about magic, the more they thaw. Easier, gentler brushes trail down the Hoshidan’s back. They look glad to see the contentedness strewn over their lover’s countenance, and do what they can to ensure that the peace would be an enduring one.

Barely a foot through the tarp, and a woman’s spindly arms clamp around their waist with no intention of letting go. Forrest stifles something in the back of their throat — pain, likely, from the wound that she presses — but steels themselves enough to stay sturdy and part with a laugh. “Well that didn’t take long… Though, I suppose it was never going to in the first place.” 

They bite the corner of their glove and free the bare softness of their hand, wrenching it toward their midsection to address the diviner currently hogging them for warmth. “You’re quite cold: I take it your battle didn’t go great either?” Equal but opposite, the pair bear the lingering stamps of their bouts. Where Rhajat feels freezing to the touch, almost enough to make Forrest shiver, the Nohrian has burnt up. They smell faintly of charred fabrics and their body still radiates much of the heat they were assailed with — their own heat. It serves to reason, then, that they would each regulate the other; Forrest warms, Rhajat cools. The longer they stay intact, the closer they come to complete thermal equilibrium.

So Forrest wastes no time budging their Hoshidan with their knee and directing the both of them onto her cot. Its size belies that it was made just for one, but doesn’t that just keep them closer together? “I’m sorry I wasn’t there to assist, but I am now, and I’ll remain as long as you like..” 

Rhajat is draped overtop, such that her jaw sits at Forrest’s clavicle and her face absorbs the balminess of every breath they take. And with her laid & comfortable, the blonde deploys their de-gloved hand to stream through her hair. Careful digits lift, stroke, and knead between her locks — pressing occasionally against her scalp so that she can feel a few ginger circles.

The moment exudes a soothing air of utmost calm: the perfect respite from the storms they both braved.

Azure eyes follow Finn's command. It was their fireball that cast these flames on her! Eirika would have felt bad for their outfit but she's finding it hard to summon her grace in this moment.

Eirika grabs her lance. Its weight is more unfamiliar to her, but she's watched her brother perform this countless times. She mimics him now, seeing his form in her mind's eye, and rushes toward her opponent.

"No outfit is worth this chaos!" Like her sword, her lance strikes true, this time aiming for the tome but she ends up catching them by their arm instead. But if they cannot hold the tome, perhaps they cannot cast it again either.

"This has spread to even your allies, think before you cast such powerful magic!" She had known Selena spoke true about magic but this is all a reminder of just how dangerous it can be.

By its spine does their gloved, now rattling hand take it, and forcefully cram the book shut. A lapping splash of water dribbles over the grass at their feet and then sizzles: the last of the infernal thing’s breath of power. It’s Forrest’s, too, before that limb gives. “I’m going to go find some medics,” they announce, as they continue their pedal away from the festering blaze. Their wounds also fester — mostly caused by the rightfully upset Renais girl. The tailor takes them as their cue to abscond; they’ve all suffered far greater than intended by a mock battle.

“You can all consider this my formal bowing out of this battle. I’d urge the rest of you to follow suit before you push yourselves too far, but if I’m lucky, someone will be around to clean up soon.” Ergo, backwards-facing footsteps become a forward march away from the hellscape of a combat drill as Forrest retreats in search of help. They’ll have to kick themselves for twice being the first to think of calling for healers when things grow dire, but only after all the embers settle.

Before they make it out of earshot, though, they turn for a parting message:

“Oh, and Caeldori: the world isn’t on your shoulders. If you cross the line between bravery and stupidity, you’ll feel it for weeks to come.”

And without another word, Forrest, Princet of Nohr, and unfortunate loser of this bout, exits stage right.

In reality, she's not really a caster, where here "not really" means "firmly not at all". She tries not to look especially preoccupied at dodging the flames at her feet (couldn't those other two keep on their little reunion?), but, well... for all she'd bickered with them, she misses Arval's direction that would've certainly told her things like don't pick the tome you burned your team with last time and do you ever think before acting.

(Maybe that one's not fair. Maybe she's just nostalgic.)

"Probably?" she shrugs, and shadows swallow her heels. She dashes off that patch of especially ignited grass, feeling the remnants of stalks crack beneath her feet, and, again,

directly into Hilda's axe. Maybe she doesn't think. Maybe she's never thought before, actually. It certainly feels it, when the tome is knocked free from her hand, sending her stumbling over into the charred dirt.

"I'll pay you back for this later!"

Frustrated but playful, she tugs her sword from her belt,

raising it aloft in surrender.

Opening their mouth to reply, though, sees them promptly cut off by the wild exhibit from their amethyst-haired partner. Forrest merely blinks in disbelief at the way Shez continuously sprints headfirst into danger — amazed and appalled in equal measure at how she manages to make the wrong move so consistently. Surely she just knows the right call, and is doing the opposite? It’s like answering every question incorrectly on a true-or-false: the truly clueless only biff it half the time.

But Forrest hardly has the time to ruminate before action comes flying their way again. The Deer take formation, and they follow suit — poising themselves with rapt attention paid to their initial assailant. “While we’re on the topic of payback,” they announce, welling forth another whorl of singed saltwater, “I suppose I ought to get you back, with interest, for what you did to my finely-crafted outfit?” 

Their spell winds and establishes tension before flicking its way at the princess across from them, first slapping her with the force of pressurized water, then harrying her with its scorching aftertaste. Remnants of their and Shez’s casts mount around them — climbing up trees and heating the air surrounding. Forrest can feel sweat dripping across their neck, and, in an effort to spare themselves, they ready their tome again.

“I have an idea…” 

A second wash attempts to douse what had been set with the sea’s waves, but the embers laden within only make the lit fires explode in a blaze in front of Forrest. They stumble backward, moderately scalded by the heat, and cast a guilty look Caeldori’s way.

“Sorry again. If you couldn’t tell, this is my first time with a spell this powerful.” 

Before long, they found themselves joining an unfamiliar blue-haired man -- Hilda couldn't tell if he was student or teacher or knight -- in a battle against three more Eagles.

She'd been unable to locate a better weapon at the cache, so her trusty axe and shield would have to do. The purple-haired student -- Shez? -- across from her was somewhat familiar... She had a strange sense of deja vu that they'd faced one another on similar fields before.

Still, as she knew, sentimentality held no place on the battlefield, and Shez clearly agreed. Hilda had no sooner raised her weapon than been doused in a wave of fire, the magical flames curling over her skin.

"Whoa!"

“Gah!” 

The coldness of steel reels them out of their stupor. It begs their hand to their side to hold and staunch the cut growing across their skin, as well as the stumble backwards that they make toward their allies. “That’s… that’s bleeding, isn’t it? And my shirt…” The pastel-pink blouse is torn, as quickly confirmed by the gaze they snap down at themselves. Where its color wanes, red stains thoroughly; the outfit will need to be bleached and sewn together, and even still, such a fabric might not retain its original quality once mended. 

A breath later, and Forrest forces themselves into a state of calm. War is no place to worry about laundry, as the Battle attempts to simulate. “Hello, you two. Sorry for being off my guard…” Each receives an acknowledging nod, but Caeldori a puzzled stare. “Um… it’s Caeldori, right?” they sound like they’re guessing at her name, because they kind of are, “It’s good to meet you.”

The phrase brings back little more than her name and vague association with Forrest, and at its failure’s behest, they take up arms. Their tome flips open. From its pages spews a hadal torrent housing a bright flame — alluring, like an anglerfish — which crashes into the out-of-position pinkette before erupting upon her with its core. The spell is strange: despite the cage of liquid that its fire is always surrounded in, it seems to catch quite easily. Their surroundings immolate, and suddenly the green grass of Gronder Field becomes an active hazard to those amidst it. 

“They may be quick, but you two certainly look like you can handle them.”

Defeat always tastes bitter, especially when it’s a physical fight. He’ll bottle up this one with the rest, keep using it as fuel to keep pushing through his training. This one might be extra helpful with that little hint of sweetness at the end—Caspar of the Steel Flame has a pretty good ring to it. He’ll have to show Ophelia just how bright he can burn sometime.

Sometime...after his arm gets working again. The healers at the infirmary are gonna know how to fix that, right?

Their approach halts, having reached the range at which Forrest will begin slinging spells. The wind blows perpendicular to their face, casting their curls off to the side. It would do the same for Ophelia if she turned to face them, which Forrest anticipates of her. They pause, dramatically, and stare at the pages of their tome for inspiration. A flash later, and their gaze has reunited with the warrior of light. “That means that while I know how to mend every bone in your body—”

“—I know how to break them too.” 

(They don't really, but they will for the sake of the scene.)

Satisfied with their monologue, they begin their star-scried duel. The feeling is strange, because even though it’s the first time Forrest ever remembers taking up arms, they cast as though their body has familiarity with tomefaire. Shadows fly from their fingers and bring back to them slivers of Ophelia’s life. With each hit they make, they patch a wound that the other inflicted. The opposite remains true, of course, and so as one attack bleeds into two — and two into many — the scales of balance grow weary tipping in one side’s favor or the other. Forrest incorporates some footwork, too. And with each attack they slip past (impressive in their heels) they begin to feel a mounting advantage. 

The strife presses on, and they find themselves relying on instinct for their offensive — focused instead on keeping themselves out of reach. This results in the common occurrence of Forrest casting upward, and uprooting from the ground dark tendrils which splay like branches before etiolating their retainer. 

…

“Well? Is this… everything you’d… hoped it would be?” Ragged breaths rive their dialogue apart, evident of all that Forrest has exerted giving Ophelia her duel. They sling their arm backward one last time, sheath it in shadowy energies, and make a claw ready to fire.

“I’m coming at you… with one more…”

They release, and the rather-ordinary spell seeks her no differently than any other. But what it lacks in power, Forrest makes up for in presentation:

“The Devil’s Crescendo!!” 

He has more pressing problems, though. Heroes also don’t let the injured go undefended, and that last spell looks like it really did a number on Karla. He steps past her, putting himself between Ophelia and his classmate once more. The magic maiden isn't the only one with a bloodline to defend, after all!

“I’m sorry to be dragging you into this,” they explain, sighing between breaths, “but now that she’s gotten started up, I don’t think she’ll stop. Ophelia doesn’t just play the part of the hero: she really lives like one. It can be a bit absurd, I know.” 

A grimace mars their otherwise picturesque visage, reflecting just how responsible Forrest feels whenever Dusk rampages. But they hold up their index — a symbol for hope having not yet died. “If it's not a bother, try to meet her at her level. Shout your special move when you run back in there to attack her. I’m sure the slight will die down if she realizes it’s all part of you playing the heel.” 

And then, with a pat to his back, Caspar is sent back into the fray. While their rowdier friends do combat, Forrest resumes their search for medics — both to undo the damage already done, and preemptively prepare for what’s about to happen next.

By the time either of them starts swinging, the troubadour has flagged someone down, directing them to the pickups they need to make.

"oof!" it's timerra's turn to fall flat on her back, grip on her lance loosening just enough for it to fly out of her hands.

if this were a fight for solm she'd be going until she couldn't get up no matter how hard she tried, but given that this is just for fun...

yeah, no need to push herself to that degree.

still flat on her back, timerra weakly raises her arm and gives caspar a thumbs up from the ground. "check back in later... for a snack break...!"

Caspar receives a grim response as Forrest abandons their post by their retainer and makes for Corrin’s limp body. Knees dive into the thick, windy grass below — splotching stains into their skirt that they’ll have to wash off later. But laundry can wait. In the meantime, they press fingers to her neck and tilt her head looking for signs of life. “Corrin? Corrin! Hey, you didn’t need to push yourself this fa— ohgodsshe’sbleeding—”

Their spine shivers and they screw their eyes shut getting a good look at her palm, like Forrest had just licked a lemon. Just as quickly as they had run over to dive down for their aunt, they’re now putting healthy distance between the two. “Is there a medic around to take her back? Is Jakob nearby?” Golden locks lash across their chest and face as they whip their head in circles looking for someone to heed their cry. They know that regular physician sweeps ensure that nobody’s injuries ever last, but Forrest can’t help cursing the rules of the battle, under their breath. If only they were permitted to bring their Recover staff, they could have stitched her up on the spot…

Meanwhile, the stomp-stomp-stomp! of grass behind them finally perks their ear. They had ignored it, in favor of ensuring that Corrin hadn’t taken too much of a beating, but as they drift back into reality they struggle to keep it out of their head. They cast a bewildered look to their south, and eyes widen watching a blur of blue run them by—

Ah, but Ophelia's gentle mind gets ahead of her again.

She lines up her next spell, pointing it at the same swordwoman before.  It's her or Corrin, after all, and though Ophelia only cares that it is not Forrest, she can at least be a team player.

She doesn't know what manner of style that the swordwoman wields, but as her spell flies a bit too left, she suspects it must be a formidable one, indeed!  There's almost a rhythmic, ghost-like sway to the raven-haired beauty, as though she's dancing with the wind in a tempo only she knows.  Her very presence is seemingly blotted out from the field.  They each belong to a team, but this woman is singular in so many respects!

Ophelia isn't even mad that she missed.  How could she be?

Perhaps it’s excitement or perhaps it’s revenge for all the whirlwinds Ophelia has pulled Forrest into, but they wave down their raven-haired ally all the same. “Karla!” they call, dropping the facade of battle with a chipper-sounding timbre, “my retainer here — Ophelia — is impressed by your bladework! She makes for a great rival, and she can orate enough for the two of you!” Nevermind that said technique had been blemished by the illness strewn over her face; in Forrest’s eyes, Karla is just as dependable as she was while saving those horses. 

A knowing smirk is cast Ophelia’s way, before the tome she named begins to hover an inch above Forrest’s fingers. They splay their hand over it, and one last time assail Corrin with its vampiric gloom. Shade orbits around her, before making its impact with a dark flash. “I believe… I’ve done enough.” Her energy returns dimmer and flakier than before: a surefire sign that she hasn’t much life left in her to leech. “Corrin! You should seek medical help! You’ve given us plenty a valiant fight, and your allies can continue down the path you’ve carved for them!” 

A glance at Timerra seems disproving to Forrest’s claim, but what’s a little white lie if it diverts someone from harm’s way? 

As she delivers her soliloquy, her liege readies a spell, pulling vens tome from a perfect hiding place and looking both parts fashionable and formidable as vens spell leaves vens hands.  Ophelia is no stranger to the type of spell ven casts, but the flair with which ven casts it breathes a new life into the tendrils that flow into Corrin's flesh.

“Gorgeous!” she exclaims with a grin.  “The Devil's Caress, I name it thus!”

She turns her bright smile to Forrest, seeking vens approval, before showing her own spell off to ven.

“And now Ophelia Dusk takes center stage, magic at her fingertips, heart full of the excitement brought upon such an auspicious day!”

Ophelia raises one hand, shimmering orbs of darkness following and floating about her fingertip.  As she flicks her wrist, they fly from her grasp, growing and darting with long trails of purple fog following the paths they trace to the swordwoman.

If it’s a war of attrition they’ll fight, then they have stocked themselves well.

“The Devil’s Caress!” they holler, in a facsimile of Ophelia’s diction, “and Suffocating Sunset… I’ve gotta say, I’m noticing a theme here — and a fitting one for the spells we wield.” 

As the movements progress, Forrest would find themselves trusting their retainer with their back. They turn it to Ophelia, one caster covering the other’s six, and focus on her teammates much the same as she theirs. “And naturally, you have an aptitude for these dark incantations. I’ve never doubted your powers before, but seeing them in action, I’m impressed.” 

A beat passes. Forrest purses their lip and holds their hand by their breast, thinking on a pose. They settle for a flip of their tightly-curled hair.

“Just remember that they’re for enemies & combatants, not ordinary townsfolk.”