EBON WINGS

Painting’s a fine activity for someone with time and money to spare- Zasha has time abundant, debatably, but hardly the funds to purchase all the materials necessary. The workshop promises the latter as long as you provide the former, though even that was not a particularly inviting proposal (whatever he creates won't be worth much, both in monetary or emotional value), until he hears that he’d be able to keep the unused supplies alongside his finished product, no matter what it was.

That being said- an abstract concept was difficult enough for a beginner, much less an abstract concept of a word he didn’t recognize. But paints have been handed (a small tube for an array of colors so wide that he has to stop and admire them for a moment) and canvases distributed, so might as well put some effort.

At least he has a model. Or helper- or something in between. Depends on what he learns, he supposes. She looks important, or at least she looks like she’s used to being important- not that there was much of a difference.

Zasha’s not eager to make a fool of himself, but it’s not like he has to paint a 'wyvern' but a 'wyvern without actually being a wyvern', which meant that his understanding was secondary to the skill of being close enough.

Flayn stopped dead in her tracks. The hem of the robe she had borrowed from the tall cleric in the Cathedral, which had been dragged through dirt and dust for hours, could now sigh a breath of relief. Long had she wandered through the monastery in yearnful search of what was rightfully hers, of the dress she had donned since she first became a part of this community. She had four of them, but could not find even one.

Until now.

She took a step closer towards him. The hallway they occupied was a bit dim, lit by the embers of a torchlight the groundskeeper had yet to relight. But she could immediately see a few things even in this level of light. First, he had a pair of large ebon wings that covered most of his back. And second, he wore something that could conceivably be a robe… or a dress. Flayn took another step forward, and gasped.

It is. "Excuse me!" She called out, now briskly walking to his side, "Those clothes… where and how did you get them?"

Zasha thinks he won’t trust the laundry services at the monastery for a while. At least he had kept a mind to keep a few spare articles so he can assemble another makeshift outfit.

He’s tired of having to do this, but at least the dress (more of a shirt, if at all) had a backing he could leave undone for his wings- without damaging anything. His coworkers know better to comment on his choice of clothing, too, given his surly expression.

That, of course, did not apply to the esteemed students and staff. 

   Surely a spire of flame would’ve resulted in one death or another, right? Or perhaps Chrom was wrong in his assumption. Again, he was not educated on the matter of magic. 

   As Chrom approaches the field, he wonders if this is a stupid idea. Were his Shepherds here, he would likely be far more of a keen mind; their safety was his priority, always. Yet, he’s alone, so Chrom can afford to act a little more carelessly. No one would get hurt but him, and Chrom knew when to bow out. He wasn’t of the sort to jump for self-sacrifice, especially when he already carried disdain for the very gesture. 

   He manages to find himself closer to the fire, and as the flames rise, Chrom’s pace quickens. Though, he is not yet to break out into a full run, as he has full view of several Knights of Seiros trying to put out the fire. ‘People already were sent to help. That’s good,’ he thinks to himself, mentally kicking his own ass for not thinking of this as a possibility. Chrom decides, quickly, to help a random Knight in their efforts to douse a still-active flame. To that – he spots a Knight with black wings and equally as black, long hair. This marks the second time now that Chrom has encountered an individual with starkly black wings. A coincidence, perhaps?

   That didn’t matter. “I got your back, friend!” He calls out to the unfamiliar Knight, and without much other word, Chrom begins to help in his efforts in putting out the fire. Luckily, it seemed as though the fire was already solidly controlled, so it didn’t take much for this flame to be doused to embers. Turning to the Knight, Chrom nods. “Where to next?”

With his wings, he had been scouting for safer areas to smother alone. It would have been better to find a more efficient way to fight the fires, before it started spreading beyond the now abandoned field- but he can't trust anyone here to help him.

And that was because, despite everything- they were running about, tossing water and fanning the flames further. More than once, he’s had to quickly maneuver away from a sudden burst of heat, flying further upward to avoid any injuries. 

At last, someone comes to his aid in managing a section of the flames- smothering it through a series of makeshift blankets. Not a knight, but a professor, so as far as the job was concerned, he could be a little curt.

“Next, we keep doing this wherever we can.” A flap of the wings brings him closer down to his helper.

Hands folded, legs crossed, shoulders pulled back and relaxed, as she lifts her chin taller and looks the finger down. Her lips pull into a thin line, turning pale from the force that she bites down with, but a sigh interrupts her churning thought. Golden eyes dart over at the investigator — Beatrice, if Azura remembers correctly — a young woman who has defeat in her exhausted gaze as she sets her notepad down.

"Look," she shakes her head, "I'm just here to ask for alibis, Sir Marley. We know he was killed around midnight, so I'd like to know where the three of you were then and who you were with. I'm not interested in accusatory—"

"Well, I was in my bedroom at the time, definitely asleep. I am not fond of sleeping around during a security job, so," a fleeting smile as his voice lilts, now directed toward the investigator, "it was only myself. Maybe now, with the job over..."

His hand retreats, but Azura's stare still persists, fixated on him — now darkening without the cover of the hand to protect his smug face. She blinks, turning over to the investigator, then to their third suspect (Zasha, the strange guy with wings, yes), then back to the man.

"I, too," she offers, words level, "was in my room and did not have any company with me. But unlike Sir Marley, I have no interest in thinking about... such unimportant matters, much less verbalizing them, when we have an investigation on the line."

His head snaps back, sharp blue narrowing at the comment. Azura does not yield when their eyes lock.

Which was to say, blessed with a lot of pride.

Zasha also knew, unfortunately, that one member of the current company was in fact the actual culprit. Facts line up- their alibis were unchecked, and they were the only three that could have possibly made it to the scene unnoticed.

At first, he hopes that one of them would slip up during their confrontation, but it seems that they were locked in a nonverbal standoff. He doesn't want to be stuck here forever, so he breaks the silence.

“I was outside,” He says, drawing the attention of the investigator. “Flying.”

The investigator glances up incredulously, which naturally draws her eyes to the large pair of black wings. He sees the confusion- the preparation to ask a question followed by a thought that it may be rude, before she simply looks down and begins scribbling again.

“You can probably find a few of my feathers outside, if you’re lucky.”

There. Alibi.

It was unlike anything he'd seen before in Thracia – some small, compact device made of metal and glass, a peering void in the center that's almost reminiscent of a person's eye. How curious... Any sort of extra security would be troublesome for him sneaking in and out of Abyss. And if they had put the effort into obscuring it from plain sight, who knows how many are tucked away, feeding information to whoever's managing these things with every passing second?

Well, even if they are some novel inventions, they are certainly not reinforced enough to withstand a mere bump of a shoulder. This particular one had been poorly placed. Who designed these things, anyway? If he can scout whichever ones are spying on the passageways he usually takes…

It wasn't clear whether it was all coincidence, or that he'd been overzealous and careless in his actions. Still...

Someone had seen him.

"What? Is there a problem?" Travant stares back at them, a small component of the second camera he's destroyed still in his hand. He can't get a read on this person nor of their intentions. Are they a professor? Some other faculty? How long had they been watching? It would've been much better if he left before a witness could connect the dots, but it looks like he'll have to improvise.

And that was how he ended up watching a strange verdant haired man search for the monastery’s new gadgets and destroying them.

What was his purpose in doing so? A would-be thief, clearing his exit strategy? Someone searching for valuable scraps? If it was the latter, Zasha wouldn't mind turning a blind eye. But the man seemed a little too deliberate and a little too careless to be so.

The soft flapping of wings is the only sound Zasha makes, settling into a perch to watch the man’s destruction. Theoretically, he should step in. It's his job to step in, actually.

He doesn’t need to. The man notices him first.

his grip on his naginata loosens when the other's efforts prove futile. tempted as shiro is to give it a shot—that impudent voice in his head telling him that he's bigger! stronger! he could probably force the hinges off if he tried it himself!—there's a learned logic that counters the thought. a testimony to the fact that maybe, just maybe, the crown prince of hoshido has started to wisen up.

he figures his time's better spent poking around the room instead, where he rams his shoulder into the various bookcases lining the walls to see if they'll give way to secret openings, grunting at the exertion that comes on the heels of his effort. "nope. nothing." frustration rumbles in the back of his throat. "seriously, what kind of room doesn't have windows?"

the kind of room that wants to trap them, obviously.

irked by their unproductiveness, shiro suddenly swings the end of his weapon into a rickety chair, sending it crashing as a huff escapes. when, unexpectedly—and he swears he isn't imagining it—the ground rumbles softly beneath his feet. it is nothing of his doing, what with the lack of dragon veins in fodlan, though the impact appears to have triggered a reaction of some kind. shiro watches as one of the floor's tiles slowly rises above the rest, until it sticks out like a sore thumb in a sea of uniform marble.

“Wait-”

Too late.

The stone is forced downward with a click, and for a beat, nothing happens. Zasha feels the heat before he sees anything, tackling the student to the ground as a blast of fire erupts from a few hidden slots in one of the bookshelves. He's not quite fast enough- hissing at a sharp pain on his left arm- and he thinks that the student might have been singed as well.

A moment passes, then another. After what seems like far too long, but was likely less than a minute, the roar of the flames dies down. 

Carefully, Zasha picks himself off the ground, glancing around the room. One bookshelf hadn’t been spared the carnage, its contents all but ash, nor the chair that had caused the entire situation in the first place.

"Be more careful.”

That being said, the bookshelf structures seemed odd. "There's a metal casing back here. Probably to store the oil for the flames."