from darkness

"So, you checked out much around the monastery yet?" He's making a bold assumption that this guy is new-- spending all of his time down in Abyss means that he reaaaaaaally doesn't stay up to date with the comings and goings of students and professors alike. "I think my favorite spot's the sauna. Whenever my muscles are sore after a workout? That's where I'm headin'." ... Oh. He's a little scrawny, though, isn't he? Maybe using workouts as a point of reference isn't the smartest move. "Or, I mean. If you aren't much into workin' out.... post.... studying? Reading? Soreness?" Quieter, almost as if it was a rhetorical question: "... does that even happen?"

"Unless you wanna come with me sometime for breakin' a sweat. Probably good for you! Whaddya say, pal?"

Perfect Teatime? | no longer accepting

Unfortunately for Balthus, Salem doesn't make much of an effort to help smooth over the way he fumbles his questions, instead staring back at him placidly. Amusement or judgement or disdain might offer a cue for the direction of the conversation, but Salem offers nothing until the man finally settles on his invitation. One of his eyebrows raise slightly in the only indication of interest - or humor - and he cants his head.

There are a few things he could say - in a way, the man reminds him a little of Perne: affable and comfortable to be around despite his shortcomings. But where he might ordinarily needle the Dandelion's leader with a sarcastic quip here and there, he decides to be straightforward with this one.

"I've never experienced a sauna before." 'Experienced' because he has no other word for how one engages with the concept. All he knows is that it's a small, hot room.

"I can't fathom how it would relieve muscle soreness. The heat of the desert where I spent much of my life did anything but that. Come find me the next time you decide to go. I'd like to see it for myself."

Salem sweeps over Balthus from head to toe, marveling for a moment at just how tall he is, size accentuated further by a physique he'd only seen cultivated among the brawniest of woodcutters.

"I will do without the workout though."

But he had to admit: he wasn't half bad to look at.

"I admit that you are not among those that I expected to see here." Last he had heard, Salem had been among those who made themselves scarce following the war. He had not imagined the corner he would run off to to be here.

"You are here as..?"

Perfect Teatime? | no longer accepting

"A student," Salem answers without skipping a beat, then he regards Finn for another moment. The knight had always been tough to read, and they had never been especially close even during the war, so the man's face gives Salem little information about his feelings now. Still, he can take a guess.

"Not what you expected either, is it?" Most of the people he'd encountered so far seemed surprised by his age, but for Finn and anyone from Jugdral, that was probably secondary to the real question: why leave one church to join another. Salem gestures for the knight to take the empty seat across from him if he wishes, although he expects him not to linger longer than necessary. Whether this visit is driven by skepticism or friendliness, it would be over once he had the information he needed.

"It's just a way to pass the time, really," Salem continues after another beat, teaspoon clinking against his cup as he stirs. "I've received an education before, but maybe this experience will shed light on the parts of that education that had been twisted by someone else's agenda."

He dares not bringing it into the conversation by name, but the church of Loptous nevertheless hangs over the table as he speaks.

"You're here for the prince's sake, I take it?"

"A magic guy, huh? There's a looooot of strong magic folks around here." He throws his hand back toward the academy, waving it — wildly, as if his arm is devoid of bone — before it collapses back on the tea table with a thud. "People who can cast all sorts of things really, really well!"

Laughter, as his eyes crinkle further. "Aaaaand there's never any shortage of a good fight here! Really good killing practice, don't ya think?" ‎ ‎

Perfect Teatime? | no longer accepting

All the dishes on the table rattle under the weight of Henry's arm, and Salem's eyes dart instinctively to the tea kettle on its stand. But his outer reaction is no more startled than that. Internally though, he half-wonders if unleashing Henry into a room full of glass sculptures might end in their destruction faster than if he'd tried to break them himself.

"While a fight to the death would be the best training for war, I suspect that the Archbishop has a strict no-killing policy within the monastery's walls." Salem says levelly, glancing up to find his companion's eyes hidden now by delight. "This is no gladiatorial arena; many of the students come from influential families, after all."

He stirs his tea, considering whether this is Henry's version of a threat, or if he speaks candidly, and decides for now to entertain him for a little longer. There's something familiar about him that he can't quite put his finger on, although if Salem had ever met a man like him before, he's certain he'd remember.

"But I suppose good killing practice for you would make an equally valuable life-saving practice for those of us skilled with healing staves. Tell me though: what does taking a life mean to you?"

Perfect Teatime? | no longer accepting

"Stare all you like. I am a student." A legitimate one, too - something about the way the man looks at him compels him to assert this detail, but he holds his tongue. He has nothing on him to prove it anyway, other than his uniform. The money he'd paid for his tuition - gathered during his few years in the employ of a Jugdrali nobleman - was all spent, and contrary to the impulses of his later cohorts, he would not resort to stealing something as trivial as clothing simply to call himself a student. His education within these halls mattered little to him.

"I'm aware that I'm older than the average. You've guessed correctly. But the Archbishop and her attendants took no issue with it when I enrolled."

It's difficult to quell the desire to defend or explain himself under such a critical eye. Still, he does his best to offer measured responses, as much as he needed to answer Tsubaki's questions, as he sits opposite him with a cup of tea he's hardly touched. For a moment then, Salem studies the other, trying to probe for the source of his scrutiny.

"Do you believe my presence here may harm someone dear to you?"

Reliable allies...‎ ‎

Exploring the monastery...‎ ‎

"so you're with the deer." it's less of a question and more of a cheerful remark as she lowers herself into a seat beside the stranger to peer at him inquisitively. "that's a shame. it's always exciting to get new students. if we'd known about your arrival, maybe the black eagles could've found a way to snap you up first."

a pause, followed by a gradual smile. "but i'll admit, you're in good hands with claude. he's a formidable leader—and friend—to boot. have you met him yet? he's a bit elusive."

Perfect Teatime? | no longer accepting

"Indeed I have. He came by to welcome me not too long ago." Salem leans forward to top off Dorothea's cup with the rest of the dark tea in the tea pot. Earlier, the leader of the Golden Deer had joined him for a cup from the same brew - that Dorothea had not spied him coming or going from the courtyard allowed her to prove his elusiveness by word alone. A man who would find you first if he needed you, Claude is hardly the first commander with the same tendencies that Salem has worked under. He prefers the independence, at any rate.

But that leaves him curious about the Black Eagles.

"What of your house leader, then? More accessible? As I understand it, she's set to inherit the imperial crown."

Claude is no prince. If Salem had been asked before this conversation which house leader he believed was closer to the students they led, he most certainly would not have chosen the imperial princess. In all his time with the Loptyrian church, he had seen the prince with his own two eyes only once, from a distance.

Salem considers this as he finishes off his own cup and returns it delicately to its saucer.

"Maybe I'll consider it. Transferring, I mean."

But not now. He's had enough of Empires, dead or otherwise.

Perfect Teatime? | no longer accepting

"I'm a wanderer from a faraway land with some skill in the healing arts," Salem recites his story. This is at least the dozenth time, and it comes out naturally, without thinking. The man who sits across from him had introduced himself by the name Eliwood, and although he had been nothing but humble in their brief acquaintance over tea, he carried himself with a regal bearing - if he had not been born into nobility, then he had been raised with its manners.

This is not why Salem had defaulted to his habitual lie. As well-recited as it was, it had supplied itself to Eliwood's question only because it was comfortable and within reach. Anything else would have required a longer pause as Salem considered what might be acceptable for a light conversation over tea. Most of his life could stain the white tablecloths red.

"Although I hope to refine my abilities while I'm here," he continues, swirling the contents of his cup. "Skilled as I might be with a staff, saving lives is still new to me. Tell me, Eliwood," now, Salem leans forward with mild interest, "where you're from, are there many within whom both light and dark dwell?"

Perfect Teatime? | no longer accepting

"You'll forgive me for not introducing myself to you sooner. The monastery where I had received most of my education was not divided by houses, neither was it led by leaders that didn't already know me."

Of the three houses that had been presented to him at enrollment, it had been the one with the red crest that had felt the most familiar for Salem. But it wasn't long before he found out about its close ties to the Imperial powers of this land, and so he set his sights on the house that represented the farthest from it. The Golden Deer and its loose roundtable Alliance had seemed as good a fit as any, but having turned in his entrance papers, Salem had thought little of the colors adorning his uniform. He barely thought about his new life as a student, in fact, having applied to the academy merely on a whim.

Now that Claude sat before him though, he remembered manners that he had only ever used in the halls of Imperial noble houses, and that didn't seem quite right for the man who lounged across from him, no matter his golden livery.

"Three of my acquaintances have been under your leadership for a while. Leif, Nanna, and Tina are their names. There's little reason any of them would mention me, but I hope that their conduct as Golden Deer has not brought you to regard another of their countrymen with suspicion."

“Salem! That's you, isn't it?” Leif calls out to the man. Sweat drips down the side of the prince's face, fresh out of training; the practice blade is still in his scabbard even as he cuts through the courtyard, hard pivoting his previous path to make it to the dark mage where he reads now. Despite the pronounced way Leif's chest moves up and down for the exertion of breathing, the boy's voice remains lively as if unimpeded by it all. “!! It is you! After the war, I'd heard you moved... Is this where to? Are you planning on putting your roots down in Fódlan now, Salem?”

Perfect Teatime? | no longer accepting

"Why, if it isn't the young prince." This monastery had astonished him with enough surprises by now that Salem finds no need to comment on it any longer, suspecting that this parade of surprises has only just begun. Instead, he shuts his book without a second's hesitation to sweep his eyes up and down the boy, who is not much of a boy any longer. Older though he might be now, he still looks as Salem remembers him during his time with his liberation army - flushed and out of breath, as if his tenuous rebellion would be scattered to the winds the second he let himself rest. It brings something of a smile to Salem's face, however muted.

There is, of course, another reason he's glad to see this old acquaintance, and that's because his presence here in Garreg Mach affords him a modicum of security. The rigid vigilance Salem had kept up this long relaxes just a little for a moment of familiar conversation.

"I'm not certain yet that I have roots left to put down. I've been on the move for quite some time." He nods toward the empty chair across from him in case Leif desires a moment's rest, yet the gesture carries neither expectation nor pressure. Salem would be just as content to continue reading alone as he would be to entertain a guest at his table.

"But I intend to stay for a little while, at least. Maybe once the scars have healed, Jugdral will be safe for me to return to. Have you come here to refine your leadership? Or," his eyes flick toward the training sword at Leif's waist, "your sword arm?"

Perfect Teatime? | no longer accepting

Ordinarily Salem regarded those who approached his place in the courtyard with habitual frostiness, polite only insofar as it allowed him distance from questions prying into his past. But Ewan, perhaps for his jubilant youth not unlike Tina's, receives a softer greeting - a near-smile and willingness to indulge in conversation for a little while. Books, at least, are a safer topic than anything he'd braced himself for from the quests who had come by earlier. He waves his hand over the one sitting by his elbow.

"Fódlan's magic is far more complex than I imagined. It's no wonder that the monastery's library is full of tomes on Reason. The formula to conjure a simple fire spell fills an entire volume on its own."

Not that he needed to learn a spell like Fire, but for the sake of his curiosity, he'd decided to start with something easy for comparison. Or, at least, what he assumed would be so. With a nod, he directs attention to the boy's stack of books.

"It looks like you've taken away half of the collection. Rest here for as long as you like. I can't imagine how you've hauled that stack this far alone."

Exploring the monastery

Mighty weapons

The opera…

Perfect Teatime? | still accepting

"You'll have to recommend the best places to see. I've only just arrived, and this monastery is rather large." Nevertheless, Salem has seen enough. He knows that there are volumes missing from the library, and not simply books that students have borrowed. These have not been marked down in the ledgers as being in anyone's possession, and while he wouldn't put it past a few thieves to pilfer things from the shelves once in a while, the librarian has insisted that the ledgers are all in order this season.

And then there's the whisper of black markets in the town square. Rumors of refuges for those on the run and in need of asylum. The Church of Loptyr had not been without its many secrets, of course, but it was hardly as old as Garreg Mach boasts to be. It all piqued his interest, but not to the extent that it would drive him to cause trouble. Or land himself in trouble.

Besides, he's not certain that Seadall even has anything interesting to divulge.

"I'm no stranger to religious establishments, but I've never seen one so accommodating. Have you been converted to the church's teachings, by chance?"

6. Close calls...

33. ‎ You seem well...‎ ‎

(i accidentally sent this wrong the first time haha don't even worry about it)

Perfect Teatime? | still accepting

"Too many to count, I'm afraid." And each as vivid in his mind as they day they'd happened. Salem was not one to speak of his brushes with death though, especially when such stories tended to lead to more questions about the hows and whys he'd found himself in those situations. He wasn't quite yet ready to divulge his reasons for being in Fódlan to any person who asked.

Still, that's not much for conversation, not that he thinks that Hapi is on the edge of her seat for one. In the stretch of silence, he's studied her: an unusual uniform, listlessness in her eyes, yet something equally restless about her. Shifty, even, which compels Salem to glance over his own shoulder once.

"After relying on my own for so long, I've had to learn to accept help when it's offered. It may be the only reason I'm still alive." He pauses to sip his tea, but fixes his sharp eyes on her. "A word of advice: don't make it so clear that you're hiding from something."

pluck. "i'll be happy like them one day." pluck. "no i won't." pluck. "i'll be happy like them one day." pluck.

only one petal remained.

"no i. . . won't?! ugh. . . so it really is hopeless."

Perfect Teatime? | still accepting

Ordinarily, Salem wouldn't have concerned himself with something like this. He had never been in the habit of poking his nose into other people's business unless he had to, and here in Garreg Mach he was (mostly) free of an Archbishop's lofty expectations. So he really doesn't know what compels him to do what he does now, except maybe the way the girl had sighed so heavily that it had nearly fluttered the pages of his book.

Still pretending to be the disinterested stranger that he had been just a few seconds ago, Salem lifts his eyes to scan the courtyard for the "them" that has brought this girl such despair. It doesn't take him long to find them. In the center of the entire garden, occupying the table beneath the central gazebo, a pair of students coo softly to one another as they gaze into each other's eyes. There are four chairs arranged around the table, but the lovebirds have chosen two right next to each other so that they don't have to reach as far to brush a strand of hair from one's eyes, or rub a thumb across a cheek. They are infatuated with each other, that much is certain.

Closing his book, Salem slides his chair a little closer to the redheaded young woman who stares forlornly at the flower she's mangled.

Uka's age is supposed to be hard to guess, but Salem's is almost impossible to pin down. He has an unfortunate look about him, young and old at the same time, but not in a flattering way. It's one thing to be in your senior years and look like you're still in your prime. Quite another to be in your prime of your life and look as worn as someone twice your age.

"Mmgh..." Fox ears, normally relaxed, stand erect and alert as Uka stares at Salem, trying to glean more hints out of that stoic face. How old is this guy? Uka leans forward, stroking his chin. Younger men have that curly broccoli-like hair, but his skin is terrible.

Ugh. Uka bragged that he'd get it exactly right, but he might have to settle for a ballpark range. Not too young, but not all that old either. Forget about the face, what about temperament?

"...Thirty? Thirty." He isn't sure why he thinks Salem is around his age, only that the thought never left him as soon as they started speaking. "Thirty... and born in the autumn. Final answer."

Perfect Teatime? | still accepting

Uka has sharp eyes and intuition to match. That's why he'd probably notice that Salem's eyebrows raise slightly, and that he almost looks impressed.

"I've never had a reason to celebrate the day of my birth. Perhaps you're right," he says cryptically as if to imply that he hasn't kept track of the years either. With a little more information, either dug up by this fox or divulged in strategic pieces by Salem himself, it wouldn't be hard to believe. The unchanging sands of the Aed made it tricky to track the passing seasons, and rarely venturing to the lands beyond meant one remained at its mercy.

Of course, that second part would be a lie. Salem had traveled once he was old enough to play a part in the Archbishop's schemes, and hardly came back to the desert. The Church had also been obsessed with counting the days, because each day marked off the calendar meant another justification for dark god's revenge. Salem knew exactly how old he was, insofar as he could count the years of his tenure as a priest.

Now though, unwilling to give Uka his victory so easily, Salem studies his face as he tops off his cup. His his cheeks are still round, his body gangly like a teenager, and yet those incisive eyes...

"Children your age ordinarily struggle to differentiate one man's decade from another, besides being both 'old.' What if I told you that you were ten years off your mark?"

42. Shareable snacks...

2. A place you'd like to visit...‎ ‎ 

THAT'S OOMF!

Right there! That's totally him! Tina can hardly even believe it. Salem! Here! In Fódlan too!

She is, honestly, thrilled. She's always liked him. He didn't sigh or oh Tina whenever she talked to him. He listened.

Bounding up to him, green curls bouncing excitedly as she practically bounces from foot to foot in front of him, she's more than ready to yap at him again.

"SALEEEEMMMM!!!!!" It doesn't matter that she's right there near him she's still loud. "What are you even doing here? I'm sooooo glad you see youuuuu!!!!! Have you tried the food here yet? It's pretty good but like it's not as good as mine, right? Right?"

Perfect Teatime? | still accepting

One surprise after another here at this monastery, but his instincts were right about one thing: if Nanna was here, then others would be as well. Yet even if he'd been told that the entire army had gathered at Garreg Mach, Salem still wouldn't have thought to count Tina among them.

Rising to his feet to greet her as she comes bounding over, he realizes that the top of her head is no longer where he remembers it had been, and lifts his eyes until he finds her face again. Beaming and more rambunctious than ever, he's half-surprised that Safy hadn't managed to impress upon her even a fraction of her own somber austerity over the years. Perhaps then the entire courtyard wouldn't know him by name now.

"It's good to see you, too, Tina." And he means it, despite his silent comparisons, and how his smile is formed in part to hide a wince. "My, how you've grown."

Gesturing with an open palm for her to take a seat across from him for a little while, he sits again and pours a second cup of tea.

"The food here is richer than I'm accustomed to," he says with a glance to the untouched tower of finger sandwiches and sweets he'd been offered along with the tea set. "I do think often of the comfort your warm meals, as simple as they were, brought me when I was still recovering." His smile turns sly as he stirs his spoon. "You and I both know that I would not still be here had such matters been left solely in Perne's hands."

"I hope that you don't mind cucumber," she said unprompted, sliding the tray onto the table as she took a seat herself. "It was not all that the kitchens had prepared, but everything else was so heavy."

Lachesis made a little face at the thought, her nose wrinkling. Hands moved to provide the young man a plate for him to serve himself, as well as saucer and tasse. Lifting the lid of the teapot and taking a delicate sniff to assess whether the brew had completed, she swiveled it, poured for herself, and crossed one leg over the other.

"You simply look as though you needed something to eat," she said in explanation, sipping once and taking a little cucumber sandwich for herself. "Surely you wouldn't let this go to waste. Eat up, go on."

Perfect Teatime? | still accepting

"How thoughtful." In truth, Salem wasn't hungry, but he had trained himself to forget hunger under certain circumstances. Reading was an easy distraction - both here and beneath the sands of Aed - but his conditioned habits knew not how to differentiate war from peacetime.

Slipping a scrap of paper between its pages, he set the book on Reason aside to better entertain his surprise, albeit not entirely unwanted guest.

"Are you in the habit of feeding strangers?" he asked, taking one of the sandwiches onto the plate she'd set in front of him. One to be polite, two perhaps if he liked it. The sad white bread, while not yet soggy, did not appeal to him at a glance, but he was certainly prepared to be surprised.

"Fortunately, I don't mind the company. Or the food."