king with two crowns

Ratmitri accepts the tribute of cheese, taking the offered morsel without the slightest hesitation and swallowing it in a single bite before letting out a quiet, thoroughly contented hum. Squeak, squeak.

“Must I spell it out?” Despite being in the sheer prime of their lives, most students didn’t like to take notice of the inevitable: at their age, it is no more than a midsummer sunset desire to explore – her hand raises from its position on his shoulder and rests before her mouth, obscuring the chuckle that dances from her throat to her lips. “Let’s put it this way,” she starts, “There are certain things that should be kept between two clandestine lovers.”

And is that an enigmatic method to express her idea? Perhaps, but she is not about to lower her head in shame for mentioning the unmentionable, and at a ball, surrounded by students, staff, and clergy alike! 

Dorothea feels her smile twitch downward when he withdraws from their dance; it may have been a secondary distraction, however elegant, but to a girl that enraptures her existence in the symphonic melodies of an orchestral crescendo, it comes as momentary disillusionment.

“Well, I certainly can be a nice girl.” She muses, narrow shoulders raising in faux nonchalance. The soles of her boots planted a reasonable distance apart, Dorothea raises her hand in a pledge, five fingers held together and a serious, albeit weak, countenance. “I solemnly swear I will not throw myself at every noble I come across. How does that sound? A little more lady-like?”

It doesn’t come across as genuine. Rather, her words are laced with a certain venom, sarcasm at its deadliest in the hands of a teenage girl. Still, she exhales and shakes her head.

So he looks at her funny, unfazed. "That is a lot of words to confess that you simply want to get laid." It is very odd, in the first place, to meet a woman in Fodlan who isn't afraid of speaking her mind. He'd thought Fodlan's daughters were more like Marianne - sheltered and beloved - and needed knights in shining armour to jump to their defence. The tension leaves his shoulders once he realizes how much Dorothea had been in control. He laughs, something genuine. Now he just feels silly. He'd embarrassed himself in front of one of the monastery's most sought-after women.

But then he thinks back, about how he wouldn't be here dancing with her and having this conversation if he hadn't taken that first step, and realizes: it's not so bad.

"Well, sorry I ruined your night." He rubs the back of his neck. "How about I make it up to you? Let me take you somewhere. You won't regret it."

He watches as she raises an eyebrow, and that's all the confirmation he needs. He offers his arm with a theatrical flourish - remembering the lessons his grandfather had taught him - more Fodlan than Almyra, but he's learned to blend in, and leads her past the glowing windows of the monastery, past the stables, past the last torch on the outskirts of camp, until the only light comes from the moon straining through the canopy. The forest floor is damp with moss, and the air smells of earth and pine.

Then the trees part, just a little, and there she is.

Farangis - white as fresh snow, scales catching silver in the dark, wings folded like a cathedral's arches. The wyvern turns her great head, one amber eye blinking slowly at the newcomer, and lets out a low, rumbling croon that vibrates through the ground.

Claude grins, wide and unguarded. "Dorothea, meet Farangis. She lives here now." He gestures vaguely at the clearing, at the cliffside beyond where a shallow cave gapes open. "I mean it. She picked this spot last spring, and I'm not about to argue with a creature that could bite my head off faster than I can talk my way out of it. So she stays. I visit when I can." He steps forward, running a hand along her snout, and Farangis leans into the touch like an overgrown cat. "She's picky about people. But hey, I think she likes you."

That didn't mean, however, he couldn't be petty. So, before deciding to take on the virtue of offering Claude his aid, he raised his elbow and drove a punishing blow into Sylvain's ribs. A crooked, self satisfied smirk slipped onto his lips when his friend cried out and clutched at his side.

Serves him right.

With playtime over, or divine retribution, as Felix preferred to call it, he turned his attention to the pitiful looking Alliance leader, hobbling on unsteady legs like a wounded doe.

“Let's get this over with.” Through a breath of exasperation, he crouched, resting his hands behind his back to receive Claude and support his weight as he climbed on. When the stockier man wound his arms around Felix's clavicle, Felix slipped his own beneath Claude's legs, lifting him from the ground in one swift motion.

With no willingness of his own, he was struck by a sudden bout of nostalgia, recalling simpler times when he had done this very same thing for Dimitri or Ingrid. The memory was intrusive, and though it wasn't an unhappy one, it left him frowning sullenly, a bittersweet weight settling in the pit of his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment, as though the action alone could blot it from his mind's eye.

Now wasn't the time for sentimentally, though he supposed it was only natural after cheating death. Then again, perhaps they hadn't cheated death at all. Had they been any slower in clearing a path for themselves, or lingered beneath the more towering structures, the outcome might have been very different. It hadn't been fortune that had seen them through, but their combined speed and efficiency.

They eventually began making their way through the devastated city, their trek slow but constant. There was some conversation shared between them to break the monotony, but it didn't take long for it to taper off, the three of them too exhausted to maintain anything meaningful for long.

At the halfway mark of their trek, a soldier mounted on a steed appeared in the distance, silhouetted by the fading light of the sun's descent. Sylvain immediately took a defensive position in front of them, while Claude, to his credit, and Felix's amusement, readied his bow from atop Felix's back. Then, another shadowy figure glided through the air beside the soldier, and Felix quickly realized it was a wyvern. A very large one at that.

Claude slips his arm around Felix's neck. He tries to get up on his good leg, knowing that he's heavier than he looks, all bundled up in thick cloth and cotton paddings. If he had to admit it to himself, he was surprised that Felix didn't just leave him there and left to fetch for help. That didn't sound like a completely unreasonable thing to do either, it'd just delay getting back. But still, he's amused to find that the swordsman didn't habour an iceberg as large as his reputation professed.

-

If Claude was asked who he'd considered his childhood friend, he would only say one name: Farangis, the name of his wyern. She's his pride and joy, his closest kin. He takes pleasure in showing her off to others. And so the instant Farangis descends from the skie with Leonie on her back, Claude's eyes brightens at the sight of his beloved daughter and member of the Golden Deer.

"Leonie! You're here." He beams, as if he's just returned from a vacation rather than a death's claws. "Well, that saves us the trouble of looking for you. You see, I'm almost out of commission." It's the most light-hearted joke he could muster right now, though Sylvain's healing magic had done some small miracles on his injuries. He doubts Felix would consent to pack-muling him if he was bleeding all over the place. "And, of course, " he adds in Almyran: "My beloved Farangis, you found me, of course you did. I am wounded, sadly, cannot walk so good right now… but do not worry, this friend of mine, he is taking me back to camp. You will give us a lift, yes? I knew I could count on you."

Farangis grunts, which seem frightening for whoever doesn't know her, but it's a friendly sound. She lowers herself and allows Leonie to hop off of her back to help Felix with Claude, but then Farangis leans in again, forwards, her large emerald eyes fixated on the raven-haired stranger.

Hmph.

A long, pink tongue slithers out of her jaws as she licks the stranger on his face.

Her smile must have faltered, the sharp gleam in her eyes dulled – what more could have caused such an outstanding disturbance to a sheep pretending to be a wolf, teeth filed into sharp points and claws grown from cloven hooves? The first thing she does is stare. Bewilderment snakes ‘round her throat, silencing countless, useless questions and the childish wish to break away. Instead, she falls into the hand placed in hers and places the other on his shoulders: what a strange boy.

“Oh, dear,” she lowers her chin and shakes her head, “I fear you misunderstand, claude.” Her character is drawn with every interaction with a potential suitor, a blank canvas to paint with the broad brushstrokes of another’s utmost desires, but to wear her beating heart on her sleeve was too dangerous – so, at the peak of her fame and beauty, why must she temper her own cravings? How trite.

“I don’t consider him a true suitor, nor will I ever.” Raising her gaze, evergreen meets evergreen, and she chuckles, lowering her voice to a whisper. “There are things a girl wants more than money.”

But, in truth, did she? Here she is, moving her feet in time with a handsome noble – the heir to House Riegan, to be considered indefinitely – and yet, Dorothea stays her hand. Far more than she dares to let on, the situation is more amusing than it is romantic. A noble, her savior from another noble. The girls at the Mittelfrank Opera must hear about this, scrawled in the flowery descriptors within her neat penmanship.

“Should I thank you for such kind words? It’s not every day a common girl like me gets to hear she’s ‘not so terrible,’ from someone like you.” A twinge of sarcasm winds into her words but she remains with a pleasant smile, minding the step of her shoes across the marble floor as the two sway with the orchestral strings. “If you’re interested in courting me, just say so – I’m not much of a biter.”

At that moment, the crowd twirls their partners. He relents his grip on her waist for a moment and does the same. In a flash, that look of frustration was gone when she rotates into his arms again.

"Well then, enlighten me what else could a girl want." Other than to survive, of course. The woes of all commoners with a cheapskate baron or a greedy lord. Sometimes, that's not even the case. The true culprit were the ones at the top or the system itself who protects these very people. It's something he intends to disassemble once he is Leader of Leicester, which is why he's in Fodlan in the very first place.

Dorothea's proposition drags his thoughts back to where they were: in the middle of the dance floor among hundreds of students, and Claude couldn't help but makes a bewildered face at the thought of ulterior motives behind his actions.

Fodlans and their strange societal customs indeed.

The astonishment did more than make Claude's mask of suaveness crack. His feet stop on their own accord despite the music still playing at the forefront of the hall. "That's not- That's not what I was going for." Almost too quickly, his hand leaves hers as he withdraws a step back to place it on the back of his neck. "I just think that you're not bad, Dorothea. You might even be a nice girl."

He withheld a full compliment for the sole reason that they didn't know each other very well.