The beautiful princess of peerless beauty!

Forsyth has quite the sweet tooth, and the confections at the ball are as alluring a vice as any. He's back for a third round of shaved ice when he spots a familiar figure sporting a delightfully bedazzled outfit.

"L'Arachel! It is good to see you, my friend!" He almost feels underdressed beside her. Perhaps he should have chosen a more vibrant green? "How has the night treated you thus far?"

He's filled his cup up once more before he realized how terribly rude he's been--he's not even offered a floral exchange! He nearly spills it fishing for a rose of sufficient vibrancy, settling on an orange-and-yellow one that perfectly compliments her vest and fiery nature alike.

And even more of a joy as he compliments her outfit! Not like she had any doubt, of course, considering their shared experience.

She takes the rose, attempting to hide the slight bemusement at the almost spilled his ice. The bloom goes near the centre of the bouquet, a lovely way to draw in any observer’s eye.

“It was a meticulous affair; many hours spent talking with various tailors and making sure that the details were perfect. It was gruelling, but worth it.” She chuckles.

“I had it made specifically to honour the world of Fortuna. There was a lot of good there, and I do think it deserves to be celebrated.” A soft smile forms on her face as she reminisces on some of the good times that were had in that world.

“With my magnificent outfit, the glitz and glamour of this year’s ball, and a night full of meeting friends old and new still ahead, I can safely say that the night has been spectacular, and I am most certain it shall remain this way!” She claps her hands together in excitement, before a moment of realization dawns over her; firstly, she hands over one of her lilies to Forsyth. After all, it would be quite against the spirit of the night if she were to just keep all her lilies for herself.

Secondly, she fills up a bowl of shaved ice, mixes all the flavours together into a multi-coloured slush, and clinks Forsyth’s bowl as if it were a drink glass.

"L'Arachel!" Eirika hurries after her, red dress trailing behind her and a bouquet of roses, with a colorful array of other flowers among them, in her arms. Once at her side, Eirika shifts the bouquet to her left arm and places a sympathetic hand on her friend's shoulder. "Are you alright? Do you wish to talk about it?"

Azure eyes search for hers beneath the cover of the night. It is rare to see L'Arachel in such a state. This feels like so much more than competing in the White Heron Cup and losing. But L'Arachel is her friend and she won't easily leave her alone to go through whatever this is. "If you do not wish to, I understand."

She manages to exit that horrid party, the feeling of cool air faintly registering through her frantic thoughts.

Trying to take a moment to breathe and calm herself, she instead tenses up as she hears her name called by…

Oh Latona, she does not even know who Eirika is to her right now. She wants to say friend, she wants to say close confidant but…

She feels her shoulders stiffen as what should be a comforting hand instead causes tension; she tries looking Renais’ Queen in the eyes but as her vision becomes blurry and her heart aches with a pain so terrible, she finds herself unable to.

Eirika claims she understands if L’Arachel does not wish to speak, and a small exhale of bitter bemusement escapes her, one that could easily be mistaken for her body shaking from emotion. She understands nothing. How can L’Arachel stay silent when one of the reasons for her pain stands in front of her?

No, silence is not an option here.

“I do not know how much Ephraim has told you about our time in the academy. There had been a mission some of us volunteered to; entire worlds inside mirrors, each housing ‘supposedly’-” Bitterness drips from every syllable of the word. “-dangerous prisoners, ones that needed to be exterminated for the good of the continent.” She believes that story less and less. She knows not what the church’s real reason is, mayhaps they had their reasons. But they could have left the world of Fortuna alone. She is certain of it.

“This world was fantastical, Eirika. Massive metallic carts, galloping through roads at terrifying speeds. Boxes that showed images, similar to those movies they had been displaying today, that allowed you to access vast swaths of information at a mere moment’s notice. So many wonderfully trifling ways to pass the time. This outfit is from that world, meticulously recreated as a way to keep its memory alive.” She pauses, taking a deep, shaky breath.

This is her last opportunity to back away, to simply claim she is mourning that world and everything about it; the truth, but not the whole truth.

But although her body is shaking, L’Arachel of Rausten is no coward.

“When we entered that world, we seamlessly became integrated into it. All of us who entered became as they were at fifteen years of age. Even that vile fool Valter.” She cannot help but slightly chuckle at the memory. 

“Me and another fellow from this academy, the world had made us into siblings. And… whilst mostly absent and distant…” L’Arachel locks eyes with Eirika again; an attempt to force herself to finish telling the tale.

“I had a mother again, Eirika. For a brief, brief moment, and mayhaps not real at all, but I had a mother again. And then that world crumbled and once again, I am left without one. And that… that would be acceptable. That would be fine. I could manage, I would brave it, I would carry on like I always do.” She tries to put on a brave face, but it is a poor, poor facade.

“I met two people today, Eirika. Two people I did not think I would ever see again. The Fluorspar was the first one. We exchanged terse pleasantries. I wished her well, despite it all.” She sighs. Even now, even as she feels all the raw pain associated with these sudden revivals, as her heart feels like it is bleeding, she cannot help but hope that Selena can carve the best life she can.

“The second one was Lyon.” She says, voice terse.

“The second one was Lyon and you knew. You and Ephraim, you both knew! And you did not tell me! Despite everything that happened in Magvel, despite what his return could mean, despite the fact that we are supposed to be allies! Friends!” She knows she is yelling, she knows she is making another scene, but she cannot stop herself.

“Why would you not tell me?” Her voice breaks, and she feels so, so very small. “Have I not been a good enough friend? I know I can be a lot, Eirika. I know not everyone enjoys how grandiose I can be, just how confident I am, or how brash, or, or…” She hiccups, and takes it as a sign that her point has been made.

“...I thought you and Ephraim understood me. Out of everyone, everyone I know, I thought you two understood me and accepted me like none other.” It takes all of her strength not to start crying in front of Eirika; she does not need to embarrass herself even further, bare her heart even more to someone who may not even care.

“...I had so much to prove, with the dance. I wanted to honour the world that no longer exists. I wanted to prove how incredible I am. I wanted to shine so bright that you and Ephraim could not ignore me.” She laughs weakly; just how foolish that had been.

(He regrets worrying about something as inconsequential as his appearance.)

The more she talks, the more time Lyon has to piece together some clues about her identity. She knows him—no, she knows about him. Lyon's friend circle was always laughably tiny, even back in Magvel. In Fódlan, he went out of his way to avoid forming close bonds because he believed himself completely undeserving of companionship.

She brings up Grado, the Demon King, and the twins. That means she must have fought by their side once. In fact, she knows a little more than an average person would about Fomortiis. She even looks a little familiar.

Could she be...?

"...Yes." It sounds almost like a sigh. Lyon squares his shoulders before meeting her gaze. "It's truly me—Lyon... of Grado. Hard to believe, I know." It is up to her whether she chooses to believe him. He has no way to prove it, either, other than being soft-spoken and acting the opposite of hostile.

"Ephraim and Eirika have known for a while." Ephraim had found out by chance, and in turn, Eirika had naturally received the news from her brother. "I assume they haven't said anything about me out of respect for my wishes." He wrings his hands. "I'm only attending the ball tonight because they invited me..."

"As for the rest of your questions, I don't think this is the right place for that kind of conversation." There are still people around them, even though some have gone to watch the theater troupe's production. "I have seen people slip in the rooms that are supposedly locked..." He inclines his head. "But it's fine if you have better things to do than talk to me."

They knew. They knew that Lyon was back for quite some time and they did not tell her. Despite just how absurdly improbable his return is. Despite the potential danger to Magvel as a whole. Despite the fact that they are friends. Did she not have a right to know as well? Do they care for her less than she thought? Less than she cares for them?

She takes a breath, trying to calm herself. There shall be ample time later. For now…

Well, truth be told, a part of her is heavily considering agreeing with Lyon; that she has better things to do. Conversing with friends and strangers alike, exchanging blooms, last minute practice for the White Heron Cup.

But yet… “I cannot just frivolously walk away from this, Lyon, how could I?” She shakes her head. “I am certain no-one shall mind if we borrow one of the ‘locked’ rooms.” She starts making her way over to some of the doors; the first two she tries seem to be locked, but the third one is thankfully open. Sure, there seems to be two people conversing inside, but a bit of money given out to both of them quickly solves that.

“Alright. Let us continue forward with the assumption that you truly are Prince Lyon of Grado.” She sighs, before quickly shaking her head and clarifying. She needs to be nicer. For her own sake just as much as Lyon’s. “Not to imply that I wish otherwise, or that I do not want to trust you. There has been far too much senseless death, for one, and I know how much you mean to E- to the King and Queen of Renais.” Hmph.

“But you do have to understand my concerns, I hope. Last time I had seen you, one of Renais’ sacred twin weapons had just impaled you. To suddenly see you here, alive and seemingly without the Demon King, despite all the statements that say it should be impossible…” Is the lore kept in Rausten wrong, then? She would call the idea absolutely laughable if the proof was not seemingly standing in front of her.

Mayhaps it is fitting, if it is wrong. Misinformed tomes owned by a misinformed royal.

Again, though, she tries to keep her focus back on track. She has to keep it together. She has to. Who else will, if not her? 

Innes is not here to play games. He's here to - well, why is he here? To put on a good show, he supposes, for himself and for Frelia. It's not going terribly, all things considered.

His ability to keep himself kind and charming and normal is only taken aback a little when he sees there's some sort of game going on. It's not quite dark, but it's clearly tucked away from where any faculty can glance over and see.

Innes folds his arms in contemplation. Then, he sees L'Arachel - thank the gods, someone who might see sense.

She glances over to what caught his attention and sees a bunch of party-goers... well, she is not quite sure what they are doing; whether some weird dance practice, or a game she does not understand.

The one thing she DOES understand is that Innes is being a spoilsport.

Though, as she looks on, she cannot help but agree with him on this one; imagine if she were fully occupied with dancing, mind only thinking of moving her body in the most graceful of ways, only to trip over one of these people!

"Mayhaps instead of the faculty we can direct them somewhere else?" She offers a compromise. "If this is already being done rebeliously, our attempts to crush this rebellion may open us up to retalliation." She shakes her head.

He gestures to the twisted forms in the dark. Bodies are entangled together in a way a dance could not. Leave room for Seiros, unless they can get away with it in a darkened corner.

"Look at them. The way they are..." He shudders. "It's inappropriate. If we move them to another area, do you know what they could get up to?" Innes gestures, but he's not even sure what his gesture is supposed to be.

"Illegitimate heirs are a growing problem, L'Arachel. As royals, you and I cannot encourage this. We must put a stop to this, before worse can come of it."

"Innes, surely Fódlan is civilized enough that there would not be..." She pauses, trying to find the right word. "...deubachery going on where everyone could see! Are you most certain about this?" She crooks an eyebrow at him.

In fairness to him, the scene before them is quite suspect; the undeniable fact is that these are people tangled and twisted quite bizarrly. This surely cannot be an activity actively sanctioned by the academy.

But...

"As much as I am usually willing to trust in your ever keen intellect and instinct, Innes, what shall happen if it is wrong in this situation? Are you willing to endure the wrath of several students, whom you have accused of quite the grave matter?" She shakes her head. Getting any sort of faculty would be FAR too hasty at this point.

The piano plays its first note. Flayn lifts her arms, and her dance begins.

She is most accustomed to the waltz—not the best thing to dance by herself, but she makes it work. Taking the position of the lead, Flayn dances with an imaginary partner whose height shifts quite a bit, but is nevertheless constantly in her caress. She twists herself to and fro, her heels scuffing against the wooden grain of the stage.

The music ends. Flayn curtsies towards the audience and makes her exit.

The judges' comments: Though it is clear that the dancer is amateur, her natural charms sell the waltz. The choreography pairs well with the music, though it's clear she struggles without a partner. 19/30.

Flayn reads this while seated. She hums—a partner?

Glancing down, she fixates on the white hyacinth she had tucked into her belt. A partner...

"Sorry dancers," A woman with a clipboard enters backstage, "the judges would like to see you dance again."

"Again?" Flayn blinks out of her trance. She turns Forde and L'Arachel, then rises to her feet, "Alright, I'll have another go."

She pushes past the curtains and takes her place, feet planted atop the 'X' marked on the stage. Flayn takes a deep breath. The piano plays its first note, and she once again lifts her arms and takes her step to the side.

This time, she pictures a certain someone as she dances—someone with a certain height, a certain gait, a certain hand. Memories of a sunlit pond and a fish hook delicately wrung from her hair dance at the edges of her vision, and a warmth courses through her veins.

The dance finishes. Flayn curtsies, like she had before, though this time she notices how much sweatier she seems to be.

The judges' comments: The execution has not improved much, but the dancer's emotions have been brought to the forefront, building up the image of a sweet and lovestruck girl. 22/30

Flayn's eyes widen. She hadn't expected to score so high. The woman with the clipboard asks Forde and L'Arachel to exit, and as she does, Flayn waves at them.

"Best of luck, you two!"

A second performance that visibly improves from the first, but in ways Forde can’t describe until he hears the judge’s commentary. Far more emotional, enhancing the music instead of just performing alongside it. 

He gives Flayn a second round of applause as she returns backstage. “Excellent work!” He grins, before patting his cheeks and plastering a serious look on his face. “Are you ready, L’ara-” ooo, if looks could kill… 

“Let me lead you properly this time.” He declares as they step onto the dancefloor. No smiles to save him this time, he has to dance with real confidence. He takes more risks in his dance, extra flourishes when the music intensifies. He wouldn’t say his performance is emotional, he’s putting too much brainpower into his steps to think about that. But perhaps that stoicism is what the music calls for. 

After the final notes fade away, he takes a bow, exhausted. 

The judges’ comments: A wider variety of skills without a decline in precision. He seems to have put much more thought into the tone of his performance, excellent work. 25/30

Surely not. When they said he hadn’t declined, it was because his precision was barely there to begin with. Perhaps they were simply rating him so highly because his partner was skewing their curve. 

He glances at L’Arachel. He absolutely cannot voice that last thought out loud. 

Anger that is only increased as Flayn is sent out for yet another dance! A second go around! Bah! What for? Flayn's performance was spectacular; even without the clear bias against L'Arachel, she is sure that the girl would have them beat the first time! And that was the weakest of her performances!

Whatever. Whatever. She shall be their little puppet on a string! Dance for their bemusement once more! She shall dance her heart out!

She can keep her emotions in check for just the briefest of moments to give Flayn a small smile and a thumbs up, before all the anger comes flooding back as they step out onto the stage once more.

Forde takes the lead this time, L'Arachel subject to his whim and whimsy; she shall allow him to take charge as she is clearly QUITE BAD AT IT APPARENTLY.

One, two, three, one, two, three; she can commend Sir Forde for how he is moving, more inspired, more grandiose. It is clear she has taught him well!

Alas, the anger she feels is making her struggle with keeping up; flourishes mimicked with less heart behind them, a move or two that she preforms less skillfully than before. She attempts a quick dance move or two from the world of Fortuna in hopes that it shall help bolster their standing, though they lack her usual confidence.

The performance finally ends, and with a bow, she awaits her verdict.

The judges' comments: Dance executed skillfully, though with more mistakes than previously. Whilst the attempts at diverisfying the choreography are commendable, they were sadly ineffective at improving the dance routine, and in fact clashed with the tone of dance. In addition to previously mentioned issues with the outfit, the scornful scowl was quite unprofessional. 13/30

Ah.

Ah, so that is how it is.

So that is how it is.

"So, this is why you had us dance one more? To mock me? To humiliate me?" She yells out in an accusatory tone, finger pointed sternly at the judges.

"'Oh, Flayn's performance was perfect already, but we are not done making fun of Lady L'Arachel, have them dance again!' Is that what this is to you? An excuse to humiliate and belittle?" She goes from a mocking impression to yelling once again.

"Flayn; perfect, you can feel the love. Sir Forde; incredible, if only he did not have a horrid partner! L'Arachel; Why have you even bothered to show up here?" Her body is trembling, fists balled up painfully.

"Have we considered what the outfit may mean? Have we considered any symbolism behind it? Any sort of artistic intent? Any dead friends that it may be honouring? No, let us just call it trash and take away just enough points that she loses!" Her voice is starting to crack; red in the face as she is.

"What do you even want from me? The first performance is too safe, the second performance is too daring, the choreography is stale but the costume too exciting, there is too much joy, too much whimsy, too much human emotion on display!" Each thing she brings up is accompanied by a stomp of the foot, one that makes her light up shoes glow in different patterns and colours.

"If this was all an elaborate plan to ruin my night and shatter my confidence, then good job! You did spectacular." Voice quivering, she quickly turns towards Forde. "I am sorry."

He’ll shake off the nerves by the time they reach the dancefloor, they have to. In the meantime, he distracts himself by talking to one of their competitors. 

“You’re competing alone, Flayn?” He smiles. “I’m looking forward to seeing it, good luck out there!” 

Alas, the time for chatter is over. It is their turn now. Forde takes L’Arachel’s hand and leads them onto the dancefloor, content that this will be the last time he truly leads anything in this performance. His heart is still racing, but the grin on his face betrays nothing. Act confident, and the audience will buy it. 

His other hand settles on L’Arachel’s waist. “Have fun, I’ll do my best to follow you.” And the waltz begins - one, two, three, one, two, three, the steps are simple, practically muscle memory for Forde. After finding the rhythm, it’s just a case of letting L’Arachel do whatever she wants, sensing when to let go and hold on again. 

Ah, and about halfway through he remembers a tip about leg positioning, and adjusts his technique accordingly. 

The judges’ comments: Adequate execution. Overly cheerful demeanor doesn’t match the tone of the music. 17/30

Though, in the off-chance they DO fail, there are definitely far worse opponents to fall to than one of her cave exploring companions. Giving her a nod and a thumbs up, L’Arachel is quick to move out to the dance floor, excited to showcase her skills.

Forde leads them out, but L’Arachel takes charge masterfully. With a giddy smile on her face, she leads them in a lovely waltz; the simple rhythm enhanced by various dips and twirls, moments where she showcases her individuality with grace and poise.

Each step executed flawlessly of course

The performance finishes and she gives several grand bows to the audience and the judges. Looking up, expecting to see a perfect 30 points, she is instead stunned to see… less than that.

The judges’ comments: Dance executed masterfully, although the choreography felt uninspired and lacking in unity. Awful and garish outfit, like the cheerful demeanour, is unfit for the tone presented. 19/30

Awful outfit? Uninspired choreography? How dare. How dare! She shall be the bigger moment, but this indignancy shall NOT go unforgotten! She gives a polite curtsy towards the judges, before returning back to the sidelines, her nails digging into her hands with how tightly they are balled together in anger.

[ CORN ] - A new strain of corn has been bred in Bergliez with a curious trait—it pops when exposed to heat, becoming light and fluffy! Help yourself to a bag; it's a little bland on its own, but you get the feeling you could find something to spice it up. If there is anyone L'Arachel would like to have try this delightful snack, it would most certainly be Ferdinand von Aegir! Managing to track him down, she offers a curtsy before holding out a bag of popcorn alongside one of her flowers. "Greetings Ferdinand! I hope you are enjoying these lovely festivities! I have for you a bag of the popcorn that everyone has been raving about; yet only I truly know how to perfect." She says with an incredibly cocky smile. "Melted butter poured over the popcorn,salt sprinkled generously throughout, and then the bag vigorously shaked. I promise you, it shall utterly delight you. Oh, and of course, one of my flowers is included for you as well, it would be quite pleasing to exchange blooms together." She smiles.

“L’arachel!”

his delight arrived immediately, bright as sunlight breaking across stained glass, and just as swiftly, his eyes are shattered by the blaring attire she chose to wear for this occasion. Ferdinand accepted both the flower and the offered bag with visible intrigue, turning the strange puffed kernels over in his hand as though examining some rare delicacy from a foreign court. (and as a distraction from the obvious.)

“so this is the marvel everyone has been whispering about.” his amber eyes widened slightly. “I confess, when I first heard that Bergliez corn had begun exploding under heat, I feared catastrophe rather than cuisine.”

the rich scent of butter drifted upward as he opened the bag, and whatever noble composure he had been maintaining softened almost instantly into genuine curiosity. he sampled a piece, thoughtful at first—then visibly brightened.

“ah!” he laughed warmly. “light, crisp, salted just enough—my lady, this is exceptional. no wonder you speak of it with such confidence.”

he lifted the lily she had given him, carefully twirling the stem between gloved fingers before selecting one of the deep rouge roses from his own arrangement to offer in return. its petals picked up the dimmer blue tones of the ballroom lanterns overhead.

“then allow me to honor the exchange properly,” Ferdinand said with a graceful bow of his head. “a bloom for a bloom—and my sincerest admiration for your culinary innovation.”

another piece of popcorn disappeared promptly afterward.

"———and I really do hope I am the first to comment, but even innovation cannot distract me. are you aware that what you are wearing does look..." he gestured. "jarring?"

Instead, however, she is able to be a culinary pioneer, effortlessly impressing someone as refined and elegant as Ferdinand; a fact that makes her absolutely beam with pride.

She gives a dignified curtsy as she takes the bloom he offers; quite a beautiful, gorgeous flower. She carefully puts it near the centre of her bouquet; it shall be both a beautiful centrepiece as well as a symbol of her victory over the culinary arts.

And it seems like the culinary arts is not the only place where she is victorious; her magnificent outfit seemingly stunning Ferdinand von Aegir with how dazzling it is!

"Why, I have had some inquiries, but you are the first to call it jarring, my good friend. I am glad you are able to see the intention behind it! So many elements, all vastly different yet coming together to create a beautifully glamorous outfit!" She poses with pride.

"As magnificent as it is, however, I will most certainly dress differently next year; one can never become too predictable! I shall gladly take you up on the offer when the time comes!" She beams at him.