SENTINEL OF SOLM

Could that, then, be the case one day for Joachim too?

“Are you saying that I just need to... get into more fights?” Joachim tries to get some grasp of what he's been told, but the furrow in his brow from the exertion it takes to think hard on it is as clear as day. “Is that how you learned about battle?”

If the first thing he does after getting here is lead a hapless, starstruck student into a life of crime, Fogado might have to change his identity for real. Still, to an extent, he gets where Joachim's question came from. It's the unspoken truth: you got better at anything by doing a lot of it.

Fogado errs on the side of caution, deciding not to reveal the full extent of his position in the hopes of not creating any further distance. "Back at home, I'm a member of a little group called the Sentinels—kind of a local militia that protects my home country. So, yeah, a lot of what I know does come from personal experience." The war he's just come hot off the tail of definitely didn't hurt in that regard, either. "I definitely wouldn't say that home is uniquely unsafe, but, you know, there was work to do, as there is."

Less now than there had been before, thanks in part to his own relentless efforts. But still not so little—or at least, not so little risk that nothing like it will happen again—that he isn't at a military academy.

Sneaking through Riegan territory alone to answer a suspicious ransom letter while there is a killer on the loose is not very wise at all. But then Alcryst thinks of Fogado, of the sudden way his friend disappeared, the letter detailing exactly where he is and that someone better get him before there's nothing left to get.

It's an obvious trap. The others want to approach this carefully, as they should! But Alcryst… he can't just sit and do nothing. With every moment they delay, Fogado gets further out of reach. His father's downfall taught him just that. Alcryst may not be the strongest fighter, but Fogado is his friend. The prince of Solm needs someone, anyone. The thought alone pushes Alcryst to walk into this obvious trap.

Even with winter encroaching, the Duke's Grand Gardens are manicured and well-maintained. No guards greet this intruder. Instead, a trail of lanterns lead Alcryst to what must be the center of the garden. He hears people gathering, murmuring in hushed whispers. It's enough to send a chill down Alcryst's spine. Just what is he about to get into…?

The gates close behind him with a metallic clank.

"We got the killer!!"

Overhead lights shine in an instant, flooding the space with bright blinding light. A crowd jeers all around him. Alcryst holds a hand over his eyes and squints. A massive automaton, and…

"Prince Fogado!"

Fogado had been pretty confident in his ability to handle what he’d been taking on. He’d had a good lead on the mystery confounding the Alliance. His disguise had been up to par, by the high standards he held himself for such things. He was light on his feet, he tread carefully in his pursuit of the truth. He knew where to step, and where not.

And still, at some point, he’d gone from pursuer to pursued.

Something rouses him into consciousness. The first thing that hits him is probably not it: the bone-deep ache in his limbs is pretty unpleasant, but it’s a dull and everpresent throb. Through a half-opened eye, he can see he’s been bandaged, albeit haphazardly; that’s better than he last remembers. He doesn’t think any of his bones are broken, which is oddly promising—

“Prince Fogado!”

—until a familiar voice jolts him fully out of half-consciousness, he tries to move, and he realizes he can’t. He’s bound by his ankles and wrists. He looks up; he sees the friend he already knew was here by his voice; an audience that surrounds the clearing that finds both of them center stage within it; and, finally, a hulking, moving metal mass. 

And then he really gets the situation at hand.

Some people like to play with their food.

This is definitely, absolutely, clearly not his finest work. “Prince Alcryst?!” He reacts with clear surprise, for lack of any more composed reaction; because the relief of the human instinct in him is difficult to reconcile with the anxiety of the Prince of Solm that knows he's dragged someone else into his problem. At the sound of his voice, the automaton rotates at its waist, turning toward him.

Raven’s eyes flicked across the costume, silent for a moment. What he thought was that the costume was ridiculous; to be fair, he thought this of the original costume as well, and it wasn’t as relevant. He canted his head.

The flutter against his neck returned; an idle swipe of his fingers, irritated.

“I think the tackling would be better left to someone else,” he agreed. If anyone at all. Ideally, their mark would come along quietly, but… Masks did strange things to people.

“Better you in the suit than me. You, ah…look like you have the skills to keep an audience. I can…mingle in the crowd while you perform, and find whoever is disseminating the information.”

It should be that simple. Ideally.

The flutter returned, and he swiped again.

That it might be someone’s parent is something he’s considered—it’s a scenario he’s really hoping they won’t have to confront. Even in the ideal circumstances, there’s going to be very little room for error if they want this to go down quietly; if the guy they’re here for is a beloved relative, their chances of achieving that will drop pretty drastically, as he figures it.

And they can't guarantee that's not going to happen.

"If they are some poor kid's parent, and that kid is out there, they'll know pretty quickly that I'm not the real deal. I can do my best, but I'm not going to sound exactly the same, right?" Fogado explains, though he guesses Raven's already figured as much. "So we might want to be prepared for that scenario."

He's not eager to leave the conversation on the worst case scenario, though. If they both go into this expecting the worst, that'll be bad news for their ability to adapt. Better to be prepared for the worst, but hope for the best.

As if she were struck, Céline flinches slightly at his words. It had been a simple question, with a plain answer, and yet—

(She thinks of her brother. Short breaths. Clammy skin. A pallid face.)

It hits far too close to home.

"It is obvious the easier path would be the one in which you do not suffer alone." Arms still crossed, Céline tightens her grip on her cloak. "And I could never leave an ailing person to suffer in good conscience."

Her gaze lifts towards the parcel then. "But I am sure you understand this extends beyond just one person, or home? Your attempts to help are very noble, but what about the others yearning for this—"

Medicine, she thinks to say, only to realize she has no idea what it is he intends to deliver.

He'd thought about writing a note, too, to leave inside of it. In isolation, actions spoke louder than words, he wouldn't argue against that, but he was a strong proponent of the idea that words helped sell actions. The problem was that you had to know your audience, and he knew approximately no one here, Princess Céline now aside. The risk of it coming across as platitudes was too high.

So he'd nixed that idea.

"It'd be easier if I could give it to them face to face, wish them well, but that's obviously a no go." He shakes his head, resigned. "So they'll have to do without the charm. It'll just live on as a little care from who knows where."

Once they get to the supplier, she'll have to keep a little for herself. If she can pull off sneaking a bit - she could probably get away if Fogado is occupied with the purchase itself? No, she'll just wait until the fabric is handed out. There's a strong chance that whatever clothes fashioned from it won't use everything, and there's bound to be fabric scraps afterwards. She can collect the mysterious fabric then.

"...I want to see it." Hardly a skip to her beat as the two find themselves far from the monastery grounds. They've been following the major pathways, so she doubts they'll get lost as long as they stick to them. Of course, there's a part of her that wants to take the side roads just to see if she can locate anything out of the ordinary.

"If I see it, I can determine a couple of unknowns. The size of the beast, how fast it is, how likely for it to have fabric or clothing on hand, or perhaps a person." Just to name a few, of course. "We can discover the root of the issue. We can find a way for it to stop bothering the townsfolk."

Her ideas, for now, are far too open-ended for her to narrow down a plan of action. Especially with how many unknowns exist with the beast - she needs at least a couple other testimonies, which she hopes to find once they deliver the fabric.

So before that, they'll need to...

On one hand, it’s risky. He’s pretty confident in his proficiency with a bow, and she certainly doesn’t seem worried about the possibility of getting into a fight herself, but the fact that they know almost nothing about their potential foe can’t be understated. The size of the beast could be gargantuan. The speed of the beast could be faster than either of their horses. In the back of his head, he’s always running these calculations, and the odds of success aren’t nearly high enough for him to confidently say they’ve got a chance.

On the other hand, for as long as this cat continues to exist solely in unknowns, it will continue to exist in the back of people’s minds in its worst possible form. And fear was insidious. It’s the exact reason why he was never a fan of the pastime of the telling of scary stories—they wormed their way into people’s heads, eating away at their sense of safety and security.

So he can’t say he doesn’t see the appeal of dispelling the mystery.

So he always meant it... somehow.

But it's hardly enough to distract from the parcel in his hands, and to his attempt to brush off the elephant in the room, she hums. "Lost track of time... aimlessly wandering through the night, with a package the size of a small cannonball? Something, indeed."

Behind her mask, she frowns. "Whatever it is you're attempting to do, you do realize the curfew is set in place for a reason? This epidemic has been ruthless in its spread, and if you're visiting any home, you could be carrying contagions that will put the vulnerable at risk." Himself at risk.

And no matter how it may seem, he has thought about it that way. You could really only ever freely make a decision when you were well and familiar with each path available to you and where it led. He’d bet the coin in his pocket that he’d thought through every same risk that she had. 

He’d just come to a different conclusion on the back of it.

“Let me turn the question back to you:” He invites, though careful to resist the urge to move any closer to her and risk demonstrating any further lack of care for the severity of the situation than she likely already assumes he has. “Imagine you’re sick—maybe it’s just a case of the sniffles, or maybe it’s all you can do to make it through the day.”

He holds the parcel aloft.

What's the use in having teatime-level conversations at a time like this? He didn't come for small talk, not even with his best friend. And he has a reputation to uphold. All the hard questions can be asked tomorrow, when his head is aching and Fogado might not appear quite so carefree.

Until then, he will lose himself. He will show his dearest liege the best freaking time ever. And that starts with a dance.

Fortunately, he’s seen a couple people dancing this one here and there. Is he going to be able to put on an accurate rendition of how it’s supposed to be done? Yeah, definitely not. But with a partner like Pandreo, expecting that in the first place would be holding him back anyway.

There’s plenty of room in this dance hall for how they’ll do it.

Two have quit the field and now only she and Alear. The Divine One Fogado had called her? But there's no time to think about who she's fighting, if she's really some kind of god. No time either to think about how bad she feels for the other side. Who would have thought rotten tomatoes to be such an effective weapon?

"I'll do us all a favor and end this now!"

Henry had told her to use fire, but as always the blossoms have a mind of their own. They shimmer and shift through a dazzling array of colors before settling on an icy blue that frosts their petals. The magic glitters through the air before it solidifies into a spear of ice that crashes around Alear's feet, rooting her to the ground with an icy grip.

He had been looking at her bouquet, actually.

No shame in it—the different flowers they have in circulation at this party are something else. The ones she in particular totes around are unlike any others he's seen, bright red and almost creeping in shape. He'd be the last to call himself an expert on flowers, and that may be why he feels like he can safely say he hasn't seen any like them before.

And then, she offers one to him with what sounds like a warning.

Fogado blinks, before he makes sense of the situation. Or, at least, he thinks he does. "...oh! You're joking. Yeesh, you keep a good straight face. You almost had me going," he says, seeming genuinely impressed as he reaches out to take one from her. With his bare hand, mind you, because he didn't wear gloves tonight.

He looks at her again, and he realizes:

she's not joking, is she?

"...or, you're actually serious." He looks between the crimson bloom and her, chuckling half-amused and half-nervous. Silently, he resigns himself to either being done eating for the night or taking a rain check from classes tomorrow. "Yikes, are they really handing out flowers that dangerous? And expecting people to pass them around? Kind of seems like a disaster waiting to happen, and not even the fun kind of disaster."

Actually, hold that thought about himself taking a rain check from classes tomorrow.

"They're not dangerous." It is not a whole truth but a redirection. She clarifies, "At least not so dangerous that you would be beyond the help of a restore staff. Still, it is inadvisable to ingest food or touch certain orifices." And she had the decency to warn him out of the goodness in her heart, hence, mitigating the possibility of any harm to come.

Her lips twitch with a smile as flowers are shifted, the arrangement readjusted to account for having one less than before.

She has been around dark magic since birth and, in her humble opinion, turned out alright despite the dangers it posed at all times.

"Anyway, no, I'm not afraid and you shouldn't be either. My tolerance is higher than most, however that is beside the point, since the Church is good at cleaning up their messes. I saw another woman tonight with the same bouquet, so the potential disaster you speak of doesn't seem to be anyone's concern."

They wouldn’t have lasted long if they couldn’t. Generally, back at home, he did his best to preempt issues so that his mother, and someday, his sister, wouldn’t have to clean anything up. Neither of them were the sort to put the Queendom into a position that would require that anyway. But in the case that he had to?

Yeah, he might. It’d depend on the circumstances.

He slips the flower into his bouquet, putting a layer of parchment between his bare hands and the stem. Even if it’s not that dangerous, she’d had the decency to warn him about them, and he doesn’t ignore that grace. “But some would call me something of an expert on the matter of parties.” He explains, pulling an orchid from his own bouquet. “Handing out something that can make someone sick is a questionable design choice. It seems like a pretty pointless risk.”

He offers the bloom to her—this one doesn’t need a warning, it is without toxin nor thorn.

He had found them right before the lights had dimmed - fake candies that would not grant the coveted minty freshness that real ones could. He had considered them a funny enough prank for a certain few who'd find a laugh in the whole thing, but after darkness had blanketed the area, Hugh didn't have a clue whether the ones he held were the real deal or the 'fake' deal.

As he stumbles through the darkness, he accidently bumps into someone. Fortunately, the mints remain in his hands, but if he had any clue which were which? He definitely doesn't know now.

But hey, it could be fun to have an element of surprise, right?

"Whoops! Sorry about that." He offers a smile, though he's not sure whether or not the person before him can see it. "Want one? I picked up too many earlier, so I don't mind sharing."

"Hey, no worries—I know I tend to dazzle. People have been bumping into me all night," Fogado casually dismisses. It's a slight exaggeration—honestly, considering the circumstances, he's been pushed around a lot less than he would have expected.

In apology, the man offers him something from the palm of his hand. He's seen people passing these around, sometimes well-intentioned, sometimes as a thinly veiled insult—you know, as people did. And Fogado's not above a little candy from time to time; if asked, he'd even agree he liked it. Probably no one is trying to poison him here, in broad daylight public, and if they are, the church is probably prepared to deal with that.

So, after a subtle moment of thought while he unwraps it, he decides odds are good enough that he can pop this gift from a relative stranger in his mouth.

EW???

The prince visibly recoils—he's usually pretty good at neutering a reaction, but he was completely unprepared for this to taste like... well, that. He covers his mouth, coughing. Spitting it out is pretty tempting right now, but then he would be the guy who spat on the floor at a party, and that's not really the look he's looking to give off.

He's left with the distant second place option of swallowing it, which he does, with some regret.

"Alright, you got me. That'll teach me to accept candy from a stranger at a party. What am I, a baby?" Fogado wipes his mouth, as though that has any chance of getting rid of the taste. He almost wishes it had been poisoned, at least then he could probably be treated. On the contrary, he's not sure he's heard of any staves that make someone's breath stop smelling like garlic and onions. What a one of a kind taste for a candy to be.

...a one of a kind taste...

But then he thinks harder, and he remembers that there's some in his pockets, too. If he was going to prank someone, he really should have given them a label. Er, well, wait, if they did, then how would he be able to fool someone?

The one in his hand is a legit mint, though. He's sure about that.

Probably.

"Yeah, I have another." He pulls the 'mint' that's in his pocket, and hands it over to Fogado. Did he actually like the flavor, or did he have plans to bother someone else with it? "Here, have one of my flowers, too. Least I can do."

(let one never forget—Fogado is a teenage boy. if he tastes something gross, he kind of wants to see his friends' reactions to it too)

And hand now free, he pulls the promised orchid from his bouquet, slipping it into Hugh's of his own volition. "Hey, word of advice, though—and I'm not talking about me, right? Just so we're clear." He leans in to offer his thoughts. It's fortunate that he's so good at projecting that carefree vibe of his, because otherwise, in the dark like this, it could be awfully menacing. "Careful who you feed those to. Lot of people at these kinds of parties who are not as cool as I am."

And then he steps back, turning to make his departure back to where he'd originally been headed.

Firene's knighthood exam, and its focus on both domestic skills and martial prowess. Fond sentiments spoken in gifts of flowers and traditional embroidery, the never-ending tea times...

It was simply a part of her culture and education to be in tune with the preferences of others, to be able to read their emotions and moods, to take note of their cues, and to know what they liked and disliked to best satisfy their needs. It was their way of caring, of nurturing the soul, to truly foster friendship and peace with those they interacted with.

(Ulterior motives were not intended, but she would not turn her nose up at what these methods could yield. Not when it served the protection of her country.)

In a swift motion, he inserts the lily amongst the rest of his bouquet as one of the first of what will eventually be a multitudinous, colorful bunch. And after that brief moment of intersection, he steps back, reintroducing the distance to make his departure.

"I'm counting on it being the first of many."

She really has, in so many ways. It's hard to believe that she's really achieved much of anything when there are still so many little things that feel so daunting that everyone else seems to treat like it's nothing, but she thinks she's been getting better. Enough at least that she's not ready to go screaming outta the room just yet.

One of Fogado's hands is released so she can swing herself back to her spot in front of him. "I'll do my best." Though really, she doubts that she could ever forget anyone she fought alongside. "Though I'm not really planning to get too big."

Going around and performing had been fun while it lasted, but going from no freedom to too much of it hadn't felt right either. She's not as hard monitored here as she had been growing up, but the consistent and busy schedule is nice too.

And as they return to position, their little personal whirlwind passes. The music slows to come to its dramatic close. Simultaneously, it feels like minutes and hours have passed. “I get you. I go a little stir crazy if I’m stuck in one place for too long, but I’m thinking this place will make a nice little home base for a while, too.” In spite of the energy of their little performance, they’ve drawn basically no attention. That was the beauty of a bash like this one—as long as you weren’t the loudest person in the room, it wasn’t too hard to fly under the radar while others divided into their own little worlds.

“Next time I throw something, then, you’ll be the secret guest of honor. I’ll even swing by your side of campus to hand-deliver the invitation,” he says, offering a playful dramatic bow. “Maybe I’ll even stop by for a lesson sometime. Think they’ll let me do that even if you’re not one of my house’s teachers?”

(he doesn’t need an answer—it doesn’t really matter to him what they say is and isn’t allowed)

“Hope so, because if your teaching is anything like your dancing, I’ve got a lot to learn from you.”