sate my bloodlust.

Well, he’s always had an inclination towards mayhem; and knowing he’d already upset one twin, why should he not go and bother the other?

He does not announce himself—hardly utters a word—but instead, in the lull of music and dancing (beneath the cover of dim lighting and raucous noise), one of Ephraim’s tulips is taken from his bouquet. Then, with the bloom mere inches from his teeth, the Moonstone opens his mouth to say:

“ Hello there, Ephraim. Are you enjoying your night? ”

The only warning Ephraim gets is when the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He doesn't know what or who, but danger is close by, and it doesn't take him long to find it.

One of his tulips slips from his bouquet and he follows it to a most unwelcome sight: Valter. The king's eyes narrow.

"Doesn't the monastery keep their dogs on a leash?" Ephraim turns to face him but doesn't step away. Eirika had told him of their encounter and he would be lying to say he wasn't hoping to encounter the man himself.

"But I am glad to see you. There's something that I must make clear to you."

Ephraim steps closer and reaches for the tulip he'd taken. "If you harm my sister, there is no power in this world that will keep me from you." And then he crushes it in his hand, wringing the petals in his grip until they twist and break, and when he releases it the petals scatter.

The petals crumble and scatter, lost to the hall’s abyss of darkness and sound, and Valter, watching them for a moment before looking back to the boy before him, sighs and says:

“ Eirika also called me a dog when we met. ” With a grin: “ Like brother, like sister, I suppose. ”

Which is all an elaborate way to say, I am not frightened by you. Certainly, Jehanna had come up with an unfortunate ending, but that was one time—and evidently, Ephraim hadn’t succeeded at keeping him in the grave anyway. (Or putting him there? Whatever happened doesn’t really matter anymore.) Worst come to pass, Valter would simply get back up—and that was a boon the twins did not have. That familiar mania again; that violent glimmer in his eyes:

“ But I’ll keep your promise in mind, ” Moonstone continues, stepping closer, an invasive presence that never quite knew when to ebb, “ and in turn, I will make you one of my own: ”

“ You are nothing here, Ephraim. ” (Said matter-of-fact, deadpan, cold and detached.) Laughing into the second half of his phrase, “ Whatever it is you think you can do, I assure you you aren’t half the threat you think you are. ”

And then he takes a step back, draws one of his own blooms, and tucks it into the other’s collar.

The passing of partners moves one hand to the next, the orchestra timing each exchange with the punctuation of a phrase; clear, consistent, and predictable. It is with this recognition that one knows where to insert himself—and when—to find that, after two partners have been run through, the third to enter his hold is one specific: eyed from the start, seafoam in the ocean, with a hand now clung to tightly. (Perhaps that is all it takes for the other to recognize him—the subtle shift in intensity; a violence, of sorts, that was previously absent.) There is a moment before eye contact where he searches for another in the crowd; whether or not this person is found, his gaze then moves to lock with his partner’s. “ Hello there, Eirika. ” (Said with the most charitable of smiles.) [ ZOFIA ] - Modeled after an Archanean court dance, but with an energetic twist. The entire body is engaged with the dance, creating a spectacle that is enjoyable to watch.

The spinning of dresses and coattails creates a whirling pattern across the dance floor as each participant moves in time with the swell of music. Each twist tilts the dance floor around her in a kaleidoscope of color and song and each new partner brings a new friend.

Until the hand that grasps hers is tight, clawed like a wyvern and with a fanged smile to match.

It's great poise that lets Eirika keep her steps in time with his. She won't allow him the pleasure of cowing her.

"Valter." She meets his gaze as she attempts to extract her hand from his. He doesn't release her, only smiles, as if he believes she's caught in his trap. No doubt he had timed this perfectly so that they would be partners and now he's loathed to let her go so quickly. The pair twirl to the melody, round and round, and just as she is trapped with him, so he is trapped with her.

As they twirl, she lifts her foot and brings the pointed heel down forcefully on his foot. There is no kindness in her eyes when she does it.

When she flutters to escape, his jaws only tighten, and each step of dance follows the turbulent rhythm of a motion made to experience—of a show with a party wholly unwilling.

—and then she steps on his foot. (Quite pointedly, in fact.)

And Valter had known the point of a heel; he’d known the vitriol a weapon non-lethal could possess; nevertheless, the sudden sharpness is too unexpected (it really shouldn’t have been), and, paired with the timing of her attempt, he finds the princess quite deftly escapes; and even bites back.

The realization emerges in a laugh erupting and self-assured—amused by the turning of events. (He’d always known the princess of Renais was something special.) “ You never fail to disappoint me, Eirika, ” he smiles.

(Passersby might note that another’s judgement—that he truly should not be qualified as knight—may never be more apparently correct than in this very moment.) There is something sinister in his eyes—a passive threat that nevertheless mirrors Renais.

“ Is it truly so wrong to want to engage in the whirlwind of dance? It’s not as though it was intentional for the two of us to end up partners. ” (Another flash of warning in his expression then; a lie hardly concealed, to be quite frank.) “ That would hardly be practical, would it? ”

One would wonder if the Moonstone ever had anything better to do than accost those minding their own business. (Unfortunately, in present circumstances, this would appear to not be the case.)

For Valter had not explicitly sought to locate the ex-prince on the night of the ball, but there was a place in his heart reserved for all things home; and upon chancing the sight of the imperial family on the premises, how could he not choose to stalk his way over (to drift through the crowd until he’d found himself two steps from Lyon) and offer the humblest of hellos?

“ And here I’d thought you’d be too cowardly to show your face here. ” (It is his method of greeting, the remark bordering on mockery, just barely malicious—skimming the surface of vice.) “ I’m impressed, prince, ” Valter smiles. “ You’re less pathetic than anticipated. ”

For months and months, Lyon hasn't thought about Valter. He only assumed the man was still alive and stalking the hallowed halls of the monastery like a wraith.

Much like one, the general appears before the prince.

"...Valter." Raising an eyebrow, Lyon remains stony-faced and decidedly unamused by the mockery of a greeting. The older man no longer even bothers with the pretense of respect—not that Lyon takes any true offense. Back when the former general was nothing more than another piece on the chessboard called war, it didn't matter if the soldiers disrespected Lyon. Even now, it matters so little.

"Cowardice has nothing to do with my disinterest in parties." Lyon brushes off the thinly veiled insult. If it were anyone else, maybe he would have flinched or felt his fingers twitch. "While you can think of me as you will, I wonder if I am truly the pathetic one here."

The prince casts a pointed look at the man's necklace before meeting his gaze. Of course, Lyon is only assuming things here. Valter could be wearing an unrelated piece of jewelry. Even if it is the latter, the man must have paid some attention to Lyon's absence at previous balls.

That thought alone makes Lyon's skin crawl.

Truly a man who once suited his—the Demon King's—purposes.

...But it is curious, the way he forfeits the advantage of surprise -- and moreover, it tells her so much about him, how he takes the blade so perfectly in hand and points it to his own throat. For what? For either the fear on her face or the thrill of carving death from a thrashing beast. Perhaps both, though she would wager that the latter is the great prize of his game.

She paints the very picture of a quiet girl, watching everything play out as if from afar (though her resting arm keeps the hidden dagger just within reach). An animal bereft of its senses wouldn't hold itself to any agreement -- a point she turns in her mind thrice over.

But until the chaos reaches her, let him have the joy of it. The burden and the solitude. She may not have been honest in her reason for following him, but she had been honest in her curiosity, placid expression obscuring the rapt attention with which she watches. The creature is no easy prey at least, wariness swelling, bursting into an almost rabid fury. When Valter lunges, so too does the beast answer in kind, snow and ice spraying through the air. The once-pristine wintry stage vanishes in an instant, monstrous tearing jagged streaks through the landscape.

—and Valter finds it fitting: that a thing inflamed by battle would draw out the worst in a person.

Claws are ducked beneath, each motion both a measure of and a response to the creature’s power, quick and agile; mighty and sharp. At best, the knight is grazed, and when that is recognized, the beast makes to snap its maw and teeth.

Reflex, then: that a general of many years and fighter of even more would know, by naught more than sheer instinct, to twist his spear and catch it between the monster’s teeth—to let the butt of it catch on the bottom jaw and the blade to dig into the roof of its mouth—might be the only obvious outcome to some, but would Duessel still be standing here? (Would the Sunstone still be shining?) It is darkness that best reflects darkness, and when the beast struggles to come away from the metal that pierced it, Valter grabs onto its rocky carapace and climbs.

And his ripostes continue, blade finding the cracks between and digging into its flesh—it’s a hearty thing, he’s surmised, well-armored and resilient if the shining crest stone in its forehead was meant to suppose anything. (If he were a stronger magician, he might’ve tested that next, but alas; it would remain a mystery for now.) A lesser creature would’ve died by now, but this one remains standing, and it remains strong.

It shakes him off with all the ease of a dog shaking off rain, and when the Moonstone lands, he finds the suddenness puts him off-balance—for just a moment, having to catch himself with his other foot, cautious of an offense that doesn’t seem to follow.

Instead, the beast wallows in its pain, howling horrifically as the knight regains his footing, and in that moment, something deathly apparent becomes clear to him:

It was a child. (Full-grown beneath its skin, yes, but in the realm of monsters, it had only just been born, and it had risen in the wake of desperation, a despairing fervor and a terror to survive, and those base instincts seemed to remain.) Valter had been giving the thing too much respect.

He dashes forward again—this time with the advantage of impetus, blade aimed for the stone just as the monster turns to face him again. The first time around, he had simply been cautious, but here? With his knowledge—that this was a base thing, capable of simple tactics only—he finds a confidence otherwise unbased upon which to build his momentum: arrogance, almost.

It is but a child. You can best a child. (It wouldn’t be that difficult, actually.)

In the thrashing of its form, his blade marks a few inches off-target, but he shifts it into a hold that digs, pushing deeper and deeper into the skull; and his position relative is held consistent, one hand holding onto the central horn just north of the stone and boots positioned above the teeth to keep steady.

And then he tucks them away, the jars small enough to fit comfortably in each of his front pockets. He wouldn’t need to make much use of the space remaining regardless, but Valter doesn’t doubt that his visible lack of extra carry impacted the quantity with which he was provided.

For that was simply Maria’s character. Simple, polite, and considerate.

And by contrast, Valter’s was one infinitely more cunning and sharp. (Such was the dichotomy between the games they were playing—one seeking to help a friend while another sought to drive a stake into the heart of his foe.) She asks if he would like a message to be passed along to his adversary, and his grin is tempered just enough to look as though it were not malicious.

“ Yes, ” is his simple reply. “ I’m not certain when we’ll next cross paths, but I realize I never thanked her for our last chat. ” (Implied to have been before the prior month’s happenings, but actually having occurred just a few minutes earlier.) “ And I’d like for her to be reminded that her knighthood lives on in the hearts of those she’s inspired, even if the evidence of such is hard to see right in front of her. ”

Would Maria carry on his precise verbiage? (He isn’t certain, but to have it written down after having spoken it aloud feels oddly intentional—too much to go without suspicion, so this would have to do.) At the very least, Valter believes this little passerine would do her best to chirp his message along as best as she is able; and that is all that he can ask.

(A shame he wouldn’t get to see her reaction upfront, but watching from a distance would also suffice; consequences were fun enough to witness, after all.)

Well, maybe it's just that it feels like she doesn't often see him smile; perhaps she should be grateful that he is now. How happy she would be if it were freedom! How happy she would be if it was his. He has always been such an odd one to her -- tempestuous, feckless, and free, and yet there is a weight in those moments of quietude, few as she has seen.

"Mhm! You're thankful for your last chat..." One hand surfaces lazily, the thumb of the other bouncing from fingertip to fingertip as she recounts his words exactly. The words are softly murmured, not inaudible but secondary to his own. "...and you want to remind her that her knighthood lives on... in the hearts of those she's inspired. Even if the evidence -- of such -- is hard to see right in front of her...

"Got it!" The little cleric pauses on her ring finger, looking up to Valter with a determined nod. "I'll pass it on next time I see her -- I promise!"

Casting a glance over her shoulder, one of the other volunteers catches her eye and beckons for her to return to work. Offering her acknowledgment in a small wave, Maria looks back to her friend with an apologetic smile.

"I have to get back to work, though. And you're probably on your way soon, huh? Hee hee! Safe travels, Sir Valter!"

Away she goes, waving once before she turns; a second time when she looks back to him, just in case; a third time when he is gone, for all the wishes she's ever carried have always been sincere.

(And as she trots away, she suddenly wonders: had Valter ever been the type to smile for pleasantries?)

Ephraim moves past him to stand in the training yard. He draws his lance in an arc in front of him and then holds it at his side at the ready.

"Come then. Cross blades with me, Moonstone. I also wish to see how great my skill has become since the last time I sank my spear into you. And to see if death has treated you any more kindly than life did."

“ You know, Eirika said the same thing. ”—on the subject of Valter’s character and the Church, that is. “ I suppose that’s the like-mindedness of siblings, hm? ” Twirling the lance in his hands, the knight stands himself opposite the fledgling monarch, eyes crawling over his form—watching; searching; analyzing the other before electing to his move.

(And of course, he chooses to strike first—even if Ephraim had not offered; or if the once-prince had suggested a synchronized start in the name of fairness, the Moonstone would’ve sought the upper hand.)

It’s not entirely honest; it is not as though he is putting his soul into this battle—but in one instant, he is upright, ready to wield himself a weapon, and the next: he is right before the other, poised to jab the wooden blade into the other’s heart.

She didn’t even have the time to properly react that the man nimbly overleapt the hole between the wooden planks, flying over the bridge and gracefully landing not far from her (and luckily for her, she did move from the edge of the bridge, otherwise he would have landed over her for sure). Few moments passed before Minerva could actually say anything, but one word firstly came out of her mouth: “Superb”

With that demonstration, Valter has certainly raptured the attention and interest of the Macedon princess, but she wouldn’t go that far with compliments, she wasn’t the type and plus, they were in the middle of an expedition, they should concentrate on the task. After she ascertained that he was alright, she turned on the other side, just to discover something very fascinating and actually auspicious –a cave!

She remembered that the main objective of this mission was finding a cave, but it wasn’t the solely thing she found out by looking: before the cave, exactly in front of it, there was a large lake, a pond possibly, since it was largely scattered with reeds and lotus leaves. Someone would suggest to walk around it, but the cave apparently was somewhat surrounded on all sides, as if it was actually leading underneath the pond itself.

How curious… Minerva pondered to herself as she observed the body of water from afar, then shifting the  gaze over her companion, wondering if he would suggest anything useful to surpass that obstacle; she lingered her glance a little more over him, studying his figure and wondering how many more adventure he completed during his lifetime –he seemed quite the lonewolf, but perhaps he could be the perfect companion for this kind of tasks? The thought lifted off her mind soon enough and her lips departed, as she asked the question.

“Can you swim?”

…Which was to say his ego was massive, but he also felt the size was justified.

Eyes follow the Macedon’s then, drifting past their immediate circumstances and finding what was likely the aim of their travels: the cave, as well as the waters rumored to swirl around it. (If he was being honest, he’d expected something a tad more dangerous, but then again—if such a course could truly be labeled so, they might’ve been required to take with them a guide; Valter would take whatever small mercies he could find.)

Regardless: the water wraps around the cave, leaving no simply walkable pathway, and the apparent depths of the lake means that simply wading would not suffice in this instance. Had they steeds, it was entirely possible to simply fly over and land beside the entrance—or, on most earthbound mounts, to trot through the waters until they arrived—but such was not in their arsenal. (To go without assistance had been the appeal to begin after all; and here would be no exception.)

…Still, the Moonstone is loath to imagine the nuisance of actually having to swim. (There was no question of capability, but it was impractical in even half armor, and then figuring out how to bring it along undonned–)

“ Hm? ” (The question draws him from his thoughts.) “ Of course I can. ” What kind of question is that? It was seeming to be the way forward; but a nuisance it was, and there was no pretending.

—which plunges him back into his thoughts: what was the practicality of trying to bring his armor along? (It would weigh him down, and that, along with his other layers, would make traversing the distance as a swimmer nearly impossible—for anyone, including himself.) Carrying it on his back would be even more irrational; but he was not going to simply leave it behind.

His brow furrows further—now this is an issue! Illogical to bring along and impossible to go without; what, then, are the depths of the lake again? (Was it possible to wade through? What if he held his breath as he traveled?)

Then his eyes lift upwards—to the sky, which may provide an answer where the land and sea would not. (If he could makeshift a way across, then he would be able to carry all his equipment without the encumbrance of water.) The ideal circumstance, surely, if he could make to have it happen.

“ That wouldn’t settle the issue of our equipment, ” he finally says, a late addendum to his earlier statement—yes, he could swim, but that alone wasn’t enough. “ Unless you were willing to traverse the cave without some inventory—and risk having it vanish while we’re potentially underground—we’ll need to solve that issue as well. ”

It was his way of offering a say—to allow the other to weigh her judgement and posture an idea or two of her own: cooperation, however rarely the Moonstone may ask or offer it.