NOMAD

It was the abundance of caution and awareness that put them apart from all those in the army led by that trio of Lycian lordlings, in the literal sense as much as the metaphorical one, although at the end of the day even Raven had to acknowledge that Rath had him beat when it came to the ability to tread the earth without leaving a trace. He knew, of course, how to make his footsteps indiscernible by the average ear, but his prey had always been the lumbering sort, not so easily spooked and in that equally ignorant of the crack of a branch underfoot. 

Still, when he approached, he too made no effort to mask it – saw no point. It was as much a sign of respect as it was a declaration of peaceful intent. He could count on one hand the amount of people that would have spotted him coming a mile away. 

He was almost unassuming like this – standing, no less proud without a horse beneath him or bow in hand, but able to more easily slip into those places that others wouldn't think to look. Raven's eyes narrowed fractionally at the thought, wondered faintly if it hurt, being so stripped of the things that made him himself. 

Glancing over his shoulder, he replied, faintly amused, "Ah? So it is. No less boisterous than when I left it." 

The sound of laughter rippled in the air like strung lights, and his gaze flicked back to the Sacaean, not retreating under scrutiny. After a beat, a step forward, and he lifted a hand; a tankard of water proffered. 

"I have no intention of sneaking past you – there's nothing in that Tower that Fodlan's Goddess could offer me, barring a moment of silence." She was good at that, he did not note aloud, known for it amongst even her most faithful. 

rath accepts the answer he's given with a grunt. those who are not sacaen are not sworn to hold themselves to the same rigid code of honor to tell no lies, the same code that even thieves and mercenaries and assassins may view as cardinal among themselves, all from rath of the kutolah to uhai of the black fang. nevertheless, this fact ushers in no need for doubt. raven's eyes are untainted, as is the nomad's remembrance of his former ally; a talented sellsword, a mysterious and little known individual beyond a select few, a stormy face, but never by any indication a liar.

"there is no need to confirm," rath gives, a looseness to his stance - the slightest drop of shoulders which unversed eyes could not hope to see. with an enemy, this might be the moment he slackened his grip on his string. "as you can see...i am here."

here. the nomad closes their gap. a step forward and gloved fingers take hold of the tankard, brushing up against raven's in the process. an acceptance of the other that extended not merely to his answer but to his good will - to his very presence. rath raises it to his lips and sips briefly, symbolically. trusting in another's drink. trusting that he will not find his belly sloshing with poison instead. trusting. the loudest of meanings to accompany the smallest of movements.

"...i have reasons," he continues after wiping his mouth, because in sacae is a belief or two or several of equivalence. what one is gifted, one must toil to repay, be that payment an answer, a kindness, or a gift.

a nomad of sacae was born to wander; to take his horse and pack from place to place, to move his feet in no direction, to heed only the wind which guides his tribe and the sun which warms them. and even here there is wandering, across such halls lacking wind and sun, horse and pack.

alone and on foot, the quiet steps of rath are muffled further by the distant din of dance and song. beyond the excitement of the ethereal ball, he seeks for quiet - a moment he might call his own. amidst his duty as a guard, there is no rarer resource to be had. he drifts through the alleys of the ballroom, enclosed by four walls of civilization, directionless and not merely for a lack of knowledge toward his premises. what comfort can be attained without open view of the sky? what stability without the solidity of earth beneath him? it is these he seeks for as a needle pointing north; these he yearns to grasp as a man dreaming of home.

so he wanders - wanders - wanders - and, then,

—stops.

another stands ahead; stolid, pink, draped over one half of his face by his own hair. by now he can be recognized at a glance, and at his behest is change. rath who has wandered, now he roots, stepping into companionable place beside his fellow guard as if this has always been his stop. "...wolf," he announces himself, for something that might have been courtesy. an idea that lingers in the curt bob of his head.

perhaps it is for strangeness that rath wastes no time in speaking, the once more fateful coincidence of their now three-time crossing; or, perhaps it is for the distant look in wolf's single eye.

"what are you thinking about?"

amidst the beginning stages of the ball, some took to the center in their pursuit of excitement while others gravitated to edges in their avoidance. no matter what, the packed confines of the venue assured that these people existed in pairs or groups and that no-one—not even a solitary nomad—was truly alone. "... ... ..." eyes forward, shoulders square. lips unmoving. how long had rath and mark been standing side-by-side in silence? minutes? hours? for most, it would be easy to say. for rath, he failed to note that amount at all. words were burdensome; and, more than burdensome, unneeded. the one known as rath did not speak - not much, and not to anyone. often he was questioned for this absence of quality and his lack of instinct, thought strange or angry. rare were the people who understood the need for a man who suffered in silence to perpetuate it, even rarer were those who simply let be. however, mark was one of those rare ones; someone who shared the need to shirk limelight, and even if he did not understand rath's silence, respected it. perhaps it's why, even if only ever so slightly, he cants his head at the tactician's vulnerable admission. an acknowledgement. an effort: "...i see. it is familiar to me, being alone. if i did not know anyone, and if i did, it would...make no difference." it's the most he's spoken to mark so far. as if equalized by a great law of the universe, the same words are followed by an ungainly pause; too long to be natural and shrug off as a mistake. not that rath—who has no sensation for embarrassment—does. instead he blinks, slow and gauging, at the appearance of the lilies. "...i have no interest in dying flowers. we of sacae discourage such senseless plucking." this might have sounded like a chastisement if it weren't for rath's matter-of-fact tone. if it weren't for the roses he held out next. "but, i will...give you these."

Mark couldn't say he had expected much else in terms of a response. As much as an introvert as he himself could be, Rath certainly seemed to be even more of one. Mark, as much as he needed his time alone, found comfort in the presence of those close to him. Without proper balance between the two, he would end up spending too much of his time ruminating on his thoughts, letting his emotions overwhelm them until eventually something gave way. That was, ultimately, how he had ended up meeting Lyn to begin with, the exact mechanism that had led him to flee from his home in Bern.

Still, Mark wasn't certain Rath's statement was entirely true. There was some significant difference: respect for Rath's culture. There were a good many situations where not knowing anyone might actually be the better option for him. If people were unfamiliar with Sacae, then they would have no existing bias against her people. As much as Mark liked to believe he was above such a thing, he had been a part of the system that perpetuated it. He was at fault in some way, even if the two of them might never acknowledge it aloud.

Ah, but Rath had given Mark a convenient excuse not to think about that. His words had addressed a topic Mark was familiar with. Before he had gotten into tactics, his previous preoccupation had been with nature. Mark, as a sickly shut-in child, had always adored reading everything he could about the natural world. Perhaps it had been a symptom of being unable to explore it.

"Oh, no, they're not dying," Mark explained with a small laugh, his smile coming more freely now than it had at any point prior so far that night. "Not necessarily, at least. Lily cuttings aren't too hard to cultivate. I mean, they're water plants already, so putting it in a vase is actually an easy way to get it to start growing new roots so you can properly plant it."

Such a thing was hardly the intent with the bouquets, but Mark still fully intended to try and cultivate all of the flowers he collected tonight. The rose from Rath was graciously accepted and tucked into Mark's bouquet for safe keeping.

with a single, steady blink: "...you are well-versed in flowers."

an observation, a compliment, a point of surprise, his admission is all these and more. rath tilts his head and looks at the lilies that have developed into their topic of discussion as if intrigued and surveying them under a new light. after a moment, the same narrow chartreuse irises drift back up to the tactician.

curious.

"you are a tactician, yet you know of lilies enough to differentiate the poisonous ones. to know what is edible, and what is not." the strangeness attached to such a discovery is not lost on him. as little as others had known of the close-lipped rath, they had known of mark himself. in a way, they are kindred sources of mystery within the army - and equally to each other.

”I do appreciate your interest but I’m afraid I would be poorly suited to the task. I also have obligations elsewhere.”

Yet no matter how patiently he explains it, no amount of explanation has reached her ears. She is quite persistent in her approach and the more she is, the more Eliwood becomes certain that this is no more than a scam of some sort. It’s a tactic employed by even nobles, cloying compliments meant to distract from their ulterior motives. Among the nobility, calling them out openly can be just as dangerous, but this woman poses little threat.

Still, that does not mean he wishes to be rude. Before he can decide on the best method to extract himself and prevent her from harassing anyone else, the perfect solution presents itself in the most unexpected manner.

“Rath.” Eliwood’s posture instantly relaxes. He has always admired the people of Sacae, even counted one among his closest friends. This man in particular he knows to be of strong character. “That would be for the best. I fear that she will cause a disturbance for others.”

Perhaps sensing that they mean to escort her out, she attempts to slip back into the crowd, but Eliwood reaches to grab her arm just before she can disappear.

“It’s quite rude to leave in the middle of our conversation.” He pulls her closer, firm but gentle.

“I ain’t harming no one! I get it, you don’t want to join, I won’t ask anymore.”

Eliwood shakes his head. She’s so young, likely pulled in by the same scheme herself, and so he finds it hard to feel any contempt for her. “Begging in such a manner is unbefitting of anyone, least of all in an attempt at a poorly concealed ruse. If ever you wish for a more fulfilling line of employment, come find me.”

Even as she stares slack jawed at him, Eliwood turns to Rath. “May I leave her in your care then, my friend?”

"....."

there are few like eliwood of pherae in sacae, but perhaps also across the whole of elibe. he uses force but that force skirts threat and hatred. his gaze is guileless, his intentions honest, and he exercises a rare willing to trust and even hire those on the same day he has met them. he, like lyn, is like none of the nobles that rath knows with lycian blood coursing through their veins. fascinated, he observes the interaction between the marquess and the woman, content to remain as quiet as he is until he is addressed. only then does the nomad step forward with a straightening of shoulders.

"understood." a reach for the woman—

"h-hey, get your hands off me!"

she screeches and tucks herself behind eliwood, all too eager to forget the attempt to escape his presence only moments prior.

"...I will not touch you, if that is what you want."

"y-you better not! your face is scary. i don't like the way you glare daggers at me. i won't go anywhere alone with you. i-i'm going to stay where other people are!"

he looks to eliwood. if one strains to imagine it, that same look may have been characterized by a helpless air of confusion. what is one to do about an aspect of themselves they cannot control? or, in rath's case: fails to comprehend.

He's almost relieved when the man finally speaks. He did not want this affair to become unnecessarily confrontational.

"They were brought to my room." Finn's eyes trail his own form in turn at this man's clothes improperly worn before giving his own much the same inspection. This stranger had even deigned to wear his gloves…Finn's lips briefly press together in a frown before he continues. "It seems as though someone had make a mistake with the laundry."

Look at how he's pushed up the sleeves and twisted the fabric…it's going to wrinkle terribly. Finn is not a vain man, but he is nothing less than a representation of his house. If anyone were to see his clothes in such a state, with or without Finn in them, it would no doubt reflect poorly on the generosity and upbringing that House Leonster had to offer for its squires.

"Those clothes are indeed mine." Even in this stranger's best efforts to twist them into something unrecognizable, they are still his. Now…what to do about this conundrum? Finn steps forwards, unfamiliar footfalls bringing him closer as he considers their circumstances. They are far from any privacy shelter may offer in this moment…And no doubt, it would be easier to collect the rest of their laundry before making an exchange…

i see. proof of acceptance, an air of calm resignation, and a dereliction of further questioning all in one; his is the mentality that what has happened, one cannot change. all things, and all mistakes, are as higher powers will it. no unfortunate outcome will abate no matter how someone tries, so rath will provision no further desire to understand more, to seek more than the exact knowledge being offered. their trials are a mundane matter of mistaken laundry; that's that.

he does, however, take his questions elsewhere: "are you sure?" a surprised perk of both olive brows speaks volumes - speaks louder than rath is wont to.

are all people from this land so quick to trust? he knows a handful of the same guileless sort; their kind is nothing new. but, it's the first time he's ever been asked to show a stranger his home. ever taken anyone 'home', be they man or woman, friend or foe. the thought passes his surveying look over the other proper. straight backed with well-bred mannerisms and imperative of tone. however unnamed, this is a mold he's seen and served. rath knows to take orders from this breed of man.

he doesn't anymore.

There are obvious confirmations to this. The colours are all wrong. His gloves are missing. He has no actual idea how to put this on and have it stay on. None of his fellow knights recognize the clothes when he shows them to them either, which leads Finn to an unfortunate conclusion. Someone has stolen his clothes.

This presents the next problem; how does he go about reclaiming his clothes? The idea of walking around all day with armor digging into his bare skin is unpleasant, even for him. So, with great reluctance and a greater sigh, Finn turns to what little he has. The pants are pants, at least, that part is difficult to mismanage, but he's not certain that the top part that he wears is intended to be so…loose.The headband and accessories are forsake, shoved into pockets as he marches out to find his missing belongs.

At first, he just silently patrols the grounds. Surely, if the person was in the same situation as him, then they would be wearing his clothes as well and it would just be a matter of finding them. He starts hopeful at least. But hour after hour passes and he finds no one wearing his clothes. Even when he dares to ask someone in passing, nobody seems to have any idea what it is he is referring to.

Thus comes his second horrifying conclusion of the day; it might not necessarily be someone on the monastery grounds who has his clothes. The idea that the laundry staff could have erred this severely is ridiculous. Still, Finn seems no other options before him. He will just dip into town and see, he convinces himself. He will likely see nothing there too, and this endeavor will become a mystery to take up with the laundry task directly. That is the normal, logical, expected way for this situation to go.

Imagine his surprise then as he walks out of the monastery and down the path towards the town, and does not even cross into the town proper before he is stopped, having come face to face with an individual he does not know except for the clothes that he wears.

"...."

He has found what—or rather who—he is looking for. Settling into his discovery, Rath stares at the stranger for a short eternity, as if he might make heads and tails of the matter all on his own. Or, as if he is simply waffling on what to say, and how to say it.

"...Where did you come across those clothes?" Stepped into his shoes, one man may wield anger, another may just as well point fingers, leap to the worst of conclusions. Rath does not accuse, he does not fume or roil or panic as more expressive individuals do, and the only symptom of his distress is a firm press of his lips together, a travel of narrow eyes from head to toe - a lingering on the loosely worn top.

Something flashes across his impassive gaze akin to disapproval. For what, exactly? A mystery, as he speaks again before there can be answer, "If you have what is mine, then I can only assume that this—these clothes—are yours."

Rath is a proud son of the plains, of hinterland and ger and earthen colors, yet he is dressed like a too-bright peacock whose home is found among castle and brick. Swept from golden prairie in an instance, robbed of all claim, gone are his rightful Sacaen threads: the weathered bandana, the windswept brown clothes, and the soft shoes laden inside with animal furs meant to cushion one's step. Instead, there is crisp and eye-scorching blue cotton, a starchy collar that might reach Father Sky were it sewn any higher, and hard boots. Thick white gloves no archer ought wear.

Instead, there is a sense of...wrongness. Wrong every which way. So wrong that not even the wind can comfort him, much less reach him through these stifling layers of another man's clothes. There is no question Rath is as stiff as he looks and sounds.

"...Have you seen someone wearing a bandana? Brown clothes?"

"I might have. I might have not. That's not much of a description to go off, is it?"

"...I am looking for a man. Or a woman. They should be aiming to return something, and to receive something in turn."

"I don't know anything about that. Sorry."

"....... ......."

On the umpteenth round of questioning, he holds his tongue, saying nothing, and in that says much. Displeasure can ring no louder than in the depth of his silence. How had it come to this? That is a question weak men would linger on, lament until time itself cried for its waste. The nomad does not dally. He dons his current ensemble as mere replacement; his own clothes have been stolen, or misplaced, or worse; now, they must be found. And on his own devices.

At the side of the road, Rath, son of Dayan, touches his fingers to the dirt. He has tracked beasts, chased harts to the ends of known forests. He has led companies through thickest woodland, shaken off pursuers. But, how can he track himself? A stranger wearing his shoes - if they were even wearing them at all? All around, villagers gawk at him curiously. How unorthodox the kneeling Rath must appear, exactly as a forest wolf stranded in the heart of a city, his appearance strange, his actions stranger.

To their judgment he says nothing. Ungloved of one hand, he rubs the dirtied fingers together, and rises, then—moves quietly—wordlessly—east.