steadfast shadow

It can't hurt, right? They can wait if someone makes a fuss. Her strangely-posh, implacable bearing and style should hopefully prove flashy enough to let them slip under the radar in comparison.

Weight shifts onto one leg, a thoughtful tilt of the head. "Yeah. Five-day-stews are nothin' to sneeze at. Still, when you're talking about years— That's a lot more than a lot. I guess didn't expect there to be this many people."

“I shall admit, I have never had the opportunity to taste a stew that had been ruminating for even a few days, let alone such an impressively long time; it is honestly quite difficult to even comprehend. But as you say, based on how big the turnout has been, the taste shall surely be immaculate!” She goes silent for a moment, wondering if she should show her hand so soon; she figures it may entice her newfound companion to keep her further company.

Where some might worry of blasphemy, Chad's eyes only light up at the mention of spices, brighter at the sight of them; as used to sneaking glances as he is cookies in the pantry, he gives the spice packets a quick appraisal, just as quickly meeting with approval.

Their voice similarly lowered: "What matters is that we give the normal soup a fair shot, right?"

"... I just thought someone like you'd have no problem askin' around." is their response, just as honest.

Still, they're embarrassed; there's nothing to be proud of, so it's easier to look at her back than ahve her looking at theirs as they follow briskly, not to be bogged down by a few stage dressings. The people passing them are acknowledged in looks and glances rather than proper greetings, noting demeanor, tone, impressions, even if the boy can't hold onto faces well.

Then Dorothea presses, and Chad fidgets, nail scratching against the threads of the fabric in his arms, the subtle bumps in the texture.

"Murals," he replies, because grafitti implies too much, and it's not like they indulge often. "Or coal on stone. The academy offers some bigger paper formats and canvases, too, so..."

dorothea smiles to herself, attentive as ever while continuing to press ahead. mindful of her back to chad, she makes it known that she’s still listening by offering light “mhms” and subtle cants of the head. and when he finally does finish — short-lived as that explanation is — she’s happy to fill in the following silence. they’ve at least given her something to work with, for as reserved as chad is, and she appreciates the effort all the same. 

how big, exactly?

fortunate timing, then, that the makeshift stage she leads them to comes into view—a raised, wooden platform spanning somewhere around ten feet, if she had to guess. humble in every sense of the word, though expected for a last minute production without any real funding behind it. 

This. The stage comes into view, and the boy pauses at her side to take it in. One brown eye squints closed, and their head tilts to peer around their odds and ends; they probably would have crossed their arms too, if they could.

Ten feet's big for a canvas base, and small for any stage that isn't a puppet theatre or school production, but it's definitely workable. After all, they've tagged up an entire wall before, and if the materials piled in their hands are even a fourth of what's on hand, he's made do before with far less.

"Open skies are fine. This is gonna be more work, but if we can get even a few extra planks in here, a few foreground elements'd take this a long way..."

First things first, though.

Rustle, rustle. "Uh, where can I put this down?"

Keeping an ear to the rumor mill of Garreg Mach has always been rewarding. Oh, they had such stories to tell! And so often they were more than malicious gossip unworthy of the breaths it took to speak them, but rather strange, fantastical stories.

The latest sounds itself straight out of a fairytale: people turning into frogs out of nowhere? And they even say that it can only be broken with true love's-- no, True Love's First Kiss. With her chin wedged between her palms, the little princess of Macedon giggles to herself, cheeks painted a lovely pink. She has seen rather many frogs of late...

"Oh!" As if come to fulfill her whimsy, a little green frog catches her eye, its head poking out from between the blades of grass. Lowering a hand to the ground, chin touching her knees and knuckles brushing against cobblestone, Maria smiles at the little traveler. "Hee hee... Are you a fairytale frog, little froggy? You can climb on my hand, if you want! I promise you'll be safe with me."

squeak. Big pause. Another hard blink. As if suddenly terrified of the world behind it, it scrambles onto her hand and sits—very politely—on her palm, and—

Huh. Is it hanging its head?

"Up you go – can you reach?" 

That he was taking his time and ensuring that Chad had the most secure footing belied the urgency of the situation. It wasn't as though he wasn't paying attention to what was around them – far be it to the contrary, he could hear the sound of footsteps and catalogued their gait in his mind to compare with those who had been at the event and those who would have paid enough attention to catch up to them. 

But there had been a shift in the delicacy that he treated the boy, in the past few months, a strange tremulous care that he didn't have a name for anymore, but that came to him as fiercely as any other instinct. 

The basket of his hands vaulted the boy up onto the rooftops, a hand coming up to brace in case of a fall, watching those first few steps on the tiled slats in the low light before he reached his fingers up to the ledge and heaved himself up alongside, ignoring the sound of the doors opening nearby, of the footsteps coming up short to their point of egress – and, with a disdainful press of his boot, ignoring the sounds of shouting as the gutter drain broke free of the ledge and crashed to the stony street below. 

"Move it," he warned, taking those first few strides along the roof, gesturing with his hands in a shooing motion, before turning back to the scramble of bodies upward, laborious, to join them. 

"You'll be faster – just go! I'll catch up!" 

Said awareness tells them that this situation is still far from ideal.

"Yeah—" A gloved hand reaches and holds fast, ledge sturdy enough for both of them to scramble up. Where they would ordinarily bound upwards off the wall to their side to reach, their footing lands leagues more secure than anything they've ever gotten to work with in a rush; Chad is scrawny, not delicate, more volatile than they are fragile, and though they have certainly known kindness, the premonition of a battlefield or a chase is far from even the fifth place they would expect to find it.

Suffice to say that the delicacy is not lost on them; it's an efficient sort of it, the kind they don't have the heart to complain against, close enough to teamwork to be near-seamless. With a heave, they scramble up, turn to make sure Raven follows, and starts to run—

roll d6: 4! roll d8: evens! chad advances 4 spaces. no enemies in range.

—Starts, then stops, because if they're faster, how the hell's he thinking he'll catch up? Sure, it's spoken like a promise, and promises should be kept, but Chad isn't about to leave family to the hounds.

Not again. Not if they can help it.

They pry a tile off the roof below them, and send it sailing into another guard's helmet with a loud clonk. They stagger backwards into another guard, and both of them flounder, arms pinwheeling.

It feels like it's been hours. (It's been minutes.)

Already, Azama is having himself a grand old time. "If I'd wanted to experience the rapturous joy of a hedge maze again," he gripes, arms folding over his chest as he kicks a rare pebble in his otherwise carefully manicured path into the bush, "I'd have gone back to Happyland!!"

He pauses suddenly, raising a hand to scratch at scruffy chin. Head tilts in Chad's direction, questioning.

"... We've been here already, haven't we? I swear we have."

It's an odd mission they're on, isn't it? The church is clearly after something, but they won't say what, exactly. Madama Adelia Duval could possess this mysterious 'something,' but would silly mortals like Azama and Chad here even know it were their noses to get a whiff of it? Probably not!

And while the rich and noble of Pearl Shoals each have to them their own quirks, this lady here, if you asked Az, might have a few more screws loose than the rest. He'd only started working here a scant day and a half ago, and wouldn't you know it? She really seems to like him, for some godsforsaken reason. Even if she always has those mutts of hers within arm's reach where so ever she goes. . .

In the distance, there is the nearing sound of dogs barking, clearly agitated and trailing something - or someone. Maybe even two someones! He grimaces, fists clenching and unclenching in a mix of subdued anxiety and irritation. Still, despite the furrow in his brow, he beams at his companion.

"I've always been more of a cat person myself - how about you?"

Of course, even an experienced spy-slash-thief would actually need to know what the hell he's looking for. Just plopping him into a hedge maze is even less useful than letting them loose in a manor, though some segments of cobblestone paths and clearings does give them some modicum of...

Well, not hope, but it's a start.

"Happyland." They mutter under their breath; heard of the name, though it was stupid and probably not all that happy at all. A shake of the head before they push away from the tree they'd been checking for the sake of not missing anything; with this, they rally themself, just slightly.

"We're not lost," they then assert, which is definitely a comforting thing to say in this situation. "I still remember how to backtrack."

And, well, it's true on both fronts! The problem is that the nervous gaze they cast behind them half-reveals that the way they came from likely isn't going to be much of an option soon, judging by the ruckus closing in behind them.

They meet Azama's grin with a wide-eyed grimace, eyes darting. Their attempt to meet his banter is poor, at best. "Cats are way better. We should keep moving."

The barking of weird freak attack dogs also gets a little louder behind them.

Or, well, she was standing, before someone bumped into her and caused her to almost lose her balance. Not wanting to repeat any potential line related incidents, she makes sure to keep herself composed and to reserve judgement for after she faces the perpetrator.

The perpetrator in question being a teen boy who does seem fairly apologetic. And since she only gets upset with people in lines when they deserve it, she quickly speaks up to reassure the blonde. 

It can't hurt, right? They can wait if someone makes a fuss. Her strangely-posh, implacable bearing and style should hopefully prove flashy enough to let them slip under the radar in comparison.

Weight shifts onto one leg, a thoughtful tilt of the head. "Yeah. Five-day-stews are nothin' to sneeze at. Still, when you're talking about years— That's a lot more than a lot. I guess didn't expect there to be this many people."

Even if she doesn't say anything, life will continue on as it always does.

"...Why take a stem?" Sophia asks. She hadn't meant for the words to sound so accusatory, especially after Chad shrinks under her gaze like a child with their hand in the candy jar. Perhaps it would be better for her to look away, fix her gaze on a random point on the horizon. "If you want to remember it... wouldn't you usually take a leaf... or a flower...?"

A stem of all things isn't particularly memorable. If you dropped it in a pile of sticks, you probably wouldn't be able to tell which one had been the original stem you dropped. That's why most people would rather take something they could press and label.

Their lips purse. Brown eyes dart downwards, then around, before they quietly show her the cutting, still hidden from passerby in the shade of their cloak.

"I want to replant this." Chad whispers, a little secret.

"These flowers don't belong here." he adds, the obvious part they both know. "But stems like these can grow into new trees."

Fruits ask to be taken and sacrificed where they can rot and sprout, a flower asks for friends in warm hues, leaves are good eating for rabbits, for deer. Yes, a stem isn't memorable, but it's for the same reason birds are brown, fawn are speckled-white: To survive, to live, that inconspicuous promise of new life, growing where danger can't quite see it.

All a stem wants to do is grow.

So it follows that the concept of months, even years, does leave them to balk just a little. Only slightly. Barely at all, really. After all, it would be reasonable that anything that's been in there for long enough would have totally dissolved by now, and...

Well, damn it, they're curious. There's even enough townsfolk crowding around that it's actually kind of hard to get in line, and despite their relative expertise in navigating crowds, they do end up bumping into an orange-haired girl, also probably waiting for a helping of this perpetual stew.

"Ugh— Sorry," he backpedals two steps, holds up his hands, grimacing slightly. "Popular place."

Whatever the answer, they tolerate it, at best. Step up when noone else wants to. Someone's gotta.

But at a beach, of all places?! Bucketloads of sand ready to crawl into their shoes, tide threatening their ankles... A plethora of various objects strewn wildly across the shores, some of which they need to pluck from the grasp of the waves before it's either washed away or worse, requires wading to get to——

In short, this is going to fucking suck.

In fact, it already does! As of right this moment, Chad is running—barefoot—to snatch a(n expensive-looking) tablecloth that the ocean is threatening to yoink into its depths. They're less careful during their mad dash than they ought to be, and their foot lands directly on the end of a collapsed-and-folded umbrella, which proceeds to shoot directly up and hit another member of the cleanup crew in th—

Oh.

Ohhhhhh that's going to hurt.

a glance over her shoulder proves that chad's settled into some semblance of ease with her. it serves as enough reassurance for dorothea to continue leading the march forward with an easy gait, though still mindful not to rush ahead.  they were the ones carrying the surplus of weight, and for all their aid, it would not do to rush her friend.  

“there's a lot you can learn about someone just by watching them,” she continues. “you're usually darting around like you know every nook and cranny, and you seem to know how to take in your surroundings. that tells me you’ve got an eye for detail and the dexterity to back it up.”  

the songstress shifts the rolls of fabric in her arms as they walk, careful to ensure they don’t drag on the ground. every so often, her chin dips in greeting as a passerby sidesteps them both, though her attention largely remains fixed ahead, as if to ensure there are no bumps in the road that might trip either of them and send their supplies flying.  

"... I just thought someone like you'd have no problem askin' around." is their response, just as honest.

Still, they're embarrassed; there's nothing to be proud of, so it's easier to look at her back than ahve her looking at theirs as they follow briskly, not to be bogged down by a few stage dressings. The people passing them are acknowledged in looks and glances rather than proper greetings, noting demeanor, tone, impressions, even if the boy can't hold onto faces well.

Then Dorothea presses, and Chad fidgets, nail scratching against the threads of the fabric in his arms, the subtle bumps in the texture.

"Murals," he replies, because grafitti implies too much, and it's not like they indulge often. "Or coal on stone. The academy offers some bigger paper formats and canvases, too, so..."

"Carmine?" Maria's eyes soften and, caught in gentle thoughts, her laughter lilts as well. The bright, bubbling sound catches on her half-formed grin, rushing beneath her teeth in a breathless little giggle; in their wake, a warm sort of sediment settles on her cheeks, shining when it catches the light. And the light is such a pretty color -- like if a sunbeam could melt sugar.

"...hee hee!" Both of her hands dart to her mouth and hide the smile blooming there. Her round little friend beeps in confusion, twisting slightly only to settle when she returns one of her arms to its rightful place; the other retreats only slightly, only enough to reveal a fragment of the mischief glinting happily in her eyes. "I guess it is a dessert, huh?" Wriggling a bit, she lightly pokes his leg with the toe of her boot, giggles quietly, and continues. "But I like Carmine, too."

Lashes flutter halfway shut, fallen to contemplation. Carmine, carmine... she pays more attention to pencils and colors nowadays; it takes but a moment to summon just the right shade to the forefront of her mind. "It's a pretty, vibrant color, right? Hee hee... then I hope it suits them perfectly!" With the pad of her finger, the little cleric draws a line from its round little nose all the way down its back. Her wrist turns at the end, pointing at the opposite pair. "What about them?"

Courage, courage. Is that so selfish if it's going into being gentle, being kind? Chad huffs a real laugh this time, shifts a little with the poke, humor in mirror sparkling back. Florid scales likewise glisten in the day, young and unblemished still, even in its ruddiness— Hue still same as roses, same as ripened fruit. Brown eyes watch the finger trace a line of action, a winding, curling little thing, a single stroke.

"Yeah," they murmur in response, interjected quietly before the next prompting. In it's a little bit of a wish, maybe, that that color will grow brighter instead of fading away...

... Can they wish that? Their patting pauses, brow furrows slightly even before she asks; uncertainty again, cushioned once more by gentle caution. Quickly sidestepping into thought again, their eyes flick from youngling to youngling, then to Maria, then somewhere beyond the stable doors— Before coming back to the pair of wyverns as Chad listens to her.

"Special eyes?" They snort, but they do look at the eyes in question, look at slit pupils dilated in wonder— Round and red beeps, tilts its head just like Maria, while small and green cranes its neck for attention, beep-beep-beep. "...Heh. Special eyes for special guys..."

... That was lame. Oh God, that was lame. They duck their head again, lower this time, reangle their arm, half lowering the baby wyvern into their lap to make room for another.

That’s what the rational part of his mind thinks.

But Yarne isn’t a rational person. Not fully.

“HA!”

Beaststone presses against his palm in less than an instant, and the patter of feet becomes the patter of paws, barreling down the pathway, down, down, down.

Stairs fall away beneath his paws as he reaches the ground, red eyes glaring as he looks from manspawn to manspawn, face to face.

One carries a shattered bottle - could prove a deadly risk, needs to go down fast.

Others with brass knuckles - those would bruise, but unless he takes it hard, those won’t do much.

Go for the primary threat, taguel. Your species depends on it.

“You never should’ve come here!”

A transformed kick, and the bottle-wielding danger crashes into the wine rack - and the sound of the other bottles tells Yarne he’ll be taking a while to get up again.

“Everyone - get out safely!”

Of course, the warbled voice carries across, and those few left not in combat begin to flee.

Apparently, though, the remaining two thugs are more violence than sense. The loud one shouts, unintelligible in rage, before vaulting the table and charging their long-eared inteloper with knuckles a-flashing. The quiet one staggers from the impact, before swiping her mace from the ground and rounding on Chad.

Evacuation— Right. Everyone's already moving, goaded on by taht warbled voice, and the sound of it isn't too unlike listening to Fae, isn't it?

So alarm is summarily shoved away for later as they dance out of the way of the mace as it drags along the floor, leaving grooves in the wood. Yes, they have several knives concealed on their person, no, they're not in the mood to start pulling them, but it's starting to look a bit inevitable with a mace in the picture...

He does not doubt that the knights would use as many tricks as they could to prevent any sharing of the supplies by legitimate means- Elffin knew these tricks himself, even if he tells himself he would never use them, for he would never know for certain.

Therein lies a reason why he had sought out Chad, out of those he knows. Certainly, with a little bit of work, some sort of plan at taking simply the extras, that which won’t be missed, could be made. Elffin simply hopes to find a way to prevent the younger student from getting into any trouble should it be found out.

Even with that in mind, this would be faster.

Quietly, as he hands over the chopped carrots, he says somewhat nonchalantly- tone level, hiding under the chatter of those waiting for the stew to be finished, “I was thinking of asking the knights to donate some of our extra supplies for the people here. What would they need most?”

Just loud enough to be conversational, just quiet enough to blend into the din: "No way they'd agree to that."

Chad's opinion, stated plain, like any old gossip about pretty much anything else; in it, intent and foundation. They pass along another batch of carrots, before returning to their quickly-dwindling supply of bell peppers.

"Little of everything, really." They then sigh. Thwock-thwock-thwock.

"Tomatoes don't keep long enough so we only have a few to spare, so we're mostly workin' off some mix of beets and carrots and potatoes. We need more fresh vegetables— Even the bell peppers were a gift from someone nice passin' through. Greens aside, even some extra bones to boil would go a long way, anything to thicken the whole thing up..."

( was it something she said? maybe she interrupted their plans for the day, and they were just too nice to say no? it couldn't be the nickname...right? none had ever recoiled at any of hers before. they'd tell her if they didn't like them. edie, hubie, ferdie, bern, lin, caspykins, yurikins, hildy... someone would've said something. )

either way, it's kind of chad to help out so willingly. dorothea rewards them with a beam when those deft hands reach out to free her of half the supplies she carries.

"i promise it won't be a heavy lift," she says, willing her voice into one that rings of reassurance. "you know that director, d'silva? he's been going around recruiting students for a new show he's got planned. he says 'the unexperienced bring about new frontiers.' i'm not sure i agree entirely, but either way, i thought i'd step in and help out since i'm a former diva. if anyone knows anything about putting on a production, it's me."

The important part is still that they help her willingly, like second nature. A smile is returned with a look of their own, the usual pinch of their brow eased with the reassurance— Not the one in the workload department, but the confirmation that this is just decoration work. Rapid stages of grief left behind, they fall into step just a margin behind her, following her lead, toting their share of the materials deftly.

"Yeah, pretty much. Who told you?" As they know she was an actress, their own less obvious pursuits seem to have made the rounds— A bit to their chagrin, but what can you do. Being on the decoration committee for the Ethereal Ball isn't the hardest reputation to dodge, but it isn't easy, either.

...it's cold. The frost nips at his throat as he inhales.

"...our inventory." Hugh eventually decides. "I've got some rations, a blanket, a bundle of herbs, one or two uses left in the spellbook..." Eyes wander back to the empty chimney. If they could find something flammable, something that could actually keep the fire going...

But he already knows that nothing in here's worth the trouble. It's either what's keeping the bulk of the draft out, or in the frigid outdoors. He's not even sure the wood they'd find out there would be capable of burning - nor worth the chilly trudge just to find any that didn't require a swift axe to chop down.

"Please...tell me what you have." He requests. "I want to...we should figure out what we can do."

What can be done.

The wind howls outside. There's no sign of that storm letting up anytime soon. They'll likely have to stay at least the night. Even if Hugh's the only one with food - unlikely, but still - he's sure that they'll manage.

"Knife." he doesn't mention the exact number, but it's at least five. "Rations— Dried fruit, grain bars, waterskin. Lockpicks. Small notepad. Stick of drawing coal..."

Their hand pauses over one, unlatches it, pulls out some gauze, struggles to rip it with shaky hands— Stuff it into the crack unceremoniously when they manage, pulling a blunter knife to jam it in securely. Shuddering, gritting their teeth so they don't chatter.

"Some gauze. Two handkerchiefs. Herbs..."

A pause. "Flint." Useless without wood to keep the fire going. As overprepared as they tend to be, a lack of firewood isn't something within their ability to produce on the fly. The cabin, too, is hilariously barren, like some sort of cosmic fucking joke; maybe someone else had already set fire to all the furniture here before them?

Chad gnaws at their lip, dried out and chapped. Assuming they survive—they have to—maybe they should replenish the firewood here before they leave.