melus mage dragon

Then again…he has never been one to show this kind of grace.

Mistakes are made, acknowledged and put under light for scrutiny. To forgive is to forget, and the dancer has clear-cut rules against such things. Complacency is for those without aspiration and though it cannot be said for most people in his consistent company…could he not act as a shield for his more soft-hearted companions?

“It doesn’t,” He replies after a while, solidifying the words with a shake of his head. “And I have not once been subtle. Your presence here is unsettling. Whatever you’ve said to convince others to forgive and forget…”

Did he not trust their judgement? Seadall’s sigh is full-bodied. The kind of tension that rattles through every limb before he can move again. Zephia - no matter what her angle – has done nothing to earn his disrespect at Garreg Mach. If anything, her restraint may be part of her long-lived wisdom, where others would have confronted him with fists or fury long before now. The passiveness of her stature needles as much as it chills the well of anger ever present.

“I simply wish not to be caught off guard.” He sits at her side, one leg pulled to his chest, the other on the floor as he presses his chin against his knee. “One person’s good fortune often comes at the expense of someone else. Winning a gamble always means there is a loser on the other side. Wars can only have one victor. How are we to know that the path we walk will not see us on these opposite sides?” A rueful smile tips his expression. He had promised that he wasn’t speaking in riddles, hadn't he?

But no - ignore that for now. On second thought, the slight surprise must come from his action to sit down in spite of his disapproving words. He remains unconvinced of her "neutrality," which matters little to her anyhow. Yet he seems not to mind remaining so close to one he mistrusts, regardless of assignment from their employers.

Perhaps it is merely an instance of keeping his guard up, just as he mentions while performing the act. Still, that more relaxed(?) position he takes barely looks like any guard she’s seen.

Honest or no, Zephia addresses his reprisal question with a visible frown. “If you are speaking of war to rile me up, then I hate to be the one to disappoint you. I bear no will to start fires in foreign lands. At least not without any worthwhile motivator to do so. The veil of knighthood that everyone appears to cling onto will have to do for now.”

An extensive response, one that perhaps leans too hard into attempting to sound reassuring. Nor does it speak much toward the specifics of Seadall’s inquiry beyond debunking his own metaphors. The Mage Dragon straights her back and follows herself up.

Pearl Shoals was on a whole other level, and the only thing that had kept Griss from being thrown out at the gate was some story about employment, and the closed community’s tendency to house some odd ducks. He’d found employment rather quickly, all things considered, and getting in good with the widowed noblewoman who’d taken him in to tend to her garden had earned him a pass to the gala as well.

With one condition, of course, and that was that he had to dress the part.

So when Zephia opens the door to return to the party she’d nearly been removed from, it is indeed a familiar face that meets her, but that’s the only part of him that she’d recognize now. He slouches in the doorway, ignoring the wrinkles it puts in his suit’s coat or the way the tie roped around his neck juts out over where the lapels meet, one hand thrust into baggy slacks, the other running fingers idly through his slicked back hair. It’s almost impressive how nearly put together he looks even despite the jagged crimson stain across his eye or his ears and face both still full of metal. Anyone passing by this empty corridor might even assume at a glance that he’d soon extend his elbow for the elegant woman in the horned headdress to take, when in fact that gesture has hardly even crossed Griss’ mind, his wide eyes fixated on the bodies of the guards lying nearby.

”Couldn’t save the fun for me,” he covets, and from him, it’s unclear whether he means beating up the guards or being in the guards’ place. His gaze rises to Zephia’s face and the excitement cools as it does.

When she finally responds, the smile that grows on Zephia’s face may appear potentially wider than Griss is used to. Though not exactly brighter.

“One of them wanted to question me about a wedding. Just an occasion I chose to attend out of pure curiosity,” she summarizes in nothing worse than a white lie. “That was enough for me to tell they weren’t here for a friendly chat. So I let them lie down for a while.”

To serve as a pause in her speech, Zephia backs from the doorway and rummages through the suit of the first man she knocked out cold. Not only confirming that he would thankfully be out of commission for a while longer, but proving her reasoning for being apprehensive. She pulls out not one, but two short swords from the first two pockets alone. No need to check the rest, let alone the second of the pair.

“If they believe they need two overly-armed men to take me out, then who knows what they’ll resort to when that fails,” the dragon sulks, standing back up and tossing the blades aside. “But that’s alright. I was growing tired of their sorry excuse of a festive drink anyhow.”

She turns back toward Griss and lightly tilts her head leftwards, positioning her larger horn as if to beckon the man forward and out of the doorway.

Though at first, Nel leaves little room for anticipation. But there is nothing inherently wrong with that. She appears to speak truthfully, at least from how Zephia can gauge that stern tone of hers at this rate. Nel also speaks as expected, in reference to wanting nothing to do with her apparent father.

It’s expected because it is disappointing. But disappointment is something one gets accustomed to after living for multiple millenia. So Zephia merely keeps her frown reserved to the bottom of her throat while openly smiling on.

Although to clarify - she is not disappointed at the notion of not continuing Sombron’s reign. The Mage Dragon has already been over this. Her primary concern has never been to upkeep her lost lord’s iron grip on this world, or any others. In fact, global conquest sounds rather boring the way that Nel puts it. But the raven-haired woman doesn’t need to know how she feels regarding this.

What Zephia will allow Nel to openly see is the lowly dragon’s content of what was not a “yes” nor “no” toward her initial question. Though she will also reveal some agreement regarding their current…circumstances. “I thought that dress fit you horribly from the start. Oh, assuming you wanted my input on the matter.”

Her smile slightly shrinks, but does not escape its mischievous intent. “For your information, I only intended to take a brief retreat from the stables in search of more foodstock for the mounts. But now I fear the directions toward their storage are escaping me… Oh!”

Zephia’s eyes light up, hands nearly clapping together as well. “If you’re playing the role of maid, surely you’d know where to go, yes? Why not make the job easier for both of us, and I can follow you there?”

In their brief acquaintance, she has been…confusing. As if a card that refuses to play by the expectations of the role she occupies. It’s petty, he can acknowledge it for what it is, but he loathes it. The uncertainty. The farce of it all. At the very least, she plays her part well, sitting like royalty even against the worn stone walls and the gloom pulling in from the windows.

Maybe, he despises that too, the effortless beauty she wields – a glamorous mask concealing ugly capabilities that he knows ( hopes ? ) lives underneath.

Fortunately, when push comes to shove, Seadall has performed for worse crowds. The worst memories seem to shine the brightest, things so vivid that the lesson learned is a near visible scar. Remember this feeling and fight against it, his master once said, on the heels of what would be one of his worst performances. The ridicule had been unbearable, so much so that he shed tears over it, fleeing from the crowd and all else for weeks after.

Thick skin. A performer must have it, to weather anything from rotten fruit during an ill-received showcase or expectant commands from imperious dragons. It’s all practice anyway, and he’d rather be dead that skip it, even for a day. So, he ignores her, weaving step after step to the slow drum of rain on the rafters overhead. He fights this way as well, relying on the stability and control that strengthens his punches, allows him to throw large enemies over his shoulder. Now at Garreg Mach…he can’t help but wonder whether these necessities will soon take the spotlight from true performance.

Something to think about, later, noting the floor that’s become wet under his feet as his hair whips water at every turn. It’s cathartic in and of itself, but more-so with an audience. He’s always performed better with eyes on him…a blessing and a curse, but he’s found ways to motivate himself regardless.

It softens him, breath slow and timed even when his heartrate surges with exertion. “It seems your counseling hours are lacking in attendance,” Ah, his pitch has dropped for strain, winding through a quick step of five paces before arching into a twist. It makes the words more biting, somehow. “So, perhaps you can clear something for me. The spirits are being frustratingly obscure about the situation I find myself in.” Divining the future was always awfully obscure, but he doesn’t need anyone to know that, either. “Advice, from one faculty member to another.” are lacking in attendance,”

He's stopped, treading close enough to pull a waterskin from his pack to take a quick drink. “What would you do, put face to face with someone you know to hurt the people you care for?” A hand rests on his hip, eyes traveling the expanse of her as his words carry weight around them. Pushing her with small misfortunes has not seemed to put any distance between them so… “Would you reconcile with them?”

Her observation over the act is silent. There are a fair few questions off the top of her head she could very well attempt to ask, but she holds her tongue. Zephia is wise enough to read the room and understand the focus the man puts into his work. 

Curious work at that. Not that the Mage Dragon is unaccustomed to human dance, but the performance that Seadall puts on stretches beyond that simplistic pastime. Could this be connected to those cards of the divine that he pulls out for her detriment? Hmph. Another reason why she’d prefer to be likewise silent in her analysis. If she’s lucky enough, she can recognize if he’s casting a hex on her before it goes through.

But when he opens his mouth mid-movements, he speaks in blunt statements and not incantations. Normally petty words would never hurt the millenia-long dragon, but there’s something about it coming while enticed by the dance that stabs at her morale. Although she visibly pouts at the jab, it does make her more willing to listen to his upcoming query. The mention of more spirits is more than enough to heed whatever empty threat he’s going for.

The main question that Sedall presents to Zephia has her purse her lips. Dark purple eyes look at the drinking man with some shared contempt, yet intrigue. “I wasn’t aware we were partaking in games of subtly today. I should have come more prepared,” she chides, bringing one hand up by her mouth as if a laugh is about to come out. It never does.

“I am afraid that I am not as experienced in the hypothetical you provide to me as you might want me to be. But, if you were to give me a second…” Zephia takes the second she gives herself, her hands folding upon her lap, “...reconciliation would likely be in the back of my mind, but not outright denied. I find myself to be a forgiving woman, believe it or not. Merely because one may have wronged me once, I am not daft to presume that history shall repeat itself.”

She lightly yawns, breaking her glance momentarily to stare back at the soothing downpour outside. “But then…what is the phrase? ‘Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on…?’ The last thing I’d want is to feel shame for myself. I will not allow the pain to seep in a third time.”

Once again, she needs to stress that the existence of alternative worlds and their alterations does little to surprise the dragon. Or rather…their existence had never concerned her beyond whatever her former lord desired. To the Fell Dragon, their current world was merely a stepping stone toward something grander, something stronger. She never felt the need to question his objectives beyond that.

But then comes along this unmistakable reflection of Lord Sombron. With recollections of an unmistakable reflection of a mage dragon that makes the fell dragon startled to see. How is she supposed to respond to this folly? Opposition means little to the Mage Dragon at this rate, when her direction in life is suddenly so aimless.

Zephia almost desires to cut off Nel in the middle of her tale. Spring one of her fingers onto her lips to hush her up, but she hesitates. The desire for more knowledge ultimately overpowers all else. As it always has for her.

After all is said and done from Nel’s end, Zephia is unable to hide her puzzled face, deep in thought. Both of her hands drop to her sides, signifying the lower dragon has nothing to hide from her superior.

“Your words are…far from wearisome," she confesses, attempting to flash her amethyst eyes as brightly as Nel’s rubies. Their glow does not seem to compare. “All of your ramblings about comradery and her services for you - they barely sound any different from how I served your father. May I be so bold and say…laying her life down without being asked? Don’t look so surprised, but I have been there as well. Quite literally.”

She is so heartfelt, so honest about the confession, that Zephia is even kind enough to overlook Nel bringing up naming that false deity once more. That’s how generous she feels to this curious being in front of her.

“Perhaps I have been mistaken. By the sound of it all, the two of us Mage Dragons are more alike than I’ve been willing to admit. Though even still, my servitude under Lord Sombron likely led to greater hardships than under your wings. Ignoring my fatal sacrifice, that millennium I spent apart from him…was truly painful.”

…Shit, the fell spawn has gotten her longing for the days of old now. Zephia catches the droop of her face toward the well-polished floor and stares again at the lady who supposedly was meant to keep them clean.

"It has been thousands of years since his death at the hands of my world's Divine Dragon. Yet his influences remained. Needless to say, it is the reason I am here and not there."

She worries the inside of her cheek between her teeth softly, brows slanted at an angle that suggests perhaps she's slightly annoyed with the situation as a whole; but there's many things running through her head, all of which she can't bring to voice all at once. "You are different from the Mage Dragon I once knew. I cannot say I would have imagined..." The sentence trails off before Nel shakes her head, stopping herself halfway through the sentiment. "Nevermind. It is of no consequence." "... It is surprising, though, that you have no desire to follow in Sombron's footsteps. I have met only a few that embarked upon a path similar to his and came out of it alive and more importantly, themselves."

Her tone is as succinct as the question that dared to suggest an alternative. For if Sombron lived in Nel’s world, surely she would not stand before the Mage Dragon today.

Zephia dips her head down slightly, enough to meet the bottom of the false maid’s dress. Internally reviews the words that pour out of the fell one so easily. Nel even speaks in the nicest tone she’s addressed the hound all day. It doesn’t matter if this lord was from an alternative world Zephia could never have dreamed of visiting.

Her lord is dead. It stings differently when someone else utters it. Actually stings, for one.

Another miniscule step forward is taken, though the dragon refuses to lift her head just yet. If one were to look closely, she mouths words before being able to lift her voice. What she mouths, even Zephia is not entirely certain.

“I am the strongest of my kind, but compared to his strength I only falter. But yes, unlike him I came out alive. And more importantly, myself,” bouncing off of Nel’s words, intentional on her end or not, allows the hound to return with horns and head high. “As for his footsteps, I could never see the same as his ultimate vision. I only followed bec…”

What has gotten into me?

She cuts herself off. No additional cough or sneeze to flourish the interruption. There is no reason to dump emotional baggage on a stranger that already hates her guts. Even more ridiculous when considering she’s telling this to one of the Fell Dragon’s spawn. But a stranger…is that really true?

Zephia settles a hand by her conspicuous horns, making sure her hair still flows naturally around them. “Go back a second to that part of no consequence. Because it is of consequence. This Mage Dragon you once knew…what was she like? Where is she now?”