superbia

verseandrhyme​:

“Better to toil in the court than…what was your decision last I saw you? Freezing out in the snow while you bled out on Rigel’s deathbed?” The words are said casually, but Mitama has the decency to keep her voice low and private.

The prince is so easily swayed by the words of a merchant wise to a man’s folly, Mitama almost finds the display amusing. She stays quiet as she watches their exchange and Berkut step up to the man. She is not a fool, she knows that should he make contact with the flimsy looking creation, it would easily crack and fall. The blindfold provides a modicum of hope.

A shame when he not only hits, but destroys the festive toy successfully.

Mitama scoffs. “I am so glad to have been an aiding participant in your display of self-congratulation.” Mitama deadpans, crossing her arms. She accepts the little token he tosses her, inspecting it carefully. Religions iconography. Interesting. She would have thought they would let classes begin before their attempts at indoctrinating foreign students began.

“Aw, now no need to be so upset, Missy! We’ve got plenty more where that came from!” The merchant assures her, pulling out another of said confections. “You’re free to give it a shot as well! Since you’re clearly not as active as your friend here, you can even try without the blindfold.”

Mitama’s lips purse and her eyes narrow upon the merchant as his back turns. Assault on all sides / the battlefield carries no / mercy or honor. “I am just as capable as my friend, I assume you.”

The token is shoved back into Berkut’s hands and the blindfold is taken from him. Soon enough, she stands in Berkut’s place with weapon in hand. It is thicker than the staves and rods she used during the war, but she has brandished her healing tools as a threat enough times that the action is not wholly unfamiliar. Mitama takes a steady breath and, with a quick prayer to the dawn dragon, swings the weapon.

It makes contact, but there is no sound of falling trinkets that matched Berkut’s attempt. The blindfold comes up, and she finds the blasphemous device swinging uselessly in front of her.

“Aw, too bad! A nice effort though, Missy.” Mitama scowls at the merchant.

“Since you’re clearly not as active as your friend here.”

Despite the well-learned decorum of a high noble, Berkut cuts short a snort of laughter. The man was right, but the drawn look that suddenly takes over Mitama’s expression brings him pleasure far greater than the compliment itself. With something to prove now, she snatches the blindfold from his hands and he steps well out of the way of her space, a self-satisfied grin still pulling the corners of his mouth. He crosses his arms to watch what he is certain will be quite a show.

Perhaps she’d even hit the shopkeep himself.

Unfortunately, the stick strikes not the peddler, but the swinging toy itself. But swing is all it does, and even Berkut realizes after a second passes that nothing had— nor will fall from it. She hadn’t even cracked its shell.

“It seems you ought to spend more of your time training, instead of… whatever it is you do to waste your days away,” Berkut prods, but then fishes into his pockets for another gold piece. “Care to give it another go? I’ll pay for it.”

Before she can even question his generosity, however, he adds:

perfectionist-prince​:

Advancing technology in Fodlan had made Nohr appear as an uncivilized, third-world country from the moment Siegbert first rode across its borders. He thought there would come a point when the myriad of strange inventions would stop surprising him, but it was never so. Photographs, at least, were something he was well-acquainted with now, thanks to the academy. He only wonders if someday they could learn to render true-to-life images in color, without the need for paint and a fifteen-hour-a-day, seven-days-straight portraiture session.

It was unclear exactly how he wound up helping out with the spring cleaning. One moment, Siegbert was content to reorganize his quarters—there were bound to discoveries made as he searched through his wardrobe or mass accumulation of books—and the next he was sorting through boxes of memories perhaps lost for more than just the last semester.

That is not to say that Siegbert minded the duty. If anything, he was delighted that his aid had been requested; it is, and always has been his duty to help those in need, no matter how trivial the matter may be. This was no different. His company, on the other hand…

“I’d be happy to do so, but only if I am treated with the respect that a peer deserves.” There was no need to worry about titles here (despite the fact that he and some others in his family are adamant on maintaining them in reference to others, but disposing of them in reference to himself). Everyone was to be treated equally; a breath of fresh air compared to the stiff greetings of servants and passersby in the castle town.

“Lord Berkut, was it? Or would you prefer to drop the formalities? If so, you may refer to me as nothing more than Siegbert. Certainly not ‘you.’”

Nevertheless, Siegbert hoists up the box (dusty as it may be) and places it out in the hall as instructed. He had to admit that having to wipe his hands in his trousers to clear away grime was certainly unpleasant, but it wasn’t the worst thing he had ever experienced. “What was in there, anyways, to be labeled as apparently worthless?”

The remark earns Siegbert a quick glance but no apology. If he didn’t like directness, then he would not find Berkut’s company especially enjoyable in the coming hours.

“Shall I not address you by anything but your name, then?” he quips. When he sees that the other student obeys his order without need for corrected behavior, he flashes a smirk and turns to pull out another dusty box from the forgotten storage. 

“‘Lord Berkut’ will suffice.” Back still turned, he trusts Siegbert has delivered the box of photos to the hallway by now, and lifts the second container to slide it onto the table where the first had been. He lifts the wooden lid and sets it aside. Inside sit stacks of old, worn books. Novels, mostly. Berkut picks up one by one to inspect their titles and then returns them with a scoff.

starter for @wolfhednar | any weapon +1

Scarcely a month at the academy and he already knows the training hall better than any other room in the monastery, including his own. When he’s not in class, he’s here. The tall double doors welcome him with their familiar groan, but there’s a hint of salt in the air that rushes out. It’s enough to give him pause at the entrance, and he thinks for a moment that he hears the cry of a gull somewhere in the distance. Though he can count the number of times he’s seen the sea on one hand, there is a flash of palm fronds in his mind’s eye, as clear and stark as the memory of yesterday’s lessons.

But as quickly as they had come, the sensations fade into the hall’s usual repertoire: the clashes of wood and dulled iron, the acrid tang of sweat, and the faces he has come to recognize as familiar fixtures in this place. “Companions,” united by the drive to grow stronger. There is one swordsman, however, whose form strikes like a lightning bolt through his memory.

“You there.” The words echo in his mind, as overly familiar as the impression of sand and sunsets. He shouldn’t have ever spoken to the other student before, even though he’s wanted to.

“I’ve had my eye on you lately,” he continues, compelled by some invisible force. He takes up a wooden lance from the collection of training weapons and brings it to rest across his shoulders. Dark eyes narrow, half-taunting above a thin smile as he saunters closer.

soireenea​:

     "My lord, look at it this way,“ she takes his hand and follows him in, "It’s not as if this is your new home or even where you’ll spend a majority of your time.”

     Eyes flicker to the dusty bunnies scattered and objectively rickety furniture. At first glance, it was a bit jarring, even to her. To his point, there were plenty of royals attending so one might think the vacant rooms would be a touch more presentable or upscale from the lower floor. It was humbling, at least. Class didn’t seem to hold much significance, future duke or a simple swineherd, they were all students here. “Still, perhaps a personal touch might liven it up. I can lend you a plant and some flowers, they would be perfect to put in that corner.”

     Honestly, it mattered not what she did, as long as she was with her beloved. Rinea turns to remind him of this through a warm smile that reaches her eyes and a chaste kiss placed to gloved knuckles. With no time left to waste, she moves to collect some of the scattered books, blew off the dust and flipped through a couple, curious as to what they could contain. If he had no need for them, perhaps she could take them off his hands. 

     Putting that notion aside, she continues her task of straightening up the desk. As she worked her way through the books and scraps, she finds a tune to hum to before stopping and turning to ask, “Are there any rags or plumes we can use to clear off some of this dust?” At this rate, it didn’t matter how organized it was, they would get nowhere without ridding of the old particles first.

She offers him a flower from her own collection, but it’s the kiss that creates reluctance to release her hand. Only when she tugs to move away and begin the work he had asked her to help him with does he at last loosen his fingers. His hand trails after her for a moment, then falls to his side. They have only just recently been reunited, and he can scarcely bear the moments when they’re apart, fearing - deep down - that her life had been too easily returned. That, despite his own struggles and nearly losing his own life fighting his way through the dragon shrine, there is still some catch he has yet to stumble upon. That she will fade away if she leaves his sight.

“I would like that,” he agrees, folding his arms and leaning his shoulder against the doorframe as he watches her begin tidying up the space. “Though a flower hardly compares to the way you brighten the room, my dear.” But the monastery rules were strict about cohabitation. Whatever time they would spend together after hours would be done in secret. And he knows that she has her own classes and studies to attend to. Their schedules would not always align.

This thought, though it sits just at the edge of awareness, is kept far away by Rinea’s gentle voice as she begins to hum. Even here, with an audience of one, her movements are graceful. She steps as a dancer from dresser to desk, already falling into the rhythm of the work. Berkut simply watches, content to do so for an eternity if the fates would allow it. His smile fades to one of private contentment.

He straightens abruptly when singing turns to question, and he pulls his gaze away from her just long enough to search the area for a cleaning cloth. Kneeling, he digs through his equipment and removes a pair of oil-stained rags from a box.

shydancer​:

The end of this lesson marked the end of her day as she carefully arranged the classroom back into what it used to be before she entered. She waited until the last student left the room, waving goodbye to each student as they exited. Once the last person was gone Olivia did a quick double scan of the room before promptly exiting herself.

The position she held at the monastery was one she never expected to have in all her years as a dancer. Had someone told her a year ago that she would come across a foreign continent and become a member of faculty to teach children, most of whom were noble, proper dance techniques and etiquette, she would have called them crazy. 

Though then again, her life was no more than a series of unexpected events. Meeting the Ylissean royalty, meeting her future son, enlisting in an army that would eventually fight an evil God—perhaps what she had here wasn’t so out of the ordinary.

As she passed through the corridors a particularly bright inked poster caught her eye causing her to stop and read its contents. 

“Cooking… contest…”

She mumbles the words as her eyes look over the poster, recalling briefly a mention of it during the last faculty meeting. Her neutral expression turned to one of slight disappointment as she turned to walk away.

It wasn’t that she thought the contest was a bad idea. In fact, she thought it was excellent and would have enjoyed being a participant. However, a competition was another issue entirely. She had never been a person of strong character, always the type to avoid conflict as much as she possibly could. Had she the confidence she would have joined in a heartbeat but alas.

A sudden voice causes her to pause mid-step, head turning to look at who was speaking. It’s then she notices someone standing tall before her, seeming to be the owner of the voice she just heard. Her head swivels around again checking to see if he had made a mistake in his address.

It’s when he opens his mouth again to speak that she realizes he was indeed talking to her, his smile catching her off guard as her eyes linger on his face a little longer than they should. She knew he was a student due to his uniform but Gods.

She quickly shook her head, ridding herself of his charm, before looking to speak to him. 

“O-oh, um…” She looks away drawing her attention to the poster. “I’m new so I’m not quite sure myself. But as far as I’m aware this is a new event starting this year. We’re hoping it’ll be a fun one for everyone involved!”

She turned to look at him again. He didn’t quite look the type but Olivia knew better than to judge a book by its cover.

“Um, were you perhaps interested in participating?”

A new event. Briefly, his smile fades into a contemplative frown as he turns to re-examine the poster. So much for determining how the winners of the past had secured their victories.

"I am," Berkut answers, looking over the fine print once more. "And yourself?" Gleaming eyes cut sidelong to meet hers, then he turns fully to offer her his whole attention. Years navigating the royal court have taught him the subtleties of negotiating - of recognizing when someone might be on the fence for a proposal and how to pave the path toward a favorable outcome. Though the young woman's attire does not suggest royalty, she is all at once a princess in his eyes. And there was something familiar in the timid, uncertain way she had checked over her shoulder when he had first called to her. Something he finds oddly charming.

verseandrhyme​:

For once, Mitama could claim complete and genuine innocence without having to make up convoluted arguments to support her claims. After all, she truly had been simply sitting on an unneeded crate in the market place, observing the rush of merchants and students as they moved about. It reminded her briefly of her exploring Hoshido upon their arrival after the war, of the few markets she’d braved since leaving Hoshido to travel. There was a mood, an emotional setting when one found themselves among the people that could seldom be replicated just right without finding one’s self there again.

And it was in such a state of quiet, observational serenity that the brute found her again and she had been so convinced she was free from such a headache.

“And how unfortunate to find you at all.” She replies in turn, giving the…was he still a prince, following their last discussion? He certainly bore the garb of a student now, sporting the same uniform as herself. He didn’t have his ridiculous shoes anymore.

“I simply go where the fates bid me arrive. I am not so conceited that I think myself any different than any other victim of circumstance. If the gods, in their benevolence, wish for me to play the devoted student, than that is the role I assume for now.” She pushes herself down from her perch, landing on the ground delicately. “What of you? I thought someone as self assured as yourself would not seek out any guidance.”

She looks to the stand he gestures to and sighs. Truly? Of course he would pick something like that. “If it will soothe your simple worries, I will play your game.” She agrees, wandering over to the stall. After all, there was no reason to let him think he stood a chance of winning against her.

“If I were the sort to take orders from the gods and fate as you do, I would still be in Rigel, toiling away in Alm’s court.” His lip curled as he spoke, disdain for the weakness that entailed. Together, they crossed the busy marketplace.

“Coming here was my choice. I must get stronger, and if that means seeking tutelage in foreign lands, so be it.”

“Care to test yourself then?” called the merchant, whose empty stand had left him ample time to eavesdrop on his potential customers. Berkut’s demeanor shifted back to that of haughty self-confidence and he sauntered closer.

“The goal of your little game is simply to break this thing, is that it?” he asked, nodding toward the colorful animal toy suspended with rope nearby. “Easy.” The merchant grinned and clasped his hands together.

“Oh, I can tell you’re strong. This would hardly be a challenge for you. But what if—“ The man brought one hand to his chin and pretended to think, then he enthusiastically withdrew a strip of dark cloth from behind his table. “—you tried it blindfolded? Now that would be a test of might for someone like you, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You’re afraid of losing your profit.” Berkut huffed with amusement as a smirk stretched across his lips. “Fine. If it gives you peace of mind, Shopkeep, I’ll accept your handicap.”

“A gold piece then.”

Berkut passed over a coin in exchange for the cloth and a long, wooden pole. He examined the weapon, testing its weight with a practice swing, and then glanced back at Mitama with a look that again said “you don’t have a chance.” The merchant went around behind Berkut and stood on his toes to tie the blindfold at the back of his head.

“Can you see anything, sir?”

“Nothing.”

“Have at it then.”

The new darkness was strange, but not altogether unfamiliar. Berkut had practiced fighting with his eyes closed before, albeit some years ago, and could visualize the stick as an extension of his own body as he searched the empty space before him. Then, he felt it. A soft vibration down the shaft. A sharp downward swing was met with a solid crack and the spattering of small objects against the cobblestone street. Berkut lifted the blindfold and appraised the collection of seeds and metal trinkets that had spilled out with a look of triumph - one he quickly tossed over his shoulder toward Mitama. The colorful animal had not yet broken fully open, but it was enough for Berkut to claim an early victory.

★★★★★★☆☆☆☆  strength (6) ★★★★★★★☆☆☆  offense (7) ★★★★★☆☆☆☆☆  defense (5) ★★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆  speed (2) ★★★★★★★★☆☆  durability (8) ★★★★★★☆☆☆☆  accuracy (6) ★★★★☆☆☆☆☆☆  agility  (4) ★★★★★★★★★★  stamina (10) ★★★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆  teamwork (3) ★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆  stealth (1)

★★★★☆☆☆☆☆☆  close  combat  ( pugilism,  hands  only )  (4) ★★★★★★★★★☆  bladed  weapons  ( swords,  spears,  daggers )  (9) ★★★★★☆☆☆☆☆  blunt  weapons  ( clubs,  staffs )  (5) ★★★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆  ranged  weapons  ( archery,  knives )  (3) ★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆  magic  (1) ★★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆  traps  /  setups  (2) ★☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆  medic  (1)

☆.*･｡ﾟ   𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄

»  bold  any  that  apply  to  your  muse’s  behavior  in  most  battles !!

commander  /  duelist  /  honorable  /  dishonorable  /  would  have  others  do  their  fighting  / stealthy  /  long - ranged  /  melee  /  technological  /  sorcery  /  superhuman  abilities /  a  lover  of  fighting  /  a  hater  of  fighting  /  cowardly  /  reckless  /  strategic  /  uses  underhand  tricks  /  renowned  for  their  skill  /  trained  /  untrained  /  keeps  skill  secret   /  ruthless  /  merciful

yewfallen​:

Mission Task Board: If you’ve ridden one land-bound quadruped, you’ve basically ridden them all, right? A number of less conventional occupants have been boarded in the Academy stables; they look like they’d be more suited for a farm… or perhaps a petting zoo? Nevertheless, there is fitted tack hung up by their stalls, so they must be good to ride! Show off your riding prowess with a friend in a low-stakes race! [Grants Riding +1]

@rigelspride

    Archers at the academy enter battle in all forms, from infantry to upon horseback to even dance across the skies atop a mighty wyvern’s back. But… Febail can’t say he’s ever heard of one who rode in with a donkey… even if this one did seem bigger than the others.

“ Hey, ”  he grabs a nearby person manning the stables, thinking this must be some kind of joke.  “ Weren’t there supposed to be new horses coming in? ”

“ Nope. Only these fellas, here. They’re still good for ridin’, if that’s what yer worried ‘bout! They figured it’d make the race today a bit more interestin’ to see everyone try a new mount an’ all. ”

So that’s how it was. And here he was, the even bigger joke for actually considering trying it. But… he needed to have some experience with riding at some point as an archer, right? If this is all they got, then he’d have to deal with it. He puts a foot in the stirrup, hoisting himself up into the saddle when he sees another person come towards all the new racing animals.

“ …You also entering the race? ”  The other male didn’t seem the type to demean himself to nonconventional steeds just based on the way he carried himself, but then again, nobles and royals seemed to be weirdos all around Febail had quickly learned. Still, the sight causes the blond to quirk an eyebrow, curious all the same.

It was hard to resist the allure of a competition. Having spent years perfecting his skills, Berkut jumped on every opportunity to show them off. As merely the heir apparent to the Rigelian throne - and not even the only one amidst a slew of distant relatives - the drive manifested partly out of the need to survive. To stand out. To be seen. It wasn't always the way he lived his life, but the timidity and humility had long been beaten out of him.

The Officers Academy was just another version of that same environment. Berkut was not the only prince or wunderkind here, and with his own cousin in the mix, he had all the more reason to carve out a place for himself. If he could no longer rule Rigel, he could rule this school instead, and there was no finer place for him to start than with a victory in a riding competition.

"Let the continent see that there is no beast I cannot conquer," he had declared to Rinea some days earlier, and it is with that self-confidence that he arrives at the stables. Chin raised, shoulders squared, chest lifted, he appraises the stalls and cages, and the creatures they contain. Many are familiar to him: long-eared mules seen frequently in the countryside, giant dogs similar to - but not the same as - those native to northern Rigel, and miniature horses Berkut knows from experience to harbor a testier attitude than their foal-ish faces would suggest. But several are not, namely the peculiar, terrestrial birds and reptilian beasts.

A voice interrupts his inspection and he glances toward what he can only guess to be a fellow competitor, already trying out one of the mounts. A haughty smirk stretches across his lips.

starter for @perfectionist-prince [+1 Axe]

From the odd, glossy parchment stares back a face he doesn't recognize. Youthful, bright-eyed, clean-shaven. If he looks hard enough, he can see some resemblance to any number of male professors he's crossed in the short time since his arrival at the monastery, but it's hard to even make out a hair color through the grainy filter. Berkut turns it over and examines the plain white back, then flips it to the picture again.

"Strange..." he murmurs, and adds it to a whole stack of small portraits, all in a similar grainy monochrome. He's never seen such a slick, thin paint before, but he's never been one for art to begin with. The paintings hanging in Rigel's castle, though few, were the only ones he ever bothered to study. Each contained the stern visage of a past Emperor, from the Duma-chosen Rigel I, to his own uncle, depicted in bold, noticeable layers. A far cry from whatever managed to create such fine details in these.

He digs another of the pictures from a wooden crate before hoisting the whole thing up onto the table.

"Why would a professor store something like this here. Surely his own home would be more appropriate..." Berkut murmurs half to himself as he peers into the box again. From beneath a lowered brow, he steals a glance at his cleaning companion at the other side of the dusty office. A cursory stroke of his hand across the remaining stacks of portraits inside tells him there's nothing else of interest and he pushes the crate toward the center.

That voice.

No. No. Not here too.

Perhaps that dream had been a sign of things to come. The rage Berkut had felt then at the sight of his mother’s ring between his cousin’s fingers bubbles up into his chest again, burning like fire. Was there nowhere he could claim for himself? Rigel. Valentia. His own dreams. And now this academy. Tainted. Rooted deep at the center of it all is the fear that he will always be eclipsed. That Alm’s destiny written by the gods was to rule, while his own was to be trod upon.

But he quiets the inferno. Smothers it. Alm’s appearance in his dreams had at least prepared him for confrontation, allowed his instinct to snap like a mousetrap so that he could compose himself better the second time. He had always known anyway that eventually he would be made to face his cousin again, though he had always thought it would be in Valentia. On his own terms.

His shoulders rise with tension, and his expression is dark and smoldering when he at last turns to Alm, but there is no explosive tirade this time. He regards his cousin with his head angled partly away, narrow eyes made sharper by the line of his cheek. Gaze lowers in rare silence, appraises the uniform shoes Alm now wears in place of the muddy work boots Berkut remembers seeing last, and lifts again only as far as his shoulder. He stares past him at some distant point.

Had he known Alm had enrolled as well, he would have retracted his application. But he chooses to answer differently. Stormy eyes flicker up to meet emerald.

“You left the throne less than a year after you wrenched it from His Majesty’s dead hands. I had to see for myself what could possibly be so important.” Cold and sharp in place of volatile passion.

Gaze sweeps out across the courtyard, over the heads of other students milling about, and then returns to Alm with a caustic huff.

starter for @soireenea [+1 Heavy Armor]

“An academy of this caliber and no servants to handle these menial tasks.” Berkut clicks his tongue. He’d seen plenty of the monastery’s clergy about, and a young boy in a dirt-covered tunic seemed to be some sort of worker. But where they had gone off to now, he couldn’t say. With another sigh, he puts his hands on his hips and surveys the room he’s been assigned. A dusty, barren wooden floor. A rickety writing desk with some scraps of paper left behind. Empty shelving. Old books and candlesticks with the wax still dried on.

“Royalty attends this institution. Our time would be better spent studying or training, not—“ He waves a gloved head toward the bare mattress in the corner and frowns. “—preparing our own bedding.” Hand drops back to his side, resigned but not defeated, and he exhales audibly as his eyes close. What is he complaining about, really? There’s nothing else for him to do. No tasks that need his attention here. No war to fight or meetings to attend. This is part of his new life. It’s… strange, and not entirely easy to come to terms with, but at least one thing makes the transition easier.

starter for @verseandrhyme [+1 Lance]

Why was she here? That starry-eyed menace. The wielder of frogs and lies. From the snowy forests of Rigel, to the ocean-side dream resort, to the academy of a far-off country, it was almost like she was following him. Her presence was otherwise too strange a coincidence. He could hear her languid contention now though: that he was in fact the one stalking her. He grit his teeth, exhaled, and then schooled his expression back to one of haughty nonchalance. There was no use avoiding her. Best to get it over with now.

The market square was bustling. Colorful vendors lined the streets, enticing bright-eyed students from foreign lands to take a look at their wares. Mitama's overall demeanor seemed at odds with the atmosphere.

"What a surprise to find you at an academy, of all places," he remarked as he approached her, eyeing the gold that adorned her uniform. It was strange to see her without the red and white robes he realized only now that he had grown so familiar with. "It was my impression that you were averse to anything requiring effort."

Struck by a strange sense of deja vu, Berkut turned his eyes toward the crowd instead, one hand coming to his hip as he surveyed the stalls. They alighted upon a brightly decorated toy animal beside a sign that read Test Your Might and a smirk stretched wide across his mouth.

starter for @shydancer [+1 Authority]

Prince, former prince, or anything inbetween - the title means nothing in a monastery full of the same. In some ways, a blessing. The fall from grace smarts less here, where a crown buys one no special treatment (lest they be the progeny of Fódlan's leaders, and even then, the princess in charge of the Black Eagles insists they all stand on equal footing). Berkut is no stranger to hard work. From the metaphorical whip his mother wielded to keep him in line, to his own clawing up the chasm walls to escape the fate of all the others who dared claim relation to the Emperor, he has fought for his place in society. And he will fight for his place here, too.

If his homeland continues to adhere to the traditional laws of inheritance and fate, then, at the very least, he will surpass Alm in all else and make a name for himself at this school.

"Cooking contest," the poster reads. It's printed in bright ink, nearly identical to the one a few feet away. As Berkut looks between the two, he wonders idly how the artist had managed to replicate it so precisely. He steps closer to inspect the fine white lettering at the bottom which describes the pre-requisites for entry into the competition. "Pairs." A thoughtful frown pulls at one corner of his mouth and his eyebrows knit together.

So much for showing off his skill alone, he thinks as he straightens his back and brings a hand to his chin. Perhaps for the best. Though he's dabbled in the culinary arts before, he's by no means an expert. He could count on Rinea, butー

Eyes drift to a young woman as she enters the corridor at the other end, drawn by the vibrant color of her hair -- like the summertime peonies he's seen grown in the northern regions of Rigel. She, too, stops at one of the posters. He watches her as he thinks, merely some place for his gaze to rest until he notices the hesitation in her step when she turns away. His hand lowers from his chin, then drops to his side with a new course of action. He turns as she approaches him.

"This competition seems a fine way to learn the traditions of other lands," he observes, nodding toward the advertisement. With no guarantee that she'll even stop for him, he knows he's taking a leap. But he's long outgrown his childhood timidity, and in its place the confidence of a future leader has bloomed -- in his voice, his body language, and the aura that surrounds him.

"Lord Berkut," she greets him with her hands clasped behind her back. And in them, was the flower crown she had weaved moments prior. Rinea presents the crown in front of her now. "Red sword lilies for integrity and strength and white roses for loyalty." A light pink colors her cheeks and she finds it hard to conceal her smile when she was surrounded by her favorite things. "There's a lovely garden a little ways from here, and you were the first to cross my mind when I saw these. [2/2]

By now, he’s grown used to this strange, static realm, to the way his desires are granted before he even recognizes them, and to the appearance of faces both new and old. Of faces he thought he would never see again, and others he had hoped never to see again. His dreams have never been so vivid before, and he finds his mind wandering more often to questions hidden in its recesses — questions about the fate of his waking life, and the truth behind the stories that his uncle had told him of the winter lights.

If he had died, where was his warrior’s feast? Where were the nightly parades across the Rigelian sky?

But if he still lived... how did Rinea—-

As if on cue, her honey-sweet voice calls him from his reverie. How he had missed the sound of his name on her lips.

“Ah, Rinea. I was just thinking of you,” he confesses as he turns to greet her. A smile has come to chase away the shadows of contemplation, softening his features in a way only Rinea has ever been privileged to see. Her hands hidden out of sight do not go unnoticed, but she answers his silent question before he has the chance to give it a voice. She presents her handmade crown of flowers and Berkut decides at once that if this would be his eternity, it was far better than the feasts and parades of the old folktales.

“Leave it to you to find a garden,” he teases. Bending one knee, he kneels as a knight would for his queen and bows his head for his crowning. The delicate stems and petals possess only a fraction of the weight of the steel circlet he is so accustomed to wearing, but they are more than adequate for this new realm he will rule with his beloved.

When he rises, he takes her hand and draws her knuckles to his lips.

Beach asks | accepting

The voice almost startled him with its familiar cadence, yet the name and face it belonged to escaped him beneath the impulse to turn sharply and reprimand whoever it was for their audacity. His eyes widened at the glimpse of silver hair and his rebuttal fled as they met playful lavender. A beat of strange silence. A confused combination of relief, surprise, and irritation seized his expression as his mouth, still agape, waited for the words he had prepared. Words that he instead discarded as he recomposed himself.

A surly frown curved his lips, but eyes darted away with the embarrassment of one enduring the ribbing of a distant relative on holiday.

“A place like this is far preferable to a desert,” he defended. But the sage was right: he still hated sand. It wasn’t until that moment that he had succeded in ignoring it though; now it was thanks to Pent that Berkut felt the shifting grit in his shoes.

The offered shell drew his eyes back and mild curiosity relieved his expression of its scowl. He scoffed as Pent sat it heavily in his palm.

Beach asks | accepting

The dream-like isle had already proven to be a strange place. Desolate, yet full of people. Familiar, yet completely foreign. Utopia, yet stagnant pergatory. The parade of faces - most unrecognized - was stranger still. Among them, Berkut had found visages he had never thought to see again. Some he had never wanted to see again. And others he had never even thought about until they stood before him like a mountain brought to life.

Berkut shielded his eyes against the sun as he peered up into the face of a man that he knew he had met before. He bore the chiseled expression of a born-and-raised Rigelian, carved sharp and stern by the harsh winters and even harsher training, but without the familiarity of a fleece-lined cape or scarlet armor, a name would not affix itself.

Whatever name belonged to him, Berkut did not expect to find a man of his stature with a tin bucket, perusing the shoreline for a place to settle.

“Commander,” he greeted, dropping gloved hand away from the edge of his brow. Berkut could not imagine him to be anything but a high ranked solidier within the Rigelian army. When his eyes turned to him in recognition, however, Berkut thought for a moment that he had grasped a memory of meeting the man. A flash of lightning in the recesses of his memory. But it was soon gone.

Still, enough of it lingered to direct his next question.