"I tire of you ruining my schemes!"

She can feel dread crawling up her spine.

Who, where, why?

She doesn't know, and the only reason she makes the effort to calm her heart is the knowledge that her panic will do no good; she won't find the source of her anxiety within the endless crowd.

And so she whispers frustrated

likely for her own sake

A gentle whisper, just out of the way so she can hear, behind her.

She... fascinated him. Something similar to the powers that flowed through the Nohrian royals, but... distinct. Different.

And not different in the same ways that the Crests of Fodlan were different from the draconic genealogy that created his Lord.

This was something worth investigating.

Studying.

If it was tied to blood, like it was at home, then maybe... he could work something out.

"But don't let me worry you. This is a ball, no? A place to enjoy, revel, and what not."

A lily from his coat pocket pulled out and lain on the table next to Tine, his emotions more than displayed despite the lack of any face to be seen.

Hoshidan. The accent is unmistakable. And of course, of course a Hoshidan would find a way to come here too. Not just rotting Nohr from within and making them a farcical display of Nohr's true destiny, not just leaving them to starve, but across the seas, no doubt looking to snub a loose end that slipped through the cracks.

But even then, it wasn't a familiar face. Not that he personally knew every Hoshidan in the frontlines, but there was a general expectation he had; this was one of those... brats. The ones that just popped up out of nowhere, who had Dragon Veins coursing through their blood, yet were fully fledged adults, even with such a short time they could've been conceived in.

"But your stance implies aggression. And while usually, I would be more than keen in returning it, this is neither place nor time. So, pray tell, who am I speaking to?"

He turns away, feigning watching one of the dances on the floor as he plucks his flower and places it on the table next to the Hoshidan.

The hair isn't really a giveaway on who created the brat, if he is of the second generation that still perplexes him. Just that he is. And that he is here. And that is proof that he will have some cleaning up to do here. Hoshido will not kill Nohr. Cannot.

No matter how many times they break his people, turn them soft and pliable, mold home into as many ridiculous shapes they can manage.

Nohr will live.

He was here to make marks, to find who would be susceptible enough to send his guys after, but above all else?

He was here for himself.

These events let him show how much superior he was to those around him. He enjoyed them in Nohr, whenever available. He would enjoy them here.

"Now... who's here tonight..."

A lily lain on his breast-pocket indicated his open stance; people could trade, frolic, fill their bouquet up and do... whatever these nobles do compared to his own stock.

whatever orders he'd have for linhardt die the moment there's another rumble and scream.  reluctantly, linhardt surrenders themself over to their more baser processing.  this is a closed fracture, they identify immediately.  the force of the falling cargo leaves a 96.3% chance that there's only one break, and the angle of the fall means it should be a simple splint.

they get to work without complaint.  it is not their job to address the problem - the cargo that has yet to be restrained and the group of people that is now gathering around the area of incident.  they're just here in their capacity as a nurse.

He snaps his fingers and heads over to the other storage bay- and immediately, he regrets his trust in his crew.

"I... these were tied down! HOW DID YOU EVEN-"

He can do this. Director Garon had put him on this job, and for that, he was more than willing to put everything on the line to get this shipment delivered.

"This shipment is meant to feed a new colony in this system! We have a role to fulfill! And I have had it with you lot's slipshod maintenance!"

He is this close to fully losing his anger on the crew, but! But, he knows better.

People are quick to retort to cruelty. It was what made it so ineffective at times.

So instead, he preferred a more... tact approach. Careful plotting usually.

But here, away from all of his usual resources that made him both incredibly successful but also somewhat dreaded as a captain, all he had was his people.

And without the safety of being the Director's stick, all he had was the carrot.

"You! All of you! Even if you have not directly led to this, there is still far too much at stake on this voyage to have you all... dawdling around like this! GET TO WORK FIXING THIS DISASTER!"

Voice raised, he steps over the knocked down form of his crewmate, pushing some of the fallen boxes out of the way. He was no brute, hardly muscle, even with enhancements, but he still was making an example with this.

That even if the crew weren't taking this seriously, he was.

And he would definitely be docking most of their pays. Most.

"You bulkier lugs get the injured to the sick bay. If brawn can't handle these, brains will have to."

'Or, much better, the GRAVE.'

"Couldn't just gut our homeland, you had to come here and infect the one place that can let Nohr be something again with your failings-"

He slips his notes into his robes, and cross-draws his own tome, black magicks sprawling from its pages, matching Leo's, tendrils crawling across the ink, matching the depths alight in his eyes.

Of course. Of course it was never easy.

This was why he delegates. To keep the reward, minimize the risk.

But he was already set to go straight to the end here.

So, this was when he cemented his right to Nohr's future.

Or, at worst, his survivability again.

"Then again, we both know how this ends. I have nothing to lose here. You, on the other hand? You strike me down and you lose whatever standing you have here. Does your kingdom send a prince that murders an innocent worshipper? Or do they buckle under yet more foreign pressure."

He was lying through the skin of his teeth. He was very much not keen on dying (or, to Leo, dying again) here, an unceremonious end. That last illusion needed setup, and he had only come up to his room because his righteous fury had superseded his cowardice.

Fury at the sorry state his mighty homeland was undoubtedly in. And he would restore its glory.

No matter which 'heirs' try and say they are what's best for Nohr. Traitors, the lot of them.

He looks over the map he had... commissioned, quill ready to cross out chaff names, commoners and nobles who were far too poor to pay his fees to get their items back.

It wasn't like he preferred looting like this to stock his store. The glory of Nohr had to be born from effort, but Iago so very much would rather it be someone else's.

Yet being a fence was his life until money came in.

So he played the part.

And that meant delegating burglaries of the inhabitants of the academy and monastery alike. If security wasn't so high, he'd probably have the archbishop's robes for sale by now.

"...Now hold on."

One name stood out like the sorest of sore thumbs. A last name that forever lived in Iago's heart, and a first name that burned in his chest.

Of course. Of course they'd not just break down Nohr and run it into a Hoshidan playground, but they'd bring their diluted, soft-hearted 'nobles' along with.

But of all the family that fell from grace, none fell further in one single motion than the one who's name adorned the roster of new inhabitants.

"Him. I'll... scope out how secure he keeps it personally."

A hand comes to his mask, undoing it, stashing it in one of the pockets of his 'disguise' robes, as he makes the steps up to the surface once again, even though he would rather blow this oh so holy place to utter ruin in a purple and black barrage of dark magic.

His footsteps are fast-paced, near frantic as he scurries the halls, slipping past various students and knights until he reaches the dorms.

Names pass in a blur, each as unimportant as a flea hitching a ride on a rodent, but one of them carries the most virulent of dehumanizing plagues.

And that's who's door he finally encounters. He tries the door. Locked, unsurprisingly.

He quickly jots down some notes in Nohrian, build of the door, who resides next-door, and who to ask for a schedule.

"That should do nicel-"

And as he turns, prepared to leave, he promptly bumps into someone.

Because of course he does.

"My... apologies, allow me to step out of your way..."

His mask was his icon, and those here who had heard of his exploits would only know him by that, which allowed him his stealth in the criminal underworld in Abyss.

But Lord Leo was infuriatingly no fool.

'WHY IS HE ALREADY HERE???'

Iago.

Veronica had nothing nice to say about the man, echoing the opinions shared to her. And now Thrasir had to accept the help she needed from this man. What on earth would motivate this. Fighting against the fish swarming her, Thrasir reached out a hand towards her apparent saviour. Curse this wretched body of hers and its apparent attractiveness to the lifeforms of the water.

Thrasir wasn't sure what her thoughts on Iago were, unlike her younger self, she wasn't trying to impress a big brother figure. She certainly didn't trust whatever was going on in his head. If only she could have read his mind.

Silt flits past his vision as he keeps diving. Down. Down. Down some more.

If only his books were waterproofed! He could obliterate a pocket of water with a quick spell, and from there, snag a breath in the air pocket that formed. But no, he is operating on a human's breath here.

Yet the pond keeps going deeper. And even though the air in him feels constantly on the wane, it... never reaches a point of surfacing. Strange.

...

'SURELY they wouldn't dig this this deep. The lake has set walls, and no uneven ledges, even this deep down, just a gentle slope of sediment. This is either divine (which I doubt, no respecting Dragon would take a place so overlit as this,) or someone dug all the way to the mountain's base!'

Yet that logic held little water (ironic, with how much the lake seemed to hold,) so Iago continued to dive.

And dive.

And dive some more.

He was not an athletic man. His arms screamed murder, his legs cried release, and his chest begged for death.

But what worry was death when chasing an undead? The risk was outweighed by the reward, and he could persevere.

Each motion brings him closer.

Closer.

Almost...

Fingers slip against fingers for a briefest of moments before the fishes seemed to bristle and scurry ever deeper, at a much faster pace.

"..."

The water is likely too polluted with sediment this deep down to make much detail out.

Nasir already hates how this man is looking at him, like he is trying to expose each and every one of his carefully guarded secrets. He'll be damned if he lets him even begin to try. He hasn't spent the last nearly hundred years concealing himself and forcing down all that came naturally to him for a mere sewer rat - not because he was living in the Academy's underground, but because he more resembled a common rodent than a beorc with hair like that - to try and tear it out of him with a mere glance.

"For all I care, you can have that trash. It'd be doing me a favour actually, cleaning up some of the mess in this place," He sneers, leaning over the counter while one of his hands drifts towards a knife hidden underneath his cloak, "But it's the principle of the matter, you see. I don't take too kindly to thieves, or in this case, those who employ them."

If this fool thought him to be nothing more than a wretched old man who didn't know what he was doing at all - and he would take great offense to the old man part, he was barely middle-aged - then he surely thought wrong. Nasir was a trained liar, molded by his years of service to Dheginsea and his natural tendency towards secrecy. He was not going to break so easily.

He had come in expecting to hold onto decorum. There was no way he would be able to.

The blue-haired non-human was irritating. His gaze was irritating. His actions were irritating. His voice was irritating. His word choice was irritating.

"And I didn't hire them for you. Though if I had, I would have taken far more than this measly thing. You're lucky you weren't in focus. Before now, that is. They were supposed to take wears that had been unhoused, a wear with far too much stock around, and put them back for people to reclaim. For a fee, mind. But now you placed yourself in the limelight. Far too open. Had you not written that letter, you would've passed by."

He shakes his head, changing his posture. As mandatory acting had recently become, nothing let Iago feel better than letting loose.

He wasn't a merchant; he was a schemer. an information gatherer, a torturer. And to be rendered to anything but was agony.

And this blue-haired monster masquerading as a proper, respectful human being? It brought back the Iago who stood before Hoshidan soldiers, extracting information.

It brought back the Iago that was always there to the forefront.

So, in a way, Iago had to thank him.

Though his thanks would prove much worse than even what would happen had he just been tasked with handling him.

"Now. I'll lay your cards on the table for you. You can retract your statements and pass by with... a fee for protecting your goods from not only my clients, but also rival organizations... or you can throw your shop's stability to the whims of happenstance."

He pulls his hood down, the gold of his mask able to shine lustrously without fear of some Hoshidan dog so far removed from the pink-stained nation catching him aboveground.

"I'd say a simple choice, even were I in your shoes. But as a show of my... mercy, let me state this: Regardless of your choice, for the rest of the moon's cycle, you will not see hide nor hair of me or my subordinates."

With the inverse false, of course.

"And your goods will remain fully untouched. Until we meet again. Then we will discuss... terms."

He nods his head, reaching for one of his tomes, flipping through it as if even the trite pages were more interesting that Nasir. Not one of his spells, though - this place would fall like a house of cards with even a spark of magic, light or dark. And while that appealed to him, he forced himself to show restraint. Watching worms squirm was more fun than just crushing them (An argument he had held far too often with Hans.)

Honestly, after her fishing experience in Verdane, Thrasir wasn't much interested in looking to go fishing for this supposed "goddess messenger" in any capacity. Unfortunately for her, some of the children in Abyss had asked her to take them fishing when they heard about it and they were annoyingly persistent about it. As they always were when they wanted things from her, whittling down her patience until she simply agreed to get them to stop asking.

So it was with a small gaggle of extremely enthusiastic young fishers that Thrasir had come to the fishing pond this day. The entire reason she had hired this fishing rod and purchased the bait. With any luck, she would catch this fish and the children would entertained enough to leave her alone for a week.

They had, of course, failed to mention to Thrasir that the fish was also pulled would be hunters into the water.

How could he not be? A living dead, animate from... some mean unknown, at least to him and the other residents, as living as if she was still animate through blood and brain, and yet, still with her own free will.

It was fascinating.

Imagine if he could reanimate Garon, make him a puppet with Iago behind the throne's power! Or Sumeragi, and puppet both sides of the conflict! He could gain so much power!

But that required experimenting. And since he had no way of finding the puppetmaster... he may as well take in the puppet. Learn from it, recreate that spark that pilots her, and once that is learned, begin to experiment. He had seen enough vagrants without anyone who called them family to know his experiments could be made unseen.

But to begin, he must learn. From her, and likely on good terms - she didn't seem the type to buckle under torture. So he stalked her in shadows, never showing his face or mask. Which led him to the pond aboveground...

And witnessing her drawn to the murky depths.

He couldn't risk his chance at conquest drown! If she could even drown. Another experiment to note for the future. But that was not now!

"..."

At first he looks around. He isn't strong. Manipulation skills don't work on piscine beasts. This is something he would be better suited delegating someone else for. But, seeing no one qualified for the job...

"...Gah."

He sheds his cloak (his mask is safely secured on, because even if it will not tarnish unless he overexposes it (if the makeup of the mask is pure as it should be), he is not losing it down there,) holds his breath...

"..."

And takes the plunge.

The water is surprisingly clear, with the lower levels reaching deeper and deeper into silt and dim lighting, from pure crystalline blue to murky, almost inky shades of greyish-brown.

It's almost beautiful.

But no, he cannot focus on the grey and black.

He needs to follow the little bit of visible red.

The red that keeps going down, down, down.

And of the maligned and ill-intending, Iago was one who knew to pay attention to talk.

Stories came, stories went, but never without truth.

Especially when gold was on the line, and his employees brought it up.

So, here he was, aboveground once more, hands in his robes, eyes locked onto the horses in the stable.

He was never the biggest fan of horses. They were for the nobles and knights. For the people who had far too much time for caring for them, and were, at least for his current purposes, completely superfluous.

But these horses were irrelevant.

Nothing but a number. And he knew how to read the numbers.

"...You."

His fingers snap, a cruel look in his eyes as the Swarm releases from the book in his off hand.

He had planned to put money on the horse that looked in the worst condition.

The ratio for winning would be higher that way.

And for the others?

A fly for each. Nowhere enough to injure, not noticeable to anyone else. And they weren't to last long.

They had one role: to irritate and annoy. And he trusted them to do exactly that.

So, after rigging up the stables, he moves back to the area where the betting was occurring, under careful supervision. Thank the Dusk Dragon that they couldn't be focused on the horses because they were busy counting coin instead.

"All in on 13. Iago."

He places a sack of gold coin (not his money. Money he... borrowed from a neighbor who had recently passed on,) by the other bags, and leans back against the wall, watching the others pay, running through placements and probability.

But this wall wasn't just his.

Abyssians had a scent. A scent of undergrowth, of people who would shatter a bottle on your head just to stab someone else. And this man had it in spades.

"What's your money going to be on? Because big money like this causes people to play dirty."

He did. But implying others would give him deniability.

"Not that I imagine I have to tell you how to gamble..."

well, that probably goes both ways - it must be more uncomfortable for the person experiencing it than linhardt themself.  they hardly think of that, though - their processes are occupied.

something had fallen in the cramped transport ship that hadn't, and it had injured some one, and linhardt's deep-seated programming had taken over.  they weren't exactly thinking of what they were doing, other than it was a bit disappointing that they were still rooted so deeply in their programming.

stop the bleeding.  dress the wound.  secure the dressing.  all too quickly, the procedure was over, and linhardt rose back to their full height, the light in their mechanical eyes dimming, just as the light shining through their long-sleeved shirt faded from concentrated amber to relaxed green.

their eyes flickered to their previous patient, and then quickly away as blood begin to color the dressing.

they realized then that a crowd had gathered, and they wanted to feel what it meant to ‘cringe’, considering how all of these people might suddenly assume the nursedroid still liked their job.

“you'll need that changed in three hours, in all likelihood,” they murmured to the injured party.  “i suppose if you can't handle it yourself… i'll be… around…”

their drawn out speech should make it obvious they didn't particularly look forward to that outcome, they thought.  that's how organics spoke when they didn't want to do something, right?

He's fuming.

The crew was supposed to keep this ship shipshape. Space travel was not easy. And not cheap either!

So why were the crew so careless as to leave the bloody ship in a state where things could just fall onto their members and nearly take their arm off alongside!?

Still, the android did their job. Well, not their job, but their programming. It didn't matter. Some of the other captains had said they wouldn't take on folks like this. That these voyages were for humanity to explore the stars, not some robot wannabe. That the only AI on their ships would be the diminutive types, to guide the ship and the like.

But Iago was not one so easily swayed. He had taken on this one with all the confidence in the world. He had the best crew that money (not his, but his boss's) could buy, and all the splendor that should have come with.

And yet his crew were seemingly unaware of the stakes. How easily this could be a disaster. And he wouldn't risk that.

They were here to be the beacons of life, of the future.

Not to get blasted off into the endless black.

"On your feet."

Was it the victim's fault? Hardly, not in the slightest. It was a collective one, and, had it been home, he would have doled out a collective punishment.

But he couldn't - not yet. There was stakes, and he knew that if the crew mutinied, it would be a disaster.

So he would instead, with all the grace he could, take it instead.

He turns to the android, head held high, mechanical half of his face glinting. He wasn't a full cyborg, he had seen some very... half-and-half clients for his boss, but he was not. Instead, it was to improve his sight, and make his path more clearly visible.

"You did good. Now, let's get back to maintaining-"

Another shaking crash. Another pained scream.

"OH FOR GOODNESS SAKE!"

He looks down, human eye twitching.

This ship was supposed to make it to the next system with at least enough fuel to restock, and more than enough money to handle repairs.

Entering a new aisle, Dimitri noticed a book he didn't recall from a previous library session. The cover was ornate and seemed to radiate with power.

'Come take it. Look at it.'

The voice caught him unaware but he obeyed it without question. It was the simplest way to get the voice to stop. Reaching out a hand he took the book of the shelf, just as another was about to do the same.

"Oh, I'm sorry" He apologised to the stranger in front of him. " I ... er... was just going to take a look at this book. " No mentioning the voice, it wouldn't do the kingdom good for people to see that the crowned prince was crazy. He held the book out "I haven't seen it before and it looked ... informative but if you were sent to collect it..."

'No! You must look at the book'

The insistence in the voice almost made him drop the book.

"Here you go. Take care of it. I haven't seen any other books like it. Likely some degree of magic, but... such a unique energy to it."

No torture method works the same on two victims.

He had seen it drive a neighbor to madness down below.

Who was to say this would go the same?

And if it did... well, not only was it more information, but it rendered someone with such a distinct royalty to him under very easy control...

Well, Iago would not be foolish enough to lose that opportunity.

Even if that book had every right to be his...

Was giving it to the blonde boy really anything different than a slight delay?

He would get it anyhow.

"...What's the title, at any rate? My spoken Fodlani is well honed, but written is... slightly rusty. I would not mind knowing more on this tome than what I was told of it. I would gladly translate it to my native tongue, if possible, but a vocal retelling would suffice."

A lie. He could write like a scholar should. But that was irrelevant. Keep the attention on the book.

No letting him leave with it. He could burn it! He could rip it to shreds with his weapons! He could eat the pages, throw it into the lake, do who-knows-what! And that book was either leaving here in one piece or this student would leave in pieces. The monastery would be in pieces, the CONTINENT would be-

"..."

...Iago takes a breath. No losing composure. No losing scope. He would have this book.

He will.

Even if not now.

Even if this broad stepping stone has to be cleared first.

It would be his.

Iago was blank enough a slate that no one above should have any reason to know him, to hate him yet. A quick cloak, a turned down head (oh, how he hated pretending to be anything else,) an obscured mask (which was the most infuriating of all,) and... here he was. The library above.

And it was...

"Wonderful."

Books contained magic. Books allowed his torture, his place in the world. And this?

This treated them right. With the luxury they deserved!

But... still, one caught his eye.

Or, rather, one recaught it.

This was a book he had seen. Not in Nohr, but below. Deep in Abyss, strange, weird, wrong, in all the right ways.

He had seen someone who he had 'sold' it to go mad, and have to be put down. Coincidence? Perhaps. But Iago was sure it was correlation, no, causation!

And, as a result, he had attempted to reclaim it. Because that is a tool he could use in the future. Drop a tome into a rebellion's center and watch as the leaders tore themselves apart. Iago wasn't even sure how metaphorical that would be. But like sand from an hourglass, it slipped through the narrowest of gaps. He hadn't seen it since he sold it. He was sure someone burned it.

But... why was it here!? Of all places, just... left out! Mages tended to prefer the library, and any talented mage would tell you an amateur is a much bigger threat than a practiced mage.

Like how an adult snake uses only the required amounts of venom.

So, he takes quick steps, murmuring under his breath about having 'his greatness having to be reduced in a setting like this,' hand reaching for the book, eyes locked onto the pages, when-

Eyes. A pair of blue, staring down at him. He was seen. This... boy, was nothing. Nobody Iago knew.

He looked like if Xander had never reached maturity. Never grew resistant to the ploys of Garon, over time.

He could use someone like this.

But first, he would have to handle this conversation.

"I... apologize. Were you intending for using this book? I had been sent to... collect it."

This boy would have had a place in Garon's Nohr.

He c-WILL have a place in Iago's.

Now to play the diplomacy game. One he hated, but was talented at nonetheless.