𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐙𝐎 𝐕.

⊱⊳ (&𝐋𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐬)

All it did was lead to a late game of catch-up he could have avoided. Hence the texts, scrolls, pouches, and slimy green and goopy flasks lined at his side. There were other tasks he could be going about ---- patrol trots, routine observations, intel-gathering, report-documenting. But no; he was playing catch-up with a skill he should have learned years ago.

( But late was better than never, as it went. All things considered, he wasn't patient enough to wait until later, so why not kindle the fire now while the rain was still at bay ---- before another hellhole opened up in the sky and shooed everyone off on a journey that sucked away a year? What would it be next time? Two, three, four years? A decade? Only a moron ---- dim in the skull and twice as dull ---- couldn't get on their feet and find the error in their unpreparedness. He wouldn't be that moron. )

The skills he didn't have in that damnable fake hellhole, he'd have the next time some fool stepped against him ---- or at least enough to make ends meet. An apothecary's talents being first and foremost on his list of precautionary endeavors to pursue.

( . . . Which would be a hell of a lot easier with two particular greenettes, but he was nothing if not sufficient by his lonesome. And certainly not in need of Kaze's remarks, good-natured as they were . . . )

But soft thumps! quickly informed him he was not, however, kept in secrecy, and he takes into hand not one but two of the kunai resting alongside his herb pouches ---- one as a warning, another if his warning wasn't heeded. Couldn't be anything much bigger than small game ---- doe, if not something smaller, but any disruption out in the wilderness was enough to warrant caution.

It flashes ---- pale, cast in shadow, hued lightly in a shade of rose pink ---- beyond the tree bark. If it was a student, he couldn't risk hurling a blade at them. That didn't do anything except label him incapable, and he was anything but.

But it certainly wasn't an animal, not with colors like that. If it was an enemy? Well, he was armed. And capable.

"Show yourself, or I start throwing sharp knives!"

⊱⊳ (&𝐊𝐚𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐚)

But the line she had crossed? She couldn't step back over. The wound that marred his image, he'd repay her with in tenfold if she should ever step again over another bold line. No hole on any horizon could hide her; no crevice could conceal her. No shadow, no empty space she would weasel into. This, she should know.

This, he would make known.

Routine -- not his, but others' -- makes his job quicker. Easier. He finds her where he'd seen her before -- not that she would stick around long enough for him to observe, wound her as he did. The library ( --makes plenty enough sense for a mage . . . not that he knew much about that occupation outside of its Nohrian preference ) keeps her, tucks her away -- what does she hide from? Just another question about her.

But this wasn't about questions. No, this encounter was more firm than a simple inquiry. ( It is one of the few times he lets himself be known, presence and all ).

( Because, for as abhorred as he was against the admittance of fatigue, his bones were heavy in the aftermath of that fake world with its lies and deceptions, illusionists and tricksters. )

Arms fold, broad muscle tucked over the sternum, one eye pilfering and flickering over the frames and images of all who sat to be witnessed. He remained guarded, a facade of ease woven against angular features, but a ninja was never at ease.

A ninja was always watching

. . . even half blind, he could observe better than others. Strange topics, uncomfortable shifting, boisterous enthusiasm ---- little evaded him.

There are twelve orphans in a burning building. There are five adults who have a proven history of enacting positive social change that are being attacked by ruffians. You may only save one. Choose.

The blond is a young man he recognizes ---- the one not above murdering the illusionist back in the thralldom of Rusalka, temperamental and sneering, but nonetheless capable.

"Agreed. They hold sway in society ---- the kids don't."

HOWEVER, that didn't mean either ordeal was beyond a solution. Kids would get burned, sure, but they wouldn't be dead if he made the effort to spare them. But in such a narrow question, they held little merit ---- little effect against five individuals known for swaying society into a better light.

But that's all it was: a narrow question that, as far as he knew, wouldn't suddenly spring to life. So, he didn't fret it. Just like Rusalka's guise, it wasn't real.

(Even if Saizo's was ultimately nothing more than a failed attempt, it does not change who they are, fundamentally.)

"I am glad we are in agreement," is what he says, arms crossing as he leans back in his seat slightly. That this exchange would be over soon after it begins is a relief — similar temperaments or not, such a topic is difficult to discuss lightly with a near stranger. The question of necessary sacrifice, just as they had faced in their mission.

...Except, in the end, it hadn't been quite about that, had it? Had necessary sacrifice been at the forefront of Saizo's mind, when he decided to be the first to raise a hand against one of the Newcomers? Had it truly been on any of their minds?

(Lady Sister Brigid, falling by his hands. A necessary sacrifice for the good of Yngvi, or...?)

Andrei summons up a sardonic smile as he forces the unpleasant barbs of thoughts away, turning them outwards in his paltry self-defense. "After all," he says, "I am all but certain these five would do much more good in the end than you or I ever could, is that not right?"

Making the pragmatic choice, always. How far would it go to justify his villainy, in the end?

He scoffs, tightening the fold of his arms, neutralizing any vestige that would dare to slip out from his watchful mannerisms ---- this man was a considerable opponent, and it wouldn't do a damn for himself if he let the temperamental dastard get the jump on him. In any way.

"No need to sound so . . . wistful," He rebukes, eyes rolling. "I know what you did and you know what I want you to know about what I did. Can't change it. No second chances ---- you seem rational enough; you get the idea."

( He'd taken the man for the sort to do what was necessary, qualms aside. Had he mistaken that conjecture? Was this man like everyone else? A mourner for past deeds that couldn't be undone? )

Handy. A place, a cause and its likewise effect, and another name ---- if epithets implied anything, it was one's qualities. So how does one get the name Obsidian?

( He reckoned about the same way as his great-grandfather, grandfather, father, and himself had gotten the name Saizo, but hard-pressed is he to presume other nations indulge in tradition in the way Hoshido does. )

But he's learned a few new trinkets of information: a continent by the name of Magvel resides overseas, war and nature had laid siege to it, within said continent resided an empire ---- of which this man was a general, two others of the same echelon serve within the empire, and monikers aren't foreign to the land of Grado.

What unguarded tongue blabbered about all of such things to a mere stranger? Where was the lie woven between the general's words ---- the deception, the decoy, the diversion?

Hmph. Whatever he would take, he'd do so with a grain of salt.

". . . Yes. Combat is typical of my occupation ---- I'd even say more common in my line of work than in a general's."

( Because it was not typical of the Hoshidan army to employ generals as is known of that title elsewhere, but instead the upper members of society who possessed fighting prowess to lead ---- not a designated stature for it, but a position for anyone so bold enough to step into that duty. Lords and ladies, and less-so men or women trained singularly for battle; that was the purpose of the ninja: to, ideally, upend any threat before martial need should arise. )

Well, that's not entirely truthful. There are secrets of Grado that need not be told to someone he does not trust; that is to say, he would not admit how he turned on his Emperor, demanding better for the people of Magvel. He would not admit Prince Lyon's mistakes ( not even to Prince Lyon himself ) nor Selena's last stand, the blood spilled between them.

But he will speak on Grado, always Grado -- always the love of it, the peace he wishes that would be brought to his homeland. That is something that brought all of them together -- Prince Lyon, Selena, Knoll: the love of their home.

So, it makes sense that he would speak about it with pride.

"The most disciplined are the samurai," He supplies, shifting, palm resting on his knee, one ankle crossed over. "Few achieve the title. Other leaders, instead, make themselves apparent as the peak talents of their fields ---- a diverse army."

( And if you looked at Lord Corrin's, a ragtag band of stragglers that somehow had surpassed any expectation he himself could ever have had for such a frail martial party. )

Minimal free time ---- that tidbit only reinforced the man's station: general. Not a soldier of the lowest echelon, but a soldier of the highest echelon ---- implicative of duty at the mind's forefront, diligence ( or, if the machinations of the man's country were askance, corruption and cronyism ), and subservience to another. A liege. A lord. A lady. Someone.

Not too far from his own position, but a ninja's duty was . . . less upfront than a general's.

At surface level, it was a decent conjecture: that this man boasted diligence, duty, and lord-based servitude ( unless corruption infiltrated his country ) by title alone. ( Or was he one of those fools who clung to a title, even if they had been stripped of it? ) Either way, it was enough information to start a basic report.

"Saizo." He grumbles, arms folding, brow arching ---- not a general, but a name that acted as a title on its own . . . not that a soul outside of Hoshido would know that. "No need to think about it ---- I don't have free time."

He wouldn't be doing his job right if he did.

"You're a general, hm? In what army?"

( duessel thinks that there's always something to do, be it for bettering himself or bettering those around him. he rests when he can, but walks around with purpose; here, he is protecting his students and learning alongside them, and in Grado he was rebuilding and working to restore what they have lost. )

Free time and 'unwinding' are never things that he considered important.

"The Grado Empire," he says simply. "It's located on the continent of Magvel. The continent has recently been ravaged by war, unfortunately, as well as a natural disaster. I was helping to rebuild it before I came here."

He misses home, but home does not need him. Not now, at least.

"I was one of the imperial three, and was called Obsidian. And what about you? Have you seen battle?"

Handy. A place, a cause and its likewise effect, and another name ---- if epithets implied anything, it was one's qualities. So how does one get the name Obsidian?

( He reckoned about the same way as his great-grandfather, grandfather, father, and himself had gotten the name Saizo, but hard-pressed is he to presume other nations indulge in tradition in the way Hoshido does. )

But he's learned a few new trinkets of information: a continent by the name of Magvel resides overseas, war and nature had laid siege to it, within said continent resided an empire ---- of which this man was a general, two others of the same echelon serve within the empire, and monikers aren't foreign to the land of Grado.

What unguarded tongue blabbered about all of such things to a mere stranger? Where was the lie woven between the general's words ---- the deception, the decoy, the diversion?

Hmph. Whatever he would take, he'd do so with a grain of salt.

". . . Yes. Combat is typical of my occupation ---- I'd even say more common in my line of work than in a general's."

( Because it was not typical of the Hoshidan army to employ generals as is known of that title elsewhere, but instead the upper members of society who possessed fighting prowess to lead ---- not a designated stature for it, but a position for anyone so bold enough to step into that duty. Lords and ladies, and less-so men or women trained singularly for battle; that was the purpose of the ninja: to, ideally, upend any threat before martial need should arise. )

Now, though, he finds himself seated across from another man -- this one looking fierce, serious, and mysterious.

Duessel is not put off by the manner of dress or demeanor. Instead, he flips the conversation topic card over and reads it aloud. "Favorite place to unwind," he says, and then looks back up at the other. "I'd have to think about that. I don't find myself with much free time anymore for relaxing."

He puts the card back on the table and looks around. Both of the 'researchers' are taking notes, and he feels scrutinized by the mage with the hair in his eyes in particular. "I'm General Duessel, what should I call you?"

Minimal free time ---- that tidbit only reinforced the man's station: general. Not a soldier of the lowest echelon, but a soldier of the highest echelon ---- implicative of duty at the mind's forefront, diligence ( or, if the machinations of the man's country were askance, corruption and cronyism ), and subservience to another. A liege. A lord. A lady. Someone.

Not too far from his own position, but a ninja's duty was . . . less upfront than a general's.

At surface level, it was a decent conjecture: that this man boasted diligence, duty, and lord-based servitude ( unless corruption infiltrated his country ) by title alone. ( Or was he one of those fools who clung to a title, even if they had been stripped of it? ) Either way, it was enough information to start a basic report.

"Saizo." He grumbles, arms folding, brow arching ---- not a general, but a name that acted as a title on its own . . . not that a soul outside of Hoshido would know that. "No need to think about it ---- I don't have free time."

He wouldn't be doing his job right if he did.

"You're a general, hm? In what army?"

And that is how he finds himself seated at a table across from Saizo — another acquaintance, though one from a mission with an even less pleasant ending — nothing but a simple card between them inked with their assigned topic of conversation.

It is not an unacceptable situation. He'd managed to forge his way through many an unpleasant conversation all his life, and this is just one more. Still, eyebrows raise at the topic at hand.

there are twelve orphans in a burning building. there are five adults who have a proven history of enacting positive social change that are being attacked by ruffians. you may only save one. choose.

(The students at the table next to them are talking about flowers — who decided these??)

Then again, he thinks after a moment's pause, perhaps it is only appropriate for the two of them, who had both made the choice to raise a hand against someone they should've deemed important, even within the illusory world. Andrei sighs.

"I would save the adults," he says, placing the card down in front of the other, "If nothing else, defeating a band of common ruffians sounds more probable than rescuing a dozen defenseless children from the flames."

( Because, for as abhorred as he was against the admittance of fatigue, his bones were heavy in the aftermath of that fake world with its lies and deceptions, illusionists and tricksters. )

Arms fold, broad muscle tucked over the sternum, one eye pilfering and flickering over the frames and images of all who sat to be witnessed. He remained guarded, a facade of ease woven against angular features, but a ninja was never at ease.

A ninja was always watching

. . . even half blind, he could observe better than others. Strange topics, uncomfortable shifting, boisterous enthusiasm ---- little evaded him.

There are twelve orphans in a burning building. There are five adults who have a proven history of enacting positive social change that are being attacked by ruffians. You may only save one. Choose.

The blond is a young man he recognizes ---- the one not above murdering the illusionist back in the thralldom of Rusalka, temperamental and sneering, but nonetheless capable.

"Agreed. They hold sway in society ---- the kids don't."

HOWEVER, that didn't mean either ordeal was beyond a solution. Kids would get burned, sure, but they wouldn't be dead if he made the effort to spare them. But in such a narrow question, they held little merit ---- little effect against five individuals known for swaying society into a better light.

But that's all it was: a narrow question that, as far as he knew, wouldn't suddenly spring to life. So, he didn't fret it. Just like Rusalka's guise, it wasn't real.

⊱⊳ ( &𝐍𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐚 )

Except for the book in his hands: the history of Fodlan, a general overview of everything in the last millennium . . . because that would make this quick and effortless.

( He scoffs, a throaty, gruff sound that exhales sharply, curtly in the back of his throat. )

He'd never been the library sort. His intelligence was gathered in the field, soaked up and written down in the aftermath, filed away where no one would find it ---- as was typical of a ninja. It was how his reports stayed orderly, how they made it to his liege in one piece ( because damn if the backlog for a year's worth of mail didn't create a hassle ).

It's as he thumbs through a page that scuttling, soft sounds collect in the shells of his ears, and his movements cease; he's in the upper rafts of the library, so peering below grants him privy to a visage of navy and ebony. Hmph. What . . . coincidental company.

He closes the book ---- gingerly, silently, unheard unless those 'Laguz' characteristics of the raven's lend him any amplified senses. ( It was an interesting term: Laguz ---- one the raven had used after their . . . initial misunderstanding. Thus far, the Hoshidan had taken it to mean 'not Beorc' ---- another term used. His shuriken had been a 'Beorc' weapon, so, then, could it be deduced that Laguz was animalistic and Beorc was not? Like the Kitsune or the Wolftribe compared to the rest of the world? )

Hmph. All Fodlan had given him thus far was a detective's case: figuring one oddity out after another. But it was better his lord be prepared even into the smallest of details than be caught unawares. By anything.

"Still sulking around?" He chides, voice gruff, arms folding from where he stands at the ladder's top. He steps down onto the first rung, then the second, and stops. That injury looks . . . unstable. Igasato had many salves ---- many miracle-workers ---- but he wasn't sure if anything for a broken aliferous limb was in his home's repertoire of medicine.

( &𝐈𝐬𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐚 )

But this wasn't a game. Not this time. Not like how he would startle Kagero or slight Kaze from the shadows to ease the burden of a hellish return ( not that they didn't return the gesture in full, capable as they both were . . . )

This time, it was nothing shy of confrontational.

( He had always, of himself and Kaze, been the brash one ---- not that he'd admit it to Kaze. But this wasn't brash. This was his duty. Traitors relinquished their rights to a fair trial the moment they turned the colors of their banner, and his target had done exactly that. )

Dusk meant no company. No company meant an easier exchange . . . not that his first exchange with her had been easy, all pining and desperate over the false face of her traitorous partner that she'd seemed half maniacal . . . To him, anyway. Mushy and gushy and outrageously gut-churning over a man that didn't seem to care for her.

He approaches, discarding the shadows as cover ---- he could always return to them if need be.

"You," He grumbles, sliding out one small blade from its strap beneath his wristguard. "An explanation, and I may let you go. The hell were you thinking?"

( For as much as he wanted to reap the fruits borne from the seeds of her betrayal and add one more life to the list of those he’d taken in the past year, foreign relations would only allow him to act so far . . . But then again, a ninja’s purpose was to defile themself with the dishonorable endeavors so their lord needn’t have to. If this was one such moment, he’d take it gladly —— foreign relations be damned. )

⊱⊳ ( &𝐂𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧 )

( Who, in the past year, had been uninformed by his overseas infiltrator. Whose face, in the past year, had lingered nearby, nothing more than a lie. An illusion. A damn trick against the eye. But not to his resolve, no. He hadn't believed the world of Rusalka could have been anything more than a deceptive ploy ---- a tale spun if the liar who wore his liege's face could only conjure the excuse of seeking paradise. Lord Ryoma wasn't so selfish . . . so dishonorable to leave his people sieged by these 'Nabataeans' while he dwelled in paradise. )

( And yet . . . why couldn't he shake his mind of it? )

Arms fold, eyes seal and then open, and new company has joined him ---- familiar company ( and part of him has to wonder if this is another illusion. Another trick. )

"Lord Corrin," He addresses, voice stern, arms unfolding to unsheathe one of the kunai tucked behind his wristguard. "Are you 'instructing' this exercise?"