vengewise

“don’t put yourself down like that.” she can’t help but stand and reach forward, patting him affectionately on the head like she would have her own son. “the bond made between two people fighting the same war can be stronger than even blood relation. there isn’t a single reason to think you didn’t do anything to help him change at all.” her smile turns warmer and far more genuine as she looks down at him. 

“modesty is a good trait to have… but it’s not bad to be proud of yourself once in a while either.” if there is anything he takes away from this conversaton, she hopes it’s that.

So reluctantly, he gives in and his shoulders slouch down away from his chin.

"Mm... maybe you're right. But, to be honest, I think he changed me more than I changed him. I probably would have spent the whole rest of my life in my village if the Fiana Freeblades hadn't come by."

But he should be proud of himself, shouldn't he? He's alive now, after all.

"I wasn't about to let them take all the glory for fending off Lifis' gang from our shores though, so shooting's good enough for killing pirates, at least."

His cup's empty by now. He doesn't know when that had happened. So he nods to their glasses and then the empty teapot.

For him to get mad? Exhausted with her?

She's unsure, and he really seems like somebody too kind for his own good.

But she cannot find any words.

She probably should feel guilty for pushing him so much to use it, but instead she's overjoyed as the spell sparks to life.

The technique is unsurprisingly graceless, but the power of it stuns her.

First time, huh?

She raises her hands and claps slowly

Looking for words

"You're not hurt, are you? That was quite an impressive power for someone casting for the first time; only Ishtars would surpass it out of those I've seen."

She's still quiet and soft, but the distraction eased her mind quite a bit.

"You really should cultivate not necessarily offensive magic, but maybe healing could be useful. I mean, Jugdral is still plagued with conflict, and even if not, hunting accidents happen. Ah!"

She rummages around for her paper again, scribbling quickly on another page.

"Please don't feel uncomfortable denying me, but maybe you could try a basic heal? I bit my lip a little, but I can cut my finger if you need a clearer target.

White magic improves with proximity; there's no need to be poking the wound, but most people hold the patient's hand or put their hand on the person's shoulder."

"Wasn't she the best mage of our generation? That's what I'd heard. And she's come from a whole line of powerful mages. I might not know who my dad was, but my mother's not a mage."

If she was, then she's hid it pretty well all these years. He can't imagine she wouldn't have woven in little tricks here and there, like this scrap of paper capable of lighting the hearth, if she'd had any talent with it. But still, Tine echoes what the old man who'd hired him for the monastery had said. Impressive. For someone without any training at all.

Ronan glances down at the palm of his hand and flexes his fingers.

"The fire didn't touch me, but, ah... that wasn't my first time. An old monk tested me the same way when I got here. Whatever he'd scribbled on that piece of paper had let me shoot arrows without a bow."

But it wasn't him that he should worry about. When Ronan turns to look at Tine again, her lip is a little bloody from how she'd been biting it earlier. And then she says she'll cut herself.

"No!" Ronan darts toward her to make sure she doesn't reach for any of the knives on the counter, standing between her and anything sharp. "No, please don't. I don't want you hurting yourself like that just to test me. I can... try to fix up your lip, but--"

He frowns, looking her in the eye.

The ship abruptly rocks as a trio of cannon fire slams into them. Yunaka's lucky, and she's quick enough to grab onto the rail before she goes flying overboard, but a crew member nearby isn't so lucky. The sound of him shouting is cut off by a splash down below, but Yunaka barely gets a chance to look over the side before more shouting tears her attention elsewhere.

Damn, that's a lot of ships on the horizon.

With gritted teeth, she pushes herself back up to her feet. S'fine. S'fine. They're not finished yet. So long as you're still breathing, you can keep fighting. She glances over at the students, counts three heads still on board, and turns away with a nod. Still all fighting.

"We're taking on water!" Oh, great. Yunaka abandons the cannons to run over to the stairs below deck. It's not bad yet, but even from up here she can see water streaming in from below. They might not have as long as they'd like.

"Keep us from getting surrounded." She shouts over to the students. How they do so, she'll leave in their hands. Retreat or fight...their call.

Yunaka rushes down the stairs. Repair a ship, how the heck do you repair a ship? There's a plank of wood leaning up against some crates nearby. She grabs that, fumbles around in the crate until she finds a hammer and some nails, then rushes over to the nearest leak she can and starts trying her best to get the plank secured on top of it. As soon as she finishes, though, the wood groans and another trickle of water starts to pour in right beside it. She groans, turning to find another plank. "Come on!"

But she was calm, so calm actually.

Lene thought about taking another shot at the approaching ships, but she was terrified at the idea that it could cause worse problems then if they just turned around now. It wasn't ideal- but she wasnt fond of dying in the ocean.

If she had a coin for every time she thought she would die in foreign oceans... she'd have two coins! Which isn't a lot but... its strange that it keeps happening! Maybe Lene should stay clear from ships.

"No... We should..." Lene's comment trailed off, as she quickly made her way towards the captain of the ship "I am SURE that you have realized by now-" fretted Lene, as she pointed toward the horizon "We'll ensure that the ship stays a float- just... please get us to safety" She didn't stay to hear the answer. Instead, swiftly making her way down towards where she had seen one of the others on the ship run towards.

"Im here-! Ill help!" Lene assured her, taking one of the planks near by, hammering the plank on top of the exposed area of the ship. She sighed, wondering how long they're going to be down here- and how soon they will be safe on land again.

But she wasn’t one to refuse quick and easy kicks, the type that would last for a couple minutes at most before falling apart in a spark. In the end a trick was a trick, and as long as their objective was met- fooling someone, in her eyes it was welcome. Just like eating a piece of candy here and there.

So when ruckus reached her ears, lined with laughter and confusion, it was impossible to hold back a smile. The silky hem of her sleeve was pressed against her mouth, a feeble attempt to try to make delight pass for quiet surprise when the blue of that archer’s hair appeared amidst the crowd right around the corner of her eye.

Oh, he needed help? Sure…

“Me? Ah…” Tamamo looked up, the bow flapping its ‘wings’ wildly like a butterfly towards her direction. Maybe she should’ve made it go somewhere else, muddy the tracks a little more, but this would work enough. “But it’s so far up, I can’t reach…” A snap of fingers brought the staff back to her hands, red gems glittering against sunlight as she loosely tried to wrangle the rogue bow with it as if it were a scarf lost in the wind.

“Hmmm…how did that happen to you now? It’s quite…weird.” Golden hues glanced at the man, partially hidden by the cut of her bangs. “But it’s a little funny…hehe. Hehehe.” Oh poor thing, the staff just wouldn’t catch the bow at all- each failed attempt earning a shaky pout from the magician. Perhaps some would see it as frustration on her end, unaware that the quiver in her lips came from holding back that beast of a grin. “Maybe you need to catch it with a bag…like a little butterfly. Quick, before it decides to fly up and away.”

For a split second, he wondered if it'd be easier just to make a new one. Then maybe he wouldn't be the center of this marketplace's attention right now. He could tell that everyone who'd put their shopping on hold to stare at him - merchants and customers alike - did so expecting to witness the conclusion to this very bizarre, dream-like chase sequence. If he wanted to, he could abandon his bow and just walk away. Disappoint them, but keep his dignity in tact at least.

His bow starts to flutter its wings again, rising on a swell of wind, and Ronan makes the decision without thinking.

"Let me borrow that," he says, and grabs the student's staff. Whether she lets go or not, he's too distracted to notice, and pulls her over to some crates stacked up next to the wall. Then he starts to tug his green shirt off over his head with his other hand. Now wearing his white undershirt pulled loose from his trousers, his hair ruffled by the sudden undressing, his eyes trained on the weapon flying overhead, he steps up onto the lowest crate. Only one problem now--

Yet, for only three years in this coastline by comparison, the sound Ronan speaks of it doesn't feel so odd.

That is not to say it is not new though. Leif, for all he might call this sea his home, had still been a prince held in safety and a relative newcomer all the same. Three years for Leif is but a single handful of sand compared to Ronan's beach's worth of experience in this lifestyle. Fiana and Iz, for as close as they were, were also not one and the same.

The smile Ronan shows now is, Leif imagines, from a time he didn't know him too— a thing afforded to those like the shopkeeper from before who know the secrets of living in places like this for as long as they do, for those who don't pick up a sword but instead a hatchet or a bow. He follows after Ronan's lead, chasing through hills so as to chase these extra years of a lifestyle Leif came too late into.

To chase 'home.'

“I've only ever followed the Freeblades to go fishing. You make me wish I'd broken off once... maybe I could've brought something nice to surprise Osian and Halvan with if I'd been more like you, Ronan,” Leif speaks in some admiration, keeping up pace. Even back then, he'd been chasing his neighbors for this feeling, just as he chases after Ronan now.

At twelve years old or nineteen— it's all the same, so it would seem.

“Maria said the forests in Verdane reminded her of Macedon, right?” he plays off of Ronan's line of inquiry. He remembers then to perhaps look back after her and make sure she's keeping pace too, forgetful and newly conscious of this. Leif slows his pace in reaction, but he keeps his gaze glancing forward through the trees towards their destination. “Salt... I think I smell the sea. We're getting close, aren't we?!”

A scent that sets him alive and makes him homesick all the same; for all consideration he reminds himself to put when Ronan's words had reminded him to, Leif forgets again, a sudden burst of speed pushing him forward in that youthful anticipation.

Chasing home, chasing Ronan's memories, chasing the sea— they all make his feet light as can be.

"Your home is beautiful," she answers sincerely, despite that gentle pang of envy in her chest. Even of her Macedon, she knows precious little. Had she ever traced the line of its shore with her footsteps, or wandered through its dense forest from below, and not above? Had she ever touched its waves like this? The displaced princess -- Leif and Ronan's friend -- turns over her palm, dropping a light and playful touch against the glittering sunlight. "Hee hee... if you told me right here that the coast stretched on forever, I think I would believe you."

It's only then that she wonders why it is that a prince made his home in a coastal village quiet enough, peaceful enough that a shopkeeper might while away his mornings in the sun. Her eyes chase his back as he breaks away, his question answered firstly with a faint smile. Then her gaze drifts toward Ronan, curious if she might find another there to share, and she thinks that she would much rather ask them all the reasons they hold this place so dear.

"It's really, really pretty," she asserts, nearly to herself.

"I'll keep your secret safe," Maria promises Ronan fondly. The excited grin shining toward him is split in two by the finger she brings to her lips, and swallowed up entirely by a peal of laughter. "But yes! Macedon is surrounded by the ocean, too! The mountains are covered in trees--" At that, the little cleric reaches toward the sky, fingers splayed as if to catch every drop of blue. Then she directs her palm outward, much the same as Ronan had before. "--but whenever I missed home, I'd look at the water and think it was just over the horizon." Like that, it was never so far away.

Throwing out her arms, Maria shakes off the energy bubbling in her chest by twirling in place. It isn't as if she has any idea where they're actually going, even if she runs ahead. (She giggles at that.)

The cliffs overlooking the coast here are tall, but not dangerously so, and a crude set of wooden steps has been hammered into a slope down one side of them. They'd obviously been made by an untrained hand, perhaps a child, but they serve their purpose as footholds well enough. Ronan marches down them without so much as a slip, making it clear that he'd been the one to build them, or at least use them more than anyone else in the village. There was a certain confidence in his step that only came with trust.

"Well, we're here," he says once they reach the rocky shore. It's low tide at this hour, so the beach is strewn with debris - petrified logs, algae, and broken shells, mostly - and pockmarked with tide pools still full of water. Here, too, a low waterfall spills the river into the ocean, and a small bay separates where they stand from the rest of the village's coastline.

Ronan starts to patrol the tidepools, stepping carefully between them so as not to slip and fall in.

"There's usually plenty of fish over here. Most just aren't very edible," he says over his shoulder. "When I was a child though, learning how to catch anything was enough to make me feel like I was doing something worthwhile."

By now, her head was starting to clear. Vague recollections of exactly what she was doing here and why began to stitch themselves together, forming that beautiful tapestry of memory that she had always been protective over, yet whose threads seemed to come undone so easily. She sat up, and when her legs shifted, the seaweed that had been caught between them also moved, like a pair of fins or a fine tail.

"No, no, I was not swimming. I had been fishing in the dock, just right there, when I was viciously pulled in by… something." Flayn sighed, "What it is, I cannot yet say, though I have my suspicions."

There was no other fish quite as fierce as the Goddess Messenger, so she was certain that must have been the one to drag her down the pond's depths. Though perhaps her diminutive size could have allowed lesser creatures to pull her in… but still! She wished to believe that, even for a moment, she had managed to hook the elusive fish, even if she were the one who ended up getting reeled in.

She wrung the water out of her hair, which was so heavy with pondwater that its beautiful curls had lost all shape, and it instead sat limply over her shoulders. It was at this moment that she realized how she might have looked in front of Ronan—drenched, heaving, utterly messy—and felt a warmth creep up to her cheeks.

"Oh! Er," she stuttered suddenly, "I understand now how terrible of a first impression this must be... My name is Flayn, and I would like to assure you I do not normally fall into ponds, nor get caught into hooks! I must thank you once again for rescuing me. You must be disappointed I am not a large, delicious fish."

He was well past the age of fairytales by now, and he'd come to terms with the truth of the Woman of the Sea back when he was still a teenager. There was no such thing. He knew that. And yet like all the fishermen who'd spent their evenings at sea trading stories of the fish woman they were so certain they'd seen, his heart fluttered with some small hope.

And he was staring.

"No, not at all," he said absently, only half-aware of what he was answering as he blinked away from the tail-like fan of grasses around her legs. (legs, surely. not a tail.) Still flushed pink, he raised his eyes to her face and sat back on one knee. What was he saying? What was she saying?

He was still staring.

"O-oh, uh," he shook his head and quickly stood up, "Flayn. What a--"

Cute name? Pretty name? A perfect-for-a-mermaid name?

heated, impassionate, he interjects on her behalf, drawing the attention of all around who are determined to do nothing else but laugh at him. her brow creases with sympathy, then anger ; then gratitude and something more difficult to place softens the line of it again just as quickly. he shouldn't be here, doing that, and for a moment she steps forward to say so, only to be yanked back again before she can open her mouth. "you're not going anywhere," the guard growls at her while some woman's strident voice rises up further in the crowd, ronan continuing on afterwards.

then all of it is stopped. her attention, along with dozens of others', turn to the front of the walkway. the fringes of the crowd there shuffle aside, falling hushed. someone even more important than any of them has shown up ; her brow renews its righteous crease.

the elderly man stepping through smiles when he looks at her, which is a surprise, but not one that unseats her for long. the ones that smile always have the worst intentions. "ananke. is that your name?"

"who's asking?" she doesn't think her tone's rude, but a ripple passes through the crowd anyway. the elderly man looks over her shoulder at them, and it dwindles into silence again.

"that's not important to you," he dismisses gently as if she was an insistent child, which only makes the line of her mouth tighten more. "what is, is that i must admit your friend is a little right."

all lines dissipate in surprise. wha. . . ?

"i'll make this quick because i don't have time to spare. there is another suspect in our custody as we speak."

the rattle of her chain is almost querying, preceding the guard's voice. "my lord?"

but he continues as though he hadn't heard. "as it stands, there is evidence that implicates you both. however, we know for certain that only one individual could have murdered the viscount. i will give you both a choice: investigate and present a testimony against the other to sentence them to death, and you may go free."

the quiet is deafening. she's not completely sure she understands. already, one flaw in this choice stands out: "that doesn't make sense. if we both testify against each other. . . "

"then presumably you will have both found strong evidence against the other, and so you both will be shackled in the dungeons as the investigation continues."

her throat is dry when she swallows, rough and parched, never taking her eyes off him for a moment. " . . . "

"but as i said, for now, your friend is correct. there's not enough evidence at the moment to implicate either of you." he waves the cane at the guard, and it doesn't feel real, but the man barely hesitates. in a few seconds, the iron around her wrists falls open and she rotates them disbelievingly. the last word the lord gives is spoken with a shrug in parting as he turns, like an afterthought: "should you both choose to do nothing, i suppose there's little we can do but let you go. i have no interest in making an enemy of the church by convicting you wrongly."

. . .

"I can't believe that worked..." he says, near-breathless and mostly to himself. The earlier claustrophobic feeling has given way to the cold echo of marble walls and for a second he almost forgets that the person he'd defended was still at the other end.

"Are you alright?" His head snaps up to the sight of Ananke absently rubbing her wrists in the same kind of can't-believe-this-is-real daze that made his own legs feel like rubber. The gaoler had hauled the chains off with him when he'd left, but Ronan trots over looking for them anyway. Maybe then this situation would sharpen back into reality.

"Sorry, I don't know if you had a plan or anything, but," he shakes his head and doesn't meet her eyes, "I couldn't just stand by and not say anything. These nobles will just--" This time he stops to find the words, frowning and still shaking his head in half-disapproval, half-disbelief at some distant point between two columns along the corridor. The heads of those gossiping ladies sneer at him from the shadows, then they twist into the heavy features of the guard, before smiling with the subtle hint of personal amusement that he swears he'd seen on the old man's face.

"They don't care about fairness, you know? Not usually... So I'm going to make sure I do everything I can to help clear your name now that they've given us the chance."

Us. Ronan says it without even thinking. The only 'us' had been that of two mercenaries in the employ of the church, contracted to guard a paranoid nobleman. There didn't need to be an 'us' now in the trial of a murderer. Anyone else probably would have just walked away from Ananke; the messes she got tangled up in was her business.

#WINNINGSUN || Ethereal Ball 2026

once again, she chooses not to comment on it. there's no use stirring up more frenzy—but goodness, does she let out a great and forceful exhale.

"that's strange. mind if i take a better look?" dorothea reaches for the stack of papers in claude's hand. she stills at first, lowering her torch to illuminate what's written, though gradually finds herself drifting from his side to pace as she reads. soft humming accompanies her footfalls, eyes narrowing studiously.

. . . ♪ ♬ ♪ , ♬ ♪ ♪ . . .

"...not a hymn," she finally announces. "those are written to be simple enough for even an untrained congregation to sing. we're talking simple melodies, repeated notes, a comfortable range for all... so on and so forth. this, however—"

she raises the sheet music over her head, giving it a light shake to catch everyone's attention. "—is a completed piece, titled 'my bane to be.' a terribly melancholic one, considering all the modal shifts. were this an opera, it would usually signify a character descending into tragedy—like betrayal or loss. things of that nature."

then dorothea's rustling snags her attention. tragedy and betrayal, she announces, unlike what ought to occur down here. (maybe a few moons ago, for bernadetta.)

or so they can only hope. without realizing she shifts closer again to flayn, unwilling to accept an apology that her downturned gaze does not owe anyone. instead bernadetta's mouth starts running, as it is wont to do when her body knows it will be marginally kinder to her than thinking.

“um, would you guys say the church is a fool? for, you know, that fool's mistake. ah!”  she jolts beside flayn, gray eyes shot wide despite the sincerity of her question. and then, with some light patting to her own cheek, punitive in spirit:  “s-sorry! i'm sorry! i didn't mean to say that!”

rather than digging herself any deeper, a spike of escape-fueled adrenaline compels her to scamper right past claude and toward the remaining crate. with a little grunt, she shoves aside the lid with her running start and dives halfway in as it's clattering to the ground.

“i-it's definitely got to be fine!”  bernadetta's voice carries a faint echo while her legs kick in the air behind her.  “no fools here, even though we just found some theater-fools' masks, nope. just like there's no getting smote for accidental blasphemy. hey, so about those wings!”

she found them, she thinks. at least one, which comes toppling with bernadetta's body after she wriggles out from the crate, hoisting the stone appendage with her underperforming might.

“ACK—” she lands on her back with a thud, and the heavy wing sandwiches her flat into the ground. one of the boys would do better in taking it off of her figurative hands, and more literal body.

“...mm-mmph. ronnmn? clauhnm?”  ronan? claude? she even almost thinks to mumble saint cichol? but remembers what she'd just said about blasphemy. then, above even that: flayn's sweeter company.

Without thinking, Ronan tosses the other mask he'd picked up back into the box with the rest the moment the girl tumbled out of the crate. The room had been nothing short of a whirlwind of motion the moment she'd asked her question - a question Ronan failed to see a problem with; at least not one for such a reaction - which had been just after Dorothea's revelation about the music so Ronan hadn't the time to consider what that meant or what Claude meant about the lower floor being on fire.

He was already standing over her, hands waving helplessly by the time Bernadetta finally stilled under the weight of a stone carving. It was probably the only thing in the entire room that could stop whatever panic she'd riled herself up into.

"Are you alright?!" Ronan grabs one edge of the severed wing with both hands and hauls it back, nearly toppling onto his backside himself. It wasn't as heavy as he thought it was, and he'd put his all into trying to move it. It hits the ground heavily enough to rattle the contents still in the other crates though, and Ronan staggers to catch his footing.

"Did it hurt you?" He offers his hand to help her back up to her feet.

Speaking of tragedies: maybe Bernadetta was aiming to make her own up here.

Ronan looks from wing to statue, sizing up what it might take to hoist the thing up there and then the kind of materials they'd need to hold it in place - materials he doesn't think this tower has.

"So... a burned tree... a wingless monster in a burned room... and a tragic opera?" Ronan frowns, concentration etching a deep line between his brows. For a moment, it looks like he might even solve their riddle, but still with that look of deep thought, he echoes what everyone else must be thinking instead:

"... What in the gods' name does that mean?"

boom.⠀⠀⠀boom.⠀⠀⠀boom.

deep and resonant drumbeats, stunning everyone silent. were those the alarm, telling everyone that attackers were here? shoot.

rosado grabs for his axe, not sure if they should just dive in now, or. "where's professor hedgpeth?" in charge of the greenhouse shifts and duties, but better known as the administrative aide of the student choir with an awful soprano he loved any chance to use.

"he's back at the. . . " the two girls exchange looks.

"shit. he's by himself!"

"Get closer to there," he bites, tilting his head at the ruins. Unintentional agitation creeps into his directions, but he does little to restrain it further. "Scatter — but stay close to each other. If you're in minor trouble, yell. If there's too many on you, run from everyone else. Don't get everyone killed."

And if you find Hedgpeth, let me tear a hole into him myself.

"Rosado and," he gestures at the girl with the toothpick-like sword in her hands, "with me upfront. Ronan and," the other, "keep an arrow notched behind. Reconvene at the northwest wall: 10, 12 tiles ahead. Understood?"

"Yeah—" but Bruno is already moving.

He's not sure what to expect when he emerges from the bush, weapon in hand, but a silent landscape — still, eerily so — isn't part of it. Eyes narrow as he trudges ahead, regardless: silently abiding by the same plan. Nothing for the first few steps; and then with his next, a shrill CRACK.

Eyes flicker down to see a bottle crunched under his heel.

Ronan slides to his knees and presses his back up against a tree once he's close to the wall. Chest heaving, head turned to watch for sign of Bruno, he waits and tries to slow his breath.

The crack of glass releases him as quick as an arrow, and he whips around the trunk to take aim.

"Over here!" someone shouts from beyond the walls, then comes the march of at least two pairs of boots across the gravel within the compound. By torchlight, Ronan only has moving shadows to go on. He fires. A man grunts and something leatherbound and heavy hits the ground. Struck in the knee. Then a new shadow, faster and more lithe, wheels around the corner toward Bruno as Ronan desperately nocks a new arrow, too slow to catch it.

It’s unfair in the same way a regular skirmish is, when he’s fighting someone with weapons only to feel the sharp and sudden sting of thunder making his vision blur. There’s no need for all that, and there’s no need for his thoughts to spiral as they are now, throwing a half-hearted look of disbelief in Ronan’s (commoner) direction. 

True love implies some cosmic, Goddess-granted pull. A piece of himself that’s missing that’s more important than all the other pieces gone bad. 

It implies there’s a choice to be made, or that they won’t all settle for something sooner or later because love is something wielded like a tool in the arsenal. “Can’t say I know anyone who’d trade down, no.” Ronan’s not unattractive, it’s worth noting, which is probably why he entertains true love at all. Maybe somewhere, there are some bored, rich widows that’d take him on. He mirrors the shrug he’s given, slapping on a grin and a raised brow. 

“Lucky for you, it doesn’t really work the way you’re describing either. Sure, they’d get an earful, but as long as they’re a non-inheriting daughter…eh…you’d be looking at a semi-pampered, semi-important new life. Would that be so bad?” No matter how people pretended, these things always mattered. Just like it did for the brunette eyeing them from several tables down. “Oh…that girl? Yeah…I thought she looked pretty familiar. Rose? Rosalind…Renee…” None of the above. Iris, maybe. Sylvain makes a thoughtful kind of sound. “We dated a while back, nothing serious.” Nothing Sylvain thought was serious anyway, except that she’d evidently thought a few nights was enough to strongarm him into an early proposal. He feels the daggers when he turns away. “You’re right about one thing. A noble and a commoner? Always a recipe for heartbreak.” 

"My mother is depending on me to come back to our village to take care of her, and I could never give up the sea... Fishing is more rewarding than, um... this." He gestures to the ballroom as a whole and then looks back at Sylvain. By now, the redhead seems entirely disinterested in the girl, but Ronan is willing to take his reasoning at face value. They'd dated, and that had been the end of that. Maybe he'd just been watching her to check up on what she was doing tonight.

Sylvain's feigned heartbreak flashes another smirk across Ronan's lips and he tilts his head.

"Are you speaking from experience? I'll keep that in mind then. Why date someone if you're not serious about it though?" After a second, Ronan shakes his head and then looks down at his bouquet. "If that's too personal, you don't have to answer. Most people I know marry the first person they like."

Unless Sylvain simply didn't like anyone at all. What a dark thought.

But something about her dance, as beautiful as it was, had seemed lonely, especially up against a pair who seemed to infuse their trust for one another in every move, but perhaps it was merely his imagination. And, he realizes suddenly, he'd just made a remark he hadn't quite meant.

"Er, that isn't to say that I didn't enjoy dancing with you earlier, I just-- You know what I mean, right?" He glances away and rubs the back of his neck as he scrambles to save himself. "I thought you'd win for sure."

The feeling that emerges after the White Heron Cup is not disappointment, per se. It is more of a disorientation, a force that sweeps her off her feet and leaves her on the ground wondering. The arrival of Ronan does little to help her up—why, his praise does more to knock her over! And to think he had watched her up there? A trickle of warmth drips its way from her chest down to her stomach. There is no mistaking this feeling.

Flayn smiles, but her cheeks tingle so much that her lips start to quaver, "I do know what you mean, Ronan. There is no need to explain any further. You flatter me greatly! And..."

She takes a deep breath. Wondering if she should take his hand, then deciding against it for now.

"It is fortuitous that we should meet. I was just thinking about you. In fact, I find myself thinking of you quite a lot." Admitting that, strangely, does not make her nervous. Nor does the question that comes after.

#WINNINGSUN || Ethereal Ball 2026

“um…” now that bernadetta’s looking at it, there's something about the creature that stills her, but not out of abject horror.

“hm-hm-hm… hmm?”  moving to cross her arms, she ends up striking a pose of deep thought—a nod beyond her years like she’s understanding something more important than it really is, a rub of her chin with gloved thumb, and the other arm wound tight across her waist, clutching that paperweight she’d picked up earlier.

“okay, uh-huh…”  a little more drawling, more nodding to herself.  “yeah, wait a second… yep. got it! bernie’s heard all about these before! from my, uh—my really good friend. they’re gargoyles, and they’ve got these huge…”  her arms flap to pantomime an eagle’s flight, except if the eagle were half dead and diving into its own grave.

“...wings,”  she supplies, for her horrible acting.  “if claude's right, we're looking for those? but…”  three crates for two wings? let alone how nightmarish the creatures had sounded? why hadn't she brought her trusty cardboard box?

“to be honest, i haven't heard anything good about them. they're monsters that chase you around… o-on the bright side, they were only on some island that had games. nobody got seriously hurt, i think.”  the idea of the church hosting a funhouse in the goddess tower is even less convincing than making a prison of it, but given the nature of tonight—the reception hall, those illusions…

“dorothea remembers where i’m talking about, right?”  bernadetta spins to her, seeking validation for her claims.  “i’m not going crazy, honest! i was a rat and everything!”  

but, games were still all they were. and what was a puzzle if not another?

"i do," she replies unhappily. "you're thinking of happyland. i never saw them myself, but i heard the same stories. apparently, they were fans of snatching people up."

her gaze returns to the stone creature, expression darkening at the thought of the beast springing to life to do just that. "i don't know if that explains why they'd be here of all places," she muses, "but... let's say that's the case. that this thing really is one of those gargoyles. is assembling it really the best idea?"

a frown.

"i know, i know." dorothea hastily addresses potential pushback before anyone voices it. "there's not much for us to try. but it's just a thought. doesn't hurt to stay wary."

“If Flayn says this place is safe-“ she didn’t, only that this place wasn’t a prison, “—then we shouldn’t be so worried. We’ll find a way out. This can’t be the first time someone’s come in here and had the doors shut on them, right?”

But why was this room charred, like there’d been a fire here not too long ago? Ronan resists the urge to reach up and touch the statue’s wrinkled face, instead turning to examine the rest of the room and the three crates Dorothea pointed out.

“There was a terrible sorcerer from my homeland who could turn living things to stone,” he murmurs, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the creature. “But it could only be reversed by a rare, special spell. Even if this thing was once alive, it isn’t now, and to keep the key to its imprisonment in the same cell would be a fool’s mistake.”

Still, the crates have him curious about if that might be true after all, so he walks over to one to try the lid. It’s neither nailed nor locked shut, but takes both hands and a grunt or two of effort to lift it. With a heavy sigh, Ronan finally slides it aside and peers in. Arranged on a bed of cloth are four different masks - human-like caricatures one might find on stage for a play.

“No statue pieces here,” he says, partly relieved, and lifts one of the masks to show to the rest. If it’s the visage of a saint, he wouldn’t know. “I’m beginning to wonder if this might just be the church’s storage room. What do you think about these, Flayn?" He holds the mask over his face to hide his smile. "How do I look? Am I lead actor material?"

He points to his own head, and breathes in awe.

"You have rabbit ears."

Which doesn't help him in the slightest.

her ears fold down awkwardly. “...yes?” an agreement? a question? probably a little bit of both.

estel has never thought of them as any more curious than anyone else’s ears back home, but in fódlan they’ve turned out to be something of a marvel. what passes for human here is so different to what she has known all her life. where were the animal ears or the horns? their tails? their wings?

everything about the people here just seems so...empty in comparison. just look! there are entire limbs missing from where they should be!

her brows knit together, but there’s nothing for her to really point out on him aside from the absences. well, if they’re not on top of his head... estel points to the side of her head instead, head tilting. “don’t you have ears too?”

All of the hard-earned lessons Ronan's mother had impressed upon him in his scant twenty years have been forgotten now as he stares - gawks, really - at the way her long ears twitch and fold just like those of a rabbit in the field. Miraculously, he finds that he even understands the gestures, too. To an extent, anyway. As much as a hunter comes to understand the important signals of his quarry. And he can tell right now, even without the knit of her eyebrows, that she's not too happy with him. His cheeks flush and he steps back apologetically, the spell snapping in a single breath.

"I'm sorry, I was just-- I've never seen anyone like you before." At their mention, he touches on of his own ears and frowns. When she puts it like that, maybe his observation had been a bit foolish. He wouldn't have gone up to anyone with weird-shaped human ears to point out their shape. Now she's giving him a taste of his own medicine. Why doesn't he have a tail or wings?

Suddenly, Ronan laughs. It's shy at first, and for a moment he hesitates to fill her in, but he decides it's only fair. He's bumbled his first impression severely enough; nothing else he says will truly make him out to be worse than she must already think.

"... Actually, when I was very little, I used to wish for wings. Fins, too. You know, like whales and porpoises, if you've ever seen them. They swim so much faster than humans. Even faster than some boats!"

He cuts himself off, and then laughs sheepishly again.

#WINNINGSUN || Ethereal Ball 2026

Claude stops for a moment, examining the plant. It stands before them, its branches devoid of all foliage. Red leaves are strewn all over the floor, and it makes him pause and frown. The tree doesn't look dead, and there shouldn't be any wind coming in strong enough to tear the leaves all clean off like that (then again, there shouldn't be a tree here in the first place, but let's ignore that detail for now), so… What exactly happened to it?

He shelves the thought for the time being, turning his attention back to Flayn instead. "Much further up… Did we not enter through the usual door? I don't think we've been walking for that long." Still, none of this explains what he sees as he glances out of the balcony beside Flayn and Bernadetta. That… really is high up.

… Shouldn't the town be visible from that side instead?

"There's something weird about this space," he observes out loud, looking at the others. "Best if we don't separate unless absolutely necessary. We might not find each other again."

With that in mind, he moves away from the balcony, intent on checking what other hints he can still find in the immediate area. On his way, he brushes past the wall -

and suddenly jumps with a gasp that not even his usually forcefully stoic self can hold back.

—how claude is the first to pause.

dorothea does, too. the only difference is that where flayn and claude wander some paces away to poke and peer around, she stands rigidly in place, a growing frown tugging at her lips as she holds the torch out to illuminate the space.

...or rather, where she stood before claude's gasp makes her jump as well, and the torch in her hand clatters to the floor. clang!

heartbeat, he says, and the heart in her own chest sinks. "don't touch anything!" she does not expect to say it so loudly, but there's no point in taking it back. "i wouldn't be so quick to assume that we're alone in here." ghosts are the least likely threat, she thinks as she glances bernadetta's way. monsters, on the other hand, have a penchant for taking on unassuming forms.

dorothea stoops to retrieve the fallen torch, and in a matter of seconds, she's re-lit it with a fire spell. "i may be wrong," she confesses, "though i can't help but think how eerily similar this is to the church's prisons we entered last year—one step through the door, and suddenly we're in a new space."

she eyes the walls warily.

"...i'd rather we not split up, either."

Ronan whirls around from the tree with wide eyes, nearly fumbling his own torch and looking as guilty as he felt.

"I wasn't going to, I swear!" he blurts out, because yeah, maybe he'd thought about reaching up and touching a bough of this magnificent, although leafless tree, just to see if it were really made of stone. But it had only been a thought borne from his awe of the place, a natural reaction to such austere beauty he'd never seen before.

"... huh?" Ronan's shoulders drop, realizing that Dorothea hadn't been yelling at him. Not exactly. She seems distracted, a little on edge, and when she sets a new flame on the head of her torch, it wreathes her face in grave shadow. Ronan follows her attention to the wall Claude had jumped away from. Did he just say the wall had a heartbeat? Well, they couldn't - shouldn't - touch it again, just to be safe.

"Do you think this might be another of the church's prisons then? It's off limits, usually." And then quieter, more of a mumble under his breath: "... A prison's a strange place for romance."

The red leaves swirl around his feet when he crosses the room. They're as brittle and papery as the real thing, but still bright in color, like they'd only just fallen despite winter having stripped the rest of the trees of their colorful coats some months ago. Outside on the moonlit balcony, the whole forest surrounding the mountain on which the monastery had been built sits below them. Far below them. Ronan leans over the stone balustrade to peer down in search of the bridge that had led them here.

"It is beautiful though... What a view from up here! It's like you can see the whole world."

#WINNINGSUN || Ethereal Ball 2026

dorothea exhales slowly, bunching fistfuls of heavy fabric to drag herself toward the door they all huddle around. “the only spells i know would blow it off its hinges,” she admits, reaching out to tug at the handles herself. to no avail, naturally, though at least it confirms the fact. and lest someone think to suggest that might be a worthwhile option, she hastily adds, “...and send the tower crumbling down with us in tow.”

( alas, such is the risk of using spells in confined spaces. a brief glance at her palm reminds her of that hard-earned lesson. )

so, what now? here they remain, trapped unexpectedly with no way to contact the outside world. even if they could—would anyone pay attention? a night of revelry drowned out the senses, and wandering eyes lingered only on all that glittered.

defeat is conceded once she steps away from the door, turning to study the space they’ve found themselves in. flickering torches encircle the room, casting soft shadows across the weathered stone floor—and tucked into a dark corner, dorothea finally spots what appears to be a winding staircase. “huh.”

“well! i don’t know about the rest of you,” with that, she makes for the walls, lifting two torches from their sconces. "but i don't plan on spending the rest of the ball locked in here. shall we head up?"

the torches are held out in offering to those who might want to take one.

not that she knew of any way he might hear; she's never even seen the man's ears. still, dorothea finds what looks to be the only route and bernadetta's a follower, which means two things: one, she most definitely isn't going up that staircase first. two, "i-i'll just... stay behind dorothea and flayn. i'm not so great with fire."

rather, she doesn't quite trust herself with it right now. better to leave at least one set of hands free, besides. bernadetta isn't exactly skilled enough to draw her bow without both. she'll also need both to climb and jump out of the next window they find, because there aren't any to be found on ground level. up it is, then.

she throws a glance to flayn. with the other two boys near her, both of whom bernadetta knows far less, she almost thinks to stay closer to dorothea—but instead, she purses her lips and opts to scurry by the other girl's side, less willing to leave her alone. "th-there aren't any, um, ghosts or monsters down here... are there? i mean, i-it's a holy place! it's got goddess in its name!"

Maybe they’d be fast enough to slip out before anything collapsed on them. But the way Dorothea adds on her warning, hurried, like she doesn’t want the rest of them to take her suggestion for a serious one, sounds like it’d be worse for them than it sounds.

“But this place is pretty important to the church, isn’t it? It would be best if we don’t damage it unless we have to.”

So Ronan just takes one of the two torches she’s pulled down from the wall and starts for the bottom of the stairs that spiral up into the darkness. The timid one with the purple hair stammering on about ghosts and monsters stops his foot on the second step though and he studies the thick blackness beyond the flickering realm of his flame.

“This tower might be out of the way, but it’s still pretty close to the rest of the monastery. Monsters here would pose a threat to everyone else, not just us.”

So there probably aren’t any. He tries to sound confident, and maybe if it were the middle of the day, he’d be as confident as he sounds. But a draft blows cool air down the stairwell, and along with it, the soft tinkling of wind chimes, and raises the hair on the back of his neck. He glances back curiously to see if anyone else had heard it, too. When his eye catches Flayn’s, he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders.

“... Up, then. I’ll lead the way.”

The narrow stairwell spirals nearly a full circle to the next floor, the chimes growing louder the higher they go. A shut door awaits them at the top, but Ronan tries its handle - it’s in good condition, he notices, and that’s a heartening detail; it means someone takes care of this place - and the door swings open without resistance.