don't waste my time

At least there wasn't someone standing on top of him anymore. He wasn't sure how much longer he could have taken that. And they were discussing leaving to go check one of their own apartments. How fortuitous! Mark could just lock the doors as soon as they were out, and he wouldn't have to worry about this any longer. He just had to lay low a bit longer, and then--

A knock at the door. Another one coming to hide in his apartment? None of them seemed to be expecting a visitor, aside from that girl. Mark watched the smaller of the two blue-haired men barely begin to raise a hand and call out to her before the door was open. A face (or what Mark assumed to be a face) was pressed up against the peephole, swinging inward with the door to scoop up the girl in one of its many hands. Just like that, she was gone.

Mark couldn't help himself. He yelped in shock, bolting up from his hiding place to press himself against the back wall of the apartment. The larger of the two blue men bolted forward. Once again, the smaller one tried to stop him, but his cries fell on deaf ears for a second time. The larger man had chosen action, and he would likely be the next to be claimed by the beast... or at least, that's what Mark assumed. He was quickly proven wrong as the door was slammed shut and a chair wedged beneath the handle. They were condemning the poor girl to her fate this way, but...

...Well, what hope would they have had against that thing?

"W-what-- did you bring that thing here?!" Mark cried, eyes darting between the three remaining others. It was only now that they seemed aware of him. If he'd said nothing and slunk back into his hiding spot, he might have gotten away without being noticed. Now it was much too late.

"What? You think I'd want her to get eaten?!" Lex shouted back, stomping his way over. Mark shrank backwards, eyes wide with fear as the massive man loomed over him. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

"Calm down!" The sudden intervention from Alfonse was a relief, giving Mark the chance to scuttle away and put himself between the scaly one and the football player. "We have to-- Ophelia--"

There was no way for them to get to her. The realization was clearly dawning on the normal-looking-man's face, even as he tried to hold out some kind of hope that he could assist.

"...N-no, we don't have to," Mark countered, finally addressing the others properly for the first time since they'd arrived. "You heard the... um, noise of its jaws shutting. It sounded like it took her head clean off."

Hard to tell for sure with the stone body she'd developed.

soren looks down at his hand, dark scales curled around cast iron.  Lex made the right call - the safe call - why did soren expect them to fight?  

does he want to fight? how different is he from the beasts he'd run from?

(the thought passes that sinking his claws into flesh might elicit some sort of pleasant response - like those stupid videos of people digging their fingers into goo, but the goo is blood, and)

he shakes his head and drops the pan.  It makes a loud noise, but that's what their sudden interloper gets for making a sudden noise themself.

he tucks his arm back under the sheet and turns to face - 

Ah, they look like a pile of clothes.  That explains the one thing, the question of why would you be that (aside from the obvious) goes without one.

Lose one, find another, he thinks.

“However we feel about it, it's valuable information.  If we go out at all, we need to be prepared.  Lex has the right idea, but the rest of us don't have… All that at hand.”

Yet, thankfully, all that she sees is her companion, a crateful of jars held in his seemingly struggling arms. She cheerfully hops over to assist, fully ready to conclude this cavalcade of quests.

“There had never been a single doubt in my mind that you could do it, professor Soren.” She lets out a boisterous laugh, before taking the crate off of him and carrying it without too much issue; she briefly thinks of how far she had come. The L’Arachel of a few months ago would have struggled a bit more. This is why one always strives to improve themselves!

“Let us head over to the dye-maker and start untangling this mess! We can walk slowly so that you may regain composure, though the swifter we leave, the less likely our deceit shall be found out.” She offers as she slowly starts walking forward, crate firmly held in her arms so as to not let anything happen to the jars.

he's only a little winded.

“Stop referring to it by name and you may have an easier time stomaching it,” he counters.  With his freed hands, he begins making sure his robe is straightened out.

“If it feels better, pretend you had no idea what was happening.  It was all my idea, after all.”

“You would assume correct. As for a better source, I may be able to provide aid. Curses and dark magic are my specialty, and I have spent many waking hours studying the topic.“

She shifts slightly, her arms crossed, not out of discomfort, but because that is their most natural resting position. In all her time, Nyx had wondered how it would be if she met another like her. One that was fated to live longer than they ought to. Would she feel comfort? Camaraderie? Peace?

Pity. That was her answer.

“If we were identical, it would be self-evident,” he replies.  She doesn't need to know he's met others like himself before, nor why he would forsake his kin, such as it is.

“My expertise lay elsewhere, frankly,” soren continues, “curses and dark magic are rather new to me.  Perhaps we can help each other.”

She pities him, does she?  Well, at least he can leave a bar with drink.  The list of benefits ends there.

"It's not a terrible idea, actually," Alfonse mused, painful as the idea might be. "Birds are rather vulnerable to even mild toxins, due to a combination of their light weight and lack of resistances. It's a very common thing among bird owners to need to make significant lifestyle changes to make sure nothing in the home can harm them. Even putting the wrong type of cookware above a flame and be lethal."

Even if her transformation had created resistances she had not held previously, it would likely be much lesser than most other animals. At least, Alfonse had to assume as much. He was hardly an expert, just a bird owner who quite enjoyed burying himself in books and research in his free time. He had to imagine there weren't really any people out there who'd have more insight into a situation as unpredictable as this one. People who had spent their time studying a specific animal could easily have everything they knew thrown out the window in an instant by unexpected transformations.

"The more significant complication, in my opinion, would be size," Alfonse explained. "She's grown quite a bit larger, though I can't say how much of that is actual physical mass and not just feathers making her look bigger than she is. I don't believe she can fit through the doors anymore. Not... without breaking them and the surrounding wall, at least. Which she might be capable of. Er, regardless, it would take a substantial amount of poison to affect her at this size. Realistically, we'd probably hoping to weaken her to make her easier to put down rather than for it to kill her outright. I don't know how her eating habits have changed, but I'm sure we could create some kind of toxic bait for her. Oh, and, uh, owls tend towards predatory behavior. She doesn't much care for anything other than live prey. So... another complication there. An airborne poison, if we can come by one, might be the way to go. The way birds store gas in their bones makes them more susceptible to gaseous toxins, if I recall correctly. Are there any bug-killing sprays in here?"

“With your experience, you can advise us on the best tool for the task,” he replies.  he turns, as much as he's willing, towards lex.  (wants to get him away; tell him to check the -)

But there's a knock on the door.  soren freezes.  Of course, this apocalypse is so strange that it seems almost fitting (though still absurd) that society's mores should still be adhered to.

Their female companion makes an excited sound and jumps from her perch on the arm of the couch to open it.  She doesn't check the peephole, nor does she ask any questions - it's one fluid motion of her arm opening the door

     and a great appendage scooping her up, silencing her cry as it pulls her into a great maw.  Three misshapen hands, no - four, five, six grasp the door frame as the mouth that had just swallowed her whole tries to enter the apartment.  The wall around the frame creaks.

Wishful thinking, clearly.

"Now, I do not recall saying that I looked forward to it. But if you should mean to imply that I hold a measured interest in how humans create other humans, that would be correct." An equally unclouded fact; Rafal was intrigued enough to attend, brave enough to appear when no other was capable of conquering the embarrassment of association. In another light. eccentric enough to meet this opportunity halfway rather than be forced into it. Most of all, inhuman enough—dragon enough—for such a seminar to hold value in the first place.

"Perhaps I should have led with my reasons."

It would not do to further Soren's line of misinterpretation, after all! Rafal was not excited by the prospect of his learning today, he merely thought it. . .opportune. A perfect alignment of planets and stars. Where else would he delve into this topic without strings or requests attached? He would certainly not ask anyone nor approach with any intent to expose his mind on the matter. So he was here.

"—I am a Fell Dragon. The ways of the dragonkin are naturally known to me, including our processes of birth and creation. Those that belong to mankind? Less so." In the process of this explanation, it occurred once more to Rafal that he was this seminar's singular attendee. Did that not come with a certain leverage?

This is so stupid.  This is so, so stupid.  soren is meant to tell a creature that is surely multitudes older than him how humans make other humans, and neither of them are actually - !

That's the problem.  Does he know?  The laguz know.  Do fell dragons have the same sense as a common laguz, or is rafal missing information others would find basic?  Riddling this whole predicament out is excruciating.  soren wants to just leave.

soren wants to keep his job.

“Fine,” soren relents at last, though his expression is nowhere near welcoming.  “i can hardly imagine it's too different.  We'll make this quick.”

How different can it be, after all, when soren is the product of both?

She can’t conceive of the need to discuss a task as simple as this, either. There is no point to a signal when speaking up is (or will be) the signal itself. When she knows something of weddings, and more of the lines one must read between.

(If her experience differs from her fellow’s in that, she forgets... Or else doesn’t care. She hasn’t got time to waste.)

And yet, Ayra says nothing.

The bride’s father, being a public figure in Pearl Shoals, isn’t substituted for, and so it is more than possible that her stand-in is wearing the actual dress... or a replica of it, like as not. They cannot have the real thing getting damaged given its price, of course, but their act must be convincing.

soren would, at least.

And the bride herself hardly looks the part, either. She has a half-lidded gaze, more condescending than cautious, scanning the rows of guests on either side.

She takes her time getting to her destination.

“No, no!” the words are hardly out of her mouth before the man hurries to reassure. “I mean no disrespect, my lady. I was only thinking, regarding such a grand proposal…”

A noble whose fortune is so freshly minted as to not yet have the patience for a moment of silence! Such an imposter does not deserve to find himself comfortable, but such an effect is easy enough to achieve if she sets unease into him first. And now:

“—At ease,” she relents warmly enough, setting clasped hands upon crossed legs. “I understand your dilemma. I will speak plainly, then.”

She leans forward and begins in earnest, all business. “You know little more than we do," she parrots, "but we both know that the tears are shed by a maiden in your employ. Don’t bother pretending to be alarmed. The rumors are so widespread that you must have encouraged them yourself, in hope of securing a more… adventurous deal.”

As a courtesy, she waits for the count to nod. If he won't even allow this modicum of rapport, then his whole gambit is pointless. But, eventually, slightly wide-eyed as he is at her bluntness, nod he does.

A thin smile as she shifts her gaze to Soren, as much in address as to monitor his reaction. “My aide has developed tonics that can transfer all sorts of attributes from one living being to another,” she lies. “Superhuman strength, unfailing stamina, lightning-fast speed. Creating such a tonic through study of the maiden is the extraction. Administering it to others is the upscale.”

The count's eyes dart to soren, as if seeking confirmation, which soren goads with a small smile and a respectful nod of his head.  he watches the count's eyes flicker upwards to his brand, and he also sees a glimmer of fear.

Interesting.

Though rather than address soren directly, the count forces a laugh, smiling despite the wringing of his hands in front of him.  “Wouldn't we all?” he jokes, desperate to separate himself from the common folk, clearly, yet still knowing his position is tenuous.

“The risk,” soren offers, in the lull in conversation, “is merely in the quantity of tears needed for me to extract a proper formula we might expand upon.  This is where you are more learned than we - the amount your maiden produces per day, and whether or not she may be persuaded to produce more is beyond our experience.  i would prefer she not come to harm for a profit, but i will defer to your expertise."

The count's eyes go wide.  Profit and accolade is on his horizon, and he would be a fool not to seize the opportunity, no matter how false it may actually be.

He doesn't reply immediately, so soren interjects in the interim to make him squirm.  “Your eminence,” he address sanaki with more convincing respect than he had earlier, “i would ask of you if there were any techniques we were disallowed from, in pursuit of procuring the tears from this maiden.”

It kinda tickles, he notes. He giggles, ducking to check under a small bush — nope, not there! It certainly feels fun, the way that his limbs all tingle from both the cold and the excitement and the danger—

His hair is sent flying to cover his eyes at the next howl.

HENRY 7/10HP

So it's behind him — but when Henry turns around, he is only greeted by the silhouette of the professor. A pause, then two, but there's no time to waste. "Watch out!" is all he calls, as his spell fires right to the side of Soren, shadow taking aim at the theoretical of where this demon might be.

That's all they have, really — and that'll be good enough, Henry thinks!

HENRY 7/10 misses! [Roll 1d6: 4]

he keeps his answer to himself.

There had been no flinch as henry's spell whirled past him. soren's too used to fighting in close quarters with others, and with the way he's focused on spirits, his perception of each spell is akin to sight on a clear day.

When henry's spell cuts through the mist and reveals nothing, soren can sense movement to the left. Without wasting any time, he draws a spell from his tome and -

SOREN 7/10HP hits! [Roll 1d6: 6]

As his spell clears through the fog, part of the blade of wind comes into contact with a shaded figure, both dark and shimmering as the mist, but taking a decidedly more humanoid shape. It flinches from the blow, and soren deftly calls for another spell to follow up.

SOREN 7/10HP hits and barely hits ONSEN ONI with Excalibur at range. [Roll: 10, 2; -2HP, -1HP; ONSEN ONI 10/15HP] Poison Strike activates twice! ONSEN ONI -2HP; ONSEN ONI 8/15HP

The second gust makes contact, then the shade seems to explode into mist, but into an impossibly growing cloud. In no time at all, the growing fog has once again ruined all vision, proving that soren's blow had not been enough.

soren means to make comment, but the overwhelming fog enters through his mouth and nose, and the chill is so biting and in such a visceral spot of his body that he shivers upright, moving on the basis of some deep instinctual response long since baked into the beorc body.

It hurts.

ONSEN ONI 10/15HP deals -1HP to SOREN and HENRY!

SOREN 6/10HP

soren forces an exhale, trying to draw as much air out of his lungs to avoid the feeling. Whether or not his own action had effect, the pain subsides.

Trick of his trade and all.

And so roll with it he does. "Yikes—harsh! But maybe with a hint of truth?" he recognizes. No avoiding that one in a class that was advertised the way this one was. The difference between the two of them was that Fogado considered that truth to be a charm point. "When you tell people they have a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make a unique gift for someone they care about, they're going to worry about if their once-in-a-lifetime production ends up being uniquely bad."

An assistant making the rounds finally makes it to their row, dropping an evenly-proportioned hunk of couverture chocolate with an efficiency that screams I've been on my feet doing this all day. In an act of sympathy, he spares her the wink and acknowledgement he might usually give.

The question posed feels wiser than soren may have expected. Almost by design, fogado is difficult to read, and that sets soren on edge. he's already on edge around people - more people and he slips closer - but fogado is different in a deeply disturbing way.

This tiny conversation they've already indulged in has seemed like an ocean wave at low tide. Gently in, gently out, testing how far the water may creep on the beach; how much of the beach the land allows to darken under it.

The question arises whether or not fogado himself is aware of the answer soren will present. he assumes so; it's the manner of question in which the asker poses only when they know the correct answer wasn't poised as a response. soren knows the trick.

he doesn't stare at fogado as he answers. Rather, soren reaches for their proverbial clay to begin actually getting something out of this. (he may as well, right?)

"None of the above," he says, his fingers digging into the chocolate. It is like clay, he finds, but softer. "You're standing in a space you made for yourself, outside of the crowd, so that you can watch them."

Of course, Deimne knows not of the exact nature of this, but surely part of being a mercenary is adaptability. He's not expecting to be sat down and told about it, he's no student. Giving Soren and Bullard a nod, he follows the two shortly behind, a sharp eye out for any waywards striking from behind. One arrow already notches, string still loose. Just in case.

"So, where'd you come from?" Bullard asked, walking beside Soren.

"Jugdral. Kinda far away, but I heard this place was good for jobs." Deimne shrugged. After the war things were slow back home, and in spite of the noble surroundings he had a gut feeling this might be a place to call home. At least for a while.

Deimne is eager to fill the job. Too eager, by soren's measure. With how he speaks, and how he seems, soren would wager he's new to this line of work. Everyone has to start somewhere, he supposes.

"Jugdral!" Bullard repeats, as though he's responding immediately after deimne's answer. He tosses a grin at soren that soren doesn't return. "This'll be even easier, eh? Heard those Jugdral folk are twice as strong as a bleeding crestie!"

soren doesn't dignify it with an answer. he looks towards deimne with a level expression. he won't stop deimne from living a lie, but soren can already tell that their archer isn't one of those people.

"I don't disagree that taking out the leadership would leave the rest floundering without proper organization," Alfonse concurred, though his crossed arms made it clear disagreement was coming before his voice ever did. "However, I do not think it may be quite so easy. Those at the head are likely the most resolute of them all. Swaying them would be an immensely difficult task. I also surmise the Church may not be all too keen on replacing as expensive an investment as multiple horses, so that arm of such an approach is equally non-viable."

Perhaps it was a bit of a morbid suggestion, but this Soren didn't know Alfonse as a prince or leader. Unlike back home, he did not have the concern of upholding a certain image for the sake of those around him here. Besides, the pragmatic Soren would likely have thought of such a thing on his own even if Alfonse did not say it. Better to head that discussion off before it leads them towards something Alfonse already knows to be a dead end.

soren does not know horses well enough to lie about how he might have gathered it, aside from interviewing other relevant horse-caretakers.

Instead of disclosing any of that, soren quirks an eyebrow at alfonse and bluffs. “So you’re satisfied with exploiting animals, but draw the line at hiding the truth from humans? You asked for my advice in this situation. Did you think i wanted you to be completely honest in your discussion with them? Of course not – it’s self-evident how that would play out.”

"Y-yes, well... I don't necessarily know if you'll enjoy this, but I thought of something that could certainly give us an advantage, yes," Mark explained. A series of tokens were produced from a leather pouch at his hip and scattered on the map. One was larger than the rest, colored red and marked with a small shield, placed into the center of the map; a series of small, green pieces surrounded the red one; and finally, a pair of blue tokens placed outside the square in which the remainder of the tokens were placed.

"So... he works with children," Mark began, placing a finger on one of the green tokens. "And given that the venue is open, we can expect children to be there. We don't know what our target is capable of, and we don't know if he might have allies lurking about. We can't be certain whether or not the other workers are on Gouda Boy's side, after all."

A series of gray tokens with question marks on them were placed behind the large, red piece to illustrate the possible reinforcements. Mark's hand then moved to the two blue pieces, sliding them close to the entrance of the building. His eyes turned from the map up to Soren, a small frown on Mark's face as he searched for any reaction from the other tactician.

"We need to separate him, both from the children and from his potential allies. Going after him inside of the store would be ill-advised. It's not a fortress, but for all intents and purposes, it wouldn't be too different from trying to besiege one for us. I don't know if we'd be capable of physically restraining him, but we could trap this rat with any luck." Mark's finger tapped a small square located on the edge of the map, separated from everything else by a small distance.

"The outhouse could be a good place for that. We don't know his schedule, but we don't necessarily need to. As I said before, the store is open, and one of its primary services is hosting children's birthday parties... and, um, to put it lightly, we don't exactly look like adults. N-not that there's anything wrong with-- I-I have a bit of a baby face too, y'know? Only one of us can be the birthday child, so... whichever of us you believe looks older should just be a friend or guardian accompanying the other."

Hopefully Soren wouldn't be too upset with that assessment, but Mark may as well move past it as quickly as he could to try and avoid Soren having a chance to get frustrated. He would leave deciding which of them would pose as the birthday boy up to Soren. Asserting that Soren looked more like a child than Mark did would probably be a poor impression to make.

Crimson eyes flick upwards from mark’s display to the man who crafted it, judging despite the relative praise soren has just offered.

So now he's solving a noble brat's problem.

“Nooo!” the girl whines.  “Surely being your biggest fans deserve some reward…”

Both she and the boy who'd been bothering leo seem absolutely heartbroken, entreating him with big, pleading eyes.

“He said no,” soren repeats.  Leo's correct no matter how insincere his offer may be - soren has been pulled away from his date and he is not pleased about it.  he levels that energy into a glare focused at both of leo's purported fans.  “Find another to harangue into performing to you, and don't pull any more disinterested third parties into it.”

“But – !” both students attempt a protest, but it dies just as quickly as it comes.  They share a meaningful look, unflattering pouts commandeering their expressions before they finally relent and turn and leave.

soren doubts they'll learn anything, but it seems as though if another professor is bothered for their trivial pursuits it won't be him.

if she had been able to defend herself then, would she have killed…?

she looks down at her drink, frowning at the distorted reflection pooled within the teacup. never confessed aloud, but there had been nights when she found herself wishing that something terrible would happen to those men. for every blow, and every wandering hand, there’d been the fleeting thought of inflicting a similar pain onto them. to show them how it hurt, how it violated. for all her internalized disgust and shame, there was also anger. deep-rooted and brewing in her chest, in having been treated like her life was so worthless, but…

she had never thought of killing them, no. it had crossed her mind only in the direst of straits, when she’d feared it was between her life and theirs.

“...i don’t think i would’ve been,” dorothea confesses at long last, tone contemplative. “regardless of all that’s happened, i’ll always see such an act as a last resort.”

a slow exhale. “impressive as your magical prowess is, professor, i’d say your humanity is your greatest boon. it doesn’t take much for those with power to exploit it. they’ll even use it to justify terrible acts against others. the fact that such a thought has never crossed your mind speaks to it.”

something flickers behind her eyes. an unnamed emotion; intense and mournful.

“It's proof i'm lacking in humanity.  Humans rarely need reason to treat the undeserving worse, but this mark is practically a permission slip."

he pauses to take a sip of his tea.  “Like you, i'm well familiar with the two-faced nature of man.  Whether or not one recognized this mark, their treatment of me would vary vastly.  And now…  miles away from any who understand its significance, it's granted a false respect to those unfamiliar enough with crests to see it's of a wholly different nature.”

Or perhaps it isn't.  soren still hasn't done enough research to confirm that.

“I am going to walk over to the side, and think more on the subject there. If you come back with an orange, for all intents and purposes I am going to assume you have obtained it legally.” She hopes that he catches on to the meaning of her words.

“If the glassmaker is suspicious, I shall hope you will be able to figure things out.”

In a way, it's a bit of an unwanted nostalgia that hits him as he watches the fruit vendor's eyes to find an opening to pilfer food.  soren pushes it out of his mind and tucks the orange into his sleeve before returning to the glassblower.

he lies.  he tells the tradesman that the fruit vendor sent him with a single orange to prove he had the fruit ready for him, but wasn't willing to give any more than one to an outsider to deliver.

As soon as soren identified himself as an outsider - as some one who doesn't belong here - the glassblower opened up, as though he'd been merely waiting for soren to confess the truth.

“I'm much kinder than she is,” he says, when he sets the orange down and returns to some crates.  “I trust you to take all these jars to Jamie yourself, sooooo…”

He heaves the crate of wares across the counter, as though he expects soren to match his strength and take them.  In the interest of avoiding another event, soren makes an attempt.

he ends up bent backwards, ears burning angrily as the glassmaker laughs and waddles out of the establishment doing his best not to just drop the whole package the moment he makes it outside.

Edelgard; Claude; Dimitri; Camilla; Chrom. Such names imbued with empyrean importance in Elyos belonged now to the mundane likes of leaders, royals, and even students. Far separated from the godly caliber of the Emblems capable of granting any wish, metamorphosing any failure into the image of power they idealized. Another living ghost, the Not-Emblem Soren, was found to be no different in that way - and much the same in others.

"As peevish as always."

Rafal unlaced his arms at Soren's arrival, remaining seated at the only occupied desk. He had been waiting for the other man in his own classroom, for how long need not be said. The only words that required saying was the purpose for which he'd arrived. But first, he observed his former tool now given flesh. The acetic temperament, the no-nonsense attitude, the short stature - all were exactly as Rafal might remember from a thousand years ago, most of the right pieces in exactly the right places.

Unlike his Elyosian counterpart, the true Soren naturally did not float, but he also did not possess the same whispers of draconic suggestion. What had been disguised or little noticed in favor of an Emblem's greater omnipotence now reached the Fell Dragon's consciousness in full force. He blinked, realizing the extent of his protracted silence and wordless observation.

Rafal slips and nearly uses that word - emblem - a title soren has heard before in reference to himself, but knows so little else about.  Perhaps it would warrant investigation if he didn't have other things to do, but as it is, the conceit only serves as an annoyance a specific group of people inflicts upon him.

“Offering is a generous way to call it,” soren responds, “as i was informed just this morning that i was meant to instruct on the subject.”

soren pauses to pinch the bridge of his nose.  Teaching this subject to an individual isn't much preferable in this instance, though he can't imagine a situation he'd enjoy having this conversation in either.