Mar 3, 2025
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i'm starting to believe that shamir is cooler than catherine, but i hesitate to say that out loud because i have a hard enough time getting catherine to let me swing thunderbrand as it is.
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🎨
i'm starting to believe that shamir is cooler than catherine, but i hesitate to say that out loud because i have a hard enough time getting catherine to let me swing thunderbrand as it is.
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[ FASHION POLICE ] Arms crossed over her chest, Shamir certainly isn't surprised to see that Ferdinand has already made a star of himself at the party-- not even through his baseless words alone, but by a mixture of his impressive attire and who accompanies him as a date... a development that she wouldn't have seen coming, but to be completely fair: she doesn't generally give a damn about the interpersonal happenings of the students. Unless she's forced to care and intervene. In which case, nobody's happy. "If you told me you were the same boy I saw at that ... Cupido Bash party, I'd be inclined to say you were lying." Her voice is gruff, but it takes on a tinge of playful humor as she gives him a quick once-over. Her outfit is nowhere near impressive, a simple dress shirt tucked into some slacks-- something she threw on because she was forced to attend as faculty. "You look good, Ferdinand. Make sure you enjoy your evening with Miss Arnault, alright? Here, take this. Heard something about exchanging them, and I at least want to take ones that hold meaning to me. Not interested in a wild goose chase just for the hell of it." Gingerly, Shamir retrieves her seashell charm from a safe place in her pocket, extending it to him in offering. Shamir pauses, though, glancing down towards the sand. "... Is there a part of your cape missing?"
Not far from them, perhaps a few paces away, a little mischievous crab skitters away with some 'prize' held aloft in its claws-- possibly a piece of fabric?
※ toa ball 2025 | first half
“ah—!”
he pivoted on heel with the elegance of someone far too accustomed to being praised for his posture, only to freeze mid-turn at the familiar voice. the surprise was fleeting; of course she would find him in this state. instructor shamir possessed a preternatural gift for cornering him precisely when his dramatics were at their most potent. and yet—he straightened with a smile, too pleased by the compliment to mask it. “instructor Shamir! I assure you, it is I. just perhaps… a slightly more polished rendition.”
his chest puffed ever-so-slightly. “thank you. and please, allow me to return the sentiment—there is no finer uniform than one worn with absolute confidence.”
as she handed him the charm, his expression shifted subtly—grateful, touched. “your seashell?” he accepted it with uncommon reverence, folding his fingers around the token like it were a decorated medal. “I am honored. I shall guard it with as much diligence as i would any sacred relic.” and in exchange, he relinquished an anchor into her grasp.
and then—her comment. the crab.
he followed her gaze slowly. the color drained from his face.
“my cape—!”
without hesitation, he bolted toward the skittering thief, cloak snapping behind him. “halt, you crimson-clawed scoundrel! that fabric was sewn together by Bernadetta, herself!”
"Heard you pulled a victory out there." Shamir has no allegiance to any particular house, and really, when it came to picking sides... she simply chose at random-- this time, it happened to be the Black Eagles that gained her support. It's the same method she's used to judge the White Heron Cup in the years she's been conscripted into chaperoning.
"I almost wish I had seen. Word is that you're quite fierce with your axe." The archer quirks a brow there, knowing full well that those words are true. Someone like Edelgard wouldn't get to her position without having talons to gouge those who challenged her authority. ...Much in the same way an eagle will effortlessly down a weak or ineffective predator that dare contests them. "I didn't get to give you much support. I don't think you'll need it, though." "Good luck on the rest of the tournament."
"That I did."
There is no hesitation in her words, only assurance. Edelgard lays one hand atop her hips and keeps her face neutral. "Those rumors would be true," she says bluntly. Expectedly, she finds herself constantly in the spotlight. Students to her left stare in amazement at her skills; others to the right wonder what the Imperial Princess aims to accomplish on Gronder Field. None consider asking her directly. "I find things get done quicker when I'm wielding an axe or a sword."
Her hand falls back to her side as she looks upwards. The sky remains in a momentary lull— A quietness seldom few think to accept for long. She laments not being able to witness others' prowess, but she has already viewed that of Shamir's in moons past. Even if she may no longer find herself in today's fray, Edelgard has no doubts that she will stand to see tomorrow's.
She meets Shamir's gaze again. Triumphant; true. "Regardless, I appreciate you siding with the Black Eagles. Consider doing it again in the future." She means this.
Linhardt is one of the students that she's had the least amount of experience with-- but she's at least aware of the fact that he remains one of those affected the most with the way that things have unfolded. Shamir will never force her companionship upon another, and as such, she's silent as she stands nearby; almost as if she were standing guard, though the apparent threats had been subdued for the meantime. Dorothea is better at this than she is, that's for certain. Shamir's never been one to know what to say in vulnerable moments, and often opted for silence instead... but she knows she can't always default to it. "Linhardt," She stops to crouch nearby, giving him more than enough space to leave should he choose to. "Everything's alright now. This... didn't end in the ideal situation, but all of us are alive." "You did what you could. Nobody can ask more than that from you. Pasithee made her choice... and now it's our obligation to carry on the torch, one way or another." "Come on. Let's go back." She purposefully neglects the use of the word 'home'-- because the bunker certainly isn't Garreg Mach. They'll reclaim what is theirs by the end of this war, and she hesitantly offers Linhardt a hand.
linhardt isn't sure what to do with this attention. dorothea is his friend, so her attention is expected just as he gives her attention in return. shamir... is a knight of the church. as a student, linhardt shouldn't have much reason at all to talk to her, or for her to talk to him. working in a group like this would always necessitate interaction regardless of relationships or affiliations or, well, anything, but that doesn't really explain the almost gentleness with which she's approaching him.
they know that they aren't very strong. pasithee's death affected them, but so does any death - every death. they don't have the stomach for violence. they don't have the fortitude for fighting. this is a fact, and basically, it's a liability at garreg mach.
some one as level-headed and even-keeled as a skilled sniper and knight of the church should recognize linhardt for the coddled noble child he is. so he doesn't expect her hand extended to him, and her attempt at soothing words.
hesitantly, they nod.
this isn't exactly about losing a patient. he healed pasithee, with the intent to keep her alive, but it had not been out of obligation. her decision ultimately spat in the face of linhardt's expended efforts, but the feelings that struck him as a result hadn't been anger or regret at being rebuked.
they don't really understand how they feel, they realize. that sentence that could be interpreted as praise, however, sticks with them.
she's right. no one could ask any more from him. he did that without being asked.
linhardt extends their hand to accept hers and uses that connection to bring themself to their feet.
"thank you," he says gently, for lack of anything else to say.