#heavy-draw

She's got a cracker halfway into her mouth when she realizes Shamir is talking to her. She freezes, then decides that's not a good idea with food in her mouth, then forces herself to keep chewing and swallow before she chokes and coughs to death.

"That kinda sucks." She informs Shamir factually. Why would she call her a time of day? That made no sense at all. Yunaka claps her hands together to get the crumbs off her fingers.

"You'd think if someone wasted the time to write and print a book, they'd make sure what they were saying was actually good." That or it was a scam, in which case...well, unfortunate for the people desperate enough to buy a book in hopes that it would help. She reaches over and pinches the spine of the book to take it from Shamir and read herself. She only manages to scan a few lines before grimacing and shaking her head.

"Geez, all of these are bad. The scripts I used to read had way better ones." And she could prove it too. She snaps the book shut and hands it back to Shamir. Except this time, she follows after the book, stepping into Shamir's personal bubble as she does so. The smile on her face is practiced and the tilt of her head is calculated as she looks up at the mercenary from beneath her eyelashes.

"I can give you a private show sometime if you need convincing."

...see? Easy. And way better than that stupid book.

It's not that Heath is uninterested in the mock battle tournament, but between strenuous recent missions and no real loyalty, he figures watching will be his best bet. He might help out in the med tents, too. Keep an eye on things.

Shamir's got about as much house spirit as he does, evidently, betting against her own team like that. Heath chuckles, a grin on his face. Shamir always keeps things interesting.

"Yeah, I'm down." Hmmmm. If Shamir lacks confidence in her own team, that doesn't bode well. Heath hasn't paid a lot of attention to which students are in what house, really, but if she's going Lions and lacks faith in the Eagles, that leaves one option. "Golden Deer. Their name isn't even in the fight, I'll take the dark horse."

The flickering of flame on her torch is all that remains to light the darkness of a winding corridor lined with various wooden crates; not many, not enough. Her lips thin as she walks past each other, the lids cracked open to reveal that there's hardly anything inside in the way of useful contents.

A shiver runs up her spine as a presence behind her immediately alerts her to the fact that she's not alone-- and there's zero hesitation as the mercenary spins around on her heel. Shamir's already torn her hunting knife from its sheath on her thigh, and she tosses the torch to the side as she lunges forward to slam into the silhouette not far behind her. There's time for caution and time for initiative; judging by the fact that they just suffered a vicious defeat, she can act first and ask questions later. When she knows her safety (and the safety of others) is secured.

The two of them tumble to the hard ground, a grunt coming out of her as she straddles the waist of her assailant. The sharp edge of her trusty knife rests against the side of their neck as more of a promise than a threat, and the blade presses just hard enough to send a stinging sensation. Her free hand remains to pin one of the other's arms down, and Shamir leans forward far enough to make sure that they aren't going anywhere without a fight.

But… realization quickly dawns on her that this isn't one of the creatures she fought at the monastery. Despite that, however, she doesn't loosen her grip.

"What're you doing sneaking around here? Not a great idea to remain in the shadows when everyone's on edge, you know."

While kicking around dust is absolutely what she wants to do, Selena obviously can’t be seen looking so lethargic. And so, in a pursuit for mild entertainment, she makes the rounds of their dingy little bunker, taking stock of this and that. For the most part, it’s just moss and mold. The sound of lids rattling atop crates down a dark corridor does spark her attention, though.

Someone’s moving in the dark. Rummaging for supplies? Or, an intruder? Her eyes strain in the darkness to no avail. She sets one step forward,

and that’s as far as she gets, immediately tackled and dominated in a whirl of blades and paranoia. A yelp manages to escape from under her captor. Winded, flushed, and infuriated at her failure, she coughs up her lungs and tries to make sense of what’s happened.

“What the hell…What’s…what…” What’s wrong with you? The knife at her throat makes grave a situation where she might once have told someone off. The numbness that pervades her arm at her shoulder is familiar, and frustrating; it's the embarrassment of losing a duel. Meaning, surely her assailant is an ally, surprised…? If it were an enemy, surely Selena would already be dead.

Whatever! That wasn’t even fair…

♡ ˚·  @heavy-draw asked:

Well, it wasn't exactly often that Shamir took the initiative to start a conversation-- yet considering the fact that they would be crammed into a pitiful room for the foreseeable future, the archer opts to make this less... daunting for them both. Drink in hand, she casually extends one of the glasses in offering to Ishtar. Truth be told, Shamir has no idea what sort of preferences the other woman has in the way of alcohol (or if she even drinks at all), but... It's the thought that counts, right? She had chosen something fairly neutral, with a hint of sweetness. "Ishtar, was it? Apologies for springing this on you. If we're going to be stuck together, might as well make it as enjoyable as possible. Care to share a drink with me?"

To say it surprises her would be perhaps an understatement. Silver eyes flicker from the woman's expression to her offering and then back once more, a timid hand reaching to accept.

"You needn't apologize," a soft, small smile, "I would be happy to."

It had been a misjudgment, perhaps, to deem Shamir frigid. She seems quite personable now, or at least the type that Ishtar finds she does not mind. This-- the drink, the setting, the company-- is realms away from familiar. Gaze flits to the liquid that swirls in her glass, considering it a moment before bringing it to her lips.

She is surprised to find it rather pleasant.

"This is all..." words weigh carefully on her tongue, slow and unsure, "so unusual. I find myself unsure what to make of any of it." Ishtar pauses, then shakes her head once.

"Thank you." For the drink, for this. "At least none of us are alone."

It's a rich statement, coming from a woman who dives forward to devour once again, mouth moving against hers with an almost desperate hunger, tasting, claiming-- and once her hands tangle in Yunaka's hair, she lets out a soft sigh of satisfaction before her breaths become shallow.

Her fingers loosen, and she makes the extra effort to ensure that she doesn't tug on the other's hair too much as she pulls her hands away, fingers trailing over her cheeks before she separates them both; though she manages to look somewhat composed, the flush on Shamir's face and the darkening of her pupils certainly gives a different impression. "Your move, Professor."

Finally the stupid, evil bottle lands on someone else who isn't Alear again. Yunaka laughs, and hopes her relief for the break isn't too obvious. The woman who spun it is familiar. They've spoken a few times. The easy, confident challenge on her face already gives her a hint of what role she's expected to play. Easy. Yunaka can handle another performance.

She stiffens a little as fingers come near her neck, but manages not to flinch away. The archer doesn't grab, so it's easy to pretend that everything is still fine. Yunaka intends to slide an easy smile of her own in place to match her energy, to preen like this is nothing but the fun little game it's intended to be.

"I've seen a lot of people like you,"

The smile freezes in place, halfway to its intended form.

"You have a certain look in your eye--"

A chill sets in, rolling down her spine like a splash of cold water.

"you're a hunter"

Yunaka freezes solid. Doesn't move, doesn't react to anything that the woman says or does for the rest of the turn, doesn't hear any of it. No, she shouldn't know. She shouldn't know. Yunaka hasn't done anything, not during the party - unless she has, did she mess up somewhere? Did she do something stupid? Did she make a mistake? You can't watch every face in a crowd, can't see who's watching back, can't keep an eye on things-

Did the others hear? Did they hear what she said? Alear already knows but the others- nobody else is supposed to know, she didn't have to tell them, she didn't want them to know.

Yunaka's heart is racing. She feels like she can't breathe. She blinks and abruptly realizes the woman is staring at her, waiting expectantly, she's supposed to do something, she's already messed up, she keeps messing up, she doesn't know-

"I need to leave."

Yunaka's voice cracks when she speaks, weaker than she wants to be. She doesn't care right now. The woman's hands are gone before she has to slap them off her, her feet kick blindly at the ground as she pushes herself far back enough to fumble to her feet. You're not supposed to run anymore, a vaguely familiar voice mocks her.

She grits her teeth until her jaw hurts. "I need to leave. I'm sorry. I'm..."

She can't think of another thing to say. She really doesn't want to waste time trying to. Without further excuses, Yunaka turns and walks away.

The presence of his father's cloak and the warmth it provided had become something Alfonse scarcely even paid attention to after how long he'd been wearing it. He was already well accustomed to wearing clothing that was perhaps a bit too warm for the climate. He scarcely wore anything less than his full battle regalia most places he went, if only because being prepared for a fight was often a necessity regardless of the reason for which he was traveling. Once his father passed, Alfonse's regular cape had (eventually) been permanently replaced by the fine fur cloak Gustav had always worn, something to always remind Alfonse of the expectations he needed to meet.

Alfonse's eyebrows raised at Shamir's greeting. He knew who she was, of course. He knew exactly how she felt about the beach as well, though he would prefer not to have to explain why he knew that. Really, bringing that up at all would just lead them down a conversational path that Alfonse did not particularly wish to tread. "Oh yes, I've seen you in a bikini many times before" was not a particularly good way to begin a conversation with someone who didn't know anything about you.

"Ah, I-- it's really not that bad," Alfonse sighed, fingers idly stroking the soft fur of the cloak, his bangle for the ball jingling softly with its turtle charm. "It's my father's, actually. I'll... spare you the details of what it means to me-- what he meant to me. That's really not a good first impression to make, is it? Suffice to say that it's rather important to me... but also that, er, this attire was not designed with the beach in mind. Formal parties, yes, but not for one so..."

Alfonse sighed, casting his gaze at the scenery around them. The salty sea air and ocean spray were likely going to be nothing but terrible for the fine fabrics his clothing was made of. The stiffness of his outfit certainly didn't suit a more laid-back setting like the beach, either. At least he wasn't going to be required to swim. He couldn't imagine that being anything but a miserable experience with the outfit he had on. Good thing nothing bad was going to happen that would force him to do that! Say, why did the clouds on the horizon look so foreboding?

The moment she spots her partner, though, a frown breaks out across her face.

“Not a word.”

"Heh."

Catherine wasn't going to say anything - honest! She'd trained more than a few of these students herself, and she knew the mettle with which they set out, even for a mock battle. Seeing Shamir looking totally defeated is a rare sight, and Catherine can't get herself to kick her while she's down. Even still, she ignores Shamir's words.

The second time, he's way more relaxed. Shamir seems to find him amusing, so this probably won't be awkward when the pretense of the party is over. Whew! His shoulders drop, and he can enjoy himself a bit.

She's handsier this time around, smooth black leather sliding across his jaw, fingers in his hair. It's kind of exciting! He kisses her back enthusiastically, though he feels like his whole face is pulled in a big, dumb grin the whole time.

Then his hand is pulled to her side, just under her ribcage; the pulse there flutters quick and strong. She's like no one he's ever held, ever kissed before, and he don't know if he ever will again, so he hauls her closer. She's not a firecracker; she burns slow, like a bonfire in the desert.