#knighteclipsed

Well, he’s always had an inclination towards mayhem; and knowing he’d already upset one twin, why should he not go and bother the other?

He does not announce himself—hardly utters a word—but instead, in the lull of music and dancing (beneath the cover of dim lighting and raucous noise), one of Ephraim’s tulips is taken from his bouquet. Then, with the bloom mere inches from his teeth, the Moonstone opens his mouth to say:

“ Hello there, Ephraim. Are you enjoying your night? ”

The only warning Ephraim gets is when the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He doesn't know what or who, but danger is close by, and it doesn't take him long to find it.

One of his tulips slips from his bouquet and he follows it to a most unwelcome sight: Valter. The king's eyes narrow.

"Doesn't the monastery keep their dogs on a leash?" Ephraim turns to face him but doesn't step away. Eirika had told him of their encounter and he would be lying to say he wasn't hoping to encounter the man himself.

"But I am glad to see you. There's something that I must make clear to you."

Ephraim steps closer and reaches for the tulip he'd taken. "If you harm my sister, there is no power in this world that will keep me from you." And then he crushes it in his hand, wringing the petals in his grip until they twist and break, and when he releases it the petals scatter.

The passing of partners moves one hand to the next, the orchestra timing each exchange with the punctuation of a phrase; clear, consistent, and predictable. It is with this recognition that one knows where to insert himself—and when—to find that, after two partners have been run through, the third to enter his hold is one specific: eyed from the start, seafoam in the ocean, with a hand now clung to tightly. (Perhaps that is all it takes for the other to recognize him—the subtle shift in intensity; a violence, of sorts, that was previously absent.) There is a moment before eye contact where he searches for another in the crowd; whether or not this person is found, his gaze then moves to lock with his partner’s. “ Hello there, Eirika. ” (Said with the most charitable of smiles.) [ ZOFIA ] - Modeled after an Archanean court dance, but with an energetic twist. The entire body is engaged with the dance, creating a spectacle that is enjoyable to watch.

The spinning of dresses and coattails creates a whirling pattern across the dance floor as each participant moves in time with the swell of music. Each twist tilts the dance floor around her in a kaleidoscope of color and song and each new partner brings a new friend.

Until the hand that grasps hers is tight, clawed like a wyvern and with a fanged smile to match.

It's great poise that lets Eirika keep her steps in time with his. She won't allow him the pleasure of cowing her.

"Valter." She meets his gaze as she attempts to extract her hand from his. He doesn't release her, only smiles, as if he believes she's caught in his trap. No doubt he had timed this perfectly so that they would be partners and now he's loathed to let her go so quickly. The pair twirl to the melody, round and round, and just as she is trapped with him, so he is trapped with her.

As they twirl, she lifts her foot and brings the pointed heel down forcefully on his foot. There is no kindness in her eyes when she does it.

The challenge of what to do with that information had run through his mind for a while. (After all, Valter hardly considered himself to be the gift-giving sort, and while it felt appropriate this occasion, it meant he remained consistently—and horribly—out of practice.)

Still, it is resolved with time to spare for preparations, and so, the night before, it is carefully laid to rest; and so, he ghosts.

(Come morning, just past the earliest rays of sun, Maria may find outside her doorstep a little box, scarcely decorated, only labeled with her name in simple pen. Should she open it, the contents would reveal two jars, named: Wounds and Ailments. Accompanying them is a small bag of candies and a note, written tersely:)

You provided me with the recipes for these. I attempted them. Let me know if they are adequate.

On a day of grand arrivals and gifts both forthright and bashful, the appearance of a lonely little box is remarkable in its subtlety. Upon noticing it, the little cleric picks up the box with a careful touch, eyes sweeping over its many unmarked faces. Only one thing is notable enough to break its uniformity: her name, written simply. Maria.

The corners of her mouth tug upwards even before her fingers pry away the lid. She can think of a few people who it might be -- one of Prince Marth's knights, or perhaps... oh! A note sits atop two jars, and the mystery is well over before it ever has a chance to begin.

Of course, this must be from Sir Valter.

A part of her wonders if this might be a test. If not by design, then perhaps it had become one at some point. It seems a Valter sort of thing, just maybe -- to leave the what, and the why, and to wonder without needing to know if she will just happen to solve the who. And speaking of tests...

"Hee hee... right!" She giggles aloud to herself, unsure of how long ago the Moonstone had departed or if he will even hear her laughter. Not that she minds; if the song in her voice is for no one else, it can always be for herself. "This is a kind of test too! I have a duty to my very first student, don't I?"

(Well, the battle was likely over soon—or wrapping up at present, if it had not already concluded. With how many typically wound up off the field, it was actually rather likely that the other would be relegated to the sidelines.) Moonstone seems to ponder the thought for a moment before shrugging the whole idea off.

He hadn’t wandered the med tents sooner—he’d actually spent a moment settling in the fact that he’d arrived so quickly (an unfortunate tie for the record of his own elimination), and thus, poking around to see who else had fallen hadn’t really crossed his mind. (Further, he wasn’t going to reveal his hand—to show that he was among the first to fall back was to admit a sort of weakness, even in a setting that hardly mattered.) Only now was he meandering about, his wounds already tended and the last of the casualties starting to pour in. He hadn’t expected to run into the one who’d felled him so soon.

(Or at all.)

“ I’ll assume you at least gave them a run for their gold, didn’t you? ” You were the one to question me of names; you likely have a stake in knowing and being known. Eyes narrow against the other. “ I’ll take issue with you otherwise. ”

And so passed another year of the Battle of the Eagle and Lion.

Of a dragon who possessed thousands more to live, hundreds more of such a meaningless tradition fabricated and perpetuated by man-made values, its single memory would be unlikely to withstand the test of time. The average human on the other hand, no matter victorious or defeated, would treasure it as a milestone of their academy life; a sweet summer victory, or a bitter winter defeat, all contained within the springtime of short life and shorter youth. Treasure what Rafal himself would adjudge, condemn, and soon forget as mere drop of a chasmic sea - as all his kind were wont to.

'Soon', however, would come in no less than a hundred years. For the time being, defeat was still fresh on the mind and sustained in sullen stare. Lifted only, and ever so slightly, by the reappearance of one rudely memorable fellow.

"So it is you again. Your unpleasant approach to greetings, or lack thereof, remains ever the same. My defeat was not easy, of that you can be assured."

Before him stood a man of names, to be sure; of both curious ideology pertaining to them and none that had yet to be revealed. He observed the stranger, from head to toe, falling upon the spot where his wound lie mended with silent satisfaction. The Fell Heir was at his strongest, but even he could meet his defeat by the whims of chance that overflowed across Gronder Field. More importantly, despite said defeat, he had not been overcome without first laying his mark on another.

This minnow, however, did not seem to get the message, given that their first exam was soon to begin and he was staring, though without eyes, directly at Valter.

“ Do we have a problem?” Moonstone seethes, eyes harsh and glaring. “ Because if not, you’d better get out of my way before we do.”

If Valter doesn't remember him, no one will. Forsyth glares him down, but he doesn't seem to notice--or at least, he thought he didn't. Eventually, the Moonstone takes notice, and while he does not address Forsyth by name, he sees something amiss.

"We do indeed, vile fiend." Will furthering this familiar antagonistic energy help him remember? Perhaps, though Forsyth will admit this is not entirely practical. "You may believe yourself sly, but I know the truth of your nature."

At this point, Forsyth has gathered that trying to explicitly speak of his name, the mission, and related things falls upon ears muffled by magic. No direct method is going to solve this, regardless of how strongly and repeatedly Forsyth tries. But maybe, just maybe...

"Are you going to attack me right out in the open? What a lack of restraint." The more time he spends getting Valter's attention on him, the better. The veil could slip, memories could be triggered...or so he hopes. And if they aren't? Well, he'll handle that. "Either you get out of my way, or we'll have a problem."

Perhaps the number feels unimpressive given the context that Fódlan is not Magvel (even if still, said number is much larger than he is willing to count), but at this time last year, he had not known so many faces—especially of the student body of the Officers Academy.

He’s certain that is what the boy is—he seemed the right age for it, and no doubt: that was the uniform of the Academy. Vaguely, Valter remembers being asked for a spar; of the rest of the day, however, it all remains a blur.

(There is an image in his mind that says he would rather it stay forgotten.)

“ Child. ” It is his greeting, given that he’s forgotten his name (or perhaps he never learned it—nonetheless). One elbow rests on the other’s head, primarily as a way of cementing the difference in height. “ You recall, I’m certain, once asking me for a spar, yes? ”

In the fingers of his other hand, he holds a black feather, and lifting it into the air above them, he continues:

“ If you can take this feather from me, I’ll fight you. ”

Not unlike the time Linus had approached Valter with the challenge of an onion, the man -- still looking as gutter-lingering as before -- was coming at him with his own challenge.

Ha! As if something so simple would make Linus back down! Tch, "might be impressed" -- oh, he was going to be sooooOoOoOooo impressed! Not that...Linus gave a shit what Valter thought. This was purely about winning, and getting to shove it in the guy's weird face!

Linus swiped the egg with little preamble, confidence written into the smirk on his face. "Like this is the biggest thing I ever had in my mouth," he barks out, flipping Valter the bird with his free hand before popping the egg into his mouth. And, at first, everything seemed fine and dandy! But somewhere between trying to shift the egg around with his tongue and secure it with his teeth, there was a pretty damning crunch.

Hm...slimy.

But Saints be damned if he was going to spit this out in front of Valter's triumphant skeeziness.

So, with a very, very tight expression on his face, Linus chewed.

CRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCH