#ladyleonster

"Did you give this to my daughter?" Ethlyn tries to keep the hostility from her tone. Finn doesn't deserve that. He's done absolutely nothing wrong. She loves Finn.

"That Thracian dastard tried to give it to me and claimed Altena gave it to him after you gave it to her. What a ridiculous story! Why wouldn't Altena want your mints? It has to be poisoned, right?"

...is he being scolded right now? Despite himself, Finn shrinks a little as Ethlyn approaches him with a sudden and unexpected fury.

...the mints again? Finn's brow furrows in confusion. Is there some sort of unspoken rule that he's unaware of regarding mints? He has no idea what it is about them that keeps moving women to such fury like this.

"Assuming those are the same ones, yes. I did." The Thracian dastard is not a very specific description, but he he has his own suspicions about who she might be referring to. His frown only grows. "Though if you received them from him, I would disregard them entirely. Even if it was my original gift, I can only imagine what might have happened to it from the moment that he got his hands on them."

in reply to Ethlyn's post:

Something desparate in his wife's voice makes his blood chill, knowing full well that she believes like no other. She's the sort of woman who heeds a sign of danger if she can afford to, and if she can't, it's because she knows the glass castle will fall. It has to work. He wants to think it warm. A sentiment on both their wills, sealed by a kiss tender enough to net the light. "Come now." He simpers, humming deep enough for his throat to vibrate. "It will. Our wills together are stronger than apart."

There's a nagging feeling in the back of his head, trying to ignore all the warning signs. He knows what has transpired between them. Everything that has transpired between them. But he's sick of thumbing old ear-marks. Sick of rereading verses that make his ego crumble. He wants her to be happy. And in turn, he too, can be happy.

His children are his wellspring, and now, atop this quiet tower, he hears the brush of wind calling. "Eth..." A breathy sigh, amidst her loving touch. His heart is unraveling at each knot, startled by a love that has been as kind as it has been cruel. He had much to worry about: his daughter's malignancy, his son's pacing, their family's happiness... And Thracia. But, as his daughter would have it, he is also a man privy to indulgence. Once more, he presses his lips on her temple.

"I know! What a moment to wait for." Laughing into her skin, he breathes in her oh-so familiar perfume. "I love you." And a lump in his throat follows. "I need you."

"I have only you and the kids to my name." Love should be enough.

"At the center of every speech I've made. Every letter, every poem I've fumbled. 'I love you' is at my lips. Down to my fingers. They shake, sometimes, because of how much I do."

And less seriously, he breathes a laugh out of his nose. "You put on such a beautiful gown, and ran up a tower in heels. I am not going to deprive you of a dance! Or all the moments in the world." He pressed a glove hand into her hair, patting her without a care for her accessories going out of place. "Now..."

They glided back down to the ballroom. The stairs were even easier now that they could see their descent down. Elegant candles, floating masks of those who were anonymously carding their way through tonight, the entire boutique was a beautiful, haunting thing.

Poised with his hand floating to her, he took a deep bow. "I am not a dancer. But for you, always, for you. I would."

"Could I have this dance, milady?"

"And now you may kiss the bride!"

Neither of them move. She knows he feels the same way she does about this entire ordeal. She knows he feels exactly the same about her as she does about him. They've never liked each other. But this union isn't about them. It's for Chalphy. It's for Yngvi. It's for Grannvale.

There's a cough in the audience and Ethlyn turns in the hours, minutes, seconds that it's been that neither of them have moved to kiss the other to see her father trying to gesture with his eyes only to urge her to get on with it.

She turns back to Andrei. Has he moved slightly closer? It's hard to tell. Her toes wiggle inside of her shoes as she struggles to figure out exactly what to do. He's the one who should initiate. If she leans in first, someone might think she is actually enjoying this.

another kiss prompt (accepting!)

"And now you may kiss the bride!"

They'd both known this had been coming for nearly all their lives.

Countless childhood arguments forcibly broken up by the warning that they will spend a future together had morphed into a fuming, mutual disdain as the date of their inevitable marriage approached. It is clear as day that they were not, and will never be, a good fit. That the marriage would not be a happy one. But it did not matter.

'Blood begets blood', as the saying went. Even if it is from another crusader, taking a spouse who is confirmed to have minor blood would, theoretically, result in a higher chance that their future children could be born with major blood.

House Chalphy does not need this, with Lord Sigurd poised to take the mantle as heir.

House Yngvi does, and desperately.

Someone clears their throat, and Andrei realizes that he had not moved. And why shouldn't he? After the disappearance of Lady Sister Brigid (lost at sea, dead, if everyone would just voice it, just accept it), everything he'd ever done had been to try and fill her position, even though the blood that runs through his veins itself dictates that he could never aspire to her heights. To have a child with major blood is one of the only things he could do, if the fates would just smile upon them.

You are merely righting your previous wrongs, false heir.

(And why would his own feelings matter, if this is the case?)

Mechanically, he moves forward, landing a chaste peck with tightened lips upon hers. This will not be the end, but just the same, he knows he will do whatever needs to be done.

It's not like she's serious either. Not entirely.

She throws her head back with a laugh and offers her hand in a firm shake. "Ethlyn Claus. My brother, Sigurd, and I are hosting. Don't take me too seriously. You, of course, are welcome to a great time!"

Ow. What kind of lady pokes a charming young guy at a dinner party?

Fergus whips around to meet her, his low ponytail flying behind his back. It's only his first day out here, so he sort of just stumbled in--didn't even have time to get dressed--but things looked so lively he simply couldn't exclude himself! Now he's biting himself for it. The woman blabbers on, but between the slight sting on his chest and his waning attention, he could care less.

That is, of course, until he hears the name 'Sigurd.' "Woah, woah, wait." He hesitates to shake her hand, a smile of his own creeping over his face, "Sigurd? Like, that hotshot from Chalphy? So you're Grannvale..."

Like those dogs that harassed Karin. Fergus should be beating her up right now.

Her hand is suddenly seized with a crushing grip, and shaken so hard her shoulders jostle in their sockets. "You guys never change, always laying it thick on the little guy! Name's Fergus," he laughs, deciding to ley bygones be bygones and play along with her joke, "I'll get myself well-acquainted, don't you worry."

A pause as he returns her hand to him. It eluded him before, but the hosts of Baldr's Bounty are well and true Jugdralis--not some Crusader-pushing posers.

Swordsmasters of Elyos and Hoshido have long inspired people with their signature finishing move: the ability to cut through an opponent with dazzling speed, so fast that one can’t even perceive the blade leaving its sheath. The Battle of the Eagle and Lion reignites interest in learning these techniques. Determined students have made some progress but haven’t quite mastered the move. Think you can help them? [ Grants Sword +1 ]

“O cherry blossom of delight, how your eyes shine in this afternoon light. Have they always held this radiant color? I believe they draw out beauty from thine face like a bucket from a well!”

To hell with swordplay. Sain signed up for this silly class as a way of learning the skills his liege so regularly employs in battle—perhaps as a way of impressing her, perhaps as a way of defending her—but the soft features of another pull and chain his desire.

“Oohhh, your charm is irresistible!” he exclaims, face full of glee as his blade clatters to the ground and feet move to the picture of his love, “Let us toss away our swords and fill our arms with each other's company.” He cocks her his most romantic brow, and fingers find the tip of her blade to begin lowering it. Surely she is the one. Surely she can mend the ache in his heart, fulfill his knightly duties and be his lovely wedded bride!

If his joy could be extracted into feathers, Sain would soar—high above the clouds.

“Training… Bah, who needs it? One’s body can be molded any old day. But a fated encounter like this only happens once… Please, my damsel, do not throw away this chance…!”

"Finn!" She laughs and tears prick at the corners of her eyes. "It's really you! I knew you'd find your way here eventually! Leif's told me everything. Everything you've helped him with, everything you've done."

There's so much to say. Too much to say. She doesn't even know where to start or what to feel. Maybe it doesn't matter. She hugs him tighter before looking up at him and reaches up toward his face.

"Thank you. For everything. I owe you so much."

As the young woman ambushed him, Finn could find nothing to say. No response to her tears of joy could express the mixture of confusion, guilt and joy that this moment brought him. Memories of his training rushed to meet him as quickly as he was pulled into a hug, of happier times than he had known for what felt like forever.

True, he had planned on what to say when next they met, after he set off for the desert. But those words were for a sandy corpse, and the Ethlyn in front of him was alive, and as lively as the day he last saw her.

She knows better than to return the jacket herself. She can't imagine Raven wants anything else to do with her tonight and she isn't sure she's ready to see him again yet either. But she wants to give it back. She wants him to know she's still thinking about him.

It was sort of hard not to notice that this woman was...not having the best night. As someone who often drank too much and tended to angry cry, Linus recognized the look and the way such upsets clung to one's voice.

And yeah, he may be buzzed as hell right now, but he could have some tact! Rare, but it happens!

"Raymon--? Oh. OooOooh! Red?" Linus fumbles a bit, snorting back a chuckle. Raymond. What a fucking name for that guy. Didn't suit him much. "Sure, sure! He's me best pal! I can do ya a favor, no problem! Figure he'd probably like to see a pretty lass like you instead'a me, but the poor bastard's just gonna have to deal with the Dog!" He swipes the jacket -- ah, so nicely folded...it won't stay that way -- when she holds it out, but doesn't immediately take off like he normally would; instead pulling Ethlyn into an overly familiar, one-armed sort of jostling hug.

"If he made ya cry or somethin', lemme know. I ain't got a problem beatin' some manners into 'im! But," he pauses, grin hedging a bit into something less wild, "If it's somethin' else, ya know...People do stupid shit -- I mean, lookit me, 'm, like, poster boy for that -- but it ain't always the worst thing to do. Takes a lotta courage to put your foot forward, even if it ends up bein' a misstep. Take your time, but don't tilt when the world comes at ya hard, lass."

Linus had no clue what had happened between them, but there were only so many reasons an upset woman would go this far out of her way to properly return a jacket left behind after a fuck up.

"Ya had the guts to do somethin' with him, yeah? Well, you'll find 'em again to sort it out with 'im later, too. He's a prickly sort, but that jus' means ya gotta have strong hands to deal with the guy," Linus shrugged, giving Ethlyn an encouraging ribbing before finally releasing her.