#nappingscholar

Even though Linhardt was bored out of his mind dancing all night he could admit the benefits of watching others dance. The carefully coordinated movements were like windows into one's mind, and what better way to observe than to get up close.

Linhardt had skillfully switched partners with Lysithea, taking her away before she could protest. "Having a good evening, Lysithia?" he casually asked, trying to set the tone for the rest of their dance. "I wanted to talk with you,"

@nappingscholar

“So from what I hear you are very enthusiastic about information gathering,” Micaiah was saying to Lindhardt as she walked with him down the streets of Enbarr, “and that’s great! But let’s not be too overeager here, alright?”

She pauses as just another bend around the canal and they’ll be back where their investigation started in front of the curio shop. She stands taller to whisper in Lindhardt’s ear, hoping they look like a pair of friends sharing a secret.

“As for lying... let’s make sure those lies are, well, believable. The shop keeper’s owner knows me as a travelling seeress so perhaps you can be, oh I don’t know, a fan of mine? Interested in the occult? Both?”

She steps back and takes a look at Lindhardt who at the moment at least looks to be awake. She had never really interacted with her fellow Black Eagle and had been surprised when she had heard from both he and Mercedes the stunt he had pulled at the bookshop. She thinks he must have a keen eye, it will just be up to her to reign him in some.

After waving Andrei and Micaiah off, the two priests headed across the road to Bergstrom’s Books. Mercedes had fond memories of pressing her own face against the window as a child, longing to raid the shelves and drink in the stories on every page. The thought gave her a small chuckle as her hand settled upon the handle of the door.

“Shall we then?” Mercedes kept her voice low and quiet as she held the door open. Upon the threshold she decided to ask something that had been ruminating in the back of her mind. “Have you ever heard of these Agarthans? I don’t know much about them but could they be linked to that magical eye?” Maybe it was a long shot but Mercedes had precious little to go off other than a desire to be useful. To help her friends and the church she held so dear

The store is surprisingly sparsely populated, considering the crowds just outside. That was preferable of course, it was easier to peruse titles stacked on shelves without being jostled around or crushed against others. It felt more as though she really was just shopping for books and she found herself browsing the books thoughtfully. Most of them were slim novels rather than giant tomes, romantic tales - some perhaps a touch bawdy, rather than technical volumes. A pair catch her eye, ‘The Starlight Maiden’ and ‘Court of Clerics’. Mercedes takes them carefully from the shelf and tucks them under her arm.

The counter is empty, with no one to check out her purchase. It struck her as a little strange, the doors were open and whilst not crowded the store was occupied by customers. Yet there was precious little sign of any staff working here.

She’d simply have to wait a while to pay though, no worries.

Beyond the shelves she had been browsing, the store extended further than she had initially realised.. Around the back of the store there were no windows and the candlelight illuminating the romance shelves dimmed considerably. It appeared as though the section was less well frequented, it’s shelves lined haphazardly from what she could see. 

“I wonder what they have over there.” Mercedes points to the back of the store, cast in shadow. From just a glance it look more mysterious than the rest of the store. Her mind spun with ideas, painted with images of secret, ancient tomes or dazzling pages. The truth was probably far more mundane but it couldn’t really hurt their investigations to take a look.

He remembered his visits to the palace as a child, even though he was young he would never forget that smile. His memory might be fuzzy but she still had that same smile.

"I won't pry into why you left," he smiled, "but if you need to talk to someone about noble life I guess you can find me. I would love to make fun of those pompous nobles," Linhardt let out a small laugh, hoping it would calm her nerves.

"And also, may I have a cookie?"

Mercedes finds herself so surprised she is at a loss for words.

She had left Enbarr thirteen long years ago, when Linhardt was so very young. She had not expected him to remember her, although she finds herself touched that he does.

"Thank you for that," Mercedes replies, feeling a flood of relief. It is not a matter of trust that keeps her holding her tongue, simply that it is an unhappy story. She would rather not bore everyone to tears with it. "I'd hate to be unkind but..." A laugh of her own greets his. Oh well, at least no one was there to overhear them. "I daresay your right about some of Enbarr's finest residents, Linhardt."

Her smile, previously taught with anxiety, begins to relax. It's easy to let her guard down around Linhardt. It seemed both of them preferred to act in a casual and unhurried manner.

It's rather quiet in the Black Eagles classroom, save for Dorothea approaching Linhardt with the sound of her heeled boots echoing throughout the room. She had arrived to retrieve a book she had left behind, but it seems there are other things for her to attend to in the process. She places a hand atop his shoulder, gently shaking it in turn: "What are you still doing here, Lin?" There's no immediate response, and thus, she can't leave just yet.

As she does so, she once more notices the familiar mistletoe hanging within the classroom. It's a rather peculiar place for something like this-- Classrooms weren't particularly known for being a romantic hub. If (no, when) she were confessed to, she'd want it to be somewhere more memorable and not within a stuffy room. In fact, she has been given roses and other gifts in places like this before. Yet, that went nowhere. It was an empty gesture.

How much one remembers from the past year seems to vary among the villagers. Some may not remember a thing while their brothers, their mothers, their friends remain haunted by their past traumas. Reason magic bears the blunt of the blame for what transpired here. Your mages undergo a fair bit of scrutiny, but it’s one of their own that becomes a target of their paranoia. A young mage, normally considering a blessing in a small village like this, has been arrested for practicing dark magic. The terrified child insists that it’s the only kind of magic he is capable of casting. Find out his story and judge whether or not he’s telling the truth about his innocence… you have until his “exorcism” to do so. [Grants Reason +1]

Their trek to the village was, thankfully, overcast but Constance idly twirled the parasol in her left hand. It was always a risk, venturing outside before sunset in the summer months. Alas, she had little choice in the matter, being called out to accompany one of the Black Eagles students on an important mission. At least the details were fascinating.

The ability of some to “magically” forget their trauma? Whatever complex, nuanced magic was behind that (if it was magic of course, assumptions could be such folly!) could be groundbreaking. Could solve her little... problem, although with a high price. It was certainly worth looking into though, even if it all came to naught the mental rigor and exercises should be useful in the future. The thought of a small child being behind such intricate and arduous magic sounded utterly preposterous. All a makeshift exorcism could do was harm the poor child and the church clearly wanted them to put a stop to it.

If they even got there in time. Linhardt was just as idle and lethargic as she remembered. It must be nice, being so carefree. The heir to House Hevring has everything on a silver platter. What need did he have for steadfast determination, or ambition? Not like her, at least.

From what she heard though, his curiosity had become even more stubborn. Perhaps she could leverage that to get things moving. The village was, finally, in sight.

“Linhardt, sally forth! If we don’t get there soon,” an innocent child will be harmed, “there’ll be precious little to investigate. Are you not intrigued by the magic at play here? The time for repose is not now!”

Saias tends to leave his bangs free-flowing as opposed to the rest of his hair, which is usually tied up in a half-pony. Today, however, he hadn’t had time to do his hair before he was rushing out to get breakfast and then heading to class because he’d overslept (and wasn’t that his body giving him a big hint about his less-than-stellar habits lately). As a result, his hair, wavy and loose, hangs about freely, and the wind keeps blowing it into his face every time he goes outside. Unfortunately, he also forgot to bring something with which to tie it back, so he’s just going to have to suffer until he can make it to his dorm during whatever small bit of free time he has.

"Ares... Ares is that you?" Linhardt chokes out between sobs. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... because of me... you..." he couldn't finish his thought before being taken over by his emotions and fully crying. Were they happy tears or regretful ones? Even Linhardt didn't know.

"Linhardt?" he asks in surprise, blinking twice. Something isn't right here. Something bizarre is happening. "It wasn't your fault." Ares blurts out the statement before stopping to think things through.

He's never met the younger student before. How did he know his name was Linhardt? How did Linhardt know who he was?

What wasn't his fault?

Ares sees light across his vision, shifting to a vivid red. Burned crimson. Danger.

It dissipates in an instant, as though it was never there. Linhardt - who seemed to know him at least, continues to sob. Ares feels like he knows why but he can't quite articulate the reasoning. It lingers, in the back of his mind and on the tip of his tongue - tantalisingly close but always out of reach.

Like the exit.

Linhardt mourns him, a man who never died. (Except in terrors at nightfall, repeating constantly. Ares hasn't slept well in weeks.)

It's unlike his usual behaviour, but Ares closes the distance between them and pulls Linhardt close. Let's him cry into his shoulder, even though he isn't entirely sure who he is, who they are to one another. He shushes the verdant haired man, trying to be gentle. Ares isn't good at gentle.

"It wasn't your fault, at all. It was mine." What was? "Get mad at me instead, please." Ares can deal with anger far easier than sorrow. Knows it's sting well and wears it like a badge of pride.

Linhardt still cries and Ares just rocks him on the spot. Nothing about this makes any sense. He recalls healing light colliding with destruction. Remembers it turning fatal.

He died on the floor, begging for his father. He stands here now, alive and feeling utterly lost at sea.