#sacaelyn

“Hey!” he chides teasingly, “that’s My line!”

He laughs and shakes his head, bemused despite himself… but that doesn’t stop him taking her hand in his, with false confidence he hopes will serve to keep him afloat. “I think you’re right-” ‘as usual,’ he doesn’t say “-and the stamps can wait. You…” He pauses, almost breathless a moment. “You look nice, by the way.”

A new tune is struck, and the dance floor whirls in a renewed flurry of activity. The song flows to a bit of a slower lilt than the usual, maybe less fancy, but that’s probably for the best. “I’ll try not to hold it against you if you step on my feet,” he lies through his teeth, fully intending on committing any missteps to mind - both hers and his. Dance was one of few things the council had insisted upon trying to ingrain in his brain the moment he’d been ‘promoted,’ but how well it had stuck remained largely to be seen.

He leads her into a swing, and then twirls her back toward him. He’s infinitely grateful this is one of the dances they had attempted to teach him in Ostia - it’s a chance at making Slightly less a fool of them both, and he’ll take it.

He supposes he should have known better than to expect any peace on a night like this. Still, there are worse individuals to be approached by. “Let’s hope you don’t come to regret this,” Lloyd warns. “You’ll find that I know nothing about dancing.” And why would he? A Bernese commoner had no place in the parties often hosted by the nobility, much less one who was very firmly an enemy of said nobility.

Horsebow Moon sees a spike in visitors: farmers and tradesmen alike coming to offer their prayers for the most industrious time of the year. There’s no shortage of merchants who set up shop in town to take advantage of this surge, but something doesn’t seem quite right about that one vendor advertising everything from blades crafted by Zoltan to mythical swords from faraway lands in hopes of reaping riches from the gullible. [Grants Sword +1]

 The boy’s eyes were alight as he wandered randomly throughout the bustling market, drinking in the vast array of everything they had, from foodstuffs to armor and even weapons too! It was all a most riotous scene, with laughter and chatter and people shoving this way and that; but honestly, Caspar thrived in the noise. It revitalized him in a way not even training could match—he would never tire of the city, nor of exploring all that was novel. Just down the cross-street at a nearby corner, there seemed to be a huge crowd of people huddled around a single merchant who was hawking his wares. “Come one; come all!” he boomed. (He had a voice fit to rival his own.) “Feast your eyes on what I who has traveled the seven ranges has to offer! I bring weapons galore from faraway realms, with said to be able to cleave mountains in twain! You won’t get such power anywhere else!”

Cleaving mountains seemed a bit much, but there was no denying all the attention the man was getting. Somebody that popular just had to have something awesome in hand! Eagerly, Caspar pushed his way through the crowd, his short stature helping him wiggle through the smallest gaps; and before long, he was doing exactly as the merchant had ordered. Feasting his eyes, that is. There was a magnificently foreign-looking sword hanging from the center of the back wall, with a golden pommel and golden inscriptions carved along its length. They looked like fire, a burning blaze sprouting from the tail of a magnificent bronzed phoenix, its wings flared to form the cross-guard of the blade. Its single edge looked sharp enough to prove the merchant’s claim… He had to have it.

“Hey, mister! How much for this one here?”

The merchant whipped about instantly (no doubt a learned reflex to the sound of an interested buyer), grinning obsequiously. “You have a good eye, lad! This here is called Luna Katti, forged by a process known as age-kitae in the distant land of Wa. It is incredibly strong, and very pure besides. How does twenty thousand gold sound?”

Twenty thousand? Not even Zoltan’s swords retailed for that much! But… That certainly was a pretty and sharp-looking blade… The boy kept his expression carefully neutral. Rule number one of shopping was to never show interest, after all. “Sir, I’ve seen that kind of engraving before in Brigid; that hilt and cross-guard look familiar as well. I won’t pay more than seven thousand for it.”

The merchant ogled. “You can’t possibly have! The art of age-kitae is unique to the land of Wa! Ten thousand; take it or leave it.”

Caspar raised an eyebrow. “My father is a war hero from the Brigid rebellion. Of course I’ve seen it. Eight thousand.”

In the end, they settled on 8500 gold. Caspar was quite pleased he didn’t have to invoke his father’s name and title in the end, and whistled happily the whole way home, shiny new foreign sword clanking at his side. As soon as he reached the training grounds, he pulled the sword slowly out of its sheath, just as the heroes of old did in storybooks, thrilling in the melodic scrape of steel on steel. He turned the blade about in his hands; the sharp edge caught the sun and glinted gold, as fiery as the phoenix on the cross-guard. It was… beautiful. “Oh man, this going to be so cool!” he cheered (quietly, to himself). He already couldn’t wait! He allowed himself one wild grin before taking his stance, low and broad, just as his combat instructors had taught him. But before he could strike—

He hadn’t thought he’d be joining the ranks of the fallen so soon.

Even more surprising though, was seeing Lyn here as well.

A healer is swiftly on their way, inspecting the cuts on his arm and ribs. Off goes the armour, and then his crimson-stained shirt, which he winces through despite his best efforts, although he is content to chat throughout. His wounds look worse than they actually are - or so he convinces himself.

“Some five foot nothing punk, if you’ll believe that. Clocked me right in the head, must’ve hit just the right spot.” A sigh hisses through his teeth. “Knocked me out cold for a spot. That part, I think, was lucky, but credit where credit’s due: the kid has spunk and knows his way ‘round an axe.”

Does he want to admit he’d fallen for Caspar’s taunts? Not really. Especially not in front of Lyn. But she’s got this disarming way about her... “I really ought to learn how to keep a level head one of these days, huh...”

If he’d forgotten in the first half of the day, he remembers by now: it’s his birthday... and he's starting to wonder, by lunch time, if he’ll get to enjoy much of it. Lectures had been abnormally dull this morning, and as he sits down in the dining hall, he (unsuccessfully) fights back a wide-mouthed yawn. He has the afternoon open now at least... or so he hopes, but he suspects his books - dreary things that they are - can’t wait to sink their fangs into him.

Ugh.

But his grimace disappears with the arrival of a friend, replaced first with curiosity as he eyes the dumplings and then... guarded caution. He’s been her guinea pig many a time before, and he’s not sure he’s keen on playing the part right this second but... well...

It’d be rude to refuse. It’s her mum’s recipe and all. And if past experience tells him anything, it’s that she’s likely put a lot of work into this. Brows lifting, he stabs one of the dumplings with his fork, and he, too, Hopes.

His face lights up. “Mm!” Honestly, they’d smelled good to begin with, so that had inspired some semblance of confidence in him but... “Thish ish good!” Not just good, but way better than he could have hoped for. He beams up at his friend. “Thanksh, Lyn!”

Despite all the ambient noise in the ballroom, it would seem that the swordswoman’s ploy had proven successful, as the target of her request did indeed jump from her sudden outcry. When he sees who it was that had accosted him, he smiles brightly. “Lyn!” She queries him about his footwork, and promptly, his grin falters into one of false outrage. “Me, slacking?" he protests. “Come on, you know me better than that!”