and what is her name, this maiden of darkness?

Her eyes, for what must be the seventieth time, trace the familiar lines of the mark on the man's arm.  It's the same shape she's traced so many times with her fingers, in time of great solitude, searching for the strength of a Chosen One to call upon.

She knows, by this mark, that she is staring at a hero.  But what's more, she may be staring at family.

Her mouth is dry.  Each footstep she takes towards him is heavy and slow, as though she's walking through knee-high snow.  And then when he turns, Ophelia freezes.

He doesn't have the face of a liar, nor does he carry himself like a tyrant.  There is no reason she should have to hesitate.

Still.

Her hand crosses her torso and comes to rest on the opposite forearm, with her palm warming her matching mark through her sleeve.  He wears his brazenly.  He has removed an entire sleeve of his outfit to show it off!

Their eyes have met, though, and she will not back down now.  She musters all the bluster inside her and brings it to the forefront.

“Hark!  Yon with the cerulean locks - you carry the mark of heroes on thy shoulder.  Know you its true meaning?”

After all, how often do the masses get to witness someone so confident in the way they move? So unashamed and proud of their mastery over their voice? Someone with so much style and flourish and command over their audience? Someone-

She is snapped out of her thoughts as an adoring fan approaches, taking L'Arachel's hand into her own. A brief moment of surprise makes way for excitement; the woman's energy seems to indicate a like-minded soul! L'Arachel is just about to encourage her to get on stage herself-

And then the woman speaks of L'Arachel being a chosen one, seemingly indicating herself as one as well.

"Why, of course!" She strikes a dramatic pose without hesitation; nothing less would be expected of a chosen one, after all!

"I am L'Arachen of Rausten, the holiest of holy women, on a quest traveling far and wide to rid the world of monsters!" She changes her pose to another cool one, one hand in front of her face, fingers making a V sign; it is one inspired by the theatre performances she loved so much as a kid.

Ophelia boils with jealousy and admiration, her stomach twists both in excitement and dread, and perhaps something else she knows not the name for.  Still, there is nothing to be done, so she swallows her turmoil and remains smiling, striking her own pose as she makes her introduction; making sure to wave her arms as she assumes the position, in order to make the most of her own handicraft hanging from her.

“I am Ophelia Dusk, Maiden of Light - ‘tis my purpose to maintain the balance of night and day; to face the forces of darkness without fear; to follow in my heroic father’s footsteps!”

as with most conversations with ophelia, he can't quite understand everything she gets at. there are only snippets shiro makes sense of—grasping only what matters, and that's the posed question of what one would do to combat the fairfolk, as she calls them.

he dips his hand into the bucket and tosses a handful of popped corn into his mouth, chewing contemplatively before speaking through a mouthful.

“That would certainly not work!” she responds.  Before she can get into the reasoning why (such as: no offense Shiro, you of all people could never out-trick a trickster) the movie scene showcases one of the male leads doing just that.

The timing of Shiro's answer juxtaposed to the picture in front of them sends Ophelia into a breathless gigglefit, handing him the popped corn so that she may appropriately clutch her stomach as she leans forward in her delight.

And then, another punch to Ophelia's stomach - 

The offending pugilist, having attempted to fisticuff the fae with a solid uppercut, is struck by lightning!

[ SPILL ] - Whoops! Maybe you trip over something unseen underfoot, or maybe something fantastic catches your eye and has you looking anywhere but where you’re going. Either way, your drink is now half in your glass and half where it ought not be.

Ophelia gasps a great breath in, the sound equally loud as it is girlish.  Clear drink covers her front, sinking into the top of her gown, and dribbling down her sternum to her stomach, where it will also begin to soak the rest of her outfit.

She's still, stunned for a moment, hands raised and mouth wide.  The cold drips sliding down the skin of her front is highly unnerving, especially as she wonders how it might destroy the cool mysticism her garb was meant to evoke.

[ SPARKLING WATER ] - Fresh spring water that has been magically carbonated. Served with a squeeze of lime or a dash of one of the many fruit syrups available at the bartender’s disposal

Ophelia sinks into the chair, sweating and satisfied.  Dancing can be so much fun when one isn't trying to… well, do anything.  Our heroine has found that she greatly enjoys dancing by moving her body wheresoever her heart decides, without any real decisions being made on her brain's behalf.

So she's danced herself tired, or at least tired enough to take a little break.  She allows her eyes to flutter closed, and then when she opens them -

“Ah!  Princess Camilla!  Did you want a flower?  I can -”

She hurriedly moves to present the princess with a hyacinth, almost as a compulsion builds in her, only to watch as the petals meet with the edge of a glass offered to her.

With her free hand, Ophelia accepts it.  “Oh, thank you very much!” she says with a wide grin.

[ MOVIE - COMEDY ] - A techno-magical reproduction of a fantastical comedy about four young lovers who find themselves in a forest that calls itself home to curious spirits.

Ophelia says around a mouth full of starch, “They likely have higher protection from the fairfolk, as the bond of love can overpower many fey magicks.”

The popped corn, as it was called, is greasy and salty, and Ophelia can't help herself but shovel more of it into her mouth.

“The texture of polyamory offers an interesting twist as well; a complex enough love that can both entertain and befuddle the machinations of the fairfolk is a solid protection strategy.”

Ophelia's eyes glimmer, reflecting the light of the magic moving picture, seemingly changing color with every frame as it overpowers the natural grey there.

"Ophelia." One song ends and another begins, but rather than hurrying off to join dance after dance, he slips away to greet an old and familiar friend. "I thought I'd heard your voice earlier; I'm glad I was able to find you," he says, and offers her a flower—a rose in full bloom, picked from his bouquet with the utmost care. "It isn't much for a reunion gift, much less a gift at all for a chosen one like yourself, but... I pray that this will suffice, if only for now."

“P-Prince Siegbert!”

The crown prince catches our heroine off guard - she covers her mouth with both hands, taking a step back, suddenly wracked with a sinking feeling, as though he had caught her doing the immeasurable crime of forgetting him.

Her face warms, but she smooths out her surprise into a smile, and accepts his offered gift before she even realizes what it is.  Right - the flower game!

“Fairest tidings, Your Highness,” she replies, bowing whilst pressing the bloom to her heart.

She has sworn to smooth over her feelings towards him, too, but many things in life are easier said than done.

[ SHADOW ] - An intense tango that celebrates the diversity of desire. Incorporates sharp, rhythmic movements that shift effortlessly from dependence and independence on one’s partner, intimate closeness and playful distance. The result is a dance that looks almost as much a competition as it is a collaboration.

Ophelia knows how to dance in theory.  The academy she lived at for the majority of her summers was partially a charm school for its students, meaning that the curricular included all sort of classes Ophelia found otherwise completely useless and forgettable.

Dancing had been one of those classes.

Accepting Soleil's hand had been a mere whim - an indulgence of her friend, who she knew values Ophelia's time as much as she values Ophelia.  (Too much at first; but now, Ophelia is fine to humor her.)

Soleil knows how to dance in practice. The movement she leads Ophelia in is wild, yet deeply control, telling a story of contrarian duality, dark as the deep recesses of Ophelia's own heart, yet as bright as her noble duty.

After all that, how could Ophelia not be breathless and knock-kneed?  Her mouth is pulled into a smile, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Soleil,” she begins, because something must be said of such a thing, “your guidance on the dance floor is hypnotic.  That display has shaken this maiden to her very core… The dark energies inside me are swirling powerfully!”

[ REQUEST ] - At the top of every hour, the band allows for any guest to come up and make specific requests, and for the extra bold, to sing and perform right along with them as your backup! Take the stage and belt your heart out or, for the more devious, pressure a friend to become the star of everyone’s next dance!

Each chime of the bell heralds a change in music - the band takes a short break to gather requests, and more interestingly: to accompany the bold.  Upon this break, the bold in particular refers to a striking woman of mossy hair, shimmering herself under the lights as brightly as the brass playing behind her.

Ophelia is transfixed.  Not only does she have a beautiful voice, which trembles with passion (some may say it does so a bit too much, but Ophelia appreciates the showwomanship), but the movement she takes pulls her audience into the song as though she were casting a play of her own.

    It's inspired.  It's inspirational.  It's inspiring.

                                                     And Ophelia is inspired.

Our heroine immediately rushes the band herself (only after giving the lovely performer her deserved applause and cheers) and volunteers herself as another glimmering star, and the band says “requests are over”!

                                                   “Wait for the next hour”!

Her sensitive heart aches!  But she'll wait.

For now, she grabs at the hands of the other woman that performed, clutching one of hers between both of Ophelia's.

“That was wonderful!  Life-changing!  World-spinning!  I wish I could follow your act, but alas!  You must be - wait!”

[ PHOTO-ARTIFEX ] - The ever-popular photo-artifex makes its annual return, allowing users to capture pictures in as little as a flash of light and a moment. Take home something to remember the event by!

Ophelia doesn't wait for Jakob to look, nor smile, nor respond.

“Sir Jakob!” she calls his name, and then she presses the button on the little artifex.

                                           Flash!

The box emits a blinding light, and then the slit at the front slowly releases a sticky page, which Ophelia grabs between two fingers and begins shaking.  “Behold!  A magitechnical wonder the likes of which Nohr has never seen!”

Without looking at the photo herself, she shows Jakob the tiny reflection of himself that she had just so suddenly taken.

[ NOHR ] - A quick-paced dance that focuses heavily on precise footwork and bold movements, evoking the image of two soldiers in battle.

Ophelia's brow furrows cutely, her lower lip pouting in her frown.  It's been a long time since she was instructed on how to dance, and back then she'd never really paid attention.

After all, the dance scenes were some of the most boring in her books.  While she enjoyed the concept of romance, those pages spent far too much attention on male jawbones and calloused hands and the smell of sweat and other things that Ophelia had never much cared for.

With a friend, though, she'd at least like to impress Mitama somehow, so she's trying to recall those vague memories of etiquette in school.

Each girl had been lead by a boy from a brother-school, and so Ophelia had never learned the lead.  Considering she's the taller of the two, she feels it's natural she takes it, so she holds out her hand, palm facing Mitama, assuming the other girl knows how the dance starts at the very least.

The lead isn't supposed to grab at her skirts - he usually keeps his arm clasped behind him at every movement, using his right hand to act as lance, axe, and sword for the different phases of the dance.  He'd stab at his partner's sides; catch her as she feigns fall; and spin her as she overtakes him.

That all seems a bit complicated, so Ophelia keeps it simple with what she remembers.

Her hand pressed to Mitama's, she starts with the customary bow, using the connection of their palms and fingers to push her forward or back as it feels applies to the song.

"Stop! Stop, I say!!" the guard yells, but they're trailing further and further behind, stumbling to a defeated halt as their quarry vanishes into the dance floor.

"Something going on?" Hector asks eagerly, more out of anticipation than concern.

"A party...crasher..." the guard wheezes, hands on their knees. "Here to take...unsanctioned..." They mime bringing an object up to their eye and pressing a button, which Hector takes to mean they're carrying one of those photo-things.

"Say no more. And hold this for me." He drops his roses at the guard's feet and cracks his knuckles, heading for the dance floor.

That's how Hector ends up here, pushing his way through the dance floor, grabbing people by the shoulder mid-dance to check if they're carrying a picture-taking device, leaving a chorus of brutes and why-I-nevers behind him.

If he'd stopped to think about it, the girl draped in gossamer doesn't look much at all like the drab-colored blur that passed him. But the only thing on Hector's mind is finding trouble. The troublemaker, that is. So if he grabs her by the shoulder rather than asking questions, it's all in the name of trouble. Ending the trouble.

And if a guard grabs his elbow in turn, and he shoves that guard into the gossamer girl—well, can't they see he's busy here? Hector's not the problem, the party-crasher is!

She sways her hips to the beat.  It's steady, almost ritualistic in its ferocity.  She watches people stomp their feet, dancing in a way she's never seen before.

Ephemeral.

When Ophelia was eight years old, she mixed up the words ‘ethereal’ and ‘ephemeral’ all the time, but tonight is both.  Come tomorrow, the ball will be a memory, and the point of these ‘photo-artifexes’ are meant to change that.

So she borrowed one for herself.  What does she want to photograph?  Everything!  (And of course, the more she uses the thing, the more she may understand how it works.)

Just as she means to capture the people stomping their feet, a large hand pulls roughly on her shoulder, and she swivels around, a bright light erupting from the device right in this - this - this - (she hears the word brute, so okay,) brute's face!

Ophelia's voice rushes past her thoughts and is out before she can think to stop it.  Prince Leo is here, though, and she has found him, walking across the yard.  Her fingers curl around the sleeves of her jacket, repurposed into a cape, nervous despite her impulsivity.

“Ah -”  When she has his eyes on her, Ophelia pauses, recalling etiquette lessons of years past.  She curtsies, her memories of Prince Leo overriding the rules of the Officer's Academy.

“Excuse me, Prince Leo.  Lovely to see you.  You are looking very splendiferous, may I say." This is how our heroine trips over her words.  “Er…”

She takes a deep breath in, centering herself.  The sun is high, its light is bright.  Ophelia Dusk is strong.

“The great heroine Ophelia Dusk seeks her dark sire!  His power must be tapped as a leyline of her darkness - I beseech you, Prince of Nohr - whence does he hide?!”

Doing laundry possibly was one of the most beloved moment of the week for Sakura, since she was very dedicated and passionate about it: she utterly loved immersing herself in the scent of freshly done laundry and whenever she had the occasion, she helped other members of the monastery doing their laundries as well, since she was very altruistic as well as very keen on cleaning and washing. Aside from hand wash, there also was this particular technique in which you used magic as tool to whirl the water and the clothes in a large basin, adding some flowery aromas and some alchemical concoction to remove the dirt and stains –the petite priestess was pretty used to it by now and like every laundry day, she enjoyed herself while washing and hanging out the laundry. Yet, something was different today.

As she pulled out the wet clothes from the basin, she noticed different colours from her usual uniform, but after a few moments of doubt, she simply shrugged and began to hang the clothes on the long line used for laundry: she put socks, a shirt, some cute robes, a skirt, a pair of things and when everything was nicely hanged, she put the basin aside, waiting few hours before getting back to pick up all the clothes from the clothesline.

Once she got back in her room, she decided to put the freshly washed clothes on, carefully putting every piece of her apparel, thinking that everything suddenly felt larger than before, but then, she suddenly realized a thing… Where is my mantle? She looked perplexed, but when she turned around in the room to have a better look at her wardrobe, she noticed with the corner of the eye her imagine in the mirror –which actually wasn’t hers! The uniform she was wearing was actually very cute, but indeed not her size: she look a bit clumsy inside of it, the sleeve were way too long for her tiny figure and before anything else, she thought just one thing: who took my uniform?

Despite the awkward appearance, the petite priestess sill decided to get outside and look for someone who definitely had something different from their usual self, but where to start? Lingering outside her room, she just had time to glance towards the right wing of the apartments, when she noticed out of the corner of her eye, a familiar mantle.

A problem arose when she finally roused: Ophelia finds that her clothes are missing. They’d been neatly folded and set aside - freshly laundered, too, for maximum relaxation. Despite Ophelia being the only woman in the sauna currently, the clothes left in the changing room are decidedly not hers.

Clothes don’t matter. She quickly rustles through the remaining garb in search of her true target, and finding none, she quickly pulls it on with little thought so she might track down where hers went.

The towel falls to the floor at some point, and Ophelia disregards it in favor of her new quest.

Her new garb, unexamined (mostly) doesn’t fit right. The stockings squeeze her thighs more than she’s used to, but the fact that it’s a loose skirt prevents it from restricting her movement. More uncomfortable is the top, squeezing her chest not only tightly, but in a restrictive way she doesn’t usually allow her outfits.

She’s not used to having her chest so hidden from the sun’s rays, but nor is she used to going so far without her Glittering Heartstone! 

It must be with her garb. That is her only lead, after all, and certainly this quest will be as simple as finding her outfit and retrieving her stone.

She hears a call, and turns her head, seeing -

It’s another girl, dressed in her uniform, though being a slighter build than Ophelia, she looks even smaller in the loose clothes draped across her.

“A-ha!” Ophelia exclaims, grinning. She wastes no time at all in closing the distance between the two. “Lady Fate would not hide my quarry from me for so long; you’re the one who stole mine uniform!”