nameless hero.

Subconsciously, her knuckles rise to gently press against her forehead as she looks around. Blinking once, twice, three times, she pulls her hazy senses back to some form of clarity, bleary crescents waxing into full moons.

That there is light enough to see means Reese isn't where she's supposed to be; neither does she recognize the stippling of trees in the fog, their shape familiar yet their arrangement anything but. She might not be far, then -- but where is she now? Memories fail to provide an answer, prompting her fingertips to dust across the back of her skull in search of one.

They come back dry, her skin unspeckled and clean beneath scrutiny. A beat passes; she exhales, finally pushing herself to her feet, creeping close to the shelter of the foliage. Silence is her only companion for what feels a long while, until a crash and a yelp from the blue unceremoniously shatters it.

At once, she ducks behind the bush hoping it will pass, but the boy-- is his knee bleeding?-- leverages a large branch in her direction, clearly ready to use it.

"Eek!" Somehow the ordeal of being known compels her to squeak in response. Still, she instinctively shrinks behind the bush before peeking over it again a few seconds later. "I-I'm sorry, I was..." Pausing uncertainly, she tentatively searches his face -- finds a litany of new red scrapes, and a pair of bright blue eyes.

He needs to find his way back. MacLear is a stern man, rarely affectionate and sparing with his praise, but even he will surely worry if Kris is gone for too long. They’re each other’s only family; that’s how it’s always been throughout Kris’s admittedly not-very-long life, just the two of them in their little house in the village. Being scolded for disappearing without warning is wholly preferable to never seeing his grandfather again.

But all that peeks up from behind the bushes is a girl’s head. Or at least he thinks she’s a girl, going off the sound of her voice when she answers him.

“…Just a few scrapes,” he mutters, lowering his improvised weapon ever so slightly. Said scrapes still sting a bit (more than just a bit, really, but he’s getting better at toughing out his hurts the more of them he accumulates), but he puts on a brave face to mask the fact as he stares back, drawn first to the vibrant violet of the other kid’s hair and then to gray eyes timidly peering up at him from below. Definitely not features he’s seen before, even in passing, so she isn’t from Sera. One of the neighboring villages, maybe?

(If they’re still in Altea at all. It’s difficult to have a concept of Anywhere Else when you’ve never so much as left the countryside.)

“You said you were lost, right? Where are you from?” The tree branch in his grip dips another inch; he’s been warned against judging people by appearances alone, but the longer he looks at her the harder it is to believe she could mean any harm. He’s as lost as she is, even if he won’t admit it as readily.

Kris is an unaffiliated muse.

[Secret Shop] — He's curious for sure, especially since this one is located in a relatively normal spot (why was one of the ones back home in the desert part of Anri's Way. the path literally known for being inhospitable to human life??) for people to access. Is he curious enough to fake being in a relationship just to get inside after spending entire years denying the possibility of ever having a Real romantic relationship? Uhhh. He'll sell the act as best he can if your muse really really wants to see the goods? (I will be rolling dice for each of his attempts with a disadvantage modifier so either he will flop spectacularly or become the rizzler.)

[Handholding] — He was practically a model student when he attended the Officer's Academy (graduated as of a little over a year ago) and is pretty much the same as a Knight of Seiros, but that doesn't necessarily mean he's thrilled about having one of his hands magically bound to someone else's, troublemaker or not. Not being able to let go is going to drive him up the wall actually. Kris refuses to let it stop him from going about the week like normal though, so in the worst-case scenario your muse is getting dragged along by force because this man never skips gym day.

...Kris is good at lighting a fire, and it proves a tremendous boon to both her curiosity, and-- well, also their general well-being after the sudden onset of a blizzard. She hasn't the knack for lighting a fire the traditional way; magic had always been the swifter, more natural method to her once she had learned it.

"That was so fast...!" Shifting her weight forward onto her toes, the little princess dares not shed the cloak he'd offered her just earlier -- not yet, at least. Palms pin a corner of cloth between palm and boot, and like some strange bat-creature, Maria shuffles closer to the fire, laughing into her hands once she finishes moving, still safely swaddled in her cocoon.

"Hmm..." She hums a note that lapses into silence as she watches him move about. "Maybe just a bit? I think I have stuff in my bag, too!" --if much less sensible, truth be told, but it had still been an earnest effort. Flashing an easy grin, she dares to hold her hands up, near to her shoulders (which is as much as she dares to hold out the cape, cold as it is).

Well, she could use magic to light the fire instead in that case, and it would be even faster if so, but fortunately there’s no need this time. Still, knowing how to start one the magic-less way is a useful skill to have; he ought to teach her should the opportunity present itself at some point…

“And if I were to say that the cold really doesn’t bother me very much? What would you do then?” There’s a flicker of mirth in sea-dark eyes, the corners of Kris’s mouth subtly upturned. Her seemingly perpetual cheer is an infectious thing, and he’s never claimed to possess immunity to it; hasn’t had much time to develop any to begin with. It is true though that he’s mostly fine as is, likened to a human hearth whenever someone got close enough to notice (rare, because he isn’t a very touchy person). With the fire helping to stave off winter’s last hurrah in the meantime, he’s content to allow her the luxury of having the cloak to herself.

“It would be even sillier for you to potentially fall ill because you chose not to wear it,” he remarks with a huff, pulling the previously-mentioned food and water from his pack and extending it towards Maria in offering. “But if you insist, I promise to tell you should it indeed grow chillier. I swear on my honor as a knight of Altea.”

Where the veins of words left unsaid laid heavy in her throat, deep within her earth, her voice crackled and broke; where tears threatened to spill over, her eyes bitterly stung; and where guilt coiled into her heart, into the core of herself, a blistering, consuming heat -- it simply melts, beneath the warmth of his hand in hers, and slips through her fingers. The tension she'd yet to realize she was holding ebbs, and when divested of that which had propelled her, Katarina... relaxes.

Allowing her head to lay placidly against him, a slow, weary breath wrenches itself out of her throat. Lashes flutter shut; time and again, Kris teaches her how the dark does not have to be a cold and suffocating thing.

Her other hand slips beneath his, wrapping the hand left in her grasp in what warmth she may offer in turn. And, perhaps, she might find comfort in this proof he's still alive -- proof she offers to him in kind, hearing the way words fail him as well. She would be honored to be so undeservedly cherish, were it not that it broke her heart to wound his.

"I couldn't protect you." She begins where his words end, usurping his tale of loss with a tale of fire, or maybe faith. Though before she continues, she brushes a thumb over his palm in question. An invitation to stop her from talking, should he need it.

It doesn't come. "There was a version of you in the place I went," she murmurs. "Rusalka. I knew it wasn't the version of you that... I know. But I still wanted to protect him. And... I couldn't." Without realizing it, fingers curl over his hand protectively, remembering how they had felt when absent of life. "But he protected me, even after he was gone."

A pause. When she speaks again, tears of a different kind distort her voice, quietly breaking.

So he listens to her speak without pause on his end. He tries to picture in his mind what this other version of him must have been like, which aspects remain the same and which differ to create the distinction of ‘the Kris that Katarina knows’ and ‘the Kris that isn’t’. Was he still a knight, a swordsman? Did he seem happier, or did he keep his feelings closer to his chest?

How did he die?

It ends up a futile exercise when he’s never really been able to imagine any life for himself that isn’t the one he’s living here and now.

Instead he forgets to breathe when he feels Katarina’s hand close around his, briefly thrown back in time to that awful moment where it had been the other way around—his hands around hers for what had seemed like the first and last time, faced with the bitter reality he’d fought so hard to prevent or at least mitigate in some way. He’s never forgotten it since, or rather he refuses to; the wound allowed to fester on bad days when no amount of training feels satisfactory, when he finds himself unwilling to let Katarina out of his sight for any reason. Those times had been growing fewer and farther between though, something like healing taking place in their stead…

So much for that, huh.

“Because you’re my friend,” Kris answers quietly, speaking around the lump in his throat and the ache in his bleeding heart as though they don’t pain him at all. “The first friend I’d made as a new recruit who’d only just gotten his feet through the gates of Altea Castle. You always stood up for me when we were part of the Seventh Platoon, like when we had to decide who would be its captain.

No, it was a sort of tranquility between those with green thumbs. Even without any particular words exchanged, looking at one another's little plots made it clear all on their own just how much tender care each regular had. This place wasn't a treasure for all, but it was a treasure to her.

It was a treasure worth protecting and cultivating anew, even if it had been ravaged once. This Lapis was sure of.

So Lapis had volunteered happily to help with the restoration of the greenhouse. Once reconstruction of its shell had been mostly complete, then came the need to grow new things. The monastery had many people to feed, and many more would return soon in the coming moons. They'd need a stable food supply that could grow even in harsh conditions, tough to withstand any difficulties thrown its way in case Garreg Mach was subjected to another attack. Plus, Lapis, not being one of the Blue Lions, couldn't guarantee she'd always be available to be here since the grounds were being prioritized to that house in specific.

To this end, she knew just the trick...!

Having her own stash of seeds from her recent trip back home, she sets upon planting them in a small corner of the greenhouse, thinking she'd be away from most prying eyes as she did it. But to her surprise, someone calls out to her while she's in the middle of working.

She startles, rising from her crouching position and turns to see who it is.

“ Kris! ”  she calls out, hoping to look less frazzled by putting on a pleasant smile and an enthusiastic wave.  “ I didn't know you gardened! Look at you, all ready to go too. ”

So here he is, eyes raking over the slivers of green protruding from the soil, gloved fingers carefully probing for signs of…things that are less likely to be an issue in a contained and controlled environment. Force of habit, he supposes. Imagine if they’d had something like this back home. “Normally you would wait until later into the autumn season to plant onions, for example, since they thrive in the cold. As long as it doesn’t get too warm in here they should be fine, though.”

And if he’d noticed her word choice at any point into this interaction, he doesn’t comment on it; hardly worth splitting hairs over when it amounted to nearly the same thing in the end. Kris pays noticeably closer attention to the plots housing the humble beginnings of fresh fruits and vegetables though, whisked back to a childhood ostensibly left behind—to memories dulled by time and repetition, jogged into clarity because he has gone through these motions before and they will not leave the flesh so easily. Not for many more years yet, if ever.

That’s fine, isn’t it? He’s never been particularly shy about his origins. They’d had no bearing on whether or not he was qualified to become a knight. Neither had he cared that they were the reason his room was on the bottom floor of the student dormitories (before the siege laid waste to them like it did most of the monastery).

Other people care though, and sometimes they aren’t who he might have expected to care.

If you do not see your crimes, are there still victims?

(To pretend as if the answer to that question wasn't obvious would be a new level of ignorance even for him.)

“ I didn't mean to hide it, ”  Leif confesses even if it feels hollow to try. But to give up on explaining himself, to go silent, feels as if it'd be the greater mistake to make now. If he stopped speaking, if he stopped reaching, would he ever get to speak like this to Kris again?

The thought fills him with dread.

“ Growing up, I wasn't supposed to tell people. And the ones who needed to know already did. I suppose I've just gotten used to not bringing it up on purpose... ”  For all the steps he's taken, striving to some bright future, he still repeats the same actions of the person he had been in the past.  “ And around you, I just speak my mind as it is. Was that wrong?? ”

But just as Kris surmises, a part of Leif has decided what the answer to that must be, darkening his expression further for it.

Unbidden, Kris recalls: aggression and desperation when backed into a corner, which underestimating had nearly cost him once.

“It’s not wrong, exactly,” the knight eventually settles for saying first, in part because any other response would be hypocritical knowing who his liege is. “I’m hardly in a position to criticize you for that, and I don’t intend to either.”

But neither is it appropriate for him to continue speaking to Leif as casually as he’s been doing up to this point. Those other knights must have believed similarly, hence the frustration bubbling over now that it seems the easy air between them is at risk of changing—becoming another source of bitter discontent for the young lord instead. Proving that Kris is no different from the rest after all, and that Leif was a fool to hope otherwise.

“But it is true that I would have shown you more respect if I’d known sooner,” he continues, his expression making it clear he’s aware this may well sour matters further, “because it’s the proper thing to do given the difference in our positions. It isn’t something I can easily ignore even if you ask me to.”

Not when he’s been scolded for…un-knightly behavior before, to his private embarrassment.

Anything he could want to take with him the day he bade farewell to the only place he’d ever known, he had. What remained were the things that had no choice but to be left behind: the aforementioned house and its deafening silence following his grandfather’s death, the marked grave in the village outskirts visited one last time for good measure. A community which had looked out for him as necessary but not much more than that, like he never truly belonged; the feeling mutual when leaving was always a given in order to take the next step towards his lifelong dream.

Straight-backed, bright-eyed Kris continues to ponder as his gaze returns to Princess Nanna. The pinks and oranges of the setting sun blend well with her colors, seeming to emphasize the divide between the royalty she is and his plain, unremarkable roots. A small wonder it is that she seems to see right into his soul, he thinks.

Her gaze lingered on him, considering. Considering. The kind of look that weighed a person not by title or origin, but by the shape of their convictions.

“Harshness, when it comes from loyalty, is rarely meant to diminish,” she continued. “It is… a way of guarding something. A standard, perhaps. Or a hope that the one before you might rise higher than you did.”

She let that settle before adding, quieter, “But what we inherit from those we admire is not meant to become a burden we cannot set down. If your expectations leave no room to breathe, then they are no longer guidance. They are a cage.”

The boat rocked lightly as she adjusted her grip, the water catching the last of the sun.

A faint breeze stirs. He closes his eyes, gusts an exhale through his nose. Opens them again. “As long as I still draw breath, it will never be enough.”

MacLear may have set the standard, guided him toward it until he could carry on the rest of the way alone, but it is Kris who has continued to set his sights higher ever since. Perhaps it is indeed a cage, and yet—who is he without it?

“But it is what gives my life meaning, Princess. My loyalty, my sword—for those I have sworn them to, I will do anything.”

It seems lonely though, knowing you’re the last of your kind. That short of any surprise survivors—unlikely at this point, he imagines—there well and truly is no one else left.

That said, the Ring Vault certainly does share the same design philosophy as most everywhere else once the guards on duty let him through. Such a massive dome for such small pedestals at its center, and the Emblem Rings set into them even smaller. One would need to practically stand right next to them to get a proper look, but doing so is understandably frowned upon; better safe than sorry no matter how respectful and well-behaved everyone might be. Kris knows that well enough as a knight himself.

The Emblem Rings may be small, intended to be worn on a person’s finger, but glancing up at the statues lining the walls–

“Prince Marth??” he blurts aloud without necessarily meaning to. Forgetting for an instant the sanctity of where he is, the presence of others come for similar reasons.

But, even without Sigurd, she still manages to find him. He is here, sculpted, right before her in this hallowed ring chamber. She could stand for hours staring up at his carved likeness wondering why exactly he was here. Deirdre knows, of course, that her husband is a hero in every sense of the word. If anyone deserves to be immortalized in a work of art, she knows it is Lord Sigurd. But why here.

She stares up at him, pondering his existence here and wanting to return home to ask him about it when she hears a startled voice that she recognizes. It seems she is not alone in her surprise at a familiar face.

A beat passes before the entirety of her words register. Right, of course it’s not just him noticing a familiar face or two here. There are enough of these larger-than-life figures that practically everyone visiting Lythos is bound to recognize at least one, and he’s yet to get a good look at the rest considering whose likeness he’d laid eyes on first thing.

“…He is my liege lord,” Kris answers simply, gaze returning to the statue in question; head tipped back to better study the replicated visage he knows like the back of his hand. “The prince of Altea, hailed by many as the Hero-King for his deeds over the span of two wars. This land is so far removed from our own that I was startled to find a statue of him here, but—”

It makes sense, doesn’t it? A hero among heroes leaving a mark on the pages of history such that he is revered even beyond the shores of his home? “I wonder what he would think if he could see this for himself,” he muses instead.

He’d been turning that conversation in his mind over and over again in the days leading up to this, in between training or doing his duty as a Knight of Seiros. There had been the thought, at least a few times throughout, that he could just show up to the ball in his day-to-day ensemble since dressing up wasn’t required or necessarily expected of the staff. That he would mostly only be there to stand guard anyway, unlike the majority looking to enjoy themselves and forget all their worries for an evening. …Or something along those lines.

When he considered how that would look next to her though, her and the dresses she’d taken to wearing… Well, what’s another outfit that’ll only see the light of day once in a blue moon? He should be grateful there was at least one tailor in town willing to accept what was nearly a last-minute request.

(It likely helped that he offered to pay extra for the trouble. And that he didn’t want something very complicated at all.)

“Katarina.” Kris finds his way to her first thing, as soon as he’s accepted the flower bouquet pushed into his hands—staff aren’t exempt from playing along is the usual explanation, whether or not one is actually interested in doing so. He isn’t, not really; they’d talked about that once, the memory still tucked away somewhere in one of his mental boxes. Maybe it’s the reality of time’s passage dulling the luster of these things. Maybe it’s because talking alone has never quite been enough for him to really know someone.

He isn’t interested, but she is, and that makes it easier to go through with his impulsive, not-very-thought-out-at-all decision when next he opens his mouth to speak. “You look…” Will it be weird if he says beautiful again, just like he did last year? “You look stunning this time, too.”

The silver lining to the flowers, if he can call it that, is that the petals are just about a perfect match for her hair when he holds up the whole bouquet in offering. “Here. Been thinking about it since the moment I noticed, but they suit you really well.”

There’s no one else he’d rather give them to more, anyway.

"Oh...!" For as fond as she is of greeting him -- one of her favorite parts of any day -- when Katarina turns, she forgets to say anything else entirely. He's dressed up again in an outfit she doesn't recognize when she knows he much prefers dressing down, and that quiet voice in her chest wonders why? Has he met someone he wants to look good for? Does his attire match someone else in this great ballroom? And... was it foolish of her to think she would know, when the time came for her to let go?

...Whatever the case, if there's one thing she's certain of, it's that it must be nothing to do with her.

"Kris," she answers with a smile that threatens to pull at her cheeks. Love can be such a narrow thing at times, but when she looks at him and sees that a bit of color has returned to him, it swells in her chest nearly enough to burst. A hand darts up to her lips as though her knuckles might silence and suppress the laugh that follows, a far too delighted thing.

"...I like this one better than last year," she almost teases, but she is far too relieved to do so. After all, she has seen him these past years -- watched the shadows darken under his eyes and his smile, an uncommon and precious thing, become rarer and rarer still. Nearly lost, she had worried at times, but... she has not the words to put it to voice, but this dark and gentle blue has always put her at ease. She giggles again. "Blue suits you."

Stunning. He thinks she looks stunning. Again. Again? But she has to stay exactly where she is, not a heartbeat out of line, the bouquet accepted without protest when what she sees first is how it makes a splendid shield to hide behind. Petals brush against cheeks in blush, eyes turned downward so that he cannot meet them, cannot see through her as she fears he would. It is hard to believe that flowers might suit her, but maybe it is not so dissimilar as to why she likes it when he wears blue.

(Maybe it is not so dissimilar as to why she likes it when he wears blue.)

"Thank you..." A beat; her head snaps up, realizing only just now that she holds not just a single bloom. "W-wait, all of them--? But what about your-- y, your prize?" As if she doesn't already know it doesn't matter to him all that much. Then again, she hadn't expected him to dress up for a second year, either.

"Are... you sure?" She pulls the bouquet away from her heart, if a bit reluctantly. Instead she looks for a tulip. It would look like a star in his shirt pocket... if he'd had one. But it's not like she can force him to carry around a single flower all night -- should she tuck it into his bouquet and give it back? Surely he wouldn't wear it behind his ear...! It would look charming, though. Katarina shakes her head vigorously.

Or maybe it’s precisely because he does. That seems more likely.

In either case, Kris watches her duck behind his bouquet—hers, now, since he has no plans to take it back—as soon as it changes hands, gray eyes averted and therefore no longer meeting his. He blinks once; his hands hover a moment longer before falling to his sides. There’s always been a shyness of sorts to her demeanor, even with friends and comrades, but likewise the years since Sera have done little for his own disinclination towards physical contact. Kris can count on his hands the number of times he’s allowed it, consciously or otherwise. (Most have been, unsurprisingly, with Katarina.)

“I’m sure.” Of that he has no doubt, resisting the urge to huff out a laugh of his own. “I want you to have them.” And they don’t have to mean anything she doesn’t want them to. They’re just flowers, ones he didn’t even choose himself. Hers are surely the same.

Hers are surely the same, and yet when she asks to give him one in return—asks, as if she needs his permission first! As if she hasn’t always had it for anything and everything she could ever want of him, so much like their shared lodestar in that regard. “Yeah. You can. And of course I’ll keep it too, just like everything else you’ve given me.”

Whether or not the guards can overhear their conversation all the way from the vault’s entrance, he can feel their eyes on him with greater intensity the instant he ventures closer to the center. Close enough for steel-toed boots to stop just shy of where the raised stone begins, but no further than that. Definitely not close enough to make out much more than a thin band of gold and the visible bump of what is probably a gem set into it.

It doesn't stop him from glancing towards where he knows his ring is. He'd spent time wearing it not that long ago, but the knowledge he'd depart from this place inevitably and only be left with the memory of something that was supposedly his...

It's a little bittersweet, but it's still not his room to butt in he thinks.

Having followed Kris to the statue three pedestals down from his own, Leif cranes his neck to take a good look at him. The man stands imposingly, a powerful stance with his blade drawn and the impression that the wind is blowing at his clothes to paint him as radiant. “This one's your lord?”

The statues all lack color, so that visual indicator to identify which ring was this man's proves all the more difficult. But...

Star and savior, prince of light, hero among heroes. The man is so much more than just Kris’s lord, always has been, but that isn’t relevant at the moment. No, of greater interest is the possibility Leif presents to him next, the Altean blinking back surprise in the wake of his earlier resignation. “Really? You could?”

If he’s willing to trust the other’s memory. A strange way of putting it, since he has nothing to really lose from trying.

“The ring looks like your armor? I’d get closer to see that with my own eyes, but…” He spares a brief glance for the guards on duty. Without explicit permission, most likely from Alear as the highest authority in Lythos, they’re to keep a certain distance from the pedestals. No closer than the first set of steps leading up to them. Close enough to still make out the rings enshrined there, maybe even tell them apart from one another. They’re small things though, and until now he hadn’t known what exactly to look for to identify his Emblem Ring in particular. It doesn’t help that a few of them share rather similar designs to boot.

…Could the order in which the statues encircle the vault be the same as that of the rings and their pedestals…?

To Kris's question, Leif answers,  “Yeah. From my statue,”  he turns to face it, gesturing towards his likeness before he turns on his heel, pivoting towards the ring of pedestals in the room's center,  “then just made a straight line to the pedestal from there. That's my ring.”  

In a way, he ends up directly confirming exactly what Kris had been suspecting.

Whether or not the guards can overhear their conversation all the way from the vault’s entrance, he can feel their eyes on him with greater intensity the instant he ventures closer to the center. Close enough for steel-toed boots to stop just shy of where the raised stone begins, but no further than that. Definitely not close enough to make out much more than a thin band of gold and the visible bump of what is probably a gem set into it.

Even if it means sitting with thread and needle in hand, helping to sew up stuffed animals for customers at the...Forge-A-Bear shop that had recently opened for business.

Growing up, learning to mend his own clothes seemed like less trouble than going to his neighbors every time. It wasn’t like pricking his fingers in the process hurt any more than the bruises or soreness from training to fight every day did, though his handiwork paled in comparison to Rody’s as platoonmates and then fellow knights. As long as it was enough to make what he had last a while longer, it didn’t need to look pretty.

Closing the final seam of a freshly-stuffed plush toy is a fair bit easier after the first few. Despite the name, there are a lot more than just bears waiting for someone to give them a new home, and the finishing touches for each one differ accordingly. Animals with a similar body shape like cats and dogs are one thing, but then there are the bears, and especially the rabbits—

Kris is checking again that he’d threaded the needle correctly when a voice seems to materialize nearby. He promptly stabs himself with it in looking up from his seat, visibly startled. “Oh. Hello there.” The end of the needle is quickly wiped clean—not that it had drawn blood to begin with—and set down for a moment. “You need help getting that stuffed? I can show you the different options they have if you want something more personalized.”

happy not to be shooed away, dorothea takes a seat beside him on an empty crate,  beaming whilst clutching the floppy-eared rabbit. she gazes at the man curiously — thinking she might've recognized him in passing here and there, though whatever his name is, it seems as though she's not caught wind of it somehow. 

no matter. she'll find out soon enough. 

the songstress continues to watch as he sets to work prepping their station with the goods, leaning in to pay closer attention to his efforts. "is this a hobby of yours?" she asks curiously. "sewing, i mean? you seem like you know what you're doing." 

absentmindedly, her hands play with the limp toy, fiddling with the rabbit's ears as a child might. how new this is, the thought of picking out her own stuffed animal. there were no toys growing up as a street urchin, of course, and so she'd only caught glimpses of such things by peeking through store windows or gawking at the fortunate children who clutched them as they strolled through enbarr hand-in-hand with their parents. even at the opera, gifts came in the form of whatever patrons wished to give her, largely consisting of what they wanted to see her in, and what they thought she would like. rare was it to ever receive something of her own choosing. 

His eyes return to his work. “Not exactly. I just learned to sew so I could at least mend my own clothes. The shop needed extra hands to help out, and there didn’t seem to be any harm in volunteering.”

Seeing so many toys in one place again though, in an utterly safe and ordinary context this time... He can’t remember whether any of the other children in Sera had ever owned such things at any point growing up, perhaps sewn for them by a parent or neighbor if not bought from a passing merchant. His own hands only knew tools and weapons and books; his mind only knew chores and studying and training. Becoming a knight did little to change that, for if shops similar to this one existed in the cities and their populations that could afford to think of things other than food and keeping a roof over one’s head? He’d never noticed before, never had a reason to.

Maybe he should keep an eye out when he returns to Archanea at last. It’ll satisfy his curiosity, if nothing else.

“All right. Aside from the stuffing—which you can use as much or little of as you prefer—the store also offers accessories and the like for giving your stuffed animal some extra flair. The pre-sewn clothing can be resized if you put in a request for it, though that will cost a bit more to have done. These over here are voice boxes; you can record a certain sound or spoken phrase and it’s supposed to repeat that sound back when activated. The cloth hearts are enchanted with magic, so that when you hold a toy with one inside it’ll feel warm to the touch…”