toil and trouble

To be ordered around in such a way—!

But she takes a light breath, and calms herself. This was nothing more than a fleeting annoyance, and the woman had far more right to her ire than Céline. So she simply... 'sucks it up', as Etie would put it, and moves to the water pail.

It seems the dour woman had managed to salvage some of her concoction, though a bit of the spilled moss still floated inside. As the other rolls up her sleeves and begins to scoop it out, Céline watches for a moment before following suit.

"I take it you're expecting me to replace it with fresh water after this, then? Unless you intend to continue using what we already have."

The girl's inquiry, however, sends a jolt of electricity up her spine. The only reason one would ask, surely, would be to study her. Her accomplishment, her research, the fruits of her labor...! Perhaps, writing her off as just a bumbling assistant was underestimating her enthusiasm. Perhaps, instead of a familiar, the girl believed in the dark arts as well...!

"Hmph. This is going to be a balm that can applied to the chest area, easing the burden on the victims' lungs. The problem involved with the stomachache is superficial. The immune system is being laid to waste with every breath."

Though she avoids eye contact, continuing only to scoop at her mostly liquid task, her peripheral senses look keenly to the woman's reaction.

"Sea moss is a good enough substitute for the herbs that I'm used to."

"I sure leave to aid Corrin, but it wasn't for Hoshido that's for sure!" He always loved to not live up to expectations. It was something that happened just because he existed and it was always fun too! What a guy he was. Betraying expectations and being a divine vessel for the gods. So cool!

So.... maybe Duke Izumo is not as crazy as he looks. And sounds. And smells.

SNP!!

     Darkness. Black as pitch. In an instant, the Nohrian’s throughline of motion is cut. The bend they were about to take their Hoshidan on stops, and so too does the gentle, rhythmic sway of their body that had ramped up to matching that of their partner’s. “H-Huh?” they gasp, and they exacerbate the darting of their head at least threefold. Forrest searches for something — anything — claiming responsibility for the outage, though that sand of time spent in total, inky abyss reveals not even the shadow of the woman in their arms. It suddenly becomes their turn to tug closer: to take Rhajat into even tighter a hold and press the auburn-haired woman to their chest. It’s like holding a blanket for comfort. “Rhajat? Do you — is this — n-no, you wouldn’t do this, not in a room I’m in…”

     Just as quickly as they had been cut, the lights loom back on again. But the warm, all-enveloping glow of gold doesn’t reach the corner of the Hoshidan’s face anymore. Frosty blue illuminates only its edges — much too pale and too otherworldly to resume twirling to. And Forrest hardly comes to this realization first, for the collective around them begins their great migration effort deeper into the newly unveiled halls of the event. The bards can’t be seen upon their stage anymore, and a wager might place them tracing the cool outline trailing elsewhere.

Around her, the rabble's curious racket seems to indicate what she too was thinking: someone unknown was responsible for the current black-out. Considering the monastery's adept staff, they wouldn't have long before the void is remedied.

As a low blue light tinges the many dancers' silhouettes, her eyes snap to Forrest. At last, their festival charade is over—and it seems as if Forrest's mind is on the same track as her own. In response, she sneers, and grabs her princess by the wrist, marching the pair from the great hall at the closest exit.

she's almost found herself on a tangent about sworn rivals in her head before rhajat's next thought pulls her out of it ; red hair whips around as she turns to regard her with wide eyes. "curses? rhajat! we're not trying to hurt anyone permanently. ——and get your feet off the table!!" she swats at the other's legs. ". . . anyway. it's just a practice battle. it's supposed to simulate war conditions, but we don't have to be too harsh about it."

anyway, it's not like their generation wasn't unfamiliar with war.

"Why do I care what that fool thinks?" An automatic response, as if attachment to that man is some sort of weakness. The words are out before anything thought. "He's not here. He's never here, but I am. I'm here to make my future for myself."

She looks down at herself, wondering when she had stood up. Her palms are pressed flat to the tabletop after an indignant slam. Her heartbeat, normally mild, is beating loudly like a taiko drum. Rhajat eyes Caeldori, and sits down quietly. No apology is muttered, but in her own way, the descent is a "sorry" of her own.

By virtue of her station, it was rare for others to speak to her so brusquely. But no matter what offense she may have felt by it, she did not carry the same weight of princess in this moment. And she had run into the other woman, disrupting her work...

Céline could not fault her frustration. But to have her intelligence insulted, by someone who didn't even know her?

How dare.

"I am as stupid as you are affable, it seems." The princess responds coolly, emerald eyes dipping towards the bowl in the woman's hands, and then to the water pail behind her. She frowns, "I do apologize for ruining your work, though. I would be happy to replace your pail, but is there any more that can be salvaged? Anything else I can do?"

"You owe me your assistance. You'll be helping me with this curative, now. Congrats, it's an honor. Now get that water pail, assistant."

He hears his title and sighs dramatically, casually flipping his hair over his shoulder - you know the exact reason he needed soap and all, "Yeah, yeah, Archduke Izumo, heir to a divine bloodline, descendant of the gods, and all that. Titles are, like, sooooo boring though. Duke Izumo doesn't me, like, at all."

Izana finally takes a good look at who is speaking to him, eyes cracked open as he squints at this strange and gloomy girl. Hoshidan? Or from one of its neighbouring reasons by the look of her clothes. Probably not from Izumo or she would look more familiar to him. Is he supposed to know her? Or does she just recognize him from his position and notoriety back home?

"We fought in the Hoshidan army in conquering Nohr," she says dismissively. Automatically, Rhajat just assumes that he must be as dull as he is pompous, as opposed to trying to be a tease. Though, knowing his frivolous reputation, she wouldn't be surprised if it turns out to be the latter, in the end. "You left your kingdom to aid Corrin."

Under her shawl, fingerless gloves cling to her own reins, similarly freezing. Her normal baggy outfit is absolutely not equipped for this weather; but with a few modifications around her midsection, thanks to her helpful Forrest, it's easily the warmest outfit in her modest wardrobe. Obviously, her heat spell is the still working overtime to keep in her body heat, but it's the thought that counts. Or something like that.

Her cloth coccoon sits on the seat of a modest horse-and-carriage, though to call it such would perhaps be an insult to a proper wagon. A borrowed cart, empty save for a small chest and herself, rattles along the snowy road behind her mount. Of course, she had not been asked to bring this; but in the event that she must dissect the monster at the scene, she's prepared, if just a little bit. The scroll on her hip is still her only real preparation, in the event of confrontation; but this small box is the least she can do.

She eyes the fresh tracks delightfully. Soon, soon...

As the woman moves away from the road, Rhajat's little caravan follows closely behind. The less-than-ideal terrain prompts some jarring bumps in her plodding, though, and a frown creases her face. The pawprints are hard to discern, and do not seem particularly feline. More prominently, a curve in the trail marks something heavy being dragged along, scattering snow to the sides; the beast has taken its hunt with it. The underbrush is damaged, and the snow is subtly scuffed; clearly, they're on the right track. As a tracker, Rhajat admits that this woman is not unskilled.

"There, look," she points a dark fingernail at the tracks, mirth tinging her voice. "It will be too occuppied with its fresh prey to notice our approach. Muahaha..."

It was almost...optimistic. 

"With luck," Lachesis murmured her agreement, eyes narrowing briefly at the utterance of the quiet laugh, though she dismissed this along with the odd phrasing for the time being. 

The steps grew more dense, and deeper, and another pair of tracks beside them to boot as they drew in closer, smaller, less confident in their steps to her eye. Lachesis drew in a sharp breath at the amount of them, trailing in from all directions, clustering at points and tromping over older paths marked by yet another pair of tracks – paw and hoof, to little feet. 

Some rounded, shoeprints, others bare. 

"Is it...making them walk?" Why? 

There were dragged troughs through the snow, as though some had stumbled, semi melted and then snowed over again for another pair of feet to step through. 

And, from the opposite direction, she saw with fair certainty, another path – larger, longer strides carving deep trenches in the snow, making its certain way in the same direction they were headed. 

"It's probably just saving the children for a different meal. It's just an animal, after all."

Maybe it's naive of her to believe. But for now, there's no indication that this excursion should be anything but an opportunity for more data or ingredients... on top of the chance to save some kids, of course.

     First, her hands. Unlinked from Forrest’s they are smoothed by the caress of the Nohrian’s digits and gripped only tight enough to suggest her upwards. Upwards, and onto their shoulders: one on either side, able to be linked behind the nape if she so chooses. Then comes Forrest’s own, which slide past Rhajat’s arms, past her figure — docking upon her hips. A quick clutch of the fabric-wrapped flesh there betrays, perhaps, just a sliver of the possessiveness she reserves for her partner. Time spent together tends to rub those kinds of qualities off, doesn’t it? “You need only mimic the steps I make,” they continue, and they take one to elaborate. It isn’t complex — just a quick tap east — but will develop into all kinds of turns & swivels as the two build affinity for each other. For the moment, Forrest cranes their head forward, fighting the pinch of their top, 

You need only mimic the steps I make. "Yeah, yeah, I can do this."

Rhajat's normally downcast gaze works perfectly for this simple instruction, tracing the formal slippers she'd given Forrest as they sweep so gracefully over the floor. Her own tight-fitting shoes mimic the movements, only in slow fascination with the Nohrian's own. Clumsily, they follow as best she can. Forrest doesn't seem to notice, thankfully. More likely, they're ignoring the shoddiness, as they tend to do with things concerning her formality. It's a relief when they finally speak again.

"You can handle yourself, I know. But no one will get the chance while I'm around, it's true," she says. "Don't try to appease me like that. I don't fashion is more art than magic."

The Hoshidan pauses to flick her hair from her eyes, before continuing.

"I can't believe you're right, though. About finding solitude in the middle of a crowd of losers."

     They have to strain their legs not to fall over in those gigantic things.

     “Now, I’ve experience in both, but I need to ask,” they then begin, acknowledging their date with a quick squeeze of her palm. Said squeeze avows a gentle tug of Rhajat closer to Forrest’s arm, because standing just at the precipice of the most populated room of the Ethereal Ball puts them into quite a congested line of traffic. Eager couples dart past the mismatched pair and nearly bump their shoulders. Eager-er bachelors run at twice the speed in search of a partner. And Forrest’s concerns lie not in what they could do to Rhajat, but the opposite: what she would invoke onto them should they sufficiently stoke her ire. In the event that hexes do go flying, Forrest has already taken the liberty of stashing a couple of countercurse talismans in the bouquet cradled in their arms. They come from the Nohrian’s personal stash: protective wards meant for their sake, but utterly useless to them in the looming presence of the bodyguard attached to their hand.

     “Do you lead, or do you follow?” A simple question, asked as capriciously as someone’s favorite color or season. To the princess, the answer would matter little; Forrest intends to shuffle Rhajat in and join the movement of the crowd. Amidst the picture-perfect blazonry of just about every surface the space has to offer, and the bright beams of the spotlights cast upon every duet — seemingly infinite in number — the barrier for entry stands tall. Room to squeeze between other people proves scarce, and the ballgoers sway so tightly-packed that even a single misstep threatens collision. Managing to carve a path forward in the jaunty footwear Rhajat lent would similarly prove challenging, but Forrest would do so anyways. Careful, measured motions guide them toward the center of the room…

She lets herself be led towards the dance floor, slinking along beside Forrest despite the unfamiliar outfit. Her lynx-like movements make her more sinister snake than woman, to most eyes. A squeeze of her hand prompts her eyes to the other's, and she nuzzles closer instinctively.

"I'll follow you," is all Rhajat replies. Normally, she's a fish out of water— but her familiar effects bridge the gap. Here, in unfamiliar garb in unfamiliar atmosphere, though, she wants to cling tighter to the noble. They should let their prior knowledge guide them, she thinks. As always, Rhajat is happy just to hold her, and know that the royal belongs to her, as much as her clothes.

     “Even in my finest works, you find a way to seem so gloomy…” The sigh that follows isn’t truly weary, kindling more of the cadence of a joke than any real dismay. Further strides take them closer, until the footwear Rhajat picked out for them comes into view. If the sharpness of their wit hadn’t alerted her, then that length of leg most certainly will. “Is it really so bad, Rhajat? I think that the makeup in particular suits you rather well!” An inspection is then made of her face, and the rosy blush embellishing her cheeks: almost a perfect pair to the pink on her lips. Her black eyeliner had been stolen from her before the pair readied themselves to attend, and in its stead, Rhajat wears Forrest’s white. 

Her gaze finds Forrest's.

"...thrilled about." Not compared to you.

Motion returns to idle hands, and she makes for Forrest's own, catching one from the same sleeves that she herself has worn. Really, she doesn't mind the clothing she wears tonight (Forrest's clothing always seems to meet her in the middle), but seeing her in the witch's own clothes has given her heartbeaet accleration. Somehow, although it is an outfit that Rhajat has made herself extremely familiar with, it might as well be entirely new threads draped on the Nohrian. Loose, dark sleeves run about her, snaking from the breast about her shoulders, then coming down around her sides in black tears. Beneath, mesh nets encase the skin. The dress is a somber exoskeleton of fabric, outlining Forrest's glowing shoulders and sensitive palms, and on her back can be viewed the bones. Thin rods hold together the backless garment, truly offering skeletal vestments to the dark witch's robes. Long cords embellish her normally slight figure into one befitting a true sorceress. Forrest's blonde curls, usually an accessory to bright skies, are a beacon from the black ensemble.

At the mention of dance, Rhajat stiffens ever so slightly. Of course Forrest would ask this of her—that is the purpose of this outing. She only looks down at her lover and bites her abnormally pink lips. I don't dance.

Entering into the central hall has got to be the worst part, she knows. Brilliantly lit, and teeming with nearly everyone in the entire monastery, there's really no place she'd rather be less. She spies no one familiar in her first recon either; and so, awaiting her princess, she leans against a wall, as inconspicuous as one can be on such an energetic evening.

[ TXT ] : finding location data is easy

[ TXT ] : [attachment: kris's location]

[ TXT ] : don't ask how i got it

[ TXT ] : Who is this???

[ TXT ] : What is this???

[ TXT ] : I do not know what to do with this. But why do you have this, and who are you, and how did you know to text me?

[ TXT ] : Are you the car driver? Please do not text strangers. Call an ambulance.