where gladiolus bloom.

but Matthew doesn't really have the time to think about that right this second, given he's found his ("his") boat capsized and himself bodily removed from it.

He gasps upon surfacing, his immediate priority to gather his bearings even as he blinks blearily past water in his lashes. Something bumps into him and he slaps at it in a panic. The oar…! Instinct and reflexes see it within his grasp, fingers closing tight around it. He kicks toward the shore, wastes little time in clambering up.

"What do you mean," cough, sputter, ew pond water, "somethin' in the water??"

Still catching his breath, Matthew casts a look at the water in question, and he notes how very quickly it has stilled. Eyes narrow.

"You sure…?"

So it wasn't just a big, dumb rock to blame…?

there's purchase ; with the help of the slender treeling, he starts backing his way back up the enbankment, bringing the other into the shallows of the lake's perimeter, trying to encourage him to get his footing on the shelf. retrieving the boat, he thinks with a glance toward its shape in the darkness, would be another ordeal altogether as it appeared to be drifting further away the closer he brought its former occupant, but that could come later.

"ridiculous," he mutters once it feels like they might be in the clear, arms flexing as his own footing reaches more level ground and he releases the sapling to secure both hands on the oar, "how did you plan to get b——"

Anyway! Um, yeah — helping! That's absolutely what Henry was here for! He nods, eager, and presses his lips together as he scrambles next to one of the crates in silent answer. A smaller one of sorts, because ultimately, Henry's arms are more like... limp spaghetti than they are heaps of muscle, but he's down to help not get in Mister Cannon's way!

Squatting down toward the boat deck and keeping space between himself and Mister Cannon, he wiggles his fingertips under the sides of the crate. Henry musters allll the strength he has with a deep breath and a quiet oomph — only for the crate to remain stationary. For such a tiny little guy, Henry purses his lips, it certainly doesn't feel very tiny.

Buuuuut he's not here to make Mister Cannon regret anything, either! Another deep breath, another lift, and... still, nothing. Maybe the crate moves a slight inch, or maybe it hasn't moved at all; but Henry feels sweat bead under silver bangs at the effort he's put in, so he flops himself back down onto the deck, sitting down with the crate between his legs. A blink, and he tilts his head back up at Mister Cannon.

"Give me one more shot — and I promise you really won't regret it!" Yeah, Henry's pretty good at proving his own worth! He grins; he gives a thumbs up; and then, he stands back onto already-exhausted feet.

instead of bending over to test it one more time like he expects, however, the silver-haired boy's fingers wiggle in an odd gesture. too late does felix realize what he's doing. hand reaches out: "wait——"

but a swarming shadow envelops the crate before he can intervene, and next thing he knows, it's lifting into the air, then sailing abruptly over the rail and into the roiling sea. he only gapes with disbelief for a split second——"what are you doing?!"——before rounding on henry in frustration, "are you a raging idiot? you were supposed to move it onto land, not——"

a loud whiz cuts him off, and he looks to see the crate appearing again over the starboard rail, the bottom slats dripping with water but the rest otherwise dry, now sailing off toward the dock. it hovers precariously, then comes to a landing where stacks of other similar crates are arranged, sitting neatly on top. the swarming shadow lifts from the box then and makes its way back to its master in an undulating cloud.

" . . . "

palm presses to temple ; a grated sigh rumbles from his throat. "you have to be joking."

he looks around. a few nearby sailors are looking their way, gesturing and talking to others close by. a shrug and sidestep dislodges henry's overly-friendly hand from his shoulder, and he moves toward the next of the crates. "never mind. i'll handle it myself. stay there and move the boxes where it's easier for me to pick them up." even if he couldn't lift them, he could at least push them closer to the edge of the ramp, couldn't he? without bothering with strange magic.

Unease floods his veins, lips pressing together to keep from interrupting the two who have continued a conversation that he can only understand as an outsider. The Salesman makes it seem as if it’s an ordinary thing. It’s Stay up to listen to stories and not Felix as he is - dead on his feet already and approaching a miserable, untimely death from lack of rest. 

A cruel way to die for most.

“He isn’t even wearing the mask.” Seadall finally argues, adding indignation to Felix’s demand. “How is it able to affect him like this?” It sounds suspiciously like dark magic, but he doesn’t say so, won’t risk bringing that awful expression to the forefront when he’s finally being cooperative. 

“Get rid of it?” The man doesn’t so much as look in Seadall’s direction, the contented stretch of his lips aimed at Felix with unnerving intensity. “No, no, no… That mask chose you. It’s uncommon…but you are an uncommon man, aren’t you.” 

Seadall blinks, unsure of the certainty at the forefront of the assessment. As if the masks at the tales they told were as similar as the spirits and cards he liked to consult. He shifts closer to Felix, hovering at his side. “Then,” He pauses to breathe in slowly, searching for balance. “Something about this all-night mask has resonated with him on a spiritual level?” There’s no answer. As if Seadall hasn’t spoken again. “At its core…should we find out what Felix’s soul is staying awake for? Or is it…the spirits of the mask that need to be appeased?”

There’s no answer. As if he hasn’t spoken. Again. 

Frustrated, he turns toward Felix, ignoring the chill that passes through him as he lays a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps if we know what story the mask tells, we can figure out how to release the hold it has on you.”

a hand touches his shoulder, and the spell is broken——a pebble dropping through still water, sending out ripples of life. "nh?" he hadn't been falling asleep, yet he jolts awake nonetheless, disoriented. the salesman's smile is there still, fixed on him innocently, yet unnervingly. frustration bubbles up again, and he blinks hard, willing eyes to stay open and foggy thoughts lined up in a row.

"just, tell me what i have to do already," he grouses, losing patience with the riddles and phrases. what did that even mean, ' the mask wants the stories to be heard '? "what stories."

the two voices beyond the closet door. the father and the son.

was that what he meant?

"but first, you have to recover the item that was stolen from me!" out of nowhere, the salesman recovers his zeal again as if picking up from where he'd left off earlier ; felix startles, but if nothing else, at least it makes him alert. "yes, that mask can't be left in just anyone's hands. . . it'd be very bad. very, very bad." the way the words are spoken strike an ominous chord, more than just a madman's ravings. he must really be exhausted.

"so please!" another abrupt shift: the salesman is now bent at ninety-degrees, palms pressed together before them, practically on his knees. "i'm begging you. you must get it back for me!"

nobody else seems to be paying attention to the odd scene, market-goers swerving around them returned to their own business after the interruption.

"please!"

"all right, stop prattling." he just wants this man to stop. "we'll find your missing mask. once we return it, you'll take this. . . whatever spell this is, off me. got it?"

now, he can see those years for what they were clearly: an embryo, the beginning of resolves that grew inside him like an anchoring seed, shouting against everything he saw around him, a maelstrom that would be dismissed again and again, refused to be listened to. they were the flagstones of a ruined structure that'd be felled and left to embitter and darken before they would shine. and today now stands the product of it, something he supposes he could be proud of. for he might not be all that everyone had thought he would be, but he was something he'd always wanted to be. when he fought, he could do so without scoffing at the ideals that powered his arm ; and when he killed. . .

. . . no. a passionless scoff turns his lips ; a rustle of silent wind disturbs the fur of his collar trim, once white and pristine like snow, now ragged like a lone wolf's mane. he'd never killed for anything more glorious than the fight. he might be delusional in some ways, but he'd stop short of deceiving himself that there had ever been more to the reason he swung his sword or did so now.

perhaps the empire had just become a means to an end. a cause that wasn't his father's, that some part of him might have believed in a long time ago. he can't remember anymore. now, he was also their means to an end. one he'd accepted, turning his eyes to the next battlefield until his death.

"you're back." footsteps' crunch on gravel and rock announce the arrival of a traveling party to this ruin of an outcrop tucked into the oghma mountainside, out of the way of most caravan paths and high enough to provide a good vantage point on the road that wound below. "edelgard. or should i say ' emperor '."

the leader of the empire's assault looks younger than he last remembers, but it's not as though they see each other often. she's only here to give him his next assignment——and it better not be to continue wasting his time here while the war raged elsewhere, dulling his sword and his senses.

It’s been a long time since Seadall has been attacked by people possessed of a different fire. As Felix says, the woman is beyond reach despite the intelligence behind her attacks, forcing Seadall on a consistent backfoot while he weighs his options. Truly, there are no options left to them. Survive is a bare minimum, and Seadall has never settled for anything even close to it - doesn’t know how to even as he twists away from the stab of the lance to feel the bite of a steel sword scraping his side. It’s a minor wound, is all he has time to think, drawing sharp, staccato breaths that mirror his answering strikes. 

Trading blows is inevitable. With stinging knuckles, the weaker swordsman falls to the ground. Stunned, not dead, and in his peripherals is the short woman who’d addressed them first with her weapon aimed high enough to pierce his heart. 

Survival becomes the gold standard.

“Felix!” Does he even say the name aloud? He can’t be certain, nearly blinded by the white-hot flash of light that lands so close that it singes the ends of raven hair flying in front of him. 

No, not light. Lightning. His enemy is dead in an instant, features split between shock and a snarl where the powerful spell split her skull in imperfect halves. Had Felix done that? “H-” He finally has a moment to look back, the word dying on his lips when he catches sight of his companion. The swordsman Seadall been trading blows with was up again - looking to avenge his leader?

It doesn’t matter. Between the archer and the swordsman, the one closer to Felix is the larger threat. Bending, Seadall picks up the dead woman’s javelin, too whittled down by the previous spell to be thrown…but he wouldn’t have enough experience to throw it regardless. Instead, he wields it like a dagger, bounding forward and shoving the sharp end through leather armor. 

The swordsman falls in a graceless heap. “Felix.” The archer is still somewhere behind him, but Felix is in front of him. One arrow lodged in his abdomen and another in his back. Seadall would think him frozen in place if not for the slight stagger of his steps when he finally reaches him. “Hold on,” Adrenaline buzzes through his system, makes his tone both more breathless and sharper all at once. There’s a third arrow being readied, he’s sure. Maybe it's the fourth? He can feel it flying like a grim kind of premonition, but his hands are on Felix instead. “The stars won’t have us today.” A murmur that’s more for himself than Felix. A grounding element that channels healing magic from the amulet on his belt. It works well enough, relief washing through him when the wound knits shortly after he pulls the first arrow free from his back.

his arm grabbed, the arrow at his back hastily pulled. no, don't——but it comes free in another explosion of pain whose answering yell is only muffled through teeth biting down on his own arm, narrowly anticipating. what was he doing?? but then it dulls, soothed by a familiar, itching coolness.

healing magic.

there wasn't time to be grateful or to revel in it. instead of thanks, he finds himself on the ground, jarring the blood still flowing free from his other injury. a horn sounds somewhere in the distance, over the high walls of the fort. they couldn't stay here ; he could take a few untrained footmen, but while protecting someone? not to mention there was no telling how many more would come pouring out of the gate in seconds. seadall was grimly right: death wouldn't take them today, but they couldn't afford to be idiots if they wanted to make that happen.

his hand finds the other's forearm this time, firm grip brooking no resistance. "we have to go. now." forget negotiations ; the priority was escaping with their lives. another arrow whizzes ; he doesn't see where it lands, if it strikes. damn him for not thinking to bring his shield! shoving seadall behind him as they scramble to their feet, he pushes at him toward the treeline——"go, go!"——only following close behind when he feels him run. darkness blankets them from the wood cover, ferns whipping at his shins and branches in his hair.

neither of them had anticipated immediate, killing violence. maybe they should have. but this was a minor dispute about treating plague patients, not a war. why make more dead?

he doesn't understand, but it's clear the most direct path into the outpost was no longer an option, if they even wanted to continue trying at all. at this point, maybe they should cut their losses and head back, count the trip for nothing, and let the church send some knights out to clean up the mess.

maybe it's only one minute, maybe it's three or five that pass before he slows, the deep ache from the arrowhead still digging into his abdomen finally eclipsing adrenaline and forcing strides to halt, a hand to go to the site of the wound as he staggers, then collapses to his seat on a patch of rocky moss. "ugh..." a groan through rasped breath, and he pulls away a red-stained palm. who knows how much worse all the running had made it. breaths draw in long and sound, training kicking in to slow his heart rate down. then eyes lift to the way they'd come, scanning the foliage for symptom of pursuers. . . so far, the trees are quiet. though that didn't always mean anything.

truth eludes search, and he's familiar with the idea that the more doggedly one looks for it, the further away it tends to stray. he's thinking of his brother today——against all odds and his own better sense, he grasps for it regardless: that truth. because hope, frustrating and futile thing that it often is, is one of the hardest embers to snuff out. and even he is only human.

the likelihood it's what he thinks couldn't be any lower.

he tells himself this over and over like a mantra, repeating it like the prayers he disparages. it keeps him in check. like all children, he'd grown up, learned some discipline, and so he's no longer the sulking thing that had to be comforted.

and yet,

the black iron spur is heavy in the pocket of his cloak. his fingers stay wrapped around it as though it were a precious gemstone, one a kind as it is, afraid it might dislodge from its safekeeping and be lost in this web of illegal stables and for the price of his hope, he might bet one precious thing only to lose two.

left. right. another right. the warren of these stalls kept out of sight run deeper than they initially seemed. just how extensive was this seller's holdings? he couldn't imagine that the underground market for illegal horse trade would be so extensive ; why, when he'd never thought horses were difficult to come by normally? the fact that she was here——if she was ; he schools his hope into obedience again——suggests they already knew she wasn't just your usual steed. 73. . . 74. . . the numbers hung beside each narrow door grin snaggle-toothed at him in chipped and peeling paint, old and worn. it spoke of an operation that was not only long-standing, but mobile ; whoever was in charge moved it around like a nomadic enterprise, most likely to evade capture by authorities whenever they might've started catching on. much as he loathed it, this was the only reason he hadn't told anyone else about it himself yet, lest it slip out of his grasp before he had the chance to see for himself.

81. . . 82. . . at last, stall 86 nears, and his pulse accelerates unconsciously. 83, a grey-flecked beast, old in the eyes, coat growing in for the winter. 84, a tall, brown gelding staring at nothing.

but going out of one's way to strip down someone's drying laundry, then find some other unwitting suspect and do the same, just to exchange their clothes and make everyone's life more difficult?

why.

he couldn't understand why anyone would bother.

"hnh. perhaps i should ask sylvain. seems like someone who'd pull this nonsense." but even as he scoffs, he doesn't really think it's him. sylvain might be a frivolous fool and a halfwit, but he wouldn't go out of his way on purpose to annoy him like this.

in any case, he wasn't going to be handling these clothes ; they obviously belonged to a girl. the style of clothing aside, there were all manner of. . . intimate articles in the basket that he had no interest in handling. that, if nothing else, was something sylvain could be good for. no doubt he'd handled plenty.

thankfully felix is here to back her up, but even then...

"aaaahhh, it's this nonsense again." the merchant sighs, kneading his shoulder with his right hand and holding the stack of papers out carelessly with his left. "i was willing to give the church the benefit of doubt, but here they are paying people to make things up about me again."

the crowd erupts into jeers and boos again, taking the man by his word almost immediately in comparison to the two of them. he doesn't have to say anything else, a small self-righteous smirk appearing on his face while supposedly no one is looking at him.

"just get lost!" the crowd, sensing their upper hand, has grown bolder ; the voice this time belongs to a young boy, voice still high.

"get out of here!" others join in.

" ' what do we have to do to make you believe us ~ ?! '" someone mocks in singsong, "maybe don't think you can march off with anyone who helps us!"

"take your holier-than-thou attitude with you!"

"get hit by a carriage on the way out!"

"It was pretty busy, huh. Guess I don't blame you wanting to catch a break." The boat continues to drift, light breeze gliding it through the water one painstaking inch at a time.

"You didn't wanna participate? Test your mettle?"

He reaches for the oar through the reeds nearer the water's edge. Reaches, fingers just dusting against the grain of wood but not quite within reach yet. He tries again, a careful swipe, but the boat pitches against a rock and well, careful isn't quite the name of the game now as Matthew, with a yelp of surprise, makes a grab for whatever might keep him nice and dry -

The paddle, in this case. Ill-advised as any ounce of logic would have decried.

the underside of the boat bobs up to the surface just past it, a rounded dome, an instant before there's another, larger splash off to its side, big enough for him to see where the water sprays as if it's been struck by something under.

that gets him to move, alarm rising. "hey!" lurching toward the water, then recoiling when he sees something flip up right in front of him from beneath the surface and slap the top before disappearing back under, stout and living——a fish? no, it'd looked like the end of a tail.

like——

"eyes over here, haha!" a sharp impact on his side sends him sprawling in the grass with a pained grunt ; damn it. he'd been too focused on trying to hit the girl that he'd lost track of the other opponent.

where was his ally? pushing himself up and ignoring the angry smarting in his ribs, he nocks another arrow and fires, more to deter his assailant than hit him ; a quick glance reveals the blond also staggering to his feet on the near the other side of the field. "wh—shit! dervla, hit 'em!"

"when he's got a bow? not on your life ; i'm a flier!" she does another loop around the far end of the field on wingedback instead as gelam mutters something he can't hear from here under his breath.

suddenly, the shrill blare of a whistle stops them all in their tracks, heads whipping around to the sidelines where one of the proctors jogs towards them with an arm in the air. "six feet apart! the rules are to stay six feet apart at all times!" felix can hear shouted across at them, and the proctor gestures as gelam as he comes closer. "it's an automatic loss if we catch you again."

a scowl screws on the young man's face as he drops his eyes to the ground and agitates the grass with the toe of his boot. "okay, got it."

"i'm serious."

"yeah, i said i got it!"

“I am perfectly alert, thank you. And I’m in no greater hurry to stand around than you are.”

Without the additional guidance Felix has, Poe is left to rely on her own Gods-given senses. The foliage paths wind into themselves—Poe considers having a strong sense of direction to be a necessity for her craft, but even she has begun to lose her sense of where they’ve come from. She suspects that whatever may wander out of sight might not have the same issue. In fact—

—it is easy for the mind to wander, hovering around the conclusion that such may be by design.

the distant bay of dogs has never once subsided ; he can't tell if they're still as far as they were before or getting closer, and if that's just in his imagination if so. he's letting the tension get to his head. taking a deep, quiet breath, he finds himself almost wishing one of the hounds or whatever monster lay in this warren would come out already ; dangerous though it might be, he could handle himself in a fight. this kind of sneaking around was better suited for the thieves and conmen.

at the end of the long row, there's another turn. then another, and another in tight quarters, drawing a frown onto already-tense features. it feels like they're getting deeper into some corner——

the ground disappears from under him, stomach lurching to his throat and hands grasping wildly for anything, clawing at skidding walls of hard-packed soil.

"ngh!" legs crumple under as he hits a painful landing on something hard, jabbing him in multiple places. fearing the worst, he looks down, but it's hard to see anything in the deeper darkness of the pit a half-dozen meters deep. it's fairly large, enough that he's not certain if the solid blackness over his shoulder is shadow or wall, but as he gingerly tries to lift his leg, he's relieved to find it not stuck on or pierced through by anything, only to hear the rattle of hollow objects displaced and knocking around under him as he moves. he shifts his weight more firmly to try and put a foot down on hopefully solid floor and is met with a crunch, and his hand, reaching out cautiously to brace, touches something hard and dry and turns it over. half of a skull peers back up at him in the dim shaft of moonlight, upper jaw missing, inhuman. instinctively, he pulls his hand back. all around, other bones are piled, impossible to tell apart.

Either Felix is about to tell Sylvain off (really tell him off, tone turned ice despite a subtle rose tint  to his cheeks) or his proposal is actually being considered. Felix is funny that way, that even after all these years, he can’t really tell what’s coming for him. There’s no indication either way since he always looks a little bit ready to fight.

Red brows threaten his hairline, surprise slipping through for the briefest second. Got him. Stopped in the hallway together, Sylain laces his hands behind his head and grins, feeling a bit like he’d already conquered the harder part of the evening. Everything past here had to be a breeze. “Just maybe?” His voice lilts, teasing. The rest of his body follows the curl at the end of the question, gesturing away from the direction Felix had been headed originally. “When have I ever led you astray?” 

Too many times to count. But who’s really counting? He’s bound to have some good grace cushioning the years and years they’ve known each other.  

With the knowledge of new and unerringly judgmental eyes around the Monastery, the grounds are appropriately vacant as the distant bell chimes the official end of the working day. That or anyone with good sense is practicing their steps for the upcoming dance. It gives them time. “I wonder how it all works. What do you have to do to look back at it… ? say a little prayer to the Goddess? Light a fire under it? I’d hate to come all this way and not be able to make it,” he waves his arms in the air, a vague gesture. “Work.“

Trailing off, he slows Felix by throwing his arm out as if it were something he could use to block their path. “Look, you can kind of see them even from the bridge.” Even from this far down, Sylvain could see the clunky metal addition where it seemed suspended outside one of the more famously trespassed balconies. “I figure I’ll just pull it down…if I lean over the balcony, I’ll be able to reach it- unless there are easier ones to grab. You won’t let me fall, right?” He chances a glance, assessing. “That’s assuming they aren’t magically warded. Unless you’ve got a better idea.” 

similarly, he's content to listen to sylvain with only half an ear——until they're close to the tower in question and he nearly takes an elbow to the face to stop him in his tracks. "hey, watch it."

naturally, he goes unnoticed.

impassive amber gaze follows the line of sylvain's instead to the decorated balconies dotting the height of the goddess tower's circumference, head tilted back, searching the cracks between skeletal tree branches for a sign of anything abnormal. it takes a few moments, the angle of the sun reflecting off the metal and causing it to blend in with the aged stone facade, but he finally catches sight of the object and instantly wonders how it'd taken him that long to see it. perhaps precisely because he'd been expecting something more subtle. the recording device juts out of the side of the stone like an unnatural arm, bulky and unnattractive ; they must really be desperate to catch anyone determined to squirrel away here if they were willing to set up something so ugly. he realizes just as sylvain proposes working together to pull it down that they'd have to commit a form of theft to accomplish this, and his next sigh comes out grated as his weight shifts onto one foot, hand resting on his hip. "instead of falling, you should be worried about getting caught by the knights. or the acolytes. you might even get expelled, depending on how much they spent to buy it."

if there's a ghost of amusement to the tenor of the last part——a threat they both knew was likely trivial owing to their statuses——it was all in sylvain's head.

no. if miracles existed, he thinks they come in much smaller and more useless ways.

a loaf of bread in the back of the pantry that miraculously hasn't gone bad ; a lesson that had to be cancelled, allowing him to sleep in a little later that morning ; a black iron spur, once lost, suddenly showing up again exactly where he steps on it, nearly ruining his boot. and the tune of a song he can't get out of his head, only to suddenly find himself hearing it on the outside, too.

　　none shall sleep, 　　none shall sleep. 　　even you, oh Princess, 　　in your cold room. 　　watch the stars 　　that tremble with dread 　　and with hope.

he's never been one to relate to the romantic overtures of the famous operatic aria, most well known of the pieces from lasairfhíona, but there were plenty of other things about the work he'd resonated with. coming from a militaristic family, obviously the plights and feelings unique to a warrior fighting a battle far from home rang true——the listlessness of knowing whether you'd be dead or alive come morning, and the way old thoughts came to haunt the darkest hours when sleep fled. it was an old opera, so it'd been a long time since he'd heard those songs ; he still recalls the last time he had seen it performed in fhirdiad when he was younger, before everything had happened, sitting in the rows with his father and his brother. it was hard to explain what had made him think of it again, and even harder to accept that its appearance in the market square of the cathedral town on the same day was just coincidence.

almost against his will——he'd come here to run errands, not to get sidetracked——he approaches the seated crowd gathered around a man beside a large instrument, curiosity compelling every step. but where he expected a musician, the man did nothing but stand there half-smiling like a shepherd tending his flock ; all of the listeners sat with their eyes closed and faces upturned, basking intently, and he just there to watch over them. it was an odd sight, least of all because the instrument appeared to just be playing by itself, similarly without movement, the notes of the aria drifting out from its shining bronze surface in a tinny and distant crackle. it didn't even sound good, yet something about it pulled at him nevertheless——as though he were looking at a large portrait and leaning to peer in close at a small, subtle detail in its background: trying to solve a mystery that spoke out in such a small voice, demanding not to be drowned out.

what was it? what was it he was listening for? beneath the barely-audible melody and the muffled rise of the tenor's voice. . .

　　but my secret is hidden with me 　　the truth no one shall know.

That doesn’t make it easy.

Rubbing at the angry red left on his skin by the stranger’s hands, he looks to Felix even as he strives to keep the threat in his direct line of sight. 

“Hmm…” There is a small wrinkle between Felix’s brows, but he doesn’t know the other well enough to glean whether it’s confusion or just simple fatigue that’s conjured it. When the other doesn’t answer fast enough, he leans in. “You purchased a mask?” He hadn’t been paying much attention to Felix, but the other had indicated that there was something he’d left behind. “Which one?” this, he aims at the shopkeeper.

“Oh,” That serene gaze sweeps over them one more time, and Seadall shivers when it feels more that he’s been seen through rather than looked at. “Why…I can’t say…” 

As the salesman dissolves into mindless rambling, Seadall clears his throat. “You don’t remember?”

It gets a reaction. Another lightning boosted twist of his entire body, glaring at Seadall with palpable ire. “You think I don’t know every mask? Every story that is my burden, to-” With his head in his hands, he breathes harshly, until those breaths slow. He comes up smiling. “It’s my joy, my calling. Of course I know every mask.” 

Seadall doesn’t step back because he’s retreating, but he does edge closer to Felix when that endlessly patient, loving gaze turns toward him.

strange. he can't remember. but it must not've been important.

"one of your masks just appeared in my room. i was planning to give it back, or i thought someone had misplaced it, but the lack of sleep. . . "

the warmth of the sun on the back of his neck is like the heat of a glaring eye. voices, as if from underwater——a man and a child. the man has to leave home for a little while to research something outside, and the child is whining for him not to go. it's just the two of them in this place. their words are garbled and incomprehensible, stilted sentences, but he understands this like he'd learned of it somewhere before. he's placing his hand against the barrier again that separates himself from them. it's me! he wants to yell. but he doesn't know why. i'm in here!

"the lack of sleep. . . ?"

felix jolts back into himself, grunting and giving his head a firm shake. heel of hand presses to his temple, hard. what was that?

what had been talking about? "ngh. . . before i could, i. . . i couldn't sleep."

"yes, that would be thanks to the all-night mask." the happy salesman's energetic bobbing——nodding, he supposes, though he's never seen anyone do it with almost their whole body like that——is just as offputting as the rest of him. "it does do that. holds stories and stories beyond your wildest imagination, it does! it has to."

something about the way he says that strikes felix as strange ; brows knit. "has to?"

"how else could you last through grandmother's tales all night? she'd get angry with you if you fell asleep, wouldn't she?" confusion swirls in his fogged mind ; his grandmother? he supposes that's true. ——wait, no, he hadn't even known his——what was he talking about? and why did it feel like it made sense? with another bewildered groan, unsure what to think, he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to will scattered thoughts to order themselves. eventually, their random swimming arranges itself into something he can grasp onto.

As compact as he is - Felix’s weight is a brutal force. Maybe it’s the added swiftness, the sheer burst of motion behind the action, but Seadall doesn’t find his bearings quick enough to do anything but fall. It isn’t even a graceful fall. The impact steals the breath from his body, air hissing through his teeth when he lifts his legs and uses momentum to land on his feet in a crouch. 

It’s at least better than having an arrow between his ribcage. “Thanks.” Despite the alert, the archer doesn’t fire again, making their exact location difficult to pinpoint. Positioning himself at Felix’s elbow, he faces away to scan for enemies in the opposite direction, finding the wildlife to be eerily still. “I’ll admit that the conflict I was expecting was more…raised voices behind closed doors.” He should have known better…

In the quiet, he breaks away from Felix, catching his gold-toned gaze long enough to convey apparent apprehension. The outpost’s heavy door refuses to budge when he pulls, iron ringing when Seadall drops it. “Hello? We were sent here to help, like he said,” Another glance at Felix, weighing the new name and title before he repeats it. “Felix Hugo Fraldarius, that is. We aren’t enemies.” 

Ready for another surprise attack, Seadall jumps back a pace when the door itself hisses. A long, loud scrap of metal announces that someone is on the other side of the door. 

Everyone’s not dead. He’s relieved for a span of a second before the door springs open to the unmistakable hush of an arrow that grazes the side of his face. “Who-” Two arrows rapidly fired, though the dancer sidesteps the second with only instinct to guide him. Three arrows, two swordsman, and a lance fighter that closes the space between herself and Seadall with a killing kind of focus. “Wait!” He dodges the steel that sweeps a jagged edge in the dirt where his feet had just been. 

Foldan politics. Seadall could stay here for years and not understand them. With his lips forming a permanent frown, he holds his hands up and continues to sidestep strikes until any seem rational enough to listen. Without looking, he can hear the clash where others have engaged Felix, too. “What is going on?” He manages to demand a few minutes later, when the initial adrenaline has worn off. 

“You’re more religious idealists,” The lance wielder is looking over Seadall’s shoulder, to wherever Felix is. “Come to make sure that we’ve been dealt with? Whatever help you've brought, we don't need it -we won this outpost fair and square. You can either be locked up with the rest of them in the dungeons, or you can die. Pick one.” 

“Foldan politics…” It’s a curse, but Seadall can’t wrap his head around what he wants to say. “I don’t understand. Are you at war?” 

"don't try to reason!" between drawing blood with the edge of his blade along the first attacker's sword arm and taking the few seconds of opportunity to turn around and engage the second, he manages to bark out at the bewildered psychic——who, by some miracle, is still alive, but won't be for much longer if he continues trying to understand rather than defend himself. "put them down!"

when an enemy came at you with bloodlust, they waged their life to achieve that end. in order to survive, you had to be willing to do the same. any half-hearted effort out of reluctance to harm would only end with your life bleeding out into the dirt and nothing to show for it.

"nhgh!" a boot to the stomach sends his opponent staggering back, doubled over and retching ; but it's just enough time for the first to decide to abandon his weapon altogether, charging him head-on instead like a wild bull. felix lets his own sword be thrown out of his hand from the impact, lest in the chaos of hitting the ground and rolling, hands ripping at his hair and spit in his face, he only end up running himself through. if seadall was fighting back now or was still trying diplomacy, there was no way to tell.

twisting and fighting, he eventually manages to worm an arm between himself and the assailant enough to fasten his palm to the other's throat, thumb and fingers digging hard into the gap of the jugular. the man's eyes bulge, face reddening with fury and exertion ; they roll again ; felix finds himself on top and bears his weight down, driving a knee down and forward just beneath the center of the breastbone.

"yield, and i won't——"

“But I have it on good authority that something is not right here. This is a difficult continent to keep a secret in,” She says with an almost conspiratorial smile. The paths forward become shorter and shorter, each turn giving way to another in briefer succession. “And while the dogs themselves are an open secret–” One more turn reveals a dead end, to which she stops, placing her hands on her hips—what an inconvenience– “–those poor souls who have gone missing–”

Her thought is rent in two, killed before it leaves her lips by something bigger, louder. Guttural; something caught between a snarl and a wail. Poe flinches, a hand raising a bit too late to cover her ears. Her first thought is that it is a beast, but if it is, this is no sound she’s ever heard a beast make before.

It doesn’t sound close enough that she feels confident they could see it. 

It doesn’t sound far enough that they don’t have to worry about it, either.

what was wrong with it. . .

instead of answering her question, he quickly takes her wrist and pivots back the way they'd come——"this way"——taking several hastened steps before saying anything more. "whatever made that sound. we need to find it." he couldn't explain why, only that he had an inscrutable feeling, and that he couldn't say for sure that it'd be safe. "stay alert. it could be dangerous." the next bend brings them to an uninterrupted corridor extending forward, longer than any since entering this labyrinth ; he nearly stalls upon seeing it, suspicious of its empty and open invitation. one thing he'd considered when she'd mentioned the dogs earlier is the maze's spotless condition. if there'd been multiple people torn limb from limb in these hedges, he'd expect to see more evidence of struggle, blood or scraps left behind. perhaps lady duval was just a meticulous cleaner, but it didn't make sense to go through that much effort just to do it again.

for now, he didn't know what to make of it, or if it mattered at all. they needed more evidence, anything to point them in a clearer direction. and that guttural bay had to be something. then it clicks:

"it sounded like it was hurt."