Lein's intentional lack of reaction was almost as good of a victory as him walking back over with his tail between his legs would've been. If anything, Fionn likely would've been disappointed if Lein had shown any genuine shock or similar. Now, though, with his first target for the day as taken care of as he could manage for the time being, it was time to end his impromptu morning jog and get back to the castle. By that point in the morning he'd completely missed his usual work with his training partners, after all, and that just wouldn't do.
So he melted into the stream of farmers and workmen himself, jogging along and weaving through the groups of people as quickly as he could manage. The carriage that Lein decided to stowaway on the side of was already long since gone, but more important now was getting back before Renar and Gerard could finish off their post-training drinks, lest he miss out on anything else he might want to accomplish in the day!
Splitting off from the main line of travel once his chance came and passing up the walk to Candaeln, though, he couldn't help but notice the loiterer by the entrance. In part due to her abrnomal dress, abnormal colouration for the area, abnormal...most everything, but also, as he drew closer..."Hey!" he called, raising a hand in greeting. "You weren't at that ball last week, were you? Trying to get inside the castle?"
The direct address seemed to spook the elf, hand leaping instantly to her sword and angling to face Fionn before the actual words caught up and she relaxed, still seeming rather nervous. "Ah, yes, I was at the ball..."
There was some nervous shuffling, the girl looking back over her shoulder at the busier adjoining road that lead away from Candaeln, briefly grimacing and then turning back towards Fionn, once again only nervous rather than prepared for a fight.
"Um, I was with my mum, see, and she said she'd speak to the Iron Roses, said they wanted good people all the time, and if I was really that sure it would be a good idea, she'd be safe and look after auntie for a decade or two, and then I could introduce myself and, uh... well, I don't know if she did that, I was busy helping out some farmers, and I think she might've but maybe she just said she was still going to do it, and I don't know who I'd want to talk to anyway, you can't just go up to the captain, and it's rude to just walk in without an invitation, so I've been waiting out here just in case, but I don't know if I should knock or... um... sorry?"
Possibly one of the stranger questions he could ask, but perhaps it being almost utterly disconnected from everything else she was saying might keep her from spiralling off any further. "You can tell me on the walk around if you want. I've got to make my way back to the dining hall and see if a couple of people are there, can take you along to the captain after if you'd like."
"Oh, well, um..." the elf-girl replied, looking away and blushing, "I... didn't? I just covered it with a glamour for the ball to get less attention, I would have to stay inside for weeks to lose it. Dad was a desert elf, see, so... oh, and I spend a lot of time outside, that helps."
A variety of expressions flickered over her face, before she settled on, "If it's not too much trouble...? I don't want to take up any of your valuable time, you're an important knight and I'm just some elf! I don't mind if you just tell me where to go, I can wait!"
Covered it with a glamour. That explained it well enough, he imagined. "Magic, then? Something I need to figure out myself, now that Tyaethe's done me the favour of pointing out that I'm magical too." Just to emphasize that he wasn't pulling her leg, he held up the hand that he was about to open their way with, setting a fingertip to glow again for just a moment. Then—rather than listen to the nervous elf's protestations of not wanting to take up much time—he pushed the door in, stepping inside and holding it open.
"Now, don't mess with the seat with all the pillows, that's Tyaethe's and she—" He stopped mid-sentence, seeing a recognizable pillow in the stack. He stared for a second, before setting his jaw, walking over, and plucking his old favourite pillow out of the stack. "Takes pillows from the other knights, apparently. I've been wondering where this went for months." Taking a nap out in the sunlight one afternoon, he had gotten up for a short time to go and grab a quick drink of water. By the time he made it back his pillow had been gone. Now, though, now he knew the first place to look if such should happen again. Purloined head cushion secured under his arm, he started to continue back along.
"Of course, we've got all the relics, paintings of the founding knights, that sort of stuff. Better to look at when you've got Tyaethe out here like normal to talk about them, though. No real time to waste to see if I can remember it all off the top of my head, we've got to be quick..." He'd taken longer to get back than he wanted, anyways. Knowing his luck as soon as he made it to the dining room and glanced in, his day's next quarry would be long gone.
With that in mind, he rushed the poor elf woman along with barely any explanation or introduction to the castle itself, bursting into the dining hall at high speed with a heavy impact to the door, casting his eyes back and forth across the few heads still in there. Renar he couldn't spot easily—likely facing the wrong direction—but it didn't take much before he locked eyes with Gerard, waving at the man to get up and come over.
Steffen tapped on his knee a few times as the conversation winded down, occasionally glancing to Tyaethe to see her seemingly deep in thoughts. He would try to think up of something else to say about Merilia, but that was pretty much the extent of his knowledge about her. She did come up in the dream he had this morning for encouragement, but he felt it would be too weird to bring up all of a sudden.
A few little birds, brown cute little sparrows, landed on the stone walkway in front of both of them. Steffen tilted his head and picked up some seeds from his pocket, letting them fly over onto his palm. With a tickle, the sparrows stood and pecked the seeds. He could hear the squeaks that they made that lightened up the garden every day. If he wasn't wrong, this was the one who would actually wake up late but would tweet all day without exhaustion. It took a little bit for him to earn its trust, but it was worth it.
"Anyway, is there anything else you need to discuss? Or you're just chatting?" Steffen turned to ask, the sparrows flying off once they were done. "I'll head off to the training later if you want to see me."
"Make sure to let me know if anything else comes up," Tyaethe said, after a long pause, climbing to her feet. "I don't think anyone else has enough experience dealing with that woman's bizarre choices..."
With another sigh, the vampire returned to her usual seat, keeping the parasol on hand in case she needed to go find someone outside again. Hm, it felt like something was missing, now? Well, everything looked roughly the same, it wasn't the biggest issue. Maybe the cushions were starting to get flat? There were a lot of them, and she was very light, but things still needed eventual replacing...
Lein's path to the blacksmith was rather unexpectedly interrupted; one blink there was only empty corridor ahead--a simple turn off to the blacksmith in the courtyard beyond it--and the next there was a girl in front of him. The only other trace of her presence was a very faint woosh of displaced air, the girl herself appearing to have materialised from nowhere at all.
To call her appearance ''strange'' would be an understatement. For a start, there were the ears--tall, slender, and definitively lapine, marking her as extremely foreign as much as the unusual cast to her features. The ash-white hair tied back into a rough ponytail was a little strange, if not extremely. But working down from those... her clothes were incomprehensible in local styles. Some sort of deep blue half-robe with a white symbol recurring across its surface, and below that a nearly-black pair of pleated trousers. The sandals and their accompanying socks were no less strange.
But all of that became immediately less noticeable once one took in the most threatening thing the girl carried and its contradictions: a pair of curved swords, one longer than the other, thrust through a cloth belt. Something that only raised more questions, given her lopsided posture. After all, what use did a girl without her right arm have for two swords, let alone one with such a long handle? What use was a one-armed warrior missing the accompanying eye on a battlefield, especially if the fringes of the burns at her neck were even more extensive?
All of which was quite a lot to take in, one azure eye boring into Lein's before the stranger gave a bow and spoke in--accurate, though very unusually accented--Velt to him. "Greetings. You are Lein of the Iron Roses?"
Location: Route to Blacksmith's Forge Interactions:@Raineh Daze
Lein stayed his grip on the wheelbarrow containing a pile of broken weapons he took off an apprentice's hands, not letting his surprise at both the suddenness of the visitor's appearance and curious attire catch him out. Lein had heard of the leporine people before, though this was the first time Lein had met them in person. Far, far lands that spoke tongues and dreams utterly foreign yet grand in its own styles. Wild rumors of vulpine and winged peoples, spoken of both glowingly and with a seasoning of wariness by traders of endless speculations. Never had he so much denied the truthfulness of these rumors, but it was yet a little surreal to have such a confirmation dropped right in front of him, apparently materializing straight from the air. And even by those standards, this swords-woman yet distinguished herself with scars and weaponry holding tales of struggle, a missing arm matching Lein's.
Fascinating as she looked and dressed, it was hardly the first time that a complete stranger asked after him in ambush. The real crux here was the intent. Clearly, had she wanted him dead, she would have taken the chance to get the first strike. He dressed and was performing the work of an iron-working tyro, so she knew who she was speaking to. Speaks Velt but knows me by 'Lein' rather than 'Cashmere'. Been looking for me as a knight than as a courier or fixer. Pretty recent contact. The witch?
It was too early to jump to conclusions, so Lein gave the stranger the benefit of the doubt...actually, he did eye a sword with a broken cross-guard sticking out of the wheelbarrow just in case the stranger moved too funny. Lein returned the bow and spoke Velt back in a pleasant tone, exchanging her gaze with his own. "You've found the right one, fair warrior. And who is this I have the pleasure of meeting?"
"I am Rui," the foreigner replied, straightening and proving to be a hair taller than the Hundi, if one were to discount the addition of ears to that height. She seemed entirely unaware of having picked the wrong language for the country they were in--that was if she even knew how to speak Thaln in the first place. Maybe Veltish was the only local language she knew? "I have been instructed to observe you."
If she found that order odd, she gave no sign of it, face an impassive mask as she stared at him over the wheelbarrow.
Location: Route to Blacksmith's Forge Interactions:@Raineh Daze
So one of those stone-faces, eh. The bluntness of her response was hardly surprising, but nonetheless informative. He could reasonably rule out her being sent by the witch or Hadrianus. Her brazen presence was here to intimidate, or perhaps whoever sent Rui didn't really care whether Rui made herself known. That left: rival houses from Ithillin, the royals from the Thalnese ball and someone targeting the Roses by proxy. Lein wasn't important enough to be specifically targeted by the latter two, and the former would not hire someone from foreign lands. Another possibility popped into Lein's head, though his ears twitched just thinking of it. That strange nightmare that Lein still couldn't clarify in his memory, and a dream that had similarly plagued many of his colleges. Something about an endless battle under the gaze of a voyeuristic woman. And the most knowledgeable one to ask about this weird dream magic would be...urgh.
"I'm honored, but instructed by who?" Lein said, apparently amused. Lein knew full well that the answer would probably be some species of 'I cannot say' or 'An interested party', but he also knew that these types also operated on the policy of never illuminating information unless directly asked. "C'mon, these are supposed to be at Ardor's by now, and I'm not letting him get cranky for me." He maneuvered the wheelbarrow past the leproine swordswoman and trundled along to the forge, inviting Rui to follow.
"By my lord, of course," the swordswoman stated, as if that explained everything. She made no move to obstruct Lein's passage and quietly fell in behind him. Perhaps too quietly--without checking over his shoulder, it was a little hard to tell that she was actually there. It wasn't the most descriptive explanation possible... but on the other hand, at least the ashen-haired swordswoman was answering questions.
It just might take more questions. Or working out the mindset of such a dedicated retainer.
Guessed it in one. Lein thought sardonically, though not without an accompanying temptation to laugh. Rui apparently had graduated directly from Ithillin Retainers' School of 'Keeping One's Mouth Shut Wide'. If anything, the annoyance was quite a nostalgic feeling. If he was going to be saddled with a ride-along, he'd at least be entertained. "Of course. But if you'd indulge me, I'd love to become acquainted with your lord to exchange his interests in me, but I am rather unfamiliar with him." Lein racked his brain trying to pin down a reasonable sounding guess, but failed to recall a convincing enough candidate. No, he'd ask directly. "Who'd your lord be? How must I address him?"
Lein felt the heat of the forge as they approached the dwarven forge, radiating out from the hearth and spilling orange-yellow sparks into the air. The smell of raw iron intermingled with sweat and the occasional clang from the workshop told Lein that the dwarven blacksmith was in. The workshop was cluttered as always, but Lein was deft enough at dodging falling poker sticks. "Ardor! I come bearing gifts!" Lein announced over the roar of the fire, gleefully interrupting the dwarf's impeccable rhythm and parking the wheelbarrow next to the rest of the weapons the workshop had yet to repair. "They're little bent outta shape, but that's no problem for you. Reckon you can get these to the training yard by the next outing?"
"How must you address him...?" the girl repeated, going over the phrase a few times in her own tongue, then working through the name. Eventually, the look of faint concentration left her face, and she replied--as the two entered the smithy--"Lady of Storms would be the most appropriate address that you would be permitted to use."
Despite Lein's best attempts, the smith's rhythm only wavered for a single swing, before picking up as if there had been no interruption at all, even though the stocky figure glanced sideways to make sure that nothing was being surreptitiously pocketed. His current work appeared to be nothing special, the blank slowly taking shape into a proper sword, yet without any of the runework or intricacies that could potentially be included even at this early stage.
"If ye gave me some idea when that would be, lad, then maybe I could give an answer," the dwarf grumbled, words punctuated by the ring of the hammer, "Ye cannae act like I hae no work."
If Rui had any response to the sudden revelation she had been using the wrong language, there was nothing on her face.
"A companion? I never expected ye to bring someone else."
Lady of Storms did sound familiar? But had he once known who it actually referred to, Lein had forgotten by now. No doubt it meant something to someone, given that she was powerful enough to send an envoy all the way to put eyes on a lowly knight. And it meant that this third party was at least not someone Lein was currently familiar with, even if by the looks of it Rui fully expected Lein to have a moment of enlightenment.
"Greenhorns go out for their usual march in five days, but the instructors would want to get it earlier if you can help it." A pretty tall order for this many weapons, Lein could see. No wonder the squire was a little eager to let Lein deliver the weapons for him. "You'd know if you let down that hammer and go out for a drink a little more, yah bloody hoser. You won't even drink yourself to an early grave at this rate." Lein got to work untangling the mass of blades from the pile, separating them by chipped blades, broken pommels and a skewed balance. He didn't know enough to help out in the actual craft (and even if he did, Lein guessed an attempt to touch the stuff would make Ardor get even grumpier at him), but he was well used to being a second hand. And Lein had good reason to try and butter up to Ardor, above the usual mischief.
"Hey, you know Thalnese?" Lein offered to Rui in between his playful jabs at the dwarf, "Want me to loop you in? Would be a mighty shame if your Lady would miss the rich secrets of Candaeln's Forge."
"Oh, and this is Rui, a friend from afar! An envoy from Lady of Storms, come to have a look around the place. Thought she might like some of your craftsmanship, with her, er - daggers?" Not entirely true, as even Lein didn't know what she or this 'Lady of the Storms' wanted. But if she was here to be acquainted with Lein's goings on, she may as well be acquainted in this place too, no? She did have quite the strange weaponry with her not quite familiar looking swords, and though he never planned to fight in the first place, perhaps Ardor could elucidate a thing or two. Even better, perhaps the prospect of some new kind of weaponry could perform the rare miracle of actually impressing the dwarf.
Lein got a grunt in response, the dwarf taking the hot metal and shoving it back into the forge to heat, only then stepping over to look at the sorted piles. "Five days, ye said? Tell whoever sent ye that they can use the usual spares before then."
'The usual spares' being the wall festooned with examples of perfectly adequate, for a dwarf, weaponry on the far side of the forge. It also meant that whoever was responsible would have to come and get lectured for placing an order on such short notice and not even having the decency to deliver it in person. Or they could go without weapons, of course, but then they would still need to collect the repairs.
"I speaks Thaln," the rabbit said after a pause, accent much stronger and run through with a pronunciation that was almost Ithillane, but at the same time quite distinct. "It is... new. Very newer? My owner instructed me everything about Candaeln before sending, no time for more language."
Although Ardor raised an eyebrow, his attention was unsurprisingly captured by the blades at her waist more than her foreign look, giving the weapons an examining eye. Gesturing at the swords, the redheaded dwarf asked, "Can I look?"
The rabbit swordswoman was visibly uncomfortable at the idea but, coming to some decision, carefully drew the smaller of the two swords and presented it for inspection. Now that it was drawn, the intricacy of the craftsmanship was quite impressive; the gilding around the hilt spelled out something in foreign characters, a regular, wavy pattern ran down the length of the blade, and the original smith had gone to some painstaking length to etch what appeared to be a mighty serpent along the blade.
Following the knights' victory in the tomb, Fleuri departed the tomb, one last task to complete, but not before thanking Gerard for putting Armand's morningstar to good use. He returned to his family mausoleum and returned the weapons to the hidden compartment. Here, they would rest, until the next time that House Jodeau was called upon to bring release to the desecrated dead.
He himself had not done much in terms of fighting the undead aside from the shambling corpses in the antechamber, but from the look of the battle downstairs, Sir Gerard had gotten good use out of Dawn's Break in his scuffle with the reanimated corpse of the Demonbreaker. Remarkably, the weapon looked entirely unscathed from whatever combat it had endured in the former mercenary's hands. His own use of Candlestick appeared to have been a bit more minimal, but it did at least see some use against Alfrid. The last to be returned to the plinth would be any unexpended holy water vials. His family's contingency had proved its worth, and he would need to remember to inform them how helpful these tools had been.
Fleuri slept soundly that night, although he could not stop thinking about the fight against Alfrid. The warrior's moves, his deft and masterful swinging of that heavy axe, occupied his mind both during the night and even after awakening. It in fact inspired him to spend his precious downtime sparring and practicing his swordsmanship, trying to make sense of what he had experienced fighting that warrior. Other times, he sought out the knights that clashed with Jeremiah and Erich, desiring to see what they could teach him of those fights. He enjoyed sparring with Gerard in particular. The man's commoner, mercenary background meant that the two had plenty to teach one other, and despite their differences, Gerard held no disdain for Fleuri. Swordplay was not the only skill that he sought to hone in this time, however. He also spent some time riding, seeking to refine the dismount he had performed on the griffin. By the end of the week he was even beginning to combine dismounting and attacking, riding past an imaginary foe only to jump off and attempting to strike them with the momentum of his descent.
After about a week, Fleuri had been feeling quite pleased with the progress he was making in sharpening his skills. Then came that turbulent, humbling night.
Fleuri gripped his neck, disoriented and dizzy at the outcome of his last duel of this strange arena. As his bearings returned, the knight recalled what had just happened. His last foe in this otherworldly arena had been a Vos Korvungand warrior, some hero from the glory days of Taleria, far removed from the craven raiders that the first Iron Roses had had famously crushed.
The northerner's style reminded him of Alfrid, but with much greater finesse, swinging a heavy axe as deftly as most knights could swing an arming sword. He had battered aside Fleuri's blocks, pushed through his attempts to parry, and in the final act of the duel, grabbed the blade of the knight's greatsword with an uncovered hand, utterly unfazed at the blood drawn. Fleuri had only a moment to realize that the warrior's other hand was bringing the axe towards the knight's neck with incredible speed, then everything started spinning.
Ah, that's what that was... he mused as the realization of what happened dawned on him. I was too slow that time...much too slow...
This experience had not been wholly unfamiliar to him- he was, after all, a veteran of tournament combat. However, there was no audience, save a strange, silent dark-haired woman. There was no holding back- for all foes came at him to kill. And there was no death- those he had struck down vanished, and when he was slain, he reappeared where he started, fully healed and restored.
Whatever this was, it was more real than any tourney he had ever fought in.
There was little hope of actually achieving a victory, now. Each foe was deadlier than the last, and they had already crossed the point of solidly surpassing him some time ago. The most that he could do was take note of his defeats- who defeat him- the skill and techniques with which they struck him down, and how he blundered into it. All while this happened, the black-haired woman watched. Fleuri was no stranger to being defeated in front of massive crowds, and in front of prominent figures- it was just part of tournament combat- but this felt like he was being judged.
The ideal knight would relish this opportunity to fight such a myriad menagerie of foes without holding back, to be able to battle unrestrained and unburdened by the permanence of death or injury. They've be unfazed by both the pain and the defeats, and continue to face even hopeless odds unfazed. However, Fleuri was not that ideal knight. The shame of the cumulative defeats and the pain of the deaths had been fraying his resolve and weakening his spirit. If the goal was for the mysterious black-haired spectator find the knight's limit, he was sure that it had been solidly established many fights ago. At this point, his losses were feeling more like each a cruel reminder of how weak he really was.
Fleuri readied his greatsword for the next challenge, for the next foe that would no doubt remind him once again of his inadequacy as a knight. He knew that his next foe would be even greater than the last one, but he wasn't prepared for what emerged. It was a knight whose shining armor and youthful, androgynous face were well-known to him from paintings in Candaeln.
"Mirror Knight Florian..." Fleuri managed to speak, lowering his sword. He wasn't sure if he'd get an answer- it could just be a phantom.
"And you must be the one called the Flower of the North." Florian replied as he came closer. Fleuri was a bit surprised to hear the knight speak- could he be speaking to the spirit of the real Mirror Knight?
Fleuri found himself freezing up, his spirit suddenly too overburdened to move or reply. The shame of weakness, the feelings of unworthiness to stand before a founding Iron Rose all came rushing though him. He didn't even deserve to show his face to Florian.
"You were a tournament fighter before joining the Iron Roses," Florian cordially spoke. "How about it, Flower? Perhaps you would like to grant a duel to a fellow Iron Rose?"
Fleuri didn't know how to respond. All the foes that had triumphed over him so far, they were beneath Florian, and it helped drive the point home just how vast the gap in skill was between the two Iron Rose Knights. All this time, the mysterious woman watched, observing firsthand the weakness and inferiority of the present-day knight compared to one of its founders
Nevertheless, he couldn't say no to someone like the Mirror Knight. Consequently, he forced himself to raise his sword and inelegantly assume a crude combat stance.
Fleuri didn't deserve to stand before Florian, not in his pitiful, weak state. He didn't deserve to call himself an Iron Rose. His presence in the order tarnished the radiant glory of it and its heroes. Best to just let get it over with and let the Mirror Knight cut him down.
"Come now, I know you are better than this," Florian assured him. "Let me show you." Florian produced a greatsword almost identical to Fleuri's and assumed his foe's own stance, mimicking his foe's own movements in the manner that he was famous for. However, this was not the reflection of the broken, frozen man before him- through the tears that had distorted his vision, Fleuri beheld the graceful movements from when was at his very best. Not as Fleuri was currently, but at what he could be- what he should be.
Is this how the Mirror Knight sees me?
"...I see..." Fleuri managed to speak. If this was what he believed, if the Mirror Knight had faith in him, then he couldn't allow that faith to be misplaced. He stabbed his sword into the ground and moved his hands to his head to remove his helmet. He was still a little apprehensive about showing his face, but Florian deserved this courtesy, and besides, Fleuri didn't want anything to restrict his ability to see the Mirror Knight in action. He wiped his eyes and took his sword, assuming a proper stance with the graceful movements that Florian expected of him.
The duel that resulted was an enlightening experience. Florian was legendary for his ability to copy a foe's moves and techniques, and consequently, it gave Fleuri a unique opportunity to assess the flaws and weaknesses in his own technique. Every time he attempted to exploit those perceived weaknesses, though, Florian had a trick readied to counter it. Fleuri even attempted to employ one or two of the tricks that his previous opponents in this dreamscape had successfully used against him, but the Mirror Knight had an answer for them too- even when they fought using the same style, Fleuri's weaknesses were not Florian's.
The duel ultimately concluded with a sword thrust cleanly through Fleuri's neck, despite a clumsy attempt to parry it using one of the very tricks that Florian had employed previously. There was never question what the outcome of the duel would be. In truth, the only reason it lasted as long as it had was because Mirror Knight Florian had allowed it to. As with the previous duels, Fleuri vanished from his spot upon Florian's sword and found himself back where he started.
"Now there's the Flower of the North that I was looking to face," Florian complimented him despite the sheer lopsidedness of their scuffle. "It has been a long time since I've had someone use one of my own techniques against me."
There was much that Fleuri learned from this fight. About himself, about his combat style, and about moving forward. He might not be able to mimic foes like the Mirror Knight could, but if he applied what he learned from being so masterfully beaten at his own game, he'd surely be able to greatly refine his swordsmanship skills.
Upon awakening, it took a few moments for Fleuri to be sure that he was truly awake and back in his bed in Candaeln. The first thing he did was climb out and make his way to his desk. Still groggy and not fully awake, he lit a candle, fetched writing implements, and began to recount the dream in an almost trance-like state. He had to write it all down before the details faded from his memory like dreams often do. It was clear that the normal rules of dreaming had not applied to this dream- it was far longer, more painful, and more enlightening than any ordinary dream, but he wasn't going to take the risk.
He recounted the foes he fought, the defeats he suffered, and the mistakes he made in each one. By far the largest section was dedicated to his duel and interactions with the spirit of Sir Florian. He painstakingly recorded his duel down to the most minute details- he did not want to forget anything about that fight, for both practical and sentimental reasons.
There were also two other sections that merited extra attention- the duel with the Demonbreaker and the showdown with the dreadful dragon Volkstraad. Having missed the chance to do battle with Erich's animated husk in the tomb, and having just gotten his fire back thanks to the Mirror Knight, Fleuri had been quite willing to face such a legendary figure in a duel. The appearance of Volkstraad carried a much different tone. It was a malevolent, honor-devoid monster that took a saint to kill, and even then she did not face it alone. Even in the dreamscape, with its assurance of revival if killed, the terrible dragon's arrival had struck fear into his heart.
By the time he had written all he could, the sun had risen. Now fully awake, Fleuri dressed himself and exited his room. Perhaps he could seek out Dame Tyaethe- as a paladin and a founding Iron Rose, she'd be able to cast some light on this dream, and in the very least confirm or debunk the things he saw and heard within it.
Fleuri found Tyaethe sitting in the main entrance room, looking like either she was gearing up to go outside, or had just come from outside.
"Dame Tyaethe?" he asked, approaching. "I had a very strange dream last night, one that seemed to break every rule of dreaming. I don't suppose you could help me figure out whether or not it was just a creation of my imagination, or if it might be more than that?"
"... a dream?" the girl asked, cocking her head curiously but continuing to settle into a comfortable position, "May as well. I've got two hundred years of the things."
Although, she wouldn't say that made her much of a specialist in the matter; she wasn't the sort to go around interrogating others about their dreams. Maybe there was something about this one that made her seem particularly relevant? The nearest member of the clergy was the right place to go if you started having some sort of prophetic dreams, or they got too heavy in religious symbolism.
"Speak of the damn devil..." Gerard muttered as his eyes snapped up to the source of the crash, past Sir Renar, the dining hall's entryway flooding with sound as Fionn damn near booted the thing inward. "Fionn!"
He raised his hand in greeting as the Veltic man's eyes scanned the hall before locking in upon his own. After the initial burst of motion, Gerard then began to take in the whole picture— and quickly noticed something amiss, aside from his fellow ex-mercenary's waved greetings morphing, quite quickly, into insistent beckoning.
A dash of mint green behind one burly shoulder.
A thin, long crook of an elbow, like a wire or branch of a young tree, poking out from beneath the upraised arm.
A distinctly pointed ear, poking out from behind the aforementioned verdant locks as they flew and tried to shrink further behind Fionn's back, upon their owner's understanding that his gaze had shifted onto her. What were the odds?
He frowned, brow furrowing in mild confusion as he tried to wave Fionn in for a moment, bringing the guest with— but the older swordsman managed to, entirely without either of them engaging in the realm of speech, bowl right over him. The Shilagean brawler sighed through the nose, propped his hands against the table, and stood. "I'll go see what he wants."
Where certain details fit, namely between the hair and the more gracile and tall build, they could already rule out the monumental coincidence that would have been "Fionn found the Gentle Blade wandering the streets himself after the morning jog". And yet, there was a spark of familiarity to her, as more details revealed themselves— despite her best efforts to the contrary. The gears, freshly greased, were set to turn. If he wanted to talk all big about using his brain... here'd be a good place to start.
Oh, the ball. That's where I saw the mint hair, right.
As he stalked forward, he made little if any attempt to hide his gaze rapidly flickering between the unlikely pair before him, and pulled up with folded arms and an indelicate question on his tongue.
"Hey, brother. Your friend here's... the one that was with The Gentle Blade at the ball, right? She lost? Looking for Dame Cecilia?"
He'd introduce himself if she seemed game to talk, but currently, that didn't look likely.
"Ah, yes, I got an invitation with mum and auntie..." the girl mumbled, Ithillin accent stronger than ever as she looked away and seemingly doing her best attempt to hide behind Fionn entirely. It was going reasonably well, given the comparative dimensions of a buff human man and a slender elf, but that could really only offset the lanky girl's size so much. And if anything was seen, well... she might make a reasonably good attempt at blending in outdoors, but here she stuck out like a sore thumb.
At the mention of Cecilia, traces of a blush started on the girl's cheeks, eyes flicking over the entire room to make sure she wasn't there. "Oh, no, I was expecting to talk to the captain today, but there's no hurry..."
