you were always there, dressed in summer white

berkut of rigel, who slithers in the dark || rp blog affiliated with toa Current threads

[crookedorel]

March 2025 Activity Check

-PASSED-

Skill Points Earned: Monthly +1 Event +1 17 -> 19

Allocated: Reason B+ -> A Authority D+ -> C

Rank Rewards Earned: Resonance (Reason A) Prayer Ring (Authority C)

Classes Accessed: Warlock Dark Bishop Tactician

[crookedorel]

🧃"First time in the med tent? No worries, everyone ends up here eventually. Here, take one. It'll make you feel better." She offers a warm smile and a juice box.

It was, indeed, his first time in this particular tent on this particular field. He could not account for the amenities offered by this medical team, nor compare it favorably to the shelters he'd taken during his own time as commander, more used to a lavish garrison than a pitched field shelter, and equally unused to being brushed past and bumped against in the scurry to and fro while bodies began to fill the space.

It was a raucous mess that Berkut wanted no part of, less so with the dull ache that began to throb along the shorn skin that tingled and burned and that he was brusquely informed would take care of itself and did not need a healer's touch.

It was with a dour frown that the lady found him, he was displeased even further to admit as he looked up at her smiling face offering him the container of...

"Juice?" It was such a surprise to see that it was the first thing out of his mouth - not even a greeting or thanks, merely his shock that this was something they had so readily available as to just hand out. Fresh fruit was a commodity in Rigel, even more so at such an abundance that it could be used for such a thing.

He took the box in his flabbergastment, forgetting not to use his injured arm and nearly dropping the thing before his good arm came up to cradle the thing like the tenderest baby bird.

Berkut's brow pinched looking down upon it, thinking for a moment, before eventually he looked back up and said; "Thank you. Do you have grape?"

[crookedorel]

"Lord Berkut!" Dierdre bursts through the tent's curtain, recover staff in hand and a worried look plastered across her face. She does not doubt that he is quite strong and capable but that does not stop her from wanting, from needing to see for herself the extent of his injuries. She would do the same thing for Lord Sigurd even though she cannot imagine anyone stronger or more capable than him. "I am here to tend to your wounds. Please, lay still and let me work."

She raises her staff and casts her spell. When she is satisfied with her casting and the way his injuries are beginning to heal, she continues speaking. "I would also like to thank you for choosing to fight for my house. It means a great deal to me that you would help my students like this. Even if you did not make it through very much of the battle, you did quite well and I am proud of you."

The wound still stung, despite the gauze, despite the unguents, despite the foul tasting tincture they had forced down his throat despite his most valiant effort to simply sit upright, to watch the battles as they continued on - and, indeed, despite his own many protestations that the cleave of his flesh was merely a passing cut, it still rather stung.

He did not want to temper so many visitors, not in this state. Perhaps the battle raged on and the side he'd thrown his lot in would wage victorious, but he would not be allowed to return to the field, and that hurt him worse than any injury.

"My lady, you worry yourself too much - do not put yourself into a frenzy. See, here, I am quite fine." Though he surely did not look it, his curls in disarray, and the sleeve of his tunic shorn for better access to the blows that had felled him. Nor, even, the sour look on his face, that melted into a softer expression upon the light of Lady Deirdre's countenance, so pinched with despair for him.

She would not hear it, a strange and forceful power coming over her that Berkut had not yet seen, had not yet coaxed from her by his own example, and he had to admit that the magic felt quite fine - enough that he let out a sigh of relief as the itching of knitting skin began and ceased in a single breath.

It did not seem enough, the lady's hands fluttering over him like so many dainty birds, and he allowed it, in spite of his grumbling, his protestations holding no bite - simply basking in the warmth of a figure that he could not say that he'd yet had in his short life, the ghost of a smile beginning to curve his lips.

"My lady, I think, for you, I would fight any battle, if you would ask it." He knew that she would not - this would not stop him.

[crookedorel]

"berkut? i hadn't expected to see you here! and fighting under our banner, no less." dorothea’s lips curl into a pleased smile as she steps closer, giving him a quick, appraising glance before her fingers gently brush against his arm, offering a light but reassuring touch. she links her arm through his with a natural ease, guiding him away from the milling crowds. "i hope you're not too disappointed. it's only a mock battle, you know? really, just a school tradition. everyone fights in good fun."

she glances over, expression softening as she notices the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his hands are clenched at his sides. always a delicate matter, these losses on the field.

dorothea raises her free hand to shield against the harsh midday sun, squinting as she looks out into the distance before casually pointing something out to him, her tone light to draw his attention elsewhere. "are you thirsty? we could grab a drink," she suggests. "and if you'd like, i'd be happy to introduce you to the other black eagles in due time. no doubt they'll be excited to meet you."

He was beginning to feel light-headed now, and edging into surly - where before he had spat venom out of the fresh surge of frustration that had come with such a decisive loss, now he felt the cold settling of impotence to punctuate the warp and swell of the world twisting around him.

He sighed at Dorothea's approach, brought his good hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, and took a long breath in. "Yes, well. A fine showing for some, isn't it, to actually get to participate. Do you know, Dorothea, that I had less time to breathe, than they to move?"

If he hadn't been so irritated, so woozy, it might have been a compliment due to those on the other side - a fine sporting showing, but he simply had not the head for grace at that moment.

Thankful at least that she had the good sense to reach for his good arm, he made a show of lifting the now-throbbing wounded arm away from her. "I would hate to stain your pretty dress," he said partly in derision, directionless vehemence, but mostly in a sincere desire that she not see the worst of it, that it not stain her.

Another sigh, thick, numb fingers coming to pat hers once again, that same gesture of fondness they were so practiced in. "It isn't your fault, of course. I am quite off my best foot. If you think that your bannermen would still be pleased to see me at my worst, then I will come along. Your happy and willing companion, wasn't it?"

[crookedorel]

BERNADETTA SNIVELS AND BLUBBERS UNINTELLIGIBLY AND STARTS WRAPPING BERKUT WITH BANDAGES AS SOON AS HE GETS TO THE MED TENT. BERKUT MY SCARY AND COOL BUDDY BERKUT. SPEAK TO ME. BEKUT SPEAK TO BENIE

The walk to the medical tent was almost more embarrassing than the short time he spent on the field, with as long and as public as it was, flanked by two white clad priests who escorted him into the medbay and to a designated cot, firmly insisting he seat himself while they prepare healing spells and supplies.

It was certainly enough time for him to spit his irritation to them, that he was fine, that the wound cleaved to the meat was merely superficial, a scrape that a true Rigelian would shoulder with the stoic mien of their heritage, which they took in patient stride and wagged a finger in his face before disappearing.

No sooner their departure, another shuffling figure appeared by his side, and Berkut almost did not have the time to acknowledge who or what it was before it began to pile and wrap thick pad of gauze over him, indiscriminate of the wound itself or its proper care, and leaving a thick trail of tears and snot along the untorn shoulders of his tunic.

Finally, the fringe of violent violet poked out, and Berkut hissed out a baffled, "Bernadetta?" before something more unkind and less directed could escape his mouth.

"Child I am fine, this is - AH - !" A press too far split the wound deeper, though he jerked it from her sight, lest she find herself in even deeper a tizzy over it. "Calm yourself, I've borne far greater than this. Look, it's almost stopped bleeding, do you see?"

It hadn't, comparatively, but if he pressed the pad of gauze just so, it might pass convincing.

[zweiflugelig]

birdbrains say what? ...wait, what?

boel round 1 battle 12 : black eagles vs golden deer

[renaisguy]

Despite the energy they’ve already exerted trudging out to this field (no horses allowed), Forde’s looking forward to this battle. The deer won this battle last year, they can do it again! 

And he’s been blessed with great teammates. Though he won’t get to see Sir Forsyth’s lance skills today, the man acts like he knows his way around an axe. And though he’s never met this Shez before, her flashy sword skills gave a great first impression.

“Great work!” He calls out, readying his javelin. Two of his opponents (including Lady Edelgard, who he very much does not want to be on the wrong side of) wield swords, meaning his javelin gives him the advantage. Therefore, it’d be best to take out the mage in their party first. 

Forde 3.5/5HP hits Berkut 2/6HP with Javelin! [Roll: 7] [1.5 (-1 Def) = -2.5HP)] Berkut 0/6HP 

Berkut is defeated!

Ha! That throw was great! 

Perhaps too great… as he jogs forward to retrieve his lance, he sees the wound he’s inflicted on the man. “Ooo, sorry.” He winces, knowing that pulling the lance out of that wound won’t help his pain. 

@hresvelged @crookedorel

[crookedorel]

A mock battle would be just the ticket to get the kinks worked out. It had been too long since the last, a vacant and hazy memory of a time in a place that was almost a dream. At least this open plain did not have nearly the same disgusting humidity to make his hair an absolute fright, but whatever remnant of fiends on the field from the prior month stuck to him like a hateful shroud. He attempted to brush the mesmer from himself, to stand tall and proud alongside the leader of the Black Eagles, the future Emperor of the Adrestian Empire.

And, with a sidelong glance, alongside his erstwhile improvisation partner. This was no mere drama, and he knew not what it was that she considered herself most skilled at, but he had said it then and thought it still now - she had a grace and strength about her.

Surely with these companions it would be enough to -

Shez (F)5/5HP critically hits Berkut6/6HP with Wrath Strike! [Roll: 20 + 2 = 22] [1.5*2 (-1 Def) = -4HP) Berkut2/6HP

Ouahgh?!

The swordswoman streaked forward, slipping past Yunaka with a mere taunt - were such romantic endeavors so shameful that they ought be the cause to lose one's focus? - and Berkut steadied his stance, an odd facsimile of the lancer's pose he was used to taking before remembering that here, he wielded magic.

Poorly.

The slice did not merely graze him, nor even could he in good conscience call it a solid blow - the edge of the woman's blade sheared cleanly through the gauntlet he raised to protect his face and throat, and carved a line clean through the forearm.

He grit his teeth, grimaced and tried to laugh it off as a smile.

"I see we have come with all our teeth bared! Well, then let me oblige with a display of my own - !"

Forde 3.5/5HP hits Berkut 2/6HP with Javelin! [Roll: 7] [1.5 (-1 Def) = -2.5HP) Berkut 0/6HP 

The lance soared through the air, carefully coordinated with the swordswoman's strike, and well aimed. If he had been a commander, he would have commended the arm that had thrown it, granted him on the other end the accolades it deserved.

Here, he could only exhaled, a gentle huff of breath as his brow pinched in confusion before the pain began to hit, from one wound then the next, building in fits and spurts with the staggered beating of his heart until he realized that he was on his knees, and cursed himself, the shameful display that he could not even have given.

Berkut is defeated!

Girl I am so sorry for this tacky display please still think I'm cool haha @hresvelged

[dyshonor]

ever died in a nightmare

horsebow moon; + riding prompt.

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL IS A HANDS-ON man; a fact he has discovered after spending a great deal of time boring it up in lord meetings that have gone on for far too long. Shooting gum at a bar is all well and good, but in terms of 'actually-getting-things-done', he is far more inclined to be on the doing side of things than not.

Even if that 'doing' is more pertained to actually having fun than being productive, it is a feat to do with his hands.

This, basically, is why he strolls through a stranger's house like he owns the place, peering through cupboards and cookie jars as if he's keeping inventory- that, after all, is the excuse.

"Seems like they've had their fun with it," he notes at a half-eaten cookie, helping himself to the leftovers. "Mm. Mighty naughty, an' all. For shame!"

The comment is addressed to a rather dour-looking man that Randal knows as Berkut.

Randal had taken one look at him, up and notably alive, and thought: oh. So we're at that point in the timeline, then.

It is not the first time that Randal has met someone after knowing they'd died a good dozen years down the line, but it is the first time he's met someone after being witness to their- rather embarrassing- death. Though most of his memories still lag behind him and muddle into a pool, the whole affair of seeing a man curse his lover into a fire-y ball of doom stuck with him like gum to a shoe.

Far be it from Randal to interfere with that sort of thing- not for any moral reason, he's not that good, but because a lovers' quarrel is the worst sort of schmuck to get lost inside. He'll turn up his nose and act polite enough to the man while he still stands, at the very least.

"Anyhoo," he huffs, turning and resting his laurels on a kitchen counter, "they're seemin' pretty harmless. Ain't broken a bowl o' china or nothing. Not even big enough t' finish their dinners!" and at that last bit, he laughs to himself.

@crookedorel

[crookedorel]

This man was too familiar with him by half, and growing more the longer they spent in one another's company. A quick council in town was sufficient to let it be known that there was work to be done yet, that in retaking the monastery those in the vanguard had left the chaos in the periphery indeed to the wayside to be cleaned up by sorties in their wake. It was not that Berkut could blame them, necessarily - as a commander, he would have done the same, it behooved one to retake the major garrison and point of contention, rather than to quell the minor skirmishes on the outskirts lest one be overwhelmed.

But what he could blame them on was the lack of proper intelligence about what they had seen when out. Some reports had placed roving beasts, hulking brutish monsters in the satellite towns, dangerous and in need of being quelled before peace could reign once more.

Or, as this man seemed to have heard, merely housepets set free upon the larders.

Berkut glowered as he set foot into the home, nudging aside debris as he moved with a disdainful toe, quirking a brow as the man who called himself Randal finished off the remains of a cookie half eaten.

"Our interpretations of the briefing clearly differ," Berkut said, his tone a drawl that indicated there was indeed a correct interpretation. "One would need to be a fool to believe that a roving beast would break into the home, harry its occupants, and then perform a jolly skullery to clean up afterward. Unless your proposition that the new occupants should fall upon all four feet and a new order upon this town, and the old ousted to find homes elsewhere."

[crookedorel]

tread lightly, on my ground

[nagaficat]

"Oh no, no," she is backpedalling again. Her voice is quiet, as though she does not want to interrupt. "I would not dismiss Leif's feelings so quickly. It is my fault. I am the one that has caused him distress."

As absurd as Leif's accusation of hunting children had been, there was at least some truth to what he said. Lord Arvis did Lord Sigurd and everyone else she once held dear. And he did send men after Leif when he was just a boy.

There is a moment of stillness in the air but she is glad that Berkut follows her lead and continues the conversation about himself. "It was certainly an interesting type of performance. We had nothing like it in Grannvale. Do you think it is typical here in Fódlan?"

Deirdre does not doubt his claims that the cage could not contain him. Her dear friend is quite the stubborn character. She is certain that, if it came down to it, the lock on the cage would give up before he did. The thought brings her to a soft giggle.

"Professor Yunaka, yes. I am afraid I do not know her anywhere near as well as I would like. Would you introduce me properly some day? I have always liked her stars."

[crookedorel]

A belligerent scoff, popping another morsel of sausage into his mouth. "I am far and away the least authority on what the Fodlaners consider to be high art, my lady. I've seen some of the performances that pass for such, and it seems more akin to a barn raising that what one might encounter in the gilded halls of an opera house proper. Perhaps that is where they got the cages," he added archly.

It did not escape his notice that the Lady Deirdre was discomfited by the topic of discussion, be it her nephew or the supposed distress that he had caused him - Berkut almost elicited another scoff, harsher, for the thought. He did not think that he had ever seen a least distressing lady, rather more the pliant sort to go along where led and to make herself as comfortable as possible until it passed.

"Do you not speak with your nephew often, then?" he asked after a quiet moment, allowing her to eat her snacks, to sip her drink, and he doing the same. Berkut eyed her thoughtfully, gauging the tenor of her distress - from his experience, the Lady Deirdre was the sort to stifle her own feelings as much as possible, needing them coaxed out by another.

"What an opportunity this school presents, to bring families separated by time and distance together once more." Whether his tone was bitter or nostalgic, even he could not account.

[crookedorel]

salt of the earth.

[crookedorel]

Many places had been ravaged in the Fall of Garreg Mach last month, one such place being the Church’s prized greenhouse. Though the monastery is able to receive food supplies from the other regions of Fódlan to help feed those who work tirelessly on the reconstruction efforts, the Church seeks to begin rebuilding their plots too. Get your hands dirty, reworking the soil and planting new seeds for the sake of the monastery’s future self sufficiency, and with it, plant a seed of hope that things shall return to what they once were too… [Grants Gauntlets +1] (starter for @war-father)

More than any other place in this forsaken hamlet, the nursery stank - the putridity of rot and neglect, the overgrowth of so much wild fecundity when nature's course was left to its own devices. It was loamy earth and the sweet stink of decaying flora, once prized for their rarity, now left disintegrating on the wet brick.

There was little to be salvaged here, of those fair prizes, be it a stem or petals for a tincture, or the flesh and seed for sustenance.

Berkut had been shocked and appalled when he had discovered how much of the town's resources had come from this greenhouse, how poor their planning that food and medicine be relegated to the monastery, no matter how deep the assurances that Garreg Mach was protector and overseer in one, that it would never fall. The glass not yet swept crunched under his boots as he entered, and he surveilled the scene with a curl in his lip.

A tyrant would always fall, and it would take the people along with it.

It was not within his particular milieu, to plunge his hands deep into the earth and bring forth life, nor was it his responsibility to care for those that had been left behind - and yet, he was here regardless.

Berkut knelt, dragged fingertips along the scours in the soil, frowned.

It was the feel of mist creeping forth that startled him, of heat and malice inching along the stones more than any sound of footsteps, heavy and grinding though they were, which caused him to whirl, his heart spiking its pulse in his throat.

His frown deepened. "Ah, you again. Here to beg my assistance once more? What was it. Earnest?"

[dcggersedge]

so. wanna talk about it?

[dcggersedge]

"Sounds like it." On the surface level, at least. No matter how similar their countries might sound, he was still, evidently, a prince and her...very much the farthest thing from royalty imaginable. They might sound similar, but she doesn't imagine for a second that, if they were to compare their actual lives and how they lived, they would see any sort of reflections on that level.

Still. The idea of familiarity is nice. There's so many little quirks from growing up in Brodia that can be ignored so much easier with that understanding alone.

She's sure Dorothea's got plenty of work in front of her, but Yunaka can't imagine anyone better suited to the challenge. An observation she intends to share before she's interrupted by a not quite natural accent slipping back into the conversation.

Yunaka laughs. Loud. Then, quickly tries to muffle that laughter behind her hand, but doesn't quite manage it, snickering away instead as he drawls out his remorse. "Aw, lovebug, I thought you were stronger than to let something like a horse stand in your way." Ew! Cringe! She sticks her tongue out playfully, disgusted by her own pet names.

"Maybe it's for the best this way. Star-crossed lovers, only meant for that single, caged moment." Also because they had been playing around, and she literally just met the guy. Horse or not, she wasn't stupid enough to believe anything significant could happen at first sight like that. Maybe if he threw in a battle against some bandits...

"Better to spare you now then have you lost to the horse."

[crookedorel]

It took him aback, almost, when she broke character to laugh so unabashedly - it had all felt so dire in the moment, humiliating and sincere and weighted with far a heavier importance than it deserved when they had been caged, but now he was faced with the knowledge that it felt good for someone to be so plainly delighted for all to see.

For all the shared similarities their homelands seemed to have, it was equally clear that they as two people could not have been more different - indeed, the longer their conversation continued it seemed to weigh the heavier on her, the niggling separation of a first impression not followed up on. She at first glance appeared equally as bubbly as the role she had played, and he as brooding, but the nuances could not have been more different once the layers began to pile themselves back onto their hosts.

He noticed it, too, of course, but her nerves and disconnect seemed rather firmer rooted.

"Indeed," he said with a rueful smile he was almost startled to find he meant, "it seems our paths are meant ne'er to converge again - for I am on the run, apparently, and you ought settle your heart here amongst those who can appreciate it."

The announcement that came then shattered the still peace between them, a release of the quiet tension, and Berkut chuckled, taking a sip of his drink. "Better you leave me behind for this one, my dear. I fear that is not a game I dabble in lightly."

It was silly, humiliating, this act - but for the brief moment in time that it allowed their stars to cross paths, Berkut appreciated it.

- fin.

[crookedorel]

They Call It Mane'n'Tail Because It's For the Specialest Horseboy in the Stable

[nagaficat]

He speaks of monsters and she shrinks back slightly into her shadows. She does not think he looks like a cultist but she knows they are not the only ones she must fear. There are those who would fear her for the curse she carries.

Still, she finds herself curious. She has not ever spoken with anyone at length like this aside from her caretaker. He does not seem so terrible and he does smile softly at her. Maybe he really does not know who she is. Or maybe he is just kind.

She inches forward again, blinking owlishly as he reaches into his bag. Curiosity getting the better of her.

"You will not hurt me?" she whispers quietly. She thinks she can trust him. She hopes so. Somehow she does still need to find her way home. Maybe he would help her.

[crookedorel]

"Hurt you? With this?" With a flick of his fingers, Berkut twirled the comb with a flourish before holding its handle out for her to inspect herself. He had seen the look on her face as he had reached for it, more curiosity than true fear, interested rather in who he was than what he was doing, and that in itself was telling.

It meant she knew who her enemies were.

This information was better tucked away for a later time, when he could allow himself to be something other than perfectly pleasant in the face of a scared little girl. Now that she had stepped into the light rather more, he began to make out the qualities of a face beneath that splatter of mud and grime, could see the color of her hair and dress between the twigs - in fact unless he was much mistaken she looked rather like -

His eyes narrowed, but he did not stiffen, made no movement lest she think that he was out to startle or seize her.

"Would you like to tell me your name, child? Or how you've come to be out here? I believe you have quite a few people looking for you."

[crookedorel]

she hadn’t forgotten the way he’d barely managed to swallow that drink at the party.

this time, dorothea arrives with a different sort of offering—one more simple, yet still elegant. a sleek, black bottle that someone like him might recognize as a red wine, its shade deep enough to suggest something rich and aged. she is no expert in such matters, not one to drink all that often herself, but she’d spent enough time around the nobility to learn the subtle distinctions between what was considered respectable and what was not.

( and with a bit of haggling, she'd managed to procure something of quality for an occasion like this. )

the bottle is topped off with a vibrant cerulean-colored ribbon, neatly tied in a bow at the top, and accompanied by a complimentary card. when opened, the delicate lettering inside reads:

"to your good health and our friendship. happiest of birthdays~!

“an apology’s in order,” dorothea begins cheerfully. “for the delay. i was sent on a mission last week. at first, i thought about having it delivered, but i decided against it. i wanted to offer my well wishes in person, even if a few days late. i hope you’ll forgive me.”

( she knows he will. the subtle curve of her lips suggests she’s certain of it. )

"we'll do whatever you'd like to do today. it’s only fair. so, whether that means enjoying an outing somewhere, or turning our noses up at something together," a teasing grin, "i’ll be your willing and happy companion. just say the word."

"Ah, I should have known it was you."

That shameless smile told him all that he needed to know. It had been a mystery, as to how the others had come to know that his birthday had come to pass with little kerfuffle, and in doing so causing a kerfuffle, but the wicked slant of her lips and the excuse that tumbled out thereafter was explanation enough.

Berkut took the bottle with a glower that he didn't mean, glance flicking down appraisingly at the label before he released a huff of approval.

"A fine vintage, I'm surprised that your stipend allowed you to purchase it." If it came across as more curious than pointed, it could not be helped - he would not have her bankrupting herself spending money she did not have for a celebration that needn't take place.

"Well, perhaps you didn't know, but the bouquet of this particular wine is better enjoyed in the fresh air, and surrounded by flora. You'll be forgiven it, but I won't allow you to give your leave without the experience."

He had already turned to begin walking, his elbow extended for her to curl her hand into as they oft did, and steered them towards the stables of the inn.

"I have a new horse, as it happens, and I'd like to see how she fares. Come, we'll pack a picnic, and you can avail me of whatever tedium the academy had you performing this last week."

[crookedorel]

"It was your birthday!?" Man! How was she supposed to make sure she prepared the best gifts for people if nobody warned her in advance! Not that the expectations were high; they literally met just a month ago. Still, Yunaka loved any opportunity to give someone a gift and make them smile, and she wasn't about to wait a whole ass year just because she hadn't been ready for his.

The stock in the marketplace still wasn't the greatest. People were kind of just focusing on essentials right now, understandably, so anything nonessential was either not around or crazy overpriced. Still, just getting him something to eat felt lame. Luckily, after enough digging, she'd managed to find a prize.

"Here ya go, happy birthday!" A tiny little horse, hand carved out of wood. It's not overly detailed - in fact you can almost barely tell it's a horse and not a fat donkey or something - but she thinks it's cute! Besides, it felt fitting. From a silly little game to a silly little horse; it would probably stand out more than whatever rich people fluff he'd get from nobles.

"Finally wrangled that evil horse that's been tormenting you. Hopefully now, you can get some more rest." She giggles as she says it, settling with one hand on her hip as she waits for him to take it and give his judgement. "It's not the day, but I hope you have a good one anyway! Next year I'll be on time for sure."

He did not know that she had been looking for him, to start.

He knew even less how she had come by the information that it was his birthday. The Lady Deirdre was one thing, perhaps it had come about in an offshoot conversation, although this he doubted as well, neither fond nor nostalgic of such a childish whimsy - but he had met this woman less than one month hence, and although their conversation had been perfectly pleasant he had not expected such a connection.

Perhaps neither of them had. Perhaps that was the point.

His shock was naked on his face, blinking at her approach, and at the accusation in Yunaka's initial tone. "I beg your pardon then, it isn't something I - "

But then the gift appeared in his sight, cradled in the palm of her hand, innocuous with the singular context of their odd initial meeting, but a more profound and thoughtful gift he could not have expected to receive.

It was not the same, he noticed, eyes raking over its edges, some nicked and rough, others smooth and sharp, its shape unmistakable yet not as refined as many he had seen - and yet he was certain even before he extended his hand to take it, it would hold all the same weight as any he had played with as a child in sickbed.

Berkut cleared his throat, straightening a touch before he reached, fingers grazing against her palm to curl around the offering, eyes drifting downward to fix upon it for a moment before rising to meet hers, firmly, softly.

There was a beat of silence, the expression on his face an odd, stony nostalgia before he said, slowly, in a drawl more practiced and molasses than the awkward stilted one she had heard from him before; "Well, my dear, I suppose I owe you as many good nights' rest as I have left in me, with this here trinket to keep watch over me."

[crookedorel]

it’s his darcyisms girl

[encantresse]

he'd meant it as a compliment, that much was clear, and had no way of knowing how it stung. a source of pride and a bitter pill to swallow all in one, knowing that would always be one of her two defining traits: entertaining and pretty. the labels that bound her, the labels people were reluctant to look past.

nevertheless, she is lucky they think it of her. otherwise, she may very well not exist.

while dorothea did not expect him to peel back a layer of hers tonight, more surprises unfurl. she startles when berkut's hand pats hers, a gesture she'd never have expected from a man who presented himself as coldly as he did, and blinking back her surprise, she forces her features into something sterner rather than let onto what bubbles beneath the surface.

"even if he had a million and one battle accolades under his belt," she retorts, "i'd still be hard-pressed to attribute any worth to him. the despicable man that he is."

the edge in her voice softens furthermore, cognizant of what sits burrowed beneath his barbs. a proud nobleman who does not applaud such behavior, when his equals might wave it off, proves now to be one of the more tolerable variants.

when she finally looks back, his gaze is lost to the sky. the moonlight carves those sharp features in a manner that renders him more marble than man, had he not spoken to prove otherwise.

"whatever it is, it must be important to you." a yearning she cannot quite place, stirring something in her she cannot pinpoint either. "it's not my place to pry, but if you need help locating it..."

dorothea pauses, basking in contemplative silence before turning her attention toward the moon he searches. "...maybe i can ask my friends for a favor. they're well connected in fodlan. they might know something."

[crookedorel]

Though the bitterness in her voice was impossible to miss, Berkut laughed. It wasn't quite a kind sound, had the hollow ring of callousness to it that his throat was used to making during times like these.

"Even a man with no finer qualities can find his best use in the vanguard as a shield. One must be optimistic about these million and one accolades - perhaps your time at this academy will have you learn the perspectives of a commander."

There were many such men, in many such countries, whose only value lie in that he took up space on a battlefield - it was a reality that Berkut was well accustomed to, and although he did not know this man from the first of them, his mind began to sort him preemptively from the disdain and venom of his offspring.

Even Uncle, even father had those who would speak kindly of them.

Even he did, as well.

"But these hypotheticals are neither here nor there, if the man is of no bother to you nor anyone else at the moment. Perhaps he's already found his best use. If he has not, then perhaps these favors for you to call in are not so great."

It was a clumsy attempt to misdirect, though the girl seemed earnest now, in the face of that single vulnerability that came from wanting. It was an interesting divide, he thought idly, glancing down at her for a moment before allowing his lips to find the curve of a smile - in Rigel, a man that wanted was ambitious and one could hope to help or hinder.

Here, it seemed, it was that softer hue of pity.

"I daresay your connections are many and varied, but I suspect I will not find need of them. I am well connected myself," and here his throat tightened, in spite of himself, and the curve of his smile took on a sharper quality that did not reach his eyes, "and my comrades often slither into places which cannot be reached by normal means."

- fin.

[crookedorel]

[ PORTRAIT ]

" ...so?! does this look like you or what?! "

Berkut had a peripheral awareness of the young man with whom Dorothea shared hosting duties for this parties - indeed, to hear it told, this young man was the reason for the party, that it was indeed his date of birth. The prince of Rigel ill liked being such on his back foot for these social matters, preferred being prepared with this intel ahead of time so as not to appear a complete buffoon for what appeared to be foreign royalty in his own right.

It was not as much a relief to see that the other prince was approaching him instead, but Berkut straightened his back and arranged his face in the manner he hoped was most resembling a pleasing smile, and extended a hand to shake -

Time froze, seconds crawling by inches, long and drawn out and skittering like chitinous insects behind his eyes as Fogado drew out the portrait from one side and held it aloft.

Flinty eyes met...well, one of the mirror's eyes, the other dragging down the length of his cheek in a manner most sinister.

Berkut swallowed thickly, and part of him hoped he could swallow his tongue and end it all right there.

"I see that artistic endeavors are not part and parcel to the ways of your kin, unless the brush is a tool you've only recently seen fit to pick up." It was the kindest thing he could say, belied by the aghast horror in his voice, the gentle tremor of indignation.

[crookedorel]

fire aches in the back of his spine. once again he is confronted with a violence beyond what he can reasonably hold back; there exists something here that should not, can not, and it is inexorably linked to him by his own boiling blood.

this man that he sees across campus is the man that sold his heart to the furnace.

he can remember those eyes. yes, he can remember how they lit orange and blood-red with the lash of the firelight; howling with laughter, teeth grit in fury, mind struck with loss and confusion, yes, duma can remember how he spoke to him that day, hissed promises drug from the bones of his lover fair, give her to me and i shall grant you power, and he had. her soul had been uniquely marinated in love. it burned so very nicely in his palm.

thinking about it makes his jaw twitch. he remembers that woman whose flowers melted in the pyres of madness, but more importantly, he remembers the man who held the torch. berkut. child only distantly relevant, only distantly needed, consumed with need for immediate power, immediate results, immediate answers, and duma had been benevolent enough to provide.

and now he is here, yet the smell of ash still lingers upon him. duma's teeth gnash behind stiff lips. he eyes him with a uniquely piercing gaze ( perhaps not so foreign to a man like him ) though he fights whatever thoughts are storming in his mind.

instead, he approaches him, mimicking those outstretched hands of the humans he has met.

" i am uriel, " he states with words carrying old flame, " and i will be an instructor here. tell me your name. "

The din of the monastery in its silence was incredible. It rose raucous and heavy and viscous from the moment he turned his head to the rising sun in the mountains, surrounded his heart like amber and froze, a capture into the moment that he was certain his memory recognized as his last. He Berkut felt it with each clip of bootheel to stone, each calamitous strike of war drum in time with the gentle breaths in, then out, then in, until a frantic rhythm emerged and he found himself winded, small.

It surrounded him in its enormity, muffled against his nose and mouth, leaving him to see stars, flames.

The buzz of rebuilding had been everywhere for weeks, every eager beaver amongst the town and of the knights rallying for help, but Berkut still yet held himself apart. For all that his heart had begun to mingle, to settle within the gentle bed of fallen autumn leaves, he had not yet finished what he set out for.

The stink of miasma, its burn, caught within his vision, blurred out in his periphery, painful and dragging and burning, the ever crackle and smoulder of a flame which had not been snuffed out, no matter how many times the wick had been cut.

Berkut felt the eyes on him, stiffened, resisted that primal urge to look around as might a prey animal, forced the leash of his racing mind to heel and took in another long, painful, disgusting breath.

The harmony of footsteps pierced the veil that muffled his senses, rose above the drumbeat of his own steps, of his own heart, and Berkut turned at their approach, watched that hand raise, heard that rumbled voice, and stilled for a long beat.

He did not take the hand. "I am no student nor knight, your orders fall short of ears too far above you to heed. If it's a guide you want, you can beg from another, you'll find no assistance from me."

[crookedorel]

"I have heard a rumor about you, my lord." Deirdre's face is incredibly serious. It is a rumor she very much hopes is not true for, if it is, she will feel terribly guilty. "I have heard that it was your birthday at the beginning of this moon. Is it true? Have I missed it?"

She holds out a jar with a lavender ribbon tied around its lid. "A gift for you and my sincerest apologies if that is the case. Do you remember all of those nuts we collected when those men cut down those trees? I turned them into a pesto! It felt terrible to let them go to waste and, when I eat it now, I am reminded of my dear friend!"

Deirdre smiles and pulls him into a friendly embrace. She hopes he understands how much of a light he has been in her life since he has entered it. "Happy birthday, Lord Berkut. I hope you can forgive me for how terribly belated it is."

She met him in the town streets, as they often did, although these avenues were no longer as pleasing as they had once been. Torn cobblestone and rent earth, being tilled and restructured to make it seem as though war had not pocked the land merely months beforehand. This, among so many other things, frustrated Berkut, had made him feel so impotent.

Still, he extended his arm to greet her, and froze at the severe look upon her face. He couldn't recall a time when the Lady Deirdre had looked so serious, stern and solemn, an expression which did not suit her at all.

He could not help the wry bitterness that escaped him when he answered, quirking his brow; "And what rumors might those possibly be? You must know, Lady Deirdre, that not everything one hears is - "

Oh. But, when he thought back on it...it was true, wasn't it? Berkut's face fell flat for a moment, a tight pinch in the creases of his eyes the only indication of the confusion of processing the information that...he had lost such track of time that he did not even know when his name day was any longer.

Slowly, carefully, he took the jar extended to him, turned it this way and that, the green catching in the sunlight and blooming verdant in his chest, a brightness he had not seen or felt in some time. "I...thank you, Lady Deirdre. I apologize if this has been - "

And the sensation of arms wrapping around him brought him entirely to heel, frozen in his shock at the tenderness of the gesture. It was no desperate cling, no jovial but ultimately fangless clap on the back, no venom in the gesture. Merely warmth, fondness, not fragile in danger of shattering at the barest move, but fluid and fond.

His breath hitched momentarily as he blinked the heat from his eyes, pressing a hand to the lady's shoulder before he cleared his throat, thick.

"You've made this, you said? What skills you have. I cannot claim that any lady's in Rigel's Imperial court would have known the entrance to exit of a scullery. We shall have to eat it together, that I might praise you to your face."