mourning girlhood .

the songs i have not sung to you
will wake me in the night

[encantresse]

#ENCANTRESSE. affiliated dorothea arnault, penned by sara (25+, she/her) please read my RULES + NOTES ON PORTRAYAL before interacting. happy writing!

⁺ links: dossier / stats / supports / thread tracker / credits: psd

when it comes to dorothea's background, there is a content warning for themes such as: gender-based violence, child abuse, sexual assault, etc. explicit mentions in threads or meta posts will be tagged accordingly as 'trigger name tw'. i'll always try to cover the standard ones, but if you need specific words tagged, let me know.

on the muse =/= mun note, dorothea is inherently distrustful of noblemen, particularly those who show signs of prejudice toward commoners and women. she will retaliate, and i hope to emphasize that this does NOT equate to an ooc attack on your muse.

from the bottom of my heart, i ask that you refrain from making out-of-character jokes or commentary (either directed at me or in my presence) that are misogynistic in nature or that make light of the themes discussed on this blog. it is wildly uncomfortable and i will not entertain it.

standard rp etiquette applies. please don't make assumptions about my muse, whether it's how she acts/thinks. additionally, i ask that you refrain from making offhand comments about your own headcanons about her in this group setting. this applies to the dash and server. + please let me know if i've missed a thread! i try my best to ensure i track everything accordingly, but i'm only human.

for 3h castmates, i'm always happy to discuss which rank respective muns would like to start with beforehand!

she is shipping with ferdinand. i am not interested in pursuing other ships, even across AUs. one-sided crushes are fine so long as boundaries are kept in mind.

i use small text with bolded dialogue (hexcode #855138). however, if that becomes an issue for accessibility, just let me know and i’ll gladly modify for thread partners. i’ll actively be looking out, but in the case that i forget, give me a small nudge!

[cotharach]

— THE GOUDA, THE BAD, & THE UGLY .

on my goddess y'all got me 🐁 🐁 🐁 🐁 up

[cotharach]

The main mouse disappeared into the curtains. As he did, Flayn screamed.

"No!'

Her shriek tore straight through her throat, and before she could stop herself, Flayn found herself dashing madly downstage. How Gouda Boy came to such extremes was beyond her—she only knew that Bernadetta could not be brought to harm, under any circumstances. The children, so eagerly gathered around the crate full of clubs and other such instruments of harm, now stopped to gawk at her. Why is the green Goudaling here, they seemed to ask. Did she not want noble soup? They tilted their heads, curious at her intrusion—and perhaps just a touch annoyed. Flayn very suddenly became aware of how close these weapons were to their tiny, tight-clenched fists.

"Now, everyone…" Flayn began, adjusting her cheese wheel accessory, which had come loose thanks to her sprint, "erm, before we play this game, I would like to first, ah…"

She looked up toward Bernadetta, the poor girl, then focused on the blue, cloudless sky that was beyond her. If there was any moment that she sought the Goddess' guidance most, it was this. Oh, please, descend unto this earth like You once did, and grant her the wisdom of the Blue Sea Star!

Flayn took a deep breath. Then returned to the wanting crowd below her.

"I would like to lower this silly, soupable girl first, that your clubs may sufficiently reach her. Is that alright with everyone?"

Their approval came in loud cheers and waved clubs, and Flayn mimicked their enthusiasm with a wide, face-splitting grin, though her heart raced with moral anguish within its bony cage. Its beat continued to pound as she returned upstage. "Dorothea," Flayn came up to her side, breathless. Her eyes angled downward, searching amongst the wooden floor for a plank much like the ones Gouda Boy had been fiddling with. She could not discern which ones were triggers to mechanisms and which ones were simply flooring, "this has gotten supremely out of hand. We do not have much time. We must confront Gouda Boy now. I believe he is somewhere backstage."

@encantresse

[encantresse]

there go her sympathies, flying right out the window the second she spots beloved bernadetta tied up like a county fair hog. because no matter how much she agrees with gouda's rhetoric, with his condemnation of the church and the vile noblemen who commit atrocities in the goddess' name, dorothea could care less about some man in an unlaundered costume when he drags a friend into the mix.

like flayn, she shoots toward bernadetta like an arrow, and it's thanks to her partner's quick thinking that they're bought more time.

just how he'd gotten his hands on dear bern, dorothea can't say, but it chills her to the bone seeing the other gagged and tied like this, left to swing like dry-aged meat on a butcher's hook. the mere thought of what terror bernadetta must've endured at his hands—knowing her past, her traumas—brings dorothea to a point beyond the bewilderment of this ridiculous situation, to a steadily growing rage that festers when reality sinks in: this filthy rat has laid his hands on bernadetta von varley.

"i'll kill him." an exaggeration? a promise? who's to say? where she'd previously kept up the pretenses of a performance, all that is shed now, with little regard for the mission or their confused audience of children as she gestures for flayn to follow her off the stage. "this way—!"

off she goes, heels clacking loudly against wooden flooring as she pushes past the heavy curtains gouda's slithered behind. what awaits them isn't unfamiliar to what she'd known at mittelfrank—various props scattered about, standard rigging, a handful of stagehands who look shocked to see them there, and out of the corner of her eye...

"...there! flayn!" dorothea points out the fleeting outline of a figure who swings a door open and vanishes behind it. "quickly! after him!"

@cotharach @hermidetta

[encantresse]

[ ♫ ]  ─  * 𝐚 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬

[hermidetta]

“huh?”  and the oh-so-relaxed bernadetta von varley, too caught in wiping the proverbial sweat off her forehead, hardly even processes the entirety of dorothea’s words. something about commoners, something about fathers. hers?  “uh, vaguely…”

but then it lands, and the color instantly drains from her face.

ice shoots up her spine. her and her big fat mouth.

because dorothea has just described exactly how he thinks. because bernadetta's parents are 'most nobles', and because she knows what they will do if they find out she hasn't kept quiet.

“n-no, um… i mean yes, but— we, we can’t—!”  her breathing turns shallow, soft catches of air through trembling lips as her head snaps left and right, her frantic gaze flying to all the windows and doors. the idea of preparing food is all but lost to her now. bernadetta's body starts and stops like she’s torn between curling her limbs into herself and throwing them around dorothea to usher her to safety instead.  “s-shh! not so loud, he might be— oh no, wait, i didn’t mean to shush you, dorothea! i’m sorry! see, i always mess up!”

but she cannot mess this up. not dorothea. nobody else, not ever again. it had taken nothing short of old times’ sake, a dogged impulse to right certain misunderstandings, and maybe even a miracle for bernadetta to ask friendship of one other person before this. but does dorothea know her way with a knife, too? bernadetta's gaze lands on her again, gray eyes wide with terror, and she almost sobs right then and there. because dorothea is so beautiful, dorothea’s hair is long, dorothea is nothing like her and she cannot ever be, bernadetta will not allow it, bernadetta refuses to ruin her too.

so she shatters the mirror reflection instead of waving back. she grasps at the shards with bleeding hands and hugs them all to her chest.

“i-i can’t talk about it”—is what she manages to afford, desperation fraying her voice—“or you’ll get in trouble. i don’t want you to get in trouble, too! you should just stay away from me… really.”

the same mantra loops in her head, louder and louder. if it’s a noble, it’ll be her bones to break. if it’s a commoner, it’ll be theirs. all bernadetta knows right now is: it can't be dorothea's.

[encantresse]

the shushing does take dorothea aback, but not for the reasons bernadetta might think. what she says registers less as rude and more as concerning, because from where the songstress stands, it's all too apparent how the life seems to drain out of beloved bern, and even without pressing an ear to the girl's chest, she can hear a heart hammering loudly against a bruised ribcage.

"there's no need to apologize, bern. i'm your friend."

for those who have never been battered, or taught to live with bowed heads and clasped hands, it's easy to dismiss the sight before her as a nervous breakdown—a quirky outburst befitting a high-strung woman. it's what those responsible for instilling such a response would say, because how easy it is to pretend the abused has tripped over their own shoes, and not because of the traps lain out?

it's all too familiar.

"it's not easy for me to stay away. i worry about you." with a frown, dorothea shifts suddenly—but only to hook the heel of her boot onto the footrest of a nearby stool that she draws closer to her side. "i know you've lived through some bad times. if you could tell me about it, maybe i could help?"

she eases herself atop it and leans encouragingly toward the shrinking violet before her."your father's not here. see?" an arm sweeps across the room to prove her point. "whatever it is, you're safe to tell me. he'll never know."

[aubins]

＊ a dead rose lives forever .

anni '24 | lance +1　 ▪ ▪ ▪ 　yuri & dorothea

[aubins]

it’s stupid, yuri thinks, and reckless too. still, they cannot fault her for it.

dorothea is a better person than they are to be certain; that is what it means to be able to walk in the light. but yuri has only ever carried out their work under the cover of shadows, playing foul even to the eyes of those they work in defense of. the ends justify the means—that’s how it is and how it must be to build the future they dream of. it is not a thing that can survive the light until it is fully formed.

when she moves to stand before the monster, yuri pushes to the front to meet her there, ignoring the barked out warnings of their group. for someone who just claimed to have a headache, they seem remarkable calm, steady on their feet as they quietly scan her expression.

really, ladybird? they want to ask her. you’re asking the professional monster hunters to reevaluate hunting monsters?

“how do you know it won’t?” is what they ask evenly. “just because it hasn’t yet?” all the while, their mind races a mile a minute. how to stall for time? how to get them out of here alive? talking will not keep the hunters from attacking forever. students die all the time on missions—eventually, they’ll cut their losses to bring home their prize. it’s the inevitable conclusion.

“i’ve fought plenty of monsters before. they don’t listen to rhyme or reason.” though if they’re talking about the beast before them or the men behind them, who can really say? cold and inscrutable, the savage mockingbird’s expression betrays nothing. but even with their grip still on the hilt of their sword, they make no motion to brandish it against her. “you can plead all you want—they all follow their instincts in the end.”

[encantresse]

it's the beast who replies to yuri first.

...you, too? i thought you were different. if the hurt in its voice had not been obvious before, it rings out more loudly this time. a tone of betrayal to the highest degree, as if it had—despite its voiced grievances—held onto the hope that these two humans were of a different stock.

it is humankind that never listens to reason. it is humankind who scorches the land and spills blood. the beast continues. its horned head bobs despondently, tilting from one side to look at dorothea, then toward yuri and the hunters behind them. slitted saffron-colored eyes linger on the hilt of the mockingbird's sword.

you will never leave me be. the beast speaks more slowly now, like one who's finally come to terms with having to resort to an equal evil. you will hunt those i love into extinction. you push peaceful creatures to violence.

there’s an edge to its words that wasn’t there before. dorothea’s blood runs cold at the realization, but it comes a few seconds too late. i will not be the last of my kind!

there it is, the inevitable: all cornered animals strike. before she can speak, the beast lets out a roar that even baldwin and lawrence can hear this time, for they immediately raise their weapons to attack. she, too, raises her hands to cast when something thick and scabrous wraps around her waist and unexpectedly whips her backward. the wind strikes her across the face, air drawn from her lungs by the unexpected force, though in what appears to be a small act of mercy, she does not find herself hurled against anything.

instead, the beast drops her several feet away, retracting its tail to then rear up on its hind legs. just as swiftly it comes crashing down with an impact that sends shockwaves toward the hunting party.

[thelightofcreation]

through the eyes of a child

[thelightofcreation]

Too young to understand the warmth of nostalgia and too naive to know the emptiness that it left behind, Lehran puzzles over what washes over him and finds himself ultimately unable to name or recognize it- though even he can recognize the starry tones of awe.

Something said in her songbird’s voice is just as airy as she points to the sky alongside him, a gesture he takes as acceptance of his offer. Her expression falls shortly after that, and Lehran wonders if it was a lack of confidence in him or herself.

He doesn't have much confidence in his ability to bring her to the sky, either, but maybe just a few feet off the ground couldn't hurt… Not quite flying but something similar. So, in attempt to be reassuring, he smiles, “[It will be fine, just watch!]”

Carefully, he takes her hands in his, and with a gesture both sudden and slow, he tries to take off. The regular flapping of his wings only lifts him so far, and he doesn’t have the strength to carry her beyond the smallest lift upward- her feet still touching the ground. A few more seconds of effort tell him that he will not be able to get much further, so he lands clumsily back on the ground.

“[Sorry… I don't think I'm strong enough.]”

[encantresse]

regardless of how careful his gesture is, there follows the instinctive wince that comes from having learned of aggression early in her young life. dorothea braces herself for an unrelenting grip, or one that leaves the imprints of fingertips in her skin, but what follows is gentleness. he holds her hands as if they are made of glass, and at once, she feels her shoulders relax.

her relief, however, is quickly overshadowed by surprise.

she blinks as his wings—the ones she'd thought were just a costume!—flap with a force she’s never seen from regular fabric or feathers. they stir up gusts of air that lift him off the ground and send twigs and leaves scattering, and in turn, she's left gaping at the sight.

is this why she could not understand the boy with black wings? and why he is kinder than anyone she's ever met? it would explain why he didn't yell at her like the others, or throw things at her, or tell her to scram. maybe he is something otherworldly, like a fairy, and that's why he is so unlike the monsters masked as men.

he tries his hardest with his display—dorothea can tell that much. he is one of the only people who has ever tried to do anything for her, and so, she musters the brightest smile possible.

— 𝘧𝘪𝘯.

[florages]

"A duel?" Céline's voice lifts with an affronted sort of shock, "I know the delectable call of sweets can sometimes drive one to madness, but violence is a bit too far, is it not?"

The princess lifts her cup for another sip of tea, only to stop herself when Dorothea clarifies that no, it was not a sweet, but shrimp. On a stick. Her lips press together, a muffled sort of hum leaving her; a sound that sat between a yelp of surprise and a laugh.

Bless the Divine she hadn't taken that sip. She likely would have choked!

"Definitely a choice," Céline allows herself a giggle once she regains her composure, setting her cup down. "Though I am curious as to who catered the event last year. I may want to look into this stick-based seafood, myself—I have a friend who would be delighted to try it."

It may have been no eel, but she's sure Chloé would be eager for the experience, regardless.

"And unlike that gentleman over there, I am much more keen on sharing. Would you care for a lily to complement that lovely bouquet of yours?" A hum, "The dress, as well. You are quite the vision tonight, Dorothea."

[encantresse]

displays of violence never come as much of a surprise to dorothea. not when she's seen blows exchanged over the most minor things—take full-on brawls over misplaced gazes and ill-timed sneezes, for instance.

all she can do now is giggle at the princess' reaction and lean in to savor celine's scandalized tone. "i'm sure it won't be hard to track them down," she interjects good-naturedly. "it was the viscount menja who hosted last year, so you could pry that information out of fauntleroy."

dorothea lifts her own teacup to her lips and indulges in a sip or two before settling back in her seat. "i'd love nothing more," she says, pleased as can be. "but not unless you take one of my tulips." her hands flutter in a ta-da! sort of motion. "what about you? you look like the queen of fairies! the ethereal goddess of flowers! i expect everyone will offer you one tonight. it'd only be right."

[encantresse]

♫ 𝄈 maybe the true horrors were inside us all along.

( AFFLUENCE, faith +1 )

[moriddyn]

Should he had have had the mind to remain calm- as if anyone could have, swallowed so quickly by darkness and waves so powerful he could not recall which way was up- he would have relaxed himself to float to the surface.

But his lungs burned from the initial wave and any attempt to expel the water was only met with more- breaking to the surface is met with coughing so fierce he is half certain that his throat would burn forevermore.

Yet slowly, the waves recede, and then the water itself follows; just quickly enough that Elffins attempts to adjust to the newfound calm are unneeded, slowly depositing them onto damp stone. A booming voice seems to be speaking from somewhere overhead, but he could not make out the words- for the time being, he lets exhaustion take hold.

… Before startling awake in the wooden chair in the tent, the supposed guru snapping impatiently in front of his nose, then doing the same to his companion.

"- don't have all day!"

Blinking, disoriented, Elffin stands slowly- to the chagrin of their keeper. Glancing at Dorothea, once, twice (a double-take, that she seemed so dry, despite the fact that he was himself).

"Pardon," He murmurs- mostly out of habit, "Dorothea… shall we head out?"

One hand on her wrist, he guides her carefully from the tent, and then some. Despite everything that just occurred, he felt fine… to an extent. Though he guess the moment the tension settles, both of them would need some time to recover.

To a nearby bench, then, where he settles a little too quickly to be gentle, only careful enough to leave enough room for her.

Then, breathlessly, "… I think our fears were well-founded, actually."

[end.]

[encantresse]

[ ♫ ] ─ * 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐞

tea time / continued from here

[petalblight]

PRIDE? Tsubaki blinks. They've never let personal feelings muddy reality: he exists to serve his kingdom. That manifests in becoming a guardian its crown, a soldier for its people, a scholar for its truth. There's no need to define his loyalty further, for that will not change his purpose. Perhaps that singular devotion is pride. Perhaps, it is love. Or, perhaps, it is simply legacy that must be maintained.

"In that manner, indeed," Tsubaki agrees, voice measured. "However… The power of crests and the power of dragon veins are quite different. From what Fodlan's scholars describe, a crest merely gives its bearer a genetic advantage, yes?"

He does not dare say it aloud, but he does not see the physical purpose of crests any different than other genetic advantages: one's mental aptitude, one's height, the likes. There are ways to compensate the differences, at least in terms of battle.

"Those who possess the power of dragon veins can alter the outcome of battles entirely, as they possess the ability to manipulate our continent's terrain, Nohr and Hoshido both. Drying entire rivers, changing the flow of magma, summoning violent gales, and even consuming the earth in great tremors…"

Tsubaki hums.

"When godly powers like that exist, we all truly amount to nothing. Perhaps that's the truth behind our co-existence." He raises his tea cup for a sip, though the rim barely touches his lip before he gasps in surprise, "Ah—!"

He places the cup down and smiles bright, his tone resuming its airy quality. "My tea grew cold~" Expression bashful, Tsubaki titters, "How embarrassing! I got too invested in our conversation~"

[encantresse]

genetic aptitude. that's one way to put it, albeit in a more simplified manner than she's used to hearing. "some call crests 'power incarnate,'" dorothea interjects wryly, "but that's neither here nor there. you're not wrong in your assessment."

there are those who would call it a gross reduction of the continent's history and the legacy bestowed upon its people—but it is what makes their system all the more detestable. to cast out a child for reasons beyond their control remains a cruel and condemnable act, whether because they are born with hair too dark, eyes too light, or a lack of crest that is so desperately desired.

she studies tsubaki a moment longer, her fingertips coasting over a tea cake that's promptly plucked from its tray to be added to her dish.

"it's fortunate that fodlan has no such thing as these 'dragon veins' you speak of, professor." what greater divide would there be if one was able to shake the earth and split the seas, as he describes? it's the last thing they need in this world of theirs—for so-called 'godly figures' to walk amongst them, as if the common people and the crestless were not already regarded as less than human. "maybe hoshido's got it figured out, but we have a long way to go here."

dorothea forces another smile. with that, she reaches for the nearby teapot.

"easy fix. may i? "

— 𝘧𝘪𝘯.

[aubins]

anyone who has ever accused the silver-tongued mockingbird of lacking tact may be right, if only for how they regard the tulips, the request, and even dorothea’s expression before finally saying, “she’s avoiding you, isn’t she.” it’s not a question, and so yuri does not wait for an answer either as they take both flowers from her. “i’ll make sure it gets to her.”

just because yuri hadn’t asked what drove her to abyss doesn’t mean they never wondered. when would dorothea’s name have ever come up in their suspicions? frankly, they doubt it ever would’ve at all. there are plenty of things that yuri knows, and two amongst them that they can say for absolute certain are that both dorothea and bernadetta are good people.

“but i’ll only play delivery boy for you once,” they continue, tucking the tulips away in their bouquet. “next time, it’s going to cost you.” a beat. their gaze softens, just a little. “she’s safe, you know. i promise.” fine may not be something they can promise in her stead but safe, at least, is a thing they can ensure with their own two hands.

they start to turn away but pause, glancing back at dorothea over their shoulder. “...it’s not my business what happened between the two of you... but you and i both know that ‘detta loves her friends—more than she loves herself, even. but she doesn’t always believe they love her back.”

yuri shakes their head. honestly, the dejected expression on dorothea’s face doesn’t suit her any more than the shadows of abyss suit bernadetta. but delivering an orchid to a ladybird and a tulip to a hermit is the most they’re willing to do. it really isn’t their business what happened and it’s not for them to decide if it’s worth making up over. still, “i know you’re both good people, ladybird. don’t let it turn into something you’ll both regret.”

[encantresse]

— 𝘧𝘪𝘯.

[thelightofcreation]

“She’ll never know anything else,” He responds, though he does not know if that works to her detriment or benefit- if she never learns to want something beyond what she was given, then in a way, isn’t that happiness? It’s only those who look upon her, knowing what is beyond that feel pity. “I wonder- is the Goddess’ blessing life, or a mere facsimile of it?”

Can she live, if she cannot die? Is it a life if it is so contained, only defined by one man and his desires? (Not even a god, Sephiran derides, though he keeps that to himself).

“Is she even able to love?”

Or is she only meant to be loved?

[encantresse]

"i think it's a tragic fate for the statue," dorothea confesses. "i know none of us ask to be born, but..."

she falters for a second, gathering her thoughts while gently steering sephiran through an influx of partygoers as they stream in from one of the other rooms.

"...it's not really living when your only purpose for existing is to please another."

dorothea exhales softly.

"if you ask me, the better question is: does he even love her? what happens when he tires of her? when he finds another object of his affections?"

[encantresse]

[ ♫ ] ─ * 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐧…𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐃𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐮𝐲

aphotic / +1 heavy armor

[seawardoath]

The markets in Thracia had looked like this one: built from whatever scraps one could find, selling whatever could put food on the table. The shops Ronan and Dorothea pass boast an eclectic selection of goods, and he begins to wonder how many "general stores" one city can have. Of course, unlike Thracia, this one is yet untouched by the desperation war, and the prices seem to inspire little confidence in Dorothea. Ronan glances up at her when she mentions gathering their own planks, and then his eyes sweep thoughtfully over some of the shacks that line the street, many of which don't even look to be occupied. With a little bit of elbow grease, they could pry off a few... probably.

"S-sixty gold?" Ripped from his attempt to come up with logistics for their scavenging - a suggestion Dorothea likely hadn't even made seriously - Ronan gapes at her.

"That could feed my whole village..." he murmurs, and now it's how a single cooked chicken could cost so much that occupies his mind, creasing a furrow between his brows as they walk. He doesn't even notice the green-haired boy shouting until he's right in front of them, pointing at-- Ronan glances down and his cheeks flush. The kid's right about the belt - his own is hardly more than a cut of woven cord.

"Uh, how... much?" Ronan asks absentmindedly, and Marzell flashes a grin that says he knows he's got a fish on the hook. Raising his chin to look a little taller than he is (as it is, he stands only about as talls as Ronan's chest) and squaring his shoulders like one of proper breeding, he circles around his new customers to set his hands on their backs to steer them both toward the handpainted sign.

"Right this way, my honored guests," he announces with an affected air, and gets Ronan two feet closer before he digs in his heels and shakes his head.

"No, wait! We're not here for belts." Pulling away from the wannabe merchant, Ronan turns on him with a frown, which does little to change the smarmy look in the kid's eye.

"We need wooden planks. Big enough for a boat's hull, and waterproof. Do you have anything like that?"

The kid seems to stutter for a moment, glancing toward his shopfront when Ronan does. It's a tiny shack, more like a lean-to, and hardly looks big enough for the kind of supplies they're searching for. If they sold any kind of wood, it'd probably need to be glued or nailed together for the purposes of a boat. A small one, at that. They both think this thought at the same time.

"... Of course we do!" Marzell boasts, almost without skipping a beat. "Come take a look at our wares. Don't be fooled by the entrance. We have pleeeenty of real estate in the back. Dorsey!"

Marzell whistles and a girl with freckles and a shaggy mop of brown hair pops up from behind the counter.

"Boss!" She stands at attention.

"Show our honored guests to the, uh--" He pauses, trying to find the word. "Vee-eye-pee selection."

"The... huh?"

Marzell starts winking with both of his eyes and after a few seconds the girl finally catches on. Somewhat.

"Oh... ooooohh." She winks back, but she still looks confused. Patting down her patchwork dress, she hops around the counter to take Ronan and Dorothea by the hands. "Yes, yes, come with me to the... the vee-eye-pee selection!"

[encantresse]

this dorsey's got an awfully strong grip for a child, though dorothea isn't sure if it's more to do with actual force or the fact that—she glances at ronan—they find themselves reluctant to dig in their heels.

"VIP section," she repeats, baffled by this turn of events. "sounds like you get plenty of customers...?"

dorsey doesn't relent. instead, she shrugs her shoulders and readjusts her grip on their hands. "boss says there's always room for more. this way!"

she tugs them toward the shack, and the closer they draw, the more evident it becomes that it's not simply some makeshift store or a childish hideout, but a home. through the large gaps between the wooden planks, dorothea spots little makeshift beds of straw and frayed blankets. littered around the floor are several pairs of child-sized boots, as well as a pile of discarded wooden bowls and what appear to be chicken bones from a previous dinner.

"here we go!" dorsey pulls them behind the lopsided shelter to reveal what could be described as a yard—generous as the term might be—made up of rocky patches of dirt and host to several rusted tables with various items displayed atop them. "the vee-eye-pee section," the child announces. "boss must think you two are reaaaaaal important if he told me to bring you here."

she finally releases their hands, though a loud tinkling sound draws her attention to a hunched figure beneath one of the tables. dorothea turns her head as well, surprised to spot a third child polishing silverware from a box. "hawk! we got guests! vee-eye-pees."

hawk, a serious-looking boy with dark hair done in plaits, peers out from his hiding spot to study them. he eyes ronan's bow carefully. "no wonder. you've got what boss wants."

dorsey nods. "we're always looking for weapons," she supplies helpfully. "boss says we've gotta—" she mimics aiming something at someone's head and shooting, "take out the competition!"

hawk frowns at this, though whatever's on his mind goes unsaid. he merely shrugs at his friend's addition and returns his focus to his task. "give me a hand with this, dorsey. let them browse. customers don't like it when you hover."

[rigelprinceofdespair]

How dangerous could the Opera be?

aphotic

[rigelprinceofdespair]

Berkut nods, taking in the information. It's a good reminder, while he has been attending lessons at Garreg Mach, he still hasn't truly learned about this new continent. Hearing more about the Adrestian Empire... perhaps it is foolish, but it almost triggers a sense of longing for a brief moment. A reminder of his own, now gone homeland.

Still he was here on a mission. Now was not the time to think about places lost to him.

"I see... quite different from my own homeland in many ways. Something to keep in mind in any case." As he nods, he focuses more on her words about the performers. For a split second he recognizes the sneer on her face, and can't help but raise an eyebrow at her words.

"Perhaps they have more sense then most. Maybe there is some common ground here, as no church I've ever heard of has deserved respect or trust." A thought goes back to the faithful of his homeland. Forcing himself to focus, he looks towards the this side entrance, away from the traffic.

"Ah, I see. Well, good thing I am here with an expert then." Berkut approaches the door with her, before thinking for a moment and stepping back to give her room. "I imagine this door is for the performers, not random visitors. In which case after you my lady."

There is a slight smirk on his face as he speaks. Not intending to mock, but more so that perhaps this present company won't be as painful to be around as he first thought.

[encantresse]

did she think berkut a devout man, to look at him with the surprise that she does? it was hard to claim any telltale signs when the so-called pious came in all shapes and forms. take those who dressed in plain robes and clutched holy texts, for instance, while their counterparts ladened themselves with gold and sneered in the face of beggars.

no church i've ever heard of has deserved respect or trust.

a subtle look of approval settles over her features, as does a flash of understanding. the corners of dorothea's lips curl slightly when he looks away, and before the sentiment dissipates into the air between them, it's met with a hum of agreement.

"look at that! you're a gentleman after all." his smirk is met with something just as amused as dorothea shoots one last glance his way before stepping through the doorway. she quickly makes her way down the marble halls, her footfalls cushioned by the familiar crimson carpeting. she pauses only when she suspects she's walked too far and too quickly, and turns to wait for her partner to catch up.

"where exactly is your homeland, if you don't mind my asking? is it far?"

and then, the sound of jangling bracelets as she points out another door to him. this one's of a lighter-colored wood, adorned with two glass windows of a circular shape. "our next stop, by the way. that'll take us into the dressing rooms."

[warpaway]

a code-a.

[warpaway]

“'lin cave?'” linhardt repeats, confused.  he interprets her literally, and explains accordingly.  “you don't want to see my bedroom, dorothea.  i suspect you can assume why not, considering my generally disorganized nature and not-very-noble disposition.”

the books he's chosen for himself are tucked under one arm, and the opposite hand raises to cover a yawn.

“what say you look over your part and i'll take notes on mine and we meet in the middle?”

this is a decision linhardt makes for her - the question is posed, but there's only one answer they'll accept.

"this certainly was fun, though.  i'll confess this isn't too out of the ordinary for my research normally, if you'd ever like to come along again.  who knows, we might be set upon a full fledged scavenger hunt now.  we'll see."

he offers her a smile, and a small wave.  “i'll see you - well, i'm not sure when, but you know how to find me.  goodbye.”

and then, they set off back to their room.  for a nap, maybe, or maybe two.

→ end.

[hresvelged]

"And I to yours. Always." The soft assurance brings harsh purple's onto the kinder sky. The stars feel in reach, as do her dreams. There are many, and they are together. Edelgard trusts Dorothea. And oh, how many moons ago did the stars of her sky feel like but a single shine. The only light she had was the glow of her axe. If only things were simpler. "Trust and love go hand in hand, hm..," the repetition leaves her tongue as if it's never been on it before. It hasn't. Not in that way. The Goddess Tower feels as if it was never there to begin with. "It is a nice feeling.. Being able to rely on others. I couldn't begin recounting to you how many times I've been told" — she changes the pitch of her voice, deeper— 'the emperor must act alone'."

She laughs. Her tarnished hands cascade darkened shadows. It is not trust to hide the broken glass she derives from, nor love to scatter it away. The breath she takes is cold against her lungs, but warm as she speaks. "Then, it's only natural I speak more to you about who Edelgard von Hresvelg is. About the person who stands before you. When I do, will you listen?"

Her arms cross in front of her chest. ".. By the way,—" she says as she lowers her lifted head and brings it back to her side. It would be in poor favor of the next emperor to not have an astute eye on the evening's ball in some capacity. "I won't let you lose that love. I'll intervene myself if I must," she says in stoic jest.

[encantresse]

a smile breaks through upon hearing edelgard's impersonation. long before it can subside into something sadder at the thought of how her friend must've shouldered such a burden for so long, what edelgard says next takes dorothea by surprise—so much so that she erupts into unexpected laughter. pure and unfiltered, like bubbling spring brooks and tittering birdsong overhead.

when she finally recovers, she removes the hand she’d used to smother her giggles and stands before the other with the largest grin she's worn tonight. "oh, edie. you're just the sweetest, you know? what would i do without you?"

she loops her arm through edelgard's, looking as pleased as can be. "he'd be so indignant, wouldn't he? hearing you say that." dorothea laughs again, but not before puffing out her own chest and allowing her voice to drop in equal imitation. "edelgard! have my exploits as the noblest of nobles not proven my worth? edelgard, i confess! i have half a mind to challenge you to a duel should you insist on intervening more than you have---!"

when she's had her fill of teasing, dorothea lets out a happy hum. "anyway, whenever that day comes, edie, i'll be the luckiest girl alive to know all there is about the mighty edelgard von hresvelg. i already love the bits of her that i've seen so far."

gently, she knocks the princess's shoulder with her own. "we're inseparable now. i'm fighting for you, too, and for whatever happiness it is you're seeking."

[moriddyn]

Is he tired?

Difficult to say, though that in itself was a problem. Perhaps the mere act of asking made him acknowledge that he were tired, or it were the fact that he wondered that made him over think every little misstep.

Dorothea graciously guides him through it all, and at last he decides, “I wouldn’t mind sitting for a while.”

If only to spare himself the worry.

Seats were never left unoccupied for long, though neither were spots on the floor- as they leave, another pair joins the fray, and in their place someone takes to rest. 

 A moment of silence- of respite, as he catches his breath, of turning over words in his mind and searching for the correct ones to say. Ultimately, he ends without mentioning what matters most.

“I hope you had not thought my words as mere flattery,” He begins, though more playful than accusatory. “Perhaps you knew the theme in advance?”

His roses’ hue matching their shared azure theme, though hers much darker than his (a poet would think that perhaps it were that his facade were shallower than hers, and a poet he was)- but he offers it with a smile despite his thoughts.

“A rose for a star, I should hope, is not too overdone.” He sighs, and though his smile falters, it does not fade- he was too experienced for that, ultimately. “I didn’t mean to cause you worry."

"... There is something I should tell you, though a ballroom is hardly a fitting setting. Would you make some time for me?”

[encantresse]

“elffin,” she replies with ample mirth, gently steering him toward their table, “don’t take this the wrong way, but you couldn’t be a flatterer if you tried. you’re too earnest.”

but what is that, if not a boon of his? a trait that had earned her trust early on, as well as a deep-set appreciation for the fact that, despite his soft-spokenness, he was never one to shy away from the truth. “i do appreciate the compliment,” dorothea adds. then, a touch playful herself: “so you’d think! i just have an eye for trends.”

she lets out an airy laugh as she accepts his rose and retrieves for him a yellow tulip to complement the accents of his outfit. more than anything, it’s the sigh that catches her attention, and dorothea cants her head in his direction.

her expression softens at the sight of that waning smile. just as quietly, she exhales in tandem.

“of course i will. come find me whenever you’d like to talk.”

— 𝘧𝘪𝘯.

[encantresse]

@mxlusine sent: [ STEAL ] - Purposeful or not, it looks like you've gotten your hands on something that isn't yours. You may want to return that before anyone notices. Or you may want to start running. / /

It's a bouquet of orchids, but it's not her bouquet of orchids.

...Which is to say, Zephia's bunch had been just that—a bunch—while this one is elaborately arranged with gold threads and silk ribbons. Whoever it belongs to had clearly intended for this to be a meaningful gift, but she supposes it must not have been that meaningful if it'd found its way into her hands rather than its intended recipient. Regardless, it isn't her duty to find its original owner, and she really is growing rather tired of being assaulted by the scent of numerous blooms everywhere she goes.

So.

"...You look far too lovely to be walking around empty-handed, dear," she says, once she spots a girl that's lovely enough and vaguely familiar besides. Zephia presses the bouquet into her hands. "Take this. We shall say it is a gift from someone who ought to be admiring you."

"oh!" her cheeks flush a light pink. "thank you, professor! that's very kind of you. i don't know if it's fair to say i'm empty-handed, b—"

it's too late for modesty. what else can dorothea do but marvel (albeit with some astonishment) at the unexpected handoff of an entire bouquet, hastily shifting her own bundle to make room for another in her arms. it's quite unlike her own—or any she's seen thus far—and she can't help but admire it quietly, taking in the finer details of the gossamer ribbons and the gorgeous threads that twinkle under candlelight. "—ahem. i appreciate it. would you like one of my tulips as well, professor? i've got a blue one that'd go beautifully with your dress."

as her free hand tries to pluck one of her own flowers, it brushes against the secondary bouquet, fingers catching on something cold and metallic that goes clattering to the floor within seconds.

clingclangclang!

when dorothea's gaze follows the sound to the ground, she stares at what looks suspiciously like an engagement ring that'd been nestled amongst the unsuspecting orchids.

"...?"

[failnaughted]

You're Laughing. We're in Jesus' Tomb and You're Laughing.

#WINNINGSUN || Ethereal Ball 2026

Word Count Challenge: 350

[failnaughted]

... Saint Cichol? He supposed, if he squints a little and ignores the grotesque exaggerated expression of the mask, it does bear a resemblance to the Saint statue in the church. Probably. Claude has to admit that he's never attempted to study its face in that great a detail.

Those don't feel like something that would be made for the purposes of worship towards the Four Saints. The opposite, if anything - sarcasm and mockery is what comes to mind instead. Which, if that would be the case, why are those in the monastery at all, let alone in the Goddess Tower of all places? At best Claude would expect something like this to be hidden in one of the many dark corners of the Abyss, not what is supposed to be one of Garreg Mach's most sacred spots.

He shelves the thought for now as Flayn addresses him. "Uh…" Did he actually feel anything aside from instant panic and What The Hell? Actually… maybe he did?

"When there was the beat, I think something flashed before my eyes," he says with a frown, trying to remember. "For a brief moment, it felt like the tree on the lower floor flashed with fire. But I moved away from the wall instantly, and it disappeared, just like that." He strokes his chin in thought. "I could be wrong, but I don't recall any mention of the Goddess Tower catching fire in its history, so why would such a memory exist here?"

Boy does he wish he could ask Rhea about this place. But after the last round of "heretic" executions, ensuring no one ever found out they came here might be their second highest priority ever. First being getting out of here.

"What about the other crates?" He asks, approaching one. Similarly to the one Ronan opened, the lid gives way immediately. Claude reaches in; his hand comes back up with a pile of papers.

"Is that… Sheet music?" He squints, looking up at Dorothea. "You'll probably read this better than me. I don't think any of those are the usual Church hymns?…"

[encantresse]

well, it's only a matter of time before things go south for them. walls with pulses, says claude. visions of fire. and now the saints! as if anything good ever happens when the saints appear!

once again, she chooses not to comment on it. there's no use stirring up more frenzy—but goodness, does she let out a great and forceful exhale.

"that's strange. mind if i take a better look?" dorothea reaches for the stack of papers in claude's hand. she stills at first, lowering her torch to illuminate what's written, though gradually finds herself drifting from his side to pace as she reads. soft humming accompanies her footfalls, eyes narrowing studiously.

. . . ♪ ♬ ♪ , ♬ ♪ ♪ . . .

"...not a hymn," she finally announces. "those are written to be simple enough for even an untrained congregation to sing. we're talking simple melodies, repeated notes, a comfortable range for all... so on and so forth. this, however—"

she raises the sheet music over her head, giving it a light shake to catch everyone's attention. "—is a completed piece, titled 'my bane to be.' a terribly melancholic one, considering all the modal shifts. were this an opera, it would usually signify a character descending into tragedy—like betrayal or loss. things of that nature."

@hermidetta @seawardoath