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@encantresse
#ENCANTRESSE. affiliated dorothea arnault, penned by sara (25+, she/her) please read my RULES + NOTES ON PORTRAYAL before interacting. happy writing!
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[ ♫ ] ─ * 𝐟𝐨𝐮é𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬 & 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭
infamous / white heron cup
they really should’ve just bitten their tongue after the no. at least it might’ve spared them the questioning.
to say it’s as good as shipping them off to war is a bit too dramatic even for them, regardless of how it sometimes feels as good as doing so. if anything, the war might even be preferable. the stage has only ever been another battlefield to them, whether it was a literal or metaphorical one. performance is an act baked into their very being.
“ugh...” they nudge their tea away like it’s spoiled their appetite, but it’s really no fault of the drink at all. “well, you’ll find it’s frowned upon to stab people while dancing. i might be more amenable if it wasn’t.” it’s clear from their tone that it wouldn’t make a difference at all. “it’s not the dancing. i can dance. i’ve danced plenty of times.”
yuri makes a face. “but there is nothing even remotely appealing to me about going up on a stage to perform for a bunch of strangers. honestly, i can’t imagine anything that could be worse.” their lips twist briefly into a frown. “...no offense.”
"none taken."
charged as their reply is, dorothea speaks evenly in return. she's familiar with this kind of sentiment—it's nothing new to hear some sort of exclamation along the lines of how someone would rather die than go up on stage.
it's as the stagehands often joked amongst themselves: it takes a certain personality to make a home in front of a crowd.
"actually... i can't say that i totally disagree. even as a former diva." she leaves it at that, pushing aside her own cup to give yuri her undivided attention. eyes locked onto theirs, hands folded neatly in her lap. "whatever the case may be, you said it yourself: you've danced before. so you must've enjoyed yourself then, right? it's just the stage fright that you hate?"
[ ♫ ] ─ * 𝐚 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬
she cannot help but wince. she cannot help but avert her gaze again, suspending her nerves and her breath in wait of disgust. punishment. anything. a beat, two beats pass. still, dorothea does not walk away. then maybe that meant she should continue.
“yeah,” bernadetta mumbles. “once, though... i did anyway. a boy. he meant everything to me. he was the only person who ever cared for me. but when my father found out about him...”
and the fact of the matter is this: even though she had met that boy again nearly a decade later, even though that boy told her the truth behind his presence at the manor, bernadetta knows her parents enough. she knows their story would have turned out the same way regardless. a boy whose bones they shattered, a girl whose heart they tied up and took the hammer to next.
that's why nothing good could ever come of being friends with her.
“he disappeared the very next day.” she waited for hours. she searched everywhere. she remembers scurrying to the head gardener to ask where he was and how the man couldn't even look at her. “they beat him half to death and threw him out on the streets. i never saw him after that, so i figured he did die. and all because of me.”
bernadetta's hands have begun to wring themselves in front of her, the skin chafing into a faint red. she sucks in a breath and mutters again, “i don't want my family to hurt you, too.”
so doesn't dorothea see? she must see now. behind the reflection of a long-haired princess was not a short-haired one at all. it was still a wretched thing, thrown into a new tower to the north, right next door to the true princess. one who deserved better than her. “since then, i've been terrified of making friends with anyone. commoners, especially.”
"oh, bern. you hear stories, sure, but i never imagined that kind of thing actually..."
...happened. i mean, i've always known the nobility looked down on us commoners, but to go as far as to kill one for trying to befriend someone above his status? is that really such a crime?
"i'm so sorry."
what else is there to say? isn't bernadetta tormented enough just by having to recount the memory? isn't the horror evident in the way she wrings her hands as viciously as she does, or how dorothea sits wide-eyed in her seat, disbelieving of the history laid out before her?
( is it any wonder that bernadetta von varley keeps herself walled in her tower after all these years, after having been convinced that her touch is the kiss of death? )
"hey."
they can sit and steep in the depravity of the act for hours on end, or—dorothea decides as she suddenly pushes off from her stool to rise to her feet—turn their energy elsewhere. as much as that poor boy has every right to be remembered, it's the sight of bernadetta's hands, rubbed raw, that takes priority.
"i'm proud to be your commoner friend!"
the songstress leans over to gently pry the other's hands apart, giving them a squeeze in her own before taking a step back. though mourn as she may for the life bernadetta's led, she knows rumination will do nothing for a heart that hammers out of its chest.
"i'd like to see your dad try to beat me up. i'd return the favor and then some." dorothea stands straighter than she has before, and looks her friend in the eye with all the conviction in the world. "you better believe i encountered the most terrible men at the opera. there's nothing i didn't survive—kidnappings, attempted murders, you name it. but you know what?"
her hands come together to make a show of breaking something invisible.
"i broke their bones. snap! so much for trying to hurt me."
30k wasp chamber escape room challenge
⤷ aphotic: flying +1
His bow.
Dorothea's mention of fighting jolts Andrei's awareness, and he briefly glances down at the crowbar still in his hand. While it saves him from being utterly defenseless, as their earlier tussle had shown, he is not nearly as useful with it as with his normal weapon of choice.
(The actual bow itself is not the problem — he is all but certain the monastery will be willing to replace his weapon with a similar one if it is truly lost, given how he'd proven his power to them in the past years. The problem lies in survival, here and now.)
Whatever relief he'd felt from finding his steed evaporates immediately at the sound of the loud voice, and before he could even heed the urging to return to the previous room, the lumbering form appears at the end of the hall, freezing for just a second before the whistle rips through the air.
Distant, answering shouts are quickly followed by the thunder of footsteps, augmented by the wooden planks that make up the ship's floor. Andrei's grip on the crowbar tightens, white-knuckled.
If they manage to get close enough for him to use this, there would be little chance for him to survive, anyhow.
Fumizuki screeches, talons scraping the ground as the pirates converge upon them, bearing torches that throw each figure into sharp relief and stretch the shadows against the wall. Andrei counts at least ten within his immediate field of vision, the sound of footsteps in the distance an ominous promise of more. He grits his teeth, nudging his steed back a few steps. There is nowhere to turn, unless…
His heart pounds as the dangerous thought arises within him. They could be underwater in this part of the ship. A kinshi might not have the power to cut through the depths to reach the sky above. It could be a death sentence for him, for her, for Dorothea. It goes against every fiber of his being, that tiny voice crying out in terror from the depths of his mind.
But to stay would be just as much a death sentence.
Andrei grabs Dorothea by the arm, pushing her back towards the room they had just exited.
"Break down the side of the ship!" he hisses at her, attempting to keep the plan from the approaching enemies' ears. Surely, if her magic can manage as much as she claims, this would be within her power. He turns sharply after her, tugging Fumizuki along.
thunder magic crackles as dorothea aims at a pirate who lunges toward them, his cutlass whistling through the air before her spell strikes him down. the weapon goes clattering, and so too does the man drop with a shuddering gasp, convulsing against the floorboards while his compatriots step over him to carry out the charge.
it's not enough. they come in overwhelming waves—reinforcement after reinforcement, each more intimidating than the last and strapped with all arms imaginable: swords, axes, and grappling hooks alike. there is no doubt in dorothea's mind that they'll do whatever it takes to secure her and andrei again, whether it means taking them dead or alive.
too inundated by the growing chaos to protest the way andrei grabs her, dorothea stumbles backward as the masses descend upon them. with her free hand, she lobs whatever spells she can to hold them back, aiming for barrels and crates to send the pirates toppling when a frustrated voice rings out: "KEEP THAT BITCH FROM BLASTIN', WILL YA!"
the look she affords andrei is one of immeasurable dread. it's clear even without an exchange that dorothea thinks only of the risks, and though she'd been the one to suggest it in the first place, she'd anticipated casting above deck with a clear escape route. but down here? her expression says it all: if we're not burned alive, we'll surely drown.
( bitterly, she thinks about how their bodies will never be found this far out at sea. )
in desperation, dorothea wrenches her arm away from him and pivots accordingly, angling herself toward the side of the ship. there's a ringing in her ears that drowns out the pirates as she shakily raises her hand and summons whatever energy she has left for the unthinkable.
"i hope your mount can swim," is all she's capable of uttering before imminent destruction strikes.
there's a blinding ring of light, followed by a deafening collision that sends the ship careening violently—the rush of heat smothering everything in its path, the splintering of wood. bloodcurdling screams as fragments of flaming rock are flung backward, and the sound of bodies colliding into something hard. suffocating darkness follows suit as dorothea blindly grabs for fumizuki.
then, the unmistakable roar of water.
I Think We're Gonna Have to Kill This Guy, Dorothea || Claude & Dorothea
Mission: Riding +1 || @encantresse || Mission Season: Epidemic
Claude doesn't respond to Dorothea right away, busy with applying some bandage soaked in medicine to Juniper's side and keeping her calm through the initial stinging sensation as he does, but he pays full attention as she recounts what she knows.
Only when she asks her own question in return does he look up at her, a smile on his face. She knows him and his ways quite well by now, doesn't she.
She's no enemy, though. So he doesn't mind. Quite the opposite, actually. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, meant for her ears only.
"... You know how the Church has a couple old, no longer used facilities in the area? There's an abandoned fort nearby... Small enough, it doesn't even have a name. But what it does have is a couple stables, and a long stretch of flat land all around it that could totally do for a racing course. You could even race at night there - it's a perfectly open field, no danger, nothing to crash into..."
With Jupiter's treatment finally done, Claude stands straight and stretches his back, a little aching from crouching down beside the horse for several minutes. His little gymnastics done, his eyes meet Dorothea's again.
"Suffice to say... I've been thinking about checking it out. I didn't get an assignment for that or anything..."
In that moment, any semblance of a smile fades from his face.
"... But I don't want to sit by and do nothing while someone is hurting these horses for enjoyment."
He continues to eye Dorothea, now with a hint of curiosity.
"If you have nothing important to do tonight, maybe you'd like to tag along? I know you usually don't deal much with horses, but, y'know. Just a passing thought, if you'd be interested. I feel like you didn't like what you saw today, either."
so her hunch had been right—claude's known all along.
the manner in which he looks her over is mirrored by dorothea herself. two inquisitive pairs of similarly colored eyes searching the person in front of them for answers, all while a shared look of interest eclipses their features. were she arrogant enough to entertain the thought, she might even think they're well-matched in their mode of scheming.
then, with a relenting sigh bordering on feigned exasperation: "has anyone told you you've got an incredible knack for reading people?" dorothea shakes her head, partially amused. "i don't envy the person who finds themselves under your scrutinizing gaze."
she glances over at juniper again, taking in the sight of the bandaged wounds. claude is right in his assessment, in recognizing the glint in her eye that flashes angrily as she tries—and fails—to imagine how one could justify such mistreatment.
"i'll come with you. if there's any way i can help, i'd like to do just that."
but no sooner does she say it than dorothea hesitates a little, processing the details he specifies: tonight. it's the most logical choice, naturally, to venture under the cloak of darkness to avoid being caught, but she's not yet shaken off the nerves that come with traversing the shadows these days. to think that nearly a year has passed since the church sent them through those mirrors, and yet that same fear lingers: the apprehension of spotting those dreadful monsters who leered from the depths wearing her own face, hands outstretched to strangle and take her place in the sun.
she fidgets briefly, unsure how to voice the concern without challenging the plan outright."…would we be camping out there?"
How dangerous could the Opera be?
aphotic
The smirk on his face widens a bit at her amused tone, even as he follows behind her. Taking in the scenery of this place. Once more, there is a part of him that is curious about a place like this. Dedicated to a performance, a show to be taken in. Nowhere in Rigel would a building like this be allowed. It felt like something he would hear about Zofians wasting their time on.
Not that the difference was important anymore. Glancing at her, part of him wants to simply ignore the question... yet she is helping him. Plus, it's not like there's really any reason. It's not like he would ever be stepping foot back in his homeland.
"I am from Valentia oversea's, specifically the former Rigelian Empire. Though it has now been merged with Zofia-" For a second his discipline weakens, a sneer on his lips. "And has become known as the One Kingdom."
Forcing himself to relax, he looks at the door and nods. Stepping forward, he reaches for the handle before pausing. "Once again I believe it would be prudent to let you go first. Can't imagine someone unknown barging into a dressing room would be welcome. If there is anyone in their currently at least."
though all these names are foreign to her—valentia, the rigelian empire, zofia, the one kingdom—the address of them puts her and berkut on the same page, strange as it may be to say. there is little he knows about adrestia, and less still that she knows about the homeland he speaks of. they are alike in this sense, being strangers to the worlds the other has grown up in, and choosing to meet each other in the middle by sharing.
nevertheless, there's not much commentary to make without knowing the full context of the history berkut tells, tight-lipped as he still is. "i see." and then, as if trying to lighten the mood, she adds with a note of humor: "some coincidence, huh? what are the odds that we both come from empires?"
leaving it at that, she follows his cue and gently tests the handle by wiggling it to see if it's locked. "more men could stand to learn from you," she comments idly. "if i had a coin for every time someone barged into my dressing room, i'd be the richest person in all of adrestia." all things considered, his manners have always seemed to be intact—even in the confines of the prison they'd first met in, he had always carried himself with some semblance of courtliness, abrasive around the edges as he might be.
creaaak. the handle beneath her hand gives way—unlocked in the first place. with that, dorothea carefully pushes the door open and peers in, scanning the room to ensure it's empty, before propping the door fully open for berkut to step in himself. "we're in the clear."
she ventures forward herself, footsteps slowing as she takes in familiar sights. it had not been all that long ago that she'd left mittelfrank for the academy, and still, her days as a diva feel like lifetimes ago. she wanders towards the illuminated vanities and lightly runs her fingertips over the worn wood, reminiscing briefly on the times she'd sat here to touch up before a performance. "what do you think?" she says absentmindedly. "should we wait in here? someone's bound to come in sooner rather than later."
girl i'm bored let's kill him » dorothea & hilda
The morning after the Ethereal Ball, a message via messenger owl finds you. It comes unmarked, no indicator of who the sender might possibly be, and when you open the letter, it reads: “I have a compromising video of what you did last night. Meet me at the Amiibo Gazebo after the sun sets today or else.” Do you dare?
"It was just delivered to me anonymously." Hilda turned the page over in her hands, eyes searching for any more information but coming up short. She frowned. "Just before I waved you over..."
The change in Dorothea's tone from her greeting to her realisation was comforting, in a way. Hilda hadn't quite reached the stage of outrage yet, and it was heartwarming to have a friend by her side to get angry on her behalf.
Now that she thought about it, though...
"Like, what kind of sick joke is this?" she asked indignantly. "I don't even know if they have anything on me... I don't remember anything in particular, but I also can't swear that I didn't do anything stupid last night."
She leaned back on the bench with a huff, throwing the letter down between them and crossing her arms across her chest.
"What am I supposed to do here? Risk it and see myself embarrassed in front of the whole monastery? Meet my blackmailer and give them the power? Ugh!"
She turned pleading eyes on Dorothea as if she would have the answers.
"they're counting on you to panic, hildy. a panicked victim will always be easier to extort because they stop thinking clearly. so, we have to weigh our options carefully."
of course, that's easier said than done. though she assumes the role of advisor now, dorothea can still recall a time when she'd been in hilda's shoes. she can still remember the dread that turned her blood to ice and taste the bitter notes of terror that ensued at the thought of societal ruin.
regardless of status, women always have something to lose.
the songstress forces herself to exhale slowly, and then reaches for hilda's hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. "the only power this person has over you is whatever you're willing to give them. for all we know, they could be bluffing." but if hilda herself admits there's a sliver of a chance that something compromising is on the table, the matter steers into precarious territory.
"chances are you already know this person. as a matter of fact, i'm willing to bet on it."
dorothea straightens up in her seat.
"i wager they're expecting you to show up alone. but what if you arrive with backup? or better yet—" a steely glint flashes in her eye. "what if we find a way to blackmail your blackmailer? that should teach them a lesson."
Act 2, scene 2, lines 133 – 135
Aphotic
…he feels as though he is being scolded.
Finn allows himself a moment to clear his throat before shifting his position in the hopes of better blocking her from the sight of any stranger passing by. They will be here for a time, it seems, and it would truly be annoying if that time extended due to his own misjudgement.
His faces scan the crowds, but he is less familiar with who they are hunting than the student beside him, so he is not as confident in his search. When she interrupts him with a question, he allows it to break his focus more easily than he normally would.
"Do I…no." Finn shakes his head with a frown. "Such circumstances never found me. I was occupied with my service as a knight when I was young, and…well, I lost interest in such endeavors when I was older." The lack of opportunity provided by his circumstances aside, the idea of love had been the last thing on his mind when every day was focused so much on surviving.
After a moment of silence, he clears his throat. It is…strange, to be discussing such things with a student, let alone one he does not even know well. "My daughter is here, however. She is studying in the Deer house, I believe, alongside my young lord." For they provide a much easier subject to discuss than things like love.
a wise and seasoned woman had once told dorothea that "lost interest" was a euphemism for one's terrible luck with love—take a broken heart that's sworn off romance altogether, for example.
she eyes finn over curiously. maybe he refuses to be with another after the tragic loss of a partner. or maybe he thinks himself unlovable and awaits the right person to prove him wrong. in any case, the man is all the more fascinating now.
"really?" surprise colors her words. "i didn't know you had children!" she welcomes finn's gesture, polite as it is helpful, and takes an additional step behind him to further shield herself from any more passersby.
so he has a family. must be the former, then—he's lost the mother of his children. how awfully sad.
dorothea wracks her brain trying to recall a student she knows who comes from the deer house and resembles the man standing before her. it's to no avail, unfortunately, and she relents with a sigh. "what's her name?"
[ ♫ ] ─ * 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐧…𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐃𝐄𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐮𝐲
aphotic / +1 heavy armor
The kids make themselves scarce. As much as they can back here anyway. The one called Hawk puts his head down and keeps working, but Dorsey has other plans. She skips over to a curtain made of old blankets hanging from a wire and pretends to look like she's gathering some old knickknacks to offer to her friend (coworker?), but Ronan catches her peeking beneath the frayed bottoms to make sure their guests are shopping.
Ronan clears his throat and decides to take her cue, but his fingers curl tighter around the bow slung over his shoulders as he approaches one of the tables near the back.
"They do have some wood here," he murmurs to Dorothea, hoping his voice is low enough that the kids can't hear him over the city's noise. Three solid planks are leaned up against a rickety old fence - probably intended to be cut down and used to repair it when the rot made it the rest of the way through. They've been pilfered from various places throughout the city, he has no doubt about that, but only one of them looks like it hasn't already been damaged by the rains. He steps up to it to run his fingers with the grain, making sure it's smooth.
"The shipbuilders will seal whatever we bring them but they can't do anything about wood that's already decaying."
He doesn't ask the kids what they want for it yet; he knows the price of whatever they pick up will probably be his bow and whatever Dorothea happens to be carrying. The one that's been shining silverware under the corner has kept a sharp eye on him though, so Ronan retracts his hand and decides to come back around to it after he's gauged the rest of their wares.
As they approach a table covered in all kinds of odds and ends - bent needles, half-spun spools of thread, armless toys, and even a few old coins - Ronan leans in close to Dorothea.
"Did you bring any weapons with you? I don't think these children are interested in our money."
But that assumed there was anything worth buying to begin with. Still, Ronan feels the pressure of expectation boring holes through his back.
"i've got a dagger..." a subtle look directs ronan's attention to her left boot. she'd slipped it in there, as she often did on trips like these, though the way dorothea hesitates makes it clear she's reluctant to give the weapon up. "...but they can't really mean that, right? no doubt money's of more use." the dilapidated shack, the rags, the absence of adults... she can only assume these children are orphans. "still, i don't get it. why not accept money and buy weapons with it? then use the rest for other necessities?"
she exhales contemplatively, turning her gaze upon the wooden plank her companion points out. while not as versed as ronan is in these things, even she can tell the material isn't up to par with what's needed for repairs. a glance at the other tables reveals similarly useless trinkets—chipped spinning tops, a worn leather pouch, discolored beads...
"...there's nothing worth parting with our weapons over," she murmurs to him. that said, she hasn't lost all hope just yet. dorothea's head cants thoughtfully in dorsey's direction, mulling over another form of currency: information. "hmm. i wonder..."
without any warning, the songstress waves the young girl over. dorsey the ever-watchful skips over to their side faithfully, wearing a proud and expectant look. "heya! find something you want?"
"we're still looking," dorothea lies. then, as offhandedly as one might inquire about the weather: "say, you mentioned something about 'competition,' but i haven't seen any other stores"—the term is used lightly—"like yours around here." dorsey blinks at this, not before an indignant huff makes itself heard.
surprisingly, it comes from the boy who tinkers beneath the table: hawk. "we call him 'benicio the bad.'" "more like 'benicio the bloodied' when we're through with him!" dorsey chimes in helpfully. hawk ignores the commentary and continues. "he's a big-shot merchant 'round these parts." and then, more bitterly, "he runs everyone off so that he gets all the customers. no one's got any chance of selling stuff with him around."
dorothea gives ronan a meaningful—albeit pointed—look.
To Not Yet Fully Bloom
starter for: @encantresse Hanahaki AU thread
When she turns, Inigo almost reads it as a dismissal. Certainly the kindest one he's ever received; his second chance will have to come another day, when they can view this entire interaction with laughter and--
Oh. He blinks rapidly, processing, catching onto her name the way a drowning man clings to driftwood. Or something. That's dramatic, even by his standards.
Dorothea, Inigo repeats to himself as he collects his own breakfast tray. There's something musical about it--the way the vowels roll into the consonants, almost staccato in the rhythm. Following her eye line, he nods once, still smiling, half-sure this is all some elaborate ploy and he'll be left heartbroken before the meal is over.
And follow he does. Like a dance, he thinks, though he's not quite sure what the next steps are.
Technically, yes, this is the furthest he's been away from home, but does traveling through time count? It's not a distance measured in miles, just emotional damage, so perhaps he should steer clear of mentioning it. For now, at least.
"Yes!" He chirps, neatly sidestepping a student who is too absorbed in their book to notice where they're walking. "I felt it was time I see the world, live up to--" Inigo pauses. Saying live up to my promise to make every woman swoon upon hearing my name! feels like a terrible way to end that sentence, so he swallows and tries again. "--to my promise to make every wom--one--everyone--smile!"
Naga, he's a disaster.
They make it to the table without any more foot-in-mouth incidents. Inigo mourns the bench-style seating; how is he supposed to prove he's a gentleman if he can't pull out Dorothea's chair?
Sighing, he props his elbows on the table and interlaces his fingers, resting his chin atop his knuckles. "And what about you, Dorothea? Are you from this land, or are you a fellow traveler?"
a worldly traveler! while there are certain implications tied to it, the best she can do is speculate on the conditions until inigo decides to share them with her.
(or until she ends up overhearing gossip about the man.)
"a promise to make everyone smile," she repeats, mulling it over. "huh. you don't hear that every day." the cynic in her thinks to comment on how self-centered most people are, but in the end, dorothea opts to keep it to herself. he's proven to be nothing but polite and amicable thus far, and so she'll respect the atmosphere by keeping things light-hearted.
she slides onto the bench across from him and settles in comfortably, making sure everything on her tray is in order before studying the pink-haired stranger raptly. "if i didn't know any better, i'd say you're a performer of some kind. they're the only people i know who think along those lines." a bold guess, but she's seen examples firsthand. it's often the spirit of an entertainer who seeks to uplift others, who refuses to be tethered and drifts across the planes of the earth in search of something more...
...but ferox is foreign to her, and naturally, uncertainties are cast. there's no knowing what the culture is like there, or what the expectations are for its people. maybe she's off her mark entirely. could it be that he's royalty? one of those free-spirited princes who travel the world to mingle with the common people—rare as that is—to get a feel for what life is like on the other side?
all that to say, her curiosity is piqued.
"well, i've clearly traveled to garreg mach if that counts," she quips, "but no. i'm from fodlan — the adrestian empire."
the longer dorothea thinks on it, the more traveling on a promise doesn't seem like something the average person can survive on. "have you come here with family? friends?"
retainers? knights? that's always a dead giveaway.
successes of the stray dog
ask cont. || meme - (accepting)
his humanity… How ironic that dorothea should make such a comment before inquiring of his mark. soren's bitterness wins out, and his reply is as caustic as he'll allow himself to act to a student.
“It's proof i'm lacking in humanity. Humans rarely need reason to treat the undeserving worse, but this mark is practically a permission slip."
he pauses to take a sip of his tea. “Like you, i'm well familiar with the two-faced nature of man. Whether or not one recognized this mark, their treatment of me would vary vastly. And now… miles away from any who understand its significance, it's granted a false respect to those unfamiliar enough with crests to see it's of a wholly different nature.”
Or perhaps it isn't. soren still hasn't done enough research to confirm that.
“From my perspective, the major difference between you and i is that you'd prefer not to grow cold.”
"...prefer, sure. if i can help it." kick a man down, muzzle him until he loses all desire to speak, and it's only a matter of time until he retreats into inaccessible depths. dorothea can't say she blames soren in the slightest. "but i guess i won't know whether i remain that way until i've reached the end of my life."
besides. can't it be argued that she's partially grown cold in some manner, herself? there's bitterness buried beneath the smiles and song demanded of her. heart unyielding to the monsters who call themselves men, who hunt the poor and the innocent for sport.
dorothea's expression hardens momentarily before she forces herself to soften it with an exhale. "i won't pretend to know what it is you've experienced, professor, but i can understand to some degree. my own father threw my mother and me out because i was born without a crest. to people like him—and there are plenty—i may as well be a rusted piece of junk."
falling quiet for a spell, she stirs what remains of her tea before carefully adding:
"even if we do grow cold," or already have, "i don't believe we're under any obligation to forgive the people who've hurt us. i certainly haven't and never will. i'll remember what they've done until the very end, even if they've long forgotten about me."
[ ♫ ] ─ * 𝐚 𝐧𝐞𝐰 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬
dorothea worries? over her?
it is a notion most inconceivable. at the same time, bernadetta cannot deny the treacherous flutter in her chest—the glimmer of hope that touches her eyes, forcing her to rapidly blink it away. because bernadetta, she is wrong about countless things and gets told as much, but she knew she had not been wrong about dorothea's goodness. dorothea, who even pulls up a seat and coaxes her with patience. dorothea, who had not given up on her.
bernadetta will never say this aloud, but maybe that is all she has ever wanted—for someone in the world not to give up on her, even after she cannot help but do it first. she mulls it over with no small amount of deliberation, the turmoil clouding her face.
(but wouldn't it feel good to finally tell someone, bernadetta? how many pages of scrawl have you let the candlelight eaten all of these years? how much ash do you carry in your closed mouth? how many times have you written it down, flat on the parchment where you thought it would always stay? he's not here. he won't hear you.)
“...” slowly, she turns, letting herself tip back until she's propped against the counter. while dorothea sits, she stands, lowering her gaze to her joined hands in front of her. “well... i... o-okay. the thing is, my parents are the kind of nobles you'd hate. when i was little, they didn't let me have any friends.”
not even noble children. she used to wonder what in the world they were thinking, but it hadn't taken long to figure it out: though her breeding was fine enough, minor crest and all, she required training. training before she could be presented to the public.
they got what they wanted. they got more than they ever bargained for. by the time they had beaten the magic and adventure out of her, their daughter had refused to step out into the world ever again.
“but they told me to never befriend commoners, especially. th-they say commoners are scum and that they'll crush any who ever try to come near me.” it twists her gut rotten just to even say it, and her expression strains. and though she hesitates, afraid of what disgust or scorn might be staring back at her, she tries her best to tilt her gaze a bit more toward dorothea. there is clearly more to her story, but bernadetta waits—for if the other no longer wished to listen, if she finally realized the danger and wanted to take this last out, then bernadetta could never blame her.
"what? they called me—" a pause as dorothea corrects herself, "i mean, commoners, scum?"
what more can she expect from these so-called nobles? bigoted fools who tout themselves as paragons of righteousness and good breeding, who act like they're heaven's gift to earth when the common folk would be better off without them. and what little surprise that the minister of religious affairs should be the one to utter such things—that puppet of a hypocritical church—and the audacity with which he labels himself a good man when he presses his daughter and countless others beneath his thumb.
she's heard worse from the likes of him, and knows to expect nothing less from the ignorant, yet the sting never quite goes away, no matter how many times she braces for walks through fields of nettle. hold her breath as she may or wrap her limbs in bandages, in the end, skin is always left red and raw.
she fidgets atop her stool, her hands gripping the edges and legs shifting to cross before she settles again. realizing that bernadetta's gaze inches toward her, dorothea schools her shocked expression into something more neutral in the hopes that it might encourage her friend to continue.
bit by bit, pieces of the story of how a skittish girl came to be start clicking into place. oppressive parents. a stifling upbringing. a lonely life.
running up that hill
“No, not as much, as far as I can tell-”
But had he been taught something different from what is known by the common folk of the land? He could not say for certain, after all- never had he attended the common sermons of the Church of Elimine, having no time for faith when it would do nothing to save him.
Perhaps those at home found it just as hypocritical as she did, that what they preached was not what they knew.
Such contradictions were out of his dominion as a political leader- the words of Saint Elimine would not change simply with the passing of a law. Elffin wonders, too, if it were the Church’s fault for failing to follow through on their promises or if it were those who went against their teachings who should shoulder the blame. There would be no way to know for certain- and that sat uneasily on him.
To his friend, however- it was not difficult to tell that she held no great love for her homeland’s faith, he finds it in himself to respond more gently.
"It is said that Saint Elimine ascended to the heavens after traveling the lands, and founding the nation of Etruria." A pause, "Her clergy are dedicated to following in her footsteps, helping others with their healing magic. Nothing regarding salvation, only doing good in her name."
Then, cautiously, "… But if I may… your teachings feel a lot less concrete than those of the church I grew up on. Even if I offered her no prayer, her fables often taught valuable lessons in themselves."
she knows nothing of this saint elimine beyond what he says, but she finds the same irony in all these tales that speak of the same thing: of great saints ascending, caring only for themselves as they leave behind their flocks to live amongst wolves.
as dear a friend as he may be, elffin is better off having this discussion with another. whether it be a defender of the faith or a scholar of it, either might entertain the topic with more food for thought. she couldn't care less about whatever lessons were supposedly purported, seeing only the hypocrisy buried beneath archaic sentiments.
"there is nothing valuable about what the church says. not to me. not when their actions contradict their so-called teachings—violence instead of peace, and prejudice instead of acceptance."
but her own condemnation of fodlan's church aside, along with her willingness to be a proud sinner, even a non-believer knows better than to disparage the faith and customs of other lands. for all dorothea knows, life might be kinder beyond fodlan's borders. she could not say without having seen the rest of the world herself, and thus can only take elffin's word that there are considerate deities and virtuous clergymen.
the heavy scraping of wooden doors directs her attention to a new family of pilgrims who straggle in, their covered heads bowing piously the second they set foot on consecrated grounds—wearied, ragged, and altogether a pitiful sight dressed in their dirtied rags.
she rises to her feet slowly and, letting out a small sigh, beckons for elffin to follow her in leading them to their destination. "maybe your goddess is more compassionate," dorothea relents. "i'd hope so, for your sake and etruria's. but i will never respect ours."
The joy that leaves her laughter feels peculiar against a girl oft webbed in poise and stoicism. She can nearly hear Ferdinand's voice in Dorothea's impersonation! And oh, how accurate it is. Her applause draws in the way of relaxed posture, keeping herself at her friend's side with ease.
There is not a girl, but an emperor; a person and not a tool, too. With her free hand, she adjusts the pearl necklace nestled near the reds of her dress. "You're very kind, Dorothea. I've said that plenty of times before, but I speak nothing I don't mean. Though, I doubt that needs reiterating. That is why I hope to extend with you the same." When her fingers fall, they brush against the cool evening air.
It is selfish of her to enjoy this time with a friend when the shadows behind her turn frosted, but it is not so wrong when the stars glimmer against Edelgard's earrings. There are still secrets she stores behind the intensity of lilacs; comets behind the darkened depths of the sky. Yet, all the same, there is a friend at her side and a moon in reach. "I won't let your belief in me go to waste. I am the lucky one for that alone. Thank you." Had they never met, this monastery— this continent— would feel that much more frigid.
"When I do find what I seek, it will be all the better knowing I had you at my side to help me achieve it."
— End
♫ 𝄈 peering into the chaos.
( ANNIVERSARY 2024, lance +1 )
At first, Sephiran is glad he had not taken part of the conversation, else he would have to fight harder against his laughter, currently muffled in a sleeve as he keeps his distance. A few steps behind, keeping an eye more on the student than her target. There were others with similar situations, after all. This woman was simply the easiest to find.
Perhaps for the best, as she ropes him in unexpectedly, garnering the attention of the former customer. Quickly, he schools his expression into something a little more polite, just as he woman turns and freezes on the spot.
Her eyes dart over him, at first. No sign of recognition, even in the second glance. She stammers something unintelligible, and she searches him for a reaction just as he does with her. Perhaps she simply had only known him within the confines of his store- that seeing him elsewhere was a dissonance she had not yet overcome…
But no, only silence was granted in response.
"Do you not remember me?" A question kept vague- that she could just as easily say no, if she wished- and he would accept it. It was the fact that she had chosen not to answer that caused him greater suspicion, as if uncertain whether she could grant him a rejection at all.
they've pushed their luck with the stranger. the woman stops in her tracks, stiffening as if her limbs have been petrified by an unseen spell. she remains like this for a prolonged span of seconds, beady eyes darting from songstress to shopkeeper, and then to something far beyond the distance—far beyond what dorothea can see, try as she may to follow the woman's gaze.
a baffled look is exchanged with sephiran, unsure of how to draw the woman's attention back, when the object of their interest abruptly shakes and shudders like a distressed animal, both hands wringing the ends of her veil with an intensity that makes dorothea think she might tear it altogether.
"i...." it takes the woman a while to grapple with the question, simple as it is. her feet are turned, positioned to flee, when she starts rocking frantically, brow bent in duress and a quivering voice evidently ill-equipped to answer anything.
"my dog!" she croaks. "like i was saying, i must go! i must! i must!"
the frantic urgency with which she speaks nears dangerously close to those tales of the raving—where she'd once passed for a nervous, albeit unassuming, citizen, dorothea watches on with growing unease as the woman sways this way and that, bent like a tree in winter winds before bolting altogether.
"...wait!"
girl i'm bored let's kill him » dorothea & hilda
The morning after the Ethereal Ball, a message via messenger owl finds you. It comes unmarked, no indicator of who the sender might possibly be, and when you open the letter, it reads: “I have a compromising video of what you did last night. Meet me at the Amiibo Gazebo after the sun sets today or else.” Do you dare?
The letter dropping into her lap caught her by surprise, and she looked up to see the messenger owl already swooping away. Was it Holst writing to her again? She sighed as she flipped it over; it had only been a week or so since his last. But as she examined the letters on the front spelling out her name, she frowned. Not Holst's handwriting... How strange.
She opened the envelope and pulled out the note. It was short and unsigned.
“I have a compromising video of what you did last night. Meet me at the Amiibo Gazebo after the sun sets today or else.”
She flipped it over to see if there was anything else, but the page was otherwise blank.
Leaning back on her bench with a huff, Hilda thought back to the night before. The Ethereal Ball... Had she done anything compromising? She didn't think so. But a video being publicly released to the contrary would be a less-than-ideal way of jogging her memory.
But what kind of creep would try to blackmail somebody like this? Had they done it before? Would they do it again? How could she stop them from getting away with this without putting herself in danger?
As she mulled over what she should do, a familiar face entered the courtyard. Hilda's eyes lit up. If there was anybody who she could trust to listen without judgement, keep something quiet and help her to brainstorm a plan...
"Dorothea!" Hilda waved her over using the parchment. "Could you take a look at this?"
@encantresse
who is she to turn down an opportune moment when it rears its head so perfectly? a chance to bond is never wasted—and dorothea is quick to seize it, doing little to hide how flattered she feels to be called over first.
"always nice to run into you, hildy!" a teasing smile greets the other as she hurries over, quickly smoothing out the front of her blazer. "sure thing. working on something secret~?"
with that quip comes a flash of mirth sparking behind her eyes, and one hand is quick to accept the parchment. but no sooner does she skim over the note's contents than dorothea's coy smile fades, her weight shifting from one foot to the other.
"...hang on. you're being blackmailed?"
her voice registers softly, though with a bite of indignation to it. a swell of anger pulses as she recalls her own would-be exploits at the hands of so-called patrons, and a hardening expression shows just how little she cares for those who coerce.
"where'd you find this?" she lowers herself onto the bench beside hilda, angling her torso to lean in. "and how long ago?"
Act 2, scene 2, lines 133 – 135
Aphotic
It would have been unrealistic to hope that this actress might have paid enough attention to someone she didn't know well to know his schedule more deeply. Still, Finn can't help his slight frown of disappointment at the result.
He bows his head politely all the same. "Thank you. We appreciate your assistance. And-" And any niceties that he might have shared are silenced by an overwhelming burst of girlish excitement. Stakeout? Disguises? Finn frowns in confusion as he turns to look at Dorothea.
"…I thought we might simply wait and ask to talk to her?" Was that unreasonable? Finn shakes his head before gesturing for Dorothea to follow him. "I don't see any reason for dramatics or secrecy yet, unless the lady has something to hide…I suspect you might have a glamourized idea of how knights work."
It does not take long for evening to arrive. Finn discovers through a combination of his escort and her friend that there is a door off to the side of the theatre that the actresses will use to avoid the fawning crowds. No doubt someone wanting not to be noticed might enter there as well, so it is there they wait, watching from the nearby shade of a store's awning so as not to grab attention.
…or so they would be, if not for the passersby who keep stopping to do a double take at Dorothea. "Maybe we should have gotten you a disguise after all…"
was it a glamorized idea? ...maybe to some extent, but the opera world was a different entity than what the average knight might be used to. dramatic as it might seem to the likes of finn, a straightforward approach would never work here, considering the lengths taken to hide a secret rendezvous. not that she could blame the woman; the public was a scrutinizing beast, and it only took the slightest misstep to waltz right into a career-ending scandal.
"yes, we should've."
her response is pointed. a polite 'i told you so!' as dorothea shifts to angle herself away from the citizen who peers curiously at mittelfrank's own former songstress. "it's too late now. let's just hope no one recognizes me. the last thing we need is a crowd."
she relents with an amicable shrug to show she's not truly upset, and continues looking passersby over in search of adrina or a man matching the captain's description. for extra measure, the brim of her hat is lowered, breath baited as she waits to see if the curious onlooker yields from out of the corner of her eye.
when they do, she heaves a sigh of relief.
but with no sign of the performers just yet, dorothea figures there's still plenty of time to kill — and turns her attention to sir finn.
"have you got a love waiting for you back home?"
