FOLIE À DEUX

Fódlan's Suitehearts.

[rpclefairy]

growing closer.

prompts for characters getting to know each other.

“i don't think you realize how much people notice you.”

“you don't seem particularly trusting. then again, maybe neither am i.”

“you have a habit of appearing at interesting moments.”

“you strike me as someone who trusts their gut. am i wrong?”

“i've noticed you always leave before everyone else.”

“i think you enjoy keeping people guessing.”

“you seem restless.”

“it's strange how you can be surrounded by people and still feel alone.”

“have i ever told you that you're difficult to read?”

“you look like you haven't slept.”

“you know this place well enough that i'm starting to wonder if you've always lived here.”

“do you ever worry about the kind of person you're becoming?”

“i've known a lot of people. none of them were quite like you.”

“i can't decide whether people truly change, or if they just become better at hiding parts of themselves.”

“i had the strangest dream last night. do you remember yours when you wake up?”

“the more i get to know you, the more i keep noticing little similarities between the two of us.”

“i didn't realize you'd remember that.”

“most people seem uncomfortable with silence. i never minded it much.”

“you seem to know more than you're saying.”

“you seem comfortable on your own. i wonder if that's the same thing as never feeling lonely.”

“do you always look this serious?”

“you're easier to talk to than i expected.”

“i've always thought trust is harder to earn than people pretend.”

“you always seem to be watching.”

“i think you've been avoiding me.”

“you're not at all what i thought you would be.”

“whenever i ignore my instincts, i end up regretting it. what about you?”

“i wasn't expecting to run into you again.”

“i can't tell if you're someone who enjoys solitude or just tolerates it.”

“i know it sounds childish, but i can't help believing some people are meant to find one another.”

“you make a terrible liar.”

“you don't strike me as the sort of person people forget.”

“i think people underestimate you.”

“i can't decide whether you're charming or frustrating.”

“i don't think i've seen you smile before.”

“i wasn't sure you'd come.”

“it's a little strange. i think i've started looking forward to seeing you.”

“sometimes i wonder if we ever really know anyone.”

“you're surprisingly good company.”

“i think most people would like to believe they're good. i'm not sure it's always that simple.”

“i think being truly understood is a far rarer thing than people realize.”

“i don't usually tell people this...”

“you make that look easy.”

[foldeux]

CHANTEUSI > FOLDEUX

I needed to change it because chanteusi was specifically just for dorothea, LOL. I've finished the CARRD. Will now work on tags and replies!

[foldeux]

Sylvain had been searching for Felix all over, until Byleth casually mentioned he might be in the training grounds. He couldn’t help but let out a wry laugh at himself: of course. Where else would that sword-obsessed grump be? So there he went, just in time to spot the gorgeous Dorothea of the Black Eagles herself, flirting with Felix. Sylvain sighs to himself, leaning against the walls as he contemplated: Whatever he wanted to tell Felix can wait. There's something far more important now.

Later that day, when he caught sight of the opera diva gliding through the garden, he sprang from his hiding spot in the bushes - teeth clenched dramatically around a rose stem, thorns be damned, because nothing says romance like a potential mouthful of splinters.

"Hey Dorothea, you look as ethereal as ever. Where are you heading?" He wriggles his eyebrows. "You know... I heard that you are on the prowl for a suitable suitor. While Felix might be from the House of Fraldarius, I'm the Margrave's heir." He emphasizes on the word margrave. Surely, that would make some connections. "Not sure if you know what that means, though..." He runs a hand through his hair, flipping it over his head. "The vault of an ordinary duke might be fat, but the Margrave's vault is definitely fatter."

Don't you worry, buddy. He thinks silently to himself. I'm gonna take one for the team, just for you, Felix. Ain't no gold digger are going for my friends! (✿◡‿◡)

( from sylvain to thea referring to this thread with @azurebeast )

She’s halted in the midst of her nightly traipse through the garden. In her hand are the wilted petals of chrysanthemums, painted like a summer sunset with crimson and ochre bleeding into one another. Thick hair raised into a low ponytail, battling the uniquely humid air of the monastery’s outdoors, Dorothea raises a brow. “Back to my room. I’ve been out admiring the flowers.”

A rose between his teeth, Sylvain may resemble the image of a romantic but she doesn’t hold her breath. In fact, she exhales with mild annoyance.

“I know what a margrave is,” Uncharacteristically monotonous, her voice becomes level and weighted, the soft curves to her features sharpening to an edge. Just who does this noble think he is, admonishing her intelligence with such ignorant words? And it bursts into flames, a raging heat pooling in the swell of her cheeks – the implication that she truly wants nothing more than gold, it twists a knife in her intestines and smears the blood across her heart. “I don’t care for the margrave’s vault. More pertinent, I don’t care much for you.”

How patronizing.

There’s a moment, tacit, then she grabs the very end of the stem residing in his mouth. It almost seems gentle, like she means to take it from his mouth and present it to herself, but there is a certain animosity in her movements; without hesitation, Dorothea pulls back until the thorns dig into his lips, yanking it fully and throwing the rose on the grass. “Perhaps you should count it a blessing that I only made your mouth bleed.”

@failnaughtt

[foldeux]

@azurebeast

Dorothea is nothing short of curious. One says it must kill the cat, disembowel it until there is but a warm cavity, but she thinks otherwise: why, if the cat is so nimble – an escape artist that weaves through the nooks and crannies of its obstacles – must it meet such an untimely demise? Curiosity, in fact, can benefit the cat, much like how it benefits Dorothea: a particular insight into the minds of those around her, revealing information as the layers peel away. And so, here she is, eyeing the heir to the dukedom of Fraldarius from the training grounds, mindlessly interrupting her own practice. From her two-minute observations, he seems guarded and tense; quite the wail from his body language, a tell of a jewel worth looking into. Besides, what harm could it do to keep him company?

“So,” a melodic note in the midst of a silence near-impenetrable, “I much like to experiment with rapiers and broadswords–” she prances to him, a sweet bit of honey to the step of her boots, and raises her head to meet what stare he prepares: disinterest, indifference, it only fuels her desire for something more. She holds the latter aforementioned sword in her hand, decorated with a thin blade that sparks minute gleams in the light and an artistic twist in the smooth bronze of its hilt, allowing for the enrapture of delicate fingers. It rests a heavy weight on her wrist, adorned with golden bangles that clang into one another with every movement, but it becomes a sort-of comfort. Emerald irises flit from the weapon to the dark-haired boy before her, all cantankerous with a focus a thousand miles away from Dorothea’s voice. How rude: the utmost thought in her conscience. “Felix, is it? What do you think?”

Dorothea raises the sword in a decorated gesture and lowers it slowly, the gentle press of the blade against her so-called companion’s chest. (if they were the only two in the training grounds and Dorothea chose to speak between them, would it be so wrong to consider them so? Questions, questions.) she quirks a brow, tilts her head as brunette tresses fall over her shoulder, and she stands with her legs shoulder-length apart, battle-ready. Any moment to act is a moment to define oneself in front of another, and Dorothea is a master at such a craft; the very fine contortions of her countenance curl into a daring smile, eyelids hooded and shoulders squared. Confidence, Dorothea, confidence. “Care to share some sword knowledge with the class? You seem well-acquainted.”

[azurebeast]

His sword carved through the air in fluid deliberate arcs, each sweep and thrust so precise it seemed less a weapon than another limb. The blade flowed with a ribbon's grace, weaving silver patterns that vanished almost as quickly as they appeared. Every movement belonged to a composition he had spent countless hours refining, borrowing from Jeritza's ruthless efficiency and the professor's measured discipline until it became something unmistakably his own. So consumed was he by the rhythm of his practice that the voice breaking the silence barely registered. Whoever had spoken was little more than another distraction, and the broad strokes of his blade never faltered. There was no room for interruptions while he honed a style meant for a single purpose. When he struck, it had to be decisive. One clean cut, like an axe cleaving through a thick slab of lumber. No hesitation. No resistance. Anything less left room for error, and error was the difference between walking away from the battlefield and being carried off it. The voice returns, bright and melodic, cutting through his concentration just enough to draw a crease between his brows. His gaze settles on her with detached scrutiny, the same measured focus one might reserve for prey—or an especially persistent fly. Judging by the incessant clatter of her bangles, the comparison leaned toward the latter. Yet there was something oddly compelling about the rhythm, each metallic chime echoing the familiar ring of crossing blades. When she lowers her sword toward his chest, he raises his own without hesitation, the two blades meeting with a crisp note before hers can make contact. He glances down at the blade resting against his own, his expression unchanged. Without delay, he nudges it aside with his sword, more dismissive than defensive. It is abundantly clear to him that she did not come here to spar, regardless of the stance she has adopted. Not when she studies him like a jewel she might turn over in her hands, deciding whether she likes the way it catches the light, or perhaps whether she likes the mere idea of owning it. He would not call himself immune to the charms of a beautiful woman. That would be a lie. But the stories he had heard as a boy about sirens had always served as a cautionary tale, a reminder that vanity was often the first thing a person sacrificed to temptation. If you indulge like a hedonist, you drown. “Are you actually here to spar,” he asks, his gaze narrowing slightly, “or are you just here to waste my time?”

[foldeux]

Seductive amusement deflates under such scrutiny.

She, however, is an exception to the rule: counterfeit emotions are just rickety fences, worn cherrywood and barbed wire – to fold would be to admit defeat, and Dorothea wants to bear the weight of the crown, even if it pierces her skull with precious jewels. She maneuvers, lowering her sword until the blade scrapes against stone, but does not change her stance. If it’s a spar he wants, she will not falter.

“How about we turn it into a bit of a game?” And there, she starts. Featherlight steps taking turns into creating a circle around him, inquisitive eyes brushing over the golden details of his uniform: simple yet refined, long ivory sleeves to obscure and an open collar to exhibit. “We can spar, as you wish, but if I win, you owe me a conversation.”

Her lips curl into an impish smile, gaze nearly obscured by the shadow of her hat’s brim – is it foolish confidence, or is she truly intrigued by his character enough to risk it? Easy to define, complex to determine. “My skirt doesn’t hinder me from taking you on.”

Her legs cross as she reappears in front of him, and she reaches to remove her hat; it’s tossed to a wooden bench behind them, a haphazard landing that does less to humiliate her than being met with such resistance from another. Returning to an adequate distance from Felix, boots planted shoulder-width apart, body turned sideways as she raises her sword again, extending her wrist to point it toward him.

“I’m more of a mage than a swordsman, but who knows? Luck may be on my side.” Because the goddess sure wasn’t.

[foldeux]

@failnaughtt

What is between a dream and a nightmare? A sensation without title, burrowing in the boundless expanse of her intestines, Dorothea wonders how the bells on a jester’s hat would ring on her head. She beams and twirls, an incandescent light of long, brunette hair and the slightest trace of emeralds in her eyes, but it does not quell unease – what if she isn’t desired? What if there is nothing more for her than destitution, where the glamour of the opera fades to obscurity behind crimson curtains and she is downtrodden on the stage, mourning the loss of her legacy?

Even as a thunderstorm swirls within her conscience, worming into the confines of her very soul, she flirts without abandon: a honeysuckle sweet harmony of compliments escape rosy lips, ever so non-descriptive and vague. She knows. Oh, does she know. Just a romp and nothing more, always devoid of the substance she desires.

Yet, here she is, wrapping her claws around the nameless (because she can’t remember whether he belonged to this house or that, some insignificant baron’s son with an obsession with women, currying favor before information – a tested tactic that only seems to work some of the time) nobleman’s neck and squeezing until she feels his final exhale. Her eyes glitter and gleam, long lashes brushing against the swell of her cheek with every timed blink, but there seems to be more behind them than a crack of lust – sorrow, pain, fear, obliterated by the carnal desire to want and be wanted. Is that so much to ask for dear, old Dorothea?

“Erm,” but her actions do not linger, as she observes another noble as he approaches: Claude, heir to the Riegan house and leader of the Golden Deer. What could he want with them, at this hour, at this very moment? The other man doesn’t seem to realize, entranced by her metaphoric dance. She stumbles when Claude becomes close enough to interrupt, staring with wide, inquisitive eyes. “Is there something I can do for you?”

[failnaughtt]

Navigating his way around Fodlan's higher society was a nightmare. He'd rather get himself lost in a forest or left stranded in a desert. At least terrains were predictable. Humans, especially those from the wider Fodlan, were not.

In Almyra people spoke with clarity. If you're not welcome, you'd know it by the time you're three sentence into the conversation. He's been on the receiving side of this particular interaction a lot, but he could at least appreciate the honesty. Meanwhile, here in one of the academy's balls, he's been staring at Duke Bertrand and that singer girl from the Black Eagles for a while, and Claude still can't figure out whether he was offering her unwanted attention or that she'd offered it herself.

The reasons for Claude watching them as a couple was this: Claude knew that Duke. Somewhat knew him. He was the kind of person where you could give Claude a brick and he'd chose to hit the Duke on his head rather than the snake.

Now, the only person he knew from the Black Eagles was Edelgard, and frankly, it would be a lie to say that Claude is not at least a little intimidated by her. If possible he'd wanted nothing to do with her students in case he stepped on a toe or two, but he can't help but lets his gaze follow the couple whenever they tread.

After a while, he finds himself getting up to his feet. Before he knows it he's in front of the couple, putting himself between Bertrand and Dorothea. "My apologies for being late, my lady." He casts a wink at her, knowing it's something he just made up on the fly. He expects a bewildered expression on her face, but prays that she'll just play along. "I don't blame you for killing time with some backwater noble, so don't you worry."

Then he turns his attention back to Bertrand, who isn't making his annoyance at the interruption a secret. "Take a walk." He says, "Or find someone else."

He knows that he can't. If Bertrand was able to win the hand of a noblewoman, then he wouldn't be contenting himself with a commoner in the first place. Unfortunately, that is how it is in Fodlan.

After he left, Claude realizes that his job isn't finished yet. For all he knows if he abandoned Dorothea now, Bertrand might return. And so he turns and takes Dorothea by her hand, and for one split second, he's grateful for all the lessons he's received from Judith back then. Stepping on her toes, getting yelled at. Dorothea was shorter than Judith, so it'd made putting an arm on her waist slightly less taxing. Claude didn't have to tiptoe.

"Maybe that's a question I should be asking you." He answers her question with another cheekily. "I wasn't lying when I said Bertrand is a backwater noble. It's fine if he's only ugly on the outside, but in the inside too? C'mon. You're not a terrible girl, Dorothea. So why settle with him?"

[foldeux]

Utter disaster.

Her smile must have faltered, the sharp gleam in her eyes dulled – what more could have caused such an outstanding disturbance to a sheep pretending to be a wolf, teeth filed into sharp points and claws grown from cloven hooves? The first thing she does is stare. Bewilderment snakes ‘round her throat, silencing countless, useless questions and the childish wish to break away. Instead, she falls into the hand placed in hers and places the other on his shoulders: what a strange boy.

“Oh, dear,” she lowers her chin and shakes her head, “I fear you misunderstand, claude.” Her character is drawn with every interaction with a potential suitor, a blank canvas to paint with the broad brushstrokes of another’s utmost desires, but to wear her beating heart on her sleeve was too dangerous – so, at the peak of her fame and beauty, why must she temper her own cravings? How trite.

“I don’t consider him a true suitor, nor will I ever.” Raising her gaze, evergreen meets evergreen, and she chuckles, lowering her voice to a whisper. “There are things a girl wants more than money.”

But, in truth, did she? Here she is, moving her feet in time with a handsome noble – the heir to House Riegan, to be considered indefinitely – and yet, Dorothea stays her hand. Far more than she dares to let on, the situation is more amusing than it is romantic. A noble, her savior from another noble. The girls at the Mittelfrank Opera must hear about this, scrawled in the flowery descriptors within her neat penmanship.

“Should I thank you for such kind words? It’s not every day a common girl like me gets to hear she’s ‘not so terrible,’ from someone like you.” A twinge of sarcasm winds into her words but she remains with a pleasant smile, minding the step of her shoes across the marble floor as the two sway with the orchestral strings. “If you’re interested in courting me, just say so – I’m not much of a biter.”

But there is the implication that she does, regardless.

[nobleburn]

@chanteusi

Busy as she was with the considerable responsibilities that came along with being such a peerless young noble, it wasn't in Nikolette's character to offer herself up unnecessarily. Were she directly asked by her professor, or Prince Dimitri, she'd naturally oblige, but when it came time to call for volunteers for mucking out the stables, weeding the grounds, or working in the kitchens, she was nowhere to be found. It was all well and good for the Officer's Academy to sell the commoners on some high-minded ideals of equality, but to actually expect any nobles to follow through? Well, that was quite the bridge too far, wasn't it?

This, however, was a special case. In the absence of the church's arranged organist - through a sudden illness, as she understood it - someone would need to fill the position during the schedule choir practice. It had been Nikolette's hope, upon putting herself forth for consideration, that Prince Dimitri might have been there to see her play, and perhaps afterwards might compliment her on doing so. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to be in attendance, and she quickly realized that there was little time or opportunity for gazing over the assembled students if she wanted to perform the intricate arrangements preferred by the church at any acceptable quality.

The church organ itself was only vaguely familiar to her, differing from the piano housed at her family's estate in numerous small ways - enough, coupled with the faint anxiety of the occasion, to render slightly clumsier than usual her gloved hands. A time or two, her fingers stumbled over the keys, dragging the melody a moment behind, or sharping a note better left unsharped. Still, on short notice, it wasn't entirely unimpressive, was it? After all, she was clearly a cut above the average hobbyist. Most nobles with any musical skill treated it simply as another obligation - as important to an elegant, well-rounded education as statecraft or wearing one's fashions correctly.

As the allotted hour of practice ended, and the members of the choir began to disperse, Nikolette touched her fingertips against her face, deftly handling any sweat that might have beaded at her temples. No, she took her studies in music more seriously than most of her station, and surely that had come through in her playing. Besides, had she not attended, there would have been no choir practice at all! Even the most disciplined of choirs would endure a mistake or two rather than that. Mm, she thought to herself, tugging tight at the ends of her gloves, and then smoothing any creases or wrinkles that may have formed upon her uniform during her prolonged seating. Once she'd ensured that not a single blemish marred her appearance, Nikolette turned and stood, expecting to swiftly return to her dormitory and perhaps think about how best to practice for the next time.

"!!!" Instead, she found herself face-to-face with another student, such that she jerked backwards in surprise with less grace than she would have liked. Certain other students outside of the Blue Lions house were known to her, naturally, but Nikolette didn't make a habit of learning the names and faces of commoners unless it was vital. However, Dorothea Arnault, the acclaimed Mystical Songstress of the Mittelfrank Opera Company quite clearly qualified as vital. "Ah, hello. Er, it's Dorothea, isn't it," she said, as though she weren't already entirely sure of the other girl's identity. "Is there something I can do for you?"

[foldeux]

Now, Mercedes is pious. Her palms rest against one another, perfection’s prayer that seems to open the very gates of heaven and whisper yearnings to the goddess herself. Dorothea knits her brows, curls her lip at the mere thought. Her presence in the church is blasphemous, a mockery of religion– but it is in the holy space that there is a clergy-led choir, and to lend her voice was a no-brainer.

Without the belief in a single word of the hymns that fell from her lips in dulcet notes and feigned faith, Dorothea falls to the organ’s mercy, the soles of her boots wandering with the rhythmic sway of her body. The final note lingers above the stained-glass window – tall, from the ceiling to the carved-stone monument dedicated to Sothis – and she breathes in.

The organist must hear her praises! The gospel demands fragility and precision, and every touch of the alabaster keys rang in the spaces between her ribs. As she steps down from the riser, Dorothea looks to the young woman sat in the organ’s bench: Adrestian royalty turned Faerghan. A worthy rival, if that is indeed what the Goddess chooses to ordain; so, under the pretense of cautious observation, she approaches.

And blinks. Though her Mittelfrank fame precedes her (and, yes, it does feel like a firework bursting in her chest, maiming her heart’s ventricles until the sensation becomes a burning love), she does nothing to obscure it: why, any attention is positive attention, if one tilts their head and closes their eyes. “You don’t have to do a thing,” but the mask corrects its position and her irises spell guarded, however impish the smile on her plump, rosy lips, “I simply wanted to compliment you on your performance – quite stellar!” Her compliment is infused with lavender and honeysuckle, genuine, for the most part. “With my voice and your production, we may make this choir into something spectacular.”

Because, somewhere below the stress-fractured bones and elastic sinew, Dorothea endures with the thought that others may find music an escape, a tender blanket on the coldest nights. But that’s enough heartache. “What’s your name? I’ve seen you with the Blue Lions, but we haven’t become acquainted.” with one swift movement, she swings her leg over the bench and sits beside the girl, separating several strands of brunette locks over her shoulder.

A single, lithe finger presses down on a key, a dark note filling the empty space between them. “How long have you played?”

[foldeux]

@failnaughtt

What is between a dream and a nightmare? A sensation without title, burrowing in the boundless expanse of her intestines, Dorothea wonders how the bells on a jester’s hat would ring on her head. She beams and twirls, an incandescent light of long, brunette hair and the slightest trace of emeralds in her eyes, but it does not quell unease – what if she isn’t desired? What if there is nothing more for her than destitution, where the glamour of the opera fades to obscurity behind crimson curtains and she is downtrodden on the stage, mourning the loss of her legacy?

Even as a thunderstorm swirls within her conscience, worming into the confines of her very soul, she flirts without abandon: a honeysuckle sweet harmony of compliments escape rosy lips, ever so non-descriptive and vague. She knows. Oh, does she know. Just a romp and nothing more, always devoid of the substance she desires.

Yet, here she is, wrapping her claws around the nameless (because she can’t remember whether he belonged to this house or that, some insignificant baron’s son with an obsession with women, currying favor before information – a tested tactic that only seems to work some of the time) nobleman’s neck and squeezing until she feels his final exhale. Her eyes glitter and gleam, long lashes brushing against the swell of her cheek with every timed blink, but there seems to be more behind them than a crack of lust – sorrow, pain, fear, obliterated by the carnal desire to want and be wanted. Is that so much to ask for dear, old Dorothea?

“Erm,” but her actions do not linger, as she observes another noble as he approaches: Claude, heir to the Riegan house and leader of the Golden Deer. What could he want with them, at this hour, at this very moment? The other man doesn’t seem to realize, entranced by her metaphoric dance. She stumbles when Claude becomes close enough to interrupt, staring with wide, inquisitive eyes. “Is there something I can do for you?”

[foldeux]

@azurebeast

Dorothea is nothing short of curious. One says it must kill the cat, disembowel it until there is but a warm cavity, but she thinks otherwise: why, if the cat is so nimble – an escape artist that weaves through the nooks and crannies of its obstacles – must it meet such an untimely demise? Curiosity, in fact, can benefit the cat, much like how it benefits Dorothea: a particular insight into the minds of those around her, revealing information as the layers peel away. And so, here she is, eyeing the heir to the dukedom of Fraldarius from the training grounds, mindlessly interrupting her own practice. From her two-minute observations, he seems guarded and tense; quite the wail from his body language, a tell of a jewel worth looking into. Besides, what harm could it do to keep him company?

“So,” a melodic note in the midst of a silence near-impenetrable, “I much like to experiment with rapiers and broadswords–” she prances to him, a sweet bit of honey to the step of her boots, and raises her head to meet what stare he prepares: disinterest, indifference, it only fuels her desire for something more. She holds the latter aforementioned sword in her hand, decorated with a thin blade that sparks minute gleams in the light and an artistic twist in the smooth bronze of its hilt, allowing for the enrapture of delicate fingers. It rests a heavy weight on her wrist, adorned with golden bangles that clang into one another with every movement, but it becomes a sort-of comfort. Emerald irises flit from the weapon to the dark-haired boy before her, all cantankerous with a focus a thousand miles away from Dorothea’s voice. How rude: the utmost thought in her conscience. “Felix, is it? What do you think?”

Dorothea raises the sword in a decorated gesture and lowers it slowly, the gentle press of the blade against her so-called companion’s chest. (if they were the only two in the training grounds and Dorothea chose to speak between them, would it be so wrong to consider them so? Questions, questions.) she quirks a brow, tilts her head as brunette tresses fall over her shoulder, and she stands with her legs shoulder-length apart, battle-ready. Any moment to act is a moment to define oneself in front of another, and Dorothea is a master at such a craft; the very fine contortions of her countenance curl into a daring smile, eyelids hooded and shoulders squared. Confidence, Dorothea, confidence. “Care to share some sword knowledge with the class? You seem well-acquainted.”

[tamafry]

Meteor Rose