divine songstress.

professor, physician, songstress, & available. private. affiliated with the officer's academy.

[grandeiva]

ashtodust​:

skin and bones —& manuela

@grandeiva

He had never been in a place quite like this. The room was quiet, lit by a gentle light that seemed to reach into the corners of the room without being oppressive. Faint, grassy, earthy smells that lingered in the air and… a human skeleton propped up in one corner. Alright, that was kind of really weird.

He was in the right place, wasn’t he? Helbindi looked across there room where a woman was fussing over… something that was just out of his line of sight.

The healers in the Abyss had done what they could with the injuries he bore when they pulled him from the debris—“This couldn’t have been from the collapsed hall; you’d have been crushed, not all sliced up like this. Don’t gotta tell me, but anyone with eyes can tell you were hit hard by something damned heavy.”—but somehow, there were wounds too grave and… old to be taken care of there.

(“Shouldn’t I be dead then?” “No shit. You’re telling me?”)

A finer touch was needed. Helbindi shuffled in, eyes focused pointedly at the motes of dust in the light beside the woman. “‘Professor Casagranda’, yeah?” They didn’t give him a first name. Typical. “The uh… other healers mentioned you might be able to help me. Well. Not ‘might’, they sort of just pointed here.”

—All apologies aside, all that is left to do is the dirty work: unpacking boxes, rearranging supplies, picking up the pieces of a mess that was made and cast aside.

No lives on the line, now. No training accidents and knights and students bleeding all over her floors. (Thank the Goddess for that, truly.) Now it is Manuela, and the unbroken silence, and—well, maybe it’s a good thing she ordered as many bandages as she had, with the Battle of the Eagle and Lion ready to crest over the horizon. It’s always an ordeal, even before the sly suggestions of betting pools—

—but really, there had to have been an error in her order, somewhere months ago, and Seteth didn’t even bat an eye; unusual, but not unheard of, as they run through supplies in the blink of an eye—then again, it’s bitter justification, all of it—

—all of it broken by formalities in an unfamiliar timbre. When Manuela casts a quick look over her shoulder, about ready to cast the small basket in her hand aside in frustration—a double take. A slow blink.

Ah, shit.

She doesn’t have to cast the basket aside; it’s left on her desk without a second thought.

“Yeah, that’s me,” and Manuela’s brow furrows, gaze falling down the myriad of wounds that paint a picture far more vivid than words could hope to illustrate as she steps around her desk, gesturing to the freshly-made cots.

He’s not entirely on death’s door, but the threshold is only just a few steps away. “Please, take a seat—I don’t think you need me to tell you, hm, you look like hell."

[grandeiva]

to whom it may concern ❦ manuela & hilda.

A letter can indeed bite and Hilda has received many of them since her arrival at the Academy.  Letters arrived weekly from Fodlan’s Locket and, while she truly does appreciate the correspondence from her father and brother, too often do they include some sort of subtle jab at her work ethic.  Hilda knows she’ll never live up to the expectations and hopes for her laid out in those letters.  The constant reminder on parchment of who she’s supposed to be stings worse than any physical injury she’s ever sustained.

Setting the note from Manuela down on her desk, Hilda shrugs.  “I think you’re a little mixed up.  But don’t worry!  I don’t remember what I wrote on my note either.  I’ll just leave this here and you can find someone deserving of it! I’d really hate to see all the effort you put into writing it go to waste on me.”  Though she is hurting, Hilda maintains a cheerful tone.  Can’t let anyone, least of all a professor, figure out she’s really just a ball of insecurities.

@flowerofgoneril // continued from: here.

—That’s odd.

Hilda is not one of her own, not directly, and so Manuela cannot speak to the young woman’s peculiarities.

But shunning an innocent little letter?

Manuela’s expression does its best to remain neutral—this rejection is not going to ruin her day, anymore than a singular letter should cause Hilda so much grief. Weight shifts from one heel to the other, and she takes Hilda’s rebuttal, chews on it in the silence that follows with thoughtful pursed lips, and takes a few steps forward, perching herself against the edge of her desk.

A different approach: “I get it. The whole thing was a good idea, but it’s a little impersonal, isn’t it? You hear someone reach for the same things over and over, and it sounds more like they’re just trying to get on your good side, or they don’t really see you.”

Manuela’s gaze flits from Hilda to the table, to the letter, and lets her hand rest there, offering the return without question, not directly. (She still watches; still senses some tension punctuating such an odd little request—)

“But—well, the letter’s been opened, now. No one likes a secondhand gift, so there’s no use in passing it along to someone else. But I’d hate to send you off empty-handed while everyone else got something! Will you at least keep your poor teacher company for a bit? I can offer tea for the trouble."

[grandeiva]

😍👀 (those alliance nobles and their tricksy greetings kisseses)

It’s so easy to forget she’s dealing in nobility—this year, paramount as it is, with future sovereigns under Manuela’s watchful eye. To her, they are children still, at the end of the day: so much youth still glittering in their eyes, so much still left to see, no matter how structured the paths some are destined to walk may be. There will be times for crowns and titles to sit heavy upon their heads. For now, they should walk unburdened.

It keeps her young, as much as it also draws a silly sort of envy up in Manuela’s old heart. Equally frustrating and amusing at every step, especially when tugged into proper forms and greetings, even as there’s a sort of understood silliness to the whole affair, kowtowing to older traditions when her age, at least—Goddess help her—far outranks his.

But, alas.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” she says, a feather-light kiss upon both of Claude’s cheeks, humor to her voice, giving a little to the demands of Alliance niceties, bemused as the ordeal as much as he seems to be.

“I look forward to seeing what excitement you bring—and hopefully, I don’t see you in my infirmary too often with it!"

kisses ❦  no longer accepting!

[grandeiva]

ooc; monthly check.

9 > 10. authority: e > e+.

—because it’s never a bad time to remind those around her that she holds her head high as the Black Eagles’ head professor, especially with the thrum of energy growing greater and greater with each passing day, a beloved mock battle—A beloved tradition! The Battle of the Eagle and Lion never fails to bring nerves and frenetic energy in equal measure—sits on the horizon. it’s worth it to hold her head a little higher.

[grandeiva]

prayerwitch​:

never fur-get a friendly face! ❦  manuela & sara.

much to sara’s personal delight, the denizens of garegg mach monastery are not, in fact, limited to humans. although she has on more than one occasion demonstrated a fondness for the amphibians on campus, it is the cats and dogs that halt her steps each day before attending classes. 

there was a time she had wondered aloud to one of the knights just how they wound up at the academy and, just to be safe, had continued asking around until her ears grew bored of hearing the same answer in different tongues. no one quite seemed to know. there was some speculation that the archbishop had a fondness for them akin to that which she held for the students. another theory held that they were offspring of pets snuck past the academy’s gates by doting owners who could not bear to leave them behind.

the only issue sara takes with it all is the dilemma that none of them return her looks of longing and, more often than not, scurry off when she makes an attempt at approach. all the while, she nurses this one-sided love, trying not to take it personally.

with the premises vacated of nearly half its population as a result of recent expedition, they have thankfully grown far less selective with company. remaining students at the dining hall lament that one cannot set foot outside without being followed by the sound of paws against stone walkways. to this end, sara orders her lunch to go, something reeking of brine that no feline will be able to resist. however, instead of eager meows, beckoning her over is the chirp from a cornered songbird.

“i know you,” she says like a reminder to self though manuela is far from forgettable. not even for a second does sara fail to recall that the good professor had, with a look bordering on disgust, all but turned her green companion away during floralia’s festivities. expression may have soured were she a less generous spirit, but she wastes neither bitterness nor breath over trifling matters. 

“uwah, you sure are popular~”  the sight of cats brushing up against manuela’s legs only fill her with child-like amazement, soft gasp escaping her. something resembling a smile shapes her lips. she strolls over with no real sense of urgency, stopping a handful of paces away to allow some space to avoid startling those gathered. “i’m rather jealous, professor. i want to play too.”

Manuela doesn’t understand Sara.

That thought gives her no great joy, especially when she stretches herself thin to provide some manner of guidance to every student, whether they be under her direct tutelage or in her infirmary beds. For the six years she’s made Garreg Mach her home (gone in the blink of an eye, much to her dismay at the constant passage of time—) Manuela Casagranda has not been just a former diva, one on the mantle of Mittelfrank’s storied past.

She has seen every kind of student, every spoiled noble, every bright-eyed young girl ready to make her mark on the world in a way that makes her eyes go a little misty, and it has not been easy, but she has pushed herself, and there have been brilliant moments worth her while. But Sara resists. She haunts where others stroll, flits between shadows, silently, appearing when she least expects a voice. Sara had offered her a toad, brought it to the infirmary, and that has been the extent of their conversations.

She’s been a teacher, a doctor, a disciplinarian, a keeper of secrets to anxious young minds—

—and now she’s getting pestered by a swarm of cats, and Sara is watching her with a smile much akin to the felines purring as they lap up cream.

“You should—actually, no, I insist!” Manuela isn’t begging. (It feels like begging, but she refuses to call it as such.) "Please, come distract them before their tails get trampled by a heel.”

The big white tomcat gets bolder, and while she has no leggings to run, Manuela swears the second she feels claws try to sink into her coat. Arms are flailing upwards, no accounting for how ridiculous she looks. It’s certainly a sight.

“No,” Manuela ends up hissing at the tomcat, taking two stumbling steps back, voice full of as much venom as she can for a hungry animal. “Sara, if you’d like to lend me a hand, any time now—"

[grandeiva]

healresolve​:

A Light Verse

Mission Season: Home Alone

With many of the professors and instructors gone, every substitute has been tasked with saddling you with the longest, most tedious busy work known to man. Your substitute Reason professor, however, is trying to be more entertaining by teaching you all small parlor tricks that can be done with a basic Fire spell. The dancing flames and glowing lights give you an idea: cancel class and put on a light show for the rest of the students!

//  @grandeiva ♡

“Professor…!” Hand darts to conceal any unseemly gape of the mouth in her surprise. Lana is quite familiar with the academy’s resident physician and songstress, but having the opportunity to actually attend one of her lectures is a rarity as Manuela makes most of her appearances in the Black Eagles classroom. With the faculty stretched thin due to the latest expedition mounted by the church, it is not unthinkable that those remaining behind were being shuffled around. Lana can only imagine the stress the administration must be under. Truly, her heart goes out to them and Manuela who almost certainly has a mountain of paperwork awaiting her back at the office once class adjourns.

Opportunity to speak more freely does not arise until the attendance has been taken and Manuela explains to the class that rather than the busywork that has occupied much of their classes as of late, she has a more entertaining exercise planned. Manuela directs the embers with just her fingertip like a conductor, without the use of tome, and although Lana has seen this demonstrated more than a handful of times since studying in Fodlan, the innovation of it never fails to impress.

She sits patiently as a good student does when awaiting being called on, raising a hand so as to not interrupt. “I have an idea, Professor” leaves her a tad more sheepishly than it would have in her office without an audience. “When I was assisting with the clean up of Floralia, I noticed there were a selection of miniature boats leftover. Do you think it— ” Here, Lana’s face tints. “I mean, is it possible to install it elsewhere? Perhaps, a lantern of sorts…”

There had been a similar tradition, she recalls, they had practiced as children. Boats carrying floating lights— as a young girl, the appeal had been more superficial than anything. It is only after doing some growing that she understands what Mother had meant about them carrying pieces of hope to loved ones. She thinks of her decision to stay behind and of Larcei’s own to participate in the away mission. Lana smiles then, fond. “That way the show could be as much for us as it is those that are away right now.”

Flames lick the tips of Manuela’s fingers as they dance from the warm palm of her hand. It casts a wistful shine to her eyes, a memory replaying with a tugging fondness in her heart: nearly five years ago, still getting used to the weightlessness of her hair cropped shorter than she’d ever had it, standing in the courtyard outside of the classrooms off the Officer’s Academy on a warm spring morning.

(Hanneman had shrugged his usual coat off over her new desk, and they stood, bereft of students in those precious few weeks between one year ending and another beginning. His words had been stern, edging on exasperation—and Manuela had rightfully been exasperated right back, the third day of many, many more as Hanneman walked her through the basics of casting Fire. Manuela, so used to being guided by the feeling, used to the particular prickling down her spine of the transfer of her energy to someone else, that focusing it outward in the more structured manner of Hanneman’s teachings frustrated her to no end.

He’d joked, with a particularly stern Focus punctuating his surprise, that her exasperation had finally fed the flames needed to cast Fire. Manuela did not have a response, because the exasperation and anger melted away, surprise and twin smiles in its wake.)

It’s almost too simple now. Manuela would never argue this is her strong suit, but under his lessons, she can step in with a pinch, teach the basics, much as she loathes following his own lesson plans to the letter.

The fire burns out, no smoke and heat and the funny smell of magic lingering as Lana raises her hand. Manuela greets her question with a smile—a helpful girl, she is, despite not being one of her own.

With quite an intriguing idea.

Manuela had discarded Hanneman’s lesson plan the moment she stepped into the classroom, calling for ideas she could stretch, thin as they may be, into assignments. And so she pushes, canting her head curiously. “Are there? I think… well, there were rather a lot of them. I suppose boats need the water, don’t they—are they sturdy enough to cradle a lantern?”

This—this, they can work with.

[grandeiva]

vonessars​:

cleaning house - manuela & hanneman.​

“Now, now! Let’s not get carried away, Manuela. I am simply asking for your assistance, as a friend. I would not entrust this task—err… I would not ask you to do this alone.”

For a moment, there’s a vision: Some horrible, warped timeline where Hanneman is unable to return to his own office, and must forefeit the space for the time being, no time left to prepare it properly! And in that acursed realm, Manuela left to clean his office by her own standards. He sees it now! Books mismanaged, hardly dusted the way they demand, and without proper care and preservation, research memos and ledgers of data left to blanche in window-filtered sun beyond recognition or use!

It is enough to draw a shiver from him, ripple of fear emerging from his very core and rattling around in mind for a moment, and then—

Achoo—!

Grumbling, and Hanneman opens his window, shakes out the rag he has been using thus far to see to the dusting. Hands smooth the front of the apron donned to keep his clothes clean and he tries not to mind much that Manuela has draped her own stole over his coat.

“And I do not enjoy cleaning anymore than the average person! Really, you think me so stuffy that I might be looking forward to purging the dust bunnies from my office? Hah! There is any number of things to be doing at present—catching up on my research not least of all those!—and yet I find myself combing through dust and—and—

“Countless boxes! Really, Manuela, what is all of this?”

“Oh, where to even start?” Manuela is speaking pointedly, but it’s—well, it’s a good question. She wouldn’t be struggling with the enormity of it if it hadn’t started to dawn on her how quickly the time had slipped by, and the longer she stares at the boxes at her feet (nudged out of the way with the toe of her heel, for what little good it does to actually leave her any more room) the more she realizes the genesis of the mess was—

“We had… a training incident in the middle of a supply delivery. The infirmary needed space and helping hands, not people putting everything away in one tidy place.” A huff. “Everyone was fine, before you worry, but your office was available, and… Hmm. Well. I never did find the spare time to put things away.”

—And then there was an assignment in Enbarr, where her class was away for nearly all of the month; then, swiftly after that, the debacle with those rumored lost relics—

Now it’s just depressing, how quickly time has passed.

“—And Seteth never complained.” Seteth has likely not stepped foot in Hanneman’s office since the man took his sabbatical. Even on normal days, everything prim and proper and stuffy like its inhabitant, no one can even bother to feign understanding of Hanneman’s system of order.

The box of cloth bandages is quickly abandoned on the corner of Hanneman’s desk in favor of pushing (kicking) a heavier box against the door to keep it open. (Manuela has never been more thankful their doors sit right across the hall from one another.)

“But that’s enough dwelling on the past! Did you finish—whatever it is that you were writing?” A surefire way to turn the heat off herself: distraction.

[grandeiva]

houseofreglay​:

speakeasy –& manuela

Fond memories and good drink were kindling to the low heat spreading through his bones, closing the cozy bubble of the tavern from the harsh light and festivities outside. 

(Where Etruria felt like more than an arm’s length away.)

But somewhere underneath it all ran a current tension, like running one’s hand against the grain of wood. Pent felt it crawling under his skin, maybe habit, maybe intuition, maybe the same ingrained, uncanny instinct of court that Manuela herself would have been so familiar…

And he watched, amiably quiet as she made her casual remarks and comments and deflections—and caught himself. Stopped. ‘She deserves better than to be dissected,’ came the silent reprimand when she made her apologies.

“No offence taken. Truly.”

                        ‘ It appears I’ve left you lonely. …I’m sorry. When this battle is ended, I will amend my bad habits. ’

The sage laughed. “I fear the you might lose on that wager; let’s keep drinking today’s only vice, shall we?”

                                                                                                      ‘ I promise. ’

(He couldn’t keep it for very long, but it was a pleasant fantasy while they both had the time to entertain it… But perhaps if they found another candidate…)

“At any rate, your nautical prowess wouldn’t, not with that attitude,” he scoffed as the light in her eyes shut itself somewhere private, away from his prying gaze. Fair enough. “But you can do better than an Etrurian, honestly! I hear nothing good comes of marrying into one of their families.”

With a wink, he placed a hand over hers, the heat radiating through his skin despite the cool of the chilled glass that had been clasped earlier. (The ring shone brightly.) “But I digress; Etruria will be waiting for you with open arms, vineyards and court audiences and all… But for now we have a race to win.” He met her eyes; there was something there that felt almost too raw, and Pent found himself looking away for her privacy. His palm lingered on her knuckles.

“I can walk you to the docks.”

—There is something so self-effacing to the comment, so out of step with the sorts of noblemen Manuela used to deal with every setting of the sun, that it draws a chuckle from the back of her throat she feels bubbling, reverberating in her chest and sternum. It’s the drink, partially: everything is a little warmer, every emotion feels a little more sharpened and fluid.

But she’s not drunk—people claim she has no limits, but she knows them, and knows them well, and she knows stumbling onto a boat inebriated would present so poorly upon the monastery and her own health she would swiftly find herself without a home or profession—and the arm she takes of Pent’s, after wrapping her hands gently around what lingers on her own, is not steadying, so much as playing the part. A good man, playing the gentleman he is as they march off to their surely-swift loss at the races.

“Tell me, Pent, you seem so confident—don’t tell me you’re a general and an admiral and a scholar?” (Manuela teases, of course, and the tears have dried without running the splash of color at the corner of hers eyes, face still perfectly in-tact—but where does the line get drawn before he’s covertly bragging?) “It seems like an awful lot of work to wear so many hats. I’ll settle for a man slightly less… let’s say, ambitious than Etrurian men.”

A pause, before they’re out the door, and Manuela leans over and plucks the hideously-carved turnip still resting on the counter with her free hand, pinching the stem between her fingers as she offers it to him.

“Now, now—don’t forget this fellow!” A wink. More laughter as she professes with certainty, “it can be our good luck charm. I’m sure the Lady Louise would approve, so long as you promise it was not made in her likeness!”

The joyous noise carries, and follows them out of the tavern.

FIN. ❦

[grandeiva]

ooc; monthly check.

8 > 9. reason: e > e+.

my, how the days pass! a busy period in the officers academy has come and gone, and short-staffed as the academy has been, manuela’s been forced to brush up on some of her casting skills to fill a few shoes. for her efforts, she’s remembered a little bit of the wisdom her bespectacled longtime coworker imparted onto her... years ago. (she is a doctor, not a theorist.)

her rank in reason has increased to e+ for all her efforts.

[grandeiva]

flowerofgoneril​:

[Written in messy, looping text, with a large heart in place of a signature:] “I know we all get weary, but if there is anything I’ve learned in my years, it’s that eventually the storm will pass, and you’ll have a song on your tongue before you know it! There is always someone supporting you, and my door is always open. <3”

The idea behind this Campaign of Encouragement was more than enough to pique Hilda’s interest. Write something sweet, get something sweet back. And the anonymity of it was perfect. No one would actually write something genuine to someone they didn’t even know. That would be silly. And that way, Hilda wouldn’t have to worry about any potential triggers to her self doubt. It was all just for fun.

And then she actually got her encouraging message. 

She immediately excused herself from homeroom to go to the bathroom. Once out of the crowded classroom, she leaned her back against a wall and sunk down until she was sitting on the floor staring down at the message. 

There is always someone supporting you. 

It was easy to say to a stranger, to someone who could be anyone, but this note was clearly not meant for her. Garreg Mach’s infamous lazy good for nothing didn’t deserve such kind words. Never in her life had she felt as though someone was supporting her. Not even her big brother. He might wear every single accessory she’d ever made for him but Hilda knew without him having to say it that it was out of pity. She lived her life in his shadow and only really mattered thanks to her crest and pretty face.

Still, it was a sweet message and it didn’t seem fair to let it go to waste on herself and Hilda had a feeling she knew who sent it. 

Forgetting about the homeroom that she was supposed to return to, Hilda made her way to Manuela’s office. “Hey professor, I think this got sent to the wrong person. I thought I’d give it back to you so you can make sure it gets to a better recipient!”

@grandeiva

Manuela’s smiling to herself, signing a letter with the flourish that comprises her signature—perhaps emphasis stronger on the style, befitting the recipient and the energy matched—when her head shoots up, Hilda’s at the threshold, and there’s a note.

Admittedly, it had been a last-minute addition, an impulse to send some words of encouragement where she could, and it takes her a minute to remember the words she penned down. It’s a tricky thing: Manuela prefers specifics, prides herself on her talent for gift-giving that is dulled when she cannot make it so personal, but—

—well. Even the vagaries can land. Hilda’s clutching the note rather tightly.

Manuela’s head cants to the side, rising from her desk, setting quill back in its inkwell. A smile flashed, a little sad that her words were heard and did not settle how they should.

“Now, now, it’s a little rude to look a gift horse in the mouth. A letter can’t bite, but I assume the same manners still applies.

“But I am inclined to disagree, Hilda. You are a lovely young woman, and I’m happy to know my words reached someone who needed to hear them.."

[grandeiva]

[The letter looks like it was ripped straight out of a journal. It would be an easy read were it not for the doodles of fire and swords embellishing each text.] O, MY COMPANION IN DESTINY! OFT IS THERE A DARKNESS ENCROACHING ONE’S HEART; NOT EVEN I, [the name is hastily scratched off], AM INVULNERABLE TO SUCH VICES! BUT HARK!!! JUST AS THE SHADOWS SEEK TO BLIND US, SO TOO DOES THE LIGHT DARE TO CONQUER IT! BEAR THIS LIGHT WELL, MY FRIEND, AND USE YOUR OVERFLOWING POWER TO EXCISE THIS DEMON CLAW CLENCHED AROUND YOUR SOUL!!!!!!!!

Oh.

How... unique.

The drawings make the mood, truly. There is a sincerity to the letter that reaches out past the haste; Manuela knows presentation and appearances carry further than most want to admit, but encouragement carries on the strength of flowery words and passion.

Lots of passion, clearly, for the finer parts of a blade.

Manuela is smiling, despite herself, sitting at her desk for a good long while before folding it gently and finding a blank sheet of parchment all her own.

Truth be told, she’s never been much of a poet, nor a lyricist, though she appreciates the finer points of each. And so, an invitation is in order:

“Your encouragement has been well-met, O Companion! I do believe you have a way with words. Should you ever have interest in setting such passionate decrees to song, come find me, and we’ll have tea.

Yours,

𝓜𝓪𝓷𝓾𝓮𝓵𝓪 𝓒𝓪𝓼𝓪𝓰𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓪. ❦  “

@blarflame.

[grandeiva]

infirmary blues ❦  manuela & rhys.

❦ from here! // @daydreamful.

Rhys plonked down on the cot with a low groan. He already felt better sitting down, but he furrowed his eyebrows as he pondered what she said. “Altitude?” Could that really be it? “Forgive me, I seem to get like this even at sea level.” Rhys attempted a weak smile. “I might be a repeat customer, just to warn you. I know I should have my own medicine around but... it’s a bit different when you’re the one in need, you know?” He’d planned for getting colds, but not so much for this before he’d settled in, and goddess help him find anything himself when he felt this woozy.

She seemed kind, and Rhys was already comforted by the presence of another healer. It was all good bedside manner, of course, but his chest swelled with humble appreciation. His cheeks got a bit warm. Was he dizzy, or was she also exceptionally beautiful? Rhys put a hand on his forehead. “Feverish too,” he muttered.

He was barely in a position to make pleasantries, but he really should try, still weakly holding his bucket. “How’re you? I’m Rhys, by the way. I wish our first meeting was... a little less like this.”

“I suppose I have no room to complain about the day, if we have to compare it,” Manuela says with a sympathetic lilt, squeezing the man’s shoulder one more time—if anything, making sure the second she lets him go he won’t collapse in full—before releasing his hand to rest the back of it against his forehead.

Warm—not worryingly so, and while it is *unusual* to catch a cold in the heat of summer months, it is not so great an anomaly that she finds herself concerned. Acclimating to the mountains after catching ill even at the ground…

Poor fellow. Unlucky break, all around.

“Stay upright for me if you can, at least for a spell—go ahead and get out what you can, too.” Hand falls away, and with the soft swish of her dress, Manuela is striding back around the room, already shuffling around the room as she speaks.

“Any specific allergies I should know about—silly, but you’d be surprised the reactions I’ve seen to the tom cats and hunting dogs we keep around here—and, more importantly,” a look over her shoulder, more of the same sympathetic smile but with a little more encouragement to her gaze, “think nothing of the trouble. I’m Manuela, by the by."

[gnossienne]

Lucia di Lammermoor, dir. Yannis Kokkos for Beijing’s National Centre for the Performing Arts (NCPA) and Mariinsky Theatre of Russia (2017)

[grandeiva]

😍 for a kiss in greeting ('Propriety.' He can't do it with a straight face, but points for effort. How far he'd go for the bit.)

“Propriety, of course,” Manuela echoes in kind—doing a far poorer job of masking the mirth and general *amusement* that crosses her face, especially for an artist so used to this performance.

It calls to memory younger years: painted face, a whirlwind of colors—Manuela has always preferred Imperial red, else a green the color sea glass to better stand out among her peers—usually sitting pretty on the arms of Jacques, stalwart composer he was, who *hated* the sort of shoe of deference needed to sway patrons. That was her job, the polish, the beautiful laughter and charm, the secret weapon.

(The one who usually initiated the grousing of his grumpy demeanor, because she could get away with it.)

—Neither men have much else in common, save for a particular distaste for all the pageantry. Something delights, either way, with the grimace across Pent’s lips.

Either way: two kisses, one for each cheek, feather-light and quick and not minding the chuckle the whole affair draws out of her.

kisses ❦  accepting!

[expericast]

woman of my heart... keeper of my Ass (second pic is transparent)

[grandeiva]

houseofreglay​:

It would take more than a trip to the bottom of a glass and back up memory lane for him to miss the steel that shuttered across her eyes when Manuela looked down and back up again, sigh tempered with something heavy and cloistering.

(Hypothesis: she was unattached and alone.) 

Her gaze implored the man behind the bar as well, willing him to move without a word. Pent watched; the barkeep filled her glass again, and when he paused, Pent nodded, and the bottle emptied into his own. She spoke again, and the velvet of her voice didn’t fully conceal the edge underneath.

                      (Was it an edge? Songstress, they called her, with such a voice. Addendum: she was unattached and lonely.)

“No… They probably didn’t.” The thought of being tied to one of them nearly made him inhale a sip of liquor instead of drinking it. “She came to petition me, but between the two of us, I dare say she could have had her pick of the world. I hadn’t known at the time, but I stood to gain the most in that moment.”

“To think I was nothing but trouble for her after that. Rumours fluctuated between whether she or I had ‘untoward motives’… or that I had been taking too long to wed her, or that the ceremony wasn’t proper for her station, or that we were causing a scandal when we presented ourselves to court—”

(Alright, that one was true. Did he need to kiss her that deeply when she first stepped into the High Court? No. Was it absolutely worth breaking the rules of polite company? Yes, and he’d do it again in a heartbeat.)

“—the point being, she withstood more than her fair share for us.”

And there, as he exhaled the heat from his throat, the question. A fair one. Pent couldn’t say the same hadn’t crawled lazily cross his mind on sleepless nights when the bed felt uncomfortably empty. That he made a promise one day as they cut their path through the battlefield that when it was all over, he wouldn’t leave her lonely again; a promise that had still been a thing in the making.

“She married a general.” The chuckle didn’t quite make it to the surface whole. Pent breathed slowly through his nose, smiling thinly. Perhaps that was enough of a cue that he slid a stack of coin across the counter to the barkeep, enough for them both. “My time is not quite ours, and while my liege needs me to be here, I trust her to hold down the fort. My dear is a force of nature even without me there. We’ll adapt.”

(Garreg Mach wasn’t ready for both of them to be there…)

“And as for you. I don’t suppose we will catch the eye of a promising suitor or two today on the waters?”

A force of nature, Pent says, without reserve, and it’s that sort of casual affection that claws at the inside of Manuela’s throat something fierce and rears ugly thoughts at the forefront of her mind—and yet, in turn, it’s so sincere, without a second thought, as natural as breathing, and it draws out a begrudging smile and a chuckle that lingers with her eyes drawn closed in repose.

“I must say, general or not, if I were in her shoes, I’d much sooner curse your orders than spend so much time apart.” When Manuela’s eyes flutter open, calm reigns across her expression of amusement. Restrained, but with distant eyes still trained on the wall; if met with a stare, there would be something almost dreamy to the misty sheen and underscoring sigh of her voice, but she is far too old to be swept away in imagined throes of passion.

Quickly, almost an afterthought: “—No offense meant to you or Louise. Just…

"You’re a good man, Pent. What woman wouldn’t want to hear her husband speak so sweetly, and mean it?—And, I’d wager, you’re one of the few good men left.”

Lips remain poised to say more, and then close as abruptly as Manuela began to speak. Brow furrows, teeth grit. Two possibilities: If he means to talk around the rumors—so many, not unfounded, all painting her in ugly, garish strokes—of her conduct, then he is callous and kind in equal measure about the ordeal. Asking without asking, knives between pretty words. Thoroughly noble.

(If he remains unaware…

Somehow, that possibility stings more. Her peers so rarely speak to her without any edge of judgment, and their fledging friendship remains dear. She likes Pent—respects him even more. No, that disappointment is not to stomach today.)

“It will not be my sailing that wins anyone’s favor,” is Manuela’s eventual answer, rising from her perch on the barstool, a hand smoothing against wrinkles in her dress. “Perhaps, when your assignment is over, I could follow, and meet this force of nature myself! Maybe I’d have more luck with Etrurian men.”

A chuckle follows, and a hand gently pats the side of Pent’s arm in turn. All in good fun; pay no attention to the distant, wistful gloss or the discreet knuckle at the corner of an eye.

[grandeiva]

never fur-get a friendly face! ❦  manuela & sara.

Stray cats and dogs enjoy happy and healthy lives at Garreg Mach, pampered by the students with extra treats and lots of pets. Two days have passed since the selected Knights and students departed on their missions, and the animals are already rioting. When leaving the dining hall, you are greeted by swarms of cats yowling their shrill demands and packs of dogs with their nefarious puppy-dog eyes. Some long-deserved pets and treats are in order, but how long will this keep them satiated?

Let it be known: Manuela has no ill will towards the monastery’s four-legged inhabitants.

Riding has never been her strong suit—and while the heights of soaring are thrilling in their own right, the wreck that the wind and jostling does to her on the back of any winged beast is no laughing matter—and so she avoids stepping around the stables out of politeness, never mind the smell.

Dogs are loud, with a tendency to jump and slobber and ruin perfectly good dresses with their muddy paws, but many a tale has rhapsodized on their loyalty, and the upper echelon of Adrestian nobility seem intent on showing their hunting companions in a pinch. She supposes their must be merit, and the children of the monastery seem to love them something fiercely, and even she is not so jaded as to refuse a smile upon witnessing a crowd of children playing fetch with twinkling eyes.

But… the cats.

Once upon a time, there had been a little stray, a gray thing with darker stripes down its back, that had winded in and out of the alleyway outside her parents’ abode in the city. A girl of eight, she was entranced, possessed by the idea of having a cat sunning at her windowsill, curled up at her bedside, and the thing was friendly enough when she’d approached, clearly fed a diet of pilfered fish heads and other scraps from the butcher down the street. Her parents had shooed the dear away when it had wandered around their doorstep, but—surely, with eight-year-old stubbornness, they could not deny their bond when witnessed!

The reward for her kindness had been watering eyes, and sneezing, and wheezing until her lungs felt sore for the rest of the evening.

It’s only mild, really, and Manuela has to wonder if the exposure to the monastery mousers has helped. But they have an understanding: she does not engage with them, and they do not trail after her for attention and scraps.

It was an uneasy truce, and now, for the third day in a row, she has been made a lunchtime target.

“Come on,” Manuela’s grunting, toeing away one insistent tabby that keeps weaving between her ankles; its companions, a big white tomcat and two juvenile mottled kittens, nip at each other and then at her. Her eyes already feel on the verge of watering, and every step is perilous for the whole of them.

Footsteps reach her ears, and Manuela, covering her face to *try* and prevent a sneezing fit, looks up for solace and—

—Ah.

“Sara, dear,” she starts slowly, sweetly.

@prayerwitch. ❦