huscarles

so warriors earn their fame, and wealth is shaped with a sword.

[macnaradhaigh]

Petra grips the cuffs of her dress as she enters the ballroom, heaven's resplendence on full display as glasses clink and chatter wafts over the sound of strings. This sort of pomp and circumstance is not her particular cup of tea, but neither is risking a potential diplomatic incident over personal preference.

The dress had been and would continue to be an entire ordeal: the sheer amount of fabric, the heeled shoes underneath that no one even saw, the corset. Clearly, whoever had deigned what was in vogue for women's fashion had never had to run fast in their life. In the midst of her preparation, she grips handfuls of the skirt to confirm how much she would have to hike it up to be able to move properly--just in case. When she finishes, she stands before the mirror, coiffed and pretty in Fódlan's latest trends. She is mildly annoyed that it looks as nice as it does.

A heady mix of honeydew and petrichor catches her attention as she is handed a bouquet of flowers, blossoming like stars exploding into being. It is her first Ethereal Ball. Surely the others won’t mind if she observes.

Petra’s Bouquet: HYACINTHS

Ethereal Ball, Week One - Flower Tracker

ROSE: Nel, Rath ORCHID: Bernadetta, Yunaka, Edelgard LILY: Mark, Lachesis HYACINTH: Soleil TULIP: Dorothea OTHER: Sylvain, Ferdinand, Ananke, Innes, Wolf

Reference images for outfit below the break!

Dress

Hair

credit: here

[macnaradhaigh]

OOC - wanted threads and housekeeping

Hi all! Sorry for my relative silence in the past week. I had a life event occur that needed a lot of my time and energy, so my immediate focus on making sure I didn’t fall behind for White Heron Cup. I’m sorry if you’re waiting on me for ball interactions! My priority this week is to start wrapping those up. I’m also planning on posting my wanted threads later this week, and will aim to look at the other wanted threads posts as well. If there’s something you’d like to write with me, please DM on Tumblr or on Discord, as I don’t check the server very often unless pinged. Thanks yall!

[ninisdance]

her due flowers.

White Heron Cup / Finals

[cervanke]

BLESSINGS WERE A SILLY THING.　𐂂　honestly, she didn't know if elnias could really reach them here all the way across the ocean, or if he'd ever heard her or not. but the fact that they had made it this far, past all the other pairs that'd been practicing together and known each other for way longer, is pretty ridiculous. ever since getting that full technique score, petra'd looked a lot more relaxed, like she'd gotten a second wind after the last round and wasn't even tired at all.

"their scores aren't that impressive." compared to their final competitors, who looked like they might fall off their feet any second——something ananke couldn't blame them for ; she was tuckered out too and she hadn't even been the one dancing this whole time! petra was a fighter though, she'd said earlier. and that stamina definitely showed.

hands give the girl's shoulders one last squeeze as the audience claps politely for the preceding act and the announcer takes the stage to call out their names as the final performance. ' waltz ' was the last round's theme, which she's sure was supposed to mean that they'd dance together this time. but something about it had seemed like a bad idea——call her superstitious, but she didn't want to break the streak that'd been working so far.

so instead they'd had just enough time to alter petra's dance into a three-beat rhythm instead of the free-flowing thing it'd been before. "it's more structured this way, but the thing about structure is that once you really know it, then you can play around with the rules."

she's not sure if they'd accomplished that ; the call for the start of the final round had interrupted their brief preparation time before she'd felt confident. but every round had been like this: putting together something under pressure, mostly imperfect, a lesson in trust in a nearly-complete stranger. at this point, there wasn't anything else she could tell petra or try to teach her, and anyway she'd never been a dance instructor or even anything professional.

"one more time," she whispers nevertheless, relinquishing her hands from the girl's shoulders to send her out onto the stage. at this point, all she's got to offer is encouragement. "you've got this. go get that winning prize."

[macnaradhaigh]

One more time. It's hard to believe they had made it past Round One, let alone as finalists. She had achieved her personal goal of a perfect technical score, but to have come this far...

Petra nods once to her professor before taking the stage, eyes trained forward as she takes her position as she had before. Ananke had revised the steps for a waltz, as she called it-- a lilting melody that feels like leaping across tall fields of pampas grass and goldenrods. It was traditionally performed with a partner, so she had learned. And yet, Petra stood alone on stage, lifting her arms above her head and positioning her feet one in front of the other.

In the silence before the music starts, she looks off stage, catching Ananke's eyes as a soft grin pulls at the corners of her lips.

No, alone wasn't quite right, was it?

The music begins and she is off, nimble feet gliding across the stage in time with the anchors and upward movement of the rhythm. She is the wind spirit rustling newborn leaves the color of springtime. She is the small tidepool that forms as the waves ebb and flow. The steps are far from perfect, but they had made it this far together on little more than heart and trust. She would see it through to the end.

The music comes to a close and Petra lands her final pose, arms once more above her head as she trains her gaze to the heavens. The rise and fall of her chest had fallen in time with the bassline, and she can still feel the ghost of its rhythm beating in her ears above the sound of applause. She bows once before rushing off stage, reuniting with Ananke to await final scores.

The silence that follows anchors the stage. And the upbeat--!

"Professor... Professor, we have done it!"

[sacrificialspear]

to dance again

White Heron Cup - Match 14

[cervanke]

ANY COMMENTS FOR IMPROVEMENT ,　𐂂　petra had asked after the last round ; and honestly, her performance the second time wasn't as good as her first. but even if that might be the right thing to tell her as a teacher, ananke couldn't bring herself to say it to her face——she was working hard, no doubt about that, and a blow to her self-esteem at the wrong time might bring her down completely. after all, they hadn't even known each other for two hours. it was a miracle they'd even come this far.

"you should do something more like your first dance," she'd said, as truthful as she could bring herself to be. "there was so much power there. i felt like i could feel the emotion you wanted to express. that girl we talked to was right ; you were like a griffon! do more of that."

but if someone asked her, she wasn't actually sure if she was right. and what if she was wrong? what if petra ended up getting an even lower score this time? she might never listen to her again.

applause dwindles ; the audience falls hush again. petra leaves her one more time to head out onto the stage, and ananke tracks her every step, not sure if the nerves she felt were petra's or her own, not even aware of how invested she'd become compared to the beginning when she'd insisted it was all just for fun. only a few pairs remained——she'd noticed all the other single contestants had lost already, leaving only hers.

her forest and all its beauty was long gone. the nine-horned had long been driven from notia. but still she puts up a whisper to elnias reflexively as petra takes her place in front of the judges.

"guide her feet and her knowing, so that they might be true."

[macnaradhaigh]

Like the first dance. What had she even been thinking about during the first dance? Certainly not that they would get this far, she and her newfound dance instructor. Petra trains her eyes on the competitors before her--a duo that she hadn't seen before. She watches as they stumble, adjust, mouth something to each other, and adjust again. Her eyes soften as something tugs at her edges, trying to recall the last time she had felt that kind of closeness--that kind of trust.

She returns from her thoughts and nods once, silently, at Ananke before assuming her position on the stage. More like your first dance, Ananke's words echo in her ears in the silence before the music starts. What had she been thinking in the first dance? She steals one last glance at Ananke.

She had been thinking that she trusted her professor to guide them to greatness.

Once more, Petra lifts from the stage, the steps feeling more familiar as she lands softly in time with the music. Arms lift as her feet anchor to the ground in a spin before gliding across the stage in a wide half moon. In some ways, Petra feels like she is parrying, making sure her steps firmly ground her and knees stay light in the face of an unknown opponent.

The music ends and Petra lands in her final pose as the audience claps politely. She can barely hear them over the sound of her own breathing and the rush of blood in her ears as she rushes backstage to rejoin Ananke.

The announcer comes on, voice booming as they read out the scores. Five in style, seven in choreography. Serviceable scores, Petra thinks, though her mouth is drawn in a tight line at the thought of her style score going down even more. Beginner's luck and beginner's magic, she supposes.

Her musings are interrupted when the score she had really been waiting for is read out. Ten! the announcer says, and Petra can barely contain the wry smile tugging at her lips. "I am grateful that the judges have finally woken up."

Final score: 17.5

[rafent]

✦ 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐋𝐎𝐖 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐎? (𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐖) ✧

Ethereal Ball 2026, White Heron Cup: match 12

[cervanke]

WHY MEND WHAT'S NOT BROKEN?　𐂂　sure, doing another solo performance could be boring, but that enthusiastic girl from the last round——whose name she hadn't actually managed to get with everything going on——had the right idea. all they had to do was change a few things to make it just new enough that it wouldn't be repetitive. and good news for them: petra was already doing that all on her own.

"don't worry about it! it doesn't have to follow the steps exactly. what's more important is letting your style come out. like that jump you did. don't go so far off that you lose the whole thing, but don't be afraid to improvise either."

was it just her, or did petra look even more nervous than before? well, they had made it farther than she'd thought they would given they'd entered the competition just for fun, so maybe she couldn't blame her.

a warm, encouraging smile tries to soothe those performance butterflies. "come on. we've already done great just getting past the first round. we've already hit the goal. everything else is just frosting."

as they say in notia.

"it's almost your turn. let's get up there."

the final minutes waiting backstage before going on for a show are some of the worst that time can offer. she stays close by and behind petra, hands squeezing the younger girl's surprisingly muscular shoulders in wordless support. out there, the two stepping back and forth look more like weighted nesting dolls wobbling and bonking against each other than a dancing pair, and are they talking during it too or is she just seeing things? is that supposed to be part of it?

"look, that's the competition," she leans down to whisper in petra's ear as they take their finishing turns and the music concludes. "if they've made it here, then you've got nothing to worry about. go out and show them how it's done."

[macnaradhaigh]

Determination steels her heart and sheer will forces the knot in her stomach down. She would do it correctly this time. She pantomimes the steps in place, only half-listening to Ananke when her ears perk up, looking at her professor owlishly. "Frosting? It was not all cleaned from the Ethereal Ball?"

There's no time to wonder as they are ushered just behind the curtain as their competitors perform. A pensive hand finds its purchase on Petra's chin. The two white-haired figures seemed more to be falling slowly into each other than dancing. The onlookers seemed to be just as unconvinced. "I was not knowing that the audience can also pass judgment." She is certainly no dancer, but it took no terpsichorean to see the tension, thick as whatever frosting the professor had encountered, calcifying between the two. The pair separates, and for some reason, and Petra finds herself... relieved?

"I am going, Professor," she calls out in a stage whisper before taking her cue on stage. The steps. Right. She raises her arms as she had before and begins the dance, lifting and spinning like the bird of paradise that Ananke had envisioned. The chassés, the fondus--they are unfamiliar, and she can feel her footwork wobbling beneath her. It's her own fault for not practicing more. Anything worth doing is worth doing correctly.

The music comes to its close in loud fanfare, and Petra looks on at the faceless audience, sweat gleaming from her brow--a crown befitting a warrior princess.

The score is... 17.5.

Her brow straightens. 17.5 is worse than last time. She hurries backstage to Ananke, perturbation clear on her generally neutral features. "Professor, do you have any comments for improvement? It is... I am unhappy with the score."

@rafent, @mxlusine, @cervanke

[cervanke]

⠀⬩⠀sprezzatura

ethereal ball '26　|　white heron cup, round 1 match 8

[shiningfalcon]

Emma nods vigorously along all the while as the woman explains, intently listening. She didn't even think of that as an option—having one person come up with the choreography, and one person perform it. What a crafty idea! She breaks into a sheepish grin. "...heheh, my other scores were actually pretty bad, so you guys are probably a shoo-in to make it to round 2," she reveals, playing with her loose hair.

Seeing how much thought they'd put into their performance, she's not surprised. Emma had been so focused on practicing her execution; she hadn't even realized how much work goes into the process before that point. Every time she climbs a little higher, she realizes just how much further she has to go.

So, maybe she shouldn't offer her thoughts when they bring up choreography. But she can hardly ever resist doing so, and especially when she's feeling enthusiastic. It helps that she's usually rewarded—even when she's wrong, she usually ends up learning something. "Maybe you could take the same dance and put a twist on it? They think they're going to see the same thing at first, and then, bam!"

[macnaradhaigh]

"Your forms are very strong. It is a sign of good training," Petra nods. "You must continue after the White Heron Cup so that we may be matching again next time." Earnestness begets earnestness, and the weight of self-appointed expectation begins to soften at the edges, even as Ananke begins discussing the next round's choreography, and even as the small knot in her stomach begins to tighten despite her best intentions.

Emma chimes in, and Petra's eyes alight at the thought. "Professor, I am thinking this is a good idea. I would like to show you that I have put my foot forward in learning the steps you have taught." She tries the idiom out, and its curves feel clumsy on her tongue. She tries again, simpler this time. "I... I will do better." In the aftermath of her promise, the announcer's voice booms overhead, signaling the end of Round 1. "Shall we go? It is time."

[cervanke]

OH, SHE HADN'T MEANT TO HIT A SORE SPOT.　𐂂　she wonders what it was——the question about why she was here?⠀(⠀an arrangement? like a marriage arrangement?⠀)⠀it sounded like whatever it was, the girl wasn't too excited to talk about it. she could understand, if she'd assumed anywhere close to the mark. "your lance forms——so you're a lancer? i hope you'll let me see sometime. back in the watch, i knew one of the best lancers in notia. seeing her train——" and put rusty in the dirt "——was always so impressive."

but to her question about the ball: ananke glances out toward the rest of the huge space, all sparkling and glamorous. to the people milling and whirling, to a pair of friends making exaggerated pantomimes about something she couldn't hear, doubling over laughing next to the dessert spread.

"the ball's okay. i've never been to something as big as this before." with so many powerful people. guess that's what she gets for coming to an academy made to churn out national leaders. she looks back to the girl. "but it's really cool seeing so many people from so many different places. there's just so much out there."

[macnaradhaigh]

"It is something I am working on," Petra starts. "I am more proficient in sword and axe than lance, so I am trying to learn more in that area. It is..." She pauses, contemplating her next words. "Off-balanced?" She tries on the word like a new set of shoes. No, it isn't quite right. "I am aware of the weapon, unlike a sword which is more of my hand. A more natural feeling in my hand," she corrects, enunciating the words a bit more precisely than usual to drill the grammar structure into her mind.

"The ball is... extravagant, yes." Her mouth straightens into a neutral position. "I am curious how people will recover from tonight for the White Heron Cup. It is soon, I believe. But here, there are... many distractions." The sweets, the sparkling drinks, the excess of it all. She doesn't quite know why she is rambling to this familiar stranger, and yet, Petra finds her shoulders relaxing and the corners of her mouth twitching upwards despite the chafe of the corset against her torso. "I am thinking Lord Crane Dance will not be our champion after his performance tonight."

[cervanke]

⠀⬩⠀sprezzatura

ethereal ball '26　|　white heron cup, round 1 match 8

[cervanke]

WAIT, WHAT WAS PETRA DOING?　𐂂　that. . . well, it was the choreography she'd prepared, but it wasn't really like what they'd practiced for all of the thirty minutes they'd practiced at all while all the other contestants before them had been going. but as she watched, nervous and unsure what to make of everything, gradually her unease bleeds away little by little as petra goes on. it wasn't what they'd practiced, but it was actually really good. all they'd had to do, she'd said, was bring out the girl's powerful style, and she's definitely done that, no question about it.

and there it is——a showstopping ten, just like she'd thought. the other two come up, and they're not as impressive, but they're not terrible either. four was only a little underwhelming.

she'd take it for how slapdash it was, definitely.

"hey! you did so great." her voice is a whisper-shout as she waves the girl over, quickly replaced by another who's rushing to take the stage for the next performance. ananke watches her out of the corner of her eye as she puts an arm around petra's sweaty shoulders to give a supportive pat. "what was that jump you pulled out of nowhere? i didn't show you that." but she'd leaped like elnias itself had possessed her, no worse than the best of the best from back home. it actually makes a little nostalgic, but she's not going to say anything about that.

the last performance of the first round doesn't go on for long, and she's clapping politely with the rest of them when the girl strikes her final pose——quietly, since they're backstage. she doesn't see from here what the scores are, but when the girl runs toward them to take her exit, she's exhilarated as if she'd already won the trophy.

"they gave me a ten in technique! can you believe it? a ten out of ten!"

ananke doesn't know who she's saying it to——no one looks to be rushing up to greet and congratulate her——but she grins anyway since she's standing there, the joy and pride radiating off her for her own performance palpable and more than a little infectious.

"great job! looks like you're making it to the next round then." she glances at petra too, smiling. "one of the judges told me that they saw the choreography while we were practicing and would've given it a ten. too bad they don't allow trios, or we would've gotten a full score combined."

[macnaradhaigh]

"You as well, Professor." Petra's breathing steadies as she watches their competitor--Emma, the announcer had said. "The jump." She parrots it back to the mercenary, not quite a question, not quite a statement. Her eyes are trained on the stage, but watching something beyond the performance. "... The spirits asked and I adhered." The corners of her lips turn down, a sudden look of recognition flashing across her features as she turns to Ananke. "Apologies, I was not thinking on how it would affect our score. If we are moving to the next round, I will endeavor to memorize the steps more exactly."

Returning her focus back to the stage, ocher eyes watch the girl's hands extend with a fluidity that catches her by surprise. There is a certain comfort with movement that the girl has that Petra can appreciate--a certain freedom in the gesture that feels like running through fields of tall grass, like breathing wild air.

Emma rejoins them back stage, and Petra can't help smile. "Yes, a formidable foe we would be, the three of us!" She turns to their competitor, hand to chin. "Your form. Does it come from sword work, lancing, or axe mastery? Is it something else? I am thinking your parries must be without fault as well." As her rambling trails, her hand moves from her chin and stamps her palm, determined. "We must train together. I have much to learn from you." She nods, once, as if punctuating the thought.

[cervanke]

⠀⬩⠀sprezzatura

ethereal ball '26　|　white heron cup, round 1 match 8

[cervanke]

SHE'S NOT COMPLETELY SURE IF PETRA GOT IT OR NOT.　𐂂　to be fair, they hadn't had a lot of time, and she'd come up with the choreography on the spot. most of it was inspired by the kind of dance she'd done growing up and few other things she'd learned at the academy in notia, and then it was a matter of keeping it simple enough to learn in a few minutes but interesting enough to hopefully catch the judges' attention. she had no idea what they'd be looking for here.

it was a tall order.

but, like she'd said before: new people had to stick together, right? petra was a student, so she should be the one to take the lead and watch out for her. as a teacher⠀(⠀sort of⠀) ,⠀her job was to lift up the students and make sure they could shine, right?

"trust me. you've got a special style. it's not like any of the other dancing i've seen here tonight. if we just make sure to bring that out, that's the best we can do."

she has a feeling this little competition might actually matter a lot to petra, so she flashes a cheerful smile to try and lift her spirits——and because she feels a little bad now just grabbing her to do it together without thinking ; she hadn't thought it'd be that serious. "come on, it's just for fun!"

"next entrants: ananke and petra with ' the birds of paradise '!"

after the whole crane thing and the chicken comment, she'd thought going along with the bird scheme would be appropriate. besides, petra looked like one of those hidden forest birds herself, all dark magenta and gem-like green. and she was the centerpiece of it all.

"that's us! let's go!"　/　@macnaradhaigh ,⠀@shiningfalcon

22 points on ananke but i didn't end up writing the dance so (waves hand)

[macnaradhaigh]

"Yes, for fun." Petra nods, brows furrowing despite herself. "I will do my best, Professor." Resolution (which can be fun in its own right, she reasons) fills her chest as the two step onto the stage. Taking their positions, callused hands find their position over her head, pointed like so, as Ananke had instructed.

The music begins and strong legs leap, sending Brigid's daughter into the air to land on one foot before bringing the other foot around in a half moon. She thinks back to the dance forms of home, strong and expressive in their low stances and wide eyes. The steady drumming of the chants of her ancestors guide her feet, her arms, the arch of her back in time with the music as she explodes and collapses in syncopated time.

The music concludes, and Petra's chest heaves as she holds her ending position, eyes twinkling at Ananke as applause begins and she takes her position next to the professor. The first score rings out. Pride wells in her chest and spills out into a wide grin. 10 points for style. She whispers silent gratitude to her forebearers.

4 points for choreography. Though unhappy with the score, Petra can't blame the judges for their eagle eyed critique; she had studied the steps that Ananke had prepared in the early morning hours just before the White Heron Cup began. Many of the competitors had worked for weeks to perfect their steps, and it would be incorrect for Petra's last-minute preparations to be scored any higher. Surely her final score would make up for the delta.

Her brow flattens. 4 points--below average on technique? "Professor, I am thinking the judges have organized their cards in a strange way..." She says it more for herself than for anyone else. Was there something wrong with her core strength? Perhaps the hand extensions looked weak and flimsy. Surely her control had been above average, had it not? 18 points is a fine score, but... This will not do at all.

"I am looking forward to your performance." Petra calls out to their competitor--a lithe young stranger she had yet to meet. Ocher eyes follow the girl steadily, adding to her running list of notes to crack the scoring system.

Please welcome to the stage... @shiningfalcon!

[heriteur]

[ SLIP-UP ] - Her grip tightens around the glass that she had been holding as an anchor in the sea of gilded sweet nothings as her gaze narrows in on a brushstroke of burgundy. The build is strong and moves with a quiet confidence that causes Petra’s heart to fly into her throat.  The drink is discarded. Where it goes, she does not remember as she walks forward in thoughtless determination. The figure grows further away, and her pace quickens. The hem of her dress catches under her feet and she lurches forward, catching herself as feet fly like winged victory over the ballroom floor. Brigid’s daughter forgets her decorum, forgets to mind the leering eyes of Imperial lords and ladies, forgets her mask. She is a child running on the beach towards the ship that has docked.  Her hand extends. Would he still be able to pick her up as had when she was smaller? Would he remember after all this time? The gentleman turns and her hand recoils. “You…” Her voice is labored, and the heaving of her chest fills the space between the two as eyes frantically search the gentleman. This is wrong. He is wrong. His eyes do not spark with sunbursts and his hair is not tousled from western gales and sea brine. He is… He is noble.  In the same way the Ethereal Ball is noble.  In the same way that being at Garreg Mach is noble. Petra’s eyes prickle, despite herself. She quietly chastises herself for knowing better. The man she is looking for is dead. Though the contours of his face had grown fuzzier with each passing year, the tendrils of pyre flames reaching towards the heavens in supplication were emblazoned into the eyes of a child. And through the eyes of a warrior, she trains her gaze through the stranger and on the middle distance, steady in the storm that has never stopped raging. “... Apologies, my lord. I am mistaking you for another.”

It happens again.

Though this time his attention isn't drawn by an unfamiliar voice, or a mistaken name; rather the glimpse of a girl over his shoulder, her hand extended as if to grasp him—only to retract when her eyes connect with his, then dart about his figure in examination of something unknown. Foreign.

One would think it hurtful to see the disappointment that flashes over another's face in reaction to them, yet Diamant feels a faint relief. No recognition of who he was. No preconceptions, or expectations weighed upon his shoulders.

Though that doesn't stop the concern he feels.

She seemed the same as any other person in this ballroom; hair perfectly coiffed, dressed in layers of gorgeous fabric accented with artistic, decorative blooms. But for the way she fit into all the glamour, there was a profound... solemnity to her.

It nagged at him.

"It's no issue at all, really." And much like with the other girl who mistakenly assumed him to be someone else, he asks: "Is this person you're looking for around here somewhere? I can keep an eye out, help you find him."

@macnaradhaigh

[macnaradhaigh]

Petra folds her hands quietly in front of her, knuckles white. How could she even begin to answer the question? Of course he was "around here." She couldn't help but see him--see his absence--in everything, no matter how she steels her heart. Who does this mainland noble think he is, offering to help with the impossible? The blood begins to roar in her ears as her shoulders tense, stiffening her body as if to keep everything from pouring out at this stranger who could even think that--!

Petra's shoulders soften, and her grip loosens. "Thank you, my lord." She curtsies, sharp aches pulsing in her palms from the divots left by her nails. A small price to pay for composure. "It is my mistake. I am remembering now that he will not be here. Please excuse my intrusion." Brigid's daughter curtsies again before turning away perhaps a bit too quickly from the young lord before dashing off into the crowd, lest he or anyone else see the lump in her throat and sting in her eyes threatening to spill over.

[macnaradhaigh]

@licehn asked: [ SEQUESTER ] - Some rooms remain unused, and while by the padlocks on their doors you suspect they are meant to remain that way, some poor sap seems to have forgotten to make sure they were locked properly. They make for an excellent space away from the chaos of the rest of the ball—though you may not be the first one there. From a spare room with a padlock on the outside, a series of knocks resound. “Hi! If anyone's there, uh... can you let me out please?” comes a voice from within as well, the knocks insistent. Unlike the other rooms with similar setups, this padlock is actually secure.

The ringing in her ears had just started to fade when Petra hears the dull raps on the door. Instinctively, she crouches and reaches for her belt. Her grasp is met with nothing but fabric as she remembers her location. Her gaze locks in on the door, the weight of the padlock, the thickness of the shackle.

"Stand back, please," she calls out, looking around the hallway for something blunt. In the corner and atop a decorative plinth, a wrought iron candelabra burned, casting a gentle glow in the hallway. Her hands wrap around the base, silently noting the heft, as she extinguishes the flames and discards the candles before heading back to the padlocked room. With the candelabra in her right hand, Petra lifts her skirt, wrapping her left hand in the excess fabric to hold the padlock on its side. With the shackle exposed at an angle, she brings the base of the candelabra down once--twice--three times. She feels a soft click! as she pulls her left hand down, and discards the broken padlock.

Still holding the candelabra, Petra carefully pushes the door ajar and peers inside, only to be met with--ears?

She pauses.

"How did you get in here?"

[hermidetta]

the call of her name. there are not exceedingly many who know it—among those, more that could not put her face to it even if they did know—but bernadetta's neck stiffens and stretches as tall as it can, making alerted half-turns to survey the area.

it's absolutely enough time to recalibrate. but the most important part of all comes afterward, and word-for-word, it is this:

you may say no. you do not have to explain why.

the slope of bernadetta's shoulders eases by a hair's length. whether petra catches this meager shift or not, bernadetta is already skittering quickly to the arrangement with something lighter, something surer in the first bounce of her step.

“petra! y-yes. it's okay. um, i do,”  she says with a rare lack of other bumbling nonsense tied to it. gloved fingers already begin fiddling, unassuming but deft. knowledgeable in how they part certain stems, slow in how they let petra's eyes follow, they transform the hyacinths from three awkward appendages of a too-busy canvas to a simpler, elegant focal point all in their own.  “these can look a little too boxy next to the other shapes when they're in full bloom. oh, and see how the lip of my orchid kind of juts out differently? a little of this, a little of that...”

it doesn't take long at all. nearly the same as how much petra knows to give her as a buffer. by the end of her adjustments, bernadetta is cinching a new bow at the stems and guiding it back into petra's hands. if there is one of her orchids in the mix, tucked to a subtle enough spot that keeps the hyacinths grandest and other proportions just fine, let it be a small thank you of her own.

“there you go! heh-heh, it looks a lot sharper now, huh?”

[macnaradhaigh]

A hunter's gaze trains itself on Bernadetta's work, the balanced silhouette blossoming forth under the heiress's deft hands. “I see. You are placing the tall flowers in the back.” It is the only comment she makes as she continues to observe, mentally noting the softness of the orchid (is that new?), the long organic lines created by the hyacinths, the gentle loop of the ribbon at the bouquet's base.

The result is the picture of perfection, even to Petra's philistine eyes. "It is without fault." She states, taking a moment to look between her housemate and the bouquet. "If you are not minding, I would like to make one change."

Callused hands find themselves reaching out towards the blooms as she plucks one of the hyacinths from the arrangement and presses it into the von Varley heir’s hands, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “You have taught me the tall flowers rule. I am breaking it for the Petra rule: a debt earned is a debt repaid."

[sollegro]

@macnaradhaigh chose to engage with this, inexplicably:

The miscommunication makes sense--Petra had been staring at the pink-haired young woman trying to assess whether they knew each other and cupping the mint candies in her palm. The reality is that someone handed the mints to her in passing with an over-familiar pleasantry, and Brigid's daughter is now on a quiet mission to find a discreet place to throw them out. "Hello," she says, smiling politely. "I am Petra, student of the Black Eagles. You are?" Her eyes follow the line of the stranger's hand--Soleil, Petra repeats internally, filing it away for later reference--as she grasps a hyacinth, soft as a whisper and just as delicate. Soleil crowns her with a flower and Petra allows it, making another note of Fódlan's strangely intimate customs. "It is not a dream. Dreams do not have uncomfortable clothes. So I am thinking this is real." She selects a blush-colored hyacinth from her own bouquet between her thumb and index finger and traces the shell of Soleil's ear with her ring finger and pinky, tucking the flower neatly in one fluid motion. The tradition is complete. "What would be different if it were?"

SO RARE IS A FLOWER THAT KNOWS           to use its beauty against her, or—well. more probably is that she has met more out there that would much prefer to be a princess than they would want to be a prince! she can't blame them. it's much nicer to be a princess. at least in the fairy tales ( as she can hardly say she's acquainted with any real princesses as of yet! ) there's less suffering in it, you see—people come to court you. what need do you have to go through the garden?

crawl on your hands and knees, prick them with thorns when you can simply wait to have a bouquet brought to you? be charmed?

see: soleil was a princess once too.

see: soleil is a girl that is weak-kneed, slack-jawed and staring more dopily than she means to as the other girl—petra, she reminds herself. her petra, she corrects, ( too much? ) weaves a flower into her hair and it takes a moment as her eyes fall to hers and she tries to place the hue. a reddish-brown: cinnamon, or star anise? redwoods, mahoganies—no, none of these will do. there's her distracting curl of her eyelashes, the smear of color that falls against the slope of her cheek and she half-thinks! oh, it would be her greatest joy to place her hand there and trace a half-moon to its completion.

it isn't petra's witty reply that she answers. her astute! observation of the facts, no—not a comment on the color of the flower, its scent or a word on her dress like soleil imagines. very much not so. it's, "will you marry me?"

...

"—WAIT."

[macnaradhaigh]

Petra blinks owlishly. It's certainly not the first time she has heard a marriage proposal, and not even the first time from a stranger. That part is not noteworthy. But Soleil's face is flushing and her breath is catching. Something is not right.

"This is a large question to be asking someone you do not know. Are you well?" She places a hand behind Soleil's head and brings it closer, pressing her cheek against the mercenary's forehead. It was an action that aunties had done for Petra in the past when she had spent too long in the rain or not gotten enough sleep. Her brows knit as she measures silently before pulling away, her hand still cradling the nape of Soleil's neck. "You are warm. Are you needing water?"

[ruinedskys]

More than once, he’s been told he talks too much. Derisive. Accusatory. Sometimes accompanied by scandal with repercussions that blunder on like a snowball in a blizzard for weeks on end. And, sure, it might be true. It’s definitely true. So what? Sylvain has to smile, has to think that these people don’t understand the difference between talking for the fun of it and actually saying something that matters. 

This? It’s all in good fun.

Until he turns on his heel to search for another interesting companion and has to use all of his wit and reflex to keep from running over someone standing just a little too close.

What in the…

Sylvain is glad that there are so many people around, so many voices rising overhead that the sound he makes is swallowed by the general chaos. Several shades of surprise stall his tongue, expression brighter for it when he remembers to smile. “Unusual?” He repeats, using the break to catalogue that the cute, unfamiliar girl is a student he’s seen once or twice. Petra. Some noble princess with an alliance to the Empire. All of which Sylvain absolutely did not learn because his status as the next Margrave Gautier, who should know the key players in specific power struggles.

It helps his case that she’s cute. Even if her severe seriousness makes her proposition seem like some vague threat. It even reminds him of Felix…even if this isn’t a situation he’d be caught dead in. 

“It’s a ball, isn’t it? It’s not that unusual, so don’t worry about it.” Glancing around the ballroom, Sylvain quickly catches the eye of a few volunteers that have been tasked with keeping the ceremonial swords in question- beautifully ornate showpieces that seem sharper than a regular sword even from this distance. “Besides, only a real fool would decline a chance to dance with you. Can’t say sword skills are my best, but…I can give it my best effort.” With a sword in his hand, he’s always felt the lack of reach- a kind of instability he can’t normally afford. It’s the same now as one of the blades is passed into his hands. Too light. Too short.

[macnaradhaigh]

"I would like to the wield the sword, if you are willing." She says it plainly, in the way someone reports on the weather, with eyes trained on the nameless gentleman. Petra lifts the sword from his hands, pointedly ignoring the protests of the volunteers as she plants her feet and positions the hilt at her eye line, ready to drive the tip of the blade through her invisible target's neck. She finds solace in the familiar weight, in the familiar extension of her hand. Her eyes narrow, locking in on something beyond the ballroom as she feels the most herself she has all evening.

She shifts her weight to change stances, and maroon tresses draw a curtain on her view. Petra's brow furrows as she straightens, pausing for a moment with both hands still gripping the sword. Wordlessly, she places the grip back into the young lord's hands before pulling a ribbon from one of the sleeves of her dress with a soft rrrrrip! Catching thick tresses in the ribbon's loop, Petra ties her hair up and out of her face. She turns back to her partner, taking the sword from his palms and offering him her hand.

"My preparations are complete. The sword is of good caliber. Let me know if you will be proceeding, please."

[cervanke]

THE FIRST THING SHE REALIZES IS THAT　𐂂　the girl's a lot younger than she'd looked from a distance. the dress and makeup had made her seem so mature, but from up close, her face and the sound of her voice in particular is still that of an adolescent. but either way, she's glad she's not the only one here who's clueless——guess there's no escaping it when a bunch of people come to this academy from all over.

the comment about the chicken wins a snort, eyes following the girl's attention to the pair of dancers and catching the tail end of what must've prompted it.

"notia," comes the answer. "it's a little country pretty far overseas from here. i used to be a mercenary there, helping out with a group called the Monster Watch that tried to keep things safe."

"how about you?" like the girl's, her attention finally comes back to their conversation too, leaving behind the artful demonstration of ' cranes ' for now ; the movements might be a little strange, but she could see that it took a lot of technical skill and body control to pull them off. "did you come here to study?"

[macnaradhaigh]

Lightning flashes behind ocher glass. "... I am from overseas as well." Her gaze lowers to the young woman's dress--humble, in comparison to the grandeur of the evening, and yet, somehow familiar. And in any case, certainly more comfortable than the mountains of fabric and adornments that the woman at the market had all but shoved into her hands like the curse it was. "I..." Petra's voice trails, and her gaze goes somewhere beyond the walls of the ballroom. She blinks--once, hard--remembering herself. "I am here on an arrangement. There is... It is a complicated matter. I am Petra, student of the Black Eagles." Something about the introduction feels vulnerable, like a spotlight burning holes into the back of her neck. But no matter.

"Are you enjoying the Ethereal Ball?" Right. The pleasantries. A much easier topic, and one more suitable for the evening. "I was unaware how physical dancing in Fodlan is. Perhaps it will improve my lance forms, knowing how to avoid having my feet stepped on," she says with a small laugh that trails.

[macnaradhaigh]

@aurelianwolf sent: [ MINT CANDY ]  When there's not much of anything going on, it's easy to notice something as mundane as candies falling to the ground. Gathering up the few wrapped mints, Wolf strides ahead to catch up to the student before she disappears. "You dropped this," he says simply, unfurling his palm.

Truthfully, she had been on her way out of the ball, hoping to slip past peering eyes so she could tear her dress in half and bury the heels that had rubbed her feet raw. She had done her part, had she not?

So when a low voice rumbles behind her, Petra goes deathly still, perhaps to anticipate the next move, or perhaps to not shatter the illusion of the pleasant princess who is just oh so delighted to be here.

Wordlessly, she straightens and turns around to face the gentleman. "Thank you, my lord." She addresses his title (she has no idea who he is), she curtsies (her feet are screaming in indignation), and she accepts the candies (these accursed things would never leave her, would they?). In any other situation, she knew that the next proper step would be to exchange pleasantries and talk about mundane subjects like the weather, how they are enjoying the ball, and just how lovely the cakes and creams are. But the room is hot and getting smaller by the minute. "Please excuse me," Petra says, curtsying again before making her way to one of the balconies for some air.

[macnaradhaigh]

@kutolahs sent:

[ FLOWER ARRANGEMENT ] - No matter how many flowers you gather, your bouquet won't look its best unless you have the skill to make it so. A couple of students have taken upon itself to imbue their peers with the knowledge of flower language and the art of flower arrangement, and as a result the garden has become something of a workshop. "hm..." the nomad observes her; silent for a spell. there is a kinship felt with this young woman though he cannot say why. her braids and her ink; his bandana and his clothes; it is as if they are both not of this land. or perhaps that is the truth of the matter. "my flower...will look good in your wreath," he says at last, gesturing to a vivid red rose, "...do you want it?"

A sienna gaze traces the line of his bandana, his worn clothes, his outstretched hand. Petra is silent, her eyes trained on the rose offered in the stillness between them. Slowly, tentatively, she lifts her hand to gingerly pluck the bloom from the stranger's grasp. "You have keen eyes for design," she remarks with a small smile before turning her attention to the flower arrangement before her. Another pause. "But it is seeming that I do not." A hyacinth is plucked from the bouquet to make space for the rose, and whether it violates some rule of aesthetics or form is beyond her. She turns her attention back to the gentleman and offers the hyacinth. "You are not from here either. What brings you?"