vengewise @seawardoath - Tumblr Blog

#itsuwaru #thread : rogue bow in the salad aisle

"A bag?" Ronan jogged to a stop near his would-be assistant and craned his neck back to peer at his runaway bow, nearly being blinded by the angle of the sun on this particularly cloudless day. He shielded his eyes just in time to watch his bow flap its wings and twirl away from the young woman's attempts to snag it with her staff. It wasn't very fast, but she was right: if he didn't hurry, it might move out of reach entirely.

For a split second, he wondered if it'd be easier just to make a new one. Then maybe he wouldn't be the center of this marketplace's attention right now. He could tell that everyone who'd put their shopping on hold to stare at him - merchants and customers alike - did so expecting to witness the conclusion to this very bizarre, dream-like chase sequence. If he wanted to, he could abandon his bow and just walk away. Disappoint them, but keep his dignity in tact at least.

His bow starts to flutter its wings again, rising on a swell of wind, and Ronan makes the decision without thinking.

"Let me borrow that," he says, and grabs the student's staff. Whether she lets go or not, he's too distracted to notice, and pulls her over to some crates stacked up next to the wall. Then he starts to tug his green shirt off over his head with his other hand. Now wearing his white undershirt pulled loose from his trousers, his hair ruffled by the sudden undressing, his eyes trained on the weapon flying overhead, he steps up onto the lowest crate. Only one problem now--

"Please. I promise I'll return it," he turns and says to the student about her staff.

The Meaning of Home

Expedition Holy War: Week 3 - Return to Iz | Ronan, Leif, & Maria

diadic

Leif nods to Ronan's cue for him. “That's right.” Home— the word bounces and shifts in Leif's mind until it settles calmly like a lost item falling to the ocean floor. 'Home,' he knows he ought to call Leonster; however, even now, it's not second-nature to the prince to introduce himself as its scion. The pull of so many years hiding such a fact has buried what should have been instinct.

Yet, for only three years in this coastline by comparison, the sound Ronan speaks of it doesn't feel so odd.

That is not to say it is not new though. Leif, for all he might call this sea his home, had still been a prince held in safety and a relative newcomer all the same. Three years for Leif is but a single handful of sand compared to Ronan's beach's worth of experience in this lifestyle. Fiana and Iz, for as close as they were, were also not one and the same.

The smile Ronan shows now is, Leif imagines, from a time he didn't know him too— a thing afforded to those like the shopkeeper from before who know the secrets of living in places like this for as long as they do, for those who don't pick up a sword but instead a hatchet or a bow. He follows after Ronan's lead, chasing through hills so as to chase these extra years of a lifestyle Leif came too late into.

To chase 'home.'

“I've only ever followed the Freeblades to go fishing. You make me wish I'd broken off once... maybe I could've brought something nice to surprise Osian and Halvan with if I'd been more like you, Ronan,” Leif speaks in some admiration, keeping up pace. Even back then, he'd been chasing his neighbors for this feeling, just as he chases after Ronan now.

At twelve years old or nineteen— it's all the same, so it would seem.

“Maria said the forests in Verdane reminded her of Macedon, right?” he plays off of Ronan's line of inquiry. He remembers then to perhaps look back after her and make sure she's keeping pace too, forgetful and newly conscious of this. Leif slows his pace in reaction, but he keeps his gaze glancing forward through the trees towards their destination. “Salt... I think I smell the sea. We're getting close, aren't we?!”

A scent that sets him alive and makes him homesick all the same; for all consideration he reminds himself to put when Ronan's words had reminded him to, Leif forgets again, a sudden burst of speed pushing him forward in that youthful anticipation.

Chasing home, chasing Ronan's memories, chasing the sea— they all make his feet light as can be.

NEXT: @princessmacedon !!

princessmacedon

When Ronan's hand sweeps across the horizon, Maria's follows suit, a slower, more lingering thing. Slivers of water peek from between her fingers; if she relaxed a bit, if she let them dip, she might very well brush against the ocean and sun herself.

"Your home is beautiful," she answers sincerely, despite that gentle pang of envy in her chest. Even of her Macedon, she knows precious little. Had she ever traced the line of its shore with her footsteps, or wandered through its dense forest from below, and not above? Had she ever touched its waves like this? The displaced princess -- Leif and Ronan's friend -- turns over her palm, dropping a light and playful touch against the glittering sunlight. "Hee hee... if you told me right here that the coast stretched on forever, I think I would believe you."

It's only then that she wonders why it is that a prince made his home in a coastal village quiet enough, peaceful enough that a shopkeeper might while away his mornings in the sun. Her eyes chase his back as he breaks away, his question answered firstly with a faint smile. Then her gaze drifts toward Ronan, curious if she might find another there to share, and she thinks that she would much rather ask them all the reasons they hold this place so dear.

"It's really, really pretty," she asserts, nearly to herself.

"I'll keep your secret safe," Maria promises Ronan fondly. The excited grin shining toward him is split in two by the finger she brings to her lips, and swallowed up entirely by a peal of laughter. "But yes! Macedon is surrounded by the ocean, too! The mountains are covered in trees--" At that, the little cleric reaches toward the sky, fingers splayed as if to catch every drop of blue. Then she directs her palm outward, much the same as Ronan had before. "--but whenever I missed home, I'd look at the water and think it was just over the horizon." Like that, it was never so far away.

Throwing out her arms, Maria shakes off the energy bubbling in her chest by twirling in place. It isn't as if she has any idea where they're actually going, even if she runs ahead. (She giggles at that.)

NEXT: @seawardoath or @diadic

#princessmacedon #diadic #event thread : the meaning of home #// skipped ahead to bring them to the coast #// I like that both maria and leif were reflecting on their somewhat complicated relationship with home #// since both of them were taken from it #// the plight of royalty during wartime that a commoner might not understand

It didn't take long for the three of them to venture to the southernmost boundary of the village, marked only by the river shimmering under the midday sun between the houses there and the forests beyond. The people of Iz had no need for a wall, having the natural protection of Thracia's rugged mountains to the west instead, and the dense forest north and south of them, so they were unimpeded to cross the creek and wind their way through hills and cliffs toward the sea. Ronan kept the lead, but Leif and Maria would sometimes take their own turns in front once the path became a straight shot to the coast.

The cliffs overlooking the coast here are tall, but not dangerously so, and a crude set of wooden steps has been hammered into a slope down one side of them. They'd obviously been made by an untrained hand, perhaps a child, but they serve their purpose as footholds well enough. Ronan marches down them without so much as a slip, making it clear that he'd been the one to build them, or at least use them more than anyone else in the village. There was a certain confidence in his step that only came with trust.

"Well, we're here," he says once they reach the rocky shore. It's low tide at this hour, so the beach is strewn with debris - petrified logs, algae, and broken shells, mostly - and pockmarked with tide pools still full of water. Here, too, a low waterfall spills the river into the ocean, and a small bay separates where they stand from the rest of the village's coastline.

Ronan starts to patrol the tidepools, stepping carefully between them so as not to slip and fall in.

"There's usually plenty of fish over here. Most just aren't very edible," he says over his shoulder. "When I was a child though, learning how to catch anything was enough to make me feel like I was doing something worthwhile."

Next: @princessmacedon @diadic

— THE BEGINNING NOTES OF A SIREN SONG .

ronan you are speaking my language so fluently i mistook you for a nabatean

"Ronan…" she murmured, the syllables floating through the air as if carried by a light breeze and not a voice, "Oh, Ronan, thank you!"

By now, her head was starting to clear. Vague recollections of exactly what she was doing here and why began to stitch themselves together, forming that beautiful tapestry of memory that she had always been protective over, yet whose threads seemed to come undone so easily. She sat up, and when her legs shifted, the seaweed that had been caught between them also moved, like a pair of fins or a fine tail.

"No, no, I was not swimming. I had been fishing in the dock, just right there, when I was viciously pulled in by… something." Flayn sighed, "What it is, I cannot yet say, though I have my suspicions."

There was no other fish quite as fierce as the Goddess Messenger, so she was certain that must have been the one to drag her down the pond's depths. Though perhaps her diminutive size could have allowed lesser creatures to pull her in… but still! She wished to believe that, even for a moment, she had managed to hook the elusive fish, even if she were the one who ended up getting reeled in.

She wrung the water out of her hair, which was so heavy with pondwater that its beautiful curls had lost all shape, and it instead sat limply over her shoulders. It was at this moment that she realized how she might have looked in front of Ronan—drenched, heaving, utterly messy—and felt a warmth creep up to her cheeks.

"Oh! Er," she stuttered suddenly, "I understand now how terrible of a first impression this must be... My name is Flayn, and I would like to assure you I do not normally fall into ponds, nor get caught into hooks! I must thank you once again for rescuing me. You must be disappointed I am not a large, delicious fish."

She would have been, anyway.

#cotharach #thread : the beginning notes of a siren song #mission season: epidemic #// promised meet-cute and by god is it meet-cute hahaha

Many years ago, when Ronan was barely old enough to join the fisherman in the village when the set out to sea, he'd overheard a few of them trading stories about a woman they'd seen - more fish than human - who was thought to live in the waters off the coast of Iz. He was quite young at the time, and they spoke without thinking that the boy sitting in the corner with their nets might be eavesdropping, so they filled their tales with all sorts of exaggerated details adults liked to add when they wanted to entertain. The only one who hadn't picked up on the subtle message that this was mere fantasy - albeit one they wished could be true - was Ronan, and so he'd spent the whole rest of the the trip peering out into the dark waters for a glimpse of flowing hair and glimmering scales.

He was well past the age of fairytales by now, and he'd come to terms with the truth of the Woman of the Sea back when he was still a teenager. There was no such thing. He knew that. And yet like all the fishermen who'd spent their evenings at sea trading stories of the fish woman they were so certain they'd seen, his heart fluttered with some small hope.

And he was staring.

"No, not at all," he said absently, only half-aware of what he was answering as he blinked away from the tail-like fan of grasses around her legs. (legs, surely. not a tail.) Still flushed pink, he raised his eyes to her face and sat back on one knee. What was he saying? What was she saying?

He was still staring.

"O-oh, uh," he shook his head and quickly stood up, "Flayn. What a--"

Cute name? Pretty name? A perfect-for-a-mermaid name?

"--weird name." He winced. "I-I mean, I've never heard a name like yours before. I was just about to start a fire for lunch. Would... you like to join me? You could dry off, if nothing else." Dusting his hands on his trousers, he glanced toward the campfire he'd started on the bank but hadn't set a light to yet. "You must have been in the water for a while. I didn't even hear you fall in."

cervanke

⠀⬩⠀gannets never go blind

infamous⠀/⠀sword

cervanke

NO ONE COMES TO SAVE HER, UNTIL SOMEONE DOES.　𐂂　she doesn't even hear the voice at first, caught up in the empty, frenetic noise in her own mind as she counts every step. it's only when her gaoler suddenly stops and turns that she lifts her head to his sneering expression and follows its line in surprise. a young man, blue hair. . . ronan? oh, no.

heated, impassionate, he interjects on her behalf, drawing the attention of all around who are determined to do nothing else but laugh at him. her brow creases with sympathy, then anger ; then gratitude and something more difficult to place softens the line of it again just as quickly. he shouldn't be here, doing that, and for a moment she steps forward to say so, only to be yanked back again before she can open her mouth. "you're not going anywhere," the guard growls at her while some woman's strident voice rises up further in the crowd, ronan continuing on afterwards.

then all of it is stopped. her attention, along with dozens of others', turn to the front of the walkway. the fringes of the crowd there shuffle aside, falling hushed. someone even more important than any of them has shown up ; her brow renews its righteous crease.

the elderly man stepping through smiles when he looks at her, which is a surprise, but not one that unseats her for long. the ones that smile always have the worst intentions. "ananke. is that your name?"

"who's asking?" she doesn't think her tone's rude, but a ripple passes through the crowd anyway. the elderly man looks over her shoulder at them, and it dwindles into silence again.

"that's not important to you," he dismisses gently as if she was an insistent child, which only makes the line of her mouth tighten more. "what is, is that i must admit your friend is a little right."

all lines dissipate in surprise. wha. . . ?

"i'll make this quick because i don't have time to spare. there is another suspect in our custody as we speak."

the rattle of her chain is almost querying, preceding the guard's voice. "my lord?"

but he continues as though he hadn't heard. "as it stands, there is evidence that implicates you both. however, we know for certain that only one individual could have murdered the viscount. i will give you both a choice: investigate and present a testimony against the other to sentence them to death, and you may go free."

the quiet is deafening. she's not completely sure she understands. already, one flaw in this choice stands out: "that doesn't make sense. if we both testify against each other. . . "

"then presumably you will have both found strong evidence against the other, and so you both will be shackled in the dungeons as the investigation continues."

her throat is dry when she swallows, rough and parched, never taking her eyes off him for a moment. " . . . "

"but as i said, for now, your friend is correct. there's not enough evidence at the moment to implicate either of you." he waves the cane at the guard, and it doesn't feel real, but the man barely hesitates. in a few seconds, the iron around her wrists falls open and she rotates them disbelievingly. the last word the lord gives is spoken with a shrug in parting as he turns, like an afterthought: "should you both choose to do nothing, i suppose there's little we can do but let you go. i have no interest in making an enemy of the church by convicting you wrongly."

. . .

what does that. . . what does that even mean? she's free to go? suddenly? but in order to really go free, she has to build a case against a stranger? or, what. but what if they also do the same and testify against her——he'd said he'd offered the same choice to them too. but if they do nothing. . . no, there's no way anyone would do nothing. ananke isn't certain what happens in the minutes that pass as she stands there, looking at her wrists and seeing neither of them, only that at some point the crowd of nobility, the lord, and her guard have left, and only ronan remains.

#cervanke #thread : gannets never go blind #mission season: infamous #// going to be fun digging into the idea that ronan actually doesn't care about 'fairness' so much as not associating himself #// with evil people - he's not thinking twice about this other suspect in custody hahaha

Just like that, the crowd of spectators disperse and the hall empties. Not a second too soon either, because Ronan realizes he'd been holding his breath through the old man's offer and lets it go now with a strained gasp, doubling forward to grab his knees.

"I can't believe that worked..." he says, near-breathless and mostly to himself. The earlier claustrophobic feeling has given way to the cold echo of marble walls and for a second he almost forgets that the person he'd defended was still at the other end.

"Are you alright?" His head snaps up to the sight of Ananke absently rubbing her wrists in the same kind of can't-believe-this-is-real daze that made his own legs feel like rubber. The gaoler had hauled the chains off with him when he'd left, but Ronan trots over looking for them anyway. Maybe then this situation would sharpen back into reality.

"Sorry, I don't know if you had a plan or anything, but," he shakes his head and doesn't meet her eyes, "I couldn't just stand by and not say anything. These nobles will just--" This time he stops to find the words, frowning and still shaking his head in half-disapproval, half-disbelief at some distant point between two columns along the corridor. The heads of those gossiping ladies sneer at him from the shadows, then they twist into the heavy features of the guard, before smiling with the subtle hint of personal amusement that he swears he'd seen on the old man's face.

"They don't care about fairness, you know? Not usually... So I'm going to make sure I do everything I can to help clear your name now that they've given us the chance."

Us. Ronan says it without even thinking. The only 'us' had been that of two mercenaries in the employ of the church, contracted to guard a paranoid nobleman. There didn't need to be an 'us' now in the trial of a murderer. Anyone else probably would have just walked away from Ananke; the messes she got tangled up in was her business.

"We've been together since we got here anyway. If you'd killed someone, I'd know. Especially our employer."

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

#WINNINGSUN || Ethereal Ball 2026

Word Count Challenge: 350

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

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

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

. . . ♪ ♬ ♪ , ♬ ♪ ♪ . . .

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

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

@hermidetta @seawardoath

hermidetta

there's a brief moment in which bernadetta glances between flayn and ronan. once, then twice, then...

then dorothea's rustling snags her attention. tragedy and betrayal, she announces, unlike what ought to occur down here. (maybe a few moons ago, for bernadetta.)

or so they can only hope. without realizing she shifts closer again to flayn, unwilling to accept an apology that her downturned gaze does not owe anyone. instead bernadetta's mouth starts running, as it is wont to do when her body knows it will be marginally kinder to her than thinking.

“um, would you guys say the church is a fool? for, you know, that fool's mistake. ah!” she jolts beside flayn, gray eyes shot wide despite the sincerity of her question. and then, with some light patting to her own cheek, punitive in spirit: “s-sorry! i'm sorry! i didn't mean to say that!”

rather than digging herself any deeper, a spike of escape-fueled adrenaline compels her to scamper right past claude and toward the remaining crate. with a little grunt, she shoves aside the lid with her running start and dives halfway in as it's clattering to the ground.

“i-it's definitely got to be fine!” bernadetta's voice carries a faint echo while her legs kick in the air behind her. “no fools here, even though we just found some theater-fools' masks, nope. just like there's no getting smote for accidental blasphemy. hey, so about those wings!”

she found them, she thinks. at least one, which comes toppling with bernadetta's body after she wriggles out from the crate, hoisting the stone appendage with her underperforming might.

“ACK—” she lands on her back with a thud, and the heavy wing sandwiches her flat into the ground. one of the boys would do better in taking it off of her figurative hands, and more literal body.

“...mm-mmph. ronnmn? clauhnm?” ronan? claude? she even almost thinks to mumble saint cichol? but remembers what she'd just said about blasphemy. then, above even that: flayn's sweeter company.

@failnaughted / @seawardoath / @cotharach

#hermidetta #encantresse #failnaughted #cotharach #event thread : we're in jesus' tomb #toaball2026 #wc 324

"Ber--" What was her name again? "Bernie!?"

Without thinking, Ronan tosses the other mask he'd picked up back into the box with the rest the moment the girl tumbled out of the crate. The room had been nothing short of a whirlwind of motion the moment she'd asked her question - a question Ronan failed to see a problem with; at least not one for such a reaction - which had been just after Dorothea's revelation about the music so Ronan hadn't the time to consider what that meant or what Claude meant about the lower floor being on fire.

He was already standing over her, hands waving helplessly by the time Bernadetta finally stilled under the weight of a stone carving. It was probably the only thing in the entire room that could stop whatever panic she'd riled herself up into.

"Are you alright?!" Ronan grabs one edge of the severed wing with both hands and hauls it back, nearly toppling onto his backside himself. It wasn't as heavy as he thought it was, and he'd put his all into trying to move it. It hits the ground heavily enough to rattle the contents still in the other crates though, and Ronan staggers to catch his footing.

"Did it hurt you?" He offers his hand to help her back up to her feet.

Speaking of tragedies: maybe Bernadetta was aiming to make her own up here.

Ronan looks from wing to statue, sizing up what it might take to hoist the thing up there and then the kind of materials they'd need to hold it in place - materials he doesn't think this tower has.

"So... a burned tree... a wingless monster in a burned room... and a tragic opera?" Ronan frowns, concentration etching a deep line between his brows. For a moment, it looks like he might even solve their riddle, but still with that look of deep thought, he echoes what everyone else must be thinking instead:

"... What in the gods' name does that mean?"

@hermidetta @encantresse @failnaughted @cotharach

stormofembla

➥ expendables

infamous | lance +1 | game doc

rozyrne

NEXT THING HE KNOWS ,⠀✩⠀he's face-down in the dirt. ronan's rolling off him and elbows him in the kidney. a distant scream kills whatever he'd been about to say, and he's scrambling to his feet as the bracken parts, revealing two girls who look back at them like deer in lamplights. "wait, we were supposed to be on the east side," one of them says disbelievingly to the archer's question, "what are you guys——??"

boom.⠀⠀⠀boom.⠀⠀⠀boom.

deep and resonant drumbeats, stunning everyone silent. were those the alarm, telling everyone that attackers were here? shoot.

rosado grabs for his axe, not sure if they should just dive in now, or. "where's professor hedgpeth?" in charge of the greenhouse shifts and duties, but better known as the administrative aide of the student choir with an awful soprano he loved any chance to use.

"he's back at the. . . " the two girls exchange looks.

"shit. he's by himself!"

both heads plus rosado's turn to bruno with the same look of expectation. he's the professor now. they probably had seconds before the bandits came or they just slaughtered the hostages en mass. what do they do?　/　@stormofembla

stormofembla

This cannot be real, much less the output of a military academy. He seethes as he scrambles back to his feet — no point in bickering now (even if Bruno was certain they were in the right). They can't be surrounded before they've even made a valiant attempt to enter, no.

"Get closer to there," he bites, tilting his head at the ruins. Unintentional agitation creeps into his directions, but he does little to restrain it further. "Scatter — but stay close to each other. If you're in minor trouble, yell. If there's too many on you, run from everyone else. Don't get everyone killed."

And if you find Hedgpeth, let me tear a hole into him myself.

"Rosado and," he gestures at the girl with the toothpick-like sword in her hands, "with me upfront. Ronan and," the other, "keep an arrow notched behind. Reconvene at the northwest wall: 10, 12 tiles ahead. Understood?"

"Yeah—" but Bruno is already moving.

He's not sure what to expect when he emerges from the bush, weapon in hand, but a silent landscape — still, eerily so — isn't part of it. Eyes narrow as he trudges ahead, regardless: silently abiding by the same plan. Nothing for the first few steps; and then with his next, a shrill CRACK.

Eyes flicker down to see a bottle crunched under his heel.

@seawardoath

#cervanke #stormofembla #// wc 239 #thread : expendables #mission season: infamous #// writing too much every time like damn ronan do you want to save these villagers or not hahah #// anyway since rai said that ananke was in the compound I was thinking that the lithe shadow would be her #// and ronan nearly hit her

Ronan breaks from the brush faster than the rest, keeping close to the shadow of the trees as he circles into position. The other student Bruno had directed to go with him labors behind him like she's never run a day in her life. And maybe she hasn't, but right now that doesn't much matter to Ronan. He springs over fallen logs as nimbly as a deer and as silent as a rabbit, his footfalls light over the leaf litter, eyes trained on the compound's northwestern silhouette. All the while, the girl with him trails farther and farther behind until she gives up entirely.

Ronan slides to his knees and presses his back up against a tree once he's close to the wall. Chest heaving, head turned to watch for sign of Bruno, he waits and tries to slow his breath.

The crack of glass releases him as quick as an arrow, and he whips around the trunk to take aim.

"Over here!" someone shouts from beyond the walls, then comes the march of at least two pairs of boots across the gravel within the compound. By torchlight, Ronan only has moving shadows to go on. He fires. A man grunts and something leatherbound and heavy hits the ground. Struck in the knee. Then a new shadow, faster and more lithe, wheels around the corner toward Bruno as Ronan desperately nocks a new arrow, too slow to catch it.

@cervanke

ruinedskys

Why did someone have to go and bring up true love?

It’s unfair in the same way a regular skirmish is, when he’s fighting someone with weapons only to feel the sharp and sudden sting of thunder making his vision blur. There’s no need for all that, and there’s no need for his thoughts to spiral as they are now, throwing a half-hearted look of disbelief in Ronan’s (commoner) direction.

True love implies some cosmic, Goddess-granted pull. A piece of himself that’s missing that’s more important than all the other pieces gone bad.

It implies there’s a choice to be made, or that they won’t all settle for something sooner or later because love is something wielded like a tool in the arsenal. “Can’t say I know anyone who’d trade down, no.” Ronan’s not unattractive, it’s worth noting, which is probably why he entertains true love at all. Maybe somewhere, there are some bored, rich widows that’d take him on. He mirrors the shrug he’s given, slapping on a grin and a raised brow.

“Lucky for you, it doesn’t really work the way you’re describing either. Sure, they’d get an earful, but as long as they’re a non-inheriting daughter…eh…you’d be looking at a semi-pampered, semi-important new life. Would that be so bad?” No matter how people pretended, these things always mattered. Just like it did for the brunette eyeing them from several tables down. “Oh…that girl? Yeah…I thought she looked pretty familiar. Rose? Rosalind…Renee…” None of the above. Iris, maybe. Sylvain makes a thoughtful kind of sound. “We dated a while back, nothing serious.” Nothing Sylvain thought was serious anyway, except that she’d evidently thought a few nights was enough to strongarm him into an early proposal. He feels the daggers when he turns away. “You’re right about one thing. A noble and a commoner? Always a recipe for heartbreak.”

For a moment, he allows his expression to suggest that he’s the recipient of such, reaching a hand to cover his heart.

#ruinedskys #toaball2026 #event thread : sylvain mini1 #// sorry for the waaaaiit #// this is also disjointed as hell because writing has been a struggle this week #// but I wanted to make sure sylvain got a hyacinth before the end of the ball #// we can close the thread on your post

"I don't think I could ever live the way they do." 'They' being the rich and pampered. Ronan follows Sylvain's gaze to the brunette he seems less interested in now, and notes how she doesn't even seem to notice anyone staring at them right now. She's caught up in her own conversation with her friends.

"My mother is depending on me to come back to our village to take care of her, and I could never give up the sea... Fishing is more rewarding than, um... this." He gestures to the ballroom as a whole and then looks back at Sylvain. By now, the redhead seems entirely disinterested in the girl, but Ronan is willing to take his reasoning at face value. They'd dated, and that had been the end of that. Maybe he'd just been watching her to check up on what she was doing tonight.

Sylvain's feigned heartbreak flashes another smirk across Ronan's lips and he tilts his head.

"Are you speaking from experience? I'll keep that in mind then. Why date someone if you're not serious about it though?" After a second, Ronan shakes his head and then looks down at his bouquet. "If that's too personal, you don't have to answer. Most people I know marry the first person they like."

Unless Sylvain simply didn't like anyone at all. What a dark thought.

"Here. If you're playing the game, you can have one of my flowers. And another mint, too."

"Oh, Flayn!" Ronan catches her as the White Heron Cup draws to a close, his eyes twinkling like a child who'd just seen his first shooting star. "You're a magnificent dancer! I think I like watching you even better."

But something about her dance, as beautiful as it was, had seemed lonely, especially up against a pair who seemed to infuse their trust for one another in every move, but perhaps it was merely his imagination. And, he realizes suddenly, he'd just made a remark he hadn't quite meant.

"Er, that isn't to say that I didn't enjoy dancing with you earlier, I just-- You know what I mean, right?" He glances away and rubs the back of his neck as he scrambles to save himself. "I thought you'd win for sure."

The feeling that emerges after the White Heron Cup is not disappointment, per se. It is more of a disorientation, a force that sweeps her off her feet and leaves her on the ground wondering. The arrival of Ronan does little to help her up—why, his praise does more to knock her over! And to think he had watched her up there? A trickle of warmth drips its way from her chest down to her stomach. There is no mistaking this feeling.

Flayn smiles, but her cheeks tingle so much that her lips start to quaver, "I do know what you mean, Ronan. There is no need to explain any further. You flatter me greatly! And..."

She takes a deep breath. Wondering if she should take his hand, then deciding against it for now.

"It is fortuitous that we should meet. I was just thinking about you. In fact, I find myself thinking of you quite a lot." Admitting that, strangely, does not make her nervous. Nor does the question that comes after.

"Do you happen to be free right now? I'd hate to steal you away from your duties once again but... there is someplace I'd love to take you, if you will allow me."

#toaball2026 #cotharach #// I love that you tied this to the group thread #// linking it for the continuity #// truly playing teenagers who realized they had a crush on each other at prom...

What the boss doesn't know won't hurt him... Until being trapped in the Goddess' Tower makes Ronan late coming back from his break.

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

#WINNINGSUN || Ethereal Ball 2026

Word Count Challenge: 350

hermidetta

she doesn’t have a horse in this race (sadly she doesn’t have a horse at all) about the sanctity of this place, nor its promises. but with some shred of mindfulness to the one holding her hand, having hovered after flayn and ronan, bernadetta doesn't open her mouth at all until the statue garners most of their attention.

“um…” now that bernadetta’s looking at it, there's something about the creature that stills her, but not out of abject horror.

“hm-hm-hm… hmm?” moving to cross her arms, she ends up striking a pose of deep thought—a nod beyond her years like she’s understanding something more important than it really is, a rub of her chin with gloved thumb, and the other arm wound tight across her waist, clutching that paperweight she’d picked up earlier.

“okay, uh-huh…” a little more drawling, more nodding to herself. “yeah, wait a second… yep. got it! bernie’s heard all about these before! from my, uh—my really good friend. they’re gargoyles, and they’ve got these huge…” her arms flap to pantomime an eagle’s flight, except if the eagle were half dead and diving into its own grave.

“...wings,” she supplies, for her horrible acting. “if claude's right, we're looking for those? but…” three crates for two wings? let alone how nightmarish the creatures had sounded? why hadn't she brought her trusty cardboard box?

“to be honest, i haven't heard anything good about them. they're monsters that chase you around… o-on the bright side, they were only on some island that had games. nobody got seriously hurt, i think.” the idea of the church hosting a funhouse in the goddess tower is even less convincing than making a prison of it, but given the nature of tonight—the reception hall, those illusions…

“dorothea remembers where i’m talking about, right?” bernadetta spins to her, seeking validation for her claims. “i’m not going crazy, honest! i was a rat and everything!”

but, games were still all they were. and what was a puzzle if not another?

@seawardoath @failnaughted @cotharach

of course dorothea remembers. bernadetta was a rat, she was a weasel, and there hadn't been a soul on that archipelago who'd found its name fitting for one reason or another.

"i do," she replies unhappily. "you're thinking of happyland. i never saw them myself, but i heard the same stories. apparently, they were fans of snatching people up."

her gaze returns to the stone creature, expression darkening at the thought of the beast springing to life to do just that. "i don't know if that explains why they'd be here of all places," she muses, "but... let's say that's the case. that this thing really is one of those gargoyles. is assembling it really the best idea?"

a frown.

"i know, i know." dorothea hastily addresses potential pushback before anyone voices it. "there's not much for us to try. but it's just a thought. doesn't hurt to stay wary."

@seawardoath @cotharach @failnaughted

#encantresse #cotharach #hermidetta #failnaughted #toaball2026 #event thread : we're in jesus' tomb #wc 349

What kind of monastery was this place? Illusions, prisons, monsters, and Bernadetta was a rat? Dorothea doesn’t even bat an eye at that part. Ronan frowns, then looks up at the bared fangs of the stone-made monster, which Claude thinks might be some kind of puzzle, like the tree downstairs.

“If Flayn says this place is safe-“ she didn’t, only that this place wasn’t a prison, “—then we shouldn’t be so worried. We’ll find a way out. This can’t be the first time someone’s come in here and had the doors shut on them, right?”

But why was this room charred, like there’d been a fire here not too long ago? Ronan resists the urge to reach up and touch the statue’s wrinkled face, instead turning to examine the rest of the room and the three crates Dorothea pointed out.

“There was a terrible sorcerer from my homeland who could turn living things to stone,” he murmurs, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the creature. “But it could only be reversed by a rare, special spell. Even if this thing was once alive, it isn’t now, and to keep the key to its imprisonment in the same cell would be a fool’s mistake.”

Still, the crates have him curious about if that might be true after all, so he walks over to one to try the lid. It’s neither nailed nor locked shut, but takes both hands and a grunt or two of effort to lift it. With a heavy sigh, Ronan finally slides it aside and peers in. Arranged on a bed of cloth are four different masks - human-like caricatures one might find on stage for a play.

“No statue pieces here,” he says, partly relieved, and lifts one of the masks to show to the rest. If it’s the visage of a saint, he wouldn’t know. “I’m beginning to wonder if this might just be the church’s storage room. What do you think about these, Flayn?" He holds the mask over his face to hide his smile. "How do I look? Am I lead actor material?"

@encantresse @cotharach @hermidetta @failnaughted

estelular

[ SLIP-UP ] It could have been a brushed off as a simple accident, but really, Ronan had been somewhat intentional with the soft tap to her shoulder. He wanted to be sure that she was real, not a trick of the light or the strange projections that have been dancing across the walls, but now that he has his proof, he has to get himself out of a situation quickly turning awkward.

He points to his own head, and breathes in awe.

"You have rabbit ears."

Which doesn't help him in the slightest.

her ears fold down awkwardly. “...yes?” an agreement? a question? probably a little bit of both.

estel has never thought of them as any more curious than anyone else’s ears back home, but in fódlan they’ve turned out to be something of a marvel. what passes for human here is so different to what she has known all her life. where were the animal ears or the horns? their tails? their wings?

everything about the people here just seems so...empty in comparison. just look! there are entire limbs missing from where they should be!

her brows knit together, but there’s nothing for her to really point out on him aside from the absences. well, if they’re not on top of his head... estel points to the side of her head instead, head tilting. “don’t you have ears too?”

a beat, and then she can’t help herself. he started the conversation by pointing out her ears, so it can’t be that rude to ask about it. “isn’t it weird to not have...anything up there?” she twists to make a vague gesture at her back. “not even a tail? or wings?”

#estelular #toaball2026 #// no need to continue!#// this reply is actually the whole reason I sent the ask to begin with but I didn't want to frontload it with explanation hahaha #// (once again) sorry about my son he is stupid

So they are real.

All of the hard-earned lessons Ronan's mother had impressed upon him in his scant twenty years have been forgotten now as he stares - gawks, really - at the way her long ears twitch and fold just like those of a rabbit in the field. Miraculously, he finds that he even understands the gestures, too. To an extent, anyway. As much as a hunter comes to understand the important signals of his quarry. And he can tell right now, even without the knit of her eyebrows, that she's not too happy with him. His cheeks flush and he steps back apologetically, the spell snapping in a single breath.

"I'm sorry, I was just-- I've never seen anyone like you before." At their mention, he touches on of his own ears and frowns. When she puts it like that, maybe his observation had been a bit foolish. He wouldn't have gone up to anyone with weird-shaped human ears to point out their shape. Now she's giving him a taste of his own medicine. Why doesn't he have a tail or wings?

Suddenly, Ronan laughs. It's shy at first, and for a moment he hesitates to fill her in, but he decides it's only fair. He's bumbled his first impression severely enough; nothing else he says will truly make him out to be worse than she must already think.

"... Actually, when I was very little, I used to wish for wings. Fins, too. You know, like whales and porpoises, if you've ever seen them. They swim so much faster than humans. Even faster than some boats!"

He cuts himself off, and then laughs sheepishly again.

"If I knew there really were people out there with wings and tails... Well, what I mean to say is: I like your rabbit ears." Then he thrusts out one of the hyacinths from his bouquet, half-admiringly, half-apologetic. "... Before I bury myself in this hole, might I start over? My name is Ronan."

[ SLIP-UP ] - As it turns out, a lot of people at the monastery make for great body doubles in the dark. What do you do when you slap a friend on the back only for you to find out when they turn around that it’s not your friend at all?

The lights dim around them, and the crowd blurs together in shadows. Still, Deimne thinks he recognises one person through the dark, someone he fought with, someone who was awfully like him… It’s got to be him, right? With Seliph and Lana here, surely he wouldn't be too far behind? Even if the darkness obscures some details, he can just make out the blue hair and the archer’s build.

He lightly taps who he thinks is Lester on the shoulders. “Hey, it’s nice to…” and the realisation hits. “Oh, no, you’re not- Ah, I am so sorry, I thought you might’ve been someone else.” He shoves a flower into the man’s hand as a makeshift apology gift.

"Who--" Ronan glances at his hand, uncomprehending at first in the whirlwind of emotions. Any tap on the shoulder would first start with expectation, then maybe pride or anxiety or delight depending on circumstances - for Ronan, it had been all of the above. Expectation that he might turn and find a familiar face. Delight in the idea that it might be a friend calling on him, anxiety that it might instead be one of the guests he'd accidentally bumped into as he fumbled his way through the dimly lit ballroom.

For a beat or two, they'd just gawked at one another - each a decidedly unfamiliar face to the other. Now the only thing familiar is the hyacinth in Ronan's hand - blue, like many of his own - and the subtle sting of rejection that he knows rationally has no place here. Broken expectations, like glass, still have their edges.

"... Hey, wait!" Gathering his wits again, Ronan notices that the man who'd mistaken his back for that of someone else has already scurried ahead in the dark without so much as a name. Embarrassed, most likely, but Ronan doesn't see why that can't be fixed. He circles around ahead of the other to stop him.

"I'm Ronan." He thrusts out his hand for a handshake, but also to give a flower of his own in turn. "I might not have been the one you were looking for, but I oughta give you my name anyway. It's only polite."

#secularch #toaball2026 #// really too bad that edain hasn't mentioned lester by name to ronan before hahah #// thanks for sending!

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

#WINNINGSUN || Ethereal Ball 2026

Word Count Challenge: 350

Oh, great. You're telling him this whole thing is even more abnormal than usual? Because sure, his mind might supply some sufficient enough explanations for the jammed door and some sights that not even Flayn is familiar with, but a tree inside the Goddess Tower is pushing it a little bit.

Claude stops for a moment, examining the plant. It stands before them, its branches devoid of all foliage. Red leaves are strewn all over the floor, and it makes him pause and frown. The tree doesn't look dead, and there shouldn't be any wind coming in strong enough to tear the leaves all clean off like that (then again, there shouldn't be a tree here in the first place, but let's ignore that detail for now), so… What exactly happened to it?

He shelves the thought for the time being, turning his attention back to Flayn instead. "Much further up… Did we not enter through the usual door? I don't think we've been walking for that long." Still, none of this explains what he sees as he glances out of the balcony beside Flayn and Bernadetta. That… really is high up.

… Shouldn't the town be visible from that side instead?

"There's something weird about this space," he observes out loud, looking at the others. "Best if we don't separate unless absolutely necessary. We might not find each other again."

With that in mind, he moves away from the balcony, intent on checking what other hints he can still find in the immediate area. On his way, he brushes past the wall -

and suddenly jumps with a gasp that not even his usually forcefully stoic self can hold back.

"Ummm, why is there some kind of… Heartbeat or something in this wall??"

while no one likes to be last in anything, there is some benefit to bringing up the rear: the subtleties you observe. such as the way ronan stands taller whenever he glances flayn's way, how bernadetta quietly moves to flayn's side rather than sticking to hers, or how flayn takes bernadetta's hand without any prompting, and—

—how claude is the first to pause.

dorothea does, too. the only difference is that where flayn and claude wander some paces away to poke and peer around, she stands rigidly in place, a growing frown tugging at her lips as she holds the torch out to illuminate the space.

...or rather, where she stood before claude's gasp makes her jump as well, and the torch in her hand clatters to the floor. clang!

heartbeat, he says, and the heart in her own chest sinks. "don't touch anything!" she does not expect to say it so loudly, but there's no point in taking it back. "i wouldn't be so quick to assume that we're alone in here." ghosts are the least likely threat, she thinks as she glances bernadetta's way. monsters, on the other hand, have a penchant for taking on unassuming forms.

dorothea stoops to retrieve the fallen torch, and in a matter of seconds, she's re-lit it with a fire spell. "i may be wrong," she confesses, "though i can't help but think how eerily similar this is to the church's prisons we entered last year—one step through the door, and suddenly we're in a new space."

she eyes the walls warily.

"...i'd rather we not split up, either."

@hermidetta @seawardoath @cotharach @failnaughted

#hermidetta #cotharach #failnaughted #encantresse #event thread : we're in jesus' tomb #toaball2026 #wc 297

"!!"

Ronan whirls around from the tree with wide eyes, nearly fumbling his own torch and looking as guilty as he felt.

"I wasn't going to, I swear!" he blurts out, because yeah, maybe he'd thought about reaching up and touching a bough of this magnificent, although leafless tree, just to see if it were really made of stone. But it had only been a thought borne from his awe of the place, a natural reaction to such austere beauty he'd never seen before.

"... huh?" Ronan's shoulders drop, realizing that Dorothea hadn't been yelling at him. Not exactly. She seems distracted, a little on edge, and when she sets a new flame on the head of her torch, it wreathes her face in grave shadow. Ronan follows her attention to the wall Claude had jumped away from. Did he just say the wall had a heartbeat? Well, they couldn't - shouldn't - touch it again, just to be safe.

"Do you think this might be another of the church's prisons then? It's off limits, usually." And then quieter, more of a mumble under his breath: "... A prison's a strange place for romance."

The red leaves swirl around his feet when he crosses the room. They're as brittle and papery as the real thing, but still bright in color, like they'd only just fallen despite winter having stripped the rest of the trees of their colorful coats some months ago. Outside on the moonlit balcony, the whole forest surrounding the mountain on which the monastery had been built sits below them. Far below them. Ronan leans over the stone balustrade to peer down in search of the bridge that had led them here.

"It is beautiful though... What a view from up here! It's like you can see the whole world."

@hermidetta @cotharach @failnaughted

[SPARKLING WATER] / [SPILL] - The dry air of Garreg Mach had never sat well with Petra, and she finds herself hovering over the table of refreshments looking anything even remotely familiar. Her brow knits. Water it is then.

She lifts the glass to her lips and takes a swig when something begins to burn her nose and stabs at the back of her throat. Petra chokes and recoils from the glass as it falls to the ground, shattering like a newborn star.

Grasping desperately at one of the many cloth napkins, she coughs wetly, earning her some stares from passersby. The acrid sensation dissipates, and she surveys her surroundings once more. An unknown gentleman appears to have been caught in the crosshairs of her carelessness.

“Apologies, my lord.” Napkin in hand, Petra looks to see if whatever foul potion the Ethereal Ball was serving had marred his clothes. She kneels down and begins sweeping up the glass into the linen.

Ronan had been watching this guest out of the corner of his eye as she perused the refreshments. She seemed indecisive, or uncertain, so he'd stepped around the table to offer a few suggestions - however unrefined his own palate may be - with nothing but good intentions. Now, a dozen heads have swiveled around to gawk at shattered glass, a man standing over a woman who kneels at his feet, and assumptions run wild in the whispering hush over this corner of the room.

"M-my lord?" Ronan fumbles clumsily for another cloth napkin on the table, knocking over another pair of glasses as he pulls one out from under them without thinking and ducks down to help this young woman with the mess. His shoes are splashed with water and glass, and even a little bit of the hems of his pants, but he doesn't notice quite yet.

"I'm not a lord, don't worry. Here, let me take care of this. You might cut yourself." He glances up at her in the dark, his eyes landing on the mark on her cheek and lingering there for a moment, before he remembers himself again and tries to gather up more shards of glass before she can get to them.

"Was something wrong with the drink? You looked like you'd just taken a mouthful of poison."

@macnaradhaigh

#macnaradhaigh #toaball2026 #// hellooooo petra #// this was a surprise to find in my inbox hahah thanks for sending!#// you know when two people make a mess and then make more of a mess while trying to be the one responsible for cleaning up?#// that's what's happening right now

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

#WINNINGSUN || Ethereal Ball 2026

Word Count Challenge: 350

a shake of her head answers ronan's question. nope.

dorothea exhales slowly, bunching fistfuls of heavy fabric to drag herself toward the door they all huddle around. “the only spells i know would blow it off its hinges,” she admits, reaching out to tug at the handles herself. to no avail, naturally, though at least it confirms the fact. and lest someone think to suggest that might be a worthwhile option, she hastily adds, “...and send the tower crumbling down with us in tow.”

( alas, such is the risk of using spells in confined spaces. a brief glance at her palm reminds her of that hard-earned lesson. )

so, what now? here they remain, trapped unexpectedly with no way to contact the outside world. even if they could—would anyone pay attention? a night of revelry drowned out the senses, and wandering eyes lingered only on all that glittered.

defeat is conceded once she steps away from the door, turning to study the space they’ve found themselves in. flickering torches encircle the room, casting soft shadows across the weathered stone floor—and tucked into a dark corner, dorothea finally spots what appears to be a winding staircase. “huh.”

“well! i don’t know about the rest of you,” with that, she makes for the walls, lifting two torches from their sconces. "but i don't plan on spending the rest of the ball locked in here. shall we head up?"

the torches are held out in offering to those who might want to take one.

@hermidetta

hermidetta

holing yourself up all alone is great until there's four other people with you. bernadetta, deflated from the past some minutes she'd spent pawing desperately at the stone walls, blearily answers chocolate man with the same denial as earlier. "i don't know anything. wasn't me. bernie didn't do it this time. oh, you mean magic? no, i don't know any of that either. a-are you guys sure we can't whistle really loud for seteth or—"

not that she knew of any way he might hear; she's never even seen the man's ears. still, dorothea finds what looks to be the only route and bernadetta's a follower, which means two things: one, she most definitely isn't going up that staircase first. two, "i-i'll just... stay behind dorothea and flayn. i'm not so great with fire."

rather, she doesn't quite trust herself with it right now. better to leave at least one set of hands free, besides. bernadetta isn't exactly skilled enough to draw her bow without both. she'll also need both to climb and jump out of the next window they find, because there aren't any to be found on ground level. up it is, then.

she throws a glance to flayn. with the other two boys near her, both of whom bernadetta knows far less, she almost thinks to stay closer to dorothea—but instead, she purses her lips and opts to scurry by the other girl's side, less willing to leave her alone. "th-there aren't any, um, ghosts or monsters down here... are there? i mean, i-it's a holy place! it's got goddess in its name!"

@failnaughted / @cotharach / @seawardoath / @encantresse

#cotharach #failnaughted #encantresse #hermidetta #wc 324 #toaball2026 #event thread : we're in jesus' tomb #// forcing myself not to keep going with the description so I don't hit word count ahaha

“Knocking the door off its hinges would still get us out.”

Maybe they’d be fast enough to slip out before anything collapsed on them. But the way Dorothea adds on her warning, hurried, like she doesn’t want the rest of them to take her suggestion for a serious one, sounds like it’d be worse for them than it sounds.

“But this place is pretty important to the church, isn’t it? It would be best if we don’t damage it unless we have to.”

So Ronan just takes one of the two torches she’s pulled down from the wall and starts for the bottom of the stairs that spiral up into the darkness. The timid one with the purple hair stammering on about ghosts and monsters stops his foot on the second step though and he studies the thick blackness beyond the flickering realm of his flame.

“This tower might be out of the way, but it’s still pretty close to the rest of the monastery. Monsters here would pose a threat to everyone else, not just us.”

So there probably aren’t any. He tries to sound confident, and maybe if it were the middle of the day, he’d be as confident as he sounds. But a draft blows cool air down the stairwell, and along with it, the soft tinkling of wind chimes, and raises the hair on the back of his neck. He glances back curiously to see if anyone else had heard it, too. When his eye catches Flayn’s, he takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders.

“... Up, then. I’ll lead the way.”

The narrow stairwell spirals nearly a full circle to the next floor, the chimes growing louder the higher they go. A shut door awaits them at the top, but Ronan tries its handle - it’s in good condition, he notices, and that’s a heartening detail; it means someone takes care of this place - and the door swings open without resistance.

@cotharach @failnaughted @encantresse @hermidetta

ruinedskys

It isn’t a mint that makes a good person. Sylvain still grins at the notion, running his tongue over the mint in question, which says a varying amount about Ronan’s character. It’s the olive branch, the willingness to scope a target and use a tool to reach out to someone else. Though he can’t exactly place what he’d done to draw Ronan’s attention…as the man’s gaze stares past him to find the object of his affection-

He’s at least half sure that he’s not being hit on.

“Really? True love?” The words sound strange coming from his mouth, like they’re a sweet sounding affliction being delivered in a less-glamorous situation. His lips twist, straightening his posture as he turns to try and find the person Ronan was pointing out. With no success, but there were some very pretty people in the vicinity - he had no choice but to respect his temporary acquaintance’s tastes. “So say true love does exist,” He puts a hand on his hip, forging on with a neutral sort of optimism that usually doesn’t drive people away before he wants it to. “Would you turn down someone else while you’re waiting for it?”

More importantly. “A ball like this is for finding…you know.” Sylvain doesn’t think he knows, but keeps himself from being unnecessarily crude. “How do you even know she isn’t here?”

#ruinedskys #event thread : sylvain mini1 #toaball2026 #// circling back to the initial reason ronan called to sylvain anyway hahaha #// funny that this is happening right before ronan realized he might have a crush on flayn hahah #// also sorry for the wait! writing energy tanked abruptly

There's a little relief when Sylvain twists around and releases Ronan from that probing stare. It starts to feel a little more like a conversation, and less like he'd just been cornered for an interrogation when all he'd offered the other was a mint or two. In fact, he's surprised to realize that in that span of time, he's learned next to nothing about this guy, but Sylvain's certainly been awfully curious about him.

Another question swings back around to him with Sylvain's attention. Ronan sets a hand on the back of his neck, having no better place to put his hands than to have them hang limply by his sides, and considers what he even thinks - or knows - about true love. Or finding it, for that matter.

"Well, no, I guess I wouldn't. I don't know what true love even feels like, so I'd miss it entirely if I kept waiting for something special to tell me who the right one was."

But was she here? Ronan snorts, and suddenly that off-balanced timidity he'd had a moment ago shifts into a derisive smirk.

"There's no way anybody who's anybody at this party will look at me like that though. And even if they did, they'd probably get an earful from their friends and family. Who's ever heard of a noble willing to give up their pampered, cushioned lives to live like us poor commoners?"

His words say something else, too: that he has no intention of marrying up either. So he shrugs, and adds without really meaning it:

"But if you know anyone like that, maybe she's the one. ... Hey, weren't you staring at someone a moment ago?"

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

#WINNINGSUN || Ethereal Ball 2026

Word Count Challenge: 350

Well, that escalated quickly, didn't it.

Claude's only intention was to pay a quick visit to the Ethereal Ball, and see how everyone else was doing. Having gotten stuck dealing with a small mountain of papers in his room, courtesy of the currently ongoing Alliance Situation and grandpops responding to it by falling sick again and leaving it all to him, he found himself with too little time to participate in person. Frankly, his energy was mostly spent at this point, too. The whole nonsense was pushing his people skills to their limits and at least a part of him really wanted to just lie down in the dirt and stay there.

Alas, not everyone was allowed such luxury.

Not that any of that mattered in this particular scenario, because, well,

"Not to ruin the mood, but the door won't open."

The doorknob, previously perfectly functional, suddenly refused to budge, as if it had been abruptly jammed. Frowning, Claude leaned against the door with his entire body weight, grunting as he tried to force his way through. He didn't have much hope in that to begin with - he wasn't exactly the strongest person around - and, well, the result was exactly that.

"Strange. It doesn't even feel like just the doorknob," he noted, turning to the others and shrugging. "The entire door doesn't move even an inch, no matter what I do…"

Well. It would seem that Count Gloucester would have to wait for his highly anticipated letter a little longer than planned. Oooh nooo.

Anyway.

"Any ideas? Unless someone else has more luck with the door than I do, then we might just have to try and find another exit." Thinking, Claude glanced at Flayn more attentively. "You've lived here longer than any of us, right? Do you know if there's another door somewhere that we can use?"

Surely even the most ancient and mysterious pieces of Fódlan architecture took at least some practical use into consideration in the planning phase, right?

@cotharach @encantresse @seawardoath @hermidetta

Too much was happening in too short a time. She had only come here to test out an old wives' tale with Ronan—the sudden shift in lighting had provided the perfect opportunity for a getaway, and Flayn's own curiosity had grown too great not to make an attempt—so seeing others here had startled her enough. Getting trapped in the Goddess Tower had only added to that shock! And here she had hoped to make a vow with him... Flayn wrapped her arms around her body.

"You are correct, Claude, I have been residing in the monastery for quite some time. However, I am not privy to any other doors to and from this tower. My brother would surely know more about the entryways of this place, but…"

How would Seteth feel knowing she had brought a male peer into the tower with her, even if she had pure intentions? She did not wish to imagine it.

She glanced towards Ronan. Her face flushed, and she tore her gaze away from the young knight.

"...Involving others might get us in a spot of trouble. We ought to try resolving this on our own, if we can."

Flayn approached the door. True to Claude's testimony, it seemed not to budge, as if it were a statue of a door rather than the real thing. She placed her palms on the wood. It was cold.

"Could we perhaps use magic on it?" Flayn turned to the rest of them, head tilted, "There are spells for picking locks, are there not?"

@encantresse @seawardoath @hermidetta