#crimsonretainer

[encantresse]

DANCING, WEAVING, FLOATING THROUGH THE ALLEYS LIKE BREATH ON AN ICY WIND, A natural state for the adjutant who lurks in shadows, and yet the ruined buildings only serve to distract any and all from the marred face of the missing Vestra heir. His spy network, even tattered, had managed to track down his latest targets, strayed as far from the monastery as they are.

Perhaps he should be grateful the remnants had stayed far from Enbarr, especially when the only reports he'd received warned him to keep far away from the capital. Instead, his gaze turns to the remnants of his house, ever slowly beginning to coalesce in a land where no one would think to look for them. Even now the scraps of clothes hastily chosen look out of place on him, and yet he doubts any would expect the high and mighty retainer to wear the clothes of commoners as he falls into step beside the woman navigating the ruined streets.

"It would seem... that Bernadetta will be finding out about that kiss after all..." The only indication of identification he can give to the visage of a skulking would be assassin, keeping his head ever forward. "You must forgive me for missing our appointment... 'Thea."

the aftermath has left her jumpier than ever. it only takes the outline of a figure in the corner of her eye, along with a low voice, for dorothea to impulsively swing at whoever it is. the shriek that escapes her is loud enough to send scavenger birds scattering — it echoes, resounds, among the ruins and the desolate land they sit upon.

she nearly goes for a second punch, her arm swiftly retracting to gather momentum, when the mention of her beloved bernadetta — sweet bern, who hadn’t gone unscathed either — makes the clouds blurring her vision dissipate.

“…”

is it relief that floods her? or is it something else?

“…are you out of your mind?!” the words come out as a mangled sound bordering on a mix of unsalvageable emotions. “that’s the first thing you think to say? really? after everything?!”

casper had been the first to go missing. then petra. later, hubert, and all the others, all those familiar faces still unaccounted for. for all she knew, the man before her could very well be the ghost of a friend long lost. an accusatory finger points at his chest, shaking, yet firm. “we’ve just fought in a war. you’ve been missing, and the first thing you can think of is that?? hubert, i thought you were dead—!”

but the finger drops. it falls when she finally inhales sharply and takes a hard look at him, and notices the new cuts just beginning to close, the bags under his eyes, his hair longer and shaggier, more unkempt than she has ever remembered. scruffy, shabby — everything she might have once scolded him for, had she not been so overwhelmed with relief to see him intact and alive.

without another word, dorothea tackles him into a hug, eyes moist and bottom lip quivering. for once, not caring who might see or overhear.

"i’ll forgive you only when you let me look at your wounds," she says, her voice muffled. "otherwise, i’ll hold it against you forever and ever."

[dcggersedge]

HE SPOTS HER FROM THE CORNER OF HIS EYE, the limp he's associated with barely healed wounds as clear as day, as he moves to catch up with the much shorter woman darting around the room. He doubts the adrenaline has worn off for her yet, yet it'd be remiss of him to allow the wounds to go untreated for much longer. The Marquis apparent thinks of all the times they've interacted, the seriousness that hides beneath her overtly friendly visage that reminds him of a past he wished not to think on.

No doubt, if anyone would be right to suspect him it'd be her, eyes that seem far too adept at seeing beneath masks. Still, it fails to stop him from reaching out with an almost harsh "Yunaka, stop." He'd be almost amused if it weren't for the seriousness of the atmosphere, to order around the once professor with ease as he tries to lay a healing touch on the much more athletic woman.

So focused on the task, Hubert fails to realise they're in a deserted corridor, hand aglow with healing light as he tries to channel the faith into her body. "Your wounds are serious you know, so just, stop, moving." Words through clenched teeth as he tries to land a touch on the woman without triggering her fight or flight.

"They can wait, for now, please just sit still before you reopen the wounds."

Like hell she was gunna listen.

Yunaka keeps walking. She's fine. There's others to check on and make sure they're alright before she worries about herself. Out of everyone here, she's one of the lowest priorities to get healed up. Once the important people are good then...it's nothing she hasn't walked off before.

She had hoped by her continuing to walk away down an empty hall, he would get the hint. Instead, the sound of footsteps continue to echo down her way. Behind her, there's a flare of magic. Behind her, there's a hand reaching for the back of her neck.

Larimar freezes.

Yunaka whirls around and grabs his wrist in one hand, forcing it away from her. In the other, up comes her knife, sharp edge towards his throat. "Don't touch me." She snarls. Her body is sore, her nerves are frayed, she doesn't want to be dealing with any of this.

There's enough space between the knife and his throat that the threat is a courtesy at best. She's got no intention of spilling blood just yet, but that doesn't mean he can just waltz up and do what he wants either.

"I don't need it." She doesn't want it either. Not from him. Not when she still doesn't know whose blood Edelgard might be putting on his hands. "My wounds can wait until the others are taken care of, now go-"

Yunaka pauses. She frowns at him, head tilting as she considers his words.

They can wait. Why did he say it like that?

"Who is they?" Her eyes narrow. She doesn't have the patience right now for any more games. She squeezes his wrist tightly. "Who did you mean by that?"

[hresvelged]

A HURRIED MOVEMENT THROUGH THE BUNKER, passing by the myriad students of different allegiances with a single point of concern. The golems were too familiar, and the weapon that screamed overhead too horrifying to be anything but suspicions in his mind. He can see her in the students' uniform still, brow furrowed in concern at the white marred with red.

"My Lady..." A tone of concern, hand reaching aglow in purple light as it trails the wounds mirrored on his own body. He hopes the glow is enough for people to not have looked as closely to them as he leans in. "It would seem THEY have decided to move without us, and the status of Enbarr is... uncertain." The words are treasonous to His Majesty, and yet it was him who had charged him with this task all those years ago.

"I implore you, Milady, Ascend to the throne before they can." A plea of hubris, of one who has overstepped his position as he continues to heal the last of the wounds the golem had inflicted. "To attack us and the monastery so brazenly... it is little more than a declaration of war on Adrestia by the fools lurking in the shadows." Words that have made his task clear, if those unseen forces wished so badly for War, then they would be forced to meet them head on, casting aside all pretense in declaration of an unwillingness to be their pawns any longer.

How she has longed to stamp them out— To rid them of any agency they deign to have and flush away their presence from the continent entirely. To eradicate the monastery is a bold move; perhaps strengthened only by the fact that herself and her fellow Black Eagles were not at the building itself upon their attack. She seethes internally, quelling it only as her retainer's words reach her ears.

"How despicable," she says with a sigh. Edelgard's right hand gravitates towards her chin as her gloved fingers tap. Once, twice, three times. If she leaves now, that will only make Yunaka truly believe that she is involved. The last thing she desires is to be lumped with them. It is painful enough to have them infiltrate her life more than she cares to say. "My father is there. As are many others.. The throne as well, which you speak." Edelgard breaks the eye contact she has established with Hubert, lowering her hand to tug on her crimson cape. "I intend on it— On becoming Emperor, that is. Even so.. I hesitate to do so right now."

When she looks around the space, there are so many faces she has come to consider friends. She can't abandon them; not when they lurk and she has the means of assisting. "I trust your judgment, yet.. I made a promise. I said I would aid my allies at the monastery so long as they stood by my side. I can't abandon them here."

Their war torn faces; their injuries and frowns plastered on their faces. She is hardened to it by now, but their words stick with her all the same. "Use other means to get eyes and soldiers on Enbarr for now. We may well be able to use this play to our benefit, if we act carefully."

[verdantsunflower]

🎄 - The Golden Deer reminds him of his younger sibling in a way, so, like he has done with them in the past when it comes to mistletoe, Hubert's hands reach upwards to hesitantly ruffle his hair. "Happy Holidays. Lugh."

Oh! Lugh didn’t even realize he was under the fabled foliage of the holidays, meant to spread love to any who dared to end up beneath it… Mistletoe.

He’d only had passing interactions with Hubert (who kinda scared him, actually), but his hair being ruffled made him laugh, giving the raven-haired retainer a smile.

“Thanks, mister Hubert! Happy holidays to you, too!”

[hresvelged]

🎄 - It's become a tradition in a way, caught beneath the mistletoe by nature of circumstances year after year. Hubert does not levy complaints, not when the tradition is time-honoured in its simplistic nature. It started as a prank at first, and yet he'd stopped avoiding it in the present, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips, reminiscent of the day they'd first met so many years ago.

"Happy Holidays, Edelgard." A rare dropping of her title, reserved for these moments explicitly.

The past vexes her; fragments of memories scattered in ways she cares not to dwell over. Through it all, he was always there. He was always the same. Even now, in this strange phenomenon she can't say she wholly supports, does he stand before the Adrestian heir. The princess eyes the green decor, pondering not why it was there, but who placed it in the first place. She supposes she will have to decipher the culprit later.

It is a simple and familiar gesture, keeping her head high and hand still. "Thank you, Hubert." A smile sits on her face— Gentle, genuine. For how often she is referred to by formalities, Edelgard holds onto more freer moments. "I hope you take this time to enjoy yourself. If you refuse, I will order you to do so." Such opportunities feel rarer and rarer as the moons pass. There is no need to vocalize it, instead opting to take in the simplistic moment between herself and the person who is at her side.

"Use this moment of respite as you wish." She looks up; not at the mistletoe, but at the ceiling she cannot reach. Lilacs turn back to her vassal, strong and true. "Nothing is too small. This, I've come to learn well."

[hresvelged]

THE ITEM BENEATH HIS ARM IS IMPRACTICAL IN A FIGHT, and yet the item is no less dear to him regardless of that fact. Once, many moons before, when the seasons changed from summer into the early kisses of fall, a talent of his lady's made itself known. Even now, the memory of charcoal covered fingers never ceases to amuse him, birthing a pattern of gifts that had continued even through the turmoil of their teenage years.

It was a mere happenstance that the merchant that usually supplied the item had travelled to the monastery this year, carrying something that held little more than the upmost sentimental value to the duo that were near inseparable duo. Yet, the item made the perfect gift to congratulate her advancement into the second round.

Even now, that white hair is unmistakeable, walking with the case under arm and waiting until their surrounding were clear to carry out an action he hasn't done in far too long. Leaning forward, a kiss, gentle and pure, is placed atop her forehead, a memory unbidden rising to his mind. "You have to call me El! Everyone else calls me Lady Edelgard but you have to call me El, 'Bert!

Slowly, he leans back as the case of lovingly adorned graphite pencils is presented to her, as a name he hasn't dared call her in over 13 years falls from his lips. "Congratulations on your victory... El"

She isn't called that nickname anymore.

Not since there had been nobody left to use it, she thought— No brother asking her to read a book nor a sister tending to the gardens. The Edelgard of the past is long gone. The one standing on Gronder Field is a growing emperor; a fighter. A loner, the lock on her heart says. A girl, the praise around her reminds. She takes pride in her status as a House Leader. She stands tall with every Black Eagle— Every face with fluttering wings and a call to strength.

Her stance is still as she follows her retainer's gesture with eyes alone. It is a polite kiss to her forehead that procures memories of old. She says nothing— Does nothing, if not for the miniscule pink tint across her cheeks.

She keeps her artistry hobby a secret, part in due to to her embarrassment at any lackluster skills. It's as embarrassing as it is silly. "A-Ah..?" Her words drift purposefully. Edelgard clutches the case of pencils into her hands and looks down into them— Pristine, ready for her very use. The corners of her eyes reach the hair ribbon from Dorothea; the tips of her fingers tap the gift from Hubert.

".. I will accept these, but only on one condition. You must remain here and watch me succeed. Understood?"

[jasperblion]

3 boxes of Cocoa are placed in front of the Black Eagles' door, carefully tied with ribbon dyed to match the Adrestian flag by the Retainer. Officially, the reasoning for the boxes was merely a gift from House Vestra to those who travelled to Fodlan from Foreign Lands as a diplomatic gift, and yet unofficially they were tender for a Bounty Board never referred to in earshot of those likely to frown upon it.

"Alm, my sincerest congratulations on your lastest... endeavours, may the Cocoa be to your tastes, Hubert." A short and sweat note, and yet one that would give away nothing of their informal in-house endeavours.

He hears the nearly inaudible thump! of something outside of the Black Eagles tent he currently rests at. It could just be some passerby carelessly dropping something into the dirt, but it really sounds like it came from right in front of the tent’s entrance. Just to check, Alm slowly peels at the tent flap to find…

“Cocoa??”

Alm openly speaks the contents to himself in confirmation, soon squinting eyes to read the well-printed note. Hubert…he faintly recounts the name, holding a name of a house important from the same empire Edelgard hails from. Though more relevant to the foreigner, the raven-haired man is a fellow Eagle.

Though wait, wasn’t he…participating in this battle as well? How could he have even known about his “endeavors” (fancy name for knocking some guys out, by the way) if he was occupied in his own rounds?!

The questions keep piling up, the fighter spinning each box in his hand while pondering. He eventually puts a lid on it, deciding it best to focus on the oncoming fights over feebly poking at paradoxes. Not to imply that he doesn’t appreciate the Cocoa…he’s been curious to try some of this stuff actually.

No time to brew it now, obviously. Alm looks back within the tent and immediately stuffs the three boxes into his personal satchel, attempting to hide labels as best he could. He’d rather not have to explain where the goods came from.

Despite the mystery of it all, Alm is truly thankful. Though he would like to thank this Hubert in person, rather than stick to pen pal exchanges.

[encantresse]

THEY HADN'T INTENDED FOR THIS TO HAPPEN, HE hadn't intended for this to happen when they'd set out into the Oghma Mountains months ago, still something had driven him to hide a weapon in her pack hadn't it? That lingering ominous feeling that enraptured his senses telling him to slip the dagger into her pouch as the carriage passed, despite his hopes it wouldn't be needed. The Cots in the bunker are haphazardly arranged, and yet he's still weaving to sit beside her, waterskin in hand, before she can protest.

There aren't words he can share, no verbal reassurances he can give for a continent that has suddenly found itself upturned by war. Instead, he lingers ever silently, as if trying to reassure that for all his scheming this was never something he'd plan, not when they were returning from their own territory. "Thea..."

there are no shadows to hide in here. all have been forced into the open, whether by will or circumstance, and he is no different.

"hubie." one.

dorothea's gaze slowly shifts from the wall she'd been staring at to watch hubert take a seat beside her, quiet for a few seconds as she studies him. the last time they'd sat together was during the holidays. a lifetime ago — that exchange of gifts, the innocent game of chess. a strangely foreign memory now, like a dream slipping through her fingers, halfway to being forgotten.

the songstress pulls the pack she’d set aside onto her lap, the sight of him reminding her of something. from the bag, she retrieves the dagger she'd discovered earlier, and holds it out expectantly. "if this is yours, you ought to hang onto it. as much as i appreciate the thought, hubert, i haven’t come unarmed. and you need to protect yourself, too. with more than just magic."

a long, drawn-out exhale follows, heavy in sound and even heavier in feeling as it leaves her lungs. "i assume you've already made your rounds? i saw bern and ferdie not too long ago." two, three. "lin and edie, too." four, five.

hubert is attentive, with a talent for sniffing out secrets that would put a bloodhound’s to shame. keen ears might catch the worry laced through her words, as well as the faint notes of guilt that linger. dorothea doesn’t doubt, even for a second, that he’s already realized what she has.

"...caspar’s still missing." silence hangs thick in the air for a spell, her hands fiddling anxiously with the bag's drawstrings at the thought. "he’s out there, alone. we should’ve kept a better eye on him."