flight of fancy—& dorothea.
The Pegasus Moon gets its name from the herds of wild pegasi that flock to their snowy nesting grounds. Nestled in the tall mountains, Garreg Mach sees plenty of snow-white pegasi come wintertime. This year, however, the school is abuzz with news that a flock of black pegasi have stopped close by, searching for a suitable place to nest. Their feathers are of particular interest to certain students, as they are said to amplify a mage’s power. With final exams just around the corner, many are looking for a little boost to their power. [Grants Reason +1]
They were uttered in whispers quickly hushed in the halls of Fhirdiad’s most-esteemed magical sanctuary. Fretting students—Lorenz’s peers, all with their own talents but not his natural inclination, surely—and even the smarter ones, the older ones taken on as research assistants past their graduation. Not all of them parroted the same tales uncritically.
There were dissenters, of course, Lorenz among them every time. But the critics were oft left behind for the opportunists, glittering eyes aiming to get ahead; especially for those desperate in their studies for a final shot at passing marks. It stood to reason, however, that were any place to debunk such a ridiculous notion, it would be the School of Sorcery themselves. (Black-winged pegasi are too rare a breed to dedicate truly outrageous amounts of manpower to, and this was an institution with betterment as its goal, with proper research funded by nobility and the crown—not a place for flights of fancy. No need to concern themselves with the tales of schoolchildren that persist to the cusp of adulthood.)
But, as it stands, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester is knee-deep in a snowdrift, cloak pulled tighter to his person, observing the nightwinged herd in all their glory. It’s a rather small one, at that: five adults, and two smaller adolescents, huffing through the snow and nosing through the very same drifts, a respectful distance enough that, while they’d likely caught wind of the strange scent of approaching students, they felt no need to flee. Or couldn’t, perhaps. Not with the threat of more snow, where tiny flecks promise a flurry on the horizon.
He does not stand alone, of course. That is perhaps the root of his problem.
“...They are magnificent,” Lorenz has no choice but to breathe, breaking the awed silence as gaze shifts from the wandering herd to the maiden of the hour, equally as captivating, and likely with far sharper tongue than the herd.
Lorenz’s dissent had manifested, again, in a crowd in the dining hall, the lucky eyewitness to the black pegasi relaying the same oft-repeated rumor that had plagued him before. It varies, of course: from any equation written with a quill made of their feathers will balance itself; holding one will amplify the range or potency of its desired effect. Again, he’d circled around them, a hand on his hip, espousing the numerous pitfalls to those claims—or was poised to, at least.
He is duty bound to bring aid to a lady, no matter her station, and no matter the poison wrapped around every word spoken to him.
And now he’s in the snow.
“Have you had proper training for how to approach a pegasi?” Lorenz starts, body angled towards Dorothea. Carefully. One eye remains trained on the herd, attentive to any sudden movements the herd might try to make. “This is hardly ideal conditions to approach one, let alone an entire wild herd. I would rather not have any incidents that lead us tumbling down the mountainside!”
