#senerist

[ephemeralove]

"Katarina," soren calls her name, more calmly than the last time it crossed his lips. he meets her eyes when it comes to it, but his gaze slides off.

Learning those things about her had felt... intrusive. If she knew they had been listening, he knows she wouldn't have said it, but what's done can't be taken back. Time moves only in one direction.

"i wanted to apologize," he continues. The direction allows him to re-meet her gaze. "If i had known what would happen to the rose royal, i would have insisted it be me, rather than you. Certainly, i tried to put in a good word for you wherever i could... i feel responsible."

his frown deepens. "i..."

Their pasts are too similar to deny, but the paths the two have followed diverged a very long time ago. "i feel as though you should know that everything you told eriella reached our ears. i'll forget it, but... you should know."

There is a pinprick of relief when she hears Soren call her name, sees him walking up to her, well and fine and alive -- but it is swallowed by everything that comes after. Anxiety, dense and dark, sticking to her skin even as she pulls her elbow flush against her ribs. Ser Forsyth had said they all heard her, and judging by how even Soren's sharp gaze has been blunted, briefly deflected, it really must be true.

"...oh..." He begins with an apology, and disarms her from the first. Whatever she had been expecting-- scathing disdain, simmering contempt... this isn't it. Katarina shakes her head.

"...you didn't do anything wrong." Her voice is soft, even quieter than usual. "It was... a clear goal. I had a numeric advantage, and multiple allies who... were willing to help me. I was the one... who said I should try."

But then comes the offer to forget, and it is tempting like a bright fruit just within reach. He would pretend he did not hear so many awful things about her, not even enough to paint the picture in wretched full, and she would find her peace in only being Katarina, never having to bare more than half of her soul, never having to bear any of her sins.

She is shaking her head again before she even realizes it, pulling her gaze up from the ground to meet his, fearful but insistent.

"You..." Her heart pounds loudly in her chest, echoing in her throat. "...y-you... don't have to." She swallows. It hurts a bit. "...I can't bear my past by ignoring it. And... I, I trust you, Soren."

He'd worn a funny look on his face, that day she ventured to call both him and L'Arachel her friends, but her hope had been sincere -- and so, how could she lie to him? How could she ask him to lie for her?

"I... won't ask you to forget. But, if you... i-if you..."

Her gaze falls again. In this moment, she isn't so shameless as to let the truth be said: if you would be my friend after all of this, I would be happy.

[codename-coronet]

@senerist sent:  In a sea of forgettable faces, finding one of the strangers that call this realm home is rather simple. In this case, especially so, because he (as soren was told) "bleaches" his hair, making it two colors - dark, and blond.

"Alistair," soren calls, to get his attention. He was the first 'person' soren had met upon being thrust into this strange situation. It stands to reason that whatever role soren was thrust into had some sort of relationship with him, which he believes he could leverage to his advantage.

Hopefully, the question he intends to ask is in character enough not to draw attention. soren thinks it will be.

Once he's closed the distance between them, he glances up to him, then down, then back up again. It's a practiced act - not true shyness. "Are we... Er... Would you consider us... friends?"

    “ Friends? ”  Alistair doesn't seem particularly guarded around Soren. Despite the rowdy way they had met up the first day the tactician had entered the mirror, right now, it was almost like they could be seen as fairly regular students even if reputations might paint the two of them in scarier strokes.

“ Ehh, what's this all about? You're gonna make ME nervous actin' like that. ”  He scruffs his own hair as he contemplates it, but his mouth's moving again quickly enough.  “ I've never really thought of things like that. Didn't think you cared too much about being pals. ”

“ I don't hate workin' with or bein' around you though. You and Thrasir have never let me down once. But aren't you just in it for the money? ”

[finalfullmoon]

@senerist asked: As soren enters the library, he feels as though he's hit physically with a dark cloud of malignancy. There's some... thing that radiates condescension in a way that reminds soren of something truly sinister. Even the so-called dark god never felt this... rancid. he tries to ignore it. It's so overwhelming that he can barely determine which of the current library-goers are responsible, nor does he particularly want to know. As the saying goes, when you stare into the abyss; the abyss stares back. soren does not want to be scrutinized. he passes a few people and heads to the section on crestology - his usual haunt. It's likely that whoever is responsible for this miasma can sense his strangeness just as easily as he senses theirs...

※— HE SENSES SOMEONE WHO REEKS OF STRUGGLE. A pinprick of blood flicked off Julius' own finger as he accidentally cut himself, the sharp edge of a new book catching him in his sudden prang of interest. Whatever that thing that just entered the library was, his power was not enough to even warrant a flutter of his eyelashes. But it felt like friction— a press of scales on soft flesh.

This one had the seams of a godling yet none of the plush inside. Strangeness. What a waste.

Julius flitted between the book stalls, eyes only a touch bored as he spotted the thing as he went down the crestology section of the library. Sucking on his own finger to dry the blood out, he decided that this was as good enough a distraction as any.

Approaching from the other side of the bookshelf, he pilfered two books to look this one in the eyes. Red coaxed with silks and the finest of wines.

"...Do you need assistance?" Kind. A voice as sweet as his mother's.

[encantresse]

There's a break in both the conversations that soren is holding and those held by their hostess. When he sees his opening, he approaches her. he knows little about her, except she seems to have a difficult relationship with men, so he doesn't bring her a drink or flower so that he won't trigger whatever guard she might put up.

"Dorothea, wasn't it?" he calls. soren keeps a level gaze; no smile to be found here. "i wanted to commend you for putting on such a grand event, given the circumstances. It must have taken a monumental amount of planning.

"i also wanted to ask if, perhaps, you'd be able to enlighten me. Some one put my name on the guest list without my knowledge, and in doing so they started a war with me i don't intend to lose. You see, while i'm not one for parties regardless, the theme of this one is..."

Sad? Triggering? Upsetting? Lingering? The puzzle they've given him is the only thing really preventing him from considering all the rotten endings his day could have.

"Love is... not for me," he decides. he says it with the weight of the broken-hearted; even this is an admittance of weakness. he can't keep that out of his voice. This is not a mismatch of interest - soren once loved, and loves no longer - this is a betrayal of loss.

cupido bash 2k25 ♡

dorothea's head turns at the sound of his voice, tilting inquisitively at what he says next. or rather, how he says it—the somberness doesn't go unnoticed.

"it is," she begins good-naturedly. the smile of an apt hostess, a skilled performer, pulls at her lips to invite him in, to welcome. "and i appreciate that. but i can’t take all the credit. i couldn’t have done this without fogado, so you’ll have to pass the compliment along to him too."

( the somberness doesn't go unnoticed. )

oh.

and there it is.

she’s not the wisest person to walk the earth, not as seasoned or as hardened as the others. yet, the matter of heartbreak is a story she knows well, from front to back. experience has taught her to recognize the pain in his voice, to place it as her own. a desire to be understood, perhaps —a release of the feeling of being adrift, lost and alone in an uncaring world. a vulnerability that bends something familiar in her.

"i see," she says softly. "and i understand."

fitting, then, that a long pause follows. a million and one things she'd rather not admit aloud, to a stranger of all people, though vulnerability offered is vulnerability earned. "it certainly feels that way, doesn’t it? especially when everyone around you seems to find it so easily. makes you wonder if there’s something wrong with you."

another moment of silence, before her own voice plucks at the strings of melancholy.

"if you’re asking why we chose this theme..."

"we’ve just fought in a war. all those lives lost... it makes you think. the people we care about can be taken from us in a matter of seconds. whatever time we have left with them is precious, so why not make the most of it? even if it means having to play pretend for a night."

dorothea no longer smiles; the truth is one she trusts him to understand.

"i wonder about that too, sometimes," she admits. "if i'll ever find it. but... i think we deserve to believe that it can be for us. even if it's only for a few hours."

[katabatiic]

🎨 hey dude i'm the one bothering your bf

*not my boyfriend. yet

that'll be 3500 gold for the portrait btw

[ephemeralove]

It's been years since soren's found himself in this situation, and even longer since he'd felt so unprepared for it.  Namedays have never been important to him, but he knows the significance it holds to other people - everyone other than soren, as far as he knows.

So the gesture in gift giving becomes less one of obligation and more of the tiny ways soren offers his care to others.  It easier, this way, to offer something small and meaningful, than to hold an extended conversation at length about one's connection to another.

Anyway,

              soren needs to do a little more research about her.  (his new… friend.  he has more than one, these days.)  he'd had an inkling before, when they had worked together, that she'd been a strategist in the past, but it's easier to confirm with a few questions.

Her gift to him had been obvious and simple.  A sign of their friendship, turned from dream to reality.  The gesture was clear, despite the hairpin's lack of practicality.

(Well, it has more practicality in the projected future, between the time when soren realizes he must cut his hair and the time when he finally gets around to it.)

There is not a similar object in the other direction, from soren to Katarina, that matches what she had given him, so he uses what he knows to improvise.

The result is a book - expensive now.  soren has never cared too much for keeping belongings, so though he once read it ages ago, he'd never held onto it.  It burned in a fire soren once set, in a home he'd once stayed.

Even though he can haggle the price down, he ends up giving more gold than he'd prefer, but the tome is in his hand.  Soon it will be in Katarina's.

It's a book on advanced tactics, analyzing various wars and battles fought in Tellius' past.  It focuses on how Daein and Crimea both were able to wrest themselves from under Begnion's control, and though such countries and words have little meaning in the lands of fódlan, he thinks she may find it an interesting read regardless.

soren had once, anyway.  It had been one of his favored authors.

he doesn't wrap it - there's no need for that - and he intends to simply leave it with her belongings, soren accidentally intercepts Katarina on the way, and there's few things he dislikes more than inefficiency.

“Katarina,” he calls, “convenient running into you.  You know what day it is, yes?  Here.”

With that said, he extends his arm, offering to her the book.

"Oh, Soren...!" She knows what day it is, yes, but what surprises her more is that he does. That he could find out, she'd never doubted, but that he would? Katarina is a better reader of books than people, but she hadn't taken him for the sort to care about this kind of thing -- namedays and their celebrations, however small -- so then...?

So then... this is for her, isn't it? Because namedays and their celebrations might matter to her. Is... she allowed to think that?

"I do," comes the simple answer, one hand slipping under the book in quiet acceptance. Tilting it sideways, she scans the text sprawled across its spine, then steals a peek at its inner pages. Nothing too long, mind, given she's holding him up in the hallway like this, but just enough to get a sense for what waits for her behind the cover.

It's a book of tactics, or seems like it, its roots laid not only in theory but in the names of countries she's never heard of. That it speaks of places from beyond Fódlan sticks out to her immediately, though the choice of subject does not escape unnoticed. Had she ever mentioned to him her brief stint as a tactician? If nothing else, she's certain that she'd yet to divulge her dream to return to that post and do right by it.

But that also suits Soren, as far as her understanding of him goes: casual and deliberate. If there were moments where he was careless, she's fairly sure they would be deliberately chosen, too.

A smile warps the elsewise placid line of her lips; when it threatens to overtake it entirely, she pushes it against the backs of her knuckles, unaware that it reaches for her eyes and changes them with its warm touch.

(If... you would be my friend after all of this... then... I would be happy.)

And she is. Happy. Happy to have reached out her hand, happy to have been able to be honest from the start, happy to bumble gracelessly and a bit foolishly through the awkward process of learning how to be a friend, and how to understand one. She had never been one to begrudge the fact that her nameday passes over quietly -- had never considered her birth gift enough to celebrate. Yet with a fingertip gently tracing the cover, with a hand pushing the book close to her heart, Katarina finds that she can't tell him it was some small, insignificant matter.

"Thank you," she says instead, gray eyes flitting up to meet his. Then a promise: "I'll take care to read it." She hasn't stopped smiling, though she's forgotten to keep hiding it.

And lastly, a hope: "I'll tell you when I finish it. If it's alright... I'd like to hear your thoughts, too."

(To keep bumbling gracelessly, to keep learning, to understand a little bit more at a time.)

[bigbadbaltie]

49. Plans for the future... 26. The ideal professor... 8. Equipment upkeep...

"Why are you walking around like that if your laundry isn't finished? Put a damn shirt on. No one wants to see that."

"Woah, lil' guy!" This one's got a bite, and his first instinct is to raise his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. Those words take a few seconds to process, and Balthus tilts his head in a way that suggests that he doesn't exactly understand. "Whaddya mean? There's plenty that wanna see it!" Okay, but, that's besides the point. "Wouldn't you wanna show off somethin' you've worked really hard on? Same principle. I don't get these guns from lazing around, you know. Here, I've got an idea. Why don't you come training with me? You could use a little meat on your bones!"

[wingboundwarrior]

When Fiora leaves the field, soren is there holding a cup of water for Her.  he offers it without a word, keeping the smile off his face in the event that She took Her loss poorly.

“You did well,” he says, “it's unfortunate we weren't able to find each other before the skirmishes broke out.”

Even if it's only a minor event, and not even a real battle, soren would have preferred to fight at Her side.  Still, She lasted longer than he did, and that deserves recognition of its own, he thinks.

“How are You holding up?  If You feel the need to sit, i set a chair somewhere away from the brunt of the crowd.”  he's wondering, and without admitting that he knows, how intense her pain is today.

Fiora had done very well in her first round of the Battle of the Eagles and the Lions. She had fought fairly valiantly and even won herself a spot in the second set of battles. But when it was time to face off against her next set of enemies, Fiora had found that she had done much poorer by far. Earlier she had believed that perhaps less time training had been a boon, making her more refreshed for the battle. But now that her body ached and seemed to sour with every slight movement, her mind was changed. She was lacking stamina -- she ought to double her time in the grounds, when she could afford to. She ought to fight harder, throw herself further. Though she had done all she could in this battle, and was the last one standing on her side, she still did not manage to make it through to the next round for them. A banner dropped.

It seemed the mere moment the battle ends, Soren is by her side, and through the haze of the overwhelming pain, she smiles at him, takes the water as steadily as she can force herself. It helps bring her back down to the ground a little bit, and out of the thrum of her agony, but only a touch.

"Thank you. I wasn't able to catch any of your fighting, but I am sure you did, as well. I am fine. How are you? Did you--?"

It's as far as she gets before her pain wrests control away from her. A muscle, or something, in her hand spasms, and she drops the cup and the rest of the water onto the ground.

"Ah... f... forgive me, Soren!" Apologetic eyes search him, to see how much of the water caught him. "I didn't-- that wasn't-- s... sorry!"