the [ 𝐀 𝐏 𝐄 𝐗 ]

𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐃 (𝟑/𝟕/𝟐𝟏) the 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 of 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒚. ❖ mobile navigation here. ❖ penned by sami; private, affiliated with toa.

[vonessars]

【𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 #𝟎𝟎𝟏】

❖—[ … ] thus, it becomes evident that Crest research must be reframed to allow its development into a scholarly discpline of continued worth. The future of Crest research relies on intellectuals embarking forth to not only study the divine gifts delivered unto the good people of Fódlan, but rather, to demonstrate a scholarly committment to interrogating all aspects of Crest possession and inheritance.

Indeed, we scholars must begin collectively approaching Crest research as a discipline of scientific integrity; one which is not only grounded in thealogical perspective or for absolving singular pursuits of idle curiosity, but is accomplished by way of interconnected study and the curation of a body of literature upon which we can rely with confidence.

Such a shift demands the establishment of rigorous method and continued efforts by scholars to illume the true nature and function of Crests by conducting original research in the field. Further, this implementation of regular fieldwork must be accompanied in equal part with works of critical textual analyses, explanatory theoretical perspectives, comparative historical works, genaelogical records, and thus on to create a reliable bedrock for our efforts. This collective shift in attention and effort heralds the birth of a recognizably new, united scholarly discpline that is distinct from works of purely thealogical perspectives: Crestology.

This ushering in of Crestology demands scholars become willing to investigate the physiological, medical, social, cultural, historic, economic, hierarchical, and religious realms of Crests in all of their interrelations and particularities. In doing so, this work will be of elevated distinction; no longer can our research thrive while remaining only a branch of thealogical debate, nor as a disorganized canon of experiments and theories which cannot be reproduced nor confirmed. Rather, efforts will be reforged into a discipline which seeks to communicate realities of lived experience and, importantly, clarifying an integral facet of the very structure of Fódlan. This will be a meaningful contribution to the people of the continent, as well as the manner in which scholars can best honour the Goddess for Her divine gifts and faith: by endeavouring to comprehend them to the fullest mortal extent. 

This committment to rigour, methodological integrity, and findings that stand independent from the sway of outside forces substantiates the research of Crests as a discipline of its own with a distinct calibre for unearthing objective [ … ] —❖

𝚟𝚘𝚗 𝙴𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚛, 𝙷𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗. 𝚙. 𝚟𝚒𝚒, ”𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍: 𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙵𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚁𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑” 𝚒𝚗 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚢. 𝟷𝟷𝟼𝟶, 𝙴𝚗𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛 𝙿𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙷𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎. *𝙾𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚢 𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚞𝚖 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚁𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚂𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚢, 𝟷𝟷𝟻𝟾.

[vonessars]

"Hanneman." It comes after a knock, enough of one to declare one's presence but not enough to ask permission. Pent let himself into the office, brighter and -dust-free- compared to the last he peeked in the through the door. "I won't keep you too long. I imagine there are other well-wishers and more urgent work demanding your attention, but do enjoy." He sets a narrow box of balsam wood on his desk, lined with a row of little jars of loose leaf tea. And as a joke, a compass tucked in at one end.

There is hardly time to stand and welcome the other inside by the time the box is set on a cleared spot on the desk, Hanneman is left glancing between it and the gift-giver. 

Certainly not one to waste time on ceremony, anyway; a respectable quality.

Slowly the assemblage of gifts processes. A lovely box, finely crafted that truly would be gift enough, he thinks! Tea, a polite kindness, and something to certainly look forward to later, even to share. Nestled among it all, a—!?

“Ah,” Hanneman’s laugh is startled, processing no doubt before he’s turning the compass over in hand. “Quite clever of you, Pent. I suppose this should find a proper, permanent home in my coat, lest I ever find myself turned around in these halls once more without your help to bail me out.”

As he very well might, really. The ache of being known for misdirection above all from a colleague pains him only a little.

“Thank you, truly; this is a gift as considerate as it is devastating in its wit. Well met!”

[vonessars]

Rhys was glad to celebrate a coworker’s birthday, but in Hanneman’s case he had a personal reason to do something nice, make something up to him. Rhys let himself into Hanneman’s office with a soft knock, parcel in his arms. “Sir? I heard it was your birthday! Happy birthday to you, and please feel free to call on me for anything I might be able to help with.” Rhys held out the simply wrapped book. It was a detailed star atlas of Fódlan, full of charts and maps that folded out of the handsomely bound book.

“Ah, Rhys, a pleasant surprise to see you as ever!” Hanneman stands on ceremony to offer a polite, warm welcome—and tries his best not to be plagued by memories of running from bears.

It is hardly the fault of Rhys that the area surrounding Monastery grounds is, rather unexpectedly, plagued with wildlife, of all things—perish the thought, really, lest some wandering fool with no wits about them step into that same circumstance and be eaten!

Birthday—right.

Hanneman takes the offered parcel, takes care in unwrapping and cannot help but find delight in the contents. “My,” he starts, and looks to his colleague with a smile.

“Excellent eye! Indeed, this will make a wonderful addition to my library...” And how handsome it will look on the shelves is hardly anything to scoff at.

“Thank you, my friend—what a thoughtful gift!”

[vonessars]

No knocking—Manuela clears her throat instead, nudging the door open with the toe of her heels. A deep blue bow bookmarks dark parchment, expertly tied but relatively unassuming. "Even though you like to claim otherwise, I don't forget everything." She could almost—almost be apologetic in her tone. "Sorry about leaving your office a mess. Happy Birthday." The scarf inside matches Hanneman's favored grays, but the H in gold thread at both ends is fresh. A clear embellishment. An olive branch.

Despite no knocking, even Hanneman can’t find it in himself to be all that particular about it on a birthday. A welcome distraction, anyway, from pouring over a particularly puzzling lead in his research.

He stands in greeting, brow raised in curiosity at the wrapped box in hand. “I sincerely hope you did not trouble yourself, Manuela,” Hanneman says, and fails to look as stern as he might hope, “A gift, while hardly necessary, is immeasurably kind of you.”

(Possibly. It would not be altogether unlike her to have some prank waiting below that blue bow—

...Ah. When received, and unwrapped, Hanneman chastises himself for the thought. )

Hanneman looks from the scarf back to Manuela. “Now I’m rather concerned you did in fact trouble yourself in sourcing such fine needlework!” 

[vonessars]

❖ 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒃𝒐𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒑𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈,                (𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒔 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕.)

With ample time to observe how the passing years make their impact, Hanneman arrives at a casual hypothesis that the flow of emotions toward one’s birthday can be understood as cyclical. 

The excitement that comes from the innocence of youth eventually turns into aspiration, steeled by forward-facing gazes into the promise of grandeur offered by adolescence. This eventually metastasizes, into the anxiety found among the ‘ageing’ population who fret over how much time and good health they have left to achieve what they desire. Inevitably, one then arrives at indifference, only so when one can wear the years lived in fine lines and creaking joints without worry. Then, he supposes, should you outlive that indifference, you will land back at excitement.

Excitement for still being around, even, if it isn’t too crude to suggest. Then, on goes the loop, at an ever-quickening pace until the end comes.

When he leans back in his desk chair, stretches arms above his head and hears the familiar pop of tension resolving in his back, Hanneman knows he is firmly in that range of indifference. For the day will pass with little fanfare and that is typical of any recent birthday; even preferable, though hardly an insistence made. He maintains to any who will ask—and particularly those who do not!—that to run from age is a fool’s errand! But the welcomed peace and humbled quiet of this day stands in stark contrast to the bustle of birthday celebrations of yore.

Birthdays always are much quieter when you have left an entire past-life behind you.

With that always comes a pervasive twinge of regret, reminder of a wound never fully cauterized despite proclamations to the contrary—and Hanneman wonders for a moment whether fleeing the life once lived is truly so different than seeking to escape something like ageing. Both surely hold commonalities: a desire to escape of what is to come; a yearning for resolution, for reinvention and rebirth; fresh starts from foolish bids, certainly not the least of these!

However, it—well—it must be so that denial fuels one and the courage to leave spurs the other makes them fundamentally different. ‘Rather a rash, unfair conclusion,’ Hanneman finds himself critiquing his train of thought, ‘But certainly favourable; paints past actions as sterling, undeniably sound.’ The resolution isn’t much of one at all; choices of the past contribute more than enough to both senses of fleeing time’s passage.

Though this body of his ages another year, Hanneman von Essar of Imperial acclaim died years ago by his hand; a choice made to leave all behind and bury it in a blaze of sharp words spat out to denounce the life that took away just as much as it ever offered.

Similarity, there, can be drawn to his critique of those who refute age. They choose rejection instead of reconciliation; fleeing rather than finding some way to salve the hurt from the inside, and repair. The same puzzle simply in a different form, different stakes.

(And so, maybe that leaving is not so unlike than any other kind of fleeing one can do about the passage of time, and to call one courage and the other denial is quite unfair of him

Hypocritcal, even, he imagines some colleagues might insist!)

Years past can be turned around in the mind unproductively for an eternity, Hanneman knows—and by now, he likely has if one were to compile how many memories creep back in as fragmented reminders of grief, unhealed, turned instead into fuel. What remains a comfort, at any rate, is that he has the sounds of the Monastery around him that rouse out of such thought spirals sooner rather than later; noise pollution of a more productive kind, Hanneman knows, and so this birthday is hardly quiet, but subject to an evolved soundscape.

Frivolities of a grand party now exchanged for training drills held on the campus greens that can filter through even locked-tight window. Footfalls that carve out the daily routines of scholars, instructors, and devotees alike which inspires an unwavering devotion to one’s cause, regardless of what brings them here—does so more than the clink of fine glassware, and toasts made by fickle friends who come to better their interests, under the sterling veneer of celebrating one more excellent year. He will take the soud of colleagues and students alike wearing familiar paths into stone floor over that, gladly; he regrets not that choice.

...From that, a tentative reformation of that earlier hypothesis. Arrived at as he listens, endeared, to the roar of a class below who is no doubt prevailing in their instruction—should the loud, raucous whooping be any useful indication.

Perhaps, in this proposed lineage of emotion, there is a coda in which that cycle breaks and indifference to shifts instead to contentment, ushering forth a settled sense of peace rather than the snare of cycling through birthday emotions endlessly.

(If that is so, then Hanneman knows he has only found the opportunity for such observational insight by finding footing here for many, many birthdays to feel that emergence first hand

Hanneman tuts at the noise below, and tucks back into his work, contented.)

[vonessars]

prayerwitch​:

inviting as the unattended entrance had appeared, sara does not intrude until permission is granted by the man inhabiting the space to share it. some part of her bristles at being called child. he means no harm as far as she can tell, but she remembers the voices of the priests who had restricted her freedoms and fun with similar soft placations. on at least some level, she can recognize an attempt being made to meet her halfway which is more than can be said for most recipients of her inquiries. whether he was merely humoring her or not remains to be seen. there had been tutors in the past who couldn’t be bothered to do even just that, waving her away as a nuisance.

“oh, that’s a shame,” she sighs, deflates a little. although never one to put much stock in words passed from mortal tongues, she had hoped the professor rumored to be the leading authority on crestology at the academy would be able to provide some lead. 

several steps taken inside the office, sara is already studying the walls for secrets in search of information that he could be withholding from her. the seat he has generously offered earns only a moment of consideration, head canting to look at the bookcases lining his office with far more interest, “are frogs unworthy in the eyes of scholars?” finally, eye contact is made for the first time in their introduction.

“professor manuela doesn’t seem to like frogs very much. between you and me, i don’t think they like her either,” sara draws a hand to her chin and smiles as if sharing an inside joke though she speaks with certain conviction. “who’s to say the goddess only favors humanity?”

“Who is to say indeed,” Hanneman finds himself musing, if only for the moment of buffering that the echoed sentiment buys him to—well, process at least a moment of what has been brought forth into his office now. 

He has seen any number of things throughout the years, but really, this may be the first time that he is face to face with the nature of the divine, moral and academic worth, and Her perspective on the amphibious population of Fódlan. Returning from sabbatical had certainly been an enticing prospect, excited to return to his scholarly duties under the shadow of Garreg Mach Monastery, but he very nearly forgot what peculiar circumstance and conversations occur here.

Well. He is not about to be bested on a conversation concerning frogs. Certainly not if the frogs have already made their displeasure toward Manuela known, at that! Should the frogs present some notion of a test, he is certainly sure to win their favour.

Hanneman continues, expression level and kind, “Though I must admit, Miss, I am no thealogian, nor a philosopher—such questions of who the Goddess favours cease to be my expertise when there is no longer a Crest in the picture; though I would very much hope She would not turn a blind eye to all Her creations, not simply humankind.” 

And then, he tacks on, curiously, “You said the frogs do not care for Manuela, correct? I fear I am missing an instrumental piece of that puzzle—” 

[vonessars]

cleaning house - manuela & hanneman.​

grandeiva​:

“—Well, you were gone a long time.” A defensive answer that is no less defeated.

Manuela stands with her wrinkled nose and disgruntled expression, staring down Hanneman several seconds longer than any answer demands before there’s a long, long groan underscoring the Fine that follows, just as dramatic as the drawn-out process of shrugging off her stole. It’s held between pinched fingers for a moment—the thought occurs to her to just drape it lazily over a low side table in protest, but it’s fur, and actually worth something sentimental, unlike the dozens of books crammed into the shelves—so she instead settles for over the back of Hanneman’s desk chair.

The entire time, she’s holding Hanneman’s gaze with a very pointed look.

“I just think it’s funny,” Manuela starts—stoking the fire, pausing just enough to tip the scale back in her favor and draw a little bit of blood back with her barbs. “You’ve spent how much of your breath complaining about the way I keep my office. Now, you’re trusting me to do it because you’re afraid of a little dust?”

(If anything, he should be far more worried about throwing out his back in the process. Tongue clicks as she steps around the boxes of—well, overflow supplies that never got organized back when the training accident took over the entire wing as an infirmary. She’s been behind.

She starts with the lightest box, old clean cloth scraps she’d kind of… left while searching for other things the day before.)

“I only figured this was the type of thing you loved doing in your free time, since you seem to have so much to say about it.“

“Now, now! Let’s not get carried away, Manuela. I am simply asking for your assistance, as a friend. I would not entrust this task—err... I would not ask you to do this alone.”

For a moment, there’s a vision: Some horrible, warped timeline where Hanneman is unable to return to his own office, and must forefeit the space for the time being, no time left to prepare it properly! And in that acursed realm, Manuela left to clean his office by her own standards. He sees it now! Books mismanaged, hardly dusted the way they demand, and without proper care and preservation, research memos and ledgers of data left to blanche in window-filtered sun beyond recognition or use!

It is enough to draw a shiver from him, ripple of fear emerging from his very core and rattling around in mind for a moment, and then—

Achoo—!

Grumbling, and Hanneman opens his window, shakes out the rag he has been using thus far to see to the dusting. Hands smooth the front of the apron donned to keep his clothes clean and he tries not to mind much that Manuela has draped her own stole over his coat.

“And I do not enjoy cleaning anymore than the average person! Really, you think me so stuffy that I might be looking forward to purging the dust bunnies from my office? Hah! There is any number of things to be doing at present—catching up on my research not least of all those!—and yet I find myself combing through dust and—and—

“Countless boxes! Really, Manuela, what is all of this?”

[vonessars]

❖ eagles and lions and bears, oh my! || hanneman & rhys

daydreamful​:

Rhys tugged Hanneman’s sleeve urgently, face drained of color. Normally when this happened he had someone a tad more… robust… at his side. Hanneman would be man no more if this bear got the wrong idea.

“Does it really?!” he whispered. Rhys’s heart raced but he steadied himself, slowly backing into the forest the way they came. The bear didn’t seem to notice or care yet. “They climb trees, don’t they? So we just have to keep going. Calmly…”

Back when he lived with his parents into his early twenties, Rhys had a knack for getting inexplicable bumps and scrapes an awful lot for someone who spent too much time in bed. Whether it was clumsiness, bad luck, or he even pondered if it was an outright curse, Rhys usually had some marring somewhere from a piece of furniture he bumped into or a scrape he couldn’t place the source of.

This one, though, he’d remember.

Rhys took Hanneman’s counsel, not turning his back on the bear. They slowly retreated into the darkness on the trail they’d taken in. At widest, it was suitable for two people, but it wound and dipped with the landscape itself. Focused more on the bear than his footing, Rhys backed right into a tree root.

“ACK!” Rhys’s heel hit and caught itself the root and he flailed. He tried to snag Hanneman’s coat and failed, falling directly on his back, groaning at the impact to his spine.

He couldn’t tell from where he was on the ground, but he had a bad feeling about the bear as he scrambled to get up. “Sir! Sorry- help!”

When Rhys’s choice of a calm, tactful retreat is made, Hanneman cannot deny the complete relief that overcomes him. Quite literally scurrying back to the Monastery is tempting—and of course! Of course it is, staring down a great beast like that!—but Hanneman would much prefer to arrive unscathed, without alerting the bear.

Which seems to be a reasonable possibility as they wind their way back with caution, calculated movements, and—!

Narrowly, Hanneman is not similarly on the ground by the hand grasping at his coat.

“Steady now, steady!” Hanneman chastises in a stage-whisper of a hiss. Not cruel, but certainly stern as he checks over his shoulder down the path they have just navigated backward. Not enough movement from the brush—yet!—to be further alarmed.

Well. They’ll see how long any ‘luck’ lasts, if there was ever any to begin.

Hanneman stoops to help Rhys to his feet, minding them both—his own back (lest they truly want to find themselves in dire straits out here!) and the other man, a steady hand to guide Rhys back to proper kilter, tutting all the while, “Are you injured? Did you bump your head with a fall such as that? My, Rhys—come now, surefooted, we are far enough now that perhaps we should—”

The sound of brush snapping. Huffing. Heavy treads on the forest floor.

“We should perhaps run, if you are able without losing your footing again, boy!”

[vonessars]

sara may not always remember, but she never forgets any thought worth pursuing. it is a remark from manuela lingering in recent memory that brings an inquisitive student to his office. “you’re professor hanneman,” she says for fact despite never having met prior. there’s something like a pleasantly aged scent about him, mature and familiar to the senses. then, without preamble, she asks: “would you happen to be acquainted with any frogs that possess a crest?”

Hanneman leaves his door open for a reason; unless he is engrossed in the absolute depths of his independent research, he thinks it to be his duty to remain easily accessible to the prying minds being nurtured at the Officers Academy. Today is no such day that he might find himself too busy for such things, and it has, all things considered, been quite a nice day. 

However, that does not shake the… Peculiar questions that have a tendency to arrive at his threshold.

                                                              “Frogs—!?” 

He does not mean to sound so sharp; Hanneman stands, as is polite, and clears his throat. He tries again. “Err—please, come in, child, if you have questions to be seen to, I am happy to—advise you as I am able. There is no use in dallying in doorways, now, but—”

(He sincerely hopes he is not inviting a frog into his office along with her. Part of him believes that this must be the bidding of someone else, perhaps some prank of a snickering colleague across the way—

The sanctity of his office, it seems, is an ever-shrinking virtue.

This is absurd, but he is a scholar. He has long since learned the best breakthroughs often emerge from the bizarre and the easily dismissed. Hanneman lets curiosity persevere instead of disbelief.)

“—I must warn you in advance, my work has never focused on Crests of the amphibian-kind; indeed, I would believe such a thing is quite... Unlikely.”

Despite it all, and perhaps against better judgement, Hanneman gestures to the sitting area in his office.

@prayerwitch​

[vonessars]

left field —& hanneman

houseofreglay​:

                         They were unequivocally, resoundingly lost.

“Truly? I dare say it is quite pragmatic, all things considered.”

(How could he have known it was a mistake to follow him? Hanneman, an active faculty whose tenure long pre-dated even his own arrival. Surely he didn’t go and suffer a head injury during his sabbatical.)

Since his arrival at the academy, Pent liked to think that he had made a good effort at exploring the grounds, at least, enough to navigate his way through the day to day and then some to make for a decent enough report back home. There had to be more though; that much was a given. Garreg Mach was an institution built upon the skeletal remains of something greater—

(Religious grounds or not, any location that featured a mausoleum had more history than it was letting on. More secrets to hide.)

—but Pent was then certain now that until they found themselves in the depths of… Wherever this was, he hadn’t even begun to fathom how much of the academy’s day-to-day life had been carried out at the very surface of the grounds. Where there hadn’t been dust, there were cobwebs, and where there were no cobwebs, Pent was quite certain there had been dust deposited from so many years ago that one could sample and date the material as an archaeological specimen. 

“That is, of course, assuming that we have not been walking in circles already.” Pent stared forward where the corridor branched into three other hallways, just the same as the one before had… And the one before that. 

“We can’t have gone too far.” The air was still fresh for what it was; also, it wasn’t as if either of them had been in the peak physical condition that was required to journey deep into the bowels of the mountain. “Either we stumble blindly back the way we came, or…” Pent shrugged.

Someone would have noticed their absence. (Probably. Maybe? He hoped?)

“Ah, ah, nonsense—I assure you that we have been doing no such thing. Misplaced as our direction may be at the moment, I could not entertain the idea that we have been treading the same course in repetition! Surely we have keen enough eyes between the two of us to prevent such an impossibility.”

That, maybe, is a big game to talk as the surroundings around them draw less and less familiarity, and instead feel much more like a new course carved out altogether.

Make no mistake that Hanneman is shocked to be found in such circumstance. What, for his years of tenure at the Monastery to be rendered useless all for a short sabbatical? That is a true impossibility, and his confidence only wavers a little as they wind down yet another unfamiliar corridor.

Is it getting cold? Or maybe that’s creeping dread—

“Now, this looks familiar, does it not?” This: another stone corridor, lined with dim lights and little in way of indication as to what direction they’re going. This would be a much easier task if there were windows, or perhaps if there wasn’t such a resistance to providing navigational material along such seldom walked passages for moments like these.

The Monastery is hardly a labyrinth, but she certainly seems to be parading as one at present. If nothing else... Well, it is an opportunity to chart unfamiliar corners of it. It isn’t as though they can wander forever without being found, and, with that to take the edge off Hanneman isn’t worried.

Simply... Antsy. He looks to Pent, “It... Does not look familiar to me. Does it? I could have sworn that this was where we just walked, but—well, no matter, perhaps our salvation is this way.”

[vonessars]

❖ eagles and lions and bears, oh my! || hanneman & rhys

continued from here ❖ || @daydreamful

There’s a sort of sense on impromptu outings like this that, anything that can go wrong will. Hanneman does not style himself anything of a pessimist, but rather a sterling realist and visionary at the best of times. Still, even he can find the truth of those words when staring down not an empty clearing, by the great, hulking form of a bear.

Rhys’ racket hardly registers in his ears—for a moment, even he thinks it might be the bears roar—until the weight of the other is in his arms briefly, instinctively, unwisely, but feet of his companion have found the ground before Hanneman’s body can buckle under the weight or drop him.

Some small mercies to be found, then, in this fieldwork gone awry. 

(And, maybe, for a moment, there is a sense of curiosity that permeates Hanneman. He cannot begin to fathom what a creature such as this is doing so close to the Monastery grounds, lest it be willing to be hunted for meal and warmth by those much more capable than—well, surely either of them.

Hanneman is, however, not a man invested in the study of bears, and certainly not looking for firsthand data on what the inside of their mouths look like, or how fangs tear through man—)

“Come now, Rhys—I insist!—you must endeavour to collect yourself!” Which is a bold demand to make, really, and Hanneman allows himself to be drug a few steps backward by the hand at his sleeve before he reaches out to still the other. “I hear that running simply agitates them further—what’s more, we cannot afford to turn our back on such a foe while we make our retreat.”

All this to say, Hanneman is not really a man of nature, nor would be fancy himself any sort of survivalist outside of the simplest of camping excursions while conducting archaelogical efforts. But even that comes with a little know how, though bears simply are much bigger than he would have thought.

A few measured steps backward before he speaks again. “We have two choices: attempt a cool retreat and hope it does not charge—

Or we attempt to run for our lives and know it will; the choice is yours, my friend, but, if I may advise, choose wisely!”

[vonessars]

cleaning house - manuela & hanneman.​

grandeiva​:

“Well. No wonder I’m the first person who even bothered to greet you. And to think I almost offered to lend a hand.”

By necessity, Manuela keeps her infirmary tidy and sterile. Clutter to a doctor’s quarters is enough of a distraction without the squirming, most often bleeding, genuinely panicked patient it is her responsible to placate and oversee—

—her desk, however, is an exception, and at the very least the most basic battleground they have. But it is quarter off to a corner, and hardly bothering anyone, and it’s all paperwork. (And her records for each year’s incoming students. And a few odds and ends. And an old flask from her younger years that she tries not to fill. And her special herbal remedy for… when she does. And—)

Point being. The dust and clutter in the corners might be overflow. It’s not entirely a selfless maneuver.

Manuela keeps a hand steady over her mouth, and while it does not betray the full disgust on her face, the glare does wonders. “I didn’t come in here to start a fight, but consider the hands withdrawn!“

“Ah, ah! Hardly so fast, Manuela! You cannot surely mean to interrupt and then leave so soon—not when you have come to so generously welcome back a dear colleague!”

Hanneman is a proud man, and he is a man of dignity and storied accomplishments. And, perhaps, in such a process people have come to consider him as being nitpicky—dare he even presume some people may think him uncooperative! All because he has a particular way of doing things, and being able to clearly discern points at which other people may be able to improve their own operations; to withhold such insights would be the true cruelty.

Right now, however, he is a man fighting a losing battle against his own office, and may be able to set aside pride temporarily to request—

“Your assistance,” he starts, and he is certainly not holding back another sneeze as he shakes out his coat with a grimace, “Would be a warmer welcome to me than any well wishes that could offered! Further, if I am left to tame this on my own, I suppose I will become your issue to deal with one way or another, for having inhaled so much dust—

“...—much of which has collected on boxes I do not recall placing here. You would not know anything of them, now, would you, Manuela?”

[vonessars]

“ do i look like the kind of man who could give advice ? ”

“You are a scholar as well, are you not?”

Perhaps it is not quite advice that their profession is built around—they are no monk or counsellor sought out—but to advise, to provide feedback, is still a skill that Hanneman would consider as being intrinsic to the work they do.

He continues, “If you are, then yes! I would very much insist that you look like the kind of man who could give advice! Come now, do not feign such humble positions on the worth of your input—”

(This could be a little uncouth. Not that Hanneman has a tendency to be! His manners are well maintained, of the utmost importance. But the poor soul was just walking by Hanneman’s open door, and has since been roped in to lingering, at least for a moment, to see to a query.

Thinking of better, less sudden ways to solicit input from colleagues may be a good idea, but by now—well, Hanneman has grown so used to the ebb and flow of collaborative research that sometimes it escapes him that such quickly made requests may be a little jarring.)

Hanneman turns back to the chalkboard in his office, and squints at the writing on it—his own, to be sure, and perhaps to a detriment—before speaking again. “Now, if you will be so kind as to lend me your insight, tell me: do you think this seems to be a beneficial assignment for students seeking extra credit in their reason lessons?”

The assignment in question is… Complex, but possible. Time consuming, assuredly, and more than a little convoluted—if you can discern the writing at all, in his handwriting.

”I will be the first to admit I am hesitant in even offering extra credit work, but I believe those students who are so inclined to further their studies in this area should be offered the opportunity…” Hanneman continues, turning once again to face his colleague in the doorway, “Wouldn’t you agree?”

@halfjalar

[vonessars]

“ if you know me and my debilitating fear of bears  ,  this is my worst nightmare ”

“Bears—? Come now, child, do you really think there are bears so near to the Monastery?”

Maybe Hanneman shouldn’t dismiss the comment so boldly. He supposes that it is not altogether impossible that there are bears afoot, and—well, perhaps it is better to be vigilant rather than dismissive of such a potentiality, especially considering how the sun has begun her descent from the sky, but—

No, there are certainly no bears nearby. If there were, then why would it had seemed like a good idea to come out here in the first place? Such a reckless idea would never cross Hanneman’s mind!

He knows better than to test limits too much; he does not endeavour to do anything foolish. They are hardly far from the safety of the Monastery walls. Wildlife in the area tends to be skittish, what with all the noise of inhabitants of the Monastery and townsfolk.

And so he forges ahead despite his colleague’s concern, speaking still:

“Now, do put such concerns to rest. We are not so far from the Monastery that a retreat is impossible, and what’s more, these areas are regularly patrolled. Enjoy the fresh mountain air! There is no better way to adjust to one’s surroundings quite like taking them in first hand, and—err, well, it is getting quite dark, so do try to take them in carefully! And better still! We are in the pursuit of knowledge!

”The only bears that will be encountered will be aloft, in the patterns cast above, and that is only should they even be visible. With our luck they should be from the ridge—it is just ahead now, do tread with care…”

Hanneman is not much of a scholar for things such as the sky, nor the stars that she homes, but he cannot deny his curiosity, after coming across old written record that perhaps certain formations may be familiar—and what an intriguing discovery it would be to chart such a thing.

@daydreamful

[vonessars]

(Garreg Mach Unsolved) "In case you needed a reminder this place is a twisting nightmare..”

“Now, now—there is no need for such gloom. I am certain that this next corridor is precisely… Eugh.”

To make things clear: they are not lost.

At least, not in the sense of not knowing one’s whereabouts at all—they are inside Garreg Mach, somewhere in relation to more familiar surroundings. All he needs is one familiar landmark to get his bearings, and as such cannot be lost, simply… Misplaced themselves.

Hanneman refuses on principle to concede to the fact that, possibly, he does not possess the know-how of retracing steps perfectly through the labyrinth that is Garreg Mach after decades. It just seems that, perhaps, some areas were less traversed than others for good reason. They are not wandering restricted areas, per se, but he can now appreciate why certain paths are more well-trod than… Well, this one. Hardly even an issue of dead ends—oh no! Rather, it seems each ’end’ results in two or three possible starts. (The goal of his original outing was to locate a particular mosaic a colleague of his had referenced during his sabbatical: useful, they thought, in unravelling some current curiosity of their own research and as such it had been a natural conclusion that he would look into it on their behalf. Problem being, it is mentioned only once in written record that Hanneman could find himself, where it is indicated as occupying one of the walls tucked deeper into the Monastery’s core. Twisting nightmare indeed— —And worse still! To be left trying to navigate it under the eye of unfamiliar company! Hanneman is hardly bashful, nor is he shy, mind you, and while he has no idea why it is his colleague is trekking similar unfamiliar ground—as you see, asking has not quite yet crossed his mind, seeing as they are—err, mutually misplaced—but failing to find one’s way as promised is hardly a sterling first impression to make! His only solace comes in the reminder it seems neither of them are particularly skilled in besting the Monastery’s masquerade as a maze.) Hanneman clears his throat sharply, then whirls around to look down the path they have just come from. “—Or, so it seems, perhaps the correct passage to find our course out of here was the one just further back... To retrace our steps if we begin now would be no difficulty, assuredly, I am certain that the previous one must be it, now.”

@houseofreglay

[vonessars]

“ i’m going to regret this ”

There come moments in the career of all scholars that are particularly confounding. Hanneman’s career, to be sure, has been wrought with many such instances. Such is the plight of forging a path of inquiry and thought that is yet uncleared by any other. Some of those moments, though, are not insulated, one-off occurrences; rather, it seems that the more time he spends in the halls of Garreg Mach, those moments are rather people with mysteries that refuse to untangle themselves. Regardless of methods available, or observations, and clever theories— There is nothing Hanneman hates more than the red tape oft put in his path by nobles with something to hide. Such a case sits across from him, at present, after numerous attempts and finally one accepted invitation to tea later, and—   

“Hmmmm? Did you say something, Miss Marianne?” 

—This is how he finds himself, more often than he would have thought, finding any excuse to spend time… Well, peering around such roadblocks.

(His contract made clear that certain—ahem—generous donors to the Church of Seiros had particular vested interests in their privacy. They did not say anything in particular about having tea and extending generosity. What’s more, it is an opportunity to get to know one of his students. Hanneman is not only interested in knowing his students in the classroom—and though he is a scholar first and professor second—there is a clear benefit to time spent familiarizing one’s self with those fresh faces who represent the future of the continent. And there is no shame, if in the process of such familiarization, the edges of that red tape are peeled upward.)

@cruelsfate

[vonessars]

hel is supposedly ‘as quiet as the dead’, and eir has lived never having argued with that statement. the atmosphere trains her senses and sharpens her hearing, and she’d go so far as to agree if anyone had told her that she had good ears. still, hel is much different in comparison to fódlan, and she struggles to keep up. “excuse me if i’m mistaken, but…” eir shakes her head, face pale with some variation of shock that registered beyond neutral, “were you making horse noises, professor...?”

“…Ah…and then that should—… just as I assumed, but where is that… Note on…—pppphhhbbbbtttt… How truly vexing…“

Clearly, the process of codifying findings is going well. Hanneman stands, hunched over his desk and papers, books spread across the surface. He’s supposed to be lesson planning, as was the intention of this particular session of concentration. But a glance at his notes had sent him down an unscheduled rabbit hole, of sorts. If only this data from his recent research hadn’t been so striking, and a breakthrough so near, he would be much better equipped to spend his time mulling on the lessons that demand similar attention.

“No, now that’s simply—err... Oh, what a bothersome—... Hhhhh-tut-tut-tut-t-t-t... These papers are completely...”

Such is the woe of a cross-appointment. Hardly that his work for the Officers Academy is any less pressing—hardly! The education of young minds is of an utmost importance. But Hanneman simply cannot allow his own work to go to the wayside, and sometimes to stirke a balance... Well. His desk looks more befitting to be Manuela’s than his own.

Solace found, at least, in understanding struck with the Church that his research is the primary reason for his being here. It makes setting the lesson plans to the backseat easier to swallow—and what’s more, he supposes that he could recycle one from a previous year of teaching easily enough, he need only make minor alterations—

(Then, a voice that cuts through: “Were you making horse noises, Professor...?”)

“—Err, what?”

Quick comment is enough to pull him out of his concentration and instead look toward the source of the interruption. Not unkindly, of course, but taken by surprise. He had been steeped in quiet so long—that is, quiet aside from the sound of his own mumbled musings—that the sound of another voice registers peculiarly in his ears.

Hanneman straightens himself and fixes sights toward her, slow to be pulled out of his concentration. “Ah, no, I was assuredly not making horse noises, or perhaps not intentionally—simply thinking about—well, never mind what it was I was doing.

“Can I help you, Miss… ?”

@lyfjqberg