#DIVINECREST

[aurheatum]

and from your face i shall be hidden.

welcome present (?) for @divinecrest (it's okay. runes already taken the psychic damage. for everyone else warnings for: death obv. grief! badly dealt with grief! body horror based on the chest cavity/heart. the usual mix of consummate lying and religious fervor rhea is known for.)

The fire should anger her more, even if it does not surprise her.

The fire should anger her more, even if it does not surprise her.

She had seen Jeralt’s face when she first forced the babe upon him; the horror as he looked her in the eyes and followed her final order all the same (“take it”).

She hadn’t told him to leave, but he had all the same. Jeralt had made his choice then, and Rhea, turning back to cradle Sitri in her arms, had made hers.

They tell her that the funeral preparations can be made without her, if that is what she wishes. Rhea says nothing. Tells them she is the archbishop and that she will oversee things as she always has. No one contradicts her.

All of the monastery agrees that one tragedy has seemed to follow another with Sitri succumbing to her frailty and now her husband nowhere to be seen. They really had thought of Jeralt as one of them, after all – but those raised outside the church, well, what can one truly expect?

Rhea wants to force them all to stop talking. Stop talking as if they ever knew anything of Sitri. As if they have the right to mourn a soul such as hers. 

She purchases a casket, instead; similar to the ones of the Four Saints it is inlaid with smaller, but no less resplendent gold pleated crests of Seiros on each of its four corners. Rhea has prepared the body for this, repaired the damage again and again just for this moment where she can send Sitri onward into the tapestry of time. 

(Most of the other vessels she had burned under the stars. Each had a shining light named after them now).

She carries her to the Holy Tomb herself, ready to call upon one of her knights to carry the casket out when she is finished but Sitri swaddled against her chest fails to leave her arms

“You cannot,” Rhea pleads before the ghosts of the ten elites and her hundreds of siblings, “you cannot go now. Do not leave me here alone, please!”

(The Church of Seiros says that everything – plant, human, animal has a soul but Rhea has never seen one. This does not mean she does not believe.)

She decides then that she will not send Sitri off into the stars, or lay her here with so many who died in torment; neither will she give Sitri to the ground as if she were just another thing to be broken down by the ravages of age. Rhea will see her perfect, and whole.

The casket goes into the ground a day later but Sitri stays in Abyss.

There were plants that only ever grew in the dark of Abyss – weeds, really, that neither Rhea or Seteth could stop from growing in the cracks of the shadow library but Sitri, enchanted by the faint light they gave off, had loved.

She had loved so much.

Rhea magicks her a field of pampas grass to lay in, grown from the Immaculate One’s blood; it is simple enough to restrain the growth of the field to a single chamber in the underground for unlike the weeds Sitri so loved the grass does not take to the damp and the dark.

It is simple too to place a piece of her own crest stone within the empty cavity of Sitri’s chest; as Rhea has done it many times before (some children of man did not take to her Nabatean blood and so in order to promote the healing of their bodies she had needed to give them something which the Seiros crest could respond to).

She’s done it so many times now, dug her claws into her own heart just to chip away at it for flakes she thinks she could do it in her sleep.

For Sitri she does more. Bringing her regular infusions of blood alongside offerings of freshly plucked lilies and valerian blooms, she arranges them neatly around the palate where she lays and she speaks with her.

She talks to her of how work has piled up again, and what she would not give to have Seteth help her with redoing the library (“you never met, but I think you would have gotten along well”). She tells her with a smile when Seteth returns alongside his sister, and adds with a frown she is not sure how long this time they will stay.

One evening she walks down from her chambers to Sitri’s place in abyss and informs her that the winds of fate have seen fit to bring her children back to Garreg Mach.

“We have needed a military arts professor,” Rhea admits, with some embarrassment, “and Jeralt never could take to that kind of instruction, you know.”

Rhea pauses and admits: “they’ve taken to it very well, though; and the bonds forged with the students, well, it makes me wonder…”

Rhea does not continues the train of thought, merely puts a hand  to Sitri’s face and brushes a strand of hair from her eyes.

“That kindness… I am sure it can only come from you.”

[lycianlynx]

Smiling, Sitri holds a package out. “Season's blessings. I am Lilian, one of the organizers of the gift exchange, and this… is from a winter's envoy to Chad, of the Black Eagles.” The box is a small thing, inornate and unremarkable, blemished only by the artisan's signature etched into the bottom. Upon first glance, one might have been forgiven for thinking that it was nothing special, but the sleek varnish of the wood and the beveled edges belie the piece within. Similarly, when one opens the box, one might find the compass within to be quite like many others, but when one looks a little closer they will see it for the craftwork it is. The bronze is polished to a high shine, with a small cast sundial fixture which can swivel to the compass's face or off to the side at the user's whim. The face is of clean crystal, rather than glass, and there is fine gilt linework marking the directions. The gilt continues in fine specks and lines along the body as well, marking constellations. There is a small note within, which in neat penmanship reads "for a traveler, may you never lose your way.”

Oh — Crap, the envoy exchange. They'd signed up on a whim, wanting something to keep their hands and mind busy for the season; They'd been so pleased with their own selection they'd almost forgotten they're getting something in return. What did they even write on their sign-up form again...?

Chad tries to give a smile in return out of courtesy — Whether it succeeds is a bit hard to say, but they do look a degree less intense. They give a bow of the head, receiving the small parcel carefully, holding it close to themself in case the contents are fragile. It's... Surprisingly heavy for its size. A frission of nervousness worms in, but they leave it for later.

"Season's blessings to you too, Miss Lilian. And thank you for helping organise all of this, truly." He gives her a firm nod, dipping into a bit of a bow after before letting her continue going about her duties.

It's only when they steal away out a window and unto a roof that they dare to examine their gift; They'd had their suspicions at the fact it was wood that met their fingers, smooth and well-cut, but the artisan's signature makes their eyes widen significantly; Slim fingers open the box almost gingerly, only to be met with a quality compass.

It's a damn fine compass. How did they get this kinda thing at a gift exchange?! The polish is so fine they're almost scared to touch it; They can't find any foreign fingerprints on the crystal, either, they realise with a snort, before leaning in closer to simply take in the artisanship.

It's a damn fucking fine compass. Possibly one of the nicest things they own now. Whoever got this has an eye for quality and gorgeous handwriting, and the bag to spend like this for a gift for someone they barely know. If it'd been someone he knows — Hell, if they let anyone know them, they'd've settled for their love of sweets, their hobbies or their embarrassing tendency towards flowers. Right? Surely.

Still, they think as they skim the note again, as they trace the constellations drawn onto the compass. They'd noticed the way stars here seem to shine the same as Elibe. This gift reminds them of that. This gift, despite its distance, has heart.

They exhale, breath fogging into the air in a near-laugh. Fuck, they need to find out who gave them this so they can even begin to repay it.

[beholdenning]

“Season’s blessings,” Sitri says by way of greeting, with a gift in hand. Inside of a box for Denning is a small fake pine tree, disassembled into all the different branches to be slotted into a rod that acts as its support. Included is a small instruction manual on how to piece it all together as well as a star topper. A note has been included with handwriting that appears to be neat and practiced. It reads: 'I didn't spend a lot of holidays like this for most of my life, but I remember a tree as the center of it all. We'd each make ornaments out of whatever we could find and hang them up. Acorns, old toys, whatever. It was a thing we'd all get together to do to make the whole thing work in time for the festival. I don't think I'm the right person to ask for what people usually give, since back then, we didn't have a lot, but some people would hand make toys from wood and others made clothes if we could afford it. I remember the village trying to save food for the big day too. That's what I associate with it anyway.’

... Remarkable quintessence. It burns bright with the flame of a dragon, and the heat of it licks up its skin. It is no change in temperature in truth — But that faux-heat is no less brilliant for it, diminished as it is.

Betraying no fragment of this, Denning recieves the box with an incline of the head, a 'season's blessings' mouthed voicelessly in return; Silently and politely, only to open it in the quiet of their room. They know not how to receive of it in a festive manner otherwise.

The meaning of the curious tree is not entirely beyond them — Evergreens do symbolise, to mortals, health and safety from malevolent spirits. They assemble it rather quickly, placing it upon their empty dresser to add the star topper and observe for a long, long moment. It makes sense such a thing may have a place at a winter festival, having seen others like it among the monastery's own decor, but to erect one in ones own home...?

But with the gift is a letter. They circle back around to read dutifully, information tucked away like a stone that may make good flint. There is a pause, then, looking at the note, its pleasantly regular handwriting, and the words whatever we could find; With a slight twitch of the eyebrow, the morph neatly folds the note into fourths and nestles it among the branches of the miniature pine. After another ten minutes of contemplation, a fletching-feather, a bookmark, and a length of spare ribbon join the scrap of paper on the small evergreen.

A toneless hum fills the air as they stare at it. They are not sure they can understand like this; Their anonymous benefactor had made this sound like a deeply social mortal affair, and whatever they currently have is nowhere near congruent to the experience. Frivolous things such as toys and acorns at odds with necessities like clothes...

Still, they can find no logical reason as to why the rest of their evening is taken up by staring at their little tree and combing through their room to find further odds and ends to balance upon its needles.

[yukyunotabibito]

📋 good luck digging anything of substance up on her nasir

Name: Lillian, though I get the feeling that this is an assumed alias. Perhaps for her own protection?

Age: 20? That can't possibly be right.

Gender: Female.

Class: Abyss, the dark underbelly of the academy. If I were not inclined to watch over His Majesty, then perhaps I myself would be residing amongst them.

Notes:

I will be completely honest in saying that I could not tell you who this woman is. From observation, she is a mere gentle herbalist residing in the underground of the academy. But something in me tells me that is not the truth. I am a liar too, you see. And one who has been lying for as long as I have... let me just say I can spy an untruth when I see one. As for what the truth is about her? I don't have a single clue.

[nothosword]

“Season's blessings to you,” Sitri greets Fergus with a smile. “The name is Lilian, I am here to deliver the gifts from your mysterious envoy.” This last is perhaps self-evident, given the assortment of items in her arms: An expertly crafted double sided whetstone, perfect for polishing weapons; a luxurious new saddle, made of leather and aged wood with fine detailing from local artisans; and a six cup tea set of porcelain - white with blue and gold edging and flowers, matching saucers and teapot.

Lilian can barely get her name out when Fergus swoops in to take his multitude of gifts from her hands. "Woah, let me help with all that!" he offers, bending at the knee to match her height. Watching the way she had been walking at him, he suspected that this would be how things would proceed.

"Someone decided to spoil me, huh?" For all that he tries to appear nonserious, Fergus is secretly admiring his envoy's efforts. The whetstone turns in his hand after he takes it, its artisan nature quick to be appraised; the saddle he inspects like a stretched-canvas painting, imagining his mount doing the same; and the tea cups are what get him. They create pause. He stops fidgeting with everything to just... Stare.

"Not bad," Fergus muses, but he means so much more. The set is like something out of a princess story, like something off the shelf of a noble dining hall. It brings to mind quieter days of sipping tea with his mother, back before he embarked on his quest and he could still be taught useless skills like courtroom dancing.

She would have loved to see him open something like this.

With a smirk, he fights the instinct to get nostalgic. This all may have been enough to make a serious impression on him, but the blonde has an image to uphold. Cool and nonchalant--a sea breeze blowing through a bustling town. "Lilian, yeah? I appreciate carrying for me. 'Course, if I had known my guy was getting me so much..." a chuckle rises in his chest. This thin-looking girl has been lugging around heavy gifts all afternoon. Fergus wonders how her back is doing. "...I would've offered to help. But I guess that's not how things are supposed to work, right?"

After finishing with the rest of his laughter, he gets serious. For all he has received today, he only has so many clues to guess his gifter with. "Hmm, now let's see... Someone spent a pretty penny on me, no doubt. They've got great taste, and I think I'm right in assuming some heart to put into this." A small silence follows, testing the woman's reaction. Even the slightest twinge could tip him off.

"But man, wonder who that could be! Guess I better start huntin' around."

For her efforts, Lilian receives a wink and whatever wave Fergus can muster with his hands full. "Catch ya' later, Lil'. Maybe you can be the first to try out this new tea set."

[swiftscion]

Sitri approaches Larcei with a smile. “I am Lilian, here to deliver the gift from your envoy. Season's blessings, Princess Larcei.” In her hands there's a medium sized box. The note atop the wrapping paper reads, "To: Larcei. From: Your dashing Winter Envoy." Inside the box is a brand-new set of black leather sheath straps. Tucked neatly under the practical gift are a pair of silver dangly earrings--a bar about two inches long. Understated, yet they add a touch of elegance to any outfit. 

"Yo!" she greets with a wave, but soon finds herself quirking a brow. That formality on Sitri's lips is like a left shoe on a right foot: it isn't right. She dismisses it with a second, sheepish wave. "We've already met before. No need for that princess crap."

The gift soon takes her attention. It comes in two parts, which suggests that the whole breadth of her wishlist was taken into account. So far, so good. The straps are what captivate her first--the battle-loving thing she is. Of note is that while their make is superb, they aren't ornate. The sender's arse clearly hasn't been cushioned by a throne. After returning them to the box, she lets the earrings dangle between her fingers.

"Woah, check these out... I haven't changed my old ones in years..." They are held against the lobe of her ear as a point of comparison for the still-spectating Sitri. The eagerness in her eyes asks if they look any good.

Things take a turn when she reaches for the note. She scans it, and that word--dashing--makes her twitch. It can't be, it can't possibly be? ...Can it? Thoughts of him pop into her head. Her cheeks burn. He would use a word like that, but he couldn't possibly have returned just to give her this...!

"Er, th-thanks," Larcei coughs. Her face stains redder when she remembers she is still standing in front of Sitri. Straps and earrings fall back into the box and are swiftly shut away. They're damn good gifts, but the note, she still carries. Someone at this academy needs to be knocked down a peg, someone--crusaders by damned--dashing. The trick is scoping out who, without stroking their ego.

"You sure went through a lot to get this to me... I'll find whoever's responsible for this on my own."

[sublimeflowoftime]

“Sothis,” Sitri greets the ghostly girl, as soft as anything. “I am Lilian. Here is your gift — or the prelude to it.” The creaseless, rectangular card addressed to Sothis is unencumbered by any envelope. Its cream-colored face has been penned with an imitation of Fodlan's native script written by foreign hand, letters unevenly spaced and slanted in odd places. “When I asked around, no one had heard of you. It was almost as though you didn't exist. In this age, there are still people that question whether a tree makes a sound if its fall isn't heard. Do you really exist if you are not known to the world? I believe so. My gift to you cannot be contained in a letter. Tonight, I implore you to look upon the endless expanse of the night sky and revel in being an infinitesimal part of the wider universe." Following the instructions will grant view of a staging of colorful explosions overhead that spell the name Sothis for all the monastery to see, immortalizing a memory once nearly lost to time. Sitri does not leave, but watches the display beside the ghost of the Goddess in silence.

“Oh. Hello.” Sothis hardly notices the card for a moment, startled once again by someone saying her name. She’s not sure if she’ll ever become fully accustomed to being acknowledged.

Peering down at the letter, (and silently thanking this ‘Lilian’ for holding it for her, many don’t tend to have the courtesy to do that), her expression shifts through many different emotions, the most prominent being different forms of confusion.

She had entirely forgotten that she was to get something as well as a part of this. She didn’t particularly bother with specifying what she would want to end up with when she signed up anyway, so that part was certainly the last thing on her mind. Truthfully, it could’ve been a rock for all she cared. She signed up more for the intent of getting something for someone else, not for whatever she would get in return. That wasn’t what mattered to her at all.

Even so, this gift met her only requirements perfectly. She didn’t have to touch anything, and it wasn’t something like food so it wouldn’t be a waste of resources. But beyond that, it was… thoughtful? She had believed gifts were to serve a practical purpose, something to help later on down the line, or in the moment should the case may be, but this…

She can only stare up at the colors above, announcing an existence that even she herself was beginning to doubt not so long ago. She can’t tear her gaze away, can’t blink even long after it stops, just staring at the night sky. Something equally beautiful in its own way. Perhaps that may also be part of the gift.

She feels weird.

She brings a hand up to her face, slightly tapping beneath her eyes. Why does it feel as if her eyes are… leaking, slightly? Is this… ‘crying’?

No. No, that wouldn’t make sense. ‘Crying’ is something humans do in response to sadness. She doesn’t know what she feels, but she certainly doesn’t think it can be described as that. But…

She pulls her hand back and stares at it for a moment, then back up at the sky where the gift once was. She’s silent for a long, long moment. She doesn’t even know how long. Ironic, that someone so intricately intertwined with the flow of time itself can so easily lose track of it.

She glances to the side, flinching and jumping back as she suddenly remembers Lilian’s presence. She turns her face away as quickly as possible, covering it with her hand. “Ah! Uhm. You… did not… um…” She already knows it’s too late, she probably saw. She only hopes this moment of weakness isn’t spread throughout the monastery. That would be embarrassing.

She clears her throat, still hiding her less-than-ideal state with her hand as she fights to make her voice sound normal. “…Should your paths cross with the sender of this gift, do give them thanks on my behalf. I…” She trails off. No, something like this deserves direct thanks. Not one delivered by someone else. “…No. Never mind that. I shall do so myself. Please, do tell me; where might I find them?”

[reprisalet]

There is a surprising amount of winged folk at the monastery, Sitri thinks as she regards the man before her. That is to say, before she never knew of such beings, and now they are hosting... Two of them at the feast alone, and if she recalls correctly there are more still. This new life is full of wonders, truly.

Yet she says nothing of the wings, nor of her jealousy. That, she buries deep down. It is enough that she can fly on the backs of her cherished mounts, that her mother can take her to the skies if she asks. She has no need of wings to consider herself Nabatean. That she is the daughter of a Nabatean is reason enough.

"— Ah, I apologize for staring," Sitri says, remembering herself abruptly. "I was... thinking of someone dear to me who has wings of her own," she adds, her voice softening with tenderness. The smile she offers him is soft too, if a touch sheepish. "The music must be about to resume any moment now... Shall we, then?"

reyson cannot help but note a spark of envy from the young lady. it's not an unusual emotion to notice, though the sense of melancholy is rather new. he dislikes being the cause of such things but—this is a party. they are supposed to be in good spirits, and so he shows no sign that he noticed anything amiss on his face.

the beorc ( or whatever she is, the scent is slightly off for beorc he thinks, but not quite right for anything else either ) often dislike knowing how transparent their own hearts are.

when she states that she was reminded of someone, his brows furrow only very slightly. "someone else... with wings? another bird?" he asks, almost hopefully. but he knows this world is full of many things, and birds are not the only things that take to the sky in some manner.

instead, he merely takes her hands in his, leading her into the next dance. "never mind, i'll ask later. shall we dance?"

[artificidel]

flowers are closed and lambs are sleeping

It was only by the locking of his joints that Ephidel could walk no further. He had not ceased since he awoke in this place... beyond the Dragon's Gate? That is the only thing it could be. The fire, the explosion, then this. If the morph managed to survive and reach the other side, then surely Lord Nergal was here as well, or the very least the portal that brought him here.

When Ephidel came upon a shore in this land, he merely turned and set off in a new direction. That was before the plains grew barren, and powder drifted from the sky. Normally a sensation so familiar, but the damp and frost blended to bring the morph's weakened limbs grinding to a halt. After a while, consciousness faded, and only barely returned to Ephidel face down in a shallow stream. Voices could be heard above him. Mutterings of if he was alive, and his worth in gold either way. He felt himself being dragged away before the world faded back out.

By the fire's warmth, strength returned to Ephidel. When he could feel his digits once more, they curled around the essence of his captors. Their screams could barely ring out before they were claimed. The morph blankly blinked at the now vacant camp. He blinked skyward. He was in some sort of cave or tunnel...

***

That was some time ago now. Long enough for Ephidel to think more upon it. Long enough to wonder more about where Lord Nergal was. His master had already been weakened by Lord Elbert... and his flesh was not as resilient as a morph's frame... Ephidel may have been able to survive the blast, but his master could have not. He had seen the way his Lord had used quintessence to reform the dead... Ephidel... would learn to do the same. And if his Lord not dead, this body brimming with energy would make for a marvelous gift.

So his nights were spent peering from beneath a burlap cloak in the Wilting Rose. Scanning the crowds for wellsprings of life. There was hardly any to be found in Abyss... its inhabitants criminals and murderers... Until one-

Hers was a quality he had not ever experienced... strong enough to overflow, yet at the same time, befuddlingly hollow-

Golden irises watched unwavering from his darkened corner of the pub.

@divinecrest

[deamare]

♡ ˚·  @divinecrest asked:

Doorways (technically) Sitri is on her way to the punch bowl when she just so happens to overhear a young man wooing a lady. Imagine her surprise when she turns to look and it is none other than Ishtar! She would deem it none of her concern and simply walk on if she hadn't caught a snatch of his words, if she hadn't seen the too chaste kiss he earned for them. She shakes her head, and (to her shame) waits for her friend — if she's even allowed to consider the lady that — to slip away into the crowd before she catches up, avoiding an encounter of her own with the flirt. Simply put, she does not have Ishtar's cool self-possession when it comes to romantic encounters. She possesses sangfroid in spades for nearly every other interaction, though, and thus she knows well that appearances can be deceiving. Clearing her throat, Sitri lays a gentle hand on the other's arm. "Forgive my intrusion, but I overheard your... exchange with that man just now," she says quietly, leaning in so as to be heard over the ambient noise. "Are you quite alright? Shall I keep you company?"

"Oh-"

She had not realized that she was being watched, let alone by a familiar face. Ishtar blinks from hand to shoulder to face, thinking to herself how much better-suited the woman's features were to the room's radiant joy.

"I am fine," comes her reassurance. It is sealed with a small smile, with a gentle squeeze to the fingers that have come to rest against her sleeve. "He was not unkind." She does not need to elaborate on what the word means. Certainly even Lilian knew the cruelty of man, the hands that took and never offered in return.

His had not been of them.

Silver jingles softly where it dangles from her ears as the goddess' head shakes. She imagines how they must appear to those that mill about the room; how normal a sight they are. Two young women, heads bent to contain words meant only for one another.

How many times had Ishtar seen these women? How many times had she wondered what it would be like to be among them, to be anything but the subject of their murmuring?

It makes the curl of her lips feel just that much easier to maintain.

"Though I would hardly mind the company, if your offer still stands."

[fluxrspar]

The next ally that Sitri finds her way to feels just as familiar as the young man before her had, though this time it takes the herbalist a while longer to place the reason. In the meantime she puts on a polite smile and stretches out her hand.

“My name is Lilian. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she says, as polite as ever. A lull in her words follows whilst she gives this new teammate a closer look, brow furrowing without her notice. How odd this sensation is. 

Then it hits her.

Tall and beautiful, with blonde hair and a reliable sort of presence, not to mention how this woman must be a veteran of many battles just by her bearing. Of course she would be reminiscent of Catherine. Sitri almost laughs, then remembers herself and flushes brightly, hand raising to cover her mouth.

“Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to stare like that… You remind me of a — a family friend, is all.” Lowering her hand, Sitri clears her throat then smiles again, a touch warmer now. “You seem experienced. I am only a beginner myself, but I’ll do my best not to drag you down.”

From what she had heard, this so-called ‘Arena’ was quite the big deal here at the Academy. Hosted twice a year as practical combat training, necessitated this time especially with the threat of a foe—this Pasithee, so she had been called. Though Selena had not heard nothing of either, both were still grand unknowns within the realm of her experience.

Well, today I shall learn.

Waiting for the event to begin, she takes in her comrades for the event—four other individuals, each of their own character: a tall man with long black hair, a shorter woman with golden curls, a man of red and blue (interesting), and–

Selena smiles in return. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lilian. I am Selena.” In comparison to their comrades, the two of them are decidedly rather plain—not unappealingly so (gods know Selena is not unappealing), but enough such that the other woman sticks out in her mind. That alone abates the silence (one that drags out perhaps a tad too long to be deemed socially acceptable).

“It’s alright,” mage assures, albeit a tad sheepishly. “If anything, I’m glad that my image could serve to soothe you.” Diverting her attention to the second subject—“And I wouldn’t worry too much. This is a learning experience after all.”

“You may yet find you are more capable than you think.”

[aurheatum]

@divinecrest sent

Sitri lays eyes upon her mother not too long after their separate arrivals, and though she is not surprised to see the Archbishop dressed in her usual garb she finds herself shaking her head all the same. Luckily for them both, the guests present seem to be quite close to one another and the head of the Church does not command the attention she usually would. Which is to say, Sitri can slip into the crowd and reach her mother without anyone taking particular notice, and she does just that. "Given your concerns about joining others for a meal," she says without preamble, leaning in close so nobody can overhear, "you should have thought to dress down. This is a party, not an official function. Really, Mother." She shakes her head again, though her lips curve upwards fondly. She begins to raise a hand, then drops it, instead pressing a quick kiss to Rhea's cheek. "I suppose it is too late to do anything about the robes," she goes on afterwards, now gripping her mother's elbow, "but we are still in time to take off the headdress. Do you realize how much attention this thing draws?" She begins to steer the other woman along without ceremony, for once forgetting to worry about how close they may seem. "Let us find somewhere private and I shall braid your hair half up. You will look perfectly lovely and much more approachable with just the lilies woven into it."

Sitri pauses to look at her mother askance, with a small sigh. "That, and you really ought to spare yourself from the weight of this headdress now and again, Mama. Or spare me, at the least. I worry about the strain it places on you, you know." Reaching to take one of Rhea's hands with her free one and squeeze it, she brightens as a thought comes over her. "I shall give you a massage while we are at it," she decides happily, releasing her mother's hand to wag a finger at her in jest, "and I am not taking complaints."

Rhea has long practiced how to be the person welcoming, so it is odd indeed to find herself instead welcomed; odd but not unpleasant. She is one of the few representing Fodlan at this banquet, but she does not feel so far away from the Jugdrali who fill the seats beside her for whenever she second guesses herself she sees the twinkle of Sir Sigurd’s eye or the smile across from her Seliph wears that so resembles his mother’s and finds herself comforted.

Still, when there is a pause in both the dining and conversation Rhea decides to make her way to the kitchens for it is not often she can tarry there and she is admittedly quite interested as to how some of these foreign dishes are made.

As she stands long waves of hair cascade in front of her as a familiar voice whispers in her ear, and she purses her lips in confusion despite the usual warmth she feels whenever Sitri is near (alive, speaking back finally).

“Do you think so?” She asks, walking arm and arm away from the table as if this was a planned chat; she trusts Sitri to lead them somewhere discreet as only someone as knowledgeable as she of Garreg Mach’s meandering paths can. “Removing it seems… wrong, not in the form of doctrine of course but, well, in practicality. Would not a sudden change in my appearance be just as startling, if not more so?”

She argues despite herself as she lets Sitri make her case. Rhea quite liked her robes, too, but she supposed she could have added a thing or too at least for the holiday. What colors were complimentary to the heraldry of Chalphy? She would have to find out; for if any were to recognize her outside her usual attire she thinks it would be Sir Sigurd.

"The weight seems not so bothersome today, but I see your point,” Rhea tells her, sitting as Sitri sighs over here. “You used to do this for me… before, I remember. And I would be loathe to refuse your expertise, but do let me return the favor at least.”

Still looking up at Sitri, Rhea starts on the first clasp that sets her headdress upright. There is a mirror not far from them but for this Rhea hardly needs it.

[gauldheri]

🍪 except she doesn't know how to play lmao In hindsight, Sitri should have paid no mind to the latest fad among the students. These are the same students that make a game out of going to the underground and attacking her siblings, for the Goddess' sake. Yet the thought of a game she never played before enticed her (as did anything new, really), and this Sylvain seemed nice, oh, and the promise of something sweet didn't sound half bad either... It is, of course, useless to be recriminating herself for not realizing sooner. The fact remains that she's got this 'pocky' treat in between her teeth and so does he, and she's staring right at his lips and though she doesn't dare to look further up she thinks he must be staring at hers, because why wouldn't he be, and if they keep biting at it they will inevitably — Blushing all the way to the tips of her ears, Sitri breaks off her end of the treat and takes a step away from him. She nearly chokes on the sweet morsel in her mouth out of sheer embarrassment, though she manages to swallow it in the end. "I - I didn't realize what this game entailed," Sitri blurts, her face flushing hotter still with the shame of that admission. She must look like a fool, or else a prude. It's not the kiss itself that's the problem, but rather kissing anyone who isn't Jeralt. She almost explains as much, but then decides she's embarrassed herself quite enough. Instead she finishes, lamely, "I'm really sorry..."

"You didn't? Really?-- " He's suspicious at first, especially after some of today's earlier experiences. Sylvain sits back, takes a long look at Lilian's face. She's redder than his hair, her expression sheepish and lowered. As unbelievable as it is that someone wouldn't know how to play this game, he finds he believes her. "That's... surprising. Well, I guess you know now. We all had to learn at some point."

"You really don't need to apologise to me," he laughs lightly, offering her a charming grin. If anything he should probably apologise to her given the circumstances. At least he has the sense not to thank her for the kiss. "I mean it's not like you yelled at me or anything. We're cool. At least I hope we are?"

"Uh, sorry if I made you uncomfortable with that kiss. I thought it was expected but I guess it wasn't. I hope you're feeling okay?"

[boundlesschaos]

📔

Knowledgeable and resourceful. I'm glad to have someone to turn to in the event that I am injured to an extreme amount. I can also prepare for a possible conflict through the supplies that she offers, which is a boon in and of itself.

That said, it is strange, but I feel we sometimes share a similar expression. It is the kind that knows it must do all it can to remain safe. One that expects danger at every turn, despite the location appearing safe.

I'm not sure I'm right about this, but if this is the case, I must do what I can to provide protection where it is needed. Fighting is my strength, after all. I have endured conflict countless times.

And, perhaps, it is something I want to avoid her having to encounter more than she has to.

[firelles]

It isn't often that Sitri goes out of her way to spend time with the surface residents, let alone to celebrate their birthdays. In fact, this is the first time that she's done anything of the sort since her return to life. She debated over it, reminding herself that she must stay hidden, but... Céline once said that she might trust in her, in them. While she would never share her secrets with another soul, she could consider the princess a friend if she wanted to; her affection has always been separate from her trust. She would need only to allow herself to think of Céline as such.

She does want to, and she is so lonely. It is all too easy to allow herself things that she perhaps should not.

So she sets out to find the birthday celebrant with a smile on her face and a carefully wrapped gift in her arms. Her courage wavers as she holds out the package, and she casts her gaze downward.

"Um, I hope I'm not overstepping... We may not be that close, but I could not help but recall our shared love of flowers..." Blushing, she clears her throat. She wishes she didn't feel the need to explain herself so much, but she cannot help it.

"I thought to give you seeds of Fódlan's flowers at first, but I do not know if you have the time to tend a garden... And a bouquet would have wilted, so... I opted for a book on our native flora instead." While still looking down, she brightens noticeably as she goes on. "I included a few botanical sketches and notes of my own between the pages. Oh, I included a few pressed flowers as well, in lieu of the bouquet. I hope you find the reading enjoyable, and... Happy Birthday."

Ever since they have returned from the arena, Céline has been meaning to speak to Lilian— Not to question her about any lingering inquiries, but to merely ensure she is alright. To offer her words of support and understanding as much as she possibly could. Those times lay heavy with Lilian, that she knew; Of the words she yelled and her eyes that told a story of their own. When she sees her again, void of battle, she delights in the chance of a mere pleasurable conversation.

"Ah, Lilian!" She greets with a wave, eyes drawn by the mention of a topic she holds fondly. Her eyes light up as she catches view of the book, eager to open its contents. "I thank you. This is very thoughtful of you," she says warmly. "With the flowers pressed like that, I will always be able to keep them with me. I can assure you I will do exactly that."

Lilian has thought of everything, truly— Of how fragile a flower may be and a sheer yearning Céline holds within to learn more. Fódlan has a number of plants Firene lacks. Hailing from a land plentiful in blooms, she never does get tired of them. As she brings the book into her hands, she clutches it close to her chest and smiles: "I have been wanting to learn more of Fódlan's flora. This will be the perfect opportunity to begin!" Céline offers a small bow in gratitude, delighted for the moment she can bask in the late morning sunlight and surround herself in their scents.

"I am grateful. Truly, to go out of your way despite our acquaintanceship only beginning.. I shall remember your kindness. I will have to start reading this as soon as I return to my room." There is a small pause amidst her words as an idea bubbles in her mind: "Once I do so.. Might I interest you in joining me for a stroll in the monastery's greenhouse sometime? I've no doubt you can provide even more knowledge..!"

[taguelbunnyboy]

When she turns to find herself face-to-face with the tall, rabbit-eared youth who gave her herbs earlier, Sitri cannot help but smile. He stands out, that is for certain — perhaps more because of the ears than because of his height. Once more she finds herself biting back her curiosity. It would be impolite to ask what he is.

Instead she asks only, "May I have this dance?"

Yarne wheeled around as the party was concluding. He smiled at Sitri's insistence for a dance - it would be a chance to seek out a mate, if he didn't know the dance was purely platonic... damn you Inigo, for crushing his dream of several people interested in continuing the taguel... but, ah, well.

Yarne took Sitri's hands. He didn't know how to dance, really, but he had a general idea. So, with a tilt of his back paws.

TwirltwirltwirltwirlTWIRLTWIRL!

Yarne was mentally blanked out as the dancing occurred, leading Sitri in spiral after spiral of dance, the duo forming a practical tornado on the dance area. Yarne mentally reprimanded himself anytime he got in someone's way, but the laws of inertia meant he couldn't exactly slow down at this point... several hundred pounds of bunny were now spiraling through it, Sitri stuck along for his ride.