Zeke grinned at the response, slowly at first—but then more widely, showing that crooked, sharp set of teeth so strangely characteristic of his family. Her voice sounded familiar somehow, though for the life of him he couldn’t quite place it. Maybe if it hadn’t been so dark and his head hadn’t still been spinning so much from his discomfort at the ball (or all of Licia to be fair), he would have been able to figure out where or how he had heard it before. But he didn’t recognize those soft, girlish features or the long mass of hair that encased her.  

“I am starting to notice a bit of a trend,” he admitted. Sure, he hadn’t been in the country for much more than a day. If her mix of formality and casual banter was found to be at all awkward by Zeke, he didn’t seem to notice. But, then, one awkward individual was hard pressed to notice similar traits in another.  “You’re right though. After all—here we are.”

At the words she provided next, he nodded. “I’m not much of a swimmer, anyway.” Then, his brow furrowed at her apology. Zeke provided a shrug in return. “Nah. I think out of the two of us, I’m clearly the one out-of-practice in terms of formality.” But, hey, maybe he’d get better with some practice, some patience, and a bit more time out of the Third Realm. Only time would really tell. And perhaps a kick in the pants.

With invitation, Zeke came closer and took a seat, plopping down with a wince of regret at his lack of care—the bruise on his abdomen as raw as it had been since it had been given to him earlier in the day, if a bit more purple. “Besides, I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t appreciate the sentiment.” Zeke loosened the top button of his jacket to give his neck a bit more give, and toyed with the unnecessary decoration on the edge of his sleeve.

It was easier to recognize him now that he sat next to her, the stark color of his hair noticeable even in the dark of the lush forest that surrounded them. Time and a lack of practice had dulled her senses in many ways, but Alarice still noted (with a touch of guilt) the spasm that accompanied his movements. His demeanor was so unlike his in the Kendo room that she’d hesitated to believe it was the same person. But “Zeke Constantine”, his name at least, had been known to her for far longer than the hours that had passed since their initial encounter.

“I would say you are doing perfectly well, Mr. Constantine, given the circumstances. But then I’m sure there is some obscure protocol in the Lician books for encounters in dark forests after …what would they call it? Excusing oneself impromptly from a ball?” Alarice assured, either coy or playful – she was not sure. Nor was she sure why or how her sudden exclusion of herself from the term “they” – Licians – happened so naturally. Perhaps because he made her think of another strangely-locked youth, with a sword in hand and an easy disposition. “You are not accustomed to court wear? I’ll have you know you’re dressed quite casually. One would usually be required to wear cufflinks…”  Easy, practiced, she reached over and folded the doubtlessly itchy ends of the embroidered sleeve over and up to his elbows. Her gown shifted as she did, releasing the scent of roses into the air. A leaf dislodged itself from her traditionally long hair and settled on the sateen softness of the skirts. “Then again – I am not precisely a measure of proper dress myself at the moment, but I shall overlook your indiscretion if you shall overlook mine.”

“I…” was all Zeke managed to choke out when the young woman beside him called him by his name. He blinked, flustered, and could feel his face color a festive contrast to the hair that framed it as he lost the ability to form a coherent response to the rest of the things she had said afterward. “Oh.”

He looked at his sleeves as she fixed them and felt even more embarrassed than before. Those butterflies were back in his stomach, tickling it to numbness and making him nauseated. Zeke was so bad at talking to girls; he wasn’t sure why he had even tried. How big of an ass was he making himself, he wondered?  It wasn’t as if he could just ask her if they had met before—especially when, if they had, it would’ve been in the last few hours—without coming off as rude or at the very least lacking in memory retention. With a deep breath, Zeke clears his throat and makes another attempt at sounding human.

“Yeah, I haven’t totally broken in my closet, yet.” His eyes travel up her gloved arms until they’re tracing the curve of her shoulders and picking out the leaves in (and out of) her hair. He cracks another smile—and it makes him feel a touch less tense. “That sounds reasonable–besides, I think you pull off the green look well. And we match, this way.”

Zeke Constantine, for being a favored name on her list of potential husbands had surprisingly little biographical information for Herbert to gorge himself on. He’d given Alarice a thorough report on all the ones who possessed meatier profiles but for the green haired, third-realmer there was little more than mystery. But what a mystery it was. That anyone from the third realm at all should have been considered by someone as King Orion was enough to draw her attention. Their impromptu meeting aside, she didn’t have much to go on yet but it was still just the first day.

“You would be wise to pretend your current garb is beneath, not above you. I’m afraid Licia is…very critical of its nobles. There are hardly any who escape its discerning eye….” The advice, gently spoken and well-intentioned gave away a little more than the brunette royal wanted it to. Then again, most things did these days. “…It makes it so hard to breathe…” She whispered in a moment of unusually open melancholy, referring less to the slim fitting gown and more to the abounding pressure of her blossoming responsibilities. His small joke was far away enough from the feeling that it made her laugh; the sound rousing nightflying birds and sending more leaves tumbling down around them. “The tree and the flower?” She suggested with a small smile, her hands reaching up to remove the offending foliage from his similarly tinted hair. “Growing beside a lake while the rest of the world spins on in there? It does sound lovely, doesn’t it?”

Heaving a dramatic sigh, Alarice allowed herself the lazy comfort of the earth – rolling herself downwards until her exposed back was flat against the mossy ground. Trees refused to grow near the perimeter of the lake, leaving a window through their canopy where one might stare at the twinkling stars above. “Do you miss the third realm?” She asked, longing for word of some place other than where she had spent her life for the last decade-and-more.

Zeke had noticed that, as well. But it seemed wrong to say something so harsh, even when the young woman beside him was doing much the same (if more tastefully). Not that he had any reason to expect any less from the country. Maybe he was only one day into his stay in Licia, but his father had made sure to prepare him for how merciless the citizens could be—particularly toward anyone different like him, a half-breed with a less-than-favorable family reputation.

He hadn’t known her very long, didn’t even know her name, but understood her words completely. It was suffocating: the constant scrutiny, the expectations, and the inevitable disappointment in one’s peers. Zeke could have remarked upon it, but her laugh was a reprieve more than just a little appreciated. Still, something about the mental image saddened him. It really was lovely: the idea of a young, strong tree growing beside and providing shelter for a delicate flower.

But the tree would live and live and live long after the flower, his one faithful companion, had withered. And then he’d be all alone, until he rotted away slowly from the inside. Even then, he’d still be standing—empty, a shadow of himself, nobody to notice he was gone. It made Zeke think of his Grandfather.

“Lovely,” he agreed, though more quietly, under his breath, “if not a little lonely.”

Zeke curled his knees up to his chin and watched as she fell to the ground and stared up into the clear, twinkling sky above them. He looked, too, rolling his eyes upward. Miles upon miles away, his family was under the same sky. “Sort of,” he admitted in response. “I’ve always wanted to come here but now that I finally am…I guess it kind of puts things in perspective.”

“Well, Mr. Constantine…” Alarice smiled, “You’re quite poetic.” Then again, the sword was its own kind of poetry – though it was a rare thing to find someone gifted in both. And while it was evident that the green-haired third realmer did not recognize her, she found something of herself in him and that was comforting. If she had been accused of it, the brunette would have denied it, but now he had to wonder if her motives for pushing Licia School to accept third realm students hadn’t been at least a little bit self serving. From whom else could she hope to hear news of home? Her heart ached at the thought: after all these years…Licia still wasn’t her home, would likely never feel like it was. Was that the fate slated for the boy beside her?

“Life often does that. But, given your skill with the sword I have no doubt you will find some way to maneuver the uncertainty you must be feeling.” She’d been coy long enough, felt guilty for it too. His face was as familiar to her as her own; was among the many others that had been drilled into her head, some in childhood and some only days before. All in the name of making her seem the cultivated Lician-raised lady she was supposed to be. But she wasn’t that. As the crown drew nearer Alarice feared it never would be. It was time he knew who she was.

“Mr. Constantine I have something to confess,” The royal sighed, searching out his eyes in the darkness.  “I…”

“Alarice!” Irritated, his eyes in narrow slits as they stared down at her, Herbert gave her away before she could do it of herself. “Princess.” He amended, realizing she wasn’t alone and ducking in a semblance of a bow to keep up appearances. “Your absence has been noted. It’s best you come before the rest of your guard starts leading a search through this charming forest.” He held out his hand with an expectant look – not even sparing Zeke the courtesy of a nod. But she owed him better than that. “Of course, Herbert. But do please allow me to say goodbye to Mr. Constantine, his company was…thoroughly enjoyable.” A dozen changes came over her, the slight raise of her chin, the neat clasp of her hands, the gentler timbre of her voice not least among them. Alarice was Princess Alarice once more, the girl he’d stumbled into in the forest disappeared into the dark. “I meant to ask before I left, how is your stomach? I trust our spar did not result in any lasting injury?”

All at once everything clicked. If Zeke had had the grace to blush when she had remarked upon his (unintentional) ability to be poetic, it was nothing compared to the blush that flared across his cheeks when he realized who she was. All she had had to do was mention swordsmanship. There was only one girl that had seen him practicing since he arrived in Licia. At the time he had thought it to simply be just another student. What else was he supposed to conclude? She had been, after all, wearing a mask.

When the maids had addressed her as Princess Alarice, heir to the kingdoms of both Licia and Deamone, however, there had been no denying her identity—just as there was no longer any denying that his mystery companion was the very same royal. Zeke could kick himself—knew that his father would love to. The more Alarice spoke, the wider his eyes became. Even now, her figure was shadowy and he could only hope the same shadow hid his own embarrassment, but he wondered still how he had been able to be so blind. To have been unable to clue in sooner, or at the very least recognize her voice. Instead, he had surely embarrassed himself, talking so casually and so brazenly. What was wrong with him?

All Zeke could do was gape, stammering noncommittally in an attempt to formulate some sort of coherent response, when a third individual busted through the trees and into the clearing. It was as if some switch of propriety had been flipped on inside his brain, saving him at least a measure of continued misbehavior. The formal skin he crawled into was, of course, nowhere near as practiced and as perfect as Alarice’s. Convincing perhaps to the similarly unpracticed but boasting a distinct sort of hesitance in those who knew better. Still, it was better than nothing.

Zeke hardly registered himself standing, straight and attentive, when the Princess did the same. “Not at all, Princess,” he assured, bowing respectfully and managing by some great magic not to flinch or wheeze as he forced the bruised skin to fold over itself. “You honor me with your concern and kind words. I’m quite sure it’s nothing that can’t be remedied with time and care.”

A pair of twins were sitting at a bar. In another world this would probably be a good opening for a joke, but while Fernand might have been able to see the hilarity, his uptight brother was less than enthusiastic to be where he was.

“We didn’t come here to party,” Francois sighed unhappily, his tanned face twisted into a tired frown. A drink sat in front of him, but he contented himself in watching the ice melt. Fernand rolled his eyes, leaning back on his elbows as he scanned the room. From their dark corner of the bar, they blended in enough for him to feel at ease. All he had to worry about were his eyes; they burned like melted gold through the shade. Francois was his exact mirror in opposites–hunched and facing away, his eyes down. He didn’t want to draw attention and this was wise.

“Would you relax?” Fernand rolled his eyes and gave a light laugh. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Francois wanted to say that a lot could happen. Someone could notice them, word could get back to the Princess–or worse, the King regent–and they could go to jail. They could be executed. But Fernand had insisted that this place was too dark. No respectable Lician would let themselves be found there. As long as they kept to themselves, who was going to talk? And it wasn’t as if they were (currently) breaking any laws. They’d been in (and come out of) worse situations in the past. Nonetheless Francois remained unconvinced and sour about the whole “fun” adventure.

“You could have at least worn a disguise,” he hissed. Fernand laughed again, but this time it was more of a disbelieving bark.

“Look at you, calling all the shots,” he returned, “if you’re so nervous you should have been the one to put on a disguise! I’m tired of being the one to always do it. It’s not comfortable, as you know. I wouldn’t mind some time to actually be, well, me.”

Francois couldn’t argue against that point. It also made him feel guilty, despite himself. They always switched off when they worked. Sometimes they’d take a week or so before they switched, but Fernand had been stuck playing Edouard for longer than he’d ever been before. It was unfair. Francois had made excuses to stay as he was–and why he’d done it he wasn’t sure. His mind drifted to the Princess, sitting by his side as the poison raced through his system, their hands touching ever-so-lightly when he had visited her in her garden, holding her close in a dance at the opening ball for the school.

When he thought about her, the women who sauntered around the club, their skirts short and hair up high, became invisible. Francois hadn’t even touched his drink but looking down at it, he felt sick. Beside him, Fernand had changed the subject, but Francois hardly heard him talk of the white-haired young man who was attracting women like flies. How he wasn’t leaving any for the rest of them. Francois only started listening when Fernand nudged him with his elbow.

“…but I guess you only have your eyes on one set of legs, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” Francois hissed, “you’re annoying.”

And then he was gone, his form flickering out of existence like a candle’s flame being snuffed. He reappeared on the roof, steadying himself against the ledge that overlooked the rest of the vast city and wondering why Fernand’s words had affected him so terribly. With a sigh he rubbed one hand over his face, suddenly tired. Or maybe he had been tired all night, but hadn’t given himself the chance to notice it. Either way, he wanted to leave. On one hand, Francois didn’t want to completely abandon his brother but on the other…maybe it would be safer. He could go hide in his room where nobody would look for him, and if Fernand ran into anyone they knew, it would be easier to stay in character without explaining why there were two of him.

Still, in comparison to the playful, harmless jab Fernand had made in regards to his feelings, Francois was left rattled. At least it felt nice out here, soothing, in the chilled air. It was nice that it did nothing to remind him of the humid climate he was used to back home. All he could find his mind focusing on was the Princess and he hated himself for it. What was she doing right now? What did it matter? Her hair loose, brushing against her cheeks in the breeze. Irrelevant. Was he really this lost? Francois had never been so obsessed with a job before.

((ooc: AVA okay I really wanted to get this up for you! But I know that it’s awful and probably completely wrong. I know I had a file with notes I was taking for this scene but I couldn’t find it anywhere in my documents and since we don’t often catch each other I had no idea when I’d be able to ask for your help in remembering what was supposed to go down. OTL. So I kind of just…winged it…I think we wanted Francois and Ala to meet on the roof? I remember we were trying to sort of recreate the Art/Malek/Ala interaction from the original rp on Gaia but I really can’t remember what we talked about and I’m so so sorry. I know I’m probably going to have to rewrite the whole thing once we have the chance to talk about it again BUT I hope…it still made you happy to read, regardless. ;u; Something is better than nothing? I love you and I hope you’re doing okay and that you see this ksbdfgsdfg thank you for understanding when I didn’t get it done last weekend; this weekend has been a lot better for me so I’ve been working on this since Friday.))

Malek looked around the club, feeling very much like he owned the place. He and his crowed had taken over one of the corner sitting areas. It wasn’t too far from the entrance that he wouldn’t be able to duck out when his guest arrived.

On either side, he had three lovely young women. All picked up along his day as needs arose: lunch, dinner, money to get into the joint, tits to stare at…that kinda thing. Malek’s idle mind amused itself by tickling the neck of one girl with the hair from another. Something about the alcohol and the atmosphere of the club made the women even more susceptible to his charm. Or maybe he just looked that damn good. He wasn’t gonna ask questions. It was still a while before Ava got there and he’d had quite enough of being bored on the glossy streets of Celeste City.

“Oh M. Tell us another one!” To be honest, he’d set two of the hotter looking girls to thinking that making out in front of him would result in a proposal – so it took a while for him to register the request. “Naaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.” He sighed dramatically. With the slight buzz he was feeling, Malek was not quite up to making up another heroic story of him saving the world from…rabies or whatever he’d said. He had to admit – he kind of liked this. His charm’s true use had become useful early on, but who knew he could have such fun with it too? Hell – he had half a mind to stay around this area and live off women. Not that this wasn’t what he’d been doing on the Outskirts…but the women here were a LOT hotter.

“Another drink, m’lady?” Malek whispered into the ear of a barmaid. His eyes glistened with mirth as she promptly handed him a beer from her serving tray, much to the offense of the older gentleman who’d ordered it. The moon-haired boy shrugged congenially; who was going to start anything with so many giggling babes around him?

Though his charm was in full effect, even he felt a need to keep his company entertained. “How about a trick?” Malek asked, sitting forward with his hands on his knees. The girls immediately agreed – settling into a hushed anticipatory silence. From the loop on his belt he drew the dagger that had only recently been launched towards his head. The half spellbound, half drunk women were easily impressed with his twirling of the dagger between and around his fingers. The pulsing lights and music lent a rhythm to his expert movements. He spun the edge of the blade on the tip of his finger (one of the girls crying out in fear of him spilling his precious blood.) Finally he launched the spinning blade in the air and caught it, upright between his teeth. Insert one signature sexy wink and he was being heartily applauded by his growing audience of beautiful females.

A guy could get used to this. Even the stupid one letter nickname doesn’t sound so bad comin’ from a herd of chicks. It hadn’t occurred to him that his lack of discretion would disturb the other patrons of the bar. Night clubs and places of the sort usually had more women than men running around and in Malek’s mind, he’d simply balanced out the ratio by gathering all the unwanted women of the night. It was a public service! Okay. So that was bull. The truth lay somewhere between there and just not giving a crap about whether the other guys in the joint had a pair to fondle or not. It was ballsy of the…whatever it was to complain. Ballsy and obnoxiously pretentious. Only in Celeste City would you find that particular combination on a boy who looked like he’d never worked a hard day’s labor in his life. It didn’t appeal to Malek’s sensibilities.

He really only half listened to the complaint/compliment launched at him. One of the women took the dagger and used it as an excuse to run her hand down his thigh as she slid it back into its loop at the front of his pants. “Aww.” He chuckled, draping both arms around the two sets of feminine shoulders at his sides. His platinum head came to a cocky tilt to look up at the dark skinned stranger.

“Not as much hospitality as you’d expect at home iddit? No o-ma to make it for you.” His dialect was distinctly Outskirt in that moment; draped in vestiges of a language lost long ago mixed with the hillbilly tendencies of laborers from border Deamone cities. “Don’chya think these beautiful ladies have better things to occupy their mind than whether or not you get your coffee?” Years with Ava had smoothed over his speech; she’d never been allowed nor allowed herself to pick up the rougher traits of the languages of the otuskirts. Her guardians had seen to that at least. She in turn had impressed upon him the importance of being able to sound like one hadn’t grown up in a pig stye (or above a warehouse for that matter.) If anything – his easy slip from ruffian into more gentile speech made Malek, “M” that much more attractive to his harem.

“Or was it companionship you were after ’cause I gotta warn ya buddy. I don’t bat for that team. I think there are special kinda clubs for that, ‘cha?” Feminine giggles fluttered thereafter, thanking the fates (out loud) that he was straight for then at least one of them had a shot. His hand found the rear end of the waitress who’d not too long ago almost provided him with a coffee that didn’t belong to him. “Make sure my friend here keeps gettin’ his drink, kay dollface?” Maybe it was a lifetime in the coddling arms of women – but Malek fully expected his slights and insults to be forgiven. Who could stay mad at a face like his anyway?

“Take a load off!” He declared, pulling one of the simpering women onto his lap to better allow her to feed him the strawberries he’d requested and to make room for the other male (one slightly more important than the other but you can decide which for yourself.) “I’m M and you are?” Better to use a stupid nickname than to give everything away to a stranger – he was, after all a thief.

“Tch. Always so damn touchy.” Fernand frowned into his glass, feeling guilty and hating himself for it. This was supposed to be his night off. He was allowed to be happy, wasn’t he? Allowed to relax, to remember how it felt for one day not to walk around in those damn stilts that made his legs ache. He had been making a harmless joke. Why did Francois have to ruin it by being so broody? It wasn’t like him. He was usually…agreeable. Granted, his brother had never been very fond of the club scene, but nonetheless. There was something troubling about it.

Knocking back the rest of his drink, Fernand pushed it out of his mind and waved over his waitress for a refill. He waited. When waiting did nothing, his eyes wandered over to the table he had been watching earlier just as a roar of applause filled the club. He raised an eyebrow, momentarily forgetting about the fact that his waitress had rudely joined the silver-haired philanderer’s harem to instead stare at the sword balanced in between his teeth. Glass still in hand, Fernand was leaning against the back of the booth, as if he had been there all along. “I’m not sure if I should commend you or chastise you for stealing away all these lovely women.” And in truth he would be angrier if it wasn’t so impressive. Impressive as well as amusing–and that was really what Fernand was looking for tonight: amusement.

“Don’chya think these beautiful ladies have better things to occupy their mind than whether or not you get your refill?”

When the young man addressed him, Fernand couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “To do what? Fondle one another for your entertainment?” He gestured toward two of the women that were mindlessly groping one another, only ever looking away from one another to shoot glances at their tipsy leader and would-be husband. Whoever this guy was, he seemed to think that that was definitely a good way for them to spend their time. In his defense, well, it was. Either way, that didn’t change the fact that his glass was still empty. Luckily a nod in her direction, a clink of the ice, snapped her back to attention and she was quick to give him what he asked for.

“Take a load off!”

Hardly waiting for the permission he’s given, Fernand slid into the newly-unoccupied space, still warm from the heat of the model-esque beauty that had just cleared it. Casually he slung his arm around her shoulder, but although she didn’t throw it off her lips puckered in a measure of obvious disapproval. She only had eyes for the man on parade, after all, regardless of all her competition. Fernand had no doubt that if it weren’t for the fact that the object of her affections had himself invited the other man to stay, she would’ve pushed him off of her with a second’s hesitation. Regardless, as attractive as she was she wasn’t the reason Fernand had left his perch at the bar. When the silver-haired ringleader introduced himself, Fernand all but forgot she was even there.

“I’m Maki and you are?”

“Alright then, Maki,” he replied, “it’s been a delight to make your acquaintance. I’m…”

Fernand’s hesitation was almost nonexistent. To someone exceptionally perceptive, it could have been caught in the way the corner of his mouth twitched slightly in thought. This silver-haired stranger, however, was hardly at his sharpest given the drinks and the distractions. Leaning back, Fernand brought his drink up to his lips and let the ice clink together.

“…Ferenc,” he finished. It was the first name he thought of that could serve as a believable variant of his own. “And if I may, I’d like to compliment your swordplay; not many could handle a dagger so boldly and still have a tongue to show for it.”

 

((WUH OKAY  here you go Ava! I hope it’s okay (I always assume it isn’t).  It was already a decent length and I didn’t want to just copy verbatim everything that was said in the conversation with Art so I hope you don’t mind me responding to everything that Malek had said before CRIES. I can go back and add more though if you want! I know I didn’t have too much of the conversation happened but I thought maybe we could play with it. As always I hope you at least have fun reading it ;u; <3 Love you!))