Trotting through the undergrowth, Byleth’s eyes remain locked on the back of the man ahead of him, a hunter - judging by his gear and familiarity with the untamed wilderness.
A supposed hunter and yet he’s hardly stopped to examine any tracks, instead moving confidently deeper with each silent footfall.
Inwardly, the youth wishes he had simply been left alone, but since his father requested that he hunt, hunt he will.
‘At least he hasn’t hurt me yet…’ The youth’s fingers nervously fiddle with the pommel of his azure-sheathed dagger, contrasting his stony expression.
He also notes that his head finally stopped pounding. Not from the earlier blows exactly, but rather from Sothis hammering away at her restraints. It seems she’s no longer trying to curse at him and instead settled down, though he’s still not going to remove that fog that he somehow placed between them, fearful of the result.
Thoughts beginning to stray, his wandering consciousness reintroduces itself to reality as their pace finally crawls to a stop.
His temporary partner peers through the brush before turning back with a slight smile, strands of his graying dark blue hair cascading across his face.
“All right boy, show me how well you can hunt.”
He then passes a small well-used bow to the silentious youth who accepts it with a simple nod and steps forward. Perhaps it’s his somber emotions but even the vibrant jungle surrounding them seems devoid of colors in his dulled vision.
Despite that, he manages to spot their quarry.
It’s a large wild boar with mottled brown fur and two large tusks sniffing around the lush vegetation, probably looking for food. Byleth takes a few moments to examine it.
Although not adverse to hunting, he never enjoyed killing animals, especially since he seems to have a certain affinity with them. However, it’s his current duty to gather food, so he dutifully quells those minor stirrings in his chest.
Looking down, he fiddles with the bow, getting a feel for it. Then, taking in a deep breath, he nocks an arrow on the string, pulling it taut with a serene motion. Pausing a moment to aim, he focuses his sight on the cluelessly digging animal, then lets the arrow fly.
With great vigor the projectile pierces the air, making straight for its target unimpeded as though guided by invisible winds.
With no extra fanfare, the arrow digs deep into flesh, the animal falling to the ground dead with a quiet thud in the distance.
Byleth turns, reaching out to give the man his bow back, apathetic to his accomplishment. The islander accepts it with slightly widened eyes that quickly melt into something warmer.
“Good aim,” he remarks.
Once again not saying anything, the teal-haired merc makes his way to his fallen prey before sitting nearby. The older hunter following in his wake walks close to the felled swine, crouching down to examine the wound.
The arrow had gone straight through the animal’s eye and killed it instantly, an impressive feat even for experienced hunters. He had expected the child to get closer before going for the kill, but it seems he’s more special than previously thought.
Nodding in appreciation, he pulls out the arrow and cleans it of blood, only returning it to his quiver when he’s satisfactorily removed all of the grime.
“Boy, come here.”
Listening, the perpetually stoic merc walks closer and crouches next to him, receiving a pair of warm yet serious indigo orbs on his person.
“We will now be saying a prayer to both the spirit of the animal and that of nature.”
Inwardly curious, he watches as the man puts one hand over his heart, bows his head, and begins murmuring in Tuatha. It doesn’t take long, maybe thirty seconds at most, until he stops and opens his eyes.
Standing and grabbing the boar, he hoists it over his shoulder with ease, as if the weight is inconsequential.
“Let us return and be handing in our current bounty. Then we will continue.”
The young Eisner lifts himself up, giving the bearded native a nod.
As the two begin their walk back to camp, Byleth’s gaze remains on the individual ahead of him as before. As if noticing the stare, he looks over with a smirk on his scarred face.
“Are you curious about the prayer?”
Although the youth doesn’t say anything in response, he answers.
“In Brigid, we are believing that everything has a spirit. The sky, the sun, the grass - they all have a spirit that dwells within: powerful beings that exist beyond what we can perceive as men. Although we cannot be seeing them, however, these spirits are just as alive as you and I, having a large impact on the course of our lives. Simply put, they shape the flow of things, having a direct yet rarely seen impact on the world. When we have a successful hunt, we say a prayer to thank and honor the animal’s spirit for allowing us its life. Its death will help us grow and so we give much gratitude. The nature spirits deserve our praise as well, seeing as we found our prey and will be able to provide for our familes this night.”
Pausing to readjust the boar on his shoulder, he glances behind him once more before continuing, seeing that he has the boy’s attention.
“Spirits can bestow blessings similar to this hunt of ours, but they can also be bringing death. For example, the typhoon we recently had was due to the dual-faced ocean spirit. With its kind face, it provides life and helps us thrive, filling our waters with fish and gentle waves. However, its terrifying face brings disaster, a ruinous storm that destroys our homes and kills many in its wake. This does not mean that the ocean spirit is evil, nor is it just - it is simply acting out the cycle of nature.”
He releases an audible sigh then, looking up at the verdant canopy above. The sparse rays of light that manage to filter beyond the countless branches and leaves reveal beautifully vibrant flowers, as well as the occasional animal making its way in the dense rainforest.
After observing the forever stunning sights of his homeland for a moment he lowers his head and continues, “Man is also much the same. We have two sides of us constantly warring within, but we are inherently neither good nor bad. Instead, it is our actions and intent that define us. An example is the bandits from earlier. They were not bad from birth, but it was their actions instead that twisted them into something needing to be dealt with. You and the other mercenaries who took them down did the right thing. Although all of you were not having the purest intentions, you were still being kind and helpful for many others. Does that make sense?”
Byleth looks at him for a long while, as if trying to process those words, but in the end, doesn’t respond. The hunter doesn’t push either, instead giving the boy subtle yet constant reinforcement.
A wry smile forms on his face, as he thinks about what he said, “Sorry if that was a little hard to understand, there are many others further versed than I in these matters. That’s simply how I am viewing things.”
The apparently adept sniper behind him nods, not really reacting much aside from that, though the islander does notice that his thoughts seem a little more distant than before.
Soon after, they arrive at the disaster site where everyone is camped out, a pleasant sight after traversing the untamed wilderness.
Coming out of the treeline, a few people notice them and come running. Observing one was Zane, the islander subtly motions for him to leave them be.
Stopping in his tracks, the ginger gazes at Byleth for a brief period, eventually nodding and backing off. The other two that come running are both Brigid natives.
As they get close, they both start making a fuss in Tuatha, but the older man quickly pacifies them and hands over the dead boar. The laconic adolescent watches as the pair of young men seem hesitant to leave their peer alone, also casting glances towards him, but eventually agree and leave with the game.
Without wasting time, the sun-kissed national goes to ruffle Eisner’s hair but misses as the youth dodges away with a cautious look.
“Ah, sorry…” he grimaces in apology at the evidently unwanted touch.
Coughing into his hand, he motions toward the wilderness, “Come, we’ll need a larger bounty than this for a proper meal.”
The youth says nothing, simply walking back into the brush. As the hunter goes to follow him, he does so with displeasure heavy in his chest. Having raised many children and grandchildren, he’s become rather adept at understanding them, and what he’s noticing from the Fódlan lad isn’t exactly pleasant.
‘Jeralt and that youngster Zane are even bigger idiots than I thought if they failed to notice this. Unless…’ With all sorts of thoughts and theories flying through his head, he follows Byleth back out to hunt.
----------------------------------------
An hour later, the unlikely duo are sitting around a small fire, cooking the remains of a large squirrel. Rotating the carcass on a spit, the graying adult examines it closely, mumbling something as he continues twisting the wooden stick.
Glancing to the child resting tightly against a tree he takes the time to observe his small and drawn-in visage. Dirty black leather armor with trace amounts of steel plating, a maintained short sword on his hip, and numerous daggers strapped across his body - he almost seems the fitting image of a mercenary.
If he didn’t look so young that is.
Everything simply seems so out of place in the senior’s mind as his crinkled eyes go up to the charming youthful face framed by unkempt dark teal hair. His countenance, although remarkably handsome, is undoubtedly young, he just can’t tell how young. ‘Definitely less than ten though,’ he inwardly decides.
“So kid, how old are you?”
Breaking the silence surrounding them, he decides to relieve his curiosity. Unfortunately, he’s disappointed when he doesn’t get an answer even after a full minute.
“Well then what’s your name at least? I can’t keep calling you kid or boy.”
Just as it seems he won’t get a proper answer there either, he registers a quiet voice, one he almost misses over the crackle of the flames.
“Byleth.”
“Byleth huh? Well, here’s your food then, Byleth.”
Cracking open an eyelid, the cobalt-orbed youth sees the man holding out a piece of roasted meat to him. He looks at it for a moment before lightly shaking his head, “I’m not hungry.”
“What do you mean you’re not hungry, I heard your stomach rumbling not even a few minutes ago!” the temporary chef says with an incredulous tone.
The kid doesn’t bother to respond, simply closing his eyes and trying to get more comfortable against the bark behind him. The islander stares at him in consternation.
If it was his own family acting like this, then he’d undoubtedly speak up, but not knowing the full circumstances he doesn’t bother him too much, instead opting to leave him be. Sucking his teeth, he saves a portion in his bag in case Byleth changes his mind later.
After that rather silent lunch break, they’re back on their trek. Half paying attention to his surroundings as he tracks another animal, the scarred native ponders on how to make the gloomy sellsword behind him open up.
Obviously, some measure of trust needs to be developed for that, but he isn’t sure if he has enough time to build any.
Jumping on top of a large boulder, he takes stock of their surroundings. Scanning the dips and curves of the now increasingly sparse landscape, he notices something strange in the distance.
“Hmm, what’s that?”
Motioning for the lad to follow, they creep forward in silence, but the islander soon stands up with a sigh.
“One of them huh…”
Peeking out from behind his current running mate, the fledgling mercenary scrutinizes the source of the small commotion with little regard.
Lying in front of them is a dead bandit, his neck ripped open and large claw marks torn into his muddied paper-thin armor.
Lowering himself onto one knee, the graying tracker tilts the body’s head to face him and grimaces at what he sees.
The bandit appears to be no older than twelve or thirteen. Moreover, judging by his haggard and thin body, he was showing obvious signs of hunger prior to his death.
“There’s another over there.”
Looking up, he sees Byleth staring down at him, his expression totally passive.
Scrunching his eyebrows, the man looks toward where the boy is pointing and notices an additional corpse. Rising, he goes and takes a look.
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This one is in a similar condition as the last, their body clearly having been torn at by predators and scavengers, likely only a day or so ago. Additionally, they also hold the same hollow-cheeked appearance.
Examining the scene, his attention lands on a nearby axe, dried blood crusting its edges. He stares at it for a few moments before going back to the marginally younger cadaver. With a more discerning eye, he examines the wounds on display, letting out yet another sigh as he spots a deep cut on the shoulder that’s clearly from a weapon, not an animal. He stays there for a spell, mulling over some matter, until he finally raises a fist to his chest and lowers his head.
From the sidelines, Byleth watches as he begins to pray to the spirits - if what he said earlier can be believed. Unlike the last time, this prayer continues for a full three minutes, but the youth doesn’t mind, much preferring the silence over being dragged into meaningless conversation.
After doing the deed, the hunter walks near the other body, picking up the crude axe littering the ground. Eyeing the jungle floor, he walks to and fro for a while, seemingly looking for something.
Eventually, he stops, prodding the ground with his foot before getting down on his knees and plunging the rusting battle axe deep into the ground.
‘He’s digging,’ the boy notes as he observes the islander shuffling the loose dirt around. He doesn’t offer help and nor does the man ask for any.
Time drags on as he tirelessly burrows into the dirt with a less-than-ideal tool, only stopping when he’s made a relatively deep and wide hole. Tossing the axe to the side he stands and sates his growing thirst with the waterskin on his belt.
Then, without a hint of disgust or hesitation, he grabs the horribly mangled and stinking bodies, dragging them to the newly dug hole and throwing them in. Much the same as before then, he takes hold of the looted weapon and rakes the excavated soil back into the hole, beginning to bury the unfortunate brigands.
Watching him work, Byleth inevitably thinks of similar sights after some of his mercenary battles, Zane and some other men always digging mass graves for those slain on the battlefield.
It’s something he never truly understood, but nor did he question it either. To go from ruthlessly slaughtering your opposition one moment to having some modicum of decorum by burying them in the next was always a strange disconnect in his juvenile mind.
Sure, he was told about diseases that can spread if the corpses are left to rot in the open air, but from a psychological perspective it’s still odd.
Even recently, he can recall the islander’s disgusted and angered face as he learned of the attack on the caravan, yet here he is burying them with respect.
A strange feeling begins to well up within him as he watches the proceedings, coaxing him into voicing his thoughts, yet he tries to beat it down, the whim going at odds with his current mood and altogether silent disposition. Nevertheless, his annoyance somehow manages to prevail.
“Why are you wasting your time with them?” he blurts out.
Stopping his arm as he’s about to rake another clutch of dirt into the grave, the darker-skinned stranger glances to the adolescent behind him, responding in a level tone.
“What do you mean?”
The young Eisner takes several seconds to speak, and the observant adult doesn’t miss how his body begins to tense.
“They were just pieces of trash that went around killing people. You said earlier that people like that are bad, that they’re evil. So why are you even bothering with them?”
As the nail is hammered in and the cacophony of words leaves his lips, Byleth clenches his fist, trying to still his increasingly rapid breathing. Already he’d prefer to be far from here, somewhere all alone and free of others.
He can’t bring himself to avert his gaze or move from his spot, however. Some part of him desperately wishing to hear the man’s answer.
For a long and oddly tense few seconds, the two simply stare at one another, their pupils locked in a stalemate.
“Follow me.”
Disengaging from the fruitless ocular battle, the islander abandons the sufficiently filled hole and stands, beckoning the boy to come somewhere with him. Still a bit stupefied after the previous atypical interactions, he eventually breaks from his daze and joins him at his side.
Together, they walk underneath the verdant canopy, the usual cacophony more deadening than ever under the presently thick atmosphere. The formerly jovial islander’s smile and laughter are gone to the wind, instead, he bears the slight frown and scrunched eyebrows of a man to war.
Contrastingly, his younger companion appears uncharacteristically bothered, his breathing abandoning any notion of cadence as his eyes dart to and fro. Outwardly he’s still portraying the cold demeanor that has become expected, but nowhere near as indiscernible as his standard.
Stepping over mossy roots and the occasional burrow, the ascending minutes feel as if an eternity in the youth’s chaotic mind, every extended beat of verbal silence causing disastrous thoughts to bloom, fueling his already calamitous notions.
Drowning in the looming memories of him being toyed with and beaten, he doesn’t notice when the older man comes to a stop, bumping into his unyielding back and slightly stumbling.
Recovering as quickly as he can, he jumps away, his knuckles white around the pommel of a dagger. The hunter doesn’t react to this though, his back still turned and thoughts seemingly far away.
It takes Byleth several beats for his gaze to wander, soon recognizing where they are.
Past several thick branches lay a decently traveled path, the foliage finding no purchase on the worn ground. Several Brigid natives walk to and fro, ferrying long wrapped objects to a cart to be piled on.
‘Corpses,’ the boyish merc notes as he spots a limp arm hanging out of an especially bloody blanket.
In the jungle path’s vicinity are a scattered assortment of other locals, picking up a miscellany of items from the ground and placing them in bags or crates.
One of the more notable things is the stench permeating the air, a putrid smell that has most of the aforementioned islanders using something to cover their noses and mouths as they work.
Focused on watching the proceedings, the youth is shaken from his stupor as the man finally speaks.
“Nine,” he says in a soft voice that seems to drown out the surroundings.
Byleth waits for him to elaborate, but nothing of the sort happens as he stares into his back. Eventually, he decides to take the bait as his momentarily forgotten nerves resume their havoc.
“Nine?”
At his reply, the tanned localite finally moves, turning his head slightly to peer at the boy with eyes containing none of their usual mirth or liveliness. Instead, they possess a steel-like quality, ensnaring the youth with their pressure.
“Yes, nine. Nine innocent lives taken before their natural conclusion. Bartalan, an old farmer that decided to be accompanying the caravan. Much of the food being transported was grown by him and his family. Bod, his son, unwilling to let his father travel unattended. Lantos, a skilled musician hoping to bring cheer and delight to those afflicted by the storm. I hear he was very popular with the children in this area, constantly entertaining them and reveling in their amusement and wonder. Faaris, a trader. Those two beautiful water buffalo lying still there were akin to his best friends. It was up to them and a few others to pull these carts.”
As the man speaks about those killed, Byleth looks to the pair of fallen beasts nearby. One with a rich brown coat and the occasional white spots while the other sports a sleek jet-black coloration. They both look strong and well-fed, or at least they were. Now, a throng of flies hovers over their fresh corpses, appearing almost like a buzzing cloud.
“Flynn and Aghna, a newlywed couple in their latter teens. They thought to begin their marriage with an honest act of service. Thurle, Liadan’s husband. She is the woman who was able to be escaping to us, but only because her husband held the bandits off for her to escape.”
Finally, he pauses, taking a deep breath in preparation for his upcoming declaration. As he forms his next words, his cerulean gaze almost appears sharper.
“Alonna and Egan, no bigger than you. They were accompanying their uncle Faaris as he generously transported these people toward us. Apparently, little Alonna loved to sing and braid the buffalos' harnesses with flowers, while her brother Egan was a natural at caring for the creatures.”
Fully listing the names of each murdered traveler, names he somehow knows, the hunter takes a step forward, his entire demeanor radiating a high level of seriousness. Byleth tries to take a step back in turn, only to bump into damp moss-covered bark.
His breathing grows progressively uneven and try as he might, he can’t move to a more open space, somehow weighed down by the man’s presence and helpless to his whims.
With a powerful voice, the looming Brigidman continues his monologue, “Nine lives gone before their time. Nine lives taken due to avarice, lust, hunger, desperation, and all other manner of motive. The men that did this, Byleth, that killed and mutilated these people, were scum. They may not all be evil to the core, but they were reveling in an evil act. Tell me, do you see yourself committing such an act? Could you find it within yourself to stare into the wide eyes of a child and mercilessly drive a sword through her heart? Could you cripple a young man and have him watch as you preyed on his wife, unfazed by her screams and cries of protest? These are the sorts of men that are evil Byleth. The act may seem similar but it could never be any more different.”
The older companion’s indigo-framed pupils bore into him, alit with a fire the likes of which he has scarcely seen in another. He wants to look away but can’t, instead forced to hold the gaze whilst those questions tumble around in his thoughts.
Violence and death were no stranger to the blue merc’s bloodstained hands. Even before he began participating in battle himself, it was a natural sight on his travels with his father and the mercenary band.
Maybe that’s why it never quite seemed to bother him most of the time. Most of the time. A common stereotype is that mercenaries value money above all else, treating it as providence itself, but for him at least that isn’t quite true.
A rare few times he's witnessed an action or an aftermath that made him feel an odd stirring in his chest. What it means, he doesn’t exactly know, but he does know that there ARE lines that he wouldn’t cross. Not unless absolutely necessary.
‘Those eyes,’ focusing on the islander maintaining his gaze, ‘they look like his…’
As an agitated Byleth ruminates, a memory presents itself, one not too dissimilar from the current scenario.
----------------------------------------
“We’ll wait for them to pass beyond our view, then we engage,” his father had said while peering through an uncommonly large bush.
On the opposite side of the small knife-shaped leaves and round red berries, a number of individuals traveled on a simple road, encircling a worn cart that lumbered ever on.
Jeralt’s scouts had recently sent word of the criminal's hideout they had been searching for, and it was just past this main traveling path in a fortified cave. Split into two groups, one circled around to the back of the cave with Zane, Jeralt conversely leading the others to watch the front.
“But father,” a younger and more inexperienced Byleth had asked, “wouldn’t it be better to attack now while our target is busy watching the peasants? We’d have the element of surprise, especially with men on both sides.”
The armored mercenary captain glanced to the diminutive lad beside him, half marveling at the amount of spoken words uttered and half surprised he would suggest such a thing.
The flaxen-haired man ponders for a moment before putting a heavy hand on his son’s head.
“Listen kid, you’re bright so I’m sure you’ll pick this stuff up quick, but there are a few things you should never do in battle. Doesn’t matter if you’re a soldier, a knight, a mercenary- we all have to abide by a certain code or we’d be no better than those outlaws that we’re here to subjugate.”
He takes a breath, his attention roaming over to the traveling caravan below, mostly full of older folk with the occasional child running alongside. After a beat, he looks back at his son, his eyes attempting to convey the severity of his next words.
“Unless absolutely necessary or unavoidable, we never harm non-combatants. Sure, your idea would likely work, but the possibility of those passersby being injured or killed in the crossfire is way too high. Are you willing to inadvertently kill one or two of those peaceful men down there just to have an easier time running your sword through another? Think about it son, because at least under my banner, that’s not how we do things.”
----------------------------------------
“I-I wouldn’t…” Byleth says in a cracked whisper.
“Hmm? What was that?”
Refocusing on the Brigid Islander in front of him, the Eisner child clenches his fist, his cobalt spheres relighting with a measure of conviction.
“I would never do something like this,” he says clearly.
The aging native examines him, unable to conceal the small smirk that rapidly blooms into a wide smile.
Bending his knees, he goes eye level with the younger boy, “That is because you are carrying kindness and compassion in your heart, not malice. You are not evil or bad, and I know you would not be harming an innocent in this manner. Do not dwell on those you must cut down, they likely deserved it, and certainly are not deserving of a place in your thoughts. That is how a warrior must be if they are to survive.”
The tattooed man observes the teal-haired adept, noting his less guarded and hurt bearing.
‘Slowly but surely…’
With a light hop he’s back and tall on his feet.
“Now then, shall we be on our way?”
He waits patiently for the child to gather himself but is a touch surprised when his companion shakes their head.
“No, I would like to help here if that’s okay.”
A rare breeze passes through the trees, stirring the older hunter’s long graying blue hair, similarly tussling the youth’s in fashion. For a brief instant his eyes are fully exposed, unprotected by the normally imposing bangs, and the native sees the unmistakably clear orbs reflecting his image.
“Of course it is,” he says after a moment, full of an odd sense of pride for the child not his own.
----------------------------------------
Several hours later, the islander secretly smiles as he observes Byleth’s obviously more at-ease countenance. There’s still much to do until he is as he should be, but for now, it would be enough.
Clearing his throat, he attracts the boy’s attention.
“Let us return to camp before the sun is setting in the sky, the jungle is very dangerous at night.”
Luckily, they were in the right season for especially long days, but the tell-tale signs for the beginning of twilight were approaching.
Nodding, Eisner Jr. stands and basks in the view that has slowly evolved as he sat in his current vantage.
Presently situated on the branch of an extremely tall tree, so tall that it towers over almost everything else in the immediate surroundings, he looks out.
Miles upon miles of untouched jungle sprawl below him, the tops of trees and the setting sun in the distance mirrored in his eyes. Additionally, whether he notices it or not, the world seems just a tad more colorful than it had earlier.
“Don’t take too long up there!”
Shouting up in Tuatha, the man smilingly watches the boy gaze into the distance. Turning to leave, the cobalt-orbed youth sneaks one final glance before carefully making his way down to the ground and setting off to camp.
----------------------------------------
At the disaster site, Jeralt is currently in a terrible mood.
“What the hell did you say Zane?!” The flaxen-haired captain is screaming in the redhead’s face, many of the men watching curiously from a distance at the rare sight.
“A-as I said Captain… Byleth is currently hunting with the native from earlier and-” “And you didn’t think to tell me about this? To ask me if it was okay?”
Jeralt paces back and forth, his expression half rage and half worry as he nervously fingers his blade.
“Damnit, this is why I didn’t want to come to Brigid! Of course I would run into him of all people…”
Muttering under his breath he continues pacing under the somewhat shaken gaze of Zane.
Stepping forward, the hazel-eyed adjutant seems to take the directed anger mostly in stride, maintaining his composed manner.
“Captain, if I may, what is the problem? We needed food anyway and Byleth also needed the time to clear his head.”
Hearing that, the mercenary leader snaps out of his musings and returns his attention to his deputy.
“Why would he need to do that?”
The ginger sighs in exasperation at his commander’s apparent cluelessness regarding his son, but just as he’s going to respond another voice calls from the distance, interrupting him.
“Captain! I see your son exiting the jungle!”
Whipping his head around, Jeralt similarly spots him in the far distance and doesn’t waste a single heartbeat in rushing over, Zane trying and failing to keep up from behind. With his furious stride, it doesn’t take the father long to reach him.
Immediately as he gets close enough, he barks an order, “Byleth! Get away from him and come here right now!”
The teal-haired boy was listening to his older companion tell a children’s story in Tuatha when his father’s commanding tone reached his ears.
Looking toward the noise he sees his parent’s serious expression and doesn’t dally in listening. But as he is beginning to walk over to him, he’s suddenly firmly grabbed by the collar, keeping him in place.
“I am thinking not Jeralt, he’s going to stay with me for a while I think. I don’t trust him in your care.”
Stunned by the brazen words and actions, Jeralt’s voice becomes cold as steel, his grip on his sword growing ever tighter.
“Lóegaire! Let my son go right now or you won’t enjoy what happens next.”
Many of the men from Brigid that had begun to accumulate due to the commotion narrow their eyes at his tone of voice, not liking it even if many of them don’t understand the words.
“Oh? So you do remember me Blade Breaker. But as I said, your care is not being good enough for me to return your son.”
Jeralt’s patience grows extremely thin as he unsheathes his longsword with a sharp hiss of the blade, causing the Brigid men to tense, preparing for a fight.
“This is your final warning. Hand over my son or die, it’s that simple.”
As the other party prepares to respond to the very clear threat, Zane suddenly jumps in the middle of the tense situation.
“Will all of you fucking calm down for a moment!”
He repeats the same thing in both the languages of Fódlan and Brigid, all the while beads of sweat begin to form on his brow.
“Let’s talk about this before we start trying to kill each other, okay?”
Pleadingly, he looks at Jeralt who returns the gaze for an unpleasant span, luckily however, he eventually snorts loudly and sheaths his sword. Nodding to his captain in thanks, he turns to the native and gives him an evaluating look.
“Your name is Lóegaire then? Am I mistaken in assuming that means you are-”
The man interrupts, looking at both Jeralt and Zane with power and regalness brimming in his posture.
“You are being correct. I am Lóegaire Macneary, King of Brigid!”