TACO Run

Chapter 37

Olberic did not let himself collapse to the ground as Alfyn and Therion had. Though their foe was slain, there would be consequences to such a violent and destructive battle in the confines of a city such as this, and he had to remain strong and resolute until such time as the aftermath was dealt with.

Cyrus seemed to realize that too, for his expression was worried as he picked his way carefully across the rubble-strewn road towards Olberic. In some areas, putrid smoke still rose from half-liquid puddles of burning tar, and all of them would likely need Alfyn's care soon enough. "Are you alright, my friend?" he asked once he was close enough to do so without raising his voice. Though not smoke-roughened, it lacked the easy smoothness and confidence he normally displayed. "That was not how I imagined our reunion going."

"I am well," Olberic assured him, though every muscle in his body ached from the fight, and his own throat and lungs felt faintly raw. "And you?" He seemed hale enough, if a little tired, though the scrape on his cheek from his earlier tumble still bled sluggishly.

"Well enough, now that we are all together again." Briefly, Cyrus wavered, and let his forehead fall against Olberic's left arm. "I am… sorry, for all that has transpired," he said softly.

Olberic frowned. It was rare for Cyrus to seem so deeply penitent.

"Hey, there, Prof," Alfyn shoved himself upright again. "Let me get a look at that scrape, huh? Be a shame to leave your face all messed up."

"I'd say the sad excuse for a beard's the real problem," Therion drawled raspily, sitting on a chunk of rubble in one of the cleaner spots. "What, did you forget how to shave?"

"Unlike some people," Cyrus said tartly, head lifting again, "I was unprepared for an extended time away from home." A sigh, and he rubbed a hand against the—genuinely unfortunate-looking—scruffiness beneath his chin. "That being said, Olberic, once Alfyn has finished cleaning this," he waved a hand at his scrape, "might you be so kind as to lend me your shaving kit? I fear I am making a terrible impression upon the local authorities." He nodded towards where Truthseeker Tsukauchi leaned against a half-demolished carriage, speaking into his communication device with the exhausted rapidity of a soldier reporting to a superior officer before other, conflicting reports could be made.

Olberic winced. He did not envy the Truthseeker at the moment. "I would not worry," he assured Cyrus. "I think Truthseeker Tsukauchi has more important things on his mind than your rough appearance."

Cyrus made an acknowledging noise and tilted his head as Alfyn fussed over his scrape. "Be that as it may… wait a moment. You called him Truthseeker?" Interest lit the scholar's eyes. "Is that a title, or a very odd local name?"

"It is a title…" As Olberic began explaining how he had met the Truthseeker, and all that had happened since, he heard Therion sigh.

"Gods, I need a drink. Where's the nearest tavern?"

Explaining everything to Chief Tsuragamae took time, and Naomasa wasn't anywhere near finished when emergency services started arriving. Thankfully nothing was on fire, but a large swath of the road was impassable due to still being a half-molten slurry, there was damage to most of the surrounding buildings, and the exploded transformer still occasionally dripped sparks.

Naomasa let the Chief know that they didn't need a Hero's immediate assistance anymore, but it might be a good idea to contact Wash and Cementoss, or maybe Power Loader, to help clean and repair the streets, or at least render them non-hazardous. Preferably after they left.

And to please, please restrain the media until after he got Olberic and his friends back to the department. They didn't need to deal with the ambulance chasers.

He managed that, thankfully, because it seemed like all of them could sense the impending storm of activity and were more than willing to follow Naomasa there with minimal fussing. Even the thief, who Naomasa really wanted to have checked out by the paramedics based on the sheer amount of times he'd been sent tumbling and the amount of grossness he was covered with.

But Alfyn promised he'd give them all a good looking-over, and there were showers at the department for them to clean up, and if the media got hold of them the shitstorm to follow would make this look like a light summer breeze.

There wasn't even much chatter on the way back, other than Alfyn and the professor conversing quietly between themselves about… magic or something. Naomasa didn't want to know. Not yet. He did send Tamakawa a quick text as a warning, just in case he was anywhere near the department, so that none of Olberic's friends would risk attacking him from sheer reflex and post-combat nerves. Naomasa was pretty sure he also had the day off, but he wanted to be safe.

"It is a pity."

Naomasa blinked up at Olberic. "What is?"

A tired smile. "You were never able to show me what a bassen was."

Naomasa stared at him for a moment, holding the door as the others were ushered inside. And then started laughing so hard he had to lean against the doorframe.

Therion drifted in Olberic's shadow, keeping the warrior between himself and the guy in short sleeves. From what Olberic had said before, the guy not only worked for the city guard, he was also one of their sharper people, and had a position of authority.

Like hell was Therion letting him in grabbing range.

He hadn't said anything about trying to arrest Therion, but the stress-induced frown on his face deepened whenever he looked his way, and they were on their way to the guardhouse to avoid dealing with the swarms of people showing up to take care of the aftermath of the fight.

Olberic seemed to trust him, though. And the other guys didn't have any problems tagging along, and the very idea of vanishing into the city's alleyways when his friends were right there made his guts twist and a fizzy weakness try to make his hands shake. So he kept his hands tucked up under his cloak, tucked his nose down into his scarf, and kept Olberic between himself and the Truthseeker guy just in case he decided to develop grabby hands. And eavesdropped on Cyrus and Alfyn's conversation, simply because he actually could.

"…and so I would posit that, given the utter absence of magic native to this world, even the materials within it are more vulnerable to the energies summoned from the elemental planes, or any other form of magic which might be utilized upon them."

…huh. Therion'd wondered why the street melted like that, and the makeshift spear practically evaporated. Sure, the streets weren't cobbles or even hard-packed earth, but Cyrus had never made the ground melt before. Or made glass windows shatter just by using lightning magic nearby. Or blown away enemies hard enough to knock other people flying.

They'd managed to dodge most of the people arriving to deal with stuff, with the Truthseeker guy fast-talking them past the ones they didn't. Once they'd gotten a few blocks from the scene, though, things calmed down and they just had to worry about staying off the street so as not to get crushed by a screaming vehicle. And they got a lot of shocked looks and no few yelps or shrieks, being covered in blood and other, grosser things, but no one bothered them.

An arm lifted in his direction, and Therion deliberately didn't flinch as it settled around his shoulders. It was Alfyn, and the touchy-feely bumpkin was probably desperate for reassurance that he wouldn't disappear just because they were headed to the guardhouse. Cyrus was his usual chatterbox self, and Olberic was too big to go missing, but he knew that Alfyn respected his skills enough to worry he'd vanish when no one was looking.

And if the warm weight around his shoulders settled the buzzing in his own nerves, well…

Therion would never say.

Alfyn grinned so wide he thought his face would crack, one arm around Therion's shoulders and the other around Cyrus'. He'd been expecting Therion to flinch, even with the extra time he'd allowed to make sure the thief saw the move coming, but he hadn't, and he hadn't shrugged him off right away either.

Considering post-fight jitters were a thing, he was pleased as punch to know Therion trusted him that much. Even if he was covered in guck.

After another couple of steps, Alfyn let go of the Prof's shoulders so he had a hand free for gesticulatin'. And because Cyrus was a good hand taller than Therion, so he was walking a little lopsided trying to have an arm around 'em both. Besides, the professor wasn't skittish like Therion, but he was more the kind of guy who you spent time around, not hanging off of.

Damn, but he'd missed them all. And he didn't know where all they'd been this whole time, but nobody looked like they'd been going hungry, and Olberic had said that the Truthseeker'd been helping him out and such, so he figured he could wait for everyone's stories until after they cleaned up.

Oh, yeah! The Truthseeker had said that the guardhouse had 'showers', according to Cyrus and his rectangle-thing—and Olberic had one too! Wow!—and they'd be able to wash up and borrow some clean clothes while their own got laundered and they waited for everything to settle down.

He knew Therion wasn't looking forward to giving up his clothes. Even if he hadn't said anything about it, or been directly addressed, all of them knew he hated letting his stuff be anywhere out of his control. "Hey," he said, keeping his voice low as the Prof filled the air with speculation. "Want us to keep an eye on your stuff while you clean up? And make sure they only take your clothes for laundering?"

Another sliver of tension melted away beneath his arm, and Therion nodded minutely.

Then they were at the guardhouse, and Olberic said something to the Truthseeker that had him laughing so hard he couldn't even stand up straight.

The guardhouse was, Cyrus observed, far larger than any he had ever seen in his life. Rather than the simple stone building with perhaps a few cells in which to hold criminals awaiting execution, it was a multi-floored network of rooms and halls, filled with men and women of all shapes and descriptions going about their duties. Cyrus noted as many particulars as he could whilst they were escorted quickly past the area Olberic informed them was open to the public, and into the area reserved for those individuals employed here—or in their case, escorted by those employed here.

"You keep turning your head that fast, Prof, you're liable to get a kink in it," Alfyn chuckled, arm still slung companionably around Therion's hunched shoulders.

"I am perfectly capable of controlling the speed at which I observe our surroundings," Cyrus assured him absently. "Olberic, where did you say the cells you were allowed to rest in were located?" His mental map of the building was far from complete.

"In that direction," Olberic said patiently, nodding down a nearby hall as one large hand took Cyrus' elbow gently to steer him in a different direction. "However, the guardsmen's privies and dressing-rooms are this way—and we will all be the better for a visit to them."

Oh. Yes, certainly. Cyrus was by far the least blood-spattered, and even his hair and clothing had a layer of grime from the tarry smoke of the battle-scene. Alfyn looked like he'd been butchering small animals near a pool of rock-oil, Olberic's appearance had inspired no few screams on the way here despite his attempts to clean the blood from his face and blade, and as for Therion…

Well. Cyrus had the deepest of pity for whatever laundress was tasked with cleaning his clothing. 'Gore-drenched rat that had rolled in a midden' would not be an inaccurate descriptor, at the moment. The only parts of his hair that were still white were those that had been slimed before they'd been bloodied, and thus had repelled the worst of the splatter.

Even the Truthseeker's shoes had not been entirely spared, however, for all that he'd avoided the worst of the fighting. Whatever substance the smaller monsters had been made of, it clung to the footwear stickily and left black marks on the tile flooring that had the Truthseeker wincing when he noticed them, and muttering something to himself that Cyrus belatedly consulted his phone to translate.

'I'm going to have to buy the janitorial staff so many flowers…'

Ah, so he was a man who considered the frustrations of those who served him! An excellent indication of why Olberic thought so highly of him.

As they reached the door to the privies, however, the Truthseeker's phone chirruped at him, and he answered it immediately, grimacing tiredly as he greeted the other person, and waving two of the other guardsmen forward.

'I have to meet with Chief Tsuragamae,' Cyrus read. 'Can you make sure Sir Olberic and his friends get cleaned up and their clothes washed? And take them to the dining hall once they're done?'

After receiving affirmations, he thanked the guardsmen, gave Olberic and the rest of them an apologetic farewell and a promise to talk more as soon as he was able, and hurried off.

The guardsmen's dressing-rooms and privies were simple, clean, and utilitarian. Cyrus was delighted by the presence of the showers, and cheerfully explained their purpose and proper use to both Alfyn and Therion as they undertook the arduous task of cleaning themselves as thoroughly as possible. It took perhaps a bit longer than it should have… but as Therion had to remove all of his belongings from his mantle's many hidden pockets, as well as from other hidden areas about his person—Alfyn's satchel was likely the hiding-place for anything particularly incriminating he might possess—Cyrus deliberately forewent any attempt at calling attention to the length of time he spent preparing his clothing to be handed off for laundering.

While they cleansed themselves of the remains of battle, one of the guardsmen fetched replacement clothing for them to borrow while their own was laundered. It was, of course, simple and untailored garments, well-worn but clean. Short-sleeved collarless shirts of some kind of light, soft fabric, and loose trousers of a material that seemed to imitate fleece on the internal lining, and which was marvelously soft and comfortable, if utterly unflattering and dull in appearance. Both were a medium heathered grey, quite possibly the least interesting of colors imaginable, and accompanied by odd… perforated clog-like shoes of some resilient and utterly unfamiliar substance.

"Professor!" His study of the shoes was interrupted by Alfyn prodding him in the upper arm.

"Hm? Yes?"

"You gonna put those on? This floor's pretty cold for bare feet."

"True," Cyrus laughed a little self-effacingly, and awkwardly balanced on one foot to slip the first of the clogs on. Oh dear. That is an altogether odd sensation against one's sole and toes. It was almost unpleasant actually, and somehow he could only believe that socks would make it somehow worse.

Alfyn grinned, looking surprisingly comfortable in his own borrowed clothing, fresh-scrubbed skin glowing pink with good health and hair still a bit in need of a comb. "Weird, huh?"

"Indeed." Cyrus wrinkled his nose, but dutifully put on the other shoe. "Surely these aren't common footwear in this land…"

"They are not," Olberic assured him, seeming faintly amused. "I have spoken with the guardsmen, and they have said that these are the shoes and clothing stored here for emergencies such as this, when individuals in desperate need of something clean to wear are under the care of the guard for a time. They are cheap, and made to fit individuals of a variety of sizes and shapes at least passably, and be simple themselves to clean."

"Ah, that would explain much," Cyrus sighed, smiling wryly. He could not disapprove of the notion, considering the sheer breadth of forms local individuals could take. Why, he would not be surprised if the monster they had fought before had been a man, rather than a beast! Well, its bestial nature argued against the possibility, but still…

He was jolted from his musing by a gentle nudge, and glanced up at Olberic to see the warrior holding out his shaving-kit, an amused expression on his stalwart face. "I believe you asked to borrow this."

Cyrus brightened. "Indeed, I did! Thank you, my friend."

Once he was clean-shaven again—and luxuriating in the sensation—he handed Olberic back his excellent shaving kit with praise for its quality, and offered to assist Alfyn in tying back his hair properly.

"Thanks, Prof," the apothecary chuckled, and turned his back to let him do just that. "Therion's still gonna be a minute washing up. I checked him over and did First Aid, so he's not in any danger, but that guck doesn't want to come out."

Hm. At least the water was warm—that had to help. "A pity." He was quite eager to see the dining-hall, and how it might differ from this utilitarian washroom. And, too, he had not had lunch.

"I can wait with him here, if you wish to go ahead," Olberic offered. "I am sure the guardsmen will be willing to escort you."

And his presence would prevent Therion from being left undefended whilst in a vulnerable state. Olberic, after all, had kept his sword despite giving up his clothes for laundering. He had cleaned the sheath, belt, and straps as best he could, and though they looked utterly incongruous with his borrowed clothing, wore them proudly. He had also taken charge of Therion's daggers, as none of the guardsmen seemed willing to confront him about their presence, as well as some other few of the thief's belongings that could be hung or thrust through his sturdy belt.

Cyrus suspected that his own bright-green bag contained a few things it hadn't before, but he felt no need to confirm that where the guardsmen might see. "Thank you!" he said gratefully. "I am most eager to see more of this place, and to learn of its inner workings. Alfyn?"

The apothecary was frowning faintly in the direction of Therion's shower stall, where quiet snarls could be heard over the hiss and patter of water. "Sure, Professor," he said, turning away almost reluctantly. "I don't figure any of us wants to be alone any time soon, now that we're back together again!"

"Indeed not," Cyrus agreed emphatically, as Olberic moved to speak with the guardsmen about escorting them. "And Alfyn… I am sorry for that separation."

Alfyn gave him an odd look, but before he could reply one of their two escorts was trotting in their direction, and the moment was gone.

"Hey, there!" Alfyn grinned at the guardsman as he waved them towards one of the changing room's exits. "Thanks for all this. It's Biwa, right?"

It was at least another quarter-hour before Therion managed to get all of the grime and filth scrubbed off of his person and out of his hair. Olberic waited for him to emerge from the shower, holding the clothes the guardsmen had brought him to wear.

When Therion did emerge, however, he was already dressed. In the dancer's garb Primrose had once picked out for him, when he received the blessing of the Lady of Grace.

"I did not know you still carried those garments," Olberic admitted, handing the spare clothes back to the guardsman currently gaping at the thief.

"…they can come in useful, sometimes," Therion said shortly, seeming even more on edge than when he had entered the shower stall. "How do people stand using those? You can't hear anything while you're in there."

Ah. "I do not find it an unpleasant experience," Olberic shrugged. "Though I am not entirely surprised that you do."

Therion was looking around, eyes darting to and fro and brows pinching.

"Alfyn and Cyrus preceded us to the dining hall," Olberic supplied, guessing at what concerned him. "I offered to stay and wait with you, as I am familiar with this guardhouse, and know the way."

The scowl didn't vanish, nor did the tension fade from the thief's shoulders, but he nodded shortly. "Let's go, then. No point wasting time, if we're done here."

"Indeed."

The distance to the dining hall was not long, and they opened the doors to a low wave of chatter, as it seemed that either a change in shifts was taking place, or the presence of Alfyn and Cyrus had drawn more guardsmen and women to the dining hall than usual.

Their friends sat at a rectangular table, the kind that had attached benches for seating. Many of the guard hovered nearby, as they used Cyrus' phone to communicate visually. Olberic was struck by the image, for while Alfyn somehow seemed comfortable, almost natural in his borrowed clothing, there was something altogether incongruous about seeing Cyrus dressed that way.

When the three of them entered the dining-hall, however, everyone looked up at them, and Olberic felt Therion resist a flinch at the attention. "Steady, my friend," he said softly, and strode forward, so that it would be easy for the thief to follow in his shadow and avoid the stares. "Alfyn, Cyrus. I see you have made yourselves comfortable."

"We certainly have!" Cyrus said brightly, seemingly oblivious to the thief's discomfort—though Olberic saw grey eyes flicker with understanding. "Everyone has been most welcoming and patient, and I must say that this odd, fizzy drink they've offered us is delightfully refreshing!" He held up a glass bottle filled with a bright yellow liquid which was indeed fizzing faintly. Wiggling it caused a small marble to roll around inside. "It has a light and acidic taste," he observed. "One which would likely be quite welcome during the summer. I'm not certain of the flavor Alfyn's possesses, but he has said it's quite sweet—Alfyn?"

The apothecary was holding a glass bottle of his own, though the liquid which filled its bottom third was bright blue in color, and Alfyn didn't seem to be paying it much attention. "Therion? Holy shit, I didn't know you still had that."

"What, you think I'm going to throw out anything useful?" Therion asked dryly, shifting from walking behind Olberic to beside him as they finished approaching.

"Well, no, but… damn. You look really good, all things considered!"

Therion smirked, and moved forward to lean one hip on the edge of the table, voice dropping flirtatiously. "Careful, medicine man," he purred. "A guy like me might think you had an ulterior motive."

Alfyn flushed a deep, brilliant red for a moment, eyes wide—and then burst into laughter. "Dohter's ass, Therion!" he cackled, as the thief dropped the act with a roll of his eyes. "You really have been practicing for the theater, haven't you?"

"Guy's gotta have something to keep himself occupied, when he gets old and creaky," Therion shrugged, back to his usual bored expression. He sat down across from Alfyn, propping his chin on one hand. "And Primrose had a point, about actors' pay."

"So you have been studying with the lovely Primrose!" Cyrus exclaimed, all excited, setting his bottle aside. "I admit, I find myself jealous."

All of them looked at the scholar, puzzled. "I thought she was giving you dancing lessons?" Alfyn said curiously.

"Indeed she was," Cyrus sighed. "But—and I am truly ashamed to admit this—the dear lady has said that I am beyond help, and must resign myself to public embarrassment if ever I am required to accompany a woman on the dance-floor." He buried his face in his hands, bereft.

At this, Olberic frowned. "Surely not," he said doubtfully, taking his own place at the table across from Cyrus, and accepting the bottle an elderly guardsman handed to him with a murmured thanks. Like Cyrus' and Alfyn's, its mouth seemed to be stoppered with a marble beneath the cap, though the liquid inside was milky white. "I have seen you move in battle, and while you are no warrior, I would never call you clumsy."

Cyrus' head did not rise, as he mumbled into his palms. "I appreciate the vote of confidence, my friend, but the ability to whack at monsters with a big stick does not, in fact, translate to grace or a sense of rhythm."

"Perhaps not," Olberic allowed, "but I do not believe myself to be a man of grace in any sense of the word, and I am capable of at least the basic steps." How was he supposed to open…?

"Wait, you know how to dance?" Alfyn asked, startled. He took the bottle from Olberic and removed the center portion of the cap, and then used it to force the blocking marble out of its place with a hollow popping noise. "Not like, town dancing, but that fancy-balls-style dancing?"

Olberic frowned, but shrugged easily enough as he accepted the drink back. "And why should I not? I was a knight, once, with the duty to attend Hornburg's court functions on occasion. I will admit," he continued, slightly abashed, "I preferred to avoid the court ladies when I could, as the lionesses and their daughters could be very… insistent, and I have never had the deftness I would need with conversational tactics, to turn them away without offense."

Cyrus was looking up at him now, a kind of energetic realization dawning. "Of course," he laughed, low mood lifted. "The honorable Knights of Hornburg would surely have been well-paid and admired for their service to the crown. Quite the catch for a noble house, and without the need to worry about unfortunate political ties." He propped his chin on the back of one hand, eyes alight with interest. "How did you manage to avoid such romantic entanglements, I wonder?"

Olberic shifted, blushing faintly. "By making myself as uninteresting as possible," he admitted. "And by using Erhardt as a distraction, a… more attractive fortress to besiege."

"…heh." Therion smirked, turning Alfyn's bottle of blue liquid suspiciously between his hands, and then taking a cautious sip. "I can see that."

"He's a pretty good-lookin' guy," Alfyn agreed, not seeming to care that his beverage had been appropriated.

"And thus, more likely to draw the attention of ambitious young ladies and their matchmaking mothers," Cyrus concluded with a chuckle. "'No woman's fool' indeed."

"I could hardly claim as such, had none ever tried," Olberic said solemnly, regaining his composure. He took a sip of his own drink, and snorted when the bubbles fizzed on his tongue, somehow managing to make it feel as though his nose were being tickled. It was a sweet, fruity drink, but not unpleasant. "But Cyrus, my friend, I think the awkwardness of my past pales before the worries of your present. An assistant headmaster cannot possibly avoid the social obligations of their position the way a mere professor might."

"I know. Believe me, I do." Cyrus sighed, head tilted back and fingertips touching his brow dramatically, as if to ward off a headache. "Headmistress Minerva has already made quite pointed comments on not missing my own inaugural ball. The scandal, she says, would be worse than if I were to trip face-first into the wine service."

"Speakin' of," Alfyn frowned, scrubbing at the side of his neck with one hand. "Are you gonna be okay, what with disappearing for a while right after getting promoted?"

"I believe so," Cyrus said slowly, frowning in contemplation. "It being the planting season, the academy's common students have been released from their studies for a time, and the noble students are on break as well, to see to their familial obligations. It's why my appointment was given at this time; so that all of the arrangements could be made with a minimum of interference for our students' studies."

"So as long as you're back in time for your fancy party, you'll be fine?"

"Well, it would be best to have a little time before then, to finalize my lesson plans," Cyrus admitted, "and to prepare my wardrobe. I'm afraid that while my scholar's robes are perfectly suitable to teaching classes, faculty balls require more formal attire."

"More formal?" Therion said skeptically. "Don't you dress fancy enough as it is?"

"Fancy and formal are not synonymous," Cyrus corrected, turning a smile the thief's way. "As you yourself can attest." He flapped a hand at the dancer's garb Therion wore.

"Point," Therion allowed, and then turned towards Olberic. "Speaking of clothes, though, how long do you think it'll take for our stuff to get laundered?"

Olberic smiled at the thief, amusement coloring his tone. "Missing pockets already?"

"Well, yeah." Therion huffed a little, propping his chin on both hands now in an obviously disgruntled gesture, as Alfyn took back his drink and finished it off. "Not that I don't trust you with my gear, but I'd rather carry it myself."

Olberic inclined his head, accepting that. "If the laundry facilities here are comparable to those in the Truthseeker's home, it should only take two or three hours."

Alfyn whistled softly, impressed. "Not bad!"

"Indeed!" Cyrus seemed much cheered by the news. "Not that I would dare complain about the garments we've been lent, but I fear these shoes are a terrible fit." He lifted one foot to indicate the overlarge, clog-like shoe hanging incongruously from it, which fit him even more poorly than the shirt and trousers he had been provided.

"You're just bothered 'cause you're missing three fingers of height now," Alfyn teased, grinning broadly.

"I assure you, I am in no way insecure about my stature," Cyrus said easily, sipping his fizzy yellow beverage. "These shoes are simply far broader in the toe than I am used to, and too large besides." He wiggled his foot for emphasis. "Even were I skilled at dancing, which I am not, these would render me incapable of showing such skills."

Olberic frowned again. "I find it difficult to believe that you are as hopeless as Primrose has claimed."

"Believe it, my friend," Cyrus sighed, letting his foot drop. "Never let it be said that the fair lady did not try, but I am afraid that I am far too poor a student, when it comes to the physical arts."

Olberic's brows rose. "Have you yourself not said that there are no poor students, only poor teachers?" he questioned, as Therion nicked the scholar's bottle to try a taste. "And do you not adjust your methods for your students, when you find one who cannot learn by the same process as the rest?"

"Well, yes," Cyrus agreed, tilting his head to one side slightly, and absently taking the bottle back as Therion made a face. "Some learn best by reading and listening, as I do, while others require rote memorization, and still others need practice or experimentation to excel."

"Then is it not right to believe that, rather than you yourself being incapable as a student, it is Primrose who failed you as a teacher?" Olberic held up one hand as though to ward off an argument. "I do not say that she is a poor dancer; the Lady of Grace herself would admire her skill. But Primrose is an artist, and as such she comprehends her craft in a way entirely different from how you or I might do so."

Cyrus blinked. "I hadn't ever thought of it that way," he admitted. "It is true that Primrose has told me she had never taught another to dance from scratch, as it were, only given them pointers."

"I guess that means Olberic's your new teacher, huh?" Alfyn grinned, reaching over to slap the warrior on the arm, earning a startled glance.

"I hadn't intended any such thing," he protested. "My own skills are minimal, and limited to those formal dances utilized in Hornburg's court over a decade past."

Cyrus was looking at him with gleaming, eager eyes. "Ah, but even that is more skill than I possess!" he said. "And you do have experience with educating the uninitiated, in your mentoring of young Philip."

"I, well, that is true enough…" Olberic frowned, crossing his arms thoughtfully over his chest. "If Primrose is willing to demonstrate the steps presently used in Atlasdam…"

"Which I'm sure she's picked up already," Therion put in, smirking slightly.

"…then I suppose, between the two of us, we might be able to get you to a minimal level of skill in time for your inauguration." A moment's more thought, and Olberic nodded sharply. "Very well. Once we return to Orsterra, I will broach the subject with her. And in the meantime, we shall see if we can discover what method would be most effective to teach a scholar such as yourself."

"My deepest thanks." Cyrus practically glittered with gratitude, and gave the most flourishing bow he could while still sitting down. "You have no idea what a relief it is, to know there is some small chance remaining that I will not humiliate myself or whichever poor girl is tasked with being my dance partner. And, well, while we are on the subject of my inaugural ball…" He hesitated, fingers lacing and unlacing before his face.

"What's got you all fidgety, Professor?" Alfyn chuckled, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. "Ants biting your backside?"

"My posterior remains unmarred, thank you," Cyrus replied reflexively. "It's only, well…" He straightened. "Not only was I informed that I must attend the ball myself, I was told to invite my family as well. And seeing as I have little family to speak of…"

Therion blinked.

Olberic frowned.

Alfyn opened his mouth, a look of mingled bafflement and consternation on his face, before he closed it again. "…y'know, I never even thought about you maybe having family?" he said, sounding a little guilty as he scratched at the back of his head. "I just kinda thought, you know, Tressa was the only one of us who still had her ma and pa. I mean, H'aanit's got her master, but it's not quite the same."

"Well of course I had parents," Cyrus smiled a little, though it wasn't as bright as usual. "I didn't spring fully-formed from a textbook."

Therion snorted.

Olberic simply frowned deeper. "Had?" he prompted, though not without gentleness.

Cyrus sighed. "The Albrights were a family of wealthy dyers, supplying much of the Flatlands nobility with the brightly-colored clothes they so greatly wished for. When I was quite young, my intelligence prompted my parents to send me off to Atlasdam's Royal Academy, where my inquisitive nature would be more of a benefit than an annoyance. I was accepted into the advanced classes, and rapidly forgot to pay attention to such niceties as writing home. I was fourteen and a quarter when I received word that there had been an accident—some unknown toxin in the dyeing-vats had spread a poisonous vapor throughout the dyeworks, killing dozens of workers, my parents, and my elder siblings. My youngest sister was lucky enough to escape with only slightly damaged lungs, but with no one to properly inherit it or take over the business, the dyeworks was quickly bought up by other enterprising businessmen and women. I remained at the Academy, and my sister Delara went into service to the Adelaar family in Noblecourt. She is married now, to her employer's seneschal."

Alfyn whistled softly. "Wow. She have kids?"

"Two, as of our last correspondence. We do still write occasionally, but ours is a… strained relationship." Cyrus' smile was wan. "When I offered to sponsor her children at the Academy, she replied that she wished them to get sensible jobs, where they did real work which garnered real results."

"Ouch," Therion said sympathetically, as Alfyn winced and Olberic grimaced.

"Indeed." Cyrus' fingers laced together, tightly enough to whiten his knuckles, and when he spoke, his voice was very soft. "I think, in some small way, she blames me for not assisting her, when our family and the dyeworks were lost."

"That's not fair," Alfyn protested. "You were just a kid, like her."

"Ah, but I was her elder brother," Cyrus said softly. "And when all the world she knew fell apart around her, I did not help." A sigh. "I do not say that she is correct in her resentment, but I do understand it to some degree. And regardless of all else, the point remains that I do not expect her or her children to respond to my invitation in a positive manner."

Alfyn frowned, crossing his arms over his chest in what was almost a sulk. "That stinks," he said flatly. "You'd be a great uncle, all full of knowledge and stories. I mean, come on, doesn't 'Uncle Cyrus' just sound awesome?"

"It does," Olberic agreed solemnly.

"Sure it does," Therion said slyly, with a half-hidden smirk. "Uncle Cyrus, battier than the Carrion Caves."

"Therion," Alfyn scowled, shoving the thief lightly.

But Cyrus just laughed a little. "I would prefer the term 'eccentric' myself. 'Batty' is far too lowbrow a word… more fitting for a thief who moonlights as an actor, hm?"

"Ha. Ha-ha. And also ha." Therion rolled his eyes as the others laughed. "So you brought all of this up why?"

"Ah." Cyrus smiled sheepishly. "Because I was hoping to extend my invitation to my friends, as well as my family. If it wouldn't be too much of an imposition…?"

"What, whoa, you want us to come to the party?" Alfyn straightened, grinning.

"I would be honored to attend," Olberic inclined his head to the scholar with a pleased smile.

"You really are batty," Therion said shortly, though without bite. "Cyrus, I'm a thief. And it'll be a party full of the rich and powerful." As if to emphasize the words, he reached over and picked up Olberic's drink, taking a sip from it without breaking eye contact with the scholar.

Cyrus frowned, brows drawn together. "I hardly think your occupation is common knowledge among my peers and their families," he protested. "And even if it were, you know I would vouch for you, were you to be stopped at the door."

"Yeah, and that's the problem." Therion snorted. "Sure, I'd get in, if you told them to let me. And when the silver went missing—because it always does—who do you think they'd look at to blame?"

"Therion has a point," Olberic agreed, when Cyrus moved to protest. "While we know that he can be trusted, your peers and superiors have no such understanding of his character. And any attempt on your part to shield his reputation with your own would only damage your standing—on the night of your inaugural ball, no less."

"I… understand the logic of your objections," Cyrus sighed, dejected. "H'aanit refused as well—she did not wish to inflict the travails of high society on Linde, nor to weather the stares and disapproval of my peers."

"She's also not any better at dancing than you are," Alfyn put in, tucking his hands behind his head thoughtfully. "And she doesn't really like big social things in the first place—too much talking, and too many people."

"I know," Cyrus said softly. "I would never endeavor to force her to attend. I simply wanted all of my friends to be there, when I was officially given the position. Odette has already said that she will be, despite her dislike for Academy politics, but…"

"Oh, I'll be there," Therion said, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee and leaning back, hands behind his head in imitation of Alfyn. "Just not as your guest. Big parties like this are always short on servants, when people get sick or injured at the last second. Why do you think the silver always goes missing? If the actual servants don't steal it, some enterprising young tea leaf will."

A brief pause, as the other three looked at him for a moment, surprised. And then all of them were laughing, as if the idea was the funniest thing in the world.

"If that is the case," Cyrus chuckled as their laughter died down, wiping a tear from one eye, "then I shall endeavor to make certain that there are plenty of apple dishes on the menu, my friend."

"You'd better," Therion said blandly, leaning forward to pick up Olberic's drink again. He seemed to enjoy it, bubbles and all. "Servants get to eat the leftovers—that's not even stealing; that's perks."

"Shitsureishimasu…" One of the guardsmen—the one who had first escorted Alfyn and Cyrus to the dining-hall—approached their table with polite caution, bowing towards the group as a whole, and then Olberic in particular, asking a question.

"Ah! Of course." The warrior rose to his feet.

"Where're you going?" Alfyn asked, head tilting a little. "What'd he say?"

"The Truthseeker has asked for an interview, to gain a more complete understanding of today's events by asking after my experience of it," Olberic explained. "He will surely wish to question the rest of you as well."

"Really." Therion's tone was merely dry, to one who didn't know him. To one who did, however, it was the particular dryness that meant the thief was deeply suspicious.

Olberic paused. "The guard here are not like those of Orsterra," he said slowly after a moment. "When I say that they will ask questions, I do mean that they will merely ask."

"Uh-huh." Therion gave him a skeptical look. "And if they don't like the answers they get?"

"Then they will have learned an unpleasant truth," Olberic said firmly. "But the laws here bind the guardsmen even more firmly than they do common citizens." He folded his arms over his chest. "I do not ask you to trust them, Therion, but as you know me, I would ask that you trust my judgement of these men and women." Something very like a smile crossed his features for a moment, warm but hard as iron. "And know that if I have judged them wrong, I will come for you."

"We all will," Cyrus put in confidently. "I didn't suffer through the indignity of trains to have one of my companions snatched away simply because he chose to feed himself through unapproved methods!"

Therion blinked, and then snorted out a short laugh. "…fine. It's not like they've made a cell that can hold me for long, anyway."

Alfyn grinned broadly, earning a disgruntled look. "That's the spirit!" he laughed.

"Anou…" The waiting guardsman—Biwa, he thought?—was blinking back and forth between them nervously.

"Ah. My apologies," Olberic said politely. Holding up one hand for a moment, he divested himself of Therion's gear, handing it all back to the thief, along with his sword. When Therion's brows shot up, he explained. "It is forbidden for common citizens to go armed here. I had received permission to carry my sword so long as I did not draw it, but as I have drawn it, and it is not as yet peace-bonded again, I fear it would be asking too much of the Truthseeker, to carry it while he questions me."

"…if you say so." Therion shrugged, settling the weapons and other gear where he could keep an eye on all of it. "Go talk. I'll make sure no one makes off with your sword while you're gone."

Olberic smiled, nodding as he turned to follow the guardsman who'd approached them. "I appreciate it, my friend."

A/N: Oddly enough, of all the characters in Octopath Traveller, it's chatterbox Cyrus we know the least about. Does he have family? How did he join the Academy? Was he born and raised in Atlasdam? No idea! The only things we factually know about his past, as it were, is that he is lauded as a genius by his peers, his best friend is ten years his senior, and he has always been oblivious to his good looks. Thus, I have mostly-free reign to weave a backstory for him as best it suits my tale.

A/N: Cyrus and Alfyn are drinking Ramune, specifically yuzu and blueberry flavors, respectively. Olberic's is peach-flavored, but looks white instead of pink because the elderly guard who handed it to him was the guy who usually watches the detention center's door during morning shifts, Mitani Masshiro, whose Quirk turns things white for a time after he's handled them.