The Dustbin

Day 44: Pomp & Circumstance Part 4


14th of Ethereal Moon, Afternoon


Manuela was found in her office pacing back and forth, and not because someone got seriously injured or the fact that she was suffering from a withdrawal of alcohol. Her drinking habits aren't that bad, that she can assure.

"So, what got your panties in a bunch?" Karna commented at his drinking buddy's state of unease. "Because at this rate, I fear that you might stir up a storm at the rate you're walking."

The resident head nurse/physician sighs deeply before sitting down on one of the stools nearby. "... It's the upcoming White Heron Cup," she began to explain. "Alois was supposed to be one of the three judges for the competition, but since he's MIA as of now, we're in a dire need of a replacement."

"Why not one of the currently available staff members?" Karna pointed out. "Surely, they can manage something akin to a placeholder at worst."

"... That's the thing," Manuela groaned, resting her forehead on top of her palm. "Archbishop and Seteth are busy officiating the upcoming Millennium Festival and acquiring sponsors to fund the damn ball, Catherine is out filling in for Shamir, the latter who surprisingly is one of our three judges, and Jeralt and his men are fully-booked on their security detail for the rest of the month. If only Jeritza and Tomas didn't turn in their 2-weeks'-notices last month, we wouldn't be as short staffed as we are now..."

"Eh, such is life, unfortunate as it may be," the half-hooded Professor commented before noticing she left out a few people. "... What about Hanneman? Surely, he's more than qualified when it comes to cultural matters."

Manuela gives Karna the driest look ever humanly possible. "... If this is your attempt at a joke, then you've failed miserably. Not in a million years in the deepest depths of Hell will I ever sit next to that man with a stick up his behind!"

"For fuck's sake, just fuck already..." he grumbled before he brought up person number two. "... What about Jeralt's kid?"

"Please stop joking," answered the head nurse, "I have nothing against her personally, but her current social aptitude is that of a goose whose head is wrapped in a burlap sack. And I rather not rather put her through such ordeal."

Karna grumbles to himself as he brushed her comment off, in spite of the truth that it held. "... And that just leaves yours truly," he smirked. "I take it that this is why you've called me over?"

"... Sorry Karna, but no," she shook her head, much to his genuine shock. "You meet all the qualifications for a replacement judge. But it's in the best interest for everyone taking part that if the competition doesn't result in a casualty via a fallen chandelier."

"Then why don't they put them down in the first place?! Especially when you claim them to be as a safety hazard?!" Karna pointed out. "... Hell, why are they even up in the first place?! Is this institution that starved for sources of illumination?!"

"They've been hanging there since the founding of Garreg Mach," said Manuela, "no reason to put em down."

With that dead end, the two instructors hang their heads down in utter defeat. There was no one left in the staff to fill in Alois's place as a judge. As much as Karna didn't care for pomp and circumstance, he was by nature, a proud man. A proud man whose pride is stemmed from his ability to solve all problems that were presented before him.

But who else can be qualified as a Professor-level judge while also being readily available?

"... Say," Karna spoke while the two ruminated in silence. "Our replacement doesn't have to be another Professor, but someone who is knowledgable in culture and dance, correct?"

"Well, there's nothing said about our judge having to be another Professor, so yeah. Even a student is qualified as a replacement judge if he or she's capable enough," she mumbled. "Probably. As if you can find someone who's like that nearby-"

Silence suddenly fills the nurse's office that the two were in as a revelation struck both of them like bolts of lightning.

"... No," she shuddered.

Karna shook his head. "We gotta do what we gotta Manuela."

"But him?! Of all people?!" she pointed out. "... Can he?"

"He will," answered Karna. "We both know that."

"But he has no personal experience in field of theatre and fine arts!" the head nurse pointed out.

"Then give him a book about it," suggested the Professor. "While at it, kindle a hearth and boil some coffee for him. He needs to feel welcomed in the world that currently hates him now."

"And he'll suddenly be an expert in two days simply by reading about it?!" Manuela pointed out. "That's impossible!"

Karna smirks again, this time, the bared teeth showing a ridged crescent being smarmier than ever before.

"We both know that what you've just said is impossible."


16th of Ethereal Moon, Afternoon


"Ahem," Manuela cleared her throat as she took her spot on the judges' table, with an empty seat between her and Shamir. "I thank you all for coming to our competition today."

Standing before the table were the three representatives from the three houses. To the Black Eagles was Dorothea Arnault, Manuela's personal talent-in-training in Adrestian Empire's Mittelfrank Opera Company. To the Blue Lions was Felix Hugo Fraldarius, a surprise pick amongst his house after losing a game of rock-paper-scissors (the Blue Lions House has the ignominy of not winning a single White Heron Cup throughout Garreg Mach's history). And to the Golden Deer was Marianne von Edmund, whom after the confirmed kill of the Wandering Beast, her disposition was brightened significantly, and with her newfound confidence, decided to partake in this competition with unanimous support from her entire house.

"So..." Felix curtly remarked as he stared at the empty seat in the middle. "Who's missing?"

Manuela sighs before she began her explanation. "... Sir Alois and Gilbert haven't returned from their mission in Morfis, so while we of Garreg Mach refrain ourselves from assuming the worst, we unfortunately have to resort to a substitute."

"Oh," Dorothea raised her eyebrow slightly, "that doesn't sound so bad-"

"So with that, I present you all our new judge for the day," the head nurse flatly remarked, dreading of what's to come next, "... Byron Amadeus Noa."

As soon as everyone heard the brainiac's full name within earshot, the middle seat explodes into a cloud of smoke before a pair of feet kicked out of the chaff before resting them on the tabletop as the rest of the puff faded away to reveal the smarmy bastard himself, his smirk beaming brighter than the sun.

"What up, losers?" he greeted at the gawking trio, "I look forward to you all three of you potentially humiliating yourselves from the best seat in the house."

"Please tell me that you're serious," growled the Fraldarius scion in disbelief. "That arrogant son of the Devil himself was your pick?!"

"Despite his mannerisms, he was the only one available and qualified," sighed Manuela, "I even quizzed him on the ins and outs of fine arts, and in less than a day, he already surpassed me knowledge-wise."

Dorothea's mouth gaped opened like the battered down gates of Hell that Byron had emerged from.

"Careful missy," the middle judge smirked, "a fly might buzz into your mouth."

"Um..." Marianne stuttered before giving a small wave. "... Hi."

"Marianne, just because we went monster hunting together doesn't mean I'm going easy on you," he pointed out. "In fact, because you're my friend, I'm judging you extra-harshly, and if I see any half-assing, I'm going to run your newfound confidence of yours into the fucking ground. Got it?"

She nods firmly without saying a word, genuinely impressing Byron.

"... Hmph, finally you grew a proper backbone," he smirked with pride as he took his feet off the table before slamming the surface with both of his hands, "I look forward to you using that newfound moxie in your dance of yours. So with that said, let's see how you bitches dance!"

"The theme of this White Heron Cup is 'inspiration," said Shamir, "your dance must be able to inspirit a person to keep fighting even after spending all of his physical endurance."

"Whomever showcases the most 'inspiration' from the charm of their footwork will be awarded with a special Seal that allows a promotion into the esteemed Dancer class!" said Manuela, "and they will have the privilege of being the opening act for the upcoming Millennium Festival's Grand Ball! And yes, you must show up in the according class."

Felix's face turns blue at the thought of him being the headliner of the pomp and circumstance that he was apathetic towards at best. While Manuela is blush with anticipation and Marianne herself was too busy focusing on doing her best in her coming out moment.

"So be sure to dance like your lives depend on it," said Byron. "Because in battle, if your dance doesn't inspire, it's not a dance. It's a scarecrow flailing about in the wind. I'm looking at you, Felix. Turn that frown upside-down or your toes and head are going to be upside-down."

"Kill me," he groaned as everyone then took their positions.

The first one up was Dorothea, confident and ready to dance her heart out. "I call this routine, the 'Ballad of Heroes'!"

Dorothea then begins to dance with all of her being, her arms, body and hips swaying and flowing like the waves of the ocean, first starting slow before speeding up to become a hurricane of vigor and valor personified. The dance then transitions into that of an intense and fiery routine of how brave soldiers on the battlefield find the courage buried within themselves to fight on and cease the day. And after the vigorous climax comes the finale, where the fire from her heart explodes into a wild encore of the new hero's courage. Upon finishing with a bombastic number, she then takes a bow, satisfied at her given work.

With her number done, the judges make their opinions before dismissing her for the next contestant. Marianne steps up, and despite her default nervousness, she swallows what little fear and anxiety that had burdened her for the past years that made of her life up to this point.

"I call this..." she stated as she took her stance, "... 'The Redeemer."

Her dance begins, with a fearless showing of hope and aspiration, akin to how a flower is blooming in a raging fire, defying death and blooming magnificently. Then the next number transitions into a steep fall, the flower wilting and rotting faster that it realizes, turning ugly and destitute as its petals fell from its splendor. Byron immediately picked up what the dance is referencing to, for which he himself was rather impressed of how she took her own shadow and made it into her strength. And finally, in her final number, the wilted flower is then lifted up, its seeds that it cradled within its corpse being planted around its fallen beauty, reinvigorating the lost glory into that of an even more radiant and awe-inspiring beauty that shone brighter than that of the sun's rays. As the shine glows, basking in its newfound glory, Marianne takes a bow as her routine was finished.

"... Damn," Dorothea blinked. "She's good."

Felix refused admit that Marianne's dance was rather inspirational.

"Will the next one please step up?" spoke Byron. "I'm talking to you Felix. Quit being butthurt and start shaking for me, whydoncha?"

Felix grumbles to rebuff Byron's heckling as he begun to dance blandly.

"Come on, you sourpuss," he kept taunting. "At this point, I'd rather watch a dancing bear than your sorry excuse of a performance!"

"What are you doing?!" said Manuela.

"Motivating him," answered Byron, "because I refuse to have him waste my time simply to spite me personally, so I'll force him to make himself worth my time. Dimitri's gonna be laughing at you in a dress!"

Felix bears his teeth as he then threw a hidden knife at Byron, only for the latter to catch it between his teeth.

"Nice try," taunted Byron as he spat out the caught knife, intending to twist the metaphorical one buried inside Felix to its breaking point, "maybe you should quit both this competition and being a Swordmaster altogether, because you've just proven to me that you suck at both!"

Felix's head explodes into rage as he lunged toward Byron, only for him to use [Warp] and appear behind the enraged Swordmaster. Breaching past critical, he began swiping at the smirking phantom named "Byron," intending to prove him for once that he was wrong.

If one were to ignore both the context and the laughing demon that Felix was swiping after, then one can see that Felix was instinctively dancing. The way his movements were groping and scratching the air was raw, primal, and fierce. It wasn't blind rage however. Rather, it was a rage directed towards something pervasive, something invisible, something untouchable.

Ghosts. It was a one-man-war against an entire army of vagrant spirits dancing about, defying death to drag the other into the abyss of death. The rage was the only lifeline that the dancer had left. This tremendous odds stacked against him was the inspiration: the rage to fight the dying of the light. Felix keeps dancing blindly in his rage, each of his fast and deadly blows missing Byron by a hair, the latter being genuinely invested in Felix's raw emotions manifesting before him.

The dance continues, with Shamir and even Manuela becoming invested in this improvised routine. The dance continues, until Felix faints from sheer exhaustion, while Byron himself was only slightly ragged.

"Proven me wrong," he smirked as he got back to his seat as if nothing had transpired. "I knew you can do it when you put your mind to it!"

"That was a breach of protocol," Shamir pointed out.

"Well excuse me from having him not waste our time in front of us," Byron retorted. "When I said 'dance like your lives depended on it,' I was sugar-coating it. I want to see results, and I don't care what Felix wants out of this competition, he's going to try, even if I have to poke and prod him or break him."

"And after only two days of reading a book about fine arts and theatre, and you're already acting more of a diva then I am..." sighed Manuela.

"I aim to surpass expectations," he smiled. "With all that aside, the judges shall now proceed with the overall scoring."

As the three judges began tallying up the scores of the three's respective performances. Before them, the three contestants stood by and watched the rumination process.

"I know that I'm a shoo-in," boasted Dorothea, "but gotta say, Marianne, that newfound confidence of yours is a good look on you! Keep wearing it!"

"... Thank you," she blushed before turning to Felix, whose hands were on his knees to prevent him from kissing the pavement. "... Felix... I'm sure he didn't mean what he said."

"... I... don't need... your pity..." the Fraldarius scion heaved, "... I know for sure... that I'm disqualified... not that I care... because all of the Blue Lions are cursed to always have two left feet!"

"It wasn't that bad," said Dorothea, trying to ease his humiliation, "if anything, swordfighting is a lot like dancing. I should know."

"Why?" he dourly asked, "because you swung around props on stage?"

"No, I'm actually taking swordsmanship on the side as of late," answered Dorothea with all seriousness, "Dancers are required to be both sufficient in magic and swordsmanship."

"Clearly... I don't care... in the slightest..." Felix grumbled before he faced Marianne, "... but I admit... you look a lot better than you were before. ... You remind me less of that damned Boar Prince now."

Marianne doesn't know what words to say to Felix's attempt at a compliment. But before she can say anything, the judges finish with their evaluation.

"Alright, and the results are in!" shouted Byron as he and rest of the judges turned around to deliver the results. "This year's winner of the White Heron Cup is...! Drumroll please!"

Utter silence, much to Byron's consternation.

"Party pooper..." he grumbled as he then got to what he was about to do. "Felix Hugo Fraldarius."

Everyone in the room goes dead silent at this dark horse victory. "... Nonsense," he deadpanned. "How... why?"

"We went over the rulebook," Shamir stated, "and apparently, you won by technicality."

"There's no rule saying that the judge can heckle a contestant into performing properly, and disqualification is only applied if the contestant manages to land a hit on the judge, but..." Manuela then looked towards Byron with a shit-eating grin. "Yeah, after this year, we seriously need to update this book."

"That aside, your dance was utterly immaculate," Byron commented. "The raw energy of rage and defiance. The animal instinct to keep fighting even at the face of death, no matter how foolhardy the odds are, the desperate fight for hope set my ice-cold soul ablaze. Rage and hate are surprisingly underrated when it comes to inspiring others, and when sloppily executed, it can come off as demoralizing."

"Yet you succeeded where the many others, including yours truly, have failed," said Manuela, "you've managed to tame your rage rather than your own rage tame you. Feels genuine, like it came from the soul. You became your rage and owned it."

"Out of score of 30, you've managed to earn 28," Shamir pointed out. "Good work."

Honestly, Felix was officially out of words in his head to articulate the madness that was unfolding before him. He wanted to scream and curse like a petulant child, but he can no longer find the will or the rage to belt out such vitriol. He was completely burned out like a melted candle, unable to do anything but stand there with his mouth wide open, frozen still in pure shock.

"... So," Dorothea spoke, trying to keep face, "... does that mean I'm second place?"

"Nope, Marianne is," Byron immediately dashed all of her hopes and dreams in an instant.

"Her dance was a lot like Felix's," said Manuela, "it felt personal, but on a more grander scale. It was almost like watching a maiden soothe a dying beast, the latter being the worst kind of monster, yet she chose to forgive the beast. From that feeling of comfort, life finds a way to blossom even in the dankest of mud."

"There is a rare species of flowers that grow in dirty waters up in the northeastern borderlands between Faerghus and Leicester," Byron pointed out. "The White Star Lotus. Apparently, it's an immaculately white flower that sticks out like a sore thumb even in the dampest of swamps and marshes. That little adage of beauty in the depths of filth is what inspired me. Also, fun fact, a village locals call the endemic flower 'The Redeemer,' symbolic of how it contrasts purity and decay of death. But... while your symbolism can take you far, alone it ain't gonna do shit."

"There are still some technical parts of you that held you back," said Shamir, "your moves, while unique, are still mired in uncertainty. At times, there was no direction of your footwork. Focus on coordinating both your hands and your feet together so that they don't end up conflicting with each other. Understood?"

"Score's 24 out of 30," Byron pointed out. "Nice try."

Marianne bows her head in acknowledgement, slightly disappointed that she didn't win, but still proud of her own progress that she'd made.

"So..." Dorothea spoke as she raised her hand, "... why did I come in last place?"

Byron then slams the very same book about fine arts and theatre onto the table before he flipped to the pages depicting the figures in it doing various poses that he's pointing his fingers to.

"This. This. This. This. This. This. This. This. This. This. This. This. This. This. This. This. This. And this!" Byron punctuated every word for every different pose that he'd pointed to on each different page. "Now, Miss Arnault, can you tell me the difference between what I've shown you and what you have performed?"

"... There is no difference?" she answered, only for her to hear the the book being slammed back shut with a loud thud.

"EXACTLY!" he barked, his rage being clear and present for all to see. "DERIVATIVE, UNORIGINAL, BY THE LITERAL BOOKS! YOU NEARLY MADE ME FALL ASLEEP FROM HAVING ME WATCHING YOU DANCE!"

"You did nothing wrong in particular," Shamir pointed out, "but your brand of inspiration isn't something that catches the attention of others. You were trying too hard to stand out while paradoxically being unable to come up with any original routines of your own."

"I'm sorry to say this, Dorothea," Manuela shook her head, "I took you in to surpass me. But it's made evidently clear that you still have a long way to go."

Dorothea tries to keep face, only for her to break down crying as she then ran for the doors behind her. As she ran out of the doors, her wails can be heard from the outside's commons area.

"... I should go after her," said Marianne. "... And Byron, I think this is why you don't have friends outside of the Dustbin, and I would be surprised if you had any."

"Eh, I aim to displease," he shrugged as the Golden Deer candidate left the room.

"I'll go get the prize," said Shamir as she got up from her seat before leaving elsewhere.

"I'll watch the boy..." sighed Manuela as she remained in her seat while Felix was still frozen in shock of the fact that he won in a competition that he had no inclinations of trying to begin with.

"Well, I had my fun," smirked Byron as he kicked up his feet back onto the table. "Enjoy wearing the dress, buddy. I heard a beauty is quite good for the beast."

With a snap of his finger, Byron teleports away from where he was with his [Warp] spell. The chair that he was leaning against tumbles back and falls onto its back.


19th of Ethereal Moon, Afternoon


The once unoccupied ballroom of Garreg Mach was slowly coming together as preparations began to take place. Tables were set, stages for the musicians were being built, chairs were being lined up, cobwebs riding atop of chandeliers and ceilings were being dusted off by Selene on her pegasus and Karna's face was covered in bandages.

As the Dustbin kept working to clean up the old room that was only used once every year, the doors behind them opened to reveal Cyril and his fellow Knights-in-training came in.

"Wat are ye doin' 'ere?" Sorcha asked.

"Helping out," answered Cyril before he took at a look at Karna's bandaged face. "... What happened to him?"

"Apparently, my drinking buddy beat the tar out of me because a certain SOMEONE couldn't keep their mouth shut," said the Professor as he then shot a stink eye towards Byron.

"I do not regret from telling nothing but the truth," he rebuffed.

"Ye made her cry 'er eyes out," Selene pointed out from above. "I don't like 'er but shite Byron. Ye didn't have te go dat far."

Cyril groans at the sociopath's disposition. "Byron, how do these people tolerate you?"

"Because I care about them," he answered frankly. "Everyone else outside of our circle are fair game!"

He shudders before shaking his head to rebuff that unpleasant feeling. "Alright everyone," he spoke to his peers behind him, "we're understaffed as is, so we're expected to get the preparation done by tomorrow."

"Because during the next two days, the musicians are going to use this room to practice for the final time, or so we've been told," said Topaz as she set down one of the chairs that she'd just set. "To normal people alone, that is a tall order."

"But to us, it's doable," Cyrus rolled his eyes as he lifted up another table towards its right spot as per according to the room's planned layout. "Alright you twerps, happy to work alongside you all, again."

Everyone then works without saying anything more from there.

"... Say," spoke Byron as he looked at the layout of the ballroom and the room itself, noticing that the punch bowls and silver trays were missing, "don't tell me that we're gonna be the ones moving the catering to here all the way from the kitchen."

"Nope, that's our job," said Pit as he and a few of his own fellows lifted up a table to move it to another spot. "They don't want you eating it from it, or so we've been told."

"You guys are joining Jeralt and his men on security detail," said Cyril as he hammered in a nail into the planks that made up the temporary stage for the musicians. "All the way to the fringes, where you guys are away from causing potential trouble."

"... Your own opinion or a case of 'don't shoot the messenger'?" Byron pointed out.

"Latter!" he replied as he hammered in another nail.

Karna lets out a sigh as he then faced towards Byron and began talking in a hushed whisper. "Byron, did anyone in your life ever tell you the you're beyond socially inept?"

"I got paid to kill people, not make friends with them," he replied, "if I were being paid to make friends, then I wouldn't be here."

"Touche."


22nd of Ethereal Moon, Evening


The Millennium Festival. The day when the Goddess have created this world.

Festivities were abound, people singing, feasting, and dancing about the winter solstice. The deep blue skies above were said to be the Goddess's domain herself, where she sleeps after her great work was finished. Even as her people's prayers weren't answered, Fodlan and its inhabitants held dearly onto their faith, on the goodwill that one day, she shall return in all of her radiance gracing the very land they walk upon.

All of that pomp and circumstance, none of it were spared to those who had to work out in the freezing cold evening.

"... I... see... Hell..." Byron chattered as he and the rest of the Dustbin gathered around the fire during their assigned sentry post, which was located near the woods that housed an old chapel ruins behind its foliage.

"Somehow, I get the feeling that our placement in the outermost fringes were deliberate," deadpanned Karna as he rubbed his gloved hands together. "Damned woman, she must be enjoying herself watching us suffer..."

"Who doesn't?" Sorcha rolled her eyes as she threw in another log into the bonfire. "Well, at least we aren't goin' to freeze to death."

"Topaz, you probably don't feel a thing, do you?" asked Cyrus as he looked as his short fellow Almyran, who wasn't even wearing her assigned winter clothing that the Church has "graciously" provided.

"Do you want me to strip myself nude just to prove you how invulnerable I am?" she deadpanned in a teasing manner.

"Knock it off," Selene shook her head as she laid improvised coats for the horse and pegasus made of woven straw onto their backs. "Someone else might be watching."

Vidar listlessly pointed towards the icy horizon. "... Like... that?"

Everyone then turned their heads towards where Vidar was pointing at, revealing it to be a nondescript silhouette of a person. Per protocol (and from semi-hypothermia-induced delirium), all of them picked up their weapons and pointed towards the figure approaching.

"State yer fekin' business!" Sorcha growled, her massive [Claymore] pointed towards her front.

"Calm down, guys!" said the figure, revealing itself to be Flayn in her red-colored winter attire, carrying a wrapped basket in her arms. "It's just me!"

Everyone then immediately ceased all hostile intent upon recognizing her.

"Oh, it's just you," Karna sighed as he put down his [Scythe of Sariel]. "Also, what are you doing out here alone? You already got kidnapped once!"

"Don't worry," she reassured with a smile, "I followed Sir Jeralt."

"Wait," Cyrus remarked, "... 'Sir' Jeralt?"

"Oh yes!" Flayn nodded. "He and his band have all been reinstated back into the Knights of Seiros Order earlier this month after most of his prior contracts outside of Garreg Mach were rescinded by their clients! A shame that it had to happen, but I can assure you that he and his men are being well compensated and so are their families!"

"The way you're saying it is making it sound like you're glad that he lost his prior job," Topaz pointed out.

"It is?" she looked worried before sulking in slight shame of her supposed insensitivity. "... Oh, then my condolences to him."

Everyone brushed Flayn's worries off before eying at her basket.

"Wat's dat ye got in 'dere?" Selene asked.

"Oh, this?" Flayn then unwraps the basket to reveal an entire cake topped with cherries on its creamed top along with a few bottles of red wine (specifically, Leicester Alliance's Spira brand, aged in a red oak barrel for 17 years) in a separate compartment. "I thought it would be a shame for you to miss out on the festivities, so I thought I can bring you some of it here to you all!"

"By pilfering an entire cake and bottles of Leicester Alliance's most expensive bottles of red wine from the monastery's larders?" Karna pointed out before giving a smirk. "Does Seteth know? Regarding everything about this little... happenstance?"

Flayn sighs before giving her response. "Brother's a heartthrob for all the ladies attending at the Grand Ball," she sighed, "in hindsight, I sort of now understand why he adopts such a dour attitude at work."

"Can't do deskwork wen one's being swarmed by ladies," grinned Sorcha as she then notices something missing inside the basket. "... Ye didn't bring any forks?"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she apologized. "I had to make myself scarce when I was about to borrow a few pieces of silverware!"

"Well, I got some to spare," said Jeralt as he came behind Flayn, appearing out of the opaque air like a ghost, causing her to jump in fright.

Vidar catches the thrown basket with the cake and wine before it hits the ground.

"Oh! Sir Jeralt!" spoke Flayn, much to the aforementioned consternation.

"Please... just call me Jeralt," he shook his head, still indignant of losing his position as a freelancer. "... By the way, Seteth is looking for you-oh come on, a basket? Really? All the way out here? Alone?"

She gives the Blade Breaker a pleading stare towards the ex-sword for hire before the latter relented.

"... Fine, I'll let them have the cake," he grumbled as he threw the silverware he had onto Karna's person, forcing the latter to dance around to catch the scattered utensils. "On one condition: you're coming back to the monastery with me or the Archbishop is going to be convinced to cut my salary."

Flayn nods before looking back at them for one last time.

"No need to fret about us," Karna reassured as he uncorked a wine bottle's before shoving the neck into Byron's mouth. "Enjoy the holidays without us. We're used to this kind of treatment."

As the two left, the Dustbin were left on their own again. But at least this time, they had something to eat and drink over while they stewed in their misery.

"Here's to the Millennium Festival," Karna raised his bottle of wine towards the sky as a mock toast. "May the Goddess kiss our collective behinds."

Everyone involved then got super-drunk during that winter solstice night.


25th of Ethereal Moon, Morning


Today was a celebration of two different holidays. The first is the Winter Festival, originally a pagan holiday from Duscurian people before Fodlan appropriated saaid culture before making it their own. Said holiday involves the quant little tradition of gift-exchanging, baking cookies flavored with ginger, celebrating the day of joy with friends and family, and a semi-mythical figure who goes by Saint Nicholas (the original Duscurian figure's name was Njótr, meaning "enjoyer") who hands out presents to the good children while his evil twin brother Krampus (a composite figure of two different Duscurian mythical figures, Kjalarr/"keel" for the phonics and Langbaròr/"Long Beard" for the appearance) kidnapped the naughty children from their beds and raked their feet with hot coals until the New Year's Day. Both were considered the agents of the Goddess herself, created and designated in these roles to ensure that the children across Fodlan were well-behaved and good-hearted, lest Krampus MAKES them obedient.

"... And it just happened that the founding and establishment of Garreg Mach Monastery happened around that same day?" Cyrus pointed out, with the rest of the Dustbin huddled amongst themselves in their stables.

"I assure you," said Karna, "it's a coincidence, however ridiculous it may seem."

"And when was this cultural appropriation take place?" asked Topaz.

"At the same year, apparently," Karna answered as he let out a misty sigh.

"Ye know, given dat we're freezin' our tits off out 'ere, you'd think that they, I dunno," Sorcha's eyelid twitched slightly in annoyance, "let us indoors!"

"Apparently, we're naughty, so we're not even invited to the gift exchange and the upcoming feast," Karna pointed out, depressing everyone present, Byron especially, since he was about to pass out from hypothermia.

Seeing that there wasn't now any booze or snacks to raise their morale, Karna sighs as he then propositions something out of the blue.

"... And I for one, say SCREW THEM," he growled. "We don't need to be in their shindig to enjoy ourselves for the holidays. We'll find something for ourselves! And do our own gift exchange from there!"

Vidar looks up and nods. "... Yes," he agreed. "... gift from... heart... rather than... gold... is warm... to heart."

"So a fekin' project?" Sorcha raised an eyebrow before heaving out a sigh. "... Fine. Beats freezin' to death until New Year's comes."

"I think given that we been together as a cohesive unit for at least a year, we deserve to do something special for ourselves," commented Topaz.

"We gotta do wat we gotta," Selene sighed as she looked at Byron, who looked like on the verge of giving up on life. "At least dat way, one of doesn't bite it."

Byron was quaking all over, his body's faculties on the verge of shutting down all at once from the cold weather.

"Alright," Karna clasped his hands together. "Deadline's the 31st. Work hard on it and be sure to keep it a secret from each other until the exchange date happens, alright?"

Everyone (including the half-dead Byron) nods.

"Alright, dismissed."

Everyone then makes their separate ways from each other as they all left the stables.


26th of Ethereal Moon, Dawn


"Blasted cold..." sighed the masked man known to outsiders as the Face of Truth, wandering about the snowed-in woods and heading towards the ruined chapel lying derelict between the trees, "... at this rate, I welcome the darkness of the underground than to this infernal weather."

He shook his hooded head to ward off his unpleasant feelings that he'd had, choosing to instead focus on the task at hand.

As he stepped onto the floor of the ruins, he then begins to prod around the half-frozen area with his still-sheathed sword, tapping across the ground as if he were searching for something that buried underneath.

"There is a good reason why this place was abandoned..." he spoke to himself as he kept tapping the icy earthen pavement, "... and its not because of the monastery above was poaching this place's churchgoers."

Upon tapping a certain crack on the ground, the Face of Truth then smells something seeping out from within the crevice.

"Raw mana..." he smirked underneath his mask as he then returned his sheathed sword back onto his waist-saddle. "... A Dragon's Vein!"

He then immediately draws his sword with a rotary-blade function that begun to spin itself around the body of the sword's frame before the masked and hooded man planted the sword into the crack, exposing the seeping mana from its earthly prison.

"That should suffice," the Face of Truth said to himself, proud of his work as he walked away while sheathing back his sword. "Control, this is 'Face of Truth'. The 'lure' has fallen below the waters."

"Good work," said the voice inside of his mask and hood, "our 'bait' has been applied to our hook. Sir 'Crow' and Lady 'Paradox's' efforts of 'storytelling' has proven appealing."

"Last night's soiree was proven to be fruitful, I assume," said the Face of Truth, trying not to snicker at the fact that he has numerous covert agents within Garreg Mach even after their systematic purge that went nowhere, "and what of 'Oculus'? Is his recovery going well?"

"As advised, he's laying low,"said the voice, "I even assigned Faceless to guard him in face if he wishes to stretch his legs."

"And what of our... 'fishes?" he asked.

"They will come, hence the 'bait," said the voice. "I'll debrief in detail back at HQ. Your sword [Ridill] needs to be checked up on for the coming 'fishing trip' to ensure that it works."

"Copy," the Face of Truth then casts [Warp] onto himself, disappearing from the snowy woods before anyone else can see him.


To Be Continued...


Author's Notes: Dustbin and holidays mix together as well as oil and water. And despite being this a cooldown chapter, the Dustbin cannot catch a break, mostly being their own fault, but sometimes just undeserved on their part.

With Alois (and Gilbert) gone after their deployment to Morfis (and their resulting MIA status), Byron had to step in as his replacement. Like America's Got Talent, American Idol and X-Factor, the White Heron Cup literally had Byron as the "mean" judge, with Manuela as the "nice" judge and Shamir as the "in-between" judge. Only Byron went too hard on the "mean" part and sent Dorothea out crying and declared Felix the winner out of partial spite (and to see him in a Dancer's dress).

From there, karma. First Karna gets beaten up via Dorothea's proxy, then the Dustbin are sent to guard duty at a place where it's the furthest from the monastery out of sheer spite on the universe's (and Rhea's) part while in winter solstice/the coldest day of the year, and coming full circle when Byron almost dies of hypothermia while sitting in the same stables where the Dustbin settle in. At least there's a light at the end of their proverbial tunnel.

And Jeralt being a slightly more of an asshole than usual is because of the fact that now that he lost his job as a freelance mercenary, he and his boys are now sucking on Rhea's teat just to earn a living wage, something Jeralt was trying to avoid as much as possible.

So yeah, this chapter is the Dustbin receiving their comeuppance, however disproportionate it may be. Also, the adaptation of "The Cause of Sorrow" chapter battle is coming up in the next chapter, with "Face of Truth" (I'll reveal the canon identity in the next chapter like I did with Solon during the "No School" arc) setting the stage along with other backstage hands/associates.

See you all in the next chapter. Where everything in Fodlan's holiday season goes to hell and back. Prepare for an extra-long chapter.

References:

- The "White Star Lotus" is a reference to the real-life Nymphaea Lotus endemic in the Peta River that runs through modern-day Romania and Hungary's Héviz Lake.

- The names involving Duscurian origins of Fodlan's Winter Festival/Fire Emblem Christmas are Odin's other (among MANY) names. Also, yes, Christmas was originally an amalgamation of various pagan cultures within Christiandom's rise within the Roman Empire, even the date of December 25th being originally the sun god Mithra's birthday.

- Solon's codename: "Oculus," is named after after Duma's attack from Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia. Also, codename "Faceless" is named after the same undead monster enemy units from Fire Emblem Fates. The rest of the Seven Sages and their corresponding codenames will be listed in the next chapter.