*Shadows Materialize (FE9 OST)

**Seaside ambience

***The Frontier Fortress (Tales of the Abyss OST)

****Crisis (Tales of the Abyss OST)

*****Stratagem in Black Armor (FE9 OST)

*One of the trials of being a businessman of any kind was the restocking of one's supply; it scarcely mattered what one sold, whether foodstuffs or precious metals, it was not optional. For Duke Guillaume of Lorraine, such travails- with armed retinues of raised from his own levies and the odd sellsword here and there- were even more essential. After all, his particular product, he could not simply use even the lowliest, most wretched Nohrian beggars to replenish his stock, whether illicitly or not. He may have been exceptionally greedy, but Duke Lorraine was by no means stupid- even suggesting the proposal, let alone going through with it, would likely see him literally torn to pieces by his countrymen. Yes, it was dangerous and extremely inconvenient, but also so very profitable, he thought dreamily.

"Milord, the last of your wagon train has been outfitted." reported the soldier. "This SHOULD last you the entire trip, but with those savages- you never know. Just send a bird back and we'll get what we can to you."

"Thank you," said the duke, semi-sincerely, tossing the soldier a small-but-considerable bag of gold. "that's for you. Anyway, we shouldn't be more than a month at most."

"Understood! But I'll send back word that you need the rest of your levy on standby, milord."

"Excellent."*

**It was not only for his captain nor fellow members of the legion, but Horace gave one of his rare smiles as he put the finishing touches on his fresco; depicting a young man clad in brilliant green stomping an enraged, vaguely-humanoid porcine demon (feebly clutching a Nohrian trident to boot) underfoot, his brilliant, shimmering blade hoisted to deliver the killing blow to the beast; it was probably the most intricate thing he'd ever created save for tributes to the Goddess herself. Finding it time to let the paint dry anyway, Horace, noting the rapping at the door of his modest seaside home, thought welcomed the exalted visitors. "Oh, Captain! Madame Helena!" he greeted. "To what do I owe this honor?"

Accompanied by a dark-haired, intense-looking woman in her early thirties, the captain carried a wooden chest under his right arm. "The honor is all ours, Brother Horace." Paul said, seeming even more solemn than usual. "May we come in?"

"Of course! Of course!"

Turning to the fresco on prominent display, the dour woman gave a serene smile. "Paul raves about your artistic talent." she informed proudly. "But you truly have outdone yourself this time."

Paul gave some hint of a smile- as little of one as he was wont to do. "Indeed, my brother. And it is most fortuitous that you should complete this now- one could say destiny."

Handling the chest as though it were some religious relic, the captain presented it to his host. "You inquired about my visions the other week." he reminded solemnly. "About how they were becoming stronger with each passing day."

"Yes, of course." confirmed Horace. "Perhaps it has something to do with the chest?

"As a matter of fact, yes it does; it's here- in our world- the hero's spirit. I can sense it just as strongly as you standing in front of me, my friend."

Helena smiled proudly, rather uncharacteristically for such a serious woman. "Paul and I have been working ceaselessly on this for months now."

"It's true." her husband confirmed. "It is so important in fact, that I would only trust you, my right-hand man, to personally carry out this task."

"Of course, I understand, Captain." answered Horace dutifully. "But what exactly is this task?"

Paul's profile retained that stern, steely gaze for which he was (in)famous. "Locate the one who carries the hero's spirit in this world- whoever and wherever he may be- and relay the contents of this chest. I figure by that time, the legion will be strong and unencumbered by the traitors and occupiers to finally join the battle in earnest."

"Captain, Madame Helena, you both honor me greatly." Horace answered. "The danger on the continent does not concern me- I can more than take care of myself and others. But how shall I I recognize that great spirit?"

"After all this time you've spent in contemplation, the answer is obvious." reminded Helena kindly. "Trust the Goddess. She will guide you to her champion's spirit."

"This is of course an urgent matter." Paul reminded. "But take some time to prepare provisions for your journey; I'd rather this be done slowly and right than quickly and end in failure."

Well into his thirties, even as a child, Horace had never been an especially excitable individual, preferring the confines of archives and libraries for nearly his entire life. However, his captain, the leader of the order who he was certain would one day soon see their islands relieved from the cruel yoke of their "concerned elder brothers" tasking him to seek out the carrier of the Spirit of the Hero, their most revered figure save the Goddess herself, was the opportunity of countless lifetimes.**

***Having sent Varius well ahead of them a month ago, while it was not exactly an easy journey, Flora was fairly pleased with how good of time she and her guardian were making. Indeed, just yesterday, they had set foot back on Nohrian soil. As they settled (as much as could reasonably be expected) into the southern fortress town of Pula, Flora knew there was not much relaxation in her immediate future, knowing full well that she had a number of letters to compose, not least of whom to her father. While she and Florian had arrived early that morning, it took them until around noon to actually acquire accommodations (Even after showing her crest as proof of her identity and mission, "We don't serve your kind here" or some variation thereof was maddeningly common) to rest for the night.

Already having completed much of his workout, Florian, gazing boredly at the ceiling as he lazed on the bed, groaned in frustration. "How many of those are you gonna have to write?" he inquired boredly.

"This is the last one." she informed, somehow shortly. "Just giving notice of our return to Father."

While his expression was invisible to the heiress, Florian's gaze communicated some uncharacteristic concern. "He's not getting-"

"Only what he needs to know." preempted Flora, perhaps able to sense the anxiety in his tone. "I could actually afford to have this one intercepted, if that tells you anything."

"That's good."

But perhaps this was too optimistic an assessment of his day for the hotheaded warrior. Later that afternoon, Flora insisted upon going into the town square to patronize the markets, much to her companion's dismay. "You know damn well these Nohrian vultures are going to gouge you, come on!" complained Florian.

"Yes, probably." Flora conceded. "But I'm good at cooking and it helps to take my mind off everything that's going on."

"Fine, fine. If that's what you want to do." he conceded boredly.

***Beginning to wander aimlessly about the square, as he passed the center of the square, out of the corner of his eye, Florian noticed something that made his heart skip a beat. "No, it can't be-" he reassured himself, turning towards the figure, now coming into focus as a great equestrian statue. It's great size nor loving attention paid to its design and upkeep were the the things that struck Florian most about the wicked figure- rather the small, beady, hateful eyes, the demonic, black armor, and the lance, it's tip adorned with bronze and gold as though to simulate the ignition of flame at the tip- were what caused Florian to gawk absentmindedly at the statue for several seconds, scarcely taking notice of the trio of Nohrian girls- not much younger than himself, really- gathering near him, giggling and gazing upon the statue with awe.

"Gods, isn't Sir Pietro just SO dreamy?!" came the voice of the first, a blonde of about eighteen.

"And brave too!" came the voice of the second, a brunette about a year her junior. "I can't even imagine even looking at a savage, let alone protecting us like he does!"

"Yeah, I guess." came the voice of the third, her pale skin and long, stringy black hair largely hiding her expression. "He'd be more attractive if he'd just stop scowling all the time, though."

His mind's eye still full of his brothers' and father's horrible deaths and of the horrible smells of burning and hair flesh, Florian, still blankly staring at the statue, forcibly reliving most horrible, pivotal event in his life, the girls' conversation fading in and out of his notice.

"Hey, you!" came the voice of the eldest girl at last. "Settle something for us; isn't Sir Pietro just such a man?!"

"Who...?" Florian asked blankly.

The young lady scoffed. "You know, Sir Pietro! Probably Nohr's greatest hero apart from the princess! Honestly, I think he's better, since he just loves protecting us from those vile savages-"

Mouthing the name to himself several times, it was as though a light switch went off in Florian's mind. Everything made perfect sense now! But likewise, purely as an instinctive reaction, the champion could hardly bear the vapid Nohrian woman lionizing his crimes- purely without thought, Florian drove his elbow into the woman's face, sending her to the ground behind him.

"Ow!" she exclaimed, massaging her bruised jaw. "What do you think-?"

With a great roar, Florian sprang onto the woman, pinning her down as he began and continued to smash the face of the lass in with his gauntleted fist, punctuating each of the blows with some, audible or not, expression of unbridled fury being expressed, the words "stupid" or "bitch" (or some variation thereof) appearing periodically. Now naturally, the blonde's companions were horrified by this display.

"Help, help, HELP!" cried the brunette, she and her companion futilely attempting to pull the enraged Florian away. "This lunatic is about to kill our friend!"

****Flora prided herself on being especially perceptive, but it took her a couple of moments to snap her from haggling with the vegetable dealer to notice the rather rowdy crowd gathering in the town square. "What on earth...?" she muttered to herself, the sinking feeling in her stomach becoming stronger and stronger the more aggressive the crowd became.

Pushing and nudging her way through the crowd, as she struggled to get a glimpse at the events occurring, Flora found her worst fears validated; the sight of the statue of "the Savagekiller," the woman being beaten to a bloody pulp now being tended to by her companions and concerned onlookers, and Florian, one of his knives drawn, at the center of a steadily-closing ring of aggressive-looking Nohrian men of varying ages told her everything she needed to know.

"The fuck is this?!" demanded one of the men, tapping a stick of considerable heft against his non-dominant hand.

"Sir Pietro's statue set it off?!" spat another man. "Sounds like a savage to me!"

"Of course it is!" cried a third.

"Get over here and I'll show you Nohrian animals savage!" bellowed Florian.

A fourth man, flanked by his two companions, chuckled sinisterly. "You've made a BIG mistake, boy!"

The fifth shared his evil expression. "We all know what this buck was after this lass for!"

To say the situation was already bad was the understatement of her life, as Flora knew very damned well. Florian was extraordinarily strong, but against an angry mob of men in a Nohrian garrison town? Not even he could fight his way out of this situation. Scanning the environment, for something- anything she could use as a diversion.

When the crowd was at its most ornery and she'd just about despaired at finding solution to this mess, Flora spotted a possible diversion; for some reason, bales of hay and harvested wheat alike were being suspended in baskets above a collection of abandoned stalls. Initially, she'd actually been kind of irritated that the oil merchants had taken the day off, but now, as she was mouthing an incantation, she thanked the gods they had not been so.

Just as the mob was about to descend on Florian in earnest, the heiress' summoned fire had set ablaze the materials suspended above the stalls, providing incoming tinder for an even greater conflagration.

"F-Fire!" called a middle-aged woman.

The blaze immediately starting to the rear of the unruly crowd had the intended effect of scattering them, Flora, none too happy with her bodyguard, pushed her way to his position. "Flora!" he exclaimed. "I was just- she was-"

"We have to go, now." she demanded sternly, catching the advance guard from the garrison nearby out of the corner of her eye.

"But-"

"NOW!"

It was of course, quite a chaotic affair, the pair almost becoming separated on more than one occasion amidst the madness and a couple of members (Flora scalding them beyond repair as well eventually) of the mob spying him and attempting to gather up another one, but the two managed to escape the city limits within the hour, Flora insisting they continue deeper into the nearby woods for a few hours at least. By sundown, well satisfied they were no longer being pursued, Flora saw a clearing fit for making camp, but curiously enough, remained silent with her protector ever since they escaped the city.****

"Oh, come on!" Florian exclaimed at last. "What's with the silent treatment?!"

Setting a (contained) fire with her magic, Flora gave an exasperated huff. "What you did was stupid, dangerous, and nearly got you killed. What on earth were you thinking?"

Florian's fists clenched so tightly that he could feel the blood being deprived to his knuckles. "You didn't hear those stupid, airheaded bitches going on and on about him, praising that- I saw him..."

Flora cocked her head sideways. "Saw who?" she remarked carelessly, immediately regretting it as she already knew the answer.

"You know, HIM! That butcher- no, that monster who's haunted my dreams ever since I was a little kid! Who murdered my father and brothers! I even know his name now...Pietro."

"That statue? And you're certain it was of him?"

"YES! For fuck's sake, Flora! As much as I might have wanted to, I can't forget that...thing! I won't be able to do so as long as I live!"

Flora took a deep breath. Now everything about their time in the garrison town was making sense, she thought. Torn between wanting to express her sympathies and her very practical, dutiful mindset, Flora chose her words carefully. "Even so Florian..." she began gently. "That was not one of your better ideas...I mean, you know how men in this country are about Nohrian women..."

The champion's nostrils flared as he consciously made his body language more imposing. "I know that!" he insisted. "And I fucking KNOW I I wasn't thinking! It was just a reflex! But come on, Flora! If you had even the smallest chance to take revenge for Felicia's death, are you telling me you wouldn't?!"

Once again, Flora remained silent for several seconds, genuinely challenged by this dilemma, eyes shut in contemplation. "I couldn't tell you." she admitted in a very manner-of-fact tone. "That option may very well not be available to me. In some sense, you may be more fortunate than I am. Just promise me that you'll never do anything that reckless and stupid again."

"Don't worry, Flora, I don't intend to die anytime in the near future for one reason; even if it's the very last thing I do on this earth, I promise you, the gods, and all the ancestors that I'm ending that bastard's life."

While somewhat calmed down, Flora began to look upon her champion with increasing concern as he meditated in front of the fire. For his part, Florian began to silently mouth the name of his tormentor that had destroyed so many lives (his own especially) as though it were the vilest curse imaginable and he were in some danger of forgetting it. Melodramatic as the promise may seem to some, he truly did mean every word of it- he would be the one to end the life of the "Savagekiller," even if it cost him his own life in the process.

*****For a man who (supposedly) had eyes and ears across the country, if not the continent, the fact that Matteo kept said information so close to his vest rendered it practically useless for anyone but himself, Pietro thought irritably. His dinnertime entertainment- a detachment of those mangy wolf prisoners being herded into a pit disposed of by a few of his mages and their fire tomes- did not even seem to lift this cloud of irritation.

But then again, the famed knight was not without his own sources of information, as the head of one of the reconnaissance detachments, a young man barely even twenty, could attest to. "Sir Pietro!" he began dutifully. "We've detected unusual measures taken by the savages in the north! Several banned gatherings, stockpiles of weapons, and so on. It could be a coincidence- a lot of the men wanted to engage them, but-"

Pietro scoffed irritably. "Did any of their leaders have bright purple hair and a demeanor that would get even a Nohrian gutted alive were he to run his mouth off?"

"No, sir."

"Then you haven't met Duke Toscana's pet tribal and his gang. If it were my decision, he would have been a pile of ash ages ago, but alas-"

Rising from his seat, Pietro began to pace about his camp site, as though lost in contemplation, much to the confusion of the young officer. "Um, Sir Pietro..." he began gingerly, wary of the knight's legendarily short fuse. "Do we engage them or-"

"No, not yet." ordered Pietro coldly. "We need to tranquilize our 'neighbors.' Those blue-blooded nitwits ought to remain in ignorance about matters which they know nothing. Let the savages wait. Opportunities will certainly come our way too."

For whatever reason, the sheer detachment of his superior's tone chilled the young messenger to the bone, even if the workings of the great knight's mind were as inscrutable as ever. For his part, Pietro still could not believe it. The savages may have been many things- viscous, dim-witted, slovenly, dirty, and lascivious, but as far as he knew, not inherently suicidal. What on earth could possess them to stand against the greatest kingdom and the greatest people their world had known or would ever know, and their greatest knight?*****