[sylvanSpider]

Arabella was silent, listening to the future knight's worries. The they he spoke of...they weren't wrong. She could remember the first time she'd told her first she loved her. It was so long ago now, in a much different setting, the only similarities between then and now were the common elements of a quest and campfire. “If only it were that easy, right? If only that feeling in your chest could somehow be formed into words and that you knew, with one hundred percent certainty, that those words would be reflected back at you. If only self-doubt would cease long enough for you to see the obvious. She likes you, too, you know. Those looks you give her? I see her giving the same ones to you when she thinks no one's looking,” Arabella said with a wry smile and a shrug. “If you truly believe that Kastivi is one to put rank above her heart, then perhaps you are wrong to start looking for love at the moment, but not because you lack the titles. You have much to learn if this is what you truly believe. Tell me, Christoval, how would you feel about romancing a peasant? After all, that is what Kastivi is, if she could even be considered that now. She's from the Southern Nations. Jacha, to be exact.” She paused to look up at the branches as if trying to decide whether she wanted to go on one of those informational tirades that Kastivi was now well-conditioned to. Of course, this was mostly for show, it was going to happen regardless. She liked sharing her knowledge. “It's one of the three: Osta, Dreir Drela, and Jacha. Do you know anything of these? I do not hold it against you if you don't, few bother. There is no need to know much unless you are a merchant and even then, your dealings would consist of the lords of the land that the serfs rent. Of the three, Jacha is the poorest but with the strongest populace – physically speaking, I mean. They're farmers, the lot of them. Well, those without titles, but those are the few. It's hot there. Humid. The vapor lingers in the air and could almost drown a person. My visit to the Three Nations almost made me glad of my size,” Arabella continued with a jovial chuckle, “Imagine tilling the earth, planting, and harvesting with heat that wraps around you to the point you can't tell if you're drenched from your own sweat or the air. That is what Kastivi comes from. Her family, like almost all families of Jacha, were farmers. No, she's not going to be looking for titles, and her lover, whether that be you or not, should also look beyond them. Now, ser knight, I am not saying that your cause is not a noble one. By all means, please don't sway from your course, but do not think that Kastivi will think less of you without it.”

Arabella cast a look over to Kastivi to make sure that she was still blissfully ignorant of the conversation. She was, thankfully, paying attention to Deadwaltz, “She seems to be looking forward to it, though I wonder if she will be able to endure as well as you have.”

The halfling raised an eyebrow at the obtrusive dark mage, curiously, like she almost couldn't believe what she was hearing, “Is there a catch? I do not wish to be paying penance to some demon I do not know the name of.” She spoke from the perspective of ignorance, of course, and she knew this. But Wisp would have been well aware of that as just moments before Ara was asking for information. Arabella looked down, using her shortness as an advantageous way to hide one's coloring cheeks. “In that, Waltz and I are similar,” Arabella said in lieu of confessing her love of the fairer sex – though “fair” might not have been the proper way of speaking about Waltz. “She's...she's nice to look at,” Ara stammered, lacing and unlacing her fingers together, wishing there was some ready opening out of the conversation.

“Then you haven't spent very long in the south, have you?” Kastivi said laughing. “My people are stubborn and tend to rent the same plots of land they were born onto until the day they die and pass it on to their children to do the same.” Her hands rest gently on her hips, the tops of which were exposed to the cold of the mid-Northern air. She seemed content as ever talking to the barbarian, the glint in her brown eyes conveying as much to those that happened to witness their conversation. “I like things and people from the North,” Kastivi answered, using all of her energy to not glance at Christoval as she said this. “Chocolate is nice, but vanilla has its benefits as well.”
Kastivi scratched her head, still trying to decide what she thought of the weapon. She knew why she'd never seen one before. If she had held onto that for much longer, there was a high chance that it would have gone off. It was miracle that it didn't when she held it in her hands. “I also don't want you to lose your hands,” the Daughter finally said, relieved when the weapon was back on his back. If he had no hands, she'd never be able to know what it was like to hold them. She gave another reasoning if only to hide the color in her cheeks, however, “You won't be able to grip your sword without them.”

“I'm curious as to how the spirits got that information,” Percival said, scratching under his beard and casting a glance at the knight with the hidden money. It was money that he didn't want to touch knowing its whereabouts. Percival, not expecting the random spell-casting, jumped back, head almost hitting a stray branch and he grabbed his hat, yanking it off the top of his head before it could fall into the pit of fire. His eyes were wide as a hellhound clawed its way to the land of mortals. “A...warhound?” the healer muttered, eyes betraying his amazement. “I've never seen one in person, though I have read of them.”

Kastivi stood frozen in place, watching as Christoval took off, the hound close at his heels.

“If she doesn't get hurt, I don't see why not,” Arabella mused, tapping her chin.

“You can't be thinking of letting her sick that thing on me?!”

“Oh, I can.”