>>6336090Cyril woke from his bed that morning as sore as ever. Despite the luxuries afforded to him and his knights by the Fodlan Embassy, he was ill-used to these plush trappings. Frankly speaking, he was ill-used to this country in general. For a long time, he’d always been uncomfortable around mages. They seemed to speak in their own language, and were more often than not a cunning, calculating sort by trade. Cyril always had the impression they knew something he did not, and that they were happy to hold that over him. That feeling never went away, even when he’d finally learn to read well into adulthood. Now here he was, in a country made up almost entirely of strange mages. Not for the first time, he begins wishing that Byleth had chosen someone else for this job. Letting loose an exasperated sigh, he walks out into the embassy’s dining hall, where he encounters perhaps the strangest one of their kind yet.
“Good morning, Master Cyril!” Cassius bows down in reverence.
“You again.” The Almyran says plainly. This mage was back. For the third day in a row. Already a vein was beginning to throb in his head at the nuisance that was sure to follow.
“I hope that you slept well. I’ve taken the liberty of retrieving your breakfast this morning. The embassy was serving a most delectable offering of eggs, bacon, bread, and all sorts of fruit. I wasn’t sure what you preferred, so I brought you a sampling of everything. I also took the liberty of grabbing your morning coffee. I’ve left it black, but as I’ve noticed you take-”
“That’s enough.” Cyril groans, settling into his chair at the head of the table. He’d given orders to his men not to let this one through, but somehow he had a habit of slipping by unnoticed. Yesterday he’d led the knights on a wild goose chase. They’d caught their pursuit, only to discover it had been a mere phantom he’d summoned. A distraction so that he may sneak his way to Cyril’s side. Had he been an assassin, things might have been bad. However, this man proved to be something else entirely. Something that, like a mage, Cyril had equal difficulty in dealing with.
A fan.
“Master Cyril, I was hoping you might relay to me some stories of Fodlan? You travelled in the party of Archbishop Byleth, did you not? You were at her side when she defeated Empress Edelgard and brought an end to the war. And you were the one that delivered the final blow against the dragon that attacked Garreg Mach, correct? I never thought in my wildest dreams I’d meet someone with a first-hand account of those days! I beg of thee, share with me your tales! The people of Morfis would undoubt-”
“Cassius, how did you get here?” Cyril asks, drinking from his coffee. Black, but with the addition of cinnamon spice. For all his faults, at least he paid attention.
“As a member of Lord Tristain’s party, I am allowed access within the Embassy.” He says.
