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[cniht]

OPTIONS.
1. Random scenario generator: Whatever your heart/rng's heart fancies.
2. Anything from here - ty, garregmachmod. ♥
3. Otherworldly: Let's get pretentious with it.
4. Wildcard! Do the thing freestyle, or I will. Alternatively, you can just throw a prompt at me.

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[outsideer]

[ These days, Claude isn't ever intentionally late, or intentionally on-the-dot rather than early. (And not only would he not admit to ever having been either during their school days, he really wouldn't have anything to admit to. Despite the impression he often gave, were any to think hard and accurately back to that time, they might be surprised to realize he was rarely actually late.)

But if he'd kept himself busy back then, it's nothing compared to now. He needs the time to finish, to put away his maps, and then to get from his room to the dining hall.

So it's ten minutes and fifteen seconds -- he isn't counting, but it is. There's more of a spring than a rush to his step as he enters, letting loose a low whistle as he himself takes it all in. Cute as Mercedes and Annette are... ]

Sheesh, what a mess. Good morning, Nardel!

[ With a wave, earning him an answering Good morning, master Claude! with tone and eyes that sparkle, as though to say kiddo. ]

Guess I'd better help...

[ Spotting Ingrid tidying, he moves to at least stack some dishes. ]

[cniht]

[ Ingrid catches that little exchange, bent over a pile of glasses as she is. (In fact, they may even be the ones Claude was juggling the night before.) Hiding a smile, she invites herself into the conversation, such as it is. ]

It's the least we can do, considering how loud and disruptive we were last night.

[ The glasses are cleanly stacked together as she gathers them up.

Come to think of it, what were they even celebrating? ]

Considering Nardel out drank us all by a wide margin, I half-expected to see him passed out cold on the floor. [ A sidelong glance at Claude, and she's still struggling not to smile. ] I don't know whether to be impressed at your choice of retainer, or concerned.

[ She may or may not be picturing a laundry list of obscure, myriad criteria that Claude expects those in his employ to fit. Can fight both on foot and horseback? Check. Can speak all dialects of Fodlan? Check. Can drink a divine dragon under the table and still be bright-eyed and bushy tailed the next day? Check. ]

[outsideer]

[ And not a broken glass in sight. None of those he'd been juggling, anyway. None of these now, at that, as he can handle piling plates, using a fork to scrape any remnant food scraps onto one. ]

Hey, if I'd had my way, there wouldn't have been anyone to disrupt.

[ Everyone had been invited. He'd seen to it that the former deer handled the serving. Sure enough, there were necessary exceptions: those keeping watch. But they'd encouraged more frequent change of guard and brought food out. At most, those scheduled lost the opportunity to become fully sloshed.

Having had his way, he recognizes his responsibility for the disorder. So he stacks, grabs at a stray cloth napkin and begins to use it to wipe down the table.

Ingrid might be fighting her smile, but Claude doles out his grin readily. ]

Impressed, of course. He drinks most my share. Right, Nardel?

[ They aren't speaking so quietly. "Nardel" simply laughs, proclaiming his reliability.

As for criteria... the thought would amuse the both of them. Possesses considerable experience as the undefeated general of foreign army? Check. Or, and perhaps most important: be one of the very few people who had prevented his childhood from being uninterrupted, abject misery? Check. ]

[cniht]

[ The quick confession (he drinks most of my share) almost startles her shoulders into straightening. Ingrid can't even say why it catches at her in such a way, except it's a trade secret of Claude von Riegan himself, shared between lord and retainer - and her, now. Like she's been welcomed, if only a little, in whatever world they share.

That beaten down little smile finally wins the fight, tugging at her lips and her eyes just so. ]

Such a degree of loyalty is admirable.

[ Moving her armful of dishware closer to where Claude is, she adds his pile of plates to her arms. She wants to ask precisely how Nardel ended up in Claude's service, but refrains. Partly because she doesn't want to speak about the man like he isn't even in the room, and partly because she fears being pushed back out of that shared little world if she presses too hard. ]

Perhaps it would be worthwhile to question him. [ Said to Claude, in a bit of a whisper, because they're being detectives! Gotta be subtle and cool. ] Nardel was here all night. He might have seen where Sylvain and the monk went.

[outsideer]

[ A slip in the levity of the moment, or a calculated confession? Not a bad question. Regardless of his motivation, the product is good one. He's long learned to keep his opinions on her smile to himself (unless a particularly stringent lecture merits the defense), but he admires it no less.

She is pretty, and however slight the expression, it warms her. No particular sentiment in that observation. Claude likes to see most with a smile. ]

No kidding.

[ Laughing himself, now, appreciative of the uncommon depths of that loyalty, that which she could have little chance of guessing. The world beneath the world, so to speak. Beneath and adjacent to. In one she may freely proceed. ]

I count myself lucky to have him.

[ Always has. Meanwhile, Ingrid's accumulating quite the stack. He won't insult her strength by offering to carry them (and also? in a redux of her earlier struggle with sylvain, he doesn't want to carry them), but he does give it a moment's consideration as he keeps at the table.

There's mischief in Ingrid's whisper, even if she doesn't recognize it as such. Claude slows with the cloth, though doesn't completely stop (in the interest of cool subtlety). Humor sparks in the sweep of his grin, even go so far as to glimmer above, lighting the typically cool green of his eyes.

She's really getting into it, huh? It's cute, but more than that... ]

Good thinking, Ingrid. He might be a key witness.

[ His own voice low, conspiratorial, because he, too, is getting into it. ]

He doesn't miss much.

[cniht]

[ He doesn't have to offer to help. Ingrid leaves all the dishware carefully together at the table and focuses on picking up an overturned bench. Clearly, her and Claude's question of what happened to the derobed gigolo isn't the only mystery brought by their evening of debauchery. The dining area is trashed-with-a-capital-T and there's only so much they can do by themselves.

They have a search to start, after all!

Looking back from Nardel to Claude, she notices the sea-tint his eyes take in the mid-morning light, but cracks on. ]

Should we work out an interrogative strategy? Perhaps if I come on very strongly, he'll be intimidated - and then you can step in and ask the necessary questions more gently.

[ In all the excitement of wanting to do a "good cop, bad cop" routine, she seems to have forgotten that there's still a faint orange stain on Nardel's shirt, courtesy of her digestive pyrotechnics from the night before. Can you still intimidate a man twice your age and twice your kill count after getting sick on him from too much drink? Clearly, Ingrid is more than ready to find out. ]

[outsideer]

[ Really, Claude is all for a lively feast, but even he would admit last night had gotten a little out of hand. Having been at most tipsy for the duration of it, he had a reasonable recollection of most of it up until a certain point. Maybe the host shouldn't leave a celebration early, and maybe his position makes him the de facto host of pretty much any large event here, but said position came with responsibilities that couldn't be avoided all night. And, unfortunately, required an early morning.

Is he avoiding them now? Of course not. His position surely requires him to investigate such a serious case as this one. Wiping the tables down could even count, if one looked at the task just right, so wipe he does.

As Ingrid proposes a strategy, Claude manages to wrangle a laugh into a cough. He also, in his infinite wisdom, resists commenting on the appropriateness of their respective roles. As well as the inappropriateness of using either on Nader, the Undefeated, whose kill count is well more than twice hers Nardel, unflappable and worldly retainer that he is. Who hasn't bothered to change out of his stained tunic.

Plus, as his retainer, it isn't like they need a strategy. No, no: right now, he isn't Nardel, the retainer. He's Nardel, the witness.

Claude clears another laugh out of his throat. ]

Sounds like a plan. With your indomitable will and my winsome personality, we can't fail. I'll follow your lead, Inquisitor Galatea!

[cniht]

[ That indomitable will, as he calls it, is quickly put to work trying to look serious even as a charming moniker like Inquisitor Galatea is awarded to her. Focusing on the lingering tangles of her hangover-born headache helps. By the time she approaches Nardel, stomping righteously over, her expression has been sewn back into severity. ]

Hello, Nardel.

[ She puts quite a bit of effort in making his name sound like a threat. ]

We - my subordinate and I - [ Claude is given a quick glance ] - are trying to sort out last night's indiscretions. Please answer the following questions promptly, and understand that lying is grounds for... for execution.

[ Some part of her is aware she's taking this too far. Ingrid takes everything too far, after all. However - can she even stop now? Course correction will only weaken her position. Better to double down! Yeah. ]

First question. [ Wait, uh - ] ...Subordinate, tell him what the first question is. [ Because Ingrid has nothing. ]

[outsideer]

[ Gods help him. Even that opening, that ominous, even sinister emphasis of his name, threatens to smash Claude's tremulous facade. It both helps and hurts that Nardel remains little affected, utilizing the same mask that he does while playing retainer, which is to say, barely any mask at all. A man of his experience and temperament need only adjust by degrees to a particular flow, no matter how strong or outlandish.

He regards them with that same grin and sparkle, despite her abrasive approach, only catching that the cues have shifted into yet another layer of pretense when Ingrid calls Claude her subordinate. But what's another layer? Besides, Claude's seen Nader with his daughters enough to suspect he's reminded rather strongly of his second at just this moment.

The man makes an attempt at reining in his grin, though it clearly chomps against the bit when the question is deflected to Claude. Who props his hands on his hips, giving a decisive, stalling nod. ]

Right away, Senior Leader Inquisitor General Galatea!

[ A nice little mouthful, syllables to chew and almost smile around. ]

What exactly were you doing at half-past midnight last night?

[cniht]

[ He gives her that title; Ingrid raises her fist to her mouth, coughing into it. It wouldn't do to give them away, after all! The suppressed laugh tickles back down her chest.

It's quite strange, she thinks, wasting so much of her morning playing silly games with Claude. But it isn't like anyone would be much use after last night's festivities regardless, and finding Sylvain is important. This is what she tells herself as she recalibrates her expression, growing stony with artifice once more. ]

I was here, of course. Haven't left this spot since last night.

[ Mercifully, he doesn't mention that he and Ingrid spent over an hour drunkenly debating battle tactics until she threw up on him. Well, drunkenly on her part. Nardel definitely has the girth and experience to drink both his share and Claude's and still be solid the next day. It's... really quite impressive.

All that to say, is that Senior Leader Inquisitor General Galatea can corroborate his alibi.

She jumps back in. ]

And did you happen to see a lecherous ginger lure away an innocent priest?

[ Ingrid, what happened to 'Sylvain may be dead by Alicia's hand' ?

Nader ponders that for a second and then grins. ]

Sorry, can't say I did.

[ She glances over at Claude. Dead end? That's the message she's telepathically sending him right now. You know, with her eyebrow movements. ]