[ Byleth drains his glass of wine. He also pours himself some more. Again, he lacks the crass, boorish manners of the mercenaries he describes. He drinks in such a reserved fashion; he stops less than midway through his glass, then gently sets the bottle somewhere near Annette's elbow.
On second thought, he'll move that back to the center of the table. Because, you know. Annette. ]
Other mercenary groups had their own way of doing things. Some of them operated like pirates, under the rules you describe. As for injuries and deaths... Jeralt managed a sort of discharge fund for those mercenaries who were injured to the point that they could no longer fight. It wasn't enough to retire off of, but it was usually enough to get them to the nearest village and start up a new trade if they could manage it. He would pay any surviving family members that they had if they died, too, but the truth is that we rarely had to issue such payments. Most of our mercenaries didn't have family to speak of.
Everyone called him generous, but generosity wasn't typical, in the business. Most mercenaries were simply thrown out of their groups and left to die if they couldn't fight anymore. We were considered a particularly good group to work for. Of course, you had to be appropriately skilled to work for us. Jeralt would not allow anyone to ride with us if they could not handle themselves to his standards, no matter how hopeful or desperate they were.
[ Byleth doesn't know it, but his voice is always particularly mellifluous when he talks about his life as a mercenary. He's practically spellbinding to listen to (and to look at, too, if one were so inclined to his looks) — his gaze far-off and distant, as if looking through the mists at battles long past and memories long faded. Old, somehow, despite his young face. Perhaps merely timeless.
And then he says a curious thing: ]
...But that is to be expected, I suppose. The lives of people are not worth much outside of this monastery.
[Byleth is wholly unique. One would think- from the way he looks, from the way he drinks- that he's never been in a single fight, incapable of viewing, let alone inflicting, the beautiful violence he could commit.
...Yes. Beautiful violence. Unlike, say, a certain boar- where every thrust of his lance is clumsy- gutteral but nonetheless effective- no different to any actual boars grunting and thrashing and impaling whatever unfortunate creature fool enough to meet their tusks without fear of personal harm, there's an elegance in every strike Byleth makes. An unemotional detachment. No hatred. No malice. He merely moves an arm like one would swat a fly, and things fall, bleeding beyond all reasonable repair by any healer- often dead and gone before they even meet the ground.
Him striking an enemy down is no different to how he drinks his wine. A slight, beautiful movement requiring little to no effort, but successful nonetheless. More than that. ...Beautiful. Because yes- There's beauty in it. Much like there's a curious beauty in Byleth himself. In his appearance. In his voice. He's so together. Detached, most certainly, even strangely detatched. But together.
Felix admires it. Perhaps he would even be attracted to it- were he the sort to be less sentimental or less stubborn about his own preferences. In the absence of attraction, he could focus on emulation in his own swordplay- about the only thing he could emulate. Speaking as smoothly as Byleth, for instance...
No. He knows his limitations. He can only enjoy that. But as for what is being said, not how it sounds:]
...That's...
[Considerate. He'd thought that without a mutual pension, the injured were on their own. Or, like some bandit outfits, simply left behind or killed as some far-flung idea of mercy. But he's too much of a skeptic to consider Jeralt's approach mercy.]
...Clever. Your father's band must have made enemies. [It's the nature of things.] Paying off the infirm is a purchase of loyalty. But settling them...
[Well. Felix was a noble. But he knew how villages worked. Commoners tended to stand together. And they did not look kindly upon strangers appearing and asking questions.
It's a lot to chew on. But what Byleth says next- about lives outside of the monastery not being worth all that much- it makes him ask something else.]
...Was there any sort of work your father refused?
( ok i was just reminded via alois's support with leonie that jeralt had tavern debts all over fodlan actually, which i had completely forgotten, but i'm going to pretend that the policies from above still apply and were probably the reason jeralt was shit with money... it's fine... IT'S FINE. anyway... )
Oh, yes. He turned down a lot of jobs, actually. It aggravated our men when he turned down work that we all needed, but they never questioned his orders. If he didn't like the employer, he'd still take the job. But if he didn't trust the employer, there wasn't anyone in Fódlan who could stop him from refusing the job.
When I was younger, he refused work from... Count Rowe, I think it was? From the Kingdom? It was a well-paying job, but Jeralt walked away from it, even though it was a cold winter, and our men were down to hardtack. I couldn't figure out what set him off. Rowe didn't seem like a tyrant, and his knights seemed reasonable enough. But Jeralt said something about how he'd asked too many questions about me, and he didn't want me near the count...
[ One day, Byleth will find out what was wrong with Count Rowe, and be quite grateful for his father's foresight in that regard... ]
There were other jobs that he didn't like, too. Some of our work didn't involve fighting. Every now and then, we were simply asked to find someone's runaway daughter. That was easy work. We'd just send one of our most charming mercenaries out to ask around, and we'd find out that the girl simply ran away with a boy from the village, or something innocent like that. But some merchant from the Alliance asked us to do this once, and Jeralt discovered that he'd been beating the girl on a regular basis, so we left without taking his money or finding his daughter.
[ The professor shakes his head grimly, letting his eyes flutter shut for a pensive moment. ]
Could have done far worse, I think. Should have, maybe. But that's the way Jeralt is. He doesn't want enemies, and he doesn't want to be remembered. I think he's fighting the inevitable. We're a memorable group.
Edited (sorry i overthink his speech pattern) 2026-01-25 00:43 (UTC)
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[ Byleth drains his glass of wine. He also pours himself some more. Again, he lacks the crass, boorish manners of the mercenaries he describes. He drinks in such a reserved fashion; he stops less than midway through his glass, then gently sets the bottle somewhere near Annette's elbow.
On second thought, he'll move that back to the center of the table. Because, you know. Annette. ]
Other mercenary groups had their own way of doing things. Some of them operated like pirates, under the rules you describe. As for injuries and deaths... Jeralt managed a sort of discharge fund for those mercenaries who were injured to the point that they could no longer fight. It wasn't enough to retire off of, but it was usually enough to get them to the nearest village and start up a new trade if they could manage it. He would pay any surviving family members that they had if they died, too, but the truth is that we rarely had to issue such payments. Most of our mercenaries didn't have family to speak of.
Everyone called him generous, but generosity wasn't typical, in the business. Most mercenaries were simply thrown out of their groups and left to die if they couldn't fight anymore. We were considered a particularly good group to work for. Of course, you had to be appropriately skilled to work for us. Jeralt would not allow anyone to ride with us if they could not handle themselves to his standards, no matter how hopeful or desperate they were.
[ Byleth doesn't know it, but his voice is always particularly mellifluous when he talks about his life as a mercenary. He's practically spellbinding to listen to (and to look at, too, if one were so inclined to his looks) — his gaze far-off and distant, as if looking through the mists at battles long past and memories long faded. Old, somehow, despite his young face. Perhaps merely timeless.
And then he says a curious thing: ]
...But that is to be expected, I suppose. The lives of people are not worth much outside of this monastery.
no subject
...Yes. Beautiful violence. Unlike, say, a certain boar- where every thrust of his lance is clumsy- gutteral but nonetheless effective- no different to any actual boars grunting and thrashing and impaling whatever unfortunate creature fool enough to meet their tusks without fear of personal harm, there's an elegance in every strike Byleth makes. An unemotional detachment. No hatred. No malice. He merely moves an arm like one would swat a fly, and things fall, bleeding beyond all reasonable repair by any healer- often dead and gone before they even meet the ground.
Him striking an enemy down is no different to how he drinks his wine. A slight, beautiful movement requiring little to no effort, but successful nonetheless. More than that. ...Beautiful. Because yes- There's beauty in it. Much like there's a curious beauty in Byleth himself. In his appearance. In his voice. He's so together. Detached, most certainly, even strangely detatched. But together.
Felix admires it. Perhaps he would even be attracted to it- were he the sort to be less sentimental or less stubborn about his own preferences. In the absence of attraction, he could focus on emulation in his own swordplay- about the only thing he could emulate. Speaking as smoothly as Byleth, for instance...
No.
He knows his limitations. He can only enjoy that.
But as for what is being said, not how it sounds:]
...That's...
[Considerate. He'd thought that without a mutual pension, the injured were on their own. Or, like some bandit outfits, simply left behind or killed as some far-flung idea of mercy. But he's too much of a skeptic to consider Jeralt's approach mercy.]
...Clever. Your father's band must have made enemies. [It's the nature of things.] Paying off the infirm is a purchase of loyalty. But settling them...
[Well. Felix was a noble. But he knew how villages worked. Commoners tended to stand together. And they did not look kindly upon strangers appearing and asking questions.
It's a lot to chew on. But what Byleth says next- about lives outside of the monastery not being worth all that much- it makes him ask something else.]
...Was there any sort of work your father refused?
no subject
Oh, yes. He turned down a lot of jobs, actually. It aggravated our men when he turned down work that we all needed, but they never questioned his orders. If he didn't like the employer, he'd still take the job. But if he didn't trust the employer, there wasn't anyone in Fódlan who could stop him from refusing the job.
When I was younger, he refused work from... Count Rowe, I think it was? From the Kingdom? It was a well-paying job, but Jeralt walked away from it, even though it was a cold winter, and our men were down to hardtack. I couldn't figure out what set him off. Rowe didn't seem like a tyrant, and his knights seemed reasonable enough. But Jeralt said something about how he'd asked too many questions about me, and he didn't want me near the count...
[ One day, Byleth will find out what was wrong with Count Rowe, and be quite grateful for his father's foresight in that regard... ]
There were other jobs that he didn't like, too. Some of our work didn't involve fighting. Every now and then, we were simply asked to find someone's runaway daughter. That was easy work. We'd just send one of our most charming mercenaries out to ask around, and we'd find out that the girl simply ran away with a boy from the village, or something innocent like that. But some merchant from the Alliance asked us to do this once, and Jeralt discovered that he'd been beating the girl on a regular basis, so we left without taking his money or finding his daughter.
[ The professor shakes his head grimly, letting his eyes flutter shut for a pensive moment. ]
Could have done far worse, I think. Should have, maybe. But that's the way Jeralt is. He doesn't want enemies, and he doesn't want to be remembered. I think he's fighting the inevitable. We're a memorable group.