#Deeply enamoured with Ingrid

[daydreamdoodles]

The little songs for the bards are so :( I love it so much. It's so fun

[ingridbgalatea]

“Are you afraid of God?”

Ingrid pauses.

“I don’t think ‘afraid’ is the word I’d use…” she places her hand on her chin, searching for a better description. Ingrid realises she’s never thought too deeply about the matter- not that she had ever been overtly pious, anyway. Whatever she remembers of being dragged to churches as a child were essentially hours spent staring longingly at windows and wishing she were outside again. Sermons went in one ear and right out the other, unfortunately.

—Religion. Not one of Ingrid’s strong points.

“I… respect the Goddess,” she settles on that, and is somewhat satisfied by her choice of words- though she notes, silently, that she has never been more glad for the archbishop’s absence. Ingrid turns back to Cynthia, her tone sheepish, at best. “Hopefully that’s enough of an answer for you.”

Despite being a noble of Faerghus, and, by tradition, faithful to an extent, Ingrid has never found herself to be enamoured by religious theology. Sure, she studied it enough, but beyond what was expected of her she showed little to no interest.

...Perhaps that was arrogant of her.

Nevermind. This was not what Ingrid should be paying attention to.

She fixes her gaze on Cynthia. “Anyways, asking questions like that won’t get you out of this.” She extends an arm, gesturing to the heap of broken equipment littering the training grounds. It seems needless to say, but Ingrid was sure she felt her jaw drop to the floor when she’d entered the training grounds only to feel as though she’d trespassed onto a crime scene- with Cynthia in the centre of it all.

So many broken lances. She might’ve cried.

Fortunately, for Cynthia, the academy was no stranger to broken training equipment,— even if they weren’t of such a number as this— so it wouldn’t be a huge problem to take care of.

Still…

With fervent determination, Ingrid turns to the broom at the corner of the grounds. She takes it in her hands and promptly shoves it into Cynthia’s- almost as if it were a weapon. “While I take care of these,” she gestures to the broken spears with a shrug of her shoulder, “you will clean up all of... this.” -back to the mess.

If Cynthia had any protests to make, Ingrid did not wait to hear them.

“And if, by the time I return,” Ingrid declares, throwing a final look over her shoulder— a warning— as she lugs the fragments of ill-fortuned training spears out under one arm, “you are not here and this place is still a mess, I implore you to start praying.”