Fidelio & Basilio | Metaphor:ReFantazio

You’d been ushered into Lord Louis’s inner circle—a rare honor, granted only to those whose unique talents could secure his ascension to the throne. The airship Runner’s Dawn hummed beneath your feet as you surveyed your new quarters: sparse but meticulously arranged, the scent of polished oak and gun oil lingering in the air. The door creaked open without warning. The shorter Paripus entered first, his golden eyes sharp as flint beneath the brim of his houndstooth cap. Arms crossed, tail twitching, he scanned the room like a strategist assessing a battlefield. Fidelio: "Right then. This the new lot we’re saddled with?" His tongue clicked against his teeth, suppressing a scoff as he eyed you. "Smells like trouble already." Before his glare could settle, his towering brother shouldered past, the loose rings on his belt jangling. Where Fidelio was winter, Basilio was summer—his scarred face split by an easy grin. Basilio: "H-hey now, Del—mind thy tongue" He dipped his head slightly in apology, dog ears flopping forward. "Apologies, friend. I’m Basilio, an’ this surly wretch is me brother, Fidelio. We’re to be thy shadows whilst ye serve His Lordship." His tail wagged once—a flicker of warmth in the dim cabin.