coffee?

That the letter was meant for him was undeniable, but what Raven could not understand was how anyone else knew that. Instances where he was forthcoming with the information of his genealogy, of his remaining family, of his circumstances – all of these were so few and far between as to have been nonexistent, even to those who might have considered him close. 

No matter how close they were, they could not have known about Priscilla. Even amongst Eliwood's army, he could count on one hand those that knew of their relation, and if he were feeling in a rational, skeptical, and lighter-hearted mood he might have joked that Lucius would never be so jealous as to threaten her. 

But there was no joke that could have come to mind as he read over the words, only a cold blanket of red, followed by searing, blinking rage. 

"Ohh, dear," said the old housekeeper, wrinkled fingers coming to hover just over his wrist, knowing instinctively not to touch him but wanting to offer solace nevertheless. "Come, we'll fetch some tea, and we'll figure out where it's come from. Come, come." 

An inhale, sharp, fist loosening from the grip he'd crushed the letter in. Raven shook his head. "I don't think that's - " 

he ought to be a student. he ought to be studying in class, improving his grades and feeding the ever-turning wheel of perfectionism that drives him. he does, at least, to a sufficient amount; he shows up for class, sleeps through lecture, and gets an 'A' on the test after. he's received his fair share of criticism---why show up at all if you’re just going to sleep? but dwyer, ever the expert in snoozery of all sorts, merely shrugs them off before rolling and sleeping on his other arm.

but there is one thing he values more than schoolwork, and that one thing is why he stands in the particular doorway of the manor that he does, donning not his monastery uniform but the trappings of the waitstaff. during his off time he slips away to this place, acting as a member of a group he's never officially been hired with simply because it made him itch to not be working somewhere like it. he calls it volunteer work to anyone that asks. not that anyone does ask. 

the hours he has spent here afford him much, none the least of which being the relationships he has formed with particular folk. today, at this very moment, the bond of import comes from that of himself and the old housekeeper ( whose attention, currently, is upon a short-tempered man of mouse-colored hair ). he knows that she knows more than she lets on. because of this, he only asks when she offers; any other time would not only be inappropriate but would violate dwyer's own creed: don't stick your nose into other people's business.

yet, here he is, sticking his nose in other people's business. why did he even say anything? 

well, he can tell when that old woman has a trick up her sleeve. sometimes people just need a push to Get It.

Standing around mourning the reality she finds herself in will do little to resolve it. Rather than worry, Mitama attempts to smile brighter again, nodding along to his polite well wishes. "As well as any can be with so many tedious expectations school brings to distract from enjoying ourselves. I hope that you have fared well in turn."

She prefers it when he is sharp with his bluntness, but she keeps that thought to herself. Instead, her eyes trail over to the hogwash in question. Whenever the entrance flutters open with the coming or going of a student, a few in line attempt their best to glance inside and see the mysterious fortune teller in question. They remain surprisingly well hidden each time, only the darkness of their tent to greet wandering eyes.

"So you are lacking faith in that which the other students are taking so dearly to heart, I see..." As she would expect from him. Mitama hums thoughtfully. "I do not believe it either, in all honesty. Dreams are simply dreams. Though they may provide convenient visions of that which may delight us, I doubt there is any greater meaning to be found in them."

No one ever did provide the volcano with any sacrifices, after all.

everyone that leaves the tent has something to say about their fortune. " oh, did you hear what that teller said? " a girl with bouncing curls confides to her friend. " all of those dreams of myself sinking into couch cushions... to think that it all means i'm to be a rich woman in my future! how exciting! "

not how that works.

another student, a man of dwyer's age, carries a much sourer expression. " there's no way those dreams about my mother means she'll die soon, " he mutters to himself, loud enough for any odd listener to pick up. " i mean, i haven't sent her a letter in a while... but that doesn't mean anything! ...does it? "

if you're so worried about it, send a damn letter to your mother, then.

dwyer's exasperation sits tepidly beneath the shadow of his bangs; people taking this dream interpreter for their word is turning them illogical! if there is one thing that dwyer cannot stand ( beyond fingerprints on the silverware and coffee left out to sit and biscuits like hardtack and and and ), it is people shoving rational thought away to make space for superstition!

so, with nowhere else to turn,

and because he does enjoy the idea mitama has proposed...

As one who spent so much of her life asleep, she had experienced many a dream in her time. Some were fantastical. Others were so incredibly mundane that it was almost jarring to awaken from them and realize she had been asleep the whole time. But none of them, as far as she thought, were so interesting that they warranted interpretation. Was she to find the secrets of her inner world in those fleeting moments?

Perhaps her dream self knew many a dormant volcano that she longed to visit...

The line is rather peaceful. Despite its length and the time it takes to be seen, most remain calm, mumbling to themselves over notebooks no doubt filled with their recent dreams and what they might possibly mean. Mitama has brought no such thing herself. The interpreter would simply have to make do with what Mitama offered, and she would see if that was enough to impress her or disappoint her.

Off to the side of the line, a familiar sight lingers. She hums quietly to herself in surprise. Speaking of volcanoes....

dwyer's brow lifts.

and then his head turns, each unruly strand of hair pushing to the side as he searches for the source of a voice that definitely should not be speaking to him like that. it's been some time and a half since his last arrival here at the monastery; coupling that with the comparatively short times he's been here, he can hardly remember the faces or names of people he's come across. mostly because none of them have really Piqued the Interest of the Dwyer. you know how it is.

it's true: the owner of the voice shouldn't be speaking to him like that. because, admittedly... he's forgotten her.

but now he remembers. alas, force of habit twists their meeting back into something almost like two strangers:

" ...lady mitama, " dwyer offers cordially after only a second of pause, bowing his head to where his bangs cover his eyes ( see: not really that far ). " it has been a moment since our last correspondence. i do hope that you've been well. "

it still weirds him out how much mitama knows about him---regardless of what she says to be her reasons, he can never shake the awful, awful feeling that she might know way more than she ever needs to know about a stranger. " uhh... well, if i may be frank--- " and frank he most certainly shall be, if only for this moment, " ---i don't really believe in any of this hogwash. really. washing a hog is more definitive than dream interpretation; at least i know that the hog is clean after i scrub the jeebies out of it. i don't have to do any kind of... literary interpretation to see the results... "

inspired by the infamous "i want the k" meme by deactivated tumblr user tastcful. send 🎲 to generate a kiss! potential suggestive/nsf.w themes may appear

A kiss on the cheek

A kiss on the nose

A kiss on the forehead

A kiss to the top of the head

A firm kiss

A gentle peck

A romantic kiss

A platonic kiss

A kiss to the eyelid

A kiss along the jawline

A kiss to the neck

A kiss along the collar bone

A kiss on the chest

A kiss to the stomach

A kiss along the hips

A kiss in the rain

An upside-down "Spider-Man" kiss

A kiss while laughing

A kiss underwater

A rough kiss

WILDCARD! Dealer's choice :)

A french kiss/kiss with tongue

A kiss influenced by alcohol/other substances

A sleepy kiss

A kiss that's an accident

A kiss while one or both parties are crying

A kiss in greeting

A kiss in parting

A kiss to the back of the hand

A kiss to the palm of the hand

A kiss to the inner thigh

A kiss while someone watches

A kiss to a scar, birthmark, injury, or other marking

A kiss after a bite

A kiss against a wall

A kiss to the shoulder

A kiss to the back of the neck

A kiss while one party is carried

A tentative kiss

An impulsive kiss

A kiss out of spite

A clumsy kiss

dwyer is not a devout believer in anything but the sweet mother-goddess of sleep. people who claim to see the future or to have the ability to divine fortunes do not interest him in the slightest---because how do they expect to prove any of what they say?

it is rather obvious that these sorts of gimmicks rely on the honesty of the human heart and the coveted ability to ask questions. coax information out of a man without him knowing and he'll say you're a magician when you tell him what he told you! it's a lucrative business---one that pays---but dwyer has no interest in that sort of social labor. he certainly doesn't care for knowingly tricking people, that's for certain.

so when he hears the name of a new face promising dream analysis, well, the first thing he does is raise an eyebrow. he already analyzes his dreams well enough; good ones are ones he oversleeps for, bad ones are ones he wakes up from, and all the rest is unnecessary. boom! he's done it! can he have a thousand gold now?

but the second thing dwyer does when he hears that there's a dream interpreter in town is go find them. he loves being a little hater.

he doesn't enter the line, but he does stand beside it; listening in he comes to find just how ridiculous some of these conclusions are. i mean, who comes up with these...?

○○○○○ | ATTRACTION ○○○○○ | AFFECTION ○○○○○ | INTEREST ○○○○○ | LOYALTY ○○○○○ | TRUST

he does a light shrug. "to have them stop, it's a touch more of a stricter pull. does that make sense ?" at that, he pushes his feet outwards, to get dwyers attention. "and to have them descend, simply push down on your foot rests."

as a demonstration, his pegasus leaps - gently gliding through a patch of air before settling onto the ground. "it's really a bit scary the first time ! the feeling of weightlessness. take it as a very long jump," he does it again. "and you will be perfectly fine. try to go a little higher each time, even."

going straight into flight as shigure had demonstrated, however, is too much to ask of a man who has never so much as sailed through the air after a comically strong punch. therefore, dwyer starts how he knows best: with a gentle tap of reins and a squeeze of his legs, he starts into a walk. good so far.

it takes a few short laps before he has enough desire to truly start. he tightens his hands around the reins, looks once, then twice over his shoulder... and gently pulls back.

the pegasus responds to his command easily, which is perfect for a trained horse and positively terrible for dwyer. the beast jumps and spreads its wings quickly, making every movement short and fast for efficient handling. its rider is startled by all the movement and begins to look around frantically as a result.

good gods, oh, merciful dusk dragon to whom he rarely prays, Are You Seeing This Shite ? they are not far off the ground, but dwyer hazards a guess that a fall from the height he's at would hurt even if he didn't die. as the pegasus flaps its wings there is unfamiliar turbulence, and dwyer can feel himself rocking in his saddle. oh, good heavens.

hand runs itself down the mane of the pegasus. "steady breaths and a calm attitude. we won't go wrong for even a moment."

warm smile, and turquoise hair drapes aside. the morning suns brightness of shigure in contrast to dusks dwyer. whilst shigure relished in the warmth the daytime provides, it parallels well to tiredness apparent in his friends eyes.

it was soothing, in a sense. he was not over-amplifying his energies. he was not someone in which shigure felt exhausted by interacting with. it is no secret shigure far prefers calmer waters. "she's not my pegasus, but i had hope the two of you may form a bond ?" at that, he gets onto her back. "this is how you get onto her. i'll be present if we do take flight, so you're not. . . piloting a pegasus by yourself !"

dwyer thinks he knows a few things about horses. before the life of a butler he first had to walk the path of the troubadour, which entailed horseback and, interestingly enough, his choice of dress back home. when not in his nohrian butler-cloth, dwyer dons the familiar grays-and-purples of his riding dress, boots and hip-shields aplenty.

but all of this is news to him. horses know him? they know his feelings? was this why horse kept biting him when he thought about taking a sweet, sweet nap after a clash? dwyer shudders. Do Horses Know His Thoughts?

he shakes his head, untamed silver tresses flopping where they choose. now is NOT the time to be intimidated by equines, he thinks. if they know things, then they can smell fear. probably.

these thoughts are a bit ridiculous, dwyer realizes, as shigure is looking at him with all the care a friend can possibly have. even if the pegasus could suss out dwyer's uncertainty, surely shigure would guide him to righting it. this is simply what friends do.

so as shigure instructs him on how to mount a pegasus---similar, dwyer finds, to horses, though with the added difficulty of swinging around the wings---he does it with no qualms, settling on alice's splendid white back as though he were gearing up to head out on his own mare.

To Minerva, or the semblance of her. The shade wearing her likeness moves with none of her grace, and likewise can take no solace in her prescience. Her teammates take advantage of the situation as well they should, but Maria's hand draws closer to her chest, still hesitant. Perhaps she can attempt to deal with the likeness of Sir Valter, every bit as dangerous as the man himself -- or... near enough to it for worry, at least. (What use is such sharp sight in lifeless eyes? But it is a boon, she thinks, that they will not be faced with his wild revelry here and now.)

Hand cuts across in a summoning motion, drawing light and thunder to her hand once more, when she realizes all at once the uncanny stillness of the lance-bearer in the back. Her eyes track Maria's movements with clear intent, her stance poised for action; she means to stop her, Maria realizes quite suddenly, but why her?

Prayer Ring activates! Dwyer’s Bond activates! [+2HP, Maria 10/10HP] Maria 10/10HP misses and hits Desert Warrior 10/10HP with Nova at range! Resonance activates! Lifetaker activates! [Rolls: 3, 19; -0HP, (3 + 2 + 1) - 3 = -3HP, Desert Warrior 7/10HP] Maria 10/10HP loses -2HP from Resonance and recovers +1.5HP from Lifetaker. [Maria 9.5/10HP] Desert Warrior is unable to counterattack.

the young girl maria draws her hand to her chest and dwyer sees it. following the trail of sight alerts him to two things:

her stare is reciprocated in kind by the lancebearing shade

someone is coming AT HIM

Red Dragoon 7.5/10HP hits Dwyer 10/10HP with Blessed Lance. [Roll: 12 - 5 = 7; -1.5HP, Dwyer 8.5/10HP]

Dwyer is unable to counterattack.

Beak of Gofannon activates! Dwyer is now inflicted with Toxic Poison.

dwyer stumbles backward, coughing as the wound in his side bleeds and stings acidic. gods, that lance had to have been poisoned; he's familiar with all manner of ways to kill, and poison is up there with the commons. he can already feel numbness begin to settle in---it must be potent. all the more reason to wrap things up as quickly as possible.

but at the same time, he sees the way maria views the red-haired shade. he has heard the way she talks about the red-haired shade, a warning tone with crisped edges of pride and wonder. dwyer is not one to make odd-shot assumptions, but he feels as though this shade bears a resemblance to someone maria knows.

for a moment, dwyer thinks about what he would have done were it a shade of lady corrin. lady elise was hard enough to put down, but he could chalk that one up to a mercy kill if anything. if anything so much as looked like lady corrin, dwyer would have a hard time not defecting.

so perhaps it will be easier if he offers a hand. stepping in front of maria, massive dress skirt blocking the vicinity, dwyer pulls one of the two staves from his back and hits the base against the ground to begin channeling. " why don't you have a short break, lady maria? " he asks, servitude bared. " allow me to clean up for you. "

being poisoned means nothing to him---not when he's dealt with so many ninjas in his time. he stands up straight, squeezes the grip on his staff, and makes one quick, precise swipe.

Dwyer 8.5/10HP critically hits Dark Moonstone 6.5/10HP with Isolation. [Roll: 16] Dark Moonstone is inflicted with Isolation and Void!

Dark Moonstone is unable to counterattack.

the shade with flowing hair had been a problem before and would perhaps continue to be a problem. dwyer does not like problems. he likes to fix them where able. but as the head of his staff shines and fires a bolt of color-inverted magic, he can be certain that this will act as a quick fix to their worries.

Dwyer lost -1HP due to Toxic Poison!

Of course she wouldn’t be given the time to think. Real or not, they are still on a battlefield, and real or not, they can still be ‘injured’. By enemies that hit far harder than the ones prior, at that. Perhaps that is a form of twisted compliment from the ones controlling this ‘arena’. The ones that clearly love to see her suffer oh so much.

Embla [3/10 HP] counters with Luce! (1d20 —> 16) Critical Hit! Dark Moonstone [8/10 HP] 

Well if their enemies are to hit hard, they will just have to hit back harder. Envisioning the stance she needs to take it her mind and ignoring the stabbing feeling that strikes whatever heart she has left along with it, she grips the staff with both hands and holds it high.

She can feel the attack go off. She makes a point of looking anywhere other than her own weapon — other than the blue glow she can see out of the corner of her eye. Instead, she locks her gaze onto the one who declared himself as ‘Seliph’, and the attack that strikes him rather than her own.

He’s taken down an enemy, meaning he’s proven himself useful, meaning it would be more convenient to keep him around. As one forced into a roll of ‘support’, she knows she is supposed to ‘help’ him. She grumbles a little under her breath, but begins her approach towards the injured.

Bond activates! +1 HP. Embla [4/10 HP] Embla [4/10 HP] heals Seliph [3/10 HP] with Recover! (1d20 —> 9) +4 HP. Seliph [7/10 HP]

The shadow understands what she wants without her needing to say it (perhaps the only benefit to a summoned without their sound), rushing off towards the enemy.

She doesn’t remember witnessing him performing any sort of ‘healing’, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he could. Not that she should need to know specifics of his methods. Healing is a lower form of magic anyway. A vague wave of the staff is enough for the illusion, at least.

Harsh words are considered, but quickly silenced by the soft sound of the bell as she moves the staff. She can’t get the insult out. Almost like she’d cast her magic on herself rather than him. She can almost hear that annoying voice, lecturing her with ‘if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all’.

Even now, he’s forcing her into acting ‘civil’ with his stupid love of mortals and their phrases. Embla only huffs, turning her head to watch after her summoned ‘hero’.

Shadow of Desert Warrior attacks Dark Moonstone! (1d20 —> 1) Miss.

he replaces the air with a sharp sucking in through teeth when not-arval retaliates, nearly nuking its recipient before the tome steals the last bit of life from them. gods, if only he'd brought a single healing stave...

his hunch deepens in anxiety, though his face belies none of it. he hates when things fall out of his hands like they are doing, with no staff to remedy missteps, but perhaps he can learn something from this. the dress he wears keeps its shape despite all the jumping around he's doing---and hey, it's pretty dang comfortable. to stay his worries, dwyer focuses on that.

a separate figure---one he does not know, but one that maria has informed him is not to be trifled with---approaches, blessed lance thrown out to the side as they prepare to engage. with him! good heavens, but the dress will be ruined.

Red Dragoon 10/10HP misses Dwyer 10/10HP with Blessed Lance. [Roll: 1 - 3 = -2; -0HP, Dwyer 10/10HP]

Dwyer is unable to counterattack.

so dwyer will simply sidestep. given how piss-easy it is to do, he wonders if his clothing has distracted the enemy.

oh, who is he kidding. do these things even think? can they even see?

he cannot counter the blow due to the bow in his hand, but he is not upset by this. he instead turns and sets his eye on the other flier in the army---one who looks... strange and uninviting. and that there are two of.

Dwyer 10/10HP barely hits Dark Moonstone 8/10HP with Zanshin (Schism Shot). [Roll: 2; 1 + 0.5 = -1.5HP, Dark Moonstone 6.5/10HP]

Dark Moonstone is unable to counterattack.

But a new enemy means a restoration to their health, meaning she has no excuse to continue as nothing more than a spectator. With a sigh, she rises, only to stop at the sight of her own hand. Golden claws, no more. Now regular sleeves. And the rest of her attire, formerly untouched beyond the ‘butterfly wings’ incident… white replaces black. And in the place of red, she finds blue.

No. No no no no NO. They would not. They wouldn’t dare. She feels her other hand clench tighter around what feels like a staff, one she senses a familiar magic from. Yet not familiar in the sense that it belongs to her.

She can’t bring herself to look at it. She wants to throw up.

Embla summons a shadow of Desert Warrior!

Familiarity at least brings understanding on how to harness said magic (a power she would never admit she once wished was hers, rather than the opposing power she exists to be bound to). Centuries have passed since the days she would listen to what he had to say — since she would’ve believed him — but she should recall well enough for this illusion to be satisfied.

The sound of a bell rings as she taps the staff against the ground, eye closed in preparation of the light she knows will come. A lone figure fades into being in its center, a perfect reflection of one of their enemies. If somehow only moreempty.

She casts a glance towards Maria, then towards the girl on the wyvern she had struck. “Get them.”

Shadow of Desert Warrior attacks Budding Flower!  (1d20 —> 10) Hit! Budding Flower [2.5/10]

The shadow does as she wills without a moment of hesitation. Were the situation different, perhaps she would’ve felt a form of satisfaction at such a result. Though in this situation, it only confirms that the ‘hero’ she had summoned was one without a soul. A reminder that she is not him. That she will never be him. That he is gone.

the new illusion sweeps in and dwyer's equipment wanes and waxes anew. the fan in the bronze round was not of much help, and the gauntlets of the second were brisk but not effective enough. as his new weapons appear in his hands, it is not them that makes dwyer balk. no, the lance, bow, and magic candle are fine, if in the candle's case slightly odd.

it is the large, beautiful, glittery purple dress that catches him. the thing itself is open-necked, paired with batwing ribbon sleeves and a backless bodice showing off his shiny pale skin ( and reminding him that he should probably spend more time outside ). a thick trail, made from the same slick ribbon material as his sleeves, travels down the back of the skirt but never touches the floor. at the front is a two-layer composition---the shell of the skirt encasing a tulle curtain underneath.

it is a very nice, and perhaps very expensive, dress. a wedding dress, no doubt.

WHY IS DWYER WEARING THIS?

his confoundment is shaken by the sound of war around him, and he snaps out of it just long enough to see his blue haired buddy take a swing at something that looks like arval. huh? what?? they're fighting each other?

no, that's not right. he sees the way "arval" flickers from the hit, unnatural even for a being such as them ( in a nice way, don't take it the wrong direction ). these aren't real people.

dwyer scans the battlefield to search for his place. it is found in the way a shade hunches, injured, atop their wyvern, and the bowstring lacing his fingers calls out to him. he pauses for a few moments---he knows who that is. those pigtails are unmistakable. " lady elise, " dwyer murmurs as he nocks his bow. these aren't real people. these aren't real people. " m' sorry for this. promise it won't hurt. "

Dwyer 10/10HP critically hits Budding Flower 2.5/10HP with Zanshin. [Roll: 5, automatic crit; -4HP, Budding Flower 0/10HP] Budding Flower has been defeated.