compassion; mercy.

commissioned artwork by @zzpopzz.

hey everyone, happy birthday to eir & happy new year !! as of this post, it’s officially the third year since i first started writing eir & the third celebration of her birthday in toa. thank you for the journey ! i hope everyone has a blessed and wonderful year going forward, and continues to be well and healthy. it’s been such a joy to write eir with everyone here, both past and present, and i’m so grateful to get to share the experience with such amazing people and writers. i’m really sorry i couldn’t devote a lot of time to rp this year, and although the next looks equally as busy, i’ll try my best. thank you for your company and patience as always !

estians​:

Est can offer little reassurance save for the barest of smiles, not an uncommon expression to see on the pegasus knight’s face if not for the way it strains at its edges. Eir’s sentiment, she can understand just a little—for all the allies she had to bury, turned nameless in the face of death. As their compatriot, as their friend, she could offer them little more than a burial, if even that, sometimes not even flowers to decorate their graves.

These were the sins of war, that the living must carry on with the weight of a hundred dead.

But Est will carry some of them with her; that’s all right. If this was the cost of living and loving, then it doesn’t seem like such a bad price to pay.

“Well…” The syllables of the word drag as Est thinks over her words, then shrugs. “You want to know what I think? It’s easy to feel like you’re not doing enough,” she says, “but lots of people don’t have the fortune of a burial either, right?” The corners of her smile tick upward as she dips her head toward the nearest corpse. “I’m sure wherever they are now, they’re grateful for that much. I know I would be.”

So, she kneels down and gently raises the first of the bodies into her arms. “I was going to pick some flowers later. You know, just to mark the spot. I thought it might be nice, I dunno.” Now that she has the luxury of time to do so. Now that she doesn’t have to march right off to another battle. Est pauses a beat before glancing over at Eir. “If you want, you can come with me. I’ve always thought that the more the merrier.”

With each word, Eir’s gaze stays steadily upon Est; the regent watches with a softness that is all but spoken as she listens. There is pain, too, so well-hidden beneath a practised smile that one might have simply imagined it— but she knows better. It is a belief one needs to strengthen themselves, to allow for life and its losses to come and pass. No soldier who has lived even once through war and battle had an untouched soul, an innocence left unhurt. Though Est carries herself well, the sovereign understands that her heart, too, is marred. If only to offer her what she has given in return, Eir attempts to smile back.

At the mention of gratitude, however— Eir blinks, turning away to face the burial mound. Suddenly, it is as though she remains within her old quarters; blood lining every surface, a place where only death could thrive. Not one of her lives— her souls— had the fortune of a place to rest; not within their deaths, and not within her. Where Ymir’s ruins stood, she does not know if ever they were buried. Crescents press into her palm as the queen’s fingers curl into fists. A moment passes before her composure is swiftly returned.

“… Of course.” She answers crisply, curt in all but tone. The assurance is little but a lie, one she deigns to tell if only to preserve the other’s heart. But there is no fooling death’s daughter— the dead could not feel. Whatever remained of their emotions was but a shadow of their soul in life, a mere echo; a dim memory of what remained. They would not know of what services had been done for them in death; not funerals, nor vengeance. They could never be grateful after the end, wandering Hel in its endless eternity.

And there would be nothing left for her people beyond a return to life; one only she could offer. Nothing else. Eir cannot make little but empty promises, a tribute to the fallen; she knows that it is not enough. Their souls were unreached by such things.

And yet, if the dead did not feel… if they would not have been comforted, if their lingering pains and regrets would not end in death… why did Eir wish for a time when she might have been laid to rest with a semblance of such care?

GUARD. weekend 3 minigame — team 4.

Though the passage of time can be all but grievous, it feels as though mere moments before once more, the realm is enveloped in night’s embrace— and the nightmare that yet follows reemerges.

Around them, their walls stand tall; defences a remarkable fruit born of their efforts towards innovation. It had allowed them much-needed fortification against such sieges, working in tandem to keep their foes at bay. No longer did they need only rely upon themselves, for machines now decorated their frontlines— warm and readied with magic they had wrought as their own. It is a wonder, within itself; although they remind her, somewhat, of a more sinister technology she had once witnessed… Eir obliges to place her trust where it is needed. Such battles required all the aid that they could afford, and the regent knows better than to turn it away when so readily offered.

From the distance, the first of their enemies begin to shore, drawing near. Their slow crawl towards the village walls no longer deceives the sovereign; instead, they only serve to strengthen her guard. One extends itself close, dark matter beginning to seep between wood— it cracks and splinters beneath its might, and the creature only strengthens. Without a second’s hesitation, Lyfjaberg flies from her fingertips— the blades of light course swift and clean through the air, parting the night with a sharp whistle. The weapon cuts cleanly through a narrow opening within the wall, striking the slime right within its center. The night air echoes its wailful shriek, sending it coiling backwards.

Eir attacks Black Miasmic Slime (4,5) from (6,5). Roll: 2. Barely hit! ( -2.5HP ).

Miasmic Slime’s HP: 0.5/10.

Black Miasmic Slime is unable to counterattack !

But the foe is yet to be defeated— and its white eyes seem to glare at Eir with what can only be interpreted as fury. It raises itself once more, preparing to throw itself against their slowly failing fortress; the regent grunts lowly, helpless— Lyfjaberg’s toll is a steady retribution upon her. With a sharp turn, she calls out to Azura, urgency evident in her tone. “Quickly. It is nearly finished…!”

Eir takes recoil damage ( -2HP ).

Eir’s HP: 5/10.

arcaeda​:

the voice of another startles her, and she turns with a surprised look on her face at the call of her name. “oh my gosh, i’m so sorry i hadn’t noticed you!” she apologizes, tense posture gone the instant she gains the audience of even a single person. she must always keep her lighthearted attitude in front of others.

“that would be a great help, eir, thank you.” the smile that follows is full of relief. “i’ve been trying to get some wall repairs done but my injuries have been getting in the way of that.” she sighs, shaking her head. “i certainly won’t get anything done fast enough before night falls.”

“… Oh, no. I apologise for startling you.” The warm tone of her face goes slightly flushed; Eir steps away, intent on giving the queen space. The grave air disappears within an instant, replaced by something lighter— for a moment, it is as though their troubles are washed away, the mere presence of Talys’s sweetheart a charm to dispel of any ill. Still, she appraises Caeda with her full attention; she is no stranger to Heroes, nor the manners in which they oft acted. There is yet care to be offered in silence, in tender watchfulness. For the moment, she treads lightly; it would be unbecoming to pry.

Instead, the sovereign returns her smile. She knows little of the makings of faith and its healing, but life itself must have something to attest for it. At the queen’s invitation, Eir reaches to relieve her of her tools— and at the slightest brush of their hands, she imparts what she can of Ymir’s ever-flowing vitality. It will do little to truly repair her wounds, but if she can offer even a little of her strength…

estians​:

Metal hits the dirt with a dull thump one last time before Est sets the shovel aside with a sigh.

It is not an experience entirely new to her, she supposes, this silent kind of farewell. War leaves little time to throw grand funerals for the fallen, barely even enough time to bury their corpses deep enough to keep the animals from digging them up—not that animals seem to be a problem now that the forests are empty of them.

Good soldiers—dead soldiers—don’t get funerals, just a lump of dirt to mark their final resting place. She doesn’t know who or what these bones belongs to, but Est will do the tedious work for them, if only so they can rest in peace. Everyone deserves that much, right?

That’s the thought that distracts her from the truth of the matter, at least. Est wasn’t there to see the corpse trees rise or the dawning sun turn them to bones, but simply imagining it is horrifying enough. How long had these ghosts slumbered, that they found themselves so deeply entangled in the roots of these trees?

“I think that’s deep enough,” she says after a pause, leaning down to gaze into the deep pit. “We might have to dig another one, though. I don’t think this is big enough to fit all of them.” Straightening, she turns to face her companion, head tilting. “Did you find anything over there, Eir?”

TAG !  @asphuxia

The ground is devoid of the weapons of the fallen, and the sight that it leaves resembles a massacre more than battle— though Eir knows it not to be true. It is a cursed place, of souls in unrest and the dead yet dying, and no manner of rite can soothe her heart of the ordeal. It is merely the manner of which such things transpire within this realm, an interference of death’s own, constantly out of reach. Until once more the sun departs, the moon calling upon her domain, the nightmare remains a mystery to be unraveled.

As they prepare to give the dead the burial they are owed, however, the sovereign cannot help but search for more. There must be something that might offer her ease, a step closer to piecing it all together. Yet, the day forbids her more than mere imagination, and Eir is left to only envision what might have transpired the night before. The stories relayed by their companions and remains of what had been offer enough to placate her mind, but she wishes still to have been there.

Coarse dirt stubbornly parts for the end of her shovel, easing out the edges of the hole. There are far too many of the dead to account for, not unlike Hel— and yet, it is with a lingering sense of unease that Eir gazes upon them now. It is almost strange… though so freshly unearthed, the conditions of the corpses are a telling sign of their own. Leaning down, she continues to inspect; bare fingers brush upon cold skin, desperate to find a soul. Some had passed eons ago, and some mere decades. What force had bid them rise, if not that of her own?

“… No, nothing of note…” Her voice is monotonous, detached— betraying no attempt to hide her worry nor frustration. The sovereign’s findings are worth nothing, presently; merely an observation meant for death’s attention. With a silent sigh, Eir draws away from the pit, turning to face with Est. “Another hole sounds necessary. There are far too many…”

aimlessarchery​:

The confirmation that he is in the presence of yet another queen is precisely absurd enough that he hardly staggers this time. A one-to-seven ratio of queens versus anybody else in this group. Sure! Why not! Hells, maybe there’s another one hiding somewhere out here! He laughs, loud and abrupt. “No, no, you don’t gotta apologize. Neither of you. Just started wonderin’ how many of us here have whole kingdoms on our backs, I s'pose.” It’s certainly more than he’d imagined. A military academy is bound to be chock full of nobility, sure, but his time in the Deliverance and the armies of Southern Zofia had him convinced that a decent majority of them would be second sons and heirs to minor estates. There are a good few of those at the monastery as well, of course. It’s just, well, some days it feels like there’s never not some sort of monarch within spitting distance—not that he’d outright spit on them. Uh, usually. That honor’s reserved for useless despots like dear old Lima IV. “…Right. Well uh, regardless of which of our butts are destined for thrones, I guess we’re all simple foragers for today.” He adjusts the basket at his hip, taking in the varying shades of green in the underbrush. “There was somethin’ with small white flowers that was supposed to be good, right? Or…was it pink?”

@asphuxia​​

The suddenness of his laugh startles her, the clear expression of his amusement ringing through the air. But it is not a bad reaction, that much, Eir can surmise— and she is grateful for it. Slowly, a smile forms upon her lips, and she nods towards the archer. She supposes it is only natural, a wish to know; such company was oft overwhelming, if not a source of the enervation of most. There were fickle relationships between noble and commoner well-observed within Askr, the likes of which had all been complex and nuanced in their own rights. Nevertheless, Eir acquiesces to the peace. It is far from her wishes to be treated any differently under the influence of title.

They begin to settle into a clearing, rich with all manner of flora; each colour is exquisitely represented by one herb or another, flowering all around them. With a growing excitement, Eir kneels to inspect the growth around them. Her woven basket is set by her side, as though ready to welcome whatever she might find fit to place within. Slender digits handle each plant that catches her eye with adequate care.

“… We should not simply pick any flower or herb judged by colour,” she defers, a slight shake of her head. Such a broad descriptor barely narrowed the search down, and allowed much space for added criteria— offering none at current that might ensure their safety in foraging. It is fortunate that Midori had imparted some of her knowledge unto her during their time together in the Order; now, Eir knew better than to simply pick what was pleasing to the eye. “All of them, unsuspecting in appearance, have the potential to be deeply toxic. Take care not to cut yourself upon any thorns.”

She thinks she is dreaming at first.

         Surely the Eir she sees among the crowd is a mirage, an illusion created by whatever is wrong with the village. Ganglöt had not thought it would be so easy to find her; she did not want it to be so easy to find her.

         Did she ever want to find her at all? Why is it that she feels she would have rather not found Eir at all, that she would have been more content with the idea of revenge, of Eir?

         There is no time to think of such things now; Ganglöt pushes through the crowd (which is not a very difficult task, as they part for her), until she is right behind Eir, scythe in hand. Now, I can do it now, I must do it now. Eir will not even know who had struck her.

         Ganglöt tenses, ready to swing; she knows just where to strike the princess. How many times had she watched Hel strike down her own daughter? How many times had she watched Eir fall, studied the slow arc her body made as Death stole over her face?

         It is different, though, to do it with her own hands. It is easier to watch. It is slower when she watches.

         “...Eir.”

         It surprises her, her own decision to speak. A million taunts and threats teeter on the tip of her tongue, but she does not voice them. Instead, a demand spills forth:

         “You will come back from this moon’s fiasco alive. I will not permit you to die by anyone’s hand but my own. …am I clear?"

It had been a moment of sordid naivety for Eir to believe that the dead would not return to life.

The blade makes itself known to her before she needs to witness it, the bold flirt of death with her soul a well-memorised dance. It is a presence none are wont to forget, and the regent least of all; from the distance, she registers its knife-bright edge parting crowd and soul alike. The world itself seemed to quiet around her— the surrounding chatter but a buzz in the air, so remote and isolated, one could have imagined it. Within that brief void of all else, the thin space between nonexistence and reality, it was as though life had begun to kneel in death’s presence.

At the end of the scythe, Eir stills. Within the moments it takes for her to compose herself, flowers wilt and blossom beneath her feet; the sovereign’s affinities at odds with her. Softly, a sigh disguised as an exhale escapes her— drawn out and slow, lest her fear might crawl once more into the hollow of her soul. It takes all of her strength to resist the anger that rolls over her in waves, the threat of viscera so palpable in the air. It is unbecoming of her, she knows; so far removed of all of her true mother’s grace and sensibility, so deeply entrenched in the constant need to survive. At the sound of Ganglöt’s voice, it takes just a little more not to recoil.

Instead, Eir straightens her back, irons out her posture, and breathes.

“… You seem to get ahead of yourself,” she answers, countenance serene— yet her once gentle tone unsheathes naught but a blade’s edge. It is with a strange inflection that she speaks, a veil of apathy drawn over a voice otherwise warm with compassion. When enough of her had been ripped away, stolen from her very fingers; when her identity had been washed away like blood— that was when Eir had discovered true emotion. That was when she began to harden and grow sharp, not at a loss of love for the world, but an important part of her heart— at the loss of a soul. At Ganglöt’s mercy, she had lost all she had ever loved and never known. Now, the handmaiden is at hers, and Eir is all but Hel’s empathetic, merciful death. “You mistake me for someone who will bend to you. You believe I remain the sweet girl you bring to slaughter.”

When she turns to face the other woman, gaze falling first upon the scythe, her visage fixes an expression she has never felt nor worn. Eir wants to gasp for air, to cry out for someone, anyone. She wants to grab her mother’s handmaiden and weep into her arms, to beg for lives past— what they had once shared. Eir wants to plead for her adoration even when it had come in the form of a blade against her neck. But ultimately, she does not, and she discards every intent to surrender herself to her memories. Sapphire eyes are steely, restrained; and when they meet Ganglöt’s, one could almost claim them cold. Then Eir smiles, icily, in a manner that is hardly a smile at all.

“No, Ganglöt. Let me make this clear. I will not die by your hand. I will not lose what little I have left.” Is it for herself that she says these things, that she dares not flinch nor cower? The life of which her mother’s soul sustains tells her everything but. There is a deafening roar in her ears, her heart a rebellious creature within the confines of her chest. Each word is a struggle, barely withheld in its simmering anger; even so, Eir manages. She speaks carefully, deliberately— letting not a single syllable understate her emotion, her rare expense of fury. Well-buried within her voice lies a pain so carnal and thinly contained, it threatens to rip through her throat. It is the truth that spills unbidden from her mouth. “Not to you, not to Hel, not to anyone. Take care that it is not you who dies at mine.”

It registers, mere seconds late, what she has said after she says it— and Eir finds that she means each word in their entirety. At her side, the arcane reaper is an intrusive presence. It aids only to cement the sovereign’s every impression, to justify all measures of her caution. Ganglöt’s eyes betray her approach, speaks for her every intention gone unsaid; Life’s queen knows better than to hope for anything less. It is Hel’s handmaiden, after all— and she knew best those she once loved.

As her voice leaves her, so too does her anger; Eir draws back, quieting her heart. It aches in its wake, praying for reprieve— it is too much, too much. All but a pride born of deaths not rightfully hers begs her not to falter, to finish just as strongly as she had started. It is with that same pride that she rolls back her shoulders, and her eyes do not begin to water. It is with that pride that she ignores the hollow emptiness that pools in her heart. She has never felt so fragile, so vulnerable in dignity. The quiet tremble of her hands come to a decisive halt.

“… and before you manage kill me,“ Eir leans towards Ganglöt, voice low; the words leave her lips barely more than a whisper, a final warning, “you will continue to address me as ‘Lady Eir’.”

The village’s reception of them, doubtless a fruit born of their group’s many efforts to bond, is not at all affected by their hunting trip the week before. Despite their deep aversion to the consumption of meat and the deaths of animals, Rusalka’s people have taken to them much more kindly— watchful eyes and wary glances transforming into sweet smiles and inviting natures. Perhaps too kindly, some would argue. The sovereign glances down at her cotton garments, stitched with palpable care, yet… unsuited for her. The battlefield would not welcome her, dressed so. Beside her, Andrei works in relative silence; she can imagine he is not too pleased about the ordeal, either.

Eir draws her attention back to the task at hand, gaze falling upon the ingredients and tools laid out before her. The knife in her grasp is a far cry from a weapon, if its performance now was anything to judge from. With her palm flat against its hilt, she struggles to press cuts into pieces of meat, never quite forming a clean line. They were to marinate whatever game that yet remained, creating jerky to preserve their hunt. It was unlikely that the villagers might take to eating it, after all, and that they had become so involved…

The forest left no trace of their excursion; left no hints as to the bountiful hunt they had harvested. Though they could little hide the scent of meat, nor the meals of their own; Eir had done well to ensure that graves had been well and thoroughly dug. Where there once lay the carcasses of deer and bear, the earth had swallowed them— at the whims of her affinity, grass grown and nurtured by blood, life blooming across barren soil. It was a gruesome sigh, after all; one little would wish to bear. Yet, she wonders if it may have kept them slightly independent of the village.

Her mind does not dwell on those thoughts, however, placing the past where it should stay. The sovereign presses her knife deeply into another chunk of meat, shedding off pieces of fat. Though they are deep in their task, the silence feels heavier than need be. With a brief glance towards the other, Eir remarks on their trip. “The bear was… unexpected.”

aimlessarchery​:

Forage in the forest outside of the village [Max 4 muses per thread] - Receive 1 basket of resource (berries, nuts, mushrooms, herbs, flowers) per post [Can now choose which type]

The buzzing song of insects hangs in the air, accompanied by the sharp crack of a branch snapped underfoot and a grumbled swear. Python kicks the offending stick aside out of the path, cursing the soft cloth shoes that have replaced his usual boots. If he had his clothes and his bow, he could be bringing in pounds of meat to feed the village—if these people were normal. Instead, he trudges through the underbrush with a woven basket on his hip and mutters under his breath.

He’s not alone, either. Three sets of hands are better than one, especially when they’re expected to contribute to the whole town’s larder now. One of the faces with him is…slightly familiar, but he can never be too sure. Not after the way his little chore session got derailed last time. He gestures to each of the girls accompanying him, empty basket swaying off his elbow. “Alright. If either if you are secretly a princess or a queen or something, just get it out of the way and tell me now. Got it?”

@estians / @asphuxia 

It is quite different from her last trip foraging within the forest, Eir thinks.

At heart, she empathises with Python; one would never enjoy being stripped of their belongings, forcefully submerged into a culture not their own. Beneath the newly sewn feel of the tunic she dons, Eir too, shifts uncomfortably. She is used to feeling as though she is not quite present, phasing in and out— here, and then not. Now, she feels utterly and almost strangely grounded, bare hands tightening around the handle of her basket. That she was comfortable in such a state remained to be determined. Her heart feels hollow, without Lyfja at the ends of her fingertips. With a brief glance, the sovereign looks towards Est; wondering if, at the very least, the forfeit of hunting eased her.

However, it certainly did little to avail Eir’s discomfort, that they would be expected to look after a group so large— and with no help but their own. Exacerbating the wound was the necessity of healing, and repair work done to the village as a whole after the siege; sending everyone out with chores almost immediately. If nothing else, it was a splendid exercise in getting to know her fellow companions— nothing like a near death experience, as it were. But when Python addresses her and Est both with a gesture, the possibility of that camaraderie suddenly appeared slim.

Eir is not entirely sure of what to say. The truth was a very recent unravelling; to that effect, she stays pointedly silent.

“Um,” she murmurs, after a moment. Her voice is rather soft when the question that follows escapes, “my apologies… does my being a queen offend you?”

ulircursed​:

     Andrei looks away at the expression on Est’s face as she snaps the animal’s neck. “It’s necessary,” he justifies to no one in particular. Whether against humans or beasts, sometimes bloodshed simply cannot be avoided. This is for their own survival. Eyes turn towards the handful of rabbits, as well as the doe Eir felled. “Though I do believe this is sufficient for our needs, at least for now,” he continues. The doe by itself should provide enough meat to feed all of them for the week; aside from drying and curing it, all while evading the watchful eyes of the villagers, it won’t last much longer than that.

     With less regard to silence now that their food source is secured, Andrei steps over to the dead deer, crouching next to it. “We’ll have to dress this right here,” he says, “And leave any conspicuous parts behind. Perhaps even bury it, for good measure. I doubt the villagers will look favorably upon us returning with the doe’s head proudly on display, or enjoy stumbling upon a rotting carcass on their way to the woods.” Their pouch can only carry so much, at any rate.

     He looks up at the others. “If either of you have a blade, and the willingness to do so, feel free. Otherwise, I will handle it.” Gaze lands expectantly upon Eir’s weapon, so expertly used a moment prior.

@asphuxia​ o/

Before she realizes it, the soft soil beneath her boots becomes a final bed for another carcass.

Crimson seeps into the dark of her coat, growing heavy as it carries the weight of death; Lyfjaberg is never brighter than at moments such as these. The sovereign of Life feels a hitch in her throat, a cry never spoken— her hands do not tremble as she wrenches the blade from the maw of the bear. The princess does not flinch as blood pours in its absence, darkness watering the earth, nourishing as a spring. Iron is a sharp scent to her nose, but one deeply and most intimately familiar. In the aftermath of her second kill, Eir stills. The forest, in its own voice, also mourns.

Even so, one could not cry so terribly after what is lost. Grief and sorrow were necessary, each threaded into the making of life; yet they did not bring back the past. They did not breathe new life into the dead. Beneath her gloved palms, the heart of the beast has well and truly stopped— joining the deer lain to rest beside it. There was much work to be done, and the sun had begun to set.

The princess of death wipes her blade clean.

“… I will take care of this mess,” Eir manages, voice low; she faces Andrei and Est with an apathetic gaze. In her eyes, it is difficult to differentiate between what may have been either enervation or shame. “… The both of you may return, if you wish.”

In her hands, life would welcome these deaths with grace.

litaum​:

The flattery does not go without extending her own, and that she does: “You are much too kind, Patty. Were it not for you pointing the topic out, who’s to say where this little creature may have landed? Your kindness will be repaid.” Elice has always enjoyed the serenity that nature provides, finding Eir’s statement rather comforting amidst a time where her mind tells her to turn behind.

At the very least, it seems their discussion on the topic has been settled. “There is truth in that.. I won’t deny it. Then, how about this⁠— In this moment, we change tide’s courses. Although.. I can’t say how to go about it..” Rather, she didn’t know anything about its species at all. It is mere chance they have met, but even with a small creature such as this, she believes there is an intent. The aura omitted feels gentle enough, she believes.

She deems it best to release it back into nature, ever-so lightly shaking her fingertips. “Be free, now. You don’t need me,” she softly coos. Yet, its tiny legs hold on as if Elice can provide something its otherwise lacking. “Ah.. You cannot join us on our journey, I’m afraid.” Blue locks drape her sides as she takes a step closer to the bushes, leaning forward to allow a platform. Still, it holds on. “I wonder why it won’t leave my side.. What to do..?”

@asphuxia​

Eir watches Patty’s expression closely, observing as conflict passes over the girl’s face like shadow— with light in her eyes, the sovereign’s inquisitive look gives way to something gentler. The Ymiran nods in acknowledgement, clear in her understanding. Once, she had been of the same thought, if only on the opposite end; that death was a final mercy, an end to life’s constant struggle. Yet there are things one can only learn, and through life’s hardship does it teach. The princess’s hand reaches out to gently cup Elice’s own, the three of them the creature’s veil.

“… Life is, within itself, a circle,” Eir says, each word from her lips uttered slowly, deliberately. It is her intent to ease the heart, to soften the reality of grief— make less painful the envenomed facets so attached to life. Her tone is soft as she continues, the world going quiet around them. “It is a cycle of giving, and receiving; of sacrifice and growth in equal measure. Just as this creature lives for the sake of its family or nest, so too does it provide for it.”

“For us… it is as a mother might surrender her life for that of her child’s, or when flowers bloom across the graves of the deceased.” The growth around them sways gently as Eir gestures towards them in a graceful, sweeping motion. Bare fingertips brush against the undergrowth, skating the surface of the soil. Her digits catch upon a new sprout, nourished by the nutrients of what had gone beneath. “One goes and provides for the other. The other stays, and grows.”

“Death is a friend to life— they are eternal companions.” In her words there is a soft inflection, almost as though she struggles with the admission. It is something she wishes to say, however; especially in the company of two so special, as they were. Meeting their gazes, Eir manages a smile. “Without one, the other holds no meaning.”

A pause. The Ymiran’s attention returns to the bug.

“… Though I would not deem eating this creature as little more than meaningless…” Her tone is lighter now, amusement from before returning to colour the notes of her voice. Eir sighs, soft. When she speaks again, it is with a palpable tenderness. “… I must also concede. Do not feel too guilty in accepting death’s gifts when they come, for they are also life’s gifts, as well.”

As she finishes, the creature yet remains upon Elice’s hand, stubbornly holding on— despite its invitations to leave. The princess of life smiles, glancing towards the Altean princess. Leaning towards the other, it is with a subtle murmur that Eir confesses, “… the meeting of two souls is never simple coincidence.”

She says nothing more of that, confident that Elice might grasp the meaning herself. Instead, Eir’s curiosity sets its eyes on the other aforementioned soul. Upon closer inspection, the insect twitches its antennae; constantly pointing towards the direction whence it came. Where it directs, there is a small opening in the green— they clearly had not prodded through this section, yet. Moving closer, Eir leans forward to inspect…

“Oh,” she inhales sharply, sitting upright. The sovereign’s countenance is vivid with pleasant surprise; she looks at the other two, azure eyes shining happily. “That smell…!”

team guard minigame 1, group b.

They do not enter the dream. The dream bleeds into reality, and itself intends to draw blood.

At the first cry, moonlight tears into Eir’s rest, knife-bright and immediate— within moments, her companions rise and gather. Despite the hour well into the night, their war-trained minds are equipped to respond; each pushes aside their bleariness, taking up arms. Soon enough, they are split off into patrols of three, lined up against Rusalka’s fortress walls. What lurks within the night beyond, advancing steadily in assault, waits not for them. The night arrives despite the day's protest.

All around them, wood splinters and cracks, crumbling surely beneath siege. Ahead, and out of reach, death’s heir makes out the figure of a shadow, rising in motion— followed by a thick thud. Once more, the shadow throws itself against the fortress. Without reprieve, it repeats itself again; this time, the oak gives way. Ruined stakes form as the wall parts, fractals of the material within merely a marker of its forged path. At the very sight, Eir grimaces. This would be no simple enemy to face.

Before she can urge her patrol to move, the sight of another enemy halts her in her tracks. The void looms, white peering over the wall. Its hollow eyes meets the Helian’s, though she does not understand what she gazes upon. Then, as the other had done before, the shadow strikes the fortress with uniform strength. The collision resounds, reverberating; the wall will endure little longer. Gathering her courage, Eir summons her blade, and lets the light cut its path in a sharp arc.

Eir attacks Miasmic Slime (15, 7) from (15, 8). 1d20 roll: 1. Miss! ( -0HP. )

Miasmic Slime’s HP: 3/3.

Miasmic Slime counterattacks. Flat damage. ( -1HP. )

Eir’s HP: 9/10.

The shadows part, and Lyfja is nearly dull— a lustre lost that Eir has never before quite witnessed. In turn, the slime-like creature retaliates; miasmic pseudopodia extend over the wall, slamming into the Ymiran in a strike she cannot avoid. Staggering, the princess finds her footing, biting back a grunt. Very rarely had she fought enemies such as these, those that seemed neither part of this world nor the next. The memory of the Dokkálfar rise to the forefront of her mind, nearly— but Eir knows it is not the fairies who are at hand.

Swiftly, Eir regains her balance, taking care to place some distance from her enemy’s immediate range. A frown curls her lips, and Eir is left squinting into the darkness. As though to rise in claim, two glowing eyes stare, then blink in her direction. The shadow raises itself, preparing to ran against the wall once more. This time, Eir does not hesitate to let Lyfja put an end to the nightmare— and now, with precision unmistakable.

Eir attacks Miasmic Slime (15, 7) from (15, 8). 1d20 roll: 15. Hit! ( -3.5HP. )

Miasmic Slime’s HP: 0/3.

Miasmic Slime (15, 7) has been defeated !

Miasmic Slime drops 3 Red Dream Crystals !

As it fades away into nothing, they remind her of Hel’s denizens; the ranks of warriors once sent by her mother in ceaseless conquest. Unlike the dead, however, they leave something behind; material, Eir leans down to inspect the crystals left in her enemy’s wake. A cursory gaze towards the battlefield prevents her from looking any further.

Despite the slow decimation of the enemies’ numbers, yet more arrive to take its place. Where one shadow dissipated, two others would form; if caution lay abandoned, they would find themselves quickly overrun. Eir glances towards her two companions, one beyond the wall itself; she nods, curt, before moving to speak.

Swallowing, the Ymiran nurses Lyfja’s toll with practiced impassivity, letting no hurt carve a crack upon her visage.

Eir takes recoil damage from activating Lyfjaberg’s bonus. (-2HP).

Eir’s HP: 7/10.

“They are unrelenting… like spectres. This battle will not end until dawn breaks.” The gravity of her inference is drawn upon her face; their battle to light’s arrival would not be weathered with ease. Despite its dues, Eir’s grip upon Lyfjaberg’s handle merely tightens. “We must defend the walls, and what remains of them. The housing of our companions must not be breached.”