monster

exemplaris​:

“That is simple—!” Glancing around quickly, Ferdinand winced as he caught himself to not-so-subtly lower his voice back to a hush. “It is simple; either I will disprove the villagers’ fears… or there will be more work to be done.” Other than Fáfnir, it didn’t seem that there had been anyone coming out to stop him. There hadn’t been any of the other times either, but if he were there, the Ferdinand could only deduce that at some point, someone had caught sight of him.

Disappointing.

“I suppose I should be happy with the results though, obviously, it would be preferable if there were not an gross abuse of trust happening right under our noses,” he added, taking a half step back towards the wall again… The bit of distance served two purposes: first, to affirm that he was going ahead with his endeavour no matter what Fáfnir did, and second… If he had to draw his lance, he would need space for that. It remained to be seen if he had to.

A slight grin pulled across his face then, as if seeing the crack if the other man’s expression and dove for it. “Sir! I have seldom been known not to be serious… nor am I known to be idle. I assure you—I would not be here if it were not of the utmost importance. If you should have me removed now, I promise to return.”

Fáfnir crossed his arms, shaft of his lance held now in the crook of his elbow - non-threatening, and disinterested in making a show of authority even as Ferdinand defiantly stepped closer to the wall. His curiosity had been sufficiently piqued instead, and as Ferdinand dared him to doubt his earnestness, a chuckle slipped from his throat.

“You are quite the bullheaded one.” He sighed, seemed to think for a moment about the job he had been sent out to this side of the wall to do, and then approached the wall as well. As Ferdinand had, he too lowered his voice.

“Fortunately for you, you’ve caught me in a good mood.” And the rumors that Ferdinand pursued now had not escaped his own notice either, though it was not unknown to the people in the village that he had been brought in as a bodyguard for the camp. What information he had managed to catch uttered between unaware passersby was surely far less than whatever Ferdinand had managed to gather.

Kiran reveals a small mechanical cat, only the size of their palm. "Uh, it's not animated, and it's actually powered by hot water, so if you put it in the bath with you, it'd swim around. You know, like, do a little paddle. And it doesn't make any noise, so if you're taking a nap or something, it won't bother you."

They gingerly place it in his hands. "I've nicknamed it Duro. Means durable or hard." A small smile at Fáfnir. "But call it whatever you want. It can be your companion whenever you're alone"

Of course wherever the Askr brats went, so too did their odd little tactician, so it should not have surprised Fáfnir so to hear his name called - or rather, sung by the only person fearless enough to address him in such a way. He turns on them with a scowl, though it is one borne of exasperation instead of malice. It seemed that everyone from his past had shown up at this academy he had believed to be at the end of the world, and they all wished or expected to find him dead. But Kiran was truly an oddity. They are more concerned now with forcing a gift upon him for his birthday than exacting revenge for their companions' homeland, and the gesture is enough to thaw Fáfnir's frigid demeanor. Even if only a little.

He lets Kiran place the toy into his hand, and interest lights briefly in his eyes as the tactician explains what it does.

"Do you take me for a child?" he asks sharply. "I can bathe and sleep without need of a companion, especially some frivolous bauble. But--" He sighs and turns the gift over to better examine the mechanics that allow water to give it life.

exemplaris​:

The tip of his harpoon jerked at every dark shadow that flitted by some distance below them; Ferdinand hadn’t the experience to judge the depth, but if it came up at them with any sort of speed, Ferdinand supposed he would at least have the sharp end of the thing trained on the approaching beast… Which he was certain was just waiting for them to let down their guard and take the opportunity to strike, another casualty to the seas—

“The nobility is the same no matter where you are…”

“There must be some mistake!” He objected with an even deeper crease to his brow, the confusion that was written into his face plain to anyone who looked. That could not be possible. Perhaps their diligence and support had been… lax following the fall of House Nuvelle, but the Empire could not possibly allow such a gross oversight to have occurred, let alone the sheer negligence that the men were describing. The failures that were implied between the lines. 

“Perhaps your petitions had been intercepted, or—" Perhaps it was just incompetence. Was incompetence really any better than intentional inaction? Ferdinand grimaced. “Perhaps there was nothing that could be done! They could not have just shirked their duties—”

“They always do!” It sounded weak even to him, and the sailors did not miss the beat. One sneered, not even looking away from the empty ocean and his harpoon to laugh. “Gods, have you lived under a rock, kid? They’ve got no reason to help us unless they can get something out of it themselves. If it doesn’t pay dividends, they’re not gonna—”

 “But they are supposed to!” Ferdinand retorted, voice edging on a note of desperation as he tried to grasp just how things have gotten to that point. He gestured wildly at himself and Fáfnir, rocking the boat ever so slightly and grimaced. Because that was not nobility. He wouldn’t let either men tell him that it was. “With or without a crest beast, here should have been aid! The Empire has a responsibility to the wellbeing of a vassal state. We can arrange that when we get back.” 

“I—I will even advocate for it personally if I must! House Aegir may be far, but we is not without our weight. Sir Fáfnir can act as witness to this!”

The indignation might have been taken for a joke had the expression on Ferdinand’s face not been so serious. The fishermen all but spat the truth back in his face, but Fáfnir couldn’t bring himself to laugh along with them this time. His eyes flitted from one party to the other, watching silently as every should and would the idealistic student seemed to live by was ripped in half. This was reality, no matter how difficult a pill that was to swallow, but curiously Ferdinand doubled down on his own fantasy the more they pushed him to break.

Fáfnir gripped the side of the boat with one hand as it rocked with the young noble’s conviction. There was a fiery passion in his voice that was almost inspirational. Almost, were his audience not so jaded. The fisherman still sneered and laughed, which was fine as long as it was Ferdinand that they laughed at. But then he called upon ‘Sir Fáfnir’ for backup, and the knight in question wished very much to slough off the title - more then than ever.

“We can talk all day about what the Empire ought to do, but then you’re no different than your predecessors,” he rebukes. “What is needed now is action.” And he was becoming inpatient with the back-and-forth. He had never been one to entertain the talk of promises, but he could see too that the longer Ferdinand ran his mouth, it would only further grow the contempt their guides held toward them.

“What great timing!” one of the fishermen cried out with more mockery Fáfnir cared to hear from the man (or any man, for that matter). The rowing slowed and one of the crew at the back of their boat dropped the anchor over the edge. “We’ve reached the first spot. Here--” He threw a net heavily onto Ferdinand’s lap. “Use your noble weight to set the net. See our yields for yourself, kiddo. And you--” Half-risen from his spot on the bench, Fáfnir froze. “Bait the lines at the stern.”

• Appearance. Fáfnir has always understood the effect one’s appearance can have on others. It was cleanliness and order that had carved him a space among nobles despite his non-commissioned rank in the military of his homeland, and a carefully-cultivated image that had helped him garner the respect of a nation - however brief - after becoming king. He knows how to dress for whatever role he’s made to play, but not at the expense of his personal eccentricities. 

For example, he makes a conscious and deliberate decision to shave his eyebrows, and black eyeshadow accentuates the striking blue of his eyes (when the curse-induced sleep deprivation isn’t doing it instead). Accessories are always from a personal collection, and their adornment is intended to symbolize some memory or convey a message - even if both are of his own creation and thus unknown to those around him.

• With wealth (hard-earned, it should be noted) comes an appreciation for finer things, and Fáfnir was not known to be a frugal king. Money was spent to make a statement, to subjugate, or to pamper, and before the crown’s pressure narrowed his attention to a singular focus, he was unafraid to enjoy feasts of imported goods and wine, having known what it was like to survive on rations and scraps. Even now, food and drink remain two of few pleasures, and skipping meals is an indicator of something wrong. 

From the menu in the academy’s dining hall, meat dishes like the Beast Meat Teppanyaki, Daphnel Stew, and Derdriu-style Fried Pheasant are preferred, though he’s certainly not picky. Always down for drinks, and has a high tolerance for strong liquor.

• By the monastery’s hierarchy, Fáfnir is technically a knight, though he doesn’t like the title. He serves as a supplemental instructor for various forms of physical combat but isn’t a professor. His work with the academy is probably better compared to that of a long-term mercenary.

• Skill Strengths: Lance, Heavy Armor

• Hidden Talent: Brawl

lofnheidur​:

     SOMETHING CHANGES WITHIN HIS brother’s eyes, as though gears had turned and finally clicked. The fog that clouded them clears, and Fáfnir takes a step back in bewilderment. Ótr’s breath returns to his lungs, and he rubs the part of his jaw that Fáfnir had grabbed. He had seen this scene once before, near Niðavellir’s capital, with Eitri by his side. He had feared it then, the awareness sharply returning to his brother. But he recognizes the control it gives him now— the rip that tears through Fáfnir’s mind, and the thread he had to stitch it up in whatever way he liked.

     Ótr steadies the horse’s pace of his heart. No, this would not be the end yet. There is no room for relief. Though Fáfnir sought his answers now, his patience was as thin as a wire. Should he be too hasty or too ambitious, everything would come apart, and he would be left with nothing but pieces once more. He sucks an inhale through his mouth.

     "You misremember… I was the one who had Gramr, at least before the Askrans took it from me. They almost killed me in pursuit of that sword, but Reginn begged them to spare me.“

     His voice stays steady because it carries the truth— the fractions that he was willing to part with, anyways. He thoughtfully omits what exactly he (and by extension, Eitri) had been doing with the sword prior to it being taken. It is also his choice to hide what happened after, discarding it as one might the black spots of a fruit. Fáfnir needn’t know the rot that was Ótr’s near-death. He shouldn’t want to.

     "They offered me a place in their barracks, but I refused to be brought down so low.” His volume increases, and anxiety is as pins against his skin. Would he see through his veil again, he wonders? But Fáfnir had no choice but to accept whatever answer Ótr would give. He cannot refute what he does not know, and so the boy continues spinning his tale. “Returning to Niðavellir with Reginn was also… something I wished not to do. With nowhere else to turn, I chose to go here instead.”

     His head buzzes with some foreign sensation, something like an adrenaline rush. He ought to stop here, really. Tread no further and avoid triggering Fáfnir’s rage. But there’s a question that pricks his tongue, and a burning curiosity that drives him to spit out what had been in his mind all this while.

     "Did… did Reginn not kill you?” The uncertain waver in his words return, “What exactly do you recall?“

     Ótr stays silent, waiting for a reaction. He feels dread wash over him like waves against a shore. As it had when this reunion first began, his breathing slows to a stop. He can only pray he hasn’t said too much.

The suspicion that had fueled Fáfnir’s threats is quelled just as quickly as it had arisen. He could make sense of things if he had the pieces, and Ótr’s story gives him just that. (He would not lie to him now, after all. Not when the terror of moments ago still cast its hue over his new composure). Gramr had played a part, that much he had concluded on his own, but… yes, he had simply misremembered the hands that had held it, so preoccupied by so much else going on then.

So Ótr had it, and was offered a mercy he ultimately turned down. That, too, made sense, after Reginn’s betrayal and the stubborn streak Fáfnir had known him to have. He stares hard at some distant spot, neither tangible nor of the present, as he rearranges what he can remember around the gaping holes of what he still cannot.

The furrow of concentration lifts suddenly with a scoff and a sardonic smile, a sidelong glance at Ótr returning him to the present.

“You think Reginn could kill me? Her softheartedness aside, she could not even best me in a duel.” But what could he remember of her? And the sage. And the capital—- The capital. He frowns sharply and turns away from the incisive stare that he feels all too acutely now.

lofnheidur​:

        HIS FATE IS SEALED NOW.

        “I thought y-you— I d-didn’t think—”

        Ótr’s stuttering is interrupted by Fáfnir’s hand grabbing a hold of his jaw. Immediately, he feels his body put up a physical struggle, jerking backwards in response to his movement— when did he grow so repulsed by his brother’s touch? The action is nothing but a sudden pull forward, a simple realignment of his face so he could meet Fáfnir’s eyes head-on, but even that is enough to inspire fear and pain in equal measure. It’s suffocating, almost, being subject to his strength again; but more than that, it’s excruciating; any sort of contact with him feels as though it could make him bleed. 

        His vision errs into a deep crimson, and each inhale brings the smell of smoke along with it. Does Fáfnir know? Does he know that the last time Ótr saw him, he almost…

        Ótr gasps for breath. Where was he? Right. The feeling of Fáfnir’s grip on his jaw returns to him, alongside all the panic that had followed it. His squirming is as futile an escape as it had been the last time he was with Fáfnir, and his movements are mere trembles beneath the knight’s overwhelming strength. His fate is sealed now. There is nowhere left to run. He can do nothing more but stare back into his brother’s narrowed eyes and quiver.

        Everything he did to Fáfnir… so he’s truly aware of it, then? His teeth dig into his tongue. No. He must keep appealing— he must find a way to bring him back to his side despite everything…

       “It’s the truth. I didn’t follow you here, I—" he shakes his head as vigorously as Fáfnir’s grip would allow for, desperate to justify himself, “I thought you were dead! I thought Reginn killed you! She— she had Gramr… she was with the Askrans… they wanted you dead, didn’t they? They were searching for you! I…”

       The words die in his throat, and in the silence, he forces himself to breathe again.

       “I… honestly didn’t think you’d live through whatever they wanted to do to you. So I enrolled here assuming you were dead. C-clearly, I was wrong…”

Ótr’s struggling only tightens the grip Fáfnir has on him. He wouldn’t slip away again, Fáfnir would make sure of that, but suddenly he stops. Freezes, almost, and his eyes, fearful though they are, stare past him. Fáfnir stares back, suspicious of the lie being crafted in the pause.

“Reginn?” His frosty scowl momentarily breaks with the flash of surprise. The memories of his final moments in Niðavellir are hazy, but not even dredging his subconscious can unearth Reginn from them. She had been with Askr; he knew that. But that was the last he had seen her. His fingers loosen and he steps back slowly from Ótr with a thoughtful look. How he had ended up in his home world again had eluded him for this long, could she have--

“Wait, Gramr?” He snaps back to Ótr. “How did--” He winces suddenly. That sage had been there, the jagged sword in her hand. And that shapeshifter... And the truth had been dangled in front of him like a carrot on a stick.

stolen from: here (thank you cece) tagging: you!

NAME: FÁFNIR

BODY

height: 172cm / 5′ 8

strength ★★★★★ (even without the crown of the dvergar, he was able to seize the throne by force)

dexterity ★★★☆☆

health ★★★☆☆ (fluctuates; will sacrifice health for goals if the choice is there)

energy ★★★★☆ (more restless energy than positive; the type to rarely sit still or relax)

beauty ★★☆☆☆ (striking features, but intensity detracts from overall refinement)

style ★★★★★ (dressing to the nines is the best way to show off the wealth and status that he’s earned)

hygiene ★★★★★ (will drop under stress)

It’s something she’s heard before. She’s too trusting. Too kind and too soft hearted. But Deirdre doesn’t understand how that could possibly be something to avoid. Her trusting nature has served her well, providing opportunities, friends, and loved ones. How could that be perceived as a bad thing?

Still her smile remains and her tone joyful. “You have given me no reason to distrust you, Sir Fafnir.”

It is easy to remain cheerful for the moment. She has company, even though it is a bit awkward now they still are chatting, and she no longer feels frightened regarding the person that had been following her. It is not the first time she’s been friendly with someone rather stiff and distant. There are times when it takes more effort to form a friendship but she’s sure it will happen.

Then his gaze narrows and his words turn accusatory. Deirdre stops and gapes up at the man escorting her. She has no idea how to respond. She cannot recall a time where anyone has said anything so ugly to her. The accusation cuts deep and she is reminded of the pain on her beloved ’s face when she confessed how she had strayed from his side.

After a moment to compose herself, Deirdre stands tall and smiles again, though it is not as bright as it has been. “Perhaps it is you who are simply not trusting enough. You know nothing about me save my name yet you assume such unpleasant things. Please let me assure you that my intentions are completely innocent. All I want is to return without any incident.”

She has had quite enough incidents being instigated on her behalf already.

To trust unless given a reason not to... Fáfnir’s lips press into a hard line, but he has nothing to say to it. It’s a foolish line of logic, but he can’t say that he hasn’t succumbed to it as well. It’s easier to take others at their word. But then she stops. He walks ahead two steps and turns to look back at her just as she hides the gaping look of disbelief behind another too-sweet smile. He had hit a sensitive spot, but she fires back her own rebuttal:

You’re not trusting enough.

His gaze hardens, the muscle of his jaw pulses as he bites down on his back teeth. “Misplaced trust only leads to regret,” he parries, but the anger that had bubbled briefly to the surface is expelled with a sigh. “Your flattery is... discomforting, even if your intentions are as you say. I have rarely encountered anything but sycophants and sirens.” He waits for her to catch up with him again, but offers neither his arm nor an apology this time. Then he falls into a fragile, awkward silence, broken only by the staccato of their footsteps on the cobblestone. There’s little room for recovery after such a rift, but that Deirdre chooses to remain at his side for the rest of the way brings forth another question after a time. Fáfnir glances over his shoulder again to search for a shadow moving between the lamplight.

exemplaris​:

Walls were meant to keep eyes out. 

Never just people, but eyes, because there was something to hide. As far as Ferdinand was concerned, if there hadn’t been something that was to be concealed there in plain view, then there was no reason the Church couldn’t simply disclose and explain to the people that a project requiring discretion was happening by their village. People could be trusted if they felt that they could trust in turn, and so when Ferdinand caught wind of the rumours, he knew, in the noblest depths of his heart, that they could be nothing else but true… And he could not let that stand.

None dared to voice them within earshot of the Church knights or the raised walls of the compound, but whispers came and went of villagers being stolen away night, swallowed whole behind the black box, never to be seen again. Some said they bled them dry. Others insisted that it must have something to do with the sink hole in… In… That must have been…

(‘That can’t be right—I swear the earth caved in. It ate the village right up, I swear!’ Ferdinand couldn’t say that they were right.)

There was a lot that he couldn’t do anymore… And a few things that he could. He could get to the bottom of this. He could unearth whatever secrets lay behind locked doors, either laying their worries to rest, or proving their worst fears to be true. He would do it alone if he had to! Indeed, it would be even better that way! If they knew of his arrival, surely whatever ill-deeds were being conducted would simply be swept under the rug like any routine inspection… 

Either way, Ferdinand set out again, as he had a number of nights now, with his pack and lance slung across his shoulders and made for the facility beyond the trees. Each evening he pushed a little closer, first past the tree line, then up to the imposing stone walls, and now… Now, he just had to look for a way in. Gloved hands felt along the grooves in the wall when there came a dull thud in the grass behind him, and Ferdinand nearly jumped out of his skin.

Who— Dark hair, dark eyes, that distinctly unimpressed expression…

“Sir Fáfnir! I—” And for a second, Ferdinand had hoped that the man was there to lend his aid, but it was starting to look like quite the opposite. He doubled down, conviction shining in his eyes. “I am afraid I cannot allow that! There remains a noble calling beyond that wall, and it is my duty to answer it. I would be remiss if I permitted such a grave point of distrust to continue to fester among the villagers!”

“And what exactly do you believe is your ‘noble calling’ here?” Fáfnir asked, mocking amusement cracking his serious composure. Just as he should have expected Ferdinand at the wall, he should have also expected that Ferdinand would have some noble striving that would not allow him to come along easily. The kid was a meddler, misguided (or perhaps blinded) though he was. Still, he was something of a rarity among his kind - there was a reason, after all, that it was always Ferdinand nosing around in others’ affairs, and no one else.

Fáfnir gestured a second time for the student to step away from the wall, and sized him up in the event that he would have to resort to force. His polearm remained planted, however, and his patience miraculously tolerant of Ferdinand’s antics. For now. He was in no particular hurry to return to his station in camp, where he would inevitably be called to tend to some other minor, ultimately menial task.

It was then that he noticed the straps of the bag on Ferdinand’s back, and as his hand fell back to his side, interest raised his brow.

A template for analyzing features of a personality beyond listing adjectives.

For Fáfnir, I’m working to bridge what we see in canon with what kind of person he might be without the Crown’s influence. This template will have [canon] → [current TOA]

SELF-CONCEPT

View of Self: Hard-working and ambitious, able to achieve the impossible through his own strength and skill. Fáfnir balks at the idea of relying on anyone or anything else, including the gods, and his “unaided” accomplishments feed his sense of superiority. He’s better than everyone around him and he has the resume to prove it. He is the savior that will pick up the pieces and finally drive Niðavellir out of its old-fashioned practices and its commitment to the status quo. There’s nothing he can’t do. → A nobody. A toy given a false life for someone else’s entertainment. A fool and a monster. He questions what he has achieved himself, and whether he’s capable enough on his own in his day-to-day. Uncertain and empty, stuck in a purgatory between two lives, neither of which feel like his own anymore. Broken. Avoids questions about himself. View of Others: Most people are weak-willed and aimless, in need of something to unite them and give them purpose. Only few - like himself - possess the innate qualities of a leader, and it has no relation to whether or not one is born into the role. Without them, society would stagnate and crumble, as it has in Niðavellir. Likewise, the sheep do not make the shepherd and if they could speak, it would only be gratitude to the shepherd for gathering and protecting them from the wolves. Prior to attaining the crown, Fáfnir still believed that there was something that set him apart from others - some sort of spark or drive that compelled him to climb the ranks of the military and fill the then-unoccupied throne while everyone else in Niðavellir was content to stew in their misery. → He is closer to the weak-willed and aimless than he ever thought he was, and it frightens him. Was Eitri’s manipulation of his life confirmation that the sheep can never be the shepherd? While it may not be innate leadership qualities that set him apart from others now, Fáfnir still feels great distance between himself and those around him, which is likely by his own doing. Even more cynical toward those in power now. His sympathy for the plight of the common folk remains unchanged though, as he has always believed that people suffer as a result of their so-called leaders (among which he realizes he now sits). View of World: An awful place run by awful people. Nonstop war, suffering, violence. Those with power are constantly taking advantage of those without, because the nobility is full of greed and egomania. Fáfnir has always been dissatisfied with the way wealth and blood buys privilege, and strove to seize Niðavellir’s throne to prove that merit and ambition can be enough. → His view of the world has not changed. In fact, his conviction has only grown stronger. Motivations & Goals: To change Niðavellir for the better. To change the world for the better. As time passed under the Crown’s influence though, these goals turned more extreme, with Fáfnir eventually believing that he was the only one capable of creating a utopia under Niðavellir’s flag, even if he had to kill hundreds to get there. Also wanted to ensure that Reginn and Ótr were happy and provided for, as they (Reginn in particular) activated the memories of his original life, even if he couldn’t quite grasp them. → Uncertain. For now, provide for the family he had abandoned 15 years ago. Try to find meaning and purpose for his life again. What they Value Most: Resolve

EMOTIONAL REACTIONS

These remain the same between canon and current TOA.

Reaction to Stress: Reactive. Self-doubt is cast away and compartmentalized into external feedback, creating paranoia about others constantly criticizing him. Will sever ties even with his own family if he feels that they can’t be trusted to support him. Becomes defensive, shuts out reason, and is prone to breaking things out of frustration. Stress also manifests as severe migraines and insomnia, exacerbated by the Crown of the Dvergar, which spurs more erratic and tempestuous behavior. At extreme levels, hears voices berating him nonstop, and actions are directed desperately toward relief even at the expense of rationality and forethought. Reaction to Fear: Defensive. Aims to protect self and those closest to him first. Externalizes anxieties as caretaking, and will constantly check up on loved ones to the point of obsession and - in extreme cases - control. Not introspective so fear diminishes only when the feared stimulus is removed or destroyed. Easily transforms into stress reaction if fear is intangible. Reaction to Success: Brags and shows off. His successes are, by his definition, always self-achieved and hard work should be praised. He is not one to rest on his laurels though and after appropriate celebration, will march on to the next goal. Reaction to Failure: Similar to stress reaction. Internally berates self but externally doubles down on arrogance. The sooner he can achieve another success, the sooner his failure can be swept under the rug, and his behavior sometimes comes across as pressured and rash as a result. Tortured by memories of past failures. Primary emotion: Impatience

DEVELOPMENT

Ideal Self: A well-loved king, praised for the ambition and resolve that carried him from his lowborn life to the position of a pioneering leader. Leaves his mark in history books for centuries to come as the man who propelled Niðavellir’s empire to be the strongest and most advanced country in all of the seven realms. → Back to who he used to be before being summoned to Niðavellir. He doesn’t quite remember his old life, but he idealizes his past self as a humble, but still hard-working soldier who climbed the non-commissioned ranks in order to give his family a comfortable life. A loving husband and good dad, satisfied with his lot. Areas of Growth: Solidifying identity and self-concept. Rekindling ambition and drive without going to extremes. Finding forgiveness. Developing strength to be accountable for his past rather than running from it. Barriers to Growth: Fragmented sense of self. Short temper. Defensiveness and tendency to push others away. Superiority as a safety net. Aggression, hostility, and tendency to assume others are criticizing him.

          He has no reason to trust the man’s word, but he likely would have heard something to the effect by now if Fáfnir had harmed Sharena in any way. Still, Alfonse remains on edge, unwilling to let his guard down around the other even when his pacing has ceased and he stares with a blankness in his eyes. Even when the former king’s next words warrant a degree of sympathy for his plight, at least until he seems to realize he’s let slip more than he intended and the hardness returns in full.

          “No, I suppose you wouldn’t care anymore as things are now,” Alfonse agrees, gaze unflinching even with Fáfnir’s lance pointed his way. How much their abilities differ now, without the Crown of the Dvergar to tip the balance in Fáfnir’s favor, he doesn’t know, but it would be a waste to simply leave when he did want to get some training in. “The first to be disarmed or forced to yield is the loser. Is that agreeable?”

          He’s at a disadvantage, he knows—Fáfnir’s choice of weapon gives him longer reach and will make it difficult to close the gap in full. His own preference for using a shield in conjunction with his sword has always been for the purpose of reducing that disadvantage, aside from providing basic defense in battle. It’s with a deep breath that Alfonse closes his eyes and opens them again, lifting his blade to mirror the other man’s gesture. The only thing at stake this time is their pride. “Here I come, then.”

Fáfnir had only half-expected Alfonse to take the challenge and indeed it had been issued in part to send him on his way again. Their past clashes had been severely one-sided and for all of his distaste for the prince, Fáfnir had thought he seemed sensible at least. But perhaps that is precisely why he stands his ground now. Though the truth behind his own monstrous strength had dawned for Fáfnir far too late, he knows the way traitorous tongues could wag. And no one among his circle could be trusted with his secrets - a revelation realized after the damage had been done.

Now there is now ill-begotten crown to throw the match off balance, and the prince does not hesitate to launch his first strike. It’s muscle memory and instinct that breaks Fáfnir’s foggy reminiscence to position his lance to parry. Flicking the tip of the sword away provides a split-second opening, but the polearm arcs too widely for its mark and Fáfnir stumbles forward to regain his footing. Using the remainder of the momentum, he pivots sharply back toward Alfonse again and backpedals to put the distance between them that makes his weapon of choice a proper counter to the shorter blade.

He hides the frustration from the fumble behind a half-smile. “It has been quite a while since I’ve practiced with such a primitive weapon.” Though the gullinbursti had augmented his strength, Hreiðmarr had still been far heavier than an ordinary lance, to speak nothing of the size itself. But surely it had not been that long since he had taught Reginn and Ótr how to wield a weapon either. He rolls his shoulders. “I suppose this little exercise will serve me as well.”

She perks up quite a bit when he reveals his title of knight. Knights are good and just. She is fortunate indeed to have run into one in a moment where she was fearful. Her tight grip on his arm loosens but she still does not let go.

“And you, Sir Knight, are an exemplar of that honor and chivalry!” Deirdre looks up at him, face beaming. Her words may be grandiose and over the top but her praise is genuine.

Cheeks flush slightly when she realizes she’d forgotten to give him her name. She hasn’t even ask for his yet either! She hopes he will not think her too rude. To think she asked a favor of him without even supplying an introduction!

“Oh I hope you can forgive my lack of manners. My name is Deirdre. If you would provide your company until we reach the professor dormitories I would be quite grateful. My lord husband will have been missing me.” She gives his arm a gentle, friendly squeeze. “May I have the name of my rescuer or must I continue to call you Sir Knight?”

Sir Knight. “Honor and chivalry.” The bridge of Fáfnir’s nose wrinkles with a grimace that he makes little effort to hide.

“Make no mistake: I am not truly one of them,” he corrects. “Whatever title I bear is one I have earned, not inherited. If you must address me, call me Fáfnir.” The compliments ring false and shallow. Fawning, even. This woman does not know him, does not know what he has done nor what horrors he is capable of. He pulls away slightly to loosen the uncomfortable grasp she has on his arm and regards her suspiciously, searching for strings beneath the sugar coating. He will not be someone’s puppet again.

“You are awfully trusting of someone you have only just met,” he points out. And rather unafraid of personal space as well, which he finds all the more perplexing for one who appears to be a student, and a married one, no less.

continued from here | @lofnheidur

Ótr cowers and hesitates for far longer than Fáfnir has the patience to wait. A yes or no answer shouldn't take so long. The truth shouldn't be so hard for the little rat, he finds himself thinking, but is suddenly startled by his own callousness. He realizes, too, that he had nearly walked away just then. For all of his treachery, Ótr had still once been family, and that alone persuades Fáfnir to hear him out.

The answer, when it finally comes, is incomprehensible. Fáfnir frowns outright now, furrows in his brow darkening, eyes narrowing further.

"You thought you'd be alone?" he parrots incredulously. "At an academy?" That Ótr had not meant it so literally escapes Fáfnir's recognition for now, and he sizes the boy up in the beat of silence that follows. He could hardly look at him, and his upward glances are shy, almost furtive, as if he can only stand it when Fáfnir does not notice. But he does, and this display of cowardice bears too much resemblance to the obsequiousness Ótr had weaponized when they still lived in the palace.

starter for @exemplaris

“A student has been getting a little too close to our work. As this is biological in nature, we must limit contact as much as possible. That is why we contracted you, after all.”

That had been enough to get the picture. Not that the researchers would offer to explain themselves. The pair of assistants who had delivered the orders had stared at Fáfnir with a palpable expectancy that he be on his way to remedy the situation at once. He didn’t like that. Nor the way that - in the two days since his arrival at the makeshift laboratory on the outskirts of the village - they had come to treat him like some sort of gofer for all of their menial tasks. Fetch that. Lift this. Scare away a nosy student. It gave the impression that they did not think him to be particularly bright. But he did have the sense to keep his mouth shut. Just do the job, get paid, leave. Both parties would forget about each other in a weeks’ time.

(But I had been someone once.)

The needling rumination kept his right hand white-knuckled on his lance as he surveyed the perimeter. It wasn’t a large camp, though the walls had been built up so high that not even someone sitting in a nearby tree would be able to get a look at what went on inside. He doubted a student who had climbed up in one would draw the attention of the researchers, but still his eyes swept the forest’s edge as he marched, probing the late afternoon shadows for the spy who supposedly lurked somewhere nearby.

He wasn’t expecting that spy to be a beacon of fire out in the middle of the light. Bright orange, a familiar shade. And an equally familiar, never-silent voice.

Was he talking to himself even here?

“When they said a student was trying to get a peek, I should have expected it to be you,” he said, and punctuated it with a huff of laughter, sardonic enough to drain the pleasantry of its pleasantness. He planted the butt of the lance in the sparse grass and gestured with the fingers of his other hand for Ferdinand to step away from the wall.

exemplaris​:

How worrying it must be to fish with a crest beast lurking in the waters!

The fishermen were commendable for their continued efforts in working the waters; Ferdinand couldn’t say he knew much of sea-faring or fishing in general, much preferring the business of the more continental, pastured regions of Aegir, but the perils of the open sea were not unknown to him. As the dark waters stretched on as far as the eye could see, and the village fast disappearing behind them, the vast expanse of deep waters only impressed itself on him more. That crest beast could be anywhere.

“And truly, with such a threat awaiting them in the water, you would think that our markets could be more forgiving with the delay!” It was disheartening, honestly, to think that his countrymen had been more concerned with the interruptions in commerce than the realities of those who made such trade possible. Ferdinand could name at least a half dozen other sources for seafood; certainly, none rivalling the quality of Brigid’s catch, but if these were the conditions, then compromise cannot be out of the question. He frowned. “Especially with the unpredictability of crest beasts! Why, one time on a training mission—”

“Stop talking and keep your eyes open.”

Ferdinand’s mouth shut with a click, his lips pinching into a mild frown as he bade the terse command and turned his eyes to the water… The sea lapped at the side of the boat with a steady rhythm. Gulls circled overhead, evidently not seeing much of anything either, neither catch nor predator. Didn’t birds have a good sense for that sort of thing?

“All I was trying to say,” Ferdinand continued, starting softly but building up to his usual timbre in short order. “Is that I am surprised there are not more knights dispatched to see to this matter.”

One of the fishermen accompanying them laughed, then turned to look Ferdinand dead in the eyes. “The kid really thinks anyone was about to come out to help? They barely know how to ride the waves… One wrong move and they’ll end up at the bottom of the sea, and then they’ll blame us.”

Ferdinand stared, stunned. “But—”

His perception had failed him before, he supposed, especially when memories and dreams superimposed themselves over reality. For a moment longer, Fáfnir searched the depths for what he thought he had seen, but when he found no trace of it, and neither of his companions had either, he settled slowly back into his seat again. It had been enough of an interruption to silence Ferdinand for a few precious seconds, but soon enough he was back to prattling on about shoulds and woulds again. Fáfnir busied himself with the mechanism of the harpoon across his lap instead of letting the grimace the topic brought to his face show too plainly (it was a crude tool at best... spring loaded, but that was all; a child’s craft compared to the seið back in Niðavellir).

Then the fisherman laughed, and it was such a gruff sound that it made his head snap up on instinct. The words were barbed - aimed to scuff Ferdinand’s chivalric ideals - but Fáfnir could not dispute them. The man was right, and the look of rare speechlessness on the garrulous student’s face pulled a smirk across his own.

“It sounds as if you’ve requested the knights’ aid before,” he observed when the amusement had been schooled back to dutiful solemnity. The fisherman laughed again, though it was less caustic than the first time.

“Yessir. We’ve all lost count of the letters by now. They’re either ignored, or we get--” He gestured at the two. “Only reason the Empire - or whoever you’re with - paid attention to this request was likely ‘cause the numbers in someone’s business ledger weren’t to their liking. Can’t make money if you ain’t got product to sell.”

Fáfnir thought back to the village they had just departed from, the sunken, hungry eyes that had stared at them as they made their way to lodging, the scraps of clothing on some of the children. Whatever they did manage to fish up went straight to the lord of the land, he was certain of it. This time he didn’t hide the way his lip curled and his brow furrowed.

@secretforestlady:

Though she does not know him, simply being in the presence of another person is enough to calm her beating heart. Time had passed far more quickly than she expected while she studying in the library and, by the time she had finished, it had already grown dark. She knows she should be safe on campus but it is difficult to shake the nervous feeling when she is alone.

"I am not sure. I could not make out any features on them but when they continued on the same path I was on, I dared not look." She walks close beside him. Though he does not offer an arm, she slides hers through his. Already, she feels much safer. "I am lucky to have run into such a kind stranger."

The indigo hue of dusk had already come to paint over the scarlet sunset, and though lamps are abundant throughout the monastery, they make the shadows in the spaces between all the darker. It does not seem strange to Fáfnir that a maiden would prefer the company of another over walking alone. But it’s the sensation of her fingers suddenly around his upper arm that throws a skip into the otherwise even rhythm of his step.

“Lucky? Hm.” He recomposes himself under the guise of considering her circumstances, glancing at her sidelong. “To help those in need ought to be the duty of those who bear a knights’ title.”

Not that that had ever been the case, in his experience, and a frown slips behind his words though it remains absent from his face. Though he bears the insignia of Seiros’ knights now, he would not dare throw himself in with those of true nobility - it had burned him quite severely before. Nevertheless, he bends his arm across his middle to provide her a place to rest her hands in the crook of his elbow as they walk.