the fallen knight

freliaes​:

Axe +1

     Graverobbing. Innes can’t say the occurrence is entirely unheard of, but it’s disgusting all the same—to dig up the recently deceased, and use their corpses for Gods-knows-what purposes… it is unforgivable, and Innes had every intention on bringing these perpetrators to justice. Peace, to the grieving families. Respect for the fallen. To grant them the final, peaceful rest they deserved.

     He knows of Orson’s wife. Heard the stories, and received the reports, about the changes in Emperor Vigarde’s demeanor. To be used, manipulated, and denied that final rest was an even crueler fate than death, one he wouldn’t wish upon any self-respecting soul.

     And so, the Frelian prince lies in wait underneath the shadow of trees, with scant slivers of moonlight being the only source of illumination within the darkened wood. Their investigation had taken them to this forest on the outskirts of western Adrestia, where sightings of strange men lurking about at night had been reported by several locals. But for the half hour or so he and Fernand have waited, nothing of import has happened.

     That is, until a touch of firelight passes—a torch, held by a man walking down the road. Though upon closer inspection, ambling would be the more accurate term. The man’s movements are odd; his footsteps slow, shoulders slumped and legs unsteady, as if he were in danger of toppling over at any moment. What little skin is illuminated by the torch appears to be clammy and pale, prompting Innes to turn to Fernand, confident that the professor was of a similar mind.

     They’ve found their persons of interest.

@eideslanze​

          Fernand is no stranger to witnessing the dead reanimated as monsters. Graverobbing, however, wherein the deceased are dug up for some unsavory purpose and denied their right to a peaceful rest—such an act is vile beyond reproach, and one he will not stand for. Have the bereaved not suffered enough, that they must also face the bodies of their lost kin being stolen? Were it his own family’s graves being looted—and may they continue to sleep undisturbed, if there is anyone in the heavens above still listening—he would know no peace until the villains were dealt their due punishment and then some.

          This darkness is damnably difficult to see in, though. Hidden amongst the shadows cast by towering tree trunks, the pair of professor and student ( nobleman and prince ) wait and watch for signs of unusual activity as claimed by the locals. Of ghastly-looking men lurking in the woods at night, shuffling about as if possessed. To Fernand, the description is more reminiscent of revenants than graverobbers, but there is no telling for certain until they see for themselves.

          And see they do, after a seeming eternity of patient vigilance. The torch is a shining beacon against the dark of night, carried in the grip of a pale figure walking—shambling—along the path. How unsightly, he thinks as Innes turns to him, a decisive look in sharp eyes with regard to their discovery. There can be no doubt now—this is what they’ve been looking out for.

          “Ghastly, indeed,” he murmurs, expression pulled into a grimace. “I had hoped that to be an exaggeration on the villagers’ part.” Slowly, Fernand steps out from behind the tree from which he’d hidden himself, careful to make as little sound as a man in armor can manage lest he make his presence heard too soon. “Shall we go and greet him, then? But keep an eye out for more of his ilk—I doubt he is the only one wandering about at this hour.”

amicitium​:

They were already exhausted before they were set up on by such bizarre contraptions. The undead were already wearing them down when metallic arachnids appeared out of nowhere, eerily silent and glowing a most unnatural shade of cyan. Whilst her sword had been useful in dispatching leagues of revenants it failed to even fall upon the mechanical joints that grind and scrape as they approach her allies. It sang through the air as she struck before stopping half an inch from it’s target and being thrown back at her with terrifying force.

That definitely put a spanner in the works.

With no way to effectively fight whatever these things were, Elincia made the decision to signal a retreat. Normally, she’d stop and consider whether she had the authority to call upon the knights to retreat - this wasn’t her homeland of Crimea and she was far down on the chain of command. A mere student aiding the Knight of Seiros. More and more of those odd metal spiders appeared and advanced upon them though, the threat growing with every moment of hesitation. With no way of fighting back they could either leave or throw away their lives.

She sprinted over as the destriers were already being prepared to ride out into the night. Unfortunately, one had already made a run for safety and the group were a horse down. Inconvenient but Elincia herself was fairly petite. She could easily slip behind one of the knights as they rode back to the nearest campsite, if one was willing to let her ride alongside them.

“The beasts– metal things,” she gasped out, already weary and fearful, “there’s some sort of barrier around them. Our weapons can’t even make contact. Trying to fight back is futile, we should leave whilst we still have our lives.”

@eideslanze

          The horrors plaguing the village are seemingly endless, which bodes ill for their forces as they struggle to fend them off and protect what people yet remain unaffected. Searching for clues that might help solve their predicament proves to be a largely fruitless venture as well, all the while drawing nearer and nearer to their breaking point. It is a grim reality they face, and one that manages to worsen rather than improve when the earth quakes and from the snow rise a series of large, metal-bodied spiders, the lines of glowing cyan running across cold steel adding to their eerie appearance.

          Someone gives the signal to retreat, evidently having decided that fighting them is more trouble than it is worth. Horses are mounted in hopes of outpacing the enormous arachnids, doubling up wherever necessary due to the uneven proportion of mounts to riders. As a cavalry soldier himself, Fernand is among the first to be prepared to flee, only delaying when he’s approached by one of the students who had insisted on remaining to help. Queen Elincia of Crimea, if memory serves correctly. It’s plain to see that she’s winded by her rush to reach him, words leaving her in breathless gasps as she explains the situation.

          The creatures are impervious to both weapons and magic. Wonderful.

          “...Hence the order to retreat,” he remarks dryly. “Very well. Quickly now, unless you fancy running the rest of the way on foot.” One hand leaves the reins to assist in pulling her up and onto the saddle, granting only a brief period for the royal to settle in behind him before nudging Erhardt into motion. The strange whirring of the spiders’ limbs begins to recede as the destrier picks up speed, gradually widening the distance separating them from their pursuers, though Fernand spares not a single glance over his shoulder to see for himself. Not when his task is to focus on the path ahead.

windsheedme​:

@eideslanze​

“To arms! To arms! We’re under attack!”

The well too familiar call jolts Merric awake in the dead of night. The patter of feet, the shouting of commands, the clanging of weapons as everyone scrambles to get what they can - feels just like home, doesn’t it.

The Mage knows better than to complain danger to the face, however, and picks himself up instantly without a word. His robes, made to be comfortable for sleeping in, are already on his body; the Excalibur tome, resting within his arm’s reach, is quickly snapped up.

He then dashes out of the tent, sparing Professor Fernand little more than a passing glance. The man’s lectures and training sessions, admittedly, involve little of what Merric is interested in, or good at for that matter; but he does nevertheless pay as much attention to them as he can. In addition, he has seen more than enough knights in his life. He can be certain that silver-haired nobleman doesn’t need more of a clue for what to do.

(Better yet, the Professor should probably be the one telling him what to do, not the other way around.)

The moment he steps outside, an unfamiliar gust hits his face; he instantly summons his own in response, the celadon wisps of mana casting a weak green light around them as they prepare to answer his command. He raises his head to see the source of the disturbance, and in the illumination, he sees the silhouette of…

… well, he doesn’t know what that is, but it’s terrifying.

The flying monster lets out an unholy screech as it swings the large scythe held in its talons (?) straight at his neck; the Mage’s combat training pays off, thankfully, and he instinctively steps back and ducks to avoid the strike. A portion of magic is quickly gathered in response and he sends it towards the enemy, praying in his mind that maybe, just maybe, it’ll turn out to be as weak against Wind magic as the pegasi and wyverns he knows.

That is a little hard to ascertain for the time being, but the creature does recoil from the hit with what the greenhead can only describe as a scream. A few torches have been lit here and there by the knights, casting more light around and revealing the opponent’s shape more clearly. Merric stares at it for a second, before turning to Fernand.

“… D-Do you know what that is, Professor?”

          When the call to arms makes itself heard to all in camp, Fernand is nearly grateful for the distraction it provides. Sleep is a fleeting thing where he is concerned, has been ever since that ill-fated day; too often is it plagued with warped dreams of days long past when it does see fit to claim him. With this night little different from the many that came prior, alertness is quick to return—or perhaps it had never left to begin with—and spur him into action, quickly donning his armor once more before following Merric outside.

          Amidst the buffeting winds that greet him, the former knight soon decides that whatever he had expected to find attacking their camp in the dead of night, a large flying monster came rather close to the bottom of the list. An ear-piercing shriek rends the air, its scythe gleaming in the semi-darkness as it lunges for the mage— ”Watch out!” —and is swiftly rebuffed in turn by a gust of magic. Visibility improves as torches are lit; though its size and golden mask set it apart from the kind common to Valentia, there is no denying the similarity it bears to them in every other way.

          “A gargoyle,” Fernand announces grimly, watching the creature warily. “Or something very much like one, rather.” As natives of Fódlan, the knights already know what measures to take in times such as these and waste little time in engaging their foe. Only Merric, who is clearly unaccustomed to dealing with monsters, requires any sort of explanation for what to do, and so it falls to him to provide. “They’re agile, and difficult to strike at close range. Arrows are the quickest method for felling them, as with any other flying foe.”

          "Hey! Don’t just stand there gawking— you’ve got hands, so take a bow and start shooting!” A nearby knight shoves one, along with a quiver, into Fernand’s hands before entering the fray themselves, leaving him to bite back the displeased grimace that threatens to surface at having to wield a weapon he’s never used. Fine. The motions seem simple enough—how difficult could it be?

aimlessarchery​:

Whatever it is that entitles Fernand to Python’s business when the reverse is apparently not applicable is a mystery to him, but he’ll let that slide for now. He’d like an opportunity to sample more of the food here, if he can manage not to get his head bitten off by one of his least favorite ex-coworkers-turned-enemy-turned-whatever. (’Ally’ feels a bit too friendly, even if they may have both been working toward stability in the One Kingdom. Python hardly considers whatever politicking Fernand had done as Lord Lécuyer to be relevant to his own work, after all.)

“Got a job here, if you must know. Not all of us have a family fortune to fall back on. Gotta work for a livin’.”

He bites into another pastry, determined to enjoy them while they’re still warm. The students seems like they put a lot of heart into this little get-together. It’d be a shame to cause too much of a scene here, and the pitch and volume of Python’s initial reaction had already turned a few heads. He clears his throat.

“Anyway. Right now I’m celebrating being alive. Didn’t ya see the flyers outside? Heard there’s something about announcing what you’re thankful for. Hadn’t gotten to that bit, myself.”

          “A job. Here,” Fernand repeats, sounding almost incredulous. It’s as straightforward an answer as can be, yet in the process it raises the same question he had already been thinking since their unexpected—and unwanted—reunion. “Is the One Kingdom so lacking for work to be done that you would sail across the sea just to find some?”

          His scowl deepens, dark eyes developing a sudden fascination with the floor at their feet. It would be easy, to let bitter indignation bubble over at the mention of family fortune. To spit venom at Python and, in doing so, effectively admit that it remains a sore spot even after two years’ passing. ( Clive would say that it has only been that long. ) But his temper rarely flares with so much intensity now, weary of allowing anger to get the better of him. Of looking for excuses to lash out, and pushing away the hands that only sought to help.

          He’s never been very good at backing down from a challenge. If resisting the urge to strangle one of his least favorite people qualifies, then he’ll just have to grit his teeth and bear it.

stolen from: here ( thank you cece ) tagging: if you haven’t already

NAME. fernand adalbert lécuyer.

BODY.

height: 181cm / 5′11″

strength ★★★☆☆

dexterity ★★★☆☆

health ★★★★☆

energy ★★★★☆

beauty ★★★★☆     **maybe if he didn’t frown all the time he’d have five stars. or maybe it’s part of the charm. who knows.

style ★★★★☆

hygiene ★★★★★

aimlessarchery​:

@eideslanze

Garreg Mach’s First Annual Glad-To-Be-Alive Celebration Sometimes, it’s the little things. Come give thanks for living another day and celebrate with good food and good company in the Golden Deer Classroom tonight!

The little flyer announces itself proudly from its place on a cork board, with several near-identical copies scattered about the campus. Some are accompanied with a little hand drawn stag in the lower right corner. Python cracks a smile. Hard to say no to a group with a little sense of humor, especially when he can smell a tasty aroma floating from the direction of the classroom.

The classroom has been temporarily converted into a makeshift miniature banquet hall, warmly lit and bustling with energy. A good section of one of the tables seems to be entirely dedicated to piles of whole roasted chickens, with the rest of the table space dedicated to supplemental appetizers and side dishes. Python plucks a bite-sized pastry from a platter and pops it into his mouth. It’s flaky, flavored with fresh herbs, and still warm from the oven. Yeah, he could get used to working at a place like this.

He scans the room as he chews, the idle chatter and bright but unfamiliar faces blurring together. Unfamiliar, that is, until a carefully groomed shock of platinum blonde catches his eye.

  He chokes, crumbs falling from his lips as he weakly pounds his chest. Of all the people, him? Of all the places, now??

He sweeps several pastries from the table into the crook of his arm, searching wildly for an escape route, but Fernand is between him and the exit. And now they’ve made eye contact. Fantastic.

“The hell are you doing here?” He squawks, adding another pastry to his pile. He’s going to need the strength to deal with this one. “Thought you went back home to do your noble leaderly things, uh, sir.” The honorific is tacked on after a delay and dripping with a brassy impudence.

          Keeping to himself in the classroom-turned-banquet hall, a lone sentinel amidst an atmosphere of friendly chatter and the fragrant aroma of cooked dishes, Fernand contemplates regret for letting himself be talked into attending this... “glad-to-be-alive” celebration. He certainly can’t begrudge the students for wanting to lighten the mood given all that had happened and then didn’t, but he can’t say he shares their sentiment on the matter. That requires having a sense of optimism, and his is still buried six feet under in Zofian soil.

          It’s difficult to appreciate being alive when he's left feeling like a stranger in his own skin.

          He sighs, the sound of it almost smothered under the persistent buzz of different conversations being had at once. With no reason to stay and deeming it a waste of time to have come in the first place, he doubts anyone would care if he were to excuse himself from the room. But a choking noise draws his notice then, and to his great dismay upon searching for its source—Fernand locks eyes with quite possibly the last person he’d ever want to cross paths with again. Funny how that works, doesn’t it? Not.

          “I did,” he replies stiffly, expression pinched into a tight frown. They’d never managed to get along, even before he’d succumbed to grief and hatred and everything in between, and the tone of Python’s voice reminds him of exactly why that was. “But my reasons for being here and not there are none of your business. If anything, I should be asking you what you’re doing here.”

ulircursed​:

     Aside from a handful of fencing lessons in his youth, as was part of the expected curriculum of a scion of nobility, Andrei had hardly tried his hand at any other weapon. Even with the blood of Ullr flowing only weakly through his veins, he had never, ever imagined forgoing the bow for anything else.

     It seemed, though, that Bow Knights in Fódlan shared no such sentiment. Riders were expected to have at least a passing proficiency in wielding lances — something about versatility and avoiding being boxed in by enemies, which he knew from experience was a negligibly rare occurrence for a mounted archer.

     This thought kept him at the edge of the training grounds as his fellow students spread out, excitement buzzing as weapons were exchanged, the air soon filling with the clanging of inexpertly wielded weapons and the shouts and laughter of their temporary owners. Andrei watched the scene in a detached manner, only to turn when his name was called by a familiar voice.

     A shadowed sword descending upon its victim, the casualties of the hard-won battle turned back by the hands of fate in what might or might not have been mercy—

     “…Professor Fernand,” Andrei inclined his head, a practiced, neutral expression on his face as he addressed the older man whom he had watched die not long ago. It was good, then, that they had a topic of conversation at hand aside from their shared experiences. “You would not, though I was… only observing the exercise for now.” Hopefully enough to have the barest idea of how to proceed when a foreign weapon was in his hands.

          If Andrei bears any recollection of the events leading up to the past year being rewound, he is graceful enough to refrain from mentioning it. It is a conversation Fernand has no particular desire to have with any of his former companions, not now and certainly not anytime soon considering what it would inevitably entail; he is grateful even if he does not express it in any significant manner.

          A thoughtful hum leaves him, turning over the bowman’s reply in his mind. “Is that so? I’d only come to observe as well, but ‘for now’ suggests that you do intend to engage in this exercise eventually,” he remarks with a gesture of his free hand to the scene before them, the air rife with a cacophony of voices and weapons clashing against one another. “If you’ll pardon my asking, is there a certain goal you have in mind for being here? You are capable with a bow—that much I am aware of.” In spite of what appears to be a lingering injury from the man’s past, but it likely isn’t his business to pry.

You make arrangements with the village for part of the delivery to be sent ahead early, hoping that it will reach its destination safely with a less conspicuous party. In the early hours of the morning these villagers arrive at your camp, and after a few words and easy smiles you watch them pack their wagon with your gifts and go on ahead of you. An hour later, another set of villagers arrive at your camp, insisting that they are here to pick up part of their shipment, as arranged. They even show you the letter that you sent to them confirming the exchange, something those first villagers definitely didn’t have. A fast rider should be able to catch up to the thieves! [Grants Riding or Flying +1]

          “...And not a single one of you thought to have that first group prove they were from the village? You just let them waltz off with the supplies, never once stopping to consider that they could have been thieves looking to pull the wool over your eyes?”

          Unbelievable. It was supposed to be a simple mission—the Black Eagles were to deliver charity to some of the less fortunate villages across the continent, in the interest of lifting their spirits amidst the unease borne of the erased year’s events. For their particular group, arrangements had even been made to send a portion of the delivery ahead with a smaller party, to make the entire affair less conspicuous. But as luck would have it, that would be too simple—and now they have a second party of villagers at their camp, this time in possession of the letter that had been written to confirm the exchange. The letter which the first group did not have, mind.

          The sigh that leaves him is one of equal parts exasperation and irritation. What’s done is done—all that’s left now is to perform damage control and take back the stolen goods. The Knights of Seiros present have already begun to mobilize, issuing orders and preparing to pursue the thieves while the students reassure the villagers, but every minute that passes is another minute for the thieves to gain more ground.

          A swift rider should be able to cut them off and buy time for the knights to catch up, Fernand thinks as he narrowly sidesteps a few knights in his haste to head for where the horses have been temporarily stabled. Erhardt perks up at his rider’s approach, and the destrier’s mane is given a few pats before the sound of approaching steps draws his attention instead to royal features framed by sunset curls. “Lady Celica? ...What brings you here?”

incursionparagon​:

The rain came down so suddenly that none of you manage to get your umbrellas open in time… But since your gear is drenched and your clothing unsalvageable, you decide to have a little ‘sparring’ in the rain. You smack the other umbrella with yours and grin. En garde! [Grants Sword +1]

It felt fitting, somehow, that this odd ‘new’ year started with rain washing away all else. She saw it in the uneasy way students’ gazes swept across the halls, how they jolted at the sight of some unforgotten friend as though they’d seen a ghost: they, too, remembered a year that hadn’t happened. Just what had left an entire year undone…

The downpour caught her on a day of reprieve, which she obviously spent attending to the already-abandoned chores in need of her diligent attention. Really, how quick some of these students were to slack off! Keeping an eye on the state of their buildings was crucial, lest they fall into disrepair without notice… but when the sudden rain had assailed her, her cautionary umbrella laid idly against a distant crate and out of reach, she’d forgotten just how many cracks of note she’d spied in the stables. A tragedy, truly; there were at least seven.

She’d forgotten, and for what? By the time she’d made her way back to her umbrella, she was already well and truly drenched– for a fortune without her armor on, but a fully soaked long sleeve shirt was perhaps, in a way, worse. An unhappy situation either way.

A heavy sigh joined the abundant clouds; the knight made for a pitiful sight as she began her long trek back to her own room, wet bangs flicked out of the way with one hand and a decidedly dry umbrella held in the other. They did say misery loved company, however, and the sight of a certain other professor did much to make her wonder if fate had taken mercy on her in a way.

“Ah… Fernand.” A wry smile twisted one corner of her mouth, though the faint warmth of her greeting reached both of her eyes. “I see you and I are neck and neck for the speediest professors outside this afternoon.” A quiet chuckle, and she rested her ‘blade’ in her other palm, striking half of a duelist’s elegant pose. “Why, I may just have to duel you for the title.”

@eideslanze

          He can’t say he had missed experiencing rainfall very much, coming off the heels of Zofia’s years-long drought. As a boy, it often meant staying indoors all day ( to his immense displeasure ), and as an adult it is more of the same, barring circumstances that necessitate otherwise. Suffice to say, it is one of the few things in his life that haven’t changed at all, in spite of the frequency with which he finds his world turned on its head.

          An entire year, undone but not forgotten. Fernand would have thought it utterly absurd if not for the uneasy, haunted looks from students and colleagues alike, if not for the jumble of lives he never lived still impressed into his memory and seeping into his dreams at night. If not for the certainty with which he knows he should not be so alive and whole—but he is, and somehow... life goes on. The sheer simplicity of the statement still takes him by surprise, every now and then.

          But his thoughts are straying. Of more pressing concern is the downpour steadily drenching him from head to toe and souring his mood, having caught him unawares in the midst of a reprieve from tedious desk work. He’d not had the foresight to carry an umbrella with him; by the time someone had taken pity on him and lent one of theirs, it’d hardly made any difference whether he used it or not. Gloved fingers grip the handle a fraction too tightly, only mindful enough to keep the tip of his still-dry umbrella from dragging along the ground in his haste to return to his quarters; only when a glimpse of rain-dampened red draws his notice does Fernand pause in his tracks.

divinetyrfing​:

if he is being honest here, watching a grown man get harassed by a young child half his height is.. a little humor-inducing. he coughs into his fist, hiding the laughter that bubbles within him. that laughter does not last long.

forget a single blow to nemesis, he absolutely just took a single blow to his ego. he should be good at playing pretend, he’s technically a father! blatantly hearing the girl say that he sucks at this makes him sigh. what was wrong with the way he played the villain? surely every young child wanted to see such an evil character go down in one hit by their doing…

a wry smile appears on his face when he’s approached by fernand. this is just a game of child’s play, but sigurd cant help but get the feeling that he’s being made fun of here. he stands up, briefly wiping the snow off his legs. he clears his throat to make sure his voice is as loud and as deep as he needs it to be to (accurately?) play nemesis.

“ha, of course!  i was merely playing with little seiros here. such a flimsy sword could not so easily destroy me.” he attempts to sound grandiose here and gets the point across……….. enough for it to be just barely satisfactory. “now then-” he pauses, realizing that nemesis’s “evil lackey” here doesn’t have a name. “er- what do i call you?” his voice turns into a whisper to make sure that the girl can’t hear him. he doesn’t think he can take another insult to his play skills.

          ‘Nemesis’ rises to his feet, and evidently having taken the girl’s criticism of his performance to heart, makes a renewed attempt to act the part even if Fernand thinks it could stand to be more convincing. He pauses, though, voice shrinking into a whisper as he turns to his ‘evil lackey’ with the realization that said lackey has no name, and the Zofian nobleman sighs as he considers how to respond. His own name won’t do, obviously, and he has no interest in making the man choose for him...

          An idea comes to mind, then. It’s only for a game of pretend, he reasons, and there should be no harm in it—it’d be just like when... No, now isn’t the time for that. Falling back on lingering regrets and sentimentality will only hamper his acting, and he would rather not endure another insult regarding it if he can. To the girl, he commands haughtily, “Foolish Seiros! To defeat King Nemesis, you must first pass through I, Blaiddyd of the Ten Elites! If your puny sword is even a match for me, that is.” Disregarding that ‘Seiros’ had already scored a blow against ‘Nemesis’ once, before it’d become clear what was going on.

          He wonders if she knows.

          Warmed by the afternoon sun, the monastery gardens create an atmosphere of peace and quiet that few would dare to disturb. Indeed, little in the way of conversation between them has occurred since she took a seat beside him on one of the benches spaced along the stone walkway, preferring to share in the silence rather than engage in idle chatter. That suits him just fine—there is little he has to offer in that regard, anyway.

          Fernand considers telling her, though: that he had died on that mission, even with the protective charm she’d granted him prior. Can still recall the events leading up to it, even if not clearly, since the year’s rewinding had oh-so graciously allowed him to retain his memory of everything before. It would upset her, of course—she had taken the time to pray for his safety before their departure and fate had not been kind enough to honor the fact. But allowing her to go on believing that he’d emerged from the ordeal in one piece does not sit well with him, and he has always detested lying even by omission...

          The nobleman stiffens when a weight settles against his shoulder and stays there, glancing to find Celica’s head resting against it; the royal having seemingly dozed off to the peacefulness of their surroundings. Had he not chosen to forgo his armor for the day, he would have likely woken her and advised against using him as a pillow, but seeing as that is not the case... Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to allow her the rest, for now.

All at the Academy, students, Knights and Professors, are to broaden their horizons and never stop searching for their hidden potential. And so one day, in response to a call for volunteers, a group of curious souls gathers at the training grounds for an interesting experiment. The goal? Find a partner or partners, exchange mounts, weapons and equipment, and try them out on each other. Who knows - perhaps you have a gift for magic, swordfighting or wyvern riding you never knew about! [Grants Any Skill +1]

          It is a well-founded idea, generally speaking. Stepping out of one’s comfort zone and seeking to push the ceiling of their abilities ever higher is a natural course for any knight or warrior, and the proposed experiment falls well in line with that course. And if someone were to indeed discover the potential for a skill they had not thought to train in before, then perhaps it would be a new goal to work towards going forward.

          Fernand would rather bite into a rotten fruit ( the idea of which is absolutely disgusting ) than even think of picking up an axe or gauntlets. Magic goes without saying, as well, but in the first place he hadn’t come to the grounds with the intention of taking part—only to observe what might come of it as is the duty of one tasked with watching over the growth of others. Brows arch subtly as a number of those present even go as far as to exchange their mounts; he expects at least one such case to end with someone being bucked or thrown off. Erhardt certainly doesn’t take kindly to strangers, at least not without coaxing on his rider’s part and the promise of an extra treat to be given later.

          But as it happens, chestnut gaze lands upon a familiar face—and one seemingly lacking for a partner for this exercise. Memories of the mission to the Kingdom’s western reaches resurface; something in his chest constricts, but it is harshly dismissed as Fernand steps away from his post by the wall to fetch a training lance and approach the bowman. “Andrei. Would I be wrong in assuming you do not have a partner to train with?”

Status: Exempted (Hiatus)

---

Activity Check [August 2021]

Status: Passed

Stats Log [09-13-2021]

Total SP: 14 -> 17

[Skill proficiency improved.] Riding rank raised to C (50%).

[New ability acquired.] Learned the Vengeance combat art for participation in the Unlocked event.

[Skill proficiency improved.] Obtained a Knowledge Gem for participating in the finale of Unlocked. Riding rank raised from C -> C+.

[Skill proficiency improved.] Obtained a second Knowledge Gem for sufficient event activity throughout Unlocked. Heavy Armor rank raised from E -> E+.

[New item acquired.] Obtained an Axereaver for sufficient event activity throughout Unlocked.

[New item acquired.] Obtained a Superior Barding for sufficient event activity throughout Unlocked.

bold whichever aesthetically-pleasing imagery fits your muse to a T. italicize the ones that are only somewhat their vibe. repost, do not reblog!

I.  fluffy, white nimbus clouds.  dark, grey cumulonimbus clouds. rain clouds.  a hurricane.  light spring breeze. hazy yellow skies.  deep blue ponds of freshwater. blankets of sparkling snow. tornado winds.  monsoon flooding.  rich, orange sunsets.  soft, purple clouds at dusk. heavy hail.  the rumbling of thunder.  icy sleet.  gentle snowfall.  moss-dusted tree bark. pink sunset clouds.

II.  grey winter skies. navy blue skies in the daytime.  cool mist in the morning.  leaf-bare trees.  giant ocean waves. the full moon. a cracked, dry desert. rolling hills of prairie grass. sweeping waves of briny seawater.  rocky, steep ravines.  rippling canyon walls.  spindly, cave stalactites. creeping, green ivy.  lush canopies of leafy trees.  dense, white fog.  a peaceful creek of clear water.  flowering cacti. catching light in the morning sun.  a bubbling, hot pool of volcanic sulfur. sharp, grey mountainsides.  fossils nestled in chunks of rock.  a white sand beach.  deep imprints of animal tracks in the dirt.

III.  soft, squishy moss. uniform rows of birch trees in winter. delicate mushrooms popping up in spring from beneath the decay on the forest floor.  tumbleweeds jerking in the faintest wind across the desert landscape.  light rain.  summer wildfires.  a mix of hot and cool air before a storm. silent lightning in the static of summer heat.  a windy blizzard. thick flakes of snow tumbling down from the sky. a tree standing alone in a barren, yellow field.  a desert of loose sand and tall, orange dunes.  a pure blue sky. a river of molten rock.  a grove of flowering trees. twisting, mangled roots sticking up from the muddy ground.

IV.  bitter, cold winds.  tumultuous skies of stormy clouds.  branches of lightning, ripping across the sky. a foggy swamp.  the tree-bare foothills of a mountain range.  sandy brown cliff sides.  rocky coastlines.  the violent shaking of an earthquake. the lights of the auroras borealis and australis.  a black sand beach.  a lone tropical island in the reef of shallow, aqua waters.  underwater volcanic vents.  a herd of migrating mammals. tree branches growing heavy with ripe fruit.  light streaming down through the clouds. a field of lush grain waving peacefully in the summer breeze.  the sound of insects and frogs teeming in the night. natural disaster.

aubins​:

As the Shadow Titanus releases another of its deadly blasts, Yuri deftly dodges the attack—and the rest of his allies are not so lucky. Mockingbird flies past the towering machine as the rest ready their own weapons to strike at the heart. An unspoken, unanimous decision has been made, it seems.

Shadow Titanus uses Purge of Worlds. Yuri dodges the attack. ( Yuri : 7.5 / 10 HP )

Archers nock arrows and let them fly; lancers swoop in and retreat. And surely they must be getting closer to the heart’s demise, if only it would stop healing itself in the process. They have to make it count, else they find all their progress undone once more. So, when Yuri’s blade comes swinging down, it connects with a satisfying finality, the finishing blow to this long battle. The heart glows with a bright light, finally crumbling away.

Yuri deals 1 damage to the Void Heart! The Void Heart has been defeated.

Good, he thinks as he turns back. That’s one part of our objective finished.

The second part is to simply make it out alive, a task easier said than done when the remaining titan suddenly spurs to life, more animated than it had been previously. He is nearly back to his allies when he has to sidestep the metal monster in surprise, lest he get trampled by it instead.

“That’s not good,” he remarks to himself aloud, creeping around the side of the machine to reunite with their group of five. A hand tightens around the hilt of his sword as they stare their final opponent down, the only thing left standing between them and the rest of their lives.

Whoever Yuri sees next, whether it be that magenta-haired boy from his vision or Aeschylus himself, someone is going to answer his questions. The first of them will certainly be what in the name of the goddess this place was.

          Something in the air seems to distort, if only for an instant. Fernand’s gaze flickers to Febail, to the bow he wields, and wonders if it is merely his imagination—before the sentinel unleashes another devastating wave of magic and what little luck had spared him last time vanishes like mist in the sun.

[ Shadow Titanus uses Purge of Worlds, critically hitting Fernand and inflicting him with Void. ] [ Fernand: 3/9 HP. ]

          Resistance to magic—or rather the lack of it—is a common weakness shared by many, and the former knight is hardly an exception to the rule. A sensation akin to being badly burned strikes him directly, and vision goes white as a scream tears itself free of his throat; struggles to remain standing with knees threatening to buckle under his weight and knuckles bone-white around the Wishblade’s shaft. ( but it’s more than just that, isn’t it? more than the immediate nova of pain wracking his body, something else seems to strip him of his strength in a different sense. )

          For the first time since that day so many months ago, he feels the touch of Death’s fingers drawing near. But he is not afraid. Funny, how that works out.

          No, instead Fernand looks to the heart and its increasingly damaged state, unable to regenerate as quickly as it is struck again and again and again. Joining the rest in their bid to see it destroyed, he skirts past the titan on weary legs and in a motion far more deft than a man flirting with oblivion should be capable of, drives the end of his lance into a core of pulsing red.

[ Fernand attacks the Void Heart, dealing 1 damage. Void Heart inflicts a penalty to Fernand’s defense in return. ]

          Tugging the weapon free, he feels an odd affliction wash over him—a parting gift from the heart, no doubt. No sooner does he back off from the machine than it is finally brought to ruin, a nimble blade delivering its death knell; bright light spills from the construct before crumbling to dust. Only the guardian left to take down.