━━ IMAGINARY LIVING BODY!

[Speed bane: 16 -> 18, no change | Armor boon: 2 -> 1.5 damage taken]

Linhardt jerks away from the attack at the last second and what was meant as a  finishing blow glances off of his shoulder instead. Too slow. Too telegraphed. He should have known better. It would take more effort than that to finish off an opponent so determined to win despite the situation. The near-miss puts Dedue just a hair off-balance. In the time it takes to steady himself and focus again on his opponent, Linhardt was readying another spell.

He feels no change in the air; the telltale heat of a fire spell or static of thunder magic are absent, as is the familiar rushing wind of Linhardt’s previous attacks. Not even the stinging chill of the ever rare ice magic can be found. Dedue’s mind races - was he about to cast a life-draining nosferatu spell and steal himself a second wind? Was this merely a trick to–

oh.

Dedue has always been a brawny figure, right from his childhood. Few people his own age have ever been able to push him around. The past few years, grown adults with thrice his combat experience struggled to unsteady him. So the sensation of being knocked - no, launched - right off of his feet and through the air is utterly foreign to him. He has a fraction of a second of recognition where he comprehends what exactly Linhardt has done, what magic he cast, before his entire body slams full-force into a tree trunk.

[Roll: 1! | Damage: 0]

His senses are knocked so thoroughly from his head that he can’t even begin to launch a counterattack.

So that’s what “seeing stars” meant. Fascinating…

There’s a triumphant smirk that flickers over Linhardt’s lips as Dedue is launched back. It’s appearance is brief, followed by a wince as the impact of the other’s body echoes throughout the clearing. That must’ve hurt, Linhardt thinks as he gives a weary glance to his opponent, and momentarily considers to branch out his concern. His damaged leg shuts him up, however, adrenaline coursing through his body growing weaker as the mage becomes more aware of his condition.

(linhardt hp: .5 / 4 HP remaining)

He should seek out another medic on the field. Linhardt’s breathing is labored, cold sweat sticking to his uniform as the ache in both his leg and shoulder flare in periodic bursts. There’s a persistent tremble in Linhardt’s fingers as he takes a moment to scan the field, searching for a teammate that could spare him a heal. No one’s there; the field is secluded, the remaining figures of the Golden Deer far off in a distance that his shouts couldn’t possibly reach. The medic tent is even further-- Linhardt’s leg buckles beneath him, forcing him to kneel back down on the grass. If he stays here, surely one of his teammates will eventually come with assistance, maybe. It’s a chance that Linhardt dares to take, even if it means to maintain his position on the battlefield.

(attack roll: 10+2 = 12! 1 damage incoming!)

[Speed bane: 8 -> 10, no change | Armor boon: 0.5 -> 0 damage taken]

His attack lands - if the sound Linhardt makes is any indication, it lands hard. In a spar this is the point that he would ordinarily lower his weapon and check on his partner’s condition. But the heat of battle is no time to show compassion for fellow students. Dedue’s face is as stony as the man himself, showing no changes whatsoever while he continues his advance upon the now-incapacitated mage. 

However, his opponent isn’t done yet: the Deer creates a vortex of wind around himself, whipping the day’s balmy air into a whirling frenzy. Rumors abound of Linhardt’s distaste for applying himself, but with this display he was putting on, they couldn’t possibly hold much merit, could they? Dedue pauses, unsure of how to tackle such an obstacle, and his opponent suddenly directs the wind towards him. With nothing to do but brace himself against the unexpected attack, Dedue plants his feet and readies his shield in a defensive technique he learned for facing enemies on horseback, just with a much smaller axe this time. A raging vortex of wind magic was sort of like a charging cavalryman.

[Roll: 10 | Damage: 0.5]

His shield takes the brunt of the wind’s strength, and what else remains does little to harm or even unsteady him. Such is the benefit of his stature. As the last of its energy dissipates and the air returns to its previous calm, Dedue raises his axe up and strikes downward with the pommel. A swift blow in the right spot could knock the breath right out of Linhardt and leave him winded, so to speak.

Pain branches through Linhardt’s leg, thrumming against his fibula as he forcefully bites down his discomfort. The vortex smashes against Dedue’s shield, its current splitting into two as the remains tousle alabaster locks. Linhardt is aware that it was foolish of him to wield wind against the brawniest of the Lions, the Duscur native practically unshaken despite the heaviest of his spells. However, Linhardt’s physical condition left no room to toy with more heinous incantations. Take the thunder spell for example, whose might may as well cause the mage to crumble from overexertion. The Hevring heir takes a deep breath, brows knotted and eyes concentrated.

(roll modification: +0.5DMG (Amr Bane) = 1 DMG dealt!) (linhardt hp: .5 / 4 HP remaining)

Dedue thrusts his battleaxe upwards, Linhardt sees the conviction in his fellow student’s eyes as sunlight catches upon the edge of his weapon and haloes his silhouette. Formidable, indeed, the Adrestian thinks as he readies himself. He ignores the agony that screeches through his leg as he swings himself sidewards, gasping as pommel bashes against his scapula. New plan. He swallows his pain as he holds his ground-- Dedue is right where he wants him, after all.

(attack roll: 14+2 = 16! 2 damage incoming!)

[Speed bane: 5 -> 7, barely hit | Armor boon: 0.5 -> 0 damage taken]

Dedue’s charge ends with his axe passing through the space Linhardt’s torso had been just a moment before - using the recoil from a spell to dodge was quite the inventive technique, fitting for someone with a reputation for cleverness as the mage held. Another technique to research, and to overcome. While avoiding the attack wasn’t all Linhardt had planned, it would take more than one unexpected dodge to give him the upper hand. Dedue’s eyes still locked onto his opponent, he sees the second spell coming from a mile away.

A quick adjustment of his shield and the blast of wind dissipates against it, passing harmlessly over Dedue’s body as little more than a breeze to set his earrings spinning. In any other moment, the sensation might have been enjoyable - in the current one, it’s just a reminder of what the spell could have been if he was less prepared. Mages were not enemies to toy with; he needs to take Linhardt down as soon as possible.

[Roll: 19 | Damage: 2]

Wasting neither his time nor the advantage gained from his opponent’s position, Dedue aims a swipe with the back of his axe’s head at Linhardt’s legs. With any luck it should keep the mage on the back foot and unable to fire off any more magic.

Dedue isn’t one to be trifled with. Of course he isn’t, the Battle of the Eagle and Lion isn’t just an inconvenience to him as it was to Linhardt. The older male is treating this mock battle for what it is: a war simulation. There are no openings in Dedue’s defense as Linhardt’s spell pitfully grazes his shield; the Duscurian man stands on the field as an echo of what the Kingdom values. A stalwart knight, indestructible.

The sound of war cries and steel clashing ‘round Gronder Field tells Linhardt that his battle is one that he can’t forfeit. This skirmish is one of his own; a fight that he can’t carelessly hand off to a peer more inclined. It’s frustrating, truthfully Linhardt doesn’t want to be here,  but Dedue seems to treat him as a formidable opponent. The least he can do is show the same respect back, if only to honor Dedue’s effort.

(roll modification: +0.5DMG (Amr Bane) = 2.5 DMG dealt!) (linhardt hp: 1.5 / 4 HP remaining)

Dedue’s handle bashes just below Linhardt’s knee. Linhardt falters, collapsing down back onto grass with a cry as pain branches through his leg. This is why he despises participating in mock battles: the damage isn’t worth the experience. His injured leg trembles, the slightest movement evoking an excruciating sting to shoot through his veins. Dedue has him incapacitated-- Great.

(attack roll: 6+2 = 8! 0.5 damage incoming!)

“Yes you did!” Bernadetta yells back. If he has an argument to support that, she doesn’t have the patience to hear it. “There’s no one else here right now! Who else could you have been attacking than stupid, worthless Bernadetta?”

A part of her feels bad. That same part and a little more of her knows she’ll feel awful for this when she calms down. But for now, she doesn’t care. For now, she forces her way to sit on Linhardt as he squirms around like a panicked animal and does the first thing she can think of.

She grabs a handful of mud and mushes it into his face.

“You’re always like that! You’re always mean to Bernie, even when I don’t deserve it!” Always teasing and prodding and Bernadetta can’t place the exact memory, but there’s something that has always stung deep when she saw him, an insult long forgotten. “I’ve never done anything to you and you always just…just…”

Just as quickly as it came, the burst from Bernadetta’s crest withered away, and all at once she deflates. They’re both covered in mud and Bernadetta aches and her burns sting and Linhardt’s probably going to hate her after this and if his father tells her father then that’ll be the end of Bernie and…and…

And Bernadetta does what she always does. She starts crying. “I don’t know why you hate me so much!”

Bernadetta flares into an outburst, emphasized by the sludge that’s smacked against his cheek as she heaves herself upon him. His fellow Adrestian’s words take him aback. The spell had been a genuine mistake, a byproduct of high tension and the inevitable adrenaline wrought by combat. Linhardt’s guilt is sincere; he wouldn’t have striked if he had known her predicament.

Still, intentions mean nothing beyond the thoughts of the executioner. Bernadetta persists-- She speaks of her perspective, spills her feelings through the gaps of communication where Linhardt’s actions fail to fill. Pinned beneath her, the Hevring heir is stunned. For the first time, the disparity between them dawns.

Above, Bernadetta cries.

“I--” Linhardt fails to muster the appropriate words. He opens his gaze, forces himself to face his own consequences as his gaze steadies itself upon a heartwrenching sight. “Bernadetta.” His tone is soft, a gentle hand reaching from the mud to place itself on her knee. Linhardt’s eyebrows furrow, silence befalling between them as he pauses to evaluate the best course of action.  

“I was uninformed on the severity of my jests,” he confesses and that much is true: Like the girl before him, he lacks an understanding of social dynamics. His teases admittedly err on the side of impish, his humor heavily reliant on what reactions he could draw out of his subject. This is where they converge, for Linhardt grew alongside a companion who could handle his remarks. Bernadetta, on the contrary, possesses a delicacy he has yet to be accustomed to, a frailty to her personality that Linhardt shattered. “And I really ought to apologize for my ignorance.”

After all, for all the time he spent self-absorbed in his interest, he had neglected the chance to truly admire the intricacy of Bernadetta’s making.

Golden banners soar proudly in the heart of Gronder Field, a vivid burst of color in an equally vicious sea of blue and dwindling crimson. The first trimester of the battle passes, numbers of the field now half-empty as each house presses onwards. In a battle of time and tradition before the formation of their land, a battle in which their namesake had been forgotten, the Golden Deer stubbornly persevered.

There’s no time to rest. Linhardt, alert, trails after the assemblage of his peers as they burst into Lion terrain. It comes to no surprise that an encounter swiftly meets him, the evergreen and ever critical eyes of the Lion’s second-in-command, Dedue Molinaro locking upon his own. The Hevring heir’s expression tightens. Of all the students he had prayed not to cross, Dedue was second to the top (just falling short behind His Highness himself.)

(miss!) (linhardt hp: 4/4 HP remaining)

Linhardt compresses wind in the palm of his hands as Dedue charges. Close range combat is his bane and his weak constitution makes him a pitiful challenger against someone of Dedue’s size; he needs to manipulate his magic to make up for where he lacks. As Dedue slams his axe downwards, Linhardt lets his spell burst from his hold, going against the momentum of the retainer’s swing. He dives sidewards as his spell gives him a momentary allowance to dodge, grass staining the obsidian fabric of his uniform pants as he grunts.

(attack roll: 3+2 = 5! miss!)

INTERMISSION: BOEL

The sun whose rays once gleamed weakly has now peaked in full, the incoming chill trademarked by the Horsebow Moon disasperates into heat near sweltering levels as the mock battle continues. There is an ache in Linhardt’s arms, a tingling in his fingertips as he now idles to the sidelines, brow creased and hair disarray. He’s hot, muddy, and fatigued-- his weary body yearns to lay itself on what remains of Gronder Field’s soft grass for a slumber, though the unspoken threat of being set ablaze (or, worse, trampled) keeps the mage on his toes. Linhardt yawns, eyes bleary as he blinks away sleep. A familiar voice reaches his ears and aegean eyes drift to the side, meeting the visage of a girl equally as done with the mock battle as he.

“Celica made you kick her ass?” He repeats with mild astonishment. He knows the tale must be exaggerated by Hilda and her perpetual need to undersell her strength, but to think that her might could even surpass Celica…! “I’ve heard rumors of Celica being quite the acclaimed mage… Perhaps she was having an off day, if she were to lose a battle that you were purposely attempting to forfeit?” Still, that was Hilda Valentine Goneril for you, Linhardt thinks. Feminine, yet possessing the might of Leicester’s finest warrior.

Oh, was she out? Realization dawns a bit too late to Linhardt as sparks of magic fade at his fingertips, he’s left to stare with wide eyes as Bernadetta is caught in his assault. In his defense, Bernadetta is always crying. Not to mention, she’s also on Golden Deer territory; If he weren’t the one to have attacked her, then surely someone else would have.

His fellow Adrestian falls, though Linhardt keeps his ground. The Battle of Eagle and Lion is still going and he’s an unfortunate position of having to stay alert for his team. “Are you okay?” He inquires once the wind settles, his tone simple as if he hadn’t just kicked his friend while she was down. A bow is launched at him, landing some pitiful distance away. Really, Linhardt thinks as he casts the fallen weapon a glance, Bernadetta’s precision truly ought to be better than that.

“You know, Bernadetta--” He speaks in tandem with her as he watches her rise, “I believe--” There are no words further said as something foreign flickers in the other noble’s eyes. A look that Linhardt overlooks, then regrets to ignore as Bernadetta practically throws herself onto him.

“Ugh!” His back slams against the mood with a disgusting ‘schlop!’ hair a mess as he instinctively thrashes back. “Bernadetta, wait!” His hair drags through sludge as he attempts to lift one long limb, desperately attempting to push back as his uniform becomes soiled. “I didn’t mean it!”

silence befalls the group of four as they make way back to the sunken craft. linhardt’s mind swarms with newfound information of their whereabouts as the cleaner shrimp gets comfortable on his shoulder. he blinks lethargically as he tails behind dimitri, daydreaming of how wonderful it would be to go back into his dormitory— his bed.

preoccupied with his mind, the tug on his sleeve almost goes unnoticed. linhardt nearly ignores it until a familiar voice fills his ears, calling for his attention. head tilts to the side, obsidian hairs and youthful features come into view. morgan swims behind him, timid. linhardt comes to a halt as he listens to his friend’s gratitude, brows knitting before he shakes his head.

“there’s no need to thank me, morgan. i only did what i had to do.”  he responds. he may not play the part with dedication, but he was the team’s designated healer. even beyond that, however… warmth fills linhardt’s features as if to reassure. a hand reaches out to clasp morgan’s shoulder as his fellow mage had did back then, when they had first encountered their cleaner shrimp companion.

“i mean, we’re friends, aren’t we?” which means they need to have each other’s backs, especially through dire times. linhardt may not be a committed person, he may be lethargic at times, but his loyalty was genuine. “you did the same before for me, i think.” recallings are blurry, but it comes often to him in speckled dreams. morgan’s concerned features and excruciating pain, gentle arms holding him close as he hears reassurances through warbled ears. “at least, it feels that way for some strange reason.”

so he doesn’t mind risking it all for morgan.

cynthero​:

☆ —       well, she could do without the sass. it could have happened to anyone. pushing her bangs back and settling her hands on the side of the boat, cynthia rolls her eyes. makes a point to extra roll her eyes, actually, so he knows she’s extra annoyed. “it’s cold!” she shouts back giggling as she reaches for his hand, stopping short only when she realizes that tana’s gone ahead and jumped into the water along with her. well, no sense in getting out now, huh? pegasus knight pulls her hand away from innes to splash tana instead, grinning from ear to ear as innes eventually makes his way into the water and watches, waiting for linhardt to climb into the water.

      aaaaaand, he doesn’t.

      brows knit together with frustration, cynthia huffing with quiet exasperation. she doesn’t know what she expected. she’d worried that he might fall asleep while they were diving, but maybe she should'a thought about the possibility of him just falling asleep all together before he got into the water in the first place. watching as tethra eases into the water themself, cynthia reaches for her harpoon and tilts the tip of it away from the others. see? careful. her free arm, secured at the side of the boat, shifts as she makes her way over to linhardt’s side. at first, she just stares. makes no attempt to tell the others what she’s planning. water drips.

      then, she takes in a deep breath.

      “lin, you’ve got five seconds to get in the water before i spit on you.” she announces, not even waiting for the poor adrestian noble to respond. “one!” she makes no move. “two! three? four!” so, he has chosen death. cynthia dunks her head beneath the water and takes in a mouthful of seawater, pegasus knight emerging once again with bangs plastered to her face. ew, it’s salty. and briny! “mMphhpHIVE!” oh, there it goes. grosser, it comes shooting out of her nose when she can’t help but laugh.

@herrings

,

@gallucis

!

of course, innes always has something to say. linhardt’s expression sours as he faces his fellow viridian-haired schoolmate, nose scrunched up only momentarily before he gives a wave and a nod: “i’ll be fine.” how hard could watching some fish be? granted, the hevring heir predominantly casts back any of his catches when it comes to the monastery’s pond, but he’s consumed more than enough tomes on the topic of fishing and ichthyology that he’s practically a seasoned professional. innes and tethra descend into the ocean next and there’s a wave of relief within linhardt. peace and quiet, he thinks, as all things should be.

then cynthia appears besides him.

he turns, stomach dropping at the sight of chestnut curls. linhardt’s ready to scramble to the other side of the boat, away from the menace who he knows will ruin his afternoon entirely, but then cynthia speaks.

“you wouldn’t,” he responds with narrowed eyes, attempting to look the slightest bit menacing, “cynthia, i’ll have you know that—” she’s not listening, she’s counting and the pegasus knight makes way onto count four before she disappears into azure waters. linhardt tries to leave, tries to get to the other side of the boat when cynthia bursts out and shoots her shot—

through her nose.

linhardt shrieks.

he shrieks because the water’s gotten all over his face and it’s warm and filled with cynthia’s germs and he twists, trying to get out of the line of fire when the bottom of his boot slips. his hip hits the side of the ship and, before linhardt knows it, he falls over the edge with a thunderous splash.

“aeeUUUUGH!!” he breaks from the water with another shout, shoulders bundled up like a drenched feline. strands of thick hair sticks to alabaster skin, linhardt flails. “cynthia!” vexed for once, he tries to slam water towards the brunette’s direction… only to hit someone else entirely.

amnesiac-pawn​:

Innes and Linhardt flanked the poor drowning mage soon after he managed to pick up just one of his shells. Linhardt’s little jape didn’t hurt, but Morgan still squinted at him as the beads were dropped into his hand. The moment the final shell hit his palm, air surged into his lungs. Just like before, he fell to the whims of a coughing fit before his ability to function normally returned. 

[ Morgan regains his shell necklace and is no longer drowning. ]

"Thank you,” he says in earnest, voice hoarse. The shells didn’t appear damaged in any way, but something about them felt different now that they were disconnected from his choker. “I know I haven’t been much help. I’ll fix that soon, I promise.”

Innes receives a grateful nod while Linhardt gets a gentle squeeze to his shoulder.  (Inwardly, he notes that he owes these two, as well as Dimitri, his life. He’s been nothing but a burden this time around—he will change that.)

The attention quickly moves away from the useless mage. Clutching desperately at the shells trapped in his fist, Morgan swims after Innes, whose curiosity was piqued by a column of colorful coral surrounded by numerous species of fish.

And the shrimp speaks.

And Innes willingly argues with it.

Eyes flit between the two. Mere moments ago, Morgan was drowning, and yet that somehow wasn’t the worst part of his day. The shrimp’s voice was grating—probably one of the worst sounds the mage had ever heard in his entire life. And then Dimitri begins his questioning. Shrimp’s voice raises in pitch as its incredulity grew—more annoying by the second.

Morgan finds himself speaking before rational thought can stop him. “Woah, woah, woah,” he interjects, “hold up. Gods? Are we talking about the same gods here? Like, human gods, or are you talking about your little shrimpy fish gods?”

The shrimp turns to him, little beady eyes piercing.

“You think I’d know? You think that’s relevant? What do your gods look like?”

A short pause. “Well, I’d think you would, if you have apparent codes and permissions you can’t break.” Morgan sighs, arms crossing over his chest as he allows defeat to ring in his voice. 

“You can’t help us at all, can you? Trust me, we want to get out of here just as much as you want us gone, but without any direction…” he trails off.

The shrimp swims over to Morgan’s hands, resting on one of his fingers. Despite his poor eyesight, Morgan could see its small white eyes flashing as it considers the question. He tried to ignore the disgust that built in his stomach from feeling tiny shrimp legs dancing on his fingers as it spoke again.

“You were sent away before you were able to find something interesting, huh? I have a memory, of the back wall of the ship breaking. There was something there, and some weird static—I didn’t know what the heck it was! When I tried to think what it was, all that I could access was 7. 2. 6. 5. 6. C. 6. 9. 6. 3.

"That’s all I get, and an error that I did not have permission to ‘perceive’ what was there. Not allowed to perceive! Can you believe it? Your monkey eyes can see all they want–I’m still shocked that you asked me where you are….”

Morgan could only turn towards the others in his group with a helpless expression. What on earth was a series of random numbers and one letter supposed to mean?

@herrings

a kind squeeze to his shoulder, linhardt returns ambicality with a nod and a tender half-smile. truthfully, repayment is the last concern to riddle his mind. the hevring heir has had plenty of instances being the weaker link on his teams before; he’s merely relieved that morgan has been kept alive and, for the most part, unharmed.

passive: caduceus staff adds +1 hp to linhardt’s health!

warmth pulses through his veins as he adjusts his grip on the caduceus staff, nerves tingling as the mild thrum against his temple comes to a gradual cease. linhardt tails after morgan as the team regroups, all four individuals crowding ‘round… a shrimp? azure eyes narrow at the tiny crustacean’s inconspicuous act, untrusting. hesitancy is inevitable: their last run-in left a scar far too fresh, far too deep for them to lay their guards down. as his teammates interrogate the poor creature, linhardt keeps quiet and listens. truthfully, the conversation isn’t the most interesting to him and he’d much prefer to take the time to doze off and regain his energy before another conflict inevitably stirs, but alas. his likelihood was at stake, which meant he begrudgingly had to commit to the cause.

the shrimp speaks of codes and permissions sent by its ruler, a figure akin to the goddess. the conversation is all fluff to linhardt for the most part until the small crustaceans brings up their previous destination: the abandoned ship. it speaks of a code and a denial to access, something that makes linhardt’s head quirk to the side in curiosity.

“what do you mean that an ‘error’ appeared?” the mage inquires with a creased brow. was there a magical device hidden in the depths of abandoned wreckage? he could easily imagine that said barrier would have written codes on it if it were a spell, but that would mean they would need to head back to the ship to make sense of their new companion’s words. linhardt shivers at the thought— what if there were more enemies lurking beneath?

"error 403. forbidden! how rude, right? i suppose you monkeys wouldn't know what it's like to come across one big error, being organic and all.” the shrimp says and linhardt’s thoughts come to a halt. he eyes the tiny crustacean as it calls them organic, looking for any telltale sign of any oddities within its build. were shrimps not natural life as well? the one before them certainly wasn’t a golem. “that you could see it and not me... ooooh! It makes my blood boil!”

“we can head back to the wreckage and analyze the back wall of the ship, where the barrier should be.” the hevring heir thinks aloud, eyes flickering back to his teammates and then to their tiny companion. “and you can come if you’d like. with morgan and i, i’m quite confident we can override the barrier with our magic. that should be able to give you access, no? then, should all go well, your insight would be most useful to lead us back… home.” a hesitancy on his last words, if only because he isn’t sure whether it’s true brigid was submerged or not.

nevertheless, the cleaner shrimp demands to join the party. linhardt looks at his team inquisitively, if only to see whether or not everyone was on board with the newfound plan.

amnesiac-pawn​:

“Got you.”

Morgan never thought the mere act of holding someone’s hand would bring him to tears. Elegant fingers entwine with his own and air rushes into his lungs; for a few desperate moments, mage can only cough, quickly burrowing his face into the crook of his free arm so as to not disparage Linhardt’s face with grossness. After a few gasped moments, he finally relaxes and offers a shaky nod in response.

“I can—! I— I’m okay. I’m okay.”

[ Linhardt shares his necklace with Morgan, allowing him to breathe. ]

His hand squeezes Linhardt’s, shells clasped tightly between them. It wasn’t as easy to breathe as it was before; it felt as though there was a weight on his chest and the air was thin, lacking purity. The strain on the shells of spreading its magic to two parties instead of just one was no doubt the answer. Still, something was better than nothing. ( Quietly, Morgan promises to never take such a gift for granted again. )

Only moments after composing himself, mage is assaulted once more. Electricity rips through the water and into his veins, forcing a mangled cry from his lips.

[ Morgan is shocked from a familiar source and takes 1 damage. 7.5/10 HP remaining. ]

He’d know that shock anywhere. Though he couldn’t see her—dimly does he note that his vision has readjusted to the dark depths thanks to the shells’ power, but like his ability to breathe, it wasn’t where it was at before—Morgan knows that it no doubt came from his Ilyana. Despite the lingering hiss in his fingertips and the clear pain on his allies’ faces, he grins at the sight of their final enemy bursting into bubbles.

( Thanks, thunder girl. )

No sooner do the last bubbles fade does another force settle upon them. Like a homeowner slamming the door in the face of an overly-persistent salesman, the team was propelled at unimaginable speeds from the depths of the ship. In the chaos, Morgan finds his chest tightening, vision darkening—

[ The forceful ejection from the boat causes Morgan’s hand to slip from Linhardt’s. Morgan is back to drowning. ]

—and Linhardt’s shells returned to their sole owner. Tumbling through the water, now-empty hand flexes as though reaching for something, something, but his green-haired friend is far away from him, now. Too far.

Round two can’t be so bad. At least, now he knows what to expect. This time around, the initial panic is maintained; not too much air is wasted in bubbles that float to the surface. Hands pressed over his mouth, his gaze darts around for something, something.

Now that they’re out in the open, it’s a little bit easier to see. Morgan manages to lock eyes on Innes shortly after Dimitri calls a command (if it could be called that). Relief begins to build in his chest when the Frelian scoops up one of the four lost shells, but there are still more to find.

Finally, his gaze settles on one sinking lower, lower. The shells couldn’t float, of course, but they descended slowly in the water despite their appearances and weight. Even with his inexperience with proper swim techniques and wild kicking of his legs, Morgan was able to eventually close the distance to the shell closest to him and capture it in a tight fist.

[ Morgan rolls to retrieve his shells: 3, 3, 3, 3. Morgan retrieves one shell (#3). Two shells (#1, #2) remain. ]

And… nothing.

Perhaps he was spoiled by Linhardt’s quick-thinking, but Morgan thought that something would happen when he grabbed the shell. Maybe not regaining his ability to breathe, but a (literal) weight off his chest or a spark in his veins or something.

Instead, all he gets is another choking sound that he can’t suppress, a little more saltwater invading his lungs. Free hand slaps over his mouth to keep anymore from entering his body.

[ Morgan takes .5 damage from drowning. 7/10 HP remaining. ]

(Vaguely, he wonders, if I swallow the shells, will they still work? Then I wouldn’t have to worry about losing them…)

@herrings

air rushes through morgan’s lungs and, although the older mage sputters, a sense of relief washes through linhardt. he gives a gentle smile and waits for morgan to rebalance, grip tightening as he idly sways with the oceans currents. it’s a short-lived bout of respite as the hevring heir breathes through calculated breaths, acutely aware that his and morgan’s survival were now acutely entangled. he’s ready to relocate as morgan finally stabilizes, aware that it could very well be the end of them both should the sea creatures select them as upcoming targets, but a flash of lightning brings the idea to an end.

linhardt is shocked by ilyana! hp remaining: 9/10

hot pain sears through linhardt’s muscles, he chokes back a scream as he convulses. fingers wrap tighter around morgan, nails accidentally scratching against his companion’s hand as the heir coughs: “ugh!” electricity fizzes away as sparks dance off his free hand, linhardt groans with a grimace. what idiot uses thunder magic in the ocean?

there’s no time to recuperate as it seems as if everything and anything bursts out at once. newcomers barrage through another cavity in the sunken ship (among them, linhardt notices, is the dreaded *hubert von vestra*) and, with their arrival, another spar. dim-lit interior comes to life with a flurry of bubbles and shattering gems-- there’s shouting and mayhem, all occurring too fast for the heir to comprehend. there’s not much linhardt is able to comprehend, all he acknowledges is that he must keep a solid grip on morgan, but even that becomes disturbed as new chaos is unleashed. the currents shift before something snaps, a new rupture in the ship heinously flings linhardt out. morgan slips from his hold as the current engulfs him and nearly linhardt’s bracelet, too, if nimble fingers hadn’t managed to get a successful hold.

all linhardt hears is the roar of water as he’s throttled about and spat out into a new clearing, tumbling until momentum calms. aegan eyes snap open as dimitri’s command reaches in his ear, the mage lets out a whine.

“i--” he coughs from strained lungs, before confessing: “i can hardly keep up with what’s going on…! i need a break.” though, it seems as though his gripes would fall upon deaf ears as greater matters are at hand. morgan is drowning, again.

linhardt rolls to retrieve morgan’s shells (2)! [1, 2] all shells are collected!

head snaps to search the area around him. a flash of yellow glistens at the corner of linhardt’s vision. he looks downwards and sees two scallions sinking, one soon entangled in strands of seaweed. the heir descends, plucking out one shell before snatching up the other. “i’ve got the remaining ones,” he calls out before coming back upwards. he swims to morgan’s side and places the shell in his friend’s hold. “looks like i’m saving you again.”