in aphelion

exemplaris:

“You are most welcome, Ferdinand… But—”

There it was, that tongue sharper than most blades crafted by man in the last century. Still, having it turned on him had its own curious comfort; for one, Ferdinand supposed he was still alive to be on the receiving end. 

(She had always been cunning where he had been bold; the number of times he allowed her to take him anywhere she wished, her small hand on his even smaller wrist, through the streets of Enbarr. The ire of his chaperone at being given the slip was nothing compared to—)

Tension bled from his neck, through his shoulders, and down his back as Ferdinand exhaled slowly. The frantic heat died down to something more tolerable. “On my honour, I will redouble my efforts until we are both satisfied. I do not intend on… repeating this experience. I believe neither of us do.”

(The next time… Ferdinand was sure that the next time, the stakes would be so much higher, and when it came, Constance would not be around to bail him out of that one. His lance would need to count for more.)

Adrenaline still flowed through him, but it slowly ebbed, leaving him drained with the distinct, hollow sensation of borrowing from the him of tomorrow. “I had arrived in the area as reinforcement for reconnaissance and retrieval… The Deer had met considerable resistance, and even the faculty were pulled thin from all sides.”

“We did secure one of the weapons of interest, Salem and I, but we were met with… resistance.” (Gently, he began to sway and sag forward. Enough of that now; she cannot support his weight and fly on her own.) “He was armed with magic and an apparent resilience against its influence, I thought, so I created a diversion to allow him to return it to the main party.

“I assure you I had not intended to sacrifice myself out there; there was supposed to be another scouting camp not far to the south west.” He hadn’t intended to put himself in that position. He hadn’t intended to rest his head on her shoulder either. It would be selfish to ask for any more, especially not after she saved his life, and with a jerk, Ferdinand sat a little straighter again in the saddle. Pull yourself together. “However, on arrival, the site had been deserted with signs of struggle. Thus, I maintained the course and inadvertently accumulated pursuers… until the course ran to an end, as you saw.”

✦ ` when all is said and done, whatever irritation remains subsides as ferdinand explains the situation. that being, that it was not that he thought himself so improbably clever that he could outwit thoughtless creatures that would offer up no admiration. she should have known that. there's the slightest twinge of regret with the none-too-distant memory of how she'd spoken to him. had the tables been turned, she would have most certainly done the same. she would have provided a distraction if it had been lady celica or lady micaiah or, well—ferdinand, even.

the only difference there would have been that she did not wield something as tangible as the lance he had to abandon. she would have been infallible.

( she learns later that this is not always the case, no matter how untouchable she convinces herself she is. )

she ignores the rest as they fly on. the slight slump of his body against her back, a brief weight on her shoulder that she knows. they'd fallen asleep like this once before, maybe. likely after some apparent scolding or something more innocent and bloodless than this, she thinks with quiet amusement. heavens knew how long it would take to get that inky black liquid off of her shoes. "i see." their flight would end soon, she thinks. no more than ten minutes.

if she remembers right, anyway.

crestbound:

“Oh, this? No, this is a little gift for myself; I’m not sure if you’ve talked to her before, but there’s this lady…” He turns, gesturing, “She’s been here for years—probably before either of us were even born. But her family’s into making custom chess boards and pieces…”

…which, right, a vast majority of people would not find interesting.

Sylvain cuts himself off immediately, flashing her a sheepish smile. “…well, never mind that. But you know, you’ve got a point—a fine lady deserves a fine gift, and I wouldn’t dare think about asking you to have tea with me empty-handed. Considering you’ve got what looks like a pretty long list,” and nothing much in her arms to show that she’s actually bought much of what’s been scribbled on it, “I’d say you’ve still got a while to go before you have all you need.”

He shifts. The box holding his chess set is tucked under his arm, and he holds out a hand.

“So hey, why don’t you give it here? I can help you get the rest of whatever you need; I ended up bringing more coin than I needed for my stuff, anyway.“

Knowing her—which is to say, not as well as he’d like to; which is to say, knowing what most of the women he’s sweet-talked into his arms prefer—whatever is on her grocery list for the day is going to be expensive. But who cares? It isn’t as if his father has two sons to divide the Gautier coffers between.

“You can repay me with that tea date. There’s a nice, shaded terrace not too far from the gardens—perfect view and everything, just without the bees and stuff.”

✦ ` sylvain gautier, in the business of purchasing a chess board for himself? not merely a chessboard, mind. a custom one. if the disbelief isn't obvious in her expression, it is in the way that she says ' oh. ' the apparent enthusiasm in his tone is the only thing that has her hold her tongue. while she cannot say that she knows everything that there was to know of the kingdom and its nobles, constance von nuvelle was of the mind that she was at least well-informed of them. her time spent in fhirdiad was not meaningless, nor her time in abyss. the possibility that he, a skirt-chasing lothario, could possibly find interest in anything beyond tormenting his ill-gotten women gives her pause.

it is a ploy.

an unconvincing one.

"no," comes her abrupt reply, her hand falling away from her chin. constance would not be so convinced. she wouldn't accept an offer so obviously pointless. what is his aim? true, she would have what she needed for her work in exchange for agreeing to an afternoon sipping tea with him and prattling on about whatever manner he should deem of her interest. just as easily, she could agree and abscond with her things to abyss with him none the wiser to her whereabouts. he could not be so blind as to not acknowledge that as a potential truth.

or maybe, simply, he doesn't care enough to fret over it. it would take her longer to procure everything on her own means and a great deal more costly, but it seems—no, she wouldn't accept such terms.

"i will offer you another proposition."

digits curl lightly against her collarbone, constance offering a polite smile. he has not done or said anything particularly egregious to earn her ire. "i best you in a game of chess with that board of yours. only then, shall you accompany me in my errands." she reasons. fair enough, was it not? she would feel as if though she earned it and he would still get what he desired of her—time, a resource she can ill-afford. she can hardly think that a game would suffice in exchange for even just one of the things on her list, but she had little to offer in exchange. no money of her own, no political will—neither of which constance thinks he would be interested in anyway. a game then.

aubins​:

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  |  @irroche​ ]

A brow arched. It’s just… “The supply caravan has been waylaid by a band of thieves”—lilac eyes shifted to the second rogue, whose gaze did not dare rise to meet his—“but it has also been stopped by the recent storms”—and at last to the third—“and the merchants have suddenly changed their mind after doing business with us for nearly a year?”

A beat passed. “Um, yes?” the youngest of the three squeaked.

…absurd. “Right.” Mockingbird sighed, fingers drumming against the hilt of his sword as he considered. Clearly, someone didn’t want him to figure out what had happened to that supply caravan, however obvious they were about trying to hide that information. “Until we figure out where that caravan’s gone, we’ll need to limit food rations.”

And that had been that, until another rogue returned to Abyss later in the day with a letter in hand. A request to meet and discuss the missing caravan in person. “From the merchants, is it?” he mused as he set the parchment aside. Doubtful. For as long as they’d done business together, messages had been passed through word of mouth and word of mouth alone. This was the lousiest attempt at a trap he’d ever seen. How or why was no longer the question, but who?

Moments later, a fist had rapped insistently against the door to Constance’s lab. “I know you’re in there, Constance,” Yuri called through wood. “I have need of your exceptional talents. Hurry up or we’ll get stuck in the rain.”

They get stuck in the rain anyway.

The sky cries before he even realizes that the sun has gone, an umbrella left to hang uselessly from his hand as he levels Constance with a flat look, shaking his head. “It’s been a long time since I’ve caught a cold,” he drawls, swatting aimlessly at the shaft of her umbrella with his own. Not that he minded letting whatever manner of rogue awaited them in town sweat a little. Let them make of his tardiness what they will; the stories people conjured from their imaginations would be far more entertaining than anything he could come up with. “Maybe I’ll be reminded of why I don’t like getting sick.”

Yuri smacks at her umbrella once more with a snort. “Aren’t you so glad I convinced you to join me?”

✦ ` this is wretched and the fact that yuri is not as incensed as she is only makes the wick burn more furiously. contrary to popular opinion, constance von nuvelle was busy. in fact, one might say that she was not free at all! she was never the type to idle. what time there was was time well-filled and well-spent on her work to launch house nuvelle to heights greater than that of her forefathers. development, experiments, investigations—all this, coupled with a disproportionate number of hours spent loathing nearly every step of each. she must remake what she had left behind.

to think that she might waste yet another year—

she doesn't have the time for leisure.

tailing yuri on what must certainly not be an excursion of the savage mockingbird is not considered leisure. a favor exchanged for a favor, she reasons. if she provides her aid, then perhaps he will offer her his. she'd made no such efforts in the years past, too consumed by her own research. so was the rationale when she'd agreed to accompany him. and while she appreciates the dark clouds that permit her to stand proudly alongside him, she cannot say that she holds any of the same appreciation for the storm subsequent to them. her hair, her everything is soaked before she can even think to open her umbrella. it is not his fault. she knows. it is not as if though he could control the weather, but the sharpness of her tone might indicate otherwise.

"you should hope that you do not fall ill, yuri." she chides, digits tucking into her skirts as she side-steps a puddle in their path. purple pump sinks into the mud instead and the scowl that forms is something to behold. "you will find no kindness from i nor hapi or balthus. and while aelfric may indulge you, we should avoid troubling him more than we already do and—" his umbrella strikes her. she doesn't look up. "stop that." her heel sinks deeper. mud sinks into the shoe. her umbrella swings by its handle from her elbow. her curls are limp, blonde clinging to her cheeks. "enthused." shlup! her shoe is freed, landing squarely on the path.

exemplaris:

Later. He half expected her to take a running start at it, pecking away at his defenses before it had even been time to strike at him in proper… At very least, it meant there was no escaping the razor edge of her tongue even when they had at last reached safety… (Relative safety. There would be a time to make an attempt at defending himself later, but it was not now.)

His lance was thrown aside, near snapping on impact where it hit the icy ground, and Ferdinand’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the offered sword instead. The weight of it felt wrong in his grip, and the reach was entirely unlike what he had trained for, but if Constance was kind enough to offer a way out, the least he could do was cover her back.

(And the thought never occurred to him that she may falter. Ferdinand knew that she wouldn’t.)

The ride was not a smooth one, filled with sharp turns and abrupt pivots. Arrows narrowly missed both rider and steed, sailing past Ferdinand also with too little clearance for comfort. Wide arcs of his blade knocked back pursuers, hacking away at too-close weapons and limbs when they could not be dissuaded. With only one hand on her waist—Ferdinand was certain she would yell at him for that also, but so be it—and the other covering their flank, he did not see the opening ahead of them until her curt orders carried over the wind.

What was–oh. He had trained for when a horse was to jump, of course… But leaping was nothing like a pegasus taking fight. His back was straightened; his grip on both the saddle and Constance’s middle were tightened, and still, Ferdinand felt his stomach drop out from under him when the pegasus’ wings caught lift and the sudden shift in acceleration stole the breath from his lungs…

And then weightlessness. Arrows no longer flew past them, the last of the projectiles falling back towards the earth harmlessly. The groans of mindless villagers no longer filled the air. Ferdinand exhaled slowly. Quietly.

“… Thank you, Constance.”

✦ ` somehow, it isn't the hand at her waist that surprises her. that isn't an altogether unfamiliar; his hands were smaller then. instead, it's the thank you he offers her. night descends. does she really think so little of him that she thinks he wouldn't? no. it's not quite that. detestable is his arrogance, but ferdinand lacks the poor breeding that would prevent him from such courtesies. was it that it was directed at her? "i—" she really ought to keep better company if these are the kinds of things that give her pause now. that or she ought demand more such platitudes from the other ashen wolves.

she exhales slowly, air escaping between tightly-pursed lips with disatisfaction.

for once since they've met in this lifetime, not at him.

"you are most welcome, ferdinand."

"but your swordsmanship is clumsy." almost as much as is her own ability to leave well enough alone, it seems. "as is your handling of the lance, it appears. you would do well to recall that such a weapon is more useful outside of close combat. do promise me that upon your return that you will do something about that, hm?" the officers academy must be equipped for that. it was lucky that she was where she was. otherwise ... it feels colder. just the winter and the height, she reasons.

the camp was to the north along with the rest of the horses and wagons if she recalled correctly. she gently tugs the reins, lorelei's head turning with the motion. flight path curves in a gentle arc and clip through the dark sky. they drift past the clouds.

sanktere​:

          it’s a young woman who answers his call. she’s dressed in clothes meant for travel but her hair is finely done and her skin not sunkissed like the local day laborers he has otherwise seen. and she is alone. if for a moment before she speaks, he wonders if he has stumbled upon the source of the very rumors that veil this painted-over place, it’s overshadowed by something he thinks he glimpses in the way her expression alters when she sees him and the parting shroud of the fog she wears as though it’s a part of her. she is alone — in the way an icon stands alone, in the way, on the plains of lycia, a summer sunset illuminates not so much the hills themselves as the long shadows they cast behind them.

          the feeling is gone just as suddenly when her gaze shifts again; he flinches as her sharp accusation pierces the air, and then is left only to wonder if the impression had been a fancy woven in the gaps between the dimming light and the haar.

          her flash of fury dwindles to a smolder, and as a stranger and trespasser, he isn’t certain how to respond even when she apologizes, so a beat of silence stretches, formless like the mist. perhaps it’s safe to assume she doesn’t come from the nearby settlements, with her speech and bearing; had the local lord dispatched someone of their own as well in response to the distress?

          ❝ … it seems like you know why i’m here, ❞ he finally ventures, wary of igniting her wrath again despite the assurance that it hadn’t been meant for him. ❝ i beg your pardon, but… i was not told that i would be assisting another. i’m sorry that i was not what you expected. ❞ even so, he can’t help some degree of relief that he wasn’t to be alone in this. humor of his present company notwithstanding, here is someone native and familiar with the customs of fódlan who can make certain his work doesn’t go astray. the last thing he wanted was to err in such a solemn rite and risk not only the anger of agitated spirits but a transgression upon this land’s holy beliefs.

          ❝ my name is lucius, ❞ he continues gently, hoping that introductions and some simple rapport could help clear any misgivings between them. ❝ it may not be much, but… i truly wish to do what i can to help. ❞

✦ ` it is so small a slight that it feels immeasurably large. long has it been since adrestia wore the church's approval like a crown and longer has it been since the empire shown deference to its teachings. it only stands to reason that it, in turn, should care little for the games the empire plays. the plight of her city—whatever it should be called now—is only just that. she knows this is likely a choice of convenience. that the archbishop, should she or her esteemed lackeys deem that the situation not merit it, there would be no one who stands here opposite to her now.

it may very well be that they may have been the one best suited for such a task. though, constance half-wonders if she ought ask what apparitions must plague their home to be so well-equipped in banishing them.

the people of nuvelle ought be thankful then for his appearance.

as should she, but isn't.

"the walls of the church have ears," constance replies, digits lightly tugging on an earring of hers. more importantly, garreg mach had her, who was oft described as much too nosy for her own good. her eyes lie fixed ahead of her, attention seized by the fog in their shared quiet. at times, she thinks that she sees the face of a fisherman that she used to see by the port. others, she thinks she sees the hand of a child in her skirts—she'd brushed them off at the time. she forgets what it is that child had asked of her; though from the frumpy hair and rumpled clothing, she could only expect that they'd asked for money. she thinks she said no. thinks she might have said worse. her hand falls away from the pearl, arm slack as elbow rests against the dip of her wrist.

"you do yourself a great disservice. did i not already apologize?" she was in the wrong here for being so undeservingly rude. it is not the monk's fault as she had said before as much as it was her own misgivings. "you are not here to assist me, nor i, you." she crosses her arms. "i was—" there is no merit in telling them the truth, just as there was none in lying except for saving face.

crestbound:

Sylvain rarely buys things for himself beyond the occasional cologne and beauty product, things that he uses to keep himself properly groomed and presentable. But today, see, is a bit of a special day; today, in the marketplace just beyond the monastery’s gates, there is a merchant with graying hair and shaking hands. Crow’s feet cradle her eyes, accentuated when Sylvain approaches. 

He’d told her his name months ago and he towers over her by two feet, but she’d called him her little lad since the first time he’d dropped by her stall and hasn’t stopped since. Affectionately and in return, he’s taken to calling her his big grandmother. Her laugh always makes him smile, too.

“Took a while, but it’s done,” she tells him, and holds out a delicate box, made of wood and decorated by fire. On the side, she has written, in her neat script: for Sylvain. “You’ve got high standards, little lad.”

“I think you’re just using me to hide the fact that you’re still a perfectionist after all these years,” he teases her, and sets a heavy bag of coin down on her table. The box she gives him is heavy; he cradles it to his chest like it’s the most valuable thing in the world. At this point, it feels like it is. 

“You’ve overpaid again.” She knows, even without lifting the bag.

“Have I?” Sylvain smiles. “No way. I’m only a little terrible with numbers, you know.”

She bats at him with a laugh. “Yes, yes, I’m sure. Now take your bleeding heart away from my stall. You’ll tell me next week how you like the pieces.”

“I’ll love it,” he tells her, and with his promises to swing by again, he takes his box—a chess set, handcrafted by the old woman and her sons—to return to the monastery. He can hardly keep the excitement from his face when he passes through the gates. Why, if there weren’t so many people around, he might even be tempted to skip. 

But he has a reputation to uphold, which means no skipping—and, upon sighting one gorgeous Constance von Nuvelle, it also means it’s his Goddess-given duty to approach her.

“Well hello there, Constance! I’d say it’s a beautiful day today, but compared to how lovely you look, everything else seems to pale in comparison. What brings you out here?”

@irroche

✦ ` perhaps the most infuriating part in this accursed loop is that with the rebirth of each year comes the regression of her progress in all things. part of her expected this to be the case upon her return to abyss. but to be proven that her assumptions were correct was, for once, something that constance did not. her laboratory was devoid of all materials. all her grand plans and schematics, gone. all that remained were her unblemished appratuses and the scorch marks that line the walls from past efforts. she recalled most of her ideas and where her experiments had been last left, but memory does not resolve the absence of material to conduct them.

and so again, she finds herself here in the market, emptying what little she possesses in her personal coffers into the pockets of merchants that delight in her pursuit of rare materials. concord skims painstakingly replicated notes, lips parting as she reads with her parasol daintly secured overhead. a few more pounds of that and it should be enough, though she should keep an eye out for this and—eyes flick up at the mentioning of her name, her gaze fixed on sylvain for all of five seconds before she immediately returns her attention to her notes.

"oh, it is only you."

another page is turned. "yes, yes, thank you. you are captivated by my immeasurable beauty. yes, i am as radiant and fair as the moon, hm? what is it that you want?" she didn't have nearly enough to buy everything that she needed, but she supposes that she'd just have to come back when she acquired more money by way of commission or by finding herself in the service of the church again. the thought of it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. and while the errant thought occurs to her that she could likely ask her compatriots for contributions to the much-needed and important advancements of house nuvelle, her pride simply won't allow it. "i am shopping. i feel that is quite obvious." another glance up at the gautier boy, her lips pressing into a thin line.

her mouth opens, then shuts again.

no, somehow asking him makes it worse.

sanktere:

          to have sent him for such a task with none of the rites and reliquaries necessary for its completion… it proves an unique kind of challenge. carrying only his personal effects and minimal knowledge of the situation, assured that the items and icons in this entrusted box would be enough… a quiet sigh swells within his chest but never quite leaves in breath. who was he to speak of what rituals would be adequate to purge the restless spirits of this land? but where he would have anticipated the combined efforts of a number of their vestry, led by the knowledgeable power of an elevated bishop, here was left to the best judgment of one ill-prepared monk.

          even so, he hadn’t the heart to tell them he had yet to finish studying through half of fodlan’s holy scripture, that only a scant few of the goddess’ prayers had been committed to memory, and none of them fitting for the occasion.

          his pay would not be earned with negligence, and these villagers truly seemed to suffer from their fear. that alone was enough to move his trepidations, and set him on the quiet path into the solitude of the resting grounds, remote along a countryside that, as he understands, had seen much change in the aftermath of a tragedy some years ago. even if the liturgies he knew so well should fail here, he would try what he could within his power.

          the first step being… to find the exact location.

          unmarked and disturbed graves shouldn’t prove elusive, yet the townspeople had been reluctant to direct him — to even speak of the sightings, though this was no surprise when the naming of the departed and unsleeping always carried a certain risk. lantern light chases away the immediate shadows of the early night, and when had a fog begun to roll in? the mildness of inchoate spring is warm, but not enough to fend off an inexplicable chill. he pulls the folds of his cloak a little tighter.

          snap. a twig, close by. lantern turns to his right, other hand moving instinctively to his staff. the mind plays tricks to recompense the unknown; this he knows.

          ❝ is someone there? ❞

       ✧   //    @irroche

✦ ` seven years ago, constance left nuvelle. not for a quick ride through the surrounding perimeter alongside her brother and not carriage-bound for enbarr with her parents at the height of the summer ball season; seven years ago, she left with her back turned to the city as it burned to the ground. seven years ago, she watched as they buried her family with the same veiled smiles that she practiced in her mirror since childhood. their deepest condolences, their sincerest apologies that they could not answer until it was too late—seven wretched years that she spent earning her right to stand again, blaming herself for her weakness when she'd been a child.

two of those years, gone now, at the whim of a false idol.

two of those years, wasted.

she's seen a thousand of her lifetimes, examined dozens more when she closes her eyes and in none of them do things change. at times, there are visions of her brother who flees instead. others, it is her mother or her father who survive. but in all pasts, in all presents and in all futures, there are some things that stay the same. her father ardently believes that help will come. nuvelle always falls. she is always eventually alone. that is the inevitable truth. there is nothing more that she could have done.

she knows this.

she was just a child.

and yet, when she hears the whispers of the church: that west adrestia lies awake with fears of the uneasy souls that rest beneath the cleared rubble, that they need to sanctify the land of its impurities; she runs. there was nothing that she could have done to protect them. her family, her people—there was nothing she could have done. constance did not believe in ghosts or vengeful spirits. those were for the living, the hope that life continues on and that death is not merely the absence of it. her head must be sick with the grief of memory, she thinks, because here she stands now in a city that bore her name but that she could no longer recognize.

only the crashing of waves is familiar.

digits tense in the fabric of her blouse, concord falling soft on the gravestones mired in the fog. she doesn't know why she's come. doesn't know why she answers the voice in the shadows or why she steps into the dim light of the lantern. she stops when she recognizes the robes of the clergy. her expression falls when she realizes it is not that of the cardinals and that the face that looks back at her now is not aelfric's, but another foreign face with a name she does not know. who does not recognize her.

she doesn't know if she should be thankful for that.

a glance at the staff at their side forces lips into a tight line, her displeasure creeping into her voice. not just a foreign face, but a foreign monk and god.

mjolnrr:

     Ishtar finds it astonishing how quickly news travels across the campus of the Officers Academy. The gossips of the Academy seemed to know all that occured within range of the school and wasted no time spreading word of the latest affairs to the rest of the student body. Whether it be about a new romance blossoming between an unlikely pair or a new special meal in the dining hall, no modicum of news is considered too unimportant to be shared. 

    It is these whispers that first alert Ishtar to the flock of black pegasi roosting nearby — and of the seemingly “magical” properties contained in their feathers. The exam season is almost upon them, and there are many mages searching for auxiliaries to amplify their magical might. Ishtar has no need for such things — she was not given the moniker Goddess of Thunder for her lack of talent, after all — but the rumors intrigue her nonetheless. If they turn out to be true, if she could expand her skill even further with the aid of these pegasi … the tips of Ishtar’s fingers buzz thinking about just how her spellwork could be magnified by mounting one of the black-winged steeds.

    There is no better way to test a theory than to put it into action, and one chilly afternoon Ishtar crunches across the ice-coated grass of the green and up the snowy mountain to catch a glimpse of the pegasi herself — and hopefully get close enough to mount one.

    A flutter of ebony catches the Friegan’s eye, just halfway up the mountain path. She pauses, slowing her steps so as to not spook the flock. The rumors had no exaggeration about their beauty — the pegasi seemed to be made of pure shadow, sleek and ink-black. For a moment, she is so enthralled by the grace of the unusually colored pegasi that it takes her a moment to realize that she is not alone.

    Ishtar flinches sharply at the sight of another young woman, wearing the uniform of the Academy — though with what seems to be an inverted color palette. For a moment, she stands there, arms awkward and stiff at her side before she realizes that it would likely be wise to make an introduction.

    “Oh … erm … hello,” Ishtar extends a hand mechanically. “I hadn’t realized you were standing there, my sincerest apologies. I am Ishtar, of Friege. Have you come to prove the rumors of the black pegasi as well?”

@irroche

✦ ` she does not know how many would-be mages she has turned away in this morning alone. constance does not know how it is that word spread so quickly nor how the secret revealed itself unto the students at the monastery and, quite frankly, she did not care to know. there is always a reason for this and that and while constance considers it quite important to be appraised of the origins of most things, gossip is not one of them. even if she might reluctantly admit to indulging in it herself from time to time amongst her own peers.

not as if though the ashen wolves have particularly much to say to one another in spite of what appears to be their growing numbers.

but it appears that, for whatever reasons, the magelings of the academy have been convinced that the feathers of the black pegasi would somehow improve their casting. she wonders what must race through their heads. a feather? what good would a feather do for them? a poor caster would remain a poor caster without practice and hard work. a feather would not teach them the proper forms, the proper techniques or incantations. she knew that there were those of those foreign nations that required a focus of some kind, but that would be a tome, a staff—not a pegasus.

it offends her, a talented mage in her own right to see such skill in these young mages and their confidence swayed by such a silly rumor when her own pegasus shares the same origins as those that flock here far from the reaches of humans. she is no stronger for it. have they no shame?

the only distinction between lorelei and the average pegasus was simply that these were a great deal less skittish. constance sighs, gently stroking the mane of one such majestic creature whilst lorelei grazes on the grass that peeks through the snowy path nearby. her pegasus perks her head at the sound of distant footsteps and constance's eyes follow too, landing on the form of what she can only presume to be another foolish student. an assumption, which is swiftly confirmed by the uniform.

"hello, ishtar of friege," she repeats, removing herself from the herd to take the girl's hand and give it a firm shake as is proper. "your apologies are unnecessary for i too did not notice your appearance. as for who i am, i am constance von nuvelle! and no, i have no interest or desire to because there is simply no truth to them!"

freliaes:

     The clash of steel travels on still winds, edged by frenzied shouts and inhuman groaning — whether from the ambling corpses seeking to add to their ranks, or the mechanical beast currently razing the forest, he isn’t sure. But he’s separated from his unit, trapped deep within the forest, and has nary a moment to dwell on either with relentless zombies on his trail. A gathering of arrows bunched in his left hand, the prince lets loose volley after volley as he runs into an open clearing, throat raw against Faerghus’s biting chill. Each arrow meets its intended mark, embedding itself in the chests of his undead pursuers.

      There is no moment of respite, however, for a beam of blue light soon illuminates the sky, exploding the treeline bordering the clearing into a fiery, golden light. Tendrils of crimson subsequently rage through the forest, the roar of flames drowning out terrified screams in the distance.

     He is blinded by the sudden light, stumbling back from the tremors left by the blast. Around him, limbs fly every which way as undead corpses are mangled in the explosion, while others miraculously endure, rising from the flames like demons out of hell. Innes’ backs into a tree, jaw set in a deep grimace. Eyes dart about the clearing — he is decidedly cornered, with each possible escape route now engulfed in flame. 

     Three more arrows are pulled from his quiver, and Innes draws his bow, fingers pinched tightly against the bowstring. His supply of arrows are quickly dwindling, and he knows he won’t be able to hold out for much longer. Reminiscent, almost, of his time in Carcino. Strapped for supplies, with nary but a swordsman and dancer for allies, as he fought for survival in a small, surrounded fort.

     But there was no savior for him this time. No angel come to give him salvation, no valkyrie to swoop in and win the day—

     “lord innes!”

     Thoughts are lost to the storm of feathers that bear down upon him, and the prince doesn’t spare a second thought before grasping the woman’s hand, bow slung over his shoulder and arrows gripped tightly in his left as he’s pulled up onto the pegasus. A hoarse breath leaves him, the burning in his lungs made no better by the abrupt change in temperature. “C—” He chokes on his words, suddenly catching a flash of blue in his peripherals, “Constance! Incoming!”

✦ ` a moment too late and they would have been forced aground. with a pull of the reins and a harsh kick in the sides, they whirl away from the beam of bright blue. narrowly, she might add. but the absence of the light does not promise the absence of the ensuing fire that climbs the trunks of the drier trees that managed to escape the heavy snow that plagues the rest of the region and she is forced to bring lorelei higher, farther away from the forest proper until she can no longer see any of the straggling survivors. for now, the attention of the mechanical beasts are sated and she is given a moment to breathe. well, more appropriately, they are given a moment to breathe.

she has heard some things of frelia.

not much. only things mentioned in passing. a kingdom of moderate size, but nothing comparable to the empire nor that of the kingdom or alliance here. in its defence stands an army of highly trained pegasus knights. its king was kind and his first-born son sits behind her now. she'd wondered if she was wrong to presume that he might be so similarly equipped to fly and so, only when she is certain that they are no longer under the threat of being struck from the clouds, does she turn to look over her shoulder and check. "my apologies for such a narrow rescue." she chirps, gathering the rein in one hand while its opposite lifts to fix her hair.

"it was not my intention to spirit you from the ground."

lafilledenaga:

In this uneasy stillness, your party begins to clean up and make preparations to return to Garreg Mach. You have your own tasks to tend to, but a splitting headache impedes your progress. Accompanying it are phantom voices… from yourself. Having conversations you don’t remember having before. You can’t be the only one… right? @irroche

No matter how many horrors she witnessed during the war, seeing death and despair never got easier. The smell was putrid, and the sight appalling, but she had a duty to fulfill to the victims.

Julia lowered herself to the ground, sitting on her knees and clasping her hands in prayer. First to Bragi, asking that their souls to be saved, cleansed of all plague and pain. Second to Sothis, praying that the Goddess would accept them despite herself not being one of her followers. The villagers were likely followers of the Goddess, so she would ensure they arrived to the paradise they had been waiting for.

She finished her final prayer, scrambling to get herself back onto her feet, only to be struck by an unbearable pain which caused her to stumble. Her head was throbbing, nearly to the point of bringing her to tears.

And as soon as it came, it disappeared.

She felt disoriented, looking in every direction to see if anyone else had experienced the same thing– but as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, she heard a distressed voice coming from the town.

“Help me! Please!”

A survivor? But she could have sworn they checked every inch of the village! How could they have possibly missed one? “D-did anyone else hear that? We– we have to go back! Someone’s still back there!” It seemed as if mostly everyone was already heading down the path to return to the school, leaving only her and a young blonde woman behind. 

✦ ` it’s disgusting, what they’ve done. every step she takes in the village, she finds another. a fallen grandmother, a fallen father—it's nauseating. but of all the great things that make her feel ill, it is neither the stench of the decaying corpses nor is it the death itself. it is the fact that they were used. all the people that surround them now, she thinks. they all had lives of their own. they had families and people who knew and loved them. could they have known what fate would befall them when they arrived in this place? her stomach turns with the increasing awareness that it was distinctly possible that the people here likely grew up in this place. there was nothing to be said of the survivors and the horrors that they faced.

what did you say to a person who met death, wearing the skin of a friend?

the longer she stays in this place, the more she realizes why it is that so few people knew what to say to her when her own family met such grim fates. those that truly mourned them knew not what to say other than they were sorry for what happened. she blamed them. blamed them for everything, but now in this place; she wonders if the survivors would do the same with the church or if they would be kinder than she could ever be.

it is not her responsibility to earn their forgiveness for them.

constance walks on, watching as the dead are laid in wheelbarrows beside her and the knights and students alike become gravediggers. the less time that is spent here the better. she shakes her head, beginning her return to the stables where her pegasus awaits her for their trip to return home when another voice calls to her. constance glances back over her shoulder, her eyebrows nearly raising into her hairline. a survivor? "impossible." she replies. hands laces together in front of her, the nail of her index finger scratching at the reddening flesh of her thumb. "the knights already conducted a survey of the area. you are—"

' —please, you have to look! i'm sure my brother survived! i'm sure of it! please, you have to help me! '

the scratching stops. nail presses painfully into flesh instead.

eymr:

It’s a new flavor of anger. The rage that had built up in her brisk walk to the Abyss had now dissipated into a white hot rage—the boiling point had long since been surpassed, and now Edelgard is left staring blankly at smoke that changes color each time the dim light pouring in from the outside corridors hits it. This is too much. She can handle several things, including scrutiny and threats but this was something else. It takes every ounce of her willpower to not lash out with the myriad of words she had thought of on the way here.

It’s for the best that the boiling point has been surpassed. It allows her to observe Constance, quietly, through the thinning smoke. (Her hair changes to a deep green.)

The mage hits the table and… keeps working. She’s thinking. Edelgard has not actually seen Constance working, but it’s evident from her actions—the way she furrows her eyebrows together, pushes stray hairs back, and lifts a crate of beakers—that she does not intend to get up on her invention, regardless of how Edelgard may feel about its usefulness.

Once Constance notices her, Edelgard steps forward, her thumb wiping across the corner of her lips in an attempt to wipe off some of the color from the explosion. Silently, she examines the lab, her eyes traveling over shattered glass and the discolored remains of her experiment. She sighs. “Let me guess,” she says, “this time, you’re making mood changing lotion?”

“Spare me, Constance,” Edelgard continues, raising a hand towards her. “I have not slept in days. I never intended to try your hair dye, and while I admit that it did work, I have no use for it, or whatever it is you are making currently, in the slightest.”

There’s a pause in her words, when she sighs wearily—her hair turns amber, almost appearing a dark blonde color in this light—and her fingers pinch the bridge of her nose. “Now, tell me, how does one return their hair to its original color after they use your mood changing hair dye?”

✦ ` oh, her highness has jokes! it's kind of her to try and lighten the mood. she was feeling a little dreary from the repeated failures. it's an unfortunate consequence of her chosen field of interest. there is simply more to be learned from failure than there is to be learned from success, though she sometimes finds herself wishing for more of the latter than the former. constance coughs, waving away the smoke from her vision as much as she is also dismissing the princess's question. ( accusation, the more astute part of her mind unhelpfully provides. ) "of course not. i would not waste my time creating a second version of an already perfect product, ahaha!" well, actually, she would if it was proven to be something that the empire had interest in.

though now with her surprise aside, constance is not so blind to see that lady edelgard is—how should she put this? less than pleased with what she's done.

innovation is so rarely appreciated in its time.

lips threaten to twitch downward, but mage manages to keep the half-smile on her face. she'd thought it might be helpful. no girl delighted in having such silvery hair for their own, she reasons. it ages her. the stark twilight fails to reflect that of her lineage and she thinks, then, that the princess would be all the more benefitted by being able to change her hair color on a dime. she was so reticent. and perhaps, more selfishly, constance would be able to ascertain with just a single glance whether or not she was impressed by her work. the amber speaks to her verdict and constance makes a mental note to push aside any future proposals involving color-changing formulas.

"i—" her voice cracks. "of course, your highness."

"it is a simple salve." she replies, her chin in her hand as constance closes her eyes with consideration. ah. her eyes burned so much. perhaps she did need to rest, but the problem needed to be contended with first. how would she prove herself helpful to the empire if she could not even solve the first problem brought forward to her by lady edelgard? nevermind the fact that she had caused it. "allow me. i had not thought you would be in need of it so soon and thus do not have any on-hand. it will not happen again, lady edelgard." constance crosses the room, hastily removing her documents from a stool before gesturing to it for the princess. "please, have a seat."

"and my apologies for the state in which my laboratory is. my," a pause. "if i had known you would be visiting, i would have asked my assistant to clean." she didn't have one and most abyssians avoided the laboratory all together, except for the children who sometimes helped her test her less dangerous experiments.

exemplaris:

It would do no good for his rescuer if they were to arrive at the place of his last stand to find nothing but a corpse and a flimsy lance; if he had to choose, Ferdinand would rather be bruised and bloodied from being forced to fight bare handed, than risk the circle closing tighter to preserve the use of his lance. That just wasn’t a viable way out anymore; the rider as his only chance. And by the grace of the Goddess, the rider must have also known this as the sound of hoof beats only grew louder over the groans of plague ridden villagers and ghastly mages. They approached.

The least he could do was thin the crowd.

As if sensing his renewed resolve, the circle pressed in closer. Ferdinand felt the heel of his boot press against the rough brick of the edifice wall when he took a step back with the parry, breath hitching as he swerved instead, with little room to maneuver, to dodge the secondary attack of a mass of writing tendrils that took form of a sword. Ferdinand slashed with his lance. 

The wood creaked further; the steel of the blade cut cleanly through the stalk, and they continued to coil and twist as they stained the snow in deep black… until they were crushed under a dark, heavy hoof.

He looked up, as the shadow fell over him. A great, dark pegasus, and perched atop the noble steed…

“Constance, by the Saint!” His chuckle was too breathless, the relief softening his knees. If the situation were not so dire, he might have fell… or marveled that she were here at all. “This would be an equally fitting evacuation.”

All around them, the mages and affected villagers were already recovering from the shock of her entrance, staggering toward them once more. Ferdinand’s grip on what was left of his lance tightened. “Please. We can discuss this after.”

✦ ` constance cannot say that she is pleased. but, she isn't angry with him quite yet. she might be in due time. she often is when ferdinand is involved. "true enough. we will discuss this later." and she would. though the thought comes that she ought scold him now anyways, even as she offers him his hand now, for having stayed behind. no matter the reason, he ought to recall his so illustrious title as the scion of house aegir and fled. there were innumerable people that awaited his return.

"grab that sword, then. hurry, i cannot say i can protect you." and she would rather he be armed than not in the event she is struck down herself.

once she's certain that he's behind her, she tethers the rein in her hand and kicks. black mare's off with a start. what occurred in that simple and empty head of his? that he ought, as the noblest of nobles, stay behind to help fend off their new enemies as one should? this was not his kingdom. not his village and, therefore, not his problem. but that would have been just like him, wouldn't it? she'd admired that once. it just makes her burn with frustration now. but whatever she thinks, constance does not know for certain and there is no point in speculating.

( there rarely is, but she always does anyway. )

a little kindness goes a long way. ❰❰ BED ❱❱ our muses share a bed.

✦ ` of the great many things she knows ferdinand von aegir to be, she knows he is at least not lecherous. condescending, arrogant and blithe all the same, but she has never known him to be anything short of the gentleman in his mannerisms otherwise. the same cannot be said for the noblemen who find their heritage in the kingdom, though she must profess that it is just as equally likely that the gautier boy alone may be at fault for such a reputation. it is with this knowledge and a great deal of reluctant grace that constance von nuvelle swallows her pride and concedes to sharing a room with him as if they were common schoolchildren.

because she has not a penny to her name and because he, for all his innumerable faults, does.

it was really her mistake for believing that his generosity would extend this far.

iris purple remain trained on the ceiling of the inn, her hands folded neatly over her stomach and the itchy bedding. rainwater drips through the ceiling. each drop coalesces in a single place and falls, directly onto her face. it reminds her faintly of her quarters in abyss. but the difference between this place and abyss is that she finds herself not in the much appreciated company of hapi and instead—

instead, it is ferdinand von aegir who slumbers so peacefully beside her.

beside her.

as in, occupying the same bed as she, a woman of marriageable age and one who most certainly was not promised to him in any capacity. she'd not said anything at first. but, the longer that she thinks about it. the longer she thinks about it—

a sudden and angry snort rips through the silence of the dark room, constance sitting up with a start as she hefts a pillow—one so heavy that it might as well be stuffed with stones, she might add—up and smacks ferdinand squarely on his side. "do you really intend to sleep in these circumstances? you are unbelievable! it is absurd!" she demands suddenly, furiously striking him again. "i know it on good honor that her lady aegir did not raise you this way!" blonde hair spills over her shoulder. "i thought better of you, ferdinand! is it not a gentleman's place to offer the bedding to a lady?" another smack for good measure. a burst of feathers fly.

atypicalsenerio:

One final stand. The last desperate push against a single enemy. Soren could unfortunately see more than one figure falling if they did not do this quick enough. He turned his eyes from the broken feathers, white long stained with death, to Ares.

Soren Excalibur Roll: 17-4, 2 Damage

He was weary of using so much magic, but it made no difference. Since before he could talk he’d gotten good a casting until he was ready to collapse. He’d burn his soul out before surrendering.

Ares might not give him the chance.

Ares Roll: Owwie, 3 Damage to Soren plus Poison, Soren HP 1/8

The demonic blade almost killed him in one final strike and he gasped. He stumbled and fell backwards onto the ground, clutching his chest, blood seeping through his clothes under his palm and tome. He winced and closed his eyes for a precious second, unable to move for a few moments.

“Oof.”

@irroche·

✦ ` casting requires greater precision than she can afford to worry about now. they were down to their last and it's frustrating, embarrassing that it takes more than one try to conjure another spell be it lightning, fire, wind or ice. it does not come, but what does still is the swordsman. struck down by the wind, he stumbles. gets up again with an inhuman rage and strikes tactician true.

his blood splatters across the ground, her own courses through her veins with fury but constance cannot call the elements to her now. lightning misses, upending and uprooting the earth beneath her in the shadowy void.

constance misses. again. corrupted ares counter-attacks, but his damage is lessened by circadian beat. constance: 7.5 / 8 hp.

"i must apologize," she offers. she does not think that she can do anymore. not without endangering herself. not without endangering them again with her foolhardy casting. constance lacks the strength that permits her allies to fend off the shadow's swordplay and lacks the speed to dodge it. "i fear i may no longer be of much aid." her muscles seize and tense involuntarily. it's as if he gains a new life of his own, like all the soldiers she'd seen before.

atypicalsenerio:

He should be thinking of their enemies as shadows rather than former allies. On one hand, it was useful to know the ins and outs of an enemy’s strengths. He’d even gone out of his way in life to ask around after his own companions’ abilities, and there shouldn’t be anything more than simple calculation of whose strengths versus whose weaknesses.

The swordsman managed to land a hit on him as he tried to scurry away, in position for another attack.

Ares: Barely hit plus poison, Soren -1 HP

He turned to face the shadow heron.

They had not all made it out yet, but they were getting close.

It was a shadow. Not Reyson. He knew that and his face showed no remorse.

Soren Excalibur Roll: 19-6, Hit, -3 Damage. -2 Damage taken to Reyson, 0HP remaining

He’d never thought about it before, how his own anima magic was so specifically effective against half of his heritage. Not only that dragons were laguz but fliers too, and here he was the marriage of two things that shouldn’t have come together, an expert at tearing apart what was a part of himself by blood. His magic was no less potent from his laguz side, and he would never have a place in the sky on his own wings, and he watched as the spell finished the job.

It wasn’t his friend or anyone’s friend, the capacity for any kind of kinsmanship gone.

Yet it was sorrowful to watch as the ghost died again before the final feather from wings rendered flightless drifted down upon his lethal breeze. There was nothing beautiful in his death, and in this case not even a sense of victory, only a sense of a twisted round of a game nearing its end.

“One left! Constance!”

@irroche

✦ ` lady celica is a bit of a hypocrite, isn’t she? she thinks this with no shortage of amusement. in the prison, she'd asked her to trust in her. rely on her, did she not? that she needn't keep up the pretense of strength and her pride when it is all that she has to her name. she finds it difficult to swallow now and all the more laughable now that even she cannot take her own advice. but, it is not mocking. it is something weaker, something softer like pity—she knows the willfullness born of tragedy. 

she recognizes it in those of them that still stand now. saw it in those that could not and stubbornly, she refuses to see it in herself.

even as exhaustion weighs down her bones.

even as the spells woven begin to become less focused.

even—

constance rolls to miss ( 4 )! corrupted ares counters for - 0.5 hp, but circadian beat negates that for no damage. constance's hp is still 5 / 8.