confetti.

sporadic activity, literate and independent multimuse writing blog. private & highly selective. homegrown by leo.

❝ you’re being so obedient. ❞

Jiaoqiu sidles up to his kitchen assistant, his voice bemused, to have a look at his progress chopping vegetables. Usually he'd be less inclined to let anyone else into his kitchen or take up any of Moze's precious time guarding their general, but with said general currently napping on Jiaoqiu's couch he had a hard time feeling guilty.

"I take it that your trip to Aurum Alley with the Lady General went well, then?"

❝ come on ! you should feel sorry for me. ❞

Aran pulls the most pitiful face they can possibly manage without bursting into laughter. The situation is serious. Kind of. It was more serious when Aran's bard-y butt was one unfortunate breath away from an unexpected reunion with Jergal.

But now it's easier to laugh about it again — the healing potion is doing its job in the background and what it can't cover by itself, Aran's or Shadowheart's magic can take care of.

"You could stand to be nicer to someone who was almost hit by an oversized hammer, you know? If it weren't for my valiant sacrifice we might not have figured out that this Grym thing was weak to being squished!"

❝ i’m not taking any orders from you. ❞

It wasn't personal. It rarely ever was with Blade, really — deviations from that rule of thumb were very special cases that their newest Stellaron Hunter didn't need to know about yet. If Sunday proved himself, someday he might.

"We work off a script. Give me the passage you need me for and I'll see what I can do. But I'm not taking orders from you."

"let me look at that," hubert states calmly, stripping off his gloves as he approaches ferdinand, inspecting his injuries. his expression remains unmoved though the softness in his eyes is unmistakable. "we cannot have you bleeding all over the place. it'd be bad for morale."

"On the contrary, I'd like to argue that I pick my fights very well—" Ferdinand winces when his lungs protest his heated outburst. Alright, perhaps choosing to go up against Duke von Riegan's war monk mercenary friend by himself hadn't been his brightest idea. Maybe he should've waited for the reinforcement troops to arrive. It would've put them at risk, which had not particularly pleased him, however.

Edelgard had called it his fatal flaw, this bleeding heart of yours. "This is war, Ferdinand," his commander had admonished him much like Hubert now. But Ferdinand doesn't understand. If war is the worst of humanity, isn't it also their duty as the ones waging it to offset the cost? To do as much good as they possibly can?

Ferdinand's troops are people, not pawns. They have families, they have wishes and ambitions. He knows many of them by name, has sat with them, shared a tankard of cheap military ale and watery stew ("When will we finally see the end of this war, Edelgard?"), has watched them writhe in pain as they fought the God of Death tooth and nail to return home one day. If anyone had to die earlier today, he'd decided he was fine with him paying the price.

"Claude's Trickster tactician doesn't fight fair," he complained, allowing Hubert to position his face, his limbs, move his blood-caked hair. "Claude alone would've been perfectly horrid of an opponent by himself. I wish someone had made more of an effort to recruit the Ashen Wolves for our cause five years ago." He doesn't like admitting defeat, so instead, the conversation swerves. Ferdinand doesn't dare meet Hubert's eyes, a little scared of what his heart will do if he lets himself.

❝ that’s my girl. ❞

Claude's grin is wild when Haider touches down on the ground. Man and wyvern are both splattered with blood and once the adrenaline in his system has ebbed he will no doubt have to retreat from their victory celebration and sit with it. But right now the Great Bridge of Myrddin is safe, the Imperial troops have retreated to lick their wounds at a safer location and Hilda, just as bloodied, is glorious and alive and more beautiful than ever.

"Head count," he requests from Ignaz once he's slipped out of his saddle, dropping delegating his duties as the commanding officer to pull Hilda into a tight hug.

"Are you hurt?" he mumbles into her sweaty hair. They're both sticky with gore but Claude finds it hard to care.

❝ make up your mind. are you gonna let me in or not ? ❞

Around them, the gentle whirring of the ship is a reminder of the fact that everyone else is currently asleep, cashing in on bitterly needed sleep after their desperate rush on Scarif. Cassian has lived through a lot of risky missions, but this one takes the cake by a wide margin. His ribs still hurt with every breath and the Alliance medic who looked at his leg ordered a week of bed rest — which, of course, he is currently ignoring.

Instead, here he is, looking Jyn in the face and waiting for— something. Anything. He's not sure of what, actually, which might be the scariest part of it all. For the first time in what feels like decades, Cassian Andor doesn't have a plan.

❝ I’m not asking what they would have wanted. I want to know what you want. ❞

Alasdair waves dismissively, visibly displeased. "I already know how your parents are and I don't care." His expression softens as he reaches over and places a hand on Avery's. "This is about you. It's your education. That's your future we're talking about. Your opinion should be the only thing that matters."

A partner, Signorina Andarateia told him, just for this assignment. She was young and hopeful and still wielded power awkwardly in these moments — the Cantori family's Talon led from amidst her people, not above them. In moments like these it meant she showed remorse at enforcing her word.

Santiago hadn't bothered pushing back. The more of a fuss he put up now, the more attention he'd draw to himself. And more attention meant much more complicated planning when it came to the final curtain call. No one defected from the Antivan Crows without repercussions, and he had already just been handed an additional obstacle to his plans. No need to overcomplicate things even further.

So here he sat, in a Val Royeaux inn chamber under the name of Jacob Singer, a Fereldan businessman — funny what a little translating could do to a name — unpacking his equipment. Outside, the Orlesian summer sun shone so brightly, one might mistake it for the second (well, third, really) coming of the Breach across the Thedosian skies.

An excellent time to start their hunt for Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons.

Behind him, the door cracked open. Santiago hadn't heard the steps, but the poisoned daggers strapped to his thighs had already found their way into his palms, their hilts safe and familiar in his grip.