STARSEEKER

arcstral​:

              Found at the highest peak of a tower is a loneliness that little else can replicate. The air here gathers thick and heavy in his lungs, every peek of the realm below encouraging an unwanted consciousness toward heights and falls and human isolation. Were it not for the allies at his side, perhaps he would feel like a man alone at the very edge of the world. But even without their company it wouldn’t have been total solitude.

               The miasmic slop pouring from the sky merges into hostile solids, producing separate batches of concerns entirely at a single woman’s command. He has no time to mourn the form their enemy takes. Before anyone can utter a warning, the General courses an earth-shattering rumble through the ground, felt and heard in equal strides. An instinctual huddle of his form toward the nearest wall provides shelter from the attack. Quiet settles afterward and during this time he is able to deduce that others have not been as lucky—Laslow. Soren. Edward. Merric.

( Agarthan General uses Quake. Barely hit. Offset by Fire Emblem )

( Merric casts Fortify.  Marth’s HP: 10/10  )

               Marth straightens from the debris, cupping his hand around his mouth through the clamor of battle in a bid to be heard. “Is everyone alright? If it is urgent healing you require, you need only say the word!” Falchion remains sheathed in favor of more needed talents. His attentive eyes scan the battlefield for damages, where gauged alongside the injured is the particularly affected Merric. The brutal nature of his spirits is noted hand-in-hand alongside their user’s ragged state.

(  Marth casts Recover, healing Merric for +3 HP  )

               Upon his approach warmth suffuses his palms then the ailing body below. A fraught look of worry flickers across his expression, professional and personal all at once. Marth pushes the latter away. “If you continue like this, the spirits will take from you more than you can give. Don’t push yourself.”

            LONELINESS COMES TO HER IN A BITING COLD. It washes over her like waves of a starless sea, threatening to take her beneath its depths with every beating crest. This tower is all brick and shadow, and evokes a suffocating isolation. The strange, miasmic foes that form at the woman's word certainly do not help offset the feeling. Though she knows that this isn't real— the quickly fracturing dreamscape reminds her of that— her mind has its ways of tearing her asunder. 

           And it begins with her heart.

           Her feelings do not control her easily. If the centuries upon centuries have given anything to her, it is strength in spades. But in this space, in this moment, she finds herself burning up with a strange fever of emotion. Anger, sadness, fear, all swirling like stew in a cauldron, bubbling and smoking with each stir. She sweats. The darkness serves to trick her— it's as though she were a young manakete again, dreaming of destruction wrought by her divine claws, and of the shadows that haunt her slumber.

Agarthan General uses Quake: Hit! (-1HP) Tiki’s HP: 10/12. Seal Str/Mag: all buffs to Str and Mag are nullified for one round. Merric uses Fortify: Tiki’s HP: 12/12

           The ground suddenly shakes; the tower's foundation quivers alongside it. Tiki whimpers as she is struck by debris, the falling stones digging into her shoulder. Part of her wishes to cry. Perhaps a moment longer in this sorry state, and she actually would have. It's fortunate that she is able to break away from her emotions, then. Warmth seeps into her skin. Her tensed body, deep in the fight mode of fight-or-flight, relaxes. The darkness clouding her vision parts, and she can see the familiar and welcome figures of her allies surrounding her.

           Right— she's not alone!

           "Merry…" the nickname slips past her guard, as does the dopey, girlish grin that her mouth succumbs to, "thank you!"

           Her heart eases. Though she feels herself continue to heat up. Still, this is an improvement— at least now, she can see what is truly in front of her. This will let her fight; and being by her friends' sides will let her win. Her gauntlets, strapped to her hands, crackle with magic and lightning. It is eager to do something, and Tiki feels the same.

Tiki attacks Agarthan General with Aura Knuckles: Hit, Hit! (-3HP) Agarthan General: 29/40 HP.

           Her fever transforms itself into resolve. Tiki, teeth grit, rushes towards one of the fielded enemies and strikes them twice. The first hit cuts upwards, hitting their helmet— the other follows quickly, sweeping across their torso. The general stumbles backward, unable to do so much as counterattack. Tiki breathes deeply. Then, turns back.

           She half expects to be met with empty darkness once more. But her teammates remain with her, still. A reminder that she doesn't stand alone.

           "Let's bring them down," Tiki raises a hand, "I'm counting on you all!"

Ironically, the tactics you used to destroy the warehouse on the city outskirts makes a return here, as “freedom fighters” native to Sparagmos infiltrate your captured Chalkos stores and cause an explosion. A number of your allies have died, familiar faces among them. When rumors of a planned second attack reaches you, the commanding officer gives you a chance to take revenge however you’d like.

Grants 3d3 Chalkos per post, 1d10 chance of obtaining Orichalcum.

             THE SUN, HOWEVER PALE, IS HARSH IN HER LOVE— SHE SPARES NONE WHEN SHE bathes the world in her endless, beaming light. Perhaps Tiki would have reveled in it on a better day. Warmth ought to be cherished in climates such as this. However, that day seems so far away to her now. Today, the light only mocks her. With her head hung low, all she can feel is the way it sears into the back of her neck. With her eyes drawn downwards, all she can see is how her shadow is cast and how it seems to grow longer and longer beneath the glare. With the grimness in the air, the sun is hot and blinding, like a flashbang stuck in mid-explosion.

            "Chin up, soldier!" she can hear the barking voice of her commanding officer behind her, and flinches as she follows his rule. The man, his face obscured by the shadow of his hat, sighs. "We're getting close to the nest of those damned freedom fighters, but we won't stay on pace if you keep mulling around like that. Stick with the rest of our group and keep moving. Understood?"

            Tiki closes her eyes. Her vision is red from the sunlight. But shadows dance within its depths all the same. In this moment, she sees bodies atop bodies; ruins upon ruins. A cloud of chalkos and smoke rising from it. Among the wreckage, the broken faces of cherished friends. She recalls searching desperately for a head of blue, or a cloak of red… though she doesn't know why. They wouldn’t be here... would they?

            Tiki shivers.

            And she recalls the anger— so much anger. Enough burning fury to rival a cloudless sun. She'd always been a gentle creature, defaulting to peace above all else. But in that moment, she had seethed with a righteous wrath. As though an ancient desire for retribution had awoken within her. But as her anger grew, so too did guilt come quick to marry it. For she knows that none of this would have happened had they not destroyed the city's warehouse to begin with.

            It was a cycle of anger for anger; hate for hate, with the clouds of shame swirling above them. And there she stood in the center of it, allowing herself to be taken by its flow. She is not made for violence— is she not?— and she is not made for war. But vengeance feels like an obligation, now. A responsibility she owed to the dead. Nevermind how awful it felt to her.

            She takes a deep breath. "Understood."

            Then, she marches, her boots sinking into soft snow as she heads towards the rest of her group. Her face holds no smile when she speaks. As though the sun had robbed her of all her warmth.

            "Right…" she sweeps her gaze across her group, "How are we all holding up? The commander says we're quite close to the enemy's base. I hope you're all prepared. I fear we won't leave this place without a fight."

ulirblood​:

@anankelotus @nagavoice [ weekend mini dungeon ]

coming face to face with a giant tree along with a few companions, edain cannot help but have her doubts. they needed the wood for their own important purposes to be sure, but to be ordered to do so by the very officer that had watched her pillage that poor merchant earlier. she glances towards those that accompany her, anankos and tiki.

“let’s just try to do our best.” she tries to motivate them before taking her shot at the tree. she had no axe to do so, so all that could be done was use abraxas. her fingertips shine with light and moments later…

[ roll: 8, hit! + 2 wood gained!  tree takes 4 damage, 36/40HP remaining ]

the tree looks hardly all that damaged, and they had some wood to show for it now. maybe this would be alright.

            THAT THEY NEEDED TO HARM THIS TREE brought Tiki some sort of grief. She knows this is far from the case, but she cannot help but look at the grand structure, with its sweeping canopy of leaves and branches and think of her Mila tree. With every blink of her eye and shift of her breath, she is brought back to the sight of Valm and her divine perch— the graveyard shade that had been her home in recent memory.

           But the vision is quick to fade when Edain hits the tree with a blisteringly bright faith spell, earning an approving grunt from the army officer that had been with them. Tiki finds herself snapping upwards, suddenly all too rapt with attention now that her memories had gone. She clears her throat, and straps her gauntlets on (for it seemed that use of proper lumbering tools was beneath them.)

           "Right, let us do our utmost," she nods at Edain, then at Anankos who had been situated behind her.

           Taking a deep breath, she charges at the ancient tree, punching at it with her gauntlets in the one-two movement she had learned. The sharp silver knuckles cut through the bark, shaving off a fair number of wood from its surface. Tiki hums to herself.

           "There. A few more hits like this ought to net us with a good number of wood— though you must take care not to injure yourself, yes?"

roll: 2d20: 8,7 (hit! hit!) (wood: 2+2)

swiftscion​:

Larcei feels bad for pouring worry over Tiki’s heart. And though she wishes to express this by getting mad, flaring up, and screaming at her to stop belittling a ‘fully grown warrior’, there is nothing belittling about what the manakete said. Reluctantly, she has to admit that Tiki’s approach is mature. It speaks to a kind of wisdom thousands of years older than she appears.

Of course, there is also Soren’s snide remark. But uncouth as it may be, it helps her see the logical side of things here: she can’t stay down forever.

“Alright,” Larcei manages to grunt, taking Tiki’s hand as her cheeks shift to red, “watch my back, then. I’ll try to find us a way out of here.” Up and on her feet again, her swordarm sheathes her prized blade before fishing a lockpick from her belt. It spins around on her finger, much like a certain someone in the last Liberation Army she fought for. Thieving had always been beneath Larcei, but now that she has a just cause to do it for, she’s willing to bend her morals a little.

Besides, it’s all just a dream. Nothing real is being broken into.

Moving with speed but not haste, she makes for the rear entrance of the warehouse. A beacon of light–likely to signal more soldiers for backup–shines some distance from the front. She figures that if there were any guards posted there, they’d be moving to the slowly-forming battlefield at Soren and Tiki’s location. That light not only pierces the sky, but shines brighter than the full moon.

It takes some finicking around, especially with voltage nipping at her skin, but the lock eventually turns with a hopeful click! Slowly, the door is pushed open, and peeking through its tiny crack reveals Larcei had been right about the watchmen rendezvousing at the beam of light. “Coast’s clear!” she shouts with a hand cupped to her mouth. 

Rather than stand around, she tries to move a store of chalkos, dragging another barrel with both hands. But the hit to her arm has sapped it of its strength, and so it barely budges, and she winds up wincing from the hurt of it all. 

Following Soren’s advice, she grabs what she can. Her thief’s pouch quickly fills with the powder and gets slung over her back, the Isaachian careful not to agitate it so she doesn’t end up carrying a lit fuse. Larcei holds it shut with her good arm, and looks despondently at what could’ve been. Soren’s plan to quake the place will ensure the enemy doesn’t get to use any of it, but chalkos has proven powerful on this raid, and she wishes she could have more at her disposal.

With nothing more to do she sighs, frustrated to no end that she must speak the following words:

“Just this once… It looks like I’ll have to leave the heavy lifting to you.”

Roll 4d2 = 2, 2, 2, 2; +8 Chalkos!

UP NEXT: @nagavoice​

         TIKI SMILES WHEN LARCEI TAKES HER HAND, A KIND curl of mouth that an older sibling would give the younger. But it's an expression cut short and grim by circumstance. The sprightly young soldier is quick to dash off and, feeling the heightening urgency of their situation, Tiki follows. Soren's proposal to essentially demolish the warehouse is a sound one, reminiscent of the sorts of high-risk tactics her Robin would pull. It would benefit no one to destroy all this chalkos, however, and Larcei seems to agree. After she peeks onto the outside, Tiki can see her recover as much chalkos as she can from the facility. Her pouch is filled with the powder, but carrying the rest is a task that is given to the manakete.

        A task that she accepts readily.

        Her injuries hiss under the strain of her muscle— bright red burns and thunder marks sting at her movement. But Tiki pushes past it and manages to carefully take a barrel of chalkos with her, dragging it lightly across the floor so as to not waste too much energy, yet still ensuring that she could lift it should the need for it arise. She takes a look around the warehouse and gives Soren a grim nod.

        "Well? Shall we get going then?" she flicks her head towards the entranceway that Larcei had opened for them, "If you're going to turn this place into ruin, perhaps you ought to do it soon."

roll: 4d2 = 2, 1, 1, 1 [+5 chalkos]

swiftscion​:

“Thanks guys,” Larcei replies, allowing herself a moment to catch the breath that had been snatched from her moments prior, “but I’m not some easily-broken kid. I can keep going.” 

She sheathes her sword at the suggestion of healing, unknowingly dusting its case with the sparkling powder. Her old wounds ache even after everything has been said and done with the first foe, her back still feeling the beating it received as though reliving the past. But it’s not a pain she can’t learn to manage. With what little time they are allowed, she squints down and wills herself to ignore it: a fighter’s instinct her years of training have long-since developed.

The chance for recuperation is cut short by their barricade bursting wide open. Who would’ve guessed that wooden crates couldn’t hold their own against squalls of the strongest wind? 

“Sneezing’s not our biggest concern, Soren! They just don’t end!” 

Another mage smirks in response to her cry, likely gladdened that their tactic of swarming the building is putting stress on our heroes. Larcei, wishing for nothing more than to wipe their face with the dirt, discards her woes and runs for their life. She’s just as fast as before, but the narrow doorway an obstacles standing inside make her path a winding one: the mage takes advantage of this, whipping her arm with lightning. 

A burn etches her bare skin, its shape jagged and hungry. And she grunts when she receives the blow, biting down on her teeth to stifle the hurt. This one’s gonna pay, and it’s only a matter of time before their missile of death collides with their body.

When she finally enters their range, she draws her brand, and the chalkos lining is sheath reacts into another luminescent burst. Only this time it is localized entirely within her belt, sending her draw further and faster than any human technique could possibly hope to achieve. It is the flashing of a stellar flare, gliding across the guard’s body before they can so much as gasp, giving birth to a similar dousing of starfire and fury. They fall, and for good measure the raven-haired sinks the tip of her sword into their neck when they’re down.

But she had been fighting on borrowed time, and the injuries sustained by arcane forces finally bring her to her knees. Not even Larcei, and her attacks like supernovae, can prove infallible. “Don’t worry about me,” she preemptively warns, straining to put up her good hand to keep her allies at bay, “I just… Need a sec…” 

Roll 4d2 = 2, 2, 2, 1; +7 Chalkos

UP NEXT: @nagavoice​

          THE WAREHOUSE IS ALIVE WITH THE RENEWED VIGOR of battle and Tiki, for her part, does her best to keep up. She waves her gauntlets in the air, hoping the movement would capture some of the idle chalkos that remained suspended. The electricity that crackles at her knuckles indicates to her that it did. Tiki nods to herself, and swiftly enters the fray.

          Their opponents are fierce. No doubt aggravated by the loss of their stronghold. Their spells are thrown with all the fury of a wounded animal. Tiki does her best to dodge as much of the magic as she can, and throw some of her own punches in turn, but finds herself beset with injury anyways. The chalkos has undoubtedly heightened her combat prowess; indeed, she can feel her fists practically fly with the littlest of efforts. But it takes more than a good offense to have a solid defense. She hisses as lightning sears into her, a blackened line of burnt flesh branded bright against her skin. She's far from the only one to get hit— she can hear hissing to her far left, and dull thuds that punctuate Larcei's following groan.

          It's tempting to turn to the sprout, but Tiki holds herself back for now. She is needed elsewhere, at this moment, and Larcei seemed a fierce enough soldier to hold her own— especially when times were dire. And so she continues to punch her way through the group of mages, thrusting her fists into their chests and watching as the chalkos-enhanced magic burns through their clothes. Blood follows the arc of her punch, streaking through the air like ribbons as she knocks the life out of their bodies.

          It doesn't take long for them to cut down this group as well. Tiki pants as the last of them fall.

          "Alright, is everyone—" Tiki turns to address her allies, but her question is quickly interrupted. Her voice drops. "Oh."

          She recognizes Larcei's fire; the way it burns bright in her eyes and heats up her voice. She's seen it in many a soldier, and knows better than to stoke it with sympathy. Still, the manakete cannot help approaching her with gentle steps.

          "I won't worry." Tiki reassures, "You've proven yourself well, Larcei. It is clear you have the skill to hold your own and more beyond that. However…" she glances down on her, each spellmark on her skin clear in her mind. She sighs, "you mustn't overexert yourself. Your lives are short, and far more fragile than you'd like to believe. 'Twould not bode well for us to lose you, here."

          Slowly, she removes one of her gauntlets. Then she offers the free hand to Larcei.

          "You are free to rely on us. You needn't carry the burden of battle all by yourself."

swiftscion​:

In urban areas, chalkos from the earth is hard to simply come by. What used to be here is now stored in a warehouse just outside the city limits, guarded heavily by city watch. A plan is made to raid the warehouse and take what you can for your own stores. But be careful: you won’t be the only mages on the battlefield, and the Chalkos dust in the air will make for an explosive battle. 4d2 Chalkos per post, lose -1HP at the start of each day.

She expected a battle, but is greeted with war.

Larcei’s body slams against tiled floors, her back arching and body forced into a short spasm as pain makes it rounds through her hot blood. It hurts, reminding her that she is alive and fighting. 

“GRAH!” she chokes, her pupils dilating with rage, “Y-you’re gonna regret that! You mages and your fancy tricks… How ‘bout I fight fire with fire?!” Isaachian feet kick themselves up and off the ground, sending their agile body with it. Before her foe can react–before they can ready another blast of their controlling wind magic–she turns to one of the nearby stores of chalkos. It is a humble barrel, its lid left half ajar. Seeing an opening, the length of her stellar Brave Sword enters the barrel. And a bright flash of light follows, and when she seizes her prized blade from the container, it glows with newfound strength.

“Keh! You think that’ll save you? Give it up, girlie. I’ve got that stuff runnin’ through my blood!“

But give up, she does not. The guard prepares their spell in the palm of their hand, and when they flicks it forward to unleash a hurricane at her, Larcei engages. Her movements are swift, her winged feet darting just out of harm’s way while keeping up her advance. With measured steps, death arrives. And its fury knows no bounds.

“Take this!” 

Swordarm swings, and when the gleaming edge–the extension of itself–slashes the side of the soldier, sparks of light fly from the open wound like a deluge of shooting stars. Those sparks then explode into an inferno, razing the guard and rending them neutralized by the time Larcei finishes her swing. She looks to her sword in amazement, surprised that her last-ditch effort actually worked. So much exposure to chalkos has enhanced her mother’s heirloom, allowing Larcei’s passion to manifest as magic during battle. 

“Huh, guess that’s the end of it,” she whispers to herself, before turning to her allies. The fires of fighting almost made her forget that they were supposed to be on a mission, staging a heist against this warehouse’s chalkos by nightfall. 

She returns to them, treating herself to a quick glance at the full moon through the only window in the facility. “Hey, guys,” she calls, albeit quietly, “check this out. You can stick your weapons in this stuff and use it to fight off the guards!” 

Roll 4d2 = 2, 2, 2, 1; +7 Chalkos!

UP NEXT: @nagavoice; starter for @laslow @atypicalsenerio

           THE DANGERS OF BATTLE ARE HEIGHTENED BY the presence of chalkos in the air— as if fighting weren't a risky enough endeavor, the introduction of the excitable particulate made it explosive. Quite literally. Tiki's gauntlets cut through the wind, crackling with the magic with which they had been imbued. But every swing of her fists merit some sparks in the air, ones that weren’t intended. Little bursts of energy bloom at her knuckles, burning her and the enemy both. The mages they face against seem to be keenly aware of the effects of chalkos, and use it to their advantage. Each spell that leaves their fingertips is almost designed with it in mind. It makes for a more difficult battle than they'd previously anticipated.

          "Larcei!" The clatter of a fallen barrel lid causes her to turn, and she gasps upon seeing the root of it. The sprightly soldier dashes in the corner of Tiki's eye, a blur of fury and fire. She can see white powder flying off of the sword she swings, and the bright, crackling energy that follows, and very suddenly realizes what she had just done. For as much as the enemy has access to chalkos, so do they. And it makes for a sight that is impressive and terrifying in equal measure. The dragon does little more than step back, so as to not get in her way, and watch with widened eyes. As though she were a little girl watching the soldiers of Marth's army train.

          Her enhanced battlements, in tandem with her ferocious movements, quickly fell her foe. They are dead before they hit the ground. Larcei turns to them, the suggestion of using the chalkos to their benefit leaving her lips. Tiki takes a moment to scan the warehouse before formulating a response— though they had wiped out most of the guardsmen here, there was no doubt that more would return, with a vengeance that burned as brightly as the chalkos they watched over. 

          She walks forward and closes the door to the building shut, pushing a crate over it for good measure. The coast is clear, for now, and so she sees it fit to discuss. Even for but a moment. She approaches their group once more.

         "I'm rather familiar with chalkos. I've seen it used on weapons before," she shakes her head, "and it's quite dangerous if used in large amounts. I daresay you're fortunate to not have burnt alongside that mage. Not to mention how we're supposed to be taking this chalkos back to camp. We cannot use much. But…" Tiki's eyes move to the warehouse doors, then the windows. Her mind fills in the gap; the image of armed soldiers by the dozen crawling into the spaces is clear. And it worries her, considering how prone humans seemed to injury. She sighs.

         "...well. I believe we have the right to do whatever it takes to see our mission through. And if it involves using this chalkos, then so be it! Though I must ask you all to, again, be careful." she pouts, "Larcei, I've noticed the strain of injury on your body. Rest for a moment, and allow me to heal you once this mission is over, alright—?"

         A loud blast cuts the ending of her words short. Tiki swiftly turns and sees attempts to breach the door, no doubt coming from the back-up that had arrived to reclaim their stronghold. She falls into a fighting stance, taking a deep breath.

         "Well, looks like that moment of rest will have to wait." she says gravely, before turning to them, "Prepare for battle once more! And keep an eye on the chalkos. Be prudent!"

roll: 2, 2, 2, 1 = 7 chalkos

princessofchonsin​:

The moment’s respite in the arms of her beloved friend nearly causes Say’ri to fall to her knees, relief threatening to crumble her willpower to keep her wits about her. How she longed for this moment—to see Tiki’s face, to hold her in her arms once again. They had been apart for such a short time, and yet it felt as though their souls were torn apart for an eternity. To think that they had only met in this lifetime… It was unfathomable, given how swiftly Say’ri feels the aching pangs of loneliness fade as soon as she hears Tiki’s sweet voice. 

The crestfallen expression on her beloved companion’s face is unsuitable for such a beautiful being as The Voice herself, and Say’ri smiles softly in reassurance. “Calm yourself, and do not fret over it a moment longer. It is in the past, and I am here beside you now. That is all that matters now, is it not?” 

There it is again, that smile that Say’ri so longed to see again, and she cannot help but match the cheerful smile her friend wears on her lips. She chuckles as Tiki pulls her along, and she complies without protest. “Yes, I only arrived just moments ago, my belongings freshly placed in my new quarters. You must show me where you find peace around this chaotic place. Tell me, my friend, is it always this… rambunctious around here?”

         TIKI LAUGHS AT SAY'RI'S FRANK yet entirely apt description of Garreg Mach— the academy's vast and varied population certainly made it a colorful place. But it was this color and chaos that made her love it all the more. It seemed, to her, a reflection of what made humankind touch her so deeply, despite the short lives they led. That they could shine so brightly so as to leave undeniable marks on eternity… it is something she would always adore them for.

         "Admittedly, it is. But it is this rambunctiousness that makes this place as wonderful as it is, will you not agree?" she says, taking Say'ri's hands into her own, "Regardless, if you desire a quiet place, then I shall indulge you, friend. There are a fair few corners of this academy that have what you seek."

         And so, Naga's voice tugs her cherished companion along, dragging her through the monastery's halls and chambers in pursuit of these pockets of idyll. Passersby will notice the way her steps spring, and the smile on her face that glowed as bright as the sun. Tiki always delighted in being with her friends— but the warmth of Say'ri's hand in her own is a joy parallel to no other.

         They make it to their destination with relative quickness, thanks to Tiki's guidance and ever-pulling grasp. The 'quiet place' turns out to be a section of courtyard behind the dining area, tucked between building walls and pathways. It is grassy, with trees and shrubs lining its perimeter. It's practically empty; what few people that are there simply pass by. If there was any escape from the noise, this would be it.

arcstral​:

               The productive rhythm of labor whether wielded or watched binds them all to silence, a largely peaceful quiet marked only by the steady plink-plink-plink! belonging to Tiki’s hammer. They are not here to wallow without purpose in the time, but to watch another work with great success at their craft is all-consuming, and the divine dragon princess commands no different; every rise and fall of her tool sloughing away perfectly intact materials. Deemed a thrall to this viewership himself, he then comes to feel her pain as if it were his very own:

               He watches on as- with a crash and a bungle- a rock finds the unfortunate timing to alight. The sharp jump of his shoulders at the impact turns to his empathy, then the instinctive leap that is the Hero-King’s chastising frown. “Language, little one.” Yow? Damnable stone? Where had she picked up such unladylike expressions over the years!–over the course of centuries if he were to confront the truth–nevertheless he’d hardly taught her any of that! .  .  .or had he?

               Endless fatherly-brotherly worries placed to the side, a cavern unveils in the wake of Tiki’s mishap, unfurling to a broad scene of glittering ores and then their obvious harvest next in line. Cautiously stepping over the ruined mess of stone at the cave’s mouth, he trains his focus anew onto the greater things to be found in the depths; familiarity sparking a blue glimmer in the eye. “A prime discovery, indeed! Edward is correct. The sparkling ores before us are likely Chalkos. The powder formed in its refined state is a formidable substance. Used even to augment weapons to great effect, as my group learned in an earlier venture.”

    (  roll 12:  3 chalkos  )

              Gloved fingers curling gently around a protruding ore, the sound of leather squeezes around the shape, then tugs, dislodging the desired chunk with little publicity or flair. Cautious from any point of view. “But alas, value is not everything. Our lives matter more. It goes unsaid, but I would not like to chance an ugly reaction should we tamper with these materials wrong.” A bead of something damp lands on his cheek, discovered then wiped away as the moisture clung to the stalactites above.

@nagavoice​

            MARTH'S CHIDING SERVES TO AWAKEN a sleeping child— the one housed within Tiki's mind. She pouts at the Hero-King's sternness, feeling like every bit the petulant wyrmling she had been centuries ago.

            "But, Mar-Mar," she whines, her voice coming out pitchier than it normally is, "it really hurt! I can't help herself…"

            The Sealed Forest all but fades in this moment, her dream swirling into a blurry haze of memory. Perhaps this was a consequence of her injury, or an anomaly of the dream. But suddenly Tiki is young again, and suddenly she is looking up at Marth with sad, pleading eyes. As if telling him 'Don't tell Ban-Ban!' and hoping he would. But as quickly as the vision casts its veil does it shatter. Her allies shout from the depths of the cave. Tiki flinches. The chill of the air clings onto her once more. She blinks away the last of her bleariness, and her vision finally settles. She moves closer towards them, standing by the mouth of the hollow.

            Her team announces the discovery of chalkos and give their thanks to her. Tiki flushes.

            "Oh, you're very welcome," she responds, her voice echoing through the cavern. She carefully makes her way in, her steps illuminated by the light behind her, "but it really was nothing much. T'was all the work of fate, I believe."

            She scans the area. The others seemed to have collected a number of chalkos while she had been out, the white ore cradled in their arms and laying by their feet. That they could handle such volatile material without harming themselves was an admirable feat! Now all Tiki had to do was to match it. For the more chalkos they could muster, the better off they would be. And given the events of this morning, she thinks they could use all of the help they could get.

            So does the manakete rise. With her full height drawn up, she can easily reach for the clusters of chalkos wedged in the higher faces of the rock. Would that she could use her tools in extracting it— though, given what she's seen of it, she's almost certain it would be a horrible idea. She employs her hands instead, digits wrapping around a protruding ore and breaking it off.

roll: 9 [hp -0.5]

            The small explosion that ensues causes Tiki to yelp.

            "Ah! Da—ngerous!" the curse that her mouth readily forms is stopped at the halfpoint, and thusly salvaged by her quick replacement of it, "Seems my good fortunes have ceased!"

            Tiki inspects her hand. The skin is red and angry; irritated, by the looks of it. But it has not broken in. She will be fine. She turns to the rest of her allies.

            "I am fine, however, so please do not worry for me. I'm rather strong, I'd like to believe."

              Tiki takes another look around. There is naught but cave wall surrounding them, now. They could attempt to extract more chalkos, but she’s not so sure if it would be worth the risk of bodily harm. She chooses, then, to conclude things here— while they’re all still relatively healthy and while their stock was still at a satisfiable number.

arcstral​:

                Blood unending. So much of it. The pool spreading fast before their feet is pinned easily to its dismal source. Some nameless, mangled king of the dream cast out like oil waste from an iron cooking pot, tucked not between the shadows and shrubs of the woodland, but strategically on the marching trail. Intended for human eyes by a fictional Archanea; to spell the clearest declaration of war even better than letters can bespeak. The knowledge should come as a shock to the very man who rules over this nation at present–and it does, well and truly–but not so much as the corpse. The haunting face it wears.  .  .!

                A slack, furred lip and strong nose pointed toward the sky. The crimson regalia once belonged to the Archanean emperor broken about him in a medley of painted debris, red as his blood. The only element missing to this picture is the five-pronged Gradivus clenched in Hardin’s right hand. For how could Marth forget? Cold fire pooling in his gut, he closes his eyes. The look of a body is one to which he is inured- so many encountered and made across the wretched pair of Archanea’s great wars- but he could never get used to the sight that was one of his first friends fashioned into one of his final enemies. By no making, no blame, but his own.

               The opportunity to turn–to run from this sight–is welcomed as they proceed through the forest, placing steps then miles between the living and the unsightly. Duty measured first, small groups splinter off from the main army as intended to scout trails and lay down new ones. Even with so many perplexing discoveries to drill his unseeing attention absently into the ground, he rouses to certain commotion; lifting his gaze to the sight of Edward and Laslow disappearing below the slope. Naturally, the king is quick to follow with his rampant concerns. 

               “Edward! Laslow! .  .  .My goodness! Are you two alright? The ground here is slippery with snow and not amicable to footing. Please be careful going forward.” A moment to recalibrate at his newfound surroundings and the lord’s attention flickers from his companions to the motherlode of natural resources around them. Enough raw stone embedded in the cliff to fuel the making of a dozen villages. “Ah, I see! Perhaps our efforts here can be for the cause of a great bounty.” Their attempts to mine the ores in sight compose a worthy campaign. One that he joins with his own hammer pulled from the army’s provided utilities- as well as one he remarkably fails.

     (  roll 3:  no stone,  +1 damage taken  )

               The knock of his hammer hits stone, indeed, but does not pry away the intended block. Instead, a looser neighbor is wiggled from its adjacent place to plonk unexpectedly and much too solidly down against Marth’s shoulder. He grunts, flexing it to ward off the palpable sting to both body and pride. “I am fine! These wintry conditions appear to make mining a risky endeavor. Take great caution.”

             WHERE THERE ARE PEOPLE, THERE IS POWER— and where there is power, there is blood. The scene before her has all in equally great measures. People, in the corpse that lay still on the ground and the small crowd forming around it; power, in the king's gold that yet gleamed on his fingers, and the banner of Archanea stuck into the snow beside him; and blood, in the harrowing declaration that scrawled over the winterground. The king's face is as formless as the fog that hung over his body. For a moment, it is a stark blue— then something shades darker— then, after a blink, it seems naught to be there at all. He is young and aged; valiantly warm yet coldly regal. Tiki has seen a great deal of rulers during her years. This man looked like none of them. Or, perhaps, it would be more fitting to say he looked like all of them at once, with the crimson blood which bathed him being the singular thread that bound all their commonalities together.

            Where there is power, there is blood— and blood spells out the word 'war.' This is the truth she has learned throughout her long life.

            There is no emotion to feel but disturbed. The sight clearly unsettles their group, for they all seem to leap at the opportunity to deliver themselves from the scene. Tiki finds herself agreeing with the sentiment. Best not dwell on such things, she thinks, even if the sight of Marth beside her sends a vision of carmine tragedy through her eyes.

            They take off into small groups, made to continue their mission. Edward unintentionally brings their group to the bottom of a cliff, whereupon they discover a trove of resources. There, embedded on the cliff face, is rock good for building. The collective interest seems to be in gathering the material, and Tiki follows the tide of their intention, bringing out her tools to aid in their shared cause. She gets to work immediately, quarrying workable pieces of rock off to use. She feels the rhythm slowly sink into her. Certainly, breaking off stone seemed a well enough distraction to what they had seen previously.

            But perhaps it distracts them too well— injuries are quick to multiply, and Tiki cannot help but gasp at it.

            "Caution indeed— but I must emphasize on focus as well! I thought us lucky to avoid injury considering the means we employed to get here, but it seems we lack the sharpness to complement our fortune." she steps forward, her gaze sweeping what work had been done so far. Then, she nods solemnly. "Allow for a moment to compose yourselves. I suspect the biting cold is not the only thing getting in our heads."

round one: roll: 10 [stone: 2] round two: roll: 13 [stone: 6] round three: roll: 19 [stone: 8]

            At that, she endeavors to work in silence. The rhythm she had drummed up prior seemed to solidify into a consistent beat, thumping like a heart with every hit of her hammer. Time passes, and the manakete finds herself with a respectable stack of stone next to her. The count is over a dozen, by this point. But she gets a little bit too greedy. She amps up her pace, mining away at the cliffside until…

round four: roll: 13 -4HP. Tiki: 8/12

            A strong, decisive strike of her tool dislodges a stone, which in turn sends a crack running up the wall. The splinter meets with a weaker section of the precipice, causing great chunks to crumble and fall atop Tiki, and only Tiki's, head. Dust rises from the impact, its gray clouds mirroring the fog of the forest.

            "Yow! Damnable stone!" she exclaims, dropping her tool to nurse her skull. So much for her lecture on avoiding injury. Her pain is not without gain, at least. Emerging from the ashes, an unmistakable gap emerges. A cave has opened up for them, broken in by Tiki's hammer strokes. Though it is yet too dark to see what could lie beyond its depths. It takes her a moment to see this opening— blame the concussion, or lack of sermoned focus, or both— but when she finally does take notice, she is quick to let her allies know.

            "Everyone!" she calls to them, the sting of her injury forgotten, "I've found something. Would it interest us all to check it out?"

arcstral​:​

               Quick to assert an apology and a lack for confidence at no pending request. The timid nature of Anankos is a kind imprinted strongly on an observatory mind, but the knowledge means nothing concrete- trusted allies come in personalities far and wide. All are deserving of reassuring words. A chance to wield a voice no matter how shy or reclusive. For the purpose of assuaging their new friend, the placating raise of the king’s hand works in tandem with Merric’s assurance:

               “Peace, Anankos. You’ve spoken worthy words and I know well what you mean.  .  .A sacred sword even when availed for use by its owner should be no-one’s first choice for an experiment. However, while it shall coax the mind better to use a readily supplied weapon, it will not advance it. Our risk is necessary to gain wisdom.“ In any case, if they should change their minds a single gander around the premises gathers more than enough opportunity to do so; various weapons unloaded from the Agarthan convoy scattered within view of the eye. Plainer and far less sacred. Perfect for their use–but before that, his gaze flickers away to follow the robed swathes of Merric’s back, trailing ahead to the denoted Chalkos supply.

               The effects and purpose of his mysterious ministrations are quickly discerned. A sprinkling of dust and one talented deployment of magic later- a mighty boom reverberates through the clearing with small flickering flames and bald patches of grass left in its wake. A clear display of magic strength further fortified by a powerful agent. Wide eyes deflating to an impressed then defeated look, Marth shakes his head with no true disapproval.

               “Impressive, my friend! But we haven’t come to play. Though I suppose now we are well-aware of the suitable partnership between Chalkos and magic. Now, to decipher the same compatibility of a sword—” His steps carry him to the same reservoir of powder. There he draws the pale fang of Naga, gleaming nobly in the light without stain or hindrance before it’s dipped into the Chalkos pile and coated in a single layer. The amount is more than enough to imbue it with a strange, ticklish electricity that runs up the blade, then the hilt, clinging to his attached fingers like static.

               It isn’t painful, per say, but the feeling is so foreign it nearly bids his grip to release. So he fights the urge; relieving it with a single exploratory swing—a smart yet regular motion that whistles through the air as usual, but traces the difference of a path lined in crackling white-hot energy. The shock in his face alone details his mind on the matter. At the end of Falchion’s trajectory had been a low-growing tree and what remained of it now was a mere stump. “Chalkos. What a fearsome substance. The Falchion was a blade made to rend dragons, but with this, it could so easily cleave a human in two!”

@nagavoice​

             THE SUBSTANCE PROVES A FAR MORE POWERFUL thing than any of them could have realized— Anankos' prudence is right to rein in their enthusiasms. Falchion's steel grows white-hot, Naga's fang biting deep into the bounty of the earth and leaving naught but stumps. The power is enough to even singe the snowy air. Tiki's heart races at the sight, thumping violently beneath the red-eye sigil embroidered upon her coat’s breast. Excitement and fear boil in her blood both. There is delight to be found on the onset of a new discovery— especially one that seemed as momentous as this— and Tiki's curiosity is boundless enough for this thought to ring through despite the passing centuries. But, all the same, there is a burden that deepens the roots of her heart. A shadow to play equal with the light. Tiki's eyes linger on the remains of the young tree, slitted pupils watching the smoke rise from its ashen surface.

             Even within a dream, she can sense the gravity of it all. How something the size of dust could cause death by the dozen. All those lives, extinguished by the strength this substance added. And, beyond that, how they could very easily number among those deaths. Idly, Tiki's mind latches itself onto Marth's words— The Falchion was a blade made to rend dragons, but with this, it could so easily cleave a human in two— and the image of her in place of the tree's vestige rises to the surface. The image of Marth, or Merric, or Anankos expiring to this power rises alongside it. She exhales.

             "I find it to be a rather nice upgrade to your blade, Marth," she says, for it is true, "And I am well and truly glad to see our experimentations bear fruit! But after seeing how aggressive it can be, I would perhaps suggest using it in small doses. Must I remind you that you are a touch more fragile than you seem to remember? Perhaps, rather than coat the whole of the blade, we could simply cover its tip, hm? Or perhaps we should reserve its usage for only the most severe cases" she places her hands in her coat's pockets and hums, curls of warmth slipping through her mouth, "In any case, despite its strength, it is too beneficial for us to avoid using. I think it best to moderate, then, that we may at least use it safely."

arcstral​:​

               A mire of freezing cold winds and uncertainties to be experienced behind enemy lines. Agarthan at that. The thought is subject to the generous suspension of his belief, but a dream is in the end a dream- every nature and circumstance ought to be possible here. What hasn’t changed at its core is the useful purpose that must drive him and others forward. Even in a dreamscape without concrete ties to reality, they are not afforded the right to be lazy. Besides; was it truly the first time the Hero-King has been thrown into an alien world that strained his efforts to understand? Adaptation was a remarkable boon and likely not one fallen to disuse for a longer while yet.

               Following the mage’s lead, Marth rubs his hands together for warmth as their steps draw them before the mysterious Anankos. Observations traded between the two men as he follows carefully–slowly–along. There is not much in the way of his own magical assets he is quick to realize, little knowledge owned by a well-whittled swordsman with more educated friends in the field that might compare, but Falchion.  .  .Falchion he can do. Wind-tousled strands shake side-to-side, amusement brimming in the smile he returns.

               “Hah! You think I would not extend the blade of light, holy as it is, for the good of us all? Our pursuit of knowledge? If you two think it may be of help, I myself have no qualms with sprinkling a bit of magic dust upon it to ascertain the effects. But…” The king’s gentle gaze flickered to the tall presence yet to name itself a short stretch away. His words serving as much a beckoning of the woman to which it belonged as a fond communication of their bond.

               “Perhaps it is better her decision. She is a daughter of dragons, and a child of the divine dragon king to whom Falchion owes its sharpness and birth. Provided it is not to Tiki a sacrilege, I think the idea well enough to proceed.”

     @nagavoice​

              THE CLIMATE IS NO LESS DIFFICULT TO BEAR in a dream than it is in consciousness— Tiki knows well of how the realm of sleep was deceptive in its visions, and finds herself shivering in spite of its unreality. Seems the thick linens and furs she had been decorated with upon her arrival could only do so much against winter's chill. Fortunate that her cherished companions should make the frigid air feel even a touch more warm, with the gentle beckoning that Marth calls her with inspiring a small hearth within her chest.

             Naga's daughter smiles upon him, and approaches him and Merric both with a spring in her step. They stand together with a mysterious man, one Tiki has yet to meet, yet feels inexplicably drawn towards despite it. His aura is reminiscent of the Divine Dragon grounds back home— there swirled a silent power she could sense beneath his surface, ocean-like with its depths. Its familiarity is enough to make her… sleepy, a bit. Tiki yawns, the trails of exhalation going up in silver through the air.

             She decides she will approach him after the discussion, for as curious as she is about him, it would not do for her to stray from this conversation now.

             She admits interest in the topic, besides. Dream or no, that a material as unsuspecting as chalkos could hold so much power is fascinating to her. Leave it to man to align themselves to the level of gods using their mind!

             Marth presents her with a decision, and Tiki's eyes widen. Falchion had been the fang of Naga, yes, but it belongs to her no more than it would some other common fellow. It had been granted unto Marth's timeline, and had ultimately become his the moment its hilt found his hands. But she's not one to say no to her Mar-Mar— especially when he found himself in the rare situation where he should seek counsel from her.

             The manakete hums, quiet for a moment of thought, before finally giving her response. "You needn't worry about the thought of sacrilege, Marth. Falchion belongs rightfully to you and your kin, and its fate thus rests ultimately in your hands. Whatever you choose to do to it, I— and Naga, in turn— trust that it will be for a great benefit."

             She gives him and Merric a smile. "Though, if the choice should truly lie with me, then I encourage you all to proceed. The pursuit of knowledge is a noble one: I see no reason why we should avoid it."

authority +1 starter for @crimsonvassalage

            THE MANAKETE REMEMBERS NOT HOW she got roped into playing this card game, only that she sat there and now, five cards one hand and a yawn stifled in the other. The premise had seemed simple enough— it was a simulation of battle, with cards instead of people. A game for the tactician and their strategist mind, not sleepy manaketes whose only interest in the pastime lay in the wonderfully crude rendition of dragons drawn on the card. But the present must be embraced, and the fact of the matter was, her present consisted of facing off against a rather scary looking man in a cardfight.

           "Oh, sorry, sorry," she says, yawning once more, "I'm afraid I'm not so keen on games like this. Erm… is it your turn?"

           Tiki stretches, then leans into the backrest of her chair, her movements not unlike a cat in languor. She takes a moment to study the scene before her— there’s a card at the center of his playmat, while there were none on hers. She hums.

           "Or, hm, no, I do believe it's mine. Then I shall place…" she pouts as she scans her hand of cards, eyes searching for the most reasonable looking one, "...this one!"

a kisses on the cheek and a kisses candy for the nice dragon lady :>

mistletoe!

        THE COLDER MONTHS HAD BROUGHT WITH it the barren winter season, but it seems that there was no shortage of green despite the chill— verdant sprigs of mistletoe hang all around the monastery like thin canopies of yuletide mischief, waiting to ensnare the academy populace beneath its hold, and an equally verdant head of hair meets her beneath the trappings of mistletoe, pressing upon her cheek the kiss that was tradition. Tiki laughs, and ruffles the student's hair with joy.

        "Dear me, what a sweet gesture!" she chuckles. Then, spying the offering of treats adds, "with an equally sweet gift to boot. How kind of you, child, to bestow this upon me. I shall return the favor!"

        She bends down to peck Midori's forehead, the motion swift yet far from insincere. Tiki smiles.

arcstral​:

               I suppose I simply… feared losing you again. And at those words he sobers with understanding, all at once. Feeling the echoes of his passing as if they sang forever, such concerns as she’d shown yearned only to preserve him as he was now, full and alive. Marth mourns that he cannot prove her defense against the great many tragedies of life with his sword and shield, as he’d done during their wars, though he knew those things would prove as useless as paper and wool to invisible struggles of the heart. A king who engraved into his own every score and tally of human loss savvied the effects intimately, after all.

               His gaze searches her averted expression like the point of a pin. A subtle picture of conflict that would fall blind upon any other, but painted broad strokes for the man who knew her as closely as a brother, or a father, and worried just the same; a face that should acquaint only with the bright glow of happiness, returning to a fraction of the sadness that once accompanied solitude in the Ice Dragon Shrine. This time, and for a long time as it appeared evident, Marth could not whisk Tiki away from her troubles as he had before- but he could certainly stand by her as she faced them. The warm squeeze of his hand around her shoulder offers as much.

               “You aren’t being silly, Tiki. I understand. You needn’t say another word—and I myself shan’t utter a single other to protest your concerns. But you’re right that you won’t lose me anytime soon. I won’t allow myself to be lost without a fight and certainly not here and now. You can be sure of that.”

               Despite his noble assurances there is no question that Marth must rely upon her equally, if not more. Her ribbon is offered for the amendment of his tender wound and he accepts with gratitude, circling the circumference of his knee and knotting the ends over top. With her aid, the strength in his body is summoned like a prayer- pulling him to his feet with a small wince alone slipping out as the evidence of his pain. Or perhaps such confidence betrays him.

               “Indeed, I would not like to test the limits of what short time we have. It seems we are at the mercy of these ruins. Before further trials are set upon us, let us—urgh!” An attempt at normalcy feigned as he stands upright, weight distributes evenly between his two feet, coursing twinges of pain through the poor leg under duress. He smiles with the silent spelling of an apology, looks louder than words, though both are equally expressed with his blushing remorse. “Forgive me, little one… It seems I must rely on your strength, after all.”

      SHE TRIES HARD TO KEEP HIS REASSURANCES IN MIND— and indeed, seeing him attempt to rise again does something to ease her worries. But just as quickly as she is sullied does she find herself bathed in worry once more. The one of the biggest follies of man was that they were always keen to push past limits; especially their own. In this regard, the Hero-King was no more than a flawed, flawed human, falling prey to the pitfalls of his body's restrictions as he fails to push past his wound.

      Still: as human as he is. As painfully, wonderfully human as he is, Marth has allies. And in this moment, Marth has her. Thus, with her by his side, she will ensure that there will always be someone ready to catch him. Quite literally in this sense, as the manakete uses her arms to support his body, wrapping them around his shoulders and using them to lift his weight.

      "Mar-Mar!" the disapproving cluck of her tongue is sharper than the thorns of the forest they stand in, "Please, be at ease. Do not apologize for this. Now, wait just a moment..."

      Tiki glances around— she can sense the day slowly growing darker, and the path before them turning more dim. Marth seemed in a worse state than she thought, but she wished not to test the limits of this place further. Left with little other choice, she decides to hoist Marth up, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and using her strength to supplant his injured side. Settled into this set-up, Tiki slowly presses the both of them onward, one hand gripping onto Marth's wrist tightly, while the other pushed and pulled foliage away.

      "...Marth." she says gravely. She continues the trek through gnarling roots and hanging branches, carefully stepping over each obstacle with all the grace she could afford,  "As childish as I may be sometimes, I shall endeavor to remind you that I am strong— blessed with power beyond your scope. You ask for forgiveness in relying on me, but I must ask in return: if I cannot even use this divine strength to aid you, then where am I to use it at all?"

      Their pace grows to inchmeal, slowing as the obstacles steadily worsen. Vines lap at her feet, roots seem to shift in order to block their path— even the fog seemed to thicken with each passing moment. But Tiki remains relentless, pursuant of the success of their mission and the medical attention that was owed to Marth. The sky slowly grows darker the further into the overgrowth they go into, but the deeper its shadows ran, the more something by her chest seemed to glint; a blue stone strung by a cord, shining through the settling dim.

      Tiki is scarce to notice, though; engrossed so deeply into her need to usher Marth into safety and in her never-ending struggle against the ruins' labyrinth.

      "You surely understand by now, yes? I wish for nothing more than to help you as you have helped me. That is why I worry. That is why I offer my strength. You needn't seek forgiveness for anything. In fact…" despite the gravity of it all, she lets out a small laugh, "...you should sooner seek my gratitude. I daresay that this has been one of the greatest joys of my life. The ruins are frustrating, and I shudder to think of how much longer we must cut through this, but…"

arcstral​:

               Hero and charge. Prince of a finite mankind and divine princess over the ancient dragon tribe whose bones forever slept. Man and manakete. The pound of their heels across the corridors seeds a historic tune through the thick fractures in the earth, squeezing between the vines, lichen, and overgrowth that made the ruins their suffering demesne. These moments waged together are familiar for both, reminding Marth that their journey to save the world had led to the formulation of so inseparable a pair. Reminding Tiki that only time itself could tear them apart. Or at least that is the account the Hero-King has been thusly told.

               Centuries upon centuries to mark the separation of friend from friend. Even if such words of past, present, and future may prove unsuitable material for the truth to any other, it is in her that he will unquestioningly believe. Founding a belief as solid as the clockwork at which Naga’s heir lamented, turning its ticking hands to move the world past her. Belief that failed to waver an inch even upon incurring injury in the shadows beneath her watch.

              A short hiss leaves the man, first from clenched lips then from the slash of his blade tearing the offending vine from its root. The white-hot flash of pain props his weight against a quartered tree stump. Grounded yet troubled only by the regret that Tiki is there to bear the sight of her hero in such a sorry state - that he should succumb to weakness at all during an excursion demanding the two halves of their strength. What right had even a king to slow their pace?

                “Peace, Tiki. The carelessness is my own and you needn’t worry for it. The wound looks and feels only so much as a scratch,” Marth shakes his head to assure, one hand curled over the invasive site of his bloodied knee. One part to staunch the thin flow from evolving into a worse river, another to shield Tiki’s stare from the unsightly scene itself. However, if his intent is to prove the same guardian as eons before protecting Tiki from the knowledge that might harm her, he will forever be too late. And perhaps a few mites too foolish.

               The manakete woman is clearly known to a wisdom far beyond her years, deemed a child only in memory. Even if crouched at his side she appears naught but small… in one too many ways that serve to remind; tall or short, young or old, wise or not, she is as much his Tiki as he is the immovable subject of the name, Mar-Mar. Endeared and concerned by the sight of her face pinched with worry, his smile begins to cut through the heavy mood. Curling ever so slightly with the suggestion of something.

              “You spoke of looking after me… I can see that you’ve grown. To use your power for the protection of others, I am filled with pride to be the source of that conviction. However—” And there it was; a gentle burst of laughter that bubbles to the surface, crinkling the corners of the lord’s eyes with merriment. “I’m hardly so fragile as to warrant concern over a scrape! Do I truly seem so weak to you?”

        THE HERO-KING IS SKILLED in comforting her, ever the beacon of reliability for his allies. Tiki's thoughts slowen, and her shoulders unscrew themselves from their tense position. Marth laughs, and she finds herself flush with sheepishness.

        "Mar-Mar! Do not say such things.” she draws her eyes downwards like a veil. She focuses her gaze on the wound, watching his hand redden with blood. She purses her lips. "You are not weak. Far from it! I suppose I simply… feared losing you again."

        She looks up at him once more. His eyes are stark and strong as ever; deep and shining like sea glass smoothed by ocean waves. Tiki sighs. She has learned that humans are delicate— they hurt far too easily for her liking. But Marth is no average person. If her memory of his remains untarnished ( which it does; far be it for her to forget her Mar-Mar ), then he is as relentless as they come. But she cannot help but worry. Is this how Ban-Ban felt? She cannot help but fuss over the smallest of things; hiss at the thinnest of brambles despite knowing they’d never pierce his hide.

        It's a silly reaction— Marth's amusement reminds her of such. But it comes from her wish to protect him as he did her. A wish that had been stoked by years of grief and regret, culminating into the supernova of their reunion. She could allow herself to be a bite of unreasonable, just this once.

        Tiki scans the area. They had come quite a way— she can see the path they had hacked away fade far into the distance. But clearly not enough. The forest yet looms. Its overgrown grasses and tendrils yet stood in their way, eager to wrap around their ankles and feet. She frowns. Much as she wished to tend to his wound then and there, never mind the way he felt about it, she knows that this is no place to do that. This whole area would be no place for that, what with how it seemed to loathe them.

        "It’s silly. I know I won't lose you again. Not so soon, at least. But... please let your Tiki worry just this once. Okay?"

nabataprophet​:

Reason and Faith band together to put on this month’s special seminar: the history of tasseomancy! You will be learning the “magic” behind divination and how the old masters used the remains of tea leaves and coffee grounds to predict future events. Just in time for the moon of love, you will all be divining your romantic futures from a delicious cup of white rose tea. [Grants Reason or Faith +1]

@nagavoice

The instructors in charge of the tasseomancy seminar look at Sophia with sparkling eyes when they see a return student during the afternoon session, but it’s not so much that Sophia is so taken with the lecture that she absolutely had to take it again…but that it’s the one space in which she can use her talent freely. Her own romantic prospects (or lack thereof, she’s seen enough of her own future to not get her hopes up) aside, watching the way people’s faces light up when she tells them about their future. It’s those happy faces that make it all worth it—knowing that there is light in the future as well.

She really isn’t supposed to tell anyone from outside of Arcadia about what she can do, but if there’s one person here that it would probably be safe to tell, it would have to be…

“…Tiki…” 

Sophia greets the older manakete, clutching her own tea cup. She already knows what future they describe, but she can’t help but treat the vessel containing them preciously.

“I can see… the future sometimes… so I’m good at interpreting vague things like this. Do you want me…to show you how to read the leaves?”

           THE FUTURE HAD ALWAYS BEEN something of import for their kind. For they were often the only ones able to experience it. Tiki is not blind to how humans suffer for the sake of tomorrow; and how they often die before the new day comes. It is beings like her, whose lives stretched onto millennia, that were charged with the task of witnessing this future; of protecting it, and ensuring that the vision of those who had passed on yet remain.

          Of course, Tiki had lost sight of this, once. So suffocated beneath the weight of her past that she turned away from the future. For who could bear the thought of living another day; another week; another eon without their loved ones? It had devastated her. 

          But her mind is clear now; and to say that this 'tasseomancy' lecture didn't pique any interest would be a lie. And so she finds herself tuning into the seminar, her head drowsily resting against her arm. The steeped leaves inside her teacup are still steaming, traces of their chamomile scent still lingering in the air. It takes all of Tiki's power not to fall asleep then and there; for as valuable as the future is, there is little that can stop a dragon from sleeping when she so wishes…

          "Hmgh! Oh!" Tiki snaps up when her name is called, and stifles a yawn, "Sophia! Lovely seeing you here."

          …but it seems the sight of a friend is enough to rouse her. Tiki stretches for a spell, before leaning over to look at the cup Sophia held between her hands. The older manakete listens on with curiosity, green eyes wide with a growing interest.

          "You can see the future?" she repeats, surprise springing forth in her tone, "Incredible…!"

          Truly, it is; the thought of being able to share with mankind the beautiful future that they worked towards, when they otherwise would not… it's nothing short of a miracle. Tiki sits up, rapt with attention.