- I summoned the spring storm.

[ TXT ] : why are you still awake?

[ TXT ] : hey, where did you go?

[ TXT ] : it's getting bad again.

[ TXT ] : guess i'll just sit in bed. alone. by myself.

[ TXT ] : you can't ignore me forever.

[ TXT ] : i can't stop thinking about you.

[ TXT ] : just saw i called you last night. how'd that go?

[ TXT ] : i really need someone right now.

[ TXT ] : we need to make plans asap.

[ TXT ] : have you seen the news?

[ TXT ] : you were blackout drunk.

[ TXT ] : testing to see if you blocked my number...

[ TXT ] : do you know anything about doing stitches?

[ TXT ] : just please let me know you're okay.

[ TXT ] : did you forget we had plans?

[ TXT ] : i know you see my messages, your read receipts are on.

[ TXT ] : meet me at [ location ], it's important.

[ TXT ] : do you need comfort, to vent, or a solution?

[ TXT ] : is there anything i should bring?

[ TXT ] : call me. please, it's important.

[ TXT ] : i can't sleep.

[ TXT ] : have you eaten today?

[ TXT ] : you are always going to be my priority.

[ TXT ] : i haven't seen you around in awhile.

[ TXT ] : i had a dream about you last night.

[ TXT ] : the names are gonna get mean if you don't text me back.

[ TXT ] : at the risk of sounding cliche, what are you wearing?

[ TXT ] : just say the word and i'll drop everything.

[ TXT ] : do you seriously not remember?

[ TXT ] : come to the front door.

[ TXT ] : have you been drinking?

[ TXT ] : how do you feel after last night?

[ TXT ] : are you up? please be up.

[ TXT ] : you looked beautiful today.

[ TXT ] : i have so much to tell you.

[ TXT ] : no one's heard from you. are you okay?

[ TXT ] : who is this?

[ TXT ] : are you taking care of yourself?

[ TXT ] : thought i'd reach out and see how you're doing.

[ TXT ] : i miss the taste of your lips.

[ TXT ] : that kiss was really nice.

[ TXT ] : stop acting so high and mighty.

[ TXT ] : i left my [ item ] at your place.

[ TXT ] : are we still fighting?

[ TXT ] : i need help and i can't go to the hospital.

[ TXT ] : are you thinking about me too?

[ TXT ] : call me, i wanna hear your voice.

[ TXT ] : i don't want to talk to you.

[ TXT ] : what do you have to lose?

[ TXT ] : you don't have to ask, i'm already on my way.

[ TXT ] : i want to take a nap on you.

[ TXT ] : even if you called 6 months later at 3am, i'd answer.

[ TXT ] : what's my name in your phone?

[ TXT ] : how's trying to forget about me going?

[ TXT ] : i have nobody else to ask.

[ TXT ] : what do you mean you're at the hospital??

[ TXT ] : sorry, i think you have the wrong number.

[ TXT ] : good morning! you up yet?

[ TXT ] : do i sense sarcasm in your tone?

[ TXT ] : you start your day at 2pm?

[ TXT ] : you need MY help?

[ TXT ] : stop texting me.

[ TXT ] : i'll leave that up to your imagination.

[ TXT ] : are you asking me to sneak out?

[ TXT ] : when will i see you again?

[ TXT ] : if you come over, i'll order us a pizza.

[ TXT ] : are we ever going to talk about it?

[ TXT ] : can you come get me out of here?

[ TXT ] : you mean like ... a BODY - body?

[ TXT ] : it's just been one thing after another lately.

[ TXT ] : forgiving and forgetting is harder than it sounds.

[ TXT ] : i want your legs wrapped around my head.

[ TXT ] : call me when you wake up.

[ TXT ] : what are you doing that's more important than me?

suddenly, out of nowhere, a blaze of heat erupts off to her left, warm enough to toast the sleeves of her tunic from here. "ah!" it couldn't be. . .

but it wasn't more deer coming to hem her in ; instead, a familiar savior in red pinion, fashionable blond ringlets bouncing as he pushed back her assailants. "forrest!"

she couldn't help but grin——for those of their generation that'd been through so much together, who understood each other in a way no one really could, it's a relief to know they still have each other's backs, even on a different continent. in the heat of everything——and with a third, this one unknown to her, joining them a half-beat later——the sky knight doesn't notice anything off about the nohrian's greeting to her, sharp attention returned to the deer now that they were more evenly matched.

their third ally is rushing a little recklessly in there with burning magic of their own, but maybe they know that they're doing? "look out!"

In reality, she's not really a caster, where here "not really" means "firmly not at all". She tries not to look especially preoccupied at dodging the flames at her feet (couldn't those other two keep on their little reunion?), but, well... for all she'd bickered with them, she misses Arval's direction that would've certainly told her things like don't pick the tome you burned your team with last time and do you ever think before acting.

(Maybe that one's not fair. Maybe she's just nostalgic.)

"Probably?" she shrugs, and shadows swallow her heels. She dashes off that patch of especially ignited grass, feeling the remnants of stalks crack beneath her feet, and, again,

directly into Hilda's axe. Maybe she doesn't think. Maybe she's never thought before, actually. It certainly feels it, when the tome is knocked free from her hand, sending her stumbling over into the charred dirt.

"I'll pay you back for this later!"

Frustrated but playful, she tugs her sword from her belt,

raising it aloft in surrender.

“Gah!” 

The coldness of steel reels them out of their stupor. It begs their hand to their side to hold and staunch the cut growing across their skin, as well as the stumble backwards that they make toward their allies. “That’s… that’s bleeding, isn’t it? And my shirt…” The pastel-pink blouse is torn, as quickly confirmed by the gaze they snap down at themselves. Where its color wanes, red stains thoroughly; the outfit will need to be bleached and sewn together, and even still, such a fabric might not retain its original quality once mended. 

A breath later, and Forrest forces themselves into a state of calm. War is no place to worry about laundry, as the Battle attempts to simulate. “Hello, you two. Sorry for being off my guard…” Each receives an acknowledging nod, but Caeldori a puzzled stare. “Um… it’s Caeldori, right?” they sound like they’re guessing at her name, because they kind of are, “It’s good to meet you.”

The phrase brings back little more than her name and vague association with Forrest, and at its failure’s behest, they take up arms. Their tome flips open. From its pages spews a hadal torrent housing a bright flame — alluring, like an anglerfish — which crashes into the out-of-position pinkette before erupting upon her with its core. The spell is strange: despite the cage of liquid that its fire is always surrounded in, it seems to catch quite easily. Their surroundings immolate, and suddenly the green grass of Gronder Field becomes an active hazard to those amidst it. 

“They may be quick, but you two certainly look like you can handle them.”

Black Eagles gather, flocking representatives of the house she's a student of, and she falls into step with them. She trusts them with her back, and as she trusts them, she sees familiar pink hair. Hilda's far from an enemy — Shez would give her the lofty title of acquaintance, were she pressed to.

(A fun one. There's too many uptight people at this damn school.)

She finds fire in her hand, then, and it spills forward like a sudden rainstorm. Flames that threaten to rain, a burn that catches, fire on still-dead grass certain to leave a dangerous scorch. If the shy one's tome is a lure, Shez's is a searchlight — and it finds its target.

"I'm unstoppable!" she laughs, a half-response before—

"H-hey!" Ronan suddenly stumbles forward, the arrow dropping uselessly from his hold. Mitama had pushed him! Spouting something about needing to protect the ladies and all that. His cheeks flush - with embarrassment or shame, he can't tell - and he quickly swipes his misfired arrow up from the ground. Shez's blade flies past him and hits the ground where he'd been standing a moment ago, now just in front of Mitama. Maybe Ronan should thank his teammate actually.

"I'm an archer," he tries to explain to her nonetheless, a note of exasperation in his voice. "It's easier for me to find my mark if I'm not also being swung at!"

Now Shez is too close, so Ronan tries to backpedal onto safer ground, but his eye catches on L'Arachel past the mercenary's shoulder.

"Lady L'Arachel!" he calls. "Please keep that one distracted!"

It's a narrow window, but it's enough. He draws, and fires, and the arrow hits the polite lady knight as if a huge target had been painted on her back - dead center.

Ah, yes — and there it is, the payment for that distraction, a solid thump in her back. She recoils, but no sound leaves her lips. Teeth are grit behind the stony silence of her hard and severe jaw. She’ll show as little pain as possible. She needn’t worry the others unnecessarily, even if an arrow is now notched in her back, and she feels a trickle down her spine…

Though she’d just thought of felling Ronan — and she has quite a good reason to, all things considered — arm raises to once again call to the princess. She’s nearly defeated, after all, from the looks of her. Were Fiora to just keep things up, just like this…

But she might not know her strength, because with a jolt of her lance, she sees she’s hit her squarely enough to take her out of this battle entirely.

Fiora 1/5HP critically hits L'Arachel 2/5HP with Iron Lance [Roll: 20, -3HP; L'Arachel 0/5HP] L’Arachel has been defeated!

Ronan's shot lands a little too well, and she'd made a true fool of herself, falling over her own feet like she's never stood on a battlefield a day in her life. So, yes, maybe she wants to show off to her teammates, and, okay, it's a fun little revenge story if she goes for the archer who's been picking at them with arrows (that decidedly still really hurt, because it turns out arrows don't care whether it's a "mock battle" or not.)

The shadows at her heels carry her forward in a flash of a step — she flickers closer with the grace of a candleflame, skittering in darkness to strike out at Ronan's side, pommel first, aiming for the bottom of his ribs.

"This is strictly professional," she says, flashing a brief wink as her strike finally finds its mark.

She steps backwards, in-and-out once more, and uses her free hand to do a two-handed salute.

“Just a moment, please, dear lady Fiora!” She yells out, voice slightly pained, before turning to Sin for one more time.

“If you shall not speak, Sin, at the very least observe my incredible skills in action!” She gives him a smirk, before sprinting away, back towards the proper fray of battle.

Running back over, she decides the best course of action is to strike at the same target as Ronan had; if her aim is as perfect as she hopes, he ought to be out of the match!

Unfortunately, drawing back the string of the bow, a pang of pain from the javelin strike had prevented any chances from that happening. Still, the arrow did strike, and L’Arachel claps her hands in delight, looking quite pleased with herself!

Alas, the celebration comes to a swift end as another strike from Fiora hits her. L’Arachel quickly tries to put distance between them, as best as she can with the strikes taking a toll on her.

“Forgive my discourtesy in not giving you the attention you require, lady Fiora!” She bows her head respectfully. “As nice as archery is, it is quite impersonal. Perhaps I should have taken to my trusty fisticuffs after all…”

Her javelin, pulled strong and released taut, flies true and beautifully, and hits L’Arachel squarely. The poor princess should be able to stand only a few more hits, but her team had not listened to her in focusing on one of the healers. No matter — she was adaptable. If they all were going for Ronan, she, too, could fire her javelin thus…

Fiora 5/5HP hits L'Arachel 3.5/5HP with Iron Lance. [Roll: 8, -1.5HP, L'Arachel 2/5HP].

Both of her allies were more or less familiar to her. Sin speaks of people she’s heard of, and Shez once found her bleeding in soggy sand, looking for her pegasus. Now it is her turn to be by Shez’s side.

She comes to her aid, javelin still held aloft, one arm supporting Shez. “Hang in there as well as you can, Shez,” she encourages. “You will be well.”

Shez is suitably punished for her actions — whether you want to call it karma or call it intelligent strategy on the enemy's side — and she curses, rubbing at her mouth with one hand. Her lip is bleeding — did she bite her lip? Ugh. She's never been especially fond of the taste of blood-and-dirt in her mouth.

(At least it's a nice touching moment with Fiora, and another debt repaid.)

"I'm fine," she grumbles.

Yep. Totally fine. She's a merc, she's fought through worse — the whole spiel could eat up an hour and then some, but this is a war simulation, not first day of school introductions. She peels herself free of Fiora (with a little thankful tap to her shoulder in lieu of words) and swings her sword —

comically wide, really.

She stumbles backwards into the shadows that nip at her feet, desperately seeking balance and any amount of relative security after she leaves herself wide-open enough to drive a whole carriage through.

(You know what? Maybe it's a good thing her test grades aren't being replaced with this.)

Though maybe she should make sure to extend that grace mostly to her fellow Deer, such as the two she finds herself with currently; the pink haired girl or her recent friend and master of bunnies Ronan. Supporting them as they fight would be a much more pleasant way to let someone else have recognition than an arrow, belonging to one of the Eagles, striking her from afar in the shoulder. She shows quite a lot of decorum and grace by merely gritting her teeth and sucking in some air.

Thankfully the unpleasantness lasts for mere moments, as the girl walks up and makes swift work of her wound!

“I may have been shot, but one would not be able to tell at all, thanks to your handiwork!” She flashes the girl a grin.

“I do quite agree though, an introduction, a greeting, a ‘how do you do, fine fellows?’ All of that would have been quite dandy. For instance, I am Princess L’Arachel of Rausten! Prepare for- oh! It is you!” Any and all intentions to strike, both verbally and with her bow, have fallen to the wayside once L’Arachel recognizes her attacker. How utterly quaint!

She runs straight up to him, a look of amazement in her eyes.

“Remember me? We practiced our aim at that utterly charming water stand! It must be fate for us to meet on the battlefield, balls exchanged for arrows, frivolity for fierceness of combat!” She gesticulates wildly, the gap between them growing shorter and shorter.

“Your aim really is quite as impressive as your performance back then! You struck my shoulder quite true! Have you perchance been practicing more since then? Mayhaps you had hoped for us to meet on the field of battle as well? I shall most certainly show you what I can do with a bow, shall you promise to watch? Oh, but I hope you shall not be too upset if my arrow strikes you in return!” She assaults poor Sin with a barrage of questions, each asked from quite too close a distance and accompanied by erratic movement.

… Introduce each other? She supposed she could do such a thing… “I am Fiora, pegasus knight of Ilia, knight of Seiros now,” she says, with a head bowed in deference, one hand affixed over her chestplate. For all the redhead’s talk of introductions, though, she does not do it in turn…

At least the one Fiora stares at, however, does. “… Forgive me my strike, your highness.” Then, to her team. “We ought to focus on one of the two healers, together…” She had tried this last year — to get her team to focus on Griss. He had walked away, bleeding, from their first fight and had gone all the way to the end, so she heard. (She would not know. She had been eliminated in that earliest round.)

With a raise of her javelin, she instinctively chooses the archer of the two healers, and attempts to whittle strength down where she can.

Fiora 5/5HP hits L’Arachel 5/5HP with Javelin [Roll: 8, -1.5, L'Arachel 3.5/5HP]

Her hand rests comfortably on the hilt of her blade as the others take a mid-battle interlude to pass around introductions. Out of place for a war simulation and all, but she's not so bloodthirsty as to call them on it. And, well, she can participate, too —

"I'm Shez. Just a wandering merc, and a student of the Black Eagles."

She tosses out an arrogant smile, and there's no apology for the slice of her sword. Focusing on healers is a sound strategy, although she probably shouldn't have gone the divide-and-conquer route — and she doesn't mean to strike the pink haired woman quite as hard as she does.

"Shit, sorry!"

(Really, it's not that hard of a strike at all, but in these mock battles, she's never quite sure just how heavy-handed she's supposed to be.)

Truly, she could speak of how proud she is of her father for hours, but it's best not to drag the game on too long.  After all, Shez must take their turn.  Ophelia secretly hopes for something akin to the sword they'd summoned, but they roll a six - for now, to be counted as two steps lower - and mention something that is appropriately mundane.

Well, Ophelia may never consider doing something similar on her own, but the confession matches both the scale and the person confessing, so she has little to say about it.

With the new rule in mind, she tosses the dice herself, and once more:

             10

“A-ha!” she exclaims, delighted that for once she needn't share anything strange or too close to her heart.

Metaphorically speaking, at least, because she slips her hand into the front of her shirt and to her undergarment to retrieve a small stone that she keeps close to her heart at all times.  (Except for when it's charging in the moonlight and she is sleeping, of course!)

She extends her hand to the table to allow everyone to view it, uncurling her fingers to reveal a vaguely heart-shaped stone of glimmering white, that shimmers with even the slightest movement, catching and reflecting light beautifully.

"Hah, well." Heath scratches his head, searching his brain for something else, anything else. But he finds nothing that would constitute a ten in lieu of his eight. "I guess it's my turn to face the die's full power."

He can stall for time all he wants, but he's made a commitment. No matter how ridiculous the challenge, he is a man of his word.

"I'll remind you all that none of this is supposed to leave this room." Heath can feel his face burning. It's stupid. So stupid! He'd only had one or two drinks this time, and here he is, obstinate as ever. Whatever. It doesn't matter. He'll rarely interact with these three again. Well, except Shez, maybe, but maybe not now. "I...have kissed a coworker, multiple times. And once, it nearly led to more."

“The fugitive knight’s got a love story? Do tell.” He fold his hands together, using them as a chin rest as he re-assesses the man. “How high a roll do we need to get a name for next round?”

They’ll need to keep the game going for him to get an answer, and so he unfolds from his pose and goes for his own roll: another middle of the road secret it is. He hums in thought. It’d be nice to let the cheater know they’re in good company, but he’s not sure he trusts the knight in the room enough not to report any of his own academic dishonesty, especially with the way he’s pushing his buttons.

Well, may as well push those buttons a little more.

“Coworkers getting together happened a lot where I’m from. Land of the goddess of love and all that.” He waves a hand lazily through the air. “I messed around a little myself. Only the most uptight soldiers,” like a certain green-haired friend of his, “didn’t realize it was happening around ‘em.”

Knights can date, right?

"If it's over an eight, can we get a full story?" Ophelia's heartstone is minimized in the face of a chance at a little bit of fun gossip. The dice fall from their gloved hand, offering them an unreversed seven.

"...I don't know how my sword works."

She giggles and clasps her hands together, leaning back in her own chair as she's animated with her delight.  It is not for her to judge if a magical sword conjuration counts as such a deep secret to warrant the number Shez has rolled, but she trusts that it is.  Shez seems the reliable sort regardless; even if Ophelia may be of the overly-trusting.

“We'll leave it for another time.  I simply adore weapons and the tales that accompany them!  As for myself…”

She rolls the die to determine the course of her next secret.  The stars, bless them, do not assign her another ten.

They assign her a nine.

This is certainly a trial, of that she has no doubt now.  She will face it with resolve and grit!  She will surpass this challenge!

“I suppose this is worth divulging…  My own personal weapon, Missiletainn, is named after the only blade my father named and wielded himself.  Isn't it a lovely name?  It tickles the ears and sends a shiver down a spine!  And yet the blade itself…”

Her tone shifts as she continues; she's reciting his notes about the sword, and making it clear that they are not her words.  “Slipped out of the hand.  Cut as dull as a butter knife.  Chipped against an axe.”

Oh. Well. At this point, Heath's come to expect the impossible from Fodlan. Some kind of unknown power has graced Shez with a magic sword that apparates at will, and the main thought he has right now is that this will make sparring with them a lot more interesting when they aren't using sticks or foam weapons.

And poor, poor Ophelia...at least she didn't get a ten this time. He can't even fault her for her response. What else does she have left?

Guess what? Surprise event!

Are you being friendly? That’s nice! The conspiracy supports friendships! And in the spirit of friendship, the dice’s colors invert. For the next four rolls, secret levels are reversed! 1 is the highest level, 10 is the lowest level.

It seems particularly cruel to announce this right after Ophelia's roll, but as Heath's own die lands on a nine, he's selfishly grateful. He'd really prefer not to delve into anything more personal right now.

He sighs and tugs lightly at one of the lighter blue locks that falls over his forehead.

“Same here with mine. I’ll grab one of Ophelia’s details too: got it from my dad’s side of the family.”

(Huh. Is their hair from their parents? They know it's natural, but...)

A six, which is a four. Nothing world-shattering; they still have to think for a moment, drumming their fingers against the table.

"I "cheated" on my last test."

Which could been a weightier secret in a different group, but, somehow, they doubt the single faculty member here cares.

It's an enchanting story, and one she supposes fits their proposed challenge writ upon the die.

Finally, it's back to Ophelia herself.  She rolls the dice once more, and peers over the table to read its divination once more.

And once more:

    10

She sinks back in her seat, some of her bluster lost.  Why would Lady Fate do her such a turn?  Must this maiden bear her heart in its completion to pass this trial?

There is so little she's embarrassed over.  Even her most darkest secrets are precious stones nestled against her heart.  The mark on her arm is one she bears with honor, when she so chooses to present it, and even her most personal, most powerful, most private of stones are nothing to be ashamed of!  She has to think about this.

She already confessed that she doesn't always feel as though she truly is a chosen one - she!  Ophelia Dusk!  Maiden of Light and Umbral Heroine! - so what is left?  What is left?

“A convenient secret would be this maiden's wish to reroll the dice for something easier,” she mutters in her displeasure.  “Truthfully, what is left to be ashamed of?!  Must my divulged treasure be embarrassing?!

“I suppose the best I can conjure is that I have, at times, thought of sinking into curses for petty, undeserved reasons… An action ill-fitting a heroine of my caliber!  Since I must confess, there it is!”

"Sounds more dangerous than a mage." Shez's response seems par for the course, and Heath chuckles at the absurdity. That game sounds like the kind of thing his rowdier wingmates would play. He's pretty sure Bel had a suspiciously similar burn scar, even, before she ever entered battle at all. "I feel like every company or squad has a similar story."

For just a moment, he thinks to ask her.

"Alright, let's see..."

The die treats Heath more kindly than Ophelia, but not by much. The number eight stares him down, a reminder of what a bad idea this was. Oh, well. At least she won't be alone in vulnerability.

"I'm a fugitive on the run from my former kingdom." It's a big secret, though one he can afford to divulge. Bern's probably not going to find an informant here, multiple continents away (and potentially several decades, his brain unhelpfully supplies). "We were framed for atrocities we tried to prevent, and they still seek my head."

There is a pause so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Hm. Perhaps he has misstepped.

"Ah, but they're many oceans away, so I'm unlikely to be under threat from them any time soon."

Python bolts upright as if physically struck by the shock of it all. Curse-slingers and fugitives...what did he do to draw this sort of lot? The burst of energy saps from him slowly, slowly, until he’s melting forward onto the table. “Not my secret, but some of the people at this table scare me.”

What is a secret to match with any of this? Or—maybe not to match. The limply-tossed die offers him a two, and a two only needs to be a fraction of this nutjob knight’s life story. He tilts his head in thought, an arm slipping aside to rifle through his own pockets.

His prop located, he lifts it up for all to see. A small metal flask twinkles in the candlelight.

“I keep this on me pretty much every day. Y’wanna know what’s inside right now, though?

It’s not an actual prompt, so he lazily plods forward without waiting for any guesses.

“Soup. From the stand over yonder. Learned a long time ago this thing is great for sneaking second helpings. One of my secret tools I keep on me, I guess.”

well, they don't not believe him, either. It's not their story to focus on, one way or another. In their hand dice rattle, and they shake them out onto the table with a small curl of their wrist.

Two fours stare back at them.

They lean back again, a bit too far back — their chair tilts, threatening to send itself and them both tumbling to the floor. When they lean back forward, the legs of the chair hitting the ground, there's a strange sword in their hand.

"Neat trick, right?"

The dice lands on 10 - those two digits embossed in black paint stare back at her.

Her heart begins pounding in her chest.  Already, the stage is set, and the spotlight is thrown on dear Ophelia!  Her task: to spill a secret of darkest ink, and thereby allow these strangers to begin weaving their tapestries of understanding Ophelia Dusk.

But what is there to be embarrassed about?  She's a chosen one!  She's a heroine!  Or at least, she's trying to be both of these things.  Sure, Ophelia has made mistakes from time and time again, but mistakes aren't anything to be embarrassed of so long as one's heart is in the right place!

“Ah… A most deep confession, is it?” she murmurs, tenting her hands before her nose and falling into the chair behind her.  “I shall share with you fine folk one of the darkest secret hidden in the recesses of this maiden's soul!  Listen closely, for I will not speak it twice!”

She leans forward, locking eyes with each of her fellow players in turn.  First a man with a striking streak of white through his hair, then another who looks half-asleep (or at least, as though he could use some more), and finally Shez.

Ophelia Dusk, self-proclaimed Maiden of Light, is up first, and divulges...something that probably wouldn't register as a seven for most people, much less a ten. But something about the way she says it feels sincere in a way that makes him feel a bit sad for her.

"Thank you, Ophelia." Truthfully, Heath has some idea of what he'll say, but he's wary, even with the contract. Shez and Ophelia don't seem like the type to divulge sensitive information, but that blue-haired man...something about the way he carries himself feels suspect. Heath'll have to keep an eye on him. "I guess I can go next?"

This time, the die lands on an unceremonious two. Alright, that's not being thrown into the deep end, though it comes with its own dilemma. Namely that Heath hasn't prepared any secrets that feel appropriate for this weight.

"My name is Heath, and I'm a Knight of Seiros here." A few things come to mind. No one here seems like a snitch, so he should be alright with his first option. And besides. Honor and all that. "On a lighter note than our opening act, my wyvern has eaten supplies before that I've not admitted to or replaced. Poor old Merlinus still has no clue..."

Neither does anyone at Garreg Mach, but hey, this is a two. Gotta go a little higher for that.

“I s’pose that secret matches the lackluster number, anyway. So we’re talkin’ about dishonesty?”

A dull thud reveals Python’s challenge: a five. He shrugs, sinking comfortably into his seat.

“Name’s Python. Teacher, ex-soldier. Had a real hard ass of a captain when I first enlisted. Demanded dead silence when he called us to attention, would walk up and down the line, check our postures, all that.”

A crooked smirk pulls at his lips.

“Farted once right while he was walking past. Blamed it on the guy next to me. Man was given latrine duty for a month since he ‘couldn’t hold it in’.”

Not quite sure if that suffices enough for a middle-of-the-road secret, he decides to add: "It was on purpose."

Ophelia Dusk, not a chosen one. They don't laugh, but they do think it's one hell of a secret. They're not big on fate, even if destiny seems determined to sink its claws into them.

Heath...well, it's not a surprise. Not much of a secret, if they're being honest. They're pretty sure it's happened in at least two companies they've travelled in

Python makes them snort. Not quite a laugh, not quite a giggle — it's a crassness they appreciate in a stuffy school like this, one that feels more familiar than classrooms and more companionable than self-important nobles.

"The name's Shez. I'm just an ordinary merc," they intoduce, shaking the dice in their hand. "And a student here now, I guess, though that still feels kinda weird to say."

They shake out the dice onto the table and peer at the results when the clattering stops. Hm. They lean back, considering, and then push up their sleeve.

"I usually tell people I got this one from a mage."

There's a burn scar there, reaching nearly to their elbow.

"Actually, well...some guy in a company I was runnin' with when I was younger had a stupid game. I don't remember all of it, but there was a lotta drinking and a lotta jumping over fire involved."

The sun has said goodbye, and now it is the moon whose glow illuminates the festival. On top of that, the comet of blessings is visible now even more than before. All the previously closed blue stalls are now open and with the little star shaped lights lining each of them, the atmosphere has completely changed. It’s like an entirely new Star Festival!

Nightlight Phase: Feb 19th - Feb 23rd.

Prompts:

(Stars) Atop a hill overlooking the night sky there’s a mage. For a little gold he’ll write whatever you ask of him as a message made from stars. Whether that’s a heartfelt message.. or a joke!

(Flower) A stall has been set up that sells rare flowers: ones that glow under the moonlight. A bouquet of these would already be perfect, but a beautiful flower crown made from them would look like a halo placed on a loved one’s head..

(Hubba) A girl who claims to be the granddaughter of a famous matchmaker sets up a stall for the festival! Would you and a friend like to see how compatible you two are? Or maybe you wanna know if your beloved really is your happily ever after?

(Rest) The festival will go on well past midnight. As such, there’s a tent that’s been hit with a sound proof spell so no sound will leak inside. In the tent are comfortable chairs, pillows and even beds for those looking to unwind a little.

(Candy) One stall sells little fruit flavored candies shaped much like the stars everyone’s been gathering. There’s also a challenge going on in a different bowl where one half of the candies has delicious fruity flavors and the other half… doesn’t. Do you take on the 50/50?

(Carousel) The wooden horses are now Pegasi! The platform, which at first only spun around now also rises into the air, allowing you to see the starry night sky from even closer. Takes a little more bravery, but the view is worth it!

(Lake) The stars and moon above reflect beautifully on the lake’s surface. The festival committee has provided delightful, duck-shaped two-person paddle boats for those wanting to enjoy the clear waters up close.

(Circus) A short distance away from the rest of the festival is a single, dilapidated looking circus tent. People have mentioned seeing strange lights dance around this tent, as well as hearing clown-like sobs if they get up close… Discover what’s inside.. if you dare.

(Mirrors) One stall holds a maze made of mirrors, promising a reward for those able to make it out to the other side. Be careful though, it’s quite disorienting to be seeing yourself on all sides!

"My name's Shez," they offer, looking over the various provided steeds. "And I think it does. Well, I'm not a pegasus knight or something, though, so maybe someone else'd have better perspective."

They find a two-seater of pegasian persuasion, and raise an eyebrow to her.

They flop down next to Poe — although the fall is lackadasical, they're careful not to bump anything nor cause anything to break. It's a calculated sort of recklessness, a casual movement that's anything but. A wry grin breaks across their face.

"I can sit still, and I've had to plenty of times before. There's a lotta situations where — well, I bet they'd be really boring stories to someone like you."

They don't seem especially upset.