LESS THAN HUMAN.

“… I do.” It’s somewhere there, deep in her mind. She needs to know it so she can find his estate again, and get paid: that was the important part of the job, getting the money given to her at the end of it. She has to mutter it to herself a few times before the unfamiliar shapes form in her mouth rightly, but then she professes to him, “Lord Balmour, if I say it correctly… and yes, I am the new jockey.”

Her eyes close, lid over slightly, but she is far from done. 

He has already received by the time he met her. Any physical pain had mostly gone, leaving only a slightly bruised ego, but that will heal with time as most things do. He is left only with a desire to do better next year.

"Get some rest. I would hear of your own battle once you are well."

He settles in and then waits until she closes her eyes. That she came looking for him even in this state is a sweet gesture, though he cannot imagine why she would have.

The cleric turns to speak with him and he gives her his attention. They walk partway out of the tent. "I have no idea." Ephraim shakes his head. "But I ask that you keep a close eye on her. She shouldn't have been walking around in that state to begin with."

The cleric huffs. "There are many to tend to here. We cannot watch everyone when we are only here to provide healing to the injured."

Ephraim pulls away from her. "Then I will." He turns back around and grabs a stool so that he can sit at her side. The cleric seems to give up and lets him do as he wishes.

Her eyes close, lid over slightly, but she is far from done. 

“There she is,” sighs a cleric, waving them over to a cot. “Miss Karla, where’d ya go, lass? You’re sicker than a dog. You can’t be walking around, now…”

As she’s gently laid out on the cot, she murmurs, “I wanted to see the fight…” Making eye contact with Ephraim, she tells him, “You did well.”

“Enough of that,” huffs the woman. The moment Ephraim has laid her down, she’s pushing him back and walking between them. “You’re going to run yourself to your bones like this, girl.”

Karla’s silence feels unsteady. Like she’s swallowing something heavy back. Another cleric wanders in the tent, receives instructions from the first, and wanders back out.

“My brother…” Karla begins.

“We still can’t find him. When we do, we’ll make sure he’s well, too.”

She shifts uncomfortably in the cot. It has nothing to do with the physical comfort of it.

The second cleric returns with something cool to press against Karla’s forehead, and the first turns on Ephraim, attempting to lead him out of the tent.

All Karla knows is the way of the blade, even if she does not wish for it. Even if it is not hers, anymore. All of her is, and will be…

Edelgard. She sees her from across the field, joining the practice session. Don’t they share sword classes together? She wonders… what sort of unused muscle she will be strengthening today.

Ephraim's status as royalty, even if from afar, has earned him some credit among this betting ring, but not enough to divulge their secrets. The nobles here don't race, they employ others in their stead, jockeys they don't care for so long as they keep winning.

Missing horses from the monastery's stables, students whispering about a gambling ring, and bored students whose titles are heftier than the gold that passes between their hands. Not too many years ago, he might have counted himself among their number.

But what's led him back to the stables is a rumor about a new jockey that's competing in the races and word that they've replaced someone who got hurt in the last bets.

He doesn't expect to find someone he knows.

It's impossible to mistake her the moment he sees her long black hair and curvy figure: Karla. Perhaps more unrecognizable, now that he draws closer, is the smile that tugs at her lips. The horse she's feeding nuzzles her palm for more and he's not sure he's seen her this relaxed. His footsteps still to silent.

And the aftermath of the battlefield, when students and professors and residents of Garreg Mach alike linger, is a good opportunity to reach out to others. There's so much talent here, it would be a shame to waste the opportunity.

He's walking along the medical tents, freshly healed and on the lookout for others, when someone familiar wanders into his path. Yet Karla looks so out of it that it takes a moment for what she asks to register with him.

"You're asking me that?" Ephraim walks toward her in concern and places both hands on her shoulders, partly to steady her and partly to get a good look at her. "You're unwell. What are you doing out here?"

She reaches up at his shirt and pulls him down towards her, then brushes the back of a hot finger against his cheek, a gentle scar laced there. “You got injured…” she notes, softly, dazed. “Are you… all right?”

Fear courses through her veins with every strike — bolt of lightning, blade of fire and steel, attack, hailed however. The moment he is out, she is following him, staggering after him, but the heat of her fever and the midday sun keep stopping her many times on the way back to the med tents. It is only her deep concern that keeps her legs moving, despite the pain and lingering nausea.

Finally she finds him in the fray, hair frazzled and striding down the row of med tents. She feels faint, and presses a hand over her forehead, attempts to bring herself back to the ground. Then, her fingers play over her lips, which holds back sick.

She staggers before his path, trying to raise her vision to his height, despite the fact that the sun catches her eyes then and makes her head ache. She feels as though she may be sick. Face is pale and sweating profusely, and her voice, when spoken, is badly hoarse. “Ephraim… are you… all right?”

"oof!" it's timerra's turn to fall flat on her back, grip on her lance loosening just enough for it to fly out of her hands.

if this were a fight for solm she'd be going until she couldn't get up no matter how hard she tried, but given that this is just for fun...

yeah, no need to push herself to that degree.

still flat on her back, timerra weakly raises her arm and gives caspar a thumbs up from the ground. "check back in later... for a snack break...!"

Caspar receives a grim response as Forrest abandons their post by their retainer and makes for Corrin’s limp body. Knees dive into the thick, windy grass below — splotching stains into their skirt that they’ll have to wash off later. But laundry can wait. In the meantime, they press fingers to her neck and tilt her head looking for signs of life. “Corrin? Corrin! Hey, you didn’t need to push yourself this fa— ohgodsshe’sbleeding—”

Their spine shivers and they screw their eyes shut getting a good look at her palm, like Forrest had just licked a lemon. Just as quickly as they had run over to dive down for their aunt, they’re now putting healthy distance between the two. “Is there a medic around to take her back? Is Jakob nearby?” Golden locks lash across their chest and face as they whip their head in circles looking for someone to heed their cry. They know that regular physician sweeps ensure that nobody’s injuries ever last, but Forrest can’t help cursing the rules of the battle, under their breath. If only they were permitted to bring their Recover staff, they could have stitched her up on the spot…

Meanwhile, the stomp-stomp-stomp! of grass behind them finally perks their ear. They had ignored it, in favor of ensuring that Corrin hadn’t taken too much of a beating, but as they drift back into reality they struggle to keep it out of their head. They cast a bewildered look to their south, and eyes widen watching a blur of blue run them by—

(The throbbing in his own head has gotten worse, but he’s fought through nastier injuries than a headache before.)

He swings his axe in a wild horizontal arc, creating a wide open space between himself and Ophelia—and an even wider space between her and his comrades. What kind of warrior would he be if he didn’t protect the injured or the vulnerable?

One footstep — then another — she staggers forward, a warm hand dragging her over-excited classmate back from the mage’s grasp. She stands herself there, between them, hazy gaze fixed on the woman, trying to determine how strong she is, and how many strikes she’d need left to send her to the med tent…

She looks rather well… ah. Karla’s so tired…

Karla rotates to the left!

The sounds of battle fill in all around him. There’s blood in the grass nearby, and he’s pretty sure it’s not his own. Who’s been injured, an ally or an enemy? Both? He’d been so focused on his duel with Timerra that he hadn’t been able to keep everything straight. As he pushes himself to his feet, the noise only seems to grow.

Steel clangs against steel. Magic crackles through the air. Caspar swings his axe into fighting position, and then he hears...his name? Huh? It’s too distant to be sure, but too close to be able to stop his eyes from darting toward the source of the noise. Arms already in motion, he swings wide and cuts nothing but air.

she herself wasn't in much better shape. the woman with the sword— she has to go down. they can whether out a few magic hits from the fashionista over here just fine.

alright then, after caspar...

"oops!" timerra dances out of the way of an axe swing so wide she wonders if the user swung with their eyes closed. "hey! what happened to that strength from earlier!?" she taunts towards caspar, swinging her lance around

"the fight is over... here!" solm's queen dashes forward, using the length of her lance to swat his axe out of his hands.

Raising herself slowly from the ground and still staggering as though run through, she raises her weathered weapon against the light-haired woman opposing her. She can tell by the teeth of the blade that the woman is already almost out of the fight for the day… If one teammate takes the opening she has just provided them, then…

Karla 1.5/5HP hits Corrin (F) 1.5/6HP with Nettle Dagger. [Roll: 1d20 = 13, = -1HP]

As she delivers her soliloquy, her liege readies a spell, pulling vens tome from a perfect hiding place and looking both parts fashionable and formidable as vens spell leaves vens hands.  Ophelia is no stranger to the type of spell ven casts, but the flair with which ven casts it breathes a new life into the tendrils that flow into Corrin's flesh.

“Gorgeous!” she exclaims with a grin.  “The Devil's Caress, I name it thus!”

She turns her bright smile to Forrest, seeking vens approval, before showing her own spell off to ven.

“And now Ophelia Dusk takes center stage, magic at her fingertips, heart full of the excitement brought upon such an auspicious day!”

Ophelia raises one hand, shimmering orbs of darkness following and floating about her fingertip.  As she flicks her wrist, they fly from her grasp, growing and darting with long trails of purple fog following the paths they trace to the swordwoman.

If it’s a war of attrition they’ll fight, then they have stocked themselves well.

“The Devil’s Caress!” they holler, in a facsimile of Ophelia’s diction, “and Suffocating Sunset… I’ve gotta say, I’m noticing a theme here — and a fitting one for the spells we wield.” 

As the movements progress, Forrest would find themselves trusting their retainer with their back. They turn it to Ophelia, one caster covering the other’s six, and focus on her teammates much the same as she theirs. “And naturally, you have an aptitude for these dark incantations. I’ve never doubted your powers before, but seeing them in action, I’m impressed.” 

A beat passes. Forrest purses their lip and holds their hand by their breast, thinking on a pose. They settle for a flip of their tightly-curled hair.

“Just remember that they’re for enemies & combatants, not ordinary townsfolk.”

The light-haired woman readies an attack back at her, and Karla cannot find herself offended. They share blood together, and all the young Black Eagle can do is breath heavily, mostly a result of her fever, in turn from the new wound she nurses by her side.

She wipes her sopping brow, sways a little bit, and rushes the woman across her with every fiber of her being. Tiny threads of strength gather together into a tapestry strong enough to spur her into action, and…

Karla 3/5HP critically hits Corrin (F) 4/6HP with Nettle Dagger. [Roll: 1d20 = 19, -1 * 2 = -2HP]

This cut is deep. The woman bleeds. Karla kneels into the dirt for a moment, attempting to catch her breath…

timerra had fun just fighting regular ol' bandits in the deserts of solm, so a training skirmish like this was no sweat.

"oh! hey!" timerra does a big wave to the black eagle across from her— a student who seemed to care a lot about fashion judging by their uniform. she couldn't help but grin, readying her lance. a black eagle all ripe for the picking. "i hope you bought friends with ya cus i ain't goin' down easy!"

The compliment is offered with a charming lilt in their voice and a gesture backwards, as several of their classmates file in behind. The breeze blows. Ruffles on their pastel-pink dress shirt bob. They turn back around to observe the rest of the Deer’s ranks filling, and with an even sigh, their shoulders settle. “Your reinforcements are quite familiar to me, actually. That’s my aunt Corrin over there, and…” 

They pause. Politeness gives way to pragmaticism as their stare shifts.

“Ophelia. It’s good to see you here, though, those colors…” Hers is the next outfit to be carefully examined — each stitch of fabric glossed over by a discerning eye. Someone really ought to tell her that she looks like a golden retriever, though it most certainly won’t be Forrest… 

“You’re not going to make your liege cry, are you?” They tap the side of their temple with their fingers, drumming along the bone as though it will recall prior encounters with their (self-appointed) retainer. 

“I have it on good authority that the life of a Chosen One wouldn’t permit such.”

She approaches her deployment slot with a clear spring in her step, beaming at her familiar new friend, all sparkly eyes and bright colors.  Though she doesn't see the third in her battalion yet, the two of them are stars in their own right, and Ophelia is heartened that they will carry this day!

That is, until she lays eyes on her opponent.

The impeccable style… The powder pink shirt…  The immaculate curls…  O, doth Lady Fate have a sense of humor!

“Forrest!” she exclaims at once.  Caer comment about her outfit goes completely disregarded, as the weight of caer presence here is much more imperative to address.

Ooh, and she can tell that cae is purposely trying to rile her up!  And it's working!  But by the same token - there is no lie in caer words.  

“You're right,” she replies, resolute, “as your sworn vassal I shall not lay a hand upon you, nor would I let an ally do the same…  As ever, Ophelia Dusk is yours to command!”

                     However.

Ophelia rotates to the right!

She jumps between her liege and - oh gods, that's Lady Corrin, isn't it?  This is a retainer's nightmare.  Lady Fate you are so funny haha hahahahaha - Corrin, giving Timerra a perfect opening.

Others chatter. She carries a dagger that feels heavier still for what it reminds her of, and watches the people before her turn and twirl, until a light haired person comes to rest before her.

Karla 5/5HP hits Corrin (F) 6/6HP with Wrath Strike. [Roll: 1d20 = 16+ 2 = 18. -1HP + 0.5HP = -1.5HP]

With a raise of her dagger and a summoning of her skill, she hits, and she hits rather hard. The blade bites side and draws blood — not too much, but enough to call Karla a momentary victory over the other.

Having won this moment, she closes her dark eyes, waits for another breeze to satiate her of the pain in her forehead.

“Then you will see me there.” It’s perhaps too early to say she will be anywhere he deigns to go, but she wants to follow this path she has found herself on with him. To that end, she will lead herself towards the shining light that he is, and hope that he can help her withstand the darkness that encompasses her soul.

She has had no such difficulties communicating with animals. There never seems to be any pretenses, any hidden expectations. What they want is simple — to be fed, to be looked after — and it is things that Karla can usually provide. She… likes animals.

Liking is hard. Animals have shorter lifespans than humans, and she’s witnessed firsthand the death of many of her herd, and had been scolded by her mother for the softness of her heart about their demise. The first few times she had to choke back tears and down swallows of meat that she’d once helped brush and feed and had lovingly pressed kisses to, she’d learned her lesson to try to keep her heart shut from creatures.

But it is hard. She likes their less prying gazes. Their often more distant manner. Their softer hide.

Right now, she does not know the mind of the man who has hired her to race in place of his son for this competition. She does not know this competition, or what it is, or what it means, or anything about it. But she does know that this horse… wants another slice of this apple. He eats it hungrily from her hand, then licks at her palm when its empty, searching for more. It’s ticklish. A small smile takes the corner of her lips, usually cold eyes just slightly warming.