ruined sky

“ why are we put on this world ? just to suffer ? everyday. i am exposed to the worst takes by my peers. ”

Sothis surveyed the room: from one corner to the next until she focused onto the redhead. Oh. She hadn’t heard he sustained any injuries. When had that happened? The last battle, on the grounds somehow?

Lips pursed at the tone Sylvain used but she undid her magic so the ball fell - which landed besides his bed. “Find it odd to see you isolated in your room,” she commented as she ignored the last comment he made. She slipped inside the room and closed the door behind her. Now her question really was forgotten.

“D’you want me to heal that for you? Sure does not seem comfortable.” Of course she didn’t know what was wrong. Didn’t need to. Since Sothis wasn’t one to wait, she already was using her magic on Sylvain’s ankle, reversing the time specifically around the affected area until it was better. Perhaps her magic was cheating, rather than using any other healing magic.

   “It’s a question of risk versus reward, and I find it’s often better to beat a retreat than try to win a fight some... very tough and muscular man starts on the part of his sister. Over a misunderstanding, no less.” On a horse, maybe, but with a bum ankle, there was no real hobbling away. He didn’t mind the current company, but really, Sylvain was more focused on the return of his ball than the, say, ill-fated administration his guest was about to impart.

   Which was the issue. Unfortunately, Sylvain wasn’t consciously aware of any previous usage of divine time fuckery. That was the point of it, after all; wouldn’t do for ol’ Felix to remember being cut in half, even if maybe he’d deserve the helping of humble pie. Standard healing magic was one thing, but this reversal was beyond the pale. Having an ankle younger than the rest of your body was not exactly natural -- however, the reflex such a sensation caused, was.

   “Hnnk--!”

Sothis was on a mission. A trivial one to others but to her, important. She had asked a few people already but none held good answers and what drew her initially to Sylvain’s room was briefly forgotten - both by the sounds happening in his room and by the phrase.

Hm.

Sothis took her chances and disregarded the statement as she opened the door. “Syl! I have a - “ A pause, emerald hues focused on the ball and when it bounced, a moments panic as she froze the ball in mid air - “ - a ball?”

A game?

“Are you.. having fun?”

   “Beside myself with it.” The door opened, the scene was revealed -- in bed and supported by several pillows, Sylvain had put one of his legs up and surrounded one of his feet with frozen water-skins. Sure, healing magic could bind flesh and offer pseudo-plasma until the body could produce enough of the real stuff, but it couldn’t do much to a sprained ankle. Needed to post up in bed, inhibit the swelling, and suck it up. A movable desk, with several half-finished letters across it, had been shunted aside in favor of his ball.

   It was mind-numbing. He was not built for solitude and recuperation, but for breathing in fresh air, laughing, eating... not this. So even the Professor’s diminutive shadow was a welcome change of pace.

   “It’s unlocked,” he called, bouncing the ball off his dorm ceiling’s rafter, and hoping he’d gotten the angle right for it to bounce, “but I am completely naked.”

   It also brings me to the whole ‘people with Crests are superhuman!’ refrain when it’s like. 20% of the time, you will hit twice with your bow. I guess that’s for balancing to ensure you don’t just ignore the Ashes and Leonies of the roster, but how does this diddly dang system last when it’s mostly an A/B test to ensure that this dragonbone weapon won’t turn you into a goo monster?

@spearofruin​ II Starter Call

Today, Eligor had called Sylvain to the training grounds for one simple purpose: a one-on-one spar, no holds barred. He presents Sylvain with a training lance, knowing full well that was his student’s preferred weapon. Eligor himself drew a training sword. 

“You said you wanted to kill me, right?”

“So listen up! If you don’t get it out of your system now, it’ll come back to bite us later. Now, pick up your lance and fight me like you mean it!”

   Oh. So this was what it was all about. Sylvain’d been psyching himself up for a jousting tournament, not to be on-foot against Eligor. All of this was due to his big mouth, too. Sure, he’d meant it at the time, but it was borne of a dark place, a Sylvain that usually didn’t get to talk, and for good reason. Dammit. He took a ready stance -- and stuck the lance into the dirt, business-end first.