#arcaediaen

              another kiss prompt  —  a kiss to convince the other to stay.

In stories, there is the idea that the world pools neatly in a prince’s hand, that it inherits to him most sensible and collected. One could not say that of Archanea.

Pulled threads must return to the tapestry that Nyna wished whole. To that end, their work is necessary; the queen’s hold of Pales and the mainland, the king’s campaign across the rest of the continent. While he chases after the problems, the various investigations of needs and wants, she keeps the springs of violence and uprising tightly coiled. The homes and citadels in working order. A most valuable partnership even if sometimes there are days and weeks where he does not see her. Days and weeks where even the people see him more.

This time around, a sore matter of weeks, he returns from his surveillance in Gra at the end of a season but also the beginning of a thaw. The snow-melt of Adriah Pass, the unfreezing of the Chiasmir and Menedy rivers, children and animals coaxed out to play whilst watched by weak sunlight. It is only fitting that Marth comes in the spring, because seeing her again is spring to him, too.

“Caeda... Forgive me dearly for taking so long. There were setbacks on the continental highway that cost us horses and supplies. We were forced to reroute due to weather and—mmph!”

Only to fearless Caeda of Talys could a king’s excuses go unheard. A foot in the door and the force of her nature barreling into his arms knocks him against a marble mount. The ornamental bud vase displayed atop it wobbles dangerously, and someplace, somewhere, sounds the crash - water, glass, and soil spilling in a guilty mess across the ground. None of it is of any special importance, of course. Polished as his reflexes, he wouldn’t have caught it anyways with both hands tied.

He lifts her off the ground by the two-handed hold on her hips, admiring the powerful legs curled around his waist. Her knees pressing hard on his sides as they did the stallion they steered with a skillful dig or nudge. Welcome back. I missed you. I love you. Don’t go. Stay with me. Any words that could have been said happened right there, forfeit to a more succinct kiss of passion.

Lips molded, rubbed, and kneaded with the application of almost painful pressure, then when their lower faces numbed from the stubborn insistence to stay locked, his kisses peppered more gently along her jaw. Her hands knotted tenderly at the base of his skull. He breathed while he could in the silence that followed, pushing the air from his nose, until at last came his simplest of words. Three that pleased him more than any other to say.   

@arcaediaen ; Lance +1

Sigh. “Sirs, please make up your minds. This is a potentially risky situation, and as precise information as possible would be most useful.”

“He had a spear, I swear! Saw ‘im last night running rampant, he wielded a lance and had some, uh, like tools and stuff? Maybe was gonna hunt or something, I don’t know!”

“Idiot, did you get so scared you ran and hit your head on a rock? Since when does a lance have a curved blade?!” (They can have those quite often actually, Titania thinks to herself.) “Besides it doesn’t walk at night, but at day, and it’s got no lance, that’s an axe for sure! He’s got it replacing one of his hands, that he does!”

The wince that has been fighting for a while now to force its way to Titania’s lips finally wins over. The two small groups of scouts and young soldiers continue to argue, now between themselves and seemingly ignoring her completely at this point, for they do not stop even as she walks off.

Perhaps sometimes, lack of information is better than false information.

Nothing more to be done about that, it seems. Having made sure that she is not going to learn anything useful here anymore, Titania directs her steps back towards the research camp’s tents.

Confident in her ability as she is, she would rather have some support heading into the unknown; and among the couple student heads present, her attention is attracted to a shade of blue fresh and unacquainted, and yet at the same time, as it almost feels to her, not completely unfamiliar.

@arcaediaen ; Flying +1

There is a lot that Roy can safely say he expected from his assignments at the Academy. This is not one of those things.

He didn’t even know the Academy held chickens, for crying out loud.

And, worst of all perhaps - being a noble and heir to the throne of Pherae does come with the unfortunate consequence of having no experience with poultry whatsoever, outside of eating it. Which he highly doubts counts as expertise that will come in handy here, what with the staff requesting that, if possible, the chickens be rounded up and returned alive.

The terror on the faces of the squires surrounding him as he approaches the main door to the training hall is not a good indication. Roy cannot help but have his doubts - these men are being trained for knighthood and professional combat, exactly what is it in there that strikes such fear into their hearts?

Well, the instant he pulls the door open just enough to take a peek, he is met with a deafening SQUAWK that, in his personal opinion, a creature this size should not be capable of emitting, followed immediately by wind in his face blown by the rapidly flapping wings of the creature - and a beak and claws that threaten to reach his face, prompting him to quickly shut the door back. As he leans on it to keep it closed, he can feel the scratching and pecking on the other side. Something tickles his ear; he raises his hand and retrieves two feathers.

Okay, that’s what it is.

Eyes dart around in desperate search of ideas, and eventually land on a head of blue in front of him, approaching the scene. Lord Marth’s wife, that’s who she is, from what Roy had gathered; whether she was also assigned to help resolve this mess, or was merely attracted by the commotion, the Pheraean does not know, but... as much as any help is appreciated, Lady Caeda, too, is a princess, and thus unlikely to have experience with... chickens.

Hm.

“G-Good morning, Lady Caeda.” Nevertheless, Roy does manage a light smile, even if it’s a sheepish and somewhat artificial one. “Pardon me, we have a, uh... situation...”

         𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆   𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐎𝐑   𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒.

An overpass of aqueducts and clotheslines floated overheard, busily levitated objects that caught his interest, outnumbered by the curious dirt-streaked faces that peered down from above over the spectacle of the captured Hero-King. Emperor Hardin’s most celebrated prisoner, brandished at the head of his joyful parade of rebel captives. Marth would have liked to stop and stare back, but whenever he did the foot guard spurred him forward with the pommel of his sword. Though he didn’t say a word at the maltreatment, after the third time- a sore dimple forming in the pit of his lower back- he stopped looking altogether.

He marched through capitol streets with an army like he said he would; like he promised Nyna and the millions that lied cold in fresh graves across the whole of Archanea, putting faith and penny in the hands of their hero... Except he did it in ways he never dreamed. War wasn’t at all simple, of course. Never black and white like the libels and propagandists made the battered spirit firmy believe, but when you lost, victory and defeat were all the colors it came in- and Marth was dyed in that ugly, ugly black ink across the streets of Pales.

History wouldn’t remember how hard he fought, it would remember how hard he failed. He knew that was the message when the stones flew. Most missed their mark to strike the cobbles at his feet but others were lucky. When he looked to the guard for some semblance of authority, the man looked away. At that point a pebble struck his temple, so hard he nearly stumbled into the row of prisoners- Cain and Abel, he thought- behind him. So hard a crosscut formed, dribbling his blood into the grout lines of the stone path below.

“....!”

He was straightened and set to march again as the hail of stones continued, but that moment had struck the match for another. Marth didn’t notice the cloaked woman who approached him from behind. He felt her fingers as she gripped his arms with the uncanny strength of a trained knight, spinning them around to take the mob’s vengeance, and then he saw her beautiful face beneath the shadows of her hood. Framed by long hair, a sliver of his favorite shade of blue poking out- terror lighted up his eyes then extinguished in the flinty raise of his voice, the shove of his manacled hands.

“Get your filthy paws off me, peasant! Crazy woman. You dare touch Naga’s chosen!”

To the average onlooker, he’d worn the righteous anger of a prince who held faith in his own outrageously inflated sense of self-worth. It was a convincing display. He hoped it was. Caeda needed to survive and not even the gods could save her if she was discovered here.

She is inclined to believe them. Whenever she shuts her eyes, she is reminded of Death’s searing darkness, how the dark daggers had encircled her before digging into her, exploding before her eyes. They say she will be sore for a week, perhaps more, and Caeda traces the faint outline of a scar along her cheek — a memento from a time long past. She wonders if Lyon’s spell will add to the tapestry of scars painted across her body. The mage had been so timid at the battle’s onset — had it all been a ploy to lower her guard? She had even encouraged him, told him to give it his all. A soft, rueful laugh escapes her. She, of all people, should have anticipated such a tactic.

With a great effort, Caeda props herself up on her elbows, slowly taking in her new surroundings. Even the dim light of the infirmary tent is too bright to the Talysian after the unending darkness. But even through narrowed eyes, Caeda instantly recognizes that familiar shade of blue beside her, lying on his own cot. She’d know even if she were blind.

“Marth,” she whispers, voice hoarse. Stiff fingers rest upon his arm, glad to his warmth. “Are you hurt?”

Excitement dwindles to embers across the newly emptied fields of Gronder, students of several house allegiances returning to the monastery grounds in order to resume less remarkable studies. King Marth - though healed to the point of near perfect recovery - does not resume such features of normalcy quite yet. For two days, no forces of rest, regularity, or recommendation can pull him away from his sentry.

By her side he sat still and warm. Nary a movement to displace his silent vigil save an occasional sip of water to wet his dry throat, or a crop of new questions posed for the clerics. Her battle with a mage grounded her badly, their reports said, and the fact means that he has found more rest upon a hard stool than a proper bed. He minded it little, of course; it was exceedingly important to him that he saw the progress of her healing for his own. It was also important because the picture she painted was without any worldly price.

Frail and sunken in the too-large sheets, her lovely moon of a face twitching restlessly in sleep, Caeda was still impossibly beautiful. He’s reminded quietly, all too nostalgically, how long it has been since he’s seen her like this. In Archanea, he would have viewed her sleeping face for as many mornings and moments as he drew breath. For all the months he’d spent in Fòdlan, deliberating over kingdoms and matters not his own, every dawn had been one where he woke up alone.

But on this evening he doesn’t. As Caeda slept his mind tumbled awake with his thoughts and worries. Exhaustion alone had dragged him from the chair, submitted to a joyless slumber in the space beside her. A deep crease in his brow and his arms crossed tightly over his chest, one could have thought him less a king and more his corpse locked in rigor mortis. It is only her voice and the faintest touch of her hand that drives him to consciousness like a hot spur - nearly spilling from the cot in a fly of long limbs and longer curses.

“Caeda!” Marth chokes instead, swinging upright with a harsh squeak of wood and hinges that draws the disapproving eyes of the infirmary denizens. “How are you feeling? They said your burns would heal fully by the end of the fortnight, but not to move too recklessly. To keep off the lance and saddle as best as you could for a few more days, and—”

Drawn to her like a flame, he reaches towards her in the gloom with a hesitant stroke of his knuckles across her whittled cheek, then the firmer mold of his palm against it. Caeda, though weak and freshly awoken after two days of inertia, continued to glow even now; with her tangled river of hair and chapped colorless mouth, papery pallor and tired look of concern, Marth could not have loved her more.

meeting prompts!

The serenity of the gazebo is what catches her interest after a long day of classes and finding her eyes glued to book after book. Truly, she is fascinated with the amount of knowledge the monastery's library has to hold. Perhaps Elice could have spent the entire day sitting by its side, words in hand to accompany the near perfection. The sunlight feels warm and inviting against her skin, eyes squinting as she looks up towards its rays.

She isn't sure how much time has passed- Hours, is what she infers. The setting sun is enough of an indicator for that. Holding the blue book nestled in her lap, the princess stands up and readies herself to leave. She does not close its pages, instead keeping them open and glancing downwards every so often in conjunction with her steps.

Ill advised, she knows. Still, she cannot bring herself to put it down. Elice's shoulders brush against strangers every once in a while, bowing in apology and offering genuine words. The steps of the monastery are not terribly steep, but they offer enough for the occasional misstep. Her foot brushes against one of its edges and the book in Elice's grasp closes itself onto the ground. She, too, can feel herself following suit. It is then she notices a pause in her own motions- No longer does she follow the book's direction. She is not a fallen piece. Now, she feels the strength and kindness of familiar hands behind her. As Elice is gently propelled upright, she turns back to see the correctness in her intuition.

With the Ethereal Ball just around the corner, it’s high time that you start getting your ballroom attire in order. Naturally, wealthy students have long made it a tradition to visit nearby fabric shops with friends so that they can get a custom piece in time for the event. However, with more and more students of humble backgrounds attending, a few new shops have popped up recently selling ready-made outfits for everyone to try on.

Deirdre's heart flutters in her chest each time she thinks about the upcoming Ethereal Ball. It will be far from the first she has ever attended but that does nothing to quell her anticipation. An entire evening to spend at the side of her beloved, dancing and enjoying the company of one another! On top of that, she has certainly heard the rumors about the significance of the Goddess Tower on this particular evening. Swearing an oath together before a goddess sounds so romantic! Even if neither of them subscribe to the religion of Fódlan, perhaps Lord Arvis will still understand the meaning behind it if she swears her undying love and companionship in such a way.

She cannot stop thinking about it and smiling as she tries to be patient standing on the platform in the center of the local dressmaker's shop. Even though the ball is coming up soon, there are not too many other customers. Deirdre is glad for it. She feels put on the spot wearing nothing but a slip as a few of the tailors take her measurements.

The bell on the shop's door dings as it opens and Caeda walks in. Deirdre may not know her personally but she respects her husband and would consider him a friend so she offers a friendly wave and a greeting. "Lady Caeda! It is lovely to see you! Are you here to have a dress made as well?"