Forage in the forest outside of the village [Max 4 muses per thread] - Receive 1 basket of resource (berries, nuts, mushrooms, herbs, flowers) per post [Can now choose which type]

The buzzing song of insects hangs in the air, accompanied by the sharp crack of a branch snapped underfoot and a grumbled swear. Python kicks the offending stick aside out of the path, cursing the soft cloth shoes that have replaced his usual boots. If he had his clothes and his bow, he could be bringing in pounds of meat to feed the village—if these people were normal. Instead, he trudges through the underbrush with a woven basket on his hip and mutters under his breath.

He's not alone, either. Three sets of hands are better than one, especially when they're expected to contribute to the whole town's larder now. One of the faces with him is...slightly familiar, but he can never be too sure. Not after the way his little chore session got derailed last time. He gestures to each of the girls accompanying him, empty basket swaying off his elbow. "Alright. If either if you are secretly a princess or a queen or something, just get it out of the way and tell me now. Got it?"

@exclted @teneguine @unsungblade @estians @asphuxia @toaedgeofeden

It happens like this in books and stories. The heroes end up in a situation that looks grim and dire. The reader worries what will happen to them and how they could possibly overcome such overwhelmingly bad odds stacked against them. But then, the writer steps in and provides an escape. Something is added to the story that gives them an advantage.

As Est turns into the alley Ethlyn is fleeing, she wonders if this is scripted. It seems too perfectly timed to truly be coincidental but she isn't about to complain. She greets her with a smile but is quick to point out the dangers Est has just stumbled into.

"Those two, with the white hair? They helped me escape. I'd like to do the same for them but I don't think they are going to let us go without a fight."

     (  🌟  ;  a memory about a person or friend they’ve lost  )

              His rapier shatters somewhere in the stretch between the middle and end. The faithful blade is one of a half-dozen companions that followed him since the dark days of his refuge in Talys. When he possessed little more than his friendships and the rights to a stolen kingdom across the sea. But Marth thinks that tears aren’t worth spilling for a weapon no matter how old or loved; or rather, he thinks them better saved. He has lost one friend. By the end he will lose another.

               Like crimson bedrock, the newfound breastplate of Emperor Hardin is a greater fortress than the likes of Lang and even the mage dragon, Morzas, who impeded every blow of the like with his scales. The rapier etches its final wound and then the rest falls away, steel and hilt in two pieces clattering against a distant wall. Somewhere, though he hasn’t called for it, he’s tossed a different sword—he catches it with one hand, the lightsphere tucked tightly in the other as if only death could wrench away his grip.

               Hardin knows him far too well. Knows the way his Altean friend weaves and ducks, how he looks to favor his left side but advances with his right. How he aims smartly for the chinks between armor when faced with a general like Jiol, but swerves just shy of those points when that general is Hardin. But Marth knows him, too. Dark Emperor or not, the man he is now fights like the man he was. Hardin who made two thrusts of his spear and delayed the third by a second. Hardin who aimed his lance for the throat when backed into a corner like the Coyote he was named for.

               It would have been a fatal decision to duck the Gradivus. Anyone else would meet the lance with the space between his eyes by doing so. But he sidesteps the pronged head - he remembers - and his new brave sword stabs into the gap between shattered plates. A second time and blood sprays in an unending gush. Peace resting on the shoulders of his life, on the ooze of Hardin’s lifeblood, and he knows there will never be a more necessary death.

Metal hits the dirt with a dull thump one last time before Est sets the shovel aside with a sigh.

It is not an experience entirely new to her, she supposes, this silent kind of farewell. War leaves little time to throw grand funerals for the fallen, barely even enough time to bury their corpses deep enough to keep the animals from digging them up—not that animals seem to be a problem now that the forests are empty of them.

Good soldiers—dead soldiers—don’t get funerals, just a lump of dirt to mark their final resting place. She doesn’t know who or what these bones belongs to, but Est will do the tedious work for them, if only so they can rest in peace. Everyone deserves that much, right?

That’s the thought that distracts her from the truth of the matter, at least. Est wasn’t there to see the corpse trees rise or the dawning sun turn them to bones, but simply imagining it is horrifying enough. How long had these ghosts slumbered, that they found themselves so deeply entangled in the roots of these trees?

“I think that’s deep enough,” she says after a pause, leaning down to gaze into the deep pit. “We might have to dig another one, though. I don’t think this is big enough to fit all of them.” Straightening, she turns to face her companion, head tilting. “Did you find anything over there, Eir?”

There’s been word of crumbling ruins, remnants of an old town and its gravesite becoming overgrown with strange greenery. Beautiful though its blooms may be, superstition and old maid’s tales have painted it as a beautifully haunting omen for a disaster to come. [..] To make matters worse, the vines that now prevent you from leaving don’t seem to be content to stop there. All around you, the labyrinth shifts and changes; the walls move, the plants snake and snap. You and your companion must hack and cut your way through and find a way out, lest you intend to bury yourselves in a grave that never needs to beg for flowers. [Grants Sword +1]

Rhea has created and had to improvise a number of different ways to evade her guards over the years, but she must admit this most recent one may in fact be her least favorite.

The majority of the knights had stayed in the town a half an hour rides back in order to continue to comfort the residents there, but the few that had been separated from her just now as that insidious ivy overgrew the entrance – well, she worries.

More than worry, however, Rhea is now intrigued. The magic here is frustrating, yes, but so too is it fascinating. It does not feel like theirs though as Rhea ascends half a broken staircase only to find it has started moving she does wonder.

Movement, clearly practiced, catches Rhea’s eye just as the staircase comes to a standstill; someone else is here, just below her. Had they meant to stay out of sight or was it just result of this place’s twisting shape? Rhea does not know but her grip on the Seiros sword tightens.

“Who goes there?” She calls. “If you do not fear the Goddess then come stand beside me and let us converse. It seems we may be in this place for a while, after all.”

Another Kiss || an adoring kiss because the other is rambling

“No, because, you see, in the original ballet, the prince’s name was Siegfried, but in the Barbie movie, it was changed to Daniel—that was a much easier name for children to pronounce, you see. As such, you can understand my connection to the film—but I digress.”

At least ten minutes had passed in the conversation without any true back-and-forth. Eir listened with a bemused expression, content to let Siegbert talk on and on, even if she cared little for the topic.

“Many claim that the best of the original four films is the Princess and the Pauper, but that simply isn’t true. Swan Lake is the greatest reproduction of the four original stories, both because of how true it sticks to the original, but with the added benefit of its dance sequences—I believe Princess and the Pauper falls flat in that regard.

“It gets so much acclaim because of the mere fact that it is the first musical by Barbie, but I truly do not think the soundtrack is anything special. Nothing can elicit more intense, raw emotions than the music Tchaikovsky commmf—!!”

Words fall short when lips are muffled by another’s. Eyes widen and freckled cheeks flush; Eir smiles against him, a shameless and entirely-delighted light to her face. They part, and for a moment Siegbert is frozen, his rant entirely forgotten.

“I... suppose... you agree?” he asks, meek.

closed starter for @asphuxia

“Gautier!”

The floor before him clears as the two Grisha that had been sparring prior dust off their kefta and disappear back into the ring of students. Sylvain groans. 

He steps forward, rolling his shoulders and cracking his knuckles. This was the only part of the Little Palace where he didn’t completely slack off, but on most days that makes itself out to be a regrettable decision. 

Especially as Eir steps out in front of him. 

For an Inferni, he is close to hopeless. It’d been the best day of his father’s life when his younger son had been swept away to study here after his brother had proven himself completely incapable when it came to the small science. Sylvain, however, hadn’t forgotten the look on Miklan’s face as the Grisha examiner had steered him out of his front door and into a completely different life. 

So he disappoints. It’s easier that way. 

Eir is an interesting pick against him. Sylvain settles into a ready position, giving her a once over before his gaze rests at her face. His demeanor is casual, unbothered, single eyebrow quirked in her direction.