#boundlesshart

It had been smooth sailing the first week or so, despite the excitement of the angelswordfish. Soon after, Claude’s mysterious egg had hatched into some sort of strange creature, a blue-and-white critter the size of a cat she can only liken to garden slugs. It’s quite hungry, and that fish she caught proves useful in sating its appetite. Sadly, it seems to have imprinted on Claude and no one else, but Leanne is determined to become friendly with it.

Oh, how the winds of fortune can change.

One afternoon, a dark cloud descends upon them--not literally, but a flock of seagulls swarms the ship, and they are aggressive and rude! Leanne tries shooing them, but it does not work. Disgruntled, she transforms; surely the presence of a larger bird will dissuade them, yes?

No.

Somehow, it emboldens them. It almost feels as if they are cackling as they surround her, pecking at her and squawking terrible shrill things at her.

“Get off me!” Leanne cries out, flailing her wings in panic. Herons were not made for combat, but she’s got no choice in the moment. “I’ve got nothing you’d want!”

--

a group of giant rays swim past in the current... the direction they came from must be safe! you guys take that route and it is, for a time, smooth sailing.

Not all creatures of the sea are malevolent, at least. Leanne sings thanks to the gentle giants as they glide across their path, wondering what it would feel like to touch one. They seem so smooth.

“Are they friendly?” Leanne inquires, watching them fondly. “I wonder if, in less urgent times, I could say hello.”

Cameron smiles and nods. "Friendly and so cute! Good lil fellas. Fun to surf on. Ah- hang on!"

Leanne barely has time to wonder what surfing on a ray would be like before she’s jostled violently to the side. The ship’s hit something, and she pulls herself to her feet, clinging to the railing.

“Is anything broken?" she calls out to Cameron, bracing for another potential impact. There’s no leak near her, as far as she can see, but she’s only one person, and the sea is ever so fickle. "Do we need to do anything?"

"No time to wonder!" Cameron shouts back as they start to carefully jog away. "You just take care not to get knocked overboard, cutie! I'll go check~! ... Kai-Marik will yell if he needs ya!"

Leanne feels her cheeks flare; she flaps her wings to steady herself, and tries to make herself seem sturdy and strong. Kai-Marik and Cameron are together, right? And yet...hm. That’s something to think about when she’s not worried about the ship sinking.

as if the wreck's mast werent enough, a wayward rock surface tags the ship in the side, rocking everyone to the side. yeowtch!!

That’ll have to be later, it seems! These are rough waters, and it’s all Leanne can do to maintain her footing.

Team 7: @boundlesshart, @vonochs, @hresvelged

Humans were odd things. Limstella had witnessed their ignorance, willful denial, and stubbornness enough to know that logic and the laws of the world were regarded by them as suggestions in the best of times, and obstacles at their worst. By all that was known of realms, books, and illusions, this “gauntlet” - as the projectionist had described it - should not have been possible, and how the volunteers who had come to do battle with the gossamer effigies spilling from the enchanted books expected to rescue anyone was beyond the established laws of nature. That is, beyond Limstella’s understanding. But battle was what Nergal’s morphs knew, killing infused into their very essence.

Limstella could take orders as well as any human soldier, if not better, and they awaited such commands near the three other students that they had soon learned were to be their comrades-in-arms. One, they recognized to be the house leader of the house they had been placed in; a second one emanated such unusual quintessence that it drew Limstella to her side on instinct. And the third... Limstella hardly noticed.

They had quickly fallen into some semblance of a formation by the time the shimmering figures began to crawl from the pages of the book and enter their self-contained world of illusion. They were not alive though, their forms merely abandoned cicada shells to Limstella’s senses. How uninteresting the task suddenly became, realizing this, but they watched and waited as they had been told to do. One of the figures wielding a sword-like shape in one hand broke from the rest of its party and Limstella saw their chance. They darted out from their own group to intercept the enemy, magic condensing into shards of ice around them. But without quintessence to guide them, the forms of their enemies were but shimmering tricks of the light.

Limstella 10/10HP attacks Recruit C with Blizzard! Roll: 4, miss! Recruit C 8/8HP

The icicles linger in the air for a moment, suspended as if by Limstella’s outstretched hand. Then with its sharp downward motion, the shards shatter into the floor several feet from the illusory figure. Limstella stares, uncomprehending for a moment, before instinct once more takes over and sends them back into the safety of their own party.

More human trickery, then, for their perception to falter in such a way.

It really is a sign of desperation when Claude wants to hear what Lorenz has to say about love.

"I got a letter from my cousin Quentyn, apparently he's having trouble with the ladies." Quentyn von Daphnel does exist, and 13 is old enough to start thinking about that kind of thing, but the finer details such as 'which 13 year old wrote this letter' are better left out. "He wants to confess, but doesn't know how to say it. He asked for you and your advice by name."

Claude offers the letter to Lorenz so that he can read it himself, to lend more legitimacy to his own story. "Said that you were… 'the most well-read of his generation', and that you alone could move thoughts to word and poetry. " He winces convincingly. "His words, really. And don't give him advice that's gotten you in trouble–if you think the professors' punishments are bad, Judith's are.... whew."

—THERE IS A HEALTHY AMOUNT OF SKEPTICISM, at first, arms crossed and a brow raised to listen with a certain defensiveness until the full breadth of the request is known. The patent absurdity of Claude seeking out his advice on any matter—to his own detriment, mind you!—is at least understood when it’s clear this is not for him.

Trepidation aside, Lorenz takes the letter when prompted, unfurling enough to meet Claude halfway. (Especially, of course, considering the apparent taste of his cousin.) The whole thing is rather heartfelt, truth be told, albeit with a certain juvenile edge that calls back to a time Lorenz has some sense to be embarrassed of in hindsight. Ah, the first throes of passion!

“Now, now, when has my advice been anything less than sound?” A hand gestures to the letter as eyes leave the page to look up at Claude, marking the question as squarely rhetorical. “Besides, this is a matter of the utmost importance, and far be it from me to sour House Gloucester and House Daphnel’s relations.”

—Tepid as they are. (Lorenz winces inwardly in turn at the probable threat of Judith von Daphnel, a tempest in her own right, and someone Lorenz would rather not cross on bad terms.)

“Now! The matter at hand,” eyes back to the page, reading them a second time through before folding the letter with a gentle hand.

“He is correct in treating this matter with delicacy—after all, at such an age, the potential for heartbreak oft feels grave and insurmountable. He was correct in seeking out my authority!

“Well-read as he no doubt is, I am sure poetry is an easy thing to grasp for. In which case, Quentyn may find solace in the works of some older Adrestian sonnets. The many written of their opera divas and their divine grace are always pertinent in matters of the heart, pining for someone unknowable—

“…And that approach is all well and good. Sending excerpts of poetry in an anonymous manner is romantic to some, but, quite frankly, that will not do him well in the long run. There is a certain appeal to a distant secret admirer, but one day he will have to speak to the object of his affection face-to-face. Such a gamble is only prolonging the inevitable.”

Lorenz offers the letter back to Claude. Doubt no longer clouds his expression, but a certain thoughtfulness as Lorenz keeps talking. “My advice for your cousin is this:

“If he has gone through all the trouble to write to me, to ask for guidance so that he may confess correctly, the thoughts of his beloved plague his heart so dearly that honesty is the only cure. A gift can be a good way to broach the topic—poetry need not apply, would that not be to their liking; and with all the care, he likely knows the object of his affection better than most—but there is nothing more compelling than action.”

"Salem," Claude whispers, straining to convey the seriousness of this question while still keeping his voice down. They're in the middle of class and he doesn't want anyone else to hear, especially their professor. "Have you ever... been in love with someone? Confessed your love to them, or them to you?"

Salem sees his house leader shift from the corner of his eye first. The air around them suddenly charges - intuition, perhaps, for the question that has yet to break the surface - and his quill skips the dot over a letter, his mind now far from his notes as it cycles rapidly through what he could have done to draw his attention. He is a shadow, a ghost, and prefers to remain such, especially to the eyes of authority.

His name whispered freezes him like an arctic wind. Slowly, he turns his head to see the grave look on Claude's face and he wonders for a moment if this is the moment that he would be hired to kill for a noble's pride, like so many others he had known. He braces for it, because he already has his answer.

The real question is so far from anything he had predicted that Salem can do nothing but stare at Claude, uncomprehending and speechless. Love? Love? The quill in his hand tilts precariously from his loosened grip and its threat to their secrecy reanimates him.

"I have never confessed," he whispers back. The other two parts to the question, he doesn't know how to answer. But he knows well enough that this is hardly about him. Stealing a glance toward the front of the classroom to ensure that their professor still lectures with her back turned to them, he leans closer.

"There's a guy in one of her classes that's thinking of asking her out on a date and he's asking me for help. I figured you'd have some extra tips. Like favorite flowers, gifts, tea...? Uh, love language? ....Anything at all? Poor guy's grasping at straws here."

          it takes quite a moment for rhajat to realize that the man talking to her is claude; her attention focused on trying to pack all of her items into her bag to leave the already empty classroom.  and the mention of her close friend finalizes his identity.  though it’s an issue that rests within her head if it’d be appropriate to push this conversation down and walk away... with a sigh, rhajat decides to glance at him from across her desk and nod.  the beginnings of a glare tainting her expression.

          “   correct, we happen to be close friends.  and you must be claude...  now why is my name in question?   ”

          an attempt at softening her glare to be... respectful is immediately forgotten at the direct follow - up claude says.  her frown is prominent, eyebrows furrowed, and glare sharpened.  she isn’t sure if the feeling behind her expression is disgust, shock, or frustration.  probably both.  probably only one.  either way, rhajat sets the next tome in her bag, closes the flap, and looks up to claude with her arms crossed over her shoulders.

          “   tell him to give up.   ”   coming to her for help was a pathetic move.  not only that but to have someone else come to her to go to him for help was an even greater portrayal of shame!  besides, what would even bring her to help him?  the common person in question being mitama?  as if...

          “   if he’s in such need of a hint that he’s asking others and not finding out by his own ambition, then he doesn’t deserve her.  in addition to that, i have no patience to aid someone with the hopes of them courting my friend.  it does not take much besides a bit of stalking and conversation to gather information, no?   ”   a pause before she shakes her head.   “   not that i’d advise him to stalk her.  i wouldn’t hesitate to curse decades of solitude upon him if i happen to realize that mitama is being followed.  hehe, the irony.  ahem, anyway, now that we’re done here,   ”

          rhajat grabs her bag and walks away from her desk, hand raised to her face as her teeth close around the pad of her thumb.  but she doesn’t reach the classroom’s door before she turns back and looks at claude.  a sinister, thin smile on her face as she pulls her hand away.   “   and might i have the name of this classmate?  if i do think of handing over hints, i’ll need an identity... just for hints.   ”

@boundlesshart​ | cont

Her name echoes in a hundred voices and just one simultaneously. Mitama flinches before her head shoots up to see (FatherShiroMotherCaeldori) Claude running towards her.

Her breath stops in her throat, trapped behind her heart.

A million lifetimes (he kisses her in chocolate he kills her in the snow he fails her she fails him) a million possibilities and she is expected to know which one comes charging at her down the field as she thinks, thinks, all she can do is think and watch her own unknown memories pass her by.

“Claude...” It’s quiet, weak, uncertain. She was supposed to tell him about the catacombs, not ask him if she had poisoned him (she had poisoned people she had poisoned people she knew and done it gleefully her stomach lurches again.)

His hand touches her arm. The shrine maiden sobs. (She can’t remember the last time. Her deeprealm maybe, but was that her memory or the other her, the one who kills Anakos or the one who wakes him she doesn’t know.)

Forehead meets chest as Mitama shakes. She clings to Claude ( a soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?) wordlessly. 

(Classmatefriendloveenemyrivalcompanion she’s so stupid to have thought any of that mattered.)

“I didn’t..” mean it? (Yes you did.) “I don’t...” Who am I who am I there’s so many Mitamas who was she now.

[ROLL: 4, Miss]

Ah.

Is it too late to run? Claude begins his strategic retreat.

Dimitri: 4HP

After taking a while to rest from his last battle, Dimitri stood by one of the many trees that surrounded Grounder Field, watching over the ongoing battles and thinking up a proper strategy. He wasn’t trying to hide by any means- his bright blue cape being quite easy to spot, but he wanted to step back and have a wider view of the situation for at least a couple of minutes before he could step into the field once more.

‘I could have brought Duke with me...’ He pondered. But for now he felt steady enough to go on without the aid of his mount.

Crack.

The blond’s hair whipped to the side and spotted an arrow...a bit far away from where he was. ‘Whoever shot that was not having a good day.’ Then a look a bit to the side...

Oh. He should’ve expected that.

     “Hello, Claude. It is a good surprise to finally face you in battle. Let us do our best, shall we?” He readied his stance and swallowed dry. As much as he trusted his skills, Dimitri knew that Claude was nothing to scoff at. After all, the other was too a house leader.

He ran towards the archer, readying his lance for a sharp jab.

This was definitely a less than ideal start to their mission. Nary even fifty paces from the border they’d been ambushed and kidnapped by unknown soldiers, blindfolded and... well hours later they found themselves thrown into cramped cells. Elincia can hear the voices of their allies, even though she can only see a handful of them, those detained with her and the four across. She could make out Leanne’s wings when she peered through the bars and cursed very softly under her breath.

She had promised Reyson she would look out for Leanne and here she is, unable to even offer her comfort in this terrible situation.

It would not do to fall to despair when they’d barely even started though so Elincia folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath to center herself. She’d been in worse situations, looked death straight in the eyes before. At least they weren’t currently under attack, a faint but real silver lining.

It was unsettling though that she currently shared a cell with the Leicester Alliance’s heir. Surely no official military force would kidnap and detain the heir of Duke Riegan?

“May I ask a question? Please forgive me if this is silly but,” one of her hands reached up to touch her verdant locks fixed in her favourite, somewhat elaborate hairstyle. It’s probably a fruitless thought but she wants to be useful in anyway she can. “Is that things where people use hair pins to pick locks real or just in stories? I can let my hair loose if it may prove helpful to our current... predicament.”

Her cheeks colour slightly - how naive and frivolous she must sound right now. Still, she summons a smile to her face by sheer force of will. This will not beat them.