#brightblessed

Sparks flew as steel met steel. An ear-splitting screech rang out as the blade tore into the magitek plate. The Prince allowed the weight of his weapon to pass through his foe. He took a few steps, and that’s all it took. He allowed the momentum he’d built up to turn his body, bringing his scythe down into the exposed machinery. The towering machine fell and the soldiers who had been standing behind it seemed to freeze in place.

The Prince hated the look in their eyes. All these men who had felt like gods when they were trampling the weak were reduced to cornered beasts. Absolute terror mixed with despair. Their hearts knew they were dead before their bodies did. Cowards. Their pathetic gaze ignited an old hatred in him, and with a single stroke he took all their lives. No fight left. It was always so easy. He felt a pining in his heart. The thrill of the hunt. The joy of combat. The feeling of connection when his blade clashed with a worthy opponent’s. A simple flick of his wrist was all it took to lay his enemies low now. He would never feel that again because of Garlemald. They had taken his one and only. He would never die because of Garlemald. They had made him that way. All he had now was hate. Hate for the ivory standard. Hate for the ones who burned his dreamed-of future to the ground. Hatred of the life he’d been cursed with.

He heard approaching footsteps. He quickly turned to face his potential opponent. They didn’t brandish steel. In fact, it was a child. One of the people the Garlean soldiers had been messing with? The child looked up at the prince, fear in his eyes. He dropped to his knees, sobbing.

“Th-Thank you! Thank you!”

The Prince turned his back. He had no idea how to respond to such a proclamation. He’d only done what he did because he hated the people he killed. It wasn’t particularly hard to do. He didn’t do it to save people. He did it because he wanted to kill them. The ones who had taken everything from him.

Of course, he couldn’t remember exactly what they had taken. Or what nation he was the Prince of. Only that pining remained. The feeling of a cold absence in his heart. With a wave of his hand, he opened a voidgate and the world faded into silence.

He drifted for some time. Allowing his Avatar to pull his body along wherever it wished. He had no idea how long this lasted, but before long he felt the air around him again. A familiar chill to it. Garlemald. Home. He heard a nearby battle. Gunfire and the clash of blades. He headed toward the chaos. He spotted a crowd  of people in black armor. Magitek armor. So many. He leapt into the air, wrapping his body in his avatar’s aether. He tore open a voidgate and passed through. He emerged on the other side immediately, now above the crowd.

He brought his scythe down on on them, crashing like a meteor and causing an explosion of aether. No challenge. Even this many.

He ripped his blade from the earth, his burning eyes beholding the carnage he’d just wrought. Good riddance.

That smirk never leaving him, and Zenos was more than pleased to see the other standing so tall, despite the very obvious fatigue that rattled their system. It must have been adrenaline that was keeping them upright, and willing to fight on. Of course he would oblige such a request. "As you wish... but do so with every ounce of your strength. I'll have you no other way." His hand reached out, and of course through the magic of his fellow Ascian did the warrior's weapon come into existence. He tossed it at their feet, and studied them with such a sharp gaze.

As he observed them, something did come to mind, and he mentally paused at the options which were presenting themselves so quickly. For one, he did notice his friend was really looking worse for wear, and it could easily spoil the fun for himself. A frown then deepened on his expression, and he let out an annoyed sigh, turning briefly to the side to contemplate on what he could do. "Though... if you pass out from all that's been done, maybe a rest is required. Unless you're strong enough, that is, to handle what I will give you." The challenge being set, and he shot a simmering glare his way, wondering if he would rise for the occasion.

He's used to keeping an eye on the other Scions, to keep danger away from them and directed towards himself, knowing them at his back, being able to trust them with it, too.

With Roi it's ...different. It's not that he doesn't trust him, far from it. With a history as long and riddled with battles fought side by side, with mistakes made by Thancred and forgiven by Roi when he had no sound reason to, it's more difficult to not put his entire faith into him, even just taking into consideration the things he owes to him for his forgiveness alone.

With the staff of a mage traded for the massive sword of a dark knight Roi has also traded some of his agility for huge swings of a weapon less suited for fast paced combat, leaving blindspots enemies in bigger numbers may exploit. But when fighting together, it is these blindspots Thancred is able to cover perfectly. The gunblade more suited to weave faster attacks, the charges of the aetheric cartridges able to cover distance a huge sword by itself cannot, allowing Roi to preserve his aether for when he needs it for charged attacks.

They work well together, as long as Thancred can spare enough attention to reading Roi's movements and anticipate his next step to adjust accordingly.

With a fighting style about equal to Thancred's own recklessness, if not at times exceeding it, too, Roy has always been a wild card. A force Thancred cannot fathom ever measuring up to, unsure if he is in awe or unsettled by the raw strength and volatile magics the other man may unleash at will.

He thinks it's different since their time in the First somehow, but with his own aether impaired ever since Flow spirited him away to Dravania it may just be his skewed perception of the matter. He has never been one particularly susceptible to the workings aether anyway. Perhaps, at some point, he'll bring it up to Y'shtola or Urianger.

If he gets the chance still after this.

As with everything, it's Thancred's own inadequacy that trips him up and almost costs someone else dearly. He turns a little too slowly, after leaving Roi's side open to the trajectory of a bullet in favor of striking another enemy down. He didn't take into account that the Garlean machinist previously focused on him might turn to take a shot at Roi when Thancred's own conjured shield proved impenetrable.

No.

No!

Sometimes blind faith just isn't enough.

"Roi!"

He jumps before he can think, throwing himself right into the trajectory of the bullet. White hot pain rips through his shoulder, the impact leaves him breathless at first, rocking him to his core, but then he can't contain a garbled scream of pain as the bullet rips right through him, the wound immediately staining his coat in a dark red. His arm goes limp with the pain, his weapon slips from his grasp although he desperately tries to cling to it, but he is ultimately helpless to keep it from tumbling into the snow at his feet.

Thancred's vision swims and he struggles to keep himself upright, ears ringing, eyes trying to focus on anything and everything, disoriented for a moment as everything arpund him appears a little too bright, until his gazes settles on his friend, who's eyes have gone wide now that he realized what happened.

Thancred's other hand comes up to grasp at his wounded shoulder, he feels the blood ooze over his fingers, near searing against the chilled tips of them. His breathing turns shallow. A sudden nausea grips him. He's survived far worse. His friends are right there. Urianger and Alphinaud can fix this.

And yet he can pinpoint the exact moment his body slips into shock. His arm goes numb, his fingertips tingle. The battle is slowing down, or maybe Thancred's perception of that is skewed, too as his eyes unfocus and refocus. He feels his knees buckle, but doesn't feel the impact rock his body as he fails to keep himself steady.

Pathetic.

A voice rings in his head and it's all he can do not to flinch at it. It's a memory. A nightmare. The worst kind. An echo of a mistake that haunts him to this day.

The last thing he sees is Roi rushing over, he thinks their friends are close behind, although they're little more than colorful splotches as his vision blurrs further. He has trouble focusing on anything, even though Roi is right there.

@brightblessed​  asked:   “  i’ll kill anyone who ever makes you bleed again.  ”

Blue hues widen in abject surprise at the incensed declaration bursting from Roi’s lips, his friend’s gaze, dark and filled with rage, fixed ‘pon the sluggishly bleeding scrape from a glancing blade on his side. A foolish mistake on his part: having lost sight of his blind side for a split second had caught him flat footed and he’d only barely managed to evade being run through instead.

Undoubtedly the reason for Roi’s outburst, worry at the close call manifesting as anger; Roi, who’d taken one look at the scene and with a cry of his name had nigh cleaved his assailant in twain.  

Roi who’d dropped his great sword the moment he’d felled his opponent, all but forcing Haurchefant to take a seat on a nearby outcropping of icy rock near the mouth of a cave so he could gander a look at the cut.  Haurchefant lets him, the fading adrenaline leaving him somewhat more shaken than he is willing to admit, his features a quiet mask of concern and a hint of awe at the way Roi had not even hesitated to kill for him. His heart still beats fast with it, the flutter in his stomach not just borne from shock. 

Not that he wouldn’t return the favor, if and when his friend was in danger. 

“ Roi, “ He speaks at last, gloved hands stilling the other’s with a gentle yet firm grip over slightly trembling fingers. “ I am well. ‘Tis naught some bandaging and a potion cannot fix and I incurred this through no fault but mine own. ‘Twill not happen anew, “  His lips curl to a faint smile, one hand moving up to curl around Roi’s elbow, thumb pressed firm against the inside to ground him. To anchor himself. “ So while I greatly appreciate the sentiment, you needs not go to quite such lengths. “

ryne cannot let her space get too messy, at least for longer than a few hours. given that she grew up a prisoner living in a comparatively small place, ryne eventually learned that letting her only safe haven get messy or disorderly seriously affected her mental wellbeing. she'd get really depressed, foggy, antsy when her surroundings felt as chaotic as her situation. of course that wasn't the only thing affecting her, but it didn't help. she kept her room VERY organized.

It had been some time since they had last spoken, Rothalion since finding himself once more embroiled in the center of conflict. With a newfound lull, the quiet before the storm one could say, Ro decided to forgo rest in favour of visiting the man he had still not forgotten.

His steps pause as he peered around, eyes sweeping the room he had been directed to by another. A gentle if exhausted smile curled his lips as his gaze landed on the familiar dark figure, his pace forward continued; for all the hell Roi had put him through he could not help but miss the other man in his absence.

“It’s gonna rain” She says suddenly, still not opening her eyes and not really moving from her seat. Fleur goes quiet for a while again before opening her mouth “It smells like rain... Not too far but it’s not gonna last... So, we don’t have to worry about getting wet”

Turning to her companion while standing, she leaves her staff resting on a trunk of an old tree, sitting in front of the campfire.

“I apologize for not helping you put up the camp, Roi. Are you tired? I can keep watch while you rest”

-----

"Ah! Elidibus...! You're light on your feet, as ever. I didn't hear you at all. It's been awhile."

don’t think he hadn’t seen that . certain things hardly walked past him , especially if they were about the welfare of one of his colleagues   ( as well as cherished friends )   ; though in his heart he was aware that azem shrugged off their fatigue to soothe his soul , elidibus simply couldn’t sit back and let it slide : his fried was tired to the point of exhaustion !