#duchaisruin

"Fuck with...?"

Each cough scraped his throat raw, droplets of hot blood speckled Almedha’s hands. He wanted to smack her arms away and snap at her. If she wasn’t so helpless, she could’ve seared the axe’s blade and its wielder with Banshee. The brigand wouldn’t have been stupid enough to dive in—wouldn’t be on the dirt floor, Almedha cradled safely in his arms.

Whatever cruelty he tried to mustered came out as a weak groan. Miklan cringed at the pathetic wet noise.

It was all her fault.

A horrible dread stops Almedha cold when Miklan falls in front of her; without a second thought, she concentrates a dark volley toward them, conjured from the deepest recesses of her rage, her grief. She screeches, echoing through the encampment, setting off the nearby crows. It's enough to send the rest of the stragglers howling, for now.

Miklan will survive this. She knows this, even as she falls to her knees in the damp dirt, just another stain for her silken gown to bear. Even as tears stream down her face, as she tries in vain to remember the simplest incantation of a healing tome she had breezed through one unhurried morning, she curses him.

Curses him, because he dares to look at Almedha like this. Like she is the reason for his spilled blood, even though he had dragged her out here. He is the stronger one between them, undoubtedly. That makes it his duty to protect her.

He recognized a mop of wheat-coloured hair tuning his bow in the corner. That punk… Creeping up behind the nobleman, Miklan slugged an arm around Andrei's shoulders.

The brigand gently squeezed around his neck. "Fancy seeing you here," His words were laced in sarcasm.

Scattered pieces of conversation floated over from the crowd gathered closer to the door, Andrei looking up intermittently as the volume ebbed and flowed. So far, nothing compelled him to intervene; Ewan seemed to be able to hold his own even against anyone less than friendly towards him, but...

He stiffened as the eldest Gautier son left the crowd to approach him, though he managed to turn any potential discomfited reaction into a scoff as the other's arm slung around him.

"I could say the same to you," Andrei replied coldly, pushing the offending arm away before he took out an arrow from the quiver laid beside him and tested it against the restrung nocking point, movements slow and deliberate.

"If you do anything to endanger the success of this mission, I am certain the monastery will not bemoan the loss of one of their... least savory assets."

Gentle sea air glided against Miklan's armour, caressing his cheeks with cool tingles as the brigand waited at the docks. Seas were never peaceful beings. Endless spans of dark murky void, littered with chunks of ice and a rumoured corpse or two (depending on who you asked). The waters of Faerghus were Sreng's favourite way to circle around Gautier. A younger him was proud to man the port and the knights to challenge the raider's navies and the harsh winters.

The attendants drew out the paddles and glided the boat across the waters to the port where he stood. He took a step forward. Exploring the sea not to find enemy ambushes or buckets of dinner to bring home, it's foreign to Miklan. Doing it alone? Maybe he was a little excited. Just a little.

"Wait—wait! Oh thank goodness—Miss, right this way! There's a boat for you to board!"

As if the Goddess herself heard his thoughts, she was ready to smite them. Irritation or disappointment, he didn't know what dropped down to his gut first. It hardly matter, anyways. Not looking behind to greet the intruder, he slammed a heel down and boarded the boat first.

It was a beautiful evening, that much was undeniable. Yet every step upon the southern shores of Adrestia made her wistful, longing to return home. Not to Faerghus, or house Bartels, but a place and time too nebulous to describe in words. Mercedes made her way to the row boats near the dock, the rippling waves had long held the ability to set her mind at ease. She smiled gratefully at the attendant, only just managing to step on the boat before it tears out of the docks. Careening forward, she falls into the solid back of the redhaired gentleman ahead of her.

(Okay, perhaps gentleman was a touch generous, given his behaviour.)

Rubbing her now sore cheek, Mercedes sat back, taking hold of the second oar and began to paddle. Her attempts were, in all honesty, pathetic compared to the vigour of the man sat in front of her. Yet it would be presumptuous and grossly unfair of her to let him do all the work.

"Sorry about that," she means the fall, of course, even if it wasn't entirely her fault. Though more than that, she gets the impression she isn't the only person looking for a moment of peace and calm, either. It was, however, far too late for her to get off and look for another boat. Even this far south, the water's below were frigid and murky. "I'm not the best at this but I can take instruction. I'd rather not hold you back."

Then she hesitates - it's obvious he isn't one for conversation. For once, she's not too thrilled about the idea of a long, casual chat either. But it would be worse to be cold and impolite, Mercedes tells herself.

"I'm Mercedes, by the way," and she imagines she could guess his name. It could be a mere coincidence, this tall stranger, with vivid red hair, so much like Sylvain's. Not to mention being built so much like her classes newest strategy instructor. It could be a coincidence, though Mercedes finds herself assuming this is the eldest son of House Gautier. But family is complicated, and from what she's heard, neither man would appreciate the comparison. So she bites her tongue, pretends to have no idea who she's speaking with, sharing a small row boat in the southern seas with."Thank you. You could have sped off without me."

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"I know what you did. I understand it, on some level. It hurts, to know the gods will not favor you as much as they do another. That your family, too, never will.

Is that why you committed such acts?

When I raised my bow against my father, against my Lady Sister, I had hoped I could be set free from those expectations I could never live up to. With every choice I made, I believed I could force myself to be at peace with them, somehow.

I was wrong. My past deeds still haunt me.

There's no time to piece together how Mauvier ended up here, the bloodied leader of the brigands slung across his lap. The small band of knights that have accompanied Mauvier have done well to stave off further destruction and bloodshed. The leader's own men have either fallen, or run off.

So why does Mauvier not end this now? It's certainly not for any warmth of compassion to be found in the brigand's face; if it were pity, Mauvier would sooner put the man out of his misery. But something keeps his fingers clinging to his healing staff, through the flailing and cursing.

self-indulgent meme ( still accepting! )

Céline arches a brow at the weapon leveled at her. Either this man underestimates, or simply misreads her—likely both. Of course, she's hardly surprised. Her delicate appearance often did lead to such misunderstandings.

Had she been a year or two younger, she likely would have been terrified. Even now, she admits, she feels her nerves fray at the thought of sustaining bodily harm. But as her experiences over the past year have taught her, what was important is that fear did not stop her from meeting the threat anyway.