#dyshonor

-- THE CABANA IS A touch more comfortable than Randal might've anticipated. He had expected all of this to be a politicized, glorified, and overpriced school dance, but it seemed overpriced allowed for little pockets of respite.

He glances over at the line of empty chairs in front of him, bottles of wine glistening with condensation in their ice bucket. It is almost a shame- a waste of good company! All of these seats and no one to fill them.

Well, almost no one.

He tips a faux hat over at Niamh, stepping over the sand and onto the cabana's wooden planks. "Oi! If it ain't Lady Niamh, gracin' the common folk with her presence. Glad to see yer takin' a load off. How's th' weather? Warm enough? And the wine cold enough?"

He's rambling, but he's done worse. He sits himself down besides her with little plan for asking invitation.

It was, above all else, crucial for Niamh to pinpoint locations such as this. It's away from the crowds. There's somewhere to sit. She can see the setting sun, and hear the ocean waves as they sway in and out.

A recipe to ensure that, as she ventures about the venue, collecting trinkets, attempting new dance forms, and making conversation, she also has somewhere that she can take things at a her leisure. Does she know it's because the large crowds and clashing sounds make her mind spin? She's...getting there.

As she rests on one of the chairs, a familiar voice calls out to her. She glances over - it's a bit intimidating, with the spooky anglerfish mask she has. But her own voice holds no threat. "...the weather's comfortable here. It might be because of the ocean nearby..."

A wine glass rests in her hands. She takes a sip. "....depends on what you consider cold..." So, probably not frigid, but that's at least a sign that it's not lukewarm. Still, she gestures to one of the buckets. "I've started with this one..."

"You're either pulling some wild bluff or do not give a damn," Randal says, looking over the other man with a small smile. He holds the ends of his cape up, careful not to let it sop into the mess. "I can think of little other reason to dress up so horrendously. You know the idea is to convince others to talk to you, not turn them off, don't you?"

But he holds out a hand nonetheless. "But I've never turned a cheek at a man just because his hands were dirty. I have to assume it's your bloody print on that woman's back, no? If you're up for it, would you visit one of these houses with me?"

“Well, you’re talking to me, aren’t you?” Griss parries easily enough. Of course, the talking hasn’t been his problem; it’s the cooperation that’s been harder to scare coax out of the other participants in this game. But he can’t say he hasn’t been here before. Even among the disciples that had raised him, zealots were still ostracized. His reputation had made it crucial that he learn to work creatively, or alone.

Griss settles into the dip in the low branch he’s made into his perch for now, blood dripping steadily from it to the stained earth below him as if from a fresh wound. It doesn’t seem to faze him, however. Clearly, it’s not his own, and he studies the familiarity in this man’s face with bright, mischievous eyes. It’s missing a few dozen lines and a rough world-weariness to it, but Griss is certain he’d known this man before. They’d collaborated. And Griss had come out the victor in the end.

A smirk snakes across his lips. “Randy, yeah? So this is what a few more hours of sleep and a haircut can do.” He chuckles, pumps both legs and swings off the branch onto the ground, blood-soaked mud squelching under his feet.

“Since you asked so nicely, I’m not gonna say no.” And maybe he’s even a little pleased with the memento he left Poe with. More importantly though, he sees another potential victory in this alliance, so he seals the deal by slapping Randal’s hand loud enough to make a faintly wet smack sound. Fortunately for Randal, however, the blood is mostly dried on the palms of his hands by now.

Red skies and a frightened, dwindling population – Micaiah at one point may not have recognized such a place as remnants of a once bustling society but the clues here lead to a story much like the one her party was shown in Quiet Wood.

She hopes one day the people here may recover, dream or no dream; and for now is simply thankful that the barren place still has enough resources to make survival an option. The people she is with from Garreg Mach, both those familiar and those unfamiliar, are quick to adapt and dependable she has no doubt so when they start forming into smaller groups she does her best to prove useful.

The remains of metal monsters seem crucial to surviving in this world, though Micaiah is wary to get close to them after remembering what havoc they wrought in the tale of the Wood and its Sacred Tree. The flying machines in particular seemed difficult to gain access to, but luckily Micaiah supposed there were remains of much larger machines spread across the wasteland.

She, Sir Forysth, and Randal had found one that resembled an oversized spider on their patrol and were currently trying to make heads or tails of how to take it apart. The metal - true to its purpose, seemed nearly impenetrable but Micaiah did not want to draw attention by using magic here. Still, surely human hands had once made these monsters so it only made sense that they too could learn.

“Um, alright,” Micaiah says, feeling a bit ineffective as she closely watches Randal and Forsyth poke and prod at the thing’s metallic exoskeleton, “I think it’s starting to wear just at that spot, right there. If you could push it just a little more!”

They follow her advice and slowly but surely one sheet of metal is stripped from the creature. Micaiah would cheer if not for the malignant red glow she sees before the other two shining from the hole they’ve made.

[Obtained Plate of Metal]

“Watch out!”

Micaiah pushes her closer comrade aside, and gets a jolt of electricity for her trouble. The pain it brings is not unlike a Thunder spell and Micaiah grits her teeth, before breathing out slowly

[Chance of injury, roll 1d10. (Injury on 1 - 4). 1d10 -> 4.]

“So... it still has something powering it. I think we can take this plate with us, but we should be extra careful in the mean time. I’m sorry I did not catch that earlier.”

Dreams can harbor many things — Ideals, wants, and desires. They are also a place for the unexpected and unimaginable. Her eyes are open to this very sight, but she does not dare close them. A sweeping feeling of relief encompasses the princess as their foe halts in its tracks, hoping this is the finale and she is no longer faced with such battlefield ridden dreams.

The dream did not end. Instead, it fogged itself into a gloomy-filled dream. Once more does Elice clutch tightly onto a recover staff, eyes scanning the plethora of rather odd enemies before her and her group. She doesn’t recognize them in the slightest nor what they are supposed to resemble. That in itself raises many questions, the most alarming of all being that she cannot predict what they might do. It fills her with a dread she cannot ignore, but her utmost concern is the safety of her allies.

Their last battle left them with more injuries than she would prefer— Before these strange pieces of menacing metal with undecipherable weapons can even attack, she begins her supportive work.

Elice heals Randal with Recover. Roll: 9. +6 HP. Randal’s HP: 9/10

“Stay on guard, everyone.” She speaks to her new friends in a calming voice, wearing a tiny smile to rally their spirits. For, she feels this is what she can do best. “I cannot decipher what they might do.. For now, please take care.”

@dyshonor ;

She knew it. She knew something was off.

Ever since she stepped foot in this new place, Niamh had the sinking suspicion that something had also come here. No, there was a high probability that it was a someone. A very, very dangerous someone.

If she was right, this would complicate many things. Still, Niamh despised being left uncertain more than confirming a harsh truth. She had to take the opportunity to look into matters while she could! And if she was able to prepare in time-

Waaaaait. Halting awkwardly in the hallways, someone catches her eyes. It's the sight of a someone in different attire that usual, yes, but that's often the norm for the two of them, wasn't it? But even so...

"...oh. It's you..."

-- CALL IT OLD AGE, or arthritis, or just plain bad luck. The weather isn't doing any favors for Randal's knees, and for all his upturned nose at the noble life, it's not like he doesn't miss some of the more luxurious bits and pieces of it. If he's being offered the chance of a free fancy bath, then he isn't one to turn it down.

He takes the offered robes and soaps and whatnot and is more than ready to make his way in when he comes across the other man in the hallway to the bath. Well, there are more embarrassing places to see a comrade in arms.

"Ser Aegir, was it?" Even with his fading memory, the battle cries had been loud and repetitious enough that Randal hopes they'll survive another few knocks of his head. "Glad t'see yer still kickin'! Would be awful terrible if a lad like yerself knocked the bucket 'fore I did. I should commemorate- ah, hm. Give me a mo'."

It takes a few fumbles through the robe's pockets, but he manages to procure one of the seashell charms. "Best I've got on me, I'm 'fraid," he says with a click of the tongue so solemn it seems almost truly remorseful. "Perhaps I'll rob some dinner for you some other time."

"well met! Randal, my good man! you look well yourself! do not count me out just yet. ha! you should know there will be no buckets kicked on my behalf." and Ferdinand, loosely robed himself, wore Ser Aegir like something heavier. a hearty laugh escaped him, as he pressed his fingers to his open chest in a sentimentality that could lay any man to rest.

the name clung to him like old armor, familiar and weatherworn. Ferdinand stood a touch straighter despite himself, though there was no battlefield here, only the steaming hallway of the devil’s bath and the scent of sandalwood and iron in the air.

and yet… seeing him—the rugged, grinning ghost of that long-gone field—it stirred something in his chest. memory. regret. admiration, unspoken.

"Randal," he said warmly, voice lifting like it had found a friend in a crowded court. "still sharp of tongue, i see—and remain too generous by half."

the seashell charm was passed with a casualness that masked its weight. Ferdinand accepted it with one hand, reverent in a way that may have been a touch much for a bathhouse corridor. still, his smile came easily, affection laced through it. he unclasped his anchor and traded wit for weight.

"i had hoped—" a pause, breath caught somewhere between pride and bashfulness, "—that we would be paired in the final round. truly. i often thought we might have made for a rather devastating team."

-- "SER YUZU! LOOKIT YOU, a diligent man all the same, seein' yer own mount to rest rather than lettin' the odd hand do it." Randal up and nearly beats Yuzu's shoulders with a leather-gloved palm, smile stretched wide and loose. It'll fall looser still once he begins drinking, but for now- his breath is clear.

"If we're ta get ahead of the menagerie, might as well be productive about it, right?" Randal speaks in time with the seashell that seems to apparate in his hand, a small token that matches Yuzu's own. The tilt of his voice indicates his oh-so-deceitful desire of: let's have some fun, okay?

Because Randal's nothing if not a man of parties. He lives and breathes drink and dance and celebration, if only because the way people make merry is one of the few consistencies between all of this. And Yuzu might not be in every world he trips into, so might as well take advantage of the company while he can.

He still huffs at the overcrowded, overdressed venue. It is not so much that he is nervous that it is the fact that he is bemoaning the idea of touching elbows and raising pinkies. What pushes him forward is, undoubtedly, the stubborn and joyous click of a game-aided tongue.

At least he's predictable. And nice, generally- there is his usual genuine tone as he talks with Yuzu.

The impact of a hefty hand upon her shoulders is beginning to become familiar now. A familiarity that she has felt before, and quite honestly would rather not be forgotten for a fair while.

“Sir Randal!!” Yuzu matches the title with Randal, hers sounding much more genuine to match the excitement of seeing the knight so close with the rest of their former company. It is true that technically all of them reside under the same roof of the monastery already, but…it feels different when set up at a large locale such as here.

No doubt Yuzu can picture a man of Randal’s kind to find some sort of home here. Perhaps not busting up the beachy dance floor, but rather making rounds with other chatty party goers with a lively drink in hand. Maybe…many lively drinks, knowing him.

The charm appears out of Randal’s hand, and while Yuzu is late to the draw, she swiftly bounces it from her bracelet to palm to match. “So they have matched us in accessory type…I truly wonder what is the reason behind each choice. Surely their selection cannot be so haphazard…”

Calling the trial proceedings "civil" might be... perhaps a bit of a stretch. No one had gotten (physically) hurt, which was a plus, but that didn't mean there weren't barbed words spoken.

Then there's all the lying... Unless they weren't lying, of course.

"We... talked about soup," is all Sophia provides on the matter.

It's not untrue. They had spent a significant portion of their discussion talking about what could loosely be considered soup. They talked about other things as well, but an odd amount of time was spent on soup. It lent a surreal, almost comical angle to the night, looking back on it.

Sophia gives a muted smile in response to Randal's own.