#exemplaris

@exemplaris

It is suggested one night before sleep claims them. The words are lost somewhere among tired jokes and half-hearted prods, but the intent is genuine all the same. It would be smart. She had insisted. To attempt sparring while things were still calm enough. Where they had the space and freedom to measure how the other fared.

The suggestion had been made a time ago, but there had been a delay until the execution. It was important to keep moving, to stay ahead of any threats, whatever they may be. They were often too tired after travelling and setting up camp to attempt it, and there was not enough time in the morning before they needed to move again.

Finally, an opportunity had come one morning when Maisie had announced they would be taking a pause to hunt and restock some food supplies. Everyone had been eager for a break, for some extra time to stretch out before cramming once more into the caravan, and groups had quickly gone off for various hobbies.

Mitama and Ferdinand had nothing pressing that required their attention at the time. So Mitama asked and Ferdinand agreed.

No audience watched this time as they found a spacious enough area for them to spar in proper. Mitama’s staff was a comfortable weight in hand as she stood across from Ferdinand, waiting patiently for him to prepare. It was necessary, for both of them. Mitama was still unexperienced in fighting, however well she had taken to it in the past, and Ferdinand needed to...adjust to his newfound limitations. It would not do for his to overreach and falter in battle due to unfamiliarity.

(He was not in full gear, but there was still something that prickled in the back of her mind at the thought of what he could wield, what he would wield against her. She trusted him, of course, without question, but no one enjoyed a knife to their throat and doubly so not one that was crafted to fell them specifically.)

Fort Merceus’s security is tight, unsurprisingly so. She holds the piece of wood in her hands, eyes glaring at it for the briefest of moments. Cumbersome as it might be, there must be reason. For now, they have places to be. Sasha is a member of the Black Eagles and Edelgard is house leader. Although they were never close with in younger days, the name rings a bell to be a girl who was shy and quiet. In the Black Eagles classroom itself, Sasha appears to be rather distant. For what reasons, Edelgard could not say.

House Ziegler holds vitality in the Adrestian Empire-- To thoroughly investigate the home is a natural instinct for the Imperial Princess. Its walls are high, much like other houses within the Empire. Despite that, its exterior held an air of simplicity and elegance. Edelgard walks in front as her group is escorted through Ziegler’s gardens. She isn’t much of a person to thoroughly follow flower language, but the aroma of exotic flowers holds an air of extravagance.

Once they approach the door, they knock. Silence. It’s strange, but she thinks nothing of it. Perhaps there’s hesitation to hear the sudden knocks at an abode. Purple eyes turn towards her group-- Sigurd, Patty, and Ferdinand. They’re all here for the same reason. Her attention shifts back once the door becomes ajar, but there is nobody at eye-level. No, she must cast her gaze downwards. The two children timidly stand near the entranceway, both dressed in rather rich clothing. The girl appears to be shyer than the boy and her flaxen hair is tucked behind her ears in braids. It is the boy who speaks first, presenting a sword in defense: “State your name and purpose!”

A wooden sword can’t do much. She knows this. Edelgard allows her expression to soften just slightly, turning to the two as she addresses them: “Edelgard von Hresvelg. We’re here on an investigation. We have no intentions on harming you. Would you let us inside? We have some questions we’d like to ask.”

🌹The Havers of Rideable, Sizeable Equestrians (also known as HORSE) have posted fliers around campus advertising a competition: whoever can dress up their horse (or other mount of their choosing) in the prettiest, most dashing accessories will win a grand prize—unknown for now. You don’t actually have to own a mount to enter, as you can “borrow” one from the stables. Find some flowers and get to braiding that mane and see if you have what it takes to win! [Grants Riding +1]

THERE IS A FLYER TACKED TO THE BOARD at the entrance to the dining hall; another two posted over instructor bulletins from the previous year. They are unassuming, save for the unique doodles that have lovingly found themselves scribbled onto the margins. Crude approximations of noble steeds and spritely foals crowd the announcement: a contest, of sorts.

Lorenz has to read the text thrice over before the words form any sort of meaning.

The contest is a victim of terrible timing, at best; bereft of tact, even, should he choose to think that poorly of his peers. There are a slew of other choice descriptors Lorenz can conjure in his mind, tearing one of the fliers off the bulletin to grimace at it as he leans his weight against the wall. A shame, too, as there is a fleeting ember of excitement stirred within him when the words click. Shallow as it is, he knows, under such circumstances.

He folds the flier in his breast pocket, neat and tidy, corner-to-corner, and lets his feet carry him as they do.

The motions of the day see to themselves: assigned a portion of gardening duty, something he once balked at the very idea of but now provides a nice distraction as he methodically waters the plots of flowers in the greenhouse, showing the first blooms of the spring. The flier remains in his breast pocket, and then, until the fated Sunday morning when the event is to transpire, seated in the back of his mind.

He has stable duty that very morning, a fated chance as any. The fact of the matter is:  Begonia, on his best behavior (for the most part) for the stablehands, has been without Lorenz’s undivided attention for far too long. The fact of the matter is: the snort and shifting of weight as Begonia barely lifts his head from drinking at first sunlight is the most genuine of greetings he can recall.

Much like the greenhouse, the careful plait he works to craft Begonia’s mane into is a welcome distraction, threaded with silver ribbons, head bowed in concentration before a voice startles him out of such rapt attention.

Truth be told, something twists unkindly at the sound. Lorenz makes sure his smile is taut in turn.

“Ah, Ferdinand—I suppose the greatest of minds think alike!” Watching, of course, through the slits between the stalls, means handiwork is somewhat obfuscated. For the best, in the interest of competition. Hands pause for a moment to rest at Begonia’s shoulders with a fond pat, an unspoken thank you for his patience. “At least, if I were to venture a guess. I could not resist the promise of light competition. I must earn back my winning acclaim somewhere, after all, and I cannot think of a stallion more deserving of pampering for the occasion!”

starter for @exemplaris

“A student has been getting a little too close to our work. As this is biological in nature, we must limit contact as much as possible. That is why we contracted you, after all.”

That had been enough to get the picture. Not that the researchers would offer to explain themselves. The pair of assistants who had delivered the orders had stared at Fáfnir with a palpable expectancy that he be on his way to remedy the situation at once. He didn’t like that. Nor the way that - in the two days since his arrival at the makeshift laboratory on the outskirts of the village - they had come to treat him like some sort of gofer for all of their menial tasks. Fetch that. Lift this. Scare away a nosy student. It gave the impression that they did not think him to be particularly bright. But he did have the sense to keep his mouth shut. Just do the job, get paid, leave. Both parties would forget about each other in a weeks’ time.

(But I had been someone once.)

The needling rumination kept his right hand white-knuckled on his lance as he surveyed the perimeter. It wasn’t a large camp, though the walls had been built up so high that not even someone sitting in a nearby tree would be able to get a look at what went on inside. He doubted a student who had climbed up in one would draw the attention of the researchers, but still his eyes swept the forest’s edge as he marched, probing the late afternoon shadows for the spy who supposedly lurked somewhere nearby.

He wasn’t expecting that spy to be a beacon of fire out in the middle of the light. Bright orange, a familiar shade. And an equally familiar, never-silent voice.

Was he talking to himself even here?

“When they said a student was trying to get a peek, I should have expected it to be you,” he said, and punctuated it with a huff of laughter, sardonic enough to drain the pleasantry of its pleasantness. He planted the butt of the lance in the sparse grass and gestured with the fingers of his other hand for Ferdinand to step away from the wall.

"You may resent it, Sylvain, but your nobility will not disappear just because you cease to acknowledge it!" Exasperation drips from his voice as Ferdinand tails the other student all the way from the training yards, leaving only a handful of steps between them. It is hard to tell how long the lecture had been going on for... or how long it would continue. "Why must you insist on burying your head in the sand—"

ask meme | receiving!

❰❰ ARGUE ❱❱ sender ends an argument with receiver with a kiss.

It's a little funny how Ferdinand is a mixture of all the people he's ever cared about in his life, just in bits and pieces.

He has Dimitri's noble heart and unwavering spirit; it's easy to admire him and easier still to envy him. He has Ingrid's work ethic and uncompromising insistence that he be something, be someone. And he has Felix's unyielding pursuit of an expectation so deeply ingrained that sometimes, Sylvain thinks it'll still keep him going, beating desperately in his chest even when the world ultimately tears his heart out.

It should be annoying, but it isn't. Sylvain just doesn't understand why Ferdinand bothers to even try at all when he's spent every second of his life actively trying to waste it.

(Good for nothing, Miklan always said of him. Perfect; that's our son, his parents would insist. But it wasn't ever really him that was perfect, was it? It was his Crest. It was his blood. That was perfect. Sylvain wasn't.

Good for nothing. That's right.)

He's still thinking of it—Ferdinand, and Dimitri, and Ingrid, and Felix; being born, being a mistake; being the light of his parents' lives, the bane of Miklan's—when he finally turns.

Ferdinand's a few inches shorter than him. It's easy to look him in the eye, annoyed (fake) and tired (desperate), and tilt Ferdinand's head up with fingers against his jaw.

Kissing women is always pleasant because of the way they yield to him. They lean in. They stand on their tiptoes. Their breaths tremble as they let him support their weights, tipping, tumbling, freefalling. Kissing Ferdinand is nothing like that at all.

When they part, it's strange to feel as grounded as he does, his feet flat against the earth.

"You don't get it," Sylvain says. Still. He feels his ribs pull apart the way they always do, welcoming every blade as judgment. He's probably smiling. "But hey, it's not like I ever expected you to."

Their professor leaves papers and quills at the head of the classroom for students to independently work-- Expectedly, everyone crowds around at once. Dorothea waits a few beats before moving upwards, herself. It isn't as if there's a mad rush to be the first one to grab a quill, now is there? Certainly not. At the end of the day, they all function in equal ways.

If only other things worked that way, too.

As she reaches for the quill, she feels her hand brush against someone's-- But not just anyone's. It's Ferdinand's. She acts quickly, swatting his hand away as she takes control of the writing device.

"How awfully inconsiderate of me. Us commoners need to wait our turn, isn't that right?" Her words dripped with sarcasm, raising an eyebrow in turn. Dorothea elevates the quill, waving it in a playful manner: "Did I just out-speed a big shot noble? Today must be my lucky day."

“Uh, how should I know? Aren’t you the one who runs around yelling his own name everywhere?” Charlotte wasn’t about to waste precious time trying to figure out what thoughts rattled around in this guy’s head, all she knew was she needed him to not go blurting out how strong she was or how much of a good fighter she could be. Especially with this many people who didn’t know her around.

And it only got worse when he got that stupid uppity noble look on his face, the one Lord Xander used to get before scolding her for her behavior. And while she would sit there and take that from her prince, like hell she was gunna listen to some brat from another land do the same shit.

“Well excuse me, Mr. Silver Spoon, but some of us have their future to look out for instead of having one handed to us.” Charlotte scoffed and tossed some hair over her shoulder. Whatever. She was wasting time on him. She had impressions to make on the others. 

Mission Task Board: It’s Saint Seiros’ Day! Per tradition, children dress up as the saints and elites and put on reenactments of past events. Except this year they need some extra help, and a girl dressed as Seiros points her wooden sword at you. “You’ll be Nemesis!” she says. “Oh, and invite your evil friends.” You can’t turn her down, can you? [Grants Sword +1]   // @exemplaris​

   Febail wouldn't consider himself very religious — or at least not very faithful to the Saints even if it's the only religion he's known during his stay on Fódlan. However, that doesn't stop him from making a visit to the cathedral on this particular calendar day, pressured to go along with the crowd as a whole mass of them take the time out to celebrate Seiros on her special day. He'll consider it him paying his dues so it is less sketchy of him to have gone early that morning to take advantage of all of the holiday’s big sales on meat and produce in the marketplace.

When the day's largest prayer hour has ended, Febail thinks that to be the end of it, intending to simply go about the rest of his day, until he hears a battle cry he recognizes followed quickly by a thwack.

“ Viola? ”  He's slightly alarmed to hear the orphan over here making such noises, but when he actually turns his head to see why she's making such a ruckus...

...he can't say he was prepared to see a crowd of familiar young faces dressed up, wielding wooden weapons and going to town hitting a figure in a ghillie suit.

The girl, noticing Febail, stops her strikes temporarily to beam at the archer. Proudly she proclaims,  “ I'm Saint Seiros! Ferdie's Nemesis! ”