#heroineintraining

strongly agree | agree | neutral | disagree | strongly disagree

Frankly, god bless’em for taking out the petting part of “Fates Amie.” I’ll admit that some changes they made might have been more extreme than others, but, frankly, a lot of the problems with the Fates script was baked into it, regardless of localization or not.

There’s definitely some legit criticisms to level at them, but the vitriol at points was way overblown. There are plenty of reasons to dunk on Fates that are beyond Treehouse’s offerings. “Fight the real enemy,” as it were (the real enemy being Fates in and of itself). At this point, I have no real stake in who gets the job localizing the next FE game (mostly because I’m terrible with studio names)

@heroineintraining wanted some fluff for this family, too :).

Sigurd isn’t allowed into the room for a long while. Ethlyn has to teach Deirdre how to nurse, first, and it’s not as simple and natural as she’d always assumed. Seliph takes a while to learn, as Deirdre does, but they manage in the end. Ethlyn rests her head on Deirdre’s shoulder and strokes her new nephew’s downy, dark hair until he’s finished. 

“I’ll get Sigurd,” she says then, slipping off the bed. “Seliph will probably fall asleep any moment, now.” 

But he doesn’t. He stays nestled in Deirdre’s arms like he’s a missing piece of her now rejoined, and a bubble of milk forms on his tiny lips that she wipes away with a fingertip, and he looks up at her with wide blue eyes. 

“Hello,” she whispers to him, as if he can understand. “You beautiful boy.” 

Free of her dark blood, free of the forest – he will have everything she never could; everything Sigurd has now blessed her with. Her husband enters and closes the bedchamber door with unusual calm and quiet. For a long moment he only looks at them, and Deirdre beams back. 

“How are you?” he finally murmurs as he comes to join her. He tugs off his boots and slides under the blankets with her, settling an arm around her shoulders. 

“Never better,” she answers. Exhausted and too-pale, missing a deal of blood, still in a lot of pain, but never better. Sigurd brushes a tendril of hair from her forehead. Only then does she realize what a mess she must be – disheveled and with dark circles, covered in old, dried sweat – but she hasn’t thought to feel self-conscious. The way Sigurd is looking at her reaffirms it. He presses a kiss to her temple. 

“And how is he?” 

His voice is soft, almost reverent. Deirdre’s tone matches as she answers, 

“He is perfect.” 

Perfect little nose, little cheeks, little toes. Sigurd reaches for his hand and Seliph grasps with all his might. Seliph stares at their faces like they’re all that exists in the world – and right now, Deirdre realizes, just for right now, that’s the truth. 

The room is so open, so full of light from the broad windows. Even without her circlet, she thinks she could lean out the sill and cry her joy over the treetops and the flocks of birds; high and loud enough for the whole world to hear. Everyone should know: Things get better. Dreams come true. No one is ever truly alone.

“Are you tired?” Sigurd asks, and through her elation Deirdre realizes that she is: a low and constant ache, in time with the lazy floating of dust motes in the sunbeams. His lips press to her face again; his deep voice whispers in her ear, 

“Sleep, my love. I have you both.” 

Mmmm Magvel yes (I chose Syrene and Kyle)

Brontide - The low rumbling of distant thunder.

The house is pitch black, save for a candle sitting upon their dinner table. The flame flickers slightly, but the one holding a book doesn’t say a thing.

The sound of running water starts briefly, before there’s an exasperated sigh and then the clink of plates and fork against the stone basin.

“It’s impossible to do dishes like this.”

The knight at the table grunts, shutting his book and offering his wife the candle. Syrene shakes her head.

“It’s okay, Kyle. I’ll do them tomorrow, when we get more candles.”

“I can start up the fireplace,” he offers, but again, Syrene shakes her head.

“Let’s just get to bed.”

He follows his wife to their bedroom, the candle’s saucer held tight in his hand. As they walk down the hallway, the low rumbling of distant thunder starts up again, and the rain pounds against their house.