#irroche

Sylvain rarely buys things for himself beyond the occasional cologne and beauty product, things that he uses to keep himself properly groomed and presentable. But today, see, is a bit of a special day; today, in the marketplace just beyond the monastery’s gates, there is a merchant with graying hair and shaking hands. Crow’s feet cradle her eyes, accentuated when Sylvain approaches. 

He’d told her his name months ago and he towers over her by two feet, but she’d called him her little lad since the first time he’d dropped by her stall and hasn’t stopped since. Affectionately and in return, he’s taken to calling her his big grandmother. Her laugh always makes him smile, too.

“Took a while, but it’s done,” she tells him, and holds out a delicate box, made of wood and decorated by fire. On the side, she has written, in her neat script: for Sylvain. “You’ve got high standards, little lad.”

“I think you’re just using me to hide the fact that you’re still a perfectionist after all these years,” he teases her, and sets a heavy bag of coin down on her table. The box she gives him is heavy; he cradles it to his chest like it’s the most valuable thing in the world. At this point, it feels like it is. 

“You’ve overpaid again.” She knows, even without lifting the bag.

“Have I?” Sylvain smiles. “No way. I’m only a little terrible with numbers, you know.”

She bats at him with a laugh. “Yes, yes, I’m sure. Now take your bleeding heart away from my stall. You’ll tell me next week how you like the pieces.”

“I’ll love it,” he tells her, and with his promises to swing by again, he takes his box—a chess set, handcrafted by the old woman and her sons—to return to the monastery. He can hardly keep the excitement from his face when he passes through the gates. Why, if there weren’t so many people around, he might even be tempted to skip. 

But he has a reputation to uphold, which means no skipping—and, upon sighting one gorgeous Constance von Nuvelle, it also means it’s his Goddess-given duty to approach her.

“Well hello there, Constance! I’d say it’s a beautiful day today, but compared to how lovely you look, everything else seems to pale in comparison. What brings you out here?”

          to have sent him for such a task with none of the rites and reliquaries necessary for its completion... it proves an unique kind of challenge. carrying only his personal effects and minimal knowledge of the situation, assured that the items and icons in this entrusted box would be enough... a quiet sigh swells within his chest but never quite leaves in breath. who was he to speak of what rituals would be adequate to purge the restless spirits of this land? but where he would have anticipated the combined efforts of a number of their vestry, led by the knowledgeable power of an elevated bishop, here was left to the best judgment of one ill-prepared monk.

          even so, he hadn’t the heart to tell them he had yet to finish studying through half of fodlan’s holy scripture, that only a scant few of the goddess’ prayers had been committed to memory, and none of them fitting for the occasion.

          his pay would not be earned with negligence, and these villagers truly seemed to suffer from their fear. that alone was enough to move his trepidations, and set him on the quiet path into the solitude of the resting grounds, remote along a countryside that, as he understands, had seen much change in the aftermath of a tragedy some years ago. even if the liturgies he knew so well should fail here, he would try what he could within his power.

          the first step being... to find the exact location.

          unmarked and disturbed graves shouldn’t prove elusive, yet the townspeople had been reluctant to direct him — to even speak of the sightings, though this was no surprise when the naming of the departed and unsleeping always carried a certain risk. lantern light chases away the immediate shadows of the early night, and when had a fog begun to roll in? the mildness of inchoate spring is warm, but not enough to fend off an inexplicable chill. he pulls the folds of his cloak a little tighter.

          snap. a twig, close by. lantern turns to his right, other hand moving instinctively to his staff. the mind plays tricks to recompense the unknown; this he knows.

          ❝ is someone there? ❞

Siegbert just wanted to brew a nice tea for the cooking festival.

He was no chef, nor did he ever claim to be. Growing up, he was privileged enough to have chefs, cooks, retainers, and the like that would take care of his meals. Even during the war, others took to dining hall duty while he aided in clean-up; never preparation. Looking back, Siegbert had never so much as cracked a few eggs to make a simple omelette or measured out flower for a cake. Could he follow a recipe if one was given? Sure, he had eyes and at least a third-grade-level reading comprehension, but had he ever done it? No sirree.

So why was he now in the process of planning out a five-course meal to enter into a cooking contest?

Ah, that’s right. He asked Lady Constance for help, and, well... perhaps Siegbert bit off a bit more than he could chew. Nevertheless, it was a good idea, and if they could pull it off, they could wow the judges more than any other team.

“So, we’re starting with a soup, then? I think for the soup, we should stick to something tried-and-true, like a chicken soup. We can do something a little more daring in the entree, yes?”

Daring, he says. As though it’s guaranteed they’ll not only be able to successfully produce a delicious-tasting soup, but an appetizer and a salad, as well, before moving onto the entree. Guaranteed.

starter for @irroche | Reason +1

A follower in all other regards, Hubert takes a different approach with magic. It has never been enough for him to merely accept the spells of old scholars, no matter how “tried and true” they are, and his own proclivity for dark magic has made curiosity and innovation almost necessary. His makeup doesn’t allow him to merely cast fire - he has to translate it into something else - so he learned to be comfortable with spell experimentation from a young age. Granted, his creations have rarely been more than translations of standard elemental spells - he’s seen no need to fashion anything else - but the curiosity has always been there. Enough so that, even repressed for the sake of his role, it leads him to clear out his to-do list for Edelgard to make space for a rare spellcrafting seminar.

But he needs an excuse.

“Constance.” Hubert holds the flyer up to stop her from going… wherever it is that she’s going. Across the top reads Professor Strobarin, leading researcher in glyphic studies, and the rest is filled by an overly-flattering portrait of a mirthful young teacher instead of the beady-eyed, balding man by the same name. Seriousness etches hard lines into Hubert’s own expression as he makes his proposal:

[ ancient OC meme ]

Meet Vetch!

He’s an oldie but a goodie-- in the sense that I’m still fond of him even if I’ve drawn him like all of three times (including this ‘un freshly scribble this eve) in the... many years I’ve had him. He popped up during a temp summer job i had landscaping, when I learned what the name of a particular weed called vetch... which to my understanding back then, the weed was the sort to quietly rise and tangle itself with another plant... and then strangle it, oop. Sinister.

Anyway this Vetch here is a high school bloke who gets into trouble more often than not - and typically, it’s not really His Fault. He’s got this aura about him that, like it or not, just makes people Angry, or On Edge, aggravated and the like.

Might be he learns to control it at some point -- but depending on what manner of individual scoops him up for this learning, and how fed up he is with people around him at that point... he may or may not bother... whoops.

I never actually did much with him beyond the odd contemplating but I know he lives in the same verse as two of my other OCs (who seem curiously unaffected by his odd ability), he plays in a band with them o: And I know he could either have grown to become a villain or just kinda chilled on the sidelines after his arc was over with and he learned to vibe~

Every nerve is on edge. Walking from one shadowed corner to the next is a test of stealth. Out of pies and in dire need of a good luck kiss, Inigo scurries across the open field to the dorms. He needs a moment to regroup, recover his strength--

Roll: 11! (barely hit)

Second roll: 12! 

Munday Asks Not Accepting

🌴 = a favorite canon character in my fandom

I’m allowed to say Felix though, right? I kid, I already waxed poetic about him earlier. So let’s go to another favourite.

Alois

Look I just... Love him. He’s not complicated, he loves his family, he’s bright and sunny and tells dad jokes. Seriously, all a character has to do is tell dad jokes and I’m instantly sold. There’s a reason I have a unique rank in another discord server called “Dad.” He’s a kindred spirit. Love that man.

🌱 = a plot I want to write with you

OKAY THERE’S SOMETHING REALLY SPECIFIC I WANNA DO. But... Idk if I can talk about it cuz it’s related to one of your current threads and.., I just... I’m so here for it.

The quick, resolute claps of heels on tile give her away, so he decides there’s no need to make an attempt to slip in a greeting before she makes her shrill declaration. Through the large window, he watches the dry grass of the sandy dunes sway in the breeze. She had been right, she says, haranguing him even in a dream. The corner of his mouth twitches with a private smile. Perhaps it was the nature of dreams that she had been right about all along. He couldn’t quite remember, but he doesn’t feel especially compelled to argue either.

“So it would seem,” he says instead, and somehow that seems right. He glances down at her from the corner of his eye and chuckles at her look of triumph.