#labyrinthforest2021

In the Sealed Forest, you fall into a deep sleep after a night staving off the boredom with alcohol and games. You didn’t question why Milo hadn’t been around at all that night, but you see his face in your dreams. Except it’s not really his face. The color has drained from it, his scleras have turned black, and his hair has faded to a pastel hue. He smiles and you wake with a start, in the middle of the woods with a handful - but not all - of your companions. A dense, white fog hangs over the place. You’re still in the forest, but why does it feel so... strange. And how did you get so far away from camp?

Ike does not dream often, nor dream in much clarity. So when he sees the face of Milo, he's met with a wave of revulsion, like the sanctity of his mind has been breached. Why dream of a slimy, smarmy guard, instead of his family? It's almost insulting. The corpse-like

He raises his hand to wave through the spectre, but as soon as his fingers brush against clammy skin, a sensation like a thunderclap jolts him awake-- breathing in the humid air of the forest.

Ike snaps to attention, rolling to a crouch, fingers hitched over the dagger under his thigh.

Something is terribly wrong.

They had not gone to a forest near the sea, nor to a forest that had wide, brimmed leaves, laden with dew and moisture. It was a dry, deciduous forest, and the air he breathes has weight, settling into his lungs like a wet film of paint.

Sure enough, he doesn't even need to squint to feel the strange coldness that hangs just in front of his vision, much like the vapor one would find in a swamp.

There's fog where there should be none, a grim chill prickling at his spine, and sure enough, starting to pool in great white sheets as he looks further, reducing visibility to a thin dome ahead of him. 

Without doubt-- it's Milo. Lucina had said as much that he'd have set up something, although he'd not have guessed the sheer scope of his preparations. He's truly regretting not simply punching him in the face to begin with.

A bitter sigh leaves his lips, and that's enough time for him to recognize that the clearing he’s in is obnoxiously empty, like he was the only one present. To his side--

His sister's bedroll is missing.

Horror jams in his throat like a bitter icicle. Mist's name and a curse lodges between his gritted teeth, and his utterance dies before it can leave his mouth, escaping as a forced hiss.

He has to calm himself down. As much as his heart screams with urgency, he has to force it down or he'll miss things. He'll miss clues-- that could put Mist in danger.

Soren isn't here now. He's the only one here-- and that means the responsibility to be rational falls onto him.

So Ike slams a fist into the dirt with a choked shout, and then breathes in, eyes screwed shut as he holds.

Exhale.

He won't lose her. Not again. Getting to his feet, he plucks Ettard from the rolls, slinging it across his back. He cups his hands to his face.  "Mist! Where are you?!" 

This wasn't the first time Hilda woke up from a strange nightmare after drinking in a place that she definitely didn't remember falling asleep in. And it wasn't the first time she woke up from a party with a splitting headache and the urge to purge everything from her stomach either. It was, honestly, pretty expected.

"Oof, Hilda, what did you end up drinking last night?" she muttered to herself as she stretched and yawned. It must have been a lot for her to have fallen asleep so soundly in the grass. That's where the dirt was! She stood, brushed off her uniform, and straightened her hair as best she could--the important things--before taking in her surroundings.

Lucina was here too? That was strange. She hadn't joined in on the fun the night before. It wasn't something she should complain about though. At least someone might be able to shed a bit of light on where they were.

The glowing, aquamarine embroidery cought Hilda's eye and she eagerly picked the strange bag up to inspect it. Her fingers ran over the material and she was surprised that she didn't recognize what it could be made from. She'd never call herself an expert in anything but she certainly enjoyed crafting a variety of accessories enough that she'd have thought she'd at least be able to identify it. "Hey, this doesn't belong to any of you, right? It's super cute! Finders keepers, right?"

having a tea party with @argentbowman, @braveryinblue, and @verseandrhyme

With all the cups still dirty from breakfast, Claude pours everyone at the dining table a bowl of weak-looking yellowish tea. "Gentlemen, and Mitama, may I present to you the best that the Sealed Forest has to offer: Mage's Cap." He lifts the lid off the teapot to show a bundle of skinny mushrooms stewing in the water, all with tall, dark, triangle-shaped caps. "The story goes that when the man who discovered this mushroom drank a tea made from it, he peered into another world and was given the knowledge necessary to invent a dozen spells never seen in this world or since. The man had no training in the magical arts–as though he traded his botanist's cap for a mage's."

Claude lets that sizzle in their brains before he claps his hands to bring them to attention again. "Thus! This experiment. Thus! All of you, here, to help me figure out how real this story is. Thought that this would be a good-enough sample size for now." Claude looks at Klein as he says, "The son of a mage," to Hector, "someone who is a little less than magical," and finally to Mitama with a grin, "and an actual mage. I'd like to see what sort of spells you guys come up with, across the spectrum of magical know-how and mage-ical-ness."

This was a poor excuse for a party, if Mitama was pressed to be perfectly honest. Or simply asked. She would have likely given the same response regardless of how intensely she was questioned on the subject.

She is not sure exactly where the alcohol had been found in the very edge of the forest as they are, but she is not one to complain. She has her own modest cup, having given far few protests than their stubborn and scowling...guide? Caretaker? Hindrance.

Still, they’ve managed to create a small gathering of students. Whether they are here for their goal of prodding the knight for more information or simply pulled in by the allure of alcohol, Mitama has no way of knowing, but she is not one to judge either. At least, not in this matter.

“You know.” Mitama begins casually after managing a small sip of her own drink. “From my understanding, the Goddess plans everything, does she not? You would think if she sent students here to explore the forest, she would pick ones who are capable of handling what may lie within its forbidden grounds, wouldn’t she?”

Her hypothetical receives no response from the man, but that is about what Mitama expected. She lets out a silent sigh before glancing over at her companions. “At the very least this is time spent in good company. Or would be, if some would deign to share with us the decency of simple cordial company.”

@lyfjqberg @vedrfolnr @alfvangr

Milo. If one were to ask Klein for his opinion in private, with absolute certainty of no unwelcome ears hearing them, he would say without much hesitation that that guard has suspicious written all over him. But, he knows better than to speak of it out loud.

So instead, he sneaks out with a few others, venturing deep into the woods for an exploration of their own. Without telling the guy, naturally.

The forest is quiet, few sounds other than the barely audible humming of leaves and their steps disturbing the silence. Klein cannot quite say whether he finds it peaceful or ominous, but he supposes that there is little use in contemplating such things too much at the moment.

The same, he thinks to himself, could be said for the big mission overall. He is still very much a newcomer in Fodlan, and has but a vague idea of the Relics and their importance. How fitting would it be to compare them to the weapons wielded by the Eight Legends? There are similarities he could think of, but... perhaps he is making too many assumptions.

     For all he has experienced in the twenty years since his birth, he must admit that waking to a pounding headache and a sensation like cotton in his mouth... is something of a first. Was it a sickness of some kind? He’d thought his health in fairly good condition, but illness has a habit of often catching victims by surprise. Glazed over with the lingering dregs of sleep, blue gaze stares listlessly into the wooden rafters supporting the ceiling for a time until it occurs to him—he doesn’t remember coming back to the watch station at all. In fact, his recollection of the previous evening’s events is considerably blurry in a number of places, which strikes him as very troubling.

     The effort it takes to sit upright in his bedroll is substantially more than it would ordinarily be, gingerly pressing fingertips to his temple to soothe the throb of pain intent on reminding him of its presence as he peers into the semi-darkness to find his classmates and one professor still largely asleep. Best to not disturb them, Alfonse thinks, fishing inside his travel pack for a water canteen to relieve his throat before clumsily pushing himself to his feet. A moment’s pause sees him bend down to retrieve Fólkvangr, carefully stepping past slumbering companions to reach the station’s entrance and let himself out.

     While not especially bright due to the trees forming a dense canopy that is effective in blocking most sunlight, it is still brighter compared to the watch station’s interior. Squinting against the change occurs on reflex, a hand raised to shade his eyes for what little good it does after closing the door behind him, and Alfonse notes that Milo is thankfully nowhere to be seen—most likely off patrolling elsewhere or something similar. He isn’t feeling much capacity for stilted, polite conversation anyway, least of all with the knight serving as an obstacle to their assignment.

     Unconsciously or perhaps consciously, the prince finds his way to a certain gathering spot—though now morning, the blackened remains of a once-crackling fire and at least one empty bottle of liquor suffice to jog his memory, and—

     “Never have I ever... been called Prince Alfonse.”

     The slab of rock he takes a seat on is cold, but Alfonse pays it little mind as he buries his face in his hands and sighs. “Gods grant me strength...” So they aren’t enemies for the time being, but Veronica had to go and throw that particular knife where their peers could hear. He’d managed a flimsy excuse despite his state of inebriation—playing along and drinking as much as he did in the first place was a spectacular mistake of its own—and rather bluntly hopes they'll remember little of the moment, but the fates are seldom so kind in that regard.

     Did you know, Sharena, that your brother is a fool and absolutely not the capable role model you look up to?

     Head lifts at the sound of approaching footsteps, cautious so as to avoid further aggravating the dull hammering against his skull. “Good morning,” the prince greets mildly, polite smile summoned on command to mask the mounting sense of dread he feels. “Did you sleep well?”

starter for: @braveryinblue

      Admittedly, the idea of these relics floating around Fódlan have piqued Leo’s interest. Weapons, made not from the discarded bones of dragons, but the remnants of long dead heroes? Their power activated not solely due to royal birth, but a trick of bloodlines and goddess blessings? Not to mention the averse affects he’s read. Rumors, really, though there’s always some grain of truth in a lie. Unworthy wielders turning into monstrous beasts where killing them becomes a mercy instead of cold-blooded murder. For all of Nohr’s cruelties, at least their most powerful weapons only work in certain hands, remaining dormant otherwise.

      Leo wishes for one such weapon in his hands right now. He misses the comforting weight of Brynhildr in his gloved grip (and eager to see the differences in it’s casting here, where magic is tomeless and spells are memorized, not written). Each passing day only brings him closer to his own Relic and he’ll make do until then.

      Like trudging through a misty forest on the vague promise that nothing ever happens in the forest. Judging by the way Milo’s eyes didn’t quite meet Leo’s and the mostly clueless attitude he favors, the lofty trunks hold secrets among their ranks. Wether Milo truly doesn’t care to ask questions about the things he’s undoubtedly noticed remains to be seen.

      Desire to overturn the mossy stones can wait some moments longer. Leo’s not stupid enough to go traipsing off on his own. Some might think his choice in companion odd; a brash, overwhelming student who clearly feels more at home fighting than in a classroom. However, Leo hopes that this Hector will prove unassuming enough that Milo’s lackadaisical grin will land upon another victim. Surely, the stoic professor won’t last long with the loudmouthed student?

starter for @perfectionist-prince​

That she should find the son of her not-retainer Xander in the academy is somewhat humorous for her. That they should find themselves in the Sealed Forest, alone save for an academy-sent guard is even more amusing. 

"Prince Siegbert of Nohr… that's you, isn't it?"

Veronica regards him curiously—— naught a hint of the usual venom in her voice to be found. Crimson meets crimson, half-lidded hues of scarlet bathing him in scrutiny as the Emblian sizes him up. The student certainly looked like Xander;; whether he would treat her the same was to be determined.

        ( strange, veronica finds herself almost missing her princely companion… perhaps it is only fitting, then, that she seek out his scion… )

"So, you're Xander's son…" she muses, a hand on her chin, "I've encountered him before… he was a good man;; one of the very few who stuck by my side. I guess you can say Xander was kind of a father figure to me too…"

Her voice trails off, growing quieter and quieter until it comes to a full stop. Veronica feels almost embarrassed at the admission— as though it were a secret she had lay bare, a humiliating rumor she had just confirmed to be true. At that, her gaze shifts, tearing itself from the Nohrian prince and flitting to the surrounding trees and stones, and then, travelling even further still, landing on their mission chaperone, Milo. What little humor housed in her expression quickly fades, switching to a more fitting look of disgust.

She cared not for the knight nor did she know much of him, aside from the fact that he knew something— something he refused to say. Something that needed to be forced out of his mouth.