#melusinezephyr

"Marni, Marni, dear little Marni." Zephia spits out, circling around the smaller woman like a vulture preparing to swoop down upon its prey. She remembers Marni dying by her hand, but then again, she had died; hadn't she? And she was still here. But she knows how she lives, thanks to the generosity of the Agarthans to let her continue her work in this place. Marni though, is an entirely different mystery. "Now, are you ready to be obedient once again, sweet Marni?" She drags a finger under Marni's chin, lifting it so she can stare her dear little Hound in the eyes. She doesn't know whether she is meant to be angry at her now, for the attempt of betrayal. Or glad to see her, to see her sweet girl once again, to be able to rely on her strength again. "Or do you need to be punished again?"

Dread sinks into her skin like acid with every click of that awful woman's heels. The thought stings; Zephia, awful? She would have gone to the ends of the world to disprove such a claim not all that long ago.

But when Zephia stops before her, when her nail scrapes along Marni's jaw in a silent command, it's near impossible to remember those feelings. How had Marni loved her so much then, how-

She remembers the way it felt to do Zephia good, the promise of praise in return for loyalty. They were family, weren't they? It's what she had always called them.

But family meant that they cared for one another. Was abandonment just how that worked? Surely not. Surely.

"Y-you can't hurt me again, Zephia," Marni staggers backward, slipping from the touch that leaves her skin crawling, "I'm a knight now, got it? People will care this time."

Even as the words tumble from her lips, she is hardly sure of the truth to them. Would people care? She believed that of the Hounds, too, and now here they are.

She has her arms around him before she can stop herself, a more gentle hug that she has ever given anyone in her life.

"Oh Griss. I'm so happy to see you, sweetheart."

Griss had always taken things in stride, and after coming face to face with the proof that the gods had the power to reverse even death, little fazed him anymore. Finding himself in another monastery seemed like a natural step in the course of his life - renewed faith and all - but hearing that Zephia had also survived was even less of a surprise. He seeks her out as soon as he has the chance, not to dispel any doubts - because if he had lived, then of course she had, too - but to finally have an answer to why the hell she's teaching some noble brats?

"There you are!" he calls when he finds her, frowning despite himself, and it's like nothing had happened. "These plans of yours--"

She grabs him and cuts the words off. He thinks she's going to shake him, slap him, tear him apart, crush him to death - anticipates it, even - but his eyes go wide when instead she just holds him close to her. He doesn't know what to do against a gesture like this, foreign in its warmth and gentleness, so when the paralysis of shock subsides, he just begins to laugh.

"Whoa, whoa, hey now-- What's with all this? Must've got the wrong Zephia," he jokes, pulling out of the embrace but not away from her. "Death made you go all soft, huh?"

But his own smile lacks its usual sharp edges, and his eyes are as clear and focused as they always were when they looked at her, waiting for orders, following her steps.

"Lord Sombron, I'm so... glad to see that you made it safely here to the academy." For once, she actually is glad to see someone again, rather than filled with rage at their mere presence. She resists the urge to cling to his thighs, to cry about how much she had actually missed him, because she is better than that. She is not the type of woman who cries over such frivolous things like that.

"Is there anything that you require of me? I am more than happy to serve if so."

The sight of Zephia kneeling was a familiar one. Sombron was unsurprised to see that she was once again responsible for his resurrection.

"Zephia," Sombron breathed, squinting down at her as he basked in the familiarity. She was a loyal pawn and a powerful dragon in her own right. He would offer her praise if he truly believed she was worthy of it if it meant anything to Sombron. It did not. "There is much to be done. First, tell me about these lands. You must be familiar with the people up above. I must stay below and gather my strength. Death has taken much of my power from me and I cannot afford another confrontation so soon."

Sombron lowered his hand and shifted his fingers, motioning for her to stand.

"I have taken a position of teaching down in the Abyss. Wyvern riding. That was one of your specialties, was it not?" Sombron could vaguely recall that. It certainly wasn't something he cared for.

Seeing him here and happy while she'd had to die and leave Lord Sombron behind, it almost makes her want to stride over and give him a true piece of her mind. But she can be civil. She must think of it as another thing she has to do to serve Lord Sombron, then there is nothing for her to worry about.

"Marth-" His name comes out as more as a sting than she had meant for it, barbs splintering at the edge of her tongue while everything else about her body language conveyed someone who simply wanted a nice, civil chat. This may not be the same Marth from within the rings, rather the real Marth, the one from the stories of heroes told of the rings, but he still shares that face, the one that she had stared down as her life faded. "How... unexpected to see you here, darling. The great Hero King, at a simple academy. How noble of you."

               The 'great Hero-King' turns- senses balking with alarm, confusion, then at last realization at the venomous inflection in the woman's voice. Just like his encounter with Alear, the notion of familiarity to which Marth can offer no understanding is the same, and, just like Alear, this stranger must derive her knowledge of him from an echo; the Hero-King belonged to another world. Though he still grapples with acceptance over the newfound knowledge, it is the most reasonable explanation that exists to date in explaining such strange, one-sided encounters. Weighing heavily toward love or hatred while Marth himself possessed no memory of a former meeting.

               But... upon first look there is one point of nostalgia that follows his inspection of the other. Friends, enemies, acquaintances, gods- dragons have taken so many a shape across his life that to identify their kind is a perk of natural progression. That same area of expertise shines an illuminating light upon the woman before him.

               Ears uniquely slanted into fine points, serpentine pupils gouging into the middle of the iris, and even the indiscernible metric of strangeness that an inhuman presence can hold to full, such signs serve unfailingly to signal that she is dragon. Of this there is no mistake. Even if his eyes should fail him then surely it will be the heart that knows just as well. But this dragon... this one defines his very dread, come in the form of a mage dragon; belonged to a tribe flowing with countless villains upon his native continent. To the one that stole from him a mother.

               "You..."

               Surprise gives way to a middling ground, suspended between horror and judgement, a clench of his fingers, and then—

               release.

               "You are new to the academy, I presume? Welcome." All inhibition is cut away by the shears of hospitality. While a smile, too, can be a weapon, the king wields his only in complete sincerity. Whatever the distasteful experiences between this woman and the Hero-King that walked- floated- before, in his eyes their present encounter is a seed that has yet to sprout in any sort of way. "A denizen of distant Elyos is clear in these parts, milady.... your way of speech informs me that you are plenty informed of my whereabouts. The version of me that once resided in your land, anyway."

And before she can stop herself, an oddly true smile flourishes across her lips, and for once, she finds herself speechless the face of an oddity. How curious he was indeed, and she finds herself drawn to him, as she had once been drawn to Lord Sombron. Fascinating.

"You are... the new Black Eagles Professor, Rafal was it? You may call me Zephia. Now, pardon my... direct approach, but I would prefer to cut to the chase when we both know that there is no reason to pander around. You are a Fell Dragon, are you not?"

From the center of his eye a cardinal wind blows, bringing with it a worldly design of definite un-doubt. Whether it was memories or sins or people, his ghosts owned an inexorable nature in that they would follow him always, that they would follow him even here- that at least was his bitter measure of the situation, trickling down to his acknowledgement of the familiar woman who has crossed his path across a sea, a continent, a world, and then some. Troublesome. Rafal pushed out her name heavily though a vague curiosity sprung to mind at the introduction.

Zephia?

". . .Zelestia."

Zelestia, indeed, the voice, the pale hair, the features, and everything just short of the company of her two remaining knights and the fuschia ribbons wrapped around her horns seemed to say. The fell successor assesses her coldly, but not in any special treatment. He hadn't expected to be returned to a vision of his time in the Somniel so soon, much less one of the faces who belonged there. Were there others? More?

"Humph. I will call you whatever I please, and your show of ignorance is unflattering, Zelestia. You and your winds more than anyone possess the clearest understanding of my identity. Do not play the fool."

That's right; his oh so beloved Four Winds were known intimately to him in turn; a four-man cluster of harvestmen bound by their vows who were scarcely found apart until one of them dropped dead. Oh, but that fact was Rafal's doing. His perpetual scowl lightens slightly, if only to turn a frown into a smirk, bitterly amused by the situation. His theory over it, well-including; simply another ripple off the black pool of his damnation.

melusinezephyr asked:

Her blood boils just looking at the Fell Princess - though she supposes that she shouldn't really be called that anymore. What does she think of Zephia now? In her last moments, what she had done for Veyle and that wretched sibling of hers... surely was not enough for her to forgive her for the all the wrong. But Zephia does not care if she forgives her or not. She just... she does not know exactly what she wants from Veyle now. If Sombron is not around to command her to kill Veyle, then... no, this is not the Lady Veyle that she had wanted anyway. And she is not Griss, whom is the only one from Elyos who Zephia can find herself looking back on truly fondly. He had stayed by her side until the end, and everyone else had... left her behind.

"Lady Veyle. I expect you do not want to see me, sweetheart. Mauvier is here, if you wish to run to him first. I do not expect your kindness. But if I am allowed one moment of fondness, I am... glad to see you are well."

“Z-Zephia...”

Veyle’s mouth is agape as she is approached by the face well familiar - too well, almost, some would say - and yet at the same time, one she never expected to see again.

Who else would not be surprised to be reunited with one they know they left to die?

Amethyst eyes are fixed on the Mage Dragon as she speaks, unsure how to react at first. Zephia once treated her with kindness, only to force out her draconic instinct in service to Father, referred to her as a defect, acknowledged her role as a puppet and nothing more - only to turn back from the destruction’s road in what were supposed to be her last moments. Veyle had told her back then - I don’t understand you - and the sentiment could never be more true than now. She does not understand, does not know - which Zephia stands before her, and how or why in the first place, and what she is supposed to think.

“I... I’m not upset to see you, Zephia! Not in the slightest! I’m just shocked, is all.” She eventually begins with something she knows she can say truthfully. “Why— How are you alive? Did you not use up your life back then to make that gem for us?”

"Oh, woe is me! For never had I the chance to learn of your beloved name! But if I did, I bet it'd be the kind to ring in my ears for as long as I live!"

Such a simple line, but doubtlessly effective when it earns him the press of her lovely lips. Sain had been hard at work, trying again and again and again to plug the hole in his dam of a heart. Rejection faced him at every twist and turn, its slick fangs reminding him of what more can be bored away. Hope can be lost, faith turned to despair. Desperation can be washed by the rain and mud, uncovering what lies deep inside the human soul: apathy.

Yet this time, the beast is felled and the path made clear. Except it feels wrong.

So wrong. All of it.

For once the silence is deafening. No shrill scream to pierce his ears, no nagging from Kent or his liege to create background noise. There is just victory, and it is hollow. Sain could drop a pin down this woman's throat and he'd hear it echo; it isn't right.

He misses the feeling of failure, and the burning light of the chase. Though every maiden's footfalls kick dust in his face he'd gladly weather that storm again. Better than peering into darkness with open eyes. Better than someone believing words he didn't really mean.

It all happens so fast: his words, the kiss, what comes next. He has to push bangs farther up his head as sweat begins to mat them into place. His eyes grow dodgy, turning this way and that--unnerved by stare of this lady and the dark and the rain. She hadn't the wit to reject him even once, even if he was just indulging a knightly hobby.

"Ah... Um, I'm afraid my tragedy continues. Duty calls, and I must be on my way. But shall we meet again, I will seek your precious hand!!"

Swordsmasters of Elyos and Hoshido have long inspired people with their signature finishing move: the ability to cut through an opponent with dazzling speed, so fast that one can’t even perceive the blade leaving its sheath. The Battle of the Eagle and Lion reignites interest in learning these techniques. Determined students have made some progress but haven’t quite mastered the move. Think you can help them? [ Grants Sword +1 ]

@melusinezephyr

The blade of an axe has come to easily train itself in Edelgard's grasp. When she holds its wrath, none question her might. It is an imprudent thought to rely on one weapon alone. If she is not using an axe, a sword is the next best thing. She know how to wield them— To hold it properly and summon its strength. But it is not enough. If these rumors buzzing about are true, she must be the first to know.

Edelgard cares not for learning moves that are flashy or draw attention onto her. What matters are results. It is easy to surmise that talking to someone from Fódlan would yield little achievement. There is one way to go about this— The Black Eagles professor hailing from Elyos. The likelihood of Zephia knowing something is far grander than any other choices she may have. Thus, she is inclined to take this leap and push her idea into submission.

As she stands outside the training hall, the sound of swords colliding and magic swirling fills her ears. Arms crossed, eyes attentive. Before Zephia can walk past her, the princess stands in front of her and looks upwards with a glint of readiness.