#mockiatto

Friendship bracelets are making a resurgence, but this time, lance wielders are tying them to the shafts of their weapons to show off their popularity. Join the cool kids and decorate your lance with some sick new threads. [Grants Lance +1]

   Serra is, of course, a person far up to date with all the latest, hottest trends. She knows what’s fashionable, and what’s not, and what is surging back into popularity — the latter of which is, of course, friendship bracelets. Now, Serra’s never made a friendship bracelet before. Matter of fact, she’s never quite had a friend with which to share one. But she’s pretty sure you make two — one for you, and one for your friend — and you each wear it. 

   That’s not what’s trendy right now, though. What’s trendy is that lance wielders are putting them on their lances. Well — Serra doesn’t have a lance, of course. She’s just a sensitive healer! But she knows someone who does have a lance — someone who she does consider to be a dear friend. 

   Who better to share the trend with, then, than dear Kent? 

   First, of course, she needs to make the thing. She checks the in-monastery shop, where the keeper has no sufficient wares, but directs her to the name of an artsy teacher. Said teacher, though, has already given out their threads… they say perhaps she can find the borrower in the dining hall. Her face is fierce as she scouts the sea of people, mostly eating and chattering… but her gaze zeroes in on a boy with white hair, bent over the table. 

It was a national holiday.

No, not really, but it should be. Jakob looked forward to Corrin's birthday every year. Once, it was a means to shine a bit of brightness into her life as she lived locked in a tower, the sky ever darkened and cloudy. Now, it was a matter of pure luxury.

More than that, he wanted her to always feel special on her birthday. It was the least a servant could do.

Jakob used to like surprising her with gifts and baked goods in her room, but since she'd gotten married and had that blasted boy in her bedroom who would probably fuss, he set up a little area in the tea gardens for her.

"No peeking." Jakob led her with her eyes closed to a particular table, allowing himself a slight squeeze of her hand before letting go. "And open."

A cake from Jakob was a common occurrence for Corrin, but he'd endeavored to make her birthday cake a three tiered, lavender and white decorated affair. Gifts sat in little boxes, arranged around the cake, waiting to be opened (new gloves, new riding boots, some books he thought she'd like, her favorite tea). Jakob had little interest in his own display and instead turned to Corrin herself, bowing slightly with a smile.

"Happy birthday, Corrin."

Her eyes remain obediently closed, but there is an undeniable excitement to the dragon’s steps. Were she younger, perhaps she would be so daring as to sneak a little glimpse when she thought Jakob wasn’t looking.

But she doesn’t, even though it takes all of her best effort not to. 

Jakob stops and so too does she, bouncing on the balls of her feet as though her excitement is simply that hard to contain. And when the cue to open her eyes is given, the dragon doesn’t hesitate for a second.

Corrin’s hands raise to her lips, a grin pulling them wide as she takes in everything set up before her. Birthdays before had always been quaint little things, the tiniest bit of light in that dark fortress, but now...

“Oh, Jakob, thank you!” There is no forewarning ( although, really, he should have seen it coming ) before Corrin flings herself at him. Her arms circle around his middle, and dragon laughs as she buries her face in the front of his vest. He can be grumpy at her for wrinkling it later, but for now he cannot deny her this.

It’s her birthday, after all.

It was a reflex from wars since past. Jakob surprised himself with the move to stand between a stranger and an incoming strike, but what followed was even more natural. A curt swing of a knife, sending it airborne and then into their adversary finished the skirmish. 

“Don’t get so close to the frontlines. There won’t always be someone to save you.”

Rinea is no soldier. Even despite her desire to pull her weight upon the battlefield, it is simply not her place of familiarity. Perhaps, were she to close her eyes, she could envision the world around her as a ballroom, but the song of war is not one that inspires dance.

A sword is her punishment for her own poor positioning. There is only a mere moment to recognize the attack as it comes, and even less to counter it.  Magic cannot warm her fingertips fast enough, and the instinct to duck has yet to become second nature.

Silver blurs her vision before pain can, and Rinea watches with wide eyes as her hero throws a blade of his own. Metal glints as it soars through the air, striking true. 

 ( Gladiolus ; named for its blade-like petals, a flower to symbolize faithfulness, strength. )

He left a couple of small gifts, signed with a birthday note. Leo’s favorite tea, extra ink, and a fresh quill were arranged on his desk, complete with a small fruit tart.

No, not quite personal sized- Jakob knew Corrin would likely want a serving as well.

After an incredibly lazy morning spent with wife and son, Leo eventually convinced them to let him at least have some measure of quiet on his birthday. (Of course, he promised to return in time for lunch.)

All he wants, truly, is an hour or two of uninterrupted reading time. He recently stumbled across quite the well written tale about a botanist who raised his only daughter in a garden of poisonous plants, rendering her immune, only to turn her poisonous instead.

Leo locks his office door behind him, then checks the handle to be completely sure. Satisfied, he makes his way to his desk, finally noticing the small arrangement of items.

He reads the note first, leaving it atop a nearby stack of papers. The fruit tart is also set aside--Corrin would be incredibly jealous if he dared eat his share without her. Ink and quill find their place in a drawer meant for extra supplies. He leaves the can of tea alone. After his self-imposed solitude, he'll have the kitchens brew him a cup or two.

“Some of these swords are in such disrepair, surely a military academy would strive to do better.”

//via academy life

"Indeed it would! Though I suppose teaching courtesy to the boorish is oft easier said than done."

L'Arachel huffs as she converses, carefully sliding a gilded blade across a grindstone. When she looks over at the pile of weapons they still had yet to get around to, she throws in a shake of her head. Though she had only recently arrived at the academy, she's quickly coming to realize it is not up to her prim and proper expectations.

"It takes the most dignified of princesses to show decent mannerisms to these weapons, and for that I truly am saddened."

Her foot then leaves the pedal of the stone, causing it to stop spinning. When it does, she holds the sword in front of her face--examining it with an air of superiority.

"There! We've only just gotten started, but this is already my fifth successful repair. I work rather quickly for someone studying the divine arts."

But if Jakob looks closely, he'll be able to spot the shoddiness of L'Arachel's craftsmanship. The sword has not only been sharpened on but a single side, but at the wrong angle too! Its edge has been made obtuse and nearly useless by her efforts.