#prayerwitch

HEART starter for @prayerwitch

Hilda is glad that at least one of her assigned tasks is something she'll actually enjoy doing. To think she'd even been excited for this only to be forced off a cliff and to write a poem. She's partnered with Sara which she is also quite pleased about. It's a shame the two girls haven't really hung out before now. Sara seems like a kindred spirit.

          metal. small. hidden from sight. she keeps this like a silent mantra as they approach the abandoned stretch, roughly southeast of where they’d all begun. it feels as though, with every step, they’re isolating themselves further and further, and not just because of the dissemination of the group. the thickening density of the vegetation... she doesn’t know if the other areas of these ruins are like this too, but this segment seems to have been overtaken, almost belonging more to the nearby woodland than the rocky plains on which they’d been traveling.

          steps slow as they draw up to the foundations of the roofless structure they’d seen looming in the distance, skeletal and lonesome. surprisingly intact walls that must have once been as pristine as those of garreg mach stand furred over with moss and greyed with time, in some places known only by the blanket of ivy and vines that denote their height and shape.

          within, as she carefully tests one foot across the threshold and then steps across, the floor is nearly indistinguishable from that of a forest undergrowth, with only peeking patches of stone to indicate otherwise, but on these, a concentrated examination can make out a faint series of rectangular outlines right up against the walls before they’re obscured by the creeping flora. and, she squats down, these long chunks of wood... too polished to be natural. more like — pieces of bed frames? amidst the taller ferns, colored cloth — a robe? a belt. still bundled together, disturbed only by natural elements. there, an overturned pot of brushes, now worn and dusty.

          ❝ people lived and slept in this room, ❞ she says, half to herself, ❝ it must have been the clergy. wasn’t this place attacked? ❞ it looks like it hadn’t been expected. she straightens up again. ❝ if there is an entrance to an underground city nearby, then we should be careful, “ she says to the others. ❝ there’s no telling if there might be defenses to keep intruders out. ❞

          it’s hard to imagine, even as the words come out of her mouth. this place looks so... serene feels like the wrong word, but certainly not the entry to another civilization. and had the clergy known about it too, or was it just coincidence that their priory happened to safeguard something more? were these locks the whole purpose of this place? had the central church known that when they came here? ugh, if only that aeschylus would tell us anything! and if the knights knew, they were just as tight-lipped as he was. well, first thing’s first. a mechanism concealed where people spent their every day wouldn’t just be in some hole in the wall.

          ❝ julia, sara, ❞ she ventures, ❝ can you feel any kind of magic here? maybe the locks aren’t just hidden by normal means. ❞

"Clearly we must not have met! If we had, you would not have dared to-"

Before continuing with his response(one that would certainly end with an insult), Kempf noticed that he may have actually met this child before. According to his flawless memory, the little mage here was one of Leif's brats, but not one Kempf encountered during the conflict in Thracia. In fact, she was the one who seemed to display an usually high amount of skill with magic, to the point where Kempf was interested in learning from her. Wait. Learn from her? That couldn't be right, assumed Kempf. Clearly she was the one who wanted to learn from him.

he's stood against one of the tables, arms crossed loosely over his chest as he stares blankly ahead, boring a hole in the wall. this is all deja vu. for better or worse, he's been here before. the whole lot of them have. the voice's last words ring over and over, whispers unceasing --

Those who created me wish to see the universe destroyed, it had said. much of its words feel forgotten, lost, like a dream that slips too quick from one's fingers upon wakening. but if he remembers, and others remember, then...

the thoughts fly free upon spotting a blur of lavender darting his way. he hasn't accounted for all of his friends yet, and here's one he feels more than keenly a heavy relief swelling in his chest to see hale and hearty. ewan unfolds his arms and wraps her in a hug, leaning his chin into the crook of her shoulder. a snug fit. he wouldn't mind staying like this just awhile longer. that way she can't see the emotion threatening at the corners of his eyes, at the tug of his teeth on his lower lip.

"Sara, Sara -- I... I never doubted for a second that you would."

starter for @prayerwitch

The letter is a simple one. Plain, unadorned parchment and black ink - the kind the average person could buy from any store selling stationary. The letters are straight, thin, and carefully printed. A testament to the long hours spent perfecting them, as a monk would for a manuscript. No stray marks. No stains. No creases where they ought not be. No words crossed out. Boring if only the meticulousness of the letter were not so unusual.

The contents read:

     Kind Stranger,

     Whether by chance or the hand of the divine, our acquaintance begins with this single scrap of paper, so I hope this letter finds you well.      It is strange writing to a faceless entity. Unconsciously, I have already assumed many things about you. If the contents of this humble letter should compel you to pen a reply, you may very well be supplying words for a person that is largely of my own imagination. Somehow though, I find that my ink flows more freely this way.      I must think of something with which to engage you. My compositions thus far have been personal and private, so I ask that you forgive me for my various egoistic introspections. It is the only way I have ever expressed myself.     So then I should ask: are you practiced in this mode of communication? If you are a master of the art, then allow me to become your disciple. If you are a novice, then we shall stumble our way through together.      Should the inspiration strike, please leave your response under the stone beneath the largest tree in the courtyard by midday tomorrow. I await your reply.

Azelle turns to Sara, a mild surprise on his face at the sound of her voice. The expression soon smooths itself into a light smile.

“I see, haha... I shall do my best for you, then”, he says with a light nod, giving Herleifr a light pat on the neck, the horse replying with a short huff. This whole Battle of Eagle and Lion business is a somewhat bewildering one to him (he needs to refresh himself on Fodlan history later to remind himself why his House is not in the name), and a battle - even a staged, practice one - still evokes a feeling of anxiety within him, even after having seen a war.

Some things never change, do they.

Still, Sara’s words touch his heart; much the way a proud older brother would react to a younger sibling about to show him something they are proud of.

(Has Arvis ever been like that? Somewhere in the fog, there exist memories of them laughing together as they burned through one Fire tome after another...)

Soren’s favorite accessory for traveling in cool weather is a hood. Back when he lived in Gallia it was a necessity to try and hide his Brand, but now it’s both to blend in/avoid questions from strangers as well as something he just feels comfortable wearing.

His PoR hood sprites were all complete but also all unused, which I take as the devs ultimately deciding that it wasn’t that important to Soren to hide his Brand. Perhaps the act of trying to cover it would draw attention to the Brand when the hood was off, while if it was just out in the open all the time and he appeared fine with it people outside of Gallia seemed more likely to assume he was just a spirit charmer.

+1 Reason starter for @prayerwitch & @windsheedme

It's a curious theory: that one's makeup in one way or another would influence the type of magic that an individual is capable of wielding. Hubert had noticed it himself, albeit passively. His own family aside, the other mages he had encountered all seemed to specialize in a single element. The older ones, at any rate. On the other hand, the students from beyond Fódlan's borders seem more varied in their expertise, and Hubert wonders how their histories fit into this new research, so it doesn't take much for the overeager warlock to recruit him to the Fhirdiad school's little experiment. His to-do list, for now, will wait.

The classroom that the researchers have reserved is cramped with the number of students already herded into it. Many stand around with their backs to the walls, eyeing those who had arrived early enough to secure seats with ill-concealed envy. Others - bolder than those who stare from the periphery - have made themselves comfortable on the rug spread out at the center of the room, or are perched on the tabletops, pretending like it's a whispered conversation with friends that keeps them there. Incoherent chatter hangs over the gathering, loud and suffocating with the building heat, but a relieved hush momentarily sweeps through the crowd as one of the scholars throws open a window at the front. Then the noise rises again, and the room is once more alive with idle conversation.

This is not the sort of place Hubert would ever find himself were it not for the pursuit of knowledge, and even now as he stands uncomfortably at the entrance, he considers returning to the quiet of his room. He doesn't need to see what he already knows with some certainty. And he still has several of his own magic texts to read, besides. His eyes sweep over the heads of those gathered, searching idly for some reason to stay, and alight upon a cascade of waves reminiscent of moonlight. Quietly, he makes his way through the crowd to where she has staked out a place at one of the tables at the back of the room.

"Sara," he speaks when he's near enough. The girl sitting beside her glances up as well. His gaze flickers beneath the shadow of his brow, meets her eyes, holds her stare for a tense, wordless moment, and then the girl bows her head and looks away. She nudges her friend, whispers into her ear, and both gather their things to leave. Hubert looks over his shoulder long enough to watch them go, and then steps closer to Sara.