#progenitorheart

          they say that, centuries ago, this ground had been watered with historic blood. forced to march alongside the rest of the camp ( but are they soldiers or prisoners? or sacrifices? what is their place in this strange war they’d been thrust into without context or the chance to regain their bearings? ), she’s given just enough time to mull over what might await them and take in the daunting unknown that lay as interminable and inevitable as the endless stretch of deceptively picturesque fields. since they’d woken up on this foreign ground, it’s been nothing but struggle after struggle — first the inexplicable illness that had gripped half their lot and vanished with equally little explanation, then to be rounded up and walked into the encampment as ‘ guests ’, though she knew better than that. the skirmish that had suddenly broken out, the lives that had been taken — and restored?

          now this: the solemn line of demoralized yellow marching in grim silence; she’s been in an army before, but it wasn’t anything like this. ( she’d been among comrades, at least friendly faces. ) why are they here to fight an empire none of them have a quarrel with? if, as the shared dreams imply, they had been sent here for a reason, then why isn’t anything coming together at all?

                                maybe her biggest fear in all of this,                        is that they’ll just die here, for a cause none of them agreed to,                                                  and everything— it’ll all be for nothing.

          now this: a disturbance in the ranks near the front; she grabs her naginata on instinct, anticipating an ambush. already? men shout; shouts turn to screams; the formation dismantles and soldiers start to break away; she catches one’s panicked face as he shoves her aside to escape. are they so weak-willed—

          now this: no, not weak-willed, because the sight that greets them isn’t the sea of adrestian and armor-clad red that they’d expected to be waiting for them, but something grotesque: a swelling mass that gurgles and snarls as it rapidly grows. one of their own? she spots the last tatters of gold and black before they are swallowed into a pattern of camouflage hide as would be found on the coat of a hind. it’s familiar dark curls, then, that twist and harden and elongate into ten, twelve, twenty point antlers of branching, macabre black, when she realizes the chilling truth;

                                       now this: ❝ ... claude? ❞

          it takes shape before all of their eyes: a monstrously large stag ( just like the visions! ) that would be only that if not for when it turns its face towards them to reveal a nightmarish chimera of human and cervid and rows of demonic teeth. but it’s the gleeful malice frozen in bloodshot eyes that she thinks she’ll never forget.

          teeth chattering, she wills herself to push past the shock, to pull her weapon from her back and into her hands. don’t shake. shigure and a few others she knows are nearby; they'd faced horror together before. and they’d made it out then. ❝ if the others won’t fight— ❞ palms cinch firm around polished wood, ❝ —then we’ll have to. ❞ more and more of the so-called alliance army scatters around them; is this what that prophetic voice had been leading them to? are they the only ones willing to stand their ground in the end?

          the stag rears — ❝ don’t let it escape! ❞ — and she charges;

caeldori misses! ( 4 )

          blade raised and legs crouched, ready to leap and bring a first shattering blow down on the distortion’s broad shoulders and give her allies an opening. but she never gets off the ground, doesn’t expect magic,

cervid husk attacks! ( 14 )

          for forelegs to gash at the air and a burst of wind to knock her solidly backwards, eyes squeezed shut and tumbling painfully through the grass, only years of training keeping her from losing her weapon in the process. when she slows, a sharp twinge from her torso suggests she’d bruised or torn something, maybe, in that poorly timed attempt. ugh, embarrassing. she’s supposed to be better than this. butt of the pole to the ground, she pushes to her feet, steadies herself. a monster that big would be tough to fight on foot. just her luck, to end up in a clash like this for her life without a pegasus.

starter for @thelordoftheair @lethalbeautyofetruria, and @progenitorheart

The older, bigger Claude finally breaks the silence, “You can stop glaring at me over the glass, me.”

Me, he says. Claude scoffs, opens his mouth to retort, but he doesn’t manage to get a single word out before the older Claude continues. “Yeah, I know you don’t trust me. Give it a few more years, you’ll be better at hiding it.”

Deflating like a popped balloon, Claude has no choice but to admit defeat, sulking as he sips more of his water and lets his eyes wander around the tent. Most of the decorations and furniture are unquestionably Fódlan, but Claude spots glimmers of Almyran flair in the fabrics used and the bits and pieces of wyvern armor laying disassembled on the floor. This early in the morning, the older man must have meditated an hour ago or so. 

All five of them–the two Claudes, Louise, Tibarn, and the male Byleth that came with them–sit on cushions on the floor, a bowl of grapes in the center between them for all of them to share. Breakfast, then? Reluctantly Claude leans forward and picks a grape, rolling it in his fingers, hesitant to take a bite.

Of course, the older Claude quickly notices it. “Go on, you can eat it. I’m not out to starve you guys. I’m just... trying to understand what’s going on. Same as you all, I assume.” The older Claude glances around the group. “Well, of course I recognize you, Teach. I almost forgot how you looked with the blue hair. But you two...” He looks at Tibarn, then Louise, frowning. “I’ve never seen you before. What’re your names? And....” He looks at Tibarn’s wings in particular. “Are- Are those real?”

M!Byleth has been dropped and is now available!

Fernand has been reserved!

You have one week (8/14) to submit your blog and application to the Masterlist. Thank you for your reserve!

Starter for Trust @healingmist @progenitorheart @harvestrose

-

Waking in the early hours for combat was a familiar sensation. There had been that day long ago, so early that the sky was still dark blue. Rain had drizzled in torchlight, illuminating the faces of three students she had hoped to be her future companions before she even knew them. three enigmas, each so full of hope, potential, greatness. She’d been presented with a choice, back then.

She’d been at a loss.

Now, here, the decision was made for her, clear as the clangs of blades striking together like a cacophony of bells, a song of blood.

While deep in memory her mind was blank, moving on autopilot as she reached for the sword at her side. The Sword of the Creator glowed under her gloved touch, the disturbing, deadly protruding bone spurs on the blade sharper than they seemed, the sword itself able to take on a life of it’s own, extending like a whip and flaying all in its path.

The sword was a tool. as she was a tool. 

Nothing more.

However, she was part of a matching set.

“Me!” Ha, that didn’t get old. “Byleth!” She called to him as she raced outside, ready to strike at any Adrestian that came their way, knowing the other Byleth was moments from joining her.

starter for @thelordoftheair and @progenitorheart

In the early hours of the morning, as Claude prepares for his morning meditation, smoke rises in the air.

“The fire won’t reach here.” He startles, only to turn and see Fern standing next to him, watching the fire as well. “That’s where the Alliance camp is, I believe. I suppose it was only a matter of time before the Imperial army responded.”

Claude can only nod, though the observation drops another stone in his stomach. If he said his friends were there, there’s no doubt that Fern the Adrestrian farmwife would cast him out. And then what? Rush down the hills with a stick and die in a blaze of glory? Throwing himself into a battle when the odds are clearly stacked against him has never been Claude’s way. But, as he allows himself to be led back towards the farmhouse and away from the smoke, he can’t help but wish that recklessness didn’t come at such a steep price.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Roll: 20, critical hit! But this is a pie of mercy, and Claude stays in the game!

As the meat pie closes in on his face, Claude thinks once last time, Teach absolutely has his favorites, and it’s not me.

Rare for someone to interrupt while Leo is cleaning the classroom. The students aren’t messy, per se, but the odd parchment or lost quill still manages to find their way underneath desks.