#reverenceofmacedon

He joins her presence on booted heel , arms steadfast against his chest , a resolve flame-like and iron-wrought creased into his visage.

“ You may call me Michalis , “ He offers , and nods ( for he’s certain he’s read it before that she hails exaltedly from imperial territory ).

“ You say you know Maria , “ He implores , standing distantly before her. “ And you did not oppose so heavily to assuming we’re no more than cannon-fodder for monasterial affairs. Say , you see it too — the senseless dangers they pit against the youth? “

The blunt greeting is what catches the girl's attention. Sudden and, even improper, introduction paving way to what the true intent of conversation is. Her brow quirks; the curtness cutting through the air.

"You understood correctly," she concurs. "I don't particularly disagree with that. It would be foolish to ignore the monastery— the church's, rather— past actions. Take Pasithee, for example.. I've been unable to learn further despite the fact she was kept within their reach."

Edelgard sweeps a hand onto her hips, peering upwards to make eye contact: "I happen to have met Maria on one of those very missions some time ago now. I've no interest for speaking on others' behalf's, but it's as I've said to others— Choices need to be made by a person's hands alone. Undermining the truth and resolve in someone else's decisions is not a course I steer towards."

Ironically, this month’s mishaps spurred a greater interest in the other countries and continents beyond Fódlan, with more and more students eagerly learning what they can about them. The Cooking Club, with their hands on an Ylissean cookbook, is putting out calls for some brave idiot to go and hunt a bear for a Ylissean-style roast. [Grants Axe +1]

To some extent, Maria imagined her brother found some delight in hijinks that had begun to plague Fódlan after the end of the Rusalka expedition. While his recent inquiries about flowers and their meanings at a most inconspicuous time gave her hope for many things, seeing that it was not Macedon’s name being besmirched, perhaps he took a bit of satisfaction in it. (She loves him more than she understands him most days, though the thought still spurred her to laugh into her hand.)

But there were people aplenty who adored their Hero-King, and who would track down these impostors for his sake, or for the sake of any of the other beloved leaders whose reputations were being dragged through the mud. Maria, for her part, was... tired. These grand missions were always taxing mind, body, and soul-- Fódlan, it seemed, was a nexus for otherworldly events-- but this time was the worst. The fragment weighed heavy in her pocket, but for now, she busied herself with other things. Anything, really, so long as it stayed the memory of fire and stone during the daytime. 

“Brother...” There was a comfort in leaning against his side, small hands grasping at his cloak for the brief moment they stand at the gate; surely, he would scold her if she did so later - a lesson in caution and all that.  Still... here and now, nothing could be more soothing than her big brother’s warmth. “I’m so happy you said you’d go with me, hee hee.” Laughter, but like unto the sun behind the clouds. “I’ve wanted to see you use your axe again for so long... you were always so cool.”

Oh Baldr help her he looks angry. The lute was stupid. She knew it was stupid. She didn't want to distrust Owain but Michalis seemed about as far away from a bard as possible. Bards were like Lewyn. Carefree and relaxed. And, while she doesn't know Michalis, she could very much figure out just from seeing him around that he is Not.

(Closed starter for @reverenceofmacedon )

It had been a few days since the business of Artur being Isekaied into a book had gone down, and for now… the Monastery felt very quiet. He could only pray that his classmates were okay in all this, but.. that was all he could do.

   It’s evening time — the sky has just darkened, classes have long concluded for the day, and Serra is horribly, utterly, irrevocably bored. 

   When Garreg Mach Monastery gets sleepy and still, something deep in Serra seems to get even further riled up. It’s as if the two are inexplicably linked. People retire to their chambers, and Serra wanders, looking through the monastery as if her next great adventure is just sitting out in the courtyard. 

   In fact — it may be, today. 

   There’s a tall, dark shadow sitting near the training grounds, half-bent over itself — it doesn’t take long for Serra to notice the tell-tale signs of injury. She brightens ( though a cleric, really, shouldn’t delight in finding pain ), shoots across the grass, stops by his side. 

     (  📝  ;  memory of them getting to know/meeting my muse  )

Six years older than the newly born Prince Jubelo, and six years younger than Michalis of Macedon. The younger brother of King Aurelis, Prince Hardin, is really not so young at all—surely not of an age where he would be a suitable playmate—and the wedded Archanean princes of the mainland will see him with an equivalence to their own children. With an ocean of difference to mark their respective generations, they will be more like to relate with his father than the six-year-old Prince of Altea.

All in all, scouring his continent’s ranks of royal issue and fine leaders-to-be produces little promise for a similarly aged friend amongst them. It is not like Merric has proven unsatisfactory. Never. However; nor would it suffice to play and chatter with one single friend for all his life. So amongst the many princes of the land, his fanciful imagination decides upon the Macedonian variety; pictured only through portraiture and verbal description.

Intensely colored of hair and personality, both in a shade like spilled blood. Prince Michalis from the mountainous kingdom of Macedon, a stone’s throw to the south, is an older and apparently much sterner boy. But to Marth it is plenty enough that he is beardless, and more boy than man, even if the distinction is not fated to last long.

“Tell me. What is he like, Malledus?” he asks the chamberlain curiously when the opportunity so strikes. “...Prince Michalis.”

A quiet shuffling places the old man’s documents to rest, his wise attention directed fully towards his young prince. Knowing, perhaps, if ever the indication of his gentle smile. “Curious, Your Highness? I hear he is a prodigious warrior. Already they call him the second coming of Iote. He is even dedicated to his studies and seems fit to one day succeed his father’s throne.”

Marth nods, an uncertain look writ across his face. Already this distant Macedonian prince seems much too solemn. Too talented. Not warm like Princess Sheena of Gra, but cool and distant like an ancient wall of stone. He has heard the stories that uphold his lineage—how Michalis’ ancestor, Iote, rose up a single sturdy nail from the many hammered down slaves of the Macedonian woodlands. Leading the resistance against the dragon overlords by taming their degenerated kin, he paved a path through forests and skies amongst the very first dracoknights of the continent.

A prince thrumming with such blood... how would he appear to the naked eye? A miniature warrior in the vein of Iote himself with a body decked in bulging muscles—or perhaps the close association of his bloodline with the wyverns they rode would produce a secret freckling of scales beneath his tunic. Mind spinning, Marth swallows down a lump in his throat.

“...I see... Well; I pray we can be friends some day.”

The air is hot with the sweat of training.

“Professor Michalis, I take it?” a charming voice called up from down below, aiming its resonant tone at the wyvern-rider, “That’s quite the ride you’ve got yourself. And from the looks of things, you’ve been workin’ pretty hard with it.” Though this would be their first interaction, Lewyn spared no pleasantries with the man of Macedon. He had heard a great deal about Michalis amidst the Abyssian rumors: that he was fearsome, that his style was strict, that he was unmatched in the skies. After treating himself to a short read in the library, Lewyn had come to appreciate the man and his culture. In his hands was a book titled ‘Macedon: The Legacy of Iote.’ Most likely a foreign import, to satisfy the needs of Garreg Mach’s influx of transfer students. Should the red-haired professor look down at the bard calling his name, he’d not only see the novel, but a mischievous grin resting coolly on his face. He made it all the way out to the Training Grounds to meet this man, so Lewyn figured he’d ought to show a bit of respect.

“I’ll be straight with you,” he continued, mincing some seriousness with his words, “Flying’s a big part of where I come from, too. Most of my childhood friends danced across the sky on their pegasi, leaving me grounded and in the dust.” Lewyn’s smile faded as he approached Michalis. His book was set aside on a nearby bench, cover facing up, which hopefully gave the red-haired some insight as to how he knew so much of his homeland. Step after step was taken, until he stood in the shadow of the great reptile. The sort of angle he took made his words sound more convincing, on the basis that he showed no fear for Michalis’ wyvern. Intimidating as it was, Lewyn’s seen his fair share of tragedies. It would certainly take more than a man and his beast to scare him off--plus, he had a burning curiosity to be sated, here.

“So why not permit me to give this a spin with you? You never know--I might just be a natural! In any case, I can put in a good word for you with the administration. If I can show them what a helpful teacher you really are, you may very well earn yourself a bonus. Promise I won’t be too rough, either.” 

And there he had it! Lewyn’s offer was laid out before Michalis. All that was left to do now was stare up at the man and wait for a response. To make a potential thought process easier, the Silessean put his cocky grin back on his face. Every little bit helps when you’re trying to silver-tongue your way into a free flying lesson.

He sips from his flute of what tart beverage he'd plucked from a server's tray, a mien of questioning upon his face.

"I, too, hold status in my home kingdom. As is often due at such gatherings as this, I'd like to familiarize myself with the lore and ways of the empire, and thus your birthright as the heir to the Aegir dukedom."

[Muse selected at random :) ]

The regal redheaded man who greets Ferdinand carries with himself the air of a leader and king, one with which the ginger is intimately familiar. His request is not unusual in the slightest, for it is customary of nobles to network and make connections at such events. It appears I must educate him on the intricacies of Adrestian politics at his behest, especially since he has failed to mention one rather important detail about my position.

“Ah, well met, Lord Michalis!” the young Black Eagle greets the man. “I see you have done your research on my homeland. Excellent! You are correct in that I am indeed the heir to House Aegir, though I do not simply cast aside hard work and diligence as a result of my claim to the position. The head of House Aegir not only holds the title of Duke Aegir, but also that of prime minister of Adrestia. As the future prime minister, it is my duty to provide support and wise counsel to our emperor, although in... recent years the emperor has held very little power while my father and six others hold the true reins of the empire.” Shaking his head, Ferdinand clears his throat and continues. “House Aegir is known for bearing the holy Crest of Saint Cichol, and I myself have a Minor Crest of Cichol, which, coupled with my status as the eldest son in my family, automatically entitles me to the position of heir. You see, in Fódlan, Crests are considered to be of great importance, having been bestowed upon the nobility by the Goddess, her Saints, and the Ten Elites. Not every firstborn is guaranteed to inherit a Crest, however, so it was by the Goddess’s blessing that I was born with one.”