[ love headcanons ]

A spar, duh. No better way to communicate than with the exchange of blows, if you ask him. And Nothing gets the heart pumping quite like the heat of battle. It can be rough and tumble, or it can be a delicate dance, gauging one another’s strengths and weaknesses…

A spar can tell you all you need to know about a person, if you ask Hec.

But uh, failing that,

…

…

Uhhh,

Does... Does it really matter? Anywhere they can spend time together should be fine, right?

Life Philosophy HCs | not accepting

Also asked by @gentlenekomata

Satisfaction and regret are dangerous topics. Griss is satisfied with his life to the extent that one of his major goals is to die in the most painful way imaginable. But does he regret where he is and the choices he's made that brought him to this point? He just doesn't think about that. It's so easy not to self-reflect when everything hurts. He's still alive, and that's about as much as he can say.

As a rule, Griss doesn't regret any choice he makes. That's the start of a slippery slope to regretting everything from the moment he was born. This is easy when you hand your free will over to god though. Through god's guidance, all choices are made for you, and while Griss might not necessarily be satisfied with every choice, he can at least be at peace with them this way.

For the first part of the question, I'm not sure whether this is "good" in a moral sense or "good" in a satisfaction sense, so I'll talk about both.

Morally, Griss has reached the pinnacle of what he believes to be "good" for a fell disciple. He was hand-picked to serve Sombron directly. There's really nothing better than that, and it cemented his idea that pain is what Sombron wants from his followers. According to Mauvier, Griss was unusual even within the fell church for his obsession with pain, so to have that validated while everyone else turned into Corrupted for Sombron's army has since made Griss even more zealous.

"Hector." Lyn presses a coin into Hector's hand and raises a coin of her own as if in a toast. "Make a wish with me?"

She glances over the side of the well. It's a steep drop straight down, pitch black water only barely visible thanks to the reflection of moonlight on the surface. There's nothing about the well itself that hints to any real magic, wish granting or otherwise, if one excluded the quiet magic of abandoned stone left to the weather.

Well, wouldn't it be nice to hope, though?

"I'm not sure what I want to wish for. Being stronger, maybe?"

A wish?

He's about to comment on how silly that sounds when he notices her gaze. Notices a hint of wistfulness he can't simply up and ignore.

(Not to mention she's already pressed a coin into his hand so now he's like, gotta play along, right? It'd be awful rude to a friend not to. Not to mention he ain't as emotionally constipated as some might claim...)

"Seems straightforward enough to me. Probably what I'd wish for," he notes.

"... I bet you of all people can come up with something more creative, though."

The gentle hand on his head startles Alcryst, and he only calms when he hears Lyn's praise for an arrow well-shot. He doesn't know if he'll ever get used to the physicality of the Emblems. But this moment would have been impossible if she was still confined to the ring, and Alcryst can't help but, embarrassingly, feel warm and fuzzy by her affection. "Hehe, stop that. My hair tangles easily, this is practically a punishment."

The accusation is out of her mouth before she has time to think it over.

"Did you know that someone would open The Dragon's Gate again? Did your master tell you?!"

There's no way he would have known. Mail had been backlogged for everyone. It's not as though he was especially privy to information they all had waited weeks to hear. But even so, the circumstances are so eerily familiar that it's almost impossible to not assume the morph had his hand in it, even partially.

This isn't like the ball, where Lyn could afford to look the other way out of consideration for the atmosphere. Before, she could overlook his presence, a mere defanged dog without a master, but if they were to return back to Elibe, that would be an entirely different story.

She unsheathes her sword and points it at the morph. The others on the boat would understand if they knew what he had done.

"Answer quickly or I will not grant you mercy."

It was not a matter of if, but of when Lady Lyndis would approach him. He knows how this looks. Knows how the facts even align with his means of operating. The rumors of dragons in Elibe a waiting trap, and a lone, outnumbered, servant of Lord Nergal's the bait.

At a glance Ephidel looks all but guilty, with no counter that could not be upended. But if looked at closer, there were facts that still did not add up.

If Lord Nergal had released the dragons, why had destruction not already ensued? If Ephidel was still within Lord Nergal's good graces--still a piece of his plans--why was he only now returning? If Ephidel was to kill the lords, he has had plenty opportunity but still not acted.

This ship was days out to sea. The sun had risen and fallen several times. It would be far too late if a messenger returned to Fodlan or went on to Elibe.

An interrogation from the princess of Caelin was inevitable. But all the same, the drawing of her sword was a bit unexpected.

Just as quickly, a spell coalesced in Ephidel's palm. Unreason was unstable in his grasp. Sparking and pulsing like a powerful void. Strong enough to crack the joints in his digits to unnatural positions.

"Settle yourself, Lady Lyndis." Comes his even response. "I understand your fury, but then you must understand my retaliation."

Most of Ephidel's manipulation tactics have been put aside. They do not serve him as much as they once did, but that is not to say he has abandoned them entirely. Lady Lyndis cares not for Ephidel, perhaps not even herself now. But there is one thing she would relent for.

There is no shortage of people on the boat setting sail for Elibe. Even so, Lyn finds her eye drawn to one of the other passengers. A petite girl who nonetheless holds herself with the poise of a noble even as waves rock the ship. Indeed, it is her appearance that draws Lyn's eye, but it is not her bearing that she finds noteworthy. Rather, it is her resemblance to someone else aboard that makes Lyn stop in her tracks. It would be a disservice to her delicate features to say that she resembled Hector, but to say they didn't look anything alike would be patently untrue. Deep blue hair, just a few hues lighter than Hector's, and blue eyes to match. Big, bright eyes that seem to flit over to the Ostian every so often, either by their own accord or force of habit. Approaching her, Lyn regards the girl curiously, "Are you related to Hector, by any chance?" As far as she was aware, Hector did not have a younger sister and Uther had been unmarried. A cousin, then? Some distant relative? "My name is Lyn. I'm one of Hector's friends." A beat. "Why not go over there and talk to him?"

Since boarding the ship, she has passed by a handful of people. Some she knew as students or faculty, some she knew from her homeland. While in most circumstances she might try to go out of her way to be friendly and talk to others, she found herself more withdrawn. Nerves were coiling inside her and not even the presence of Roy or her father could ease her. She didn’t want to bother either of them right now. They had their own worries, she was sure.

           Even still, she finds her gaze drifting to them every now and then. Lilina had at least grown alongside Roy, but as for her father, this version of her father, she had no idea what he was thinking, what he had been through. Or what he’s going through right now. 

           She is caught in the act of staring, not by who she thinks though, but a surprise all the same. Related to Hector. “Um… You… could say something like that,” she mumbles. 

           Her father’s friend? Then could she possess information she does not? The striking green hair as well. She had to have been from Sacae. The gentle and strong demeanor reminded her of another Sacaen around her age in the army, she even favored her a little.

           A glance back at him before returning and recognizing how tightly she has wound her arms around herself. “It’s.. complicated. He might have a lot on his mind with this whole thing, you know?” She knows she did. 

18. A memory they’d love to change tosses a grenade before you can get me

//sacae wants me dead forreal

//via memories; no longer accepting

Daisies to say 'I love you'

Carnations for an ache

Lilies are a virtue

And Bellflowers mean 'I'll see you when I wake'

Sain breathes deep. Every flower in his arrangement is accounted for, each of their petaled heads touched by the tip of his finger. He's been rummaging through the bouquet for the better half of an hour now, ensuring that every last detail is perfect--is picturesque. This would be the climactic scene at the end of his act. He'd finally roll up his sleeve and allow his lady to see the heart he wears underneath, speaking truly and honestly when he professes his love.

He knows what he is. That he's very rarely taken seriously. But dash your head against a rock enough times, and it may just start to crack; maybe this time she'll understand. Maybe this time she'll see.

He cradles the flowers like they're a newborn, saddling onto his mount with measured motions. Like treading upon a carpet of gossamer, he is careful. Not even the wind can be allowed to misarrange that which he has painstakingly crafted.

He rides.

And as he draws near, she comes into view. She is the very picture of beauty, just as lovely and refined as their first encounter. Her hair is warm and gentle, like a breeze, but her eyes are each wells of insurmountable strength. They are perfect compliments to one another: the sun's first ray on a field of morning frost. Nothing is too cold, and nothing too hot. Everything attains balance and moderation by another of her qualities. And when he sees her move, he finds it difficult to look away. Every motion, every flick of the blade, is deliberate and practiced. She flows faster and more poised than any river: a movement Sain wishes would end up in his arms. To see her dance across and open field and end in his hand, he could die happy. Every effort spared for her would have been made more than worthwhile, such that the remainder of his life's breaths could all be hers to claim. He wants her. He needs her. In the way a sunflower turns to the sky, aching for its one true love.

And right now, she's... Speaking with the others.

And she looks happy.

Sain stops himself. He laughs a little, noticing how easily she does the same. Except, he doesn't think he's ever heard her laugh. Not while he was around, at least. 'It seems there are no decent men among Lycia's knights,' she had once said. And though it failed to reach him then, the realization that he has more than just his own reputation to tarnish takes root. There is Kent, too, and Lord Wallace. And his father, who he fears a slight against more than any other. Is it right for him to be doing this? The Lance sucks in a breath. His gaze falls from Lyndis and the others, and onto his bouquet. It seems... Pathetic. Insufferable. Like it would only earn further scorn against his house and knightly order. "They... Don't deserve that," he mutters, looking back to his liege to see that she has still not noticed him.

"There's still time to go back."

If asked about why he had spoken those words, Sain could not come up with an answer. They sort of just fell out of his mouth, far beyond the reach of his own control. And as they do, his vision grows bleak. The world dons a deeper shade of gray--reflected in his eyes by the loss of focus in their lenses. Nothing seems worthwhile. Not the flowers, not the sappy poem to go along with them--not even his service, in a way. But the shake of his head dispels that last thought. Sain may be able to convince himself that Lyndis will never accept him as her man, but he will always be her knight. He chews on the inside of his cheek. Hands tremble as they reach for his horse's reins, but once they're grabbed, he yanks them back.

The flowers fall from his hands, destroyed in an instant by the trampling of hooves. Daisies are torn, petal from petal, and half-ground into a medicinal sludge. Carnations, with their crimson buds, look like a stain of blood against the side of the road. Lilies lose their virtue, becoming nothing more than a sinner's discarded hope as their purity is dyed brown with dust. And Bellflowers, whose shape had been so pronounced and well-kept, are flattened. Naught remains but tattered heads and splintered stems.

Sain has whipped his mount into a full sprint, making the choice to venture back into town and keep his secret safe in his heart. The arms of a village maiden, though transient, will soothe his hurt feelings for a short while.

"You—"

...Maybe "well" isn't the best descriptor of his current state.

Trepidation is quickly replaced with incredulity. The Black Fang's White Wolf looks more like a wet dog than a wolf at the moment. And is his hair sticking up more than normal? No, more importantly, what is he doing on the ground next to the fountain? For someone attending a ball, he looks like he's been through hell and back.

"...Why are you so wet?"

Lyn offers a hand to help the man up. Attempted murder or not, she would never stoop low enough to attack someone already on the ground.

Lloyd had never been overly fond of parties or gatherings, or what have you. For a little while? Fine enough. Small group? Acceptable. This? This had been none of those things, and to top it all off, it was inescapable.

Now he got to check off attempted murder from his bingo list.

It took a while for the pain to die down, but even after, he felt a tingling sort of numbness that made it difficult to coordinate himself into getting back up. Which was just...another added problem and humiliation for the night, it seemed. Wet. Stuck on the floor. Faintly sizzling.

"You--"

Oh, Saints, could a man on the floor not be left in peace--

Green hair and sky blue fabric enters his vision, and Lloyd grits his teeth against the tired sigh that threatens to escape him. Of course, it would be one of the Lycian lords. No leniency in a stranger. At least it wasn't Hector, he supposed. Tiny blessings.

Though her dress was clearly of a different style, the colors and extra touches still held Sacaen roots. He fights back the bittersweet memories that come with the recognition.

"...Someone getting frustrations out, I believe," he slurred out, frowning at the way his words came out. Hm, hopefully that went away soon; didn't need to be mistaken for a drunk this time. "Several people, actually." First came the push, then came the...splash. Lloyd regards the young woman's offered hand for a moment before resigning himself to the fact that his pride was in shambles enough as it was for the night.

Couldn't get too much lower than the floor.

His grip is clumsy from numbness, and though he must outweigh her by a bit, she's able to get him back on his feet. Which feels weird and unstable to him, despite standing still. There's a solidness to her touch that takes him a moment to realize is from her elemental mark, his mark of Air ghosting across her Earth like a swift breeze across the plains of her homeland.