"I am Scathach of Isaach, and I will be your opponent this round." With introductions out the way, he drew his sword while allowing her to also prepare herself. It was all the welcome he needed to see her lance readied, and so he began his assault.

Scáthach initiates combat with Sunder Killing Edge. 1d20-2 = 4 ! Scáthach deals -3 damage to Est. Scáthach has HP: 6/6 remaining.

He is quick to move, and with each step forward his blade grows in strength. At least he is at her face, and with a grunt of force, he speedily plows the sword forward. He feels the familiar resistance against his blade, the feeling of landing your mark.

Scáthach has HP: 6/6 remaining.

The battlefield waits for no one. Est should know this well, that one battle's conclusion merely opens the door for a new confrontation. So fate decides her next opponent, Hermes easily gliding through the air at the whims of the storm, leading her to a swordsman dressed in the colors of a Blue Lion.

“And I’m Est,” she returns in greeting, lance raised, “of Macedon. Pleased to meet you!” She guides her pegasus low, ready to begin their bout with a swift strike as she had the last, but her opponent moves faster. His sword swings, red blooming where the blade touches her skin before she can reel back. It draws a low hiss from her lips as Hermes kicks off and away, lifting them back into the skies before she can even prompt him.

Est rests a hand on his head for a beat, smiling, if only to keep from grimacing. “Good boy,” she murmurs, lance twirling in her other hand. “Let’s give it our all, okay?” She nudges him forward gently, just enough for him to tip them forward into a dive, straight as an arrow and quick as a lightning bolt, her lance point a flash of silver against the dreary skies.

Est [2/5HP] counters with the Killer Lance. ROLL 1D20-2: 13-2! Crit! -4HP Poison Strike activates! -0.5HP

Est doesn’t miss the thrill of battle overmuch, doesn’t mourn the fact that she no longer has to worry for her life at every given moment. She’s been a soldier for long enough. But a spar with no life or death stakes, only the wind and rain on her face and a sparkle in her eyes— that’s the sort of thing she misses. The things that used to make her feel just a bit closer to her sisters.

The wind whips her hair around her face as Julia stands atop the Goddess Tower. Adrenaline courses through her veins as she waits patiently for her date to meet her. It’s unlike her to break the rules like this but she can think of nowhere more romantic than before the goddess and under the light of the full moon. She prays quietly to whoever will listen that this will finally help Scathach understand her feelings.

Speak of the devil...

Julia startles slightly, clutching her chest even though she’d been waiting for him. A light laugh carries across the wind as she relaxes and rushes over to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders in a warm embrace. He smells like sandalwood and cinnamon. Warm, rich and comforting, the heady scent leaves her dizzy and giddy for more. She never, ever wants to let him go.

Alas, she takes a step back and drinks in his handsome mien. Revels in the way his soft half smile releases butterflies in her stomach. She could stay like this for an entire lifetime and never get bored. Julia came here with a goal in mind though, one she is determined to see through.

“It’s beautiful up here, is it not? Even the floor we stand upon feels like holy ground,” her voice quivers slightly as she speaks. Yet she pushes forward, resolve unshaken. “Have you heard the rumour about this place, my dear?”

“Hey Scáthach, find anything interestin’ yet?”

Larcei was, of course, referring to their shared mission. A simple mission, but a vital one all the same. The twins had each signed up for the task of cataloging endemic life in a largely unexplored territory in Faerghus. This task was a rare opportunity due to unfortunate weather conditions, so setting out sooner better than later was imperative. Good thing Larcei likes to rush headfirst into everything!

On her end, Larcei only took with her the bare essentials: gloves, jars, magnifying glasses, various baits, sacks, provisions, and her blade. Whatever her brother wished to bring was his business, she figured. Better to avoid an earful by not being responsible for his supplies.

The two set out with the horses and carts they were lent, arriving at the land in question with great haste. Once they arrived, a number of things were immediately apparent. Firstly, that weather was no joke! By merely stepping foot in this place one could instantly feel the sharp drop in temperature. A brisk wind blowing from the North only made things worse by blowing the cold onto your face, which made Larcei shiver. Besides that though, the plant life here was surprisingly abundant. Shrubbery lined winding paths, trees faded into thick forests, vines formed overgrowth on old ruins, and the occasional flower added some color to the scenery. Without a close inspection it’d be hard to tell which species had already been discovered, but that was precisely what they were here for! 

After asking Scáthach her question, Larcei took a good look at the dirt beneath her. It was hard and cool, a sure sign of the encroaching winter, and harbored signs of animals. Scratches and prints were picked up by even Larcei’s non-observant eyes, and the odd feather suggested a flock of birds was flying with the wind. Perhaps they would catch some on a migratory journey, among other things.

“And you better not show me something boring. A few worms or snails are one thing, but I want something huge! Y’know, like a bear print--or a wolf!” Despite how bossy her demands sounded, the Isaachian woman’s tone was upbeat and hopeful. They had just arrived and dismounted to look around, so her actions still carried the warm glow of excitement.

Speaking of, why was Larcei so pumped in the first place? Studying had never been a hobby of hers, and even though this was some in-the-field research, it wouldn’t be a stretch to consider it outside her sphere of interest. It seemed... almost out of character for her. Almost.

The marquess wasn’t sure what had possessed him to ask the pegasus knight to partner up. Heavens knew he’d skipped out on his fair share of etiquette lessons back home - or he’d damn well tried, but insofar as matters of dance etiquette went... dance had been the one thing Uther would forcibly drag Hector back to class for, by the ear, time and again.

At least that way you can pretend at being a noble for some short period of time if ever you should have to, dear brother of mine, he’d chided with a chuckle.

Even still, out on the dancefloor, Hector felt woefully unprepared. What had he been thinking? It had been on a whim, after Farina had ambushed him at the photo-artifex. He’d surprised himself when asking - and had been doubly so upon hearing the knight - or prof, now, he supposed - had accepted. The knots in his stomach had started that very moment.

But whatever nerves or agitation Hector felt standing up on stage, Farina’s hand in his as they awaited the judges’ signal to begin... whatever trepidations he felt, the fire of competition incinerated from the moment they started until the very end.

It had all been a blur. Brows furrowed, Hector could but stare as the judges announced their scores. Had there been a mistake somewhere...?

[ Style - 9, Choreography - 10, and Technique - 7 ] [ Total score: 26 ]

He glanced to his partner, perplexed, and hissed in question: “Do they have the wrong duo or what?” A pause, nose crinkling. “We did that?”

Vaguely, he could recall a whirlwind phantom of their dance. She’d jumped at some point, and he’d caught her, right? A high tempo piece, risk weighed against reward - certainly, lessons had never taught him that, and yet...

Well. He could always blame Farina. From the first, he’d always found she had a way of sweeping people into her pace. Not like he was complaining though.

Sweet Love - Still Accepting

A part of Deimne really, really yearns to be remembered in some way. Not just a name on a tomb for nobody to care about in twenty-odd years, but a place among his peers in a historical document or memorial. Of course, he didn’t really help himself by keeping to himself and not making much of an effort to outreach and make more friends in the Liberation Army, but that’s why it’s an indulgence. It’s never going to happen, so why bother striving to achieve it?

It’s not changed moving to Fódlan, if anything it might get worse. Being in a place where history is still malleable, where despite not being born “destined” he can still have a destiny, he’s going to get more desparate to achieve that wish. But that’s the thing - not everyone can be remembered by history. In many ways, being remembered is a curse as much as it is a blessing. Perhaps if he were to realise this, Deimne might stop chasing it, but it won’t be easy. A part of him after all this time still craves it, even if it’s not good or healthy to want something that could so easily be destructive.

Though Ayra intended to train herself, she cannot help stopping to watch when she catches sight of Larcei already in the training grounds. The girl is truly diligent, an essential quality for a swordswoman, and Ayra smiles to see it.

Yet as proud as she is of daughter, she can't quite shake the feeling that something seems... off. Larcei's practice swings are different from usual. The way she carries herself and holds the blade has changed, too. More than that — the child seems to be almost fumbling through her training routine. Ayra hasn't ever seen her acting this clumsy. The sight is strange, and more troubling than she'd like to admit.

"Larcei!" She calls once her daughter lowers her blade, jogging over with a towel in hand, which she holds out without comment. A pause follows as she ponders whether or not to inquire, deciding against it. If Larcei wants to discuss her troubles she's welcome to, but Ayra would rather not pry. Instead she smiles, opting to try and cheer the girl up. "I gave you a bracelet during that voyage in our shared dream, as I'm sure you'll recall. How would you like to have it for real?"

The morning of her first lesson is upon her. Ayra has been up for hours now, having risen when the sky was still gray. She may no longer be in a war, but old habits are hard to break — and she is nervous, even if she'd hate to admit it. There is an hour to go until her class begins, and she's run out of ways to kill time. That being the case she's now sat atop her desk, her back straight as an arrow and her legs crossed. Her sword rests on her knees, still in its sheath. Idly, she plays with her bracelet.

The silence is interrupted by the door creaking open.

Ayra looks up, surprised. Either this is a very diligent student, or one who mistook their classroom. She opens her mouth to greet them, then snaps it shut as they come into view properly. As though in a dream, Ayra registers the dark hair that runs in her family, those grey eyes. His coloring is all hers, but his features bring to mind the face of his father. It's strange, to look at him now, when she remembers him reaching up to her legs, his face chubby with baby fat. There is no doubt in her heart that it's her son, though, not for a second. This is a place beyond death, so why shouldn't it be beyond time as well?

All of this Ayra notes in the space between heartbeats. Then, in one fluid motion, she picks up her sword with one hand and vaults herself off the desk with the other, long hair flowing behind her. She places the sheath back on her hip while she closes the distance between them, without rushing, drinking in the sight of him as she draws closer. It's only when she's mere paces away, stretching her hands out to cup his cheeks, that she registers the resentment in his gaze and his face. The hatred, even.

It feels as though she's been impaled again; not through her side, but through her heart. There is no lance to pull out, and still Ayra would have keeled over if she were any less composed. She can spare him that much, but she cannot keep herself from looking as though struck, eyes wide with shock and mouth half-open. It would've hurt less if his sword had pierced me, she thinks wildly.

Ayra lowers her hands, then swallows dryly. Her eyes are dry, too, the tears burning out of sight. Her voice gives them away, though, even as she hates herself for it.

"... Scáthach?"

              “   hmm maybe if this did.... no, or maybe? mhm.. argh, yeah nope this won't do either.   ”    she loudly pops her words before smacking her face into the tome, instantaneously whincing in pain at the impact being a lot more painful than she expected. she lets out a soft whimper before sinking further into her chair. as usual she's complaining. she gently rubs her face as pain pricks her nerves whilst a pained growl strangled behind tightly gritted teeth and curls up into the palms of her hands, it was soooooooooo tedious. the work, the lectures, the exams. everything but the practical exams were just flat out a pain to deal with, don't get things twisted though. delthea likes the academy but sometimes it was just annoying when everyone instantly treats her like a kid ( which isn't entirely true )  during anything combat or sparring related. she knew she was good at what she does. she was decently good with a sword, extremely skilled at magic, good reflexes & agile to boot as well so why did they stress things that aren't as important when her skill makes up for her age. adults are so dumb. honestly, she was convinced that they give her more work  ( also isn't true )  in order to keep her off the field. not that she can blame them, all she does it whine and complain like someone her age...but isn't that ok? she's allowed that much at least.

amber hues lower onto the page, pen that was casted aside on the table was finally picked up idly drawing on the corners of the loose page. a little angry cat was drawn, poorly drawn but still cute.    “   screw it, i just won't do it.    ”   the girl loudly groaned in annoyance as she slaps the book closed and casting aside the fountain pen once again, completely forgetting she was in the library. the mage's eyes fixated on the hardcover and sighs, running her hands down her face, sinking into her seat simultaneously.    “   honestly, just do i look like a potential government official to these people??  why do they give me twice the amount of work than my other classmates do?!? i'm not even sixteen for crying out loud!!  ”    she hisses under her breath the words still louder and more strained than she anticipated. she dips herself even further until her feet collides with another's leg. she jumps back up properly into her chair. she smiles but it's forced. the prodigy definitely wasn't equipped to deal with nobles today.   “   oh sorry i didn't see you there... as you can see... i'm just a liiiittle bit pissed off.  i hope you can forgive me for accidently kicking your leg, i just don't understand all this bullplop about political affairs and whatever.   ”