#soliegis

Though many—if not all—might object, Niles can be eloquent when needed. Twisting words has always been just as fun as twisting a knife, after all, and he’s rather talented at doing both. But here and now, facing two great beasts with people he wouldn’t trust to stand even a step behind his shadow...

Well, fuck.

...sometimes, eloquence has to take a backseat.

He isn’t a hero, and no amount of participation in any number of wars will ever change that. He doesn’t claim to be kind. He doesn’t claim to be true. If sacrificing half the men and women by his side now will mean he could return to his lord’s side in one piece, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

(Maybe he’ll have to.)

“It was never going to be just a simple in and out, was it?” he grins, drawing his bow. “Not that I’m complaining. Sometimes, a little bit of a rough exit can be fun.”

The first arrow to fly misses; the beast is fast, and Niles doesn’t expect the way it lashes out in turn, a counterattack that he should’ve seen coming but doesn’t. 

Right. As he said: fun.

The bedchamber had smelled like antiseptic and honeysuckle. The fragrant blooms framed the window outside, stretching spring tendrils out across the glass in search of another stone to hook onto. Salem remembers watching them close each evening as the sun sank behind the lush green mountains. It was better than watching the fever flush dye Hayim’s cheeks a deeper red as he slept, or the tremble of his chest with each struggled breath. It was easier than making eye contact with the nun in white who asked no questions of their desert robes or the foreign lilt of their speech, but brought a loaf of bread, two bowls of broth, and an unassuming smile each night. The altruism was as dizzying as the cloying sterility that wafted from the cloth soaked in a tonic by the bed, and it was all Salem could do not to collapse beneath the confusion and guilt that it brought.

He had counted the days by the sunrise, but lost track after nine. Sometimes he would roam the quaint but well-kept halls, and venture into the tiny, manicured garden where the vegetables were just beginning to ripen. The nuns would let him, and not once did he catch a hateful eye at his back. The rare encounter with one of the girls earned him nothing more malicious than a polite smile and a nod, and Salem was bewildered. Did they not know that he was one of their enemies, now at their mercy? He looked expecting to find poison, but it was compassion that showed itself instead. After ten days, searching faded to triviality, and so too did Salem’s urgency to return home.

Eventually, Hayim could leave his bed on his own, and Salem brought him to the garden where one of the nuns had taught him a game tossing copper rings onto a pole. They would leave in three days’ time, as soon as Hayim had regained his strength, but for now their smiles were unfettered amidst the fragrance of the honeysuckles alone.

The shadows granted them only one. An early dusk had crept in beneath billows of black smoke. No screams rent the sky. No lamentations buried the nauseating stench of burning hair and charred flesh. In the ashes of the garden a wooden stake had been erected, encircled by hooded shadows as still and silent as the blackened statue of the Saint standing watch over the rubble. With the snap of rope and a dry thud, a heap of burnt flesh and bone fell to the ground.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 lurching at them. Despite encountering Demonic Beasts in other missions, this one was not quite like the others, almost as if it came from somewhere other than Fódlan. Other beasts normally looked like, well, beasts, animals with pink tongues that unfurl behind rows of jagged teeth and gnawed at the enemy. This creature had some semblance of a human with large wings for arms and a scaly tail slinking and swishing as if it had a mind of its own. 

        The party had managed to fend it off, for now, but not without a few scratches and wounds of their own. The beast wails once more before limping and eventually taking flight to rest. Ocher eyes watch as its tattered wings, now punctured with flint and pine needles, flap away, not unlike any ordinary injured bird. In its wake were a few black feathers that shined like obsidian in the moonlight. 

        The healers in their shaken up state rushed to tend to the wounds of the party. Petra examines her own injuries and begins wrapping her forearms in cloth—a temporary solution, but enough for her to continue fighting if need be. No one else seems to have the energy to stay awake much longer after their wounds are patched and begin to return to camp to allow sleep to claim them once more. 

        She brushes past a few people on her way to refill her quiver. Upon first strike in her tired state, taking it down and helping the others re-secure the camp was her priority. She might have been alright with letting it slink away had it not been for the odd features it possessed. With no prior knowledge, it could recover quickly and come back to strike harder. Underneath her desire to hunt it down for good lied a morbid curiosity. 

        Fire lit behind ocher as she stands up with her sword at her side and bow on her back. She sets off in the direction the beast flew off to, using its trail of feathers and what little light the night offered to guide her. It couldn't have gone far and she was going to find it.

*sneaks up behind @soliegis* BOO! [ Faith +1 ]

Lyon could imagine the three of them in front of this tree. Eirika with innocent eyes and a bright smile earnestly making a wish, Ephraim with his arms crossed like one of the older men insisting that “this is something for girls, not something that a man would do”, and he would be right, but Lyon would privately think of how beautiful the gesture was, dreams adorning a tree in color and beauty during a time when they have precious little of it.

The tree before him blooms with dozens of delicate, petal-pink ribbons tied around its budding branches. On the lowest ones, there isn’t even enough room for a sparrow to perch on, never mind a ribbon, and never mind the three ribbons getting permanent wrinkles with every second they are trapped in Lyon’s anxious, clammy hands.

Beyond the thick layer of pink fabric, Lyon can see bare branches with only a handful of ribbons. Certainly enough room for three. But they sit so high, high enough that one would have to climb just to reach it. Defeat, strong and familiar, weighs heavily on Lyon’s heart.... 

No, no, not anymore. The old Lyon would have accepted defeat and walks away, just like he accepted everything in the past. But the new Lyon fights because there are things worth fighting for, like the right to be strong and the right to tie ribbons to trees.

Flower Headcannons

She's a trusting person so it's easy to gain her trust initially. She likes to see the good in people! That may not always be the wisest thing, but that's in her nature and she can't help her curiosity. She knows she has to keep some secrets to herself and thus can't 100% open up to someone about her own self, but she doesn't let that stop her from getting so easily intrigued by anyone else. Even if so, she enjoys talking about herself/her happy memories so she'd definitely at least make mentions of things like that to someone she trusts.

(for @arcstral too)

Chrom views the world largely as a place full of wonders. He has learnt much about his kingdom, it's people and himself by travelling within the borders of Ylisse. He has come across many strange creatures whilst on jobs some friendly, some not so much.

Before joining the Liberation Army he would have said his father, instantly. For being willing to die standing up for his country, his beliefs and his principles. He'd consider his mother a close second, for living on despite her grief and doing her best to raise him to be happy and secure. Their time together didn't last long but he always remembered the efforts she'd go to in order to make him feel cherished and included in all she did.