#stormofembla

He should have tried to find her in-between lectures, shouldn't he? Instead, he sets them down at her door before walking away — leaving the gold decal gleaming under the moonlight, awaiting their discovery when morning arrives.

Another day, another morning to meet with a smile! She doesn’t think she has anything too particularly interesting on her agenda today, but that’s no excuse to set out with anything less than maximum energy! And what better way to maximize your energy than a big swing of the door to get your momentum going right through your first steps and—

Oh hey there’s a thing on the ground.

“Huh?” Sharena’s expression drops to a look of bewilderment, crouching down beside the mystery item to give it a little poke. Yep, definitely a fabric. Did someone lose it? Lost stuff usually isn’t placed so neatly like this is, but Fodlan is pretty infamous for having students that lose a bunch of stuff all the time and all in pretty weird ways…

Carefully, she lifts the non-handed gloves into her own gloved-hands in search of any potential hints of an owner (not that she’s as talented as Byleth, but hey, she can try!) carefully running a thumb over the little distinctive little friend stitched on its side. A very familiar little friend, actually, the similarities so striking it brings a little smile to her face. Aw, it kinda looks like Feh. Commander Anna was right, the little mascot is super marketable.

Hey, they’re her size, too! Like… exactly her size. Suspiciously her size. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think another world’s Sharena stopped by to give her a birthday present!

…OHHH WAIT — it’s her birthday! It must be a birthday present! 

As soon as the realization hits that the gloves are, in fact, most likely probably not lost, her old gloves are off so fast it’s a miracle they didn’t catch fire — the old reds almost seeming painfully tattered and worn now in comparison to the bright and shiny blues that take their place. Bright, shiny, and soft, wow. Man, it’s been so long since she’s gotten a new pair, she forgot gloves could be this nice… 

Almost on instinct Sharena turns her head to the side for someone to thank, only to be met with the same blank space that greeted her alongside the gloves when the door first opened. She frowns. It feels wrong to frown after receiving such a nice gift, but it feels even more wrong to have no one to appreciate forthe nice gift… unless…?

The Askran scrambles to her feet, darting back inside her room and rifling through drawers for a piece of paper and pen.

Dear whoever you are,

Thank you! I love the gloves very, very much, they’re exactly what I’ve been needing! And I didn’t even know I needed them!! Funny how someone can know you better than you know yourself, and yet I don’t even know the you that knows me, huh? Anyway, I promise to take super good care of them. Hopefully I can return the favor one day!

With love,

Sharena

P.S. If this actually WASN’T a super cool birthday gift for me and you want your gloves back, I’ll be back around dusk, so feel free to knock any time around then to ask for them back! Sorry about accidentally robbing you.

He lifted his head slightly, a steady hand resting on his tome. The promise he had made, that he would ensure Veronica's safety and happiness here, echoed in the back of his mind. If there was one decision he was confident about, it was his vow that he would end the other right here — school be damned — if needed.

"What are you here for?" Seething intensity laced his words, unrestrained. She had been spared by Askr in his own world — whether that was deserved, Bruno would not dare contribute his opinion. "Are you on your father's terms or your own?"

“Surtr is dead. Surtr will remain dead on your lips.”

He had been watching her. He had been elusive at home as well, only ever showing for the odd festival or two. He confronted her now, claiming her her father’s agent?

Laevatein was insulted. Laevatein was incensed. Laevatein-

Was a person. Not a sword. Swords fight over bad words. People explain.

“I am here of my sister. She had recommended me the monastery to help decouple myself from Laevatein.”

He had been around long enough to know she meant her blade. And if he did not? His opening made her not care.

“Why are you here? You have no need to be. You were content enough being an enigma, at home.”

She had no love for him. Her fellow Heroes were confidants. They were saviors. They were friends. He was no such thing.

He hid. He ran. He died. He didn’t come back, as the others who had fallen had. Only in festivals. Bah.

“You think me here to destroy.”

It isn’t a question.

Rafal. The last memory of him was the thud of an axe, one that shook the ground from the vast distance as it sliced through the suffocating dark — and Bruno no longer felt certain about his approach. Buried memories, returned fresh from the dark magic of the arena, left him in indecision, and all that was left to do was stare at the whimsy of those floppy ears. There was no denying who the other man was supposed to be: only a handful of individuals had willingly fought in something so... impractical as a bunny outfit.

But all Rafal was missing was the vibrant, egg-shaped staff — and shouldn't that be easy to see from here? As Bruno peered over the shoulder of an attendee, what caught his eye was not any staff, but the subdued navy and gold of his own tome. Envy consumed him at the sight: to have such familiarity within reach, only to be burdened by this cursed weapon...

He cleared his throat, stepping closer to Rafal to meet mask-to-mask.

"Valaskjálf, the Shelf of the Slain. Wielded by generations of powerful..." royals, he thought, but Alfonse had advised him to keep quiet, "mages in wars to protect their own people from other worlds. It is quite amusing to see such power now bestowed upon a rabbit."

"But the choice of costume is insigificant," his smile was struggling to hold, but it maintained, "when the power of the tome is vast. I hope it has been treating you well, Rafal — enjoy what you have been granted."

Rafal was no stranger to imitation. Long had his impersonation of Nil endured, but also long had it been since then. If he should fail to perform a perfect mimicry of another, no doubt that struggle was only natural. Even lifelong skills could fall to rust without daily use; he knew an acquaintance nowhere near as well as his own brother; most damning of all, even Rafal's best performance had never been perfect, else he would not have been discovered. Else he would not be the Rafal of present day.

So, to be faced with the true owner of the Valaskjálf tome? The first wearer of this mask and costume? A familiar feeling seized him; the old chagrin of an imposter.

"Bruno."

They had spoken little during their time in a world of darkness. Mysterious would be the strongest impression reared of the other man; neither liked nor disliked, neither particularly known nor unknown, a neutral presence judged equal in all things. Only recent experience tipped the needle, bringing him closer to the master of a tome that had proven more faithful and constant to Rafal than his own axe or dragonstone - at least for two battles.

"To think such an unassuming tome belies storied history, I was not aware." At Bruno's overture, he eased. Rafal was no imposter anymore fit for harrowing discovery, and—of all obvious truths—he was no rabbit, either. He tugged off the ears and shook his hair free with a smirk. "It has indeed treated me well. In that regard, I suppose it is you I have to both thank and curse. Your Valaskjálf has been as much a service to me as a challenge. The learning curve was steep, but its power has made it all worthwhile."

What went unspoken was that Rafal's ears, more than humiliating or impersonating, had been warm. A suitable countermeasure against the frosty essence of magic at work. What was cold to a human was colder to a dragon, and even more to an intolerant one like Rafal. He rubbed the soft fabric between his fingers, face obscured but nevertheless transparent with what sounded to be grumbling sincerity.

"They're turning off the lights to a space of the supervisors' choosing, soon. The factory isn't able to produce enough power to maintain its current consumption, it seems." He's stumbling through his words from the urgency; the thrumming in his ears is in synchronicity with his racing heart. "Thus, I have an urgent question for you."

If we turn the lights off, is there greater reason to be afraid?

The 20 tokens, Bruno's already prepared in anticipation. He takes it out of his pocket. He bows his head in acknowledgement of her presence, her power, her significance in this confusing world, and extends the tokens as a sacred offering.

What do you see in the dark, fortuneteller? What awaits those who leave the light — and do you know what happened to the tunnel group? How many of us will fall victim to the unknown?

Do we know where the greatest threat is?

He steels himself and tries to brush his own concerns aside, but he's certain that his own fears about this facility and their team mission are interconnected, lying in parallel with each other. He takes a deep breath.

"I'd like to know where Blade lies," he eventually declares. "When you look into the future, will we first encounter them in light or in darkness?"

𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐧𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭: 𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐨 #AMBlade2025

to say she's alarmed is an understatement. were the news of their vanished comrade not distressing enough, what the visions had shown her — as untrustworthy as they might be — was enough to unnerve anyone. and to hear now that they might be forced to face the darkness head-on only brings to mind the overpowering sensation of fear she'd felt earlier.  

"wh-"  

her question cut off by the jingling of clattering tokens that surface in offering once more, followed by the reverent bow of his head that drags her lips into a frown behind the mask. grateful, of course, that she should be treated with respect in the first place, but it was reserved for the wrong person, for did she truly know anything? it was not as though the foresight were her own. he's unnerved himself, clearly, and so dorothea bites her tongue. it is not the time to prod further, and so she takes the warning with a sharp inhale.  

"as generous as it is of you to offer, i can't accept all these tokens. we don't know what might happen if you run out," she says firmly. whether the supervisors are paid more or not, it is of little concern to her now. there is no knowing how long they will manage to outlast the darkness at this rate, if the place is already sputtering to remain afloat. "if you still have enough to spare, i'll gratefully accept half of your initial offer."  

and so it goes, with the head going limp as she plummets into yet another vision.  

VISION RECEIVED: light spilling into an unfamiliar space. then, everything plunges into darkness. it continues this way—light surging, then retreating. an endless tug-of-war. one minute revealing, the next obscuring. light, dark. light, dark. back and forth, dizzying, leaving her reeling.  

"My apologies," he murmurs, reaching down to pick up a shard of the cup. "It's a fruit tea — but I'd watch your step around before it burrows itself into your shoe."

Clink, and another shard is picked up.

Heath fully expects the smell of alcohol upon collision, but instead is met with the earthy, fruity aroma of tea. He narrowly avoids the shards of the teacup upon stumbling back, thankfully avoiding any other ballgoers in the process.

"Ah, no worries. It's bound to happen at an event this heavily attended." Heath crouches down himself, carefully plucking a particularly sharp piece from the ground. His gloves may not be graded for combat, but they're protective enough, and time is of the essence when it comes to things like this. "My own choice of footwear might protect me, but others may not be so lucky. Just give me a moment."

It's quick work with two sets of hands, and by the time they rise Heath can't help but feel a level of camaraderie with the man.

Huh, so it has…

If there were two separate boards, then maybe there would be foul play at hand, but the body parts and colored sections were on the same spinner. Deimne hummed, not wanting to spin it and get roped into a game he’d no hope of winning. Especially if it landed red again.

“Maybe everyone is getting unlucky?” It’s not a good explanation, but it’s the only thing he can think of at this moment in time.

A blink. Two. He takes a look around him, just to make sure they're still in the academy, and then turns back toward the figure inside. "...Lady Tina?"

"Hehe that's me!"

Lady Tina has a nice ring to it. She's always thought it would be glamorous to have a title like Linoan. Maybe she might even be taken seriously.

But. Wait a minute! That voice! She knows that voice!