#unfalteringindeath

starter for @unfalteringindeath!

The tropical “paradise” Dedue found himself in, as some put it, held almost as many mysteries as it did people. One could not die within it, and needed no sleep, food, or drink - these could be explained by it being some sort of dream, which he still found himself certain of - but its creator, the method of its creation, the logic of who it had taken prisoner, its purpose, and answers to numerous less pertinent questions seemed to elude them all. One of the few mysteries they could potentially solve on their own were the boundaries of the prison, because they were evidently finite, proven repeatedly by himself and many others.

Most had tried to escape and failed, or been warned of its pointlessness by more knowledgeable others and never bothered, Dedue part of the latter. A scant few didn’t seem to mind the place and made no effort. Eventually, all had become at peace (or at least began to tolerate) their prison, and finding its edges was more entertainment than escape plan; they twisted and warped with every attempt, every direction one walked in. Always changing, never the same, but always there, without fail. This soon became common knowledge to everyone, except for one...

Dedue had never met, or even seen, the man before. He was impressively tall, significantly moreso than Dedue himself, and he stood head and shoulders above a great many others. He had dark hair, the physique of a trained warrior, and an unwavering determination to leave. This was no less than the fourth (or, perhaps, the fifth) time Dedue had seen that same figure appear outside the doors of the mysterious house, as all did when they hit an edge, and stalk off in a new direction in a familiar attempt to escape. 

He couldn’t watch any more. Surely by now the man knew it to be a waste of effort? Dark hair and a stern face appeared within his field of view a fifth (or sixth) time, and he approached with a command: “Stop.” 

Beach asks | accepting

The dream-like isle had already proven to be a strange place. Desolate, yet full of people. Familiar, yet completely foreign. Utopia, yet stagnant pergatory. The parade of faces - most unrecognized - was stranger still. Among them, Berkut had found visages he had never thought to see again. Some he had never wanted to see again. And others he had never even thought about until they stood before him like a mountain brought to life.

Berkut shielded his eyes against the sun as he peered up into the face of a man that he knew he had met before. He bore the chiseled expression of a born-and-raised Rigelian, carved sharp and stern by the harsh winters and even harsher training, but without the familiarity of a fleece-lined cape or scarlet armor, a name would not affix itself.

Whatever name belonged to him, Berkut did not expect to find a man of his stature with a tin bucket, perusing the shoreline for a place to settle.

“Commander,” he greeted, dropping gloved hand away from the edge of his brow. Berkut could not imagine him to be anything but a high ranked solidier within the Rigelian army. When his eyes turned to him in recognition, however, Berkut thought for a moment that he had grasped a memory of meeting the man. A flash of lightning in the recesses of his memory. But it was soon gone.

Still, enough of it lingered to direct his next question.