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POPULAR. ✧

lorenz’s problem - of which there are too many to be helped or even counted - is that her every word comes as such an affront to his view of the world and self that she cannot judge whether a particularly sensitive nerve has been trampled or all he is made of are nerves. gloucester’s heir has to be the must baffling creature she has conferred with in the last decade and sara sees her own frustrations mirrored back at her as if she is the one being so thoroughly unreasonable. disbelief written across his face might be the only transparent part of him, the sheer drapery that cannot completely conceal a silhouette of fear.

she anticipates the momentary end of his whingeing, for the facade he calls composure to return. sara had a birthright long ago and all the trappings that accompanied it. some days she feels the weight at her heel of its shackles still. few, if any, are born equal to the task. fortunately, there is no one left in the world who expects anything from her now.

“the kia and i were reunited only a little while back,” she shares agreeably without cue, wistfulness imbued in her smile. “how ironic that i’ve a better relationship with my staff than you yours in such short time.”

her index finger carefully slides down the journal, held in place as she closes the cover on it and meets the face of his taunt in utmost sincerity.

“where do you think magic comes from? the answer is, again, life.”

one look at lorenz’s face incites a fit of giggles, softer this time, girlish. she unceremoniously leans into his space, dragging the kia staff before him at an awkward angle. lorenz is stubbornly a lost cause by choice of his own, but the bickering takes her back to a garden from her childhood. neither she nor lorenz have walked away yet, and sara knows it is because war has taught her the thrill of a fight. she concentrates on holding him by gaze alone, while he remains. once he leaves, disagreeing with the him in her head won’t be anywhere near as fun.

“when you call on your magic,” she teaches, “you channel it through objects - tomes, sigils, staves like the kia and thyrsus. do you think it merely vanishes afterwards? the lifeforce of every soul who has used kia before me runs through it and i’ll join them when i perish too. i hope they can be friends, after we are both gone. maybe that would cure it of heartache… do these writings of yours have any notes about how it was made? and don’t tell me they it just fell from the heavens. kia’s body was carved of an ancient tree and the gemstone atop here was retrieved from the depths of a sparkling lake.”

IMPETUOUS GIGGLES MAKE ONE THING CLEAR—they ring in Lorenz’s ears after the fact, drowns out the blood that wants to rise instead as she strikes every nerve true before grounding the childish barbs in something to grasp and remind him that he is arguing with a child. Glimpses of a wisdom beyond her years do not preclude that from being true.

The smartest thing to do is to walk away now. Spare his head the cold and the agony of swimming through her whims. She is not owed the wisdom of his family or of Thyrsus, and even if her claims are true—there is something just as unsettling about a child speaking with a plainness about her soul joining its ancestors, unseen but felt in the blood of all mages—his pride is on the line.

(That is what the entire thing is about, whether or not he wants to speak it. He is worthy, of that there is no doubt, but worthiness should not diminish enthusiasm to use it. It isn’t inextricably tied to the relic, for he still has a myriad of his own accomplishments to his name. Lorenz has spared all time he can afford for seething and wallowing in worthiness. It’s the time for seizing. If Sara knows something then it should benefit the both of them to listen. But his pride has already been trampled so thoroughly by forces outside of mortal comprehension, and letting, again, a child, do so with reckless abandon—)

He could go mad debating with himself, and madder letting Sara’s whimsies roam free. What is concrete is something so offhand he admittedly hadn’t even considered it for himself.

Lorenz is poised to respond. And then he shuts his mouth, lips pursed and brow furrowed with a frustration that is, for once this afternoon, not brought right back to his classmate.

“I,” Lorenz responds, after a rather pregnant pause, “I cannot recall its make ever being mentioned.”

—No, that cannot be right. That an oversight so large would exist right under his nose…!

He shifts uncomfortably on the grass next to Sara. A hand reaches out and grabs an unoccupied journal, leafing through it. The next words are a rare struggle to say with absolute certainty, though Lorenz tries: “I know enough to know it is not wood, unless it is wood petrified in a manner I am wholly unaware of. I am learned enough to know that makes a difference, but I…”

Pages fly by in handwriting of his forefathers. The shock becomes more pronounced, despite Lorenz’s voice clearly fighting to stay even. “I don’t recall my father ever mentioning its make to that effect. Magic was never his strong suit, and he did not wield Thyrsus but for official portraits.” The Kia Staff’s... unique origins aside (noted, tucked away as knowledge he’s not sure he’ll do anything but lightly contest for its exaggeration later) at least there is no question.

Then why should one exist for Thyrsus?

barks & birthdays.

Soren had never felt much like a kindred spirit to other mages. First of all, they usually paled in comparison to himself. Secondly… well, he didn’t generally click with other people to begin with. However, if this was the connection they needed for business, he’d live with it.

He watched with satisfaction as Julian broke Lorenz’s mask of hospitality. No, it wasn’t necessarily a mask of deceit, but of what someone had to wear outside, like an accessory. Julian pawed at Lorenz and whined. As cute as it was, Soren did have to enforce pretend rules so Julian grew up well mannered. “Very stubborn,” he agreed. Soren patted his own thigh and Julian barked, running to him instead and trying to scramble onto his lap. Careful that the dog couldn’t reach the table while he held him, Soren let Julian curl up on him, puppy sniffing the air from every direction with curiosity.

“Unbecoming as it may be, it is still a variable.” Soren shrugged. “I wouldn’t be good at my job if I didn’t think of every possible way for things to go wrong. You’re right that things may not stay contained. I see no reason for Agarthans to respect manmade borders, and they likely have ways around them.”

With another sip of hot tea, Soren nodded, thinking carefully. He had settled into Fodlan, although he wasn’t sure he wanted to spend his life there. He had time to do whatever he wanted. Such an agreement may benefit him.

“Very well, should these unprecedented times turn uglier, it would be nice to have an employer who had some sense of respect for the forces they may gather.” He didn’t coat his words as he continued. “I assume that a future conflict would have us both fighting on the same side, for self preservation. We have done well in teams before.

“I do wonder why Claude isn’t here. It may not also be his birthday, but it’s no secret you would have been as good as next reigning duke without Claude’s appearance, yes? Gloucester was set to be the next line to lead the Alliance after the current Duke Riegan passes. You’d be House leader now, and just a man or two away from the most power anyone in the Alliance can have. Interesting, isn’t it? These matters we’ve discussed about the future concerns Claude as much as it concerns you.”

Sensing he was in sensitive territory, Soren pushed on, raising his palm to keep going.

“We are, as you say, both mages, and you don’t seem the hotheaded type, but I won’t get involved in anything stupid no matter how unstable the Alliance may get someday. I care little for ambition or power, and even less for those who blindly chase it. If you want my best advice, continue to network for more defense such as myself- and your strongest allies at home.” Soren wiped his hands off on a napkin. “I don’t care what you think of him, but Claude is the best ally you could hope to have. If what people say about his tactical prowess are true, he and I could be something unstoppable at your side. If you fight amongst yourselves, you’ll be the easiest target any force could hope for.”

A PIVOT SHOULD BE EXPECTED; anticipated, even, as Lorenz’s expression only changes when Julian is secured upon Soren’s lap, all the better for all parties involved to relax.

The direction, though, while certainly a logical leap that Lorenz can follow without a batting of a single eye, is one that sees the corners of his lips straining to keep the pleasant demeanor. As is Soren’s way, nothing he says is markedly untrue. But it is annoying, and especially so when it is haunting Lorenz’s day. (Soren’s, too; Katarina’s as well, but in the moment he’s counting only one body in this calculation of peace of mind.)

“And who says this has to be a matter of infighting, or of—forgive me for being blunt, future treason? The opposite, in fact. Gloucester remains staunchly loyal to the Alliance in all forms, and as of now, I have no reason to contest Claude’s leadership nor political savvy. I am doing him a favor by vetting our options, so that his time may be spent elsewhere.” Despite Claude’s near-preternatural ability to get underneath Lorenz’s skin at the most inopportune of times (and always with some ribbing at his lack of marriage prospects, because he seemingly cannot help himself from striking below the belt, no matter how untrue!), Lorenz has cooled significantly on his suspicions.

And, furthermore, they’re neither here nor there. Comparison will kill, after all, and Claude does not need to suffer such humiliation when he is not present to defend himself.

“I believe you’re reading a little too much into a birthday celebration, Soren.” Pleasant is perhaps negotiable when Soren sits across from him, but Lorenz digresses. “You may call my motives however you wish, but the fact of the matter remains that this is a celebration of our shared day of birth, first and foremost. We have remained at odds with one another for as long as we’ve been classmates; I only seek to acknowledge we could be of use to one another, should the tides of life shift enough for it to be favorable while we raise our cups in cheer.

“Besides. We have company.” Lorenz takes a sip of his tea and inclines his head towards Julian in turn. “There is only so much talk of politics that is polite to do outside of parlors. We can shelve this matter for a later date. I am happy to play host as many times as need be until you do not rankle so.”

you dropped this, king 👑

No lunch? Claude’s eyes widen in (half-disappointed) alarm. “Lorenz, I’m shocked! What kind of romantic are you, being this unprepared for a spontaneous riding adventure?” 

His horse nickers, pawing at the ground. Claude interprets that as scornful agreement, smiling at the thought.

“In any case, there’s a river nearby. A little further west, if I recall…” Claude slowly walks his horse in that direction, observing his surroundings. To think, just a few months ago he was marching an army through this territory, all to drive the Empire’s army into a corner. Time doesn’t pass the way it used to. “You can catch us some fish for lunch. We should make sure that lance arm isn’t getting rusty.”

While Claude takes the lead again, he relents and takes on a slower, more conversational pace. But Lorenz’s henning takes a turn into the uncomfortable, and quickly Claude wishes he had just gone ahead as planned. The meeting. He hoped to escape for it just for a while…

He can feel it. His shoulders rise and stiffen, and a breath catches in his throat. This is fear, he acknowledges. Like a rabbit unearthed from its dark warren, suddenly exposed. Thinking too deeply into it won’t help anyone, so he says, “Not at all” and leaves it at that. Claude forces his shoulders to drop. He takes a deep breath, turning his attention to his surroundings. The rustling grass blowing pollen into the wind. The steady ebb and flow of his horse’s breath. The sun, climbing higher as morning turns into midday. “Building a government is hard work,” Claude continues carefully. He doesn’t want to give the impression that he’s running away from this. “Fairly sure that comes with the territory. Everyone has their ideas on where they want Leicester to go, but overall, I believe we’re heading in the right direction.”

If this is what Lorenz wants to talk about, that’s more than fine with him. Definitely. But Claude refuses to be interrogated on his hours off. Instead, he turns the topic of conversation toward Lorenz. Claude knows that man would never pass the chance to preen his feathers. “You play a pivotal role in our meetings,” he says, voice turning sweet. “Like a beacon of common sense and honesty when things get testy. I’m pleased to see you representing House Gloucester in so many of our discussions.” That, Claude can bring himself to genuinely smile about. They may have their differences, but he trusts Lorenz to be fair in state affairs like these. If Claude is going to put together that world he wants, he’s a good ally to keep on his side. “Is it everything you thought it’d be? Acting as the head of your house.”

“I LOATHE REPEATING MYSELF, but in case the wind has gone and swallowed my words: this is a scouting expedition, Claude.”

A date would imply some measure of conversation; every single attempt appears to fade as quickly as they canter. For once, Lorenz cannot say he minds. He’s done his fair share of talking all day, and it’s been perhaps more telling to simply observe as they tear through the countryside. His insistence on the optics are really more for the sake of some semblance of awareness for their surroundings—dead as they are, as though the very earth has decided to give them a reprieve while they exist in their own heads.

Which is a dangerous thing to do on horseback. How lucky they are, to not be stranded in case they must be thrown from their heads by a startled mount.

“I am not going to use my—I am a Count, not a fisherman!” Claude leads, Lorenz follows, and for once there is no argument as to the order of things. Begonia’s gait is slower by purpose, Lorenz easing his pace so that he may trail behind, just within earshot for conversation, but at a comfortable distance to observe.

Lorenz has had to learn to not to grab for the reins of conversation the moment they’re presented. Staying his tongue does not come naturally—least of all when Claude is involved, as familiarity breeds a certain ease of it, where it’s not out of turn but a continued dialogue that’s seen them through many years already—but it does have its benefits.

Eyes stay on Claude’s shoulders as he speaks. The tension drawn as taut as a bowstring says more than platitudes.

“Lesser men would have buckled under such a weight.” No flattery, just a sentiment he lets pass. No eyes on him, and so Lorenz can afford to grimace proportional to the amount of sudden praise—deserved or not—sung for his hard work.

Lips pursed. Lorenz listens to the sound of the earth underneath their horses’ hooves, the casual snap of a twig and rustling of grass, undisturbed by the burdens upon their backs. (This sort of honesty does not come easily, either. Lorenz is still watching Claude as though he might yet bolt once more. Lorenz could not say with certainty he’d be mystified as to why.)

“…I was woefully underprepared, despite wanting nothing more than this very thing my entire life.” _Was,_ as though he doesn’t still feel as a newborn foal does on unsteady legs more days than not.

“—What still catches me unawares is how solitary and solemn a job it is. I have no need for distraction, and I find the day-to-day minutiae suits me. But when I have no need to call upon someone, it becomes apparent how much of the day I spend with my thoughts. It feels maddeningly paradoxical, as I am still rarely alone.

“It is still my honor. No matter my naïveté. I supposed I was,” a pause, and a sigh at great expense to Lorenz’s pride, “overdue for a humbling.”

the misters clean.

His confession is met with a degree of surprise, though it strikes Leonardo as a relatively small one; perhaps Lorenz had already had a feeling of some sort, which he supposes makes sense. However long it has been since he last waltzed around in finery and had issues such as etiquette and politics at the forefront of his and his family’s concerns, certain old habits die hard and in pains, and some of them never do so in their entirety.

No matter how much time Leonardo spends with the likes of Edward and Nolan, whether he eats like them, fights like them, begins to behave like them, he does not become them. They simply accept him the way he is.

“Hm, maybe a little… I must have been about twelve last time I saw a ball like this,” he muses in response to Lorenz’s inquiry. With the table taken care of, he next sweeps the floor around, trying to ignore the way his heart is pounding. He does not know why - it is not as though what he tells Lorenz here and now matters much these days…

Perhaps it is simply the matter of finding someone who may understand what he speaks of in the first place, though at the same time, he has to wonder. Lorenz guesses part of it right, the rest wrong - 

Leonardo reminds himself that the young man knows nobility, but perhaps not war.

“I see. Nobility comes and goes, it’s true, though with me it’s… not quite like that,” he begins, not entirely sure where to start. “It’s worse,” he adds after a brief pause as the broom, for which he really cannot find any more task in his nearest vicinity, ceases to move for a while.

Perhaps the best way to do it is to give it to Lorenz straight, without dressing it in pretty words. One does not simply dress that in proper words.

“My homeland was defeated in war and came under another country’s occupation. My father and brother died in battle, and for me…” He shrugs, as though he is talking about something entirely normal. (In a way, perhaps, he is.) “A military schol student from a noble family. It was natural for an occupier to target me early on, but I managed to flee and joined the sabotage.”

“… My title matters no more, I’m simply grateful to be alive.” Many of them are no longer. He sighs after one more moment of silence.

“… I apologize for oversharing… throwing that at you out of nowhere like this. I’ve never spoken about this to anyone before, and I…” Thought you might understand. He trails off, looking away from Lorenz, staring at the broom.

—WHAT PARTICULAR QUALITY OF FÓDLAN FINDS ITSELF as a beacon for tragedy, or world-weary souls, when they do not call the Goddess their own?

Lorenz has considered that question before, in the twilight hours before his eyes close, at the end of a quill with poetic words underneath the nib in black ink—there exists theories that are meant for afternoon tea, and theories that he debates with himself while penning exchanges with his father. Lorenz understands war in an abstract way, and in the way that it’s what his ilk are bred for, gilded sword and shield standing atop the hill of Gloucester. He’s drawn blood and taken lives, and has done so for a number of years that he cannot count. He has not lost a relative to battle; by the Goddess’s grace, his father and mother remain in good health and he is their only child.

Death, though—more than war, Lorenz knows death. It’s come for him in a beast’s maw and the sharp sing of a ghastly sword. It’s spit him up after grinding him to dust, whole in body save for a twisting scar now settled against his ribs but crushed and adrift in spirit.

“My sincerest condolences,” is the measured response.

Lorenz’s gaze doesn’t tear itself away from Leonardo’s face. What a strange thing to observe, such horrific tales of loss punctuated not by a sob but by a single dismissive shrug. His expression remains severe, but incrementally less so. The puzzlement remains. He finds his mouth suddenly dry, and surely not from the strenuous exertion of sweeping.

“It is unusual to be so forthright with such a tragedy. Most men would lean on those memories—to sate a thirst for revenge, else garner sympathy to fill their purses with the pity of bleeding hearts. I cannot say I sense either intention in you.”

Leonardo is the first to break the gaze. Lorenz takes that as his moment to adjust the grip on his own broom—tighter, while thoughts are collected and he considers how best to tread.

“—Your words are hardly unprompted. I asked, and you spoke your truth.” Even if something in that truth strikes nerves Lorenz does not want to remember are still raw; even if by his better judgment, this is a stranger speaking of such a crushing burden that his eye still waits for any tell of a lie. “I would surmise from there this is rounding out your education, then. Commendable, in my own opinion, although hardly necessary with lived experience. By grace, you have made it to Fódlan’s shores to tell your family’s tale.”

But you did not arrive unscathed. Lorenz knows now that much is an unreasonable expectation.

the misters clean.

Right. How much time has passed since Leonardo still had an opportunity to be reminded of things such as proper stations, and expectations that come with them? Within the Dawn Brigade, it mattered little that he was a noble among a group of commoners; united by the same tragedy and a common cause, they focused on survival and a fight for a better tomorrow, and by extension so did he, casting aside the person he had been up until then, for it mattered no longer.

His status as a noble meant only that the occupiers could steal more from him than they could from others. His status as a military school student had him pursued by a few more Begnion soldiers than runaways who were less likely to reinforce a potential rebelling army…

But his status, as he remembers, is also the last reminder of a blood family he once had. Nobility, after all, is largely based on names and blood ties. Is it not somewhat disrespectful of him, to so easily let that go?…

“It’s quite alright,” he forcefully breaks himself out of this train of thought with a response to Lorenz’s comment, a light smile and a wave of his hand to go with it. “It can be rough when you’re not used to it, I know. Myself though, I think I would pass… I danced more tonight than my whole life combined, I think.”

“… Truthfully, I don’t remember when I last danced at all, actually,” he adds in a quieter tone after a brief moment of silence, as though as an afterthought.

The next table is quickly swept in the meantime, the agile hands neatly dumping all leftovers into a garbage bag in one go, while the tablecloth is swiftly gathered up and added to the growing pile of laundry.

He pauses afterwards, before looking at Lorenz again. A shred of hesitation remains still, tugging at his heart - but ever since their first interaction, Lorenz struck him as someone he could speak with of these matters. For a long time now, Leonardo has thought he simply had no need to do so anymore - but as he is presented with an opportunity, he realizes in his heart of hearts that perhaps he was once again incorrect. He simply had no one to do so with…

He goes through with it before any inner voice can protest again, aware that this thought will simply continue to torment him otherwise.

“You know, I don’t talk about this often, but I am actually a noble myself,” he speaks out, his tone of voice unchanged compared to earlier. “Though maybe it would be better to say I was,” he adds with a light shake of his head.

THE REPLY IS ALREADY FORMING ON LORENZ’S LIPS before Leonardo’s finished talking: light laughter, a promise that his feet will soon enough learn not to give out for a turn or three on the ballroom in much the same way they learn to withstand marching orders when deployed on missions. The Ethereal Ball is not the only celebration throughout the year, simply the most structured and ritualized—and the one that lingers longest in memory.

Such laughter does die, however—really, it is a failure to launch before it ever leaves his throat. Lorenz pauses in his sweeping, thoughts pulled away from mulling and his own mild tirade against the task assigned while his head cants to the side. He’s taken aback, yes, but such a moment of repose is welcome to reassess.

There is a certain nobility to Leonardo’s aura, something that does not easily wane once ingrained into the very soul. A kept nature to his appearance, their grand reverie of the night aside, suggests that once it was an understood expectation. It is a claim from a relative stranger, yes, but Lorenz considers himself enough of a discerning eye that a fraud would be dragged into the light and exposed after a simple dressing down. (The least of his efforts, really.) And so:

Attention follows, then, to past tense, and where Lorenz’s brow furrows.

“And no longer are, hence the propensity for menial labor.” Sharpness aside, Lorenz lets the statement rest for a few seconds more, the muted sounds of other conversations in light echo around them filling in the silence.

“You do not sound particularly mired in regret.” Lorenz has all but abandoned the task, now, choosing to watch Leonardo as the other man works with the same eye as a hawk circling on the horizon. “The Leicester Alliance is young, in comparison to the Kingdom and the Empire; our noble houses exist in a state of flux, especially the minor ones that cannot cleanly trace their lineage back to heralded times. Land disputes happen; houses fall out of favor. It is tragic, but simply a fact of life. Not all can bear the mantle of nobility with grace and due reverence for their position.

mage to mage communication.

“Luna, you say? A spell outside my arsenal, I’m afraid - well, at least for now,” Merric chuckles. He does, after all, always seek to expand his potential - and he has little doubt now that Lorenz can relate. “I would like to see you demonstrate it, if you would allow me to trouble you.”

(It doesn’t escape his notice that he is shifting to a more formal, more noble perhaps, way of speech. An influence, perhaps, of his upbringing and ways of old, resurfacing in response to the aura that Lorenz exudes…)

“That is always a noble goal to have,” he nods, the approval clear in his smile. “I have nothing against people who wish to become stronger for their own sake, but it always pleases me especially to see someone who wishes to better themselves for others.” Perhaps that is what Lorenz sees as a noble’s duty, and Merric, of course, applauds and wholeheartedly support the notion; he just wishes all nobles were like this.

(It reminds him, a little, of another Lorenz he once knew, the thought tinging his heart with sadness; he was not there, but he knows of the honorable man’s fate.)

“Oh, it’s no problem at all! I am always happy to assist. Please, do not trouble myself with my time or anything like that.” Truthfully - when it comes to magic matters, Lorenz could come to him in the dead of night, and the Altean would be delighted to answer any doubts. There’s a good chance he wouldn’t be asleep, anyway.

“Alright, well. As I said - in many other countries, the tome is actually a requirement for using spells. You do very much still need your own strength and spiritual power - but a tome is what allows you to manifest them outwardly in a physical manner, in the form of fire, thunder, et cetera, while a staff would turn that energy into a healing power.”

“So you draw from both sources, at the same time. Once the Mage grows accustomed to it, it becomes natural to do that even when maintaining eye contact with the enemy. If you are interested, I’m afraid you might have to imagine yourself that part,” Merric adds with a quiet chuckle.

“It may be a touch more complicated and definitely more restrictive - in some countries, such as my homeland, there are people who simply cannot use magic at all - but it is less exhausting, I find. It’s easier to continue using magic over a longer period of time, if of course you learn to manage your energy well.”

THE LOGIC IS SOUND—the more Lorenz considers a tome a conduit, the more benefits click in to place. Merric’s explanation of its mechanics sound, and he has no choice but to find himself nodding along in turn.

It’s the same logic, in fact, as—well, as Thyrsus.

He does not seek to fish the relic from its case for a demonstration—Lorenz has not made it a secret that he is its inheritor, now, but he does elect to choose its appearances wisely—but it feels worth mentioning, for Merric’s own benefit as they compare methods. “I’ve experience using staffs as supplements for my own magic, actually. And such is the benefit of speaking with someone with such experience! I must admit, I hadn’t considered the same properties could be transitive to the tomes themselves.” A pause, and a chuckle, “—It gives new meaning to the idea that books are a magic of their won, doesn’t it?”

Lorenz’s weight shifts from one foot to the other, before he elects to step a pace back, bending down to slip his day bag from around his shoulders to let it gently rest on the grass near their feet.

“Well, if I am not an imposition, then I will gladly demonstrate where I’m at with my own practice! It is a shame I did not bring the tome I learned it with me, else I’d be happy to share.”

What was once Merric’s target is now Lorenz’s. The pitiful training dummy, target of two mages today—or at least what remains.

Lorenz steps forward then, nodding at Merric and closes his eyes for a few moments of repose. Everything is practiced: his stance, the gentle yet precise movement of his wrists, all speak of a man who has made these exact moves enough for casting to be second nature. He imagines the weight of the spell, the conjured glyphs surrounding his target, grasping at them will full intention to bring the gravity of a moonless sky to bring any foe to their knees—at least, as Lorenz has always imagined the feeling in his mind.

Casting Luna, in practice, feels no different than casting any other high level spell; the moniker of dark magic slowly looses more and more of its edge of intimidation, especially when focused on providing as best a demonstration as he can.

It casts without issue, of course—he wouldn’t be qualified, otherwise. Dark glyphs singe the grass and black matter shreds what poor mess is left. Lorenz is left satisfied, if a bit underwhelmed, and only the tiniest bit on edge by the smell dark magic leaves behind.

                                      BOTANICAL ASKS / NOT ACCEPTING. 🌹

ON THE SURFACE: no. One aspect of Lorenz I think is genuinely one of my favorite parts of his character is that his confidence isn't an act. He truly believes himself to be the pinnacle of nobility, and a paragon of everything he proclaims to stand for. There's an earnestness to his proclamations that borders on humorous, and an instinct to cringe at the lack of self-awareness he sometimes shows to the way he's perceived, especially by characters that aren't nobility.

But that earnestness means that he rarely covets the talents or possessions of others. If anything, others should feel jealous of him, for they have not been born as the heir to House Gloucester!

BELOW THE SURFACE: Lorenz is only human. While I do think that his rare streak of self-assurance shields him from a lot of jealous thoughts, I don't think he's immune. There are two places in particular where I think jealousy is most likely to take root:

you dropped this, king 👑

playing hot potato with @thyrosus​ but the potato is leicester’s future

The meeting blows almost two hours past its allotted time.

There’s a part of him that wishes he could pin the blame on Gloucester and Edmund, how they always have something to say, an opinion to push forward, some lasting remark they want to linger in everyone’s minds. They were the same as always. It’s Claude that needed to adapt to the situation, take charge of his discussion, direct the conversation. But he couldn’t. Not when the discussion was on how exactly inheritance would work for a Federation’s king; every suggestion worse than the last, more deadly than the last, and all Claude could see in their ideas was blood and ‘rivals’ strangled in their cribs.

“Let’s pick up this discussion tomorrow.” Claude stands. They stand, bow, leave. And as they leave, he’s left shaky and weak-kneed. Adrenaline abandons him as soon as the meetings end, leaving him a shell of the brilliant leader in that room, empty, inept. Claude didn’t handle it well. Judith will tell him as much when she has the chance. A petulant thought crosses his mind, she wouldn’t understand. 

Four months later, the desperation in Shahid’s eyes still haunt him, the bits of blood and hair that clung to the cliffside where he fell. 

Four months later, Claude still wonders if some part of him tumbled off the cliff after his brother, still clinging to him as their bodies shatter against the rocks.

—–

On a horse, Claude feels more like himself than he has been lately. Not a duke or a king or a leader, just a man recklessly galloping through the grasslands of Riegan territory, leaving his partner in the dust. They outpace the wind itself, blowing through his hair and past his cheeks. The drumming of powerful hooves fill his ears. The scent of clean air, and miles and miles of open fields around them, as far as the eye can see… at last, his heart remembers how wondrous this world could be. At last, he’s just Claude again.

It’s been some time since he’s had the time to go on an expedition himself. With the war quieting down, apparently they’ve become more like picnics, what with everyone using them as an excuse to get away and relax for a bit. Who could blame them? The saddle suits Claude better than those hard, ancient chairs, he thinks, and between Shahid’s death and the discussions for the Federation, he’s glad to be reminded of what the sun feels like on his skin. 

His heart aches, knowing what’s waiting for him back at Derdriu. If Claude was alone, would he run away like he daydreams about? Just asking himself that, maybe that’s why Lorenz offered to come.

With one last look to the open plains, Claude turns his horse and returns to Lorenz’s side, breathless and smiling. “You brought lunch, right?” They didn’t talk through this much, did they. “…Right?”

LET THE RECORD SHOW LORENZ HELLMAN GLOUCESTER CAPABLE OF SILENCE.

Not that Claude would ever catch a word—least of all while on horseback.

Lorenz had intended on taking to Begonia alone: time to himself is a precious, finite resource, dwindling further and further with the climax of war on a promised horizon. It is far smarter to travel in pairs, but Lorenz has enough confidence in his ability to outride most anyone, and the chances of him being ambushed here are odds Lorenz chooses to gamble on for solitude, and for the purposes of riding out into the plains until he could no longer feel his legs. The idea to let himself in, bucking all propriety but a cursory warning knock, came later. It was only in the stiffness of a greeting, at the heels of a discussion gone well over time, that Lorenz considered the—timing of his actions.

Easy enough to remedy, and to not make it look as though he was getting the last word in. For once in his life, Lorenz can say with certainty Claude does not make it difficult to weave such a lie: “I would ask for the honor of a ride, but I would rather circumvent niceties—for this one time only, mind. I am setting out to survey our surroundings, and it would do you well to step outside at **some** point today.”

When Lorenz rides with company, it is polite to match pace, in order to facilitate the pleasant conversation and have two pairs of eyes alert to the surroundings. It’s not the first time they haven’t seen eye-to-eye, but perhaps the first in a while it has been due to such extenuating circumstances as a breakneck gallop. And let it be known Lorenz tried to keep pace, at first, but it almost certainly goes against the proper survey they should no doubt be doing, no matter the intentions he had to do the same without company.

So, instead, Begonia slows to a canter, then a trot, and then he’s leisurely setting his own walk unencumbered as Lorenz eases off his spurs, watching Claude become little more than a speck on the horizon with a pensive expression before he starts the trek back to Lorenz, windswept but at least in somewhat better spirits.

“Ah, well. I had a meal for two, as well as the finest Gloucester wine—but because you were so eager to make a grand escape at the suggestion, I’m afraid such preparations fell by the wayside.” The sarcasm is thick, although there’s not much bite in Lorenz’s words. Begonia snorts and the telltale whip of his tail sends any lazy flies scattering, not particularly interested in Claude nor his steed and likely just restless at the inconsistent pace.

“Expect no apology, and let your hunger be a lesson—this is not supposed to be a picnic, Claude!”

barks & birthdays.

Particular was one way to put it and Soren let it be. He’d known he was doing business with a noble, after all.

Soren nodded, reflecting on his own time at Fhirdiad. It was short lived and tragic, but he’d done his best to throw any threads of emotions away into the blizzard, no sympathy for an ill fated girl was wroth being kept up at night when he had other matters to attend to. “From my own limited experience, Garreg Mach seems to benefit from more expansive resources from every country in Fodlan. After all, we’re the ones they call on for help.”

Lorenz seemed quite pleased with himself as he fixed their tea. Soren watched, taking his cup when prompted, finding no fault with the refreshing minty scent he caught wafting up from the steam.

“Flattery will hardly get you anywhere, but all you say of the Greil Mercenaries is true.” It wasn’t the same without Ike, but there was nothing Soren could do about that, and it wasn’t as if Ike would want to be dragged into whatever trouble some floral scented dandy could dredge up for them anyway. In fact, the mere idea of Ike meeting Lorenz almost brought a hint of a smile to Soren’s face, and he quickly hid it in his cup, taking a sip.

The conversation turned a little personal.

Soren wasn’t offended. It wasn’t the first time anyone had ever wondered about his parents. Thankfully, Julian bought him a little time to make sure his response was smooth. The puppy went back to sniffing Lorenz and then got bolder, standing on his hind legs to paw at Lorenz’s thigh, whining and begging for food, sniffing eagerly. “He’s quite a brat, isn’t he?” asked Soren lightly.

His parents.

“I am an oddity, no mistaking it,” Soren admitted with a nonchalant shrug. “I never met my parents.” Not at first. A half lie. “You’re right that Tellius doesn’t have something like Garreg Mach, and that even if it did I wouldn’t have gone. I was given the education I have when I was a very young child. You could say someone who raised me was like a private tutor until he died of old age. Oh, but don’t be sorry for that sage- he was ready to bite it before he ever even met me.”

He left out how horrible the training was, and how he never complained only because it was better than where he’d been before then.

Soren had joined with the Greil Mercenaries when he was rather young, but his apparent age made it even more the unlikely tale. “It may not seem plausible, or perhaps I sound like a brag, but I’ve been a capable mage since I was around seven. My friendship with Ike gave me a job and place to stay. The rest was just what was required of me.

“Your enemies don’t ask your age or if they’re playing fair before trying to kill you, after all.”

Satisfied that he’d filled in enough of the blanks without placing down anything too serious or actually revealing, Soren helped himself to a pastry, mostly to help pass the time. He casually buttered his muffin while speaking.

“You must be nervous, looking to foreign mercenaries as tensions tighten around here. Although, since you attend here, it would be absurd for you to not seek an advantage. I’m curious. Which is more worrying: the threats facing all of Fodlan in the form of the Agarthans, or that country to the south calling itself an Empire? Hm, I almost forgot about Alymra.”

There, Soren wasn’t the only one with complicated problems.

—IT MAY NOT BE PLAUSIBLE, but Lorenz has heard far more ostentatious claims. His prowess does speak for himself, and the personality it’s cultivated tracks in full. “Most brigands do not ask questions of those who they seek to cut down, it’s true. I do not doubt your story, if that is cause for concern. You speak to another fellow mage, dear Soren.”

A diplomatic answer without a change in expression. Soren’s tale has an air of tragedy, but his words betray no regrets nor hit that he may be looking for sympathy—quite the opposite, as Lorenz is certain any sympathy offered would be thrown back in disgust in turn. So he doesn’t, only brings the cup to his lips and considers his tale in concert with what else he knows.

The dog, however, does not take kindly to consideration not including him. Admittedly, Lorenz’s perfect façade of hosting is broken, momentarily, by the sudden jump in his seat that little paws unexpectedly searching at his thigh for a treat within range of his snout. To be fair to Julian, puppy-dog eyes bore into his soul when Lorenz leans back in his seat enough to observe the dog in its begging.

“Certainly a stubborn one.” Truth be told, he is cute—although nothing at the table is suitable for his consumption. He may not know much about the care and keeping of them, but surely tea sweets would set a precedent Soren would not care for. While he rankles at potentially spring-muddy paws at his thighs, he isn’t about to harshly shoo the dog away with its master across from him and in the process of having the most pleasant exchange they’ve mustered since crossing paths.

Besides, this is business, and Soren steers such personal questions back to where they belong. Lorenz’s gaze flits from Julian’s begging back to Soren’s face as he takes the reins.

“Nerves play no part in this, I assure you.” Note the curl of his lips at the mention of the Agarthans, a momentary passing of an unpleasant expression while gently nudging Julian’s paws away with a free hand. “Although, if we wanted to speak of tensions, I am surprised you speak so glibly at potential threats—what is contained to Fódlan has no incentive to remain contained, should it suit their agenda. Fódlan’s Locket is well-maintained by House Goneril, and it would be unbecoming of me to suggest I have anything less than full confidence in their might.

the misters clean.

The ball was all fun and games, to be sure; but after all fun and games comes the less fun part, the one where the consequences of said fun must be faced.

(It’s not that much different from the aftermath of a battle, he thinks to himself, while at the same time berating himself for that being the comparison he has made. By the gods, he poured all this effort to fighting for peace, and now that it is here, he cannot even properly enjoy it.)

… Whatever. It is natural for Leonardo to volunteer for the cleaning duty, what with his strong preference for cleanliness not allowing for such mess to stand. He does not want mood and old bits of food under his shoes next time he passes through here.

The work comes to him with ease - he has called a handful of soft twigs a broom before and managed just fine, a proper piece of equipment allows him to get things done with ease.

At least, until he is bumped from the back and only instinct saves him from stepping right into a bucket of water; turning around, he finds himself face to face with a tall figure, and a pair of eyes he already knows.

“Oh, Sir Lorenz. It’s quite alright.” Fellow students though the may be, the title slips out of Leonardo’s lips whether he wills it or not; but that is probably for the better, anyway. Still, a light smile also appears on his face; he is glad to see someone who is a bit less of a stranger than most others.

“Good evening to you, too. Um, I did not actually get roped into it, I volunteered to help. I know it’s a little odd to some people, but I like cleaning.” Though to continue working while he is in the middle of a conversation would be rather uncultured, so his movements stop for the time being.

He finds himself wanting to continue this exchange. Odd, that, what with him being far from the loudest and most open of people; and yet, there is something about Lorenz in particular that makes him feel more at ease than he ever expected.

“I take it you’re not into such tasks?”

“THIS IS NOT WITHIN THE SCOPE OF MY EXPECTED DUTIES.” Great sympathy as he does have for those left behind to clean the thoroughly lived-in halls and beyond. He picks up the eyewear, mindful of the broke edges as he makes his way over to the considerable piles of larger trash piled up on an errant table yet to be broken down. It is not the only one of its kind; the shindig certainly did a fair number on every potential accessory for the amusement of all inspecting the conjured portraits.

“Or my station,” he’s still going on, whether or not he has Leonardo’s ear as he trudges back. Lorenz’s voice carries either way; the handful of volunteers still left to see to assistance are in their own conversations, otherwise only sparing him a second in a glance before returning to their tasks. “I had no prior engagements after tonight’s ball, but—it is the presumptuous nature I take offense to! I am better suited to guiding the efforts, not wielding a broom.”

(The root of the complaints, indignation aside, might still be placing bronze earlier in the evening. Dearest Maria seemed happiest just performing with him, and their effort was a valiant one—but it’s clear the entire thing still smarts.)

At the very least, in his whinging, Lorenz does not remain idle. Unsuited as he is, he still sweeps.

The one-sided commiseration continues, at least, with focus brought back to Leonardo: “Small mercies, then, that you do not feel put upon—and that at least more hands will make the work go by faster.”

—Finally, finally, more focus put on the task itself. At least Lorenz knows how to handle a broom.

mage to mage communication.

“Ah. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lorenz.” Merric smiles; the man strikes him as quite formal to be sure, but at the same time, amicable to speak to. Makes sense, given the topic in question, which they both seem to have in common; always easier to chat about something one has a strong interest in.

The serene expression takes on a somewhat sympathetic hint as the tall student describes his woes and struggles, before getting replaced by a look of slight surprise as the question is posed. A question more than familiar and normal for Merric to hear, and one he has received and explained a few times already; though it does, admittedly, feel as though it has been a while since last time.

“Well, I am not sure if it would help you, if I may be honest - though it never hurts to try, I suppose,” he begins, “as tome-less way of casting is what you’re used to. In my homeland, magic is not so much very hard to use without the conduit in your hands - usually it’s simply impossible. That is the case with many other magic student foreign to Fódlan, too - so you can see most of them doing this, out of sheer force of habit. In many other countries and magic systems, the tome itself is the source of magic power, and even if you have the incantation memorized, physical contact - or at least having it nearby - is necessary to successfully summon magic.”

He bends down to place the Hades tome carefully and safely on the ground next to him as he continues. “Holding the tome makes me feel more stable, simply because that is what I’m accustomed to doing. Naturally, with this being Fódlan magic, I can also use it without holding the tome…”

Standing straight again, he extends his arm forward, towards another nearby training dummy, another blast already dancing around his fingers as it gets ready— WHOOSH! The purple lights strike forward, and next thing the two Mages know, half of the poor, poor target is now… missing.

Neat.

“… But I certainly do feel as though I have less control like this,” Merric picks up the topic again at the same time as his tome, chuckling quietly. “A psychological effect, if you will. May be seen as a flaw sometimes, really… To lose confidence for a rather silly reason.”

He shakes his head, more to himself than to Lorenz, before looking up at the Deer student again.

“If I may ask - what exactly is it that you have been practicing?”

                                BOTANICAL ASKS / NOT ACCEPTING. 🌹

LORENZ IS SOMETHING OF A RARITY—the notion that he would want to be anyone else but himself (noble son, heir to an esteemed house, with dreams of leading the alliance into an age of prosperity) is a foreign concept to him. A boy born with everything and a father’s legacy he yearns to live up to and surpass may be crushing for some, and in some ways, he is aware his hands are tied with decisions he must make and the rigid place in society he will inherit. But it is always Lorenz’s nature to exceed expectations, to do everything and make it seem effortless. He’s happy with the way the world is for him, at least at the very start of where we meet him, in both Three Houses and Three Hopes.

barks & birthdays.

Lorenz did an admirable job of keeping his composure. Soren was never much one for respecting other’s feelings, and it did amuse him to watch someone so steeped in nobility and formalities to have to deal with a puppy bounding around at their feet.

However, he did listen, keeping the fact that he noticed Lorenz’s eye twitch to himself.

“Hmm, deer hunting is illegal for nobles in Leicester, therefore you could only pursue smaller game like fox and rabbit. I suppose it isn’t worth keeping a hunting dog around just for that.” Back when he was younger, Soren had been baffled at the idea of nobles working hard at anything. He remembered wandering by small towns and farmer’s fields and seeing only others like him in drab clothing working from dawn til dusk. He’d sorted the absent nobles as a group of people who were exceptionally busy doing nothing.

Oftentimes, that perception still seemed true.

Lorenz, however, didn’t shy from the battlefield or making practical plans.

Soren watched Lorenz magically heat the water with interest, eyes tracing the few curves of the glyphs that he could see under the pot. Such a thing could have medical applications too, for making salves or whatnot…

“I’ve never been asked about employment over tea before. It is a step up from other situations I’ve been in.” Soren didn’t glow from the praise. Really, any esteem the Greil Mercenaries had earned was from Ike and his father. As individuals, they had their strengths, but no amount of compliments would do to make Soren lower his rates.

He watched the teapot heat up, the water beginning to bubble inside. “The answer is quite simple. Gold.” He shrugged. “The academic lifestyle suits me just fine, but so does applying my knowledge. Fame and knowledge can’t put bread on the table. The mercenary life, and assisting with administrative duties for Ike’s company, is most of all I’d ever known in my younger years.”

If he was going to be truly honest, the answer wouldn’t have just been gold. Ike. The ache in his chest at how the continental distance between them ate at him wasn’t something he wanted to show to Lorenz, however.

“I don’t take jobs that aren’t worth my time. As long as we’re clear on that, I’m all ears.”

There was remarkable silence from his dog was both a relief and a worry. Soren looked down, relieved that Julian was just chewing on a knotted rope that Soren had brought for him to chew on.

“I FIND THAT DISCUSSIONS OF BUSINESS pair far better with something warm in my hand.”

Puppy aside, Lorenz sees no need not to flash a bit of a smirk, pride seeping into his expression as he tracks Soren’s gaze. “Good hosting is in my blood, and it would do my dear mother a disgrace not to offer a guest anything in exchange for their time. We’re a very particular sort, if you cannot tell.”

Lorenz crosses one leg over the other as he settles in—again, his eyes drift down to their feet, although the unexpected guest remains quiet for now, obscured by the tablecloth.

And so, the first of his curiosities is satisfied. Lorenz nods in turn; a practical man has practical answers, and gold speaks louder to mercenaries than any sort of acclaim. He respects it, especially in concert with a testing grounds for knowledge. Prickly demeanor or not, Lorenz has come to understand that he and Soren have a fair bit more in common than they might be inclined to mutually assert. He holds his tongue in that regard, watching Soren with rapt attention.

“Practical experience is a gift unto itself, I agree. I attended the highly-esteemed School of Sorcery in Fhirdiad, but it is a more research-focused institution by design, at least when I was in attendance. I found that it suited my temperament perfectly, then, but I cannot pretend as though my own prowess has grown exponentially since my enrollment here. I may disagree with how certain things are run, but the results—well, they speak for themselves.”

The bubbling of water signals its readiness for the mint leaves, and deft fingers remove the lid in order to steep them as he continues. “And, as reputations go, I am told it is hard to compare to your company, insofar as your home country is concerned. Favored by monarchs, if I’m not mistaken. You refuse to waste your time or resources if it will not benefit you. Fear not, Soren—we are in complete agreement.

“You have been with them since your youth, then? Were your parents mercenaries as well?”

third star to the fight and straight on till morning.

♠  - Easily, the worst part about this whole ‘rebooting’ thing was that it had forced to just sit and float while everyone else hogged all the glory were fighting. From where she wound up floating, she could see Hinoka tear a wide gaping hole in the ‘Jeanne’ ‘s armour into which Marth and Brigid quickly poured in their attacks. Damn, the most opportune time to deliver a crushing blow and she was missing out, unable to move because her ride was effectively taking a holiday!

“Damn it! Move, you stupid thing!”, Farina growled out in frustration, pulling at her controls fruitlessly. How long was this ‘rebooting’ supposed to take? Any longer and she was goin-Wait, hold on. It might actually be done. 

Farina ordered her mech to perform a few experimental kicks just to test the reaction time. Oh, yeah. it was definitely back. Now, where were they? Glancing back in the direction of their last enemy, Farina took a moment to assess their current situation and gave a savage grin. Looks like that thing was on its last legs from all the pounding Marth and Brigid were raining on it (especially Marth. He was tearing through that armour like it wasn’t even there!) Well then, it was high time she finished it off!

Jetting off in a seemingly random-looking direction before veering away again, Farina quickly set her mech on a high-speed maneuver designed to confuse and disorient. If it doesn’t even know from which direction she’ll attack, there’s no way it can even hope to intercept! Oh, she was sure it might look fancy and impressing but she could practically do a maneuver like this in her sleep. 

It didn’t take her long at all before she stopped suddenly right in front ‘Jeanne’s open wound in her armour. Certainly looked like the place from which she could do the most damage. “Oh, yeah! You’re mine!”, she declared as she thrust her baton forwards for the kill.. 

Farina attacks Melanthios with Brave Lance. 2 Hits (16, 7)! Melanthios takes 3.5 Damage from each hit. Melanthios HP: 4 -> 0 Melanthios is defeated!

Having stuck her baton in deeply through that gap in its armour, she guessed she must have hit something vital with that last attack. A series of sparks quickly began arcing their way across its entire body, rocking it over and over with what looked like a series of small explosions inside its armour. Not wanting to get caught up in the imminent explosion, Farina began rapidly pulling back and get herself into a new position to surveil the carnage. 

Certainly didn’t look like it was in much shape to be fighting anymore. To be honest, it looked more ‘dead’ than she was just a few moments ago. And this time, it looked far from temporary, what with entire arms and other bits just falling entirely detached.

“Well, guess that’s that.”, Farina declared, stretching her arms, as much as she can given her fairly cramped cockpit, as if to relax from a job well done. She could deal Now, onto their next problem… “So, uh, how do we get out of here?” Actually, she wasn’t exactly sure where ‘here’ even was. They were in a big blob of nothing! Where in the world did this Melan-whoever even take them?

@thyrosus or @larvesez

THE EXPLOSION IS A SIGHT TO BEHOLD.

Lorenz knows well what magic can do to living organisms, and has watched countless fall afoul of the effects. There is something to be said for their villain’s demise, as while the footsoldiers broke apart with a similar fanfare, the satisfaction of watching Farina deal the final fell swoop is underscored by the horrific brilliance of the carnage.

But such an explosion carries with it carnage, in parts, and Lorenz is not quite free of the fray. Shrapnel comes flying, barely missing his machine’s “eyes” but embedding itself somewhere into the approximation of his shoulder with a terrible thud that reverberates through both bodies and violently shakes Lorenz in his seat.

Melanthios attacks from beyond the grave! 14! Hit!

He rights himself quickly, thankfully, as nothing comes to follow up on his blunder. The jostling is temporary, riding out waves as Lorenz propels his mech backward, but the sting remains to his ego as a mark of carelessness, even if he lives to tell the tale.

Against endless darkness, the explosion seems to sear into Lorenz’s eyes more violently than before. Underscoring their victory is anguish; Raoul’s grief is palpable, and such a display of tenderness for an something so alien and non-human is…

…Lorenz may not understand the sentiment in full, his distaste for this entire ordeal having never been shaken, but the grief is palpable, human. Felt, deep in his bones, in a way he would rather not consider on the heels of such an incomprehensible battle.

He closes his eyes to the display, as though to give Raoul some semblance of privacy and to collect himself for the ordeal ahead.

Farina raises a good point, in the chaos: how will they return?

“…In theory, our only option is to fall.” In the chaos, Lorenz pushed his trepidation towards soaring heights down with his life on the line. With adrenal falling, he is not particularly keen on looking down to peer at the vast emptiness beneath his feet. “That is not a particularly palatable answer, but I still little recourse. If we have indeed been swallowed by the sky.”

In the privacy of his mech, Lorenz allows himself to recline, a hand coming to the bridge of his nose to pinch it, head tipped back and Raoul’s grief slowly trickling to silence.

…Silence?

It takes him seconds too late to realize there are no more stars.

Lorenz cannot pinpoint where the light begins, only that it is suddenly there, terrible and devouring.

There is no time to scream, only for one more passing thought—what in the Goddess’s green earth could possibly be left to see to?

third star to the fight and straight on till morning.

It’s finally her turn to take the offensive and the pressure, the eyes trained on her back, make her uncomfortable. The people that surround her are legends in their own homelands. She is just a woman with a blade, striving to make such a name for herself.

There’s only one thing for her to do though. Grasp her sword tight and charge into the enemy. Te blade bites into flesh, deep and devouring. Smirking. Shez pulls back and revels in the bloodshed. This one was for Raoul.

Roll d20+2: 12! Hit! 3.5 damage dealt to Bovis with Armourslayer. Bovis counters. Roll d20-2:7! Hit. Deals 0 damage to Shez.

The Bolt Axe collides with her shoulder and it should hurt. Her arm should crumple under the force, reasonably. It does not however. The weapon hardly even tickles her. She doubts it will even bruise whilst Marth watches her closely. She isn’t sure how he does it - does not need to know, really. It works, so she shoots him a cheerful peace sign in thanks.

“Let’s do this. For General Raoul.”

It was…. different to fight for someone else. Fulfilling, almost.

RECOVERY IS SWIFT—Lorenz rights himself and his accursed machine, shoving Thyrsus awkwardly between his legs; there’s a little voice in his head that sounds a terrible amount like Sara, telling him off for not treating his family relic with all the reverence it deserves, but in the moment he cannot use it to ward against the mechanical enemies threatening them now.

Focus. Lorenz does not dare spare the moment to close his eyes for any moment of repose, but his brow furrows deeper in concentration as he surveys the scene. Despite his misstep, the battle is slowly turning in their favor.

He must do his best to continue the momentum of the fight while they have the upper hand.

That is when he elects to do something he’d neglected. Experimentation with something so complex may well have ended in disaster, but—sometimes a gambit is necessary.

It is a calculated risk. On the screens in front of him, he looks to the control panel, to a certain cluster of options highlighting one of the arms. It appears this deploys… something.

“Let us keep on the offensive, everyone!”

He watches as Shez strikes one of the few enemies remaining, bullish in appearance, and as he propels himself forward, his arm no longer sparks with the machine’s magic, but transforms itself into something akin to a whorled lance head—

14!

Lorenz’s strike connects after Shez’s, heading straight for what approximates the shoulder against their foe. More metallic sounds only mildly muffled by his mech, but he only grits his teeth instead of actively wincing, anticipating the strike this time, and correcting himself to propel away.

Bovis attacks!
 1! Miss!

He learns, and corrects, and the axe that should aim for his head hits dead air.

Now this is a far better performance.

“Your mistake, for taking your eyes off me!”

LORENZ’S EYES OPEN TO THE VAST ARRAY OF STARS—below his feet, above his head, and any which direction he can see from his accursed seat. What remains of his memories before are hazy, but there is one,

no, two certainties that follow the violent jostling and incomprehensible surroundings.

One, that Lorenz can feel the magic flowing through his veins return in full, a comfort that does not outweigh the peril presented in front of him—it’s happening again, flash of teeth and ghost’s blade and serpent’s cry—

—Two, that there is no world in which their enemy keeps his word.

“Your words are empty when you ready yourself to strike the second we turn tail.” Their enemies are… unconventional, and have been the very second they’d materialized before bleary eyes weeks ago. But they can be felled.

Lorenz’s hands are fists at his knees. His grimace is painful, and he stares down the behemoth of metal that floats across from them in an endless sea of starlight.

“Today, you face Lorenz Hellman Gloucester. Your form has little bearing on your fate, as I will strike you down!”

Lorenz’s mech lurches forward, sights set on the furthest of the enemies crossing their paths. It appears as a horse; he feels no remorse as it stares back with the lifeless eyes of a machine.

—Being a man of the earth, he may have miscalculated the movement of his unfamiliar automated suit of armor without the whims of gravity enacting upon it.

6! Miss!

He lurches forward, and while he cannot stumble in the traditional sense, the mechanical limbs are met with far less resistance than he’s used to. Hand raised to attack, the beam of light misses its mark, petering out by fault of his own by a swift discovery of facts.

He should not be in outer space; magic surging through his veins again is a boon in every instance except when he means to aim a machine’s equivalent; and he has been reunited with his missing relic.

(The reunion, in the machine’s jostling, is Thyrsus colliding with Lorenz’s face.)

Equus attacks! 9!

In the midst of it all, something terrible shakes his entire surroundings, vision suddenly awash in red as the screens show the beginnings of an impact. His entire world shakes, and there is the sickening sound akin to armor collapsing in on itself for several perilous seconds.

He’s died once in unfamiliar surroundings. He will not make that same mistake again.