#🔥Tʰⁱˢ ˢᵗʳᵉⁿᵍᵗʰ'ˡˡ ⁿᵒᵗ ᵍᵒ ᵗᵒ ʷᵃˢᵗᵉ - threads

[fjalarspark]

🔥⊰⊰⊰ ―― "Caspar -- right!" ( What a miracle to learn that the heirs to Fodlan preferred a familiarity in exchanging names than to resort to formalities like stiff and stagnant snobs vying for unearned power. ) "We are classmates . . . although I should think housemates might be a bit better."

Truthfully, Azelle hadn't thought he shared anything more than a political class with the boy, and even then he couldn't be too sure -- not with how many lords and ladies this estate carried. Perhaps he needed to keep a keen eye ajar for a ruckus; then, he should have his answer!

"Oh . . . "

Arvis. Where could he go without being recognized as such ( although perhaps not exactly as the man, but as kin to him -- to be almost wholly mistaken for him was something else entirely: something unexpected ) ? It tugged his shoulders to slump and a sigh to slip past, and that ache in his heart blossomed like a wilting spider lily beneath his sternum.

"No, I'm not him." He explains with a smidgen of puncture, lips pressed together. "But we are -- well, we are family. And I wouldn't blame you for avoiding his class. I'm not too . . . keen on attending them myself."

He dismisses the thought with a hasty flicker of the hand -- waved then gone, lost to the abyss of an afterthought.

"Anyways, I'm Azelle. It's wonderful to properly meet you, Caspar."

A fellow peer -- more boisterous than Azelle could ever will of himself -- had been assigned as his first partner in this game's early duration, and Azelle couldn't ponder past the rabble-rouser of an opponent their host had assigned him against. ( Against? . . . no, that wasn't quite the right word, not for a game this low-stakes. )

"Excuse me, Sir Bergliez," He begins, hand raised to beckon attention, albeit restrained at the elbow so as to avoid a full display of gathering attention. "We have been stationed opposite one another in this tournament. I . . . mean no harm."

A turquoise tuft and rambunctious affinity for non-sequiturs and entertainment -- gel it back, toss in a scoff, deepen the young man's locks with indigo, and it'd be as if he wasn't without Lex at all. They'd be dallying in festivities and sweets and carnival games as if the world hadn't been reaped asunder.

A sheepish smile blushes against his visage, and the young Velthomer shakes his head, dismissing the thought ( -- a tragic thought, really. )

"I . . . well, I didn't mean to get lost there for a moment. You just remind me of a good friend of mine."

It takes Caspar a moment to realize he's being addressed—when 'Sir' fell from the fellow's lips, the boy had twisted around to see what sort of knight or landed noble must be standing behind him. Then the full syllables of Bergliez hit his ears, and he realizes his mistake. Unless a family member decided to make an unexpected visit, there's only one Bergliez on campus, after all. He greets his fellow student with wide eyes and a wider grin.

"Oh, wow, I don't think I've ever gotten that one before! I'm flattered, but you can just call me Caspar."

A curled fist jabs a thumb upward, both a gesture of approval and a guide back toward his bright, energetic expression, just to really cement the name-face connection.

"I may not know you as well as the person you're thinking of, but you can count me as a friend too if you'd like. We're classmates, right? Your name was........Arv.....no, hold on."

His hand rubs at the back of his neck now, urging his memory to reignite with the friction.

"Gah, sorry. Do you study magic, maybe? I'm not in a lot of those classes."

[fjalarspark]

Not So Easy Breezy A Reunion

From here: Desire for a stamp (ask)

@concealedbybreeze

🔥⊰⊰⊰ ――

                  “Yes, right!” He spoke, procuring his card from beneath his ruby-red cloak, brushing it off as if the gesture would do anything; it wouldn’t, he just needed something to calm his nerves. After all, Lewyn seemed to be handling this ordeal rather well for someone who’s supposed to be dead. “Stamps!”

                Azelle offered his card in duality to pressing the A.v.V of his own ring to the man’s card, peeling away his ring so as not to make a mess of the ink. Cards stamped, the younger Velthomer offered an uneasy smile; he couldn’t offer much more, though he wanted to. To see Lewyn again, just as quick-witted and smooth as ever...it filled Azelle with a strange warmth. He could remember the man’s demeanor, could recall aspiring to be smooth around people, able to worm his way into a conversation as if his heart didn’t thunder his chest. Lewyn really wasn’t much different than when last they’d met...if not a little more, well, mystical, Azelle supposed.

                Stamps obtained and given, Azelle tucked away his card, patting the pocket to free from himself jittery nerves, gaze once more upon Lewyn.

                “I know we’ve not spoken much,” He began, “Even under Lord Sigurd’s guidance, but, well, I have to say it: I think you’re neat.”

[fjalarspark]

Survival of the Fittest

You better not be exhausted of war games just yet! Your survival professor has thrown a surprise test at the lot of you, and it’s worth a good chunk of your final grade to boot. One of you must head into the Sealed Forest and survive through the night, with only a small pouch of tools and a weapon to aid you. There is a twist: one of your classmates will be playing the role of an assassin from the enemy army, hunting you down. [ Grants Bow + 1 ]

🔥⊰⊰⊰ ――

                   Heart racing, thoughts askew, Azelle fiddled with the bow in his hands; it wasn’t his weapon of choice, and he’d been robbed of his tomes and precious volumes. He couldn’t rely on the sweet, familiar course of magic through his veins, and he couldn’t fathom another way to survive; he was hopeless. But, if he’d survived in Grannvale, the Sealed Forest surely did not compare...right? He wasn’t entirely certain, but his resolve was hardened, and determination settled upon his face both awkwardly and readily; he would survive, he had to. But, he also didn’t think that the academy would allow him to die under their supervision, so the worst he’d receive was a grade that made him sick to his stomach. Onward!

                   An awkward hold on his bow, his mind distracted by the swaying pouch of various utilities at his hip, finger strumming the bowstring as though it were an instrument, Azelle kept himself low to the ground, cast under shadows, hidden as well as he could make himself. Stealth wasn’t his forte, being invisible was, but not stealth, not when he was alone...When he was hopefully alone. Creatures surely prowled in the night, beasts and monsters, ready to ravage what flesh they could catch in their maws. Azelle swallowed thickly, heaving in a breath that was meant to calm him, but it held no value; he was as nervous as ever. 

                   Unsteady on his feet now, Azelle relented to sitting back against one of the many trees that he couldn’t climb. If only he’d been more agile, more athletic, he’d be less threatened on the ground, a bird shot down. He relied on distance during battles, casting spell after spell which never truly required any serious physical strength...Could he even nock an arrow into place? He sighed, head swaying in a shake. Just a few long hours and he’d be back in his dorm, dreaming away the Sealed Forest’s terrors...A few, long hours.

@nagargent 

[fjalarspark]

🔥⊰⊰⊰ ―― He stays far, yet draws near -- as if compelled by the blood of their bond, that which permeates through his classroom when a certain professor should instruct in its confines. He much prefers the alternative professor -- the Lady of Velthomer, and of Chalphy, and of Belhalla : Naga's heir ; yet, even then, hesitancy garbs him with plates of fortification that he thinks should rival those Arden once hefted upon his shoulders. Hesitancy keeps him distant from her, even though the Lady Deirdre is nothing like Arvis Velthomer. She married him, didn't she?

( Even if she had appeared a bit frazzled and hazy when Arvis had flaunted her upon a pedestal for Lord Sigurd's ranks of sapphire to see. But he can't remember it much, not when he had been groveling in the depths of hurt and betrayal, witnessing the once fraternal -- paternal, if examined closely enough -- visage of his brother warp into malice and murder . . . even against him. )

Hesitancy makes sure that he glimpses through the classroom archways to ascertain which professor resided inside : Tyrant Velthomer, or his more benign wife ? A visage of lilac and flowing skirts ( and an ambiance of clemency beyond what Arvis could ever muster ) answers his question.

Still, he merely slinks in, clinging to the back wall, before he scurries up with as much silence as he can muster into his rear-residing seat.

One more class. One more, and then he could retire for the day ( because Naga above knows he needs it . . . )

@nagaficat

𝑰 𝑲𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑶𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑨𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆. &𝑫𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒅𝒓𝒆

[fjalarspark]

velouriavonwolfchild​:

Velouria sat up from the ground as they traded stamps, dusting off the little bit of dirt plastered on her back. Tomes… he asked of tomes in her collection. She did have a few, but they were all dirty and busted. She didn’t like collecting things that were all that new and fancy.

“Hrm… I do have some tomes, but I doubt they are something you’d like. They got all dirty from the rest of my collection.” It wasn’t her fault that she liked dirty things. Dusty bunnies were simply too cute!

“Thank you for the stamp. It just gets really loud in there… my ears are very sensitive… and humans are so stinky, especially for my nose.”

She didn’t think he’d fancy her collection of rundown and dirtied tomes? Ha! To him, a tome was a tome, and knowledge was knowledge; it mattered not in what form it revealed itself. Anything he could get his hands on, Azelle would cherish with the utmost care‒‒after all, a gift was a gift, and he’d not soon forget his manners. 

“What’s a little dirt to an insight of knowledge?” He mused, a smile on his face, hoping to reassure her that he didn’t mind in the least bit what state of array her things were in‒‒ it wasn’t any of his business. “If you’d be so willing, I’d love to see what you’ve collected tome-wise! I may even have something jumbled in my knicks and knacks that you might like!” A trade deal...assuming she was willing to trade something more than her stamps. He had plenty of rundown and tattered trinkets from his mediocre travels in Grannvale and from the larger ventures in Fodlan. 

“And you are most absolutely welcome!” He cheered, beaming. “People do get pretty gross‒‒ some need a proper freshening up... and maybe something to wash their mouths with when they think cheery words’ll come out but it’s really just bad breath.” 

His own housemate, though he'd never properly spoken to her of yet, seemed to him stowed away, away from the crowds of the ballroom; Azelle understood. The thrum of voices and the jostling of statures was often a bother, and being on the smaller side himself, he couldn't bear to think such thoughts of jostling and shoving. If she'd fled the ballroom, he understood. But, he'd seen her leave, and he'd sought her out. Loneliness was a terrible thing, and he'd hoped, being of a likeness to her, that he'd be able to lend her a shoulder.

"Lady Velouria," He spoke softly, joining her at a polite distance. "I couldn't help but notice you escaping the festivities. I was hoping we could speak?"

Gentle, soft, quiet; he knew the desire to be alone. But, if he could share with her a few words, he'd be happy. After all, one of his goals was to meet as many people as he could during the ball!

"We can exchange stamps, even if you'd rather be by your lonesome...assuming you're collecting!"

Velouria escaped from the ballroom itself, wanting to get some fresh air from all the hustle and bustle of the inside. Ugh, her nose felt so overwhelmed with all the scents muddling together in there. And her fluffy hears buzzed with the excitment of the other students. She just need a break, laying on the ground just outside of the busy hall. It was then that a small shadow covered a bit of the moonlight beaming down on her, speaking of something about stamps and stuff. Oh. Those stamps.

"Huh? Yeah... I think I am? I like collecting things, it's just hard to talk to people when everyone's being so loud!"

[fjalarspark]

odsfinest​:

That red hair is the first giveaway to the last name of the young mage. But his kind exterior was definitely a promising start. He looked nothing like the Velthomer that caused all the issues ever experienced. A deep sigh of relief…

“Ah, I do think I remember you… you served in Sigurd’s army, did you not?” There’s a lot of people Shannan saw, from being rescued to his aunt devoting herself to that very same army. While he could not serve, he still experienced a hefty amount of their losses along with them, and even more after… well… you know. No point in beating a dead horse and all that.

Hearing the name Azelle makes the man nod, face lighting up a little. This whole evening has just been one big trip down memory lane. Edain, Deirdre, Julia, Scathach, Seliph, Sigurd, Larcei… this almost feels like the perfect future. The one where everyone made it. Like Belhalla was just one big nightmare that he’d finally woken up from!

But nightmares don’t leave wounds like these.

“Azelle… yes! That was your name. You were the mage that accompanied Sigurd. Or, one of them. I know I’ve seen others but… they have eluded me. With all that’s going on, I’m just glad to see everyone is mostly alright, even just physically.” A chuckle as he puts a hand out, taking Azelle’s forearm in a hardy grasp, his other coming to the mans shoulder. It’s so good to see everyone again, and while he doesn’t know how long this’ll last, he won’t let it escape. These are the moments he wished for most in his war-torn life.

“You’ve been well then, I take it?”

“I did!” And serving in Sigurd’s army may have been the best decision he’d ever made. The people he met and the lives he learned of, the cultures and customs of places he hadn’t, at the time, visited. From the spiraling, cold peaks of Silesse and the plain terrain of Agustria, everything had been a new memory. Memories he, in truth, had a tendency to dwell on, to rewrite as if smoke didn’t still sting his nose. Such great memories tainted by the touch of cinders...Belhalla seemed to follow him everywhere. 

It was a relief when the man seemed to light up more than fall into sorrow, and Azelle’s face was graced with his own small smile at the thought. Good memories. Everyone had to have something good worth recalling. He himself could remember young Shannan’s release from Genoa. How relieving that must have felt...But Azelle wouldn’t know for sure; he’d never been held captive. 

“Yes,” He continued, smiling. “One of many mages in Lord Sigurd’s army.” Lewyn, Tailtu, and a handful of others who possessed the grace of magic. He’d always loved its art, the flame that danced from his hands...now, though, something gentler seemed more favorable. “I’ve met only Lewyn here thus far, and of course Lady Deirdre.” ...Would it be appropriate to mention Seliph? Or Saias? The child Shannan had to defend whilst the child’s mother was stolen away? Or the eldest Velthomer child that no one really new of? A safe bet was to not mention either. 

When Shannan took Azelle’s arm into a tight grasp, the younger Velthomer was snatched from his thoughts. Good grief, the man had such a grip that Azelle never would have put to his young face. A chuckle fell from his lips, caught off guard by the action until Shannan patted him on the shoulder. Such a strong greeting...Mayhaps Azelle would have to try it some time. 

“For the most part, yeah,” Azelle began...For the most part aside from being startled by Arvis with the photo-artifex. Crusaders above, his heart began to race when he only even thought of the fright he’d been given. “Just...a few reunions that came too soon is all. Yourself? I know you’ve arrived only recently, but which house might you be in?”

The dark hair of Isaach had lured him in, curiosity perhaps his bane, but Azelle had to know. Had Belhalla's ill fate befallen the youngster? Surely not; Azelle could not recall seeing young Shannan there. He'd disappeared under Lord Sigurd's orders, when the man had tried to clear his name. From the eyes to the hair, from the poise to the posture, he'd been reminded of an ally he'd met…well, seen, during his travels with Lord Sigurd. If this was the same young prince…

"Hello there," Azelle greeted, waving to make himself known...a little awkward, but certainly not so much as he had been once upon a time. "You seemed to me familiar. I was wondering if I could get your name?"

He slipped on his ring and revealed his stamp card.

"In recompense, we can exchange stamps!"

Od's blood bestowed Shannan with hefty growth spurt. Far taller, far broader, and this air of confidence that the young prince did not have upon Azelle's first meeting with the Isaachian. But time caught up to everyone at some point, and now Shannan stood taller than Azelle!

Oh. Stamps. That's something the swordsman should've been more concerned about. A dance competition was simply not something he found himself caring for. He just got here, not enough time to worry about proving something with his dancing.

"Hmm? Oh," initially confused, the question is seemingly answered. That hair, that face, that attire. Velthomer without a doubt. Yet hating Azelle did nothing. In fact, this face looks familiar too, in a good way. "I am Shannan. King of Isaach. You are from Velthomer, yes? I... recognize you, but do not recall your name." Carefully, a neatly folded card is revealed from those purple robes, and passed to Azelle, through, his index and middle finger. "Do you need a stamp as well?"

[fjalarspark]

🔥⊰⊰⊰ ――

                  She seemed to watch him, something pleasant in her eyes, as she offered to take a plethora of his volumes from his arms, cradling them in her own before offering him a seat beside her...in the front. This whole class-going ordeal was beyond any acknowledgement his tutors had given him, and Azelle wasn’t quite certain that front and center was the particular cup of tea he wanted to sip from this early into his academic career within Garreg Mach. Everyone would be able to see him― with tresses as bright and bold as his, he’d not be missed. It was a dancing thought of uncertainty. 

                  But something radiated from Lady Deirdre, warm and inviting, and, dare Azelle to think it, hopeful. It was as if she dared to want his company, quiet as it was and perhaps just as awkward. She seemed to, well, see him, to look at him and not past him, and a soft, small smile trickled onto Azelle’s face. He was wanted by perhaps the kindest, gentlest person he could ever have met, and his heart thrummed like a soft and fresh breeze in his chest. Perhaps this new path of his could be trodden well.

                  But, Azelle’s smile drops when she speaks her last tidbit, and a frown finds its way to his face, pulling his features subtly down. He was here, within these very walls. No less, he was the professor of the very house Azelle had been accepted into, and his heart fell. He did not loathe his brother, no; he couldn’t. But to have the almost feared emperor of Grannvale see him again after having fled, denying the man’s terms...Azelle felt like fleeing a second time. 

                 “Be that as it may,” Azelle began, voice light, hoping to mask his uncertainty regarding the entire ordeal― the fear that began to chill his blood. “I wouldn’t dare to believe that we are on speaking terms, though we are...half-brothers.” How could they be? Azelle had fled not only Arvis, but the entire kingdom to pursue something more, and his added sting, his little remark, surely didn’t benefit him. 

               “Since fleeing Grannvale, I doubt he’d care to hear from me again. We are, at this point, foes, I suppose.” It hurt to say.

Fambly Weunion

@fjalarspark

Deirdre hums as she walks into the Black Eagles classroom. She is early today but she does not mind. It is easy for her to lose herself day dreaming and that always helps her pass the time.

She has her pick of seats and decides on front and center. It does not feel intimidating being so close to the professor and it gives her the best view of the board for note taking. The door opens again and Deirdre turns to see who has joined her. The company is always welcome! To her surprise, it is a familiar face but not one she recognizes from her time in Fódlan.

"Lord Azelle! Is that truly you?" Grannvale's princess abandons her things to hurry to his side. His is a face she has not seen outside of portraits since that terrible day in Belhalla. Slowly, slowly her dear friends from her previous life have been finding their way back to her. "Does Lord Arvis know? Oh I cannot wait to see how happy he will be!"

[fjalarspark]

🔥⊰⊰⊰ ―― The candies in his decorative amber pouch had increased -- he hadn't thought much of an alliance between himself and his former opposition, but that had been the outcome ( not that he was against it! It was simply . . . strange to think not all in the world was rotten. )

It had bolstered his festive spirits, splurged a thump in his heart of rhythmic joy he thought he'd be long without after smoke and cinders flooded his nostrils so many years ago.

But no -- he smelled confections and sweets, Autumn aromas and fall-time whiffs of festive attendance. It was a reprieve -- a much needed one at that, what with scurrying from class to class hoping to be cast in too large a shadow to be seen by a certain someone.

Not the point! Not when this new celebratory atmosphere clouds his heart against better judgment and wanders dull ruby bootfalls to the side of an individual with lengthy, pale, nigh luminescent sunshine tresses.

"I believe, " He ponders aloud, head tilting curiously, pleasantly -- in a way he hopes is inviting ( because he knows the Velthomer charm is anything but. ) "You're Lucius? I'm Azelle, a Black Eagles student."

@semperiuvare

𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒔? 𝑯𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒔 :𝑫 &𝑳𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒖𝒔

[fjalarspark]

🔥⊰⊰⊰ ―― His green thumb . . . wasn't green. It could be flame orange or Fjalar's hue of ruby if the odd spell should go awry, but his thumb was anything but green. But his thumb hadn't led him here, hadn't hustled his footfalls along cobbled stones in the early hours of the morning to witness a tale of Fodlanic ( he believed that was the term, but he wasn't too sure ) myth: the Lady-of-Mourning -- a tragic epithet gifted to the newly recovered specimen.

Myths, he regarded studiously -- an aficionado of their contents and yellowed pages locked in prestigious vaults to spare them from withering. They had been read to him before he could read, blended into the lore of history to explain the workings of establishing government and noble estates, for much of Jugdral's history scaffolded into its present architecture through legends of yore. He even wielded the blood of such a Jugdrali legend ( and for that, he was uncertain if there should be gratitude or resentment, or perhaps a concoction of both in his heart. )

Mournfully, his time to observe the struggling bloom was thieved from him when the garden's keeper -- a dame of grandmotherly build and age-honed persistence -- bid him scuttle his slacking self into the throes of labor, which presently hoisted a sack of fertilizer over his shoulder. ( Fjalar above, the lady could glimpse him and gauge that his talents resided elsewhere than brawn, surely ? )

An ineptitude for physical endeavors stumbled him against a solid frame, and upon hoisting himself back ( and having great need to regain unsteady footing ) does he recognize that he's collided with someone.

"My apologies !" He offers, hefting the cloth sack to resituate it over his shoulder. "I'm not often coerced into manual labor -- it's not my forte at all, actually. Forgive me -- " Ruby brows knit together; that visage, the stature, the tresses, the stranger's appearance . . . were they . . . not a stranger ? "Prince Quan?"

@diadic

𝑨 𝑹𝒆𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 &Leif

The greenhouse has been absolutely frantic these past few days. Students who aren’t preoccupied with running back and forth, juggling fertiliser and various implements in their arms, are saying an incredibly rare plant, the Lady-of-Mourning, is blooming. It’s a sorrowful plant, named for a famous folk tale featuring a pair of ill-fated lovers. Once upon a time, there were two lovers from very different classes. One, hailing from a noble family, with a notable crest, the other, a woman from the local village. Despite their differences, they were able to snatch shared moments together when they could. That was, until the noblewoman was engaged to a politically advantageous match, crushing all hope of their union forever. In her fury, she began destroying everything in her path with a strength fuelled by grief and separation. She became a monster. One her lover had to kill after she almost destroyed her home village. In the battle, they annihilated each other. Falling together in a fatal embrace, they were united by death. Depressing stuff. Normally, when the flower blooms (once every two hundred years) it ensures their story is remembered. That lovers won’t be separated ever again. But this year, the flower seems to be wilting before it can blossom. Will you be able to save the plant and ensure true love can flourish forevermore? [Grants Faith +1]

[fjalarspark]

A troublemaker has emerged amidst Garreg Mach, declaring themselves the Angel of Love! They are the master of the hit and run, shooting comically cutesy arrows at unsuspecting people, trying to orchestrate budding romances with their masterful aim! Some say their love shots are the real deal, while others complain that they're a menace to public safety. Whatever your opinion, their infamy grows evermore now that they've opened up requests! Write in the person you want shot and the person you want them to fall in love with, and if you get a calling card from Angel, then your request is accepted. Just how long will this go on? [Grants Bow +1]

Prudent footsteps lingered in shadows, weaving between pillared beams and planted saplings in the courtyards to crouching just a bit behind benches and posts to avoid the bullseye of a target against his back. He’d never been one to grovel for attention, or to ever throw his hands up in grandeur or flamboyance to draw the public eye upon himself — it was one of the, if the not THE, very last things he’d ever desire ( and perhaps it wouldn’t, then, be him at all, but rather an imposter with a startling likeness to him. ) And part of him wonders that he should be gifted in this game of avoidance, for he had learned hastily in his youth to evade the barrages of haughty lords and snide ladies who wished to lord above others with their political stature. He should be good at this.

Footfalls carry him just ere the stone archway that permitted entry to one of the Blue Lion’s lobbies before a thud thumps his right shoulder ( and his heart drops, ceases for a moment, and then returns to life anew with sporadicity. ) He turns, glimpses the pink and scarlet of a paper heart poorly stitched to a dull arrow, and declares with all certainty known to man that he’d not partake in this — there were other things to do ! This was . . . a dip in the road, that was all !

( But where did it come from? Whose fingers loosed the arrow? When would the fullisade begin? Who was the next target — ? )

Thud !

Not behind him this time, not at his flank but in front of him — where he should have been looking.

“Oh Crusaders ! Lady Edain, my apologies !”

( Of all the wonderful and wicked people in the world with whom he could have collided after being assailed by romance’s arrow, why did the lady of his silly boyhood crush first cross his path? What divinity could be so cruel? )

“Here, let me help you gather those papers. I was . . . distracted for a moment. My apologies.”

@ulirblood

𝐶𝑢𝑝𝑖𝑑 𝐵𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑈𝑝 𝐴 𝑃𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝐶𝑟𝑢𝑠ℎ 𝐿𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝐼𝑡 𝑊𝑜𝑛’𝑡 𝑅𝑢𝑖𝑛 𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒’𝑠 𝐿𝑖𝑓𝑒 &Edain

[fjalarspark]

🔥⊰⊰⊰ ―― Ruby slivers remained parchment-enraptured, clinging to the yellowing scrolls upon which his squiggly and featherlight cursive notes ink into. How much longer of this? Of this scurrying and fleeing? Of this crawling in his own skin in a place that should herald safety and security?

( Why did havens only bring hell? )

It's strange to witness ebony ink glide from quill to parchment -- he had once solely used crimson hues ; they had declared a more important emphasis to his notes, had colored them in a way implicative of productivity when he should need to bold one thought over another. He has since exchanged red inks for blacks and golds, oranges, too, if he could find them. Anything but red.

ωα૨ρ - ѕєn∂ αƒα૨ . . . ૨εѕcυε - в૨ιɳg nεα૨

( She had always used staves -- an occasional tome, but always staves : like they had been her trinket of choice from day one. It had always taken a special someone to wield staves beyond a simple heal or mend -- to extend one's benignity even further than a page in a book could ever reach. It took strength to hoist a staff and wish its miracle or curse upon someone; it took a power of the heart he had never managed -- not even a flicker. )

But all it took was a flicker, and the class had concluded, and he had been just a flicker shy of scrambling off when he should have. He hadn't meant to grant her the window of opportunity to request his attention. Teeth gnaw against the inside of his lower lip, and he thinks quickly that he should excuse himself -- something about tasks or duties or something or other another faculty would have requested of him. But he turns up empty, and his gaze skitters elsewhere.

"Ma'am?"

𝑰 𝑲𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑶𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑨𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆. &𝑫𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒅𝒓𝒆

[fjalarspark]

Shannan...Prince of― no, King of Isaach. How strange it was that Azelle now stood before the visage of one he could only ever recall as much younger― fair in the face, joyous, young. How nostalgic it was to see that the years had worn down upon the man, hardened, refined, matured. Azelle’s face fell, and he wiped away the exhaustion that began to befall his face. He felt so old, like a withering tome― bereft of use, decaying. Crusaders above, this was something beyond reuniting with Lord Sigurd, something sad, something melancholic yet beautifully so. 

Reuniting with Lord SIgurd was heartbreak all over, fire and ash and cinders, but seeing Shannan again was the sweet fall of a nostalgic rain that seemed unending, stuck in time. He’d survived. Not Belhalla, but the hardships of life, and for the young man to be not even a prince but a king...a heavy breath of exhaustion fluttered from Azelle’s lips. 

“You are so much older than when last I saw you,” He spoke softly, robbed of breath as if the weariness of time had befallen him. “Your Majesty, though it has been so long, I hope the name of Azelle sounds even a smidget familiar.”

What more could he ask for than a sliver of the man’s recollection? Years ago, Azelle seldom spoke to anyone; it was a fool’s wish to be remembered by someone he hadn’t really spoken to. 

He pressed his signet ring to the man’s slip and offered his own; stamp obtained, Azelle slipped away his card and ring.

“Just Azelle works. Forget the Velthomer part.”

The dark hair of Isaach had lured him in, curiosity perhaps his bane, but Azelle had to know. Had Belhalla's ill fate befallen the youngster? Surely not; Azelle could not recall seeing young Shannan there. He'd disappeared under Lord Sigurd's orders, when the man had tried to clear his name. From the eyes to the hair, from the poise to the posture, he'd been reminded of an ally he'd met…well, seen, during his travels with Lord Sigurd. If this was the same young prince…

"Hello there," Azelle greeted, waving to make himself known...a little awkward, but certainly not so much as he had been once upon a time. "You seemed to me familiar. I was wondering if I could get your name?"

He slipped on his ring and revealed his stamp card.

"In recompense, we can exchange stamps!"

Od's blood bestowed Shannan with hefty growth spurt. Far taller, far broader, and this air of confidence that the young prince did not have upon Azelle's first meeting with the Isaachian. But time caught up to everyone at some point, and now Shannan stood taller than Azelle!

Oh. Stamps. That's something the swordsman should've been more concerned about. A dance competition was simply not something he found himself caring for. He just got here, not enough time to worry about proving something with his dancing.

"Hmm? Oh," initially confused, the question is seemingly answered. That hair, that face, that attire. Velthomer without a doubt. Yet hating Azelle did nothing. In fact, this face looks familiar too, in a good way. "I am Shannan. King of Isaach. You are from Velthomer, yes? I... recognize you, but do not recall your name." Carefully, a neatly folded card is revealed from those purple robes, and passed to Azelle, through, his index and middle finger. "Do you need a stamp as well?"

[fjalarspark]

“You like collecting things?” He mused, sliding his stamp card out of his coat and offering it to her in tandem with his signet ring. “I can’t say I’ve collected much other than these stamps and tomes before.”

He had an affinity for the lore of tomes, from their spines and binds to their contents of mystical prowess, he was enchanted by each and every sliver of knowledge a tome had to offer him. There was something so pleasing, to gratifying when he cracked open an old volume and smelled the bookish smell of musty dust and delightful knowledge; he wish he could start collecting again, but he had only Garreg Mach’s libraries to draw from...and he couldn’t collect those, or that’d be stealing. 

“If you have any tomes,” He hadn’t any idea if she fancied magic or physical prowess. “Mayhaps I borrow them? I won’t collect them; they’re yours, after all. I simply delight in what they have to offer!” 

He pressed his ring to her card― A.v.V― and peeled it away, admiring the lettering of a crusive and delicate font. One more stamp officially collected. That made...He glimpsed his card. One more? One more to go? Crusaders above, he’s been out and about, hasn’t he? Azelle chuckled to himself. 

He stowed away his card and situated his ring, offering Velouria a smile. 

“If you’d like, we can chat?” He offered. “Or I can be on my way. I do understand the overwhelming atmosphere of the ballroom, so if you’d prefer to be on your own, I haven’t any qualms!” He was growing weary himself! 

His own housemate, though he'd never properly spoken to her of yet, seemed to him stowed away, away from the crowds of the ballroom; Azelle understood. The thrum of voices and the jostling of statures was often a bother, and being on the smaller side himself, he couldn't bear to think such thoughts of jostling and shoving. If she'd fled the ballroom, he understood. But, he'd seen her leave, and he'd sought her out. Loneliness was a terrible thing, and he'd hoped, being of a likeness to her, that he'd be able to lend her a shoulder.

"Lady Velouria," He spoke softly, joining her at a polite distance. "I couldn't help but notice you escaping the festivities. I was hoping we could speak?"

Gentle, soft, quiet; he knew the desire to be alone. But, if he could share with her a few words, he'd be happy. After all, one of his goals was to meet as many people as he could during the ball!

"We can exchange stamps, even if you'd rather be by your lonesome...assuming you're collecting!"

Velouria escaped from the ballroom itself, wanting to get some fresh air from all the hustle and bustle of the inside. Ugh, her nose felt so overwhelmed with all the scents muddling together in there. And her fluffy hears buzzed with the excitment of the other students. She just need a break, laying on the ground just outside of the busy hall. It was then that a small shadow covered a bit of the moonlight beaming down on her, speaking of something about stamps and stuff. Oh. Those stamps.

"Huh? Yeah... I think I am? I like collecting things, it's just hard to talk to people when everyone's being so loud!"

[odsfinest]

That red hair is the first giveaway to the last name of the young mage. But his kind exterior was definitely a promising start. He looked nothing like the Velthomer that caused all the issues ever experienced. A deep sigh of relief...

"Ah, I do think I remember you... you served in Sigurd's army, did you not?" There's a lot of people Shannan saw, from being rescued to his aunt devoting herself to that very same army. While he could not serve, he still experienced a hefty amount of their losses along with them, and even more after... well... you know. No point in beating a dead horse and all that.

Hearing the name Azelle makes the man nod, face lighting up a little. This whole evening has just been one big trip down memory lane. Edain, Deirdre, Julia, Scathach, Seliph, Sigurd, Larcei... this almost feels like the perfect future. The one where everyone made it. Like Belhalla was just one big nightmare that he'd finally woken up from!

But nightmares don't leave wounds like these.

"Azelle... yes! That was your name. You were the mage that accompanied Sigurd. Or, one of them. I know I've seen others but... they have eluded me. With all that's going on, I'm just glad to see everyone is mostly alright, even just physically." A chuckle as he puts a hand out, taking Azelle's forearm in a hardy grasp, his other coming to the mans shoulder. It's so good to see everyone again, and while he doesn't know how long this'll last, he won't let it escape. These are the moments he wished for most in his war-torn life.

"You've been well then, I take it?"

The dark hair of Isaach had lured him in, curiosity perhaps his bane, but Azelle had to know. Had Belhalla's ill fate befallen the youngster? Surely not; Azelle could not recall seeing young Shannan there. He'd disappeared under Lord Sigurd's orders, when the man had tried to clear his name. From the eyes to the hair, from the poise to the posture, he'd been reminded of an ally he'd met…well, seen, during his travels with Lord Sigurd. If this was the same young prince…

"Hello there," Azelle greeted, waving to make himself known...a little awkward, but certainly not so much as he had been once upon a time. "You seemed to me familiar. I was wondering if I could get your name?"

He slipped on his ring and revealed his stamp card.

"In recompense, we can exchange stamps!"

Od's blood bestowed Shannan with hefty growth spurt. Far taller, far broader, and this air of confidence that the young prince did not have upon Azelle's first meeting with the Isaachian. But time caught up to everyone at some point, and now Shannan stood taller than Azelle!

Oh. Stamps. That's something the swordsman should've been more concerned about. A dance competition was simply not something he found himself caring for. He just got here, not enough time to worry about proving something with his dancing.

"Hmm? Oh," initially confused, the question is seemingly answered. That hair, that face, that attire. Velthomer without a doubt. Yet hating Azelle did nothing. In fact, this face looks familiar too, in a good way. "I am Shannan. King of Isaach. You are from Velthomer, yes? I... recognize you, but do not recall your name." Carefully, a neatly folded card is revealed from those purple robes, and passed to Azelle, through, his index and middle finger. "Do you need a stamp as well?"

[fjalarspark]

🔥⊰⊰⊰ ――

                   The soft whispering of his thoughts did not console him, but Azelle hardly found time in his new schedule to pay them any more mind than a moment at a time; he was not going to waste fleeting time attempting to rationalize the irrational mess that mentally taunted him. Today was it, the big day, the grandiose, frightening day. The Black Eagles classroom was no farther than a few strides away, but Azelle halted before he entered. 

                  This was new, this was different; he’d never sat in a classroom full of others. House Velthomer supplied only tutors and personal instructors...and, never for him to forget, his elder brother. Though a different man now, back then, Arvis had taught Azelle more than anyone, had bothered his time with the ruby-nette without complaint. What if those who offered guidance here could not compare?

                  Azelle shook his head, wiping down his face, exhaling a sigh. It didn’t matter. He’d simply continue to look, and look, and look until he found some sort of hope for Grannvale. There was something here, there had to be. 

                  One step, two steps, three, and he was standing towards the back of the chamber, various tomes collected in his arms, unwilling to leave behind a volume he might need for this class. Now, to seat himself...

                  The small, trivial moment of respite did not last long; he couldn’t find a seat in peace. He was met quickly by the visage of lavender and pale golds, his ears met with the soft, gentle voice, and he almost dropped his volumes. 

                  “Lady Deirdre!” He exclaimed, stepping back. The woman...Arvis’ wife...the woman Lord Sigurd had gazed upon, she who had been used to taunt the army’s leader; she stood before him, greeting him like an old friend. “Yes, it’s me! But...’Lord Azelle’ isn’t necessary, milady. I am simply Azelle here, Lady Deirdre.” He hadn’t really been a noble worth noticing before arriving at the academy anyway; titles were strange to him, and it sat uneasily with him to have one sit uselessly before his name. 

                  “Arvis?” Azelle whispered. “He’s here?” That couldn’t be right. He was in Grannvale, ruling over a land plagued by his faults, not here. “No! No, and...I’d like him not to, yet.”        

Fambly Weunion

@fjalarspark

Deirdre hums as she walks into the Black Eagles classroom. She is early today but she does not mind. It is easy for her to lose herself day dreaming and that always helps her pass the time.

She has her pick of seats and decides on front and center. It does not feel intimidating being so close to the professor and it gives her the best view of the board for note taking. The door opens again and Deirdre turns to see who has joined her. The company is always welcome! To her surprise, it is a familiar face but not one she recognizes from her time in Fódlan.

"Lord Azelle! Is that truly you?" Grannvale's princess abandons her things to hurry to his side. His is a face she has not seen outside of portraits since that terrible day in Belhalla. Slowly, slowly her dear friends from her previous life have been finding their way back to her. "Does Lord Arvis know? Oh I cannot wait to see how happy he will be!"