dyshonor

[dyshonor]

-- "AH! DID I, NOW!" Randal says it with the same casual lilting tone he says everything else with- would hardly make for a good gambler if he couldn't at least keep a poker face- but those more familiar with him might note the tightening of his crow's nest at the phrase. He shakes it off quickly. "Well, y'know how we old folk are. Moods and th' wind. You'll hafta forgive n' forget, if you wouldn't mind!"

He lets Dimitri's accusation sit heavy in the air between them, stews with them and takes another sip of his drink. To compliment the low price he's bought it at, it is suitably watered down and of foul taste. He'll not have any excuses for his words tonight- not that he's keen on relying on those, anyhow.

"Asking for? Sure," Randal says with a shrug. "It's always been odd t'me, the idea that there's a school that measures fightin' prowess with pen n' paper. Given my own recent, er, studies in the matter, I wanted a looksee. Call it curiosity or nosiness. But dispensin'?"

He scratches his chin, shrugs again. "I wouldn't phrase it like I'm handin' out candy," and from the twinkle in his eye, the word choice is intentional, "but I am making fair, honest deals."

As he speaks, he reaches over for his spear: a thing as stained as the table they sit at, but nicely fit to his hand. He twirls it lazily, earning an annoyed glare from the recent server, but he pays it little mind.

"If a student places themself in front of me in combat and proves they can hold their own, I'll hand off the answers. Somethin' or other, 'trial of the worthy' or some fun little phrase. I dunno, I didn't come up with the title- but it is fun, ain't it?"

Randal claps his hands against the table, rocking the drinks. "So! A suitable deal for everyone involved, no? Kids of yer ilk are gettin' muscle t' back their answers, and I'm getting a fight out of it. Hell, I'd say I'm preparin' 'em nicer for their exam than any textbook would." He tilts his head. "But if I'm to be tattled on fer such a matter by you, ser- I s'pose that's a sentence I won't be able to squirm outta this time."

sir i don’t think this bar napkin is an accreditation

[dyshonor]

paladin mastery drabble.

-- RANDAL DOESN'T QUITE REMEMBER where it was that he heard that paladins were the pinnacle of morality. Gods-blessed men with sun shining off their swords and smiles that threatened sweetness- or, if not quite to that legendary caliber, at least the picture of 'chivalrous morality'.

Not that he's had any appeal for that sort of thing. He just found it convenient.

That, at the very least, seemed a similar sentiment for anyone in Fodlan. The mercenaries that passed through held similar outfits and were grouped that way under ledgers for housekeeping purposes. Any sort of holiness that was conferred on the title in other lands was absolutely lost here.

And it wasn't a new title for him to begin with. In Valentia, he had been mistaken for one himself while getting shoehorned into an army, sat neatly between a 'Mathilda' and a 'Conrad' and feeling all-too aware that he was far out of the average age group.

But here, he fills out the necessary paperwork, takes an exam like he's Emma, and is awarded bigger shoulder pads- for him and his horse- for his efforts. Indeed, he fits in more nicely with his fellow 'Knights of Seiros' (though that title hangs more unpleasantly on his tongue by the day).

And let us backtrack: Randal has trouble enjoying any organized do-gooders. Call them militia or church or royalty, he'll acknowledge their good intentions and often-uselessness in the same breath. His experience squirming money away under their noses is proof enough for him that if there's a system, it's not the rules that make it work.

For the do-gooders that do do (ha) good, it is thanks to their own strengths, not a title that has been passed down. Something to be conferred in something as useless as a test. That anyone can check the right boxes and promise their way to a once-holy title was proof that, at the very least, they should change the title.

...not that he cares, again.

Because Randal cheated at gambling and nearly got himself and Emma killed the last time he called himself a 'paladin' and he'd do the former bit (though never the latter) again if push came to shove, though with an ample amount of guilt for the trouble.

He's well aware that whatever those chivalrous paladins might be, he's not one of them. Promised not to die for a child, found himself ass-up in the ground anyway, and traumatized her for his efforts. He clicks his tongue.

"This suit me?" he asks the horse parked in the stable. He's bribed her for the audience with an apple, the only reason she's facing towards him at all right now, and she answers with a snort and shake of her mane. He laughs lightly.

"Eh... yer right. But it might keep me alive longer, so- 'm selfish like that."

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL'S FOURTH FAVORITE HOBBY- after gambling and drinking and going to bed with someone besides him- was likely waxing poetic on consistencies, even if he himself didn't find himself any sort of writer. But it was fun, then- to find those things that linked him between worlds, to pretend that they had some deeper meaning.

Sure wished they weren't getting fucking chased by the consequences of his own actions.

That he finds familiarity in the hand reaching out of the dark is of little comfort, given how many have been raised against him, but he decides to take his chances. When he flattens himself against the side and comes face to face with the lad he'd seen painting cards- well, that's just Lady Luck coming to kiss him on the lips once more.

How and why the lad is down here isn't of immediate concern to Randal, though it does tickle at his head. Instead, he's much more interested in the blinding good-heartedness of the man- or at least, his compulsion to act it. The things might as well be one and the same, for how they service him.

Randal prides himself in how quickly his heart slows to a more familiar lull, in how quickly he's able to catch himself back to normal. Already died once, after all. Any close brushes the second time are less exciting.

He leans further into the knoll that the other man has tossed the two of them into, trying for all the world to find a footing that reflects casualness. He more or less succeeds, shoulders supporting his weight on some stone surface or other.

There aren't any words yet- for once, Randal knows when to keep his mouth shut, or at least to trust that the person he's besides knows better than he does. Instead, he opts to twirl his finger between the two of them, followed by a shrug and a raise of an eyebrow. An unspoken communication of: You're in a mess too?

in the end, leif must leave last

         ⤷   mission task: excavation   ( lance +1 & spelunking )

[dyshonor]

activity check

months: march, april & may 2025 events: boel & ethereal ball skill points earned: 4 +4 all [ march monthly skill point ] -> riding [ april monthly skill point ] -> riding [ may monthly skill point ] -> riding [ boel skill point ] -> riding total skill points: 29 -> 33

[dyshonor]

— IT’S NOT THAT HE doesn’t take her seriously, but Randal does have a softer spot for Niamh than her pink-haired partner(? could he call them that? he dashes such a thought out of his mind) given the lovely fact that she hasn’t tried to kill him in some world or other- at least, noneso that he could remember. Whatever her feelings towards that younger him didn’t count.

And thus, as she quirks her mask, the juxtaposition between the ferocity of the thing and her calm familiarity of her usual tone offers a sort of odd comfort. “It’s nice indeed!” he hums. “Certainly not premonition o’ any odd weather blips in our near future.” And he laughs, because he means it, and he doesn’t have the sort of future sight that might be granted to someone else. “But, don’t mind if I do.”

He takes the gesture with no small amount of fanfare, flipping through bottles like one might a collection of files as he hums lightly. If he’s to give up one vice, he’ll not the other, particularly one that serves the tastebuds as nicely as this one does. When he settles on the drink he’s to enjoy for the evening, he picks it up with a satisfied sigh and pops it open.

“Smells expensive enough,” he says after a whiff, laying himself down on a nearby chair. “Though, I’ll say- s’mighty nice t’see you takin’ a load off. Not oftentimes we’re privy t’ catchin’ up without somethin’ hanging nasty-like over us. You’ve got a better work ethic than I do!”

He snorts, knocking back a sip. It tasted expensive, too. Not certain if that meant it was good, yet, but at least it’d do its job. “Though, if I'm honest- that’s summat like bein’ th’ most promiscuous nun.”

[ RELAX ]

-- THE CABANA IS A touch more comfortable than Randal might've anticipated. He had expected all of this to be a politicized, glorified, and overpriced school dance, but it seemed overpriced allowed for little pockets of respite.

He glances over at the line of empty chairs in front of him, bottles of wine glistening with condensation in their ice bucket. It is almost a shame- a waste of good company! All of these seats and no one to fill them.

Well, almost no one.

He tips a faux hat over at Niamh, stepping over the sand and onto the cabana's wooden planks. "Oi! If it ain't Lady Niamh, gracin' the common folk with her presence. Glad to see yer takin' a load off. How's th' weather? Warm enough? And the wine cold enough?"

He's rambling, but he's done worse. He sits himself down besides her with little plan for asking invitation.

It was, above all else, crucial for Niamh to pinpoint locations such as this. It's away from the crowds. There's somewhere to sit. She can see the setting sun, and hear the ocean waves as they sway in and out.

A recipe to ensure that, as she ventures about the venue, collecting trinkets, attempting new dance forms, and making conversation, she also has somewhere that she can take things at a her leisure. Does she know it's because the large crowds and clashing sounds make her mind spin? She's...getting there.

As she rests on one of the chairs, a familiar voice calls out to her. She glances over - it's a bit intimidating, with the spooky anglerfish mask she has. But her own voice holds no threat. "...the weather's comfortable here. It might be because of the ocean nearby..."

A wine glass rests in her hands. She takes a sip. "....depends on what you consider cold..." So, probably not frigid, but that's at least a sign that it's not lukewarm. Still, she gestures to one of the buckets. "I've started with this one..."

A gesture to offer trying it with her, if he wants.

[dyshonor]

🍷🍰 🐚 "Don't you cut a handsome figure this evening?" Camilla smiled, glass in one hand a slice of cake with her seashell charm on it in the other. "I wasn't able to pass out all my goodies at the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, an emergency pulled me away. Congrats on making it all the way to the end."

-- IT'S NOT THAT RANDAL thinks himself unattractive, but passive comments on his general appearance are usually reserved for bricked-up bars and packed corners. Given the abundance of teenagers here, he generally tries to close his ears to such comments, lest some terrible misunderstanding come of it.

But the woman in front of him seems very direct with her comments, and he raises an eyebrow as he takes the glass from her. "Damn, I'm memorable? It'd be right more pleasant if it was on nicer occasions. Makin' a fool o' myself in front of a woman?"

He downs the cup quickly and lets out a small sigh, before exchanging the woman's seashell charm with one of his own. "But I'll take pretty words as a consolation prize," he muses. "I'm Randal, by th' by. And yer own?"

[dyshonor]

“ Oh, hey! I haven't seen you in... gosh, almost a year now, huh? ”  Lapis marvels at how fast time flies. The circumstances aren't exactly ideal, but recognizable faces in uncertain situations was something to ground oneself to, no matter how much of a reach it might be.

Perhaps it was the man's devil may care attitude that made him feel like a breath of fresh air.

“ I seem to remember us promising to have a bit of lunch together sometime, ”  she comments.  “ Wanna check out the buffet together then? Better act fast before everybody else gobbles it all up! ”

-- A YEAR! IF SHE had said a month, a decade, or a week, Randal would've tapped his head in faux-obviousness and nodded along. If she says a year, then- it must've been a year. He does the former, then, smiling as he wags a year.

"Gosh! And you've grown- well, now, yer at th' age that you stop growin', huh?" Randal wags a finger. "Jeez louise. So much for the usual line."

It's not really usual because he rarely doesn't see someone for the same length of time that they haven't seem him, but that's semantics. It's a nice feeling all the same, and Lapis is a polite enough girl that she'll play along. Was? He doesn't linger.

"Sure! What's dinner but a late lunch," Randal offers, using a gentleman-y hand on her shoulder to guide her to a nearby table. "S'my luck that I found you. Folks tend t'frown on me takin' a half-dozen trips up there, but if I've got a friend?" He shrugs. "No one's likely t'look twice.

"Oh! And before I forget- tryin' t' chase these off me. The hosts gave me these an- well, y'got yer own, didn't you?" Randal laughs as he fishes out a loop of waxed cord. He teases off one of the many small seashell charms from it, dropping it into his palm before handing it off to Lapis.

"Here. For luck, or wardin' off sand spirits, or summat. Whichever you're needin' more tonight." He grins, then adds with a wink, "but if it turns out cursed, I'll buy ya another lunch next year t'make it up to ya."

[dyshonor]

[ PHOTO-ARTIFEX ]

"Randaaal! You came too!"

One-by-one, Emma finds each of her dearest friends here. Last year they were three, this year, six strong. She wonders if there might be a ball someday that they all get to go to. It would be nice, wouldn't it? If they all got to the same place, and if they all got to celebrate together? Even if it weren't any of their homes, it still felt a little more like it for each of them that was there.

The waves of her tresses bounce with the girl's excitement.

"We've gotta take a picture together! They had 'em last year, too, but you weren't here," She says, with an expectant look on her face. "So, you'll take one with me this year, right?"

As though worried that she might not have enough sway, she fishes around in one of the pockets of her dress, before producing an itsy bitsy glimmering piece of porcelain, holding it out as an offering.

"If you do, I'll give you one of my turtles."

-- RANDAL IS SPOOKED OUT of whatever half-baked reverie he's fallen into by Emma's delighted squeals. "Wha- well, 'course I did!" he says, ruffling the girl's hair and pleasantly ignoring the fact that he nearly had bailed on the whole endeavor. "Ain't many chances we get ta dress up all pleasant-like, right?"

She brings up the picture and Randal hums, considering it. "Not comin' up with many strong reasons why I shouldn't," he settles on after a moment. "Guess I've no choice in th' matter, huh? And with a gift, too..."

He pinches away the porcelain piece before Emma has much time to protest. It's a cute little critter, and Randal whistles at the thing before pocketing it. "Guess if I'm tryin' not to be an asshole, I should trade ya, right? That's how the fellow handin' these out explained it. Or summat."

He says all this while studying one of the contraptions, mulling it over in his hands. He's had his picture painted before: all by his lonesome, in clothes that were tailored for him and didn't fit.

This sort of... instant painting phenomenon was, for once in his life, something entirely new. Or at least he thought it was- perhaps he forgot?

Randal shakes his head and goes back to the matter at hand: presenting Emma with his own charm, a small orange-and-green seashell. The colors are faded enough on the glass that it feels more like a blush than anything else, and Randal hands it to her with the delicacy it practically begs to be touched with. "Enough pleasantries, though. A picture's an important event! Let's get ourselves situated rightly."

[dyshonor]

-- THIS IS CORRECT; FOR all of the worlds that tossed them upside, Alice had been rarely seen without that Valjean at her heels, carrying some bag or other. It had been a kind of comfort, seeing someone so dedicated to easing the strain of another. Helped him ease into the partner part of 'bum dick who couldn't be assed to lift a finger', and all.

He huffs a laugh at Yuzu's last line to pull his thoughts away. "It's weird, I imagine? Ain't often that people like us go marchin' to and fro the same place so often. Hard for the dirt to get familiar."

Randal leans forward just enough to glance past her at the trail ahead, but it's more an excuse to stay close, should his knees betray him with a particularly rude jolt. Any embarrassment that would be gained from bumping into her would be nothing compared to falling on his tailbone.

"The monastery," he hums. "Say, ser. I've not been privy to what happened after," he makes a vague hand gesture, fluttering fingers mimicking flames or wind. Dealer's choice. "I'm speakin' lightly, but... there weren't all too many head's rolling, were there? School's not out fer good, or anything?"

Not- ultimately- that it matters. There's surely enough about for Yuzu to keep a smile on her face, and whatever dire war paths he's scuffed his way through, he's faced worse.

He slaps her on the back once more. "Ain't so bad comin' back with you as the welcome party, anyhow," he adds, softer, nudging his shoulder with his own. "If anyone's t' be leadin' me, there are few I'd prefer ta ya."

damned consistency

horsebow moon; search party prompt.

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL LETS OUT A whistle, long and theatrical, as Berkut finishes. He taps a crumb from his fingers as he spreads them to the side, raising a brow.

"Now now, no need ta get all bristly about it, ser," he drawls, pushing off the counter with a languid stretch. "I ain't proposin' we start lettin' the dogs set up town councils or hold elections, as mighty fine a show I s'pose that might be. No, the family can get themself back int' this house, pest-free."

He brushes past Berkut as if the man's tone hadn't landed sharp, deliberately giving the hearth a languid once-over. "But let's not pretend we were sent here t' poke at dragons. Doors still on their hinges, no scorch marks or dried blood. These beasts've got more of a taste for half-baked stew and polite exits than flesh, I'd say."

Randal gives the mantle a firm knock with his knuckles, pulling himself back up with all the airs of a man who has done a job and all the sludge of one who has done it badly. "Maybe you've got summat ta learn from them. Better stews on the tongue than bloodlettin', in my humble opinion."

A sweep of his hands. "But! Maybe I'm presumin'. Let's backtrack a touch, just so we're workin' in tandem." He folds his hands all nice-like, comfortable and neat. Picture of business. "We find these critters. Scamperin' about. Your first move is, what? Slashin' 'em with whatever dealer's choice weapon you've got on hand?" He jerks his chin towards the house's finery, its plates and its laces. "Not sure the folks'd be kissin' our hands and feet."

ever died in a nightmare

horsebow moon; + riding prompt.

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL IS HALFWAY THROUGH dusting off his sleeves when Yuzu's question draws his attention downward. His legs. Hm.

If it were someone else- someone he owed a debt to, or Emma, maybe- he'd feel more shame in the matter. Perhaps try to be more discreet in the matter. But this is Yuzu.

He tests one, rocking his weight forward onto his foot. The joint grumbles, the muscles complain. Nothing's broken, but there's that dull throb of something in recovery- not injury, exactly, but disuse. A stiffness that feels more like time forgot to pass than damage.

"Walkin', aye," he says after a beat. "Not running. Not dancing. Not doin' cartwheels or lungin' into battle, mind. But walking? Sure."

The suggestion that she might carry him if needed earns her a bark of laughter, low and rough. "You? Haulin' me 'round like a sack of crap? Ser, I've pride left still rattlin' in my chest. I'd rather limp to hell an' back."

He waves a hand, not unkindly, just firm. "Let's save yer strength for somethin' actually worth swingin' it at. I'll manage, promise."

He takes a few steps, slow but steady, then falls into line with Yuzu. He can keep pace, at least, and he does. The silence stretches between them for a beat or two, uncomfortable, as he thinks.

Lady Niamh nor Lady Alice.

Randal does not let the thought slow his pace. If he were the sort of man to allow that, he'd be dead ages long past. Well- perhaps he already is that sort of man, huh? But in that case...

"Hey, what's the worst that could happen? They've died?" He laughs and slaps Yuzu across the back. "I'm still standin', and Lady Luck's never kissed my knuckles without a bit o' cheatin'. Put some elbow grease into findin' the miss's and they'll turn up, when we least want 'em to."

He rolls back his shoulders. These, too, are still. "But we've got a while till then, I'd wager. I'm in yer very capable hands, yeah? Lead on, Ser Yuzu. I'm not so bad at followin', when the guide's got half a brain and a better arm than me."

damned consistency

horsebow moon; search party prompt.

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL SLOWS ONLY SLIGHTLY as the formation rotates, his boots grinding against the dry field's dirt as he shifts with the motion. He catches sight of Gerome's bolt arcing once more through the air- bright as ever, though it's clear the man's arm's beginning to tremble. Too much repetition. Too little yield.

He clicks his tongue, adjusts his grip on his lance.

"Ser," he calls, not with reprimand, but with something firmer than jest and lighter than command, "yer startin' ta look like yer feelin' those shots a little more than you'd like. Might be time to stop takin' 'em like it's clockwork, yeah?"

He plans his weapon in the earth beside him and tilts his head towards Felix, already marked with crackling burns.

"You don't have to go out swingin' wild- just a bit more pressure'll do. You're already amkin' dents. Push harder, and the house might collapse. Yer good with that blade, so hit him like ya mean it."

Randal 6/6HP refreshes Gerome 4/6HP

Battle of the Eaglion and Deer

[dyshonor]

-- WHEN DIMITRI FALLS, IT leaves a bit of a taste on Randal's tongue.

Guilt...? No, Randal's only half-felt such a thing when worst has come to worse, and even that was a consequence he's long shed and buried with the excuse of 'Who even was that?'. No, this was a good, old-fashioned: Randal saw what was coming, and he swung anyway.

At least things were going well, more-or-less-so. Randal massages his temple and tries not to think too much about what comes after- if they could even get to an after- and lets the feeling toss his stomach around.

What's he doing, getting so competitive over a mock battle? At his age? Even as he asks himself the question, his so-called saying drifts neatly into his head: Always take your games deadly serious, or what have you.

A gambler always plays best when they're losing.

Nanna, assuming the princess wasn't lying to him, cheers and the Golden Deer obey, obedient as can be. Gerome comes closer and Randal puts on the voice he always uses to talk to Emma with, during the worst of it.

"Well, what are ya doin'?" Randal's lifting his hands to the side and letting the feeling spark through his chest again. For all his bashing of magic and the ilk, he's not against savoring this feeling of spurring. "Last I checked, there's another fellow who needs some slap-down action. Give this good ser a kick, huh?"

Randal 5/5HP refreshed Gerome 4/6HP

Battle of the Eaglion and Deer

[dyshonor]

-- HE PISSED SOME PEOPLE off, Randal guesses, as Dimitri seems tired and his blackberry-colored friend determined. Emma's probably got some opinions on fairness, if she can see this from the stands- but no matter. Randal's having fun.

Like, okay, let's face the music: he's reaching up there in age and delighting in flights of physical zealotry with teenagers. Hardly his shiniest of moments. But the teens he's robbed of coin with sticky cards beat his ass soundly just the same the next morning, so at least: he's not compromising.

Such delusional justifications waft through his head as he lets the lance rest easy in his hand, brows raised. "In for a penny," he hums, and strikes.

Randal 5/5HP hits Dimitri 2/5HP with Iron Lance (Tempest Lance activates!) [Roll: 10 + 2 = 12, -(1.5 + 0.5 - 1.5) = -0.5 HP] Dimitri 1.5/5HP

His hands guide, the lance sings, and the blow barely lands. Dimitri is strong, a fact that seems in conflict with treasure-chest golden hair and doe-eyes, but it lands nonetheless. Randal chases out a breathy laugh as he steps back, using his teeth to pick out the splinter his thumb has acquired.

"Ser! We've gotta meet under better pleasantries. I'm startin' t'think yer gettin' upside-down impressions of me." He flashes a toothy smile, hands spread to the side. "Let's do better next time, huh?"

Battle of the Eaglion and Deer

[dyshonor]

-- IT'S ALL WELL AND nice and good and by the books- how lovely. How quaint. The phrase drips off his head like the nauseating concept it is, but his allies hit hard. The navy-haired one creates an opening and Dimitri strikes, ever the princely type. From what little Randal has picked up on from the man, he knows that he's trying to fit the part.

What a drag. Randal breathes through his teeth and wonders what the point of setting him up here with these two are. He's- well, he's from none of the Houses, but he says he's fighting for the Black Eagles, and there's no chance of them pulling ahead at this rate. It's just fighting for a Blue Lion's win at this point, and that's...

"Excuse me, sir!"

The girl's nice and polite and desperate. Makes Randal figure that this is less of a 'gamble' and more of a 'showing your garbage hand to the whole table'. "Whole lotta niceties for an ol' fart who yer not acquainted with!" He calls back across the field.

...but it's interesting.

He watches them in their death-throes- they change formation, throw a half-assed axe, heal each other. He clicks his tongue and pulls himself up to his full height- which for what it's worth, rarely happens given how much he slouches.

"Well," he calls back, "what a lovely l'il proposition you've set me up with. I'll see what I can manage, miss! And," like a barely-worth-the-breath afterthought, "it's Randal, if ya must."

He motions towards the Golden Deer student closest to him: the girl with hair to match his. "You there!" and he feels that odd magic on the tip of his tongue as he gives his usual, half-assed encouragement, now with different tone. "Pull yerself up by the bootstraps, right? Your friend there ain't proper healed- how's one hopin' t'beat th' Blue Lions with broken limbs?"

Randal refreshes L'Arachel.

Battle of the Eaglion and Deer

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL HAD THOUGHT HE had a good grasp on what was to be expected: that he'd be paired up with that Ferdinand fellow again, that they'd fight the good fight and ultimately be vanquished by some other team what with their weakness in numbers. A best case scenario, blood between teeth and splinters in his hands kind of duel, keeping him on his toes and his heart pounding.

He'd even been eyeing one of those dancer ensembles that had been so pleasantly suggested by one of the attendees, explaining how it could help his allies get spurned forward with the right dance and words. Or something. Magic wasn't his forte.

So imagine his surprise, then, when a scratched out little notice directed him towards the Blue Lions.

The very house he had been desperately trying to avoid. On account of the Alice and the Yuzu within it that he so desperately had wanted to come to blows with.

And also Dimitri is there. And another fellow with a sharp sword but no former beef between Randal (that he could recall). Okay! Well.

"G-good sers!" he says as if a daze mid-battle, getting a slow start but his allies, evidently, getting an even slower one- "I'm gonna need y' ta take it easy on me. I'm hardly associated with any house, so gettin' thrown 'round like this is- well, what'd I expect, I s'pose."

He trails off as the other team moves swiftly, hitting Dimitri again and again until the man's lagging even further behind than before. So be it, then.

Randal 5/5 rotates Blue Lions & Black Eagles Team to the right! New Positions: Felix Dimitri Randal Gerome L’Arachel Nanna

Battle of the Eaglion and Deer

[dyshonor]

“Aye. So this is the side you’ve chosen… Fitting.”

Yuzu means it. Theoretically, if all of their friends bound by chaos were to partake in the monastery’s tournament, then the Black Eagles would be the only side that lacks any of them on the same side. The red flag is the perfect allegiance for a man who wanted to take blows against any of his younger friends.

The samurai looks up at the moss knight after he returns from their second round of combat. Based on the state of his surrounding comrades…it is hard to say if the Black Eagles will still remain standing when the sun sets on the battle. But she stops gazing at the weak and focuses on what’s right in front of her: the strong.

“A pity I will be incapable of facing you in this final round. The Deers have proven themselves a worthy foe, even when not backed by Emma. That only means…” Yuzu glares at Randal, not out of hate but out of confidence, “...you must remain standing at the end of all of this. So we can reschedule our duel proper. Do you understand, Sir Randal?!”

-- WHEN YUZU RUNS UP to him, he puts on his very best pout: lip-jutting, brows furrowed and eyes big-and-wide in the best way.

"Aww, Yuzu! There's hardly a point if I ain't fightin' against you." He shakes his head, clicking his tongue and hands on hips in a placebo of fatherly disappointment. "Did all this for the chance of sparrin' with you and Alice, y'know? Got to look at the latter across the field at least, sure, but I was hopin' to glance steel with you... ah, well!"

He slaps Yuzu across the shoulders. "Don't think I'm letting you off easy, o' course. I get off this field in one piece and first thing I'm doin' is finding you, so be ready!" The statement is accompanied by a faux-serious wag of his finger, expression stern.

"If I'm deprived of a nasty little duel from the miss, I'm inclined to fall into a life of debauchery and general terrible hatred. You've naught want that on your conscience or whatever, do ya?"