eilzie

[eilzie]

Flight

[eilzie]

Memories

[eilzie]

[eilzie]

Cloud who keeps his hairstyle from childhood.

[eilzie]

Face Model: Toshie/o from Samurai of Hyuga Interactive Fiction

Face renditions of one of the Love Interests: Toshie/o.

A native Kondo with round, emerald green eyes, dark skin, and raven hair.

[eilzie]

Face Model: Leah from Stardew Valley + HC

Leah, with unbraided hair.

Some HC:

Her hair reaches down to her waist, and when she's not working on art or outdoor, she lets them loose. She takes a good care of it and is always experimenting on making her own conditioner or tonics from natural ingredients.

Is confident in her art-making abilities, but can be quite anxious to show them to other people, especially if the artworks are inspired by her personal experience and preferences.

Is currently into sculpting and making abstract objects. Before coming to the Valley, she was more into painting, focusing on real-life objects. Robin's carpentry may have piqued her interest and influenced her.

Respects people who go out of their way to pursue their passion, such as Elliot and the new Farmer. She used to doubt her life choices and was worried she wouldn't last a year as an artist. Now, she feels more confident and inspired that her hardwork, too, can pay off.

[eilzie]

Face Model: Lysithea

[eilzie]

The King's Hound Fanfiction: Of Gold and Embers

Original Work [in Progress]: The King's Hound @the-kingshound by @kal-downn. Give this Arthurian interactive fiction a read, and you'll come out of it with all the cast practically living rent-free in your head. (I know that for a fact; I'm a victim, too.)

Fanfiction: Of Gold and Embers.

Gwyar [M/F], The Hound [M/F].

Angst, Hurt/Comfort.

F!Gwyar, M!Hound Version.

The first thing you noticed about her was her eyes.

They were like molten gold.

The color, unusual, and even could be called exotic, would glint even brighter under the merest touch of light. That, you noticed when she had stepped into your sun-bathed room.

Then, there was the way she carried herself. Confident, sure, yet with an apparent grace that would befit someone of a higher station. Had fate cast a different dice and let her be born in a noble house, drapes of silk, fine linen, and ornate jewelry would without a doubt complement her person--though you suspected they would become mere accessories, as she was more than capable to captivate the eyes of anyone and everyone in any ball she chooses to attend.

Clothe her in a simple servant's attire, however, and she'd put those into good use just as well: blink, and you would not even notice she was sharing a room with you. That was how she had taught herself to operate, you supposed, with her job being to serve in the background. Even so, compared to the many servants you had encountered in the past, Gwyar was simply...different.

What was this uncanny ability of hers that made her able to blend with practically the walls? Or were all servants in Camelot trained differently?

You guessed you'd never know. There were too many foreign things in this land, too many new customs for you to absorb and learn should you wish to survive.

Then, there was another thing. This had been the bigger surprise about the servant, was that she noticed.

She noticed many little details that you'd scarcely cared, like the color of the curtains in your room, the way the furniture was arranged, and little spots on a bronze basin she was quick to clean. Most jarring of all, she noticed you.

It had been an ingrained habit of yours to stay silent and observe others. Not many people you encountered were privileged enough to have learned sign language. Or even when they were equipped with some knowledge of it, not many had considered your thoughts or presence to be worth their notice. Not much, anyway.

And it had been fine the way it was. Your job, after all, had been all about using your body and magic. Trading blows of words, whether they be written or signed, had simply never been in the domain of your responsibility nor interest. A mute with a sword. That was all that you had always been.

So, naturally, it had always been you who had to take notice of others. You had learned to fade away in conversations, you had learned to observe, and to act according to the needs and orders of your parents, older siblings, and senior knights. A command, a tense nod, a harsh look... You needed only but a gesture from them for you to act.

Reverse the position, and you knew not what to do. It had taken you aback when Gwyar had looked into your eyes with open curiosity and asked so much about yourself and your preferences on the first days of your stay. "Did you like the color of the curtains, Gwenvael? Was the water I drew too hot for you? What do you usually have for breakfast? Is there anything I should ask of the cooks?"

All of her questions had been too much. You had answered as best as you could, going with whatever you thought was acceptable, but the flicker of doubt that crossed her golden eyes told you that she suspected your answers (and hesitation) to be...off, to say the least. The servant, of course, had stayed politely silent about it.

Your mind, on the other hand, had not.

Likes, dislikes, preferences for food and even beddings... Gracious God. Now that you were prompted by questions such as these, your brain felt as if it was going to mush. Those things were a luxury you had not considered much before. How would you know what color you preferred your curtains to be when tents and barrack walls were all that you had been accustomed to? Or what food would you prefer in the morning when army rations had been your staple diet for most of your adolescent years?

Letting out a sigh you did not realize you had been withholding, you turned in your bed, once again marveling at how soft and pliant it was. You could almost smell a hint of earthy fragrance. Was it musk?

Hah. Another discovery: you never knew one would spend a dime just to perfume their quilt and beddings. How much budget had King Arthur allocated to impress you, really? Was this all even necessary? Seeing that everything relating to your accommodation had been handed by Gwyar, had this been her idea too?

But you had to acknowledge that it was effective: soon you found your eyelids getting heavier and your muscles relaxing. Your eyes wandered briefly to the waning fire that weakly crackled across your bed. You remembered leaving the room without lighting up the fireplace this afternoon--this must also be the raven-haired servant's doing.

Your last thoughts before being swallowed by oblivion were of warmth, unfamiliar yet not unwelcome, of the many unknowns your future held, and of golden eyes.

M!Gwyar, F!Hound Version.

The first thing you noticed about him was his eyes.

They were like molten gold.

The color, unusual, and even could be called exotic, would glint even brighter under the merest touch of light. That, you noticed when he had stepped into your sun-bathed room.

Then, there was the way he carried herself. Confident, sure, yet with an apparent ease that would befit someone of a higher station. Had fate cast a different dice and let him be born in a noble house, drapes of silk, fine linen, and ornate jewelry would without a doubt complement his person--though you suspected they would become mere accessories, as he was more than capable to captivate the eyes of anyone and everyone in any ball he chooses to attend.

Clothe him in a simple servant's attire, however, and he'd put those into good use just as well: blink, and you would not even notice he was sharing a room with you. That was how he had taught himself to operate, you supposed, with his job being to serve in the background. Even so, compared to the many servants you had encountered in the past, Gwyar was simply...different.

What was this uncanny ability of his that made him able to blend with practically the walls? Or were all servants in Camelot trained differently?

You guessed you'd never know. There were too many foreign things in this land, too many new customs for you to absorb and learn should you wish to survive.

Then, there was another thing. This had been the bigger surprise about the servant, was that he noticed.

He noticed many little details that you'd scarcely cared, like the color of the curtains in your room, the way furniture was arranged, and little spots on a bronze basin he was quick to clean. Most jarring of all, he noticed you.

It had been an ingrained habit of yours to stay silent and observe others. Not many people you encountered were privileged enough to have learned sign language. Or even when they were equipped with some knowledge of it, not many had considered your thoughts or presence to be worth their notice. Not much, anyway.

And it had been fine the way it was. Your job, after all, had been all about using your body and magic. Trading blows of words, whether they be written or signed, had simply never been in the domain of your responsibility nor interest. A mute with a sword. That was all that you had always been.

So, naturally, it had always been you who had to take notice of others. You had learned to fade away in conversations, you had learned to observe, and to act according to the needs and orders of your parents, older siblings, and senior knights. A command, a tense nod, a harsh look... You needed only but a gesture from them for you to act.

Reverse the position, and you knew not what to do. It had taken you aback when Gwyar had looked into your eyes with open curiosity and asked so much about yourself and your preferences on the first days of your stay. "Did you like the color of the curtains, Guinevere? Was the water I drew too hot for you? What do you usually have for breakfast? Is there anything I should ask of the cooks?"

All of his questions had been too much. You had answered as best as you could, going with whatever you thought was acceptable, but the flicker of doubt that crossed his golden eyes told you that he suspected your answers (and hesitation) to be...off, to say the least. The servant, of course, had stayed politely silent about it.

Your mind, on the other hand, had not.

Likes, dislikes, preferences for food and even beddings... Gracious God. Now that you were prompted by questions such as these, your brain felt as if it was going to mush. Those things were a luxury you had not considered much before. How would you know what color you preferred your curtains to be when tents and barrack walls were all that you had been accustomed to? Or what food would you prefer in the morning when army rations had been your staple diet for most of your adolescent years?

Letting out a sigh you did not realize you had been withholding, you turned in your bed, once again marveling at how soft and pliant it was. You could almost smell a hint of floral fragrance. Was it lily?

Hm. Another discovery: you never knew one would spend a dime just to perfume their quilt and beddings. Perfuming the hair and clothes you could understand--you'd been subjected to it several times when you had to accompany your parents and eldest sister to attend official meetings and banquets, but this...? This was too much.

How much budget had King Arthur allocated to impress you, really? Was this all even necessary? Seeing that everything relating to your accommodation had been handed by Gwyar, had this been his idea too?

But you had to acknowledge that it was effective: soon you found your eyelids getting heavier and your muscles relaxing. Your eyes wandered briefly to the waning fire that weakly crackled across your bed. You remembered leaving the room without lighting up the fireplace this afternoon--this must also be the raven-haired servant's doing.

But you had to acknowledge that it was effective: soon you found your eyelids getting heavier and your muscles relaxing. Your eyes wandered briefly to the waning fire that weakly crackled across your bed. You remembered leaving the room without lighting up the fireplace this afternoon--this must also be the raven-haired servant's doing.

Your last thoughts before being swallowed by oblivion were of warmth, unfamiliar yet not unwelcome, of the many unknowns your future held, and of golden eyes.

[eilzie]

Legacy

[eilzie]

And, I ship them. The end.

[eilzie]

Face Model: Sebastian from Stardew Valley + HC

Sebastian, with a neater hair.

Used to think he was just some pretty boy with some snark. Turns out to be one that could pull at heartstrings with his backstory and development.

Some HC:

Has always been drawn to anything tech. In a sense, he views it like how his mother views carpentry: as a way to create something out of nothing. He likes the many possibilities coding can bring, and is continuously learning to create new things.

While his coding skills have earned him some good gigs, he struggles to make his own dream project a reality. Is it a game that he wants to create? A functional app to help him and Sam tinker with their music? He has trouble deciding which project he should pour himself into.

While he doesn't like his step-dad, he has no hard feelings towards his step-sister. She treats him well, too, though it is Sebastian who can't help but compare himself to her and feel inferior each time.

Newcomers don't normally intrigue him, since they come and go. But the new Farmer is a bit different. He, for one, admires their enthusiasm to work on a project so daunting. Reviving a decrepit farm is no joke. After seeing their hard work paying off bit by bit, he feels compelled to do something he can be proud of too.

[eilzie]

Still sailing-strong ships even in another universe be like:

[eilzie]

First Leicester ship sails away like whoosh.

[eilzie]

Quoting Fire Emblem Three Hopes out of context just because it's relatable.

[eilzie]

Face Model: Fang from My Time at Sandrock

The silent doctor of Sandrock.

[eilzie]

Face Model: The Hound from The King's Hound

Translating my main character straight out of The King's Hound's character creation page. Do yourself a favor and check out the original Interactive Fiction @the-kingshound by @kal-down!

Fanfiction, "The Hound." My take of moniker's origin below, under the cut.

The Hound [M/F].

Angst, Action.

[Male Hound Version]

One could always tell to what extent a swordsman had honed their skills by the way they held their sword.

A true and tested one would always be mindful of how strong their grip was, how they would shift their stance and weight with each changing thrust and strike. Grip the sword too firm, and you'd lose fluidity as well as balance with each movement. Grip it too loose, and you'd risk losing not just your blade but your stance even by the tiniest bit of contact against your opponent's blade.

Clearly, the knight in pale armor knew all this. Yet, for one who had been hailed as the most promising recruit of this year, all theory and practice seemed to flow out of the window the moment he stood inside the ring of dirt.

His posture was way too rigid, both of his hands clenching and unclenching on his sword's hilt, his feet stiffly planted on the ground. The eyes that peered from behind his helmet were narrowed, and the wisps of fog that formed around the lower half of his face was a tell-tale sign that his breathing was getting uneven.

And this was the result of merely trading two blows with you.

The cold, damp air of early winter was marring the morning, but it seemed that the temperature was not going to get in the fun of House Venegard's employed hands. Cheers and shouts from onlooking squires and knights were all that you could hear. The crowd was pushing the young knight before you to take another chance, to take another launch. The rowdy bunch standing just outside the makeshift dirt arena had been nothing but loud and boisterous, yet the young knight ignored them and chose to stand still. Playing defense now, weren't we?

No, matter. You were never one to indulge in new recruits' antics anyway.

With three swift steps, you aimed your strike in a wide blow to the knight's left. He managed to parry it well without flinching. Good strength, you supposed. Good eye, too, if only a little bit too easy to fool.

You retracted your blade mere inches away from your opponent, then bent the tip upward. A sharp slash from below almost threw the knight's balance off, and haphazardly he took a step back to right his grip and stance before you could go for another take.

"Go easy on him, Lord Gwenvael!" shouted a squire. Despite his plea, his voice cackled with too much glee.

A young knight beside the squire cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed, "Don't lose, Rowan! I'm betting a round for everybody on the tavern tonight!"

Were there no layer of steel to obscure Rowan the young knight's face from you and the crowd, fear would undoubtedly have been the first and most apparent emotion to be etched there. Trepidation would be a close second, you presumed, when you saw Rowan uneasily bouncing his weight from one feet to the other.

Unlike Rowan, you were wearing no helmet, and so, your face was for everyone to see. Even so, nothing betrayed the blank expression you wore.

"Give him three more strikes else I lose my purse, My Lord!" shouted a senior servant, one whom you recognized to have been directly employed for years under your eldest sister. "I bet him to last at least seven blows against you!"

Seven, huh? Well, that was generous.

You let your head tilt to one side to inform the crowd that you were in on their game. This was, after all, not a duel to the death to prove who was stronger than who. What was it, then? Truthfully, this had started merely as a jest, proposed by the knight himself and his new batch of friends upon receiving their title a mere fortnight ago. Drunken with pride and enthusiasm, newly appointed Rowan and his peers had declared that they, the new blood, could surely stand on par with the Seventh-born of Venegard himself.

To cut long story short, what had started as a drunken boasting travelled to the barracks, and some senior recruits considered it proper to grant these so-called "blessed new blood" a chance to cross blades with you. Training new flesh was rarely ever included in your duty, but after a long season of campaign that had carried you away from home for almost half a year, your eldest sister found the idea to be amusing enough to entertain.

"Goad them a little, Gwenvael. Humor the senior knights," she had said. There had been a rare, coy glint in your sister's steely blue eyes. "Let the younglings know what it truly means to serve under our banner."

This was supposed to be your much-deserved resting period, your time to recuperate from exhaustion and heal, but you had not tried to oppose. Your sister's words, just like your parents', were rules in the Venegard household.

You had only tilted your head in response, knowing that your sister would be able to read your question though it was not signed. "How do you want me to handle it?"

A cold grin had spread on your sister's lips. "However you see fit."

The merry shouting around you brought you back to the present moment. Your opponent, Rowan, had not moved a single step from where he stood, and as you refocused your gaze on him, you could see how he had trouble controlling the rhythm of his breathing. Despite being similar to you in build and height, he appeared to have shrunken several inches due to the way his shoulders were hunched.

You jerked your chin curtly towards the apprehensive knight. "Come."

You wouldn't expect him to understand Sign language, but a simple, universal gesture of taunting like that should serve as well.

Tentatively, Rowan took a half step forward. Another step, then he lunged at you, bringing down his sword in a vertical movement.

Steel met steel once again. This time, you didn't withdraw or deflect. You had given this young knight too many chances to recollect himself.

So, letting a measured burst of magic flow through your arms and legs, you side-stepped into his range in what would have looked like a blur of motion, towards his unguarded side, and connected your steel-gloved fist to his waist. Rowan was taken aback and spluttered a cough at the unexpected rebuttal, and you wasted no time to bash your sword against his.

You let go more of your restraint with this one attack, and a poorly defended Rowan was instantly blown back by the the burst of your magic-induced strength. He collapsed butt-first against some onlookers who were too surprised to steer out of their way, collective gasps and "oohs" resounding from all around you.

"Twelve times," you signed.

The crowd went silent as a boy, your personal squire and translator, voiced your words aloud.

"I could have bested him and taken his life twelve times in this short while. Should we go for another minute, that number could easily go up to twenty and only a handful of you, fresh recruits, would even know it." Poor defenses. Rigid posture. Uneven stance. The list could go on. "Yet I chose to end this early for your sakes as well as his."

You let your gaze travel from man to man, surveying the now silent crowd around you impassively. "New blood or old, you should aim to always prove yourselves with skills instead of jests."

With that, you turned around and directed your steps towards the barracks. The crowd parted their way to let you pass without as much as a word, and from a distance, you could spot your eldest sister standing near a window. She'd been watching, you knew.

Your sister's head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.

Well done.

You let tension fall off your shoulders. All good, then.

Now that the game was over, you could go back to your rest before another season of contest started. You didn't know how many days you may have, but you would try to enjoy whatever moment of respite that was given to you.

Half-running to match your stride, your boy squire appeared beside you and you handed your sword to him. He delicately put the blade back into its sheath. "My Lord, if I may..."

You glanced down at him.

"You were being lenient on Sir Rowan, correct?" the boy asked. His voice was unsure, as if he was afraid of crossing a line. He'd been assigned to you only for less than a week as your translator. But at the subtle nod you gave him, the boy gained courage and decided to continue." Umm, I'm just wondering... How many blows would it take you to defeat him if you were to put in your all..."

You looked at the boy for a moment, at the wide brown eyes that were full of wonder and innocent worship, at the way he was cradling your sword in his hold. Had you also been like him back then? Starstruck and entranced at the idea of merely wielding a sword not made out of wood? Had you also looked at your brother, Saraah, with the same eyes each time he'd come home from a prolonged season of fighting?

It didn't take long for you to ponder an answer. "Three, if he was less nervous than he was," you signed. "One, otherwise."

"One," the boy breathed, eyes getting impossibly wider.

"One blow. To the neck," you affirmed. "He might have fared better had he not let his nerves control his every movement. The way he stood and held his blade were lousy, and he let his left shoulder exposed. I would have gone for his neck to take advantage of that opening."

At your explanation, the boy slowly nodded and grinned, unconsciously hugging your sheathed blade closer to his chest as if it were some precious trophy. "One fatal strike to the neck... Amazing. Just like a hunting hound."

You almost paused in your tracks. "Pardon?"

"Like a predatory hound charging in for its prey," the boy exclaimed. Brown orbs were now positively gleaming, and you knew not what to make out of it when the boy directed his star-glazed eyes upon you. "That, you are, My Lord."

[Female Hound Version]

One could always tell to what extent a swordsman had honed their skills by the way they held their sword.

A true and tested one would always be mindful of how strong their grip was, how they would shift their stance and weight with each changing thrust and strike. Grip the sword too firm, and you'd lose fluidity as well as balance with each movement. Grip it too loose, and you'd risk losing not just your blade but your stance even by the tiniest bit of contact against your opponent's blade.

Clearly, the knight in pale armor knew all this. Yet, for one who had been hailed as the most promising recruit of this year, all theory and practice seemed to flow out of the window the moment he stood inside the ring of dirt.

His posture was way too rigid, both of his hands clenching and unclenching on his sword's hilt, his feet stiffly planted on the ground. The eyes that peered from behind his helmet were narrowed, and the wisps of fog that formed around the lower half of his face was a tell-tale sign that his breathing was getting uneven.

And this was the result of merely trading two blows with you.

The cold, damp air of early winter was marring the morning, but it seemed that the temperature was not going to get in the fun of House Venegard's employed hands. Cheers and shouts from onlooking squires and knights were all that you could hear. The crowd was pushing the young knight before you to take another chance, to take another launch. The rowdy bunch standing just outside the makeshift dirt arena had been nothing but loud and boisterous, yet the young knight ignored them and chose to stand still. Playing defense now, weren't we?

No, matter. You were never one to indulge in new recruits' antics anyway.

With three swift steps, you aimed your strike in a wide blow to the knight's left. He managed to parry it well without flinching. Good strength, you supposed. Good eye, too, if only a little bit too easy to fool.

You retracted your blade mere inches away from your opponent, then bent the tip upward. A sharp slash from below almost threw the knight's balance off, and haphazardly he took a step back to right his grip and stance before you could go for another take.

"Go easy on him, Lady Guinevere!" shouted a squire. Despite his plea, his voice cackled with too much glee.

A young knight beside the squire cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed, "Don't lose, Rowan! I'm betting a round for everybody on the tavern tonight!"

Were there no layer of steel to obscure Rowan the young knight's face from you and the crowd, fear would undoubtedly have been the first and most apparent emotion to be etched there. Trepidation would be a close second, you presumed, when you saw Rowan uneasily bouncing his weight from one feet to the other.

Unlike Rowan, you were wearing no helmet, and so, your face was for everyone to see. Even so, nothing betrayed the blank expression you wore.

"Give him three more strikes else I lose my purse, My Lady!" shouted a senior servant, one whom you recognized to have been directly employed for years under your eldest sister. "I bet him to last at least seven blows against you!"

Seven, huh? Well, that was generous.

You let your head tilt to one side to inform the crowd that you were in on their game. This was, after all, not a duel to the death to prove who was stronger than who. What was it, then? Truthfully, this had started merely as a jest, proposed by the knight himself and his new batch of friends upon receiving their title a mere fortnight ago. Drunken with pride and enthusiasm, newly appointed Rowan and his peers had declared that they, the new blood, could surely stand on par with the Seventh-born of Venegard herself.

To cut long story short, what had started as a drunken boasting travelled to the barracks, and some senior recruits considered it proper to grant these so-called "blessed new blood" a chance to cross blades with you. Training new flesh was rarely ever included in your duty, but after a long season of campaign that had carried you away from home for almost half a year, your eldest sister found the idea to be amusing enough to entertain.

"Goad them a little, Guinevere. Humor the senior knights," she had said. There had been a rare, coy glint in your sister's steely blue eyes. "Let the younglings know what it truly means to serve under our banner."

This was supposed to be your much-deserved resting period, your time to recuperate from exhaustion and heal, but you had not tried to oppose. Your sister's words, just like your parents', were rules in the Venegard household.

You had only tilted your head in response, knowing that your sister would be able to read your question though it was not signed. "How do you want me to handle it?"

A cold grin had spread on your sister's lips. "However you see fit."

The merry shouting around you brought you back to the present moment. Your opponent, Rowan, had not moved a single step from where he stood, and as you refocused your gaze on him, you could see how he had trouble controlling the rhythm of his breathing.

You jerked your chin curtly towards the apprehensive knight. "Come."

You wouldn't expect him to understand Sign language, but a simple, universal gesture of taunting like that should serve as well.

Tentatively, Rowan took a half step forward. Funny, you idly thought. So much indecisiveness against an opponent who was merely half his size. Another step, then, tensing up shortly, Rowan lunged at you, bringing down his sword in a vertical movement.

Steel met steel once again. Any other combatant who was ignorant of your reputation would not have expected a woman of your stature to fully block against such raw strength, but you were not most women. Magic had begun to thrum in your veins.

This time, you didn't withdraw or deflect. You had given this young knight too many chances to recollect himself.

So, letting a measured burst of magic flow through your arms and legs, you side-stepped into his range in what would have looked like a blur of motion, towards his unguarded side, and connected your steel-gloved fist to his waist. Rowan was taken aback and spluttered a cough at the unexpected rebuttal, and you wasted no time to bash your sword against his.

You let go more of your restraint with this one attack, and a poorly defended Rowan was instantly blown back by the the burst of your magic-induced strength. He collapsed butt-first against some onlookers who were too surprised to steer out of their way, collective gasps and "oohs" resounding from all around you.

"Twelve times," you signed.

The crowd went silent as a boy, your personal squire and translator, voiced your words aloud.

"I could have bested him and taken his life twelve times in this short while. Should we go for another minute, that number could easily go up to twenty and only a handful of you, fresh recruits, would even know it." Poor defenses. Rigid posture. Uneven stance. The list could go on. "Yet I chose to end this early for your sakes as well as his."

You let your gaze travel from man to man, surveying the now silent crowd around you impassively. "New blood or old, you should aim to always prove yourselves with skills instead of jests."

With that, you turned around and directed your steps towards the barracks. The crowd parted their way to let you pass without as much as a word, and from a distance, you could spot your eldest sister standing near a window. She'd been watching, you knew.

Your sister's head moved in an almost imperceptible nod.

Well done.

You let tension fall off your shoulders. All good, then.

Now that the game was over, you could go back to your rest before another season of contest started. You didn't know how many days you may have, but you would try to enjoy whatever moment of respite that was given to you.

Half-running to match your stride, your boy squire appeared beside you and you handed your sword to him. He delicately put the blade back into its sheath. "My Lady, if I may..."

You glanced at him.

"You were being lenient on Sir Rowan, correct?" the boy asked. His voice was unsure, as if he was afraid of crossing a line. He'd been assigned to you only for less than a week as your translator. But at the subtle nod you gave him, the boy gained courage and decided to continue." Umm, I'm just wondering... How many blows would it take you to defeat him if you were to put in your all..."

You looked at the boy for a moment, at the wide brown eyes that were full of wonder and innocent worship, at the way he was cradling your sword in his hold. Had you also been like him back then? Starstruck and entranced at the idea of merely wielding a sword not made out of wood? Had you also looked at your brother, Saraah, with the same eyes each time he'd come home from a prolonged season of fighting?

It didn't take long for you to ponder an answer. "Three, if he was less nervous than he was," you signed. "One, otherwise."

"One," the boy breathed, eyes getting impossibly wider.

"One blow. To the neck," you affirmed. "He might have fared better had he not let his nerves control his every movement. The way he stood and held his blade were lousy, and he let his left shoulder exposed. I would have gone for his neck to take advantage of that opening."

At your explanation, the boy slowly nodded and grinned, unconsciously hugging your sheathed blade closer to his chest as if it were some precious trophy. "One fatal strike to the neck... Amazing. Just like a hunting hound."

You almost paused in your tracks. "Pardon?"

"Like a predatory hound charging in for its prey," the boy exclaimed. Brown orbs were now positively gleaming, and you knew not what to make out of it when the boy directed his star-glazed eyes upon you. "That, you are, My Lady."

[eilzie]

Face Model: Haley from Stardew Valley + HC

Playing with face models. Stardew Valley edition. Haley.

Still gonna praise her character arc. One of the most unexpected character development in a cozy farming sim.

Some HC:

Is frequently on her phone and laptop, browsing not just social media but fashion blogs, photography websites, and random channels. As her relationship with the Farmer grows, her interests broaden: she starts frequenting channels and blogs about animals, gardening, and also cooking.

Has some experience in photography, having taken it up since she was a teenager. She loved photographing only people at the beginning, but starts to play with nature and still objects as she feels more and more at home in the Valley. Often brings her camera around for events and festivals happening in Pelican Town; she feels like it is her responsibility as the resident photographer to capture as many happy moments as possible.

Collects trinkets and small items as tokens of good memories. Photographs them too. A multicolored seashell with white dots marring the upper lip is to remember a good time she spent with her parents on their last trip to the beach. A pair of old running shoes with fading black stripes is from her time as a cheerleader in high school.

Has always been curious about gardening since she saw how expertly Granny Evelyn could arrange flowers and care for them. After witnessing how the new Farmer could transform a desolate plot of land into a beautiful farm, she finally works up the courage to take her interest to another level by asking Granny to teach her how to care for plants.