enarmor

[enarmor]

You can’t expect the rich and wealthy to wash their own floors, dress themselves, or cook their own food. A community of the elite, therefore, is only ¼ “elite” and ¾ “common service workers.” With the heavy death toll of the recent war, there’s plenty of open space for new tailors, chefs, maids, butlers, entertainers, stablehands, and other servants. Whether you’re a commoner who has no hope of passing for fancy nobility, or the heir to a noble house wishing to disguise yourself for a glimpse of how the other half lives, there’s bound to be a place for your talents here. That’s right: find a minimum wage job. Just keep in mind that you’re not actually here for the pay. Get in good with your older coworkers and they just might have some gossip to share with you about Desmond Blaiddyd’s new mistress, or the fact that the Lady Gloucester had been an orphan who’d married old Sergio just to kill him. Three times, in fact, and failed each time. The more you win the servants’ trust, the closer you might get to finding that dangerous artifact Nye had informed you of back in Burrowhaven. [Grants Any Skill +1]

"Fairest Ninian, I hate to be a bother and ask--truly I do--but when does being your dance apprentice entail dancing?"

Slung around his shoulder is a bag. Worn on his back, a box. Held in his arms, a bundle of props. Wrapped round most of his fingers the loops to bags and bouncing off his hips two very full skins of water. He suddenly understands what it feels like being his horse, having to carry that hulking suit of armor and the rather annoying body inhabiting it. It's nothing stocky & sturdy Sain can't physically do, but it does make him look ridiculous. And he didn't quite imagine this to be the sort of outing he'd have with Ninian.

Is that the fault of his own rose-tinted glasses?

"It was the promise of watching you perform that motivated me, you know! To see you glide as though on ice, eyes sparkling like fresh snow in the morning... And your hands, lithe and over mine--guiding each of my steps with serenity..." Hold your horses. Really grip 'em good. Because while Sain's words may seem like a dreamy fabrication, he does not speak them with the kind of poetic pronunciation that would make them appealing. It sounds like a long, ordered list the way he says it, because he tops it off with, "...Is any of that part of today's act?"

He doesn't want to think about how long they've been at it. Or how long he's been made to wear a dancer's garb not unlike the drake's. He has the flared dress. He has the flowing ribbon. He has the gold cuffs--larger and looser than Ninians. And all the adornments jingle with every step he takes. That's probably a good thing for her; she won't easily lose track of him this way.

"Or I could teach you of the fire in the steps of Caelin! Have you ever seen a knight waltz?" She isn't missing much. Not from the way he shakes and shimmies his hips in her general direction, strutting one foot in front of the other--trying to really sell her some moves with like eighty pounds worth of stuff strapped to some part of his body.

And he anchors himself all wrong. He moves rigidly, doesn't incorporate much more than his steps. Even if he had been unburdened, he doesn't promise much in the way of wowing a crowd...

//starter for @ninisdance

‧❀༉‧˚ decadenza.

[enarmor]

The month after the Ethereal Moon is often reputed as the most romantic of all the months, so many plan weddings under the belief that their union will be blessed with longevity and good fortune by the goddess herself. A high profile wedding between a young Miss Saoirse Elidure and a mysterious Yuliy of Kupala, supposedly a long-lost Almyran prince, is set to be held this month and the bride and groom are in desperate need of bodyguards. They’re reluctant to give up specific details, but both of them believe that someone, perhaps many people will object to their union and come to crash it. Violently. [Grants Sword +1]

The sound of steel meeting steel sings in tandem with church bells. Every swing, a lilt. Every hit, that resonating clang, decorating the air with the color of passion. One body falls. A second weapon clatters to the ground. A third assailant is reduced to the sound of fleeing footsteps. A fourth has their armor pierced and their breast struck. Yet it all coalesces into background ambience, perfectly blended into the ceremony.

"Ah, how fortuitous this truly is! To have the chance to defend the purest love-" a white flash, the bride reaches the altar, "-Caelin was born from such love, you know. It was the perfect midsection of Araphen and Pherae: a natural marriage between beauty & valor!"

The blunt end of a spear rises from the ground faster than a blink. It collides with some poor sod's chin. They fall unconscious. Black dress shoes peeking from white suit pants move to sweep it behind a hedge.

"Ensuring that stars do not cross their skies is but the highest honor for a knight. Wouldn't you agree, fellow Heath?"

The last of the crashers simply stares still--stares stunned. Sain merely has to trod up to them, wrap his arm round their neck, and wait until a flick from his gloved finger topples their breathless body over the last one. They'll all wake up after the groom and bride are wed. And then they'll have nothing to crash at all. A hum escapes his lips as he ponders that fact.

Eyes like a hunter's scan the surrounding area for the next site of attack. As if blessed by some scary power, he finds it, spotting the malice in some random trio amidst tens of other guests. He clicks his tongue. He nods his head. He beckons for Heath to join him as he walks, fixing the cuffs on his matching suit as though they were merely ruffled by the wind.

"Ah, but what of you? Has your home any tales to tell of love? I must know, given that you've accepted this job with me!"

//starter for @loyaldeserter

‧❀༉‧˚ your secrets aren't see-through.

[enarmor]

A horse has been nudging at Eliwood for the past five minutes. She seems affectionate and more than welcome to his presence: familiar, almost. And she doesn't just cozy up to his hand, but tries to gallop off to the side, bringing the Pheraean with her. She points him somewhere. She wants him to move. Her tail could not flick more excitedly.

"-True Love! True Loooooove! O darling angel, where have you run off to? Did I upset you? I swear on my honor as a knight, I will do right by your beloved name!"

And that's Sain, calling for someone somewhere in the distance. It shouldn't sound like anything new to Eliwood at this point.

Except-

There aren't any women around. No skirts for Sain to chase. No gloved hands prepared to slap his face with silk. They are in the stables, the both of them, and-

"-True Loveeee! Deareeeeest! My heart yearns for youuu!"

-the yelling is getting louder, getting closer. The horse on Eliwood's arm tugs him toward that voice, and each force draws closer still until his emerald gaze meets that of Eliwood's sapphire.

"Ah, what a surprise!"

All of the horse's motion dies down in that instant, and the man struts forward with his arms outstretched for a hug. There's no running. Poor Eliwood is wrapped up in it, in all the trust and affection a lance would have for one of the hands that wielded it. "So she was safe with you. How goes it, Lord Eliwood? I trust my little friend here didn't give you too hard a time?"

The horse snorts, tossing her head once when he goes to touch it. Sain sighs, then laughs. "That's True Love for you... Cold and distant. Impossible to satisfy. But a noble cause all the same, wouldn't you agree?"

//starter for @blazingknight

‧❀༉‧˚ PSA: Deleting school to focus on Horse

[enarmor]

You can’t expect the rich and wealthy to wash their own floors, dress themselves, or cook their own food. A community of the elite, therefore, is only ¼ “elite” and ¾ “common service workers.” With the heavy death toll of the recent war, there’s plenty of open space for new tailors, chefs, maids, butlers, entertainers, stablehands, and other servants. Whether you’re a commoner who has no hope of passing for fancy nobility, or the heir to a noble house wishing to disguise yourself for a glimpse of how the other half lives, there’s bound to be a place for your talents here. That’s right: find a minimum wage job. Just keep in mind that you’re not actually here for the pay. Get in good with your older coworkers and they just might have some gossip to share with you about Desmond Blaiddyd’s new mistress, or the fact that the Lady Gloucester had been an orphan who’d married old Sergio just to kill him. Three times, in fact, and failed each time. The more you win the servants’ trust, the closer you might get to finding that dangerous artifact Nye had informed you of back in Burrowhaven. [Grants Any Skill +1]

"Welcome to Malade's Malarkey! If you're after this morning's peonies, I have but one left! Rest assured, it is as fresh as it is beautiful-"

Up until this point, 'Malade' had been speaking with his back turned to his supposed customer. A bad decision for any bonafide merchant. Lucky for him, he's not here to peddle for gold. 'Malade' is a character built to be a bit of a wall: simple, passionate about work, more of a listener than a talker. He simply exists to be a sponge of information.

While Sain picks up a trowel with ease and has no qualms selecting flowers for noble lasses, it's the part about keeping a low profile that has been his bane this day. To shut his mouth, to sit and listen and wait for the gossip to trail in--like asking the sun to set in reverse. But no other way would work; he just has to sit here and fish until someone feels charmed enough to bite.

But worst of all? He'll have to wash out a bunch of orange when he finishes. Not a second goes by where he doesn't lament the decision to dye his hair for this job.

Anyways, he's spun on his heel now, carrying a pair of bagged plants to set down. Enter Pelleas, and suddenly he has something to talk about. Beneath his outfit, Sain recognizes him--he only hopes he knows him through some less-than-fashionable garb.

"Pelleas??" Once left, once right. Twice left, twice right. The knight-incognito ensures there aren't any more ears around before leaning close. A grin spreads over his lips. "Like a shooting star in broad daylight...! Yours is a face I'd never tire of seeing."

Briefly, he bends below his stall. Greenhouse equipment he could 'borrow' from the monastery, but wood and nails he had to scrounge up on his own. It appears homemade, ordinary. Ordinary enough to not feel like a setup.

"Here, have my last one. May its love and prosperity find you." He hands Pelleas a maroon-colored flower, indeed as fresh and beautiful as he remarked earlier. If nothing else, Sain has a natural talent for gardening.

"So," he whispers, leaning closer just-in-case, "learned anything yet?"

//starter for @pirrhyc

‧❀༉‧˚ hortus de escapismo.

[enarmor]

A very old book has come back into style. “Regarding Knights and Chivalry” is its title, penned by a so-called Knight of Faerghus nobody has heard of, and its foreword claims to offer a comprehensive guide to knightly conduct… except its teachings are utterly bizarre. When it isn’t making readers act like absolute fools, it’s dooming them to failure on the battlefield with its absolutely impractical and ridiculous advice. And yet it’s spread like wildfire among the public again, toted as the secret key to winning love. Are you falling for the silly fad, or are you trying to help kill it? [Grants Lance +1]

"-And while managing a horse's mood can be tricky, there are a few things they universally love, capable of taking them from the pits of despair to the wings of heaven..."

An unsteady hand holds a thick tome as a knight attempts to paraphrase its text. When 'Regarding Knights and Chivalry' spread around the monastery, a push came from the student body to have one of the Knights of Seiros teach it to their classes. There was begging and pleading with admin, until finally they budged, and one of the higher-ups was in Sain's barracks asking if anyone had read the thing.

Of course he had, and in no less than a day to boot. It took an even shorter amount of time for him to get signed up and assigned, and now, here we are: Sain shaking with excitement at what he thinks is an enlightening experience for droves of aspiring squires.

But what they most certainly can't believe they're hearing.

"Indeed! All horses enjoy scenic walks. Take them around town, or down to the beach--perhaps down a secret passage in a forest of dreams," he has them now, what with walking a horse being some halfway decent advice, but, "they also love to sing! Bring one into a tavern," somehow get it through the doors, "lead it on stage," where it will most certainly take up all of its space, "and watch as it begins to harmonize with the lute and lyre!"

Sain is so engrossed in these teachings that he's begun to speak with his eyes closed, merely imagining how the students would react and not actually perceiving their confused looks.

"And finally, fortune slips! Nothing equine can resist the temptation of having their fortune read, and if you get a good one-"

Clack!

Footsteps halt his advance. Not because he's scared of any old shmuck walking in on him, but because he recognizes them. Has heard their weight against a thousand different terrains, knows what they sound like sprinting and stamping out of anger and walking in disguise. His curse has entered the room, her mere presence eroding his armor. What was a high-strung instrument a moment ago sounds hopeless, sounds shocked.

"Ah! Lady Lyndis!"

He opens his eyes. He turns to face her. He slams the book shut between his fingers because he knows exactly what she thinks of knighthood and of him.

And maybe, there's a tiny part of him that wants her opinion to change.

"What brings such a heroic presence into my seminar?"

//starter for @sunncutter

‧❀༉‧˚ the shape of my disgrace.

[enarmor]

Sain has never known the Knights' Hall to be a popular tourist destination.

Many of Fodlan's knights clearly haven't heard the chronicles of Caelin. They weave not romance into their armor, they breathe not with love and splendor. Sometimes they'll just grunt when Sain approaches, or stare into their mug as though awaiting some goddess of wine to pop out and hand them a blessed weapon.

Oh, and the smell. Always just a twinge on the nose, that alcohol.

So when he sees a familiar head of blue (which says a lot about his ability to remember faces, because Kris is far from the only bluenette in this world) his interest is piqued. Quickly, he shuffles past many of his dour-looking comrades to the quiet corner the sword has propped itself up in. If Kris was trying to go unnoticed, Sain would give him points for this.

"Lest my eye tell me a lie--which I know it never would--I have the rare pleasure of seeing Mister White, in the flesh!" A squinting smile serves as the precursor for Sain draping his arm over Kris' shoulder, always the type to cast his affections deep into one's personal bubble. "Though you are a great deal more... Robed... Than I remember. And it must be said: my heart can't decide if it prefers you with or without this outfit."

An outfit he, bear in mind, does not do a great job getting a good look at. His gaze locks with the other's laser-trained on the tiniest twitches of muscle that might indicate some expression.

"Seeing as how you're in the Knights' Hall," he continues, hand gesturing to the sad state of the room they're in, "and are now in the presence of a proper knight, what can I do for you? Are you in need of assistance, perhaps?"

It's tough to picture Kris ever in need of anything. A weapon sharpened? A crime to report? Nothing comes to mind that doesn't seem like a thing he would just up and do for himself, one-man army and all.

Still, Kris is a friend. And as they stand, he owes him more than a few favors.

//starter for @unsungblade

‧❀༉‧˚ reforge; rekindle.

[enarmor]

His return had been nothing short of fanfare. Boasting as he rode over cobbled streets and handing flowers to any who took interest, flashing his lance for all to see and proclaiming how he'd personally protect this maiden or that one. Fun if you were one of the townsfolk who enjoyed the sort of revelry (or just a fool to laugh at), incredibly annoying if you were a late sleeper. But Sain took note of every scowl just as he did every smile, and when he waxed poetic wisdom, it was for those ears to hear just as much.

Yet it all came to a halt when he reached Mark's door. Like it was a dam and not an entrance, holding off every bit of his nonsense for the outside world to have. This is his tactician, his most trusted commander. It had always been Mark's hand turning the point of his spear whenever he pointed it an inch away from a villain's heart. And quiet was her strength, for the mind need not speak while it thinks of a hundred and one ways to bail some callow oaf out of a sticky situation. He respected Mark's quiet. Always had. She earned that respect out of him.

So his invitation to dinner came sincere and honest. Spoken like he meant it, which of course, he did.

And now here they sit, bathed in moonlight and wrapped in nighttime air. Sain picked a venue with outdoor seating. The image of Mark that he has is of her in those plains, the wind at her back and grass at their feet. He remembers the first time they fought at night, their arms strangled by ruin walls and stumbling through the low light. Of course, they made it out in the end. Just as the two of them have made it here, despite it all.

"You arrived! You know, sometimes I'm not quite sure they always will..." He offers a wry smile. It's not a very good joke. "That must make you special, no? A ruby among rubble, daring to twinkle and shine where no simple stone would. If only I could think of a gem to be your equal."

Sain delivers his line with the kind of flirty sarcasm one would expect of him. Obviously green goes with red, but...

He steadies his hand beneath the table. It had been playing with something--a box, turning it over all its sides--and any more might arouse suspicion.

"Ah, but pretty words without substance are of no use to such a shrewd mind. So instead I ask you, dearest tactician--"

"--how have things been?"

//starter for @allyphase

‧❀༉‧˚ heaven's sake.

[enarmor]

ᯓ★ sain starters, and other things

TL;DR of this is going to be an uncapped starter call. Simply like the post, and I promise you a starter from my little christmas cav here. Results may vary. You are at risk of being flirted with.

Semi-important yapping under the cut:

In addition to throwing starters at the wall, I'd like for this post to handle his return to TOA in a way that makes sense. I will be treating him as gone for in-universe the length he's been missing (a year and then some) due to a pilgrimage he went on, traveling during Elibe's small period of peace preceding FE6.

For old connections, I will be leaving the reestablishment of dynamics in the hands of muns he's written with before. Given that it's been a while, I don't expect anyone to know how to springboard off of or even remember old threads of his. If you would like to run with your guy still knowing Sain, we can, and I invite you to come plot with me about it if you wish (DMs pref but plotting channel okay)! I'm also open to all kinds of plotting, whether you want to plan a thread instead of having me chuck a starter at you, or do any of the mission board prompts (he is unaff faculty), the world is our oyster!!

Was that a long read? Hopefully it wasn't a long read. Thank you for making it this far if you have. Above all I am super excited to be threading with pookies again and, as always, my DMs are just a stone's throw away for any questions or concerns!

[enarmor]

Hey! Shoo! Stay back, you!

But, my fairest love, what you ask of me I cannot do! Does a stream refuse to flow? Does the sun refuse to set? You are the creek I must move round, the sky I must blaze across. Swat me not like a fly drawn to last week's dinner, but welcome me as a bee captivated by the honey of your sweet embrace!

[enarmor]

hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

hi (with rizz)

[enarmor]

"Raymond!!"

He reached for his lover (hater?) as he left him, but found himself grasping at air. Silly him. He should have known that Raymond would act like this. Once that man made up his mind on something, not even dragons could stand in his way.

An ambient thought crossed his mind, wondering which would come out on top in a battle of stubbornness.

But, dragons aside, his re-entry was stopped by the appearance of the needle. He backed away, shock pulling one leg and fear the other. "So that's what that prick was... B-But Raymond! Are you to say that love is just a poison? Just an enchantment? Something for an apothecary or studied mage to manufacture at their will??"

Unlike the other, he was in full bloom. His white petals spread with the stretching of his arms and chest, an outcry against the winds of fate they had to weather. His scent, too, joined in the mix with the enchantment. Floral and sweet, with a slight zest and creaminess to tie it together. He felt no different from the bush Raymond knelt into, pressed beneath the man's knee. Was this destiny? Would Sain be a trampled just as the whorls of his love began to bear fruit?

"I think not!"

Hope reinvigorated him, drawing the knight closer as if his armor was magnetized to his friend. "What we feel isn't something one can tamper with. Love is what separates us from beasts! So..."

Without missing a beat, he flicked the vial at its center. The loud tink! produced by the glass might have been enough to steal Raymond's attention, so to contest, he set his thumb on his chin and supported his head with an index. Raymond's gaze was his, and he'd let nothing--man, material or otherwise--take it away from him.

His was a gaze of hunger.

"...Why fight it?" The whisper rode on his breath. One step closer was made, and then the two were separated by only an inch of air. But with the way one's exhale would clash against the other, it was like they were fighting. Fighting to occupy the space the other stood in, to envelop him in warmth nursed in the lungs and take him for himself. Another of their games of push and pull.

✢⁎. double-dipping

[enarmor]

The wyverns are very much still with them--each knight is surrounded by claws and enveloped by the webbing of wings--but right now, it feels like it's just Sain and Caeda. The world melts into the background, like sickly sweet chocolate or sap bleeding from the heart of an oak. Her words reach him.

And it's about time.

"I like your answer, haha," and that he means, by virtue of the fact that he's still smiling, "too often must I choose between unwavering praise and unending rebuke. You offer both, only doing each when necessary."

She's as even-weighted as the lance that both of them carry, perfectly balanced in regards to conversation. That much he's learned by now.

"So... Thank you, Caeda. I believe you, that you aren't perfect and that people are each their own case. I guess for me, that means no more shortcuts!" His eyes flutter shut in reflective though, his back dropping all the pressure it had build up in their prior moments. "Love cannot be rushed. It's like a warm soup--better savored."

With a short bob of his head, his eyes are awake again. But they carry a different sheen, more relaxed than what is contemporary. Like looking into a sea of pine needles instead of a windy plain. And Sain's waters are still.

As is his heart.

"Is there anything you'd like to ask me? Any favors I could do for my dear friend? It is my job as a Knight of Seiros, after all."

bleeding heart

[enarmor]

Sain thinks he can feel an uncanny haunt against his back, but he’d sooner pin it on a nighttime ghoul than his newfound friend. Any who count greenery as one of the world’s blessings are free from sin–free enough to be excused of any weird tendencies. Though, there is the possibility of a kind of creature that kills humans to feed her garden, but Sain envisions that as a special case.

Active imagination aside, he takes the time to laugh with Arval’s. Giddiness bounces in his chest, warm and sticky like sap fresh-tapped from pine. “A second home, eh?” He clears the clutter of his work. Hands are dusted and tools set aside, the water inside the can now still and reflecting moonlight. “You could say that! Though I’m not quite sure if even I would go as far as to sleep in here…” 

Tongue and cheek, naturally. He punctuates his sentence with a playful grin, adjusting his seating to face the pale fellow. Legs cross, neatly, though almost childishly, and he rests his palms on the space in between. “As for your other question, my love of flowers and women share a root cause. Poetic, no?” He winks, and his wink is like a butterfly’s wing. The shine in his eye is comparable to the iridescent sheen on its scales–made brighter by the darkness that envelops them.

“It’s all in an effort to be a better knight. Wooing women, caring for the earth and her people–it’s just what he of the lance ought to do. Our task is to uphold beauty, be it striking down knaves or delighting the citizenry.” High-flying, these ideals are. They sit above the ground and are almost certainly too detached. They can’t be walked by Sain’s path, for the vision of ‘knight’ is a visionary to him–unattainable, too pristine to be reached. He makes leaps and bounds in his words because he has to soar into the sun for the chance to catch even a glimpse at the definition of that word. “I’m surprised they haven’t taught this to you yet. Some days, it seems only I know these sorts of things.” 

The face he presents is a beam, with shut eyes and a head tilted to the side. Pride fills him like a stream at the chance to speak of his pride and joy, of his calling. “And what of your reasons? You’ve got more than just a passing interest to still be speaking with me.”

branch of knowledge

[enarmor]

Sleep offers little respite against the pains of the waking world. You drift off, and always you feel as though you are being scrutinized, but when you drift back into consciousness, the feeling fades, not unlike the coming and going of the tide.

One restless night, you are at last approached by The Watcher.

"You have a decision to make."

A feast materializes before you. You can smell it, can nearly taste it, you can feel the warmth and care put into every bite.

You already know, whatever the decision ahead, you can only choose one.

There is something you can't do without.

O Knight, with such love and candor in your spirit,

Will you starve, or will you succumb to a heartless world?

It’s rather lonely to converse with your sleep paralysis demon, isn’t it?

But as Sain blinks, rubs the back of his neck with his hand and more importantly moves, he realizes this is no dream. It’s the dual edge of the crescent moon–gleaming white and stygian black. He could cloak himself in the splendor or fall into the pit in his own stomach. Quite the poetic fork in his road, he thinks. His eyes flare to life with excitement.

“Might I ask you something first?”

His gauntlet slides off his hand as he waits for a reply. He gets none. Fingers reach for food–grazing off a fowl’s bone and the flaky flesh of some fish–before silence is taken to mean ‘yes’.

One day, that habit will land him in trouble.

“You haven’t brought any to-go boxes, have you?” The air of their conversation flies like a harp’s song before slapping the Watcher in the face. Sain's question is asked in a high note, with a gentle turn of his head–as if he had even considered this a choice. “Because a feast is hardly complete without friends! There are a few I’d like to share this with.”

No response, again. This time, he chooses to interpret differently. “…No? Ah, what a shame,” the beast is poked on the nose, and Sain offers a parting shot before turning to leave, “I’ll take my chances on my own, then.”

[enarmor]

cw sainmark

Sain's eyelids flutter shut. Finally, reprieve meets him. It takes him by the cheek, holds him tight--washes away all the muck that famine had wrought. With a clear view of the sky, he can reach his bloodied hands toward the stars and make a wish. They’ll meet as better people. Not when Sain is monstrous, has grown fangs and fur and claws that catch. He nurses close to him the desire to be made himself again, to have those teeth plucked from his gums and fur sheared from his back and claws ripped out with the strength of a great oak. He’ll see flowers again. And maybe, one will strike his fancy, and he’ll pick it and place it behind his tactician’s ear.

Still, he isn’t there yet. His feet stand on the cold cave floors, his body is drenched in all things horrid. He softens his smile and looks back at Mark unflinchingly, but doesn’t dare move toward her. This is someone he’s hurt; a fractured sculpture that’ll break if he lays his hands on her.

“I do,” Sain confesses, rather solemnly. “I fear trust is just as abundant as food right now. I’ll only waste time if I stand around bickering with the others…” They were also made ugly by their stomachs, weren’t they? His knightly fervor demands their heads, but his hand, for now, is stayed by Mark’s words. No more infighting, if he can help it. He muses that he needs his strength for his mission.

“But, you have my word that I won’t wander too far,” stained and scratched though it may be, “and I’ll come running if trouble finds me again. I can protect you, too… If you’d like.” Though he’ll not push. He already declared he wasn’t her lance anymore. This isn’t his duty, nor is it something he can make her accept.

Even if he’d relish the chance.

The blood has finally started to dry. The flow between them isn't like electricity or raging fire, but a slowing trickle of a stream. Where there was once a rush of gushing crimson, there is silence. Only soft ebbing remains, the silent hum of their hard and crusting connection pulsing with every word they exchange.

They're an old wound. Maybe they'll heal, but Sain will always have left his scar on poor Mark.

“Ah, and… I am sorry, as well. It’s been me causing trouble, hasn’t it? Looking back, I don’t think I find very much fault in anything you said.”

✢⁎. every sun must set

[enarmor]

cw sainmark

For as dangerous a beast as arrogance can be, Mark is the one who triumphs this day. Mark, who met her fate on the plains, Mark who pulled the thread of that fate so tight it screamed. Mark who led an army, Mark who won hearts--all without a weapon, a purpose, without guiding principals of her own. Back then, there was just them.

And there is them now.

Sain settles. An exasperated breath collapses out from under him, and with it he loses all the terror in his eyes. What's left is regret, still stained, still bleeding. He makes no movement as she draws near.

"...Mark."

He pronounces it with uncertainty, as though unused to its feeling on his tongue. Her worships it as it leaves him, like a goddess, like a star, like the north-facing needle on a compass. It caresses him like the first time he ever said it, and though it's an unusual name, he knows it's not that. "Mark, Mark..."

His eyes are cleaned in turn, by the steel of his gauntlets. And so is his mouth--his ravenous maw--which both feels unpleasant against his skin and begrimes a good piece of armor. To fix the former, he speaks,

"You're right. We haven't been ourselves, have we? We're tired, and hungry, and maybe a little hopeless, hah..." Oh, what he wouldn't give to be whacked in the head by Wallace right now. He tries imagining something that old ox would say. 'Chin up! Are you a knight, or a boy?!'

Something like that.

"L-Lets save this conversation for another time, darling. I know I wasn't raised to keep a lady waiting but... I'd like us to be of sounder minds. You've been hurt by me, and besides," this is the part where he laughs, where birds return to his face and flowers bloom over the plains they stand on, "if we're confessing anything, let's do it over a nice dinner!"

✢⁎. every sun must set

[enarmor]

He slows to a halt, tauntingly close to Chrysaor's gleaming edge. Tilting his head to look at it, letting out a little laugh, Sain admires its craftsmanship for a moment. The thing is bedazzling, a shard of moonlight captured and honed into something deadly. Maybe that's why Kris took to sharpening it--to keep an edge that could cut across the sky?

Lady Lyndis would take a liking to this. So would Kent.

It's just a shame that it's being drawn at Sain. Without moving, he offers his first look at Keranes, and winks, then finally trails up to Kris' gaze.

Yikes, that thing is ice-cold.

"Finally revealing your true colors, mm? Mister White," a prism of many things, many paths the man could have tread. The one he chose was a jet-black: another shame, "not too different from that Griss, killing off whoever you please. Is that your idea of justice? It's a fascinating one."

In an act of defiance, he sheathes his lance in the ground. It pales in comparison to the chalkos of the sparkling sword, but silver stabs just as well. One clap, then a shrug--each action more nonchalant than the last.

"But poor, sweet Keranes! She's been recording our journey thus far, you know. In her journal." The elder offers no comment, but the solemn look in her eyes cannot deny the truth. Sain speaks no lies. "You'll be written as a thief, and if you strike me, either a killer or a corpse."

A tug from his arm rips his lance back from the earth, digging up a small smattering of dirt in the process. It hasn't had the time to fully fall off before Sain speaks, again and for the last time:

"Which would you like to be remembered as, friend?"

✦ —𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐱𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫, 𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐨𝐭.