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[fjalarspark]

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

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

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

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

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

@semperiuvare

𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒔? 𝑯𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝑪𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒔 :𝑫 &𝑳𝒖𝒄𝒊𝒖𝒔

[fjalarspark]

It certainly is surprising to see Azelle here.

Arvis had oft wondered where he had gone off to, thought about it with regret as he wondered about his fate. Now, though, with the way he stands in the doorway to his classroom one might think he had found a lost item of his.

What is a little brother, if not a thing he owns?

He clears his throat and looks at Azelle, his gaze unwavering. There is much to be said, things that Arvis should speak on; worry, anger, pity, and irritation clot in his throat and make it hard to express himself.

"You're here. And you did not think it important to greet me?"

🔥⊰⊰⊰ ―― Slender fingers capture around the expanse of his volume's spine, and in shuffling it and a myriad of parchments with fretful haste into the satchel at his hip ( he really hadn't the strength to hoist them into one that would weigh against this back, not every day -- not this often. And especially if he wished to make quick work of his retreat from studious halls that never ceased to reek of flame and cinder. )

Hurried bootfalls begin their retreat -- a tactician's last and ultimate card, yet it always seemed to play its hand as his first card: primary, never quite far from the mind, the first thought and never an afterthought. He never allowed it to endure for so long that it should be a hopeless afterthought, retreating.

But bootfalls don't carry him far; they seal against cobbled flooring and root themselves like mighty oaks ( but he feels everything short of mighty and nothing as unwavering as an age-old oak in that moment -- when slivers of garnet meet those of ruby, and cinder and ash and smoke seem to tickle against his flesh and curl into his nostrils. )

Cinder and ash and smoke and rage and fury and these things hot and fiery burgeon within, and his heart is thumping against his sternum louder than he'd like, but there isn't time -- respite or peace -- in which to dwell. So he lets his heart thump -- drum, drum: like the marching sounds that had greeted them that Crusaders-forsaken day at the capital. Maybe it'll pierce his heart with enough flame and fury he'll choke out his spiteful words and char the wicked man in the doorway as the man had done against him.

But words don't soon leave him, and slender fingers retreat to the spine of his tome, now holstered within the leather of his satchel -- a comforting notion, but one no less consoling. Tyrant Velthomer wasn't past scorching estates if it should mean his blackened ambitions were achieved -- his wanted deaths inflicted against those no longer desirable. ( And Azelle thinks, in part, that the wrathful ambition had always been there -- concealed behind a masquerade: something terrible. )

"Move," He declares suddenly, though a tremor glides against his voice and crumbles the surety of it. "Move, Arvis. I'm leaving, and .. . . you're in my way."

[fjalarspark]

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

( Why did havens only bring hell? )

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

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

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

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

"Ma'am?"

𝑰 𝑲𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑶𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑨𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆. &𝑫𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒅𝒓𝒆

[fjalarspark]

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

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

"Oh . . . "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[fjalarspark]

⊰⊰⊰ ―― ι'ต nσԵ ตυcɦ ѕυ૨ɛ how those of your family would prefer it, but I know that some of my fondest memories with my family member were spent reading with him. I've always loved stories and legends and such, and he hadn't withheld those from me, so I might suggest endeavoring in their interests! And, for a time, wherever he had walked, I had tried to follow, and he would tell me stories not written in books -- stories only the imagination could write, or stories he had experienced. We had . . . spent time together, I suppose. Those are precious years to me, and hope you can create precious years with those you love!

I do not know what love or family truly feels like, but I have children (the word is heavily scratched out, with a hole through the paper where it was) people that I care about here at the monastery.

How would one go about expressing that care in a way that could be percieved as normal (another hole through the paper) loving?

.

[fjalarspark]

Loopy and hasty cursive swivels over parchment, reading:

ѕσмєтιмєѕ ρєσρℓє мαкє αωfυℓ ∂єcιѕισnѕ, and sometimes they result in awful things. But, your family doesn't always hate you if you've wronged them -- sometimes it's too complicated to see it as being either loved or hated. Sometimes . . . well, sometimes you just accept that you're family with someone who's done terrible things, and maybe you can start mending your bond. Maybe. But I suppose you could try speaking with your relative? There's someone I want to talk to, too, but I don't have the courage -- maybe if you put your foot forward to reconcile with your relative, I'll find the courage to do so with mine!

gσσ∂ ℓυcк!

-- αƶεℓℓε ѵ.

How do I go about reconciling with a family member that I was separated from for a long time, but reunited with at the monastery? I made a decision that hurt him a long time ago, and I fear sometimes that he hates me entirely even if he says he doesn’t.

.

[fjalarspark]

🔥⊰⊰⊰ ―― They blur together now, but there was once a stretch of years where he could recall scrambling out from beneath the warmth of his duvet ( formerly tucked beneath it and praying with fervent passion to Fjalar above that creaking floorboards would cease their din ) and scurry with a young infant's heart-thumping fear to Arvis's chambers. And he would knock, and knock, and knock until the estate would creak and he would shriek, and then he was up in the arms of a man he'd no longer glimpse -- no longer wanted to glimpse. Red locks much too alike to his own would tickle his face, and sleep would enshroud him in its heavy and dull duvet, and no nighttime monsters from under the bed or in the wardrobe could reach him.

Then, in the years of his late youth -- just shy of a decade -- the fear melted from his bones and lifted from is heart, and a creaking castle or fluttering curtains didn't flicker a thumping fear into his heart: it sowed curiosity. By then, he had delved into the lore of legends and myths beyond what his infant self had read ( or what had been read to him ), and the magicks of phantoms had, for a stretch of a few years, entertained his young heart.

That was a long time ago -- a brother's embrace and a juvenile fascination with all things spectral and magical.

These days were blemished and splotchy with solitary strolls to ease the mind or midnight walks for rejoice upon completing a week's worth of academic endeavors. ( But a young sliver of him has heard tale of ghosts, and perhaps it is that young curiosity that beckons him outside tonight, strolling wherever his feet may wander . . . )

But then, a shred of him hopes to find the ghost -- to ask it questions, to interrogate it in the way a curious child would, but not with questions of how and why -- with questions of do you know and have you met. In your spectral plane of wandering, do you know an emeraldet womanizer? A greenet knight clad in hefty plates? Have you met a young man, a smidgen haughty but insurmountably courageous, with blue tresses and a jester's demeanor?

Thumbs wipe against his lower lids, collecting dewdrops from eyelashes and brushing them until they disperse beyond recognition -- it'd be embarrassing if someone recognized them as tears . . . pondering of Lex and the others . . .

It startles him when he collides with a frame of similar stature, and while a shriek yelps from his throat, his measly fear blurs into confusion at her holy repulsion of incantations against him; brows furrow and draw close while his ruby gaze simultaneously springs ajar.

"I'm sorry, ma'am !" He hurries, waving his hands a bit to dissuade her exorcist's antics. "I'm not a ghost, or an unholy demon, or anything like that ! I'm just a student !"

One hand rubs at his neck, and the other sways in a shake. Maybe she had also heard of the rumor fluttering around the grounds? Maybe she was also searching for the alabaster silhouette to confirm or disprove a theory?

"I don't mean to frighten you, but you have heard tale of a ghost floating around, yes? If it's true, ma'am, I . . . well, I could lead you where you need to go."

mom come pick me up i'm scared.

Rumors have started to float around Garreg Mach’s halls about a ghastly young woman haunting the monastery. Many claim to have seen a young woman in wedding white with a haunting expression on her face, though it seems nobody can agree on exactly where she was seen. The only natural choice to be made here is to go and investigate these sightings and figure out whether the woman is real or merely a figment of the student body’s imagination. [Grants Reason +1]

[fjalarspark]

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

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

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

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

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

@diadic

𝑨 𝑹𝒆𝒇𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 &Leif

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

[fjalarspark]

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

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

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

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

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

@nagaficat

𝑰 𝑲𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝑶𝒏𝒄𝒆, 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑵𝒐𝒕 𝑨𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆. &𝑫𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒅𝒓𝒆

[fjalarspark]

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

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

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

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

Thud !

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

“Oh Crusaders ! Lady Edain, my apologies !”

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

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

@ulirblood

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

[fjalarspark]

She catches him exiting their house's classroom one day and a gentle hand is placed on his shoulder. He always seemed rather nervous when she knew him before but now, well, perhaps she does understand why it seems to have increased. Still, she offers him a warm and inviting smile.

"Lord Azelle, it is wonderful to find you here. And as a student in my house!" Her smile broadens, reaching and crinkling the corners of her eyes. It is not just her house, after all. And it is so nice to have so many of her family members nearby. "Though I daresay you would make a fine processor. I cannot imagine you learning much from me!"

Her hand slides down his arm and clasps his hand tight. Her eyes look into his, pleading. "You will join us for tea soon, yes? I know he misses you dearly."

He had met her once, after Yngvi’s catastrophe ( to which he could merely pray to hallowed Crusaders above that its lady had returned unharmed, his boyish affection once prevalent ) — a maiden of mystical presence and dually as enchanting : lilac, gentle, clementine, wielding a prowess of holy magicks few had been able to. ( And the scholarly, lore-seeking part of him wishes he’d bonded with her — learned from her that holy, ineffable prowess. Maybe then he’d wield something impressive . . . )

And then he met her again. At Belhalla. Poised at that . . . that — that man’s side ( reprobate, traitor, liar ; why couldn’t he let those words cross his mind? That’s what that man was; why act as if he was anything but? )

Her hand lays upon his shoulder, then spiders to his hand, and takes it with a grasp he’d not have pondered from her ; it is gentle but retains his attention, and he thinks it a dangerous thing to be able to soothe one yet latch a vice around their hand. With what musterable courtesy he manages, he withdraws his hand from hers and tucks it near his chest, thumbing at the tome he holds to his sternum.

”Madam, there’s plenty more for me to learn.” He offers — courteous albeit stilted, withheld, hesitant. “He . . . ?”

But he knew who. That man — ( reprobate, traitor, liar ) his brother, guide, idol ; the shame that blossoms like a spider lily in the chambers of his heart to yet revere ( to yet fear ) Grannvale’s tyrant brings scarlet to his visage and a frown to his lips.

“No,” He tries, as if testing the word on his tongue — it feels numb and weightless, limp; but no word could have a stronger implication. “I . . . don’t want to see him. I’m sorry. I should go.”

[fjalarspark]

[ fight ] sender gets into a physical fight with receiver (mage against mage violence)

Still accepting ! ( These are technically angst prompts, but if we want them to be a little silly, they can be! Just lmk! :D )

"Hey -- ! "

Ruby locks bounce with much haste when he lowers to evade her cast spell, flame and fury hurled against him in a way that sprung to mind so keenly his days of yore -- standing afar upon cobbled grounds in Jugdral's many scattered arenas, hurling flame or thunder or wind to spare himself the ridicule of defeat. He had been privy to much in those days -- methods, techniques, how a curl of the finger could disrupt one's entire casting of a spell.

"I only meant to show you how it could affect your spell ! Not start a mage's brawl ! " He pleads.

He ducks again, hands fleeing to shield above his head, quick on his feet like he'd been many years before -- and his tome ! Plop! on the ground ! Not good -- he hadn't quite mastered Fodlan's miraculous ability to channel magicks through one's being bereft of an outlet, not even in his earlier time spent on these grounds once before.

His knuckles scrape the dirt in their clawing for his tome when a window presents itself, and in hurling its pages open, he hurls aloft mighty flame -- just like in those arenas all those years ago.

"We should call a truce ! I can't get expelled on my first day back; I can't waste my time like that. There are good people back home who need help."

[fjalarspark]

σℓყɱρเαɳ αεรƭɦεƭเ૮ร

bold what applies. italicize what sometimes applies. repost, don’t reblog!

APHRODITE. ( 1 ) laughter-loving, sweet smiles, dressed in silk and satin, flower in their hair, sees the world as a runway, unapologetically sexual, the sea washing their ankles, in love with love, stirrer of passion, cunning concealed by painted lips, secret daggers, doves, revolution in their kiss, delighting in the waves, flirtatious winks, strolling along the beach, staring wistfully from a balcony, this is how to be a heartbreaker, wants to be adored, gets turned on by danger.

APOLLO. ( 0 ) glitz and glamour, art galleries, turning the volume up, being made of gold, neatly-organized music sheets, notebooks filled with poetry, bathing in the sunlight, the powerful urge to create, collecting vinyl records, beautiful cover of wonderwall, playing multiple instruments, tasting like sunshine, healing touch, speaking in prophecies, smile mingled with wrath, shunning lies, sporting shades, hanging out at music festivals with their friends, sleeps naked, arrow to the heart, paint brushes, probably has a tinder account.

ARES. ( 6 ) armed for battle, wants to raise a dog with their significant other, soft spot for children, gives piggyback rides, scarred body, blood on their hands and face, willing to fight the world for the ones they love, fights against injustice, warm hugs, well-worn combat boots, boxing gloves, bandages wrapped around bruised knuckles, fist raised in protest, ignites revolutions, fear is a prison, more sensitive than what their tough shell would have you think, exhausted, damaged goods, force to be reckoned with, red roses, curses under their breath.

ARTEMIS. ( 3 ) keen sense of a hunter, freckles like constellations on their skin, piercing eyes, disheveled braid, moonlight peeking through the shadows, the calm of the forest at night, lying on the grass and staring at the stars, mother doe and her fawn, protecting their kin, the moon shimmering on a still lake, quiver full of arrows resting against the bark of a tree, running with wolves, bonding while circled around a campfire, not being much of a people person, arrow hitting a target, popping egos, patience on 3%, touches heaven and returns howling.

ATHENA. ( 4 ) discerning gaze, unreadable face, quiet museums, owl perched on their finger, armor that intimidates, eye for architecture, plays the sims for the sole purpose of building houses, studied the blade while everyone else was busy getting laid, big fan of logic, loves brain teasers, ancient buildings, sweaters in neutrals and cool colors, hair done up, can kill you with their brain, heads to the library often to research, sharpened pencils, abs that can cut steel, stoic statues, pottery classes.

DEMETER. ( 1 ) soil-covered hands, smile that can bloom flowers, skin loved by the sun, being the mom-friend, can lift you and your friends, flowers kept in the pockets of overalls, takes pride in their beautiful garden, speaks to their plants, leaves rustling in the wind, stalks of wheat, picking fruit, greenhouses, heart as strong as a mountain, values simplicity, daisies dotted across a collarbone, curls crowned with flowers, folded pile of sweaters in warm hues, pulling out fresh-baked bread out of the oven and the smell wafting through the air.

DIONYSUS. ( 1 ) drunk shitposter, on their sixth glass of wine before you’ve even finished your second, seductive smirks, untamed curls, rich fabrics on dark skin, sleek-furred panthers, theatre masks, stage productions, receiving a standing ovation, rose caught between their teeth, being the baby of the bunch, wild parties that last from sundown to sunup, creeping vines, inspiring loyalty, grand opera houses, masquerade balls, rolls of film, shattered chandeliers with broken glass scattered across the wine-spilled floor, pouring champagne into flutes, lives for the applause.

HEPHAESTUS. ( 5 ) the calloused hands of someone who knows labor, sweaty brow, flame burning in their eyes, inventive mind, broad shoulders, steampunk goggles, nuts and bolts stored away in little boxes, ashes, striking a match, blueprints for future projects, fixing up a busted up car and giving it cool upgrades, wrestles with bitterness, work boots have seen better years, wrinkled plaid shirts, iron melted in blazing fire, huge jackets, crafting masterpieces, greased-stained overalls, fascination with robotics, pain is fuel, stack of weaponry, even their muscles have muscles.

HERA. ( 0 ) resting bitch face, dressed to the nines, cows grazing on a pasture, cool rain, loving and hating fiercely, hand clutching a string of pearls, large chandelier with glittering crystals, plays the sims for the sole purpose of killing off their sims, romance to realism, pictures of the sky while flying on a plane, files that under fuck it, downs glasses of wine as they relax with a scented bubble bath and netflix, like their selfie or you’re grounded, knows 57 convenient ways to murder a man, dark eyes that penetrate your soul, marble and gold.

HERMES. ( 1 ) devil-may-care smile, always up-to-date on the latest technology, will steal your french fries, does it for the vine, shitposter, puts googly eyes on everything, meme hoarder, long drives on the highway, ma and pop diners, spontaneous road space trips, folded maps, fingers dancing across the keyboard of a laptop, shooting hoops on the basketball court, chatting up strangers as you all journey to your own destinations, goes jogging in the morning, mixes redbull with coffee, menace on april fool’s, hoodies and sneakers.

POSEIDON. ( 2 ) storm with skin, colorful coral reefs, waves crashing against the shore, stroking the soft fur of a cat , their heart pounding as their horse’s gentle trot speeds into a gallop, tousled locks, clothes smeared with paint, owns several sketchbooks yet always yearns to own more, leather jackets, fondness for diy projects, handwriting that flows across the page, nimble fingers playing the strings of a violin, velvety singing voice that haunts your dreams, mood as ever-changing as the sea, the roar of a motorcycle, compass with a spinning arrow.

ZEUS. ( 2 ) thunder in their heart, running on coffee, flash of lightning, natural charisma, eloquence, badass in a nice suit, aficionado of history, force of nature, lenny face, nightmare-filled nights, proud arm around their lover’s waist, high-rise buildings, planes soaring through a cloudless sky, technician on the piano, maintains order, strong handshake, juggling multiple events on their busy schedule with ease, expensive watch.

[fjalarspark]

Horses, pegasi, wyverns, kinshi, and now riding wolves and griffons - the monastery’s menagerie keeps on growing, and the stables can barely contain all of them anymore! The Church calls students, Professors and Knights alike to help ensure that all of these animals have proper care. It’s also important to them that everyone knows how to take care of and handle all of these different species, in the name of versatility, broader horizons, and preserving harmony. Perhaps you will take this chance to bond with a new mount you’d never even considered before? [Grants Riding +1]

Withholding further steps, the young Velthomer places himself aside from the bustling aids to the stable endeavor, obscured partially beneath an awning's shadow and partially cast beneath the sun's beaming rays -- heat. It's familiar and warm, and it tickles the expanse of his uncovered nape with perspiration. It reminds him of his youngest ventures outside the boundaries of Velthomer's expanse, scurrying away as if to live as a hermit in the forests; he never much liked the bustling crowds of people and gawking eyes. And he never much understood animal husbandry, so frightened of creatures that scurried in his youth.

Scarred hands stow away in the satchel at his hip the bind of his tome, and he pockets his writing utilities alongside the volume, bereft of their need for now. What needed him at present was a beckoning squire, ushering him over with a sporadic wave -- had he ever had such enthusiastic years?

"How can I help you?" He offered softly, and the little boy tugged him to the stables, jostling him through students and faculty alike. ( Which, though he had neither the heart nor courage to reprimand the little boy, wasn't quite polite to the others around them, and so Azelle tugged the little boy to a hasty stroll rather than a bold sprint through the crowds. )

The most immediate, authentic sliver of him first acknowledges the moldy and decomposing nature of the stable wood, and, being more strategic than muscular, ponders how far renovations could benefit the steeds and winged mounts alike. But the reasonable part -- the part that reminds him he's only just returned -- scolds against offering suggestions, humbled by the newness of his return.

But there's minimal, restricted time in which to ponder one's place, for he glimpses the teal of familiarity, and latches to its presence like a boy with few friends ( . . . because he is a boy with few friends. )

"Kurthnaga?" He tries, brows tugging together, hopeful he's not yet ridiculed himself in misinterpreting someone's image. "What brings you here?"

@goldoanheart

𝑅𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑇𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑊𝑒 𝑈𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑝𝑒𝑑 𝐴 𝐹𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑆𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑡? &Kurthnaga

[fjalarspark]

[ hiding ] — "no hiding it, azelle." edain frowns, holding her hand out to him and making a 'give it to me' gesture. "i know that you're wounded— don't try and be a tough guy. let me see it."

🔥⊰⊰⊰ ―― "Lady Edain, no, really -- it's nothing !"

Just a burn, that was all. A burn from his primary prowess: expending his constitution until either a wound or sleep tizzied his focus, upending his efforts by rendering him cot-bound and under scrutinizing care ( but she wasn't scrutinizing, not in the way most healers were, not in the way those in his youth had been -- inconsiderate to the half-born of the estate. )

"It was only a training exercise. There's no need to fret over me with all these other patients."

. . . Two other patients made for an unclogged healer's schedule, reducing his rebuttal to little more than dismissive jargon. And he knew it. So, he relinquished his hand to her, scarred from the years, afflicted with splotchy and reddened burns, angry and aggravated; but he didn't feel them, not with how commonplace they were upon his hands, how they spiraled in their scars about his wrists like thunder's extending branches of electricity.

"But thank you. It's," Lovely to see you, wonderful to see you well, extraordinary to know that you're alright -- "nice to see you again."

[fjalarspark]

🐝  *  ―  𝑵𝑶𝑵-𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑩𝑨𝑳 𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑺𝑻 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺. (  some triggering content ahead. add " + " to reverse the action.  )

[ wipe ] sender wipes away receiver's tears [ hurt ] sender hurts receiver with words [ lonely ] sender finds receiver alone in a dark room [ wounded ] sender patches up receiver's wounds [ crying ] sender finds receiver crying [ help ] sender runs to receiver when they scream for help [ nightmare ] sender wakes receiver up from a nightmare [ dying breath ] sender talks to receiver before dying [ hold on ] sender pulls receiver into their arms [ anger ] sender takes their anger out on receiver [ argue ] sender gets into a heated argument with receiver [ scared ] sender scares receiver [ sick ] sender cares for receiver while they are sick [ palm ] sender places a hand on receiver to stop them from doing something [ fight ] sender gets into a physical fight with receiver [ comfort ] sender tries to comfort receiver [ blood ] sender notices that receiver is bleeding [ collapse ] sender collapses into receiver's arms [ pressure ] sender puts pressure on receiver's wound [ slap ] sender slaps receiver in the face [ panic ] sender helps receiver through a panic attack [ lie ] sender catches receiver in a lie [ sobs ] sender sobs uncontrollably while receiver holds them [ hiding ] sender finds out that receiver has hidden an injury from them [ death ] sender just died, receiver finds out [ chin up ] sender lifts receiver's chin to stop them from hiding their tears [ fears ] sender talks to receiver about their fears [ scream ] sender screams at receiver [ coping ] sender teaches receiver some coping mechanisms [ loss ] sender is there for receiver after they've lost someone important to them [ needs ] sender asks receiver what they need [ bullet ] sender takes a bullet for receiver [ bruises ] sender finds bruises of unknown origin on receiver [ rainfall ] sender finds receiver out alone in the rain [ hospital ] sender wakes up in a hospital bed and finds receiver sitting by their bedside [ intrude ] sender walks in on receiver treating their wounds [ calming ] sender tries to calm down receiver [ inspection ] sender holds receiver's face while inspecting an injury they got [ rescue ] sender carries receiver to safety [ clean ] sender cleans blood off of receiver's body

[fjalarspark]

เɳƭ૨σ + ρℓσттιng cαℓℓ -- Sept/Oct.

He's back!

My portrayal of Azelle puts him just over the cusp of what the law considers an adult, and he's here in attendance at Garreg Mach with all of his memories intact! As of now, I've concluded that he departed to take a break and seek other scholarly endeavors that Fodlan has to offer, primarily in the field of magic while steering clear of the darker aspects of the art! That said, he likely meandered around Adrestia, since most of Fodlan's magical studies thrive in imperial lands!

If your muse has need of him ( for what, he couldn't possibly ponder ) then he can be found in the library, his dormitory, or the cathedral! He's also interested to know if any unaffiliated professors have an extra classroom wherein he might be allowed to study to avoid his homeroom for obvious reasons?

As for what he's looking for . . . !

Sword +1 ( JULIA -- Starter due ) Reason +1 Faith +1 ( LEIF — Starter owed ) Bow +1 ( EDAIN -- Starter is out ! ) Heavy Armor +1 ( SIGURD ) Riding +1 ( KURTHNAGA -- Starter is out ! ) Any Weapon +1

His askbox is also open to friends and foes alike! :D

If you'd like to plot, my DMs are always open and preferred, but I can also do pings in the plotting channel in the server!