gradible - Tumblr blog

[gradible]

Extracting himself from a certain dragon's arms proved a near monumental task. He had others to speak with, to thank for their help in their shared nightmare.

Temples throb in time with his measured footsteps. Someone will need to organize the distribution of food and water soon. There must be a stream nearby, perhaps a few miles out from the ruins. He doesn't trust anything directly related to Rusalka.

"Sirius, do you have a moment?" Hands smooth down his wrinkled shirt with absentminded distaste. "I wanted to thank you for your help. While we may have begun on the wrong foot, I now view you as an ally."

"Think nothing of it," he is quick to answer, refusing to so much as turn his face to meet the other blonde.

Weariness never looked good on his rugged shape. The creases under his eyes, the indent on the bridge of his nose--all kept beneath his porcelain mask. To any onlookers he appears in the same shape that he went into that dream in.

But make no mistake: Sirius has seen enough. He knows the way men fall victim to forces of causality and grim fate. He has met with those whose lives had been plunged into stygian waters. But never could he have expected the monstrosity blocking his escape. Every waking second thus far has been spent in quiet contemplation, ruminating over the tragedy of a child dragged into the jaws of warfare. And just as they bit her, she bit him.

There is no amount of companionship that can ease his scarred mind. His allies, no matter how powerful, simply have no control over the things that worry him most. And he would know, for once upon a time he was invincible.

He sighs, finally prying his unflinching gaze from the soft glow of the moon. It doesn't quite land on Leo's face, but lingers somewhere in the space between. "I was merely... Performing my duty, as a Knight of Seiros. And one day that duty shall be fulfilled, and I'll move on to the next."

He stands, his rigid legs slipping from the windowsill they had propped his body in, "When that day comes, you are better off forgetting to have known me."

"But... If it is of any relief, I shall not forget you."

[gradible]

january activity post

Status: Passed

Skill Points Gained: 2

Activity Check > Any +1 > Allocated to lance +1

Keras Kai Elephas Participation > Any +1 > Allocated to lance +1

Skill Changes:

Lance: C (50%) > C+ (50%)

[gradible]

cry for alcyone / team ruins finale

knighteclipsed​:

The combination of two forms juxtaposes the destruction of a third — as Aphie and the Mechanic twist and morph into a new amalgamation, the seams of the world holding the dream together start to tear, unraveling, revealing glimpses of that which isn’t here.

Reality, as it is known, lying beyond the fog of memory.

What an interesting prospect.

At Valter’s side: a pegasus. (He’d forgotten that he had had one.) He pauses, and then he mounts (he had always preferred the skies).

“ Don’t give me any trouble, ” the general mutters to the mount. Whether the pegasus even acknowledged him, she doesn’t make it very clear.

(It made no difference to him; she simply had to not be a nuisance.)

The Aphie-Mechanic monster already starts the offensive. Micaiah and Kurthnaga are quick to act first, the Knightly Forsyth striking not moments after. As his armor flares and the children recoil, sharp eyes soak in the combat — Valter sees the chance to strike.

Valter attacks Aphaea/Mechanic with Killer Lance (Tempest Lance)!

[d20 Roll]: 8 + 2 = 10. Hit!

Aphaea/Mechanic HP: 85.5/100

Wyvern or pegasus, the skies are the skies, and deftly, he glides, closing the distance between Aphaea and her demise. It misses a vital point, — for that, he scoffs to himself, — but it is not a weak blow. Her(?) very image splits for a moment before reforming, broken, fixing again.

They lash out in retaliation, a wild display of fire and sparks that seem to dance in the Moonstone’s direction, albeit vibrantly and brightly. He braces himself for the flames, knowing well the potential threat the spatters posed.

Aphaea/Mechanic counter with Strength of Spirit!

[d20 Roll]: 13. Hit!

Valter HP: 10/10

They die on Valter’s armor before they can even think to harm him. To think, he had thought a child capable of injuring him– He smirks, ever-confident, and with the grace of a pegasus mid-flight, seizes the opening they so graciously left for him.

(He could swear he heard music, but from where could that be–?)

Valter makes a follow-up attack!

[d20 Roll]: 14. Crit!

Aphaea/Mechanic HP: 77.5/100

Once again, they split and reform, and once again, they return just as cheery. It was like a game to them, he surmises, fighting to the bitter end. He imagines if he were a child (in a world where he was god), it would’ve ended up the same, but without the games to hide the chaos.

In the mind of Valter the child, blood was the means and the end.

He flies out of range of imminent danger, taking the time once more to assess the situation. The amalgamation was already notably injured, and it felt safe to assume that they would make quick work of the child. No matter that the others spoke simply of sparing them. After all, accidents happen. Who’s to say their death wasn’t a mistake? The Moonstone then coughs, feeling a familiar burning in his throat as he does so.

Valter takes recoil from Killer Instinct!

Valter HP: 9/10

Seems the dream remembered this for him — self-sacrifice in the name of bloodshed. Such a slight was irrelevant anyhow — this combat would be over before his tendencies could bring his demise.

Battle is just on the horizon. 

Sirius affixes his mask to his face when two lost souls begin to fuse together, knowing that he must enter combat--that he must guard his body and secrets.

He has no words for Aphie, no goodbyes for the Mechanic. They are not of his world and as such, Sirius has long since anticipated the pain of departure. In that way things have not changed; he’s venturing out into a foreign land, fighting for its peace, and disappearing before his medal can be handed out.

The name Sirius will forever be just a phantom in history. 

He mounts swift Pedasos for what feels like the last time, and gives the others the chance for the opening strike while he cherishes his companion. This one he had known and been separated from, but this dream gave him the chance for reunion. A gloved hand smooths over his mane. Something of a smile pulls on his features--stony though it may be--for it’s been nice turning back the clock with his dear departed horse.

Pedasos snorts once, flicking his head from the affection. He and Camus were always similar: looking to the battles ahead, never stopping to smell the roses. Sirius retracts, and his smile only widens. It’s good to see Pedasos hasn’t changed over the years.

But the time for sentiments has passed. Several of the others have already dove in and sunken their spears into the freak before them, Valter marking significant gore upon its flesh. Sirius nods to him, barking “Stay vigilant. As knights, you and I have a duty to return everyone to the monastery... Dying here is tantamount to failure.” 

How ironic. 

Kicking the spurs of his stallion into action, Sirius gains momentum to charge for the foe. He raises his shining lance, and in a display of Grustian might, cleaves the open wound--driving pain further into mutated flesh, playing into the weak spot created by the Moonstone. 

Sirius uses Blessed Lance! Roll 1d20+2 = 9, hit! -4 HP; Aphaea/Mechanic 73.5/100 HP

Much to his surprise, Aphie’s voice giggles in response to the attack. “You’re good at this game, Sir Knight!” and Sirius is unnerved. He quickly realizes something is wrong when one of his most devastating blows doesn’t as much as shake his opponent, their conjoined arms winding up for a returning blow. 

“But I’m even better!”

Aphaea/Mechanic uses Strength of Spirit! Roll 1d20-6 = 14, crit! -1 HP; Sirius 9/10 HP

The same sparks that flew for Valter confound Sirius and his mount until they have nowhere left to run. He tries to dodge, attempts to maneuver his beloved steed out of harm’s way, but the attack is too plentiful with the angles meant to claim his life. So he switches to holding his guard. His lance flashes out in front of him to try to dissipate the attack, yet still it connects, and it shocks Pedasos’ feet to the ground. 

“Sorry!” the Mechanic’s words quip, “That was just a test! There are many who aren’t what they claim to be, y’know!” 

Sirius is inflicted with -6 speed for three phases; Aphaea/Mechanic gains +1 to all stats; and true damage next combat

Their voices laugh in unison as the blonde’s own excuse is used against him. And he, for lack of any other option, slides off his horse. He’ll have to fight on foot for the next little while and draw enemy fire away from Pedasos. Once he’s ready to rejoin, Sirius has no doubts he’ll come running.

UP NEXT: @cavalry​

[gradible]

gas gas gas​

lionscion​:

Never had Ares wished for a horse to be by his side more than now.

Instead of soft nickers and whinnies, this thing practically growled at him when Sirius brought the soulless hunk of metal to life, puffing out more of that noxious smoke that only recently ceased clouding the sky. How it moved without something to pull it was as much a mystery as the rest of the metal monstrosities of this place. Even its name stuck in his craw…

(Just how did they get ‘car’ out of 'carriage’ anyway – they sound nothing alike!)

But what bothered him much more than any of this was his memory. That listlessless that had begun to overtake his very self in the waking world had finally found him here now, too. Ever since the sky cleared, and the Aukes returned and started acting like they never slaughtered two of their teammates, Ares noticed it picking up right where it left off from before. For too many moments, he was catching himself acting like these 'cars’ and cold towers were all he’d ever known.

Earlier, he’d taken some time to write himself a little letter to remind himself of his mission, his life, his goals – everything he held dear – as a precaution…only to immediately forget that existed too until Sirius just jogged his memory again. Worse than that was that Ares had actually just thrown the note away immediately, but he wouldn’t realize that either until much later. The short of it was that they were all nearly out of time and options. Any remaining ones they could pursue while they still had a shred of their wits were precious, so…

With a stiff and nod, Ares carefully ducked his head and slid into the open side Sirius offered them. It wasn’t the worst squeeze he’s ever had to work himself into, but the lack of height and leg room did force him into a bit of an awkward hunch.

“It can play as many games as it likes.”

In the much more cramped confines of this ‘car’, Ares was forced to settle for resting his arms on his knees instead of crossing them, but his expression was as dour as ever.

“Dream or no, it can’t keep them up forever…” He said nothing else even though the way his voice trailed off seemed to imply otherwise, instead letting the context fill in the rest.

“Rest assured. I am nothing more than a traveler, but I will give the enemy no quarter.” 

If it ever comes down to it, he would be the first into the fray. Be it some kind of barrier or guardian at the edge of the city’s limits, Sirius is traveling with a professor and a student. As a traveling knight in service of the Academy, it is his sworn duty to keep them both safe. To listen--to fight--that is his purpose. It is not within his rights to think and dream of self-preservation; it is not a shield’s task to value itself above its owner.

Patient eyes watch from behind a plated mask as the other two blondes join them in the vehicle. Then they peer straight ahead, and Sirius takes a lack of any more preparations to mean they are ready. He drives off. Foot pushes into the pedal and the car begins to speed away from the grease-coated workshop--kicking up a layer of dust with its back wheels. 

He finds it strange to think that only a week ago the cloud of gravel and silt in his mirror would have blended in with the smoggy sky. Now it draws a heavy contrast to the shining sun, expanse of blue, and aura of peace. He feels... Unnatural, as he drives. There’s a weird kind of familiarity with the task, sure (and he suspects that is also a product of their false reality), but sins start to crawl on his back the farther they go. Time slows down around them; it’s grains of sand in a shrinking hourglass.

“...Have either of you noticed anything strange? Beyond the obvious, of course...” If that sounds like a half-cocked attempt at stirring conversation, that’s because it is. Sirius doesn’t quite know how to handle his company. He’s only driven a car once, and back then the others filled the silence for him. Besides, now is a dire time for them all. It would do well, he believes, for information to flow between them.

Though that isn’t all. As buildings start to roll by and street signs race past his view, the illusion fades. He sees things that he knows are not there: Dolhr Keep, Rigel Castle... Waves upon the sand. It takes several shakes of his head, and several more blinks of his eyes, to even focus on what’s real. At the speed they travel at, he suggests they’ll blitz through mirages faster than they can handle.

UP NEXT: @princepsumbra​

[gradible]

“...!”

Perhaps it is an Archanean’s first instinct to run for safety at the sight of danger. They certainly have all seen their fair share of warfare--of unspeakable atrocities, committed both my mankind and something far, far beyond. Or maybe it is just Sirius and Maria that are jumpy, each wary of the nightmares that stalk Rusalka’s dreams. Whatever the case may be, the masked knight is next to move. He gasps something foul at the sound of the radio and hurries the others onto their feet. A sharp cry cuts through the blaring sirens,

“There’s little time! Hurry!” 

The Mechanic he does not trust to stand on his own, so that one the blonde hoists into a sprint with his own two hands. But as for the others--leftover Micaiah, Deirdre, Chrom and treacherous Valter--they can follow the sound of his voice. He is not allowed the gift of time; his hands are hurried by the encroaching sound of steam and gears. 

“...Over here!” words fly from him with all the strength and authority of a commander. It is as though he’s reliving his days with the Sable Order, “We split into a second group... It will spread the enemy’s forces thin! Survive today to fight tomorrow!” 

With the Mechanic left to follow the rest of the group, Sirius takes charge as the head of their pack. Should a threat arise or the very ground they sprint across start to unfold before their very eyes, he would be the first to bear its brunt. He, the man with a never-ending task to keep the academy safe, willingly thrusts his body into the throngs of the mechanical assault. Come hell, high water, or the volley of gunfire, he’d be the rolling shield advancing unto victory. 

Maybe then he could hold his chin high again, and be proud of the man he still is. Maybe somehow... she is watching...

The opportunity for heroism presents itself quicker than Sirius anticipates as a squad of drones close in on his group. They flank without warning, some in the air up above, some skating through the Crater dirt on motorized treads. They bear no face, only blinking lights of increasing ferocity, but he can tell they mean to take his life. And so he strikes. His jaw clenches as fingers reach for his spear, and across the clear skies do his powerful legs leap. They slice through one, two, three mechs--disabling them the instant they meet his invincible strength. But it’s just like that time with the hive. Self-preservation is not encoded into their tactics...

They explode.

Roll 1d4 = 4, -3 HP; Sirius 7/10 HP

Fire blazes across Sirius’ half of the sloped terrain, spreading further to more mechs and igniting their cores all the same. The knight coughs, sputter--sinks low to the ground so he might slide through the chaos and put out the embers on his cape. But it is inescapable. And looking back, he is met with an inferno-wall. What was once a simple escape to the bunker has erupted into a mad dash--a free-for-all. With the team scattered, they face a choice: continue each on their own, or waste precious time to regroup. 

at the end of the trail

The Aukes became enemies, until the enemies became amnesiacs, and at last their former foes and long-lost knights seem to remember that they came from elsewhere and elsewhen. They waste no time in leaving once they remember, either… though Maria supposes that, having found their missing allies, there is no reason to stay. 

(She glances at Aphie when the other isn’t looking, meets the Mechanic’s eye every now and then, and she hopes… she hopes that perhaps dreams are more real than fairytales.)

Aphie has been wandering from person to person as they wait, smiling sometimes and hesitant others, and Maria watches her quietly as she flits from place to place. In time, their can kid lands at the Mechanic’s side, saying something to him that cannot be heard. For his part, the Mechanic makes some equally inaudible reply, punctuated by the loud clank, ker-CHUNK of whatever it is he’s tinkering with. 

Then comes the voice, loud and yet distorted; there comes the sentries that patrol the nadir of the crater, the frantic call of the knights – Maria grabs Aphie’s hand and runs. The sudden swarm of people rushing into the crater seems to throw the machines into a tizzy, lurching in different directions as friends and comrades scatter in every direction like rats from a sinking ship. It works for a time, but Maria has already learned and yearned for the advantage of numbers once in her time here, and she is determined not to place Aphie in that same danger. 

“Professor Kurth!” She calls, spying his back amidst the chaos. Farther still, Ser Forsyth– guilt catches in her throat; she swallows it– and elsewhere nearby, Ares. “Ares! Ser Forsyth! Over here!” They come together somehow, descending further into the heart of the crater as fast as their feet can carry them. That odd thing in the red puddle is a path underground, according to their knights’ parting words, if only they can make it there. 

The hum of machines grows louder, discordant as multiple of them converge on their little group and shower them in– in magic? Fire? How? No, it doesn’t matter. Maria throws an arm over her face as she recoils, eyes darting to and fro. There’s no time to think of how it burns, teeth gritted painfully as her sleeve tatters and smolders. 

“There! Over there!” A gap in their defenses; even if it costs them ground, the sentries whirr malcontentedly, hesitating in place before pursuing some other, distant thing. Whatever it is, it’s too far for them to reach just yet, and she scurries back down the slow-rolling slope of the crater with the chance they’ve been afforded.

@gradible

[gradible]

i forgor  💀

nagaficat​:

“I do not care who you once were, Sir Knight,” Deirdre attempts to ease his worry.  While he is in her care, she will do her best to soothe both his physical injuries as well as his mental state.  He cannot truly begin to heal properly if his mind is too focused elsewhere.  “Whatever identity your mask conceals will remain safe with me.”

He has lost his memories too?  She has many questions brewing in her mind.  Perhaps that is tied to why he wears his mask?  She wonders what caused the loss.  She and Arvis both spend countless hours researching the phenomenon when he first rescued her hoping for any chance to help her recover hers.  But there is little time to sit and ponder when the grisly wound is finally revealed.

It is difficult for Deirdre to keep her face neutral as she examines the affected area but she remains as calm as she can.  It is her job as a healer to provide comfort.  “Forgive me if this causes you pain.  You may squeeze my hand if you need to.”

She is unsure how exactly to start but she breathes deeply and rolls up her sleeves.  One hand reaches for one of the knight’s.  He is a man grown and not a child but she knows well that everyone can use a comforting touch no matter how tough they are.  The other touches as lightly as she can over his eyes and she prays silently for guidance.  Light spreads from her fingertips battling against the darkness still trying to creep its way across his face.

“Nyna...?” 

Light and shadow wage their war across the knight’s face. Dark magic, still pulsing, still living, fights against the spread of Deirdre’s white breath. Reason and faith, goodness and heroism: forever at odds, forever struggling to dispel the other. He does not mean to blurt out another woman’s name, but as the pain of his low throb suddenly becomes sharp, it is just like that time. Tatiana and the beach... He called her name then, too. It comes like a reflex to him, silently telling a stranger that there is a piece of another man at the core of Sirius. 

But this is not Nyna. And this is certainly not Camus. 

When his eyes blink at the intensity of the light that floods them, the rest of his body finally reacts to the hurt. Muscles twitch and convulse, bones rattle and shake. The hand Deirdre offers is squeezed well--perhaps crushed, even, by the strength of Archanea’s finest. He wishes to apologize and even tries to mouth an “I’m sorry” but words escape his throat. Only the agonizing purity of healing remains. It is ever at his side, reminding him that he tumbles about from one tragedy to the next. 

How pitiful, that a knight would be reduced to such a state in battle. Sirius is eternally reminded that his invincible might is nothing against powers beyond human reason. He is a boulder by the ocean: victim to the thrashing of its waves.

Luckily, he is not a lonesome rock. Contemplative and admittedly forsaken as he may be, he always manages to find those who would cling to him. Maybe he just has that kind of effect on people: leaving such an impression that they would not let go. He himself does not know the reason, only that Deirdre is willing to do so much for him--that the haunted wound he suffered is lifting from his face. Its darkness will soon be cast back into his shadow. It will remain another relic of his past.

“How are... Things looking?” he finally manages, though it’s clear he must struggle greatly for even four simple words. Still, Sirius finds value in them. Beyond asking for the necessary check-up, they let the maiden know he is still fighting, still managing to hold on to sweet life.

[gradible]

The Same Rainbow’s End ༊*·˚

alunyna​:

Her hands pause, hovering a moment before resigning themselves to fold atop one another at her front. For just a breath she mourns the loss of touch, grieves for those moments of closeness with a man she knows that he is not.

Admirable, he says, and yet she had never seen it that way. Her lips press into a line.

“I did not ever need the luxuries that my noble name afforded me,” fingers twitch, lost now with no purpose to serve, “if you believe my happiness relied on the quality of my gowns or the comfort of my pillows than you are sorely mistaken.”

She had never been ungrateful, no, but comfort had never held a weight in her decision making. Her jaw clenches. “My happiness goes hand in hand with my- with Archanea’s people. It was my responsibility to guide them, to lead them, and I…”

Let a broken heart carry me away. 

Silently she raises her hands again, fingers picking up where they had left off. Her brows furrow. “Call it cowardice, call me a fool, but I cannot stand the thought of being admired. Not for this.” Not for anything. 

Skin knits beneath her touch and her heart pangs in the hollow of her chest. For all of the things that she can mend, her own heart will never be one of them. She cannot make it whole on her own, cannot ask that another mend it. For every hand that has reached between her ribs has come back bloody and cold.

Nyna shuts her eyes. “Forgive me, but I fear you do not understand,” a shake of her head, “I abandoned my duty, I surrendered my responsibilities to another and I ran. Marth is immensely capable – far more than I – but that does not make what I did right.”

“And what of me?” 

At the core of his very being, he wants to tear it all away. To undo the seams and let his staunch veil fall to the ground; to watch shock spread across her pale face when she realizes he absolutely does understand. 

“Did I not run, after the war?” After he freed her soul? For as invincible of a man as he is, Sirius crumbles into cowardice before Nyna. She built him up, suited his heart with ample protection. But his armor is made of wax, and he a fool for not knowing it would melt in her light. He cannot be caring and stoic, heroic and happy. 

Sirius is candlelike in that regard: a burning brand of excellence, but temporary. but fleeting. Camus was a rock planted by the shoreline. His sturdiness was his downfall, he sank beneath the waves when the high tide rose. And Zeke is who he is now... Or so he believes. He is passionate to stay with Tatiana, loyal to Emperor Rudolf even after his passing. But the appearance of the Archanean princess--royalty or not--stirs his very existence. She is the only person who can. She is unique in that way.

The man under Nyna’s care is not Sirius and Camus and Zeke. Now he must make his choice: take one, extinguish the flames of the others. 

“Did I not run when I joined the war?” he continues, the firmness in his voice betraying signs of quick recovery: a feat only a man accustomed to battle could achieve, “You know I have one to return to... Imagine her grief, at the notion that I up and left to fight for another country.”��

“Neither of us are running,” a lie he tells himself rather frequently, as the string of his mask tightens with each passing day, “just putting the needs of others first. Think of all the children who will no longer grow up during a power struggle... Of all the men and women who can lead happy lives in times of peace.” 

He sighs, for he is no philosopher. Warfare had always been his area of expertise, and knighthood. When it comes to swinging a lance or living to serve the common man, the blonde can offer his words of wisdom. But an internal struggle with cowardice and abandonment and duty is something even he cannot defeat. The most he can offer to Nyna now is a sigh, blown through lips drawn in a line, and the implication that going forward, they would deal with this together.

For her broken heart, it is the least he can offer. Though Zeke sees things differently, Camus still intends to do everything he can.

[gradible]

gas gas gas

“Thank you for agreeing to come with me.” 

Freedom is slowly starting to slip out of their hands. It is the stream of sand falling between desperate fingers; no matter how hard they try to squeeze tight and hold on, some of it seems to trickle away with every passing second. The desire to leave is fading, this world trying to make itself their home. Simple repairs have completely refurbished their lodgings, the Aukes and deadly machines have forgotten their hostility--even the sky is clearer now. The sun casts its glare against the red of Sirius’ visor.

So he stands now, arms folded over his chest, back leaned against the door to a driver’s seat. He had driven this carriage--car for short--with some passengers before. He remembers how it works. More importantly though, is that he’s become acutely aware of how strange the sudden peace is. Three wars have taught him that peace--that freedom--cannot simply be forced onto others. It must be earned for oneself, through fierce trials and the strength required to overcome. They’ve suffered much in this dream, but still these changes reek of the calm before a violent storm.

“I understand that my request was... Odd,” he continues, his foot softly kicking off the car’s steel plate, “but we mustn’t forget that we’ve come here with a purpose...” The trail of his dialogue runs cold for a moment, Sirius having to force himself to remember that purpose. The knights; his comrades. It is for their sake that they plunged into this world, and now that they’ve resurfaced, they need an out.

Question is: just how do they get out? Slick gasoline will, with any luck, be their answer.

“I trust you understand the plan. We are to make use of the swift spokes of this ‘car’ to find our escape. This land, as you know, is a fabrication. It must have been made by someone... It must have its limits.” 

But even he can’t say for sure where they lie. Everything, from the threat of assault to the promises of brothership with the Aukes, seems intent on hindering their movements. Surely, then, that limit isn’t far...

Sirius turns on his heel and enters through the front. He leans over to pop open his passenger seat, and backward to get the one directly behind. Such is the courtesy of a knight of Grust. Following the same routine from last time, his fingers find the button that Sylvain had pressed last time, his feet the pedals, and his free hand that stick the Mechanic spoke of. Two clicks, he remembers, and the engine is running and ready to drive. 

The smallest nudge of his chin signals for the others to join him inside. For all he knows, it may be one of the last they see in this dream.

//starter for @lionscion and @princepsumbra

[gradible]

ya’ filthy animal

valkyrrian​:

“Oh? That works out rather nicely, then.” She hands over the scrap with no question, trusting Sirius’s input in the matter of weapon maintenance—his point was also a sound one; the traps were sure to benefit everyone involved. “I trust that you’ll do a fine job of it… now, direct me towards the wire, and I’ll be happy to get to work.”

After handing off the metal to Sirius, Cecilia sets out to make her own preparations, taking care not to line tripwire in areas that would be obstructive or inconvenient for the other members of their homely little abode. She limits it only to out of the way areas, places the intruder might think to go. If they were in search of materials, food, or valuables, the old cupboard would be one of the first places to search… it was empty, and largely out of use, but the Aukes wouldn’t realize that.

She rigs the wire to be tugged when the door handle to the cupboard is pulled, tying it to the can of bolts she sets up on a nearby table: innocuous at a glance, difficult to see in the dark, and hopefully not so suspicious that the intruder would think to look inside it beforehand.

Once the preparations are concluded, the mage general goes to check on Sirius in the workshop, her eyes immediately traveling to the cache of daggers. “How fares things in here?”

-5 wood, -2 plates of metal, +7% Base Progress!

Total: 21% (Week 3)

A brief nod and point direct Cecilia to her wire, and the knight is off--taking the plunge into solitude yet again.

When he works--alone and in that rust-scented shop--he finds himself moving with the full breadth of his dexterity. Without anyone around him, he needs not keep up appearances. He can simply sharpen his scrap, free from the tense stress of fastening his mask to his face and making sure it doesn’t slip off. In fact, in this moment, he allows it to rest against the table. There is an imprint on the bridge of his nose from how long he’s worn it; reddened skin is the calendar that marks how long he’d been in this dream. 

With each flick of sandpaper or steel, it grows paler.

Cecilia enters, and Sirius has to push down a startled jump. The moment of peace allowed him to zone out for a while, and he forgot all about his vulnerability. Luckily for him he moves to reequip himself at the first sound of her boots hitting the broken floor, and the visor is on by the time he turns around. As for the pile of jagged iron he’d been handed, it’s nearly complete, and ready to kill. 

“Hail, Professor,” he greets, “your timing is impeccable, as seems to frequently be the case.” And during the moments of his speech, and a few after, he finishes tending to the last bit of his collection. When it joins the rest Sirius stands, allowing the fruits of his labor to speak for themselves. What was once a heap of miscellaneous metal has been turned into a set of pinch-weapons: not worth picking up over a sword or kard, but dangerous enough to draw blood if one strikes true. Though he’s made them gleam, they are still trap fodder--not for fighting. 

“All that’s left is to place them where we suppose the enemy will attack... Shall we?” 

Again Sirius borrows from the Mechanic. Rather than carry everything in his own arms and risk--nay, guarantee--a few cuts, he carefully packs it all into a toolbox he had noticed while on the job. Blonde hair becomes a flash of golden light as it moves about the apartment, finding walls to fasten its creation to. It takes a few minutes of touring the premises, but it gets done. And with no sign of any movements from the enemy, Sirius would say in good time. 

Though one can never be too cautious in this wasteland. For all he knows, they could be laying siege tomorrow...

THREAD END.

[gradible]

that don’t impress me much / t. ruins mechanic questioning

sacretic​:

the mechanic’s earlier request isn’t so easily forgotten, only delayed by their nameless acquaintance’s sudden disappearance. the negotiations.   &   the ill-fated rescue mission, the scene inside their enemies’ base lyon wouldn’t soon forget.

      (you caught the sight of teal before it vanished around the corner. ephraim… you almost wanted to say despite knowing it wasn’t your old friend. not really, anyway; it was only someone wearing his likeness in the dream.)

he remembers laying his eyes upon to the lifeless bodies of professor deirdre and forsyth, the two slumped in the pools of their blood. all the while, the smell of something lyon couldn’t name assaulted his nose. they had been far too late to help, much less save their allies.   &   as grado’s prince wrenched his eyes away, he felt it might have been his fault.

perhaps it’s why he speaks up after their fallen teammates open their eyes.

      (this turn of events does little to alleviate your gnawing guilt despite the overwhelming relief it brings.)

that’s how lyon finds himself in the company of micaiah, merely nodding with the canister of fuel and several cores in his possession.   &   he would almost prefer leaving most of the talking to her, choosing to listen in silence  /  only planning to hand over the requested items.

but her gaze turns toward him.

“if i give these to you, will you get started right away?” the prince inquires from the mechanic, pausing with the items in his arms.

he nods with great enthusiasm, beaming. “of course!”

lyon glances at micaiah before he nods   &   hands the materials over to the mechanic. carefully so he doesn’t accidentally drop them. or break something. “admittedly, i’m curious to see what you’ll make of these, mechanic. i know they power those machines…”

[-7 live cores, -3L fuel]

“If I may, what do you use it for? It is similar to an... Armored carriage, of sorts.”

Ever the enigmatic one, Sirius enters without introduction. He finds himself well deserving of his spot at this meeting, seeing as how it was his strike against the Mechanic (and the resulting request) that has his allies bringing him materials today. By showing up, he proves to the mechanic his intention to make good on his word--that his attack was truly meant to test his character, not break his trust.

The dream-borne reacts little to his surprise appearance, instead focusing on the content of what Sirius says. “A... What?” is his response, and it comes coupled with a despondent frown. 

The knight is taken aback by this: that he knows not of the concept of a simple carriage. But he’s been in this world. He’s become familiar with its setting, come to grasp what technologies do and don’t exist. It is possible--and entirely believable--that the place they inhabit has not met many of Fodlan or Valentia’s inventions.

The blonde files that thought away. It might come in handy later, perhaps able to take an enemy by surprise with a technique or weapon they hadn’t seen before. The Wooden Cavalry and that ballistician come to mind, though thoughts of them are inky-black and muddle his mood.

Waving the topic aside, Sirius continues--finding it fit to step into the center of the room, “Er, never mind. The question then: what is your answer?” His words fly straight and true, lacking any kind of poisoned bite or winged raise. They do not appreciate having their concern averted, but also don’t hold anything against the man.

He’s probably been through a lot as of late.

“Get in and you’ll see!” The grease-monkey replies, with enough enthusiasm for the both of them, “Come, come!”

Sirius is hesitant at first. He questions, for a moment, whether it is his place to join the others in this contraption. Solitude is by his side more than company, even in this nightmare. Is there even a point in denying fate when it will persist through his strongest efforts to be more social? But the Mechanic enters first, and in a way inspires the Grustian. He digests that he has been invited this time, and so finds a way to join at an arm’s length. 

The Mechanic took the back seat, so Sirius enters the front. The door, makeshift as it may be, slides open and closes with a firm slam as he nestles into his seat. Before him are a number of buttons and levers, wheels and switches. He recognizes none of them, and hasn’t the messiest inkling of their purpose. Mouth slides slightly ajar at the sight of it all, its hands slowly--carefully--finding what he thinks resembles a ship’s wheel to hold onto. And for a moment, he envisions it as such, and the grease-coated shack around him fades into the sea. For once he is at the helm, he is the driving force in destiny. His thumbs settle against the steering wheel with a kind of natural ease the blonde didn’t believe was in him, and he breathes.

“There is ample room for more... I suggest we all find out, together.” 

UP NEXT: @cavalry​

[gradible]

ya’ filthy animal

valkyrrian​:

      “Indeed…” Her lips curve faintly—the shadow of melancholy in her eyes. “Indeed, they do.”

      She, too, is no stranger to the ways of war. Though Cecilia prides her honor as a knight above all (a feeling only strengthened by all of the trials she had to face, in comparison to her male peers), the mage general has seen much in her time on the battlefield. Acts of desperation and depravity, cruel and sinister tricks meant to eke out the smallest of victories. Idly, she finds herself wondering what this man has been forced to do in his past.

      But it seems Sirius is not quite the enigma he endeavors to be, for the twinge of sheepishness upon his next statement reveals a glimpse of the personality he seemed so keen to hide. At this, Cecilia can’t help but chuckle. “B-Bread? Oh, my… I do wonder if this someone might be closer than we think.”

      Her smile is a teasing one as she turns to another corner of the room, emerald eyes roaming as he asks his question. She does not ignore him, but rather… “Hmm. Those metal bolts we’ve been using to fasten the wood against the walls—we could do something with those. The ends are rather sharp…”

     Cecilia then strides over to a small end table, pulling open the drawer to collect a few more scattered bolts. Jostling them in her palm, she turns back to Sirius. “We could line these along the windowsills… and perhaps the doorways, as well. If the intruders injure themselves on the points, that may deter them from moving any further, or present the need to fall back and tend to their injuries.”

      She pockets the nails, “Another idea I had was to gather a few in a can, connect it to another one of those wires, and set it up so that they would spill across the floor if the intruder tripped it up.”

-5 Wood, -2 Plate Metal, +7% Base Progress!

Total: 7% (Week 3)

Letting the conversation of the warehouse die down with the completion of his trap, Sirius takes stock of the scrap in Cecilia’s hand. Small pieces like the ones she gathers would not kill or seriously maim, but she’s right in that they could serve as ample barriers. A miniscule distraction is all that is needed to turn the tides of combat with two evenly-matched warriors, and the caliber of those at Garreg Mach has already proven to be better than these dreams. It’ll do. The blonde’s approving nod marks the start of something new.

“If I may,” he interjects, stepping forward to be in reach of Cecilia’s hand, “there are a number of sandpapers and suitable grindstones in the Mechanic’s workshop. I would be loathe to borrow something without asking, but these contraptions are also for his benefit.” The Aukes are as threatening as they are mysterious, seeming to make all their moves whilst the group isn’t paying attention. Were they to attack the Mechanic for siding with those from the academy, he’d benefit from their partnership. Besides, they are only to be temporary residents in this land. Once they leave, their lodgings are his, and their friend would benefit from all their hard work. 

“Weapon maintenance is, as you know, something I have experience in,” this they have been over before, so Sirius does not dwell on the point long, and neither does his voice betray a hint of wanting to tell a tale, “If you would like to prepare the windows and tripwire, I can sharpen our bolts. If an enemy’s hands are busied pulling one out of their skin, they are not wielding a weapon.” 

The materials, as he recalls, are not too far from them. Much of that workshop is unrecognizable to his archaic eye, but what little he did know how to use was committed to memory. If he goes, he figures it would only be a matter of not stepping in any slick, black liquid or knocking over one of the Mechanic’s inventions. Both of those are things he can do, and with ease. Should Cecilia trust him with the metal, he’d have it turned into a reserve of daggers.

-7 wood, +7% Base Progress!

Total: 14% (Week 3)

[gradible]

ya’ filthy animal

valkyrrian​:

Even through his mask, she can see the cogs turning in his head at her suggestion, seemingly sparking an idea of its own; alas, instead of talking them through with her, he offers parting words in the form of vague instruction, before taking pieces of rotted wood and skulking off to put his mystery plan into action.

(And yet, she can only find it smart—there was no telling who or what could possibly be listening in.)

Cecilia turns to her partially finished wall, exhaling softly as arms cross over her chest. With Sir Sirius, the mage general finds that she has to do much more reading than usual. There were no tells or pointed glances to give away his intent—only the near imperceptible shifts in his expression (what she could see of it, anyway), and the precious few words he deigned to part with. It reminded her much of Perceval, but even with him, there was always a silent understanding running underneath the surface of their interactions.

Fortunately, her time in the Etrurian court has taught her much in the way of reading others. Separating the snakes from the flowers, the corrupted from the righteous.

She pats the wall to test its sturdiness; not as fortified as she would have liked, but the best that could be managed for the moment. Their supply of timber was growing dangerously low, and what they had left would provide little in the way of defense or firewood. And so, taking a few more rotted pieces, she follows Sirius into the next room.

“I’ve brought what you asked, though I fear we’ll have to head out on a other supply run soon…” Cecilia trails off as her gaze goes to the stockpile of wood, and she smiles. “…Quite the crafty one, aren’t you? I can only imagine what situations your travels have put you through to hone such a resourceful mind.”

-5 Wood, +5% Base Progress!

Total: 20%

“I... Have seen many a thing in my time, yes...” He finds it difficult to cobble together the words to reply--desiring both to give Cecilia an inkling of the honest truth, and hide the details that need to be hidden. “Crypts and tombs are not places I’ve yet to step foot in,” he manages, “and I’m no stranger to bloody war. Sometimes, men may resort to anything for victory.” 

Even on the battlefield, his taste for honor never fades. Were he able to fight all his foes head-on, then perhaps happiness and heroism could’ve met within his soul.

As things stand, he must always choose one over the other.

Taking Cecilia’s contributions in hand, he studies his trap to find suitable places to slot them in. He has to be careful with where, and how much force he uses to fasten each plank. An unsteady hand would likely break the tightly-knit form, and with threats of invasion made so clear against their doorstep, they’re strapped for time as it is. To have to set this up again would certainly not be ideal.

But he manages, rough hands moving his setup ever to slightly to accommodate for the extra weight. He figures that now they could rest easy with a near-guarantee that this would swamp a pair of raiders. A small nod marks the blonde’s success, drinking of victory what it can. 

“Besides, the landscape of this dream has taught us much. I heard someone was... Assaulted by bread once, in that dungeon.” A note of sheepishness taints his voice, like a drop of blood in a glass of water. It sounds sour from his lips. It betrays some semblance of humanity, behind the unfeeling mask ever-persistent on his face. But the content of what he says is most important: these ruins, more than anything else, have given our heroes valuable lessons in resourcefulness. Nothing is assured in this land, nothing to be taken for granted. Everything they earn must see its full potential for them to merely survive, and even more if they wish to triumph. 

“Have you any more ideas for deterring attackers? Low on supplies we may be, it is still possible to recycle what little we do have into strong defenses.” 

-4 Plate Metal, -1 Wood, +5% Base Progress! 

Total: 25%

[gradible]

ya’ filthy animal

valkyrrian​:

     Kurthnaga’s suggestion sits at the forefront of Cecilia’s mind as she reinforces the walls of the base, situating wood into the openings, hammering them with a tool she found lying around—though these makeshift walls would provide an adequate defense against the elements, they were much too fragile. Too weak, in the face of a potential assault. With those scavengers, and those beasts… the metal plates would give it much needed sturdiness, and yet—

      —her line of thought is halted as Sirius calls for her, and the mage general turns from her work to address the knight. 

     “I’m quite alright, thank you. Though I am curious as to… ah,” She cuts herself off when he suddenly turns and walks outside, the loud clattering of cans filling the room the moment he returns and walks over the threshold. Her eyes flit upward to the suspended bundle of empty cans, and she hums, “I see now. Quite the effective alarm system! But do you not worry that it might be a bit… obvious? Your efforts would be for naught if the enemy noticed the cans and deliberately avoided the tripwire… unless.”

     She steps closer to where Sirius stands, gesturing to the spot of ground in front of the tripwire he set up. “We place another? The intruder avoids the first, only to get tripped up by the second and trigger a new trap… something to impede their movement, perhaps, and prevent a quick escape.”

-5 Wood, +5% Base Progress! Total: 10%

Cecilia’s reasoning is exactly why she is a mage-general and professor, and Sirius just a knight. When setting up his defense, he took it for granted that the enemy would not notice a rigged entrance. But looking closely at it--placing a finger to his chin--he sees the woman’s point. “Your suggestion is an intelligent one,” and the slight curve to his mouth says he’s grateful for it, “knowing our enemy, it is possible they would approach us with greater caution...” 

The backdoor is an obvious idea--Sirius’ head turning to look in its direction. Were he the enemy, would he think to look twice for the same trap...? No, it’s best not to assume negligence from the Aukes. That kind of thinking only sets them up to be taken by surprise. 

But watching Cecilia work on the wall inspires something in the knight. If he can keep the entire trap hidden indoors, then they can be the ones with the element of surprise. “...I believe I’ve just the thing.” 

Leaving his spot at the front entrance, he approaches their slowly-dwindling pile of timber. They acquired much from their last operation, but have also used much just to maintain their living quarters. Rifling through the collection, however, reveals a few particular pieces that have gone unused. They are either rotting, damp, or both. Frail and unfit for construction, but perhaps they could serve some purpose yet. “Whenever you finish,” he continues, hoarding up as much dead wood as his arms can carry, “come see me with any leftover timber you found undesirable.” 

Sirius leaves.

Should Cecilia seek him out again, she’d find him at the posterior doorway. Using a cutting of the same string at his alarm, he’s set up a second tripwire. Though, this one is behind the door, on the inside of the building. Impossible to notice unless one of their walls is caved in and used as a window... But the professor is working on those. Tied to this string, is a stockpile of as much decaying wood as Sirius could gather. The idea? Someone walks in, pulls out the bottom piece, and the whole heap comes tumbling onto them. With as much as he’s gathered, he figures it could bury a small group of people (perhaps a pair?) long enough for someone to notice and come pick them off. And, trusting that Cecilia is bringing more, the trap would be made more efficient.

-5 Wood, +5% Base Progress!

Total: 15%

[gradible]

ya’ filthy animal

Setting up base camp 

- every 1 post = up to 5% of progress, capping at 60%

- requires 5 plank of wood, plate of metal, and/or dormant/live core per post

If there’s one thing his travels have taught him, it’s that danger is the best deterrent. 

The dragon-infested keep of Dolhr, winding dungeons of grand Valentia, and tripped-up kitchen the Mechanic had sent him to all have two things in common: they keep out intruders, and Sirius has been there. He’s seen--no, experienced firsthand--the methods used to safeguard valuables, falling victim to them more times than he’d like to admit. And so, believing everyone’s lives to be valuable, he hatches a plan. He’ll use anything at his disposal to make their living situation impregnable. It may be in a sorry state, and he may only have the tins they eat from to work with, but Sirius is nothing if not scrappy. 

Firm hands fasten a collection of discarded cans to a rope. They serve as the base’s alarm system--clanging themselves together whenever someone walks over the tripwire set at the entrance. Creativity is not one of his strong suits, so the system is in plain sight once someone steps inside, but the hope is that it won’t be seen until it’s already been set off.

“Professor Cecilia,” he calls, his fingers pulling tight on the string and letting the cans hang, “how are you faring? I understand this was a... Strange request, but I can assure you, the threat of being attacked has been made all too real.” 

Recent events have noticeably shaken him. He is acting with greater caution, trusting their situation less and less. When control and foresight begin to slip from one’s fingers, it is often too late.

He stands now, walking from the alarms to the opposite side of the door. Doing a test run reveals that as soon as Sirius moves indoors, the cans are pulled together and their hollow, metal bodies sing. A soft smile creeps on his face at the result of his handiwork, before fading into something more apologetic when he turns to the professor--understanding that he interrupted her response.

-5 Wood, +5% Base Progress!

//starter for @valkyrrian

[gradible]

can you handle it? // team ruins mini-game​

knighteclipsed:

And quickly the situation evolves; in an instant, there is another, the third ally appearing immediately next to him. His arrival is unexpected, and the method is certainly jarring, but Sirius does not cause Valter any trouble — not even in his tardiness. The former’s explanation?

A perfectly vague answer.

“ … Hmph. ”

He watches the others move ahead, taking cans but also falling victim to various assaults. Sirius, of course, remains unscathed in his brief endeavor, but the others–

(Well, at the very minimum, they weren’t dead yet.)

Eyes scan the room, searching for an opening in the chaos. Between bees and burns, every attack is intentional, be it in swarms or acting solo. The Moonstone steps forth, taking his best shot.

The first swarm of bees grazes him, the next completely misses (or perhaps they were exhausted from the smoke and the blades.) Moving faster still, the oven’s flames are nigh irrelevant, and with one final step, the exit is nigh.

A bolt of electricity comes down like lightning, sending a powerful jolt through the general’s form. Where before damage was minimal, — he was injured but still standing, — he felt a bit closer to death on the wrong side of Thunder.

Another long stride and he passes through the exit. Valter stops just a moment to look back at the others, mocking:

“ Hurry along, then. ”

Rolls [D3 / D3-1]:

1. Move: 2 / Hazard: 1 (Space: 4)

2. Move: 2 / Hazard: 0 (Space: 5)

3. Move: 3 / Hazard: 1 (Space: 7)

4. Move: 3 / Hazard: 2 (Space: 9)

5. Move: 3 / [ESCAPE]

Valter HP: 3/10

@gradible

.?

And hurry along he does, for Sirius won’t allow himself to be outdone by another.

But when he steps through the door--the very same Valter had beat him to--he finds that everything around them... Stops. The hum of machines, the buzzing of bees, the scorching of flames. All of it, gone. They are outside again, not at the entrance to this maze, but somewhere closer to home. A broken-down street winds into The Apartments and Sirius recognizes it, but the method of how they moved here is unknown to him.

He opens his mouth to speak, but quickly stops himself. A play-by-play won’t do them any good here. They all know this is unusual, that something incredibly wrong has happened to them.

Instead he looks to his collection of resources. Every can he collected along the way seems to be with him now, and that at least earns half a smile from him. “Let us return to camp then,” he suggests, figuring the best step is a forward one, “we should have enough provisions to last us the mission.” 

THREAD END.

[gradible]

To Pluck the Petals Free​​​​​​​

valkyrrian​:

      The barricade of wood fastened to the door couldn’t have been any more clear—intruders not allowed. In this poor excuse of a world, this paltry little ‘door’ must have been the resident’s only form of protection from the elements and beasts roaming about; a sobering thought, to be sure. It speaks to a certain desperation to survive. And when pushed into a corner…

      She hums, “Apologies that we had to come all this way, but I agree with Kurthnaga. The sun will set soon, and we know nothing about the inhabitants of this building. Are they friend, or foe? We mustn’t take the risk, not when our comrades are back at base, waiting for the supplies we’ve found.”

      Coins jingle in her hand, the weight of the cans and that odd, block-like contraption hang heavy on her person. “And supplies we have, even if more would be preferable… but this should help for food and fortifications. We don’t know how long we’ll be here, so we mustn’t overextend.” 

      Though her explanation had been spoken with a solemnity to match the dreary skies, she seeks to lighten the mood, turning to her comrades with a gentle smile. “Now then… shall we, gentleman? Let us return, to this ‘home’ away from home.”

THREAD END.

[gradible]

the cyber grind

princepsumbra​:

“A perfect…perfect throw,” Leo wheezes, recovering from a fresh round of coughing mere seconds before Sirius launched his spear. He watches the machines fall with no small amount of satisfaction. 

“…I shall be fine,” comes the stubborn reply. “A scouting team…is a good..good idea.” One hand rests on his chest, as if that would help ease the internal battle of his organs. Heels gently tap Faustus’ flanks. The horse whinnies, just as eager to be rid of this place. There’s something deeply unsettling about standing in a graveyard of machine parts while a red sky blazes overhead. 

He doesn’t say anything else on the ride back to camp, all his concentration on taking one breath at a time. 

                              –the end