swiftscion - Tumblr blog

[swiftscion]

The rat orchestra from last year’s Ethereal ball is apparently back and looking for work again. That’s the only explanation you can think of, anyway, when you start hearing rumors about rodents gathering in some out-of-the-way alley in town to play music on instruments stolen from the monastery. At the same time, a second rumor has started up: students have reported hearing a long C-sharp before going to bed at night, only to discover the next morning that one of their classmates has gone missing! That’s three in the span of a week so far. Are these things related? The Knights won’t get involved and the monastery staff appears unbothered, so you decide to take these matters into your own hands. [Grants Sword +1]

O scornful wretch, what malice was weaved into your form? You are a poet of plague, a song of sin–a miasmic melody whose voice carries only in the blackest pits of one’s heart. A blight, so fearsome and wicked, with a form so large you could swallow a man in one big gulp. But you needn’t. For your fangs are your incisors–sharp and fetid from age–and claws are fitted to you like daggers. You, with your hulking mass and ancient strength, could rip flesh. Could break bone. Could butcher. Your fur is matted with the blood of old hunts, and your cries rich with history. 

But they have grown hoarse. 

Hunger has made them weak, and so with what power dwells in you–godly, demonic, natural–you gathered your herd. And they spread, like the splaying of fingers. Those enraptured by their call remain seated at your altar: a flock. And where a herd’s purpose is to roam free, a flock is always slaughtered. Dazed, they await their cull.

However,

Enter a pair of heroes. Their swords shine in the absence of the moon, of the stars. For deep in this den there is no sky, only four walls and the tattered remains of a roof. Larcei is the first, her brave heart woven tightly into her blade–the extension of herself joining in her dance. She clears the space between in one great leap, and with her unceasing edge plays one final note on the wretch’s great bass. The strings snap, the song ends. 

In a show of confidence, she turns to her partner. 

“Done!!! Looks like we won’t be needing these anymore!!” Taking a hand off her hilt, she tugs on the string sitting beneath her chin. It connects a pair of corks in her ears, which had been installed in the both swordsfolk as a precaution. Now, with the C-sharp stringless, they only serve to muddle communication. Off they go! 

“Alright, now to ensure the safety of the stud-” 

The vermin bellows. The sound it produces is unholy; were one to mimic the foul thing, they would fail to capture even half its terror. It looks like the pure shock of Larcei’s speed has only bought her a few moments. Following the shriek, when she is stunned without ear protection, it raises its now-defunct instrument and crashes it into the Isaachian’s side. Wood splinters, cracks, and scatters against a cobbled floor–but the sound of Larcei taking a rough landing is twice as loud. The meteor is made meteorite.

“Gah! Ow, ow–okay, damn this thing…!” 

She wedges herself to her feet and rejoins the knight at his side. “Al, was it?” she huffs, measuring her breaths so that she has the energy to hold up her sword, “You did good on our investigation. But now,” another huff, “I need your sword. ‘Think you can crack this thing open for me?” 

A small flick of her chin redirects his attention to the enemy. It has entered a combative stance. Fur is raised like spines, tail is swishing through the air, and a swarm of smaller rodents collects by its side. If Al can speak with his actions, he and Larcei are in for a long conversation.

//starter for @championsblade

✢⁎. pins and needles!

[swiftscion]

Ingrid sure did know how to make funny faces. The whole while she stared at Larcei, bewilderment crept onto her face. Was it a head injury? Maybe neurotoxin? Had she been to the saloon? The slayer wasn’t sure. But she felt that it was something making the farmer go loopy-eyed and wear that strange smile. So she frowned. Disappointment read clearly in the way she scrutinized both Ingrid’s expressions and actions. 

The explanation turned out to be dizziness, and for the first time tonight, she felt glad. Something sensical being their perpetrator was a good sign, what with the menagerie of maladies the mines could often offer. Ingrid didn’t make it deep–not enough to enter the realm of mysticism–but even at early levels there were species she scarcely understood. 

If it turned out to be a new species of slime or something, she’d have to get Marlon involved. 

But that thought was quickly made manifest by Ingrid’s next comment. A sigh blew from Larcei, weighted by the dread of her thoughts coming to life. It was one thing to anticipate a bad scenario–and even prepare for it–but for it to come true was enticing. Vexing. A feeling she’d never quite get used to. 

“Nothin’ beats dizziness like a good night’s sleep. At least, that’s what I think.” And given that she wasn’t anything close to a licensed professional, her opinion meant little. Still, Larcei had seen many of her own scars. That alone could be enough of a basis of understanding. If anything, she had confidence. “C’mon, let’s get you home. If you’re still feeling like this in the morning, take a walk back here. A slow one.” 

Ever the type to spur to action, she moved to one of Ingrid’s sides and draped half her wingspan over her shoulder. There are few things she trusted more than her own strength, and among them, Ingrid was pretty far down the list. Knowing what little of her Larcei does, she half expected her to get lost or fall over trying to head back on her own. Or distracted, whisked off to some other adventure. Her question about the guild only proved her hypothesis. 

“We can worry about getting you signed up for the guild tomorrow, if you’re still up to it.” A smirk flashed across her lips as she added the extra remark. Using the bulk of her upper back strength, Larcei hoisted Ingrid to her feet and balanced her body atop her own. There existed a marginal height gap between the two, so the farmer would bear the misfortune of having to slouch to receive Larcei’s aid, but she paid that no mind. 

“The process is easy, though. Talk to Marlon and he’ll give you an initiation task. I can supervise, since I already know ya’.” 

She had a feeling she would be seeing a lot of her. 

It was best that they give themselves some separation for the time being, if just so that neither grew sick of the other. Larcei unlocked the door. With a turn of the knob, the nighttime air suffused into the room. It lacked the antiseptic quality of Harvey’s office, and coupled with the low hum of crickets, soothed Larcei’s nerves. A gentle, albeit chilly, reminder that life goes on. The beauty of the valley had always been that nature was at one’s doorstep; a quick walk outside did wonders for the mind. 

With any luck, Ingrid would grow accustomed to that truth. 

✢⁎. STARDROP.

[swiftscion]

Has he always been this pragmatic? 

Make no mistake, Larcei has known Diarmuid to be the most grounded of her group. But even in the face of such turmoil, such desperation the mercenaries show, he sounds less concerned about making a life for them and more about whether they can. Whether life is truly theirs to give, whether they can play god with their salaries and livelihood. He lacks the mindset Larcei has, which clears all doubts and tells her that no matter what, they will do something. Even if she has to fight the archbishop over it.

And fighting the archbishop is a battle she would lose. Her approach is flawed, that much he reveals to her. Her thoughts quiet down, reduced to embers of what they once were. “You almost sound skeptical,” she mutters, warily, “but I think you’re right. I was acting before thinkin’...” 

So think she shall. One by one, she knocks Diarmuid’s questions off the docket, like a row of targets arranged for her to chase after. It’s a good mental exercise--one that fits Larcei. It promotes consideration while posing itself as one of her favorite activities: competition. “They do send knights and professors, yeah. In the knights’ case, usually just volunteers, but sometimes they get officially mobilized. The ones that stay, in either case, hold down the fort. I’ve helped with that once or twice. As for who’ll hire ‘em…” 

She bites her lip. Not as easy as the rest. “I was assumin’ the school, but, I’m not Seteth…” Frustration finally takes its turn to erupt, making its presence known in the ugly grimace Larcei makes. She breaks eye contact again and tugs at the strands of her hair, her foot incessantly tapping as if a generator of ideas. On her own, she has none. It is then that she thinks back on Diarmuid.

“...The Knights…” It’s a parrot of what he said, but also the link to a well and true plan that they’ve been looking for. Starlight bathes her in its radiance. “Say, Diarmuid,” spoken with more vibrance and energy than moments prior, “you’ve met most of ‘em by now. How many of the knights d’you think are soon to retire?”

✢⁎. and besides, this isn't my sword

[swiftscion]

“Gahh, you know that ain’t fair!” Larcei grunts as she slings Scathach’s body at himself, swatting away the arms of his younger sister before palming the top of his head. It is her hair she’s messing up, but it’ll be Scathach that feels it. “No matter what I eat or how many battles I fight, I just don’t grow like you do! ‘Not my fault you stole all father’s good traits!” 

And she, in turn, was left with Ayra’s. Their body plans are so similar–save for the height, which is anyone’s guess where it came from–that all of mother’s weaknesses are also hers. Larcei isn’t feeble by any metric, but there are physiques capable of lifting more and doing it longer, of fending off attacks and breaking lance shafts betwixt a pair of fingers. In exchange, she had always been a leg faster than her brother, and her smaller stature meant that when she threw her weight around, she’d also throw her enemy into a loop. It’s why the body she inhabits now is covered in scars, while she only ever suffered the nicks and snippets of the blades she whizzed by. 

“Hmph,” she then breathes, hearing Sca’s plea for mercy. Her smile fades at the implication of putting him through that much. Ragging on him is fun, sure, but she loves him enough to pick up the pieces of his reputation. And months? Maybe it’s best not to break it to begin with. "Fine..."

The ceasefire doesn’t last long. His next comment does the job of bringing her fire back, placing a torch of liveliness even onto a foreign stand, “Oh yeah?” A snort, and arms cross themselves over that broad chest. A brow quirks, which on Larcei’s body would certainly look like an invitation to a challenge. She has no idea how it would appear from his point of view. “Then if you mean it, let’s see it. We’ll spar, right here, right now–in eachother’s bodies.” 

Given that she didn’t happen to have a training sword on her–and she doubts her brother would have two–the reversed Comet enters a wrestler’s stance. The bodies will be their weapons today: bones are guards and joints their hilts, flesh is the bite of their blades, and unfamiliar skin the sheathes that tie them all together. “If I win, then it’s my battle prowess that’s the best, once and for all! And if I lose… Well… You just got a turn in the better body!!”

her words, albeit from his mouth, only serve to frustrate him more than he already was. scáthach had known his sister would not take this seriously, but he had pleaded with her anyway. instead, it looked like she was concocting all the different ways a sister could embarrass her brother in a situation like this. if only he himself was as conniving as she was, he would also know way to strike some panic into her. alas, larcei was the kind of person to put all the cards on the table, she lived without shame... unlike him.

"would you-" a loud burst from the now smaller sibling before he calmed, "put my arm down, you weirdo!" watching his sisters mannerisms come from his own body irked him enough, but to have others see it... well surely they'd be even more put off. as to protest her vain actions more, he reached up to pull at his own arms, attempting to force them down. after a prolonged struggle all on his own, he relented with a huff of annoyance. "you are enjoying this far too much, sis... why don't you get 'yer own muscles and show off then, huh?"

it's when she begins again with mention of seliph that his retaliations begin to seize in his throat. though he figured she would test him, his imagination had never led him to this outcome. she backed away with a devious smile, one that told him he she smack her upside the head for even thinking what she was thinking, but he couldn't. to dissuade his sister from her antics, he would have to pretend not to care. even though the idea of larcei letting spill things to seliph in his voice petrified him more than it should, he would have to play the long game. besides... they had spent enough time together, surely lord seliph would understand something was not right.

"play around if you have to, larcei, but please don't put my face on everyone's radar... i'll have to hang low for months to reset all the damage you'll do." that would surely do it, a free admission for her to goof off. she had likely only mentioned seliph in the first place to get him to relent like this. he rolled his eyes at the sibling mind games they both played... so confusing. "just know, my body or not, i'll wack you good if you don't act right. i mean it, larcei!"

[swiftscion]

What the–? Sore loser? Is he off his rocker? Larcei didn’t lose��obviously–she just got overwhelmed and outranged and wasn’t trying hard enough, and a whole host of other excuses that–

Okay, she might have lost. 

But this battle, right here, right now? This will be different. As he steps forward, Larcei locks hands with him, pitting her strength against the mage’s. “Oh no y’don’t!” she grunts, forcing her way forward, “It’ll take a lot more than warming up to get the best outta me!” 

Her body isn’t in the best of shapes either, what with some of the frost from this morning still clinging to her knees. But she’s been around, visited a great deal more tents than Tormod has. That extra time for physical activity has softened things up where she was hit and let her body’s natural flow mend itself. It’s just like he had said–the healers were too naggy to rely on. 

And she can feel him budge, if only slightly. 

Her boots inch forward as she pushes, dragging again against the soil and making progress against her goal. Not enough to take a step, but with the way things are going, she begins to believe she’ll have a leap over him. In fact, she has so much energy to spare, she saves some of it to taunt him. Larcei wants a fire under his ass, wants him to be roused enough to give her a decent competition:

“C’mon…What is this? You talk big, but you’ve got small arms! Don’t tell me I’m wastin’ my time with you!” 

Because it’s no fun beating down on weaklings.

OOC RULES: Larcei and Tormod will both roll 1d20 to determine how much oomph they put into their sumo match. After one round of posts (Tomod -> Larcei) is completed, their rolls will be compared, and the higher roll advances the pair toward one of the endzones, by one space. Larcei wins if they reach the left endzone, and Tormod if they reach the right.

Roll: 10

Previous:

END---------------|---------------O---------------|---------------END

Current:

END---------------O---------------|---------------|---------------END

my strength growth is higher than yours!

[swiftscion]

Diarmuid has arrived just in time, it seems.

With the return of an alum and her strange... "photo-artifex", excitement for the upcoming ball seems to be rising with the tide. When he stands watch in hallways, students' chatter reaches him - in the knights' barracks, too, people talk about dates and dances with an excited reverence. Their whispers are hardly hushed, and their excitement is contagious. A ball!

He is not the perfect-courtly prince he'd like to be, but he can't deny the allure of a ball. Would it be odd to go alone? This, he is unsure of, but he does not have to go alone.

It is late when he finds her. Against a fountain, her hair shimmers near-silver in the moonlight, liquid mercury. A soft smile is on his face as he takes a seat on the marble edge, the spray of water against his back.

"Larcei," he says, bearing her name like a gift, familiar-fond and near giddy. "I was wondering if you'd like to go to the ball with me?"

There is little uncertainty in his tone. He has known her and she has known him just like they've known the passing of years. The smile he gives her is a reliable-old thing, shined clear without a hint of rust.

"As friends, of course! Oh, but if you already have someone you're going with, I don't want to impose. You'll have to tell me about them, though, if that's the case!"

He folds his hands in his lap and waits, then, watching her face like a memory, taking her in as if she holds the world.

(Maybe she does.)

She wonders if she should take a quick dunk.

Larcei’s day has been a long one. It began with the rise of the early sun, and blazed on through her training, errands, and buzzing around her mother after class had ended. She poured her heart into everything she did, and for that reason, she has decided to take a break by nightfall. 

Her arms are propped against the fountain, head held back in its warmth and slight-sweatiness. As her eyes begin to wander, they land on the surface of the water. Only stars glimmer in the reflection. It looks so… Cool. So refreshing. A small deliberation goes on in her mind, and she decides that on the count of three she’d treat herself to a splash. One, two-

‘Larcei,’

Fire toasts her cheeks as she turns to meet the sound of her own name. For a moment, she believes it to be one of her professors. Probably here to scold her for acting like such a child, and rightfully so. But Diarmuid’s familiar features draw a breath out of her, and with it she exhales much of her embarrassment. “Yo,” she greets, with a small wave–trying to act all cool-like. 

He goes on, and she listens. But the mention of the ball brings back her discomfort. Her face begins to flare, fingers squeezing into a fist by her side. Is that… All she is to him? Are they not friends–have they not ever been friends? Has Diarmuid only ever seen him as a girl–a potential suitress waiting to be wed? Is he no better than the last guy that tried something like this?

(And seriously, could he have not picked a more romantic setting?)

But just as she is about to open her mouth to speak, he offers the rest. Her heart stills. The last few seconds have been a rollercoaster for her, so when she speaks her voice sounds rocky, like she had nearly gotten the wind knocked out of her, “Oh, that? I’m… Shocked you even heard about it. ‘Never pinned you as the kind to care about dancin’, y’know?” 

She tries a laugh, but even that comes out awkwardly. “Sure, Diarmuid,” she finally just spits, knowing at her core that she wants and trusts him to take her. Anyone she grew up with shouldn’t even have to ask, actually. “I’ll come with. As long as you’re by my side though, I’ll make sure you have fun. Got it?” 

Speaking sets things back into place for her. She wears a smile, and unfolds his arms by the wrist. The Sun is then whisked away by the Star, off to go to bed, off to endure the many preparations for their next meeting. They'll need matching suits and a plan of action and for Diarmuid to know how crazy the last few balls have been. But their conversation fades into the background.

The whole while, Larcei subtly shakes her head at herself. Who was she kidding? The guy’s got his head on straighter than most. If anyone is sensible enough to not make stupid mistakes in the name of love…

…Strangely, it’d be him.

[swiftscion]

"Yeah, and actually, I'm going to need to give you a lesson for my idea to make sense."

His gaze is trained on her. That's good--that's very good. It'll be easier for her to get her point across by drawing with her hands. First is a rectangle with its perimeter sketched by outstretched indexes. Garreg Mach. "Most missions off our board take place 'round the school. We might go into town, or make a small field trip, but it's usually local. I think you'd have seen that by now."

Given that they are on one such mission, she hopes she's right. Her eyes follow his--gray rock nestling with gold--and they try to find mutual understanding. Speaking again, her tone falls flat, "Except sometimes, they don't." Hands move to trace a smaller circle as far away from her initial charade as her arms will reach, with a line connecting the two to serve as an indication of travel. "Every now and then we're thrown into some crazy environment for somethin' big. And sometimes they're... Not even real."

A lump is thrown back in her throat, knowing well that Larcei is veering into nonsensical territory. But she'll just have to trust that Diarmuid would understand. He always has, right? He always will? "We train in these damn... dreams? O-Or go on missions in one place that turn out to be somewhere else entirely. It's some weird stuff! Stick around long enough 'n you'll see for yourself."

Finished with her demonstration, she points to their mercenaries--gaze following the flickering fire that they pitch their souls against. "Point is, we always need extra hands for things like that. I'm thinkin' we keep 'em around as reserves."

Back to the blonde. This time, a bit of that fire shines through on her face.

"You've fought long battles, Diarmuid. 'Think you could train these guys to do the same?"

✢⁎. and besides, this isn't my sword

[swiftscion]

"Well, look who fell to magic. Come now and let me heal you to free you from it's traces." It was Larcei, so Arval's words became lined with taunts and teases in place of coos and soft questioning of her wellbeing. Hands were raised as faith was brought forth, surface wounds sealed with little difficulty.

"Though I do have some unfortunate news for you, unless you would like me to take a gamble with fire in a tent that could very easily catch aflame, you are simply bound to bundling up until the frost leaves you." A spell to heal wounds could do little to raise one's body temperature, and so a blanket was soon thrown to her lap with a pointed look of expectance from healer to swordswoman.

"Hmm, how did your battle go? Might as well chat a little as someone should be staying put for the time being."

"Y'know, I hope that one day you get a sword through your chest. I'd laugh as I pull it out."

The girl is deadpan as she speaks, clearly not in the mood to have magical salt rubbed in her magical wounds. But that's just Arval for her; their heel against her back is something she's come to expect. In a strange way, it's actually a motivator for her. The moment she feels them looking down on her, she knows it's time to get back up and start swingin'.

Only, no more swingin' for today. She already tried. Knights wouldn't let her set another foot on the field.

"Thanks," she breathes, letting her blood glisten with the keeper's magic and spread healing throughout her system. "I trust you a lot more 'n what those medics have to say. You know me. You've seen me fight."

And so it is with her whole heart that she hears their next words. A nod of affirmation follows, along with the silent resolve in her eyes that says she hears them, loud and clear. She reaches for the blanket on her cot and wraps it around her legs, sort of like a bath towel. It should keep her warm while they converse.

"My battle wasn't all bad, actually. In the end, those cowards beat me, but man... You should've seen 'em run! I scared 'em straight with my sword!" It flies from her hip and stabs the air once, elegantly. Heavy though it may be, Larcei maneuvers her Armorslayer with great finesse.

"I met some cool people, too: one kid I definitely need to fight again, a girl with blood bluer than the sky, and a professor I kind of want to beat with his own quiver. But I like 'em all enough. 'Glad we had the chance to exchange blows."

Now that her mouth has run dry, she faces Arval with a friendly smile. Hands hoist her onto one of the nearby tables, which legs dangle off of. "How 'bout you? You've always got crazy stories to tell."

[swiftscion]

"Well, look what the cat dragged in." It's Python himself who wears a feline grin as he approaches the girl who'd dealt him the hardest-hitting blows. Looks like they're both holed up at the infirmary now. Funny, that.

"Anyone patch you up yet? Or are those wounds too ugly for the healers to pay you any mind?"

"Oh, laugh it up! If your teammates had more of a spine, they'd have fought where I could hit 'em back... and then I'd have won..."

She grumbles at the professor and his stupid grin. Is this really how he gets his kicks? For someone so keen on calling her ugly, he sure is beating a dead horse.

She isn't sure how that could possibly be a good look for him.

But one huff later, and the scion has decided that she's too good for his antics. "Whatever," she snorts, brushing him aside with a smirk of her own, "I saw the way you wouldn't leave her alone. Where I'm from, it's always the creepy old dudes goin' after pretty girls."

[swiftscion]

🧃

“Hiya, hiya!” Ewan approached her with a chipper smile. “Thanks for today, here’s a drink!”

"The hell? 'You think I'm some kinda kid or somethin'??"

Larcei turns irate. Her fury seeps through her scars and forgets all about her defeat at the hands of the Deer, instead converging onto the boy's harmless gesture. Poor Ewan. He had no real way of knowing he'd set her off like this, but with the way she's staring at him, her eyes might as well be crossbows. He's done it now.

"I... I didn't lose!" she sputters, the fire spreading to her cheeks as she stands and nearly crushes the drink in her grip, "I don't need a consolation prize from you--and y'know what? Hold my drink." He doesn't have a choice in this matter. "I'm goin' back out there! They'll see that I ain't finished yet!"

There is just no universe in which the organizers of the battle would allow her a second chance, but that sure won't stop Larcei from trying.

[swiftscion]

Though she would have loved nothing more than to treat her daughter to a full breakfast in bed as Larcei did for her, the fact is that she must refrain from doing so when the girl’s bedroom is shared with her brother. If only Scáthach did not loathe her she would regale them both, but there is no use in lamenting. Instead she frees up the whole day to spend with Larcei — as she, regrettably, did not think to do on the occasion of her own birthday. Now is her chance to make up for that, and for so much more.

She finds her daughter early in the morning and waves as she walks up to her, a small box in the other hand. Larcei would likely not care for wrapping and so she hasn’t bothered with it, but the box itself is a luxury item: Crafted out of fine wood and covered in purple velvet with gold trimming, when opened its lid reveals not one but two pairs of bracelets. The four are also made of gold and meant to be worn crossed over, to match Ayra’s own. Alongside these, the box contains a pair of diamond earrings as well as a wooden horse, perfectly crafted.

“Happy birthday, my darling,” Ayra says by way of greeting, embracing the shorter woman with one arm and kissing her on both cheeks before presenting her with the still-closed jewelry box. “I know you do not care much for your title, but… Well, I regret that you could not be brought up with the comforts that it entails, and I thought…” She’s floundering, and she hates that she is. She thought, of course, that she might give the girl a gift to make up for it. It didn’t occur to her until now that Larcei might not like that. “You had the best upbringing possible under the circumstances, of course,” she adds quietly. “I only…” Trailing off, she reaches to cup Larcei’s cheek. 

In the silence, she elects not to explain the wooden horse at all: She carved it herself to give to a daughter far too old for such toys, simply because she missed the chance to do so before. Gods know Larcei does not think she needs to make up for anything, though. So she leaves it unsaid, instead only smiling and running her thumb over the girl’s skin. What a blessing it is, to be able to touch her at all. Even now, Ayra could weep for joy. But the child still does not know, and so she keeps her death to herself, too. This is a day for lighthearted pleasures.

“While I tried to give you my bracelet in the real world, it went… Rather poorly,” she laughs but provides no further explanation, deciding to spare Scáthach the embarrassment in case he hasn’t told his sister. “So I thought I might as well keep my pairs and give you ones to match instead. Of course, they can be worn as anklets too. I understand if you would rather not look any more like me than you already do.” With another laugh and a wink, she reaches to place an arm around her daughter’s shoulders.

“Now, dear, my whole day is all yours. We can do whatever you like, really. I thought perhaps we might have some tea… I still have a few of the blends I brought here from Isaach. Oh, but of course the call is yours.” She smiles fondly, recalling Larcei’s words two moons earlier. (Not that she could ever forget them.) “I’ll do everything you could wish for your mother to do, hmm?”

//via totally-on-time birthday asks; definitely not accepting !

Larcei would have looked prettier if she had died in her sleep.

Instead, her mother breaks her down into a crying mess. It starts gently, with a wave and a quick “G’morning!” exchanged for her greeting, but time can only delay the inevitable melting of her heart when she sees the gift box. It isn’t that she had forgotten, or thought her mother negligent enough to do so, but nineteen is a big number. Nineteen missed birthdays, nineteen of each holiday spent with Scathach, nineteen years of progress–of first steps and first words, first letter penned and first soldier struck down by the song of her sword. All evaded Ayra’s eye. And the worst part? In the end, she was fine. Larcei survived and fought back, Larcei became the maverick of Astra that she is now and, had Ayra forgotten, would have still drawn breath tomorrow.

She hates that things would have only hurt the same if her mother disappeared again. 

And so, her cheeks swell. Waterskins far too full of midnight’s stream, they bloat with unshed tears. There have been so many days of longing that she had let herself forget what life was like without it, and nothing is a harder testament to this fact than what she sees in front of her. Weak, yet-to-be-gloved hands stretch to take it, and as they make contact, a silent prayer is said that Scathach isn’t watching. 

She tries to hold herself back–she really does–but with her face pressed against the neck of her mom, and the warmth of the brighter star encompassing her, body and heart, the reservoir beneath her eyes opens up. She dampens Ayra’s clothing with her tears, taking time to listen to the broken-up, discordant sound of her voice trying to find the right words for the occasion. She hugs tighter. It could come out of her mouth like hogwash, and Larcei would still cherish it. Nothing else sounds more like home, after all, and she can tell that there is an otherworldly level of care being put into today. That there is the insurmountable burden of being abandoned Larcei’s long-lost mother is not something Ayra can be blamed for, so her daughter doesn’t. 

One by one, she addresses the many topics brought up by Isaach’s finest, but only after running her face dry, and choking down sniffles between each sentence, “... I get it, okay? You… You just want everything to be perfect for me. ‘Cause I’m your daughter, and you’re my mother, and nothin’ out there’s gonna change that.” Wrenching herself out of the woman’s grasp, she creates enough space between them to open the box. Through glassy eyes does she marvel at Ayra’s creation, holding each gift between her fingers like masterpieces. “But this is enough. We’re a family again, and that’s all I’m ever gonna need.” 

Lucky for the both of them, the Comet is still in her nightwear. She hasn’t put on her own, characteristic set of earrings, and so slips the gifts on in their place. And they shine there, dangling from her ears. They’re a little heavier than what she’s used to, and the shape might smack her against the cheek if she darts around too quickly, but with what Ayra said about her title, Larcei knows what she’ll use them for. “And hey, we’re going to have to go back home someday. I can’t escape bein’ a princess for long, especially now that I don’t have a reason to with you here.” 

The bracelets then take the place of her gloves, and she seats ear earrings with her palms to show the entire ensemble off. A shuddered laugh asks what she thinks before she addresses her inherited visage. “What’s the matter? Scared your daughter might start lookin’ better than you if she dresses nice?” The obvious tease is punctuated by a jab against the swordswoman’s side. The comment about the ‘real world’ escapes her, as does the meaning of the horse, but she does ambiently wonder if it had to do with any of the dreamscapes they had been fighting in.

“Tea’s good, and I’d like a battle where we don’t hold back so I’ll know what I’m up against,” she answers, in response to the final question, “but… There’s one other thing…” 

Larcei is a child again. She has just woken up in Tirnanog, to the smell of potatoes on the stove and the sound of wood meeting wood outside. Someone’s sparring, and she needs to spring up to join them. Maybe today will be the day–maybe red oak upgrades to gray steel as she is finally allowed a proper battle. And when she’s done, she’s sure breakfast will be finished. She kicks herself out of her cot, the pitter-patter of her feet sure to raise hell with all the adults who want to keep them hidden, and just as she’s about to reach the door, she’s stopped. 

“When I was little, Lady Edain used to do this thing for me every morning.” Her voice strains timidly, the decorated Larcei now holding her years-old hairbrush in her hand like a piece of incriminating evidence. Seating herself at her desk, her eyes glance at Ayra. “She’d sit me down and brush my hair, tellin’ me that I’d need to take care of it if I wanted to look like your daughter.” And now that she’s thrusting the brush toward her mother, she cannot bear to look her way. Blood paints her cheeks a rosy pink. “Except… Kid me would wish it could be you there, instead. I think, um…”

“... I think I want to make her wish come true.”

[swiftscion]

With an uneasy peace settling back over Fódlan, many soldiers that had been conscripted by paranoid nobles are now being sent home. However, some had seen this as their big chance to become knights and to make something more of themselves. They’re unwilling to let go of their training, and reports of these ex-soldiers convening together late at night reaches you and your party. Upon investigation, the ex-soldiers ask you to join them in these sessions, hoping either to learn from you, to practice with you, or to simply get a good word in with the Knights of Seiros. They ask for a future, having been robbed of one already, but do you really have any place to give them one? [Grants Any Skill +1]

Silence fills the air. An intermission presents itself as the soldiers and their offer stand, free of any discussion or bickering on their part. The choice to be made is clearer than any crystal: accept them, or turn their blades away. Larcei doesn’t look at them. Gray moons turn away from the small crowd to find a pair of sunflowers; ashen eyes meet those of the blonde. A wordless flick of her head signals him to escape the crackling campfire they had been gathered around. On this moonless night, it is a wellspring of illumination. 

Step outside its light, and secrecy is yours.

“So,” she whispers, her words carefully measured out, “whaddya think?” Beyond the swallowing darkness, she can feel the stares of tens of eyes boring holes into the back of their head. They each sit upon a log bench, surrounding that aforementioned fire. And though it is bright, the shadow of the forest just outside of monastery grounds stretches farther–canopies of leaves cutting off even the sky’s expanse. It reminds her that there is no one else out here but them, that their deal concerns only them, and should things not pan out amicably, everyone can pretend like this didn’t happen. 

Though, sitting on that thought makes her anxious. Larcei frowns at the notion of sending them home. Home to what–to rot, to starve, to struggle without the means of providing for oneself? Her mind made up by that feeling of repulsion, she spits out her opinion before waiting for Diarmuid’s, “‘Cause I’m not one for leaving ‘em out to dry! These are people, not old axes you throw out when you’re done with ‘em…” 

She clicks her tongue, which the knight might hear if he’s keen enough. “I… I think I might have an idea… But let’s hear your thoughts first. ‘Got to make sure we’re on the same page, here.” 

//starter for @charmblooded !

✢⁎. and besides, this isn't my sword

[swiftscion]

"Larcei?!" The address rings loud and surprised, a bit off from the side. "Hey, Larcei!"

One, two, step-clomp, and Edward's already flung himself onto the edge of her cot, grinning from ear to ear. "You come here often?" he asks, clearly teasing, before stifling a laugh and pulling his good leg up.

"For real though, I saw you were up against Tormod! I bet he was using fire magic, but he's good at wrestling, too, sooo..." His thumb wipes at his nose as he hums. "I'm not surprised you lost, but I'm not surprised you didn't win either, you know? He's no pushover!"

Finally, he flaps a hand, sticks out his tongue. "Just, you know. Mages." His voice goes a bit mock-disgust-nasally on the last one. He's sure she empathises.

That plucky voice, could it be?

"Edward?!"

Cry out screaming, but he's already there. That's just how the bugger works! Larcei doesn't have much time to spit out his name before her one-person cot has become a double, her frostbitten body bouncing from the great crash of his weight onto the elastic material. If there's anything in the world that's going to get her to sit up, it's that.

"Oh, put a lid on it, would ya'? If we were both fightin' by ourselves, things would've been different." Less errant (and icy) flies buzzing about the enemy side, and less allies for the guardian to have to protect. Her sword is sworn to those that stand beside her--those who reach out and are called sister or brother--but where there are two, it grows heavy. It's not as easy when she can't swing with reckless abandon, looking after nothing but herself.

Still, Tormod's skill is undeniable. And Edward's word is something she trusts, so she looks at him with fire in her eyes. Her pupils are coals, her irises clouds of smog, and the sclera around a misty haze of white smoke. The scars of today have already been forgotten.

"But you seem to know the guy pretty well... If I'm beatin' him, I'll need practice." No warning, no hesitation, as she springs from her cot. Now on the opposite side of the med tent (and alerting the attention of some very concerned physicians) her eyes glisten a glaze of green. The air around her is stardust, the path to the freedom fighter a trail for her comet to blaze. At warp speed, she surges forth for their first round of wrestling.

"Heads up, Eddie!!"

[swiftscion]

Damned mages, always cowering behind their army! Larcei knew things would eventually amount to this, even if Tormod displayed an unusual bout of courage by running into her.

She'll play his game of cat-and-mouse. Following the kindling is a burning Isaachian star. She grunts, but bears the pain of his embers, footsteps falling faster through the flames until she's just in swiping range--

And then, they slow.

And slow, and slow, and s l o w . . . until they're frozen in place. "The hell? Ugh, damn! Hey pipsqueak," she is hardly an inch taller than him, "don't think this is over. We'll fight again, when there's no one around to interrupt us!"

Is she furious? Yes, but even little Larcei knows her limits. She changes the grip on her sword to use its hilt as a pick, slowly hacking away at the ice around her feet. The lack of an effort to continue fighting is enough of a surrender, but just to make things official, she shouts at Merric, "Prof, looks like you're all on your own now!"

Then her sword points at Tormod once more, and for the final time this Battle of the Eagle and Lion. "And you... Don't you dare give in now! Anyone who beats me's gotta make it to the end, got it? If you have any respect for my pride as a warrior, you're seein' this through!!"

And with that, she's back to picking at ice. The healers will likely arrive to spare her most the effort, but it'll help pass the time.

MAKE YOUR STAND: @ventusanimae

My Honorable Opponent, Have at Thee! (Misses) || BOEL Round 1, Battle 7

[swiftscion]

"'Fear the Deer?' You've got to start givin' me something to be afraid of, little guy."

As the nimble mage closes in, Larcei demonstrates her own prided mobility by circling around. She's quick and quiet, but alerts Tormod to her presence by laughing at his attack. At this rate, she fears the stray fireballs might burn down the entirety of Gronder Field, but the church has probably already accounted for that, right?

"Here," she taps him on the shoulder, stealing his attention away from the rest of her team, "let's show you how it's done!"

Larcei 2.5/6HP hits Tormod 6/6HP with Armorslayer [Roll: 1d20 = 14, -2.5HP] Tormod 3.5/6HP

CLANG!!!

The young mage receives a hefty thwack against his cheek, using the flat side of Larcei's Armorslayer. It functions more like a bat or a paddle for this hit, which is one of the lesser known applications of the chunkier blade.

"You got it, professor," she then answers, backing into Merric's range once more, "it's you 'n me!"

RUN WHILE YOU CAN: @arcelerity !

My Honorable Opponent, Have at Thee! (Misses) || BOEL Round 1, Battle 7

[swiftscion]

"Hm?" The nova of white magic is warm and tingly enough to grab her attention, turning the head of the Isaachian warrior to her professor. "Hey, thanks," she chirps, "and yeah, sure. 'Long as the others go down quietly, nobody'll wake up sleeping beauty over there."

He's handy to have around, that instructor. Larcei gets the feeling that he'd make for a decent tactics coach were they enlisted in the same army. Maybe he and Oifey might get along.

But Merric aside, she shuffles off toward Tormod, signaling L'Arachel to file in behind with another flick of her neck. The rounded edge of her Armorslayer extends to point to him, continuing their dance.

"Alright, kid. You wanted a fight, now you're gettin' one. Let's see what you can do!"

Larcei 1.5/5HP rotates her team to the left !

FIRE AWAY: @arcelerity !

My Honorable Opponent, Have at Thee! (Misses) || BOEL Round 1, Battle 7

[swiftscion]

The blast of blizzard falling by her wayside leaves a patch of frostbite on her leg, but it doesn't stop Larcei from dancing around the next bolt of magic. She's begun to trace her opponents' movements, their patterns, their habits, and has created a formula for herself that ensures survival.

At the ugly comment, though, she laughs. That's a first. It's usually comments stating the opposite. She'd admit, it feels liberating to not be hailed for her beauty, for once.

Cocking a brow to the tuft of grass Tormod's fire ignited, the scion taunts, "You sure? 'Cause you guys seem a bit distracted right now."

A hand then comes to L'Arachel's shoulder, when she has a chance to breathe. "And hey, you can leave the fighting to me. Just stay close behind."

She motions to take off, but before crossing the boundary into enemy territory, offers one final nod to the Rausten girl, "'Name's Larcei, by the way."

Larcei 1/5HP hits Python 3.5/6HP with Armorslayer [Roll: 1d20 = 7; -2.5HP] Python 1/6HP

Staying low and agile, she sends her sword for the professor's knees. A heavy chop ought to take one out and leave the man a sitting duck.

My Honorable Opponent, Have at Thee! (Misses) || BOEL Round 1, Battle 7