#unlockedwesternfaerghus2021

[blaydiud]

𝗂 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾'𝗌 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝗈'𝗌 𝖺𝖼𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗀𝖾𝗇𝗎𝗂𝗇𝖾. 𝗂𝗍 𝗁𝗎𝗋𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝗈𝖿 𝗂𝗍.

[crestbound]

hey bro nice t...rauma

The trick, Sylvain has learned, is just not to think too deeply about it.

(Well—that’s kind of a lie. The better trick, and the one he’s been using for years, is recitation. Steps. Recipes. Facts. Anything. 

The old bell tower in Lavaudieu, the village nestled in the southern region of Gautier, rings once every year. In the first two weeks of Guardian Moon, small, yellow flowers are the only ones to bloom on the road from the margrave’s estate to the duke’s. Faerghus is cold in the winter. Tagzig exists. Dimitri’s birthday is on the 20th day of the Ethereal Moon.)

“...Well,” he says, unable to tear his eyes away from the scenery, from the too-straight lines and the too-unsettling lights and the too-miserable people, “I figure if we just kind of go straight, we’ll eventually run into the heart of the city. Maybe see the town square, if they have anything like that, or...”

...or something useful, he means to say, but one look at Dimitri tells him that the prince isn’t handling this as well as he’d thought. Sylvain doesn’t blame him.

“...or, we can see if there’s any cute girls who might wanna chat a little with us. A city like this has to have at least a couple, right? Your Highness?”

@elegiac-boar

[yewfallen]

of light, heart, and shadow

   “ Aes!! ”  Febail calls out, but the ex-engineer is gone. In his place, an expanse of darkness, metal, and the final objective Aeschylus had given before he had disappeared.

It must be destroyed.

Though Febail won't act like he understands the full extent of his situation, everything seeming so much more massive than him once talk of time and truth and reality come into play, Febail has always known one thing if nothing else: destruction.

If the only way forward, back to his own path, is to destroy what stands before him, then he must simply try. Keeping to the back of their forces, Febail draws Yewfelle and, with a flash of light, releases one of its arrows towards the Light Titanus.

1d20 roll: 1+4, hit rate boosted by < Hit +20. > Miss! 1d2 roll: 1. < Bowrange +1 > active.  Light Titanus HP: 15/15.

It misses, and Febail grits his teeth. Perhaps he’s a bit tipsier than he had thought, he supposes, as he slinks through the back of his allies to find a better place to shoot from.   // @elegiac-boar

[ulircursed]

past the threshold

     Their steps echoed, uncomfortably loud, in the oddly glowing tunnel, and Andrei found his voice silenced on their way forward. He wasn’t nervous, he told himself - their excursion to the edge of the city had proven Caeldori a capable partner when facing potential danger, and his earlier exhaustion from the skirmish at the surface had faded in the face of their forward momentum, but at the same time, the unsettling atmosphere seemed to emphasize the importance of caution.

     The silence only lasted until they were shortly out of sight of the entrance, where their other teammates were waiting for the scouts’ returning report. There was a sudden, low sound, muffled but distinct from their footsteps, and Andrei stilled, turning towards the other with a look of concentration. “Do you hear...?” he never got to finish the question. With a very brief crescendo of rumbling behind them in the tunnel--

     --then a startling crash, and a section of the ceiling behind them peeled off from the rest, rubble raining down to flood their retreating path before Andrei even had a chance to react.

     His heart pounded with adrenaline with what felt like the dozenth time today, whirling around to stare at the impenetrable wall of debris behind them. He should’ve foreseen this, honestly. There was a reason this was the only intact-looking tunnel when they walked in. The only silver lining was that the rubble had stopped flowing a distance away from them, rendering them safe, though only for the moment. If more of the ceiling caved in, that could easily change.

     “...we’ll have to go, and quickly,” he said, voice little more than an urgent whisper as his gaze locked onto Caeldori’s once more, “The others should be safe as long as they didn’t disregard the plan and follow after us, but we won’t be until we leave this area.” Cut off from the other half of their team and without any means of communication, it seemed there was no way to go but forward.

@vermilique​

[theindigoflirt]

Shadow of a Doubt

... I cannot be happier that it is real...” he murmurs. Then miasmic energy begins to emanate from his hand. “... but it must be destroyed.”

So Inigo wasn’t wrong. Whatever device Aeschylus cradles like a child in his hand should be shattered against the ground. Messing with time never ends well; the price for such an act never stops being paid. Will there be a cost for breaking this machine? Perhaps. Inigo doesn’t care, so long as he can prevent anyone else from growing up the same way he did. 

(Temples still throb with the weight of lifetimes.) 

One booted heel steps forward the same moment lights glow, infusing the space with that same aquamarine glow. He tumbles down, eyes shut tight against the glow, hand gripping his sword hilt. Déjà vu knocks the breath from his lungs. How often will Lady Fate force him to hurtle through the dark? To land, alone, on an empty plain with only a sword at his side? 

Knuckles turn white around the hilt. This time, at least, he’s surrounded by allies. His landing comes to an abrupt end; wincing, dancer opens his eyes. Please, not again, he can’t take more memories, more forgotten pain— 

Nothing threatens to tear his skull apart from the inside out. Only the two metal titans, but he’d rather fight an enemy he can see. World narrows to just him and the monsters. Grinning, he twirls the sword, glancing at his allies. “I have your back!” 

Without further ado, he advances, steps light and confident. The Wo Dao weighs little in his hands as he brings it down in a perfect slice—

[Inigo rolls a 3! Total Miss!]

—to cut grass. Blade goes wide, shearing an inch or two off the grass. Pink suffuses his cheeks. “…how embarrassing,” he murmurs, dancing backwards. The Titanus moves, gears clanking in retaliation. 

[Light Titanus rolls an 8! Miss!] 

Instinct tells him to jump, now. Inigo hops to one side, avoiding a flattening from an iron fist. Blood roars in ears long accustomed to the sound. “Who’s next?” 

> @hawkkingseyes @sheereccentric @making-dough​ 

[ordelion]

Shields shall be Splintered

Lysithea gazed upon the large, opulent exterior of the city of Tagzig. The bright stripes of aquamarine and teal accented the deep black blocks that formed the wall, both colors combining into a raw, grandiose look. If Aeschylus be not a liar, this citadel had incredible technology that could outmatch the most brilliant of tools and spells from Fodlan. It was like being a child in a candy store to this prodigy- a feeling that, unlike many others who use that comparison, she knows personally and recently. While everyone was at camp, she requested the role of patrolling the city walls via the obvious route to the entrance, but the job was snatched up while she was too soaked to argue. When she could finally strike out comfortably, she knew she needed a few quality allies to scout the darker, less notable edge of the city walls safely. Of those who remained, Janaff was a clear choice for his mobility, and Ophelia for her perception. Using her desperation brilliance, it did not take long for her to conscript convince them to her cause, and organize a plan. Landing her here. In front of the city of her dreams, thick darkness surrounding her, allies behind her, light ahead of her, perhaps an act of destiny, perhaps merely another bout of random fortune, perhaps a curse in sheep’s clothing. Like much in her life, Lysithea had many back-up plans and safety nets and last resorts- but if the chips came down to it, the girl couldn’t assure her own survival. Her heartbeat was on edge. How many scientists died researching something spectacular? How many died trying to help a stranger? How many died before they reached their 16th year?

In her first five minutes of searching, Lysithea didn’t find much aside from clear ground, sheer darkness, and that magnificent citadel growing ever closer. Nothing in Father’s lands could match this, she whispered to herself, then giving the signal to Janaff and Ophelia to start their flight by clicking two rocks together. “The coast is clear, and the darkness thick enough to keep you out of sight. Just don’t make too much noise.” Hopefully, they would have better fortunes. -> @sheereccentric

[venalier]

OVERGROWTH.

          metal. small. hidden from sight. she keeps this like a silent mantra as they approach the abandoned stretch, roughly southeast of where they’d all begun. it feels as though, with every step, they’re isolating themselves further and further, and not just because of the dissemination of the group. the thickening density of the vegetation... she doesn’t know if the other areas of these ruins are like this too, but this segment seems to have been overtaken, almost belonging more to the nearby woodland than the rocky plains on which they’d been traveling.

          steps slow as they draw up to the foundations of the roofless structure they’d seen looming in the distance, skeletal and lonesome. surprisingly intact walls that must have once been as pristine as those of garreg mach stand furred over with moss and greyed with time, in some places known only by the blanket of ivy and vines that denote their height and shape.

          within, as she carefully tests one foot across the threshold and then steps across, the floor is nearly indistinguishable from that of a forest undergrowth, with only peeking patches of stone to indicate otherwise, but on these, a concentrated examination can make out a faint series of rectangular outlines right up against the walls before they’re obscured by the creeping flora. and, she squats down, these long chunks of wood... too polished to be natural. more like — pieces of bed frames? amidst the taller ferns, colored cloth — a robe? a belt. still bundled together, disturbed only by natural elements. there, an overturned pot of brushes, now worn and dusty.

          ❝ people lived and slept in this room, ❞ she says, half to herself, ❝ it must have been the clergy. wasn’t this place attacked? ❞ it looks like it hadn’t been expected. she straightens up again. ❝ if there is an entrance to an underground city nearby, then we should be careful, “ she says to the others. ❝ there’s no telling if there might be defenses to keep intruders out. ❞

          it’s hard to imagine, even as the words come out of her mouth. this place looks so... serene feels like the wrong word, but certainly not the entry to another civilization. and had the clergy known about it too, or was it just coincidence that their priory happened to safeguard something more? were these locks the whole purpose of this place? had the central church known that when they came here? ugh, if only that aeschylus would tell us anything! and if the knights knew, they were just as tight-lipped as he was. well, first thing’s first. a mechanism concealed where people spent their every day wouldn’t just be in some hole in the wall.

          ❝ julia, sara, ❞ she ventures, ❝ can you feel any kind of magic here? maybe the locks aren’t just hidden by normal means. ❞

    ♡   //    ↪ @lafilledenaga, @prayerwitch, @raikuroji, or @theindigoflirt

[aubins]

SECRET TUNNEL

It’s plain rotten luck that sees their already tiny group separated into even smaller ones. There is hardly time to do anything but stare in surprise as the rocks come tumbling down, sealing the pair that had been scouting ahead within the tunnel. A fist smacks against the fallen rocks and dirt uselessly, a mouth opening to call out before he thinks better of it. With their numbers dwindled even further, they cannot afford to draw any more attention to themselves.

“Don’t think we’ll be seeing them for a while,” Yuri says with a grimace. Or ever. Andrei and Caeldori might still be alive on the other side, but there is no point to planning as though they might reunite on the other end of these tunnels until they’re sure.

And they still don’t know where they lead. A tired sigh escapes his lips as he steps away from the mound of earth, now resting innocently before what had once been the tunnel entrance.

“Half a tunnel left,” he says flatly, turning toward the rest of their small number, gesturing to the only other tunnel that they might be able to go through. With the map on the other side of a bunch of dirt, there’s only the communication device left between them, but he doubts that there’s much that Aeschylus and the rest can do for them. “Don’t suppose we’ve got much of a choice here, unless you’d like to stick around and pray real hard for that second transport to show up.”

@lafilledenaga & @making-dough

[duskroine]

identity.

Who are you?

     “ I am Ophelia Dusk! A heroine of legacy and virtue -- a follower of the stars! ”

And who are you?

    “ You haven’t heard of my name? It is I, Ophelia Dark! The greatest swords-woman in all of ᖇ E ᗪ ᗩ ᑕ T E ᗪ! ”

Then... who are you?

    “ Princess Ophelia Dawn, fairest in all the land no matter where my legend takes the ears of the curious! ”

         Y o u   a r e   n o b o d y.          

. . .

The throne is cold beneath her. Frigid against silk and frills and lace. Her cape is longer -- uniform replaced for a gown. Her circlet crown is tight around her head. The shield to her empty, empty mind. 

     Protection.

               Footsteps echo off the pristine walls. Windows tinted and glass stained with gold ( It’s the gold around her wrist ) and blood ( It’s the blood she coughed up earlier that morning ).

                         Security.

                                   The person stops before her -- a cloak pulled over their head but their lips quiver behind the shadow cast over their face. She can see the way their cheeks hollow and cave in -- as if they didn’t fit their face. Their wrists are small, barely caught in the shackles around them. 

                                             Trust.

                                                       Everything she couldn’t give her people.

. . .

Huh... her people?

    “ Is that all I am to you? ”

She shakes her head -- her body nods instead.

     A scoff falls from their lips. It’s sunken ( like their cheeks ). As if the life had not only been sucked from their body, but their mind, too. Soulless and without shelter. This kingdom isn’t their home. It isn’t hers either.

              “ All you royals are the same... ”

She plants her feet on the ground -- her body forces her to rise. Lightning dances over her palm, fingers, and wrist. She knows the dance before it’s even carried out. Before the curtains, velvet and silk, are pulled back. She knows the song before it’s sung. Pages and pages of blank lyrics -- the incantation burns her throat as it crawls up into her mouth.

    “ A bunch of sick, twisted bastards. ”

               Her hand rises from her side.

                        “ How does the power taste, Princess? Is it fresh, served off a-- ”

                                   Silver platter. She knows their words before they speak them; maybe that’s why the lightning travels so easily through their body. She knows them, and they must know her. They do know her. ( The real her? Or this her? ) Her finger touches their forehead -- it was a mistake to bow to a fake, wasn’t it?

They makes too much noise when they die.

     Tyrant. Tyrant. Tyrant.

               The circlet crown tightens around her head just as her fingers press harder against theirs.

                         Tyrant. Tyrant. TYRANT.

                                   Dusk colors the sky and strikes the stained glass of the throne room’s windows. The person’s eyes glow; Ophelia’s torture is open for all to see. The people see her through the walls of her castle. Through her hundreds of soldiers. Through her own eyes. Through her skin and decisions and her. 

                                             Tyrant. TYRANT. TYRANT.

                                                       She’s a tyrant. Maybe... maybe in another life, she isn’t. The knowledge of royalty will remain a secret to that young, eccentric Ophelia. She’ll be able to practice magic and serve someone -- no more ruling for a dead princess. She’ll die a tyrant.

                                                                 CURSED TYRANT!!

She pulls her hand away when the person stops shaking, almost abruptly. They’re eyes flutter, crimson irises now shine a bright aquamarine. She stares, harder. Stares through him and at the entrance of the throne room. Maybe even farther. Maybe to a new home, one that she could have lived in.

     Her hand is heavy; black stains the back of it. 

               Ophelia does not remember this mark. Tyranny. She does not remember whether she should be afraid or pleased. She does not remember if it is the bane of her existence.

. . .

Her circlet is loose, pressed underneath a headband.

     ...Nina’s.

Lysithea’s fingers weave into her own, hands pressed together as the smaller of the two girls shuffle closer to the other. Ophelia’s exhale sticks in her mouth. Afraid but courageous. Alone but in the company of others. Sensitive to colors but aquamarine continues to glow in the corners of her vision. Here but her body feels light, as if she’ll float out of this reality and into a different one. Maybe her real one.

     Ophelia remembers the mark on her hand. Tyranny. She remembers tears and screaming and hands reaching out for her. She remembers a throne and a meadow and a lost battlefield. She remembers a wedding...

               She remembers that none of those memories are truly hers.

[theofficersacademy]

                            TEAM WESTERN FAERGHUS

                               Febail  Julia  Ophelia  Caeldori  Andrei                                                                       Inigo  Dimitri  Janaff  Yuri  Farina                                                                               Shiro  Fernand  Sylvain  Sara

FINALE [August 26th - August 31st]

Tag: #UnlockedWesternFaerghus2021

Setting: ???

You have but a moment to catch your breath in the tunnels outside of Tagzig, sounds of foreign shouting, footsteps, and the rumbling of unknown machinery growing closer with each passing moment while authorities scour the city for their intruders. Red illuminates the walls of the cavern and Aeschylus’ face as he reveals his prize to you: a stone glowing like a hot coal. Except it’s not a stone at all, but a device made of metal, and holes dot its exterior where tubing had once connected it to something else. It’s hardly larger than the size of his palm, and somehow you’re supposed to believe that it contains the power to traverse entire worlds.

“I had dreamt of the day I would be chosen to serve our Liberator,” he says quietly, gaze fixed on the device. “It is the dream of many in this city, because it is the dream of freedom. That day came for me... I was enlisted to be an engineer. It was then that I discovered this wonder... or perhaps it called to me. It showed me another dream, one pervaded by rot and corruption, where the people of this city were kept as livestock and the Liberator stood upon their corpses to reach the surface. Gradually, I realized it was not a dream, but truth... and I had seen it with my own eyes once before, aided by surface-dwellers like you.”

The commotion behind the wall grows louder, but Aeschylus seems not to notice.

“I tried to spread the truth, and was branded a madman. It cost me the position I had always wanted... and I, too, began to question what I thought I knew. Perhaps if they had let me rot away in a cell, I would have let that madness consume me... But the Liberator was adamant about extermination. That is... that is how I found myself at the mercy of your church. He had somehow... failed.” His hand trembles as he holds the device, and for a moment, his voice falters. “... I cannot be happier that it is real...” he murmurs. Then miasmic energy begins to emanate from his hand. “... but it must be destroyed.”

Suddenly, light glows beneath your feet and you’re falling. When you open your eyes, you are back in that plane of darkness where that giant, shadowy thing still hangs over Garreg Mach. There are no guards. No pursuers. No tunnel. No Tagzig. And no Aeschylus. Before you, the time device has grown in size, and two metal titans stand in your way.

What you know:

Rion told you to prepare for one last game.

Time to destroy the Void Heart.

What to do (suggestions):

Look at the combat doc and separate into 2 groups of 5 and 1 group of 4.

Talk to Mod Ree for more information

[hawcculi]

regroup

[open start for the western faerghus team!]

Janaff sits down for a moment when they reach a break. The hawk rests his forehead in his hand, the cosmic sense of exhaustion that only comes with age settling over his otherwise babyfaced appearance. His wings twitch for a moment before pressing to his back. The shock spear clatters to the ground next to him.

He’s not running for his life anymore, and everything he saw crashes down on him.

Reyson.

He’d been left for dead once.

The swamp.

“Fuck,” he whispers, only to make some other sound than the soft, shuddering breaths that came before tears. For all of their bickering, their endless strange guard-ish relationship, they were friends, all of them were. He wonders if the others know.

By now, he’s crying, face buried in his hands, his wings and shoulders trembling. He feels other eyes on him, but for once, he doesn’t bother acknowledging them.

[blaydiud]

𝖦𝗋𝗂𝖾𝖿 𝗂𝗌 𝖺 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖼𝖾 𝗆𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗇𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗍𝗒𝗉𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾.

[crestbound]

in another life, i was free.

In one lifetime, they’re gathered around a fire—him, Dimitri, Felix, and Ingrid. It must be summer in Fraldarius; Sylvain can hear the crash of ocean waves off the towering cliffside far away. They’re not old enough to be here completely unsupervised, but neither are they too young to know how to sneak away. The Fraldarius maids must be turning the castle upside-down.

The fire crackles. Sylvain remembers that look on Felix’s face; it’s the look he gets when he boasts about something Glenn had done, to be inevitably followed by his own plans to follow in his brother’s footsteps. 

(He misses that look. He misses when Felix’s eyes used to shine with a world of things to look forward to.)

“I wish I had a sibling too,” Dimitri admits. “Someone strong, like Glenn... or smart, like Miklan!”

No, Sylvain thinks wryly, you really don’t.

But the one huddled by the fire, handing Ingrid a skewer of meat, doesn’t agree. This one looks happier. This one is braver.

“I can be your brother, Dima,” he says, which is everything wrong and everything he’s ever tried to be. “I can be everyone’s big brother!”

“Oh?” comes a familiar voice, carrying over the sound of footsteps on sand, of waves yet to announce a storm. Sylvain feels his heart jump once and catch in his throat when Miklan walks into view. It’s almost a knee-jerk reaction, to run in between them. 

“Miklan—” he begins, but even his breath tangles in his lungs when Miklan simply walks right through him. (Run. Why are you here? I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—)

“Forget about being a brother,” Miklan says, lacking so much vitriol that Sylvain has to turn, light-headed and nauseous, to stare at him again. “You’re going to be grounded, first. All of you are. The whole castle’s in a panic; Glenn’s about to round up the entire Fraldarius army just to look for you brats.”

“But we wrote a letter!” the young Sylvain protests.

Miklan rolls his eyes. (Wrong shade of brown. His hair’s so much shorter, here. He’s missing the scar on his jaw.) “You wrote ‘off to play.’ That’s not a letter, Syl.”

Syl.

His heartbeats grow louder and louder in his ears, crashing against an incessant ringing, the howling gusts of his breaths. Miklan’s never called him that. Miklan’s never been this nice, either. Miklan is...

(If it weren’t for you...!)

...Miklan is...

Shall we try again?

In another lifetime, the Margrave is ill. They say he caught a sweating sickness from the north, where the Srengi have been tearing down the border walls and pillaging the villages just beyond. He’s expected to die within the moon.

Sylvain is six years old when the margravine tells him.

“Oh,” he says, and looks down at his feet. His mother taps her finger on the table once, too proper to clear her throat. Sylvain straightens up to look at her until she smiles. “When is Miklan coming home?”

“Perhaps in a week or two,” she replies. “But I trust he will be present for the exchange of seals.”

They’re to destroy the margrave’s official wax seal stamp, made of gold and treated blackwood, and create a new one—this time, with Sylvain’s initials instead of his father’s. It’ll be used to seal the letter to the king, announcing the death of the margrave and a schedule for his heir’s arrival at the capital. In Fhirdiad, he’ll kneel before the throne and swear his pledges again.

Sylvain frowns, and resists every urge to shift uneasily in his seat. “...He has to be. Isn’t it going to be his ceremony?” After all, Miklan is the margrave’s firstborn. He’s charismatic, and he’s smart, and he’s terrifyingly brutal with a lance. There isn’t a single soldier in the Gautier cavalry that doesn’t admire him.

But the margravine isn’t part of the cavalry. Though she hasn’t said a word of it herself, everyone in the castle knows that their lady, a paragon of every feminine virtue belonging to the nobility, laments every day for her one failure in life: Miklan Anschutz Gautier, born to her without a Crest. 

Imagine that.

“Oh, Sylvain,” she tuts. Her hands are soft when she reaches out to touch him, brushing the hair out of his face and tucking unruly locks behind his ear. “Don’t be silly; of course it will be you. You’re our son.”

But not Miklan. Not Miklan, whose eyes are a closer shade of hazel to the margravine’s than Sylvain’s are; not Miklan, whose laughter echoes the same way the margrave’s does, heavy and confident. Not Miklan, born with a blessing from each of the Four Saints, from Macuil’s keen eye for strategy to Indech’s indomitable strength. 

But not Miklan, Crestless and worthless, of the right flesh but not the right blood.

The margravine pulls back. She looks satisfied with her work. “Now,” she says, “Let’s enjoy some tea, shall we?” It’s one of her favorites, a cinnamon blend with a touch of honey. In this life, Sylvain likes it, too.

His brother ends up returning home in five days. Just an hour after sunset, Sylvain—older, taller, the one that survived—watches Miklan kill him. 

Neither of them flinches when a sickening crack sounds from the bottom of the well.

In this lifetime, that’s the end.

—we try again?

The next life starts with blood.

He’s angry. Not him, but him—the Sylvain of this life, thrown away and forgotten. There’s a jagged scar that runs from his left temple down to his right cheek, a sick mirror image of Miklan’s worst injury.

And it strikes him, then, that this is the life where it finally happens; this is the life where everything’s turned around. Flames devour a small village just on the border between Gautier and Fraldarius. They don’t have much to plunder, but it isn’t about what can be stolen; it’s about the message that’ll be sent.

Even here, Fraldarius and Gautier enjoy a good relationship. Even here, Sylvain is smart enough to know the best way to hurt his father is through shame.

Your son did this, they’ll tell him. Control him.

And what can he do but try? Even disinherited and stripped of everything he has, Sylvain is still a Gautier. He’s the margrave’s responsibility, especially when he begins causing trouble for the duke.

But of course his father would never come himself. Sylvain can burn a hundred villages, kill a thousand civilians, steal a million bars of gold, and still, still, he’d send his prized son, his Crested son, his only son, to clean up the mess. That’s what he’s good for, after all. That’s what he’s worth. Riches and loves, hearth and home, all because the right blood sings in his veins.

“Miklan,” he rasps, smoke thick in his lungs. “Of course he’d send you.”

“That’s enough now, Sylvain,” Miklan replies, brandishing the Lance of Ruin. It titters and glows in his hands.

Sylvain—the real or the fake, the one that doesn’t belong, the one that should, that wishes, that doesn’t want to be—releases a quiet breath. Then another. A sound, then two, then three.

Then, he laughs.

Miklan kills him here, too.

—try again?

There’s a war in this life.

Behind him, on top of the hill, Dimitri refuses to die. He is a torrent of anger that threatens to tear open the heavens to drag down the Goddess by her neck. Several feet in front of him, Ingrid is already dead. She’s half-crushed by her pegasus, bent and twisted in all sorts of ways. 

Between her and Sylvain—the one fighting, the one losing—is Felix. The Sylvain that doesn’t belong knows with a sinking feeling in his gut that the blood on his cheek is Ingrid’s.

Sylvain lifts the Lance of Ruin. It’s tittering more than he’s ever seen in his life, stained through with blood and ichor.

“Hey, Felix?” His voice sounds tired. “Remember when we were kids and we made a promise about dying together?”

Felix doesn’t flinch. He’s always been like that—stubborn and unyielding, willing to commit himself to his decisions to the bloody, sad end. “I remember.”

Sylvain smiles, and it’s a pathetic thing, cracking at the edges. “Well,” he says, “seems we’re about to kill each other.”

There’s one moment where their heartbeats crash against each other, in sync. The next beat, they’re skewed again. One sounds like wardrums; the other, a funeral dirge. It isn’t hard to guess which is whose.

“Sorry, Sylvain.” There’s a flash of a blade. Sylvain—both—wonders if the blood that’s still on it is Ingrid’s.

“Fe—”

“You’ll die first.”

(I know.)

—again?

That’s enough.

[yewfallen]

kill the heart

    Upon infiltrating the city, the sextet that follows Aeschylus's guidance splinters off into pairs, separating further. Two childhood friends pair up, and the flowery boy goes off with the one that had been speedwalking through the entire process far ahead of them all.

That leaves Febail with the one faculty member that accompanied them all in the first group, and he's fine with that, he supposes. Fernand seemed the type to not fuss much, simply wishing to get things done based on their introductions all those days ago, and Febail finds himself amenable to such a disposition.

Pulling up his cloak's hood more as the two of them are left behind by the others, Febail suggests,  “ Aes said what we're lookin' for's probably on the outskirts. Best we keep from headin' into the city proper then, yeah? ”  The hitman watches the receding figures of Sylvain and Dimitri head towards the heart of the city, silhouettes vanishing quickly.  “ ...Opposite of 'em, in any case. ”  // @eideslanze

[ulircursed]

as the dead

     While the building looked intact, it seemed safer to stay in the open clearing where vision was unhindered, and Andrei made his way along the stone markers, attempting to read the inscriptions for more information. While he could make out what looked like names on some of them, they were in an unfamiliar language. Something native to this continent, or...? Truthfully, Andrei hadn’t given much thought to the differing language systems between the realms, as most he had met in the monastery seemed to have no trouble with communication.

     As he reached the end of the scattered stones, one in particular caught his eye, further away from the rest and looking just as worn, but even from a distance something seemed different. Striding forward for a closer look, he could see that the foliage looked newer than in the other areas. Perhaps it had been disturbed recently? He briefly considered stepping into the area, but hesitated. It might very well be a trap. He turned back to the few who were in the area near him. “The earth in front of that marker looks different from the rest,” he indicated the place he was referring to, “But it seems unwise to step too close. If anyone has a weapon with longer range, it might be less dangerous to check from a distance.”

@making-dough @aubins @hawkkingseyes @eideslanze

[theindigoflirt]

Speculative Fiction

> starter for @raikuroji

A machine that connects to other worlds. 

Different histories. 

It’s with this thought circling around his head he enters the city. Eerie silence only amplifies the implications of Aeschylus’ oh so casually dropped revelation. Inigo doesn’t blame the part of their group who opted to find their own way into the city—he wishes them luck wherever they are. (Hopefully they’ll find an escape route. The ease at which they entered the city pricks at his nerves.) 

Dancer barely notices the nondescript figures walking with their heads down on the opposite side of the street. This machine…time travel without a dragon? Or is it something else entirely? 

The good part of him, the one that only wants to make sure people never grow up the way he did, wants to destroy the machine. If it falls into the wrong hands, who knows what kind of destruction can be wrought? 

Selfishly, he wants to know. A time, a place, a world without Grima. The carriage would have made it home to Ferox without incident. He would have cried because he missed his friends, begged to go back for just one more day. 

He could have been a Champion, or a famous dancer, or, or, or. 

One gloved hand sweeps pink bangs away from his face. Of course he’s wondered what life would look like had his entire childhood been different. Spent countless hours on the empty marches between wastelands imagining it, and it rarely brought any comfort. 

Shiro walks a few feet away, face cloudy. Inigo falls in step with him, extra aware of keeping his footfalls light in this strange place. “These lights are starting to give me a headache,” he says quietly.