#viridescent lance

[carefreemonk]

[ HOSHIDO ] - A synchronized dance that must be done by two people. To a slow and gentle melody, the pair moves with fluid purpose, evoking the image of a crane in flight.

Forsyth is not certain how he ended up in this situation, but there is no easy way out of it now. He enjoys dancing, socializing with partygoers and partaking in ball pleasantries.

This current situation, though, is anything but pleasant.

It's not unusual for partners to be swapped after and even during dances. It's a fun experience, usually, being able to meet new people or enrich acquaintanceships, but Forsyth is well-acquainted with this new partner. And he would rather not deepen that connection.

Azama is almost impossible to read at the best of times, but Forsyth can only imagine he is delighted to have him in position. Leading a dance, Forsyth at his mercy. He could detach, seek a different partner, but that would be backing down. Forsyth will not back down.

"How has the ball been treating you so far?" Azama seems experienced in this dance, a further detriment to Forsyth. But he's improved his dancing skills over the years, and he puts one confident foot after the other. If he kicks Azama's a little, throwing him off his rhythm, well. Things happen.

“It’s been treating me just fine, thank you for asking.”

As Azama speaks, he breathes.

‘Of course he breathes,’ you find yourself saying. He’s alive. It is only natural he draw breath. But it is noted here because it is important:

Just moments prior to being roped into this dance, this opportune moment with this most opportune foe,

Azama had fallen victim to a tricksy little scam,

and, well, it’s not his fault if this dance from his homeland had just so happened to need another participant just as he’d swung by and noticed a particular green fellow in need of a partner… before he could go find something to wash his mouth of the taste (and the smell)… He’s nice like that, yes?

A kick hits his boot, and Azama puffs out a breath in feigned hurt - just a little ‘pahh-’ of surprise. Revenge served immediately.

“I hope the ball has been treating you well, also.”

A beat.

“Have you seen our mutual friend in blue anywhere? I had something to ask him.”

He’d make small talk for as long as the dance lasted,

kicks be damned.

[verseandrhyme]

♡

○○○○○ | ATTRACTION ○○○○○ | AFFECTION ●○○○○ | INTEREST ○○○○○ | LOYALTY ●○○○○ | TRUST

"He certainly is...keen on matters that concern my father. Worryingly so. He is not the first to complain to me of him, nor do I think he will be the last. You think these people would have some tact when approaching a girl about her father. Still, I understand his frustrations. Whatever that situation is, however, I would like to not be a part of it."

[nagaficat]

"Lady Deirdre, forgive me for intruding, but are you quite alright?" Running into his friend is always a pleasure, but that streak seems to be broken as the gloom and sadness hanging over her presence is anything but. Still, he is grateful he can be here for her, as a friend. "You need not tell me anything you would not like, but...I worry, seeing you like this. If there is anything I can do, say the word."

It's almost a retelling of their original meeting, sitting together in a field of flowers. But Deirdre's face is one of heartbreak, not joy. Sigurd had just arrived home, and her other husband, Arvis, is teaching at Garreg Mach as well. She should be happy; had some manner of conflict soured their reunion? It is fruitless to wonder, and best to listen, but he cannot help his curiosity.

Sigurd's return has brought with it complications Deirdre could never have expected. It was not the happy reunion she had anticipated and she is left broken and unwanted. She's had to cancel her classes multiple times because she does not want her students to have to see her with puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. Even Lord Arvis's arms have not been enough to comfort her.

It does not surprise her that Forsyth notices her sorrow when he runs into her.

"I am not alright," she admits and a lump forms in her throat, threatening to choke her. "Lord Sigurd he...I do not think he loves me anymore. And our friends despise me. I do not know what to do. I do not know how I am supposed to continue to live my life each day knowing that I love him but watching him avoid me."

Tears well up in her eyes and she thrusts herself forward into her friend. The one friend she has trusted with the truth of her son. He is a kindred spirit, someone who also seeks out the good in everyone. It means so much that she still has him.

[redmessenger]

not even jupiter can find a lost opportunity

@viridescent-lance witch's accord round 1!

Lukas has no intention to be soft to Forsyth. Within this game his friend is simply another player, in this round a direct opponent that can spell his undoing as much as anyone else. For now, though, he greets his old ally like any other time, with a warm smile and a clap on the shoulder. "How fortunate we are to find each other here."

Forsyth is a known quantity compared to many of the other people in this game. Lukas is fairly confident his friend will decide to Ally, but whether he'd be willing to lie to win... "What are you thinking for this round?" he asks curiously.

[lordleonster]

"Hail and well met, Sir Quan!" Forsyth has heard the man is Leif's father, and thus Altena's as well? He must be an honorable man, to be Lady Ethlyn's husband and have raised such fine children. And he extended an offer to teach Forsyth about the Jugdralian history that has inspired this tournament! "It is good to see you."

"I heard from your son, Lord Leif, that you were interested in relaying history from your homeland to me?" Forsyth nods, motioning for Quan to take the seat beside him. He's prepared pen and paper for taking notes, and two cups of tea. This first impression shall go swimmingly! "I would be more than willing to listen, if that is your desire!"

"Well met, Sir Forsyth the True!" He meets the man's vigor in full— a stern, reassured smile adorning his face. Quan raises his chin to acknowledge him, much like a brother-in-arms. Something about his brow suggests familiarity, though he hails from a different country than Thracia. "However far we go in this competition, I promise to be at your side." The gravity of a promise is present, for Quan valued the cooperative measures his son had implemented for the upcoming battles. And, really, he had been waiting for an opportunity to duel, again, after all this time. It was the best way to get his blood roaring, and the best way to judge if he was still in good condition to serve his people back home.

"Indeed! I had written you quite the passage, though I hear the same goes for you. Miss Sara informed me of your eagerness. I suppose we both talked at length, hm?" The amusement staggers forth from this dark brown irises, sizing the man up. Forsyth's energy was quite contagious, wasn't it? "You remind me of a number of friends, back home." Present-tense. He had a peculiar feeling that they would be joining him, in this strange purgatory of an academy. "My son must have given you a summary of the whole situation, but..." He eyes the cups of tea and acquiesces, brandishing a proud grin to manifest the honor and sorrow of his nation.

"Since you are so inclined," He gestures to the recliners in the lounge, priming him for a long, fascinating story ahead. "After you."

[hresvelged]

If she wasn't in the middle of a battle, perhaps she would whip out her Hubert impression. Alas, she decides to settle with a simple laugh: "Heh. You are free to run it by him if you wish, but I can't promise what he might say." She, too, attempts a joke. Even if it falls flat, she pays it no mind.

Edelgard 2.5/5HP critically hits Shez (F) 3.5/5HP [Roll: 20] [1.5*2=3] Shez (F) 0.5/5HP

Shez is strong— Skilled, causing the Imperial Princess to find herself at the end of the sword. It is for this reason she cannot hold back. She quietly winces and shuffles it under the metaphorical rug. "I've enjoyed this fight. For now, though, I should like to see this one concluded."

Raising the sword high, she takes a strong swing in her direction. At its conclusion, she swipes blades of grass before retracting it back to her person.

It goes without saying— Fight with me again. I await it.

— End

birdbrains say what? ...wait, what?

boel round 1 battle 12 : black eagles vs golden deer

[carefreemonk]

It's Azama's birthday, and Forsyth would simply be remiss not to get the monk something.

His choices are thoughtful, in that he put quite a lot of thought into them. Azama seems an unflappable individual, and certainly thinks himself as such, but no human is without weakness. Through careful observation, Forsyth has discerned some appropriate gifts.

First of all is a clock. It is plain and simple, as not to prompt a rejection for being too worldly. However, it has a hidden flaw; after a bit of time, it will start ticking just loudly enough to be annoying. One can try and fix it, but it will always revert.

Second is a strangely-shaped wrapped gift that contains what the artisan described as "sensory slime." Forsyth had shuddered at the texture, it being far, well, slimier than it looked. Within it lies a fair amount of glitter that Forsyth had a time fully removing from himself just from a brief poke--when Azama tears it open, surely it will be a surprise that sticks.

Finally, he has prepared a batch of cookies that seems nice enough, but one or two have a secret ingredient--the herb cilantro, which Forsyth has witnessed Azama avoid on multiple occasions.

He doubts Azama will well and true trust something from him directly, so he leaves the three in his room, hoping each seems like it is from a different person. Such duplicity should be beneath him, but he is simply approaching the monk on the his own level.

That's what he tells himself, anyway.

To further chase away suspicion, he delivers to Azama himself a fairly plain gift, a small candle that smells rather intensely of lavender.

"Happy birthday," he lies. It's a perfunctory gift, clearly bought and given out of obligation. "Men of the cloth appreciate calm, yes?"

It's just too bad he won't be able to see Azama's immediate reaction to the rest of his generosity.

(He shouldn't have guilt eating at him, but maybe the stomachache he can't shake is anxiety about the amount of money he spent on this. Grudges are expensive...)

“Calm, yes,” Azama replies, brow arched. Why now, isn’t this a strange turn of events? A birthday gift for an annoying rival? There’s no way that isn’t suspicious any. “… You needn’t go through the trouble!” Nonetheless, the monk bows in an appreciation as obligatory as the giving of the gift itself. (He resists the urge to twitch. Whatever chandler fashioned this obnoxiously perfumed thing ought to be—)

“Truly. I mean it. Ah, but… Thank you.” 

Now go away. Hopefully Forsyth gets the hint as Azama turns away to focus on a very important speck on the wall nearest to him. Hmm… But…

“Oh! Wait! Just a moment, if you will.”

The monk clasps one of Forsyth’s hands - no escape, friend, it's Azama's birthday so you have to be nice - and from a pouch, Azama fishes out a small crystal. He tucks it into Forsyth's palm. “Amethyst! To ward off negativity. Your soul is looker a bit darker than usual lately.”

(This is complete fabrication of course.) (… probably.)

Azama flashes his teeth before turning on his heels and walking away. ◇ ◇ ◇

It’s been an interesting day. Such thought lingers as the monk flops into bed near the end of the day. But it has not escaped his notice that his room, spartan as it typically is, has changed. Those weren’t there before.

Well. It’s been a decent day. He trusts enough in the gods to let it end on a good note. And so: 

...He immediately does not like the slime.

From the glitter to the texture, the monk pulls a face. Even the act of putting it aside is not so simple - instead, it proves something of a painstaking endeavour, to the point where Azama mutters a cantrip that freezes the stuff solid.

He still has to contend with remnants of glitter after the fact.

For weeks after the fact, even.

Evil.

Evil.

...The cookies are perhaps the worst of the gifts.

What manner of monster would do such a thing??

What a waste of food.

Even at a sniff, they are dubious at best, but being a creature of curiosity, the monk naturally chances a nibble.

Terrible. Awful. If Azama could exorcize them and their maker, he would.

He is nevertheless half tempted to try.

And as for the clock… the clock’s days are soon numbered - soon, as in, as of the very first night it puts on its obnoxious performance. Given there are no named gifters, and bearing in mind the nature of the other so-called presents (aaand most importantly: Azama can’t really think of many people who would bother with presents for him of all people), the monk feels little remorse in getting rid of it.

Chuckling to himself, Azama later regifts it to Python, (almost alongside a couple of cookies, though he resists). It’d fit in nicely with his room, the monk cheerfully offers. (Maybe the archer, deft with his hands, will actually be able to fix it. Who knows! Not Azama’s problem any longer. What does a monk needs with keeping time, anyhow? He’ll go where the fates direct him, thanks much.)

…

Begs the question though: who would go through the trouble?

It’s not like Azama ever has a dearth of enemies wherever he goes, but, like, hasn’t he been on his best behaviour here at the monastery??

What has he done to deserve this?

Sigh.

May the gods see fit to punish the bastard, he curses softly as he crawls into bed, nevertheless content (if a titch disgruntled).

(He knows that’s not really how it works. Whatever. He’s the holy man here, not you.)

[carefreemonk]

☆ e-erm... (nw if it's too late to do this i just did not see it in its initial glory lol)

[ azama steps up to the mic ]

...

...

Must I...?

... Fine then.

He's everything you could want in a knight! Stubborn, uptight, dashing, and oh so loyal. The sort who's easy to tease - almost too easy, if you ask me.

But he does seem possessed of a virtuous heart - the sort that many a god look favourably upon. Maybe that's why he's so lucky...

ahem. That should be enough, yes?

(Not in the habit of rooting for competition, sorry not sorry.)

[ulircursed]

♡ um.

Send ♡ to see what my muse thinks of yours

○○○○○ | ATTRACTION ○○○○○ | AFFECTION ○○○○○ | INTEREST ○○○○○ | LOYALTY ○○○○○ | TRUST

"In the end, it was merely some crime of passion, ultimately meaningless. He knows nothing of Yngvi, nothing of Holy Blood. It is the height of foolishness for me to continue allowing this to chafe at me, I know, but...

He still attacked her.

I will not ever be able to look upon him without remembering that."

[deliverred]

Lukas had approached Forsyth for a rematch, as, even though it was a silly game, he wanted to at least put up more of a challenge than his first try. His friend had put forth his best effort, and he wanted to try and match that as much as he could -- if not in intensity, then determination.

So, with another biscuit between them, another round was had.

Much like before, Forsyth was focused and unflinching, but this time, Lukas wasn't allowing himself to get caught up in the silliness of the game itself. The goal was to reach the middle of the biscuit before the other person did, and outside of the slight awkwardness of it all, it wasn't a difficult task to accomplish. They were both making steady progress, neither of them willing to back off.

Even as they got closer; an unplanned bump of noses, the slight brush of lips before the inevitable of meeting in the middle forced them into a more or less proper kiss.

If you didn't count the cookie and the chewing, that is...

It didn't last long, but it was warm and nice. It really wasn't all that special on the face of it, hardly unlike any kiss Lukas had initiated or received before once he was old enough to understand and seek out such affections. But...there was a difference to it that he could not name, and before he had much time to muse on the stirring sensation that tugged at him with the easily broken gossamer of a spider's silk, Forsyth is pulling away sharply.

Lukas blinks at the sudden motion, brow furrowing faintly in confusion at the...stress and discomfort that roll off of Forsyth in waves. His breathing is erratic and his eyes wide, like a prey animal cornered.

This had not happened the first time. Why did he seem bothered now? Was it because of the different result? Had he pushed a boundary...?

Lukas swallows, taking a deliberate step back from Forsyth as he seems to flounder for a moment to compose himself. He can give the other man space, but...Forsyth is avoiding his gaze now and Lukas smiles against the cold drop in his gut.

This was supposed to be something fun. He hadn't meant to make the other man uncomfortable.

"...Of course. Forgive me for interrupting your duties, Forsyth," he says, accepting the rushed excuse the knight was offering him, expression unchanged as Forsyth...leaves. It was abrupt and unusual, but certainly not an outright lie -- he didn't think the other man was really capable of lying.

Lukas remains standing there for some time, eyes looking through the space Forsyth had just been and hands clenched too tight behind his back.

The smile is gone, replaced with an empty mask.

In the next breath, he's turned on his heel and left in the opposite direction.

🍪

[ rolls: 5+5 😳 ]

After their first attempt, Forsyth's been thinking a lot about the results of his pocky game with Lukas. The exhilaration of a close match against a friend, condensed into a sweet treat--it's nice, when done with someone you like and trust. So when Lukas approaches him for a rematch, what else could he do but accept?

Lukas is more intense this time, determined. His cool red eyes focus in, getting closer and closer. Forsyth is just as ready, making his way down the biscuit, steady and paced. His breath hitches a little at the bump of Lukas's nose against his, but he stays strong, continuing his path.

(Something stirs in the back of his memory, an uncomfortable, thrilling prickle. He pushes it away.)

He should not be surprised when their lips get so close they brush slightly. This is his last chance to pull away. Lukas's, too.

(Clumsy, drunken stumbling in the wake of that terrible lonely time. Tear-stained cheeks caressed, red-rimmed eyes soothed with a damp cloth. A kind gaze, one you could fall into. How could he not want to...?)

Their lips meet, neither willing to back down. Forsyth's heart skips a beat, the cloying sweetness of chocolate mixing between their mouths, and he cannot deny the desire in the moment to stay.

It's exactly why he has to pull away, breathing heavily and swallowing down the biscuit that he hasn't. He can't--he--Lukas is his friend, his dear and close friend who he trusts with his whole heart. He cannot jeopardize that for an impulsive desire.

"I..." If his heart could just stop hammering, if he could return his breath to normal and step back from the charged situation that resulted in this reaction. Surely Lukas will not fault him for this result, at least. The point of the game is to create such tension, a thinly-veiled, juvenile tradition to fish for closeness with crushes. "…it seems we have ended this at an impasse."

(Then why was he so eager to do it with Lukas?)

"I...should go attend to my duties." It's a flimsy excuse, but he can hardly stand to look at Lukas now, especially not the flecks of chocolate and crumbs surrounding his mouth. Which of them were originally in Forsyth's mouth? "The students are getting into an abundance of trouble today, given, well. You know. So, I should get to my patrol."

He briskly walks away, no particular direction in mind. He feels guilt weigh down the giddiness in his stomach like lead. Oh, he must tell Python about this...

[bxldrsdraumar]

"Lord Sigurd!" Many things have occurred since the man left for his hunt, the least of which being his wife's other husband (and perhaps his husband? he's not sure of their arrangement) arriving to teach at the monastery. Quan and Eldigan, two of Sigurd's best friends from what Forsyth has gathered, have also found themselves at Garreg Mach. Deirdre's words of miracles swirl in Forsyth's brain thinking about it, and he wonders how Sigurd has reacted to all of this. Even in joy, it must be overwhelming. "It is good to see you again! How was the hunt?"

As he offers his hand, something feels...off. Maybe it's his imagination, but this isn't quite the spirits he'd imagined his friend to be in. Perhaps he is overwhelmed?

Sigurd did not know how long he'd been standing before the training dummy before he heard the voice calling his name. He recalled, vaguely, getting up that morning (the one before? they were...a blur), he recalled spending time in the mess (though for what meal, or what he ate, also a blur), and he recalled plucking the training sword from the racks along the walls.

The rest was mere wind, passing about and through him as the world moved on.

He pressed his hand to the dummy's front, tipping forward a bit until his forehead near touched what might be called its shoulder before he heard his name, a soft rumble at first, then sharper with more clarity as the veil in his mind lifted.

As he rose, he felt two drops against his thumb. His brow furrowed - he did not recall hearing that it would rain today.

"Sir Forsyth," he replied, the hand dragging from the dummy's chest, a mite sluggish, to grasp the hand extended. "The hunt went well, I thank you. We are truly blessed by your goddess - or. Not yours." He shook his head. "Apologies. The goddess of Fodlan. May we dine well until the thaw."

[making-dough]

🐺- A memory about being alone

memories meme - very closed. very late. just remembered i still have a pile of these, ahaha~ thanks for the ask!

♠ - A frustrated footfall stomped down heavily, muffled against the snow below. A loud, angry, frustrated stomp that only expressed a fraction of how mad she was right now. How long? Exactly how long had Fiora been keeping all of this to herself? How long has her sister been paying for her mistakes?

Really, it was her mistake in the first place. Her stupid dare that had resulted in her squad of trainees flying into that storm in the first place. So, why the hell was her big sister, who didn't have a single thing to do with that dumb dare in the first place, the one who was saddled with all that debt? Just for saving her life?

And she'd thinking things were leaner than usual lately. That Fi had been away more often than usual lately. Of course, they were. Of course, she was. The hell have those nobles gotten her sister doing?! And, of course, like a stubborn idiot, she refuses to take help from anybody. Which was what led to their fight.

Fine. Be that way. Even if Fi disagrees, she'll find a way to gather that much coin, anyway. Even if she has to do it on her own, because, uh, she might have said a little too much. It might be best to let things cool down for a bit.

Farina marched her way over to her pegasus, still fuming with anger and newfound determination. She'll get that gold, even if she had lie, cheat and steal her way to get it. But, right now, only one thing was true of her most of all. "Looks like it's just you and me now, Murph."

[valflaame]

Forsyth takes a deep breath, rehearsing the plan once more as he loiters on his "patrol." Truth be told, he doesn't have any defined duties right now, and his little break just so happens to coincide with the end of Lord Arvis's last class today.

He doesn't know if this is a good idea. His rational brain warns him of making things worse, but the fierce loyalty and worry he has for Deirdre far out-negotiate the risks. He's not entirely devoid of strategy, though; while he would love to outright confront Arvis about his dastardly actions, that will simply land him further from where he wants to be.

Thus, the plan.

"Ah, Lord Arvis, yes? I am Sir Forsyth the True of Valentia." Yes, good. Keep the smile, keep it pleasant. It burns Forsyth, to have to remain cordial with a man he so suspects of malicious deeds, but he is no stranger to such a scenario. "I am friends with your wife. I've heard much about you, and she's wanted me to meet you for some time."

He does not expect to see anyone after class. He has a plan of action -- a set list of work that he would like to finish before nightfall, and still have time to enjoy a moment or two with a book before bed. He's not entirely upset by the idea of someone interrupting this routine, but he does show surprise on his face as he's approached.

Surprise, and perhaps a little bit of irritation. It's been a long day.

"Sir Forsyth," he says, collects himself and stands up a little more. He offers the knight a smile -- simple and polite, but nothing more. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

He offers a hand to shake, and considers his words. "Excellent. A friend of my Deirdre? Then you will of course accept an invitation to tea."

[deliverred]

Lukas nods an affirmative when the other boy says his name, blessedly speaking quietly now. He begins to turn back around to continue their stealth mission, but is stopped when Forsyth swaps the position of their hands and repeats the process of spelling something out into his palm.

The redheaded boy stares down at the letters being invisibly etched into his skin, wariness surging back in his mind...but also, the tentative hope that this wasn't some sort of trick. That Forsyth truly meant it, that he wanted to be...friends. He eventually brought his gaze up to the other's smiling face, searching those eyes and smile for any hint of falseness and only being meet with somewhat baffling openheartedness.

Lukas had deemed Forsyth a bad liar just a moment ago, so...perhaps...he was being honest here. Perhaps, he could be allowed one friend.

After a frankly uncomfortable amount of silent staring, Lukas pulls his thoughts back to their goal. It wouldn't do to get so close, only to be caught here. So, keeping a firm hold of Forsyth's hand, he turns back to lead them quietly down the hall; with a careful press of his free hand against the cool wood, the luckily unlocked door swings open with barely a creak to it and just enough room for them to squeeze inside before closing it behind them.

With a faint huff of triumph, Lukas makes a muted but still sweeping gesture with his hand at the stockpile of weapons for his new friend to choose from. Red eyes quickly dart from the weapons to the other boy, his expression unchanged but a slight flutter of anxiety creeping into his gut.

Would Forsyth still want to be friends, now that he'd gotten what he wants?

In a Different Life

Anniversary 2024 +1 Any

[aimlessarchery]

For the first time in the two decades Forsyth has known him, he almost forgets Python's birthday.

It's an easy thing to do, in the context of it all. He's working himself to the bone trying to restore Garreg Mach, and collapsing in bed next to Python when he's not. He's keeping his mind occupied, tending to Python's healing wounds (not fatal, not fatal, not anymore) and talking, talking. Hearing Python's voice in return is a miracle.

He's hauling lumber when he realizes it, still rather early in the morning all things considered. He finishes what he can, and races back to their temporary quarters. He's struck by the thought that he should have something for Python's birthday, but he can't justify taking something from their meager food stores, and there's not much else available.

"Python...happy birthday." Forsyth arrives, sweaty and out of breath, and engulfs Python in an apologetic hug. "I'm sorry. With everything that's been happening, it slipped my mind...I know it is no excuse. And I don't even have anything. But. I..."

He holds him tighter. He's here, safe. Forsyth is unable to stop tears from flowing, but that's less significant, as of late.

"When all of this is done. When things are rebuilt...I'll make it up. I promise."

The automatic groan in Python's throat as he's dragged back to the waking world stops short once he feels Forsyth's arms squeezing his ribs. Sleep isn't the same comfort it used to be after his world went dark for good. The sun from the window is too bright, Forsyth has yanked him half-upright and is squeezing him too tightly, but the discomfort means he's still here with him. He sighs and drops his head against Forsyth's shoulder. "I didn't remember either. Forget making anything up to me." Python has never especially cared about traditions or special days, even less so if they're supposed to be about celebrating himself. It was easiest just to roll along with whatever Forsyth insisted upon. Fingers curled into the back of his best friend's shirt, Python decides to request a specific gift for once. "Just…stay in with me for the rest of the morning, would ya?"

[peerlessscowl]

"You fought valiantly, Raymond! It is an honor to serve alongside you." Forsyth offers his hand, attempting to hide signs of his own wear-and-tear. He can take care of himself, and the student does not need to be distracted or feel as if he must protect Forsyth. "I must ask, where did you learn such techniques? Your skill rivals even accomplished knights I've had the pleasure of training with."

Raven stared at the extended hand for a moment, somewhat dubious. He couldn't pretend there was much honor to be had in this farce - an opportunity to let off steam at best, some weird manipulative bullshit at worst - but if there were, he supposed, then it would be coming from Sir Forsyth, wouldn't it?

He'd interacted with the knight but little, but he already felt like he had the cut of his jib - eager, earnest, head full of fairytales, as though knighthood was the pinnacle to aspire to and not something most men used to take advantage of those around them. Naive, but...kind.

After a moment's consideration, he took the hand, shaking once firmly, before simply saying, "Out and about. You learn things, living my sort of life."

A beat. Then; "...You need to get yourself looked at. You took a few hits."