unmasqued

[unmasqued]

Perfectionist’s Dreary

A new archery competition is being held in the training grounds, but there’s a twist: the worst shot wins. That’s right, this is a contest to see who can miss their target the best. Judges will be evaluating performances under three criteria: creativity, (lack of) accuracy, and technique. Do your worst, sharpshooters of Garreg Mach! [Grants Bow +1]

          “.................................They must be beyond help.” Gerome’s teeth bit down on more irascible criticisms, in the same manner one would bite down on a knife to snuff out a scream. He is of the opinion that a wretched idea has no bearing on the world, but could he have imagined that the daft would begin to string their empty heads on baubles and banners? Gerome had no sense of up or down for this competition—could you truly prove your meddle by virtue of incompetency? The moment the head-runners caught wind that his disinterest still managed to anchor him to the spot, they pressed a bow into his hands and ushered him beside a young man that may as well have caught him by the ankle and drowned him.

          Unknown to Prince Leif, he had made a comfortable seat of gossip to any noble with half the mind to entreat foreign royalty. But what had caught Gerome’s discerning eye was his passing times on the training grounds. While he dared not compare Leif to Lucina, there was a vigor to the both of them that elicited a deserved level of respect. Though Leif could not catch his eyes, it was fairly obvious that the mask was trained directly on him. “Did they lure you in as well?”

“Hello one and all! If I have your attention, the Dunsworth Archery Competition is about to begin! The judges will be evaluating you on just how poorly you can miss your shot! Your creativity, lack of accuracy, and technique all come into play—We’ll be watching CARE-FULL-Y! You may begin!”

         “...” He eyed Minerva, who had been hovering a couple hundred feet above them. No get away call this time. For now, he supposed he’d like to see just how creative his adversary would be in the face of idiocy. “Gerome.” No need to frill up his introduction. 

”May this not be the last time we cross.” 

@diadic

How the Game Works!

Creativity: 1d4 -> the higher the better you perform

Lack of Accuracy: 1d4  -> the higher the better you perform

Technique: 1d4  -> the higher the better you perform

First one to 55 Points Loses (If it takes too long or ends too quickly we can add bonus rounds!)

[unmasqued]

˚ · . OCEAN’S 11 / lucina, cynthia, laslow, gerome & odin

teneguine​:

“Gh–Hey! Give that back!”

Hands swipe for Owain’s stolen stolen-property, but come up empty. The rapid storm that is Gerome is just too quick for him, ‘legendary reflexes’ be damned. The blonde is so hung up on having the mask lifted from his face that, for a second there, it completely flies over his head that it was an old friend who did so.

But like all things, that second of idleness comes to an end. 

Realization shocks his face to life, the light of an old friend blitzing in doom-colored eyes. “Halt! Gerome? The Masked Rider, Stalker of the Night and Lord of All Things Unholy?” Yes Owain, that Gerome. The one and only, really, as can be seen from his… unique, mannerisms. Flush with stumped rage his face may be, he can’t deny the elation that bubbles up from seeing his face (or in this case, the back of his head). He opens his mouth to speak, puts forward his hand to offer as a sign of camaraderie (maybe he could join them on their quest?), but Cynthia is the faster of the two. Like a leopard in the hunt, she gets the jump on him. Owain barely has time to register what she’s doing, before she’s gone and done it.

And now he has to run.

Good thing traveling across, what, four different worlds (Ylisse, Nohr, The Book, and now Fodlan) is a good way of getting your cardio in. Owain just books it when he’s told, making his mad dash across the ballroom. He’s a sucker, though, and can’t help himself from looking back. Poor Gerome. Every unattended woman–most of them not even single–starts to close in on him like a fifty-man flank. They’re really taking the bait, somehow managing to come in from all sides to–hang on are they still runnin–WHAM! Chosen One forgot to choose to look in front of him as he sprints, as he not only catches up with Cynthia, but out-speeds and collides with her. His face meets the back of her head, making an even bigger mess of her hairdo, and quite the scene to go with it. 

Owain recoils, takes a few steps back, and falls right on his ass when his head starts to pound. The pain is temporary and starting to subside, but what doesn’t are the stares of their immediate crowd. Owain and Cynthia look like fools to the public eye! 

But perhaps that’s not a bad thing.

They look like fools together, and so, at the very least, they look like a couple. Some kind of weird, eccentric couple. Better for their cover. Anyways, with Owain’s hand finally rubbing the hurt out of his head, he sits up to give himself a good shake. It is now that he takes his look around the room, and addresses what Barbarian Queen was talking about earlier.

“Hmm… You have a point. About this party, I mean. It’s not… Fun.” small pause here for him to stand and brush himself off, “There’s nothing to do! No grand heroes flaunting their might, no fearsome foes to swashbuckle off a stage, no giant cake that explodes into a thousand tiny pieces when a trio of dancers burst from it…” So yeah, nothing. Because if a party doesn’t have any of that, it isn’t a good one in his eyes. 

But what it does have is Lucina and Laslow, and they’re what’s important here. Now that Owain has managed to scramble back to his feet, he shimmies on over to the refreshment stand to grab a pair of flutes for himself. (Not so) discreetly, he then tiptoes to a nearby plant, and waters it with about half a quart of champagne. Finally does he have a pair of makeshift binoculars, which he uses to scope out the area until he finds them.

And yes, he twists them when he does, pretending that would somehow make them zoom in.

“But hold! I see them again… And I think they’re just stepping on each other’s feet.” 

@unmasqued​

“I can hear you, you know.” Gerome hissed, hard-bitten by years of her incessant yammering. His only friends are Minerva and the rest of their hodgepodge group of future goers? From the way Cynthia was talking, she was already in danger of excluding herself from the equation. The flurry of emotions that flashed upon her face was almost like a moving picture, comically showcasing her confusing heart-on-her-sleeve, as always. No matter. He visibly chose to ignore her and Owain’s outcry, attempting to map out what Lucina was thinking, lending this dear possession to her rambunctious cousin. (From his predictions, he could only assume that she didn’t even know it was gone.) Shooting daggers over to their well-suited companion, he flicked the mask between his fingers like an ace up his sleeve. “Owain, does Lucina know you have this?”

He does not get his answer. He isn’t even allowed a moment of respite, for the instant he chose to dash right between their tangled lines marked the death of his peace. And he flinches. It’s not by the way the light catches on his liquid-ruby irises. And it’s certainly not by the fact that he could measure the width between his fresh face and the two of theirs (close enough to almost catch their breaths.) It’s because he knew damn well what she what hell she wrought upon him, and worse still, that he was prepared to spare his old friends in exchange for his own sorry arse.

“CYNTHIA. WHEN I CATCH YOU I SWEAR—”

The women were coming. The women were coming. The women were coming. The gravity shifted as Cynthia and Owain crossed the ballroom, cutting away from him. Shit. The candle light cased them in brilliant warmth, softening her rainbow skirts and his long, billowing cape—away and away and away. Gerome hastily put on Lucina’s mask, ill-suited for his tall nose and cross features, but it was much too late for him. He may as well have flung his body into a glass castle, because everything had shattered the moment Cynthia made away with his mask. 

The woman with the dewdrop crystals glued to her eyelashes was no where in sight. But in her place came heavy wafts of perfumes and long gloved women who were hurriedly making their way to his unfortunate center stage. Their boughs of feathers were bobbing off their head pieces and their long jewelry clattered against their collar bones. He began to walk briskly to the next flight of stairs, dodging a long, silk glove that was thrown in his direction. His mother would kill him if he acted indecently to a woman, but what would he tell her if they were the ones who started it?

Pressing his gloved hands against the railing, he contemplated his life thus so far. Ensured Lucina’s vision of the future? Check. Collaborated with his mother’s younger self in spite of everything? Check. Vanished without a trace for a year? Check. Either he took this next feat like a man or made himself scarce to live another day. Glancing over his shoulder, several overtly playful women clicked their heels and made haste to his side. Right. Easy choice. Craven’s path it is. He pushed himself over the railing and leapt, mantled cape thrusted up in his swift descent. 

...Right onto the floor that Lucina and Inigo had been trouncing about. He had already been made into the center of attention, so a leap like that couldn’t make it any worse than it already was. Strolling curtly into their dance, he harshly landed the worst greeting across three futures. 

“...For the love of Naga, or whomever else is listening, cover me.” 

@exclted​

[unmasqued]

Ariadne’s Devotion { Katarina & Gerome

ephemeralove​:​

“I am what you’ve made me.”

Words spoken aloud from the mouth of the audience to an absent author. By the reckoning of every terrified villager who had begged the church for help only to pass its people by, they were a warning; Katarina, however, could not shake the uneasy feeling of something other, something else. Though it was Gerome whose hands traced the letters carved into the stone, the mage’s gray gaze lingered with such full-hearted thoughtfulness that she could very nearly feel the lines upon her fingertips, like the cut of a knife. Like flame lapping at skin, trickling over a palm splayed. 

“Ah…” Her attention tore away from the worn message with little grace, snagging on corners and interest as keen eyes separated scale from verdure. “Yes… I see her.” The wyvern’s name rested heavily upon her tongue, too clumsy with the crown of another for her to utter so simply just yet; instead, she kept her silence, offering a small smile and littler wave to their mournful guardian from the other side, the underside of the treetops. Surely, the wyrm worried for her human even as she kept her vigil… they would have to return quickly, then, to put her mind at rest. 

“Yes.” The promise made to a stranger’s beloved passed unsaid, silent as a seed in the soil. Instead, Katarina only offered a quiet word of confirmation as she followed after him, hieing to his side as they entered the den of Naxos’ great woe. 

–then they were on the ground, the wind howling at their backs and the vines hissing at their sides, all parties save their own rushing unnaturally in the newly-fallen dark. Only two sounds cut through the wicked susur: her own gasp, and a fiercely spat curse. Loud as it was (and startling enough to make the mage flinch), the swear brought some small measure of comfort. He, at least, remained forthright where the scene around them shifted with untold secrecy. 

I am what you’ve made me. Before she had been made a knight-daughter of Altea, Katarina had been as a rat, vermin fashioned a puppet pulled by strings: repugnant, perhaps, but accustomed to scurrying ungainly in the dark. Though not with daylight clarity, she could she the way the vines and leaves twisted around them, pushing herself onto her feet. 

“Are you alright?” A hand extended, hesitantly, as she looked elsewhere into the dark. It was as a void, consuming everything the further down the hall she strained to see. Katarina turned up her palm, fingers curled slightly to form a cradle for her flame – then paused. “I, I’m going to make fire,” she announced softly. It was a necessity, to be sure– could Gerome even see in the dark at all with a mask like that?– but the sudden light warranted a warning of its own, surely. 

The firelight threw a faint warmth across what seemed to be endless cool-hued stone; even the sprigs that peered from between bricks and the vines creeping down the walls seemed a color strangely bitter. Turning her attention toward what was once an entrance behind them, Katarina drew in a sharp breath, her shrinking into her shoulders as she recoiled. 

Where the steps once descended shortly into the mouth of the cave, a mass of all manner of plant life now stood, descending from the underbelly of the overhang in an impenetrable fall of thorn and vine. Worst of all, however, was the way it continued to squirm, seeming with each passing second less like flora and somehow more like the flies that swarmed a carcass. Her stomach churned; despite the heat of magic humming softly in her veins, Katarina’s mouth hung slightly open in silence, unwilling to utter the obvious suggestion.

Swallowing thickly, she forced the words from her mouth, though not before turning her eyes back toward the less ominous, far more open, inscrutably shadowed maze awaiting them. 

“S-should we… try to burn them…?” Thick as even a single leaf appeared (she dared not touch it), this place was clearly something far beyond natural. Perhaps even these seemingly water-laden leaves would light like a pyre… or perhaps they would not burn at all.

          Gerome would not remain here a corpse— (Minerva would wait, he knows she would)— and that thought alone carried the weight of his curse beyond the entry walls. It burns. The pit in his stomach burns. Immediately, he pelted one cold slash after another, testing the bulk of their troubles below his axe blade. But neither curse nor steel would move an undying entity that willed itself a cage. What an insufferable fate—to play the faux canary. "I'm fine." The words are studded with a curt, irascible coat of thorns. "I should have been more careful."

          Giving her a glance over, whatever heat that skimmed the surface like a cold knife managed to fold over. Her voice quivered, much like Noire's. "And you?" But unlike Noire, her hands cradled a flame that glided a reflective light across his mask. It gleamed much like a polished blade, even in the low light. "Keep your nerves about you. A flame is often the fatal second between life and death. You may just be our lifeline."

          He doesn't inherently trust her. He doesn't inherently trust anyone, really. But he faulted himself for triggering whatever was rumored to slumber around these parts, and the weight of another soul being trapped beneath rubble was hardly something he wanted to keep on his conscience. What was worse was the consistent life that swathed around the walls and underwent some kind of mutant proliferation.  He followed the length of the wall, watching the long, crawling extensions pop with an occasional five-pronged ivy leaf. If they knocked on this coffin, would it knock back?

          "If you wanted to be burned alive, sure." Plucking a leaf off the wall, he wondered what their magical durability was. Gerome flicked it across her flame, almost like a wick to an open fire, and watched the leaf curl fervently until it undid itself.

          He held it up to both their faces and snuffed it between his gloved thumb and index. While she cradled light, he could only quell it. What did that make the two of them? "Still. Your magic may prove invaluable to us. Whosever curse was laid upon these chambers didn't think to make their plants invulnerable."

          Before them was an inscrutable maze, with walls of thick bushes that towered until they touched the cold canopy. There was only one way in, though it was banked at the entrance by a serene pond that bubbled from no discernible source. "...I take it back. Maybe you ought to burn a hole through a couple of walls. I'll cleave them off before we're seeing embers."           “Have you ever experienced anything like this?”

          Though his mask enshrouded any true intentions, he appeared to be receptive to her opinions after all.

@ephemeralove​

[unmasqued]

Activity Check { 10/1

{ Skill Points: } 7 → 8 !!

Axe C+ (1/2) →  C+ (2/2)

(”I cannot afford a lapse in judgement, even in times of peace.”)

Threads:

[Owed:] 

Katarina Ylisse’s Crew

[unmasqued]

Botanical Asks || Accepting !! asked by @reverenceofmacedon​ and @pirrhyc​

 His parents.

While clutching what’s left of his heart, I suppose.

His pride in his parents is sobered by grief—to such a caliber that regret seems to conduct itself in place of pride, more than not. (For having lost them at such a young age, and for having them pedestaled as heroes when all he wanted was a father and mother.) Because of that, he doesn’t show his pride and he overtly avoids talking to his parents and about his parents. Gerome acts exceedingly cold to the both of them when he arrives in their timeline, stonewalling any intimacy they offer. He acts conversely to his pride because all his admiration only serves to reveal how tender-hearted he is, and how much he isn’t willing to lose. 

Hell, the only reason he admitted he “strived to fight like [his father]” was because that line was from the Future’s Past (alternative universe DLC), wherein his parents from the main timeline go to the future to save him.  So it’s situational for him— because pride, intimacy, and vulnerability are all explicitly intertwined with loss in his eyes.

Gerome takes great pride in his childhood companions and Minerva, with the latter being far more obvious than the former. Nearly every support he has universally has him do one of two things. 1) Praise his companions. 2) Disregard any praise directed at him, personally. It might take a bit of time, but he always, always, manages to find something to praise them about, cutting right to the core of their relationship. As with Minerva... well. You know. 

As for himself, Gerome is a young man who acts with dignity, but no pride. Anything praiseworthy, derived from his own merit, is something he heeds with little concern. It’s not that he spurns himself unworthy, nor invariably perfect either. He just sees his entire being as a means to an end, and his intent was to swiftly disappear after ending the war and releasing Minerva into the past, where the wyvern population hadn’t become extinct yet. (It’s pretty clear he intended to die soon after, having unfastened his last tether to this world.) So there wasn’t and hasn’t ever been much pride to his own name, but hey, there’s still time to change that, isn’t there? 

Time is everything that his future was not, but that’s exactly what he needs.

[unmasqued]

❥     𝐁𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒    [   𝚆𝙾𝚁𝙳 𝙿𝚁𝙾𝙼𝙿𝚃𝚂    ]   .

headcanon prompts with questions based on plants   &   what they represent in flower language .  happy roleplaying !!  ♡

abatina :   is there anything in life your muse has changed their mind about over time   (   due to becoming more educated on the topic ,   certain experiences  ,   etc .   ) ,    or that they   would   change their mind about under certain circumstances ?  

acanthus :   is your muse deceptive ,   or willing to lie or deceive to achieve certain means ?   why or why not ?   

aloe :   how does your muse handle grief ?

amaryllis :   what is something or someone that your muse takes pride in ?   how do they express that pride ?   

anemone :   how does your muse view the world ;   as a cruel   &   unforgiving place ,   a land full of wonders ,   or something in - between ?  where does that world view come from   (   what experiences ,   life lessons ,   etc .   ) ?  

angelica :   where does your muse draw inspiration in life ?   what motivates them ?

apple blossom :   how does your muse go about expressing or not expressing their sexuality ?  

bachelor’s button :   does your muse actively seek romantic companionship ,   or cherish the liberties of being single ? 

basil :   does your muse have a love - hate relationship with anyone or anything ?

bay tree :   does your muse seek glory   &   accolades ,   or do they favour a simpler ,   more personal life ?  

begonia :   how cautious is your muse ?   are they prone to noticing red flags ,   or paranoid to the point of untrusting most everyone ?   why or why not ?  

belladonna :   how does your muse respond to silence ?   do they take comfort in soundlessness ,   or seek to fill the void with noise ?   

bluebell :   does your muse learn from their past ,   or are they prone to repeating the same mistakes ?  

carnation :   what is your muse’s relationship with their gender ?   how do they express or not express this relationship ?  

chamomile :   what is your muse likely to take away from a painful experience ?   are they one to be haunted by adversity ,   or to use what they’ve gone through to become stronger ?  

chrysanthemum :   how does your muse express romantic love ?  how do they feel about love as a concept ?  

daffodil :   is your muse one to be loyal in relationships ,   or are they likely to quickly move from one bond to another ?

daisy :   did your muse ever feel as though their innocence had been lost ?   what moment in their life could be described as the end of their innocence ?  

edelweiss :   what was the bravest moment in your muse’s life ?  are they known to be courageous from then on ?  

fern :   does your muse believe in magic or cosmic forces ,   or are they more likely to think their life is ultimately a matter of their own control ?  

forget - me - not :   has your muse ever forgotten something that is or was important to them ?   are they afraid of forgetting things like that ?  

gardenia :   is your muse one to confess romantic feelings early on ,   or to conceal them for long periods of time ?  

gladiolus :   describe a moment from your muse’s life that they will never forget .

goldenrod :   does your muse believe in luck or fortune ?  why or why not ?   where do they believe these things come from ?  

heliotrope :   does your muse believe in soulmates ?

hibiscus :   how does your muse view the gentler ,   daintier things in life ?   as things worth preserving   &   caring for ,   or things only bound to wither   &   disappear ?  

holly :   how strong is your muse’s sense of intuition ?  are they aware of it ?   do they ever fear that it is only paranoia ?  

hollyhock :   how strong is your muse’s sense of ambition ?  what’s something they strive for in life ?  

hyacinth :   is your muse athletic ?   does it come naturally to them ,   or have they had to work for their physique and/or skill ?  

hydrangea :   how much does your muse value communication in their relationships with others ?  are they prone to being misunderstood ?

iris :   if your muse could convey one last message to someone they have lost or left behind ,   what would it be ?  

ivy :   what are your muse’s views on marriage ?   do they believe it is something strictly for love ,   or an institution rooted in business   &   social benefits ?   do they desire or have they desired to be married ?

lavender :   how easy is it to gain your muse’s trust ?  once their trust is broken ,   how might one go about mending it ?  

lilac :   what was your muse’s childhood like ?   how has their upbringing affected them as they’ve aged ? 

lily :   how does your muse view their mother ?  

lotus :   has your muse ever felt as though they’ve been reborn ?  have they ever desired the feeling of a fresh start ,   or a better understanding of themself and/or the world around them ?  

magnolia :   describe your muse’s relationship with nature   &   the natural world .  

marigold :   is your muse prone to jealousy ?  how might they handle envious feelings ?  

mint :   does your muse view themself as virtuous   &   moral ?  what do these words mean to them ?

nasturtium :   describe your muse’s relationship with their birthplace ,   or homeland .  

oak :   who would your muse consider the strongest person they know ?  

pansy :   does your muse often reflect on their own actions ?   do they ever think a lot about the past ,   and what they could have done differently ?

parsley :   describe a holiday your muse enjoys ,   and why they enjoy it .

peony :   what would a   ‘  happy life  ’   look like in your muse’s eyes ?

poppy :   what comforts your muse ?

rhododendron :   is your muse receptive to warnings   &   advice given by others ?

rose :   how much does your muse value other people ?   do they wish to have many friends ,   lovers ,   and/or associates ?   are they an easy person to love ?

sage :   what is your muse’s legacy ?   what do they want to be remembered for   &   what might they actually be remembered for ?  

salvia :   is your muse possessive over people or things that matter a lot to them ?  how do they express that possessiveness ,   or lack thereof ? 

snapdragon :   is your muse merciful ?  why or why not ?

southernwood :   how seriously does your muse take themself ?   do they prefer a solemn   &   intellectual atmosphere or do they delight in jokes   &   banter ?  

sunflower :   what brings your muse the most joy in life ?  

tulip :   how does your muse view people in general ?  

violet :   how does your muse respond to betrayal ?

willow :   how does your muse handle sadness   &   depression ?

zinnia :   how has the loss of fallen comrades and/or loved ones affected your muse ?   has it taught them anything or given them any new perspectives ?

[unmasqued]

Ariadne’s Devotion { Katarina & Gerome

[...] As you enter the mouth of the ruins to dispel their needless fears, however, you find that these are no mere ruins. The vines close the entryway from which you came, and, looking ahead, you find that the ruins are, in fact, a huge maze. All around you, the labyrinth shifts and changes; the walls move, the plants snake and snap. You and your companion must hack and cut your way through and find a way out, lest you intend to bury yourselves in a grave that never needs to beg for flowers. [Grants Sword +1]

“I am what you’ve made me.” 

          Gerome read the engraving aloud, tracing its worn impression on the wall.  He scoffed, unimpressed, pondering upon what sort of beastly truth lay before them in these immemorial grounds. (Because only monsters blamed their creators for what they would become.) Taking up the task to investigate and clear out the verdant overgrowth invading this abandoned town— so fondly nicknamed Naxos for all its troubles— Gerome and Katarina merged with the dark. They, like the shadows hanging over them, were unlit by any stars. 

          “There. Through the crown shyness. You can see Minerva, can’t you?” The stocked trees that rose seventy feet above them had odd striations and gaps through their leaves, leaving just enough of a crack to see his dearest wyvern hovering past them. He yearned to be a-top her back, chasing infinity, but he had a mission to accomplish down at base zero. “...” I’m sure she’s worried sick. Is what he would have said, had he been the conversational type. He doesn’t bother to. 

          The villagers from neighboring towns were practically begging them to do something about this. Anything about this. Whatever ‘this’ was, it was varnished in so many fear-mongering rumors that he couldn’t make heads or tails about what the real problem was. They said it was a curse, an omen, a wish that one bitter widow had made upon a star. They said it was God’s blessing, God’s warning, God’s hand at humor. Once he had a good picture of what the problem was, he realized that these people were afraid of what they couldn’t understand. So if a single seedling was allowed to grow, was it supposed to be a warning of times to come?

          Well. It was better not to underestimate the unknown. In the dead of daylight, even an innocuous sky could mark the end of times. “...Are you coming?” 

          Normally, he would pace ahead and leave to surveil an area himself, but his gut gripped him by the lapels and warned him to steady himself. Gerome stayed rather close, waiting for her to tail behind. Just as the light tapered off and the natural overhang became a densely-carved stone roof, he began to check for traps. He pressed against the walls, seeking crevices or hidden levers, but all he was met with were tightly knit vines that snaked, over and across. To his utter shock, it felt as though the vines were alive. He jolted back, hopping away in recoil at the touch. With the vines blasting rapidly across the walls, a booming gust tossed them forward. And when the dust settled, the vines had tightly caged them in— leaving them the picture of foolishness. 

          “Damn it!!” This was no monster... it was the very burden of life, itself.

@ephemeralove​ 

[unmasqued]

GEROMEIMO!

cynthero​:

flying’s as second nature to her as breathing. being cooped up inside hasn’t ever been something that she’s gotten used to. even with all the time that she’s spent at this ding dang academy, cynthia’s always found her mind wandering even though she’s told herself on more than one occasion since her return to pay better attention and do good in school. like, really actually do good in learning this time so that she could catch up with the others. and she’s been trying! she really honest to goodness has been trying to learn, which means less flying, which means less of buttercup. she’s getting itchy. itchy for freedom!

probably for the better as far as that pegasus is concerned, though she will lovingly drop her head on top of her rider’s when she arrives, frazzled, a mess and fresh from class like a bat out of hell.

                                                               “WHOOOOOOOO!”

she yells at the top of her lungs, her arms spread out wide and her head tilted backward. pigtails flutter in the wind as buttercup sails and soars through the sky, clipping through cloud after cloud and tipping side to side as pegasus knight demands. there really isn’t anything like this! the wind in her hair, the fresh air, the bug she just ate! giggling, cynthia and buttercup spin and twirl through the air as they circle a few miles just beyond the perimeter of the monastery. 

she didn’t want to get in the way of sky patrol and she’d gotten yelled at for buttercup accidentally stomping on the face of a monk when they flew too close to the few towers. cynthia pitches forward, her hand full of rein as she lightly pats pegasus’ cheeks and smiles. “c’mon, bunny!” she spits out another bug, ignoring the distinct possibility she just hawked a loogie on someone. cynthia tugs on the leather again and buttercup, in all her endless patience, concedes as they twist and turn over upside down. it’s only halfway through the motion that she recognizes what flies just beneath: scarlet hair and a BIG ASS WYVERN.

who else would it be? ( a lot of people, as it turns out; there is no shortage of red-haired wyvern riders. ) so, cynthia relaxes. lets go of the rein, lets her boots slip out of their stirrups and falls. the wind rushes past her ears.

“GEEEEEEEEEEROOOOOOOOOOO—”

she misses.

just clips right past ol’ minerva’s mouth in fact.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

@unmasqued, is your pegasus knight running? then you better go catch her!

          To fly was to sing without words— springtime’s unrelenting gift. The skies were speckled in careless clouds, divvied up in patchwork streaks over the blue expanse. After much time in solitude, he had gathered reports on a number of his old comrades gathered in this old hot spot, and his one consolation to coming back was that the skies had been beautiful when he had left. He was the picture of indifference up until Minerva began to buffet the wind beneath her wings, taking with her, his tension. If he had to return to watch over them, at least it was under the pretense that he was free. 

          Blasting through the air at breakneck speed, his finely pressed lips pronged into a smirk. He pressed his legs smoothly into the divot of Minerva’s toned torso, commanding the very sky to bend beneath their gravity. The gales had his mantle cloak lash out from behind him, blowing his locks into a furor. Torrents were his peace— and the storm, his will.

          “Faster, Minerva!” With all the gravitas of a man on the run. Gerome directed their conjoined wills into three mid-air flips, welcoming the way his stomach felt of free-fall. Reins clasped masterfully to guide her as she guided him. This thrill was taught (it was trained into him), but now he owed his life to the chase. Breaking over the speed of tension, the winds were no longer working against them, but deluging his veins in sheer, unadulterated electricity. He was all but lightning, until a surge of brown pigtails pierced through his trance. 

                                                           “GODS. CYNTHIA?!” 

          It was just like her, to strike a hammer against his lightning and send him into disarray. Her flailing body plummeted past Minerva, and sent his dearest into a momentary swing. Minerva was sharper than him, more experienced than him. She knew a shooting star when she saw one, and knew the chase was brighter than any dream.  Kicking into Minerva’s stirrups, Gerome dove into a near vertical descent, piercing the winds with an ever-familiar scold that boomed, irascibly.  “Don’t be a goddamn fool! Are you trying to get yourself killed!?” 

          His gloved hands reached out to her, composure only shattering for a second before he had everything back in control. Minerva angled into wave, arching below her so she could simply scoop the star out of the sky. Knitting his legs against Minerva’s chest, he let go of the reins and opened his arms. To temper a shooting star, one must catch it once it falls. 

          Firmly, tightly, he snatched Cynthia by the torso, wrapping carefully so she wouldn’t shatter. Her entire trajectory tugged their careening ship until it steadied. Minerva screeched in greeting, unshaken by the unexpected guest, and flared towards Cynthia’s new steed by intuition. Must return what was lost, after all. “Did you lose your mind when I was gone? Where have you been?!”

          “If you cared for your life you wouldn’t-” Trust me with it. “Just jump like that!”

There goes the pretense. Since when would he ever be free of this?

@cynthero​ - can I get a return? I think I still have the receipt

[unmasqued]

[unmasqued]

˚ · . OCEAN’S 11 / lucina, cynthia, laslow, gerome & odin

teneguine​:

Owain is dressed to impress. It’s a tragedy, really, that Cynthia let him pick his own outfit. In his mind, this event would be filled with dashing heroes fitted in the very picture of luxury. And make no mistake! Many of these characters are just that: noble veterans heralded for their achievements on the battlefield. But none, none, are quite as keen on presentation. Owain sticks out like a sore thumb with his long flowing robe and shoulder pads so big they function as pillows. Just where did he even get that thing?! 

It doesn’t matter. 

Right now, he’s crouched behind Cynthia. He doesn’t have a pair of binoculars himself–didn’t think to bring one–so he has to squint as hard as he can at the duo while trusting everything his companion says. “Kabuki… He must’ve been to Hoshido! Hark, o barbarian queen! This is the very same Inigo we all know and, er, love…” little hard to admit that one, “Just older! He has been through much, and like his fellow allies of justice, grown as a person as a result. Expanding his horizons into the theatrical arts would not be beneath him now.” 

Mere moments before they take their tumble, Owain’s fingers are reaching for the device in Cynthia’s hands. They wiggle and claw, ever so gently, hoping to snatch them from her for a quick sec so he can confirm what she told him. But then it happens, and they’re in a rush to get out. “Gah! C-Cynthia! Wai-” he tries to yell, when he notices her foot snagged on his cloak, but it’s too late. The thing tears, and so too do Owain’s hopes of being the center of attention tonight. Defeat mars his features as he bends down to pick up the shredded end, and a big sigh preludes his speech, “More like ‘what was I wearing’ …It was my scion suit: The Cloak of a Thousand Thousand Suns, The Ultracowel Fifth Edition, all embroidered with the hair of a river goddess. But now it’s ruined! Ripped asunder and a disgrace to the esteem of this event!” 

Another sigh. This time, anguish-filled and with the added bonus of him being on the verge of crying. What an awful way to start the night. But, he supposes, he isn’t out of options just yet. “…Wait here. A hero always brings a backup, and it just so happened that there was another powerful costume I had wanted to try on tonight.” He looks left, he looks right, and when he’s sure the coast is clear, Owain dashes off. Into a changeroom he goes. With all the experience he has dressing up for scenes of dire action, it shouldn’t be too long.

…

When he returns, he’s wearing something completely different: a tuxedoed suit–normal enough–but complete with a cape and top hat. He reunites with Cynthia, and reveals to her the final piece of the outfit, the cherry on top, if you will: Lucina’s mask. Stolen from her room mere moments before he left, Owain figured it would be just the right thing if he needed to hide his identity with a more covert appearance. Granted, it should get him instantly spotted by its owner, but that’s one step too far for his thinking process. 

“There. Try to be careful with this one, please?” 

@exclted​

          Under the limitless expanse of spilled ink and fastened stars, he found the copious perfumes, lavish furs, and crossing of hands to be rather... brusque. Were they voluble or volatile—all these smiles caged in one place? Gerome watched the couples spin in circles below him, as their opulent gems and glittering skirts swallowed the candlelight whole. This showcase of wealth was nothing more than insufferable, but he’d tolerate it for them if he had to. They, of whom he had not spoken a word to for quite some time, had their place amongst the caged smiles.

          And Gerome was nothing more than candlelight, ready to be swallowed whole.

          Lucina and Inigo were doing their two-left-footed dance again— the elephant in the room more elegant than either. Time had touched them in a way he supposed he had to understand, even if it was force fed to him on silver spoons. As Gerome’s eyes flitted to higher ground, he could spot the other two in a heartbeat. He scoffed, watching Cynthia catch and tear that gaudy piece Owain had strode into the ballroom with. Those two had always been shameless, but it was only a matter of time before both their indominable spirits snagged until they teared by the seams. 

          He was not one to complain by any means, but somehow, watching them under the stars (one. two. three. four) was tiresome. It reminded him of home. 

          Straying away from the railing, Gerome sifted into the crowds to play the ever conspicuous party guest— caged, just like the rest of them. His hooded mantle cloak and red-black suit and tie were enough to get by, but he could feel the eyes on him once he didn’t lock arms with a partner in a while. Weaving through the senseless social trivialities, he felt an idle hand trace past his leather glove, to pluck him like a rose. A woman, with dewdrop gemstones glued to her eyelashes and dark hair knit into a low up-do, had him rolling his eyes behind his mask. Other women looked away, behind fans and jealous glances. 

“Are you with someone?” She inquired boldly.

          The fumes in this room were getting to everyone’s head. “I am previously engaged. Get off me.” He pulled away, making haste down the stairway. She followed suit, picking up her skirts in billowing curtains, as her heels clicked behind him. Praying compassion from the Gods, he hoped they would snap under pressure. Briskly, he cut right between Cynthia and Owain, plucking the mask Owain had so courteously stolen from Lucina. He’d know. Gerome was the one who crafted the thing. (At least that ridiculous fur coat was off.)

          “If you had wanted one, shouldn’t you have asked me to personalize another for you?” He says, a touch more personable than he would ever afford either of them, on regular terms. Clicking his tongue, he watched from the corner of his eye as she scoffed indignantly and strode away. Gerome let go of the breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

          “Gods, this world never stops giving, does it?” 

@exclted​

[unmasqued]

Occam’s Razor { Leon & Gerome

For reasons unknown to anyone else, a mother wyvern has rejected her newborn wyvern and refuses to care for it. The task is now up to some brave volunteers to acquire a friend for life… or the scars. [Grants Flying +1]

          Occam’s Razor—the principle of parsimony to some— attests that the simplest theory is the most probable. Less is more. He could surmise an immeasurable sum of reasons as to why a mother would abandon her child, but his head was rightfully affixed where his heart was not. (it felt like an emotional slight for the mother to have been a wyvern, no less.) Gerome presumed the mother had no other choice. (’no other choice’ was the easiest answer he could have given, for the world’s most difficult question.)

          Was it really so easy for a mother forgo her own heart?

          “I’ll handle it on my own, Leon. I’ve no need for tag-alongs.” Gerome refused a proper address for the man who was evidently a knight’s instructor, and did not spare the man an afterthought of an afterthought. To him, everyone was a liability, everyone had good intentions. There was a Paris for every Juliet. “Wyvern handling shouldn’t be ascribed to volunteers. It’s not a task for anyone.” 

          After much squabble with the other staff, for one inane reason after another, Gerome conceded to taking Leon aback Minerva to the designated spotting site. Young wyvern, bereft of a pack, would likely stray from the site before long, so they had to make it there before it flew rampant elsewhere. His voice buffered over the headwinds, perfect indifference dripping from nearly every syllable that fell from his mouth. “Better you than the rest of them, I suppose. Just stay out of my way, won’t you?”

          His mother had a couple of scars taming Minerva, herself. He’d never admit it, clasping Minerva’s reins affectionately, but he hardly wanted anyone else to shed blood over a child, scared and alone. Landing quietly in a dry ravine, he signaled Minerva to stay obscured behind a bough of creosote bushes. In a renewal of conviction, Gerome began to walk off on his own, towards the watering hole that surfaced at the ravine’s core.

@hyacinthinegrace - he cares in his own way, I suppose

[unmasqued]

ooc. & starter call

{ hello, hello! lovely to meet you or greet you after all this time 💗 I just wanted to get a few things settled down for Gerome! (starter call also under the cut!)

Gerome’s still a student because I think he had to grow up a little too quickly, and it’s only right for him to live and let live a little while he still has the chance! Half his friends companions grew up in the blink of an eye :’) He’s going to go on with the presumption that they time skipped again, just like Laurent did canonically!

It’s nice to meet all you new folks! Happy to be here 💗

I will be changing my writing style to suit my needs a little better. It won’t be noticeable, I’m sure!

I think the only people Gerome interacted with briefly are Ingrid, Pelleas, Kiran, and Inigo? Maria, Kat, Alfonse in asks. But since it was so brief it’s not much to account for, I believe! So we’re free to keep it like. Oh, Gerome from math class is back. Thought he died!! 

Currently, I am reluctantly capping my threads at 4, but given that people have approached me privately, I’ll be taking up more later! (currently: 1. lilly/cynthia, 2. red/maria?, and 3. the ocean’s four/ inigo, lucina, cynthia, owain. ) 

I genuinely want to RP with all of you, but you know how I am. [hubris.png] 

[ STARTER CALL ] I love you all and can only politely ask for one additional starter, so please feel free to comment below if you have one in mind! 

[Link to this Month’s Threads]

Taken by Eleven!

[unmasqued]

horse girls {

cruelsfate​:

These days, the mage is certainly quiet—and not that her silence is a feat particularly out of the ordinary, but her pointed lack of speech is a thing more evident still. There is a weightlessness to her movements as she drifts through the halls of the monastery, her pathing little more than muscle movement repeated until they were worn.

Fate sees it apt, then, to disturb the tireless routine. In no time at all, fliers have begun to litter the walls around campus, advertising a competition held by the Havers of Rideable, Sizable Equestrians—their name alone is enough to bring a crease to her brow—to dress up the most dashing horse. Within the walls of Garreg Mach, she is without a steed to call her own, though she knows well enough where she might find someone willing to let her borrow their own.

“You want to borrow Dorte for this competition?” She nods mutely, grateful he does not laugh. He is kind, she knows. Kinder than she deserves at times. “Sure,” he continues with a grin, the flier offered back between two fingers. “He’s all yours. Just bring back that prize for both of us and we can call it even.”

Marianne is not especially competitive. Still, she thinks, it would be nice to win this mysterious grand prize as a way to say thanks. But what to do? The greenhouse keeper might let her take some flowers to braid into Dorte’s mane…

“Huh?” A beat passes as her gaze raises, then immediately falls. She does not know him, though he seems to know her, and it is all the more difficult to meet his eyes for it. “Ah…yes, that’s me.”

“He’s not mine,” she continues awkwardly, her focus instead turned to the horse still standing before her, “but Dorte is, um…loyal.” Perhaps more to the snacks she occasionally brings than to the mage herself, but he is as comfortable in her presence as she is in his. It is more than enough. “I’m sure your Minerva is as well.”

A refusal hovers upon her lips, yet…Gerome, he said his name was? His determination to compete regardless is certainly admirable. It seems rude to say no, and there’s little harm to letting him join her, right? “Um, I was planning to participate myself,” she says after an extended pause. “You are welcome to…join me?” There is a slight rise in her pitch, the statement turned into a question when she does not mean to. “Only if you are sure,” Marianne quickly adds, the curry comb hesitantly held out like a peace offering.

       Gerome was left dumbfounded at the revelation, which came at no one’s detriment but her own. The steed was not hers to begin with? But they had such synergy—even if she did not claim ownership over Dorte, were they not binded by something stronger? He opened his mouth, mulling over whether or not he ought to bestow some sort of retort to this statement. But, given that he had initially only approached her to have her cooperate, did it truly matter what her standing with Dorte was? 

      ...With how gentle she was, he supposed it didn’t hurt. “He is not yours”. Bluntly, he started.

      “A steed is like a wyvern. They are their own beings, in their own right. But you are not being magnanimous by trying to apply this sort of logic here.” Gerome stated matter-of-factly, rolling his wrists to preoccupy himself. He hardly had any reason to continue, yet felt compelled to give her half a mind. Still, an edifice that was crumbling on one side occasionally gave way to strong beams. “Loyalty is a mutual affair. You need not own a steed to belong with Dorte.”

      “...........” Fearing over-explanation, he drowned the rest of his thoughts in a bout of silence. She was right, however. If such loyalty could run deeper than even blood, it would be that of his own bond with Minerva. He nodded, tight-lipped and rigid in nature. “I am sure.” He had approached her first, after all. And all for..  surveillance, perhaps? Childish spite of the contest rulings? He would never admit to such ire. 

      Reaching out to brush Dorte’s mane out of his eyes, Gerome’s own expression shifted—quite evidently, despite his usual vigilance. “You agree, do you not, Dorte? Work hard for your master.” 

      He could feel Minerva’s jealous flailing from here. But there was no question where his own affections laid, really. Since his attention was drawn away from the horse for a moment, he called over a staff member to sign his name jointly, side-by-side with Marianne’s. He was decided in his motions, and did not ask if she wished to take back their partnership, now that it was processed and signed in ink. But, he did turn to smile subtly at Dorte, who seemed well enough to be accessorized from head to toe. 

“If you lead your, uh, Dorte... to the dressing stalls, there are plenty’a decorations and accessories for you to deck your steed in! When we hollar, the first round of judging ‘ll begin!” The staff member summarized cheerily. 

      “Well?” Gerome strolled ahead for a moment, before pivoting on the balls of his feet. He pulled a long ribbon off one of the sample stands, meticulously raising it to compare the humble shade of blue to Dorte’s mane. “Shall we get started?”

[unmasqued]

Activity Check { 11/1

{ Skill Points: } 6 → 7 !!

Axe C →  C+ (1/2)

(”I must improve further before a real war breaks out.”)

Threads:

Can be tracked here: [ LINK ]

[unmasqued]

maelstrom​

bcmbshellblcnde​:​​

“Up to me?” Charlotte squawked, whirling around to look at the tiny blonde student. “Why the hell is it up to me, I’m just some…” The beast let out a roar as it recovered from the stumbles that had lead to it totally whiffing it’s attack on said student and Charlotte groaned. “Yeah, alright, fine, lemme just…”

At the start of the round, while getting all these new toys shoved into her hands, someone had mentioned something or other about magic…what a laugh that was. Charlotte? Doing magic? She thought the whole subject was totally not worth her time, it took way too much energy and smarts to research, and look what it had done to people like Nyx! Nah, no way, Charlotte definitely did not need to be touching any of that magic stuff.

But she was getting pretty tired, and for all those efforts, that thing was still standing while they were throwing their everything at it…growling in frustration, Charlotte put the axe down against her side. Alright, let’s see how special this reason stuff really is.

Charlotte rolls a 15. Hit! 2 Damage. Fortress Beast’s Health: 13/20.

Charlotte throws out her hands in imitation of what she’s seen mages around the school do and…nothing happens. She frowns, and does it again, and again, nothing happens. With a frustrated groan, she stomps her foot and throws her hand again like she was throwing an axe. “Come on you stupid-”

A large rock in a burst of flames comes flying down and strikes the beast. Charlotte’s jaw would have dropped were it not already on the floor. “Holy shit!” Alright. Okay. She could see what the appeal was.

“Looks like it’s your turn kiddo, do something fancy now!”

        Defense was the best offense. Charlotte called upon him to do something fancy, and he crinkled his nose a bit. What was there to do aside from slaughtering the thing before it did the same to him. Still, she was right. Better be fanciful and finish off his moves like an art. And as much as he was aching to throw his axe back into battle, Pelleas’ condition was... precarious. Too precarious for his own tastes. 

        “Fancy? …Hardly my style.” Though, he mused on her almost other-worldly meteor shower. Had he not been steeled for war, he would have stood and watched, wide-mouthed at exactly what mages were capable of pulling. Magic was just so... Gerome clicked his tongue, reminding himself that they were still in the midsts of a ragged battle. So, he forcefully thrusted his hand in Pelleas direction, propelling a healing spell that felt more like a bolt of lightning in his hands. A surge of power transferred rapidly from his enchantment onto his fellow comrade’s back.

        “But I guess this will work swimmingly.”

Gerome rolled a 20! Full heal! Pelleas’ HP: 10/10 HP!

        This was dull work. Magic itself wasn’t warming up to him as a good axe would, but, he supposed that there was something fulfilling about the way he secured others’ well-beings with a watchful eye. He could see the merits to it... for others. Though if there was one thing that bothered him about this, or rather—disgruntled him about this whole affair...was that his mother would have had this saccharine smile (eyes closed, lips curled shrewdly) at the mere thought of him becoming a healer. Something about that smile always disarmed him, given that a mere millimeter difference changed her loving, proud smile to that of a condescending, ferocious warrior. And he still had a problem imagining the former. 

        Yeah. This healing business just wasn’t for him.

        Just as he shook himself out of his reverie, Gerome suddenly felt a pressure force the hairs on his neck to go up. He leapt away, dodging two quick strikes. Damn! Damn. Shouldn’t be thinking about her now. In the same wake, he slashed to counter, but the fortress beast readily skidded away from his mark as well. They shared grimaces wider than an abyss, and paced back to distance each other. Cursing under his breath, Gerome wished he had eyes on the back of his head. At least then, he wouldn’t have so many blind spots.

        …Ugh. Still. The soft spots would remain, so long as he had her.

Fortress Beast’s HP: 15.5/20. 1d4 roll: 2. Enemy 2d20 roll: 8+2, 1+2. Miss! Miss! Gerome’s HP: 6.5/10. 2d20 roll: 6, 4. Miss! Miss!

        “Damn.”

@pirrhyc​

[unmasqued]

maelstrom

bcmbshellblcnde​:

The next thing they brought out was a wicked ugly monster. Charlotte groaned as she hefted her axe onto her shoulder. “Man, they just don’t quit it with these things, huh?” What else were they gunna pull out for them to fight? A whole ass dragon? No thanks, been there done that.

Even that masked student who had been tearing through enemies like they were nothing earlier seemed to be having a hard time against this new one. He missed (horribly), and Charlotte winced as he was struck back for his efforts.

She grimaced. She had no interest in getting slapped around like that. No thank you. But it looked like it was too late for her to just stand around doing nothing anymore, not after she’d blown her cover in the first round. She was gunna have to do so much damage control to save her reputation after this…ugh.

Sighing, Charlotte took the venin axe in hand again and gave it a twirl. “Maybe you just need to aim better!” She called back before charging in with the axe.

Charlotte rolls a 10. Hit! 1 Damage (Pavise). Fortress Beast’s Health: 16/20. Poisoned!

Charlotte rushes in and swings her axe at the beast’s side. It connects, a direct hit, but something about it is off. The force of the swing doesn’t feel right, the hit she lands doesn’t feel right. Charlotte frowns as she yanks the axe back out of the monster’s side, making an effort to make sure it drags out painfully.

Fortress Beast rolls a 5, 4. Miss!

Though it stumbles and swings its own axe in return, Charlotte is evidently faster than the injured monster. She ducks out from under its first swing and manages to slide back out of range before the second attempt has a chance to connect. Boom, in and out, no problem!

She smirks and lets out a cocky laugh as she looks over at the student and nods towards it. “See! What’d I tell you, just hit better!”

@unmasqued​

        ...Okay. Commonly, he would sneak around the front lines and hit the beast with another double blow from the brave axe. But today he was feeling like there needed to be more of a strategy than that. Alone, he carried on just fine. Alone, he survived just fine. But he wasn’t moving alone, he was moving in a team. And abandoning a comrade in a battle, when he had other tools at his disposal... was strategically incorrect. It also meant that he needed to waste less time thinking and move towards being useful. 

         Just hit better, she says. I’ll manage, she says. These two are opposing parameters, in both disposition and combative strategies. And to be honest, he preferred whoever could show a good fight. Fortunately, they both managed to carry their weight as soldiers, and... while he had little motivation to understand them or empathize with them, they had lasted thus so far. So, without a word, he moves to protect. 

        It just made sense.

        Bringing up a healing spell was far easier in these illusionary stages than he thought. He had never held light magic in his hands... he had never needed to. But it felt so different than an axe in hand, as it wasn’t even feasibly tangible. Magic, as it was, was foreign because one could not truly “hold” it. One could not truly “feel the weight of it.” But one could kill with it. And one could...

Gerome rolled a 16, healing Ingrid’s HP to 9.5/10HP!

        Save someone’s sore arse with it. 

        “...” He wasn’t even going to bother saying anything to her. They just had to keep moving, and watching the beast’s movements carefully. It was unreverent, unwavering, and tested every ounce of skill they had on the table. But to ensure that it went down, everyone had to stay up. 

       “Minerva...” Gerome missed her dearly. Infantry fighting could not compare, in the least, to her strength. And to their combined strength together, with his mother’s blessing. 

@pirrhyc​

[unmasqued]

maelstrom

steel round // @bcmbshellblcnde, @pirrhyc, @galateaindustria​

          It’s not easy this time. He can feel it in the gravity of the stage before them, playing out in slow motion. It’s never easy, but this time is— a roar erupts, interrupting his train of thought and summoning every ounce of attention on it. The beast before them is abyssmal—it even matched him with a damned brave axe. He’s not done fighting, but it made him feel as though they were all suddenly rocketed up three level difficulties. And that’s fine. They’d be fine. They just needed to work harder than before. 

Gerome rolled 17, 4. Hit! Miss! Pavice, reaction. Fortress Beast’s HP: 18.5/20 HP

          He begins silently. It’s all or nothing with him, but it’s better that he forced everything he’s got into the first roll in. Coming down with a piercing strike through the chest, he immediately thrusted a second slash upward. To his disappointment... no, his utter paranoia, the second slash barely does even a scratch to the thing, leaving Gerome wide open to the same fate he had laid before him. He gritted his teeth, as a momentary flicker of his lashes was enough for the beast to swipe at him in a strike that certainly should have killed him.

Fortress beast rolled 18+2 and 1+2. Hit! Miss! Gerome’s HP: 6.5 / 10 HP

          He felt every last one of his nerves shoot up in volcanic pain, as the critical hit dashed him of most of his senses. All that was left was this dizzying pain, that erupted from his pores and left him stinging. He... he really needed to watch out for those Brave Axe hits... Coughing up a lung, Gerome lunged back before the beast could swipe him again. It was all luck that saved him from a cruel fate...

          “You must watch out!” He commanded, clutching his chest as though the projection had truly left him bleeding. For an illusion, he sure was spilling quite the comical amount of... Never mind. He wouldn’t think about it. With the snap of that person’s fingers, it would all be over in a flash. 

          “Strike from a distance, if you must!” 

          Gerome thinks of his companions, who were fortunately not watching from the stands or anything. And he’s glad for it. It wouldn’t do for him to showcase his failures like this... But with this running start, Gerome wasn’t sure if he’d survive to the next round. Tsk. There was no need for thoughts of loss before the battle even began! He scoured his mind of all weak, crippling ideas, and forced them into submission. No... He mustn’t let his team down.