katabatiic

[katabatiic]

Well, if no one else is going to humor the blue-haired boy, Legault may as well take a stab at it. It isn't as if he's any more eager to follow the directions of that strange voice than any of his other companions.

His hand ghosts along the back wall of the room, wary of hidden mechanisms after that trick with the door locking behind them. He's met with nothing but solid stone, fit for prison walls-- or perhaps a tomb, if one was feeling grim.

"Mm, I don't think we have anything that could break through a wall this thick. Anyone here feel like humoring our host?"

@dcggersedge , @loyaldeserter , @luminousrider , @nabataprophet , @princeofopenness

Me When A Mysterious Feminine Voice Tells Me To Do Something

[katabatiic]

If the fleeting touch Legault stole was an indulgence, he has no words for the arms that envelop him—sudden and suffocating in their earnestness. He sucks in a sharp breath.

"Mind my waist, would you? Not all of us were wearing heavy plate when the enemy vanguard arrived."

It isn't an empty excuse. Pain does flare from the hastily bandaged wound at his side at the pressure, dull as it is against the rush of feeling at the unexpected touch. His hands wrap around Heath's forearms, though they don't push him away. They hold the knight at an arm's length, not allowing him to retreat too far when he pulls back.

"Did a piece of rubble drop on your head on the way out?" Legault tilts his head with a grin. "For all its other failings, I never thought I'd hear you talking down about Bern's ferocious might."

He releases Heath at that, letting the cool metal of his bracers slip past his fingers.

"I, for one, am glad that those strangers didn't have wyvern legions ready to skewer us all and toss us into the valleys below."

Legault does his utmost to remain loose and pliable even in dire straits—especially in dire straits. For someone like himself, it's what keeps him able to adapt to the situation and survive.

And yet—after the darkness and the steel and the burning blazes, the sight of emerald green causes something tense in his spine to snap free.

"No rest for the wicked or the wanted, is there?" He exhales, hand ghosting over the small of Heath's back just long enough to feel he's truly here before dropping away. "Perhaps we're just cursed to have troubles follow us 'til the end."

Heath is numb, operating as a shell of himself. He knows this, but right now he is a body, lucky enough to be armored and injured less severely than many of his comrades. He carries things where they need to be, ferries healing supplies and what little weapons they have.

He's on his way to fetch more of their dwindling bandages when he sees familiar shade of lavender. Just like that, Heath is here and in the moment, sensations flooding in as Legault comes oh so close, says something tired and witty in that gravelly-smooth tone of his.

It isn't enough, the fleeting touch. Before he can overthink it, Heath grabs Legault and envelops him in a hug. He is solid, he is real, he is alive. It's more than he could hope for.

"Legault." He's not sure how long he holds him for. Pulling away is made worse with every moment that passes, muted embarrassment for his impulsivity mixed with a craving for comfort and familiarity. "It is good to see you alive."

"Perhaps. When the first assaults hit, part of me assumed Bern had finally come to finish the job, no matter how unlikely that was. That probably would have been easier." He shakes his head and laughs, a weary but genuine thing. It's hard not to reach out, to ground himself in the tactile feeling of life amidst the stench of death and defeat. He settles for maintaining eye contact, the discomfort a small price to pay. "Hah! Imagine that. Longing to face the full might of the motherland, as opposed to this. What a lot in life to draw."

[katabatiic]

When smoke had poured down into the corridors of Abyss, the only way out was upward. After breaking through to the dark, fire-warmed sky, Legault realizes just how much further he'll need to flee to find any semblance of safety. Shouts of battle and screams of terror echo between the great stone buildings of the monastery as the thief dodges around debris and ducks into the nearest building—only to find the far side of it blocked by a squadron of soldiers. Cursing under his breath, he falls in line with the students clustered in the hall. "So much for a safe refuge…" Take them head on, hit defensive positions — brave voices raise above the din (one just barely, the other bellowed with the tone of one who has commanded before. Neither cut through the fear that covers the room, thicker than the smoke itself. Dagger in hand, Legault swallows the rising panic in his throat and readies himself. It's a cacophony. Blades crash against shields. Bursts of lighting and fire sear through cloth and armor. A door erupts into splinters and leaves a great construct in its wake, blocking the other side of the room. It comes down on one of the students with a swing so heavy it's a shock to see the young man still standing at all. He likely won't survive another. Legault wouldn't survive the first. Another route, then. Commands and arrows fly through the ash-choked air, fighting for an opening on the north side.

Unit 13 spends 1 charge of Ranged. All members of Unit 7 lose -1HP each.

Legault charges forward beneath the flock of arrows, ready to push through any gap the volley provides. One invader falls, and the Hurricane sweeps in to create a path. He is met with steel—just barely dodged and answered with a flash of his dagger. Pikes and blades turn toward him, filling the gaps left behind by the fallen with shocking speed. To say the tide turns against the residents of Garreg Mach would mean pretending they had momentum in the first place. No, the wave simply swallows them whole.

Unit 7 attacks Unit 13 (Unit 7 Roll w/ initiative + leadership: 28 ; Unit 13 Roll: 28. Both units lose -1 HP)

A blade finds its mark, cutting shallowly into his side. Not a killing blow, but enough to send the thief staggering, to have him pushed aside as the soldiers charge forward into the hall. He drops to the cold stone floor, watching the shapes of enemy and ally blur together in his vision. Thoughts go to sharp canines and wyvern's wings—brave souls, hopefully not as doomed as his own. Eventually, those give way to older memories: blood on his hands, souls already lost. He exhales an embittered laugh, wincing at the pain.

So this is how it ends?

Unit 13 has fallen!

But I Dont Like Thje Scary Corner .

epiphany 2025: the fall of garreg mach ( UNIT 13 )

[katabatiic]

december activity

Skill Points

+1 Monthly

Total: 9

Allocated: Bow E → Bow E+

[katabatiic]

Each silent breath between them thickens the air until it's nearly unbearable, but it isn't as if Legault could ask Heath to speak. Cutting the tension with his own prattling risks pulling a reaction out of Heath at the wrong time. The undeserved sight of a bared neck in front of him is enough to leave him at a loss for words, anyhow—not to mention the strong thighs functioning as his seat.

If Legault were more of a fool, he might've told Heath that if anyone could pull off a meadow on their chin, it's him. The awkward patches of stubble that remain and the distant look in his eyes aren't nearly enough to overshadow the striking cut of his features. The thief takes a pause to appraise his work, knuckles rested gently at the crook of Heath's neck.

(Vulnerable skin offered willingly, even knowing how often the one holding the blade may have sliced through veins and arteries in the past. He knows the exact angle that would end Heath's life with one slip of the razor. His grip stays the course with a firm hand.)

The rumble of the man's voice against his skin makes Legault's breath catch, released in a sharp huff between a smile.

"Sure, sure. Maybe I'll change tack and open up a barber shop down below. Saints know plenty of folk down there could use it."

His fingers extend to catch the grassy locks that hang above Heath's shoulder, intermixed with that shock of white.

"...Or perhaps a gardening business." His tongue lets the joke go free before his better judgment can catch up, spurred on by the heavy-lightness in his chest. "Need any other hedges trimmed while I'm here?"

[ SHAVE ]: sender sits in the receiver's lap so they can carefully shave the last of the receiver's stubble from their face.

The smooth finish of the razor's handle is cool beneath Legault's touch as he traces a finger along its edge. It's a straightforward design with little embellishment, but well-sharpened for proper use—a tool that befits its owner, he thinks.

A well-sharpened blade in a well-sharpened knight's hand does little good if his arm can't stay steady, though. An assassin knows well enough how easy it is for a well-placed injury to hinder a one's motor skills. Heath's current state following a scuffle up in the mountains is evidence enough of that.

Thankfully, an assassin's hand is pretty steady too.

"I think the stubble's quite becoming, honestly. But if you hate it this much..."

He curls a finger beneath Heath's chin, urging him to tilt his face upward. His eyes follow the shape of the knight's larynx dipping down toward his shirt collar, knowing all too well the arteries that frame it beneath the skin.

"Just hold steady now."

With the way his own pulse makes itself known in his throat, the low instruction is directed toward himself just as much as it is Heath.

Heath's never been one to enjoy facial hair. He doesn't grow it well, but it grows relatively quickly, which is a poor combination. Shaving has become an effortless part of his daily routine, his razor sharpened alongside his lance.

Unfortunately, his chin's starting to look a bit like a meadow today. Turns out an injury to his dominant hand makes it impossible to safely shave, and of course he's out on a multi-day assignment.

Naturally, it's with Legault. Because the universe has it out for Heath.

It starts with an offhanded comment. Legault says something about him doing something new with his looks, says it looks handsome or some hogwash. Heath, used to his antics, retorts that of course he'd say that, but he hates it. It'd be gone if not for that stupid lucky shot...

Legault gets all worried about the severity of the wound, which Heath's admittedly been downplaying, but it's just because he knows how these things heal. He can swing a lance just fine as long as he's careful. Fine motor skills are another thing, though.

And then Legault, audacious as ever, half-jokingly offers to do the shave for him.

And Heath, who's seemingly lost all sense, agrees.

Neither man seems to be expecting that response. But neither man backs down. Which is how Heath's ended up with a blade at his throat and his heart half-caught in it, Legault's presence on his lap impossible to ignore.

"I promise you, it'll get less flattering by the day." Heath's voice is low, keenly aware of the coldness of the razor flirting with his skin in contrast to the warmth of Legault's touch. He suppresses a shudder. "You'd sing a different tune in a week."

Legault could do whatever he wanted to him, like this. There is an element of trust here, control bequeathed of his own will to a man he once avoided on principal.

I win.

As Legault skillfully works away at the offending stubble, Heath's mind can't help but wander to the last time someone he trusted held a blade so close to him. It's admittedly not a great distraction from certain physical reactions he's trying to tamp down, but it's hard to resist.

Lachius had straddled him, too. In a different position, in very different circumstances, but the sharpness against his rabbit-quick pulse is unchanging, the tension laying thick as ever in the air.

(He cannot think about what followed, that fateful day. That'd betray his internal struggles to Legault in perhaps the worst and most undeniable way possible. He'd rather just die at that point.)

Still, Heath's mind continues its trek. Desire and grief intermingle, a longing that he's done a decent job of suppressing. Legault and Lachius are distinct, but he cannot deny the similarities as they come up.

How would they get along? They'd have a good time teasing Heath together, that's for sure. The combination of dry wit and playfulness would be a nightmare. It'd take Legault longer to earn Lachius' trust than even Heath's, though. Especially if he'd survived...

Well. Heath is out of the danger zone. One of them, at least. His chest aches, and it's hard to keep his breath entirely steady, but if he just sits and quiets his mind, it'll be over soon enough.

"You're good at this," he manages during a lull. He can't see it just yet, but he can feel it, and there's plenty of evidence on Legault's own face. It's hard not to see, from here. "Transferable skills, eh?"

He isn't looking forward to the void Legault will leave (that Lachius has left). But tempting fate like this is more reckless than he has any right to do.

[katabatiic]

if we're both getting chased by assassins will they cancel out like pemdas

[katabatiic]

Legault had been poised to dodge a sharp rebuke. What Karel gives him instead is something far less-- and far more.

"What's with that look?"

The thief's greedy soul begs him to ply just a bit more out of his companion. His cowardly heart urges him not to take things too far-- especially when redness and trembling can also turn to rage.

His hands settle on a course of action: brushing wayward dark strands aside so he can give the swordsman's shoulder a light pat.

"No need to be afraid, my friend. What's a little extra bad luck on top of our lots in life?"

The thief then does what he does best: he escapes.

🎄 "That was pretty cold, turning that redhead away. Unless you really don't know what that little sprig up above is all about?"

The thief appears with hardly a sound, though now his boots click against the stone walkway as he rounds Karel's shoulder to face him.

"If you're caught beneath it with a maiden at your side, you're supposed to steal a kiss. It's bad luck otherwise."

Legault chuckles under his breath.

"I doubt I count as a maiden, but..." He leans closer, until the mistletoe pointedly dangles directly above his head. His grin edges on the far side of impish. "Up to you as to whether you'd like to take the risk."

Karel's entire body trembles a bit at the words. A kiss...? Was that right? That's a bit... Odd. But whatever.

"...Oh. I see."

...And then Legault... Propositions him. And then that trembling gets much more intense.

"...Ah?"

[some internalized homophobia under the cut. just to be safe]

This isn't... Right, is it? He doesn't recall much of what his family taught him of... These sorts of things, matters concerning to women and... Matters of the heart, if they did at all. But engaging with another man like this was always looked down upon, intended to be viewed as something strange, unnatural. He knows that.

But he never held such teachings close to his heart. The same beliefs that brought Karla so much misery in their youth. The way of the sword, and what they had taught him of is the only thing that matters now... But he can't deny the fear that runs through his veins at the prospect now — Or the wicked excitement. Forbidden fruit, maybe. Fear of the unknown leads one to fascinating places.

Staring at Legault's face, Karel is... Paralyzed. Utterly so. His own face begins to heat and flush, and quite visibly so: One downside (or perhaps the other way around, depending on who you asked) of his pallid complexion.

"......................"

What a thrill it must have been, to have the Sword Demon so thoroughly cornered.

[katabatiic]

Ah, so there is humanity under that cold exterior. It shines through in the faint warmth coloring the Demon's face. Legault isn't bold enough to laugh in his face, but his smile grows wider.

"Ex-Black Fang, if you're referring to me. Everyone seemed to ignore that part when I joined up with the Lycians. As for believing myself weak..."

He taps the inkstained tip of the quill against his thumb, leaving little black marks in its wake.

"Yes. I do. My strengths lie in trickery more than swordplay. A man like you could gut me in an instant in a fair fight."

Dark streaks smudge across the snowy white of the feather as he idly strokes along its edge.

"If we face similar problems, though...maybe we can find a shared solution. I do know quite a bit about how to make problems disappear... or how to disappear oneself if a problem gets unmanageable."

in your coworkers room right now 😏 he's hitting me with a broom 😏😏

[katabatiic]

Where Karel stands to attention, Legault relaxes his stance. He leans a shoulder against the dresser that had cast the lovely shadows in the corner to hide in before.

"Admirable, but no match for you? I'll happily take that lot."

A quill sits on the surface of the dresser-- owned by Karel, the inn, or left by another forgetful tenant, he doesn't know. It's pleasant to touch, though, and it twirls nicely between his fingers as he speaks.

"Even on a new continent, the world's not exactly safe for someone like me. Making strong allies is how I've survived this long. Why would I not seek out one of the strongest swordsmen in Elibe?"

His eyes trace over the other man with a critical gaze. Weak movements, weak deflections—he really has caught the so-called Demon in a bit of a corner, hasn't he?

"Though I can't say you're looking like you're at your strongest. Do they not offer meals at this establishment?"

in your coworkers room right now 😏 he's hitting me with a broom 😏����

[katabatiic]

"My preference doesn't matter much when the gift is for someone else, does it?"

Nimble fingers trace winding shapes against the counter now.

"Most of my closest friends would prefer a sword out of the two. They're heroic like that. Daggers are useful, but they've got a less scrupulous reputation, mm?"

The twin scars across Legault's cheek stretch upward with the raise of his brow. He'd caught the way that the other man had lingered before settling on a term for his customers, though there isn't a clear reason why. His eyes cease their wandering journey around the room to look back to the icy stranger with a sharper focus behind his easy smile.

"Then again, so do people who prefer the dark. But if a reputable merchant likes it, maybe not all assumptions are to be trusted."

yoink!

[katabatiic]

It's a familiar story that floats across Garreg Mach campus and down into the Abyss: a stranger with a sharp look and a sharper blade who tends to keep to themself. Some are more haggard than others; some come with nicknames whispered as they pass through. The Sword Demon isn't one of the Fang, but he's an old ally all the same. Familiar stories lead to familiar habits, and the Hurricane trails after the Demon with quiet steps. …Though not quite quiet enough, it turns out. Legault melts out of the shadows with hands raised in surrender and a mellow smile on his face. "Easy now. I didn't come here to spill any blood. Just thought I'd check in on a familiar face, is all." In the light, the thief can get a clearer look at the other man. A wicked scar cuts across his chest—certainly the work of a sharp weapon, and certainly none of Legault's business. More pressing is the sallow skin and sunken eyes. If he were more of a fool, Legault may have believed that he would stand a chance against the famed Sword Demon in such a state if he'd provoked him. He risks a single step closer, a tilt of the head, but nothing more. "You've got keen instincts, sensing my presence even while you look about halfway to death's door. Why come all the way here, especially in a state like this?"

in your coworkers room right now 😏 he's hitting me with a broom 😏😏

[katabatiic]

november activity

Skill Points

+1 Monthly

Total: 8

Allocated: Sword C+ (7) → Sword B

Rank Up Reward:

Windsweep

[katabatiic]

With the silent but open invitation of an unlocked window, Lloyd knew it was only a matter of time until Legault popped into his quarters for another visit.

It was going to be a bit belated, and perhaps it wasn't all that thoughtful to use the very same gift he'd received from the other man for his own birthday, but Lloyd figured a quiet night in -- drinking, chatting, simply being and not fearing the consequences -- might be more Legault's speed than anything Lloyd might have found at a shop or vendor in town.

Truth be told, he wasn't sure how long the Hurricane planned to remain here, and the Wolf selfishly desired to claim some time and companionship before the inevitable came to pass.

"I'm afraid I don't host very often, so make yourself at home wherever you can," Lloyd chuckled, uncorking the bottle of spirits and pouring them both out a generous drink. It was more than he normally would have, but this was special, small a gathering as it was.

Nothing like the loud but homey celebrations back in Bern, but he hoped it would suffice.

He offers a glass out to Legault, a tinge of bittersweet mixed into the otherwise fond -- if not slightly sappy, but it's not like there was anyone else but Legault around to call him out on it -- expression on his face. "To many more in the future, hm? Hopefully without the need to hop continents to track each other down first."

But it would be worth it.

There aren't too many options when it comes to getting comfortable in Lloyd's room, but that hardly matters. Legault perches at the edge of the bed, settling in with his weight on his palms as he leans back and watches his friend with a smile.  It isn't the furnishings that make a place into a home, really.

He has to adjust to accept the offered drink, sitting forward to curl his hand around the glass. His eyes meet Lloyd's, and that persistent twinge in his chest comes back with a vengeance. He chuckles softly. If the Wolf looked at someone else like that, he might host visitors in his bed more often.

"More drinks together? I think I can manage that."

His own smile veers dangerously toward the sentimental when he clinks their glasses against each other. It's not much at all like the old celebrations back in Bern, but his heart warms at the soft echo of them all the same.

He finds his teasing edge again when he adds: "Will I always be the one buying, though? This was a gift for you, you know."

[katabatiic]

Though the names of the months here are different, the calendar matches up well enough that Heath recognizes the date approaching. While he has not been perfect, he has made an effort to at least acknowledge Legault's birthday these past years, via letter and the occasional small gift.

This year, though, he doesn't have to rely on a courier and hope they happen upon Legault near his last known whereabouts. Heath can simply slip into the hidden abyss beneath Garreg Mach and navigate some rather shady streets while searching personally for his old companion.

Should he not call him friend, at this point? It's an odd friendship, but if Legault isn't his friend, hardly anyone could claim the title. And while it was not expensive, per se, Heath did put some thought into it. A nice whetstone, an abrasive cloth to clean out imperfections, even some oil to polish--Heath knows Legault keeps his daggers at top performance at all times. It's a practical gift, all things considered, and helpful in a place like this.

Heath definitely looks a bit out of place when he comes down here, and even if he dresses in plainclothes his demeanor is distinct and his hair memorable. Still, after several visits with nothing done but checking on Legault, Heath's certain they've just assumed he has business with him.

What manner of business assumed is questionable based on Legault's reputation, but it is what it is.

Thankfully, Legault seems to be at his little underground residence rather than out and about, which makes it easier to give him this little bundle without it seeming shady. And to say what he's going to say. He doesn't need an audience.

"...Happy birthday, Legault. Glad to see you're still kicking."

How old is he, again? Older than thirty, that's for sure. Though he'll never admit it.

It's an interesting development-- to be sought out by one of Bern's finest soldiers rather than trailing after him in the shadows. It's not new, per se, but there is a difference between sending a polite letter and showing up on one's doorstep.

(Even the letters had been a surprise, truth be told. There aren't so many folk who like to thank a disgraced assassin for sticking around for another year, and he'd often been a good distance away from the handful who were glad for his company.)

He hadn't been sure whether to even count Heath as someone who would be glad for his company. Optimism buzzes about between his ribs, disallowed from settling in any deeper in his chest.

"A personal delivery this year?" He smiles with a slight tilt of the head. "Careful, there. You'll fool me into thinking you actually like me."

The gifts are modest and direct in their use, but of a fine quality. They're not unlike the man who brought them, in Legault's eyes. The thief's gaze soften at the corners, just a touch.

"I try to stay sharp enough to safely stick around. It'll be easier with good tools, though. Thank you, Heath."

[katabatiic]

"Serious as the grave," Legault concurs, though his wicked smile remains. "I can behave when I need to, you know. If you don't want me to say anything else, I won't."

He abandons the lance at its post now, freeing his hand to twist a curled fist above his lips in a 'locking' gesture. With an extra flourish, the invisible 'key' is tucked into his shirt.

The thief is obediently silent as he kneels beside the bedroll. A forward tilt of the head and a quick tug at the back pulls his bandana free, and a light shake of the head allows his hair to fall over his half-numbed ears. Re-tying the fabric to cover them would do a better job at warming back up, but his fingers protest against the fine movement. Any motion away from the curled shape he'd had around the lance shaft makes his joints ache.

He clicks his tongue quietly, wrapping the bandana loosely around his hands instead. A few exhales into his cupped palms begin to bring more feeling back to his skin. Between breaths, he nods toward Heath, then toward the bedroll. The little challenge he's invented limits their means of communication, but the knight can take a hint, no?

boy am i glad that he's out there and we're frozen in here and i just remembered-

mission board: anniversary [hv arm +1]

[katabatiic]

Legault's smile unfurls into genuine, unexpected glee. If going out into the sun means more chances to hear that laugh, he's not sure he can stop himself from foolishly throwing himself out into the daylight more often. To be laughed with is a rare treat, and an even sweeter one coming from a knight who once pushed him away so coldly.

"Would you like being my first choice?"

Nimble fingers drift away from grooves between stone, brushing lightly now over clusters of dark green leaves that crawl out toward the garden wall.

"I've bothered a few old friends, but you're the first out of the ones who tagged along with the little Lycian-led crew."

He plucks a leaf from the vine and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger.

"It's reassuring to have wyvern wings around to provide a little shade. Especially when there's such a stalwart knight astride the beast."

Eyes lift from the streaks of green on his fingertips to bright, near-transluscent irises. He lets out a breath somewhere between a sigh and a soft laugh.

"I can count on the fiercest defense of the poor souls of Abyss with a pair like that around, can't I?"

if we're both getting chased by assassins will they cancel out like pemdas

[katabatiic]

"I thought the low light was just a nice part of the ambience, to be honest." Legault says, dishonestly. "It was cozier in here with the lights out if you ask me." He shrugs again, letting those ice shard eyes pierce as deep as they like. Pinpricks of suspicion are little more than gnat bites to someone with a history like his own. "Well, at the end of the day it's your shop. Adjust the lights as you please. Oh, and congratulations on the new business." His smile slides into something more comfortable and less faux-apologetic than before. If the role of a genuine customer hasn't been completely dismissed, he's more than happy to play along. Elbows rested on the counter across from the shopkeep, he tilts his head in thought. "Hmm…it's been so long, I wonder whether I can trust my memory of my friends' tastes." It's the first thing out of his mouth that doesn't contain any lies. "I suppose I can't go wrong with something practical. Do you carry blades, whetstones, anything of that like? Or do your wares lean more on the decorative side?" (He certainly can't imagine a practical use for gold ingots, save for a subpar bludgeoning weapon—but perhaps the other man has more options up his sleeve.)

yoink!