lycianlynx

[lycianlynx]

The sounds of combat fade. Chad's head lifts from their stoking the fire at the sound of footfalls approaching— The weather had turned for the worse, threatening to choke the flame out, but their work had kept it from guttering, only dimming slightly. It's only when they stand to prepare something to eat for the returning party that they realise something is off: The heartiest-looking of their number being carried rather than walking on his own, limp and bleeding.

"Fuckin'— What happened?!"

Hardly waiting for an answer, they usher the Professors into camp and begin to fuss worse, working to stem the bleeding, to stabilise; Busy hands bear fruit, suppressing faint tremors as they go, too dextrous and knowledgeable for their age, but effective all the same; A spark of rough-hewn Faith on top is then enough, though it can't do much more than soothe.

... Again, it's mindboggling how damn sturdy this guy is.

"He'll recover." They breathe, before turning to the other two, stress curling their lip over any kind of malice, but eyes glinting, daring them to stop him. "But I'm going out there, too. We're not doing this with any one of us less."

@heriteur @rafent @ashenprofessor

no healers attack only final destination // week 1 combat team 3

[lycianlynx]

hands these doodles over and nyooms

but also bonus al being very different in the mood:

[lycianlynx]

When you push past all reasonable boundaries, there comes a point at which your body will force you to rest— And despite the efforts of many, they've never managed to string themself any lower in the interim. Suffice to say, Chad should have reached that breaking point twice over by now.

Yes, blood boils, but flesh also blisters against its heat. Though they set out all steel, the wall of fatigue skips a day or two and hits them worst at their camp, at forward position, and even then it's barely by the insistences of no less than 3 (three!) Professors of varying intensity that they don't string their bow and come along on patrol anyways.

It's. It's really, really embarrassing, actually.

And they'll go crazy if they're left alone with the thought of it. Yes, they can force him off the field, but unsupervised, noone can stop them from keeping watch and busying their hands with a shelter worth returning to.

The campfire is tended, stones and underbrush cleared to allow for easier rest, rations prepared with idle hands for a hot meal for aching bones, their own weapons maintained. Miraculously, they manage not to nick their hands during.

All the while, they listen, and watch, and wait, for any sign of victorious return.

chad takes first watch. spent 3 ap to restore 6 hp to campfire. campfire 13hp.

@rafent @heriteur @ashenprofessor

no healers attack only final destination // week 1 combat team 3

[lycianlynx]

There it is. A foot to the left is still a step away from where they linger, and a step to something else. you try again. As long as breath is in his lungs, as long as he can move forward, forward. You try again, because what else can you do? Even after everything that happened, Al is still Al, and Chad is still Chad because the grief and despair is part of them too. Neither of them are the type to roll over and die.

And Chad— Ever has love and grief moved them. Ever has the need for security, too. And if they do not at least try and reach the rubble of Garreg Mach, they will never know, and will regret not knowing forever. So yes: There is nothing else they could do, but this.

"I will," they answer, gaze cast on their hands, balling them into fists. "Soon."

They aren't any less tense. But their shoulders no longer look as if they are being crushed by a night-black weight. Eyes lift again, quiet earth calling to soaring sky.

"So I'm telling you now. You won't be chasing me because we'll be going together, yeah?

Al's seen better days. He's definitely seen worse ones, too. Being caked in mud wasn't awfully out of the ordinary. Being bruised, nicked, and battered was only a little less common. The twisted ankle is pretty annoying, but he's not moving that much slower for it, so it's tolerable. And he hasn't noticed anything of his missing, either, so that's a plus.

It all also means there's little distraction from what all's happened. There's no time to slow down, so he makes his way through the halls, finding who he can so he knows who he needs to look for when he heads back out. Each familiar face—

"Chad!"

—lessens the pressure in his chest a little.

Al's voice is loud enough that he can be heard from across the room, but he's quick enough that the distance is closed in no time flat.

"You're here too." Well, duh. Obviously. Or maybe not so obvious—he wouldn't have been surprised if Chad had still been out there fighting tooth and nail by himself, given his track record. But he's glad he's not. "What the hell happened out there? Did you see the kinda weapons they were packing?"

(He himself hadn't, actually. But he'd felt what'd hit their bridge, and that'd been enough to know this was a different ballgame.)

He looks the other boy head to toe. It's not subtle.

"They didn't get you too bad, did they?"

"Al," Chad breathes. Somehow, they hadn't been too worried about him for even a second. He could wind up in Hell and claw his way out, they think. Something about the guy... Mm. Nothing short of death, if it could even catch him, would keep him from keeping on, tooth and nail— They feel stupid just thinking it, but he makes them think that way, for once. Fuckin' maniac.

Still, he's alive, too. And they're so, so relieved.

"'I'm alive," Chad offers in return, which should be enough— Though they're too tired to attempt to inject any mirth or bite, leaving their tone hollow. Can't shake off the old dark hound that looms larger than ever, latched firmly now onto their leg, jaws locked and unrelenting to try for more. It's all they can offer, at all. Hours in the Goddess' Throat, of fighting their way towards any sliver of hope, of finding nothing and having to flee, of hiding, left them just as hollowed-out and aching.

Brown eyes fix on blue, like looking for a lodestar. Al is still bright, vibrant even in the dim light of the cave. It's hard not to look to him in the moment. They are so goddamned relieved. And still...

"The flash, right?" they grimace. "Everything was shaking. And the— There were monsters like husks and rocks..."

A huff, curt, bitten. "—Fuck do you even do against something like that?"

[lycianlynx]

Has there ever been a choice? What could they even have done? Back then, and now, each the same. You brace and fret and prepare and it still means nothing when it all comes crashing down.

And yet. And yet. This time, they aren't the last pillar to hold onto, not completely unmoored from pieces of stability and home that will keep them from drowning. It is miserable, yes, but it is misery shared.

More tears drip down their face, and for the moment, they let them. Fighting them makes it worse, it always does— Their only resistance the sleeve that attempts to scrub them away to clear their eyes enough to just look. Look, and see: Raven is real, and warm, and alive. Just as he had once let their tears fall silently, so too do they his, even if the guilt of it threatens to bury them.

But are they not doing the same? They drop their head back into the embrace, let the rest of the tears soak his shirt as slim shoulders heave, once, twice— Stuttering sob, deep breath. It's all right. It's hard to believe, but for the moment, they try.

"We're here," Chad repeats, "we're together." to ground. Their face mashes into the hollow of Raven's neck, eyes screwed shut. "Cornwell..."

They sigh, go slack. "Yeah. We're Cornwell. We'll be alright..."

There was almost no need, even, to look.

If there was one thing he knew about the boy, it was that he would have a bead on every face that moved through the space, regardless of its relevance to the situation. It was a constant of any place that Chad trod, and it was a constant of any place that Raven trod, as well.

It was harder to find the boy in a crowd, due to his size, but there were tells. The peripheries of the clustered groups, those who had begin to come together, those empty spaces along the walls where it may have been less claustrophobic; other faces he might have seen nearby, those for the lad to fuss over; or, most tellingly, the gaps in that crush of bodies, the pockets where a body might have fit.

Raven's eyes zeroed in, saw the shift in the tide and pushed his way forward. "Chad?" Rose his voice over the crowd – if the boy were here, he would hear him.

"Chad?" Again, louder, trailing the now deliberate movement of the crowd, bodies being pushed to one side, and Raven stepped into those spaces, meeting the boy halfway, dropping to one knee before he had realized and crushing an arm about the boy's shoulders to draw him into a hug.

Drawing back, hands on Chad's shoulders, he began the tedious work – hen's work – of assessing the boy's face, his scrawny limbs, pressing gently against his torso. "Are you all right? No damage?"

Chad would never write off the call of a familiar voice as a spectre, no matter how impossible it would seem, no matter what time has passed— This voice is one he knows well even in slumber, one he seeks like shelter in a storm. Words stick in their throat on the first attempt to respond, a mumble of lips all they can muster in stunned fatigue, at first—

Their second attempt bursts from their lungs all the louder for it.

"Raven!" They are not tall or strong enough for elbows and shoulders to have effect. They are too tired to slip through the cracks like water, and tumble more like a rock through a grate.

And so, the pebble of their form tumbles directly into Raven's waiting arms with a vengeance, crashing into, holding onto him like a lifeline. Chad looks like shit. He is alive. They are both alive.

In this fleeting moment, his face seeks shelter in the comfort of Raven's shoulder, pressing into it to inhale leftover traces of smoke, blood, sweat, dirt— He doesn't care, doesn't care as his fingers scrabble to crush in turn, fiercely. A hiccup, the first syllable of Uncle, before he pulls back, teeth grit on the word, grinding over the next:

"I'm fine," they are visibly shaking, and look like shit, "I hid," uttered with deep shame, "I'm—" A hiss as something tender is bothered, tears springing to their eyes again.

"—Fffck." A shaky breath. "I can handle it." Not untrue. "I..."

And the entire time their hands are still scrambling in turn to do the same, the motions of a boy used to picking up after others, shaking with the near miss of losing another anew. Cherishing hen's limbs get underfoot of eachother. That doesn't matter.

What does: Their voice is small. Tears are starting to form tracks down the dirt on their face. "Uncle Raven..."

[lycianlynx]

Al's seen better days. He's definitely seen worse ones, too. Being caked in mud wasn't awfully out of the ordinary. Being bruised, nicked, and battered was only a little less common. The twisted ankle is pretty annoying, but he's not moving that much slower for it, so it's tolerable. And he hasn't noticed anything of his missing, either, so that's a plus.

It all also means there's little distraction from what all's happened. There's no time to slow down, so he makes his way through the halls, finding who he can so he knows who he needs to look for when he heads back out. Each familiar face—

"Chad!"

—lessens the pressure in his chest a little.

Al's voice is loud enough that he can be heard from across the room, but he's quick enough that the distance is closed in no time flat.

"You're here too." Well, duh. Obviously. Or maybe not so obvious—he wouldn't have been surprised if Chad had still been out there fighting tooth and nail by himself, given his track record. But he's glad he's not. "What the hell happened out there? Did you see the kinda weapons they were packing?"

(He himself hadn't, actually. But he'd felt what'd hit their bridge, and that'd been enough to know this was a different ballgame.)

He looks the other boy head to toe. It's not subtle.

"They didn't get you too bad, did they?"

"Al," Chad breathes. Somehow, they hadn't been too worried about him for even a second. He could wind up in Hell and claw his way out, they think. Something about the guy... Mm. Nothing short of death, if it could even catch him, would keep him from keeping on, tooth and nail— They feel stupid just thinking it, but he makes them think that way, for once. Fuckin' maniac.

Still, he's alive, too. And they're so, so relieved.

"'I'm alive," Chad offers in return, which should be enough— Though they're too tired to attempt to inject any mirth or bite, leaving their tone hollow. Can't shake off the old dark hound that looms larger than ever, latched firmly now onto their leg, jaws locked and unrelenting to try for more. It's all they can offer, at all. Hours in the Goddess' Throat, of fighting their way towards any sliver of hope, of finding nothing and having to flee, of hiding, left them just as hollowed-out and aching.

Brown eyes fix on blue, like looking for a lodestar. Al is still bright, vibrant even in the dim light of the cave. It's hard not to look to him in the moment. They are so goddamned relieved. And still...

"The flash, right?" they grimace. "Everything was shaking. And the— There were monsters like husks and rocks..."

A huff, curt, bitten. "—Fuck do you even do against something like that?"

[lycianlynx]

There was almost no need, even, to look.

If there was one thing he knew about the boy, it was that he would have a bead on every face that moved through the space, regardless of its relevance to the situation. It was a constant of any place that Chad trod, and it was a constant of any place that Raven trod, as well.

It was harder to find the boy in a crowd, due to his size, but there were tells. The peripheries of the clustered groups, those who had begin to come together, those empty spaces along the walls where it may have been less claustrophobic; other faces he might have seen nearby, those for the lad to fuss over; or, most tellingly, the gaps in that crush of bodies, the pockets where a body might have fit.

Raven's eyes zeroed in, saw the shift in the tide and pushed his way forward. "Chad?" Rose his voice over the crowd – if the boy were here, he would hear him.

"Chad?" Again, louder, trailing the now deliberate movement of the crowd, bodies being pushed to one side, and Raven stepped into those spaces, meeting the boy halfway, dropping to one knee before he had realized and crushing an arm about the boy's shoulders to draw him into a hug.

Drawing back, hands on Chad's shoulders, he began the tedious work – hen's work – of assessing the boy's face, his scrawny limbs, pressing gently against his torso. "Are you all right? No damage?"

Chad would never write off the call of a familiar voice as a spectre, no matter how impossible it would seem, no matter what time has passed— This voice is one he knows well even in slumber, one he seeks like shelter in a storm. Words stick in their throat on the first attempt to respond, a mumble of lips all they can muster in stunned fatigue, at first—

Their second attempt bursts from their lungs all the louder for it.

"Raven!" They are not tall or strong enough for elbows and shoulders to have effect. They are too tired to slip through the cracks like water, and tumble more like a rock through a grate.

And so, the pebble of their form tumbles directly into Raven's waiting arms with a vengeance, crashing into, holding onto him like a lifeline. Chad looks like shit. He is alive. They are both alive.

In this fleeting moment, his face seeks shelter in the comfort of Raven's shoulder, pressing into it to inhale leftover traces of smoke, blood, sweat, dirt— He doesn't care, doesn't care as his fingers scrabble to crush in turn, fiercely. A hiccup, the first syllable of Uncle, before he pulls back, teeth grit on the word, grinding over the next:

"I'm fine," they are visibly shaking, and look like shit, "I hid," uttered with deep shame, "I'm—" A hiss as something tender is bothered, tears springing to their eyes again.

"—Fffck." A shaky breath. "I can handle it." Not untrue. "I..."

And the entire time their hands are still scrambling in turn to do the same, the motions of a boy used to picking up after others, shaking with the near miss of losing another anew. Cherishing hen's limbs get underfoot of eachother. That doesn't matter.

What does: Their voice is small. Tears are starting to form tracks down the dirt on their face. "Uncle Raven..."

[lycianlynx]

The grounds were being overrun. What was a bastion of resistance at first begins to shrink, to crumble, the numbers of knights and students bloodied and bruised far outnumbering those of their assailants', abled assailants far outnumbering them in turn— No sooner is one cut down, burnt to ashes, shot full of arrows do two more take their place, unrelenting.

Monsters, men. Leathery wings and spears and fire. Home is collapsing, falling on itself. Chad doesn't even have the space to look for familiar faces.

They can only hold their ground in this rapidly losing battle. Adrenaline is the only thing holding their body together, fear all that guides their focus, ignoring bloody wounds and aching limbs and heaving breath to exchange knife for bow anew and follow the mage's lead to take out those that approach—

Their formation breaks in the chaos. Their defenses crumble. In the distance, dying screams, falling thuds. It is only a matter of time. In their mind, slow-motion, a replay of that scene from years ago: Red on blue? On flow'ring-beds? Here, red on lavender-night, on violet-bright, red on russet-stone, on meadowshine, on snow and roses. They are still not strong enough. They have never been strong enough. They will never be strong enough.

They don't want to run again. They don't have the strength to run again. Hot tears prick their eyes, shaking hands missing marks. They kick off a snarling demon with a hoarse shout. They cannot find the professor with the sword, the student with the steady voice. But in their periphery, the mage collapses.

Red on meadowshine. She has to run. They have to run. There are still knights, fighting, enough for their little-unit to fall to the wayside after they crumple. No path for escape? No. Chad can— They can find an opening again.

Small, thin hands grasp a limp body as a child begins to flee.

unit 6 has retreated!

;... fin.

HEAT ABNORMAL. // UNIT 6

[lycianlynx]

Chad had been in the mountains with the others, the Eagles marching their way home when the smoke began to rise in the distance. They'd run out and ahead with the other scouts to parse the situation— Seen the forces closing in to surround them. In the distance, smoke continues to blot out the sky. The sky begins to grow blood-red.

The situation paints a picture uncomfortably familiar: Freshened fears of losing home, losing what is dear rear their heads again, ever growing back every time Chad cuts one down, gnashing their teeth and wailing their despair. It's hard not to join in the chorus.

These are the times they grow most reckless. Where most of the scouts double back to appraise the others of the situation, Chad is one of the few trying to find a way to break through— And he is no contingent, just one sliver of a boy, so by some miracle, he manages.

So he runs, homeward-bound, and runs, and stumbles, and runs, and wonders when he had begun to think of Garreg Mach as home— It's not the place, but the people, the people—

Home looks worse than he could have imagined by the time he gets there. The grounds have been plunged into chaos, bodies and debris littering the floor, monstrosities and cloaked men alike roaming the hall— The thief presses himself close to a wall, clutching their bow with white-knuckled grip, creeps towards a surviving group to offer news, any kind of help—

Unit 6 attacks Enemy Unit 8: Cloaked Figures. Unit 6: 4d10 + 4 + 5 = [10, 5, 2, 2] + 9 = 28 Enemy Unit 8:  4d10 = [10, 8, 4, 3] = 25 Both sides lose 1 HP!

But they are already in a skirmish, and it is all Chad can do to throw themself into the fight alongside them with desperate fervor, swinging knives to clear the way towards them. Professors— These are Professors! Where are their students?! And what does it matter that he's tired, what does it matter that he's already battered from the journey—

Because even if Garreg Mach isn't quite home, it harbors people he loves, and he could die fighting before he sees them come to harm again. And, God, he can't die yet, he needs to tell someone, anyone, of what is being choked out in the Goddess' Throat, because that carries precious shards of home, too—

"The Eagles are trapped in the mountains," Chad gasps out between swings, between draws. "Surrounded, on the way back, d-don't— Don't count on them gettin' here on time—"

@spinnerofhope @heriteur @fluxrspar

HEAT ABNORMAL. // UNIT 6

[lycianlynx]

✧ DECEMBER 2024

status: passed

skill points acquired: 1 (1 monthly) total skill points: 36 -> 37 skill point allocation: weapon x () -> weapon x ()

accessed: mastery:

completed threads: ✦ dropped threads: ✦ threads not yet allocated to mastery: (6)

[lycianlynx]

As the festivities sweep across Garreg Mach, one member of the Black Eagles House finds herself partaking in a time-honored tradition—one that celebrates the warmth of camaraderie and the strengthening of bonds. A time to forget about the barriers of status that divide, and to embrace all that brings people together.

“chaddy~!” dorothea calls out in a sing-song voice, having chosen to drop the second half of their nickname, lest it earn her a scowl on such a cheery day.  "i’ve been meaning to pay you a visit. not that you’re in trouble or anything like that—just to see how you’ve been doing." she extends a gift bag with a subtle flourish, its deep crimson coloring reminiscent of their banner. “today, i’m here as a festive envoy! this is for you to enjoy." inside, they will find a small box of marzipan candies—delicately molded into whimsical shapes. nestled beside them is a snow globe ornament; a fragile, dainty thing containing miniature snow-dusted trees. “may you have a lovely holiday~! let's talk soon, yes?"

The shortened version of the nickname has the desired effect in two ways: One, that Chad doesn't immediately feel like reverting into a sheaf of crumpled paper upon hearing it, and two, that Dorothea's allowed to call them a nickname at all.

"Oh, Dorothea—" They haven't ever associated her voice with trouble bar a bit of embarrassment, either, so her choice of greeting draws a little huff from them, amused if not a little incredulous. "What's—?"

Before they can properly ask about whatever she's toting around, it's already been placed in their hands: A gift? They flinch, momentarily, suddenly guilty they don't have anything on hand to gift her in return.

Though they hardly have time to point this out or dwell on the issue, she's obviously in a hurry and already on her way. So instead, Chad holds the bag carefully, bowing their head in sheepish gratitude.

"Yeah," they answer, "thanks, you too. See you later."

And by then, they'd have something ready to give back to her.

[lycianlynx]

✧ NOVEMBER 2024

status: passed

skill points acquired: 1 (1 monthly) total skill points: 35 -> 36 skill point allocation: weapon x () -> weapon x ()

accessed: mastery: archer

completed threads: ✦ dropped threads: ✦ threads not yet allocated to mastery: (6)

[lycianlynx]

Araphen had always been temperate at best and stormy at worst; caught between the peaks bordering Ilia to the north and those of Bern by the ocean to the south, the weather could be moody if not tempestuous, but cradled close enough to the balmy ocean to avoid being outright frigid. Blizzards have hardly ever been a reality to him, and so even a winter already spent at Garreg Mach still couldn't familiarise them with the signs of its lurking dangers...

But Chad is still sharp enough to navigate a sudden storm, and with a second pair of eyes better suited to conditions like these, he and Hugh have managed to find shelter. The cottage isn't quite dilapidated, but abandoned, run-down and cold— So even with this miracle in mind, it's only barely enough, especially if they can't get a fire going. The boy suppresses a shiver, ever having dealt poorly with the cold, an ungloved hand testing the air flow in the room to catch any stray drafts.

"Don't have to tell me that twice," he mutters, wandering a few silent steps forward— Their palm meets a split in the wood that isn't an obvious breach, but is still letting the cold in, before they turn around to try and look for anything of use: To keep the cold out, to keep the warmth in, to generate any more... Could any oof the furniture be used as kindling?

In their seeking, their feet no longer fall silently; After all, they are tired and cold, and haven't had the time or space to learn what floorboards creak and which don't. Brown eyes dart up as Hugh rounds, voice firm.

They are cold and tired and not a stranger to that, at least. Maybe that's why something about the tone raises their hackles— Or maybe they've just been on some kind of invisible hair-trigger already? Their brow pinches reflexively, the corner of their mouth drawing to bare teeth.

"Like hell I—" A bitten exhale, a huff. No, snapping won't help. Never does during a storm.

"At least tell me what to do. And not just 'stay put'."

Cloudy with a chance of Insecurity

[Anniversary Mission - Heavy Armor]

[lycianlynx]

Elbows touching the tabletop just slightly (beyond the eyes of manner-minded adults – surely Chad would never tell!), fingertips lightly pressed to the corners of her jaw, Maria watches and waits, waits and watches (and chews on the last of her tart) as they seem to consider her question. They consider everything she says, it feels like, even when she’s being silly. She asks them a question because she’s curious, and they hear her, then scrunch up their brow and think.

"Hee hee…” A soft, undisruptive sound. Wind or thunder, is it? Rose-colored eyes drift to the side contemplatively… then pop! back to him quite suddenly, head bobbing in a nod before falling the rest of the way into its cradle. “Yeah, I can see it! Wind is so fast, and thunder can be a little hard to work with, but I think you could do it! You’ve got really sharp eyes!”

Halfway to extolling the virtues of ice magic the last she’d seen it (within the pages of a book, a lifetime lost), the little cleric startles. Leaning toward them at once, her hand hovers over their back fretfully.

“Are you alright?” Worry upturns her brow, but when Chad eventually recovers she only flashes them a quiet smile and withdraws, wordlessly pushing his glass toward him instead. “Mhm,” she continues eventually, “If you ever get the chance to meet her, her name’s Marianne! She’s a bit shy, but she’s so sweet and kind! And her magic sparkles in the light… I hope you get the chance to meet her one day!”

Her back returns to proper posture, spine straight as she taps her chin in thought. “Hmm… I don’t know as many Eagles as Lions, but…” After a moment, her index finger pops up, and another follows after it with each succedent name. “Oh! You have Professor Byleth and Miss Deirdre as your teachers, don’t you? And Lincie, too– oh! Professor Elincia, I mean… hee hee. Professor Byleth seems a little deadpan at first, but they’re actually pretty playful and easygoing! And Lincie and Miss Deirdre are both so warm and friendly – they really care about their students a lot! Both of them teach magic, too.”

“Then, classmates… Hm…” A pinkie finger pops up, and thereafter a thumb. “Micaiah and Sara are both really good with magic, too! Micaiah’s really reliable! I don’t know Sara as well, but her magic is really impressive! And Edelgard, of course! I got to work with her on a mission once – she’s calm, and steadfast… and really cool! I bet she’s a great house leader, hee hee.”

Ah, she hadn’t meant to ramble. Sheepishness touches her expression once more, vented in a bubbly little laugh. “Sorry,” she continues, “I didn’t mean to talk so much! What I meant is… I bet you’ll have a lot of fun with the eagles, too!”

Head cants to the side, pointer finger now jabbing lightly into her own cheek, an unmistakably mischievous glint in her eye.

“But if you ever want to practice magic, you don’t have to stick to practicing with your own house!” Eyes squeeze shut, grin pulling giddily back to its corners. “We can practice together sometime, too! What do you think?”

[lycianlynx]

It takes all they have to resist flinching at the nickname. They fail, and flinch anyways, turning around with an expression part alarmed and part mortified— And surely would've fled the scene if it weren't for the fact they remember who exactly bestowed that stupid fucking nickname on them in the first place.

She's lucky they like their impression of her more than they hate the nickname; Mirth was already scarce on that night of tricks and treats, and only a handful of people helped restore it, her among them. Chad schools their expression with an apologetic wince, pushing their collar to their mouth.

Either way, they're still never putting the cat ears on again, thanks.

"Huh? Yeah, I do—" The hand at their collar drops, instead already reflexively reaching for the near-mountain of things she's carrying, before she even asks. Their 'yes' drags its heels far behind their actions, and they've already gently wrested the bulk of things from her grip by the time they've realised they're already helping before they've processed with what.

Pieces fall roughly into place quickly after that. A production, is it? Even if they're cajoled into... Acting, this wouldn't be the first time they've been dragged on stage, but this looks more like preparatory stage and costume-setting...

Damn it. Hopefully it is just that. She asked for dextrous hands, after all, not steady words or a winning smile. They don't hate the stage, just the spotlight...

"Sure, just—" They quash the doubts until they know for sure, shrug a plank upwards so it sits securely, carefully wrap up a fabric so it doesn't snag or drag. "Who do you mean, he? I'm hap— Fine, with helping. Just tell me what."

[ ♫ ]  ─  * 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬, 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚, 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐝-𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧!

distress / +1 authority

[lycianlynx]

Footsteps echo through the stone tunnels. A curiosity indulged, a slip through a hidden passage in the monastery and down, down, down, into a dank and dark place with distant murmurs of life further below— Their statements as guide peter out as their surroundings turn unfamiliar. The paths are kept well-enough, hinting at regular traffic, more than just maybe one curious rat sniffing about at a time.

This isn't normal. Why is this beneath the monastery? They should get out of here. Chad needs to investigate this on his own time. They aren't supposed to be here, but since when has a spy and scout cared about where he should and shouldn't be? If this much of a vast network's been hidden right under their noses, what in God's name has been kept secret otherwise?

Disquieted, Chad pulls Lugh into a narrower passage, one that echoes in its emptiness. There's a brief moment where they think about talking, when they hear it: Behind that empty echo, a dim roar— Where is it? Through the wall? Motioning for quiet, Chad presses their fingertips to the wall (cold, damp, grimy—but there's a resonance, it's hollow behind) and—

Falls through?

They stifle the resulting shout in their throat.

@verdantsunflower

from the dragon's wake // lugh + chad

outrealm gate ✧ no point

[lycianlynx]

Steam fills the kitchen, savory and warm. Cauldrons and massive pots, dented and well-loved, bubble away on the fires, hands upon hands chopping and dicing vegetables, mushrooms, potatoes, meat and marrow thrown in alongside onions for the base of the broth. The smell reminds Chad of home before Bern, back when they helped haul the potato sack over to Father's big pot on the floor and peel potatoes and carrots. The clatter and chatter less so...

Still, some part of them's glad they aren't helping out wiith the onions at the moment. The other part is glad they're helping at all. Some third part, wildly, thinks that there could be more—

Because there isn't nearly enough here to properly make all of that to a filling stew, more water than meat and vegetables. They've seen the amount of people that rely on this place. They know what charity looks like, and they know what it looks like as its bleeding dry, still trying to feed and provide with cracked, bony hands.

In their own camp, more than enough food to spare just enough for the stew to be filling. In the Knights' chests, more than enough to buy extra should they run out. What they have right now will inevitably leave leftovers to waste. There's a plan there, stirring, tossing and turning.

Unaffected, small but calloused hands keep expertly chopping bell peppers into palatable chunks. They don't necessarily even need to watch their own knifework, so brown eyes begin to wander as nimble fingers roll another bell pepper to themself to hack up.

Ah, wait, there. Did they see that wrong?

"Elffin," they call out, a touch surprised, punctuated by the sound of blade to cutting board. "don't tell me you're here for the soup?"

@moriddyn

left to stew // elffin + chad

soup kitchen ✧ no point