#;file. an ally | marth

[beholdenning]

Thundering. Shouting. Artificial light filters through hazy particles in the air. The walls vibrate as Denning lifts its head from where it sits on the floor, curled-up, sensing conflict and following it like a hound on a scent. The reality of the arena remains in the forefront of their protocols, but again, it feels dizzyingly real— The haze is affecting it too, somehow.

The morph knows not what to make of it, but it is not the inescapable pressure of water, crushing from without, bloating from within.

There is giggling outside of the barricaded door, the chiming of bells, the scraping of knives. Hands and blades reach through the cracks to try and pry their way inwards. The metal cracks as one particularly small hand finds purchase, and with a great, thundering slam, it collapses inwards.

roll 3d5: 4, 5, 5. a naughty child and two hetero-sapiens appear.

Denning rolls to its feet to meet the intruders, the blade of an axe scraping along the steel floor in the arc it brings to bear, sparking as it goes—

death blow activates! denning attacks hetero-sapien b with killer axe (monster breaker)! roll: 13 + 2. crit! 8 damage. hetero-sapien b 0/8HP. agender win! hetero-sapien b has been defeated!

Cleaving like butter into a malformed skull with a sickening crunch and a gush of shimmering-black. There is a pause as the body crumples on the other end of the weapon. A small chitter leaves her throat as she pulls the axe back, failing to mirror the noise from the child that had slipped past her...

She turns, blank-faced as ever. Are the others here?

BUNKER UP: @arcstral @craneswings @firelles @optimismxmagicism

heteros? during MY pride month? // team 6 - bronze round

[arcaediaen]

@arcstral sent: Marth blinks the growing film of wetness from his watering eyes. Natural reaction to entering the unventilated, dust-wedded stables, as if an invisible force had tweaked him forward by chains around his feet. He knows not why instinct has led him here. Only that he has found himself at this false destination quicker than he could realize he has digressed from his true one. The smells that greet him are nothing short of overwhelming.

But lurking beneath the faint drafts of commerce entering from the cracked windows, the dull edge of stenches belonging to an equine variety, is another biotic smell. That which could not be easily forgotten, in fact. A timeless pungency, both most familiar and least suitable to the nobly instated Hero-King—or rather; to any who found themselves engaged to a well-flown knight. Ah, yes…

Pegasus dung.

The source to which it belonged attracted a cursory eye, then two that fastened with such bewildered attachment to the steed it was as if they could scarcely believe their sights. The pegasus enclosed within the stall before him was one he knew. “—Deimos? It cannot be…! You… What are you doing here?”

No illusory magic could mask this well-acquainted stallion from his memory; all chances of deception scattered like crows at the crack of a ballista shot as it proceeded to file its square teeth upon the king’s shoulder. Most certainly in its best effort to chew through the fabric. A wet patch ensued from the accruing saliva but this inconvenience, this clear and blatant expression of dislike, welled only a thankful laugh from within Marth.

“As troubled by the prospect of our friendship as ever! Could we not reach a temporary ceasefire? If your mistress is here, I would hope to reacquaint with her in one piece…” The wistful stroke of his fingers through the neatly combed mane is a distraction under-bellied by hope, a fluttering butterfly excitement between his ribs. He learned then upon the next turn of his body that the invisible instinct from earlier had not guided him to the stables by any point of his feet, but that of his silent, knowing heart. It had led to her.

“...Caeda?" came his voice towards the figure in the doorway, pushed out on a disbelieving whisper.

For the most part, Caeda’s journey to Fódlan had been a smooth, uneventful affair.

        The journey was long and tiring and monotinous. For many moons, everywhere she turned, all that met her eye were the sky and sea. And though she was headed somewhere so far from home, she knew she’d find pieces of it within her companions already upon Fódlan soil. Anticipation makes her heart beat faster at the prospect of reuniting with those beloved allies. And in the deepest rooms of her heart, she contains the excitement that she shall meet again with him there as well — it has felt like a lifetime since she had seen her star last.

       There was no time to rest for her voyage upon alighting upon Fódlan’s distant shore; she is immediately whisked off for an interview at the monastery, a uniform fitting, and a dorm showing. And there is also the matter of Deimos, her darling steed that had remained by her side for the majority of the passage and refused to leave it upon arrival. It had taken some time, a host of hands, and one or two minor Deimos-inflicted injuries before the pegasus was coaxed into the stables of Garreg Mach, allowing Caeda to attend to the present host of tasks that had cropped up following her arrival.

       And finally, with the interview finished, uniform finished, and dormitory decided, does Caeda find herself free at last. Her steps carry her to the stables, where she wishes to see how Deimos has been faring. Both stallion and rider had, by all accounts, an exhausting day.

       Caeda steps over the threshold of the stables, and the sight of something out of place, somebody blue makes her stagger to a halt. It is not a color typical of the stables; it is the color of the sky and sea, the color of home.

       This somebody blue away from Deimos and towards her. He calls out her name, voice barely above a whisper, like it is magic.

       “...Caeda?”

       Her reaction is instant, and it is heart, not her thoughts, that spur her forward and to throw her arms around his neck.

       “My stars,” she says, breathless. “My stars, my stars, my stars.”

       For a moment, there is nothing but the two of them. Here in Fódlan, there is no decorum to worry of or prying eyes to witness the scene and spin it to gossip. It is simply them: Marth and Caeda.

       Caeda thinks she could have stayed there forever. It is only when Deimos gives an annoyed sounding whinny and tugs on her skirt does Caeda pull back, arms still looped around Marth’s neck. Her heart pounds so loudly she fears he will hear it, fears that it will betray the longing she had nursed for the better part of her journey to just catch a glimpse of him.

       “How I have missed you,” she breathes, “so, so dearly. I pray you have not been too lonely without me.”

[eretzyisrael]

Marthe Hoffnung Cohn is a French Jewish woman who worked as a spy in Nazi Germany, risking her life behind enemy lines to collect and deliver intelligence to the Allies.

Born in 1920 in northeastern France, near the German border, Marthe came from a religious family and was the fifth of eight children. A bright and precocious child, Marthe spoke fluent French and German. After high school, she worked at her sister Cecile’s hat shop.

In 1940, Nazi Germany invaded France and took over the Hoffnung sisters’ business. Marthe got a job as an interpreter, but was soon fired for being Jewish. She then enrolled in a local Red Cross nursing program. Her sister was taken to Auschwitz, and killed.

With blond hair and blue eyes, Marthe could pass as Aryan. Standing only 4’11”, she joined the French resistance and was assigned to intelligence work because of her perfect German.

Marthe became “Martha Ulrich,” a German nurse who was searching for her fiancee Hans, a soldier on the front lines. Marthe moved freely along the Nazis’ western front, using her nursing skills to care for soldiers and earn their confidence. As she traveled with the German army, Marthe methodically collected intelligence about troop movements, plans, weapons, and resources. She slipped back and forth between Nazi Germany and Switzerland, where she filed her intelligence reports.

One night, on her way to the Swiss border, she noticed a large German army encampment deep in the Black Forest. An offhand remark by a Nazi officer told her they were waiting to ambush Allied forces. Marthe hurried to relay the information to her commander. Marthe’s intelligence led the Allies to move up their invasion and successfully penetrate the Siegfried Line into German territory.

After Germany’s surrender in May 1945, Marthe remained in the country serving as an intelligence officer for the French army. In 1948 she returned to France, and then enrolled in nursing school in Geneva, where she met Major Lloyd Cohn, an American medical student, in 1953. They married and moved to the United States.

Marthe worked as a nurse and had two children. A doting mother and grandmother, Marthe never mentioned her wartime career as a spy because she didn’t think anybody would believe her. Marthe’s family didn’t find out about her remarkable heroism until 1999, when she was awarded the Medaille Militaire, a prestigious French military award.

In 2002, Marthe published her memoir, “Behind Enemy Lines: The True Story of a French Jewish Spy in Nazi Germany.” Today, Marthe is 96 and lives in Pacific Palisades, CA. She maintains a busy speaking schedule, inspiring audiences with her dramatic story of courage and determination.

For bravely risking her life to stop the Nazi war machine, we honor Marthe Cohn as this week’s Thursday Hero at Accidental Talmudist.

[beholdenning]

They notice the flow of magic too late to slow down, and Ewan trips over the gamblng paraphrenalia at their feet with an odd noise.

That is a student. Immediately, Denning beckons the wyvern into a turn to swoop down again, if only to make sure he is alright— But in doing so (the boy seems fine) it is approached once more by Céline.

She speaks, once again weaving golden light, and in tandem with it, a tale; One Denning had asked for, one the morph listens to raptly, unsure as to the reasons why itself. There is no room for rebuttal to mortal care, pragmatism stalled, for the moment, for this is part of the precious few seconds that pragmatism needs anyhow.

A classic hero, likable and capable. But: 'Their once upon a time was closer than they thought'. A subverted cliché— A prelude to the story most would deem worth telling. Still, it is told.

If it is told, Denning would listen. Unfortunately, the gambler begins to saunter up to them to see what has them so interested out of its periphery, and it would ill deign for the story to be interrupted. The morph snaps the wyvern into action, hurtling out of a standstill to catch the man off guard—

denning attacks maddest hatter with kaladanda! roll: 20 - 2. crit! nine of gods own motherfucking damage points! maddest hatter 0/25HP*. denning absorbs 1 luck!

If nothing else, he seems genuinely surprised. He crumples for a moment before the impact of the axe, staggering one, two steps back— But instead of screaming in pain or begging for his life, he begins to laugh, shaking his head and raising both his arms.

"Lucky you!" He congratulates, before snapping his fingers. "Let's go for a streak."

unbeaten activates! terrain changes to bacchanalia!

Lights flash. Fog pours out over the golden casino grounds, and the brassy music picks up in pace— Strobe lights and slot jingles and the outpouring sound of drink and coin threaten to overwhelm the senses. Two ten-sided dice fall from the heavens, landing on a 6 and 9, before two more roll out after, the four floating into the air to spin wildly, tantalisingly. It seems all of them were forced into this game with no recourse...

... Something burns acrid in the back of its throat. It's brow knits, imperceptibly, irritated with the insistent attempts to pull it into inanities. It has no use for games. Pushing past the dice, it swats at one aggressively when it tries to drift into Denning's face—

roll to beat is 9! denning rolls to hit: 9. barely hit! roll d10: 1.

It jumps with the impact, spins off its axis, then stops, briefly, to mock the morph with a one. A slow jingle in minor key follows in tandem. Denning is scarce given time to react before an entire shot glass is thrown at its head: Though the glass harmlessly bounces off the golden ward, the sight of the crumpled-up playing card that tumbles out as it shatters fills them with an inexplicable gravity: A single ace of broken hearts.

teatime's over is nullified by light rune. denning is inflicted with card suite: broken heart.

@arcstral help us mr fire emblem

two of a kind // team 6 silver round

[arcstral]

❛  𝐓𝐡𝐲𝐫𝐬𝐮𝐬 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫  ❜   —   Maria  &  Marth.

     Blue Lion mission board.        ◞        @princessmacedon        ◞        Authority +1.

‘You’re given the bad news with the typical aristocratic tact: it would be prudent to recuse yourselves from the investigations as they are carried out. That is to say, that many of the Alliance knights won’t allow you to enter the Gloucester mansion to see the crime scene for yourselves. It seems like not everyone got the memo, though, as a pair of greenhorn knights seem willing to escort you inside. They’re suspicious, but if you act like you’re suppose to be here hopefully they’ll let it slide.’ [grants Authority +1]

               CLAMORING   WITH   HARSH   accusations, pointed fingers, and cautiously suppressed voices alike, the air itself was a sea of disturbance from the very tip of the Alliance encampment to its heart. Frankly, it wasn’t very difficult to see why. Concentric circles of straight-faced knights and fretting nobles extended outwards from the manor—the crime scene, in fact—as less involved onlookers skirted along the sidelines to spectate. The Blue Lions have caught word of the relic’s larceny a fair bit earlier than these newly transpired crowds, of course, especially considering their earlier treatment by the personnel. Escorted out by an unsmiling wall of steel-clad knights with only marginally kinder words of explanation to follow. 

               ‘While we appreciate the concern, the disappearance of the Thyrsus relic is largely a domestic issue. For the moment, it would be best for our esteemed foreign guests to excuse themselves,’ One well-spoken noble had cited at the visible questions flitting across their faces, an able specialist of public relations that he was. More politically savvy individuals like Marth could only view such words for what they were. An incriminating suggestion of involvement.. The removal of those perceived to be potentially responsible from the very premises. In other words; they have been ruled not as allies, but as suspects.

             For however much the hammer fell upon innocent men and women, what could one do except smile and play the act? He has followed the rank-and-file of his peers to the outdoors, mindful of the invisible eggshells in every long lingering gaze and sideways glance shot their way, and quietly.. Bided his time. A silent observation of the itinerary around him, like a battlefield, produces a chink in the fortifications: the guardsmen. Stationed towards the back of the mansion were more inexperienced Alliance knights, presumably where another and far less watched door led inside. Here is where Marth prepares to head for his investigation, shoulders straight as the horizon and head held ingenuously high like a man with nothing to hide.. 

              —Until his confident, unassuming footsteps stutter to a halt. Shortly ahead he sights the familiar hues of a certain 'Macedonian' palette; red hair bright as a flame, round inquisitive eyes scouting the same location as him except from behind a garden hedge. Clearly, he was not the only ‘curious’ soul looking to make discoveries. Smiling, the Altean crouched and inched closer until he closed the distance, then laid his fingers upon her shoulder. Slowly, at least, as not to startle too badly. “I am plainly surprised to find you here, Maria, though perhaps I shouldn’t be,” His voice thrummed quietly behind her, mindful of the guards within potential distance of an earful. “Have you also caught on to the suspicions leveled at our house? Ah, well, on second thought, perhaps I am underestimating your natural curiosity. Regardless.. Whatever your reasons and whatever mine, our goal is only the same. I suggest we join our efforts.”

[eretzyisrael]

Marthe Hoffnung Cohn is a French Jewish woman who worked as a spy in Nazi Germany, risking her life behind enemy lines to collect and deliver intelligence to the Allies.

Born in 1920 in northeastern France, near the German border, Marthe came from a religious family and was the fifth of eight children. A bright and precocious child, Marthe spoke fluent French and German. After high school, she worked at her sister Cecile’s hat shop.

In 1940, Nazi Germany invaded France and took over the Hoffnung sisters’ business. Marthe got a job as an interpreter, but was soon fired for being Jewish. She then enrolled in a local Red Cross nursing program. Her sister was taken to Auschwitz, and killed.

With blond hair and blue eyes, Marthe could pass as Aryan. Standing only 4’11”, she joined the French resistance and was assigned to intelligence work because of her perfect German.

Marthe became “Martha Ulrich,” a German nurse who was searching for her fiancee Hans, a soldier on the front lines. Marthe moved freely along the Nazis’ western front, using her nursing skills to care for soldiers and earn their confidence. As she traveled with the German army, Marthe methodically collected intelligence about troop movements, plans, weapons, and resources. She slipped back and forth between Nazi Germany and Switzerland, where she filed her intelligence reports.

One night, on her way to the Swiss border, she noticed a large German army encampment deep in the Black Forest. An offhand remark by a Nazi officer told her they were waiting to ambush Allied forces. Marthe hurried to relay the information to her commander. Marthe’s intelligence led the Allies to move up their invasion and successfully penetrate the Siegfried Line into German territory.

After Germany’s surrender in May 1945, Marthe remained in the country serving as an intelligence officer for the French army. In 1948 she returned to France, and then enrolled in nursing school in Geneva, where she met Major Lloyd Cohn, an American medical student, in 1953. They married and moved to the United States.

Marthe worked as a nurse and had two children. A doting mother and grandmother, Marthe never mentioned her wartime career as a spy because she didn’t think anybody would believe her. Marthe’s family didn’t find out about her remarkable heroism until 1999, when she was awarded the Medaille Militaire, a prestigious French military award.

In 2002, Marthe published her memoir, “Behind Enemy Lines: The True Story of a French Jewish Spy in Nazi Germany.” Today, Marthe is 96 and lives in Pacific Palisades, CA. She maintains a busy speaking schedule, inspiring audiences with her dramatic story of courage and determination.

For bravely risking her life to stop the Nazi war machine, we honor Marthe Cohn as this week’s Thursday Hero at Accidental Talmudist.

[beholdenning]

Denning weathers the returning hail of fire without so much as flinching, and while the blade of a heavy axe draws gashes into their armor, they still swing their cannon into the simulacrum of Dimitri's jaw without remorse. The illusion of their fellow Knight is then soon felled by their allies, unable to fend for himself with magic meant only for sieges, and all that remains is the Leader of the Blue Lions himself—

Looking strange, hollow yet savage, so unlike the composed, charismatic boy they know.

Ultimately, they care not whether this is an illusion. They would not do anything different, either, if this were a fight in reality. Given their quarry, they will fulfill their objective, ever returning to their Master's hand.

(So why are they compelled to finish this quickly? Not just for the sake of those they guard, but also...)

One remains. Stay diligent. They are relying on your strength.

denning attacks protector with holy blast (range+)! roll: 6 + 4. autocrit! 5 damage! protector 0/10HP.

The magicked fuse flashes, brightens as they swing the muzzle of the cannon back into the other's gut, blue and gold meeting for the barest of seconds, before deafening cannon-fire rings out one last time—

A breath. A howl.

Light unending.

A charred body slips off the end of their muzzle when all is done.

And then they turn away. The morph does not have the capacity to have pride in their kills, but this one feels emptier even than the rest. Either way, it is meaningless, and something else must be seen to first, turning to their allies for this exercise in this illusory realm.

Their hands are freed of their armament, all to ask: 'is everyone alright?'

❛ 𝐈 𝐀𝐦 𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐟 ❜

TOA Summer Arena 2024, Team 6 — Gold Round

[beholdenning]

Their enemies prove both elusive and difficult to read, moving with cruelty one second, mania for two and patternlessly the next— Mortals fluctuate, mortals suddenly bolster and falter with the tides of battle, but this is entirely new. Golden eyes search for patterns, but they prove difficult to find, lack of direction proving more troublesome from the weight of an axe less wieldly against nimbler foes than a stationary, shadowy pillar of a being. A swung blade is dodged, a held one swerved around. Arrows fall ineffectively to the floor, one after another. The 'children' still draw breath.

Something like sparks click in the back of their throat. (Irritation.) Had they a bow, they would no doubt be able to eliminate even these elusive targets. No matter, it thinks, dragging the edge of it along the steel floor with a screech, trying to seize an opportunity— After all, thieving hands grasp for anything in reach, at any moment they can. Greed is exploitable. It must be their downfall.

But vigilant as they are, mere vigilance is not enough. Much like they had with the young boy, two approach at once, the other two dispersing towards two students. Their focus follows the latter: Precepts and duty overwrite self-preservation as they attempt to advance past the two shadows that nip at their heels, but perhaps that is precisely what their foes have anticipated—

Clockwork always turns the same, after all. Constructs are not so different.

naughty child a attacks denning with carving knife at range! roll: 5 + 2. hit! 1 damage. denning 9/10HP. denning cannot counterattack! roll d2: 2. no poison! roll d3: 1. carving knife bounces! naughty child a attacks ewan with carving knife! roll: 7 + 2. hit! 1 damage. ewan 7/10HP. roll d2: 2. no poison!

"Wanna see a magic trick?"

One of the two intercept their path by plunging its knife into the back of their hand— Promptly ripping it free and dancing away towards Ewan to threaten the boy, as well. Unfeeling and singleminded, the Knight follows, disregarding the loosening tendon in their injured hand to attempt to block the arc of the child's blade, when the other at Denning's flank takes that brief moment where they readjust their grip to pull their axe from their hands. The knife finds its mark. A small failure resounds like a tally with a scratch of chalk.

And so they are unarmed. Their voicebox clicks, ra-tta-tat, larynx bobs with the noise. (Irritation.) Without thinking, they seize the next option they have, a lamp from the wayside with their injured hand, swinging it by the chain at the child assaulting Céline— It scrambles away, leaving the lamp to swing at air, but the harm is already done.

denning uses a thurible and transfers 2HP to céline! denning 7/10HP. céline 8/10HP.

Black ichor drips down the chain into the lamp. The red haze takes on an inky tint. The smoke, miraculously, works all the same. They do not notice.

'ok?' They ask instead, with a quick ring formed with index and thumb of the other hand.

heteros? during MY pride month? // team 6 - bronze round

[beholdenning]

"Mmah," He echoes, "Yu."

A step back, surveying the slowly-decaying integrity of their surrounds.

"Ssae," Another carved-up name, "Ee..." and the ready blade of the morph's axe drops a fraction, only briefly.

"... Denning." He offers, because he is the only one of their number who has not yet offered a name. The four other names continue to be paged through in cycles, in circles, burning into memory. Yes. Marth, Yuzu, Céline, Ewan. All allies.

Their allies are sharp-witted enough to likewise parse the function of the thuribles strewn about the bunker. That is satisfactory. What is not is these small figures scattering like disturbed songbirds, impossibly small yet disconnected from step-to-step— The first wisely chooses to assault the woman it had disarmed, the other two dance around the mortal child to bereave him of his belongings as well.

It is the effective choice to reclaim what is their allies' and theirs.

denning attacks naughty child a with killer axe! roll: 4. miss! 0 damage. naughty child a 4.5/6HP. naughty child counters with carving knife! roll: 17 + 2. hit! 1 damage. denning 9/10HP. roll d2: 2

Misjudging the size and speed of what looks like a child but is not, a third savage swing goes wide, only grazing the shape of a delighted giggle. A knife lunges in from Denning's periphery, instead, and the morph does not bother to dodge its rusty blade, instead using the movement to bring its weapon back to at least bludgeon— But that attempt is handily ignored as the creature cartwheels out of the way to gloat of its spoils to the very one it had stolen them from.

roll d3: 1. carving knife bounces! naughty child a attacks céline with carving knife! roll: 20 - 2. crit! 2 - 1 damage. céline 1/10HP. roll d2: 1. céline is inflicted with minor poison!

(... How familiar.)

heteros? during MY pride month? // team 6 - bronze round

[beholdenning]

Though the firm, valiant voice of the lance-wielding boy does little for Denning, it goes lengths to keep their morale as a whole intact: This is something even they can acknowledge, and to some extent, appreciate, especially when saddled with this... Capricious creature.

The wyvern in question stabilises, then glides low, before alighting on the ground, tutting over its own wounds. Some of their allies (their charges) likewise look worse for wear— The best they can do for them here is attack the enemy, and yet even that, thus far, is beyond them.

There is a fleeting thought of disembarking from its back to continue the fight on foot. It remains fleeting, replaced instead by noting one of the two healers directing her attention onto him. There is that old compulsion to refuse healing, that it is a construct, that the spell will not take, but there is no gentle wash of repair. Instead, a spell of protection weaves itself from light, serving as armor, if briefly.

A tale of a strong warrior... They do not fully accept the connection she is making, but the open ending intrigues them. Lips part, a soft intake of breath.

No sound forms, but shape barely does— tell me.

Even if later. Even if this fight ends in bitter failure, because failure in this transient place is exactly that, transient, but failures nonetheless.

Thus, they will hold on. They are more perfect than human, but far from perfect in perfection. Still they will guard these students, as decreed, as best they can. They turn away, dig in their spurs, and their steed takes off once more.

Quick as lightning, the gambler's gaze follows the motion, and four coins richochet into the air in response: All of them ping ominously upon one being pointed at and three streak golden towards the morph—

maddest hatter attacks with winner takes all! three bounces! rolls: 19, 18, 4. crit, crit, miss! light rune nullifies all hits! denning 1.5/10HP.

Only for all to burst against the shimmering rune Céline had woven. Once again, rider and steed begin to circle, hoping to keep the gambler's attention as long as they can...

fucking kill this guy @craneswings

two of a kind // team 6 silver round

[beholdenning]

Healing washes over their surface, but more importantly, it cascades over the scales of their own, now personal fickle beast— Responding to the care its given, it calms down from its blind panic, now warily eyeing the not-human upon its back. Denning pauses, hesitantly removing a hand from the reins and laying it against the wyvern's neck.

It doesn't seem amused, or even remotely happy, but it accepts its lot and begins a more controlled glide. When coins and chips begin to cascade from the heavens, though, they aren't able to avoid the brunt of the damage:

maddest hatter attacks denning with raise the stakes! roll: 10. hit! 1.5 damage. denning 8.5/10HP. denning is inflicted with break! 1 damage. maddest hatter attacks with winner takes all! two bounces! rolls: 7, 9. miss, barely hit! 1 damage. denning 6.5/10HP. denning is inflicted with cornucopia!

That same strobe light from before threatens to bounce off their wrist and disarm, and it is all Denning can do to cling to their weapon with all their might. Even without direction, the wyvern manages to avoid another hit entirely, another merely grazing its flank— It beeps again in displeasure, beginning to circle again, as if seeking healing. Only when it comes from the little boy does it dive down to attack, the willful creature not even offering thanks nor seeking direction. The morph has no choice but to adapt.

denning recovers from cornucopia! denning attacks maddest hatter with kaladanda! roll: 12 - 2. barely hit! 1.5 damage. maddest hatter 17.5/25HP.

The axe is extended in time with the dive, aiming primarily to catch the gambler on their downward arc— But instead of dodging, the gambler simply stays still, even tilting his head, spreading his arms out as if inviting a hit. Denning resolutely readies her swing, ready to take his arm off for his foolishness. The wyvern, on the other hand, seems perturbed at the man's confidence and veers out of the way in the last moment, resulting in the blade of the axe only lightly nicking the figure's shoulder.

"Oh, is that all you've got?" The peacock laughs, lowering his arms. "And here I thought you were going all in!"

And with that remark, he turns away as if leaving, flipping up another coin behind his back towards the morph and its steed—

maddest hatter counters with raise the stakes! roll: 17. crit! 5 damage! denning 1.5/10HP.

Another flash of light, another shriek from the increasingly displeased wyvern, and the gambler catches the coin on its path back down, closing his fist around it, then revealing it on the back of his hand.

teahouse distribution activates! seal defense does not trigger!

"And that's heads in my favor." he chuckles.

two of a kind // team 6 silver round

[beholdenning]

For that brief moment, golden eyes take in the familiar flurry of combat, of mortals joining hands and struggling against the odds—Even when one has his quintessence sapped, even as the bow is stolen from the girl's hands, even when blood seeps into the air, haze clearing haze in acts of seeming carelessness. Still the call for unity rings clear and the child is full of cheer, and while it is not the order, the being they once knew, it is close enough that they know their place.

Just as well. Already too far from those glistening, ornate censers, they know not how their ichor will interact with its function in this place. But they are vital for success. They must be kept lit. And thus, blood must continue to flow in their allies. With this, an affirmative nod is given to the two archers of their number, and slotting into the opposite role once more, they bring their axe to bear with a savage cleave,

denning attacks hetero-sapien a with killer axe! roll: 6+2. hit! 3 damage! hetero-sapien a 0/8HP. hetero-sapien a is defeated!

And though the misshapen not-mortal lurches to the side to avoid, the morph follows and sends its head flying, same as the first. It impacts with a sickly slop against the wall behind it, before the body collapses. Still, the giggling, the scraping, the shaking, the distant thudding of an arrhythmic heart does not cease.

'caution', it signals, first three fingers extended towards the collapsed doorway. 'more incoming'.

BE READY: @arcstral @craneswings @firelles @optimismxmagicism

heteros? during MY pride month? // team 6 - bronze round

[beholdenning]

A den of opulence opens before them. Brassy music announces itself from all sides, bright and warm lights casting all of them aglow from the mountains of coins, chips and dice surrounding them. The peacock-poised figure revels in the glitz, gleefully rolling the die, playing at the gambler cleaning house.

Denning does not, has never understood the appeal of the game for its own sake— For the gambler, this seems to merely be the epitome of thrill, of intoxication on luck's favor with no point nor function. But unlike the children, he is still a gambler, someone who carefully watches the tide of the game and plays accordingly. More than a fickle beast.

More importantly: This is a target the morph can somewhat begin to anticipate. Another axe lays heavy in her hands, but that is less a problem than the new mount she finds herself saddled upon— A wyvern, Bernese, sinew powerful under scales. It and its rider circle above the arena, the beast nigh unaware of the weight upon its back, the rider unaware in turn of its unawareness. Denning watches, attentive, as their allies carve a path forwards as their target begins to toy with them, revealing cards, flipping coins and chips and striking with a jewel-topped cane.

Reins finally in hand, the morph attempts to pull the wyvern into a dive—

denning attacks maddest hatter with kaladanda! roll: 5 miss! 0 damage. maddest hatter 19/25HP.

But the beast instead beeps in alarm as it disobeys to swerve into a roll, abruptly made aware of the inhuman presence on its back. The morph flinches, just barely, and tucks itself and its weapon close to the beast's body to not be flung off— A bright laugh echoes around the arena in return to the spectacle of poor flightsmanship.

maddest hatter counters with raise the stakes! roll: 6. hit! 1.5 damage. denning 8.5/10HP.

"Bravo, bravo. A tip for the show!" He cheers, applauding, then produces a coin from thin air, flipping it expertly into their flight path. What happens next, they could never have anticipated: He raises a hand and points at it, a playful finger-crossbow.

Strobe light richochets off the token, scalding. The wyvern shrieks.

two of a kind // team 6 silver round

[beholdenning]

Opulence, smoke and noise gives way to open air, clear skies. The weight pinning them and their fellows to the floor disperses, their damages repaired, injuries healed. They are free, for a moment, before the flow of battle pulls them under again. Hunter's senses piercing through the fog, the faces on the other side are familiar in more ways than one.

How strange it is, to not have such a gaze colored in ichor. Of that dual thought, they count among their foes: The Leader of the Blue Lions, ever dedicated, and that plucky boy that always takes care to ask how the morph is through the bend of his fingers.

There is no hesitation, even before the familiar. They have their orders. Still, Denning now habitually looks to Marth for guidance, his charisma and level demeanor undeniable, even to one unaffected by the former— He is the figurehead to rally around for optimal cooperation. To defend their allies... Yes, this seems a suitable task.

He has their offenses well in hand, as well. To that end, Denning steps towards Ewan and Céline, standing at the ready to intercept any stray attacks that may come their way with the armor they have been granted and what they identify as a hand-cannon in their hands.

... Mm. This is familiar enough. They load their munition with a spark of magic, golden eyes following the shadow flying overhead— Velocity, arc, projectile speed are taken into account, before they aim, and—

BOOM.

denning attacks blade of justice with wyrm blast (range+)! roll: 12 + 4. autocrit! -5HP. blade of justice 5/10HP.

The bolt of magic soars, but flies true— Striking the shade of that plucky boy with a burst of thunder, lightning. Flight path shakes, spirals downwards, before recovering again.

seal mov activates! blade of justice is inflicted with taunt (denning). blade of justice cannot counterattack!

Even from the distance, lifeless grey eyes bore into golden ones with empty ire. Good. She has his attention.

❛ 𝐈 𝐀𝐦 𝐚 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐰, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐟 ❜

TOA Summer Arena 2024, Team 6 — Gold Round