#{ requiem for who i once was 🎶 headcanon 🎶 }

[macuilsung]

@blade-of-fraldarius said via Send A Number to Experience One of My Muse’s Memories (open!):

22. A memory of the first time they did an activity they love // 21 21 21 21 21 GIMME BABY FORWIN

This was a bad idea. An awful, stupid, terrible idea. Just the thought of it crushed the already negligible amount of courage he managed to gather under the full weight of its heel. So, he hid behind one of the caravan’s carriages, hugging his instrument—the one thing he took with him when he did the unthinkable and ran weeks ago—close against his chest.

Him, playing before a bunch of people, as though it were effortless and not the most terrifying thing imaginable? There was no way he could bring himself to perform with a straight face, not in front of all those seasoned professionals! They’ll laugh. They’ll notice his voice cracking from fear, accidental dissonance from getting his fingering wrong, him plain forgetting lyrics to a common folk song... Any one thing can go wrong, and it was bad enough when he felt that he was about to faint in front of them all just moments ago!

Indech, he was just supposed to be a stagehand to these people, nothing more. Now this whole party of strangers wants to hear him play? No way could he ever do this.

“I-I can’t do this. I can’t do this! I’m so sorry, I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I’m sorry, I can’t do this-” A mantra of self-sabotage kept repeating from his lips if only to escape that same loathing echo in his mind, and his face grew hot as his eyes seared themselves shut under the threat of tears. Maybe this whole thing was a mistake. Maybe he should have just held his tongue and stayed in Gerth after all. Maybe he should just leave and go back! Wait, but then his father would never let him go again. Oh Goddess, what the hell had he done-?!

Then he felt a hand fall on his shoulder.

“Forwin?”

“-NO!” Sudden intrusion led to a sudden whirl of fright, with him shoving the hand away and putting a good few feet of distance between himself and its source for good measure. The quick scramble led to him nearly dropping his lute altogether, with thuds against its wood and twangs from its strings ringing until he managed to cling to it again.

“Forwin, keep calm! It’s only me!”

Forwin? ...oh. Yes, that was his name from this point on, wasn’t it?

As his body shook, his sights focused strongly on the woman who found him away from the rest of the ensemble, and sure enough, he was aware of his own surroundings again between wide-eyed blinks. Only now did he recognize her as Tristine, the troupe’s manager and one of its founders. Her blond hair, long and wispy, still retained some amount of youthful shine in spite of incoming greys, though it was hard to see it in the dark away from the campfire.

“Relax, child. Just breathe, you’re safe. Deep breaths now...”

Slowly, “Forwin” did as he was told, and Tristine took a few steps closer. The worst of his jitters ebbed away between each lungful of air taken in and out, but all he could do once he settled down was look away in embarrassment. He could not find the fortitude to look the coordinator in the eye, afraid to find what undoubtedly was an expression of shame, maybe even regret for taking him in at all! Please, Sothis, she wasn’t about to kick him out and leave him stranded in the middle of nowhere Faerghus, was she-?

Instead, all he felt was a soft hand comfortably caressing his cheek, with the warmth of her palm gently nudging him to look to her eyes in earnest. Once coaxed into doing so, Forwin—whose current disposition could be likened to that of a frightened woodland animal—only found concern and worry in her gaze, making for a sharp, distinctive contrast from the man he once called Father. It was almost enough to make him cry.

“I-I’m sorry, Tristine... I-... I couldn’t do it... I...” Shy of sobbing and lost for words, the young teen could not find the means to justify his running off like that, only to find her other hand reaching up towards him. He flinched when he felt it land on the top of his head, but found his eyes watering again for something other than abrupt pain. He couldn’t remember the last time someone tenderly stroked his hair, fingers lightly scratching at his scalp underneath the now mess of blond hair, like it was under her touch at this moment.

“Shhh... It’s alright, darling. Just let it pass, like bad weather,” she advised softly, letting her digits do their work in soothing the runaway noble. “Stage fright happens even to the best of us. It is nothing to be ashamed of, understand?”

“...mm.” All Forwin could add for a reply was a low nod and a nigh inaudible hum, allowing himself to unwind under her ministrations. He couldn’t help feeling a little pathetic on top of it all – no reasonable fourteen-year-old should be crying like this! He had to be more self-reliant. Yet, Tristine did not judge. There were no criticisms, no punishments, no dressing-downs of any sort. In their place was only unconditional care for the wayward boy she took in back in Remire. Was it wrong to want to stay like this for a few moments longer?

Then came the sound of approaching footsteps crunching cold grass.

“Is everything all right with the kid?”

That voice, Forwin recognized as that of Davina Leverock, the acting director and the other cofounder of the troupe that bears her namesake: Leverock Travelling Theatreworks. All he knew about the retired Mittelfrank star was that she retired from the stage a few years after he was born, before founding her own company with Tristine sometime later. Though he had not known her long, she seemed... nice enough – a bit on the abrasive side as a former star would probably comport themselves, but nice!

“I-I’m okay...” he answered to the raven-haired actress, albeit not without one last shaken breath, before Tristine would interject otherwise. “I’m... sorry I worried you.”

“If you’re truly sorry,” came Davina’s retort with mischief made plain on her face, choosing to take the young man at his word with a grin. “—then we’ll need you and your lute back with the others to get music going. Don’t worry, you won’t be singing by yourself – I can still carry a note or two, as can the rest of those bozos. Run along now.”

Hearing that that much pressure would be taken off of him finally put him much closer at ease, so he bowed to her with joint respect and relief. “Thank you, Davina.” Not a moment passed before he repeated those same actions for Tristine, and swiftly took his leave after no further prompting and one more deep breath on his part. Hopefully the rest of the troupe at the centre of camp were as accommodating...

However, the mood swiftly changed once he was out of sight and earshot from the leaders. With the two women by themselves, the actress turned to look back at her wife with worry of her own. Tristine’s hands were balled up and shaking while her breathing laboured, as though she did not know whether to first wallow in sorrow or give in to outright fury from what she just witnessed of their newest hire. Davina did not have to think too deeply as to why.

“Love, I understand you’re upset...”

Forwin thought he heard the sound of a fist punching the wood of the carriage.

...

“...Forwin, if you could get us started in A minor?”

Though not without incident, on this night came the first time he found something of a calling.

With a few plucks of his strings to ensure that his lute had not gone out of tune, Forwin turned to look around the modest circle of faces he was now a part of around the flames. Expectant eyes from cast and crew alike still managed to whittle down his mettle as before, and already his last nerve begged for him to turn tail and hide once more.

But before he gave in to that urge, his gaze settled on Tristine again on the other side of the fire, who curiously seemed to be nursing her hand as though it were sore. When she realized he was looking in her direction, she shared only a subtle nod and smile in return. If he hadn’t known better, he could have sworn her face was a little red as well... but he dismissed the notion as though it were simply the lighting’s fault.

‘Just breathe’ was what she told him, so he did exactly as he was told before. One slow intake, hold, one slow exhale. Breathe in slow. Hold. Breathe out slow...

...I’m safe.

I can do this.

Per Davina’s instruction, albeit with his eyes closed to better steel himself, the bard-to-be began to play at last. The melody from his strings, joined by an ensemble from the chirps of crickets to the crackles of the flames, rang loud and clear in the midnight air. The actress then introduced her voice first:

Of all the trees that grow so fair, Adrestia to adorn, Greater are none beneath the sun Than Oak, and Ash, and Thorn

Forwin listened keenly as Davina sang this old folk song with untold years of expertise behind her, as though age had yet to dull her tones. Yes, she fit the part of a Mittelfrank songstress well, but he was almost floored when the rest of the gang joined for the chorus. Some voices were refined and trained, others were throaty and clearly tone-deaf, but none of that mattered when not one soul didn’t join in for this familiar tune.

Finally, watching as Tristine sang too, he couldn’t resist either and found himself beaming with relief all the while.

Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs, All on a midsummer's morn- Surely we'll sing of no little thing In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Yes, he could definitely get used to this sort of atmosphere instead, far and away from the stifling conditions he endured under House Gerth.

Perhaps, someday soon, Forwin would be able to carry a song on his own...

[macuilsung]

@armatization​​ said via Send A Number to Experience One of My Muse’s Memories (open!):

14. A memory of a relationship ;; doesn't have to be romantic but I Must Know

“He took it away from you again, huh?”

The answer she received only came in the form of an unintelligible grumble from the morose son of Gerth. Without holding his lute in his hands, keeping it strapped to his back, or even holding it in his arms for comfort, all he felt was emptiness – not that he felt much confidence in himself to begin with, even with his beloved instrument close by.

“He... said it’s distracted me from my studies too much lately.”

Books and tutors around the clock, until his mind hurt and failed to retain a single word from another page. Spellcraft until his blood boiled from calling on his unwanted Crest ad nauseum, now that going to the School of Sorcery in Faerghus was suddenly off the table. Always having to be mindful of his family name and father’s legacy, for some day it will be his burden to bear with all of Adrestia judging his every move – yet he cannot even go and speak with half the nobility in the Empire on his own terms without him approving of it. Punishments often followed when he dared protest or stray from anything of it, the only path intended for the rest of his living days, and he was told to feel thankful that taking away his lute was all Duke Gerth did this time.

Goddess knows Roland was capable of more, and Wyndell unfortunately knew better than the Goddess, from bruised skin where none could see to the occasional calls to his incompetence ringing in his ears.

“Your father isn’t here now, is he? You’re free! ...err, until he and Uncle Theo are done, anyway.”

At least sitting with present company gave him a moment’s rest. The boy was not confined to the walls of his estate, and running off to the beach until Roland came looking for him was just the balm he needed. Wyndell need only close his eyes to focus on the sound of the waves and breathe in the ocean air to imagine that he’s much further away, and allowing the sea breeze ruffle his once neatly combed hair however it desired to was all the more soothing to his frayed nerves. And his lifelong friend kept him anchored on the sandy shore here and now, with only her words and a soft hand to his back.

"You’re lucky...” he mumbled low lest he choked on his own grief, having to keep a palm pressed to his eye to wring out stray tears. Afterwards, it took little time for his arm to find itself joining its opposite in hugging his legs close, once again. “You don’t have to deal with... with all this pressure, these expectations. I-I never wanted any of this...”

“Perks of a cadet branch in a small barony, I guess. I know none of this is easy on you,” she sympathized as she sat close to the point of leaning on his shoulder, keeping her gaze on the horizon line just as he did, though it was not long until it too fell thanks to a pang in her chest. “And now he wants to marry you off to some floozy you never even heard of next. Right?”

“Y-yeah, I, uh... don’t know who Father wants for me either. He refuses to say.” Wyndell almost forgot his own misery from the odd turn in conversation. “I-it’s always for the good of Gerth, or the Empire, or... or something like he often says, but I d-don’t even get to have a say in that.” It was always to the benefit of the family name, these choices made for him.

“...then who?”

“Who what?”

“If you had a say in it? Who would you pick as your wife?”

“E-eh?” Only then did he realize he put himself in a corner while talking her ear off. Granted, Wyndell knew few noblewomen his age to begin with, but he did not speak such woes as if he already had a name in mind! The option to choose for himself was what he lamented, that was all!

But when he finally looked away from the sun preparing to disappear into the water and turned to find the expectant gaze of his companion... the pubescent nobleman suddenly became very aware of context. He also became very aware of how pretty she looked with the sunset making her hair glow, only for his face to turn as crimson as her eyes and tresses in realization.

“...s-sorry, it was... stupid of me to speak of something like that so lightly.” Saints above, this was mortifying! Quickly, he looked the other way along the shoreline of her family’s territory, lest he shame himself even further. Instead, all he heard next was a sigh escape her lips. Was she disappointed-?

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing... what again?”

“Apologizing when you don’t need to.”

“O-oh... Force of habit.” At least this sort of embarrassment was easier for him to swallow, but his expression sank back in turn to exhausted sorrow. Force of habit it was indeed, and he did not look to rush back to the man he often apologized to just yet. A few more minutes of this peace and quiet—albeit an awkward peace and quiet of his own making—with her is all he wants while he can still get it, before they get called back to the Ochs estate.

“Thank you for letting me talk anyway, Monica.”

“Of course, Wyndell. What are friends for?”

[macuilsung]

brain, unprompted: “Okay, picture this. Forwin freezing up and freaking the fuck out internally upon encountering Anankos during the final fight in Revelations, because hey maybe that one encounter with an unhinged Rhea in the Holy Tomb—where she transformed into a dragon after threatening death on Byleth and everyone who defied her—left a bigger mark on him than he thought it actually did. You know, that woman who took him in and provided him sanctuary in Abyss?”

me: “w-wait, slow down for a minute-”

brain, continuing: “Castle Gyges falling apart and shaking under the weight of Anankos’s complete awakening suddenly sends him back in time, to when the walls of Abyss started to crumble from whatever the hell is going on on the surface and leaving him trapped until he found an Outrealm Gate. Having repressed as much of what happened back then and only glossing over it mentally at best, the realization that it all may have been from Rhea transforming into the Immaculate One—which, in turn, ultimately resulted in him having no other choice than to go through that Gate to survive and likely cutting him off from Fódlan forever—hits him like a fucking freight train right then at the worst possible time.”

me: “OKAY, WOAH, I GET IT-”

brain, wrapping it up: “From an offhand mention from Garon, Anankos, or (spoiler for Sylph), Forwin’s long-held belief and understanding that he carried a Saint’s Crest—which he felt burdened by for the longest time up until his final days in Garreg Mach—crumbles under the revelation that it’s actually dragon blood that’s coursing through his veins. Not to mention how vulnerable and exposed he feels towards everyone in the army from it, given he likely wouldn’t have told others about his real origins, but that decision has already been made for him and now he’s outed in front of his new friends and allies! Have fun with all that shit about yourself you’ll have to explain after the battle’s won, Forwin... IF YOU CAN FOCUS UP AND SURVIVE THE FINAL FIGHT AHEAD, AT LEAST. TRY NOT TO THINK TOO HARD ABOUT IT AND DIE HERE, FAR AWAY FROM HOME WHERE YOUR OLD FRIENDS WILL NEVER FIND YOU.”

me: “YOU CAN STOP NOW, BRAIN, THANK YOU-”

brain, for good measure: “Now, adding that little identity crisis bombshell with what he witnessed from Rhea two years prior, plus Anankos being in the state he’s in from living so goddamned long, he’d then understand Edelgard’s cause far more than she would’ve originally clued him and others in on. This would, in turn, spur him all the more into trying to go back home in the future!”

me:

[macuilsung]

Once he started working directly for the royal family of Nohr, Forwin managed to accrue a respectable sum of gold to his name over time but had little idea on what to spend it on. Even taking a night off to explore the markets of Windmire couldn’t really incite him to buy things he doesn’t necessarily need!

Come his first visit to Cyrkensia by King Garon’s side, however, he fell in love so hard with the city of music, so much so that he didn’t know what he wouldn’t want to bring back with him to Castle Krakenburg! He fiercely looked forward to every trip into the kingdom of Nestra not only for new opportunities to advance his own craft, but for any treasure he may be able to return with, be they tools and new strings to maintain his lute or new songbooks to practice with.

You know, the finest of essentials for his job, in order to continue entertaining the royals and keep a roof over his head.

But one item that he often loves to spend his cash on for personal gratification alone are music boxes. From their designs bearing their creator’s sense of expression to the variety of short melodies they might ping out, it is always a surprise to see what sort of music box may await him on his next visit. Plus, they pluck at some nostalgic heartstrings, given he had a music box of his own back when he was very young in Gerth. thanks mom <3

After returning home to Fódlan and seeing through the end of that conflict, he would likely continue to collect music boxes to delight himself. Additionally, should he find himself fortunate enough to fall in love, marry, and have children of his own, Forwin would absolutely procure—perhaps even commission—music boxes for his kids as well. Or for children of his friends, even!

[macuilsung]

{ ooc } Calling out all the tall/strong Fire Emblem ladies:

Guaranteed flustered mess getting cradled in your arms right there.

Ya know, in case anyone’s curious. 👀

[macuilsung]

{ ooc } Lads, ladies, and enbies, I think I’ve found the perfect voice to match Forwin.

For a while, I’ve been trying to figure out whose voice would suit boyo best but didn’t really commit to a search for ideas until this morning. I always had something soft-spoken in mind for him—especially for his Academy Phase years—given he’s one of the younger members of the Ashen Wolves (youngest of the boys, second youngest overall in front of Constance), and Justin Briner popped into my head because hey, Izuku Midoriya from My Hero Academia fits that role pretty well, doesn’t he?

...so I dug deeper into Briner’s other roles and my god WE’VE FOUND A WINNER! He’s got a fairly decent range, but man some of those deeper voices (9'α from Darling in the Franxxx, Siegfried from High School DxD HERO, AΩ Nova from Space Patrol Luluco, Arashi from Show by Rock!!) hit SO WELL for Forwin as he grows older towards the War Phase!

AND BONUS... THE MAN CAN SING.

[macuilsung]

Headcanon: Quirks of Macuil ♪

Having inherited a Major Crest of Macuil from his mother’s side, Forwin’s blood effectively granted him a number of boons compared to those attainable by the average man, chief of them being the most documented gifts: a greater aptitude for magic like the Saint himself, and an inherent affinity for wind magic at that.

But, there are some minor quirks that the Gerth runaway would come to realize over the years.

Due to his Crest’s added empowerment via the element of air, Forwin has some keener level of awareness on changes in atmospheric pressure, to the point he becomes a walking, talking barometer, not unlike experienced sailors! Call it instinct, but if you ever hear the bard make one offhand comment like “I think it might rain soon?” under clear skies, you might want to take him at his word before you get caught in a surprise downpour!

It’s not all good news though. Forwin finds that he’s more sensitive to whether the air around him is clean and abundant, or stale and unmoving. All those secret trips on the surface over his time in Abyss, to the point rumours circulated of a ghost haunting the cathedral at night? This wasn’t just because he preferred the acoustics for his lute (though it’s definitely a contributing factor) – he needs that fresh air, even if it meant risking getting caught by the Knights, otherwise he feels he might fall ill...

Thankfully for him, that becomes a non-issue once Byleth Eisner joins the Officers Academy, with the Ashen Wolves given free rein to roam the monastery after certain events. To be back under a blue sky and open air definitely contributed to Forwin’s better mood, with him feeling more energized and willing to engage with others!

It is also said that those who come from other worlds are not as powerful as they would be back home, and the case is also the same with the bard during his timeskip years spent on the other side of an Outrealm Gate from Fódlan. Aside from being summoned to Zenith by Askr’s Order of Heroes, his magic power would lack some of its punch from him being outside of his natural element in Nohr and Zofia. The feeling might be more comparable to him being born with a Minor Crest of Macuil instead!

[macuilsung]

{ ooc } Either everyone’s on the mother mayhem bandwagon or most of my mutuals are from the UK...

Whatever the case, don’t catch me thinking about developing Forwin’s mom or anything, else I’m gonna be stuck here all day.

...

...so her name is Isolde-

Isolde von Ulrich is descended from House Ulrich in the west of the Adrestian Empire, a minor barony among the empire’s nobility and one of few noble families—if not the only other family, House Nuvelle aside—that still carried the Crest of Saint Macuil in its bloodline. Being a child without a Crest, she later married into House Gerth, the imperial household responsible for Adrestia’s foreign affairs, as the wife of Roland von Gerth.

To say she was unhappy with this arrangement was an understatement. She would rather let her House fall apart and be done with it just so she could live freely, unbound by the trappings of nobility. If it were up to her, she would have absconded with an actor friend from Enbarr, but with her family pressuring her into this arrangement, she ultimately relented.

She later gave birth to her only child Wyndell. As the only source of parental love when he was little, it was mainly through her that he was instilled with values and ideals that clashed with his father’s from a young age. However, his aptitude for magic manifested early due to the Major Crest of Macuil he was born with. The duchess did not foresee a happy future for her son, a life dictating that his every decision must be made for the betterment of his House, his own personal happiness be damned. So, she tried to steal away with him one night... but was caught in the act by her husband.

With that, Isolde is presented with an ultimatum. Either she returns to a loveless marriage at Duke Gerth’s side with Wyndell in tow, where she will likely be forced to try for a few more Crest children, or she leaves to live her life as she chooses but she leaves alone, renouncing all claim to nobility in the process. As the only surviving member of House Ulrich, she would leave without much of a safety net, so a life as a commoner would be all that awaits her.

With a broken heart for her son and a settlement of gold, she leaves House Gerth.

Little time following her departure from the dukedom, rumour has it she was briefly seen in Enbarr where she took on another name and sought out her old flame. None know what became of them both, as they both vanished without a trace soon after.

Wyndell would unknowingly honour Isolde’s wish for him years later, when he runs away from home in the middle of the Dagda and Brigid war, spurred into the act proper after the fall of Houses Nuvelle and Ochs. Marching towards the border Adrestia shares with the Kingdom of Faerghus, he chances upon a curious caravan of travelling performers coming from the Empire’s east. He needed to get away, supposedly from the invasion, and they needed a stagehand. Thus, the life of Forwin began... but the rest is a story for another day.

Because she left when he was only a few years old, Forwin’s memories of his mother in the present are scarce, to the point he hardly even remembers what she looks like. Still, there’s always a bittersweet comfort in what little he can recall. Lullabies and bedtime stories, warm hugs and ruffling of his hair, a time in his life where love and empathy were present at home...

[macuilsung]

Headcanon: A Bard and His Craft ♪

Be it through nighttime lullabies from his mother before she absconded, expectations in early education thrust upon aristocratic youth such as himself, or opera house performances he had witnessed from the likes of Manuela Casagranda and later Dorothea Arnault in Enbarr, music had been many things to Wyndell von Gerth. It was a constant, a source of comfort, an outlet, and arguably his first love.

As the son of His Grace The Duke of Gerth, with Foreign Affairs Minister Roland von Gerth and Prime Minister Ludwig von Aegir sharing the same high status in social hierarchy just shy of the Imperial Hresvelg family, Wyndell’s education was almost without peer, as he was to be trained in several disciplines with the goal of one day succeeding his father – and that is without taking his future enrolment into the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach Monastery into account. Though these were not as high priority given he was to become a ruling Duke, being trained in court manners was nonetheless paramount, including knowing how to dance and perform musically. Learning how to sing and play an instrument (piano and lute, in his case) were the only parts of his at-home education he found any real enjoyment in, even going so far as to writing down arrangements of songs he only heard, but there was always a set pattern in place. Even in music, he was forced to follow certain expectations at home.

When he fled House Gerth and took on a new name to cover his tracks, Forwin joined a moving playing company as an extra hired man. It was through this group of actors and performers that he began to find his calling as a bard, all while his once rigid and structured style of play loosened up with constant exposure to folk music in their travels. Between his formal musical upbringing, watching performances at the opera, hanging around a bunch of commoners for a few years with their own eclectic tastes in song, and even the monastery choir when he joined the Academy under false pretences, there was no shortage of influences being incorporated into his own style as a lutist.

Come war being declared at Garreg Mach and his waking up worlds away in the kingdom of Nohr, a ragged Forwin was picked up from playing on the streets of Windmire for coin, and cleaned up to work as the royal family’s appointed court musician. Granted, this was a cover for King Garon’s intentions for him, all in the name of giving himself an edge over his own war with the neighbouring land of Hoshido; it is the same with his own children inheriting dragon power, his kidnapping of Corrin for their own unique abilities, his hiring of certain retainers of dubious origins, and now his hiring of a certain court musician for the boons of his Crest. Unknowing of Garon’s real motive at the time, Forwin was nonetheless put to work in constantly exercising his craft like he never had to before, which did help him grow as a performer and writer. It’s a weird thing to feel thankful for towards a villain at the end of the day...

Finally, after the defeat of the real enemy behind the Hoshido and Nohr conflict, Forwin would spend a few years in the coastal country of Nestra, found on the other side of Nohr’s southern border. It is here in the musical port city of Cyrkensia—an international resort known for its singers and dancers, as well as its very own opera house—where he would further hone his craft as a musician, going so far as to picking up a violin for a second instrument. As an aside, even his weapon of choice becomes musically-themed, being an enhanced version of the Violin Bow.

But, as time marches on closer towards the promised reunion at the monastery, someone might find himself starting to feel homesick. Perhaps he would wonder how old friends are faring, and what became of his homeland since the Adrestian Empire went to war against the Church of Seiros? Whatever the case, little by little, he would cave in to his growing heartache, and soon end up packing up and taking whatever he can carry.

Forwin would then venture north to try his luck with the Dragon’s Gate he first walked out from over four years ago, and so begins the wandering bard’s long journey home.

All that said? You better watch out and prepare yourself, Fódlan, for the new and improved Forwin Tyrell is not the wallflower he used to be!

And neither is he some kind of body double from those who slither in the dark like Tomas and Monica were. Yes, he’s alive and well, and he swears to Sothis on high that this isn’t another Solon and Kronya situation...

...so pLEASE PUT THOSE POINTY SWORDS DOWN WAIT STOP DON’T THAT’S HOW PEOPLE GET STABBED NO NO NO NO NO-!!!!!!!

[macuilsung]

Confess! If you had the chance to take up your father's title and power, with no strings attached at all, would you do it?

via Put 'Confess!' plus an accusation about my muse in my ask, and my muse will confess whether it's true or not! (open)

“Ah. I figured this one was gonna be asked sooner rather than later... and I’ll be honest, I don’t really know for sure, what I’d want to do after the war?” His tone turned uncertain, now that he was left to mull over such a daunting possibility. It was a given, seeing as he would actually have to confront such a reality in due time.

There was no telling what Fódlan would look like once the dust settled, and whoever would be in charge of leading this new world could ultimately decide to reinstate House Gerth and all its powers in Forwin’s name. Nobility-born and raised like he was, he had the education and upbringing for it. Goddess knows he had plenty of first-hand knowledge in foreign affairs, on account of where and how he spent the five years since war was declared against the Church of Seiros. As for the will...

“...I guess it’ll depend on how things turn out once the battle’s over, but say I do take up some form of dear old dad’s title and status, depending on the kind of Fódlan I would see tomorrow? Speaking from experience, the nobility I grew up under was not exactly renowned for humility or charity towards the lesser fortunate, more obsessed with reputation and prestige towards their fellow blue-bloods... That, right there, is something I’d want to change. Besides, you know me: I never particularly cared for status, not in myself or in others. Empathy and kindness are all I care about at the end of the day.

“I can’t deny it though, it would be interesting. Living the life of a noble just as I’ve been raised into, but with the mindset and moral values of a commoner... Yes, I could rebuild House Gerth with quite the fun detour in mind, and really make the more uptight aristocrats squirm over some self-imposed sense of discomfort at the sight. Too much of a hassle by myself though; if it were up to just me, I would simply dissolve the House wholesale and call it a day before hitting the open road again!” The thought was enough to make the bard chuckle, and his grin refused to abate all the while – Forwin already got plenty used to living through simpler comforts! And the call for adventure was not an easy one to ignore.

Although, it did not take long before he seriously considered the idea of returning as Wyndell von Gerth in earnest.

“...well, if it ever comes to that, it’s like I said just now: it’s not the sort of endeavour I would want to accomplish on my own, since... it takes two to create a family.” His repeated point would find itself accompanied by his hand patting at his pocket, as though it held something for that particular purpose hidden within. “If we win this war, I’m probably going to receive a fair few marriage offers once word really gets around that the son of the Adrestian Empire’s late Duke Gerth has returned, all coming from strangers I’ve never once met or seen. That, I can tell you now, isn’t my style.

“After all, I’ll be wanting to nip those in the bud before they gain momentum... since I’ve already got someone in mind who I would ask to become my wife. Whether it’s simple living or putting our status to use for the betterment of Fódlan, isn’t it best to propose to a woman I already know well and trust with my life?”

[macuilsung]

Headcanon: What’s in a Name ♪

As one of Adrestia’s greatest powers, the name of Gerth carries a lot of weight, prestige, and influence behind it across Fódlan. A house of Dukes who’ve served the Empire for centuries, the position of Minister of Foreign Affairs has long been passed down to a specially groomed successor generation after generation. That successor would inherit a great amount of wealth and power with the knowledge and political savvy necessary, and any who would confront a person of such high esteem on the wrong side of the dynamic ought to tread carefully.

The same is said of all noble families of course, and many of these same scions show no hesitation in flexing their power to get their way with little resistance. Self-restraint, humility, and empathy are often in short supply in these cases, and does little to absolve the nobility in the eyes of common folk – if anything, that obvious disparity between the two classes simply becomes all the more validated when aristocrats continue to behave in such a manner.

Needless to say, Wyndell was no stranger to being treated like glass by house staff, guests, and strangers when his family name is uttered, even more so as years went by after Roland all but cut off House Gerth to focus on his son’s upbringing. His son would only continue to withdraw himself more as time marched on, isolated between an authoritarian, punitive, and questionably paranoid father and staff who couldn’t sympathize too much with his plight or get too familiar, lest they be discharged.

That all changed when he rejected his noble birthright and adopted the Crestless commoner persona of “Forwin.” There was no treading on eggshells around him. People were readily engaging with him, hearing what he has to say and unafraid to call him out on occasional rubbish. Interactions with others came across as truly genuine. Without the crushing burdens of nobility weighing heavily on his shoulders and altering his image, friends became so much more accessible as a result.

If anything, that is one key reason—aside from his father finding him and forcing him back to the dukedom—why Wyndell keeps mum on his true identity. He doesn’t want anyone’s perception of him as the humbler Forwin to change so drastically, and neither would he want to risk ruining his relationships because of it. There’s power in names, and his real name carries more than those of most nobles across the three nations of Fódlan. Deep down? That alone terrifies him.

Conversely, it is because of its strength that Forwin later gives in and reveals everything about himself, not long after Jeralt’s death at “Monica’s” hands. Because of his past with the real Monica von Ochs and the string of incidents rocking the monastery over the academic year, he feels partly responsible for the Blade Breaker’s untimely demise in that he should have noticed sooner that something about her was not simply amiss, but very, deeply wrong. He could have noticed a glimmer of ill intent behind the loose veneer of “trauma” Kronya masqueraded around. He should have pressed her more when she failed to recognize him of all people as her childhood friend, but he couldn’t commit to acting as anyone other than “Forwin” lest he ultimately gave himself away.

If he weren’t such a coward who resigned himself to a lost friendship, Wyndell could have stepped up and, who knows, maybe changed fate or something. Even if told otherwise by Byleth themselves, that none of it was his fault or that there was nothing anyone could have done... one small part of him will always feel guilty about it deep down.

As for the years he spent in Nohr, what with the name of Gerth holding no influence and him being so far from home, Forwin resigned himself to playing the role of the court musician for King Garon’s family. He had a roof over his head and food on the table though, so he could not complain too much, but having to start over and assume a new identity again was a bitter pill to swallow. Still, he would hold his tongue on his own past and purport that he came from Nestra in the south, leaving things at that.

Granted... with a war between Nohr, Hoshido, and later Valla hovering over everyone’s heads, Forwin might find himself looser-lipped around someone close to him. Someone ought to know about Wyndell von Gerth and the faraway homeland he missed so, before he might end up biting the dust on the battlefield. Funny how the name he came to abhor so much while growing up would become something nostalgic, almost cherished as if it became a source of comfort.

[macuilsung]

@heartwilled said via Send A Number to Experience One of My Muse’s Memories (open!):

27!! // 27. A memory of something they’re proud of

“GRK-!” The wind escaped his lungs something fierce when his back met solid earth, with the butt of a spear pressing down into the centre of his chest for added pain and pressure. Thankfully, the weapon pinning the dirtied, almost muddied stagehand in place was only a theatre prop, but it did not change the fact that the genuine article was tucked away in one of the wagons among other deadly tools.

Like any good production company, all members of the Leverock Travelling Theatreworks were subject to guidelines to follow, and there was one rule in particular the lutist had to learn fast as their newest pair of hands:

Every able-bodied member of the LTT must know how to fight and kill.

This was a reality far different from the debatably comfortable enclosures of nobility, and one the ex-noble realized he must come to grips with if he was to survive out in the world on his own terms. Though Davina took great pride in her namesake operating as a mobile theatre, that same mobility brought with it its unique risks.

The roads between territories across Fódlan are subject to all sorts of nasties, from wild animals and monsters to villains and highway robbers! After all, they cannot go touring between the empire, kingdom, and alliance completely defenceless, and they cannot always afford an escort from any odd noble house. Add that with the teenager abstaining from using magic forever, lest he called upon his Crest when he didn’t mean to, and that left him with no other choice than to pick up a weapon and make it his own.

“Come on, on your feet! Pay attention and try again!”

Though still somewhat dazed and confused, he narrowed his eyes enough to find the open hand offered to him and take it into his own. Forwin swiftly found himself back on his own two legs, and his training lance handed back to him by Berengar, an older man who joined the troupe as choreographer for the fight scenes and sometimes took to the stage himself! Although he lacked a costume, Berengar certainly looked menacing while wielding that imitation Areadbhar (all the better to prepare for his coming role as Loog), but thankfully his cocksure grin offset any serious attempt at intimidation.

Now Forwin couldn’t help but wonder how much more imposing the real Hero’s Relic looked... but he did not have long to dwell on that before his foe renewed his assault, already putting the lutist back on the defensive.

“Wh—hey, I-I wasn’t ready yet-!” came his immediate protest, only for him to stumble back when his next blow found itself so easily rebuffed.

“Thieves and beasts won’t care if you’re ready or not, Forwin! Isn’t that right?” boasted the more experienced spearman of the two, and to the runaway’s dismay, he had to concede to that and bit back his remark. Now left with something else to curse his father over, Forwin wished he had more time devoted to learning how to wield actual, tangible weaponry than magic around the clock alone.

Granted, he was still a novice with a lance, but now that he thought it through...

...he already knew what to look out for in a fight, no?

“Again!”

Concentrating on the spar with renewed focus, Forwin grit his teeth as he once again found himself resorting to defence and evasion. Berengar’s movements were swift and difficult to dodge, he noted, and he surely had years of expertise put into his craft. There were no wide arcs in the instructor’s swings and therefore no obvious intent until the very moment of his strikes, which forced the stagehand to stay on his toes throughout their skirmish.

But there still remained rhythm in those movements. His legs still followed a set pattern of footwork, each step serving as a well-timed guide to strengthen those swings and thrusts all the while. It wasn’t too unlike magic, now that Forwin thought about it. Though it was not easy to split his attention between his foe’s weapon and legs, the feet served as the tell, much like how a mage needed a moment to call upon runes for their spells. There’s still the windup preceding full commitment!

It may be too early for the teen to mimic something as complex as someone else’s muscle memory of all things. Hell, Goddess knows he’s not strong enough to parry Berengar’s mighty blows outright! But after getting knocked on his ass a few more times, and having a better idea on how the other moved about... he realized he could still exploit the other’s habits all the same, provided he got the timing down pat. He wasn’t completely defenceless.

And feeling all the more self-assured in his own ability and not having to rely on Macuil’s power fuelled his determination even further.

“Again!”

Here he comes.

Block.

Block.

Step back.

Block.

Step back.

Block.

Step back—THERE!

Quickly, Forwin took a deft step aside and forward to avoid the incoming thrust and whatever followup the other would have intended. Hands gripped hard onto the shaft of his weapon while his wrists stiffened with his sidestep, and he spun with as much force his comparatively lither body could muster, momentum guiding his own lance true towards his opponent’s ribcage!

“HRAGH-!”

Finally came not a graze but a full on cathartic impact, and a cry to go with it. Berengar fell onto his knee, using faux Areadbhar as a support while one arm hugged his chest.

“OH GODDESS, a-are you okay?! I’m sorry, Beren, I’m sorry, I-I didn’t mean to do that, I swear-!” Almost as soon as his second wind came, it disappeared into Forwin’s stammer the moment he turned apologetic for the returned injury. He did not mean to hurt his trainer that badly!

“I-it’s all right...! I’m okay, I’ll be fine—ow—it’s why we have vulneraries and healers on standby in the first place,” the man assured with a dry chuckle through his grin to mask his pain. “Woo... bit of a mean swing you have there though, boy. Arc was a bit too wide, to my taste, but... you did pretty good in reading me.”

Hearing that Berengar would be fine granted the stagehand the freedom to let out a sigh of relief, and Forwin couldn’t help but smile a little in turn. He managed to score a win! Maybe the lance wasn’t such a bad weapon to train with after all. “Thank you, Beren.”

“...so are you going to help me back on my feet at all, or are you just going to keep standing there looking all happy with yourself?”

“S-shit, right! Sorry!”

[macuilsung]

@katyadored​ said via Send A Number to Experience One of My Muse’s Memories (open!):

3. A memory of their mother

Try as he might otherwise, Forwin wasn’t always all sunshine and songs.

With Balthus and Yuri gone, leaving him alone in the makeshift bedroom for the Ashen Wolf boys, the self-appointed bard of the team let out an uneasy breath as he shed his guise for a brief interval. He aimed an open palm at the ceiling, and with naught but a flex from his fingers and a swirl of air at their tips, that loathsome sigil flashed before his eyes in the dimly lit dorm.

Saint Macuil’s Crest.

Wyndell hated this power from the very bottom of his heart, and wished so strongly to be rid of this burden altogether. It did not matter how well he played the part of the lower class, for there was no escaping this damned mark in his blood. He did not care for whatever higher status it gave him in his old life, that gilded prison and all its chains. Neither did he care for its boons, for he had sworn off magic forever lest he accidentally triggered it for all to see – it would take little guesswork to draw a line between the missing son of Gerth and a commoner his age bearing his Crest. Rhea won’t be able to protect him anymore.

No, he hated his Crest for not only taking away the only peace afforded to him as a child, but for the day he accidentally called upon it altogether...

...for that was the day his mother stopped smiling.

Forwin berated himself for hardly remembering what Isolde looked like back in those days. It’s been, what, a little over fourteen years since he last saw Mom? All he could recall was that she was still there one night, then gone the next morning, and it burned him to his core that the Duke was responsible for that too somehow. Thinking about it now still hurt, but he can’t always help where his mind wanders off to on some days.

He could never forget that first rush of adrenaline that surged from his tiny body when he cast that basic little spell, literal child’s play to test whether he were already capable of magic. Even without a Crest, he was at least the son of Roland von Gerth, who was still an accomplished mage in his own right. But when he shot that spell that time... it was different. A symbol flashed before his eyes the likes of which he had never seen before, and did not understand what it was aside from making him more powerful when it glowed.

“Mother! Did you see that? Did you see what I did?!”

His voice—how high in pitch it used to be!—rang with so much excitement as he ran to her and almost fell against her legs. The little boy was giddiness and innocence incarnate, with not a damned fucking clue of what would follow.

Little Wyndell just wanted her to be proud of him. That was all. He hoped to see her smile like she often did whenever he succeeded at all sorts of tasks, because already he learned to give up on receiving such reactions from an absentee father. He just wanted to be scooped up into her loving arms and be showered with all sorts of affectionate praise.

“...Mother?”

Instead of all of that, he only saw dread in Isolde’s eyes. She repeated whispers to herself, just “Oh no...” over and over again as though she encountered her worst fears in her own son. That made Wyndell afraid too.

“...did... did I do something bad?”

Not long after, Mother was gone and never to be seen again, leaving him alone with Father for the rest of his youth.

Teeth, once grit against themselves, bit his lip down so Forwin could distract himself from feeling a growing need to cry, but that did not stop tears from building up anyway. Just as he brought his palm back down to wipe them away, however, he heard footsteps until the bedroom door gave way. He turned his head to find Balthus standing in the doorway, cocky and confident as ever.

“Hey pal, you’re losing daylight! Hapi’s gonna eat your share of breakfast if you don’t hurry up!”

“S-sorry! I was just, uh, getting some extra sleep in, that’s all. I’ll get dressed,” Forwin replied, adding a dismissive wave with one hand while the other rubbed out that ‘extra sleep’ from his eyes. “Thank you, Balthus.”

With a nod from the Timely King of Grappling before he took his leave, the musician let out a sigh and shook his head as though to do away with any more unpleasant thoughts lingering about. One deep breath in, then out, just as Tristine taught him before, and then he pulled his bedsheets off of him before stepping out.

In just a scant couple of minutes, dressed up in his Ashen Wolf uniform with his lute strapped to his back and his unspoken Crest in his veins, Forwin smiled to no one in particular before leaving the room at last.

[macuilsung]

Anonymous​ asked via SHIPPING MEME (open!):

12?

———

12. what is your muse’s love language?

You’d believe Forwin’s main love language would be through words of affirmation, especially through song, given that he’s an avid musician and goes on to become an experienced bard. You wouldn’t be wrong, given that is one way he would express his affections to his partner! Little melodies, whole love ballads and poems... oh yes, he could—and would!—certainly put in the effort for it. Even on the platonic level, albeit mostly into the War Phase, close friends won’t be let off easy without words of praise either, spoken straight from the heart!

However...

Wyndell grew up touch-deprived at home and tries to resist romantic feelings during White Clouds, so even though he’s unaware of it, he’s starving for physical intimacy. As a result, surprising even himself, his primary love language would lean strongly on physical touch, chiefly him being a major cuddle-bug towards his partner!

When Forwin is the one initiating, it’s his way of communicating he loves her dearly, he’s here, he’s not going anywhere, she’s safe, et cetera... Hell, his ideal way to spend a whole day would just be to rest and cuddle idly, with back rubs, head scratches, and kisses thrown into the mix! He knows what it’s like not to grow up without feeling these assurances, and the last thing he would want is for his partner to feel neglected in a similar vein if he can help it. plus her reciprocating is also an easy way to initiate woohoo while he’s trying to be soft but shh

On the flipside, if someone were to get the jump on him pre-timeskip and treat Forwin with that same level of affection, with the same sort of warmth he hadn’t felt since Isolde left... ya boy just might tear up a bit before he’s unable to stop himself from melting into the embrace. Although crying gets (mostly) sorted out by the time of the War Phase, whatever the point in his history, touch from someone he trusts is effectively—by FAR—the quickest way to disarm and anchor him when he’s feeling stressed. Throw in words of kindness and he’s yours.

If there’s one tl;dr takeaway here? If you want to know the fastest shortcut on making him feel loved, appreciated, and valued? Hug him, because he’ll do the same for you.

[macuilsung]

Instruments are precious and expensive! While music can be an effective tool in battle depending on its uses, Forwin would never dream of swinging his lute around like an actual, honest-to-goodness weapon. Music is his comfort and constant companion, so why would he ever deliberately smash up his most priceless possession?

Needless to say? If someone breaks his lute, they’re on his shit-list for life.