#☆ ┆ 【 thread; going for gold in relic farming. 】

[trailblczed]

Being addicted to his gacha games comes with a price- that being an empty bank account. The pitiful amount of credits Caelus has remaining leaves the lad in a predicament. At least he doesn't need to worry about housing thanks to being apart of the Astral Express team, but he does still need to contribute to the funds for food and other shared amenities. Caelus doesn't recall which friend his lack of finances had been brought into conversation with, but he does remember them saying something about a 'bounty' of sorts being put into effect by the Architects. Well, reward possibly a better name for it, as they are willing to pay any individual a sum of credits in accordance to the value whatever relics they can discover deep in a specific area of the Underground. It's been supposedly a hot spot for hostile robots and fragmentum, so it's dangerous for the average explorer to navigate safely. Not a problem for the Trailblazer! He's handled tougher foes and came out relatively unscathed- whether that's a testament to his battle prowess or the silver's regenerative capabilities, is up for debate.

Lad soon finds himself down on the cold surface of Jarilo VI. Maybe he can make quick stops to at least say hello to his friends-- but the image of drastically low numbers plants itself firmly in his mind, his resolve focusing up on the task he came for. Credits.. Ah, he wish he understood why things were so costly-- but he is also aware he just tosses his money around a tad too often. Listen, if the silver wants to feel a rush of dopamine by slapping credits at a silly mobile game that helps keep him from being bored or stuck overthinking other things then by the Aeons he will! Caelus expected the lack of funds, as he caused it himself with his poor spending habits. What he doesn't expect, however, is spotting a distinct hat framing a familiar head of blond locks once he had gotten fairly close to where the area marked as the prime digging zone was. Peculiar, the Trailblazer thinks. Aventurine had plenty of money, or he at least assumes with how the blond had so casually handed him some at their first meeting by Caelus simply thanking him for Aventurine's help with the confusion at check-in. So then, why was the I.P.C. agent here..? Perhaps Topaz is related to the blond's arrival on Jarilo VI.. checking in on her or her work? Hell if Caelus knows. Still, curiosity peaked, the silver calmly strolls over to his companion, calling out to the lad with an arm raised to the air swaying back and forth, hoping to obtain Aventurine's attention as to not startle him via a sudden appearance by Caelus.

❛ Aventurine---! Aventurine! ❜

Once Caelus is close enough, no longer needing to basically holler, lad presents a warm smile and a intrigued head tilt. It is quite honestly a relief to see an ally safe, and out of an environment that just.. seemed far too capable of breaking a person down .. Mentally or physically. No--- C'mon now Caelus, this was supposed to be a fun little treasure hunt. Do not go down that road-- Lad will do his damnedest. Ignoring that mental flinch, the silver keeps his tone light and welcoming- they are comrades after all.

❛ What a surprise to see you outside of Penacony.. You here for that reward bounty too, I take it?

I can't imagine you're this far deep into the Underground otherwise- ❜

guest staring @avcnturine

☆ going for gold in relic farming

【 bloom commission ── belobogian artifacts. 】

[smallwomanlongstory]

Our Lady of Czestochowa

My memory once contextualized major events using seasons, or tenure at a certain job or school. At some point, though, I began to mark time according to traumas. I knew we sold a property right before the second big relapse. Our daughter's baptism happened a week or so after the first night S slammed my body into furniture.

When it all started, it was October. I took T on a trip to a field across the Hudson River to pick pumpkins. At the farm stand, I picked up a jar of four berry jelly. Waiting in line, I stared at the jar lid and counted the little red, pink and white checks, arriving at an even number. I smiled, thinking there was a potion sealed beneath the gingham. Magic that would vanquish those little drug baggies that tumbled from S's jean pockets into my washing machine. The jelly would show him that I’d thought of him. Foolishly, back then, I still hoped things could be fixed with kind gestures, or the right string of words. 

That October was defined by my bare feet slapping cold hard pavement as I chased after S; by tears streaming down my face as I grabbed him and begged him to go to the hospital. October was my mother’s hand moving back and forth between my shoulder blades as I struggled to fall asleep in my childhood bed. My own bed was uninhabitable because it was where I held my husband and felt his heart beat so hard and so fast, I thought he would die. October was fear; fear that the handful of diet pills S took would give him a heart attack; fear when he called from a far-away city, paranoid and crying; even greater fear when my phone wasn’t ringing.

S moved to the United States, to a middle state, without knowing a word of English, when he was seven. His father took him to a park where S saw kids his age playing soccer. Wanting to join, S asked his dad for an English lesson. His dad told him to just stretch out the Portuguese word for sock, Meia (pronounced "May-Uh"), and taught S a new word, “play.” S sprinted across the grass, repeating his line, “Meia play, Meia play, Meia play,” in his head. When he finally reached the children and asked the rehearsed question, they said, “no”, and ran away.

In the emergency room that October, S squeezed my hand, turning my knuckles white, begging me to tell the doctors he was ok to be released. I knew he wasn’t. I knew he would get out and use again, but I looked at the other people in the psychiatric emergency room; a man in hospital scrubs pacing up and down the hall, spitting into a cup; a women on a gurney, the fluorescent ceiling lights highlighting something brown smeared across her pant leg; a teenage boy behind plexiglass and wires, his knees drawn up to his chest, rocking and sobbing. On drugs, S terrified me, I didn’t want him home, but I could also see the little boy in him, scared himself, running across the park wondering if his shy “May I Play” would be understood, and I couldn’t leave him alone with all that filth and sorrow.

That night, from the depths of my jewelry box, I resurrected the Our Lady of Czestochowa medallion that my grandmother gave me and I started wearing it daily. Every night I told Our Lady my fears, took the necklace off, and placed it under my pillow. Through spiritual osmosis, I hoped, The Black Madonna would take my worries. 

The real Our Lady is a wooden icon, an image of The Virgin mother and her child that was painted by Saint Luke onto a table-top. Said to be fortified by the tears Mary shed ceaselessly following her son’s death, many miracles are attributed to the relic.

During a fourteenth century war with the Tartars, Our Lady’s wooden throat was struck by an arrow. A mark was left. That time period was a bloody one for Poland, and just a few decades later a Hussite pillager added two gashes to her cheek. When the pillager lifted his sword to make a fourth scar, he dropped to the ground and died in agony.  Restoration attempts have tried to smooth the icon’s face and neck, but the stigmata always reappear.

Our Lady of Czestochowa is nicknamed The Black Madonna. Theologians speculate that her face was tinted by soot, centuries of candle offerings. I knew smoke had nothing to do with her coloring.  There is no point in consecrating one’s suffering to something blithe.

When S was healthy, we had a favorite skit. Whenever T woke up wet or hungry, we went together into her room and lifted her from the crib. S would voice-over T’s crying, pretending to be a disgruntled hotel guest. In a pinched English accent, S would say something like: “The service around here is outrageously slow. It took three whole seconds for you people to get here.”

Then I would go, “So sorry sir, I came as soon as you rang. Can I get you a fresh Elmo diaper?”

In the fussy indignation common to infants and crusty old men, S would continue, “What must I do for some warm milk? Need I write a letter to management? Notify my grandmother perhaps?”

T would see her parents laughing and tending to her. Her tears would dry up and she’d smile or coo. I loved our little act. In it, we were our own little universe, a normal family.

Except we weren't, and I became obsessed with Our Lady of Czestochowa. I bought a thick book, a collection of the miracles attributed to the icon: men at war made safe though the odds were against them; blind women made to see; ships manned by devout sailors, righted after being flipped.  My favorite was about a little boy who, not understanding the damage it would cause, placed his baby sister in a warming hearth. The mother returned from some chore to find that her baby was charred, and immediately carried the little burnt body up the hill and into the monastery where our Lady presides. The child was healed and the story wrapped neatly with the family reunited, no questions raised about the brother’s intentions, or the mother’s distraction.

The Black Madonna has two elaborately decorated dresses; one adorned with jewels and one that was hand-sewn with gold thread and beads by peasant women. As liturgical seasons pass, the monks change her. I liked to picture them preparing for the ceremony like school girls given new ornaments for an exceptionally pretty paper doll, competing for a chance to fuss over the amber and embroidery. In my mind, the brothers would become fresh, exchanging snubs and lightly slapping the back of one another’s hands. I wanted to believe that the Black Madonna made them devolve into pettiness, because I wanted Our Lady to be powerful.

Somewhere, I read that I should picture the person I was worried for wrapped in a warm blanket, protected. Desperate for a tool, some nights I put S in every blanket, sheet, and towel in our linen closet. I’d put him in God’s palm, next to Jesus, on a radiant cloud with my dead grandparents. I would feel stupid, childish, still worried.

 It wasn't until the week or so before I left S that, suddenly, finally, I recognized why the blanket imagery never worked. The warm places I'd managed to create weren’t meant for S, they belonged to me. I still love to lift the Black Madonna medallion to my lips and kiss its scars. She reminds me that I can always access faith and safety; it's in my experience, in all the ways that I've survived.

[lizabethstucker]

Hex Life edited by Christopher Golden & Rachel Autumn Deering

Eighteen tales of witches and magic all written by women.  A few are set in particular authors’ existing series.  The inclusiveness of black characters and authors elevates an already wonderful collection.  This is an ARC that was received late, contained in the box of books due to be published in January.  This actually was published in October and is available now.  I highly recommend this to pretty much anyone.  4.5 out of 5.

“An Invitation to a Burning” by Kat Howard

The town of Merrinvale refuses to admit that witches are needed to keep ordinary magics working.  Instead they burn them.  When villager Ronald angrily takes offense to a woman, she tends to disappear.  Now his sight is focused on Sage.  Very short, but chock full of emotion and sisterhood.  4.5 out of 5.

“Widows’ Walk” by Angela Slatter

The four widows living together on Carter Lane are suspected to be witches by many in the town of Mercy’s Brook, but are not harassed by locals.  When young Chelsea Margaret Bloom is caught stealing milk from their porch to dull her hunger, the women get involved.  Absolutely perfect from start to finish, with a neat twist at the end.  5 out of 5.

“Black Magic Momma: An Otherworld Story” by Kelley Armstrong

Eve Levine is a dark witch who is half-demon.  Her sole focus in life is keeping her daughter safe.  To do so, she works as a retrieval agent, obtaining items wanted by others.  Her latest job attracts dangerous attention.  I’ve not read any books in this series yet, although the first volume is in my ebook library.  I found this story moderately interesting, but not quite up to the previous two stories in this series.  Perhaps it in a matter of context.  3.5 out of 5.

“The Night Nurse” by Sarah Langan

Having a third child that she never wanted, Esme is approached by Wendy Broadchurch at the Brooklyn Children’s Museum.  Wendy is a night nurse, offering to help Esme once the new baby is born.  Already overwhelmed, Esme agrees.  At first she is happy, but soon doubts creep in.  Really creepy and, to be honest, a little more raw than I was comfortable with.  3 out of 5.

“The Memories of Trees” by Mary SanGiovanni

The Faithful plan to hang Martha Weede and her young ward, Ellena, threatened by their refusal to worship in the New Church and to accept the God of Technology.  Instead Martha and Ellena honor the Old Religion, the one older than the now fallen Christianity.  While graphic, it not only harks back to the witch hunts in New England, but warns how easy it is to fall back into that mindset of fear, prejudice, and craving for power.  Loved this story!  4.5 out of 5.

“Home:  A Morganville Vampire Story” by Rachel Caine

A witch has appeared in Morganville, one Oliver had killed centuries ago.  She’s a danger to both the vampire and human community.  She wants Oliver’s blood and will destroy everyone to get it.  Wow, how did I miss this series?  I’ve already got it downloaded from my library to read next.  A short story that makes you eager to know more about all the characters is a great story.  I almost got a Eureka vibe from this, only with vamps instead of mad scientists.  4.5 out of 5.

“The Deer Wife” by Jennifer McMahon

Julie has been meeting her lover in the woods for four years, a witch who comes to her in many forms.  She knows she shouldn’t, but is drawn back time after time.  Julie wants to join the witch forever, be able to transform as her lover does, but the witch resists.  Julie has a son, but Levi is now nineteen, with a girlfriend.  And filled with resentment for the death of his father.  McMahon doen’t give a lot of details, particularly in regards to the death of Julie’s husband and whether the witch was more directly responsible.  Or whether it is love or enchantment that keeps her returning.  An old myth tweaked into an interesting romantic tale.  3.5 out of 5.

“The Dancer” by Kristin Dearborn

Paul Baker is called to the Weavers’ farm to help with the reports by Ani, their daughter, of haunted activity.  They aren’t pleased with his solution.  He’s called back a second time to find the situation is more dire than he expected and takes action.  I don’t know about this one.  It almost reads like a rough outline or a missing scene from a longer story.  Disappointed as it had great potential as a novella or a book.  3 out of 5. 

“Bless Your Heart” by Hillary Monahan

It is never smart to go after a Southern mother’s baby boy, especially if she also has powers.  Pammy Washington and her bully of a son deserved everything they got for the years Colton had tormented Tucker.  Her late Mama warned Audrey to never cook when mad, but a woman can only stand so much.  I laughed at what happened to Pammy.  Not nice, I know, but I grew up in the South and I know women like her.  I’d bet good money that she was head cheerleader in high school, prom queen as well.  She really did get what she deserved, bless her heart.  For those who might not know, “bless your heart” is the genteel Southern way of saying “you’re a piece of shit”.  4 out of 5.

“The Debt” by Ania Ahlborn

After Karolin’s mother died, her father began to change, becoming less talkative, more distant.  He suddenly decides to take her to Poland, to visit his childhood home where his mother lives.  After arriving with no sign of his mother, Greg takes Karolin deep into the nearby woods to hunt for mushrooms.  When her back was turned, he disappears.  Shivers.  No happy or satisfying ending here.  Just the most horrific ending you could imagine.  3.5 out of 5.

“Toil & Trouble:  A Dark-Hunter Hellchaser Story” by Sherrilyn Kenyon & Madaug Kenyon

The witches of Carrion Hill are constantly visited by those seeking a glimpse of their future as well as a way to avoid the bad part.  As time goes on, there are less and less witches and more stupid humans who refuse to listen to the advice given.  Eeri, sold to the witches by her family, hates them, desires freedom and money.  A bit of Shakespeare is threaded throughout the story.  I love the Bard, but I don’t really think it adds to the story as much as the authors might believe it does.  Another series that I haven’t begun reading as yet.  3 out of the 5.

“Last Stop on Route Nine” by Tananarive Due

Charlotte and her 12-year-old cousin decide to drive together from their grandmother’s funeral in Tallahassee to a luncheon in Gracetown, a place both Charlotte’s mother and Kai’s father had fled as soon as they could and never returned to.  Somehow they are lost, caught in a smothering fog before coming through the other side to find a wicked old woman who curses them.  Here’s a sweet bit of horror with the mention of some real-life places peppered into the story.  4 out of 5.

“Where Relics Go to Dream and Die” by Rachel Autumn Deering

After years of conjuring the witch through the flame of an almost spent candle, the old man was dying.  One last conversation with the woman he loves leads to a dream or, rather, a memory that changes the past and the present.  A bit scrambled, but strangely compelling nonetheless.  So many questions.  3.5 out of 5.

“This Skin” by Amber Benson

Frances wanted to confess to homicide detective Harry Longfellow, waiting for just the right moment.  The reaction isn’t what she expected.  Frances comes across as a ten-year-old sociopath.  Unusual story.  I don’t know whether I like it or not.  It begs for more.  3 out of 5.

“Haint Me Too” by Chesya Burke

It’s been 40 years since slavery ended, but there are plenty who would like to just ignore the Emancipation Proclamation.  Shea and her family lived on the Myrtle House plantation, currently owned by the Petersons.  Myrtle House is haunted by the haint of a black woman who was murdered after poisoning her owners.  When local whites try to prevent black families and white sharecroppers from either leaving to go North or demanding better agreements, Shea can not only help her family, but the haint.  Enthralling tale of the South and how little it had changed after the War.  A little scary, but also empowering.  Could be considered a coming-of-age story for Shea.  4.5 out of 5.

“The Nekrolog” by Helen Marshall

I’m not sure how to describe this story.  It involves immigrants leaving Russia, death that isn’t, the State’s experiments in psychic abilities, and much more.  Enchanting and intriguing, a story I wish had been longer.  It really is almost as convoluted as an old Russian tale.  4.5 out of 5.

“Gold Among the Black” by Alma Katsu

Greta, an orphan, owns nothing.  Her only friend is Jesper, her dog.  She works hard at the castle in exchange for food during the day, refusing to sleep there at night because she can’t bring Jesper with her.  Instead they curl up together in the woods.  But Greta is getting old enough to have men watching.  Another worker at the castle has also told her that there are rumors that she is a witch and Jesper is her familiar.  What does she do now?  Nice, a bit of romance with the fantasy.  3.5 out of 5.

“How to Become a Witch-Queen” by Theodora Goss

The newly widowed queen is worried about her son, the soon-to-be king, marrying off his sister to some stranger.  She also needs to consider her own future now that she’s free.  A wild and interesting view of what life might’ve been like for Snow White after her Happily Ever After.  New choices, old friends, and a heroine who realizes it is time to take charge of her own life in order to ensure her daughter has choices.  Absolutely perfect!  5 out of 5.

[waystobuild-blog]

RWBY- Shopping Daze

I didn’t expect to upload anything else this week, but this is an idea I had for a while and just decided to go with it. So, I hope you enjoy this.

Think of this as like a RWBY chibi sketch. It’s jokey and funny.

Oscar Pine sighed as he looked at the clothing store before him.

“Really, shopping?” Oscar asked aloud.

“Of course.” Ozpin answered within his mind. “You truly are a real huntsman now so of course you’re going to need some new threads to go with it.”

“Threads?”

“Oh, is that not what the kids are saying these days? What about duds?”

“Um… no.”

“Well no matter. The point is clothes make the man and with our triumph back at Haven Academy, you’re definitely deserving of some new clothes.”

“If you say so…”

Quickly, they went into the clothing store and picked out a few outfits that both of them insisted on.

Soon, they were in the fitting room and began trying on outfits.

The first one was one that Ozpin insisted on. It was a dark suit with a green scarf that sat nicely around his neck along with tiny glasses that rested on his nose.

“There. Don’t you look dashing, Oscar?” A triumphant Ozpin asked.

Oscar sighed. “This is just what you wore in your last life…”

“What…? Really?” Ozpin so obviously lied.

“Yes!”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I’ve seen pictures of you!”

“Really?”

“Yes!”

“Well… how did this happen?”

“You know for someone who lies so much, you’re bad at it.”

“Oh fine. Let’s tryone of the others.”

Now Oscar was dressed in even worse farm clothes complete with overalls, a dirtied shirt and was even barefoot.

Oscar put his hands on his hips with a smile.

“Now this is what I’m talking about!”

“You must be joking.”

“What? This is great.”

“No, it really isn’t.”

“Sure it is! Cousin Joseph wore this stuff all the time and he was the coolest guy back on the farm!”

“Yes, sure. But out here you look like rubbish. Please change.”

“Aw… come on.”

“You’re barefoot. We could trip over Jaune’s self-esteem and die like this.”

Oscar sighed, but complied.

They tried on the next outfit and Oscar had to lift up the hole in the helmet so he could see.

“No.”

“Why not, Oscar?”

“There is nothing fashionable about this.”

“but I wore it all the time back in the middle ages.”

“Yeah? Well no one does now.”

“So?”

“So where does someone find a green suit of armor in the middle of a Hot Topic?!”

“Well…”

“Next!”

This time, Oscar had a nearly identical version of Ruby’s old outfit only opting to go with long black pants instead of a skirt.

“Oh, this is pathetic.” Ozpin deadpanned.

“What’s wrong with this?”

“It screams desperation.”

“No, it doesn’t…”

“Really?”

“Sure. Ruby is just a friend who I happen to admire and wanted to show that.”

“This is not the way and please, my presence makes your silly crush rather awkward and undesirable.”

“You’ve been through your teens hundreds of times. Isn’t that all weird high school romances?”

“Touché.”

“Alright, what do you suppose we do then?”

“How about we pick something out we agree on and hope for the best.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

So the two did just that, eventually deciding on an outfit that they could both at least tolerate.

When they got to the checkout counter, the shopkeeper asked them an important question. “Do you always talk to yourself when you’re changing?”

“Perfect.” Ozpin practically grinned. “Tell this old hag to watch his mouth and know who he is-”

“Yeah…” Oscar sighed, cutting him off. “Sometimes I can be pretty annoying when no one asked me to speak!”

“Rude!”

“Right…” The shopkeeper nodded. “anyway, that’ll be eighty Lien.”

“Right…”

“I don’t have any money…” He whispered.

“hm… true.” Ozpin noted. “Not to worry, I have this.”

“Oscar, I told you that my cane holds a special place in my heart, correct?”

“Yeah, you told Ruby that it’s not a relic.”

“It’s even better than a relic. Please, turn the handle to the right three times, left four and right twice.”

“Okay…”

Oscar did so and when he did, the glass on top of the cane popped open to which a radiant golden light streamed out, forcing everyone to cover their eyes.

When the light finally cleared and they could look again, Oscar’s eyes widened in shock, surprise and delight at what he saw.

Hovering just a little bit above the exposed glass was a solid gold credit card as an angelic harmony sang from nowhere in particular thanks to the incredible musical stylings of Jeff Williams.

“Wow…” Oscar gaped.

“Mr. Pine, as my new host, I bestow upon you the single most powerful item in the world of Remnant: My credit card. It is armed with poorly misplaced trust, government funds, the Beacon Academy tuition fees and however much Ironwood thinks he donates towards the fight against Salem but is actually just my hot cocoa account. I drink a lot of expensive, exotic hot chocolate.”

“It’s beautiful… C-can I touch it?”

“It is yours now.”

Smiling, Oscar took the card and happily swiped.

~Shopping Daze~

Back at Beacon, Salem’s crew was absolutely bored. Ever since the Battle of Haven Academy and the loss of the relic, they hadn’t really had anything to do.

For this reason, that’s how Emerald was still crying in her chair, Arthur was fiddling around with his custom scroll, Salem was glaring into her crystal ball and the rest of the guys were playing Go Fish.

“So…” Mercury asked. “Got any twos, Tyrian?”

Tyrian, who was hiding his face behind his cards slowly looked up from them revealing a great big Cheshire grin on his face. He let out a little chuckle. “Hehehe… do I have any twos? Ohohoho… Do I have any twos he asks me. AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA…”

And with that, the chuckles slowly rose to cackles and then great guffaws.

“Shut up!” Mercury shouted. “We’ve been doing this for two hours and every single time you make any sort of play you just keep doing that! You know what, I quit! You and Hazel have fun playing!”

At that, Mercury got up and stormed off to the head of the table where Salem was still glaring angrily at the silver ball.

“Yo, what’s up, Sal?”

“First, do not call me that, insect.”

Mercury sheepishly held his hands up in defense.

“Second of all, I am trying to find Ozpin’s crew. The Grimm between Haven and Atlas haven’t spotted them yet and I am growing frustrated.”

“Maybe they’re on a train.”

“Don’t be stupid, the story’s much more fun if they go on foot.”

“Whatever.” Mercury rolled his eyes.

He then poked the crystal ball, to which Salem hissed. “Don’t touch that!”

“You got any movies on this thing? I’m think of watching The Room…”  

Salem was about to snap at him only for the crystal ball to let out a loud alarm in the room.

Salem, pushed Mercury away and nearly, broke the ball getting herself up close and personal with it. “Ozpin just used his credit card! Finally! Hazel, go and get the Grimm Ozpin is-”

She looked only to see a cartoonish puff of smoke and cards scattered around the ground where he used to be.

“Yeah, he left the moment you said Oz.” Mercury quipped.

~Shopping Daze~

Oscar came out of the store carrying shopping bags (one of which had a few boxes of expensive chocolate, hot chocolate mix and milk curtesy of General James Ironwood), eating a triple scoop and whistling a happy tune. This was actually a pretty great day now that he had Ozpin’s dirty secret money. Nothing could go wrong.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

He looked up from his cone only to drop it at what he saw. A mess of Grimm of ridiculous shapes and sizes stood in a circle outside of the shopping mall and sitting atop a dragon Grimm was none other than, Hazel freshly dusted and ready to be a hypocritical child murderer.

“What the fu-“

“Oh yeah… I forgot Salem had tabs on that card.”

“Now you tell me?” Oscar asked as he threw aside the shopping bags and pulled out his cane.

“No worries, you’re a true huntsman now. We’ll take them on, together!”

And with that, Oscar ran into the fray.

[gascon-en-exil]

Liveblogging FE15 - Act 6 + Postgame Grinding/DLC

Not all of the DLC, obviously, but what’s out so far.

I still haven’t beaten Grima the Creation, though I’ve gotten everyone to their overclasses and just finished grinding for the gold mark medal. That just leaves two more medals I can feasibly get in this playthrough, killing 300 dragons (will take a while since I think Thabes is the best place to find them) and of course defeating the Creation which also comes with the last non-DLC memory shard. I’d have to brave Hard and Hard/Classic for two more, and then there’s that Blitzkrieg medal which...ugh, LTC is so not my style. The relics medal is purely grinding; time will tell if I actually remain motivated enough to farm all three weapons.

Aside from the massive stat walls that the forced fights represent Thabes isn’t that bad on the whole. Unlike its spiritual predecessor the Lagdou Ruins in FE8 you can skip most fights and retreat from the ones you get caught in, which is nice. The “story” of the dungeon is a little weird (necromantic...insects?), but it does a good job of setting up the tension as you go progressively deeper in. 

Grima turns out to not be a divine dragon or shadow dragon but a sort of draconic Frankenstein’s monster with divine dragon blood, and he also made a blood pact of his own with his creator which is presumably what passes down to Validar and Robin. Since the fandom has FE6 a bit more on the brain recently I can’t help but wonder if a remake of Binding Blade would tie this plot thread into Idunn’s corruption, since she’s no longer a fully “natural” dragon.

The overclasses are very hit or miss. Characters lose their unique animations and have to relearn spells in some cases, but they offer some nice gimmicks and have a lot of flavor to them. Granted some of it is very strange flavor; this is probably the first game in the series to draw an explicit connection between paladins and valkyries rather than just hint at it (which annoys me since it turns a quintessentially French class into a Norse one, hmph), spartans are unexpected but could make for some kinky Greek roleplay since all the default barons have something like that going on in their personal lives, and oliphantiers are just...weird. Never mind why they don’t ride elephants, why are their bows now laser guns?

I’ll obviously be picking apart the Deliverance DLC this coming Thursday and I suppose the Cipher DLC (in late June at the earliest) will be something different, but aside from that I’m making plans for subsequent playthroughs after I’m done with Thabes and such. I need to get Deen, for one, and maybe I can manage Hard/Classic with enough earlygame grinding to break the difficulty.

[seracross]

Heart of Fire - Chapter Five: Reunion

Summary: “A dragon without fire is nothing but a liability.” Nine years ago, Syra was thrust into a war: a hide-and-seek battle for control of five powerful crystals, hidden by a secret organization 200 years prior. Taking human-form, Syra searches the dragon-hating city of Altaira for clues on their location. But when her secret is revealed, fickle hearts are quick to change. And when an old enemy raises his scaly head, who will be there to turn to? Her estranged siblings? An ex-fiancé? Or a temperamental pixie the size of a duckling? In a race against her father’s murderer, Syra must traverse the five kingdoms to halt his efforts to rebuild a powerful relic that should never have been created. Are the bonds of love and family strong enough to survive the horrors of secrets and betrayal? And how do you fight an elder dragon bent on revenge when you’re a wyrmling who can’t even breathe fire?

Genre: Fantasy, Adventure, Romance, Drama

Rating: PG-17 (Strong Language & Violence)

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Pale dawn fell over Syra thumbing at the two slips of parchment in her hands. Her color had returned, but anxiety pulsed in her fingertips as she traced the runes scrawled across the spelltags Valen had given her.

"Petra and Cassius should meet you on the way the Landelle," he had said before they parted, "Place these on their chests before you arrive. It will make the trip easier."

She had done well in her rune studies, but she struggled to discern the archaic script further than, 'dragon', 'human', and 'so says I'. The latter obviously referring to the blood-stained thumbprint used to power the spell.

She slid the tags into her pack with a sigh. Valen had sent her away with new clothes and enough supplies to reach Landelle—a farming town a day's hike away—as a promise to bargain for a lighter sentencing. But despite her trust in the man, she also knew Rogan to be a stickler for the law, and she had broken more than that.

Syra started at the sound of the lock clinking and felt her stomach lurch at the sight of a stoic, but pale, Aidan standing in the doorway. Whether out of instinct or raw nerves, she shot from her seat with outspread arms. But they met empty air as he faltered back a pace. Syra froze a moment, her hands quivering inches from his averted gaze.

"Here," he said tersely, his voice a tad hoarse, and held out a thick book, widening the gap between them, "Valen sent this for you."

"Um, thanks," she said with slight hesitation, taking the book and examining its aged face. The Six Realms and Mistakes No One Talks About glinted in dull gold thread across the cover.

"Old man has some sick humor, if you ask me," Aidan said peering down at Syra's tight grip on the volume.

She smirked at the smudged oil marks that matched her thumb, "Something like that."

"Well then," Aidan said turning, "I'll be going."

"Wait!" Syra said, starting after him, "I—"

"I have nothing to say to you," he snapped over a cold shoulder.

"Nothing? I might be executed today and you have nothing at all to say?"

There was a paused as his jaw tensed, "Why?" he asked, unmoving and eyes distant, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Like I could? You'd never look at me the same. You'd hate me. Just like now."

"I deserved to know the truth," he said low, leering down at her, anger and pain swirling behind his eyes.

"I...I was scared of losing you," she said, cringing internally at the irony.

Aidan scoffed, "And how'd that turn out?"

"I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear! I—"

Aidan raised a hand for silence, "I got my answer. Now get ready. The guards are on their way to fetch you for the sentencing." He locked the door behind him then paused, "Goodbye, Syra."

Syra braced herself against the door as her legs slowly gave from under her, her ears filled with the sound of his fading footsteps and her stifled wail.

It wasn't the presence of the hooded undertaker that sent chills across her skin, but the miasma of anger that raged from the burning eyes of the people gathered below the castle's main stairway. Rage at all they had lost. Rage at that, somehow, their loss was caused by the young woman standing in front of them. Rage at that same young woman was an infernal beast that had deceived their trust and adoration.

If she was completely honest, Syra couldn't blame them. Daybreak had revealed the damage to be more severe than expected. A full third of the market district was rubble and citizens were still being pulled from collapsed buildings. Even the air stung of ash from the smoke clinging to smoldering piles of debris.

The crowd hushed as Rogan descended the stairs with a silencing hand. Syra turned to face him, but her head was forced low by her guard's iron grip.

"I see Valen still harbors trust in his scaly friends," Rogan said hushed, noting her attire and backpack, "Some people never change." He faced his audience with and stern brow.

"Citizens of Altaira!" Rogan began with a hearty roar, "I am sure you have heard the rumors. And it pains me to confirm them." He glanced briefly at Syra's bowed head, "It has come to my attention that our beloved kingdom has yet again been betrayed. Not by another race, or even by a neighboring town. No," pain softened his voice as his gaze traced the loose curls of Syra's hair that he had once combed with fatherly delight, "but by one of our own. Or at least, what we thought was one of us."

Whispers mingled among the crowd and Rogan cleared his throat, "Nine years ago, I adopted a young girl. One thought to have been orphaned in the dragon attack...a throwaway."

The crowd simmered with unease at the mention of the taboo.

"But she was gifted. Quite gifted, indeed, as you've seen yourselves over the years. So we—I, took her in, in hopes that she would one day bless our kingdom as a top mage. Not only did she excel through the academy, but she made Soldier a whole year early!" Rogan boomed with a chuckle of near disbelief and held out a hand for validation from Orlek, the captain of the guard and Syra's superior. Orlek merely gave a disheartened nod, eyes unable to look at his previous pupil.

"Who would've thought it humanly possible for one so young? And from a throwaway at that!" Rogan lowered his voice with a clenched fist, "But therein lies the rub, my friends. This mage—this...witch, is nothing but a serpent in human clothing! A beguiling shapeshifter!"

The plaza rang with fury. And Rogan let his words come firm and distinct, "A dragon."

Roars of, 'Kill the beast!' permeated the thick atmosphere and the undertaker fidgeted with his blade. Syra’s guard didn't need to hold her head; she let it fall herself. So much for my special quest, she thought defeated, eyes too dried up to shed a tear.

"I hear your plea!” Rogan held up his hands for silence, “I truly do. And if this were a simple matter of laws broken, then it would surely be a swift execution," he paused, glancing up at window where Aidan stood watching, "But simple it is not. As many of you witnessed during the tragedy yesterday, this...beast, broke her illusion to save your lives. And one of those lives was my son's."

There was a boiling over of protests and spitting, but Rogan spoke over it, "I know your anger demands blood, as does mine! But that debt has already been paid, in blood not spilt."

The crowd was in outright confusion at this point. Unsure whether they should be angry or sad, or whether to sling their feces in Syra's general direction.

"That beast's life doesn't count for shit!" One man bellowed, spit flying from his livid face.

"And if I acted on that, then we'd all be just as bad as them!" Rogan snapped, then sighed, giving Syra one last, forlorn glance, "just a bunch of creatures with no code."

"A life for a life; that is my decision!" Rogan said, rounding on Syra who was made to stand upright, "Lady Syra, for the crime of treason you are hereby banished from the Kingdom of Altaira and all its principalities! From this point on, you will have no title and be harbored by no citizen. Should you return, I will revoke my compassion and you will be executed with haste. Is that understood?"

Syra avoided his gaze, but thought she caught the swelling of tears about his stern eyes, "Yes, sir."

"Take her to the gates," Rogan commanded of his guards.

"I know it doesn't count for much, but," Syra said meekly as she passed, "...thank you."

Rogan fought against the knot in his throat and Syra craned her head towards the castle's western tower where Aidan stood with Valen overlooking the procession. Goodbye, Aidan.

Sun-high brought a comforting breeze and Syra had stopped to rest with the bread and dried meat Valen had graciously included. Despite the events of yesterday the road to the capital was still bringing in guests, mostly merchants and performers hoping to capitalize on the festivities. None of which seemed to give Syra much notice. Word must've not reached town yet, she thought.

From her seat astride a felled trunk, she could see the crystalline spear of the Transpoint. Carved from the heart of a large meteorite, the ten-foot tall monolith shone in multi-faceted glory as a triumph of human alchemy. That would make the trip much easier, she thought. But her pockets were empty and transpoint shards were especially pricey nowadays.

She was halfway debating stowing away in a caravan when a rumbling came through the earth and the air thickened with a low hum. A violet light grew from within the Transpoint, radiating in prisms and spiraling outwards. A burst of light and wind followed the appearance of a small cart guarded by three roughly dressed men.

"Good god, that was horrible!" One man of grizzled beard said, his face paling and bracing himself on the cart.

"Quit yer bellyaching," said his burlier comrade, tossing a metal compact into the cart and flexing his singed hand, "You didn't have to hold the blasted thing!"

"I told you to wear gloves! But did you listen? No!" the third and scrawnier man mocked.

"Shut it, Grant! It was your fault we had to use this thing in the first place! Waste of rali if you ask me."

"At least we got far away from that old hag," Grant said, checking the contents of the cart for damage, "We should get a hefty return on all this magical shit."

"Hope you got something for a sour stomach," Han said through gags.

"Hey! No yaking on the merchandise!" Reese yelled and shoved Han away from the cart just in time for him to retch. "When you're done, help us push."

Reese took up the yolk and Grant heaved at the rear, but the cart did not budge. Even with Han's added grunt, the front wheels refused to turn and dug a deeper trench the harder they shoved.

Syra watched them struggle with curious intent. Perhaps if she helped them, they would let her catch a ride.

"Excuse me!" Syra said, stepping out from the treeline, "Did you need some help?"

The men appeared startled at first and hesitant to answer her, simply whispering amongst themselves. They’re probably just uneasy, she thought, I did just show up out of nowhere.

"Your left wheel," she called, nearing, "there could be something jammed in there! I could take a look and see what I can do." Syra offered a polite grin to the gruff fellows overlooking her. Their confusion didn't last long when Reese caught the glint of the gold hoop adorning her upper ear.

"Oi, yer a mage!" said Reese, pointing to the earring, "Didn't catch that at first!"

"O-oh...yes!" Syra stuttered. She didn't technically have the title anymore, but that didn't mean she couldn't use her skills. "I thought perhaps I could try to mend anything that might have broken."

"Well aren't you the kindly type," Reese mused, exchanging silent words between his partners, "Whelp, go on ahead an’ see what you can do. Don't let an old feller like me stop a mage from workin'."

"Shouldn't take that long," Syra said, kneeling down beside the wooden wheel and examining the spokes and rigging with dainty fingers, "These carts don't take much to figure out."

"Is that so?" Reese pried, giving a nod to Han who took to searching the cart with quiet efficiency.

"Yeah," she said, finding nothing that obstructed the wheel directly and crawling under the carriage to check the back wheels, "I'm no smith, but I figure if I can understand it, then it has to be pretty simple."

When Syra disappeared from view, the men faked laughter and Han tossed a bundle of rope to Reese.

Syra suspected nothing until she was by the rear and caught a faint whispering hidden by the men's voices.

"Hey!" It called from above her, "You need to run!" The tiny voice sounded muffled and she strained to hear.

"What?" she hushed back.

"It's a trap. You need to run. Fast! Go now while they can't see you."

Syra stopped to rationalize the voice and what kind of ploy she had gotten herself into, but she had paused too long.

"You alright under there, little mage?" Reese called.

"Yeah!" she said, returning from thought, "I was wrong, it was that back wheel! The joint snapped! I can fix it, but I'll need my supplies." She lied, hoping to make a quick exit. But they were prepared for her when she crawled out from under the cart.

Seeing the men hovering over her, Syra sprung from underneath the cart, sliding under Reese. She managed to dodged his hooked arm, but that brought her careening into a waiting Han. Strong arms wrapped around her shoulders and she felt her feet leaving the ground.

In an instant, Syra slammed her feet against the road, rocketing her head up into Han’s chin. He stumbled back with a groan but kept his grip, albeit looser now. Syra reared her legs upward then shoved then downward, tugging on his arms and pulling him down with them. The change in momentum caught him off-guard and he tumbled forward over Syra who ducked and sprinted away.

"Oh no, you don't!" Grant spat, grabbing the rope from Reese and speeding after her.

Syra's legs pumped against the hard-packed dirt, but the thud of long legs quickly closed in. Damn it! She cursed to herself, veering off sharply into the trees. Maybe she could lose him in the brush.

Her feet danced and leaped over logs and around thickets of briar. She heard him curse the low-hanging branches as his pace slowed. But they were soon joined by the heavy beats of two others on either flank. Shit, they're gonna cut me off!

Ahead was her only chance; a stream too wide to jump, but with one lone, narrow log stretching its breadth. That'll never hold their weight, she thought, forcing herself to push past the burning in her thighs.

The bandits seemed to catch on to her ploy as Reese and Han angled their approach directly towards the woodland bridge. But she was nearly there. She could soar across that log in three quick steps and they would be sent crashing into the frigid water below.

Almost there...almost there, she chanted through strained breaths. The encroaching men blurred into the greenery as she made her last strides to safety. It was in her last leap that a tawny line stretched across her vision, quickly followed by a stinging across her gut and an abrupt halt that flung her onto her back. The rope, she realized, coughing back the breath she had lost.

"Tie ‘er up!" Reese commanded with reddened face, "Tightly now, bitch made me break a sweat."

Syra spun to her feet, but Han had her pinned under his bulk and Grant's hands worked fast to bind her arms to her sides. In a desperate move, Syra hunched over and surged burning mana through her hands trying to ignite the rope. But the warm glow merely fizzled around the bindings. She froze in shock and confusion.

The trees echoed Reese's laughter, "Don't waste your energy! That rope is pure Arrun fiber. You might as well be bound in iron."

In her current state, Syra could only recall the material being used to hunt magical creatures. How befitting, she thought with a sneer. She struggled against the ropes, but in futility, "What do you want with me, anyway?" she demanded.

"Why rali, of course!” Reese chortled, “I know plenty of backalley folks itchin’ to get their hands on a mage. This one alchemist I know," he said, crouching so his face was mere inches from hers, "says he can make all kinds of potions from the mana sucked out of 'em. Strength, rejuvination, even invincibilty given the right...donor. And, as it turns out, the younger the better! Ain't that just fasinating?" Reese feigned bewilderment and gave her cheek a rough pinch. "I'm sure he'll pay a pretty coin for you. Speaking of pretty," he paused to examine her face with a firm grip on her chin, "After you're all drained and weak, you'll probably get passed around like a child's plaything. But only just long enough for your reserves to replenish, and then it'll be right back to the alchemist to be used up all over again." He gave a wry grin and released her, "Just thought you ought to know beforehand."

Fear and rage churned in Syra's chest. Was that true? Were there actually people, alchemists, that would do such horrid things?

"You're lying!" she hissed through gritted teeth, "No true alchemist would turn to such dealings! They have honor, a code! Unlike you barbarians—"

"Oh, you poor dear," Reese cooed, "Indeed there are. Otherwise, there'd be a lot more throwaways out there." He let reality sink in a bit, relishing her wide-eyed expression, before turning to Han, "Gag her."

Han took a small bottle from his pocket and poured a clear liquid out onto a cloth. Grant held Syra tight against him, despite her squirming, and Han wrapped the cloth around her nose and mouth.

With one breath her eyes flashed green, her pupils flickering between slits and circles. She screamed. Her lungs burned. Her body stung and seized. Her scream became a hoarse roar that faded like a spark as her limbs went limp. She couldn't feel her fingers...toes...or legs, and within a minute her whole body was numb and her head fuzzy. Sound left her ears and she fought against the blackness swarming her periphery. The last visage left to her was that of a bronze coin hung about Reese's tattooed neck.

The cackling of men's banter, along with a dull soreness and dry mouth, roused Syra to consciousness. The road was gone. Only brush and trees surrounded them, with the faint trace of a narrow trail beginning to be overgrown.

Syra picked up the scent of stale mutton as her senses returned to her. Her breath froze within her chest, seeing her capturers just feet away as the memories came rushing back. Where are we? She thought in a panic, looking about, How late is it? She was to have reached Landelle by nightfall, but now sunlight shown gold through the treetops and she had lost her sense of direction.

"Well look who's awake?" Grant said, causing Syra to jump, "That didn't take long."

"No, it didn’t," said Reese a tad disappointed, "Quite sturdy, that one. We're just gonna have to use the whole bottle. Han!" he motioned for Han to take care of things before returning to his meal.

Han said nothing while pulling the small bottle again from his pocket, his face still a slight pale. He must still be recovering from his trip through the Transpoint, Syra thought with a spark of hope. Some people never take well to it. She used his sluggishness as an opportunity to get her feet up under herself, using a tree for support as her arms were still bound.

"Not this again," Han said with a sigh of exasperation.

Syra sprung away from him, but her legs were weak and shaky and she stumbled after a few paces. Han was quickly upon her and grabbed her by the braid, yanking her backwards. She pulled against his grip and heard several strands snap. But his hand found her face and forced her head back into his chest.

"Quit squirming!" Han commanded, retrieving the cloth with his free hand.

"Suck a toad!" Syra hissed, latching her teeth around his hand and clamping down. Han screamed and she tasted metal. Humans actually tasted quite bad, to her surprise.

"You little cunt!"

Han recoiled but hooked his arm around her neck, jamming his elbow up under her jaw and wrapped his legs around her waist, "Just shut up and take it!" He spat, pouring the remaining liquid into the cloth.

Retracting from the musky wad, she did the only thing left to do. She screamed. Not a shrill shriek of fear, a roar, a throat-burning call-to-arms amplified by all the mana she could afford. I might not be able to cut these ropes, she thought, but ropes can't bind sound.

Flocks fled their perches and Han flinched from the blow to his eardrums.

"What the hell are you doing?" Reese yelled, plugging his own ears, "Knock 'er out already!

"I'm trying!"

Syra used his weakened hold to slam the back of her head, once again, into his face. This time she heard the distinct snap of a nose.

"Bloody hell!" Han bellowed, releasing Syra as his hands flew to his swelling snout.

"Don't let 'er g—" said Reese, in time to watch Syra bolt from Han's grip, "Damn it!"

Syra was about to duck into a thicket when she noticed the shining of metal on one side of the cart. Swords! If she could get a hold of one, then it would be a fair fight.

She doubled back, leading her pursuers into low foliage and headed straight for the short sword that glinted as if beckoning her.

"Get yer ass out of my face!" Reese berated Han who had to stoop to clear the spiny arches of briar.

Syra crouched with her back to the blades, slicing at the rope. Time slowed as she felt the strands snap one by one. Just...a few...more. She hurried as they broke through the vegetation and bared down on her.

Then there were hoof beats, and the grazing of metal. And Syra watched as the men fell backwards away from the rearing hooves of the chestnut stallion beside her. Its rider, cloaked with hood, pointed a steady blade.

"Back off." It commanded, and Syra faltered. She knew that voice.

"Like hell we will!" Reese said, finding his footing, "Our catch, our prize!" He drew his own sword, a basic blade of little refinement; typical of one who splurges on luxuries yet forgets the practical.

The figure dismounted with a nimble landing. As it did, Syra caught a glimpse of its face from under the hood.

"Ai—" The clash of swords cut her off.

With a quick shove, Aidan knocked Reese some paces back then knelt to sever the rest of the rope. "Let's go," he said, their eyes meeting.

Syra leapt to her feet and drew the short sword, finding comfort in its weight and leather handle.

Back-to-back they fought, swerving, twisting, and jabbing in continuous motion, their breath and footsteps music to a dance well-rehearsed. Round in circles they went. The clearing rang with grunts and yowls, and the meeting of metal against metal, cloth, and skin.

“Leave. Now,” said Aidan through controlled breaths.

Reese stood huffing on an injured leg, blood soaking through his britches and sleeves where Aidan’s blade had sliced, “No.”

Aidan widened his stance and tightened his grip on his sword, eyes fixed on Reese, “Last chance.”

“H-hey Reese, m-maybe we should just cut our loses,” said Grant, leaning heavily on his sword with blood trailing from the gash above his eye.

Han offered an agreeable nod, as he wasn’t in any better shape, but that seemed to spur Reese on.

“Cowards!” he yelled, spitting out a mixture of saliva, blood, and sweat. He ignored his comrades and lunged with sword raised. But in his ignorance he failed to see the small shadow bend around Aidan and spring towards his unguarded torso.

And so Reese stood there, Aidan blocking his blow, with little Syra hilt-deep into his side. A small whine came from his crusted mouth and his jaw clenched from pain. But more than pain, Syra saw surprise splattered across his face.

“He said, ‘last chance’,” she said hushed. While she enjoyed the sword, she never reveled in its victims.

“You stupid, stupid girl!” Reese growled, gritting his teeth and rearing his sword backwards. Forgetting about the slab of metal through his middle, he spun her around and shoved the blade-edge up against her throat.

“Whatcha gonna do now, hero?” he mocked Aidan who stared him down. “You just gonna stand there?”

Just above the treetops, Syra spotted a shimmer in the sunlight. Two shimmers, actually, and approaching fast.

“Aidan, you have to d—”

“It’s alright, I’ll handle this.”

“No, you dumbass,” Syra said, twisting the blade in Reese’s side and causing him scream and drop his sword, “DUCK!” She leaped onto him and pulled him to the ground, just moments before a plume of red-hot flames shot over them and encapsulated Reese.

A strong burst of wind was followed by Grant’s scream, “Dragons!”

Aidan’s eyes went wide as he watched the large red and gold creatures circle above like vultures.

“They’re coming back!” Han yelled to Grant, running over to an unconscious Reese, who was still alive but badly charred, “Help me drag him!”

“Aidan, let’s go!” Syra said, shaking him out of his trance.

The two scurried from the clearing into the safety of the trees.

“What about them?” Aidan asked, watching Han and Grant struggle with their injuries to drag Reese out of the clearing.

Within seconds a shadow fell over the men and more flames came. This time it was blue flames that caught their backsides as they managed to scamper out of range.

Blue fire… Syra thought with brief pause.

“Come on, before they come back!” Aidan tugged at her arm but she did not budge.

“No,” Syra said, pulling from his grasp and running back into the clearing.

“What the hell—are you insane?!”

“Trust me!”

“Hell no!”

Syra stood herself in the very middle of the meadow, watching the metallic figures bank inwards towards her.

“Syra move!” Aidan yelled.

She did not.

Before her, the two serpents swooped low, but did not loose their fire. I was right, she thought with relief. Wind billowed through the trees, whipping her hair and cloak as they landed side-by-side mere feet away. Leathery wings folded and bright eyes of azure and gold stared down from their towering perches. The golden one dipped its head and sniffed, spurring Aidan to leave his retreat.

“Don’t come any closer!” Aidan threatened, running between Syra and the giants with sword raised, “We have no quarrel with you, so please, leave us be!”

It studied Aidan for a moment then dismissed him, turning to its partner.

“It’s her,” it spoke, surprising Syra with its loudness.

“Of course, it’s her!” said the copper drake in slight annoyance, “I’d know that whine anywhere.”

Aidan hesitated, confused by their words and Syra’s lax demeanor, “You…know them?”

Syra turned an awkward smile to Aidan, “Um, yes! This is Cassius…and Petra,” she said motioning to the gold and copper dragons, respectively, “They’re my siblings.”

[trailblczed]

At the sound of partial laughter, Caelus looks up from where he was staring at his feet (making sure he doesn't trip over air, ya know?). The fact that Aventurine can identify his device isn't all too surprising, the blond was high up in the I.P.C., and this was one of the companies creations. But he is a tad impressed that the lad can tell what version Findie was. He thinks Findie told Caelus himself way back when, but the other gets it with just a few glances.. Really, impressive.

❛ Well, yeah- it is. Though, it'd prefer you to call it "Findie". ❜

Lad grins, amused by the quiet appreciative beeps Findie gives Caelus. Surprised it hadn't just talked, but who knows.. maybe it's just nervous around someone belonging to the I.P.C. (it's creator). He ain't one to judge.

❛ I found and rebuilt Findie right here on Belobog, actually. Ran into a problem and ending up "Findieing" it, and used it's help to get some missing pieces to fix a.. cart? I think? It's been a while. I have nothing against antiques, but I wouldn't say I am one to go out of my way to collect them. ❜

Yes, he chuckles at his own pun. No, he is not ashamed. If you can't find yourself funny and like your own jokes, what's the point? Though he silently agrees to Aventurine's comment, that Findie will be handy and useful. (He's just glad he didn't forget it on the Express. That would have made this job a lot harder.) And lad also listens to his friend's suggestion, gently guiding Findie to move towards the (rather intimidating) crevice. Caelus just hopes it doesn't get more narrow than it initially looks he's not a big fan of small spaces.

And as if Aha is looming over him, right after a warning of not getting stuck, one foot manages to slide due to some small unattached rocks along the pathway, nearly tripping and falling over. A disbelieving laugh and slightly embarrassed smile brightens his face as he looks at Aventurine with a nod.

❛ Yeah. I will do my best to not get stuck. ❜

Roll [ 1 - 3 ] | Result: 3

Though maybe the almost-trip was worth it, because as soon as he rights himself, shoving the blunder away from his mind, Findie starts glowing a green beam towards where he (nearly) fell. Really? ... Didn't it just show red? Wouldn't it have been at least yellow.. or orange? It was an older model, and you know.. in general kind of old. So things can happen- he ain't upset about it. So, the Nameless goes ahead and uses his hands to move around some of the larger rocks along the side of the path, and even makes a pile of snow before fingertips brush against something... that feels similar to fur, but not quite.

Roll [ 1 - 3 ] | Result: 1

Then he feels something almost painfully chilly, like an ice cold sting as the texture of metal meets skin. Eventually, with enough digging, the lad is able to get the thing in his grasp and (carefully) pull it free. Oh, a pair of gloves..! That explains the differing textures (and the metal burning his hand due to it being so cold) at least. He gives it a quick look over, noting how there were spots where buttons might have been- and several points along the fingers were missing a joint connector.

So.. a three star relic. Boooooooo... Oh well, something better than nothing! Take what you can, and get back to the Grind.

❛ It looks real rough.. Maybe someone left it behind on purpose, not thinking it was worth to take something of such poor quality..?

Still, I'd say finding anything this early is pretty luck..! I just hope I don't have to "stumble" into anything else we find...... ❜

Caelus, the comedic genius ladies, gentlemen, and variations thereof.

☆ going for gold in relic farming

【 bloom commission ── belobogian artifacts. 】

[trailblczed]

Mister Stellaron. Caelus hopes the tug at his heart isn't noticable. The nickname is meant as a tease, he assumes he hopes. Lad focuses on the rest of the statement, of how he used the man's name- slightly confused, a tiny head tilt expressing said confusion.

❛ Why would I not call you by your name? We're friends.. aren't we? ❜

At least the silver believes that to be the case, the word "friend" gets tossed around at him quite often so it was under his assumption that they were, aside from being just allies. But, at the vocalization of less formal title being a welcomed gesture ( even if unintentional on his part ), a small warmth settles in his chest. He likes seeing people more relaxed or playful, especially if they're out of a work environment. An argument could be made that this little adventure was for work purposes- with Aventurine aiding with it possibly under the I.P.C.'s request, and Caelus looking for some decent payout for doing it.

Caelus is curious as to what the relation the I.P.C. had with Jarilo- or was it Belobog in specific? Though, the lad is likely to not understand the intricacies of business and finances, or if it's company secrets that he can't be informed of either way. Who knows.. maybe some of the artifacts they find will give him some sort of clue?

❛ Nope, just me. I didn't want to bother any of them by asking anyone to come with me to go on this hunt. Besides, that just means more rewards for us! ❜

If he had any of the Express Family help him out, lad feels like it would be missing the point of Caelus earning his keep and pulling his share of the load. Even if what finances he makes during this trip will ultimately be used for his family anyway, it wouldn't be the same.

Well if they don't get started, then they ain't gonna ever make some bank! The silver is glad he remembered about that one single time he used a Home-Use Object Finder many months ago. Even had taken Findie to get a bit of work done and to see if it was possible to add any sort of upgrades ( no, being able to locate hidden trashcans was not a viable upgrade- so the mechanic said [sadge] ) or if any updates were needed since it was a relatively old device, from what he understood.

Roll [ 1 - 3 ] | Result: 1

Once Caelus is in more than a few steps, he goes ahead and wakes Findie up before pressing a few buttons, it's lights turn on as it does a spin around the immediate area. Unsurprisingly, it flashes red- indicating nothing of use being nearby- but he figures it a smart thing to get Findie going and scanning from the get-go. Never know if something got missed or is so hidden to the eye that one wouldn't be able to find it naturally.

❛ Nothing here... Perhaps further in?

I wonder how many relics are even still left at this point.. or I guess I would be more concerned with their condition. I imagine most things would be so old that they'd be crumbling apart.. or maybe because of the freezing atmosphere the planet has the relics are actually ridiculously well-preserved?

Which do you think is more likely? ❜

☆ going for gold in relic farming

【 bloom commission ── belobogian artifacts. 】