#falchion sheathed;

[writers-potion]

Writing Weapons (1): Swords

The Thrusting Sword

Type of fight scene: entertaining, duels, non-lethal fights, non-gory deaths, swashbuckling adventure

Mostly used in: Europe, including Renaissance and Regency periods

Typical User: silm, male or female, good aerobic fitness

Main action: thrust, pierce, stab

Main motion: horizontal with the tip forward

Shape: straight, often thin, may be lightweight

Typical Injury: seeping blood, blood stains spreading

Strategy: target gaps in the armous, pierce a vital organ

Disadvantage: cannot slice through bone or armour

Examples: foil, epee, rapier, gladius

The Cleaving Sword

Type of fight scene: gritty, brutal, battles, cutting through armour

Typical user: tall brawny male with broad shulders and bulging biceps

Mostly used in: Medieval Europe

Main action: cleave, hack, chop, cut, split

Main motion: downwards

Shape: broad, straight, heavy, solid, sometime huge, sometimes need to be held in both hands, both sides sharpened

Typical Injury: severed large limbs

Strategy: hack off a leg, them decapitate; or split the skull

Disadvantage: too big to carry concealed, too heavy to carry in daily lifem too slow to draw for spontaneous action

Examples: Medieval greatsword, Scottish claymore, machete, falchion

The Slashing Sword

Type of fight scene: gritty or entertaining, executions, cavalry charge, on board a ship

Mostly used in: Asia, Middle East

Typical user: male (female is plausible), any body shape, Arab, Asian, mounted warrior, cavalryman, sailor, pirate

Main action: slash, cut, slice

Main motion: fluid, continuous, curving, eg.figure-eight

Shape: curved, often slender, extremely sharp on the outer edge

Typical Injury: severed limbs, lots of spurting blood

Strategy: first disable opponent's sword hand (cut it off or slice into tendons inside the elbow)

Disadvantage: unable to cut thorugh hard objects (e.g. metal armor)

Examples: scimitar, sabre, saif, shamshir, cutlass, katana

Blunders to Avoid:

Weapons performing what they shouldn't be able to do (e.g. a foil slashing metal armour)

Protagonists fighting with weapons for which they don't have the strength or build to handle

The hero carrying a huge sword all the time as if it's a wallet

Drawing a big sword form a sheath on the back (a physical impossiblity, unless your hero is a giant...)

Generic sword which can slash, stab, cleave, slash, block, pierce, thrust, whirl through the air, cut a few limbs, etc...as if that's plausible

adapted from <Writer's Craft> by Rayne Hall

[ghost-tm]

fe13 x wc

mods are asleep post warrior cats chrobin

rambling under cut 👇

- robin is born a kittypet edit: loner but doesnt know he has a shadowclan father

- he lives with his mom and his twolegs around twolegplace and the edges of the clan until one day she goes missing

- friends with rushclaw, who was born in thunderclan and is brother to the leader (emmeryn) and is deputy phila is deputy, chrom’s a warrior for now

- robin joins thunderclan and gets the name lightningpaw (he’s an adult at this point but trains as an apprentice under frederick for three moons) and eventually lightningsight

- might change clan names later but for rn thunderclan = ylisse and shadowclan = plegia

design choices

- for robin's name i wanted something that was reminiscent of light due to robin as a name meaning shining, and reflet, his japanese name, meaning reflect. then i was like oh duh. thunder magic. lightning.

- sight was chosen bc of robin's tactical abilities. in wc, i think this translates into him just being generally clever and maybe having good senses

- chrom i had a harder time choosing a prefix. i was thinking about rock-ish names at first bc of chrom. chrome. chromium. idk. and i thought about blue. so then i was thinking about water names and settled on rush

- i knew for certain i wanted claw or heart as the suffix. i mean it’s chrom c'mon.

- i tried to somewhat emulate their clothing in their designs with robin having spots mimicking grima's eyes and his body referencing his coat. he has a mark on his paw to reference where his brand of grima usually is

- chrom has a scar on his shoulder where his brand would normally be and a scar on his back to sort of emulate falchion's sheath. the white on his back is his cape and his asymmetrical socks mimic his single sleeve and leg warmer

- robin’s a little smaller and leaner than average. dainty way of holding himself. while chrom’s super fluffy and just a big ass cat. broad shoulders and giant paws. “muscles rippling beneath his pelt”, as the erins might say

[kultofathena]

Ádám Bodorics – Beham Messer with Ring Hilt and Brass Frame Boxwood Grip

This Beham style Messer by specialist swordsmith Ádám Bodorics is a wonderfully agile sword in the hand that strikes with velocity and power – its wide and well-tempered blade bites deeply and its thin profile along the main cutting portion of the blade passes through a target with little drag and resistance – a truly fierce performer in a scrap of a melee! The thick ring at the hilt gives impressive protection to the entire hand from even notably larger weapons and the grip is a unique composite with the thick tang riveted and embedded between two halves of smoothly polished boxwood which is framed in strips of finely worked brass. The wood grip halves may look cracked, but they are actually created from a deliberate reconstruction of smaller pieces with strong and colored bonding filler in order to give the grip a unique theme and appearance that is perfectly apt to the troubled times of early 16th century Germany.

The sword is matched with scabbard of well-carved wood which is wrapped in linen for a binding to aid in durability which is then finished with overlaid tight leather with a compartment for a matching byknife which is included. Integrated and knotted to the scabbard is a thick sword belt with an adjustable buckle for wear. Below is Ádám’s own words on his unique creation offered here:

Messers take a huge variety of form and construction. This piece is based on a 1540 woodcut by Hans Sebald Beham with a subtle Memento Mori theme. In the 16th century, knifelike sidearms undergo several changes, one of them being the increasing regularity of hidden tangs. Illustrations from the period sometimes show rather complex grip shapes that would be complicated with a full-tang construction, but a hidden or a frame tang makes them much more trivial. Hans Sebald Beham often shows interesting grip shapes even in a bucolic setting, and it’s one of his woodcuts I based this piece on.

The straight and nimble blade is ground from 51crv4 (6150) high-carbon steel and is heat-treated to 50-52 HrC. It is optimized for cutting and slashing. It has plenty of distal taper and a wide fuller along it’s length. The cross has a gentle S-shape and a sidering instead of a Nagel. It is still affixed to the blade with a rivet o make sure it’s not mistaken for a sword or falchion or storta. The finials of the cross echo the trilobate design of the grip. The real tang of the blade reaches to about two-thirds of the grip. A thin steel plate was cut to the intended shape of the grip with a brass strip formed and soldered along it’s edges. The grip panels sit on the edges of the frame with the cavity between the panels and the tang filled with adhesive following the style of  surviving frame-tang sidearms.

The byknife is hand-forged and ground from 80crv2 with integrated bolsters and a forge-welded mild steel tang. The grip panels are affixed by glue and tubular brass rivets of increasing diameter. The grip panels are boxwood, buxus sempervirens. These pieces were hand-picked to highlight the effects of the blight eradicating old growth, namely the aggressive checking from quick drying following rapid defoliation and the cloudy dark discolorations. There is evidence for boxwood’s continuous use for over two millennia, but as specimens large enough for larger carvings take an immense amount of time to grow, preventive culling or neglect of infected trees both make it near-impossible for this material to stay for long. To me, using these specific slabs was like erecting a gravestone, removing the need for any overt Memento Mori or Totentanz motifs.

The scabbard has a wooden core, linen wrapping and a vegetable tanned leather wrap with an integrated subsheath for the byknife. It is dyed a light brown and is undecorated to keep the attention on the hilt of the Messer. There is a belt threaded into two slits in the back of the sheath, crossing over to either side.

[beantothemax]

I titled the doc for this one “Chronophobia” (fe awakening spoilers for anyone else seeing this)

uh.. idk how good it is, but I like it I think

Lucina stared out at the fiery sea before her, watching what was once a mighty fleet of ships burn to measly ashes.

She had heard stories of her parent’s so-called strategic genius, most of which were her father bragging on their behalf, but she never really got the chance to see it for herself.

She couldn’t take her eyes off the blaze, and, as the flames danced on the oil-coated waters, she couldn’t stop thinking about the future.

The future she came from, and the future she sought to prevent.

Could she really succeed? So far, she could not be certain.

Fate had already corrected itself before. The Exalt, her aunt, fell to her demise right before her eyes.

She didn’t prevent history, merely postponed it.

What would happen to her if she did succeed? 

Would she disappear if the future she came from ceased to exist? Was the fact that she hadn’t disappeared yet proof that she was failing to prevent what was to come?

Would she go back to the future she came from, the one she wished the Lucina of this time would never have to see?

Would she be sent to the new future, the future in which her family could be together again?

That would be ideal, but she wasn’t sure how that would work.

Gods, time travel is confusing, she thought.

She saw her parents, alive and well, and felt an aching pain in her chest.

She missed them.

She missed them so much, and now, she could finally spend time with them again.

And yet, she was so scared to.

What if she messed something up? What if she changed history too much? What if her presence inadvertently led to their deaths yet again?

She did not want to lose them again.

She couldn’t even be certain as to how they met their ends, all she knew were the rumors.

The rumors that her father had been betrayed by someone he cared about.

Who? Were they on this vessel right now?

Gods if only she knew, then she could take their life from them before they could take her father from her.

She dismissed that thought almost as soon as it entered her mind.

There was no way to guarantee the rumors were true, and besides, she didn’t think she would have the strength to follow through with it.

Her mind wandered as she stared absent-mindedly at the burning seas.

She remembered training with her father when she was younger. 

She was so happy when he agreed to train with her before they set out for Valm. He didn’t see the point, she had already reached his skill level, but to her, it wasn’t about skill.

She missed him. She missed him so much that it hurt, dug into her chest and burned a permanent hole in her heart.

She wanted to cry, but she couldn’t. She had to be strong. She couldn’t afford to get distracted, couldn’t afford to fail.

Failure meant losing them, again.

She squeezed the handle of Falchion, which was hanging at her hip, firmly. Her hand was always close to it, even when it was sheathed. She knew she always had to be prepared.

Prepared for anything that might try to claw everything away from her, for anything that might try to rip it from her hands like it already had.

She was awakened from her daydreaming when she felt a tug at her arm.

“Lucina?” It was Morgan.

She turned to him quickly, he had caught her off guard, “Ah, yes? What is it?”

“Are you alright?” He asked innocently. “You look scared.”

She smiled at him, “I’m fine, don’t worry.”

“Do you wanna hold my hand?” He reached his hand out to her.

She was surprised by that response, but she took his hand, hesitantly and wordlessly.

The fire had finally receded now, and they were approaching the shore.

She took a deep breath, in… and out.

Don’t lose focus, Lucina. The future rests on your shoulders.

LUCINAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

CHRONOPHOBIA!!!!!!! LUCINA BEING AFRAID OF. SO MUCH. OF LOSING THOSE CLOSE TO HER ONCE AGAIN. ABOUT FORGING ANY KIND OF BOND WITH CHROM AND ROBIN BECAUSE. BECAUSE SHE DOESNT WANT TO FEEL THAT PAIN AGAIN!!!! SHE’S TERRIFIED OF DOING SOMETHING, ANYTHING WRONG TO THROW OFF WHATEVER FUCKED UP TIME TRAVEL RULES SHE WORKS UNDER!!!!!! she just wants to be with those who she loves!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! calc I am going to die!!!!!!!!

extremely cool thing you have my eternal gratitude for making it

[irisandlily]

Fire Emblem Siblings Week 2023- Lucina & Morgan (4/7)

Prompt: Return

Rating: General Audiences

(also on ao3)

When they arrive at the ruins in Northeastern Ferox, in search of Naga’s Tear, they aren’t expecting it to be full of Risen.

“I suppose we're just gonna have to earn this treasure the old-fashioned way,” 

Lucina sighs, recalling her father’s words. If only things were that simple.

Their group splits off into two different parts of the ruins. Her parents and a few of the Shepherds take to the west side of the ruins. Lucina, along with Owain, Gerome, Severa, Inigo, and Kjelle go along the east side.

Lucina and her group enter a large room, and on the other side, atop a flight of stairs, she sees a figure firing spells off at a Risen general. Their coat is all too similar to her mother’s, and when they shoot off a blast of wind, sending the Risen into the wall, their hood is blown off, revealing familiar short blue hair, brown eyes, and a triumphant smile.

Next to her, Severa gasps. “Is that-?!”

“Cover me!” Lucina shouts, and she fights her way through the group of Risen occupying the room, with her friends making sure she isn’t attacked from behind. 

She ends up only a few feet away from the bottom of the stairs, Falchion severing a Risen’s head from its body when she looks up frantically at the boy.

Nine, covered in leaves and dirt, trudging mud into the study, a worm wiggling in his hands. “I found a worm Luci! I- hey, why are you hiding behind Father?”

Thirteen, face smudged with soot, smelling of smoke and firewood. “Hey Luci, hypothetically speaking, how mad would you be if I accidentally set all the training dummies on fire?”

Fifteen, eyes sullen, a faraway look in his eyes, on their mother’s birthday. “Lucina do you think… is it possible she might be-”

“...They’re gone, Morgan.”

“Morgan!?”

At the shout of the name, Morgan turns his head to look at her, his face twisting into confusion when they lock eyes.

He looks just like how she remembers him.

A mix of emotions fills her. Relief, that he’s alive, then anger. Anger that he disappeared without a goodbye, that he never once let her know, in the years he was gone, that he was still alive.

Then the realization that he’s fighting off a Risen general by himself hits her.

Idiot!

“You-” She starts, but she’s cut off when the Risen General roars behind Morgan. Three more Risen stand in Lucina’s way, and she glances behind herself. Her friends have picked off the rest of the Risen, and they continue to make quick work of the remaining three.

She hears Morgan yell out two spells in succession, and a flash of lightning followed by an explosion reverberates throughout the chamber. She looks up in time to see Morgan thrown back by the explosion, and Lucina dashes forward, dropping Falchion as she rushes up the stairs. She manages to catch Morgan halfway, and they’re sent flying, tumbling down the staircase.

Her body aches from the fall, and she manages to catch her breath. Gerome helps her stand up, handing Falchion to her, which she takes.

“Is everyone okay?” Lucina asks, and they all answer varying degrees of ‘yes’. She wipes the blood on Falchion with her cape and sheathes the sword. “Morgan?” she reaches a hand out, and he stares at her, brow furrowed, before deciding to accept her hand, helping him onto his feet.

“I’m okay. Err… thanks,” he says awkwardly.

“Morgan, how did you get here?” she asks, “You disappeared and I thought-” I thought you were dead. She bites back the words. “Where have you been?”

“I-” Morgan hesitates, “Sorry I don’t- Who are you?”

Lucina stares at him in disbelief. “Morgan if this is your way of joking-”

“I’m sorry, I really don’t know who any of you are.” Morgan shakes his head. “I woke up… sprawled in a field, and wandered here. I can’t recall anything before that. The only memories I have are of my mother.”

Lucina feels her blood run cold. She wishes this was a cruel joke. Morgan had disappeared nearly half a year before Lucina and their friends had traveled to the past, making it almost three years since she’s last seen him.

But she knows Morgan. Knows that he wouldn’t play such a cruel joke on her and that his words and expressions are honest, not displaying a hint of malice or trickery.

What other choice does she have but to believe him?

“So you know who Robin is?”

“Yes, I know her! She’s my mother!” he smiles, and Lucina’s heart aches.

“Morgan- this may be hard to believe, but I need you to stay calm and listen to me.” there isn’t a delicate way for her to tell him when he seems to have amnesia, so she decides to be blunt. “I’m your older sister, Lucina, and our mother is Robin. Like me and our friends here, you come from the future.”

“...What?! But I... The future?!” he stares at her in bewilderment, “Is... Is that why I have no memory? But wait, I remember Mother. So why don't I remember you?” 

“I wish I knew the answer to that.” she says, “Do you remember our father, Chrom?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Well… at least you remember Mother.” she sighs, “Maybe you’ll remember something when you meet her and Father. You should come with us till then. I don’t want you pulling another stunt like you just did with that Risen general.”

“Heh.” despite the strange circumstances, Morgan laughs easily. “Thank you, Lucina. Just lead the way.”

[wardencommanderrodimiss]

In time, this world will take a dark turn; for now, in Southtown, fighting bandits, Chrom, Frederick, and Lissa gain a new ally.

-----

Plumes of dark smoke rise from the direction of the town. These blasted brigands made it before the Shepherds could intercept them, leaving Chrom scrambling to catch up. He can see the flames crawling up the sides of houses and devouring brown shingled roofs; no matter how fast they move now, there’s already damage done. Hopefully they can intervene before anyone is killed.

Chrom takes the lead and Lissa follows close behind Frederick, clutching her staff as though to use it as a club. The main cobblestone road takes them in toward the center of town, past hastily-abandoned wagons still laden with bounty from the fields. The center square, when it comes into view, shows more clear signs of daily life hastily interrupted: farm stands battered and overturned, crops littering the ground. At this distance, indistinct yells and screams reach Chrom’s ears. He is ready to charge into the fray, careful approach be damned, when a clatter of footsteps precedes a woman who throws herself around the corner of the house to Chrom’s left. She collides with an empty farm stand and then intentionally catches hold of it to bring herself to a stop. Glancing over her shoulder, her eyes catch on Chrom’s and the relief spreading across her face hardens immediately into a determined scowl. 

“More of you damned brigands,” she hisses, straightening up. One hand plunges into her coat as though seeking a weapon, and she holds the other straight out, fingers splayed, straight towards Chrom. “Fine, then—”

A ball of lightning begins to form in her palm, crackling brightly and loudly sparking and snapping the way the flames do. She knows magic, and she probably means to kill them.

“Wait!” Chrom throws his hands up. He’d like to be ready to draw Falchion, but he’d like a ball of lightning to the chest even less, and if he goes for his blade she will probably strike. “We aren’t brigands! We’re Shepherds, here to help!”

“Awfully well-armed for shepherds,” the woman replies curtly, not lowering her hand even slightly. “Though you don’t sound like brigands.”

She shifts her stance and her long dark coat moves with her, revealing a glimpse of a blade sheathed at her hip. This woman is no ordinary resident of a simple farming village, that’s for damn sure. But she still hasn’t attacked him, so Chrom is optimistic about his chances to calm this situation. “So what do brigands sound like?” he asks. 

“Plegian,” she says. Her eyes finally leave Chrom’s face, darting briefly across Frederick and lingering longer on Lissa, who takes up the rear. Surely she doesn’t think that a girl of Lissa’s age would be part of a bandit incursion? “You don’t, but you don’t look like knights - and certainly not like shepherds, either.” 

“We hear that a lot,” Chrom says. 

The lightning disappears from her palm, but her hand remains raised, still ready for the situation to turn south. She looks back behind her, toward the main square, as though expecting others to appear around the corner. When no one does, her gaze turns back on Chrom, cold and appraising. “Whatever you are, if you truly mean to help, your timing is perfect. These brigands think I’m their only opposition. You can easily ambush them while they’re preoccupied.”

“Wait,” Lissa pipes up from behind. “You don’t mean that you’ve been trying to fight a bunch of bandits all on your own! That’s crazy!”

The woman draws her hand back; her other still lingers inside her coat and the tome surely hidden away there. “What else was I to do?” she asks. “Let them run unopposed?”

“Surely the danger of such a venture has not escaped you,” Frederick says. He still looks wary of her - typical Frederick - but not as though he will be the first to strike. 

The woman waves her hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, I know,” she says, and she sounds just as dismissive as her gesture was - sounds as though the danger of such a venture has in fact escaped her. “Now, they’re still going to be on guard waiting for me to attack again, but if you sneak up through here” - she indicates a thin alley between two homes that are thankfully not yet ablaze - “and I catch their attention from the main square and draw them toward us, you can strike from the side while they’re distracted.”

Her strategy, while simple, seems solid, and has more thought put into it than Chrom would have (his strategy being to run the bastards down immediately). There is just one key point that he objects to: “So you are going to charge them, alone.”

“I’m not charging them,” she reminds him. “I’m getting their attention and drawing them back, and I’m hardly alone if there’s an ambush waiting on my side.” 

“That’s a lot of faith to put in strangers,” Chrom says. Her life in their hands, and they don’t even know her name. And she might be a stranger, but she’s fighting for the people of Ylisse; that makes her a friend to the Shepherds and the Exalt, and they’re short on friends as of late.

“So it is,” she agrees. Her expression doesn’t waver; her eyes don’t leave Chrom’s even as she says, “And you, girl with the staff - if this goes wrong, you might be my new best friend, not a stranger. Now shall we?”

She seems to have determined Chrom to be the leader of them. He nods and looks to Frederick. He does not appear at all happy, but he does not offer any verbal objection, either. Presumably he will go along with what Chrom goes along with, and Chrom is going to go along with this plan that is only slightly insane because he has no plan at all. “Let’s.”

The woman darts off into the main square, ducking around the broken farm stands as she moves between cover. Chrom wonders why she’s bothering, if she intends to get their attention, and several seconds later, as he advances down the alleyway, he realizes that she probably intends to make her approach appear less suspicious than an outright charge.

He really would have just charged, himself.

The alley between the houses, about two feet wide, is littered with debris. Chrom crouches behind the rainwater barrel that stands at the far mouth of the alley and presses his back to the wall. Further ahead lies the bridge across the river which cuts the town in half, and on the other side, the church. Two brigands, one with a large axe and the other with a sword, cross the bridge, yelling what must be every derogatory term to refer to a woman that exists. Moments later, a small javelin-shaped burst of lightning streaks through the air, slamming directly into the chest of the swordsman. He howls as he tumbles to the ground, still alive despite the force of the impact, and his companion continues on, disappearing out of Chrom’s line of sight. 

Chrom gives himself another few moments, watching the swordsman return to his feet and put his back to Chrom. Then the sound of metal-on-metal rings through the air, and Chrom decides that is enough.

He throws himself forward from the alley, drawing Falchion. Now he can see the stranger, with a sword in her hands to parry the axe that bears down on her. The second brigand limps towards the duel and does not make it; Falchion tears through his back and he falls with a gurgling sound. The axe-wielding brigand, about to bring a second swing down on the stranger, hesitates and turns towards the sound. “What the—”

Falchion arcs through the air, meeting the chipped, rusting axe blade. The brigand’s face, contorted in fury, suddenly goes slack. He looks down; Chrom, however, does not dare take his eyes off the axe - not until it clatters to the ground from now-limp hands of a man with lightning magic still sparking in his chest. 

“I killed two of them earlier, before I had to run and met you,” the woman says, lowering her right hand; in her left, she clutches a tome close to her chest. “I believe there should only be one of them left—”

She drops the tome and lunges forward. Chrom has no time to react and next he knows, she has knocked the two of them to the ground. Crackling flames burst in the air above them, right where Chrom had been standing; even from a few feet away, the spell warms the side of his face and he wonders what it would be like to have taken the full brunt of it. “I thought I killed two of them,” the woman amends, falling back onto the ground away from Chrom and fumbling for her tome again, and then with a wordless yell of anger she throws lightning right back.

Chrom scrambles to his feet. Across the square, he sees another man fall, a tome slipping from his grasp. “My apologies,” the woman says lightly, as though she didn’t just strike a man down with magic, turning her head to glance at Chrom. “I didn’t expect that.”

“That’s all right,” Chrom says. “I much prefer being thrown around a little to burning alive.”

“Glad to hear it,” she says. 

“Anyone need help?” Lissa waves her staff about as she runs up, Frederick still doing his best to stay ahead of her and keep himself between her and any danger. It is, Chrom suspects, a losing battle, but Frederick valiantly fights it anyway, and for that Chrom is grateful. He doesn’t have to keep both eyes on Lissa at all times with Frederick around. “We’re all good?”

“The last man seems to have been the one giving orders,” says the woman, indicating the bandit lingering on the other side of the bridge. “Let’s see if he has any bite behind his bark.”

To the little credit that Chrom would give any Plegian brigands who are ransacking his halidom, the sole remaining man is not a coward who folds once he sees his backup is dead. Unfortunately this also means a second round of fighting, and more chances for someone on Chrom’s side to be hurt. And fortunately, when the stranger catches a thrown axe, it is with the inside of her billowing coat, and not any critical piece of flesh, and Frederick’s lance puts the bandit down before he can do any real damage to anyone.

And then there is no time to waste, as the town is on fire and the four of them cannot put it out by themselves. Lissa scrambles about trying to convince the townspeople that it’s safe to come out and help, and Chrom and Frederick search for any buckets; by the time Chrom returns to where he remembers a rain barrel, he finds that the woman has scaled one of the houses and stands on a roof about fifteen feet away from the crackling flames. 

There’s something admirable in her audacity, that she’s running towards danger for the sake of helping others. That’s the kind of person who would be a good fit for the Shepherds. And Chrom’s no tactician or politician, but he can read the writing on the wall the same as anyone else: Plegia’s building up to something, and Ylisse needs to be prepared to fight back. 

They need all the help they can find, here and everywhere else.

-

It is late afternoon before all of the fires have been put out and the wounded villagers treated. Chrom has not met a person who is not profusely thankful, offering anything they have as repayment. He politely refuses offerings of meager coin pushed on him - “it’s all we have but please, milord, you saved our homes, you saved us–” - to make his way back to the center of town. A man who had earlier introduced himself as one of the village elders greets them there.

“You must at least stay the night, milord,” he implores. “We would happily toast the valor of you and your companions with a feast - where has the last one of you gotten off to, do you know?”

Chrom looks to Frederick on his right and Lissa on his left and back at the older man. “You mean - that woman? She wasn’t with us - you mean she isn’t from here?”

“Goodness, no.” The man shakes his head. “We would surely know if we had any mages in town. I have never seen her before.”

Lissa has already begun to imagine, out loud, what sort of meal they might be having when there, rounding the corner, comes the stranger woman. She stops dead when she sees an already-assembled group of people staring at her, and she flinches when the town elder calls her over. Her eyes do not linger long on him even as he extends his grateful invitation to her; they rove, suspiciously, between all of them. “That’s a generous offer, sir,” she replies, her eyes finally settling on the village elder, “but I’m afraid I must decline. I’ve been away from home long enough and my mother will be getting worried.”

“Likewise, we must be returning to Ylisstol,” Frederick says - exactly what Chrom had expected him to say. They need to report back to Emmeryn. 

Lissa, however, stops in the middle of a sentence. “Wait, what? Frederick, it’s nearly dark! We—”

“We will simply make camp where we find ourselves and hunt for our sustenance - as I believe you said that you would be ‘getting used’ to roughing it?”

Frederick has a point. She did say that, and from her expression, she clearly remembers saying that and can’t accuse him of making it up. “Frederick,” she says wearily, “sometimes I really hate you.”

The woman covers a laugh with her hand. “If you’re also heading north,” she says, “my mother and I live along the road back to Ylisstol. If we leave now, we should be able to make it before nightfall and you can have a roof to sleep under for the night - and I won’t have to worry if I run into another pack of brigands on the road.”

It’s a practical suggestion, but there’s something strange about the way she speaks it - a catch in her voice after she offers them her open door, and then the hasty addition. Like her offer of assistance would be too suspicious if she didn’t also gain something from it. Like people don’t help each other only for the sake of helping each other, like there always has to be a reward, but she was here in this town fighting bandits alone and might easily have disappeared without getting anything in return. And Frederick frowns, like he does find that offer suspicious, because he finds everything suspicious - that is Frederick’s way. And Chrom thinks of Emmeryn, and will do as his heart wills him, and he answers, “I think we all would be grateful for a roof after the day it’s been - my sister especially.”

“Hey!” Lissa aims to stomp down on his foot, but Chrom gets out of the way quicker than she can strike. “You - you shut it!”

The woman lifts her hand again, obviously shielding a smile from the way her cheeks rise to her eyes. “Oh, of course,” she says, lowering her hand and failing to compose her face into a stern expression as she tilts her body just slightly in towards Lissa. “He’s using you as the excuse.”

“Exactly!” Lissa cries, and the stranger’s mischievous smile widens and she doesn’t seem to think to hide this one. “Don’t listen to a word he says about me. He’s called me delicate before - delicate! As if!”

“Let’s not start this again,” Chrom says.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t have started it—!”

Frederick clears his throat. “That is generous of you, milady, but as you said - if we leave now.” He glances to the sky, tracking the position of the sun and the length of the shadows. “So we should, then, be off.”

The woman straightens up. “Of course,” she says with a sharp nod, and already her teasing feels distant or imagined. She dropped her guard and then snapped it back up, and that just makes Chrom all the more curious as to who she is and what her story is. “That we should.”

“My name is Lissa, by the way,” Lissa says. “And this is Chrom, my brother - you actually shouldn’t listen to anything he says, not just about me - and Frederick.”

Frederick gives a curt nod of acknowledgement. “Pleasure to meet you,” Chrom says.

“Likewise,” the woman replies. “My name is Robin.”

She has short hair, a pale, sandy blonde lighter in shade than either Lissa or Emmeryn’s. Her long, dark coat has maroon detailing along the arms and through the interior and, as she offers when questioned, more than a few pockets sewn within it. Frederick’s first line of inquiry - as suspiciously as he ever asks such things - as they set off down the road is where she learned to fight, and she reaches within her coat and produces a book on battle tactics. “My mother was a mercenary tactician, and a mage,” she says. “She taught me everything she knew, and the other members of her company taught me the basics of the sword.”

“A tactician, huh,” Chrom says. “The Shepherds could really use one of those now.”

“Is that so?” Robin asks. “Is the situation with the brigands getting worse? The news we get from town was always of smaller incursions such as that, but nothing more.”

She’s eager for news from Ylisstol and hangs intently on Chrom’s every word about the progression of the situation with Plegia. If she lives a few hours’ walk from such a small town, it’s no surprise that she’s not up-to-date. 

When Frederick returns to the question of her skills and Robin proves, among other skills, an uncanny knack for knowing where exactly in her tactics book to find certain references or information. It’s almost like a game, as Frederick or Chrom opens discussion of a cavalry or infantry formation and Robin immediately produces pages of diagrams in her book. As battlefield experience goes, she admits to having little - but Chrom’s recruited people to the Shepherds who have none at all, and Robin has already proven that she has quick reflexes and keeps a level head in a fight.

Gods, he’s really considering this. Ylisse is in dire straits. 

“Have you always lived around here?” Chrom asks at a lull in the tactical discussion. Robin has a bit of an accent he can’t place; it isn’t the Plegian accent he’s familiar with, but she doesn’t sound quite Ylissean either. 

The way she looks at him suggests that she knows the question buried beneath that: where are you from? A question of allegiance - though allegiance does not always correlate with one’s place of birth - but Frederick would probably be furious if Chrom didn’t ask before he asks his other question. “I spent my childhood in Ferox,” she says. “Until I was - eight or nine, maybe?”

Her pointed gaze lingers on Chrom for a moment longer, as if asking him if that answer is good enough, until Lissa pipes up, “Isn’t it cold in Ferox?”

“I have seen snow,” says Robin solemnly, “in every month of the year.”

Lissa scrunches up her nose. “That’s horrible!” 

“It would have its charms, in moderation,” Robin replies.

“So, like, just a bit of snow sometimes would be nice,” Lissa says. “Like in the winter. Having a bit of snow in moderation in the winter, like we have here, is nice. That’s what you mean?”

Robin scratches her cheek. “Yeah, that’s - I deserve that, don’t I?”

“It was pretty silly,” Lissa says. “But you’ve sounded pretty smart otherwise, so it’s okay. You know how many silly things my brother says in a day–” 

“None at all,” Chrom cuts in. 

“—but without anything smart to balance it out?” Lissa continues, as though Chrom did not speak.

Frederick, as ever, stoically perseveres, his eyes on the horizon. Long ago he wisely chose that he would not involve himself in petty sibling squabbles. Robin, however, has not yet had cause to make that choice. “You’re awfully mean to your brother,” she says - as if she hadn’t joined Lissa in it back in town. 

Lissa shrugs. “Yeah, but that’s what little sisters are supposed to be.”

Robin raises her eyebrows. “Is that so?” she asks, glancing to Chrom for confirmation, as though he’s going to say yeah, my little sister is doing exactly what she’s supposed to be doing every day of her life by calling me a dummy. 

“Do you have any siblings?” Chrom asks. He thinks that her answer may clear the matter up quickly, or add a confounding new layer to it.

She shakes her head. “Just myself and my mother.”

“Lissa is convinced, that as my baby sister, it’s what she’s supposed to do,” Chrom says. “It does not mean she’s actually supposed to.”

Lissa skips up behind him and tries to kick him in the back of the leg. 

“I still don’t understand,” Robin says. 

“You won’t,” Chrom says. Lissa tries again to kick him. 

“I find it better to simply carry on and not acknowledge any squabbling,” Frederick says. “It will pass momentarily.” 

Robin nods and steps up beside him, leaving Chrom with room to try to ruffle Lissa’s hair while Lissa continues to try to kick him in return. A part of him has concerned himself with the impression that this will make on Robin, but she already seems to have taken easily to Lissa - and most of the Shepherds could be said to be a bit eccentric. If she couldn’t handle Lissa then what would her introduction to the other Shepherds look like?

He might be getting a bit ahead of himself.

Frederick and Robin are discussing weapons training, and if Chrom has heard right, Robin has been running the same drills since she was eight. “After we left the mercenaries, there was no one to teach me,” she says, and yes, that really does sound like it - and that means that Robin was a child traveling around with a bunch of mercenaries. Her mother worked as a mercenary with a child in tow. It’s impressive, Chrom thinks, if unfortunate.

He should just go for it. At a lull in the conversation, he clears his throat and steels himself. “Robin,” he says, and she sharply turns to look at him, eyes wide and then narrowing in suspicion. “I meant what I said earlier about the Shepherds needing a tactician. I know this is a very large thing to ask so suddenly of someone I’ve just met, but you’ve proven yourself willing and able to fight for the people of Ylisse - I’d be honored if you would consider joining us.”

“Join—” Her eyes widen again. “You want me to join your… Shepherds, as a tactician?”

“I do,” Chrom replies. “You are more than free to say no—”

“Milord,” Frederick says. “This is very sudden indeed.”

“I know, Frederick. But I said to you the other day - we have to be on the lookout for others willing to help us, no matter where we might find them. Even if your answer is no, Robin, and I’d understand that, I’d rather ask than wonder.”

Robin is quiet, her jaw moving like she keeps stopping moments before a question surfaces. Finally she says, “There are more than just the three of you, I hope?”

“Wh - yes! There are.” Her answer is a question that is not an outright rejection, so Chrom tells her a little bit about the others within the ranks of the Shepherds. He explains that they go wherever they’re needed, because the pegasus knights have to focus on the border and especially the Exalt, and with the situation with Plegia as it is, there’s more and more need to keep the Exalt protected. Robin is ready with a deluge of questions, but when she has exhausted them, she gives no further answer. That she has not outright said no bodes well - though Chrom tries to temper that hope. She has not said yes, either. 

-

The sun is gone from sight and its light fading in the sky when Robin leads them off the road, into the trees. Frederick lights a torch which he carefully maneuvers beneath the hanging branches, and Robin conjures a ball of lightning that hovers above her head and illuminates little more than the ground directly beneath their feet. Chrom can sense Frederick’s ever-increasing suspicion - it would be easy for them to disappear here.

“Before we arrive,” Robin says, stepping over a tree root which Lissa stumbles on, “I should warn you that my mother is - well, she can be - she’s rather… brusque. If she starts to make you feel like you’ve personally offended her, you haven’t; that’s just how she is, I promise.”

She stops, holding up a tree branch to let the three of them easily duck beneath it. Lissa’s furious grumbling does not cease, but she grumbles something that might be a thanks in Robin’s direction. Robin smiles, just a little.

“Just as long as you’d understand some of the other Shepherds to be rather… odd,” Chrom says. He told her that the Shepherds have come from all manner of backgrounds, with all manner of skills. And while he’s sure that when he described Miriel as a scholar of magic, Robin can probably conjure in her head an image that’s similar to the real Miriel, describing Sully as a dedicated knight doesn’t capture what makes her Sully. And then what can even be said about the likes of Vaike?

Robin lets go of the branch behind him. “I think we have an agreement,” she says, and Chrom though he wants to does not ask if that is an agreement as someone who would be their tactician, because how weird the Shepherds are won’t actually matter to her if she never meets or joins them.

Lives alone in the woods with her mother is still very much not in the kind of recruit Chrom expected to be considering, to be hoping for, but - Ylisse is in dire straights, indeed. Lives alone in the woods with her mother is the start of fairy tales of witches who eat children. 

And just as it seems that they will forever be surrounded by trees, just as Chrom is seriously trying to dig up the memory of any such witch stories, they step forth into a clearing. A fence, half constructed, partially circles a chicken coop, and past it sits a plain, weather-worn house. “Mama!” Robin calls, breaking the spell of the quiet hum of nature. “Mama, I’m back! And I brought company, so don’t be alarmed!” She glances around and stares at the chicken coop for a moment longer, and then yells louder, “Mama!”

The door of the house swings open. “I heard your squawking the first three times, birdie,” rasps a voice from within, and Robin’s magic lightning-light is joined by three small white flames which pop up into the air above the stoop. They illuminate an older woman with a stress-lined face and thin hair the same color as Robin’s where it isn’t starting to gray. “What in hell do you mean, you brought company?”

Robin holds out a hand and gestures to them. “Mama, this is Chrom, Lissa, and Frederick. They’re part of a militia and they helped me fight off brigands from town. I offered them a place to stay on their way back to Ylisstol. Everyone, this is my mother, Morrigan.”

Morrigan has the same cold and appraising glare as her daughter does. Even as she approaches Robin, her wary eyes continue to rove across Chrom, Frederick, and Lissa. She takes her daughter by the chin and turns her head side to side before she roughly lifts one of Robin’s arms away from her side, like she’s inspecting her. “Mama,” Robin sighs. “I’m not hurt.”

“Hmph.” Morrigan drops Robin’s arm and, over her shoulder, meets Chrom’s eyes with that withering gaze again. “Then I suppose I should thank these strangers for bringing my daughter home in one piece.”

“Not at all,” Chrom replies. “She helped us a great deal, as well.”

Morrigan’s attention snaps back to Robin. “Then you haven’t learned a thing from this, have you?”

Robin frowns. “What am I supposed to have learned? That everyone in town was right when they worried about being attacked? That I was right when I said they had no one to protect them? 

“They did have someone to protect them!” Morrigan waves her hand through the air, a broad, sweeping gesture that encompasses Chrom, Frederick, and Lissa all. “But what of you, next time you go running off alone to defend strangers?”

She warned them that her mother was brusque, but Chrom starts to think she did not warn them that they would walk right into the middle of an ongoing argument.

“I’m not going to hide away while the countryside burns around us!” Robin says. Her gloved hands at her sides tense into fists, and she glances back at Chrom. “And I won’t be alone next time. They asked me if I’d come with them and help them fight, and I will.”

Chrom has spent this long waiting for her answer and now he’s been blindsided by it. “Wait,” he says. “You will?”

He’s not sure either of the women heard him. Morrigan stands statue-still, her expression unreadable; Robin stares back. “I know what you’re going to say,” Robin says, “and I—”

“Grab more firewood on your way in, if you please, birdie,” Morrigan says, turning away from her daughter and to the door. “Since I’ll be cooking up extra for our company.”

The door snaps shut behind her.

“Oh dear,” Lissa says.

Robin’s mouth, still open, closes slowly. She stares at the door. “That was,” she says, dragging a hand through her hair, only for it to immediately fall back into place over her forehead, “not what I thought she was going to say.”

“Er, right,” Chrom says. “Listen, Robin, I know I was the one to ask if you’d come with us, but if - I don’t want to be the person responsible for ruining your relationship with your mother—”

“Oh, it’s not you,” Robin says, directing them around the house to a pile of unsplit firewood and an axe, which Frederick immediately grabs and sets to work. Chrom takes the pieces he has chopped down to size, while Robin and Lissa gather the splinters into a kindling pile. “We argued before I left, too. She told me not to be stupid and risk my life, so then I snuck out and left before she got up the next morning.”

“You didn’t even say goodbye?” Lissa asks, her mouth hanging open. Chrom knows she is imagining doing that to Emm - how unthinkable to set off on a mission without their sister knowing. But Emm would never try to stop them, either; they all know what they must do for their people. They all agree on the responsibilities and the cost. Robin and her mother, evidently, don’t.

“We would have started arguing again,” Robin says. She picks up a sliver of bark that cracked off of a log and slowly bends it until it snaps. “I’d say I couldn’t stand by and do nothing; she’d say that it’s foolish to put myself into such danger for the sake of people who wouldn’t do the same in return.”

“What do you mean by that?” Chrom asks. “That - doesn’t seem right, to assume that of people without knowing them.”

“Yeah!” Lissa agrees. “Everyone in town was really grateful! They would’ve fed us!”

She turns a glare on Frederick, presumably for not letting them stay and indulge in that feast. Frederick, however, is not looking at her - and anyway, he would tell her anyway that she still has a roof to sleep under and someone else assisting with the meal, so she cannot complain. They could, he would say, be sleeping in the woods.

“Back when we were still with the mercenaries,” Robin says, “my mother saved every bit of gold she could. After years and years she had enough that every little town we passed through she’d ask around if there was enough room for a mother and her daughter to settle. But all the same people who gladly paid for her to risk her life and drive off a few ruffians balked at the thought of actually letting her - us - into their communities.” 

She stares at the pieces of bark in her hands and drops them into one of the coat pockets where she has been gathering kindling. “It’s easy to be grateful to a stranger who sets off down the road at the end of the day; harder to welcome one into your peaceful village where you’ve known everyone since the day they were born. So we keep to ourselves out here, and she travels into town every week or two to trade, and we’ve always managed like that.”

“Until now,” Frederick says, “when we find you in a town under attack, rather than keeping safely to yourself.”

He does not try to conceal the air of mistrust which hangs around his words. 

“Mama came home last week telling how bandit attacks are more and more frequent,” Robin replies, “and that people in the village are afraid that they’ll be hit soon. The forest out here will burn the same as a town if we hide away waiting for war to reach us. Or, I could go to meet it and perhaps make a better defense - I understand your suspicions, but all I can tell you is the truth. I heard they were afraid and I wanted to do something.”

“And the truth is, Frederick, that she helped us,” Chrom reminds him. 

“And the truth is that the task of wariness has always fallen to me,” says Frederick. “Someone must be.”

“You and my mother are quite alike in that regard,” Robin says. 

Frederick nods curtly. When the four of them return soon to Morrigan with the requested wood, they find that she has not started food preparations yet; she has waited to ask for their help. And that means that Frederick has an excuse to hover by Lissa’s shoulder. Make sure she doesn’t hurt herself (of course she’s not going to hurt herself; she knows how to cook). Make sure everything that goes into the meal is something that should be there (Frederick would hover to keep careful watch of ingredients anyway, but he is polite enough that he would rather have the excuse).

(Chrom wonders if the reason that Morrigan waited was to give them the excuse.)

The house is not furnished for guests, and when it is time to take their meal, Chrom finds himself seated on the floor with Frederick and Robin. A stool in the corner goes unused; Robin had insisted that she did not invite guests in so that they could all sit on the floor, Frederick had insisted that Lissa and Chrom seat themselves before him, and Chrom had insisted that he couldn’t further impose on Robin by kicking her away from her own table. 

“You’re all so stubborn,” Lissa says from where she sits above him at the table with Morrigan, and even though Chrom isn’t looking at her, he knows she is rolling her eyes. 

“If they all wish to be so foolishly sacrificing, then that is their prerogative,” Morrigan says. She almost sounds as if she is making a joke. 

Robin shed her long coat when everyone came inside, but she still wears her gloves. “Yes Mama, it certainly is,” she says, and as she lifts her bowl to drink the broth her eyes flicker towards Chrom in a way that he can only think means something like watch this or well this had to come back up sooner or later. 

Morrigan sighs deeply. “So,” she says, her attention turning without even a glance towards Robin, “this militia of yours.”

She asks many of the same questions that Robin did, but every single one of them feels particularly pointed in a way that Robin’s didn’t. And that makes Chrom feel like every answer he gives is the wrong one, especially the times when Morrigan will glance at Robin and something will pass between them. But whether they agree or disagree with each other, Chrom can’t begin to guess.

Only once everyone finished cleaning their dishes does Morrigan finally address her daughter again. “You know what I’m going to say, birdie.”

“Yes, Mama,” Robin says. 

“And you’re going to tell me none of it changes your mind, is that so?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Then that’s it, is it not? If nothing I’ve already told you will stop you, then I’ve nothing new to say that will change your mind now. You well made your point running off like that.”

It is dark outside, and in the quiet inside, even past the windows, Chrom can hear the chirping and chittering of the insects in the woods. He almost wishes to grab Lissa and Frederick and drag them out into the night; this feels like a conversation that no one else should be privy to. Robin stands rooted in place, still holding a towel for drying dishes, staring at her mother who has crossed the room and opened a door on the far wall.

“You could at least give me your blessing,” Robin says quietly. “If I’m going no matter what, I could at least not feel like I’m abandoning you.”

“My blessing to throw yourself onto the front line of a fight?” Morrigan asks, her hand still on the doorknob, and Chrom glimpses what appears to be a bedroom past that. “I want you safe. I can’t tell you I’m okay with this.”

“We’ll burn the same out here as the towns do,” says Robin. “I would rather face the bastards with the torches - die on my feet if I would die either way.”

“There’s plenty terrible fates besides death. You know if you’re captured by those bastards, you’ll be lucky if all they do is kill you.”

Lissa shudders. As royalty of Ylisse, she would be spared from death by her use as a hostage, instead, but Chrom knows that he would rather die than be used against Emmeryn in such a way, and he suspects that Lissa feels the same. Anyone else - especially a woman - captured would face one of several other dire fates.

“I know, Mama.” Robin cracks the knuckles on her right hand. That statement, at least, seems to weigh on her; her words lack the same degree of confidence as her prior answers.

“You do know,” Morrigan agrees. “You’re a smart girl despite yourself.” She sighs. “You’ve my permission to take my damn coat with you, though I can’t fathom what you like so much about it.”

Robin straightens her shoulders. “It has good pockets for tomes and other books,” she says brightly. 

“You know how to sew,” Morrigan says. “You’ve plenty of coats of your own to add book pockets to.”

“But this one already has book pockets,” Robin says. “And I know it’s sturdy enough to take whatever I put it through.”

Morrigan shakes her head. “That damned coat will outlive us both if you’re not careful.”

“I’m careful, Mama.”

“Hm.” With that, Morrigan disappears into the bedroom, leaving Robin staring at the door that closes behind her. 

The only sounds that follow come from beyond the windows and walls of the house. Robin sets the dishrag down and starts massaging her hand again.

“You know,” Lissa says faintly, “you really don’t have to come with us.”

Robin shakes her head. “I told you this would happen no matter what,” she says. “We argued before I left; we’d still be arguing if I came back alone. She’s just trying to protect me but I can’t just - hide here. Meeting you was - it’s safer for me to go with you than to go off alone again. And I probably would.” She reaches towards a chair but as she lowers herself, she ends up on the floor instead, her back resting against the leg of the table. “I feel like I have to go. But I can’t be angry at her. She just worries. She never wanted me to have to fight the way she did.”

“I would hope that most parents should feel the same,” Chrom says, and he thinks of the mess that his father left Emmeryn and hates him again for it.

Robin’s mouth twists into a grimace. Is it over her mother’s protectiveness, or is it a thought about another parent? What brought Morrigan into the mercenary life - what brought the two of them out of Ferox to Ylisse, alone, instead?

When Robin next speaks, she has more questions about Ylisse’s military situation, and they discuss that such situation until she retires to bed in the same room as her mother, leaving Chrom, Lissa, and Frederick to the open floor of the living area. “Better than the woods, right?” Robin asks Lissa with a wink.

“Yeah, Frederick,” Lissa says after Robin has gone. “You wouldn’t have trusted her and had us sleep in the woods.”

-

Chrom wakes in the morning just before dawn. Lissa is still asleep and the bedroom door is closed; Frederick is nowhere in sight, but from outside comes the sound of axe hitting wood. Chrom eases open the front door - its latch already lifted - and around the side of the house finds Frederick splitting more large logs from the firewood pile.

“I woke when Robin left,” Frederick explains. “She said that she intended to go hunting and chop more firewood for her mother before she left with us. I am simply providing my assistance, as thanks for allowing us to stay the night.”

“That’s kind of you, helping out even though you’re sure she’s going to turn around and stab us in the back,” Chrom says. 

Frederick frowns at him. “I am not sure of any such thing, milord. I am cautious, as is prudent, but I always hope that my suspicions should be proven wrong.”

“Frederick?”

“Yes, milord?”

“I was teasing.”

Frederick continues to frown, as though the very concept of a joke eludes him. 

Almost all of the wood has been cut down to size by the time Robin returns with a wild turkey slung over her shoulder. She grimaces at them as she approaches. “What are you doing?” she asks, as though the answer is not obvious as Frederick brings the axe down on a long branch. As though the idea of someone helping her is still so inconceivable. “I said I would handle those–”

“I was already awake and with idle hands,” Frederick replies. “This way we will sooner be able to leave for Ylisstol - and consider this our thanks for providing a place to stay the night, as well.”

This thoroughly practical explanation seems to appease her, and without further protest, she simply says, “Thank you.”

On returning inside, they find both Morrigan and Lissa awake - though Lissa is yawning a great deal - preparing breakfast. “I wondered if you had run off with my daughter and left me this one as a replacement,” Morrigan says gruffly. 

“He’d regret it if he did!” Lissa huffs, staring pointedly at Chrom, though Morrigan’s you could refer to all three of them. 

Morrigan’s attention turns to the turkey that Robin hands her. “Birdie, why were you out hunting?”

“I wanted to make it easier on you when I left,” Robin says. “So you won’t immediately have to go yourself.”

“I’m not infirm, you know,” Morrigan says. “Really now, worrying after me when you’re about to go marching off to battle.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you–”

Chrom really, truly wishes that they wouldn’t start arguing again, but he suspects if he tries to intervene, they’ll both turn on him instead. Lissa’s shoulders slowly hunch up towards her ears, like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“Hell’s bells, girl, I know you better than to think that.” Morrigan sighs and shakes her head. Her tone has less bite than it did yesterday. “Even when you left without a damned note, I didn’t think you were abandoning me. You know what your problem is, birdie?” She smacks Robin’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “You keep looking back over your shoulder while you’re trying to march forward and you’ll get nowhere for it.”

“You’d really prefer I just go?” Robin asks, sounding confused and, even more than that, indignant. “Just leave without any thought to what I’ve left behind?”

“Well, I’d know that you have some confidence in the choice you’re making,” Morrigan says, “if you’re willing to burn your bridges behind you.”

“I’m plenty certain of my path, Mama,” Robin says. “Even without starting any fires.”

Morrigan huffs and turns away. “Then I suppose that will have to be enough.”

Chrom wonders what ashes Morrigan has left behind in her time.

-

Within an hour, they have eaten and prepared to leave. Robin has to be assured several times that Ylisstol has several libraries and large bookstores before she is willing to remove some of the books from her pack and trade them out for extra clothes. Morrigan watches silently, grumbling some answers only when Robin asks her which tomes she would rather keep here. Despite his time with Ricken and Miriel, Chrom doesn’t recognize any of the tomes; he can only guess, based on the magic she cast yesterday, that the two tomes Robin selects, each emblazoned with a yellow rune on its cover, are probably Thunder magic.

He pulls Lissa and Frederick outside soon after, to give Robin and Morrigan a private moment to say goodbye. It gives Frederick one last opportunity for questions as well: “Milord, you are certain?”

“I am,” Chrom says. “She went out of her way to help, at great risk to herself. My heart tells me we can trust her.”

“Your heart, yes; and what of your head?” Frederick asks. 

“My head is telling me that this situation with Plegia will not be so easily solved,” Chrom says. “We can use the assistance of anyone willing to offer it.”

“I like her,” Lissa says. “I think she’ll be a great addition to the Shepherds! You worry too much, Frederick.”

“I find that I worry quite the proper amount,” Frederick replies, “given the circumstances.”

The door creaks open, and the object of one of those worries steps out onto the stoop. Morrigan clasps one of Robin’s hands between both of her own. “I know, Mama,” Robin says, exasperated, like she’s said it again several times already. “I know. But I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Hmph. I’ll just have to believe you, won’t I?” Morrigan pats Robin’s hand twice before releasing her, slowly, her bluster failing to mask her reluctance. “Goodbye, birdie. Don’t be a fool.”

“It’s not goodbye,” Robin says. “Ylisstol isn’t far. You know where to find us - and I’ll be home again, once everything’s calmed down.”

Morrigan shakes her head. “I don’t need you to home to stay. I just need you safe, wherever you are.” She turns her dark, piercing gaze over to Chrom, Lissa, and Frederick. “And I hope for all your sakes that I won’t hear that these skirmishes have turned to war.”

“The Exalt would say the same,” Chrom replies. And he - of course he doesn’t want war, either, but there well might come a time that these incursions turn to one, no matter what Ylisse - and Emmeryn - want. Emmeryn can hope, but Chrom has to prepare.

“Hmph.” Morrigan does not sound convinced, but she has not sounded particularly convinced by anything, especially not where the intentions of other people are involved. “But those fools in charge of Plegia hardly seem to agree, now do they?”

They call him the Mad King for a reason.

Robin steps back from Morrigan, slowly, and then another, until she stands with Chrom, Frederick, and Lissa. “I’m sorry I didn’t finish building the fence, Mama,” Robin says.

“Bah.” Morrigan waves a dismissive hand at her. The facade has sprung back up over the concern she showed mere moments ago. “If you apologize for everything you didn’t finish, you’ll be here all day. Get going, you fool girl. Stop looking back.”

“Yes, yes,” Robin says with a smile and a small laugh. “We’re going.”

“Thank you,” Frederick says, bowing to Morrigan, “for your hospitality. It is greatly appreciated.”

“Yeah, Chrom probably would’ve hunted us a bear to eat or something!” Lissa says. “Thanks for not feeding us bear!”

At that, Morrigan laughs, but it still sounds strained. Why wouldn’t it - she put these strangers up in her home and in return they stole her daughter from her. Chrom elbows Lissa, and to Morrigan, he says, “Thank you,” hoping she’ll understand that it is, really, about much more than the prospective bear meat.

He hunts normal animals, usually. Why does Lissa only remember when he brings down a bear?

“Bear’s not so bad,” Robin says, taking the lead out of the clearing to guide them back to the main road. The forest swallows them in an instant, the greenery pressing in on all sides. Robin weaves her way along a faint trail that Chrom can only see because he knows she’s following it; she stops and holds the branches of a bush back for Lissa to pass by.

“What?” Lissa says. “You’re crazy! No offense. I can’t believe we’ve let a lunatic join the Shepherds. We already have a lunatic leading us!”

“Very funny,” Chrom says, easing his way past Robin and waiting for her to resume her guidance.

But she stands there, eyes blank, and Chrom follows her gaze through the trees and the overgrown brush to catch a glimpse of the house out in the clearing, its front door already shut.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

She tears her eyes away and smiles at him. It looks strained at the edges, but the bright spark of confidence is back in her voice as she answers, “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

[delugedecade]

Selis gritted her teeth, deflecting a blow from her parter, before rolling under and attempting to strike from the rear. Not necessarily effective, and she quickly raised her shield to protect from another go. Just a bit more, she thought, striking again before taking a step back, and crossing her sword, "That should be good. Shall we take a break?"

"Sure... You put up a very good defense... Selis" Lucina pants, sheathing the Falchion. This particular outrealm was one she was still trying to get used to. Nonetheless, she still maintained her training, and against such a formidable sparing partner.

[skarmoree]

the light the fire brings

G, f/m, chrom/custom f!robin (rae'lia) word count: 3294

Chrom takes a hit during battle. He's "handling it".

written for @sicktember day 1: hopelessly bad at self care

read here on ao3 / full fic under cut

Chrom swung Falchion, easily catching the risen’s axe by the blade and sending it flying a few feet away. The risen snarled, lurching forwards, and he flicked his wrist, bringing the blade down again and slashing through them, familiar screech and crumble to ash following.

He didn’t give himself the chance to breathe, spinning on his heel to face his next foe.

It was closer than anticipated, and Chrom cursed, only just managing to bring Falchion up to knock away the oncoming lance. He felt off balance, planting one foot behind him and dropping closer to the ground to shift his centre of gravity.

The lance cut through the air once more, Chrom ducking clear of the arc before stabbing back with his own sword.

The risen felt like they were getting tougher with every battle, almost as if they were gaining experience, learning to read their opponents. He knew Rae’lia thought so too, pouring herself into every tactics volume she could find, staring at every map she could get her hands on.

He was pushed back again, staggering a little from the blow, teeth grit as he stared at the risen. It wasn’t capable of expression, but he swore there was a grin on its masked face as it raised its lance above its head.

Chrom tucked himself down to the ground, making an attempt for a roll to get behind his foe.

The lance came down on his unprotected arm, slashing through skin. He bit back a yell, slashing the risen’s legs out from under it, already feeling the strength from his swing weaken as his dominant arm bled, crimson streaming down to drip to the ground, droplets quickly soaked into the hungry dirt.

The risen crashed to the ground, and Chrom kicked away its lance, standing over it for a moment before stabbing down through its chest.

The screech hardly reached his ears through the throbbing pain through his arm, in time with his heart.

Falchion’s tip dropped into the ground as the risen turned to ash beneath it, and Chrom let out a weary sigh. Around him, the sounds of battle continued— the clash of swords, the crackling of thunder magic, a piercing shriek with every risen dispatched.

He couldn’t afford to rest, even now.

None of the Shepherd’s healers were nearby, and Chrom, in his usual manner, hadn’t taken any vulneraries from their stock before heading out. But he had to staunch the flow somehow – at least until after the battle when someone could look at it. Tearing a strip from the bottom of his cape, Chrom roughly wrapped his arm, tightening the knot with his teeth, grimacing as he did so. Lissa was going to have his neck for this.

_____

Forget Lissa, his tactician was glaring daggers at him, wiping down her blade with a cloth.

“Everyone’s alright,” Chrom reported, and her eye sparked a little brighter, “no major incidents.”

“No major…” Rae’lia muttered, tucking the cloth into her belt and sliding the sword back into its sheath, “Chrom,”

“It’s not major!”

“Chrom,” she repeated, expression morphing from anger to something much softer for the briefest of moments, before flickering away again, “why haven’t you gotten it looked at yet?”

“I handled it,” Chrom waved to the makeshift bandage.

Rae’lia stared at him in disbelief.

“You know what,” she said, turning away and speaking over her shoulder, “if you’re not going to seek out help, that’s on you.”

“Are you mad at me?” Chrom hurried a few steps forward to catch up, “Rae, c’mon-!”

“I’m not responsible for how you take care of your injuries,” Rae’lia said, not looking to him, even as he fell in stride on her good side, “I’m a tactician, not a cleric.”

“It—”

“The conversation is over, Chrom.”

“But—”

“Over.”

_____

“So instead of going to, I dunno, your sister? The healer? You came to me instead?”

Chrom huffed out something akin to a laugh, dropping to sit on the bench, lifting his uninjured arm up to scrub a hand through his hair. “Something like that.”

Gaius hummed around his customary lollipop stick. “Y’know,” he said, “I’m starting to see why Bubbles is mad at you.”

Chrom sighed, leaning back into the table, staring at the canvas above their heads. “Don’t rub it in.”

“‘s not what I’m doing at all,” Gaius said, “but if you’re saying that, you know how this looks.”

There was a tear in the tent roof. He’d have to get someone to repair that.

In response to his silence, there was a crunching noise, presumably as Gaius bit down on the lollipop.

“Get it healed.”

“And have to face Lissa’s ire, too?” Chrom pulled a face.

“She’s not your only option.”

“Maribelle.”

“… point taken.”

Chrom went back to staring at the tent roof, ignoring the pain in his arm. It had lessened now, after some time, just a dull ache compared to the initial throb. “Why is Rae so mad, anyway?” he asked.

“Crivens,” Gaius muttered under his breath, “seriously, Blue?”

Chrom let his gaze slide back down to the man by his side. Gaius stared back, empty stick dangling uselessly in his mouth. “What?”

Gaius shifted to one side so he could reach into his pocket, pulling out a small bag. He fished a sweet out with two fingers, popping it into his mouth before holding the bag out to Chrom. When Chrom didn’t take one after a few seconds, he shrugged, tucking it away again. “You’re wondering why our tactician, who’s job is to get us through with as little injury as possible, is mad?”

“I’m the only one that sustained anything, so…”

Gaius gave him a flat look.

“Well, post-battle, in any case,” he continued, waving his uninjured arm, “nothing out of the usual battle nicks and scrapes, right?”

Gaius made a loud sucking noise around the piece of candy in his mouth. “I think what you’re dealing with is a mite bigger than our ‘usual battle nicks and scrapes’, eh?”

“I’m taking care of it!” Chrom insisted, sounding less certain with himself by the minute. He sighed, turning away from Gaius’ face, instead looking at the bloodsoaked fabric tied around his arm. “I’m fine. It doesn’t need magic to heal.”

“Magic isn’t a finite resource,” Gaius said, voice a little softer than before, “you won’t be bothering anyone with it.”

Chrom didn’t reply. The wound sat below his brand, the mark on his skin still proudly displayed.

“Everyone just wants to see their Captain safe’n sound.” There was a shift as Gaius got to his feet, brushing past Chrom to exit the tent, leaving him alone in silence.

Chrom leant against the table again, back of his head resting on the wood as he stared up at the plain canvas, pinpricks of light through tiny holes and tears marking their own constellations through the fabric.

Did Gaius really cut right through his defences just like that? The man always was more perceptive than he let on.

The ache in Chrom’s arm hadn’t left. He winced, rolling his shoulder in the hopes it would alleviate itself some. It had the opposite effect, and Chrom grit his teeth.

He had to do something about it, but the prospect of facing Lissa about it was daunting. If he went to Maribelle, he’d have to deal with her prickly response and then Lissa’s afterwards, when she inevitably found out from her best friend. The best option was to find the supplies and treat it himself.

_____

Chrom waited for Lissa to leave the medical tent, casting a glance across camp in case anybody spotted him. With nobody nearby, he ducked through the entrance, peering around at his surroundings. It was quiet, the tent entirely unoccupied, the lamp extinguished, leaving it dim, but not dark yet. Lissa’s staff was leaning against the empty cot, a pile of blankets and towels folded neatly next to it. Chrom’s eyes darted back to the door as a couple Shepherds walked past, chatting casually.

He’d done this before, it was nothing new – so why was he nervous this time?

He swiped a roll of bandages off the little supply table as he moved further into the tent, casting a glance about for where the medicine was stocked. He knew Maribelle liked to have them shelved up as soon as camp was set, rather than having to pull supplies out of crates whenever they were in use.

The glint of a green bottle on a shelf caught Chrom’s eye, and he looked up, squinting in the dim light to read the label.

Someone cleared their throat behind him.

Chrom jumped, turning at the noise and knocking into the shelf. It shook behind him, and he threw a hand back to steady it. The bottles rattled, but thankfully nothing fell.

Rae’lia still had a hand up to push away the tent flap, shadow long as it was cast by the light framing her, making her small stature seem much more intimidating, even after she had shucked her thick coat.

“Rae,” Chrom said.

“Chrom,” she replied, voice icy, “care to enlighten me as to why you’re sneaking around?

Chrom winced. “Looking for something.”

A beat of silence. “In the medical supplies?”

“I’m handling it,” Chrom turned back to the shelf, pulling down the green bottle, checking the contents.

A loud exhale, followed by approaching footsteps, and the bottle was plucked from his hands. “Sit down,” Rae’lia said.

Chrom stared blankly at her for a moment, and she blinked, “what?”

“What?” he echoed, half lost.

Rae’s eye was bright in the dimness of the tent, and she searched his face for a moment, golden flecks amidst the brown. “Sit down,” she repeated, nudging Chrom towards the cot with her hip, “I can’t help if I can’t reach.”

Chrom dropped to sit on the cot, unable to take his eyes off Rae’lia as she peeled off her gloves and turned to light the lamp. Her hair was loose from its customary ponytail, hanging down her back in a violet wave, and she pushed it back over her shoulder as she sparked a flame at her fingertips. Once lit, the lamp cast a soft amber through the tent, giving her more light to work with.

“I’m still mad,” she said quietly, moving to wash her hands in the basin.

Chrom felt the corner of his mouth turn upwards. “I never would’ve guessed,” he said, if only to get her to glare at him over her shoulder. She held her hand out for a towel, and he passed one over, catching a flash of purple on her hand as she reached out.

She took the pitcher by the basin and filled a bowl, summoning another small flame in her hands to heat the water.

“I thought you said you weren’t a cleric.”

“Chrom,” she said, setting the bowl forcefully down on a stool, water sloshing over the sides. “If you want my help, please refrain from the snark.”

Chrom bit his tongue at that, holding back any variation of ‘look who’s talking’ and ‘I never asked for your help.’ that bubbled up from his chest. She must’ve sensed it, because she shot him another sharp look before sitting next to him, pulling his arm closer to her so she could check over it.

“You didn’t even clean your wound,” she said, appalled, grabbing at a rag and soaking it in the water; before wringing it out and sponging away the blood dried in a messy trail down his arm. “Don’t you know how to treat injuries?”

“I do!” Chrom said, drawing back for a moment. Rae’lia made a grab for his wrist to pull him back again, scrubbing at where the blood had dried heaviest, in the crook of his elbow.

Rae’lia’s hands were calloused – that was to be expected, with their line of work; and she turned his arm from side to side, checking her work.

“... so why didn’t you?” she asked after a pause, twisting to rinse out the rag in the basin, wringing out pink water.

Chrom reached up to rub the back of his neck with his free arm, Rae’lia concentrating on cleaning his other one, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn spot of blood. “I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone with–”

“Inconvenience?” Rae’lia interrupted, grip on his wrist tightening, blunt nails digging slightly into his skin, “Chrom, why would you think that?”

He hesitated. “I can’t just– it’s–” he cut himself off, shifting a little, “it’s… difficult to explain.”

The silence was punctuated by water splashing as Rae’lia rinsed the rag out again.

“Well,” she said, “we’re going to be here for a while, so you’ve got time to put your thoughts in order.”

Chrom nodded absently, eyes wandering about the tent. “You had a plan,” he started after a moment, “you gave us all orders, and positions for the battle.”

“So?”

“So I wasn’t going to break that for a light wound,” Chrom said, “you were very insistent on following this one.”

“So?”

“...so?”

Rae’lia let out a sharp huff, deft fingers coming up to untie the knot Chrom had tied in the strip of fabric around his arm. “I do recall somewhere in that plan saying ‘break it if things get dire’...”

“I think you and I have very different definitions of dire,” Chrom said, still not looking down to meet her eye.

“Any injury that is harsh enough to need magic, or unexpected numbers from the enemies.”

“This didn’t need magic.”

Rae’lia froze for a split second, before continuing with her task. “Amendment,” she corrected herself, halfway to a mutter, “that should be healed by magic.”

Chrom opened his mouth to respond, only for Rae’lia to finally get the knot untied, some of the pressure on his wound lessening. He hissed, jerking out of her grip.

“Hey!” he complained, “that hurt!”

“I haven’t even unwrapped it yet!”

He settled again, allowing Rae’lia to slowly pull the strip away. She frowned as she unwrapped it further, squinting down at the bloody fabric. “Is this… from your cape?”

“I didn’t have anything else on hand.”

She closed her eye for a moment, taking a deep breath. When she opened it again to continue her work, her face was carefully neutral.

The makeshift bandage had stuck a little to the wound, and Chrom clenched his jaw as Rae’lia peeled it away, hissing between her teeth in sympathy. “Sorry,” she said, dropping it to the floor and reaching for the bowl and rag again.

The blood had clotted enough that it wasn’t bleeding freely anymore, but the cloth being removed pulled at some of it, revealing fresh blood underneath. Rae’lia was gentle with her movements, careful to dab about the wound as she cleaned it. “What caused it?” she asked as she turned to rinse out the rag.

“Lance,” he said, involuntarily flinching a little, “couldn’t dodge in time.”

Rae’lia hummed. “It’s a clean slice, at least,” she said, “small miracles.”

She worked in silence for a bit after that, shifting back and forth in the light to check she’d done a good job cleaning out the wound. “Pass me another cloth?” she asked, and Chrom picked one up from the pile next to him.

Rae’lia uncorked the vulnerary, filling the air between the two of them with the harsh scent of medicine. “It’s going to sting,” she warned, glancing up to meet his eyes. There was a spark of gold in her eye; caught by the lamplight. Chrom couldn’t help but smile at that.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Chrom replied, still watching Rae’lia. She stared back in suspicion for a moment, before watching her hands as she soaked the cloth in the vulnerary, taking care to not spill any.

Some hair slipped from her shoulders, falling in front of her face like a curtain. Chrom resisted the urge to push it back again.

Rae’lia tucked it behind her ear herself after a moment, and Chrom tore his gaze away, the spell broken.

The vulnerary made contact, and Chrom yelped, pulling out of Rae’lia’s range.

“I warned you it was going to sting,” she said, somewhere between amused and impatient.

“I know, I know,” Chrom replied as he settled down again, tensing up in anticipation for her to continue her task. She curled her other hand around his elbow as if that would stop him from trying to escape, tucking the bottle between her knees to leave her hands free, “Still, don’t you flinch from something cold, even if you know it is?”

Rae’lia rolled her eye, carefully dabbing the vulnerary into Chrom’s wound.

“...Thank you,” he said, after a pause. Rae’lia met his eyes again for a brief moment, before darting back to her work. “I know you’re upset with me, but you’re still helping so… thanks.”

“I’m… less upset than I was,” Rae’lia replied, “I still am, don’t mistake that, but…”

She paused, reapplying vulnerary to the cloth before returning to his arm. “I know you could’ve treated this properly on your own, which is why I was so frustrated about the situation.”

He watched her pause to flick her hair back again, having come free from behind her ear. She pulled a face as it fell forward again immediately, pausing so she could pull it all over the opposite shoulder. “Why didn’t you take any medicine into the field with you?”

Chrom sighed. “You’re not going to take ‘I forgot’ as an excuse, are you?”

“I’m not, you’re right,” she agreed, “turn to the light?”

He followed her instruction, and she peered at the wound. “The bleeding’s stopped, and now that it's clean, it doesn’t look so bad.”

Chrom opened his mouth to respond, and she flicked the brand on his shoulder. “You do not get to be smug about that,” Rae’lia said, “it could’ve been worse, and you know it.”

Dutifully, he handed over the roll of bandage.

Rae’lia poured the rest of the vulnerary into the cloth, folding it into a little square and holding it to the injury. “Hold it there while I wrap it,” she instructed, and Chrom did, watching as she wound the bandage over it, making sure each turn lay flat and even.

“It’s a bandage,” Chrom said, a little amused, “it doesn’t have to be neat.”

“I can let you do it up alone again,” she threatened, before pausing. “How did you do it the first time…?”

He grinned at her.

“Eurgh, Chrom!” she pulled a face, “seriously?”

“What,” he laughed, “try to tell me you don’t use your teeth when you don’t have a spare hand.”

Rae’lia sighed. “I suppose I should just be glad you wrapped it…” she mumbled, tying a knot at the end of the bandage, “there. All done.”

The smile still hadn’t faded from his face, and Chrom got to his feet, rolling his shoulder a little. It still ached– of course it did, it wouldn’t miraculously heal in an instant without magic– but having it cleaned and treated properly was doing wonders already.

“I mean it,” he said warmly, watching as Rae’lia also stood up, throwing the used rag and bloody strip into the burn pile, grabbing the water bowl to tip out outside the tent. “Thank you for this.”

She brushed him off with a quiet snort. “You can thank me by taking better care of yourself, okay?”

“No promi–” he broke off at the intensity of her glare, bringing a hand up to the back of his neck with a nervous chuckle, “all right. I’ll try.”

It was the first smile he’d seen on Rae’lia’s face since before the battle; small and wary. “That’s all I ask,” she said softly, before she left the tent, door flap swinging uselessly behind her.

[ultraviolet-psyche]

my life is yours – robcina drabble

AO3 Upload

-

Robin has never seen Lucina in such a vulnerable position before.

He sits against an oak tree with his sleeping wife laid across his chest, her head resting upon his heart with a smile. The campsite is out of view, but a short walk away; nonetheless, there's nothing stopping Risen or brigands coming by.

Falchion is sheathed at her torso, as always, but her slumber is anything but light. She is not one to trust easily, yet she has placed her life in Robin's hands – for the moment, at least.

It is a privilege that he will not take lightly.

[convxction]

ooc. here we go. buckle up, guys. we are diving in. ofc all under read more because lots of pics and stuff. this post is only art thingies!!! lines for another post~ mwah hahaha

the first pic i appreciate the allusion to his famous pose by kozaki

but this allusion is a false one u know because this chrom is not the chrom you know. in a wise blond man's words 'FAKER!'. also it is funny that he got this new supposedly looking like a sword made out of grima's ...fang? horn idk man and yet the man keeps Falchion's sheath behind him. that swiggly thing wont fit into Falchion's sheath buddy.

now to the ... THE CAUSE of his death.

the pikachu lightning bolt he got is shown!!!!! this detail is important because again this was his cause of death in some parallel worlds, or crippling him in others. idk if they mean that this wound is never ever healing and it will forever be 'hurting' him.

there is an old hc post about plegia and all on my old mm blog [here] and i talked about plegia's name / the flower/ and how it looks like grima and

it feels like an overstretch to assume the crystal thingy on the sword is similar. i thought it might be but ...not really. maybe if i want to personally hc it and there is nothing wrong with that~

something that caught my attention this morning when i saw the art was his cape.

for me, it looks like a torn butterfly wing. and we know butterfly motif in awakening signifies going back in time to fix things--moving forward; hence the butterfly following lucina when she made the jump (and the butterfly following lonqu--ke'ri's soul helping him to move on??) remember chrom's resplendent cape?

something similar in the motif. chrom's cape tells you more about him in each alt imo. in his fell version it is just a broken butterfly that couldn't defy fate.

kinda wished for something cooler than just mark on his arm; something like the outsider mark on zeal's arm haha. like... idk the mark eroding the entire arm that bears naga's brand u know~ maybe i will hc that too~ CUZ IT FUCKING MAKES SENSE THAT TWO 'POWERS' WILL CLASH IN THE SAME BODY OK??? and since he is dead he is basically in grima's domain more than naga's right? so expect more of the fell brand affecting his arm.

the ripped part is honestly ... really ... lame. like the whole armor is so intact and yet you see this part only ripped. unless you count the mark of thoron is one and the ripped part is well, grima's way of mocking by ripping it off chrom's armor to in return mock naga that her favorite lad is in their hands now then...oke. or chrom himself ripping it off but i ...would've again imagined something would be done to it, like scratch marks, maybe *insert nami from 1piece scene and what she did to her own tattoo* u know???? but since i always take what they give us and do whatever the hell i want i say again his arm is all corrupted and naga's mark is damaged by scratches or whatever. break dance.

i thought it was familiar until i saw oscar's tweet. bless u iris prince number one. Kimihiko Fujisaka is doing all the glory works to preserve chrom even in his fell mode. god bless your soul. give that man a big beary hug.

how can a ded man still be seggst yes? the eyes chef kiss. thanks Fuji-san!!!! the hair~ OH WAIT I AHVE NOT CHECKED IMPORTANT THING...ZOOOOOOM ENHANCE

dang it fuji san... the eyebrows tho... tis fine. .... *taking points from the art because no cool eyebrows pinocchio nose*

again... chef kiss expression. personally, i feel like dead chrom would not ...feel pain u know? he ded. he wouldnt have much emotions right? but i dig that look. cool cool cool. love it.

also. WHY THE FUCK YOU COVER THAT PART HMMM? MEANS THAT THE INJURY IS SOMETHING OF A KEY ELEMENT TO HIS 'CORRUPTION' RIGHT? of all things he would protect, he protected the thoron injury. man is so brainwashed lmao.

look. the circular whatever vortex thingy around him. my brain was like hmm what does it mean??? then OK BUT AS I SAID TWO POWERS???? THAT WOULD'VE BEEN SICK IF THERE WAS LIKE A HINT OF NAGA IN THERE YES YES? chrom being the catalyst of both good and evil at the same time wahahahahaha.

overall the design is like ... 6.5 at best for me, personally. i just dont find 'red' chrom color no matter what. there was a reason why kozaki did not go for a red cape design for him initially and went with white so he does not be 'ike copy'. i get that they want 'fell' colors but there is some kind of irony in keeping the white but 'taint' it for more impact. like look at the cipher card RKC

the simple visual mistake you gonna make if you saw him from the back that he is chrom but once he turns viola thats not chrom my fried. that illusion that he is still him is what makes me like the lighter tone for RKC. it dos not try to SELL IT too hard that he is 'dead and dangerous' u know? simple things like the glowing dangerous and perhaps lifeless eyes, pale skin, corrupted falchion?? things that are 'clothes'. Grima didn't 'mmm lets give you a new look' when they turned him. like why bother??? it is honestly scarier to see someone somehow look the same but suddenly get the 'out for your life' treatment than someone who looks like they are out for your life u know? its just me. then again, like the design but too edgy to make him 'fell'. like ....idk man??? the colors just kind of made him ..unseen? can you really see 'Chrom'???? all i see blackish and red things and little of him. anyway anyway!!!!! i am still happy he is there. good. perhaps we can see kozaki in the future give his um... version🥺 👉👈 i know he said that he kind of found it challenging to draw chrom again for the legendary one but ... sobs..kozaki san know i love your chrom please. SAVE THE EYEBROWS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

aaaaaand thats it ??? oh wait. check the chibis!!!!!!!

tiny dead lad.

[thewolfisawake]

Hails of ice rained down as frost crawled up the forcefields. Shards shattered from the swipe of Tannim's blade, leaving where he stood unmarred by craters of ice. Wisps of flame escaped as he exhaled. Despite his ever warmed body, the cold was more like a sting than a nip.

He felt the ground tremble below him as the shards and marred ground started to splinter. They then started to dart upwards like a reverse storm. Tannim braced against the firing debris, flipping back against a larger chunk of rock. He took the rock and pulled it from its ascent before firing it towards Makari.

Makari initially only saw one and dodged to the left. But behind it was another aimed for where he had dodged to. Forced to take the brunt, Makari staggered, his concentration wavering, causing the rising debris to plummet. The dust kicked up started to obscure his vision of the field. Probably what his opponent was going for. Two could play that game.

Using the falchion as his conduit, Makari summoned a torrent of ice and a storm of lightning as he steeled himself for a blade to lash out. If the man could make it through the hailstorm created. But suddenly was a burst of light as arcs of flame slammed against the ice and rock. The rock detonated into showers of pebbles and dust. Ice melded with the flame to create steam.

The last of the debris skittered across the floor while the heated mist permeated the air. Lightning creating occasional streaks of light. Makari amidst it kept himself ready. Which helped when a downward arc came for him. He brought his sword up, using his other hand as support against the force bearing down on him. Pushing back he gained a little ground, which he pushed into a swing to try to bring his opponent wide. Tannim backstepped while keeping his grip to keep himself defensible.

They were able to reset themselves, giving a last nod of acknowledgement before diving into their last clash. Streaks of white and green cut through the still dense air. The lightning illuminating their figures as their blades sung. Tannim danced around bolts of lightning, only sensing from the brief moments stillness before they struck. Makari swayed against the rising heat in his frame. They traded blows until Makari's sweat slick hands couldn't hold out against a strong blow from Tannim. His falchion landed blade down into the ground as the point of a sword hovered near his neck.

Unarmed and exhausted, Makari held his hands up in surrender, "I yield."

Although as soon as Makari's blade was gone, Tannim had already stopped any further intent. He barely stopped his sword from going any further and Makari's words only solidified that this was over. Sheathing his sword, Tannim came over to the worn mage.

"Doin' al'ight?" to which he received a nod, "that was mighty fine magic out there. An' your way around a sword was good too."

"I think you flatter me too much, if not for my nature, your blows would've unarmed me long ago," Makari said, "but goodness I can use water. It's so hot."

"Lemme get that. Least I can do."

Winner: Tannim

[kultofathena]

Windlass Steelcrafts – Royal Armouries Collection – 15th Century Falchion

Royal Armouries sword #IX.144. This late 15th-century English infantry hanger, or falchion is part of the Royal Armouries Collection by Windlass. The original sword has resided in the Royal Armouries collection since before 1916 and its exact origin before that is unknown. These types of short swords were popular sidearms for billmen and archers during the Wars of the Roses and into the early Tudor period. Thousands of swords similar to this would have seen action in battles like Towton, Barnet, Tewkesbury, and Bosworth.

This example features a single-edge blade, with subtle transitions of cross-section and clever hollow grinding, and a fuller to make it lighter. It has a graceful hollow ground front edge and a slender but strong point with a thick spine able to deal with the rigors of fighting armoured opponents in jacks, mail, and plate.

This replica is crafted with a hand-forged blade by a skilled blacksmith using modern 1080 high-carbon steel that is fully tempered and is distally tapered for proper weight distribution. The sheath is made with a wood body and covered with leather. The tip is reinforced with a brass chape. At the throat, the leather extends upward and covers part of the guard at the ricasso. Includes a certificate of authenticity on heavy stock, a tin of Windlass Classic Wax, and a polishing cloth. Made by Windlass Steelcrafts, the original can be seen in the Royal Armories Collection, Object Number IX.144.

[captainofthetidesbreath]

Sometimes I just desperately want a fanart of Fjord, Avantika, and Vandran all together like a very tense and dark Gainsborough family portrait.

[luceque-blog]

{ I know I’ve been really, really absent, but things have kind of definitely gone to shit in my personal life and I just haven’t had energy to be on tumblr. I mentioned in another post that I had a death in the family, and then just last week, I had another death in the family, and it happened to be a very close family member, so I’ve been a little bit of a wreck. I’m so, so sorry- I feel pretty bad for leaving this place as a ghost town, but things just... haven’t been working in my favor lately :c }

[axdently]

revenge was within reach, and the air crackled with the promise of fiery confrontation. gazes finally locked, as the silent recognition passed between them. it was a dance they knew well, an unspoken understanding that simmered beneath the surface, intertwined with their shared history. he, too, couldn't help but to feel enthralled by the sight of his old nemesis standing before him once more. “Cozy?” he quips, a comment at the fur coat placed on Haneul’s frame. Elrich stepped into the dim light, the single sapphire gleaming where his left eye should be. a wicked and sinister smirk played upon his lips as he barked, “An eye for an eye, my dear friend.” 

the unmistakable scent of revenge and danger surrounded them like a shroud. Elrich could practically taste the blood before it even dared to drip–– from who’s blade first? he was uncertain, but there was one thing that could be predicted from their tryst, bloodshed. the anticipation hummed through his veins, reigniting the fire of the long-standing feud that had fueled his every move. “Don’t tease me, you pretty little creature. We both know you had it coming. You were lucky enough escape, but this time? We can’t be so sure. ” 

a gloved hand closed firmly around the hilt of the bood-blade at his side. the grip twists as the sound of leather scrapes and squeaks against the gilded handle."It has been far too long, hasn't it?" the pirate’s voice dripped with a mixture of arrogance and a subtle longing. "It seems fate has conspired to reunite us." with a swift and practiced motion, he drew the weapon from its sheath, the sound of steel slicing at the wind resonates through the air. the Falchion appears obsidian-like, as a dark pool of Vanitas blood gleams in the light. intricate engravings along the sword’s edge speak of countless battles fought and victories claimed. and even still, the weapon thirsted for another ounce for Haneul’s blood, it would never be satisfied until it was graced with another taste. with a flourish, he extended the sword forward, his cloak billowing behind him, showcasing the cold, and calculated determination that coursed through his veins.

"Here's mine," Elrich declared, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes fixed on his nemesis as he held the sword parallel to the ground and at the other’s eye level. "Now, it's your turn," he raised an eyebrow, his words teetering between crude innuendo and genuine curiosity.

Another bustling night bound to reap profit. Sure, it wasn’t necessary for the best seafood restaurant to partake frequently, but it was good for business. Even better for marketing while also giving back to the community. As such, it’s no wonder Haneul flits about in such a good mood. Dazzle the curious and hungry here, wow food critics there.. It’s tiring work. So tiring, in fact, that he takes a rare break. Just to step away from all the hub-bub and enjoy a bit a quiet. Five minutes and he’ll be fully recharged.

Only three in and he’s already making plans to forfeit the night entirely.

Something alerts him of another presence. Wasn’t by sight ( they’d been closed to rest ) or sound as the busy streets drowned everything out. No, it’d been the pinprick and pull of a gut instinct. A sixth sense, almost. Like a lost piece of treasure finally returned to it’s trove.

“Your side?” Silvery and light does he scoff, thick with amusement and already thrumming with anticipation. He’s searched for so long to no avail. Hope almost began to dwindle, but now it’s been struck to a roaring inferno once more. “Cute play on words, seeing as it was mine that’d been cut into.”

One step into the waxy light reveals him face first as he pushes away from a nearby wall. A grin far too wide, too sharp stretches from ear to ear. Transparent of his elation and hunger to see the strikingly familiar man. Haneul straights as another step is taken to be fully unveiled by shadow. Ridiculously puffy fur coat and all ( he’s holding it for a friend, he swears ), he practically drinks in the sight before him.

“It’s been so long- too long, if it really is you.” Some of the foolhardy have tried to don a similar disguise in the past. All of which wound up discarded in a fit of sheer disappointment and rage, naturally. “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” The blade that forever etched a horrid scar on his side. The key he’s scoured across land and sea just to reunite.

“Don’t be shy, you weren’t last time.”

[arcstral]

❛  𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐆𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐬  ❜   —   Kana, Kris, Linhardt, Marth, Setsuna,  &  R’wena.

               Gods to glass, even those named deities may shatter at the hands of men. Even those storied in myth to be invincible may crumple to a weaker race. With his fingers within reach of faithful Falchion, Marth knows the feat of god-slaying to be true, he knows it done. Then as the blade of light hums ever so warm at his hip, he knows once again that it is time to cull the heavens anew.

               Beside his companions, he observes their foes briefly. Among them are two hair-raising proponents—gifts—of Rion; the primordial serpent guarding all its cardinal directions by eight hissing heads, and the titan spinning a hundred arms, each enough to swat a man to death quicker than he might say his prayers. The remaining are the fallen.

               Working no longer as their trusted peers, but soldiers and infantry to their monstrous commanders. Ares, Reyson, Ishtar, Katarina. Draped in shadow and shambling towards the intoxicating light of the living, the misery and copper of their fatal wounds stings his nose even from a distance. These lost men and women incite his dread more than the otherworldly beasts he cannot explain. He has failed them, was powerless to protect them, and now in a fateful tragedy he must fight them.

               Marth chooses Katarina first with a trembling breath, then the steel of a hard, pained smile.   “   ...I trust you have not forgotten the drills that made you a knight?  “   He approaches her—speaks to her—as he always did when she remained alive, fond and friendly; the illusion crippled when Falchion peels away from its sheathe with a metallic shiver.   “   It is my duty to test your fitness as my royal guard. Let us begin, Katarina.  “

            Attention flits to the emotionless stare in her dead eyes then the curious wet beneath them, as if facing her king inspired agony even amidst a state that liberated her from all feeling. Even in death, she suffers. From Marth, there can be no greater apology for her loss of life than the single act that can release her. Darting in, his heart and blade alike seek for the woman. Neither strike true when he wavers.

Marth misses the Corrupted Katarina for 0 damage. Corrupted Katarina misses Marth for 0 damage.

              The corpse’s face lined in impassivity and shadow swallows his vision whole. The placement of eyes, nose, mouth still so heartbreakingly familiar, still so adored! He slacks his grip and Falchion jabs the air harmlessly, drawing no blood from her nor even from him, for Katarina’s thunder crackles in the air then fizzes like a pouring rain had snuffed its spark. As if it had been by the effect of her tears.

@dragon-kiddos  @unsungblade  @nappingscholar  @heartstringbound