#interaction: aurheatum

[blaiddllodi]

“Prince Dimitri,” Rhea nods, the bells on the added fur to her usual vestments jingling as she does so, “thank you for taking part in this year’s festivities. It is time to reveal what your winter envoy has gifted you.” The gift is, in fact, an assortment of items, all placed in a small basket and tied with a plain ribbon: a hunting knife, more suited toward being a practical tool than a weapon proper, with a bit of ornate wooden patterning at the handle resembling knotwork, as well as a set of soft gloves and a scarf suited to cold weather, and an assortment of herbal teas, with a focus on calming or relaxing properties rather than flavor profile.

"Ah! Lady Rhea! Blessings upon you, as well. I have to thank you for hosting this event - this is so festive, it is just what we have needed." It was true enough, to his understanding, dour tensions rising abound - and a fine way to break tensions and gain closer camaraderie. His brow furrowed; "I hope that you were able to receive something for this, as well?"

He bowed, extending his hands to receive his gift, peering into the basket curiously. "I will thank you for these, as well, barring the identity of my gifter - you deserve it as much as they, for being courier."

The gloves and scarf are lovely things, and one he was well used to seeing gifted - common to give and receive in the frigid north, and something he would make fine use of. It was the others that caught his attention more sincerely:

Teas, too, were something that he was used to receiving, not merely because of Fodlan's prevalent tea culture, but for its medicinal qualities as well. Hearty of body, but tender of spirit, many a medic had tried to soothe his restless heart, though often they plied him with sweeter fare. He sniffed gingerly, but found he could not necessarily identify the herbs. Was this someone that knew him well, then? Or were his ailments bare for so many to see?

But it was the knife which held his focus. There were only so many people who knew what knives meant in Faerghan culture, and though it was a fine gift for a young man of his standing, the shape of it spoke of work rather than blood. His fingers brushed over the carved knotwork tenderly, and he felt a smile rising to his lips.

Someone, it seemed, thought that perhaps he could use some more control over his life. Or...perhaps that was wishful thinking, ascribing his own biases onto the silent anonymous gifter.

"Thank you again, Lady Archbishop. For these," he lifted the basket, "and for all that you do."

[bxldrsdraumar]

Air's Graceful Wings

(White Heron mini starter for @aurheatum)

As the night wore on, friendships established and reinforced, the dance floor began to see more and more activity. Sigurd found that this was the case with many a ball, where much leadup of mingling needed to be had before one might engage in a dance.

But, oh, now that there was dancing to be had, Sigurd took advantage at every opportunity, asking those he knew (and some he would like to know) onto the floor within moments of conversation. He enjoyed the dance, though sometimes he knew his clumsy feet did him ill off of the battlefield.

So when he heard there was to be a competition, his heart immediately set alight, for if there was something Sigurd enjoyed better than merriment, it was merriment with stakes. And, surely, if there was to be a competition on dancing, it was an easy choice of partner:

His one, his only, his Deir -

Well that was weird.

Sigurd, smiling, had reached out to grab his lady love's hand in punctuation to his thoughts of adoration and intention, and the wind coming from the brand on his hand buffeted against him, forcing him back a step. Frowning, he reached again -

Only to be met with the same result.

He heard a hissing in his ears before a cool, slick voice murmured, You see? You see how he reaches for one of mine? My selections are the clear superior choice, if even one such as he can see it.

Ferocious chilly wind responded in kind, Mine will freeze yours like puddles upon the ground before one of yours wins in a competition of movement. You must have chum between your ears to think mine are anything but the most agile.

Agility it nothing when compared to grace, fool.

The hissing screeched against Sigurd's ears again and, quite confused, he felt his body being spun around once, away from his wife, and shoved onto the floor.

You will find another - we will evaporate them.

The frown returned at the directive - Sigurd was not wont to be told what to do by such an unseen force, and with such aggression against his most beloved - but the shoving was insistent, grumbling huffs of air against his cheek all the way.

You will find another, it insisted, until it shoved him quite nearly into another person.

Straightening, Sigurd glowered somewhat skyward, before he turned to apologize and - "Oh! My lady Archbishop. Please, pardon my sudden lack of decorum - our hosts seem quite insistent that, should we desire to participate in their dance competition, that we must team with one who shares our marks. It seems for once, Deirdre and I are incompatible."

He said the word with a wry grin, placing the same emphasis on it as one might if they were quoting a child having a tantrum.

Shaking his head, he continued, "Ill blood between them aside, I should like to compete, but I have need of a partner. I don't suppose Her Grace - " a wink, extending his hand out, "might have time in her schedule to allow me the chance?"

[peerlessscowl]

"How fare your wounds?"

She catches Raven on their first day in town, having already made sure Yuri was in better condition than when he had first gone to rest; for Raven she feels less responsible for his injuries but concerned all the same, it was difficult not to be considering his circumstances for being here .

Difficult too to tell his mood, though she certainly recognized the festering anger that sometimes shone from behind his eyes even as he kept them downcast. It was, in her opinion, better and more motivating than despair particularly in their current conditions.

"Sister Phoebe has been rather hurried in her preparations so I know not when Yuri, Lindhardt, and I head to the Dragon Temple other than… ah, 'asap' I believe was the phrase; but if I can do anything for you during this time please let me know."

After the healers had done their good work, Raven had spent much of the day sleeping, moving about when necessary, but on the whole conserving his energy - and more importantly, staying out of the way. It seemed that their rescuer, Carmen, had regaled some of the villagers of the fights on the beach, but had done so in such a way that left them watching Raven (and others) with some wariness.

To be so battered in the name of survival, and to be scorned for it. It seemed almost unfair, but Raven couldn't claim that he was unused to it. Better to keep his head down, for the time being, lest the people of Dragonshill decided that perhaps they'd not be welcoming Raven and his companions any longer.

When he heard the knock at his door and bade them enter, he couldn't say that he was expecting the Lady Rhea to be on the other side of the door - he'd had little of her attention since arriving to the monastery, and that was how he'd preferred it. But then, he supposed, it would make sense for her to feel some sort of responsibility, mask of a model student as he wore.

He stood, back straight, and faced her. "Lady Archbishop," he greeted with a nod. "I'm well. I thank you your concern."

He said little else about his state, listening as the archbishop continued. The sister had come to him as well, brimming with the gossip of the townsfolk's reaction to him, eager, it seemed, to make use of his sword arm for her gain. Though tempted, he had been about to decline - for he had assured Sir Kent that they would fight side-by-side once more - but now, hearing that her only accompaniment would be the slight Black Eagles cleric, the young silver-haired swordsman, and the Lady Rhea herself, his brow furrowed.

"You're not going down there alone." It was meant to be a question, though the tone did not rise enough, and Raven shook his head as if in emphasis. It was not necessarily that he doubted her skill - there was ever something off about her, and she moved with a surety that few did - but if the shrines were so crawling with terrors as had been described, he doubt even she would come out unscathed.

He hesitated only for a moment, chewing on the new information in tandem with the understanding that even if he stayed to assist the villagers, that they did not want him there. A short sigh, soft, and he reached for his swordbelt, securing it about his waist before coming to stand before the Archbishop.

"Let's go, then. Your grace," he added, an afterthought of courtesy.

[regnumaves]

ooc; Tibarn return

You know what time it is, besties.

Yeah, it's time for Tibarn to continue vibe checking all my other delusions. Anyway, he's back after a brief return to Tellius to take care of some matters back home. If I've learned my lesson (we'll see), my muse lineup will likely stick, at least for a longer while.

While I will no doubt grab a few new threads, he had some at the time of dropping that have potential to be picked back up - specifically threads that did not get far enough for my partner to claim upon his leave, some of them with skill points attached. If you'd be interested in reviving the thread, please let me know. If you'd rather not, that's 100% chill with me of course! I just want to know where I stand before I load him up on new interactions.

The threads in question are:

In the Name of the Goddess, Square Up (with Rhea @aurheatum, +1 Gauntlet) - my turn

A Flower, For You (with Leanne @allegreta) - Leanne's turn

King to King Communication (with Diamant @heriteur) - my turn

Defrosting (with Elincia @amitieos, +1 Flying) - Elincia's turn

Bonding?? Exercise?? (with Rafal @rafent) - my turn

Vibe Check Failed (with F!Byleth @ashenprofessor, Gauntlet +1) - my turn

Fear the Deer (with Sakura @gentlenekomata, Bow +1) - Sakura's turn

[yewfallen]

in defense of the young

Mission Task Board: On orders to search the surrounding settlements for signs of infection, your party comes across a lone farmhouse. The woman who answers the door seems nervous, and you can see toys scattered about, but no sign of a child. She allows you inside to search, but you can’t help but feel that she’s hiding something. [Grants Authority +1]   // @aurheatum​

    Febail chooses to stay in Faerghus even when all the students are called back, and he was willing to accept having to be chaperoned by the Archbishop and accept her direction to remain here and checking in on the situation. He thought it wouldn't change much — that he would silently investigate in what freedoms he was allowed to have, but fate can think it's funny at times.

He can't say he's laughing.

The moment Febail saw all the toys scattered around, all abandoned with signs of prior play, his reason leaves him and all he sees is red. In a second he turns on the farmhouse woman, and he fires question after question.

Who was playing with these? Where are they? What happened to them? What happened to them? What happened, just say it already...!

Each question is asked with an increasing frustration as the woman proves more and more evasive, and Febail is screaming as he grabs the woman by the front of her top, fist balled back in his free arm.  “ I don't got this kinda patience, lady!! ”

[peerlessscowl]

Yelling at Clouds

(Starter for @aurheatum)

He hadn't merely been idle, glowering the entire time, as it might have appeared to some. In between glowering and humoring his comrades, Raven had been skirting the edge of the event, knocking on wood panels to test their soundness, tugging surreptitiously (and some less surreptitiously) at door knobs to see which gave and which held, and poking his head into nooks and crannies to see if they led anywhere. 

(They rarely did.) 

He knew, for there were placards indicating so, that there were trails that led out – to the exotic garden of carnivorous plants, and to a shimmering ring of unknown magicks, though to be frank both felt laden with the undercurrent of a threat. 

You can leave, but only danger and uncertainty await. 

Most of the denizens of Garreg Mach seemed content to wait the night out, optimistic that their hosts would return everything the way it was two months ago, though some clearly shared his discontent with the situation. They all seemed to zero in on one another, and he gave each a nod of courtesy when they made eye contact, a silent pact to lend his hand in aid should the call come. 

Unsurprisingly, he found that Her Grace the Lady Archbishop to be among this number. She kept her composure well, considering, gliding about the event with such ethereal grace it was almost easy to miss the glint of ferocious steel in her eye whenever her gaze went skyward. But Raven knew that look – he had seen it amongst a handful here tonight, and he saw it in the mirror. 

He approached with a bow, a furrow between his brows as he rose. He was silent for a beat, then, with a dogged refusal to glance upward, he said, "Our hosts have been...thorough." 

[bxldrsdraumar]

It had taken her some time to first find all of her knights and staff (thankfully, none suffering from amnesia this time) and secondly have the debriefing necessary to set up a perimeter on the current premises but Rhea had done it.

And ignored the obvious amusement the beings who put them in this situation took from it, as well as the odd charge in the air whenever she looked or even spared a thought their way.

She had succeeded with far worse odds, and Rhea would rise to the occasion again to protect the people under her care. Still, she is ill at ease until finding both Sigurd and Deirdre together, and takes a moment to watch them both; letting the atmosphere they so effortlessly created together wash over her.

“Sir Sigurd! You appear as hale as ever, despite circumstances. I am relieved. And with your lady fair as well. Please, let me know if I can do anything for the two of you. I realize all of this must be rather frustrating.”

Sigurd feels the prickle of eyes on him before he turns, and his heart lightens to find the Lady Archbishop. She is as composed as ever, that cool facade, but he can see there is something in her bearing that is tense.

And that certainly won't do, will it?

He greets her warmly at her approach, a low bow, before he swipes one of her hands the press a kiss at the knuckles - the calm of his air brand braiding with the gnashing of hers - and winks. His smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, and he flashes his lady love a look where she speaks with her friends. "We are well at hand, I assure you. Despite the circumstances, our fine hosts certainly know how to put an event together."

Sigurd cant his head, eyes creasing further in his mirth as he makes a show of looking over the Lady Rhea. "But my lady, you do not appear to be having such a good time - and as a guest, even! Perhaps our hosts are not so thorough as they thought, for you to be offering your assistance in such times. Please, I beg - why don't you tell me what it is you'd like, and I shall fetch it, as your most humble knight."

[bxldrsdraumar]

a kiss where they’re both covered in blood (toa adjacent au? anyway sorry for being an unhygienic dragon as if its her fault)

Sacred sword in hand, hair pulled back, and with Sigurd at her side the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros has little to fear. She charges forth into enemy lines with the grace and ferocity of a swordsdancer while the Jugdrali knight smites his own share of foes atop his chosen steed; even so, the conditions are harsh – dragging mud and pouring rain slowing their advance despite the vigor of their approach.

Rhea pulls ahead to launch herself at a pegasus rider, but turns back when she hears a grunt of pain from behind her; she contents herself with making a mess of the mount’s wing before running back to her knight. He and his steed are in one piece but torn in places, and Rhea presses a hand to the scale like markings that show through Sigurd’s torn tabard.

“There is no need to push yourself to the brink, not any longer,” not in her service, Rhea thinks, and as casually as she would brush aside her bangs she presses a sluggishly bleeding arm wound to her own mouth before finding his lips with her own. “Here, you may take what you need.”

She is a beacon on the battlefield – bright and shining, thrumming with energy, his heart roars in triumph at the chance to ride into battle beside her, his liege, his lady, the progenitor of this second life that he carries. She dances about the field and she is a marvel to behold, decimating their foes in graceful arcs of her sword, and he is in awe of her terrible beauty. 

His horse sears forward, his own sword an extension of his arm, vibrating with each cleave, tremors skating up his arm begging moremoreMORE! 

Sigurd is at war and he is alive. 

He sees the ballista take aim from the corner of his eye, and tugs his horse sharply, and though he manages to deflect one quarrel another shears near enough to the poor beast's head that it arcs to the side, legs kicking wildly in the air before tumbling to the ground, its weight pressing firm against Sigurd's torso. 

He manages to wrench himself from underneath the beast, but he feels now the smattering of smaller wounds all about his body, seeping his lifeblood from him by ounces. 

She is at his side immediately, and she is radiant, fresh from the kill, and he chuckles at the scold, tilting his head in time with hers to accept the press of lips against his, the succor of his lady's life energy within him stoking a heat that had never been there before. 

The slant of his smile turns feral for a moment before he regains himself, coming to standing with her hands still wrapped around his throat, almost tender – and when the moment is broken, they turn from each other as one, launching themselves back into the fray.