#interaction: braveryinblue

[peerlessscowl]

a kiss after one muse has injured the other 

"Well, look at this," he murmurs softly, kneeling down to a crouch. "It seems the lord Marquess Ostia has injured himself terribly on the field of battle. That is a grievous wound, milord," Raven gestures with his sword to the gash peeking through Hector's tunic, snug in between the spaces where his armor fit together. "You should endeavor to get that looked at."

Raven casts a glance over his shoulder. "Knights are a ways away, though. Pity. I shall call them over in a moment, I think. You know," he says, turning his gaze, burning and furious in contrast to the ice-cold of his words, "It is a shame. I've seen your brother in battle many times, though never in such a position as this. Though I suppose he's died now, hasn't he? My condolences."

Taking a knee, Raven leans in quite close, so close he can smell the metal of the whelp's armor, the iron of his blood, the tang of his sweat beneath his collar. He holds for a moment, then presses a soft kiss to Hector's cheek.

As he draws back, he makes eye contact for a moment, and his lips quirk as he stands, turning on his heel to fetch the Knights.

[bxldrsdraumar]

Sigurd Go Down the Hole

“Hark! Hark, I say! No, no, down here!” If the sight of a ragged white horse grazing in the middle of the forest doesn’t grab your attention, the voice that calls from the bottom of a pit sure does. A tall man with tousled blue hair winces as he waves at you, claiming to have broken his leg when he fell into this *dastardly* trap. “I, King Sigurd of Grannvale, humbly request thine aid! Know that thy kindness today will reward thee handsomely in the years to come!” [Grants Faith +1]

(starter for @braveryinblue)

Cleared for duty, the nurse had said. Or near enough, they supposed. Sigurd's body seemed in well enough health, though there were parts of him that still behaved strangely, muscle memory that didn't quite remember why. To say nothing of his mind. Nevertheless, he had been given the clearance to leave the monastery, the pretty cage of the academy, and actually move.

And not a moment too soon, he thought upon receiving his briefing. Some crime syndicate or other had decided to pull the wool over the eyes of some lesser nobles in the norther regions of the continent, using famous names and the promise of favor in exchange for favors, trinkets, gifts, money. Simultaneously bolstering and muddying the reputations of all in involved, and vanishing before the consequences could be served.

It was…well, it was ridiculous, and Sigurd might have gotten mad if he had not heard the claims his own imposter was making.

He had entreated for that mission to the archbishop personally.

His charge was a young man, a student of the Blue Lions house, big and brash, with a hefty axe arm and a presence that felt…almost familiar. Sigurd could not quite put his finger on it, but it comforted him all the same.

They rode north, seeking out where the imposter had last been heard of. Dense forests and thickets of the Faerghan region made the hunt all the more difficult if it hadn't been for one thing: the imposter's desire to be seen.

Sigurd recognized the white horse and he smirked, clicking at his own pale mount and urging it forward gently, mindful of the piles or dirt that surrounded the area. Quietly, he dismounted, shooting a look back to the young man with him and cocking his head in the direction of the hole.

None-too-carefully, Sigurd picked his way across the clearing, mindless of the cracking of branches beneath his boots as he approached. Something stirred within the hole, and he heard…the most atrocious stage accent erupt from within.

Is that supposed to be me?

Standing at the edge of the hole, looking down critically at the imposter within, Sigurd crossed his arms over his chest, a chuckle bubbling up from his throat as he shook his head in disappointment.

"Oh Sigurd," he said, partly to himself and partly to the man in the hole, laughing at his own joke, "What mess have you gotten yourself into this time?"

[peerlessscowl]

There was never any escaping. Of course there wasn't - one door in, one door out. He had known that going in, and he had taken the chance anyway.

For what? It had felt good for a while, getting his licks in on an opponent he knew to be fearsome, but it wasn't a job, it wasn't some intimidation or deterrent with a clear end, or a clear beginning for where his next job was. It was the thing he had dreamt of for years, but cheapened by its lack of finality, by the lack of closure.

He let the knights take him, the heat and the pain beginning to wear on him finally, sagging in the grip as they dragged him into the night air.

The whelp couldn't even see his face, would never have known it was he. Raven bit back the wave of nausea that hit him, though whether it was from pain, or the shock of the cold night air after their time in the hot sauna, or the disgust that curdled in him at his own impatience, he could not tell.

The knights dragged him for a cursory glance at the infirmary, and then to a separate hall for discipline. It was here that his status as student, his expired pedigree, did him a service - detention. Merely pulling weeds, and hauling supplies for the kitchen, and mucking the stables. Things he did on the daily regardless.

Cursorily, over the following weeks, he saw the whelp doing these tasks if not alongside him, then with clear similar motivation. The purpling bruises brought an animal thrill, but it was a hollow satisfaction.

Next time he would not hide, he thought. Next time he would finish it.

- fin.

It was over before he’d even the chance to properly cede, the doors thrown wide with a bluster of cool night air gusting into the room.

Whatever energy Hector might have had left vanished, faded with the sharp intake of breath from his shock at the sudden change of temperature - and alongside it, naturally, featured a new wave of nauseating pain. Loud voices sent stars across his vision, searing flashes of white and black staggering him with as much force as a physical blow. The mist slowly, so slowly dissipated, and the marquess cast about in his own haze, a faint curiosity driving him - who had his opponent been…? Where…?

“What in the world?” The monk seemed ill-impressed with Hector’s state, seeing him up close. Good timing, Hector supposed - he could really use a shoulder to lean on right now- “Ugh! You’ll get blood on my cloak— I just bought this—”

“Found the other one!” came a second voice, a knight clanking along in the humidity. “Skulking away, huh? Not on our watch, heh.”

“What were you boys thinking…?”

The disapproval cut thick enough to carve air, but Hector didn’t care. He still couldn’t see his opponent. Except he was no longer sure if it was the steam, or just that his eyes were starting to swell shut from all the bruising.

“Well. Infirmary first, and then detention for the both of you. I swear…”

Hector chuckled.

Whatever. Worth it.

And then he passed out.

(When next he’d wake, he’d be in a state to reconsider whether it had really been worth it, in the end. Was it just him, or had his opponent actually been kind of… How to put it…

… Vicious?

Going all out was one thing but...

Something about this didn't sit right -

and not strictly because he had been thoroughly and utterly defeated.)

[albwreckt]

[ challenge ] There's somethin' about a guy this size (not to mention the uh, everything else) that has Hector wondering how he's managed to miss seeing him before. Ah well. No time like the present to fix that, right? "Hey, you, with the arms the size of a melon." Hector is sat at a table, arm held out expectantly. "Name's Hector. Let's wrassle, yeah? Winner gets the other's trinket or whatever." (hec rolled a pathetic 9 godspeed baltie)

It certainly takes one meathead to know another. Balthus’ attention is seized the moment he hears about those watermelon-sized arms, rightfully believing that there’s no one else in attendance who could earn a claim such as that. His mouth twists into a smirk. A challenge: a chance for fame, glory, and pride to shine on him in equal measure. He’ll prove to Hector that he’s King for a reason.

“You’re on, pal–er, Hector!” His elbow crashes against the table with monstrous force. He stands to half his height, kicking his chair back in the process, and revealing what a titan of a man he is. If Hector’s heart felt fear in this moment, Balthus would not blame him. “You sure do know how to speak my language. A wrassle and a bet? Now that’s what I call cuttin’ to the good stuff!” 

They lock hands, firm grips meeting like two unstoppable tides. “I’m Balthus, by the by. You’ll want to remember that when you watch me walk away with your ornament.” And thus, without any more introduction or fanfare, their battle begins. 

Hector proves to be a worthy foe. His constitution backs his arm well, clearly versed enough in handling a weapon to view Balthus’ arm as a handle. But swing with the King as much as he likes, he won’t beat Balthus. This guy’s got a few years on the young noble, and as such, more time spent chucking axes (and breaking fences). His strength and experience are enough to mount him an advantage after some struggle, which he levies against the Ostian until finally his victory is in sight. 

SMASH!

Hector’s wrist hits the table hard enough to wake up any sleeping drunks on the other side. Riotous laughter pours out of Balthus as he straightens his back to soak himself in victory, doing a few paces around their arena with his arms held high. “Not a bad match, but I’ll be taking that,” he snatches the bell off the other’s brooch, “and making myself available for rematches, if you ever feel like taking on the big Balthus once again!”

[pryings]

a quiet hum buzzes through the dining hall as those assembled are shuffled in. this 'psychological experiment' or 'speed dating game' or 'social gathering' or whatever it is has been prepared. in place of the long dining tables, the hall is filled with numerous small, round tables, each with a number placed upon them. you are to find your assigned tables, chat with your partner, and hopefully make some kind of connection.

the goal of this exercise is somewhat vague, but knoll and hubert seem poised to take notes. so that's interesting.

schedule:

12pm. EST Feb 14 - 11:59pm Feb 15 ROUND ONE. 12pm. EST Feb 16 - 11:59pm Feb 17 ROUND TWO. 12pm. EST Feb 18 - 11:59pm Feb 19 ROUND THREE. 12pm. EST Feb 20 LAST WORDS.

please tag all interactions #toaLoveHypothesis2024. you will receive an ask from hubert or knoll within the next few hours asking if you like or dislike your partner. unanswered asks default to a 'no.' please answer it at any point before the round ends.

rounds will be 36 hours long, but should narratively simulate the speed dating experience of only having a few minutes to talk. it should feel rushed. interactions can be asks or short threads, please communicate with your partner to determine what works best. you can continue an incomplete interaction after a round concludes if you wish, but please note that you need to vote by the round's end!

the questions provided are only suggestions. if your muse would not want to discuss this topic, feel free to talk about whatever you wish.

caspar (@berglietz) & yarne (@taguelbunnyboy) topic: assuming you do not die within the coming months, what are your plans for the future?

linhardt (@pridelessdaydreamer) & sakura (@gentlenekomata) topic: what hobbies do you partake in?

lucius ( @semperiuvare) & sara (@shadoll)  topic: if tasked with healing an injured stranger, how would you respond?

louis (@etrefleurbleues) & arval (@laruarva) topic: how do you connect with others on an interpersonal level?

deirdre (@nagaficat) & eitri (@grimkkr) topic: thoughts on magic and its practical uses.

elffin (@moriddyn) & forsyth (@viridescent-lance) topic: describe your ideal vacation.

lachesis (@pridedprincess) & selena (FE8) (@fluxrspar) topic: two interesting truths and one compelling lie.

shez (@partnerindestiny) & hilda (@delicatevalentine) topic: fabric softener and its impractical uses.

dimitri (@blaiddllodi) & l’arachel (@aglaean)  topic: total monsters you have vanquished.

minerva (@reddragonprincess) & zephia (@ruinakete) topic: which food brings you the most joy?

jakob (@indevouement) & denning (@beholdenning) topic: which animal you most relate to?

mark (@allyphase) & laslow (@laslow) topic: your favorite type of cat.

elincia (@amitieos) & hector (@braveryinblue) topic: what is justice?

(tumblr has decided to implement a limit on how many people can be @'d in a single post, so if you do not see your muse's name, check the second part of the post)

[nelithic]

———　ethereal ball housekeeping.

listed below are the ongoing ball interactions for both nel and rosado and their current status as far as i know.

⟢　if you intend to keep going, no action needed. ⟢　if you have something different in mind ( want to drop it, want me to edit my last reply to close it, etc. ), please let me know.

←　in my court →　in your court

nel .

edelgard mini ,　@hresvelged　→ sophia mini ,　@nabataprophet　→ hector mini ,　@braveryinblue　→

rosado .

pitcher perfect? ,　@knightofgalatea　← hortensia mini ,　@asperants　→ kent mini ,　@liegebound　→

[sunncutter]

Who doesn’t love learning about epic battles of yore from various other continents? But everybody knows that sitting around reading dusty history books is dull; instead, you are being made to reenact your assigned battle yourselves in a show-and-tell to the rest of the class. The seminar leader has even provided a dress-up box to aid you in your endeavors. [Grants Heavy Armor +1]  (starter for @braveryinblue)

Once she got her feet under her, Lyn found that she truly didn't mind the work of teacher's assistant. There were those teachers that were more difficult to work under, and some that were easier, and occasionally she felt the draw of being asked to assist in another class. There was a strong current of competitiveness amongst all houses, but especially amongst those in the Blue Lions – she'd no stake in these countries or their futures, but the riled up spirit certainly made the lines blurrier when it came time to lend a hand. 

If the assignment was to reenact a historical battle – well. She supposed she had seen her fair share of battles, and she and her friends had made their share of history, hadn't they? All the better when she sought out a familiar gaze as the Blue Lions class broke to discuss, chattering with possibility. 

She wrinkled her nose at the sight of the costume chest as soon as it opened, with spangled and stiff cloaks and unbreathing tunics being waved about. "Could you imagine fighting a real battle in something like that? Even these uniforms they have you wearing seem so...constraining. Worse than your heavy riding armor by far." 

At least that had served some purpose, and she had seen firsthand, but some of these shining bits and bobs... 

She shook her head. "I suppose it's no matter, if it's just a mimicry of battle. And these Fodlaners...their techniques would have been different than the like we've seen, isn't it? This House, it's founded on a country of knights, right? Would have been harder for an army like that in Sonia's Water Temple. Even you struggled, and you weren't mounted or anything." 

it's nothing to be ashamed of if you fell in the water

[fangedjustice]

braveryinblue​:

No one would have thought that Hector, of all people, believed in fairies - and in truth, that was quite the way he preferred it.

Not a soul had believed him when he’d burst into the throne room as a child, shouting to Uther and the entirety of Ostia’s council about what he’d seen that day. Oh, sure, Brother had feigned a lack of skepticism unlike the remainder who merely turned up their noses, but Hector knew better.

Not that he’d ever been able to witness any further trace of the lil blighters, let alone catch them to serve as proof - but with this latest excursion, it seemed his luck was turning around at last.

.

AHAHAHAHAA just kidding!

What in the hells was this bastard doing here?

Oh, it chafed. No, it more than chafed. Eliwood might have preached forgiveness, but the Fang… They were beyond redemption.

(If he sat down and thought about it any, he’d have perhaps come to accept that Lloyd and his family were in a similar boat to him - just doing their best to look out for their own, really. But that’d mean actually sparing time and energy to consider any of the Reeds or their companions, and such a course of action was like to tease forth a temper most foul.

It was much easier to prioritize his own people and to sit himself in the right. That was, after all, what he was meant to do as leader of a nation, right?

… Right?)

The worst part about all of this though?

The silence.

“Saint’s tits,” Hector cursed neath his breath, teeth grit. “Don’t even have the balls to say anything, huh?”

Not that Hector even knew what he’d have expected the man to say. Certainly, he wasn’t holding his breath for a bloody apology. Durban help him - Hector could not, for the life of him, see this outing ending anything in the vicinity of well.

“Shouldn’t your ilk be mucking about elsewhere,” preferably somewhere far from here, or maybe even what, around a good six feet or so underground, “and busying yourselves skulking about in the shadows?”

Like cowards.

The tension between the two was uncomfortable, to the say the least. It was entirely what Lloyd expected, of course, but it was sure to make this excursion unbearable-- if it didn’t end in violence first.

“Don’t even have the balls to say anything, huh?”

Very much like his brother, indeed.

Lloyd cast a narrowed, side-eye glance at the young lord of Ostia; taking in the angry, stubborn press of his jaw, his overall build and what was visibly a threat on his person should this turn completely south. The Lycians had a varied crew of fighters when they had clashed in Elibe, but Lloyd could recall with ease the unrefined style of axe swings brought down with great strength clashing with the sight of clearly personalized armor of a noble house.

Lloyd tilted his head a little, his expression carefully neutral as he responded to the demand. “And if I had started this interaction with a...’Hello there, my lord, what a fine day for fairy hunting this is!’ do you really think you’d be having any less of a negative reaction to my presence?” 

Doubtful. And to some point it was amusing that Hector even voiced such a thing, when he was clearly not of a forgiving or understanding mind right now. Not that Lloyd could fault him for it, but it was an interesting show of childishness that had yet to melt away considering what he knew of Ostia’s state of leadership after Nergal was foiled. 

“We attempted to kill each other, perhaps not directly, as we were only ordered to target your friend from Pherae, but that tends to leave an impression,” he continued factually, still watching for any particular reactions out of the corner of his eye, “So I can’t begrudge you your distrust or resentment. However...You saw firsthand what Nergal and his people were capable of. It’s no excuse for those of us that could have done something to stop his plans not acting, but we...had no idea what we were up against until it was too late.”

And by the time he had an idea of what was going on, he was removed from the playing field.

Lloyd’s mouth was a thin line as he finally shifted his gaze away from the lordling. “That was the plan. Elibe wasn’t exactly an option for us any longer, so we made our way out here.” They hadn’t much choice in the matter. “Such wounding words that could be attributed to some of your own comrades. Ostia is not simply knights and soldiers in pretty armor. You have your covert agents. Do not pretend to act as if you’ve any understanding of the work we once did for the people of Bern.”

It's really just not his day, is it?

@braveryinblue [ Reason +1 Mission ]

Lloyd preferred to keep himself on the practical and logical side of things. The key to believing in something was to touch it, see it, understand it and how it effected the world around it. If it couldn't be explained in such a way that it made some sort of sense, he had to doubt it to a degree until something clear and solid changed his thought process on the matter.

Fairies were...well, they were just something Lloyd couldn't bring himself to see as real. Perhaps it was different here, but there were nothing but children's tales about such things in Bern. It was purely for the imagination of young ones, something sweet and soft and fantastical to give them in what could otherwise be a cold and dreary land to live in.

Besides, for what reason would a creature of magic choose to aid its captor in such a way? It simply didn't make sense to him.

So, even if there was some small part that was curious to see if there would be anything to find, he was more inclined to accept this as the long walk through the woods that it was likely to be. Lloyd certainly wasn't opposed to patrolling.

Or, normally he wouldn't, but of all the people to possibly get paired up with for this job, it just had to be the Ostian lordling, didn't it? Where were all these unfortunately familiar faces coming from? Really, it was like he hadn't left the shores of his home at all at this rate...

The other two Lycians had seemed...level headed. This one reminded him much too closely of his brother. For better or worse, that was yet to be seen.

Perhaps they could get through with this task silently? Ah, that seemed unlikely after how their last meeting went.

[peerlessscowl]

The responsible are still out there... 

It almost didn't matter if it was a lie, and even this he could not have said with certainty – the smallest seed of doubt had found root, the words sinking into him as a grain of sand in the joint, grinding and eroding at his confidence such that his steps stuttered, his swing softened, slowed and -  

OOF - ! 

The poll of the whelp's axe glanced him at the points of his lowest ribs, and though the strike in any other circumstance would have at the very least been crippling, it did not escape him that Hector had turned the blade away from him, had been fighting defensively this entire time. It could not, in truth, have merely been that Raven was too skilled a fighter to allow him the chance to recover – he knew the extent of his abilities, and was not prone to exaggeration, even in downplaying his greatest foe's skill – but that an Ostian was choosing to fight defensively. 

Was it, then, that the whelp was not so stupid, that he was deliberately keeping him at bay for long enough to... 

To what? 

Sucking in his breath through great, wheezing gasps, Raven took a few steps back, heavier and clumsier than the usual fleet-footed skip he preferred to use in retreat. He resisted the urge to crumple and vomit, and grit his teeth, considering his position through narrowed eyes. 

A flurry of insults rose in his throat – familiar calls to doubt, the skepticism and antagonism that he held so close to his heart, that instinctive lashing out that came from his certainty in his paranoia, from being the eye of a storm that any other might have termed a conspiracy – but he swallowed those along with his nausea. 

Was it paranoia if it was true? Was it a conspiracy if its events confirmed by a first-hand source...? 

"It must be so easy for you to lie," he ground out, finally, circling back through the foliage to regain his bearings. "To think that I can be so used – for what? To take care of some bureaucrats for you? The other members of the league aren't enough to consolidate power, you need rid of your own internal cabinet?" 

The words shivered, as any other, with his rage – but the doubt was there, fervor slowed. For the moment.

Achilles at the Gates

[peerlessscowl]

No. 

Stop. 

What? 

Through the buzzing in his ears, he hadn't registered the clatter of the chair falling behind him as he stood – neither did he register that all three words attempted to race to be the first out of his mouth and came out as a strange, strangled "Nnyagh?" 

The nun looked at him with some shock, the smile curling her lips like the cat had gotten the cream, and her eyes creased as she leveled a look at him – that was, his body, the vibrantly flushed face burning beneath his dusky red hair. "It's Lord Raymond, isn't it? It's rare to see you in here when the sun is up, but I suppose I would make an exception for someone like this one." 

The tease, coupled with the playful thumb jerked in his direction – that was, the whelp's body – dragged yet another alarmed sound from him, in combination with his legs which tangled in the legs of the abandoned chair. Was he trying to escape, or to confront the interloper in his stolen body? 

"Oh, you poor dears. This must be terribly new for you, then, hm?" She looked sympathetic, and that sweet, almost nostalgic smile made it that much worse. He wanted to vomit. "I'll leave you – oh, don't worry, I won't tell a soul," she added, pressing a finger to her lips in a hush gesture with a dainty, playful wink before excusing herself. 

The whole situation could not have lasted too much longer than a few minutes, but Raven felt so overwhelmed, so burdened by whatever the hell was happening, that he felt as though he'd aged merely in the standing here, staring at his own face etched with lines of furious bewilderment. 

A muscle in his jaw worked as he struggled to regain the power of comprehensible speech, and he forced himself to look...himself in the eye, gut curdling at how much of the whelp he saw in the depths of his own eyes. 

"What..." He finally made out, a low hiss, "what has happened." 

A Coat of Red or a Coat of Blue

[peerlessscowl]

The fool boy stumbles over his words so badly that Raven has to keep himself from scoffing, but he keeps the smile affixed to his face, eyes watching keenly. He unnerves the little lordling, he can feel it, though he tamps down the crowing in his chest, the unbidden self-satisfied venom that seeps into his blood at the lordling's recognition that perhaps he is a threat.

It won't do for him to be to on guard. A splash of cool water over the blaze roaring between his ribs, and he cocks his head at the whelp's sidestep of conversation, at the offer of a spar.

"Have I?" His eyes narrow in amusement at the thought - a fine opponent, as though he'd been called anything less for years. Suppose the whelp knew what he was getting into. Suppose the whelp knew what awaited him.

The breathy chuckle that escapes him then is almost genuine, just a hair short, and he clenches a fist at his side to keep himself from shaking in anticipation at the mere thought.

"I assure you, it's all show. I'm rather hopeless. But, if please you, my lord marquess, then a match you shall have. Perhaps you could teach me a thing or two. I've heard the Ostian noble family's fighting style is a sight to behold."

And behold he had - whether it be the whelp's dead brother during his time in Ostia, or early mornings on the training ground, he had been watching. He had been observing.

At the lordling's final blunder, he almost scoffs again, but forces a laugh that feels like bile up his throat. "So ill trusting of your own social skills, are you, my lord marquess? Perhaps you scarce understand the effect you have on people. I daresay there may be more than you expect on the floor who would be willing to drag you into a dark corridor. Oh, pardon. That was quite inappropriate wasn't it?"

He sees him well across the ballroom. Of course he does. Raven doesn't think there's a waking moment that he doesn't know where the whelp is. He considers for a moment keeping his distance, but he notices that the whelp has his eye on him, too.

Ever-vigilant, isn't he. That suited him fine, then. He wasn't about to start a fight in a setting like this - too many people, he didn't have any sort of advantage to speak of.

So he puts on his best mask, the friendly noble his father's bannermen had always hoped he would become, and approaches.

"Well met again, my lord marquess. I see none were spared in this spectacle. At least our benevolent patrons have provided us with entertainment to spare," he says with a light chuckle that almost sticks in his throat, verging on unnatural.

"Ah!" From a small dish nearby, Raven plucks out a handful of pastilles, and flicks one deftly into his mouth. Donning a smile that ill fit him these days, he extended the hand. "Mint? I suppose these kinds of events lead to all sorts of situations, don't they?"

"Huh- oh, hey." Oh. Right. "Well met," he corrects, though he doesn't bother looking sheepish about it. Raymond doesn't seem stuffy enough to be overly bothered by such lack of formality, and Hector but hopes he's got the man pinned right.

(Although, as far as 'pinned right' goes... There is ever something strange about him Hector can't quite pinpoint. There's no reason for it, and yet. Instinct warns of something, even if that something remains cloaked in mystery. After all, outwardly, Raymond seemed just fine. Just another noble raised for high society better than Hector could ever hope to be.

Maybe Hector should lean into formalities a bit more with him, come to think of it.)

"They were certainly thorough about their business," Hector agrees. This kind of small talk chafes. It reminds him of politics. Of what awaits back home.

"Say. We should spar, one day. You've the look of a fine opponent, I think."

There. That's more his speed. Would that all men could but speak with their weapons. But would Raymond understand?

But Raymond's already won this bout of words, at the very least.

"Huh? What-!" Cheeky, this one.

"Not on my watch, it won't!" Nevertheless, he swipes one of the mints for himself. Shit. The council needn't hear that. "But freshening up couldn't hurt, right?" And so, pops the token into his mouth as well.

[bxldrsdraumar]

Sigurd cocked an eyebrow, glancing with some disdain down into the hole where his shoddy mirror-image stood. Covered in detritus as he was, twigs in his perfectly coiffed wig and sand beneath his collar, he now looked closer to the man Sigurd had been at his best – save for the purpling indignation in his face, the standing veins in his neck. 

The stamp of his foot, petulant and childish when his audience did not fall at his feet. He had seen men of this ilk, both on the battlefield and off, but it was never so insulting as when it wore his face. 

"I will tell you something, lad," Sigurd turned to his companion, though his voice was raised – perhaps if the man in the pitfall hearkened, he might learn a thing or two about the game he played. "The bonds you forge now ought stay with you for your life, or theirs – they say it is for better or worse in marriage, but it is true as well of kindred hearts that you find as well. Keep them by your side, even if you have distance between you, and you shall never find yourself in such dire straits as you will not be able to escape." 

If Eldigan and Quan had not been with him that day...or any of the days preceding or thereafter... Sigurd shook his head, sighing softly. His truest, dearest of friends. What sort of man would be have become if not for them? For any of his other friends, these foggy memories he held close but just out of reach...? 

"Oh, do spare me your twaddle – I won't allow you to disrespect me any further! You will cease at once! And you will rescue me from this hole, and take me to your superiors - " 

"Disrespect?" Sigurd barked a laugh – bright on the face of it, but with some teeth, an edge that flashed in his gaze as he looked down into the hole. "What would you know of respect, my lord? If you might have listened, but for a moment, you might have learned a thing or two about the friends of the real Sigurd of Chalphy – no king, but a knight, and though he's made mistakes in his life, he would never be so low as to find himself in a situation of his own making with nary a companion to help him. 

"Their names," he added, just this side of a snarl, "were Quan, of Leonster, and Eldigan, of Agustria. It is a shoddy facsimile you do, if you cannot even commit these names to heart." 

sigurd go down the hole

[nelithic]

she suspects that this is not the reunion it was intended to be when he turns to her and his expression stays blank. the fog of irrecognition does not lift, not as she continues speaking and not as she extends her hand, and perhaps she would have been saddened by this if not for the scrutiny he affords her features, her mannerisms — there is a sincere, albeit baffled, attempt to reclaim their old acquaintaince there.

perhaps, because it has been one thousand years... or perhaps the movement between worlds had damaged the emblems' recollection?

his grip, though, is strong — calloused, lapidarian; in the way she had suspected it would be now that he is more than just a manifested spirit. it's good to feel the solidity of an ally at last who had been no less indispensible for not being of flesh and blood; in fact, she thinks grimly, perhaps the emblems had been all the more treasured for it. "you do not remember..." then how to explain? "i am nel, one of the fell dragons who fought under the divine one's banner during the war." a great struggle that had ultimately been just as won as it had been lost. even speaking of the divine dragon again brings a cloud over her heart.

it is difficult to believe that she and rafal had been so forgettable with all the controversy that had arisen over their presence, remaining unto the end of the war, at which time such a thing had hardly mattered anymore in the sea of dead and corrupted.

then something strikes her, a faint memory of a little-known fact she recalls had been shared with them once, as fellow dragons. "... unless, it is true that the emblems were not connected to the heroes themselves."

sharp crimsons study hector again in a new light — the true hector of ostia, a stranger of a kind. "... my apologies. i may have jumped to conclusions."

⟢　"emblem hector, i am glad to see you are well." the spirit that firene had safeguarded the long years was known for his strength, the tales of his tremendous force on the battlefield carrying even through the mountain ranges of gradlon. as a result, he had been one of the most highly coveted bracelets of the fell dragons, and nel still recalls the numerous conflicts that had been waged through the wars for ownership of him alone.

to see him here in such a place decorated by stars and gaiety after all of that — she struggles to put it fully to words. relief, perhaps, would be best. though she also cannot completely deny an imprint of envy.

nevertheless, she is not here for any of that. "i had thought an exchange of engagements would serve to commemorate our old alliance," she continues, extending her right hand with its zephyrous green brand upturned and visible. "i trust the evening has been to your liking."

' Emblem? '

Is that some newfangled way of saying 'marquess' Hector has yet to hear of? Society's trends are so wishy washy and fleeting that he's possessed of little care to keep up with them.

It is a little odd how familiarly this stranger greets him.

Is hers a face he's ineptly forgotten? He's so terribly out of his element this eve he'd not be surprised. He struggles internally just a moment, waging a fierce battle insofar as trying to remember where he might have met her before...

He concludes, with no small finality, that no, he has never before in his life so much as seen this dame, much less been introduced.

"And you as well," he answers seamlessly, after that whole debate has passed in a flash. Smooth.

' Old alliance. '

Okay, so! He hadn't been imagining things! Just who was this confounding woman?

He takes her hand nonetheless with the firm grip any would expect of him. He cares little for the flowers that brighten with the contact, instead focusing on her face, again searching, wondering--

"The evening's been fine," he answers, at length, not yet relinquishing hold of her. "But, indulge me a moment. Who are you, again?"

[peerlessscowl]

It was becoming harder to keep his breaths quiet, dragging from his lungs in burning pants. The thrill of bearing down on his foe – his predator's heart, seeking fear from his prey and getting defiance in its stead – was waning, and his vision began to fade and blur. 

It was too hot in here. Too hot for the rigor, too hot for the pain. 

The next hits needed to decide it. The whelp swiped at him, landed a solid hit to his midsection that actually made him gasp before the Marquess Ostia started to sway – more affected by the heat and the brutalization he'd received. But somehow the other man yet stood, and Raven supposed if they were friends he might have been impressed. 

But they weren't. 

Leaning his weight back, out of reach! Raven stomped a foot against his opponent's knee, following with a short (weak) kick to his side before his vision burst with stars, blinding white from the heat that he had forced his body to ignore for too long. The sound of the whelp dropping sounded, dull and muffled to his ears, and echoed... 

Thump, thump! 

Thump, thump, thump! 

No, too rhythmic. Too many. The whelp was down wasn't he? Where was that noise...? 

" -ing in there?" 

Thump, thump! 

"-n up!" 

Thump, thump, thump! 

Raven hissed a breath, and his focus sharpened around him abruptly, the reality of their situation crashing down on his shoulders all at once. The bitter taste of bile erupted in his mouth, and he scowled – not even a moment to crow his victory, to feel it beneath his fingertips, he had a choice to make: 

Finish the whelp here before the knights broke in, or find a door to duck out, to escape into the cold of the night air? 

Things weren’t going well.

The adrenaline subsided a moment in the face of pain exploding in his everything - his eyes, his nose, his teeth— shit.

He’d been enjoying himself, too - or so he had thought, but it was easy to see his energy slowly waning: it was always more fun when you were on the winning side of a battle, no? Or at the least putting up a fight. And so, in spite of every fiber of Hector’s being that really wanted to be having fun, really wanted to partake in the warrior’s spirit,

he found himself sagging.

He wiped a bloody smear on his arm - his nose just wouldn’t stop now. And even that gesture was enough to send stars a-spinning across his field of vision.

“Ah, fuck—”

He groaned. Swayed. Bleary eyes squinted, looked to focus through the haze, trying to spy his opponent- he wasn’t done yet. Wasn’t done yet…!

Brutally efficient, his opponent was - Hector had to give him that.

It was too soon to yield, however.

--- Wasn't it? ---

(Doubt niggled at the back of his mind - that was his self-preservation speaking. Hector deftly shoved it aside, now not unlike so many times before.)

“Hiding, are we,” he mumbled, brows furrowing (fuckfuckfuck nevermind not furrowing)

“I’ve quite enough of the wraiths already around me in the daylight, you know.”

And so, once more, he swung blindly, hoping instinct would guide him. Instinct usually guided him well! ... But either way, had to hit something eventually, yeah?

[peerlessscowl]

It gave him a bright thrill to see his quarry retreat, to back down from the force of his onslaught – a blossom of addictive warmth, the rush of pursuit baring dripping fangs from a grimace that was as much smile as scream. 

"Hiding, are you?" he murmured softly, drowned out by the beating of Beathe's wings and the pounding of blood in his ears. He could see why finding cover in the forest was the attractive option – he'd had done the same against a mounted opponent, of any variety, let alone airborne. All of the advantages that Beathe gave him were for naught if he could not manoeuvre as well as a plated idiot on his own two feet. 

The vantage allowed him to spot the whelp, though. It did grant him that, even as he guided Beathe to hover a few feet from the ground, dropping into a quiet crouch to slink into the woods to follow. 

He would not allow it to be said that he needed flight to fight, and he suspected he was a good deal more at home in the woods than this lout. 

"Apologize?" He hissed, the wind carrying his words in a rattle through the leaves as he circled. "You think your apologies will bring them back? Do you stand at a grave and decorate it with words, then, idiot?" 

He watched through narrowed eyes as Hector revealed himself, spread his arms and offered himself like a steer for slaughter – there was the rational part of his brain that understood it was a feint, because it was an obvious one. 

But then that word perpetrator hit his ears, and the rush of blood roared high in his mind once again, drowning his sight in a coat of pulsing, steaming red. Raven was scarcely aware of moving, but the hammer had dropped from his grip, and his hand reached for the more comfortable hilt of his sword in the close press of tress as he charged forward, blind and furious. 

"The responsible?" His voice came from him in a shrill tone that he couldn't say he had ever remembered himself using, but he knew instantly that it had come from him due to the raw streaks it left in his throat. "The responsible rattled his last pathetic breath in his comfortable bed in a castle – you carry his debt, in the same way that you carry his blood. Do you think playing dumb will wash these stains out? You child - !" 

Achilles at the Gates

[peerlessscowl]

Saints above, was he truly hungry again? 

The librarians were, to put it mildly, shocked to see him there – looking quite as intense as he must have in the brute's body, it must have been quite the frightening sight, but between the confusion of the situation, the intense focus of trying to hunt down any text which might have even been passing helpful, and the desperate groan of his belly protesting in hunger – irritating, given that it immediately siphoned his mental energy and drew his focus every which way, and given that he had just eaten. 

One of the nuns came to him, smiling kindly, and presented him with a platter of dry biscuits - "To tide you over," she said, "until next mealtime," - but it was not quite the meal his belly seemed to be expecting at this time. 

He cleared his throat at her turning back, finding himself unable to make quite as much sense of the words before him as he needed them to make; "Ah...if you don't mind..." 

"Need some help, do you?" It was a tease, no matter how mildly pressed, and her eyes twinkled with mirth as she approached. "That's quite an advanced magical tome you have there, I'm not surprised – oh, I mean...simply that..." 

Raven's shoulders stiffened, and not for the first time he flooded with several strange, foreign sensations – the size of his body taking up more of the seat, pressing more firmly against the table, the breadth of his shoulders tightening further into the space; and, further, the odd sense that he himself was being pressed, or teased. She wasn't speaking to him, to the student she might have known as Raymond, once of Cornwell – she was speaking to Hector of Ostia, by all accounts an unfamiliar face, and nevertheless it rankled. 

He sucked in a breath, and forced himself to smile in a way he hoped was self-conscious. If it seemed stiff on the whelp's face, the nun must have brushed it off as discomfort, for she smiled at him. "Ah, yes, you see I...this isn't a subject I normally pursue it's just..." 

"Ah, say no more, young lordling." Her smile warmed, and the twinkle in her eye brightened. "Young men of your ilk have done crazier things for a young lady. We do have some talented mages here, are you trying to impress someone?" 

The suggestion gobsmacked him so much he could not have accounted for how much time passed before he simply said, "...Ah...yes..." 

A Coat of Red or a Coat of Blue