#rudlm

[hresvelged]

high searching

After the events of the last moon, it was logical to investigate beyond where the church had deployed them. She had no qualms with venturing past Garreg Mach’s walls- Much the opposite, in fact. Although Edelgard had not been in Faerghus territory during the latest missions, now was the perfect opportunity to travel into an area that needed to be seen by her gaze and the eyes of others.

It’s at the request of an anthropologist that she found herself with Alm- There had been an explanation of century old carvings and a story foreign to the Adrestian princess’s ears. She was curious enough to see it for herself, if only so that she could piece things together and unearth that which had been buried. Truths could not stay hidden forever.

The hunt was akin to spotting light in a ray of clouds, keeping her attention absolute as she looked for the markings that acted as a guide. It seemed probable that what they were looking for would stand out amidst their watch.

Soon enough, the sight of crystal blue waters stood out amidst the scenery. The heel of her boots dug into the ground as she stepped, placing a hand atop a nearby tree as she paused. The air was as still as the night sky, save for the occasional twinkle of a star and a reflection of something in front of them.

Minus the noise of other animals nearby here and there, it was otherwise quiet. She couldn’t make out what they were, given how dark it was. It was the water in front of them that left a strange feeling in the princess, regardless.

Turning to Alm, she gestured towards the water and said, “That was more difficult to find than I imagined.” A pause. “In any case, this must be what we’re looking for.”

@rudlm

[maesterofmagic]

» Levanter

     A stiff breeze rushes past them in the still of this waiting game. Mae plays with the ends of one of her pigtails, still trying to process it all. Where they were, what happened at the ruins of Garreg Mach, that man. She wanted to make light of the situation at hand, try to ease her partner or her own worries, but the image keeps replaying itself in her mind. 

     It was to no fault of her or her group’s own and there was nothing to be done about it now. She reminds herself of this again and again, but the echoes of his wailing ring in her ears, mimicking how they bounced off the walls of the empty remains.

     Focus, Mae. She closes her eyes and exhales loudly. To avoid as many casualties as possible, the defense team needed to be here and present. She opens her eyes to the sound of distant drumming—approaching soldiers. 

     There was something off about them. The rigid way they moved was the first clue, but embedded in the chest of each was a fragment, something that glistened in the light. She squints as they near. Brown eyes catch a small flicker of pink and she gasps. “Those pink shards...”

     “Celica...” The name slips from her lips barely above a whisper and her arm lowers. Oh, for the love of Mila, please say she did not have those with her still.

     The mage looks to Alm. “Any specific plan of action?”

@rudlm​​

[rigelspride]

"Berkut...?" There is surprise in his voice. He approaches him, jasper searching his expression. A smile in his direction. "I didn't know you were going to enroll here." There's a pause when he adds, a bit softer, uplifting almost—smile matches his voice—this time, as if hesitant to how hard the tiger will bite, but hopeful that he wouldn't. "Have you eaten? I was just on my way to the Dining Hall. We could go together."

That voice.

No. No. Not here too.

Perhaps that dream had been a sign of things to come. The rage Berkut had felt then at the sight of his mother’s ring between his cousin’s fingers bubbles up into his chest again, burning like fire. Was there nowhere he could claim for himself? Rigel. Valentia. His own dreams. And now this academy. Tainted. Rooted deep at the center of it all is the fear that he will always be eclipsed. That Alm’s destiny written by the gods was to rule, while his own was to be trod upon.

But he quiets the inferno. Smothers it. Alm’s appearance in his dreams had at least prepared him for confrontation, allowed his instinct to snap like a mousetrap so that he could compose himself better the second time. He had always known anyway that eventually he would be made to face his cousin again, though he had always thought it would be in Valentia. On his own terms.

His shoulders rise with tension, and his expression is dark and smoldering when he at last turns to Alm, but there is no explosive tirade this time. He regards his cousin with his head angled partly away, narrow eyes made sharper by the line of his cheek. Gaze lowers in rare silence, appraises the uniform shoes Alm now wears in place of the muddy work boots Berkut remembers seeing last, and lifts again only as far as his shoulder. He stares past him at some distant point.

Had he known Alm had enrolled as well, he would have retracted his application. But he chooses to answer differently. Stormy eyes flicker up to meet emerald.

“You left the throne less than a year after you wrenched it from His Majesty’s dead hands. I had to see for myself what could possibly be so important.” Cold and sharp in place of volatile passion.

Gaze sweeps out across the courtyard, over the heads of other students milling about, and then returns to Alm with a caustic huff.

“It would seem you’ve finally realized leading a country is far more complicated than leading its conquest. Any baseborn barbarian can rally an army to kill for him, after all.” Another huff. “Your smile makes for a fine ruse, I’ll give you that. But what do you hope to achieve with it? With—“ He moves his hand back and forth between them and frowns. “This? Asking me to accompany you to the dining hall as if we’re friends? Hah. What a fantasy you live in.”

[laflorenata]

Alm approaches Rinea with hands behind his back. It's several months before he clears his throat, a fist coming to his mouth, and says, "Lady Rinea." And when he has her attention, he continues, "I wanted to apologize for my actions the other day. You startled me. I should have run off like that." Another pause, before he reveals a small bouquet of lilies and lavender. "For you. As an apology." He smiles softly; there's no way Berkut would enjoy the idea of him gifting flowers to her.

     Alm was the last person she expects to approach. After talking with Celica and piecing together clues of her own, she is almost hesitant to look his direction. He was a kind and fair man, she could tell, but did she deserve his sympathy?

     A deep breath in and out. Rinea turns to face him in the absence of firelight, but his features were stark and clear, even underneath the sky of stars. A verdant green—optimistic and true, fitting for his character, she sees this now.

    Curious questions of what or why he hides his hands behind his back are answered before she has the chance to voice it when he pulls out a bouquet.

    “Oh, the bloom on these is lovely.” Her eyes widen at the bouquet of lavender and white, taking a moment to admire the petals, a soft smile appearing on her features. Looking back up to him, she nods. “Thank you, but I should be the one apologizing to you. I did not mean to give offense, but I startled you.”

    She plucks a single lily and lavender and hands it back to him. “I hope this sparks cordiality from here on out. To new beginnings.”

[arcstral]

MARTH. PLEASE. KISS HIS HAND

               The animated bustle of the kissing booth square fell curiously in line with a marketplace. Down to the unknown throngs of people coming and going, loitering as they pleased or diving in wholeheartedly for their coveted selection of ‘wares’. The situation was enough to drive any full or partial introvert to reclusion. It is why the lord could not be more pleased when a familiar face finally rolls along, soothing the frayed medley of his nerves by their presence alone.

               "Ah! Hello, Lord Alm,” Marth greets sweetly, perhaps a hair too transparent in the realm of his gratitude at sighting someone he knew. A Valentian was no Archanean, but with none else to reach any closer, they may as well have been litter mates displaced only by a sea. “Have you come to investigate the commotion? Well.. I do suppose you’ve come for more than that, having made your stop here. I cannot reasonably refuse you.” An abashed set of the mouth betrays his slight embarrassment, though Marth quickly brushes it aside.

               As he rose from his chair with nary a grate of its legs, the graceful strides of his advancement towards the king may have already revealed his mind. His fingers took a light and butterfly hold of the Valentian’s fingers, hoisting them to his lips with the same delicacy as he might employ when laying a kiss across the knuckles of his imperial princess. Though of course, Alm was not Nyna, and such a difference marked his rare jest afterward. “I consider you a deeply respected friend, my lord. This is precisely why I cannot send you away, empty of.. Hand.” 

[boundlesshart]

"Lord Claude," he calls for the house leader with a curt gesture of his hand. "A pleasure to see you. Remember when we went to the beach? The dance we did? I think we should do it again. It'd be a lot of fun, don't you think?"

“The dab right?” It’s hard to forget the strange dance, the sight of Alm leaning down and hitting that dab low and deep in the bonfire’s light. Claude threw himself into research as soon as they returned home, and it didn’t take long before he struck gold. “I read up on it way back, actually. It originated as a technique fishermen would use to catch fish in the Airmid River. Of course, catching one fish at a time isn’t really efficient…. but it still lives on in song and dance.”

Claude shakes his limbs, readying himself. Then he hits that sweet dab, coming down low but not quite as low as Alm. Sudden his arm shoots out as if snatching something from the floor, and slowly Claude returns to his original position. “See?” he grins, holding out an imaginary fish. “They called it ‘hitting the dab’… it’s named after the dab fish.”

[tobenobility]

[Tank build — 3 HP] A brief twirl of his sword. He watches, and though he tells himself to wait, he cannot. Alm pushes off the balls of his feet and sprints towards Lord Ferdinand. He pushes off the ground again, sword raised over his head and a battle cry echoing through the air. He aims to end this battle in one swing. [Alm rolls to attack. 20. Critical success!]

Ferdinand’s attention was brought to Alm by the battle cry incoming – and once he saw the foreign king sprinting at him with ferocity in his eyes, Ferdinand grinned and pulled out the iron sword that he was himself using in this tournament (although it was wrapped – he was not exactly looking to take somebody’s head off). A sword deserved a sword, especially when it was such an opponent as Alm, King of Valentia. “A match of gentlemen!” crowed Ferdinand, and that’s when Alm came wheeling in with a brutal swing.

Dodge Roll: 15! Dodge!

Ferdinand was likely not the swordsman that Alm was, but he wasn’t a neophyte either, and he maneuvered the sword into a parry, tilting it so that the powerful blow eventually slipped away from him. And, of course, he took the opportunity to speak. “I am glad to get the opportunity to spar against you, Alm! Truly, you are one of the most worthy opponents that I could have hoped to get! This will be a veritable match of titans, yes?” And then Ferdinand actually did riposte with a thrust, since he wasn’t just here to talk, as much as he liked to.

Attack Roll: 8, no crit!

Ferdinand’s HP: 2/2!

[princepsumbra]

Celica tossed a balloon at Prince Leo, so then it must be fine to /also/ toss one in his direction, right?

Battlefield was left behind in favor of a fresh shirt. Entering any conflict while feeling like it’s already lost wrecks havoc on morale. 

Refreshed, and leaving the injured book behind, Leo assesses the beach. Sea shells mix in with discarded soakers and broken balloons. Darker patches of sand mark recent skirmishes, monuments to fallen heroes. 

Nohrian prince reaches for an empty soaker. Instinct raises his eyes right as fingers close around the handle. A young boy stands some feet away, arm cocked, fingers closed around a balloon. Leo moves into a roll, motions fluid. 

[Roll: 7! Leo is Barely Hit!] 

Not fluid enough, it would seem. Cool water splashes his thigh. Leo straightens, one eyebrow quirked. “Don’t forget to account for an opponents movement when you throw. Otherwise, an elegant toss.” 

[savboer-blog]

cry havoc

@rudlm

“Lad.”

Who Saber is speaking to doesn’t need any further indication. Having only one eye always makes it clear what the man is focusing on, and the way his eye doesn’t leave the younger’s form leaves no room for questioning. As for the intent, well. If his serious expression wasn’t enough of an indicator of his mood, the hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword would be.

He gave a short jerk of his head, off in the direction of cemetery. Private, as he’d only ever seen one student hanging around there, and if the mood struck him it’d be an easy place to dispose of the lad. “Come for a walk, will ya? Have some...teacherly words I’d like to exchange with you.”

A short sneer. Saber couldn’t help himself. Fuckin’ nobles. “Unless playin’ at student is preoccupying you a bit too much, your majesty?”

[alfvangr]

lost his wings and fell to earth

starter for @rudlm | [Grants +1 Sword]

“Franzi Pans…?” The name is gaudily splashed across the flyers plastered to the walls, advertising a seminar on swordsmanship from ‘the most famous knight in Leicester.’ Alfonse feels like he’s heard it somewhere before—but that’s all it is, a vague sense of familiarity that may not even be real. Face pinches into a frown when ocean blues discover the fee for attending Pans’ seminar; much as he truly wants to believe the best of others, the skeptic in him can’t very well ignore the possibility of greed and deception at work.

( a loud sneeze resounds through the halls of a certain castle, and anna wonders if someone is talking about her where she can’t hear. )

Looking into the matter further leads the prince to more flyers scattered throughout the monastery, their contents declaring Pans a fraud and confirming his suspicions to be at least justified even without the existence of hard evidence to prove it absolute. If the person behind these flyers has already done the bulk of the research into Pans’ credibility—it takes a special kind of dedication to read through 27 books in a single night—the logical next step would be to take direct action. …And hope that everyone will be able to get their money back afterward.

“Thanks for coming~! Go in and have a seat before the seminar begins,” the people standing by the doors intone in perfect unison, saccharine and cheery in such a manner that, quite honestly, makes Alfonse’s skin crawl. It’s an ill omen if he’s ever seen one; the prince puts on his most polite smile regardless as he passes them and enters the lecture hall, eyes searching for perhaps a familiar face’s company to fill the space with something other than the chatter of those he is less acquainted with.

“Oh Brother, that’s not the attitude you use when looking for friends,” he thinks in a poor imitation of Sharena’s voice. But these people aren’t his friends—he may grow comfortable around them, go through the motions commonly associated with friendship, but he cannot become attached. It’ll only make leaving harder when the time comes for them to return to Askr and leave this version of Fódlan behind.

( he tells himself this time and time again, as if doing so will make the guilt easier to bear. it doesn’t. )

He should be relieved when he finds Alm among the rows of chairs. They’re in the same house, and they get along well, but it’s plain to see that something is wrong when Alfonse draws closer to his fellow Lion: Alm’s normally affable demeanor is virtually absent, replaced with despondency such that Alfonse wonders what could have happened for the other to look so gloomy.

...Oh. Right. It’s not that he’d forgotten, but more immediate concerns had pushed thoughts of the Valentian couple’s fallout to a far corner of his mind. Sharena would try to cheer him up if she were here. But she isn’t, and thus it falls to him to at least do something. “Alm? I hope it’s not an issue if I take this seat; you seem as though you could use some company... or a listening ear, should you wish to divulge what’s on your mind.”

[displaced-tactician]

The Instigator and the Bad Cop || Morgan and Alm

Tiny sixteen year old Morgan happily trotted up to the tavern in Thurii and paid for a pint of apple juice, cold and from the keg. She looked around searching for her target, or at least a target she thought could get her to her target. They needed Babel. All Morgan knew about her was that she visits the bar once in a while, and that she’s an amazing mercenary leader. 

She and Alm had tried finding out more about her, but couldn’t. They did find out about one of her cohorts who frequented the bar fairly often. Even got a basic description of “Dark hair, green eyes, and a Mercenary Company logo on his shoulder armor”. And even how to initiate a more... friendly conversation with him. She found the target from the bar and smiled.

She looked towards Alm, who stood at the doorway, and gave him an obvious thumbs up. Their plan was for Morgan to interrogate, and if there were any issues Alm would come in and protect her. Or vice versa. Morgan already had Thoron at the ready.

She couldn’t help but trot up to her target’s table and plop down in front of him. She put her apple juice on the table and authoritatively put a deck of playing cards on the table. He was the biggest, meanest, baddest, roughest, toughest, and strongest son of a gun in this tavern. But what interested her was the Mercenary Company emblem on his shoulder. 

“Ed Sigmi.... you son of a b....” Morgan proclaimed loudly, the absolute last word being cut off from the tavern’s noise but obviously spoken. Ed and Morgan soon had their hands grasped in a fierce handshake that Morgan was woefully unprepared for.

“Oww... Okay perhaps not that strong next time.” Morgan complained as she began massaging her right hand. His strength was.... well above hers. And she knew she’d be feeling it for a while. That was her favorite writing hand too.... She’d probably have a big bruise from that.

“Well ya know my name... and ya know my callin’ card. Didn’t expect a young miss like ya ta be cursin’ up like that though. What do ya need?” Ed replied. He looked towards the man in the door.

“Is that stiff over there with ya? Saw the obvious thumbs up from earlier.”  Ed asked, giving a threatening glare towards Alm.

Morgan motioned for Alm to join them.

@rudlm

[amnesiac-pawn]

Vendor Bender (Closed: Morgan and Alm)

Morgan Anathema Abank was no fool.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been picking fights immediately upon his return from the battle against Sophrosyne. As he was still healing, moving his torso too much hurt; even laying down in bed forced gasps from his mouth as he bit back pain. There was no reason he should be out and about when he was supposed to be on bed rest...

It’s not his fault the infirmary was full and he was deemed “well enough” to finish his recovery in his dorm, where no one was there to order him to lay back down. Besides, rumors were flying, and the rumor that there were legendary weapons being sold by some street vendor was far too great to pass up.

Morgan Anathema Abank has never been a fool.

When this haggard-looking man holds up some rinky-dink blade with some ribbon tied around the hilt and calls it Falchion, Morgan really can’t hold back his laughter. (Even if it hurts like a bitch to laugh.) We’re talking full-on, head-thrown back, hands-on-his-hips kind of laughter, amber eyes lit up in absolute delight.

“Oh, you pathetic little man!”

(We never said Morgan was the kindest of men.)

“You really think that’s enough to fool me? You’ve got to be joking—is someone recording my very words, taking innocent bystanders’ responses as some sort of jest? Or are you truly profiting from such a poorly-concocted scheme?” Claude would be so disappointed, he thinks.

“You’re going to have to try a lot harder than that to pass off some flimsy little iron sword as Falchion!”

Needless to say, the vendor didn’t like this. Though their products were... shoddy at best, they still had a keen eye and could see the pain that just barely twisted on this nobody’s face as he laughed.

And that was something to take advantage of.

( People are beginning to crowd. A scene is forming, but no one feels obligated to step in to stop it. )

A quick, carefully-placed jab from the angry vendor is enough to send Morgan crashing back into the ground, clutching over his ribs in pain. Amber eyes dart around in a panic; he can’t fight alone, not in this condition, why did he leave his room—

A flash of green.

“Lord Alm!”

(A silent prayer sent Naga’s way. Thank you for keeping friends nearby.)

“A little help, please!”

Hopefully, the Saint King had been watching this little spectacle with the rest of the bystanders and knew just what to do.

@rudlm

[maesterofmagic]

"Mae." Voice is soft yet firm when he gently shakes Mae's shoulder. "Wake up." When her eyes finally peel open, he takes half a step back, still crouched low to the ground. "You feeling all right? I'm about to go hunting, and I need you to keep the fire going. We can't have it go out, if we can."

     A peaceful slumber is interrupted by a familiar voice and a touch to the shoulder. Mae sits up and rubs her eyes. She blinks slowly, the green haired boy slowly coming into focus. With a yawn and wave of the hand, she answers, “Yeah, yeah... Got it, Alm.” 

     ...

     Fire. Alm. Her eyes widen and she frantically whips her head around. Something told her they weren’t in Garreg Mach anymore. 

     “Wait, where... How... What in Mila’s name is going on?!” She pinches the bridge of her nose. She could get an explanation from someone else later, she supposes, for now, she would do as he asked.

     Alright, fire... Of all things, this was one thing she could do. After finding a couple of branches and a few leaves to toss in when necessary, she plops down by the fire drawing in the dirt with one of the sticks. 

[rigelspride]

"Berkut..." His voice is filled with surprise. Eyebrows rise only to furrow in mild concern for his cousin's sudden appearance. Whether this is a dream or a hallucination, he will treat this as if it were reality. (It does nothing to run. It's better to stand.) Stepping closer, he tugs at a ring on his finger and slides it off into his palm. Alm holds the ring up, steadying it between his index and thumb. "Here, your mother's ring. I'm sure she would have wanted you to have it."

The world takes on another hue when one looks at it from the threshold to endless nothing. Color glows brighter against darkness; a lifespan and all of its fleeting, trivial emotion sits like a flea at the foot of infinity. Berkut had taken death in his hand, had laced his fingers with his beloved, and had stepped one foot across that line to leave all of his fury, his grudges, his betrayal, his disappointments-- his whole life behind. Confronted by endlessness, whatever feud he had with Alm had seemed so insignificant. So... pointless.

He doesn't remember what he had said that day. He doesn't care. Words uttered on one's deathbed are uttered for their lack of consequence. He had expected to be free from the hell that his life had become, not to awaken some days later in the castle's infirmary. If Alm wished to torture him, he was doing a fine job of it, and as Berkut saw it, whatever foolishness he had sputtered as he allowed Rinea to lead him away from misery meant nothing now. He'd tear the sentimentality Alm wanted straight from his hands and destroy it before his eyes. Disappearing from the infirmary in the night had all the malice and disrespect of spitting in another's face; Berkut only wished he had seen the look of sorrow when his cousin came to check his empty bed the next morning.

It had been months since that night, months since he had last seen Alm, though his vendetta had been made all the easier to uphold when he heard news of Alm's departure for a foreign land. To where, he didn't know. Nor did he care.

But now Alm stands before him. Dream or not, the indignation rises like bile and Berkut swallows hard to keep the words down. He's still wearing that pathetic look on his face, he thinks. The look of a wounded animal that, on the face of man, Berkut has only seen alongside manipulation. He exhales through his nose audibly, bull-like, and clasps the fingers of his right hand around an imaginary lance.

His eyes widen suddenly. Fury lifts to disbelief. His mouth falls open before his voice catches up. His mother’s ring.

"Why do you have that?" he asks with snarling ferocity. The rage crashes down, throwing shadows over his face and cleaving deep furrows between his brows. His legs finally react. He moves. Lunges. Swipes the ring from Alm's fingers and recoils like an angry snake ready to strike again. He draws his hand to his chest and opens his palm as if the ring were a secret, then tightens his fist shut.

"Do you think this would buy your favor with me? Show me how compassionate you are?" He snorts incredulously. "Know this, Alm: I will not be among those fools who bend themselves backwards to give you what you want.”

[jehannanmage]

“My bunny slippers are too cool for you.”

[ cold weather meme ]

“ExCUSE me?”

Did he HEAR THAT RIGHT?

“Your bunny slippers ain’t got nothin’ on my... my jackalope slippers!” The problem being: Ewan didn’t Own jackalope slippers... UNTIL RIGHT NOW, THAT WAS. In a frenzy of motion, he’d grabbed four small twigs from nearby (he’d been saving them for... reasons), and two bits of string, and roped the twigs around his slippers. “See the points there? My jackalopes could stab your bunnies and THEN WHAT?! KE HE HE!!”

(Not that they would, though - his jackalope slippers were Way Too Cool ™ to be overtly violent like that, after all.)

[theindigoflirt]

"I bet you can do a dab. Let's do one together!"

Inigo considers the king. No actual harm from doing some silly dance move--if it can even be called that--everyone else is doing. “Alright, you’re on, Your Majesty! Count of three. 1..2..3!”