#viridescent lance

[carefreemonk]

It's Azama's birthday, and Forsyth would simply be remiss not to get the monk something.

His choices are thoughtful, in that he put quite a lot of thought into them. Azama seems an unflappable individual, and certainly thinks himself as such, but no human is without weakness. Through careful observation, Forsyth has discerned some appropriate gifts.

First of all is a clock. It is plain and simple, as not to prompt a rejection for being too worldly. However, it has a hidden flaw; after a bit of time, it will start ticking just loudly enough to be annoying. One can try and fix it, but it will always revert.

Second is a strangely-shaped wrapped gift that contains what the artisan described as "sensory slime." Forsyth had shuddered at the texture, it being far, well, slimier than it looked. Within it lies a fair amount of glitter that Forsyth had a time fully removing from himself just from a brief poke--when Azama tears it open, surely it will be a surprise that sticks.

Finally, he has prepared a batch of cookies that seems nice enough, but one or two have a secret ingredient--the herb cilantro, which Forsyth has witnessed Azama avoid on multiple occasions.

He doubts Azama will well and true trust something from him directly, so he leaves the three in his room, hoping each seems like it is from a different person. Such duplicity should be beneath him, but he is simply approaching the monk on the his own level.

That's what he tells himself, anyway.

To further chase away suspicion, he delivers to Azama himself a fairly plain gift, a small candle that smells rather intensely of lavender.

"Happy birthday," he lies. It's a perfunctory gift, clearly bought and given out of obligation. "Men of the cloth appreciate calm, yes?"

It's just too bad he won't be able to see Azama's immediate reaction to the rest of his generosity.

(He shouldn't have guilt eating at him, but maybe the stomachache he can't shake is anxiety about the amount of money he spent on this. Grudges are expensive...)

“Calm, yes,” Azama replies, brow arched. Why now, isn’t this a strange turn of events? A birthday gift for an annoying rival? There’s no way that isn’t suspicious any. “… You needn’t go through the trouble!” Nonetheless, the monk bows in an appreciation as obligatory as the giving of the gift itself. (He resists the urge to twitch. Whatever chandler fashioned this obnoxiously perfumed thing ought to be—)

“Truly. I mean it. Ah, but… Thank you.” 

Now go away. Hopefully Forsyth gets the hint as Azama turns away to focus on a very important speck on the wall nearest to him. Hmm… But…

“Oh! Wait! Just a moment, if you will.”

The monk clasps one of Forsyth’s hands - no escape, friend, it's Azama's birthday so you have to be nice - and from a pouch, Azama fishes out a small crystal. He tucks it into Forsyth's palm. “Amethyst! To ward off negativity. Your soul is looker a bit darker than usual lately.”

(This is complete fabrication of course.) (… probably.)

Azama flashes his teeth before turning on his heels and walking away. ◇ ◇ ◇

It’s been an interesting day. Such thought lingers as the monk flops into bed near the end of the day. But it has not escaped his notice that his room, spartan as it typically is, has changed. Those weren’t there before.

Well. It’s been a decent day. He trusts enough in the gods to let it end on a good note. And so: 

...He immediately does not like the slime.

From the glitter to the texture, the monk pulls a face. Even the act of putting it aside is not so simple - instead, it proves something of a painstaking endeavour, to the point where Azama mutters a cantrip that freezes the stuff solid.

He still has to contend with remnants of glitter after the fact.

For weeks after the fact, even.

Evil.

Evil.

...The cookies are perhaps the worst of the gifts.

What manner of monster would do such a thing??

What a waste of food.

Even at a sniff, they are dubious at best, but being a creature of curiosity, the monk naturally chances a nibble.

Terrible. Awful. If Azama could exorcize them and their maker, he would.

He is nevertheless half tempted to try.

And as for the clock… the clock’s days are soon numbered - soon, as in, as of the very first night it puts on its obnoxious performance. Given there are no named gifters, and bearing in mind the nature of the other so-called presents (aaand most importantly: Azama can’t really think of many people who would bother with presents for him of all people), the monk feels little remorse in getting rid of it.

Chuckling to himself, Azama later regifts it to Python, (almost alongside a couple of cookies, though he resists). It’d fit in nicely with his room, the monk cheerfully offers. (Maybe the archer, deft with his hands, will actually be able to fix it. Who knows! Not Azama’s problem any longer. What does a monk needs with keeping time, anyhow? He’ll go where the fates direct him, thanks much.)

…

Begs the question though: who would go through the trouble?

It’s not like Azama ever has a dearth of enemies wherever he goes, but, like, hasn’t he been on his best behaviour here at the monastery??

What has he done to deserve this?

Sigh.

May the gods see fit to punish the bastard, he curses softly as he crawls into bed, nevertheless content (if a titch disgruntled).

(He knows that’s not really how it works. Whatever. He’s the holy man here, not you.)

[nagaficat]

"Lady Deirdre, forgive me for intruding, but are you quite alright?" Running into his friend is always a pleasure, but that streak seems to be broken as the gloom and sadness hanging over her presence is anything but. Still, he is grateful he can be here for her, as a friend. "You need not tell me anything you would not like, but...I worry, seeing you like this. If there is anything I can do, say the word."

It's almost a retelling of their original meeting, sitting together in a field of flowers. But Deirdre's face is one of heartbreak, not joy. Sigurd had just arrived home, and her other husband, Arvis, is teaching at Garreg Mach as well. She should be happy; had some manner of conflict soured their reunion? It is fruitless to wonder, and best to listen, but he cannot help his curiosity.

Sigurd's return has brought with it complications Deirdre could never have expected. It was not the happy reunion she had anticipated and she is left broken and unwanted. She's had to cancel her classes multiple times because she does not want her students to have to see her with puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. Even Lord Arvis's arms have not been enough to comfort her.

It does not surprise her that Forsyth notices her sorrow when he runs into her.

"I am not alright," she admits and a lump forms in her throat, threatening to choke her. "Lord Sigurd he...I do not think he loves me anymore. And our friends despise me. I do not know what to do. I do not know how I am supposed to continue to live my life each day knowing that I love him but watching him avoid me."

Tears well up in her eyes and she thrusts herself forward into her friend. The one friend she has trusted with the truth of her son. He is a kindred spirit, someone who also seeks out the good in everyone. It means so much that she still has him.

[redmessenger]

backstreet’s back, alright!

oh my god, we’re back again @viridescent-lance @aimlessarchery

It’s been a while since Lukas found himself at a bar, and even longer since he’s had drinks with these two. Even thousands of miles away from home, walking just a beat behind Forsyth and Python is enough to bring out this feeling of tenderness and what he can only describe as relief. Relief to have made it here in one piece, relief to see those two hale and hearty, relief from brunt of Valentian politics. Lukas takes his seat at the counter and looks over at his friends, warm fondness in his voice as he offers them something long overdue,

“I will buy the first round. My treat.”

Yet not even a beat passes before Lukas adds his caveat, a subtle familiar jab at Python.

“But anything beyond that will have to come out of your own pocket. I’ve been trying to keep my expenses down recently… So if you happen to have ‘forgotten’ your coin purse, I suggest you pace yourself through the night.”

[twistedisciple]

"You there! Yes, you!" Forsyth marches up to the troublemaker--Griss, he's heard. This man has been causing a series of ruckuses across the ball, and even visiting grief upon Lady Celica! He shall not allow such miscreancy to continue! He seizes the man's hand, hardly taking notice of the flowers blooming on each of their necklaces. "Your knavish actions have visited chaos upon this gathering! I command you to cease at once, or face disciplinary action!"

Is this man even a member of the staff, here? How could Lady Rhea approve such a fiendish individual? No matter; he will either start to behave, or Forsyth will take the necessary steps.

"Command?" Griss whirls on his new critic with a look halfway between amusement and challenge, and boy is he a sight. He cuts the figure of a knight even with emerald cloth in place of armor, his posture straight, a chiding look that would've come straight from the pages of a textbook if there was one on making faces (and Griss is pretty sure there's gotta be at least one, somewhere, that's found its way into this guy's hands). Griss, by contrast, slumps down by nearly a third of his full height, shoulders and neck at odd angles, one arm hanging, the other limp in the knight's hand. He makes no effort to pull away, but a smirk snakes lazily across his lips as a flower blooms from his own vine. That was easy. Now he could have a little fun.

"What're you gonna do if I don't?" he prods, tilting his head and staring up at the knight from an angle. "Gimme a preview of this 'disciplinary action,' if you've got the authority."

[lordleonster]

"Hail and well met, Sir Quan!" Forsyth has heard the man is Leif's father, and thus Altena's as well? He must be an honorable man, to be Lady Ethlyn's husband and have raised such fine children. And he extended an offer to teach Forsyth about the Jugdralian history that has inspired this tournament! "It is good to see you."

"I heard from your son, Lord Leif, that you were interested in relaying history from your homeland to me?" Forsyth nods, motioning for Quan to take the seat beside him. He's prepared pen and paper for taking notes, and two cups of tea. This first impression shall go swimmingly! "I would be more than willing to listen, if that is your desire!"

"Well met, Sir Forsyth the True!" He meets the man's vigor in full— a stern, reassured smile adorning his face. Quan raises his chin to acknowledge him, much like a brother-in-arms. Something about his brow suggests familiarity, though he hails from a different country than Thracia. "However far we go in this competition, I promise to be at your side." The gravity of a promise is present, for Quan valued the cooperative measures his son had implemented for the upcoming battles. And, really, he had been waiting for an opportunity to duel, again, after all this time. It was the best way to get his blood roaring, and the best way to judge if he was still in good condition to serve his people back home.

"Indeed! I had written you quite the passage, though I hear the same goes for you. Miss Sara informed me of your eagerness. I suppose we both talked at length, hm?" The amusement staggers forth from this dark brown irises, sizing the man up. Forsyth's energy was quite contagious, wasn't it? "You remind me of a number of friends, back home." Present-tense. He had a peculiar feeling that they would be joining him, in this strange purgatory of an academy. "My son must have given you a summary of the whole situation, but..." He eyes the cups of tea and acquiesces, brandishing a proud grin to manifest the honor and sorrow of his nation.

"Since you are so inclined," He gestures to the recliners in the lounge, priming him for a long, fascinating story ahead. "After you."

[stealstaff]

Martin the Warrior

You notice things you would never have picked out before. Seeing the world from down here, you occasionally find odd tokens in the grass, in pots, in other such hidden places. Trouble is, they appear to be but half of whatever treasure you’ve found. Not to worry! One of the fairies captured in a recent mission is all too happy to take them off your hands, promising good luck and miracles for every complete match. Who knows if the ‘good luck’ is real, but there does seem to have been one small side effect after the fact: you’ve learned, quite incidentally, that you can now speak with mice! And hoo boy, do they have a lot to say: they humbly request your help, O strange near-hairless rodents, in order to defeat the threat of other mice invading their (your) territory. Teach them, they plead! Teach them to fight! Well, all right then. Surely nothing untoward will come of you showing one or two of them how to swing a stick… [ Grants Any Skill +1 ]

It had been fun and exciting realizing she’d somehow been shrunken down small for about 1.75 seconds.  That was how long it took for her to realize that bugs (that are already gigantic and terrifying enough) are even more gigantic and terrifying when she is the same size as them.  The novelty has worn off quickly but, thankfully, a big green knightly type has offered to fend off any creepy crawlies if she sticks close to him.

It still sucks hard but, Tina has to admit, it’s nice being around an adult that’s willing to accept and even help her deal with her entomophobia rather than dismiss it or exploit it.  Normally knightly types are boring but she’ll stick around for the protection.

Then shit gets interesting again and she can almost forget about the terrifying flap of hideous butterfly wings overhead as a mouse approaches the two of them and starts to speak.  She listens, stunned speechless for once, as the mice beg them to teach them the art of war.  Well, she just so happens to know a thing or two about that!  And, before she can start thinking, she starts speaking.

“Hehe you’re in luck!  I just so happen to be like a former soldier or whatever!  It’s like really friggen easy.  All ya gotta do is swipe their shit before they can attack!”

“Swipe their...shit?”  The mouse leader blinks, clearly confused.  “But our enemies have no shit to swipe!  They have no weapons and neither do we.  If you would show us how to wield them, surely we would have the advantage to win the day!”

Tina simply shrugs.  “Oh.  Then I ain’t got nothin’.  Sorry!”

@viridescent-lance

[atypicalsenerio]

Forsyth feels a little awkward being pitted against a Golden Deer student; that student being Soren, of all people, does little to ease the discomfort. After their calamitous cleaning attempts at the last year's ball, he's had the distinct impression that the mage does not particularly think fondly of him. Still, he readies himself, shield in one hand, lance in the other.

Magical defense has never been his strong suit. But it's fine. He just needs to hit hard and fast enough that he doesn't need to take many blows at all!

Forsyth uses Hit and Run! Roll 1d20=3, miss!

Too late, Forsyth realizes Soren has anticipated his movements. His feet dance gracefully and Forsyth's lance cleaves thin air. He is able to scramble out of range of a point-blank counter, but that is all; he feels watched, read like a book, and tries not to let it get to him. He really does.

Soren HP: 5/5

Soren couldn’t say he was pleased to see Forsyth on a personal level, but he also hoped that his magic would cut through the wall of armor as it was made to. Besides, he was happy to see few people anyway, and their bizarre chain of experiences together wasn’t one he wanted to try and quantify. He watched Forsyth charge and he rolled out of the way, springing back up to make his own attack. He still stood close, but he’d rather focus his efforts into his magic than trying to scramble away.

Cutting Gale Roll: 2+4, hit. Charm and Fiendish Blow brings total to -3HP to Forsyth

Even though it grazed him, Soren’s magic was potent.

“You can still surrender. I believe it’s clear I have the advantage.”

He hoped he wouldn’t be tasting gravel for his words.

[troubadontcha]

🌋 VOLCANO - how bad is their temper? is it a slow boil, or a instant explosion?

Genuinely, Dwyer doesn't have much temper at all. Annoyance is easy, but frustration takes strong circumstance or time. And full-on anger... well, it's exhausting. He doesn't much care to experience it, nor to maintain it, and makes all sorts of mental dips and weaves to avoid such a thing.

If anything actually manages to break through into building his temper, it's definitely a slow boil. And you must be one persistent, patient person-- or just extremely destructive.

[ladyleonster]

[ Wish ] - Off to the side there is a lonely well. Perhaps if you toss in a coin and keep it company for a moment, it will grant you a wish? 

Forsyth needs some space. While he is a social person, the events of this night have pushed him to his limit. The crisp night air, though a fabrication, is welcoming and refreshing, and this walk of seclusion is just what he needed.

He's not alone for long, though. He rounds a bend, seeing a clearly inebriated pink-haired woman doing...something. She's attempting to throw coins into a well? It must be a wishing well, and her wish is dodging fulfillment left and right as the coins refuse to land in it.

He's gotten close enough to recognize her as Ethlyn, Sigurd's younger sister. Before he can attempt a greeting, she bursts into tears, wracking sobs that shake her entire body as she stumbles back onto the bench behind her.

"...Lady Ethlyn?" Forsyth approaches cautiously, sitting beside her. He doesn't know the correct course of action, but he cannot leave her alone like this. What to do, what to do...oh! He produces a coin, holding it out to her. "I am not certain what wish you were making, but I would gladly use my own to fulfill it, if you so desire."

His other arm hovers awkwardly behind the bench. Is a hug appropriate here? Leaving her to cry on her own feels cruel, but he does not want to intrude on her personal space.

With each coin that bounces off the brick walls of the well as she misses her mark, Ethlyn gets angrier. And the more frustrated she gets, the less accurate her aim becomes. There is a whole mess of gold surrounding the well now as she sits on a bench nearby. Sure, she could get up, retrieve her coins, and drop them in from a closer distance but that would require standing and walking and she very much does not feel like doing that right now.

Plus the tink of metal bouncing off brick is satisfying in a way and the effort expended in chucking them is sort of beginning to calm her nerves.

One of her fellow knights approaches and sits beside her and she sighs, prepared for a lecture. She doesn't know Forsyth personally but he's a rather loud individual. She's definitely seen him put his foot down and stand up for propriety before. But no lecture comes. Instead, he offers her another chance at a wish and some awfully kind words that she knows she doesn't deserve.

Ethlyn reaches out and their palms touch as she takes the coin, causing flowers to bloom at each of their necks. She holds it and considers his offer for a moment before holding it back out to him. "I appreciate your offer but, if I'm going to be honest, I don't think this well has the power to give me what I really want."

She wonders what Quan would think of what she did if he did suddenly come back to life. Would he pity her? Take her in his arms and try to comfort her? Would he be upset that, for a moment, she forgot about him and tried to find solace with another man? He'd want her to be happy, she knows that much. But she isn't.

[ashenprofessor]

[ Whoops ] - While they dance, the sender trips over the receiver.

"Byleth! I hope you've been enjoying yourself." It's always wonderful to run into a friend, and Forsyth has been meaning to catch up with Byleth for some time now. Their busy schedules have conflicted far too much, and he's missed them. "Despite the chaos and hijacking, it seems as if people are having a good time."

The little rat band begins playing a jaunty tune, just perfect for dancing to. Forsyth taps his feet to the music, setting down his glass and extending a hand to Byleth.

"Shall we dance and partake in the merriment?"

Unfortunately, Forsyth's coordination regarding dancing has never been the best, and he's had a few drinks to boot. They're not even a minute in when he stumbles and trips over Byleth's foot, sending them both tumbling to the ground and into an unsuspecting rat waiter.

"It's been an entertaining evening so far. How about yourself?" They enquired having greeted Forsyth, noting the slight swaying to his gait. "After everything which has happened recently, it's been nice to relax for a night off despite the strange circumstances. I accept your offer of a dance, I know this tune"

After accepting the opportunity to twirl round the dance floor with a certain green haired knight, Byleth was grateful they had chosen to not follow tradition and wear a gown. Viewing them as not only was it impracticable but given their current position it seemed to have been a wise move. Goddess knows what would have happened if Forsyth had tripped over the hems of that or if they had themselves!

Thankfully, Byleth's quick reflexes saved them from completely face planting the ground as they were able to roll to the side. The poor waiter they almost took down with them was not so fortunate. The rat didn't fail but their tray of drinks was upends, a shower of sticky liquid falling on them and the surrounding floor. "I'm really sorry." Byleth said, ignoring their current state to apologise to the waiter. They reach out their hand to help Forsyth up. As they did so, they felt a warm glow coming from the necklace they wore that evening as a bright blue flower bead blossomed there. "Let us help you get this cleared up, dancing can wait."

[nobilisseoblige]

"why… your shining praise reassures me, professor." touched, he pressed a closed fist to his heart. laughter spilled generously. "I had my hopes that my gift would move you! after all, I spent a considerable length of time and effort after classes to get the verses JUST right…" even with all the right skills, execution was a reflection of effort and determination. that Sir Forsyth had sung praises was only natural… but also exceedingly appreciated. (he quite enjoyed basking in sunlight, after all.)

there were plenty of men of service whom Ferdinand looked up to—as those who gave their lives to the craft magnified the craft itself. knighthood was a pillar to lean on and to lean with, as a true knight stood by their head of house with their hearts steady and their eyes towards the horizon. in many cases, the knights of his duchy were his second set of hands, and a parallel of which to compare his nobility to. he had to persist as a man worth putting faith in, so he looked to knights to understand who was worth putting faith towards.

he wished to be a tree that felt right to rest under. to meet others that were just like him. to feel steady, rooted, and unflappable.

it is then that Sir Forsyth extended a most generous offer, and though Ferdinand had not proceeded with those intentions in mind, it made him… giddy? could he say that? he could feel his heart running miles, as though a door he didn't know could open did open.

"my! you've made an offer quite becoming! ha, Sir Forsyth, I wouldn't have it any other way." extending a gloved hand, he beamed in equal measures proud and prideful. yes, there was a difference. but it was all the same in this very moment. "of course. please, I'll entrust you with my training, and you'll see you've made a wonderful choice."

perhaps there would come a day where his lance would be emblazoned with the years of another poured into his own. every step learned in Sir Forsyth's tutelage counted as three other steps. every bite of wisdom was years of unspoken effort of another land, of another life.

"I won't let you down, Sir!"

— END.

"Sir Forsyth! might you lend me an ear? you see, i find that you are a man i so very much respect. you are orderly, prompt, you are attentive to your duties. i just wanted to commend you for your hard work." he puffed his plumage, before pulling out a small rolled up scroll. "i wrote you a poem and did the caligraphy myself." he turned the scroll around to show beautiful, archaic handiwork, beautifully scripted and designed to be hung up on a wall.

clearing his throat, he began as such: "what wonders does / a like-minded man behold / when he finds a sturdy tree / in a forest that chooses distance / over familiarity. / your roots are steady / your vision clear / you are enduring / like cicadas in summertime cheer."

"if i could please ask you to refrain from asking Professor Casagranda about her opinions on cicadas, it would be deeply appreciated."

Forsyth does not know the young Lord Ferdinand von Aegir personally, but he's heard tell of his renewed presence on campus as of late. It's hard to avoid--he's an impactful student, both in noble title and effort put forth. Forsyth commends his passion, even seeing him partake in knightly duties alongside his studies and other responsibilities.

Understandably, for him to know Forsyth's name and to put this amount of effort into a gift catches him off guard.

"Lord Ferdinand, this is a great honor." Forsyth has a scholar's training; he knows skilled calligraphy when he sees it. Such multifaceted talent, and at such a young age...he is truly something special. The scroll is not cheap, either; he does not see Forsyth as below a gift of noble stature. "Your own discipline and accomplishments are impressive, I must say."

His recitation requires silence, and Forsyth is struck by the thoughtfulness of it all. It is flattering, very much so, but none of it he could deny as being descriptive of himself. It takes a moment for him to take it all in, really, and when that moment is done he finds it within him a resolve to pay the young man back in a gift of similar quality and appreciation.

"But of course, it is the least I can do. That was absolutely lovely. The structure plays off traditional poetics with a refreshing twist, and your praise is most charitable." Forsyth smiles, feeling an ease in communication. Ferdinand von Aegir reminds him much, in some ways, of Sir Clive--but in other ways, he unmistakably shares some of Forsyth's own attributes. It is a curious mix, and one that drives Forsyth to further their companionship. "Have you any interest in practicing the lance during a time in the near future? Consider this an open offer--I should like to work with you, if you are willing."

Such a bright, promising young man deserves guidance of all sorts. Forsyth may not be some noble knight trained from squirehood, but that makes his experience all the more important to impart upon an open-minded noble such as Ferdinand.

(It's no suitable exchange for the poem, though; Forsyth will have to ask around and see what he favors to start on that proper.)

[carefreemonk]

☆ e-erm... (nw if it's too late to do this i just did not see it in its initial glory lol)

[ azama steps up to the mic ]

...

...

Must I...?

... Fine then.

He's everything you could want in a knight! Stubborn, uptight, dashing, and oh so loyal. The sort who's easy to tease - almost too easy, if you ask me.

But he does seem possessed of a virtuous heart - the sort that many a god look favourably upon. Maybe that's why he's so lucky...

ahem. That should be enough, yes?

(Not in the habit of rooting for competition, sorry not sorry.)

[redmessenger]

not even jupiter can find a lost opportunity

@viridescent-lance witch's accord round 1!

Lukas has no intention to be soft to Forsyth. Within this game his friend is simply another player, in this round a direct opponent that can spell his undoing as much as anyone else. For now, though, he greets his old ally like any other time, with a warm smile and a clap on the shoulder. "How fortunate we are to find each other here."

Forsyth is a known quantity compared to many of the other people in this game. Lukas is fairly confident his friend will decide to Ally, but whether he'd be willing to lie to win... "What are you thinking for this round?" he asks curiously.

[areadboar]

Press Howl for Respect

closed starter for @viridescent-lance

Among the new students are massive wolves unlike any that Fodlan has seen before: not monsters cursed by crest stones, but mounts that are frequently used by Elyos’ elite cavalry units. The Officers Academy has gone out of its way to import a small pack of these creatures, hoping to one day offer certification for aspiring Wolf Knights. However, these seasoned veterans prefer sunny afternoon naps and would rather ignore whatever nonsense that’s coming out of your mouth. You’ll have to earn their respect first. [Grants Riding +1]

Dimitri like riding, would even say it’s one of his favourite hobbies. Nothing quite managed to calm him like a long afternoon ride on his trusted steed. Of course he was used to riding horses, the animal in front of him was not a horse. Not even close. If anything it looked like it would eat his horse for breakfast. 

They had been an influx of new students recently from another far flung continent. A land called Elyos where according to its denizens, the elite cavalry rode giant wolves. Said calvary unit had kindly ‘gifted’ the Academy with a pack of these wolves with which to train the students to ride. Naga knew what he was thinking when he signed up to this class but here he was, trying to make friends with his new mouth. 

“Easy there” Dimitri murmured as he cautiously approached the wolf, his hand open so it could sniff. “I’m a friend” So far the wolf had been nothing but friendly so far, if anything it looked bored. With a giant yawn, flashing all its teeth in his direction, the wolf gave his a unimpressed look before walking in a circle and curling up on the ground. 

So much for riding one. 

Looking at his fellow classmate, Dimitri noticed others having similar troubles with their wolves. “Hey Forsyth” The house leader called across to the nearest pair to him “Are you having issues with your mount too? Its like I’m not worthy of its attention” 

[lordleonster]

He can spot her in a crowd in an instant, eyes so much like his it was like looking into a mirror. Sporting a lance, just like him, too. Glancing over to Sir Forsyth, he shared a brief aside. Thoughtful, poignant. "That's my daughter, Sir Forsyth. She's my pride and joy. And awfully competitive at that."

"She'd hate that I'm talking about her like this, but I cannot help it. Older, wiser, and ready to cut her old man down." It's subtle, but there's a burning sensation that is glazed over his irises. More than anything else, he is overjoyed to have seen her alive and well, raring to go. "Heh."

Squaring away any last thoughts, his lance zeroed in, ready to glean in on their enemies at the signal. And with the bells fell his chains, unshackling him from the weight of the world. He dashes forward, feet skidding across the board, targeting the warrior with horns twirled over her lavender hair. He dives, forcing his blade to her side as a warning—and it merely scratches her armor instead of piercing it.

Quan (7/7 HP) misses Camilla.

He breathes, tucking his lungs in, as he braces for her axe to come down. It slits right through him, reminding Quan that even sport can yield blood.

Camilla counters Quan (5/7 HP) with Green Axe.

His first mistake. A wieldy one—he knows every mistake is one that can cost his team victory. Next time. Next time, surely. He won't make the same mistake again.

@maligknightsthorns, @viridescent-lance, @luminousrider

counting wyverns to sleep

[carefreemonk]

♡ forsyth's nightmare

( kiddo meme )

Stiff, serious. Has been known to overdo their studies from time to time.

Gets really frustrated about their brother (?)'s lack of get-up-and-go. Mislikes wasting opportunity and privilege.

Would like to become some kind of doctor, and hopes to learn healing magics... though nothing has manifested as of yet, they will bullheadedly keep trying.

They really, really hate the floofy hair inherited from Azama, makes maintenance a downright nightmare.

Nevertheless, wants very badly to make their dads proud.