#virtuoustyrfing

[sharpscion]

♡ softsmiles

i was hoping not to find myself with a perfect child, but then susanne sent this ask, so uh- here we go.

i would like to introduce you to conall (if you get it you get it), the esteemed son of seliph and scáthach! the sole heir to grannvale, mixed in with some isaachian royalty as well. he's in a remarkably well off position, but while they are unsaid, the expectations on his shoulders are quite high.

first things first, conall does certainly have some holy blood in him! i rolled a dice to see what we would be doing here, and the general result is that he retains the baldr major holy blood, as well as some od minor holy blood. sorry deirdre, the naga blood is not here to stay for our boy. the brand of the crusader baldr is comfortably sat between his shoulder blades.

as i eluded to earlier, conall has a great deal of expectations on his shoulders from a young age. though his parents might not have left a war for him to finish, there is still a great deal he must live up to. being the sole heir to grannvale requires perfection, and he has always strived to be as perfect as possible. all his time is occupied by something productive, whether it be learning magical arts, training with the sword, studying in the library, all the way down to practicing horseback riding. he has fallen ill countless times due to lack of sleep and overwork. his eyesight started to fail him in his early teens, and now glasses rest atop his nose.

while he is extremely busy, he always makes time for his people as the prince of grannvale. everyone might say he is an upstanding noble, one of a kind even. the general perception of him by the public is that he is the perfect man. though he will accept praise with a smile, it only crushes his spirit further, another reminder he must keep working twice as hard.

making friends has never been a problem for him, he's quite a kind and charming person after all. should you find him with time to spare, he will surely give it to you... but is it really him you're talking to? or is it the mask of someone who feels that simply being relaxed or truly human is boring and unbecoming of his position. it's likely he's also been burned before... could he truly trust a persons intentions when they simply found their way into his path? he had heard the stories, after all, about those who would whisper in your ear.

while conall is generally insincere with others as a necessity for people to think him proper of his place, he is rather relaxed in the presence of his family. his relationship with seliph is likely pretty great! having a dad like seliph, im sure just being around him makes his expectations feel lighter. if he is of the same blood as a man as kind and genuine as seliph, surely he too will reach that one day. he loves seliph... and so he could never tell him just how tied down. seliph probably already expects as much, though.

scáthach and conall are likely very close as well, of course they would be, scáthach likely never lets the boy out of his sight. while some kids might find it smothering, conall has always found his father's watchful eyes comforting. he would be hard pressed to find his father speak from his heart truly, and so he takes these small actions as confirmation of love. though his 'reminders' to relax are mildly annoying, he can count on scáthach to help him if he needs it. conall will feel more akin to his dad, sort of like an outsider in his own castle... which leads them to sometimes talk in the dead of night, where seliph can't hear. though i wish i could say scáthach gives good advice in these times, he can only give his son the drive and encouragement to keep pushing forward.

sometimes he makes 'diplomatic' trips to isaach, where he is absolutely smothered by his aunt larcei. if conall had not been accustomed to her since childhood, he likely would feel incredibly uncomfortable. even so, he could only admire his free spirit of an aunt, who he loves dearly. in isaach, even he can let go of his burdens, though not completely... thankfully larcei is there to give him a hand when he stumbles. he has a truly supportive family.

[nagaficat]

[ Cue the Music ] "mother, you look beautiful," seliph says as soon as he finds his mother in the crowd. it's with a bright smile he holds out his hand to her. "will you dance with me? i can't promise i'm an excellent dancer, but i believe i have a solid grasp on the basics."

"Seliph!" What had already been an enchanted evening turns even more perfect when her son approaches her, hand reaching, and invites her to dance. "And you look handsome as ever. Just like your father."

They step out onto the dance floor and she smiles as she watches his face while they dance. It is hard not to look at him as often as she is able now that she actually is able to. Each time they are close she still finds it amazing how much taller he is than her now.

"Thank you for indulging me like this," she says softly as he leads her in a twirl. "I know there must be someone else you would rather dance with than your mother but I cherish this time we can share together."

[deamare]

♡ ˚· @virtuoustyrfing asked:

"you're—" there's an awkward pause. disbelief and uncertainty alike dance in blue eyes while their owner desperately searches for something, anything, to say. but that's the problem, isn't it? what can seliph say in a situation like this one? it's not because what he believed he knew about ishtar of friege's fate is proven false. the long-departed appearing at the monastery isn't anything new. but the past, the circumstances, settle in seliph's body like tension. while he can't say he personally holds much, if any, ill will towards her, she may feel differently. regardless, seliph tries. "princess ishtar?" he hears the music stop, only for it begin anew in the background.

She does not recognize him -- they have never stood even remotely as close as they do now -- and yet she would know him anywhere by description alone.

She wonders if she should run, if justice has come to claim her finally in the form of the man that stands before her, but she does not move. If that is how it is to be, then she will accept it.

"Lord Seliph," Ishtar responds in turn, swallowing around the ash that has risen to coat her throat. "Yes, that is correct."

Part of her expects the same hostility of his cousin, recalls nails digging into the skin of her wrists and waits for it to come again. The rest of her, that which had always known that the fabled Scion of Light was kinder than the portrait painted by the hatred of her own blood, knows it is not coming.

He had taken from her not only a kingdom-- a future-- but a lover, a family. In their absence, where they would demand her anger, Ishtar cannot bring herself to feel any.

Of all that could be said to him, in grief or guilt, she finds that nothing feels right. Her head dips in a solemn nod.

"If you would have me pay for my crimes against your kingdom," her voice has quieted, too grim for the warmth that swells around them, "I will not fight it. But I..."

She had no right to plead for the right to this second chance at life, and distantly she wonders when it was that she had stopped pitying herself enough to be so willing to throw it away.

"I do not mean any harm to your or your people."

[swiftscion]

hoist the flag! 

She had a feeling something would be waiting for her, all the way up, up, up the never-ending tower. 

The gentle breeze in her hair felt too... Calm. Too serene. Like it lacked the dangerous edge of battle--the whipping gale that had always blown her through the starry sky she calls life. When she sees Anankos fall and her foes manifest in the open airspace she smirks. Maybe now he’ll understand why they’ve gotta fight: he’d be left plummeting to his death if they didn’t. 

“Sparagmos!”

That word spurs her to action, giving rise to the insatiable urge to leap from the tower and soar with everything she’s got. It is as she always dreamed! She floats without difficulty, glides with stellar grace. She is finally a literal comet in orbit, lapping the general once, twice, thrice, as she finds an opening for an attack. Never have Larcei’s feet left the ground, but their trained agility make her a natural at maneuvering this warzone. Though they stop when the Agarthan raises her hand, and the tears begin to grow wide with murderous intent...! 

Agarthan General uses Quake! Roll 1d20+4 = 22, hit! -2 HP; Larcei 7/10 HP

Cracks in reality open and shoot toward Larcei like lightning, piercing through her arm and ripping apart some of the flesh as it dances between entering and exiting the dream. It hurts more than she can even fathom, but the pain is fleeting, for the attack reveals itself not to be aimed at her, but the tower. 

Forces collide, and the gargantuan stone structure shakes upon its foundations. Stairs snap under the shearing force, bricks come loose and fall an unlimited distance before hitting the ground. It trembles and quakes, rips and folds, until its stony vanguard gives in and it begins to topple. It is a symphony of destruction, and the orchestra still stands on its crumbling crown. 

Larcei watches in horror as their arena succumbs to being bulldozed, and she can think of only one thing to save them, “Jump now! If you wanna live!!”

And it falls. Her eyes squint shut during the closing act, praying to Shining Od or whatever god would hear her in this dream, that they would be alright. Edward and Anankos need to see her get revenge. Kent needs to be there to praise her for her efforts. Edain has promised to take care of her and Laslow... She hopes he got his leg caught. 

But there’s no time for words now, only action. Larcei whizzes around the general for the fourth and last time, her rage disallowing her from focusing on the other body. “You!” she spits, “You’re gonna regret that!” And in she goes, crossing her elbows over her face so she can dive at the woman like a falcon.

Larcei uses Steal! Roll 1d20+2 = 11, +1 Javelin of Light

When they collide, no weapon is drawn. Rather, Larcei sticks her hands into the ugly mug of her assailant, clawing at her nose and mouth, trying to stick her hands into her eyeballs. But as any militant would, the woman resists. She drops her guard to try to push Larcei off, and its during this struggle that she catches a glimpse of the weapon at her belt.

So she swipes it. In one fluid motion her right elbow comes crashing into the enemy’s jaw, and her left hand sticks to the piece of artillery hanging from her hip. How either of them manage to lift it is beyond explanation, but the simple fact remains that Larcei makes off with it, and it remains in her hands now--safe from those who would use it for harm. 

“Hope you’re watching, Ed. I managed to grab one this time.” 

RALLY: @liegebound @anankelotus @maligknightsthorns @ulirblood @sacaeblade @virtuoustyrfing

[atypicalsenerio]

Illusion of Justice [Camilla, Seliph, Soren]

Team KEBattlefield2023 starter for @maligknightsthorns @virtuoustyrfing

Ironically, the tactics you used to destroy the warehouse on the city outskirts makes a return here, as “freedom fighters” native to Sparagmos infiltrate your captured Chalkos stores and cause an explosion. A number of your allies have died, familiar faces among them. When rumors of a planned second attack reaches you, the commanding officer gives you a chance to take revenge however you’d like. Grants 3d3 Chalkos per post, 1d10 chance of obtaining Orichalcum.

It had been Mist.

She would’ve never been somewhere like this, obviously. It was a dream. It was a dream and yet Soren couldn’t divorce the part of his mind that knew this and the eyes that behold horrors, the hands that burned in the cold if he ventured out without gloves, and the frigid anger inside him that cemented into something as deadly as it was outwardly serene. This was not something to simply will himself out of no matter how he tried.

He had some small satisfaction in knowing his act of quaking the building had riled someone up, though he was much less pleased to see that they’d copied his homework.

Who was powering this dream, anyway? Was it that because he’d taken that action, the thought existed, and therefore would be reflected in the actions of those around him? He had no idea.

He remembered Mist’s face, drained of life amid those of strangers, people who he needn’t care about, and that was enough for him to volunteer on yet another mission to sabotage the enemy.

A counter, yes.

But it was revenge.

Their commanding officer had a funny sense of humor, assigning Soren to go with Camilla. His main hope for Seliph was that he’d stay out of the way.

“Whatever we do, we must be thorough about it. There’s nowhere to run if we ruffle too man feathers, so don’t hold back.” He had a hand on the hilt of his Hagakure Blade, watching the other two as they were about to depart into enemy territory within the city walls. “So, Camilla, I hope you have more bite than your whimpered excuse of a bark.”

He hoped to rile her up.

He hoped they’d have the resolve to do what they had to.

Chalkos: 7. Orichalum: no

[serraic]

nue nue nue (soung of crying) — Team 12 Gold Round

   Things in life are cyclical. From the ashes of death comes birth again. From the night, comes day. In every ending, comes a new beginning. 

   And so, light bathes Serra once again, and though she should know better than anyone that life is a simple cycle of actions, it is a surprise to her.  

   She wakes, face down in the dirt. For many moments, she doesn’t move. She thinks — this must be death, to be laying here, like this, blankly. But finally feeling begins to break through a barrier of shock — pricks of pain against her skin, seeping wounds and scratches still fresh and smarting. 

   She pushes against the ground, and looks up. 

   Before her, whatever, another enemy, who cares. Around her is what’s more interesting. Veronica, decked out and poised as ever. Seliph and Hilda, slowly coming to terms. And best of all… best of all… 

   “Colm!” 

   Shakily, she puts feet beneath her body and runs. It’s a staggering, stumbling sort of run, but she still makes it in the end to the side of the boy she’d let die only moments ago. Thoughtlessly, she hugs him — throws arms around his shoulders and leans her weight against him for a moment, before his last few seconds play against her mind and she pulls back, swatting at him with no real power behind it, more a light tap of her hand. 

   “You promised you’d hang in there! What’s the matter with you? You wanted me to worry, did you? Ha… what a way to get a girl’s attention! Well, it’s not gentlemanly at all, you hear me? I’ll forgive you this time, but you’re on shaky feet, understand?” 

   Speaking of… he is looking a little worse for wear. And this time, she can fix that. 

   Holding her hand in the air like she would a staff, she summons healing magic. She’s surprised by the strength of it — the light seems to float not only to Colm, but to all of her other allies, too. 

Serra used Fortify. (1d20. Roll: 16. Great heal!) All allies recover 8 HP.  Hilda HP: 10/10 Seliph HP: 10/10 Veronica HP: 10/10 Colm HP: 10/10

   And even more of a shock, she feels her own wounds close in response to her healing light. “Wha…?” 

Serra recovers 8 HP from Live to Serve. Serra HP: 10/10

   Ha ha! Amazing! Everyone’s looking better now, and it’s all thanks to her! She’s prideful in the way she stands up straight — it seems her failure with Colm has been momentarily forgotten in face of her new help. Her eyes drift across the field, to Veronica, sizing up the enemy, and there’s pain in her chest, deflating her for a moment. 

   “Veronica… are you feeling better? I was so worried about you, too.” She moves to her side, Colm seemingly forgotten about now that she’d said her piece. “Don’t overwork yourself, alright? You have us to see you through!” 

   And sure enough, Serra feels ready to take on anything. This time, she’ll do better! This time… she won’t use magic so recklessly. 

   This time… no one will die! 

Alert Stance+ activates! Serra gains 6 avoid through the following enemy phase.

next: @encursed​

[sacaeblade]

lord to lord to lord communication

A local village lays abandoned, pillaged and burned before your allies came along. From what remains, it may seem eerily similar to the village “Teleos” on the other side. It’s likely that the villagers abandoned this place and burned what remained on their way out, but you may be able to salvage something usable from the wreckage.

3d2 Wood per post

Mouth dry, Lyn looks upon the charred ruins of a local village. This had once been a place full of life; families living in their homes, children playing on the streets, and merchants peddling wares in their shops. It is deathly silent now, except for the sound of three pairs of boots stopping on the stone pathway.

They’re already too late.

If they had come a little sooner, perhaps they could have stopped whatever transpired that lead to the village burning. If not stopped, then they could have at least found a way to ease their suffering somewhat. There is nothing left now, not a single person they can ask about what happened here to make every villager leave.

There is no honor in scavenging wood from a ruined village. Even so, their commanding officer has still sent them here to strip the remains like vultures searching for carrion. Even if their army lacks supplies, there should be no need to do this. Lyn clenches her fist, fingers white inside of her gloves.

“I will admit I don’t feel good about this,” she confesses to the two blue haired monarchs accompanying her. “Even if the villagers have already evacuated, to strip down what remains of their homes for resources...”

3d2: 1, 1, 1. 3 wood obtained!

@arcstral @virtuoustyrfing

[justices-blade]

friends on the frigid frontier // seliph + edward

starter for @virtuoustyrfing

Setting up camp isn't that much of an ordeal when you're traveling with an army — Edward knows this. A sea of people, all under the same banner, marching feet thunderous in their numbers, advancing, advancing, advancing. A tidal wave, set to crash against shore and leave carnage in its wake. Individuals lost in the mass, amorphous and ravenous, a merciless beast with fangs and claws uncountable.

But even the largest of armies must rest, and in order to continue their march, camps need to be made quickly and packed up just as fast.

(And fugitives make do with even less.)

Not that their camp's complete yet, but they have tents, they have fire pits, and they have sleeping arrangements and patrols. Any extra touches can be added as they go, and taken down just as fast.

... It's weird, being out on the field like this. Not when he'd decided he never wanted to have to fight like this again. But this is why Edward came to the monastery, right? To make sure he can fight for freedom if he needs to.

Edward lies on his sleeping bag instead of in it, hands behind his head as he stares at the canvas of his assigned tent. Beside him, King Seliph rests — Likely needing as much rest as they can get in this dreamscape, if they can get any at all. Seliph's a king, but he's a classmate all the same, and... Micaiah always insists on not getting called a title around the Dawn Brigade, yeah? And Kurth's happier being Kurth. Seliph seems like a mellow sort — Reminds him, maybe, of Queen Elincia, dutiful and kind, but not quite as merciful. But his scope of royalty and nobles is small, and tends to either extreme, so who knows?

He shouldn't disturb him. They both need sleep, and yet — Old habits win out (and oh, he misses Leonardo and Sothe and Nolan and Micaiah, they'd understand, they'd get it,) and he can't stand not being able to run his mouth for too long because he'll go nuts left alone, just alone, and he'd wanted to get to know the other swordsman better, anyways. And so, he talks.

"Liberation Army." He lets the syllables roll off his tongue, resists the urge to stick Daein to it. "Has a ring to it, huh. You ever been in one, Seliph?"

[allyphase]

Ohh, the rocking of the ship is getting to her now. Mark stumbles forward, reaching her hands forward to try and keep her balance. The listing of the boat seems to be messing with others as well, and she narrowly avoids hitting some of her fellow passengers. 

AP Roll: 3 Left

Slip Roll: 3 Left (oh no)

Seasickness: 11 

One arm wraps around her stomach, and the other reaches to brace herself against the opposite wall she’s been slammed into. She hooks her hand around the doorframe, trying to pull herself forward, but another wave under her feet keeps her from pushing forward. One of them is already through the doors, and she reaches for Leif, knowing that he probably couldn’t help her but reaching anyway. 

“How, um... how are we supposed to...” She forces back a whine as her stomach twists again. “The boat is, um, rocking... too much!” 

SS Fódlan Cadence

closed starter for @cielenruine @allyphase @diadic @virtuoustyrfing @carmennivis | game doc

[sharpscion]

"scáthach!" seliph calls the other man's name, having spotted him after searching around the ballroom for a while. with a few steps, he crosses the distance between then.

"it's unfortunate that we both were shrunk like this, but i am sure we can still..." he trails off, the sapphires flickering to scáthach's attire before returning to his face. a warm smile blooms upon the king's features. "those clothes suit you."

the voice of his lord rings through the crowd, not overly loud, but scáthach could never miss his call. he can finally exhale, being able to confirm with his own eyes that seliph was quite well and with him in this place. "lord seliph, i'm glad that you found me." pushing through the crowds of other students and staff had been tiring to say the least, but at last they were reunited. even if this predicament they found themselves in was more than strange, it wouldn't be so bad as long as he had seliph beside him. if they were side by side, scáthach would be able to better keep his lord safe.

it seems that, despite all the chaos, seliph is still willing to extend a hand to his knight. a gentle smile and a compliment that is surely wasted on someone like him, well, of course it makes his heart pound. if this was going to continue, he wouldn't be able to focus on what was important here. it was hard to remind himself of his place while taking in seliph's sincerity, but he would have to try. a slight flush creeped up his cheeks, but he continued, "t-thank you, lord seliph... likewise, you're looking very regal today."

it was just like his lord, never really knowing the effect of that smile of his... though slightly delayed now, he held his hand out to his liege. "allow me to escort you tonight, lord seliph. please enjoy the festivities and i will be sure to keep watch over you."

[deamare]

continued from here / @virtuoustyrfing

for his part, seliph looks a mixture of horrified and confused at the implication in her grim tone. it sounds as if... as if she expects him to become the judge, jury and executioner. make the choice that would stain his sword red. he realizes, knows, it wouldn't be an unreasonable assumption to make. ultimately, the decision rests squarely on seliph's shoulders. as the king, the leader of the liberation army, and the victor of jugdral's war... looking at her and hearing her sincerity, seliph knows his choice —— not that there was ever any hesitation or doubts lingering in the back of his mind. "if all is as you say... then you have nothing to worry about, princess ishtar. while i can't speak for anyone else, i don't hold ill will towards you." as he speaks, one hand comes to rest over his heart. seliph's gaze—while not unkind, never unkind— softens a little. "if we are to forge ahead, further bloodshed will serve no one — and neither will hatred." isn't that the world he wishes to build as the current ruler of grannvale? isn't that the world he hopes to see? gloved fingers pluck a white feather from his brooch. it's offered on the palm of his hand. "and that aside, you did help those children, didn't you?"

Ishtar understands instantly why it had been him and not Julius, why her bloodline rots for his victory. How could she not? Myth and legend would fashion him a brilliant hero, brilliant enough to rival even the sun.

And it would be no exaggeration. Even in this-- a kindness so small to him, so grand to her-- she sees it.

At his final question, she cannot help how her eyes fall to the floor. There is no stopping the way her breath shakes on her next inhale, how her voice wobbles when she tries to find it.

"I did, yes." It was not enough. It never would have been.

Silver eyes watch his hand, the soft down that rests in them. A kindness, one so miserably undeserved. She wills her fingers not to tremble as she unstrings a pearl, as it is set in his open palm, as they accept his offering.

"You are generous. I know not the words to thank you for such a kindness." Emotion swells in her throat, makes her voice so painfully small. "But I must thank you still, I could not live with myself were I to not."

Their eyes meet, she hears herself exhale.

"Should there ever be a need, know that my loyalty is to you and the future you have created."

[serraic]

5 school kids v a literal dragon (team 12 silver round)

   The world shifts once again, colors meshing and changing all around them. The paintings hadn’t all been defeated, yet the world was changing. It was just like before, with the metal creatures. They’d seemed to pass whatever gauntlet was up, and were being issued a new one. 

   Well, bring it on! They’d been doing pretty good! And Serra only had a few cuts and scrapes to show for her time here! She feels magic surge in her, befitting for someone of her strength and beauty. Surely, she can easily heal anyone or anything, no matter how far destroyed they are! 

   The dust around them settles. Burning amethyst eyes looks up, triumphant, at the face of their challenger. 

   And then all the color drains from her face. 

   There, before them, stands a winged creature, long fangs dripping from its maw. Its scales shine brilliantly in the light, and Serra can hear the crowd around them gasp and murmur in excitement.

   A dragon.

   It’s — too real. It’s not metal men, or possessed portraits — it’s a dragon. Something hot and sharp rises in her stomach, swirling and cramping. Her legs feel weak, and her breath catches on her closing throat as it attempts to release a puff of breath.

   Is Nergal back? Has this all been some horrible test by him? Maybe these were all his creations, all things he’d summoned from gates, or worlds, or created himself. Maybe this is a gauntlet to give the people a taste of the destruction yet to come. 

   She looks around at her companions — Veronica in a suit of armor, Colm with a bow, Hilda on a wyvern, Seliph… just a fancy guy, again — and she suddenly desperately wishes for Erk, or Kent, or Hector, or Marcus, or Lowen, or… 

   I’d even take Sain, right about now. 

   For once, Serra doesn’t yell out commands. She doesn’t say anything at all as the creature rears and thumps against the ground. Beneath her and her allies, the ground crumbles, and she collapses, along with them, into pile. 

Primordial Serpent attacks the whole party with Earthquake. (d20: 9. Barely Hit!) Serra HP: 7/10

   The first thing she sees is Colm. He’s covered in obvious scrapes and bruises, and is bleeding pretty profusely as he moves. But he’s moving, at least. Someone who’s not— 

   “Veronica…” 

   It’s a whisper. Barely a breath. But it spills from her, anyway, as she stares at her ally, grown still, growing cold.

   … She was wrong. She can’t heal anything. 

   She hardly has time to think, for the creature seems to zero in on her. It opens its disgusting mouth, and— 

Primordial Serpent attacks Serra with Poison Spit. (d20: 19. Hit!) Serra HP: 4.5/10

Serra is inflicted with Serpent’s Poison! 

   “No…” It stings, where the poison settles. She feels woozy — she staggers as the world spins around her, attempting to get her footing, to settle, to focus, to… “N… no!” 

   It can’t end like this. She has to— she has to do something. ( She’s morally opposed to fighting. But— that hasn’t stopped her this entire time, has it? She’s got to, she’s got to, she’s got to— ) “AHHHHHH!”

Serra counterattacks twice with Aureola. (2d20+3: 18, 11. Crit! Crit!) Primordial Serpent HP: 40/40 Serra HP: 2.5/10

(d4: 2) Gaping Maw doesn’t activate.

   It — hurts, using magic this way. Attacking with magic… sieving this boiling, sickly anger through her powers… it’s wrong. And she’s punished for it. She feels weaker, now… and the enemy has taken absolutely no damage. 

   She’s failing… she’s failing. But at least she can heal Colm, and then—... then—...! 

   Her thoughts are cut off as the beast spits again. Serra watches, horrifically slowly, as this time, Seliph is attacked, with the same poison she’d just been beleaguered with. He, too, looks worse for wear… just as bad as Colm, even. She’s frozen with indecision, hands crossed over her, as though she’s attempting to keep warm in a frigid cold. 

Serra recovers 2 HP with Renewal!

   A sharp pain in her side alleviates, only slightly… it gives her some room to think. Colm or Seliph, Colm or Seliph… They’re both equally injured, and Seliph has been missing a lot… but he has such a terrifying-looking blade... and surely that’s better, here... right? 

   Agh, if only Mark were here to choose for her!  

   It’s nearly a full minute of vacillating before she comes to her decision. “Colm… h— hang in there… I’ll get you next, okay?” Something cold settles in her throat at the words, barely loud enough to sound through the arena. She was the only healer, and if the dragon does that attack again… 

   This isn’t fair! She’s a healer! She’s not supposed to make these decisions! She’s supposed to be able to save everyone, but… 

   “Seliph… please... don’t let us down!” 

Serra heals Seliph with Recover. (1d20: 12. Great Heal!) Seliph: 6.5/10 HP

Alert Stance+ activates! Serra gains 6 avoid through the following enemy phase. Serpent’s Poison is active. Serra loses 1 HP and 0.5 mag/str. Serra HP: 3.5/10

next: @encursed 

[sharpscion]

✶ — › 𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐍'𝐓 𝐈 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐎𝐍 ‹ — ✶

   Scáthach gazed on to a crowd of gathering students, eyeing each and every participant until at least his eyes found their target. Upon taking in their vibrant visage, the brooding swordsman could not help but smile. The memory of a boy he had once known now took shape into that of a man who seemed to thrive amongst his newfound peers. He had always been that way, though, a prince who had lost  it all but still showed boundless compassion and kindness. Prince Seliph was light, someone to brighten the path before you and make you feel at home even when you were lost far away. Scáthach had always sought to keep that light safe well before his cousin had ever requested it of him, but giving words to that want only seemed to exacerbate that impulse. Though they were done with war, the swordsman could not help but keep an eye on him, for his duty or for himself he could no longer distinguish. 

   There was no harm in this, though, it satisfied the want to see Seliph and it gave him peace of mind that his Prince was safe from potential harm. Even though the pit in his stomach could only grow larger, knowing his place was forever in the shadows and not at Seliph's side like he only hoped for. His smile seemed to fade at such a realization, that watching everyone he cared about walk ahead of him had somehow become a bitter habit of his. It was simply how it was, things were natural this way, this numbing loneliness was torment but it was also familiar and comfortable. It was only normal that kids would outgrow their protectors, he should just be happy that he was not needed anymore. No matter how selfish, though, he had to allow himself these small moments to look on at where he could never traverse. If it was just this much, then surely it would be ok, surely it would be enough to satisfy him.

   A tug of his arm snapped him back into reality which left him wondering just how deep into thought he had been to not notice someone getting this close to him. A familiar voice called out after the gentle tugs, a voice that hadn't been so close to his ears in what felt like several years now. He knew who it was before he looked down, when their eyes met it only confirmed the fear in his mind... He had been caught. Prince Seliph looked up at him with concern plastered on his face, but a smile was soon to replace it when Scáthach matched his gaze. "Prince Seliph," It came out short, but it was all he could muster to assure his friend that he was indeed ok. He was all too busy dealing with the mixture of excitement and disappointment he felt knowing that Seliph was beside him again for the first time since they had liberated Jugdral. He had tried to stay away, tried not to bring the Prince down, but he had failed spectacularly. Scáthach wanted to run, but that would only cause more worry for Seliph, and so he tried to muster more words from himself. "What are you doing here, Prince Seliph? You looked so busy earlier..."

@virtuoustyrfing​

[sayhwaet]

seliph notices it when he takes one last bite of the pastry he grabbed mere moments ago. the feeling doesn't vanish, either, as he chews and swallows and pays less attention to the delicacy's flavor as a result.

at this point, the young man has to turn his head and look.

his gaze lands on an older man— and immediately takes note of the stranger's presently shirtless state.

blue eyes dart up.

"ah, is there something on my face?" he smiles awkwardly.

In spite of himself, Beowolf was a nostalgic man. He tried, and often, to convince himself that leaving something behind was easy, that he could be a leaf in the breeze and hit the dusty trail as soon as something didn't serve, but at the end of the day it was his lot to reckon with that he yearned, just as any other man, for the solid connections, the roots, the legacy.

He hadn't meant to stare.

He just didn't expect the lad to look so much like his parents.

"Ah," he cleared his throat, hoping that the grin that tweaked his lips was sufficiently wolfish to mask the dewiness in his eyes. "Nah, sorry, was lookin' at something else. Good spread, ain't it?"

Nabbing a pastry and biting down, Beowolf cocked his head as though something had just occurred to him. "Y'know, actually - you look mighty familiar. Mighta been acquainted with your parents, once upon a time."

The tightness in his throat intensified, but he forced himself to bite out the words, "Yer mom's eyes," and a smile that he meant.

Finishing off the pastry, licking the crumbs from his fingertips, Beowolf clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Tell y'what, gimme one of them feathers o' yours, and I'll give you one'a these," a flick to a teardrop crystal on his brooch, "and maybe I'll tell you a tale'r two about yer folks."

Only the good ones, he promised.

[bxldrsdraumar]

continued from here @virtuoustyrfing

There it was, that hesitance that he had come to expect. Between whatever terrible thing had happened while he was gone (and for that matter, how long he was gone), and the rumors of imposters floating about, Sigurd could not say he necessarily blamed any of his loved ones for doubting him. 

And oh, regardless of the expression his boy is making right now, Sigurd cannot help but feel overtaken with such pride swelling in his chest, because that is his son, and he has become a man. Be it dubiousness, or rage, or sorrow, Sigurd could weep at the blessing that he had been given to behold his son's face again. 

"Hm?" At the accusations, Sigurd props one hand on his hip, bringing the other index finger to tap at his chin thoughtfully. "Well, I cannot say I ever recall being King of Grannvale. In my time, that was Azmur. Or...no, his son? Kurth?"

It did not sound quite right, and even at the best of times he knew royal succession to be a sticky subject that made his head spin – but he did know without doubt that his house was a servant of the crown, and that his role was to serve. Hadn't Kurth gone to war...? Was that it...?

He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. "And I cannot say that I have been in any pitfalls recently, though of course my recent memory leaves much to be desired."

Sigurd's face lit up. "I do recall, however, a time when I was, oh, not much older than you, in a place quite like this, when my dear friends and I nearly fell into quite a ravine after the sun went down. You see, we had been sent on a hunt, and lost track of the footpath – but, oh, surely you don't want to hear an old man blathering stories of his school days." 

[princessmacedon]

Maria's attention is pulled once more to the woman-- to Embla's back, the sparkle of something quiet and curious deep within her eyes. Whether far too used to the ornery or simply far too hopeful, her gaze narrows at its corners, touched in the smallest ways by the want to smile.

The want, but not the fulfillment; further still, rosy eyes sweep across the scene to settle on their foes at the far edge of the field. Even in this short span of time the battle has shifted, and the cleric finds herself further to the back of their group, the motes of light that once comprised her bow now scattered across her knuckles in waiting. Yet she does not call upon it, instead nestling herself further back, watching and waiting; waiting and watching.

This strange affliction feels like a heat within her veins, at times bleeding through her skin, but clearly some of them are more affected than others. Especially the boy who'd turned his fan against Embla only to look just as confused by himself as the rest of them -- she focuses on him, on the faint oddity of his complexion, ruddier than others... oh?

A second look, and then a third. ...oh! The youngest princess of Macedon raises her staff-- a staff, the familiarity of wood wrapped beneath her fingers; after so long of this land's learnings, the instruments of her home feel all the more emboldening-- and lets its glow fall upon him, washing away the unnatural tinge steeping in his skin.

Maria 10/10HP uses Restore on Dwyer 9/10HP, removing Intoxication. Maria loses one stack of Intoxication. [total: 0]

"There," she smiles gently. "Does that feel a little better?"

The expression ebbs naturally, but she hangs her gaze upon him still, carved into a pleasant, wondering neutrality. And she does wonder: why does the color already creep back into his cheeks? A turn -- to Embla, too?

Darkness crashes against the woman in the very same moment, dissipating into smoke as it floods over her, past her, into the first rays of morning light. It leaves uneasy color in its wake; Maria raises her staff once more in alarm.

"Miss Embla--?!"

Bishop A 4/8HP critically hits Maria 10/10HP with Fogbound Consecration at melee range. [Roll: 20 + 4 = 24; (1.5 + 1) * 2 = -5HP] Maria 5/10HP Maria 5/10HP is unable to counterattack. Maria is inflicted with one stack of Intoxication [total: 1]

But perhaps Embla was right. For all that she wants to help, in that very process Maria leaves herself open to attack, their opponents wicked in their seeming desperation. Smoke and fog nearly bowl her over, their disorienting heat pressing against her skin until it burns, searing the inside of her lungs. She stumbles, coughs, the point of her staff buried into the soft soil as a crutch -- --then the sun crests the horizon, and as Maria glances at their foes, there is no one there at all.

Calling All Besties: SURVIVE || Team 8 Bronze Round