SO IT'S TRUE! BLESSINGS DO COME IN THREES!

blue lions student at the Officer's Academy

[aglaean]

Intro!

artist: daigoman

hey :) names Mabel, I'm 19 and never fckin learned how to roleplay, so this'll be a learning experience for us all! I will be playing L'Arachel on this blog! I love her so very much!! She is unabashedly confident (to the point of a complete lack of self-awareness), believes entirely in her abilities and election by divine grace, and sees herself as chosen to defeat the enemies of goodness! And the best part is she seems to be right! There is no humbling this gal, and her belief in herself and her abilities makes her one of the best hero-knight-princesses around.

Whilst she's very much a silly character, in some ways I find her dauntless self-belief refreshing. But there is a bit more to her than just her unrelenting self-belief that isn't ever really challenged. I think her Eirika supports are really interesting, the way she tries to take it as a source of pride that she didn't mourn her parent's death. She is so strong-willed that sometimes this prevents her from actually acknowledging the times she was less divinely-graced. This doesn't stop her from being empathetic to others. She comforts Eirika quite a lot on her route for instance. But I think it does mean that she tends to ignore anything that interferes with her self-belief. Not so much that it's a fragile belief that could fall at any opportunity, more that things like grieving don't fit her hero-princess narrative. This is far from a complete analysis, I'm just spitballing, but the more time I spend with her, hopefully the more nuanced an understanding I'll get!

here's some links for those on mobile:

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interview!

thread tracker!

I look forward to getting to know you all, and getting up to shennanigans (L'Arachel's speciality!).

also fun(?) trivia, I named this blog Aglaean because Aglaea is one of the three graces in mythology. according to wikipedia it means shining and I just think the whole idea of graces, and shining works too well to NOT give to L'Arachel.

[pryings]

𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙛 𝙞𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙨.

[pryings]

he watches as she clears off one grave, as if particularly fixated on that one or perhaps, more likely, miles away in her head. he turns his attention to a different headstone, skimming over the name, occupation, position in the church, dates of birth and death in the still-unfamiliar fódlan calendar. the fact that a certain date of birth, down to the day, is recorded means that either this person was born to a higher social class, or that this land has extremely detailed birth records.

he does not ponder either option for too long; it is an observation and assumption based upon it, nothing more. still, he finds it difficult to turn his mind away from the differences between this place, its dead, and his beloved grado.

so lost in his own thoughts is he that when her voice shifts toward exclamation, he nearly jumps.

"of course," he says, rather than contradict her. he wills his heart to return to its usual rhythm after the surprise. "whatever has begun transgressing here will not stand against you, i'm sure."

he offers his hand to her, be it out of deference or expectation. she is not as comfortable in places like this as he, and he suspects that this is for the best. his own comfort with death is like that of the burned child always returning to the flame, moth-like, ready to burn itself again. loss is a question, and knoll always answers yes.

"yes, i suppose whatever it is is bound to return. unless our presence deters it, which is always a possibility. if it does not come back tonight, we can present the idea of having someone watch over the dead until the moment passes..."

not something anyone would relish, but a necessary step regardless. he almost hopes whoever or whatever is doing this does come by, so it can be apprehended...

but the night chill is somewhat pleasant, for all that it causes his joints to stiffen and ache like those of a man thrice his age.

"if we are approached, we should act decisively..."

[aglaean]

It is a matter hardly worth noting: Knoll's hand in hers. But, her hand alas, had not the refined reasoning of her head and so the grip in which she latches to that palm, disclosed like a secret from billowing fabric, is tighter than what may be said to be strictly necessary.

It is only that it is so very cold here, there is ice in the air, and on the graves and his hand exhales warmth. To touch something and feel it there and vital in the palm of your hand, underneath the glove, is rare amongst the dead. They cannot requite those gestures in the dark; touchless, soundless, absent.

The ease with which he absents himself from their victory does not escape her notice. How could it evade the keen eye of one whose every stride announced itself, like rumbling thunder before a brilliant flash! She wonders what prompts him to remove the 'I' of observation; to become merely the eye, watching with the uncanny stillness of a pendant mogall.

Pouting with affected humility, the princess sighs. 'You speak sense, perchance it caught wind of our coming here.'

'Such is the burden of renown! Every step is the common report; doubtless our many admirers have already spread whispers of our deeds to the very borders of this great land. How deeply troublesome.' L'Arachel says, looking as far from troubled at the prospect as was possible - given the circumstances.

'Well, all in due course. The Gods would not have drawn us here on a whim. We shall deal a dint unto the evildoer decisively! We shall watch for the entire night, if needs be.' A yawn crawls up her throat, but she stifles it with an artful cough into her glove.

Caught somewhere between hope and dread, she casts an eye over the graves.

There is nothing to see.

[aglaean]

god should give his toughest battles to me. I will simply handle it.

the valley of torment I faith +1

[aglaean]

'My dear lady, whilst I am of course appreciative of the concern,' - and here, the Princess of Rausten produces her characteristic simper, a gift of indulgent condescencion she bestowed generously - 'you have no need of it. I am quite prepared.'

Language is a rather remarkable thing, when definitions can prove so subjective.

'Prepared' for L'Arachel was a large hat, the brim of which she could incline to mask her face with an air of romantic mystery, her staff, her lance, and a canteen of water. 'Prepared', for the townswoman who was currently clinging to her arm seemed to involve a jar of peculiar lotion held tight in her other hand.

'Miss, you can't go into the Valley of Torment without this, you'll be burnt alive!' Her grip was tight, and hot against L'Arachel's arm. Like a brand.

For a moment the Princess considered making her escape by pointing out some sort of invented marvel in the distance and sprinting, but it wouldn't become her to spread such untruths. Any marvels sighted by this holy woman would be veracity itself! Certified because, more often than not, they originated from her in the first place.

'Now, now. You may shed a few sparkling tears over the dangers I shall face, the many trials and blows I may encounter!' L'Arachel said, her eyes brimming with anything but tears. 'But you must understand, I am chosen of the Gods. They have surveyed every waking hour of my life, and will never allow any harm to come to me.'

L'Arachel very rarely felt offence. Largely because, to feel offence, you need to assume that the offender in question could be capable of thinking anything less than glowing about you.

As such, she is not offended at the doubt, but rather, endlessly compassionate. Poor soul! She evidently had no clue who she was conversing with. The flames burned only the impure; she was certain to be impervious.

Just as their little tiff is about to reach a new intensity, a shadow crosses their faces. Ah! Salvation.

Unlooping her arm, she turns to the professor accompanying her. They had travelled together to this town, on the outskirts of the valley, by carriage, L'Arachel watching his wings with unabashed interest. That was three winged men, all in one monastery!

They had been given a few hours in the morning to scout out some supplies, before agreeing to reconvene at some point. Fortunate was she that the Gods had elected here and now to be the place!

'Why, hello!' With all the subtletly she possessed, she darted towards her feathered instructor, putting his tall frame between herself and the townswoman. 'Would you be so kind as to inform this dear woman of my virtues? She fears for my life, would you believe!' L'Arachel says to the man she has just met.

@kingstalons

[aglaean]

hoist up the thing! bang down the whatsit!

a piratical joyride | heavy armour +1

[aglaean]

The sea! A tempestuous mistress of froth and foam who remained ever-inconstant. Of all that L'Arachel could lay claim to as her birthright, her affinity for trawling the waves was one she wished to indulge with more frequency.

In her darling Rausten, the scent of the ocean would come creeping into her room through an open window with the sea fret. Drawn to the curtains she'd part them and be confronted with roiling blue as far as the eyes could see, lingering in a crouch behind the sharp points of the forests.

And yet, before Magvel had fallen into chaos, she had only ever encountered the might of the depths as glances, shallow scraps spied from behind a glass. Trips to Carcino had been spent largely in her Chambers with Uncle, under strict instruction not to go above deck for too long, or wander near the ocean.

But even in her limited state, she had been certain she was a natural sea-hand! Rennac had consolidated this innate talent, with his extensive nautical vocabulary: she knew the rudder, the fore and aft, the crow's nest and she applied them with almost complete accuracy to their equivalent referents, most of the time!

Frankly, it would've been a crime as sore as murder, to deny the Margraviate her presence aboard his fleet. Joined by a bard of the golden House, she was quite certain that the two of them could devise all manner of entertainment to raise spirits, and had just begun to ask if he knew of the (soon-to-be) classic Rausten ballad 'That Time the Beautiful Princess of Peerless Beauty Bashed a Bael' when there was a slight spot of bother.

Their captain had assured them all would be well, and that the sea was level. And certainly, the sea was still and smooth as L'Arachel's gloves, with nary a wrinkle. But the captain had not thought to warn them that the crew, in a great upset, would bind him and lock him in his cabin as soon as they were clear of the shore.

When L'Arachel had asked them - with great civility she may add! - why they had felt it necessary to waste something so useful as rope in such an extravagant manner, they had determined to consolidate their excess by tying both herself and the bard to the biggest mast.

That brutality performed, they fell to deliberation. Something that sounded like 'musability' or perhaps, 'beauty' was being discussed with some fervour. Really, this was all powerfully distressing. That they would raise matters she was so versed in, without consulting her!

'Pardon, what are you speaking of? If it is beauty, I have some knowledge of that...' She demurred, tugging against her ropes in an attempt to position herself into her habitual pose of modest ostentation.

'Nay, lass.' A large man, who had been at the head of the debate, approached his captives. He had a wild beard, that exploded from his face like cannon fire, and two golden teeth he flashed frequently in a wide grin. L'Arachel had long since decided that she liked him, and returned his smile. 'In these dog days, our employer has tarried in paying our dues.'

'Lucky for us,' he leaned in close, the smell of fish and crackers on his breath, 'we've just come into some hostages who'll squeal the loot out of his miserly hands.'

yarrghhh @carmennivis ! we be in big trouble !

[aglaean]

“I see your charm did not protect you from falling early in battle,” Azama notes as he comes by to check on his totally-honest-to-gods-definitely-absolutely favourite student.

"... You did make one for yourself as well, did you not?"

What escapes next can only be described as a long-suffering sigh, though Azama masks it (perhaps poorly) with a look of incredibly deep concern™️.

“… Mayhap next year I shall have to bestow one of my own to you. 'Passing beautiful' though yours may have been," gods, he needs to hold it in, he can't break down so soon, "it means little if it doesn't work as intended, yes?"

Dread and horror have never been writ more strongly across the face of one so marvellous. ‘Hold! Do you suppose that, had I procured further tokens, I would not have been so rudely removed from the field?’ 

This was a disaster of the highest order! Once again, it seemed, L’Arachel’s unfailing generosity had proven too great, too perfect, for this cruel world. 

Of course, this was not to say that she was disappointed that her latent powers had been bestowed upon one so grateful. The defence of innocents was, undoubtedly, one of the many goals the Gods had predestined her for, after all.

But she rather wished she hadn’t been so blind to her own virtues, so negligent of the budding talent she evidently possessed! Had she made multiples of the charm, the very tide of battle could’ve been changed. 

Well, it was little worth lamenting what had been fated to be. She would simply have to be prepared for the next trial. 

At his offer, she smiles graciously. It would not do to enlighten him as to the fact that she was the one gifted with the talent in charm-making. His proferred charm, unimbued with whatever hidden powers of protection she possessed, would be taken with thankfulnesss!

L'Arachel resolve to arise early the next morning, dedicating herself to securing more candles, more threads, and eventually, more charms. 

[aglaean]

"Hey."

Faces are hard to find in the endless swaths of med-tents, but voices are easy to follow. And with a booming presence like hers, there's just no missing that L'Arachel.

...Is 'booming' the right word? 'Radiant' might be one she likes better...

In any case, Larcei has delivered a short knock against one of the princess' tent posts, as a courtesy. She enters proper and does a once-over of her wounds.

"'Just wanted to stop by and say my thanks. We lost, but I can tell you really tried. I appreciate you havin' my back and all that." The sunlight that streams through the slit in the tent illuminates the smile Larcei leaves for her, bringing a lighter note to their mutual defeat and reminding them both that the day is still young.

"And if you ever feel like working on your aim with that lance," she continues, flicking the guard on her sword with her thumb so that it comes out a few inches from its scabbard, "let me know. I'll give you a sparring session with the finest swordmaster in Isaach!"

It is the beam of sunlight, warm against her cheek, that registers Larcei’s presence to L’Arachel more than her addresses.

Of course, were she not fresh from the jousting of the field, she would have ascertain her presence immediately! The darting eye of a holy woman neglected little, and scryed even the most minute of details, when undiverted by other observations.

It was merely that there was so much to witness, even from her perch, tucked in amongst the swirl of meetings and commiseration and comraderie. And L’Arachel wished to see it all. 

Her roving gaze snaps to Larcei’s.

Certes, she bore about her the shared scars of their battle - ice fringing charred sleeves. She recalls her expression during their battle, as set as the frost rooting her to the spot.

It was a little like the one she wore now; fuelled by this ever-present, ever-pulsing motion. Across the field she had blazed - unable to remain still - burning deeper, and deeper. But never to the point of collapse. Just to the start of something new.

Her tone is easy, but L’Arachel feels as if there is something lingering just beneath the surface. Something determined. And it sparks something within her too. 

Leaping to her feet, she nodded sharply. ‘Unfortunate as our loss may be, I am fortunate indeed to have fought alongside such an ally. ‘Tis evident to me that the Gods drew us together for a reason!’ 

Sparring! Something she grasped well in concept - something Ephraim dedicated large swathes of his time to, and which had a perturbing habit of coinciding with her invitations to tea - but, within Rausten’s walls had remained purely conceptual.

She had proven herself, staff in hand, Dozla and Rennac by her side, upon the monstrous fiends roaming her beloved country, but to do so against another…! Perhaps, this event had given her a taste for it.

‘Ah, your wish for us to try our mettle, steel on steel, is well met! What say you to an encounter tomorrow morn? We may duel to our heart’s content, and then, perhaps you would like to come to tea?’ 

There was something in that name, Isaach, and something in this figure, the skilled swordswoman, that really was remarkably familiar… But L’Arachel found that it proved elusive, and dismissing it, extended a hand towards Larcei - her new sparring partner.

[aglaean]

"Come now, bundle up. The frost will leave your fingers soon enough if you keep warm." It was nothing short of a coo, fur lined blanket tucked over her shoulders. The rest of her scrapes and scathes could be mended with a healing touch, the after effects of a spell they would rather treat formally and aid any lingering ailments once restoration had merely taken it's path.

"I fear my hearing may be failing me as I am yet to hear one tale of the Princess of Rausten's greatness on the plains. It appears the task falls upon you to share your own triumphs with me." A pout, performative and prodding, took shape on their lips. Whilst there was an earnest interest in her tales, there was the undeniable need to keep her still and bundled till she was no longer in threat of losing her fingers.

"The highs and the lows of course. To hear the struggles and the triumphs makes for a better tale, does it not?” A ploy despite their earnest interest in how she fared, for the right detail could shed light on an ailment otherwise missed.

Having been instructed, multiple times, to remain seated and wait for some feeling to come back into the rosy digits that had once before been her fingers, L’Arachel is finally resolved.

She ought to comply, if only to appease the healers. If it would cheer their hearts, and perhaps too, the hearts of every denizen of this temple of healing arts, to see her obedience, the gentility with which she acquiesed to their tender pleas that she kindly stop trying to rally fallen students by yelling encouragment and generally being a nuisance then who was she to refuse! A hero served the people, after all. 

It was only that an age seemed to have passed, and her fingers remained stubbornly unresponsive.

Levelling a glare at them that would’ve certainly sent any mere mortal scurrying towards the nearest shelter, she lamented her own impenatrability. Woe indeed, that she should be so blessed as to be impervious to any intimidation, including her own!

Normally, her fingers were all too eager to service her every command. From couching her lance, to twirling her staff, to adjusting her hair-ties. Each and every action performed with grace and refinement! But now they were dead, and cold. Emptied out of animation, and turned traitor to her cause. 

She was about to try her hand (although, as this very same hand was being so uncooperative perhaps the turn of phrase was unapt) at some vocal lambastment, when something warm and heavy presses upon her shoulders. Looking up, she spies a familiar face. 

‘But this is a perfect mantle!’ She exclaims, burrowing herself deeper within its furred folds, bunching the fabric around her hands. The question of its origins didn’t venture into her mind. It was hardly worth consideration when other matters of far greater significance demanded her attention.

Emerging from her newly acquired coverings, she peeks upwards, meeting their gaze. ‘And how fare you, Arval?’ 

At the mention of her shamefully unrecorded but utterly daring exploits, L’Arachel flushes a (deeply becoming) red, excitment taught and tense within every muscle of her body.

That no ballads had yet been composed, no choirs formed to sing her praises was a remarkable shame; but if she must turn her own chronicler, she would take the burden with boundless humility and grace. 

Her thumb twitches, and she feels it this time. No doubt the memory of her endeavours, which, no matter the outcome had certainly been a sight to see, was restorative.

Directing a stealthy eye towards Arval, bearer of furred blankets, she smiles. Perhaps they too were in need of such a potage. 

‘Come, sit at my side.’ Patting a space next to her on the cot, L’Arachel generously extends a sliver of the blanket towards her companion. ‘I have a tale to tell.’ 

[aglaean]

When Marianne made her way to the med tent, she knew a very eager student would probably find her out and ask the questions she wanted answered. So Marianne found her first. "Um... We did take out Valter... Like you asked... He was scary."

There were many domains under the purview of L’Arachel, but time, alas, was not one of them. Sit as she might, willing the lagging hours to turn with haste, rudely they refused to gallop apace. 

 Of course, she could go and acertain the state of her arch nemesis with her own vision and no doubt, her presence on the battlefield was an innumerable advantage for her chosen fighters.

But there is so little allure in the ungainly asperity of ocular proof - if she must know the outcome of this fated clash, let it be through report. Narrative was the most seemly vehicle for heroics; the only one L’Arachel would permit.

And so, she waited. 

By the time Marianne finds her, L’Arachel is slumped sideways over a cot, staring at the ceiling in a pose of sublime contemplation. A painter would be hard-tasked to try and depict in flat colour her expression: ponderous and solemn, her hair: flowing and perfectly glossy, or her mouth: open as if ready to impart cherubic verse! 

She is so still, she could well be in repose, but do not be fooled! She is merely resting her eyes, and any snuffling can be attributed to the lingering bite of that frost mage. 

The very same frost mage who is here of a sudden, lingering near her side! 

‘OH!’ The Princess startles upright, swivelling to face her chosen knight. ‘YOU DID!’ And though, perhaps in another’s voice it may have registered as doubt, in L’Arachel’s it sounds like exultation. She’d requested something; so naturally it would occur! That did little though, to deaden the delight she felt. 

Bounding forward with an elegant lunge, her arm encircled the shoulder of the silent snowstress. ‘He is a ferocious foe indeed, though nothing that the agents of L’Arachel could not suppress!’

Now, where was? Ah! Seizing upon her stave, lying across the cot - recently relinquished from the Princess’ reclining grip - she brandishes it with glee. ‘Allow me to tend to any wounds that cur inflicted upon you, ‘tis the least I can do!’ 

[aglaean]

starter call!

you trust l'ara don't you? you want to do a thread with her? yes you do?

heavy armour +1! [GD REQUIRED]: LET HER SAIL THE HIGH SEAS SHE WILL GET WAYY TOO INTO IT TAKEN: NILS

faith +1 [GD REQUIRED]: she will walk into the flames and she will survive because she is the gods specialist girl <3 TAKEN: TIBARN

[aglaean]

march activity check!

skill points 13 -> 14

lance C -> C (1/2)

stats tracker

[aglaean]

'Pardon, I don't suppose you have any baguettes? Only, it seems I've developed a craving for such confectonaries of a sudden...'

[loveevangelist]

"Hold on, I think I have one somewhere... but all give and take must be done equally."

"You wouldn't happen to have a leek on you, would you?"

[aglaean]

HATSUNE MIKU???????

[aglaean]

'Pardon, I don't suppose you have any baguettes? Only, it seems I've developed a craving for such confectonaries of a sudden...'

[aglaean]

H20 JUST ADD WAR

mermaid au

[aglaean]

There’s a new arrival at Lark Bay Café today; which is more than enough to cause a pleasant stir.

Sat squarely on the beach-front, and tucked away from the areas frequented by tourists, Lark Bay has been dubbed a hidden gem, and as such, is avaliable to those who know of it: a huddle of wild swimmers who take turns nominating who gets to order their round of black coffee, the surfers, whose comments vary with the weather, but are largely disparaging attacks on ankleslappers, or gremmies crowding the shore, and the retirees who are always charmed when their order is remembered.

These different groups are united by the one common cause: great drinks, and fresh pastries. And they peel themselves from the sea, streaked with sand, to get it.

Lark’s regulars are as much a staple of the cafe as the faded posters and the wear and tear on each and every avaliable surface of upholstery. New-comers are a rare enough occurance for it to be notable. At the very least, the tinned jangle of the door chime unaccompanied by an unfamiliar face provides decent enough conversational fodder for the assembled council of clientele to chew on in between hearty bites of croissants and pain au rasin.

And, this stranger certainly lives up to the title, for she is indeed, strange. Ducking towards the first avaliable booth, she says nothing. Her head doesn’t re-emerge from beind its battered cover until the lull she had occasioned dissipates, and even then she only surfaces to cast her eye over various customers; an optical angler, fishing in unknown waters.

She has yet to order and, one of those esteemed patrons of the establishment notes in an undertone to another of their rank, her hair is such a startling green! It clings to her scalp in a strange outburst, like seaweed on a rock, if seaweed could have been smoothed and polished to a nigh unnatural sheen!

Around her carefully coiffed locks, a swirl of curiosity forms, but this matters little to L’Arachel, who is concerned with things of far greater significance than the petty thoughts of humankind. Any such attentions paid to her are but a lingering annoyance; though, she may have been more inclined to recieve their attentions were she not at present, occupied with a mission.

With her hands splayed on the back of this strange, elongated seat, she trains her eye upon he, the one she was seeking. A youth who, were she to guess, possessed years numbering her own.

Pranked in the garb of this establishment, he flitted between the other humans as easily as if he truly was of their species. Fortunate that the great Gods of the ocean had fitted her with a more astute eye! She knew that he too, was formed of seafoam, of the pearls and treasures of the ocean. That he had gazed upon this strange dry land through the translucent film of the underseas, and perhaps, he too had been separated from his pod by the trials and tremors of a great storm.

L’Arachel had never been more certain: he was undoubtedly a mermaid. She knew one of her ilk when she saw them!

To risk her appearance amongst these land-striders, she would have to be quite certain; but her reasoning was watertight. Once she had come to upon this strange and foreign shore, and become acquainted with the legs bestowed upon her by forces of which she knew not, L’Arachel had noticed that he oft drew near to the waves, and stared out upon it with a strange expression, somewhat like longing. It was a feeling she knew well. and for two hearts to be so in harmony was proof irrefutable!

Yes, if she could subtly reveal her state to him, she was certain they could conspire to locate her pod - and then she would be able to take her leave of this strange world, once and for all.

It was truly a masterful plan, if she could indulge in her own genius for a moment.

And it seemed the gods themselves concurred, for her eloquent gazes had finally caught his attention. Smiling familiarly, the Peerless Princess of Thalassic Beauty watched as her sought-after aid approached.

glub glub @solarsbrace !

[aglaean]

stage fright? no. stage delight

school of sorcery magic show I reason +1

[aglaean]

Well, L’Arachel had been promised remarkable delights and thrills the likes of which she had never seen, but this…! This! To put it lightly, ‘twas very much within the scope of her imagination. If it were to be called remarkable, surely it was only by virtue of being so remarkably dull!

Naturally, it would not do for a holy woman to be of a dour and ill-omening soul. And yet, L’Arachel had felt something close to a premonition of doom the moment the curtains had raised, upturning a herd of tremulous youths onto an utterly silent stage. No trumpets hailing their arrival! No angelic choirs!

Truly, the lack of orchestration was impermissable; it left a gaping maw of emptiness which only a truly brilliant mage would be able to fill. And, impressive as their magic may have been, it did little to obscure the rustle and screech of their feet shuffling into place, or the sniff taken before pronouncing the next spell.

‘My…’ Craning her neck towards the assembled audience, L’Arachel scours the general populace for a reciprocal display of boredom. Instead, her eye lights upon a small, red figure. Ewan? Delighted, she swivels in her seat, subjecting the burst of red to a more scrupulous scrutiny. Why, no! It was that mage, who, tome a-blazing, had fought so valiantly against her mortal foe!

But of course! The source of the issue, and the solution have presented themselves to the valiant Princess in one fell swoop! Fortunate was this woe-begotten troupe to have been thrust before she on this day. For she knew just what they needed - and she was more than happy to supply it!

There is a great deal of fuss as an apparent audience member charges her way up to the stage, but no move is made to extricate her. A sign of the God’s favour, and no doubt a recognition of her natural stage presence! Uncle had not praised her ‘complete and utter command of the stage’ for naught! Clearing her throat, she smiled at the assembled players.

Of course, magic had been merely the preserve of defense in Rausten, but she was certain she could devise some manner of spell to save this ailing performance! ‘Fear not, good jongleurs! For I, L’Arachel, have arrived!’

There’s a murmur from the crowd. Is this part of the show...? One querrelous inquirier mutters. Get off the stage! Is heard from some crude fellow in the front. Their dissent only fuels her further.

‘Now, if you will, I have a tale to tell. A great and terrible tale, of hard-won battles, mysterious fiends, and a marvellous, peerless princess!’ Pausing, she cast an eye over the crowd, making a play of mulling things over. ‘But if I am to succeed in my quest, I must call upon the aid of one of you, the audience! Who shall accompany me?’

If the silence of the stage had been bad before, this was quite possibly worse.

‘Hmmm! How about that fellow in red? Come up to the stage, please!’

And, extending a hand, the good Princess of Rausten, and recently-established theatrical, points her finger directly at Tormod.

@arcelerity - the stage beckons!

[aglaean]

🧃

“Princess!!” Ewan rushed up to her, holding out a drink. “I was cheering for you this whole time! I’m sure you’ll kick their butts next time!” He said with a confident smile, hoping to give her some spirit. “For now though, here! take this juice and relax!”

Oh! So, it had been none other than her dear ally who had been cheering so! In the furour of battle L'Arachel had been, to her own bitter disappointment, unable to locate the source of the sound. More pressing matters had engrossed her, such as ensuring her hair flew in the wind just so, that her ballad-worthy lines were primed at her lips, and oh, yes, that her lance landed when she tried to hit someone with it.

Though she had never been in any doubt that the jubilations were in her name, it heartened her all the more to know that it had been none other than he. What a marvel! She had never before known joy to come after the event. So oft it had a strange habit of dissapating once the moment had passed - a matter that would've been far more unfortunate if she wasn't always immured in some new delight!

And in the way of delight...! L'Arachel takes the proferred receptacle. An experimental sip, and ah! Why, this was simply delicious! She had never before this day sampled so sweet a juice - and now, on this day she had tasted of it twice! Perhaps she ought to submit her magnificence to such carousing more often.

'Ewan! Surely, the Gods themselves carried your voice to me over joust and duel! I thank you for aiding me in my emenance!' Smiling, she took another swig. So sweet! Why, she felt herself buoyed by a second wind! Springing to her feet, L'Arachel surrendered herself to those faculties that knew her before she knew herself: her instincts.

'In fact, I shall repay you tenfold with a cheer of my own - HURRAH! MAKE EXULTATION FOR EWAN, SWIFT-FOOTED AGENT OF NECTAR! AND MY CLOSE PERSONAL ALLY!' She adds the second part retroactively, it was important to make such connections clear!

Turning to where the dear mage should be, she smiles. 'How was that- Ah! Wherever did he go?'

[aglaean]

kurth it's time to flop again

ill-advised vigilance training I sword +1 prompt

[goldoanheart]

Kurthnaga, for all he was known for, probably would not go down in history for his sense of direction. At least not in a good way.

That was to say: he was utterly and terribly lost. And separated from L’arachel at that. If he was to be lost, it would have been better to at least be together. Being lost together still included a together.

The young dragon breathes a sigh of relief as he hears her call out to him, sees her face once again through the dark of the woods, “I am quite relieved to see you are well too, L’arachel!” She has made it back to him through the danger of the woods and the dark and managed to find him. It’s a relief to both see that she is safe, and to know that he is at least not lost alone anymore.

“Ah! Watch out-!” It’s a bit too late for a warning by the time he manages to choke out one. Kurthnaga, attempt to think as quickly on his feet as he can, opts for tackling her, hoping that he can at least get his friend out of the way.

Instead, he all but throws both of them right into the net.

His cheeks burn as he turns to her and sputters out bashfully, “Haha… whoops…”

In a way, it was almost impressive how quickly things were able to go wrong.

“Hm… how would you suppose we are meant to get out of here?” Kurthnaga tugs gently at the ropes of the net. Bite through them? No, that would be far too uncouth.

And they couldn’t just sit here, or the instructor would surely catch up to them and end the exercise right then and there.

Oh.

Wait. Did he have… Kurthnaga reaches to the back of his belt, smiling wildly to see that he had indeed remembered his dagger.

“Ah, how serendipitous! We can use this,” He passes the dagger to L’arachel, waiting patiently for her to decide to cut through the ropes or not. Perhaps maybe she wished to just sit here and not waste energy for some time. He had no room to judge that, “If you wish to, of course.”

[aglaean]

For a moment, there is perfect and utter stillness. Silence has descended upon the woods - or rather, as silence seems so oft to be the default state of so ghastly a clime, has reasserted itself, falling with the finality of a stage curtain upon their travails. Lo, how truly she despised it. 

And then, the quiet is mercifully displaced with chaos. Sighting danger, the lithe Princess of Rausten calls upon her instincts to guide both herself and her companion from beyond the net’s bite! And, she would’ve succceeded, surely, had the Gods determined not to heap trials upon them so. Instead of whisking them both to safety, L’Arachel yelps as her shielding pounce collides with an immovable wall: the young king’s torso. 

Why on earth had that been there? She thinks, bleary, as the ground sweeps away from their feet and they find themselves ensconsed in a tangle of rope and limbs. For a moment all she can see is the sky between the trees, a flash of blue, choked by dim and sombre branches. 

Turning back, she listens to her companion’s sputtering; understanding dawning on her face. How sweet, how sad! Two noble hearts in striving to save the other, had condemned themselves. It felt as if it had been transposed straight from a chivalric ballad, but as she took the proferred knife, L’Arachel resolved to ensure that this was not to turn tragedy! 

‘My thanks, Kurthnaga. Once the rope is cut, we’d best do the business of bracing ourselves. I fear that nought but cold earth will blanket our fall…’ Blade in hand, she began sawing. 

In the distance, a most uncouth crashing began again. It seemed their adversary insisted upon advancing still! And this rope, she thought, giving it an emphatic swipe, was really far too resilient. 

‘Haha! Where, oh, where could my students be?’ Their pursuer breaks into the clearing, taking, L’Arachel notes disapprovingly, far too much relish in seeking them out. He was some knight, or swordsfaring fellow. That much was evident from his broad shoulders and monastery-issue armour. What purpose had he in hunting students? She could think of only one who could find the proposition enticing, and he, mercifully, was nowhere to be seen. 

‘Hmm…? And what’s this!’ Crouching down mere meters below them, their tormentor examines the tripwire, blissfully unaware of their presence - for now. L'Arachel begins to saw more intently, directing a meaningful look at the man opposite her: Make ready! ‘Hah! Looks to me like I’ve snared a couple of monastery whel-’ 

Any further comments that could’ve been made by this fellow are abruptly silenced when the rope finally gives, sending two students tumbling towards him. Well, at the very least now she had found him a new purpose! He could break their fall quite nicely.

 'Run!' L'Arachel yells, before their feet have even hit solid armour.

[pridedprincess]

yearning for dawn

[pridedprincess]

With an uneasy peace settling back over Fódlan, many soldiers that had been conscripted by paranoid nobles are now being sent home. However, some had seen this as their big chance to become knights and to make something more of themselves. They’re unwilling to let go of their training, and reports of these ex-soldiers convening together late at night reaches you and your party. Upon investigation, the ex-soldiers ask you to join them in these sessions, hoping either to learn from you, to practice with you, or to simply get a good word in with the Knights of Seiros. They ask for a future, having been robbed of one already, but do you really have any place to give them one? [Grants Any Skill +1]

A new wave of ex-soldiers had run into the monastery asking to be trained. Lachesis was a busy woman, the thought of offering tutelage to more faces seemed to be out of bounds of what she could currently take on - with what she was already doing with the monastery. But one had to bend their ear to a needy cause sometimes. She put still the things at her desk and canceled a class that she had volunteered to teach. It seemed this ex-solider cause was worthy of attention. 

Lachesis could understand the pain of having your future robbed, though she was unsure if she could offer a place to stay. In truth, the monastery may as well be a temporary respite for her - a transitory path for a woman with no solution. For the Nordion of old no longer existed, yet she was no destined for the future. The chains of the older generations bound her still. 

A bright student from a different house was to accompany her. The princess had never heard her name, but it was unimportant - there were many in the monastery she had yet to meet. Lachesis started up to the training halls bright and early, before dawn let herself be known. Yes, it may have been an inability to sleep, but Lachesis also desired desperately to help the soldiers. If perhaps it was the only way to help herself. She waits patiently in the dark skies for the student to appear, a figure straight and solemn.

A head turns as sounds startles. “Ah, I have been waiting for you. L’arachel, is it? We have much work to do.” The soldiers had yet to arrive, but Lachesis' mind was already abuzz.

[@aglaean]

[aglaean]

The common tongue was truly inexhaustible in its application to L’Arachel’s many, and manifold virtues. It seemed that somehow report of her pedigree in education, her time spent training those woe-betidden soldiers had spread to the upper echelons of Garreg Mach itself as she had found herself turned once more to educational endeavour!

Clinging tight to her newest notebook, scrawled from page to page with theories, rallying cries to inspire, and pearls of wisdom written and primed to appear as if they fell oh-so-naturally from the carvenous depths of her mind, she made use of her free arm to slam open the door to the training grounds.

She’d spent a great part of the prior evening formulating how today was to go, down to the finest points. First, she would charm her fellow educator with her natural wit, then she would begin a drill, and then! Well, one of the newest hopefuls might falter in their training, might need aid. And who should arrive then but L’Arachel to rally them to venture once more unto the field! 

The first step was already well underway. Sidling up to the professor as she spoke her name, she nodded. ‘I shall admit you speak true! I am indeed, L’Arachel! No doubt you have heard of me…?’ 

Allowing her a moment to consider the no-doubt many instances of her notoriety, L’Arachel runs her eye over the grounds. She was met with a yawning void, obscure and empty of any of the usual activities and furor of training. Admittedly, she'd never visited the grounds at so early a time - often occupied with the business of the morning - but it seemed so perturbingly still!

Well, she thought, cheering herself, not for long!

‘But of course! Perchance we may begin with a few warm-up drills? I have some small routines developed,’ she says, demurring with a humility that coaxed further compliment. ‘Perhaps you would like a preview of the material? Or, have you plans?’ She turns to face the quiet figure, eyes wide with this revelation. ‘How do you suppose we best begin?’ 

She was, after all, a co-educator. To lead an entire class without supervision was, while not beyond her capabilities, perhaps intimidating for the students. Engaging with such unmediated excellence might dazzle them clean away! Yes, perhaps best to defer to another judgement for now. Besides, she was intriguied by this stoic woman, hair flashing in the early morning light like a second dawn - could it be that there was still teaching avaliable for she, the magnificent teacher?