"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
we're not kids anymore.
taylor price
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Jules of Nature
ojovivo
Keni
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
JBB: An Artblog!
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Alisa U Zemlji Chuda
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Sade Olutola
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2025 on Tumblr: Trends That Defined the Year
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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@amiterum
— AMITERUM ; closed and affiliated roleplay blog for priscilla of fe7 ; church of seiros at the officers academy. adored by alina ✧.*
( link / link / link )
‧ ₊˚ @allyphase asked:
Though it’s getting late, the tactician never pauses in her journey to give out every last gift in her bag. Now, she stops outside a dorm room to leave a thin, square box and a quick letter, nearly too messy to read - Priscilla, happy winter festival! I hope you enjoy this - I saw it and thought of you. - Mark Inside the box is a thin, shimmery square of fabric - a scarf, not quite for the cold but for accenting an outfit. The silvery fabric is slinky and smooth, and shines just enough in the dim lighting to catch the eye, but not demand it.
It only takes a little bit of asking to find the tactician's dorm, and hardly more than a few moments to deposit a gift of her own at the bottom corner of the door's frame. Priscilla bends at the knees, tucking a folded note between the it and the parcel she has left. In her careful hand it reads:
Mark, Thank you for the gift. It has been some time now since I have had much to wear aside from the Church's uniforms. The clothes of nobility were something I took for granted, and even if I hardly mind their scarce presence in my life now, I must say it's nice to have something different again. It's a lovely piece, you have wonderful tastes. In return I have left a few treats. The cooks here have come to hardly mind my regular presence in their kitchens, so I have taken up quite the hobby in baking. Do let me know what you think! Happiest of holidays, and thank you again. -Priscilla
‧ ₊˚ @liegebound asked:
“ It was not too long ago that I had seen you for your birthday. Do pardon me for preparing you a gift for the Winter Festival too then... ” Perhaps it was a bit excessive, but while he was preparing gifts for everyone else, it felt unfair to exclude Lady Priscilla merely because her birthday landed so close to the holiday season. No, that wouldn't do! So here he was again, present box in hand, larger than the last. “ Here you are, ” he hands it to her, and upon unwrapping the box, she'd find a set of different piping bag tips in there, each creating different shapes with which to pipe with. “ This time I wished to give you something with which you could use. You seemed to put great care into the decorations of the confection you gave me last time, so I sought something that could increase your repertoire. I do hope you find them useful in your baking endeavours consequently. And, ah, before I forget: a happy holiday to you, Lady Priscilla! ”
This time, she's prepared.
"How generous..." Her eyes glitter as she accepts the box, but she makes no move to open it just yet. Instead she tucks it beneath one arm, freeing a hand to rummage around in the basket draped over the other. From it, Priscilla produces a package not unlike the last she had given him. This time it is wrapped in a much more festive crimson, an outlier amongst her other parcels of glittering gold and silver. "For the holiday and my gratitude both."
And within it rest three tarts; one topped with carefully drizzled with honey, another in a fine dusting of powdered sugar, and the third with pale pink petals. The prettiest of the season's batch, hand selected for none other than him.
Only once her offering has changed hands does Priscilla begin the work of opening her own gift. It's a delicate process, handled with the utmost care so as not to tear even a corner of its wrappings. And once they have fallen away, she cannot suppress her smile.
"I will most certainly make good use of these." Already, she can imagine a hundred ways to do so-- Kent will certainly be among the first to find a sampling of her newest experiments. "Thank you, Sir Kent... Happy holidays."
‧ ₊˚ @peerlessscowl asked:
His fingers tapped at the wood of the box gently. He'd been standing just at the end of the hall for a few minutes now, considering the thing in his hands in silence - Raven was sure that he was drawing looks by his presence here, so long without moving, but it wasn't the eyes of outsiders that drew him short. It was the pair of eyes that waited for him. Or might have, if he'd announced his coming. He hadn't forgotten, how could he have, and despite the fact that she had not forgotten him, either, there was that part of him that wavered, that shadowed corner of his heart that might have pressed that she was better off if he left her be. To her new life, her new friends. Her new family. Raven frowned, tipping the lid of the box open just so with one finger, letting it clap shut before it could reveal its contents. He hadn't kept much, hadn't the time to grab all that he'd wanted, but what he did have in his possession was priceless, one of a kind in his heart if not in reality. He took the final strides to her room, knocked once - too brisk - then another, softer, before he took a breath and tried the door. "Priscilla." His greeting was more curt than he meant it, and for a moment he couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes, keeping his focus on the box in his hands before, finally, raising his head to meet her gaze. "I...I'm not sure if you remember," remembered, as he did, the long nights before the hearth, the roaring fire that served as backdrop for their father's favorite stories, "but I've...kept some things. I wanted you to have this." He extended his arm, holding the box for her to take, the motion tender and vulnerable, as if he were offering her a piece of his body, not merely a small, inornate wooden box, its varnish long stripped from handling. If Priscilla were to take the box, she might notice the small key that protrudes from one side - it is a music box. If she turns the key and opens the lid, she will hear what might have been a very familiar lullaby.
She would never dare to admit such a selfish thing, and yet in all of the days leading up to this one, Priscilla has not been able to shake the thought of what her brother would do.
Would he greet her first thing in the morning? Would he give her a gift, perhaps accompany her to dinner? Had he thought about it every year the same as she had his?
Or had he forgotten-- would she meet his gaze across the dining hall and see nothing different than any other morning?
Priscilla tells herself that it doesn't matter. She could hardly blame him, had he truly forgotten. His being alive was a gift enough, every moment at his side worth more to her than any silly birthday present could ever be.
Her thumb and index finger turn a tarnished ring around once, thrice-- over and over and over. She lays flat on a still-made bed, watching the ceiling as she mulls over the same thought.
It doesn't matter. It will be fine.
The knock at her door sends her scrambling to her feet, that chorus in her mind immediately forgotten. She smooths her wrinkled skirt, tucks the ring on its chain back beneath the collar of her shirt, and watches the door as though she is afraid she might have imagined the sound.
When it opens-- when she sees him-- suddenly the world has never been brighter.
Gently, she accepts his offering. It trades hands so slowly, so carefully, that Priscilla has to remind herself to breathe once its weight has settled fully upon her own. Her eyes don't move from it, wide with awe. For a moment she is a girl no taller than her father's knee, her life is still one bright canvas instead of its pieced together remains.
"I... How could I ever forget..?"
As though in a daze, she steps to her bedside table. The little box is lowered carefully and Priscilla sinks to her knees before it, never once looking away as she turns the key and raises its top.
When next she turns to look at her brother, tears have already begun their descent upon her cheeks. She stands slowly, hands trembling at her sides, and seems to falter a moment.
But only a moment, for in the next she has flung her arms around her brother's shoulders, face buried in the collar of his shirt. It is a rush of emotion she has swallowed since they reunited, broken free from the carefully protected cage of her chest.
Through tears, she manages only three words for the thousands gone unsaid.
"Thank you, Raymond."
‧ ₊˚ @liegebound asked:
“ Ah! Lady Priscilla, I have been searching for you, ” Kent greets the noblewoman, approaching her until he is an arm's length away from her and then performs a bow. He raises his head soon after, eager to not waste her time. “ If I had more culinary skills, I would have given you something in equal trade to the dessert you had made me last time, but alas, I could never hope to compare. But even if I cannot gift you something sweet, I would like to celebrate your birthday with something along the same lines. ” It is then that he holds out a small box for her to take. Within it were a pair of earrings shaped like strawberries. They were far from any expensive affair, lacking gemstones and being of a small enough size as to be nothing more than studs, easily obscured by even her own hair length, but he had found the design cute, the price within his own budget, and the presentation overall not too ostentatious. After all, he wasn't here to be making a statement or anything— perish the thought! “ If you do not like them, I hope they can serve their purpose in regifting. I am sure you might wish to network whilst you are here. ” Ever the practical man, he rattles his points off behind his choice of gift one by one. “ But I had hoped to pick something that might not get in the way of your work, whether that be on the battlefield or in your daily life, whilst also not clashing with your typical wardrobe color palette-wise. ” But maybe it still did clash. After all, she was an Etrurian noblewoman, the capitol of arts and fashion as Elibe knew it. It might seem beneath her to own, much less wear, a pair such as these. But he still gifted them. But he also prepares for the worst. “ In any case, happy birthday, Lady Priscilla. May your day fare well. ”
He greets her with a formality that, slowly, is growing foreign. In a world where her name means precious little more than the work that she does, Priscilla has found that she hardly minds the absence of her old status.
Of course, to Kent she is still the daughter of Count Caerleon. Just the same, he is a knight in her eyes regardless of where they now stand. She supposes it is only fair that she not deny him this-- a little lingering remnant of their lives before.
"That you remembered at all is a gift enough," she replies, offering him a smile as the box is lifted from his palm. It settles in her own, considered for hardly a moment before she thumbs the lid open.
He is already speaking again; already anticipating her discontent, explaining himself before she can ask. Priscilla does not look up at him as she sets the box down and frees one of the little earrings, hums softly as she fastens it to her ear and then moves to do the same with its mirror.
When finally her gaze turns upon him once more her lips are drawn in a smile, fingers holding her hair from her ear so that he may see his gift. "What do you think?"
She has no need for a mirror, places no priority on seeing them herself. They could be anything at all, it matters not. They are a gift, and so she will cherish them. ( And it is fortunate that these suit her tastes perfectly-- she could not find a complaint if she tried. )
"They are perfect... Perhaps new favorites." The lid is resituated upon its box, slipped easily into her skirts' pocket. "Thank you very much."
( She will have to find the time to bake something for him again in return... )
‧ ₊˚ @reverenceofmacedon asked:
Her visage is ruby and emerald and alabaster: these many colors familiar to him ; they relay of ruby Macedon, its emerald mountains just ere where their rock pierced earth, and its dominion upon white skies of fluffed clouds and glittering sunshine ( how fitting, for her impression is glittering and charming akin to fluffed clouds. ) “Lady Priscilla,” With whom he had outlasted death and learned again the cleric’s benignity ( and thought fond is the memory, the baritone of his voice persists to rumble. ) “For you.” Her gift: six tassels, two of each colors reflective of her ruby-emerald-alabaster visage. Oft, it was amicable of a flier to decorate their bridle and saddle with such, pampering their steed as one would a child. Who would deny a renewal in attire? Most certainly not a vain stallion. “It is commonplace from whence I hail to spoil one’s steed. I found that the Pegasi fliers of my kingdom oft had woven ribbons and braids to their bridles and saddles. Be it whether you flock to the skies or remain earth-bound, you may use these for your steed. . . Happy birthday.”
The familiar face softens her expression into a smile. Priscilla blinks up at him for a moment before turning her gaze to her hands. They rest delicately in her palm, silk glittering in the morning's light.
"Oh... these are lovely..."
A thumb brushes gentle over strands as though they are made of porcelain, no touch quite delicate enough. Admiration sparkles in the emerald of her eyes, raising to find the man's face before her.
"I can hardly accept such a beautiful gift," her head shakes, though her smile remains, "but I know my mare will be pleased."
With hands trained in caring for even the most fragile of things, Priscilla curls her fingers around the tassels and holds them to her chest. With the opposite hand she tucks stray strands of russet behind her ear.
"Truly... I cannot thank you enough."
cracked looking glass
Days pass and the strange tears in the sky have not yet closed up. In fact, they seem to be growing larger, or maybe your mind is playing tricks on you. When you find yourself with a free day, you decide to gather a reliable companion or two to climb the tallest point you can find and try to get a better look at what lies on the other side. (starter for @amiterum)
"You don't have to go up there."
It had been impossible not to follow when Priscilla had announced her intention to investigate the tears in the sky. Raven, for his part, had been less interested in them – more than enough going on at ground level – but when she moved, he followed, hovering a few steps back despite the purpose in her step.
It had crossed his mind to attempt to dissuade her entirely, but he could hear the rebuttal of every objection he might have had, and simply resigned himself to ensuring that whatever threats there might have been beyond the tears, or anywhere along the way, they didn't get anywhere near his baby sister.
Their height, however, was one thing that he could not mitigate. Despite that he had been gifted a new wyvern from one of the recent clutches, it was but a babe, lanky joints and spindly wings, and certainly not strong enough to bear his weight alone, let alone with Priscilla alongside him.
Which left climbing. He had put his foot down when her eyes trailed to a high spire in the cathedral, but trees were something that they were well acquainted with – though he supposed even as a child, she had not been so hardy as to reach the top.
His hands came up to hover as she moved, and he sighed.
Eventually, he gestured. "There. Put your foot on that branch there. I'll come up behind you. To keep you from falling."
It has been a lifetime since last she did something of this nature.
Soft fingers scrape on bark as she clings to a trunk, feeling around with one boot. It wedges itself clumsily between two limbs. Priscilla exhales through her nose, but the crease between her brows only deepens with her determination.
She would prove that she hadn't lost her touch-- or what little of a touch she had once possessed. Trees were a thing of familiarity. Scaling them, on the other hand...
But she is less feeble now than she had been in the halls of her childhood home. Her hand reaches, closing carefully around a branch as though willing it to be generous in supporting her weight.
It snaps, thudding dully against the grass beneath them.
"I will be fine," she replies, though about as sure as the branch that she dusts the remains of from her palm. There are two factors to her determination. The first: curiosity. Such fascinating things were practically made to be investigated, and though she is uncertain what will come of this, at the very least she can say that she tried.
The second: she has something to prove.
Not that Raymond would ever ask her to-- in fact, he had quite plainly done the opposite-- but there is a part of her that wishes so terribly to show to him how she has grown. To prove that she does not need his protection; that he can lean on her, too.
Which she is doing something of a terrible job at, as she narrowly misses the next branch for which she reaches, slipping only enough to feel the ghosts of her brother's hands before she catches herself.
With only the quietest of defeated sighs, Priscilla slots her foot where she is instructed. "You really do not have to..."
She pauses. There is no point in acting childishly when trying to prove herself to be otherwise. "...I appreciate it."
gofannon's gay baby jail - team 13 gold round
With the young canary now free to spread her wings, Sonya soon takes back to the skies, surprisingly adept at steering the path of her pegasi's trajectory. She had absorbed a bit from the glimpses she had gotten of the Whitewings on the battlefield, but has quickly come to learn that it was simply a matter of the wind.
Gliding with the currents, and following their flow. Not so different from controlling a gust of powerful wind magic.
The beating of pegasus wings mercifully spares her from the sand blowing about in the air, but it does nothing for the searing sun beating down on her back. At least with her magic, she could find a way to cool herself... no such luxury here, alas.
Eyes scan the battlefield below—Arval fights the lancer, and Valter fells the axeman in a particularly gruesome blow. That leaves a lone mercenary who decides to lunge for Arval (no doubt terrified of the man who had just let his wyvern tear into their comrade), with the lancer joining in soon after.
Sonya lingers in the air and waits a moment, to gauge if the other needed her help. But the fellow was resilient. Despite facing attacks from multiple fronts, they seemed to be holding up well in the onslaught.
As for the monster...
A luminous coating shimmers across its body, and although it manages to recover from Caspar's hit, wings beating powerfully as it lifts back up into the skies, the beast makes no moves to retaliate or attack. Odd. Unless...?
Gofannon’s (2/10) barrier is now removed. All its attacks are now automatic critical hits.
It was preparing for something.
Hand reaches for the other lance strapped to her belt, this one slightly lighter than the Brave Lance she'd used before. Gripping it by its shaft, Sonya lifts the lance, slowly rearing her arm back in a throwing motion; gaze centers on the beast, her senses focused on the wind currents rushing along her skin.
Perhaps it was time she took a page out of a certain blue boy's impulsive book.
Sonya (10/10) crits Gofannon (2/10) with Gradivus (Range) [Roll: 18 - 2 = 16; -8 + 0.5 def = -7.5HP, Gofannon 0/10] Gofannon is defeated!
With all the force she can muster, Sonya chucks her lance through the air. Weapon soars on the winds, and the shimmering barrier around the bird disperses—almost as if welcoming her attack—just as the tip of the spear comes to pierce its chest.
Whatever it had been about to do is long forgotten, for the beast reels back with an ear-piercing shriek, wings flapping wildly as it falls to the sands in a deafening crash. She stares for a moment, in slight disbelief. That was...
Far too easy. "...One down, it seems?"
Timid fingers curl around those offered to her. Priscilla's eyes are wide, blinking up at the woman with something that can only be considered awe. She supposes that they are even now, recalls the weight of her body and the pull of a raging ocean.
"I... thank you..."
Delicately, she steps free of the cage's bars. Her gaze does not fall so easily from her savior, nor does her touch. She is beautiful, though this fact is not news at all. Priscilla had marveled at her strength, her elegance.
Now, she stands in awe of her confidence. How she is positively radiant with it. Even as Priscilla's hand slips away, falling dumbly back to her side, she cannot shake her own admiration.
But her saint cannot remain at her side. It would be a waste of her skill, something proven only a handful of moments later as the winged creature that had named itself their enemy hits the ground with a hard crash.
There is quiet for a moment. In the absence of the monster's great wingbeats, they are all thinking the same thing. It cannot be over, surely. It could not have been so simple.
But two foes still stand, and the desert shows no sign of disappearing. Priscilla gathers a handful of white ruffles, hoisting her skirts out of the way. This battlefield had not handed her a weapon before now, and with a determined breath, Priscilla wills herself to make use of it.
Even if it's... a candle. And she's in a... wedding dress?
That can be worried about later.
(Priscilla 9/10) hits Sreng Lancer (10/10) with Candlelight [Roll: 12; -2.5, Sreng Lancer 7.5/10] Sreng Lancer (9/10) and Sreng Mercenary (9/10) are inflicted with Bind until the end of PP2
Light dances from her hand, winding like a rope around the arms of their foes. One of them grunts, the other lunges for her.
Sreng Lancer (9/10) counterattacks with Blessed Lance [Roll: 3; Miss!]
His blade arcs past her, nothing more than a whisper of wind upon her cheek, but Priscilla staggers backwards and out of his reach regardless.
gofannon's gay baby jail - team 13 gold round
The world seems to cut them off, whispers fading to silence. There is nothing for a moment, neither thrum of victory nor ache of defeat. They linger in a place between success and failure, the illusion around them dwelling upon their fate.
And when it decides, bathing the room in a flash of brilliant white that gives way to howling desert winds, Priscilla is given not even a moment to think.
Talons grasp her shoulders, plucking her from the ground with ease. Priscilla shrieks, panic seizing her every instinct. She does not thrash, does not fight to be released -- a fall from this high would surely kill her quicker than this... thing.
Surely.
Fate seems to pity her at least a little bit, though, for the beast shows no interest in tearing her limb from limb. Instead, it drops her rather haphazardly into a metal cage.
She hits the ground with a hard thud and a mess of white skirts, glancing upwards just in time to watch as a door slams shut.
Priscilla (10/10) is captured by Gofannon and placed in the Cage (5/5) !
Fingers curl around bars, but they show no willingness to give. Lips pressed into a determined line, Priscilla shoves against them a second time, a third.
Nothing. She sinks back to her knees with a defeated sigh. From here she can be no help at all, nothing but a bird in its cage, forced to watch the world go on without it.
@berglietz @knighteclipsed @laruarva @excalibris
is it really pvp if they are fake - team 13 silver round
Three more heads; the halberdier had thick skin—the kind Valter would rather save for later in the match—but the swordswoman looked much easier. Whatever her purpose, it leaned more on the supportive side, and that was a capability he would prefer removed as soon as possible.
Valter attacks Mimic: Dancer with Brave Axe! [d20 Rolls]: 16 + 0 = 16. Hit! 6 + 0 = 6. Miss! Mimic: Dancer HP: 6/10
Dull eyes track her with ease, and the first swing lands true to aim; the second, she is more alert, adroitly stepping out of harm’s way. (These illusions seemed to have that ability when the real ones did not.) A light riposte—
Mimic: Dancer counters with Levin Sword! [d20 Roll]: 11 + 0 = 11. Hit! Valter HP: 3/10
—though apathy loses track of the electrical properties, allowing a jolt to pass through the Moonstone’s body. He brushes it off, unamused, leaving the most of the effort to his naturally built up resistance. (It was paramount, after all, as one who rode a wyvern to prepare defenses against his natural enemy: mages.)
Axe returns to its resting place, grip readjusted for whatever combat may come his way next. (That was his singular focus; let the battle be over with already.) Three more heads and then—a reprieve.
No sooner would it come, and no later.
@amiterum
The world seems to stop then, as they fall. As their voice turns hoarse, their breaths ragged and uneven.
Try not to take any of our demises too much to heart.
Priscilla is moving before she can think, propelling her blindly past ally and enemy alike. Her fingers are trembling, eyes wide as she kneels before the broken body of the person kind enough to reassure her.
She will not fail them, too.
Hands hesitate to even reach, to touch bones so frail and broken. She knows they cannot feel this pain any longer, knows her touch cannot possibly cause any more harm than they have endured already, but Priscilla hesitates regardless.
Eyes flutter shut, hands folding delicately over the place where their heart has gone still. She exhales, feels familiar warmth spread from her chest to her fingertips, murmurs words of prayer, of desperation.
Priscilla (5/10) uses Quint’s Essence and revives Arval (10/10)
She's scared to look at what has become of the body beneath her, terrified to open her eyes to see it lifeless still. Light seeps through her eyelids, burns her hands. "Please," her voice shakes, "be alright-"
And when the light has faded, when she dares to look once more upon the face of her friend, her expression turns soft with relief.
"Your time has not come just yet," her hands retreat, shy, "thank you... for returning to us."
is it really pvp if they are fake - team 13 silver round
Arval's warnings go largely unheard, drowned out by the rush of adrenaline at the sight of vines lashing at their limbs. Caspar rushes toward his classmate and friend (how could he not consider them a friend after all of this?), one arm outstretched and ready to drag them out of danger once more. His double seems to be of the same mind with the way it charges in as well—if not for the way it readies the weapon in its grasp. It misses, thanks to the deft motions of Arval's wyvern mount, but when it turns in the sky it's the real Caspar that Arval bears down on with their axe. "Whoa, whoa, you've got the wrong one!" Caspar raises his lance in preparation to deflect the blow, but Arval swings wide. The tip of his blade shallowly cuts through skin he never intended to pierce.
Caspar (9.5/10) counterattacks (barely hits) with Harmony Lance [Roll: 7-2 = 5; -1.5HP, Arval 5.5/10] Caspar heals +1.5 from Harmony Lance [Caspar 10/10]
Arval's vitality flows through the lance's handle and up through Caspar's arms, soothing the superficial scrapes across them. Through the relief, guilt drops in the pit of his stomach. "Hold on, I'll still get you out of there! I'll just…I'll…" Bright eyes scan the field, tracking the flow of the vines toward its source: the monstrous deer with the boy's face. He's no gardener, but he imagines if there's a problem plant, uprooting it is always an option. Spear at the ready, he drives forward with a focus—one that is strong enough to remain unbroken by interruptions from his "teammate" this time.
Valter (2.5/10) attacks Cervid Husk (9/10) with Backup [-1HP, Cervid Husk 8/10] Caspar (10/10) crits Cervid Husk (8/10) with Harmony Lance [Roll: nat20, -5HP, Cervid Husk 3**/10] Cervid Husk 3/10** cannot counterattack with its current weapon
The lance strikes deep. Caspar yanks the weapon free, and the creature lets out a sharp bleating scream, beastly but with an alarmingly human-like undertone. He winces. A glance toward Arval shows white still muddled with tangling green. "Hold on, just a little more! I'm sure of it!" His gaze flits between his entangled companion and the agonized monster before him as he speaks.
This time there is no sea to assault her in the stead of her enemies. She would have preferred it if she is quite honest, for even as the face of her attacker blurs in a way that is inhuman, she still knows the features that belong there-- the name of their owner.
Mimic: Wyvern Rider targets Priscilla with Blinkers! Mimic: Wyvern Rider hits Priscilla with Vengeance [Roll: 19+8 = 27; -3 HP, Priscilla 7/10] Priscilla cannot counter. Priscilla is damaged by Trample! [-2HP; Priscilla 5/10]
She can do nothing more than accept the attack, gasping as an axe's blade carves into her, as wyvern talons grab and scrape against her skin. The attack leaves her trembling, robes stained with blood that her own magic cannot dry.
But it can do so for others, and so with shaking hands she raises her staff yet again.
Priscilla (5/10) heals Valter (2.5/10) with Recover [Roll: 18; +8 HP, Valter 10/10]
This time, too, she can see the evidence of her work in all of a moment. Priscilla's shoulders sag with relief.
is it really pvp if they are fake - team 13 silver round
There is a period of time, however brief, in which Valter watches over his own body, dead on the floor. It is perfect in its stillness, silent in its demise. He pauses to make sure it will not rise again.
When it does not—only then—does his attention divert back to the rest of their opponents. None of the other illusions had been yet harmed, and that husk of a boy still stood unscathed. His calmness continues, however, melting into the natural rhythm of the battlefield. In the ebb and flow of that dance, there is an opening and Valter seizes it.
And the boy complains—again, unsurprisingly. What’s most baffling about it (but still expected) is how he shouts out in turn, only confirming the presence of the two of them in the awareness of the antlered monster. Where Valter’s axe had cut through, the younger boy’s lance didn’t even come close.
“ I distracted you? That shouldn’t have even been a surprise, ” Valter huffs. “ If you had any degree of spatial awareness, you would’ve noticed me coming at least three seconds in advance—more than enough time to register what was going on and comply. ”
Ear hears the assassin’s words—or, he supposes ‘assassin’ isn’t quite the accurate term anymore. Still, he ponders her words all the same, and he decides to take on the challenge.
After all, it is just a hunt—(it even had antlers to match)—and when faced with unfamiliar prey, a hunter does not back down. Eyes pin down its present location, predictions made accordingly:
Valter attacks Cervid Husk with Brave Axe (Monster Breaker)! [d20 Rolls]: 5 - 8 = -3. Miss! 11 - 8 = 3. Miss! Cervid Husk HP: 9/10**
The first is far off; the second closer, but not enough. The deer-like monstrosity ducks and dodges with grace, hiding itself away again in the midst of the other illusions.
Moonstone clicks his tongue distastefully.
Cervid Husk counters with Antler Gore! [d20 Roll]: 20 + 0 = 20. Crit! Valter HP: 5/10
And so it retaliates with staggering force. Even as he turns immediately to locate it again, the creature is gone, already moved on to its next position.
This was no easy hunt. (Then again, Valter preferred it this way.)
“ If there is to be a decent chance of eliminating this thing, ” he announces, eyes still devoted to their task, “ it’d be best to be rid of these accursed illusions—they only serve to hinder us. ”
(And in removing the husk’s natural habitat, they would force it into the daylight.) It would have nowhere left to hide then, forced to bare its horns against the golden Sun.
@amiterum
For the second time now, the world seems to move around her without her say-so. Battle wastes no time in beginning, her allies pouring forward without hesitation towards their enemies.
Enemies that make Priscilla's stomach churn, for she recognizes them all and yet they are strangers. There is the boy-- Caspar-- and the other who had reassured her, flanked by that strange man and the lovely woman. They belonged on her side of the field, and yet these were not them at all.
She knows, because cowering behind them all is none other than herself.
Priscilla forces herself to look away, though the abomination that stands at the center of it all is one perhaps worse than the faceless imitations of her allies. She swallows.
Once more weaponless in the face of the battlefield ( a fact she is nothing but grateful for, knowing she would tremble to raise one against those who she is meant to consider teammates ) Priscilla flexes her fingers around her staff. She prays her healing will be enough this time where it was not last.
Priscilla (10/10) heals , Arval (4/10) with Recover [Roll: 15; +8 HP, Arval 10/10]
She ducks beneath the shadow of wyvern wings, raising her hands and shutting her eyes. The prayer is silent, but evidently fruitful, for when she steps back she can see no evidence of the battle upon Arval's pale skin.
A quiet breath of relief, though she knows it will not last.
‧ ₊˚ @berglietz asked:
The girl had been a blur of red hair and priestly robes in the distance for most of the battle. Now that he has the chance to see her more clearly, it's the earthy green of her eyes and the delicate feather in her hair that catches his attention. He smiles. "That flash of light back there…you're a healer, right? Or you were assigned as one for this training bout, at least." He can't help but to be glad he wasn't saddled with it. It had been disheartening enough to be stranded on the seas with a short-reaching weapon; to be stuck with no weapon at all would have been that much worse. "It's not an easy job. I have a friend who complains about it a lot." He laughs brightly. "He complains about a lot of stuff, though." His head tilts suddenly as a thought jolts through him: he hasn't even introduced himself! "Oops, sorry! Started running my mouth before I even told you my name. I'm Caspar. Nice to properly meet ya!"
He is far more boyish up close than she remembers him being at such a distance, though it is impossible to ignore now. She dips her head in a small nod, returning his smile.
"Yes, both in and out of this arena." She imagines their last fight would make her out to be quite the lousy one, but the boy says nothing of the sort. Something that she considers herself rather fortunate for.
Her smile is unmoving as he continues to speak. If anything, it grows with the sound of his laughter. "It is a rather difficult task, yes, but so is that of a fighter." She cannot imagine the bravery it takes to endure such things as they. " And your friend sounds like quite the interesting character."
Hand to her lips, Priscilla giggles. "My name is Priscilla, I am honored to fight at your side."
‧ ₊˚ @laruarva asked:
Admittedly, Arval had seen rather little of her. Glimpses whilst they circled on their wyvern beside, they’d spent most of their time submerged and swatting at those rancid little creatures. Still, they’d caught sight of her staff and she certainly could fit the descriptor of saint. “Healing duty, hmm? Try not to take any of our demises too much to heart, they’re hardly permanent.” Whilst yes it was incredibly unpleasant, there was no residue in their lungs and no physical lasting consequences. They did not know her enough to tell if she was the self critical type, but they knew it was never pleasant to have the weight of someone’s life in one’s hands. “Anyway, I believe we’ve never crossed paths before. You may call me Arval. What do you like to be called?”
It is nice to see them somewhere other than the sky or sea, to be able to discern the white of their hair from the porcelain of their skin. Priscilla offers a small smile in greeting.
"Oh, yes. It is the one I am most fond of. Violence and fighting are..." She shakes her head once. They are not something she has known anyone to enjoy, really, but herself least of all. "But thank you. It is not an easy thing to remember."
A quiet sigh. She knows she could have done precious little to better their odds, but even still...
"My name is Priscilla," a welcome distraction, her smile returns, "it is a pleasure to call myself your ally."
under the sea — team 13 bronze round
Perhaps it was one, maybe two, beats of leathery wings before Arval felt the frigid embrace of water enveloping them once more. They ought to have felt more prepared the second time, with their clothes still waterlogged from the last plunge. Yet they had learned nothing but how to cling to support that was no longer there.
Sophrosyne uses Crashing Waves! Arval : -5 HP (1/10 + DROWNING)
It was only due to their menagerie of past unpleasant experiences they did not become immediately panicked when the world around them became endless waters. At least they had the reassurance in this gauntlet that no harm was permanent. Breath held this time, they took the second to try scan the waters for the, hopefully still conscious, bodies of any of their allies.
The fright set in, sharp along their nerves, when they realised they were alone. There was no Caspar to grasp with thin fingers, no tresses of purple nor red to make out amongst the endless dark, no estranged knight with bloodlust to at least send a sidelong glare for getting them trapped beneath the waves again.
Sophi 3 (0.5/3) misses, hits Arval (1/10) with Bite [Roll 1 - 2 = -1, 15 - 2 = 13, Miss, -0.5 HP, Arval 0.5/10]
Boot met scaled snout, diverting it's bite to miss and land aimless in deep waters. For a second, Arval thought it might have been enough to push themself up, to break the surface of toiling waters, but the second snap of maws found flesh and jerked them deeper, farther from the light.
The bite had stung, a sensation too sudden to stop the slight inhale, and the water flooding their throat. The armour may well have been shackles, with how it added a weight to a struggle they had no hope of winning.
It was helpless, the sink, and the faint feeling of déjà vu was pushed far from the front of their thoughts. Not here.
However, they really ought to learn to swim once this event came to a close.
Arval (0.5/10) is Drowning! -1 HP (Arval 0/10)
It was not peaceful and it was not quick. Pressure threatened to collapse their lungs and the depths drew darker still. Arval did not like the way it burned, smouldering despite how the cause of this agony was water of all things.
At some point there became a pounding in their ears, at some point their line of thought turned to garbled strings long past their understanding. Arval did make out one thought at least, and one they'd reflect on in the weeks to come.
Of what calamity lay in those tears in the sky, for the church to decree training such as this?
Arval has been defeated!
She hasn't the time to do anything more, to heal a single other soul in this merciless sea. Waves send her boat thrashing about within them, knocking her against its walls like nothing more than a doll.
Sophrosyne (6/20) uses Crushing Waves! [Roll: 4+2, 2+2, 3+2, 3+2] Priscilla: -6HP (3/10 + DROWNING)
Priscilla gasps as her back knocks against hard wood, stealing breath straight from her lungs. Her eyes are only just reopening as a wave crests over her, as the boat flips and her world is submerged in inky black.
Her staff is forgotten immediately, left to sink to depths that she cannot even imagine. As she flails, struggling to swim out from beneath the hulking thing above her, she forces herself to remember that this is not real. She will not die here.
But the burning in her lungs is, the way her robes seem to grow only heavier the harder she thrashes is.
The will of her body wins, gasping for air she cannot reach. Water pours into her mouth, the ache of her limbs becomes too great.
As the light above her grows dimmer and dimmer, Priscilla can only pray that this violence will end here.
Priscilla (0.5/10) is DROWNING! -1HP (Priscilla 0/10) Priscilla has been defeated!
/fin.
under the sea — team 13 bronze round
One moment, Arval was circling their group as the pegasus knight lunged in his assault. The next, they were drowning.
Sophrosyne uses Crashing Waves! Arval : -3 HP (7/10 + DROWNING)
It was freezing, stomach churning and familiar in ways they did not, would not, remember. Their scaled companion had crashed astray from them, leaving them at the mercy of toiling waters and nothing but instinct to keep them afloat. That instinct failed them in an instant, in their naïve panic gasping for a breath that only brought a new wave of suffering.
Sophi 2 (2/3) hits and hits Arval (7/10) with Bite [Roll: 17 - 3= 14, 14 - 3 = 11, -1 HP, Arval 6/10] Arval is Drowning and cannot counterattack!
Each bite plunged them deeper, salt water burning along the torn flesh. Between the sear in their lungs and the flail of unexperienced limbs helpless against the sea, the kick aimed in rebuttal was scarcely a hinder to that foul snapping thing.
Time dragged as the world blurred, the depths were dark but there were now shadows crawling across squinted vision, a steady pounding in their skull and-
At first, Arval had thought that little demon had returned to shred the rest of them. But the hold on their wrist dragged them up, and the blur above them was too large for those shelled atrocities. Surface was soon broken, now no longer submerged the roar of the waters around them pulsed in tune with the pressure behind their skull. The scramble to find purchase on the wood was far from elegant, but Arval did not care as long as they were stable.
Between hacking the salt water from battered lungs, they squinted and blinked till the figure came clear enough to recognise. Oh, of course it was Caspar after Arval told him to not leave his boat. They attempted an unamused look at his little comment, but the tugging at their lips soon won, irony and relief too strong to dampen the curl of their lips.
"I suppose you're exempt from scolding, just this once. Don't start getting any ideas." The rasp of a laugh in return got caught in their front, lungs still reeling from the waterlog. It was instinctual to immediately grasp the other to steady themself whilst they coughed between stuttered breaths, but it hardly made the act any less embarrassing. "But thank you, I owe you my gratitude."
A moment of peace was far too much to ask for, as the chattering of a bloodthirsty maw withered their smile to a scowl. It had washed out purple smeared along it's jaw, glistening where it got streaked between scale.
If fate would be kind to them, Caspar would not notice that same smudge along shredded fabric as the gleam of metal snuffed out it's nasty little existence.
Arval (6/10) attacks Sophi 2 (3/3) with Flaming Axe [Roll : 20 + 4 = 24, Crit! Sophi 2 0/3] Sophi 2 as been defeated!
The unpleasant little thing became kindle and soon became ash. The axe was rolled in their palm, mood lightening instantly at the realisation the water hadn't tempered the axe's heat. On unsteady limbs they balanced, as wyvern returned to rider, having now recovered from her own plunge into the depths.
Too much is happening, all too fast and too hard to keep straight with the ocean's wrath around them. Their other fallen teammate is pulled from the waves and Priscilla breathes her relief.
They're all breathing. Mostly, at least. She is perhaps the best off of them all at the moment, blissfully untouched by anything other than salt water. It means she can help, at the very least.
Beside her, the woman she had rescued has wasted no time at all in resuming the fight. Priscilla scrambles for her staff, scooping it from the floor of their little boat. She should do the same-- they need her, after all.
Eyes scan body after body. She'll have to prioritize the worst off of them, which is fairly easy to determine. How he has managed to keep hold of his pegasus all this while, Priscilla is unsure. The creatures flock to him with a ravenous kind of anger, and though each is knocked away with relative ease, they fall with streams of crimson in their wake.
"Please... hold on-!!"
Priscilla (9/10) heals Valter (2.5/10) with Recover [Roll: 4; +5HP, Valter 7.5/10]
The light from her staff is weak, but it is light. She raises it in both hands, willing it to reach far enough to mend the man's wounds. Of all the times to find her magic escapes her...
As the light fades, her hands lowering just in time to steady herself in the face of another wave, Priscilla can only hope that it has done enough.
@knighteclipsed
under the sea — team 13 bronze round
Vast, open seas covered by greater, wider skies—the ocean rests; a calm lull broken only by the flapping of wings both feathered and scaled. In his grip, there is a lance—his preference—humming with the familiar tune of destruction.
Thus began Valter’s third encounter with this sort of event—though the first had not been church-sanctioned and the second was… less than savory. For the third time, he is placed into an arena alongside a motley group of companions—assassin, swordsman, wyvern rider, priest—with which he was to claim victory.
Their monster rises, emerging from the waves first as a hazy silhouette and then a tangible, killable thing.
“ With the way that you fight, ” Valter shouts down from his perch, “ and your attitude regarding the whole thing, I imagine she’s quite justified to call you a child. ” (He was a flailing thing, scarcely able to hit what was right in front of him—further, he lacked the patience to try again with intellect.)
Not that Valter considered the course of action to be the best to begin—their foe was right before them, and the smaller children were, at best, mere distractions from the true battle to be had. Focus falls over the Moonstone, a confidence placed in his steed (recognized from the stables and past endeavors).
“ Don’t bother with the small fish. There’s a much greater battle to be had with the main course. ”
Backup (Caspar) activates! Sophrosyne HP: 18/20
“ Like so. ”
Valter attacks Sophrosyne with Devil Lance! [d20 Roll]: 18 - 6 = 12. Crit! [d4 Roll]: 3. The Immovable does not proc! Sophrosyne HP: 14/20
And he dives—lance strikes true, piercing through solid shell where the assassin’s blade had scarcely scratched it. A cry bubbles to the surface as the creature reveals itself in full, sending great waves their direction:
Sophrosyne uses Crushing Waves! [d4 Roll]: 1. Valter HP: 9/10
Valter pitches upwards, scarcely feeling the impact—but it was close, he could tell. This was what he was looking for.
“ Just as I had expected! ” (Speed is utilized—he strikes again.)
Valter doubles! [d20 Roll]: 18 + 0 = 18. Crit! [d4 Roll]: 3. The Immovable does not proc! Sophrosyne HP: 10/20
It’s even easier the second time, what with the monster already exposed. There is no monumental crashing of waves here though, which almost inclines Valter to strike again—poke the giant until something else happens.
His weapon calls otherwise.
Valter takes recoil from Devil Lance! [d3 Roll]: 1. Valter HP: 5/10
A sudden spiking sharpness shoots through his arm overwhelming, breaking his flow and leading to the next logical course of action—to fall back, in case of a more dangerous retaliation. (Further, to make the reception of healing less difficult, should the priestess decide so.)
He glances back at his comrades, a snarky exclamation already forming—
…
“ Are you all drowning? ” (He nearly bites his tongue off trying to hold in his laughter—the goodness of the skies means his wide smile is obscured.)
“ You know, I’ll give you credit where it’s due, ” the general remarks from above. “ Though you may be a child ”—(words are directed to the little boy with the sword)—“ you stand better than that assassin. That child who was airborne with me also. ” (Now that was hilarious.)
“ Keep it up, and perhaps you may yet graduate from childhood! ”
@amiterum
Blue seawater churns around her, spraying at her skirts and rocking the little boat upon which she stands. Priscilla clutches a staff to her chest, watching wide-eyed as, all around her, allies pour attacks upon a monster at their center.
She is unarmed-- a fact that is somehow equally as concerning as it is relieving. Never has she been a violent woman, and never has she had any inclination to change such a thing.
But here, helpless in a sea swimming with monsters, Priscilla thinks it might have been nice to at least have the option of self defense.
Her companions make themselves known, not a single one familiar. Two are airborne-- impossible to make out as waves toss her little boat about-- and the other two, a boy with eyes to rival the waters and a woman with hair like amaranth, seem to be in similar situations to hers.
Well, with weapons anyway. And the ability to properly do something with them.
There's the sound of high wind, and Priscilla looks up just in time to watch as the pegasus-mounted ally dives for their enemy. Time freezes then, for a moment, nothing but an echoing cry and then-
Sophrosyne uses Crushing Waves! Priscilla: -1HP (9/10)
Priscilla gasps as a wave knocks into her boat, water crashing inside of it. Her balance is forfeit, leaving her clinging to its wooden edge. She can do nothing against the creature itself, but neither can she simply sit here and wait to die.
She has to help. She has t- "H-Hold on!"
From above the waves she can see the struggling figure of that petal-haired woman. Priscilla leans over the boat's edge, reaching out towards her. It's a desperate attempt-- she is hardly strong enough to keep herself on the boat, let alone haul up somebody else-- but she has to try.
Priscilla (10/10) attempts to save Sonya (6/10) from Drowning: [Roll: 4, 4, 3, 2] Success! Sonya (6/10) is no longer Drowning!
But her meager strength is enough. Even as she topples back against the far side of the boat, chest heaving and eyes wide, water up to her wrists, there is no shortage of relief in her expression.
