hello all! kensa here! this is just a post to say that as of may 23rd, 2024, this account has been archived. it has taken me almost a year and a half to work up the courage to write this final post, and here we finally are.
toa was a wonderful experience. i will always look back fondly on the memories I was able to make there, and the skills I was able to hone as a writer. while I made many mistakes which I will forever be sorry for, I am grateful for my experience within the group, as it has allowed me to grow into a far better person than I ever was before.
if you want to contact me for any reason, feel free to add me on discord (@/nimine54). i am always open to dms, be it to discuss anything that happened, or to start anew.
“No.” Deirdre hides any gentle softness in her voice as best she can. It is not easy for her to sound stern but she must try.
“He is not my student. He is so very much more than that.” Her fingers play with the large diamond that adorns her left hand. He would know what to say, how to stop Morgan’s questioning without him suspecting anything deeper. But Deirdre has never been able to keep her heart off of her sleeve and she knows she has surely already said too much. “Julius is my son. So, you see, you would be much better off asking one of his friends.”
She does not know if her son, her darling little prince, even has friends. As much as she so desperately desires to run to him and embrace him, she keeps her distance and simply watches. She has yet to catch him laughing in a group or seeking the same person out over and over. It worries her. But at least, it seems, Morgan must truly care for him.
“It would embarrass him, I think, if he were to learn that you came to his mother for this. He is that age, after all.” If Naga were feeling merciful, perhaps that would be enough to dissuade Morgan.
A pout at her final answer. No? Even after all this groveling? What did Morgan have to do to get some information around here?
And then Deirdre drops the bomb. Morgan stares, processing in silence for a few moments. She was his mother? Even looking so young? Pregnancy must have been kind to her—or, timelines were crossed, as happens so often. Too often.
“Huh,” comes his response. “Well. ... Huh.”
Leaning back in his seat, Morgan crosses his arms over his chest and regards Deirdre in a bit of a new light. His head tilts, pondering.
“... Well, okay, then you should definitely tell me everything you know. It’s moms’ jobs to embarrass their kids. At least, my mother makes it her job to do that to me.”
“I have not a clue.” Hands tense in front of him, a hex bursts out of burning fingers, and vines disintegrate in the air, purple and charred. “But I do know that we’ll be fighting for our lives either way. Don’t let your fear get the best of you.”
Though Hubert’s efforts have been no less than strenuous and spirited, he’s managed to allay his anxieties about the situation. If the world decides to outsmart him and strike his earthly body down, he’ll accept that fate. But Hubert’s always prided himself on his wits, and the world hasn’t proven itself smart enough to take him just yet.
Morgan leads the two of them down a narrow, ruined corridor, dark stone climbing above them and casting a shadow over the passageway. Hubert is not one to distrust Morgan, but the dark path sends a shiver through Hubert’s bones, questioning whether or not the boy had made a sound decision. Their footsteps echo, prominent and piercing like bells in the dead of night as they race forward, running away from the threat of nothing, yet to turn into something. The click of their heels and the huff of their breaths amplifies the feeling that they must hurry—even Hubert is not immune to the foreboding threat of darkness and the mysteries it conceals in its black veils.
Though, the corridor doesn’t seem to stop. They run and run and run, but it stretches forth, ever ceaseless. Hubert, damning his poor physical health, must slow to a jog. Morgan races onward, failing to notice Hubert falling behind for a brief moment. Hubert wants to call out, tell Morgan to wait, but he’s tired. If this hallway doesn’t end soon, he fears they may need to break out of it some other way before Hubert keels over and passes out from exhaustion. Excessive spellcasting, he can endure. But long-distance running? A death sentence.
Hubert watches as Morgan slips farther into the shadows, and he can only heave breath after grounding breath as he does. However, Hubert realizes in a painful instant how dreadful this mistake would be.
From the black void of ruined shadows, an ear-splitting scream penetrates the corridor, alerting Hubert that Morgan had been attacked.
A small exhale through his nose, almost like a laugh; he chooses not to comment. Hubert knew little of his life, what he'd been through—there was nothing here that he hadn't faced before. If Morgan could face god and win, he surely could find his way out of a maze. He did it just last week, after all...!
Fingertips drag against the wall, tracing the grooves and moss that were their own decoration. It was damp and cold, and certainly unsettling, but the earthly nature of the maze was somewhat of a comfort. It wasn't glowing prisons or futuristic machinery—this was something they could handle.
All too quickly, Morgan finds himself alone. His footsteps pause, hand falling back to his side.
"Hubert?"
A small flame flickers to life in his palm. Morgan raises his fire out in front of him, but the Eagle was long gone; panic settles quickly into his throat. "Hubert?" he asks again, to no response.
Before he can take a step back in the direction he came, something sharp pierces through the fabric of his uniform and the hoodie underneath, right into his skin.
Morgan screams.
Truthfully, it’s more from shock and fright than pain; although the teeth that tear into him are sharp, they do far more damage to his uniform than his actual skin. Morgan pulls out of the beast’s grasp, whirling around to face his enemy.
A plant-like creature stood tall before him. It resembled a venus flytrap, with a gaping maw at its head that snarled viciously at the mage, salivating with something that certainly smelled dangerous. The stem connecting it to the ground was littered with thorns, a purplish hue at the tips; instinctively, Morgan wondered if touching one would poison him.
His shoulder stings with the telltale sign of poison—something he was becoming accustomed to, much to his chagrin. Grimacing, he stumbles backward, out of the plant-beast’s reach. One hand comes up to grip at his wound, while the other squeezes the hilt of his sword in reassurance. It should die if he just cuts through its root, right?
And so he does: his first utilization of the Levin sword, and it’s not even for magic. With a shaky horizontal slash, Morgan severs the monster from the ground. A liquid akin to the one dripping from its mouth spurts from the root; the moss and vines it sprays onto shrivel and wither away.
With a relieved sigh, mage relaxes, leaning against the nearest wall for support. Now, just to get back to Hubert—
The thing wasn’t dead.
And now it was squirming across the ground at a rapid pace.
Morgan turns on his heel and runs. “Burn it, burn it, burn it!!”
“I’m not quite sure what you consider ‘long’ then,” Linhardt sighs to himself, “but suit yourself.” Perhaps he was just that certain he’d seen a fairy — that’s fine. Lin wouldn’t judge.
The other confirms his hearing — there was water nearby. He thinks to stand up and see for himself, but before the choice is even given to him, Morgan drags him to his feet (the sudden action catches Lin off-guard, causing him to somewhat stumble into Morgan’s arms).
Linhardt half expects them to tumble down some random hill, but they thankfully(?) meet solid ground, with Lin standing up to find the very thing they were looking for:
Fairies. And oh, so many of them.
Faint lights blink enchantingly in and out of existence, both near and far. When Linhardt reaches out to touch one, it flutters away before he can get too close. It was mesmerizing.
I have so much to write about.
The thought comes to him and leaves his lips at the same time, but he pays it no mind— there were fairies here. That was much more worthy of his attention at the moment.
Stepping forward, the animals nearby continue with their business, displaying neither fear nor hostility — the serenity of the area was too perfect (too still) for one to be perturbed. If Lin were to describe the sensation of being there, he’d have to say he felt like a fairy tale princess.
He pulls out a notebook and quill and begins to jot it all down, paying no heed to his surroundings.
After untangling themselves, both mages had very different objectives: Linhardt immediately began to rummage through his bag to scrawl away notes, but Morgan slowly picks himself up and begins a slow pace towards the fairies, eager to see one up-close.
The little lights soon began to take legitimate shape. With each new step, Morgan (even in his nearsightedness) was soon able to make out paper-thin wings, tiny limbs, pointed ears and elegant faces. Their light reflected in amber eyes; Morgan was mesmerized.
The fairy frolic backs away after noticing the mage’s approach, but one winged light seems curious. She nears close enough that Morgan can see her eyes, wide with wonder, just like his own; her laughter sounds like a ringing bell, louder and louder as she closed in.
Interest piqued, the fairy flits around Morgan’s body, purplish hue following her like a light trail. Morgan feels his fatigue trickle out of his body like water down a leaf; the fairy lands to touch her tiny hands to mage’s nose, and with the gentlest butterfly kiss, his life was restored.
All the while, another fairy found herself curious of the other human—the one more concerned with his notes than their fountain. With her tiny arms crossed, she settles herself down right in the center of Linhardt’s notebook, ceasing his notes lest he write across her delicate body.
“I think they like us,” Morgan laughs, a certain breathlessness to his voice. “Doesn’t it feel amazing here?”
There’s been word of crumbling ruins, remnants of an old town and its gravesite becoming overgrown with strange greenery. Beautiful though its blooms may be, superstition and old maid’s tales have painted it as a beautifully haunting omen for a disaster to come. To that effect, the neighboring villages are too afraid to venture and clear it up, avoiding any and all routes that might cross it, and so have pleaded for aid from every passerby willing to help. As you enter the mouth of the ruins to dispel their needless fears, however, you find that these are no mere ruins. The vines close the entryway from which you came, and, looking ahead, you find that the ruins are, in fact, a huge maze. To make matters worse, the vines that now prevent you from leaving don’t seem to be content to stop there. All around you, the labyrinth shifts and changes; the walls move, the plants snake and snap. You and your companion must hack and cut your way through and find a way out, lest you intend to bury yourselves in a grave that never needs to beg for flowers. [Grants Sword +1]
“We’ve been here.” Despite the maze’s shifting nature, it never moved any marks made or added to its walls (so far). Bare fingers trace over a blackened stone, evidence of Morgan’s fire. “We turned right, and ended up back here.”
To their left, the path quickly succumbs to shadow despite the dim light emanating from above. Morgan had no intention of getting lost in the dark, especially not after what a good decision splitting up was during the mission. Lesson learned.
“Want to try straight on?” Chin juts forward to emphasize his point. “That looks far more hopeful than any other option.”
The journey thus far had been relatively silent. Although their current situation mirrored the one that had endured only days ago, neither party was keen on bringing it up; it wasn’t something they wanted to relive. Constant reminders walked with them whether they liked it or not, with phantom whispers tugging at the mage’s mind—and perhaps a nail or two missing from Leif’s hands.
The zig-zag sword clutched tight at his side was just another reminder of everything he did wrong between the pages. Morgan wouldn’t allow himself to be put in that situation again, unarmed, ignorant, wanting to be the hero. A glance at Leif—a real hero—and he exhales slowly through his nose.
“Are you... doing alright?” he asks eventually, but it remains unclear in what context he was referring.
Dee. The professor tilts her head with a smile. “It has been so very long since anyone has called me Dee.” Sigurd had been the only person to ever call her by a shortened form of her name. Though her heart aches for her first love to hear it said again, Deirdre thinks she likes it. She certainly won’t stop him.
Her steps are light and airy as she approaches her desk, thoughts of Sigurd floating in her brain. But she stops the moment she hears the name of Morgan’s intended recipient for his bracelet.
Quickly she busies herself with one of the many bouquets of flowers decorating her office, hiding her face behind the blooms of the blue forget-me-nots and red camellias. She only knows of one Julius here at this academy. Her Julius. Her darling, beloved son. Had he spoken of her to Morgan? Is that why he came here to ask her for advice?
She dares not get her hopes up.
“I have not known Julius since he was just a little boy,” Deirdre admits as she finally takes a seat at her desk. Delicate fingers pick up the colors he has set aside and a weak smile forms on her lips. “We often dressed him in these colors but I always found it sweet if we all were to match. I do not know if he prefers them, especially now. But, Morgan, I do not think I am the person you should ask for help.”
“Well, I hope it’s not a problem, then!” His grin stretches from ear to ear, but he quickly schools his expression into a more serious one as he speaks again, “But, if it is, I won’t say it again. I mean no disrespect.”
Amber latches onto slender digits, observing how carefully Deirdre handles the crimson twists of string. “You knew him when he was young? Damn shame you don’t know his favorite colors now—what were they when he was a kid?”
Back to the matter at hand. Morgan turns his gaze up once more to catch her eye and taps his fingers along the braided piles. “I don’t know why you’d say that,” a brow raised. “He’s your student, and you’re pretty involved with your students and their likes and dislikes ‘n stuff. I mean, you gave me that cool rock that one time when I said I’d had a bad day, and you remembered my favorite author and brought it up in conversation multiple times, even though I only mentioned them, like, once to you before. You’re observant! So.”
He leans forward, elbows propped against the desk and chin resting on steepled fingers, eyebrows wiggling. “I need the dirt. I need you to tell me everything you can so I can make Julius a sick bracelet that he’d really enjoy. I know you have info, Professor.”
Friendship bracelets are making a resurgence, but this time, lance wielders are tying them to the shafts of their weapons to show off their popularity. Join the cool kids and decorate your lance with some sick new threads. [Grants Lance +1]
Morgan had not been on her roster the first time he showed up to Deirdre’s class. She felt terribly awful that the registrar had left him out but, of course, welcomed him to join. He’s become a delightful presence in her lectures and his enthusiasm to learn has helped her confidence grow in this new path her life has taken. The Golden Deer student has made himself so comfortable in her class that Deirdre fully believes him to be one of her own Black Eagles.
His visits to her office happen enough that she is not surprised to see him sitting across from her desk. In fact, she is quite delighted. Too often she finds herself alone now left with nothing but memories of her past for company. There had once been a time where she would have given almost anything for even just one hint of what her life had been like before. Now there are times the feelings of loss and loneliness are so strong she wishes, if only for a moment, that someone might steal it all away from her again.
What does surprise the new professor is the array of colorful strings now strewn about her desk.
“Good afternoon, Morgan. What is it you are working on?”
@amnesiac-pawn
The fact of the matter was such: outside of class, the monastery got pretty boring. Sure, Morgan could read or train at any time to fill his days, but he could never deny the need to spend time with friends. And, with so many of his friends having such vastly different schedules, Morgan often found himself alone. And bored. Bored and alone.
The simplest solution would be to simply take more classes to fill his schedule, but that came with piles and piles of extra work for every class he might join. While he loved the environment, he wasn’t as fond of the homework. But maybe if the teachers just looked the other way...
And so his plan came to be: attend class, but don’t actually sign up for one. There were only a few professors he’d dare to pull such a stunt with (gods know Hanneman would force him to do double the work of the other students, or something equally as painful). Where better to while away his time than in a magic course? There was always more to learn! (Even if he could probably teach the class himself.)
The first time he wormed his way into Professor Deirdre’s class, he wasn’t sure it would work. Deirdre was kind, but he was sure that she would gently escort him out upon realizing his name wasn’t on her roster. At the beginning of class, however, she only gave him a kind smile and noted something down—he would later find this to be his name added to the end of her student registry. No questions asked. And she didn’t check homework.
The first time he wormed his way into Professor Deirdre’s office, he knew he had a friend. She no longer raised a brow at seeing him relaxed on the other side of her desk, flipping through notes or bent over a book, waiting for her arrival. His questions were never about class or her teachings, but her day, her life, her story. She was his friend! That he was sure of.
“Afternoon, Professor Dee! I need your help with something.” Straight to the point today, it seemed. Morgan gestures to the array of colored string in his collection, and then again to a smaller pile consisting of reds, golds, and blacks.
“I’m making a bracelet for someone, but I’m having a little trouble deciding on colors, or even what pattern I should make. See, it’s for Julius, and he doesn’t seem the type to wear a friendship bracelet, but he does seem the type to accept any and all gifts on the face of the earth. Do you have any thoughts?”
Finally turning his gaze up to the other, Morgan wears a small pout. “I want him to like it, y’know?”
There’s been word of crumbling ruins, remnants of an old town and its gravesite becoming overgrown with strange greenery. Beautiful though its blooms may be, superstition and old maid’s tales have painted it as a beautifully haunting omen for a disaster to come. To that effect, the neighboring villages are too afraid to venture and clear it up, avoiding any and all routes that might cross it, and so have pleaded for aid from every passerby willing to help. As you enter the mouth of the ruins to dispel their needless fears, however, you find that these are no mere ruins. The vines close the entryway from which you came, and, looking ahead, you find that the ruins are, in fact, a huge maze. To make matters worse, the vines that now prevent you from leaving don’t seem to be content to stop there. All around you, the labyrinth shifts and changes; the walls move, the plants snake and snap. You and your companion must hack and cut your way through and find a way out, lest you intend to bury yourselves in a grave that never needs to beg for flowers. [Grants Sword +1]
Fingers shake around the hilt of a zig-zag blade, a weapon more for intimidation and to be used from afar than to cut through enemies ahead. The vines that trapped them reacted as just: sharpened though the Levin may be, the plants laughed at his attempts to shirk them away. Every strike, every stroke, was an act of pure force and control; sweat beads at his brow. His sigh is shuddering.
It was too alike the forest he escaped from only days before. At every corner, Morgan expected to see a beast of rot and ruin, mire dripping from maw and death at its claws. A fox spirit’s laugh echoes in his ear, but his only companion was the shadow at his heel.
“We’ve been here,” he breaks the accustomed silence. “I marked this—see the singes?” The blackened edges were fresh, only fifteen minutes old from when Morgan had sizzled the vines between his fingers. The maze could shift, but for now, seemed to be giving the duo a break.
“If we go left, we’ll circle around again.” Levin sword points right, where Morgan takes the lead. “Let’s try this way.”
He finds comfort in Hubert’s presence. It’s a quiet reassurance: he wasn’t alone, and there were no spirits whispering in his mind now to goad him into tragedy. Hubert would act as an anchor whether the Eagle realized it or not.
“What do you suspect is at the end of this thing?” he asks, knowing they both had an inkling of something grave. Perhaps their own.
It couldn’t actually be possible to be this. lost. (Could it?) Last Lin remembers, he and Morgan had just left the monastery and — oh, another blue mushroom. He hadn’t seen that one before.
“Seems to me like we’re making progress?” he remarks, trying to fix up his mental map of the area (they really should’ve gotten a map first). He winces slightly at Morgan’s remark. “Well, it’s a different shade of blue this time. Before it was slightly darker—” (or maybe his eyes were just tired?) He shakes his head. “Just trust me!”
And the conversation dissolves — just like that — as Morgan suddenly draws attention to…
Something, probably. But to Linhardt? It’s just the woods.
“Perhaps your eyes are the ones needing to be checked,” he comments, turning his companion’s words against him. Was such an action wise knowing what Morgan was capable of? Perhaps not, but they were still classmates.
The boy lays his back against a tree, sliding onto the ground to rest. All that walking had been very exhausting, and if they really weren’t making any progress, it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick break.
“I’m going to sit here for a bit. You can go follow your ‘floating light’ if you please (or better yet, take a break with me. I think we’ve both earned it).”
A wave of lethargy then washes over him, and Linhardt has half a mind to fall asleep, hardly paying any attention to whatever his companion may or may not be saying. The ambience was perfect for it after all: comfortably warm air, a gentle breeze, and the sound of … water. He opens an eye.
“Hang on a second…” It’s not raining at the moment, and Linhardt doesn’t remember this forest having any rivers (they weren’t that far off course, were they?), so—
Perhaps Morgan’s eyes don’t need fixing, after all—
While Morgan would never openly attack a classmate (except for maybe Cynthia or Inigo, but they don’t count), he was seriously considering lighting a fire under Linhardt’s butt to get him to move. Metaphorically, of course. With an exasperated and strangled noise, mage watches in vain as his friend sinks down to the forest floor.
“Lin,” he presses, more a whine than a demand. “We haven’t been walking that long. You really need a break?”
There wasn’t any chance that he was going to leave Linhardt alone. That was just begging for something terrible to happen—look what happened during the mission. Morgan learned his lesson. Just as he moves to sit down, however, Linhardt speaks once more.
Silence falls between them, and then it hits him: water. Water!
Without waiting for further response, mage bends down to take the other’s hands and hauls him back to his feet. “See? See? The fairies have to be close by! Like, in... a spring, or... something!”
Despite their revelation, Linhardt was as dense as ever. Perhaps in an attempt to get back to the ground for a nap, Morgan finds a ragdoll in his arms. Linhardt’s sudden weight causes him to stumble, dragging the duo off the path and flop right down into nearby shrubbery.
“Oh, ow!” he whines once more, rubbing his abused bottom. “Alright, come on, get up. You’re crushing mmmmmoooooohhhh, hey!”
Despite their fumble, they discovered the source of the water: in front of them, hidden before by the greenery, was a small spring of pure water and beautiful flora. Forest creatures lap at its water, only gazing up in deference at the duo’s arrival; the normally-timid animals were unafraid in this sacred spot.
The same floating lights from before dotted the spring, flitting in and out of sight with gentle blue and pink hues.
“Is that...?” Morgan begins, but the question falls into the empty air as it answers itself. It was.
Friendship bracelets are making a resurgence, but this time, lance wielders are tying them to the shafts of their weapons to show off their popularity. Join the cool kids and decorate your lance with some sick new threads. [Grants Lance +1]
honestly, it’s genius. she doesn’t know how she didn’t think of it herself! well, actually she does know how. friendship bracelets were usually something that was pretty special. they were called friendship bracelets for a reason. she felt like that was kind of obvious in the name, right? she only made them for her friends. now, cynthia had a lot of friends but not all of them were bracelet-level friends and then she had some bracelet friends who didn’t like wearing bracelets, so that just kind of defeated the purpose—anyway, the point was that cynthia had a lot of friendship bracelet making skill that had gone unused and unused for too long, she should say!
but as it turns out, it’s a new kinda fashion thing. everyone was learning how to make friendship bracelets now. sure, it was for lances which honestly she thought was kinda stupid. ‘cause it was like, hello? those could get caught on things when you’re stabbing someone or, like, what if a monster’s yucky blood got on it? then it was all over!
but, that’s why she’s making them in bulk ‘cause then people can replace them for when their old stuff got worn down.
wiggling her fingers and cracking her neck, cynthia turns her head in morgan’s direction as she turns from one friendship bracelet to the next.
pegasus knight loops a mishapen charm onto the end of one and cynthia tugs the string tight into a loop before she holds it up for the mage to see. “okay, so i’ve got six alms done and then six celicas done.” she chirps, grinning from ear to ear as she gestures to the orange-red and white friendship bracelets in one hand with a crudely drawn illustration of the valentian queen’s face and the green and white one with the king’s face also likewise drawn.
“this is so great, morgy! everyone can get their favorite king or queen as a fun charm on their lances. at this rate, we’ll be able to expand to swords and knives and … and swords … and knives …” pause.
“… and lances! i think these’ll be in big demand!”
@amnesiac-pawn, get our con table ready!
When discussing the mass-creation of bracelets and charms with Cynthia, he didn’t imagine it’d explode into something like this. Well, actually, that’s a little bit of a lie, because Cynthia’s mantra was go big or go home, and this was definitely big and they were definitely not home.
Students poked their heads in here and there while they worked, oooing and aaaing at their brightly-colored trinkets. Morgan both loved it and was a little annoyed by it, because it was good advertising and people were definitely telling their friends, but, hey, they weren’t done yet!
“I’ve goooot... one, two, threefourfivesix... nine Marths done,” he taps each bracelet as he counts across a neat line. “And six Kris’s, but some of them are kinda guy-ish, and some of them are kinda girl-ish, ‘cause that’s just what I was feeling in the moment. Both are cute, though, I think.”
Leaning over, Morgan takes in Cynthia’s work with an appreciative gaze. “I like the Celica ones! Do you think it’d be mean if I had just a Celica, but no Alm?”
Without waiting for a response, he pockets one of each charm. “Are we charging for these? ... Are you gonna charge me? Cause I’m kinda broke right now, not gonna lie.”
“Hmm, yes… You have a point.” Merric agrees to the observation, a hint of a sigh audible through his words. There probably isn’t much, anyway - what are they supposed to do, sneak out and warn the noble, and possibly ruin things for everyone involved? The Mage is, quite frankly, happy to drop this thought in favor of something he feels far more knowledgeable with.
The discovery of a vacant, unused office behind the next door opens up the opportunity for a comfortable chat; sitting down in one of the chairs and inviting Morgan to do the same, Merric analyzes briefly the previously posed question in his head.
“It’s just tomes and staves, yeah. I did not really consider separation to types such as Fire, Wind, Thunder, Light and Dark before coming to Fódlan for studies. I mean -” he chuckles “- you’d end up with maybe two spells per category if you did that, is that really worth doing?… Besides, we only recently invented Shaver - it’s… a bit like Fódlan’s Cutting Gale - so until then, you’d only have Excalibur for a Wind spell, and Archanea’s Excalibur only accepts one wielder at a time…”
He pauses to think back to what Morgan had mentioned a bit earlier. “Dark magic is not considered a separate category, either. Outside of the twisted miscreant that is Imhullu, any Mage with enough experience could wield a spell such as Swarm. It’s all, just… If you cast it from a book, it’s a tome. If you cast it from a staff, it’s a staff. Some spells have limitations - Aura and Excalibur only have one chosen wielder at a time, Nosferatu can only be used by women… But that’s about it.”
Leaning forward to let his chin rest on his hands, he gives Morgan a smile. “I take it that the system you know is more advanced than that?”
Mage balks. Every word Merric speaks is like a scream of blasphemy in Morgan’s face. By the time his friend asks his next question, Morgan can only stare in profound disbelief, eyebrows thrown up nearly off his forehead.
“Two spells?” he parrots, incredulity marking his tone. “My first spell was Fire, but aside from that, there's numerous different levels of the spell: Elfire, Arcfire, Bolganone—my favorite, by the way—and even beyond that, there's Valflame, Dying Blaze, Micaiah's Pyre...” he trails off, recalling his companion—that last spell was aptly named indeed.
“In Ylisse, anyone can learn Excalibur, provided they’re skilled enough. And Nosferatu—hah! Imagine that, a silly little spell being sexist!”
Well, if Falchion could show its disdain for women, surely a spell could, as well?
“I was taught that magic is fundamentally different depending on its category. In terms of Fodlan’s system, black magic and dark magic pull power from within the user; it’s the mage’s inner strength that fuels their spells. Faith, on the other hand, pulls power from an outer being—in many cases, it’s belief in Fodlan’s Goddess, or whatever other deity, that gives light to these spells. No pun intended.
“Healing takes it a step farther,” he continues. “It’s something I’ve never quite figured out. I can cast spells all day, but any sort of healing? Slips through my fingers. Except for Nosferatu, which is an anomaly in and of itself, because I learned it as dark magic, but others classify it as light, which I infamously struggle with, and so there most definitely exists a train of thought that the only thing limiting a mage’s power is themselves and what they think they’re capable of—”
He pauses mid-ramble, straightening out a little as he realizes he’d been speaking nearly fast enough for the other to lose his words. With a sheepish smile, he shrugs.
“Or so my studies have shown. Who’s to say for sure what’s true?”
Linhardt had known well enough that the monastery had its fair share of secrets — it was part of the monastery’s appeal after all, — but through all his searching, he had never once heard of something like this.
“Have you heard?” one student would whisper to another. “There are fairies in the woods nearby! If you catch one, it might save your life down the line!”
“You don’t seriously believe that, do you?” another one would respond. “When I looked, I didn’t find anything!”
“Perhaps you weren’t looking hard enough, ‘cause I totally caught a glimpse!”
And just as the conversation got interesting, they would fall out of earshot. Linhardt didn’t bother to follow — what was the point? It’s just a rumor after all…
Except that it seems Morgan had overhead it as well, and the two — perhaps merely by coincidence, perhaps in silent agreement — exchange a glance.
“Well, normally, I’d be taking a nap after class, but…,” — it’d be a lie to say Linhardt wasn’t at least somewhat interested in investigating it for himself, — “I’ll admit, it does seem at least a bit worthwhile.” He shrugs. “Why not?”
(The ‘why not’ was that the two, not even 15 minutes into their endeavor, promptly got utterly and completely lost.)
Fairies. Now, here was a story! After the stunt he pulled in the forest—a wince comes to at the memory, mage instinctively rubbing down his thankfully-not-still-broken legs—a companion that would heal you at near-death was certainly welcomed.
“Well, just to make sure you don’t get lost dozing off, I’ll accompany you.” A grin stretches across his face. “And I’ll make sure we get back home before bedtime.”
The forest had other plans. Trees and brush twist around them, turning the path around from what they once saw; it was not unlike the shifting greens of the quiet wood they traversed only days before.
“No, I swear we’ve already passed that mushroom. It’s blue. I’m pretty sure I would remember a blue mushroom.”
Morgan’s face contorts in displeasure as he whips his head over to face his companion. With his hands on his hips and his cheeks tinted red in a mix of flustered anger, he made quite the picture of someone very upset for being very lost.
“You got us lost since we ran off the path to chase some light! Did you even see a real fairy, or do you need to get your eyes check—by the gods!!”
Anger fades like water down a leaf. Morgan shoves past Linhardt, pointing excitedly in the direction behind the sleepy mage.
“Did you see that?! I saw this— this— floating light!!”
The forest twisted and wound without sense. Flowers and long grass dimpled what had once been a path, but the flattened nature of the greenery showed how animals still took this trail somewhere.
A powder-furred rabbit-like hops in front of strangers, pausing only to stare up at them for a few fateful seconds. A face like an owl’s tilts unnaturally, laurel ears twitching in the slight forest breeze.
Morgan lets out but a breath and the creature flees in the opposite direction, its gentle luminescent glow following after.
A glance exchanged between partners; mage regards queen with something between curiosity and awe. No words shared, but the phrase breathes: this place is enchanted.
Together, they forge on, fingertips tracing against wisps of long grass. A sort of twinkling guides their way, the same that the rumors had mentioned: through the shimmering bramble, there lives a Great Fairy...
The path eventually opens into a small clearing, hidden on nearly all sides by a wall of earth that grew tall into mountains and cliffs. Wild flowers and herbs dotted the edge of the meadow, blooming and ripe. At the center, a massive thorned bulb crying danger. A bridge of giant flat-topped mushrooms created a pedestal leading upward.
Once more, Morgan and Celica exchange a glance. Hesitant, Morgan steps forward, one foot after the other, until his boots brushed against the first bright mushroom.
When he reaches the top of the platform, there is silence. Weight shifts from one foot to the other, and back again; something had to happen, right? Right?
“Maybe we should—” his attempt is cut off.
“BOY.”
A hand larger than Morgan’s torso erupts from the cactus bloom. Morgan yelps, stumbling back a step and falling flat to his behind, as elegant fingers gesture impatiently.
“Sweet children... Please, listen to my story.”
“Um, okay, uh, sure!” The hand reaches further to stroke a delicately manicured nail down his cheek; mage squeaks. But, was it better him than Celica? Or would this gigantic hand have treated the Valentian differently? (No, probably not.)
“This place was once a beautiful spring. But as time passed, fewer and fewer travelers arrived to offer me gold. As a result, my power has abandoned me. I'm nearly powerless now, so I beg your help. I need gold to become whole again.”
Morgan blinks and looks between the hand and behind him at his companion.
“Potential vessels?” Julius glances toward Morgan again with interest, but a line still marks a place between his eyebrows. Intrigue, perhaps, or concern that there would be others like himself - human skin in which gods could dwell. But to admit to that characteristic would be to admit that he possesses no innate traits of note, so Julius holds his tongue from drawing a comparison. Instead, he listens to Morgan’s explanation with an attentiveness reserved only for those he considers worth his time.
He’s still contemplating by the time Morgan finishes, expression inanimate and uncharacteristically neutral. Consciousness brushes similarities but dares not touch them. He could not be as worthless and disdained as that. He was made for godhood. The whole world would throw itself at his feet.
Julius scoffs and breaks himself free of his reverie. “It would be difficult to beat a story as pathetic as yours.” His smirk returns, a mask to hide behind. “I have my pick of anyone and anything. If I speak it, it will be so.”
He was destined for greatness. All the people in the world would bow their heads to him. That was what his brand meant. Had meant. That was what he had been told.
By the same man who had lied to and manipulated his father.
Julius frowns and shuts out the thought, instead sitting back on his heels to soak up Morgan’s praise as he tries the cake he had offered. “Only quality of the highest degree will satisfy my standards, of course.”
Perhaps there was some timeline where potential lost its inconclusiveness. He didn’t want to think about it farther than that.
“Pathetic?” he laughs. “Yeah, well—yeah!” It was, wasn’t it? “Maybe you can speak a less-pathetic story for me into reality or something.”
It’s unusual to find himself relaxed in the face of such a topic, but perhaps this was a sign that it wasn’t taboo to speak of it in the first place. Morgan smiles around his fork, free hand raising to cover his mouth as he chews thoughtfully.
“Absolutely. Next time, let me cover the sweets, eh? I know my way around the confectioneries pretty well. It’s my turn to treat you!”
awaiting them at journey’s end, eternal mourning for this land
avemaera:
Fighting against the toll of his wounds, Arvis can not even bear the weight of his own body and struggles, still crumpled over. It is then that a soft melody finds his ears, flooding his mind and body with memories of warmth and halcyon days. Visions of a familiar smile and voice find him again after years of abandonment, in what he can only assume is the fire of his life snuffing out.
“Mother…”
He whispers, but the battle unfolding comes quickly back into focus. The gentle touch he imagined he finds is that of his fellow professor, and he meets his regard with bleary, glazed over eyes. It is not just his health Lucius restores, as immediately after the man’s own pact-spirit blocks the onslaught from the soldier.
Arvis stands on shaky legs, and a twinge of pain still pinches his chest, but he lives. “Thank you,” He murmurs to Lucius, before channeling his unadulterated magic into the clouds.
Askr calls upon Avlitís. Avlitís casts That On the Lotus Leaves Water Rests. 1d20 roll: 14. (+4HP to all allies) Arvis’ HP: 7/10.
Comrades waste no time in setting forth. Attack after attack comes clean, Morgan watching with a certain awe in his eyes; his allies’ battle prowess always made him feel proud to fight at their side.
Inspired, Morgan and his newly-rediscovered magic turns upon the enemy. He feels the earth rise and rumble at his fingertips, so far from the rot he once spread. Cracks and fissures tear into the ground, zig-zagging from his feet—
—right in-between the stance of each potential victim. A strangled noise escapes him: “oh, really?!”
Dominoes fall one-by-one at the hands of the others. Morgan lets out a sigh of relief as those visibly wounded are healed without question, others supported without needing to ask; this was what made him keep going. Teamwork. Camaraderie. It was something found in only two places: war or the academy.
He lifts his hands once more, earth and rot dancing between his fingertips. This time, his magic obeys.
[ Morgan attacks Melanthios for 1.5 HP! Melanthios HP: 11.5/14. ]
Melanthios seethes as the ground rises to destroy him, but not even the most powerful could oppose an earthquake. Mage smirks; it was better than his earlier start.
[ Morgan attacks Soldier B for .5 HP! Soldier B HP: 1/10. ]
The soldier stumbles but doesn’t fall; Morgan scowls, settling back with his weight on one foot and a displeased hum in his throat.
“Well, that won’t do. Just blow on him a little and he’s done for!”
That was new — just where exactly did that path come from?
“Hey, Daimon…,” Linhardt begins, looking to the spirit — or rather, where he expected the spirit to be, — but when he turns his head, the mischievous being is nowhere to be seen, no matter how and where he looks. It was… unsettling, to say the least, to find that his companion (however loosely the term applied) was missing, but more so Linhardt was concerned about what that could mean.
Surely, nothing bad is going to happen to us…, right?
“Uh…, Professor?” the scholar calls once the man in question seems to have finished tending to the child. “I hope this isn’t too alarming, but I don’t think Daimon’s here.”
“I‘m not sure when he left,” Linhardt admits, thinking back on their last interaction. “The way he spoke earlier sounded like he still meant to follow us, but…”
If Khalkós is now so certain that their objective is near completed, something must’ve happened just now (perhaps it has to do with Daimon’s disappearance?) such that she can clearly sense it. If the theory is further extrapolated from there, then perhaps Daimon was merely an obstacle in this mission all along (or even working to buy time…).
In all the time that Linhardt has known Daimon (which, admittedly, isn’t very long), the spirit has never once lied to him. Sure, he would dodge the truth on occasion or mock him and companions, but never did he lie.
Did he?
The foggy path through the jungle goes on for what feels like eternity, stretching as far as Lin can see and then some. At a certain point, Linhardt loses track of time, but the way the forest makes way for them (it’s similar to when they left Daimon’s tree, the woods opening a passage) seems to be enough to keep them from getting lost.
Perhaps it’s merely coincidence, but that thought is punctuated by the destination of their travels: another tree. The key difference, however, is the sheer size of the thing. Its limbs touch the sky and wrap themselves in the clouds, like icing delicately resting on a dessert, but it’s a treat gone stale.
From the roots upwards, an inky black substance stains the bark, the tree seeming less magnificent and more so decayed — mangled and maimed. Very little remains free from the rot it suffers — just a few green leaves out of the tens of thousands that have already blackened.
At Khalkós’ declaration, Linhardt’s stomach ties a knot in itself.
“This… this is what we’ve been looking for?”
@amnesiac-pawn
And at last, a friend: Morgan’s tears flow faster at the sight of Lucius. Though he had only been apart from Leif and Arvis for a short time, it felt as eons with how much has happened since then. Linhardt’s soft words reach him, but only barely; his own relief fills his ears and heart.
Lucius’s healing glow washes over him. For a moment, Morgan’s knees buckle as the bones in his legs knit back together and the bruises littering his body disappear without a trace. In a matter of seconds, mage was as healthy as he was the moment they stepped between the pages of this hell-book.
He sniffles. “I’m... thank you,” he says, voice laced with fatigue. “I feel fine, now. Thank you,” he addresses them both, mustering up the smallest of smiles, although it doesn’t reach his eyes.
Hesitantly, afraid of pain that wouldn’t come, Morgan steps closer to his professor. When lightning doesn’t rip across his legs, he steps again; a slight fumble, but Lucius catches his arm and steadies him, for which he mumbles another quiet gratitude. Finally, he wipes his eyes and dries his face, but with how tight his heart clenched inside his chest, he felt as though that menial action would be in vain soon enough.
Together, they carry on, neither Linhardt nor Lucius batting an eye to slow down when Morgan needed it. They offered gentle smiles and words of reassurance—and with his magic returned, he felt whole.
Even though so many questions remained yet unanswered.
They find themselves before a tree of rot and mire and Morgan knows this no longer was about the characters writ into paper. Exchanging glances with his companions, he speaks calmly:
There is a cold and measured distance in the way Leif thanks Arvis. No different than any other time the boy has addressed him, but somehow, this time stings where it didn’t before.
Did he expect gratitude? Not exactly. But the begrudging tone of a favor owed weighs upon his shoulders. As Leif pushes himself off the ground and away from Arvis, he feels oddly… dejected, and stands in place for a long while.
A glance is passed towards Dhanvi, and she calls for their return. The look is turned to Hushen, who pointedly returns it behind his fan. Arvis inhales, and finally drops his gaze to the herbs he so sought. Collecting handful after handful and stowing them into his satchel, before slowly following after the enigmatic merchant.
He lingers towards the back of the group as they cross through the underground tunnel again. …Was it not Dhanvi who first said they should leave Morgan behind? And now she was adamant about returning to him…? Arvis feels the merchant has had more to gain from this venture than merely gold or herbs, but what, he could not place. He leans towards his fox spirit, conspiring with him once more.
“Your Grace,” He whispers, “what did you mean before… about Morgan being cursed?”
‘There are stories told here about humans despised by the forest. That boy’s power to destroy trees could not possibly be anything but a curse.’
The man only hums in thought. Everything in this story was making less and less sense.
@amnesiac-pawn
// tw major injury
Vision swims with black and white; the foliage from above appears as little green fairies dancing in his eyes while the roots below are naught but snakes at his back, pressing roughly into his already beaten and battered body.
But he couldn’t fall here. Not when he had people waiting for him back home. Every little movement brings nothing but pain, but he manages to drag himself across the short distance to the grand tree at the center of the courtyard.
The voice that had been speaking in Morgan’s head now booms throughout the courtyard. It laughs as Morgan crawls toward the huge tree at the center, from which a dozen roots spread and entangle with plant and earth. "CURSED CHILD," Jurou finally says. "SEEKING TRUTH, LAY YOUR HANDS UPON THIS TREE AND RELEASE ME FROM THIS PRISON."
Cursed child. That’s what the book should have been called. Hand outstretched, Morgan presses a trembling palm to the base of the tree, fingers curling and sinking into the wood like sand. (It felt just as disgusting as before, but there was as little time to marvel at it now as there was then.)
Just as the tree in the forest had done, this mighty one dissolves with one touch, rotting until all that remains is a heavy box, wrapped in chains and paper seals. "GOOD," rumbles the voice. "NOW UNDO THESE SEALS AND YOU WILL HAVE BOTH TRUTH AND POWER AT YOUR FINGERTIPS."
The seals seemed almost familiar, like something Dhanvi would have scrawled together. The longer this went on, the more like a horrible idea it all felt, but it had to be worth it. For the truth. (For his power.)
Maybe it’d be enough to finally get home. (Everyone, or just him?)
Fingers drag down the box, over chain links and seals, washing away like footprints in sand. There is but a heartbeat that he gazes down at the box, now free, before the very soul is ripped from his being.
Jurou, now unleashed, moves from box to Morgan like a lightning strike, and when next he speaks, his voice echoes within Morgan's head.
"DESCENDENT OF WRETCHEDNESS, THOU SHALT NOT SULLY THIS LAND ANY LONGER. CONTEMPTIBLE WOMAN, DOST THOU SEE NOW THE RUINATION THOU HAST BROUGHT." This is a declaration of war. Morgan finds he can now stand, but not of his own will. It's like he's being puppeted.
And stand he does. Body jerks unnaturally, first sitting up and then rising awkwardly to its feet. Mouth opens in unaired agony, voice lost somewhere along with the rest of his hope. Reminded of a tale of a girl who gave up her voice to trade her sea-dwelling tail for land-faring legs, where every step she took felt as though walking across sharp knives, Morgan finds this to be far worse than that poor girl ever felt.
A seizing step forward. Another. Perhaps it would have been better to lose his legs altogether.
"Child," Jurou continues, now speaking to Morgan, voice without the vitriol of just seconds earlier. "Have you not questioned your curse?"
It’s near impossible to find his voice. “Yes,” he finally gasps, words wet even as throat is dry (howling does that to a man). “But I can’t do anything about it, so it’s not worth it.” Not worth wasting any more energy on things he could not control.
Jurou laughs, oblivious or ignorant to Morgan's pain. "You travel with the very one who gave it to you. Your ancestor. She goes by many names, but you know her as Dhanvi. Damned by her greed, her descendants now bear this curse." The laughter begins to settle again. "And she will be your death."
A story he has heard before. Had the Projectionist planned this? Was it their cruel idea of a joke to make him relive that which he has already fled from and faced again? Tears burn his cheeks for a different reason, now.
“What did she do?”
(Dhanvi? Or someone else?)
Jurou chuckles deeply, knowingly. "Human greed is rivaled only by its hubris. She stripped godhood from the divine to wear it for herself."
Amber gaze squeezes shut. Teeth clench tight, and while his hands ball into tight fists at his sides, opening them again reveals small flames flickering to life in his palms. The price for power.
Rustling above reaches faintly to his senses. Almost lost, Morgan looks upward as Jurou whispers one last command: “Do not speak of what has happened here.”
