ASTRA’S WIELDER.

this is the only way of life i know. / blue lions faculty at the officers academy.

[astrasword]

This is a closed roleplay blog for Ayra from Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War. Written by Rune (she/her, 25+). Re-established in February 2025. Affiliated with the Officers Academy as Blue Lions faculty. PSD, pinned & activity check.

muse. mun. stats. threads.

I ask that you kindly contact me if you want to continue an ask. This is so I know to expect a response and to keep my thread count manageable. If I refuse your request it's due to the latter, nothing personal. Thank you in advance for your understanding.

Notes on my portrayal.

Ayra is taken from post-canon, having died at Belhalla. Her body wasn't identified, which along with her skill led to rumors that she had survived. Aside from the game itself, I also take inspiration from Heroes, the Oosawa manga and the novelization.

She is currently a sword instructor for the Blue Lions House, known for being a strict and demanding teacher as well as for her unpredictable classes. That being said, learning under her is rewarding and she does care for her students.

New: She left her teaching position to go home to Isaach, where she spent nine months before the monastery's destruction motivated her to return and help rebuild.

She married Lex over the course of the game's events.

[renaisguy]

Trilemma Trickery

Axe +1

[lazulienne]

     Peering back through the sword corridor as Forde does, Lapis nods, understanding a bit better what kind of situation they're in now. Traps infest the 'wrong' answers, but if you can get past those, you still proceed on. And indeed, when Ayra shows up soon afterwards, not even a scratch on her, it fills the Brodian with relief.

“Glad you made it out OK, Ayra!” Lapis gives her genuine cheer. “You're just as tough as you say.”

It's impressive, really; maybe Ayra would've fit right in at Brodia! But there's no time to think about that, not when her two allies here are already focused on the next puzzle. Lapis turns her gaze up towards the wyvern and then the three doors beneath.

“Well, you can break a wyvern rider based on what they're wielding... but I don't think I can SEE that either...” Lapis humors Forde, trying to squint back at the statue. Even hopping up, trying to get a better angle, the idea eludes her.

“I guess between the three doors, bow sounds right, yeah! And if we're somehow wrong... well, dodging arrows is easier. Checking knives for poison...” Lapis grimaces before she shakes her head to dismiss the idea. “Wait up, Ayra! I'm heading with you!”

And with that, Lapis chases after the woman. But she takes one look back to Forde first.

“You coming too, Forde?”

NEXT: @renaisguy !!

[renaisguy]

When he sees the options on the doors, Forde nods. He barely takes a second look at the statue before following the others to the bow door, though he does glance at one of the others. “That’s meant to be a knife, is it? I thought it was just a small sword.” 

There’s no hesitation in this round, if you see a flying enemy you shoot it down, right? Right? So why, when they open the bow door so confidently, are they met with a flurry of arrows blocking their path? 

“What?” Forde’s eyes dart back and forth between the door they just went through, the others, and the trap that lies ahead. “Did we just get lucky the first time?” 

He sighs, there’s only one way forward. With good timing, skill, and a bit of luck, one should be able to get by without being hit- “Ow.” -without being hit too many times. “Ow.” 

When he reaches- “Ow.” -the other end of the corridor, he flings the door open. Two arrows in his arm and one in his side, all things considered it could have gone worse. He focuses more on stopping the bleeding than what’s in this next room, hopefully they’ll be able to make some sense out of this one. 

Show us how it’s done, @astrasword

[astrasword]

In the face of such genuine cheer, not to mention relief, Ayra cannot help but smile. It’s brief, a quirk of her lips more than anything else, for she is well-aware that there are more challenges to come — but it is a smile, still.

“Yes, well,” she replies, a bemused glint in her eye, “I am not in the habit of saying things I don’t mean.”

Or in the habit of saying things that are superfluous. As such she doesn’t remark that the word they are looking for is dagger. Even the trap isn’t worthy of comment.

With her blood already awakened, a deep breath is all it takes for Forde’s voice to fall away. She has no need of luck, darting between the arrows faster than the eye can follow. Indeed, she doesn’t even stop to breathe.

And yet, when she reaches her goal Ayra is unwearied as well as unharmed, turning her head and calling back:

“Are you both alright?”

@lazulienne, take care.

[renaisguy]

Trilemma Trickery

Axe +1

[lazulienne]

    Lapis had thought they were making progress, but before she knows it, Ayra has made her decision, and any bravado the Brodian had had in pitching her thoughts deflates. Should she have? Worry furrows her brow. She gets the impression Ayra didn't appreciate it or maybe is just being polite in the way she shoots her down, leaving no room for further thought or discussion.

It's far from the first time Lapis has embarrassed herself by opening her big, dumb mouth. She cringes just thinking about the last minute now.

“OK,” she tries to stuff down her growing mortification, putting on a fake smile. “I guess that means you're with me, Forde! But Ayra, if anything happens, be sure to holler to us, yeah? And we'll do the same for you! We still don't know what kind of traps we might be getting into...”

But she hopes it's something all of them can fight their way through— with fists, because Lapis thinks she'll be in trouble if it's with words.

Through the Lance door she goes, but right before she passes the threshold, she looks back towards Forde to make sure he's following, and she casts one glance back to Ayra, watching where she goes too.

NEXT: @renaisguy or @astrasword !!

[renaisguy]

Forde gives Ayra a wave before he follows Lapis through the door, giving her a reassuring smile. “She’ll be fine.” He says, reckoning Ayra’s strong enough to defeat a horde of axe-wielding enemies should they show up. “And so will we!”

As for that horde of lance-wielding foes… they needn’t have drawn their weapons, the corridor they find themselves in is as empty as can be, not a single corner to hide behind between this door and the next. Forde still steps cautiously, but their biggest obstacle is a tiny pile of dirt and a discarded shovel, as if someone gave up on digging a hole two scoops in. 

Through the next door is a moderately-sized ballroom, also free of foes, seemingly made just big enough that the grand staircase wouldn’t look excessive. The door they came out of was one of three, which Forde realises a little slower than he’d like (ie. when Ayra emerges), “Oh, so all three of them lead to corridors.” 

A quick glance into the sword corridor reveals… a bunch of swords hanging from the ceiling. That would make sense. “I suppose the lance door was correct then, good thinking Lapis.” 

With no other exits on this floor, a glance upwards reveals their next ‘foe’, a statue of a wyvern (and presumably a rider) hanging from the ceiling. Forde heads for the stairs. “I reckon this one will have a lance.” He declares. He doubts they’d make the answer lance twice in a row.

@astrasword @lazulienne, this next one should be easy, right?

[astrasword]

Although the knight puts on a smile after her rebuttal, Ayra isn’t blind to the fact her brow furrowed just before — or to the fact that people are frequently intimidated by her. Whether that is the case for Lapis she can’t say, but the possibility remains... and even aside from that, she is so earnest the princess regrets having scoffed.

“You don’t need to worry,” she assures the woman with her usual self-confidence, but it runs more warm than cool. “I can handle myself. Thanks, though. I’ll call if need be.”

She won’t, not least because when she steps through the door there is no horde of enemies. Only axes.

She watches how they swing once, twice, then focuses on the rhythm of her breath and the pulsing of her heart. She does not think of the Helswath, or of anything else. She listens to the rush of her holy blood, lets it drown out everything but the swish of the axes, and she sees not her targets but the space between them. With every beat of her heart, an axe falls behind her. With every breath she takes, she advances just before the next blade swoops down.

“My path was blocked by swinging axes,” she announces in the same moment she emerges (unscathed, with stars in her eyes and renewed vigor), glancing around the room before fixing her gaze on their next challenge. “— What?”

This last is directed to Forde, let slip while her mind threatens to go down a perilous path; to think of Gungnir is to think of its wielder is to think of a river of blood in the desert — but thankfully her own blood has not quietened yet, and it’s easy to redirect.

“That doesn’t matter,” she puts in, looking between the paths (and once more veering away from the thought of a massacre, this time in the skies of Silesse). “Whatever his weapon, he’s a flier.”

And she heads for the door with a bow.

@lazulienne, any objections?

[wolfhednn]

———　( modern au )　how do they feel about enabling location sharing on their phone with their partner? family? close friends?

dash game! reblog and include your muse's answer in the tags!

[misericordel]

word travels quickly on the grapevine — ayra & veyle

[misericordel]

herald 2026 — authority +1

veyle hums to herself as she steps out of the church, holding two envelops with golden trims in her hands. she doesn't know what she did to deserve invitations to some fancy party like this, but the fact that she got two meant she could invite someone to go with her and make them happy!

the problem is deciding who. her brow furrows in thought as her steps become a little less frequent. there were so many. the divine one, her fell siblings, mauvier, maybe even marni… (would she enjoy something like that..?)

so lost in thought, she yelps when she suddenly bumps into someone's back. the envelopes flutter to the ground as she catches her breath, rubbing her poor forehead. "ugh, i'm sorry. i wasn't looking where i was going." she mutters an apology as the man she'd bumped into kneels to the ground to pick up the dropped invitations.

"these...." he mutters while veyle still reorients herself after the collision. he picks them up and stands suddenly, catching veyle off guard.

"you're lady veyle, aren't you? i was just looking for some help from the church." he grins as he reluctantly presses the invitations back into her hands. "you see, it's a private matter with my... my wife. you wouldn't mind following me to somewhere a little more secluded, would you?"

it all happens so fast that veyle doesn't see the obvious warning signs presenting. "s-sure?" she stutters, clutching the invitations close to her.

"well, just this way over here..! i'll be quick, i promise." he smirks, pressing a hand to his chest in a supposedly gentlemanly gesture.

@astrasword

[astrasword]

Ayra makes her way across the courtyard with the same brisk purpose as ever, though the sight of a small figure with two-toned monochrome hair gives her pause. She turns to get a better look, pleasantly surprised, only to frown as she watches the man before Veyle pick her invitations up with far too eager an expression.

Usually, she wouldn’t intervene: She has got places to be, namely the knights’ barracks, and anyway this is none of her business... Or it wouldn’t be, but she knows how kind Veyle is and she also knows the grin that guy is sporting. It makes no difference that she has not seen the girl in two years now, or that her promise to Diamant was made while they were on a mission.

She heads over without hesitation, catching a mention to the man’s wife — an excuse, needless to say — while she approaches. Veyle agrees to follow him, bless her, and he smirks in a way that has the swordmaster itching to draw her blade in the same moment she halts behind the girl.

Out of consideration for Veyle as much as for awareness that he’d just play victim, she settles for taking hold of its hilt.

“Halt,” she commands, and much to her satisfaction the sight of her wipes the smirk off of his face. “You have an issue involving your wife, yes? I daresay I’m qualified to help with that more than our young friend here.”

She smiles at Veyle before stepping past her, then turns a much colder gaze on the man. “I may not be with the Church, but I am married,” she goes on, hand still on her blade, and sets off in the direction he motioned to.

[astrasword]

together in investigation.

Pearlescent / Any Skill +1

[helswathed]

Lex did want to keep pushing. He wanted to offer to change outfits, despite the fact that they most certainly would not fit. Ayra would look good in a suit, Lex was absolutely sure of that, though this one might be more than a bit baggy due to their size difference. The maid outfit being too small for him would just be a charm point on his end. People liked when those things were tight around the chest and waist, so he could get away with it as long as he could actually wriggle into the thing to begin with.

For once in his life, though, Lex actually thought about what he was about to say before the words left his mouth. He ultimately chose not to continue on the issue that was clearly bothering Ayra. That didn't mean he wasn't going to address it in some manner. Some husband he'd be if he didn't help his wife through emotional turmoil. She wanted to just move on, he could tell, but something inside of Lex's heart prevented him from allowing that.

"Hey, if you've got something bothering you," Lex sighed, shuffling over to Ayra, "you oughta let it out here with me before we head out there. Get it out of your system now, y'know? And I can hold you while you do and that'll make you feel better or something, I think. Better not to continue to carry that into the work we're doing. I know you definitely wouldn't want the random people we come across to have an inkling something could be wrong, right?"

Maybe he shouldn't have said that last sentence. It might incense Ayra to flip her anguish to rage. That was often a risk with her, from what Lex could actually recall. He probably looked ridiculous, offering an embrace to her now with no shirt on and only one leg hastily shoved into his dress pants. He didn't care though. Lex wasn't shy about his body, and he was fairly certain Ayra had already seen plenty of it, even if he couldn't recall it happening.

[astrasword]

Truth be told, Ayra expected her husband would refuse to move past this even while she tried to do so. He was stubborn, to be sure, but more than that... He cared far too much. Certainly, he was not the same man who had shed tears at the simple thought of making her unhappy — but he’d always cared; and she did not think he loved her less than he once had, just differently.

And so, when he did in fact refuse to move past this, she sighed and shook her head with exasperated fondness. His offer was too sweet to be angered by, no matter that he spoke uncertainly... and no matter what else he said while he made it.

Oh, some part of her was indignant at that last. He made her sound so — so insecure, and for a moment she wished she had her sword to hand: She’d show him who would not want “the random people they came across to have an inkling something could be wrong”. The nerve of it...

But it was only a moment in the end, that sense of indignation sputtering out not so much because he meant well as because he did look ridiculous. His lack of a shirt was one thing, but the fact he hadn’t even finished putting on his pants...

Ayra’s shoulders trembled with restrained mirth, but she couldn’t help herself after all. Even though she clamped a hand over her mouth, a small laugh still bubbled up and past her lips. In its wake she shook her head and let him see her smile, even if still between her fingers.

“— Stupid,” she said through the peals of laughter, impossibly endeared. “You look stupid. At least put your pants on properly before offering me a hug — I’m not falling apart, and gods know we can’t have them getting crumpled —” She laughed one last time before sobering, though she was still smiling. “Crusaders’ blood, Lex. You’ve got more heart than sense, you know that?”

Even so, she set her uniform back down.

“But, fine, just finish pulling your pants on and then you can hold me or whatever. I’m not going to cry, though, if that’s what you were implying I should do. Honestly.”

[berglietz]

the wolf among us

mission board: restoration | non-mission task, Riding +1

[berglietz]

He’s being scolded. Caspar’s face reddens, which only makes him feel more like a petulant child. He frowns at the floor, chews his lower lip, and tries to swallow the protests at the back of his throat. It’s a lost battle, but the effort at least helps keep his voice steady.

“There has to be a better solution than destroying someone else’s house.” He says it with enough conviction to command the universe into making it true. (He hopes.) “We brought meat, right?”

The scraps in Ayra’s bag look just about the same as the ones given to his father’s dogs after a successful hunt. It was the reward for their help in the effort—they earned it. The enthusiastic feasting might’ve been hunger after a long day, but he’d always imagined satisfaction in it too. It’s like the way water tastes sweeter after pushing through a grueling set of drills, the way praise could turn the ache in his limbs into something he craved to feel again. And it’s just—it’s right, in a way that stealing isn’t.

“A beast could be welcome if he helps, couldn’t he? We could help him now, and he could get more food by working with people to hunt for more instead of breaking into their houses.”

[astrasword]

It’s just as she feared: There is nothing she can say to Caspar that will actually reach him. He takes her scolding personally; and whether out of pettiness or simple naïvete, he does the exact opposite of what he was asked. Well, if nothing else he isn’t leveling accusations at the wolf.

... Yet.

He isn’t full-on accusing the beast, she will grant him that, but the implication is plain enough. The creature’s ears, which perked up at the word meat, bend forward while he bares his teeth.

For her part Ayra laughs, low in her throat. She can’t help it. The sound is harsh and scraping, but she can’t apologize either.

“I wish it were that simple,” is all she finds to say while opening her bag and fetching the meat she’s brought. “He could not be welcome, no. Nobody would expect him to help or believe he was helping if he tried, do you understand that, Caspar?”

He does not. She knows he does not, and if it wasn’t for the wolf coming to eat from her hands rather than waiting for the meat to be set down she would have snapped at him. As is she stills, breath hitching in her throat, and lowers her head.

Gods, she could weep.

“I told you,” she begins hoarsely, head still bowed, “he would have been attacked or killed. Don’t you see? They fear and loathe him simply because he is a beast.

We can try to change their minds, I’ll grant you, but I will not allow you to speak as if he had any other choice.”

[astrasword]

just because my nephew uses balmung as a multi-tool doesn’t mean some kid should.

Aphotic / Holy weapons

[heriteur]

Ayra didn't look pleased.

Diamant knew well the mental fatigue that came with being accosted by droves of people—let alone what appeared to be a gaggle of arguing students. He only caught pieces of the conversation as he approached, amidst all the complaints and protesting.

You can't... let... ban the special weapons...! Why do... some stude... get to have... privileges we don't...!

But when he sees his fellow professor's hand go to the hilt of her sword, he finds it an appropriate time to step in.

"What is going on?" Diamant cuts in, his voice naturally carrying through the air. "We aren't bothering the good professor here, are we?"

One boy rounds towards Diamant, worked up and anxious. "Professor Diamant...! You understand, don't you!? How valuable it is to train with different weapons and disciplines? You talk about it in your seminars all the time!"

Diamant quirks a brow. "I do, yes. Your point?"

"Then you have to convince Professor Ayra not to go to the Archbishop! She doesn't think we should be able to use special weapons in the arena anymore!"

Another boy chimes in, "We never get to have the same opportunities as some of the stronger, noble students! This is depriving us of important education!"

Diamant watches as the students drum themselves up into another commotion, and he simply crosses his arms, glancing at Ayra before saying:

"I agree with her, though."

The collective WHAT!? was almost comical.

But instead of laughing, he only nods. "Some of those weapons are too valuable, and too dangerous, to just be tossed off into anyone's hands. There should be better regulation. Is that what you were getting at, Ayra?"

[astrasword]

It’s almost hard to believe that these same kids are usually intimidated by her, seeing them now. Ah, the passion of youth... and the boldness that only a like-minded group can provide. Words aren’t enough against such an outcry, so even though she would much rather not frighten them, Ayra grips her sword nonetheless.

The cacophony lessens, many of the kids remembering to be scared of her, and her colleague’s voice cuts through what noise remains. She’s glad to see him, even if she is also embarrassed to have needed... Well, rescuing from a gaggle of students.

While they air their grievances to him, she slowly and deliberately releases her blade. That’s the most they’re getting... That, and her self-restraint. She could have begun to dress them down, but decides against it at least in part because Diamant is better at handling willful brats than she.

And, oh, does he handle them. She did not think for even a second that he’d side with the kids even if he did agree, thus meeting his eye with a stolid look and the briefest of nods. But he does more than simply not side with them: He stuns them.

The reaction is satisfying, as is the fact he doesn’t laugh. For her part, Ayra does not smile at him — too soon for that — but she does make her gratitude known.

“Yes, thank you,” she confirms evenly, her gaze traveling from student to student as she continues: “What I would have said if you lot hadn’t drowned me out every two words is that you shouldn’t be allowed to wield unfamiliar weapons.

Unless you’d like to tell me that kid who threw Balmung around knew what he was doing, or tell me it is educational to use a weapon you don’t know anything about in actual combat. Anyone? No? Good.”

Most of them have enough sense to look ashamed, so she finishes lightly, “Off you go then, and you had better be on time for your next class!”

[astrasword]

Status.

Passed (June)

Skill points.

Any Skill +1 from Activity Check, allocated to Riding

Skill changes.

Riding B -> B (½)

[astrasword]

like old times.

[ulirblood]

her lips purse tight as ayra gives her the chance for a proper look at the wound. it’s not too deep, but it’s also not shallow enough for edain not to worry— regardless of how sensitive she is when it comes to her friends. she would worry at a wound this deep on anyone, she tells herself.

“follow me. we can take our time here.” we are not at war and on the run; such a thought remains unspoken. edain guides ayra to one of the fresh cots— sheets newly replaced and inviting its next patient. “you can have a seat here.” and once ayra sits, so too does edain right next to her.

“you're still keeping in mind what i said to you about getting your injuries looked at right away.” she says this with a small, fond smile despite… well, everything. “you remember that, don’t you? when i first met you and had to chastise you for being so rash with your wounds.” she holds her hand out again like she had earlier— but this time it is meant properly for ayra and not for her child. “let me see it. it shouldn’t take much effort at all to heal.” she commands gently, flexing her fingers.

to those that know edain the most, it would be far too clear the only thing keeping her together right now was her duty as a priestess.

[astrasword]

Edain’s lips purse in that way she has, the expression so familiar that Ayra’s breath hitches in her throat: for an instant — just an instant! — her friend is young again. Then the moment is past them, the years once more visible, and meeting Edain’s eye is harder than she cares to admit.

Thankfully, the healer wastes no time. She never does — or did, or does —, where her work is concerned. It was the first quality of hers that won Ayra’s respect, and while many more would follow she appreciates it just as much now.

Needless to say, she heeds Edain at once. She doesn’t even argue against the notion of taking their time, though it is still largely foreign to her... and though she’d rather do anything but. She has no business keeping the company of those who outlived her.

Yet still, they all want her company despite that. Edain is no exception.

“Of course I am,” she says with a smile of her own, never mind that she must lower her voice to mask its hoarseness. “I would be remiss not to heed your expertise when healing is to you as the sword is to me.”

With that, she holds her arm out.

[astrasword]

eagles and empires.

Ethereal Ball / First Half

[hresvelged]

"Actually.. There is," she says in a plain, grounded tone. She'd be remiss not to take the opportunity. Oh, how many inquiries field her mind. When she considers life beyond Fódlan, it all but reminds her how much the church forbids these pursuits.

Edelgard keeps her bouquet on the table and eyes it with a tracing finger against the stems of her flowers. With how full it is, she's expected to serve Adrestia well. And she will. "Adrestia's twin-headed eagle has long since served as a symbol of the empire. Our house is named 'Black Eagles' with traditional Imperial armor in mind, though that is no secret." A chuckle escapes her lips; forced, but sincere. How quickly distant escapades become a far-away thought. She knows then, and she knew now— She will never leave this land.

She won't, but there sits much too unknown about this world. Professor Ayra is someone who can answer some of it for her. She eagerly awaits dancing a new piece with a person who knows it well.

"I was wondering.. When you think of eagles, what comes to mind? Freedom? Strength?" When she looks up at the professor, there is inquisition shining in her eyes.

[astrasword]

Ayra betrays neither impatience nor upset when her student mentions the symbolic meaning of eagles for the Empire. At an event like this, it’s expected for talk to be meandering... and it’s equally expected for the Imperial heir to proudly represent her home, no matter its subjugation of other nations that were once just as proud.

Besides, when Edelgard asks the question, it turns out to be well worth the wait. Oh, she will have to meander herself to answer it, but she knew that already. It is enough that she’ll only have to meander to answer, because the girl has unknowingly steered them in just the direction Ayra wanted.

“When I was your age,” she begins evenly, meaning before my kingdom fell, “I would have answered strength and freedom, yes. Tradition, too. Now, though...”

She trails off not to steel her resolve, her course having already been decided by the time she approached Edelgard, but to let those words sink in. Her eyes do not leave the future Emperor’s.

“Now, I think of all that has been lost,” she says quietly. “My people used to ride their horses freely all across the plains, wielding bow and arrows while on horseback along with our swords, wrestling too. We tamed falcons to hunt, and we honored their part in sustaining us through song and dance.

Yet, if I were to ask an Isaachian youth to dance with me, they would know the steps no more than you do. They might not even have heard of this dance at all.”

She keeps the bitterness from her voice to the end, though it costs her something.

“Isaach was occupied for seventeen years, and our traditions ruthlessly stamped out by the Grannvalean Empire.”

[umbralward]

weekend at burgundy's

+sword || infamous -> game doc

[pastbelow]

"That's true," Shigure says, approaching the glass case slowly. "But look. There is something even more strange here, wouldn't you agree?"

His voice is deathly grim, as he points not at the well-kept Rat Scroll, but rather to an object seemingly not kept at all: an empty stand above the case, with a plaque reading Iron Tome beside it.

"…What even is an Iron Tome…?" Shigure wonders aloud, brows furrowed. Of course, it could be a normal spellbook, but a book literally made of leaflets of iron would be like a stack of shurikens, certainly sharp enough to cut through skin. Or perhaps it is just the Viscount's dark sense of humor? To name a regular blade an "Iron Tome?"

Shigure shakes his head, mystified. "We must find out where this weapon has gone. Excuse me." Nodding to the swordswoman, he turns for the exit.

The servants hurry to and fro in the hallways, making the whispers about the state of the body nigh impossible to escape. But though a slit throat is lethal, it cannot kill a man who is already dead by some other means. So as Shigure passes through the dining room and kitchen, he tries to think — what in this household could be so deathly, yet less obvious than an open wound?

Well, there are many possibilities. First and foremost, however, is the contents of the cabinet by the far wall. As a bard, Shigure had been hired to perform for dinner night after night, and it is only... professional, to check every nook and cranny of the space to ensure the best quality of sound.

That was how he had discovered, one pleasant afternoon, that the third bottle in the second row is not a prized liquor, but instead a clear, colorless poison.

[twistedisciple]

Looks like they're all alone in the parlor now. Griss says this to Zephia with just a wordless shrug of his shoulders when Ayra quickly makes to excuse herself from the room.

"Looks like you might've gotten under that one's skin," he sneers and starts ambling toward one of the doorways out to the branching hallways. "Everyone was real quick to run out and cover their tracks, huh?"

There's no particularly reason to go join the others - wherever they've gone - but Griss mostly just wants in on the fun. If they're tampering with evidence, then he'll relish in watching 'em squirm when they realize they're being watched. Or maybe they think he's the one who did the viscount in - who's to say he didn't - so his eyes on the back of their neck might raise a few hairs. They could be next, after all. The first rule of any good assassination was to leave no witnesses.

Speaking of which-- Griss stops in the hall and turns back to wait for Zephia.

"Hey, you know that weird mage?" (it took one to know one) "The bookish girl. Last time I saw the dead guy alive, she was there, too. Don't know what she was trying to do. She went rushing outta the library like he might've been after her, but when I looked, he was still in the library... waving one of those fancy decorative swords around. Cut himself real good on the arm 'cause I'd bet the man's never learned a sword stance in his life."

Setting his hands on his hips, he watches a pair of maids bustle down the hall toward the room the body was in.

"That was yesterday before dinner."

[astrasword]

“Indeed,” the swordswoman voices her agreement at once, brows rising high. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of anything like this.”

But then there is much in this world she hasn’t heard of, she is well-aware... And so it does not occur to Ayra that the moniker “Iron Tome” could be owed to nothing more than the victim’s sense of humor.

“Whatever this Iron Tome is, I agree we must find it.”

Without further ado she follows after Shigure, no matter that he excused himself. The silence is welcome: All the easier to look for this “Iron Tome” without anyone talking her ear off. While he heads for the kitchen, though, Ayra stops short. Two of the maids are coming this way.

“Some guards you people are!” The first says hotly. “The murderer got in while our Viscount was in the master bath — of all the places to die...!”

Ayra does not think the place where one dies (or is killed) makes a difference, having been killed in her brother-in-law’s dining room herself. She bites her tongue on that.

“I take it he had one of us standing guard just outside the bath if you’re saying that,” she answers coolly. “He might have wanted some privacy.”

The maid balks, murmuring that she wouldn’t know, then hastens to follow her colleague.

[astrasword]

déjà vu.

Restoration / Pilgrims

[thelightofcreation]

He grants her an enigmatic smile, and no more- how she takes it is hardly an issue on his part. After all, Sephiran does not believe her, even if she insists; but the argument is worth less than nothing, and the only conclusion must be drawn with his blood.

But then, another question- enough was never enough with her, it seemed. It is hardly innocuous in its wording, and too blunt to even allow him a moment of weakness.

Almost in response, the air stills about him, and he hears every breath that catches from those who hear her, and then some; the arched ceilings of the chapel too broken to catch the sound before it escapes into the world.

And silence, that dreadful silence that follows when someone demands an answer he does not want to give.

"That is a bold claim to make," When he breaks it, he knows that his voice is smooth, and far too calm for such an accusation, but he does not muster any emotion in response. Could not, even. "And a dangerous assumption."

In turn, the wind breathes a sigh. A moment passes without realizing, tension not quite dissipating but passing, which was enough, for the moment.

[astrasword]

Whether Sephiran believes her or not, the swordmaster’s conviction is unshakable; and small wonder: The thought that Astra could fail is, quite simply, inconceivable. It is the inheritance of a saint, granted unto him in a divine miracle for the salvation of Jugdral. That the same gods who wrought the Miracle of Dahna never interceded on her behalf does not detract from her faith, not in this instance. The power they gave the Crusaders is undeniable, a conclusion drawn from her blood, and even if she did fail to kill Sephiran the fault would lie with her rather than with Astra.

She is not going to try and put that to the test, so it is a moot point in the end... And yet his smile needles at her so much that she almost — almost — wants to.

Perhaps that is the reason why she asks such a question. Perhaps it is the memory of his own question (“Is it fun, toying with us?”) that drives her instead. Ayra doesn’t know, but what she does know is this: She does not — cannot — regret it.

She has long known dreadful silences, and even silences worse than this. The breath catching in many throats is of no concern to her either. She spoke quietly, and if the pilgrims were straining to listen instead of praying it’s their own fault.

So she keeps her gaze in his, and waits.

Despite the tension, his voice is calm. But then, she has never once heard Sephiran agitated; not even when he confronted her in Lilium. The silence is proof enough that he is more bothered than he seems, which his words confirm further.

For her part, Ayra huffs in what might be amusement.

“That is why it was a question,” she points out, just as smoothly. Dangerous, of all the things. “Worry not, if that is your wish I’ve no intention of granting it... and if it is not, well, all the better for you.”

If. It is not an apology, but a courtesy: He was disappointed, after all, and they both know that what causes disappointment is expectation. Or, in other words, hope.

Ayra turns away in full and lifts a hand, the one that was resting on her sword hilt until now. Without looking back she tells him in parting, “Take care.”

fin.

[senerist]

more like stayra and walsoren

+1 sword || pearlescent

[senerist]

soren's coworker is dressed as appropriately as he is, but her weapons are displayed almost brazenly at her hip.  he's armed as well, but a knife in the boot and tome at the hip is hardly comparable to swords.  Perhaps it's a cultural difference, he reasons, but the fact that she displays them so proudly will help their goal.  All she needs to do is stand up, and those who want to hurt the ‘happy couple’ will be emboldened by her weapons.

She already moves to sit down, confident in the plan that they haven't even discussed.  soren would demand a signal, or prompt to begin.  he isn't familiar with weddings even if this one were Tellian in nature, and so he isn't sure the prime opportunity to assert themselves in would be.

he holds back any disappointment at the control slipping out of his fingers and offers her a nod.  “Fine.  i trust you to hurl the first comment, then,” he says, before retreating to the other side, irritated.

There's a lot of people here.  Too many to be comfortable, certainly, but as the remaining guests fill in, soren can only get a sense of what one might call bad vibes.

There's hatred in the air, mixed with apprehension and disdain.  The bride and groom didn't tell them exactly how many people wanted to ruin their ceremony, but the atmosphere in the room makes soren think the number is far higher than even they could have anticipated.

                                                         And this is why he turns down odd jobs.

Before long, every seat seems to be filled around him, and the din of chatter fades as a violinist begins playing music.  The bride enters, accompanied by her father.  Her dress is so extravagant that soren calculates its cost somewhere in the hundred-thousands, and her father is portly and well-groomed, looking exactly like the sort of man who might buy her it.  soren's gaze drifts away from the bride to where ayra sits, curious if she's going to say anything.

[astrasword]

It is, indeed, a cultural difference. Which is not to say that Ayra hasn’t had the same thought as her colleague... But then again, the interlopers would be emboldened just the same if she were unarmed. She knows something of public speaking and more of passion, after all. It’s simply that she can’t conceive of not wearing swords.

She can’t conceive of the need to discuss a task as simple as this, either. There is no point to a signal when speaking up is (or will be) the signal itself. When she knows something of weddings, and more of the lines one must read between.

(If her experience differs from her fellow’s in that, she forgets... Or else doesn’t care. She hasn’t got time to waste.)

And yet, Ayra says nothing.

The bride’s father, being a public figure in Pearl Shoals, isn’t substituted for, and so it is more than possible that her stand-in is wearing the actual dress... or a replica of it, like as not. They cannot have the real thing getting damaged given its price, of course, but their act must be convincing.

So must Ayra, to her chagrin. Ripping the bridal gown to pieces and smearing it with cake will be all well and good once they’re past a certain point, but Crusaders forbid she insult it too loudly, too soon. And so she whispers to a stranger, “That dress is exactly what you’d expect from the bride’s family, isn’t it?”

[astrasword]

blood of my blood.

[helswathed]

Hey, she didn't get mad! It worked! He saved it! Lex resisted the urge to do a little fist pump as Ayra agreed to the date. He was trying his best not to ruin things, at least not so quickly after he'd just barely escaped disaster. He didn't want to think about what would have happened if he'd fucked up in this particular conversation. Ayra might never speak to him again if he had. That was something Lex would prefer to avoid, because he was, in fact, rather fond of her. This wasn't how he'd envisioned getting married, but he was more than willing to just roll with it anyway.

There were a few questions he had, though. There would be plenty of time to have them answered, but some of them were more pressing than others. Ayra seemed to know significantly more than he about things that had occurred, though, so if he'd missed something important, he'd prefer to know about it. While he wanted to assume nothing that significant could have happened, he had apparently missed his own wedding, so that assumption was already proven to be slightly off-base.

Lex's hand remained firmly entwined with Ayra's, fingers lacing in between hers to ensure she wouldn't escape his grip so easily. He was definitely going to have to tell Azelle about this later. He could only imagine the look on Azelle's face when he found out that Lex had managed to score someone like Ayra. Well... unless Azelle already knew, that was. He couldn't rule out that possibility. As much as he wanted to ask if he'd ever had the time to get Ayra and Azelle to be friends, he'd have to wait on finding that one out. They could discuss it over their little date.

"Dinner, maybe? Tonight?" Lex proposed, grinning broadly at Ayra, finally able to smile without reservation once again now that the danger had passed. "I mean I'd take you out right this instant, but I should probably clean myself up first. You deserve that much, at the very least, y'know?"

[astrasword]

Lex didn’t let go her hand.

She had thought he would. No matter how earnestly he wanted to do right by her, no matter how sincere he was in his fondness (she wondered if that was the word for it), he was nonetheless grappling with a turn of events he could not have been prepared for... Not that he seemed to be grappling with anything at all, between the grin he gave her and the way he had not only kept hold of her hand but also entwined their fingers, as though —

As though he wanted this. But he did, she reminded herself. He must. Lex wasn’t the kind of person who did things against his will unless he truly couldn’t help it; and he usually could, as evidenced by the fact he was here in Fódlan to “get away from his pops”. Still, he’d adjusted so fast.

Granted, he did remember flirting with her at least (and gods knew it hadn’t been an infrequent occurrence), but even so... She really ought not to be hung up on details, though. He wasn’t; he was accepting of all she’d thrown his way, and while he might not be the Lex she was used to, she could tell he wasn’t faking it.

“Dinner,” she agreed, a little hoarsely, and cleared her throat. She could feel a flush spreading over her cheeks, and if it wasn’t for Lex having laced their fingers — Gods. He really and truly did want this. “Tonight, sure. In the castle town...? Actually, how nice were you thinking?”

[astrasword]

what the fuck did you just fucking say about me?

Winter Arena 2025 / Bonus Round, continued from here

[of-ostia]

As the woman circles him, Hector follows her with his eyes but not with his head, even as she crossed around his back and out of his sight. At the mention of Ninian, he narrows his eyes at her, not because of her assessment–Ninian indeed has courtesy in spades, even in the face of this kind of hostility–but because this is taking a direction he hadn't expected. He didn't think his words rude, even for himself, but then he usually had to rely on others as more keen judges of his manners.

And if he still finds himself forgetting this is all nothing but an illusion? A very, very convincing fake, but a fake all the same? Well, no one else needed to know that.

Illusion or not, if she knew the history behind that blade, and the small part he played in it, then maybe she would understand. Maybe she wouldn't point it at him in a challenge. But she has, and that is a language he speaks with ease.

So he answers her challenge by taking up his lance, mounting his horse, and pointing Luin at his newest opponent.

"Then let's go," he replies, mouth cocked in a challenging grin. "You show me that you know what you're doing, and maybe I'll take it back."

[astrasword]

As a matter of fact, if Ayra had known the history behind this blade and the part her opponent played in it she would still have pointed it at him — not in a challenge, no, but in acceptance of his challenge.

The stranger remains unrepentant, cocky even. His manner reminds her of a certain other blue-haired, loud-mouthed fool... but where Lex would have elicited fondness, this blue-haired lout elicits only anger.

“Maybe?” she echoes coolly. “I’ll show you maybe, you insolent fool.”

On some level, she can appreciate why he wants proof. Her bloodline is unknown in a foreign land, and besides he seems to be a man of action... Except he says then let’s go yet doesn’t strike.

Either this stranger is that hesitant to use a lance (she doubts it, given how brash he is) or he is trying to be gentlemanly. If her blood were not already boiling, that would have done it. As is, her anger reaches fever pitch instead and —

“Take this!”

— in the blink of an eye she has closed the distance, slashed at his chest with enough force to send him flying and darted away once more. By the time he recovers, he’ll find her smirking at him.

“Go on,” she speaks evenly, not even close to breathless, “tell me again how to handle a sword, why don’t you?”

[astrasword]

déjà vu.

Restoration / Pilgrims

[thelightofcreation]

“… Truly?” The question slips out before he realizes that it was not a statement of her ability but of her temperament, and disappointment fades back to neutrality.

Perhaps she would hold less of a grudge if she knew. Somehow, he doubts that. “… Ah- never mind.”

A pause, considering her new (and more pointed) question.

“I can’t say I know much about the attackers,” Is another unhelpful response, though he continues to elaborate, this time. “Whoever it was caused chaos across the continent. I heard there was a group from the monastery that retook it after the attack, but I had chosen to tend to those caught in the crossfire rather than aid in a battle."

"After all- we both know how well it goes when I fight." Spoken simply, as if he would not tear himself apart over it again, "As for Pasithee... I believe she was involved, though how much, I wouldn't know. You may want to confirm with someone who was… involved."

[astrasword]

Sephiran is wrong, needless to say: It was a statement of her ability just as much as of her temperament. However many years he may have lived, whatever he may be, if he is mortal — and that question implies he is — then she could kill him. It would be difficult, she can surmise that much from his tone, but she could.

And so she answers him without missing a beat, dark eyes inscrutable:

“Truly.” Her hand comes to rest on the hilt of her sword, lightly enough that it’s clear she doesn’t intend to draw it. She merely looks at it, disappointment flitting across her face in turn. “If you’d seen my Astra, you wouldn’t need to ask.”

Ah, well. It doesn’t matter in the end, since she has no intention of killing him even in spite of her grudge... Although she might have considered it, passingly, if he refused to elaborate again. He does not.

“I see,” she answers coolly, having lifted a brow when he mentioned how well it goes but no more than that. “Good on you for making yourself useful,” is all she says on the matter, coolly yet sincerely. Then, in an afterthought, “Thanks.”

If she thanks him at all it is for his time far more than his answers. Still, she has only herself to blame for having asked him over someone more open, or at least more of a warrior. Ayra begins to pivot on her heel —

Only to pause halfway through, a hand still on her sword, and look back on him in the ruined cathedral. For a moment, she sees him in the ruins of Lilium instead. Then, he hoped for her demise. Now...

“— You want to die, don’t you?”