Steel-eyed Veteran

Closed RP blog affiliated with the Officers Academy. (Student)

[ceaselessblade]

"Ike, bend down a bit," Micaiah says, "over here." If the shadow battle had been good for anything it had certainly gotten Micaiah used to casting simple healing spells without a stave. Her group had already been seen to so she was currently going around touching up whatever Rion had seen fit to leave as it was. "I apologize for throwing that fireball at you," she says, standing up to press the light of her heal over the lower half of his face just under his right eye. The burned flesh there went from raised to tender. She reasoned it would be easier for him to see this way.

"I know we do not have Yune's blessing any longer." (Believe me I wish she were here too). "But I still intend to do my best, fighting beside you that is. Let's give Rion all we've got."

Ah, so Micaiah had been on the other team, as well. Strange that this is the second time they've had the misfortune to cross blades. He didn't recognize her-- fire was not the blinding light that was fielded against him in their last skirmish. In itself, fire was more of a burgeoning warmth, scalding at best, rubbing and raw as it scorched the skin and charred the flesh. Less troublesome than light, frankly; he hadn't been able to see right until a stave had been waved over his face. For fire, at least you could see that coming. Light-- perhaps you would see it, and then you wouldn't see at all! So he is glad that was not fielded against him. Not this time. As for Yune? Yune-- he hopes, is resting well. In another place, and another time. This is now. He holds out his hand. "Let's end this."

[ceaselessblade]

alfvangr​:

voyage to tomorrow

          Claws rend through empty air, easily anticipated as Gricenchos’s movements lose more and more of their ferocious bite with time and the burden of accumulated wounds. The tiger bellows a roar to rattle the faint-hearted, but Alfonse is not cowed by it; he entrusts the task of healing their allies to Lyon and instead seizes the opportunity to take the fight to Leto when she swoops low to the ground. His stain blazes in tune with Fólkvangr to withstand the dragon’s breath that licks at his heels, treasured blade cutting a gouge into scale-coated hide before light explodes across the prince’s vision.

          ‘Stay back! LEAVE US ALONE!’

          Colorful spots mar his sight when it returns to him, as if having stared directly into a supernova. Aiming to blink them away does little good; a shake of his head to regain some measure of clarity, and the Askran looks to assess everyone’s state following the flare–

          Seliph. Ill fortune has made itself known to the luminary time and time again throughout their companionship, dangling him a hair’s breadth from the reaper’s scythe once more when he inserts himself into their little group of four-turned-five. ( and oh, henry… ) Alfonse spares no hesitation in pausing to suffuse the other royal with faith’s succor as he has done before—though shades of distress bleed into his composure when it leaves his fingertips impotent as all his previous attempts. What error is he making that they manifest so feebly?

          It proves fatal. Leto screams her dying rage with serpentine body awash in a deadly glow, the void inverting to white when her final, reckless charge makes its impact. The intensity of the ensuing blast brings with it scorching pain that can only be mitigated so much by external means, a strangled cry making itself heard in the seconds he spends knowing nothing else.

          Leto is no more when his vision clears at last, but it comes at a cost—and one that cuts a grievous sting to the prince’s heart.

@ceaselessblade​ 

The professor; Ike is sure he saw the fluttering of purple robes and a caw as they fell, is somewhere in the scuffle. He is not in time to make it, as much as he wishes he could go over. Trust in the healers-- keep going. Seliph, however, he sees breath his last. It is not glorious-- and unfortunately often it hardly is. A hero collapses onto his knees and is left behind by the clamour of battle. Ike makes a note of where he falls-- unlike the others, he will have a body, and it is a morbid, but present standing of fortune to have one to be brought home where the others will have none.

Gricenchos.

The tiger is bleeding; from its legs, from its throat, limping with heavy breath. It won’t be much longer before it falls. It leaves its left flank open to the wind, matted wounds covering the side of its face and sticking its ear to its cheek. The wind howls-- dust swirls from the blast, and Ike follows it, letting himself skid along with the searing backwash of exhausted air, bone tooth kept under and low to his body. It’s an unceremonious affair. The tooth swings up, like the snap of jaws, and closes into the gap of the band of muscles between Gricencho’s shoulder and ear. The tiger-dragon jerks with the force of the hit, and then stumbles off, still moving, swaying on its feet. It takes a few more steps, stumbles again-- and falls, a great cloud of dust rising from its wake, and a tremor shaking the earth. [-5hp] [Gricenchos falls!] When the dust clears,Ike can still see it’s flank moving; against all odds. But the tiger doesn’t appear to have its claws to react. The battle is winding down. Ike can smell it-- the rust in the air, the scent of old blood where there is time for it to dry. But he knows; where there is rust-- there is poison; and it may be the most insidious one of them all. The tiger fell too silently; like a note that had yet to be strung. He keeps his eyes peeled. The battle isn’t over yet. Not until the white dragon falls. He must now make a choice; pursue, or return.

The dragon roars, and roars hard. He sees the pain in its eyes. Being in the path of others would chance fueling it with new enmity towards its struggle. So, he makes a choice; and leaves the dragon no chance to vent upon his flesh, its last roar hopefully the last knell for only one.

The other students close in on the dragon, swords drawn, eyes firm for the will of their fallen allies. Their march is merciless; pity left when their own had been slain. And neither will the other-- in pain, too far gone to seek recompense. The dragon twists, rearing its head back to roar in desperation, in tears as it cries out for its fallen relative. It charges forward, with the only tools it has. Claws, breath. Fingers and toes; bare fists and bared teeth, against an enemy that has already left and yet danger creeps upon them in the form of a shrouding haze. There is no rain; but Ike feels like it pours.

[ceaselessblade]

ignatzlandscape​:

Ignatz fired an arrow at Gricenchos and silently prayed that it would hit. Normally he wouldn’t worry but his recent shots had missed the mark.

1d20 + 2 = 16, Critical Hit! Ignatz deals 1 damage to Gricenchos (13/30 HP)

Ignatz’s arrow hit right in Gricenchos’s weak spot though right as it it, he was bathed in a warm light. The light dissipated and Gricenchos charged at Ignatz.

1d20 - 2 = 18, Critical Hit! Gricenchos deals 3.5 damage to Ignatz (3/10 HP)

Ignatz deals 2 damage to Gricenchos (11/30 HP)

As Ignatz was attacked he was able to fire an arrow at Gricenchos. He let out a loud roar, causing Ignatz to lose sight of him.

With Ignatz distracted trying to find Gricenchos, Leto attacked him.

1d20 = 10, Barely Hit, Leto deals 2 damage to Ignatz (1/10 HP)

Ignatz is taken aback by the attack. He could feel him slipping from this world, but he fought hard to not give in.

He needed to paint a picture.

@resurrectionpact @alfvangr @ceaselessblade 

The battle intensifies: Blasts of light swerve through their lines, dazzling and leaving afterimages in their sight. Gricenchos cuts a bloody row through their ranks. The dragon takes a nasty blow to its jaw, and then to its snout, and finally can’t take it anymore-- Light spews from its maw like a flood, searing and scorching all in its wake. Ike covers his face and grits his teeth, the blow forcing him back with everyone else. A quick glance through bleary eyes tells him everyone seems more or less wounded, but not out. He blinks frantically to clear the spots from his eyes. The dragon swoops past, bowls him over, and the Sword of Zoltan nearly clatters from his grip as it catches on scales, bouncing right off. Gritting his teeth, he pinches the hilt back into his palm, feeling his fingers creak from the strain, and then rolls it all the way back. [Ike: 6/12 HP] The dragon surges onwards, unscathed. Ike closes his right eye, and scans for awareness with his left. Gricenchos is still on the field; he wishes to keep an eye on the faded blur that still remains.

@resurrectionpact @alfvangr @ignatzlandscape​

[ceaselessblade]

ignatzlandscape:

Ignatz took a deep breath as he steps into the light. It was almost over, he had managed to survive this long by some divine miracle.

He readies a shot at Gricenchos, a moment studying him. He seems familiar, he thought to himself, but he quickly shook off the suspicion. He fired the arrow, a moment of hesitation before letting the bowstring go.

1d20 + 2 = 4, Ignatz misses Gricenchos

It seemed like the small doubt Ignatz had caused his concentration to falter, the arrow flew right past its target. Gricenchos’s attention was turned on Ignatz as he retaliated. 

1d20 - 2 = 5, Miss! Opportunist allows another roll, 1d20 - 2 = 16, Gricenchos deals 3.5 damage to Ignatz (6.5/10 HP)

Ignatz was knocked back by the attack, but he was able to fire another arrow at Gricenchos.

Ignatz deals 2 damage to Gricenchos (16/30 HP) due to Close Counter

@resurrectionpact @ceaselessblade @alfvangr

By the time the Tiger lopes back into range, it looks significantly worse for the wear; but it’s still spry. Very spry enough to retaliate for the dragon, if need be. So the healer; unfortunately, remains out of range. It’s good to be so, perhaps; he gets the feeling that the group isn’t so eager to attack the dragon. At least-- until it blanches the group in blazing, searing breath. Well then-- if there is to be any negotiation, it must be done at another time. Unfortunately, his own positioning this round doesn’t allow him any more probing strikes at the tiger; only a single opportunity as Gricenchos sails past him. He takes it, drawing a burning line across the dragon-beast’s flank-- [Ike: 3.5 damage] And gets swatted for his trouble, the claws hitting him full in the chest. He stumbles back, just barely out of reach of the other swipe, and wisely retreats, hovering the sword of Zoltan heavy over the welling gash in his torso. [Takes 3 damage back: 9/12 hp]

@resurrectionpact @alfvangr​ @ignatzlandscape

[resurrectionpact]

voyage to tomorrow

the Boys @ignatzlandscape @alfvangr​ @ceaselessblade​

There’s nothing to like about this. A massive beast, monster, demon hovering over Garreg Mach… and a young boy with a constant smile, claiming Sainthood, godhood…

Fomortiis roils inside of Lyon, as though indignant of the sudden competition.

[ Indignant? Hardly. They are naught but infants playing with dolls. What are they to me, who has existed since the dawn of man? ]

Dolls… Lyon recalls how that boy had dangled their friends before them. Toying with them, reduced to mere playthings. The thought of it. The memory of it. To be sound in mind but a slave to your own traitorous body, stolen and held hostage by another–

As Lyon enters the pillar of light, he presses one hand firmly against his mouth, the other on his stomach. Bile rises in his throat… it takes plenty of effort to swallow it back down.

-

“Father…”

This stage the boy set for them… it’s disorienting. With ground and sky all the same inky black, Lyon can’t help but wonder, is there an end to this ground? A cliff that will send you hurtling into the darkness? The idea of stepping off to his death, even with Alfonse’s rally–

The tiger prowls towards him. Surrounded by shadow and desperate for power, Lyon calls upon the Banshee spell to keep Gricenchos still. Dark wisps brush and grasp at the beasts’ paws, but to now avail. Its massive paws crush the shadows underfoot, as Gricenchos begins his assault.

Lyon stumbles back quick enough to avoid the first attack, but the second one almost sends him flying. Knocked back and laying flat on the ground, he hisses in pain before struggling to get up. I can’t die here, I can’t!

[ceaselessblade]

It takes a good second for Ike to recognize the dragon’s cry as the longing child’s-- so disconnected from its form as it is. It’s enough to give him pause; but mostly, because he notes that the tiger-like dragon shields them. The others strike-- and it is confirmed as the tiger claws them for their impudence, taking the damage in their stead. There is no choice of enemy; they must weaken the giant tiger first. It’s with this in mind that he waits for an opening, and tests forward with his own strike once he sees an opening. Outnumbered as the tiger is, it takes the hit, and yet the eager gleam in its eye unsettles him-- just as it raises its paws like a full bandolier of swords; ready to crush, guard slipping away in turn for a reckless swipe. [3.5 damage] Much like he’d attempted against his father, once upon a time. He’s already rolling away when he sees it-- both his positioning, his probing strike, and an ill feeling allows him the luxury. [Gricenchos misses...] But he is wary of the tiger now. Those eyes are smart and seeking; alive. It’s strange; he’d asked around and there was no mention of Laguz in the monastery aside from those from Tellius. So... Why do his allies seem like they know these people already?

[ceaselessblade]

“Ike!” Soren would check in on everyone, as an informal staff officer at his core, but there was one who couldn’t wait. He was relieved to see Ike in one piece, though his heart was racing with alarm, the idea of them being on opposing battlefields even unknowingly left a foul taste in his mouth.

“I’m glad you seem alright.” However joyful he might’ve been to see Ike, it wasn’t allowed to shine through. Soren’s expression darkened. “I can explain it all later, but Rion had toyed with us before, masquerading as a pathetic ally to us in need of help when he was really the mastermind of a game. We’ve all lived, and he healed us perhaps to attempt to solidify our trust, but…” Soren’s fists clenched. “I see we have already suffered a loss. I’m sorry, Ike. Never would I willingly direct a force against yours.” He shook his head. “Are you alright?”

Ike looks distracted, staring at his hands as he clenches the digits, like he's confirming that they're all still there. He turns around, and a grim smile crosses his face. "Soren. I'm glad you're not hurt. I'm fine." "Rion? That's who we've got to fight? He healed us?" He shakes his head. "I don't like this. It just makes it seem like we're just stepping further into a trap." "But if it's a game he wants, then fine." The sword of Zoltan whirls up, smacking into the flat of his shoulder with a dull thwack. "Let's go work this out. I trust you." The brief flashes of pain-- of being crushed by something larger than him. Back then, he was alone. And makes all the difference. What have-beens, what will-beens: Actually-- They don't matter. At all. In fact, he wonders if it's actually just another ploy of this Rion to put them all off-guard, reeling. He scoffs. Somehow, it seems... typical.

Well, if he wants him to reel, then their little stunt before had more impact--at least that drew blood. And now he makes the mistake of allowing them to draw his. Ike is right here, and Soren and Tibarn are just a little away. Likewise are the rest of his new friends, somewhere else in the camp. Queen Elincia is no doubt with her own squad, talking with her group and leading. Little breaths of life. They're not done yet.

And that's all he needs. The battle is still in the cards, and there's work to do. They have a target. Sorrow and hesitation-- that'll come later, when there's a place and time for it. The best way to honor them is a sword through their gut. They'll make him regret it. And for now, they prepare. Ike turns away from the smear-mark on the ground, the only evidence left of where a sprightly young swordswoman would have been-- now likely twisted into a puppet of whatever nefarious whims lie ahead of them. He follows Soren back into the fold.

[ceaselessblade]

verseandrhyme​:

THE LIBATION BEARERS

The shadow bearing the knife is gone, lost in the fray, but there is no sense hunting him down, even if Mitama’s pride, like her back, stings with indignity at being snuck up on. The chase is not worth the risk though, so Mitama grits her teeth and returns to what she can find.

To her relief, the others are still standing, though Henry barely so. Exhaustion pulls at her limbs as she rushes closer again, but she pushes through it. There is no time to pause, no time for rest. Naps on a battlefield are for after the last foe is felled, but she will be haunted by nightmares should any of her comrades fall before then. 

Mitama rolls a 15. Heal! Henry recovers 5 HP

Hang in there. Mitama’s intention shines through as her staff lights up the battlefield once more, travelling the distance between the two groups. In the liminal space between two rounds of battle, Mitama’s breathing is loud in her ears as she focuses the spell.

It lands successfully and relief floods through her as her body slumps, a moment of recovery. Good…it should be enough for the moment.

Dawn’s blessing it be enough.

Tibarn’s screech breaks the silence and Mitama huffs, straightening once more. No time for rest…never any time for rest…she enters the fray once more.

Significantly recovered, Ike breathes back in sharply as he rolls back to his feet. He doesn’t say anything as Mitama tags the Shadow Savant, but gives a brief nod as he rushes past. That thing is a threat-- along with the mage. But somehow, he gets the feeling that it’s the bigger threat, as the shadows spent so much time to stitch it back together. That has to count for its importance, right? Sure enough, as he passes, the Savant bursts out with another bark of fire, and Ike hunkers down, enduring the scalding flow of fire and churning ash.

[Shadow Savant:1.5 Damage] He is now back where he should be, facing the row of shadows. The Sword of Zoltan swings against the nearest target, who nimbly dodges the swing, slipping their formless leg out the way with grace. [Ike Misses!]

@resurrectionpact @thelordoftheair @verseandrhyme @onlygodremembers

[ceaselessblade]

verseandrhyme​:

THE LIBATION BEARERS

They’re alive, to different degrees of success, and Mitama can count that as enough. For now. It’s impossible at this moment to tell if the fight is going in anyone’s particular favor. But they are alive more than they are hurt, and she supposes that is all she can really ask of anyone.

Battle wages on / no time to feel exhaustion / cast and cast again.

A nagging sense pulls at the back of her mind, urging her to check on the other team once more. Mitama grits her teeth against it. Try as she might, she cannot hold their hand through every swing, be there to soothe every strike that may befall them. And yet she is their only saving grace at this time…She lets out a frustrated huff as she turns back to the group in the distance.

Were it home at least she could have blind faith in them.

Her gaze falls upon Henry, bloodied and beaten but still standing and she lets out a frustrated huff. “You are a professor, are you not?” She calls, not knowing if her voice will even reach the mage across the plains. It matters not. It is more for her than anything else. Physic lights up her staff once more. “Act like it!”

Mitama rolls a 6. Heal! Henry recovers 2 HP. +1HP from Joyous Lantern

Magic crackles its way across and lands. She hopes, for now, it is enough.

The darkness clears, and Ike finds himself in the midst of four, each with weapons pointed at him. This wouldn’t be as much of a problem if they all had weapons, but he sees the blaze of flame in their fingers and knows that he needs to get out, quick, or he will not-- at all. It’s just a matter of picking the poison. So, without hesitation, he charges into the figure holding book and sword in either hand, and swears he can see the featureless eyes blow wide in shock as he directly chooses to ram himself full into the swortsword-- missing the roaring blaze in the other palm. In turn-- the bone sword is unhindered, momentum driving it deep into the plate of the figure and crumpling it like cardboard. [Ike: 0.5+3+1= 4.5 damage] Unfortunately, he has no time to confirm the kill; he travels onwards, stepping over the man and ducking forwards into a roll with his hand braced over the hilt sticking out of his side-- and winces as he feels heat and ice still sear his shoulder and back, the other two having reacted fast enough to draw twin lines of frost and fire. [Combined attack: -7hp] Ike hisses sharply as he stumbles back into the line of combatants, glaring. Ice creeps down his leg as he stomps hard, choosing to take the bleeding over the numbness of slowed reflexes. Then he flicks the Sword of Zoltan back into position, tip pointed at the enemy’s eyes. If one squints, perhaps they might see the shadow of Ettard in its bearing. 

[ceaselessblade]

resurrectionpact​:

the libation bearers

Not yet. The battlefield is difficult to navigate–weapons, arrows, and spells fly all about him, and it’s a miracle that Lyon manages to avoid any of it. They’re merciless, even for phantoms. Even the ones he was able to make with Fomortiis’ power were pitiful compared to these ones. Their speed, their strength… it’s almost terrifying.

An idea forms in Lyon’s head. Perhaps if they were trapped… could a shadow be trapped within shadows? Lyon cloaks his stained hand in dark magic, aiming at the Thief. Only one way to find out!

Shadowy hands erupt from the ground to capture the Thief, but they just barely graze its leg. “Damn!” Another Banshee spell forms in Lyon’s hands–he’s determined to do this…

A surge of shadows rolls up to face the group, like rolling thunderclouds across a plain. The bank washes across the crew of students. Ike shields his face as the smoke pours across, visibility dropping to near nil as he takes a step backwards, losing the ground he gained earlier. His retreating boots hit empty dirt--Ike frowns. The fallen mercenary should be here. He flicks a short stab, into the swirling dust. Empty.

Did he roll away? Is it the bank of smoke that has covered his escape? The black, swirling air is his only answer. Ike falls back into line, waiting patiently for the smoke to disperse. [Ike misses. Nobody attacks him this turn.]

@resurrectionpact @thelordoftheair @verseandrhyme @onlygodremembers

[verseandrhyme]

the libation bearers

@resurrectionpact ; @thelordoftheair ; @ceaselessblade ; @onlygodremembers

The kingdom of Valla, referred to by those who dare as the invisible kingdom, is a land hidden away at the bottom of the Bottomless Canyon, only to be visited every few decades when the skies above the lands of Hoshido and Nohr change. Following the curse of its creator, the silent dragon, none live there but ghosts, whispers of the past and what once was and no longer is. A land lost to time and myth, just as any belief or faith’s inevitable end.

In the here and now, it is not Vallaites, but unknown shadows that surge upon the monastery with weapons drawn and spells alight, crying out for the blood of the devout and retribution for whatever secrets time has swept away.

It is not the same. But the similarities are enough to leave Mitama on edge.

Mitama rolls a 19. Crit! 3.5 damage. Target is now poisoned.

Mitama’s voice cracks through the battlefield as she charges in, Valaura flying through the air once more to seep into the shadowy archer’s skin. The figure cries out as the spell burns and poison takes hold of its form. 

Should she be concerned about how easily she’s taken to the spell? She’s never dabbled in poisons before…her father-

isn’t here. Nor is the Dawn or the Dusk she knows so well. Only the Goddess and the blessing she bestows upon them in her name, despite the mark her protectors call a stain of sin upon her ankle. Well…if the Goddess deems this the path Mitama might take, so be it.

She’s never been one for fighting fate anyways.

Sword Mercenary attacks for 1 damage.

The sound of the sword slicing through the air grabs Mitama’s attention before the pain as a cut blossoms on her arm. She hisses and recoils, turning to face the new opponent. Before she can retaliate, another figure attacks it. Mitama blinks, recognizing Ike, before she huffs.

“Still charging in without a thought, hmm?” She calls, turning to find her next target. “Try to keep that head on your shoulders, empty as it is!”

[ceaselessblade]

Three hundred pounds go crashing into the shadowy figure, led by the shiny edge of a three-flanged pauldron.

Roll: 19, 1.5 + 3 = [4.5 DAMAGE]

The shadow folds, and the opposing mercenary drags the weight over down into his path, turning it into a trample that places him where he needs to be: the front lines. A heavy boot stamps the aggressor’s raised arm back into the dirt.

Startled by the sudden arrival, another shadow; a twin sword and blaze flaring in its other hand, whirls around and swipes with its still-glowing sword. It draws a sear across the braced arm, and Ike narrows his eyes as he feels a simmering heat travel down the shoulder, the buffeting hit having given the shade enough time to jump back and out of reach.

SHADOW SAVANT hits for [0.5 DAMAGE.]

He glances at the oncoming army, and then at the bone-sword in his hands. Perhaps he should have brought something larger? Ike shrugs. “I can’t hit them if I don’t get closer.”

@resurrectionpact  @thelordoftheair  @onlygodremembers @verseandrhyme

[regnumaves]

Screaming Into the Void || Team Catacombs

@alfvangr @ceaselessblade @onlygodremembers

The darkness seems to get even more overwhelming than it was before.

The soft moss covers the top parts of the walls. The floor gives less of an impression of a cave, and seems more like a proper room, the walls and floors are made from carved stone blocks rather than bare rock, and the halls themselves are wider and taller. However, there is no doubt that the place had been damaged heavily by the passing of time; or perhaps some other unfortunate fate. Water stains the walls and gathers in large, deep puddles on the floor.

A soft hum reverberates through the air, almost like the distant echo of the monastery’s choirs singing their hymns, or perhaps the gentle voices of the spirits of Serenes chanting their galdrar in perfect harmony.

And the odd voices - the whispers of departed souls seem to follow them wherever they go. Voices of people old and young, male and female and everything in between and outside.

Who is this?      Lost lambs of the Goddess? What is it that you search for?    This is a place of peace, and so we protect it with our lives.                   TURN BACK NOW. Will you be of use to me?

What answers the questions is a loud, surprised screech of a hawk that shreds the silent darkness like a talon would tear through delicate silk, as Tibarn bonks his head on a wall that seems to appear out of nowhere right in front of his beak.

“Son of a–”

He stops himself before he utters the final word, and merely groans in frustration. Reyson and Leanne aren’t here, but that’s no reason to swear.

But by the legendary Soan’s long, hairy tail, this is so infuriating.

At the very least, this area is just a little more spacious, allowing him to transform and fly more freely; even then, however, he certainly has more space vertically than horizontally. The ceiling is high enough to accommodate another of one those altered golems from earlier - which, now that he thinks about it, may not be a particularly good thing. On the sides, however, the walls are mere centimeters from his outstretched wings, his feathertips brushing the moss covering them if he does not fly in a straight line for even a moment.

Ugh.

He shakes his head to recover from that crash just now - hopefully it’s dark enough that they did not see that very well - as he lowers himself towards the flightless ones.

“Find anything interesting?”

[ceaselessblade]

Ike doesn’t say anything, looking around the room for clues. As far as he can see, the chamber appears to have sloped down into some sort of area with moss and a water leakage. Maybe they’re close to the sewers? The brickwork is the same. But then again, it could be said of the earlier areas as well.

There’s nothing but the slow, dripping sound of water. There’s a saying that a single drop, repeated across enough time can drive a man mad from it’s repetition. Ike is starting to see the logic of that sentence; here in the old, musty smell of this dark place, with barely any light... It’s just not a very forgiving place.

He closes his eyes, counting to ten to allow them to adjust. When he opens them again, he spots a strange patch of moss; just a slightly different colour, so he walks behind a pillar to inspect. It’s jackpot-- of a sorts. Colours web into the brick in what must have been a mural a long time ago. Ike struggles to make out the depiction from the faded colours and unfamiliar style. The mural stretches up high into the wall, disappearing into the dark shadows of the ceiling and indiscernible patchwork of mosses. “Over here.” Ike calls. “A wolf. A bird of some sort. A sun... Is this farmland? And this must be a fence of rock. Anyone recognize anything else?” @alfvangr @thelordoftheair @onlygodremembers

[ceaselessblade]

aurheatum​:

 Rhea observes the aftermath of  Faolán’s spell and the toll it has taken on her. Seteth attempts to comfort her without giving too much away (of the little they know a voice adds, mocks, in her head) and Rhea wonders how long that can last.

About as long as it takes for Professor Henry to open his mouth apparently. Oh, he was clever enough to try and back track upon seeing the horror on Faolán‘s face once he mentioned the stains but Rhea had had enough of shadows collecting in her Church. Hiding the predicament of so many of their party from  Faolán could only end badly, and so she steps in.

"Faolan,” Rhea finally speaks up. “I understand how difficult a time this must be for you but I ask that you remain calm. You know more of our enemies than many of the children here, who as brave as they may be, I am sure are frightened and confused.”

She continues, looking now into Faolán‘s shadowed face, “you are aware the dark magic they possess is meant to warp the minds and hearts of the goddesses most faithful. Please do not fall for such tricks. It is possible with their progress in Faergus that the thieves here may have tainted the golem programming before their death. Now that we have led the poor servant to its rest we can investigate.”

Faolán looks up at Lady Rhea, hands clasped in prayer. Slowly, she nods, “Yes, Lady Rhea… perhaps… perhaps the Golem was mistaken.” Though her words agree with the Archbishop, her tone betrays her lingering doubt. “Um, milady, if it’s not too much for me to ask… do you know what this stain is? And… um….” her voice is a scared, squeaky whisper, “do… do you have it… too?”

It is the question Rhea has been primed for since coming to the catacombs but it makes it no easier. Turning to the rest of the group Rhea explains:

“I believe the stain is the mark of their magic. My working theory is that this was another attempt on the lifeblood of the Church and in targeting our most faithful even students from different lands have been caught up in this spell.”

In regards to Faolan’s question Rhea merely smiles, an attempt at comfort. “Are you afraid, Faolan? I ask you believe in me, in all of us,” brushing aside her hair Rhea reveals the mark on her neck as if it were a minor inconvenience. “Another failed attempt on my life. I intend to bring the perpetrators to justice myself particularly if they mean to hide here.”

“Yes… I am afraid. None of this was supposed to happen, I…” Faolán sniffs. “I’m sorry that so many students were caught up in this mess. This was never meant to be life or death… And now, even you have been ‘blighted’, Lady Rhea… and I never ever knew, you never even told me…!”

The cardinal’s tears do bring Rhea some sorrow. She knows how it feels to be betrayed by those you hold most dear and can only hope that the truth of her words may offer some comfort. She slowly raises a hand, asking permission with eyes so she might give a reassuring touch.

 "I would have come to you instantly if I thought this foul magic might extend to you, my friend. The goddess has given us different tribulations to bear and I must say I am relieved to see this holy foundation has protected you.“ Rhea gestures to the other doubtless staring at them. "It is my intent to see no further harm may come to these good people seeing as they have been targeted merely for cordially interacting with the church. Faolan, can I ask for your continued assistance even with so much uncertainty?”

“Y-yes, Lady Rhea! Of course! I’ll do my utmost to help you all!”

Rhea gives her a true smile then, blooming bright and brief on her face before Rhea turns back to the rest of their cohort. “What say the rest of you? Before we venture any further I should like to hear your thoughts.”

@baldursson​@ceaselessblade

"Now that you mention it..." Ike stares at Henry, then simply points at his left boot, beginning the long process of unbuckling armor and leather boot. "I just thought it was a weird scrape, but I've got something similar here. Faolan, do you know anything about a black mark? Does this look like anything you know?"

Once Ike takes off his boot, Faolán kneels down to take a closer look. "By the Goddess! No, no I've never seen anything like this in my life!" She tries casting a basic heal spell on Ike's foot, but the stain remains. The trembling returns. "I... I don't understand. When– how–? Does it hurt?

Ike shakes his head. "Doesn't hurt one bit, don't worry about it." He scrunches up his face, pondering. "Should be around yesterday. Didn't think too much about it. Professor, did yours appear around the same time?"

As more and more marks are revealed, a growing look of frustration presses into Ike’s features. Clearly, there’s some sort of conspiracy afoot. And-- it’s just something about Rhea’s dialogue that simply raises more questions than it answers. Thieves? The church has thieves? What could be possibly so important that there would be thieves of the church, and why would they poison the faculty and students? Why assume thieves? Even more curiously, should it be poison, then why has it not taken effect yet? Why a mark, of all things? They’re not even the same! There’s one good thing about this. Faolan’s much happier at the end of Rhea’s consolation, and Ike’s glad to see that their best guide in this place has at least recovered. He shakes his head. There are no answers, but there’s also no solution to be found here. The only way to get them is to push on. The truth will reveal itself-- sooner or later. @baldursson

[ceaselessblade]

alfvangr​:

crusader’s mantle

     Little by little, the combined might of their blades and spells work to wear down the automaton’s armor, steel plating now pockmarked with dents, gouges, and erosion marks as proof of their determination to win. They have been fortunate thus far that their own wounds are nothing so severe; aside Mitama’s healing of Seteth’s injuries from earlier their focus is firmly set on offense, and Alfonse dares to hope that this good fortune will last until the battle’s end.

     Spoken too soon, evidently—a glowing light envelops the golem’s body as the Archbishop moves to strike again, repelling her blade with force enough to send her recoiling back. Its armor seems to shift and rearrange itself as well, as if shoring up its defenses; a trained eye would observe that the weaknesses they’ve been focusing on have become more difficult to target as a result.

     The field appears to respond to physical and magical attacks, and may throw that force back at you, Rhea declares, a warning for caution as she exchanges her sword for Nosferatu’s light to push past this new obstacle. Mitama and Lyon let fly their own spells with similar success, but rather than charge the golem again Alfonse changes tactics and retreats, wisps of magic gathering near as he reaches Grado’s prince amidst the chaos. An outstretched hand and a muttered incantation, and the mage is surrounded by a warding light almost similar to that shielding their foe.

     “If I try to attack it now, it’ll rebound as Lady Rhea’s blade did. You have a better chance at damaging it right now—may this protect you when you next go forth.”

[ Used Rally Luck on Lyon! Subtract 4 from Altered Golem’s roll when Lyon is next attacked. ]

@ceaselessblade​

Ike winces at the screeching sparks that draw from Rhea’s contact with the barrier, followed by the clear repulsion of her own attack’s force against her. That’s clearly a magical barrier, and as far as he knows, the bone sword in his hand is sharp, but almost entirely mundane. He doesn’t see a way he can have any impact on the golem either, so he instead chooses to reposition. Scooting over to the other side to flank, he begins checking for any chinks in the golem’s armor, glaring at the yellow barrier, as if doing so would peel its coruscating shimmer from its plates. Slowly, but surely-- the golem’s being whittled down. It looks like victory is soon at hand, but Ike doesn’t like the look of the glowing spear that it wields, crackling with lightning. 

The automaton still looks like it’s in good health, which means it can take a few more hits. Which means that the spear’s likely to contact someone along the way. Ike grits his teeth, scanning the joints of the arm and the weapon for points of weakness. Unfortunately, he comes up empty: if he’s to have any effect on the weapon itself, he’d have to go in personally and observe from a closer distance. That comes with a set of dangers by itself, but at this time, it may be very well worth it. I[ke passes his turn]

@resurrectionpact​

[ceaselessblade]

alfvangr​:

crusader’s mantle

     Fighting a battle in such a dark and enclosed space puts them at something of a disadvantage, against this golem that stands even larger and tougher than the one he and several others had just fled from with no care for the fact that it has deemed even Rhea a threat to be removed. He sees it firsthand in how Tibarn takes flight to attack and misses, his nature as a hawk laguz making him more ill-suited to the environment than anyone else; sees it in how all are quick to break into smaller groups and scatter lest they be crushed in a fell swoop. But they have the advantage of numbers; it is only a matter of coordinating their moves to bring the automaton low.

     Regalia is drawn from its sheath and Alfonse follows the Archbishop’s lead in charging their foe, using the momentum to boost his own jump without hesitation while it is yet occupied with other targets. Both hands close around Fólkvangr’s hilt, a storm alight in sea-blue eyes as the blade comes down with a shout—targeted to the segmented parts comprising the golem’s arm in a bid to render it unusable. The resounding screech of metal against metal rings harsh in his ears on impact, sensation jolting up his arms as gravity reclaims him; feet hit the ground in time for Alfonse to see it turn toward him with a menacing glow.

[ Rolled 16 to deal critical damage! ] [ Altered Golem misses; no damage taken in return. ]

     Undamaged arm swings, light-lance thrown like a javelin; the attack is easy to predict for its slow startup and a backwards retreat easily removes himself from its trajectory before it crashes into stone tile. “The arms!” he calls to all who can hear in the moment, tip of his blade directed at the construct’s limbs. “If we destroy the arms, that should make it harder for it to attack!”

Ike acknowledges the command with a silent nod. The bony saber at his side is a strange choice, but it was horrendously sharp-- he’d tested it personally, and it went through armor like butter. It’s why he’d chosen it-- Ragnell may have felt like an extension of his own body, but it also did use its heft for the impact it gave, and in the catacombs, space was at a premium. Also, he’d really rather not have a repeat of spontaneous structural failure, courtesy of heavy weapons, because they are no longer above the tunnels. The bonesword sings as he steps forward, teeth whistling through the air like a serpent’s fangs. A screeching noise as it contacts the elbow, drawing a long scratch across the plate like a knife drawn through butter-- but Ike twists his grip halfway, arresting his momentum to force himself backwards. [Rolled 10: Barely Hit!] [Altered Golem MISSES. Nat 1] He scoots backwards, leaving a wide berth between himself and the golem, awaiting its inevitable swing through his own attack. Except-- the golem didn’t move. There is an awkward second of silence as the automaton completely fails to react to the damage it’s just received, and a dawning sensation of sour disappointment as Ike realizes that he’s lost the chance to follow through. It is far too late to actually pursue, so Ike gives up; slinks shamefully back into the corridor, eyes scanning for another opening. 

[ceaselessblade]

Go Go Golem!

A sudden tremor throughout the caverns. Ike can feel it in his bones, in the fingers he has to the wall, pressed against the brick which he squints at and finds familiar. It’s enough to jolt a memory, and finally lift the furrow in his brows. It comes to him; how strange, it’s the same kind of brick he saw in the sewers where he’d traveled with Maria. He takes a moment more to consider that, of course it’d be the same! After all, they’re all beneath the monastery. Rumble. Huh. That sounds familiar, too. Kind of like the creaking he’d heard with Maria as well, like an automaton moving somewhere... Ah, that’s not good, is it? That’s not good at all.

Turning around, Ike breaks into a run, chasing after the trail of students ahead. “What’s going on?” A voice, made entirely out of what seems like copper and hollow flanging. A giant, fully within the shadows, save two red dots that lance through the darkness. Ahead, dimly lit are several distinctive silhouettes; unmistakably the group he’d just left. They look like toys in front of the mountain ahead of them, which approaches, one step at a time.

[--sᴇᴄᴜʀɪᴛʏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴏᴄᴏʟ ʀᴇsᴜᴍɪɴɢ.]

“Ah.”

[ceaselessblade]

Activity: July

Sword S 2/3 -> 3/3 => S+

[ceaselessblade]

atypicalsenerio​:

Soren did already know Ike’s answer, but the difference between knowing and hearing something, in Ike’s own voice, was enough to be worth it to ask. Time and time again life tested Ike, and he always stayed true to the man Soren so admired, trusted, and cared for.

The intimacy of the scene wasn’t lost on Soren. This was where he was sure many bungling relationships predominantly between nobles turned into something new, for better or worse, for love or for pretending to actually want the way their lives had been plotted for them down to lines drawn between points of family trees. That he’d even led Ike all the way there and then stayed to have a conversation and memorize the view even when there was nothing or magical or intellectual value to be found in the bricks and vines was telling in and of itself.

He let himself savor it, face passive as he inwardly scrambled to save every moment, ignoring how his heart did beat faster, and his hands were unusually warm. Soren turned his attention from his internal thoughts to Ike, gaze softer than usual when it met Ike’s endearing smile. As though there was anything about Ike that wasn’t endearing.

Soren blinked, letting the feather piece of his gremory outfit fall off his shoulders, suddenly too hot to have it on. “Here, let me think.” He carefully draped it over Ike’s shoulders, admiring how the fluffy band added to his already impressive shoulders. Perhaps thick fur trim was more Ike’s style. Then again, neither were dressed how they usually were. He supposed this could qualify to some people as fun.

He was out of time to think and he had no new answer.

Soren rubbed his forearms lightly, unused to having absolutely no sleeves with all of his shoulders and collarbone showing. Now of all times wasn’t the time he wanted to get tongue tied. The truth was simple, and he answered softly, voice unwavering.

“I wouldn’t wish for anything. All I would wish for is what I already have, right in front of me.”

Ike watches Soren consider the question: the faint furrow of his brows. Perhaps he’s thinking that he needs a better answer, but he can see the dimming rays slide past, Soren’s lips setting in a thin line-- he’s made a decision, even if if might not be to his standards. As usual, he cut straight to the matter, and let the consequences fall as they may. So it was, cast like die to clatter across the cast brick. “I wouldn’t wish for anything. All I would wish for is what I already have, right in front of me. It’s a surprising answer, even if at some level Ike had expected something like this.Soren wouldn’t ever give such an answer if he were stressed; and Ike is grateful to all the gods that are that it’s so. 

It says a lot about how he’s changed; likely for the better.

What about him?

(What about you?) Ike checks, mulls with a clumsy trawl through the top of his own head. He finds it cloudy, tension stuck in his shoulders which he’s unsure is combat or clustered worries, like birds packed together on a tiny roof. It isn’t pressing or even particularly heavy, but it’s tangled hopelessly-- a mildly muggy mess that he’s tried and failed to sort out before. He thought he would have had to wait for the fog to clear as he muddled through it, but perhaps this place is enough? Up here, he doesn’t have to imagine flight. Clouds drift past, below the peaks of the cliff. If he squints and looks, perhaps he’ll be tall enough to see.

What’s in them?

(He owes Soren. He owes Maria, and hasn’t given the letter…)

Ike wraps hands at the back of his head.

It’s a peaceful night. The wind is cold, but refreshing. The last rays of the sun have long left; there’s only the waning glow of blue as it sinks back into the horizon. Soon, winter will come. Autumn passes, and spring will return. He stepped in here a a full cycle past; remembers the chill of cresting the hill to the gates of the Monastery, feet treading on light snow. His only companion then was his breath, and a grey, lightless sky.

Do you have reason to ask for more? He looks out-- The grass of the hills is a dyed a deep jade under the evening’s last rays, flowing like ripples on a still pond.

(Why’d he have to wish for anything?

Isn’t this enough? He knows in his heart that they’re safe-- so, did he even have to wish for it anyway?) Why didn’t he stop to look, take a breather of his own? He can hear Mist’s voice echo at the back of his skull. (Silly.)

Even Soren’s let go of his worries. Why hasn’t he? Ike knots his fingers at the back of his head, an apologetic look crossing his face, followed by a ascent into a lopsided smile. 

“...Yeah. Me too.” ...

This place is nice. Soren’s company is nice. Soren’s happy. And Ike is happy, too. That’s more than enough.