"tough luck, i guess"

roleplay blog for randal from cipher of the knights of seiros. affiliated with toa.

[dyshonor]

introduction.

hello !! in case you don’t know me already, i’m mocha / kiki  ( either is fine !! ) and i have the (dis)honor of rping randal in toa !! at the time of writing this, i also rp monica over at vonochs !!

important note: randal will have a bit of amnesia on account of the fact that i have not played a lot of fire emblem games ;w;; even though via cipher its canon that he has visited many different worlds and fought in many different wars, iiii don’t know all those wars so he will Conveniently remember whenever i need him to ( Whenever I Play A Fire Emblem Game ).

randal is a former noble from lycia, having spent his youth as a surprisingly successful gambler. muses from elibe might even have heard rumors of a man who gambled his way into possession of a mansion

at some point amid his rapid lose-some-win-more streak, he fell into a midlife crisis at twenty-something years old. his life took a slower turn as he tried to figure out what exactly it was he wanted from it

his life didn’t get any easier as four decades into his life, he discovered the outrealms

there, he met the rest of the cipher cast, and was quickly swept up in their realm hopping, time traveling adventures. for the first time in his life, he was able to find something - or rather, someones - that he cared about.

through circumstances that he can’t quite remember, he found himself in a once-in-a-lifetime wager. whether he won or lost, he himself can’t tell you, but he did find himself falling into the lap of the officers academy, without any of his friends and an intense ache in his head

your muse is potentially aware of the fact that a deadbeat knight full of false grandiose and a lack of self-awareness has stumbled into the academy, and if your muse is from elibe, they might recognize him as a noble from lycia - though he might not recognize them, even if he’s met them in the past !

thank you for reading this far, and im looking forward to throwing randal at you all !! o7

[dyshonor]

collecting old debts

+ any.

[machiot]

Perhaps Randal feels some annoyance at this interaction, but Marni's eyes sparkle like she had just come into possession of a new toy. A toy that fights back and gets mad is ten times more fun than one that just sits there and takes it. He has more life to him than before, lackadaisical attitude replaced with something more youthful.

It's not quite the same chasing him with her words instead of her axe, but this is fun, too.

Marni laughs in the unkind way that only a teenager can, "Haha, a tapestry? What's with that? Isn't that basically like admitting you dress like some old fogey? I don't think a ribbon's gonna help with that!"

That might be the first time in her life anyone has ever called her a minimalist, though. She can go ahead and add that one to her collection the next time someone tries saying her outfit has too many ribbons.

"A curse? That makes you old?" He had looked to be around Mauvier's age, so if you asked her, that put him in the camp of old. Compared to a teenager, any sign of age at all relegated him that descriptor. "Wow, someone must've really hated you, Randy! What'd you do to deserve that?"

She ducks out of the way, ribbon coming with her.

"Lemme guess—someone confused you for one of their sheep and got mad when you turned out to be a human?"

[dyshonor]

-- EVEN IN ALL HIS indignant ego, Randal realizes how humiliating it looks to be bullied about by a child. He grits his teeth in annoyance, trying- really trying his best to keep his anger under wraps, to not get baited, and yet-

"I'm saying!" He pulls his hands to his chest, exasperation bubbling over. "Are you aware of how annoying it is to want to live your own, straightforward life, only to get jerked out of it with little say in the matter? To be occasionally replaced by a dried up rag of a man and left with all his debts and told that most prefer him over you? It's- It's-"

Perhaps Marni is patient, perhaps she is not, but regardless it takes Randal an embarrassingly large handful of seconds to pull together the thought:

"It's so annoying!!!"

Evidently snapping at the chance to take pity where he can grasp it, Randal's eyes spring up in angry tears. "What did I do to deserve this! Right? You agree I'm no more deserving of the blame of the sins of others than any other old chap you might find on the street, yet here I am! Barely given agency! I can't have anything- hell!"

He swipes at her once more, though his limbs grow more entangled all the while.

"I can't even have my old ribbon back! Apparently!"

[dyshonor]

to build a fire

+1 heavy armor

[boundlesschaos]

She stares long and hard at the play that Randal had chosen. If this was indeed a game of survival, the odds of winning had been brought to her favor, hasn't it? It's not a good play, she can at least narrow that down, even with her limited experience with this game. But it is not the only game that her and Randal had played together. Through the countless worlds that weapon had clashed with weapon, where swords clanged and magic brought terror, a new day was granted to them through skillful play. Luck, sometimes, triumphed over strategy - but this, too, was a part of the game that they played. "...she won't-" and she speaks this stiffly, despite the certainty in her next words, "-whoop my ass. I'd craft a strategy in which she would not have any chance of doing so." She places a card down of her own. It's an easy play, given the poor hand that Randal had prior. "...but...you are correct in that I do not deal with physical harm when we sit and play together. The competition allows us to determine a winner without taking physical damage." Survival, as Randal puts it. And he's not wrong at all - she's forgotten that she was cold. She glances over to Randal himself. "So, I can't lose here, either." Her eyes expectantly ask for his next move.

[dyshonor]

-- "OH! A WONDERFUL BIT o' fightin' spirit from the menagerie," Randal says. The laugh that such a serious, cringe-y fairy tale line like 'I can't lose here!!' draws out of him is short, surprised, and genuine.

He looks at the card she's placed in the way a man assesses if he can bluff his way out of a bad hand, which he cannot, and has to very carefully avoid looking at his own. He places one down. It is, objectively, a worse play.

"Y'know," he says, in the voice of a man who would very much like to not be looking at the cards, "There's a sorta sayin' that goes round. 'You oughtta be more afraid of th' quiet ones!', and whatnot." He gestures at her loosely. "Specifically in the sense of: if there's anyone you don't want across from ya, it's the one who doesn't tip a hand."

A pause, where he pointedly examines the ceiling.

"Maybe waxin' poetic on this over a game of cards isn't in the niceties, but one can't help but feel the wisdom of it." He brings his gaze back down. "Still. She won't whoop your ass, says the girl who crafts strategy. What's yours, then? Generally speakin'. I've watched Miss Poe play enough that I'd say I know her rotten tells," he does not, "but you..."

He tilts his head in a way that suggests genuine curiosity rather than flattery. "For all yer plainness, sometimes it feels like I'm readin' weather I've never seen before. Exciting, but damned if I'm right about it."

[diadic]

in the end, leif must leave last

         ⤷   mission task: excavation   ( lance +1 & spelunking )

[diadic]

     “......” There is nothing Leif can say to disagree with Randal nor would he want to. Has this not always been what he has felt since the earliest days of his youth? The feeling that has flared, rotting his heart and nipping at his heels to propel him forward as his body feels heavy from the exertion of trying, always trying?

The strength he has now grants a comfort that didn't exist before. But it does not erase the turmoil of all the steps it took to get here.

Leif takes a few moments to gather his thoughts, gathers them in time to the steps his feet take, echoing in the cavernous path they take. “That's right. But I fight to get stronger to be able to remain somewhere at last. I might not want to be in places for long... but if I could change that, so that feeling never comes again, I want to.”

A ray of light on the other side starts to illuminate their escape, letting them know they're almost in the clear. When they take a step out of this tunnel, they'll have made it to the other side and can run back to Garreg Mach, away from Burrowhaven.

Before they make it, Leif turns back to Randal, waiting for him.

“Do you not wish for that strength, Randal? Don't you wish to be strong enough that staying in the same place is no longer uncomfortable for you??”

[dyshonor]

-- LEIF'S WORDS REACH RIGHT into Randal's gut and have a good twist of his intestines, leaving him near breathless. A lesser, younger him would balk at the idea: strong enough?

Randal is plenty strong, and he says this with only a little bit of ego- he is strong in a way that is born of laziness and lack of much else consistent, the way show dogs do when they've outgrown their prime but know little else. While he doesn't hark at the heights gods and all their pleasantries seem to enjoy, he's the next best thing. An ample nightmare for any young page wanting to prove to miss lady-in-waiting that they're the best.

This, really, should have little to do with comfortableness. Randal wants to explain this clearly (something he has never once managed to do in his sorry life) to Leif, that standing 'ideals' and 'strength' next to each other like they worked nicely hand in hand was all well and good for Leif, but meant little to a disillusioned sack of old things like Randal.

No, he can't say that. All that he can manage in the end is: "Yeesh, is it that obvious?"

He scratches his back and gives it the good college think, grater to his brain that it might be. The question is fair. The question is more than fair, for all that it sits uneasy. Perhaps, even, he's been asked it before, in different configurations, by different sorts of people- by those who'd tried to keep him and those who'd tried to forget him, and all variations therein. What it means to be settled.

"...I'd say that's a thing worth wantin', and worth the work," he says, at last. It is a pleasant in between. He continues.

"Dunno if it's quite the same ailment, though. Y'can't outrun havin' left everywhere you've ever been- and I've been a fair few places, see." He rubs at the back of his neck. "Don't mind the movin', mind you. But it's annoying when the clock keeps tickin' without the courtesy of asking first, ya feel?"

He laughs heartily, more so than the situation calls for, and slaps Leif across the back.

"But perhaps that's a matter of strength too, same as you've got it."

He tilts his head at Leif, the usual toothy grin hanging loosely from his lips. "Shucks, kid. You're one to tug it where it hurts, huh? I thought you'd be the type to respect yer elders, but you're as bad as they get!"

[boundlesschaos]

the source of it all [and who it is not.]

September Anniversary - Any+1

[boundlesschaos]

He puts up a couple of good points, doesn't he? Why hasn't she changed? Was there something important that she's missed, here? No, even if she did, it was still useful to determine whether or not he was responsible, even if indirectly. If he wasn't, then this would help to out rule some of the possibilities that had been bouncing around in her mind. Having nothing happen does still produce information when it comes to theories. She answers first with a nod. To the proposition? Maybe that as well, but more notable - "...that's why I'm coming along. If I'm around, and your presence has been causing this...I can reason that remaining within close proximity would raise the probability if it happening to me. And if not, then...more reason to prove that it is not you..." Right, what was the requirements for him to accept a plan as such? "...oh. I am not going to take you apart." She furrows her brow. She speaks so plainly about the issue. "Since you have changed form before, I would be more interested in measuring any magical output...I'd have to consider by what means before going about that..." For a moment, Niamh looks a little...unsure? Troubled? But not particularly bothered by how Randal himself might feel about the conversation itself. After some pause, she decides she'll figure that particular trouble later. "...your requests have been accepted. The woods might be dangerous, so pick a weapon that'll keep you safe..."

But her, a threat? Nooo, not at all.

[dyshonor]

-- IT'S SO MATTER OF fact that Randal almost forgets to maintain his air of personal affront. I am not going to take you apart. Like she'd told him the soup was ready. He watches her for a moment with the particular expression of a man trying to decide if he's been insulted or reassured and landing somewhere helplessly in the middle.

"Well," he says at last. "Glad we've got that sorted."

He pushes off from the wall. The tattered sleeve is flung back with minimal dignity. He had been watching her face, and while he's desperately rusty on people reading, he's enough memory of chess matches to understand the face of one keeping calculus internal. He doesn't comment on it, which is a restraint for which he should be clapped on the back.

"Measuring magical output." Maybe that man was more educated in the subject than he is, but for now, all he personally can do is sound like he might understand the matter. "Right. So less dissection and more... bookkeeping? I can respect bookkeeping."

What weapon to bring? His fingers twitch. "It won't be an obvious choice," he says, a little too high-pitched. "Though, is it ever with me? If you have opinions on the matter, you'll find out soon enough."

He falls into step besides her. "But just so you know," he adds, "most folk who wanted to prove I wasn't responsible for something would simply take my word for it and move on." He glances sidelong at her. "I can't decide whether your method is more flattering or insulting."

A beat.

"Don't actually bother answering that. I'll figure it out on the walk."

[bxldrsdraumar]

meat & potatoes

[bxldrsdraumar]

With Fódlan closed off from all the other continents at present, several students and faculty members from overseas are hit with an even stronger sense of homesickness than they would have been normally, not knowing how long it shall be before the waters will be open again. Even letters don't seem to be enough! The kitchen is overwhelmed by requests for foreign dishes. Every day of the week celebrates some different continent, helping alleviate the blues to some degree, but there's only one problem... those assigned to kitchen duty have no idea how to make some of these menu items! Submitted recipes wildly range in quality, some being expertly written and others being much more confusing or dubious. Can you save tonight's dinner? [Grants Sword +1]  (starter for @dyshonor)

"I suppose it really does not get much better than a hearty stew - which of course every country has, but there is just something about the rich gravy that comes from things thrown together by a cookfire. I am far more used to setting camp and allowing others to take care of the important tasks," he admitted with a laugh, spreading his hands in what might have been a shrug; "And, I guess, that's what it was like a bit at home as well. There was rarely an opportunity where I was needed, or indeed, most fit to tend to the cookfire and what would feed those under my command."

Which was not really the question. If one asked Sigurd what the question initially had been, he would not have been able to pinpoint it, and might have trailed backward in the attempt to find it, only to meander forward once more in the direction of the end result.

Which in this case, was a meal.

A specific meal, though one that eluded his mind for a moment. Stews by a cookfire on march were one thing, and they were something comforting and almost nostalgic for him - it meant that his men could eat, and it made him grateful enough - but the nostalgia for him lay somewhere deeper in the recesses of his heart.

Grannvallian cuisine was more than what he ate on march, but it was something that he had eaten all his life. It was no more something he felt the need to describe than the color of the sky on a bright and beautiful day.

He smiled at his companion for the day, another man employed by the knights, and reached forward to clap him on the shoulder.

"I am sure between the two of us, we will find something that is sure to garner excitement and delight."

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL HAS BEEN IN enough kitchens to know that he probably should not be trusted in one, which is not information he volunteers readily. Cooking is the sort of thing reserved for the great outdoors, for burning fires with fatty meat and no roof with which to burn. As for this current circumstance...?

He claps Sigurd on the shoulder right back, the universal language of two men who have no idea what they are doing but are agreed on the matter of doing it together.

"Cookfire stew is an institution, I'd argue." He says this with the sort of authority that suggests he's had enough of it to have developed opinions. "Though I'll confess- what I'm personally hopin' fer is th' kind that takes three days an' a grandmother's worth of stubbornness t'make properly. You know the sort. Where half the ingredient is time."

He says this (a lie, almost- has he ever had a grandmother? or a mother? woah! not examining that thought) while surveying the kitchen. The submitted recipes are, charitably, a mixed bag. Some of them are measurements. Others are more philosophy than instruction.

"Right," Randal says, picking up a card that reads something to the effect of 'combine until it tastes correct'. He turns it over and clicks his tongue at the blank backside. Back again. "Have you any experience with Grannvallian cooking, yerself- or are we workin' from first principles?" He asks the question with genuine enough inquisitiveness.

"I ask because I have stayed a while in Sacae," he is pretty sure at least, "and while I couldn't tell ya a reciple t'save my life, I have a fair picture on what the end result should look like." He spreads his hands. "Which may or may not be th' same thing."

He has ever intention of seeing this through. Whether or not the food will be edible is another matter entirely! And why think about that?

[diadic]

in the end, leif must leave last

         ⤷   mission task: excavation   ( lance +1 & spelunking )

[diadic]

    'Banned from the nightlife,' Randal says. Was he an alcoholic? Or did he partake in the sordid entertainment people didn't want to advertise in the daytime? Leif can only speculate, but he doesn't find it all too important to press, surely the man's own business, just as it had been for those in his own army back in the day.

Leif gets the message clear regardless of any of that: Randal would rather not be here for long. It motivates Leif's steps to quicken ever so slightly then.

“I don't know if I'd call that normal... but I understand. Circumstances lead me to have to suddenly drop things and disappear too,”  he replies.  “Though that's happened a lot less nowadays after I got stronger.”

[dyshonor]

-- THIS IS A PIECE of backstory that Randal can relate to. Nothing humbled a man like finding out that rolling dice was much less reliable a living than picking up a sword- though the combination of such things tended to lead him to situations like the following.

He snorts under his breath, a thing like a laugh, quieter than he normally would allow himself. Warmth, if not outright fondness, makes a quick study of his expression in the low light.

"Stronger!" he echoes, light enough. "Aye. There's somethin' to that, I'd grant ya."

He leaves it there, which he doesn't do as often as he likely should, given how much trouble it grants him. Keeps pace with the lord- slightly behind him, a position of trust and deference that Randal adopts without remark, though it doesn't always come naturally.

There is something in the comfortable familiarity of a tunnel like this. He's been in a fair number of them: the smell of stone, the way the flame makes something comprehensible of their surroundings- this is something shared between every city and none of them, a non-place, easier for talking than most. He almost says as much.

Instead: "It tends ta be th' gettin' stronger that's the rough part." He tilts his head. "But I'm preachin' to the choir on that, I'm sure."

[dyshonor]

collecting old debts

+ any.

[machiot]

"Yeah, Randy! That was your name! You said so yourself!"

He did not, in fact, say so. It was entirely her decision to start calling him Randy instead of his real name, which she has already forgotten. It was Ran-something for sure. Basically, his name is Randy.

"You shave every day? As if! You totally had stubble the other day!" A pause, as she looks the man over. He definitely shaved. "Wait, are actually just bad at shaving? Did you have someone help you today, Randy?"

But whatever the reason for his different appearance, he seems... off today. Compared to how laid back and devil may care he had been back then, he seems much more high-strung now. Had he cared this much before? Not just about his ribbon, but about anything? He certainly didn't seem like the type to mess with her hair either.

His outstretched hand and plea are wholly ignored, his hand batted away dismissively.

"Huh? No way! You think green looks better with pink than blonde? It suits me way better than you, so I'm keeping it!"

[dyshonor]

-- HE WILL TAKE INSULTS (though not without complaint), he will take babysitting a child, he will do all the lovely insufferable things expected of him so long as it means he gets what is already due for him- AND YET! Not even this much is granted as Marni harumphs with some utter bullshit about color-coordination. As if she had any sort of sense in that! He clings his batten-away hand to his chest.

"Please. It's about the entire ensemble rather than anything else- I've got a lovely tapestry of color holding everything together, thank you very much!" He motions at himself. "While you've got, what. Some minimalism going on? It's not 'looking better' if you're just slapping some of the same handful of colors together. I have a sense for coordination. And for what is mine."

He brushes his hand over his chin almost subconsciously. Well. If asking nicely did not work, then perhaps a touch of sincerity would be better. Honesty, even. Ugh.

"Listen," he says slowly. "I have a- curse befallen on me. Terrible tragic, I know, as if I don't have enough woes in the world already. But it involves a less than savory form taking control sometimes. Whatever he says and whatever promises he makes you should be dismissed and forgotten. I'm sorry if he misled you with promises of my ribbon being yours, but it plainly was not his to given. So-"

Pettiness and desperation taking hold, he makes a lunge for the ribbon.

[dyshonor]

to build a fire

+1 heavy armor

[boundlesschaos]

Her slender fingers cycle the cards, shifting their positions as her attention brings herself towards the outdoors - the world that the two have locked themselves away from. Confined to a room like this, limited to only what they have and what they know.

A deep understanding of the many worlds that exist, but not able to provide the same whimsy in the space that they have before them.

"To say we have games..." Her work finished, she places the deck of shuffled cards between the two of them. Her eyes, however, remain focused elsewhere. "...by your standards, not especially..."

But the introduction of the game that their strange group of wanderers had picked up and played, and their time together-

Ah, and it's not just that, either.

Here, despite knowing that her adversary could very well clip her wings, she knew she had to take flight. There we many customs she had yet to understand, and the opportunities here had provided her that ability to learn. To play games of deduction, tests of trust, discover nights of wonder and awe...

"...but, I've learn many ways to have fun since coming here. It's nice...to share them with others, too..." something she knows now she would miss.

She knows others would miss her the same. She knows Emma would especially so. Would she be ok?

Would she be able to handle it, if they didn't...

Thoughtful eyes narrow. She can't think that way. If she consider it a possibility, then it means it could come true. Factually, she should consider all angles, yes. But she didn't want to entertain her mind.

She didn't want that truth to pass.

[dyshonor]

-- THAT NIAMH NEEDS TO think for a moment to consider if her planet had any games is a reminder of how little Randal knows of the world, of how his alleged world-weariness is a falsehood with little substance. Not that he thinks he wouldn't be weary in a place that doesn't have 'games by your standards' but, still.

It's such a stark contrast to the way Randal lives: if there is no fun in the matter, then there is no point at all. Luck, at times, feels like nothing but a cheap injection to get him in the right mood of the matter,

Time-traveling and card games. The only two things he shared with someone like Niamh, like Poe, like Emma and Yuzu and the rest of them. And for someone like Niamh, it was something so significant as to be effort to consider, rather than something so natural it felt like breathing...

"Then that's good, ain't it!" He slaps a card down decisively. "I mean, not ta preach to th' choir, but- ain't games just a step towards survival?" He motions at the area around them, as if the cold that permeated through the walls was something tangible. "Tragedies and inconveniences and general unpleasantries... can't say they'd be all that bearable without a game or two between 'em."

The move he's made is awful, and he realizes it as he glances at the card for more than a moment. Ah, well. "At least those are my thoughts on th' matter. I'm awful biased, 'mittedly. But surely Poe's less inclined ta spear ya through when she's sittin' down and thinkin' of how ta whoop yer ass in a game, right? At least that's how it's lookin' on the outside."

[diadic]

in the end, leif must leave last

         ⤷   mission task: excavation   ( lance +1 & spelunking )

[diadic]

    “ I don't like making scapegoats, but I understand the need, ”  Leif accepts the offered lie, keeping it in mind if need be.  “ Though it is for the better if it's just a few people we have to deal with at worst. ”

As Randal said, there's strength in numbers; that goes for the village too.

“ From what I could tell, we likely won't be in Burrowhaven for much longer. We found out about their magical soil, I've heard. ”  That was the most recent report to the group.  “ All we have left to do is find the relic Nye pointed us to. There's a charity gala it might be at pretty soon. If you can keep your head low, your safety and the success of our mission can both be assured. ”

Optimistic? Perhaps. A man who couldn't stay out of trouble once wasn't necessarily looking like he had great prospects for avoiding it again, but Leif doesn't doubt that the man might try at least.

“ These tunnels connect a few areas. If you keep following me, I should be able to lead you to a safe escape point. ”

The steps continue, measured and calmer in their confidence that nobody else was around them at present. It's in this space that Leif brings up an old topic.

“ ...You seem concerned for my honor. Do you get abandoned a lot?? ”

[dyshonor]

-- LEIF IS EVERY BIT of the natural born leader that Randal could never hope or want to be: charismatic, caring, effortlessly helpful. Or, if that was all a first blush facade: he motions at being good, in a way that Randal can't decide if he finds naive or strong.

Well, he doesn't give two shits either way. He whistles low and smiles. "Thank th' gods!" he says, messily clasping his hands together. "I'm not one fer lingerin', particularly if I'm banned from nightlife. Robs a man of purpose, right?"

He nods at Leif's suggestion, follows him like a dog. When your shoddy savior says bark, you bark- though Randal wonders if Leif is aware of this sort of power.

Concerned for honor. It's such a left-field- no. What Randal says with a clear intent of joke is deadly serious for other. Just because he's so steeped the idea of 'knighthood' in irony to the point where he can't see it as anything but a laugh does not mean anyone else means the same. If anything, it is a clear indication of the root of such a thought, so lost to time that he's trouble grasping it again.

"Wouldn't say that. Frankly, it's rightly the other way 'round!" He gestures with a spin of his finger, shrugging all the while. "Ain't got much of a choice in where the winds take me, see. If it's away from a comrades side, then- I'm just a normal man, see?"

That there is any sort of shield for him in the matter, that he genuinely could not help the passage of time and space as it surged through him, didn't feel like a point bringing up. He liked it, after all, and saw little point in hiding that fact.

There were many like him in this matter. Randal was simply lucky enough in his circumstance.

[dyshonor]

damned consistency

horsebow moon; search party prompt.

[craneswings]

“Aye…I mean, precisely,” Yuzu’s confirmation nearly comes out as a stutter. It hasn’t been since her early teens of running through the Hoshidan fields that the crane felt any familiarity with a perch. Something so welcoming…why does it make her so nervous?

The will to continue pressing on is melted when she feels the presence of Sir Randal draw closer to her. His ongoing questions about the outcome of the attack and everything afterwards serves as reminder that, although their positions should mean otherwise, she is in the position of knowledge thanks to remaining with the main group. Focus should be on satisfying his inquiries over her pointless anxieties.

Maybe it’s her imagination, or just the nostalgic motion becoming more and more familiar again, but Randal’s slap is a lot softer and less sudden. She barely reacts to its impact, satisfied with the confirmation that he is still behind her.

“Such words…should not be passed so freely, Sir Randal,” Yuzu lets out a soft sigh as she picks away at some aerial branches in their way. “But it should go without saying: you have my thanks.”

Yuzu goes to respond to the latter part first, as she herself needs to think over the state of classes and such. “I cannot speak much for the initial raid, given being trapped in the cathedral, but…” the samurai turns to face Randal as they cross a clearer path in the forest, her eyes filled with determination, “I am certain…most of our troops remained breathing upon our fight for vengeance. 

“Courses may be postponed until repairs are made…but reasoning does not fall upon lost comrades. I am certain.”

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL SLOWS AT THAT- just a fraction- enough that the rhythm of their walk changes, boots scuffing dirt as he absorbs her certainty. He hums, low in his throat. He's giving her the grace to be thoughtful rather than amused, this time.

"Well," he says at last, voice steadier than before, "that's a mercy, then." His gaze drifts past her shoulder, toward the half-swallowed stone and splintered paths. "Postponed lessons I can live with. Gods know most of us could stand t'learn a bit slower anyway."

He exhales through his nose, something like relief loosening the tight line of his shoulders. "Breathin' folk can rebuild. Dead ones just leave their bodies t'move." A pause. "So good thing I'm back up an' kicking, right?"

When she turns to face him fully, that determination in her eyes that's so, so Yuzu (emma, he can understand where she gets it from, but- yuzu? gods grace her), he answers it with something quieter. "You did good, Ser Yuzu. Don't sell it short. Keepin' people standin' after somethin' like this?" He clicks his tongue. "That ain't nothin'."

He reaches up, hesitates, then settles for resting his hand briefly at her upper arm. It is a motion that would make him retch on a better day, but he has neither the energy to be difficult nor the want to drag at Yuzu. "As fer reason not fallin' on lost comrades..." A crooked smile ghosts in. "That's the sort o' thin a teacher says when they're hopin' the lesson sticks."

Randal straightens again, nods down the path she'd indicated earlier. "Lead on, then. Repairs, postponed courses, awkward reunions an' all. World's clearly insistin' it keep all o' us stupid folk upright, might as well see what it's got planned next."

[shiningfalcon]

Refine / Renew

With the monastery having many of their weapons taking a beating through the previous season, many knights and students alike flock to local blacksmiths in the various territories to learn how to make their own weapons or do their own repairs [...]

[shiningfalcon]

“Since when do you care about wasting money?” Emma lightly quips back on instinct, noting the apparent contradiction aloud as quickly as she makes note of it herself. She can think of at least two hobbies off the top of her head that seemed like less important uses for coin than their own weapons, and it almost paints the picture that he’s learned to do this sort of thing so that he could have that money to spend on those ventures.

But, her mind catches up to her tongue quick enough to hold that one back. Even she knew it wasn’t the time or place—if she started ribbing him now, neither of them was going to get anything done. Plus, it’s nothing he hasn’t heard from her before.

Instead, she huffs a sigh, resting her chin in her hands and her elbows upon the workbench, which will probably not be the best place for them to be in a hot minute, but isn’t enough of a problem now to stop her. “When you put it that way, I guess you’re probably right, though.” Emma had liked to think she was pretty responsible with her weaponry—when it got muddy, it was cleaned, when it got rained on, it was dried, all in the service of making sure it didn’t rust. The ones she liked especially were no stranger to decoration, the same as her own noble steed—decked with ribbons and bells and whatever other little pleasures she managed to procure in her day-to-day. But when it came to repairs?

Well, she sort of always assumed that was best left to the professionals.

“So this is the sorta thing that’s holding me back from becoming a proper knight.” The girl remarks with a hum. Every time she feels like she’s starting to get it, she finds something else that she doesn’t know yet, and after a while that starts to feel not all that different from not knowing anything at all, in a world where everyone else knows everything or knows how to know everything.

And then Randal puts his lance on the table.

"...Are you sure you know how to fix a weapon?"

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL'S EYES FLICK, SLOW and sideways, to the lance the moment it's set down- then back to Emma, brow lifting a fraction like she's just asked him whether the sky's always been up there. He lets the moment rest, long and tender.

Then he snorts, sharp and helpless, laughter dragged out of him like a cough you can't shake. "Now hold on," he says, palms lifting in surrender even as his heel nudges the spear a hair further from the edge of the table. "I didn't say I was good at every weapon." His grin tugs crooked, unfazed by the accusation. "Just the ones that're polite enough t'fit in my hands."

He leans in, squinting at the lance with exaggerated scrutiny, tapping a knuckle against the shaft like it might answer back if questioned sternly enough. "This thing's got ideas. Long ones. Weapons like that?" A tilt of his head, mock-serious. "They don't want fixin'. They want negotiation."

The humor fades just a touch as he straightens, elbow braced on the bench, sweat still clinging stubbornly at his temples.

"But don't get the wrong idea," he adds, quieter now, nodding toward her earlier words. "There ain't one trick that makes a knight 'proper'. I ain't a shining example by any means- if I even were one- but it's all just... bits an' pieces. You pick 'em up when you can. Miss a few. Learn 'em late. Hell, some folk never bother."

And then, letting the moment pass like a flame in a storm: "Just look at yers truly! If we've got the time, you're right- lets get this one back to the professional." A guffaw at his own handiwork, lifting the spear up and smearing more grime than removing it. "But don't you worry. If your lance starts complainin', that I can handle. I just got a special sorta awful in my arsenal, 't seems."

[dyshonor]

gone wishing

@craneswings

[craneswings]

The end of Randal’s quipping makes it clear that he only means to complement with small jest, and still Yuzu holds slight doubts in her head. Fishing…it is taken more as a slower amusement, I suppose? But if you allow the line to slack, then the catch will be gone before you can even act…”quick fortune” must be only natural?

Of course, she keeps the admonishments to herself, not daring to show vulnerability as the teacher. Besides, the quivering life in her hands serves as trophy for her success, does it not? There should be a second fish in Sir Randal’s hand in only due time.

Said due time adds up to several seconds. Then more. Then a whole minute.

“Fie, your cast wa-” Yuzu starts, only for a splash of water to slap her face due to her caught fish’s flopping. “Hold,” Yuzu checks the fish over, making sure there were no visible injuries beyond the hook used to catch, and tossed the bass back in the sea. Faintly, the girl wonders if it is foolish enough to bite their lines twice.

“The cast was meritable,” she starts again, shuffling closer to observe the rod. “Most certainly far enough. And the rod is secure…may it be a need for patience and persistence, as you say?”

She realizes the possible folly of doubling back only after the confession, leading to Yuzu adding one more hasty remark. “Or I could very well be luckier than you…when it comes to the sea’s bounty, that is.”

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL BLINKS AT HER, then at the water, then back again at her- expression caught somewhere between mock offense and genuine consideration. A common feeling that she seemed to invoke in him, as it were, with all her dogged sincerity.

"Hah," he breathes at last, a low sound through his nose. "Luckier, she says." His lips curl as he finally straightens, rolling his shoulder and adjusting his grip on the rod with exaggerated care.

"That's one way ta put it. Another is that the sea's got a cruel sense o' humor, an' she enjoys makin' a point at my expense." He gives the reel a slow, deliberate turn. "She wouldn't be tha first, I hafta say!"

His motions are- testing, patient in a way that is equal parts intentional and stubborn. When nothing answers the pull in the lovely handful of seconds he grants it, Randal hums thoughtfully.

"It's curious. You'd think a man who enjoys gamblin', all listenin' and watchin', would care for something that is nothing but listening and watchin'." A half-shrug follows, casual. Dismissive? "I can't recall if I've ever sailed, but give me a rope ta pull, a sail t'trim, a storm ta curse at- I'll manage. But the sort o' trial meant t'see whether a man can sit with his own thoughts?"

There's almost half-a-moment there, where Randal skitters between complaining for the sake of it and something bordering self-reflection. But he's Randal, so he exhales a small laugh before allowing the pause to... ah, I was going to say become pregnant here, but that's not a great turn of phrase.

Randal leans against the rod. "Well! If the sea's truly decided you're her chosen, Ser Yuzu, then I might ask you t'stand a bit closer. Lucky charm or learnin' by example- neither can hurt, aye?"

[dyshonor]

"Randal! Do you know what today is?"

"You get three guesses, and the first two don't count!" She doesn't even have the grace to wait for him to answer, though, it's not as though there's any real question what the right answer is. The sheer brightness Emma exudes today is one that is reserved for the days most special to her, and any holiday of note has either long since passed or still lingers on the future's horizon.

So, enthusiastically and without delay, Emma declares:

"Happy birthday!!"

(they aren't indoors, and so she is allowed to use her Outdoor Emma voice)

From behind her back, she produces a small leather pouch, holding it out for him to take. It is an unassuming thing, tied with a simple drawstring. Obviously, the bag is only there as a means to carry the real present within it: an array of evenly-crafted dice, pips painted in a neat and clean black.

"Aren't they shimmery and shiny? They're made of ivory." At a first glance, they're fairly standard—but where their sheen had caught Emma's eye, there are a number of indicators that they are a cut above most of their peers. Their simplicity belies obvious skill in the maker's handiwork and a tasteful eye. "I rolled 'em one hundred times before buying them, so I know they roll fairly," she proudly declares, the implication, of course, being that it'll be all the harder to cheat with them. After all, far be it from her to encourage his habits. Dice had been the last thing she'd been looking for when she'd gone to the marketplace with her mission in mind, beaten out in a race to the bottom maybe only by booze.

But she'd seen them out on the table. Emma had seen them, and she'd thought of him. And in the end, the idea that he might like them had mattered more than the idea that she might not like what he'd do with them.

And besides, there were all kinds of games one could play with a set of dice—not just dangerous ones.

Present dutifully delivered, she draws back from him a step, linking her hands behind her back. "That's two birthdays here for each of us, now. That's a long time to be in one place," She observes, sounding pleased, and hopeful. "And next year, it'll be three, right?"

-- [ cont here. ]

[ninisdance]

the beloveds.

Winter Arena 2025 / Gold Round, Team 12

[foreversnightmare]

Two of their comrades fall.... no... three, these shadows turned out to be better than she could ever be. How the tables had turned on them, they had done so well before- yet this is how their battles end.

How terrible, She should talk to her team after this- she cant imagine that they're going to feel good after all this.

Her magic doesn't seem to hit her enemy again, and by some miracle the enemy seemed to have missed her as well. "Randal-" her voice is urgent, yet strangely calm "I don't think we're going to make it past this round" She admitted, looking away for a moment as to not face the shame.

As a professor- this was a poor way of showing her worth, and now.... well. Dying wasn't new to Freyja- she had experienced it so many times before. Even if she knows they'll be just fine, its still hurts. She'll be thinking about this a lot while recovering.

@dyshonor, we did our best.

[dyshonor]

-- IT WENT WRONG SO quickly.

Of course, there is no point to anything Randal does if there's not a chance of things going wrong. Success is not success if there's a hundred percent chance of it, it's simply fate. If you believe in that sort of thing.

Regardless, this is neither fate nor health nor anything of the sort. This has not been a fight for life or death, or money, or glory (though he will likely skirt around the fact that he lost, should yuzu ask about his escapades after the fact), but rather a game he's been granted the chance to play. And one that he and his allies have played badly in.

Turning enemies to dust means little if enough stand to take you right back down with them, and it turns out that Randal never will get the chance to finish off that dancer. Frustrating!

His allies miss, three, five times. Not their fault, or at least anything he can point out without terrible hypocrisy: he matches them beat for beat. Not on trying for that princess, of course- the glint in her eye and the sword in her grasp made short work of Ninian, and it will make faster work of him. But at least that dancer-!

Of course not. He misses twice, and she strikes him down. Too bad! So sad. Better luck next time!

Randal laughs while he falls, because there's not much else to do. The academy seemed to be prime for many sorts of interesting, masochistic games. How wonderful! And he got to lose. How novel!

The griffon evaporates as he breaks through the water. There isn't any blood- if anything, the whole experience is awfully similar to how it feels when he falls through a world, on the rare chance that he is awake for it. Randal breathes water, and goes silent.

-- end.

[ninisdance]

the beloveds.

Winter Arena 2025 / Gold Round, Team 12

[renaisguy]

When Forde opens his eyes for the final round, he finds himself wearing a flowing wedding dress. He’s not even surprised anymore. At least he recognises this as an outfit Eirika’s worn before - the last time he saw her before she came to the academy was her wedding day, after all. She has such a radiant smile that day… he hopes now more than ever he can live up to the sword he wields. 

The terrain doesn’t bother him either, he’s waged battle on a ship before. What he does wonder about are the enemies. 

“Last year, we fought illusionary versions of other arena teams. I don’t recognise any of these people though, does anyone know them?” He knew their fellow students could be just as deadly as any hulking monstrosity the arena threw at them - it’d be nice to put a name to the blade. 

Freyja stumbles, leaving Forde to deal with the one on a horse. As nice as the dress is, it’s no easier to walk in than the armour from last round - he’s glad to find a tome in the… pocket? What a wonderful dress! 

The magic comes to his fingers easily, and through the rocking of the boat throws him off balance, it finds its mark, knocking the man clean off his horse. The illusion fades away before he hits the ground. 

Rather pleased with himself, he does a twirl. “Still got it.” The arena was where he first used faith magic, wasn’t it? Though by the end of that day he was wearing a groom’s outfit instead. If not for that, he never would have awakened to his potential. 

Yes, the smile on his face right now is one worth treasuring.

@dyshonor, have you got a hang of your magic yet?

[dyshonor]

-- RANDAL CAN'T HELP THE chuckle that comes to his lips as Forde fancies himself with the new outfit. Yes, it was good to have fun in these sorts of situations, wasn't it?

Like- alright, ignore the boob window, but gone were the days were Randal dressed himself up in things to be witnessed and appreciated. But this sort of casual play-house was something that he should be doing more, right?

He rolls back his shoulders, reigns the griffon back. "Good on ya!" he calls out to Carina and Forde as the mirage fades under their attacks. "But don't count me out anymore, right?"

Once again, lightning screams from his book, splashing the world with white and black. The contrast paints even the inside of Randal's eyelids as it shatters the performer in front of him, sending her to dust. He watches with satisfaction as it falls under its own weight, lost to the tide-

The dust reforms, stands. Ugh. Randal does not resist the roll of an eye. Sure, fair enough, he supposes. He did, somewhat, deserve this, what with his near limitless greed of getting just one more hit in.

Speaking of such, the dancer prances merrily out of his reach despite the wounds that gash at their side, ever out of his reach. If he wanted to finish them off, he'd need another shot.

@bullsrush ; @foreversnightmare ; @ninisdance ; @renaisguy All yours, now!

[ninisdance]

the beloveds.

Winter Arena 2025 / Gold Round, Team 12

[ninisdance]

The illusion weaves itself anew, and this time it takes the combatants out to sea. Below Ninian’s feet is the deck of a ship, and for a moment she have been sailing to the Dragon’s Gate for the impending doom she feels. The sight of those they are to fight explains much of it: They are not phantoms she knows — certainly not in the way she knew, or used to know, Nergal —; but she has seen their faces before, even if only in passing, on the monastery grounds.

They are to fight their allies, then. They are to fight — not morphs, no, but still she thinks of Brendan Reed and his sons and — not the time.

“ ... I will do what I can. ”

Having said that, she does not take hold of her sword but dances again, this time calling upon the water rather than the ice: they are one and the same, after all. Her motions are as fluid as the waves, dexterous too, and they will inspire Sir Randal to move with the speed and force of a tornado. A smiling tornado, perhaps, to think of how he enjoyed his tome’s power.

(Why she thinks of the wind for him, Ninian is not quite sure; but thunder is not his no matter how well he uses it, and wind is of the sky too.)

“ Go forth, ser, and blow them away. ”

In passing, she wonders if the enemy’s dancer will perform as well. Even if this is but a shade, she should like to see it.

Let us do our best, @bullsrush, @dyshonor, @foreversnightmare, @renaisguy...!

[dyshonor]

-- PERHAPS THE BRIEF MOMENT of his horse from earlier had given Randal undue confidence, maybe Emma's obsession with flying is finally wearing off on him. Regardless, Randal grips the back of a brand new feathered beast and soars above the deck in their latest landscape. The enemies look... familiar? Maybe. He's always had a terrible sense of deja vu.

Ninian, ever the nice one, waves her wand around and grants him with a gift or summat. Getting a grip on this book hasn't exactly opened the black box that is magic to him entirely, but he accepts the buff graciously nonetheless.

"I'm never one ta disappoint a lady!" he lies easily, waving a hand. His target is simple: that other asshole who's decided to steal his thunder (heh), riding another one of these interesting looking eagle things. Y'know, there's only room up here for one of us!

And like, of course he does a good job. He's Randal, and he's more-or-less comfortable with this book now. But he's still surprised at the sheer damage that manages to explode out of his book, one after the other.

In but a moment, the enemy is not so much 'sent from the skies' as they are utterly wiped from existence. The area in front of Randal screams through white and black once, twice, and then there's naught but a pile of dust sailing through the wind.

Hm. Maybe he should be charging more for his services? Clearly he's doing something right.

@bullsrush ; You saw that right, miss? I'll not be missing anymore!