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祝日 / Permanent Vacation
Discoholic 🪩
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we're not kids anymore.
Kaledo Art
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
tumblr dot com
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JBB: An Artblog!
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blake kathryn
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@forgottenbelle
[ My heart is so light that my feet must follow it. ]
Closed RP blog for 𝕽𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖆 from Fire Emblem: Shadows of Valentia. Penned by 𝕹𝖆𝖛𝖎𝖊 and affiliated with 𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕺𝖋𝖋𝖎𝖈𝖊𝖗'𝖘 𝕬𝖈𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖒𝖞. PSD credits: lythruum.
Month (Dec) word count: 920 ❀ Total word count: 7026 Active threads: 1
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"Agh! Won [sand] goph in mah mouph! Blech! Ptooey!"
expedition: holy war ── .✦ green team combat, week 2, subteam 3
Shade falls from his arm, and Matthew hasn't the luxury nor the presence of mind to consider whether to mourn a comrade's sudden absence or to huff and puff and grumble 'Good riddance' about it. Hand grips his face. He tries to fight it, tries to shake it off, but it's no good. He's too weak, ain't he?
Maybe it's a good thing Shade had finally let go. She is no longer in his field of vision and so may as well not exist. Maybe not so much a good thing that she'd left him to his own devices right next to their definitely-super-trusty guides, however.
The earth shakes, sand violently shifting beneath his feet. It's enough to cause him a tumble but! Even with an addled mind, a thief's feet are agile enough to right him quick like. Dagger clutched in hand, he steps lightly, but with purpose.
Matthew doesn't recognize the man he sinks his blade into. Doesn't feel much regret as he watches hand fly to wound, watches guide collapse to the ground. A goner, if he's ever seen one.
Blinking, nearly contemplative, thief looks to the remaining two.
@umbralexemplar @delicatevalentine @forgottenbelle
They hurt her in a manner that she cannot comprehend. It rises at her fingertips first, a crescendoing buzz, like thousands of flies using her skin as a perching place. The cold sweat cares not for the temperature of the desert; the shiver grows, the fever grows, heat and cold and all ranges between and beyond become the new blood pumping her heart.
It becomes harder to see and focus on any one thing or person — the sands shift and billow, chasing the skies in makeshift columns. No one else screams at the vision. Her imagination. Again. To hallucinate once more at such a crucial moment, caused by foul magic or not, is a shame that will one day be weighed at the scales of sin.
And yet it is real to her. The cold, the heat, the bubbling of molten anger, the columns, no longer sand but stone, the darkness of a temple, the echoes of empty halls, the altar, the witches, a man, a man, a man, and she begs for mercy that is granted and is not granted, and she is no Rinea and every Rinea at once. They battle between forgiveness and clamor for justice.
The man is before her, face shattered like porcelain, arms open. The man is before her, hair color shifting between dark chestnut and the pink of cherry blossoms. The man is before her, requests of her to burn for him. She gladly would. She hates him for it. She loves him too much. She is not given a choice. He is a coward. She forgives him. He is a coward. She forgives him. He is a coward. Coward. Coward. And there you are, running, leaving me for dead. And there you are, running, after you've killed me. And there you are, dead, with me. And here we are, alive — what now?
Did you ever truly love me, or was I just another mark on your noble checklist?
Rinea motions to run away from the visions, yet her body has other plans. It lunges at □ in a mindless flurry she has to put the entire remainder of her will and awareness of the curse upon her to minimize the damage. □ is not real, but the person in his place is. Her momentum comes to an abrupt halt before the imminent stabbing; too sudden and late, for the side of her blade still grazes armor and some skin, but she has managed to not stab whoever it is.
The dagger falls into the sand. Rinea collapses onto her knees after it, covering her eyes and ears — the columns rise higher, and what was one man becomes three, then nine, then many. “I beg you, keep your distance! I have already… whoever I hurt… I did not intend… oh, my lord, I am so scared.” Her gut twists; what is a shattered memory going to do for her? If only lady Alear was by her side, with her words of wisdom and unfaltering smile.
There is no glory hiding beneath blood-soaked sands.
@umbralexemplar @delicatevalentine @ostianshadow
i have no idea what you did last summer, but i know what we both did last week, and that's worse
expedition holy war 🗡week 1 🗡green team post-battle
When it comes to food, the only way for Rinea to know if her taste buds have experienced a dish before is simply to eat it — where her eyes and knowledge cannot supply, her sense of taste is far better equipped to recognize if a flavor profile has visited her mouth previously or not. She learns nothing from Alear burning her mouth and is chomping down on the thing with the usual voracious appetite that knows not of moderation. Careful. No such thing, not when Rinea risks exaggerated starvation and the possibility of eating Alear’s share if her own does not suffice.
“Bonf apfpéftit,” she responds, mouth stuffed with the entire corndog. It is hot. The burn of it is… pleasant, and not scary, the comfort only having access to the food one carelessly devours can provide. She swallows and it burns the entire way down her throat, and warms up Rinea’s belly; she will regret it whenever it will haunt her chest after it fails to settle. As things stand, hand in Alear’s and grabbing a few more corndogs on their way, Rinea finds a foothold of normalcy. Rigel has no such dishes. New sensations chew through unpleasant ones.
Rinea would benefit from chewing, too.
They tread quietly, Alear in the light, Rinea in her shadow. She must have always detested large crowds, she must have always detested people who pushed her to be a mouthpiece. No solid memory to pull from, only the thrumming of her heart synchronizing with Alear’s when the noise lessens and the crowd thins. In their linked hands, two pulses find harmony. What horrors one witnesses are nothing in the face of connection — skin touching skin, heart touching heart, breathing the same air of peace. Many have applied balms to Rinea’s charred spirit.
Pressing onto sore injuries is part of spreading the salve. Alear setting her own well-being aside to inquire for Rinea’s physical afflictions is no different from an ache lessening with time and care.
A rock with a flat surface nearby will make a good seat. Rinea leads Alear there by the hand and sees them both resting on its convenient shape before mustering a reply.
“I was mended,” Rinea says, “by a cleric. Truth be told, lady Alear, I would have preferred to spend weeks in bed, but I have squandered the boon of health for one too many hours. I am as well as I can be.” Alear does not need to be burdened with her nightmares and worries, or pseudo-mental breakdowns. Better change the topic of conversation to the other woman. She extends a corndog in offering. “You ought to replenish strength.”
"Please, there's no need for titles. We're friends, right? You can just call me Alear." Here in Jugdral, she holds no sway or position of power, and in a way, she finds that to be liberating. There's only the pressure of leading those who have traveled across the seas alongside her, and nothing regarding the duties of the Divine Dragon-- perhaps that's why she's believing that it's quite easy to fall into step with her companion, the lack of expectation allowing her to bond with just who she is. And not who she's supposed to be. The way she stuffs her face has Alear giggling before they take a seat, though she can't blame her for the reaction. Were she a woman of less self-control, Alear's certain she would've wiped out all of the stalls on the way to their quaint retreat; thanks to the allies she keeps back home in Elyos, she's learned how to be less reckless and more mindful of her surroundings. Lectures still come, of course, there's no escaping that. Yet her confession has the Divine Dragon's brows furrowing in an expression of concern, one that's been turned upon herself an innumerable amount of times. None of these battles are easy, and it only gets worse from this point on; there's a note that's tucked into the depths of her mind to add extra support behind Rinea in the event they find themselves on the same battlefield. Nobody can fight alone, she knows this best-- and the woman beside her is no different. "I understand, really. It's the smart thing to sit and rest, but... There's so much to be done, too many things to be handled. Sitting around just tends to make me anxious." She allows her feet to dangle from their spot, her toes not quite touching the ground. "But it's also important to know your limits. We don't know where we'll be heading next... and if you're not feeling at your best, you need to take it easy." "As for me, you don't need to worry yourself. I'll be feeling good as new not long from now!" At that she holds her arm up, one hand slapping her bicep heartily, as if she's demonstrating that her body is perfectly fine. "I'm pretty sturdy, even though I look small. And I heal really fast. This is nothing compared to what I've seen before." Compared to the scar that's right across her navel, that took her life once before. Another that's a little higher, the one that ended it the second time. Subconsciously, her hand lingers over the spot where she knows will be a new scar, currently covered by bandages wrapped tight around her torso. It still stings, sears, and aches, but Alear's partially glad she's able to feel it: it means she's alive and breathing. "It's a part of life for me. I'd gladly bear a scar if it meant the friend next to me got to be okay." A moment of silence follows before she offers a gentle smile. "That includes you, I hope you know! If you're beside me on the battlefield, I'll cover you. That's a promise." "As for the food, eat up. You need it more than I do. There's plenty more where that came from." @forgottenbelle
That includes you. It does, of course it does, and it finds the harp strong inside Rinea most in need of strumming and plucks it into music with utmost gentleness. She regards Alear with quiet reverence, the red in the young woman’s eye and mane unsure whether it wants to be perceived by Rinea as running blood or fiery passion.
Both signs of life. Both signs of permanence. People like Alear deserve shrines more than any god she has heard of so far, gardens and meadows to be safe havens of warmth and song born of connection and not fear.
Alear’s display of perfect health does, in part, draw attention to new wounds of the flavor she so openly professes to wearing. Rinea has earned no right to excruciate over Alear’s sense of self and safety, yet in the face of unwavering care it would be uncouth to dismiss even the most minuscule sign of harm.
The blood flower blooming on Alear’s shirt is anything but. Rinea drops the corndogs with a breathless yelp and throws herself into the grass nearby to seek… she is unsure! But she will find it, and help lady Alear from this predicament!
“P-please, if you will uhm… e-expose your wound then I can… or… I will attempt to… no, that still sounds wrong… Allow me to provide… Alear if I do not help you here I will start crying and I don't think I can handle that right now so could I please do my best to do something about your wound forgive me I just don't know what else to do to feel useful and—” she stops and takes several deep breaths. Great. Fantastic, Rinea, always freaking out like the world is ending. “That is to say… would the lady allow me to h-help with her injury?”
"Agh! Won [sand] goph in mah mouph! Blech! Ptooey!"
expedition: holy war ── .✦ green team combat, week 2, subteam 3
It's warm, and Matthew is uncomfortable, but! At least he isn't dressed like Shade all in black and pitifully sweltering away. He'll count his silver linings where he can find them, please and thanks. While he isn't sure what's possessed the lot of them to cross a desert (never has he ever had a pleasant experience crossing one), far be it from him to shirk his work when he's being paid so...
through the desert it is.
Dame frantically clinging to his arm and all.
"Oi, hey--! It's too warm for cuddling up, don'tcha think?"
He gets half a mouthful of sand for his wit. By the time it settles as much as it looks like it's going to, he isn't sure if it had been worth it. He's gonna be chewing on grains of sand foreverrrr. Yuck.
A quick maneuver as Shade drags him away sees his scarf tugged upward to cover his mouth, at the least.
"Easier said than done, lady." But that doesn't mean they can't try. Hand fishes for the stunner at his belt. It had served him well against the legion of wyvern riders. Who's to say it can't save his skin now?
He knows better than to tempt fate, really, he does, but as he squints into the sandstorm picking up again, the ground shakes beneath them, and the wind whips up and... his shot goes wide. Actually, if he's lucky, maybe it will have landed on a foe, somewhere - he's long lost track of it, even with his pretty good eyesight.
Something jolts him then, and he no longer hears the winds howling. There's a high pitched ringing, and that's it. At first, he isn't sure what's overtaken him. His mind feels cloudy.
By the time he realizes what's possessed him,
it is much too late to do anything about it. Can't even warn Shade who's counting on him. Blast…!
@delicatevalentine @forgottenbelle
Rinea has the downtime spent in the company of friends of varying degrees of recency to be thankful towards. Her mind and heart had been primed the night of the attack in Thracia to be less than functional for the rest of the expedition — understatement — and they were both proven wrong by the magnanimity of people with far more instances of battle and pain under their belt.
She is no less scared of others, or herself, for that matter, but she is better equipped to face it and not fall prey to her impulses no matter how wrath-driven. It is the kind thing to do for her well-being. For her new teammates.
The disappointment of not getting to follow behind Alear like a gooseling is short-lived; it is replaced with swiftness by the excitement of having a cool new woman to fawn over, the oddly comforting aura Hilda and her ally-cleaving axe exudes, and a dagger-wielding thief she could learn a lot from when it comes to practicing her own bladework.
Are they to get attacked again, which would be an unfortunate pattern, Rinea is (not) ready. Somewhat resolute. And, most off-putting of all, too jubilant at the news their next stop would take them through the sandy vastness of Aed. How could she not be, when deserts were the antithesis of the average Rigelian biome?
Surely it would be equal parts educational and not that different from the recent promenade by the beach.
Dunes as far as the eye can see. Rinea has lost some of her more outward enthusiasm, with the blazing heat and possibility of dehydration contributing to the decision of reserving joy rather than prattling on about topics and pestering the guards for what she has settled on referring to as sand lore.
The temperatures out here are night and day during, well, night and day. The scorcher will turn worse than the coldest Rigelian night come nightfall, and without proper preparation and knowledge they would be as good as dead. Even at its most inhospitable, the world has much beauty to offer. What is now sand was once greenery. What is now greenery could just as well one day be sand.
Before departing on the new leg of their journey, one of the kind maids to have survived the castle incidentThraciaMarked dumped a bundle of fabrics into her arms. “Your clothes will suffocate you,” she had fussed, then took the time to explain to Rinea the purpose of the newer garments.
The long robe provides protection from the rays and air circulation, and many internal pockets for her to store the little she has on hand. The head cover keeps her bunned up hair and the back of her neck out of the harshness of the sun, while it also casts just enough shadow over her eyes that she is able to keep them open.
When the sandstorm hits, Rinea makes an educated guess on what follows and holds no satisfaction that she is right; whatever gods are out there, rolling dice and making a spectacle of their fates, may they never show their faces to her. She is upset, once more, especially that they are getting swarmed just as she was about to ask one of the guides another question.
Her thumb grazes the hilt of her dagger — it is heavy with memories of Celica bleeding out on chiseled stone, of Hilda pulling herself back up over and over, of Skol's magical fury. Memories that ground her in place to observe and assess, all the while her heart thumps too sonorously to consider the option of a stealthy retreat.
Their enemies are mages using the cruel sands to their advantage. Not many options available to the Fódlan squad of unfortunates, other than finding their bearing and conquering the otherwise disadvantageous terrain, or the alternative of surviving until the storm is fully gone and the mages no longer have the cover of millions of minuscule projectiles to hide behind.
Making herself look as powerless as she still feels works in their favor. Between Shade’s shouting and Matthew's struggle against what is an unchivalrous attack, Rinea finds an opening to graze her dagger against the side of one of the assailant’s faces. It leaves a gash into their cheek and nothing more; for the better. She would rather not find out if she is capable of dealing the final blow on a life just yet.
She makes an attempt to shout over the winds. “Surround the guides! If we lose them, we are at the mercy of the land!”
@ostianshadow @delicatevalentine @umbralexemplar
i have no idea what you did last summer, but i know what we both did last week, and that's worse
expedition holy war 🗡week 1 🗡green team post-battle
For those who aren't accustomed to the bright lights and loud noises, Alear can completely understand the way that Rinea nearly stays glued to her-- and to the best of her ability, she attempts to provide that safe space; questions directed at them are deflected effortlessly, and the Divine Dragon answers with ease, two-toned gaze often flickering to the side in order to gauge her companion's reaction. She's used to the small tells from companions like Yunaka... and though she knows them not to be universal, the fact of the matter remains, fidgeting isn't necessarily a good thing. A stop for food is always one of Alear's favorite things about celebrations like these, and once she offers one of the fried goodies to Rinea, she can't help but flash a brilliant smile. "I've never tried one of these before. I thought it might be a good idea for us to do it together! New memories, you know." Almost as if she's using it as a 'toast', she raises the stick and tilts it in her friend's direction, a laugh following after. "Bon appétit!" As they say in Firene. Or something like that. Oh, right- the first bite is scalding, and Alear's forced to chew it awkwardly with a half-open mouth, followed by a string of "hot, hot, hot!" as she struggles to get the first bite down. It's easier said than done, but she eventually succeeds, letting out a long breath after. "R-right, it'd be smart to wait, wouldn't it? Careful, don't burn your mouth." Always vigilant for the sake of others, usually after learning her own lesson. Either way, she gently tugs on Rinea's free hand, heading a bit further from the crowds and into some of the quieter places in the Castle Town. It seems that the further they venture from the food stalls, the easier it is to properly breathe-- and once they've retired to a section of the city roads that still have plenty of patrons yet less compact crowds, Alear's finally able to take another bite. "What do you think? Tastes pretty good to me. Then again, I'm not super picky." What sort of foods did they have in Rinea's homeland? She figures she'll ask the question later, when they aren't stuffing their faces. "Aw, don't worry about me. I promise I know my limits." There's people that would argue that, but they aren't here, so! "... As for limits, though... how are you feeling after the last battle?" It's a gentle prod, yet one that doesn't provide pressure. If Rinea wants to speak, she will, Alear supposes; there's quite a few of her allies that are much the same way. "I know it's impossible to get away without some minor injuries, but... are you sure you're alright to be up and moving around?" Alear's one to talk, with the bandage hidden under the fabric of her uniform top-- one that still stings and aches from time to time. @forgottenbelle
When it comes to food, the only way for Rinea to know if her taste buds have experienced a dish before is simply to eat it — where her eyes and knowledge cannot supply, her sense of taste is far better equipped to recognize if a flavor profile has visited her mouth previously or not. She learns nothing from Alear burning her mouth and is chomping down on the thing with the usual voracious appetite that knows not of moderation. Careful. No such thing, not when Rinea risks exaggerated starvation and the possibility of eating Alear’s share if her own does not suffice.
“Bonf apfpéftit,” she responds, mouth stuffed with the entire corndog. It is hot. The burn of it is… pleasant, and not scary, the comfort only having access to the food one carelessly devours can provide. She swallows and it burns the entire way down her throat, and warms up Rinea’s belly; she will regret it whenever it will haunt her chest after it fails to settle. As things stand, hand in Alear’s and grabbing a few more corndogs on their way, Rinea finds a foothold of normalcy. Rigel has no such dishes. New sensations chew through unpleasant ones.
Rinea would benefit from chewing, too.
They tread quietly, Alear in the light, Rinea in her shadow. She must have always detested large crowds, she must have always detested people who pushed her to be a mouthpiece. No solid memory to pull from, only the thrumming of her heart synchronizing with Alear’s when the noise lessens and the crowd thins. In their linked hands, two pulses find harmony. What horrors one witnesses are nothing in the face of connection — skin touching skin, heart touching heart, breathing the same air of peace. Many have applied balms to Rinea’s charred spirit.
Pressing onto sore injuries is part of spreading the salve. Alear setting her own well-being aside to inquire for Rinea’s physical afflictions is no different from an ache lessening with time and care.
A rock with a flat surface nearby will make a good seat. Rinea leads Alear there by the hand and sees them both resting on its convenient shape before mustering a reply.
“I was mended,” Rinea says, “by a cleric. Truth be told, lady Alear, I would have preferred to spend weeks in bed, but I have squandered the boon of health for one too many hours. I am as well as I can be.” Alear does not need to be burdened with her nightmares and worries, or pseudo-mental breakdowns. Better change the topic of conversation to the other woman. She extends a corndog in offering. “You ought to replenish strength.”
i have no idea what you did last summer, but i know what we both did last week, and that's worse
expedition holy war 🗡week 1 🗡green team post-battle
No amount of strife and bloodshed can prevent people from indulging in the simple joys of life. The shouts of a market festival are leagues away from those of battle, though Rinea finds it no less overwhelming. Were it not for lady Alear at her side — who had kindly invited her the second Rinea stepped foot into the temporary infirmary — she would have run away five seconds into the flurry of stalls and people insisting on selling their wares and showing off their crafts.
A warm hand holds hers, and there is a resolute back for her to hide behind then it all gets too much. Rinea only closes her eyes when the red strands of Alear’s hair reflect the sunlight and overtakes her vision. She no longer wishes to dye her own hair that shade, though she finds it no less lovely in Alear’s mane; for one girl, it is the color of perseverance. For the other, it represents actions that cannot be undone.
Rinea counts the visible scars and stitches on Alear and wonders how many more she cannot see. How many more Alear got before attending the Academy. How many more she would be marred with in years to come. Rinea walks closer, near sticking to Alear’s back. Why look at other art, when art leads the way? That ought to be the human condition; to find broader value in the story of another person than that of a brushstroke.
“Oh, thank you.” Rinea smiles and accepts the breaded sausage on a stick Alear is suddenly holding in front of her nose. She is hungry. She would consider eating anything from horse to bear to grass porridge, or crushed up rocks. Sausage is… well, it’s a gift, and so it is the best of all options. “Do not push yourself too hard, my lady.”
@aliberation
No matter how advanced heal staves get, they cannot undo lingering pain, they cannot avoid the nausea that follows the body’s unnatural mending speed. Rinea would rather not find out if one could get accustomed to these sensations — she spends the most part of a morning away from all prying eyes, between shelves and the dusty books of the castle’s library.
One of the maids is amenable to her unusual requests. The hours that follow are less of a blur than she would like them to be, though it is a natural concession that it would be in exchange of making her task more complex than it has the right to be.
The clay figurines are far from a perfect representation of the human shape; they would hardly pass as amorphous blobs, too, were it not for the perfectly sculpted weapons in their orbed hands. An axe-wielding blob stands proudly atop a highly detailed wyvern. A tome-wielding blob holds the line against enemies represented by sticks. A second tome-wielding blob sits on a throne, ready to strike if needed.
The diorama has been left in the middle of a shared room, with a short but heartfelt note nestled among the enemy sticks.
Thank you.
@academiaskoll @delicatevalentine @rigainrokkr
Oh ashes, ashes, dust to dust; The devil's after both of us.
Something something, being a direct participant in violence re-frames you as a person something.
we are fuckign under attack
expedition holy war 🗡week 1 🗡thracia subteam 2
Skoll takes a look at the situation around, as he can see that it is deterioating rapidly. One of their own team is bleeding out on the ground, alive but only barely, while the other woman is literally having a panic attack after seeing the odds go against them. At the very least the revolutionaries decided to collectively ignore her, as if they find her too pitable to be worth killing, despite her earlier efforts.
Well, this is just fucking great. Might as well do everything to fix this issue.
At the very least, the female wyvern rider is still mostly unscathed from the retailiation, and the revolutionaries, despite the fact that he beheaded one of their numbers, are still putting him aside.
Their loss, as Skoll intends to thin their numbers some more. At least the swordswoman took one of them with her, but damn, they must really want her down, with how they all collectively went for her, as if they wanted her head so bady.
Skoll immediately prepared another wind blade, before firing it ahead, as he tried to aim it right at the remaining rookie revolutionary on the field, as the blade skimmed above the rider.
With a flick of his hand, the wind blade began to bound backwards, bending to try and hit its target, although this time, the rebelling dracoknight weaved to the side to dodge it.
Not pleased with the fact that his attack is getting dodged, Skoll returned the blade back towards the initial target, but also decided to add a sudden speed boost to the projectle just as the wyvern was about to turn, managing to shear a large part of its wing off, compromising a good part of its flight ability, and even rattling the rider from the resulting turbulence, but not exactly enough to leave a finishing blow chance for his only active ally on the field.
Breathe in. Never out. A fugue of blurred colors and malformed shapes replace the otherwise defined layout of reality; the frigid iron in her burning palm is the last remaining sensation for Rinea to latch onto as the rest of her perceptions blend into a grotesque sludge of nothing and everything.
Her comrades are injured. The enemies are injured. Where blows are traded, vibrant crimson reaches out skyward in arches. Where blows are traded, heads roll and cries spill onto stone that can offer no comfort. Death surrounds, death encroaches, death beckons and never quite touches her. Her comrades are injured. The enemies are injured. Upon returning the wyvern to its owner, Rinea splits off from the eye of the storm and traverses the rampart with the gait of an ancient ghost.
Coarse ash and thinned smoke enter her lungs after a while, carrying with them the unmistakable smell of burnt flesh from a rogue fire in the courtyard below — unmistakable. She knows its scent with the intimacy of one’s own skin, and that alone chains down her feet like dead weights. The open-wound shoulder throbs, and her left leg does too, an arrow claiming it as its new home. Ash. Blood. Smoke. Pain. Death.
Why did I come here? I want to go home. I am scared. I don't want to die. I don't want anyone to die. I want to go home. It hurts. It burns. It burns. I am scared. It burns. It burns. It burns. My lord. It burns. My lord. My lord. My lord, does it burn? It burns. For eternity. It burns. You asked for this. I didn't ask for this. I am scared. I don't want to die. It hurts.
I want to burn.
“Watch out!” A guard throws his weight between Rinea and an incoming blow from a vagabond already out of her periphery. The world sharpens in definition and it all is real again — she is in a battle. No wandering remembrance pulled her in, no amount of dissociating would keep her safe forever. The man dies in her arms so she can live and Rinea is given no chance to apologize to him or prevent his clock from stopping.
She cradles the warm corpse in a tight embrace, so the soul that was once a man can witness a heart yet frenzies at the price of the one silenced. The body heat is but a brief anchor. The urgency of the situation is back at the forefront of all other mixing signals from her brain, and it rounds and shepherds them towards one precise destination.
The throne room; Hilda and Celica were shouting from there. Were the castle to fall before reinforcements came to their aid how much more blood would become a new landmark onto Thracia’s soil? The dirt would turn to clay, and the clay would demand to be made man again. If only pigeon overlords were real, if only frogs could bring about peace, if only all her useless stories and trivia and collections could change the tide of battle.
She is just one girl, barely a woman, with a dagger grip imprinted into her palm and a corpse shield dragged behind her by the other. A sorry is whispered for every abuse it takes for her. The stench of blood covers the smoky aroma of her worst nightmares, and she refuses to let go of her hole-ridden protection until the moment her foot first crosses the throne room’s threshold.
Celica is leaning seated against it, a monochrome painting of red and white in the dim candlelight. The high seat of the house lies unoccupied, velvet cushions no longer pristine. The perpetual agony of battle gets muffled by thick tapestries that adorn all of the surrounding walls; they depict pantomime not unlike the one Rinea has been cast in, in the role of fool.
Thoughts whirring, Rinea advances.
Guard the throne, barks her mind; it wears the veil of Skoll’s voice, a mysterious young man who Rinea has yet to converse with and who casts shadows of loyalty and pain.
Muscles straining, Rinea advances.
Guard the throne, pleads her mind; it wears the crown of Celica’s voice, warrior priestess who Rinea has exchanged brief platitudes with and whose kindness is equal parts profound and exalted.
Skin overheating, Rinea advances.
Guard the throne, okay? yawns her mind; it wears the wink of Hilda’s voice, an unreadable girl who Rinea has only mumbled to and who in truth she finds to be intimidatingly beautiful and fierce.
A new wound is added to her from the back — Rinea advances, so close to the throne, and if she is spewing curses and profanities they are all a pup’s yelps with no bite. Two of the ruffians rushed after her in here, vying for the same stronghold she is, and one has struck her with the torpor blade responsible for turning what should have been an easy defense into her early grave.
It's a miracle she still has blood to lose.
She falls into the cushions in one final act of defiance, and holds herself with the unearned dignity of a ruler. A different story warps from her imagination. She is not a powerless girl. She is an empress, waiting for her liege to return home, guarding the land they have built together. She is an empress not yet not anymore perched upon her throne, smug with the knowledge that her liege will avenge her ichor wasted onto cold floors.
From beyond the doors, her fading vision spots a banner donning new colors. The reinforcements. Wisps of her royal dream draw her deeper into the forced slumber. Yes, the reinforcements, her emperor, her army, who would deliver her from harm and wake her in a place where this entire night was naught but a nightmare.
A javelin’s tip is turned towards Rinea just as she is about to go under; it shakes, the vagabond’s arm uncertain when the dame on the throne opens her arms to welcome the steel into her chest, when she smiles at him the same his wife back home would.
It hurts no longer, and though the tear of flesh is certain her heart is narrowly missed. Salvation rushes in and with it so does deafening silence.
Death and sleep suffocate Rinea as one homogeneous singularity, and in the eternal umbra, there is finally peace.
COMBAT RESOLVED.
we are fuckign under attack
expedition holy war 🗡week 1 🗡thracia subteam 2
After a long sea voyage, Hilda had been rather enjoying some sleep on dry land...
... Until she was rudely awoken by one of her teammates, calling for reinforcements.
"What...?" Hilda mumbled sluggishly, rubbing her eyes. "What time is it...? Oh, never mind."
She dressed quickly and fixed her armour into place -- even at short notice, she wouldn't be caught dead on the battlefield in her pyjamas -- strapping her weapons to her back in record time. A few minutes after the girl had left to rouse their other allies, Hilda followed her out of the room.
The sound of beating wings reached her before the sights of battle. The source became evident as she exited the castle: dragons and wyverns carrying hostile riders. The battle was already underway, with one of her travel companions flinging a boomerang of wind at the airborne line. She hurried into position as though she'd been there all along. Astrid, her wyvern, waited there already saddled (she presumed some palace assistant had had the necessary foresight), and she jumped astride with practised grace.
The vagabonds appeared to be of varying levels of seniority. The commander, in the middle, was obvious. Three of the remaining foes wore less extravagant armour, smaller mounts and expressions of uncertainty, glancing regularly to the middle. Hilda chose one of those as her target.
Lack of experience did not mean lack of danger, however.
Her wyvern drew level with the enemy and she swung, but the new recruit had been expecting her. His dragon dived, rolling under Astrid and coming up on the other side of her. Hilda had not been expecting such an expert manoeuvre, and did little to stop the sword that pierced her left shoulder.
All of a sudden, the sleep she'd lost in joining the battle caught up to her. She yawned, too overcome with tiredness to feel the wound.
"Oh, well," she said of her failure. "Wake me up when you need me again..."
She slumped forward onto Astrid's neck.
Rinea’s initial flame of overconfident anger does not subside as much as it burns less erratically.
She watches as Skoll commands the elements with practiced knowledge. She watches as Celica takes charge and men follow her without a second thought. She watches as Hilda —though Rinea had initially judged her as disinterested — leads the aerial assault only to be put to sleep by vile sword arts.
What chance does she stand, a trembling bear cub baring its teeth and claws waiting for its mother to be the true mauler? A bumbling sword novice could not justify bringing her blade on this trip; the dagger accompanied her instead, serving the same purpose it has from the minute it got placed in her hands.
Self defense. Survival. Protecting others. Her thoughts turn to Hilda and so does her body when Hilda’s wyvern lands before her. The unconscious girl slumps sideways against Rinea’s chest and into her arms — the wyvern smacks its tail against the stone rampart in disgruntled acceptance.
It will defend Hilda with its life.
Will you, Rinea? Are you a coward, who looks after self preservation rather than justice? It is not too late to run. It is not too late to fight.
She holds Hilda tighter and finds a blind spot behind some crates to offer her a poor makeshift cover with the wyvern in tow. Above their heads, another assailant circles, ready to dive down and finish the job against Hilda any moment now. Rinea is scared.
A memory of agonizing pain begs her to be let out and she shoves it back inside the cracks it wants to seep out of with urgency; now is not the time, not when she is guarding a life, not when she knows dying is painful and so are weapons and so is war in all its wretched forms, starting at the first blood spilled until long after it's over.
Rigel and Zofia both died by the blade the day Valentia was born. She had avoided reading about Jugdral upon initiating her journey in hopes to not learn that the rest of the world was much the same.
War is not only battles. All battles, however, are a war — Rinea is on its frontlines and time has no intention of waiting for a dispossessed noble to process her stance on committing violence. She either does it, or dies.
A gamble is made. The adrenaline guides her to hop on Astrid’s back with lackluster form, but she holds tight into the beast's reins with her left hand and its sides with her legs. They soar towards the sky to intercept the vagabond who had taken them for easy targets to pelt with javelins. Rinea gets hit in the right shoulder, but the pain only has her holding onto the beast with increased desperation.
Her tears are all that reach the ground upon which Hilda rests. The vagabond is rammed into at full speed, and though her weak constitution lacks power, the wyvern more than makes up for it when Rinea’s dagger meets his body.
She tastes his blood in her mouth when it splatters. The man spits profanities at her and grabs hold of the javelin in her shoulder, the two of them locked in the air by steel lodged in the other's body, and their crimson stained hands refusing to let go.
we are fuckign under attack
expedition holy war 🗡week 1 🗡thracia subteam 2
Rinea steers clear of negative emotions whenever she is able; when she disembarked the ship, it was all confusion and distress clawing at the already raw redness of her throat. When they were separated into teams, then smaller teams, all confidence was subdued into apprehension.
She remained quiet other than a few pleasantries with lady Alear and the ladies sharing the dormitory wing with her. Jumbled thoughts rattled the crevices of Rinea’s brain with such intensity that all she could do was squirm when spoken to and eventually ask for an early night.
Opposing sides of a war. A soldier that knows of her. Had she been a monster to many, for her name to resound so violently against the knight's armor? No, no, no, no, no no no no, my lord, you mustn't—
Nightmares wake Rinea later into the night, when the others are slumbering quietly in the vicinity. She is drenched in cold sweat. She cannot go back to sleep. While there is no memory of the contents of her dreams, bile gathers in her mouth together with frustration.
There is no running away from the worst her heart has to offer. It would be smart to go for some fresh air, so she sneaks out towards the ramparts for a middle of the night promenade; fresh air and stargazing without bothering anyone will quell the fire before it starts.
She spots the assailants around the same time the sentry does. They rush past her, drag her back inside — for safety — then leave her in the middle of a staircase to rouse the rest of the castle. Seconds pass, then time halts. When the spark ignites, Rinea is past the point of wanting to suffocate it.
Righteous rage gets her moving back to the dormitory the sentry is yet to reach; incertitude has no leg against her fury, and neither does the social construct of noble blood supposedly powering her system. She opens the door, thumps her way to her bedside, and grabs whatever clothing and weapon will ensure their survival.
“Wake up! Enemies are coming! Please, we should… we must fight!” One by one, Rinea shakes her companions. Those vagabonds will curse the day in which they prevented a maiden from brooding and fizzling her thoughts in peace.
@delicatevalentine 🗡@rigainrokkr 🗡 @academiaskoll
How? That's simple. She opens her mouth in a rush to reveal the secrets of her balance that would put a crane to shame and, in lieu of words, a drawn out "uhm" is all she can muster. How does she do it? No logical relation can be fully drawn between her side-gig as a private dancer for herself and the young woman narrowly avoiding a splashing demise.
She stops to think – like any Rinea thinking session, accompanied by fidgeting and humming and staring blankly into space, until a satisfying response has been meticulously put together. Not the first time an emotionally dense professor can be fixed (even temporarily) with the naked truth.
Deep breath. Her hands still – when had they started shaking? – and she steps to the side to invite Darios to take her place by the railing. “There… is no trick.” So much for an academic answer, but there is yet hope. “If I am honest, when I am enjoying myself, I am all of me. I trust me, and my hands to hold the rail, and my legs to balance me. I trust my gut to back away when it is dangerous, and my heart to lean over when the sea is kind. I have not fallen yet. I have no desire to fall. But if I were, in fact, to fall, then… the only guilty party would be me. That, too, frees me.”
Darios waits patiently, almost grateful that it wasn't just an easy answer.
When her thoughts have finished and an invitation is extended, he tilts his head first before taking her up on it. Ah- it's still an answer like that. He smiles wryly. No easy methods for him.
"The fault and the onus, it all rests with you?" Or rather him in his instance.
His hands hold tight to the railing, but the trust she has in herself is not one he finds in himself. The moment he would like to lean forward just a bit, his body seems not to listen to him. His shoulders stiffen and he even takes a step back. "Trusting yourself is no easy task. Nor is taking the blame if things turn out difficult. That said... even if you do fall, I hope that you trust you'll be brought back onto the ship."
Rinea watches his attempt and offers no comment. In the end she is no more than a student; in no position to make decisions on behalf of a professor, or tell others how to live the brief lives they have all been granted by higher powers beyond their comprehension. She answered his question, and Darios put enough faith in her baseless ramblings to make an honest attempt.
The rest is up to him. Just as Rinea wishes to unearth and solidify Rinea in her moments of joy, Darios will have to face himself sooner or later. Is it not better to become one's own friend in preparation for the occasion?
He does not need to hear of her struggles with the task.
"I do, professor. Even so I will exercise care and not cause you nor others cause for concern or a dip in the ocean. I wish you a lovely rest of the journey."
The one his heart is yet to depart on. She bows, turns on her toes, and with nothing else to add, another spot from which she can gaze at the waves awaits.
As excited as Panette is about this trip, the length of the journey over to Judgral has her feeling quite restless. So, pacing around the ship in a tired daze at night, she finds herself so lost in thought that it takes her a moment to notice that one of her fellow passengers is… one could probably call it leaning over the ship’s railing, but to Panette it looks more like she’s about to do a flip over. She walks over to her, trying to make sure not to startle her as she talks. “Greetings! It is quite a night, is it not? If I may be so bold as to ask, what has gotten you so captivated that you find yourself leaning so far out? I do not mean to dash your fun, but it is a fair bit dangerous to be doing that on a ship sailing this late at night.” Truth be told it does look somewhat fun, but with how late it is, Panette worries that there ain’t gonna be many people available to shout that someone’s gone overboard.
Less people are awake at night, less noise that does not come from waves crashing against the hull and the creaking of wood. Fewer distractions, too. Rinea is in the middle of an epic tale brewing inside her imagination — two women, pirates by trade, engaged in a clash of ideals and swords atop one of the rigging ropes while their vessel goes down in flames under them.
Her two characters are about to embrace in mutually caused death when the chapter ends abruptly on a shiphanger.
A small sigh escapes her and she turns to reassure a fellow night owl. Her mouth opens and —
Rinea forgets it all. Gets over it. The short distance between women is crossed in a flash of blue and Rinea takes the hands of her newly found inspiration, eyes big and full of wonder. The girl's outfit and hair and accessories are so... So...
"So fucking cool!" Oh, she said that out loud, didn't she? Rinea lets go and, in a panic, buries her face in her palms. "I-I mean, your attire is unique in... in a way many would find powerful and... y-you know... cool..."
Panette lets out a laugh in spite of herself; it’s quite a freaking apt summary of how she likes to look. She gives her a bright smile as she tries to reassure her.
“I shall admit, usually I like to keep my language clean when talking with others; I would say that I like to dress bold, and visually striking; that I adore wearing an outfit that stands out from the rest. But, truth be told? Part of the reason I dress in such attire is because it is, indeed, really fucking cool.” She lets out a giggle.
“Now that we have stepped away from the railing, I must say, you are looking quite gorgeous yourself! Your outfit is absolutely stunning and I utterly adore your hair.” Maybe she’s laying it on a bit thick but hey, complements beget complements, and it ain’t like she’s lying about any of them.
“Again, apologies for snapping you out of your thoughts earlier; I do not doubt you know how to keep safe, I was merely concerned as someone who has seen people go overboard before.” Granted, at least two of these times were her fault, but eh, details, details.
“I hope I am not being too nosy, but perhaps you would be willing to share your thoughts? I have found that talking to someone in the dead of night can be quite soothing.” That, and it will also help in making her a bit less bored, as slightly selfish as that may be.
Rinea peeks at the fucking cool girl between her fingers. Her words strum a harp's chord in Rinea's heart, the higher note that precedes hymns of worship — and lo and behold, the choir whose name she later learns is Panette, harmonizes without a hitch.
A lady can remain elegant with or without a foul mouth. She expresses her individuality and adjusts to social situations without the several cycles of grief Rinea has to go through on her attempts. The embarrassment of using foul language persists even when echoed by Panette, though a new chime is added to the composition.
Such a possibility exists. Panette puts the moonlight to shame, and palpitations in Rinea's heart. Then Panette invites her to share her thoughts — after the compliments, oh, the compliments, though if pressed about it Rinea cannot remember the exact words of praise she was given. Her excitement makes it nigh impossible to perceive anything that is not the paragon of badass femininity before her.
It is no wonder men can write such ardent ballads about a woman they know from merely a furtive glimpse.
"Share... Yes! Y-yes, I have no other commitments a-and the night is lovely and so are you and do you like stars? I can tell you about the stars. Or geese. Or. A-anything... that you'd like..." Of course you may also... I'm so sorry!"
The moon dips behind a rogue cloud, so Panette may illuminate the night all on her own.
Forsyth should be used to it by now. He'd seen Berkut at the monastery, for Mila's sake. But he cannot contain his surprise when he recognizes the prince's fiancee, her blue hair and noble features unmistakable.
"I--you--" How much should he say? He does not know her intentions, nor those of Alm's treacherous cousin. What he does know, though, is that the king would afford her trust and mercy. (Would afford them both, despite everything.) "M-my apologies. Do you hail from Rigel, perchance?"
Forsyth will keep a careful eye on her, but she worries him far less than Berkut, at least.
Her accent is what most likely gives her away. The slight lisp, the way she is conditioned to breathe deeper before certain syllables, the strain when occasional sounds do not agree with the rhythm of her speech. As for the knight approaching her, he is no stranger to her homeland — that much she can tell.
Why, pray, does he approach Rinea behind a metaphorical shield? It could be her fears taking form, it could be her anxiety spurring her imagination, it could be the shadows cast on his face that trick her already fearful perception.
If he is someone she wronged in her past... he would speak up. Normal people would speak up. So speak up. Speak up. SPEAK—
"I do," she croaks, though she is not fortunate to have been spawned into the world as a rotund amphibian. She's shaking and has to hug herself in pretend shivers from the cold. For her to be so guarded and judgemental over nothing more than a look and a word, this man could find her crazy.
She is not. Not yet. She has to make the effort to venture forth. With some difficulty, Rinea looks at the young knight, and manages to pull herself together. Moderately. Acceptable levels. A burdening disappointment.
The knight has tired, kind eyes in spite of his youth, accentuated by the practiced stiffness of his posture and what might be years of being the only overachiever in miles around him. His handsomeness is unique — neither his jawline nor frown fits the beauty standards Rinea knows of, but it would be foolish to say he is not beautiful.
"I am Rinea. I do believe we have not met, sir...?"
"Careful... the winds could turn at any moment," His voice is soft, so as not to startle her and actually make the situation worse. Darios can't much say he blames her for it, the sea's air actually carrying one along is a fun feeling, but he still hasn't entirely moved past what had happened a few months prior.
As much as the professor would like to check the waves, see how much he should it shouldn't be urging, he simply looks forward over the horizon. "I take it that you enjoy sailing?"
The winds are not a concern. Rinea rocks back and forth, each gust a mere loving caress to her flushed and drying from the salt cheeks. Truth be told, she appreciates not being manhandled away from her reverie — professor Darios is respecting her personal space, yet Rinea suspects that so far into their voyage he is among the most uneasy with her leisure activity.
"I believe I do," she says, then attempts to put the man's possible ship-related trauma to rest by coming back fully onto the deck. When her feet touch the wood, Rinea pats down her clothes and smiles. "If I overstep do tell, but... I encourage you to approach the vast expanse with a dash of whimsy, too, professor."
As if moving with his tension, the wind eases. Perhaps he's being too worried, he thinks that he must be but... any accident that can be avoided, he'd certainly like to.
Her voice is gentle, as much is expected considering the grace she moves with which makes her words all the more surprising to him. Darios smiles, hesitantly. "A dash of whimsy? Truthfully... I'd like to make note of this journey in my journal with something that does the sight justice."
A leather-bound notebook rests at his side, a finger keeping note of the page. "My apologies for asking such a question after I've just stopped you, but how do you keep yourself so steady? I fear I start to think too much about it all."
How? That's simple. She opens her mouth in a rush to reveal the secrets of her balance that would put a crane to shame and, in lieu of words, a drawn out "uhm" is all she can muster. How does she do it? No logical relation can be fully drawn between her side-gig as a private dancer for herself and the young woman narrowly avoiding a splashing demise.
She stops to think – like any Rinea thinking session, accompanied by fidgeting and humming and staring blankly into space, until a satisfying response has been meticulously put together. Not the first time an emotionally dense professor can be fixed (even temporarily) with the naked truth.
Deep breath. Her hands still – when had they started shaking? – and she steps to the side to invite Darios to take her place by the railing. “There… is no trick.” So much for an academic answer, but there is yet hope. “If I am honest, when I am enjoying myself, I am all of me. I trust me, and my hands to hold the rail, and my legs to balance me. I trust my gut to back away when it is dangerous, and my heart to lean over when the sea is kind. I have not fallen yet. I have no desire to fall. But if I were, in fact, to fall, then… the only guilty party would be me. That, too, frees me.”
It seems that mostly everyone is more interested in what's going on on the deck than they are the swell of the ocean waves and the scenery-- Alear almost finds it to be a shame, but she figures that most of the people on board have seen their fair share of the sights that come with being out on the water. Hands resting on the ship's railing, she takes a deep breath to inhale the salty breeze, eyes falling shut for a brief moment... but once they open, she spots a young girl that's leaning dangerously over the edge, and the Divine Dragon moves before she even processes what she's doing. A gentle hand at the girl's shoulder pulls her back onto a safe distance, dual-tone eyes widened and fear flashing in the depths of her gaze. "Hey! Be careful!" She chides, although she doesn't mean to come off as condescending or anything of the sort. A sigh of relief escapes and Alear gently releases the girl's arm, hands clammy from the close call. "A strong gust can throw you overboard easily, or a sudden lurch of the boat too. Is it your first time on the waters...?" "Oh, I guess I should introduce myself, huh? My name is Alear. I'm not too used to the sea either, so I understand that it's gorgeous... but let's check it out at a safe distance with each other, alright?"
Kind-hearted folk attend the academy in overflowing abundance. On land and off it, Rinea has given up on keeping track of how many have veiled her with urgency and concern — even when she is perfectly out of harm's way, according to her quite prolific and accurate anxiety-fueled calculations.
No, the venomous snakes were not going to sink their fangs into her. No, the experimental spells would not blow back at her. No, the man with volatile mood swings would not —
Thus, when she is ripped away from the hypnosis of swirling waves, Rinea cannot fault the lostcounth hand to jerk her backwards.
Ah. Unique eyes, bold hair, deified countenance, an aura that bequeaths worship of the highest fervor; no alliance, border, creed, birth and death holds any meaning in the vicinity of such a lady. Rinea would not mind it were her arm to be ripped off by those fingers.
"Lady Alear," Rinea greets, then extends her hand. "I am Rinea. I do ask for your forgiveness... though I must confess I was out of danger, and caused you needless worry. If sea-gazing at your side can undo my transgression then I am your humble servant for the hour."
The woman before her makes it easy to relax; it's a mixture of a lot of things, but there's something... oddly soothing and familiar about the shade of her hair-- in a way, it's reminiscent of her Mother's, and that alone causes her heart to skip a beat. It's silly, she knows, to find such a loosely shared trait to make her feel any sort of nostalgic, but Alear supposes she can appreciate the sensation while it lasts. The smile that sits on her features is nothing short of genuine, but it nearly looks wistful in the way that her eyes crinkle. "Oh! It's nice to meet you, Lady Rinea," The Divine Dragon extends her own hand to take the other's, shake firm and unyielding. "There's no need for apologies, really. I understand the enthusiasm... I almost knocked myself overboard the first time I was on a boat, too." Her laughter accompanies the recollection, something she would've been mortified about years ago-- but she's long since learned to take her mishaps in stride. Nobody's perfect, after all-- not even the Divine Dragons. "It's just... something about the water is totally mesmerizing. That and- Ah!" There's something that catches her attention, and before she has a chance to think about what she's doing, she gently urges Rinea to the railing along with her. Dual-toned eyes widen and sparkle with unadulterated glee as she points down into the waves... to spot what seems to be a pair of dolphins, their grey snouts barely visible over the sea foam. At least, until one makes a show of hopping above the water-- and Alear lets out a gasp. "Woah!! Look! Aren't they cute?" She's almost talking to herself, completely enthralled by their newfound company. Of course, Alear doesn't forget the woman next to her, and she glances to the side to see her expression. She feels like a right fool with how wide her smile has become, cheeks nearly hurting. "I've never seen them in person before...! Oh, there's a third one, too! Right behind the other two!" @forgottenbelle
The sea holds a mystique to Rinea that is not unlike the women she has encountered since her arrival at Garreg Mach. With no way to recall the role models in her previous life, or if any girl held her admiration to such degrees, all their magnetism enchants her. To learn from them, to uplift them, to return the blinding warmth they have given her whether they know it or not. She laughs with Alear at the confession of clumsiness and allows herself to be pulled back to the railing. Her hands clasp together behind her back – to carry herself with any less grace would be insulting, but she can allow relaxation in the presence of holiness. Alear could be anyone; a princess, a thief, a god or a demon, but at that very moment, she was the star guiding her to the water. Or as close as they can get. Once again, Rinea leans overboard more than she was when Alear discovered her, and has to squint her eyes to recognize the creatures that elicit such excitement.
Are those…?
She pulls Alear away, deadpan, no word until they have moved to the poop deck where it is unlikely that the dolphins can hear them. The possibility of them knowing human speech patterns is never zero. Where to begin? How to explain to Alear the deception, the unspeakable evil? The situation calls for seriousness. Rinea, who is equal parts puffed up and about to cry, is doing her best to match the gravity.
“My lady Alear, you are deserving of the truth. Dolphinkind has long manipulated pure hearts like yours, and I cannot… c-cannot stand to see it! And so I must set things right. It is all part of their shark-hating propaganda, you see! In reality, dolphins are…”
A long hour awaits them both.
"Hey! Be careful!"
He's moving before he realizes it, darting forward to reach for the girl before she can fall over. And he's sure that she will—fall, that is—because she's leaned so far over the edge that even a mere whisper of wind would send her tumbling down to the unforgiving waters below. She's going to fall. She's going to fall, and no one's going to hear her scream, much less catch the sound of her delicate body hit the waves. He can't let that happen.
By the time he reaches her, his sword already in hand and ready to be discarded so that he could jump in after her, he realizes two things.
One, that she actually hasn't fallen over.
And two, he must look like a complete psychopath, running at a poor girl with his sword pulled free, sheath and all.
It's something that would have him apologize with a sheepish smile, but he can't quite stop the way his heart thunders in his chest, still certain that she was moments away from meeting her death. Had it been on purpose that she'd leaned over so far? Intentional?
"Listen—I don't know what kind of hardships you've gone through, but throwing yourself off the ship isn't the answer! We can talk this through, and...!"
...and, wait. Hold on.
"...Wh... aren't you Berkut's...?"
(Lover? Fiancé? The one that he...)
Death is not a topic Rinea thinks about. Not willingly. It haunts her in nightmares she does not comprehend, in unwelcome whispers during otherwise normal days. It does not scare her anymore — it is the ways in which it comes, painful and violent, that leave her restless.
Of all manners in which one could die, drowning would be peaceful. Going to sleep, on an endless journey downwards, the dark and cold as eternal companions. She has no intention of letting her lungs fill with water. It did not cross her mind at all until those words are said to her face. Do others see her as so frail that she might as well be a living ghost waiting to rejoin death?
The young man to stop her fun this time around is quite handsome in a way that directly contrasts Berkut's sharp edges — there is softness to his features, and a lack of royal air to someone who does not entirely carry themself like a commoner, either. His eyes are the most striking; she thinks she should know them bringers of death but she does not, and so she commits them to memory.
Then, Berkut's name is spoken, and Rinea perks up.
"Are you a friend of lord Berkut's? Did he send you to check on me?" She laughs behind her hand. "Yes, I am his pigeon-handling coworker, and dare I say, his friend. Who do I owe the pleasure?"
