apricity

Rinea (SoV) Enrolled in The Officer's Academy. Affiliated with the Ashen Wolves Love alters not with time's brief hours and weeks but bears it out even to the edge of doom.

[galercin]

Introduction to Rinea from FE15 (Shadows of Valentia)!

Rinea is set post-canon events. Pre-war, she was engaged to the crown prince of Rigel, Berkut. During canon events, she dies as a sacrifice to the fell god Duma. She has been resurrected and ran away from Valentia for fear of being found alive.

She is currently 20 years old and enrolled in the Ashen Wolves house. Here, she lies low and has taken to learning sword should she ever need it in this new walk of life.

Note to Valentians, excluding Alm, Celica, Berkut, Fernand and anyone of noble birth, she probably will not know you. She has always stayed away from the battlefield until she was forced into it and even then, her soul was already gone by that point.

She is a bit... standoffish, quiet, and skittish, but she can be chatty once you do get her to open up.

Her URL is a portmanteau of gale and güvercin (meaning dove/pigeon), as well as being a wordplay of latter.

Looking forward to writing with you all!

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Mun

[galercin]

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

Rinea closed the poetry book after taking time to memorize the lines so that she may also remember her way back up when she is reunited beneath the familiar arms of another.

“I’m coming home, my love,” she said with the last of her breath here in this life.

[galercin]

specters of season's past and present

Mission Board: Fracture

[kvasr]

Mortals have countless rituals for death. Kvasir knows none of them.

In endless cycles, she'd not spared a moment to learn. In their war against time, the mortals had no time to grieve their dead. They had never died at all. In the end, all were rewound, time reversed to a point before they existed. In that sense, could you truly call it a ‘death?’

Ironic, she supposes now, leveling the dirt beneath her hands. To say that they had no time, when it was in fact she who robbed them of it. None of them would have been buried like those who rest here. Their destiny was to be unwound, again and again.

Perhaps this is her sorry kind of repentance. In the end, she never wished for them all to meet their ends. Because, in the end...she would be alone. But this is her fate as much as their unmaking was theirs.

At the voice, Kvasir rises, a hand reaching up instinctively to tug the hood so often pulled over her head even lower and shield herself from prying eyes. But it sits around her shoulders now and her hand instead curls around air. It hovers there a beat, then lowers to clutch at it by her neck instead, fingers tangling themselves through the silk.

Pink and gold searches through the night to find the voice's owner, lips pressing into a flat line. The grave she stands at is only halfway righted, dirt still gathered haphazardly around the tombstone. Several others are in similar states. “I...” An exhale. “I only wished to help. Should that, too, be a disturbance, I will take my leave.”

Help, she muses to herself with a scoff. As though she might deign to call it as such when it is entirely self-serving. What kind of goddess seeks to atone? How could she ever, when she is both a world and an eon away from the people she might atone to?

The ghosts she has wronged— they are not here. They are nowhere, save for her memories.

But Kvasir is here, trying to settle them nonetheless. She says, instead, “...and you? Most mortals tend to find the resting places of the dead...unsettling.”

[galercin]

Odd is not quite the word she would use to describe the other when she sees or hears her. She seems just as any other she may encounter in her everyday walk, yet the way she speaks, subtle hints and strange word choices tick something in her senses. Yet, she does not sense danger, the stroke of fear that she otherwise feels being in a place like this, in regards to the girl at least. 

“Yes… I among them,” she admits openly. Forlorn eyes lower to the grave beneath them or what is left of it. Though it is perhaps in this odd state of limbo she finds herself in that she stands before the fallen. Pity, remorse for the unrested dead, empathy, as both heaven and hell spat her out. 

“There are,” she winces and a shiver runs through her spine and out her shoulders, shaking a bit, “souls, if that is what you call it, creatures, more like, that come alive in places like this.”

Wearily, she looks around, as if to check there are none at present. It is not Valentia, so maybe it did not occur here in this new land, she could foolishly wish on. So that being the case, is there a reason she holds for standing before something so terrifying and gruesome to her?

A sad petal floats to the ground.

Rinea holds up the bunch of flowers she had dug up prior. Though she could do nothing for those already gone, laying down some sentiment may lift a little burden off her shoulders. The roots and clumps of dirt still hanging from a couple of them, as if to provide some sort of hope in this gray area. That though the lives here have ended their walk, flowers continue to sprout and grow in their stead. 

“Let this be my reason then. To… atone, give these grounds some life if the ones below cannot.”

[galercin]

originally from here @enarmor

"--llo?" "Hello?" "Hello?" "Ah, so you are with us! Sorry, it's just that you were staring at the fire so long I began to grow concerned. We wouldn't want you tipping in, now would we?"  "Have you got something on your mind? I'll take a turn listening if you'd like to speak! Oh, and I'm Sain--one of your proud knights. I guess you could say it's my job to protect you."

Absorbed in thought, she does not notice the man’s approach, nor his addressing her. The light reflects back in her pale eyes as a harsh glow with hands that seek to destroy and incinerate. Though it swelters with the heat of the sun, she does not feel its warmth on her skin. The heat she feels must be from her nerves again, eating at her from the inside out.

Tipping in, he says in jest, yet does not know the weight of it pulling at her chest or the way her muscles tense beneath her clothes.

“Oh, my apologies,” she dips her head, perhaps in shame. “You are very sweet… Sir Sain, was it? I assure you, it is nothing to concern yourself over, but I thank you regardless.”

Rinea offers him a small smile, to reaffirm her words, make him believe them more than she does. She wonders now, if there is something in tonight’s air that gives the men the courage to be… shameless for a lack of better word, or if her vision has always been clouded by Berkut that she failed to notice how the rest truly are. 

She imagines that he may make some other maiden swoon. That is, if he does not already, he has a sort of rugged handsomeness and albeit over the top chivalrous nature that someone is bound to fall for his charms, just not her.

[galercin]

It takes Phila a moment to realise that there is someone sat at her left. This is unusual enough, as, without playing the braggart, she would deem herself decently perceptive. Though at times, she almost wished she was not. Such a skill, before dedicated to picking out murmurs of dissent in training formations, or a lagging pegasi, had written the faces of her fallen sisters across her mind for all of time: in the end her quick eyes had only served to pick out the faces of the fallen. Now she tuned them to her bow-string; identifying singular targets.

And she was distinctly singular. Sat alone, with wan, sunken eyes trying their level best not to be caught by another's gaze. They too, seemed to have taken their fill of death.

Shifting in her seat, she glances at the candle between them. The flame dances, flickering under the rushing of fabric passing their table. She thinks her neighbour is looking too. In the pale dawn sky of her iris the candle provides a neat illusion of inward illumination. As if the sun had risen on a dead world.

'Hello, I am Phila - a flight instructor at this academy.' She says, because she can think of nothing else to say. 'What is your name?' Her bag of gifts rustles, forgotten as she shifts to turn towards her. 'Oh, I had almost forgotten. Did you recieve a greeting gift too? I must admit, I am unused to such gestures.' This must be the most words she has exchanged with another in a while; a light tinge of pink rose to her cheeks before she could stop it. But, surely, it was in the spirit of things to be conversational?

She is seated with hands in her lap. Though others have already started picking at the food lain across the table or chatting with their neighbors, her gaze is focused on the candlelight between her neighbor and her. Not all fire is a trigger to her, only large, gulping blazes. But that is how they all start, as a flicker small enough to snuff out with a boot. Her hunger is hardly noticeable buried beneath the anxiety in undulating coils.

Similar to being doused in oil, once fire’s curl reaches you, there is no escape from it, the event feels a bit like that, inescapable, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

The lady next to her begins to speak, surely it cannot be toward herself, yet it is. Her voice is mature and refined like a crisp refreshment in a steel chalice. She looks toward her neighbor now, washing away whatever stone-like, possibly petrified, expression that wears on her face, as if it is something forgotten.

“Phila,” she repeats, “What a lovely name.” 

Rinea smiles easily, noting the blush that colors the other girl’s cheeks. Though it is nothing she can be certain, there is some familiarity about the girl, perhaps it is just the similar hair color that splashes her imagination. 

“Rinea is mine,” she answers, unsure of what else to tack onto herself. It is preferable that she remain undistinguishable. To be a walking specter across the canvas of posterity; if she left any drop behind, let its strokes not lead to her footsteps.

She pauses to bring the pouch to front and lays it upon the table with a soft thud. “Yes, I suppose the hosts have given all their guests one. They have spent a great deal on this little gathering, haven’t they?”

[bxldrsdraumar]

Doorways (sort of): Decorating each doorway is a sprig of fresh mistletoe. Rumor has it that it's a Chalphy tradition for two people to share a kiss if they are caught under it together. You wouldn't deny the tradition of your hosts, would you?

“Lord Sigurd,” Rinea follows after him to just beneath the doorway where unbeknownst to her a sprig of holly hangs. “I wanted to thank you for hosting.”

It is all she calls to him for, yet when she sees him up close like this, there is something about him, familiar in a way, that she could not place. She studies him for a moment, virtue and valor beaming through him, or maybe it is something else beneath those threads. She would allow him to leave if he so wishes, but her eyes flicker to the next room where couples whirl around the floor.  

“Wait a moment,” her hand extends to reach forth to catch his, death’s cool touch running through her fingers, reminding her as she feels the contrast of life there in him. She releases it just as quickly, hands dropping to clasp one another in front of her. Be it the atmosphere or the silvery flicks of scars she sees, with the confidence of a Rigelian, an echo of a ghost, dripping in her voice she asks, “...May I have the next dance?”

He didn't know the young lady, not at first glance - a delicate bird of a woman, shy and pale, and sad, as though the weight of the slightest breeze might have carried her off.

Sigurd smiled warmly, welcoming, and bowed at the waist at her address - subdued from his normal energy for her sake, conscious of himself in the face of a stranger who looked as though she'd prefer to bolt.

"It is my pleasure, my lady - please, I bid you enjoy yourself. That is all this is for, is to share my joy with another - so if it means I might see a smile, then it was well worth it."

He turned to leave, inclining his head politely, but she surprised him then, bolder than he expected, taking his rough hand in hers before he could depart entirely. There was a familiar chill to her fingers - perhaps it was merely poor circulation, but he knew something of the body behaving in ways that it mightn't normally - and out of instinct he shifted his hands to cup hers in his entirely.

"A dance? Very well, if you'd like - you shall have to lead," he teased, his eyes sparkling mischief in the face of her sudden confidence, "for I'm told I'm quite hopeless. Ah, and - "

His eyes flicked upward, resting on the sprigs of mistletoe that he and Ethlyn had hung about the place, in all manner of locations. It was such a warm tradition, open and welcoming, the promise of love in all its forms - you are in my home, and I open myself to you.

Gently, Sigurd leaned forward, the press of his lips delicate against the corner of her mouth, and he swept into a bow once more, rising and allowing her to lead him to the dance floor.

[galercin]

Her hand comes up to touch where he left his mark, or its memory on her skin.

"Hopeless, you say? If it is leading you are worried about, then I doubt that, you seem confident enough already," she teases back.

If this were in a different life, then perhaps she might think herself charmed or appalled by the seemingly forward gesture. For now, she thinks of it not a moment longer, the song in the next room calling her name, calling her to dance.

"But if you insist then..." with his hand still in hers, she gives it a gentle squeeze, "I'd be happy to show you the steps."

[laslow]

Bonfire - What better way to wait for the main event than by lighting a bonfire? Help each other lug some lumber to set ablaze and show off your fancy footwork with its warmth at your back. Grab a partner and get to swingin’! (( sorry in advance to laslow ALKJGDLKF ))

Outside, there is chatter just a few paces north. So others also had the intention of stepping away from the air of the dining room. Curious, Rinea's footsteps lead her toward the sound until they come to a halt.

Frozen and stiff despite the heat emanating from the flame. Flickers of candlelight are hardly noteworthy now, but when it is engulfing the air in large blazes, she feels tension in the air once again. The call of fire, the chanting at the altar, muscles ceasing until nothing at all is felt—

No, she turns her gaze, she must at least act normal. Or perhaps the inside of the dining hall is the safest place to be.

Her gaze catches that of a man beside her, perhaps she has seen him around the grounds, but no name is coming to her. She makes the first move despite herself, if only to distract herself from the scorching pit steps away from her. Still a bit stilted and shaken, she asks, "...Do you dance?"

Baldr's Bounty!

By the light of the bonfire, he stretches muscles gone stiff from sitting and eating like a king. Funny, how he could only dream of an event like this as a child, and now he's seeking a break from it all.

A piece of wood cracks. Sparks flare high, hanging in the air like mini stars before disappearing. He watches them go with a gentle smile, lacing his fingers together over his head and leaning slowly to the right. He repeats the motion on the other side, feeling a gratifying pop in his spine.

Only when he stands normally again does he notice the woman watching him. She's pretty, in a soft-spoken way, firelight reflecting merrily on her cheeks.

"Oh, hel-lo there! What gave it away?" One corner of his mouth quirks up. He wonders if that initial jolt of panic when someone asks him about dancing will ever fade. No longer does he hide his talents, nor does he proclaim them.

They are simply a fact about him, like swordsmanship or his love for sweets.

Laslow peers closer at her unfamiliar face, noting the skittish look in her eyes. "I'm Laslow, by the way. I'd be glad to share a dance with you, Lady....?"

[galercin]

"Rinea," she says, dipping her head in a small bow, "Just Rinea is fine."

"Laslow," she repeats, rolling the syllables off her tongue, sweet and soft like a song from a bird's beak. Though she is sure she has never met the man, she is almost certain she's heard the name before, even outside of Fódlan.

A small smile slips from her as she tilts her head slightly, observing him. Somehow the name suits him and doesn't all at once. It is an easy and sweet-sounding name with a melodious ring to it as it leaves her lips, though the meaning behind it holds its own weight in authority and power.

"Call it intuition. ...Or perhaps we are in sync to the same beat," she looks to her own hands then, before extending one out to him. "Well, Laslow? Are you going to keep me waiting?"

[galercin]

Bonfire - What better way to wait for the main event than by lighting a bonfire? Help each other lug some lumber to set ablaze, and show off your fancy footwork with its warmth at your back. Grab a partner and get to swingin’!

"--llo?"

"Hello?"

"Hello?"

"Ah, so you are with us! Sorry, it's just that you were staring at the fire so long I began to grow concerned. We wouldn't want you tipping in, now would we?"

"Have you got something on your mind? I'll take a turn listening if you'd like to speak! Oh, and I'm Sain--one of your proud knights. I guess you could say it's my job to protect you."

[galercin]

There are plenty of reasons to come to a party like this. Free food, for one. To find those with the loosest lips and hear the local gossip, for another. And of course...

There are so many people here with expensive, valuable items on their person.

Now, Naesala is not about to shy away from a challenge of dexterity, especially one of such low stakes. When he sees that absolutely stunning and beautiful woman alone under the mistletoe, he knows that this is the opening he has been looking for.

Direct, to the point. He comes up to her and smiles. It's not a charming smile; the thing is wry, half baked, and a little mischievous. He looks up at the mistletoe above them and laughs.

"Well, I am a man of tradition. Who am I to say no?"

He leans in, kisses her forehead between her brows -- not so forward to kiss her lips, but wanting to make her feel flustered. It's oddly tender, and he hopes it will have the desired effect. He reaches down, and with feather-light fingers and incredible skill he slips the ring from her finger.

Oh, this will get him a pretty penny, won't it?

He pulls back, smiles at her, and bows a little. His hand slips into his jacket pocket to he does to hide the ring as he smiles. "Naesala of Kilvas, what an honor it is to make your acquaintance."

When he approaches her, he is confident in a vainglorious way. Rinea has no time to reject as she is caught by the sight of gigantic wings of ebony. She sees no fire nor ice around him to denote him fallen and even further from anything deemed holy. A bird then, swooping in for its prey.

She shuts her eyes when he moves closer, not quite rejecting the gesture, but to say she did not flinch slightly when he begins to approach her and not a less offensive part, like her hand, would be a lie.

She expects it to scratch her, in the same way that birds’ talons do when they find you as a perch. They leave red scrapes in the beginning and the points dig into skin, but once they leave, there is no true harm. The kiss to her head is like that, yet where she expects it to leave a mark, she finds none. It is gentler than she gives him credit for and if her heart were not trapped beneath a cage of sorrow and longing for someone else, she might have rewarded his action with a soft flush. 

Her eyes flutter open when he speaks again, that lopsided smile beaming back at her. 

“Rinea… of Rigel,” she lets him have that much. 

“Are all residents from Kilvas this forward,” she levels his own mischievous smile with her own small tilt of her lips, raising a brow slightly, “Or could that be just you?”

…

It is much later that she notices her finger much lighter, when she is packing up what is left of her tin that she brought. The lid clatters to the floor. 

Quickly she begins her search, but never does she suspect anyone but herself to blame for its loss and what’s left of her heart with it.

[seraphiia]

Sharing the Kitchen - Ready to show off your own culinary prowess with a dish from your homeland? Or lend a helping hand while someone else makes theirs? Or are you nosy beyond belief and looking for scraps before the main event? (( we are so back baybee - TAKE 2 ))

If she believed in destiny or fate, then she may not be so surprised when she enters the kitchen. Initially, she had done so to set her items down when she sees carnelian hair and eyes to match. Though she has never faced the other, especially not like this, she of course knew of her existence. Brief that she heard mention before the last moments of her life flickered out.

"Princess Anthiese…" She greets with neither malice nor affability to color her inflection. Neutral and blunt for the opposing country, as she has always felt. Though, perhaps she has wondered if the flowers did bloom brighter on the other side from time to time.

What are you doing here, she means to ask, but bites it back. Her gaze is wavering, unpredictable as the tides of storm. What shall she say to her? Silence hangs in the air for longer than she is comfortable with as she wrings her hands together.

"So… you are… alive then." Though it is one of the worse options she could start a conversation with, she forces it out to avoid being under the other's fiery gaze a moment longer, but she almost wishes she had said nothing at all.

After finding her seat—delightfully placed next to Alm's—Celica headed to the kitchen to warm her food. Cheese fondue may not have been the most convenient choice of dish, but she couldn't help but want to share the delight of a rich cheese dip with the others. A delicacy in Zofia, to be sure.

With most of the ovens occupied, Valentia's queen has to resort to warming her bowl of fondue with her hands. Just a bit of magic energy channeled into her palms, and her hands became rather convenient, portable heater.

Returned to its smooth, rich consistency, Celica hums as she takes a toothpick and plucks up one the meatballs she brought, dipping it into the cheese. It would be improper to eat before the food was served... but a little sample—a little taste test—wouldn't hurt, would it?

Surely not. Mother Mila would want her to enjoy this bounty, and ensure that it was safe and delicious for the others.

The entire meatball goes into her mouth with a pleased hum, and at that moment, a new voice greets her. Not with her current name, but her former one.

At that, Celica blinks in surprise, head turning to face the blue-haired woman staring at her, as Zofia's former princess is left with a mouth stuffed full of food.

She chews. And chews. Chews quite thoroughly, and then swallows. "...Pardon my manners. But, erm... who am I speaking to?"

If she knew Celica by the name of Anthiese, and assumed she was dead, then... a citizen of Zofia? But the nation had been informed of her survival after the war. So then, who...

[galercin]

I’m all that’s left. Or maybe I’m all that ever was…

“Oh…” she trails off, it would have been wise to introduce herself first. She looks to the princess, queen she supposed now, stuffing her face with another treat. It seems she has distracted her from an important mission. “Forgive me. Rinea, I hail from Rigel, perhaps…"

She grows silent once more, wondering if she should mention Berkut to spark some relevance between them.…A reconsideration. She need not further any tension that may or may not be there already. She had been lost to the fire and though she clung to the fibers of her old being, she could let go of this one, for now.

“Ah, I lost my train of thought,” she casually lies. What she does not know will not hurt her. Besides, what relevance does he possess to them now, six feet under? Eyes search for a distraction when they land on her own baked treat.

Rinea slides the cannister over without the lid to reveal a pile of baked treats with jam in the middle. “Here, try one. I made them this morning. For my misstep and… an ode to new beginnings, I hope?"

[galercin]

@freetolanceyourheart

Xane had been reading the name tags of the assigned seats next to him, when what luck! The owner of one of those names has found their seat and sat down. He turns to look at her- she seems lost in thought to his eye. This young woman definitely seems like she could use some cheering up. What good’s a trickster like him if he can’t manage this much? His new self appointed mission is to see if he can’t help this nobel lady smile. Rinea feels a gentle tap on her left shoulder while she’s sitting in her assigned seat “Heya! So you’re ‘Rinea’. Nice to meet you, the name's Xane” He gives her a cheerful wink, and leans conspiratorially a bit closer “So, what do you think would be better, Jumping out like a jack-in-the-box from a cake or dancing on the table? This party has got to end with a bang and I’ve been trying to decide what the funniest prank would be! You know, the grand finale! But I seem to have lost my touch- I just can’t think of somethin’ with enough wow factor ya know? Care to lend me a hand?”

Though she has only just sat down seated next to strangers makes her nonetheless weary. Seated a couple of cards down are the Valentian rulers she is sure, which only serve to put her on edge. A tap is met at her shoulder, and she turns to be met with a jovial, friendly face and despite her not knowing him, she is grateful for at least one in the hall all the same. From looks alone, she could sense a certain spunk, maybe mischievous glint, from him.

“The pleasure is all mine, Xane,” she says, though practiced, it leaves her as natural sounding as her own name would.Rinea expects their conversation to be over with quickly, or maybe spend the rest of the time talking about the dishes laid out on the table.

However, her expression slowly shifts, an easy smile she wore falters, her head tilts to the side slightly and brows furrow. “Huh…?” He has genuinely left her speechless.

Cheery as he is, it does not appear he would be backing down from this conquest without an answer. Digits tap one another while resting on her lap as she thinks. Though both options were viable, she is not sure she would like to assist with either for fear that she would be too involved for her liking.

“Oh… Um, what if… we find a way to gather all the monastery cats in here?” Everyone likes cats, even the dog another guest brought in.

[rigellion]

@galercin sent:

Luminary Trail: Just outside of the party is a path lit by luminaries. It's a perfect place to get some fresh air or escape from the hustle and bustle for a moment. Make sure to watch where you are walking. Those paper bags look pretty flammable! (( dm said be evil aka put them by the bonfire but I am not that evil )) It is underneath the scattered stars that she sees him face to face for the first time. His name is nothing foreign to her, drifting through castle halls and outside of them like a breeze. Jade hues deepen into the shade of the leaves of an oak tree when crowned by candlelight. "Alm..." The name uttered to her first by her lover full of scorn and rage now comes to her own voice as small and hesitant. "Forgive me, Emperor Alm, that... is your proper title, is it not?" It is not with sarcasm that she asks this, but she cannot help but feel the irony of it all. If she had not met him head on here tonight, she wonders if she would have spoken to him at all.

his gaze focuses on the young woman. she sounds oh-so-timid when his peers wouldn't have trouble approaching him. or at least alm doesn't think they would.

"er, king alm, actually." it's more of an off-hand remark; a correction without any offense taken at the incorrect title.   &   besides, calling him 'emperor' wouldn't have been wrong at one point. but what alm focuses on is the familiarity.

the brow furrowing, alm takes a step closer.

it doesn't take a second longer for his green eyes to widen in realization.

"wait a second. aren't— no, weren't you berkut's—" the one whom berkut had loved. the one whom his cousin would, much to alm's horror, sacrifice to the pyre. now she is here, and she looks... well, alive, despite the impossibility of that statement. "rinea, right?"

[galercin]

“Oh,” she says, almost as if it is an afterthought. “…My mistake.”

If she were any more uncouth, she would shrug casually and perhaps excuse herself and make her leave. But she is held there underneath his gaze and it is as if the coldness of her being finally has frozen over, marking her still. Not a twitch of muscle or so much as a blink as realization slowly clicks in his voice.

It should not come as a surprise, but when the mention of Berkut falls from his lips, she flinches, sadness briefly flicks across her eyes like a stone skipping across water. Nothing more than a ripple now.

“…Yes,” she answers finally. Another beat as she watches the flame dance upon the candle’s wick. “I wish we could have met under more… favorable circumstances. I had always suspected you as kind. And Berkut, he… Well, he would have come around eventually, I’m sure.”

[galercin]

"It's the perfect night for something like this, don't you think?” Ethlyn muses as she approaches Rinea. Maybe it's a little braggy but it's true! The sky is clear, the moon and stars are bright. It's just beautiful. “Really sets the mood. I'm Ethlyn, by the way. And this is for you.”

She hands Rinea a bag of a plush sapphire velvet with braided gold drawstrings. If she is tempted to peek inside, she will find the festive goodies of the typical Chalphy holiday season: roasted nuts coated in a caramelized warming spice mixture, a hand-pulled twisted peppermint stick, decadent candied orange peel, and a holiday cracker to be pulled later with little knick-knacks within.

“We're glad you're here, Sigurd and I both. I know we don't know each other yet but I look forward to becoming friends.”

With each step she takes toward the hall, her chest feels heavier. Her hand rests on the knob and for a moment she thinks, it may not be too late to turn away. Provide the excuse that plans had come up. The weight of the tin canister and pitcher in her other arm remind her of her purpose. Stay for a bell or two then dip, she promises herself tentively. 

These types of events had been reserved for special occasions, where she could attach herself to someone whom she was comfortable with. Now that she walked alone, fear of the unknown reached for her, eager to swallow her whole.

Golden light blinds her upon entering and it takes everything in her not to shy away from its gaze. Eyes glaze over the crowd, there are people already gathered and chatting. From a single glance alone, she does not recognize anyone yet, but even so, the tension in her chest and the back of her throat causes her to halt her steps. 

Her breath catches in her throat, when one of the hosts approaches her, despite her initial friendly demeanor. Part of her hopes the lady would have been addressing someone else, that she may phase through Rinea as if she were truly a ghost, but she does not. A moment too long passes before she responds, hesitation wavering in her voice.

“I… Thank you. Rinea,” she exchanges with a small nod of her head. 

“Friends,” she echoes gaze trailing the floor before returning to Ethlyn, mustering a smile. “Yes, I would like that.”

Left to her own devices, she peeks into the bag, the sweet aroma immediately hits her nose before she properly sees the sweets within the bag. Perfect to share with… no one. She pulls the drawstrings closed and urges herself to move forward to find her seat at the very least.

[galercin]

WAIT DELETE THAY FIRST ONE I FUCKED UP AND FORGOT TO CHANGE PRONOUNS

congrats on the gender rinea 🥳🎉🎊

[galercin]

[ November Activity Check ]

Status: Pass / Fail / Hiatus

Skill Points:

Earned: 1

Previous: 5

Current: 6

Skill point(s) allocated to sword: D+ → C

Completed / Dropped threads:

ashen faces in cold breeze / mun dropped; word count: n/a

[galercin]

specters of season's past and present

Mission Board: Fracture

[galercin]

Someone - or something - has been disturbing graves in the monastery’s graveyard. The knights are busy with preparations for the monastery’s defenses, and so patrols to the site have not been a priority. If you have some rare free time, would you bring peace back to these departed souls? Then find the culprit, even if it means having to spend the night surrounded by the dead. @kvasr

Death is not dictated by oral eulogies or ritual prayers in Rigel. It passes, is cleared away, and nothing past that, in her experience. Graveyards terrify her, she may have been to one once in her lifetime.

Once being a part of the dead herself, the scene before her gives her all the more reason to be placed on edge. Rinea has flowers she has cut from a nearby garden, for what reason she does not know. Perhaps she pities those underground to have their rest disturbed. Searching for something, she speculates, virtue, conscience, regret maybe. Would you have knelt there? Or would I be forgotten too? Flowers have no use when they are brown and crumpled.

Just then, a shudder in the desolate burial grounds.

“What was that?” she whispers to no one but herself. Her hand curls to a fist closely guarding where her heart should be. Fear constricts her senses; skin clamps the hair on her arms and back of her neck and her heart hammers against her ribcage desperate to leap out.

Terrors and necro creatures were no foreign concept to her. This knowledge only serves to escalate her fears. On her hip rests a gardener’s knife in a leather scabbard. Her fingers brush against it as she imagines the heavy weight against her fingers and its cool blade diving into whatever monster may lie ahead. Bile crawls up her throat. She hopes it is just some forest animal so she may not have to unsheathe it at all.

Rinea does not wield it nor any weapon for now and begins toward the sound. Quiet is her footfall and careful are her actions as she hides behind whatever provides more shade.

It is neither creature of the night nor woodland animal, but another girl. Thank goodness. She exhales with hardly a sound, returning to her normal, calm self. Though the girl does not get a pass just because she has turned out to be not a skeleton or grimy thing. Brows furrow as she watches from behind the girl's back, trying to decipher what is going on that she cannot see.

“…Pardon me. What are you doing?” she asks finally, voice curious rather than accusatory. 

[galercin]

under the bridge

Mission Board: Fracture | [Grants Authority +1]

[galercin]

A once flourishing village finds itself with no drinking water from any of its typical sources. Meanwhile, their struggling neighbor has uncharacteristically begun to prosper, having plenty of clean drinking water for themselves. Though they could share the water, the two villages refuse, claiming that historically doing so only leads to both not having enough to supply for their own. As things stand, conflict seems inevitable… @indevouement

As a part of daily life, tasks are assigned to those who inhibit the monastery. For nobles and common folk alike she could see its benefits. A school that prided itself on preparing nobles to rule and commoners a sense of duty. Though she did not fall in with the former nor did she have any compelling reason to accept, she does so anyway. Two villages at odds with each other, quarreling over resources necessary for survival, the problem is all too familiar.

When Rinea arrives on the scene, she is given a tour and a more thorough rundown of its history. From looks alone, the land was nearly barren, dry land and hardly any lush foliage to be found. There are wooden buckets and small puddles sure, but as far as the eye could see, the water in them is non-potable and the color of a dingy brown. 

The head of the village explains to her they had been storing the newly sourced water in ceramic pots and how their goddess must have finally smiled down upon them. They draw nearer toward the border where the two villages meet before one of the children approaches them. 

“‘Scuse me miss?” A small boy covered in dirt and rags tugs on her skirt. A cough then. “We haven’t ‘ad water like this in forever. Pa said Ma might make it to see another day, blessed be.”

Rinea kneels down to the child’s height and gives him a pat on the head with a kind smile. How dreadful to be as young as he is and worry if he and his family would live to see another day. “That’s wonderful. I hope with this newfound blessing the rest of your village sees the same.”

She stands again, alongside the village representative. Though she does not narrow her gaze exactly, she tries to level it with the opposing side, folding her hands in front of her. “There are those that have been ill and yet you would try to seize it for yourself? Granted, I wish for prosperity for both sides, but we must prioritize who is in more dire need of it right now.”