sincerest of knights;

sylvain, blue lions student, aff. with toa

[ohisms]

↪     𝑲𝑰𝑺𝑺  ﹠ ᵀᴱᴸᴸ .    (  a  collection  of  50+ kiss prompts .   feel  free  to  specify  the  initiating  muse .  potentially  nsfw  content  within .   will  be  updated .)

finally kissing the person you’ve been pining for .

a kiss shared during a game  ( truth or dare ,  spin the bottle ,  etc ) .

kissing your lover to show you forgive them .

neck kisses that turn into love bites .

wiping away your lover’s tears as you kiss them .

a kiss to prove you don’t have feelings for them .

a last kiss before one goes away .

biting your lover’s lip amidst a kiss .

an emotional kiss bringing one party to tears .

a kiss while being reunited after a long time .

kissing your lover in a moment of sheer joy .

a kiss while slow dancing .

sharing a spontaneous kiss with a stranger .

an abrupt ,  heated kiss during the middle of a fight .

kissing them to shut them up .

a kiss to wake your lover up in the morning .

sharing a kiss in a heavy downpour of rain .

kissing your partner to seal a marriage .

a possessive kiss that is meant to stake a claim .

a kiss to resolve suppressed romantic/sexual tension .

a kiss attempting to convince the other party to stay .

kissing the top of their head as you hold them .

a risky kiss between forbidden lovers .

stolen kisses while hiding away from a crowd .

a kiss that leaves lipstick stains .

a kiss shared on a rooftop while the sun sets .

a flirtatious kiss on the back of the hand .

sneaking off to a public bathroom to make out .

a kiss on the forehead as the other sleeps .

an  ( accidental / mutually )  drunken kiss .

caging your lover against a wall with your arms to kiss them .

a kiss after joining your lover in the shower .

a kiss after receiving good news .

a tentative ,  exploratory kiss between friends .

a kiss shared between enemies during combat .

kissing your lover after believing you’d lost them .

a kiss after a devastating event ,  meant to comfort .

a possessive kiss in front of a jealous third party .

kissing your lover under the night sky while stargazing .

a kiss between two people in a fake relationship .

a kiss that seals a promise .

kissing your lover lazily first thing in the morning .

holding your lover by the jaw to kiss them .

kissing the tears from their cheeks .

a kiss to your lover’s stomach as you travel down their body .

an abrupt kiss that you melt into after a moment of hesitation .

sleepy ,  domestic morning kisses in the kitchen while making breakfast .

a rushed kiss before one party leaves for work .

a kiss shared while holding your dying lover .

[gauldheri]

june activity check; passed!

total skill points: 16 -> 17! riding rank up: d -> d+! from monthly activity

[pryings]

𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙛𝙝𝙞𝙧𝙙𝙞𝙖𝙙

recovery | festival hangout.

[pryings]

the night is indeed lovely, and he allows himself a moment to breathe deep. the air is crisp, an evening neither too hot nor too cold arriving on the tail end of a pleasantly warm day. he looks around. while normally uncertain and even anxious in crowds, something about the festival atmosphere keeps his mood light. the knowledge that he was merely one part of the crowd, perhaps? a ledsome feeling which he does not dislike.

“i… dabble in divination, yes.” he says this like it’s commonplace, but does not elaborate. though the results of his past divination were not to his liking, and only served to hammer home the inevitability of fate’s currents, he still enjoys what he is able to learn in simpler glimpses of the future.

“i’d love to seek a palm reader. i’m assuming that faerghus has different techniques than my homeland, which i’d love to observe. maybe i can learn something about the discerning of someone’s romantic prospects, which is something i, for one, rarely glimpse in any sightings of the future.”

[gauldheri]

Hearing his companion is a diviner of sorts gets Sylvain's hopes up, at least for a moment. Alas, it appears that Knoll can foretell his romantic prospects any better than he could himself. A real tragedy, though perhaps one they could solve together.

"Awww, and here I was hoping you could tell me where I'm going so wrong in love," Sylvain winks playfully, stretching his arms out behind him. He wonders what Knoll can predict, and what that's even like. Visions, voices from the future, knowledge that seeps it's way into his mind? All Sylvain knows of auguring what is to come is analysis, be it of his classmates behaviour or the movements of tribes in the Sreng. There's no magic or mysticism however in predicting when Ingrid is about to scold him. "How does divining the future work? For you, at least. Maybe you can't speak for every fortune teller and soothsayer around but what do you experience?"

"Ah, I'm just curious. If I'm prying just let me know and I'll shut up about it," he adds as they stroll across cobbled streets. Sylvain scans the stalls, seeking out any local palm readers. He spots one, in a stall draped in mauve velvet, conveniently placed next to an ice cream stand. "Why don't we try that one? Even if it's a dud, at least we can grab a snack next door."

[gauldheri]

letters to no one

Trends are cyclical, so they say. The latest and greatest in fads sweeping Garreg Mach is the return of ~penpals~ except, erm, this time it isn’t just for fun. No, this time it’s a school-wide assignment! Students (and faculty!) are intended to be paired at random, so you could wind up with just about anyone as your partner. Of course, if you’d rather exchange letters with your friends, there’s nothing saying you can’t rig the system just a little…

[gauldheri]

@ephemeralove

Sylvain stares at the crisp, white paper on his desk, begging the letter to write itself. It was bad enough having to update his father monthly about his progress at the academy but how did he even address this missive? His hand hesitates at the top of the page for a few moments before he decides to take the plunge.

Dear Anon, To whom it may concern,

Hey there,

Feels pretty weird to address each other so vaguely, doesn't it? I understand this assignment is supposedly anonymous (how do we get credit for it?) but surely a pseudonym can't hurt. Maybe Forest would do the job. Something like that.

I'm in the Blue Lions house, Faerghus is my homeland. Pretty surprising how much milder the weather is here, despite being up a mountain. The food is exquisite too. Company is hit and miss but it still beats being cooped up at home. It's exciting to finally have the freedom to be myself. Whatever that actually means.

How about you? What does home mean to you? Hopefully you're not too homesick here. Are you enjoying classes?

Best regards, Woody? Forest? Bark? Nothing sounds right so just call me whatever you like.

P.S. Sorry this is pretty short. It's not that I don't care; hopefully it'll feel less like talking to myself after we swap a couple.

It's not a brilliant composition but Sylvain reasons that if he doesn't send it now, he probably never will. Besides, it's not a letter to father who would scrutinise every word and punctuation mark looking for errors before actually reading it. At least, he hopes not.

[knightofgalatea]

“Just like that, you’re agreeing?”

Ingrid was a little shocked, if she were honest. Sylvain had agreed to trading their brooches with ease, and then he had proposed an entirely new wager, with stakes Ingrid simply could not refuse.

No expenses spared dinner? She imagined where she would choose to visit, all the restaurants in the town outside the monastery she hadn’t yet tried and wanted to, desperately.

She narrowed her eyes, her surprise dissipating like steam. She supposed it didn’t matter how quickly he had agreed to play this game with her, only that he had. And she was going to beat him, and she was going to eat her fill and bring home leftovers that would last her a week.

“Nevermind, I accept your terms” she said, confident. She stamped her right foot onto the yellow circle, feeling triumphant already. “Clear your schedule, we’re going somewhere that has multiple courses.”

Self-assured as she was, she knew she couldn’t let her guard down. She doubted Sylvain would make this an easy victory. But she was always up for a challenge.

She stretched her arm out, snatching the board from him and flicking the needle.

“Left hand, red!”

[gauldheri]

"Why wouldn't I agree to it?" Sylvain sounds somewhat incredulous, though he knows deep down she has every right to question him. The truth is he hasn't been the kind of friend Ingrid deserves as of late. He offers her a sheepish grin, right hand rubbing the back of his neck as he places his left hand on a red circle. "Don't you dare laugh, alright? As irresistible as the allure of a beautiful women is, I've realised I've been neglecting our friendship. You deserve better than that."

His cheeks flush slightly at the confession but more than anything, he hopes that Ingrid actually believes him. Which she has almost every reason not to. It's rare for him to be so sincere and honest about his intentions.

"Ha, knowing you I expect it to be a whole day affair," Sylvain quips back without a hint of malice. The food at the monastery and surrounding towns was absolutely delectable; a rarity back home in Faerghus. He couldn't blame her at all. "Don't worry, I'm looking forward to it too. Though don't be upset with me if I tap out after one or two courses."

"I promise you can eat until both your heart and stomach are full, Ingrid." Sylvain stretches towards the board, turning the arrow with his right hand. Oh, of course she gets the easy ones. "Left foot red. Don't go stepping on my poor hand though!"

[gauldheri]

may activity check; passed!

total skill points: 15 -> 16! lance rank up! c+ -> b! - from monthly activity spell learned: tannenbit weapon acquired: brave lance

[gauldheri]

twist and shout

@knightofgalatea (posting it here because the ask editor keeps crashing???)

[ Tangle ] - A curious, heavy blanket has been laid down in an out-of-the-way corner of the ball. On it are rows of circles, separated by color. Accompanying the mat is a wooden board with an arrow pinned to its center, and on this board: four quadrants, each with its own colors and separate labels: Right hand. Left foot. Right foot. Left hand. Supposedly, should you spin the arrow, you must place the respective body part on the matching color on the mat below. Easy, right? Now, add a few more people.

In a much quieter corner of the ball, Ingrid spotted something strange. It was a game, clearly, with different colours splattered around a mat in little circles. A small board with quadrants referring to hands and feet and colours with a spinning arrow at its centre. There was a small group of people milling nearby, and she watched as laughing groups of people stretched and contorted themselves across the mat, struggling to put their hands and feet on different coloured circles at the behest of the spinning arrow. She smiled to herself, watching as the group currently occupying the mat collapsed before moving away to one of the nearby refreshment tables. She supposed this game would be a good test of flexibility and agility. And with how easy it looked, it would be far too fun to defeat someone at this game. She looked around her, surveying the students and knights and faculty dancing across the ballroom floor, milling about the refreshment tables, chattering together in little groups, their masks catching the light like fragments of jewels and gold. But not very far from her she spotted an all-too familiar figure, close enough that she could reach him with only a few steps. “Sylvain!” She called, trying to catch his attention. Which was only the first step, of course. Next she had to find a way to keep his attention, especially when it was undoubtedly focused on the sea of finely dressed women at the ball. And she spotted exactly what would help her when her eyes landed on the brooch he wore. “Look at that game,” she said, gesturing to the colourfully spotted mat. “Care to try? Whoever wins trades brooches?”

"Ah, Ingrid! I've been looking all over for you," Sylvain follows where he is beckoned, up to the games hidden away in the corner. Ah, he recognises this one all too well and can't help but chuckle. "Isn't it in the spirit of the ball that we both trade our brooches? A unilateral exchange isn't actually an exchange."

She seems genuinely excited by the game though, an expression of youthful enthusiasm dons her face. He hasn't seen that one in a long time. Sylvain finds he doesn't have the heart to let her down.

"Why don't we wager something else on it instead? Like if you beat me, I'll take you out for dinner. No expenses spared." Sylvain declares as he straightens out the blanket. What did he want out of this though? It's hard to imagine Ingrid agreeing to hook him up with a pretty lady, yet not only does he not dare to ask, there's something far more important. The joy on her face, he wants to keep it there as long as he can. It was a choice he didn't really have to think twice over. "If I win, we play another round. We're splitting the bill too, deal?"

"Now, let's get started," Sylvain grabs the board, giving the needle a quick spin. It takes him back to simpler times, days when he didn't have to chase after his friends' smiles." "Right foot yellow."

[gauldheri]

[ Hoshido ]

"Thanks again fer doin' my braid," she tells Sylvain, eyes on the floor. All her dancin' experience comes from the line dancin' native ta Ohma. Simple, fun, 'n usually interrupted by over-eager yung'uns who don't quite know the steps.

Sylvain's a good leader; she expects as much from a noble, anyhow. "Ya look very handsome tonight, Sylvain." Elegant, but understated.

"Thanks, Neph-- uh, knee?" Maybe they're not quite close enough for nicknames just yet. He'll wait for her to take the lead on that. The blush rising to his cheeks and ear though? Sylvain isn't sure how to hide that. Can't be quite sure he wants to, either. It's been a long time since he last had a friend like Nephenee. Someone he doesn't have to perform for. Of course, he has friends. Close friends too, but they've known him since before he could walk. "Thank you. Let's swap our little doo-dahs after this."

His voice is hushed, reverently sincere. Has anyone seen him as a grown man, as he is, and not pulled away in revulsion? Or wormed their way in with an ulterior motive? It feels pleasant, like a freshly run bath or fruit sliced lovingly by his mother on a hot afternoon.

Sylvain stumbles slightly over the next step. Laughs it off, devoting his attention entirely upon Nephenee instead. Oh, he's still looking everywhere and anywhere for love; perhaps it need not be in a lover's caress though, but a friend's warm, honest smile.

"You look like a vision tonight. Uh, not that you don't always look pretty but--" he meets her gaze and realises he doesn't need to scramble for words. She already knows. "You look lovely, thank you for the dance."

[gauldheri]

Shez is on a very particular hunt.

The hunt has a name - a white feather. She's traded through brooches tonight, but she hasn't gotten her hands on either feather. (She did, for a moment, wonder if she could pass off one of Cranberry's downy feathers as either-or, but the color was all off, so she'd left that plan by the wayside.) So it's back to the drawing board - and Arval's got black, but she hasn't gotten white yet.

She's not one for hovering at the fringes, not really, but these shoes hurt. She'd picked flats for a reason, but they still pinch her. Thankfully, it's been easy enough to find a seat - even if her current one is the edge of a table. Her bare feet swing above the floor, shoes folded in her lap, when she catches a glimpse of white.

Does she know him? Maybe. He looks familiar enough. Some seminiar or something?

"Hey! Wanna trade?"

She waves him down with a fanged grin.

"Hello beauti--" Sylvain stops himself, best behaviour remember, "miss, to what do I owe the pleasure?" He's sure the compliment was clear enough anyway but a "modicum of decorum" he could show. He lifts a hand, gesturing to a member of the waitstaff before turning his attention back to the lovely, Iris-haired Venus beside him.

"Can I get two of whatever my lovely acquaintance wants?" Perhaps he's laying it on a little too thick, but she did approach him. Besides, there's something in her smile that's less coquettish and precise than most of the noblewomen fluttering around. It spells fun. He relaxes slightly, meeting her energy better. "Sylvain, a pleasure. Sure, let's swap. I've seen you around, haven't I? Are you enjoying the festivities?"

[gauldheri]

[Champagne ] - "Psst!" Hilda sidled up to a familiar red-headed student, hands behind her back. "You'll never guess what I have!" she trilled.

She saved him the trouble of presupposing by triumphantly revealing the two glasses of champagne she had been concealing. "Technically you're only allowed the one, but, well, a girl has her ways." She winked and held one out. "I'll trade you: one extra glass of champagne for one of your delightful feathers?" With a pout, she tapped her empty brooch. "I'm feeling a little under-accessorised..."

This would be his third. His earlier promise rings in his ears. Would it be rude to turn her down?

"How about we both trade accessories? I've had enough champagne, at least for the time being," and here he is using restraint. He doesn't even take it with the intent of offering it to the pretty Black Eagles teacher in the corner, or the forlorn young woman by the fountain. It feels really weird. "You should enjoy it, or share it with a friend. Though if I get turned away later I might need to make it worth your while to work your magic."

It was magic, too. Sylvain considered himself plenty charming of course, at least when he wished to be. Hilda simply needed a look however to wrap anyone around her finger.

"I hope you're having a great night, Hilda," he proffers one of his fancy white feathers before pulling back. Instead he places it gently in her hair. Then he reaches for the second champagne glass and takes a long drink, leaving about half left before turning on his heel. "I'll see you on the dancefloor later. Save a dance for me, yeah?"

[gauldheri]

[Champagne ] - Imported from the western shores of the Adrestrian Empire, the school purchases 70 bottles of this stuff well in advanced for this day alone. The bartenders are under strict orders not to offer any student more than one glass.

"Sylvain!" Dimitri hissed, appearing at his friend's side and placing his palm over the top of Sylvain's glass.

He wasn't here to nag - he wasn't here to nag, he had to remind himself, it was a party and he was ostensibly here to socialize - but he was certain that he had seen Sylvain with significantly less champagne in his glass just a few moments ago.

The heat of his glare was tempered a bit by the furtive looks he sent over his shoulder - it was difficult to truly be angry with one so close, wasn't it? No grudge great enough to bear for long.

But he could still hope to be exasperated, couldn't he?

A sigh. "You know that students are only allowed one. It shouldn't be too much to ask for you to behave with some decorum just the once, should it? You can't tell me that you need champagne to woo a prospective date," he added, nudging the other with his elbow. It was a poor attempt at a tease from someone not well accustomed to teasing.

There are many people in the world ready to nag at him, to criticise and try to keep him in mind. Few of them are actually able to make him feel even a hint of remorse, of course. Dimitri however has always been an exception to the rule. Sylvain's shoulders sag, in at least partial defeat but his smile refuses to falter.

"Well then, Your Highness, it's a good thing this glass," Sylvain raises his left hand higher, "isn't for me. It's for you. Assuming you want it of course."

Now if Dimitri doesn't want it, there's no reason to not polish it off himself. Genuinely however, he's more concerned about the Prince being able to relax and have a good time tonight. Especially after that run in with the man who claims to be Lambert. He'd like to steer Dimitri as far away from him as possible than allow him to be hurt by someone playing such a twisted game; though it's hardly his place as the margrave's son to tell his Prince where he can and can't mingle tonight. But guiding a friend around the stalls and dancefloor? Surely that was acceptable.

Sylvain's smile falls for just a moment as he regards Dimitri closely. It's back again in a moment, broad and jovial. Dimitri has been through more than his fair share - the least Sylvain can do is try to provide good cheer and a distraction from the cruelty of the world.

"Here, let's swap our feathers. Consider it an oath... and a compromise. A fair one, I promise! The truth is I'll never be like you and Ingrid," Sylvain has spent far too long fighting against the invisible chains of his own family to ever fall completely in line. His freedom is too precious, every tiny act of rebellion an assertion of his own identity. The last thing he wants is to cause Dimitri any real grief though. Perhaps, though it's the perfect night to meet and mingle, he can keep his tongue mostly in check and ensure no errant complaints reach the Prince's ears. "I promise to be on my best behaviour. Which isn't perfect but I'll be good - no ladies complaining, no teachers or anything. I might have an extra glass of champagne or something but nothing that would dishonour Faerghus or reach your ears."

"On your end of the deal, you focus on having fun instead of worrying about me! The night is still young, Your Highness. Why don't we head over there-- no, not to flirt. Just to say hello and be friendly; what's the point of a ball if not to let your hair down and socialise?"

Sylvain spares a glance over his shoulder, checking a certain someone isn't following them across the ballroom. Dimitri has grown far too much from the sweet, generous young boy he once knew. He might not have changed much at the core but Sylvain realises he isn't capable of protecting him anymore, one of them on the precipice of adulthood and the other having just crossed.

It won't stop him trying, Dimitri's smile is just as precious as it ever was, even if it's far rarer than it used to be.

[gauldheri]

[ spaghetti and meatball ]

“...repeat to me once more if you may, why is it a singular meatball if it is a plate for two?” Lambert eyed the pasta with a mildly judging gaze. It did look and smell good, definitely tasted good, but it was more of a ‘spaghetti with tomato sauce and one disappointing surprise’. Anyway, food was food, he wouldn’t complain much less refuse.

Though he did wonder…how did he end up sharing that meal with this boy- who seemed to be ominously familiar to him. It felt almost painful to look at the guy- that red hair and those fox-like eyes, the feeling that he must have seen those somewhere at some point in his life. A tall figure with a cold gaze, black armor, a living lanc-

-the pasta. Yes. Pasta.

“Actually if this pasta helps me make sure that you do not go out there and get your eyes clawed off by girls angry at your shenanigans, then I may use this sad pasta with single meatball as a defense mechanism. You stay here, young man.”

Sylvain is chatting to a very pretty caterer when time stops.

At first, he thinks it's Dimitri coming at him and he considers making a break for it, despite how rude it would be to the young lady. He hasn't even been here an hour yet - as much as he enjoys Dimitri's company he'd prefer to avoid a lecture. Put it off until he's at least done something to earn it. It isn't Dimitri though - the man is too tall and broad, his face gracefully but clearly weathered by time far more than the prince's. Not elderly by any means but far closer to his father's age than his own. Closer still, Sylvain clearly recognises the face before him as that of the late King Lambert.

He freezes in place, finding himself corralled to a table by the gentleman. Words, sentences, questions all bounce around his head but he can't actually seem to open his mouth. There has to be a more logical explanation.

The dead don't rise from the grave to attend parties.

"Shenanigans -- what shenanigans, sir? I was only complimenting her hairstyle," it's likely pointless trying to argue his case, as effective as if it was actually Dimitri who had cornered him. Still, Sylvain finds himself reeling in shock - since when did he call anyone but his father sir? He pushes the plate away, not sure whether he's annoyed or curious. If he wasn't speaking to the late King's face (even though it cannot possibly be him, that would be absurd) his tongue would likely loosen. Sylvain's words are still firm and direct but he can't quite bring the outrage and disrespect lingering in his stomach to voice. "What makes you feel so comfortable assuming authority over me anyway. This is a party and I'm here trying to have some fun. I'm a grown man, not an errant child on the loose. You don't need to babysit me when you could be enjoying yourself."

"You aren't my father, my professor or my prince. Just who are you anyway?"

[gauldheri]

list of engagements

It's a beautiful, early summer's evening at Garreg Mach. Events like this may be less common in the north than in Derdriu or Enbarr but they were no less vibrant. Truly, those who toil the hardest always knew how to let their hair down.

He steps into the ballroom, clipping the brooch adorned with white feathers to his chest. Ah, so many stunning people, dressed to the nines. A paradise crafted just for him?

Tonight was going to be fun. (At least if he could avoid being nagged at by an old friend...)

Black Feather: Fogado Hilda

White Feather: Dimitri

String of Pearls: Shez

Small Bell: Nephenee

Teardrop Crystal: Ingrid

[gauldheri]

april activity check; passed!

total skill points 14 -> 15! lance rank c+ to c+ (1/2) - from monthly activity

[gauldheri]

[ 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬 ] : after being misinformed that the sender has died, receiver is grieving. (ehehehe)

vague spoilers for the timeskip of azure moon ahead!

Sylvain isn't sure how long he's been stood out here. He should go back, he has to go back. They need him to be strong for them. He isn't sure he can be.

He isn't sure he feels anything beyond nausea in the pit of his stomach. Loss has haunted them for so very long. Perhaps Sylvain's heart has simply lost the ability to shatter like glass. Tears frozen like snow in the distant past.

Yet even the birds sing a melancholic elegy for the lost prince. Even the skies weep, not tears but blades of ice. It's almost summertime. The earth itself grieves and yet Sylvain finds he cannot. He lifts his hands to eye level, flexes the muscles and breathes in the frigid, numbing air. His eyes sting, not from unshed tears at the loss of a childhood friend but from the brutal chill of the wind out in the woods outside a home he no longer recognises.

He cannot go back. He cannot move forward. He can only breathe, painfully aware of the life still running through his veins, beating in his chest. A life he does not deserve, not now. Not after failing his prince, his friend, his brother--

It was easier to weep for Miklan. Cruel, abrasive and jealous Miklan, who had it coming all along. Earned his fate, spilled in blood and rage and broken teeth clinging to Sylvain's limbs like a feral animal that still refuses to let go. It was easier to accept that Miklan had met his end.

Sylvain is too old and too jaded to dare deny Dimitri's demise but maybe he's also too wounded to accepted it. Stunned in silence and in place, face battered by hailstones, wondering why those damn birds don't take shelter. Why they choose to taunt him instead with their mournful funeral dirge.

Sylvain stares at the skies, as if they'll swallow him too. He can't go back, but he knows not how to move forward, either.

[gauldheri]

[ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐭𝐡 ] : sender drapes a coat / cape / etc. around receiver's shoulders. (c'mere sylvain no one's freezing on my watch )

It was foolish of him, really. He ought to know better. Growing up in the very northern reaches of Fodlan, Sylvain shouldn't have made such a rookie mistake.

But it's midwinter, ice crunches underfoot as he makes his way back to the monastery. A relatively quiet evening in town, just to clear his head. No raucous debauchery to brag about, just a warm, full belly. Or at least, it had been warm. Yuletide in the mountains brought frostbitten winds and heavy snow. Flakes drift and dance in the breeze, alluring, inviting him to stay outside just a little longer than he ought.

His skin loses colour as the blood rushes to keep his core warm. Sylvain stares at his hands as his fingertips slowly go numb. Just a little further, at least it was only a little further.

A warm cloak is draped, unceremoniously and rather haphazardly over his shoulders. Thick, crimson wool provides welcome relief from the blistering cold. His head turns, having thought himself alone, to a surprising face.

"Dorothea? My guardian angel," he jests, but his smile is genuine and sincere. He pulls the fabric closer to himself, after double checking she's wearing a coat of her own. "I'm afraid this is supposed to be the other way around. How are you going to fall for my charms when you're the one rescuing me?"

Laughter fills the air as feet trudge through thick blankets of snow, closer towards the monastery. A moment, peaceful under the silver moonlight provides a moment of clarity.

"Thank you."

[swiftlance]

Guard Duty

Horsebow Moon +1 Heavy Armor

[swiftlance]

Lord Gautier? 'Course she knew most everyone attendin' this fine academy were some type of gentry. She just thought Sylvain was one of the rare few who, like her, had no fancy title attached to his name. He sure don't act like a member of nobility.

She grabs the other end of the brick, hoistin' it up with a huff of effort. "Not like this, but I've had my fair share of heavy liftin'. Grew up on a farm." Takin' a few slow steps, she guides them to the broken section, where some others are clearin' away the last of the debris. Politics beyond takin' care of the people livin' on your land never made much sense t'her; it's why she'll always take up her lance to fight against injustice.

A tendril of hair tickles her nose. She wrinkles it, shaking her head to dislodge the green strand, then pauses at the sudden teasing tone in Sylvain's voice. "Been keepin' just fine, thank ye kindly. And what of you, milord?"

They dump the brick into place, releasing a small cloud of dust as it settles. Nephenee dusts off her hands, noddin' in satisfaction. Always a good feelin', a job well done. Cranin' her neck to one side, she sighs in relief, forgettin' all 'bout the ungainly pile 'top her head.

All that weight shifts once she straightens, bun slidin' down her neck like a lumpy snowball rollin' on a hill. It ends with a bounce at midback. She winces, hearin' a few strands break none too gently.

"So much fer that," Nephenee mutters, reachin' for her abused hair and beginnin' the slow, painful process of untanglin' it all.

[gauldheri]

"A farm? What did you grow? Arable land is a sought after commodity where I'm from," Gautier territory was wealthy but had little agricultural value. It's merit in the kingdom came from defending the border, smithing and crafting and whatever minerals and precious metals could be found hiding beneath earth and snow. "It's far too cold, the Kingdom's farmlands tend to lie much further south. There's a few meat and dairy farms - grass is hardy and will grow anywhere and cattle double as work animals. Not much else will survive the winter though."

"I've been well, milady. Lord Gautier is my father. Our territory is a margraviate - the old military marches." Sylvain settles the bricks down, snorting with laughter. He's used to being called milord by simpering social upstarts but it's different coming alongside Nephenee's rustic, almost medlodic accent. Playful and warm rather than sycophantic. He pushes them against the barricades, examining for weak spots to fill in before dusting off his hands. "Comes in handy sometimes. Stuff like this is our bread and butter. The Kingdom's northern border is often under threat and you've got to defend civilian centres before sending your army in waving spears about."

Chartreuse hair slips out of the bun holding it in place, rolling down past Nephenee's shoulders and towards her back. His laughter is softer this time, almost gentle as he watches deft fingers work through knots and tangles.

"Have you tried braiding it? My friend says it keeps her hair out of the way when she's flying or training. I'm no expert but I've done it once or twice if you need an extra pair of hands?"