// Below the cut is the list of threads Camus has currently, but this update will be a little different. I’ve been growing increasingly bored of this muse and almost all of his threads over the past few months. Taking a hiatus has been on my mind for a while, but I want to try one final thing before resorting to that.
I will be focusing only on the threads that will be wrapping up soon and putting the rest on hold; however, you’re more than welcome to drop if you don’t feel like waiting indefinitely for a reply. I might end up dropping them myself anyway, but we’ll see. It’s possible that I’ll feel fine again once I cut down his thread list and lighten the pressure.
Anyway, there are three categories below this time: Finishing, On Hold, and Waiting on Partner. Threads under the Finishing category might be receiving replies shorter than my norm, but this is for my own sanity and wellbeing.
Kuebiko : A state of exhaustion inspired by acts of senseless violence
The lance was heavy today, or his muscles still enervated from fitful sleep. Some mornings, as he contemplated the sun rising over the mountains, he wondered if it was age, despite his best efforts, that had finally manifested as pervasive lethargy - a toxin that had found root as deep as his bones. His men still looked to him for the wisdom and strength that had inspired their conscription, and it was on these mornings that their expectations were iron weights tied upon his arms and legs.
Rigel was cold, even in avistym, but it was not the warmth of his bed which appealed to him, nor the comfort of sleep (a comfort so very rare these days); it was something more, something deeper.
His lance swung a tired arc downward and planted its point dully in the dampened earth. Rare were the days that he took breaks, but today he let his lance fall where it had stopped, and he climbed the little hill that overlooked their camp. Most of his men were already stirring and preparing for the rest of the day.
Preparing for another battle, not against the Zofians, but in a war waged on their own soil, by their own countrymen.
The Emperor had done what he could to convince him otherwise, but Zeke did not think these were his countrymen. Their violence toward him, and their suspicion both were justified, and had it been he alone who felt their blades, he would have borne his fate without protest. But to raze Rigelian villages, to bring war to innocent families who did not deserve that level of heartache? Unforgivable.
Months had passed and he had not managed to change the minds of the generals that were his allies by affiliation, and neither did they grow bored with stealing from their very own poor. How much longer, then?
“General Ezekiel, there you are.”
Zeke turned from his camp and was neither surprised nor angry to find before him the man in charge of those very raids. His hands came to rest behind his back, but he offered nothing more than silent appraisal.
“Why don’t you call off this little rebellion? You’re only making things more difficult for yourself.”
Zeke glanced toward his soldiers below, all unaware that he had been observing them, and that General Jerome and a procession of his men had slipped inside. His eyes returned wordlessly to the General’s face.
“This petty bickering is wasting the precious resources we’ll need the day those Zofians ever break through our border,” Jerome continued. “Or… is that your plan, General?”
A daring flicker of the eyes, arrogant, yet unsuspicious - Jerome had cards to play, and hoped to captivate his audience before revealing them. Zeke had no desire to play, but the beat of silence pulled a smirk across Jerome’s lips nonetheless, and he gave his goatee a thoughtful stroke.
“I see. I thought you’d refuse, so I had something taken from you. Something precious.”
Color and life returned to Zeke’s face and his eyes widened.
“What have you done with her?” he demanded, voice but a raspy whisper. His throat felt suddenly dry, and like he had swallowed shards of glass. Jerome chuckled and watched the camp below with a nonchalance that spurred Zeke to take a threatening step toward him, but the brandishing of half a dozen weapons froze him in place.
“Nothing yet,” Jerome answered finally, offering Zeke only an arrogant, sidelong glance. “But I will ask you once more: Won’t you dissolve this ridiculous rebellion?”
Zeke exhaled sharply, hands balled into fists and trembling with frustration, but he could not bring himself to say or do anything. The toxin was there and more virulent than ever; his shoulders slumped beneath tired resignation.
“I believe we have an understanding, General Ezekiel. It would be wise of you to follow your orders to the letter from now on.”
The cheery clap on his shoulder stirred Zeke’s frustration to its boiling point and he saw himself take Jerome’s slimy hand and crush all of his fingers. How badly he wished for it. How cathartic it would be. But Jerome and his men descended the hill, brazen and triumphant, and left Zeke to his fantasies. There was no point anymore, no point in fighting. If Jerome hadn’t been deterred in four months, he would never be, and as Zeke stood upon the hill that morning, he had thought of calling the defense off on his own.
But now they had taken Tatiana…
The remainder of his energy bled away and he fell to his knees, arms limp at his side, head back and eyes fixed but unseeing upon the dawning sky.
Okay so this isn’t that big a deal but I just figured that I should share this.
So a roleplay “starter” is basically the first post in a roleplay thread or the first approach of two characters. This is sometimes known as a prompt. Moving on. There are two main types of roleplay starters, one of which is absolute gold, the other of which should be avoided at all costs.
Passive and active starters.
What the hell do this fancy terms mean, you may ask? Well it’s not something a lot of people put a name to, but it’s very important when creating starters. While active starters are almost always thought-provoking and interesting, passive starters are often boring and absolutely useless.
Here is an example of a passive starter.
Mary was simply walking down the street when she noticed Sam. “Hi there!” She said.
That. That is literally the bane of my existence. Now, not all passive starters are simple “hello”s. In my own terms, a passive starter is any starter that requires more thought on the receiving party’s end than the giving party’s. Yes, a passive starter could possibly be worked with for a few replies, but the two characters quickly run out of things to talk about. But you see, the person dishing out the starter should be igniting something, giving them receiving person something to talk about. That, in essence, is what roleplaying is all about. That’s why you would want an active starter. For example:
Mary was strolling casually down the road when suddenly, she tripped. As she fell, she heard a clanking noise, and upon recovery realized that she had dropped something important out of her pocket, and it had fallen into a drainage vent. Eyes wide, she jumped up from the ground and tapped a stranger on the shoulder, “Uh, excuse me, sir! I’ve dropped something down that grate over there… would you please help me get it out?”
Now, obviously that’s not the best starter in the world, but it gives a motive. It’s thought-provoking. It gives the receiving end of the RP more to think about, and therefore, propels the RP forward.
Does this make any sense? If so, just keep this in mind. For future reference, some of the most common passive starters are:
Simple greetings
Having your character be meandering about, expecting the other character to approach them. No, you’re starting it, you’re supposed to lead.
Approaching and not saying anything.
Any of those should be avoided, and anything else that seems passive to you. I hope that now, with this whole passive/active system in mind, you can write better starters and have better rps! Peace be with you. Any questions? Feel free to ask me!
Feel free to reblog if you learned something or think this might be helpful to others!
⭐️[ // though any of these would work; feel free to RNG the symbol instead]
⭐️- Stargazing
Unable to sleep, Tatiana quietly slips out of bed, wraps a thick cloak around her shoulders, and heads outside. It was a relatively clear night out, and not as cold as before. Quite peaceful, too. She wanders the silent camp before heading a little ways away to find a hill to sit upon and stare at the sky.
It was something she had taken for granted, the stars and the moon and the cloudless sky. She hadn’t realized she missed it until she had it torn from her when she was captured. Now, it was one of those wonders that she would appreciate til her last breath. She lays down on the grassy hill, staring at the stars and moon, marveling how close, yet so far they looked. She could almost reach out to touch the moon, and yet she could not.
There was a quiet rustle from behind her, and she turns.
“Ah, Zeke,“ She smiles softly, sitting up. “I wanted to see the stars again… It feels like forever that I haven’t seen them…“
He turned over and sent his hand out into the darkness in search of Tatiana’s comforting presence, but his fingers brushed only the blanket’s edge on the other side. Scattering the remnants of a dream, he opened his eyes and found the bed truly empty. Warmth lingered on the pillow and within the quilt; Tatiana had not been gone for long, and it was perhaps the gentle shake of the bed with her departure that had drawn him from his sleep.
The shadows thrown by the moon through the single window in their modest bedroom had shifted and distorted before he became aware of how much time had past. Rare were the nights that he woke not to find her by his side, but rarer still were the ones when she stayed away for so long. Gathering up a coat and his shoes, Zeke ventured out of bed in search of her.
Instinct led him outdoors to the hill near their home, which overlooked the vineyards. She had often remarked how much she loved the view there, and if something was troubling her, then perhaps she had gone out in search of a pleasant vista to contemplate. Whether or not that was her reason for her midnight excursion, Zeke’s instincts proved correct. She rose up and greeted him with all the warmth that had been missing from the bed.
“I was worried that you might have wandered into trouble,” he admitted, but he mirrored her smile and looked skyward. “I am glad to find that it is only the pleasant evening that called you away.”
The angry shout echoed down the blackened cave walls, as did the ominous scrape of metal on metal, but the panicked knight was already answering the enemy weapon’s song with one from his own. He’d heard tales of veteran knights cowing their enemies with the mere sound of their weapons being drawn, but here and now, Belf was anything but. He drew his sword with the panic of a hunted bird, and it purely by chance that his wild swing happened to catch his enemy’s shoulder and dig deep.
Adrenaline stayed any revulsion he might have felt, yanking his bloodied blade out of the falling man as trailing black bloody droplets splattered his coat, and Belf ran, hoping the next man he met in these tunnels was an ally, not a foe. All around him, it sounded as if the entire cave network was boiling—in anger or anticipation of a kill, he knew not.
This part of Grust was not entirely new to Camus like it was to his young knight, but he had explored the cliffs and their tunnels only once or twice before, years ago. Not much had changed about them though. The rocky cliffs towered high above, almost white in the sunlight, and cast their shadows over the sea side, and if one looked carefully at the darkened grooves which pockmarked their sides, one could find the entrances of caves hidden within the darkness. Camus gestured for Belf to follow close behind.
Keeping low along the edge of the field, Camus hid his movement in the swaying of the tall grass. The bright, lively field itself would have made a picturesque scene, were it not for the secrets it concealed. Harlow’s group likely used it to hide their dead, as the grass was thick and the breeze from the ocean carried the scent of rot far away. Perhaps other women like the one from the village had been laid to rest here, far from her family and loved ones. Perhaps no one missed them and their memories ended here with their corporeal forms.
The two men they had been trailing had disappeared from sight, Camus quickly realized, and he slowed his pace to search for sign of their departure from the path. An overturned stone. A groove in the soft earth. A forgotten palm leaf. He stopped at a fresh break in the field where the hardy stalks had not yet risen back to place. Someone had recently passed through…
Echoing shouts suddenly rent the seaside tranquility, not from the field, but from the cliffs. Hand on the hilt of his sword, Camus spun and looked skyward. A watchman that he had missed, perhaps? No. Then…
He looked behind, seeking his trainee but finding that he, too, had disappeared.
“Thought we didn’t see ya, didja?” A voice from the field this time. Camus turned back, blade already out to meet the scimitar of the bandit that had been lying in wait in the grass. He spared him no verbal response, and knocked him on his back with one powerful thrust of his knee into the man’s solar plexus. But as he had expected, there was no such thing as a brave bandit, and soon more crawled out from the safety of the grass like ants.
Where was Belf?
Camus took a few hurried steps back toward the cliffs, sword between himself and the half a dozen men that had come to encircle him. If he was not careful, he would soon be surrounded, but still he inched ever closer to the cliff wall. Instinct told him that that was where his young knight had gone, and that was where the shouts originated.
The small group descended upon him at once, masterfully coordinated to make up for their lack of skill. Camus made quick work of them, however, turning their momentum against each other and little else. He hardly needed his weapon and soon had half a dozen men unconscious at his feet. They would not be out for long, but it would buy him the time he needed and he broke away to sprint toward the entrance of the nearest cave.
Inside, the walls rang with even more voices, sounding their alarm throughout the entire network, and Camus followed them. Where they were concentrated had to be where Belf had been found, and if he could―
He sidestepped quickly, pressing himself against the wall to avoid a collision with another man hurrying in the opposite direction. The white coat glowed even in the dim light.
“Belf!” Camus grabbed him quickly by the shoulder and pulled him to a stop. “What happened?”
Just the sound of having someone near here on her venture was rather exciting. Even if it was just to the inn or to the next town. It was like she didn’t have time to really bask in the silence before the man was speaking again. Her head tilted just a tad at his name and his title. Being a knight back home was not uncommon, so it had to be where Camus hail from. ‘’ My name is Sakura, princess of Hoshido. I-it’s nice to meet you.’’ If she was standing, she would have given the kind man a bow.
His question got a solid nod from Sakura. ‘’ I um, yes. This is a place I’m not too familiar with. Would you…’’ Deep breath.’’ I-I’d like for you to escort me. I’ll pay.’’
“A princess?” Camus echoed, surprised, and then a soft smile came to his lips. “I apologize for not recognizing your noble bearing sooner, my lady.”
He reached for her hand across the table and carefully brought the back of it to his lips with his greeting, then let it go again. His smile remained, however.
“It would be my honor to assist. Yet… I am afraid that I do not know Hoshido,” he admitted. “Did you come by boat? The nearest port is half a day’s ride from here.”
Eldigan looked upon the assortment of figures to the rear of Camus, all of them clad in jet black armor. Indeed they were worthy of their name; The Knights of Sable. Said soldiers split and stood at attention in two columns, which in turn provided a path for the pair of higher ranking figureheads.
“The journey at times did seem perilous.” Spoke the Lionheart as he walked alongside Camus. “Hence part of why I didn’t bring many men to accompany me.” The other reason being Nordion was entrusted with the defense of the fatherland, as well as its holy weapon… which Eldigan just so happened to bring along with him.
At the entrance to the town, at the end of the procession, awaited steeds straight from the king himself. Quite the kind gesture, as Eldigan and his men neglected to bring their own.
“I’ll be fine.” He said, politely declining Camus’s offer for a carriage by putting his hand out. “I have been on the seas for several days; I could certainly use a ride to put me back on my bearings.” He stepped in front and looked over the horses, choosing to mount a white destrier with ashy spots sprinkled about its body. The dignitaries and Agustrian soldiers also followed suit– though the former would have enjoyed a carriage.
“Very well.” Camus bowed and took a step back to allow his guest to mount the horse he had selected, but still near enough that he could help as needed - a habit grown from assisting Grust’s aging king and other old nobles ever since he was a squire. Eldigan’s men followed, and then Camus directed his own unit to take up their horses behind them.
“The ride is not too long,” Camus said as he rode up to take the lead beside his guest. Whether Eldigan realized it or not, he had selected a horse who had descended from the same line as Camus’, and the siblings snorted cordially at one another before resuming the stoic, concentrated facade for which the royal horses were known.
“We will also be taking the flatter of two paths, unless Lord Eldigan would prefer sightseeing in the mountains along the way. They are fine this time of year, but the road is trickier to maneuver.” A pause as he tried to recall what he had seen of Augustria. “Your motherland is comparatively flat, is it not?”
“And abandon your men?” Eirika demanded. “I made the choice to come with you, instead of staying in that ruined village. We did not succeed, and that is a genuine shame, but at least we tried to locate them, and two are a greater force than one – or none at all.”
She would rather try and fail than move on for her own personal safety, especially if that had meant taking Zeke with her. Those soldiers deserved every chance at rescue.
But then, it was only natural for him to be upset. She herself could not say she was above self-flagellating in hindsight, even if it appeared senseless from a more detached perspective. She gentled her voice as they reached the cliffside and found an opening large enough to tuck into. The shade gave them cover, but was an unwelcome chill in the already cold morning.
“That innocent boy that the gargoyle was carrying off…he would be long dead, were it not for you. I can not count this night as a waste.”
“Though I am a general here, I am but a new one, and my orders will come under scrutiny by those who have already suspected me to be a traitor,” Zeke said sharply. He had been separated from his men, and yet would return to the capital with a foreigner. New as he was, he knew well Rigel’s distaste for outsiders, and he doubted even the life of a queen would outweigh the lives of the Empire’s best-trained men. But rationality and optimism eluded him in his exhausted, grief-stricken state - a fact that he was faintly and painfully aware of.
He slumped to the ground beneath the little alcove all too willingly and looked to Eirika’s face for… something. He did not know what. Grounding? Comfort?
The unconscious boy…
“We do not know if even he still lives,” he countered. What was it that he was looking for from Eirika?
🎁 - "There are few days that I am not grateful to fight alongside such a splendid knight. You have exceeded my expectations since the day that I took you under my tutelage, and I believe that the effort you have put into your training these few years deserves recognition. Please, I want you to have this. Allow this blade to serve you in the battles to come."
“General!” Belf’s eyes widened as he accepted the package Camus held out to him. Even covered, he could tell it was of fine make, the weight and distribution perfect for him even though the other had surely commissioned it without him present. Wonderingly, the younger knight unwrapped and unsheathed his rare gift; the cloth fell away to leave it gleaming silver in the firelight.
“A silver blade… I can’t believe it.” It seemed only yesterday that Belf had truly mastered the use of his old steel sword. Never had he expected to even touch one made of silver, let alone own it. “I don’t deserve something this fine,” he protested, looking up at him. “I’m still young and inept. Surely one of your fellow generals is more deserving?”
“No, I want you to have it. The effort you’ve put into your training deserves recognition.”
Belf thought he saw a paternal smile in those words that warmed him up inside. Were it his father standing there and not his general, he might have given the other man a hug. Instead, he stepped away from Camus and waved the sword about a few times slowly, almost reverently, accustoming himself to its deadly weight and power. The lingering surprise he felt at receiving such a fine gift did not change how right it felt in his hands… Which only made him feel guiltier at not having already managed to get something for the general in return.
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you in return yet, General,” Belf confessed, abashed, “but… Do you think you could spare the time to spar with me, so I can test this out in a fight?”
The general parried with a vertical block, easily turning the younger knight’s blade aside with his greater strength before thrusting his sword forward. Such was Camus’s reach that Belf had to jump to the side to avoid being skewered upon the point. His heart raced at his near brush with serious injury, but he forced himself to think. It seemed that Camus deceived his foes with defenses kept close to his body before surprising them with a long reach amplified by the length of his sword. A difficult wall to break, for it combined the best aspects of pike- and swordplay, but even this had to have some weakness…
“You appear to be warming up nicely,” Camus observed, cutting across his thoughts. “It is a good fit for you.”
The words caught Belf off-guard (he was more used to being picked on for his slighter and less knightly build if he was acknowledged at all); he hesitated and was promptly punished by the sharp metal bite of Camus’s blade. A moment’s panic shot through him, and he retaliated with a wild swipe that caught nothing but air, for the general had already retreated beyond his reach to resume his defensive stance. Assaulting the general in that position would gain him nothing, so instead Belf imitated him, angling his blade diagonally in front of his body. “I am… not so sure about that,” he answered, eyes flicking down to his shoulder where he’d been struck. Somehow, the blade hadn’t come close enough to him to draw blood; and as he still had possession of his blade, he had not lost yet. Perhaps he should be glad that their sparring match wasn’t over; but he still didn’t know how to defeat Camus.
Earlier, he’d compared the general’s offense to a pikeman’s. Then like a pikeman, he had to be vulnerable to overextension, right? If he could somehow slip behind Camus’s offenses before he could retract his blade, perhaps he stood a chance of besting him…
But the general’s blade was already whizzing through the air; hurriedly, Belf tilted his own in anticipation of a block. It seemed that Camus would not wait for him to go on the offense this time.
Their blades clashed loudly as Belf met Camus’ and effectively halted the slash he had aimed for his his arm again. He held there for half a second, waiting for his pupil to give indication of his next move, and suddenly the blade retracted from his own, as did Belf himself, and then he slipped in close past Camus’ defenses. It was speed alone that spared Camus injury, as he twisted and sidestepped to parry Belf’s retaliation, but the breeze came suddenly through the new cut in his coat sleeve. As he had expected, Belf’s quick wit had discovered a weakness in his fencing style and sought to exploit it, almost successfully.
Almost, but not quite.
Camus did not waste time returning to his defensive stance, and instead transitioned his parry to counter, simultaneously knocking Belf’s blade downward and shooting out his left hand to grab him by the wrist. With a pivot, he dragged him close and bent his hand back to loosen his grip.
“Be careful of those who are military-trained,” he warned. “A battle between blades does not exclude the use of other methods to gain the upper hand.”
A last stand, then–but it would not be for them. Pent did not survive the Dragons’ Gate to fall here, nor did he hold down Castle Reglay during the uprising to see the peace undone. “I was Mage General once,” he hissed, magic flaring to life in the open air. “I ceded the position, not my oaths.”
Fire rained down on the archers and assassins taking to the roof tops, and as readily as Camus was disposing of the threat on the ground, Pent saw to the ones overhead. But the flames also veered further back, honing in to what he had spotted in a distance: one mine remained intact. It would not for much longer. At the close proximity, the explosion was deafening, leaving a sharp ringing in his ears. It served its purpose well, sending their assailants into a state of confusion and panic while thinning out their forces… considerably.
“Camus–the bridge. If you are to hold any ground, take the bridge ahead.” He could hardly hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears, but he would not leave Camus to hold their position while he ran. There were only the two of them–if they split up, they would be too easy to take down. Between Camus’ blade and his fire, they could cut a path through. Then the knight could buy them some time from relative safety, in full view of the meeting hall.
The Count’s voice came to him as if through water, far away and dream-like in the aftermath of the explosion, but by some miracle he had heard him. There were larger, more ornate buildings past the bridge, he realized, untouched yet by the flames that had followed them this far. The meeting hall was likely among them, and from its place on its little hill, anyone who happened to peer out one of its windows would see a battle unfolding, if they were not already pressing their faces to the glass at the sight of smoke rising from the town center. Then Pent had confidence those awaiting him within its halls were not in alliance with the men set on killing them before they reached it.
Camus had no option but to trust him.
While the rest of their assailants scattered like confused ants, their leader still pressed down on Camus’ blade with the focused determination of a man who had been in the business of danger for years. He would be harder to shake, but with a cry of exertion, Camus knocked him back, then aimed several quick strikes at his knees and feet until he succeeded in unbalancing him enough to fall into one of his men. Without checking to see if the man had landed on the other’s blade (doubtful, but good fortune frequently came to him in battle), Camus disengaged and dashed for his discarded lance. He tossed it up with the toe of his boot and caught it in his free hand, then leveled it at the remaining men who had not the sense to run like the others had.
“Keep close, Lord Reglay,” he called, his own voice just as distant and detached as the Count’s had been. Much like he had done with the sandbags, he would carve them a path through stubborn bodies and into the open. They were so close…
Xane tried not to make it obvious that xe was studying Zeke, swiveling xir head around to take in the street. Xe didn’t really pay attention to the people setting up stalls. Xane hadn’t missed the change in Zeke’s expression, not with how many faces xe had worn. If not wearing the face of the guard, Xane would have stretched casually. Why do soldier types have to be so stiff?
“How many parts do you remember?” It wasn’t an answer, but Xane would never truly reveal xir origins to him. If he was looking for a clan of shape shifters, he would get nowhere.
If Xane was honest, xe was a little curious, too, about how much of Archanea the general had left behind. Xane knew from experience it wasn’t so easy to do.
Zeke considered his answer, eyes wandering off to the evergreen-covered mountains that had begun to rise before them as they made their way through the final gate of Rigel’s castle town. What did he remember? Faint feelings and the instinct for familiarity, but…
“I do not remember much more than names,” he settled to say. “Archanea, of course, and lands like Macedon and Khadein…”
Grust.
“But I cannot be certain if they are true memories, or simply facts I have learned by listening in on my comrades.”
Somewhere deep down, he had always known, too, that he had been General Camus of Grust, long before Xane’s jarring impersonation, but did he want to be that man, now? Archanea and the life he had left behind were simultaneously foreign and familiar, and he was both living his memories and looking at them from the outside. And wondering how that could possibly be.
“Xane,” he said resolutely, and yet hesitated to allow the rest to follow. “… What do you remember of General Camus?”
Forsyth felt a rush of wind as Zeke’s horse sped past him, its hooves rumbling like thunder against the cobblestones. The general’s voice was barely audible among the encroaching horde, and as Forsyth raced to keep up with him, Zeke turned back, plunging his lance into an undead corpse with lethal precision.
“Sir Forsyth, please be careful.”
Sir Forsyth?
Before he had time to react, he felt a presence to his left.
The creature standing there was horrific; a shambling zombie clad in red and gold, its mouth hanging open, its jaw locked in an eerie, twisted smile. Without warning, it leapt at him, its filthy claws scarring his breastplate. Forsyth jumped away, then lunged forward with the point of his lance; it connected, though it was a clumsy hit, and this seemed to anger the creature more than anything. It roared – a strange, mournful sound that was almost human – and attacked again, this time striking his unarmoured thigh. Forsyth cried out, but did not back down.
“For Zofia!”
The second strike was much more accurate. The zombie wailed in what could only be described as pain, then vanished into dust.
The threat, for the moment, had passed. Forsyth sat himself on a large rock dislodged from the shrine wall, wincing as he examined the wound on his leg. This hadn’t gone as planned. He had the sinking feeling that without Zeke there to help, he might not have survived at all.
“Please, General Ezekiel, I am no knight,” he said, catching his breath. “While I pray I might one day earn that title, I am a mere footman.” If his prowess is anything to go by, he thought, he must have been fighting from a young age.
“Before I joined the Deliverance,” he continued, “the little tutelage I had was from books, and skirmishes in our town militia. I can only imagine how the men of Rigel are taught to fight.”
More monsters, more clanking metal and unholy moaning, but with each one felled, Zeke realized that no more were rising to take their places. The horde was subsiding… for now. Best to end it quickly, he thought, twirling his lance between his hands to impale a mummy that had shambled up to his right flank, and then used its disintegrating body to knock down one of the sturdier zombies before it could come too close. It bought him a moment to pull his eyes away and check on his companion. One of the gold-adorned monsters had honed in on him, raising its decaying, clawed hand to strike. Zeke’s eyes widened as he saw the trajectory.
“Watch yourself!” he shouted, turning his horse to intercept, but he was too late and Forsyth’s pained shout told him he had taken the brunt of the hit. His own step faltered - dismount and catch Forsyth if he fell, or focus on the remaining enemies? - but fortunately the young knight had energy enough to hold his ground, and with a firm nod, Zeke made quick work of the rest.
He dismounted when the area had at last been cleared, and followed Forsyth to a place near the wall, hand hovering over the hilt of his sword and eyes ever searching the dim light of the cavern… just in case.
“You could fool me,” he said cordially, eyes swinging back to Forsyth. “You act and fight as any knight I have ever known.”
Perhaps a touch too foolhardy, but than in itself was not entirely uncommon among younger knights. There was always desperation and desire to prove one’s worth, and Zeke understood it. He was certain that he had been no different in his youth, though he had no memory of his training.
His eyes remained firm on the shadows, still unconvinced that they were entirely safe. Terrors could rise from the ground at will, and with his companion already injured, he could not afford to let down his guard. He allowed only a quick glance toward Forsyth when he mentioned Rigel.
“I can only imagine how men of Rigel are taught to fight.”
“They are a wicked bunch,” he answered, no malice, only the tone of admiration and the peculiar implication that he was an outsider among them. “Their training is certainly more hands-on than your book-learning, but you and the rest of this army have bested them thus far. ... How is your wound looking?”
He stepped closer and held his lantern over their heads. “Can you walk?”
// For Camus this time. I’ve nearly caught up with his threads, and my goal is to get the last two before the end of the day. If you’ve lost inspiration or would like to drop a thread, just let me know.
Waiting on me:
Forsyth (Hope in the Dark) [queued]
Xane (From the Past) [queued]
Eldigan (Double Sable) [queued]
Pent (Infamy) [queued]
Belf (Master and Pupil) [queued]
Eirika (Ambush) [queued]
Sakura (Let it Snow) [queued]
Belf (First Blood)
Nyna (Winter Nights)
“Dawn” was already almost upon them, but Eirika let the phrasing slide. Zeke would need a good hour or two to rest his leg before he could set off again without much pain – or so she’d seen from Ephraim, at least. He sounded defeated, and she felt much the same as she followed him to the cliffside he indicated.
To leave with ten men, and return with none… She wondered how close they had been.
At his apology, she looked up from her trudging, eyes wide with surprise.
“To me? Sir Zeke, surely you don’t think any of this night was your fault.”
Zeke did not answer immediately, a doleful, contemplative silence falling upon him. He watched the rocky earth - monochrome in the dim light - blur beneath his feet.
“Knowing well that the future cannot be predicted does little to ease the regret I have for my actions this evening,” he admitted. “For the time you have already spent here in Rigel, neither of us have gained anything.”
Instead, he had risked Eirika’s life more than once, and subjected her to all manner of disturbing scenes, scenes that made even an experienced soldier queasy and uncomfortable. The bloody corpses of Zeke’s comrades flashed vividly through his mind, as if seeing them again for the first time, and he shut his eyes against them.
“… I should have taken you straight to the capital the moment you arrived.”
‘‘ A healer.’‘ She repeated his words, but they weren’t loud enough to be heard by anyone who wasn’t two foot from their table. Slender fingers wrapped around the mug to bring that cup up to her lips. Refreshing. ‘‘ Yes. I’m a—’‘ Suddenly, the cup was a lot less intimidating to make eye contact with. Not that a cup would have eyes or anything. Telling a stranger that she was traveling alone was probably a mistake.
Yet this man did treat her to a rather warm drink to warm the chill. ‘‘ This time, yes.’‘ Her eyes broke away from the cup, staring at the man as she continued. ‘‘ I d-don’t plan on leaving here without an escort, or protection, or something. If it’s as bad as you say.”
Technically the only place she needed to be now was on her way back to the inn. From there it would most likely be a port town. This world is still unknown to her. As his mug was set down, she silenced herself. Let the man enjoy the warmness. Poor soul must be just as chilled as her own.
“Very good.” Camus nodded his approval. “I have a horse, and I would gladly escort you to your destination once this snow lets up, if you desire it. But if you wish to leave in the morning, then allow me to pay for an escort, at the very least. I know several noble knights in these parts who would gladly lend their aid.”
The silence settled in between them, the faint crackling of the fireplace behind the bar and the gentle pattering of the snow against the windowpane taking the place of words. Camus sipped from his mug and looked outside at the fading light of the early winter evening, and remembered suddenly the most basic part of any conversation. In his desire to find and fix the root of the girl’s problem, he had entirely forgotten to ask her name.
“Forgive me,” he said with a warm chuckle. “Now that we are sharing this time together, I should perhaps introduce myself. I am Camus, a soldier of Grust.”
Sand pooled around their feel, the larger stones skittering from the spilling grains and scattering away along the rumbling cobblestone. First a trickle, then a steady stream, and when the sand flowed in earnest, the heat bite at their backs and they ran as soon as the wall was low enough to cross.
Tome open and spell prepared, Pent’s magic was live even as the hot wind continued to billow from behind them and the echoes of the blasts continued to sound. The dim alleyway was temporarily flooded with light as glyphs crackled and sparked in the air like lightning. Somewhere from the rooftops, screams sounded, and ashes fluttered down around them like snow.
“Hold.”
And just like that, Pent watched as the glimmer of arrows stilled, and the wall of mercenaries parted. A man with a hood stepped to the forefront.
“So it is true. You have brought a stranger into our midst. How uncouth to drag outsiders into these quarrels.” The man gestured with his off hand; the other held a tomahawk by the handle. “No matter. There is no need for such brutality, Count Reglay. As you can see, you may fight, but the odds are hardly in your favour. Spare us all the effort and just hand over the agreements.”
“Oh?” Pent raised a brow, lips pulled into a thin frown. He couldn’t make out the man’s features, and none of the men before them bore any colour or standard. “A man with a dozen hired-hands finds it fitting to reprove in my choice of retinue? Bold… but ultimately pointless.”
The hooded man laughed, swinging an arm out and gesturing to the troops behind him–above them all. “Have you so turned your back to Etruria that you no longer recognize your countrymen?”
Magic hummed. The air grew hot again, as if the mines were still going off. Pent’s attention was caught by something past the blockade–a bridge, one that lead to the governing halls, yes, but closer than that… “I see. Camus. These gentlemen will die here, I am afraid.”
There were questions and warnings, and myriad other doubts racing through Camus’ mind as he held his ground between the Count and the mysterious hooded stranger, but he was a foreigner, it was true, and in that moment, also a mercenary. His loyalty was to Pent and Pent alone, and it was not his place to question the morality of attacking Pent’s countrymen. He raised his lance at the cloaked man, and the strange, warm static from earlier began to crackle all around him again, revealing Pent’s decision before he gave the order.
“These gentlemen will die here, I am afraid.”
That was all Camus needed to push his doubts away. The leader of the assassins recognized the threat as well and Camus met his charge with a resounding clang of steel axe against speartip. But he was at a disadvantage, and as the man dragged the axe back toward himself, he tore the spear from Camus’ hands - though Camus had not entirely resisted. The lance clattered to the ground and skidded several feet away, but he gave it only a cursory glance. In a fluid movement, he drew his blade and met the man’s axe once more. The rest of the mercenaries in the alley descended upon him, but his sword gouged and scored tendons faster than the eye could follow. Another sharp clash of metal as he blocked a second strike from the leader’s axe, providing just enough time to shout an order over his shoulder.
“Count Reglay, I will hold them off. Please continue to the meeting hall!” And yet he had the feeling that Pent would not so readily leave. More of the assassins flooded into the alleyway and across the rooftops, making it clear enough that this was their last resort to stop the documents from reaching their destination. They were desperate, and that would be their downfall.
