╰┈➤ Shamir Nevrand, mercenary. Knight of Seiros. "It's nice to dream of a world without pain and suffering. But the world is what it is, and dreams will only carry you so far."
Couple things of importance!
1. Ask memes are NOT canon unless otherwise stated.
2. I am open to shipping on Shamir, but will not pre-plan things. Has to come with OOC comfort and IC build-up.
3. There may be NSFW content on this blog, but it’ll always be tagged and under read more.
4. If Shamir’s in an event, she’s probably there against her will. Sorry girl
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'Perhaps the cards will favor neither of us.' Bold words.
Bold words that quickly become untrue as Lukas gets a fairly decent start, and words that become simply insulting as he lands squarely on the number that both of them have been chasing. There's a blank look of acceptance that settles on her features as she runs a hand through her hair, a long sigh of defeat following suit.
It's not her night. It's really, really not her night. She's lost count of how many challenges she's failed to win, though she's thankful it doesn't result in her losing money. Instead, it just results in her losing sanity and decision-making ability with every drink that's downed.
Unclipping the charm from her belt, she sets it on the table for him-- a reminder of his victory, and a reminder of her bitter defeat. Yet despite the harsh loss, Shamir offers him a hint of a smile.
"You know the drill. Loser takes another shot- so, of course I'm taking you up on that."
"Also, Lukas? That was foul."
@deliverred
Lukas can only hope she doesn't intend to try her hand at more luck based games tonight, after this. Bad luck was one thing, but continuing to play when you were only getting further and further down a bottle was...a particular choice.
But, if that was how Shamir wished to enjoy her evening, Lukas couldn't fault her the desire. It was tempting to let go their grasp on control at times of revelry like this.
"Do you have a preference in what drink, or do you trust in luck to leave it up to my discretion?" he asks as he rises from his seat, scooping up his prize of her charm. He could take a hint and get her a simple shot, but perhaps she might want something lighter and sweeter if she was to do more such games.
He's just turning to head over to the cabana, clipping her seashell to his little collection of other charms, when she draws a surprisingly genuine laugh from him.
"It was hardly my intention, considering this was a game of luck, though I cannot say I don't take some delight in the success. It would greatly please me to play again sometime, should the sting of this loss not linger with you too long. I truly did find it a refreshing thrill, Shamir."
The drink he ends up retrieving for her is a mix of something ginger and strong, and if he leaves his own charm by the glass for her in spite of her loss, no one has to know that she didn't win it from him.
“Come on, kid. You hold it like this– you can’t curl your finger over the arrow like that. You’re gonna break it, and the shaft is gonna go right through your hand.”
Shamir says nothing, only nodding her head as she adjusts her grip. The mercenary leader that had taken her under his wing wasn’t usually kind, but she guesses that he’s sparing her a modicum of pity when he sees her trying to pull her own weight alongside the others. She can’t be useless, and the idea of charging into battle with a sword is daunting… but something about the bow feels right in her hands. Feels comfortable.
“Yeah, like that. Now, nock your arrow, and let it fly.”
She does as she’s told, as she normally does. Doesn’t question the orders given to her, just acts on them– and this time, when she does, the arrow strikes the dead center of the target.
The first time it ever has. Eyes widened, she glances up at the mercenary who breaks out into loud laughter before patting her on the shoulder with enthusiasm, and Shamir can’t stop the proud smile that finds its way onto her features.
“Good job, kid. Now keep practicing, and you’ll be a pro in no time.”
This is how she can help. Bow raised once again, arrow nocked, she lets another shot go.
Bullseye.
The next time she sees the mercenary who had taught her, he’s laying on a cot unmoving. A sword slash across his chest, fatal on impact. His blood continues to seep from it as several other mercenaries sigh, speaking frantically to each other– she’s not paying attention. Probably something about succession, matters that she has nothing to do with.
She missed her shot. Shamir had long since seen the brigand coming, sword raised to take her teacher out; she lined up the arrow, she held it exactly as she had been taught by his hand. All of his words ringing in the back of her mind, and all of her focus honing in to that one moment in time– the pause in her breathing cycle enabled her to fire, even as her fingers trembled from anticipation and anxiety both.
It pierced the foe’s shoulder when she had been aiming for his chest for a single shot kill. It wasn’t enough to stop him, and by the time she registered a scream, it took her a moment to realize that it was her own.
When she visits the practice range, she’s there from dawn to dusk, and by the time she takes a break, blood drips from the blisters on her fingers. Not as much blood as he had spilled, a necessary sacrifice to ensure that the next arrow hits exactly where she wants it to– to know that it’ll kill on impact.
Against her better judgment, she picks her bow up once again. The sting isn’t enough to stop her, the next arrow nocked, and eyes focused on the target. The only thing that matters.
-
“You’re a crazy good shot, you know that, right? It’s kinda scary.”
The man that had been assigned to be her partner stands in the doorway of her tent, arms crossed over his chest as he flashes her a big grin. Shamir’s eyes roll as if on instinct, fingers ensuring that the string of her bow is pulled taut and everything is in order– tomorrow, they’re shipping out once again, finally leaving this hellhole. Some shitty noble had employed them to fight his battles for him, and they’d won, as expected; the smell of flesh burning was acrid enough to nearly make her eyes water, mass graves set ablaze as means of clearing out the field. Bodies left to rot would only promote disease… and none of them wanted to deal with the stench of decomposition.
She grunts in acknowledgment even as he comes to sit next to her on her cot– she says ‘hers’, but it feels like they’ve shared it more as of late.
“I know. You don’t have to tell me.” It’s matter-of-fact, and a true statement… but in this moment, it sounds like a rare jest from her. He laughs, his shoulder bumping into hers, pulling out his dagger to sharpen it against a whetstone pulled from his satchel. “Ready for tomorrow? From what I’ve heard, it’s likely our last stop for this contract. Time to clear out the rest of the enemy, and we’ll be home free. Nice paycheck in our pockets, and a chance to get some rest.”
They need it. Battered, bruised, and fatigued from the back to back skirmishes. Her partner nods as she listens to the ‘shing’ of the whetstone, finally satisfied with her bow’s maintenance.
“Yeah. Hoping it’s an easy fight, but knowing these stupid nobles, they’ll do whatever they can to grandstand and show off their might. Or something like that,” He mumbles, finally raising his dagger to the light, inspecting the sharp edge. “Who knows. Maybe they’ll see us and start running.”
Hah. She lets out a huff of dry laughter there, elbow gently bumping into his side.
“... Hey, Shamir. Have you ever thought about what you’ll do after all of this is over?” He sounds more serious than he ever has, and it catches her off guard as she turns to look at his expression. Sentimental, almost, or maybe… wistful. “I have, a couple times. I kinda just want to leave the business and settle down somewhere, live the rest of my life in peace. We don’t have forever, and…”
“I wondered if you’d do the same. Or if you’d stick with this until you died, or worse, got killed.”
Oh. It dawns on her what he’s saying, and she feels her ears beginning to heat up as she turns all of her attention back to her bow, feigning that she’s actually doing something to it. Inspecting the limbs, adjusting the grip, anything that stifles her embarrassment and slows her thoughts.
“Um… I guess.” Her voice wavers as she speaks, clearing her throat in an attempt to steel herself. “I wish I could say I’ve thought that far ahead, but I haven’t. I guess I’ve just been taking things day by day, step by step– no reason to think about where I’ll be in 10 years.” It’s likely she’ll be taken out by an opposing merc, or worse, die from an injury’s infection. Most of her kind don’t live that long.
“How about… after this last battle, you and I take a break from the battlefield. We could travel on our own for a bit, do a couple of odd jobs here and there, and just… relax. What do you think?”
It sounds nice. She thinks she’d like it. Wouldn’t it be the first time she actually has a chance to do whatever she likes? A light laugh escapes, and she shrugs her shoulders.
“... Yeah. Sure. Why not? I’ve always wanted to see more of the world, and not just shitty fields full of dead bodies.” There’s truth to that statement, but the lopsided smile she sports also shows that it’s a hint of a jest. “I’ll take that as a promise that we’ll meet again after this fight. Make sure your sword arm is ready to go, yeah?”
He lets out a loud laugh there, gently patting her on the back. “As always, dear Shamir. As always! Get some rest. We’ll both need it.”
By the time he leaves her tent, she can’t wipe the smile from her face. It was hard enough hiding it while she had his company, but now, having her own life, her own agenda, and her freedom. That’s pretty nice, isn’t it? Had he asked her a couple years ago, she would’ve laughed in his face. Maybe this time, it’ll be her chance to start over. Maybe, just maybe..
It’ll be the time she can finally put her bow down.
-
Blood drips from her fingers, and she can’t feel them anymore. How long has it been since she acknowledged the fact that they ached, that they burned? That the sting nearly went to the bone?
She can’t remember. She nocks another arrow, and lets it fly. It hits the center of the target, though there’s no celebration to be had. It’s an expectation, a requirement–
And a reminder of past failures. Another arrow, nocked, released. Another bullseye. How many times will it take for her to pierce the dead center before she’ll never feel this burden again? Before she’ll never miss another shot, before she’ll be fast enough to intervene, before she’ll– she’ll–
Something drips wet onto her cheeks, but it doesn’t stop her. Another. Another. Another-
Her arm shakes as she pulls the string back, body finally beginning to protest against the strain. This time, when she releases, the arrow flies wide to the side, nowhere near the target. It causes her to freeze, eyes trained on nothing in particular. She’s alone here, left to her own devices in the wake of their final battle; the others are packing up and preparing to leave, and she’s here. Practicing for hours on end. Shamir can’t remember when she started, and she’s not sure when she’ll stop.
Every muscle in her upper body trembles, and it all comes crashing down when she lets out a long, agonized, guttural scream before slamming her bow into the dirt. It snaps, the wooden splinters flying in every direction, but it doesn’t stop her as she throws the two halves into the distance, chest heaving, blood spattered all around her from her mauled digits.
He had made a promise. He had spoken of better days, of a chance at a future; and as amethyst eyes stare down at her broken weapon, she lets out a dry laugh. It sure felt like fate was mocking her, the shards and bent wood evidence enough of what her life had become. Arrows discarded, scattered across the ground, and she doesn’t bother to pick them up.
“Hey, you coming?”
One of the other mercenaries calls out to her, his supplies slung over his shoulder in the form of a makeshift bag. Shamir doesn’t answer. She doesn’t gather her things, she doesn’t follow. Hours go by before she’s struck by the realization:
They’ve all left. She is alone.
-
“You have been offered a contract to serve in the Knights of Seiros. Your housing will be provided on the grounds of Garreg Mach Monastery, and you will be supplied with basic necessities– just this once. Everything after is your responsibility, and you will be expected to perform your duties with pride and accuracy. Do you understand?”
She nods. They’re a little bit too pompous for her tastes, but a paycheck is a paycheck, and this was a way of repaying the kindness that Rhea has shown to her. She’d been wandering for what felt like years, dirty and poor, searching for odd jobs that would get her a meal on a table. The gold didn’t particularly matter, just for getting basic necessities– drink. Food. A place to rest every so often. If she was lucky, she’d find a lake for a quick bath and to wash her clothes.
“Yeah. I get it.”
“Very well. Here is the key to your quarters– Lady Rhea expects to see you later this afternoon in order to brief you and explain why, exactly, you are here. I fail to understand her decisions… but I will always trust in her judgment. You would be wise to do the same.”
Hah. What a load of bull. She doesn’t voice that, though, and instead just nods while taking the key from the man’s hand. It doesn’t matter who he is, she doesn’t ask for a name– she doesn’t care.
Once again, her bow is slung over her shoulder. Bandages are wound around her fingers, and the slight tinge of pink seems to have begun to seep through. The faculty member glances down and sighs, waving his hand to motion down a hallway. Shamir barely raises her head, brow arched.
“Please, see to your injuries before anything else. Professor Manuela will be more than happy to assist you– her office is down this hallway, 2nd on the left.”
-
“Hey, listen. You can’t hold your bow like that, with your finger curled over the arrow. You’re gonna snap it in two– do you want half of an arrow shaft piercing through your hand?” She lectures one of the students, watching as he adjusts his grip. The student narrows his eyes as he adjusts his grip, and after a moment of silence, he lets his arrow fly–
And it strikes the center of the target. He beams up at his instructor before pumping his fist, excited and determination reignited in his gaze.
Shamir smiles, slightly. Maybe her teaching gig isn’t so bad, but… It was inevitable that this boy would find his way into battle, and she can only hope that he takes all of his teachings to heart, to have a chance to survive. To live to see the next day… to get even better at his craft.
“Good job, kid. Now, do it again. You’ll become a professional in no time.”
She pauses.
“Oh, make sure you have your gloves on. It’ll keep you from getting blisters.”
"Come one, come all! I've the finest wares from all over the world-- Dagda, Enbarr, even as far as places like Valentia. Never heard of it? Now's your chance to see what they've got!"
An annoying merchant that's running back and forth among patrons, making a show of displaying all of his creations... but the real thing that draws Shamir's attention is the mention of her homeland. It's rare enough to see keepsakes from it considering how much of it was decimated in the war against Brigid, and her curiosity ultimately wins out. A few steps is all it takes to survey what the guy's got spread across his table, and she immediately recognizes an effigy of a goddess that was quite popular in Dagda. Not that she ever had anything to do with the worship.
With enough knowledge, though, Shamir reaches over to pick it up, rolling it over in her hands. The merchant skitters over, waving his hands as she does. "Ah, careful miss! That's a bona-fide artifact straight from the shores of Dagda! There's no way to replace it if you break it..." He laughs nervously, glancing up to see the studious gaze of the archer. She turns it once more, tongue clicking as she spots an inconsistency in the wooden sculpture.
The people who made these took care to nail every detail. This one is shoddy, crudely crafted, and clearly done by an amateur. The robes aren't elaborate like she knows them to be, and the goddess is portrayed as something more ... traditional than what it's actually supposed to be.
"Hey, you realize this is a fake, right?" Shamir calls out, holding it up higher. "You're selling it for this much? It's worth nothing. The craftsmanship's shoddy, and it's not even the real thing."
The merchant immediately bristles, jabbing a finger in Shamir's direction. "How dare you! What do you know about this, huh? I carry only authentic products; to accuse me of having counterfeits..." He feigns a disappointed shake of his head and a shrug of his shoulders. "I see. You're jealous! Looking for a discount!"
Jealous? That's a stretch. Shamir's smile turns into something taunting as she waggles the wooden statue in his face. "I know because I'm from Dagda, dumbass. Nobody would carry one of these."
It's then that his face blanches and several customers turn to glare at him, putting back the "artifacts" that they had shown interest in. "W-wait! This woman, she's out of her mind! A simple lie, and-- and--"
"Give it up. Quit selling this crap for outrageous prices."
@ivorymoonshadow
There's been no shortage of stealth assignments that have been dropped right into Shamir's hands, yet this one has stakes higher than the others she's carried out. The sigh of annoyance that escapes her as her fingers trace a route on the map she's been supplied gives her thoughts on the matter away well enough-- there's too many goddamn hero-wannabes at this Academy. Nobles who've been held on a pedestal, expected to kill and maim and thinking that it's honorable. Impressing Mommy and Daddy on the battlefield with no regard for anyone's safety in the matter.
They're too young to be placed in these positions of power. Too young, too brash, and absolute fools. Chasing the dream of their names etched into the annals of history... and instead, those names will be etched into the stone of a grave.
Her free hand comes up to rub at the bridge of her nose. The person she's with seems capable enough, but the apprehension remains. Jobs like this are easier alone, she's quickly learned... but she can't exactly turn them away. All she can do is carry the brunt of the operation and get in quickly, quietly, and snatch their student out of the depths of enemy territory.
"This is the route these ships tend to take. As you can see, they pass through this port-- otherwise, they're too busy clogging the damn canal to continue their embargo. Lucky for us, that means they aren't going to run away anytime soon." Her fingers outline the docks in question, circled in red. "It's the only opportunity we have to get on the ship. Quietly. Doing this under the cover of night is our best shot." Her eyes glance up at the companion with her, expression steeled with all business. "I'm open to other ideas, though."
"The second we blow our cover... the second we lose this student. I know these types, killed plenty of 'em, they won't hesitate to slit a kid's throat if they think we've got the upper hand. No room for mistakes." She taps the surface of the map once more before straightening, bow slung over her shoulder and knives tucked into her thigh sheath. "Travel light. Equipment makes it harder to move silently."
"I guess names are in order, too. I'm Shamir, one of the Knights. Anything you want to add? I usually operate on these alone... so it'll be new having someone coming along."
@senerist
Out of all the assignments he's been put onto during his service with the Knights, this is one that, honestly, Sin finds himself dreading more than usual.
The short of it is as follows: He's been tasked to investigate a manor on the outskirts of the city, due to rumors of preternatural phenomena around the site. The building has been abandoned for years, and its last owner was accused — Though never properly convicted — Of murdering her entire family. The restless spirits that remain are said to kill all that intrude on their graves, and...
Well, Sin doesn't see the point of sending knights rather than priests to deal with this. If there truly are malignant spirits in this place, ones powerful enough to kill mortal men outright, then what would be the point of this be other than sending them to die? He can't imagine he'd be able to appease them on his lonesome...
Well. He isn't actually alone, he's got a partner in this investigation, which at least feels a bit better than being on his own. Still, as the moon bears down on their path, the doubt grows harder and harder to ignore.
"...Just to confirm," He sighs, only slightly weary. "You are sure we're adequately prepared for this?"
She's heard the saying 'ants in the pants', but Shamir never really understood the mental image it painted until now. Sin's fidgety, he's a little crotchety, and she's not quite sure she's ever seen him this... out of sorts. Supposedly, this manor had been 'haunted' by vengeful spirits, or whatever the locals painted it out to be-- the reality is that it's likely been taken over by squatters that use the dilapidated mansion as a sort of base. Whether that's just bandits, thieves, or something worse... Doesn't matter. Church of Seiros said they've gotta go and the problem's got to be solved: that's all that she cares about.
"You gonna ask that question one more time?" She sighs with a shake of her head, hands on her hips as they stand at the entrance. If anything, the most dangerous thing about this place is the fact that the roof looks like it could fall in at any moment. "We're fine. I've got a knife, you've got a knife. We really don't need anything else. The bows are extra at this point." And a bit inconvenient, honestly-- shooting at short ranges like this was always such a pain. She could pull it off, sure, but she'd rather have more distance.
There's plenty of people at the Monastery that truly care about these sorts of things and have strong beliefs that ghosts, spirits, and something like demons actually exist-- Shamir is not one of them. She figures if they were real, there were plenty that would've come for her by now; the list of people she's killed is endless. Remembering their names had long fallen off of her list of concerns.
"Come on. We can get this done fast." A hand on the door as she pushes it in, wincing as it creaks.
Incredibly loudly. Shit.
"Well, if there's anyone in here, they know someone's coming. Watch your corners."
@chryssaetos
The knights' hall is quiet in the evening, as the last dregs of students rush from their final classes or the dining hall to their dorms. The crickets are starting to sing, and Mauvier's guard shift hasn't quite begun. He can't bring himself to sit down, but he can linger here.
Shamir is hunched on a bench with her back to the entrance, and Mauvier can't quite figure out what she's doing. He has no business prying, but he can intuit that she's distressed somehow. He's never been one to shy away from someone in need, especially not a fellow Knight - even if the word she might use for herself is different.
He approaches as lightly as he can - that is to say, with ringing metallic footfalls. Once he's closer, he sees her hands, a bit frantic as they hold her beloved green jacket, a needle shining between two pinpricked fingers. There's an obvious rip in the seam under the left arm, and with the wear and tear the poor thing's no doubt taken during Shamir's tenure, there's no telling what other unfortunate holes it might bear.
A ripple of sympathy wracks Mauvier's spine. His mother had taught him, ages and ages ago, how to thread a sewing needle and make a row of stitches. If not for her gentle hand, his own beloved sweater would've fallen to pieces long ago, and he would've had nothing left of his homeland.
Even with his armor on, he always carries a little sewing kit around. He'd once tried his hand at crocheting, trying to make a little gray cat for Lady Veyle, but it turned out lumpy and lopsided. He'd been embarrassed to give it to her back then, but now he wishes he had, flaws and all.
In any case, Mauvier has never mended someone else's clothes. He's proud of his own ability, but he's long been made to feel like a man like him shouldn't possess it. The Hounds had worked for so long to hone him simply as a weapon, even as he crocheted that little cat by candlelight in his cot.
"Miss Shamir," he says softly. He feels for the sewing kit in his side pouch, keeping his fingers there, as if for strength. "Are you…having some trouble?"
There's numerous, quieted curses that slip from her lips as she wars with the damned needle in her fingers-- it's not that she's never been able to make do for basic repairs, but it's the fact that this particular bout of damage is a bit larger than what she's used to. The whole reason she's keen on archery is to keep her distance, to observe from the back lines, and to avoid getting her ass beat by overzealous soldiers that are all too eager to hold up the head of an enemy; this time, a sword had torn right through the fabric.
A close call, certainly. But that's what daggers are for: in the rare instance that someone gets too close. Shamir's long since been familiar with how easy it is to jab it into the perfect space on the neck to ensure that her enemy won't be getting up again.
She's pricked her fingers more than enough times, and she's about ready to call it quits for the time being when Mauvier's voice breaks the otherwise quiet dusk. It doesn't particularly surprise her, but her brows are arched when she turns to look up at him-- which hurts her neck a little, considering their difference in height--... and she can't help but feel a little relief. Shamir never likes pawning her tasks onto other people, but this is a little different, she supposes.
"You could say that," The archer mumbles, finally opting to toss her jacket to the side along with holding up the needle as a means of explaining herself. "Got hit in the last battle. I was fine; my jacket wasn't. I can repair something simple any time, it's a valuable skill on the road as I'm sure you know... this is outside of the realm of 'simple', though. Might just be time to get a new one."
Ugh, the thought makes her shake her head. There's a hint of sentimental value to this one, but what it's really about is the amount of gold she'd have to shill out for a high quality replacement. Cheaping out on battle gear is never a good idea. "What're you doing out at this hour, huh? They got you out on night guard? Or can you not sleep?"
Perhaps hers is a hint of the latter; after all, Shamir can only enjoy this type of quiet at one point in the day. When all the students have retired, and she gets to enjoy the low light of the Knights' hall with hardly anyone around. It's generally when she decides to do her equipment maintenance, so curious eyes aren't poring over her every movement.
@contempenitent
All of Shamir's threads will, of course, be reset-- any that were done before that were not completed will not be picked back up.
However, completed threads and previous interactions (like with lore/events), will be considered to remain since she was present for Epiphany, Cupidobash, and Ethereal Ball.
For muses she has rapport with, I'm fine with carrying that over, unless you'd rather us start over with a clean slate. Feel free to let me know!
so much for dying in splendid fanfare at the bottom of a hedge maze.
fogado startles when he hears the whistle of an arrow close by, doubly so when it lands in the shoulder of some dog-thing that had appeared from around the corner. the thing snarls, bleeding, scrambling to get back on its feet, and fogado takes the time to practically evaporate from how fast he escapes.
but who loosed the arrow?
he hears a familiar voice bark down at him from above, and fogado both brightens and flattens. crap, so he's not alone... but at least it's someone who can hold their own...!
" professor shamir! " he calls back, but quiet---just enough for her to hear him and nothing more. the dog is hot on his trail, so he whirls around and kicks it straight up the jaw. scary. " what're you doin' here? you lookin' for something?! "
Ah, so he does recognize her. Can't say she's too surprised by that, considering the last time they ran into each other properly was during a life-or-death scenario. The thing she does remember the most about him, however, was how... chaotic he was-- and that sentiment seems to stay true, judging by the fact that Fogado has landed himself in this situation.
"Probably the same thing you are!" The archer shouts back as she lets loose another arrow, this time hitting the ground in front of the dog and forcing it to swerve. It loses a bit of steam in its pace as a result, and Shamir shifts on the towering branch in an attempt to get a better shot. They're making enough noise as it is.
"Do you have a plan?! Keep running!"
There's so many questions running through her head, but all she knows is that she needs to make sure he doesn't get eaten alive by this thing. Taking a deep breath, Shamir steadies herself before letting another arrow go, and this time it strikes exactly where she wants it to-- in between the eyes, a pitiful whine escaping the creature before it slumps to the ground. A sigh of relief follows before she hops down from her perch, wiggling through a gap in the hedges to come check on the student.
"I can't tell if you're brave... or just stupid. Where did you think you were going?"
@losojos-decupido
fogado has heard the odd rumor swirl about the madame duval's secrets, none the least of them being experimentations both canine and human laying dormant beneath her property. a lot of things aren't really his business, and this just sounds like trouble waiting to happen... but if there's a chance of these rumors being true, there are real, suffering people that need help.
one of the entrances to the basement---where the heart of these supposed operations lie---sits deep in a hedge maze. fogado's got a good sense of direction, so it shouldn't be a problem! he'll just need to lie low, keep everything cool, and he'll make it out just f---
...
those barks don't sound normal.
in the distance comes snarling inhuman, somewhat like a dog's but much more violent. fogado's muscles immediately tense; nothing good will come from a meeting with whatever those animals are.
at least he's doing this alone! where nobody can see him or hear him! so he doesn't have to split his attention! right? right??
It was only inevitable that Shamir be tasked with investigating this hell-hole of a place, especially with the various rumors circulating of experimentation. That's a slippery slope, and crest beasts were enough of a problem without the added weight of other demonic creations running amok, and so she had agreed to perform surveillance of the nearby area in order to gain as much information as she could.
A perch up in one of the larger trees, it's easy for her to see a good portion of the garden grounds. She remains crouched in the shadows, the dense foliage keeping her mostly out of sight-- she doubts that anyone would be looking up in her direction anyways, and if they did.... well, she could play it off. It's not like she's doing anything blatantly illegal here, anyways.
She does, however, recognize a noise that sounds nothing like a human OR any animal that she knows; violet eyes sweep across the grounds until she encounters a hunched-back beast that lumbers forward with an awkward gait. It's too.... twisted to be considered any kind of a dog, and it's certainly nowhere near human-- but she wonders what's drawn it from its slumber when she spots a silhouette that looks awfully familiar.
Is that... who she thinks it is?
Fuck.
That creature is already lunging forward to break out into a run once it catches a whiff of Fogado's scent, and Shamir does the only thing she knows to do. Nocking an arrow takes only a split second, and before she has a chance to think about anything, it's already sailing down towards the hound. A sharp whistle is the only evidence of its movement, sticking deep into its shoulder and evoking a guttural cry that surely gives the impression that it's pissed off even more now.
They can deal with it later. For now...
"Are you going to stand there and stare? Move!"
@losojos-decupido
And there goes the rest of his fingers~. Lewyn frowns at the last statement (Really? Not even a kiss? Not one?) but stretches as he is eliminated, looking at the rest of the players. Everyone’s down to one hand at least…
“Not once? Not even on a cheek or a forehead or anything?” If he sounds incredulous, he can’t help it! It wasn’t even like the man was unattractive~ surely someone would have liked him enough to give the opportunity! “Oh, well. Either way, I guess I’m out~. I should probably introduce myself now, shouldn’t I?”
“I’m Lewyn.” A pause. Were they all giving origins? That would be awkward… Even if Deirdre knew, Lewyn wasn’t particularly keen on dredging up somewhere he couldn’t return. “Student of the Golden Deer.”
…
Well, now that he’s brought attention to it, time to keep pretending that he’s supposed to be here.
Perhaps she didn't expect to be paired with so many people who were this isolated-- yet... now that they're all coming down to the end, Shamir lets out a long sigh. It's not surprising to her that she's out on the heels of Jeralt and this young man she's not acquainted with, and she offers a shrug of defeat.
"My bet was wrong, too. So I guess I got beat on both fronts," The former mercenary grumbles, reaching for the almost empty glass of wine that she set on the ground outside of the jacuzzi. "But hey. At least I'm not alone in getting knocked out on this round...?"
Shamir takes a swig of the remainder of her drink, but quickly comes to a freezing halt upon hearing Lewyn's introduction.
"A.... student?"
She turns to face him, eyes wide as if she had been struck with a bat. Yet it quickly morphs into something more akin to suspicion laced with distrust, a frown stretching across her features. If someone like Seteth were to find out that the Knights were participating in such ridiculous endeavors with students.... (albeit unknowingly), she's certain she'd never hear the end of it.
"What happens in the jacuzzi stays in the jacuzzi. Understood?"
@grxstnnefealltoir
Nobody puts a finger down for that statement at least, and while Kris hopes it is the truth for everyone present he decides he’s had a long enough soak anyway, a hand on his waist to keep the towel around it in place when he rises to sit on the edge of the tub instead. The clammy chill that had clung to him between being dropped into the sea and the storm still raging outside has since faded, and scars from old injuries—mostly nicks and shallow cuts, though the rare puncture mark from an enemy’s arrow dotted his skin as well—are nothing to be ashamed of showing either. Just don’t think too hard about the pair that look suspiciously like wounds inflicted by gauntlets.
And do not think too hard about the fact that he has to lower a finger for the red-haired man’s– Eliwood’s prompt. “...Kris, of Altea. If we’re really doing introductions now.”
Which is then followed by a frown and, “Why does that count? Those are two completely different things.” He still drops another finger for it, but yet again Darios succeeds at being grating on his nerves. And a third right after it, for the years between his grandfather’s passing and earning his knighthood where he alone acknowledged he even has a birthday to celebrate. Too bad about Captain Jeralt though, seeing all his fingers down when most have only just dropped to one hand.
It’s his turn again though, so... “Never have I ever... shared a bed with someone.”
What should have been a fun, silly game continues to make her sad. Birthdays celebrated alone. She makes a note of who else has suffered this fate so she can do her best to make sure it never happens again. Love without marriage, intimacy without love. She cannot even begin to wrap her mind around either of those things.
When her turn comes around again, she knows she needs to come up with something simple. Something basic. Something without much emotional attachment.
"I am Deirdre of Grannvale, currently a professor for the Black Eagles House, and never have I ever..." she hums a moment, tapping her chin thoughtfully. Perhaps she should have waited until she had a more solid idea before speaking. "Oh! Formally studied swordsmanship!"
These guys certainly know how to dampen the mood sometimes, but Shamir's keenly aware of the fact that she's putting fingers down right alongside some of the others. She's also mildly disappointed that her own statement didn't cause someone to be crucified in the middle of the jacuzzi in front of everyone else, but it could be worse.
"Shamir. Of Dagda, technically," She shrugs at the introduction, mulling over possibilities in her head. There's no way she's playing into the more serious topics, not when liquor courses through her veins in this moment.
Deidre's statement doesn't catch her, and she offers a small chuckle. "Sure, I can use a sword. But nobody taught me- I learned through trial and error, and getting my ass kicked. I prefer the bow anyways," She reasons, finally reaching a moment where she's not losing another finger. She's hot on Jeralt's heels for being the next eliminated.
"Let's see.... Never have I ever... Broken a bone. That should have some good stories, yeah?"
All of them here are on the battlefield in one way or another- Shamir's come close to having her shoulder broken from a vicious blow, but generally she can keep out of harm's way.
"I'm lucky, compared to others I know."
@nohrianoutlaw
seteth irons a calloused palm down his soot-speckled face. the upper half of his uniform is in tatters, whatever's left of it.
"... shamir. it pains me to ask, but i require assistance," he sighs, approaching the familiar figure from behind. "if you have some form of outerwear, perhaps a cloak or—"
and then the stench fills his nostrils, which scrunch posthaste. "hold on. just how much have you had to drink?"
"Huh?"
Okay, that's not a voice she expected to hear creeping up on her when everything in her mind is moving at a snail's pace, but Shamir tries her hardest to appear somewhat put together.
The sway on her feet and the red in her cheeks is enough to make all her efforts in vain, however, hooded eyes staring absolutely dumbfounded at.... Seteth? That's certainly his voice.
Those are..... certainly his pecs. But it's so out of character for him to bare such beauty to the outside world.
She thinks. There's a few moments of awkward silence that passes before she silently holds a drink out to him.
"Too much, apparently-- no way I'm seein' you .... walkin' around without a shirt." Some words are slurred while others remain normal, and it seems there's no method to her madness. "But hey, the look suits you. I think more people would like you if you did it more often. I've got a jacket back at the bar, c'mon."
An overly hearty slap to the shoulder follows, nearly knocking HERSELF over in the process. When she pulls her hand away, a few shreds of his uniform's remains are in her palm.
"Weird fashion statement, but okay... Good to see you venturing out of your shell?"
His partner had split off from him to socialize, to which leaves one Jeralt with nothing to do. Fortunately for him, that boredom is only temporary, as one of his fellow Knights gestures him over. It looks like they’re playing a simple game of cards.
“Don’t mind if I do.” He approaches the unoccupied space, giving a nod of acknowledgement to both Shamir and Sin as he sits down. Jeralt looks down at the cards he’s been dealt with and flips them one by one.
Jeralt draws 2 cards: [Roll1d10 x2: 10, 4 = 14]
A good hand. Although with what happened to Sin’s hand, the bar might as well be on the floor. He’s not in it to win it, per say, but maybe he could at least give Shamir a bit of a challenge to boot.
Jeralt draws 1 card: [Roll1d10: 9 = 23]
… Ah. The gamble backfired on him.
“Looks like I’m out.” With a shrug and a chuckle to himself, he sits back and looks at the purple-haired woman. “An easy win for you, wouldn’t you say?”
Oh. Well that was fast. There's a hint of a chuckle that rumbles in her chest as Jeralt takes a loss immediately, and as Sin struggles with getting any sort of decent value on his first pull. Perhaps this is the break that she needed to secure some sort of victory this evening, and she rubs her hands together for a moment before pulling her own cards to see what her fate is.
Shamir draws 2 cards: [Roll 1d10 x2: 7, 5 = 12]
It's not a terrible start. The odds are in her favor, and her fingers tap against the table before she pulls her next, breath held.
Shamir draws 1 card: [Roll1d10: 8 = 20]
It's barely good. And she lets out a whistle as she opts to stop her luck there, leaning back in her seat before motioning to Sin. "Think you can beat that?" Shamir is already reaching for her drink, violet eyes settling on the two cards in front of the other man.
"Don't feel too bad, Captain. My luck's been shit all night."
@bladebrecher @chryssaetos
Lukas chuckles lightly at Shamir's long suffering sort of groan, his expression shifting slightly to something close to sympathy. "Aha, beginner's luck, I assure you. Besides, what's a couple of games between comrades, hm?"
So they go again, and while her first draw is a much more promising start, it all very quickly goes south when she draws another card from the deck.
There's a pregnant pause of silence between them as they both stare down at the cards on the table. After a stunned moment, Shamir reaches for her drink once more and breaks the silence to demolish the rest of it in on, large gulp. Lukas, for his part, maintains the expression of vague sympathy, but he can't help the slight stir of amusement in his chest despite the utter misfortune.
"Well, perhaps the cards will favor neither of us."
Lukas draws 2 cards. [Roll1d10 x2: 10, 5 = 15]
A high number at the beginning wasn't a guarantee of success, and it would take much less to put him over the mark than it should have for Shamir. He could just stay with these cards and win.
But where was the fun in that?
Lukas draws 1 card. [Roll 1d10: 6 = 21]
Oh...Well then.
Lukas set the card down atop the others with the same heavy finality of a killing blow.
'Perhaps the cards will favor neither of us.' Bold words.
Bold words that quickly become untrue as Lukas gets a fairly decent start, and words that become simply insulting as he lands squarely on the number that both of them have been chasing. There's a blank look of acceptance that settles on her features as she runs a hand through her hair, a long sigh of defeat following suit.
It's not her night. It's really, really not her night. She's lost count of how many challenges she's failed to win, though she's thankful it doesn't result in her losing money. Instead, it just results in her losing sanity and decision-making ability with every drink that's downed.
Unclipping the charm from her belt, she sets it on the table for him-- a reminder of his victory, and a reminder of her bitter defeat. Yet despite the harsh loss, Shamir offers him a hint of a smile.
"You know the drill. Loser takes another shot- so, of course I'm taking you up on that."
"Also, Lukas? That was foul."
@deliverred
Unexpectedly being dropped into the sea via weird magic(?) ability had left Kris resembling a wet dog up until the storm rolled in. Then the storm made him resemble a wetter dog as he helped to shepherd as many people towards the viscount’s estate as he could before being forced to take shelter himself. Though he usually stuck to only what was necessary to scrub the sweat from his skin and wash his hair, having been soaking wet and cold to boot had made a longer soak in the hot tub appealing enough to accept both present company and the strange game they were playing to pass the time.
(There were only so many places one could go given the circumstances, but still– Darios again? Not that he means it in a bad way, but...)
Sinking as low beneath the water’s surface as he can go short of fully submerging himself, the first four statements pass without him lowering a single finger. Captain Jeralt already being down a full hand by the time he does have to—that one was as targeted as the two before it, though Kris supposes that is the point—is interesting to say the least, but then it’s only himself and Professor Deirdre left to go and he can feel the eyes on him without moving an inch. A lesser man in his place would shrink even further into the heated bath if he could.
...He just has to say something that should make at least one of them drop a finger, right?
“Never have I ever... had any parents in my life.”
Sharing a bath with her coworkers and Lord Lewyn was certainly not the way Deirdre saw her evening ending but this is where she has ended up. Her gown has been soaked through and it is quite cold but the water of the Jacuzzi is warm and the bubbles are lovely. So she stays. And she agrees when a game is proposed. It is just a game, after all. It will surely be quite harmless. She already starts to think about some simple prompts when it gets to her turn.
Then the game begins and the first two prompts leave her face beat red. Is this what this game was to be? Sharing the intimate details of their lives? Her fingers remain but she is still quite flustered to learn these things about the people she is with.
A man she does not recognize proudly states he has never broken a vow and Deirdre must put down her first finger. Her face falls and she feels the need to justify why she must lower her index finger with a quiet, "I did not do it by choice..."
The rest of the game proceeds without much shock until the man before her turn speaks of his parents. Everyone loses a finger except herself. She turns to him and offers a sad smile. A smile that she hopes tells him she understands. She knows it is not easy.
"Goodness!" Deirdre laughs when it is finally her turn. "I did not expect this game to turn out quite like this! Ah, but before I go, may I suggest that we all trade our charms when the game concludes? I think it might be a nice way to remember each other..."
She takes a sip of her glass of champagne before proudly staying, "now if you would forgive me for I am sure this will get most of you...never have I ever eaten meat!"
Shamir can't say she's surprised by some of the topics offered, some more straight-laced than others. Yet her composure slowly becomes shaken as Captain Jeralt puts down finger after finger, yet to hit a single question where he doesn't do so. Her shoulders are shaking in laughter that she's trying her hardest to keep down, even as she loses a few of her chances in the meantime.
"You've never eaten meat?" Shamir mumbles under her breath, seemingly in awe of this revelation more than others. "Crazy. As for you, Captain Jeralt.... You gonna cough up the story about that lap dance or not?"
A sly smirk makes its way onto her face as she glances at the man with the eyepatch, whose money she had put on in the first place to win. Even though it's looking that Jeralt may take the crown, she can't be too upset. "I'm somehow not surprised you've given one."
Either way, the show must go on. Leaning back against the edge of the jacuzzi, Shamir lets out a hum of thought before a brilliant idea pops into her head... and the grin on her face turns into something far more sinister.
"Alright. Never have I ever...."
"Peed in a pool."
She's watching intently for whoever's finger goes down first-- and she will NOT be trusting them in the jacuzzi.
@nohrianoutlaw
