Now, this person she doesn't know, but might as well meet new people while this is going on. With several signatures now under her belt, she trots up to the student. "Hi! I'm Sharena. What's your name? Aaaaand could you sign it riiiiiiiiiight...." Voice trails off and she ends up lightly slapping the top of her thigh. "Here! I know it's strange, but it would mean a lot!"
Ingrid blinks as the girl approaches her, watching carefully as she observes the eager skip in her step. She’s seen her before, definitely... had she tried to lob a pie at her one time? The memory is faint; Ingrid can’t parse out whether or not it had actually happened, or if it were simply a figment of her imagination (though rather a specific one). The benefit of doubt is given in her case.
“Er- hello. I’m Ingrid Brandl-” she’s cut short as a quill is shoved into her hands; and her expression morphs into a little bit of hurt at the interruption. Eyes skid over Sharena’s form; tracing all the way down.. ah?? There, of all places-? “O-oh, um, sure? I don’t... um, okay.”
Knees dig into the sand as she kneels down, one hand steadying Sharena’s leg from it’s place on her thigh while the other steadied the pen on tanned skin. She ignores the furthering flush of red on her cheeks, tongue pressed against teeth in concentration. Writing on such a medium was new, definitely, but Ingrid does her best to make it legible. “There. That should be... good enough, I hope.”
If she had any questions as to why, she didn’t voice them.
The beach is completely empty save for the characters who have wound up here thanks to some strange, divine power. No employees, no tourists, nothing. There’s a house large enough to fit everyone, but you find that you need neither sleep nor food while you’re here. When you walk a certain distance along the shoreline, your vision begins to grow hazy and you wind up back where you began.
Still, there are few things to be done in this strange purgatory…
ASK MEMES
send 🎣 to put together a makeshift fishing rod and pass the time catching fish with my muse
send 👀 to accidentally catch my muse changing clothes
send 🏃 to explore the boundaries of this world with my muse
send 🌴 to climb trees with my muse
send 🌊 to watch the ocean and reflect with my muse
send 🏊♂️ to go swimming with my muse
send ⛺️ to escape the crowded house and go camping with my muse
send 💯 to ask my muse to teach yours how to swim
send ♨️ to discover hot springs with my muse
send 🎆 to put on a fireworks display with my muse
send 💫 to go stargazing with my muse
send 🌙 to go dancing in the moonlight with my muse
send 🍽 to experiment in the kitchen with my muse
send 🥂 to drink with my muse
send 🦀 to go crab hunting with my muse
send 🏖 to go sunbathing with my muse
send 🌧 to be caught in a sudden storm with my muse
send 🔥 to gather around a bonfire with my muse
send ⚔️ to spar with my muse
send 🏐 to play a game with my muse
send 🦞 to ask my muse to care for your muse’s sunburn
send 🛶 to make/use a boat with my muse
send 🏰 to build a sandcastle with my muse (or just play in the sand)
send 🐠 to go looking for wildlife in the surf with my muse
the air rids itself of forceful screams, and red cords no longer strain and break at the sound of blood spilling through pierced flesh. the otherwise hideous creak and crumple of the beast shreds against metal, reduced to the hum of a disk scratching voice pressed against fabric as snow seeps into ingrid’s ears. calm tide that the moon draws in, and out again— she breathes; her chest weighing of iron as much as her tongue, scarlet angering the bull of her heart. no longer can she hear the distant, murderous intent of the death knell’s crow. an echo repeats itself in it’s memory, but not the bell itself; dull murmur of it’s chime growing flat with every resound.
snow falls, marble white an unwelcome contrast to the crimson that bloodied her skin; no longer warm and soft, as much as her father might’ve wanted her suitors to see. low, lulling notes of a supposedly happy hymnal play in haunting minor, both meant for the wed and dying. dying. dying. the word begins to lose meaning the more she says it, soundlessly, meant for an audience of no one besides herself. a person with no such companionship dies alone, and that was what she was, right? dying.
despite everything the stories say, death isn’t at all what they paint it out to be.
—when it ropes you around the waist, (callous touch to bloody wounds,) you’d think you would see your life flash before your eyes.
she thinks she would see felix, in all his perpetual scowl; once small smile contorted into something she could never understand. his face, worn with battles he both knew how to pick but didn’t anyways. she thinks she would see sylvain, with his carefully painted smile and words that were both ultimately a little reckless and quietly caring, and maybe she wouldn’t feel the need to pick up after him so much. she thinks she would see his highness, in all his polite small talk and tall standing; and she wonders what he would think about what aeschylus had called justice.
was that it? was that what he died for? so chivalry, so honour, so knighthood, so valour, so martyrdom, so justice—
so what?
she doesn’t see their faces. not anymore.
eyes press softly close (though they were already shut), the softness of a cruel winter lies on her eyelashes. her flesh, or lack thereof, is tangible as the touch of another wraps around her form. blood drips without distinction between flesh and cloth; dyes the snow as red as strawberries in the summer. everything feels numb in all of her own tragic, human fragility, and fingers thrum in her head but not against the back of the one who’d begun carrying her. a loss for words, and a loss for names… even recognising who had lifted her up in that piteous state was difficult. air travels through her, trudging through the muck of blood and mucus; disquieting smell of metal filling her lungs. she is breathing, yes, yes, but only so; where the thunder of her thoughts meet her lips there is only a drop of rain, scarlet blood.
ingrid wants to be held a little longer, blink in dream-worthy bleariness; living in the little moments between uneager steps that mark the snow. it’s a little like riding a horse, or a pegasus returning from flight; soft footfalls uneasy against the ground, lifting and falling. gentle light filters through; warmth leaves her embrace unconscientiously, as you might pry a toy from a child. holding, holding— nothing; empty air, an unraised hand closes around itself as her body is lowered to the ground. to the ground… no, deeper than that; a grave, maybe? she can’t tell. it is certainly not a bed; nor as welcoming— the cold stings where the wind bites.
she lies, still.
quiet returns, though not for long (but she couldn’t be sure of that fact, for time was no longer as meaningful, nor invaluable). soon(er, or later), the faint buzz of chatter resonates, velvety words against blue lips; the voice quivers in the cold but does not drone itself out in defeat. poetry, was it? the rhythm of the voice is only nervously placed; she hopes she’d gotten at least that bit right. overwrought pauses were scarce, but not absent in his recital. she manages to catch a few words from it— how was she so sure that it was a ‘his’?— but nothing so sharp as to cut through her numbed skin. grievances, promises, memories, whatever poems would say and sing, and…...
‘rest in peace.’
...oh.
for who was that sentiment?
f o r.. wh o?
who was r e s tin g in p e a ce ?
……………… w h o ...
am i
d
e
a
d ?
-!
—i am certainly breathing and breathing and breathing and i cannot seem to stop and not unless i’ve forgotten how to see (i have) or hear (perhaps) or think (i have not) but until i have forgotten how to breathe then that is territory i will not step. but where is the line and when do i cross it and have i crossed it already? i am certainly breathing and breathing and breathing but what if it is only in my head and only there instead? what then?
see, i’ve never considered myself immune to failure and i never will, but i am only as pained as any other human and therefore i must deal with it as just. i am not immune to failure but i am not immune to not relishing in it, if that makes any sense; but i am barely making (creating, really,) anything. every new word makes me hate the last but that is untrue with stories for i cherish them all. yet, as an artist i must learn to hate my craft. so, as a martyr, must i learn to hate my death?
-and truthfully i am not so earnestly as regretful (to die) as of the thought that there would be nothing to regret but there is and there are lots and things i will never right and things i will never write and that in itself is a despairing thought. what is martyrdom without a god and what is knighthood without a king? likewise, what is idolisation without an idol and what am i without myself?
..
unwound thoughts hover over the precipice; carved deep into the ravine below, indistinct words of a priest. like water that drips between the cracks of ruined earth, it eludes her— no matter how much she would try and fail to hold it in her hands. words were fickle, and they were never as right as ingrid would have hoped them to be, but if she could remember just this— it would be enough.
( they say faces you see in dreams are only of those you know; but she doesn’t remember this one at all. perhaps it didn’t matter as much as she wanted it to. )
he opens his mouth— crooked smile, as though the thought seemed almost entertaining. where there is a joy of knowledge and the ability to know and have faith, reflects only voided blankness.
then, he speaks, and ingrid wonders if it was worth listening.
“ your fate is already written. ”
i k n o w.
a maskless shiver lives on her skin. did this moment dictate her fate? or was it every disappointing choice she’d made until then; with the affirmation that she would fix it before… before her death? before that, even? did she have a choice to do so at all? ink stains the page but in all her efforts to wipe it away, it only smudges; leaves otherwise permanent stains on parchment and temporarily on her skin. part of her withers, like rotting paper. she wonders, momentously, if it was her own writing all along, or if it were the goddess’s authorship— that she lived a short life and died an unsatisfying death.
‘ unsatisfying. ’
goddess, it was.
ingrid doesn’t see her life flash before her eyes, no.
it is only an open book, and she has ruined any and all chances to read it.
she stops at the last page before the final chapter; finger hanging over the top-right corner.
the page flips like the snuffing toss of a pegasus’s head; discontent and mild in it’s expression— but it ends only there.
she has it dog-eared, for reference.
“ ... however, the reason you are here, alive at all, is the question: can you change what you believe is written as ‘fate’?”
.
.
.
something twists inside her.
had she changed anything?
her heart screams in her chest. it pounds and tears and shrieks and rips and it beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats and beats—
and then it stops.
…
he doesn’t wait, walking away.
ingrid doesn’t run to meet him.
the world turns, but she has stopped turning with it.
Before she has a chance to take in her surroundings the earth begins to rumble, stone and rubble spouting out of the ground in every wild direction. An offshooting stone splits from its main group hurtling towards Leonie’s head. Though she manages to dodge out of the way of it from hitting her head the stone manages to catch her in the shoulder. She bites back a cry of pain, her hand immediately coming up to grab her now bruising joint.
Alligatorid Husk: AOE - Rolled 12 - Hit!
She uses her lance for support, making her way towards the creature. Her allies were all fighting so hard - what was she doing here only taking hits? In the distance she hears a wild cry but she can’t tell whether it was that of the beast or an ally.
Please dear Goddess let it not be an ally.
Pushing the thought from her mind she hoists her lance up again, wincing at the pain in her arm. With another cry she runs and attempts to pierce the beast’s body. Her brows furrow as the lance bounces off its body, pain coursing through her shoulder as she falls back from the impact.
Leonie: Barely Hit!
As she does so the husk shoots another spout of sludge towards her. Somehow she manages to roll out of the way, catching some bits of sludge in her hair as she does so.
Alligatorid Husk: Rolled 8 - Barely Hit!
Just when Leonie thinks she’s out of danger the ground begins to rumble again. The alligator creature significantly angrier as the rest of her allies chipped away at its health. Instead of just stones, balls of magic began to shoot up into the air as well, attempting to hit the fliers in the air. Before she gets a chance to back away the ground beneath her opens up and her leg falls through. With a crunch her leg gets trapped between the earth, a scream of pain escaping from the ginger. Using one hand as support she grabbed her lance and began stabbing the ground.
Alligatorid Husk: AOE - Rolled 17 - CRITICAL HIT!
Chipping away enough dirt Leonie managed to pull herself out of the ground. With her lance tossed to the side she gripped her leg - certain parts of it, if not all, were broken. She placed her charm in her mouth and bit down hard, crawling across the quaking ground towards her weapon.
@ingridbgalatea
The ground shakes below her, pulsing and trembling with a wild fervency. The debris and rubble that surrounds her shakes; hard surfaces clashing against each other repeatedly, a sound that filled Ingrid with a restlessness that pounded in her head as much as it did the cage of her chest; nerves and emotions rattling in an unfixed blur. However calloused and burnt her hands may be, she finds herself grasping around stones; searching for something solid. Shallow, rasping for breath, pain reduces itself to an unending shriek beneath her skin.
Her eyes water, an underlying tone of red beneath the white, fitting of the unromantic flush of her cheeks that the winter winds had left. Beyond, out of sight and out of reach; screams tear through the air, some animalistic, some scarily, painfully human. If the cold of Faerghus has failed to deter her before, the icy fear that came along with knowing the source of such screams did. Ingrid’s fingers tremble; tap along the shaft of her lance— it’s still in her grasp— tremors unceasing, fingers wet with blood and ice. If she could just get up, join them once more and fight, even that would be enough.
Her legs give out beneath her the first time she tries to stand, and her mind howls that she is wasting time. Knees scrape against the ground; concrete seemingly cruel, laughing as it cuts through skin— she was never delicate as a lady, but perhaps she was as a knight. A frustrated groan builds itself at the bottom of her throat, much like an angered, injured animal, and she takes the lance in both hands, piercing it into the snow and trying once more. It’s better this time, though she lurches; bile nearly managing to escape the lines of her throat.
The last time she’d felt so weak, she was thirteen.
— today, 1176.
But she is no longer that child; and Ingrid knows she can’t afford to idle any longer; not for those who were no longer moving, no longer able to fight. Not just for those who were downed here— what of those who had perished today, dying for an unjustly murdered king? Not for some royal assault by the people of Duscur, but by these wretched, pathetic excuse of a-
A garbled, pained shriek cuts through her anger-centred thoughts.
The snowy hellscape ahead becomes just a little clearer; and the earth below tremors once more. This time, magic rises into the air— seeking to rid the sky of those who flew overhead. She tightens her hold on her lance, however slick it might be; red and translucent pearl sticking to her hands like reluctant gossamer. The plates of the earth below slow, screeching halt as grounds collide, and Ingrid tenses. If they would have to continue any longer, she…
She runs ahead— lets any reasonable judgement elude her, blinded by… by what? If not chivalry, or honour, or whatever the hell she’d convinced herself to believe; self-affirming martyrdom just to stop the crying— then maybe just for the chance to survive.
Ingrid’s lance raises, high. She’s done this maneuver a million times, or more— everyday and every moment she could get her hands around the lance after his death. Part of her wonders what he’d think of her, if he could see her now.
( would he be proud of who she’s become? )
The beast comes closer; and for all it’s towering size, Ingrid doesn’t quite fear it anymore. It’s been long since the last time she could feel her left arm (and now, possibly, her right), and should she lose more of touch, she hardly thinks she’d notice. It burns, or perhaps that was just the ice, but she runs anyways— further and further, into the heart of danger.
Then she pierces the black void of an empty, supernovae star with the end of her blade.
attack roll; 20 + 2 = 22! (critical.) -2HP,
—What comes next is, according to her burnt nerves and pained screams of tortured skin, is nothing new. She thinks, for all the talk of hell being a land where skin was meant to burn, forever; ruined to ash only to renew and burn again, she didn’t expect it to be filled with snow. And, for the first time since a forever ago (or, really, whenever this seemingly unending battle had started), Ingrid tries to let herself scream.
Then she’s cast aside; a fate that would’ve been hers anyways— only a powerless wife to her husband for the simple sake of saving her lands’ people and continuing her bloodline— her crest. It’s not much too different, no, only a little more painful. Her veins pulse with an unwelcome magic, spasm and twitch; her lungs are on fire, she is on fire, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever stop burning.
Ingrid lands thrice, or maybe four times; she’d stopped counting the times her body had collided with the ground after two. Even when she no longer moved (or perhaps she’d simply stopped being able to feel it), her skin is wet with gore, as are her clothes; and the black fabric that manages to stick into her wounds is nothing short of annoying and grotesque.
[ cw; assumed character death, mentions of suicide (or ideation of), gore (?) ]
It’s hard to realise how much she’s shivering until she’s unable to move, body set into a snowy bed. It’s humiliating, and a little disgusting, to know that she’s fantasized about this, ‘honorable’ death in the snowy battlefields of Faerghus. ( This was hardly a war, but Ingrid thinks it might as well be. ) Chronic, suicidal ideation of such a scene had always been there; and part of her had liked to believe that should she die, it might as well be this.
Now, for all her talk of chivalry and martyrdom, Ingrid doesn’t think she’s so entirely fond of the idea anymore.
She blinks against the falling hail of snow. She’s so tired, more than she’d like to admit; breathing gets harder the more time wasted. There’s blood drying on her lips, on the walls of her mouth; lined on her throat and splattered everywhere else on her body. Ingrid blinks. Perhaps this was why she’d always liked blue better.
Her sight blurs; tears well, and soon they join the list of what stings the face of her skin. There’s a ringing in her ears, the violent, half-muffled call of a church bell; it is only rung once— a death knell. She isn’t sure if she wants to wait for the second and third call of the bell. Hair falls into Ingrid’s face, gentle swaying as her her head goes light; and all she can see is him.
He’s walking away.
He died today, didn’t he?
— A choked sob; a desperate wail that meets no one’s ears.
❛ glenn,
don’t go too far ahead of me,
please.
please,
please,
just stay there i’m coming-
please don’t-
please stay,
please let me walk with you one moment more.
it’s not—
death's not bad if i can be with you. ❜
The last feeling parts of her body shift; she curls into herself, but there is barely any warmth left to preserve. Perhaps she is crying, or maybe that’s just wet ice, or blood, or sweat. It gets in her eyes anyways; cold and stinging and salty. Ingrid breathes; a dying prayer for blurred silhouettes leaves her lips in its wake, dissolving into winter air. The words, though she knows them to be right (a prayer whispered a thousand times on her lips,) are unintelligible to her; cast in a language of longing, wisps of memory and wishful thinking.
Ingrid doesn’t think she’s ever seen the snow so red before; and, unlit with stars, the world fades into the staticky violence at the back of her head.
“—please, don’t die.”
…she closes her eyes, and rests.
[ Ingrid is now indefinitely unconscious and out of the battle. ]
Leonie had barely time to register the professor’s downfall, feet trudging through the muck towards the monstrosity. It was big, if not bigger than the titan Aes took down just moments ago. She moved as fast as the sludge would let her, paying little attention to what the sludge surrounding it might be for. As much as she wanted to stop and help the beast needed to be taken down before it caused any more damage.
Before she was able to come within striking distance of the beast Leonie got caught within the goo, tripping over herself and landing hands first in the black sludge.
Leonie: Missed! Alligatorid Husk. 38.5/50 HP remains.
She gets no time to readjust herself when the Husk hurls another black ball of sludge directly at her. Caught in the goo Leonie gets no chance to dodge as the ball hits her head on sending her flying back into a nearby tree.
Leonie coughs violently as the sludge rolls off her body back onto the ground. Had she been hit any harder she was sure she would have passed out on impact - what was that goo made of? Using the tree as support she slowly tried to pick herself up, readying her lance for another go at the husk.
@ingridbgalatea
Cold, thin air is what courses through Ingrid’s veins, in and out; steeling her nerves and resolve as she eyes the new beast that had emerged. Aeschylus... no, all that had suffered in the Tragedy of Duscur— the blood they’d bled would not be in vain. She would make sure of that, no matter what.
In the corner of her eyes, she sees a motionless body; light blue hair blending into the snow. Ingrid waits, but the professor— who else could it have been?— does not move. In fear that such a sight would choke her up, she doesn’t turn to look. Instead, she faces ahead; anger welling in her face and bubbling in the heart of her chest. Despicable, her own actions and words until then had turned against her at the appearance of this horror (and the weight of such a truth it had revealed). Her feet are wedged deep into the muck without thinking, one grueling step after another— but never slowing. Those who were downed were better off without her assistance with needless faith she had yet to master; so she’d deal with the offensive side of it all. It’s all she could do.
Finally, she reaches the beast (in all it’s towering massiveness,) and she tenses; form pulled together— she would settle for no less than perfect. With a determined jump; she impales the beast with the blade of her justice-meant spear.
“I can do no less!”
attack roll; 16 + 2 = 18! (critical.) -0.5HP
Unfortunately, the blade doesn’t cut too deep; black scales shining with a material unknown to her. Ingrid squints, confused– that hit, by all means, was strong and well-formed. It didn’t make sense; the monster hardly seemed fazed! She realises, belatedly, that she’d been much too distracted by the shallowness of such an attack when she’s slammed into the ground, spiteful fire(?) and ice colliding as she rolls, the fierce momentum of the hit sending her rolling; body thrown into the air only to crash violently onto the ground multiple times.
Goddess, pardon her vulgarity (though it weren’t as if anyone would be able to hear), but: Fuuuuuuuck.
She only stops when her back comes colliding straight into what was once a brick wall of a house; now only reduced to ruins. Dazed, she doesn’t even try to sit up; vaguely registering the feel of muck, ice, rubble, and a plethora of new burns on her body. Magic. Of course.
Well, at least she had more of an incentive to take those classes in Faith back at the academy... well, assuming she lived to get there.
If you asked her to describe what had happened, she wouldn’t be able to.
Bernadetta was getting a little sick of things happening before she could figure out the what.
Aeschylus raced forward to help them, like always. The giant monster attacked him in turn. He was raised, not dead, there was a light, still not dead, and then…
Someone was screaming. Lots of people? It took Bernadetta a moment to realize it was her.
Always quiet, Bernadetta, monsters will get you Bernadetta, the rat deserved it Bernadetta, Yuri deserved it Bernadetta, stop crying over a rat you worthless child or I’ll
A wave came gushing out from where the monster fell. It was unrecognizable, spreading out to cover everything around them. It rushed towards her and Bernadetta’s legs buckled and she slipped from the force of it, scream cutting short as she struggled to catch herself before she landed face first in it.
She couldn’t see Aeschylus anymore from where she’d fallen. Slowly, from the remains, rose up another creature, shrieking again as it rounded on them. Bernadetta struggled to fill her lungs with oxygen again.
“Huh? On the ground again, eh Bernadetta? You know you’ll never prove your father wrong if you’re always hiding your face like that.”
Bernadetta grit her teeth. Slowly, she managed to force herself back to her feet. Her bow was slick with the goo she’d stumbled through, but she held it firmly all the same.
She wanted to go home.
Looks like she’d have to fight her way there.
@ingridbgalatea
As always, the world seemed to turn without waiting.
Skin regains feeling as both Lorenz and Azura come to her side with aid, faith mending broken bone and charred skin, once wounds torn asunder, stitching back as one. Ingrid barely has time to truly feel it; adrenaline still pounds past her head— like a porcelain doll unknowingly repaired. Although she was not new to the magic of healing herself, the sensation of it was so much more jarring than if she were to let it heal alone.
Ingrid hears and understands Lorenz quick enough to act; rolling out of the way with a dexterity unaffected by snow. She nods to him in thanks, turning back towards the beast; she had to find another opening, even if it would end up as disasterful as her last attempts—
Green eyes go wide when Aeschylus, for any and all intents and purposes, strides forward; machines beside him to meet the beast. Shouts and screams are audible, piercing through the dull, loud roar of the beast and its noises. He shouts, making himself heard over the unending cacophony; and before Ingrid can blink, black is splayed- spattered over the ground and his clothes and the beast is sputtering, falling, crashing to the ground.
Ingrid almost isn’t listening, because she wants to run; run forward towards Aeschylus, run forwards towards the beast, but the words that come after that defeat ground her to the spot. Scraping, almost venomous; she considers running the words once through on her tongue in spite of the million times they are repeated on her head, but fears she might just end up burning herself.
King Lambert is— ?
the same (but it should’ve not been the truth,)-
the... the people of Duscur weren’t—
[ she can’t seem to slow her breathing. ]
Was Glenn...?
1176.
breathe .
She... she had had a chance—
And if not to change his fate then maybe just to see his face again—
his death, all of those deaths; only fueled to kill more. and she’d believed in it.
what kind of ‘knight’ was she?
Ingrid’s chest is heavy, like the weight of too-thick an armour on her skin. She does not falter.
If the world— for she was sure that the Goddess would never bestow such a ‘fate’, even to those who would change it— was intent on prospering and inspiring a world built on the ground of scattered lies and unjustly glorified tragedy, there was no other option than to fix it.
Ingrid watches as a wave of black sludge crests over the land and those around her. Should she fall here, there wouldn’t be away to fix all that had been done. To deal Justice by her own hands. Swiftly, she dodges the muck; moving further away to reassess her position (if not, for the time, herself). Others hadn’t been so fortunate; but Ingrid knew that they would be strong enough to tough it out.
They would see the end of it, together— and at that moment, the shaft of her spear had never felt more comfortable in her hands (and with it, its purpose).
She can see the damage the monster is doing on her teammates. Luckily no one seemed to be critically injured or was in any immediate danger. She hoped it would stay that way. She gives the pole of her lance a small knock, just in case she jinxed it.
Lifting her lance above her head she runs again towards the creature, aiming for another one of its soft spots. Sharp steel meets… nothing.
Leonie: Missed! Titanus. ??/?? HP remains.
She pulls away, head turning in every which direction. Where did its leg go?It was so large, there was no way it simply vanished into thin air.
Just as she has the thought she notices the ground beneath her getting ever darker, a large circular shadow growing rapidly in size around her. Leonie looks up just in time to see a large leg come crashing down where she stood. A part of the machinery nicks her thigh, but the cut isn’t deep enough to do any significant damage.
???: Rolled 2 and 8 - Barely Hit! (-0.5 DMG to Leonie)
Leonie falls back again to regain her composure. Had she been a moment too slow the leg would have surely pierced through her.
“Tch. I need to get a good hit in!”
Next: @freliaes @aqura
The hit he took to his leg earlier continued to ache, but it was hardly enough to impede his movements. Innes keeps a watch on his teammates, on the mechanical beast’s condition, and once he spots an opening, he takes it.
Innes attacks! ( 15 -2 = 13, +1 dmg thanks to Steel Bow ) / Deals 2 damage to Titanus.
Innes maintains a good distance as the creature attempts to crush Leonie—a wave of relief momentarily washing over when the girl dodges—and the prince lowers into a crouch, carefully aiming his bow before firing another shot. This one hits the beast right in the joint that separated arm from torso, and in response, it turns to face him, veins glowing a bright blue.
Titanus misses!
Having seen this attack before, the archer ducks to the side just as a beam of magic is sent his way, grimacing as he rolls along the ground and back onto his knees.
Heat lingers in the air around him, scorch marks and melted snow in the spot he was previously in. He releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. That was a close one.
Flesh and blood mix into a cruel sight to the eye, fabric that once covered untouched (to all but the elements,) skin now charred and singed, black sticking to wet shades of red. Ingrid’s left shoulder and arm had taken the most of the hit, magic charging through her body— still yet to dim into less than a roaring ache in her bones. This wouldn’t do at all. How could she continue to sideline herself, when the last time her teammates had needed her she was reduced to simply helpless? The thought dulled the pain marginally, adrenaline sparking blood to the tips of her ears.
Slowly, hopefully careful in motion, Ingrid loosens the grip on her spear; lets pain shove itself to the back of her head. It’s all in her head. That’s it. Paper that turns to glass turns to steel, and her resolve grounds itself into both soul and mind. She straightens, pushes her body back into gear and charges, breath pulsing almost as quickly as her heart, ice and beat thrumming into ears as she jumps, and pierces into the monster.
roll (attack); 17+2 = 19 (critical hit.)
The beast roars, blue flaring up over it’s body. She pulls away faster, this time; unwilling to make the same mistake. But, as it so happens— she hasn’t quite learned from the past all too well, and, again, the left side of her body goes numb.
roll (titanus counter); 1 (magic), 18 (critical hit.)
The blonde’s body is tossed to the side like a ragdoll, the remains of the beast’s magic etched onto her skin (and there was less of a doubt that it would leave a permanent scar). There’s a faint— quickly increasing— sense of iron on her tongue, and whether it was from the beast’s attack or her own teeth piercing through the flesh that laid in her mouth, she couldn’t tell.
Laboured breaths escape her, huffs that both warm and cool the skin on her face. She can’t feel her left arm anymore; but she’s too terrified and hurt to even try and check the damage.
Alright. Lorenz could do this. Passion, dismay, fear, all that had seized him beforehand he pushed aside from his mind, focusing on the strength of the team he had behind him and the promise of victory. Energy welled up inside of him and his hair stood on end, lighting called from within surging forward with a powerful blast—
Roll: 2+2, 4, MISS.
It didn’t feel physically possible to not even scorch the scorpion in front of him, large enough to level a town, but he stared again, looking back between his hands and the creature. Maybe it deflected electric magic. Maybe his own magic hadn’t fully returned to him, that had to be it.
Roll 1d2: 1, magic attack, roll to hit: 10, barely hit
Yet again the construct fired its own magic at him and Lorenz still sprung out of the way, just with a singing burn to his arm where it joined his burn scars. This was ridiculous. This was a stupid way to die. This was the worst… no, one of the worst days of his life, embarrassing himself in front of everyone he knew twice in a row like this. “YOU’LL SEE!” He shouted, feeling like a screaming ant. He waved his arms and even stomped his foot as he readied another spell, dignity gone for a moment along with his horse. “I’M JUST TOYING WITH YOU! I’LL STRIKE YOU DOWN IN ONE HIT!”
Next: @aqura or @ingridbgalatea
Form and stance came to her easily. Confidence, however, did not. Ingrid squints, eyes narrowing as Cynthia is thrown backwards into the sky; and her frown grows when her attention moves to Lorenz, not far away. Magic sparked at his finger tips— something Ingrid could always admire and, to her own faith, never pursue personally,— and she watches it release like the string of a bow and fly and ultimately... miss.
She grips her lance harder when Lorenz narrowly avoids the brunt of the creature’s attack, eyes tearing away from the wound it had made on his arm, adding to the injury. Blocking out his shouts and whinging, Ingrid strides forward; momentum undisturbed by the snow below. Her thighs flex, her feet dig into wet dirt, and she jumps— weapon raised high above her with her target so clearly below.
roll; 10 + 2 = 12!
Iron clashes against the skin of the beast; and through the shaft of the weapon, a furious roar reverberating through both iron and wood. Unwilling to stay close, she moves backwards; but she’s not quick enough.
roll; 1 (magic attack.), 17 (critical.)
Magic rise out of the metal creature— attention snapped on her, clearly choosing to not squander it’s attention. Ingrid turns to see it, and lets out a noise that’s a frustrated mix of both a grunt and a groan. Perhaps if she just sprinted further away, if there’s more time, then—
Pain flares through her back, flame and electricity licking into skin and flesh. She nearly collapses, but manages to pulls herself away, further; blood soaking into the snow as she limps into safety. There was a healer— and thank the Goddess, because she needed it.
☆ — she could cry. like, she could genuinely, actually cry. it’s literally a breath of fresh air when they step out into the open and cynthia’s almost ready to burst into tears the minute she sees the sky ( clouds and all! ) even as the cold of the winter bites through. snow! she can see snow! oh, she hates the cold, but she’s never missed the cold so much than she’s missed it now her entire life! and the trees. after having tripped face-first into the snowbanks, cynthia’s off and running before anyone can even stop her, though ingrid trails behind her at a relative pace along with the others.
it’s upon arrival to the village that the pegasus knight has to remind herself that they’re not in the clear yet. clear from the other agarthans for now, but —
not from the cold and sure as heck not from whatever the heck else was going on. her priorities shifted, she heads to the nearest tavern ( where else did you go for answers? ) and asks the first person who makes the mistake of looking up at that. ’ — 1176. ’ ’ — WESTERN CHURCH. ’ that meant they were, where were they? she went on that mission. they had crest stones then, she thinks. but, that was before. this is old. she sighs, dragging her nails down her face. man, she thought she was done with all this time-traveling junk a while ago! like, a whole war ago! whatever.
it’s just as she’s about to leave that the innkeeper calls to her, asks her where she’s been and where she was going. “me and my friends were planning on staying the night outside. i was hopin’ we could get a tarp or somethin’! but, then i remembered we don’t have any money, so.” her head drops, the ceramic strawberries in her hair clicking together with muted disappointment. “it’s okay. we’ve been through worse.” literally. but, she looks up just as the innkeep offers to spare them a room. free of charge and she’s almost ready to cry. again. her head turns in ingrid’s direction. and oh, she’s already crying.
Words escape her when cold comes to bite her tongue instead, ice picking at skin and dried over lips almost feverishly. Skin scraped and bloodied on her knees— for how long had they been crawling? — meet perfectly white know, purity unrivaled by less else that Ingrid could think of. They’re out. They’re out. Oh, how less of a care she could give to how stupidly she was grinning, pleased huffs and quickened breaths slowly unfolding into a laugh.
Goddess, she could’ve been in hysteria, had the faint rise of ashened smoke rising steadily into the winter sky not given her the ground that she so lacked. Green eyes shift; she watches as Cynthia — sprawled in the snow like a joyous dog in sopping mud — picks herself up, face wet with ice and white, and generates relatively the same idea as she had. A call to the others lets loose from her lips, and Ingrid begins to jog (she knows that the others will follow,); calm in chasing the other girl with a giddy skip in her step, nevermind how deep her own feet would sink into the snow. They were in a town.
While the others had held off; staving away from people, given the fact that three of their party were otherwise (not to say that they were not people— Ingrid knows full well that they are; even despite the first impression Aeschylus would beget), she and Cynthia had wandered into an open tavern. Hardly her idea, had Cynthia immediately began walking off without her counsel (though she followed her anyways); it was, admittedly, a good place to start.
A welcome change from winter’s night to crackling hearth, the blonde’s cheeks flush; pertinent red and pink that blooms on her face in retaliation to such a difference— though the effect is shortlived. Cynthia storms in, headfirst as she wills to be often, and when a customer finally (though it doesn’t take long,) gives in and answers her, all colour drains from Ingrid’s face. She blinks. Western Church. 1176. Ingrid presses further, without thought: a town named Aerilon. So deprived of knowing, the information comes as a shock, processing slow. This year... and where were they? Aerilon wasn’t known to her; not familiar to her knowledge of Faerghan lands, at least. Subconscious forces, syllables lie on her tongue; rolling on and off, again and again; with every repetition, her mouth grows drier. It’s impossible, she wants to believe; and that want festers so desperately in that iron cage of a heart, should Glenn both be alive or, dead or, soon— beyond one worldless gate and before another. A demented joke? It sounded less than possible; at least, that’s how the person who’d chosen to answer Cynthia had made it sound. So nonchalant, so relaxed... the answer had fired back nearly as spontaneous as the question. what....?
Ingrid shakes her head, shoves the thought away; her own, personal conflicts lacked the importance as of now.
When it seemed like they weren’t going to know anything beyond what vague of an answer they were given by the customers, the innkeeper calls out to them; gruff voice clear above the other shufflings of the bar. Words fly from Cynthia’s mouth before Ingrid can advise caution; but she doesn’t spill more than what she’d ended with, so a sigh of relief is given. An unsure expression is worn on her face when Cynthia’s head droops, sulkish (and Ingrid can almost sense the sad pout that the other girl had), but quickly morphs into a confusing mix of both shock and delight when the news of the innkeeper’s generous pity makes itself known. She turns to Cynthia as she does the same, mouth agape at both the innkeeper’s generosity and... Cynthia’s tears? Oh, goddess...
Between bowing in thanks (the innkeeper had argued it ‘too excessive’,) and helping Cynthia snuff her snot and snivelling, she pulls her hurriedly (but gently, unlike before,) outside, hand around hers. “That was... amazing,” of which she were referring to, be it Cynthia’s skill of persuasion, or their sheer luck, Ingrid would rather not differentiate; breathless words of praise. It takes little time for them to meet with the rest of their group, immobile in the cold as they waited. With smiles (and tears, though they would be seen as happy ones,) on their faces, it was well of the group to expect good news.
“Cynthia has managed to get us a night’s stay at the town’s inn— free of charge,” though her voice is hoarse, it’s easy to recognise how pleased she was through expression and tone alone. Then, it shifts. “But we should proceed carefully.” Her eyes move; mind bringing thought of Hesperos, Eos, and Aeschylus, and doubt following immediately after. How would... Agarthans be perceived by the townspeople? She argues, hardly kindly. “To my knowledge, the room we’ve been given isn’t large.” Then, she turns to the Agarthans, sheepish; but not meant unkindly. “That, and we have the problem of... sneaking these three in with us.” She decides to leave all other information procured for when they were more properly settled.
Fingers claw at sheer surfaces, digging into breathing holes, food holes, anything they can get into.
Thunk.
Another slam of cuffs, chains lashing against the very prison they serve in a desperate bid for freedom. Vaguely, Lorenz and Ingrid register in her mind, a part of her grateful they took watch over their unconscious allies.
Thunk.
Slower now, every flail taking a bit longer inbetween to catch her breath. The rat’s stench is hideous, but the impenetrable still separates Selkie from her prey.
Thunk.
Trembling, her arms raise one more time, only to stop mid thrust, a familiar hand present on her shoulder, petals brushing the tips of her ears so softly that even she would have strained to hear her own name whispered in acquiescence.
“Azura…”
Flames die down to embers in her eyes, locked on the motions of a worn out maiden, up to her arms, still locked in position as if waiting to strike again. There is no resistance to be had as Azura brings down the kitsune’s arms, only the slightest tremble as adrenaline begins to fade.
She understands, of course. Whatever Solon did would sap their strength more, exhaust them, send them to the realm of dreams once again. Still, the fire that burns inside cannot be so easily quenched, and her fingers hook into their perch in the wall once more, ears moved up close to hear something, anything from the other side.
At first, there is only silence. A familiar croak, however muffled, begins to arise, and in her best efforts she trains her ears, tries to understand, but the language is foreign. What she could glean, however, was that it was a command: barked out harshly and with the hints of frustrated curiosity behind it.
As if on cue, footsteps fill the hall once more covering Solon’s voice once more. Yet as her eyes gaze into the darkness, they make out the form of two more guards, larger, stronger looking than the last.
“I think the others got out,” Selkie lets out as she turns back to face her companions. “A lot of guards, and some big ones, too. They sound… close.”
Finally, her eyes drift back to Azura, barely standing beside her. A whisper to match her own, “Are you okay?”
@ingridbgalatea
A slow nod is all she manages when Lorenz’s voice reaches her ears, her teeth numbing her bottom lip as she continued to bite down. They manage to set Bernadetta against the wall; prop her up. Ingrid leans down, eyes glazing over a small part of Bernadetta’s neck that Lorenz had started to fuss over— the colour that starts to bloom there is ugly from the start. Her brows knit, a frown illustrates her concern. They couldn’t afford to have one of them injured here... It’s hard to hear, but she can make out Lorenz’s voice, opposite her. Such a feeling was familiar enough. Raising an arm, a belated attempt at comfort— she places her hand on Lorenz’s shoulder and squeezes softly; a sympathetic smile that plays less on her mouth and more in her eyes.
‘we’ll be ok.’, a wishful affirmation. repeat, again. over and over and over and over until it is true, again and again and—
Her gaze briefly raises (as her arm falls,) when Azura starts to wake, following her form as the songstress begins to stands, staggered. Ingrid shuffles; she begins to stand, ready to help the woman walk, but finds that Azura can manage on her own. Hands reclaim their place at her sides, and her eyes stay on Azura until she reaches the front of the cell— (raises her hands, put another’s down.) and exhales, shakily. She turns back to Bernadetta, watching, waiting, wondering when she would wake as well— she knew that it was possible, now.
All Bernadetta had to do was blink, ...but the girl still seemed to be in the worser position of the two.
Ingrid pulls her knees to her chest, hair falling into her face. She is far from asleep— how could she, when fear seemed to override every calming emotion?— and keeps her eyes on the sides of the cell, trying to peer past the walls; where was that disgusting, wretched bastard? What was he planning with them? Why this? Her head turns to Lorenz, fast enough for her hair to whip at her cheeks and force her to suppress a cough. She pauses before she brings voice to her questions. “Lorenz,” her voice is rough, “what do you think they— he, plans to do with us here?”
Adoration is the blood that swims through a wide-eyed kitsune’s heart, eyes locked on the songstress as she worked her magic - and truly, was there anything else to call it? Even in this cage, with her hands tethered and cage locked on their hope, still she manages to sing, to sway, to make a performance of her most deadly and beautiful art. This is the warrior, the songstress, the hero Selkie looked up to so much, the one she owed her very life to.
[Roll to resist gas: 20!]
So entranced is she by her idol that the danger rising in her chest is ignored, smell forgotten to the music playing in her ears, in her heart - until its effects make themselves known as well. The songstress sways, her song departs, and a loud crack rings through the air, thoroughly grounding Selkie in the tragic reality of the situation.
“Bernadetta!” The cry rings out, nearly diving towards the little fledgling with whom she shared a cell - only for the ocean’s waves to take over her vision as they collapse, Azura joining in the fate of the timid student before her. Finally her nose twitches and the true source of the assault is revealed. Golden eyes flick side to side, tiny holes previously unseen making themselves known as the smell of a hideous rat forces through, assaulting the poor kitsune’s nose and sensibilities.
Frantically, Selkie races to place her ear next to Bernadetta’s chest, her own pulse relaxing just slightly at the realization that she was still alive and breathing. Next, Azura, thankfully confirming the same fate having befallen both of her comrades. The stink is overpowering, and she can feel it attempting to crawl under her skin, in her head, to overpower and detain, yet the desired result is the opposite - the fire, the anger burning inside ignites, rage quickly overcoming the distress that had just consumed her.
[Transformation roll: 9! Barely Resisted]
Azura could have been hurt. Bernadetta could have been hurt. Solon would sink so low - to assault them with gasses and chemicals a human might find undetectable! Thankfully, she was no human, a trait that both saved her and, Selkie determined, would spell the doom of their enemies and the escape of her allies. A growl as the fire consumes, and she leaps to her feet, cuffs slamming against the clear wall in anger as she snarled out at any guards, any being passing by.
“STOP. THIS. NOW!”
@ingridbgalatea
Still standing tall, hiding Lorenz from sight; Ingrid stood in place, wary. Her attention is fixed on Azura and her sole, unwanted audience on the opposite end. How long could she continue to sing? To push her voice so radically, to be loud; a definitive insult to the Agarthan that locked them in place. Nearly subconsciously, she feels her shoulders tense, pulled inwards— she may not be the most attentive to music, but she could tell when a song was reaching its end. Solon, too, starts to reanimate; no longer immobile, she watches as he comes back to life (or what little of it to come back to), and she shifts her weight to conceal Lorenz, behind her. It was silly, to believe that Azura’s song would last longer, drawing itself out in waves and crests, calling.
The singer ends her song, the last note a bittersweet cry amidst the noise beyond the corridors that slowly began to clash, again; a horrid cacophony bouncing off the walls, filling every bit of empty space. Solon blinks, eyes watchful; not the same as before. He steps away— Azura glares— and the shuffled footfalls as he leaves join the dissonance of noise. The blonde exhales, relaxing, if only a little. The noise had been too much for her before, but to hear it a second time was little less of a headache... what was this feeling? She’s tired, clearly; her body is worn through from exacerbation but, this wasn’t exhaustion— she felt drowsy, suddenly? Lightheaded, almost... maybe that’s the right word; she blinks. Her vision is... no, it’s fine. Her vision was fine. Ingrid blinks sharply, coughing; had this thick matter in the air always been present? Perhaps it is the worry, then. She shakes her head; it is only a cacophony— she can handle such trivial things. It is what she had trained for, had she not?
—The sharp, abrupt sound that comes next is one that Ingrid is not prepared for at all.
“Bernadetta!” comes the cry, but had Ingrid been any less stricken, she’d have heard the sound crack that came before it. Her eyes are wide— she moves towards the smaller girl, before Azura crumpled to the floor soon after, and she stops. Her knees nearly buckle; they skid against the cold floor as she kneels beside the blue-haired woman, pushing blonde hair out of her face. Panic overtakes her senses, pushes her hands to act when her mind does everything but; ( clear your head, Ingrid! ) and she moves the instructor to the side of the cell, propping her against the wall. Selkie had acted quickly, gotten ahold of Bernadetta as soon as she’d fallen. Ingrid nods when Selkie moves over to check Azura’s pulse. Both alive.
Disgust overrides her emotions; anger, infuriation, loathing, detestation. Without a lance, her eyes acted as her weapons— a furious glare sent in the misty silhouette of Solon; his eyes still visible through the gas. Lips curl into a snarl, nose scrunching. Never before had she wanted to harm someone so wantonly, without an order, a command. Her hands curl into fists at the thought, nails digging into her palm. If they had pierced her own skin, Ingrid had less than noticed.
Without a word, she watches as Selkie bangs against the wall; the sound of metal clashing against solid erratic and dissonant. Why? What point was there in...
she’s not sure whether the question is for Selkie or Solon.
The blonde raises a hand to her mouth, coughing into the hole of her fist. She carefully picks up Bernadetta, cradling the smaller girl as she placed her by the end of the cell, beside Azura— as far away from the gas she could get. It hardly seemed of any use, but if there was even a chance that it might affect them less... Ingrid pulls Bernadetta’s black cloak over her, trying to cover the Black Eagle’s mouth and nose. She looks at the archer carefully, and spies something on her person— a piece of fabric. Carefully taking it from the girl, she ties the cloth around Azura’s face, similar to what she’d done with Bernadetta.
Ingrid’s eyes water, slightly. Was there any end to this horror?
The time they’ve spent here is unknown— as is the concept of it at all. Taps against glass, the sound of rushed footfalls from the guards that hurried through the corridor; trying to count, a poor attempt at uniforming time; three hundred, three hundred and two, three hundred and three... perhaps, soon enough, her mind would wander further and fixate itself on Solon; watching with an anger-painted frustration as he blinked, eyes never leaving her and the rest of them in their cell. Her fingers start to tap, again.
it’s off from the beginning.
It’s interrupted soon enough by an order from one of the instructors, one she’d seen around both chapel and stables—Azura; the suddenness of it verily startling. Ingrid feels herself move towards the back wall, restlessness dispelled. Her back comes into contact with the wall (she gasps,) it’s closer than she’d thought it would be. Her eyes are trained on the blue haired woman, eyebrows knitting together in a mix of curiosity and confusion. Then, she begins to sing; fingers hooked through the holes in the wall, and it’s like nothing Ingrid has ever heard before, nor seen. A low gasp leaves her lips, watching as water started to appear around her, around the cell, pushed outwards and into the corridor.
Skin rubs itself heedlessly against metal, though the closer Ingrid pushes her wrists together, the more it simply reddens; there’s nothing to be gained from this needless... fidgeting. Her hands are sore from trying; but if anything at all, the desperation of moving freely pushes her to continue. An indignant stubbornness sings in her chest, and she frowns, head turning— there must be something that she could do while Azura was...
—what is Lorenz doing?
Ingrid squints at the purple-haired member of the Golden Deer, sat down facing opposite of their watcher, Solon. Away from the Agarthan’s watch; though he looked immobile, his eyes continued to stare— Lorenz put himself at an angle that was questionable, to say the least. The person who’d previously set nearly everyone in their cell on fire, save Bernadetta, was... doing what?
( Whatever it was, it looked— painful, possibly. )
Still, she continues to watch, wordless. His hands are obscured by the rest of his body, and if there’s any noise he’s making, it is drowned out by Azura’s singing. Then, a crack. Ingrid stares, face morphed into an expression she can’t quite describe herself. The noise is sharp, out of place; she wonders if Solon had heard it, beyond Azura’s voice, then prays not. Such a sound could only mean that Lorenz had-
The noble questions himself, incredulous, and answers Ingrid’s own. He jolts, jerking backwards, then laughs, and she shifts over to him. Solon’s attention was divided now, but if he was loud enough his gaze might just-
The blonde acts quickly, sidesteps just fast enough to obscure Lorenz from the Agarthan’s view; though she hadn’t quite needed to. She pushes Lorenz’s arms out of view with her hips, eyes trained on Solon, whilst he kept his eyes on the dance, frozen. Ingrid nudges at Lorenz with her foot, pushing him backwards slightly. Her head tilts, gesturing to his hands, now free. Her voice is quiet in comparison, but between the two, loud enough to be audible. “How?”
Bernie was still sniffling as she approached her classmate. It was a dumb idea, but it was worth a short, wasn't it? "H-hey, Ingrid? Do you remember that time you broke down my bedroom door?" They might be in a strange place with things they'd never seen before, but metal was still metal, right? "Do you think you could maybe try breaking the handcuffs like you did my door?"
She almost hadn’t noticed her approaching, at first. Her energy was meek and, in simple words, that of a wallflower, so the voice comes to her as a surprise. Ingrid hears the sniffling before the words, and she turns, still rubbing her hand gently over her wounds.
In all honesty, it does take a moment for Ingrid to remember that. She pauses, her face flushes, and she opens her mouth to speak. “Oh, yes, that...” well, she had ended up fixing her door (even sturdier than before, if she’d say so herself!), so the thought counted. “I remember.” What was the point of bringing that up now? It hardly seemed related to—
Ah.
Ingrid frowns, slightly; she’s skeptical of the idea, to say the least. Her eyes travel towards the cuffs and for a moment, she struggles against them— tugs her wrists apart and flexes all the muscle on her arms with nearly all the strength she has left. She doesn’t feel the skin on her wrists freed; instead, the hard push of cold metal on her hands and a disappointing load of frustration. Ingrid shrugs, sheepish, towards Bernadetta. “I don’t think so. This metal seems to be sturdier than the metal back at the academy, so no such luck, I suppose,” Ingrid glances towards Lorenz. “I mean, if a crest-enhanced fire spell didn’t do the trick, I’m not sure if I can manage by brute strength alone...”
☆ — “huh?” she replies, watching as the good professor takes a spin on the glow box instead. “oh, my name’s cynthia!” the pegasus knight chimes, flashing a smile in the other girl’s direction before her expression falls solemn again as she watches on. her chin cupping her hand, cynthia nodding along thoughtfully. oh, so that was how the experts did it, huh? man, the professor was so brave. and so smart! she would have never figured out how it was supposed to work otherwise. not with all her yelling, her hoo-hahing at the darn thing. this is how the professionals did it, huh? man, she even feels smarter just watching!
cynthia nearly screams when the hatch to the machine swings open, reeling back with her hands in front of her face.
slowly, her fingers separate and she peeks through the cracks.
no, no arrow? no ax or trap to suddenly dodge? arms drop back down to her sides, pigtails swinging wildly as she looks in the other girl’s direction with a shrug of the shoulders as he closes the box again. the machine whirs and she isn’t sure why the noise is being made. there wasn’t anything wrong with the frozen thing, was it? oh no! she ate so much of it! oh, she hopes she doesn’t whrrrr later too. ( haha, just kidding. she knows she won’t. mostly. she’s pretty sure she won’t. that’d be like thinking swallowing a watermelon seed would grow a watermelon tree! )
again, the hatch pops open and it’s warm.
“whoa!” her head swings. “let’s put like ten of those boxes in it and see what happens!” maybe it’s best, after all, that they hadn’t figured out how to work it.
Ingrid’s attention is briefly brought away from the device and back to who had just introduced herself as Cynthia. “Oh, a pleasure to meet you,” she’s not sure how much that statement is true, but she’ll believe herself for the moment. “You can call me Ingrid.” She returns the smile, lifting her shoulders— and just as quickly, they fall back into a straightened line. She stares wordlessly as the professor continues to work his hands with the machine, and furrows her brow when his hands linger on a certain button; then the sound of a soft pop, and the device door opened. A smile broke out on her face, and she’d nearly been able to thank the professor, before almost jumping backwards in shock. Was... was that noise from Cynthia?
( ow, her ears... )
She looks at Cynthia when the girl turns to her with a bewildered look, rubbing her ear— the expression she wore herself wasn’t of much help. The professor shuts the door of the device again, and Ingrid feels herself relax. She looks back towards Cynthia. What was she asking her? It seemed harmless, at most... Well, Ingrid supposes, aside from the fact that, when it re-opened, it was notably warm. Her hands raise instinctively towards the cuboid machine, relishing in the heat.
With a nod of agreement at Cynthia’s suggestion (or, at least, part of it), Ingrid raises the box that the professor had brought along with them and placed it neatly inside the device. Closing the door, she presses the buttons by the side; she was pretty sure this was how the professor did it. When the machine starts to sound again, Ingrid lets out a breath of relief, and waits.
Without knowing how much time had passed, nor particularly paying attention, the door of the machine opens again, and Ingrid takes care in removing the box from the inside. It’s hot, which is obvious, so she makes haste in setting the box down, and out of her hands. After she’s sure a minute has passed— probably enough time for the food to cool—, she takes a piece of bread out of the box and squeezes it.
Oh, thank the goddess...
Ingrid blows on the warm bread a few times, before taking a large bite— covering her mouth with her other hand as an afterthought. Oh, that’s bliss. An appreciative sigh escapes her full mouth; the others would love this. She gestures for Cynthia and the professor to take a piece, and makes a note to reheat the contents of the box before bringing them back for the others.
☆ — she’s pulled to her feet before she even realizes that she hits the ground. her fall is mercifully gentle with the exception of the bony elbows that jab into her side just as she tumbles over. but before she can even begin to apologize for crash landing, she’s picked up and it’s kind of? well, it’s weird. it’s really weird. she doesn’t like being picked up. not because of the height thing or anything, but just kind of because it’s super uncomfortable. every step, every harried breath is met with a jab of something in somewhere and all cynthia can do to make her discomfort known is grunt every time there’s a speed bump in the other pegasus knight’s sprint away from their pursuers.
the ows, however, are left unsaid, even as tempting as it was to remind her that cynthia was not a sack of flour so much as she was a person.
( really, she could have just put her down and cynthia would have been able to run just fine. )
it’s only when they whip around into a tight corner that cynthia’s still, her mouth sealed shut even as ingrid levels a look at her that she would normally deserve if she felt like she had done anything wrong. her breath held, her back to the wall and agate eyes are trained down the alleyway. waiting, looking for a shadow — what was the best way out? they could either run to the end of the path or, her gaze flicks upward, or they could climb that way. there isn’t much in ways of a foothold or handhold, but beggars aren’t choosers and they haven’t much in the way of options. brute strength aside, the guards had weapons — the harsh voices rise above the silence again, clicking and growling in a language she recognizes only to belong to the guards.
it’s only when the footsteps fade that cynthia allows herself to breathe as ingrid sets her back down. for all those five seconds of peace was, she turns her attention back to the other girl as she grips her shoulders. snaps at her, so proudly. ( why does this remind her of someone she knows? ) her hand lifts, cynthia pushing aside ingrid’s hands from her shoulders. agate brown sets upon azure. ( for all her pride, there is a quiet shame that is left unspoken. ) “i was causin’ a distraction,” she replies, for once calm in exchange for her usual energy. “and i’m not rude, so i’m going to say thank you for helping me.” she tilts her head slightly.
“and i’m just gonna make a guess, ‘cause i know girls like you,” girls like us, she thinks, “so i don’t think you’re tellin’ me this to be rude. but, i don’t need you telling me things i already know, ingrid.”
her attention returns to the opening of the alley, pausing as she listens again for the sound of movement before she turns away from the other girl to leave. “c'mon, let’s head back. i think the others are probably waiting for us.” and she walks ahead, without waiting for her to follow.
Ingrid’s expression is stoic, a frown set deep in the lines of her face as her hands are shoved off Cynthia’s shoulders. With the little light that shines in their eyes, reflecting the world for them to see, Ingrid makes out Cynthia;s ever-present brown eyes in the waning darkness. She’s about to say something, and she feels the words rise from her chest to her throat, then her lips, crawling— but it dies there, and she closes her mouth shut. The sudden shift in Cynthia’s usual tone was... jarring? No, that wasn’t quite right. Faint emerald eyes watch, now unsure of how she should reply; if she should say anything at all.
She finds herself blinking at Cynthia’s words, more than a few times. ‘Girls like me...?’ she’s tempted to ask, but knows it would be an ill-fated question. Her lips part, but she’s too breathless to say a word; instead, she simply listens as the brunette continues to talk. There’s something almost crestfallen about the way Ingrid looked at her— it’s new, this. She’s so used to being the one to pick up after her friends, to be held responsible, the person people rely on; she realises, now, she’s treating Cynthia like Sylvain. Ingrid’s ribs close around her lungs.
(goddess, if she didn’t feel terrible deserve that sometimes,)
Ingrid watches as Cynthia turns, away, already starting to walk, and there’s something she wants to say— an apology, a sentiment, something at all, but the words don’t leave her lips. Something burns at the bottom of her throat. Her legs move before she wills them to. “Cynthia,” she manages, quiet; perhaps she hadn’t even made herself heard on purpose. ‘Cynthia,” again. “I’m—” what?
...sorry?
but, then again, saying ‘sorry’ feels so half-assed.
— it’s only one word, two syllables, less than a breath, and still it’s...
instead, her hands curl into fists, nails biting into the skin of her palm; and she walks, following the figure that seemed so distant to her now and the sound of footfalls that seemed to diminish with every step. Back towards their ‘home’ (though it is almost anything but). Ingrid knows nothing of what to say to Cynthia, so instead she’ll suffer in the hole that she digs herself.
Aeschylus watches her retreating, feeling himself relax the farther she moves away. He has noticed by now that the surface dwellers appear to bristle at the truth before, ultimately, sighing despondently as they accept it.
She speaks of rebels and Aeschylus’ head tilts.
“Those of which you speak must be allies of our Liberator,” he supplies confidently. “Like Nemesis of long ago, but - as it would seem - not yet powerful enough.”
Curious now, he takes a step away from the wall toward her. “Have you met one? A rebel.” A pause as he thinks for a moment, though his eyes remain on Ingrid, unblinking. “Perhaps that is what our Liberator wishes to do with you and your kind here - grant you power to aid us.”
Ingrid notices the way his head tilts in response to her speaking of disbelievers, rebels of the church; watches when his tone becomes confident and his stance more self-assured. “Is that what the Western Church was...?” She questions herself softly, her arms folding slightly closer. “Like Nemesis, allies to your... Liberator?” The very idea of Lord Lonato, Ashe’s father, working with these Agarthans was almost unfathomable to her. Even the thought was disturbing.
Her gaze fixes on Aeschylus as he steps closer. “Have I met—” her repetition of his words cut short. She had known Lord Lonato, and she had known those who had fought for his rebellion from the Western Church, but she hadn’t met them; or at least, she didn’t think so. Ingrid shakes her head despondently, then raises her eyes to meet his again. A skeptical expression clouds her features, brows furrowed and lips quirked into something of an almost disbelieving frown. “Grant us power?” She asks, without missing a beat. The part about aiding the Liberator is left unsaid. “What do you mean?”
