through thick and thin

— we'll weather it all! closed rp blog for edward from fire emblem: radiant dawn. golden deer student at the officer's academy.

[frauleindermorgen]

hug all your friends

[frauleindermorgen]

“Patience, patience,” Micaiah chants, a familiar litany though usually she is not the one to say it, for she trusts him and the others to run ahead of her just as much as she does when she needs them at her back.

To have the time to finally be arm and arm like this, however, was new and nostalgic at the same time and the warmth in Edward’s eyes as well as his solid form next to her keeps any further worries at bay.

“Mm… you’ve convinced me; if I go over everything I’ve learned with you in my classes I am sure to remember it better and I will have a more than worthy rival on my hands!”

Once he acquiesces she gives him a little push over the gauntlet section and sets to work finding his present, though it’s already foremost in her mind. She purchases a set of simple arm warmers when she knows his back is to her and has them wrapped in simple cloth for a fee, later she will embroider them herself with colors for each of the Brigade: silver for Sothe, blue for Leonardo, green for Nolan, gold for herself, and red of course for Edward,

One day, she hopes he will not need them for training at all. That, back at home, in Daien, he can simply use them for warmth and that they all might gather around a fire as they always have.

“Have you found anything?” She asks, once done with her quick purchase. “We can always come back another day too. I want to show you my room on our walk back!”

[justices-blade]

She's seen off with a bright, eager laugh, before his attention turns fully to the smorgasboard of gauntlets— Various metals and leathers and grips, some molding to his hands better than others, some cushioning nicer, some with wicked impact points. One-two, swap, one-two.

The thing with having so much variety is that it's so hard to decide! Edward knows one or the other thing about weapon weighting now, about materials and fits and all, but so many catch his eye that he ends up going through several and still can't decide.

Maybe plain is the call? Plain is fine. Do any of these iron gauntlets fit...?

It's during this part of the conundrum that Micaiah returns. Edward turns to face her, a different gauntlet on each hand, opening and closing his fists and listening to the gauntlets rattle, a pair of iron knuckles obviously set aside. He perks up. "I'd love to see, lead the way! Just—"

Hands outstretched and shaking themselves out. Rattle rattle rattle. "May-beeee? Help me pick! The left one is heavier, but a little softer on the inside... Does the right one look too tight?"

[justices-blade]

the tumpet. bwaaa // nasir + edward

rat orchestra comeback stage ☆ sword +1

[yukyunotabibito]

"I see," Nasir does not see. In fact, the more words this boy says, and the more than he thinks about it, the less sense it makes. Nasir is sure that Kurthnaga would be able to decipher all of this, and he was probably present at this "Etheral Ball" anyway, but Nasir is far from being Kurthnaga. And he is certainly far from understanding the babblings of a teenage beorc.

"I have heard the kidnappings yes, but it seems almost ridiculous to assume that it is the workings of rats, whether they are being framed or not," Surely the logical explanation was this was all done by people who were spinning such outlandish rumors that everyone would focus on those instead and by the time they realized the truth, it would already be far too late.

Or it really was these rats. Though Nasir did not want to have to entertain that thought for very long, if he had to at all. Honestly, he almost hoped it was the rats, just so he could at least have something ridiculous to laugh at. The obvious, and logical, explanation was rather boring after all.

"Alright then, allow us to assume that the rats are guilty for now and start from there," Guilty until proven innocent, right? That was the saying; wasn't it? "Please do take the lead on this investigation, dear boy. You are far more knowledgeable about the workings of this academy, and these rats, than I. Where do you reckon we shall start then?"

[justices-blade]

A hop, a skip, and a tumble of logic. "Wait, why are we assuming the rats are guilty if it's so ridiculous that they would be the culprits?!"

That's certainly not how Nasir meant it, but definitely how Edward understood it, and if he heard that saying he would most definitely disagree— But, well, it wasn't said out loud, so does it really matter that much? Heck, maybe someone drawing weird conclusions will actually help, two heads and all.

With that thought, Edward moves on from this dilemma with characteristic sunny briskness. After all, they are dealing with something a teensy bit time sensitive, and either angle would lead to the same place, anyways:

"The town! It's where most run-of-the-mill musicians stop by, and where the rats decided to start showing up—" his hands come up, fingers wiggle conspiratorially as his voice drops a notch. "If rumors are to be believed."

A broad wave, a brisk walk. "We could also check the chapel before w set out, since they do do music stuff in there... Or the walls, since that's where the rats have their towns? Actually, that might be a good idea..."

[princessmacedon]

solace in the abyss

[princessmacedon]

Maria trusts Edward in this like one trusts the sun's light to be warm -- a trust akin to knowledge for its surety, and certainly not divorced from it, yet more and gentler: felt, and reciprocated. It's in his eyes every time she speaks to him, each chipper story shared the harvest of seeds sown long ago.

Edward loves. He loves the people around him; Maria thinks just maybe he loves people. But what time has yet to make clear to her, his warmth has shown her enough to trust, and to believe. And how he matches the beat of her drum, in this! A sprightly tempo, but a resonant note; the little cleric giggles in appreciation of his performance. He seems to understand much better than she how 'reconnaissance' works, but-- well, it soothes her once to know, and again to see this little, precious kindness.

"Who she was..." Maria echoes, and something twists in her heart. Not a knife-- not so sharp, not so painful-- but perhaps a tendril of ivy, quietly wistful. Who she could be again, she thinks to herself, perhaps because she chooses to believe it; perhaps because she must. (Not again, not really... but there must be a future where she does not have to keep holding her hurt in bleeding fists.)

A hand rises to cup her mouth. Can I hear more later? She mouths, eyes wide and pleading. She hesitates to ask more in front of the girl herself, but curiosity abounds. The corners of her eyes crinkle warmly, only to blow wide in awe as she turns her attention to the little creation in Edward's palms.

"Meliboeus? They're so cute!" Leaning forward, she tucks her hand beneath her chin and waves, stifling her laughter only enough to hush its bright edges. "I used to have one, too! Well... kind of! He was a plant!" Stepping back, Maria straightens up as her co-conspirator keeps a careful vigil, triumphantly patting her leg.

"That's all! ...For now, hee hee! I didn't want to bring too much." The remnants of her scrapped plans sit on a plate in her room, in fact. "What about you? Do you need to get anything else?"

[justices-blade]

For what it's worth, and it's worth a lot; Edward trusts in Maria's love just as guilelessly. He's trusted it from the moment her first thought was a favor with no thought of repayment, their reunion the conclusion of a rosy little game, each kindness spilling from her hands like water from a spring, clear-running and life-giving.

The brook babbles and bubbles, their hop-skip beat linking hands and swinging arms and singing as long as the corridors will allow— Even a playful hum, carefully under the breath can be a work song, folk song, lullaby, street-game-rhyme, surviving and passed down through generations by the act of singing itself.

A little wink, another flower in their silly bouquet. of course, he mouths back, casting another glance to the cell door, then smiling widely. Little plush Meliboeus wiggles again, romps around the space between them. "You think they could meet?" he half-jokes, half-hopes. He's clearly abundantly fond of the little blob himself, clearly curious about Maria's friend, himself.

"Nope," He pops the 'p', cheerfully, "I've got everything on me, so we're a-go!"

And so up goes the other pant leg, a little bag falling out into his palm; a mix of nuts and berries, a lot lighter than what Maria has in mind, meant for after and in-between.

A cursory glance around, a creeping-closer. He leans against the cold stone wall.

Quietly, warmly: "Pasithee?"

[justices-blade]

☆ APRIL 2025...

status: hiatus

skill points acquired: 0 total skill points: 48

threads not yet allocated to mastery: 45

[justices-blade]

☆ housekeeping announcement

// [drags myself out of a ditch] i got too conceptually ambitious with the undertaking while i was still crashed out from project hell and just ended up psyching myself out all month so im just gonna announce it low effortstyle without actually doing it yet.

It's time for spring cleaning!! i'm going to be massively clearing out the current threads i have across both chad and edward.

more recently started threads that i still have muse for will be kept, but anything i'm going to struggle with getting back into is going to be cleared out. if you have an outstanding thread with me that you'd like to drop, now is a good time to reach out— anything dropped from this clearout i can just happily consider dropped from my end. Da Mastery/Skill Progress Is Yours.

more importantly, this also means i'll be way freer to pick up new interactions with new muns and muses!!! toa's grown a bit since i was in the tranches, and i'm excited to meet new folks and get into the swing of things again!!!

[justices-blade]

:TAILSTROLLED: DOES MICAIAH KNOW // pelleas + edward

weapon swap ☆ no point

[pirrhyc]

( fe10 part 3 spoilers )

    “ You were happy...? Truly? ”  Pelleas reacts with a more subdued surprise, his shock at this revelation allowing him to calm down somewhat from his mini descent into madness just moments before.  “ Even though I'd been giving you it to fight a needless seeming war... and I hadn't even had the courage to gift it to you myself... ”

It's still a moment of great shame for him in his history. Even if much of Daein had had no qualms in the hunts Pelleas had ordered out, he still considers it a great stain on his reign— an injustice to those who had agreed to follow him, thinking he would make their kingdom better.

Had he? Would he? It's tough to say.

But the definite proof Edward gives to counter Pelleas's fears give little for him to fight back on, further easing his worried mind, and so does his reassurance to help fight his battles against would-be ghosts as a friend.

(Though Pelleas hopes he can fight his own battles, frankly...)

All this allows him to stand a bit more confidently, Caladbolg in hand feeling ever so less burdensome.  “ Alright. Let's have a fair contest, Edward...! ”

And testing the weight of it in his hand, Pelleas kicks off the ground, bringing the blade up high.

Pelleas 10/10HP hits Edward 10/10HP with Caladbolg [Roll: 9; -3.5HP, Edward 6.5/10HP] Dazzle activates! Pelleas gains +6 avoid for the following counterattack. Caps at +8 avoid.

Unlike the heavy weight of his dark tomes, Pelleas feels so much lighter in motion, contrary to all his concerned expectations muttered just a minute prior, and his blade cuts down, just as strong as he imagined a national treasure of their proud country to be. Such weightlessness feels exhilirating to him, as he prepares to try and twist out of the way of the counter he anticipates, not bold enough to take advantage of the momentum and speed being a trueblade might afford him just yet—

[justices-blade]

An open hand is an invitation rather than a soliciation, and Edward is a friend, not a politician or a schemer— Doesn't even have the guile to be one, honestly, would get sick of the farce five minutes in. Should Pelleas see fit to trust him, he'll happily help bear anything he can, and even if he doesn't, standing by his side is more than enough; so long as he knows the hand is there, the door is open, the hearth is lit. He's a friend, reliable and steady in this aspect.

But, well, in this moment, he's also an opponent, so Pelleas better believe he's going to counter appropriately. Grey eyes spark spiritedly as he recognises the swordplay, the footwork, even as he's on the receiving end of the blade's bite— He's still quick on his feet, but the robes and tomes do sort of weigh a guy down...

Doesn't stop his reaction time though, that and the arena making up for his inexperience with the dark. A thought, a crackle of power, alien from the wind and light more familiar to him— Whispers and feelings and spiraling things and their vertices pass him faster than he can hope to comprehend, even after hours of study he'll never put in, but it coalesces at his fingers all the same.

edward counters with apocalypse! roll: 16 - 8. crit! 9 damage. pelleas 1/10HP. lifetaker activates! 3.5 healed. edward 10/10HP.

red phase: edward attacks with apocalypse! roll: 15 + 2. crit! 9 damage. pelleas 0/10HP. lifetaker activates! HP already full. edward 10/10HP.

Uh, maybe Pelleas could have been a little more bolder with thinking about dodging. The void yawns wide, uncontrolled, but potent, point-blank— Slamming shut like a salivating snap, all power, little finesse. There's some kind of rebound in it that makes Edward stagger back two steps in surprise. Is this what Pelleas' been packing?! "Whoa!!"

"That's cool!" Not like he'll ever be able to use this outside of here, so all the more reason to say it, right? A beat, before he scuttles over, extending a hand. "Are you okay?"

[freedomarrow]

It's a beautiful autumn day— Just cold enough for a nice coat, just warm enough to not feel the windchill, smelling of lovely, earthy things. Perfect for a walk or run, crisp air and sunshine and leaves crackling underfoot.

Leaves... A lot of leaves. Wait, that's actually way too much crackling and crunching, isn't it? There, listen:

Crunchcracklecrunchcrunchcrunchcrunch.

Oh you know what's coming.

"Leonardoooooo!!!!!!"

Clarion call, bells a-ringing, horn a-calling everyone home. Grinning bright enough to rival a signal fire, his smile might even be the first thing Leonardo sees of Edward before the gap between them closes at slightly concerning speeds— Were it any more elegant, one could call the movement to be something like a ship to harbor.

Alas, it isn't, and Edward simply barrels full-force towards his best friend, slinging his arms around him like they belong there, spinning both of them a half-measure from momentum alone.

Evidently, he's hale, hearty, spirits are all the higher for Leonardo being here; clearly, he'd been waiting to jump him as soon as he saw him. With that, Edward's forehead drops onto the other's shoulder as he squeeeeezes.

"I. Missed. You so bad." A beat in comfort. Then his head lifts, and he grins again, like a sunflower to the light. "Hi!"

Oh he sure knows what's coming.

Indeed, he'll recognize those steps anywhere - and so, by the time he runs to meet Edward's enthusiastic greeting, there is already a bright smile on his face.

"Edward!"

He holds out his arms, although they're not quite ready for the sheer scope of the joy with which his friend barrels into him, and he's forced into almost a half-spin as they finally meet. With the way Edward buries his head in his shoulders and holds on to him, one may be forgiven for thinking the two haven't seen each other in a decade, instead of some months.

Not that Leonardo minds, as he ever did not. In fact, he responds to the embrace in kind, holding on tight to his friend - as though he had worried that he may have lost him.

(From that alone, the conclusion can be drawn - that he knows what had happened here in Fódlan.)

"I've missed you too," comes the answer, almost slightly labored just from the loving squeeze alone - even though the archer had made no attempt to wrestle himself out of it. Only when Edward looks up at him does it become slightly more loose, and the radiant sunshine on his face is met with the warmth on Leonardo's own.

He's never been able to replicate the light that Edward emanates, but he is a bit more akin to a moon, he finds - reflecting that shine, and trying to take at least some of it for his own, in hopes that he can somewhat, at least, return it.

"How have you been? I've been worried about you and everyone here," he finally says. "I know a lot has happened."

[justices-blade]

Warmth in his arms, a beating heart and winded breath, the tickle of blond hair against his cheek, the smell of sea-brine and travel and the soap Leonardo uses underneath. Best friend, family, home, his heart sings, a bird on the morrow; doesn't matter how long you've been gone, you'll always be happy to come home like its been ten, twenty years.

Even if light's not reflected at exactly the same brightness, there's always other ways you feel that warmth, right? It isn't always light, but it's love all the same. A nagging word, a guiding hand, fond and firm and ever-grounding. Sure, he's taken it for granted a few times— after all, how can any one person know exactly how much you give of yourself, day by day by day—

Noone can, and that's just true. What's more important is that he doesn't, not this time, and hasn't really done so for a while. Edward knows Leonardo knows, and he can't really dodge the reality if asked point blank like this, huh? That just isn't fair.

He bonks his head back against Leonardo's anyways, still trying for levity, even while he's clinging to the other like they're surgically attached.

"We're all alive and in once piece," he starts, head rolling a little to the side, looking up sidelong, "and we're all hale enough to help with the rebuilding, too!"

Yep, that's pride in his eyes, alright. Ever the optimist. "Everyone's pitching in, helping eachother— Makes me think it can look like this all over Daein too, you know?"

And with that, his head droops onto the other's shoulder again, still beaming upwards. "It'll take more than that to get us down!"

[nevassan]

the study of lost things

mission board: restoration

[nevassan]

We’ll go together. 

Together. Sothe’s hands tighten in Edward’s shirt, a display of uncharacteristic clinginess — he needs to cherish the warmth of sunlight before this cold autumn, when there is no one here to judge him. Edward’s laugh shakes them both, reverberating in Sothe’s chest. An echo in an empty room, a fire in a freezing house. 

He squeezes his eyes shut and presses his face against Edward’s shoulder.

“We can help rebuild,” he agrees — there are people that need their help, still injured even if alive, and the common students with no money for lodgings and no comfortable family to return to need their justice most of all. “Together.”

It will be hard. They both know this. Alive does not mean okay. It does not mean uninjured, unscarred, untangled.

But alive is the first step.

“I’m… glad. You’re okay.”

[justices-blade]

"Heeh," he laughs, a bit like a deflating balloon. Despite the damp spot on Sothe's scarf, the mirth is very real. "I'm glad you're okay, too."

Words and warmth mirrored and stitched together again; it's more than enough, always more than enough. Edward basks in the unused-to affection because this too is sunlight in the fields, on the branches and leaves, and he holds and is held.

Alive is the first step, to hold form, hold firm, to hold and be held. To together, to come together and lift together. Alive and together, they'll manage forever. This, Edward has unshakeable faith in.

So, because he knows they can do all of this and more: "How long's everyone been back?"

His legs kick contentedly as he asks, eager like he never left. Still practically glued to the other, both of them still very much on the ground and in the dirt. Well, until Sothe starts caring, he won't either.

"Did I miss a lot? I'm in pretty good shape, soooo..."

[nevassan]

the study of lost things

mission board: restoration

[nevassan]

It does knock Sothe breathless, despite his attempts to stay upright - Edward is ever a force of nature, and he wouldn't stop him even if he could. Into the ground of full-blooms and dirt they tumble, and he finds himself putting his arms around Edward just as fiercely.

A heart beats against his chest. Breath tickles his neck, skitters over still-static skin. His hands find the back of Edward's shirt, wrapping tightly into the fabric.

"..I missed you too."

The words stick in his throat, too-sweet for him, but for family, he swallows the molasses and lets his heart free. He doesn't cry, hasn't cried in so long, but his lip trembles all the same.

He doesn't want to move. He could stay on the ground forever, uncaring of the grass scratching at his arms or the roots digging into his spine. Edward is warm, sunlight given breath.

"Micaiah's okay. Everyone's alive - I don't really get how it happened, but everyone's alive."

[justices-blade]

"Everyone..."

He laughs, shaking against Sothe as he does. It sounds impossible, especially with how many bodies he saw. But if Micaiah is safe and Sothe of all people is here telling him about it, then it must be true— Yes, it's bound to be. Trust, trust, trust, light bursting through clouds.

Even brighter; profound relief after being held aloft for so, so long. How did a month feel that much like eternity? The night is over, it's not winter yet. Here in the autumn grass and flowers, he is gratefully thawed.

Edward, sunlight given breath, as a rule, doesn't cry. But sunlight given breath doesn't become frozen for a month just like that, either. A lot of things had happened that they thought they could leave behind, and it's not like rules ever meant much to any of them, though.

"That's—" He hiccups, face rosy, smiling wide and real and warm. "That's great!" And he means it, and he is holding Sothe like a lifeline. "We can help rebuild, and it'll be good practice for when we'll keep rebuilding Daein, and we'll go together again—"

[nevassan]

the study of lost things

mission board: restoration

[nevassan]

Sothe does not have the distrust of reality that has been taught to Edward and Micaiah over these years of his absence. He trusts what he can see and touch and hear, and there is no mistaking the way his name sounds on Edward's lips. There is no mistaking the one he's trusted with his back.

"Edward," he breathes again, because there are no other words for him to say.

Unconsciously, his arms open. He's never been the hugging type, far from the welcoming sort, but there is a desperation in him that rare-blossoms into this shape. Loneliness, yes, but more than that, the dangerous folly he hadn't realized he'd learned, taking-for-granted.

How unlike him. How unlike the shadow to take the sunlight for granted, the very thing that allows it to be cast. How unlike the boys who had struggled to survive to take anything as theirs, to consider it something that they can always hold close to their chest.

[justices-blade]

— Edward crashes into Sothe with nothing short of his full weight— A swordsman barreling full tilt into a thief is hardly a fair equation, but he doesn't care if Sothe actually manages to catch him or if Edward gets the opportunity to pick him up and shake him or if they both simply go toppling into the dirt. Sunlight simply trusts that the shadow is there, because it is an immutable truth, a fact of life.

Sunlight trusts, even when it lies on the other side of the night, because it will return again. It just needs to last through that long, long night. He's sick to death of doubting.

— Collision. A kerfluffle of tired limbs and gangly frames. Edward doesn't care. Calloused hands press firmly to an entrusted back, face mushed into his scarf, crushing his family to himself fiercely, fiercely. Warm and solid under his palms. Pulse strong, just margins away from his ear. Edward breathes in, deep, and it smells of dirt and stone and mud and blood and sweat and residual smoke. It's real. Sothe is real and breathing and real.

"Hi Sothe." Edward mumbles, quiet and muffled. "I missed you a lot."

[nevassan]

the study of lost things

mission board: restoration

[nevassan]

Edward is missing.

Sothe is not altogether surprised by this - he tries not to be, tries to take the fact that Calabolg has not been found as a sign of survival and not loss - as he knows that to hide is the manner of survival for boys such as them. They are well-versed in the art of fleeing just as much as they are versed in the art of surging ahead, the animal's instinct of survival in their veins. When he has things settled, then, or as close to settled as they can get, it's Edward he goes to find.

Bring him back.

He has known Edward long enough to imagine a picture of what he could've done. Already he has not shown himself admist the tearful reunions occurring in the monastery-ruined-garden, even days after the fact, so Sothe pushes himself further out. The days of rest have not made him less exhausted, nor made his breathing easier, but the wind does not dare to stop merely because it is tired.

And so, neither shall he.

In the end, Sothe nearly misses it. Further out, but still on the grounds, where trees have grown dense between ruins and rubble. Plant life bears down upon him, casting plenty of shadows for those who seek to hide. He doesn't know what to credit it to - nervous anticipation, the years of familiarity, or perhaps even the awakening of dead hope - but when he finds footprints, rocks ever so slightly dislodged, he knows he has found another cornerstone of his home.

He sprints. It's careless, when he's still liable to stumble upon roots, when he's just as likely to startle Edward as he is to warm his heart, but if Edward flees from where he can reach he fears he'll truly never find him again.

His heart in his chest, in his throat, a one-two - bring him back, please be okay, bring him back. His body moves automatically, pushing him into the position of observer to his own desperation.

Stopping is sudden, and Sothe still doesn't know what to say. Between gasps of air, breathless, his fingers shake as he attempts to adjust his scarf in a show of brave nonchalance.

"Edward," is what he finally manages. "It's safe now. Come back."

(His voice trembles, unable to maintain a lack of affect. He is scared, more scared that he can dare to feel, when fear and rage are the last barriers before he cracks.)

@justices-blade

[justices-blade]

Sothe and Micaiah are missing.

It's been too long since they had been apart like this— Whenever the Dawn Brigade had split up, it was always knowing where to find them, knowing they'd be back together in a week at most. The chaos of the falling Monastery still replays in his mind's eye like the footfalls of Begnion soldiers, except the shift or armor is replaced with the whir of autonomous steel, the glow of anima replaced with flashes more like divine judgement.

It had been all he could do to get the few out that he could, but even beyond that, burning at the forefront of his skull, was only his family, his family, his family. It was only that adrenaline that had kept him on his feet that day. Yes, Caladbolg tore a bloody swathe through their attackers, but boys like them, with Nevassa singing in their blood, need to know when to abscond.

So he runs, because there is no light watching over him, no knife in the dark. He runs, because he trusts them and they trust him and there's no way in hell they could be dead.

Edward runs, because living's how he'll get to see them again.

Edward runs for weeks, doffing his uniform for plainer clothes, runs after hearsay of where those gold-black uniforms had been spotted. Runs over their tracks mere days after they had cooled, asking the townsfolk and helping where he could, because he's Edward and he misses the motions of home. Runs, too, into trouble, strikes and ducks away because he is just one boy in the alleys again, and he is alone. Everywhere he goes is another echo of devastation, not unlike those times with those far-off dreams.

He misses home. The warm hands, the twinkling laughs, the deft feet, the obliging scoffs. He misses home. His living, breathing home.

So recklessly homeward he runs when other words point him there. Compass-heart due north, running home, home, home, because surely hiis home is there, surely, surely, surely—

And when he gets there, the Monastery is bustling and beautifully overgrown, and it's... Wait. What is it? This doesn't feel right. This doesn't...

With a start, he realises he is wary.

Wary. A silver-haired maiden, a golden-eyed girl. In white snow baring bloodied steel, in the pitch dark begging for death. A lesson beat into him over the missions of the past two years: Trust not what you see.

He is wary. So for days. Days. He hides, and watches, and watches. Watches until the sun grows long. Watches until his eyes sting. Watches until, someone finds him? But, noone should be able to find him but—

A silence. Grey eyes are still bright, alert as ever, but they are tired, almost staring past Sothe as he approaches. Boys like them need to know how to see any exit to any alley, size up anyone at a glance. Weeks without another to rely on had hammered sunshine back into the shape of the shadow it casts, until Sothe calls his name.

And with that, Edward hears the shape of the place he is meant to slot into, and blooms into it.

"Sothe." A shaky breath. A step forward. He doesn't care if it's safe or not, actually, trust eclipsing all else in an instant.

"Sothe!" he shouts, hoarse, breaking into a run.

[justices-blade]

☆ JANUARY 2025 !

status: passed

skill points acquired: 1 (1 monthly) total skill points: 47 -> 48 skill point allocation: skill x () -> skill x ()

accessed: mastery: n/a

completed threads: n/a dropped threads: n/a threads not yet allocated to mastery: 45

[princessmacedon]

solace in the abyss

[princessmacedon]

Something in the feeling of soon-to-be-shared conspiracy emboldens her, a light subtly but surely cast over her expression. She shuffles closer, pausing to consider the way they look, as well as the place they're standing.

It's not the sort of precaution she's familiar with, but to her eyes, they're alone enough; anyone who might overhear them would be obvious in their approach. Relaxing a little, she leans forward in kind, patting her leg once or twice.

"I brought something for Pasithee," she says, voice not quite a whisper but softer than before. "I heard..." No -- she's close enough to see now, even if only somewhat. Coming close enough to peer into the cell, she sees... "I... saw--" Someone like this before. Pasithee had shown her. 'Is this your Daria?' Maria had asked. She still does not know what to make of the answer.

Fingers curl into her palm. "...she was trapped for a really long time," she finishes eventually. "And she did a lot of things." An understatement, perhaps, but neither of them truly need the explanation. Suddenly, she lays her hand across her heart, her eyes clear as she meets Edward's gaze. "I'm worried about her health! If she was trapped for so long, then it must have suffered! But, prisoners...!" Fingers score lightly into her coat. Their treatment can vary quite tremendously -- of that, she is all too certain.

Clenching and then unclenching her fingers, she lets some of her passion slip between them; when she turns her head, it is again to Pasithee, her voice gentle.

"I brought you food, Pasithee. It's warm and nutritious -- I made it myself! And I brought my staff, too. It's from far, far away just like me. I can heal some of your wounds, if you need me to!" With magic untouched by the church she so detests.

As ever, Pasithee's answer is silence. But Maria exhales softly, glad to have addressed the woman herself. Looking back to Edward, she holds a finger to her lips and gently giggles.

"Hee hee! Well... that's what it is! Will you help me smuggle some food, Edward?" Her smile unfurls, mischievously, across her lips. "I'm happy to give you a favor, too!"

[justices-blade]

For all her unfamiliarity with this kind of wariness, Edward knows it in abundance, and it comes to him as easily as the play he cloaks it in— A shared glance towards where she came from, an exaggerated squint as he keeps an ear out, the grin he answers her with when the coast is most definitively clear, senses still tracking everything despite how his head turns away, as easy as breathing.

It's why it's so easy to split his attention between that and what Maria tells him. Her words are safe with him, as is her intent, as are the care and gifts she brings, her own attempts to understand that girl behind bars; that's more or less what brought him here, too, and so their shared little conspiracy is sown to grow and bloom. Grey eyes follow her as she peers in, as she offers, softly, gently, hands open in a way that loves in the giving, pleads for its acceptance, delights even in the offering alone.

Even when walled out by stony silence. Both of them remain undeterred, beacause of course they do, neither able to leave well enough alone. He answers Maria's giggle with a snickering grin, like a child sneaking cookies rather than a potential insurgent corroborating with the enemy. Not that he particularly cares what they potentially look like, either— He won't just let someone rot away in irons, no matter who, and the only time where it matters what things look like is when they're seen.

The coast is still clear.

"Of course! Actually..." his face is already bright with mischief, and has been for a while; hands reach down to roll his pant leg out of his boot and pull out a cute little crocheted black blob, countless eyes stitched over and around the surface. "I brought gifts too."

His voice lowers, still unfond of talking over someone's head like they're not there, "I saw— Less of what she did. But where she came from. Who she was, before everything..." He holds up the little doll with both hands, squirms it around. "This is her imaginary friend, Meliboeus. She's a person with funny things like that, like you or me."

Another conspiratorial glance towards the exit, then towards the cell, the back to Maria; mostly for show to display that he's keeping a lookout, but it never hurts. "We can smuggle all of it, easy. You already brought everything, or are we taking a detour to the stash?"

[justices-blade]

:TAILSTROLLED: DOES MICAIAH KNOW // pelleas + edward

weapon swap ☆ no point

[pirrhyc]

( implied fe10 part 3 spoilers )

      It has been only three times in this life that Pelleas has ever held Caladbolg. The first time had been when he had just become King, and he was curious about what manner of items were now under his jurisdiction after ascending the throne. A lifetime of not having anything to being the sole person allowed to touch certain things at all had been a frighteningly exciting experience, forbidden seeming yet not at all in actuality, to the pauper turned prince.

The second time had been when he had decided he would hand it over to another. A treasured blade, a legend to Daein's trusted, did better to save a life in war than it did rusting in a vault. Not only that, but in a war so needless as the one forced by the gesturing of his hands done up in strings, all he could do to save those he could, even if he believed the end result would be the same, was an act worth doing. He had only hoped the line of kings before him would bless his choice, even as he hid behind the shadows of others to do it.

The third time is. Well. Now.

“ Ready? Oh, if you're asking me, I'm not entirely sure I'll ever be, ”  he replies, nerves already getting the better of him. He had decided he wished to train more with swords, always seemingly fond of them in the arena, chasing the legacy of a man he knows he shouldn't but...

It is one thing to hold a sword and another to be trusted to wield a national treasure!!!

“ I can't help but think, "What if I somehow break this?" Do you think ghosts are real, Edward? Do you think they'll haunt me for the rest of their days if that happens? ”  His voice rushes like a fierce gallop, hands trying to keep a hold of the magnificent weapon in his hand and not immediately just drop it on his feet under the sheer mental pressure it exert.  “ Was this how you felt when I asked Micaiah to give you Caladbolg? I'm terribly sorry if so. Maybe I deserve to get blasted for that, actually...! ” 

[justices-blade]

There's no helping the laughter when it comes— Warm, bubbling forth, genuine, flowing with Pelleas' train of thought instead of at it. Fondness pervasive, ever for those fretting over things he'd never thought to fret about.

Well, Edward does do less net fretting than most people, probably.

"It's okay, seriously! It's weighted really well, too, so it might be even better to start with." he insists between chortles, "I was really happy you trusted it with me, actually."

Really. Really! Caladbolg was a token of trust and hope to him, that Pelleas was counting on him, that Micaiah too saw fit to give him, that he had the strength to get everyone back home again. An extension of himself through which his own faith flows back to those who give it; how could he ever feel burdened by that?

Grey eyes gleam with mirth and pride. His hand moves, patting where the pommel would normally rest at his hip, instead patting the leather sheath that holds the darker of his two borrowed tomes. "And hey, if I didn't manage to break it during a war and then some, it sure won't now. And we're pals! I bet it wouldn't haunt you even if you did if I just ask it really nicely."

Smile, smile. His fingers drum contentedly as he walks onto the field proper; For each of Pelleas' nerves, Edward only shows genuine excitement, gently reaching out to pull Pelleas along. "Any blasting is just for normal reasons, promise!"

Feet plant into the dirt, calm and confident, the latch on his tome-holster popped open so he can switch spells more easily, Aureola's spine resting in his palm.

"On your mark?" He asks, a little nudge.

first round: pelleas goes first!

[floreix-deactivated20250406]

❀ · . My Little Kuranta: Friendship is Magic

Arknights AU

[floreix-deactivated20250406]

Another check-up done, Alfred thought to himself as he stepped out of the room. He was no infected but due his illness he got semi-regular check ups to make sure he was in good state and thus capable of fighting in the case the Pegasi was needed for an operation.

The results? Overall positive, they said to continue being active as he was but to balance it with taking a few days to rest—he could absolutely do that. And he would do that by heading straight to training of course! Resting would come, but after getting checked all over Alfred couldn't help but need to take some steam off before taking an actual break.

As long as the medics didn't find him doing the opposite of what they said, it would be fine.

And so, running as fast as he could so they would not notice where he went, the Pegasi rushed towards the training room. Each person he passed by got a hello, but he didn't stop to make some small talk as he usually would, part of him was enthusiastic—the other wished to work on his strength, he had to be on top shape if his teammates were to trust on him.

"Phew...!" He gasped for air at the sudden halt, perhaps he had gone too hard on the pace but nothing a moment of breathing could not fix. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out—A stop. "Oof...Good enough. Let's get going."

The Pegasi walked inside the training room with expectations of a solo session, but found himself surprised at the sight of an unfamiliar Vulpo already inside the facility. Truth be told, social as Alfred was, he didn't know his name—or rather, codename—yet, perhaps a good chance to bonding with yet another operator?

"Hey there!" A salute as casual and friendly as he felt fitting for the occasion, all spoken as he walked a little closer. He smiled once the other's face was fully visible and his own presence made perfectly known. "I'm Alf—i mean, Avenir." He still had to get used to being called by his codename. "Are you looking to train a bit?"

@justices-blade!

[justices-blade]

Despite his sunny disposition, Edward is still Infected, and for better and worse, profoundly shaped by Ursus, city and tundra alike. More used to roving across the barrens on foot, accustomed to monitoring conditions for potential Catastrophe, the perpetual low rumble of a landship is entirely foreign to him, kindnesses and charities extended to him catching him off guard every time they're extended. Yeah, he'll grin and bear pretty much anything and slip away if things get a little too hairy, but there's not really a lot to bear here in the first place...

Yeah, Rhodes Island is certifiably weird. And frankly? He can't even remotely bring himself to hate it. A good chunk of everyone's Infected, and anyone who's not clearly believes in what they're doing. He's too simple himself to anticipate another shoe to drop; after all, you clock whether people hate you or not in the first minute and you live or die by that judgement, most of the time. The Vulpo likes to think his is pretty good, most days.

What else is there to adjust to? Well, for starters, Rhodes Island is huge. Huge, cushy, filled with the most eclectic personalities and pretty much any kind of facility you'd need for a moving company to be nearly self-sufficient. No matter how much he explored, there was always someplace new to find, new faces to greet.

It feels, well. It feels good. To belong and be taken care of, for real this time. Almost too good? Either way, he's not looking gift pharmacists in the mouth. Sure, he still has to be at least a little careful with the cordoned-off bits, but that's fine. He is Ex-Reunion, after all, and despite everything that entails, he's not ashamed of it or anything.

Therefore, his target for today: The training room! He hadn't even so much as seen most of the equipment in here before, so a lot of his first visit was spend puzzling out how to uses them; some of them came with little diagrams, but he had to ask Plume to explain the rest. As for now, he's fiddling with the weights on a pullup bar when someone else joins him, ear flicking as he turns and looks up.

Without hesitation, said someone is met with an energetic wave and a grin. "Haha, I sure am! I thought I might as well make use of the facilities since they let me on."

"I'm Edward, callsign Siját! It's Ursine for 'shine'." He beams brighter.

"So, wanna join, Avenir? I can spot you!"

[justices-blade]

☆ DECEMBER 2024 !

status: passed

skill points acquired: 1 (1 monthly) total skill points: 46 -> 47 skill point allocation: skill x () -> skill x ()

accessed: mastery:

completed threads: ✦ dropped threads: ✦ threads not yet allocated to mastery: (45)

[justices-blade]

“ Good day, Edward. Are you enjoying the Winter Festival? ”  Pelleas greets the brunet.  “ As you can probably guess, I'm here to see you about that. If I'm entirely off-base with my choice of present, my apologies, but given your interest in it when we went to the illusory realm, I couldn't help but wonder. ”

With that, he offers a wrapped present box to Edward. Inside is a basic Light tome stacked below a journal. The journal already has a half of its pages filled out.

“ When I first got here, Micaiah and I had tried to study each other's magic types. I find the time she gave to me incredibly invaluable. I don't think I would've learned any light magic if it hadn't been for her help and her notes. So... I wish to bequeath them to you now, Edward. That journal should have transcriptions of our studies. It's mostly grammatical things about the Ancient Language and how to channel it when it comes to Faith in particular. 

“ I'd like to support you however I can, going forward, whether it be for this or anything else. I swear to you my intent not just as a man of Daein but also as... well, perhaps this doesn't sound as impactful as I thought it might, but... myself. ”  Slightly embarrassed by his own clumsy declaration, he presses forth anyway.  “ I-In any case, if you're not attempting to study it at all, hopefully the journal should still be able to serve its original use as, well, a journal, hahaha... ”

Edward, as always, perks up as Pelleas approaches; and for yet another year does Pelleas manage to find him first rather than the other way around. "Happy Winter Festival, Pelleas!" rings out in return, clear as a bell. "I've been having a ball! So, what'cha got for me?"

It's obvious he doesn't mind, though. This is always better than letters and parcels left behind, sentiment through the words of another— He's always loved contact, connection, and this is no different, pleased to be treasured enough to be sought, no matter the reason. He takes the present with bright gratitude, again not hesitating to crack it open and take a peek...

"Oh!" Edward can't help the excited noise as he flips open to a filled page, poring over familiar handwriting, words crystallising after a moment of squinting focus— He'd already be able to get a lot out of this since it supplements grammar where he waffles by in Faith rather than Light with nothing but instinct, because things always made the most sense when it was one of his dearest people saying it...

But these things aside, it's more than just that: It's notes, it's observations of two trained, different minds, it's warm conversation between two hearts he holds dear, their back-and-forth weaving a net of understanding of more than just subject material. This, too, is something he loves. After a moment, Edward closes the box and hugs it to his chest, beaming.

"Well, if I wasn't before, I definitely am now!" His fingers drum against the wrapping paper, warming briefly with Faith, humming with delight.

"My scores in all the technical stuff are kinda rotten, so this is a huge help... I'll make sure to come looking if I ever need help with this," his fingers tap against the parcel again, more insistently, "or anything else, really."

"And same goes for if you ever need me too—" He tucks the present under his arm, pounding a fist to his chest,

"For anything, as Edward!" mirroring Pelleas' declaration with as much weight as the mage had given it to him.

"Speaking of that." Pointer finger raised, 'wait up', as he stows the gift in his satchel and rummages for one of his own— Out comes something decidedly less boxy, some soft thing kept in a festive paper bag. When Pelleas opens it, he'll find a scarf and a matching pair of short, fingerless gloves, white material stitched with blue in a style he might recognise from elsewhere— Stain-resistant, comfortable and warm, functional and sentimental all in one.

"Here!" he says, simple and vibrant as ever. "Again: Happy Winter Festival, Pelleas!!"