Valter comes from after the events of Sacred Stones. He died(?) in Chapter 15, and although he won't be the one to bring it up in conversation, he's very Not Normal about the whole thing. The 'unkillable complex', as some may call it. Very bitter about it though.
As a Knight of Seiros, he will be doing his job. (If it doesn't displease him.) When he's not on missions though, he'll generally be training—that, or annoying people. Someone find this man a (non-violent, mildly productive) hobby.
When participating in missions as one of the knights, he'll generally wear the Church-issued armor (you can find it pretty easy with a Google search). In all other instances (including during his free time at Garreg Mach), he'll be wearing his own stuff though.
Which is to say that he's wearing armor at basically all times—and whenever he isn't wearing armor, he's not around other people. Always wearing gloves as well, meaning the only skin you can see is of the neck and up (when his hair isn't blocking your view).
Cis but definitely not hetero. Not certain what specifically, but that's not too important for him, so yeah. Men liker.
Was there anything so foul as pirates? Sigurd could think of scarce little that he disdained greater than those who gathered and rallied under the cause of giving grief to those innocent and oft unable to defend themselves. It was to this purpose that he had devoted his life and his sword, the cause that caused his very heart to beat. The attacks had been so consistent and so pointed that Sigurd had been eager to ride forth, to meet the threat as best he could.
Unfortunately, on two counts, he could not meet them in the sea to allow them to crash against the wall that he put up, no seaman in his own right. And on the second, another rode with him.
Sigurd made a face at the accusation, corner of his lip curling upward, just so. He had come to blows with this one before, and at a ball, no less, and although neither had come up victorious that had only seemed to spark the other’s confidence all the more.
As though an opponent unbeaten was merely a comma, and not the end of a sentence.
“You will see how frightened I am, when we have the opportunity to meet them in battle.”
Needling words, pressing and probing, as though trying to prompt him into some kind of action - this appeared to be the other’s way, and under normal circumstances, Sigurd would have had no issue in simply ignoring the other for the duration of their sortie, and to take his irritation out on the battle, and ride home victorious, as always.
But there was no battle, merely waiting.
Another needle prod to his mind, and Sigurd’s frown deepened. It wouldn’t do to allow himself to get so vexed, when they had untold hours awaiting them.
It is a response perfectly typical of Sigurd’s type—a reply of fierce denial; that hears the Moonstone’s teasing and finds little amusement in his words—and Valter’s recognition of such emerges in an exhale of a laugh, short enough to almost be missed but obvious enough that his reaction is clear. The follow-up:
“ Well then, ” Moonstone remarks, shifting his attention then to the town at large, “ we’ll just have to hope the opportunity arrives, hm? If that’s the only way to find out. ”
And what fun that would be! The two of them were here in anticipation of something—a violence threatening its presence—and Valter was more a fan of the thing actually happening than simply teasing. There was a future ahead of them where the town would start screaming; and his eyes are already about the streets trying to solve the puzzle of how that would look.
But simply hoping doesn’t make dreams come true; that much would rely on chance wiling its way in their favor. Instead, Valter chooses to prepare for the best case scenario—just in case. Wordlessly, he moves on to traverse the city’s walkways, lance rolling about its axis in his palm, an eagerness active and rattling through his bones.
Though, Valter always did love the sound of his own voice. “ Do you have experience with pirates, Sigurd? They’re not the same as your standard bandit. ” (Does he already know that? Does Valter care?) “ You seem capable enough, so I doubt it should provide issue, but… ”
There is a very long silence that stretches between the end of her sentence and the beginning of his. The fact of it does not bother Maria so much, though it does make her dreadfully curious as to whether the thoughts that occupy his head are anything to do with what she's said, or not in the slightest bit. What does the Valter of presumably a decade past, or perhaps even more, make of all this?
"Right?" Maria's answer arrives with all the ease that Valter's does not, an uncalculated honesty born in the breath that follows. "I think so, too!"
A playful arpeggio of steps rolls over the stone stairs, cut off partway through as the little princess turns, twists over her shoulder to look back at him, a hand cast toward him in invitation.
"C'mon!" She smiles as she laughs, the invitation turned into a beckoning wave; she does not descend further until he has joined her, for what purpose is there to the adventure if she leaves him behind? "Are you hungry?" Ser Valter, she almost appends, though she manages to catch herself in time. "Hee hee... I'll buy us some lunch, so tell me if you see something you want to eat, okay?"
(Because really, she hasn't a clue what's become of Valter's money. Did the coins change with him? Are his pockets deeper than he remembers, now? And what if they vanished with the magic? Does he even have any money to his name right now at all?)
(And besides, when else will she get a chance to treat him to-- well, treats?)
"It's mostly snacks out here anyway," she continues, waving every so often to this shopkeeper and that one. "Most people get meals at the dining hall, so a lot of vendors focus on selling ingredients and snacks instead! Oh, but we don't have to look at just food, though. There's lots of other fun stuff, too!"
As if on queue, she answers another greeting with a cheerful wave cast toward a seller of novels and novelties.
"So?" Her grin turns toward Valter again. "Did anything catch your eye?"
Not particularly is the answer that first comes to mind. (He’s still mulling it over—he was suddenly here, and yet that bore no consequence on his form?) Valter does not voice it immediately; and his reward, for his patience, is the offer of a free lunch.
Still not hungry; but then again, Maria continues to add that it’s mostly snacks here anyway, so at the very minimum, it wouldn’t be like he was forcing himself to eat. (Assuming he chose to consume anything at all, that is.) He huffs out some form of affirmation before following along into the marketplace, gaze more focused on finding anything particularly of interest.
For instance: this was a war school, was it not? Certainly, there were knights about that alone would justify the training grounds, but considering the building was in the same general direction as the classrooms, there was implied to be a connection between the two: education and decimation; to learn and to kill. (Which would further imply that some of the resources sold here would aid in that purpose; there are whetstones and sheaths and armors set to stand; but his eye is more inclined towards that which was easier to pocket.)
—like a dagger, shining from its spot on the back of a blacksmith’s wall. It makes the boy think of sharp things and clean things and that which slakes; of dark reflections and darker looks and terror when it serves you.
And then he looks away, shifting instead to a stall of sweets.
(Valter never fashioned himself to have the sweetest tooth; could hardly name five things he explicitly liked to eat; but he knows children to largely be fans of the thing, and he was a child. This made sense.)
Candies, baked goods—anything that a child could possibly whine for stands on shelves and displays on the stands; and here, he finds use again in speaking to his companion. Different labels mark the origins of the desserts, and with the host currently working with something in the corner of the stall, Valter looks to Maria and asks,
The long, dark nights often lead to despair, but this year seems to have led to a more extreme crisis. Some members of the Knights of Seiros defy their orders and steal away with some crest stones in the dark of night. The promise of power and, most importantly, eternal warmth in a cold winter drives their actions, but they are powerless against the curse. These monsters roaming the hills may have been your allies once, but there is no trace of them here.
--and as she watches him trade blows with the great beast she reaps the greatest benefit to her curiosity: the privilege of watching so feral an opponent fight. From this vantage she watches him discover the weaknesses in the monster's armor, steel slipped beneath scale to rend the fragile flesh below; from this vantage she witnesses the workings of his mind's eye, the lows, the rush, the wickedness with which he wields a weapon.
Eremiyah had raised her for this, after all -- Reese, the timid girl most useful in her uselessness, who slipped beneath the hardened hearts of wiser men. This was how she found the cracks in their armor; this was how she slipped a blade between their ribs. In that sense, her knife is no less wicked than the lance in his hands now.
But betrayal requires a modicum of trust.
There is no surprise to be had in the way his smile grows in his moment of triumph, nor how he chides the dead man and dying beast from up high, a leading actor with his beast's bouquet of crimson. The hand that 'flinches' at his words is not the one brushing against a hidden blade, but the one pulling her elbow flush to her side, the skin beneath her fingertips mottled white with pressure.
"...Sir Knight," Katarina begins, her quiet voice made uncomfortably loud in the silence after the din, and tears through the knight's charade, a wicked blade cutting straight and narrow through his tangled web. Eremiyah may have made her, forged her, but she places herself in the hands of someone better: a wise man with a soft heart and a scar along his ribs. If she will die for anyone, it will be for him.
But a clever man wouldn't be so foolish... would he?
"You..." ...probably don't care about being human. At least, not in the same way. Though it be from beneath soft lashes, she looks up at him resolutely. "...If you think... it'll make the sum of you... it will only make the average." Those sharp eyes that saw the signs of breakage in adamantine hide; the deadly cunning which so quickly understood how to make use of it; the dexterity that saw him crest the poor wretch's back and, yes, that glint of foul humanity in exulting triumph -- all of it, lost.
"...You would be strong, though," she admits. "The strongest of all the mindless beasts." Certainly stronger than his predecessor. And if he thought that he was special? That he would be different, that he would master inhumanity through the force of his own will? ...then he would be a much greater fool than she had taken him for.
The last of the beast’s resistance comes in the form of an agonizing howl, and Valter’s response to this is a simple one: to stab the point of his blade right beneath its crest stone; to weigh down against the beam with the stone as the fulcrum; and, with the monster greatly weakened, to simply wedge the rock from its forehead.
—resulting in the dissolution of its form, the mess of sludge and muck sloughing onto the forest floor as the Moonstone catches the object of interest and then lands, on his feet, in the midst of the mess. The rock burns red-hot as though it is from the stove of a stirring mind, and behind it—behind the cold, calloused grip that runs its edges, mapping its grooves—there is the corpse of a man whose freeze had driven him here to begin with.
And Valter’s eyes glimmer, a newfound understanding sparking in his mind. (The flame must come from somewhere. The desperate were merely logs in the fireplace.)
“ Hm? ”
Because of course, she would have something to say—why wouldn’t she? The alternative was to be in such awe that she was stunned speechless, but for as tireless as the ordeal was (for as quickly as he had worked had to tear the thing down to its heels), the knight doesn’t find it to have been all that impressive. (It was a baby of a beast; still fresh from the oven, its heart burning to be known.) Perhaps if he had defeated a more seasoned monster that could be plausible; she speaks, and Valter listens, and he lets her words rattle around in his skull.
“ Perhaps, ” he replies, rolling this second crest stone between his fingers; around his palm. “ Well, no, actually, I would be the strongest of the lot. There would be no question. ” (Pocketed: the two stones clatter like marbles far larger than analogized—but nothing, as far as he can tell, occurs as a consequence. He had read they could be stored in proximity; the threat was combat about them.) “ But why stoop so low to begin? ”
It had burned a bit, he recalls, to have done battle with the first on his person. Even if he was not using the thing as a weapon, it seemed to hunger just as he did, seeking a bloodshed just as he sought. The question then emerges: what had his once-fellow knights done to trigger the transformation? (Was it proximity? Had the thing beat too closely to their own hearts, and then chosen to take its place?) Marbles clattering, the information rolls around in his brain; how did it work? What made these things tick?
And then: a click in his mind, punctuated with his head snapping upwards straight ahead, a physical acknowledgement of his epiphany. He turns to actually face the girl then, and then he reaches for the second crest stone and pulls it out of his pocket.
(Would the fact that it had just been used have an impact on the reality of things? There had only been so much time to research before he’d staked out—the winter was only so long—but he doesn’t imagine it should be the case.) “ You would want this, wouldn’t you? ” he asks, and the question comes with a rumbling of laughter at the end. With no further explanation, he winds up, and then he throws it—
And whether or not it is caught isn’t really something Valter is concerned with; it hardly even mattered if it hit her, or if she chose to sidestep the thing completely. (What mattered was the burn, agitated by some faux sense of violence, catching in the air instead of igniting something of his essence.) The first of the stones seems to react to it as well, but it’s duller; dimmer. (It hasn’t been primed in the same way as the second.)
All discoveries; all things learned; and one by one, Valter’s questions find themselves answers. (New ones, of course, crop up in their place, but he’d long since understood that that was simply how knowledge worked.) Learning unveiled more of that which could not have been asked; and the Moonstone starts to gain a better understanding of that which has been relegated to midnight.
“ What do you think of it all? ” he asks then, suddenly, tone dry and opaque. (It is probably the most sensitive thing he has said all night.) “ About how these things work. Surely, there’s a method to the madness. ”
The goal was to piece it together; little by little; bit by bit. If one did not know now, well, that was the point of research: to get your hands on something and break things. (Hearts, spirits, minds, if one would—he’d seen it all crumble before, and he learned from it all; of curses and the undead.) One would piece together the fragments of the truth and then, once all was understood, they could come to a conclusion.
“ I’m certain you’ve been paying attention, so don’t pretend you have nothing to comment. ”
Respect your opponent but do not obey him. Ephraim expects a snake to strike and so it is no surprise when the Moonstone unfurls himself and strikes forward with poised precision. Their mock weapons collide in a dull but echoing thud, wood threatening to splinter beneath the force of their blows.
And when their eyes meet, sparks fly, a clash of malice and contempt. A battle sharper than that of their mock weapons.
Ephraim pushes him off and immediately goes on the offensive. His lance is thrust toward his legs in an attempt to keep him on edge and then swung upwards, hoping to catch him off guard.
His movements remain measured, no wasted energy, no fervent strikes, only clean thrusts and light footwork.
It’s obvious, to be frank: Valter’s attack had only sought the veil of speed, but the two of them had crossed blades before; it was obvious to anyone who’d seen how the Moonstone fought, and Ephraim was of the lucky living to be of that number.
And on that note: perhaps it was obvious to the knight—to the general of many years—that once the initial clash had concluded, his opponent would go for his legs. It is quick enough that he steps back, but his soul is kept out of it; unlike Ephraim’s, which manifests in a very narrow deflection, wood catching wood once again as the Moonstone flickers between focus and a muffled muscle memory.
(Should he be trying? He’s already not the most inclined—for no one was dying—but he should remind himself: Ephraim had offered him the honor of a duel! Should he not make the most of it? Should his heart not be soaring with hunger?)
His follow-through is smooth, a motion that spins his lance around to deflect any follow-up while allowing him to resume a default stance. Where Ephraim is focusing on efficiency, Valter emphasizes theatrics—and to fill the space in between, he is watching, ever observant, before his eyes take up their ill intent once again.
Seth wanted him to leave. He didn't want to have this conversation. He hadn't wanted to see that wretched man ever again, and yet, here they were. This was the second time. Valter begins circling them both and Seth reaches an arm backwards to keep Eirika in place as he turns to keep his gaze on Moonstone. There were plenty of things he could say to interrupt him or to make his hatred further known however he keeps calm, and tries to keep his expression neutral aside from the narrowing of his eyes.
The explanation Valter gives them has to suffice for now. If there were something more, he supposes the other may have a reason to hide it. And if magic had been involved, it likely would have been more powerful than Orson was promised for Monica. In the grand scheme of things, logistics hardly seemed to matter. His priority was and always would be keeping Eirika safe.
"Because you are. You're twisted and cruel, and whatever code you follow is the same." There were plenty of other words he wanted to use to describe Valter, all of them were within the same realm, but Seth is trying not to let his control slip. "We've seen it first hand and I don't have any cause to believe you'd act otherwise." His voice is sharp though one of his hands reaches back towards Eirika's to intertwine their fingers. If he could pull her any closer, he would have.
He doesn't let his gaze falter as the other mentions their retreat after their first encounter. Escaping to Frelia had been more important than proving the superiority that Valter spoke of. They both made it out alive. Eirika had her bracelet, and Seth... Well.. The pain from the wound he received that night still lingered now, and his stomach twists as the Grado general so calmly reaches out to touch it. He wants to grab his hand and shove him backwards but just as quickly as Valter's arm was raised, it was back at his side. Seth's shoulders go tense, it's visible in the way his posture grows rigid though he does not move.
"I understand I wouldn't have been able to do my duty if I had fallen to you." He would have run himself ragged or bled to death if he continued fighting that day. "We had far more important things to worry about at the time than me trying to prove myself."
"No, you only turn tail to run here. Else you would know that you are wrong and that Renais flourishes. There is nothing that you can do to her that matters. All that you did, every effort expended, was all for naught. Our country thrives while you hide away here in service to the archbishop. Because if you go too far out of line, you will find yourself cast out, will you not?" She phrases it as a question but she knows she is right. He must remain in her good graces to keep such a title.
Seth's arm lowers to take her hand, to which she responds in kind and interlaces their fingers. His presence is, as always, her support, her anchor. And so, she takes advantage of the free space to step beside Seth, one step closer to Valter. Her booted heel snaps against the concrete.
"You are nothing more to me than an annoying gnat who believes himself superior, when in reality he has amounted to nothing and never will."
She stands tall, resolute, the Queen of Renais, and levels her gaze steadfast to Valter's. Where he is snapping teeth and gleaming eyes, she is the mountain that will not bow, will not bend. Least of all to him.
"I have nothing more to say and I tire of seeing you."
As Seth speaks, Valter’s mind churns something clever in response.
As Eirika speaks, Valter’s mind comes to a halt.
(‘An annoying gnat.’)
A smile threatens to break through, a knee-jerk reaction to fill in the space while he decides a proper reaction—but he chokes it down, keeps it in his throat; because whatever he says or does next, he would have to commit, and he’s not committing to the incorrect response.
Instead, he breathes, a calm and steady thing, and one arm crosses, the other’s hand to his chin, eyes closed, as he thinks through all that has been said. (‘An annoying gnat who believes himself superior.’ Is that what she thinks he is?)
Because he is superior, that much was a fact; and if he so chose, he could prove it. The monastery was hollow now, with so many away on the expedition. That was why he had chosen this timing—witnesses were fewer than they would be most of the time.
(…But if he chose to fight here, would that not result in someone’s death? And perhaps that would be vindicating for him—to put down Eirika at last; or to have her witness her man succumbing to his wounds—but in the long term, it would mean nothing. Further, it would be far too impulsive of Valter to act so rashly. He had decorum. He had sense.) He was better than that.
And it is that understanding, at last, that has a laugh rumble out of him—he is superior, and he knows it, and further: it is because he is superior that his ego can remain intact. When his shoulders fall from the apex, the motion becomes, again, a bow: to Eirika, of course, because she is all that matters; and when Valter lifts his head again, a keen eye to lock with hers, he says:
“ Fair enough. I’ll leave you alone now. ” (Upright again, clapping two hands together with a joyful expression—) “ I’ve done all I came here to do anyhow. I do wish you both a good rest of your evening. ”
And then, without so much as another word, Valter leaves.
How long had it been since last he crossed paths with Maria’s older brother? (She had remained a constant throughout the years; Moonstone had chanced to meet her older sister as well; but in the mix of people that came and went, Michalis had seemingly vanished, and though it had been quietly disappointing, Valter supposed that that much was that.)
And it was, for a couple of years. Time moved onwards without the eldest Macedon, and Valter had moved in his own rightful way: still destructive, still self-oriented, still teething his way through that which he should really rather not—until one day, without any fanfare or announcement, he steps into the stables, and there stands the other man, minding his own business.
Valter blinks.
And then he laughs, the sound hardly stifled and certainly more obvious when he approaches Michalis, arriving to prop himself against the nearest stable’s door, arms crossed, smile wide as he says:
“ Now there’s a face I haven’t seen in a very long time. ” (Eyes alight, finding some glee in the encounter; there is his own form of joy laden in his words as he speaks.) “ And what have you been up to, Michalis? ”
It is a tending day — — and perhaps , also , where quietude sits familiar in the russet of Alecandros’ hide , for there was much history upon the saddle of this winged beast ( but also kinder memories , and dark was the alley of his thoughts ). It is a tending day to Alecandros , Michalis cautions to none other than himself , and broad , wartime hands splay beneath the maw of that wondrous beast.
( As all criminals do , he denies it is a day for his respite , and resigns instead to the health of his companion. )
But there arrives dull sea foam and grim amethyst at the steed-house doors , wearing thrill and madness but bestowing . . .
( Amity , cloaked in its kindness , its recognition , was perhaps too strong a word for this fellow drake-lord. Still , it is . . . no bad thing. )
A rumble , a bark of bemusement — — criminal welcomes criminal ; he has no fight to deny it. It turns garnet to vestiges of the shore , of geodes of dinted , lusterless amethyst , and Macedon’s eldest looks upon his fellowman.
“ Moonstone , ” He speaks. “ You fiend , finding me among my lonesome. ” ( However , he does not bid him away. ) “ Travels . . . Stretching this animal’s — —“
Long fingers tussle Alecandros by the jaw , and a rumbling snort emits longtime friendship from the beast — — it was the play of his youth , the roughhousing of Macedon’s dracoknights. It laid balm over his many wounds , and the scar of his lip upturned.
“ — — Wings. I trust you’ve kept yourself right to retain my intrigue ?” A lauding curl of the lip. “ It would be pitiful to lose it. ”
From most, Valter would take the moniker of fiend to be something attempting to insult him; from Michalis, however, it is their old pattern of things—a rhythm steadily maintained despite countless years passed.
And why does it not surprise the Moonstone to hear the other’s answer: travels? (Perhaps it is because that was Valter’s own inclination; when the monastery had fallen and war had taken hold, his answer to the new state of the world was just that: travels. Stretching his own wings.) It feels perfectly suited to Michalis to meander the same, and that, too, garners a laugh from the knight.
“ Of course, ” he replies, though he’d never tested the limits of what caught the other’s interest; it was safe to assume that whatever the Moonstone’s natural manner of things was sufficed—and they could both rest assured that he had hardly changed in the slightest. “ Likewise—evidently, ” knight continues, standing himself upright, “ —you’ve maintained mine as well. ”
(But he couldn’t lose himself here; contrary to Michalis’ claims, he had not, by intention, wandered in here simply to chance an old acquaintance.) This understanding manifests in Valter waltzing his way over to his own steed’s stable door—the mission one, not his personal mount—the motions of preparations ones well-rehearsed.
“ I would stay here and chatter longer, but I have work to attend to. ” (A glance to the side to catch Michalis as Moonstone takes the reins of his wyvern.) “ You aren’t going anywhere, are you? ” Not so soon, I would hope.
“ If you haven’t chanced Maria yet, I imagine she would wish to see you. ”
One day, you find yourself waking up thoroughly sore, scraping yourself off the floor of a Monastery classroom. As you strain to remember how you wound up there, you catch sight of your hand – except it’s not yours. Nor are the clothes you now wear, or the body beneath them. Your actual self is standing opposite you, staring back in shock and… covered in dust? Before things spiral further, the professor attempts to quell the growing chorus of unrest with an explanation, which also serves to jog your memory. This was supposed to be a seminar showcasing the magical properties of a magic tool from Tellius known as Warp Powder. Unfortunately, its volatile nature lends itself to many potential side-effects if mishandled… one of which is ripping people’s souls out and depositing them into the nearest acceptable vessel. The unbothered professor assures everyone that this “minor inconvenience” will wear off on its own eventually, and that the Monastery will still be expecting the completion of your usual assignments and duties in the meantime. [Grants Any Weapon +1]
He answers her not with words, but with a single note and a palm raised.
And it is more than enough. When Maria's eyes close, Valter's subtly narrow, until the edges of her vision are feathered with shadow. In that moment, sight becomes secondary to that obscure sense of feeling. After all, it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; were her curiosity any less, perhaps she would have closed his eyes in full.
Oh, but she is a curious sort, no matter her form. Beneath his lashes, she watches the whispers of levin flicker about her fingertips. Thunder? Its light glitters in a widening reflection of ocean gold. How interesting! She had never taught herself such a spell -- but then, had she herself not just drawn faith through a seemingly impious vessel?
A smile touches Valter's lips, a softer shape than its usual bend, until a spike of realization pierces Maria's mind. All at once she relinquishes her amusement, her curiosity, searching not for what she feels, but rather what can be felt.
And it beats in his chest with a tremulous ache, an arrhythmic flutter that punctures her breath: yearning, of a sort, as subtle as it is overwhelming. Eyes snap open with a breathless gasp, all of his frame jolting forward ever so slightly. Moving purely by instinct, the cleric clasps her own hand before it can slip away.
"Sir Valter," she begins, words carried by an undercurrent of urgency, "Did you feel that? I think-- I think it might be working!" Callused fingers curl over her hand -- had it always been so small? -- and Maria reaches. She reaches not for the magic that moves through Valter, but for the wellspring of light within herself. It is her love, her faith, and she calls it to herself through their joined hands.
"Don't think too much," she whispers in his voice. "It's warm, isn't it? Hm hm... Just focus on that."
It feels like heartache. It feels like the pull of her heart in her throat watching Archanea vanish on the horizon, standing aboard a boat bound for a distant monastery and an unknowable future. It feels like holding a brother's broken body in her arms, growing cold. It feels like all the hollows she has carved out of her chest to hold a hundred loves great and small. And then... and then it feels like the peace of having chosen them.
Does he feel that? (He senses Maria’s meaning and the implications that sit behind it, but he has long since felt a void of emotion, only tasting that which was strong enough.) Mania. Terror. Rage.
Hm. Perhaps not that second one (not in the longest time), but nevertheless, there is but a ghost of a feeling, however fleeting, beneath the sparks of the spell he had cast, and Valter assumes she means that. (That which he finds himself unable to name, and furthermore, unable to shape.)
He hums assent, a dry, one note thing, more to fill the space than convey any meaning, but all the same, Maria possesses the confidence to follow through with her initial deduction; and it is then, with the priestess’s second spell, that something exists in nothingness.
(…It’s a bit painful, he thinks. Death and undeath, all upon the heartless, unfeeling sands of a foreign capital; reinstatement and exile, both issued from the same grand, hallowed halls; place and placelessness, and belonging without belonging; and everything that made the void to begin with starts to fill up that space—he was never hollow, there just wasn’t any room left.) It feels like tearing something bigger than himself out of himself, and however her face contorts in response, Valter wishes to swallow that feeling; to shove it into whatever cracks remained; to make a wholeness out of that pain.
And Valter opens his eyes.
And then he notes his hands and the way they are his; and the way his hair hangs over his shoulders, spilling past to its well-known lengths; how he must kneel to meet Maria’s height, and how she is no longer his reflection. He recognizes the rumbling his lungs as the same discordant tone he’d always laughed in; and the weight he carries feels appropriate for his shoulders; and his hand, still holding Maria’s, is doing so in a death-grip; and his hand, again his own, loosens; and his hand, at last, falls away.
“ … ”
He was, without a doubt, himself.
(It feels odd, being in his own body after having spent the whole day outside of it; but also, like traveling afar, and seeing what the world had to offer; and basking in all of its sights and sounds; and catching a glimpse of a life that will never be yours; and then mending homesickness with a single night in one’s own bed.)
He laughs. One note; then two, echoing in his—his!—ribcage, as his smile takes hold: that same, crooked old thing he’d always practiced. It’s good to be back, he thinks to himself, and then he looks at Maria and says, “ Well done. ”
(And that was his voice!) It rumbles to punctuate a phrase, mania its expression: “ I’ll admit I wasn’t entirely confident beforehand, but it was a worthwhile investigation regardless—and, evidently, the correct thread to follow. ” (Another elation, smile wide:) “ Well done! ”
“ That was smart, ” he affirms, eyes narrowing with a fond edge. “ Well done. ” Well done, Maria.
Threatening one via ransom was elementary, a very common means of trying to assert dominion and control over a situation without having to take any immediate action. So the fact that a famed serial killer that hadn’t been previously caught by any means was employing such a tactic was utterly dissatisfying to a Miriel who had been all the more eager to determine whether or not she could outwit such an individual.
Miriel stood at the proposed drop off point, carrying the most obnoxiously obvious fake head one could ever deign to carry. However that itself was a key to outwitting her unseen opponent. Miriel wondered how this murderous sort would ever be aware of the dropoff. Would they reveal themselves instantaneously? Or perhaps they would lay in wait, taking moments after the dropoff to claim their reward.
But a famed serial killer would never make a choice so… boring, and stupid for that matter. Surely they were not as careless as that?
Whatever the case may be, while musing over the thoughts and possibility that could lead to the encapture of this sordid killer (and therefore proof that Miriel is the smartest, as always), Miriel fails to perceive the presence of another beside her. And when she does finally notice, she is startled, dropping her fake head, and it clatters along the ground. She doesn’t move to pick it up right away.
“And who may you be? Are you assisting with the capture, perhaps?” Miriel begins to circle around the surprise guest, scanning his figure, trying to determine who or what he may be and is capable of. At the very least, if it comes down to a fight, Miriel presumes she could entrust this man to defend her.
It is the most obvious fake head Valter has, perhaps, ever witnessed.
He can assume why she brought it; the ransom note demanded blood, and further: proof of it. Most were not a fan of the thought of actually bending a knee to its commands, but there were precious lives at stake—anything to see it stop was a sorely desired means.
…Even if, in the Moonstone’s boundless experience, he is entirely confident that this was an implementation that would never work.
“ I’m here to collect the ransom, of course. ” Here, he smiles, the thing lopsided on his face as his head dips to the side; and his body follows through, a grand swooping motion made to collect the prop and examine it up close for himself:
(Terrible. Absolutely terrible—no, this was never going to work.)
“ But I’m afraid deception warrants no second chances, ” Valter continues, drawing a dagger and poking it into the head’s faux flesh. Turning his gaze then to the woman, he frowns, “ —which means you must perish. ”
(Was that convincing enough?)
He waits, if just a moment—long enough to gauge an immediate reaction, but not so long that he would worry himself with the consequences—before then barking with laughter, clutching the head’s skull as he does so, some sort of hilarity found in the pure absurdity of his farce–
“ I’m here as a Knight of Seiros, ” he amends, deadpan, now holding the thing in front of the other by the scalp, “ and as a seasoned veteran of many years, I can tell you: this is terrible. ”
The situation was becoming more and more drastic among the monastery and despite the several researches, many ingredients were still missing for the Health Committee to use for their experiments: meat, liver, beaks and many more parts of body that were exceptionally difficult to retrieve, if not by taking them directly from the corpses of the defeated beasts. That was the only possible solution that took less time than anything ese and of course many knights and professors were called out to help the research, if capable of hunting those beasts; Minerva was on the first line for this, she could not do otherwise and she could not be less, for the people of the monastery. Yet, there was a little inconvenient –the skill of using bows.
Minerva wasn’t still very practical with them, despite she used to hunt a lot in her homeland: she usually went by axes or lances, her favourite weapons, but as many suggested, the beasts in question were difficult and extremely dangerous to approach –the safest way to get closer to them was, of course, bow and arrows. On the other hand though, the Macedon princess did have some practice while actually hunting with another student in the past months, but luckily for them, the creatures they decided to hunt weren’t exactly hostile and aggressive –just a little bit curious and cautious, especially in presence of human beings.
This expedition, this task this mission was actually something that the red-haired woman was craving to do since a long time by now and despite all the odds, she ended up being paired up with a person that she truly did not expect to be a partner in hunt –but to be fair, she always thought of him as a great fighter and a fierce hunter, so what a better occasion to proof so?
Yet, before anything else, a point-blank question almost made the Macedon princess flinched for a moment, though not losing her composure as she nonchalantly replied to him. “Yes, I used to hunt, but… it’s been a while now” she looked away for a moment, staring at the forest in front of them, a large open field filled with monsters of any kind. “But I’m sure you’re more practical than me, I suppose” she smirked, observing him as he drew the arrow, pointing at something in the middle of the forest. Then, she heard a shrill sound, a call, and something larger than she expected emerged from a tree, floating over their heads for a moment, then returning to the treetops where it came out from.
“Fuck… did you see that?” she yelled with a low voice as she crouched a little, not wating to get the creature's attention. Did he… know that the creature was coming out of that tree?! She thought to herself as she stared at him for a long moment, before putting her thoughts into words.
“Is that our prey?” she asked, then she shifted her gaze back at the winged beast, trying to get a more precise idea of what it was, even though it still was too far from them by now. not too far for bows, though.
Yes, but it has been a while. (Moonstone supposes he is not all too different; but he was the sort to always keep his claws sharp.) Was he out of practice? Did that matter? (Certainly not when the individual skills were not neglected; he still knew how to aim, and he still recalled how to weaponize the thing.) The beating of feathered wings draws nearer; is accompanied by a shrill cry; and then emerges in the form of a winged thing—a beast just the sort to match what they were looking for.
The Moonstone’s eyes widen, and a grin crawls upon his face, sparkling.
Wordlessly, he takes a step back beneath the umbrage, falling to one knee as the arrow is nocked and he aims for the creature; but just as quickly as it reveals itself, it once again vanishes into the foliage. (A blink before it is registered: this thing was fast.)
“ Most certainly, ” he confirms, thinking of anatomical diagrams and winter night confrontations; and though it has been a while since he’s been dispatched to deal with such a thing, demonic beasts always remained just eerie enough that you could recognize them at a glance: incorrigible, horrible freaks.
(An eye remains fixed upon the thing, watching how it dances, frantic, across the sky; but it is a rapid motion, unpredictable—as if aware of the threat and self-preserving.) Moonstone scoffs to himself before speaking: “ I’m moving to get closer. ”
(He does not wait for a response before he moves.)
“You remember how the church told you not to do anything that might ruin their relationship with Pearl Shoals?” | Mission Board: Pearlescent | Flying +1
Valter responds as expected. Why does Forsyth even bother? He has half a mind to end this nonsense and face their pursuers, but his fellow "knight" is likely to slaughter them as soon as he has an excuse. Forsyth is stuck between a rock and a hard place -- and the Moonstone is a dangerous rock indeed.
"You think yourself immortal?" He shouldn't waste valuable breath. It isn't worth it. Yet the fiend's words beg retort, and Forsyth can't help but comply. "All you create are problems for the knights to sol--"
The tiles beneath Forsyth's feet give way as he leaps, barely providing enough lift for him to scramble to the next rooftop. Momentum carries his body forward, but it takes a moment for his mind to catch up.
"You..." The guards are certainly yelling something after them, but adrenaline reduces their words to imperceptible noise, growing fainter and fainter as the sudden obstruction blocks their pursuit. It's just Forsyth, Valter, and the moonlit rooftops. "You're lucky a knight hasn't mistaken you for the enemy yet. It would be easy, with your conduct."
It's not meant as a threat, not directly. He simply states the truth, and if the truth paints Valter in such a light, who is he to soften the blow?
Was it a foolish thought? Was it self-centered and unrealistic and a sign of pure delusion? Probably. (Certainly.) Anyone sane would hear such a response and resign him to madness; but what else was new when it came to the Moonstone? He arrived in Fódlan after being stabbed—and surviving!—and ever since, he has brushed hands with death time and time again. Forsyth asks if he imagines himself immortal, and yes is actually the only logical conclusion to all he’d witnessed and lived.
He does not announce it, merely flashing his teeth in a smile as he lands atop the next rooftop; and Forsyth—perfectly dutiful Forsyth!—follows suit.
And then he lands.
And then the recognition settles in.
“ If a knight mistook me for a foe instead of an ally, I’d wonder if they were fit for service at all, ” Valter replies, tone along the edge of mocking as he speaks. “ We have a standard issue uniform, ”—hands wave over his present person, donning said armor—“ and I wear it. ” With a self-satisfied smile: “ I feel as though it is actually rather easy to know which banner I fight for. ”
Another arrow flies their way, and this time, it is Valter who must toss his head to the side to avoid it. He finds the aim rather peculiar—if they were wanted, would the guards not prefer them alive over dead? Lance is drawn into the roof tiles again, done with the same aim and same guidance: to allow Forsyth to pass through, and no one thereafter.
“ Besides, ” he goes on, “ you’re running as well, aren’t you? ” (He isn’t certain how much time his delays would buy them, but it was certainly better than doing nothing.) “ Or is it actually your preference to be caught, tried, and hanged? ”
(They were probably not at risk of actually being hanged. Probably. He doesn’t know. It’s just funny to say.)
Erk was not exactly skilled in the art of esponiage, let alone reconissance. He clutches his tome tightly to his chest, listening carefully as the weird scary looking knight bestows instructions upon him.
Though somehow he gets the feeling that this man thinks he's beneath him. Or he just thinks most people are beneath him in general. One of the two. Erk isn't sure what he would prefer.
"Of course not... sir," He grits out the formality between his teeth, also feeling like this man did not deserve his respect. But he'd rather not die today, so he'll keep his wits about him. "We have to act fast. I get it."
Valter doesn’t voice his disapproval—hardly reacts to the other’s words, save for the quiet tuck of a note in his mind—but there is, in his perception, a dismissiveness to the boy’s tone that toes the line of defiant.
(To most, it was hardly cause for any alarm. It was an acknowledgement of the circumstances and a voice to that which deserved confirmation.) …It was, perhaps, only to the Moonstone that it seems to imply the exact opposite of the literally intended meaning. (That actually, no, the issue was being underestimated; and that, in the way children are wont, the boy did not catch the gravity of the circumstances; or that he would simply oppose his word because it was a command coming from without.)
But that ultimately wasn’t Valter’s problem and was even less his concern; knight turns on his heel and starts his way down the lane—“ Come along then, ” he commands, and that much is that.
So then: the investigation begins proper. (Eyes dart about, crawling up and down the area; and the time is still an early afternoon, sooner than the rush that would flood in in just an hour’s time or so.) Nothing yet seems amiss, so Valter keeps on walking. (Just dark turn after alleyway after side street: nothing special.)
There is idle chatter about them regarding the threat of the pirates—their proximity thus far and the risk they posed to this settlement in particular. Valter hadn’t paid enough attention back at the monastery to know if word was sent in advance—but it would be remarkably stupid of the Church if it was. (An information leak begging to happen; a conflict waiting to boil over and erupt.) He imagines instead that the townsfolk had only had word of mouth from neighbors, and he would not be the one to warn them of the potential risk they faced. (He simply keeps moving, the space paying little mind to the one Knight of Seiros.)
…and his charge, Valter supposes, but a child at his heels meant nothing. (Would it have been better for him to be undercover?) The student is not in uniform; but Valter’s contract made of his attire on missions—so nevermind to that thought. His mind was all over the place now and needed recentering.
She may not be as versed in local history as a Fódlan native, but Maria has at least lived here long enough (and taken enough lessons!) to answer some of young Valter's musings. If he had no interest in an answer, he wouldn't have primed the conversation for her to answer his curiosities, would he? And he has always been so fond of answers, after all.
"You'd think so, huh?" Clapping her hands together, the little cleric casts a sideways grin, as if sharing some secret mirth. "Hee hee... well, I think they try to keep it pretty even, at least! But there's a lot of nobles here, especially ones from far away, so they bring lots of fun and interesting things to the market, too. Plus it's not just students and staff that shop here, so you'll also find plenty of food!"
It's pretty fortunate, in a way. They never lack for something interesting, and through them she has brushed against so many pieces of foreign histories and cultures. It reminds her that there is an entire wide world out there full of life, though she could never forget it. Certainly though, it stokes big dreams in a girl with such small experience of the world.
"Should we go check it out? Maybe they'll even have some familiar snacks!" If not something familiar to him, then maybe, just maybe, she might find something familiar to her! Surely their Archanean imports must have expanded beyond pegasus cheese by now?
But he asks a different question instead, and the erstwhile princess perks up, ready with an answer.
"They built the monastery first! It sits right in the middle of Fódlan-- it's a neutral place between the Emprie, the Holy Kingdom, and the Alliance, so people from all over come to visit! The Academy didn't actually exist until... hmm... a hundred years ago, I think?"
Does it bother him, being on a mountain? Being a wyvern rider and a daughter of Macedon it's all very nostalgic to her, but perhaps the Valter of this age hadn't yet learned to take to the sky?
"I think you could get almost anything you want here," she supplies cheerily, hoping he'll come to see the monastery as a good place to get his bearings. If he could just tarry long enough for this strange spell to wear off...! "Supplies, or even stories--! Doesn't it just seem like a great place to start an adventure?"
Holding her hands up to the sky, she frames a square of it between the angles of fingers and thumbs. That's right -- what a wonderful place to grow strong, knowing the long journeys that will one day come.
Maria peeks at Valter from the corner of one eye and grins.
"And I mean lots of stories," she giggles. "Hee hee... they'll tell them all forever if you let them!"
By Maria’s remarks, it would appear the marketplace is more diverse than Valter would’ve otherwise suspected. That the Academy was many a rich kids’ playground, he isn’t entirely surprised, but what catches his ear in interest is the particular phrasing: ‘especially ones from far away.’
Was that his first real piece of the puzzle? That foreigners were commonplace in this land? (Enough so that their homes could be sampled in the wares of peddlers just south; was his predicament one less surprising here than it would’ve been anywhere else?)
It’s something to ponder; in the meantime, he finally receives a name for this land— ‘Fódlan’, so it is called—as well as his location within it and the neighboring territories. The titles for each place are not unheard of (for Grado was an empire; Rausten, if he recalled, was something of a holy kingdom; he can’t think of any particular alliances in Magvel, but he was certain that they existed), but neutral space between them…
(He was definitely very, very far from home.)
It provides clarity nonetheless—though to describe the three nations as the origins of ‘all over’ makes him rethink his earlier conclusion of foreigners simply appearing—and provides him knowledge enough that, should the cause arise, Valter wouldn’t look like a total fool. (His mind returns again to the location of the monastery—isolated atop a mountain range before the school came about—and there is the idle thought that he would never understand the motives of those who would pilgrim so far for so little.)
—but that was a lot to think about with very little words given in return. He nods, the first visible reaction after the whole of ten seconds. His mind, again, turns over the words that are proffered; and he thinks: of the vastness of the sky; of the wilds beyond the walls.
And, actually, Valter was without his parents—so there wasn’t truly anything stopping him, was there? (He had already noted a stark lack of adults about the premises earlier; he could be without consequence, just a bit, so he thinks.)
“ If adventure is what you’re seeking, ” he decides to speak aloud, and there is something of a glint in his eye, calculating something with himself, “ this is a better place than most to begin. ”
…but the tour was not yet over.
“ We can go see the market, ” the boy continues. (If there was something familiar, that would be a boon; and, in addition, could lead into Valter gaining further clues as to his whereabouts relative to home.) His next words take a moment to form themselves, but they spin themselves and then they emerge: “ …I want to see for myself just what it has in store. ”
Seth's expression has hardly changed since their conversation began, and he reminds himself that he needs to be careful with his words. He's never been one to lie, and he values honesty but he hardly thinks Valter deserves that. Above all, his priority is Eirika's safety, and he knows his wife values his as well, but he'd rather risk his life for her than the reverse.
Perhaps even mentioning his new teaching position was too much, but the words had already left his lips and there was no point in dwelling on them now. "I hope that we don't but I suppose it may unavoidable now. If your patterns are similar to what they once were, should I expect to see you stalking the halls?" He can only hope the answer is no but nothing was that simple. The smile the other gives is as off putting as ever as is the look in his eyes, and then Valter's feet carry him even closer and Seth can only think to take a step backwards in response.
The training lance is raised in Valter's direction again, this time the blunt spearhead is pointed at the other's neck in a small attempt to deter him from invading his space again. "I guess it depends on what you deem interesting now. Do want to fight me or will you be content with encounters similar to this one?" It was difficult to determine whether or not blood would be drawn but Seth was trying to steel himself.
He rumbles with laughter at the question—was the ghost going to continue its wanderings?—but as rude as he feels like being, Valter may very well cut the man some slack. After all, the whole world may remain new to the Silver Knight; it was not as if Fódlan was all too similar to Magvel in its happenings.
“ I don’t live in the Academy, Seth, ” he explains, a coyness at the edge of his tone, “ but I’ll try to swing by every now and again, if that’s what you’re asking. As a treat. For you. ”
(Now, how honest of a threat that was, Valter would decide later; for the moment, he would talk for the sake of talking, and he would promise the now-professor all the torment his heart desires.)
—and then some, given the Knight’s appetite for discomfort appears about as low as the Moonstone predicted. One step forward is mirrored by an opposite back, and this, too, sparks amusement in his heart. “ Can a man not hunger for both? All things in due time, yes? ”
Actually—‘in due time’, indeed; there wasn’t any need to rush things, was there? Valter wasn’t going anywhere; Seth wasn’t going anywhere; he needn’t be impatient. He could pace himself with these things. That smile remains even as Valter withdraws—not stepping back, but standing upright, not quite so up close and personal: “ My taste hasn’t changed. ” Blood remains the most appealing. With arms crossed and an expression… not mellow, but somewhat tempered, he continues, “ But that includes my patience, luckily for you. ”
“ I’m not looking for battle at the moment. ” Not yet. Grow stronger first. “ But if we ever end up enemies again, ” (and the grin returns) “ I would love to cross blades with you once more. ”
(To an opposite, yet still fatal end, preferably.)
There was something to Valter’s words that Chrom couldn’t point out definitively. Perhaps expectation, or rather, the lack thereof, would be the safest thing to assume? Or even a sense of superiority held over Chrom’s head that laced Valter’s tone. Whatever it had been, Chrom didn’t appreciate it one bit. He was definitely right to hold off on speaking his position aloud, but incorrect in assuming that choosing to dodge an immediate answer was the best course of action.
“I’m glad to expect the best,” Chrom’s words are genuine, in that he knew genuine stopping power would be a requirement for the task at hand. However, someone prostrating themselves as excellence in such a falsely humble manner did not bode well in Chrom’s mind.
When prompted, Chrom reaches into his pack, taking out a rather large parchment. Unfurling it reveals designs for a plan of attack; similar to one executed (with the help and mind of his Shepherds and most importantly his Tactician) in the past – Chrom was prepared to send a few sacrificial ships ablaze against the pirates. “This isn’t a perfect plan, after all the pirates are expecting us, and likely will open fire at a moment’s notice. However, this could utilize whatever fire magics lay upon the hands of our dawdling mages.” Chrom looks back up to face Valter, remaining as professional as he possibly could. “In part, I both came to propose this plan, and to ‘figure it out’ if someone had any better means of attack.”
Because truth be told, with all that Chrom knew about the encroaching threat of pirates, and the lazy mages who feigned focus and discipline, there was enough uncertainty that some level of figuring things out as they went along would need to be adopted. In moments like this, Chrom wished that he held Robin’s tactical mind for these sorts of operations. He can’t afford to be any sort of slouch, though.
“I presume you carry plans of your own? Or do you mean to instead offer ideas to improve upon my own. We’re working together after all, Valter. Any opinion is a welcomed one.”
Valter had put forth the effort to demonstrate the importance of prior preparation; and indeed, he’d come prepared with a plan of his own; but when the other is prompted to demonstrate his own idea, the Moonstone is pleasantly surprised to find Chrom does, in fact, have something to share.
He stands then, crossing the distance to have a look for himself—and what he finds reveals itself in the form of raging fires: a brilliant blaze meant to burn to an even more furious end. It’s bold, to say the least, and certainly unconventional, but a gaze inquisitive begins to sparkle shortly thereafter—this was bold. (To gain the ships necessary, knowing they were promised for destruction, would be a very difficult task, but that only meant that most would never conceive of such a thing.)
—which meant Valter was a fan. (A very big fan, in fact.)
“ The local merchants would never agree to it, ”—said with a smile and an expression thoroughly amused—“ and the Church would be hard-pressed to find the funds to purchase the ships necessary. As much as the pirates plague the locale, no one wants to be the one to make the ultimate sacrifice. ”
But I like it, is the implied ending, though it’d take a deal of effort to press the Moonstone to say it aloud—perhaps if it were possible, if only with his good word, but otherwise? His approval remains decipherable only through a rumble of laughter; a glint in his eye that shines on such mischief. Proper destruction to get back at their foes.
(What of an artificial fog of war to make the onslaught less predictable? He never learned it himself, but he’d heard of such a thing in his studies; was it a thing their arsenal of mages possessed?)
The thought is tucked away for some other time; perhaps, in better circumstances, they might cross minds with actual potential for such carnage.
But in the meantime, they are here, attempting to deal in less violent methods. “ I do have my own ideas, ” Valter confirms, stepping back again to resume his seat, “ but I’m saving those for the meeting proper. You’ll hear them when the time comes. ”
“ I will say for now though that yours isn’t a terrible plan; just unfeasible. It relies on a generosity that does not exist, and though it may work in another situation, greed will have it fall under this time around. ”
In accordance with the new rules for June, Valter and Selena now have public thread trackers! Aside from the link here, there are a few ways to access them:
FOR VALTER.
On his homepage, the previous link to his SUBMIT page has been replaced with one titled THREADS, since we rarely get submissions anyway, and the link for them is consistent across blogs. This new link leads directly to his thread tracker.
The link to his tracker is also located in his pinned post and stats page in their respective link sections.
(The image for the second one is too thin for me to press the button to add my own alt text, but it's a screenshot of the top of his stats page, demonstrating a list of links, including one titled, "Thread Tracker".)
FOR SELENA.
Due to the way Selena's theme and pages are set up, being on my laptop (aka without a proper mouse/setup haha) means I cannot reveal them in the exact location I would like them to be. Therefore, while the links will remain in these general locations, I will probably be posting an update sometime later this month (after I get home lol) with updated instructions on how to find her thread tracker. If all else fails, she and Valter share a spreadsheet, so if you can't find it via her page, you can find it via Valter's!
Similar to Valter, Selena's navigation links on her theme contain a link to her thread tracker, literally titled "thread tracker". At present, it is the last in the line, but once I get back to my setup, I'll be moving it to be before her interview.
It is also accessible via her pinned post and stats page. Given that her stats page does not have a dedicated links section, this is the primary location that will be changed later this month. For now though, it is located at the top of her Class Mastery tab as a link labeled "Thread Tracker."
This is all the vital information I have to share! More specific details and musings underneath the cut.
Okay, first and foremost: these trackers are not extensive. Event threads and threads in plotting are still being stored in my private thread tracker—this one exists for compliance with the rules, and a thread is not added to it until a starter has been posted/we have agreed to continue writing a thread after an event has ended. For threads that are being tracked on this however, I would trust what is has displayed more than my private tracker; just the other day, I found two threads hadn't been updated privately despite my public one already knowing. Hopefully that demonstrates the reliability of this one.
Secondly: as a part of each of these trackers, since they are manually updated by me, you can check to see when I last modified them! The date and time on the left-hand side is written in TOA for consistency, and they are also independent! I don't always check both muses' dashes at the same time, and since I largely rely on notifications for updating, the tracker will only be as accurate as I am able to check my dash to allow. Again, the date is only changed when I actually modify the document, so it doesn't actually demonstrate how often I am checking the dash; I may change this in the future if there's a more useful and beneficial alternative, but this is what I'm using for now.
On that note: if we have an on-going thread not included in this spreadsheet, please let me know! I am, again, away from home and have been moving around a lot this past week, so it's very possible something slipped through the cracks. I've also been trying to keep up with muse pick-ups and drops, but if something appears off, you don't need to be writing with me to say something LOL.
On a similar note: event threads, aside from one that was discussed with me recently, have not been included as of yet, but moving forward, new event threads promised past an event's end date probably will be. By default, I do not assume event threads are running past end date (mostly because I know a lot of other people don't), but that isn't because I don't want to continue them! I love writing with my blorbo-in-laws! Including YOUR muses! I don't mind really long wait times, even in spite of the new rules—all I really want to know is that I haven't been forgotten haha.
Moving from there, though I know my partners have been very kind to me so far about my slow reply speeds—(and I treasure and value this deeply!)—I will be trying to speed things up, especially as a mun with two muses instead of just one. I've been quietly testing myself since this January to prove whether or not I can maintain a slightly higher level of activity than I have in the several months prior, and while I've definitely seen myself improving, there's also a little nagging voice that says I can be doing even better. The new reply speed rules, I think, will help me make stronger judgements with regards to this moving forward, but we'll see the results of this little experiment after my next semester starts in August/post-lore in September.
With all that said, thank you for reading this far! TOA is a very special place to me, and I'm striving to grow even more as a person for as long as I'm here. Thank you!
