𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐁.
soliegis:
northwest on their map points them deeper into the plateau, where the cluster of homes and meager farmland disperses into flat, rocky uplands that seem fitting for the simple burial grounds of a village — he’d estimated that the area might be their site earlier, surveying the surrounding landscape for signs of disturbance, human or otherworldly. ( which he’d found — tracks and evidence that the land had been passed through, but several days old and not telling enough of anything more than that, which matched with local claims that the last sighting dated not yet a week ago. )
turquoise lifts at the mention of zombies — what would have been a bedtime tale to frighten children not two years ago. the dessicated ashes of their reality still trail in the motes of his memory between disbelieving truth and fiction. and their origins… no, he wants nothing else to do with the shells of the living; nothing good ever came of them. ❝ if the dead are walking, then this village has more on its hands than some empty graves. things like that don’t happen without reason. ❞ the trusted spear strapped across his back is both a reminder and an assuring brace. ❝ but if it comes to it, i have some experience with them. ❞
he doesn’t let that sit for long. ❝ if there are no other leads, then we’ll have to resort to vigils. let’s gather the others and make preparations near the gravesites. ❞ they had bothered the people here long enough.
—— ☀ ——
altitude and the sparsity of alpine air robs spring of its enlivening warmth, and he’s grateful that they hadn’t come earlier in the year, though even this is a temperate balm compared to the glacial cold of the sojourn into faerghus two months ago.
the moon has risen high, an off-white, elegant sliver of a thing, by the midwatch hours when he stirs easily to the footfalls of the one who’d come to wake him. all around, nature has long since withdrawn into that dreamlike stretch of night, and it’s into its deep and apparitional hush that he rises, suppressing a yawn and rousing himself to vigilance. upon the small hill’s crest that overlooks their rustic cemetery sits that student’s burly outline once more, at the latter half of his watch that ephraim would now share.
recollection takes a moment. he’s never been good with names. ❝ raphael, right? ❞ steps come to slow beside the other, eyes sweeping out and below across the pale-phantomed expanse of dark as though in bated breath for a glimpse of shambling corpses, flickering shapes disturbing the gloom. ( silhouette of a body, suspended on a hook— )
he shakes his head. ❝ any movement? ❞
“THERE’S NOT BEEN A SINGLE thing out there—yet, anyways. But, yeah, Raphael. S’good to meet you.” Raphael only knows the other in passing, but remembers his name well enough he doesn’t ask to clarify again.
(If he forgets, he’ll ask. If he forgets, there’s probably something else going on that knocked it right out of his head, anyway. No one’s real mad if you forget their name ‘cause of a sudden zombie uprising at yonder graves, or something.
—Not that he’s, like, planning to forget anyone’s names.)
Standing watch has never particularly bothered Raphael much, even if it’s an idle sort of job. Trying on the length of his focus, too. Not so much easily distractible as much as he tends to grows wary when left staring at nothing for time on end.
New scenery either has the ability to make it go down smoother—for the benefit of getting to fix sights on something fresh, interesting to take in for the first time—or make it worse, left at unease for the unfamiliar landscape. The plateau manages to occupy some mid-ground between both of those.
Like every other uninspiring flat of land in Fódlan but somehow it’s coloured distinctly wrong by all the going’s ons. Possibility stands that, if they weren’t here to watch out for grave-robbing-zombie(?)-crooks, Raphael’d like the moonlit expanse a heck of a lot more.
As is... “I kinda figured that something’d’ve have to happen by now, but it’s real still out there. Might be a long night’a vigil, sir.”
Cords in his neck, muscle down to his shoulder blades, tense. He could blame it on the air, which still feels cooler than he might like. Not so bad, having just emerged out of winter—anything warmer than the mountains chill can almost be balmy, now. Likely more to do with wandering thoughts, and—
“—Hey, did’ja mean that? Earlier, I mean. What you said about havin’ dealt with zombies before.” That’s something Raphael doesn’t really know what to make of. An unshakeable sort of thing to just say, and Ephraim hadn’t lingered on it, and with other things to see to, Raphael had put it out of mind until he was left staring at a humble collection of headstones.
Weirder things have happened, maybe, but even if that constant refrain there’s not any weirder thing that’s happened Raphael can really point to, right now. He glances sidelong at the other, squints through the dark. “Just... Can’t imagine what’d bring that about, is all.” He hopes they don’t find out.

















