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MAHALIKHA — a.k.a. a home where your heart is, an arrow that flies straight and true, a pride that never ceases. affiliated black eagles petra. written by mik.

banner is fernando amorsolo's seascape at sunset. please read the information below the cut before interacting !

#ooc

[MACARENA] - "Petra!" The music had already been rolling and as loud as he was, he managed to sandwich a few friends with him in a nice little marching line. "Join us, will you?"

Bobbing his knees in an incredibly haphazard way, he dragged the line of dancers to snake around Petra, before flicking his head back. "Come on!"

Here comes a curious sight—Ferdinand and her classmates dancing about. Petra is put in the mind of fowl, and how their wings flapped and their legs waddled in such a similar fashion. She keeps such thoughts to herself, though. The Aegir son invites her with such earnest that it would be rude of her to derive amusement from that.

"Alright. I will join this... line of dancing."

Petra makes her way towards the back of the line, making similar bobbing motions with her knees and hips. She sees their arms moving and deigns to do something similar—but she thinks it makes her look most like poultry out of all of them.

It is truly a novel sight, seeing a soar of Black Eagles reduced into a flapping flock chickens.

#toaball2025 #((I WAS NOT EXPECTING THE MACARENA MEDIEVAL COVER))#((IM SCREAMHIN))

[TOWEL]

Mae has just finished getting most of the way to dry and is milling around the entrance hall with a towel draped over her shoulders, taking in the lavish mansion. That’s when she sees Petra come in, the gusts of wind and mist of rain making her shiver all over again. She grabs an extra towel from the nearby stack and whisks over with it.

“Here, here ya go.” She offers it up with both hands as though it’s a bar of gold. “They’re super plush.”

Once her hands are free, Mae offers up her hands again, this time with a twinkling seashell charm.

“Swapsies? Meeting new people’s been great ‘n all, but I gotta get at least one of these from a classmate.”

"You have my thanks."

Petra takes the towel—it is plush—and wraps it around her hair. She had been drenched all over from the storm, but it was her hair that was particularly bogged down. A shame—she had braided it so delicately, so neatly in the style of Brigid. Now it was soaked in Fodlan's rage.

Twisting the cloth tightly, she wrings out what water she can. Her locks are thick and long—it's quite the task making sure it's as dry as can be, but she works diligently until she is sure every last drop has been excised from her deep purple. Then, she wraps the towel around and over her shoulders.

"...Swapsies?" Petra quirks a brow at the resquest, but when she looks down at the offered charm, she nods in sudden understanding, "Ah, you are wanting my charm?"

She takes the offered seashell and hooks it onto her wrist. Swapsies... she has yet to hear the term. But the girl speaks it nicely. It flutters out like birdsong in the sweetness of her voice. It reminds her of how Dorothea enjoys playing with others' names. Perhaps this was yet another novel play on words, then.

"Here." Unhooking her charm from her bracelet, she dries it in her towel before handing it to her classmate, "It is a little turtle."

#toaball2025 #((THANK YOU FOR SENDING... MAE IS SO CUTEEE))

She is so close.

This sea, this shore—from here, she can look further south and know that her eyes would eventually land on Brigid. Somewhere out there in that distant horizon, her motherland waits patiently for its strongest daughter.

It brings heartache and warmth in equal strengths. She feels that homesick melancholy tug at her heart. She is quiet. Yet all around her, people continue to enjoy themselves, drunk on laughter and wine. It takes her a moment, but Petra soon decides to tear her gaze away from the ocean and join the festivities.

Soon, though. She will return. And her beloved archipelago will be much closer within her view.

PETRA CHARM TRACKER:

Turtle: Seashell: Anchor: Pearl: Starfish:

ball outfit under the cut!

#toaball2025 #((done with most of my finals. petra is officially bolded yaey))#((she has the turtle charm!))

encantresse

[ ♫ ] ─ * 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞

toaball2025 mini | live from fauntleroy's house, it's SNL!

berglietz

Caspar's leg jerks beneath Linhardt's hand, timed perfectly with the flash of light from Dorothea's fingers—but the roll of thunder his body prepares for never comes. He exhales and turns his attention to Linhardt's face as they speak instead, watching the strand of hair beside their face sway in the gust of wind they've summoned. His brows raise as he learns that Princess Linnette has taken up sorcery since he's last met her, but that's not too strange. She's always been really smart. He scrambles to his feet at his cue. "Linnette's finally woken up?! There must be a big change coming!" One fist is thrust up toward the skies, as if to pick a fight with the heavens themselves. "That damned Nidhoggr has dragged me around for too long! If he'd been a normal beast, I'd have bested him already!" He drags the fist down to be level with his face now, only half-concealing his grin. "His blackened scales can only be pierced by a blessed weapon, and he's hidden all knowledge about it—but there's a warlock who deals in secrets, and I'm sure he'll know something. Hubert of the Shadows knows the method to kill any and all in the land!"

@crimsonpaved

crimsonpaved

HIS NAME BEING CALLED SPURS HIM INTO ACTION, not to speak, but to methodically remove the buns and dango from his hastily designed warming rack. Slowly, he begins to move clockwise, leaving the treats he memorised a preference for before their intended recipient. To Petra, super-spicy fish Dango, to Ferdinand, Linhardt and Caspar, a variety of sweet bun trios, to Bernadetta, Edelgard and Dorothea, a generous helping of Peach Sorbet, until finally he's back by his ditch in the sand.

A cough, a gentle purple washing over the inflatable rapier before a cough falls from his voice, layered as if to sound far away. "Heroes... you desire a weapon, yesss?"

"To pierce the hide.... you must coat this blade with the Fiend's.... scalessss. But the princesssss... mussst be the one to do it."

He can't help the chuckle from his lips at the faux hissing, even as the reinforced rapier is passed to the young woman beside him.

-> @mahalikha

mahalikha

"You are a snake?"

The stories are interrupted by a tilt of Petra's head, and her curious whisper—certainly, Hubert had his snake-like qualities, but never did she think he would embody them like this. She takes a bite out of her fish dango, then sets it down. Taking the rapier now in her hands, she turns back to the others, returning to her character... who was really just her.

"Well. You have heard his hissing. We must make it to the princess. She must be the one seizing her own fate."

She looks down at the rapier. Air-filled and artificial, coated with a strange purple sheen. Then she turns to Ferdinand, who she assumes is the hero of this epic—for now, at least. She is familiar with how these stories are sung—characters live, die, and change over the course of years of passing down the same tale. It is von Squire now, but later it will be someone else.

"Ferdinand von Squire. You wish to become a knight? Here is your path towards that greatness. I will walk with you. I think most of us here would, because we are all opposing the wicked Nidhoggr. But you must be growing, so you must be leading."

She hands the rapier to him.

"Bring the princess home. Help her slay the beast." She says solemnly.

@nobilisseoblige

#WELCOME TO THE BLACK EAGLE PARADE — thread #((bit of a break in order heem heem))#toaball2025

mahalikha

old sprouts with new leaves

☼ [ gauntlets +1, petra & felix ] ☼

wolfhednn

WITH PETRA MOVING AWAY TO DO⠀🗲⠀what he feels should've been the first step to begin with, felix goes back to his own tasks for the afternoon: removing debris from the north- and west-facing plots and making sure both were evenly salted in the disinfectant the church used to keep their vegetation free of pests. the former is the hardest part and what makes up most of the work——a lot of back-and-forth motion, hauling rubble and clearing sticks, evening out the soil coverage, and pulling out any weeds that had started to take root in the last month.

most of the largest pieces had been pulled away by horse and cart earlier, leaving only chunks and scattered shrapnel behind. starting with those he can pick up by hand, big and small, he's just begun loading them into the small wheelbarrow when the girl speaks up again ; without anyone else in the greenhouse, there's no chance that he's not the one she's talking to. "why?" he instinctively counters to the idea that he should also look at the labels, "i'm not in charge of planting them."

nevertheless, in a couple steps, he helps himself to one of the pots she hasn't begun arranging yet, turning it over in his hand to read the hastily-scrawled shorthand. morfis-plum. what does she mean she didn't know what it meant?

"this. . . sounds like a plum," he says, trying⠀(⠀and failing⠀)⠀to sound like he wasn't just reiterating the obvious. "it probably needs plenty of water." or so he assumes of most fruit. anyway, it's from morfis, so who really knows what it needs. not like they had a mage from the far southern landmass conveniently here to tell them. speaking of which, as he exchanges the pot in hand for another one and glances petra's way: "you're from brigid, aren't you? how would i know more about plants than you?" not that he knew much about the empire and its vassal states, but it was tropical over there, wasn't it?

mahalikha

"Because you are from Fodlan, like these plants."

She speaks it so simply, so much like a child. But the logic is sound to her—those of this land must surely know more of it. It surprises her, then, his seeming uncertainty. She is used to a quick correction, to clarification spoken in firm, crisp accents. Rarely has she ever been looked to as the expert on matters local to the continent.

Petra rises from her spot and brings another pot over. White Flower. She leaves it gently by her side as she prepares another bed of dirt.

"We are learning of plants in Brigid, yes. It is a necessity for everyone, even for the royalty." Especially for them. The throne is not for those who do not even know their own land. Though ten years is all she had with Brigid, her knowledge goes beyond what a young body could contain. She inherited centuries. Her knowledge of Fodlan feels like moons by comparison.

Her shovel sinks into the mulch, carving out a small hollow within the deep brown. She carefully lowers the sprout down onto its new home and blankets its roots with dirt. White Flower—she wonders if it will grow into something that smells sweet, like the white flowers in Brigid. Her thoughts breathe out in a small sigh.

"...But we are learning of the plants native to our mother's soil. Fodlan plants have their differences. So I am asking about those differences to learn more about them." She looks to him directly, and tilts her head, "Are the children not required to learn of Fodlan plants?"

#OLD SPROUTS WITH NEW LEAVES — thread #((ack.. sorry again for the wait))#((some day i will have a less busy month...))

encantresse

[ ♫ ] ─ * 𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐞

toaball2025 mini | live from fauntleroy's house, it's SNL!

berglietz

Caspar nudges his leg toward Linhardt's hand, wrinkling his nose at the sudden burden dropped at his feet. As usual, though, he picks up his best friend's slack with a light shrug of the shoulders. "He was on a quest to uh," He rolls his head to one side, chewing his lip as he gathers his thoughts. A silly grin spreads across his face as things slide into place, straightening up where he sits on the sand. "Ha-ha! To officially become a knight, instead of just being Ferdinand von Squire. So he's gotta slay a beast! A powerful one! I don't remember its name, buuuut…" He thrusts a finger toward his classmate across the fire. "I think Hubert does!"

@crimsonpaved

crimsonpaved

A mournful look at the sweet threats roasting over the bonfire before Hubert is reaching into his pocket and pulling the hairtie to tie back his hair in a low ponytail.

"A dragon, scales as black as night, Nidhoggr of the Northern Wastes!" The name falls from his lips like it's spoken in a dramatic fear, yet a chuckle falls from his lips afterwards.

"And so, our hero sets out on the road, faithfully intending to complete his quest, until... he's stopped on the road by the famed warrior princess of Brigid, Petra! Of course, our Squire must introduce himself..." Mischief in his eyes, pushing his chest out and aiming the inflatable rapier towards the sky.

"I AM.... FERDINAND VON SQUIRE." Laughing now, he falls back into the sand.

"Petra, the stage is yours!"

-> @mahalikha

mahalikha

Petra quite likes this method of storytelling. It reminds her so happily of the tales her elders would sing at night. She takes the proverbial stage with the same determined fervor she enters a battlefield with.

"The warrior princess speaks her greetings. She is telling him—" her voice changes slightly, even if she is speaking for herself, "Hello, Ferdinand von Squire. I am Petra, hailing from Brigid."

She takes the inflatable rapier from Hubert's hands. Then she raises it up, directing the tip to the north.

"There is a beast that must be killing... must be killed, rather. I will be helping you, because this beast is hurting someone I know..."

She glances around the circle. There are those that have yet to speak—and those, she knows, that would never let themselves speak unless someone made them. It would be a waste to never hear them.

"...Princess Bernie!" Petra declares, a hand going to the Varley girl's shoulder, "She is trapped inside of a room. We must save her from the beast of wickedness and let her out."

Petra lowers the sword. She quietly returns it to Hubert, and gives Bernadetta an encouraging nod. "Bernadetta. It is now your turn for the stories."

@hermidetta

#WELCOME TO THE BLACK EAGLE PARADE — thread #toaball2025 #((this is what happens when you put a bunch of theater kids together in a circle))#((im in tears))#((not even officially sending petra to the ball yet but bringing her here. this is more important. sorry fauntleroy))

warpaway

foreign language extra credit

warpaway

there is still something in the way petra acts that is imperceptible to linhardt. they find themself wanting to understand but unable to, and it's simply not the sort of questions they would ever ask of a friend.

still, she seems determined to see this through, so who is he to stop her?

she leads him out of the training hall (which he is thankful for, the fresh air is a welcome replacement for the stale sweaty stench permeating that building).

“at this rate, i don't think i'll even mind if it doesn't have anything related to my research,” they comment, quickening their pace so that they can take the lead on the way to their room. “if it's something that interests you, bringing it to your attention was a worthy enough expenditure of my efforts as far as i can tell.”

he tosses her a small smile. it doesn't take much time at all for the two to arrive at his room, and despite the care with which he just spoke, he doesn't consider holding the door open for her or anything like that. the door stays open on its own, and linhardt dives into the mess of books and papers and pillows he's accumulated over nights of sleepless studying.

it doesn't take long at all for him to produce the folder. “aha. here we are.”

they offer it to her without another word.

honestly, they had been looking a little forward to learning petra's native tongue, but they're just as satisfied that they could bring her this gift in the first place.

mahalikha

She closes the door behind her as Linhardt leaps into their pile of materials, watching the scene with idle interest. Petra does not know what she expected to see in their room, but somehow she feels as though this suited them perfectly. As she looks on, leaning against the door, the paper they had given her remains delicately pinched between her fingers.

"Thank you, Linhardt," Petra takes the folder from their hands, "you are acting with much kindness."

She knew they were smart, yes. Studious, definitely. But kind? She does not expect people to act beyond the basic demands of courtesy. Yet here Linhardt is, considering her interests and moving in pursuit of them. She feels that it is certainly kind of them to do that.

Petra flips open the folder. The loose leaves of paper threaten to fall and scatter, but her reflexes are quick enough that she catches them before they do. Slotting the first piece of paper Linhardt had given her in with the rest, Petra straightens the stack of materials, and quietly reads them one by one. She mutters out a few Brigid words as she reads them: journey, cold, study, write.

"Hm…"

After a few minutes of sifting through the papers, the young princess' head finally lifts up from the text. There is leftover focus in her eyes, sharpening her gaze.

"I am not yet finishing the whole folder. But what I am reading so far has much interesting things. I think the writer was traveling through Enbarr and speaking to the people there. Nothing about the Crests but… there is mention of a special blessing given by the Goddess." her brows furrow—she's not so intimately acquainted with Crestology so as to immediately know, "Could that be related to the Crests?"

#FOREIGN LANGUAGE EXTRA CREDIT — thread #((i rolled to see how relevant the text actually is to crests and got a 10 from a d20 roll))#((so it's about... 50/50 i'd say))#((maybe it's crests. maybe it's a different thing... who knows!))

blaiddllodi

girl we are getting scammed

blaiddllodi

While one party is sent to check on Gronder Field’s condition, another is tasked with ensuring there are enough weapons to outfit everyone for the mock battle. Given a list of all the likely participants and reports on their typical preferences as displayed in training sessions, it becomes clear there’s a deficit in the supply particularly with the large number of sword users. Funds allocated to this endeavor are tight however, so some haggling with traveling merchants is in order. Some testing might be in order to make sure you’re not getting swindled either, though convincing the merchants could be another ordeal entirely… [Grants Sword +1] (starter for @mahalikha)

"Lookit, it's pure Sreng steel - you can see the ripples in it. Here, careful not, lad, mind you don't cut yourself."

Dimitri did not want to tell the man that he had a better eye than most students he would encounter, not least as a collector, but as one who had experienced…well, maybe not pure Srengi steel, but certainly the lower quality irons that a lesser man couldn't boast.

And he'd seen pictures of Srengi steel! There were tapestries in the Gautier estate, surely, if he cast his mind back.

Dimitri tapped his chin with a fist, considering the lot, before raising his eyes to the salesman. "And you say it's six swords, of pure Srengi steel, for six thousand?" If that were true, it was a steal that he might almost have felt guilty for, but the salesman merely cleared his throat, hawking a sizable loogie into a spittoon to one side, and nodded curtly.

"Sure, yeah. That's about what I said isn't it?"

The bell of the shop jingled merrily, and at the flick of the salesman's eyes and the split of his grin wide, Dimitri turned to see who else had entered the shop.

"Ah! Petra! You may not have gotten a chance to see - this gentleman says that he has Srengi steel. I suspect that if we clear out this stock, these will last the armory for…generations to come, certainly."

mahalikha

Petra did not have much experience with shopping.

She had passed by many armories, attempting to buy but failing to do so. Some of the weaponry she saw had been far out of her budget; some were a steal, but clearly not of good make. She lacked the words to negotiate the price, so although she had wandered about the shopping district since morning, she was still empty handed by the time midday came.

She did not want to give up, however. They needed these swords. Petra entered one of the last few stores she had yet to check out. There, as bells signaled her arrival, the Blue Lions' House Leader greeted her. Prince Dimitri—she has only heard of him, but he seemed polite. She neared him, the small pouch of gold attached to her hip jostling with every step.

"Srengi steel…?" Petra stared down at the blade he held. She read about Sreng a handful of times, when perusing books about Fodlan's neighboring countries, but she had no reference for the strength of their steel. Inspecting the sword, she felt that it looked no different from regular steel. Dimitri looked eager for it, though.

Petra looked at the merchant who owned the store. He kept a bended elbow atop his counter, leaning into it and eyeing her with a hungry stare. She did not know much about Srengi steel, but she did know that she disliked the look of his face.

She returned to Dimitri. "I do not have much knowledge of Srengi steel. I have not yet tried a sword that was made from it. It is making me hesitant to be parting with my gold… Do you think I can be giving it a test?"

The man behind the counter blanched. "A test?"

Petra nodded. "Yes. I would like to be knowing its strongness. Dimitri, could you be helping with this task? We can be testing the steel through a spar."

#GIRL WE ARE GETTING SCAMMED — thread #((sorry for the wait... but i'm excited for this hehe :D let me know if this reply is good!!))

mahalikha

forge on ahead

☼ [ axe +1, petra & yuzu ] ☼

craneswings

“Your experience differs from your homeland?” Yuzu briefly reflects, acquiring two details from the one remark alone. “Perhaps such should not startle me. Of course different places hold different methods in melding their weapons. Diverse styles, it is no different from diverse sword handlings.”

With Petra’s self-determination of her knowledge, Yuzu allows her to start the process while remaining close. Better for the more confident of the pair to begin rather than risking the samurai second-guessing herself. The other student is wary with the metal rod, keeping it close enough to be affected by the forge yet far enough to keep her hands unharmed.

Yuzu passively flips the sword hilt once more after appraisal, it being eerily easy to do so when lacking most of its metallic bulk. “Aye. Better replaced than keeping the blade in this sorry state.”

Her patience is slightly tested as the ingot requires time to properly soften, but the flames do their work quickly enough. After a moment, Petra has the melted iron set up near where Yuzu cast the broken sword aside, the Hoshidan replacing the hilt in her hand with a small, steel hammer.

“Hold it steady as you say, and allow me to straighten its shape,” an underlying excitement rings in Yuzu’s voice as she nears the flame-touched iron. She might have not known this sword before its destruction, but she shall give it a fair second chance at life. “Like so!!”

Clangs from hammer to anvil cry out nearby them, Yuzu focusing power into the surrounding metal while being wary for her own and Petra’s fingertips alike. She pounds at the melted ingot with power - perhaps too much power.

Upon a few more hammer strikes, Yuzu steps back to overlook her handiwork. The iron is tempered in a shame more fitting of a blade, but there are noticeable lumps peeking at the corners, and notable holes around its center.

“Mmm… Fie,” she refuses to sound entirely dejected, though some refusal spills from her tone, “I may have let the rush of welding get the better of me.”

mahalikha

"There is no need for worrying. Fixing this is a possibility."

Her remark comes from honest appraisal as opposed to sugarcoated comfort. For she knows it impossible to create a perfect result at first—in smithing, at least. She can recall sitting by the forge, watching master artisans hammer at the same blade for hours. There are many things in life that do not get this second chance. When it does become available, it makes sense for people to take advantage of it over and over again.

Petra is uncertain if she has the same hours as those masters she's seen—this forge is borrowed, and a line of students await their own turn on the anvil. But she possesses the same spirit of flame. Rote process and repetition will not devour her patience.

The princess takes the tools from her partner's hands. "Here. I will be trying."

Their blade-in-progress is returned to the hot core of the oven, then taken out once it turns red. Petra takes her hammer to the softened steel, using the anvil's surface to flatten out the bumps and fill in the gaps. The blade is still not completely smooth by the time the metal has cooled and her sweat has soaked her uniform, but the material has distributed itself more evenly now. Still, Petra wonders if Yuzu might be satisfied with this. The Hoshidan seemed the type to be as relentless as she was. She feels that they both know much can still be improved.

"This is good. It is not yet perfection, but with this we can be deciding on a shape for it and start working to make it be that shape."

Petra looks at the metal thoughtfully. She recalls the brief remark Yuzu made about her sword, and her own ideas of Brigid weaponry.

"I am thinking it could be shaped into the sword from your homeland, or something similar. It will have much ease… be easier to design if we use something that is close to your heart."

#FORGE ON AHEAD — thread #((sorry for the long wait as well ahuhuhu))#((petra rolled decently for the hammering but not quite there yet...))

mahalikha

old sprouts with new leaves

☼ [ gauntlets +1, petra & felix ] ☼

wolfhednn

SURREAL, TO BE IN THE GREENHOUSE AGAIN.⠀🗲⠀an overlay of peace on chaos and fire, silence in the echo of a cacophony of hooded men holding strange implements, destructive magic, coolness opposing rising heat. the once-insulated place now stands open to the air and elements, the glass of its shattered roof only recently cleaned away, and the doorway he'd tried to blockade is nothing more than a gaping gulf. food for the dining hall, herbs for the infirmary, specimens for study——he hadn't realized how much of it relied on this place, which had mostly just smelled like moss and wet soil when it was his turn on the chores to water it.

minutes go by, carried on the ebb and flow of these thoughts, vague and intangibly out of reach. he doesn't realize he's been looking at the same spot absently without moving until a touch on his shoulder brings him out of it again, head turning. like that, senses open and the present comes flooding back: seedlings to be planted, mulch to be replaced, the rough handle of the shovel in his hands.

right.

magenta and striking features are a bold splash of color, easy to focus on amid their monotone surroundings, brown, grey, and devoid of the greenhouse's signature green. did she mean. . . supposed to look that way? he looks at the table in question——she's not wrong ; they do all look the same. but how is he supposed to know if that means anything? he wasn't told what they were planting. "i don't know," he says plainly, rough tone barring nothing. "have you looked at the labels?"

mahalikha

"Ah, I have not... Then I will be looking at them." She responds simply, returning to the table to read the labels he so speaks of.

There they are, pasted onto the body of the pot. Petra picks one up and inspects it. Western Fodlan. She takes another and reads it again. Nordsalat. Morfis-Plum. Mixed Fruit. Her brow furrows. The shorthand was clearly intended for a more seasoned greenhouse-keeper, rather than a foreign princess. But she must not let the confusion keep the sprouts from their soil. Petra would like to see them all in the ground before the day's end. Any more staying in the pot and they might just die.

She takes a few into her arms and returns to the dirtbed next to the student. Petra bends down, the small ceramics beside her. She does not speak at first, instead occupying herself with the busywork of depotting them. Her movements are delicate, though her face remains tight and narrow. It remains unknown to her, the organization of these sprouts, but she arranges them in a way she feels is best—in a variety. If Fodlan's soil is anything like Brigid's, then the variation should keep it rich. It is what she knows, anyways.

Speaking of what she knows… her gaze returns to the student beside her.

"I have checked the labels and I still do not know what they mean," she tells him, unprompted, but all in the spirit of open communication, "but I still choose to plant them now so they will not die. Maybe you can also be checking the labels. I am thinking that a Fodlan person knows more about plants than I do."

#OLD SPROUTS WITH NEW LEAVES — thread #((sorry for the delay on this... the month got away from me sobs))

patra they peele me

Who is 'they'? Please be telling me. I will be seeking those who have peeled your hair. I do not understand why they would do this to you.

#TOAaprilfools #ooc #((BALD BRAVE. IN FUCKIGN TEARS))

encantresse

[ ♫ ] ─ * 𝐢'𝐦 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠. 𝐛𝐮𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞

restoration / clear those floating eyeballs!

encantresse

dorothea's fingers instinctively wrap around her companion's wrist.

never has she been a religious woman — and still, the sight is enough to draw out an invocation of the goddess' name, strung alongside a low swear. ten, fifteen, twenty. no, twenty five of them total. horrendous beasts that make her stomach turn the longer she stares at the plethora of blinking eyes and oozing tendrils, or when she tunes into those nauseating, squelching sounds and the way her body nearly shudders with the instinct to dry heave.

then, an urgent tug. the crackling of leaves underfoot, the wind in their hair. her breathing growing labored as she breaks into a run and pulls her classmate further away from gronder field and toward the safety of the rapidly-approaching treeline.

it occurs to the songstress that she's the last person who should be commanding someone like petra. a princess of all things, as well as a skilled huntress and combatant to boot. a girl more capable than any man she'd ever met, or would meet, though for now, the possibly of losing a friend again so soon is enough to push the thought out of mind.

( apologies can always be issued later, but only if the other person is still alive to hear them. )

"i don't know what those things are, exactly," dorothea says in a hushed tone, fighting to keep the strain out of her voice. "but a few members of our party ran into them when we were hiding in the bunker. they strike with some sort of invisible force anytime you get close, so we'll have to keep our distance."

thats my best girl @mahalikha!!

mahalikha

Petra would easily follow her to more hellish straits. When Dorothea takes her wrist, she willingly goes wherever she might lead.

But she knows the songstress would never lead her there—guardian angel that she is, she delivers them to the safety of the surrounding trees, pulling them into the canopy of its protection. Petra holds her breath, lowers her stance until her knees brush against the tufts of grass beneath her. Her eyes narrow. From this distance, she could reasonably shoot one of them down. It was all a matter of timing and stealth. Just one would not be enough, she knows. But it would be a start.

Quietly, she unstraps her bow from its place in her back. From the quiver by her side, she pulls out an arrow. She nocks it.

"Yes, we should be keeping our distance. It is like hunting a rabbit." Her fingers begin to stretch the bowstring out, and she turns to her classmate before it can reach the fullness of its draw, "I will be quick. Please stand by my back, Dorothea."

In one swift motion, she ducks up from the Gronder forestry, lets loose her bowstring, then ducks back down. Her arrow whistles through the air, the echo of its song manifesting as a sharp whoosh of wind. It pierces through the bright blue pupil of one of the eyes. It thuds onto the ground. Its packmates fly around in a panic, swiveling about as they search for the arrow's origin. In the chaos, Petra taps Dorothea's shoulder, and motions for her to follow her elsewhere—deeper into nature's shroud, where they gain a chance to strike again once the eyes regroup.

Petra begins to move her way through the periphery of the forest. As she does, she turns to Dorothea, thinking that she looks different somehow. There is a sudden thought that strikes her: though they had been together when the monastery fell, they were split far apart for the rest of the moon. Dorothea mentioned hiding in a bunker. How much did she miss while she was trapped in Gerth territory?

The young princess whispers. "When you were doing the hiding… were you able to defeat a mass of these? I am worrying that my arrows will not be enough. But we must still be eliminating them all. What do you think we should be doing?"

There's another question that lingers on her tongue, one that she doesn't give voice to. What exactly happened to everyone?

#BUY THEM BROWN CONTACTS — thread #((MISS THEA OUGHHHH))#((tysm for the starter!! had meant to reply to this before boel but... y'know how it is))#((also wow my sisters in nat20... beagle girls stay winning!))

"I hope you're well, Petra." Her greeting comes with a mixture of concern and wonder sitting on the Imperial Princess's face as she brings one hand up to sit atop her chin. She knows the words are not a necessity, but she cannot help herself and utter them all the same.

"I know I hardly need to say it, but.. Your fighting prowess is commendable. A single defeat here means nothing when the world awaits for strength like yours and mine."

Her fingers stay still. "Tell me. What was your fight like?"

"Lady Edelgard."

Petra snaps up at the sound of that voice, so calm and dignified in its tone. Though her injuries have yet to heal by this point, her face shows none of her turmoil. Instead her expression hardens into resolved, a mute flame that burns within brown eyes.

"I am well, yes. My defeat will not be bringing me down. I will be working even harder now to show you my strength."

Petra's fists clench. Already, she is thinking of throwing herself back into the training hall and improving on her technique. Her strikes are accurate but weak. If wouldn't do to have her opponents outlast her.

"My fight? It was... okay. The opponents had much strangeness. But they were good fighters. Maybe I should be learning from them."

She thinks back on the axeman and the mage, how curious their demeanor yet incredible their power. No matter how foreign one seemed to others, if they were strong, they would manage to succeed even over those who were 'normal.'

Petra looks toward Edelgard. The proud figure she cut against the linen walls of the med tent. Now she was strong—which means Petra needs to be strong, too. Brigid must be equal to Fodlan. Petra must be equal to her.

The fire inside her eyes burns a little brighter.

"No, I will definitely be learning from them. To become stronger. Thank you for asking if I am well. But next time I will be winning. So you will not have to be meeting me in the med tent any longer."

#toaboel2025 #((late response so sorry huhu but!!! ty for sending tiff 🥺🥺🥺))#((my house leader... sobs))

"ppppeeeetttrrraaaaaa!!!" heaves rasps croaks bleats makes ungodly gutteral staticky noises from the hellish depths of her throat as she throws herself at petra's feet. and bernadetta, she wails, cheek smushed against the other's shin: "petra! you fought the evil rat king! the tyrant of tyrants! the hubert-who-lifts-weights! you fought him?! petra, you're the bravest! thank goodness you're alive! petraaaaa!"

"Bernadetta—?"

A small grunt escapes her lips as she feels Bernadetta's weight on her feet. Petra had anticipated visits from her classmates sooner or later, but this wasn't quite the entrance she imagined. She thought they'd be standing, for one. Bernies will be Bernies, she supposes.

Petra's calloused hand goes to rub Bernadetta's shoulder, a soothing motion, like one might do for a skittish horse.

"Ah... Who was I fighting?"

She stops and blinks. Petra understands those words individually, but put together, they form no cohesive meaning. Perhaps the Varley noble was speaking in metaphor, or in some dialect of the Fodlan language that she had yet to come across, for she certainly remembers fighting no such tyrant or mouse monarch. There is silence for a moment, a gap where she constructs an answer based on the flimsy foundation of her understanding.

"...Bernadetta," Petra begins, "I think you are misunderstanding. I did not fight Hubert. He is our classmate so I cannot be facing him in battle. The academy is not allowing for that."

Another hand goes onto Bernadetta's shoulder, adjusting her position such that she would look Petra in the eye. Her features grow soft.

"And of course I am alive. The academy is also not allowing for killings. Were you having worries for me?" her right hand pats her, "It is okay, Bernadetta. I was beaten by my opponent but my injuries will be healing. You will not need to have worries."

#with togetherness — inbox #toaboel2025 #((MY BOOMF BERNADETTA YOURE SO CUTEEEE))#((petra doesnt understand your references but its okay. she care you))

"i hope you're not feeling too disheartened, petra. you did your best out there!"

a note of cheeriness greets her friend as dorothea steps closer, her arm slipping around the other's shoulders. with a gentle motion, she guides her fellow eagle deeper into the tent, careful to sidestep the flurry of healers and combatants. "honestly, i had a hard time looking away," she continues, her tone rich with admiration. "you're always so graceful in battle. has anyone told you that?"

"Thank you for your kindness, Dorothea. Your words are always filling me with joy."

Her appreciation comes sincere, accompanied with a smile that shines, however small, on her face. But she speaks softly, with less of the conviction she normally does, and brown eyes can't help but fall downward in thought and reflection. Brigid's princess tries not to play victim to shame, but she feels the wounds of her ego more than that of her flesh. Her performance hadn't been enough. Clearly, she needs to work harder.

Petra, thanks to Dorothea's guidance, manages to find and seat herself onto a cot. Her breath turns sharp as she feels her injuries flare up at her movement, but she keeps the true depths of her pain tucked beneath composure.

"And do not be worrying. I will not be losing my heart. I am just thinking that maybe I should be working harder to be stronger." Petra takes a deep breath, shakes her head slightly, then looks up at her housemate, "So you were watching the battle, am I correct? How was the fighting of everyone else?"

#with togetherness — inbox #toaboel2025 #((AHHHH MISS DOROTHEA YOURE SO SWEET TYYYY 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺))

twistedisciple

Versus Villain Squad

TOA BOEL 2025 | Round 1 Battle 4

knighteclipsed

The eagle’s ‘death’ is far from real, but the little one’s response to it borders close to such—a dangerous behavior to have, Valter thinks, because if that is how you react in the context of a mock battle, how open would you leave yourself on the field of a real war?

(Such people were already dead.)

—or maybe it was some intentional form of distraction, because whilst she plays her grief, a swarm of insects falls from the sky, completely disarming the pale (the soulless, so Moonstone thinks) of the Lions, rendering them unable to continue.

(Given how the girl then takes credit for the cleverness of the act, Valter presumes that it was, in actuality, not intentional at all.)

That doesn’t stop Griss from crawling up to his side however (to avoid the swarm of bugs, no doubt, but that did not make his company any more pleasant). Moonstone hums some mixture of annoyance and agreement before replying:

“ I was thinking much the same. ”

(And so he pounces.)

Valter rotates the Blue Lions to the right!

mahalikha

Down the axe swings, first as warning, then last as execution. Its guillotine movement takes Petra along its trajectory, throwing her onto the Gronder grass without an ounce of mercy. Her bow falls limply beside her. Petra groans, hearing a sopranic ringing in her ears.

The weighty steel leaves a dull, throbbing pain, blooming across her abdomen like heat spreading through roiling water. Lysithea rushes to her side, using what strength she could to help her up, but Petra knows the battle is over for her now. Her legs buckle, and whatever power and grace she had fought with are all but gone, replaced now with an uncharacteristic heaviness that bears down on her bones. A hand goes to squeeze the mage's shoulder.

"I go to be healed… I have apologies for leaving you alone," she says quickly, breathlessly, "but continue to fight with strength…"

That said, Petra takes herself away from the fight, hobbling slowly towards the med tent set up by the edges of Gronder field. All the while, the battle rages on behind her. The wounds of the flesh are painful, but not as stinging as the hit to her pride. And to leave Lysithea behind makes something of a pit in her stomach.

She'll have to write to her grandfather soon, and ask him how her siblings are growing up to be.

Petra has been defeated!

@tomestudyholic @stellalimned

#VERSUS VILLAIN SQUAD — thread #toaboel2025 #((thanks for the fight everyone!!! we got the funniest group ever tbh HAHAHA))#((two grown men ganging up on the 15 yr old with bees....))#((griss cockroaching it out....))#((only at gronder can you see such sights))

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