𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚

in this ( world ) , there is no emptiness. your DREAM will not come true. ₊ nel ･ fe: engage ･ abyssian

[twistedisciple]

Mortal Immortality [Griss, Nel, & Rafal]

Recovery | Infirmary task

[rafent]

Rafal took up his post as heedful listener, as contributing member, as party to a history retold. Assemblies of the like had been all too meaningful, greatly for others and even greater for them. Such oblique tactics employed before two twins and four knights might even begin to turn their eyes toward the likelihood of a fight. Intelligence and retreat their necessary methods as few; blood, fang, and confrontation a luxury only when the confidence could be spared, and before the Divine One spared never. Not among those eking out survival in the shadows beyond range of conflict and fire, entities more powerful and numerous than they.

But to say that those echoes of a distant world reflected identically here would not be true. There was difference, of course. Difference manifest in that Rafal was reborn and no longer Nil; that their Gregory too was reborn; or that Nel had perished once and was born again. Different insofar that this time their band of few was not running, and they did not fear the flames drawn tall by any other. Fleeing and fearing? Teeth curtained with passivity behind sealed lips? Far from it.

"Consider it done," he assured his other half on the cross of his arms. Braver and stronger, distanced from Nil's poverty of strength, still he understood the necessity of indirect means. Even welcomed - strangely at that - the comfort of old, ignoble habits that rang less of ineptitude and more of camaraderie. Two twins and one knight, yet ever the same footsteps. . .comfortingly reminiscent with an equivalence the heart sung to accept. His curt nod turned to that knight, offering his own path forward. "A promising avenue. On my end, there exist no shortage of sources that I may investigate as an insider within the academy's body. Those of closest proximity to Pasithee shall be my start. If any secrets exist, they will be found."

With that, one final consideration in order:

Not a trough but a peak underway. Several parts working toward it with only one yet cast in shade, her orders extended outwards and exempting herself by proxy. Nary a thing that Rafal did not miss of his other, or perhaps seeing that which no-one else did, mirror reds gazed upon their twins. Within the neutrality shaped by his sharp eyes, a voluminous if well-concealed density of concern.

"Do not neglect to avail of the same idea, sister. You too are irreplaceable, and need I remind, your life unable to be recouped a second time."

@nelithic

[nelithic]

AND ONCE MORE, THOUGH WILD EYES replace an anxious peace and feral grin an easy smile, there is a ghost of identity there. something about griss' turn of phrase, the way a thought occurs to him——curiously percipient——and the way he chooses to speak it. the similarities are intangible and gone the very same moment ; she could not explain what, precisely, it was.

only acknowledge that architecture of absence with a nod. "the arenas, then. i agree." and to rafal, who speaks next on his plans, a similar approval. "take care you do not draw scrutiny. this church seems to be. . . fond of their secrets."

the little emperor edelgard. her skeletal axe. the wariness in her gaze as she coveted her shadows from a compendium of eyes too keen to pry them open. it is not my intention to keep secrets, she had said something once to effect, and it had come to the dragon's realization after that it must be a part of the nature of fódlan itself. it was a different manner of inborn and instinctive conditional untrust than she had been born and raised knowing, though of adjacent tenor.

red eyes shift unconsciously to her twin, as if wondering if he has in their time here perceived the same; but at the same moment, he turns the same cardinal red upon her, bold with the familial authority of concern wearing fortitude's face——and with a statement, brushes thoughts of wariness from her mind for now. she sits up a little straighter: "of course."⠀(⠀they have each their own fell pride's constitution ; on her, appreciation wears acquiescence's face.⠀)⠀a second time. . . the admonishment made into warning does not go unnoticed. her face does not falter, but a subtle gravity creeps behind her eyes, recalling——more than the cold fang of steel——the wild despair of a brother. "it will not occur a second time. i also meant to include myself."

and just as quickly is flown. "then it is decided. for now, we will rest and restore our strength." griss' condition and evident hunger notwithstanding, even the durability of dragons was susceptible to wear and stress.

"and then our work begins." 　

₊　mortal immortality　┃┃┃　end.

[pirrhyc]

to be weak, to be strong

[rafent]

'Hers'. Lacking story and name still there was percipience over the sentimental value of Pelleas' unknown woman. For all that those elements were not needed, solid vows proved enough; that a single presence moved him as oceans of ships; as time of shifting earth; as seasons of ever-changing humanity. And as Nel of Rafal.

"You speak of her highly. If one such as myself is capable of discerning that, then your efforts to persuade her will not fail. Cling to that regard and remember its importance. The success of your path is certain to be yours."

Wary of the divide between actions good and evil, precious individual centered firmly in the eye of his mind, he could not foresee that the young man would fail; one so reflective over their heart at this juncture was already secured of their place. Another would not fall to the mistakes of Rafal's making. So sure of that potential, steps began to lead him away, deportment as confident as admired, while knowing such was not his outcome alone.

"One day you will—act with that certainty in mind." On the brink of departure, between melding into the togetherness of a crowd and standing apart as one, pallid head tilted over shoulder to impart farewell and final counsel in the same breath: "A ball is not meant to be spent on one stranger. Make the most of your time with those of your favor. We will speak again."

After that, a true egress; through that, an implicit offer; in future stead, a dragon's office would be welcome to Pelleas in all the ways it should be found agreeable.

Door ajar.

...

( 𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃 )

[nelithic]

　𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬.

　　　　　　　　　 　　❪　m. showcase　/　lance point　❫

[diadic]

    “ You're right on both accounts, ”  Leif answers with a nod.  “ I'm a prince. I didn't know this about my country until I grew up, but they had placed those tariffs impossibly high to prevent our neighbor from ever being able to get their hands on our surplus crops. Without any industry of their own, they'd never be able to afford to pay our taxes in order to get enough food to feed their people... ”

Without even picking up a weapon, it was a way to attempt to end the lives of those you considered your foes.

“ Have you never experienced a tariff before? You don't look that much older than me... ”  He would assume she had experienced her own fair share of life then if not more than him himself. He cannot in this moment link her to the notion of ignorance or naivete— the very things that had blinded him in years prior.  “ You didn't seem disinterested in the tour today. I'd guessed you had a motive similar to mine. ”

Had he been wrong? 

[nelithic]

THOUGH NOT THE FIRST OCCASION such a remark were posed, it still brings a fleeting smile to the corners of her mouth——wan, amused, and not so light that it reached the eyes, but flirting nevertheless at something nostalgic and untouched-upon for some time.

"you are not incorrect. i enjoy seeing the ways your kind grows and changes over time. . . "⠀which, perhaps in itself already spoils his inquiry.⠀"though personally i find your continual advancements in military construction to be of greater interest. to answer your question: i have not experienced a tariff, though i have some understanding of the concept."

when news of it would reach the ears of lythos, far removed. when she had begun, at some point, to mind such news——perhaps because it had impacted the lives of those she knew ; those who would then be gone some short years later ; those who would be followed by others.

"humans are adaptable and innovative."⠀she turns then, presenting briefly a deep crimson stone in one hand as though in wordless introduction or explanation, before tucking it out of sight again.⠀"i have always presumed it is because you are short-lived, thus that energy and momentum never has the chance to wane."

[nelithic]

　𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟.

[heriteur]

The fluid motion with which she reaches for the training spear comes as a surprise, though he doesn't flinch when she levels her weapon on him. Fiery eyes shift up from wooden shaft, to blood red—he knew Nel had come here for her own purposes, but that she would so calmly humor his unexpected presence...

(And he would be lying if he said he wasn't curious about testing his skill against hers...)

A faint smile twitches across his features. "I would certainly hope not. It isn't a proper spar if both parties aren't giving their all."

Though he had his own weapon on him (for he was never without it), Diamant felt it most appropriate to level the odds: training weapon against training weapon. It was not an underestimation of her skill, or her prowess as a warrior. It was merely respect for the bout.

Hand reaches for the nearest wooden sword, silence falling as he lowers it to his side, assuming his usual battle stance. Tall, proud, uncompromising—a pillar of unshaken royal confidence, as a true regent of Brodia should be.

Lances had an advantage over swords, and yet... "Come at me, then." His smile speaks to a certain pride, but also, the thrill of the oncoming challenge.

[nelithic]

RED HOLDS HIM IN ITS STONY REGARD only a beat longer——then dragon strikes. sure posture launches itself forward, driving spearpoint forward into the body of his chest, an open vulnerability he was sure to anticipate.

she wonders. does he fight, too, differently from the king she had stood beside once in war? fate, if indeed it was the force to be held responsible, was a curious thing: that she might see battle alongside the face of a perished ally again, an impossibility made strangely whole by the force of entire worlds.

angle twists at the last possible instant before impact, and she traces two quick steps back to retain space between herself and his blade ;

roll ,⠀8.

bubbling mire launches from concealed palm at his feet without warning, corrosive fangs seeking their target. a feint, earlier.

"you fear our fell magic. so you will face it."

already the next spell takes shape in curled digits, prepared to keep diamant alert and moving.

[nelithic]

　𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞-𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐬.

　　　　　　　 　　　❪　m. recovery　/　ghost hunting　❫

[laruarva-deactivated20251206]

Nel hailed from a haunt, then. Perhaps loss and sacrifice and clothes tattered and marred with ash were more familiar than sunset lined skies and the intertwine of fingers flushed warmth with those they held fond, with those still breathing. If so, it was a reality they were familiar with all too well. The guilt at the flutter in their chest at a silent understanding was palpable, writhing thing, though smothered little against the weight that pressed against it.

"Well, I would take Fódlan as a rather poor example of how to move forward. Given how the past is a writhing beast with hands that has grown quite fond of it's attempt to pick apart what has been built here, piece by piece." A tilt of their head, a smile riddled with mirth but slither's of an intent of genuine support snuck into the curl. "Regardless of the duration of your stay in Fódlan, do learn from it's mistakes however that looks for you."

Steps paused, a flick of their wrist to signify a change in direction. Steps resumed, a hum under their breath at her, admittedly, valid line of questioning.

"You could say I am afflicted with a strange sort of amnesia." A start, slow, cautious start of information they had not passed willingly from their lips in years. This much had been earned, for when it fell into her hands to act as judge, jury and executioner she had merely asked after what she had found relevant and left them to their shambles of peace. Respect had been garnered, a rarity, and the benefits made themself apparent under the shroud of nightfall with their loosened lips.

"Whilst there is much I know there is also...much I do not. Far, far more that I do not, if you were to compare." Nonchalant was the admission, devoid of any grievance for what was lost to them. "Whilst I am not overly sure of how much the static affected my perception, there was this sort of instinctual hunch to all things related to him."

A little shrug of their shoulders, a discreet attempt to roll out the tension that gathered hot in their nerves at breathing his being into existence.

"I am experiencing a similar feeling here. With all that has occurred in Fodlan, I don't think it would be too outlandish that perhaps a statue's manifestation could follow what was revealed, even if it was an illusion. The line between dreams and reality...tenuous, that one can be."

[nelithic]

THE MISTAKES OF FÓDLAN. and the grasping claws of the past. in descending twilight, the flecks of crimson eyes dim, recalling again the mysteries of her earliest months here and how they remain no closer to being resolved. the cores of dragons unearthed in the church's vault, the half-shapen beast lowing for something——pain, mercy, despair perhaps——in the heart of the woods at hers and griss' feet, the tail of wounded kin from another land fused with the living axe of this land's most celebrated heroes.

and glaringly between it all, a silence of dragons.

a soft puff of air escapes her lips, and she wonders if these questions, like the self-perpetuating serpent, have not already answered themselves. but she has always been a creature of finality, and rested ill at ease until the proof lay etched in stone. if only this world did not guard its secrets so closely——even those inhabitants she felt should have no reason to keep its innards sealed tight did so zealously, as though to open the way to history were to invite ruin, and thus everything best kept quiet.

perhaps that was indeed the case. perhaps it was best kept quiet. for the sake of the others who walked unknowingly and without harm, for the sake of preservation of peace. in such a way, outlanders like them were only a disservice, a disturbance to that peace with their conflicting goals ; hers, foremost, to ensure no other's safety above that of her brother's and her own. she could do this by waiting passively, fending threats only as they came. but that had never been how the children of the haunt ensured their own survival, and laying still with stomach exposed whilst their enemies plot their prey does not come naturally to her still.

looking on arval now as the woodland path bends and the foliage deepens, brush and bracken now skirting her thighs, she wonders if they will be such tenuous allies forever. and knows by the acres' march of time for the answer to be no.

"that has been shown to be true," she agrees placidly on the remark about dream and reality——the line here even looser than elyos, prone, as repeated experience has shown, to continental and cataclysmic shift. but this is an adaptation ; she thinks to her meeting with rafal and griss shortly after awakening from the most recent reverie——one, as all others, that demanded acclimation. "then what do you hope to find, exactly?" it is not as though it has escaped her notice: "i was under the impression he is not a pleasant memory for you, your——" birth. creation. what to call him. "——progenitor."

[nelithic]

　𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧.

　　　　　　　 　　　　 　　　❪　m. showcase　❫

[twistedisciple]

”Yeah,” Griss says, winded by the time he comes back to where he’d left Lady Nel to wait. A fine layer of sweat glistens across his face, and even beneath the bright crimson curl of ink down the left side, his cheeks have flushed faintly pink. He takes a breath and pulls at the collar of the tailored coat he’s been made to wear to air out some of the heat. Although the morning is mild, and the breeze over the vineyard pleasantly cool, he’s hardly had to wear this many layers before, even in the snowy plains of Elusia.

”Didn’t think it was gonna be such a pain in the ass though. They kept sending me from one guy to the next.”

They’d arrived at the villa without a reservation, although they’d been assured by the promoter that they’d get in as long as they could prove they were with Garreg Mach monastery. This was the way House Ordelia had hoped to thank the staff and its students for bringing foreign attention and, along with it, business to the Alliance territories. The only problem was that Griss wasn’t really faculty, and Lady Nel, although she was faculty, taught a house that didn’t technically exist. Each attendant he’d been sent to looked at him like he was crazy, even though he’d dressed up like a stuffy noble and everything, and sent him along to “someone who could help.” They never did.

So instead he’d just claimed one of the white-clothed tables himself. Swiped some signage, scribbled a name, and staked it to hold their place until he could retrieve his plus-one from outside the gates.

Griss wipes the back of his hand across his forehead as he leads her to their placement.

”I’ve been to drinking parties before—“ The fell kind, usually accompanied by some psychotropic compound, prayer, and plenty of bloodletting. “—This one can’t be that different.”

The organizers had even set out all this white. If they weren’t prepared for art, he didn’t know what they were doing it for then.

When they arrive at the table Griss had claimed (stolen? Who’s to stay), he snatches the name card from the center and tosses it aside. Then he circles around to the chair on the other end. If Lady Nel expects him to pull her chair for her, he doesn’t notice, and doesn’t think about it. Instead, he slumps down in his own seat and wastes no time pushing up the sleeves of his jacket to reveal arms as scarred as they are inked.

”All we gotta do is enjoy the drinks! So just sit back and don’t think too much about it.”

[nelithic]

QUESTIONS FOR WHY GRISS SEEMED so out of breath were best saved for another time ; she assumes the day's warmth is to blame, in concert with his attire when she catches him pulling at the collar with displeasure. it is true that he appears somewhat out of place in the pressed cotton and fitted coat, but she is likewise unaccustomed to human formalwear herself, so they will simply have to be out of place together.

nevertheless, she's not oblivious to the wide-eyed looks cast their way when they arrive at the designated table. griss makes himself comfortable, and as nel pulls out the chair to take her own place, her attention drifts to two women standing nearby at the pony wall, catching their furtive glances mid-whisper. one of them averts her eyes and draws away, but the other meets her stare with unconcealed apprehension, then flicks to her companion.

with a sigh, she returns to the pressed linen tablecloth and runs a hand absently over it, pleasantly cool and silken in the heat. were it rafal, this would be par for the course, but she wonders if she ought to apologize to griss.

"you are right. enjoying a few refreshments should not be difficult."

so she eases herself into the back of the chair, still keeping a peripheral eye on their surroundings, and beneath the table folds one leg over the other to wait. in the meantime, a change of topic that today's dress brings to mind.

"this is not relevant, but i had meant to mention earlier: i heard you were present at this year's ethereal ball as well. i did not have the opportunity to find you, but i hope you enjoyed the occasion. i have not forgotten that you are to thank for my choice of attire the year before."

[loveevangelist]

Volo Ergo Sum

( Ethereal Ball 2024 — [ Goddess Tower ] )

[loveevangelist]

In no more words than necessary, she is given an answer that is not really one at all. The burden is placed on she who remains to derive meaning from it—and, really, how bold she had been to expect anything more clear. It has always been up to her to make sense of denial. Of where she is placed and why.

Deeply, through her nose, she breathes.

What a strange command, though—to be told to forget. What use would Poe be if she were permitted to let go of things so easily? Akin to a balance told to forget the weight that it holds, a frivolous and purposeless thing that implied greater purpose than it had. ...was it so unsightly, what she had bore tonight? It could be nothing else, could it? She knew above all else, after all, that devotion without reciprocity had value. That she had always been made to bleed by command of another.

(To forget might very well be impossible. Her body did not so easily forget its pursuit of those mysteries in the dark that drew her like moth to flame.)

Years she has spent honing the skills required to catch, and yet by moonlight tonight, Poe permits escape. Footsteps on stone and distant festivities outside are sounds all but forgotten as she stands stock still on display. Because she has already seized something within her grasp, even if she knows not yet the shape it holds, and were she to lose it in chase she might leave empty-handed entirely.

And so, silently, she holds it close to her chest.

(To covet is to lose what one has never had. In her garden there are seven manners of vine, and she no longer registers her ensnarement, by which ones, by how many. Those above mark the path to beat with white, but that she shambles along it only casts her black in far starker shades. Predator by daylight becomes prey by nightfall.

Will the Gods count tears fallen, or is blood the only sacrifice they take?)

———End🌹

[loveevangelist]

Volo Ergo Sum

( Ethereal Ball 2024 — [ Goddess Tower ] )

[loveevangelist]

A step away is met with a step in pursuit—the art of following is one that Poe knows all too well, a law chiseled into stone evermore.

"Such caution doesn't suit me the way it suits you, Nel."

In the reaffirmation of what she knows to be so, Poe re-finds tentative footing, swiftly returning what she has been afforded with a shake of the head. Paradoxically soft, yet firm.

It is only now that she has regained herself enough to take note of the way her heart hammers steadily at the walls of her chest—like prey, staring into its own undoing? Like predator, skin and bones and starved for blood? No, simply like herself. Fight or flight suits her, adrenaline is her home in a way peace never may be. Consider what? Poe is not the sort to think twice upon risk. She seeks danger out for herself; ever and ever again, she is at it at its inception.

"...the way you say it almost makes it seem as though you worry for me. I cannot fathom why—never have you done me wrong. You don't think me so frail as not to be able to keep up with you, do you?" She probes, knit brow betraying perplexity. Indeed, something about it strikes her as obviously the wrong conclusion, and that strikes something unidentifiable in her chest: apprehension? Not quite. Fear? She is not afraid, is she? Worry?

...how odd—she has long since grown used to the polarization of her own presence, but it seems that the capability to care about others' perceptions of her did still slumber somewhere deep within her, for how it stirs here on the sigh her confession elicits. How it has been stirring, as she realizes. These were the instincts others were attuned to, molded themselves by in the moment so as to keep themselves palatable. A craft she is sorely unfamiliar with. She only knows how to act the part of herself.

Even Poe knows that these are matters of reciprocity; what lies in store for her is wholly dependent on what Nel would have her be. And that is not unfamiliar to her. Never has Poe been in control of her own fate, it is only a matter of who she hands the lead to.

(Nel has stated that she is not a leader—is it selfishness, then, that Poe places her fate in Nel's hands anyway, so that she will not become unmoored?)

Another step forward follows the first, eyes subconsciously fix on a target in motion, but hands grasp at themselves for lack of anything better to do. Because normally to give chase is violent, and here it isn't; normally, to give chase is the rising action, and here, it feels drastically close to the precipice of the fall.

She takes a breath, filling in the other obvious conclusion,

"Or is it that you would not have me?"

because joy is only a comorbidity of what she is conditioned to seek.

[nelithic]

SHE HAD GIVEN HER A WAY OUT — she had given them both a simple way out, and was half-poised to take it, draped already in an angular slice of shadow beneath the archway. instead, to honor the little one's honesty, she makes the error of pausing and the second error to listen. she knows, as they both do, the moment the accusation is out of the other's mouth that this is not the reason. time and again they have navigated and fought together, in both simulation and true threat, and she has seen the woman's capabilities.

if there was one who would stand dauntless in the face of a fell dragon's severing fangs, it would be none other.

but love is not a violent battlefield, nor the consummation poe had come here tonight hoping for. long-term companionship was a war of attrition: a murky tension of giving and taking, allowances and forbearances, of gentleness in spite of. or perhaps in inclusion of.

these were not a dragon's to ask of mankind. nor man's to ask of dragonkind. earlier, rafal had claimed, in the absence of choice, there were worse fates he could imagine than to consider the short-lived as partners. yet once again nel fell short of her brother's unwavering conviction. doubt still harbored within her breast, as beating a thing as a heart and in many ways stronger. one short slumber and generations would pass ; and she—— left only with dust and memory to age upon her scales like blight.

another sharp click of heel, and poe draws as close as the cold night will allow her to. an answer demanded: no creature of caution, as she professed, and thus no room for ambiguity. demanding not gentleness, but the fervor, or else the fang, upon either she would sooner be crucified than left to ponder at its pedestal. nel nearly admires her this ; in this way, poe is much like her twin. and the steadiness of her voice fills the remainder of her confidence and returns inert stone to its place.

as she wished.

"perhaps," comes the staid answer, the slide of black steel once more postbellum. the strength of the mage's bearing tells her enough: she is no wilting rose inviting one's misplaced guilt, and would not languish, stripped of all thorns, in the absence of it. nel gives her one more impenetrable look. "you would do best to forget your feelings for me."

and so the serpent returns to her haunt of shadow with sharp and assured stride, this time begetting neither chase nor further question.

knot by knot she unties herself from loss, and lets it rise away from her as the moon, full in its halo. what a small thing it seems to become, what a bright star at the vanishing point, watching in singular orbit until she no longer distinguishes its hue from her own—

blue on blue.

[nelithic]

　𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐝𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐝.

[hresvelged]

Momentarily, she could not think of the proper words to describe her thoughts— How to hear the Emblem iteration of her acted and behaved. Instead, she elicits an expression filled with wonder and agreement.

"Heh. That is all true, even for the me you speak with today," she speaks with an air of assurance. "I won't deny any of it. I'm impressed how you were able to glean all of that despite the long separation from it, but perhaps I shouldn't be— She is me, Emblem aside." Edelgard is not an open book, closing her pages with tight locks.

Her hands fold into her lap, fingers interlaced: "I expect others not to understand me. If I wavered from that alone, I wouldn't achieve anything." There is a part of her that wonders why she is an Emblem— Despite her grand ambitions and desire to see them through at any cost, history has yet to write itself.

"What made the bracelet so odd once it returned to you?"

[nelithic]

STEADY FINGERS STIR SLIM METAL AGAINST PORCELAIN, noting the way the little emperor has seemingly abandoned the treats she herself had prepared in favor of the conversation.

"the divine dragon brought it with them when they came from another world," she replies simply after a measured sip. then amends: "not our divine dragon ; a mirror, in some ways like the one i knew and in other ways not. that is the alear at this academy today."

"regardless, i am still not certain how our bracelet was able to cross worlds. . . perhaps the chaos of the war disrupted a boundary." more soberly: "or perhaps, at times i wondered if the state of our world was enough to drive even the emblems to abandon us."

the sentiment hangs for only an instant, then nel blinks and looks to edelgard again as though recognizing what had been spoken aloud. "my apologies. i do not ordinarily burden others with such heavy thoughts."

[nelithic]

　𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐖𝐈𝐏𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐅𝐓.

　　　　　　　　　　　　 　❪　ethereal ball 2024　❫

[ulircursed]

"R-romantic—" Andrei nearly chokes on the word, the simple question sending a bolt of something like panic through his mind.

Part of him wants to deny it outright — of course not — if only for his own peace of mind. For if that truly is an inalterable meaning to the idea of a date, then what does that say about his own intentions with Naesala? Truly, honestly, he hadn't even thought that far when he'd agreed to this. And yet, somehow, a vehement denial would feel like a disservice, almost like a lie. He clears his throat, if only to give himself time to think.

"I— I do believe that answer depends on those involved within the situation, though it does seem an undeniable part of most people's understanding of the word," he says. Slightly more than a hedged response, leaning on acknowledgement, and it is all that Andrei is capable of giving.

"Here. This has been a pleasant conversation." He makes one last-ditch attempt at salvaging his own pride, handing over his teardrop crystal as though they'd been discussing a perfectly neutral topic. The flush that is still present upon his cheeks ruins the effect somewhat, though, as does the speed with which he turns away, as though seeking an escape from this interrogation. "I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening, along with whomever you have accompanied to this event."

[nelithic]

MEMENTO IS PRESSED TO HER HAND before she can react, surprise flashing across her face as the young man fumbles through a swift exit. "wait—" but then he is gone with a fan of straw-blond hair, tense back vanishing into the throng with a stiff gait eager to put distance between them.

she had not even had the chance to reciprocate, she thinks as fingers uncurl around the hard edges of a teardrop-shaped crystal, then adds it with a sigh to her assortment of tokens.

perhaps if she encountered him again, she ought to apologize. her approach had been too sudden, the topic too brusque. but she had not anticipated it to elicit such a reaction ; some surprise, maybe, but such alarm. . . ? and at its conclusion, precious little closer to a clear answer. ' it depends upon those involved ' but also ' that does seem to be the common understanding '. and all she has to compare it to is. . .

eyes close. no use relying on such fraught experiences from so long ago.

should answers from others prove unforthcoming, then it appears her usual tactic is still best.

directly to the source, then. calm steps turn, the click of midnight heel drowned on polished floor by the whirlwind of food and mingle and dance, amidst all of which meandered a single point in velvet red and rose gold. the one she had accompanied to this event, and the only one who could speak truly of her intent. 　

　　　　　　　　　　　　　₊　teach me how to swipe left　┃┃┃　end.

[hresvelged]

pretense of truth

[hresvelged]

There are similarities hiding apparent between the differences. Corruption and destruction, she hears. Power and preservation. "I understand. Then.. You act for the sake of survival. One's own strength is something to be earned by your hands alone." A conviction she believes in until the very end.

Every word — every explanation of her purpose— is nothing short of accurate. "My intention is not to deceive." Her words are plain; static. The last thing Edelgard desires is to become another mere stain on history. She thinks of her father and the countless emperors before him. How, even as he sits on the Adrestian throne, his power is but a mere fragment of what it once was.

Nel speaks more than she does; holds an openness the budding emperor struggles with. The little girl in her holds glints of envy. There will never be a day when she can so boldly exclaim that she holds no secrets. She is not so trusting, but she cannot seek the answers she deems necessary until she does.

She sighs. ".. My behavior is only this way because it must be." She allows the conversation to flutter back onto herself, for she is the one who ushered them here in the first place. To waste time is not within her agenda even as the pages thrust themselves apart.

Her state of being as a fell dragon doesn't concern her, but her knowledge does. She words her sentences carefully. "You said you could sense it, but the rest of Fódlan is oblivious. That is why I approached you. I felt.. You hold answers even I might lack. Even now, as you explained fell dragons to me.. I wondered what this sensation you had truly entails."

[nelithic]

EDELGARD'S RETICENCE BEGETS FURTHER QUESTIONS. ones the fell dragon opens her mouth to inquire— but the moment swiftly passes⠀(⠀or perhaps the emperor does not allow the window for scrutiny⠀)⠀and the subject returns to their purpose of conversation. nel reserves a sigh for herself, inward, only ; this may have been more productive had the young eagle led with such a declaration at the start.

"it is difficult to explain. i can call it only an instinct, a pall of recognition that would need to be deliberately obscured to go unnoticed. the dragons of my world all possessed this ability, no matter the race."

or so it had seemed. she distantly recalls the first encounter with the divine dragon they had summoned to their aid in lythos, in many ways a perfect portrait of the one they had lost, yet upon closer attention lacking many of their notable traits — this very sense being one of them. upon her first transformation, the divine one had reacted with alarm. at the time, she had assumed they would have known the instant they met ; there had been no reason to believe otherwise.

"but beyond that, i am afraid i can provide you with few answers. though, i am curious. why the central church of this land collects the remains of dragons. . . " red eyes flick to edelgard's — her own — empty hand, "and fashions them into weapons to be used by man."

"where are those dragons now, if they once existed? these are the answers i seek for my own sake and that of my twin. and i cannot rest secure until i am certain."

but thinking of that half-living axe she had salvaged from a suffering beast and returned to its owner prior, another thought occurs to her. arms fold, the severity of her gaze lifting into something more akin to curiosity. "what would happen if you tried to wield your aymr now? is it possible in your current form?"

[nelithic]

𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬.

　　 　　　　 　 　　❪　m. anniversary 2023　/　any point　❫

[twistedisciple]

”Huh?” Griss blinks away the afterimages of a dragon and a ruined city, although expectation still claws at him like an invisible thing. He looks around in a daze.

“Uh… yeah,” comes a distracted answer. There’s the glass box with its strange, blinking innards. And there are the lonely vapor lamps, the ink-black darkness beyond their sickly rings, and the grimy tile tracked with snowmelt mud. He’s seen these things before, but they’re not things he’d just seen. Turning in a half-circle from Lady Nel, he studies the empty wall as if searching for something, then frowns. Clarity dispels the dream fog from his eyes as he tilts his head, then casts her a confused look.

”Where’s the stage?” he asks, and his rasping voice bounces sharply off the walls of the empty tunnel, breaking apart the last of the haze. “And there were people watching me—“ us? “—too. At least, I think they were people.”

Griss rubs the back of his head, then unconsciously swipes the base of his palm across his cheek to wipe away whatever tickles him there. When it comes away flecked with drying blood, he stares at it for a moment.

She did this. Expectations had sunk claws into flesh. Nothing is ever good enough for her.

With the shake of his head, he wipes it off on his robes without comment.

”Whatever. Let’s just get outta here.” He turns to Lady Nel expectantly. “That’s what you mean by opportunity, right?”

[nelithic]

AS IF A COVER IN HER MIND WERE PULLED BACK, the mention of a stage and a waiting audience pulls more into the checkered memory of this place, a piece obscured by grime and shadow cleared away and brought to the surface again. yes, there had been a stage, at the start — nel turns to look down the dark column of steps leading to a deeper underbelly. . . down there.

and what else? for a place she knows they have been traversing for some time now⠀(⠀. . . an hour? several? days? it is impossible to say.⠀)⠀it is strange for memory to be this hazy. but then, of what she does recall, their movement through it had been equally erratic, illogical, perforated with snatches of recollection that did and did not at once belong to her amid the disorientation of coming to constantly in new surroundings and varying states of disarray.

griss' hopeful suggestion brings her back to the dingy corridor, and she frowns before shaking her head. "i suspect we will not find a way out until we resolve whatever it is this place wishes for us to see." or else die in the attempt. though, for all they have been puppeted from place to place, the intent has not seemed malicious.

they are trapped here. but why? not, she guesses, to endanger their lives, but for some other purpose. the surroundings were beginning to repeat ; and, recalling griss' words about the stage and the dragon, the flaming city and the sage. . . the recollections as well.

were they recollections?

her attention returns to the tunnel stairway into the gloom, and she moves to begin the descent. "down here, griss. perhaps the stage will provide some insight. if i have not overlooked something, it is where we began."

[twistedisciple]

Mortal Immortality [Griss, Nel, & Rafal]

Recovery | Infirmary task

[rafent]

Countermagic and training for detection; a sensible methodology of preparations in view of the opponent they faced. Still the younger twin made a face. "Loathe as I am to admit it, Fell magic alone cannot be relied upon to dispel Pasithee's illusions. I did not sense a scale of them either my sister or I possessed the ability to unearth. So I agree that we must look to. . .other means."

Rafal even as he leaned upon logic simultaneously regretted it. Magic had not been this Child's strongest suit. Certain inalienable spells sat within his possession, yes, but nothing so ambitious as those existing outside of of the Fell variety. Of the strains it had taken to master them, no doubt he would need rely upon the same to learn those deemed brand new. He gazed at them both warily, like a student silvered of his hairs by difficult schoolwork, or bemoaning that which lied on the horizon in the form of future, inevitable troubles. This expression did not last long, replaced for another.

'Power like a god'. How nostalgic, absorbing him one foot into an age of distant memories while another remained passably rooted within the present. Godhood was an impressive mantle indeed, but it did not preclude the shoulders beneath from their downfall. The king of an empty throne had not been impervious either. Given the counteractive tools, given enough hands, Pasithee too could be laid low from her greatness just as one certain Great Fell Dragon had once been.

"Inhuman, from what I understood. As much as any of the other creatures in that realm." Kleio; the Mother; these beings immediately came to mind within context of a flimsier reality. The glaze of remembrance that overtook within a second just as quickly passed into oblivion for sharp-eyed focus: "Those who reach power to the height of gods will trade something of equivalence or more to achieve it. For man, their humanity in example; to Fell Dragons, the Emblem bracelets and rings of painstaking collection. For others, perhaps something else."

A neutral glance at Griss. "Whatever the case, the price is great." —a privy glance toward Nel. "And overwhelming power in any scenario does not make one invincible. If Pasithee thinks herself complacent, then we will improve as she stagnates. Then she will fall."

@nelithic

[nelithic]

THEN THEY WERE AGREED, rafal's reluctance notwithstanding. she could understand his misgivings ; even as nil, master of minor tricks and enchantments and their employment as he was, he had shied away from the larger trades of magic. at the time, she had thought it parcel of his weakness, the same destined infirmity that had culled him of tooth and wing robbing him too of ancestral power.

whether or not that remained the case, two thousand years gave her insight to his other well-sought strengths: for even one deemed ❛ failure ❜ was still a child of gradlon, who learned to leverage anything within reach. "if we are fortunate," comes tacit agreement on the tail of a twin's assertion, "then that confidence may remain and serve as our advantage. however, she has already been imprisoned not once, but twice. though she is still young, her hubris has proven imperfect. she will be cautious."

"rafal, as faculty of the black eagles, you are the best equipped among us to gather information. pasithee's identity, the motive for keeping her alive, the extent of her power, and where potential weaknesses may lie." the plan of action is the same as besieging any city, or fighting a war where the enemy boasted greater power, greater numbers, greater morale. these were their inheritance from a dying world, and a method they knew well. "your eyes and ears will serve us well, and i know you to be more than capable."

"griss, our task falls to finding any and all means available. against such an opponent, variety in options will be more useful than devotion to a single strategy. if she traps us again, even the most unlikely tool may be leveraged to grant us an opening."

. . . for an imperceptible moment, authority makes room for silence. once accustomed at least to five, of which now three remain.

but the same order remains:

"do not forget that you are each of you indispensable. loss may be recovered, but lives cannot."

　▀▀　next ,　 @twistedisciple　₊

[nelithic]

　𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐥 ████ ,　𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 　/　drabble ₊

the first time her mother received their lord father, she thought her the most inestimable creature in all gradlon.

young and eager to please, she had witnessed little more than the passing of feet wreathed in royal cloaks, knelt down and head bowed to honor his arrival and blacken not the name of her mother in disgrace. that he could be understood as ' father ' then had never once crossed her mind. her existence in his origin came detached and absolved of presumption, unmoored from connections of the body or the heart ; as it was with all her siblings, he was progenitor as a god who with a wave of one hand fashioned life and law: his blood and fangs a gift not to be squandered.

though tender of age, she understood that others across the land received similar visitation, that their proud and strong gradlon reigned and culled and cycled only as result ; but, being tender of age, still she imagined her mother somehow exceptional. them, somehow exceptional.

. . .

throughout history, magic had always run rich in the line of the fell dragons. but none so fertile as those born from their subjugated counterparts. the mage dragons of elusia had long lost their history. but among them, there were those who preferred it that way.

nel grew with no elegant, splendid horns, wreathed in rune and cloth. no tie to the fogbound fields of the snowy kingdom of man, whose blood ran similarly quicksilver with magic and ritual. her attention was directed and shaped with care to the red sun of her inheritance, gradlon's waiting throne beneath the lord-god's watchful eye, reserved only for the righteous by strength.

you are the lord sombron's child, and only partly mine. inheriting all of his greatness, and none of my wretched kind's weakness.

but she could still teach her something. brutal, punishing, exacting as could be: it was time, and it was love. the concoction of her might was in half owed to her, and this the young nel was never made to forget for each spell that wracked her limb from limb, agonized her nights on end, imprisoned her without remorse.

if you wish to be relieved from pain, or if you desire freedom, then be stronger. then you can have everything you want. i will not save you. nor will your brother.

. . .

but matricide begins the same as fratricide: a contained storm that loses control. she had been aware of her mother's growing frustration with her children's inaction for some time now, steeling herself for the reckoning that, given her temper, would inevitably come.

nil would not seek his strength in the orchestrated death of his sister, no matter how she pushed.

and nel would raise no hand against her brother in that promised defense, no matter how she warned.

where had she gone wrong as parent? after all, her daughter had everything if not for this, a simple and natural action that for incomprehensible mulishness, she would not take. a crown aligned, and a father's approving eye. what is a mother's desire if not for her young to excel: far beyond expectation, far beyond even herself, and win for that accolade, safety, success. where had she gone wrong, that the priceless fang of a precious child, pride of the brood and of her heart, should be turned upon her instead with everything she had instructed?

in that cool and unflinching rage so reminiscent of their liege lord, not bloodlust but bloodbelonging, as easy a thing as to die. in this, she witnessed sombron again—— and knew that her daughter kept the blood of kings.

. . .

centuries later, that daughter would stand upon the elusian ground and wonder at the home the mage dragons must have walked once. but perhaps that one had never walked at all. had she been born here? or had she too only ever been a product of that raging sun? to ask back then would have been out of the question.

so grasping amidst the fog, she reached out again as she had over and over since those days long flung:

what had been her mother's name? and what had she looked like? m. . . m. . .

there was no hope. after all, she had been born a fell dragon, raised a fell dragon — a birthright to kill, and a birthright to forget.

　

　 NEL has mastered dread fighter.

[nelithic]

　𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐬.

　　　　　　　　　 　　❪　m. showcase　/　lance point　❫

[diadic]

    “ That's me, ”  Leif nods, trying to place the woman talking to him. He feels as if they must have spoken before, but her name eludes him for now. (It wouldn't be the first time.)  To her comment, however, he speaks nonchalantly at first.  “ If they're pleased, that's fine, though I can't say I was trying to impress them... ”

Perhaps a touch too honest, but Leif sees little point in lying about it. The tour had finished, and their tour guide gone along with all the others.

“ I'm interested in farming, ”  he explains.  “ My homeland has always been blessed harvest-wise, and as far as I can tell, that seems to be true. It's what made us the subject of relentless attacks.

“ But the attacks only started because the aggressors lacked the ability to grow the food they needed on their own lands. It's fine, because we can give them food, but... ”  He looks back out to the fields and the animals, to where these farmers and ranchers had made their paradise.  “ I was thinking if I could learn something from here to help them grow their own, then that'd be for the best. I can't guarantee people won't change and tariffs won't go back up again after I'm gone, but if there's a way to increase production as well as House Ordelia has... ”

It's worth a shot, isn't it?

[nelithic]

A FORTHRIGHT YOUNG MAN GREETS HER. and throughout his explanation, she remains quiet and attentive, expression unchanging save for where a placid gaze follows his — back out across the lush grazing fields strewn gold with evenlight. he says more than she expects, and perhaps only partly to her, for the way he considers the pastoral view suggests a half rumination for himself.

nevertheless, she takes in the detailed statement, imagination shaping sketches of the situation he must be seeing. the closest she can find is what had become firene in her old world: a prospering breadbasket nation, strong in agriculture and war, uncontested in many respects. but few would have dared to attack them even for a cut of those resources. and she could not have envisioned firene being willing to share.

". . . i see. so you aim to assist another nation, though they have a history of assaulting your own." intrigue and approval slips in to a level tone, brows lifting in consideration of the little one. he looked young, but if what he claimed was true, then he possessed a generous spirit seldom seen.

"i presume you are a lordling, or a prince, to be thinking of these matters. you spoke of tariffs — . . . monetary penalties paid on supplies moved from one country's borders to another, correct?" one of the many ways humankind drew lines of declaration between themselves, justifying their animosity. she had always found it strange and perhaps a little regretful. not entirely in the conflict itself, but that conflict should still rule the lives of even those for whom it was so brief.

[nelithic]

　𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐦.

　　　　　　　　　　 　　　❪　post - boel　❫

[loveevangelist]

And without so much as a word, only a final knowing glance between the two, her other half is gone.

"… … …"

For each step she takes, Poe watches her. Watches her intently until she disappears from sight into the crowd, a cleric guiding her through swaths of injured students, their teachers, and people come to visit them. A brief meeting between the two ends with Niamh gone and Poe with a mental note to find her again. As it always does.

(Poe would not kill her here anyway—the risk of harm to innocents would be too great. Their battles were best left for private spaces bereft of others to endanger and battlefields in which all consented to death anyway)

As though a spell is broken the girl still in her bed turns to the one who still remains with her. Far more pleasant conversation can be had without interference. She brushes off tensity of mood and questions that still linger in the air. There are more important things.

"Are you alright? Niamh can be rather underhanded—I hope she didn't do anything... untoward."

@nelithic

[nelithic]

ATMOSPHERE QUIETS WITH THE TWO THAT REMAIN. the tension, she watches drain from poe's expression, and wonders again at the nature of the enmity between two individuals who seemed at once so similar.

both, evidently, adept wielders of magic, both curious and withholding in their own ways. their reactions to one another spoke of parallels that could only be shaped by knowledge matched by loved ones.

though they were perhaps not twins as far as she could see, she has seldom witnessed such tells in relationships that were not somehow similar. and even this apology poe offers is the same.

what did it mean to apologize for another, if not that you knew them just as well as yourself? foregoing any shame of presumption to speak for another's actions as one would their own heart, their own hand. "your concern is appreciated, but i am not so easily bested." a faint gleam of distinction within the stony face of neutrality: "in fact, niamh and i appeared to have had the same strategy in mind, so i can find little fault with her approach."

if she is to be named underhanded, the observation seems to imply, then you may well turn your judgment likewise upon me.

"i would hear more of your relationship with her, and how you came to know one another. the two of you nearly caused quite a scene."

　▀▀　next ,　 @loveevangelist　₊

[loveevangelist]

Chasing Shadows

Seminars are encouraged at the monastery. They help others learn from their peers while strengthening friendship at the same time. Well… most seminars. This seminar, on the other hand, is on… the basis of keeping one’s composure? That’s what the paper says, after all... (Sword +1)

[loveevangelist]

Brush rustles as a wind carries through trees in the night. All else alive that night is silent in the wake of the perceived predators two.

In every instance of ill fortune there is a lesson to be learned or an opportunity to be seized. Here, both; Poe had thought she might learn more of herself and her own limits, and instead she is allowed a glimpse into a mystifying unknown. How casually Nel reveals her familiarity with hunting and being hunted. Like it were a fact that she had been so scatterbrained as to forget. Common knowledge or universal truth.

(She could leave that be—she would never)

Already the girl has had a curiosity stoked in meeting another dragon like her, and Nel encourages it. Poe is not, never has been, and likely never would be one to leave well enough alone. Pandora's box in her hands would be opened not for want of what was inside but merely because it is her nature to reveal that which is hidden. Even if what is inside may bite her.

(She could stop her here—but how avaricious to expect reward in the wake of failure)

"...if I allow you to," She responds after a moment, stepping one step back from Nel, then two—not in the way that one makes to escape, in the way that one looks to be followed, "next time, feel free not to hold back from drawing blood, won't you?"

Said so lightly that it could be humor were it coming from anyone else's mouth. It is not. Nor is it an offer—it is an expectation. It is the gentle rubbing away of a line with the heel of a shoe, and its subsequent redrawing more favorably. Law rewritten to incentivize good work. The clear outline of due punishment for the sin of making the same mistake twice.

Poe turns, and begins to run.

[nelithic]

AND DRAGON PURSUES. at the onset of this invitational game, they had made an agreement. magic, for dragonstone. the red beating heart sits in its customary place unused, the depth of its primordial power untapped. but as always in the darkness, when the shadows grew long and cold, and the pounding blood of her target beguiled her base nature with its warmth, she feels it gnaw like instinct. scales that threaten to rattle, wings desiring to unfurl ; a tail that grabs, fangs that maul.

too late she reflects that this is dangerous. too late she acknowledges that once leaving the doomed land of her birth, she has seldom experienced the hunt since. conflict is not the same ; even ambush is not the same. always, she had nil at her side, and later, the winds, whose grounding light and humanity kept her pulse bloodless.

in spite of this, here, alone, poe had invited her to draw red.

distracted by such errant thoughts and the disquiet of her own earlier suppression without realizing, she rushes through an open grove, an unhesitating instant to taste the air commanding her left through the thick brush in the other woman's direction. shadow melds into shadow again, seamless horizon line between the midnight of the sky and the midnight moving below.

and comes again upon another grove. again, left.

and again, the moonlight spilling free to an open grove three. this time she slows, pauses enough to frown at silver pools seeming at once to congratulate and mock her arrival. this time she marks that the distant height of the canopy has not changed, and the shape of the leftmost path taunts her in mimesis. an illusion?

hands at her sides curl, back straight. senses alert, she prepares for the silent moment to shatter into chaos as wary steps advance to the small clearing's center. was this the young mage's trick — or the forest's?