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@nothosword
✢⁎. NOTHOSWORD — an affiliated roleplay blog for fergus of fire emblem: thracia 776, WITH THEMES OF — grittiness, hired hands, illegitimacy, the ordinary & extraordinary, mysteries, doing what's right, self-searching, captivity.
mobile links — ( about , stats , headcanons , interview
“ Fergus! And a happy Winter Festival season to you too. Sorry it's not much. ” It's difficult to get much of anything in these conditions really. Tariffs grow higher and trade stagnates, not to mention the food supplies from the monastery grow thinner as they conserve it for the war effort instead. Leif hardly indulged for this kind of thing in preparation either despite having a taste for it, but he had been fortunate to scrounge up something at least.
In his hand is a bottle of beer and attached to his belt is a bag full of some small bar snacks. “ This is all I could get my hands on right now, but I want to share it with you. Are you free right now?? ”
Straight to the point, he shoots his invitation, adding a little bit at the end. They hadn't gotten much chances to drink before during the war, and the present situation didn't give them the opportunity to go all out, and yet still... “ Drink with me, Fergus. I want to hear about all the things you've done while we've been apart!! ”
For where does a free knight go when you allow him to roam?
Fergus skids to a halt, a small bounce ebbing through his leg as he turns around. He knows that voice! And how refreshing is that--to see that Leif's passion burns just as bright as before. He was a torch, in that deep dark cell. Fergus can tell he's a light to everyone at the academy, too. As he listens to the little scamp speak, he can't control the smile that cracks over his face. Leif's companionship is another flicker of his flame: warm and rosy to those he cares about. It was Fergus' best stroke of dumb luck that they met.
His hand rests on the hilt of his blade, ambiently wondering what it'd take to have some of that zeal for himself.
"'All you could get your hands on?' Prince, are you hearing yourself?" The bottle is snatched from his grasp with a laugh. Not the kind of thing you'd see in Velthomer's court, but not bottom-barrel by any means. If this constitutes a definition of 'cheap,' then Fergus has been away from a castle for too long. "This is plenty. Let me pay the next time we hang out. It's my way of makin' up for not having a gift." He really didn't think they were doing a gift exchange this year. But that's no worry, just something he'll have to learn to adjust to.
In any case, Fergus glows. He feels plenty satisfied offering his old pal a second opportunity to hack around together. "Spinning stories rings a bell, don't it? Except this time it's me telling you about my life." Cocking his head toward the front gate, he ushers them off. They'd mosey on down to some tavern or another, and after getting seated, probably talk the night away. The smell of oak and hearty roast fowl always puts him in a better mood.
On their walk, he throws his spare hand behind his neck. "Man, where do I even begin? Okay- what makes me sound cooler: the bodyguard job for a princess, or the bandits I fought at port?"
“Season's blessings to you,” Sitri greets Fergus with a smile. “The name is Lilian, I am here to deliver the gifts from your mysterious envoy.” This last is perhaps self-evident, given the assortment of items in her arms: An expertly crafted double sided whetstone, perfect for polishing weapons; a luxurious new saddle, made of leather and aged wood with fine detailing from local artisans; and a six cup tea set of porcelain - white with blue and gold edging and flowers, matching saucers and teapot.
Lilian can barely get her name out when Fergus swoops in to take his multitude of gifts from her hands. "Woah, let me help with all that!" he offers, bending at the knee to match her height. Watching the way she had been walking at him, he suspected that this would be how things would proceed.
"Someone decided to spoil me, huh?" For all that he tries to appear nonserious, Fergus is secretly admiring his envoy's efforts. The whetstone turns in his hand after he takes it, its artisan nature quick to be appraised; the saddle he inspects like a stretched-canvas painting, imagining his mount doing the same; and the tea cups are what get him. They create pause. He stops fidgeting with everything to just... Stare.
"Not bad," Fergus muses, but he means so much more. The set is like something out of a princess story, like something off the shelf of a noble dining hall. It brings to mind quieter days of sipping tea with his mother, back before he embarked on his quest and he could still be taught useless skills like courtroom dancing.
She would have loved to see him open something like this.
With a smirk, he fights the instinct to get nostalgic. This all may have been enough to make a serious impression on him, but the blonde has an image to uphold. Cool and nonchalant--a sea breeze blowing through a bustling town. "Lilian, yeah? I appreciate carrying for me. 'Course, if I had known my guy was getting me so much..." a chuckle rises in his chest. This thin-looking girl has been lugging around heavy gifts all afternoon. Fergus wonders how her back is doing. "...I would've offered to help. But I guess that's not how things are supposed to work, right?"
After finishing with the rest of his laughter, he gets serious. For all he has received today, he only has so many clues to guess his gifter with. "Hmm, now let's see... Someone spent a pretty penny on me, no doubt. They've got great taste, and I think I'm right in assuming some heart to put into this." A small silence follows, testing the woman's reaction. Even the slightest twinge could tip him off.
"But man, wonder who that could be! Guess I better start huntin' around."
For her efforts, Lilian receives a wink and whatever wave Fergus can muster with his hands full. "Catch ya' later, Lil'. Maybe you can be the first to try out this new tea set."
✢⁎. two scoops of sword
Amid all the gloom and doom, there have been rumours of a pop-up ice cream parlor come to lighten the mood. Trouble is, it’s a fairly exclusive set-up, and is never seen twice in the same place. Maybe you’ve been lucky enough to receive an invitation, or have a friend who can show you the way. The Ice Creamatory welcomes all who should find their way. But as you leave, delicious treat in hand, one of the letters on the sign falls, revealing the shop’s true name: The Ice Crematory - which begs the question: just what have you all actually been eating…? Better go stop the shopkeeper from running if you’d like to find out. [Grants Riding +1]
//starter for @relivepast
He almost finds it funny, that no matter where he goes, inhumane tragedy is sure to follow. Fergus blinks first at the sign, then the 'confection' in his hands, and finally back inside the shop. How exactly did he get here, again?
...
It all started on that day of classes. It was ordinary, like any other. The blonde walked in with his nose held high and his spirits soaring overhead--full of confidence, as he was known to be. Just shy of a month, and he had adjusted his life to the academy. He got up at a consistent hour, ate bread or porridge before a brief study in the library, and maybe passed the Prince on his way. He shaved every three days, bathed as it was available to him--enjoyed the peace of it all, really. And the gentle beat of everyday life made his heart thrum in tandem, guiding him into his seat that morning. But before he could scrawl down the date at the top of his page, he was shocked into forgetting. Eyvel walked in, that woman from back in the day.
Even worse, she taught, and he learned from her.
It went without saying that he'd approach her after the lecture. As he did, he couldn't help the smile hanging on his mouth. He could feel that she recognized him, too, that their reunion was one of mutual joy. A bit of back-and-forth, here-and-there, and they agreed to try that 'Ice Creamatory' stuff.
"So! Haven't seen you in a minute. I'd have thought you'd have gray hairs by now," he laughed, once they sat down to eat. His order was a 'Noa Fruit Gelato', said by the shopkeep to be one of the denser, stretchier desserts. And the guy wasn't kidding. Fergus marveled at how it was almost like a fudge, but fruity and cold (and if he was being honest, had an aftertaste). While he chewed, he looked around the room.
One big, sterilized box. With porcelain tiles sharply cut and pale blue. With them under every step one takes, it was hard for Fergus to feel like he wasn't in an uncanny ocean. The windows were also small and high off the ground, a trait he knew was shared by prisons. And beyond the wooden counter and wooden menu sat an enormous stockpile of wooden crates. Or, at least, he thought they were crates. He found them each so big and only lit by a dim, flickering flame further back that Fergus never got a good read on their function.
He eventually shrugged, and refocused on Eyvel. She was what really mattered, here.
"Kidding, of course. How goes it? Things are a lot different than how they used to be... Even if you're still givin' me pointers."
✢⁎. fergalicious definition
Sephiran watches the man before him down another drink, as cheerful as he was before the bet began. Certainly, he did not expect any particularly dangerous secrets from a playful bet, and his expectations were met with the carefree way the other conducted himself, even at the potential loss of information.
A mug is waved in his face, and slurred words tell him what he already knows- the scent of alcohol strong enough that this information was merely redundant. He decides to humor the other, having played along for so long. (And if he were softened by the drink, he would not admit so.)
“Very well. Seek me out again someday, then.” The trick was more complicated than something that could be puzzled out, especially for one knowing nothing of him but his apparent immunity to the effects of alcohol- but he is willing to grant the other a bit of hope.
As the other takes in a breath, Sephiran lifts his sleeve to cover his face- both to stifle the growing scent of the drink, and to hide his expression should he find the information particularly interesting. He raises an eyebrow, the remainder of his face hidden behind a layer of cloth.
“Hm… I see. Thank you for your honesty,” For the way the confession was presented, he will give it the benefit of the doubt, “young man. Or perhaps, young lord?”
His voice becomes teasing for a moment, but he lowers his arm and stands, giving one last glance to the reckless student and smiling. “I look forward to our next meeting, you who trades with secrets.”
[end.]
THREAD END.
✢⁎. nova in the night
Anxiety melts into steady confidence as their conversation mostly replaces their dancing. He slows, and so does she, not quite taking the lead as he muses to himself. She smiles at the mention of what he doesn’t want to learn.
“Sometimes knowing what you shouldn’t do helps you decide on what you should. I can agree with not learning riding or swordplay, though - the skirts make it difficult.” A fond memory, of trying to drape her skirts in just a way so she could ride behind one of her knights, and only barely finding a solution. She turns them a final time before stopping entirely. “I don’t know exactly. I’ve thought about maybe trying to pick up magic again - I tried when I was young but had no talent.”
She studies him for a moment - a sellsword, by his own admission, unsure what to do now that war had released its hold. She felt the same, in some aspect - what use is a tactician in peacetime?
“I don’t believe it’s a question you have to answer this minute. But you should have it answered before you choose your classes,” she jokes weakly. Then, she looks down at their hands, their still feet. “I’m sorry to make the conversation about school during this party. Could we return to dancing, perhaps?”
He quirks a brow at the skirt comment, some twinkle of reminiscence gleaming in his eyes. "Hahaha, don't sell yourself short! I once met a bow knight whose skirt was as long as her draw." And from on high she pulled storm clouds over the enemy. They rained death, sometimes faster than the flick of his sword. "If she could manage a horse, you'll find a way."
He shrugs, and he meets her gaze as she looks him over. Whenever people do that, Fergus can't help but imagine what they see in him. Does she know, perhaps? Has this girl--who he had only just met--already torn through his paper-thin ruse?
She's sharp, if so. Fergus keeps his chin up.
"And hey, no need to apologize. A conversation only goes where it's meant to, right?" Mark is offered not only a reassuring nod but also the freeblade's hand, which steadies itself against her body as he resumes tapping out a beat. "Glad I met 'ya. Now let's show you what to do when the music drops."
Step by fleeting step, they dance onward. Fergus slowly broadens Mark's horizon with all manner of twirl and twist and shimmy--each a flicker of the potential beneath his simple demeanor. He has greatness in him, all he's got to do is reach into his blood and pull it out.
In any case, he gives her questions some thought. For as much as he has taught her about dancing, she teaches him how to go about the rest of his life.
THREAD END.
✢⁎. fergalicious definition
It would be the first that any had called his way of thinking mercenary- but perhaps it was the nature of the deal made that made it so. It would say much regarding the similarity of otherwise different professions, but that was neither here nor there. Sephiran pauses, letting the man before him count his drinks for the night with mild amusement.
“Five…? That is quite a lot, but I shall see what I can do.” Unlike Fergus, Sephiran has no hurry in claiming a second mug, nor does he down it with half as much enthusiasm. A gentle swirl, to reveal if there were to be any impurities- or perhaps more accurately, poison- before letting the beverage touch his lips.
If it was a challenge in the past, when he was not much younger but far more naive, it was now mere child’s play- though perhaps that was a poor choice of words, given the nature of the competition. He acknowledges the other's challenge only by picking another mug- delicately, as if it were a glass instead.
It was not the alcohol that he was concerned of, but the spices within, meant to warm the body with the cold weather outside. In the end, he was protected against poison of drink, but the spices were technically harmless.
The first and second were fine, the third and fourth told him he had no need to seek secrets so eagerly, and the fifth reminded him that his appearance was that of a holy man. Somewhat abashed, he seeks no more- instead giving Fergus a slight smile.
“Now, what secret do you offer?”
Confidence swelters before Sephiran starts on his first drink. Regardless of whether the wine or his own swagger is doing the thinking here, he convinces himself that the man won't last past the second. Everything about how he operates just screams 'amateur,' from the careful swirl to the way he lets it sit on his tongue. Even the lack of a satisfying gasp after finishing a drink stands out to him as odd--since any old taverngoer would be bellyaching 'till he's flogged at a feast like this. But Sephiran endures. He slowly spreads shock over the minorblood's features, like ivy crawling across the floor left unattended.
By the fourth drink, Fergus is left praying. Be it Bragi or Naga or whoever else wants to listen in this foreign land, he clasps his hands around the circumference of his drink in hopes that someone would smite him down. "Man, no way..." he mutters, "...Look at you go!"
The last empty mug his the table. Regret pinches him on the nose. "Damn, guess you really taught me. I oughta stop runnin' around making stupid bets!" He laughs again. Defeat doesn't dig any deeper than the skin. Fergus is no sore loser, and so he offers a smile as he throws back the rest of the grape. He'll feel it in the morning, but if this stuck-up guy can somehow survive five in a row, the blonde'll live through a sixth.
"Mm, alright, alright. I said I was fair, didn't I?" The cup waves in front of the minister's face without aim or direction. There is probably some point to the gesture, but Fergus' movements are sloshed enough to muddle it. "I'll be real honest with you. Only 'cause, when we play again, I'll find out your trick, and then you'll be real honest with me!"
Deep breath. In through the nose--where the air is cool and crisp--and out through the mouth. It heats up with the stink of the wine as it billows out.
"I don't look like much, right? That's 'cause I'm full of it. My mom's a true noble lady!"
✢⁎. kitchen belhalla
she of course would not allow herself to sit and watch everything be prepared. the feast was a recreation of the past one's she had with the chalphy family, and in those past feasts she had always helped out in some way. she would do as she always had and help them out.
it is that thought that automatically guides her to the kitchen while some last minute guests are still coming in— greeted rather diligently by lord sigurd and lady ethlyn.
hearing some humming in the kitchen, she can't help but be a little curious. "excuse me." she approaches, and when he turns to look at her she stops where she is.
this isn't a person she recognizes, not by voice or name, but something of his facial features comes familiar to her. she blinks slowly, staring at him for a moment and trying to place why his facial features are so familiar. he looks like he'd handle a sword well.
'my name's fergus, a sellsword from jugdral.'
the same continent, but the familiarity is more than that, more personal. before she can try to pick the face out from her vast amount of memories, she realizes she's gone completely silent. edain rushes to bow her head in something of an apologetic gesture. "apologies, fergus. i.. didn't mean to stare or anything." is what she manages to come up with.
she's done worse in her apologies, at least. "i am, yes. i know the two hosting the feast. our families were very familiar with each other and would host something similar every year. it's only right that i help out in the kitchen." she smiles softly at the warm memory of a chalphy-yngvi gathering, looking to the ground for a brief moment before her gaze flits over to meet his directly.
it's his eyes that are most familiar to her she decides then, but she still wonders why. "my name is edain.... from yngvi. you might recognize the family name, being from jugdral."
"Mm? Can't blame you for starin'. It's not every day you get to look at someone this good, right?"
His eyes squint as he lets out a snide laugh. He banters with satire fueling his jets, betraying not a hint of severity in his laidback tone. He's a cloud rolling over an afternoon sun, only to disappear moments later.
What she says next wipes the smirk off his face. He wrenches his head from the clouds to pay greater attention to her, amber eyes going wide at the information she wears on her sleeve. "No kidding? I sort of know the hostess, but that guy--Sigurd--isn't he a living legend?"
Not so much as Thracia was concerned, for she has her own heroes, but the rest of the continent just never shut up about the dude. Fergus almost grew sick of him.
"Yngvi, though... Yeah, sure--rings a bell. But I would've guessed Fiana first." He turns away from his boiling pot to study Edain's features now, convincing himself that he is indeed right before saying anything further. A small-but-innocent purse forms in his lips. He's knocking down the doubts, one by one. "You've got the face of someone that'd be from those parts. The hair, too..."
And as he looks further, even their heights are almost comparable. And their eyes, and the motherly aura the blonde exudes. It's all a lot like that character from Leif's kidnapping story. This isn't her mirror image, right?
He's got half the mind to outright ask: Do you know an Eyvel? But Fergus slows his roll. A glitter grazes his gut. He feels something, like he could learn a lot from this Edain figure. Bombarding the poor woman might make her shy away; he's got to be careful with how he shows his hand.
✢⁎. nova in the night
It’s supposed to be fun, but Mark can’t help but feel like it’s been anything but so far.
It’s not the fault of her teacher, of course - a handsome man who’d swept her outside promising to teach her the basics of ballroom dancing. She’d been watching the others dancing, and must have looked longing enough for him to offer help. She’d been observing, studying, internalizing.
It leaves her stiff. Nervous. So when he tells her to relax, to have fun, well...
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, a with a small bow of her head. “I’ve never danced like this before. Thank you for teaching me, really. Can I try those steps again?”
He taps a beat for her, and she pats the side of her skirt in time, pressing the rhythm into her mind.
“Right, I see. You have to be confident for it to work.” Like a battlefield. Each move must be with utmost confidence, or your opponent will feel it.
Not that this man was her enemy - far from it!
He takes her hand gently and leads her around the quiet courtyard again, and though it is near silent, the chirping of the crickets and the hum of voices behind her calms her, focuses her. The night air is clear, and though there is no music, it feels a perfect place to learn, padded slippers on paved stones. As they step, her form loosens, and she allows a small smile to creep to her lips.
He offers his name, so she offers hers in turn - “My name is Mark. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fergus. What are you here to study?”
Woof, now that's a thinker. What isn't Fergus here to study? More years spent meandering as a mercenary than he can count on his fingers, and the guy has nothing to show for it. He thought to finally make something of his life, now that he's in the final stretch for his thirties. But to answer his question...
Why doesn't he actually start with what he isn't studying?
"Nothin' to do with swords or horseback riding, that's for sure." He slackens on their dance during his explanation, giving Mark the opportunity to regurgitate his lessons back at him. Things continue like this for a while, with the blonde's wide-swaying motions dying down into ripples in a pond. "and I'd prefer to skip history, if I can. That class bores me half to sleep..."
He realizes he's sounding picky, and so he shoots his brow further up his head. "Government's fun, though. I keep an open book, but it'd be nice to be something better than a sellsword." If, by some miracle, he finds a way to quell his bursts of anger. Fergus can't imagine holding any kind of professional job where he talks with his knuckles before his mouth.
He plugs his stream of rambling and sets his feet flat against the grass. They could pick up their dance at any moment, but Fergus wants to ask something first:
"Why, you got any recommendations?"
✢⁎. fergalicious definition
Who was this? It was not as though Sephiran was unaware of his presence in the party itself, but he does not recall seeing the man at the monastery prior to it. Duty tells him to be wary, but with Lady Rhea present- he would have to greet her later, perhaps- he feels as though it should not be his responsibility. Certainly, though, there was also the concern of his behavior.
Perhaps it was his demeanor, deemed too solemn for such a cheerful event, or perhaps he was simply uncomfortable- he had not regretted arriving, for he was duty-bound to witness the simple joys of beorc and laguz, but that did not mean he was accustomed to the venue- that the man takes it upon himself to approach. With familiarity, despite his admittance otherwise.
“Ah, greetings?” His address is spoken with a lilt, question in his tone alone. “It is a pleasure to-”
The mug is handed to him, and he takes it, though his past experience tells him to test it for poison. But with the ease of a child’s dare, Fergus continues to speak- not knowing the truth of his very own words lie elsewhere. Sephiran smiles, though perhaps more strained than he normally allows.
“I am afraid I am not particularly familiar with this beverage…” It was not a lie- but he certainly was not unfamiliar with alcohol. He takes a sip, tilting his head slightly. “But how many must I drink for a secret?”
"Hahaha, are you for real?" Fergus beams, his enjoyment of the other man written plainly across his golden features. He would consider himself amiable, so meeting interesting folk at a dinner party was a given, but Sephiran's subtle charm begs him to dig deeper. Fergus wants to shake him; he knows there's stuff he isn't seeing.
"You're thinking like a merc. Let's see, I've had..." he recounts the drinks on his hand. The first two sat nicely with him, the smell of spices thawing his nose from a long, flavorless winter. The next one was a splash of hot oil on a skillet; Fergus felt warmth seep into his chest as he drank. Then the last two crept into his head, the poison brewed beneath decadent flavor coming through on a tongue numbed to taste. He waggles his fingers when he finishes counting.
"Five. I'm a fair guy, so for every time you beat my record I'll let something slip."
Though he finds that a pleasant arrangement, he won't let it stop him from wading into the throng of revelry. Fergus swipes another mug off the table (seriously, that chef must be working hard to put them out so fast) and brings it to his nose. He allows himself a deep whiff before the liquid sloshes against his lips.
Against the brine of broken bones that taverns under Loptyrian rule could afford, the Chalphy wine is downright ambrosial.
"Drink up!"
✢⁎. little home
✮―――― A ruckus walking, strutting amok in glorious haughtiness so keenly bright that one might assume its radiance something charming in the way boisterous bellowing spills forth from rowdy lips ; it bears no such quality, but instead pierces the ear as metal shrieking across metal would. From whence hailed his joviality?
Broad arms fold, and the fluttering of his winter's cloak follows; a grumble rumbles beneath the sternum, but he permits his footfalls follow suit.
A debt indeed was it to sapphire Lord Chalphy and spry thulian Lady Leonster to host festive entertainment ( for he himself would never have extended laboring hands to yield such into a spectacle of feasting banquets and merriment. )
"Then you are of the foraging, wilderness ilk," He ponders aloud, taking rod into hand and reeling in its loose length. Macedon boasted no industry of fishing, but seaside as it lay, it held ( for those unbothered doing so atop winged back, for jagged cliffs made long falls for their bait ) myriad a coastline whereby one may cast their rod and procure a salty dweller.
Casting line over shoulder and loosing it at its pinnacle ( much, he thinks, like an archer would his arrow if fishing should be violent ), its end plops! into steady waters and ripples throughout.
"Many disregard fishing holes -- the evidence to my claim: you did not."
“Hm? Yeah, sorta,” Fergus muses, half-pondering whether he should speak his mind. There are reasons deeper than just wanting to provide for the feast that dredge him out here, and to maintain his air of secrecy, he has to be selective with what he reveals. “Back home there were a lot of hunters. I caught ‘em on their way out, every now and again.”
That much is well and true. Fergus did often gaze at those bowmen on their way into the woods, wondering at what point in the road to Leonster they would fork their path. It was the kind of experience that goaded his free spirit, rolling him like clay until he became the man he is now.
“But I always preferred fishing. It’s nice to nap by the beach and still have something to eat for dinner.”
He unlatches his hook from his rod and permits it to dangle. Practiced hands gentle tug until the string is pulled taught. Then, holding with both hands, he makes for the pond. “I take it you don’t? I’ll tell you this, though: you’ve got something serious if you can get mad at fishin’. Just close your eyes and let loose if it ever gets to you.”
Fergus is the first to seat himself by the dock. He dangles one of his legs over the moonlit water, swinging ambiently even before the line is cast. But once it is, and he pulls back to ensure his bobber floats, he gestures for Michalis with a wave of his hand.
✢⁎. blood is thicker
//continued from here @hosannan
…Is it, though?
The way the fire crackled with the addition of their timber felt different. Homey. Warm. Like a little shoppe tucked in the crook of a city, with those candleholders and expensive lamp oils Fergus would stare wide-eyed at. The way humble folk made a living under an imperial thumb, with whatever they had, for whoever they had, was reflected in the shadow of their shared pyre. That thing was built on the back of an easier time.
Fergus felt guilty for trying to spoil the moment. He looked to the curved sheath on his hip in a moment of stillness. Was it even worth bringing up? He made the necessary leaps long ago—that those talks of Diarmuid & the princess and the sword only they could draw made them some sort of family. Some sort of twisted, mangled family—where Fergus was a branch on the tree that got snapped off. Nanna was so overjoyed to see him—a bastard child—that it was easy to forget what he was not. Sending letters sounded fun, even if the pen had never been his best friend.
Mother would smile to see him writing something earnestly.
“I’ve been wondering,” he lied, pushing the hilt on his blade so that it rested further up his belt, “who taught you how to swing swords like that? No offense, but I haven’t met many princesses who even feel comfortable picking one up.” Not ones like mother, at least. It was her detest of violence that always had Fergus hanging his head low with guilt whenever he got into a fight.
But if that sounded like a plain thing to talk about, that’s because it was. It wasn’t a particularly good lie, only thought up mere blinks before Fergus spoke it. He needed something to fill the space where he retreated back into himself. Asking for the methods behind her aristeias helped keep the conversation stuck to her, too.
He sat by the fire, legs outstretched to where its glow could lick his academy trousers.
“If you’re honest with how you answer, I’ll be your penpal as long as we’re studyin’ together.”
Ethlyn's eyes narrow as she approaches Fergus and prods him firmly in the sternum. "Not only do you show up to my party late but you don't even bother to stop and introduce yourself?" Granted, she barely gave him any chance to do so before marching her way up to him right after entering but it would not have been as funny otherwise.
It's not like she's serious either. Not entirely.
She throws her head back with a laugh and offers her hand in a firm shake. "Ethlyn Claus. My brother, Sigurd, and I are hosting. Don't take me too seriously. You, of course, are welcome to a great time!"
Ow. What kind of lady pokes a charming young guy at a dinner party?
Fergus whips around to meet her, his low ponytail flying behind his back. It's only his first day out here, so he sort of just stumbled in--didn't even have time to get dressed--but things looked so lively he simply couldn't exclude himself! Now he's biting himself for it. The woman blabbers on, but between the slight sting on his chest and his waning attention, he could care less.
That is, of course, until he hears the name 'Sigurd.' "Woah, woah, wait." He hesitates to shake her hand, a smile of his own creeping over his face, "Sigurd? Like, that hotshot from Chalphy? So you're Grannvale..."
Like those dogs that harassed Karin. Fergus should be beating her up right now.
Her hand is suddenly seized with a crushing grip, and shaken so hard her shoulders jostle in their sockets. "You guys never change, always laying it thick on the little guy! Name's Fergus," he laughs, deciding to ley bygones be bygones and play along with her joke, "I'll get myself well-acquainted, don't you worry."
A pause as he returns her hand to him. It eluded him before, but the hosts of Baldr's Bounty are well and true Jugdralis--not some Crusader-pushing posers.
"Say... I know this might be a long shot, but there aren't any Leif's in attendance, are there?"
Ethlyn snorts. Hotshot certainly is an accurate description of her brother. It doesn't surprise her that this guy would know him. She'd be more surprised if he didn't.
"Oh yeah both and raised in Chalphy though I'm from Leonster now."
The name Fergus sounds familiar. Rings a bell she can't quite place until he mentions Leif. Ethlyn's grin grows wide. He has to be. There's no way he isn't. That's just too coincidental.
"Oh yeah, my son's here. He actually told me about you. Where was it you met again? That's right!" She gives Fergus a playful elbow to the ribs. "It was prison, wasn't it?"
Leonster? Now there’s a pretty word. It catches Fergus’ ear like a whistle, blowing through that grassy hair of his high above the rest of her dialogue. If that’s the case, then surely…
Yep. He connected the dots before Ethlyn drew her line. But the smile on his face is no less satisfied as a result. He’s glad he decided to stick his nose where it didn’t belong this time. It’s earned him something far more valuable than gold.
“Damn, apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree,” he guffaws, reacting to Ethlyn’s jab and playfully swatting at her arm, “what kinda crazy kid introduces a guy like me with prison?”
He isn’t the least bit bothered, though. In fact, this lady inspires intrigue faster than she does discomfort. Wasn’t she supposed to be dead? And would she know something of father, being of his time?
The former is a rude thing to ask of a woman, and the latter would dampen Fergus’ good spirits, so he decides to bottle away both questions for later. They’d sit neatly on the shelf inside his head, waiting for their chance to see the sunshine.
“I’ll just have to show you both that I’m more than a convict. Pleasure’s all mine, Ethlyn.”
✢⁎. kitchen belhalla
//baldr's bounty starter for @ulirblood !
Fergus whistles a jaunty tune, none the wiser to the sound of footsteps creeping after him. Right now he's busying himself in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled to his arms and his eyes brimming with the intent to help out. He's a party crasher, sure, but no freeloader. He'll pull his weight around here, especially for Leif's extended family. The other blonde has ample time to file in behind him.
"Hm-hm, hmm-hmm-hmm~" He hacks into a pair of fresh steaks, his knifework made decent by practice with a blade. While not exactly a gourmet cut, Fergus at least has a steady hand. They have also been dusted with salt--a surprising feat for the Thracian. Then, it comes time to cook them. Most folk would turn to the stove now, heating up a skillet before tossing the meat on top. If they're particularly gifted, they'd throw in some butter to baste.
Fergus does none of these things.
He dumps water into a pot until it's about half full. Placing it under a running fire, he allows the water to begin heating up before nonchalantly--and it needs to be stressed that he doesn't have a care in the world as he does this--plops his steaks into the water. The flavoring wastes right off.
With it set to boil, he looks over his shoulder. "Oh, hey there," greets the freeblade, friendly as ever, "you here to help? I'm all good on my own, but the company doesn't hurt. Name's Fergus, a sellsword from Jugdral. You?"
✢⁎. fergalicious definition
//baldr's bounty starter for @thelightofcreation !
It's easy to lose oneself. The night's temptations are many, and her good company provides a hearth on which to warm one's soul. As Fergus flaunts about, he slowly loses track of the sword on his hip. Tonight would be a magical night for gathering information about Beowolf--where he moved, how he lived, how Fergus could deepen his hatred--but a few drinks in, and he's half-sloshed and at another man's shoulder.
Thracia be damned, this is too much fun. The glow of merriment is not wasted on his amber eyes.
"Hey," he chirps, offering a friendly wink, "Fergus here. I'm new, mostly finding my way around these parts. But man, either I'm a Crusader or you look stiff!" He pats the minister down and hops off, plucking a mug of spiced wine from the table to push into his chest. If there is one thing he'll never forget, it's how company can always trek the long road. Be it fighting, travel, or just plain passing the time--everything is better with another. And he'd consider it a slight to his moral compass if he left poor Sephiran out of the fun.
"How many of these until you crack? I'd bet you're a whole different person when you spread your wings. If you aren't, I'll tell you a secret about myself."
✢⁎. little home
//baldr's bounty starter for @reverenceofmacedon !
Fergus walks out the dining hall with his head thrown back. Laughter spills from him like water from a slit-open skin. This guy's great. For every bit intimidating and imperial he looks, he's on the same level as Fergus--a bastard child who earns his keep with his sword. "Right, right! Look, man, I totally get neglecting to bring something. My hands were empty too!" The doors were burst open with an excited blonde leading the charge. They peter shut now, his amber eyes casting their lot at the redhead all the while. "But I think we owe it to that Ethlyn character, so c'mon, I'll show you something."
He's retracing recent footsteps as he walks, so the route nearly gets de-railed, but once he finds familiar ground he's well off. A few minutes of walking through the brisk night air, and he pipes up. "There." He nods, taking the Macedon to none other than the fishing pond.
"Saw this place on my way here. Judging by the rods someone left around, it's some sort of fishing hole." He bends down to scoop them both up. One changes hands, and the other promptly sticks out at Michalis: an offer for him to take.
"How about it? Just me and you, we'll catch something nice for the fine folk runnin' this whole thing. And hey, why not try to get to know each other while we're at it?"
✢⁎. nova in the night
//baldr's bounty starter for @allyphase !
"Easy now, easy... Dancing's supposed to be fun. You've gotta relax if you wanna have fun."
Fergus' voice is a silky soft glaze, like honey poured over milk and toast. When he offered his services in teaching the tactician how to move around a ballroom, he wasn't sure of what to expect. Seeing her step now, he realizes he's dealing with an amateur. It's no skin off his back, but he needs to be careful not to drop or scare her.
It doesn't make things easier that they're alone in the courtyard. No music plays for them but the occasional hum of crickets, with the moon and stars acting as their chandelier. Fergus begins gingerly counting a beat by tapping his right foot, the bob of his head mimicking in perfect sync.
"See the way I'm moving? You can't drag your feet, either. I'm not the kind of guy to make a big speech outta dancing, but you've really got to step with conviction."
He demonstrates by taking her by the hand and leading her through a small circuit. Back, and forth. Like the rocking of a ship, docked by the moor of Conote. His years away from home could never erase what the steady waves did to his rhythm.
"I'm Fergus, by the way. Forgot to offer my name when I got you started on these lessons."
