occasionally subtle
Interview Vampire Daily
Noah Kahan
Origami Around
gracie abrams
sheepfilms
Show & Tell
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almost home
PR's Tumblrdome
Love Begins
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
roma★
untitled
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Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Cookie Run:Kingdom Official!
Claire Keane
One Nice Bug Per Day
titsay
seen from Spain
seen from United Kingdom
seen from Uruguay
seen from Brazil
seen from Kenya
seen from United States
seen from Philippines
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from T1
seen from Azerbaijan
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seen from Türkiye
seen from United Kingdom
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@ridire-fain
-> ridire-fain: A study in the meaning of being a squire, the lance that protects the future, chivalry, purpose and the path or rebellion against tyranny.
A CLOSED AND AFFILIATED, Oifey, Knights of Seiros Professor, from Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War, affiliated with THEOFFICERSACADEMY
-> Portrayal Notes and a few quick points underneath the cut
It's his eyes that make her stop and wonder. She might not have even considered the possibility if she hadn't already run into her kids or Finn or Edain. But time flies strangely here. Strangely enough to ignite a small spark of hope within her on occasions.
"Excuse me," she approaches him softly. Tentatively. She would feel rather foolish if her impossible guess was wrong. "You're Oifey, aren't you? You're really here..."
-> THERE ARE THINGS, no matter how common they become still feel akin to a shock that travels along the spine, electrifying in inadmissable ways. As a boy he grew used to the life, the hustle and hum of activity that flowed through Chalphy. As an adult he grew used to the sense of longing for those blissful days, full of life and energy that has long become so utterly vacant. Perhaps that longing is the drive behind the belonging grasped with earstwhile hands, the sense of routine so wholeheartedly embraced.
The call pulls him from his musing, putting a halt to the jumbled thoughts inscribed upon parchment as the tone, familiarly unfamiliar, sparks the hints of recollection of a bygone year. Oifey remembers youth, growth, laughter, family, quill placed atop the page. "Yes? How may I help you?" Polite words, gaze finally turning upwards from the paper to face the woman calling to him.
"Ah..." A tone stunned, turning his attention to the locks that spark so familiar a recollection. "Lady Ethlyn, my apologies, I had thought you a student come for advice, please, sit." He's thankful for the small mercies of a tidy office, lest his rather... aloof response to cleaning be betrayed. "May I offer you tea? I suspect, after all this time, you may well have much to discuss."
⋆⭒˚.⋆ i am not a stranger and the land is normal
Shannan squawks more in offence than he does any surprise, whipping around on a heel. His hair drags a curtain behind him as he does, flashing a black star's-trail; "You," he gasps, affectation drawing it high. "You're unbelievable," he huffs then, pitch and shoulders dropping, and he swats Oifey lightly over the shoulder even as he's dragged in—it's not like he gives any resistance. "What, you get something out of startling me? You wanna give me a heart attack? Really makes a man feel like he matters." Contrarily, the sentiment isn't actually sarcastic, even where his tone is. He doesn't make a good show of having actually been startled, anyway. It's—nice. He could do with a little familiarity. ... Of the normal and expected kind, lest he catch the attentions of whatever forces of the universe like mocking him so much any more than he already has.
Oifey seems fine. Oifey seems unchanged, by whatever metric, for the austere look of him even when he's getting his kicks in being a general nuisance—horrendously neat-pressed, frankly. It's unfair. They've known each-other long enough that even the greatest disparity couldn't make him self-conscious, in a world where that was in Shannan's disposition. In the end, it's mostly reassuring. Could be that the end of the world wouldn't change Oifey too much—at least, not into something unrecognisable. Then again, that's the thoughts of someone who watched all this turn out from a gangly teenager with stars for Lord Sigurd in his eyes. Put Shannan, the boy, in front of Oifey now, and he'd probably run screaming.
Fun thought!
Fortunately, he's grown out of it. He scowls. "Late, my—I'm not late. There's not anything to be late to." Least as far as he knows there isn't—it occurs to him after he speaks that there's such a thing as being out of the loop. The very concept chafes against him, sword on stone. How long has it been since he's had to worry about that? It threatens to make him feel unbalanced. He's not in the mood for that, so he discards the thought. He doesn't pause before letting himself right in through the door as Oifey opens it, steps habitually snappy. "Well, I'm waiting on you. If there's so much to say you'll just have to start talking. Nice place, by the by," he says dryly, tossing his chin at the piles of possessions scattered here-and-abouts, pristine towers of... stuff. "You want a hand sorting all that? I've got the time."
THE CHUCKLE OF HIS LIPS CANNOT BE CALLED MEANSPIRITED, its is a calm thing, full of life and mirth at the rise and fall like shoulders like the tide. There's a common familiarity here, a softness that sings in quiet moments as the fellow is tugged inside the office that remains so haphazardly strung together. "Come now, you make yourself an easy target, and I'm at fault? How outrageous!" There's no malice to be found in that laughed exclamation, not when that man beside him is a beacon of normality in a world that has become anything but of late.
He thinks of his younger self, thinks of the unsteadiness on his feet and wonders how he would react to see them now, laughing and joking as if the weight of the world they found themselves in burdens them no longer. A younger Oifey would be shocked at it all he thinks, the harmless pranks and willing touches that had been so few and far between coming so very common place. It is, of course, an amusing thought, and yet it serves as little more than a distraction from the weight that dances upon his shoulders like a child moves through freshly fallen snow.
"Perhaps later." When their heads need clearing from the fierce games that fate has begun to play. "Have you... met anyone on the way here?" There is no subtlety in the question laid behind closed doors, a seriousness that creeps at the edge of vision and yet the words to be shared are those that so wholly concern both of them. "Larcei, Fee, Diarmuid, Seliph, Scáthach..." A trailing thought, words that fade into silence as he contemplates that which is yet to be spoken. The names on his tongue still sing like open wounds, and yet to leave them unmentioned is to fail in a duty so wholly theirs.
"Perhaps even... Deirdre, Sigurd... Arya?" The quick stab of painful memories, a bandage hastily removed to be replaced with dressing fresh, clean of all that lingers in yesteryear. "The letter I suspect did not reach you before you left, it would seem that the world has decided to play a joke on us both of late." A sigh, tempestuous and hollow falls from his lips, the vigor of youth fading from his features as he prepares himself for the normalcy of life to be upheaved once more.
When the Ice finally begins to break
[Non-Board] Cont. from HERE w/ Deirdre
"You know my daughter?" Lavender eyes look up at him, sparkling in their wonder. He speaks of miracles with her and this surely is one. Never would she have guessed that the two would find each other without her involvement. It gives her hope that, perhaps one day, both of her lives might be able to join together. "She always was talented, even as a little girl. Oh, Oifey, I have not seen her since...I have no idea what happened to her. To know now that she has met you...it is a great burden lifted off of my heart. Thank you for giving me the hope that I might one day see her again."
She had mentioned her dream of seeing her family together again and he brings up her daughter. She wonders if this means he does not condemn her for that daughter's father. It feels too much to hope for but she has never shied away from hope.
"To have your help in my kitchen...I can think of few things I want more. It would be an honor to see how far your skills have come." It would be the perfect way, she thinks, to properly catch up. She can picture them reminiscing and laughing as they chop ingredients for something they all will enjoy. A fire in the oven warming the room, dishes clinking together, the smells of herbs and spices.
"You must tell me everything. It does not matter if it is exciting or not. I want to hear it all." She might not have been there to watch him grow up but perhaps if he shares the stories of his life, she can close her eyes and imagine she had been part of it, too.
"Yes, although I could not prove it at the time the resemblance was rather uncanny, enough so to give me pause." He'd cursed himself for quite some time for not realising it sooner, yet those thoughts are but a fleeting memory of yesteryear. "I was told you went to great efforts to protect her, why last I heard she spent a rather large amount of her time in Grannvale!" Oifey merely wishes that there had been time to check in her before he left, perhaps he should do so when he returns.
There if little in the way of condemnation to be found for the past within him any longer, so consumed was the anger felt by the drive of necessary purpose. He and Shannan had been teens with tasks entrusted that to focus on anything else would be little more than a dereliction of that which had needed their attention in full.
"I must confess however, my skills are still hardly worthy of too much praise, wrapped in the necessity of learning on the fly as they are." It would, after all, hardly do for him to burn down the cottage when it had taken so long to procure the supplies necessary to build it. Still, he cannot help the chuckle that falls from chapped lips at the memory of the blacksmith's scorn in regard to the pile of utterly ruined pots placed before them.
"Everything? Very well but not here, the dining hall will have more than enough tea to suit the tone of the memories I do believe." Little can soothe the mind and heart more than smell of freshly baked bread and brewed tea he finds, and he is, in truth, hard pressed to pass up the occasion to share tea with she who has been so surely missed.
She approaches Oifey with slight apprehension. She knows he said to do what she felt is necessary, but that does not necessarily mean she did what is right. Still, she cannot avoid this forever. “Oifey… do you suppose that battle could have gone any differently? That we should have- I should have done anything different? No matter how hard I try, I cannot shake off the feeling that I could have done more for this village.”
The look he passes cannot be called a sad one, yet the remorse is unmistakeable for reasons unknown as he beckons for her to come closer to the roaring bonfire. He knows this spiral of thoughts all too well, a sequence that flows lower and lower in a spiral of self-doubt until nought but the past remains to be consumed by it. It's a curse, no one of magic but of the mind as it burns, and so he resolves to alleviate it in whichever way is open to him. Oifey cannot claim to be a counselor, yet ailments of the mind are a familiar thing for those who have grown accustomed to war and it's price as he reaches for the thermos pilfered from a colleague.
"Tea?" He doesn't wait for an answer, unscrewing the cap and pouring the dark liquid into it as the young woman settles beside him. He does not judge for doubt, for doubt is oh so common after war, as he offers the cup. "An unpleasant feeling, isn't it? That lingering ember of doubt that maybe if you had've been a few hours faster a family would still have their homes, perhaps a father would have come home if we had of been just a hair faster, an ounce stronger..."
A sigh, steel in his gaze as his head turns, outstretching an arm to pat the young warrior on her shoulder. "Do you know what that makes you Panette? Human, as human as any other. Even now I remember the face of every villager and towns person I met travelling one edge of the continent to the other, you know, always wondering what if..."
"If there's any lesson to know from have learnt let it be this, keep them with you, let the grateful faces pull you from the shadow of doubt and the shadows of the past, remind yourself you gave enough."
NOTHING BAD EVER HAPPENS TO THE KENNEDYS!
week 3 orange team 2
Panette should have known better than to get her hopes up for a regular trip for once. In fairness, for once it is not an ambush on her personage, but there is no way she could just ignore a battered and bruised woman crying out for help. Thankfully the company she is with is just as eager to help her out; she would have gone regardless but the backup is quite welcome.
Running as fast as she can to keep up with her allies, she grits her teeth once she sees the destruction wrought upon the houses ahead. These brutes will get what is coming to them. For attacking a defenceless village. For such insolent comments against Emb- Against REGULAR Camilla. For making her trudge out to fight in such BARKING COLD!
Her fists tighten, wrapped in fancy, enchanted handwraps she found in Isaach. Everyone else has already managed to take someone down; she steps in front of an oafish brigand.
Easy pickings.
“Pah, I ain’t scared of a dumb looking, snot nosed-” He starts to spill drivel from his mouth, but is quickly and painfully silenced; a fist striking his stomach followed by a sweep to the legs, leaving the brigand squirming in pain on the icy floor. Any plans Panette had to add to her team’s cool lines washed away as she starts seeing red.
“If you morons think you got nothin’ to be scared of from me, look at your pathetic wretch of an ally and think again.”
Several pairs of eyes hopefully on her, she leaps up high into the air, bringing both knees down on the brigand’s chest as hard as she can. A sickening crunch rings out amidst the sounds of fighting and burning, and the dumbass who underestimated her is out for the count.
Feeling an energy course through her fists, a faint glow emanating from the fancy handwraps, she looks to the other clowns in the fight; some of them seem a bit unnerved, whilst some are clearly clutching their hearts in pain. Whatever these handwraps are doing is freaky, but those buffoons brought it onto themselves.
A determined look on her face, she turns to Oifey. “You are from Judgral, correct Oifey? As you probably have the best insight on this, I ought ask you how I should deal with these blithering idiots; should I aim to kill or just hurt them really, really badly.” The last part is basically yelled out; whatever gets those dastards to shake in their boots. Truth be told she hopes it’s not the former but whatever Oifey decides, she shall follow in kind.
The brigands run, straight for the villagers. They yank the helpless villagers around, cutting their throats and beating them to a pulp. One villager tries to run, only to be struck down by an archer. The snow on the ground quickly turns red with blood. The sounds of screams and cries and breaking bones fill the air.
Camilla throws another spell at one of the mercenaries that was beating on one of the helpless villagers. Barbie pounces as his body falls, sending a shock wave through the ground and forcing the brigands to their knees. The wyvern tears into the fallen mercenary, adding his blood to the crimson snow.
"They're killing unarmed villagers, I say give them a taste of their own medicine!" Camilla shouts to Panette.
Despite the layers underneath, her metal armor seems to sap the warm from her bones.
DUCKING AND WEAVING THROUGH COMBAT IS AKIN TO SECOND NATURE, yet he forces himself to remain somewhat aware as the young woman calls out to him. Perhaps it's the biting frost, yet the look in his eyes offers little in the way of mercy as he rushes close enough for his words to be little more than a whisper. "Do what you feel is necessary, young Panette, none can ask anything more." To armoured fists does his gaze turn, as an idea springs to mind, one that was once born of desperation, as he turns the tactics of their previous encounters upon their enemies.
"Position yourself close to their chief, I can corral them all close enough for you to strike." An order, pulling the spear from the side of his majestic steed who looks more akin to the ashen horses of fables old. Malaen's huffed, angry breath is all the agreement he needs as mighty hoofs knock ashen snow high into the air, breaking into a galloping closing circle as his gaze turns upon the brigand who thinks themselves brave enough to attempt to move from his closing circle.
A breath, feeling the fire of anger in his soul as outstretched arm raises the spear high. Oifey is fast, faster than he was in the distant past, so he cannot fault himself if the spear strikes short of his target. He's grown too old to fight another war he thinks, feels his form groan at the strain, and yet he can not, will not allow them to hurt his students as fingers release the haft, letting it embed deep into the earth even as the brigand laughs in what they perceive to be a vicious mockery of his poor aim, and yet...
"Now Panette!"
-> @classybrawler
NOTHING BAD EVER HAPPENS TO THE KENNEDYS!
week 3 orange team 2
The cold was awful. It sucked. It was so cold that it was just stupid. Their breath was a constant cloud surrounding their faces. Every inch of skin had been covered with thick layers of wool and furs.
Camilla was even wearing fleece leggings. So you KNOW it was cold.
A large blanket was wrapped around Barbie's neck like a scarf, extra saddle blankets layered on top of her back. She raced across the sky to the burning village, both rider and mount grateful for something to do to keep them warm.
In the village square they could see a group of brigands, dumping out chests in search of anything valuable. If only they knew the true value of all the crocheted lace and embroidered fabric they were throwing about and ignoring in their search for anything shiny.
Barbie flew straight through the group, sending them scattering to avoid the wyvern. She landed on a frozen well at the center of the town and stretched her wings with a mighty cry.
"Feel free to run." Camilla called from atop her wyvern. "But anyone who stays will be punished like the naughty children you are." She smiled like a cat who had got the cream.
"I wouldn't mind being punished by a lady like you!" One of the brigands foolishly calls out. Camilla unleashed a spell, aiming straight for his chest and knocking him to the ground. Barbie pounced on the brigand and finished the fool off as the rest of Camilla's group entered the fray.
Everything happened so quickly, the poor fools barely had time to react to the sudden attack. They'd finish this quickly.
And then they would be able to get out of the biting cold.
THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN SAND, snow, yet he counts himself lucky at least to be among the company of two of the students that have spiked his interest in recent weeks. Or he was, at least, right until Malaen's muzzle raises high in awareness, shaking the snow from its mane in alert warning until the villager had stumbled from the bushes in panicked frenzy. Riding on ahead is almost second nature to him, holding his form low as the great steed rushes through the blizzard.
Brigands and Mercenaries, no doubt searching for opportunity in the cold, and yet he cannot allow it to continue, gaze turning towards the warrior moving too slow to avoid him as the spear is pulled from the leather strap and weighed in his hand. The armor new, old, upon his shoulders have left him all the more mobile for it, even as the snow bites at his skin. For a moment, the Paladin steals a gaze towards his colleague, listens to the taunts and resolves himself to keep a distance between them as a mighty swing of his arm has the almost barbed spear flying high in an arc through the sky tinted red by flame.
Malaen knows what to do of course, this is a familiar routine as Oifey lowers himself to ride flat, leaning slightly askew as gloved digits catch the haft of the spear, holding tight as the warrior is brought low to a knee from the pain of dragging it free.
"One would think they'd learn by now that no evil deed will go unpunished..." Nor a good deed it seems, as he feels the coldness bite at him, seep deep into his armor as he moves against the wind.
"How'd you know those daggers were poisoned? Without your warning, I wouldn't have known until I got stabbed with 'em." (He still got stabbed, but that's not all that important anymore. You wrestle with someone holding a knife, it can happen. Not like he had many other options.)
He exhales, head tilted downward while he kneads at the back of his neck.
"It feels harder and harder to figure out who to trust here. Is that...normal?"
THEY'RE IN TIRNANOG, an overnight stop in familiar territory, and yet the question posed is just as valid here as anywhere. Oifey has had many an opportunity to fight alongside the young man, and is just as glad to see him taking advantage of their free time to learn lessons that will be more than valuable. Yet the question is tough in a simple way. "Growing up during wartime leads to valuable lessons, moreso when that war seems to follow." Oifey stands, beckoning Caspar to join him as he points down the hill towards the baker putting the last of their bread out for the evening.
"Do you see that man there? The Baker? Once they called him a thief, yet he's as earnest as anyone I've ever met." A sigh, thinking back to his run in with bandits years ago, when Tirnanog was nothing more than two or three houses with a church in the midsts of nowhere. "He found me after my own run in with that particular brand of poison, and went to great lengths to ensure I learned how to identify it before it was used on me."
Oifey smiles in sadness at the question his young companion utters, knowing that the question is a hard and complicated thing for any to ask, and yet he can only offer his own life experience. "I was... about your age when I asked the same question, of course, finding the answer took a considerably longer amount of time. My advice, Young Caspar, is that it's only human to find yourself doubting others, to feel led astray by betrayal and subterfuge and yet… I can see the spark of resilience in you, the want to trust others."
A reached hand, coming to clasp his arm on the earnest fellow beside him. "My answer is as such, keep your faith in your comrades, and they will reward your trust in kind, even when this land, this life, wishes for you to do nothing other than look upon others with a paranoid gaze."
Home sweet home
Not mine never mine
Not participating doesn't stop her from helping does it? Is she being chastized for trying to insert herself into the community?
Or maybe shes just missing something obvious?
Either way she doesn't get to wonder long as the aforementioned seamstress comes flying towards them.
She steps aside, somewhat hiding herself behind Oifey, startled by the anger before she recognizes it wasn't aimed towards her.
Intentionally or not he rats her out but reassures her that at the very least her help won't be unwelcome.
"I-i understand if its an unattractive job but would you be so kind as to trim my coat a little past shoulder blades?"
its in tatters only an inch or two lower so she doesn't expect the idea to be indulged but she'd be a greater fool to not even try asking.
" Its good material id do it myself but."
she looks down at her hand the gloves still crusted with blood as she unhooks the pauldrons to remove the jacket.
She can do decorations; she can do garlands and fake flowers, run errands, and everything else, but her hands feel shaky as if too long with her own thoughts will leave her in ruin.
(she knows why
but she pretends she doesn't)
"i-i need it to be done well and i dont think i can with the short time we are staying."
HE SEES THE SMALL FLASH OF CONFUSION, yet it is not his place to interfere too much in the work of another, watching the seamstress hum and haw as she takes a series of almost detailed measurements with gaze alone. This is a familiar trick of hers, a way to give people time to calm themselves before she steps inside their personal space and proceeds with her craft.
Oifey feels comfortable standing aside, letting the woman move closer, as his gaze shifts over towards his own home for a moment. It only takes all of a moment for the measuring tape to appear, as the Paladin takes two steps backwards.
"Ah sure can, ain't no one better than me!" A boisterous laugh, gesturing towards the house that serves also a shop. "You come with me, and we'll get you right as rain!"
Oifey can merely nod his support before the thought sparks into his mind. "Perhaps we can help with your deliveries in return? It's important for the students to have a varied life." Somewhat of a convenient excuse on his part, yet he has little interest in asking others to work for free as his attention turns back to the young woman. "Once you're finished, I shall be waiting here, I merely need to retrieve my own armor and weapons."
A nod, waiting before going to retrieve his clothes and armor. For him, it feels almost like a lifetime since he last wore the equipment of a Paladin, and yet he can hardly refuse the calling that strikes him once more.
Home sweet home
Not mine never mine
Is he reading her mind?
Tine can't help but freeze, tongue-tied and eyes wide.
She cannot imagine Freege being like this; it's highly individualistic and tense.
People are feverishly guarding their wealth.
But maybe she's just thinking of nobility, the life of the common folk being less rotten than theirs.
All the same, it still feels too good to be true.
"So they expect services? I know that there's a festival in the works, right?
While I had been working as a merchant's aide back in Foldlan, I learned a lot about making decorations back in my youth."
Well, she's still young, but those days feel so distant, that precious naivete.
"I apologize for this as well.
This is quite unusual for me."
WITH A SMILE AND A SHAKE OF HIS HEAD, HE ATTEMPTS TO DISPEL THE THOUGHTS. "Young Tine, the festival is for those who have returned here after the war, of which I am included." He can't help the kindly smile, even as he notices the seamstress emerge from her humble docile with a fierce look on his features. He knows the children haven't been home recently, which only means word had reached Tirnanog before him of just how abysmally the tailors of Grannvale had prepared his clothes for the road.
"Look lively, it would seem I've earned myself a spot on the hot seat." An almost suspicious whisper before he stands as rigidly as possible in an almost amused manner as the sowing needle is shaken in his face.
"Subpar clothes Oifey?! Not to mention running off to an entirely different continent?!?"
Ah, how unexpected, yet he knows how exactly to refocus her attention onto something that will curtail the wellworn ire that is truly deserved. "Tine, this is Siobhan, Tirnanog's only resident seamstress as far as I'm aware, there's no one better in Isaach when it comes to repairing clothes." Falling down memory lane is dangerous, but it'll be worth it to see suitable clothes prepared before they move on to the next stop of their trek.
"I assure you, there's no one better to entrust yourself into the care of, and if my memory serves, there's never a shortage of oddjobs and deliveries that need doing in return." He can't help but smile at the nervousness, he once felt much the same once upon the time, he feels confident that a kind hand will be more than enough to help her adjust to the laid back nature of the town that was once his home.
"When you're finished in her gentle care, we can see about repaying her." A gentle nod, reaffirming that he'll be just outside for the duration, or he will be at least once he changes out of the long worn travelling clothes.
Home sweet home
Not mine never mine
It's like coming into a fairy tale.
She knows that isn't right; it is a dismissal of all those people who suffered for sheltering her king.
She isn't worthy of being here, but her companion fits right in as if he never left.
"Lord Oifey? Is there anything in particular I should do or avoid doing."
She's playing with the hem of her sleeve, distantly grieving another outfit that got evacuated; she'd bankrupt Freege if she went through clothes like this on a daily basis.
"Do you perhaps know a tailor? I don't want to part with the coat, but it has to be trimmed significantly.
D-don't come with me though./!"
People look at him with such kindness, and she refuses to take advantage of that.
Ugh, she's rambling too much, her head in 50 places and nowhere at once.
She says it under her breath more as a message towards herself to cease it.
"Im sorry."
Tirnanog is a town built amidst hills and valleys, and as he stands at the entrance he can't help but turn his gaze towards a familiar house standing tall. It's been... quite some time since he lived there last, and yet he can hear the soft patter of feet resounding in his memory. So many of the houses are newly built, so many having flocked to the haven that it remains hard to recognise even in the 6 months since he saw it last. Yet the words of the young women beside him pull him from memory lane, turning his soft gaze down as she speaks.
"Now now, no need for Lord, nobody here will call me that..." So many of those of his age know him merely as a hermit fleeing the past that he would prefer they not refer to him as anything more. Lord had, for the longest time, been a title belonging solely to his uncle that he himself finds it hard to hear himself being referred to with the same words as he begins to slowly walk up the gentle slope of the hill. "… As for what not to do, never refuse an offer of kindness, Tirnanog has been self-sustaining for so long that many consider it rude to take coin for their services."
He can't help the laughter, raising his hand to gently pat atop Tine's head before beckoning her to follow him to the house. "A tailor? Unfortunately not, however we do have a Seamstress." Its semantics really, yet as they near the cottage he turns his attention to the house opposite. "Siobhan can be... a lot, but I can attest to the fact her skill is undeniable, goddess knows she had to deal with enough tears." He nods his head, before turning into the home where four children were raised to be formidable.
"I need to retrieve my spear and armor, so there should be little fear of me intruding, don't you worry, as soon as you're finished just come into the house, the door is rarely locked even now."
"O radiant goddess, cleanse these wounds and renew this troubled soul." His staff directs the cleansing magic towards Oifey's wound. The restorative magic does its work quickly, clearing out the toxins accumulated and bringing the flesh back to a healthy hue. Rhys smiles. "There, how does it feel?" He always likes to ask just in case.
There's also something else on his mind... "How did you know one of them would betray us? The guides, I mean. You picked up on it first and I really didn't want to believe it could be true, and then it was. And then when we arrived, others were saying similar happened to them too. I...I suppose it's something I struggle with, being able to tell how people will act." Even after all this time, he finds it hard to be suspicious of others.
A STRETCH OF THE IMPAIRED SHOULDER IS ALL IT TAKES TO RESTORE IT AFTER THE MAGIC, hand reaching upwards to remove the shaft of the long broken arrow from his skin. Even the toxins, as invasive as they were, flow empty from his flesh, viciousness long removed as Oifey attempts to centre his thoughts. Suspicion had only been half the solution, the rest lay behind a past he oft refuses to revisit, the Paladin feels old now, looking at the young healer that showed a braveness so many as unprepared to do so.
Oifey sighs, reaching upwards to unclip his shirt, showing a scar that traces the length of the right side of his collarbone. "Experience mostly, I was resident in Isaach for half a decade when I had my first run in with the poison in question, mind you, it was nowhere near the last." He can't help the almost self-deprecating laughter before he seals the shirt once more, standing up to clap the young fellow on the shoulder.
"A heart able to look for the good in others is a noble thing indeed, none can fault you for that, especially when you're new to a land I suspect is unlike your own." A pure heart is nothing to be ashamed of in his experience, especially in a land that is so scarred by the embers of lore. "Come, based on my experience, the best thing after an experience like this is a warm meal."
At least they're not mages?
#TOAExpedition2026 - #EHWOrange2026 - Subteam 2
Caspar snaps to attention, turning his glare toward one of their so-called allies. The man is half-turned toward an alleyway, his upper half still facing the group and gaping at Oifey. His eyes are so wide that Caspar can see the whites of them from here.
Well, Caspar will show him something else to be shocked about.
He crashes into him, grasping wildly for the wrist that holds the knife in a similar maneuver to the one he’d just pulled on the thief. This one is more slippery. Opposing hands push at his body and pull at his clothing as he does the same. Caspar’s side stings, and then it burns. He gasps, holding the man’s shirt more tightly. Blood seeps through his own.
“I’ve got him!” Caspar shouts through a labored breath, “I’ve got him!!”
What? Him? He had saved him from being pickpocketed earlier, so why now?
But blind faith crumbles beneath hard facts. He's drawn his blade and he's drawn Caspar's blood with it. Now released, the toxin is a much stronger scent and it makes Rhys blanch.
If he gets one more really good hit in on Caspar at that range, this won't go well. They may end up with two bodies to tend to.
White knuckles grip his staff as he finally stands. "Oifey! While Caspar has a hold on him, take him down! We can end this!"
Rhys hadn't wanted to believe there was a traitor among the guides. He always wants to believe the best in everyone, but that kind of hope isn't always rewarded.
Sometimes, it only leads to bloodshed and desperate measures.
@ridire-fain — these are desperate times
To the warriors of Fodlan the technique he wields is known by another name, Tempest Lance, they call it, for the displacement of air left in its wake, and yet for Oifey who has long since mastered it, the technique is like the barbed head of an arrow poised to let loose as he lowers himself close to the ground before setting off. Thump, thump, thump, the resounding of drums as the lance is extended high from his body by outstretches arm, even as he watches the terror turn to fury as silver-white blade is let loose towards him.
He feels the tinge of poison in his limb like a familiar adversary, and yet it does little to stop the bullrush as he signals for the boy, the young man, to step back lest he too be caught in the storm's wake. Three beats is all it takes to close the distance, three beats as the chipped iron pierces through, carrying his enemy forward in a cloud of dust as Oifey lets go of the lance, righting himself. He thinks to the young student who had displayed such interest in the holy blood that runs through the Paladin's veins, and yet he is thankful they were not here to see the effects of the blessed strength.
Two beats of the drum are all it takes for their adversaries to flee now that the leader is slain, two beats in which fingers come to his lips to let out a shill whistle as an almost demonic neigh carries, heavy fall of hooves echoing through empty streets as the warhorse gallops with the wind. Satisfied he moves, walking calmly towards where their unconscious archer lay, bending methodically to slide his arms under the form of young Takumi even as his gaze turns to his fellow.
"Tirnanog is half a day's ride as the crow flies, we will recover better there than here. My Malaen can easily carry the wounded." As if to reinforce his words, hoofs stomp into the ground, the majestic stead making its displeasure as being sent away well known.
At least they're not mages?
#TOAExpedition2026 - #EHWOrange2026 - Subteam 2
The moments he's spent recovering have evened out his breath. There's a small bit of magic he can use to soothe his wounds, sealed with a murmured prayer, and his aches suddenly feel a bit lighter.
When he looks up, this time he sees them before it's too late.
"Caspar! There!" The pickpocket is stalking the battlefield for an unwitting mark and he won't let it be Caspar. "Don't lose your focus, we're counting on your strength!" After all, Takumi is down, and he's still bleeding.
@berglietz — you can do it!
The follow-up command is enough. Caspar sees the half-shadowed figure, hiding in the darkness overcast by the buildings that line the street, and he sees the blade that shines in their hands. He’s on the would-be thief in an instant, arm lashing out to grab the wrist that holds the sword.
“Not so fast!” He twists, further and further, until the weapon drops to the ground between them. Caspar kicks the blade in one direction, throws his opponent another. He watches the thief turn their back to flee down the street and lets out a bark-like laugh.
“No easy marks here! Y-”
Again, he’s interrupted by a sharp stab of pain. This time the arrows, two of them, pierce the padding on his back with bruising force. He whirls around, shafts standing on end like quills when his hackles raise.
“You’re gonna get yours too, dammit!”
The smell is stronger now, and yet clarity befalls him in an moment as his gaze turns high towards the Highwaymen who seem to reposition themselves before every shot. There's a pattern to this madness, to the carnage and bloodshed as he watches with great interest how a singular guide seems to move in tandem, shifting out of the way before every shot only to move back to where they once were.
Traitor, his mind screams at him in a haze of fury, prompting him to move even as the pickpocket meets his gaze and prepares to shout a warning. Yet even on foot the Knight is still formidable, rushing forward to bury the wooden shaft into a gut so all that escapes those lips are empty air. Yet the guide, Compass, turns and meets his gaze, as if shocked to see him so deftly approach before preparing to flee from the battlefield.
No time to waste, yet the only way to stop this is to invoke the name and title he suspects the guides were no more prepared for than the bandits surrounding them. It is a cheap trick to invoke one's own name, but it is enough for the mayhem to slow. "The guide who calls themselves Compass! As Duke of Chalphy, I, Oifey, humbly request you sieze them!" A glance to the young man, a nod of his head to approve of the student striking out at their foe.
The bandits stall, and yet, he merely hopes it gives the formidable young man time to strike.
At least they're not mages?
#TOAExpedition2026 - #EHWOrange2026 - Subteam 2
Fists and steel break through after that arrow, and Caspar charges like a bull at the sight of red. Barreling right into the wounded brawler, he drives the both of them against one of the walls blocking them in.
The back of the man's head cracks against the stone. The front of it cracks against Caspar's forehead, for good measure. The world spins for a second while Caspar gets his bearings, letting the mugger slip out of his grasp and slump into the street.
"We don't-" He shakes his head, finds his footing. "We don't need poison or tricks. We just need to push through!"
Stubbornness pushes his voice to a booming volume. Uncertainty puts a creaking wobble in his sharpest syllables.
@gentleaureole !
His remaining companions each fight with fervor, one with measured strokes of the lance and the other who makes his fists his weapons. Rhys only holds his staff and an iron will. He's really not much use in a proper fight without his light magic.
One of their foes darts through the chaos and he recognizes their shadowed garb too late. The pickpocket reaches for him and Rhys takes half a step back...and finds himself several paces out of place.
The pickpocket slips, catches nothing, and is as surprised as Rhys to find him a few feet away. With their target out of reach, they retreat, and Rhys sees one of the guides not too far away waving at him. Ah, it must have been their magic! How kind of them.
But the battle, and his allies, won't wait. The older man looks a little out of sorts. Their enemies hit hard and he doesn't want another of their group to fall.
"O Goddess," he repeats his prayer as he lifts his staff high, "shine your holy light on our poor souls and deliver us from our earthly wounds." Warm radiant light envelopes the man and Rhys allows himself a small sigh of relief.
These mercenaries can see he's healed two of their numbers now. He knows what it's like to be picked out as the weak link of a group. The pickpocket returns and like before, it's too little too late when Rhys notices him, and there's no magic this time to shift him out of harm's way. His blade leaves a scar across his arm, and yet two more arrows make a pincushion out of him. Gasping for breath and bleeding anew, Rhys crouches down and tries to get the world to stop swaying. Maybe if he makes himself smaller, it'll be harder for the next blade to find him. Or maybe the ground simply won't be so far away if he passes out.
ONCE, magic washing over him felt more than enough to turn his stomach, a consequence of his own lack of aptitude with the esoteric arts and yet now it brings a sense of relief from the jarring pain. In another life Malaen would doubtlessly be by his side, yet the once Paladin had long since sent the majestic steed ahead. Still, his finesse with a lance is no less useful now than it had been a decade ago, turning his attention to the healer that begun to look worse for wear.
And yet he still manages to hold the staff high, letting that holy light rain like the gentle droplets of summer's first mist. A weary nod is all he can give, voice worn out even as the scent of almonds continues to taunt him, growing stronger with every passing second. It is wrong, perverse, and yet he knows one of the three has done it intentionally, using it to ensure his full attention cannot be given to the fight around him in this acursed ruin of a town.
Perhaps if he were not distracted he would have seen the arrow fly true, and yet there is little to be done as the barbed head digs deep into his shoulder, as if intent on becoming a deepset thorn. No time to think, no time to lose focus, his shoulder flexes once, shifting it deeper while retrieving the mobility necessary to fight. Yet the pain as sharp as it is, is fleeting, old eyes going to the silver band that wraps tightly around his wrist, feeling the blood of his ancestors will him to continue fighting.
"Caspar! They're trying to distract you, show them the folly of their actions!"
-> @berglietz
At least they're not mages?
#TOAExpedition2026 - #EHWOrange2026 - Subteam 2
There's no end to the battle's rhythm. Another mercenary joins the fray and almost immediately he and another attack their archer together. Rhys has no time to react, no time to cast a spell, in order to help him. He hits the ground before he can even raise his staff.
"No!" Rhys runs over to him as their enemies clear and crouches next to him. Oh, this is bad. He's still breathing but he's out. There's no time for even a sigh of relief as he slips his arms under his and starts to drag him away from the main part of the battle. He doesn't want him to get hurt further.
Once Takumi is safe on the back lines with him, Rhys stands guard over him, as if he could do anything if someone drew too close to the pair.
Again, the man insists that someone among them is a traitor. Rhys looks between the three guides. The healer helped him only moments before, why heal someone who you want dead? Then he looks at the other two, but they appear innocent as well. No, he simply can't think that they're traitors.
He looks toward his companion but he can't figure out what he sees that he's missing. What reasoning does he have?
With their fallen archer already slung across the shoulder of their priest, there isn’t much more Caspar can do. As before, all he is capable of is being a physical barrier between the enemy and his most vulnerable allies. But- but who is he supposed to be protecting them from? His eyes dart across the streets, flickering over the flash of a dagger in the hand of a hooded woman—one of the folks who led them here.
“...Poison?” He echoes his commander’s words, shoulders hunched with suspicion. The woman tilts her head, flashing a disarming smile through the shadow of her hood.
“It’s a dangerous world out here. Sometimes even good people need a few ugly tricks to keep themselves safe. That’s all.” Caspar glares at her weapon. It isn’t true. Good people don’t use ugly tricks, and they certainly don’t hide their tricks from their supposed allies. He just doesn’t have any proof of who the poison is meant for.
“You…” He takes in a sharp breath. “You’re wrong. You- agh-!!”
An arrow plunges into the meat of his left shoulder, severing the rest of his thought. His fist clenches around the shaft. He bites the inside of his cheek, represses the instinct to yank the intrusion free.
The thieves circle like hunting dogs cornering their prey. Caspar growls low in his throat.
Their guides had originally been hired in Chalphy, hadn't they? Yet, the smell of almonds is more common to a particularly repugnant poison that hasn't been seen there for quite some time. He has his familiarity with the concoction, yet the way the woman raises her head has him on alert even as a mugger attempts to run in during the chaos.
Moving is second nature to him, darting forward to meet the mugger in single combat to the look of fleeting surprise. Once, his fighting style had been solely focused on mounted combat, yet swordplay had long thought him the benefits to keeping a trick or two hidden in his sleeves as he meets the fist. The blows are harsh, blunt, yet the jagged silver coating fails to pierce the leather braces protecting his ribcage, designed especially to meet those that had a clear advantage.
"This is reckless, even for you, a fighting style designed to get hit isn't much of a style, especially when they're going to retreat just as fast..." The echo of a past conversation, yet the almost vicious grin on his features speaks to just how aptly the trap had been sprung as his hand begins to slide down the shaft of the spear. "... And if they don't move fast enough, a sword still won't be able to reach them..." How right they were, unfortunately he had little need of a sword, spinning the lance low and letting the jagged edge bite deep into the tendon.
"Unfortunately, a lance cuts far deeper than a sword when you need it to." A cough, droplets of spit and blood falling into the dirt even as he rights his posture, it hurts, but the little magic he's mastered is enough to undo the damage in the long run.
At least they're not mages?
#TOAExpedition2026 - #EHWOrange2026 - Subteam 2
Windswept dunes give way to green fields as their group travels north into the territory of what he's been told is Isaach. He's happy to see the desert behind them but their departure has hardly taken them out of harm's way.
Rhys brings up the rear of their little group just as they're flung into chaos. The sudden descent of mercenaries on their position has him on guard but not flustered. Battle has been his way of life for a long time. Where the others in their group seem to suspect the guides, he's not so sure. Why would anyone lead them purposefully into danger?
But there's little time to think it over as sudden searing pain shoots straight through his arm. Two arrows are lodged there, one at his shoulder and the other only a bit below. Cold, rattling pain shakes him to his core as he gasps for breath. It's a lot of blood, but it's his own and he knows how it got there so he's fine.
There are others need his attention. White robes stained red, he holds himself steady and surveys the immediate situation. One is hurt, the other two are on the offensive, and they're surrounded.
Rhys raises his staff. "O Goddess Ashunera, hear my plea and send forth your radiant light!" A warm and subtle light envelopes the white-haired archer, soothing any damage sustained.
In turn, Rhys finds himself healed by one of the guides. They raise their own staff in his direction and relief floods through his worn body. A strange feeling as he's usually not the one taking damage.
"Thank you!" See, how could the guides have led them astray? They were simply unlucky in choosing their route.
—@ridire-fain !!
The blue-haired student in their group delivers a couple of nasty-looking punches to the brawler who had punched Takumi earlier—he watches the man go down with satisfaction that becomes short-lived as another takes his place. Blessedly, the familiar sensation of healing magic comes soon after, courtesy of the orange-haired healer that had been with him in the desert.
"Thanks," Takumi says, and readies for a counterattack.
(In hindsight, he thinks, maybe he could've been more careful.)
The pickpocket comes at him again, this time with the blade. Takumi tries to sidestep him, but the pickpocket darts forward with alarming speed and stabs the sword first into Takumi's calf, then into his side. Pain sears through him but he endures it, firing another arrow straight into the pickpocket. He collapses on the ground. A couple of Takumi's rotten groceries spill out and roll around him.
"Finally got him," he goes to say, but a punch from the back forcibly sends the air in his lungs out instead—instinctively, his grip loosens and Fujin Yumi falls into the dirt. The last thing he manages to choke out is a strangled gasp as a punch to the head follows
and the world goes dark.
Oifey watches with keen eyes, the way daggers glint in the setting of the sun, the way the highwayman raises the bow in his direction. Once, he would have been at more of a disadvantage, yet here where the dirt roads are familiar he can only be considered in his element as he waits, allowing the lance in his hand to slide further into the dirt.
This technique, the beginning of a dance of death, is untested, practiced in secret time and time again as he watches the arrow loosen into the air. His heart thumps in his ears, raising the worn haft and willing his body to move, pushing himself to the side as the arrow catches in his sleeve, tearing fabric and little else as it buries itself in the dirt.
Suspicion has begun to stew, and the guide that was behind him did little to calm his mind, something feels off to him, like there's a piece of this conflict he's missing before he notices it, the smell of almonds that curls at his senses like a fine poison. There is a gaze turned to his partner standing tall as the tactician pushes forward to brush shoulders with him. It is a suspicion, one that cannot be left to permeate the air and yet Oifey is far too used to passing secrets openly as his voice lowers, so only the mage can hear.
"We have a traitor in our mist, the daggers are poisoned." Message passed, his gaze falls upon the healer that was once paid to guide them through sandy wastes, and yet they do no flinch, looking firmly forward as if oblivious to the eyes that drill into them.
