saint king.

[svintking]

normalcy

expedition week 3 - alm & darios.

[grxstnnefealltoir]

Darios overhears the nickname and a hand brushes over his hair. He's not that spiky is he?

The shopkeeps, though confused, oblige. The children for their part think hard about their task. What vegetables go well with fish? Well many do but the question should probably be phrased what goes with raw fish.

It's a fun exercise for them all... probably.

"In Verdane, there lacked respect." In a way, he imagines that is how his predecessors regarded Aytolis, likely how his father started to in the end. "I think those in Grannvale lacked patience or rather, they were anxious."

And what of the Thracians? Darios know why Leif might spare them now... but in his heart, somehow he still finds it difficult to forgive them. "A ruler needs to tow a careful line, I think much of this land is still working out the problems of such things. You can't simply combine two places and think it'll automatically work. There are a great many concessions to make in all of it."

[svintking]

"How would you handle this, then? If you were King Seliph, I mean."

He still doesn't find much enjoyment in fishing, and he almost wonders if he ought to retrieve the heavy net that he and Darios received in the previous village. At least that had been more exciting than sitting around, waiting for the fish to bite... even if they'd gotten soaked to the bone afterwards.

"Gutierre told me before that Thracia never had it easy. Apparently, it struggled with food and resources, but none its neighbors ever wanted to help." Then Travant had led his forces, massacred an army in the desert, lost... and the people still suffered, unable to let go of the pride that kept them full during nights where their plates remained empty.

Finally, he feels a tug—though when he reels in his line, he's met with an empty hook. And while he's not exactly eager to try again, he can hear the distant sounds of children laughing, and that's unfortunately enough to have him prepare another worm before re-casting his line. Hopefully, Darios would have better luck, because at this rate, they're going to be eating vegetables and maybe a quarter of a minnow...

[svintking]

normalcy

expedition week 3 - alm & darios.

[grxstnnefealltoir]

Darios smiles. "If I had to guess, you're about the age of my friends whom I've spent much of my life tutoring, thus young man. Not to say that I'm that old either."

Alm starts before being cut off and Darios can't help a small giggle, surprised he can even make a noise like that.

"I think... isn't that how they did it in Hoshido? You'd cut the fish up and serve it with rice and vegetables. Back when they were helping my land, there were rations like that." It's funny to think back on now. "It most certainly was not wiggly, I think we might need to catch a fish and have you try it for yourselves."

If the children were not already beaming about the stories being brought to them from across the land, then the prospect of a full tummy certainly sent them into overdrive. Darios pulls a few coin from his satchel and offers a bit to each child. "If you pick out some vegetables you like, I can see if I can't recreate the dish for you. Your big brothers here will focus on catching the fish."

He's barely finished his sentence before they've run off and he's turned back to Alm.

"I hope they don't tell any other kids." He knows they will, but back then it hadn't been too intensive an activity to make. Catching the fish and making it all look appetizing was the "hard" part of it all. "In spite of what happened at the castle, people live on. Sometimes it's easy to forget how divorced from noble affairs most people are."

It reminds him of why he enjoyed leaving home so often.

[svintking]

Hoshido, yeah, of course. That's definitely and obviously how they do it over there.

(He's never heard of Hoshido in his entire life.)

Darios sounds confident, at least, which helps as much as confidence possibly can when faced with the idea of eating raw fish. And... rice and vegetables, sure, but mostly raw fish. Not intimidating at all.

...Then again, he has to admit that it's kind of silly to worry. He's already in a foreign land, interacting with foreign people and seeing the effects of foreign politics. What's a foreign dish on top of all that? If there's ever a time to try something new, it's probably now.

Alm watches the children go, smiling a little when they do exactly the opposite of what Darios had hoped. The spiky brother said he can show us how to eat raw fish! The proclamation has one of the shopkeepers pause, brows furrowed with confusion. The first of many, Alm's sure.

"To be honest, I've been wondering about that since the last city we passed by." The civilians, the tourists, the merchants, the townspeople—despite the violence that swept through the city's streets, they had all come to a silent agreement to soldier on. Stalls were rebuilt. Music played even louder. And through it all, no one said a thing about the blood and soot still left on the streets. More than the failed attack on the castle, that's the image that sticks with him the most.

"This whole time, all we've fought are people who wanted a different future for their country. Some of them... most of them," Alm amends, "were probably just like these people here. I can't help but wonder if it's because they feel like they didn't have a voice or a seat at the table, you know?"

[svintking]

normalcy

expedition week 3 - alm & darios.

[grxstnnefealltoir]

An airy breath leaves Darios before he chuckles. "I'm fine, you should see what happened to the ones who did this." Darios is not good with lightening the mood. When most his days were spent at the sides of the brightest people in the world his most important task is making sure that they never burnt themselves out.

"If nothing else, we're taking it easy today." A playful hum leaves him as he looks around at the villagers and the fishermen, the baskets and nets they respectively carry. "Unless we simply have the luck of the gods, I don't think we'll both be needed to reel in a catch."

If all that comes to his line is minnows, he is fine with that. The fruit at the stalls carry a soft fragrance that he thinks would be nice. The fact that he can take note of it over the overwhelming smell of wetness and fish is a testemant to how delicious they surely taste.

"You aren't free from injury either young man. I... may have been unable to reach you in time, but I witnessed how hard you were fighting." With no means of easy capture of their foes either. If anyone faced the brunt of this attack, he imagines it was them.

"I have a silly question to ask. What do you pair your fish with?"

Silly indeed for the children who were playing close by the dock look to the two of them with eyebrows raised in contemplation. "Fish is fish! Y' eat it like that," a young girl with a missing front tooth calls over.

[svintking]

"Young man...?" Alm sputters, "You're not that much older than me! Uh, at least, I think not..."

If Alm had to guess, Darios looks to be as old as Lukas—which is really to say, not old at all. And he's pretty sure that he doesn't look that young either, even if he's probably never going to be able to grow a full mustache like his grandfather.

...Regardless, if Darios is feeling well enough to joke like this, it must mean—or at least, Alm hopes it means—that he's escaped the worst of his injuries. So long as they don't run into another score of bandits, rebels, or any other kind of revolutionary that would rather speak first with their blades than at a table, they'll all be fine. Probably.

"Well—"

"Nah uh!" the girl's companion—friend? brother?—huffs. "I heard there's lots of different ways. Right, misters? Neither of you look like you're from around here, so you gotta know!"

Alm glances to Darios, and then looks down at himself. With a laugh, he acknowledges, "Yeah. I guess you can grill it, fry it... and actually, I heard from someone that there are even lands where they eat the fish raw."

"Raw?!" Both children gape, "But it's so wiggly!"

"I'm not too sure about the details," Alm grins. "Have you heard anything about this, Darios?"

[svintking]

normalcy

expedition week 3 - alm & darios.

[svintking]

In a way, Darios isn’t too different from the soldiers that Alm had fought with back home—gentle, and noble, and frustratingly secretive about his hurts. Even with the coat he wears with the collar raised high and the sleeves tugged low, it’s impossible to miss the rows of bandages that encase him, binding him together so that the land might slow its flourishing with the easy flow of another’s blood.

“…Are you sure you’re okay to walk around?” Alm asks. His hovering might be unwelcome, but he’d much rather be rude than risk having Darios fall and aggravate his injuries. "I heard that you got hurt pretty bad..."

Around them, though, the village is very much the same. Some of the people bear wounds that haven't even begun to scar, but they carry on regardless. Fishermen come in with their nets full of the morning's catch; rickety stalls are set up to sell fruits and vegetables. There are children giggling as they run along the shore, too young to know why there are so few of them around.

Compared to the castles and cities they've passed through this far, this place feels a little more like comforting.

@grxstnnefealltoir

[svintking]

travant i swear to god

expedition: holy war — week three battle (blue subteam two)

[princessmacedon]

She can tell by the skies alone that the battle is winding down, the previous onslaught of reinforcements slowing to a trickle. The wyverns that had swept through the sky now linger on the earth, their echoing howls tolling war and grief alike.

Maria's fingers brush the handle of the false Hauteclere she carries, mapping its surface with cold, bloodstained fingers. Although she knows it is not the axe she admired in the earliest days of her childhood, there's still a small comfort to be found -- a bit of magic, perhaps, that the Hauteclere she loves has never known.

"What the--? You're not one of us!"

A voice from behind snaps Maria to attention, though not quickly enough to dodge his sword. The blade scores part of her leg and far enough to bite into Biscotti's scaled hide, too, her roar ringing discordantly in the air. The little cleric reaches for her staff, but too slow -- with a click of his tongue, he dives past her to rejoin his comrades, unknowingly leading the way for her as well.

Blood seems almost to drift upward as girl and wyvern descend to the noisome battle below. Her eyes snare briefly on the medic carrying away a large, unmoving figure, but she forces them past the worry to the sight of allies beyond. She's not too late.

"Everyone, I'm here with you!" The spell swells with her heart and bursts in its beat, the light of Fortify scattering overhead her found-again allies. "Don't give up -- just a little longer!"

[svintking]

Their first miracle is getting Gutierre back inside the castle at all, where Alm is forced to leave his companion's life in the shaking hands of a young medic. There will be—must be—plenty of time later for him to apologize for his shortcomings in strategy and battle. But for now, he turns, each step marked with Gutierre's blood as he rejoins the fray, this time heading out towards the upper walls. From this height, he can see that the few knights remaining are beginning to falter; they're tired and ill-prepared for so sudden an assault, and it shows.

Alm grits his teeth. Takes a breath. Then, he raises his sword, letting the steel catch the approaching dawn's light. "Knights—you aren't going to die here! Regroup inside!"

The conviction in his voice is enough to revitalize the scattered knights—and, as he'd hoped, to catch the enemy commander's attention. Though injured, the commander's wyvern is still faster than Alm's feet can carry him, and so the momentum of his first strike sends Alm staggering back with a choked breath. His opponent lifts his sword, seeing the opening he'd made for himself, but Alm—

(—he's fought men twice as strong and thrice as competent. Berkut's blows had been enough to leave Alm's hands shaking in the aftermath of a deflected strike. Emperor Rudolf's swings had left him staggered and numb. Compared to them—)

"This is how it's done!"

His sword twists to catch the opening he sees between neck and shoulder, merciless and clean. His opponent falls, choking on his blood as he tries to call for a homeland that does not want his sacrifice.

Their commander's decisive defeat sweeps through the remaining dracoknights like a storm, revitalizing them instead of discouraging them. One tries to charge at Alm from behind, but the beat of his mount's wings gives him away. Alm pivots, narrowly avoiding the young vagabond's strike, and answers with a flash of bloodied steel—but it's not enough. Though injured and lost without the command of their general, each dracoknight steels themselves to continue the fight. None of them had come here with the intention of retreating; for their beloved Thracia, they would dash themselves against the castle and the steel that defended it, desperate to give meaning to their final acts of defiance.

More strikes, then. More blows. More sweeping blades, more rallying cries—and then, when each breath brings fire to Alm's lungs and the leather of his gloves slip against a bloodied hilt, their second miracle: Maria. He doesn't know what she does, exactly, but it helps; with the dawn breaking in earnest behind her, he finds the strength to fight anew.

But the surge of hope is short-lived. A lone dracoknight twists through the chaos, narrowly evading the haphazard shots of the archers around them to aim for Ronan. Alm sees the movement too slowly, but not too late; he darts forward before the dracoknight can strike twice. The attacker is young, like a tragic number of his peers—and like them, he falls too quickly and too easily, nameless 'til the end.

"...Ronan!"

@seawardoath

[svintking]

it's historically accurate, i promise

expedition week 2 - alm & travant.

[svintking]

To some, the mere thought of it might be horrifying. Others have learned that reality's cruelties demand nothing less.

"...Sometimes," Alm responds at length, "force is inevitable and necessary. No matter how badly we might wish for it, there are always going to be some things that can't be resolved peacefully. So in that sense, I get it."

And he wonders, in the same breath, what he would've done if he was in Travant's shoes. If he led a struggling nation, if his every call for aid was met with oppression—what options would he have considered? Would he have led his armies across his borders to get revenge? Would he have fought back?

(...Hah. Well, the answer's plenty obvious, isn't it?)

Finally, he breaks into a small smile. "If what you say is true, it makes me want to root for him, too. What happened to him in the end, anyway? Was he killed by King Seliph? And what happened to Thracia?"

He's mostly certain that it still exists, if only because the name sounds familiar. But King Seliph has been lauded by just about everyone as someone virtuous and good. Did he help Thracia at all, or was it left to be a barren wasteland, forever to be punished for the blood spilt by its former king?

"Maybe," Alm continues, "We could see if it'd be possible to swing by, just to see if there's something we can help with. And hey, maybe you could be our tour guide or something. With how knowledgeable you are about Travant, you've probably been to his kingdom loads of times, right?"

[thracianblood]

If only such open-minded people were more prevalent in these parts. In another universe there would already be a fully unified Thracia. One where the people have no more need to feed themselves through lowly jobs, where mercenaries don't need to sustain their country through war and conflict.

Alas, such a lofty dream could never be achieved as quickly as Travant wanted it. And as it turns out, it would never be him to see it come to fruition.

"It's said that he was killed by someone from the Liberation Army in battle," he leaves out Leif's name, "and as for Thracia's fate... That, I don't know."

Gutierre folds his arms, breaking off from the boy's gaze to observe distant remnants of rubble veiled beneath festive decorations. If it isn't for Altena reuniting with her brother by blood, would Thracia's reputation remain as it were? He has yet to see its current state for himself.

Alm's suggestion nearly cracks a laugh out of him and he tries to keep cool, to no avail.

"Pffft! Me? A tour guide?" Having adequate knowledge is one thing, but having the patience for the job is another, nevermind that he has an alias to uphold. "You'd rather have me guide everyone when the Princess of Thracia herself is in our group? What a silly idea."

He's getting carried away, constantly talking about himself like this... But strangely, his headache seems to have gotten better after speaking to him, and he finds himself less tense than he was during the play.

"Enough about me... You're not from Jugdral, are you?"

thread end.

[svintking]

travant i swear to god

expedition: holy war — week three battle (blue subteam two)

[thracianblood]

The wyvern whips its neck, the imbalance causing Travant’s limp body to slide off the saddle and fall onto the ground with a thud alongside the now slain dracoknight. It strides off into the smoke, screeching and taking off with a heavy wingbeat. 

A painful sting from behind snaps him awake, hair in the way of his face all clumped with dust and breath haggard. Dark crimson stains his cheek, his clothes, and he doesn’t take a moment to think about the body laying next to him before rising to his feet once again with lance in hand. The veteran commander circles his mount back around and almost sends Gutierre back onto the ground but only manages to shank a gash onto his arm. His head still rings despite the adrenaline, and he must keep his focus so as to not see double. But as long as he’s still standing—

Shrk!

Something sharp impales his back.

With its impact, Gutierre falls forward, unceremoniously meeting the ground as quickly as he’d collapsed before with a grunt. He no longer can push himself to get up again. All he can do is close his eyes and think of laughing at the absurdity of it all.

Not even he can bring glory to his own homeland. A traitor to Thracia, and for what? To be taken down in such shameful display? He was once their leader but now he’s been reduced to this joke. A man who can't even stand up to the very people whom he influenced with his ideology. This conflict never ended with his death — it had only motivated them to push onward with their faith that prosperity lies at the end of this path.

... Yet brutal and ruthless king that he was, he cannot bring himself to hate the ones who struck him down. In every Thracian who fights, he sees a part of himself in them. In their love for their country, they would do anything to achieve the same dream he holds. It was either they lay their lives in battle, or starve.

A faint, distant thought comes to him as he starts to lose grip on his consciousness. Somewhere, Altena is facing her people as well. And gods be damned, even Leif makes his way into his head somehow. They are the bridges of North and South Thracia...

He hopes that they, at least, still have the strength to stand.

[svintking]

And for all his love and understanding, Gutierre falls first. (And Alm thinks: this is the man who'd said there must have been a method to Travant's madness, someone undeniably human beneath a mask of villainy. He remembers: Thracia was a struggling, starving nation, driven to desperation time and time again by the callousness of their neighbors.

And so when Alm wonders how long he might have endured it, he knows: not very long at all.)

These are the same Thracians that converge on the one soul amongst them who tried to offer understanding, and Gutierre, isolated and outnumbered, stands little chance against their coordinated assault. Gutierre crumples—alive? dead?—before his name gains any weight on Alm's tongue.

"—Gutierre!"

It's a momentary distraction, but it's enough. The first attack comes from his side. It catches him hard, knocking the air from his lungs, as heat flares from his ribs. He staggers, boots scraping in the dirt, as he turns on instinct. (There is something familiar about this scene, he thinks, even if all the players are wrong and the land is unfamiliar. It is never easy to see someone fall by the very hands they had extended their faith to.)

Momentum carries him as the attacker presses on, made confident by his initial blow. Steel flashes as he snaps into a counter, slipping his blade into a gap that opens for only a moment. The strike lands, and bone cracks with a sickening give beneath the weight of his blow. The late emperor, he was told, fought with the same ferocity—but Alm has always thought this part of him was more his grandfather than anyone else. It is Mycen's tutelage that reflects in him now, snapping back and dispatching his attacker for good in a single, clean sweep.

"Brother!"

Alm makes it three steps towards Gutierre's body before another one rushes him, younger and lighter on his feet. His inexperience shows in spades; his swing over-commits, and it's easy for Alm to evade the thrust of an enchanted sword. But when Alm turns to fight back, he sees the glimmer of tears in the young man's eyes, and it makes him falter. His retaliatory blow barely catches the young man's side, leaving enough room for a counter—but his opponent rushes through, staggering his way to the fallen vagabond whose blood still gleams fresh on Alm's sword.

He's an easy, stationary target. Battlefields are not places of mercy. But Alm hesitates, something heavy and ugly sinking low in his gut, as he turns to rush to Gutierre's side. A life saved is more important than a life taken. That's all.

Up close, the damage is enough to make anyone grimace. Blood slicks Gutierre's armor and pools beneath it, too. But when Alm holds shaking fingers to the man's neck, he feels a pulse. Weak, uneven, but there.

"...Ronan!" he calls, loud enough to hopefully cut through the battlefield. "Ronan! Send a squire—anyone!"

If Gutierre is to die, it will not be here, laid low by the hands of those who do not deserve his bleeding heart.

@seawardoath | @otgolokh

[svintking]

travant i swear to god

expedition: holy war — week three battle (blue subteam two)

[seawardoath]

The mounted soldier is young and wears his surprise openly on his face. Why wouldn't you side with us? Why would you fight on the side of injustice? it says.

"Don't just sit there, kid!" The gruff old commander barrels into the courtyard, his mount's dark leather wings all but knocking the younger one aside. Reptilian claws scrabble on stone as the dragon huffs under its rider's maneuvering, wheeling him around to slash his blade at Travant unguarded side. Then he pulls back on the reins and his wyvern climbs back into the air, stirring debris and dust in the wake of powerful wingbeats.

"Grab that one!" The commander shouts at the younger soldier, nodding toward the unconscious Alm. A hostage could give them leverage. With a firm nod, the younger one lifts off again, flying upward for a better angle.

There's a battalion of snipers lined along the battlements of the castle gate. Ronan kneels with them, watching the chaos unfold in the courtyard from a distance. They're all shadow puppets in the torchlight from here, and the wyverns mere silhouettes against a moonless sky. One rises high enough and close enough to see the glint of steel in his hand.

"Shoot 'em down!" commands the general standing at the back of the line, and the whistle of a dozen arrows fills the air. The young dracoknight is quick and clever even for his age though, directing his mount to tuck in its wings and dive amidst the rainfall of arrows. He snags Alm by the collar, drags him a few feet, drops him, tries again, but his eyes catch on the limp form of one of his squadmates sliding from his saddle before Karel bloody blade. His fingers drag through thin air, and he pulls back up into the sky in a horrified panic.

[svintking]

There's a lesson that Mycen taught him long ago, when he was young and eager and still too naive. He'd lost another match and found himself at the end of his grandfather's blade. The last blow had left him bereft of his own weapon, and his arm still trembled from the force of the strike he couldn't quite block. At that point, he was supposed to yield and analyze what he could've done differently. Instead, he grabbed a fistful of dirt and aimed it right at his grandfather's face. The plan was to use the moment of distraction to retrieve his sword and fight back.

Unsurprisingly—at least in retrospect—it didn't work. The flat face of Mycen's sword tapped against his neck even before his fingers could curl into the dirt. Alm had made several mistakes in their fight, but the last—and thus fatal—had been when he lost hold of his sword.

It's that memory that settles beneath his consciousness as he comes to, desperately blinking the treacly drag of sleep away from his eyes. There's another weapon in his right hand, warm and familiar, grasped so tightly that not even the vagabond's spell could have wrested it from him. (So: a mistake, yes, but not his last. Not now.)

With gritted teeth, Alm rises to his feet. A dragon rider must have noticed him disoriented; without waiting for orders, he charges at Alm, his enchanted sword alight with the same enchanted glow as his fallen comrade's. Adrenaline—adrenaline and habit; adrenaline and experience; adrenaline and every desire to stay alive and fight—has him rolling out of the way, grabbing his discarded sword along with a handful of soot. It may not have the same warmth and familiarity as the one he brought from home, but he thinks it must be more effective against foreign metal with how easily it crashes through their plates.

It's this blade he uses, then, to turn on his attacker, cutting him down in a single strike. He doesn't have time to scream, whether it's for clemency or for the glory of his homeland; battle, real battle, is rarely kind enough to grant such mercies. They should have known that the moment they decided to fight.

With the royal sword returned to its sheath, Alm turns, trying to sight his companions among the rubble and the smoke. "Karel! Gutierre! Go for the one with the glowing sword!"

@otgolokh @thracianblood

[svintking]

travant i swear to god

expedition: holy war — week three battle (blue subteam two)

[svintking]

The bells wake them first.

It isn't the measured toll to signal the start of the day or any routine; it's a frantic crash of iron against iron, rousing them from their beds well before sleep can truly take them. Beyond the stone walls of the castle, torches flare to life along the battlements and high in the skies. Dracoknights, someone says, though Alm doesn't turn to see who.

A boy—too young to fight, yet not young enough to remain ignorant to war's bitter aftermath—barges into their room. Jairo, he'd introduced himself prior, with his chest puffed and grin wide. He's a proud squire(-to-be) to one of the knights stationed in the castle, and he comes now with soot on his cheeks and his sleeves half-singed.

"Travelers!" he blubbers, "You have to help! They're trying to— the castle, it's—!"

Alm's on his feet before the boy can finish, crossing the room to gently take Jairo by the shoulders. "Hey—easy," he soothes. Outside, the one of the bells stop ringing, its final chime coming to a screaming halt beneath falling masonry. No time to ask for details, then. "Of course we'll help, but you have to promise me that you'll stay inside. Can you do that?"

Jairo barely has time to nod before Alm turns to his companions. Urgency aside, he's never been one for grand speeches—and, seeing his companions, he knows that he doesn't need one know.

"We can't repay their generosity by standing around," he says, speaking through the clatter of buckles and the drag of leather against the stone floors. "If those guys have already breached the outer towers, the knights are probably spread thin. We'll have to reinforce where we can and hold the line. Two of you, come with me; one should stay behind and catch any stragglers that make it through."

Another crash comes from outside, and the rallying cry of their attackers rings clearly through the night. "For Thracia!" they shout. "For our home!"

It's the same Thracia that Gutierre had said was ostracized and left to suffer; the same Thracia that Travant—the real one, not the hook-nosed actor that had slaughtered for slighted love—had fought to save. But as torchlight flickers against their walls and the shrill cry of wyverns pierce their ears, Alm doesn't hesitate. Whatever wrongs have birthed that rallying cry, whatever hunger and abandonment drove them here—none of it changes what's happening now.

The castle isn't an army encampment. It isn't a battlefield chosen by kings or determined by gods. It's filled with half-trained guards, squires barely old enough to shave, and a lord who was gracious enough to welcome a band of travelers under a banner of peace. Understanding suffering has never meant excusing the threat it grows into.

He leads the charge, guiding his companions outside. The courtyard they'd been warmly welcomed in just hours prior is in disarray. Extinguished torches lay shattered across the rubble. The knights that were stationed in the castle are few and far between, scrambling to form ranks where they can and hobbling to safety if they can't. Alm barely has time to take it all in before a figure breaks through the smoke, his armor mismatched and scorched, his eyes bright and wild with fervor.

Alm moves first and faster. Steel gleams as he steps into the vagabond's swing, pushing the blow aside and driving forward in the same breath. It's a good strike that slips between the cracks of his opponent's armor, but it isn't enough; the vagabond snarls and twists his grip. The runes along his sword flare with a harsh, unnatural kind of light, and Alm isn't able to react in time. When the man swings again, desperate and clearly on his last legs, the impact rings wrong. Magic shrieks against steel, and Alm feels the jolt travel up his arm before it sparks, shattering into something heavy that dots his vision with black. Exhaustion weighs at him, unnatural and thick—and the more he tries to fight it, the heavier it becomes.

"Watch..." out, he tries to warn his companions, but the feeble words are easily lost in the clamor of battle.

@seawardoath | @otgolokh | @thracianblood

[viridescent-lance]

do as i say not as i do (alm & forsyth)

team blue grannvale - prompt 1

[viridescent-lance]

Alm's face lights up, and in that moment apologizing seems unthinkable. He is a boy on the cusp of being a man, the weight of a country on his shoulders--no matter how admirably he handles it, no matter the support he has, it is a lonely burden to shoulder. It's a marvel he retains such warmth, and Forsyth is happy to kindle it.

"You know, I think I will." Alm isn't wrong, but his observation still sends flutters to Forsyth's stomach. He compares them to himself and Celica, which...is his assessment wrong? They're partners, lovers, committed through thick and thin. "That's a beautiful way to do it. I'm sure she'll appreciate your gift. If it helps, I've probably given Python too many carvings..."

As he goes to pay, it occurs to him that the shopkeeper has witnessed everything, and the exchange of coin is excruciatingly awkward. On his part, at least; she simply chuckles, and throws in a small, intricately carved box, refusing further payment and telling him to save for something special with a wink.

It takes a good couple of minutes before it occurs to Forsyth that the box would store a ring better than it would the wooden snake.

[svintking]

"Maybe we should switch some day—you can be the one giving flowers, and I'll try my hand at picking carvings." He doesn't know how much Celica would like that, actually, but he's certainly not opposed to finding out. For now, though? They stick to what they know, and part of it is this: finding ways to enjoy the little things, even as they learn to shoulder the different burdens they bear.

"Now, come on," he says. "We should get back. You're not supposed to be moving around until the poison's completely out of your system."

Truth told, he wouldn't mind lying down himself. But the moment he feels a little better, he's going to pick up his sword until his body remembers everything he's ever learned.

(Next time—if there is a next time—he's going to be the one protecting his companions, and not the other way around.)

—end.

[svintking]

it's historically accurate, i promise

expedition week 2 - alm & travant.

[thracianblood]

He'd essentially tuned out bits and pieces of the play as it went on. If he gave it any more scrutiny than he'd already given, Gutierre might have passed out from stress. He should've never expected these people to give him an ounce of respect to tell his story correctly in the first place. What is left to give to a villain, a dead one no less?

Really, he should've immediately gotten up to leave as soon as the actors and actresses gave one last bow. It's just his rotten luck that Alm continues to pry into his identity.

What 'got' him 'into' Travant? It's surreal hearing his own name being said as if he were a mere character. Even more so now that he has to pretend not to know everything about, well... himself. Eh, no matter. It should be easy enough to craft a believable story.

"I'm simply just a person who's fascinated by notorious figures..." Gutierre begins, meeting eyes with Alm. "I've always believed that their heinous acts must have a method to their madness. They're only depicted as pure evil because people cannot understand their point of view, or what upbringing they faced to turn them into such a person."

"Travant made many questionable decisions in the name of his homeland, Thracia. You should know that Thracians were vilified for centuries, long before he came into power. They were a starving, struggling nation... They tried to seek help from their neighbors, yet were vehemently refused time and time again. With that being said...

"I imagine him to have snapped at some point." It wasn't true, but perhaps this sort of opinion would help him blend into the image of a history buff. "How long can you and your people endure being shunned before you resort to more extreme methods, all to save yourselves from the cycle of poverty?"

[svintking]

To some, the mere thought of it might be horrifying. Others have learned that reality's cruelties demand nothing less.

"...Sometimes," Alm responds at length, "force is inevitable and necessary. No matter how badly we might wish for it, there are always going to be some things that can't be resolved peacefully. So in that sense, I get it."

And he wonders, in the same breath, what he would've done if he was in Travant's shoes. If he led a struggling nation, if his every call for aid was met with oppression—what options would he have considered? Would he have led his armies across his borders to get revenge? Would he have fought back?

(...Hah. Well, the answer's plenty obvious, isn't it?)

Finally, he breaks into a small smile. "If what you say is true, it makes me want to root for him, too. What happened to him in the end, anyway? Was he killed by King Seliph? And what happened to Thracia?"

He's mostly certain that it still exists, if only because the name sounds familiar. But King Seliph has been lauded by just about everyone as someone virtuous and good. Did he help Thracia at all, or was it left to be a barren wasteland, forever to be punished for the blood spilt by its former king?

"Maybe," Alm continues, "We could see if it'd be possible to swing by, just to see if there's something we can help with. And hey, maybe you could be our tour guide or something. With how knowledgeable you are about Travant, you've probably been to his kingdom loads of times, right?"

[viridescent-lance]

do as i say not as i do (alm & forsyth)

team blue grannvale - prompt 1

[viridescent-lance]

"All you're doing is proving my point." Forsyth shakes his head, a fond smile on his face. "Think nothing of it, my friend."

The epithet slips from him before he can think about it. It's terribly inappropriate to speak to his liege like this, but as they've established, Alm is no ordinary king. Perhaps he does not need to apologize, right now at least.

"Gwah!" That comment catches him off guard, and he juggles the carving in his hand like it's made of ice before making a decidedly ungraceful save. "I mean--I think he would like this. He'd not want anything too fancy, that's for sure."

Prior tension melts away--or is replaced, in Forsyth's case, though by a happier kind. It's one thing to be (measured, respectful) friends with your boss, but the topic of romance? Some level of performative fussing is the bare minimum.

[svintking]

Alm laughs. It's nice to hear that—my friend instead of the tired Your Majesty, and the flustered sputtering that cuts through the weight of poison that still lingers in Forsyth's veins. It isn't at all that he dislikes being king; just like volunteering to fight, just like leading the Deliverance, and just like facing a rotting, terrifying god, it's something that he chose to do, and something he chose to become. He wants to be a good king, and a wise king, and a just king. He wants to see Valentia flourish under his rule.

(It's just—in the same breath, he also still wants to remain Alm.)

"You should get it for him then," Alm suggests, once the laughter has settled into a smile. "What matters is that you saw a little piece of him even though you're a whole ocean away, and you wanted to bring it back with you so that every part of him could come home." A pause, and then, "...At least, that's how I've been choosing gifts for Celica. She hasn't been unhappy about them yet, but maybe I should start choosing something that isn't flowers sometime soon, heh."

[svintking]

it's historically accurate, i promise

expedition week 2 - alm & travant.

[thracianblood]

"Heh. I suppose I did... in a way." Obviously, he's aware that protecting his identity takes precedence over trying to defend himself from these baseless portrayals. But if anyone else were in his shoes, they'd surely have as much a hard time disguising their contempt towards this slander as he is...

It isn't as if the following scene was any better in representing his character. His actions may have drawn many an unsavory opinion, but he wouldn't be so foolish to send his men into battle without so much as proper gear! He cannot fathom just how wrong they've gotten him...

They're poisoning the youth with this caricature. Alm cannot walk out of this trip with all these misconceptions planted into his mind. Gutierre's nose wrinkles in disbelief and disgust. "Eugh. No, he didn't. That would be stupid."

Those aforementioned troops circle around 'Quan' and 'Ethlyn' like vultures, crying out barbarically as they begin to toss themselves into battle. One by one, 'Quan' takes them down with a mockup recreation of the Gae Bolg, spouting about how he's going to protect everyone. 'Ethlyn' joins in the fight, defeating some of the men on her own.

"All of you are useless!" 'Travant' scolds his men as they flop onto the stage floor like fishes out of water. "There has to be a way... Or, something I can use against them... Aha!"

What transpires next isn't too astray from what really happened — at least, compared to the rest of this play. Although, this does not make it any less unbearable. There's even a scene where 'Quan' spews melodramatic nonsense towards 'Ethlyn' in his dying breath... Travant refuses to give these people the slightest bit of credit when they've already sullied his already poor image.

The dead 'Lanceritter' are carried off set by the Thracian troops, and the narrator pipes up whilst 'Travant' freezes in place whilst doing a triumphant pose, standing atop 'Quan'.

"With King Travant gaining the upper hand, Quan and Ethlyn met their end in the Aed Desert... Leonster was left without Gae Bolg's wielder, and Chalphy was left without its beloved lady. He would bring terror upon the Munster District, leaving destruction wherever he went. It was only many years later when he was defeated for good by Lord Seliph's Liberation Army..."

[svintking]

"Huh. What got you into Travant, anyway?" Alm asks, finally turning to face Gutierre when the play draws to a close. "I mean, if the play's anything to go by, I think it's safe to assume that he's not well-liked around these parts. Was he just a really good general, or something?"

Though, if that was the case, would Gutierre have gone the extra step to dye (?) his hair green? Or was it that they were actually distantly related, and Gutierre was simply standing up to defend his uncle's honor? If that was true, then Alm definitely gets it. If someone were to make such a disparaging play about Berkut...

(...well. Maybe some aspects of it would be true. Berkut, in the handful of times that Alm was able to speak with him, had proven to be arrogant, cocky, and stubborn. But he was more than that, too. He was overwhelmingly strong in his own right, and noble, and inspirational. It's still not very hard to find ex-Rigelian knights whose eyes soften a little when they hear their former general's name. So.)

...yeah. Maybe he'd stand up for him, too—if only just a little bit.

"Sorry if you're actually a distant cousin or something," Alm amends awkwardly. "I'm not trying to judge you—or him, for what it's worth. I'm just trying to understand you a little more. We've been in Jugdral for a few weeks now, but we haven't had many chances to actually talk."

[princessmacedon]

welcomed home to gentle sea

expedition: holy war - grannvale (a visit to miletos)

[princessmacedon]

Watching how Biscotti reacts to Alm with long, silent moments of contemplation punctuated by sudden reactions, Maria wonders if the wyvern isn't the sort to hold a grudge. It's in a light-hearted way as far as she can tell, giggling when the wyrm pulls him over -- nearly playful, though she doubts it would ever dare give the impression.

"I guess not," the little princess agrees with a good-natured laugh, her eyes tracing the line of the water as it moves further inland. If they had all the time in the world, she would have loved to follow it up its modest banks and see where it kept its heart. Their time in Jugdral is not so infinite, though; if they must go anywhere, it is to the place where their companions rest.

...Though hopefully with enough time still for a stop in Miletos! After their last battle she's running low on antidote, and it never hurts to see what other herbs fill the markets. Maria turns, watching their new passenger behind her as he hesitates to lay his hand on Biscotti's back. Thoughts play out on the line of his brow in subtle ways, shifting, twisting, until finally he consents to at least try.

"I'll be careful," Maria agrees, voice soft and steady in the hopes he'll understand her sincerity. Her own hand brushes along Biscotti's neck, tracing the rise and fall of scales, echoes of distant mountains the two of them called home. When she stills, the wyvern stretches its neck to look back at her, guileless and curious. She smiles, and then she laughs -- right! There is an adventure to be had!

"Are you ready, Biscotti?" A glance thrown over her shoulder. "Are you ready, Alm?" Shifting forward, she motions for him to do the same before squeezing Biscotti's sides lightly with her heels. Biscotti draws in a deep breath, wings unfurling to their full length with a slight shudder, as if to shake out the last of the rest that lingered in its sleepy muscles. Its wings raise slowly, legs tensing...

...and with a powerful push, it takes to the air. Wind rushes all around them, beat into the ground by their takeoff and coming up again to kiss their cheeks and rustle their hair; Maria thinks she might never get tired of it. At first they fly low to the ground, but steadily they rise, cresting the treetops that seem nearly in reach; bringing the rooftops of now-distant towns into view like many-colored pebbles on a faraway shore; casting their shadows now, too, over the streets below, sky and sunlight overhead.

Throughout it all Maria lays her palm gently against Biscotti's neck, a gentle reminder to fly steady; her other hand pats Alm's comfortingly, then points ahead toward the boundless blue:

"To Miletos!"

[svintking]

"I'm ready—eeeewwuouhh!"

He's pretty sure he goes through six rounds of fight or flight responses as the wyvern rises. It's one thing to watch pegasus knights take to the skies with their lances at the ready; Alm has always imagined it'd be like riding a horse, except... well. Faster, and higher, and with the thrumming of beating wings in place of the heavy weight of galloping. Something easier for him to imagine and swallow.

Nothing at all like this.

The breeze is different up high, colder and crisper than anything he's ever felt. His every muscle coils tight as if it's ready to react to scenarios that his mind hasn't caught up to yet, and his breaths come in short, fractured gasps. Almost like, just like—

—he's laughing. High in the skies, where one fall will spell certain doom, he's laughing. Whether it's Biscotti's temperament or Maria's guidance, the ride is smooth, and the beauty of Jugdral lays out before them like a vivid painting of bright watercolors and thick oils. The ocean glimmers like gems. The forests unfurl like waking flowers. In the distance, he can see Miletos, with small towns dotting the landscape to mark their way.

This is the land so beloved that kings would give second chances, and rebels would fight. This, to so many in their company, is home.

And what a beautiful home it is.

"Yeah," he grins, and echoes Maria's rally. "To Miletos!"

—end.

[svintking]

rebel fire

expedition week 2 - alm & leif.

[diadic]

    The revelation that Alm was the leader of his own army comes with some surprise, but it makes this conversation make more sense in hindsight. The ability to empathize, the strong perspective on the power dynamic of a king relative to those who imprint their wishes and ideals upon him... Alm's high rank would give him the ability to glimpse into these things for sure.

And for as briefly as Leif had seen Alm in combat, even if he had missed, he still clearly knew how to wield his blade. He wasn't some novice to battle.

(So that came from experience.)

The frustration of failing to keep your promises, the weight of one mistake costing lives— Alm's words are an echo of Leif's sins, built up over the years. But this echo does not come with fury, with hurt, nor a sense of betrayal. Alm does not yell at him, does not cry nor blame him for anything at all.

Because Alm might very well have been on the other end of this all already. He knows there is nowhere to go by just lashing out, tempting as it often might be.

“I understand,”  Leif replies.  “I'll keep getting up, trying my best so that day will come!!”

This too is a promise even without the words to make it so. Even if it's built on the trail of a thousand broken ones, Leif cannot give up the hope inherent in making one more.

“Though if you want pointers, I can teach you before we leave Friege. I may not be strong enough on my own, but... I do know a lot,”  Leif offers before he remembers, looking down at the bandages on Alm's person.  “After you get better, of course!!”  he hastens to add.

Leif finishes the rest of his skewer, twirling it around in his hand with dextrous fingers before he shoots it in to the trash right after Alm's. He licks any remaining residue off of his fingers for his stunt before facing the swordsman at his side.

“For now, though Friege isn't my home, we can see the rest of the festival. The Day of the Twelve and how everyone's doing is important to me to see too...”  He takes a step away before he stops, glancing back.  “You'll join me, won't you, Alm? I want to get to know you too...”

[svintking]

"That's the spirit," Alm grins. "I've been looking for a chance to ask you to teach me how you did all that against the archer, anyway—even if it means doing a thousand sword swings. I'm in your care, Professor Leif."

...It's something he's going to have to do anyway, if his grandfather ever catches wind of his performance here. As it turns out, being a king doesn't excuse him from sloppy swordplay.

He steps up to match Leif's pace, giving him a playful nudge against his side. Leif shoulders his anxieties well, but it's this look that suits him best: energized and invigorated, allowing the temporary promise of normalcy to soothe the crease in his brow. He may be a prince, and a commander, and a whole mess of things he hasn't yet said, but—in spite of it all, because of it all, he's also just a boy.

"But first, how about we get some more food? If we find something really good, maybe we could bring back a bunch for the others. I'm sure Maria wouldn't say no to some candy."

(And being a boy means it's okay to get another couple skewers, and struggle through caramelized sweets, and laugh when a strange new treat turns their tongues blue. In a few days' time, they'll make more mistakes. It's going to be awful. But they're going to learn, and they're going to improve—and eventually, it'll be as Leif said.

That day will come.)

—end.

[svintking]

rebel fire

expedition week 2 - alm & leif.

[diadic]

    “You think I saved your life?”  Leif asks, somewhat taken aback.  “...Even though you were knocked out??”

It's hard to wrap his head around this optimistic outlook. Surely, Alm knows by now who actually saved them from the situation they had gotten themselves into. He knows it wasn't Leif who cut down the rebel leader. All Leif could do was find his fallen allies and ferry them to the people who could better help them than he ever could in battle. For this, a little anger and a little disappointment Leif could understand.

And yet, Alm still gives Leif the credit anyway. Alm still finds it in him to be grateful despite how much it must have hurt.

“......”  Leif's gaze falls back down to the skewer in his hand in deep thought, a festival item that could only exist because of the battle's conclusion. Could he really say he was the reason this skewer could be in his hand now?

He chews on it, mulling it further over as meat grinds between his teeth. He swallows and thinks, then speaks: 

“If that's really how you feel, thank you... In battle, I won't know if I've ever made the right call until it's already too late.”  His words come solemnly and slowly, heavy with the weight decisions bear.  “...Perhaps I got overwhelmed, seeing the Weisritter save us when I was so close. But I still don't want to let you fall again if I don't have to. I want to be strong enough to prevent things even more... so when I make the call to rush in, nothing goes wrong.”

Was that childish and unrealistic of him to ask? To want? He frowns. 

“Your king sounds like he feels powerless too,”  Leif points out, slightly pivoting.  “I won't act like the people don't have strength in how they influence things with their beliefs... but did he ever find his answer to his frustrations??”

[svintking]

Alm's smile settles into something softer. "You aren't alone in feeling like that, you know."

The weight; the pressure; the doubt that hangs over their heads after every choice, and the fear that each order given on the battlefield is akin to signing someone's death warrant—it isn't just Leif, and it isn't just Alm. For all the expectations placed on them to be flawless in battle and to always know, they don't. They can't. They aren't prophets peering into a multitude of branching futures, and they aren't gods that can shape every outcome to fit the madness of their whims.

And yes, it's terrifying. Yes, it's stressful. It's suffocating and frustrating and maddening, more than words could properly express. But knowing that Leif feels it too makes the burden feel shared, even if their every other circumstance is different—and that, in turn, makes it just a little easier to breathe.

"I used to lead an army back home called the Deliverance," he admits. "And even though I had some incredible people with me to support me along the way, I still wasn't perfect. Some of the calls I made were wrong, and some of my mistakes cost people their lives. I lost a lot of allies, even after promising them that they'd make it home someday."

Alm exhales, slow and measured. The skewer doesn't stop rolling between his fingers, locked in constant motion.

"So... I get it. We're always going to have those nights where we think back on every choice and wonder why we didn't do this or that. But you know what, Leif?" Alm's gaze lifts, steadier now than before. It isn't unafraid, but it's resolved all the same, and his smile comes like the break of a new dawn: warm, and confident, and inevitable. "Every time we try, and fall, and get back up again, we come out of the experience stronger than ever. So who knows? Maybe the next time something like this happens, you won't even give those Weisritter guys any time to mobilize. King Seliph's gonna be the one wondering what he would've done if you hadn't been there."

Finally, the skewer's tossed in the trash. It won't be long at all until he finds something else to busy his hands and fill his stomach, but for now, he presents himself to Leif just as he is: with specks of spice dotting the corner of his lips and bandages peeking out from beneath his sleeve, imperfect and with plenty of room to grow.

"When that happens," Alm says, "don't forget to give me a few pointers, alright? I'll do the same. Then neither of us will have to feel so powerless anymore."

[princessmacedon]

welcomed home to gentle sea

expedition: holy war - grannvale (a visit to miletos)

[princessmacedon]

"Hee hee... yeah, like a horse! But you're right," Maria agrees, even as she giggles, one hand lingering at her chin and the other petting the wyvern's neck absentmindedly. "We need some tack first, huh?"

Not that she's missed Alm's worry, despite what her teasing might lead one to think. She offers him a reassuring smile even as she soothes an indignant Biscotti back to idly laying its head upon her lap. (It always tickles her how their personalities come out once they accept you into their confidence. Judging by how indulgent Biscotti is, Maria thinks the two will either get along famously or not at all!)

"We don't have to if you don't want to, but I've gotten pretty good at riding wyverns! And you'll be good, won't you, Biscotti?"

The wyvern swishes its tail lazily, seemingly having forgotten Alm's 'transgressions' already. Seeing his hand reach out, it delicately turns its nose upward, tapping it against his palm.

Maria laughs, bright and content.

"See? Biscotti's okay with it, too!" Her hand traces the arch of its nose, up between its eyes and over its forehead, and the wyvern trills again. Having long since finished its snack, the trill shifts into a deeper, lazier rumble as Biscotti rises to its feet. As the wind rustles past them, it stretches its wings, letting slip a soft 'grumph' as it shakes the leisure from its limbs.

"Wait, Biscotti!" The little princess reaches up for the wyvern's neck, and it obliges her, lowering its head first -- and, after accepting a few pats, crouching back down to the ground. It leans to one side as she attempts to clamber onto its back, a deeper tone rumbling from its chest, almost like a purr. Once seated, Maria looks out toward the water again, the wind lifting the ends of her hair from her shoulders.

"Wow...! Even if we don't go flying, Alm, won't you come look? It's so pretty up here! And -- look! Doesn't that look like the sea?"

A pause.

"...um -- hee hee! I think we might have been going the wrong way..."

[svintking]

Biscotti nudges its nose against his hand, so gentle that Alm begins to wonder if it already had an owner. But there's nothing on it to indicate any sort of ownership; neither saddle nor bridle cover its scales, and it's far too soft on Maria to have another in its heart.

"...Can I get on?" Alm finally asks it. Biscotti doesn't rumble or titter, but it does remain still. Alm's still halfway to figuring out what that kind of silence even means when the creature huffs, using its nose to push Alm closer to its side.

"Hey—! Hah. Alright... I'll take that as a yes." With a grin, Alm hoists himself up, careful not to let his scabbard strike against Biscotti as he climbs. He settles himself behind Maria, trying to position himself to catch her should she lose her balance—though, if anyone were to look, it's clear that she's more at ease than he is.

"...Woah..." Maria's right; the world looks different from up high. Jugdral has no shortage of troubles among its people, but seen from above, its natural beauty is breathtaking.

(And so, his next thought: would Celica be alright with a wyvern at the castle? He thinks she would, if she ever met Biscotti. Maybe he could convince Maria to come visit Valentia for a time and teach the wyverns to be more like this one.

...He'd have to write to his grandfather, once they returned to town.)

"Guess following the water wasn't exactly the right call, huh?" Alm muses, fingers resting against Biscotti's scales as he thinks. It's still dangerous—he'd warned Maria as much mere moments prior. Riding a horse without proper gear and training is risky; on a wyvern, that risk triples. But they're a long way from town, and even further from where they need to be. On foot, it'd take them days to reach their destination—and by then, their companions would doubtless be well on their way to another region.

Alm hums, brow furrowed, before his palm finally lays flat on the creature's back. "It's still dangerous, so we have to be really careful. But... if you're comfortable taking the lead, and if Biscotti's willing, I think we should try. Flying, I mean."