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#SWIFTSCION — a sword's tale of growth & emergence: from a fledgling picking scraps with fellow farm children to her homeland's fulgent pride, all in search of a shooting star.

affiliated roleplay blog for larcei of fire emblem: genealogy, as sharpened by maria.

【DOSSIER】【STATS】【HEADCANONS】【MUN】

ᯓ★ Notes under the cut!

#new pinned!#//tagdump incoming #~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~#── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ thread title #── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ muse (url)#── .✯ weaving... mail. ⋮ ask (muse)#IC #OOC #HEADCANONS

swiftscion

๋࣭ ⭑ all my feathers will sing

Character limit: 2k !

hoopdaughter

When she was a child, her first mount had been a pegasus. Not a horse, mind you—because the knights of Silesse did not practice with any. The only wingless horses were kept by the castle, far from the barracks, and usually reserved for the men who could not fly. It is from this early meeting that Fee had come to not just revere but love her country's mounts, finding whatever excuse she could to take to the skies.

Mom hadn't always liked it. Something about not wanting Fee to end up like herself, a soldier and a knight in upbringing. Fee had the luxury of being a princess, of being more than that, yes; but when she had asked for a short haircut, Mom had frowned; and when she had asked for a pegasus of her own, Mom had frowned deeper. She hadn't admonished her, but she was absolutely aware of the rebellious path that Fee had access to, and she worried.

Of course, Fee had not left her duties in the dust to join Silesse's navy. In her meantime, away from heavy discussions of succession, empires, and blood, she had become an experienced rider, if not as experienced a warrior.

But, she'd never gotten to be a teacher.

When she turns her attention to the scene, she's wide-eyed that someone could have possibly have messed up this badly. The horse is furious, her rider frustrated, and the scuffle had clearly started long before either of them had crashed into the stables. Where to even begin with this?

"Get up, get up," she exhales, trying to support Larcei at the elbow. Fee's not here to reassure her, and she doesn't try to; instead, her sympathetic gaze hasn't left the pegasus. "You gotta trust your pegasus before you can go out in the field! Can't you see she's anxious?"

Practiced hands reach out to the mangy mare, gently alighting on her coat. She starts slow, massaging at the horse's shoulder, then petting the length of its side. "Easy, girl," Fee coos to her, moving now to her eye. She keeps her motions uniform. "Did the mean girl give you a hard time, huh?"

swiftscion

The whirlwind abates, but a new storm brews within the Isaachian scion. She stops wrestling her newly-appointed mount to allow Fee onto it, but with the repose she is permitted, Larcei uses little of it to calm herself down. Arms cross over her chest in a display of rebellion, and her brow creases into a strong downward slope to show her dismay. She huffs, not at all unlike her mount, who gets a good look at her acting and copies her in a mockery. This makes the swordmaster visibly shake, and nearly boil over in her rage. Rather than reserving it for an animal, though, she takes it out on the unwilling Fee,

“Whaddya mean mean??” She doesn’t say it outright, but her sharp diction accuses Fee of being a liar. It sounds disgruntled but not overtly tired, implying that she could have kept going if the Silessian hadn’t stepped in, and, in a way confirming her claim. “I trusted her! How was I supposed to know that this thing wasn’t capable of doin’ the mission they gave it to me for??” Her glare, the nasty thing that it is, shifts from Fee to the pegasus — now accusing it of responsibility rather than accepting some of her own. It looks back to her uncomfortably, as if it knows that Larcei’s reckless riding was what gave it such a scare.

“All I’ve been trying to do is get her to calm down. She won’t as much as let me pet ‘er though, so how do you suppose I do that?” She hasn’t left her place on the floor yet, but as she deliberates the means of taming her mare, she strongly considers getting up. The debate reflects itself in every errant toss and turn of her body, hips rocking into a roll as the two sides of her mind clash. And after she squints, after her eyelids drill shut, she finally bursts. Larcei is awake and alert, ready to address her pegasus at eye-level, and stare at it with enough apprehension until it understands her.

“...no, seriously, how. Because I need to get this done.”

#── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ all my feathers will sing #── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ fee (hoopdaughter)#//1911 for this post #IC

swiftscion

๋࣭ ⭑ a sunlit promise

Epidemic — Axe +1

azurelunae

Eirika nods to her question, more intent on her task for the moment. Her scythe is methodical, even, leaving no stalk of wheat standing as she goes. But she does take note of the change in Larcei's tone.

And suddenly, she is much closer too. Eirika glances toward her, offering her a smile in exchange for her kind words.

"It is not likely quite as you imagine." She explains slowly until she finds a point at which she can stop. If her focus is divided between speaking and culling wheat, she will do both poorly.

Eirika takes a moment to catch her breath and then explains. "A few years ago, my country became embroiled in war. It was short, but devastating. The land was destroyed and our people terrorized. After the war, my brother and I saw to our country's restoration."

An insect lands upon her arm and Eirika only glances at it before waving her hand for it to take flight. "We visited several villages and in many of them we insisted on helping." A smile turns the corners of her lips. "At every village we visited, we received the same insistent refusal, but we insisted in helping just as much. I did not want to get in the way of their work, only provide an extra hand. Eventually, I could sow seeds and collect the harvests. The technique I use now was taught to me by a woman, Marie. She was very patient with me." Eirika laughs. "The scythe was too heavy for me but she showed me the correct way to hold it. Unfortunately I have not had the chance to practice since."

Though those were happy memories, they had only been possible because of the war. Her smile fades. "It was the least we could do. There was so much devastation after the war, so many lives lost." A deep breath and her careful, gentle demeanor returns.

"You seem much more practiced than myself however. How did you gain your skill with a scythe?"

swiftscion

“War, too, mostly.” Larcei’s curt answer leaves her enough time to process Eirika’s story. Her eyes flatten and her scythe stops to listen, equally as devastated to hear about it as Eirika was telling it. Empathy is easy when she actually has been in the other person’s shoes, after all. “I was born right in the middle of mine, and at a point where my country was pretty sorely losing. My twin brother and I, our first time seeing the castle we were supposed to inherit was when we took it back from the enemy.”

An open-handed gesture suggests the windswept field around them. It makes a half-crescent with the turn of Larcei’s hips, sure to encompass the vastness of their surroundings. “So we grew up in an orphanage, farming bread and potatoes just like these people. ‘Til we were ready to fight, we had to help out. But man did carrying those baskets give you a workout!” At her joke, Larcei only smiles a second. The short burst of good manners is swallowed by just how late she had gone out to fight. If only she could have had things her way, she would’ve been cutting imperials to ribbons before she mastered making stew.

“We’re pretty similar, though. I’m also restoring my country with my brother, and we’re tryin’ to get us connected to the wider world.” A world Larcei stops to take in, even now — even amidst the current crisis. The sky stretches wide as the afternoon sun completes its arc overhead. Every minute thereafter would be spent in solar descent; things would darken, if bit-by-bit. And they’d darken over Isaach, too. Renais would experience much of the same. No matter where one is placed, they’re bound by the rise and dip of the sun. That, in a way, connects everyone. More than borders and relationships could ever hope to do.

Fodlan acts as proof of that fact.

“When people spend so much time fighting they kinda… lose sight of everything else. So you get ‘em trading and making stuff and… living freely, and they don’t go crazy staring at their swords.” She sneaks a peak at her own, and in the reflection on its shiny hilt is reminded that she could do with some more of that living freely herself. She shakes her head. She picks back up her scythe. “Me bein’ here’s like… getting the good name of Isaach out there. How ‘bout you? You here to represent where you’re from at all? I wouldn’t be surprised, considering how similar we already are.”

#── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ a sunlit promise #── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ eirika (azurelunae)#IC #//okokokokok. scythes down #//they can take their break. they've earned it. probably

⬩➤ ACTIVITY CHECK ๋࣭ ⭑⚝

February 2026

Status: Passed !

Skill Pts Gained: 2

Activity Check (February) -> Any +1 -> Allocated to flying +1

Not As Clumsy or Random as a Master (Fee) - 4507 words -> Sword +1 -> Any +1 -> Allocated to flying +1

Skill Pts Total: 49

Skill Changes:

Flying: D+ -> C (1/2)

Inventory Changes:

-Iron Lance

-Shatter Slash

-Blessed Lance

-Evasion Ring

#OOC #toaactivity

swiftscion

๋࣭ ⭑ all my feathers will sing

Character limit: 2k !

swiftscion

“Gaah — h-hang on now!!”

Larcei crashes into the hay-littered floors of the stables, enjoying a faceful of mud and grime and… whatever else smells unpleasant in there. But she has no time to rest. Behind her back, a mare whinnies and prepares to take off. But let’s be clearer on that: it plans to take to the sky, because it wasn’t any old horse Larcei had been given by the academy: she is now the not-so proud owner of a pegasus.

Pushing on her palms she springs back up and whips ‘round to give chase. She darts and dashes, zips and zig-zags in an elegant dance of four legs versus two. But any time her fingers would stretch and find the tip of a feather, then curl forward to grab her mount to be steadied, she would lose it. It flits in a whirlwind of speed — marvelous had this been a field of battle, but right now the only enemy it has to elude is Larcei. The Scion soon finds herself fruitlessly diving and lunging after an equine built for even greater speeds than she could accomplish. She engrosses herself so deeply that she fails to spot a familiar weave of hair sauntering up to watch the scene. A few more circuits pass. Larcei dirties herself more, and spends much of her breath before ever thinking to slow.

“Argghh!! I know that mission was tough for you, but it was tough for me too!! We’re gonna start easier—”

One last attempt, and rather than dropping over pegasusback, she surges straight into her spectator. Larcei has the reflexes to catch herself with a sharp tug of the other’s sleeves, and after pulling herself up to eye level, recognizes who it is.

“Oh, damn. Hey Fee. Sorry you had to see… that. They put us up for a task to give her a first run into the field, and… it didn’t go well. I think she’s spooked.”

Focus returns to the mare. Larcei’s gaze studies the different parts of her coat: a cloudy white splashed over by black over her back and sides. She isn’t much taller than Larcei, but she is angrier. She stomps. She rustles. She reserves a squint for Fee.

Starter for @hoopdaughter !

#── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ all my feathers will sing #── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ fee (hoopdaughter)#//you're gonna hate me for this but this one is 1997.....

swiftscion

๋࣭ ⭑ instead i'll have to be Her!

Epidemic — Riding +1

landsbluod

The losing ticket crunched in her hand - Infinity had been the favorite on the boards, she had been assured, for weeks at a time, a gorgeous chestnut who during daylight hours was better known as the horse who assisted experienced riders during their Paladin certification exams. A mare powerful in stamina and sturdy in temperament, it was clear to anyone who knew both sides of her why she had been chosen for a racing circuit such as this.

Lachesis had remembered her, from her time spent negotiating with the horses, some months ago, that enchantment that had come over them for just long enough to argue for the civil treatment and respect they deserved, and expelled just in time for the exploitation to continue anew, and with greater vigor.

Infinity would not last many more races after this – she would flag, just as her fellows would, and with no way to communicate this and no choice but to do as bidden by the upstarts who thought to bring this ring to light in the dark of the underground ring.

"Tough luck, hey, lady?"

Lachesis sniffed, biting the inside of her cheek to avoid snapping at the man, who had been at her elbow from the moment that she had collected her wager ticket, explaining the finer points of horse racing, and indeed horse riding, as though the concept was entirely fresh to her. The longer the races had gone on, the denser the cloud of smoke around him, and the more intense the smell of liquor.

"The bracket is not over," she pointed out, tone clipped, turning away from him to make her way back to the bookie, watching closely as the rankings adjusted on the board, and out the corner of her eyes as the jockies dismounted and exited the field for a brief respite before the next matchup.

"That Sui Immortal is something else, came outta nowhere!" It was impossible to tell if he meant during the race itself, or in the larger scheme of things. "S'strange to see such a fresh rider sweep like that."

Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing as she collected her next ticket.

"Y'd think that these kinds of riders would be present from the start, especially if they're students at the academy – I guess not all of them are, but – eh? Lady? Where'd you - ?"

Whether his haze of drink or smoke, it had allowed her the time to slip from his attention and down the stairs, nearer to the path that the jockies took to the stables. Perhaps if it was a student, she could get a better look.

swiftscion

Was it fate that bade their paths to cross?

Larcei just managed to wade past the densest & most eager swaths of the crowd. She filed through the longer, darker hallways feeding into the stables. They had structure and shade, good for heated horses to cool off in before returning to their rigorous maintenance work. They were also, quite understandably, moody places to hang out. Many stopped following her as she rounded the bend to the leadup, either not daring enough to venture into the eyeline of stablehands or estranged enough to filter away — or both. Thus Larcei found herself among her peers & opponents, for the most part. She let her guard down enough for a sigh and to tip her mask for a scratch at the bridge of her nose.

She strayed some, during that moment of brief relief. Her feet wandered off the straight path ahead and stalled her, which — with the careful pace she maintained in order to walk her horse back — gave the curious better enough time to catch up to her. She caught the last dying glimpse of the unmasked racer, of the poacher who swept in at the eleventh hour to ruin her bet. Gray eyes were easy to make out even amidst the dimness surrounding, and the shape that framed them could be reconstructed in her mind if she had ever been sharp enough. It, along with those exposed cheeks and the construction of her nose, greatly resembled Isaach’s royal line. She was a part of it, after all.

“...You’re not getting an interview, if that’s what you’re after,” spoke the figure, in an all too phony tone of voice. There weren’t many impressions she could nail; just maintaining her typical articulation was a neverending training exercise. So the kind she settled on sounded gravelly and short. Sentences came to abrupt stops often and much of the intonation stemmed from the throat. It lacked the finesse to come across un-strained and earned her a dissatisfied snort from her horse. The steed hung its head a little lower, backed away an extra step — as though it ceased to recognize its rider under her farce.

“I’m not the kind of racer you’re looking for. You should go.” Except, she lingered. Behind the veil of the mask, her gaze fixed itself to the portrait of the gambler before her. A gambler she knew she hadn’t seen before, yet couldn’t help squinting at and pursing her lips for. The blonde sported a number of features she could have sworn were on a number of other features. Larcei felt an unexplainable familiarity with her: enough to stand and delay. Outwardly, she looked to be still as a statue — none of the twitching facial muscles visible under her cover. But altogether it stretched the ensuing silence to the point of awkwardness.

And she clicked her tongue rather than waiting for a reply. A shrug resaddled her cowl upon her shoulder and prepared her to walk straight past, which she intended to do after concluding her initial assessment of the showgoer. Indeed, she was to abandon that pit growing in her stomach and carry her mount forward. She believed there to be more work to do, knew there to be more work to do.

At least, if she had any plans of putting a stop to things.

#── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ instead i'll have to be Her!#── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ lachesis (landsbluod)#IC

swiftscion

๋࣭ ⭑ a cold call

seawardoath

"You already sound like you're pretty good at this," Ronan mutters, but finds places in his pockets and pouches to staff both key and ink, albeit separately. Even if he hadn't considered anything from the short list of possibilities that his partner-in-crime rattles off, he can't deny that she's got some pretty good ideas. His hand curls reactively into a fist at the word hostages. There couldn't possibly be anything worse that they could find than that, and the firm nod he gives her cements his commitment to keeping that key safe until they'd need it. Still, he can't be outdone. With so much on the table contributed by Larcei, he'd hate to keep tagging along behind her like some extraneous plus one, so he steps around her to get to the crate of moldy food.

She's back out into the open in a whirlwind though, the last words hardly having had the time to leave her mouth. Kneeling, Ronan manages to wedge his fingers beneath the crate just enough to lift it a little and slide one hand under. There's just plain old tarp underneath, no sign of hinges or a handle to a trap door that he can tell by rubbing his palm across it. Then c'mon! from outside snaps his head around and the crate tumbles out of his grip, nearly onto his hand if he hadn't recoiled so fast.

"Wha--!? Hey, wait!" Throwing open the tent flaps, Ronan half-staggers back outside just in time to catch Larcei moving like a flash through the trees on the other side of camp.

"Don't go off alone." She can't hear him by now, and he says it more for himself than anything else. Readjusting his bow over his shoulder, he bounds through the trees after her.

By the time he catches up with her, she's already clambered on top of a new curiosity. Nothing locked, as far as he can see when he jogs to a stop at the foot of this stack of crates, but each reinforced in a way that suggested a value to their contents. Absentmindedly, he takes the paper she hops down to give to him, and stares instead at the construction of the little shelter. It's hardly that, really. A camouflage, maybe.

"Why would they stash stuff all the way out here instead of where they can keep an eye on it..." he wonders more to himself than to Larcei - she's already back up on the pyramid - and his brows knit together when he finally takes a look at the numbers scrawled onto the paper. It's just a scrap of something. Some of the numbers are torn off, and others, added after the tear, have been crammed into spare space where they're barely legible.

"Dates... and coordinates? Or maybe a code." Remembering something, Ronan suddenly pats his hands down his chest, then both legs, until he touches the familiar notebook shape he'd stashed in his back left pocket. He'd never been much of one for note-taking until he'd come to Garreg Mach, but now he's filled nearly half the pages of this worn leather book with his own chicken scratch reminders. He pages through them. No. No. No. No. The knight who'd sent them both to investigate this encampment had mentioned something about the earlier hits in Gaspard territory, and Ronan had made sure to make a note of it. The locations had been specific, not random attacks on hapless travelers, and there'd been signs of additional outposts, too, pointing to an entire network of highly organized highwaymen with a sophisticated manner of communication.

A flash of insight freezes him in the middle of turning a page. Thud! The crate Larcei had been fighting with all this time finally smashes the ground so hard he can't tell if it damaged whatever is inside of it or the earth more. That doesn't matter right now. He hardly even flinches.

"This stash hasn't been abandoned," he warns her. "It's a pickup."

Then, like a dog catching the high notes of a whistle, Ronan lifts his chin and tilts his head. Distantly, leaves rustle, branches snap, and Ronan all of a sudden drops down to his knees to bury his hand down through the fallen leaf litter until he can press his palm against the ground beneath. It rumbles softly under it. Hooves. At least two horses and a cart.

"They're already almost here," he breathes, then pops back up to his feet with a panicked look. "Larcei! We need to hide!"

The moment she comes down from the stack of crates, he's already grabbing her by the arm in his dash for the clumps of thorny bushes growing in a stand behind the makeshift shelter.

swiftscion

Larcei is about a quarter way through bending by the hip and reaching for the contents of her newly unearthed crate when Ronan’s cry splits the growing silence between them. Her eyesight makes for the treeline, and she can see it, too — just at the hem of her periphery — movement. Her idea of hiding only encourages her to de-lid the crate faster, but Ronan grabs her just as she flips up its lock. And though the Isaachian moves quick, she is quite light. A practiced archer’s arms have no trouble hoicking her away from her occupations, no trouble making her tumble off that block and struggle back to her feet just so she can catch up and not feel the discomfort of her limb at its maximal stretch.

“Ah- ow! Hey- hold—” she tries a million and one protests as a million and one briars poke into her leathery skin. None quite reach the villager’s ears. She instead must wander through every branch and every bristle he drags her through, until the two have cover — until their silhouettes are disguised by foliage. Larcei, by the end of things, bears splotches of dirt riding up her cheeks and twigs in her hair. Leaves protrude from various points of her outfit, complete with frayed bangs and a very cross look in her eyes. “You idiot,” she hisses, “we could’ve hid in the boxes! Now how are we supposed to find out where they’re takin’ this stuff?” By trying one more time, apparently, which she made every motion to follow through with by breaking free of his grasp and crawling forward—

—only for the gallop of hooves to enter her neighborhood. They were so close that she could hear the dirt beneath them skidding to a stop, and the steel buckles on boots clinking as the riders dismounted. She immediately cancelled her action. The swordie dropped flat to the floor, peering past the underside of her brush as best her eyes would allow but not daring to take another breath. Ronan might scry more information than her, but by the hasty count Larcei makes in the back of her head and on her fingers, there are at least a dozen other bodies. Suddenly the camp fills with noise too. They shuffle cargo around and attempt to calm their steeds as they whinny. They speak amongst themselves: sometimes in a common tongue, other times in a thieves’ cant Larcei can’t quite pick apart without a cipher.

“—stuff’s supposed to be here—”

“—missing, boss—”

“—moved around, too—”

“—go find—”

Snippets of their conversation reach Larcei’s ears, and from what she can parse, she slowly turns to Ronan with concern. The band of riders begin to spread. Their investigation leads them to performing an area-wide sweep of their camp, evidently roused by all the objects the pair (mostly Larcei) knocked around and the few effects they misplaced. They murmur about too many different topics to focus on one — work, the weather, personal drama — but one does mention a missing key as they stride dangerously close to their hiding spot. Larcei waits for the patrol to pass before slinking deeper back, sitting herself up making as little noise as she can, and rasping out another whisper,

“Not so sure they’re gonna leave before they find us anymore.. Hope you packed extra arrows.”

One of the bandits pries into the stack of crates she wanted to camp out in earlier, and watching it happen makes Larcei turn her body away from Ronan rather than admitting that he was right. But as she does so, a bush in front of her rustles. The shiver is tiny, near-imperceptible unless complete concentration could be held and, honestly, could have been mistaken for an animal. Larcei creeps forward anyways. She keeps low to the ground and patiently unsheathes a fifth of her gleaming blade. Any more and the steel sliding past her hilt would scratch a sharp sound through the air. She then stalls.

She waits and squints, stills and lazes, that laser-intensity in her ashen gaze honed enough to cut through its nettle but unwavering in the face of its rigidity. The seconds pass and they feel like minutes, and the staredown drags as though either party had been waiting for high noon. Then it happens. A disturbance. A branch flits as something moves past. Larcei dives headfirst for its general direction and disappears among the shrubbery. More, turbulent scurrying jostles the whole plant down to its roots, threatening to break at any moment. Then it stops. Then, out hops Larcei. She has her gloved hand clapped over the maw of a boy, no more than a few years younger than herself, and the sharp edge of her weapon indenting the skin on his neck. An errant flick of her hand, and she could take his life without as much as a cry.

But she beams. She has caught them leverage, like a hunting dog having brought back a fresh kill. She looks to Ronan expectantly, mirth alight in her eyes and her lips pulled from ear to ear — humming the fanfare of her victory. “Hah, check out what I caught! You think they’ll let us go if we hold this out and back away?”

He really is just a boy, too. Dressed in raiment only barely finer than a linen shopping bag, he looks like the picture of poverty. He’s shorter than Larcei, and his hair is shaggy & overgrown with mismanagement. The last time he took a bath could be anyone’s guess, and aside from a tiny dagger sewn to his belt, he has nothing to defend himself with. It’s no wonder that the seasoned freedom fighter was able to capture him so quickly.

But she pays no mind to any of this, instead offering a nod and the suggestion to put their hostage to use.

#IC #── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ a cold call #── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ ronan (seawardoath)#//oh lord. ree. that is the best thing you could ever say to me #//i LOVE yes and'ing okay it's my favorite thing ever it's the best rp #//this scene is SOOO FUNNN ily for being so open to just sling stuff around with

swiftscion

๋࣭ ⭑ a sunlit promise

Epidemic — Axe +1

azurelunae

Each movement made is carefully performed. She's had the whole day to become accustomed to the scythe's movements, the back and forth of the blade along the ground, the shift of her hips, step right, swing, step left, step right, swing, step left, her blade ever inching forward along the field and leaving a clear path behind her.

As a young girl, the carriage that took her and her brother to Serafew would pass farmers performing these same motions during the harvest season. They moved methodically beneath the sun and with little care for the young royals that rode past. A different world entirely.

Now, she doesn't watch. Her arms and legs ache and sweat beads upon her brow. It is a different kind of exertion from the precise swing of her sword or spending long days marching.

And the sun beating upon them certainly does not help.

Meanwhile, Larcei takes to the field as if it has somehow personally offended her. Her movements are powerful and precise, the blade more an extension of her arm than a tool, while stalks of grain fall effortlessly before her. It is no surprise that she moves much faster.

Eirika comes to a stop with one hand on the bottom grip of her scythe and takes a moment to simply breath so that she may find her voice.

"I am no stranger to manual labor." Though she is obviously not quite bed fellows with it either. "You do not need to rush me. Rest assured that I will finish my task in due time."

After Larcei, no doubt, but she will finish it.

Eirika takes a deep breath...and then picks up her scythe and continues in the same motions. Step right, swing, step left, step right, swing, step left...

swiftscion

When Eirika opens her mouth, Larcei prepares herself for a tirade of excuses. She braces for them with a sigh and a private roll of her eyes, slowing down just enough so that the slice of durum wouldn’t overtake whatever drivel the other princess had in store. Steps petered until they reached a brisk walk, arms slashed in shorter arcs — she really gave headway, thanks to her initial assessment of Eirika.

But those steps would… keep slowing. Arms would keep slacking until work ceased to be done. A more in-tune listener became the Scion, whose expectant features turned intrigued at what Eirika said in lieu of an excuse. Suddenly, she starts spinning on her heel. The frenzied wheat-rush makes way for conversation as a quirked brow and pointed irises frame the bluenette in Larcei’s sights. She doesn’t step closer without cutting wheat, but does hack herself a path to a more comfortable conversing distance.

“You don’t say?” Calm and collected, her lighter tone of voice makes headway for further probing. It isn’t every day that Larcei’s intuition is proven wrong, and this instance warrants investigation. “That supposed to mean you’ve actually worked on a farm before? I hadn’t considered you the type…” She sounded awestruck to be saying such. The accusatory, barbed lilt from earlier seems a relic of the distant past with how quickly she catches on. And the grain-shucking can wait. There is truth to Eirika’s words; they’ll be done by sunset. The people will have their breads and their pastas and anything else the deign to mill with the fruits of princess’ labor.

“Sorry, then. Guess I shouldn’t be assumin’.” And with a better first impression made, she plants her scythe head back into the soil so she can cross arms and lean on its handle. The irony of two noblewomen providing basic bread for the people isn’t lost on this moment, though perhaps it isn’t ironic at all.

Isn’t it their duty to be stewards?

“What kinda manual labor are we talking about over there?”

#── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ a sunlit promise #── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ eirika (azurelunae)#IC #//you are actually so cool for that #//i love doing research for rp it's so epic #//there are like a million and one anatomy diagrams in my search history just to come up with the word Clavicle i promise you we're the sam

swiftscion

๋࣭ ⭑ monster meals for many

sanakialtina

So she can simmer down enough to negotiate? That bodes well, in the sense that it might give Sanaki a head start if she needs to make a run for the doors. "Am I a throne-cushion because it's my duty to sit on top of one?" she remarks sourly, trying not to let too much of her amusement show as she shoves another forkful of the pie into her mouth.

She considers her options as the chews, mindful of the ticking bomb that is a dissatisfied Larcei practically breathing down her neck. Some might find it difficult to think critically while enjoying such a delicacy, or under the threat of such single-minded intent, but Sanaki is nothing if not good at multitasking. She could, of course, really make a break for it, but she's under no impression that she would succeed in outrunning a hopping mad Larcei, not with her current state of fitness and with a plate in her hand. Or she could opt for any number of insistent rejections and pointed insults, refusing to even budge an inch—

—but who knows, that might actually provoke the other girl into some horrific response, like spitting in the dish…! And then Sanaki would really have no choice but to give Larcei the entire pie out of concern for hygiene.

"…Okay, I fold," she concurs with a sigh, mildly chagrined. It's always fun to make people angry, but she has to admit it would also be nice to eat her dinner in some semblance of peace. "Out of respect for the cooks, and not for your atrocious manners. You drive a hard bargain, Larcei," she continues, picking up a dinner knife and digging into the steaming crust, "but you could have just asked nicely to begin with."

Not that Sanaki herself had been at all accommodating, but why does she need to apologize for making her own fun? The half of the pie with Larcei's fork marks is deftly deposited in a clean plate and pushed towards the opposite side of the table. "I hope you know you now owe me a favor," Sanaki grumbles, shooting her beneficiary an expectant look.

swiftscion

That forkful earns Sanaki quite the wolfish growl from Larcei. It’s direct cause and effect: one event preceding another. Each of those infernal chews oscillates her pitch. One raises it, another lowers. A third brings it higher and a fourth puts it back to neutral. As much as Sanaki prepares to bolt, Larcei readies herself to sprint after her. Speed has always been the crowning jewel of her accomplishments, so if things came down to it, she holds every ounce of confidence that she could catch the other student by the nape of her uniform.

But then, there’s also the pie. Chase two rabbits, and they both escape. Could she really hold her focus on one of her objectives? Choose between reward and revenge?

All of it fizzles away the instant Sanaki gives. Larcei wastes not a moment snatching up a sizable (albeit fair) portion for herself, and with her own fork and knife cradling it onto her plate. Instantly she beams. Like rays of sun broken after a dark storm, her features spark with life. Eyes raise. Shoulders flare. The pallid scowl carving her countenance gives up as gentler expressions make better use of her muscles. All seems well with her. She even extends her hand to stab her pie and skewer a chunk off, before popping it into her mouth.

“Shee? Dhoingh thinghs my way ahlwhayhs whorks!!”

Compared to Sanaki, she eats like she was starving. The rate of chew easily exceeds double that of the senator, and is performed with far sloppier jawwork. She’s no slob, bear in mind, just all too eager to remember the manners befitting of the royal that she technically is. Though, if that and the delighted sigh she takes after her first sample have anything to say, it’s that the hassle has proven worthwhile. Larcei looks like she has no regrets for all the hell she just put Sanaki through, except—

“I do, don’t you worry. I’m not keen on letting debts go unpaid.”

—a solemn nod following her swallow of that bolus of food. She sits herself straighter in her seat and finally finds the decency to pat her cheek clean with a napkin. Larcei also sets her silverware aside and props her wrists — not her elbows — onto the table. Her attention lands square in the middle of Sanaki’s forehead. “So, what’ll it be? I’m strong, fast, and unbeatable with a sword. I could do your fencing homework for you, or go kick the snot out of anyone who’s been picking on you?”

#IC #── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ monster meals for many #── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ sanaki (sanakialtina)#//okay i must say this thread has gotten so delightful HAHA #//i love what is becoming of this..

swiftscion

๋࣭ ⭑ sunlight be my armor

swiftscion

“...and that’s where the trail ends. See?”

Larcei dips back up from her view of the forest floor. Crouched onto one knee as she was, the pose let her ascertain more about the tracks laid in front of them than a mere standing observation. Chiefly, it pointed to the direction and the odd-handedness of the print-trail, that it looked as though every left step pressed far deeper than those on the forebearer’s right. Larcei had explained prior that this oddity stretched across most of the Brionac Plateau. That, apparently, some knights had noticed it while they were out, told her about it, and investigated no further. Larcei speaks in worried tones. She sounds concerned with every sentence that something — something big — had been doing this giant, peculiar limp around the Plateau. The trail seems to end as the wide maw of the land leads into some denser thicket, which the Isaachian had been trying to peer into all afternoon.

She huffs a breath. It’s so cold it can be seen.

“I think it’s… some kind of bear. Or a wolf. Big for sure, right?” And evidently mammalian, given the paw shape. Larcei is no taxonomer, mind you, but she can tell a hoof apart from a paw. “I dunno. They sure look big.” About twice the size of either of their palms, to be exact. Stranger things have happened before, and so she doesn’t make too perturbed a look with her lips… but she does gaze onward. Into the heavy treeline. Across evergreens and pokey branches and the gentle blanket that encompasses them all. She and her friend are afforded enough daylight to see past the shade — particularly where a beam of sun would pierce through gaps in the canopy — but the Isaachian hasn’t quit complaining about how her lead dwindles off at this junction.

“Could just be that one of those flying crest beasts swooped it up,” which she states without surprise; some are on the face of one of this month’s bounties, “but… you take a look. I know you’ve got good eyes, Diarmuid. You can ride a horse through terrain like this. Hah,” a small gesture is then made. It’s his gambit now: dead end, or a truth yet uncovered?

Several clues point to either suggestion. As Larcei claims, the estranged trail does indeed run cold at the woods’ neck. But leaf litter lines the area. Twigs poke out of the ground. Some are snapped, others lightly tread upon. Tree bark is, for the most part, unscathed. But look a little closer, and one has the chip of a claw’s tip dug into its bark. Regular forest wear-and-tear makes most, if not all, signs of life indistinguishable from one another. That is to say, the plains are barren aside from these hot spots. Life teems and gathers here. Picking apart one strand from another is like finding a needle in a haystack…

…yet that needle could still exist, couldn’t it?

Starter for @charmblooded !

#IC #── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ sunlight be my armor #── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ diarmuid (charmblooded)#//sorry to kin assign him lyudmila but i think the lyric really fit

hoopdaughter

Not as clumsy or random as a master

Larcei & Fee ➢ Sword+1

hoopdaughter

Larcei is being so normal. Larcei is being so normal, and she's asking about the soup. Larcei is being so normal, and she's asking about the soup? ...And Fee just can't quite crack it.

Her head's still reeling a bit from their interaction outside. The whirlwind of proposal and daring would certainly not leave Fee soon, and she knows that it's only a matter of time before she loses the culinary distraction, but for the moment, she's stabilized. The buffer time between Fee's reentrance and Larcei's was definitely necessary, too. Clearly, they both realized that.

Her eyes do flit back down to their dish (mostly in disbelief). A few minutes ago, it had been the source of her full attention, in an attempt to distract her from... whatever that was. The truth is, the dish is effectively all done, though. Larcei's comments on the smell are redundant. At this point, it's been ready, and cooling off the flame for a good minute.

Which leads her to her final concusion: Larcei must be feeling a little red about the whole thing, too.

Maybe embarrassed is not the correct term, especially for a hardened, witty girl like Larcei. But there's a palpable degree of separation between the two, now.

Either way, Fee can't meet Larcei's gaze right now, either. She takes the offered taste-test gingerly, setting the bowl to her lips. Regardless of what had just transpired, at the very least, their soup is delicious.

"It's good," she says evenly, shyly. She passes the bowl back to Larcei to taste. She ladles out two proper servings, leaving them side by side on the counter.

Her brain is mush, but she's not about to be rude. Especially so suddenly. Especially to a friend.

"Why don't we go sit at the dining hall, now..."

swiftscion

She eyes the offered saucer with a tiny twinkle in the corner of her ashen irises, before taking it in gloved hands and smoothing round its surface. Larcei maintains eye contact as long as it takes her to orient the dish such that where Fee’s lips had touched, hers would be aligned with. The implication is hence made overt, and receives no further comment or gesture: like a soup so proud of its stock that it comes out of the kitchen bearing no garnish.

Larcei imbibes with no further comment. The indirect kiss is had, tasted, and savored all the same as their viscous creation. The thick body of their stew crosses her mouth in tandem with the warmth leftover from Fee — one enhancing the other, albeit subtly so — and cream quickly stains that orifice. But she makes an enjoyed expression. Eyelids sweep shut in a lazy, decadent display. Her shoulders roll. Ripples run through her spine as heat spreads from maw to chest, then everywhere else. Truly, the heart of their creation reaches even her extremities; Larcei can feel the nurturing touch of their cuisine in her fingers and toes. She even helps herself to another slurp, before dislodging the tasting bowl and gingerly setting it counter-side. Fee regards a smile and a nod of the Isaachian’s head.

“Tastes perfect to me,” she hums. The rest of the cookware is then promptly plucked from their pot and put away: either in cupboards for spices & herbs, or a sink basin to be washed later, and by someone else. Cooks don’t do dishes, after all. “Lemme go flag everyone else down and then, yeah, we’ll take a seat,” which she does after a brief skip away. The kitchen staff is notified of dinner’s completion, the bell rung, and the giant vessel brought out to the public eye to be served up until it depletes. Larcei has a feeling, as she watches everyone line up, that it won’t last very long out there.

“No stars tonight, huh? Well, can’t exactly blame you for forgettin’..” She snorts an airy laugh as she returns. It might have been a surprising encounter, if Fee stopped paying attention. In any case, Larcei picks up her bowl and cradles it between two palms without much concern in her eyes. Her spoon’s head already sinks to the bottom of her broth, so as far as she’s concerned, she has everything she needs to start walking. A quick cock of her head directs the Silessian to the closest available bench, which she also makes for — similarly with wanton disregard.

“C’mon. We’re lucky enough that they left a good spot open.”

#IC #── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ not as clumsy or random as a master #── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ fee (hoopdaughter)

swiftscion

๋࣭ ⭑ down to my skeleton wings

Epidemic — Bow +1

swiftscion

When speculation arose, there was no bigger perpetuator of investigation. When rallies cried, when claims flew, no louder voice shouted ‘medicine over magic!’ Larcei had been with the plan from its inception, knowing well the kinds of trappings those arts let mortals fall into — and the bane of their overreliance. She also wagered strongly, among the hot debate, that an active body and a robust heart were key to a long life, though that wound up with her on-call for the monster-hunting excursions the church had planned.

Still, it isn’t like she shows up complaining.

Rather, she sets out fully-stocked & properly equipped. A wing-clipper’s bow — foreign to her hands — strings neatly over her chest. While only a loaner, it is of fine make. Far too fine for her experienced fingers. Its hawthorn hue gleams even on a dim, cloudcast day — the shaft free from knots & knurls in spite of the grain’s unforgiving demand saddled upon its maker. The wire round her back is similarly stiff but flexible should it be drawn, and within a leather quiver just beside rest her arrows. These are what shall pierce monstrous hides, crack jaws — splinter tendons. They’ve been cut into an odd shape wider at the nose than the fletching, seemingly ineffective in a wartime scenario but assured to be adapted well for their use-case. Larcei furnishes herself beyond mere armaments, however. She dons the gloves of an archer, thicker to prevent chafing, as well as rider’s boots & lighter plate armor meant to be carried upon mountback. Indeed, this is no operation to be carried out on foot. The Scion had recently been cleared for a pegasus: one thoroughbred for agility and sporting a splash-white coat.

She arrives upon its hide unsteadily. Its temperament has yet to be assayed by its rider, and so she bumbles & stumbles with every clop it takes. At points she must adjust a piece of her outfit or play with the fringe of her hair, further sketching the shape of inexperience. But Larcei wears a confident smirk. She looks upon the thick woods with a predatorial gaze, scanning a heavy treeline embedded with stones & stumps not just to venture, not to clash with what lies within, but to conquer it. This game is hers, and she won’t go home to a sickened populace without what they need for their cure.

Of course, she isn’t alone either. At an equal frequency she checks over her shoulder for her mother’s gaze. Wherever it lingers, she is quick to zap onto — competitively testing if she can spot something first in the same site. This lasts as long as the forest’s quiet ambience does; the game continues with warm smiles & doting eyes until a backdrop of crickets & owl coos breaks under the tumult of a loud rustle.

“Woah,” the smaller swordmistress whispers, scrambling to shove her bow off her breast, “y’hear that? It’s either a bear, or—”

SCRRRAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Their hunt. An engulfing shadow swoops overhead, nulling the dim sunlight as it passes by and roosts in a large forest clearing some thirty paces North. Whatever endemic life had been scurrying or foraging about is instantly cleared by its cry, seen darting in any direction or burrowing wherever it can. But Isaachians are not native here. Larcei plods for the grip on her reins to spur her mount onward. She’d need to make it to the meadow to have ample sky-space to fly, but before she can, she nocks an arrow.

“Remember: if I can pin down one of its wings before you do, then I win.”

She looses it without drawing any closer — without thinking any further.

It flies wide.

The corvid turns its head at the projectile.

And then, in the direction of its trajectory.

Starter for @astrasword !

#── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ down to my skeleton wings #── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ ayra (astrasword)#IC

swiftscion

๋࣭ ⭑ a sunlit promise

Epidemic — Axe +1

swiftscion

It’s the fourth patch of farmland she has set her heart on clearing out.

And it always starts the same.

A crack of the knuckles, a resounding pop! from each finger as she knits them all together and stretches herself to length. While she does so, her scythe — sharp, shiny, but starting to show signs of the day’s work — rests in the soil at her feet. Its rib slightly compresses the fertile land, though not by much, on account of its blunter edge facing South. The handle leans against her side and, with the motion of her warmup, always threatens to fall. But Larcei catches it, snatches the thing between a gardener’s gloves. They’ve been bargained for her academic attire alongside her boots, overalls — one button undone to send the whole thing drooping over her torso — and the straw hat she keeps at her back with a string tied round her sternum.

She shields her eyes with four of her fingers bridging off her forehead. You know, instead of employing the hat.

“Geez,” the Scion blurts, propelling the blade into a cresting motion with her heel — its arc high enough for the scythe’s head to sit on her clavicle, “feels like you barely got anything out of that last plot. You sure you’ve swung a weapon before?” Eirika receives a scoff that she, perhaps, did not deserve. Larcei’s farmier-than-thou attitude extends to the sweeping glance she offers the other princess and the tongue-click she wrests a ton of attention with. “‘Cause cuttin’ through straw’s not supposed to be much different. This stuff doesn’t even move..”

And had an armful been packed into a sack, and then propped on a wooden beam, they’d have their run-of-the-mill training dummy.

But as much as thinking about making props from this crop is wasteful. The sun blazes overhead and sweet has already stained Larcei’s forehead. She will receive no succor for her plight, for clean water ought to be distributed to the sick & needy. Simply put: they’re too dirty to be spending in excess, even amidst a field of golden grass swaying in the wind. That wind might as well be the closest thing to refreshment that they’ll receive on this cloudless and swelteringly-gorgeous day.

So really, is Larcei rushing through it all such a crime?

She grips her farming implement like an axe. A proficiency for it — both blood-bound and personally honed — sees her handling it without error. She slashes. The wide steel hacks nutritious stalks from their roots, generating a growing collection as she steps and maintains her assault. Each chop — each swing — speedily slices her along her route of tilled ground. It isn’t long before steps break into a full sprint, and Larcei is operating her sickle like the axe of a goddess ripping through thousands of soldiers in a single dash.

She would stay preoccupied with this task, had she not the gall to turn her head and shout, just one last time, at her assigned partner:

“What are you waiting for? Get over here and let loose!!”

Starter for @azurelunae

#── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ a sunlit promise #── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ eirika (azurelunae)#IC

swiftscion

๋࣭ ⭑ instead i'll have to be Her!

Epidemic — Riding +1

swiftscion

“...we enter the last one-hundred meters of this thrilling event, and just two have broken from the pack!!”

A crowd of people roar in unison. The resonant echo of their cry overpowers any clapping, stomping, hooting or hollering that might deviate from the main stream. They drown out the voice of the announcer, which rings easily ten or fifteen times louder than any average person’s shout. Even enchanted by magic as it is, it cannot quell the excitement of the gathering of spectators.

…

Larcei has begrudgingly acclimated to it all. Though she never can quite stop grimacing at how such an underground ring could afford to be so noisy.

“Ardent Special and Infinity! They fight their duel neck-and-neck! Either could tire at any moment, so you don’t want to take your eyes away — but look!!!! What’s that-?!”

Another riot ensues, this one of mixed reception. Some vitriolic sacrilege weaves its way into the mesh of sound. Louder stomping, too. And, as the din dims, something can be heard being hucked across the stands.

“Suddenly gaining speed.. it’s… it’s… Sui Immortal! Sui Immortal emerges!!! She invites herself onto the battlefield — she’s here to clash, she’s here to compete!!!”

“She’s here for their heads!!!!!”

They aren’t wrong. A black mare gallops its way down the final turn of a dirt circuit, her head held level and shoulders tucked close together alongside her rider. With the way she so effortlessly blazes the distance spanning third and second, it becomes clear that she’s burning a large store of energy saved for this very moment.

“Just one stretch left, and it could be anyone’s game!! Infinity takes the lead! Now Sui Immortal! Ardent Special pulls in — and it’s Sui Immortal again!! Infinity nips at her hooves, but no — it looks like Sui Immortal takes the win!!!!”

That last, race-defining confirmation from the shoutcast erupts what had been bubbling in everyone’s hearts. They deafen each other, the jockeys — even those poor steeds — with their jubilance. As the victor peters to a halt and the chestnut stallions behind her follow suit, tickets wave about the air. Plenty are discarded out of frustration, but a sizable following seems to have believed in this upstart enough to clutch theirs closely. For some, they represent another round of ale or a delicious dinner for tonight. Others have made fortunes.

But their jockey pays them no mind. Wrapped in hempen rags and donning a half-faced mask, she peers at a scoreboard display high above the stadium. Laborers are already hard at work updating rankings, with Sui Immortal having advanced a solid seven places above her peers…

…but nowhere near the top.

The rider sneaks a glance at the group’s founder, poised by her announcer in a box reserved solely for them & their guards. She can be seen staring down at her own nails, and then whispering something to someone at her side.

So the masked cavalier slips off her saddle and leads her mount through a river of people pouring at her for questions. All she has to offer for inquiries of her name, her experience, her thoughts about the Galatea Stakes and her standing as a rising rookie are gruff nods. Though that kind of response has become customary, escape still proves herculean.

Sui Immortal receives a brisk pat and some scratches under her chin for enduring.

Starter for @landsbluod !

#── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ instead i'll have to be Her!#── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ lachesis (landsbluod)#IC

hoopdaughter

Not as clumsy or random as a master

Larcei & Fee ➢ Sword+1

hoopdaughter

Despite her pushing, no matter where else she looks to, Fee can't quite break away from this curse. Larcei, whose words are usually jagged and jarring, is managing some real smooth talk; the subtle movements of her fingers on her cheek are not helping, either! It's as if she's daring Fee to give in to desire, baiting her with seductive eyes and secret promise.

She doesn't quite know how to feel, apart from the obvious: out of her element. She's used to being on the outside, looking in; is it really so clausterphobic, having her in others' faces like this? No, she thinks, I never go this far!

Her eyes gather themselves back up to meet her captor, listening distractedly. Larcei's eyes, usually a tumultuous storm, seem surprisingly calm and comfortable; a hazy dark-and-gray that reassures Fee. Her gaze dips down to Larcei's lips again, but doesn't quite give in fully with an outright fixating stare. This is all too sudden, isn't it? When her question was asked, she was looking for insight into pick up girls, at most— not asking to be swept off her feet immediately! It's not quite the same, in a back alley behind the kitchens... is this really where she was going to have her first kiss? It's nothing like how characters got together in novels, nor how marriage was described to her by Mom or the tutors...

Augh! I'm not ready!

Panic rises from her kneecaps, bubbling in her stomach. Whether it's acid or butterflies, it's impossible to tell. Larcei isn't threatening her—well, she hopes—but one thing's for certain: I've gotta get out of this, right now! Her mind made up, she makes a face of what she hopes is a sheepish smile, before dipping her head nimbly beneath Larcei's arm, hopping out of her immediate reach. It's a quick action, but not unexpected of Fee's spritely build, and she takes another tentative step back, lips still slightly parted with heavy breaths.

"Ijustgotta...we should justgottagocheckonthestew... Gottago... Meetchabackkitchen! S-sorry!"

Her excuse barely stumbles out of her mouth before she turns heel and jogs back to the dining hall. Turned away from the sole lamp, she bites down at her bottom lip, heart hammering away in her breast. Take it slow, take it slow, take it slow-

swiftscion

Larcei blinks. Fee bolts her way under the bridge of her arm so fast that the Isaachian can barely pick her words apart before she finds herself alone and in the cold. The long locks of her hair rustle as the other runs them past, too — a testament to the wind in Fee’s sails carrying her back to shore. And in the immediate silence ensuing, nothing but Larcei’s shock colors her. If she still had the toothpick in her mouth, it would have fallen out the way her jaw hangs. Fluttering her lashes performed a hard-reboot on her vision, as though what she saw had been some error in the film of the universe she skipped over by mistake. But Fee’s dialogue rings clearly in her head, and the impression she leaves lasts long on Larcei’s face. The girl is definitely going to have to take an awkward walk back inside…

…but not for a good while. No, her boots do not clomp right through that doorway in hot pursuit, but inch closer to the wall she had Fee pressed against. It is an act of stealing the warmth she left behind, to press a sole where the other’s flank once rested and lean her back where the other’s spine once stretched. Larcei makes the move candidly, failing to notice the trickle of the student body already insistent on claiming the best seats for dinner. She stares down at herself, and fishes fingers through her pocket again. The splint she deposited earlier reacquaints with that effervescent, nightly chill, and moors between her lips.

She doesn’t frown. Her eyes don’t drop. She passes the time still as a statue and no less solemn. Nothing about her body language says she feels particularly excited to watch Fee reject her like that, but an understanding smile & soft eyes might mean contentedness with the act of simply having tried. More grains pass the glass’ neck, and she stretches her own up at the sky — the irony of stargazing alone not lost on her for a moment. The fires burn far away, but reach the corners of her mouth & the spreading sensation in her chest. She can abide the cold a little longer, under their glow. Long enough to cook their broth to perfection, she reckons.

A single step brings her closer to the door. She stops, and waits out another beat. Another glance at the sky to observe its connected shapes slightly shifted provides all the time Fee might need and then some. And only when Larcei feels satisfied with enough disconnect between their prior encounter does she help herself in, quashing the blaze between them with a quaint, two-fingered wave.

“Hey, hey, give that a smell!” Her attention hooks to the pot and solely to the pot, refusing to reference anything else lest Fee demonstrate a willingness to first. “Looks like we did it right after all. I’d say this is good enough to get into a bowl..” Brisk skipping closes her within an arm’s reach, and an arm does indeed reach to lift the lid off their vessel. Steam brumes the air immediately, but undeterred, Larcei ladles out the first portion for Fee to try — offered with a tilt of her head.

“Whaddya think? Ready to serve?”

#IC #── .✯ weaving stories ⋮ not as clumsy or random as a master #── .✯ weaving bonds ⋮ fee (hoopdaughter)#//larcei vc I feel like a fucking incel right now. anyways soup time-

ᯓ★ WANTED PLOTS