#(mastery drabble)

[heliacalrisings]

the difference between a man and a king

What are the makings of a worthy king?

Ephraim has pondered this question a lifetime. As a youth, he had always thought of his father: Strong, reliable, someone who stood tall on his own. And those were the ideals his father impressed upon him. To be a good king, one must be detached and distant so as to remain remain objective in their rule.

Now he wears the mantle his father once had and attempts to follow in the footsteps of a legacy that he could never live up to on his own. Without Eirika, without Seth, without his close allies, he would not have come this far. He would not have even passed his studies without Lyon.

It is hard to accept that he will never be the man his father wished him to be. No matter how strong he grows, no matter how much he studies, it is too little too late. He's made too many mistakes, the worst of which killed his father. He, young and brash as he had been at the time, had been leagues away fighting at the moment of father's last breath. And for what? Glory, or for the safety of Renais? He knew which one he had told himself.

Yet he cannot let past mistakes deter or define him. The only path is forward. The people of Renais deserve better from their king and so better he shall become.

When he arrived at the academy, he thought that meant focusing solely on his studies. What he lacked in his youth he needed to make up for now, his peers the leaders of countries and his professors skilled in arts he's never heard of. To that end, he had eschewed all of his usual training. Renais did not need a mercenary, it needed a king.

Yet that had not given him the success he hoped for. While his studies had improved, there was still much he could not do without the strength to back his convictions. The beings in the mirror world, the werewolf plaguing the countryside, the training exercises in the arena. What would he do if another war darkened the skies of his fair Renais? He had to be prepared for all possibilities.

Or were these thoughts simply an appeal from his baser nature?

Ephraim picks up his lance, noting how Reginleif's blade shines even in the muted light of his dorm. It had been a gift to him from his father, a reward for all his time spent training under General Duessel. He runs his palm down the pole before his hand curls around it in a familiar grip.

The day his father bestowed Reginleif upon him had been one of his proudest moments, yet his father would never see him wield it in real combat. Just as he would never see him band an army across Magvel or defeat the Demon King of yore. Feats only accomplished through bonds he'd made.

In truth, he had never been able to comprehend the idea of detaching himself fully from others. He could not even let Kyle or Forde risk themselves for his sake and that was a part of their knightly vows. There had been many an argument between him and his father over the topic.

He would never be the king his father had wished him to be. Whether that meant he was never proud of him or not, he doesn't know. He's not here to answer that question. All Ephraim can do is what is best for Renais. Their farmlands are thriving again and the skies are clear and the people happy. He and his sister had guided them through the war and into the light of tomorrow. That had to count for something.

Maybe his father's way isn't the only way to be a worthy king. So if he could not follow in his footsteps, then he would carve his own path, and at his side would be those he could rely upon.

[renaisguy]

Before the Etheral Ball, that wonderful night of drawing and exploring, and getting swept off to a deserted island, there was the White Heron Cup, where the best dancers in the academy would perform for the prize of… Forde wasn’t actually sure what they were competing for, actually. But it was a big deal, according to the other members of the sewing club. 

It was because of them that Forde was still in the club’s room the night before the competition, sewing dozens of glittering sequins to a dancer outfit’s belt. 

One of his clubmates was competing, you see. But the outfit wasn’t flashy enough for her, you see. Her dream look had more golden jewelry, and gemstones all the colours of the rainbow, and her sashes embroidered with an intricate pattern- 

“And who’s gonna do all this sewing?” Forde had foolishly asked. 

The club’s new project was proceeding smoothly. Forde hadn’t been trusted with the detailed sewing - the others understood he was just there because it was the closest the academy had to an art club. But as for how he was going to arrange the sequins, Forde was given total artistic freedom. 

(Though, his clubmate had been obsessed with these reversible sequin patterns lately, if he could do something like that it’d be super cool!) 

This was Forde’s first time working with sequins, but he’d come across a style of painting that involved hundreds of tiny dots working to form the impression of a scene (what was the style called again?). He used that as inspiration for his first designs, and had painted a few landscapes to get a feel for it. 

When he finally thought he knew what he was doing, he measured the dancer’s belt, and realised that it’d fit far fewer sequins than he was anticipating. Certainly not enough to portray the vast field of flowers he’d designed, petals dancing in the wind. And he’d spent so long thinking of that metaphor! 

Back to the drawing board (pun not intended, for once). There was still a week before the competition, he would simply think of something else. Back in Magvel, what had Tethys worn? There had been some sort of emblem on her chest, perhaps a similar symbol would work. 

Now, Forde wasn’t that stupid. He knew the best thing would be to ask his clubmate for ideas when she had a moment not swamped in dance practice. 

Three days later! Their conversation went about as follows: Forde: Do you have a crest? CM: No.

Forde: What about the crest of one of the judges? CM: That sounds tacky. 

Forde: What about the crest of the goddess? 

CM: I’m not that religious. 

Forde: Any other symbols come to mind? CM: If I think of anything, I’ll let you know. 

His clubmate did not, in fact, let him know. Forde kept brainstorming and designing, until the day before the competition arrived. It was time to get sewing, and pray his idea was appreciated. 

The sun on one side, the moon on the other - a design inspired by the solar and lunar braces he’d so often seen worn by his lord and lady, but generic enough that they could be understood by those outside Magvel. 

It was funny, when he’d been designing the belt he’d thought he had so little space for sequins, but now he was sewing them on it felt like his task would never end. He pricked his finger more times than he’d like, and it wasn’t until the first chime of midnight that his work was complete. Exhausted, he collapsed onto the floor, pulling another clubmate’s work in progress over him as a blanket. 

His work was well appreciated. His clubmate adored the design, and couldn’t decide whether she’d wear it as day or night for the competition. She didn’t win in the end, but she was dazzling on the dancefloor. It was such a sight to behold that for a moment Forde was tempted to pick up the art of dancing himself…

Oh what the hell. It would be another year until the next White Heron Cup. He should give it a shot, at least.

Class Mastered: Dancer

[princessmacedon]

what will remain

Beyond the monastery's stone walls, within the woven forest just beyond, inside that ventricular green grove, there is a statue. Its dais lays in ruin, and what once burned as passion bright now smolders 'neath the rain, smoke in the form of fragile, verdant tendrils curling between the cracks. From its two palms joined as one, beseeching in their reach, a young girl infers that it may have been a prayer, once. Or perhaps it was a story? It could have even been a miracle, but it is lost, now; only its afterimage remains.

Maria presses a thumb to a conjunction of marble and moss; she turns her hand, plants the point of another digit at the edge of its reach, and lets her palm run gently down its surface. How could she so carelessly touch such a precious thing? But she is not careless; in this moment she loves it, perhaps not as well as its maker had, but more sweetly than the passing seasons that pull it year by year back into earth's embrace. She would hear it, if she could. And she tries to do so anyway.

Being a child of Macedon, there is something strange yet fascinating in the idea of a history old enough to be lost and forgotten -- something that aches every so often, like the bones of old soldiers on a rainy day. What had been hers had been new, a still-bright thread in the weave of the world; what had been lost had been proudly kept, recited to her as a child beneath her blankets, looking up with beamish eyes. Nothing born of that seaside kingdom had lain in the earth and grown old, a fledgling thing that closed its eyes not to rust, but blood.

And so she cannot help but in turn wonder: how will what remains of Macedon look some hundred years hence? What will still sparkle in the gardens she once laughed in, and what will look like this?

There are cracks in the marble, all filled with moss. The once-delicate curl of its fingers is marred, forever, by loss, a piece of the statue broken off and vanished without a trace. The young daughter of a bygone kingdom folds her hands over its wound, its coarse, ungentle edges pressing into soft skin.

So even statues have their calluses! When she pulls her hand back, it lingers playfully at her chin, laughter flowing across nail and knuckle alike to a brook happily a-babble. How lovely it is, to her -- how she wonders if it is everything her brother fears.

Because though the gentle Hero-King had not ground their kingdom to dust beneath his boot, he had with sword and valor unified their continent -- and to begin, there first must be an end.

And there is an end: to Macedon as her brother had loved it, as he had told her its histories where their father-- in his brief presences-- would read her fairytales; as he had recounted shackles shattered and freedom won, as he had burned, brilliant and bright, with passion, with resolve, until fire splintered his bones to broken pieces and still he burned with everything he had. Like this, Maria knows of no one who loves Macedon more wholly than he.

So he must be very afraid, she thinks as she throws herself against a beast that would set a different kingdom's brother's heart to stop. Her dear friend, however, is to her as natural a companion as horse or pegasus -- more so, in fact, for this precious homeland she ponders is a land of wyverns and endless skies. The former supports her, neck acting as brace and cradle as it curls around her; she lets her head tip backwards with a laugh, and there sprawled across the heavens above, in turquoise shards, the latter peeks through a canopy of leaves.

Giggles fade to silence, and Maria lets rest her hand against her forehead, palm turned upward as if to catch the dappling sunlight.

...Perhaps Michalis sees Macedon in its solid lines, its monuments and castles, its territories and independence. Yes, then he must be afraid of such a fate as awaits this eroded statue in nameless nowhere. How of the glory and pride that had inspired its creation, only its decay remains; how the future it had been made to yearn for already lays forgotten, buried in the past. All things as made them human -- their efforts, their ambitions, their trials and losses and at last, their triumphs-- gone, to dust. Of the story behind this once-beautiful, still-beautiful statue, nothing remains.

"But Brother," the last of their kingdom murmurs, "Life does."

To the eyes of a youngest sister, there is nothing to fear in the crumbling of lines. The colors they once withheld may change in time, but so too will they spread -- they will bleed as much as they swirl, becoming less here, and more there -- and more there! Though the hues of Macedon will cease to be so distilled, they will have become a dazzling shade in a magnificent prism.

If only you could see as I do; if only I could have you understand. A sentiment he must mirror, she is sure, toward not only herself but their shared sister as well. Yet try as she might, there will always be a part of them that she cannot understand, so different were their upbringings. She had never known the weight of a crown as Michalis had, nor its looming, suffocating shadow as had Minerva. Her two beloved siblings had grown tall well before she had ever been born, as shield and blade, as well and as spade, as heritors to a proud but fledgling history and Maria, a flower in that garden, plucked and then sold.

She drinks the sun even now. It lays breezy kisses against her palm until her arm grows tired, and she turns to her side and giggles, a fearsomely tenacious dracoknight in her own right... though the words be split rather than sum. She is a dracoknight for the blood in her veins, the history in her tapestry, the friendship she forges and all the places it takes her; and she is fearsomely tenacious because she dreams not only of what Macedon will be on the morrow, but in all the days to come. Because she is sure that come a decade, come a century, come a millennium or more, wyverns will still soar in endless skies over verdant mountains, and her homeland will endure.

It will endure, Maria knows, in all the ways that matter: in the pride of a stubborn people, fearsome foes and stalwart allies; in a love of the sea's shores and the ever-climbing mountains; in bonds born in their blood, man and wyvern taking to the heavens, ineffably, irrepressibly free. That, she believes, is the wish their great grandfather had made. And so when kingdom gives way to country, when the millennia turn over in their graves, in this way, Macedon will remain.

[disgracedvessel]

At the end of the world

Dancer drabble / word count: 609

The hall was empty.

But the monastery had been, too. From the mouth of the Abyss to the courtyard, and up the stairs to the ballroom, which should have been alive with celebration, the wind sang its lonely song. Julius stood bewildered in the doorway, cutting a tiny figure out of the shaft of light that stretched through the darkness across the polished floor, and thinking again of the waking dreams that had snatched him away some months ago. He stepped forward, cautiously at first, and then with greater confidence, the echo of his heels swallowed up by the yawning void. At the center, just outside of the realm of light, he stopped and listened to the silence.

Once upon a time, the world had responded to his will. He raised his hand and the sconces along the walls crackled to life one-by-one. Walking more swiftly now, he swept along the perimeter. There had been a hall in Belhalla that had resembled this one. It was long and rectangular, its floors polished to a mirror sheen to distract from the lack of embellishment on the walls. A singular chandelier had been its centerpiece, suitable for a conversation with nobility of the lower houses, but otherwise unremarkable. Julius pivoted to find its shadow in the darkness overhead, just as he remembered. He raised both arms and the flames obeyed.

Once upon a time, he had been the star. Tucking his hands behind his back, he gazed out over flickering reflections with his chin raised. The imperial prince had come to grace this hall, and all of Grannvale rose with applause. He closed his eyes and saw them - misty, faceless figures with identities inconsequential to the praise they heaped upon him. A toast was held and the orchestra began to play. Long live the empire. Long live Prince Julius.

Once upon a time, balls had been held for him. His velvet cloak rustled as he threw it over his shoulder. A dozen delicate, porcelain hands extended from the mist, but he passed them all for the one at the end, shimmering in lavender and silver. She had always been his favorite. His goddess. Fit for a god. Their fingers intertwined had seemed to call forth lightning for the awe that swept the room, and every head in attendance turned to watch their dance. He led. He always did, because he knew the angles she looked best in. Watch and envy, he dared with his eyes, and the audience watched with envy. This life was not for them, the ordinary. This beauty was not for them, the average.

They danced through the night, as if the hall belonged to them and them alone. Julius let himself be swept away. Box steps. Spins. Dips. Lifts. Improvisation. He was an expert in it all, and his heels clipped along with a melody of their own. This would have been heaven had the room not been so ordinary--

So ordinary.

Julius' eyes flashed open. The music crashed into silence with one final discordant note. The hall stretched on in stillness, hued by the soft surreality of a dream not yet discarded. His hair had blown across his forehead, where it stuck to a fine layer of sweat. He brushed it back as he panted for breath and stared out across the ballroom that was not Belhalla's. Where a party was not being held for him. Where not even shadows knew his name. Alone, where the wind sang despite him. He shattered silence with a huff and extinguished the lights with the swing of his arm. Darkness fell like a guillotine.

The hall was empty.

[thyrosus]

3/4. —dancer mastery drabble.

                                   ↳ with a cameo by @flowerofgoneril​.          

                          ( One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three— )

I.

BEFORE the weight of responsibility bore heavy on their shoulders, their hands were intertwined, respectable distance apart giving way to childish twirls upon the polished wood of the floor beneath their feet. Hilda cannot be bothered to pay her lessons any mind—Lorenz chastised her in turn, chest puffed and all of nine years as he preens under the praise of his tutors while he tries to correct her—but she is light on her feet. He enjoys the rhythm, feels pride when their childish squabbling can unfold into something resembling a dance.

It’s rudimentary, their steps. They are not elegant swans, but young children, learning the movements for the first time, more twirls than necessary. There is no polite distance as they step on each other’s toes, and Lorenz’s rigid posture is not immune to the warmth of Hilda’s laughter.

They will be scrutinized for their graceless forms later. Right now, they are weightless, bathed in sunshine, hands not yet callused from lance and axe. Lorenz could spare a lecture, of course, but there is no more air in his lungs, and he’s too busy bowing—exaggerated in its form—to pay anything much mind other than the blur of color Hilda’s become, letting her skirts fan around her.

“My lady,” he says, offering his hand again. She only laughs in response, arms around his neck. Here, it does not matter if he falters and breaks stride in his failure to catch her. No punishment could reach their ears right now.

II.

HOUSE GLOUCESTER shows deference to the church in gold, and in excess devotion to the Saints’ days. Lorenz will miss the social season, bound for Fhirdiad and its famed sorcery academy—he reminds everyone who will listen of that fact, head held high without a second thought as to appearances—and while his obligations are small, he will still take the taste of Leicester’s society to savor during the months still to come, bathed in snow when the rest of Fódlan welcomes spring.

And he dances, of course. More refined, now, growing into his longer limbs—still growing, too, likely to overshadow both his mother and father at this rate—but Saint Seiros Day is a joyous occasion, and even if he doubts the sincerity to which his parents make their toasts, he will let concerns be for tonight.

Tonight, he claims the attention from the Saint herself, and he bears responsibility as the pride of Gloucester to step perfectly in time with his partners.

Numerous, but uneven; Lorenz completes a turn, hand raised to rest against a newer partner’s, and finds a gentleman instead. Around his age, only a hair shorter, seemingly just as shocked to find him, too. Pleasant, though. Kind eyes, a confident stride to his step, humbled as he dances the lady’s part without complaint.

Stare as they might, soon enough they move on down the line, another painted face to stand across their own. But Lorenz remembers his eyes long after the evening is done, honey-colored and sweet. He might have been a distant Daphnel son; at times, Lorenz is almost tempted to try and seek out a name, combed from somewhere in his memory. But he remembers his equal across him, confident gait, matching his steps, the cusp of young adulthood, paragons of humble gentlemen.

He hadn’t even thought it odd, that they might be worth staring at.

III.

TO THE VICTORS GO THE ROSES. Lorenz accepts his handkerchief with scrutiny. It seems a poor consolation for second place, in lieu of the garlands, but it is still well-made. The gold stitching in candlelight; the silver borders shine like scales aside them. A heron takes flight in the dead of winter, a song from its maw.

Lorenz does not settle for anything less than perfection, and stands nearly victorious, without a dance partner to share in what little glory second place contains.

He stands tall, nonetheless. No sense in making a scene. His fingers fiddle with the signet ring on the other hand, momentarily biting the inside of his lip as he seethes in silence, bowing out of the spotlight with the rest of his competitors when they are dismissed.

He ends the night with his window open, the winter air promising snow in short order. The light of a candle at his bedside is not enough to see the full details of his second place prize, but for his efforts, there are other gifts. A merry saddle, for Begonia; proof that he may carry the pride of the Golden Deer and refresh his comrades with his presence.

Something rankles, still, victory so close and yet so far from his grasp.

The signet ring is folded carefully in silk. Tomorrow, he will bring the saddle blanket to his steed, and he will remind his unruly classmates of his accomplishments. He could seethe, yes, but he will choose to take the judges’ ruling as a warning not to skills other than combat fall to the wayside.

In the privacy of his room, his only partner his reflection, he bows, to begin a dance for one.

He has a good feeling about this year.

[jehannanmage]

young and foolish║

the trek leading out of shambhala is a complete and total blur. they need out, lest they succumb to the crumbling rafters and so ewan follows after the pack without thinking. the instinct for self-preservation is good for that much at least. but what's it matter, anyway? none of what he's fought or trained so hard for has come to be. the only reason he's shedding blood, sweat, and tears over his magic is to keep his friends and family safe.

as the downpour outside casts its grisly, silent judgment on the weary souls seeking shelter and reprieve, ewan stews.

magic is just a tool, in the end, to be used or not as one sees fit. a tool with which one may shape the reality around them... yes, merric would have known this, too. those spirits of his he could charm with his smile and quiet presence, and ewan could feel their energy in the slices of the wind mage's spells whenever they practised together.

he hadn't been strong enough, still. 'he was yet young,' some might say. he'd not be placated so easily.

saleh had told him, when he was younger, of the grand potential he saw in his pupil's eyes. and saleh wasn't the sort to say things without meaning them. no matter how many a young student may have heard such a thing from their mentors, he chooses to believe. and that means he has room to grow stronger yet. when they get back to garreg mach, he'll train harder. he won't sleep, if that's what it takes.

he'll become strong, stronger than all the rest, and more than fierce and mighty enough to save all his friends.

it's the same promise he's always clung to, ever since learning he could wield magic. O, how his eyes had glowed with such delight at the possibility. it's not like he hasn't learned anything at all, besides. master saleh has drilled the fundamentals into him in such a way ewan prays he'll never forget. the war across magvel certainly did not hinder, either, when it came to refining his spellweaving and battle prowess. he was suited to this. he is suited to this. he knows it's true, because it has to be.

but when it comes to garreg mach...

ewan watches his feet as they all move along the barren wilds. distantly hears the splish splash of dirt and sand underfoot as the waterlogged grounds try to suck them all in. how long has he been here then, all in all? how much of that time has actually mattered? he'd known from the first of the last year that something was off, but he'd never imagined it actually coming down to something like whatever this was. timelines... converging, splitting apart, resetting. . .

well. it doesn't make a difference to him.

he's going to become the strongest of warlocks no matter what path - or timeline - lies ahead of him. if he has to do all the hard work all over again a million times, so be it. he will be strong enough to protect his friends. that's not a promise: it's the simple truth. this, ewan has decided.

(what he doesn’t realize is he’s already grown plenty strong. he is already a warlock in his own right. but for someone who strives ever upward, it will never be enough. one day, he will learn this.)

[vonvestra]

Magic ran in the family. Every Vestra ever recorded had possessed some talent with Reason, even in the early days of the house’s founding. It was its hallmark trait, alongside its privilege of serving the Adrestian Emperor. Command over dark magic came some time later to supersede the importance of basic Reason, but the foundation remained.

One’s ability with Reason influenced one’s status within the household. Written history held no accounts of heirs unskilled in the formulation of spells, and the most famous of the name had penned scholarly tomes themselves. It was, in lieu of a crest to pass on to worthy heirs, the Vestra tradition. Hubert recognized this implicitly, and for as long as he can remember, he had been among those of “talent.” He devoured books, observed his father’s prowess two or three times a day, and crafted his own spells as early as age 9. And yet a sense of accomplishment forever eluded him.

        “Father, I’ve finished the three texts you’ve lent me.”         “Then begin the fourth.”

        “Father, I’ve finished a new formula.”         “You ought to be working on more complex spells by now.”

        “Father, I’ve sped up the conjuring of Miasma by two seconds.”         “Make it three.”

It was his father that he was chasing after for so long - a fact he came to recognize only after their final fight. In the long silence that followed, Hubert turned away from his books, his training, his craft, and his father the same way his father had turned away from their house’s duty. He picked up what his father had failed and devoted himself to defending Edelgard against him. Relief replaced the footsteps too large for him to fill that remained stalled far behind, and for many years he convinced himself that he had achieved something.

As the academy dictated, he continued passive study of magic, aware that he was already far ahead of many of his peers. His rising rank in the classes meant nothing to him. It was simply a byproduct of his devotion to his liege. Results for his certification tests were unsurprising and insignificant. Most received only the most cursory of glances before being locked away in a drawer with the rest of his records of necessity.

The letter with Warlock Certification inked across it had come that morning. Hubert stared at it for a moment, and then at the date stamped at the top. One corner of his mouth lifted slightly.

“Two years before yours, Father.”

And the letter joined the rest in the dark.

[ceaselessblade]

Vanguard (Mastery Drabble)

Unlike a certain fireman, Ike didn’t think he would find any skeletons in his closet. Literally, that is, not figuratively. (He’s working on the latter.) So the strange clunking noise that sounded like half-a-dozen steel boots meeting heavy oak was, in fact, a surprise. More evenso that it had happened so deep within night’s embrace that even an owl’s coo would be smothered under its wing. It was, oh, three-in-the morning? Maybe?  Nevertheless, Ike finds himself gingerly approaching his closet in the dead of night, brandishing the best weapon he has-- a broom handle.  He has his knife, of course. That is a distant second option. Range is more important when engaging an unknown enemy.  A careful nudge wedges the handle, and with deliberate slowness, the door swings open with a creak. There is no movement. But there is a large, bulky object, placed where the pile of belts and buckles leftover from last week’s refurbished elbowguards should be, nestled between draped cloth and something tall and heavy.  Ike frowns, confused, as his eyes peer into the shadowy mass.  It’s not the bulky object that gives him the clue in the end-- as he attempts to identify the mass, his squinting avails him the shade of amber, imagined or real from the taller headpiece, and with a sinking feeling in his gut, he observes its general shape.  That, indeed, does look like a sword. One that he’d been extremely sure he’d left back in Tellius, under the watchful eyes of its rightful protectors, cleansed of its corruption and held by leadership worthy of the name.  Oh, you know, the holy state of Begnion and Sanaki.  So why is one-half of its sacred Regalia here? He’d left it behind like a tall tale, past unknown waters and far-away shore. With that, the mercenary is certain of the contents of the shapeless mass, and without hesitation, he flings the closet door open, the teal plates clinking heavily as they catch in tangled cape. 

A wisp of clear smoke drifts up from the pile, like a sputtering last cough of a blue flame, and Ike clenches his fist, trembling with stuffy invectives.  “Ffffuuuuuuu--” If this isn’t an omen, he’s not sure what is. 

Cradling a growing headache, Ike leans on the pile of the cool steel, considering his next action. Mist is here. Rhys is here. What are the odds. The casual social gathering of, oh, half the world’s box of choice royalty and talent.  A totally irreverent religious figure of formidable mystery and unknown political supremacy who’s pretty much enabling this entire boiling pot. Whatever the heck is going on with Lord KING Marth of Goddess Whole Land of Peace and Justice, First of His Name. (And his doppelganger, Flavor Two, with just as much improbable steel.)

And now, the old (literal) shoes he’d thought he’d left in history’s wake.

Kneading his brow, air whistles through his teeth as Ike grits them. Leaving things behind isn’t working, clearly, if they come to him instead.  It’s a truth, then. He can feel the sodden thoughts begin grinding to a starting pace at the back of his head, and he wonders if he’d come to any other conclusion if he’d only had more time.

Ugh. He doesn’t want to break his cover. But maybe it doesn’t mean anything at all, in this coterie of queens and emperors and their gathered strength. 

Ike snorts. Maybe that’s true. In the grand scheme of things, he may simply be arrogant to think that any so-called reputation he owns may mean anything at all. In that case, why even bother to hide? It’s not like anyone’s going to think of leveraging a mere mercenary when the future king of (Faer--something, Lions?) is right next door.   The more Ike thinks of it, the more plausible it seems that he’s just been silly. Sighing, he gets to his feet. Right, then.

Fate certainly seems to think so. Or perhaps, just a little bird, who thought help might be needed. 

Besides, it’s just... armor, right? It’s not like a little paint can’t fix it up. Ike scans the plate, and winces. That colour has to go. He doesn’t think he knows any kind of metal that’s turquoise, even in Fodlan. Well, he’s got his work cut out for him.  He ignores the streak of vibrant gold just behind. That one will need far more work than a simple paintjob to conceal. 

[Ike has obtained Equipment (Vanguard)]