#heavy-draw

[dcggersedge]

[ FLIRT (kind of) ] "Seriously? What is this garbage?" Shamir mumbled to herself as she looked over the contents of a book she had found abandoned outside, labeled as "Pick-Up Lines: 101". The concept was interesting enough, and she could use a laugh... but this was just plain disappointing, and not even remotely funny. "You must be a dog person, because you look fetching? There's no way anyone falls for these." She glances over the top of the waste of paper to arch a brow in Yunaka's direction, her expression remaining as flat and impassive as ever before she speaks. It's all in jest, of course, but it's entertaining enough to see reactions to such corny statements. "Hey. Everyone calls me Shamir... but you can call me tonight."

She's got a cracker halfway into her mouth when she realizes Shamir is talking to her. She freezes, then decides that's not a good idea with food in her mouth, then forces herself to keep chewing and swallow before she chokes and coughs to death.

"That kinda sucks." She informs Shamir factually. Why would she call her a time of day? That made no sense at all. Yunaka claps her hands together to get the crumbs off her fingers.

"You'd think if someone wasted the time to write and print a book, they'd make sure what they were saying was actually good." That or it was a scam, in which case...well, unfortunate for the people desperate enough to buy a book in hopes that it would help. She reaches over and pinches the spine of the book to take it from Shamir and read herself. She only manages to scan a few lines before grimacing and shaking her head.

"Geez, all of these are bad. The scripts I used to read had way better ones." And she could prove it too. She snaps the book shut and hands it back to Shamir. Except this time, she follows after the book, stepping into Shamir's personal bubble as she does so. The smile on her face is practiced and the tilt of her head is calculated as she looks up at the mercenary from beneath her eyelashes.

"I can give you a private show sometime if you need convincing."

...see? Easy. And way better than that stupid book.

Point proven, she reaches past Shamir to pick up a glass of something off the table before turning and walking away with a wave over her shoulder. "Later, tater!"

[loyaldeserter]

Approaching with a red, Black Eagles bandana tied around her left arm, Shamir offers a swift greeting as she adjusts the quiver of arrows slung over her shoulder. It's certainly a rare sight to see her somewhat willingly participate in a group event like this, but the chance to keep her skills sharp is too much of a good opportunity to pass up. Heath may not be joining in the fray, but it doesn't mean that she can't drag him into a tiny bit of the fun. "Hey," She calls to him softly, bow slung over her shoulder before she prepares to depart to the field of battle. "Want to spice things up a bit?" "I'll make a bet with you. Whoever guesses the correct winner gets to have the other pay for drinks for a night." "Blue Lions." Yes, she's fighting for the Black Eagles. Clearly, she doesn't care about that part. "Your move."

It's not that Heath is uninterested in the mock battle tournament, but between strenuous recent missions and no real loyalty, he figures watching will be his best bet. He might help out in the med tents, too. Keep an eye on things.

Shamir's got about as much house spirit as he does, evidently, betting against her own team like that. Heath chuckles, a grin on his face. Shamir always keeps things interesting.

"Yeah, I'm down." Hmmmm. If Shamir lacks confidence in her own team, that doesn't bode well. Heath hasn't paid a lot of attention to which students are in what house, really, but if she's going Lions and lacks faith in the Eagles, that leaves one option. "Golden Deer. Their name isn't even in the fight, I'll take the dark horse."

A firm handshake confirms the deal. Now to look at the matchups and figure out who he's supposed to root for...

[cutestrival]

In the aftermath of the destruction brought to Garreg Mach's doorstep, Shamir finds herself reverting back to even the most basic of survival instincts-- and first on her list is to take stock of everything that the stragglers have managed to compile in the way of supplies. They certainly don't have access to the same arsenal that they did before, and the fact of the matter remains: if there's no forays out to acquire more food, water, and first-aid items… then their inventory will dwindle quickly.

The flickering of flame on her torch is all that remains to light the darkness of a winding corridor lined with various wooden crates; not many, not enough. Her lips thin as she walks past each other, the lids cracked open to reveal that there's hardly anything inside in the way of useful contents.

A shiver runs up her spine as a presence behind her immediately alerts her to the fact that she's not alone-- and there's zero hesitation as the mercenary spins around on her heel. Shamir's already torn her hunting knife from its sheath on her thigh, and she tosses the torch to the side as she lunges forward to slam into the silhouette not far behind her. There's time for caution and time for initiative; judging by the fact that they just suffered a vicious defeat, she can act first and ask questions later. When she knows her safety (and the safety of others) is secured.

The two of them tumble to the hard ground, a grunt coming out of her as she straddles the waist of her assailant. The sharp edge of her trusty knife rests against the side of their neck as more of a promise than a threat, and the blade presses just hard enough to send a stinging sensation. Her free hand remains to pin one of the other's arms down, and Shamir leans forward far enough to make sure that they aren't going anywhere without a fight.

But… realization quickly dawns on her that this isn't one of the creatures she fought at the monastery. Despite that, however, she doesn't loosen her grip.

"What're you doing sneaking around here? Not a great idea to remain in the shadows when everyone's on edge, you know."

While kicking around dust is absolutely what she wants to do, Selena obviously can’t be seen looking so lethargic. And so, in a pursuit for mild entertainment, she makes the rounds of their dingy little bunker, taking stock of this and that. For the most part, it’s just moss and mold. The sound of lids rattling atop crates down a dark corridor does spark her attention, though.

Someone’s moving in the dark. Rummaging for supplies? Or, an intruder? Her eyes strain in the darkness to no avail. She sets one step forward,

and that’s as far as she gets, immediately tackled and dominated in a whirl of blades and paranoia. A yelp manages to escape from under her captor. Winded, flushed, and infuriated at her failure, she coughs up her lungs and tries to make sense of what’s happened.

“What the hell…What’s…what…” What’s wrong with you? The knife at her throat makes grave a situation where she might once have told someone off. The numbness that pervades her arm at her shoulder is familiar, and frustrating; it's the embarrassment of losing a duel. Meaning, surely her assailant is an ally, surprised…? If it were an enemy, surely Selena would already be dead.

Whatever! That wasn’t even fair…

!“Wait, wait,” she coughs, searching the dark hair hanging over her for any humanity. “I’m Selena…from Garreg Mach. I’m a student…” The prick of the knife once again forces her thoughts to trail. With the last of her energy, she faces forward (upward?) and seethes, “...stupid!” She writhes on the cold stone, trying to wiggle out of her captor’s clutches. “And anyway, what were YOU doing, sneaking around, huh? I should have my lady rip you to pieces for trying to steal supplies! So let...me…GO!” But for all her struggling, her pinned arm and surprised tackle keep Selena stranded beneath her.

[deamare]

♡ ˚·  @heavy-draw asked:

Well, it wasn't exactly often that Shamir took the initiative to start a conversation-- yet considering the fact that they would be crammed into a pitiful room for the foreseeable future, the archer opts to make this less... daunting for them both. Drink in hand, she casually extends one of the glasses in offering to Ishtar. Truth be told, Shamir has no idea what sort of preferences the other woman has in the way of alcohol (or if she even drinks at all), but... It's the thought that counts, right? She had chosen something fairly neutral, with a hint of sweetness. "Ishtar, was it? Apologies for springing this on you. If we're going to be stuck together, might as well make it as enjoyable as possible. Care to share a drink with me?"

To say it surprises her would be perhaps an understatement. Silver eyes flicker from the woman's expression to her offering and then back once more, a timid hand reaching to accept.

"You needn't apologize," a soft, small smile, "I would be happy to."

It had been a misjudgment, perhaps, to deem Shamir frigid. She seems quite personable now, or at least the type that Ishtar finds she does not mind. This-- the drink, the setting, the company-- is realms away from familiar. Gaze flits to the liquid that swirls in her glass, considering it a moment before bringing it to her lips.

She is surprised to find it rather pleasant.

"This is all..." words weigh carefully on her tongue, slow and unsure, "so unusual. I find myself unsure what to make of any of it." Ishtar pauses, then shakes her head once.

"Thank you." For the drink, for this. "At least none of us are alone."

[dcggersedge]

[SPIN THE BOTTLE] Ah, there's a name she hasn't gotten yet-- though the face is one she's come across several times. Chin resting in her hand, she glances over at the other woman with the slightest hint of a smirk on her face, brows arched in an expression that almost mirrors a taunt... or a challenge. All in good fun, of course. She scoots forward there, her finger trailing from the base of Yunaka's neck, drawing upwards along the same divot where her jugular runs-- it's easy to feel the pounding of her pulse beneath her pale skin, and her hand only comes to a stop when she can brush a few strands of her hair away from her face. A low chuckle is her initial offering, tilting her head slightly as she leans in to murmur low enough for only the two of them to hear. "I've seen a lot of people like you," She begins, moving ever closer, barely enough for their noses to brush. "You have a certain look in your eye-- you're a hunter, ready to track down your prey and devour them whole." Her palms cup the other's cheeks, thumb brushing a smooth path over the surface of her tattoo. Shamir's eyes flutter shut as she closes the distance between them in a kiss that's a bit needier than it should be for a game like this-- she presses forward insistently, leaning into her as her hands pull her in and her tongue swipes against Yunaka's bottom lip, and she breaks them apart long enough for a breathy noise that almost sounds like a laugh to escape. "So-- gonna do your part and eat me alive, then?"

It's a rich statement, coming from a woman who dives forward to devour once again, mouth moving against hers with an almost desperate hunger, tasting, claiming-- and once her hands tangle in Yunaka's hair, she lets out a soft sigh of satisfaction before her breaths become shallow.

Her fingers loosen, and she makes the extra effort to ensure that she doesn't tug on the other's hair too much as she pulls her hands away, fingers trailing over her cheeks before she separates them both; though she manages to look somewhat composed, the flush on Shamir's face and the darkening of her pupils certainly gives a different impression. "Your move, Professor."

Finally the stupid, evil bottle lands on someone else who isn't Alear again. Yunaka laughs, and hopes her relief for the break isn't too obvious. The woman who spun it is familiar. They've spoken a few times. The easy, confident challenge on her face already gives her a hint of what role she's expected to play. Easy. Yunaka can handle another performance.

She stiffens a little as fingers come near her neck, but manages not to flinch away. The archer doesn't grab, so it's easy to pretend that everything is still fine. Yunaka intends to slide an easy smile of her own in place to match her energy, to preen like this is nothing but the fun little game it's intended to be.

"I've seen a lot of people like you,"

The smile freezes in place, halfway to its intended form.

"You have a certain look in your eye--"

A chill sets in, rolling down her spine like a splash of cold water.

"you're a hunter"

Yunaka freezes solid. Doesn't move, doesn't react to anything that the woman says or does for the rest of the turn, doesn't hear any of it. No, she shouldn't know. She shouldn't know. Yunaka hasn't done anything, not during the party - unless she has, did she mess up somewhere? Did she do something stupid? Did she make a mistake? You can't watch every face in a crowd, can't see who's watching back, can't keep an eye on things-

Did the others hear? Did they hear what she said? Alear already knows but the others- nobody else is supposed to know, she didn't have to tell them, she didn't want them to know.

Yunaka's heart is racing. She feels like she can't breathe. She blinks and abruptly realizes the woman is staring at her, waiting expectantly, she's supposed to do something, she's already messed up, she keeps messing up, she doesn't know-

"I need to leave."

Yunaka's voice cracks when she speaks, weaker than she wants to be. She doesn't care right now. The woman's hands are gone before she has to slap them off her, her feet kick blindly at the ground as she pushes herself far back enough to fumble to her feet. You're not supposed to run anymore, a vaguely familiar voice mocks her.

She grits her teeth until her jaw hurts. "I need to leave. I'm sorry. I'm..."

She can't think of another thing to say. She really doesn't want to waste time trying to. Without further excuses, Yunaka turns and walks away.

Yunaka has left the game

[princeofopenness]

[FASHION POLICE] Everyone here looks like they've put so much effort into their outfits. Which makes sense, truly-- this was THE social event of the year, from her understanding, and the students certainly wanted to make good impressions with or without their dates. Even the faculty enjoyed making a splash, with several of her colleagues dressed up in the gaudiest ensembles that she's seen in a long time... and that's saying something, considering she's forced to work with nobles on the regular. There's one that stands out in particular, though. The gold is absolutely blinding, and though the outfit itself looks nice enough... the guy's gotta be sweating in that. "Hey. Sorry, I haven't caught your name, but... Surely that's uncomfortable?" Shamir gives him a once-over, gaze trailing from his feet to his head. "Maybe I'm biased. I'm not a big fan of the beach." "I'm Shamir. One of the Knights. Technically, I'm here as staff, but I'm stealing the moments that I can. There's nothing of importance happening." Yet, she neglects to say. It's only a matter of time until a fight breaks out, or someone goes and drowns in the ocean. "C'mon. Get out of that cloak. You're going to burn to death."

The presence of his father's cloak and the warmth it provided had become something Alfonse scarcely even paid attention to after how long he'd been wearing it. He was already well accustomed to wearing clothing that was perhaps a bit too warm for the climate. He scarcely wore anything less than his full battle regalia most places he went, if only because being prepared for a fight was often a necessity regardless of the reason for which he was traveling. Once his father passed, Alfonse's regular cape had (eventually) been permanently replaced by the fine fur cloak Gustav had always worn, something to always remind Alfonse of the expectations he needed to meet.

Alfonse's eyebrows raised at Shamir's greeting. He knew who she was, of course. He knew exactly how she felt about the beach as well, though he would prefer not to have to explain why he knew that. Really, bringing that up at all would just lead them down a conversational path that Alfonse did not particularly wish to tread. "Oh yes, I've seen you in a bikini many times before" was not a particularly good way to begin a conversation with someone who didn't know anything about you.

"Ah, I-- it's really not that bad," Alfonse sighed, fingers idly stroking the soft fur of the cloak, his bangle for the ball jingling softly with its turtle charm. "It's my father's, actually. I'll... spare you the details of what it means to me-- what he meant to me. That's really not a good first impression to make, is it? Suffice to say that it's rather important to me... but also that, er, this attire was not designed with the beach in mind. Formal parties, yes, but not for one so..."

Alfonse sighed, casting his gaze at the scenery around them. The salty sea air and ocean spray were likely going to be nothing but terrible for the fine fabrics his clothing was made of. The stiffness of his outfit certainly didn't suit a more laid-back setting like the beach, either. At least he wasn't going to be required to swim. He couldn't imagine that being anything but a miserable experience with the outfit he had on. Good thing nothing bad was going to happen that would force him to do that! Say, why did the clouds on the horizon look so foreboding?

"...Wet. I also wasn't aware I was going to have to wear this little charm, either. If I'd known, I'd probably have tried to coordinate colors with the charm and my outfit... but I suppose us not knowing about them was intentional, wasn't it? ...Sorry, I got a bit distracted there. Alfonse. Pr-- er, just Alfonse right now, I suppose. I am also a member of the Knights of Seiros, actually, though obviously we've not had the privilege of working together as of yet."

[thunderbanned]

Shamir fully expects to never hear the end of her defeat at the hands of the Blue Lions, especially from a specific Knight that manages to get under her skin more than she’d like to admit. She’s bruised, battered, and the side of her head hurts from a vicious blow that may or may not have given her a concussion— and so she sits on a bench at the medical tent, an ice pack pressed to her forehead.

The moment she spots her partner, though, a frown breaks out across her face.

“Not a word.”

"Heh."

Catherine wasn't going to say anything - honest! She'd trained more than a few of these students herself, and she knew the mettle with which they set out, even for a mock battle. Seeing Shamir looking totally defeated is a rare sight, and Catherine can't get herself to kick her while she's down. Even still, she ignores Shamir's words.

"What happened out there? Archbishop kick your butt?"

[party-pri3st]

[SPIN THE BOTTLE] Between those gathered here, it seems that this bottle wants her to be stuck with two specific people-- the gentleman whose reservation is actually pretty cute, and the girl that she expected to be more shy than she is in her affections. Shamir supposes it could be worse, and she's actually quite thankful that she didn't get stuck with people she didn't exactly care for. "You again, huh?" She chuckles under her breath, scooting a bit closer to his side. Her hand comes up to graze against the curve of his jaw, eyes locking for a brief moment as their breaths mingle in the small space between them. The first second her lips brush against his, it's gentle-- almost tentative as if she's testing the waters... but the hesitation fades quickly. She leans back in to press them together with more urgency, the next kiss she dives into lingering a bit longer than the last. Her fingers tangle in his hair to drag him closer, free hand grabbing his own and pulling it to rest at her waist. By the time she pulls away, she's a little breathless, but she does a decent enough job of keeping it from showing. "... Maybe I've had one too many."

The second time, he's way more relaxed. Shamir seems to find him amusing, so this probably won't be awkward when the pretense of the party is over. Whew! His shoulders drop, and he can enjoy himself a bit.

She's handsier this time around, smooth black leather sliding across his jaw, fingers in his hair. It's kind of exciting! He kisses her back enthusiastically, though he feels like his whole face is pulled in a big, dumb grin the whole time.

Then his hand is pulled to her side, just under her ribcage; the pulse there flutters quick and strong. She's like no one he's ever held, ever kissed before, and he don't know if he ever will again, so he hauls her closer. She's not a firecracker; she burns slow, like a bonfire in the desert.

Pandreo's probably got stars in his eyes by the time she pulls back and quips about being buzzed. He mentally adds her to his list of people to invite to one of his parties when he heads home. He tips his head back and gives a short little howl, like it's energy overflowing from his body.