#princepsumbra

[starrook]

[ MULLED WINE ]

Leo peruses the feast, a half-empty plate held in one hand. The myriad pastries and other treats, while presented quite nicely, do little to entice him. He's never been one for sweets; seems he'll have to endure a less than satisfactory dinner if this is all the Viscount is offering.

Near the end of the feast table sits a selection of drinks. Again, more sweet teas. The bergamot would do in a pinch, though, especially if it leans more into the floral profile than the citrus.

But something more robust calls his attention. A few glasses of mulled wine sit, ripe for the picking. Leo takes one, allowing himself a small sip. Only then does he notice another person hovering anxiously near the feast tables.

"Good evening, Alcryst," Leo greets, lowering his glass. "Did you make it through the storm unscathed?"

"Prince Leo!" Here's an old face. They met during that big mission, succumbing to sickness only to meet in the "afterlife."

It's hard to believe it's been over a year since that happened! Alcryst greets his fellow prince with a bow and even a small smile. "Good evening to you too...! I made it out alright. It was only drizzling when I made it back inside, so I didn't get too wet." Others weren't so lucky, getting soaked to the bone... though Alcryst thinks he's not much better. He's seen in his reflection how frizzy his hair is getting. Ugh...

"You seem better off than me," Alcryst compliments. Better to turn the conversation away from himself before he bores Prince Leo. "How is the wine, by the way? I've been wanting to try it, but they didn't have any when I asked... Bad luck on my part, I guess..."

[folternis]

"Welcome back, Niles," Leo greets warmly, expression for once unguarded. It's a relief, having one half of his retainers again at his side.

(He need not worry about the archer, yet Leo cannot help but wonder what trouble Niles will land himself in without someone there to break his fall.)

"How is Nohr? Flourishing under Xander's leadership, I presume?" There's no trace of mockery in his tone. Nohr deserves a king who loves her.

"Ah, before I forget--I also heard your wife arrived recently. Should either of you need anything, please let me know."

niles is ever-pleased to see that leo is still here. he dislikes being away from his side ( that place where he belongs, near liege-friend-savior ) but sometimes needs must. niles is more than happy to be the one sent away if it means he can better acquire what he needs in service to the younger of nohr's princes.

"nohr is doing as well as you expect, milord," he says, nodding. for once his easy smile is not present, and in its place is a more sincere expression, one of contentment rather than play-acting at amusement. it's good to finally be able to pass along good news more frequently than bad.

he isn't well-suited to peacetime, but that doesn't mean he's not happy with it.

"your brother is a spectacular ruler—i'm happy to report that all is well."

he brightens just a little at the mention of his wife. it's a subtle expression, his visible eye widening just a touch, but it's likely one leo would know him well enough to pick up on. then he blinks and it's gone.

"i'll keep that in mind. but you know, it's not your job to see to anything i need, is it?"

[rafent]

✧ keep: an important part of your personality that others seldom see, that remains a vital part of who you are even if nobody knows it's there

Keep: an important part of your personality that others seldom see, that remains a vital part of who you are even if nobody knows it's there

Whatever things that Nel wore, Nil wore too.

He vested himself in the very same finery, the very same pieces in the very same places, two gold spun spades pressed into his hair on either side. His identical sickle-shaped pendant on the tail of a polished chain, suspended from a choker and not a cord for one rare expression of individuality; garbed in the same prickly hood, black to her white like two sets of chess crafted for the same board. Their appearances fixed to match, everything of their edges carefully shaved down to meet and complement the other. Even if one must contort and bend himself to do so.

Whatever things that Nel liked, Nil liked too.

Like the repulsive taste of her very favorite spices. Flames that were not flames but in reality pestled condiments, pepper, ginger, lemon grass, thyme, clove in isolation or concoction. A uniformly wretched flavor that sparked disagreement wherever it landed on his tongue, bringing with it a desire to retch up such volcanic sludge at once, but also an over all greater possession of his acceptance. Abstinence. Law.

"Take all the time you need, young man."

Mulling over his role on an invisible stage, Nil's hand hovered over the stuffed buns. Sweet on the left, spicy on the right, just as the owner of the food stall explained; speaking in turn the poles of falsity and truth. Two momentous ticks located at north and south upon the compass of his desire.

She did not understand it, of course - why such a strange customer hesitated for as long as he did, why he lingered on the left, then on the right, and back again. Something as simple as sweet or spicy entered deeply into his consideration, sowed its roots there, and decided the outcome behind his uncertain eyes, reflecting the compass which always pointed north, in the end, even if it longed to swerve south.

". . .Two of your spiciest buns," he said at last, decided always upon his destination no matter how long it took to get there. Two spice-filled buns clenched between his hands and the sweet ones forgotten; one for sister, one for brother; a taste for the innocent, another for the liar.

Because whatever things that Nel liked, "Nil" must like too,

—isn't that right, Rafal?

[twistedisciple]

♖ — Do people, in your muse’s opinion, ever really change? Do they believe themselves to be capable of changing?

or:

♡  — How would your muse define love? Do they believe in soulmates? Do they believe this definition of love is achievable?

Life Philosophy HCs | not accepting

♖ — Do people, in your muse’s opinion, ever really change? Do they believe themselves to be capable of changing? (also sent by @princepsumbra | second question answered here )

I waffled for a bit on the answer to the first part of this question, but I think the answer is no. I look at Gregory for pieces of Griss' personality and while most of his dealings with "change" involve meeting a different version of someone he knows, I think his support chain with Rafal highlights that he can still find a thread of familiarity in others even after they've had some massive turning point. In other words, an individual might change masks, but they'll always be the same person underneath. As a result, I think Gregory is prone to acting on assumptions, and these assumptions only reset in cases like his supports with Mauvier and Alear, where the person he's interacting with really is a completely different person.

Likewise Griss, even after he's quick to call Mauvier a traitor, doesn't really treat him or Veyle like they've changed when they face off for the last time:

(vs Mauvier) Griss: You come to get revenge? Or were you hoping the Hounds wound take you back? We were a family, Mauvier. That makes us like brothers. No one would blame you for missing us. Mauvier: I am here to strike you down. I have nothing more to say. Griss: Geez, a stiff till the end. Guess there's no point in holding back the killing, then. (vs Veyle) Griss: So, Lady Veyle! Where's my reward? Veyle: Reward? Griss: The real Lady Veyle promised me all the agony my heart could want. I was really looking forward to it! The cold, the severity... But in the end, nothing. Not even a scratch. Veyle: That Veyle... She's gone now. Griss: Yeah, 'cause you killed her! So you can't be all bad. Now, you tell me--how are you gonna do it? Kill me, I mean.

I think this is also why he gets blindsided by Zephia's change of heart at the end of chapter 23 after boldly asserting to Alear "I got no plans to switch sides. Not even if we lose. Got it?" He's not committed to protecting the shard. It's clear at this point that he only cares about staying with Zephia, and assumes that she won't switch sides either. And yet... she does.

So that brings me to the second part of this question: do they believe themselves to be capable of changing? The short answer is yes, but this comes with a huge asterisk. Griss has more or less given up his selfhood for god (which is both Sombron and Zephia). This means that he doesn't have to think about change. If god says Be This, he will Be This (fitting into pre-cut shapes is the source of a lifetime of suffering). As far as he's concerned, following orders or commandments, even if they contradict each other, doesn't constitute change of the self. If, at the end of chapter 23, Zephia had decided to give up defense of the shard and join Alear's army instead, Griss would have followed her without a second thought. But he wouldn't have called this his own change of heart. He is and always will be committed to a higher power.

Real change for Griss would be giving up fell worship of his own volition. But to be capable of change, one must be willing to change, and Griss isn't. He's happy (again with a huge asterisk) with who he is, albeit unable to visualize himself living any other kind of life. Pain, at this point, is an integral part of who he is, and he's built his entire personality around all of the twisted meanings he's had to give it in order to survive. To break him of this mindset might do more harm than good.

[gradible]

the cyber grind

Hunting/foraging

- alternatively: if you are instead hunting small flying machines, roll 1d20 each post

-- if 1-5: target explodes, -1HP

-- if 6-16: receive 1 bucket of assorted metal

-- if 17-20: receive 1 live core

The feeling of a lance in his hand eases Sirius’ nerves. Anxiety had been hard to force down after becoming familiar with his environment; unease and dismay are fast and insidious killers. Only the faint glow of his weapon--the very same used by the man who lent him his mask--steels him for battle ahead. That, and the relief of reuniting with his old steed. Pedasos was Camus’ first love in life. He was a Grustian horse of legend, his speed and fortitude believed to rival even that of dragons. With him, charging into battle had always been a fearless affair, for together, they could ram through even the impenetrable earth.

But Pedasos fell on his fated day, and after resurfacing in Valentia, Zeke never learned of his whereabouts. Even when he returned to fight for his motherland, his mount and companion’s body was nowhere to be found. Presumed dead, a silent funeral was held in his honor. His memorial consists only of the sticks and stones Sirius could grab on a short notice.

But now, yoked once more by his brother in arms, Pedasos sprints again. Sirius knows he is only part of the dream, but believes he is riding with the spirit of his stallion. He smiles as he drives his lance through the first of his foes.

Roll 1d20 = 8, +1 bucket of assorted metal!

It is a smaller drone, so it falls in an instant. But when the knight dismounts to inspect his kill, he comes to find its precious core pierced and unsalvageable. His frown returns as he loads up on what metal scrap remains.

“Professor Leo?” he calls out, remembering that he is not alone in this endeavor, “I seem to have fractured the light of its core. Will this leftover metal... Be of use to you?” 

//starter for @princepsumbra

[teneguine]

✢⁎. the neverending curse we cast

“...No, that didn’t seem quite right...” 

Odin sucks a breath. Something about him is off today, as he slings spells at target tummies set up over the training grounds and its dusty floor. No bolt nor gale, flame nor eldritch spike lands with oomf the mage seems to desire. His face only grows darker after each cast, and no, that’s not the ‘cool’ kind of dark he’d gloat about.

This one is more like gloom, the way it mars his characteristically shining features. His hand, once outstretched from his body, retracts into his torso once the last few flickerings of arcane energy run through his fingers. Even that--the way some of it lingers on--is a sign of lost control. Back it Nohr he could wield Ragnarok and vexing Ginnungagap with flair, but now not even a simple Thunder feels natural to him.

Such is Odin’s curse. One power, traded for another; the Brand on his arm grew back after that dragon’s blood ran its course, but in exchange he lost his mystical poise. Mana is out of his grasp, stygian powers once again a farce. And don’t get him wrong, he loves having that proof of his lineage back (even intends to show it to Ophelia someday) but it’s just...

Tomefaire was part of him, you know?

“Once more,” he whispers, “once more, I UNLEASH MY RAGE!!” Hands zip here and there, performing a sacred rite to channel power into his being, before another blitzing blast readies itself in his palms. He reaches for the heavens, and calls out his mighty “ARDOR-SPREADING BEAK!!”

The result is agonizingly ordinary. A toke of Thunder jolts the dummy across from him, searing one spot but searing it well, and creating no resulting explosions--no violet wildfires or sigils of doom. It’s just a thunderbolt, and while to some that may sound preposterous, Odin Dark knows he is capable of much more. It’s in his blood! ...Right? 

Whatever the case may be, despondence returns to him. He makes that same sour face, slumps his shoulders in that same sad way. Perhaps it’s time to throw in the towel and accept it: he’s learning his movelist from the ground-up.

...It hurts. Man, does it hurt. Laslow and Selena must not have it this bad...

//starter for @princepsumbra​ 

[ofdusk]

'til it gets to me

@princepsumbra ♡

Her days have passed in relative silence. Things ease back into normalcy, those who had returned from Rusalka all coming back into reality proper. She’s glad to feel something akin to alright again -- for the world to have finally stopped spinning.

A lot of things have gone unsaid, though. She swiftly dodges opportunities to speak of what had happened in the village, waving them away with a dismissive hand. It’s not hard to think about, for the most part, but she doesn’t exactly want to either.

Faustus accepts her hand on his nose as well as the kiss that follows immediately to his forehead. It’s quiet in the stables, save for the sound of Leo shuffling about. Moments like these have been sorely missed, the comfort that comes with familiarity. Faustus is awarded another kiss, just for good measure.

“Your dream,” her voice breaks their quiet finally, spoken without looking at or even properly addressing Leo, “you haven’t told me what it was like.”

She doesn’t need to specify, or need him to tell her that the reason he hasn’t is because she has made a point not to ask. Now crimson eyes peer past the horse’s face, watching Leo silently before Faustus noses at her shoulder and her attention is returned to him.

[aegisshielded]

the rats don’t run this city, we do || Team 3 Steel Round

@ofdusk @cursedbluebird @princepsumbra @unsungblade

The previous round went by in a flash compared to the first round of fighting, and Felix found himself wondering if he even had an opportunity to contribute. If he wasn’t pulling his weight for the team, then what was the point of being there at all? The point of training in the arena was to work as a team, unfortunately, and Felix took that as the challenge it was. He was not about to let himself be a slacker.

So, as the next round began, Felix steadied himself and surveyed the enemies before him. His lip curled up in a snarl of disgust at the sight of rats. Ugh. He hated rats.

[Felix attacks with Brave Sword: 9, 11. Two hits resulting in -4HP to Bodyguard A]

[Bodyguard A counters with Double-Edged Blade: 7. Results in -10HP to Bodyguard A and their counter misses Felix. Bodyguard A is defeated!]

The largest enemy—the disgusting rat king—wasn’t optimal to attack first, so Felix charged for the underlings, sights landing on the one to the furthest left. Quick on his feet, he landed his two hits with ease, and the bodyguard fell just as quickly as they had appeared. A please smirk made its way to Felix’s lips, which replaced his previous repulsed snarl. He turned to his teammate, amber eyes ablaze with determination to eliminate the enemies as soon as possible. No one could call him a slacker after that, certainly.

@ofdusk - you’re up!