#resurrectionpact

[verseandrhyme]

the libation bearers

@resurrectionpact ; @thelordoftheair ; @ceaselessblade ; @onlygodremembers

The kingdom of Valla, referred to by those who dare as the invisible kingdom, is a land hidden away at the bottom of the Bottomless Canyon, only to be visited every few decades when the skies above the lands of Hoshido and Nohr change. Following the curse of its creator, the silent dragon, none live there but ghosts, whispers of the past and what once was and no longer is. A land lost to time and myth, just as any belief or faith’s inevitable end.

In the here and now, it is not Vallaites, but unknown shadows that surge upon the monastery with weapons drawn and spells alight, crying out for the blood of the devout and retribution for whatever secrets time has swept away.

It is not the same. But the similarities are enough to leave Mitama on edge.

Mitama rolls a 19. Crit! 3.5 damage. Target is now poisoned.

Mitama’s voice cracks through the battlefield as she charges in, Valaura flying through the air once more to seep into the shadowy archer’s skin. The figure cries out as the spell burns and poison takes hold of its form. 

Should she be concerned about how easily she’s taken to the spell? She’s never dabbled in poisons before...her father-

isn’t here. Nor is the Dawn or the Dusk she knows so well. Only the Goddess and the blessing she bestows upon them in her name, despite the mark her protectors call a stain of sin upon her ankle. Well...if the Goddess deems this the path Mitama might take, so be it.

She’s never been one for fighting fate anyways.

Sword Mercenary attacks for 1 damage.

The sound of the sword slicing through the air grabs Mitama’s attention before the pain as a cut blossoms on her arm. She hisses and recoils, turning to face the new opponent. Before she can retaliate, another figure attacks it. Mitama blinks, recognizing Ike, before she huffs.

“Still charging in without a thought, hmm?” She calls, turning to find her next target. “Try to keep that head on your shoulders, empty as it is!”

[arcstral]

See Stars, Not Make Stars.

Marth  &  Lyon.        ◞        @resurrectionpact        ◞        Gauntlets +1

               From armory to boutique to bazaar to fishmonger, business in town has taken him as far as the disc in the sky. Shadows cast by the sun now fanning wide across hovels and cobbles, touching the bright commercial utopia of the castle-town with a lowering grey. It is a signal to leave and retire to their homes for some; for others, a more covert signal to stay and, as he notices, even to gather towards the gambling dens beneath notice of the daylight. The townspeople of an earnest living and their authorities. Not him.

              This discretion, this atmosphere. It is similar to the Knorda Market he remembers of his own lands, the slippery and almost, but not quite, unnoticeable feeling in the air that gave rise to every manner of wicked pleasure and vice. Marth has seen the light that Fòdlan has to offer with its saints and righteous doctrines, but a part of him too would know of its darkness. Like he knew Archanea’s, as prince and witness, then king and arbiter. A bloody slave-trade economy; fashioned of plainsmen aboriginals and gladiators. 

               Perhaps it is all a stone’s throw too close to home. When he catches that there is a popular—suspicious—gambling cockpit of fighters about the area. With form aglow beneath the torchlights, he makes to follow in the footsteps of the drunkard shortly ahead for no reason but the truth. A bit of curiosity as well, if he were to be any more honest, and this path leads him into a secret stone passage between two hedges. The flute of the passageway flares out into a wider room, packed to the brim with a noisy crowd converged around a ring. He finds himself pushed along until squeezed between a hard wall and another.

              A glaring fault of overcapacity, his elbow jams into the fellow beside him. He veers to don an apologetic smile only for it meld into a friendly curve, a sudden realization dawning quick: before him was a new student from the academy! Lyon, if he correctly recalls, a royal mage who appeared as out-of-place here as a lamb might a den of wolves. He almost looks as if he has lost his way home, Marth thinks, though not yet sympathetically, if only because one could never assume whether the number of men another has killed was zero. Or a thousand.   “  Pardon me, I could not help but notice. You are a student of the academy from Magvel, yes? We had not yet met, though I suppose now we have! What finds y—  “

               It is a struggle to be heard over the excited din of the arena as a pugilist tumbles to his defeat over the rope barrier. All around, men either raise their betting sticks with roaring triumph or throw them down like sullied napkins into the refuse. Collecting his voice, the king tries again, cupping his mouth with a hand.   “  —Oh, forgive me; what finds you here?  “

[jehannanmage]

The memory is hazy, but Lyon recalls seeing this one's youthful face and shock of red hair. Unfortunately, when he recognizes a face from a hazy memory, that usually means that he hasn't made a good first impression.

It's that fear that holds Lyon's tongue when he watches the boy take one too many sweets from the dessert table, but as time goes on and more cakes are snatched... "Um, excuse me..." Lyon pipes up as the boy returns yet again. "I... I don't think you should be taking so many."

And Ewan, for his part, recognizes this particular shock of purple. He pauses mid-bite to rub at his eyes, doughnut held in his teeth for safekeeping and huh.

He thought he'd seen Knoll around here of all people earlier, but the man had disappeared before he could make sure. Maybe he'd seen wrong? But with Lyon not but a yard from him, there's no mistaking it: Grado's fallen emperor stands before him, in the flesh.

And the ghost has the gall to scold him, too.

Ewan's face scrunches up in a mixture of emotion: confusion, annoyance, incredulity, and the faintest hint of trepidation. He takes the treat from his mouth and lowers his hand, studying the other.

"And I don't think you're supposed to be alive," he notes with a frown. "And yet, here we are. I..."

What's a guy to do? Here stands the man who nearly put Magvel on the brink of calamity, and he looks for all the world innocent as he simply chides after such a trivial affair. . . Is it an act? Is the Demon King come to Garreg Mach?

Eyes widen.

"... I need to find Ephraim!" And with that, he turns on his heels and makes to bolt, but stops, looking over his shoulder. "And here, if it bugs you so very much!"

He takes the second doughnut he'd nabbed and makes to shove it in the other's hands. Whether he takes it or lets it drop to the floor is of no concern to the young mage - simply that it suffices as distraction enough for him to escape. . . !

[verseandrhyme]

a brief lesson in art history

The catacombs are dark. It is an unsurprising thought. They are underground. But it had not occurred to Mitama exactly how dark they would be until the light was stricken away from them. The sudden plunge, along with Mitama’s mark growing more and more irate under her sock similarly plummeted her own mood.

The sight of a golem at the other end of the hall certainly does not help either.

Mitama sighs to herself, examining the walls as she grumbles and wonders why the religious heads of the institution did not think to deactivate their defenses before their arrival, when her eyes fall onto a mural that decorates the passage.

The shrine maiden hums curiously. It is religious in origin, clearly, but not anything the shrine maiden can recall hearing of in the preaching. Not that that was unusual either.

Her eyes drift to their newfound mystery guide. Mitama could easily use this as an opportunity to question Rhea and Seteth further, but it would not do well to leave any loose ends. "Might it be possible to receive an explanation of what we are seeing for those of us who are less informed in such matters?"

"Ah, of course!" Faolán steps in front of the group to get a better look at the wall.

Water and time have faded the mural's original colors, and there are parts where you see the bare rock rather than paint. However, you can still make out a large female figure daintly stepping onto a blue floor (tile? water?). Where her foot touches the blue erupts light, clouds and snow and magic, trees and flowers and the animals that leap after them.

"The Creation of Fódlan," Faolán whispers in wonder. "When the Goddess alighted on our world, when it was but a cloudless ocean... even when worn by time, its glory is arresting."

Mitama hums, thoughtful, turning her attention to the mural once more. She cannot deny that it is a gorgeous piece of work. “Why would such a piece be commissioned in a part of the monastery where none would see it?” She wonders out loud, crossing her arms before her. “Surely it would fair better to be displayed openly, for all to gawk at.”

@ignatzlandscape

[soliegis]

It's him. But how should he...

When Lyon arrived in the Officers Academy, he hadn't expected to run into so many people that knew him–worse, people that had fought him, and that he tried to kill in return. Such a terrible first impression hardly serves him well here. Maybe... it's for the best that he keeps a low profile here anyways.

But then, the sight of Ephraim milling around with the rest of the students sends a jolt of fear in his heart, shaking his resolve. He deserves a peaceful life without me weighing him down. And yet still, so selfishly, Lyon wishes to reach out and see Ephraim's face again, in the flesh rather than relying on foggy memories. He could bear his friend's sorrow, his hate, his rejection...

Oh, who is he fooling?

Lyon catches him in the reception hall, walking about. Carefully, he follows behind... "Ephraim." Lyon reaches out and, tentatively, touches Ephraim's hand to get his attention. "Stay safe, please. Don't rush into trouble like you usually do."

That's all he wanted to say. With a quick sidestep, Lyon turns away and leaves Ephraim in peace, disappearing into the group.

                              guilt is no burden. it does not weigh,                               crucifixion upon the heart, no four horsemen                               to each palm, to each foot.                               you cannot count the ways.

          ❝ i understand. ❞ he nods, folding the slip of parchment passed to him, giving its contents a cursory glance before it’s tucked, folded carefully, out of sight. ❞ i’ve been told there will be others, too. ❞

          ❝ yes, we’ve sent a member of the faculty to supervise the students more closely. she should be more familiar with them. gerik, as well. you’re familiar with him, according to our records. ❞ he nods. ❝ and perne. three knights will have to be enough; unfortunately, we can’t spare more. ❞

          ❝ it will be, ❞ he promises. ❝ we’ll get the job done. ❞ the clergyman seems to believe him, or at least manifests no evident doubt.

                              grief is no mantle. it is not borne full-bodied                               as armor. or death. it does not come to howl                               or beat at your door. its wail                               is only an entryway.

          he turns to leave. the remainder of the crowd still waits; deployments are still being called. but the company he’s been assigned to has little time to waste, and the list of supplies is long. it’s difficult to weave through the bodies of the reception hall, make his way towards the fringes. ❝ excuse me. excuse me. ❞ all eyes are forward; the room holds its breath on the anxious sobriety only war brings.

          a student shuffles out of the way to let him through; he mutters his thanks. something grazes his hand, and he thinks nothing of it in these close quarters until he hears his name.

          but it could have been any word; that’s not what turns his head. nor what freezes his blood.

                              they are human. they too fade with the morning.                               gracious guests who leave                               no footprints, traces intangible and only recognizable                               by impression. who wait, until you have set                               down the burdens of the day, to take your hand,                               gentle: “ i alone am here for you. ”

          it can’t be. ❝ ... lyon? ❞ a breath like a god-fearing man blinded. but he’s already gone. pale lavender vanishing, swallowed by the density of the multitude, and the gaps made seal shut again so quickly like fissures. he’s always thought that if he were to ever see him again, if he could have a second chance, then he would never let him out of sight. but it’s something uglier than shock alone that keeps him rooted where he stands.

          a girl is staring at him; he stares down at his arm, half-outstretched. and lowers it. ignores the unfamiliar tremor in his wrist.

          he’s too young to be seeing ghosts.

[coeurenais]

ghosts of memories past

@resurrectionpact

Eirika didn’t believe in ghosts. They weren’t real, and therefore could not hurt her.

She tried to remind herself of that face the first time she saw him -- thought she saw him wandering the halls. It had been a brief glimpse, mauve hair and a lean figure in the hallways. Her heart skipped a beat before it began to race - it coudln’t possible. Ghosts don’t exist, Eirika reminded herself. Dead men don’t wake from the grave and go to class. It must have simply been a coincidence, the academy was filled with people from all over the world. Seeing someone around his height with similarly coloured hair was nothing more than a simple coincidence.

Of this, she’d managed to convince herself during her first fortnight at Garreg Mach. Caught up in classes, activities and meeting new people, it slipped her mind. It was easy to just forget about the person who sort of resembled the boy she once knew.

Until she was face to face with his ghost.

It had been a long day of classes and she’d spent most of the evening studying in the library. Night had already fallen, moonlight was streaming through the windows and Eirika had decided it was time to put the books down and head to bed. She was on her way out of the library when she collided with someone.

Her stomach dropped to the floor and her blood froze. Lyon? It wasn’t even possible but she couldn’t tell herself comfortable lies this time. They were face to face, almost eye to eye. For a moment he was all she could see and she was torn in half. She wanted to drink him in, every detail, every feature of his face but she also wanted to run. So many sleepless nights crying into her pillow because she’d never see him again and yet, here he was, right in front of her. He was supposed to be dead! Eirika didn’t know whether she should cry or laugh or-- How was this even possible? How on earth could this be happening?

“You,” she hissed under her breath, scared to speak too loud lest the illusion disappear, “you can’t be here. You’re dead!” Tears were streaming down her face but she didn’t know when they started, just that they wouldn’t stop.

“I killed you.”