#s:sigurd

[amitieos]

toa boel 2022 ask!

it seemed he would be facing off with another familiar face this round as well. sigurd had no objections to this, he wanted to face strong opponents and he knew how strong elincia was from both fort merceus and the halloween festival arena. he knew she would put up a good fight.

“no hard feelings to whoever wins, elincia.” sigurd offers as politely as he can with the way he is. he readies his blessed lance, having not taken a new weapon to the next round.

[ sigurd rolls to attack 3-1 = 2, miss! ]

his strike does not ring true, sigurd utterly whiffing his first attack. this was not the way he would make deirdre or arvis proud. he needed to get his head in the game if he wanted to win this fight.

"Good day, Sigurd!" Elincia greets him with a cheerful wave. Perhaps she should be concerned, trading blows with someone who's strength she knew quite well from their time at Fort Merceus. Sigurd was nothing if not polite and gentlemanly though and she had to admit to feeling rather excited at the opportunity to put her own skills to the test. "It's lovely to see you again. Of course, no hard feelings either way. Let's both do our best."

"I wouldn't insult you by making this easy, after all." She grins as she dodges out of the way of his attack. Hair whipping across her face, she prepared a counterattack, thunder crackling at her fingertips.

Elincia rolls to counterattack. Roll: 17. Hit -2.5 dmg

Her spell strikes true. It seems she isn't quite so distracted, or she's getting into the rhythm of battling now. Darting forward, she fires of Thoron once more.

Elincia initiated round 2, Sigurd’s vantage procs.

[hezulion]

night guard

Ares stares at the inky sky, searching for an answer. Any will do, just what was the archbishop, or her lackeys thinking when they wrote the rota. He curses her and Sigurd three or four times for good measure.

He doesn’t mind guard duty, it’s part of his job. The one he agreed to when he arrived her. It’s not even about night duty, honestly he prefers it, to have long hours of quiet to himself, or someone else who doesn’t feel the need to fill the silence of every still moment that comes up. It’s supposed to be a peaceful endeavour - it’s unlikely they’ll be called to action. Ares might even enjoy some light conversation with his partner, from time to time.

If only his parter wasn’t Sigurd. There’s no one in any realm who’s chest he wishes to pierce through with his blade any more than Sigurd of Chalphy’s

Ares shoots him a contempt filled glower - Sigurd had killed his father. All he had left of the man his mother would praise to the heavens was his sword, rested at his hip. There were faint, hazy memories but Ares knows his mind probably made them up to comfort him as he grew up without love. He wasn’t mistreated by Javarro - he was too rare, too valuable, too deadly. He was never the man’s son though, merely an apprentice and even then only by title. He was a weapon, without emotion or will of his own. He was Javarro’s sharpest blade.

Honestly, it was Sigurd’s reckless, foolish warmongering that paved the way for the Fall of Leonster too. He was five years old at the time, young enough that it was a strain to remember his dear mother, Grahnye but old enough to remember the scars of war.

If only Sigurd was never born! He’d still have his father by his side, supporting him through thick and thin. His mother... his only memories of Grahnye paint her as a frail, sickly woman. Perhaps she’d have already passed on but he’d have had ten, fifteen, maybe twenty or more years with her.

Instead he barely had five - most tarnished with resentment towards the man beside him. All of them faint and unsure. As though Lady Grahnye was merely a ghost. He continues to glare and his jaw tightens, clenching in frustration.

Ares rounds upon Sigurd, cornering him between the rampart. He seethes and he aches and all he can think about is how much he hates this man.

“Could you not of warned your colleagues and had the rota changed?” he hisses through grit teeth, “Or do you wish to become a stain on Mystletainn’s blade?” A single step back and he’s still furious but once again - those are Seliph‘s eyes staring back at him and it unnerves him. Is that pity though? His fury reignites.

“You killed my father,” Ares spits out, shaking under the weight of his rage. Under the sins of this vile man. “My mother never recovered. She passed away, far too young when I was five, still cursing your name.”

“I signed a contract but if you have the audacity to look upon me again I will run you through.”

@divinetyrfing 

[hezulion]

✢ – An awkward hug

Sigurd has been having a rough time - that much is public knowledge. With the sudden appearance of his amnesiac wife, Deirdre and her other husband and Sigurd's sworn enemy (rude, Ares had called dibs!) even the scion of Hezul couldn't deny he felt a little sympathetic. His own hatred of Sigurd had already waned from deadly to 'eugh you again?' with his sword kept securely in it's sheath, even if Ares' words were often more barbed than necessary.

That's why he's so surprised right now. Ares might pity Sigurd's situation but they aren't friends. Not by any stretch of the word. Yet here they are, on guard duty once again and Sigurd is...

Sigurd is trying to hug him.

Ares is wide-eyed and flustered, utterly confused and goodness why isn't Seliph here? Or Lene, she'd know what to do at least. He has no idea where to put his arms or his hands and is he supposed to bend his knees so they're the same height? Hugs are not his forte at the best of times and here there is a man he can barely stand in his arms.

Ares lifts his hand and pats Sigurd's shoulder awkwardly and perhaps a touch harder than strictly necessary. It isn't purposeful but maybe it'll send him the hint that Ares is probably the second worst person to look to for comfort right now. (The first being Arvis who would most likely set him on fire. )

"There there," he says quietly, "do you want me to threaten him with Mystletainn? Will that make you feel better?" It always makes him feel better but he isn't really the wounded party here, just an awkward bystander.

[hezulion]

[look] he knows that it is impossible. eldigan is already here in the monastery, an eldigan who seemingly doesn't even remember their academy days, so why is he seeing another almost carbon copy of his friend within the knights of seiros? sigurd cannot help but stare from across the room, trying to figure out this mystery without approaching him. he could not bring himself to ask directly, at least not until he got his thoughts in order.

He recognises the man instantly, despite the fact they've never met before now. This man, with the audacity to gawk at him like he's on display, matches every description he ever heard from his dear mother. It makes his blood boil and fury seizes control of his mind and body. Prince Sigurd of Chalphy

Ares stomps over, his knuckles clutched white around the hilt of his sword, hanging by his hip. He'd let go of his anger, or at least redirected it It wasn't Seliph who betrayed Eldigan, who caused him to grow up without a father, who left his frail mother tortured by grief and resentment. It had been Sigurd who dares to carry himself as though he's as if he's some sort of hero.

Ares sees nothing but red, blood red dripping across his field of vision. Vengeance is in the palm of his hands.

He could - should - cut the man down where he stands. Oh, he wants to, his hand is so tight around the hilt of his blade it screams under the strain. Ares stands before Sigurd, his father's sworn enemy. His sworn enemy. The man who destroyed his life when he was but an infant.

He has Seliph's eyes. Sigurd has Seliph's gentle cerulean eyes and the flames of his ire dampen. It leaves him outraged - how dare Sigurd gaze at him with Seliph's eyes. Ares wants revenge but he cannot bring himself to unsheathe his damn sword when all he can see is his best friend, kind and shining brightly through the face of the man he loathes more than any other.

"Sigurd," Ares snarls acrimoniously, physically trembling under the weight of his own indignation, "stay the fuck away from me if you don't want me to spill an ocean of your blood."

He can't stay here any longer. It's too much, he feel far too much and he's not sure how to handle it. Ares turns away, sweeping his black cape behind him and strides away as fast as his legs will carry him, as far away from Sigurd as he can get.

For Seliph’s sake, he resists the call of retribution. If there’s a next time, he might not be able to stay his hand.

[amitieos]

"Professor! You look lovely, as always – thank you for coming, my dear." Sigurd swooped to greet her at the door, his arms wide for a brief embrace, pressing a familiar kiss to either cheek. Though he could not claim intimate familiarity with the woman, the Lady Elincia had been a consistent orbit around his life, and had a kind word for all – and, indeed, the reverse was true as well.

He reached to grab a goodie bag to provide to her. "Please, for you – a gift! From my home. I hope you enjoy them." The bag is of a plush sapphire velvet with braided gold drawstrings. If he were tempted to peek inside, he would find the festive goodies of the typical Chalphy holiday season: roasted nuts coated in a caramelized warming spice mixture, a hand-pulled twisted peppermint stick, decadent candied orange peel, and a holiday cracker to be pulled later with little knick-knacks within.

"I know I can count on you to shine some light on this party – so please! Enjoy, and have a wonderful time. You must inform me if you have need of me – no! Do not deny me this, please, I insist."

"Oh, Lord Sigurd! What a warm welcome, thank you for hosting such a wonderful event." Elincia replies with a beaming smile, glancing around at the festive decorations and tables behind Sigurd. Of course, she expected such a charismatic gentleman to be well-loved by his colleagues and the student body alike. The dining room is bustling with life, smiling faces in every direction. How considerate it was for Lord Sigurd and Lady Ethlyn to host so many people. Lord Sigurd was known for being an exceptionally kind man. A person she often thought of fondly and would consider herself blessed to know more closely in time. "It seems everyone is already having a lovely time. I doubt it needs anymore shine but I'm pleased to be here all the same."

"Ah, what a thoughtful gift! I'm afraid my own is far less considerate. Still, I hope it is to your tastes my friend," A bottle of finely aged Cabernet Sauvignon passes hands as Elincia gratefully accepts the velvet bag. She pulls the drawstring open slightly, taking in the deliciously sweet aroma. It's delightful and her eyes alight with joy just thinking about how they'll taste later. "I doubt I would need anything - you and Lady Ethlyn seem to have provided everything one could wish for. Though I'd happily enjoy your company, sir. Perhaps we should enjoy a toast, to each other's continued health and happiness."

[amitieos]

👹 wehuehuehue

"A trick, Sir Sigurd? But wouldn't you prefer a treat?" Elincia keeps a straight face, unwilling to give anything away. If it was a trick he wanted... who was she to deny him? "Here, some chocolate chip cookies. I hope you enjoy them."

False. They were oatmeal and raisin. The most devilish trick in the book.

[nagargent]

luce sicut stellae

You watch as the storybook characters play out their scripted lives, day in and day out.  As though fettered, they stick to their routines; they fulfill their roles - or lack thereof. They do what must be done to keep the main beats of their storybook life going. But what happens if something new and different were to be introduced by an outside force? Will they continue on as if nothing happened? Or will they instead break? Perhaps you might be inclined to find out. [Grants Reason +1]

“Excuse me? Lord Sigurd, sir?” Julia is still shy around the man she knows as her stepfather. He has shown her nought but kindness since they first met, yet she still feels as though she barely knows the man. As if she is an interloper within his own tale. “You may want to move, quickly.”

Her eyes meet his and she holds his gaze with a straight face. She is absolutely serious about this. He needs to move. Ten seconds ago. Time keeps ticking forward, running to it’s inevitable conclusion. Ceaseless, unflinching - Lady Time will always have her way. And yet, he is here. The gears of change are in motion. Perhaps things may take an unexpected turn.

Perhaps she’ll be able to break out of this never ending fable.

It’s with a sigh she decides to try again, to set him in motion. Her heart is hopeful this new development will prove fruitful in changing the status quo. Living in a fairy tale seemed like a dream come true at first but the end never comes. Julia wonders how long she has been trapped between the pages, repeating the same four days ad nauseam.

“The maid is about to empty the chamber pot from the window above you.” There is no time for her to explain how she knows this to be true. Either way, he will see what unfolds shortly. “I really would move, if I were you.”

@divinetyrfing​

[amitieos]

[ Muscle ] [ Lift ] - sigurd sheds his jacket for their picture together, revealing rolled back sleeves. with relatively little effort required he holds elincia up so they can be the same height in the picture, then flexes the muscle in his other arm with the expectation that elincia will do the same. he has to ignore how silly it makes him feel.

Their arms clasp together as both of them flex their biceps. It’s utterly ridiculous. It’s made even more bizarre by the fact that Sigurd has to lift her up to keep her in frame. Elincia rolls back the flowery sleeve of her dress and poses, surprised by just how much muscle she’s developed over the past year.

She feels a sharp sense of pride. Closer to her goal of protecting her people.

They both turn to look at each other after the machine clicks into place and all she can find in Sigurd’s warm blue eyes is mirth. She returns it with a deep, belly laugh of her own. It’s so silly, flamboyant and over the top. Heart-warming, Elincia thinks to herself, in that they could share such an unguarded moment with each other.

“Thank you, Lord Sigurd, sir,” she curtsies to him before pulling out her stamp card. “You’ve made my dreams for the evening come true. Can I bother you for a stamp before we part ways?”