#viridescent lance

[ephemeralove]

He finds her on the edge of everything. She has those closer to her to comfort her, and indeed Forsyth sought to ensure Python's safety before anything else, but he cannot stop thinking about the look in Eriella's eyes when the arrow hit, the promises Katarina made shattered in an instant.

"Katarina..." He considers her a friend, but truthfully, they are not close. Not in the way that most would consider. They are coworkers, now, and see each other in passing. He cares for her, and her for him, but they do not spend much time together in the personal sense. "I'm sorry. I could not save her."

The bond they share, though, is forged in experiences no one should have to go through. To have the one you hold most dear ripped away so suddenly, to have someone, anyone be there in a way that does not feel trite. He will trust her with his life, always.

"If there is anything you need that I can provide, you must only say the word." Forsyth's eyes are visibly reddened, dark bags only strengthened by his obvious recent tears. How long has it been since she could see his eyes? "I--there was magic, I think. And it let us hear you and Eriella speak."

It feels wrong, to continue speaking without obscuring this. He knows things now, things that he should not. It is difficult, but he allows himself to meet Katarina's gaze.

"Even if we could not save her...you gave Eriella something invaluable." A long, shuddering breath. That girl had endured so much, had seen herself as impossible to save. But she could have been! She could have been... "Faith, regardless of her sins. Proof that another path is possible. I think she was able to walk it, if only for a moment."

"Oh... Ser Forsyth." Katarina brushes the tears from her eyes, their redness at odds with her placid expression. He looks much the same, besides, though perhaps she lingers at a greater distance, some part of her still lost in that strange forest.

It isn't a great mystery where either of them had gone before now -- not when they had found those bloodied corpses together, so long ago. That he has left his most precious person's side and comes to her now is, in its own way, glad tidings.

"...Don't be sorry. She..." The former assassin turns the words over on her tongue, too clunky, too few, always too little of everything and never enough. "...I couldn't save her, either."

There is no condemnation in her words save for that which she turns upon herself, lured so easily from one hopeless love to another. It was not he who had followed her through the dark and winding wood; it was not he who had been right by her side when her heart shattered and burst. No, it was Katarina who had promised to love her only to let her die at her feet.

But he is kind to offer his comfort, and it is when he speaks again that she realizes why.

He heard her. They all did. Katarina blanches, hands curling against her stomach as a violet shrinks and withers. How little she is worth, the insinuation of her betrayal, that not even death would claim her -- all of it? And when the barrier had been lifted, they slaughtered Eriella within her arm's reach.

Katarina shivers, eyes unblinking as her hands tangle in each other, white-knuckled and cold. Then... how many of them thought her unworthy of living, too?

Bile cuts through hazy mourning, her breaths deep and quiet. She doesn't blame them -- she can't blame them, not when she knows full well she never deserved her mercy.

"Y-you..." Her breath catches, shoulders made small as she hugs her elbows, and her heart spends its unearned beats crying out for a girl so much like herself. Forsyth allows himself to meet her gaze, and Katarina falls away. A beat passes; her frame stills. When she speaks again, her eyes remain fixated, unmoving, upon the ground.

"...oh." She had not thought herself so afraid of this. Not once had she shied from the weight of her sins, but-- even so, she feels sick. "I, I..."

I don't think she cared for anything I gave her. She doesn't want to rebuff Forsyth's kindness like that, but it is impossible to find the words. Not my comfort, and not my heart. And as if to betray her a final time, the useless thing beating in her chest quivers again, weeping for a love that had been as wanted as it had been real.

"Th... thank you..." She murmurs the words numbly. "Thank... you."

[carefreemonk]

Forsyth's "gift" for Azama last year had been childish at best. While he still holds some level of jealousy distaste for the monk, he is not some nefarious villain, and for better or worse, he's going to be in the orbit of Forsyth's life for the foreseeable future.

"Greetings, Professor." He finds him in his classroom, supposedly grading papers. Maybe he's more on-task than Python, at least. "It seems you've survived another year."

There's a strange sort of mutedness to Azama's energy. The mission had hit Forsyth hard, emotionally, but the monk always seems unflappable, almost inhumanly so. Yet here he is, perhaps a mere mortal after all.

"Happy birthday," he says, some real level of truth showing. He holds this year's present, a genuine one this year. He hadn't done anything fancy, but he had spent money on and put thought into it. "Perhaps these can be of use."

An offering of peace from knight to monk. A box, filled with sticks of aromatic incense for aid in meditation and sleep, among other things.

"I'll admit, I burned one myself to test. It is very effective at soothing the mind and allowing rest." Forsyth's own weariness is plain on his face, dark shadows under sunken eyes. Still, he tries to hold himself strong, especially in front of Azama. His eyes scan over the quizzes spread out across the desk. "You'll do no good grading these papers in your state. The students deserve better."

As he says this, he takes one in hand, reading it over. Early-level faith students, it seems. Not a terribly difficult course, and something Forsyth is familiar with.

"I have sufficient knowledge of white magic like this. I could clean up after your mess while you rest, I suppose."

Never a bad thing to have Azama owe him one. And really...he looks pretty bad. Maybe Forsyth has sympathy for the devil, but the moment of Eriella's demise has burned itself into his brain each night since he returned. Forsyth knows Azama was on a team where the target was destroyed. Was it similar?

It's none of his business, but the education of the students of Garreg Mach is.

(Yes, Forsyth is a knight. Perhaps it is not quite his business, but shhh.)

He doesn’t look up at the initial address - this silly little paper full of assumptions and spelling errors is definitely more interesting than anything Forsyth could possibly have to say.

Anything except for that, mind you!

A guffaw escapes from Azama despite himself, and he does then deign look up, brows lifted incredulously.

“Do you realize how very like me you sounded, just now?”

He flashes a grin - small, fleeting, but it had been there nevertheless. Taunting, but hardly predatorial - Azama is t i r e d, and doesn’t feel up to playing games right now, sorry.

Head cants to the left, and he waits, inviting Forsyth to say what he has to say - the sooner he does, after all, the sooner Azama can go back to pretending to grade these papers. (Oh, he’d started with enough good intentions, sure, but… these are hardly typical fare for his class. These are ‘start of the year’ bullshit questions found in any old faith class, from whose answers Azama can giddily flip students’ preconceptions on their head.)

‘Happy birthday,’ says Forsyth, to which Azama's response? Is, of course, to frown.

He doesn’t take the box immediately, instead preferring to revel in a silence he hoped Forsyth felt awkward. Does the knight think the monk stupid? Why would he get him a legitimate present, and legitimate well-wishes to boot?

With a sigh, eventually, eventually, Azama does take the box, opens it, and furrow but deepens.

Azama glances up from his chair, studying the intruder in his office. Had Python and Forsyth collaborated…? But Python had no way of knowing his gift from last year had somehow survived the attack on Garreg Mach (and the annihilation of most of Azama’s prior office in the process).

“What is your game?”

Azama procures one of the sticks, waggling it in Forsyth’s direction for emphasis. “You don’t have to be nice to me just because I happen to like the same man as you do. I can assure you I’ve no intention of returning the favour.”

The students? Azama snorts. Yeah. Sure. He’ll believe that’s what this is all about when cows fly. (That said, his curiosity is often his better, as it is proving here and now: he’s already in the middle of alighting one stick of incense. No time like the present to test it out - and if it’s a prank, at least Forsyth gets to suffer with him a moment or two. In fact: Azama watches to see if the knight looks ready to sprint from his office. He… surprisingly doesn’t.)

When Forsyth looks over the papers, Azama bristles, wants to hover protectively over them - they’re his students, and so they’re his papers,

but…

…

The incense does have kind of a nice scent to it, doesn’t it?

And he… is pretty t i r e d.

“You are a strange man.” Chair raking along the floor, Azama pushes himself from his desk, stands, walks two paces over to the chaise longue beside said desk, and… dramatically flops over. He reaches for an eye mask handily kept within arm’s reach, and quickly gets comfy in the fashion of one who's had much practice with all manner of naps.

“This is the part where I’m supposed to thank you,” Azama notes. “But I don’t wanna. If you see any questions you’re not sure about,” he waves over his shoulder, “just skip ‘em. I still need to look over everything later regardless, so do your worst.”

[malignantknight]

Fight Forsyth

(Fight) Some warriors bond through battle, but no owies allowed! So the festival committee has prepared a battleground for you and several hollow, non-damaging weapons that make a delightful squeaky sound when you hit stuff with them!

Camilla grinned as she faced down her foe. "Don't think I'll go easy on you now." She pointed the foam lance at Forsyth. Their goal was to knock each the other off of their foam platform onto the cushioned ground below. "Ready?"

@viridescent-lance

[nagaficat]

"Lady Deirdre, forgive me for intruding, but are you quite alright?" Running into his friend is always a pleasure, but that streak seems to be broken as the gloom and sadness hanging over her presence is anything but. Still, he is grateful he can be here for her, as a friend. "You need not tell me anything you would not like, but...I worry, seeing you like this. If there is anything I can do, say the word."

It's almost a retelling of their original meeting, sitting together in a field of flowers. But Deirdre's face is one of heartbreak, not joy. Sigurd had just arrived home, and her other husband, Arvis, is teaching at Garreg Mach as well. She should be happy; had some manner of conflict soured their reunion? It is fruitless to wonder, and best to listen, but he cannot help his curiosity.

Sigurd's return has brought with it complications Deirdre could never have expected. It was not the happy reunion she had anticipated and she is left broken and unwanted. She's had to cancel her classes multiple times because she does not want her students to have to see her with puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. Even Lord Arvis's arms have not been enough to comfort her.

It does not surprise her that Forsyth notices her sorrow when he runs into her.

"I am not alright," she admits and a lump forms in her throat, threatening to choke her. "Lord Sigurd he...I do not think he loves me anymore. And our friends despise me. I do not know what to do. I do not know how I am supposed to continue to live my life each day knowing that I love him but watching him avoid me."

Tears well up in her eyes and she thrusts herself forward into her friend. The one friend she has trusted with the truth of her son. He is a kindred spirit, someone who also seeks out the good in everyone. It means so much that she still has him.

[redmessenger]

backstreet’s back, alright!

oh my god, we’re back again @viridescent-lance @aimlessarchery

It’s been a while since Lukas found himself at a bar, and even longer since he’s had drinks with these two. Even thousands of miles away from home, walking just a beat behind Forsyth and Python is enough to bring out this feeling of tenderness and what he can only describe as relief. Relief to have made it here in one piece, relief to see those two hale and hearty, relief from brunt of Valentian politics. Lukas takes his seat at the counter and looks over at his friends, warm fondness in his voice as he offers them something long overdue,

“I will buy the first round. My treat.”

Yet not even a beat passes before Lukas adds his caveat, a subtle familiar jab at Python.

“But anything beyond that will have to come out of your own pocket. I’ve been trying to keep my expenses down recently… So if you happen to have ‘forgotten’ your coin purse, I suggest you pace yourself through the night.”

[twistedisciple]

"You there! Yes, you!" Forsyth marches up to the troublemaker--Griss, he's heard. This man has been causing a series of ruckuses across the ball, and even visiting grief upon Lady Celica! He shall not allow such miscreancy to continue! He seizes the man's hand, hardly taking notice of the flowers blooming on each of their necklaces. "Your knavish actions have visited chaos upon this gathering! I command you to cease at once, or face disciplinary action!"

Is this man even a member of the staff, here? How could Lady Rhea approve such a fiendish individual? No matter; he will either start to behave, or Forsyth will take the necessary steps.

"Command?" Griss whirls on his new critic with a look halfway between amusement and challenge, and boy is he a sight. He cuts the figure of a knight even with emerald cloth in place of armor, his posture straight, a chiding look that would've come straight from the pages of a textbook if there was one on making faces (and Griss is pretty sure there's gotta be at least one, somewhere, that's found its way into this guy's hands). Griss, by contrast, slumps down by nearly a third of his full height, shoulders and neck at odd angles, one arm hanging, the other limp in the knight's hand. He makes no effort to pull away, but a smirk snakes lazily across his lips as a flower blooms from his own vine. That was easy. Now he could have a little fun.

"What're you gonna do if I don't?" he prods, tilting his head and staring up at the knight from an angle. "Gimme a preview of this 'disciplinary action,' if you've got the authority."

[princessmacedon]

personae non gratae

The Mechanic is missing. 

The weight in Maria’s backpack feels heavier than ever, though it carries less than it has in the preceding days. He had warned them of the Aukes from the first: their aggression, and how the last thread of civility between them was as fine as spider’s silk (though he hadn’t used such a flowery metaphor at the time). Still, Maria had not expected for it to be so truly fragile - yet here they are, forced to defend themselves from the Aukes’ attacks and in search of a vanished friend.

“I hope it works,” Maria murmurs softly. Draped across one arm and beneath the other, she carries a folded old cloth she’d taken from their base. Even after repeated shakings, it still retains the scent of dust-- more than once, she has had to press a hand to her face and stifle a sneeze-- but the most important part is its white color. 

Not that she is well-versed in the finer aspects of war; that is the dominion of her siblings, having grown in a far different cage than she. Then again, she can only hope that the people here know it as she does: vaguely, yet inexorably tied with the want for peace. 

Her heart thrums as the three of them walk quietly through this broken land, where life grows not boldly, but in secret, stolen between the cracks of soot and stone. Perhaps this is a fool’s mission-- no doubt Michalis would have words about this endeavor-- but if they could only stop this fighting and turn their efforts towards living... the prize will have been worth the price.

“...Do you think it means the same thing here?” 

@viridescent-lance, @nagaficat - team ruins aukes parley thread!

[atypicalsenerio]

Red Punch Stained Battlefield [Forsyth & Soren]

Starter for @viridescent-lance

If love was war, the remaining tatters left of the dance floor were indeed debris left after a battle.

Soren swept up glass from a broken goblet, face a default scowl. What had happened after he and Ike left? Was the crowd naturally this rowdy? He thought himself above it all, the euphoria of a dance and losing oneself in a romantic night like some starry eyed teenager, although he had enjoyed those few moment with Ike so much…

He snapped himself back to reality, emptying the remains of the broken cup and Ashera knows what else into the trash. His eyes alighted on a knight nearby. Right… he came from the land of pegasus cheese.

“You there.” Soren looked up at the wall at what seemed to be fruit punch splatters. They were higher than he could reach, embarrassingly. “Can you reach and clean that?”