Pulling away from prying eyes that were glued to the unveiled true heir of Rigel, the grand feast sapping energy from his body. His right shoulder’s stiff and sore for reasons unknown. Rigelian food was an odd delicacy from what little bites he had — anxiety of all the Rigelians’ perplexed eyes on him as he tried to have a taste of his meal had sucked out his appetite. Sure, Alm had been complimented on what a well-mannered commonborn ( or believed ) he was at the table, but he has seen how the nobility eats. How the backwater noble Lukas’ differs from Clair’s, the primitiveness and particularity could not be matched. The regality and not the boorish manners they expect from him.
It did not help they were also at a loss like he was. Although his close companions tried to persuade him to relax, it couldn’t vanquish the ringing in his ears, his soulless stare ( and their soulless stares ) at every one of their faces—all of them the same. Disjointed, hesitance, awed disbelief, lost—a mirror reflection of his own’s one face. Except with an addition of stage fright on Alm’s end.
The dead silence. The thick air weighed heavily on Alm’s shoulders, and he wanted to excuse himself from the mess hall as soon as possible. It was a stark difference to the usual rowdiness back in Zofia, people danced and played music beats within ten minutes of a supper gathering there and hardly quietened down after someone suggests card games or poker later on in the evening.
Once free, he considers approaching his friends all the way across the hall yet they felt distant once he laid his searching eyes upon them—are they avoiding him or is it just his imagination?
Slipping into a room with a parted door after shuffling past many rooms with closed doors—felt it invasive to peek what areas lie beyond. A soft glow of flickering flames from a fireplace lights up what looks like a common room, the sky outside pitch dark of late winter through high small-framed windows. Not even moonlight or the shine of snowfall is visible.
He spots a small figure tucked away at the far end, and it takes him a few moments to realize who it was judging from their back and the faint glow to their hair.
Hope streaks the evening sky, an echo to the twilight view after they had managed to straggle out of Duma’s Altar, the harsh sunrays shimmered over the snowcapped mountains, as if bestowing one final message from the gods. Hope is reborn like seasons, not like a candlelight—they never stay alight forever, after all. At this time of year, Alm vaguely smells the new blossoms of flowers winterfresh, the chilly breeze drifting the budding aroma over nearby various landscapes.
Flostym in Rigel entices him, somehow. Nothing like far Southern Zofia’s immediate muggy warm weather at the turn of spring. “Comes Flostym symbolizes a new beginning,” was an infamous motto spoken by cheery Zofians. New beginnings, a new hope.
What was Rigel’s? He curiously thought, mayhaps he shall ask Ezekiel the next time they meet.
...Or Fernand.
He stops at the front of a royal inn intended to only be inhabited by the nobility of all births, whether the ex-injured moved to recover or those on an expensive tour vacation to see Rigel’s beauty. Peering through the cold frosted windows next to the entrance door. He spots a couple of persons, at medium height, wandering about by the massive fireplace. Letting out an icy, frosty breath, he pounds at the door with the side of his fist then waits after the third.
(Or actually, would he have even heard from his peers?)
The door opens to a middle-aged slim woman, surprise flashing in her eyes and with her raised thick eyebrows, as if having expected a different vistor—maybe Clive, or Clair, mayhaps even Mathilda. They were the ones to persuade Alm into seeing their friend after enough time passes.
“I know you’re probably not expecting me, but... Is... Fernand here in one of the rooms?”
Shit Alm probably did ( or would do ) when in Rigel:
1.) Slam open a two-doored window to stick his head out, while the Deliverance guys are yelling at him for letting in aLL THE HORRID COLD AIR, and lets his face get attacked by flurries of snowflakes because he’d LOVE the surreal sensation like “holy smokes this is amazing and feels good??”.
2.) Running on a thin sheet of sleet/snow and slip-slidin’ all wobbly and flailing for a good 50 feet, and going “what the hell how did that happen” It was ice, Alm.
3.) If there’s any frozen over ponds in the backforests of Rigel Castle, he probably went with his Deliverance comrades + villager friends to attempt ice fishing. Somebody most likely fell through the ice.
4.) Getting snow and slush in his boots and going “uugghhh, it’s just cold white mud ugghh” many times, and finding ways to stuff around the armour on his feet to keep snow out.
5.) Hiking in the snow just to retrieve someone’s flown away scarf or papers will do that.
6.) Knocking Berkut by total surprise into a snowbank at one point postgame. He saw his army fool around in the snow the same way and he wanted to join bc it looked fun ok. Surely, a native Rigelian will be more chill with it, right?
7.) THE FIRE DRAGON HOWL-Y BREATH TO WARM HIS HANDS THING. Multiple times because it sounded hilarious with a blizzard happening.
8.) Meeting Rudolf the red-armoured Santa King of Snowlands, and receiving the most shocking unexpected gift ever. Believed it was the Worst Christmas Ever for the next 21 hours.
9.) “I wonder what snow tastes like...”
10.) Cracky but giving Fernand a SNOW WASH.
tl;dr — dont let me make posts like these after having been up all night until 7am
Michalis had been trudging for days in the wilderness, opting not to fly on Lutz since he, was, well…
Had nobody on this damned continent ever seen a dragon before?
Not even before he had even landed, there was a slew of arrows fired his way along the coasts of Valentia. Given little time to gauge where it was coming from, or let alone why, the King had little choice but to heft his shield high and try his best to crash land gracefully.
He had managed to block most of the arrows aimed at himself, but his mount was less so fortunate - as he walked, Lutz nursed the wounds dotting his side. Michalis had the foresight to bring along some potions to heal himself, and the very best he had done was manage to get out most of the arrows on Lutz and try to stop the bleeding.
A few shafts that he hadn’t been able to pull still jutted out from his side and his wings, and it pained Michalis to see… So the man was left with little choice other than to seek help, and from the sounds of it, the encampment he had found did not seem so keen.
“I mean you no harm,” Michalis calls out carefully, trying his best to make himself sound less than imposing (which would likely fail, knowing how that’s resulted in the past.) “I seek… aid.” He chokes out. “If I reveal myself, you will not fire upon me or my mount. Are we clear?”
The unseen stranger’s voice comes sharply, even hesitantly curt, and holds their ground when insisting for assistance. Yet, they still seemed distanced about it—they’re not Zofian. Not a clumsy footed civilian, who’d have their arms wide, but rather closed off, cautious. Similarly to a Rigelian.
Alm peers back briefly at the quiet crew, the soldiers on duty staring wide-eyed on what the next move they should take. Letting out an audible sigh, announcing his reluctant compliance.
“...All right, but the same goes for you. If you try anything, we won’t hesitate to stop you, got it?” Alm warns, lowering his blade slightly, reaching for the latern resting at his hip with his free hand as he inches closer to the base of the stairway, eyes glued upwards into the pale gray darkness to have a look at the person or their horse—if they brought said mount with them.
“We’ll do our best to lend our aid, it’s... kind of what we do around here. Are you lost?”
It had been a week and four days since Berkut arrived at Zofia castle seeking an audience with Alm, and he was just short of counting the hours until news at last arrived that his cousin would be returning within the next day. What sort of king left his guest waiting so long? Berkut saw nothing pressing enough in the Valentian countryside that warranted such a long trip away from the castle, and his impatience disregarded the time it took for messengers to relay their letters from one party to the other. The week and four days had been a week and four days of absolutely nothing important, save the banal conversations with the queen, which both tolerated simply for the sake of diplomacy.
So when a rapping at his door roused him from sleep, and the servant timidly handed him the neatly folded letter with Alm’s request to meet in the war room at noon, Berkut nearly stormed to the parlor in his robes, hair still unkempt from the night’s tossing. Fortunately restraint and his better judgment told him that he would be taken much more seriously if he put himself together first, and he requested breakfast be sent to his room in the meantime.
The words he had planned to speak to Alm when he arrived had left him now, and he wracked his brain for the accosting speech he had prepared, but the only words that came to mind were about being left waiting for so long. And how juvenile they were.
A quarter before noon, Berkut paced his room, muttering a mock conversation under his breath, his eyes hardened and distant as he stared at the floor. Why were his hands trembling? He wasn’t afraid of anything, except…
What did Alm look like now? Berkut had spent the past months reveling in the idea that Alm was and always would be some backwater hick, uneducated and untrained in the skills necessary to run a country, immature and childish. They were the same age, but Berkut had never seen him as anything more than a boy. And a boy he still was… wasn’t he?
In Berkut’s head there was a voice that whispered that he was the immature one now.
He clenched his fist, exhaled through his teeth, and resolutely started out for the war room. There was no use continuing to ruminate. He would see for himself soon enough. The trepidation had a firm grasp on his chest, however.
It did not surprise him that he was the first to arrive - Zofians never honored schedules - but before he could pace a circle halfway around the room, the door opened and his head snapped up. A split second of hesitation. And then a scowl.
“You kept me waiting, Alm.”
Breakfast, a thorough bath, new change of clothes, all too slow racing with time dangling over his head, and it vanishes soon as he puts the foot through the door—a chill ran down his spine at the familiar greeting. Alm pauses, his nerves alert as if he’s stepped into a battlefield and there’s momentary confusion until he flares, his hardening stare meeting the other’s eyes.
“Berkut,” he tries to say the next words, but his throat clamps up like sticky bread. The lessons on formality escape his mind entirely, is instead blank and filled with white noise looking for the most straightforward words. Half turning, he fully walks inside to shut the door behind him with a click! of the lock.
They were enemies at each other’s throats as army commanders once, barely family the next, and now—are they enemies again using politics as the wall? He wonders briefly if Berkut still vies for the non-existent Rigel’s throne, or One Kingdom’s, as he could not read his cousin’s intentions what with the usual glowering. What were they first, relatives before sworn foes or the other way around?
“Why didn’t you notify me the day you returned? Where have you ran away to?! All this time, I was...” He cuts himself off, on the verge of barraging the other with questions, like a beggar. His fingers tremble slightly, believes the urge to use them for violence incoming, or to do something with his hands. Alm takes a careful step, one at a time, till he reaches the nearest chair to hold onto the back of, curling his hands as tight as he wanted. “...You know I demand answers.”
// hello!! i feel like i had questions that i wanted to ask the next alm that came in here, but.... i forgot what they all were |D instead, do you have any like hc reasoning/explanation/whatever behind alm picking up the bow when he goes hero? thank you!
/ Not a prob! I know that feeling all too well, haha. So frustrating.
Sure! I can try to answer that to the best of my ability. ovo)b
The biggest clue I’ve got is from this:
Alm: I’m just saying we could do it together. …Fighting, I mean. Not the lance. Grandfather trained all of us, right? Not just me. You already know how to use a sword and a bow. So what’s the problem?
Though, I can’t tell if that implies Mycen also taught him how to use a bow too or not…. So I’m going with as a fundamental basis that the village kids were taught how to hunt with a bow (their skills and interests in further learning may vary). Alm was decent at it, perhaps even exceeding normal expectations as he learned quickly. Young Alm would put too much power behind shooting his arrows, however, causing them to self-destruct or splinter over half of the time.
I’d imagine Ram Village’s most accessible weaponry (or… what could pass as weapons) are swords, wooden bows meant for hunting, short spears (not anything like a battle lance, also meant for hunting or self-dense, can’t really kill someone with it reliably). Lightweight books from the local school/library that only teaches the basic formula of black/white magic. (And probably only a few spells… I won’t be surprised at all if Rigelian magic was deemed evil witchcraft and got banned from Zofia schools/libraries.)
So, why does Alm pick up bows as his secondary weaponry?
It’s what he’s most familiar with, and he isn’t really fond of… change. He does have his moments of being surprisingly adaptive, but many things do hit his stubborn bone. Learning a whole new skill to wield a weapon when he already had basic skills of another count toward that.
Your question gives me some excuse to put some relevant hcs I had buzzing around in my head, I’ll get back to bows in a bit!
His secondary choices are, from least to most doable:
1. Black/White Magic
Alm sucks at magic. Not into reading complicated things, and magic is complicated to him. Extorting oneself’s strength or health [?*] sounds too risky for his own wellbeing in battle with his fighting style, so he doesn’t even try.
( *Valentian magic meta isn’t my area… or my expertise either, I’ll leave it up to the more magical-inclined SoV muses to advocate, >_/. )
2. Lances
Considering who his father is and being under Mycen’s tutelage, one’d think he’d be all gung-ho about using lances eventually or be good at them, except it’s the exact opposite. He’s the kid who tries using short spears like a sword.
Ram Village’s got their working horses for farming and pulling moving structures uses, and you’d be lucky to find a horse strong enough to let a person learn how to ride for long.
.Ignoring gameplay—from what I can tell, the mounted fighters are all of high noble birth or has reached high in the military ranks (Clive, Mathilda, Clair, Fernand, Mycen, Conrad). They have the wealth and training to fight horseback using warhorses compared to some backwood runts having played sticks.
Alm has no experience with fighting horseback, and I’d believe he tried learning once (whether during the war due to his commander status or postwar to appear all imposing as king). It never works out for him as he’s much better off fighting on his feet on the ground. His fighting style and agility are all ingrained into his footwork, too, that not being able to use his legs around the battlefield would take eons to re-learn on horseback.
Alm doesn’t find the time to learn to efficiently fight enemies as an infantry soldier with a lance like Lukas or Forsyth, either.
After the failures with magic and lances, this brings us to:
3. Bows
Let’s be real, Alm loves the power he can put into his attacks. Behind his sword swings or his arrows shots. He hits hard and gets a mid-battle thrill out of it. Basic skills from using a hunting bow can apply to a real bow for battle, they just offer better befitting bows and arrows.
They’re also a decent counter for magical enemies when it’s too dangerous for melee what with his low resistance to magic attacks.
I’d still imagine Python or one of his village friends (whoever becomes archer) assists Alm in his archery mastery.
Politics hurt his head. They twist and haphazardly pull him in different directions like a tug-of-war game would, and that is far from a fun game. It drives him exasperated and hardheaded, he never stumbles or breaks as his unbending will only strengthened from those invisible ropes trying to yank a limb off or two. From that sensation alone, being drawn and quartered is not on his list of preferred deaths either.
Alm hopes, dejectedly, for a good night’s rest to start the next day anew.
Receiving a notification from a messenger that his vanishing cousin had returned some days past, seeking an audience with the king both relieved him and spurred that cycle all over again. When Alm inquires what Berkut wanted, the messenger admits they were not told that detail. Burning anger singes in his chest, he curls his fingers into fists, his composure stiff to remain outwardly calm.
“Tell him we'll have a rendezvous in the war room.”
Alm wonders if Berkut will mock him for not preparing a feast to welcome a relative, or whatever the kings did to honor their guests. Skipping the pleasantries is more desirable than waiting all afternoon and evening for a private talk.
“The next morning,” he adds, no doubt within his mind they’d invite their budding king to an early supper, holding him for the rest of the day. The messenger bows out, hurrying back before dusk falls to relay the news.
The carriage departs an hour before daybreak, the smooth dirt roads through the woods could lull Alm to sleep (as he barely slept the night before), the wheels bumping over the occasional stone wake him from his half-asleep state. One to two hours since departure, he forgets attempting to doze altogether once they’re on cobblestone roads through the plaza to the castle.
Had the imperial guards not been there to open the grand doors at King Alm’s arrival, he may as well have slammed through himself. Unfortunately, the head servants insisting he must have his breakfast served only tethers his impatience, but relented as was the formal tradition.
Alm’s mind is too busy trying to recall where the war room is while he eats at the large table to pay attention to the distracting chatter.
// Some of my own self-indulgent questions: Where does Alm live post-game, and if it's in Zofia Castle, what does he do with Rigel Castle? How badly does Alm flub his leadership (or not) upon taking the throne for the first time? What are his biggest anxieties post-game? What issues does he prioritize first?
how dare u say fuck off cousin and then do this!!
Where does Alm live post-game, and if it’s in Zofia Castle, what does he do with Rigel Castle?
Out of comfort’s sake, he goes straight to Zofia Castle immediate postgame — well, as immediate as… it gets with Alm realizing he won’t go back home to Ram. It takes him some adjusting to living in an overlarge (to him) structure and new lifestyle. The architecture style is also what’s more familiar to him, as well as the city square makes him feel more belonged in the cultural sense. Gonna have to ask for @priestessofmila ‘s input, but perhaps they stay at the Zofia Castle for approximately three to five years, then build a true Capital City for One Kingdom closer to the border river and they relocate the castle there to reside in, it’s not set in stone yet, though.
With Rigel Castle, it’s… trickier. The place makes Alm depressed if he stays there too long, the heavy and gloomy air weigh down his heart and he doesn’t like it too much. Though, those are his initial reactions to being there the first few times, until he gets more familiar with the atmosphere. From instincts and missions alone, Alm visits infrequently anyway [I’ll continue on this segment in a below question].
As for what they do with Rigel Castle… um, that’s a good question (I was hoping you’d present the idea because Berkut omg). Alm heeds Masenna / Zeke / Mycen / Berkut’s advice more so than his own ideas on what to do with it. Turn it into a secondary home for the monarchs in the summer season or into a concentrated military base and training grounds would be Alm’s first thoughts, as he sure the hell isn’t going to let anyone take over it when it belonged to his father’s royal family. If Bekut wanted the castle for himself as his preferred shelter, Alm can’t really stop him.
How badly does Alm flub his leadership (or not) upon taking the throne for the first time?
Not too badly, actually. His kingly leadership comes out as trying, maybe above average when he starts. He’s certainly taken a lot of his people’s inputs for policies, serving capital punishment on what is just, lifting or passing laws at the beginning while he learns the ropes to do so on his own. It’s not to say they need to hold his hand—he takes the options upon himself (or together with Queen Celica) and pick what’s best. Oftentimes, it’s difficult since not only does he have to make the ex-Zofians happy, he has to consider ex-Rigelians’ satisfaction, too.
What are his biggest anxieties post-game?
The RIGELIANS. The pressure to act as their guidance unquestioned and be utmost compassionate to the very same populace he subjugated in his invasions? It’s such a polarizing idea he’d never consider or want to take if he had the choice. The Rigelians look at him expecting the second-coming of Rudolf I from a child who only found out he’s crown prince of Rigel the same day as them. Alm can take to his true heritage easier if he could just take it and make peace with it as a part of his past — but they don’t allow him to, he is all they have left for a named ruler by Rudolf’s word.
So yeah, that’s why I can imagine Alm infrequently visiting Rigel Castle, he assimilates himself to understanding their culture to feel more Rigelian to his heritage, and have a better grasp of their outlook on a personal level as he does Zofia’s. So he looks for Berkut everywhere for this… until he learns he’s fucking g-o-n-e.
He’s going to get mad and envy Berkut once he finds out he left bc sure yeah Berkut has the freedom and right to do so… Alm wants his vacation pilgrimage too you pudding cup ass!!
What issues does he prioritize first?
Assimilating the two countries into one would be his main project, that’ll turn into a side project once he learns the hard way it’ll have a slow effect. Getting Zofians and Rigelians to warm up to each other won’t be easy, the malignancy will just have to wither away over time.
His next top priorities would go, in no solid order:
Giving commonborns a chance to go wherever they want, even in nobles-only ranks (as SoV’s ending contests to happening??)
Helping repair for the damages either the Deliverance or the old armies caused, repair Mila’s Temple (as Celica likely would want).
Help Celica advocate for Jesse’s mercenary kingdom for the social butterfly effect, they both profit.
Alm’s… “hunting expeditions” to Rigel (see the question above haha), more so a quest than a self-serving personal one.
“Come on, wrap it up, lads!” A soldier’s guttural voice booms at his slow companions, thrumming his fingers loudly on a crate he fancies himself sitting on. The others quicken their sluggish, stiff pace—their pale, sunken faces seeing the light of day each time they pass through what little light streams this cave allows. He chides again. “You know, before a rotting Terror runs this way and scare the shit out of us! That better not happen again, or I’ll—”
“Shut up, will you?” One of them says, their index finger pointing at their ear as a gesture ‘to listen’. Alm catches them giving an eyeing look to grab his attention, and he tips his head upwards to the ceiling, straining his hearing.
The split second after there’s a sound of mud squelching under moving weight, the noisy soldier loudly gulps and half-gasps at the elbow whacking to his side. More squishing and Alm cranes his head toward the stairwell leading from the cave’s entrance, drying muddy footsteps down the stone steps visible if one looked hard enough in the dim darkness.
Shadows morph along the rocky wall, looking grotesque enough to play tricks with a man’s imagination of their worst fears, and Alm twirls around upon the sight, fearless of what should appear. Sliding his boot inch by inch until he got a foothold on solid mud to shift weight on his left foot, his unsheathed blade at the ready.
“Come on out!” Alm attempts to keep his barking tone sound less threatening in case of a friend.
I’m re-purposing this blog to bring this old chap in a closed group, therefore he’ll no longer be an independent rp blog in a few days and won’t be able to interact with any of you guys as we did before [in the roleplay department].
I’ve hidden about ~150 posts to make my blog look cleaner, save for a couple of reference posts. If we had an old thread and you can’t find it, I didn’t delete them, the posts are just private! oo)b
We (as muns/persons) can still interact through messaging or asks/post replies, just that it’s ooc chatting and not in-character.
Congratulations to both new and old Fire Emblem fans! I’m so glad that everyone will be able to be exposed to older FE games. THIS MEANS FE4 IN THE FUTURE, RIGHT?
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