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Parbelavi / Re: Oh, its you
« Last post by Lillian on Yesterday at 05:17:30 AM »

Lillian hummed agreement, unsure if Peitar meant the pairs proximity, or Ilithian's constant of motion. But in the end, it did not matter, as both were equally possible and true. Though the statement he tacked on caused color to spread across the rounds of her cheeks. Heat warming her lower lashes, because she probably fell in the idiot lot as well. "Something like." She mumbled.

Lillian was far less sure about all that. But it was a curious dance to watch anyway.

Emotion impregnated the dwindling space between them. Peitar seemed to stew, and Lillian was not yet ready to breach the well of his thoughts. Even with his wings relaxed, no longer displayed to show off the hard, scarred work they had done that day, he still took up too much space. His caste like growing pool of stagnant water at their feet. Her craft rose to answer it. Something gentler and soothing to lap at his sharp edges.

"It's not fine, it's bleeding." She argued, plucking the waving pen from his hand. And then plucking up his hand too. They made a pretty triangle, Lillian, Peitar, and the hound. Albeit, an uncomfortable on that quickly separated. "You're welcome." Lillian told him pertly, a long strand of hair looped around her fingers, and then her ears, as she watched him strangle himself. Mended hand to throat. Elbow to palm. He looked ready to roughly escort himself out the door. His wings even tucked in to fit.

"Alright." A word put to the nod he couldn't see. Calling her pen back in, Lillian put distance between them again. Perching once more in her chair, she pulled fresh paper in front of herself, scrawling the districts name across the top and beginning the list with Supplies. "Begin." A single word that held a catastrophe's worth of patience. How many times had she said it? How many times had she listed the same supplies over and again for the various leaders and loners that had come begging?

It put into perspective how very unprepared and under supplied their people were, and it made Lillian heart sick.

"It has, hadn't it?" It seemed both longer and shorter than that. Blotting a drop of ink from the edge of the list, Lillian slumped in her seat, shoulders rising toward her cheeks as she leaned into the desk top. A moment to despair in company that could not see it, before she picked another piece of paper up and nodded. "Go ahead." Too many names. Tents did not hold up well against avalanches, it seemed.

All the more reason for the homes she'd been pushing for. Clay brick and wood would have stood up better against the weight. But Lillian did not dredge up the point. Not now when so many were dead and she'd run away from them. "I'm so sorry Peitar." The names would be posted with the others. A stack of such lists piled on one corner of her desk. She added Peitar's dead to the many and rose from her chair abruptly. The need to do propelling her upward.

"Come on. It'll go quicker if I take you for supplies myself." Peitar wasn't half so fearsome as the healers, and Lillian knew her way around the supply closet now. "Have you eaten?" She asked, folding her wing down her side so that they could walk together without becoming entangled.

Parbelavi / Re: Oh, its you
« Last post by Peitar on January 13, 2020, 11:19:25 AM »

"Business as usual then." Peitar said in a low, clipped drawl. He couldn’t grudge Lorivar his queen, or the queen her responsibilities. No matter how inconvenient both were proving to be to his needs in that moment. As a boy he had thought the entire notion of romance a bit of fiction- and the dire warnings of a queen’s influence an exaggeration. Even with Witch as proof, he simply  couldn't understand the draw of women. Then after he had figured out what made them so desirable he had held onto a rather stubborn belief that love and bonds of service were the trappings of weak willed men, not inexplicable captivation or pointedly wielded power. And while he had never been outright proven wrong, Peitar couldn’t deny that the company of a genial woman- queen or not- made laughter roll easier from his lips and mischief more entertaining. ”Guess that means they’ve figured things out between them. Idiots.”

He would probably never let any of them live down their misguided assumption about his relationship with Ilithian. It would be as good a laugh in five hundred years, though he didn't have any laughter in him today. Not once in his life had Peitar longed for a woman all to himself. There was nothing wrong with sharing the work. He was the sort of man that preferred to take what was needed and leave the complicated bits out of it. Attachment had been dangerous to the heart in the war and Peitar didn't know how or desire a way to untangle himself from the trials that had created him. Besides, he was bad at love. Even before he was blind he had been too blind to romance to notice the small intricacies that made a relationship more than a friendship. The rules were too complicated.  Boundaries too  blurry. Spirit too wild for taming. All of which had landed him in hot water with a few women that had formed fantasies he fell far short of.  Lillian was standing there in distant sympathy as proof that his social skills had done no improving since the war's end.

It was a different, sharper sort of mess that had brought him to the Queens' nest though. Naturally the conversation wore towards that point. A subject he struggled to articulate for someone that still felt like an outsider to the way his band of merry raiders lived. No one would mourn them, Peitar knew. And it inclined him to wonder if his own death would be a tragedy or cause of celebration. But that probably didn't matter. The world had been saying he was one breath away from death for centuries. From war fodder to raid leader, death had overlooked him while taking the people around him instead.

The pain was old and almost comforting in its familiarity. A fresh reminder that the impact of what Dhemlan had allowed to happen, and what they still did by attempting to occupy Askavi, went beyond the life of Witch. He would fight them until he was the last man standing, and then, maybe, mercifully, he would finally get to die fighting. At least one of his brother’s had died peacefully in his bed, he realized sadly. Dog leaned her weight to him as if she could hold him up. Peitar let her sit for half a breath before he shook her off. Fitted trousers tugged at his thigh by his free hand. Until he needed the free hand to give back her pen. Agitation condensing down to another familiar, and comforting old emotion- anger.

”It’s fine.” He snapped, wagging the pen at her more insistently. He had survived worse than a scratched thumb. Even if he had done nothing to prevent the opposite. Headlong into every raid because anger was easy. It added weight to his already heavy caste, weight he could throw around like a shield. But it was too heavy to shoulder today. It seeped right out of his toes, which curled in his boots. Body unflinching but stiff at her touch. He didn’t argue or fight. There was no harm in letting her look. Not enough blood exposed for anything nefarious, if he had even thought her capable of such. To his mild surprise the cut knit back together under her attention. A sweet, snappy feeling power pressing into it until the wound was gone. He almost, almost wished that every hurt was so easily mended.

Voice gruffer than he expected he thanked her, clearing the gravel that had collected at the back of his mouth with a small cough. He wrapped the fingers she let go of around his own neck. Adam’s apple stroking his palm as he cupped the same elbow in the opposite hand. He found the vibration of his own talking soothing when he was trying to hold himself together. And he was trying, wings pulled in tight and stance shifting. ”Okay.” Now he didn’t know where to start. ”Whenever you’re ready.”

The supplies were few, but important. Tents to keep his people out of the weather. Bandages and medical basics to tend wounds. The snow had been filled with debris as it tumbled onto the village. Those buried the longest suffered frostbite on their fingers and toes. He listed it out for her. The scratch of her pen timing each addition. ”Not much to report beyond what I’ve said. There was an avalanche. Half the valley is covered. Took a day to get out, so it was that long before we could start pulling out the survivors. I think we’ve found them all. It’s been a week...” How long could an unfed Green keep a body alive in packed snow? He thought Lillian might be able to judge. Since she could heal shit now, and wore the same. He didn’t think that he would have made it seven days, though. ”We’ll need help retrieving bodies later. I can name the dead, if you want to make a list for any relatives that might come asking.”
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Sør Province / Re: Mountain Shadows
« Last post by Valeska Spearfang on December 16, 2019, 11:19:15 PM »
Eyes up, watching him watch the crowd. She breathed deep, wanting to keep her unease to herself, and looked away instead. But her eyes would lock onto one person in the mass and follow them until they were out of sight, and then repeat. The quick passage of their voices just made it feel more and more like she was trying to spot a weakness, an escape or an easy target. Eyes back to Syral, and the little nerves that came with.

Not so different than Selka's people, then, although the question of adoption was one Valeska could not easily answer. Had she adopted them, to the cold and the ice, the frigid waters and the blank snowfields? Or had they adopted her, into the life of a rookery, the role of provider and, recently, assassin.

Her jaw tightened at the thought. So much of it chafed - her people, her beliefs, her freedoms. But weighed against her own hunger, the satisfaction of a wolf pelt fresh in her hands? Heavy, the hand that holds the dagger, she thought bitterly, turning almost physically from the knot of it all. Back to the conversation at hand, to the present. The day time was not for anything more than walking the land, she reminded herself. Anything else and she might return to her tent and wait out the festivities without ever leaving again.

"I can't imagine living in a city," she confided. She had never been in one, either, although she had seen the wall that circled their closest neighbor. The farmers and homesteads beyond were where she found her trade, more often than not. "But I can imagine that many of them find they cannot live here. How different it must be," two peoples rubbing shoulders on a land that felt borderless. "I wonder if they think of it as two separate worlds."

The people passed around them as a river, the number of greetings and speculative looks rising the longer they were still. Valeska had had her fair share alone, a single soul moving between groups, but the hum of foreign attention felt greater as they stayed unmoving. She tilted her head consideringly. Perhaps they fell to Syral, instead. He was taller, after all, and easier to see. Doubtless he was no strange face here, either, bearing, skill, and jewels all too striking not to remember. He carried a weight. But the more strangers smiled at him the greater her curiosity grew, a welcome respite from sleeping thorns within. Looking at him, a recognizable face, friendly even, was... nice. Steadying.

The smile that brushed the corners of her mouth was not all sympathy for his woes, although Valeska still wasn't sure how well she pulled off 'gentle teasing'. "I am sure that it's not what you bring to the competition, but what others do not." One eyebrow ticked up, mock-considering. "There is something to be said for getting one's blood up with the right engagement. I much prefer testing my mettle against those who's experience will allow for the acceptance of a graceful loss." Although there had been little opportunity of late to really fight with anyone, in sealskin or on land. No use in wearing out the rookery any more than they already were, fishing and trapping and tracking at a somewhat acceptable level.

A huff of a laugh escaped her nose, amused at their mirrored thoughts. She would have to bring something back for them, and candies were something they might think lost with their far-away home. Candies and trinkets, and good blankets, she decided, following Syral as he began to walk. "They are home, of late. Intent on proving their independence of me. They are that age." Well, Geirr, at least, and some of the  youth who followed. Some of the elder group took unkindly to her direction, but obeyed nonetheless. They were adamant of their independence, and felt there was nothing to prove. The others were caught in the middle.

His offer almost made her trip, hating the words at the same time as acceptance rose within her. The Darkness had laid her path in him. Syral was more centrally stationed than she, there was little doubt that she would be able to locate the tent of her target, so close to the activity. "I'm with the smaller bands," she pointed, her own tent far into the fringes. "My neighbors are mixed. I don't think they will miss me if I joined you tonight." And, hopefully, Syral wouldn't miss her in the morning, when the deed was done.
First Link / Fodlan Chronicles
« Last post by Sothis on December 13, 2019, 01:01:35 PM »

Fodlan Chronicles is a role-playing forums board based on the setting of Fire Emblem: Three Houses. Focusing on the Garreg Mach Monastery's Officers Academy, Fodlan Chronicles is made up of original characters and follows an original storyline, making it suitable for those who have not experienced the game but are fans of the fantasy and JRPG genre.

Sør Province / Re: Mountain Shadows
« Last post by Syral Moon-son on December 12, 2019, 12:09:20 PM »
Distraction surrounded them in the form of ten dozen voices chatting softly in the sunshine. It creased the pretty set of Valeska's brow and made her lips draw tight as if she were ready to frown at them all. Syral waited patiently for her focus to narrow onto him, or appeared to wait patiently at least. His question hovered for a span that threatened to turn awkward before she wet her lips and answered. Thoughts following the trail her tongue tip left Syral nodded rather stupidly at her remark. He knew the reason, but it took longer than usual for it to travel from brain to mouth. ”Times are getting hard in the cities. People are drawn back to the memory of simpler lives on the plains. They come to get a taste of it, or to be adopted into tribes once their minds are made up.” He didn’t leave open the possibility that many would go back to their city afterward, because he didn’t understand those types of people. They were nothing more than gawking onlookers to him.

He sensed that it was important to keep the conversation flowing or else she would disappear off into the shifting bodies gathered there. Experience had taught him that when the breaths between sentences grew too heavy, people tended to fill the silence up with thoughts. Thoughts that tended to frighten them off. Why shouldn’t they? Syral had a potency of emotion that others rarely understood. He was like a tidal wave on unprepared shores. Every expression honed by the combined depths off his caste, position, and Jewels. It made the greetings of passersby fleeting and shallow. Afraid to intrude, and more afraid of becoming the object of his steady attention.

Valeska, he noted, was greeted only in consequence to being in his company. No one seemed to recognize her, and she appeared to be alone. He gave himself the benefit of the doubt and pretended that aloneness- and not his presence- was the root of her clear discomfort in the crowd. “I enjoy gatherings as much as the next man. They were certainly a better time when I was a younger man, though,” he admitted, “responsibility has dampened some of the fun. And my competitive nature doesn’t make it an opportunity for relaxing.” Not in a place or among so many people who wanted to compete. The very core of a Tribes Meet was to prove your tribe the strongest there. The best to trade with, to ally among, to marry into. That all started with the tribe having strong leaders.

“No dependents on your apron strings today?” He asked, flashing a grin. He took a few tentative steps away to see if he could turn their encounter into a walk. “Have they already made their way to the trading circle? I hear there were candies being handed out earlier.” His suspicions on her ‘dependents’ couldn’t be outright confirmed yet. Hints in their previous conversation and the direction she had headed towards ‘home’ made him assume the worst. It was no secret that the thieving seal clan had someone experienced in the terrain and lifestyle helping them survive. Syral worried that a woman like Valeska was a prime target for their manipulations. Smart, skilled, and lonely. She was one of them, but not from any tribe or offshoot village he knew of, and that detachment could make someone with a tribal soul seek connection in dangerous ways. He worried, but that was all he could. Worry and try to steer her towards safety when opportunity provided. “Did you set your tent with a tribe?” He asked, carefully to sound genial instead of prying. “There will be games tonight, and you could play in our group if you wanted. Fresh fish, hot cocoa, and good stories.”

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Oh, its you by Lillian
[Yesterday at 05:17:30 AM]

Mountain Shadows by Valeska Spearfang
[December 16, 2019, 11:19:15 PM]

Wayward Seasons by Winter
[December 07, 2019, 08:14:04 AM]

Ianthe Sparrowhawke by The Darkness
[December 06, 2019, 06:46:32 PM]

Afternoon Snack by Aramis Dupuis
[November 20, 2019, 09:47:32 PM]


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