rokubiraijuu
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J21, attack Myrmidon A with Slim Lance, Canto to J19. -
Of course. Gaze drifts disappointedly to the floor again, weariness of more than just the body seeping into his expression, the fall of his shoulders. No answers. Ceda, his exile, the Icons of Sin, War. Kane and the others insisted there were some answers, which he hears haltingly in Lucy's timorous voice now, too — the Icons of Sin with their own goals, her defection. But none of them feel like answers, as least not the ones he's seeking. What is he seeking? What is this big why that keeps hanging over him, forever unsatisfied? Yet another dead end. But as he exhales deeply through his nose and looks back up at Lucy who looks as though she's about to rattle apart at any moment, he knows that he can't rightfully depose those frustrations onto her — as tempting as it is, as resounding as they are bouncing off like echoes inside his skull. "... What did you all talk about?" he asks, out of the blue, born of an intrisic desire to soothe that's gone so unused in recent weeks. "You have said you all despised your job, so you must have commiserated about it. Though you all kept your origins secret, what were your days with them like?"
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He's silent as Lucy stammers out his own justification for him, the justification he's repeated to himself for over a year. Of course, he doesn't need to hear it from her. And he's not going to refute her. As she curls up into a tighter, trembling ball, however, and her words begin to crack under the strain of incoming tears, his gaze slides away — down, off to the side — expression remaining unreadable. "War..." he starts, as if testing the name out. "She came earlier." ( Behind Baldur rapidly draining of color, there stood another, flagrant red tresses unhooded; a strangely delicate face frozen in shock. ) He clears his throat and looks back to Lucy, has to school his tone into something less fierce than before, despite how much he wants answers. ( Any answers. To anything. ) "You... worked together for some time. Who is she? Or, do you know where she came from?"
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He simply doesn't know what he'd done with the passing hours. And now they're standing here again, and Kane is telling them about their next plan, and some part of Ferdiad wonders if something is wrong. The man he's known over the last year doesn't seem the same as he used to be. But then, he thinks, redirecting his gaze to the stone floor — is he? Are any of them? He looks around at the loose group, then back to their leader as he beats a hasty exit as though something was chasing him. Different. His hands curl loosely at his sides, iron of his gauntlets creaking. His thoughts seem to come and go, each one drifting away before he can grasp it, leaving him blank. They're off to another fight soon. One after another. There's Simeon getting ready to work on masks, a handful of newcomers. Somehow, it'd felt as though Kane was simultaneously too on-edge about letting them join and also too irreverent about the same. But perhaps things are just... different. The thought makes his head hurt. He glances over to Baldur, now mobile and seemingly back to health after... and that makes his head hurt too. Part of him wants to go after Kane, see why he'd left in such a haste, find out if it's simply his imagination or if something is troubling him, shoulder it with him like he used to. And part of him wants to approach Baldur, pose the looming question — why? He does neither, of course. Instead, at a loss, he simply walks and sees where it takes him, not wanting to draw attention to himself by simply standing in the middle of the hall while everyone else is busying themselves. Clunk, clunk, clunk... "... Oh." He looks down, finding that his steps had brought him a few meters shy of Lucy, by herself off to the side. She looks as nervous as he remembers. There's a prolonged, uncomfortable silence, before he quietly offers: "... I... apologize for earlier, when I yelled at you."
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After letting Baldur rest, he'd found himself suddenly at a loss of what to do. Casting a distracted gaze across the bloodied, battle-torn fort, he'd eventually gone sorting through the bodies of the dead. Closing the eyes of those locked in expressions of pain, making note of weaponry and armor. It wasn't their job — nor did they have the luxury of time or means, even if it were — to put them to rest, but he did these small gestures anyway, as though they would be somehow useful. At some point, the rest of their caravan make it through, and talk turns to scouting a nearby town for supplies. Though he knows his answer even before Kane asks, he can't help but feel... something — when the other mentions need of his horse, even for something as simple as transport. Is it relief? Or guilt? It's hard to say for certain. At least until Shin mentions his own steed. Ferdiad blinks, suddenly feeling a little awkward. "Er, I am happy to lend you all Bradwr, still, if... you have need of him." He clears his throat, tries to sound surer than he feels. "I'll stay here." He's about to say more, then realizes there isn't really anything more, and trails off lamely instead with "he's tethered just outside."
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He's grateful when the girl arrives on the scene — a healer; he doesn't know her name yet. He suspects she had stayed behind after the skirmish, though why and who she was... escape him. And he lets her presence, small in comparison as she is, edge him aside. Off to the side, his blade lies crimson in the snow. Eyes watch the scene idly: the next act in this pantomime. Baldur — Orchid, a stage name; just a stage name — coughing. Snowbird, wiping away tears. He remembers attending operas that looked much like this, back home. He could imagine wooden scaffolding, velvet curtains, the relief of letting oneself be swept away for even a handful of fanciful hours. Startling violet breaks the fourth wall, no longer as pale and still as moments before, looks him in the eyes. He finds himself affixed at the lines addressed to him — mind, words, all feeling stuck. He doesn't know what his expression is at that moment, nor can he find what words are needed to respond. A flicker of red; a surprisingly delicate face. These don't make sense. It's a portrait that doesn't make sense, just like the bloodied man in the snow before him, just like the desperate Queen sunk to the floor of the front hall. ( You foolish man! You're mad! You're mad...! ) ( You are a disgrace to this kingdom, and I order your exile immediately. ) "... He... should rest." He looks to Godiva, detached but not unstable, awaiting her confirmation. "I will carry him inside. If I may."
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Fleeing steps crunch in the snow; his head snaps up to a billowing dress, wild red hair already diminishing into the treeline. "Wait—!" It's fruitless, of course. And again he watches answers slip out of his grasp and vanish. Mim is crouching nearby, turning his attention back to Baldur, pulling bandages from her bag. Someone is yelling; possibly multiple people. It's a lifetime of training and experience he has to thank for steady hands that set Baldur down and take her supplies without hesitation, for weight that shifts naturally to apply proper pressure, for mien that doesn't flinch at the cracking slide and suction of metal leaving flesh and seeping fountain of red — all seeming very far away, a pantomime playing out on a boreal stage.
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There's a lurch of purple and teal. Movement; the spray of snow. He'll remember that it had all been cold, later. There's the conflagration of scarlet — a splash of vibrant red on the scene, like wine on an ivory carpet, or blood on snow. And at the last moment, there's motion — no — so fast he can't hope to have changed course — Baldur — and he knows before the reverberation up his arm tells him his strike has connected that it's all horribly wrong. The figure lurching backwards is too familiar, the roaring in his ears disjointed. It's not the face of his target. But past it, wreathed in that scarlet, is another, and he thinks everything must be wrong, perhaps this is a vivid dream, for like a wraith come forward from some buried anamnesis, that other face seen for the first time up close carries with it some vague sensation of dappled sunlight and frail stems on which flowers bloom. But Baldur— Footsteps draw back and he watches trembling, gauntleted hands lift from a blade hilt. And the blade doesn't drop. Doesn't drop but remains fixed there, a grotesque protrusion of silver, garish against the bloodied white. And is that him who lunges forward to catch the other man as he pitches, sinks to his knees with a hand pressed hard to where the blood pumps out to try and stem the hemorrhage? "—Mim! Your potions! Please." Is that his voice? His eyes flicking to Arthur, to Pestilence? "Someone, call a healer! Quickly!" If this is a dream, then it is a persistent one. Her face has not changed. It's a strange illusion. His own mind coming to haunt him? Do I know you? his expression seems to ask. But it's only a passing second. "Baldur, you must stay with me. Keep your eyes open." He'll remember that it had all been so cold, later.
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His breath clouds in the mid-winter hoarfrost as he crouches amidst the sleeping shrubs and low foliage of the woods, careful not to give away his position in the snow. Closer... just a little bit closer. They still haven't spotted him; good. There's Arthur, the Rian prince who walked with them, there's Mim, there's Baldur. Pestilence. ( A timid wash of lavender. She looks even smaller from atop his horse. She doesn't look him in the eye. I assure you we want nothing more than to go to our families as soon as possible. ) The flowing head of scarlet. It's a conflagration now, no longer just a taunting ember in passing. ( Strands of red, a smirk beneath a hooded face. The horsemen draw further away, as does everything he knows. The horses had been his. ) And the blade is in his hand. And the world goes quiet and much too loud all at once as he rushes at her back — only scarlet in his eyes, not even a battlecry on his tongue.
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He hadn't gone far. Or it should be more accurately said that he hadn't managed to go far. The Icons of Sin still lingered, even after being defeated. He'd thought they'd run like cowards, with tails between their legs... and at least, maybe some of them had. But there had been a flicker of scarlet amongst the trees — a sight he's come to recognize. Something similar had predated his last encounter with them by the lakeside, when he'd run Death through. Last time, it'd gotten away. He wouldn't let that happen again. Ferdiad had always been, by nature, a genuine soul, as antonymous to deceit as a dove to black. But the heart worn on his sleeve is also one tempered by a lifetime spent training for combat, and battlefield knowledge doesn't stop at how to throw a javelin. He pretends not to have seen, adjusting his gauntlet as he makes his way a little distance down the path from the fortress, leading Bradwr by the reins. Far enough, at an easy enough gait, to suggest that he's none the wiser and will walk right past. Only once he's sure he's out of sight does he swiftly stop Bradwr by a tree, whisper a soft command to stay quiet, and redouble his steps to the fort again along a different path — keeping low and using the forestry as cover, downwind, with that head of unhooded scarlet just in sight.
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Didn't know. It's not surprising, but frustrating all the same. The moment's debate of whether to demand the location of her brother's previous hiding spots is interrupted when a third figure inserts herself between them, yelling vehemently. This girl didn't know. Cold cerulean flicks back to Lucy briefly. Wisps of violet beneath a hood. His jaw tightens. Turning, restless hands re-tighten Bradwr's reins where they'd loosened mid-battle, and he begins leading him out of the throne room, back down the carpeted path towards the entrance of the fort where they'd come in. It's clear Pestilence had no answers for him, so he'd seek his own.
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The Icons of Sin dare to show their faces, as if to taunt him, and then vanish? Were they playthings, just animals to be baited for sport? Cowards, each of them! Assassinating royalty in cold blood without even the gall to show their faces, and fleeing when the tides turned. His former allies in Virtuous might be fond of sparring against them with words, but that had never been his strength. There is, of course, only one option open to him. None too gently, he dismounts from Bradwr's back and rounds on Lucy, who's little more than a splash of lavender crouched small atop the fortress throne. "Where have they gone." In frustration, it comes out more forcefully than he intended, but he also makes no move to reign it back. Gauntleted hand comes up briefly to wipe at blood — not his — dripping down his forehead, but he gives neither thought nor care to his disheveled appearance, only the enemy and how far they could've made it in the time he's already wasted. "Tell me, quickly." If you're worth being trusted, goes unsaid.
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With the Icons of Sin now in the picture, it looks like Kane had made good on his promise after all. Had he known that this fortress would house them, or lure them in? But these would be thoughts a later Ferdiad would sit on; any regret he might have felt for doubting Virtuous' leader is eclipsed easily by the sight of the four — the four, each of them the colors of this burning that wouldn't subside. Not until they'd met their end; not until he, and Ceda, and all the others who'd lost at their hands were vindicated! Death, who had sneered at him, whose injuries Ferdiad hoped from last time still pained him, was gone. Gone, but not dead; still, he couldn't get to him in time. A guttural shout of frustration tears out of him, and grip tightens on the hilt of his blade. The others, then, one by one. G4, attack Spy A with Iron Blade.
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L4 and Iron Blade Fighter B.
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R22. Equip Iron Javelin. ( Lysander support if it becomes relevant. )
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For all the misgivings of the recent weeks, he can't help but still clench his jaw at the sight of Kane's theatrics. And nearly giving his life for them, to boot. This time, he only looks away grimly instead of chide the other man as he would once have. Deftly switching to the heavy blade buckled to his waist, he urges Bradwr forward to engage the weakened knight. Attack Knight B with Iron Blade.
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M24 and Hold.
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As ever, the battlefield is a place of repose, in the most unorthodox sense. Once enemies are ahead, allies — or, at least, those he must protect — behind, and spear in hand, there is no room for doubts. Give into his thoughts, and he would not be thinking for much longer. Still, as sky blues scan the fortress walls, he reflects back to the dark-haired man from the earlier spectacle, re-envisions the way his blade had mowed down a dozen in a single stroke. The fact that his strike had targeted largely horsemen hadn't escaped Ferdiad's notice. So General Ivanovich had been superseded since he had left Ceda, something he would have once heard word of swiftly. The world still moves. L23, equip Steel Javelin. Kane to K23, equip Plague Dart.
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Famine, a serial poisoner... It seems he's missed much. Though it is true he has been keeping his distance of late; even he can't deny that it's simply a natural consequence of the space he's kept, assigning himself regular patrols of the area, anything to remove himself from the others as long and often as he can. There was a time he would have known anything the moment Kane did. But was it not himself who had made the decision to step away? It is not his place to be saddened. The most stalwart and honorable among us. Is that what Justine had called him? "... Then that is settled."
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Unaware that they had been overheard, Ferdiad frowns as Kane recounts the information Pestilence had apparently told them. He surmises that this had been revealed before he had walked into the kitchen that day. But his expression visibly changes once he hears of the mark, and of Death's apparent status. The blood of the Lion...? He feels the ground fall away under his feet again. It seems that's been happening a lot lately. More than usual. It takes several seconds for him to recollect his bearings, enough that whatever protest he'd prepared — that Pestilence is likely a spy, parading among their ranks and sending information back to the others — dies away, even without the assurance that they would meet the Icons of Sin sooner than he thought, or that Kane may be able to predict their movements. "The true prince...? But that's impossible..." Royalty would do this? Stoop to such wretchedness? It's all lies and deception, he wants to insist. Pestilence had fashioned something to trick them — with magic, maybe. Wasn't she skilled with that? Or maybe Kane was lying to him. No, he wouldn't... ( But wouldn't he? Hadn't he already? ) He wouldn't. Kane was not a deceitful man. "... If we find him and the other three, I must kill them, or die in the attempt." He sounds nothing but resolute, but his eyes don't meet Kane's. "I'll accept no other recourse. If you or the others try to stop me again, I'll have no choice but to consider you an enemy of my purpose."
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For much of their journey, he has not complained. After all, despite his personal opinions, it was not his place to in the moment. But as they drew close to the border of Ria and Perus, countries now thrown into the full throttle of war — as though what they'd seen weeks ago at Castle Ceda was nothing by comparison — he couldn't tamp down the rising sense of unrest any longer. "Kane. I would speak with you." They haven't talked since the incident with Death and Ferdiad's reappearance in that forest glade, not past necessity and basic courtesy, as though whatever tenuous potential there had been for renewal had been stretched too thin by the group's decision to harbor Pestilence — Lucy — it didn't matter what they called her. Kane had been a dear friend to him. It was to honor that bond that he agreed to fight alongside Virtuous towards what he believed was their common goal, even if he was not strictly speaking one of them anymore. But friends did not undermine their vows to each other. Keeping one of the so-called Icons of Sin in their own ranks? He leads him some steps away from the rest of the group, where they won't be overheard, and addresses him as a stranger might. "I would ask you to tell me why we are here. I understand the task Her Majesty gave you, but I can't ignore it any longer. You told me that we sought the same end, Virtuous and I. The end of the Icons of Sin. And yet she is here; you know who I mean. Why am I still fighting alongside you if we no longer share that goal? While we search for the relics, that monster could be sinking his poisoned arrows into another king as we speak."
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My blade must be as sharp as my purpose. Ferdiad takes D > C Spears.
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The dagger flashes in to parry his blow, and Ferdiad stares at the head of bright yellow that stands behind it, stands against him. Kane... Kane, too? Shock slowly bleeds out from widened blues, replaced with something much stormier. You promised me. It was the only reason he had accepted the offer to come back. Rancor builds like a venom behind his rib cage, its acidic growth slowed only by the strident interruption of Justine's voice calling out to him. Stalwart? —Who won't even defend themselves? He refuses to let his attention flicker to the hints of the purple-haired girl still cowering in the back. Attacking the defenseless? It doesn't matter. She is— His grip tightens around the hilt of the blade, weight bearing down to crush Kane out of his way if he must. But a sudden mug bounces off his head, its dull collision startling him, though the tenderness of a bruise beginning to form is outweighed by the screeching that carries on in his ear as a small, red form rounds to stare him in the face, expression twisted and accusing. —THAT WILL MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER ABOUT COMPLETELY FAILING TO KEEP HIM ALIVE IN THE FIRST PLACE? He barely recognizes the overwhelming pressure that rises faster than he can manage it. In a sudden fury that erases sound and sense, Ferdiad whirls around. CRASH. Wood shrapnel flies in every direction as what looks like one side of the kitchen table detonates. As the shreddings pelt faces, hair, clothing, Ferdiad stands like a live volcano to Lizaveta, his face bearing a look perhaps never once worn there before. A deep gouge splits the wooden table behind her where his blade had slammed down, deliberately a foot or two shy of the small mage. " ... You know nothing." It doesn't even sound like him. But he recognizes when he has lost the upper hand. The momentum here has slipped from him and into those of his alleged allies who stand in his way. He turns fiercely back to Kane. "Will you defend her," he asks in a tone that will tolerate nothing but a simple answer. "Yes. Or no."
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A commotion swells, dull noise in the periphery of the fatal silence in his head. There's a flash of purple and teal; a soundless protest, pleading eyes. CLANG! The reverberation up his arm makes him grit his teeth, faced now with a shock of vivid green. Fey's nonplussed and fierce look, the bow of her axe catching his blade. The girl— why is that girl here? He'd sworn himself retribution, and Kane— Kane had promised him he would find what he wanted. "Rrrhh!" Twisting, he shoulders past Fey's parry and throws his full weight against her side to clear her out of his path. Mim, a final, small obstacle. One girl against the typhoon. A gauntleted hand thrusts out, hooks to her shoulder and shoves her aside. Her. Small and stricken. The cloak she wears is still the same as that day. That day. He doesn't know her name. But she had taken his. Steel flashes — a finality.
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Ferdiad had waited. After the battle in the castle had concluded, whatever part of him had seemed to come alive to protect former allies had trickled away again, leaving behind a vestige of the man who, before, would have earnestly engaged in the debate over King Darcy's life. But that was a decision enacted by Virtuous, and to be made by Virtuous. ( Still, a part of him had taken solace that they had not become Kingslayers. ) He waited, still. The return to the base elicited less so fondness and more guilt, like that of a dying man walking into a room full of life. But Kane did him the courtesy of letting him set out early the next morning, before the sun had even risen, to scout the area. Something in their exchange, and the way Kane looked at him, only deepened that twisting feeling in his stomach; he couldn't help but feel as though he was scurrying away shamefully, and that his former friend knew. Things are surprisingly quiet when he returns. By this hour, there would usually be some outside — he purges the rest of that thought immediately. Their routine, or lack thereof, now is no longer his concern. Still, the instinct to find Kane and ask him what else needed to be done is difficult to shake. He's no longer responsible for them. His time is his own. That momentum is still heavy in his mind as he opens the door and steps inside. It's still heavy as he rounds the corner to proceed up the steps. Voices echo from the direction of the kitchen, sounding serious, but he makes to walk past— He could have missed her entirely, she was so small and out of the way. But with the hood down, her violet hair was vibrant, and it was difficult to overlook a figure, no matter how small, when all other eyes in the room were on her too. An innocuous group of four. Queen Stella falling to her knees. An arrow jutting out from a sleeping king. A glimpse of a triumphant grin framed in red. It's a long way to walk. Steel slides from its scabbard, cutting through the conversation. He crosses the room in implacable strikes like an inevitability, sword raised.