rokubiraijuu
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R22. Equip Iron Javelin. ( Lysander support if it becomes relevant. ) -
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 So General Ivanovich had been superseded since he h
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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
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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
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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 te
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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 i
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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 he
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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 hi
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B7.
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E4, Slim Lance Maid A.
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Something falters in his chest at Shin's call nearby. Knight. That may not be who he is anymore. But the people of Virtuous who he'd once thought could be some kind of redemption... If that's what they wish to continue to believe, he's in no place to stop them. Steel Javelin Cavalier D, Canto to G11.
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His grip tightens on his lance at the call of Lizaveta's impassioned speech behind him, and the soaring of her dark magic through the air at their enemy. Of course he hadn't been gone for long, but... Virtuous didn't change, did it. The look that passes over his face like the sun moving briefly behind a cloud: it's hard to tell exactly what kind of expression it is. Attack Soldier A with Steel Jav, Canto to L13.
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Fighting like this again... It's just a means, for now. J12, Steel Javelin Soldier C.
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The injuries from the first wave of assault still smart, but he gives no indication, urging Bradwr forward in front of the others. Even after his talk with Kane, it doesn't feel right to be here. But now it's simply a matter of allying with Virtuous to pursue the same goal. It's only been a year, but it feels like a vast time since he's had a goal. A reason for being. Even the conjured image of the spear he'd put through that murderer's back, the stunned look on his face as he'd realized he'd been caught off guard, makes him regret he hadn't been strong enough to end it
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He had set his sights on a different future. Once before, it'd been like this, too, the lands of Ceda to his back and the staggering uncertainty of the whole world ahead. He would have to find a form of income first; perhaps he could do what he'd done before meeting Kane, before this mesmerizing fever dream. Virtuous. He'd been a fool to think that clinging to a shining name would wipe away anything, as though through nothing but hope, he could erase what had been done. Naivete was pretty, a glittering tapestry to believe in, but when pretend ended, reality still waited.
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"..." He opens his mouth to answer, then flounders a bit and closes it, fidgeting more. How to be honest without bringing more shame than he'd already shouldered? How much could he tell her? There's no easy answer, and he reflects that he had been a stronger man, once upon a time. "There are things that simply can't be forgiven," he answers quietly. "I would only bring misfortune." He turns around, quickly tightening the reins and fastening in the saddle around Bradwr's stomach. He's grateful that the shadows of evening obscure his face somewhat as he starts leadin
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If there's something wrong... Again, Ferdiad doesn't meet her eyes, holding the untightened reins loosely in one hand. With Justine here, his chances of disappearing quietly are gone. The panic of being cornered fills him slowly but steadily, like the water level incrementally rising in a sealed chamber. He begins to fidget. "I'm... perhaps it's me who needed the fresh air, then," he half-jokes emptily. "—I'm sorry, Justine. I simply... I don't believe I can stay here." It spills out of him almost unintentionally, and he grits his jaw to keep from trembling. H
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The soft jingling of the bridle as he loops it over Bradwr's head and ears obscures the sound of approaching footsteps, and he almost jumps when he hears his name. Spinning around, he blinks in alarm before realizing it's just Justine's outline emerging from the shadows of the stable's overhang. "Justine... —er..." Mink? No, that's Lenore. Mi... he gives up. He can't find it in himself to search through his memory, and he's suddenly very tired. Even so, his eyes dart left and right briefly, searching for anyone who might be nearby to overhear her having said his name, though i
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Where has he ended up now...? Daylight has begun to sink further and further in the sky, and the sun's last warm glow hovers just above the edge of the land by the time he becomes aware of it again, bathing the grassy surroundings in soft shadows. The sloping hill beneath his feet, the pungent, earthen smell of meadows and hay... he lifts his head and looks to the right, finding that the stocky outline of the royal stables are at once familiar and ghostly in the twilight. Stables make him think of Bradwr, and he sluggishly searches his memory before recalling that he ha
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He briefly considers telling Kane that he doesn't have any place he's trying to go to, but it drifts out of his mind like trying to hold the breeze in his hand. It doesn't seem important, at the moment. In fact, little seems important at the moment, except a horrible truth that returned to him with ferocity, and is growing inside him like a disease. His expression contorts briefly with pain, and he hastens his step until he's reached a door that leads outdoors to the castle's west wall, near the stables and the barracks. The expanse of grass just beyond the walls just before the ca
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He keeps moving without a destination in mind; his feet just keep taking him somewhere, down the hallway, somewhere away, his eyes fixed on an indeterminate point in the distance, still seeing King Tobias' body, seeing Queen Victoria, four tired-looking strangers, a glimpse of a malicious grin and red hair. Kane's hand on his pauldron goes unnoticed, his concerned voice a faraway echo. Everything, Kane. Everything — he wants to say, but it doesn't get out. In fact, nothing gets out. How does someone explain the magnitude of the forces pushing down on him, of which there are so man
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Even the intuition that had taken root in his gut did not fully prepare him for it. As he stepped into the room, gaze falling to the prone figure of the king lying in his bed, looking little different from the last time he had seen him, he feels a strange disorientation. The man may well be sleeping, were it not for the arrow shaft protruding at an angle from his throat. There was hardly even any blood. Ferdiad feels cold, as though the stuttering heartbeat is a distant sound, the shallow breath and dizziness belonging to another man — sensations he can simultaneously experien