[center][h3][color=C0392B]Rudolf Sagramore[/color][/h3][/center]

[i]There we go. See? Let the guy who's [b]trained[/b] for this do the talki—[sup]1[/sup][/i]

A wave of holy energy passed over him as Isolde released her Dispelja, and while he himself felt little more than a light buzz at the ends of his hair, the same couldn't be said for the presence written atop his soul.[sup]2[/sup] For the first time since he had forged that contract, he felt something recoil and writhe, as though the blackened flame itself had been stabbed[sup]3[/sup] without warning. Around him, the assembled Eidolons faded, as well as Esben's fairies— banished. From what little he understood of White magic, it was similar in principle to the way magically-sourced ice wouldn't have done them much good in the desert, that conversation seeming an eternity ago now— it weakened the aether structures that tethered the eidolons to the waking world. Seeing how it had left Eve, and her erstwhile Bahamut-aspected state, in such disarray...

His eyes narrowed, as he focused on getting his breath back under control. With the sounds of Cid's hurried exit ringing from behind him, the Kirins were now, truly, alone against these two dozen elite warriors of the Church, Isolde at the fore and stacking them high with every enhancement magic in her repertoire. He was pretty sure that even though he hadn't fully donned the aspects of whatever his shady passenger was... there would be at least a little bit before it had calmed down enough to manifest again.

And even then, he was very aware of what he'd burned up already. He'd be shocked if he won even a single coin toss for the next six months. If not worse. He'd been completely dumping it after guarding everything zealously for five years— there was no telling how it scaled at this point. He had no pool of reference beyond the general downturn that had come of the initial signing.

[color=c0392b]"...He's not lying."[/color] the young man spoke at length, still too rattled to really rebut anything the Grovemaster had said further than Esben had already managed. In a way, he wasn't sure he could— for all he took umbrage with the shade's implication that he hadn't had his share of schooling in how to handle his speech... it wasn't as though he couldn't, in part, see her point of view. They [i]were[/i] the only ones fighting the oncoming storm openly— the only representatives mustered from each of the four nations in plain view. Even when you acknowledged that the Kirins had righteous cause... he knew better than many what staring down long odds looked like. It was a fool's errand to totally ignore that kind of practical calculus in her position. And then there was the matter of Cid...

[color=c0392b]"We [i]don't[/i] have any way of knowing where he went. It could be anywhere a church lies on the continent. That's a demand we can't meet, even if the man is the liar you say he is."[/color]

His teeth ground. Before them, twenty-four men of fine training, armored in quality half-plate bolstered by protection, arcane barriers, their wounds sure to regenerate before his eyes even if this came to blows, to the point where they could even stave off death. And before even that... he had just earned himself a firsthand experience with what Haste meant for a well-trained warrior. Outnumbered nearly three to one atop that, and a skirmish had the makings of a disaster by his count. Even if he darted straight back, trying to get ahold of the Crane's Wings (presuming they were where he'd left them instead of washed away by all the rushing water of the battle), the nearmost church militant would probably have gotten to him quicker. With Leviathan dispelled, he now realized, there was nothing that Valon's spear would be stuck in—

Save for the bottom of the sea, far below the cliff. Even if he was of only middling skill in its use, it was sobering to realize that it was off the board entirely.

His grip on the Sagramore Rondel shook. The odds were long, long, long indeed. And their only hope against facing them down, at least from where he stood... was banking on talking Isolde off the ledge. On playing to that small, sad smile she wore, so long as it wasn't a mask.

[color=c0392b]"You have to know how unreasonable that is. And even then, he [i]did[/i] save us from certain death. You're asking us to hand you someone who risked his life against one of Valheim's reanimated monsters to save ours. [i]Betrayal[/i], Isolde. If you can't at least [i]see[/i] that, then... we're all just doubling down, I guess. And I want to trust everything you had told me, regarding that."[/color]

Had it been the same, then, back at camp? When talking over irresponsible gambles... and committing to the harder path after thinking things through?

Had [i]this[/i] been what she meant? Was that wan expression from his answer affirming this path, or was it from knowing this was coming regardless? 

Or was it just nothing? Artifice, and another layer of manipulation, then and now?

...That was cruel. Far, far too cruel. [i]Any[/i] of those were. He felt sick even considering the possibilities, and squeezed the bone hilt in his off hand until he could drive them out of his wild nerves. They told him to flee, flee now, dive over the cliffside and disappear from all this. He stilled himself.

And tried to pierce the glowing discs set upon her face one last time.

[color=c0392b]"... Is this really how it has to go?"[/color]

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[*][sub]1. AAAAAAGH [i]FUCK[/i][/sub]

[*][sub]2. OW, FUCKING CHURCH BROADS, EVERY TIME! JUST TRY AND ERASE YOU WITH NO WARNING! THIS IS WHY I SHUT UP AROUND CID! I KNEW I'D STILL FEEL THE BURN![/sub]

[*][sub]3. UPTIGHT LITTLE [i]CUN[/i]— Okay, alright, allow me to "reclaim some dignity". Imagine for a moment, dear reader, you're minding your own business inside a willing, [i]contracted[/i], supposedly [i]robust[/i] corporeal vessel and then [i]somebody[/i] comes along and finds a way to make your very essence turn into a collection of white hot knives, all trying to stab eachother at the same time. It's a, "comforting", sensation— and the reason why I think White Mages have pulled the finest hustle of the past thousand years, if not more. [i]Don't[/i] let their ability to heal injury fool you. They're sadistic, volatile pieces of shit the moment they see anything that looks less human than most Mystrel or the rare civilised Viera— and hating them like [i]any other[/i] mage is totally, completely, [i]morally[/i] justified. I will not be taking arguments at this time, if you [i]do[/i] try to convince me otherwise, let me hit you with some timely slang from my host's generation: "Consider the Rope".

Now then, I have a cold-burning sensation to purge. I'll be back.[/sub]
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