HereComesTheSnow

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

@The Otter@Psyker Landshark

Primly, crisply, dutifully, the young platinum-haired lad inclined his head as he turned to Esben once more, after the tense drawing of lines in the sand had passed.

"If such arrangements are amenable, sir, I shall be returning to my duties. With Mister Goug at leave to resupply, I believe I'm best suited to overlooking my, ah, fellow beasts of burden as it were. Do enjoy this day of shore leave in my stead— should you need me, I'm but a holler away. Provided you can't find me and the birds already, of course. Feisty, fussy animals..." he intoned, before stiffly marching towards the ship once more. They'd avoided disaster more narrowly than they'd needed to once the damned minigun had come out, and now Miina had vanished, seemingly with the wind itself. It was lucky that they'd likely not noticed her among the taller and louder bodies confronting them, but he wasn't about to push their luck any further—

At the very least, he personally had none to spare. Generalship of the group's as a whole wasn't worth risking. They had a story that'd been accepted enough to buy them until the next morning, at least. He'd keep that alibi thoroughly believable. He didn't trust the Kirins to be out of the woods quite yet. They were ostentatious, flashy newcomers that'd just thrown their weight around in plain view on the docks. Sending the local authorities packing with a compromise at the end of a half-dozen gun barrels sent a message— one that everyone who'd seen the commotion was liable to receive in their own way, good or bad.

Feigning a put-upon sigh as he drew even with their trusty Moogle, and the curiously warking bouquet of silver and yellow Chocobos in tow, he glanced over his shoulder at the retreating posse of guards before speaking in undertone, wagering them out of earshot.

Maybe that chat with Galahad was still fresh in his mind and driving this, but he had to try and keep what he could of this story straight until people got bored of them.

"I'll sell this 'manservant' thing for a couple hours until we're under a bit less scrutiny, then I'll get going, as you say. Push comes to shove, I'll still have the spear that Dragoon left us— won't be completely helpless if there's trouble. Until then, I may as well buy you a bit of time and make this stick."

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

"Nothing to worry about, Dame Yael," he replied, shrugging off her wary reminder with little more than a raised gauntlet and a disarming smile, as they turned and started off into the woods. She was right— she didn't need to remind him, not in the least, when fae were likely on the table— of any of them short of Fionn, Gerard was confident he was at least in the running for having the healthiest respect of the depths of a green like Brennan. "I come from small beginnings, near a forest quite like this. I'll be good today."

That affectation of humor, of course, was short-lived on the armored wolf's visage as the search began in earnest, replaced by a sharp-eyed and alert cast to the face, all firm lines. Not quite a frown, but certainly not smiling. His helm rested in the crook of his elbow against his cuirass— both new additions he was getting used to the weight of on his person, neither hopefully to see any use on this maiden dispatch. He needed his eyes and ears for a search like this, especially as the woods grew thicker, the path less worn, the surroundings dimmer beneath the canopy.

The search was slow-going. It needed to be, both to pierce through the lush greenery for details that might be out of place as well as exercising all necessary caution, keeping the tight diamond of their unit squarely centered within the main trail. Internally, Gerard consulted what he knew of the folklore he'd been brought up in, a distant memory now— but one even his mercenary days had been sure to maintain, at least in the background. If he could narrow down possibilities, then that was time better spent than simply being puzzled as they continued to turn up nothing much.

The time, in fairness, was wrong to begin with. About noon by now— even in the depths of the canopy, Reon at the height of her powers was a watchful enough eye that most were unlikely to emerge and make contact with a bunch of people— few ever made their mischief when the full weight of the Goddess's Order bore upon the waking world.

Few, but not none.

"Help! Someone come and help!"

"Hold," he breathed to the rest of the group, a tight and wary edge on his voice as his mind raced through the facts he had, and began ruling out or in possibilities. Punctuating the hushed bark, he held up a fist, golden eyes darting back to do a quick head count before levelling themselves onto the source of the sound.

The cry for help had come from their right side, preceded by nothing, deep enough in the thicket to have an unseen source. Not Siheyar, which was good. The Midnight Men likely abhorred day most of all, given the name. It sounded like that of a young girl's. Probably wasn't Senyar. He saw no light that might indicate flame, no smoke that might indicate the greenery around them to be caught, nothing else that would suggest Feinyar. That was all the obvious ones dealt with. Leaving Aessyr, usually interested more in trade than anything else, Niyar, largely friendly spirits of the forest, and... Nithyr. Unmoored by reason, capricious in the extreme, and more than capable of robbing a good man of his wits.

"We stay on the path, no matter what. If something feels wrong— disorientation, an urge not from your head, anything, you say it. We have the right to walk here." he explained in a low and clear tone, hackles raised beneath the wolf-pelt mantle atop his shoulders. Under his breath, he uttered a small prayer to his patron Goddess— "Lady Reon, if ever I have been of good service, please shine truth onto all deception before our eyes..."

Then, he raised his voice, calling out in response with firmly planted feet.

"Come on out!" he urged, choosing his words carefully. "We stand on the safe path— the woods are dangerous off of it! If we might help you, we'd need to see who we're talking to first!"

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

&

Galahad Caradoc

The night of the raid...

---

Nighttime.

Valon’s attack may have ended as he and the airship he rode in on slunk away after his and Siren’s defeat, sure, but the effects carried long into the day thereafter— The Scurvy Fishman’s crew and passengers alike hard at work licking wounds of all types, with redoubled vigil as they entered unaccosted waters. Neve and Miina in particular had their hands full with Kirin’s injuries alone, let alone those of Bikke’s men. The battle had been swift, sudden, and severe, pushing them all to their limits.

Those men in turn, when able-bodied, were every bit as swamped— bailing out water, plugging leaks, trying desperately to save what they could of the rigging the fight had torn through and strewn all over the deck, and nearly tripping over their own injured crewmates to do it.

It wasn’t until nighttime that everything had calmed down completely, which was plenty of time for a small-statured, quiet young lad to slip away beneath the noise. That opening thrust hadn’t quite destroyed the mizzen, even with the erstwhile Royal Dragoon’s ill-gotten gains— but it had thoroughly wrecked his usual perch.

In the light of the moon and stars, the familiar sounds of the waves below rocked against his ears and mind, drowning out stone against steel. Long repetition guided his hand, allowing for his eyes to wander forward, out into the waves. They were inklike in hue now, as though he beheld a sea of tar, not water. A far cry from the brilliant blues of daytime. Let alone the golds and roses of that very morning, where he had carelessly fed Neve a brand new lie, taking the place of those he’d struggled to dispel. This one worse by half. Just like the last of its’ kind he’d told.

Here on the prow, he had no deck to catch him if he fell, despite how much lower it had been. One small mistake, a miscalculated shift in weight or maybe even less, and he’d have spilled over into the cold, churning black. Lost forever, in the dead of night.

So easy. So infuriatingly easy, to answer the call of the waves for one final embrace.

A fate he had all but accepted.

“Keep Struggling”, he’d said? Like hell. He’d felt that part of him slip behind the veil…

He held the edge of his dagger high, catching moonlight, inspecting his handiwork as though it might have changed once, five years deep into perfecting it.

He had given up. Forgotten everything. Accepted the easy way out, and only blindly stumbled back from an earned oblivion. Bailed out by his passenger. Soon to pay the piper.

Five years deep.

Still the damned same. Everything.

”Rudolf,” a clear voice called out from behind him, calm, if a bit curt and clipped. ”What are you doing up there? You'll fall.” Behind him stood Galahad, his upper torso mostly concealed by the sling that held his right arm still, Valon's recently cleaned and polished spear cradled in the crook of his left. Now outside of his armor, since the fighting had died down, his clothes and hair billowing slightly in the nighttime breeze. The older dragonslayer looked tired, troubled, though perhaps not as much as the hunter standing before him. ”I'll hope your sea legs are stronger than mine, I don't have the energy, or the hands necessary to jump down and pull you out.”

”They’ve managed so far. I’ll be fine unless I suddenly pass out.”

“If you want to look into the night and brood, use the railing like the rest of us do. But first, I would speak to you for a moment.” The dragon slayer said, wincing slightly as he gripped the spear in his arms and took a step or two back.

Not even one night’s respite before this, then.

Galahad would see the young man’s shoulders sag as he sighed through the nose, even as he held the knife aloft. The concerns about falling weren’t quite a pretense, but he could hear the preamble on them before Galahad dropped the other shoe— and sure enough, the man wasn’t letting him off the hook. He rose.

The knife swiped through the air, as though slashing the half-hearted concerns thrust before him as they came. Functionally, a sound and feeling check— the type of thing one did for less for empiricism and more for the illogical subconscious, the divine connection between weapon and wielder.

Perhaps, then, he was instead testing its ability to cut in his hands, after it had failed to do more than scratch that very same Pseudolon, a false queen of the depths they brooded over.

“...What about?” he requested warily, one golden eye peering over his shoulder before he half-turned, bringing the knife hand in front as he clocked the pilfered spear. “You should be resting up, more than anybody. Shoulder not letting you sleep?”

The man was wrapped up pretty thoroughly, all told, and his posture was far from aggressive. More than anything, he looked as though the run-in with their mutual old acquaintance had been akin to running the Stormseas leg of their journey on foot all day. Rudolf knew what half that pace felt like, and it was far from any shape to be fighting in. The White Magic that had knit his shoulder— and ribs,if memory served— would need more time to settle.

Still, though…

“I see you’re bringing Valon’s spear to the conversation.” he noted, gesturing with the tip of his dagger to the jagged, bloodred lance. “A bit late in the day to make me into a casualty of his— But in all seriousness, I’d like to ask why. Worried whatever you’re bringing up will force you to defend yourself from me, after how the last one went?”

It was an odd balance, that which his tone struck— something threading the needle between flippant disdain for the words and earnestly asking the question behind them.

”Do I have reason to be worried? What would I hope to accomplish in my state? Truthfully, It seems I'm not as original in my thought as I hoped I'd be.” Galahad admitted, ”I'd come here to brood. That you'd be here as well is both convenient and inconvenient.”

”Well, I’d hate to be a bother.”

”Yes well, while this spear is quite handy as a walking stick… less unwieldy and obtrusive than my own weapon,” Galahad sighed, shuffling a bit as he begrudgingly removed his weight from the weapon and reversed the spear in his grasp, pointing its butt towards Rudolf. ”But, I can't help but notice you've been appearing increasingly under-armed as of late, so I figured I'd furnish you with something with a bit more reach than your knife, until we managed to reequip ourselves properly.”

Galahad glanced at Rudolf still standing on the prow and sighed. ”I'm not coming up there in my current state, so please come take this spear before I fall over. You know how to use it, don't you?”

“Appreciated, and… eh, well enough for blightbeasts— won’t call it my forte, obviously.” he supplied with a shrug after a moment’s thought. Spears were simple, and his training was deeper than he let on.

”Though perhaps you give yourself away more than you expect,” Galahad sighed, ”Though it is in his nature, I don't believe Valon ever announced himself by name during out battle. Are the two of you acquainted then? Rudolf… Shilage? I believe he called you?”

A deep, deep breath preceded heavy footfalls, as the younger man all but stomped down the prow’s length. His rondel stayed at home, for the most part, but Galahad’s eyes would doubtless catch the other hand unfurling from a tightly balled fist as he used it to grab a hold of the butt end of the spear.

His eyes didn’t leave the dragoon’s. Once wary, now they boiled, new life breathed into the dull gold with a froth of emotions locked behind the lid.

”Awful trusting. He also called your cousin a false king. I admit, I assumed he’d blurted his name out at some point. I was busy with Eve’s sister— wouldn’t have heard it either way. But yes, we’ve met.”

As he pulled the haft in, couched into his armpit as though jousting, though, he thrust his dagger forward, towards Galahad’s nose. The dragoon's eyebrow raised, though he didn't flinch. Hilt first— display, not threat.

”Even with that said, just the same as him being wrong about Leonhart, he’s wrong about me. There is no ‘Rudolf Shilage’ aboard this vessel. I told you who I am when we met, Lord Caradoc. A warrior of Sagramore village. This blade proves it. You know that.”

This was a far cry from the nerves on display when they first had a confrontation in this manner. Now, the spark of Himstus had been lit.

”And if you know that, you also know this: If you believe me to have come into possession of this blade illegitimately, it is your duty as a Midgari Dragoon, as a friend to the Village, to run me through with it and return it to the Forgemaster, so he may tell you who really killed the Sabertooth for the hilt, and to whom it must return, dead or alive.”

However much it likely sounded an ultimatum, the young man did not move a muscle from that first passing of weaponry. He simply spoke instead, in a voice tight enough to burst.

“Before you arm me, I believe it my duty to remind you of that.”

Galahad stared at the young hunter for a moment, several long moments, as though he were calculating or weighing the truth or value of his words. The defensiveness of the tone he took, how aggressively he seemed to deny it only made Galahad believe Valon more. It would've been easier to put on a confused face, or dismiss it offhandedly if Valon had been so blatantly wrong. But the traitor dragoon's words seemed to stick with Rudolf almost as much as they did to Galahad. There was something deeper beneath the surface. But it didn't take a genius to see that Rudolf was being backed into a corner and lashing out as a result. Taking the dagger-somewhat awkwardly into his sling-bound hand, Galahad examined the blade for a moment, as though checking its craftsmanship. With a casual flip that may have brought a wince to his eye, Galahad caught the weapon by the blade and offered the hilt back to the young Rudolf.

”I don't know why people continue to insist on calling me that, other than the fact that it flows off the tongue better than ‘Lord Galahad, Knight of the Crown’. I've not been a Caradoc since before we'd met- if only by a few days, and I dare imagine my father would take none too kindly to you and the other Kirins referring to me as such.” Galahad remarked, giving a slight push to the spear and releasing it, so he could rest his now free hand– and weight on the railing proper, with a slight grunt of discomfort.

”…What?”

At that revelation, the younger man stiffened, incapable of completely hiding the icy shock that rushed through him. Both armaments returned to his hands, he needed an extra step to catch himself, staggered less by the push and more by the sudden jam of the gears of his mind.

”Well, regardless. My father may have stripped my name from me, but my achievements and titles are granted by the King and mine hand alone.”

His own father.

For what?

Rudolf had been a disappointment, a coward, and a weakling, but even then it had been his nearly taking Otto’s head off and revealing that blackened, occult flame that earned his exile, and no less— what could Galahad, a prodigy, a war hero, the pride and joy and stalwart defender of his entire city… What could he have done to deserve the same?

”Allow me to make something abundantly clear, young hunter of Sagramore.” Galahad sighed, his calm to Rudolf's brimstone not unlike water to fire. ”I couldn’t care less about your parentage, and I'd be a hypocrite if I did. So long as they're not going to start hunting us down– Etro knows we have enough people doing such as it is– I'll call you by whatever name you prefer.”

“… They won’t. If Otto’s still telling people that the middle son is deathly ill, then… I’ve no reason to believe anyone’s mind has changed. You are a Knight of the Crown. I am Sagramori Auxilia. We claim no more of ourselves.”

”You may still call me Caradoc if you wish, I suppose it does flow much better, after hearing you say it.” Galahad chuckled, ”Perhaps it is a bit petty on my part, and maybe just a bit spiteful, but I don’t care much for my father’s opinion these days.” Galahad was silent for a moment longer, glancing out over the dark seas and the starry skies above them. It was surprisingly peaceful, despite the ordeals they'd been through. If it weren't for the fact that the crew were still putting out problems on the ship, it'd been an otherwise perfect night.

Rudolf could offer no counter to that, still reeling from the casualness of it all. Pettiness and spite... was he referring to being cast from his name and family, or just an argument across the dinner table? He followed Galahad's gaze out to sea, a thousand dead questions never making it past his teeth.

"..."

”In truth, Rudolf, perhaps I owe you an apology. I still wonder about that strange shadow that possessed you- or that you possessed, and in truth, I still do not trust it. But you've proven enough to me that I should at least trust your actions. I'm unsure if it would've killed us- especially if that insane mystrel had anything to say about it, but you saved Izayoi and myself earlier today, and I am grateful.”

“…I did what I could. That’s all.” he replied numbly as he found his voice once more, knife returning to its sheath on his hip through muscle memory as much as any conscious thought. The same could be said when he, after what felt like a year, averted his stunned expression to regard the spear in his hands, brandishing it to test heft, dimension, the feeling. ”If she’d gotten ahold of either of you…”

He winced, then stepped to the side and brought the spear’s head down, a warding slash that cut through the Naga’s shadow in his mind’s eye, no further from Galahad than she’d been to him beneath the waves.

”We may well have lost then and there, even if you didn’t die. If I didn’t have the second voice inside… You might have been up here alone tonight. I couldn’t let that happen to you, or her.”

”Well, now you have more than just a knife.” Galahad said simply, a faint glimmer in his eye as he watched the way Rudolf swung the weapon. His suspicions had been all but confirmed, but Galahad left well enough alone. He decided to leave the point about the ‘second voice’ alone as well. It more or less fell into the ‘deal with it later’ camp of ideas.

A grim point was made on the inside. The faint ghost of a humorless smile cracked upon his face, even as he spun the haft back up to rest upon his shoulder.

”Though, I suppose this makes all three of us with no family to return ourselves to now. But nevertheless.”

”In a way, I like to think it makes us more free. Our families are who we choose them to be now.” Galahad said softly, a faint smile on his lips.

”Now, be a good lad and help a crippled man get back inside before the white mage yells at me. My legs haven't finished healing either and I can hardly walk without the spear. See, this is what I meant by inconvenient.”

Rudolf, to his credit, needed little explanation after the ‘Neve yelling’ idea entered the picture. His own encounter with the force of her personality was still fresh in the mind— even though it seemed an eternity ago, after the day’s trials. Dutifully, he took Galahad’s unslung arm over his shoulders and hiked a large portion of his weight onto them, nodding as they began to walk forward.

A beat between the two weathered Edreni fighters passed, broken only by the odd tempo of their staggered footfalls, then…

”Not that you will, but just saying… if you use what you’ve learned here against me, I’m telling Wulf about this.” he needled.

”What’ll Wulfric do? Boast at me to death? Ah… Perhaps that would be more effective than I expect.”

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

@The Otter@Ithradine

"Easy—" Rudi yelped, all but diving to catch the utterly spent Faye's head before her slack frame clattered it off the hardwood deck. She was, even without the blindingly obvious indicator in the blood from her nose, clearly in terrible shape. He looked to Neve, a call for help barely forming on his voice before Valon's cast itself over the field, dropping his name, Galahad's... and Leonhart's.

The words were little answer for the Edreni cohort's burning questions as to why the dragoon had become a turncoat, but all the same, Rudolf's died unspoken. Ill-gotten throne...? Was he insane? Leonhart's family had risen to power a damn sight before any of their times— let alone with even a glimmer of illegitimate means.

They'd taken a man so loyal to the country that he'd leapt at the chance to possibly die for it, younger than Rudi was now... and got him spewing that, of all things.

The airship slunk away into the clouds. His fellows returned to the deck, one by one, as what was left of Bikke's crew began to scramble to return the ship to working order.

He shuddered watching it go, and as it stilled, the last of his strength left.

Just in time to feel eyes fall upon him, with new suspicion. Valon was clearly a changed man, but he was still the same loud bastard he'd once met, so long ago.

The name echoed in his mind. Shilage. Shilage. Shilage.

He grimaced, but didn't meet the gaze, as he softly laid Ciradyl's head to the deck... and after only a few dozen trudging steps, collapsed against the main mast, on his haunches next to the family's parting gift.

---

"Trouble with Customs, Sir?" a clipped, professional, inquiring South Edren-accented voice sounded from behind the main mass of their party, once a lull had appeared in the wake of Esben's opening salvo. Any glances in that direction and away from the sunny-smiling heir to a barony would find a much shorter man trying to jockey for position through the assembled ranks, robes, and armoring, a half-dozen "Do excuse me, please"s flying from his pale, worried expression in undertone.

By the time "escorts" had left Mathiassen's lips, Rudolf had set to work ducking behind the frames of his peers and slicking his platinum hair back over itself. He was far from the walking arsenal he'd entered Osprey as at this point, and a good bit scrawny to sell himself as one of the bodyguards— to these guys, anyway...

"I don't believe we should have anything or anyone aboard that should warrant an undue search or seizure..."

Was Eliane's new toy in view from here?

As he emerged and drew just behind Esben, then, he took upon himself the role of a beleaguered porter, a carrier-of-things that looked between the two Kirins and the guard squadron, the mask of propriety on his face hiding a racing mind. Baron Cadon, Baron Cadon, where had he heard a Baron Cadon's name pop up before?

Was it even real? It had to be, Esben never lied or made people up.

Esben never lied...

Son of...

"Ah, yes, my man Rudolf here—Rudolf, bring over my bags, if you would—I first ran into him on the road up through Edren, if you'd believe it! While he's here with me, he's also under the employ of Earl Demet from Edren's southwestern border..."

Blinking slowly, his gaze now pinned itself onto the taller blonde, who had already turned his easy smile back onto the guards.

Even if it was a Barony he couldn't remember, Esben was its blue-blooded heir. A man of noble birth.

He knew. With that wrinkle revealed, Rudolf suddenly understood that Esben didn't just suspect him. He had long known the nature of that particular facade.

"Earl Demet has good relations with Brightlam, doesn't he? The couriers in southern Edren made it sound as though he had quite a reputation, sending messages, payments, and people back and forth from his home to the Grovemasters some years back. Rudolf, would you be able to hazard a guess?"

For a moment, the tropical heat and sun of Costa del Sol, world-renowned resort, fell away. In its place blew a frigid wind from far, far south of here, freezing Rudolf's blood at the heart.

Their eyes met.

Esben saw what he saw within dull gold, then...

"Ahem. Yes. Yes, I believe that was the case— albeit some years before my employ— but he was in regular contact with the Grovemasters and their finest. He was a... very determined patron of the White Magics."

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

@Izurich@Marlowe@Ithradine@Psyker Landshark

Impact.

His teeth clattered together as, their complaints fully evident in the burn of muscle and rattle of bone, his legs absorbed the last bits of shock left as he and the torrent of water crashed into the side of the hull, the head of the Naga construct having lost its shape on impact and cascaded down in his wake. His knife bit deep into the wood like a driven nail as the falling seas buffeted his back, forcing his screaming lungs to hold air tight once more—

And then, mercifully, abate as they returned to themselves, leaving only the wood, the rain, and the panting young man, soaked to the bone and exhausted enough that all he could do, aside from the aforementioned fight to just get air back in his lungs, was stare blankly into the pommel capping off the hilt that both hands hooked to. While his grip dominated what was left of his focus, his arms were slack, his boots finding their purchase on the hull at the base of what well could have just been a deep squat, provided a ninety degree shift in orientation.

There he hung. Eyes almost half-lidded. Breathing, a raw, salty wheeze. Off the side of one ship, trying to right another.

He had believed the shadowy flames that burned where the light in his soul ought to have been to just be something that sprouted from his person, heralding a specific summoning like the shield, or otherwise a raw globule of weighty, lingering pitch and fire, liable to inadvertently burst if he wasn't careful in the extreme— now that he'd let the genie out the bottle, anyway. But that moment up there, even as he'd struck a lethal point on the beast the construct had been modeled after, roughly...

His eyes fought to focus their attention onto the dagger properly.

That time, the response had been to his specific emotion, running along the current of his will as it had flooded his armament. If he could do that once, then... maybe again. If he had to. Might be a workaround for the curse on his "main" armament, still with all the rest of his shit somewhere on deck. He hadn't heard it spill over underwater, and he was pretty sure the sword would, if nothing else, be good enough a paperweight that it had managed to not let anything get swept away.

Anything else would be just... terrible luck, really. Surely even his would have its limits.

Crashes, gunfire, shouting voices, a real clamor overhead. A newer, and yet bolder, song in his ears, backed by full orchestration that he knew Ciradyl didn't have on hand— And a white light, its gleam peeking over the edge of the railings. Good... that meant he'd gotten the materia to Arton in time. The Naga heads were gone, too...

...

Izayoi's voice up there. Shouting... Urgent. Fight wasn't over. Leviathan wasn't yet dealt with, and the airship was coming in close.

Much like Robin, the only one he could see from this angle up on the rigging, he didn't have time to rest or whimper about how damn soaked he was— the fight needed rejoining.

He clenched his teeth, and pooled his remaining strength into his limbs...

And ripping the knife free from the hull to do it, the young man launched himself up the rest of the way, landing close by Neve, Arton, and Ciradyl, the latter still very deep in her song, the former's staff still aglow with White Magic.

"Good, thank Etro." he breathed, voice a ragged, half-exhausted rasp as he drew up alongside Arton, thumbing the pommel of his knife. "It got to you in time, everyone's..." his voice trailed off, as he grimaced and wiped his soaked platinum mop out of his eyes with his free hand.

Why did something feel wrong about this setup? His mouth pulled into a grimace, rerunning the head count. Arton, Ciradyl, Neve... oh hell.

"Where's Esb—"

"I will provide an opening! Cover me, then capitalize upon it!"

The crack of rifle fire resumed, one bullet whizzing past Rudolf's very nose close enough that he could hear the snap in its wake.

"Ssssshit," he hissed, discarding the question on his tongue as he started forward again. He couldn't ask more of the others, each one already working— least of all Arton, who stood guard over the two support players.

His sword. He couldn't block bullets with just a damn knife, no matter how good a knife it was. If he could at least get ahold of the greatsword again, he could at least use the damn thing to cover space, obscure Izayoi's blurring but trackable form— Where the hell was it? Still by the mizzen? He'd have to cut aside—

His boot touched something.

Kicking it up, he found his hand gripping the oblong hilt of one of the Valheimr axe-rifles. He'd never used a firearm, personally, but any port in a storm— his finger closed around the trigger and squeezed, roughly aiming the barrel at the chest of one of the crouched gunmen on the nearby airship, as he would a crossbow—

Click. Nothing. No smoke, no bellowing report, no kick in his palm.

Seriously?!

With a snarl, he wrenched his arm back and hurled the damn thing downrange, as though an odd-weighted Tomahawk. More of those blackened embers spun along the length of the blade, but they were fainter, and he held no great hope in hitting the mark with strength alone.

A sag in his shoulders. Slight, hard to spot concealed beneath the tension of this still very pitched battle, but there.

"Go," he barked over his shoulder to the burlier swordsman, voice dripping with acrid, bitter helplessness, "Cover her. I'll keep watch over here. Please. Sorry."

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn

"Where it's thickest." he replied after a moment's thought, cupping his chin with a gauntleted hand. In truth, he likely had cause enough to simply defer to Rolan's better-maintained skills in navigation, tracking, and general bushcraft— while he had never been so privileged as to allow the skills to truly atrophy, even as field infantry, it was still a stark contrast to what he knew of Sir Rolan's skillset. The man had seemed to melt into the thicket with little prompting by the end of their time in the crucible with Thrinax.

But a rural boy rarely lacked in his share of folk tales and half-heeded warnings regarding the fae, and he grew up near more than an old enough wood for them to have been beaten into his head all the same. Their search then proceeded in earnest as they fanned out, starting along the more beaten path—

"Places where the woods may part off the path, circles of toadstools, fluid markings upon clear-faced stones or tree trunks— Where I'm from, at least, things of that nature are hallmarks of being close to entering territory they've laid claim to." he explained, scanning the ground. "A change in the air as well. Not eyes on you like you're being stalked, but... closer to a sense of disorientation. Like you can't remember which way you just came from. The usual stuff. If things get a little weird, I snuck away one of the pastries they were carting in for Lady Gertrude— we may as well look out for scraps of prior offerings on that note. Basket for tarts or something."

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

@Izurich@vietmyke@Ithradine@Psyker Landshark

She slipped free again, and the knife-bearing young man wrenched his torso to roll and keep pursuit.

He was being pummeled.

Like a ragdoll caught in the jaws of an overexcited hound, the countless eddies and sudden riptides that swirled about the Faye Pseudolon’s frame as she danced beneath the waves, always just ahead and just out of reach, were tearing him in seemingly every direction.

Though he was no sailor, and had plied his trade well into the interior of the continental landmass’s valleys, fields, and badlands, he was a capable swimmer by any measure— but neither that, nor the strength hidden in his tirelessly trained body, seemed to matter. It was a fool’s errand, trying to catch Leviathan in her home territory— and as he exerted himself more and more, willing his burning lungs to hold out as he pushed to close the gap, that point was proven further and further as she slipped away each time.

Every effortless, almost lazy circle she drew around him drove it home that he was trying to make the best of a terrible situation— had this been in any way intentional on his part, he would die the biggest idiot on the planet.

And through none of it did her song let up. He was right about Naga and their ability to slow their prey, but thbis was no Naga, and this was no mere Slowing.

It had already gotten him into this mess on the surface to begin with, clouding his mind and diluting enough focus that by the time he'd clocked that he was about to spiral out of control into the waves, it had pretty much already happened. And now, surrounded by it with enough resonance to feel in his bones...

A labored swipe barely nicked her white garb as she darted again out of his way, forcing out a grimace. He was running out of time before he'd need to surface, and he knew it. The moment he broke off, he was toast. She'd just pull him down, and let his last bit of air burn out. He had to get ahold of her. He had to reach her. She was right there. Daring him into it. Calling out to him.

_{Hey, kid—}

She opened one eye placidly, meeting his own for the first time with a heart-fluttering smirk, giggling to herself as she drifted away and he surged into her wake. Down here in the blue, that eye seemed to glow an unnaturally brilliant sapphire, shifting, rippling, easy to stare into, impossible to look away from. The shifting tides spun within, riveting, endless, dizzying, entrancing. A mesmer all its' own.

Her song continued. It was like a heavy blanket draped over him on a cold winter night. Warm... snug...

_Rudolf.

Their brackish waltz continued, a slow spiral, a slower and slower spiral. The edges of his vision were beginning to fade. White.

White... He had always believed nothingness was black. Was it white, the absence..?

He had to reach her. He had to reach out. If he could just get a hold of her... dammit...

Each failed attempt was another leaden chain on him. That was the black. Weight. The black was a burning weight, like his lungs, like his heart. Leviathan's song was white. Painless. Light, like he was floating away...

It wouldn't be so bad down here...

Hearing this lovely melody... Watching this graceful woman dance, ebb, flow as though the sea itself...

Danube...

His thoughts were fading and disordered, as the struggle against the currents taxed even his stamina, built over 15 years, to it's limit. The last air in his lungs was burning out... he could hardly focus. a thin line of black, desperately guarding the last color in the world... the shimmering blue he saw in her gaze.

Out of time.

How frustrating. In the end, he couldn't even reach out and touch her. Let alone stop her song.

_{Frustrating. Yes. Hold onto that. It's all been frustration. You listening?
This really what you want, kid?}

Out of time.

...What he wanted?
...What the hell had it been?

What was he reaching so desperately for, anyway?

Tighter. Tighter. Even the blue fading. His mind's eye. One black line on the back of the void. Burning furiously. Every last bit of the wick feeding its desperate rage, its pain, its frustration. Out of time.

This song told him enough. That he could let it take him,

and his worries,

and fears,

and pains,

so many of each he carried... they'd all fade, like this. He'd fought so hard... He wanted it all to be over. That had to be it. That was why he was stretching his arm right now... if he could reach this woman, Lady Leviathan... her song was of warm embrace, that would take it all away. Danube and the sea would wash his soul clean...

<sub>Lose everything.

The tiny wisps of ink gasped that retort.
Everything would be lost.
Dying a failure.
Making one last promise he couldn't keep.

What about that?

...He could rest. Truly. Meeting Neve had been his last confession, ordering his business before... he gave himself. To this hauntingly vast, terrible, beautiful thing called the sea...</sub>

"Aah~ fufu~"

_{She's stopped.}

Rip her apart.

The black flames exploded outward, burning away the veil as the world returned to him for that instant, as a cascade of bubbles from an involuntary howl rising to the surface. He lunged with every last fiber of his being, to bring his stalwart steel to bear against this woman. Her shackles on his mind had released, and his grimace was now a bestial, maddened snarl. He couldn't let this slip. This was the corner he'd been backed into. Before she could do any more damage, he'd tear into her. This was his chance—

Barely.

He had barely nicked her, not even the alabaster skin, not even enough to draw out blood. Just a scratch on the cerulean scales...

And then once more, the world began to spin. Dizzyingly fast, impossible to escape, a leaf in a whirlwind. They rose together as his mind tried to catch up, still in the haze of empty lungs, until...

"GAH!"

He was flying.

Airborne by scores of feet, as the spout of water fell into the sea beneath, and he continued to rise with momentum.

Air stung as it replaced the salt and water that had begun to seep into his lungs. His head spun as it, for the second time, reordered the world. Rain was hitting his face, the clear skies he had said goodbye to as he'd hit the water supplanted by a tempest. Lightning cracked above him, shook his bones.

Below, the tides raged and boiled. He could hear the swell. Whatever Leviathan was doing, none of it was good.

A song again filled his ears. From the ship. From a familiar voice, not borne of waves, but of wind.

Ciradyl. Kirin!

There, in that suspended moment of terminus at the height of the steep arc his frame drew, he wrenched his body 'round as his mind and limbs blazed with emboldened will once more. He had his head back. He finally had his fucking head back, and only seconds to use it.

Four heads stemming from a central mass of upswelled water, each in the shape of a serpent's sinuous body. The ship, buffeted by churning waves, accosted by all four points of that hydra's compass rose. Two barreling straight into the deck. Two more with maws wide open, as the seas coalesced within them, as though draconic. On the deck, his compatriots in formation, still accosted by the false dragoons and Valon.

They'd get swept off. Into that same mess. Gravity was taking hold again. He had to act— Gravity!

As Ciradyl's aria flooded his mind with that long-lost impetus, it grabbed onto the idea and executed, out of time for anything else.

By some miracle, he flexed his right hand and still felt the knife's sabretooth hilt in his grasp. It wasn't balanced for throwing, had the suggestion of an edge for most of its length, but it was strong, sturdy, and superb for punching through the hide of anything on the planet with enough force. Up here, he couldn't see his quarry within the surging mass... but if he wanted to hit the center, his angle had been thrown off slightly. Angles, distance... they ran through his head, pushing his visual calculus as hard as he could.

His free hand reached into the pouch at his hip, palming two orbs that thrummed with condensed aether. One sparked with purple energy in his grasp, reacting to the idea his will was clustering around, the other...

"ARTON!"

He whipped the arm and his torso behind it over, praying he put the right amount of spin on it as it rolled free from his fingertips. The green glint of the Shield Materia caught the thunder overhead— it had long overstayed its welcome in Rudolf's hands anyway, once Galahad had him dead to rights on the nature of the barrier he'd brought forth in the desert. It had no room in his hands, better serving someone stalwart, sturdy, properly able to protect... and standing in front of the three of them. They had all sought him out and tried, in their own ways, to look after him. this was the only way he could do the same.

As for the gravity, well...

The purple energy crackled as his will flooded either hand, and he dropped fast. Faster, as he angled his body, bringing the blade to bear as it trailed a streak of smoke. Faster still than even terminal velocity, as the magic pulled him down. He wouldn't be hitting the central mass where he suspected the Pseudolon's body sat within this construct, but he could hit that first incoming head, shaped like a Naga, at the point he knew was a sure kill.

Toyed with his head. Nearly drowned him. Proved that his every pledge to not give up on those around him, to try his best to overcome his own weakness, that he and no other was the master of his body and mind, proved them all lies. He'd been helpless this whole damned time, and her song had turned him into a witless, drowning corpse, holding up Danube's mirror to his soul, to the part of him that gave in, every time—

The first head of the hydra bore down on Izayoi and Galahad, set to swallow them into a one-way trip to the abyss— The one he'd just succumbed to, only surviving by dumb, dumb luck.

Thunder cracked.

He poured every ounce of that anger into the fifteen inches of steel, his last fang with which to hunt, and it blazed with weighty umbra as he drove it deep into the base of that first thalassal Naga's skull.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@Octo

An understated lesson Cyrus had beaten into him (literally, this being more a byproduct of weathering the task than an outright communication between the two of them) was a reminder of the value inherent to recognition of small, incremental victories. "Take what you can get" was a phrase that had of course never left the "oaf's" catalogue of old standbys, but there was a difference in remembering it and truly needing to live it.

It was a nice enough surprise that Gertrude had let him off the hook with just "oaf", he supposed, but perhaps it was more downstream of him reinforcing her deductions than anything else. He doubted he'd truly earned a lot of goodwill in either case.

Regardless. They had a job to do, not interpersonal work dynamics to muse on. He stepped forward as his fellows began to fold the investigation in with that of with Court Mage Arken, gauntleted fist tapping against one of Rolan's pauldrons. Much like Renar, he too had sort of drifted away into the outskirts as things left his field of competence. Once you went into the finer details of fey magic beyond the warnings and customs a rural boy worth his salt knew by heart, things went over his head fairly quick.

"I'll tag along. With two we cover more ground, cross-reference finds, and keep an eye on eachother in the event we risk running into trouble."

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

&

Rudolf Sagramore

---

That morning, funnily enough...

---

One of the unavoidable facets of road life, or more broadly any travel under the open sky, was the uncompromising regularity of waking with the dawn. Rudolf, even with his habit of waiting until the dead of night to train, was neither exception nor stranger to the concept.

That said…

“Nngrh.” he grunted, one golden eye peeling itself open as his hammock rocked with the sway of the mast. As though it weren’t enough that the first filaments of green-gold dawn crept past the horizon so early on the open sea— Bikke had dropped anchor just so in a position that the embattled swordsman’s little nest, tucked neatly away in the rigging as it was, largely faced eastward.

He groaned into the pages of his book, the same tome on curses his Master had managed to deliver the week before.

Damned buccaneer, why wouldn’t he just keep his boat on the same heading? Their course was set, wasn’t it? Why roll the dice on this stuff?

”Ilias, I know I’ve strayed, but could we talk about five minutes, here? Just five?”

The only response the Winds of Change offered, of course, were a stray gust that slapped the pages against his cheeks and the continued retreat of night’s end.

Guess I’m up, then.

Pulling the book free from his face, the white-haired young man sat up, accepting his fate blearily yet dutifully. In short order, the hammock had become a burlap sack to hold his book, boots, and canteen as he unfastened it from the mast. So long as he was up and off the unused rigging before the crew rose, they’d be none the wiser.

His larger possessions, of course, were below, leaned against the mast by the greatsword. Folding the burlap over his arm, the young man stepped off the mizzen and into the void—

And landed a second later onto the deck, soft as anyone this side of Esben or Chisaki could reasonably manage. Safe…

The morning breeze blew again, now low enough to carry salt and spray with it, dashing flecks of cold against him. He shivered, swore, and stalked away from the railing— hoping his quick circuit of routine stretches might warm him back up. By the time the sun broke down into the sky proper, he had finished and arrived on his answer—not remotely enough.

Thus, the fifth day at sea began, with Rudi desperately wishing he still had his cloak and hat to hide behind.

The sea was rough and unforgiving. As much as Neve was used to the toss and turn of a fishing boat, the river was much more forgiving than the open ocean. Her stomach threatened to spill forth from her throat on more than one occasion, and her soles yearned for the sweet touch of grass. Above her head was an endless yawn of blue, and all around her were tongues of froth and the roar of waves. Although beautiful, the sea was powerful, mysterious, and unique… more or less similar to the man that she could hardly keep her eyes off.

Neve had never seen this man before. And yet, there was something… off about him. She wasn’t sure why, but it was as if her mind wanted to repulse him before she even spoke a word in his direction. Was it because he was sleeping all the way up there? Was he a pirate? The woman had been so lost in her thoughts, that she didn’t even realize that he had thrown himself right off the edge of his perch and landed upon the deck with not so much as a groan of pain. Neve gawked as he sauntered off, only to do what he appeared to be good at doing. Exercising. Sitting against the inner woodwork of the ship, she observed him for a long, long time, until it seemed that he was finished. Her curiosity rejuvenated her, and she found herself bouncing to her feet and approaching the strange man who had also, in tandem, soured the back of her throat.

”E-excuse me good sir,” Neve approached with a timid smile, nodding her head in a friendly fashion. ”But I don’t believe we met. M-my name is Neve… I joined the Kirins a while back.”

He’d felt her eyes on him for a while.

Any good swordsman and soldier made a point of honing that nebulous “sixth sense” that always seemed to save lives on the battlefield that would otherwise be lost, inklings of change on the wind that heralded heavy, unseen blows or a spike in killing intent. As a denizen of the swordsman village, and before that second son of a rising knightly house, Rudolf’s was honed to all but a razor’s edge by training and time behind the blade—

And that had been before he joined up with Team Kirin, looking over his shoulder each night for prying eyes in event that his great ruse was discovered— and once it had been forced out of him by the revenant that had been made of Izayoi’s master. These days, after the confrontations with Eve and Galahad, part of the reason he’d taken to sequestering his nights up in the rigging on the ship was to insulate himself just as much as the others.

It was all but impossible not to feel the weight of their suspicious gazes on him. Made for horrible sleep, as though the recent spur of dreams weren’t enough.

Regardless, he’d caught enough glimpses of the who this was in the peripheral as he’d loosened up to realize he couldn’t quite “wait for her to lose interest at the weirdo deciding to do static stretches on a moving vessel” the way he’d initially assumed. Admittedly, there was a bit of luck in that— the white mage wasn’t a crew member that he’d need to hastily bargain out of telling the good Captain that he’d been coloring outside the lines on their tense agreement.

But the downside was, of course, that it meant he was dealing with a new member of their team. A bead of sweat rolled down his brow, having nothing to do with the first half hour he’d regimented out every day for the past five years.

No. Incorrect. An old one. The oldest of them, even, from all the way back to that initial banquet in Balmung that had turned into a national security event maybe days after Earl Cadmon had redirected that initial call-to-arms to Sagramore village. To Rudolf, once and always his listless, troubled squire. In spite of her recent absence, this woman had tenure on him to the order of eclipsing even the idea of joining the fight.

The others would have been talking to her. He couldn’t avoid the inevitability of the confrontation, not if he was so dead-set on maintaining his place on this dispatch. In that vein, she deserved not to be kept in the dark, same as any of them—

”I’ve heard,” he said in a curious, guarded tone. ”I figured the others would want their time to catch up with you. Felt wrong to intrude.”

But what had they told her of him? What would someone like this make of his actions in the desert, on this journey, or even five years ago? Those were unmistakably a white mage’s robes, they were naturalborn wielders of curative, restorative magic, weaving the current of the world to cleanse rot, curse, as many manners of evil as it took to actually earn a little leeway from the people of Ibros. Just off the back of purifying and healing. And she had been staring him down! Just like her Black Mage counterpart in the desert!

Did he do something to earn this attention now, when they were this close to shore? Was he gonna get the boot? Had he made his final mistake at some point? Thirty minutes, man! Just sitting there! Watching him! The last time someone like her had watched him, he nearly got a damn bolt through the brainstem!

What did she know?!

You should take a breath, man. You’re still half asleep.

SHUT UP GO HIDE

Regardless, he took the advice, rising and folding his arms as he leaned against the wood, flanked by the greatsword that might have been longer than he was tall. On that note, there were maybe only a couple inches between the two of them. A puff of air escaped his nose, voiding the lungs of stale and suppressed panic, and he spoke again.

”I’m Rudolf, a warrior from Sagramore village in Edren.” he inclined his head, tone even, practiced. His golden eyes were still colored by a gleam of caution, though— and seemed to be taking her measure. She was young, he realized now that they were properly speaking, but probably a few years ahead of him— at a guess, about the age of their Skaellar cohort. Seemed to be… trying to be friendly. He didn’t mind awkwardness, certainly not after getting to know Miina, but was that the start and end of her timidity?

Or was it because she could sense something wrong, and this was just a preamble to another one of his least favorite moments to have to endure?

”It’s good to meet you. Seems you were missed quite a bit.”

At the very least, her method of a “warning shot” probably wasn’t an impression of Dhinas, so… silver linings.

Well, he was pleasant– for now. Although this man had come off as kind and considerate, the very depths of Neve’s mind nagged at her like an old hag. There just had to be something wrong with this man. Was he a criminal? A murderer? Both? Whatever it was, it would have to wait to be discovered, and even then, she wasn’t about to shun a man who had allied himself with Izayoi and seemingly promised to help restore the Light. It would just take far too much energy to spur infighting.

”Yes, well, ah,” Neve stammered over her words, feeling a light blush come over her cheeks as she wondered what to say. Meeting new people in such a way was always a challenge. ”I guess you could say that’s an understatement. At the time, I was the only healer among their number. But they’ve seen to have done well without me.”

She rubbed her arms as a chill passed over her. It appeared to be a brisk day, and her white gown was doing little to stave off the breeze. Neve shivered lightly. ”You said you were from Edren?”

”Yeah,” he nodded, taking this as it went.”Born and raised. The village is close to the heartland, but technically within the Lunaris fiefdom— a few days’ travel west from Balmung. Honestly, it’s probably closer to the capital than Castle Demet.”

Nothing wrong with disclosing any of that… Honestly, with the embarrassed flush and tripping over her words like this, he was perfectly ready to meet her at the level she presented— if she was a good enough actor to feign the stress of introductions this well seemingly on the fly, after five days on the same couple thousand square feet?

She’d have earned whatever advantage it’d confer her, if this was some kinda expert sleight of hand. At this point, the only surprise would be if this was never about bringing the elephant in the room up. May as well take what he could of just talking, before he had to argue whatever case he could scrounge together.

Man… It’d be nice to not have to. Just once.

”It’s been a fun time for some of us to adjust to the warmth up here, especially out on the dunes.” he said, fairly comfortable in his plain black shirt he’s slept in once he’d gotten the blood flowing and the sun had crested the horizon. If his coat had survived the raid on Mizutani’s manse, he might have offered it over to her— but she had no such luck. ”I take it you’re from warmer parts. Drana, since my being Edreni isn’t an automatic mark against me— as far as I can tell.”

He looked out to the sea for a moment, drinking in the dawn as it scattered over the glimmering crests of each wave.

”And the team… made it work, without a dedicated healer. That’s how I’d say it. There were a couple real close calls, especially when we were confronted with Izayoi’s master in the desert.”

He felt the phantom pain of his knee shredding itself, in that desperate race to save her life, and the echoes of the cold flame in his palm.

He turned his gaze back to her, inclining his head and closing his eyes. ”We really worked poor Miina hard to get us patched up after that one. Rest assured, you being back on board’s likely to be a real windfall. Even aside from them being glad you’re alright.”

Huh, he came from a village rather than a city like Balmung, then. It wasn’t uncommon, however. Even in Drana Asneau, there were villages that weren’t even marked on maps. They were overlooked and ignored, which was both a blessing and a curse. Being overlooked meant that said villages could keep their secrets, sometimes even from the Grovemasters themselves. But that also meant that no one would miss them if the Blight ravaged their folk and destroyed their villages; it would take days for Brightlam to send aid once they received word of the destruction.

”Good to know that you all were able to cooperate with each other. Now that I’m back, I’m hoping to make it easier,” Neve murmured, her smile becoming more genuine as she once again looked him over. Yes, the man seemed decent enough. But still… ”Speaking of which, Rudolf. Is something ailing you?”

“…”

He sized her up in turn. All his years and many modes of training, reading body language, expression, little shifts in the eyes and eye contact… be it preparation for blueblooded socializing or simply swordsman’s instinct…

She wasn’t lying about her intent. At the very least, not the way someone expecting this to turn into a struggle might.

What did that mean, then?

Did she really not know?

Wasn’t told a thing?

Not once, even in spite of the past almost-week of getting filled in on what had happened by those original four members, each one with a front row seat to that desecrated shield? He’d even brought up the battle that had pulled it from him, but she still was in the dark enough to ask that question and mean it?

”I… That depends. What have the others told you?

Voices of the team flashed through his head.

”You’re letting whatever you’d prefer to hide speak for itself, I think.

“It must truly be horrible for you to push back like this.”

"... the High Caretaker didn't smite you on sight... there may still be hope for you yet. Please tell me it's true."

”I dunno. I guess all I know how to do is run away.”

“I forged this cage all my own. This is no way to live.”

This was a totally new person. A totally new day. Before him, somebody that one way or another would need to know what was going on, just for the sake of being brought up to speed with the rest of the party. He had to at least reveal part of it, enough to match what the others had found out by the hand of Etro.

If he had to go that far, why not just… push it further? Closer to what they all deserved from him? Take advantage of the fact that this was the first impression, and do it right?

”I’m reasonably sure I know what you’re getting at. I’d like to spare you any redundancies, Neve. If you’re up to speed with what the rest of your team know, I’d ask to keep it to that. If not…”

”Would you like to amend your answer?”

He was so, so tired of this shit. Even if he knew it wouldn’t suddenly ease every burden. Who wished for lighter loads when they could just wish for broader shoulders?

For once. Could he just be strong?

The way he looked at her… it made her skin crawl. Neve wasn’t sure what she was nosing her way into, but her curiosity was getting the best of her. This could be dangerous, something she could regret… but could she push through, just to seize the chance to help someone that needed it? Despite the fact that she had no idea what Rudolf spoke about, there was something off about him, something that didn’t feel quite right. Was it the Blight? If so, could she help him at all?

Neve shook her head slowly at his first question. The others hadn’t told her anything. Whether it was because it was simply unimportant– or because there was nothing that could be done– or what was done had already been done and there was no changing the past. Whatever it was, she could tell that he suffered. And Neve disdained seeing someone suffer so. Her bottom lip quivered, and she reached out, placing her hand gently upon his elbow.

”The others haven’t told me anything,” she whispered to him, honeying her words to soothe him. Neve locked eyes with him, nodding her head in encouragement. ”You can tell me as much as you want me to know.”

He managed to fight the urge to shrink away at the arm, when her hand made contact with the crook of his elbow— but still, he felt himself pressing a little further into the wood of the mast, eyebrows going high in bewilderment as he caught the quiver on her lip. What… what the hell was going on here?

He’d given her nothing but wary, guarded suspicion. No word out of his mouth wasn’t rooted in it. Even now, in a herculean effort just to weigh his options, he was still glancing over his shoulder for a specter from before— treating the words of their peers like a knife she held over his back.

What the hell are you doing, getting so worked up by someone like that? Don’t cry! We just met, don’t you know somebody could really take advantage of a heart that unguarded?

I don’t get it. Not at all. Seriously, don’t cry!

Her eyes, big, brilliant blues, caught his. Like the summer sky, they were bright and clear… hiding nothing.

She meant it. She meant it, even after all that. The whisper of her words was practically scattered by the morning breeze, but even in spite of the saccharine coating, as though she were coaxing forth a stricken dog… try as he might, for all he knew this is how one would be hidden from him, he couldn’t sense a lie.

No wonder they missed having her around. This, undoubtedly… was a good person.

“Well… That was unexpected.” he began, finally managing to rip his gaze free of hers by slamming his lids shut. He could feel himself starting to quake under the pressure, that which only earnest benevolence put on you.

That, too, was like the open sky. Swallowing everything into itself. He came from steel and fire, even if he was a timid, useless product of that heritage. He always had a hard time with kind people.The others reaching out had proven it once more over this voyage.

”The way I’ve been running from everyone, I was certain I’d drawn enough ire for them to at least warn you away. They’re within their right to. I’m not even certain it’s incorrect—. Your aetherborne senses aren’t lying to you. But if I haven’t, then…”

One eye opened, golden disk within catching the sunlight as it sprayed the two of them with the many hues of dawn, each fiery and relentless in their own right.

A good person like this, doubtless, deserved that much. If not from them, from him. He didn’t know if it was innocence, an overloaded sense of empathy, or pity, or what, but…

He couldn’t let her goodwill be wasted. He couldn’t dash her hopes against the cold stone of the world, when she tried to place a balm on his ails. He couldn’t betray her expectations that she’d pull him out of the dirt by pulling her down with him.

He’d seen this look before. He’d been met, once, with another who genuinely just wished to see the end of his woes, back when they were so petty and childish. He had seen what the world had done to her. He had run from her grave, the night he brought this ‘ailment’ upon him. He had run from the white mages, too, when even their purifying work could do nothing to ease her suffering.

No matter who they were, he let everyone down. He failed them, always running away when it was time to live up to the faith he’d asked they place in him.

He couldn’t bear to see such a person fall victim to that timeless curse that followed him— how many people? How many people had he foolishly allowed to put themselves in the crosshairs of his next fuckup?

He’d already shut out so many. To the point where they had frayed. Where he had frayed, to this state. How could he just switch now? Did he not owe it to those who had reached out and been rebuffed already to at least stick to his guns? What made this any different?

You’ve had your time to think about it. Let’s ask again. Are you committing to something, or running from something else?

…

…

Fire, and steel.

Both eyes opened now. He wished he could say they were resolute, renewed by purpose, filled with that sacred volition. He doubted that were remotely true. He knew what he was. He had proven his cowardice beyond all doubt. Five years and counting, he had proven it.

”Second chances are precious things.”

But courage… came in choices. Just one step.

He took a deep breath. Whatever happened next, this time, would be on his head. He had to pay their efforts forward. Hers too, braving this inauspicious, disquieting air that surrounded him. That was a choice. That was courage.

…It’s hell to fight alone.

”Then I give up.There’s no way around it— You Win, Neve. I’ll tell you myself. Just… You may wanna have a seat. This is… a terrifying thing to do. We may be here for a minute.”

One didn’t have to be a master of reading people to realize that this individual, this man, had suffered immensely. Neve noticed the look in his eye, the glimmer of his golden irises… he was fighting himself. But from what, exactly, she couldn’t tell. He stated that others had pushed him away, had grown ireful of his presence. There had been drama among their number, but she couldn’t tell until he had brought it up. It caused him so much tumult. Whether or not he deserved it, well, it wasn’t for her to decide. At the very least, she would come to a very least by the end of his story. Even then, Etro would forgive him, as would the others.

”I shall stand,” she told him. ”Even though we just met, I am here for you, friend. Tell me your woes, and perhaps I will find a way to soothe the pain in your heart.”

He blinked.

”Right. My, uh… My bad.”

This was now a horrible start. He chose wrong. He chose so wrong, he sounded like an idiot—

He brought a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat, cleared the thoughts. Here went nothing.

”Then let’s get down to it. To begin with, as I said, that unease you’re getting— It’s not just in your head. Near as I can surmise from others, it’s a real wrongness about my person. Similar to a curse, or a desecrated location, but different in a key aspect—“

His thumb jerked towards his chest. Right over the heart, where a pool of black pitch was welling.

”It’s the result of an exchange, rather than a hex or affliction. When we faced the revived corpse of Izayoi’s master in the desert, I said it got hairy. That there were close calls. One of them… was a moment where Izayoi had been left defenseless. A technique of hers had saved our lives, but she’d in turn incurred a bad rebound. If I had to guess, her body had been pushed past it’s limit. Point is, the revenant corpse was still standing… and it saw her as it’s biggest threat.”

He opened his palm, the web of scarring from battle, ritual, and a lifetime of little mistakes faded by now into the background of what he saw upon it. Remembering that fearful day, even now, brought a wedge into that pool above the heart, like a sword dredged in the black. After a moment longer, a small wisp of dimness had coalesced, then faded. Even if Neve hadn’t seen it, he knew she would feel it.

He held his palm out to face her, illustrating the shield.

”By the time I realized it was going to run her through, it was already moving. I had no time to think about it. I’m a swordsman, but I’m no match at all for even the dead husk of the man that trained the Wild Dance. I suck at what I do, you see. So… after keeping it hidden for half a decade, I turned that thing you felt just now loose, and managed to stop it in its tracks. The strength I didn’t have within me, I paid for in my fortune. Maybe my future.”

He let the hand drop to his side, resting the elbow on the crossguard of his blade. Despite bearing some of his weight, it seemed to leave Bikke’s deck totally unmarred. So far, nothing too out of line with what the others already knew… as an aggregate, anyway. He already wasn’t sure he’d told any one person all that, but the nerves had been on fire for each one.

”I’ve been seeing that manifest pretty bluntly since then. I’m beginning to think the majority of the bad luck came in having to rely on it to begin with— I’m sure you can imagine why the others may have suddenly had some hefty concerns about whether or not I was all I said I was.”

Neve stared at Rudolf as he spoke, her eyes growing as large as moons as he continued on and on. This was not the Blight. This was nowhere close to the Blight. She hadn’t heard anything of the sort. There was nothing that she could do to cure this ailment or to vanquish the darkness within him. She bit the bottom of her lip as he continued speaking, twisting her hands together as she allowed him the freedom to state what happened. But within her churned a deep, dark sensation that she had felt before. Back then, when she entered Drana anew, and scented the Blight on the wind. There was nothing that could be done. There was nothing that she could do.

A hard lump swelled in her throat. She glanced away, snuffling lightly as she attempted to drown the agony within her. ”I… apologize, I t-thought I could do something to help, to tend to a wound or an illness that plagued you but… unfortunately, that isn’t the case,” she whispered, her voice so faint that the wind threatened to sweep her words away. ”But know this. You are strong, Rudolf. Strong enough to withstand this. Strong enough to use it to help others. Etro will bless you for your heart, your courage, your resolve.”

”...I don’t know if I have that right. I chose this, after all, it...” He stood stock still, every muscle in his frame tensed as his mind grappled with those words. Was this what he’d seen in that unreadable shift in the High Caretaker’s expression? Was the contract he’d forged… not turning his back on Etro’s light to begin with?

Neve reached out, slowly, tenderly. She wrapped her arms around him, attempting to draw him in for a hug.

”Worry not, Rudolf, for this, too, shall end.”

Eyes wide and unbelieving, he nonetheless allowed himself to be pulled forward into the white mage’s warm, reassuring embrace. She would feel that for all the young man’s frame felt to be made of metal, he had been hiding a tremble beneath the surface. His breath, for a moment, seemed to escape him. His heart hammered.

He’d given an attempt or two at a hug to those in need, even as recently as four days ago with Ciradyl on the mast. But…

How long had it been since he’d ever received one, like this?

It may have just been the morning sun, but there was a light tinge of red on his face, thankfully pulled past her shoulder and out of sight by the hug. For a moment he stayed there, silently cared for by this person that defied all reason.

Then, slowly, one arm reached around her back, as though she were a fragile sculpture he dared not break.

”...Thank you, Neve. You’ve nothing to be sorry for, this… There are a lot of things in the world that nobody could expect you to cure. I know that much.”

Feather-light, and unwilling, maybe unable to bear the thought of any more, he squeezed back. A far cry from Wulfric Demet, and the bear hugs he crushed both Rudi and likely Galahad half to death with, the young warrior’s was a thing full of trepidation, each moment a trial overcome.

He stared ahead. In the end, what had he really said that was any different than what had been forced out of him? Was he satisfied with so little?

He stared ahead… And the words slipped free, quiet but sure.

”You don’t know me well. I’m weaker than you think. There’s a lot I’ve run from. Things I couldn’t handle. There’s a lot I’m still running from, living on inside me. That’s the type of person I am. That’s why I made the deal I did, and bet my soul on it— I couldn’t bear a powerless feeling. I ran from it. You’ll learn that, sooner or later, but… Thank you. I’ll give it my all.”

She really was too kind.

Courage, huh…

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

@Izurich@vietmyke

Even in the wake of his heart-to-heart with Neve that morning, Rudolf had been at his usual haunt when they'd shifted from full ahead to battle stations. Already a bad situation, one he'd prayed they'd not be facing until they'd gotten well ashore. Bereft of his main armaments like this, his only true mainstay would now be the dagger at his hip— eternally reliable, but without a doubt a sidearm. This wasn't a situation like the prisonbreak, either, where he could abuse the threatening veneer of his greatsword to chew up space and attention, the deck was no chokepoint.

So as the guns and pirates wheeled about the ship and the airship slowed to a crawl overhead, Rudolf on the mizzen had stowed his meal and switched to a low crawl along the beam and rigging, closer to a thief than a swordsman in posture, Rondel in hand. Barely armed, and wholly unarmored. Terrible setup, but one they didn't have time to rectify. At the very least, he could provide another angle of attack on any boarding parties, see most of the field—

”Incoming dragoon! Move!” Izayoi's voice sliced through the clamor, flash-freezing his blood. Horrified, his head snapped to the sky—

Only to catch the streak of a purpled steel comet as it nearly took the mystrel's life wholesale, flanked by a dozen or so Valheimr troopers with blaze-belching packs strapped to them. Why? Had Valheim really wormed its way into the ranks of Edren's dragoons?! They were practically the nation's honor guard in the north! Infiltration of the banquet that brought the original iteration of Kirin together was already bad enough— just how deep had their claws gotten?

And... worst of all this, as he watched from his perch with a white-knuckled grip, was that despite the cold, disgusted tone that colored it, the voice of the dragoon in question, was...

Dodging a series of attempts on his head by Izayoi, the knight in purple leapt up to the main mast, caught sight of the white haired Edreni, and—

"—is that Rudolf Shilage??”

"No, you have the wrong guy.

No, you can clearly see I'm from Sagramore, check out my knife.

No, no, no it isn't, there are no Shilage aboard."

All of these protests raced forth from mind towards mouth, but died on the lips when the man that prompted them revealed himself, and Rudolf finally matched the voice up with that inkling memory, one now years out of date. Valon. That was Valon, of the Arkha household— a friend Otto had made of similar age and standing to the Shilages, a little before they'd rode out to Osprey. He barely recognized him, the guy had been as young back then as Rudi was right now. Hell, younger!

What the hell was he doing, flanked by Valheimr, screaming his na—

The flash of steel, as the dragoon leapt high once more...

Oh, shit.

White-hot adrenaline rushed through him as he calculated the arc in his head, moments away from certain death as the steel thunderbolt was now turned on him. He launched forward off the mizzen into the void, now filled with buzzing Valheimr faux-dragoons, as a crash sounded behind him. Not blade buried into wood, but metal on metal. Had somebody made the intercept? Galahad? Izayoi? Had he read the dragoon's trajectory wrong?

A grimace crossed his face as he tried to marshal his thoughts, colliding with one such and grabbing hold, dimly aware of a dirge being sung somewhere beneath the din. Why Valon? Why now? Why the hell Valon?! Glory-hound he may have been when they'd last met, only in passing at that, but his loyalty to Edren had been proven twice enough for anyone in the War!

"The Fuck-GEDDOFf!" the jetpacked Valheimr squawked, trying in vain to course-correct for the sudden doubled weight crashing into and then hanging off him. Failing that, he attempted to bring the rifle-axe to bear—

Opening his axillary artery, through the armpit, sealing his fate. Rudolf ripped the rondel free quickly, bearing the torrent of blood that rained onto the deck as he brought his knife down again to follow up—

Only for his catch's death rattle to bring part of the flame-spewing back into the path, nicking the fuel line and letting out the noxious liquid that fed the flames—

"LEVIATHAN!!"

Oh, that doesn't sound right at all.

—but also letting in air. Rather than descend to the deck to join the fight, as one would expect of slaying one of these rocket-packers, Rudolf had only time to let out a tortured "oh just my fucking luck" before the unregulated pressure dumped the entire tank of fuelinto the thrust in one go, dead Valheimr and still very much alive, heavily disoriented Edreni spiralling through the void... right over the edge of the railing.

"Overboard!" he managed to bark out, letting go and forcing the world to stop spinning on him as he made his unplanned exit from the Scurvy Fishman. As he fell, the entrancing, nerve-dulling song grew only louder. Had Valheim tamed a goddamned water naga? Couldn't those slow you?

He sucked in a big lungful of air... and he and the bloodied corpse both hit the drink, the song now surrounding him, seeping into his bones along with the cold of the sea. What he was faced with... not the undulating, serpentine form of a Naga, but instead that of a young woman, slipping through the waves as though on the edge of a knife, eyes closed as she sang her somber, arcane notes towards the battle overhead.

A horned, visibly draconic young woman. Oh, I get it. I see what's happening. "Leviathan", if he had to bet on it.

Ah, he was alone in the water with an aquatic version of Eve, who was on his side and still wanted him dead a little bit. Cheeks puffed full of air as they were, the young warrior still found time to grimace as he brought his Rondel into his dominant hand, pawing through the water as he tried to match her speed. He could feel the effects up there already— if they wanted to have the best chance of beating Valon enough to get some questions answered up there, then he and his trusty knife would need to silence her down here, one way or another.

Ideally, before any sharks caught the scent of the massacre that had started spilling down to sea with him.

Times like these, Rudolf "Sagramore" really just wanted to go home.