HereComesTheSnow

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

Long legs, a wide mouth, all dark, and large. The last descriptor didn't mean terribly much from one so small as an aessyr without further context, but he'd take the rest into account as best he was able. It seemed all of them present had already arrived at the conclusion that this was more than mere flesh and blood. Carried a miasma around it too... he searched his mind for anything that matched. While doing so, though—

"I find myself in agreement. That said, we can't abandon the situation either. Whatever devoured her friend might be close by still." he said, glancing back to the others for a moment. "Of the four of us, you two ought to be best suited to covering ground and getting word back to the rest the quickest unless I'm very mistaken. Sir Caulder and I can hold position and keep gathering intel— Speaking of, little one, do you recall where and when this happened?" he asked, turning his focus back to the faerie. If the others had any objections to voice, they were of course free to— as he understood it he was still technically juniormost among those assembled within the Order, Rolan's erstwhile expeditionary assignments notwithstanding. "Like I said, we have some friends back at the castle who should know of this."

Inwardly, he thanked his lucky stars that this wasn't his first time having to repeat a question he asked of an easily-distracted kid.

He suppressed a grimace, feeling his mental catalogue of myth and monsters come up indistinct with the description he had to work with— this could be any number of things. Though, at least he'd have an early warning system in the feeling of the malaise if it drew close earlier than they were ready for, he supposed. They'd be able to grab the aessyr and run if they kept their wits about them... probably. Really, one of the most unsettling things he could imagine was maybeeee... a rogue Knight of the Hunt, but that was out of the question twofold.

Firstly, he was pretty sure they didn't even have mouths.

Second, and perhaps more pointed, was the fact that he didn't believe that this aessyr wouldn't recognize her fellow fae, even if they were Unseelie. More questions than answers, then. They'd have to play this as by the book as they reasonably could until they had real experts on-hand.

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

At some point, he had walked into the flame.

That much he remembered. He’d been a patron in a blacksmith’s hut, closing out a purchase of paired swords. He had talked a while with the gruff Viera, her hair colored once blonde by birth, twice silver by years, and thrice black by the soot of the trade. She was an unfrilled sort, as they all tended to be. Their conversation was brief.

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, child,” the older woman noted, eye for detail scanning Rudolf’s face. She saw little that she found promising.

Producing the last clump of gil he had on his person, the Edreni watched the smith’s scowl deepen twice over as he explained that he more or less had.

“…Be that as it may. I still have to put food on my table.” A fair point. “And even for me, this isn’t enough gil to cover a rush order. Not unless you have the materials ready to go— and even then, the hour is late if you’re leaving Costa at dawn. You’re best served looking through my current stock. And I’ve no means of breaking the curse you carry on your back either— don’t waste your breath asking.”

Rudolf dared not waste anything, for he was down to skin and bone to spare.

The native weaponry of Drana was shaped to the needs of the land more than any other he’d met, perusing the wares— predominantly things like dussacks, falchions, machetes. Single, heavy edges, not terribly long or thin, but rather brutally robust fangs. The type made to bite through flesh, bone, and brush the same way with any given swing. In more ways than one, compliant with what he had made of the last five years. After a few testing hews through the straw dummy out back and a few minutes of back-and-forth haggling, he had settled upon his armaments, pockets now light and belt now heavy.

—He heard it, far away. The call of the sea. It came in waves, lapping against a shore. It came in wind, ebbing, flowing, threatening to take the light he bore in its chill. It came in memory— that which ruled this place, beckoning in voice unheard.—

They were called “Crane’s Wings”. He recalled that name being passed onto him after he mentioned he’d arrived recently from Osprey. Supposedly he would infer that the two heavy sabers (close to some breed of dao as anything else) would not only suit his pointedly athletic, fell-handed chopping swordplay well— but also that they themselves were best used with respect to the bond implied by their namesake, auspiciously guiding him to a long life and good fortune, should they never be parted.

“So the story went”, at any rate. Something of a shared legend or motif between the desert and jungle nations, passed into one of the latter's armaments. True to her nature, she simply noted the knife on his hip as a reason it might be more true for him and his ilk than another— and that Sagramori put more stock in such things to begin with. To any random warrior, they would simply be reliable steel.

Well. He would need all the help he could get.

It wouldn’t nearly be the first time he had sought it outside himself.

But he had walked through a flame to get where he was now. That was what it must have been, because there was a torch in his hand. A feeble, scarlet ember, faintly glowing against the yawning void around him, painting the rolling black with its dim ruddy hues— the color of old, dry blood. He had passed through because light was at his back, and he had taken it with him in this torch. Maybe the smith’s forge had been it. Maybe a bonfire

Regardless, there was only one direction to go. He could not chance his luck with the flame again, not if he wasn’t sure what he had done to survive it the first time. Even if he knew, he sure didn’t want to. He hated backing up. That was always true. And more than that, he had somebody to meet.

He trudged forward, spurred by the heat at his back and near his head.

One foot in front of the other, as the path way revealed itself from the gloom only five feet ahead, five feet ahead, five feet ahead, and his pocket of definement flickered. Salt on the breeze felt like spears through him. It tried to impale his flame, too, to steal it away and leave him awash in the mire, seeing nothing, feeling nothing, knowing nothing.

He held the torch close, draping his cloak over it when he felt the chill— and each time he did so, a thousand dispersions, like locusts within the dark cloud, tried to nibble and gnaw away at hi person until he thrust the light back into the void, and could walk again accosted.

The dark would rip him apart, like a body sinking through the sea. This place was where only the light gave him form, allowed him to even recognize what was him and what was not. Without it, he would be another dreg, sliding down, sliding down, falling apart, sliding down.

His path was descending. He looked over his shoulder. He could not see the light he had left.

This meager flame would need careful shepherding, to take where he needed. A gift from Himstus, keeping him alive even in the depths— how many sparks like this had been swallowed already? How was this place to be fathomed, with only a kernel of passion and drive to keep him warmed within it?

He could not turn away. The waves were closer now. A roar upon his ears, Danube and Ilias in chorus. Only…

No. He did not feel them here. Whatever he approached was beyond them, it had turned them away. He could feel nothing upon the wind that was like a nudge towards a journey— and this sea would not be clear as a mirror, or blue like the open sky. It would be black pitch. Like the one Galahad had confronted him over.

No prayers to either god would avail him any guidance, salvation, or protection. He gripped the old wood of the fragile torch tightly, and chose Imir.

His voice cast itself into the shadow, and was lost. Not even the faint echo of it bouncing off a seaside cliff or the trunks of dead trees he imagined at points—

It simply was swallowed, and torn apart.

He continued on. Now, there really was only one way to go.

With time, the beaten soil beneath his boots gave way to smooth stone.

…“With time,” he said, but what was time here? It was as if he were in Siren’s clutches anew, only he could draw breath without filling his lungs to collapse. He had no idea what time was. By the time he had thought to count his steps, the thought had been torn and shredded away from him, as the shadows danced with the flickering of the ember.

They were deep, long, twisted things. Pillars of ink and charcoal that swirled and boiled with each minute shift of his eyes. At times he believed he saw clouds within the cavorting black. At others, he thought he saw faces, eyes, staring at the lone spot of light he held before melting away with a silent laugh. He saw the Kirins among those. His family. His friends, new and old.

A billion faces wrapped into one. A blossom of many-knuckled fingers fifty hands wide, then flaying themselves down to black bone.

He too saw beasts. Demons. Monsters, wide mouthed and empty-eyed things that looked primed to pounce with each time the flames swayed. Saberteeth, dragons, chimeric things that flowed and melded into one another, and then lost form. His other hand crept to the first wing on his hip. Ferry him to good fortune. To auspicious days. He had fire, he had steel. They cut through beasts and darkness, they pulled man out of the turbulent chaos that surrounded him now— the breath of life, of intent, of civilization itself.

All were borne from Himstus’s gift of the flame to the weary soul. It was fire that warmed the heart, pulled steel from raw stone, brought the first light against the long, cold nights. He would cherish the fire he brought with him. With it, he would keep himself.

There was sand beneath his boots now. A sense of growing vertigo aligned with a vague, hollow feeling at his soles. His footing was dropping away. The sea was out of his vision, but he could hear it. As loud as it was on the boat. He was before a chasm. The abyss was held within

And he wasn’t alone.

He turned, thrusting his torch ahead as he walked along the edge of the crater. He dared not peer in. There was another here, and if he were to sacrifice his balance to stare into deep choking black…

I would not kick you in. Not when you are finally here with me. There is a journey I would see you through. It is my purpose to meet you at its end.

He stopped. At his boot, driftwood. Driftwood?

It was a log, one he could seat himself upon. He reached forward with the flame—

And tinder caught, as scarlet and black mixed before him in a sudden bonfire. His face was awash with heat and cold at once. His eyes narrowed. Across the flame…

You are at a passage. This torchlight will open the gate.

A silhouette much like his own, rising back to its full height, eye level with him. In its hand was a torch much like his own— only it blazed with the same umbral flame that he had coated his knife with, in ridding one of Siren’s many heads.

We will delve.

Who are you?

You know. And I will tell you, should you make it that far.

Delve where? There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to be in this place. This was a shroud cast over nothing.

He could not see its face. Not clearly. He could see a structure in the black-painted haze of its figure. The impressions of a nose line, a jaw, a brow. It wore a tall, conical hat, and a heavy cloak. One his mind tried to paint red.

His mind tried to paint much on its form. It shifted in impression with each impulse, each waver in his flame, each moment. It was Otto. Then it was him. Then it was Izayoi. Galahad. Citadel. Neve. Imre. Esben. Then it was everyone. Then it was none, as though he had to accept it dispersed.

It smiled, and pointed its light-drinking torch forward, across them. Between the two blazes, the same shadows that once danced around them seemed a frenzy, stretched by the pull of the blackflame like writhing, clawing tentacles of the demonic krakens that were said to tear ships and sailors asunder.

Rudolf turned.

Over his shoulder, over the edge, there was the sound of the swell breaking. Something immense rising from the waves beneath.

He could not yet see it.

He would not.

He stepped forward, towards the edge, fire and steel in hand.

He felt ice in his stomach, a ball of heavy lead. Pulling him down. There was nowhere left to go. He could not go back now.

Would this figure not lead him to ruin? His torch could barely handle the dark up here. In the abyss below even that, where no god’s favor could reach, where his torch would be snuffed as it had the last time the waves took him, would he not be torn apart until nothing remained?

You might. This is not for the faint of heart. But you are here regardless.

One foot dangled over void.

He had wings. He had steel. He had flame.

He could not know what was here, at the bottom of this untamed, godless, lightless sea. He only knew it was passage. Two whispers on the air… One urging him to stay. One urging him to go. He was…

Out of time. Choose.

He had one place left to go.

He leaned—

---

“...ake, child.”

“Huh?”

“You were dreaming. It didn’t look a good one. Have you nowhere to stay?”

He blinked, finding his new swords beside him as he was seated at a bench, facing the fires of the smith’s forge. He had meant to spend a moment there to take stock of what was left after the purchase. Rest a while too, after lugging around Eliane’s gun and babysitting the chocobos, but ended up transfixed by the flame within—

“Did you hear me?”

“No,” he breathed, gathering his things as he shook wakefulness back into his head. “No, I do have shelter. I’m sorry, how long have I…”

“Good then,” she huffed, ears twitching as she plucked a hanging sign from a nearby archway— and as his eyes followed, taking in the purple skies of sundown as she did so. “The hour is late. I would suggest catching up on your sleep there, rather than my closing place of business.”

“Right.” he rose inclining his head on the way out the door. “I’ll be off, then. Thank you for the new recruits.”

He knew he would return. Maybe not to here, but to where he had been. The thought was a cold comfort, as all unfinished business was wont to be.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

"Aessyr. Dawn's rays, had me worried." the lupine knight murmured, before drawing up alongside Caulder and Rolan to get a gilded look at the tiny fae, nearly bawling. Where he had often been warned of their impish nature and mercurial approach to trading, as their more heavily armored comrade had already noted, Gerard's mind registered her pleas as... genuine. Genuine enough.

He didn't get the feeling there was the usual mischief her folk might ply at play this time. She would have been hiding it too well, were that true. He shared a glance with his fellows, then placed a hand on Rolan's shoulder as he and the woodsman switched positions between interrogation and watch. They couldn't quite split off and deal with this, for however compelling her plight seemed on its' face— At the very least, they needed more information.

And even that would be presuming he would be able (or willing, which at this point wasn't really the case) to convince half of their quartet to carry word back and leave him, or Rolan, to their own devices. Were he a more suspicious type, he'd have decided Dame Yael spoke a conundrum like this into existence.

Taking a breath, he tore off a healthy chunk of the pastry he had pilfered on the way out— some kind of cherry tart at a glance, and offered it to the diminutive girl hanging at roughly brow-level, speaking in a slow, controlled tone— not dissimilar to the one he used when trying to calm down his little sisters, back in the day.

"Here. Take a breath, and have some of this. My friend here is right— we do need to know more about this before we go cutting things open." As far as he knew, they didn't have much to worry about if the monster was mundane and material— presuming this friend of hers was also Aessyr, no harm would come to her outside the realm of magic. Neither the beast nor the Roses' weaponry would endanger her rather than inconvenience. "After his question: Can you tell us how long ago this happened, and roughly where it was? There are others in the area we may need to inform, in case they run into it or come looking for the four of us."

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

&

Ranbu no Izayoi

@Raineh Daze

At some point over the course of the day, both Rudolf and Izayoi found themselves within the small chapel that had been pointed out to them by the guard, conveniently finding Miina conversing with Cid of all people. With that initial hurdle out of the way, Izayoi approached Rudolf while the former two conversed.

”Boy,” She intoned neutrally. ”With everything that had happened, I never did thank you for saving my life in the desert. Without your intervention, I would surely have died that day. To a man I’d already killed once already, at that. So, thank you.” Izayoi gave a formal bow, her hands at her sides, back straight.

It hadn’t been terribly long since he’d handed the chocobos back off to Goug, and in turn been relieved of the somewhat necessary sun exposure that came with the birdsitting— while he’d reassured the Moogle he did indeed intend to arm himself anew before they shipped off at first light tomorrow, he couldn’t deny that he wanted a second in some damned shade first. The chapel was sure to at least offer that much respite, and beyond that immediately provide him some geographical mooring in the new, unfamiliar city. Better to know where he meant to return to before setting off.

His eyebrows rose.

While Cid’s reappearance across the vast distance between this small chapel and the underground temple they’d met him at was already surprise, before he could even insert himself into a fitting point of their back and forth to ask the billion questions brewing on his mind about it he’d been blindsided from another direction— with Izayoi, of all people, bowing stiffly before him.

It had been long enough since that, aside from the brief allusions to it by those on the ship that cared to bring that day up, he had begun to believe the moment lost in the swirl of their quest. They would be bound to all save each others’ lives many times over, before the work was done, he’d reasoned, and all proper thanks would be paid in a return of the favor, sooner or later. Faced with actual thanks now, he needed a second to reorient.

He nodded, letting his face settle into an expression that was a little more composed, and replied.

“Truthfully, I’m just glad I got there in time. Once you incurred the rebound from that technique of yours, each moment was so much of a rush I’d been lost in the instinct of it all. I was hardly thinking.” he offered a shrug before folding his arms as he leaned against the archway that lead into the small arrangement of pews. “And saying that, I realize I never thanked you for saving our lives just moments before. Call it a draw?”

He hated leaving hanging debts, after all. It wouldn’t shock him if Izayoi was the same— and that was one explanation for the stiffness of her thanks.

That, or she just wasn’t familiar with giving them. He wasn’t far removed there either, in that case.

”Very well.” Unbeknownst to Rudolf, he wasn’t far off the mark. In that both of his assumptions were correct. Izayoi had never been the one needing to be saved since she was a young girl. From the moment she’d struck off on her own, she’d been the one doing the saving. Hence, this wasn’t a situation she was familiar with.

”In any case, I say this to reinforce that I’ve no ill intent towards you. But that traitor dragoon at sea did state something I found curious.” She gave Rudolf not so much a hostile stare as an unamused one.

”Did you honestly believe that any Osprean commander fighting on the southern front wouldn’t recognize the name Shilage?”

The young man closed his eyes, and a deep breath through the nose covered up the lead ball that had suddenly been plunged into his stomach. His fingertips pulled against his bicep, grip tight, mirroring the sudden pressure through his brow, through his jaw. He’d let his guard down for a second. One.

And it was me you were scared of revealing. How funny these things shake out, huh?

And now, what was almost the worst case scenario had been thrust into his day. As she’d said, she didn’t hide an intent to gut him with that… just one to force him into this conversation again. One his heart told him he wouldn’t get the same ending he’d pulled out of Galahad for.

He met her gaze after a moment, meeting her pointed lack of hostility with less wariness in turn—

”As I’ve heard it told, the old bastard gave plenty of reasons to the contrary during his campaign. No. Not for a second would I believe that. It was why I was surprised when Galahad beat you to the punch.”

But he was no more amused, eyes narrowing and firming. While their dragoon’s words still lived in his mind, and lived with a fair weight, his stance was still hard as ever— concealment was not the only reason he’d introduced himself the way he did.

”And as I’ve already told him, that traitor dragoon doesn’t know what he says. I am no Shilage. I’ve no right or tie to that name. I do not bear it, I do not claim it.”

”I’m sure.” Izayoi replied dryly, her expression indicating she didn’t believe him in the slightest. ”Not at the moment, to be certain. But at some point in time?” She cocked her head. Well. It explained the manners, at least.

”You were hiding the matter with Esben, as well. So this wasn’t a lie concocted in fear of my reaction. Disowned, then.” She shook her head. Between Galahad and now this, how certain people could simply turn their children’s claim to family into mud was beyond her. She couldn’t even conceive of doing that to Suzume, short of her having done something unthinkable.

”It matters not, in any case.” She concluded, shrugging her shoulders. ”Your family’s affairs are hardly pertinent to our quest. If you wish to be Sagramore, then Sagramore you shall be. We were always going to have needed to avoid Shilage lands, lest it end in bloodshed between myself and the local lord.” Izayoi trailed off, a thought coming to her head. Was it…? Well, she hardly remembered. It had been five years, after all.

”Were you the youngest? I once signed off on orders to attempt to abduct you during the war, in that case. It was one of the only ones that failed.”

”None of your—” he began to heatedly retort, before his mind caught up with his wounded heart and told it just what she’d said.

…Imre?

A flash, somewhere in the depths of his gaze. Himstus upon him, a scarlet blaze interwoven with black pitch. In spite of his insistence that he had nothing to do with them, he was as Esben had learned on the masts days ago— good at concealing those subconscious reactions, but not quite perfect.

His knife. Was his knife still sheathed?

Yeah, his hands were free. But tense. And his left had drifted closer to it. He held it still.

“...Checking the old warhorse’s rampage by holding a hostage in his face. I see… With that one, maybe there was a chance.” he spelled out, a half-step further away after he’d stopped languidly propping himself against the architecture. Even in using the logic to recenter his emotional control, he couldn’t help but think back to that offhand quip he’d made before his spar with Robin— about how right he’d really been.

She had no way of knowing that her failed attempt had been towards the one with a better shot of defending himself to begin with. By that point in their lives, Imre had already been about as tall as Rudolf, and better behind a sword—

And both fair haired, sharp-featured like their mother.

Had he not been sent away to the southwest, just how close would the odds have been that he wouldn’t have been the one her agents had gone after, even if only by mistaken identity?

He swallowed, pale and chilled in spite of the tropical locale. And even if that had not come to pass, how close had his brother come to such a nightmare while he was away? While he could do nothing?

”...It wouldn’t have been me. Depending on the time you did this, I could have been practically Edren’s entire breadth from their holdings.” he said, searching her warily with his eyes. “Unable to do anything about it. I should be glad you failed either way, I suppose.”

Perhaps understandably, he had little relief in him to show on the face.

His left hand, dangling at the side, slowly curled into a fist. Not a white-knuckled ball, but… as though grasping for something that wasn’t there, and holding the void where it should have been.

”Framing it as we have… why do you tell me this, Izayoi? I don’t imagine you intend me to act upon this knowledge. Not at this point.”

”Merely making doubly sure of your identity.” Izayoi noted Rudolf’s reaction, seeming relatively unconcerned at his hand drifting towards his knife. ”That sort of reaction isn’t something one fakes on command without being a very good liar. Better you hear it from myself than from Istvan Shilage.”

“There is another I should hear it from, but… yes. You’re right. Better you than he.” he muttered, cold and bitter, as his business reordered itself in several ways. ”Seeing the opportunities I had to ensure otherwise, I’m sure you still drawing breath would be a contentious point.”

She looked away from the conversation and up towards the one stained glass panel above the chapel’s pulpit. A sigh.

”Of all my regrets, abducting children to force their parents’ hands is one of my greatest. I did my best to ensure none of them came to physical harm, but that can mean little. For what little it is worth, I am glad the attempt on your brother failed.”

He was silent as he took that in. This was different from the way she had thrown it out there when they were all dressing down Ciradyl, that much he couldn’t deny. With her stoic nature, this was likely what true remorse did look like— she’d only ever opened up further than this moment when speaking of her days of parenthood. He had no reason to doubt her regrets, knowing that.

Not to mention…

I seem to recall yours line up quite well. Enough that even though it’s been five years of us, you’ve barely given me five minutes of your time. And only when you need something, at that— It’s like you don’t want me here. Even though all I do is what you ask.

…He had given up his right to demand them, long before this, when he had put a brother of his in even more danger. His eyes did not follow hers towards the stained glass— instead, they drifted over to Cid, still in the midst of his own duties. How much, he wondered, did the old man really know? If Neve could sense the wrongness within him, then surely he could do the same. Which meant…

“Desperation makes monsters of us. I learned as much firsthand. And to accompany that, I don’t believe there’s any more worth about it I have the right to, regardless of want.” he finally said with a huff, turning away from Cid, from Miina, from the chapel. He had come here to take refuge from the outdoor light— hide in the darkness, in other words. His boots striking the floorboards filled the tiny hall as they carried him into the gloom, gathered around the borders of the light that filtered in through the doorway.

…

He stopped, looking over his shoulder at the Wild Dance once more. The shadows seemed to hug his small, tense frame.

“Do you believe that still exists within you? Given our war is now for the sake of the whole world, not just Osprey.” he asked, well aware of the cruelty that was voicing that question. ”Have you changed? Would you make that choice again, if it lies before you once more?”

There was an answer he wanted to hear from her. One he had been betting more than he could suspect on. He couldn’t ignore everything he had slowly been reading out of her, through his perhaps-now-justified fears.

But he needed to know what she saw in herself.

Izayoi drew in a breath, the moral quandary of the question impacting her like a warhammer to the gut. After having given birth to Suzume, would she do that to someone else? Could she?

”I would hope that I could say yes, should it ever come to that.” She said solemnly, meeting Rudolf’s gaze. ”But war makes pragmatists of us all.”

Izayoi didn’t like the answer she found. But at the end of the day, her own quest for revenge was a selfish one. And she would already have gone to nearly any end to slaughter Reisa and whomever actually gave the order to raze Atsu. For a just cause such as averting darkness and oblivion itself?

”Only if the alternative was truly unthinkable. If one child, one life had to be exchanged to stop mass slaughter, extermination, the end of the world itself? My sins are already great. One more would only be a drop in the bucket.”

…There it was.

The answer he received was, as he had suspected, much more realistic than his hopes. A reflection of the bitter truths of the world they were fighting to save— one of compromises, inertia, and broader concerns that demanded the death of the sacrificed ideal.

He held his look a moment longer, that lone spot of gold against his daylight-embossed silhouette not quite disappointed, but… nonetheless troubled, an echo of what he saw in her. Change came from within, and so spoke the only one who could see within the tired mystrel before him. And she'd had titanic reasons beyond herself to do it.

“So it does.” he agreed quietly, meeting her on her first point. “Such is war. I pray we never find out, but…”

He then shrugged that shoulder, turning away as he loosed a solemn breath his own.

“Your sins and mine differ, I'll say that much. But I think our limits are the same, at least somewhat— My ‘unthinkable alternative’ was letting those around you mourn you a second time, when I could still do something. But perhaps I’ve also changed less than I’d like, even in saying that. More and more, I’ve been made to consider it. Putting drops into my own bucket. Not even for pragmatism’s sake.”

It really did feel insurmountable, didn't it? Overcoming yourself completely.

There, then, he could start. At what was Pragmatic. Necessary. Let the logic and calculus of the situation guide him to Control. It was better, at least, than giving up. The way he had surrendered himself so often before. Five years had lead her to that answer.

... In this world, perhaps that was already the most fate would allow.

Was there any real way to know, before it put you there?

He began to walk forward once more, his course set towards arming himself. War demanded weaponry, and information. He now knew he had a critical lack in both. Blacksmith, then postage, once he stepped into the light once more.

“You’ve given me perspective and honesty, Furuya Izayoi. For that, you do have my thanks… And my hopes as well. I’ll be back by dusk.”

With that, he was gone.

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."