HereComesTheSnow

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

next year

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

Well, to be truthful, I’ve had a couple similar concepts kicking around for a while, but they didn’t quite grab me enough to try and apply them for a game with the passion I’ve been made aware of behind it (I’m sure you caught me stopping by to take a look) like this.

To get them onto paper, they were either a more domestic noble son similar to the one pitched, returning from abroad and largely accepting the new regime (overlaps with Callum, never put enough thought into what became of the rest of the family)

or a tough member of Captain Thorne’s band from some sort of Iberian-flavored nation, sellswording to feed a similar bloodlust but also running afoul of an all-timer of a bender just before his entrance, putting him roughly on the wrong end of a caravan trail and needing to sell his services to try and quickly report back in and cleanse himself of the stain on his honor that was a presumed desertion (the foreign element now overlapping with my man up here, goal seemed flimsy to me)

If Squirtle’s game, this offers a really fun synthesis of those two and sets him up perfectly to have Plot Happen To Him, which would doubtless cover certain holes in his youthful malaise.

ArrowFell: The Wizard Queen's Court

Hey there! I was wondering if you had space for another character in this space? I had a couple imaginary friends come knocking after a read-through of the intro post...

Contestant Number 1: He's young, handsome, aloof, foreign nobility, and SINGLE! Arriving off ship in North Pearl comes the Spare of a distant noble house in A Most Serene Merchant Republic, sent away as a diplomatic pawn to be the new ambassador to the Queen's Court and to discover all he can about the source of this new and strange magic in the realm. A man without lands or arms, what good could he possibly be to the great power brokers? When one wields a devilish smile, a roguish kiss, and the threat of foreign help if any harm should come to his head, the answer is quite a bit...

Contestant Number 2: Once hailing from the rich lands of the Glasic Fields, the Marchessa of Tearmoon has borne a grudge toward the crown ever since her loyalty to the new Queen was repaid with the sudden "gift" of new estates bordering Tearmoon and the revocation of her family's rights to the Fields. As a Marcher Lord, she held (and still holds) the right to keep men at arms at all times and was the only hope of reinforcements Ludwig could count on to stop his overthrow at the hands of the would-be Queen Evelyn. For whatever reason, Our Marchessa arrived at the city gates but did not enter to put down the uprising, drawing up her men in battle lines outside bowshot of the walls. Frantic messages arrived at her banner, one after the other, first granting her the right to enter the city and put down the uprising, then demanding she do so, another granting the right of plunder and sack if she would only save the crown. The final messenger arrived threatening to kill her firstborn son, the customary "ward" (hostage) left at court if she did not do as commanded. She merely replied "I have three others." Her son has not been seen since, and her stubbornness seems to have backfired spectacularly on her family's fortunes...

@AWildSquirtle

What if contestant number one wasn’t totally armless? Even as a mere pawn upon the broader board of diplomacy, it wouldn’t do to travel to new lands without at least some token blade at your side. Nothing too intense, of course, we don’t want to ruffle feathers, but perhaps another spare in tow, taking the form of a somewhat listless third son of some minor knight that will gladly play attack dog if his more silver-tongued charge were to run afoul of the natives? Well out of your way, really just here to enjoy a new place and make the most of his early years, of course. Something that sticks around at least a touch longer than the usual obligatory retinue.

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

&

Grovemaster Isolde

That night…

---

It had been a couple days’ travel now, and Rudolf had spent the grand portion of them in a tense, taciturn cast. Events of the prior days had doubtless weighed upon him, as they had every Kirin— gaining one member and then losing her and a second in so little time surely doing their outlook few favors. Worse still, they were bearing down upon the first major test of their quest proper in the Trial of Tides.

Without proving their valor, worthiness, earnest intent to save the world, or whatever else that Leviathan and the Gods at large meant to take their measure in, they would not be allowed access to the Crystal of Water. They wouldn’t be able to verify its integrity… or potentially safeguard it against Valheim. With the Fire Crystal already lost, their success in this endeavor was paramount. Things were already this bad with one crystal in enemy hands. Two, and the invaders’ toehold would surely be nigh-uncontainable, and the remaining nations overrun with a spike of Blightbeasts.

For these reasons, Isolde’s escort to Redwood was a resource Rudolf had no intention of ignoring. No matter how fresh the Grovemasters’ reclamation of Neve was in his mind, no matter how certain he was that the mousey robe-clad woman before him could sense everything Neve had and then some, no matter how much he wanted to let sleeping dogs lie…

“Master Isolde,” he said simply as he approached her spot off to the side, while the main party busied themselves with setting camp. “Do you have a minute?”

He would be a fool to waste whatever insight she may have been able to offer, regarding the biggest piece of dead weight he was lugging around and never using. Bereft of any chance at finding who might have originally laid a curse onto the blade, his next best option was entreating the most adept mages he could find.

No better person to start with than someone that had ascended to her position so quickly.

Isolde glanced up from her meditations, staff laid across her lap. She adjusted her hood, peering at the young man before her.

”Yes? You have a question for me, I take it?” Her gaze focused as she beheld Rudolf, head tilting slightly.

”How curious. Some presence…shrouds you. Not inherently harmful to the body, and yet…”

Uh oh, boss. I think she likes me.

He nodded in response to her first question, though it could just as well have been read as an affirmation of her train of thought that had come just after. Either way…

“...Not without cost.” he completed, drawing the greatsword from his back and setting it upon his lap as she had her staff after seating himself. No point in beating around the bush when he had already twice known what he could and couldn’t hide from mages of less-realized ability than her. “Though my asking pertains to less transactional matters than bargaining fortune for power.”

Progress. At least you admit it’s a deal these days. Still, haven’t you gotten pretty bold with what you’re giving out for free lately?

With his fingertips, he tapped against the flat of the blade before him, no sound ringing out in response and no impact against his bones the way one would reasonably expect from steel of such construction and quality. He met her eyes after a moment’s contemplation.

”There is a curse inlaid upon this sword, and I’ve no means of tracking down the original caster— should they even still exist on our side of the world. With what research I’ve been able to pull together, my best chance at potentially breaking it might be entreating the most skilled mages I can find for their insight and ability. I can hardly imagine many who might outstrip you, seeing as you sniffed out the passenger I’ve got with me faster than even Neve had.”

He tilted his head slightly, as though mirroring her.

”If you’re curious, maybe we could trade questions. But please. The threats we face leave little room for dead weight in our number. Is there anything you might be able to do?”

”With your permission.” Isolde set her staff aside as she took the sword into her lap.

”By all means.”

The Grovemaster laid a hand upon the flat of the blade, a soft white glow emanating from her palm as she began to assense it. A minute passed. Two. After three, she finally opened her eyes.

”Where did you acquire this weapon?” An ironic echo of Kurogane’s same question to Rudolf, if there ever was one.

The corners of his mouth turned up humorlessly. ”As I understand it, a colorful warrior from a far-flung land was more or less dropped headfirst onto my father and his Raiders during the Osprey Campaign. That at the sacrifice of four dozen men, this was his only war trophy to show by the end of things— the same enemy that had torched his march towards Ranbu no Izayoi disappearing shortly after being routed.”

He glanced up, towards the bits of rosy dusktime sky that peeked through the ever-present curtain of green. It felt strange repeating things like this… but at the same time, it was the easier part of the conversation. He had less of the harder stuff to hide. And there was a strange sliver of relief tucked away in that.

”Pretty much chucked it at my feet after he discovered my new ‘occult influences’— given what it had cost for so little use, I doubt he could stand to look at it much.”

So you’re still leaving that part where you put them on full display out.

He returned his gaze to the blade.

”To keep the departure brief, I had no room to get much more detail, beyond us ‘deserving one another’. Why do you ask?”

”Because whatever magic this is, it is not of this land.” Isolde replied softly, the bluntness of her statement undercut by the quiet tone it was delivered with. ”I am familiar with many magics. This spell-weaving is not one I have seen before.” She moved to offer the sword back with both hands.

“Ah. Naturally.”

”If I had both the time and sufficient spell reagents, undoing the enchantment through sheer brute force would be feasible. Unfortunately for you, I suspect it would take months and no small amount of gil in the amount of cursebreaking materials required. However, what I can determine is that the binding is life-linked. It will disappear with either the consent or death of the caster. You said this was obtained during the war with Osprey? Doubtless, its original owner is still among the living.”

”Months, huh?”

He held the bridge of his nose, nodding along slowly as her explanation drove this idea deeper and deeper into the hole.

”Well, with my luck, he may yet drop out of the sky once again looking for it. We could circumvent all that by pummeling the interloper until he croaks.”

Much as he wanted to throw his hands up in defeat and be done with the whole affair, as his drier and drier tone indicated, she hadn’t told him such was the only way he could break this curse. Just the most direct. And banking on the direct route in this life, after five years of this squirrely piece of steel offering anything but…

“Feh. Were it so easy. One moment.”

He rose after accepting the greatsword from her, dashing off to cart it back to his supplies and belongings where he’d set them down in the midst of camp a short distance away. She would see him rifle through the leather satchels and bags with a furrowed brow for a moment, before returning to her side with, of all things, charcoal and parchment in hand, the latter tucked in the midst of the pages of a thick tome.

Doubtless, he’d need to keep these two together, as it was to simply be additions to his growing pile of that aforementioned “research”. Taking a moment to open it up, he had evidently been neck-deep into a section on more domestic Edreni hexes— such as they existed.

”We’ve a long road ahead of us, and one winding through the whole continent at the very least. Gil being one thing, and your duties here being another, of course… I ought to at least be on the lookout for those reagents you mentioned, while we’re on the move. If I can at least solve the supply equation, that’s a step forward. What should I be hunting?”

His eyes burned with a stubborn flame, carrying a smidge of light beneath their duller luster. He couldn’t let this go if his effort wasn’t exhaustive. For the fate of the world(And for your power in it), there were no half-measures. No stones that could be left unturned.

What came next from Isolde’s mouth were a string of rare and valuable materials, with diamond dust, Skaelan black pearls, and the beating heart of a dragon being among the most prominent and important of the bunch.

”The rest of the reagents can be substituted or worked around, but those three are crucial to spellbreaking. But I have a question for you, Rudolf.” Isolde’s hood shifted, showing only the glint of her glasses for a moment.

”What would you do if this sword held no power in the end? Past being very finely crafted, do you not believe it to be something of an irresponsible gamble in going through all this effort on your mystery weapon?”

A pregnant pause hung in the air, as he laid down his charcoal over the now heavily marked parchment and turned her question over on itself in his head— of all the ones he thought he might have been expecting, this was far from topping the list.

And yet… he saw why it came. It was a natural concern with any long-spanning undertaking, towards an indefinite goal at that. A venture into the unknown and unstructured, one that would take perhaps the whole breadth of his journey and then some extra— the still-beating heart of a dragon, for instance, might end up claiming his very life. Could it be worth that stake on the table? If the chance existed that Kurogane was somehow mistaken in his read of the steel, could he go throwing himself off course while the Kirins still had their main missions to complete?

It was a gamble. That, he would not deny. And really, how many gambles had he already made that had bitten him in the ass?

Forgoing his respect for Etro and allowing a black flame to burn in his soul for the sake of harnessing its power.

Sprinting ahead of Izayoi’s master to the point of tearing his tendons from the bone, and revealing that same sacrilege to the party, putting him beneath their suspicion even now.

Diving for that Valheimr in a mad dash to get away from Valon’s spear, sending himself into the brackish seas below, where Eve’s sister lurked and held a mirror to all the weakest parts of him, nearly dragging him to a watery grave.

Hell… even in accepting that call to arms, he was making a gamble. He, and Earl Demet, and mighty Wulfric, knew it could not have been meant for a failure like him. That any warrior of fighting age in that same village, bearing their dagger and a blazing heart, was more deserving by merit. And yet here he was.

Cursing every subsequent bet he’d made. Living a life mixed upon fear and stern adherence to some ideal of duty he had taken onto himself. Sacrificing luck, sacrificing his sanity, sacrificing all the effort he could pour out from his slight, weak frame. A man possessed in all senses, desperate to give himself to a fragile dream.

All the less responsible choice. All gambles. All with fallouts that caused him pain. And yet…

He looked over to the camp proper. There was Izayoi, still breathing, griping about meddlesome fae. There too was Ciradyl, Esben, Galahad, Eliane, Arton… Even Miina and Robin, who barely cared for any of his prior bets beyond still having him around. All of them, still living and breathing.

He had gambled and lost. He was an exile from his ancestral home. He had stranded himself among those he needed to guard a shameful past from, a furtive pygmy among giant legends-still-written. He had lost trust.

He had cut a tense deal with Eve, who smelled the inherent wrongness about him, for a held tongue— only to have so many secrets pried open by the careless threads of fate, and for her and her pact to leave their number only weeks after.

He had taken a hopeful shot in the dark with Neve, beginning to tell her more honestly of the truth about his contract, his sacrifices, and the curse he had wrought onto himself in a fit of childish rage, against the fate that neither she nor Isolde could have fought. He had barely begun to convey what a shortsighted, cowardly fool he had been, the depths of his selfish motive, but accepted her faith as soon as she gave it— and in what seemed only a breath later, she had been torn from the party, to be held among the Grovemasters in Brightlam under a doubled watch. Aiding them no longer. Holding faith that he was more than what he told her only in word, with no way to prove it to him.

It was like his bets were poison. He couldn’t even blame the passenger residing in the back of his mind, pointedly holding its tongue in this moment for reasons he couldn’t know. Even before he had known of a “Lunaris”, he had been a gamble, demanding incredible effort for questionable reward.

The knightly arts of war as a meek weakling. A squireship across the country, despite so much polishing left on the table.

Living as little more than a babe, while a trusted captain fled in the winter night.

And yet…

Those gambles that had resulted in such turmoil and torment had kept the rest all here. All breathing. He had interfered and shown himself to save Izayoi’s life, no matter what had been made of him in the aftermath. He had carved through the serpentine waves, buying them the opportunity to save everyone the storm had thrown or beckoned overboard. He had, at the same time as each gamble brought him ruin… kept a crucial person in the game.

And even that accursed deal he struck… without it, he wouldn’t have been here, at each key point. He would not have thrown his weighty black blaze upon the scales, and tipped them towards the people that were trying to save the world.

His efforts were as exhausting as they were exhaustive. Even so.

“No. Whatever chance this blade may represent, I believe it worth taking.”

So long as they could push the mission forward, against these impossibly massive odds that Danube had spelled out to him herself, seemingly so many nights ago in the desert now… it didn’t matter what he burned to keep that flame alive. Even if it was stained by pitch, even if it flickered, wavered, weakened at points… it would keep burning.

”I believe this worth the effort, even if there is no special destruction it may wreak once the curse is lifted. Stubborn as it may be, at the very least, it is one more line of sharp steel I would be able to lend to our cause— even a marginal boon is worth pursuing, given how steep our odds are already.” he replied at length, gazing into the twin glinting disks as though to pierce through them, so he might search through the emerald depths that were beneath even as they searched rosy gold in his answer.

”If nothing else, I will have determined the true nature of an old and frustrating curiosity. Put structure and reason upon the formless unknown. A chapter I will close, and no longer need to carry upon my back as we move forward.”

Flimsy, rhetorically.

But all the more reason to put his weight behind it— for it was sincere.

”I find the greater irresponsibility to be in abandoning the things I commit myself to. I have little left to my name beyond them. If it can be done, I have to try.”

For the briefest fraction of a moment, there was a sag in his shoulders, the way that willow trees did when they sighed too heavy at the branches before falling.

”I can’t spare any less.”

Then it was gone, cased anew in iron.

A moment passed. Two. Isolde seem to withdraw into herself for a moment, before letting out a slight giggle.

”Ufu. I see. You’ve genuinely thought this through, and still decided to continue on with it. Quite foolhardy, in my opinion, but admirable.”

The young man shifted a little at that, far from sure of what he’d been expecting. He spent a moment to study the trees, scratching at the back of his head.I guess I’m happy to entertain...

The Grovemaster placed her staff back into her lap, seemingly satisfied with whatever insight that she had gleaned out of Rudolf.

”Then if nothing else, I wish you good fortune and the blessing of the Mothercrystal. It is not the path I would advise, but if you are set on the hard road, then I can do little more to dissuade you from it.”

”Suppose it’s my way of things.”

A slight, somehow-saddened smile.

”For what it’s worth, I do hope the Trial turns out well for you and yours.”

“...So do I. For all our sakes.” he replied after a time, voice faint as the hint of smoke the wind carried over from the beginnings of the campfire. He couldn’t help but feel troubled by that expression, gentle yet melancholy. Familiar to him, in so many ways, for so many reasons. Not the least of which…

“You know, I saw that same look on Cid’s face, down in the temple beneath the desert.” he mentioned beneath a raised brow, a little out the side of his mouth. ”At first I was worried it was about me smelling like a desecrated ruin, like he had felt a severance from Etro’s light in the same breath as he’d explained how Blight manifests, but as time keeps rolling on, and I keep meeting holy folk like you, him, Neve… the more I wonder if it wasn’t something different they saw. And if this Trial is gonna see things the same way.”

He regarded her again, a wry, helpless smirk flashing across his features as the last edge of the sun sunk behind the emerald canopy high above.

”But that’s the whole point of the thing, isn’t it?”

Isolde’s face turned unreadably neutral at the mention of Cid, but she nodded nonetheless.

”We all lose our way at times, Rudolf. What matters is how we choose to proceed from there. Try to pull ourselves out of the holes we’ve dug, or double down and continue to bury ourselves. For what my opinion is worth, I believe you’ve done an admirable amount of pulling, if only for the sake of those around you.”

She rose from her seat, pulling herself up with her staff as a crutch.

”The Lady of the Whorls will judge you and yours, Rudolf. I pray that she does so favorably. Gird yourselves, and keep the greater good of those you are responsible for in mind.”

Rudolf let that sink in, then inclined his head.

”…Thank you. I’ll not keep you any longer.”

He remained seated, watching her rise, before eventually shifting the sword to rest against his shoulder and looking back over the parchment, and his many new side goals etched upon it. He had no heed of the blade, of course— it was the words he was left with, rather, that had truly cut him to the quick.

Once again, he saw his gaze shift from parchment to the hand that held it, pockmarked, worn, and dying of its want to tremor. He flexed his fingers closed, one by one, and found response, crinkling the stiff page as he imagined a grip for pulling. For the sake of others. Out of a deep, deep pit.

“The greater good, huh….”

The words passed into the night air as little more than a murmur, but the rang, and hung in his head, sound bouncing within a bell.

Responsibility.

The trial was a mere day away.

We reach this crossroads again, the dancing shadows of the campside firelight said, plainly speaking in their withering tongue. Is that look in your eye a mind made up?

He swallowed a thick lump of fear, clenching his jaw as if it would break the ice that had begun to grip him at the heart. His knuckles, wrapped tight as a stone coffin around the leaflet parchment, had gone white.

Yes. Now was the time.

Then tread with care, little squire-errant. And try not to destroy your list.

A deep breath, full of smoke, full of mist, full of clean jungle air. The boy rose, staring into the thicket, where any man could melt away and be lost forever in only three bounds.

”Alright.”

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

As their guide chauffeured the quartet through the impossibly green depths of the old wood and he felt the change in the air, Gerard fell largely silent, measuring his breath save for the odd grunt of discovery, maybe wonder. The deeper they delved, the thicker the forest grew with a sense of primordial life— like his Sunlit Lady’s warm rays on the morning, building into a strong summer’s day. His eyes, gliding over the canopy, began to notice more and more of an ordained pattern emerging in the fold of the leaves, the split of each branch, and the slow rise of the trunks.

He reached down to his belt, with that hand still free of his helm, and quietly released the latch on the sheath affixing it to his hip, electing to carry it as the trees melted from a forest to an oaken hall, pillars on either side stretching into a full archway high overhead.

And like shadows against the pillars of marble wood, they were too flanked by countless lines of black-armored warriors, a royal guard each as prodigiously sized as the fae ahead of him, wielding spears of pitch. He imagined being stabbed by them to in many ways be so very like those his old furor always tore into his heart with. Lucky they had come here on peaceful, amiable terms. Even without making considerations for keeping those behind him less suited for the task alive, the gritty and determined knight, stubborn in the face of death by anyone’s measure, still scarcely liked his prospective chances against even a third of the number that encompassed them as they walked—

He took in a deep breath, and expelled even the idlest of such musings. At the head of the hall he could see the great throne, grown from the earth like any one of these grand trees, and the hunter’s Lady upon it. She was pale, striking, statuesque to the point of perhaps being carved from marble more than flesh. Her face was fine and her figure full, the way such statues were. Her curtains of black hair seemed to ripple as she shifted, her dark stag’s horns like lacquered wood. Her eyes were deep sapphires, deeper even than the blues of the robes she wore, flanked by forest green trim. They met his for a moment as they approached, and he found himself glad he had cleared his mind such. Windows to the soul being what they were, in that instant he believed she had found much of the measure in his gold before he could scratch the surface of the blue.

An enchanting beauty as any he’d seen in his meager twenty one years. A silhouette that burned herself into his mind as an eternal memory— and yet, his heart could not bring itself to leap. She was no doubt fae… and no doubt, the master of this territory. She was too almost the size of her kin, and the throne itself already towered over them.

Yet, as she spoke her first words of address, naming their guide as “Faolan” in that clear and strong voice, the knight couldn’t help but feel an echo of Thrinax in the way her presence seemed to swallow the room, even beyond their differences in scale. He was a man before a storm.

And he, taking the front, had signed up to make their entreaties to the hurricane of the old wood. No pressure, big guy….

Slow and deliberate, he set his sword down to one side and his helmet to the other, before he, last of their number in it, dropped to a knee, steeled his nerve once more for surety’s sake, and spoke.

“I trust that will be for you to know and us to find out. For now, we are contented with the honor of meeting you, fair Lady— and we wish not to waste your time.” he began, speaking clear enough for the hall at large to hear his low and even tone. His hands, freed of the steel they had carried, rested clasped upon his knee. The finer flowering on his words was thanks to his time in the dream, but he could not yet readily embody Cyrus’s lessons on loosening up and being friendlier here. Not before he had properly shown respect, for what that may have mattered to these famously capricious folk. ”We sought audience so we may be enlightened as to the nature of the madness that has struck the sitting lord of Brennan Keep, Duke Thedric, at the foot of these woods. Our order was called here to aid in that pursuit— and when we arrived, his ramblings were incoherent save for the repeated mention of a figure called the ‘Moonlit Queen’. In investigating the trail out of the keep, we heard and answered Aithne’s call for aid. That lead us to the Gannek, which lead Faolan to us, and now he has kindly lead us to you.”

He inclined his head, humbly as he could. Reon, Mayon, Dame Serenity, anyone who had taught him how to choose his words with care in his life… he begged they guide his tongue.

”Be there any guidance, or insight, you might be able to grant us regarding this matter, my fellows and I would be most grateful. This affliction appears something beyond the ken of us Children of Men.”

He tried to fight the urge to look her in the eyes once more.

He really did, yet…

Up two golden disks came, hiding no intent.

Falling Skies

LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN "COMMIE"

---

A flash, high above the orbital plane, barely visible out the corner of Kilmer's perception while he was busy defending against the next salvo of sledgehammers. Maybe a second to react at most— more likely a mere fraction of that, but time seemed to stretch and shorten in even if unpredictable measure in the heat of battle, once blood raced. He threw the Shrike into a tight bank off to the left, verniers burning furiously, and scrambled for the comms line.

<<Sorrels, break righ—>>

Not enough time. Never enough time, as the lance of frigid blue burned through miles to impale the one-armed Sparrow before his eyes. The ensign had been dead from the moment the glimmer from on high had shown... no. From the moment he'd even hailed the reinforcements their trio of Sentries had gotten in he and Rook.

"Shit." he clicked his tongue after striking through the line for a brief second, whirling his bird away from incoming fire on two angles as the newly-arrived Fafnir loosed more shots to carve through the lead destroyer, and the three remaining Fenrirs tried to capitalize on the sudden confusion from behind the hulk of the carcass, still harassing Braide even as he counted down the missiles they sent downrange at the Shrike. This was bad, and it would sure as hell get worse if he lost tempo. When he restrung the comms feed, he all but punched the switch as he came out of the spiral a short distance from the Venator.

<<Alright Rook, change in plans. We've got big game to hunt. Can't leave him to cut up the destroyers on this flank or he'll punch a hole in the whole fleet— but these guys come first. Slender, Denim!>> he called, patching in the remaining Sentries and cutting through whatever chatter the sudden loss of their third might have spooled up with a sharp, authoritative tone. He didn't know these boys well, but he'd seen sudden, unheralded death like that shellshock dozens of pilots in his Naginata and Sparrow days— the best thing to maintain course was feeding an immediate plan of action before panic could set in.

Not lost on him was how the same might be able to be said for Rookie, who he knew damn well had just logged his first kill moments ago. This might have been his first death, too. As much as he wanted to redline it right onto the new arrival, he needed to know if his ward for the day was going to be up to the task of diving headlong into what had to be an enemy ace. After the stunt that had gotten them here, he couldn't leave him to his own devices if he wanted him alive— so when he got the taste of the Fafnir he wanted, he'd have to drag the kid along for the ride.

None of these concerns, however, could be fielded until they dealt with the threat that was focused on punching holes through them directly.

<<We're lobster clawing these three and getting the hell out of here! Braide and I'll flush them out of position from up top, you two dip below the hull and get ready to nail them with your Claymores!>>

The Lobster Claw was an old standby in the UEE playbook, as memorable a name as any for a vertical pincer. Similar to a Thach weave in certain principles, it made good use of misdirection in that same classic trick; one element baiting the enemy and the second hooking them. All three of the pilots he'd just asserted impromptu command over ought to have drilled it incessantly over the course of MAS curriculum— and referring back to old training would allow it that much quicker a takeover. This way, they could use the cover the Fenrirs had chosen against them, concealing the two Sentries' approach while behind the radar curtain of an entire destroyer's hull.

<<Let's mosey, people. Engaging!>>

A burst of white-hot thruster burn, and the Shrike rocketed forward, lifting an arm and loosing multiple 50mm rounds at what hints of the Fenrirs poked out of cover to send autocannon fire towards it and the Venator, crushing the gap even as its pilot threw himself into the controls to sway and weave past their rounds while maintaining course.

All the while, he kept the radar picture of what lied ahead at the back of his mind. The rest of the 7th were all pretty tied up in their own ordeals at the moment— Sab especially seemed to delight in keeping Hex busy with all the Garmr on her tail. Not ideal. They needed to figure out a way to scramble that Fafnir's targetting systems, radar picture, something to keep its heavy beam cannon out of the picture until they could make a proper intercept. He had the speed. He had the maneuverability. He had high, high hopes for the fact that fate had thrown this thing on the flank he'd needed to be at—

His brow knit, and his icy eyes darted between each of his three least favorite coalies at the minute as the beam saber in the Shrike's right hand roared to life again. All the more reason the four of them that were left on this flank needed to get rid of this Fenrir trio now.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

He closed his eyes for a moment, and let a slow breath out through the nose. He’d not meant to hold it in, of course, but he was nonetheless forced to reckon with how much the scope of their “forward scouting investigation” had crept out and expanded. In many circumstances, the knight would have gladly lifted his hands in defeat, made some assertion that being a forward arm of the Iron Rose in endeavors of diplomacy “still far beyond his pay grade”, and slunk away to the aft of their number while the better-schooled talking heads worked what magic they could. Perhaps literally, given who they’d be dealing with.

A moment later, he opened them again, to glance back at his peers as they steadily reassembled behind, the reunited Enfys and Aithne in tow. Then green was met with gold once more.

”Agreed. We would be remiss to spurn the invitation, especially when we seek wisdom beyond our means. Lead on, friend.”

But there was nobody to really hide behind now— and it was high time he stepped up to the plate, if he really was serious about embodying the old stories.There were as many legends of knights as courtly envoys, making overtures for guidance and hospitality from afar, as there were slain dragons.

As they began to walk, he finally returned his sword to its’ sheath. This was a battle he would not win with it anywhere else.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Eisenhorn@VitaVitaAR

"As he says." Gerard affirmed, tone even, measured. A big step in the right direction that this newcomer appeared before them openly, hiding neither his weapons nor his intent, as far as he could read— all points worth noting. Feeling how the air shifted and the trees sang when this gangly newcomer spoke, there was little doubt in Gerard's mind that, had this figure the intent, one or more of their number would be dead before they'd known their first battle had lured another to their midst. "We were met with a plea for help from one who was in need, and as Knights of the Iron Rose have a duty to answer."

He inclined his head and shoulders, sure to nod a little lower, if only just. He did not want to compromise his stance yet, nor was he in the presence of royalty or the Knight-Captain fully invoking Command— but there was the overwhelming sense that he was within another's territory, and, with nothing by way of food left to offer as he had Aithne... this was the respect he could show.

"I do apologize for the intrusion upon your Hunt, regardless."

Taking a few slow steps to his right, he slowly reached up to remove his helmet, revealing his wild coal locks, scarred face, and golden eyes most importantly to the new fae entity's view. Windows to the soul, mirrors to one's intent, the lupine knight would do what he could to return the courtesy of "showing himself".

By no accident, though, did he also end up between the tall, ethereally refined, antlered hunter and the rest of his peers. He couldn't simply say his goodbyes to all the fae present and have the knights be on their merry way, no matter how much he wanted to— and he really, really did. As glad as he was that everything so far had been a positive interaction, and that they had saved the second Aessyr, he still had little desire to involve himself with the dealings of the Fae of these woods any more than he needed to...

"You were hunting that beast. Might you hold wardenship over these woods, stranger?"

They were still here for a reason in the first place. The grey man bore himself with import in more than stature alone— his address of them, his stated desire, his resonance with the woods, all pointed to him being a key figure in the area. Not quite his image of a "Moonlit Queen", but even so...

"Our purpose in coming here was in response to a similar call for aid, before we were met with little Aithne," he explained, resting the helm in the crook of his elbow. "It is one of our kin who needs it, as it happens. The Duke Thedric of the keep at the Wood's feet, stricken by madness and mentioning a 'Moonlit Queen' repeatedly. If you've any insight on such matters, I thank you for sharing it."

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

@VitaVitaAR@vietmyke

"Did you think it was by accident that he was so effective at teaching you how to kill a man?"

A voice like splitting granite, firm well beyond its years and dripping with a bitter disdain cut through the silence before it could even begin to brew, filling the air after Robin's impassioned, desperate rebuke of the claims laid before her. Its owner had taken to leaning against the wall behind him, trio of confiscated swords still well in hand and tucked under his now-folded arms. The gloom seemed to lengthen the shadows cast over his sharp features more than it should have, but even then...

"A soft man wouldn't find throats so easily. Ask the Valheimr."

Rudolf pinned the scene before him with a dull glare, not quite focused on friend or enemy specifically— rather, looking down on all of it. In truth, the question was a pretty even split between rhetorical framing and genuine query as to what went on in her head, but he spared no time waiting for an answer.

"Really, the only thing that's surprising is that he settled down so close to home. Not two days' ride from the barracks. An old soldier of the kings' armies wouldn't have such a fondness for the swashbuckling. It breaks down in formation. You can't utilize your mobility the same way if you adhere to structure the way you need to. But if you encircle the unsuspecting and unprepared, the angles open up."

"Lord Istvan". "Ardor Fey." There they were, unprompted and freely spoken despite nothing on their persons save Robin's own swordplay priming the scumbags for it. It was ridiculous. An acrid taste on the edge of his tongue— just how often would they be haunted by ghosts of their collected pasts? Valon had been bad enough, and Rudi had only met him in passing. His and her pasts entangling like this was practically a cosmic joke.

His eyes narrowed. His voice curled around him like smoke.

"The initial fighting mass of the Raiders weren't proper recruits— the conscription pool ran across the bulk of western Edren and its countryside. The holdings of Earl Edric Demet were hard to police in previous decades— so Shilage, currying favor, rounded up any band of thieves, highwaymen, or bandits that he could crack the skulls of after tracking down. The choice was to fight under the banner, or deny yourself a second shot at life." though he droned through the history lesson dispassionately enough, he couldn't hide the scoff in his tone. That man offering second chances seemed like such a paradox to him now, even if he had little argument for his stake in claiming one. He shrugged his shoulders slightly, a wry smirk on his face. "'Redemption' was a personal matter, beyond the reclamation of dignity through service and the standards upheld therein. It stands to reason that when these guys split, they'd go back to what they were doing beforehand. Without the Raiders' banner protecting them, the past was likely to follow one way or another. May as well get out ahead of it, right?"

One detail was nagging at his head. He drew one of the blades and held it aloft, as though presenting arms, before eyeing the length, shifting his grip on the hilt, bringing the point up into a tight fencer's guard near the brow as though trying to envision the stance and feel the form for himself. As though checking it against an old lesson. His gaze flickered down to the man being interrogated, then to the last one that had spoken.

"Seventeen or eighteen years, was it? The Lord's second son would have caught something nasty on the wind around that time, barely a year after he was born. Probably nearly met Danube early. It's little wonder you all picked then to sneak off— with Shilage's attention split, he probably put plenty of distance between himself and the barracks before any action could be taken. Timeline fits. I'll give you this much— it was a wise move to follow his lead and make yourselves scarce."

For a moment, it seemed he was about to toss the blade he was fiddling with to the ground, with little more than a disdainful flick of the wrist.

"There's nothing that man tolerates less than betrayal within the ranks. You may have not even made it to see the front."

He instead returned the blade to the crook of his arm, casting the thought away in its place.

"Too much of this works to be a lie." he bluntly stated, gaze now shifting to stare into the stricken Songbird. "And with no reason to be brought up save for recognizing how you fight, in a way that needs them to be intimately familiar with the why of everything being done therein. With how it feels. Not something these types could haphazardly guess at, Robin."

A hard truth. But one that clearly needed saying. She was brittle and inflexible as it was, to deny all the evidence that had been laid out. If she built up any more dissonance, it would shatter her. They had lost too many people as it was.

"Fighting styles change hands like secrets and money. With intent, and as tools to be put to use. Ascribe to them nothing more. After the turncoat dragoon and Izayoi's master rising from the grave she put him in and nearly returning the favor, I'd call this being the checkered past he avoided telling you about 'getting off light'."

Falling Skies

LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN "COMMIE"

---

<<Commie.>>

Two birds of prey stood vigil, as a near-miss of abject disaster was fortunately scoured down to a comedy of errors on the catapults before them, letting the ensuing radio chatter between the two actors wash over them for a time before the tight, clipped voice of the Commander bridged the gap between Vulture and Shrike. Roy was dead certain he could hear the exasperated sigh in the cockpit opposite, in the three seconds before the comms channel went live— pilots of the same stripe as they were, he just about shared the opinion. The order that followed came as little surprise, even as they approached the catapult:

<<You're on babysitting duty.>>

<<Solid copy, Commander.>>

The personal line winked shut. Orders given. Kilmer took a breath through the nose, leaning back into the seat as the magnetic clamps secured his MAS's feet onto the launch platform. There was no plush cushioning to sink into— the prototype'd come out of the box already stripped down and light on "creature comforts" as far as any military hardware had them. After he and the mechanics' mad dash to strip all nonessential weight, it was far easier to simply say that he was relying on his suit's compressive gel and his body's own resilience whenever the high Gs hit————

<<Tower. 101-5 Heading out.>>

The brake system released, and the back of his skull fought to sink into the last bit of shock absorption the Boeing rep had fought him (almost literally) to keep as the platform rocketed forth towards the void. His last thought of the ground was that had they more time than this, he'd ideally be launching from the Naginata bay in fighter mode. Greater exit speed, greater combat readiness, nice and familiar feel...

A moment later, and he cleared the bay doors, the mere man from the ground with such petty concerns gone, replaced. Someone else was in the driver's seat— fundamentally the same, yet undeniably changed.

He hitched his breath, and pushed the throttle forward, solid-fuel afterburners silently roaring to life in the vacuum like a newborn star. Yanking back on the controls drew an impossibly tight arc out of the blue-white blaze as the Shrike swept itself high, heedless of those aforementioned G forces stamping themselves into the frame. The pilot within bore them without complaint, and pushed things a step further even as his HUD blossomed to life with the IFF Feed as the situation at hand caught up with him. His radar picture, fed via uplink from Tower, the location of his peers within the 101st— Hex providing overwatch fire for Rabbit as the latter began to peel an element of Garmrs off the flank, Rhino setting himself up as a one-man blockade point... Yeah, good. He could leave them to this, now that they were actually out of the gate.

Braide and his Venator, though?

He checked bearing, coming out of the roll and slamming a button on the side of his cockpit, nearly eye-level. supposed to be impossible to do by accident, to utilize at an "inopportune time", as deemed by the manufacturers.

Barely a breath after its momentum had rolled back to "forward" with the hard work of his thrust vectoring, verniers, and retros in concert, the Shrike folded in on itself, replacing the warrior made in man's image with the sleek profile of an aerospace fighter.

—And as quickly as the situation had "caught up" with Kilmer, he was gone, the comet's tail roaring to life anew behind him.

<<Belay that, Hex.>> he spoke, cutting into the channel as he painted a duo of Fenrirs that had spotted the new kid and his shiny, expensive production model a little too far from home, moving to encircle him even as their autocannons (and potshots from other, less directly engaged units) harried him through his defensive flowchart towards the other end of a nearby destroyer. Even as his speed indicator surged past the endpoint of triple digits, looking at the kid's piloting... it was textbook. <<I'll chaperone him. Just keep your eye on Rabbit.>>

Very textbook, very crisp, very well-ingrained in the way only consistent practice could grant. Long hours in the sim on the kid were about what Roy had heard since he'd first shown up. They showed. He had a lot of potential between that and the Venator he brought to the party... if they lived long enough to get any seasoning.

<<Rookie, smoke in the air.>>

As one, the Fenrirs let their Sledgehammer Racks rise and begin to track, two trios of heavy missiles suddenly about to begin bearing in on the Venator. Somewhat slow for MAS-caliber, but more than punchy enough to rip through anything short of Rhino's Secutor in one shot.

They then raised their rifles. Commie clicked his tongue, seeing the gambit as he closed into autocannon range. The thing about Coalition pilots was that they were, in most engagement, the older hands at MAS operations. Sly, wily, and experienced. Everything the newly-written textbooks their rookie had pored over wasn't— by comparison, the ink had barely dried before it made it onto the Academy desks. With the destroyer still at Braide's back, the missiles would force him into another evasive pattern over it, the obstruction limiting his movement before it could limit their firing patterns. They'd cover his exits. Riddle him full of holes.

<<Commie, defending.>>

He opened fire, the steady chug of 50mm fire forcing the Fenrirs to break off after launching the missiles and about-face, getting their ballistic shields between them and the rounds headed downrange. They raised their rifles again, trying to track the streaking newcomer—

But their vision was filled with light, as a billowing curtain of flares spread in the Shrike's wake as it soared past. The infrared targeting of the Sledgehammers that had previously keyed into the Venator's drive signature was now thoroughly confused, and unable to recalibrate after the Fenrirs had jettisoned their racks.

<<Braide.>> the more experienced pilot hailed, tone unchanging even as he brought his craft around in a hard bank, brow knit beneath the visor of his suit as the strain of flying tried to remove his senses from him. As the six missiles detonated prematurely, the blue of his afterburners was brilliant against the blooming orange glow. <<We're forming an element. I suggest you fly your ass off if you're this far out— Take it from me. Once we get back to the boat, you're not gonna have much of one left.>>

And screaming out of the turn through the curtain of flame the missiles and flares had left, the Shrike unfolded anew, bearing down on the first Fenrir behind the length of his beam saber the moment he appeared. Unable to react in time to the appearance of an MAS where he expected an aerospace fighter, the pilot loosed a couple rounds on pure panicked reflex—

But they sailed wide, and the saber struck home through the midsection. The Shrike barely lost momentum as the mighty thrusters shoved the plasma edge through, and it was all the second pilot could do to rip free his broadsword before the Shrike was upon him. Alone in the box, an indulgence only he was privy to, the Lieutenant Junior Grade couldn't stop a pleased grin from playing across his face.

Ionized blades clashed, and sparks flew, painting their section of the frozen black with a brilliant, shattered prism.