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11 days ago
Current Just ran a stale yellow. Nobody on this website is doing it like me, sticking it to the man like me, blazing a trail against tyranny like me. the only thing revolutionary about you is your rhetoric
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1 mo ago
Takeru Segawa is the type of man they made myths out of. Intensely privileged to be able to say I watched him burn so bright as he did before going out with a win. I’ll miss you, hero.
2 mos ago
a frayed thread on the colorful tapestry of our existence, begging to be yanked until the whole thing unravels, a suggestive, inviting golden glow around the idea of leaking my buddy's DMs to his wife
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3 mos ago
I'm like the "conspicuously modded with multiple trojan backdoors skyrim save on your friend's screenshare stream" of white boys
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4 mos ago
Completely fucking up my field sobriety test as i clamber out of the honda fit i've wrapped around a lightpost, staggering everywhere, before finally scoring a big fat goose egg on the breathalyzer
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Rudolf Sagramore


The Edreni whose work was in question, on the edge of exhaustion as he was, rolled his eyes.

"The portraits and accompanying notes are to be as comprehensive as realistically possible," he chuffed, a flat gaze affixed to the diminutive little rabbit who'd been semi-willingly made patron of the arts. If she was going to tack that on at the end, then clearly she meant to insinuate she was dissatisfied somehow. "If there's a problem, you'd best point it out now. We're not going to have a chance to rectify our materials until well after infiltration. Do speak up."

His bowl and utensils well-cleaned already at the insistence of the chef, he found his hands reaching for the bone-hilted rondel at his hip and slowly drawing it, bringing the blade into firelight. It was, of course, already well-maintained earlier in the evening, but keeping his hands occupied by checking the work and fiddling with something sharp was more ritual than task at this point.

"Anyway," he grunted. "It sounds like we're maintaining our original course. While the three of us—" the tip of the rondel swayed in the air, stopping upon the forms of Galahad, Izayoi, and finally himself. "— are under wraps and playing as the downtrodden, we can keep an ear out for further mention of this schism. See how widespread it is. Before that:"

The knife drifted to Esben.

"Our primary task is securing safe harbor while you're all tailing your respective Grovemasters, correct? How do you intend we get ahold of you once that's done? You going to just come find us?"
LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN "COMMIE"




<<Eyes on the prize down there, fellas!>> came the crowing rejoinder, as close to a 'belay that' as their flyboy could reasonably get away with saying to his two outright superiors. Within the box, Kilmer's hands flew in doubled tempo, clicking off of the secured communications line for the 7th, and back to universal chatter— just in time to hear the cold, desolate growl of his duelist opposite, undeterred by the loss of his long-range armament.

Good. Very good!

The Shrike, naturally, stuck to the Jaegar like glue even as it strafed away, trying to build distance and regain its footing. The two beam sabers crashed against eachother time after time, Kilmer refusing to lose his momentum— half the reason the snarling grin had plastered itself across his handsome features was all the hard work he'd done to get in this close, and leverage his bird's agility behind the plasma's cutting edge.

Sparks flew, blossoms of azure fireworks that came and went with the wind on high as their blades clashed. For all the cool under fire, Commie was certain he had the Coalition ace on the back foot— meaning it was by no accident. His man would have something up his sleeve to get himself out of the tight spot before he was totally overrun by the Shrike's thrust-to-weight ratio—

A flicker upon its form. Then a flash, then a blur, and Roy understood the card he'd drawn. At the barest bit of distance eked out, his prey broke off...

And then there were four of it in view, their beam sabers all drawn and casting the shrike in a curtain of their ambient glow. As one, they dove back into the fray, looking to intercept his next strike with a quartet of thrusts of their own, skewering him from his starboard flank—

All flickering.

His eyes danced about the field, double-checking his work faster than most people could ever process the first thought. Seemed that this gambit hinged on the assumption that Commie hadn't been on the defending end of Sab's last dozen 'funny ideas' regarding her optical camo suite in BFM and Combat Trials; after three years racing eachother from rack to cockpit, Roy Kilmer might well have been in the running for the Union's foremost expert at picking out tricks of the light, discerning signal from noise.

All fake.

Oldest trick in the damn book. If this wise guy wanted Roy looking one way...

He hit the thrust, pushing the stripped-down chassis straight up even as his sensors flared, punching out of the trajectory of the holograms—

<<You wound me, Coalie!>>

And rolling into a tight hairpin, bringing his saber down to meet the true Jaegar, who had very nearly cored him from the blind angle with his little trick. Like hell he wanted Vulture up here, this guy had jokes!

<<We've only just met, let's get to know eachother a little!>>

The Shrike's metal sabaton lashed out in a hard mule kick, aiming to shake the chassis, disable the camera, knock his foe off balance again.
Gerard Segremors


He cut to the side again, now recognizing the flicker for what it was, and pressed in behind another swing. Less a hurried throwing of the self now, closer to a true sidestep, but continuing to create that strong angle all the same.

A fruitful endeavor, this approach— from it, he had gained a sense of the ever-important initiative swinging his way, as she was forced to give up ground rather than continue the exchange after feeling the impact of his blade upon hers. He'd learned that, for all her ability to project the cutting edge of her blade onto the realm itself, he did outpower her, and a prolonged engagement wasn't remotely in her interests. Instead, she elected to spin away and try to reset her distance before he managed to really tie her up. Annoying, but not impenetrable. A quicker step-in might have done it, but in the face of a nimble foe he didn't want to risk overcommitment—

So instead, he would next attack the mobility itself, and begin cutting away at the space she had left to drift through. Past her, he eyed the treeline, measuring its distance against the direction The Pale Lady had chosen. So long as they maintained this rhythm with one another in their little dance, he could maneuver her into a corner— and as she felt the pressure to pile, she'd inevitably show more of her cards, lest she run up against one of those black-bark pillars and be stuck at the end of his power.

Through that process, while he had only this much to work with from her... a moment on the back foot was a moment where she was forced to react rather than cut him up— a margin he could iterate on. As she intercepted his blade with another of those nigh-instantaneous snap-tos and rode off the impact, he chased her exit with not quite a flick of the wrist, but a quick reversal with his false edge.

It wasn't nearly complete compared to Rui's slices, let alone whatever the hell the Pale Lady's deal was, but nonetheless a crude and hammerlike arc of wind rolled off the steel— much befitting his tutelage endured, the last time he was in such a realm.
Rudolf Sagramore


Rudolf took a deep, contemplative breath, folding his arms while he pored over the angles that one could take with that card in hand. Truthfully, his had been a really, really long day— if he zoned out, he could still hear the phantom percussion of crushing thunder, cracking rifle reports, even after they'd long stopped assailing his ears. He was beginning to feel heavy, between the hearty fare they'd tucked in (his, Miina's, and Chisato's portions all being forcefully doubled) and the fading rigor he'd been supplied by Eliane's shared coffee— it'd not be terribly long before he was in a state he'd personally consider totally useless for much more than rote labor, rather than anything technical or strategic. If you threw him into a bedroll, he'd be gone before he knew it.

"Hand you over..." he repeated, speaking in a low murmur before cupping his chin and projecting properly. "Regarding Isolde: If we were to try that, we'd want to maximize our chances she bites at all. That's tough— she's already got ample reason to be wary of everybody, after the mess with Leviathan. It'd have to be somebody that could plausibly have a change of heart on the whole thing, at least how I see it."

He cast his gaze in a slow, wide arc, looking over each person in their assembly in turn. He couldn't see Eliane, Miina, or Izayoi even remotely registering as genuine from Isolde's perspective, either by way of the things she already knew of them or by how quickly they'd tried to cut her down. She'd be biased against them from the start.

Galahad and Esben had laid their arguments out, and at least engaged in what dialogue Isolde had had for them, but Rudolf imagined that the former's line in the sand had been drawn too firmly, a knight's conviction to "do what he had to" and stand in opposition not so easily cast off as to ring true. That the latter's glib refutation in front of her troops had undercut her, even if only a little, too much that she wouldn't expect some angle being played.

Robin was gone. As were Ciradyl, and Arton, the both of them having had nothing to say to begin with. In their places was Chisato— a clipped professional with their lot at best, but her background beneath Izayoi's employ at the very least suggested extensive experience with presenting the correct facade— but given the personal nature of this idea, Cid's existence being a contention between the Kirins and Grovemasters alone... her being an unknown to Isolde wouldn't get her anywhere. Why would some random Viera know about Cid, let alone have a crystal to summon him?

...

He frowned, furrowing his brow, cognizant of where this line of thinking left him and searching for something he could have missed. An avowed and eager warmonger suddenly capitulating to somebody else's demands? No chance. The Wild Dance suddenly forgiving the knife in the back and handing over an ally? Not after she had laid down her sword, let alone having picked it back up.

Miina?

...

Maybe? He didn't buy it, she had clearly been wanting to assassinate her just from the first discussion they'd had regarding Brightlam's infiltration, but maybe there was a way she could sell... No, he simply didn't see it. Everything he could come up with: Zeke, her study of White Magic, even the tribe's settlements, angles like those could only work if they had any reason to suspect Isolde knew about them. Rudolf had none.

Leaving only one person. He started again, tone carefully neutral.

"Might have to be me, presuming that. Even with our standoff at the shrine, as far as I can tell Isolde and I have the most... mutually sympathetic outlook towards one another, in the words we've exchanged. I've already gone and sought her guidance once, before all that— and argued towards idealism because of that conversation."

He steepled his hands in front of him. His mind was steel.

"She knows I'm turbulent, but place a high import on responsibility. Greater good. She might buy me 'taking her words to heart' as I have before, and seeking some redemption— I admit this is flimsy. It hinges on casting myself in opposition to the rest of you guys, which would run counter the same 'pull yourself out of a hole for the sake of those around you' idea I'm banking on, unless we change the scope. Even so, if there's anyone here she has reason to believe she could actually 'win over', I suspect I top the list."

He glanced off to the side. Esben was the one who held the crystal at the minute, and any such handoffs he'd make would be quite thoroughly vetted before they happened. Rudolf, while earnestly engaging with the notion, didn't see it happening very easily, especially when they'd already reached a very different conclusion before this element entered the picture.

"Of course, we were already planning on isolating and appealing to Zacharias, and our infiltration necessitated splitting, anyway. It would take some overhauling to divert course from what we've already prepared for over to that, and with sketchier odds— though it solves the issue of them all being able to sniff the blackflame out 1 more neatly than just praying none of them decide to bring alms for the poor."

His cards on the table, he found his posture still rigid, even when he tried to go a little more slack.

"That's my read, for whatever it's worth. Worth saying: That final bit might prove an obstacle no matter what route we take. Superstitious folk have noticed something off since we were aboard the Fishman, saying nothing of mages."




  • 1. You know who else can do that, Rudolf? Cid. You know how far away Cid is? Sniffing distance. Please, for our own good, shut the hell up.




!!

In the barest half-second that the coalescing points of suspended diamond merged, the stone at her feet surged high into a protective levy, lifting itself out of the floor in time with the tallest oak in the woods hitting the damn deck— and unlike the old saying, she made sure everyone heard it, clicking her tongue and sucking wind through her teeth as the spotlight burned straight through her new set dressing for Rivka's concerto.

One hand flew to her earpiece, The other manifesting Kleinbruder and rearing back for her opening swing— there was a rare song in her arsenal that didn't see percussion come in early, and hold the rhythm together.

"Scheisse! Going to be a bit tied up, girls!" Selma relayed, before the heavy steel of her gladius lashed out and bit deep into the smoking remains of the stone barrier. Even at the awkward angle of "damn near prone", her strength and seasoning within the element shone through— and the moment of impact was every bit as explosive as Rivka's opening salvo, the three feet and change of hard-packed earth and stone shattering to rubble in one strike, sent flying back towards their inbound dance partner— and some of them, at least, intercepting those four white lines that aimed to spall off the important bits of her fiery partner-in-crime. Those being less potent would hopefully at least even out the fragments being less robust— and buy the Baeterran the split second she'd need.

She could appreciate a good light show, really, but as a dancer?

The momentum carried through, even as the axe had no more earth to split, and one gauntleted hand voluteered as the axis for the reast of her long, long body to whip around, coming out of the headspin in time to see the flash of their foe's blade as it snapped forth from her armored wrist. Melee, huh? Rivka could handle it, but a musician like her was all dolled up for art from afar, casting it out to her audience.

Landing on the balls of her feet, Selma's long, long legs were like the finest springs humanity ever made, as she launched forth to meet steel with steel.

As a dancer, it was her job to translate that artistry into motion, action, impact

"Willkommen, Mysteriöser Ritter! Hell in A Selma starts now!"

— And woe betide anyone who stopped the music.
Rudolf Sagramore

&

Ranbu no Izayoi



“Alright, first things first:”

It was all but immediately after Adrammelech’s stricken form had faded away on motes of dispersed aether that Rudolf made his approach, barely allowing his hands enough time to slick the hair out out of his eyes once the arm he’d dutifully wrenched downward onto was no more.

“Izayoi, what the hell was that just now?”

His voice was rough. Eos and her healing winds dutifully swirled about him, and it seemed the tiny interplay between Cid and Izayoi had been as much reprieve as he was willing to take. In his head, the hotter the iron he struck the better— and there were few so molten as the image she had burned into his mind, in that fraction of a second.

If he had seen it, it could be done. If it could be done, there was a way to do it. Braindead simple as truisms went, granted, but unfathomable boons when reordering perspective and limits.

“You caught lightning. Right out of the sky.”

His sword had planted into the soft loam beneath the stormscarred grasses, offering an ample crutch to lean a little weight into while he stilled his breath.

For her part, Izayoi barely had time to catch her breath before the boy was verbally upon her. She blinked as Rudolf approached, tilting her head.

"Yes, and…?" Her tone indicated genuine surprise that Rudolf was confused. Considering just how long her master had spent drilling the technique into her head, often literally, she had figured it was far more vital of an arte than the boy was making it out to be.

"...Can you not?"

There was a beat, as his expression flattened. Opening his mouth, the deadpan timbre that trudged out of him proved the pages matched the cover.

“…No, obviously I can’t.”

She wasn’t bluffing, either, he realized— not that it was at all in her nature to be a churlish gadfly to begin with, but he still couldn’t help but feel extra stung by the idea that she sincerely thought he was strange for not knowing how to make light of Dhinas himself.

A slow exhale out the nose escaped, black mirth coiling somewhere in the back of his head where he couldn’t quite tell it to shut up.

“Materia is one thing, but to turn a bolt from the blue like that I thought impossible outside myth. Until two minutes ago.” he explained slowly, trying desperately to ignore the looming sensation of some punchline at his expense his imagination continued to forge. “I admit there are gaps in my training, big ones, but—“

His fingertips flew to his temple, rubbing for a moment before jerking back down. As piecemeal as his training in Sagramore Village evidently was, he’d apparently picked up the way they talked with their hands when they were starting to get just a tiny bit worked up. Fat lot of good that did. Clearly, they were about to revisit the tail end of that talk they’d been having the night Izayoi had busied herself in the Hien Faction compound’s kitchenettes. Even agile raptors always came home to roost.

“Alright, if you thought I could, you definitely leapt in like you couldn’t leave me to it. I owe you one, obviously, but is it really that common? Who else do you know that could even react in time, let alone pull off that… Raijingeki, I think it was?”

"Not common per se, but the technique is not unknown among skilled swordsmen, regardless of school. Most who know would simply channel the levinbolt while on the ground and let it dissipate into the earth. I was taught to expand upon that. If Lord Hien has kept up on his training, I believe he ought to be capable of doing so as well."

She very carefully did not say anything about the attack’s name. As much as Izayoi enjoyed screaming oaths for all the world to hear, that was a convention of her own making. Her master had never named a single technique he’d imparted upon her, and she’d simply…made them up as a much younger woman. In hindsight, some were perhaps too grandiose, but better to let everyone believe that was simply the way of things.

Izayoi studied Rudolf, considering for a moment. Actually, what was there to think about? Best he be taught, lest a stray bolt eliminate him from the field some day.

"Would you like to learn?" The question might as well not even have been one, for all the silent pressure Izayoi was exuding. Clearly, saying “no” wasn’t an option. At least, not one that would end well for Rudolf.

It was a lucky thing that he had already come to the same conclusion in the waning moments of their battle with the Capricorn— even bolstered by being of one mind with her, Rudolf had to internally note that this was likely as close as he’d ever gotten to feeling the pressure of standing across from the Ranbu with steel drawn.

In a way, not shrinking back from it was one of those small victories of progress that you only noticed after the fact. Changing your heart was a matter of inches and days.

“You won’t always be here to pull me out from under the hammer,” he affirmed, before glancing across the field to the rest of the Kirins, still dusting themselves off from the scuffle. Despite Chisato’s timely arrival to help buoy their ranks a bit… they were still running far thinner than in Osprey. “And I’m going to be putting myself in its path a lot more going forward. We’ve run low on people that can tie up space and attention, so I had better make sure I’ve got better plans for threats like those than ‘eat it and pray’.”

We never did find out quite how your redirection idea with me would turn out. Turning to the death-seeker for tips to live, then, sure— I hope you know what you’re doing.

He didn’t rise to it.

“Please do. Knowing it would be invaluable.”

And as well…

“I’d be kicking myself for not learning, anyway. The spectacle was really something from the ground.” he admitted sheepishly.

Izayoi resisted the urge to smirk at the last bit. Trust a young man’s urge for theatricality to override all else.

"Very well, then. Give me a moment, and we can begin."

___

Ten minutes later, Izayoi and Rudolf stood to the side of the clearing, the former having temporarily borrowed Galahad’s lightning materia for this task.

"We will begin with the basic technique: catching a bolt upon your blade and dispersing it into the ground. For many ‘talented swordsmen’, the technique ends here. I will be expecting more from you." She slotted the lightning materia into one of her kote, flexing the gauntlet briefly before nodding to herself.

“Naturally.”

He had known her barely an hour before witnessing how harsh a taskmaster she could be, after all.

"The technique itself is simple to conceive. And more difficult to execute in the heat of the moment. Channel aether through your blade, and ensure it flows from hilt to tip. Strictly in that direction, lest you wish to redirect levin back down into your hands." She waited patiently for Rudolf to familiarize himself with the concept before continuing on.

That was to say, the moment Rudolf could prove himself adept at regulating an aetheric flow in his blade, she began blasting him with low-powered Thunder spells in intervals.

"Raise your blade, boy!" Izayoi cried out after the first bolt, giving him only a moment’s breather before the second. "Catch the bolt upon your sword, and drive the flow of aether into the ground! Better yet, at me!"

To paint it in broad strokes, the act of channeling aether was already well-known to Rudolf, even before he had contracted off his ties to Ithar and most everything the Mothercrystal held. Any warrior worth their salt in Edren at least knew how to imbue one object with the spark of will and animus—

“!!”

That being the very same Izayoi now used to throw him right into the deep end of the theory: Materia. Fundamentally, it was the same act. The difference lied in the depth of intent; if he were to liken catalyzing materia to turning a key, then channeling aether like this was closer to clay upon a potter’s wheel. You had to actively guide it where you wanted it to go.

Determine the flow, as she said. It was highly dependent on your ability to visualize.

Gritting his teeth, he lifted his accursed blade, filling the voided steel as the lightning crashed in—

Ah yes! a certain someone crowed from inside him. I love “safe” and “effective” training! Hey, you know what you’re doing, right? This psychopath isn’t going to give you another option,

And for a key moment, his current was disjointed, the prevailing image of “catching” the bolt alive in his instincts and filling the gaps where his focus on pushing aether up had wavered.

He found his jaw locked as the bolts hit him, coaxing an even tighter squeeze on his hilt as the thunder burned the edges of his skin over.

“Drew it in by mistake,” he breathed, when motor control calmed down. “Like absorbing impact.”

A click of the tongue, noting and trying to rectify the mental failure. Whether she waited for him or not, he readied himself again in short order with a curt nod.

In hindsight, perhaps going straight to electrocuting Rudolf after they’d just fought an Eidolon specializing in the element was an ill-conceived idea. Perhaps it would have been more prudent to wait until they’d recovered from battle wounds. But Izayoi knew no other way. Rudolf had more of a breather from mortal combat to training than she’d been given.

So she allowed him the absolute privilege of five seconds in between casts of relatively weak Thunder spells.

"Be glad I am bothering to use only weakened incantations!" Izayoi barked after the next cast. "My own instruction afforded me no such luxury!"

“I can— tell!” he shot back, letting aether surge into the dead steel anew. This time he was a hair too slow, and realized another mistake: waiting on it, tensing, bracing. Tightness in the body and tightness in the mind, his two longtime nemeses in any facet of the battlefield arts, were dulling his reaction. And perhaps more importantly, the flow of aether had to force its way through all that. When Izayoi did it, she had leapt forth to meet it. “Guess that means we all got a lesson in Osprey!”

Hey. While you’re making small talk, let’s compartmentalize this before your nerves get angry again. I’ll pull some weight. Just focus on the catch and pitch.

Before Rudolf could raise a mental protest, he felt a channel in his soul open without his command, along the same leylines that had been burned in by blackflame seemingly dozens of times now.

Izayoi’s kote flashed again. Another breath, and a bolt would be thudding into him. Less, in actuality, but when he truly needed to time his focus, instead of coiling like a spring—

He kept his eyes open, and exhaled as the flash became a golden gleam of thunder. Catch and pitch.

He moved. A steady font of aether flowed forth out of him, filling the sword as he brought it— and himself—into the lightning’s path. He had his terminology all wrong. He had to meet the bolt, not receive it.

There was a crash, and his eyes widened. In his hands, he could feel even the weakened spell thrumming along the trail his aether had blazed, a line of lightning as tall as he in his grasp, and—

Congrats. We got a little bolt, you did it. It’s gotta go somewhere. Before she fires another. She’s going to. the voice urged. His feet were returning to the earth; planting it where all lightning yearned to go would be a simple matter, quickly executed and intuitive as it got. It was easy to believe that many swordsmen who managed the initial feat stopped there—

But he had expectations to meet.

He swung downwards in her direction, in as unvarnished a strike as was ever thrown, and attempted to coax his aether further out than the tip of the gold-painted blade.

The strike was met by Izayoi’s own blade, a thin smile on its wielders face as she seemed impressed, despite herself.

"Two tries. Most impressive." Izayoi allowed, before the hand that wasn’t holding her sword flexed, the next bolt that came down electrocuting both of them.

When the dust cleared, Izayoi stayed standing, albeit with a slight twitch from residual electricity.

"Again. We’ll settle for being able to redirect a fully powered Thunder while delivering a competent strike, if possible. It isn’t as if I can coax a Thundara or Thundaga out of this materia, regardless."

The training continued in this vein for some time, Izayoi gradually increasing the power behind her Thunder casts until she was reasonably confident that Rudolf was growing proficient enough with redirecting them that he wouldn’t miss too many and result in serious injury.

This, of course, was slow going— progress came incrementally, with great expense, and every inch fought for, even with the second voice in his head greasing the gears. Rudolf’s heart hardly leapt at the praise, given such asterisks had been attached, but was left in a bind as Izayoi kept slowly ratcheting up the intensity. He wanted to properly wrest more control of the process back into his hands, now that they had widened the margins and he was getting used to the rhythm of it all, but his passenger wasn’t keen to budge on the matter.

And rightly so. A growing collection of mistakes, near misses, and immediate lessons was burned onto him as the hours dragged on, regardless of the directionality being more or less positive— the system they had developed was one that worked, and minimizing the accumulated damage fell to them when this was how he was trained. Even cast against someone like his father, Izayoi as an instructor was brutal in the simplicity of her method— he could all but see the silhouette of that beast that had trained her upon it.

It was clear that a single eve wasn’t going to be all it took to truly get it down, especially knowing they were still in the relatively weak realm of Thunder, and not higher magic. At some point, he thought to ask about these things. He had stopped counting the passing minutes for a good while by now, only really aware that the light had sunk low.

“Your master,” he grunted, catching a moment between casts and ignoring the stinging of the burns on his skin, how wild and frayed his hair had surely become. “You said he didn’t downgrade the incantations— was everything he taught like that? Throw you right into the fire?”

He had asked for this, so he wasn’t voicing a complaint— hard as it was, this was how she knew how to teach what he needed to learn. Rather, Rudolf found himself more just… curious. Looking for perspective. Better to sate that than dwell on his lingering dissatisfaction. Offloading crucial steps only got harder to ignore as he grew more and more taxed. Wasn’t so easy to argue against it at this point, but this only doubled the unearned feeling poisoning each success.

Another Thunder came crashing down on Rudolf.

"If you’ve breath to speak, you’ve breath left enough to raise your sword." Izayoi said flatly, echoing the very words her aforementioned master once told her. Gods, that had to have been…twenty years ago, now.

...Really, I’m in your head and I still have no clue what you were expecting besides that.

Nonetheless, when the dust cleared this time, Izayoi could be seen popping the Thunder materia out of her kote, handing it off to a passing-by Goug who proceeded to run it back to Galahad. Clearly, training was over for the day.

"...He was a man who lived only for the sword and his hunts. If it had naught to do with either, he had no interest. He forged the girl that was to be a killer on a whim, so I’m told. Naught but idle chance after he slaughtered a group of bandits unfortunate enough to be in his way one moonless night after they’d ambushed a merchant’s caravan."

With a grimace, Rudolf pulled the sword free from the earth as he coughed out his share of the dust cloud. Point made. Only now could he finally go slack… after a moment or two more of eyeing her, even after she had handed the materia away.

“Well, the first half sounds familiar enough.” he mused, “I can certainly say I’ve known my share of people that profess to love no more in the world than either of those.”

A whole village’s worth of them called as much their reasons for being. Had he not caught the glimpse of blonde when the reborn warrior’s helm had been split, Rudolf may have even floated the idea that this master of hers had once hailed from Sagramore. It’d have made for a pretty amusingly ironic reversal.

“But this goes beyond even them. Hell, I considered Istvan an uncompromising brute of a teacher, but he’s…much more meticulous.”

A long look at the greatsword, which had also borne witness to both in action, just as he did. Even moreso, as it had been given no reprieve from bearing the Thunder caught upon its blade.

“...A whim, on idle chance.” He raised a disbelieving eyebrow at the notion. Men of that cloth would tire of fostering the next generation without some more skin in the game. They’d get bored. “How long did this flight of fancy have a hold of him? Building any depth of skill like this takes whole seasons, let alone what could carry you to the heights you achieved.”

"I believe his decision was cemented when I did not plea with him to cease or relax his standards." Izayoi shrugged as she sat cross-legged on the grass, pulling a waterskin out and taking a quick swig before tossing it to Rudolf.

Hearing more to this coming, Rudolf accepted the waterskin with a grateful nod and silently took a drink of his own, letting her talk as she would.

"He motivated my younger self at first by promising I would have the strength to never again become victimized as my family and I were against the bandits that slew them. It was effective." A wry, bitter smirk crossed her face.

"And he was correct. I only lost as I had before when I abandoned his teachings. Cast my strength and my blade away." The mystrel reached for her sword, cracking an inch of steel out of the sheath to examine her reflection.

As she stared into the face she saw in the steel, Rudolf in turn found himself examining her reaction. He’d caught himself doing the same thing many times by now. He wondered how similarly they may have beheld those reflections cast, for all the differences between them. Bitterness. Regret. There was a lot that was familiar.

"Bafflingly enough, such a master of the katana wasn’t even Osprean. The man was eight feet tall, pale as snow, and blonde. My only reasonable assumption after fifteen years is that he was Skaelan. Possibly a renegade SEED, but Esben recalls no such master of the katana with his appearance."

“Hm.” he grunted after a moment’s thought and digestion, wiping his lips as he handed the pouch back over. “Well, it’s said in the village that every person has a swordsmanship that agrees with them and a sword that will find their arm. If we go with the Skaelan Mercenary angle, perhaps he picked it up while just moving from job to job, or as a trophy from an unlucky swordsman he met on the way.” he ventured, shrugging his shoulders as he went about the conjecture for conjecture’s sake.

He drew his knife from his hip, watching his own reflection appear and disappear in the moment between idle flips from blade, to hilt, to blade again. Working his dexterity after all the shocking, making sure everything was in order, keeping his hands busy while he mused— idiosyncratic, sure, but it felt fine. “Maybe he simply started making it up as he went along after getting ahold of a katana, just utilizing basic fundamental principles and a lot of battle experience to fill in the gaps. I hardly compare, of course, but that’s more or less what I’ve been getting up to when I’ve got to fight…. So far, at any rate.”

The blade caught. He looked tired, as always, in the steel. Liven up, Rudolf— You’re the greenhorn here.This much is what you’re supposed to handle.

He glanced back up, even as he laid his greatsword onto the ground before him, to inspect for damage he was certain he wouldn’t find. The baffling thing never cut, but it certainly hadn’t ever seemed too much worse for wear when he brought it out, either— even against the strikes of the Eidolons themselves.

“And you had your reasons for laying down the warrior’s life, I suppose.” he stated more than inquired. It’d feel presumptuous for someone like him to tell someone like her that she ‘shouldn’t blame herself’ or the like— that regrets weren’t worth having when she’d left herself unable to protect the people she loved most in all the world. ‘Well-meaning’ only ever counted for so much, when you confronted that pit through the middle of the soul. “More than a whim. At the very least, it seems to return to you quickly.”

"There is little need to calm me down, boy." Izayoi sighed tiredly, no real heat in her voice. "Go. Take your rest. We will resume this training the next time we have an opportunity."

You may just not speak her language at all.

“What, being a sappy nineteen year old isn’t enough?”

A wry chuckle, a colorless smirk. He’d hardly meant it as such, but… what else could you do?

Dusting himself off, he nonetheless turned, beginning to amble away to the other side of camp, where Eliane had parked herself for the many maintenances her arsenal demanded. He held one hand up, waving as he went off towards anything but the rest she rightly urged.

“...Nah. Wouldn’t dream of it. Thank you for the lessons, Izayoi.”
LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN "COMMIE"




<<Engaging.>>

With blessings given, he set off, punching the throttle as far as it'd go.

For the next few tense seconds, this was all the 7th, all the UEE, all the field at large heard out of Roy, as the Shrike's thrusters roared to life anew and carved a blue-white tear through smoke-laden skies, diving out of the earth and into the sun on high. He strained his vision, pushing out comm chatter that passed by regarding the world he was leaving below, and searched. His ear was now tuned only to the readout of his sensors, and to the rattling of his airframe. He searched. Like Kojiro, seeking to pierce the glare and find Musashi, before Musashi and his long, heavy oar found him. He searched—

[WARNING: ENERGY SPIKE DETECTED.]

A flash. A shift in the lumen. Lightning surged through his muscles.

And through grit teeth, he swallowed the iron at the back of his tongue, and defied Kojiro's infamous fate, yanking hard at the controls once again. He pulled the Shrike into a hard roll, the first column of light cooking the part of the world that had, base instants ago, held his cockpit. He raised the autocannon, intent to mask his approach behind the last rounds of fire he could muster—

[WARNING: ENERGY SPIKE DETECTED.]

And loosed them blindly, forced by the second shot to rebound from the first weave into another, ignoring the parts of his torso that screamed at being wrenched between the gears of two full-speed, mirrored corkscrews back-to-back. But he had to grin and bear it. If he hadn't transformed into flight mode, he was sure he'd have lost his legs. Clearly, Kilmer'd gotten what he'd asked for— this guy had kept an eye on him, and knew not to let him breathe!

Come on, come on...

Sensors flared. The chassis shuddered under the shear forces, the high gs giving it all it could handle. The engines roared, putting even the biggest and throatiest V8s from home to shame—

A ping, and a scream.

<<Target detected. AATx-007 Jaeger.>>

[WARNING: ENERGY SPIKE DETECTED.]

I see you.

He pitched up immediately, pulling the Shrike back out of flight mode once more— and with his autocannons dry, rerouted all power to two places. Firstly, his afterburners, as he skimmed over the top of the sunbeam close enough that he might have cooked the paintjob. His eyes had finally found his foe, its wings of black pitch stark on the white field of the high sun. It had fed him three shots, a curt but respectful greeting, taking his skill seriously.

As for the second...

Both dark-cast reapers on the field wielded scythes of light, as it happened. As though the interplay of yin and yang were told through their battle, it had been long understood that neither could exist without their opposite, lest they be reduced to void. That much was true of this moment too, as the teardrops swirled at once— and the hunter was now the hunted. The long shafts of light, the scythe of the former, would be swung no more. The short but brilliant fang of the latter would see its day in the sun.

The Shrike screamed forth, beam saber surging, as Kilmer's wide-eyed grin could no longer be hidden within his voice, adrenaline dulling all the pain.

<<Good to meet you, Jaeger!>>

He crashed in close behind his blade, aiming to either take out that cannon or force their new friend to arm itself for the fight at hand, as he made his greetings at the edge of swordplay, all pomp and circumstance and rich enthusiasm. This was how Kilmer gave his respect to the skilled— any interesting opponent got him at full throttle, and never anything less.
Gerard Segremors


It began not with a war call, nor with a burst of violence, but instead with a flicker, at the edge of what could be caught. Were it not for the fruits of his hard labor in the dream that had been granted upon them all, Gerard was sure he would have been smote in that single stroke.

A flash of movement, a nudge of the wrist that a duller eye would have believed a twitch, barely running down the length of her bone-wrought blade.

The faintest whisper of wind approaching, honed to an edge so fine his ears barely caught warning before it brushed against his skin.

Barely there. Tells even the prescient would struggle to read, of such he felt certain— it was by Reon’s grace that he saw the truest sign of danger, one that seemed in its own right madness, everything he saw falling out of line for the barest instant.

Deadly experience roared to life within him, one of the many quaint lessons imparted by Cyrus at the end of his Hammer— when the world is split before you, no matter how impossibly, you by Reon’s grace got the hell out of the middle.

An instant later, fast as he could, the knight let his feet take him to the left, choosing the side of the world that brought him close to where his mysterious opponent stood, his longsword coming to bear in the wake of the unseen attack even as a thin line opened onto the fresh steel of his helmet, and his thoughts raced.

That was different from the projected slashes he had become accustomed to, insofar as what repeated trouncing at the hand of Rui had taught him to be able to see— they didn’t attack his perception like the pale lady had, either. It was impossible, surely, to split the world. He’d seen as he had darted to the side, the change in angle revealing only a light fissure through the earth where he had stood but an instant ago. Had she cut at his sight itself, the same as the realm’s mistress had attacked the Duke’s mind?

He whipped the point around as he came into the dominant angle, outside her sword arm— his first blow swiftly tearing through the air towards her veil. Not quite a simultaneous counter, but decently close— enough that he could test her defensive reactions with it. Already, this much told him that he’d need to stick close if possible— whatever the true nature of that projected cut was, he wasn’t keen on finding out how far away she could manage it from by way of getting stuck on the outskirts of her range.

No, not his sight. His eyes were working again as soon as he had thrown himself clear of the divide. Her cut had landed upon his visor, not his vision.

So what the hell, then? Invisible, barely audible, still sharp enough to rend earth and steel… But with a tell that threw everything he saw behind it into a subtle offset. Vexing. And dangerous, even before the fact that despite the veil obscuring her face, he’d felt her eyes on him just as his were measuring her.

Hn. Were it so easy to confuse her sight similarly. But unless he wanted to kick up the bisected corpse and stain that veil of hers red… such potentially unsporting ideas would need to simmer while he fairly, honestly, and valiantly kept himself alive. He had accepted a challenge between the two of them, and no other. If her steed would not ride to her aid, then…

There were far less openly foolish ways to cross the Fae than chucking a corpse at them.

He doubted their blades wouldn’t cross here. His full weight and strength was behind the blow— If they reached a bind, he would take measure of her strength before trying to wind over for a a thrust. The unseelie lady was as dainty as any foe he had seen upon the field of battle, practically a reed. In approaching to present arms, Gerard had found even his rather middling height to loom over her. He was probably thrice her weight.

All things that were at most points similarly true of Tyaethe, a few hundred meters away. He had a nose for a suckers’ bet— if he could muscle her around, he wagered he’d find out the old fashioned way.
Rudolf Sagramore


A familiar sensation washed over him from somewhere behind, that of waking up to a warm breeze in the midst of a summer's dawn— his accumulating ails sliding away as they came, taking things somewhere that felt more or less sustainable. He caught the minty green glow casting itself softly onto his drawn steel before he whipped up another surge of profaned fire—

"Shit—"1

He'd barely begun to brace himself for the impact of the Wroth's true power hammering down onto him. Even in the barest instants of it all, this Thundaga was clearly a level far removed from the errant fulmination that had been drawn his way by chance and conceit. He had readied himself to put that hasty, instinctual bet of his to the test—

And then, as though a bolt from the blue herself, Izayoi had appeared high above, catching the falling hammer on her blade and adding its strength to her own, rending straight through the steel that cloaked Adrammelech's essence. To draw and counter the storm itself... He had only just written that idea off as foolhardy, bordering on impossible, if he tried it. He'd found about four reasons in as many seconds why... yet there it was. The sight of his doubts being so simply, almost pointedly shattered would surely stick with him for the rest of his days.

Adrammelech roared in fury, snapping the entrenched young man out of his awe as he tried to take advantage of the sudden gap that had been torn into his armor, his greatsword whipping around at speed to cast another projected wave of fire forth even as the spirit cast both dragoon and samurai into one another and sent the pair flying— and then with a clap of thunder, disappearing altogether.

"Izayoi, Gala—"

No time. Your sustain is in danger. He's above, and looking at your healing!2

It was a damned good thing Selene's speed was still upon them all. To his credit, Rudolf snapped to, immediately pivoting and reacquiring the two story thunderhead into his vision once more. Not an instant too soon, either— the last moments of Adrammelech's gaze sweeping over where he and his attaché stood were all he got to herald the lifted fingertip and thin arrow of lightning that burst forth, trajectory terminating a few feet past his left shoulder. Just enough to react with first impulse, and no more.

Story of his life.3

"EOS, HIT THE DECK!" he roared, wrenching himself to the side and reaching out, trying to add at least one more layer of defensive insulation to the tiny green firefly than just a warning— interception by way of sword, arm, or body was a damned sight better than one of their two healers going down in a fight like this—

As for the other...

For the moment, she had gotten a layer of frosty stalagmite between herself and the falling spirit, but he needed to recapture full attention as soon as he could. The distance wasn't all that far— maybe if he could cut it off—

The bolt struck him in the shoulder, and his jaw clamped shut, teeth gritting at he let the wards eat most of the burn and instead cast a souring curtain of fire a few feet above the razor tip of the icy punji spike— depending on timing, he could either obscure it just before the moment of impact and buy Miina a second of broken visuals to get out of dodge, or follow up the collision with a heavy, lingering cowl of the stuff while Adrammelech was still occupied with the six feet of ice that he'd suddenly dropped into.




  • 1. It was only ever psyching himself up to go out there. The thing about putting on a brave face is that, at some point, it always comes back off. But this is the path we chose.
  • 2. All things being equal, even he has to admit that it's a damned good thing that I, in moments like these, can now communicate much more effectively than just pointing danger sense in a barely-specific direction and letting his body figure things out from there. Being eyes in the back of somebody's head is a lot easier when you're allowed to get the interpretation of the stimuli part done instead of waiting for them to hopefully guess right at your meaning.
  • 3. Prior to voicing any complaints, please refer again to 1. That means you.
Rudolf Sagramore


The hand of misfortune struck heavy and with relish, Miina's well-intentioned but all too faint warnings dashed to pieces by the hammer of high heaven about Rudolf's ears, the errant Thundaga as loud as any cannon that had ever drawn a rose's hue onto Eliane's cheeks. His ears rang, and the stench of ozone and smoke filled his lungs— but her protection had overlayed onto his form just in the nick of time and no sooner. Taking the cloven-hooved titan's heralding fulmination right to the damn dome had hurt for certain, but proven survivable— his fingers flexed when asked, and his breathing hadn't gone erratic even with Selene's Swiftness embossing his movement.

Good, all good. That said, though, the undirected strikes of lightning were hard to predict even with that haste applied— and he couldn't get around the sense that it wasn't quite so effective as it had once been. He'd been grappling with that inkling feeling all through the moments were the Kirins had torn through the blightbeasts like scythes through wheat, but it didn't stand to reason that the purple fairy's boon had somehow been weakened, so much as—

Another thread of lightning crashed against his back, the third in nowhere near as many seconds. It obliterated the idle thought before it could really complete, leaving again the strange impression that maybe he wasn't taking to outsourced haste quite so well as he used to. That being the case, it had proven again that he couldn't quite rely on dodging, given that these were the incidental threads of contact. A long blade of steel upon his back, and a yawning chasm where he had once held at least meager fortune— between them, lightning seemed to quite readily strike twice, and then some. His mind raced... and found itself taking a very different tack than the suggestion he'd been too momentarily deafened to hear.

I have an idea. You might not like it.1

There was the disembodied sensation of a nonplussed blink. Evidently, somebody in this equation wasn't used to being on the receiving end of that sentiment.

Huh?

"I've got the front," he called, swallowing a lump of fear in his throat even as his hands rose to grip the pommel of the tall, smoking greatsword at his back. He stepped forward, a deep puff of air loosing as he exhaled, trying to purge that sensation of clammy palms and pale complexion from his body. They were just all the lightning, he told himself, that was the only reason his hair was going wild, and the hammering heart was just the haste at work. Sword drawn, the young man set off at the head of the group, breaking into a charge. The alternative, he dimly realized, was probably completely locking up. It had been this way for so long he had almost forgotten how to recognize it— that the ideas he verbalized were probably more for his benefit than any one of theirs. "I'll do what I can to draw the lion's share of the heat onto me! You guys encircle him, attack from the flanks! We faced down Leviathan— just one attendant's in reach if we play this right!"

His guard was high, an exaggerated Vom Tag. Lightning liked three things most of any: high places, metal, and Ithar's blacklisted. While Adrammelech's direct attacks wouldn't be rerouted, even pulling the errant, incidental sparks away from his comrades would give them a lot more breathing room atop the Barthunder2 that coated them all.

Hold on, what happened to smartly approaching your problems? Your first thought is turning yourself into a lightning rod. Even with the Nulshock, you're playing a dangerous game to maximize the hits you take. You saw what happened to your blonde friend last time lightning was allowed a free point of entry.

This is smart, Rudolf countered, letting his will flood the six-foot empty vessel above even as another bolt careened into it, running down the length of steel before crackling at the edges of the arcane barrier around him. They were right, of course— each shot still felt like getting brained with a sledgehammer, to put it mildly, to the point where it felt a shame that his armament might not retain the charge afterward. Even if the Eidolon's mighty servant almost certainly held immunity to the element it commanded. But all the same, Etro had afforded him at least one rare blessing at birth: a really hard head. We're buying openings! Listen, just worry about keeping the fire burning and whatever you can do to shield my heart and my brain!3

I can't guarantee anything, but you dying means me dying. I'll try and figure something out. This is what Arton, and that materia you chucked him, are for.

Not happening! You've seen the state he's in same as me— and with him out of the fight, I'm the next most robust person we've got. I don't like it either, you know that damn well!


With the fae boon still upon him, it was a simple matter to close the distance between him and his quarry— now came the hard part. He whipped the blade around into an uncharacteristically weighty slash to Adrammelech's right leg, attacking the joint of the knee with the physical force he could pull out of the empowerment— and letting the high-spiraling tornado of blackflame in its wake ravage the titan's torso as it climbed. He would need to get close to contribute meaningfully to the battle anyway, and with him not being terribly confident that his speed was completely up to snuff compared to before and them down their usual bulwark... pivots needed making.

There was a great crash as steel met steel, and he craned his neck to lock eyes with the thunder elemental. He hid the nerves behind a grimace, he hid his grimace behind a growl— Izayoi's master had been bad enough already to stare down. The ram of thunder was easily three times as tall. Basically the size of a house, and actively crackling with the power it held that made your every hair stand on end, made your instincts scream at you to run away and not draw this thing's attention.

And Rudolf had to make himself the most pressing target on the board, so his teammates could swarm him and take him down, or at least prove they stood a fighting chance against him. He summoned the image of his brother from within the recesses of his mind. The broad back he always chased. That man was so like those brief glimpses of Arton he'd seen before the Blight infection had truly metastasized; even if faced with a primordial like Ramuh himself, or Leviathan before, he wouldn't falter. He would meet this challenge, even if the very storms their Midgar blood knew to above all else respect were the hurdle he had to overcome.

Of that, the young swordsman was sure.

"You're in our way, goat!"4 he roared, bringing the length of the greatsword back across his field of view a moment later, another line of ink5 drawn upon the arc he cut through the air, a spray of onyx flame spreading towards Adrammelech's head, his eyes, high above. Hopefully, the smell of ozone and singed flesh would mask the scent of deceit— the constant hammering of Dhinas's smiting judgement all around him cloaking the same of his pulse. "We've got places to be!"

Those opening moments were precious for setting the tone of a fight. Even with seven of them versus one of the wrathful thunder spirit, he prayed that he had at least extended the first stanza by enough for everyone to reposition well enough to bring their full ability down onto their foe— while they were still warm from the fight with the Blightbeasts, maintaining tempo was crucial. that was the lone upside to having this test dropped into their lap with neither warning nor processing time, to the point where he wasn't even sure if he'd had a moment to internalize any of what Cid and Ramuh had revealed of the former's particular, strange existence. He didn't know what he thought of that, or how he weighed it against the Grovemasters issue, or how it played into his running tally of everything that had happened in this forsaken jungle. He'd not had the time to think.

And that was likely what pushed him here, to trying to buy Izayoi, Galahad, Esben some time to come up with an actual strategy beyond this opening. If he had known this was what he'd be facing, had time to sit with it, would he have made the same choices? Would he have swam, or sank?

Wasn't that what it always was? Sink or swim, with no time to see what was coming until it arrived? They hadn't expected Leviathan to turn out this way, either. Nor their ride here, nor their expedition into the desert. It was always this. Think fast, nimrods! The scariest shit you've ever seen is right on top of you!

If you stop to realize that, you're already dead. That's the lesson.

So the test then was... were they ready to keep having to ask "how high" when the world they wanted to save told them to jump? No matter when, no matter where?

For his part, Rudolf hated every second of it. He wanted a damned break, he felt like he'd proven all this twice over.

...And that probably meant he was in for the long haul.




  • 1. Huh?
  • 2. Nulshock. In civilized tongues with real, respectable understandings of magic, it's called Nulshock, not Barthunder. I thought this vessel of mine was the educated one.
  • 3. At this point, my mind is racing as quick as it can to try and turn my aether currents around to put some passable buffer between those two (in fairness, most immediately vital) organs and whatever electric rolloff makes it past the ward his mage has so kindly bestowed onto him, likely knowing the type of nincompoop she was tagging along with beneath his facade of pursuing most effective tactic available. It's obvious to me that this 'all or nothing' approach is the idea he's latching onto as a response for the need to act immediately— a plan that he can put into action before he terror spirals. One of these days he'll realize that this is what he's been doing the whole time, but that's a discussion for moments where I'm not about to learn if I can use the expression of my presence to reroute the path lightning takes as it tries to ground itself. This is a bit more complicated than simply digging a channel through the side of a riverbank, Rudolf.
  • 4. Obviously the genuine article is more draconic, but those ancient scribes and artists that most of the continent's religious iconography stemmed from probably had a hard time getting their heads around depicting that— and went with a ram's head because they felt some connection to the astrological Capricorn was poignant, or because that was the closest thing they could think of that they had seen that had horns. You'd be appalled to learn how much of your understanding of history and myth is just heavily mangled guesses made by sheltered idiots.
  • 5. I burn more luck, he gets more flame, the lightning and the lizard man get more inclination to strike him twice, thrice, and so on, instead of his pals. Everyone wins! This is some ruthless calculus at play, even if it works. I'd be over the moon with it, of course, if my continued existence weren't tied to the idea that this team can outpace the punishment we're inviting onto ourselves. The principle of taking a clear cause-and-effect chain that's dumpstering you from most reasonable outlooks and bending it over your knee until you pull some kind of advantage from it is what I'm all about. These systems are made to be tamed. It's fun viewing when somebody clues into that.

    I just don't appreciate having my essence tied to the margins being played. It's little wonder I keep being compelled to chime in.
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