HereComesTheSnow

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

"Loki," floated in the low-toned corroboration, his eyes narrow slits of dusky gold. While Miina had delivered her preliminary update to the rest of the group at large, Rudolf has down to a knee, setting up a procession of weaponry on the grass out in front of the Hovel the Kirins had regrouped at. The three mercenaries he'd dispatched had left behind their share of incriminating evidence. "Sounds like that trickster spirit the colder reaches of Skael have legends about. Makes sense, given they apparently shapeshifted— I came in after the explosion, so I didn't hear whatever they told Miina directly before, but evidently the original Alambert was deceived by their wearing Isolde's face before being assassinated."

Isolde and assassination. Huh.

Before his crouching frame, multiple gunblades and rifles sat, neatly arranged where a week ago they might have been haphazardly dumped, a testament to Elly's firm hand in instruction of proper firearms handling. In the aftermath of their clash with the foreign saboteurs, he had set to work scraping together whatever he could of what the mercenaries had been forced to leave behind, while Miina had filled him in on just how exactly they had gotten into a situation that ended in "dust explosion"— the thinking being, naturally, that any potential ammunition resupply would be helpful if more of Valheim's airships were on the way. A handful of shell casings had been shoved into his pocket as well—

"Nor were they alone. A lot of mercenary muscle backing their wing of the operation— I didn't see anyone that registered specifically as a SEED," he glanced towards Esben and Eliane, before lifting one of the aforementioned lengths of brass, and the gunblade accompaniment that had employed it to nearly take his head off. It was little comfort that he got out of the battle itself with only a couple new nicks and scrapes— especially when the blast was still writ large over the rest of his form. Hair wild and windswept about twelve different directions. Down yet another cloak. Plainly a mess. "But given the name, it's worth investigating if these aren't Skael-sourced arms or men. I only know the few, so..."

He set them back down, rising again. "What's more, the men were lead by some manner of mage— he had some raven-shaped construct of aether monitoring Isolde, apparently. Overheard her no longer being with us. Good work, I guess."

There was a somber edge to his grimace, but he declined to indulge the feeling.

He half turned, eyeing the path they'd taken to get there. He nearly didn't want to go back into the city— Cid and Zacharias both being here meant he had some time as the only voice in his head, for what little it likely mattered— after all, Isolde had sensed the shadow on his soul with no prompting, and there was hardly reason to assume either of them couldn't manage the same.

"We figured it'd be wisest to head straight here and regroup. You'll have to forgive me, Eliane, I didn't think it prudent to go grab the big gun until we could be on the same page and determine the best emplacement— but if they have remote observation capability like that, our safe house might not be so safe after all. I can double back for it now."

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

His eyes stung.

Rudolf's frantic search of the remains of the warehouse had revealed to him only more of the same— shredded ironworks, scattered bodies, and thick, choking haze, painted crimson by flame where night alone would have seen it a cold, dry black. Hardly a great situation to begin with, but now that he'd dropped into the thick of things, he was certain of the sense he'd gotten from those precious few moments up above the rafters—

A flash of light from his peripheral, sudden brightness muted by the dust even as the bullet it sent carved an instant's track through, drawing the vague idea of a line towards him before he managed to get his heftier blade in its path. The impact registered through his grip and pauldron, the pinging sound that he'd come to associate with knocking bullets off course ringing out and reaching his ears. He suspected that the echoes of all the gunfire would have driven everyone inside nuts if the building was intact. Either way... he grit his teeth as he about-faced, torquing his course through the ankle into a rough shoulder check, bowling the rifleman over before he could loose another shot. His hearing was back in working enough order.

"...al with the boy, I'll play with the girl." an unfamiliar yet cruel voice sneered, followed up shortly by the pounding of boots against tile. By his count, three, coming to swarm from further ahead.

Not three, four. Trying to find one way to skin a cat that's behind you.

—And they were significantly outnumbered. The dust was clearing now, revealing a trio of charging men, gunblades of various types in hand, very definitely looking to take him out of the picture, but even worse than they—

A dark blur overhead, whose strides had been quiet as any he'd missed beneath the noise of louder battle. In each of its hands, streaks of reflected flame. Knives. They weren't after him, but something past him. He had only one ally here— and she was nowhere near this tall. No chance they'd stumbled into a mysterious benefactor at this hour, in this situation— she was doubtlessly the one who had declared they'd 'play with the girl'. No prizes for guessing who it'd be.

"Clear out, Miina!"

With the hand that held his dagger, Rudolf ripped the cloak free and flung it high,¹ this unnamed assailant's vision suddenly filled by charred, burning fabric as she cleared the top of his head in her otherwise nimble leap. That'd force at least a moment's adjustment even if she was good enough with those knives to tear the thing to ribbons. And if not, then he'd seen what his Mystrel compatriot could do when he gave her a proper opening... but an opening was about all he'd have time to give.

Thunder, close, instants away. If he hadn't heard so much of it the last night they'd spent at Ramuh's sacred ground, it would have seemed deafening.

He wrenched his body, grip fully closing around the bone of his dagger as the mercenaries crashed into him, explosive force behind their blades forcing him to try and redirect himself, rather than parry their triplicate attack. The dive took him out of their initial line of fire, as it were— enough to come out of the roll in a crouch, then leap again to the side as they about-faced to try and track him down.

No place to breathe, even with the night air returning— these guys weren't letting up. He doubted they'd let either of them out. He needed to force them back, draw his proper weapons, and cut their way to freedom. To the others.

Here, he planted the Rondel through the flooring, and grit his teeth as he swung the excess momentum through a wide, arcing swing of his greatsword, filling the space the armored men would have to traverse to split his skull with an imposingly nimble, impressive-looking crescent of edged steel²—

—Before ripping the fang free and returning that fell greatsword the harness on his back, his precious second bought. Almost ripping the wings free from either side of his belt, he wasted no time in pouncing to meet their next attacks. He grit his teeth. They were three men. Men who fought as profession, men armed with the same gunblades he'd gained new respect for, but all the same men, not divine, not enhanced, not monstruous— Just three men.³

Sparks rang out. Steel met steel.

At this rate, some small part of him wryly noted, he wasn't going to find time to realize how frightful this all had been.

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• _{1. Rest in peace, soldier. Fashion inspectors around the world shall mourn your passing, and that of your bespoke pyroclastic aura.}
• _{2. Fascinating detail in how that curse interacts with the ambient clouds of dust et al in the air— we already talked about bullets leaving blink and you miss it lines through the suspension, but this hunk of junk? Doesn't do that in the slightest. It's like a ghost passing through. Maybe one day we'll learn that it hurts banshees normally, or something.}
• _{3. Your sense of scale might be a bit askew after I started talking again, Rudolf. Just know I'm an effect more than a cause.}

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

He surged in, crashing into her space in the instants she dealt with the wind hammer, and forced her back again. And again, and again! Sparks flew as steel rang out against bone, driving his prey back, forcing her to concede, concede, concede all the ground she had left, if only to buy herself a moment to reset again, to diffuse the pressure— but to no avail.

In gaining that burst of initiative, Gerard had held on with an iron grip, never allowing her room to breathe. It was a forcing sequence, putting him in all moments one step ahead, and both knew it. Faces obscured as they were, Gerard could still be certain, if only from her hurried parrying, that she was aware that she was running out of room. Cornered in a matter of moments. Back practically against the trunk of a great old blackened oak, which meant...

His grip tightened, and he drew his blade in close, siege engine crossing the moat. There would be one last, desperate measure coming, to get him the hell off of her—

And sure enough, there was a flicker, casting a line of light through the last vestiges of her range. Then another. Then another, the another, then another, both hands blurring, boxing away his chances to flank as he had before. That was fine, he had meant to finish this by pressing in with the tree behind, so why invite it?

The lines kept appearing before him, fast as his eyes at the height of their ability. Not boxing him in, he realized, funneling!

She was casting a net. Desperate as ever, banking it all on this last gambit— and in her haste, falling back to the same rhythm he had forced out of her, just in faster time. He had to beat it, find the lines she would have to leave for last—

There.

He touched upon it, the speed of Reon's bolts as they pierced the storm, and committed his being to filling that gap first. Summoning all the power to move, the wolf launched forward, its fang catching the silver light of the low moon!

And as the Pale Lady fought desperately to bring her dirk around in time, Gerard's left hand clamped around the wrist, catching her arm mid-swing and driving it back into the cold bark of the tree. The sword in his right, ever chasing mastery, was held before her throat. The sword was well inside the arc of hers; its' gleaming point only just brushing against the satin of her veil.

Checkmate. He drew in a breath.

"Yield," he spoke, firm and even. "You've shown me ample courtesy. I would repay it: I've no need of your life, Dame, only victory."

He could hear the crowing calls, the ringing bell of laughter from afar. The Roses had won.

There was no need to rid their foes of another Knight.

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

"... I'll handle Miina, then. Stay safe, people. Good hunting."

Hardly ideal as he saw it, but they didn't have time to fight on the issue— not with Valheim already on the move. Galahad and Izayoi both trumped him in wartime experience— if this was their perception, smart money bet on it sooner than his. He nodded, and the four of them bounded out of the hovel in short order— the pair of veterans beelining for the Cathedral towards the city's center, whereas for him and Eliane...

The snapping report of distant gunfire sounded, bouncing off the mazelike corridors their hideout had been tucked away within. They were too en masse to be anything but Valheim at work— part of his extensive lesson that night outside Ramuh's domain had included his pink-haired teacher's opinion that differentiating factions by the report of their weapons was paramount; before now, they'd all been more or less the same broad-brushstroke "boom" to his ears. He doubted he could tell the manufacturing difference in timbre, but caliber and quantity had been fairly intuitive once he'd been made to think about it. No other faction would both be here and reasonably expected to muster that many.

And it wasn't coming from the cathedral, either, but rather to the northern edge of the city. They'd both quickly concluded that Esben wasn't likely to get into a shootout, especially not without at least utilizing the concealed gun in that buckler of his— leaving only one realistic assumption that could be made.

Just hang tight, Miina...

There was a brief moment of weightlessness, as the cloaked swordsman sprung off the rooftop, and across the narrow gap between Brightlam's buildings.

He'd split off a few minutes ago, rapidly firing off a plan to grab their diminutive counterpart, then hopefully link up with Eliane and Esben or, failing that, falling back to the Cathedral to back up Izayoi, Galahad, and Chisato. Truthfully, the words had spilled out almost in time with the thoughts as he'd had them. Hopefully it had come out coherent. He was in a rush.

Landing, he wasted no time in sprinting across the terra cotta shingling of a quaint general store before leaping again, this time onto a lower-hanging, but sturdy branch of one of the larger trees that dotted the arboreal city. Due to the growing tumult below, this was his fastest option— he and the others had been neck-deep in the throng more than long enough during their information gathering phase to know how clogged it got down there. Time being of the essence, he'd have to just eat whatever attention this garnered. Best he could do was to stick to the more shaded parts of the upper highway, and, to Brightlam's credit, they did hate their open skies¹.

...

Perhaps it was the lingering sensation of the battle with Leviathan. A phantom pain at the edge of his movement, invisible shackles on a mind that had only once touched upon the Godspeed, but even as he bounded with all the agility his body could muster, Rudolf couldn't shake the sensation that he was still a little slower than he'd been before the Trial of Tides.

But whether he had lost speed, nerve, or nothing at all, soon enough his path towards trouble had taken him to a warehouse, and an opened window near the roof that he could hear a great clamor leaking out of, multiple voices from within carrying the wrong accent for this place—

His eyes narrowed, as he crept closer. It had been a pretty simple task for an athlete of his caliber to get up there, and he was better than most at doing it quietly. Another of the upsides to how light his armor was...

He could hear it, far below. Clanking metal, ill-fitted armor, drawn swords. On the air, a sharp, lightly sweet, scent. Cordite, if he'd remembered Eliane's lesson right— a primary propellant for bullets. He'd found the source of his gunshots.

He swallowed his nerves, forcing them down into his gullet and slowly exhaling. He needed to play this right, it sounded like there were a lot of them in there, busy as bees. A hornet's nest someone had just taken a bat to. Sure enough, the next few seconds were assaulted by the telltale roar of raging wind², buffeting the steel walls and rushing out of the window. She was down there, in the middle of all that racket— and as quick as it had spooled up, the dervish inside had again abated. He had to get moving!

He steeled his nerve, and made for the rafters. First things first— get a lay of the land below, get his eyes on Miina... then figure out how to get the both of them out of this.

Quiet as he could muster, the leather-clad warrior vaulted through the ajar windowsill, and landed... into a field of white. The place was a granary, and it had been thoroughly kicked up until every surface was dusted by that whirlwind of hers. An ample smokescreen if there ever was one, but of all the rotten luck on the timing! He wouldn't be able to pick her out through all this any better than—

Wait. Flour?

"Oh no."

His heart dropped past the pit of his stomach, as a lone point of orange painted itself upon the white cloud, a mote of flame that had met two things upon its birth— still air, and a surplus of stuff it could burn.³ Had he any room left to assuage those prior concerns of not being at top form, he may have taken solace in catching it the instant before total bedlam—

— but as things were, it was all the man on the rafters could do to wrench his greatsword in front of him, keep it wrapped behind the thick fabric of his cloak, and brace it against himself while he desperately exhaled.

And then, the earth ripped open and its fiery blood spewed forth, as though the dawn of creation. Were the wind from before deafening, the sound alone of the blast rang through all the steel, all the muscle, and all the bone of his body, a mighty hammer to the flat of his blade, smashing into ribs as Rudolf was sent through the roof—

And into the cold of the open air again. Through ringing ears and grit teeth, he found the focus to force his eyes open as he felt the familiar hold of weightlessness take hold of his body. Below him, a curtain of thick smoke, ringed by more of that orange-yellow flame... And no way of knowing where Miina, or whatever was left of her quarry, had ended up through that.

A short breath out, as the vertigo ended. His lungs burned, but luckily weren't shredded by the wave of sound and heat when it had slammed into his sword. His arms ached like hell, but were working— the adrenaline of impact seeing to whatever debilitating effects might have come from the contact with flash-fried steel. Sagramori were the folk of wildfires, of eruptions, of the flame of Himstus itself— training amongst them, he had weathered the blaze of their blood long enough to shrug off a few burns. He drew his knife from his belt as he began to fall again, angling his body. He had, miraculously, not lost his white-knuckled grip on the fell blade that'd shielded him.

He had a job to do, and a friend to bail out. In a way this was lucky— the access route to his red mage and her hunt was now as simple as it got:

Just head down.

Blades drawn, Rudolf seemed to slice through the smoke as he fell, biting at the edge of his thoroughly-ruined outerwear and pulling it, as best he could, over his mouth and nose. Far from perfect, but some form of filtration was better than none. He had to ensure he could extend each breath as long as it'd muster until the blaze began to die.

And sure enough, beneath the curtain, pandaemonium awaited him.

He narrowed his eyes, squinting past the stinging haze, searching for form, for frame, for sihlouettes against the grey and orange that smothered the interior— finding many, but none nearly as short as he was looking for. Armored man, armored man, armored man, where the hell was Miina?

Finally, there was a stern tamp as his boots hit the floor, and the dazed mercenaries suddenly found another unfamiliar presence in their midst, licking, smoldering orange embers at the edges of his form—

And then it burst into motion, a sabretooth's fang tearing at the throat of the nearest man-at-arms and wrenching his exsanguinating corpse off its feet and into another two, before only hurried footsteps remained as it sprinted off into the gloom. Rudolf's eyes strained, trying to make sense of the chaos, and his ears fought to deaden the ringing and pick apart voices again. They didn't seem to enjoy the same enhancement suite as Isolde's Paladins, so maybe Alambert was incapacitated, or worse—

Either way.⁴

He needed to find her, and run like hell before these guys could regroup!

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• _{1. I get it.}
• _{2. Now that he mentions it, the little thing has been steadfastly working on some sort of gambit involving Aero when they're off doing their respective things at camp. I didn't really note it much— If you'll recall, I've been trying to stay quiet lately.}
• _{3. Never thought I'd say it, but credit where it's due to the little bastard— the answer was "dust explosion", and he got there before me. Embarassing. I'm going to blame it on nobody kicking up dust in my part of the ruins before him for five hundred years— that or generational trauma from when his family were hapless copper miners up in the highlands. I like that one too, it gives me extra reason I don't respect him.}
• _{4. I'm keeping my sense for shifts in the aether as peeled as I can. Either we find some hint of the little mystrel, or I get as early a warning as I can about that Grovemaster kicking around. I do not want Rudolf here any longer than we need him here.}

Falling Skies

LTJG ROY KILMER, CALLSIGN "COMMIE"

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He smirked, despite his disappointment— or maybe attempting to mask it. Either way, his litany of complaints that this was how things turned out just when they were heating up was, as ordered, stowed— even as the Shrike ground to a halt in midair. His magazines were dry after the initial run through Gelcastre, and totally spent in covering his ingress to close range. If the Jaegar's pilot managed to shake the radar spike Vulture had on him... he was just about as good as gone. One final parting shot was all Roy had left in the tank, and to that end...

The channel clicked.

<<'Till the wheel of fate turns again, Jaeger.>>

And clicked away, killing the connection for good. There was a warm, wet, and metal-tasting feeling dribbling down the corner of his mouth. He knew he was going to be short on time before his heart slowed and he had to reckon with the long flight home— best get the most out of what was left from affairs down here while he could.

In a far gentler corkscrew than prior maneuvers, the Shrike inverted and made for the deck, following the jettisoned trophy that his prey had been forced to leave behind. As his course took him level with the watchdog, Kilmer switched to the 101st's exclusive line.

<<Commie to all units,>> he began, maintaining that ever-present radio voice but unable to keep the strain from creeping in at the edges, low and thick with blood. <<Appreciate the support.>> Polite fib. <<Enemy unit's left behind a good present for the boys working R&D— it was just Christmas back home, I owe them something.>>

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

There was a beat offset within the broader rhythm, a void that filled itself with the sound of steely sabatons grinding to a sudden halt as Gerard's opponent, some dozen meters away at most, bowed her head and gazed into the dirt. Behind his visor, Gerard's eyes narrowed, trying to gauge what had brough about the untimely pause— one thing he had gleaned from their short exchanges was that the fae standing opposite of him wasn't nearly so generous in her defensive lapses as to offer a dropped guard freely. On the back foot as she was, there was too much risk of being overrun.

Plainly put, had he kept going, he would have overrun her and sent her veiled head rolling. But he hadn't. What had he spotted that compelled his instincts... ah.

It was in the cast of her shoulders, the way her brow hung, and the slow drop of the sternum that accompanied. Bringing her body forward, just so, as though making minor offering. Half a decade of surrounding himself with obscured faces, masks of black leather in the place of her moonspun white veil— all the same, it had left him with a particular skill in reading the language unspoken, that of posture, gesture, and movement. It wasn't supplication, nor was it surrender— but after he had revealed the card he had been unwittingly holding... contrition.

An apology. For what, he couldn't say without words, but nonetheless it appeared she felt it owed. Owed enough that she was willing to risk her victory for its' sake. He recalled her dispatch of interlopers, her presentation of arms— She believed she had dishonored the bout in some way, then?

The moment hung in the air, heedless of the battle close by, as he abided this wish, lowering his blade. Only proper that he give her that moment of apology, in such case...

And then, from her palm, that sound again. The grinding of bone— another blade! Already, the first spur of white was rising from her palm! In another moment, she'd have a second tool to slice the world—

Action filled his frame, and he burst once more into the fight.

Her apology had been accepted, he had every reason to grant her that grace— if after the moment of understanding had passed she had seen fit to draw another weapon, that could only mean she had not deemed herself as giving the threat he posed proper respect.

A mistake that he was unwilling to repeat, no matter how it weighed upon the mind of his foe.

His longsword whipped up high from its lowered position, another hammer of wind cascading forth as the Pale Lady drew her spinal tap dagger, filling the space between them with another wall of force immediately. He had a hunch. If she had drawn this thing in response to that attack, and it assumed the same properties as her long blade—

He dashed forth, blade at the ready, coming in the wake of it as it too chewed through distance— and then, pre-emptive of even the flicker, sidestepped to that familiar, dominant angle. She had the attack right on top of her, and him coming in close behind— something she could easily solve by slicing the former in half with her second blade, and threatening to counter the latter in the same stroke.

In committing to that, forced by the imminent threat or otherwise, she would give up a tempo. One he could use to press his way into his ideal range— and keep forcing her back onto the treeline. She was hardly far at all, and once he had her pinned there, he could end this— either by running her into a solid boundary with the tree trunks, or by forcing her behind the thicket, where he could turn the turf against her, blinding her behind the veil of the moonlit forest.

There was no time to waste. This was his chance to blunt her advantage!

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

At the sight of the Valheimr insignia, now unmistakable to any of them by sight, a shot of ice ran through Rudolf's blood. He listened carefully to the clipped, staccato rhythm of Izayoi's report, a ball of lead dropping from his throat to his stomach.

"... Did he specify which, or do we assume it's all of them?" he asked, throwing the rags he'd draped over his greatsword to the floor. They had already been long aware of the distinct possibility that Valheim's threads had been woven into the broader fabric of Brightlam, as they had Osprey, as they had been into Balmung Castle itself... but there was a difference, inside you, between a suspicion and confirmation. His hands were already moving, grabbing hold of the Wings, bringing his sword to bear. For a moment, he thought to similarly discard his cloak... but no. Sword and cape. The extra fabric could prove useful, especially when he was already light on gear. Unlike Izayoi. He turned, needing to gather his belongings into a tight bundle to begin with.

A lot of sleepless nights had seen him grow very seasoned at quickly gathering what he owned.

"Either way. If Valheim's here and trying to trap us by sight, then splitting up's no good for the four of us. Do we head for the cathedral? It'd make sense that at least one of them would be there, right?"

His mind, meanwhile, was set on bargaining.

I think we're past the point of disguising ourselves. May as well get ready for the worst.¹

There was a twinge within his breast, but the familiar weight didn't settle into a full return. He bit down a snarl— the silver lining of it all being the distraction that spike of frustration served for the stakes they were about to run into. The knife on his belt, the twinned swords in his hands, the dull weight on his back... All like a part of him had been missing.

Really. Who are we fooling? She's going to be rushing out in full battle dress, we may as well leverage all the power we can... damn you.

Fine. It'd be what it'd be. They needed anything but bogging down further. Focus, Rudolf. Don't spiral, don't get stuck in, focus on what's ahead and which way means forward.

He crept to the entrance of the hovel, gilded eyes scanning around them.

"We're still clear to ship out... while we've got the moment, at any rate."

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• _{1. If you want to talk to somebody who'll so casually bare themselves just for the sake of an imminent fight, you turn right back around and look at the widow while you prattle at her and the dragoon and the fusilier. I'm still cognizant of the raw number of high-level white mages surrounding me. You'd better sweeten the deal or I'd better see no better options.}

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

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"Alright. Cloak. Old shirt that's too big." There was a shuffling of fabric in the gloom within the old hollowed-out tree, as a compact frame slipped into his southron companion's travel garb, a bit past being "well-worn". Given how starkly different their statures were, it easily concealed his diligently-honed build, hanging off of him more like a loose, ratty tunic than anything else."Oil. Swords stay here. Ash and dirt not far. I miss anything?"

"Forgive me."

"Why would I need t—"

A dull thud and wet crack filled the chamber in stereo with one another as the shorter figure turned, causing a few concerned glances to be sent the pair's way. It took a lot of the younger man's trust, in the next few seconds, that there were usually very good reasons behind the elder's more inscrutable choices to keep him from swinging back and flattening all six feet and change that had just pulverized the cartilage of his nose without warning.

"Eos, heal him fast so he doesn't swell up too much."

"Gahhh ddddamn it" Rudolf hissed, lowering an assortment of white knuckles as the fairy's healing glow subsumed his face. Her expression was quirked into a rather curious frown in doing so, but nonetheless, he could feel the pain fading. If he had to guess, she was surprised that there was no pins-and-needles feeling of unease to endure— He and his passenger had mutually concluded that they needed to quench as much of the profaned flame next to his soul as possible to even have a hope of making this facade stick. That was the bright side of things— sometimes, survival instincts mutually aligned, and he got a moment to himself in his own head.

As he busied his mouth with handling breathing until the healing was complete, Esben busied his the usual way.

"Rudolf, forgive us again later— we'll have to rebreak the nose to set it correctly and heal it properly."

"... You know, thinking about it, that hurt more when I was a kid. Guess that makes sense."

"Also, go get yourself dirtied up again. You're a pretty boy, even with a broken nose. You'd never last on the streets."

"Way ahead of you. Said I've got oil." the young man replied, almost not growling, thinking that he'd rather be "handsome" than "pretty".

"Make sure you use your old stuff. The choji oil Hien gave us will smell too nice."

As response, Rudolf held the trusty tin he had left Sagramore with aloft. Were it fresh, it too would have been characterized by florid, fiery notes of the spices the swordsmen favored in so many things, but after all they had been through together...

"Mm. Flat, and a little rancid. Good. ... Well," the SEED reared back, nodding approvingly even with his face bunched up by the odor. "Bad, but good for making you smell like an unwashed beggar."

Setting to griming himself through the face and slicking it through his vaguely stained, blood-anointed hair, the swordless swordsman huffed. "I've got some ash from our last camp and dirt from right here next, before you say it."

"Do you want me to help apply it, or do you think you have that handled?"

"I can do it." he firmly reiterated, having been introduced to wearing the earth upon himself when he ritualistically stalked the sabertooth whose fang he'd hidden beneath the loose garb. He wasn't looking to break up his outline, but it was still the same basic application.

"If it has you worried at all..."

A look.

"Are you doing this because Elly's off on her own and you're channeling how nervous you are about her having to be subtle into something that feels productive?"

Oh hey, a whisper, at the edge of his perception. There you go, right to his face.

An unreadable smirk from on high. It was wry, charming, colorlessly glib.

"Look at that, trying to use my misdirection technique against me. You're turning into quite the seedling, I'll make a field agent out of you yet."

The look held, flattening just a hair.

"No, seriously. That was me actually asking."

"..."

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Even in Brightlam, a city as close as any to paradise, touching nature, the divine, and the eidolons that served as their stewards, the many misfortunate of mankind were never far away. Indeed, perhaps it was precisely due church's tightly woven presence that all manner of the infirm, the lost, and the downtrodden flocked to the winding streets in droves, hailing from all over the continent. Here, society's rejected could gather, and hope towards some kind of salvation from the human condition, and its' cruel scythe that had judged them chaff.

The sun had grown long, the spears of late afternoon a burnished bronze as they peeked through the canopy overhead, casting the milling faithful, rubbing shoulders as they held communion, listened in on liturgy, and fell again into whatever vice had caught them, all at once, all in tones of old amber. Money, food, fists— all changed hands in places where the light couldn't quite reach, between those that sought it, but could never quite capture it for keeps. No large fraction of these trades were fully willing. In the end, all the beneficence that could be given still fell short of seeing the next day.

They were choking.

One man in a cloak among many slipped through the streets, a sincere need to get somewhere about his person. He wasn't having an easy time of it. Glancing over his shoulder, he wasn't being followed— not closely.

Granted, it'd be a rare pursuer that could closely follow. All around him, people were clamoring for alms from the few cleaner passerby, or the church, anyone that looked like they had something they could spare. With his ears, he could pick out snippets of dozens of pleas, each laid over one another in a dull roar. They were refugees from the war that had befallen Osprey. They were sick with strange fevers, visited by some manner of plague. They had lost their minds, their sparks, their connections to the gods, and were trying to live until they could reaffirm the goodliness to the mothercrystal.

Many, too many, had lost their homes to the unstoppable march of the Blight. He could see the limbs hidden away by bandages, those that had been hacked off to stop the spread. Those afflicted would speak of the fading light that ravaged the land, as though Etro herself had turned her back upon them. More still spoke of the spoiled lands, tainted waters, and piled dead, burning on pyres of acrid flame— that it was the Eidolons, keepers of the elements, that had abandoned them. These voices were loud and vengeful, and pulled much of the din back onto them in turn— he'd witnessed his share of mob-ordained floggings for the heresies.

On and on they boiled around him. Hard to believe the Church had any authority here— let alone the highest. He snorted, finally pushing past the row of congregation ahead. For supposed holy ground, the place was a real dump. You just needed to enter the shadow of the the central tree. He checked over his shoulder again.

Nothing. He didn't like the feeling of nothing. He knew people were looking for him.

He had somewhere to be.

He pushed on further.

Ahead, there was an overhang that many of Brightlam's charitable were willing to stop by, and so many seeking charity tended to congregate, waiting for their chance at anything good. The perks of being on the path to the city's righteous were many, enough that every man who sought place there could find his own assembly of them— for him, on this day, the chiefest was assembly itself.

He was one man in a cloak among many. Nestling himself within the bunch, he could lay low relatively comfortably, keep his ears open for something important. If he hadn't been obviously pursued now, then he would be damned impossible to pick out here if he just kept his head down. Casing the rumor mill hardly went better than when you surrounded yourself with urchins. When they weren't casting their pleas to the Holy, they had nothing else to do but talk, and listen, and watch whatever happened in the light.

It was slow going. Felt like an eternity. But eventually...

"Scoot over, will ya?" he muttered under his breath, unable to avoid brushing shoulders past one of his peers. The man felt solid, and beneath his hood, there was a hint of a crooked nose— he didn't need to make enemies with anyone who might start something. He dropped to a knee, waving the other down, and took a friendlier tack before offense could be taken.

"Say, what's the word these days, pal?"

"..." The other man was silent as he lowered himself in turn, head staring into the ground as though he meant to pierce it and gaze upon the waters below. Hell, had he chosen to strike up conversation with somebody that had gotten punched dumb? Just his luck right now, wasn't it—

"I've heard the Grovemasters are wary of one another." a weathered voice cut his thoughts off. It had a dry texture, but sounded young. Nobody he had heard before. "One of them believes this talk of the Eidolons abandoning us. That only the Mothercrystal may save us from the Blight."

"Hey, hey! Keep your voice down with that." the first man hissed, surreptitiously glancing up as a patrol of Kapok Sentinels marched past overhead, wanted posters clutched in their hands. Just as quickly, his head dropped back down to pin this newcomer with an uncomfortable glare. "You see them up there? The last thing we want's their attention, because you're speaking careless and getting this place as riled up as the rest of them." He jerked a thumb the way he'd came, where it was every man for himself.

"They're guards, aren't they? My mother studied here once."

Oh for the love of— He had to jettison this man as quick as he could. A real know-nothing.

"She spoke well enough of them. Diligent, but pious as well. They would have charity for the lost."

"Yeah, well their diligence is on overdrive right now. A bunch of dumbasses that sound a lot like you sound have gone and made attempts on their lives in the past week. My advice is to make nobody think you might agree with them on anything. Head down, play church mouse, don't question your priests."

"That's concerning." the other figure noted, looking up to watch the Sentinels' retreating forms as they moved on. He watched them turn to another street, as the congregation the two had nestled themselves amongst grew less stiff. "They're looking for the people that did this?"

"Yeah. And they'll swipe whoever the hell they feel like." he shook his head. "Too many pricks chasing the bounties already. Everything's too hot right now. You never know who'll decide you look close enough to be worth a shot."

"... I see. And people have heard me here, then." rather deliberate, for potentially being dangled off the side of the tree if that assumption were correct. "Should I go?"

Yes. Yes, absolutely. Before you blurt out the next dumbest thing somebody less generous might overhear. Not to mention... it'd open up some real estate. Who knew, maybe if this guy suddenly left right when a moron would think the coast was clear, he could bait out anyone that might be looking for a thief.

"Listen, I won't rat you out. But words travel quick here, so..."

"So I'll do the same for you, and we'll hope for the best."

A double-take—

But the slow-witted man was already gone.

---

...

...

...

---

He returned, slipping the hood off of his slicked-back hair as he nodded to Galahad, still keeping a watchful eye on the dead wood. Speaking of eyes, at some point he had gotten himself a shiner while he was out, matching the break in his nose well.

"It doesn't seem like Isolde's mode of thinking is terribly popular, at least. There's unrest from the people affected by the Blight, but outright saying the elementals or the other gods is still unsavory at best. At worst... they've got tighter security than a week ago. Pretty regular patrols all through the place except around here, and that's only because we'd be more like hay in a needlestack than vice-versa. Keeping watch was a good call— lots of thieves around, somebody would have pinched our gear."

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

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?"

Falling Skies

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.