HereComesTheSnow

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Shilage

There was a lavender hue, faint to the point of nearly being washed out by the albedo of mountaintop snow, hitting his brow. Through the twin slots that made up his visor, windows through the stony black edifice, the fairy could see small coppery points shy away a little from her glow after they'd confirmed the source.

"Selene... Hey, kid. How you holding up after the hailstorm?" Rudolf breathed after his eyes were properly shaded again from incoming light, forcing some sense of chumminess through the feeling of having survived a stampede the hard way. His weapons collected and well in hand again, his helmet was cast downward as the seance crystal in Esben's hands began to burn hot with collected sunlight— looking the steel over for damage while he listened for her response.

He doubted he'd spool her into too much glib-tongued sidetracking, though. He and Eos had a great track record working with one another so far, but he was at this point all but certain that Selene was the smarter one of the pair. Though, her presence still revealed one thing, even if she deigned not to play ball— getting this close this readily pretty neatly corroborated the fact that his glib-tongued, sidetracking influence had suddenly stopped chatting so much.

He still wanted nothing to do with Cid, in so many words.¹

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• _{1. A quote from The Meditations of Duke Horacio of Midgar, when faced with ransomer's demands coming from along the edge of the Northern Border circa 300 years ago: "Fuck Off."}

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Crimson Paladin

He nodded. Easy enough.

"Well met then, Takashima." the knight inclined his head. "Sagramore Gellért. In our common tongue, Gerard Segremors. If my companion here has the right of your visit's nature, I would hope to introduce myself more properly soon." He knew little of Akitsushima, less than Fleuri— but trading blows with Rui in the dream-spun world had proven to him the gripping nature of the conversations he favored with people like himself. The language of sparks and steel was universal between swordsmen— to know a man's heart truest, you would find it singing at the end of his arm. That was what Cyrus had told him, when words between them inevitably broke down.

The man argued best by caving your head in. Only fitting that such was the quickest way anyone had found to get Gerard to learn.

His eyes returned to pavilion, resting close to where the foreign dignitary's had drifted after names were exchanged.

"If he's right... Would this be your first foray into the Valours, friend?"

Sword and Dungeon: An Adventurer's Guild-based Fantasy RP

"Right. Got it."

As Csenge turns to me with marching orders and a form to ink down, I cock my head and lean in to hear her second point of direction as it comes by in what I'd class as a diplomatic undertone. Point of order, my expression stays frozen throughout, and I fix my gaze on a load-bearing column a little past the rest of the group. Better to not let anything give away how we're trying to mediate the dynamic brewing in front of us, most like— though it's some relief to have those small concerns I've been nursing validated. My instincts for people aren't always the sharpest, not really.

She strides away as I nod and step forth into the assembled group proper, leaning the elm branch that sourced my own appellation against the table nearby. I let my gaze slide between each of the three for a moment, studying each of them— A Paladin is pretty simply explained, Hrefna's mastery of curses is never far from her own lips, but for all her coiling musculature that's mimicking a python 'round our priority target's ribs... the more I look upon the lamia, the less I necessarily see a bruiser of my own ilk. Her hands aren't rough. Her shoulders are slight. Her back doesn't carry muscle.

I notice there's a fairly ostentatious looking staff, not at all far from where I've set my club down. Putting the two of them together looks a clear metaphor for the both of us— at each end of what Iron Rank could mean.

The silence is beginning to weigh on me, and I clear my throat, cutting through the awkward moment before it stretches further. My bad, everybody. It's my first day with this much responsibility.

"Right. You heard her, ladies. Greenhorn's getting put to work," I drawl, setting the page onto the table. "I know of Hrefna already, but before we split for gear and the gate I'm gonna need names for the both of you so I can turn our contract in. Glad we could get you on board," I explain, my eyes flicking to the paladin one more time, judging her reactions to who all I've implicitly locked in. I hope this all goes smoothly, but if our leader's name ringing through the hall is any indication...

"Even if you say you're duty-bound in the first place."

... It might be that she's wise to the moments where things become headaches that she doesn't have to deal with if she doesn't want to. Good skill for contact workers to cultivate, I guess, but one I'm realizing I don't even have the dust of.

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Shilage

A flood of vitality surged into Rudolf down the arm as he made contact with the black greave, buffering his ringing skull with stability— at least, enough to restore proper response in his extremities even as his ears still rang. He allowed himself two breaths— the first to steel himself, flooding his lungs with the raw, ozone-scented air that the wake of Izayoi's raijingeki had left. It didn't seem like it had troubled him much after all... but there were many ways to kill an armored man besides a bolt from the heavens. He grit his teeth.

The second propelled him, to wrestle up on the leg, to test the ringen of thi—

As he surged up onto his legs to drive forth through the Garland's base, to wrench the leg against its' joint at the hip and ground the bigger man, he was met with a blossom of flame and brace of concussive force, shredding through the purple of his quarry's cape. Entangled like this, he had no time to even identify the report of the cannon— let alone evade the explosion as it tore into black steel.¹ His grip faltered for an instant—

And the vertigo, as the Valheimr general flung him away, growling in pain. Rudolf tumbled end over end, rolling to a stop some indeterminate distance away, and thought to himself that things were probably going in the wrong direction. It was too much. The strength, the skill, even the natural command over aether... Maybe this was how his brother felt, when a third of his company were trying to contain the rampage of that warrior from afar. Certainly, anyone that could casually toss Izayoi aside like that had to be in the running, if not even that figure's superior. Cold, imperious, implacable... it felt like staring at a summit from the base.²

A deep throated bark sounded from Garland's direction, prompting Rudolf to drag himself upward once more. Garuda's form fading before them, and the dark knight holding a pistol of unfamiliar make. He dully stared behind the eye slits of his visor, the closing remarks of their foe all but bouncing off his scuffed-up helm. So the question of Garuda was a wash... better than Valheim turning her against them, sure, but not by much if the winds would rage without her guiding hand. Skael's blizzards were famously terrible even in the age where winds didn't go rogue. He'd hate to see them exceed those stories now.

As for the "draw"...

Rudolf hauled an arm upward, black emberlight dancing from his fingertips to his palm... and with a snap of the fingers, Garland was on the retreating airship. The completed form of shadowstepping? Maybe.³

His arm sagged and the flames dimmed as the airship took to the skies, just a little too quickly for Rudolf to think he'd get lucky by lobbing a ball of fire into something important— the most he would do is singe at the outer edges of the hull— and potentially give the enemy more insight into the nature of the blackflame they surely already knew he wielded. The abrasion. The source. The edge of how far he could fling it. All cards that smart men would keep close to their chests.

He'd rather not burn down luck on a futile effort like that, either. In the wake of this, they needed all they could get.

He stepped forward, catching himself on the first few strides before he steadied, and walked to collect his scattered arms, silent save for slow, controlled breathing until he heard Miina's idle musing.

"They manifest of their own accord everywhere else," he noted, prying his rondel from the frozen earth. "I suppose Valheim would be no different, even with Etro's blessings gone. Wouldn't be the first time magic and faith have had worse than zero intersection, I don't think."

His head hurt.

---

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• _{1. Damn it all. That will not buff out.}
• _{2. Oh. I know how you work by now. That one's sticking.}
• _{3. Let's just assume "yes". Even if it isn't, aiming for that and aiming for him will help you out in the long run and buy me at least a hundred more hours of drilling you. Rejoice, boy. You have now a clear picture of what you need to make yourself. Find him within you.}

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Shilage

Metal rang against metal at the summit, and Rudolf grit his teeth as the twin points of yellow of the Valheimr general's helm crossed paths with enshrouded bronze beneath his visor, holding for a moment's search. Even for all the training he had thrown himself at, the dozens of hard-fought battles he had survived... all that work that had forged Rudolf into what he now was still found itself wanting. It was like striking a steel wall.

That mighty cleaver didn't budge, even with the full force of the lunge he'd taken to deliver the swing. He could feel it through the edge, despite his own straining— he wasn't going to overwhelm this man with brute force. Even now, such was folly— but he didn't need to overpower Garland on his own, either, necessarily. So long as he kept him occupied, and forced more of this stonewall defense out of him, he could close down the opportunities to impede the others from assisting Garuda, the real priority here.

So he just needed to keep the pressure up, and leverage what advantages he did have over the bigger knight. If not strength, then surprise.

Beneath the occluded, almost-noon skies of Sakel, Shadows began to pool at the two combatants' feet, dimming beneath the clash of their blades—¹

A shift in Garland's shoulder, the flash of the tropics screaming through Rudolf's somatic memory a mere instant too late—

—And then, his ears exploded with the sound of a ringing, keening bell of heavy bronze, and the unshaded snow rushed up to meet his visor, filling his field of view with fragmentary white. He was on the ground, pain blossoming in a warm, fuzzy knot between helm and temple, leaking down the side of his face. He could hear the rumble of the voice overhead after a thunderclap, surely in Garland's timbre, but not the words themselves.

Iron. Iron in his mouth. blood? Probably. He was in a fight, after all. He needed to rise. His body. He needed it to respond. Didn't he have help?

.
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T̲̬͚͇̫̭̬̻̗͙́͂͗́̅̉͞͝h̷̡̧̗̲̰͈͎͒̀̅̾̓́̒͞i̦̙̼̞̜̗͔̪̻͊̓̂̂̊̍́̒š̢̧̧͈̻͖͔̦̪̦͌̀̌̏ i̢̫͙̜̬̰̳̊̊̆̀̈̀s͈̘̰̿̎̒͑͘͘͢ͅ b̶͉̜̹͚͚̣̯͍̈́̔̓̏̃̊̒̾̀͟͟ã̡̭̯͚̰̖̂͑̉̀͌̈́̐́͠d̶̢̨̡͉̯̳̞̻̽̈̍̃̅͜ͅ.̷̨̯̭̩̰̐̋̄̆́̊̕͢ Ī͖̯̭̙̲͔͒̈̑͒̽͗͞ c̴͙͖̣̜͎̯͉̱̫͗̆̾̄̄̕͜͡a̶̟̣͓͔̹͙͉͔̿̍̒̀̆͋͆̐͛̎n̵̡̡͓̣̫̬̬̟͒̽̋̒́͞ t̵̥͎̠̲̤̫̠̔̋̓̐̂̓ḩ̶̣̺̠̝͕́̌̓̄̈̈͞ͅͅi̡̧̤̙̲̖̠̼̰̥͌̈́̀̐̚̕͝ń̖͎̙̔̀̈̒͐͑̚͢͜ḱ̶̢̻̰͖̙͓̪̐́͒͛͟͟͡ c̷̡̫͈̳̜͙͔͓͂͂̒́̔͗̕͟͢l̛̛̹̪͓̱͎̯̺͆̃̎́̆̊̂̐ẽ͉̖͕͈̣̅̈́͒́̽̇̋̔͌á̵̧̧̱̠͈͙͙̲͓͐̎̾͑̇̊̕͢͝ŗ̷̢̻̠͙͕̯̫̘̌̈̌̇̅͌ļ̶̪̣̬͓̞͙͖̬̅͒͌̆̂̚͢y̨̢̲̭̭͓̥͗́̀͘̚,̶̨̛̫͈̰̰̝̮̝̆̈̒̄̈̑̚ͅ b̨̨̫͍̟̬̦̙̬̈̓͑͟͡͞ū̸̫̣̖̼͇́̄̿́̅͠͠ͅt͔̯̭̖͖̭͚͐̾̄̊͜͝͝ Ȋ̯̝͇̻̔̄͌͜͠ c̘̗͇̙̝̯̖̟̹̠̀̽̍̄͛á̧̠̪̮̖̣̪͔̬̆̆̓̊̓̔͢n̝̹͍̯͍͍͌̃̍͋͢͝͝ͅ'̷̮͓̞̝̘̏̆̓̈́̀͞t̥̮͈̭̹̘̩͕͔͉̃̉͒̉̍̀̕͡͝ s̸͍̲̟͋̽̍̊̚͟͟e̛̪̲̰̮̠͕͓̎̍̓͒̈́ḙ̤̹̼͒̓̓̆̀͟ ő͕͉̯͓̹́̓̀̔̆̀͡͡͠r̢̧̧̤͔̩̠̯͓̔̆͐̃̽͡ f̞̝̹̖̰̹̎͑͂̍̑͢ę̷͓͕͖̦͚̠̘̮̌̓́̏̈́͡͡ě̡̢̖̞̖̜̣̥̼̃̿̈̃͒̋̓͢l̬͓͖̙̗̫̰̪̥̊́͒̾̐͋͐͜͞͠͠ a̷̱̘̖͍͈̺̿̔̽̈́̂n̢̳̞̞̞̫͐̀́̃͛͝͞y̨̠̩̥̘̯̪͙̪͍̍̃͆̇͗̔͑́̊̂ b͚̬̮̞̪̙̩̋̿̀̊̄͗͆̿͞ę̢̳̠̬͙̪̤͎̘̑̌͆͗͆́͒̏͞t̴͍̞̺͖̪̼̮̤̓͗͊͛͗̑͟͝t̫͓͎̝̬̪̻̫̗̉̈̋̋̐̆̐̕͢͞͡ȩ̧͇̯̬͚͗́̂̀̋̊̓̀̇͐͜r̸̻̜̠͚̦͍͇̗̽͒̊̔̓̌̽͊͠͠ t̢̧̘͇̲͍̟̙̣̔̐̒͒̀́̿̕͟ḩ̠̝̦͎̞̱͆́̅͒͌͘͜a̢̘̩̳͉̬̙̓̌̒̒̇̀̈́̀͆ͅͅn̴̦̤̗̝͔̱̎̉͂̽̕͘͘͠͡͠ y̡̫͉͇̞̳͊́͌͂͊͂ớ̭͎̪̳̙͖͂́͒̀̔̿̆͋͜ù̸͚̰̖̺̭̼̯̻̆͛́̅͘̕͝ c̛̱̗̞̥̗̼͆̊̌̓̏̔͊̽a̷̢̰̤̟̣͑̊̄͋̊͆̎͟͡n̴̨̛͉̪̰̻͂̃̊̀͑́͌͝.͍̗̹̺͎̥̠̇̅̔͑́̈́ Ḫ̷̢̘̣̹̠̹͎͔͌͛̿͐̉͊͢͡͞e̵̩̦̠̦̙͛̉́͠͠ g̨͈͓̩͎̼̗̣͖̐̈́̆̋̈͑̾̋͜ǫ̛̛͖͖̬̦̮͐̎̑͊̉̾̔͒͢͟ţ̴̨̮̬̯̟̽̐͂͊̍̾̉̕͘ m̸̧͙̟̺̣̮̭͈̩̑̈́͛̔̈́̎̓͐̕͜͝ë̢̛̪̣̘͎́̔͐̈̍͆̑͋͝ p̡̳͇͎̻͈̤̽̇̐̀̈́̃̄̊̿͢r̷̺͖̲͙̪͇͗͋͐͊̈́̋̌͘͟͠͠ȩ̷̧͉̩̳̪͎̯̯̔̓̃̔̚̚͝t̴̟̘̗͍̾̑́̋̒̓̇̐͗͋͟t̵̫͎̱̤͓̞͚͉͋̓͆͡͞y̼͈͇͍̎͆͌̊̿͢ g̢̧̢̛̻̬̯̺̻͖͇̔̿̓̈́͑o̴͚̬̪͕̹̟͛̇̿̍̔͌̚͟ơ̵͖̲̖̟̥̐͊͒̑̕͜d͕̤̺̝̮̘̈̿͗̀͌̿͘͢͝ͅͅͅ,̸̧̗͚̞̳͙͓̗͒͒̑̍̌̽̓͝͠ͅ b̢͎̤̟̬̝͍̰̫͔͗͑̋̆̀͊͠ų̵̛̠̳̲̜̲̀̊͗̽͟͜͜͢t̨̧̮̬̤̅̑̉̔͌̕͞ y̧̧̨͉̝̤̻̦̣͆̏̄̀̀̂̓́̈͝o̙͍̟̦̘̺̬͌͌̋̿̌͛̓ư̧͉̣̼̝̠̪̫̣͈̆̎͊́̈́̃̚'̯̙̬͚͎͙͊̋̏̐͆̋͛͢d̞͉̫̳̲̰̰̋̑́̂͌̕ͅ ḃ̝̺̰̫̣̾̍̾̾͛̒̀̔͜e̴̡̨̝͍̪͓̙͎̖͋̓̒̕͝t̢̡̳̹͖̖̿̉̈͆͠ţ̧̱̭͈̪̞̓̐̂̏̽̋ͅȩ̛̯͚̜̟͍̩̲̹̳̃͋̑̿r̢̲̤̘̻̣̘̙͓͈̾͊̓̏̚͞͠ ṇ̴̛̗̤̤͈̬͂̽̈́̂ǫ̴̢̛̮̥͈̩̲̼̒͑̀̊̾̽ẗ̴̫̞̯͓̤̖̻́̈́̃͛͆̆̂̕ ď͖͇̠̗̯͔̑̍̄̀̒̑͠i̢̨̙͕̯̫͖͓̫̤͒́̑̀̃̽̔̿͋e̷̡͙̱͈͍̹̾̒̄̓͘̕͜ h̵̨̛̛̯̮̦̜̙̦͌̈̈͂̕͠͡ě̡̢̛̺̪̬̠̭̓̿̃͋̀̚͢ŕ̮̬̩̺̰͈̦̬́̉̍̓̚e̷̟̘̰̩͇͛̃̿̈́͗̈̌̚,̴̡̲̰̩̞̲͇̖̔̄̂̒͒̑ b̵̨͎̬͕̬̮̘́̄̏̽̇̓̑͜͡͝r̸̠̦͎̫̣͒̍͊͆̊́̓̉̀̍ͅą̵̠̣͙͕̪̩̤̾̄͋͐͊͆͛͞͝ṯ̶͈̬̗̞̣̰̥̓͌͑́͒̍͜͠.̡̲̙̳͙̲̾̈́̀͆̿̊͑͑̕ͅ Ú̶̟̰͉̠̯̏̇̏̃̊̿ͅp̸̢̫͚͈̯̘̽͆̃̉̉.̶͕̜̺̙̭͒͋̾̉̀̌̇̍̚͘
.
.²

Bell rung, no doubt about it. Now he and Esben were in the same boat— they'd have to mutually agree to never tell Lene about eachothers' respective brain trauma. He grit his teeth, forcing will to flood his limbs and reorder them. The act drove a spike through the side of his head, but he could thank his helm for one thing, at least: It had absorbed the force of the blow well enough that he hadn't suffered the jaw being smashed out of socket. Yay. Improvement from Valon.

With titanic effort, Rudolf stilled his limbs and craned his neck, forcing himself skyward as he took in what he immediately needed of the field. Garland had gotten past him, and in his wake a storm of falling icicles, spearlike fangs, crashing through the gap between them and the eidolons. No go. High above, Izayoi, calling for lightning as Garland would doubtless surge to meet her—

Savvy and strong, too much by half, to allow Raijingeki in a vacuum. Rudolf's mind had reordered enough now, in these precious seconds, that he could manage he blur and sway of his perception enough to act. A silver lining to each time he had suffered a heavy blow like this before.

He had to immobilize Garland. He had to get strength back, and sap away at the interloper's, and above all, burn away that time the black knight would otherwise use to swat her out of the air.

All achievable, thanks to his new recruit.

His dagger was still in hand.

Good. Legs weren't done wobbling. He could feel it.

"Not done with you... YET!"

Planting it into the earth, he used the ad-hoc piton to wrench himself forward in a low, almost skidding surge forward, a sickly red haze of aether shrouding the outstretched hand that swiped aside the regal purple cloak into the wind and clamped itself around the horned knight's greave. As the absorption materia made its presence known, he pulled, and pulled hard, with the muscles of his back— even if he couldn't ground the man here, he could at least make him fight for that next step.

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• _{1. Oh, we had better shadowstep quick, that right hand is—}
• _{2. ...}
• _{3. ...}
• _{4. ...e back? Do I ...ve signa...?}

Sword and Dungeon: An Adventurer's Guild-based Fantasy RP

"Csenge".

I've got a name to go with the face and silhouette now. While dutifully shadowing her as we cross the threshold from board to conundrum, I repeat it a couple times beneath my breath, trying to get a feel for the rhythm of that "cs" at the start— not a familiar syllable, but names are important things to lock down quickly. Especially dealing with upper rankers. Speaking relatively, anyway— Steel might round out the bottom half of the traditional structure, but getting any further is typically understood as being An Exceptional Talent for the craft. Csenge. Csenge.

"Better having the Gods on our side than sitting ambivalent." I offer, giving the coiled-up Paladin a small wave as my prospective compatriot blades her stance to reveal me, the hapless iron-ranker in her wake.

Unforunately for me and my yammering, Csenge did not hold the same misgivings about involving herself in the brewing powderkeg that she draws us up to as I did. That clash of personalities doesn't really look like it's abated at all— if anything, I'm surprised to note that it's Hrefna, of all people, that seems to have cooled off a little. Big personalities like hers are good at running away with their mockery, but it looks like things have lost their luster as the dwarf from before has captured most of her attention. But with the Paladin nearly steaming out the ears and the lamia that was now coiled around her enough to draw to mind words like "anaconda" and "constriction" and "ribcage"...

I hear Reeva's voice boom out from across the way, and for a moment I catch myself stiffening mid-stride. I did go up to that board hoping for a few more goblin skulls to crack, my easy, thoughtless, and fondly upwardly-mobilizing résumé lynchpin. Writ large across an entire fortress, I could hardly imagine a more ideal shakedown cruise for my shiny new iron-rank. It was like my last mission was proof of concept, a trial run that determined I was ready for the real thing. The offer was more than tempting, especially as validation of my new place in the world.

I waver, for a moment. This powderkeg bunch, or the growing mass of people a table across that seem to operate more at my natural speed?

...

I'm not above human weakness.

"It looks like it's manifested so far as weeping black sores on the face and an increased caginess among the herd come nighttime. If nothing else, your matron goddess holds the sun as her domain, right? You might be able to ease their suffering as we investigate the source of the plague and disappearances. We could definitely use you if you're up for it."

But nevertheless, I step forward rather than pull away.

Csenge's already thrown me a line when she saw I was a little lost at sea, so the least I can do is repay the hospitality. It's not every adventurer, even among us mortals that populate the Iron and Steel ranks, that'd cut somebody unknown and unproven to them like me a break so readily. It'd annoy me to leave her high and dry now that I've been welcomed aboard.

Sword and Dungeon: An Adventurer's Guild-based Fantasy RP

We'll shelve the problem for a minute. I can feel a pit beginning to swell in my stomach as the pilsner I left behind on my seat at the table fades into background radiation, like an old tree being hollowed out by rot, or fire. Licking at the edges inside— that's where the turn of phrase falters, to me. Hunger doesn't gnaw at you, so much as it licks at threads. Tendrils, not teeth.

Maybe I'm just not really hungry enough yet.

Regardless, it's looking like I've succeeded better than I had hoped in keeping myself beneath the notice of the cantankery-of-the-day— I never heard anything back from the lamia or the paladin regarding my passing remarks, which is fair enough, and the open-ended question I had for the open-ended question that sounded off in their wake went unaddressed. I ended up putting a face and cause to the voice on my own as the dwarf shuffled forward to confront Hrefna about her proof of kill, loudly and heatedly. I guess that, also, is fair. I hardly do much to distinguish myself now that I've settled into whatever I am— it wasn't until I cracked a good share of goblin skulls that I had even made iron rank, after all.

Speaking of, all the continuing commotion has left me the space I've needed to pull up to the board and have a proper look for jobs that might put more food in my stomach, and I'd be mighty pleased if I saw more goblins to kill. They aren't the most common job, actually— the unending tide of bloodthirsty, guild-sanctioned raiders does a lot to keep numbers in check and extant populaces wary of any human settlement bigger than three or four people, as I understand it. But still, goblins got me my shiny new Iron Rank, and they're one of the few things I can tell I have a certain skill for dealing with. If I find more goblins on the board today, I'm sure to keep that rock rolling downhill.

There's a gap I can shoulder into, next to the academic cupping her chin in thought and perusing things. I won't take that for any particular omen, seeing as she doesn't strike me for the type that would be looking for the same opportunities I am, but she's been standing here for a minute...

"Anything good on there?" I ask conversationally as I wedge my way into the gap, eyes narrowed as I scan the options the axe-toting girl from a moment ago has left for us scrap-stealing vultures. I'm searching, I'm searching... And I click my tongue with a frown. "Damn. Outta luck. Nobody needs dumb muscle, do they?"

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Shilage

For a moment, he saw it. For a moment, his eyes were not here.

A silhouette, black and terrible, standing against a field of flame the massive sword in hand seemed to drink in greedily. Walking antumbra, a horn-bearing demon, wings of black sheath billowing outward, carried by the roaring inferno. In his ears were waves, waves, waves from some abyss, staring back at him. Two sides of a coin, or perhaps a mirror. It was a folded thing, twisted upon itself, end over beginning over end, until it seemed unbound, unknowable. Dissolution. Pandaemonium. Chaos. Darkness Manifest.¹

The waves rumbled, and with a flinch, Rudolf returned to the place he had not left as Garland bellowed his challenge. The knight's voice carried across the field like rolling thunder, and Rudolf was forced to about face from whatever that was to the immediate concern before them, the man that stood between them and the dueling eidolons, slamming a palm to the frozen g—

Shit, that was Quake!

Rudolf's hand flew towards the materia he had drawn only moments before as he recognized the telltale scent of earth upon the swell of aether in the opposing knight's gauntlet—

Won't work, too strong, too swift. A spike through his mind warned, tingling with an unease that Rudolf had already forced himself to bury. That was right— no glint of materia to explain the surge of aether. That drew a stricken growl from beneath the helm. Of course, naturalborn magic atop all that armor, the sword, and the presence he wore about him that Rudolf could match to that of a dangerous beast, even at this distance! Of course he couldn't leverage his materia to counteract that kind of guy!

The Valheimr troops beneath Garland's command scrambled to start their airship back up— whatever absorption their "Hellfire" gambit was running had to be close at hand, then— they needed to interrupt it as quick as possible. That meant a few things needed to happen in the next handful of seconds, all contingent on one another.

The cracking earth was here, and Rudolf rammed his dagger down to set as good an anchor point for himself as he could muster. He dropped to a knee as the snow split, his footing gave, and stone slammed into him, but it was more stable than being completely bowled over. His other hand had already halfway drawn the materia before he'd realized he couldn't meet Garland's Quake with his own— but in lieu of destructive interference, he could go for the next most important target, and at least even the field a little!²

"You heard the man, sounds like Garuda's the priority!" he shouted to the Kirins, roaring over the rumble of the shaking earth as he drove a Quake of his own down through the Rondel, the stored spell splitting out from the epicenter beneath them. Visibly weaker, it nonetheless surged forth in the wake of Garland's opening strike, aimed not at the Valheimr general... but past him, below the feet of the pseudo-Ifrit. If he could destabilize that thing, she'd have something closer to a fighting chance, enough for Miina and the other Kirins—!

But only if they had a clear shot to help her, first. He had to keep the blackhelm as occupied as he could, for as long as he could.

The materia returned home as it was spent. In its' place the greatsword was drawn again, and an oath to Himstus passed unheard, save by one. Then, the smaller of the black knights grit his teeth, summoned power into his legs, and wrenched himself forward into a lunging slash, low and heavy and damned hard to ignore as it chewed through the space between them.

Even with the recent additions to his arms and armor, he hardly welcomed the prospect of locking himself into an extended melee if it involved the frankly ridiculous butcher's knife Garland had just hoisted without overmuch issue— so he had to keep him on the backfoot as much as possible, overwhelm his reactions, abuse tempo as much as he could! Keep him reacting defensively, minimize his chances to about face and hit the others with that thing!

And when he inevitably swings back on you...³

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• _{1. Wait. What?}
• _{2. Not for nothing, but it's cosmically very funny that you guys are thinking the same right now. That this is just you if you weren't short. So, again, what was that. That wasn't me.}
• _{3. You have an answer for this now. An answer that isn't "go two-on-one and say a prayer. Because that thing is huge.".}

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Crimson Paladin

Gerard nodded, having heard what he needed to from the first sentence his senior compatriot had uttered.

"Mm. Then, I've nothing to worry myself over, this time at least." He just about managed to mask his inward sigh of relief with the flash of a smile. The matter of his personal coat had once again been successfully kicked down the line, away from sudden urgencies that always sprung up on a man who lived like Gerard had for so long now... Granted, he knew well that it would hunt him down and pin him eventually. If nothing else, all knights had symbols of their lives and meanings, in one way or another. Either the matter would eventually find him again, or... "Maybe I'll sort it out, should I show well today in the melee. If not, I—"

His eyes followed Fleuri's, settling upon the frame of an old man, lingering on the edge of the hill. His frame was slight compared to the two of them, both in the beginnings of their fighting primes, but a closer look revealed neither stiffness nor slack in his posture. He was straight over his weight, contained within himself. Such befit that distinctive style of blade upon his hip, and the robes that adorned him, familiar to Gerard only by way of the uninvited guest that had been foisted onto them all by Merilia.

Where Fleuri affected an unfamiliar bow, Gerard freely stood and narrowed his eyes quizzically. Rui aside, this man was the first he'd met from that faraway place of blossoms and foxes and painterly vistas, he was fairly sure.

"A long way west for you, in any case." he added on. "Chasing Reon down as she sets?"

Ah, wait. The faith might not have been so understood there as here— he knew that was true of the northerly wastes of Barukstaed, with their deities. So when you put an ocean and continent and, for all he knew, another ocean in the gap between their homelands...

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Shilage

"Hold," the young swordsman called to the rest of Team Kirin, lowering the visor of his great helm as he stepped forward to the head of their rough line drawn along the hillside. He'd caught the malicious gleam in Izayoi's gaze when the Valheimr infantry had crested the rise, and knew it was doubtless mirrored on at least a couple faces behind him. He didn't have an issue with the sentiment, being so beholden to a charging instinct of his own—

But another pillar of flame rose in the distance, echoed by a howling wind. They were right to tail the airship once they'd spotted it here, even after having already been behind schedule— after the corruption that had befallen Famfrit, as well as the interference with both of Drana Asnaeu's Eidolons, it would be outright lunacy to ignore a flight path that bore straight down onto the holy ground of Garuda. The arctic winds of Skael were harsh and biting enough by half even before the prospect of being turned against the land entered the fray.

His palm closed around the dull, earthen orb that had settled into his materia pouch during their forced march south, and he waited, measuring distance, speed, angle, and step. They didn't have a moment to spare bogged down by this lot, so if he could spend a half-second now...

There.

He could knock off at least half a minute total.

The closest of the blackhelms had to catch himself as the angle of the earth beneath the snowfall changed and his downward momentum slipped out of his hands— the cue Rudolf was waiting for. He flooded the Quake Materia with aether, enough to loosen and jostle the earth beneath the invaders' feet at the front of their line. The men in the lead staggered or fell,¹ and the men behind them suddenly had to fight to not crash into them in one big pileup, stifling their charge at the very least—

Pulling Anders's Greatsword free, the black man-at-arms dropped his weight forward, almost in a sprinter's stance as flecks of tenebrous cinder caught in the icy wind that buffeted at the profaned plate, clearing accumulated rime as they went.² His voice sounded again, releasing the tension waiting had built up like an arrow from a bow.

"Alright, go!"

And then he was off, his and all their charges very much unhindered as they fell upon the Valheimr like wolves.

---

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• _{1. All that buildup, just for the exact same ideas to manifest. It's like Gravity never left. You're that guy that that always plays a Battlemaster and always picks Trip Attack. It's a "working system", don't get me wrong, but so are taxes, bean counters, subsistence farming, and rules of three.}
• _{2. Not just for the aesthetics of it, this is me contributing a little to upkeep on top of the regular oiling and all that, like good roommates taking out the trash of their own volition before we have to bust out a chore list that half of them are too fundamentally fucking illiterate to adhere to anyway.}