Lugubrious

The Three Realms War [A DMC, Bayonetta and Darksiders RP]

The minutes trudged by as Souta, half-asleep, ran the gamut of topics to think about. Designs and techniques, the old stand-bys, flashed by with prominence and frequency, but considerations about his current situation, as well as the menagerie of dangerous beings he'd come to know more closely than he ever would have dreamed, were never far from his mind. After an indiscernible amount of time, a sharp, abrupt noise stirred the smith from his ponderings. Someone had knocked on his door.

Jolted awake by the sound and ensuing realization, Souta swung his legs over the edge of his cot and stood, shaking his head to clear away the drowsiness. He tried to piece together who might be visiting him before he reached the door; Magpie, had she any reason for a quick return, would not have shown such manners, and nobody else struck him as likely to pop by for a visit. Nobody save one.

He pulled open the door, and found himself greeted by a face of immaculate beauty. He did not recognize it, but the unfamiliarity and perfection combined to convince him that his guess had been correct. “Lily,” he assumed, straightening up just a touch and blinking away the last of his nap-haze. One of the first things he'd noticed, of course, were today's chosen race and dress. He didn't know what to think of her donning Japanese features; as gorgeous as she was, it felt a bit offputting, not to mention any intention behind that choice. If she meant her clothes as a compliment, well...the cheongsam did suit her, but even a slouch like Souta knew that particular garb was not from his homeland. “Konnichiwa. What brings you here?”

Fire Emblem: The Eternal War [ENDED]

Rionach

---

The enemy broke, and Rionach took little time in figuring out why. Even ghastlier in death than he had been in life, the fearsome bandit leader lay in the dirt, which drank the steady flow of blood from his slash and puncture wounds. Planting the butt of her spear into the ground, Rionach wiped her brow and allowed her ultra-stern battle face to melt into a smile. It grew only brighter when the young swordswoman offered her a compliment. Laughing, the highlander replied, “All in a days work! To be frank, your swordplay was just as impressive. That speed is something else—fast as a wind and far more deadly.” She recognized that her allies were grouping up, and trotted over to the spot where they gathered. In gratitude the unknown girl offered her saviors a respite at her home, and Rionach voiced her acquiescence with gusto. On a journey this long and fast, any rest sounded like a good time to her.

As luck would have it, though, a more comfortable reprieve lay still beyond her reach for the moment. Only Prince Jarde seemed to be admitted inside, so everyone else made do with the exterior. Disappointed, and wondering what business the green-haired girl had with Elibean royalty, Rionach sank down onto the dust with her back to the ger's outer wall. She allowed her eyes to slip closed, and considered pulling down her headband over them to block out the sun. After that, given the day's heat, a catnap wouldn't be hard at all. Before her plans got much underway, however, Rionach found herself accompanied by the crimson-clad blonde, Merilia. She revealed she had something on her mind, so the highlander listened with a piqued interest. After she finished, Rionach shrugged. “Well, thanks, Merilia. I mean, I could still have malintent. One fight doesn't mean we really got to know one another, or make someone trustworthy. That Sordan guy, for instance?” Her tone dropped so that the man in question would not hear, though she indicated his way with a tilt of her head. “I trust about as far as I can throw him. But I'm glad you've realized I've got nothing but the purest, most heroic intentions. You can count on me to do right by him.” She offered Merilia a sincere grin, thinking as she did that despite pretty much being this woman's polar opposite, it hadn't taken them long at all to see eye to eye.

A few moments later, the door to the ger opened wide to divulge Jarde, the girl, and someone new. A pang of confusion struck Rionach. Just when did this guy get here? Had he been inside the whole time? She threw a wondering glance the swordswoman's way. The stranger got straight to the point, however, and took the liberty of making the introduction the girl had neglected before declaring that the party would have their aid moving through the region. With the man in question identified the next moment as Mark, Jarde seemed to think everything set for an immediate departure for the next stop in his journey. With a wince and much reluctance, Rionach got to her feet. That wasn't much rest at all, she moaned inwardly, but on the outside a look of determination held firm.

-=-=-

A day of footsore travel later, the group strode through the gates of Bulgar. Though happy to be back in civilization, Rionach wanted nothing more than to find an inn, a passable patch of shade, or perhaps just a roof to pass out on. Lyn, however, advocated the procurement of additional supplies, with which Rionach could not reasonably disagree. With wobbly legs and tired eyes, the spearwoman plodded through the market district of the city, looking for food that would neither spoil quickly nor bankrupt her hard case. “Is this really the pace soldiers make?” she bemoaned to herself as she shuffled about. “I feel like I'm falling apart. Nobody should be able to move that fast for that long.” An alluring scent caught her eye, perking her up just a touch, and she sidled over to a stall selling miniature barrels of food. Salted pork, carrots, dried apples, honey-oat cakes, cheese and hard tack...this would do. Just to make sure, she spent a few moments looking over the selection to make sure she knew what to get, and how much.

Project Crossover [Video Game Crossover RP]

Azura
Level 2
Day 3
Location: The Land of Skyrim
Experience: |||||||||||||||||||| (4/20)
Word Count: 652

Though she did expect the more vocal individuals among the troupe to speak out against the iron-handed ruling of the Boss and his new lackey, Azura offered no support should they look to her for any. Instead, yellow eyes dull and listless, she waited in placid silence. Though they delivered their objectives with temerity, perhaps meaning to take Azura's side, they found neither ground to stand on nor any vulnerability to exploit. The Boss would not yield, and if he would not give an inch, neither would his parrot. All Vent and Piper were doing was to stack their stubborn allies' resentment against them, and Azura knew that such a thing would be far more toxic to a team than simple split opinions. No matter how the wind howls, the mountain does not bow to it. That idiom stood for the steadfastness of righteousness against its persecutors, it it applied just as well to pigheadedness standing before reason. Then again, weren't the Boss and Ruben righteous from their perspective. Azura took a deep breath. In usual form, she was overthinking this.

In her overthought, though, she managed to zone out through most of what her would-be defenders had to say. Her reprieve was broken by the scolding of the Boss, and she glanced skyward as though to ask for strength from whatever powers be in this unfamiliar world. It never occurred to him that he could be wrong. No amount of reason will break through that armor. Wordless, she followed along with the group, using her lance as a walking stick. The distance to Ulfric's camp was short, and upon arrival, that commander informed the team that they would be spending the night before making an offensive the next day. She narrowed her eyes at the man's certainty that no assault would come under the cover of night—did powerful entities of metal and energy, like the golems raised by mages in her world, really have anything to fear from nocturnal wildlife? Reasoning that Ulfric would know far better than her, she nodded and followed him across the fort's interior. Her gaze grew baleful when the Boss questioned sleeping arrangements; his unnerving smile was not, she didn't, a product of fascination with a male medic, a sexless artifice, or whatever exactly Vent was, though with a shiver she wondered whether or not such a desire would be past the man. The moment she entered the big tent and glimpsed the markings on the floor, she realized that she was to be part of a strategy meeting. Never before had she participated in one, but as a person of nominal royalty she bore witness to a fair few while in both Hoshido and Nohr. She perked up just a touch as she realized that she might be of good help.

When the map unfurled, her catlike eyes grew bright, and they pored over every detail of the city Markarth. Nonstandard layout, multiple levels of elevation, many angles of approach. Where uniformity fails, opportunity rises. Around her, the others began to talk, but she kept the gears in her head turning. So focused was she on trying to think up a perfect stratagem that she jumped in fright when the Boss sneezed. Suppressing her intense dislike, she listened to his makeshift plan, and noted that it seemed too solid for him to have come up with on his own. The question at the end of his declaration, no doubt rhetorical, almost choked a laugh out of her. As if any criticism of that plan would be heeded.

”I can do that. If this 'Chill Penguin' employs ice magic, or its approximate, I am fairly resistant.” She pointed a gloved index finger toward the map, indicating a squiggle at Markarth's southern edge. ”Additionally, if we can coax his entourage near that river, or into a snowy area, I'll be able to help out a great deal.”

The Crucible - Winner Take All

Knight Sylvestre vs the Cereal Killer – Round 1

In quick succession, looks of anger and annoyance overtook Cyril's features. Though still bearing his weapon at the ready, he ceased his threatening circumnavigation for a moment to narrow his eyes and think. His tense nerves stood ready to spring into action at any moment, but if he guessed right the good captain would not attempt a preemptive strike, lest he dissolve any chance at the mutual sportsmanship his request for single combat required. He glanced at Juniper, whose knowing look and matching smirk told him she realized it too. It was the martial artist who spoke first. “He's a clever one, huh? A ploy to make you choose between sacrificing honor and sacrificing a good shot at victory. Or maybe he has really gotten to think highly of you over these thirty-something seconds. I wonder what you're thinking?”

Cyril did not allow his gaze to deviate any further, so his reply came as though he were speaking through his potential opposition. “Like you, I'm remembering what I said in that market. I guess that means you know what I'm thinking.” Beneath his dark mustache, his lips curled into the slightest of wry smiles as he met Runch's eyes. This time, he addressed the pirate. “A knight's honor is for storybooks, but a long time ago, that was what I dreamed of. Maybe that's why I didn't throw it away before, and I won't become a hypocrite by throwing it away now.” Idly, he windmilled the point of his halberd around in a little circle. “Forgive me if I don't throw down my gauntlet, but it looks as though we're going to be having a duel.”

For once, the pirate did not burst into pleased laughter, but instead returned a smile of his own from beneath his prominent whiskers—a grin as pure and full-bodied as a bowl of whole wheat flakes. “That's good to hear, Sir Boniface. When this is over, I hope I'll be able to treat you a bowl of my best.”

The vanguard's eyebrows narrowed. “Excuse me?”

A single, scarred arm waved in the air. “Hey, what about us?” Juniper questioned, flicking her index finger between herself and Erina.

Cyril shrugged as he rolled his neck and prepared his stance. “Whatever you like, just keep her from interfering. Maybe you'd like a nice chat.” With his off hand he flicked his visor down, covering his face as the mask of metal slotted into place. “Or a good brawl, your own one-on-one.”

Adjusting his spoonsaber and still determined to let his opponent make the first move, Runch bristled. ”Omnom...not quite what I had in mind. Am I wanting for an 'en guarde', sir?”

“Don't bother.” A brilliant light occluded Cyril as he shot forward, fast as a fired cannonball. Adrenaline tore through Runch's veins, allowing him to swing his shining weapon with enough force to crack a mast and meet the dark steel of Cyril's horizontal strike in a deafening keeng! The clashing weapons slid a few inches across one another as the two men tested their strength, each pushing with everything they cared to spare. The spoonsaber's serrated edge caught and grated against the halberd's smooth one, sending painful vibrations into the vanguard's hands just like a flamberge would. Cyril recognized the situation, but his helmet betrayed no disquiet. From beneath it, in a low tone, came the words, “I'm ready any time.”

Pivoting to the side, Cyril relented wholesale, allowing Runch's push to proceed and force both weapons by him. As he pivoted, Cyril span around to deliver an armored shoulder check into the pirate's body. Barely phased by a blow that would have stunned if not cracked a lesser man, Runch retracted his arm to the left as he stepped back and came about in a sideswipe. Cyril brought up his halberd's hilt to deflect the spoonsaber's oversized head before throwing out the butt of that shaft as a jab for to the diaphram. A downward slap from the spoon rendered that blow harmless, given the short distance it had to start moving, and the next moment it lashed out in an overhead swipe. Rather than attempt to block with his halberd again, Cyril twisted his upper body to let the shield on his left upper arm take the hit. A split second passed, both mustached men's eyes locked together again, before Cyril activated his Sheen once again to blast straight forward in a shield charge that bowled Runch over and left him lying on his back. Having passed overhead, the vanguard spun about as he slid to a stop, kicking up a bit of dust. Nary a scratch worse for wear, Runch rolled to his feet, chuckling, and the fighters faced one another about fifteen feet apart.

”That's no small skill with a polearm, even in close quarters. But now the table's set, allow me to serve the first dish, omnomnom!” In a flash, his pistol was raised and cocked. ”Bori Bori Cracklepop: Mush Mellow Recipe!”

-=-=-

Having relaxed her stance once it became clear she would not have to fight -at least for the moment- Erine watched with inquisitive eyes the brief but furious melee exchange between her friend and the morose knight. At the point where Runch unveiled his Devil Fruit powers, however, she was obliged to return her focus to the other woman, who know approached. Every instinct told the young kitsune to be on her guard, for Juniper -from her missing arm and countless scars to her bold swagger and brusque smile- cut an imposing figure.

“So, you're a shrine maiden, too?” The martial artist questioned, taking a closer -and rather judgmental- look at Erina's clothing. After a moment, she gave a light snort. “Or some sort of spiritualist. I can sense the kami swirling around you. One in particular...though, there is nothing divine about it. A very...dark...soul.” Had she two arms, Juniper might have crossed them, but instead she placed her hand on her bare hip. “Would you like me to remove it for you?”

For a moment, the glib girl was taken aback. “A-as if! I'll have you know this soul is the Remnant of Emperor, an ancient sovereign chosen by the gods themselves, summoned to this plane by yours truly!” She turned up her nose, scoffing. “If you find yourself unable to detect a whiff of the divine about it, you must be a very poor shaman! And remove him? Ohoho! You're quite the dreamer, my friend!”

A moment of silence -save the ringing of weapons and attack-calling in the background- passed before Juniper gave a laugh. “Heheh. A liar and a chuuni. So much for a nice chat.” She pretended to wipe a tear of laughter from her eye. “Don't worry, missie, I know my trade. I'll have that ghost out of you before you know it.” Placing her fist against her head, she cracked her knuckle and assumed a fighting stance. “I should warn you it's a tricky ritual. If you resist, the results could be...painful.”

Erina jumped, the back of her cloak flicking back and forth. “Hold on, you're not wanting to fight, are you? We really don't need to.” She held her hands up in placation, though by remarkable coincidence her right managed to end up a few inches from the hilt of her katana.

The dark eyes of Juniper missed nothing. Giving a derisive smile, she relied, “Well, I can't just let some evil spirit linger, can I? Besides, I've been itching to beat the tar out of something. Pent-up frustration, perhaps. Keeping all that inside is unhealthy, don't you think?”

Erina's hand closed around her blade's hilt. She closed her eyes as she drew it, and as the shrine maiden watched the decimated blade reconstituted itself, becoming razor sharp and attaining a mirror sheen as though time had been turned back to an era long ago. When Erina opened her eyes, they held a strange sort of depth, and an visage knowing, cold, and keen. “Far more healthy than picking a fight with me. You're not tearing us apart.”

“Ah, there you are. Aren't you the scary one.” After a moment of perusing Erina's eyes, Juniper let hers dance across the blade. “That's a nice sword.” She held out her hand, and a shimmer of light appeared. It took on the exact shape of Bend's katana, and Juniper rested it on her shoulder. “Show me what it can do, spirit.” The clash inevitable, Erina replied with a grim frown and stepped forward. Sparks flew as steel bit into solid magic, and the second one-on-one began.

-=-=-

The moment Cyril felt the spread blast of gooey white hit his shield and armor, he regretted not using Sheen to boost out of the way. They didn't hit hard, for they were slow, but they were heavy--heavy enough to weigh the vanguard down once they stuck like barnacles to his metal gear. A quick initial test of moving limbs confirmed that he was officially impeded until he could spend some time to pry the sticky stuff off, which would of course leave him wide open to attack. Cyril gave a sigh with a roll of his eyes, though his exasperation did not extend into anger since, even if it were bothersome, it was a learning experience. This pirate was a matter manipulator -or at least, matter creator- and, more importantly, he called his attacks. He did it in a manner as hammy as it was cheesy, with a total lack of self-awareness that led Cyril to assume such a thing was convention where he came from.

The next moment Cyril wondered why his foe didn't seem to be capitalizing on his debilitation, but Runch appeared to be laughing. “Omnomnomnom! One of my newer recipes, a sweet treat for kids, but I'll wager it leaves a sour taste in the mouth of an armored individual like you, sir.” He clicked his tongue as Cyril charged forward, noting that it took a bit more effort for him to close the distance. With a flourish of his spoonblade he stepped forward, chopping with the girthiest portion of its metal length at Cyril's unprotected right shoulder.

Without much in the way of an overdraw on strength, Cyril parted ways with the ground, bringing up his back leg as a counterbalance before lashing out with his front in a snap kick. His armored shoe popped the spoonblade upward and, loathe to release his precious weapon, the captain held fast his grip and leveraged his strength to stall the spoonblade and reverse its flight. Before that could be accomplished, Cyril's halberd had already been driven in a shallow thrust into Runch's ribs. Without much room to start moving, it did not do much but snag in his snazzy waistcoat, but the followup push delivered enough push to force him back, puncturing the skin in the most cursory manner, though a less durable man would have had to rely on his ribs catching the steel before it hit his lung.

Surprised, but filled with new vigor, Runch changed plans. His attempt to return his spoonblade to normal position seamlessly transformed into an overhead strike, with enough weight behind the edge to put a real dent in his foe's caplike helmet. The vanguard, however, witnessed and reacted. Already withdrawing his weapon after the thrust, Cyril twisted its shaft counterclockwise, not just to catch the spoonblade but to strike it. The impact helped kickstart Cyril swiveling the glaive in the opposite direction, and in the span of another instant Runch took a blow across his other side's ribs from the flat of the axeblade. Though Runch already had an inkling, the brief exchange cemented one fact in the pirate's mind: this man knew better than he the art of armed combat.

With nowhere to go but a paradigm shift, Runch threw caution to the wind and tried, in the spirit of a desperate boxer's haymaker, a diagonal crushing blow. His weapon met nothing but air as Cyril swept through with his clockwise motion to bring his left leg around into a side chamber before extended a straight kick to the gut. The air blown from his lungs, even if for just a moment, Runch stumbled backward. He decided to go with it and threw himself in a backward flip to gain distance, shouting as he did, “Bori Bori Pillar!”

Cyril watched as his foe ascended skyward atop a tower of tightly-packed cereal that surged into shape from his hands. Runch's face, although still one of unworried enjoyment, betrayed a bit of bemusement. For the moment up until the pirate's mounting altitude rendered his peepers inscrutable, the vanguard felt sure that Runch was staring not at his eyes but above and to the left of them—at the screw in his head. It was a look that gave the vague suggestion of its that powerful?. In an instant Cyril's mind was ablaze. Does he know about the screw? ...He could have asked the handler about his next opponent's equipment, maybe. If he's wondering if I'm beating him in close quarters because of its effect, he's in trouble. Two brief but furious exchanges had drilled the same conclusion into Cyril as it had his foe: though Runch was by no means a slouch with his unconventional weapon, Cyril's formal training, constant practice, and aggressively practical style gave him a substantial edge in melee combat. With that in mind, there was but one conceivable road to take.

I'll just have to keep him from getting in, then. Since he has no method of ranged attack, I can batter him from afar until he tires out.

He's going to start relying on those strange, food-related powers. Unless I can figure them out quickly, he'll wear me down until I'm out of juice.

Through the cross-shaped slit in his helmet Cyril stared up at Runch atop his pillar, yanking a marshmellow off his arm to deposit on the pillar's receptive surface. With a certain theatricality Runch stabbed his spoonblade into the cereal by his feet, then held out both hands, wiggling the fingers. In reply, perhaps even taking his opponent's overracting for granted or just wanting to get on with it, Cyril reached up to start adjusting his screw. A twinge of annoyance quivered the pirate's mustache, prompting him to call, “Bori Bori Grapeshot!”

In an instant, a deluge of rock-hard spheres fell upon Cyril. The first few clattered against his armor, leaving dents where its curvature allowed them to, and they prompted the vanguard to growl as he crouched and raised his shield. Despite their small size, the pellets hurt. The man might have just as well been commanding a brigade of superhuman slingers to pelt him with stones. After a moment the first volley ended, but a second followed on its proverbial heels, convincing Cyril that he could not stand and take it. With an angry grunt he stepped forward and swung his halberd in a great cleave, lodging it several inches deep in the cereal column, where it came to an abrupt stop. A tremendous heave pried it out, accompanied by a spray of cereal, but Runch had already stepped toward his perch's edge to stretch his palm out toward the knight once again.

This time Cyril dodged the grapeshot with the aid of a short boost. Putting his poleaxe to a woodsman's mundane purposes, he rounded the tower until he could make the weapon bite into another side with a second swing, and once again he barely managed to twitch out of the way in time to avoid another brutal barrage of breakfast. By this time Runch knew both what his foe was up to and what he could do in lieu of his less-effective grapeshot. From above, Cyril heard the captain cry, “Bori Bori Firehose!” and he looked up in time to see an entire stream of pellets barreling down on him. With wide eyes he attempted to finish his readied chop -the last needed to send Runch hurtling down from his high horse- but before his halberd could cut deep enough the cascade hit him. It bowled him over, battering every inch of his body with its constant bombardment, until it finally rolled him out of effective range. More bruised than a seaman's anti-scurvy fruit supply, he brought himself to his feet about twenty feet from the tower in time to hear Runch announce, “Hellberry Blast!”

Cyril raised his shield to block, but his enemy's shot was not aimed at his shield. The rough orb burst apart against the ground between Cyril's feet. In the next split second, dragged on into what seemed like forever thanks to his adrenaline, the vanguard could see all too clearly the plume of flame unfurling beneath him.

“Gaaaaaaagh!” The explosion blew Cyril off his feet, throwing his smoking form up and back. He landed heavily on his side, burned as well as bruised, and only found the strength to starting dragging himself up into a stooped stance after a full second had passed. When he looked up, he saw the tower teetering, and thought with a grim smile that for all the pain he felt his mission had been a success. Then he noticed the smile on Runch's face, and that the cereal pillar teetered toward him.

Gritting his teeth, Cyril dove sideways, and the pillar crashed onto the cobblestone where he'd struggled seconds before. A still bitterer frown took hold of the vanguard as he noticed that Runch did not appear to have fallen with it. When he glanced the way from which the tower toppled, he spotted the pirate atop a second emplacement, newly arisen mere inches to the left of the base of the old. The sight, one of frustrating futility, caused Cyril's grip on his weapon to tighten as he stared up at the pirate's grin.

Even though I'm the better fighter, this is going to be hard. The hardest I've ever faced. He swung his glaive around into a ready position, and began to move.

Fire Emblem: The Eternal War [ENDED]

Rionach

---

Like lightning through a stormy sky, a jolt of energy surged through Rionach as she jumped into action alongside her new comrades-in-arms. Together the group burst onto the scene with the cohesive confidence of a planned assault, taking the bandit squad by surprise. A smattering of Thunder covered their approach, adding literal shock value to the ambush as Keerin kept her foes from forming up to deal with the new threat. The pair of swordsmen converged on the fearsome bandit leader, their killing strokes caught on the bruiser's axe, but after that Rionach could spare no focus. She bolted the final few meters to send a reckless lunge attack at the trio of ruffians still antagonizing the lone woman. While her speartip met only air, the vagabonds ducked backward to avoid a thrust that would have pierced clean through their light hide gear.

Rionach assumed a defensive stance by the woman's side, trusting that she would not, out of some violent pride or insane reflex, lash out at her, too. With a second to spare, and the concept of formal introductions tellingly removed from anything that might occur to her just now, she thought nothing of answering the startled query that confronted her. “Rionach.” While these bandits still outnumbered their opposition, uncertainty clouded the malicious glimmer in their eyes. They could tell from a glance at the new arrivals' clothing and equipment that these people were out of their league. Their trepidation encouraged Rionach even more than her new acquaintance's assurance of a joint battle. “No sweat!” The spearwoman exclaimed in her cockiest tone. “We'll sweep away this rubbish in no time flat.”

Hopping up, she executed another thrust, this one midair. The goon on the receiving end, with a doubtful face that suggested an in-progress review of his fight-or-flight instinct, jumped back again to avoid a possible skewering. His companion, more hot-blooded, assumed and opening and lunged for Rionach. Before he could close the distance, a steely gleam flashed through the air, and blood spurted from a carved wound across his ribs. The swordswoman nodded in approval as she slid to a halt on the dust road, her swift strike having moved her behind the thug she attacked. Pain and distraction split the victim's focus, but Rionach would not have even needed them to slide her spearpoint into his exposed belly and, lest an enemy capitalize on her weapon's occupation, yank it out again. Bleeding and in great pain, the man collapsed, leaving two allies left. Now surrounded on two out of three sides, and taken aback by the swiftness with which his aggressive friend had been dispatched, the dodgy bandit broke and ran. Before his ally could turn to follow, the two other women struck her as one, with the plains girl slicing her hamstring and the highlander delivering a whack across the chest. The female bandit dropped with a gurgled oath, and with enemies left both Rionach and the swordswoman turned to join the rest.

Jarde, Merilia, and Keerin had already slain a few of the bandits, and two more fighters closing in from the other side cinched the slaughter. Upon arrival Rionach jabbed one axe-wielding goon in the back, and another barely turned around in time to intercept the green-haired girl's blade with his own. Maneuvering the locked blades to the side, the woman introduced her knee to the highwayman's groin, then cut him across the face as he fell. Meanwhile, Rionach used her spearbutt to trip the impaled bandit and send him sprawling and bloody to the ground, never to rise again.

The quick, decisive fight left only a couple mooks left alongside their leader. Even if Batta's brute strength and wild cunning bought him some time against the swordmasters that faced him, he would be surrounded in just a few seconds. Rionach grinned, despite the grim necessity of death. At least this rather brutal skirmish would be over soon.

The Crucible - Winner Take All

Knight Sylvestre and the Cereal Killer

Location: Oldtown Plaza
@Propro

A pointed look of suppressed rage greeted the Cereal Killer's laughter, and it only intensified as the man seated himself. Perhaps stunned by the sheer boldness of the display, Cyril held his tongue until Runch finished speaking. Instead of moving to attack, however, the vanguard stamped his polearm's butt into the ground and ignored the most recent question to give his own two cents. “You're a cocky one, huh? It takes balls to whip out a book in your enemies' faces, and to drop your guard like that.” Though she said nothing, Juniper's killer glare echoes his sentiments. “Since it utterly doesn't matter, I might as well tell you we were attacked,” Cyril continued. “But it's all just sewage circling the drain. You spit in my face, then talk nonsense. Of course I'm convicted enough. We both are. We're standing here, aren't we?” He snorted, then in dry humor corrected, “Well, one one of us is. Point is, even if it isn't worth it, even if we're in the wrong and this Crucible makes monsters out of us, we're not going to stop. That's why we were chosen, isn't it?”

With the hand of the arm to which his shield was attached, he reached back up to resume adjusting the screw. “Though you're pretty rude, not to mention hypocritical,” Cyril drawled, “I can see you're a half-decent fellow. I'll try not to kill you.”

Juniper winced. “Don't let that fool you into thinking he'll take it easy.” She gestured to her legs without taking her eyes off her soon-to-be opponent. Her face held a cold smirk. “Eugh...I almost feel sorry for you. Against us.”

As one, the pair split apart. Cyril circled right and Juniper circled left. Their coordination belied preparation and planning, though Runch could only guess how long. The two gave him a wide berth, and while combat-ready, did not make an initial move to attack. Silence reigned, interrupted only by the wind and the muted tick-tick-tick of the vanguard turning his screw, restlessly working at it to try and make it feel right once again.

“Whenever you're ready, pirate,” Knight Sylvestre spoke after a moment. “Stand, and deliver.”

Inari

Location: Deadbeat Sky
@Kapuchu

Stepping into the dining hall, especially after crossing the vast atrium, made for quite the transition.

In contrast to the spacious, cathedral-esque design of the rooms and even hallways seen thus far, the dining room would not have looked out of place as a mess hall in the average fortress. Of course, the dark wood of the table was immaculate, its polished surface given a luster by the radiant sconce crystals, and every other furnishing appeared to be of comparable quality, but by far this place stood out as the most ordinary and homey of the chambers in Deadbeat Sky.

At the far end of the hall, the rectangular table splayed out into a bell shape, and eight distinctive seats marked its long, curved edge. Of the lot, only one was occupied: the second to the left. Carreau himself sat there, his helmet nowhere to be seen, paused to watch Lily and Brucie come in. Before him sat a plain china dish laden with stew, as well as a goblet full of water. Verrine, the only other being in the room prior to the entrance of Lily's group, sat a short distance away along the side of the bell. Between the owl and the slime, an intricate tureen lay with its lid removed and set aside, a ladle peering from the top.

“Ah, there you are. That didn't take long at all.” Carreau's golden eyes fell upon Brucie's new armament. “Just as I'd expect from our prized artificer.” His gaze turned wistful as he glance to his side, focusing on the second-to-right chair. “I'm sure Highroller would be proud, were he here, and had he cared more for his 'children.'”

Caught with a spoon in her mouth, Verrine took pains to extricate it stealthily and sneak it back onto the napkin beside her dish. She looked Lily's way and waved. “Hiya! Come on over. Stew's great!”

Carreau clasped his hands together. “It is a breach of etiquette from a lord, but I'm afraid that we have no servants to attend to menial tasks like setting places or serving food. I was going to do it myself, but Verrine here insisted that she do it--that it would be an honor”

He glanced at the slime woman, who struck up a vigorous nodding, her face comically serious. “Of course! To have a Great One doling out plates and ladling stew? It's unconscionable!”

Shaking his head, Carreau addressed Lily and Brucie. “Perhaps because I am her creator, she refuses to listen to me when I suggest that I am unworthy of such lavishness. Humility is a virtue I must come to better terms with, after all...”

Stuck in the logical conundrum of wanting to heed her creator's wishes and wanting to treat him with proper respect, Verrine said nothing, and decided to go for another mouthful of food instead. The moment the meat, potato, and vegetable entered her system, it dissolved into nonexistence. Carreau meanwhile, indicated with a hand that Lily and Brucie should sit. The places prepared for them lay at Verrine's left side, placing them approximately across from their host.

The Murder

Location: Street Mall
@Propro

Having watched with eager eyes Samuel's fingers descending toward his pocket, only to be stymied, the merchant affixed him with an annoyed glance. Before the Murder even finished his question, the ugly man was waving his hands in placation, as though trying to brush aside the interruption. “Yes, yes, tournament competitors. Who else do you expect? Nobodies from the College? Hah. Except for splinter group, they are uninteresting, unmotivated. I care about people with a goal: something that they must do, that the whole nature revolves around. Like you! Interesting, understandable, motivated. People like that, I can help.” A wide, ghoulish grin had overtaken the vendor, who'd crossed his arms. “So! Will you let me take it off your hands, or not?”

The Three Realms War [A DMC, Bayonetta and Darksiders RP]

If breaking into Regalia Arms was this easy, Souta concluded, he ought to have his dear dad get the occult wing busy with anti-teleportation measures.

A wave of nostalgia had hit the moment he stepped through the watcher's shadowy threshold and clapped the heel of he shoe upon the immaculate floor. Same old sound. A strange thing to remember, but something even the horrors of recent days couldn't make him forget. In this building, the smith remembered, all one had to do to see himself was take a quick look downward and peer into his reflection in the polished metal below. Sterling—just like the company's reputation, and the quality of its products. They were, after all, the reason why he was here.

“So, this is where some of the Earth's greatest humans work.” Not far away, Souta's escort ran her wispy, pitch-black talons across the intricately-wrought, gleaming chrome surface of a piece of equipment. Having appeared inside a laboratory in the research wing, a whole host of ingenious devices lay scattered around, along with various scraps of material being tested or deconstructed. Here, Souta knew, the components of the company's famous weapons were tested for quality, and various items taken from the field came under intense examination for the sake of understanding and perhaps incorporating them. For humans, the trinity of realities was a brave new world, and every chance encounter brought never-before-seen elements to their attention that all bore scrutiny. Souta likened it to the movies where humans reverse-engineered the technology of aliens, and for humanity's sake he hoped that Regalia was making similar progress.

He watched, frowning, as the watcher fiddled with a microscope, peering through it one eye after another at the empty slide that lay beneath. “There's nothing there to see. All samples are packed away at the end of each day. Professional standards.”

”Aww.” Bending over backward like a serpent, the specter oozed over a table of tools, knocking things over until she reached the edge, whereupon she slid up against the window to the hallway. Face pressed against the glass, she stared out at the well-lit corridor. ”It's soooo....clean! Organized! But also fancy. Not ostentatious like the stuff in Paradiso, but still making a statement. Like, 'look how efficient we humans are! We'll beat the demons with out protocols and growth rates! No angel will penetrate this bureaucracy!” Souta sighed. He did not trust the watcher, even if she seemed a good deal less purely malicious than the average specimen, as demonstrated by the day she brought him and Kyle to the Council. What choice did he have, though? As she tittered with laughter, Souta walked past and through the door to her left. It snapped shut on its own, forcing the watcher to give as close to a pouty look as her inhuman features could manage before phasing through the glass.

The smith glanced one way and then the other, searching for an indicator that would lead to his goal. “That would be the weapons, actually. Now, if you warped us right, my room is on this floor...” His questing finger turned to the right. “That way.” Sliding his hands into his pockets, he set off at a brisk pace. As familiar as this building was to him, he knew that he should not be here. Those who didn't think that he was dead could very well assume him to be a traitor, so keeping a low profile was quintessential.

Unfortunately, his companion did not share the sentiment. She floated lazily behind him, keeping up with his power-walk even while pausing to gawk at every interesting office and elaborate display piece along the way. ”Woow!” she remarked, her ethereal voice sporting a tone somewhere between intrigued and patronizing. “If the public space is this neat, I can hardly wait to see the shinies!” Her eyes narrowed as they fell upon Souta, who'd stopped to punch a number into a door's keypad. ”You aren't forgetting, are you? Whatever treasure catches my eye. Eyes. That's why we're here, not so you can rummage around. You ought to be grateful I agreed to this little trip in the first place!” She rested her head in a claw as a flat beep sounded from the keypad, causing Souta to grunt in frustration and try again. ”'Course, it would've been tough to say no. Nobody takes the time to think about us watchers want. So offerin' me a fun little shoppin' trip for a new shiny, even if you had your own angle? It's soooo sweet! Y'know, people are gonna talk. A moment of silence passed, and her eyes narrowed. ”Hey, hammerhead, you're not ignoring me, are you?”

A lighter tone sounded out, and Souta found that the door handle yielded beneath his inquiring press. He swung the door open, but before proceeding inside, turned to face the watcher. In as sincere a tone as he could muster, he said, ”Of course not. I am beyond grateful that you accepted my offer. Though I am surprised to hear that nobody has been paying you attention.” He spread his hands apart. ”You are not at all like the others. Even though fate has given you a terrible lot, you do not let it turn you bitter and miserable. You are someone who still knows how to enjoy yourself. That makes you special—makes you strong. So it is only reasonable that you should be rewarded. Your masters might not appreciate that, but I know what it is like to work a thankless job, surrounded by idiots. So I hope you like this trip.” After punctuating his speech with a little bow, he entered the room.

Behind him, the watcher clapped both hands over her face, eyes fading away. From the muffled tittering sound, Souta could tell that she was working hard to suppress laughter. Pretending not to notice, he approached his personal forge, and laid his hands on the top of the workstation. Though dust coated it from lack of use, he could still see the nicks where he'd scratched them, and the brown spatters of long-dried blood he never bothered to clean. ”Ahhh....watashino furui juujin.” After a longing pat, he took a few steps back and started maneuvering various pieces of equipment and containers of material next to the forge. He finished after just a half-minute of labor, and turned to face the watcher, who still seemed to be shaking. Souta frowned. ”What's the matter?”

”That was the cheesiest damn thing I ever heard in my whole existence. Where do you get off being such a breathtaking dork when you've failed to prevent two seals being destroyed and the world's on the road to ruin?”

Though he burned inwardly, Souta shrugged. He took a moment to think about the response he wanted to make.
”Comes with being an engineer, I suppose. As for the world: the British have a saying. 'Stiff upper lip'. Even when bombs fell on London many years ago, week after week, they did not fall to fear. Sucks that the other realms are too busy fighting to see the big picture, but it doesn't matter. Americans have a saying too, I think: 'keep on trucking.' So I will just take things as they come.” A sweeping motion with his hand covered the cluster of technology he'd amassed. ”If you don't mind, warp this stuff to my room in the Citadel. Then we can hit the Armory and find you your shiny, eh, Magpie?”

The watcher gave a wave of her hand as well, and beneath Souta's collection a darkness welled up into which the equipment sank. A moment later the portal closed, and the room lay depressingly empty. The watcher's piercing cyan eyes contained what Souta assumed to be amusement, yet try as he might he couldn't glean anything like contempt. “Magpie, huh? Save your fancy schmancies, Hammerhead. I'm just here for the loot. Soooo...” Making finger guns, she twirled them around to point toward the doorway. ”Let's boogie.”

-=-=-

The moment the gleaming door slid open, the watcher's eyes grew wide enough to become spotlights. A moment of quiet passed as Souta watched her, his hands in his pockets, until the specter whispered, ”You weren't kidding.”

Before the two lay Regalia's Armory. Clients, principally from Gilgamesh but also monster hunters, independent crusaders, military companies, and arms fanatics the world over, inevitably ended up here to take in the same view. Table after table of armaments of every shape and size extended before them, and nary an inch of wallspace existed that wasn't home to a weapons rack. Every type, color, and design imaginable was on display, from explosive meteor hammers to jet-powered spears to triple-barreled shotguns to revolving rocket launchers. Souta snickered to see his ghostly chaperon so taken aback. ”Nothing like this in the Citadel, eh? Most of these have no soul in them, so they are not quite at the level of famous Devil Arms, but each one is a masterpiece. And any one is yours.”

Too amazed at the eye-popping variety to even nod, the watcher zoomed through the room. Her claws closed around one thing after the other, and though it was doubtful she had ever would ever have to fight at all, she gave each one -even the ranged weapons- an eager swing before setting it back down. While his chaperon hooted and hollered as she whizzed around, Souta made a beeline for one spot in particular. His target's size made it easy to spot even before he homed in on it, and before long he stood in front of a special, deluxe display. ”Mountain Buster,” he breathed, and with ginger fingers he took hold of the weapon's handle to pry it off the wall. Its weight forced him to strain, but even still he could not stop appreciating it. Though not too overwhelming in the artistic sense, Souta knew that this weapon would serve him well. He'd wanted it as long as it had existed, but only now -with the world on the verge of ending at all- did he feel at liberty to seize it for his own. It was, simply put, an enormous pickaxe with a large pile bunker instead of a head. Unlike the watcher, he did not feel the need to test it; the short video of its demonstration on the hidden Regalia sight was ingrained in his memory.

By the time he returned to the entrance, the watcher was ready to join him. ”Find something nice, Magpie?” he joked as he examined her choice, which bade him raise his eyebrows.

”Yeah! This is one sickass piece of work! And stop calling me Magpie, you worm.” Tittering, the watcher strummed her find's strings. The discordant noise made Souta want to grind his teeth, but he managed to give a wry grin instead.

”The Acoustic Katar,” he said. ”I thought we instituted a rule against pun names. It is more like a sitar anyway; katars are push-daggers, and if one were to use that as a weapon, it would work more like a trident with the blades on the bottom like that.” He crossed his arms. ”What should I call you, then? Panoptos is the only watcher who told us his name.”

The watcher gave the sitar another strum before lowering it. Her eyes appeared dull. ”Uh. Well...”

”You know what it means, right? It's a type of black bird that collects treasure. Thought it was fitting.”

She looked annoyed. ”Of course I know what it means, stupid! Well, nevermind. That's fine, I guess. Better than nothing.”

Souta gave a light sigh. What a weird watcher. He turned and strode out the exit only to run straight into something large, hard, and invisible.

He stumbled backward, falling directly on the Mountain Buster. Magpie tittered, but fell silent as the air in front of them shimmered, and a tall, dark shape took form. When Souta looked up, he recognized the familiar silhouette of his big sister, clad in the dark augmentations that earned her the call sign Phantom.

“Dammit.”

Nestled amid silky raven-black hair and the sheer black of her cybernetic suit, Otsune's pale face stood out as ghostly beyond measure. ”Little brother,” she greeted, her voice soft. ”We are intrigued by how you managed to get in, but please rest assured that you tripped over a half-dozen silent alarms.” Her eyes flitted between him, Magpie, and their new weapons. ”And who is this?” Silent as death, Otsune circled around Souta and reached out a giant mechanical hand toward the watcher. Silent for once, the specter shifted out of reach. ”I never knew you had a way with the ladies, little brother. Everyone in the security office was touched.” An angry expression overtook the smith, even as he reddened.

The watcher, meanwhile, was fuming. Clutching her precious sitar with one hand, she pointed an accusatory talon. ”You were watching us!? That's my job, worm! Who the hell are you?! I'll wipe that smirk off your miserable face!”

A vague chuckle escaped Otsune as she returned to her full height. ”Breaking and entering, stealing, threatening an elite operative of Gilgamesh and the heiress to Regalia Arms, not to mention coming back from the dead...this will make for quite the story. Her hands opened wide and reached to snap Souta up.

Not at all compliant, Souta made an undignified retreat as he yelped, ”Kuso! Magpie, bail, bail!” In an instant the watcher threw herself around the smith, still holding on to her sitar, and the two begin to fade away into a dark portal. Otsune's fingers closed around nothing, but she looked more amused than angry. As he receded into blackness, Souta scratched his head. ”Talk later, sis. Very sorry about everything!” The next moment, he was gone, though for a brief instant before she followed him Magpie took the chance to give Otsune the finger.

-=-=-

“Dumbass Hammerhead! I thought you promised you knew how to avoid detection?

”Hey, we got out, did we not? I got my tools, you got your treasure, we all won!”

When the watcher ran her talons along the side of her head, a black mist spilled off. She swirled around in a huff, knocking over various bits and bobs in Souta's chamber. ”Easy for you to say, stupid.” she snarled. ”If the Council somehow gets wind that I took you on an unauthorized trip to earth, they'll banish me for breaching security. What good are my trinkets then?” The watcher seemed to deflate, sprawling out along the top of Souta's furnace. When her ethereal voice came again, it was a miserable whisper. ”Unlike you Agents, I'm expendable. Just another faceless slave.”

Rolling his eyes at what he was about to do, Souta shook his head. ”You are wrong. I am also expendable. Why else would they bring in a mere human, hmm?” Magpie did not move. ”Besides,” the smith continued, hesitating just a second. ”You are not expendable to me. I owe you for helping me out. If you get in trouble, I will speak on your behalf.”

An audible smack rang out as Magpie clapped her hand to her forehead. When Souta listened closely, he could hear her tittering. ”You're making a gigantic fool out of yourself, Hammerhead.” she muttered after a few moments. ”And me, too. This is ridiculous. A watcher, servant of the greatest authority in existence, taking emotional support from a stupid human.”

”I prefer 'stupid dork.'”

”Shut up.” The specter rolled over onto nothing, hanging in the air. ”Uh...thanks for the sitar, I guess. And for saying you'll vouch for me. If I get in trouble, you damn well better.” She floated toward the door, leaving behind a dark trail for the briefest of moments. Before phasing through, she glanced back at the smith, who was still standing with arms crossed. ”Now that you have your stuff, if you happen to make any shiny new weapons, let me know or something. Just so I'm not bored out of my mind. Got it?”

Smiling, Souta nodded. The watcher gave him a final glare before disappearing, and afterward the smith went and sat on his bed. That was bizarre. She always struck me as weirdly not-malevolent compared to the other watchers, but wow. If she were human, this whole episode would have actually been pretty adorable. He frowned deeply. That's...a freaky thought. Well, whatever the deal is, I have my full setup now. I can focus on making weapons to prepare for the next mission. Since I have more to do, I can take my mind off the whole business with Sevrin, Void, the seals, and so forth. At the moment, however, Souta felt too distracted for work, so for a while he lay down and mulled things over.

Project Crossover [Video Game Crossover RP]

Azura
Level 2
Day 3
Location: The Land of Skyrim
Experience: |||||||||||||||||||| (2/20)
Word Count: 568

Glad to find at least one other team member agreeable, Azura glanced at Vent in appreciation, though she did not support his choice to volunteer with a nod. If the whole group did not depart on this detour, she could not in all honesty say who should go. With so many unknowns present, hiding in every crevice between every rock and underneath the boughs of every tree, splitting up did not occur to her as a good idea. If Vent went alone, furthermore, who was to say whether or not he could satisfy the Greybeards? Azura did not understand the strange, artificial-seeming being as much as she would have liked, but in all aspects he seemed of a different bent than the magic-inclined nature of this world, or hers, for that matter.

A small jolt of surprise hit Azura when Piper suggested that she alone be the one to answer the call. Though she felt capable enough in her own abilities, the songstress did not savor her chances on a perilous climb in an unknown land. While Piper brought up some good -though rather flattering- points to support her hypothesis, Azura's doubts clung to her as close and chilling as the wintry air. Without a conclusion, she looked to those who had yet to speak for some sort of consensus.

Until now, the soldier medic had not talked much, leaving Azura no reason to steel herself for his input. After only a few sentences, however, her countenance grew steely indeed. The accusation underlying Ruben's words did not go unnoticed for a second, and both the lack of understanding and lack of perspective that those words made plain rankled her with bitterness. She knew the dismissal and contempt in his tone all too well, though never before had someone of his station used it to her face.

“A soldier, through and through.” Azura did not need to fight to keep rancor out of her tone, for there was none—only fatigue, for she'd stood atop these ramparts before. Questioning her suggestion for dealing with the call from High Hrothgar was one thing, and since the plan going forward was open to debate that posed no problem in and of itself, but Ruben was attacking her character and ability. Still, it wouldn't be worth it to try to correct him, and even if she cared to try she doubted anything would improve his impression of her. It just couldn't be helped. “Next time,” she drawled, “I shall be sure to abandon the worthless role of support and charge into enemy fire with my lance.”

Her dull look turned on he Boss next. He'd made it clear that he valued her staying alive for the sole reason that he would have to take responsibility if she died, which revealed that more than one person present thought her useless. A crushing feeling of resignation overtook her. So this is how it is. I had thought it might be different. The Boss made it abundantly clear that nobody would be deviating from the prescribed course, no matter the reason. The nastiness with which he accompanied this assertion stung her to the core. ”So be it,” she murmured, her acquiescence just loud enough to be heard over the whistling wind. Orders are orders, she mused. And what good are soldiers like us if not mindlessly following orders? Thinking on our own to solve a difficult task using different means due to changing circumstances? Foolishness. Azura felt something bubbling inside her, an energy squirming to be unleashed, but she shut it out and prepared to move.

Capes of Denver: A Worm RP

Though seldom sporting an innocent smile or optimistic eyebrow uprising, Elliot found himself dominated by an expression as grim as it was morose -and it was very morose- upon hearing the Director's announcement. Rest and recuperation awaited him, as well as his peers, for the foreseeable future, though even as one perfectly pleased to slack off this news satisfied him not. Despite his uncanny brilliance in all matters seen and unseen, Elliot would be hard-pressed to boast a mastery in psychology, but he felt that having nothing to do but study and sulk for a few days might not help the kiddies out as much as the bigwig thought it might. Some activity to lose oneself in, or some opportunity to rebuild lost confidence for the sake of redemption from this night's failure—those struck him as worthwhile pursuits. As he stood up from the table following, Elliot opted to dismiss such thoughts. Even if time alone to think about the past brought pain back to the forefront, time to heal and maybe to forget would probably be best for the others. As for him, the unflappable anti-hero, veteran of a thousand wars, a recon mission with a shower sounded nice. A final glance, its striking recipe a bold mix of curiosity and rebuke, flew Lillian's way as the wounded Wards made their collective, lugubrious escape from the conference room. It told her, Whatever do you mean? There was never...any doubt in my mind. His movement robotic, Elliot wandered the halls until he found his destination in the Wards' quarters, stopping only to hurl his overcoat into his 'junk room' and listened to the now-enlarged items bang around. Before he knew it, his clothes were but a fleeting memory, and he stood beneath the looming nozzle with a hand on the smooth, cold handle.

Thirty minutes passed under the scalding cascade. As the steam billowed around him, and at a snail's pace he scrubbed himself with a bar of soap, his thoughts ranged far beyond the narrow confines of his stall. It sauntered across the isthmus that divided the vast, unfathomably deep, and worryingly similar-looking seas of good and evil. It meandered down forgotten yet familiar streets, peering in on images that still made a remote corner of its owner's darkness still darker. It wondered, and conjectured, at how people from another life might be living, if they still lived. Before too long the heavy yet distant images, weighing on him like the glinting eyes of a predator hundreds of feet behind on the savannah, all faded away into a haze. The hot water lulled Elliot into a sluggish, waking sleep—a gentle oblivion, no substitute for the real thing, but still altogether nice.

Eventually, he thought to glance at his digits, which by then had assumed the likeness of raisins in texture if not hue. Eyes still half-closed, Elliot cut off the embracing deluge and pulled on briefs, shorts, and a t-shirt. From there it wasn't long at all until he arrived at the place where he belonged, the only place he had to go: his room.

There, he drifted away in no time flat.

Fire Emblem: The Eternal War [ENDED]

Rionach

---

Though to some the two weeks of travel might have passed in a flash, the whole time was agony for Rionach. Exertion she did not at all mind, of course; it was the uneventfulness of it all that drove her out of her mind. One one hand, which stood as worrisome for perhaps occupying the least important of her concerns, it represented time one-hundred-percent wasted in her tireless pursuit of edification as a hero. Any number of things could have been accomplished by Rionach of Gadanka during those fourteen interceding days. On the other side of the coin, the same held true for the world at large. While Rionach spent time traipsing across the countryside with a ruffian prince, a sellsword noble, and two color-coordinated companions, wars could very well be fought and won, kingdoms topples, and the face of the continent forever altered. Multiple times a day, Rionach wondered how in Duma's name she could hope to help prevent catastrophic violence from gripping the nations when the dogs of war had a two-week head start.

Then again, I'm just a nobody. How much could I really do? All I can hope is that some chance lay at the end of this journey.

Rather than a chance to make things right, however, the little group ran into a group of murderous cutthroats just after crossing into Sacae. Even in peacetime such curs threatened the outskirts of all nations, but if Rionach guessed right, the tidings of turmoil had emboldened vagabonds like these to seize and slaughter what they could while militaries and militias were otherwise occupied. In her own travels, Rionach most often stuck to tricky terrain that helped keep her out of bandits' purview, or escape them if she did blunder into such a band of not-so-merry men. Today, however, a conflict seemed inevitable, and not just because the fearsome bandit chief sent shivers down her spine. A pretty girl stood alone save for a standard-looking sword before the brigands, soon to be surrounded on all sides.

Jarde's whisper prompted her to weigh the odds. If Jarde was any indication, Keerin and Merilia could hold their own, and Rionach remembered Jerod being no pushover. Provided that the green-haired girl accepted the help, that made six against ten, which was doable if not ideal. For a moment she didn't pay Jerod proper attention, but once she realized that he meant business and harbored a solid plan to back it up, she riveted her focus to him and absorbed every ounce of what he had to say.

Such was her focus that she almost jumped when Sordan appeared. She brandished her spear at him but, since he gave no immediate indication of hostility other than a vaguely condescending tone, did not go so far as to assume fighting stand or point the spearhead in his direction. Even so, she did not bother to keep a suspicious frown off her face. He's been following us all this time. Don't like it. If his intentions were honest, he'd have joined us from the start. We moved slowly enough. She also didn't like how he seemed to be inserting himself in Jerod's plan. When he spoke of the girl in blue as someone of notable status, Rionach raised an eyebrow. “So we just stumbled upon some legendary swordswoman just in time to rescue her? What're the odds?” Regardless, Sordan offered nothing concrete, aside from the tenuous promise of an additional unit in the little group's ranks. Rionach shrugged. “Well, seven skilled warriors against ten thugs shouldn't be an issue. A walk in the park next to Terrors.” She gave a smirk before glancing at Jerod. “Sounds like you know what you're doing. Left flank it is.” Now excited, she addressed Jarde next. “So, considering my weapon, when we get in there I'll support the fool while you watch ass.” She blinked twice, her eyebrows furrowing. “Merilia's. In combat, I mean. Like...Jerod said.” A brief bur accusatory look flew the noble sellsword's way, as if he was to blame for her turn of phrase. Otherwise, the Valentian was combat-ready.