Octo

Fate/Illuminate Histoire

Lucia's eyes glimmered as she examined the two outfits Nero had made. Both seemed to have impeccable craftsmanship, and they were prepared so quickly! The focaccia was still warm, and they already had their disguises. At least, Lucia assumed. They probably had some sort of glamor on them that allowed them to pass for different people. She had no idea how it worked, but Nero's proud face left Lucia with little doubt that it would.

"Oh... they're beautiful, Lucia," Lucia chirped, an adoring smile on her face, "you certainly are talented."

Lucia softly traced her finger across the luxurious fabric, down the perfect seams, simply admiring the handiwork. It was important that Nero knew how appreciative she was, after all. She may have had no idea why Nero chose these outfits in particular, but far be it from her to question an artist.

"I should get you to make me a really nice habit. Well... since you made them, which would you like? I would be happy in either."

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gertrude quickly let go once she realized she was actually capable of hurting Tyaethe. Apparently assuming the woman was always borderline invincible was a mistake, and she felt a tightness in her chest. When she thought Tyaethe couldn't be hurt, she was determined to crush the woman. When that turned out not to be the case...

Gertrude glanced down at Tyaethe, taking note of how small she was. She ran her thumb gently across the back of the woman's hand, and muttered an apology.

"S-sorry, Yaya."

As reluctant as Gertrude was to insert herself into the situation, it was obvious that Tyaethe needed help managing all these people. Gertrude's social skills were awful, but she could fake them well enough. Maybe helping would alleviate some of whatever was going on inside her chest, whatever that bloody was.

Gertrude took a seat near the princesses and smiled.

"Wouldn't it be a bit unfair if Yaya took part?" Gertrude addressed Maletha, reaching out to pat the girl's head, "what's a tournament if you know who's going to win?"

The younger princess quickly hid behind her sister before Gertrude got too close, and the mage's cheeks colored.

This was not starting off well.

"U-um! Well. Uh... I was with the knights during their last adventure. Would either of you like to hear about it?"

Gretchen looked on as Gertrude floundered, but there was no way her getting in on this would help anyone, much less herself. She chose, instead, to remain near Tyaethe, who she began patting affectionately. There was none of Gertrude's usual snide bullying in the patting, she was purely trying to connect.

"So... you're here for Haizea?"

Gretchen's eyes flickered to the excited Hundi and back.

"Can I, um... help at all, Yaya?"

Gretchen smiled innocently.

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

Hrefna smiled lazily as she approached the Guild, black heels clacking against cobblestone while blood seeped into the cracks between. If eyes weren't on the short Ingvarr woman, they certainly were on the three Orc heads dangling from her fingers. The Three Brothers swung gently from their long black hair as Hrefna strode, unbothered, through the guild doors.

The triplets had been making trouble at a bridge nearby, their numbers and tactics too perilous for a beginner but not serious enough for a veteran. While the lower-ranks waffled trying to get a group together, Hrefna simply went out and took care of the thing. Each head being taken by another brother's axe was quite poetic, and would make for an excellent story, but it was purely efficient.

For Hrefna, bringing back recognizable proof was one of the more difficult parts of the job.

As she approached the counter with a bloody missive crumpled between a mass of craniums, her eyes caught a lone child on her tiptoes awkwardly swerving around the sweaty mass that surrounded the board. She chuckled as she approached.

"Worry not, small child. They will disperse when easy jobs all taken," she spoke in a very distinctly Barukstaedian accent, "unless... you want easy job, tiny one? Your polite words will never reach them. If you want, you must take. If you do not have the strength to push to front of line, you are too weak even for children jobs."

She let out a harsh laugh at her own joke, the heads swinging raucously from her fingertips as if the Brothers were also laughing.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gertrude swore as Tyaethe dragged her along, but at least trusted the Vampire enough not to do anything about it. Gretchen followed, less petulant and more concerned. The duo was made to take the sights in quickly, or not at all. Gertrude already knew that she wasn't participating. She wasn't a knight, and had little in the way of martial capability. Blowing up aa arena made for a very short show, after all. Gertrude just figured she would eat something while the witless dullards bashed each other's heads in.

Apparently, Tyaethe had other plans in mind. Given how the scenery evolved as they traveled, Gertrude assumed they were going to the posh section. The amount of posh, however, she couldn't have guessed. Gertrude's eyes flickered to the colors of the crown knights as Tyaethe explained almost nothing to her.

"Haaah? I don't need a bloody babysitter-" Gertrude began to complain, a weird feeling in her gut as she was pulled into a room with three very distinctive blondes. She quickly quieted herself as Tyaethe introduced them.

Yaya would pay for this later. She was still in a bloody maid uniform!

"A-ah... your highnesses. A pleasure," Gertrude said as Gretchen quickly moved to flank Tyaethe's other side, "Gertrude. A mage in association with the Iron Rose Knights."

Gertrude and Gretchen curtseyed as a pair.

"Gretchen, a researcher."

As Gertrude smiled at the occupants, her hand squeezed Tyaethe's as hard as she could muster. It wasn't much, but it was clear that if Gertrude was capable of crushing the woman's hand, she would have. As Gertrude seethed quietly, Gretchen turned to Haizea.

"Oh, you call her 'Yaya' too? You must be friends."

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

Curse Cow

• Name: Hrefna Wyrmbender
• Age: 21
• Gender: Female
• Race: Ingvarr
• Rank: Steel
• Appearance: An Ingvarr woman at the towering height of 4'9", she has long black hair and wears a low-cut black dress. Her powerful horns and red eyes complete her villainous ensemble. She has dark bags under her eyes, and looks perpetually robbed of sleep. An easy, insincere smile consistently adorns her face. Her entire body is covered in thick, dark tattoos.
• Personality: Though she plays a villain in almost every aspect, she has a kind heart deep down and has her own sense of honor that differs heavily from most Ingvarr. She’s not afraid of pragmatism to see her goals achieved, though her goals are not necessarily wicked in nature, whatever she might imply. She’s a bit of a flirt and enjoys teasing her cohorts, but when matters become serious she desires to become a strength that her allies can rely on.
• Brief Backstory: The Wyrmbender clan got their name from an incident with a dragon long ago. The beast was agile, and flew well above the blades of the Ingvarr as it terrorized Barukstaed. A brave man who had yet to earn a surname suggested a plan to the leadership of various clans that had come together to deal with the menace. It was a plan that each and every leader deemed insane, though the cost was so low and they were so desperate that they acquiesced.
  
  The brave man, Hrafn, was flung at the beast with a catapult. Making contact in midair, he grasped onto the dragon’s wing and began pulling and bending. His strength was so great that the wing snapped, and the dragon was brought to the ground where Hrafn continued fighting the beast bare-fisted until the united clans arrived at the crash site. They dispatched the monster with each and every blade that had ached for skybound flesh. For this feat, the man was bequeathed the name of “Wyrmbender” and soon formed his own clan.
  
  A couple of generations later, the Wyrmbenders joined with a renowned mercenary collective called the Vos Korvungand, under the employ of Talderia. Hrafn Wyrmbender, now an old man, wished only to die in glorious battle amongst the warriors of tomorrow. He distinguished himself once again by rending a fort gate from the stone artifice, coughing up blood as his weary body struggled under steel. He fell at that fort to a force of one-hundred blades.
  
  Generations passed, and the Wyrmbenders only gained acclaim until the Vos Korvungand collapsed along with Talderia. Most clans went their separate ways, but the bloodthirsty remained to pillage and sack whatever was left. The Wyrmbenders, unable to escape the feelings of superiority and self-importance built up over generations, joined in the pillage and slaughtered the weak. Hrafn’s sincere love of combat and adventure had, ironically, been bent after his passing. Bent into something ugly that festered under the care of the new Vos Korvungand. When the raiders went home, they used their pillage to secure power and set in motion the machine that eventually spat out the Vos Korvungand that history books tell of. Oppressive, tyrannical, and universally reviled.
  
  A regime of which the Wyrmbender clan was a pillar.
  
  The Wyrmbenders were a terror on the battlefield, but they fought with dishonor. They used dark curses to sap the strength of their foes and slaughter them when they were at their weakest. Whether this had always been a part of the Wyrmbender clan, or whether they learned it more recently from the blackguards they associated with, history books do not say. However, it brought scrutiny to the clan’s founder.
  
  Was Hrafn a combat-loving hero, or a cheating coward? Did he bind the dragon through strength and willpower, or black magic? Due to the majority of Barukstaed’s feelings on the resurrected Vos Korvungand, the legend was quickly tainted, whatever the truth might be.
  
  The Wyrmbenders were all dishonorable cowards, and their progenitor was a charlatan that only pretended to have hot blood and cold steel. The Vos Korvungand’s opposition made this into the truth to bolster morale and excuse any loss. Eventually, the tyrannical collective met their end and the remnants of the Wyrmbender clan hid away to avoid the shame of their name.
  
  When Hrefna was born over a hundred years later, she was told the old stories from a different perspective than what other Ingvarr had likely heard. According to most of Barukstaed, they were villains to the core. According to Hrefna’s parents…
  
  They had been heroes for a long time, they had been corrupted by pride and ambition, and they were rightly fought against and defeated. Their clan, over many generations, had run the entirety of a classic tragedy. Still, for their part, they were reviled and ridiculed even in the present. Hrefna liked hearing those stories, even the bad parts, because it was all a lesson in her own history. If only the other clans could see it like she saw it…
  
  Perhaps they could be heroes again.
  
  So when she got older, Hrefna set out on a journey. She traveled Barukstaed and fought monsters and bandits. She protected villages. She accepted quests and helped the people who needed it.
  
  But for all the good she did, when anyone heard her clan name or saw her magic, none of it mattered. She was a villain. She was probably only helping to manipulate the people. She probably organized the bandits herself. She could never be a hero, because she was never allowed to be a hero.
  
  Hrefna tried to fight back. She tried to say that her magic was practical. Her curses helped her punch well above her weight. The bandits and monsters she defeated, she defeated because she used those techniques to her advantage. That there was more honor in doing good than dishonor in using her magic. That there was more honor in Hrefna than dishonor in Wyrmbender. All her reasoning fell on deaf ears, over and over again. Not a single person would acknowledge her as a hero after hearing her name.
  
  All that was left was to become acknowledged as a villain.
  
  No one would listen to her if she didn’t appear to be what they thought she was. It would all be considered a trick or a ruse if she tried to be kind. The only way anyone would listen earnestly to what she said is if she played the part of their delusion. So she went around to numerous clans and challenged all of their up-and-coming warriors. Not the most powerful or experienced, but the ones that showed promise and were beloved. She would beat them down with every trick available to her, and leave them battered and bruised as she swaggered around their unconscious body.
  
  “You know what I think?”
  
  A chorus of boos.
  
  “I think your little champion is a fool.”
  
  A wall of vulgar gestures.
  
  “No, no, it’s not his fault. A genius can’t pop out of a culture of idiots. I feel bad for him. I really, really do.”
  
  Insult after insult.
  
  “I do. He’s been taught by foolish weaklings that knowing beneficial magic is for dishonorable cowards,” she shouted, pointing at their battered champion, “does THIS look like honor? Does ignorance make you feel good? EXCUSES! GET. BETTER. The majority only labels my magic as dishonorable because they’re all too lazy and stupid to learn it. That’s the truth. It’s as much a tool as your blade, only it takes cleverness and dedication to wield it that YOU. DON’T. HAVE.”
  
  They were mad. Livid, even. But they were listening for once. She was allowed to make sense.
  
  After planting that seed, Hrefna continued her journey. This time, she set out for Estival. Her family wasn’t as known there, so she would be allowed to make a name for herself. After becoming the best, she would return to Barukstaed with accolades and fame and water the seeds of doubt with adoration. Wyrmbender would be loved again, and Hrefna would become the Hrafn of a new era.
• Equipment:
  
  Various tattoos, which are either runes that increase her power or conduits for her curses. Using curses in this way makes them even more powerful, but drains her stamina. She has neither weapon nor armor, only a low-cut black dress.
• Skills:
  
  Curse Magic:
  
  -Curse of Binding: Black tendrils erupt from the tattoos on her body, lashing at and constraining opponents. The force alone can kill lesser enemies. Powerful foes may only be made sluggish.
  
  -Curse of Withering and Blooming: Can only be used on those in contact with her or one of her other curses. She saps her foe’s physical ability and temporarily adds it to her own. With this, she is able to use her foe’s own stamina to fuel her curses while growing stronger. Because this curse continually saps a percentage of her foe’s strength, it takes more energy than it gives if used on a weak enemy.
  
  -Curse of Shattering: Self-applied curse that makes it so that any weapon she uses shatters with explosive force upon impact with an enemy. This makes anything she holds into a deadly weapon, but anything she uses breaks after a single hit.
  
  -Curse of Observation: By applying this curse to a person or object within sight, she can determine their exact location at any time. The target doesn’t have to be in sight if she has seen it before and crafts a small representation of it while chanting.
  
  Runecraft: Capable of engraving runes on either skin or steel, gifting magical strength and properties. Her own body has various rune tattoos that increase her capabilities.

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

My cow, for perusal.

Curse Cow

• Name: Hrefna Wyrmbender
• Age: 21
• Gender: Female
• Race: Ingvarr
• Rank: Steel
• Appearance: An Ingvarr woman at the towering height of 4'9", she has long black hair and wears a low-cut black dress. Her powerful horns and red eyes complete her villainous ensemble. She has dark bags under her eyes, and looks perpetually robbed of sleep. An easy, insincere smile consistently adorns her face. Her entire body is covered in thick, dark tattoos.
• Personality: Though she plays a villain in almost every aspect, she has a kind heart deep down and has her own sense of honor that differs heavily from most Ingvarr. She’s not afraid of pragmatism to see her goals achieved, though her goals are not necessarily wicked in nature, whatever she might imply. She’s a bit of a flirt and enjoys teasing her cohorts, but when matters become serious she desires to become a strength that her allies can rely on.
• Brief Backstory: The Wyrmbender clan got their name from an incident with a dragon long ago. The beast was agile, and flew well above the blades of the Ingvarr as it terrorized Barukstaed. A brave man who had yet to earn a surname suggested a plan to the leadership of various clans that had come together to deal with the menace. It was a plan that each and every leader deemed insane, though the cost was so low and they were so desperate that they acquiesced.
  
  The brave man, Hrafn, was flung at the beast with a catapult. Making contact in midair, he grasped onto the dragon’s wing and began pulling and bending. His strength was so great that the wing snapped, and the dragon was brought to the ground where Hrafn continued fighting the beast bare-fisted until the united clans arrived at the crash site. They dispatched the monster with each and every blade that had ached for skybound flesh. For this feat, the man was bequeathed the name of “Wyrmbender” and soon formed his own clan.
  
  A couple of generations later, the Wyrmbenders joined with a renowned mercenary collective called the Vos Korvungand, under the employ of Talderia. Hrafn Wyrmbender, now an old man, wished only to die in glorious battle amongst the warriors of tomorrow. He distinguished himself once again by rending a fort gate from the stone artifice, coughing up blood as his weary body struggled under steel. He fell at that fort to a force of one-hundred blades.
  
  Generations passed, and the Wyrmbenders only gained acclaim until the Vos Korvungand collapsed along with Talderia. Most clans went their separate ways, but the bloodthirsty remained to pillage and sack whatever was left. The Wyrmbenders, unable to escape the feelings of superiority and self-importance built up over generations, joined in the pillage and slaughtered the weak. Hrafn’s sincere love of combat and adventure had, ironically, been bent after his passing. Bent into something ugly that festered under the care of the new Vos Korvungand. When the raiders went home, they used their pillage to secure power and set in motion the machine that eventually spat out the Vos Korvungand that history books tell of. Oppressive, tyrannical, and universally reviled.
  
  A regime of which the Wyrmbender clan was a pillar.
  
  The Wyrmbenders were a terror on the battlefield, but they fought with dishonor. They used dark curses to sap the strength of their foes and slaughter them when they were at their weakest. Whether this had always been a part of the Wyrmbender clan, or whether they learned it more recently from the blackguards they associated with, history books do not say. However, it brought scrutiny to the clan’s founder.
  
  Was Hrafn a combat-loving hero, or a cheating coward? Did he bind the dragon through strength and willpower, or black magic? Due to the majority of Barukstaed’s feelings on the resurrected Vos Korvungand, the legend was quickly tainted, whatever the truth might be.
  
  The Wyrmbenders were all dishonorable cowards, and their progenitor was a charlatan that only pretended to have hot blood and cold steel. The Vos Korvungand’s opposition made this into the truth to bolster morale and excuse any loss. Eventually, the tyrannical collective met their end and the remnants of the Wyrmbender clan hid away to avoid the shame of their name.
  
  When Hrefna was born over a hundred years later, she was told the old stories from a different perspective than what other Ingvarr had likely heard. According to most of Barukstaed, they were villains to the core. According to Hrefna’s parents…
  
  They had been heroes for a long time, they had been corrupted by pride and ambition, and they were rightly fought against and defeated. Their clan, over many generations, had run the entirety of a classic tragedy. Still, for their part, they were reviled and ridiculed even in the present. Hrefna liked hearing those stories, even the bad parts, because it was all a lesson in her own history. If only the other clans could see it like she saw it…
  
  Perhaps they could be heroes again.
  
  So when she got older, Hrefna set out on a journey. She traveled Barukstaed and fought monsters and bandits. She protected villages. She accepted quests and helped the people who needed it.
  
  But for all the good she did, when anyone heard her clan name or saw her magic, none of it mattered. She was a villain. She was probably only helping to manipulate the people. She probably organized the bandits herself. She could never be a hero, because she was never allowed to be a hero.
  
  Hrefna tried to fight back. She tried to say that her magic was practical. Her curses helped her punch well above her weight. The bandits and monsters she defeated, she defeated because she used those techniques to her advantage. That there was more honor in doing good than dishonor in using her magic. That there was more honor in Hrefna than dishonor in Wyrmbender. All her reasoning fell on deaf ears, over and over again. Not a single person would acknowledge her as a hero after hearing her name.
  
  All that was left was to become acknowledged as a villain.
  
  No one would listen to her if she didn’t appear to be what they thought she was. It would all be considered a trick or a ruse if she tried to be kind. The only way anyone would listen earnestly to what she said is if she played the part of their delusion. So she went around to numerous clans and challenged all of their up-and-coming warriors. Not the most powerful or experienced, but the ones that showed promise and were beloved. She would beat them down with every trick available to her, and leave them battered and bruised as she swaggered around their unconscious body.
  
  “You know what I think?”
  
  A chorus of boos.
  
  “I think your little champion is a fool.”
  
  A wall of vulgar gestures.
  
  “No, no, it’s not his fault. A genius can’t pop out of a culture of idiots. I feel bad for him. I really, really do.”
  
  Insult after insult.
  
  “I do. He’s been taught by foolish weaklings that knowing beneficial magic is for dishonorable cowards,” she shouted, pointing at their battered champion, “does THIS look like honor? Does ignorance make you feel good? EXCUSES! GET. BETTER. The majority only labels my magic as dishonorable because they’re all too lazy and stupid to learn it. That’s the truth. It’s as much a tool as your blade, only it takes cleverness and dedication to wield it that YOU. DON’T. HAVE.”
  
  They were mad. Livid, even. But they were listening for once. She was allowed to make sense.
  
  After planting that seed, Hrefna continued her journey. This time, she set out for Estival. Her family wasn’t as known there, so she would be allowed to make a name for herself. After becoming the best, she would return to Barukstaed with accolades and fame and water the seeds of doubt with adoration. Wyrmbender would be loved again, and Hrefna would become the Hrafn of a new era.
• Equipment:
  
  Various tattoos, which are either runes that increase her power or conduits for her curses. Using curses in this way makes them even more powerful, but drains her stamina. She has neither weapon nor armor, only a low-cut black dress.
• Skills:
  
  Curse Magic:
  
  -Curse of Binding: Black tendrils erupt from the tattoos on her body, lashing at and constraining opponents. The force alone can kill lesser enemies. Powerful foes may only be made sluggish.
  
  -Curse of Withering and Blooming: Can only be used on those in contact with her or one of her other curses. She saps her foe’s physical ability and temporarily adds it to her own. With this, she is able to use her foe’s own stamina to fuel her curses while growing stronger. Because this curse continually saps a percentage of her foe’s strength, it takes more energy than it gives if used on a weak enemy.
  
  -Curse of Shattering: Self-applied curse that makes it so that any weapon she uses shatters with explosive force upon impact with an enemy. This makes anything she holds into a deadly weapon, but anything she uses breaks after a single hit.
  
  -Curse of Observation: By applying this curse to a person or object within sight, she can determine their exact location at any time. The target doesn’t have to be in sight if she has seen it before and crafts a small representation of it while chanting.
  
  Runecraft: Capable of engraving runes on either skin or steel, gifting magical strength and properties. Her own body has various rune tattoos that increase her capabilities.

Fate/Illuminate Histoire

Lucia smiled.

"I'm so glad you enjoy the bread. I have the utmost faith that you will be able to conjure a truly stunning outfit... that won't immediately give us away," Lucia replied, piling some more bread onto a plate for the overseer. Of course, Lucia knew that she was up against six formidable magi and their even more formidable servants. She had no illusions that their ruse would last long, but long enough would suffice.

Lucia giggled as Nero, who was shorter than she was, patted her head. She had grown to expect this degree of skinship, at least, from her time with the woman. Given the situation, it was appreciated.

"Well, if you think I'm holding up well, then I must be. That's a bit of a relief," Lucia teased lightly.

---

Ludie grinned smugly, knowing full well her radiance, but appreciating the compliment all the same.

"I have no other shoes, Master, and yours do not fit me. Woe is me, for these boots do not match my new outfit at all! We shall have to purchase shoes as well," Ludie said, marching confidently out the door. She only stopped a moment to turn back to her Master and wink.

"The vaults of The Swan King are ever open for the glamorous and the novel! The world is my wallet, my audience, and my adoring fan club!"

Ludie then proceeded to bolt outside, looking to and fro and running about like an excited labrador.

"Ooh, look at that! And that! Oh, I simply must have these," she practically shouted, making a ruckus and calling an unwise amount of attention to herself. As she was ogling an apartment building, a swan swooped towards her and landed at her feet, where it deposited a huge wad of bills. She looked back at Arthur once again, held the money up, and smiled.

"Look, Arthur! Capital! Bring me to the kimonos!"

Fate/Illuminate Histoire

Ludwig stared at Arthur, eyes sparkling with adventure and excitement as her young Master awkwardly explained things to her. With gusto, she stabbed her chopsticks down into her rice bowl and stood straight up as quick as a bolt.

"Of course, Master! I wouldn't wish to use these fascinating utensils rudely! It would be unbecoming of a knight-king as beauteous as myself. I must thank you for the aid of your wisdom and the nobility of your candor!"

With this barrage of compliments, Ludwig turned on a heel and dashed into the bedroom. Shutting the door did little to mask the noise of rifling and tossing as Ludwig tried desperately to find something she liked. It was all rather plain, nothing loud or ostentatious enough for her kingly form. Still, a handsome enough knight could elevate even common garb with her presence alone. Certain in this fact, Ludwig made her grand entrance back into the living area in only a few minutes. On any other person, it would look like a simple white shirt and jeans (with a weirdly conspicuous aquamarine pendant adorning the neck), but on Ludwig the outfit practically glowed. She hit Arthur with her gleaming, fairy tale smile.

"Well, Master? I think this blouse looks rather lovely on me, don't you?"

---

"Well..."

Lucia began cutting the focaccia, smiling to herself as she thought about all the joy her delicious food would soon bring.

"I would be happy if the other Masters couldn't immediately trace the Servant they're contending with back to the church, as long as that might last. But even with your talent for theater, I don't know how feasible that is."

She plated up a few pieces of bread, and offered one to Nero. Lucia, just like the abbess at the convent she grew up in, would insist on feeding everyone that she deemed needed feeding. Which was most people, all of the time.

"I would like to believe that God is on our side, though, so I will put my faith in Him and in you. But... this is all very new to me. I'm a little anxious~"

Lucia smiled sheepishly, more like she had confessed something to a crush than admitted to anxiety for a death game.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gertrude and Renar

Midday meal. After morning training, Renar found himself without his usual luncheon companions, busy as they were with other matters. So instead, he chose a seat in the great hall at random. And by random, he meant the first target he could see that could be needled for entertainment.

”I see you’re still with our company, Lady Gertrude.” Renar deliberately took a seat next to the little witchling, piling his plate with today’s roast and vegetables.

”And here I was under the impression you wished to rid yourself of your obligation to us as soon as possible. Or did the mess cooks win you over?” Of course he knew that Gertrude’s situation wasn’t quite so simplistic. But he wouldn’t get any lunch entertainment from the truth, now would he?

Over the past few days, Gertrude had busied herself with sleeping and eating while Gretchen continued gaining mastery of the Candaeln library. This roughly evened out work and relaxation while she benefitted from doing both full-time. Gertrude, currently occupied with the ‘eating’ portion of her lazing, had heaped mounds of meat and sweets upon her plate. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like the dinner of the most spoiled child alive. She was about to dig in when Renar sat down next to her, and her eager expression immediately soured.

How does one eat when sat next to a person-shaped pile of stinking refuse?

“Ah, the scoundrel,” Gertrude sneered, “to what do I owe the displeasure? Are you really so concerned about my state of affairs?”

She pushed her plate away for the moment, and looked the man in the eyes.

“I’m here until I get what I need. You, of all people, should understand. Only you’d likely use too many bloody words to say as much.”

”Using an excess of words tends to weed out the simpletons. Which surely wouldn’t be a problem for yourself, I assume.” Renar said while buttering up a roll, one eye raised at Gertrude’s choice of luncheon.

”But of course I understand. Whether or not I care is a different matter.” He paused to carve up a slice of roast lamb, savoring the herbed meat before continuing on. ”Assume that I’ll humor your being here of your own volition rather than Merilia’s whim.” He clearly wasn’t. ”What is it that you’re looking for among knights rather than wizards? Aside from Dame Tyaethe’s hand in matrimony. I daresay half the order has seen how you leer at her.”

Gertrude scowled. The scoundrel was asking questions and making assertions, but wasn’t offering a single thing of his own. She supposed she shouldn’t have expected anything less from a dastard like him. He was obviously trying to get under her skin, but he seemed to be a natural because Gertrude already kind of wanted to smack him.

“I’ll share if you share,” she concluded finally, forcing the usual smug smile upon her lips, “what about you? Are you here for the honor? To help those who can’t help themselves? To uphold the justice of the Goddesses above?”

She decided to simply leave his assertions about her attraction to Tyaethe in the air for the moment. Likely a distraction from the meat of the conversation, or an irritant. Bait.

Not that Renar wouldn’t take her silence on the subject to mean whatever he wanted, anyway.

“My guess is titles and prestige, though that’s a thoroughly boring answer. Still, if the shoe fits.”

There came a point where it was just too easy. Not that it would necessarily stop him from (successfully) irritating Gertrude, but something of a challenge would have been appreciated.

…Oh, who was he kidding? Half the fun was how poorly she reacted to literally everything. Still, he saw no reason not to indulge her on this. It wasn’t as if his motivations were anything resembling a secret.

”Well, you’re half correct.” He allowed, pouring himself a goblet of wine. Was he just putting space between his sentences to annoy Gertrude further? Probably. ”The other half is rubbing my success thoroughly into those who impeded or doubted me. Because what’s life without enjoying a bit of schadenfreude?”

”Honestly, if someone resembling me ever states that I’m in this for a reason besides myself, kill them. Or better yet, question them as to why someone’s impersonating myself first, then execute the wretch.”

Gertrude tapped her fingers on the table as Renar took his sweet time answering. She wasn’t exactly champing at the bit for his story, but a little sodding respect for her time would have been appreciated.

The forced smile Gertrude emanated, in the middle of Renar’s telling, became genuine as Gretchen wrote ‘Renar is a horse’s arse’ in the margins of a history book in the library. A small pleasure of being able to be in two places at once.

Then, when he was done, Gertrude snorted.

“Schadenfreude? Bit petty for a knight, though you’re hardly a storybook example,” Gertrude sneered, “I don’t know who’d ever want to impersonate a bastard like you, but I’m certain I’d relish the chance to kill them. Don’t suppose I could get that in writing?”

On one hand, Gertrude was pretty sure Renar got a kick out of her insults. On the other, it did feel good to let the venom out. She’d been having too many pleasant interactions lately.

“But… a deal’s a deal. I suppose you could tally my own reasons up to schadenfreude. To teaching a lesson to someone who wronged me. My own employment will likely be a longer commitment, but over the years, I’m certain the Roses will grow more and more accommodating.”

Finally, someone who was willing to play along with some of his worse impulses. Gerard took such things too much in stride, and Fionn enjoyed his lectures. At least this one could play the game when it came to venom and spite.

”Well, I certainly can’t fault that.” Renar shrugged, entirely truthful for once. He’d be a hypocrite if he opposed such a motivation, after all. Just for that, he supposed he’d give her something more concrete. ”I doubt you’d had any reason to look into my lineage, but I’m not merely a metaphorical bastard. It’s all very literal.” A wry smirk.

”I’m told that my honored lord father’s face when he was told that his by-blow that he gave virtually no care to or for became the most prestigious knight of all his sons was something to behold. Would that I could have been there to revel in it. Really, who else would I have been referring to about schadenfreude?”

“You’re right,” Gertrude said, smirking, “I didn’t know a thing about your lineage, every other subject in the library is far more interesting.”

Gertrude, finding her appetite return somewhat, popped a tart into her mouth. She did not eat as if she had learned one whit about manners or etiquette.

“Not that you could even find me in a bloody book. Yet.”

Gertrude sighed. She hated that she was finding common ground with this snake. She was willing to bet that if hating your dad was a game, she’d have everyone else in Candaeln beat. Still, his commitment was admirable.

“Anyways, what’s the point if you can’t see the wretched bastard’s face? Next time you have something to humiliate him with, you need to deliver the news yourself,” Gertrude explained as if she would be the one doing it, “drink the codger’s horror like a fine wine.”

”Now you’re speaking my language. Certainly more preferable to the seething threats and self-aggrandizement.” Renar chortled, taking a bite of his lamb. Exquisite. His compliments to the chef, once more. Though something about Gertrude’s words had him thinking.

”I take it this person who wronged you has longer than a mortal human’s lifespan? Considering how long-lived Witches are and how long you state the time of your indenture ought to be, am I to presume your target to be a fellow of yours?”

It wasn’t as if Gertrude couldn’t see how Renar got from Point A to Point B. Had it been her, she’d probably have made the same connections, though she didn’t know that she’d have ferreted the pertinent information out quite so quickly. Her cheeks became slightly red, and her expression emulated that of a child who had gotten caught sneaking sweets before supper.

She knew that her emotions tended to betray her, and that she was as bad a liar as a secret-keeper. She spoke bluntly and candidly, and didn’t think too much about what she left in between the lines.

Obviously, Renar did.

“Well! My self-aggrandizement is entirely warranted, I assure you,” she coughed, “anyways… if it were anything less than a Witch, I wouldn’t need help, would I? Don’t go spreading it around, though, or I’ll give your father something to bloody celebrate.”

She crossed her arms and looked away.

“...But you can see why such an endeavor is a long-term project.”

How troublesome. Renar resisted the urge to make a face, instead schooling his expression while taking a sip from his goblet of wine. With any luck, this wouldn’t be an issue during the…oh, thirty-some years he had as an active knight, at best. Though with how things were going over the course of the last few months, he wouldn’t be surprised if he was forced to be involved at some point.

”I’ve no reason to gossip about your situation.” Renar shrugged. Well, not yet, anyway. He tucked away the little note of Gertrude’s embarrassment over the situation in the back of his mind, labeled under Blackmail Material. Nothing major for something like this, of course. Perhaps if he simply wanted to annoy her at some point in the future…

”In any case, I genuinely wish you good fortune with your endeavours. Far be it for me to gainsay a revenge plot in the making. Make it worth the Rose’s time to aid you, and I may even be ordered to lend my blade when the time comes. Assuming that I’m both still a member and not decrepit by then, of course.”

Gertrude could already tell that Renar was definitely going to hold this over her head at some point. It was the nature of a scoundrel, after all. She doubted, however, that it would go un-telegraphed given the man’s penchant for schadenfreude. In a way, it was a small relief.

“Oh? I don’t suppose you’re looking forward to lending your blade to my revenge, are you?” Gertrude chided, “well, I doubt it will happen any time soon. Mobilizing the entire order against a being of nigh-unmatched power based on a personal vendetta? I’m not bloody delusional. I’ll need to be a fixture of at least Tyaethe’s level before I have that sort of influence. Well, unless she becomes an issue for the order.”

Even just saying that, Gertrude felt some small ache in her chest. She pushed it away.

“Well. Until then, I’m at the disposal of the Iron Roses. I suppose I wouldn’t hate having my talents misused in order to help piss off someone’s shite father, though.”

While the thought of meeting her own father again still made her sick, Gertrude considered that perhaps messing with someone else’s father would offer some catharsis. She’d probably never find a fondness for Renar, but revenge? That was something she could cosign.

”I only look forward to anything I can extract personal gain from. So, no.” Renar shot back.

”This said, should someone in question help a certain personage enrage a given ‘shite father’ before his inevitable, unnatural demise, he may feel somewhat obligated to offer recompense. Provided, of course, that he’s still of able mind and body by that time. So do try not to take too long, lest you want to work on entrapping multiple people within the order to your aid once more. Imagine having to go through all of this again within…oh, I’ll give it fifty years. Not before this current generation retires or perishes, of course.” His grin meant little in the way of compliments.

”But before you could convince anyone else to aid you.”

Gertrude grinned at Renar’s jabs. In this moment, they were playing very different games. Or perhaps it was the same game, only they were on the same side. It wasn’t impossible, after all. It had happened with their Rozenalt conspiracy, so why shouldn’t their interests and sensibilities align again?

The fact that they did align made Gertrude feel a little gross, but she was still pleased with how Rozenalt turned out. Pleased enough to join in another endeavor.

“Say less. This… I do happily. Merely give me a part when you have one to spare, and I shall act it out.”

Gertrude likely would have done this for free, but she figured she might as well accept some favor from one of the more lauded knights as recompense. She didn’t like the scoundrel, but he had connections, and he wasn’t wrong that he could make Gertrude’s future easier.

“This vengeance belongs to you, after all. If a plan of yours requires magical assistance, my expertise is yours to borrow. I may not like you, but we may be able to help each other.”

”Oh, worry not. Hardly anyone likes you, so we’re in similar straits here.” A chuckle. And so midday meal went on.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gertrude and Merilia

Evening faded into twilight, twilight started to fade into a pleasantly still night – and then, from a higher tree branch than Gertrude's current resting spot where nothing had any business being without climbing up past her first, there was a question: "Have you still not been assigned a room, or do you just find this tree comfortable? It does look tampered with…"

Gertrude sat up quickly, a small branch whipping her face as she gazed upwards. No one should have been there, but Gertrude recognized the voice. It was someone who, by all rights, should have no problem surprising her.

So in a sense, it was no surprise at all. Still, what did the old hag need from her? Gertrude imagined that geas did all the talking required between them.

“They got me a bleeding room, I just like to nap here,” Gertrude grumbled, “but what do you care about my sleeping arrangements? Surely that’s not what you came here to talk about, though I can’t imagine what you might have to say to me.”

"Can't I just want to pay my favourite apprentice a visit?" Merilia wondered, toying with a strand of hair, "If nobody had arranged for a room, I would have to make sure that the Roses still knew how to treat guests. But since they have… how would you like it if I fetch all your things from Lexie? I would just swap the rooms, but that might make her mad. And the windows are such a pain~"

Gertrude frowned and crossed her arms for a few moments, just watching Merilia. Her angle. Her game. Gertrude didn’t know what it was, but…

“I was more Aleksiya’s apprentice than yours, and I’m… perfectly sodding happy with my room unadorned,” she lied.

She was being cautious. She didn’t want to owe the Witch anything. If Merilia was anything like Aleksiya, Gertrude was just a piece of entertainment picked up on a whim. That’s what it amounted to, right?

Besides, if she saw all her old stuff… she didn’t know how she’d feel. Nostalgic? Angry? Sad?

Was happiness one of those possibilities?

It could hurt to find out.

"Hmm…" the older witch gave a slight frown and then was gone – or so it seemed for a moment, the branch beneath Gertrude adjusting to the new weight on her other side, the short woman leaning into her. "You don't sound happy about it. Resigned, a little?"

"If you truly don't want anything old, then…" It was just a sleight of hand, an elaborately-patterned playing card weaving through her fingers, adorned with some sort of bird, but it was hard to tell. She had always been good at this sort of thing, blurring the line between trickery and her actual magic.

Gertrude’s cheeks colored slightly as Merilia leaned into her. There was a time in her life when she would have smiled and wrapped an arm around the woman without even thinking about it, but the uncertainties crept up and froze her, her arm hovering trepidatiously behind Merilia’s back.

“...I just wish things were less complicated,” she mumbled, “I want my shite, but I also don’t want my shite and it’s bleeding infuriating.”

Gertrude sighed as she watched Merilia twirl a playing card between her fingers.

“Sometimes hard to tell what’s real and what isn’t, I suppose.”

Did either Witch ever really care about her? Was she crazy? Why did Aleksiya ask her to do that awful thing? Was it just entertainment? Did she think it would help? What was Gertrude supposed to think?

It was all too sodding confusing, so she’d done the only thing she could have at the time and left, only for Merilia to pick her back up again. For a job? Because she was worried?

"How about I move it in and if you don't want it after, just ask and I can move it back?" the black-haired woman suggested, playing card stopping between her fingers and smoothly being slid back into the deck that definitely hadn't been in her other hand until now, which in turn was encased in an elaborate wooden box. A box that promptly vanished from sight.

It was easy to ignore the sudden added weight in a pocket, or the way the witch surreptitiously straightened into the hovering arm.

"But for that, I do need to know which room it is. I don't want to start snooping around when everyone's sleeping."

“I… I suppose that works,” Gertrude grumbled, shooting a glare at Merilia, “but you’d better come when I call for you, or I’ll be bleeding livid like you’ve never seen.”

Gertrude went to reach for her broom, before noticing that her arm had made its way around the Witch regardless. Well, as long as it was there…

Gertrude slid her hand up the woman’s shoulder, and went to pat her head. The last time she did this, Merilia seemed to be unhappy with her. It might have been because she was angry and went far rougher than she otherwise might have, but this one would be gentle.

“...I’ll show you where I’m sleeping. Blighters have no idea how to treat a lady, so it’s just the bare essentials.”

"Well, they do tend to accommodate a lot of meatheads and career soldiers," the witch pointed out, smirking at something but not objecting to the patting, "You could always pester Yaya if the furnishings aren't up to snuff; she was always one of the keenest to get the nice things. Her time in training really didn't blunt her upbringing."

"Speaking of…" the witch stiffened minutely, fingers dipping inside the sleeves of her foreign garments, "I suppose you're wondering why the geasa? On everyone else, as well as yourself?"

“Yaya,” Gertrude repeated, smirking, “didn’t know she was such a spoiled little princess.”

She remembered this being Merilia’s nickname for Tyaethe, and would have to remember to address the vampire as such moving forward. Any new avenue by which to tease Tyaethe was a welcome one.

Then, her smirk faded as Merilia brought up the geas.

“...Do you really not trust me? I’m sure it’s important, but you know I wouldn’t… at least you should, right? What was I supposed to think? Guess that should teach me a lesson for thinking you actually cared about me.”

Gertrude could feel the anger start to boil back up again. She’d felt betrayed. She didn’t care a whit if Merilia trusted the rest of the Knights or not, but Gertrude should have been exempt at least!

"It wasn't because I don't trust you, or even some of the knights," Merilia shook her head, eyes flicking up to meet the maid-dressed witch apprentice, "This was to make sure that nobody can slip up. Even if someone is drunk, angry, and boastful, they can't let the secret out. More secure and less for anyone to worry about than without the binding.

"If this information gets out, then it would find its way to Tyaethe sooner or later. And I still know her well enough to tell that she would immediately hunt me down, for one reason or another. If that happens…" the witch trailed off, disappearing again and reappearing seated in the air ahead, still under the canopy of the tree – just. The wooden board floating in front of her was an odd touch.

"Did Lexie ever teach you anything about divination?"

Gertrude was still angry. Merilia explained her reasoning well enough, but it didn’t make her feel less betrayed. Less controlled. Less like a thing rather than a person. Gertrude growled.

“No, I never had much patience for it. I don’t much like the idea of some thing telling me what I can and can’t do. Fate can piss right off,” Gertrude said, laying down on her side as she watched Merilia, “but I suppose you’re going to make a point. Bloody well hope it’s a good one.”

"There's no such thing as Fate, but there is probability," the witch continued, spreading her fingers to show off a rather impressive number of flat stone discs between them, inscribed with softy glowing runes, "If Yaya stays put…"

Well, that was… a pattern, on the board. Some of the runes active, some of them not. It didn't, without explanation, mean much, especially after she shoved it aside and repeated the procedure. "If she doesn't…"

Once pushed together, the picture was… broadly similar. The colours were a little different, the patterns shifted slightly. What had been a cool blue in places was an orange, or one tight bundle had scattered a little. "It's hard to read, so I'll just point out the more… concerning changes."

She pointed at one diminished-looking heap. "Aimlenn. The city is probably getting through everything that happens in either case, but things are shakier in general. She has some role coming up and it gets surprisingly bad if it isn't – but she is quite experienced, so now the Iron Roses are involved, is it surprising?"

"And this stone marks you," She tapped one where the rune was a funny-looking squiggle. Yellow, not blue, on the second one, "Unless I forced you out of the country entirely, it generally seems like you'd find some way to be involved before the end. So, I put you into the knights… but once Yaya goes, it seems like you're in line for… something. I doubt it's the lack of her sword skills that matter."

She leant back, finger on her lips, "Unless you want to fight a dragon. That might explain it too; broad questions like 'how much danger are these things in because of current events' are hard to narrow down."

Gertrude’s eyes glazed over a little as Merilia arranged some stones on a board. Despite her protests about not wanting to be told what she’s supposed to do, she got a little more excited when Merilia pointed her piece out, before frowning again. Well, if anything, it meant the Witch was thinking about her.

“So… you have a broad picture of at least a couple of different outcomes, and you’re trying to make the more favorable one come up.”

Well, seeing herself as a little glowing rock didn’t make her feel any less like an object, but at least the Witch was being honest. Or so it seemed.

“The better outcome doesn’t happen if Yaya is away, so she can’t learn about you-know-what because she’ll run off like the thick-headed boar she is.”

Gertrude sighed, and sat back up.

“And I was going to be part of it either way, so you stuck me… what, where I’d be safest? Where I’d be most useful? Am I supposed to be a tool? I don’t know what you want.”

"I want you to be safe, but if I made sure… it would be no better than sticking you in a cage. If I put you here… well, it's better than running around alone, the food is good… maybe you'll even make a few friends. Or better, fufufu~"

As was annoying habit, the witch once again disappeared, reappearing… oh, that was a hug, the small woman draped over her from behind, voice a whisper in Gertrude's ear, "I should have explained first, but… I am sorry.

"My little sister's going to be so mad at me again. 'Being an ancient witch doesn't mean you know better than everyone else'."

Gertrude grumbled. Making all these decisions for her, keeping secrets, sneaking around… she didn’t like it, but if it really was because Merilia cared for her, then what was she to do? It almost made her more angry that there was a good reason. A reason predicated on affection for her. That fact made her anger less justified, which pissed her off.

Still, without even really thinking about it, she placed her hand on top of Merilia’s and interlocked her fingers with the Witch’s. She closed her eyes and sighed.

“What, you think I can make friends? And what’s this shite about something ‘better’? Have you seen this wurstfest? The only women of note are Yaya and Fanny, and I’m still sore at the former. The latter is married to her sodding job, and it can’t be healthy. She really should take a break.”

She turned her head to look at Merilia behind her.

“If you’re talking about Aleksiya, she’s right, though I’m still seriously pissed at her. I think when you’re that long-lived, you must end up missing a lot of the smaller things for the big picture. I suppose feelings sometimes go by the wayside, which would explain why you’re both so terrible at communicating,” said Gertrude, who was perhaps even worse at communicating.

The witch let out a surprisingly honest laugh, "No, no, not Lexie. My birth sister, she's much more… level-headed than any of us."

She loosened the hug slightly, humming. "Well, there are other options than the knights. Candaeln has more than enough staff, girls in the city might be interested in anyone from up here…"

“Hmph… I thought it didn’t sound like Aleksiya. Well, it’s nice to know that some immortal still has her head.”

Gertrude smirked, and shrugged.

“Anyways, those are the only two that really talk to me, and I don’t have much interest in those too cowardly to approach me,” Gertrude concluded, hiding how woefully inexperienced she was at initiating any sort of romantic dialogue with people who aren’t essentially forced to talk to her.

“Oh… maybe Fanny would relax a bit if a woman as amazing as I was asked her on a date.”

She’d just need to pick which insult to open with…

“Oh, sod it. That can wait. Did you want to see my room?”

"That would help, certainly~"