#[ mastery drabble ]
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At the end of the world
Dancer drabble / word count: 609
The hall was empty.
But the monastery had been, too. From the mouth of the Abyss to the courtyard, and up the stairs to the ballroom, which should have been alive with celebration, the wind sang its lonely song. Julius stood bewildered in the doorway, cutting a tiny figure out of the shaft of light that stretched through the darkness across the polished floor, and thinking again of the waking dreams that had snatched him away some months ago. He stepped forward, cautiously at first, and then with greater confidence, the echo of his heels swallowed up by the yawning void. At the center, just outside of the realm of light, he stopped and listened to the silence.
Once upon a time, the world had responded to his will. He raised his hand and the sconces along the walls crackled to life one-by-one. Walking more swiftly now, he swept along the perimeter. There had been a hall in Belhalla that had resembled this one. It was long and rectangular, its floors polished to a mirror sheen to distract from the lack of embellishment on the walls. A singular chandelier had been its centerpiece, suitable for a conversation with nobility of the lower houses, but otherwise unremarkable. Julius pivoted to find its shadow in the darkness overhead, just as he remembered. He raised both arms and the flames obeyed.
Once upon a time, he had been the star. Tucking his hands behind his back, he gazed out over flickering reflections with his chin raised. The imperial prince had come to grace this hall, and all of Grannvale rose with applause. He closed his eyes and saw them - misty, faceless figures with identities inconsequential to the praise they heaped upon him. A toast was held and the orchestra began to play. Long live the empire. Long live Prince Julius.
Once upon a time, balls had been held for him. His velvet cloak rustled as he threw it over his shoulder. A dozen delicate, porcelain hands extended from the mist, but he passed them all for the one at the end, shimmering in lavender and silver. She had always been his favorite. His goddess. Fit for a god. Their fingers intertwined had seemed to call forth lightning for the awe that swept the room, and every head in attendance turned to watch their dance. He led. He always did, because he knew the angles she looked best in. Watch and envy, he dared with his eyes, and the audience watched with envy. This life was not for them, the ordinary. This beauty was not for them, the average.
They danced through the night, as if the hall belonged to them and them alone. Julius let himself be swept away. Box steps. Spins. Dips. Lifts. Improvisation. He was an expert in it all, and his heels clipped along with a melody of their own. This would have been heaven had the room not been so ordinary--
So ordinary.
Julius' eyes flashed open. The music crashed into silence with one final discordant note. The hall stretched on in stillness, hued by the soft surreality of a dream not yet discarded. His hair had blown across his forehead, where it stuck to a fine layer of sweat. He brushed it back as he panted for breath and stared out across the ballroom that was not Belhalla's. Where a party was not being held for him. Where not even shadows knew his name. Alone, where the wind sang despite him. He shattered silence with a huff and extinguished the lights with the swing of his arm. Darkness fell like a guillotine.
The hall was empty.
#mastery drabble#// a whole year later I finally make myself write this drabble#// julius hasn't participated in any of the shrinking prompts this month so I liked the idea of him avoiding the curse#// because he's been hiding out in abyss all this time and - surprise - ethereal ball isn't happening ha
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for whom a wish will bloom
She can still remember the exact moment she found her dream: the way the sun shone overhead with that pure sort of sunshine that falls upon you as layers of gossamer warmth ; how the clouds floated along azure sky not as obfuscation, but as white silks dappling endless blue; the lone shadow that sailed through the bounty of nature’s beauty, no ruinous omen but proof instead of Macedon’s freedom, untouchable, indomitable, spanning from the treetops to the very edge of the horizon.
How the quiet susur of awe sounded when the tenor chord of fear entered its veins, an ill and echoing thrum that reverberated until it consumed, and consumed until it roared, and roared, and roared. She remembers when she learned of cacophony, voices uncountable on a child’s ten tiny fingers rising in panic, building in a fever pitch, waves of a crowd turning in on itself until at last there came one final, resounding beat.
No more, the spidersilk sunlight; no more, the cloudspun ribbons; at her side Minerva realizes, at the end of the song, that there are some things a sproutling should not see. She covers her eyes and ears – so small she is that both eyes can be covered with one hand, one ear with another, and the other hugged tight against her sister’s chest.
(Minerva does not realize that this is not unhearing; Maria hears. She hears the way her sister’s heart races, learns to measure the pace of terror in syncopation and the timbre of love in trembling hands. But these are lessons as much as these are treasures, for though no soul can be spared the iron kiss of blood through eternity, before she learns to fear it, Maria learns to endure it with all the love of her two big siblings who would smooth back her downy hair and kiss her on her forehead.)
It is love, too, that brings her to tears when she later finds her brother in his room, Minerva’s dismayed voice calling out her name from the other side of the door that only Maria has ever been so courageous as to throw open all on her own. Michalis recoils in the candlelight, its dim and brooding warmth shattered to pieces beneath his littlest sister’s reaching hands, just as the face of a prince falls to that of ‘Brother.’
“Michalis,” she had sobbed, a tiny thing wont to clinging to him with all her might, now clutching gently to his hands instead with every ounce of her consideration. “Does it hurt? It hurts, doesn’t it?”
Tears roll down her face; perhaps this is why no one else ever understands how she could love him so fiercely, so tremendously – for how were they to know? That this great someday-king of Macedon would shift and fluster, a calloused hand hesitating to so much as land upon her frail shoulder.
“...No, Maria,” he lies. It might be the first time, this time, but it will not be the last. She will forgive him, always, anyways. “It does not…”
“Liar,” she sniffles, cheeks pressed to reddened knuckles. Already, the seed of her dream has been planted; already, it sprouts, reaching for the hand that brushes away her tears like a sunflower to the sun. For whom would her wish bloom? Beneath bedtime songs and bitter herbs, sanguine palms and endless skies–
“Has she fallen asleep…?”
“...I believe so.”
Whom else, of course?
“Haha… She’s not letting go, Brother.”
“Indeed. I suppose we shall have to carry her, then.”
It blooms for thee.
#mastery drabble#class: bishop#wc: 591#michalis greenlit by emm and minerva greenlit by the void :]#last minute mastery#it was going to be longer but then i realized#i am simply too tired dsfuhsdufhsudfh#drabble
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A Stranger to the Rain-Bishop Drabble
Her chest tightens and her body feels heavy as she makes her way to her sanctuary after class. A place of glass, stained purer than her blood. She clutches her books tight to her chest, not bothering to stop by her room first. There were often people milling about there, sometimes choir would practice there too, but they left each other alone. There were people there, but they rarely disturbed her.
She abandons her books and papers and bag in the first empty pew and continues on towards the front, almost as if in a trance. There was something that pulled her to this place, her body felt lighter and it was easier to breath. She closed her eyes and clasped her hands in front of her as she began her prayers.
"Dear Goddess thank you for watching over them and all that you give them. Please continue to grant them your blessings of light and warmth. Guide those who are lost back towards your open arms and set them back upon a path of kindness and good. Take the departed souls into your home in the heavens and grant them peace. I ask you count me amongst them and end the curse of the one who sullied your name in his bloodshed." Over and over, for hours on end.
The priests and bishops send everyone away before a storm breaks over them, but it's just Marianne's luck that she still gets caught in the rain. It feels cleansing to her, as if the purity of the rain could wash away the stains of her blood. She walks through the tempest, her face to the heavens as she feels the rain against her skin. It's cold, it stings against her skin, she needs to feel more of it. She makes a detour to the graveyard.
No one she knows has the honor of being buried in Garreg Mach's graveyard. But it is peaceful, quiet. The fall of the rain against the worn headstones chimes through the night air. Do they have anyone to remember them? Anyone to pray for their souls? Marianne does not deserve such grace, but surely those buried here do.
Most of the stones are as old as the empire is. She wonders what kind of lives they led, were they loved? Or cursed as she?
"Dear Goddess, please welcome this departed soul into your home in the heavens. Their memory lives on here in Garreg Mach until then. May they have peace by your side." She repeats the prayer over every grave, until she reaches the most recent one. It gives her pause, this one is about twenty years old. The people who knew this soul were surely still alive? She repeats her prayer, different this time. "Dear Goddess, please welcome this departed soul into your home in the heavens. Her memory lives on in the heart of those who are survived by her. Grant them peace in their grief and grant this soul peace by your side."
She pauses for a moment, staring at the grave. With a deep breath, she turns and leaves. The rain weighs her down, but her heart is lighter.
The next day when she returns to the cathedral, her prayer is a little different.
"Dear Goddess thank you for watching over us and all that you give us. Please continue to grant us your blessings of light and warmth. Guide those who are lost back towards your open arms and set them back upon a path of kindness and good. Take the departed souls into your home in the heavens and grant them peace."
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Before the Scars
Bishop Mastery drabble: 682
cw: gore
Everyone had to be good at something. Otherwise, you would die. Get thrown out, technically, but in the snowy wilds of Elusia, everyone knew what that meant. Back then, fear had not yet hardened and calcified into a defective, useless organ inside of Griss. It used to pump his blood so full of adrenaline that he’d spend his nights praying that Lord Sombron not abandon him, spend his days with a desperate sleeplessness in his sunken eyes.
Like the other monks in the monastery, he’d been taught magic under the priests’ whips, and he’d watched the older cohorts split into two groups as the years passed: those that were awarded some modicum of prestige and a minor title within the church, and those that turned into grey monuments in the snow, fingers and toes blackened, eyes frozen wide open, waiting for a spring that would never come for them. Death did not scare him, and indeed the fear of death was counted among a handful of cardinal sins, but the souls of those that had succumbed as the defects had were trapped within the rejected flesh for eternity, never to decay, never to be a vessel for their lord’s power, their existence immortalized in a pillar of shame. Eternity was a long time, Griss knew that, but he saw it hurtling at him faster than he could run.
Each day, angry red welts were added to his arms and back, and each day he had nothing to show for them. Sometimes, he could conjure a little bit of a breeze, enough to sway the scraggly grass under his feet. Sometimes, a spark. But always the whip’s fierce lashing. He lacked focus, one of the priests said. He didn’t know how when he prayed every night. He kept praying, because there was nothing else he could do. The flagellum had even started to lose its edge.
Torn flesh fascinated him. He ripped his own open, stitched it together in pretty red zigzags, dug his fingers into the wounds of others, plucked out splinters and fragments of bone like an archaeologist, and closed them all up again. Curiosity cultivated an uncommon fearlessness which bred an even greater curiosity for all the different ways the body could be bent and broken, the sensations that came with it. How it could be put back together again. His own. Others. It didn’t matter whose, in the end.
No great epiphany had preceded the glow of the Heal staff under his palm one morning in the monastery’s iron-scented infirmary. It’d been abandoned by one of his fellows for just a moment, and Griss had swept in to prod at the swelling around the patient’s mangled elbow, searching for a source like an explorer charting the frontier, ignoring sleepy moans of discomfort even as he pressed his thumb hard against a lump and pitched the cries louder. Then it gave. The cries subsided. The fever heat cooled. The man treating him returned and chased Griss away with a few solid strikes from the staff’s blunt end.
It came with no fanfare, this talent. From that day on, he intuited his way around a variety of staves without picking up a book, driven by a curiosity toward the flesh and a resonant listening gifted to few - a kind of perfect pitch that he would never recognize as a gift until years later, with Zephia’s observation. He could recognize each staff by a series of shapes. Heal was a single, simple triangle. Recover was a red thread, three loops, ringed by seven triangles. And these were inarticulate instructions his body simply knew. A gift he learned to take for granted.
His lessons with the priests and their whips never stopped though, and neither did their criticism. There was nothing special about learning to use a staff, but there was nothing really special about learning to cast spells either. These were givens. The expected minimum to allow one shelter within Lord Sombron’s grace. Everyone had to be good at something, after all. Otherwise, you would die.
Griss did not fear death, and he never would again.
#mastery drabbles#// meant to write this months ago#// but griss accessing gremory this month finally lit a fire under my ass#// wanted him to master bishop before mastering gremory because of the symbolism of his base proficiency being staves#// messy messy though don't read
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✧ where the delicate stops
assassin mastery drabble.
much has been taken from you.
your fingers knit together when you think about it, trying to keep the memories from falling through your fingers. you would rather die than forget, you think, the wrongs done to you. wrongs are wrongs are wrong, and forgetting means leaving it in the dark to go unseen, unjudged. your roots, your childhood, your home: you are the only one who sees the depths of these losses, in the knowledge the lone bearer.
it was tolerable, once. easy to bury and let be, like a time capsule whispering wishes into the earth. but even mountains erode, even earth breaks. what is a pair of shoulders in the face of that kind of force? those slight things can't bear the thunderclap of the highest order of theft, the pillar which breaks the childs back. the greatest heist, the easiest theft, the most unskilled and the most devastating.
life. it's life. of course it is. kick someone wrong, can't feed a mouth right, slip of the hand. easy as that.
and the way you remember it, it was unceremonious. unskilled. unjust, unfair, unforgivable—embers left in a forest, waste dumped in the water. monsters bearing down on an unarmed man, laughing and jeering. knocking him over like building blocks. blood on the dirt. blood on your garden. blood on those tenuous things you were starting to think about holding close again, for what is sacrifice and bearing all that weight but love?
blood on his robes.
what is sacrifice but love? you love and that's undeniable. you think about burns on your hands from a pot running too hot. you think about a sack of pilfered potatoes slung over your shoulder as you run. you think about plunging the knife in and in and in to make sure that lance doesn't rise again. you think about the saints and wonder if they'd accept a dirty little thief like you, lopsided and bloodstained. does love lead to this?
then why do you still want to love? you don't know. it's selfish. it's grotesque. but even if it's an uneven scale, even if your side is tipped too far down and drenched in sin, you wanted to. you still want to. you want that bright, warm thing you knew love at its best as again, even if you feel ground-down, raw and half-dead in it. o god, why do you keep the faith? why does love lead to this?
o god, is this what happens? is love to suffer and die? is it good to keep the rage, the remorse this close for something like love? is it good for love to be having the shadow of a mourner stand behind you, ready to take your hands and mind? what will that rage make you do? what will that mourner make you do?
in that, you aren't sure you care for what is good anymore. but love is good, isn't it? you need to be good to be loved, don't you? (this thought scares you.)
o god, so give me the bitter cup. it's easier to bear the conflict in silence. easier to bury it and draw that love into anger. easier to draw that love into burdens and memories. easier to do all this than to think of the root of it as love.
so you don't think of it when you draw the blade, the dagger, the notched arrow back. you remember the things taken from you, your roots, your childhood, your home. you think of father. you think of the blood; think in anger of seeing the echo of it elsewhere and find it repulsive. think that all that red's better off on your hands than anyone else's, anyways.
so to the grieving heart, this is right. ceremonious in the skill, fair and just. perfect cut, bulls-eye. clean kill.
really, just look at that. keeled over without a damn sound. noone will find this idiot for days, here.
hah. you've really become the worst kind of thief, haven't you?
#;wc. 674#;tell me another story | drabble#honestly this backslides a bit into where he was mentally during fe6#also mf is such an unreliable narrator im gonna beat their ass#chad stop thinking about your family challenge#im a firm chad should never class into assassin ingame truther but at toa i think hes processed his insane grief enough to stomach it now#sorry both their mastery drabbles as of now are this melodramatic but there was NO WAY i was wringing a normal assassin drabble out of them
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under an expanse of stars
swordmaster mastery; word count 811
It was as though a vacuum had formed in the town square, the simultaneous draw and repel of whispers swirling around a single point.
'What is he doing here? Doesn't he know that his kind isn't welcome here?'
'Don't be unkind, those people don't have many civilized places that they can go nowadays.'
'Well it doesn't mean we want him here. See that blade on his hip? That one's a mercenary, making dirty money no doubt.'
Raymond peered around his mother's broad shoulders, leaning back to see – he was almost grown, almost the same height as she but not nearly eclipsing her just yet, but if he craned his neck he could just barely see the flick of long, dark hair and the edge of a robe, patterned and embroidered at the edges, somehow at once vibrant and drab.
'Don't stare, Raymond.'
He stiffened, snapping straighter at the chastisement in spite of his curiosity. It was not every day that one saw an Eastern swordsman in the markets of central Lycia, and rarer still that Raymond would have had the opportunity to lay eyes on one, sequestered in the halls of Tintagel and the surrounding villages as he was.
Their myth preceded them, even in the most unkind lights – the flash of a blade in the dark, the speed of their strikes trampling the stoutest foe like so many hoofbeats before they wandered off into the setting sun. That was how he'd heard it told, anyhow, and to see one in the flesh was exciting, despite that the landed gentry of his father's march did not seem to favor them as much as he did.
It did not occur to him until much later – far too late for it to matter, he supposed – why it had been so inappropriate, even in his curiosity, to watch the swordsman in the market. Even with the dark whispers that he might have been a mercenary, there was something further lingering, and it didn't strike him until his service to the Lady Caelin, a Sacaean herself, and a legend made flesh, the prodigal star in Marquess Hausen's dimming sky.
There were rumors, rumblings and whispers around every corner, at how she had rounded up her own band of mercenaries, how she had stormed the castle to seize it from its rightful owner, but the girl before him scarcely seemed the type, too forthright to brook the underhandedness that came with being a Lycian noble.
They were alike in that way – more alike than she surrounded by these courtiers, more alike than he surrounded by the rough men who merely sought the coin they thought Caelin might have had.
It was merely a matter of time before they crossed blades, before he got to see the spirit of Sacae in full form before him – she tore through sparring partners as a hot knife through butter with her skill, her technique, and that foreign blade of hers.
"I guess I just consider it an extension of my arm," Lady Caelin had said thoughtfully once, with a grin and an unself-conscious laugh as she held out her hand, palm out, as though inspecting it.
He could not say that he agreed, necessarily. A sword was a tool, no more a part of him than the armor he clipped on in the morning and stripped off in the evening, and to consider his weapon an extension of himself threatened to leave him in a precarious position. It was easier for Lady Caelin, he supposed, to have a blade that called for its other half in her soul, but he could not afford to be so sentimental.
But there were times when she moved, the spins around him that forced him to jerk the scabbard from his belt to hard block, to parry, then drive her back with his greater bulk – that he could see it. He could see the flow of movement, not merely from the points of force in her arm, but with the turn and bend of her entire body, and he could see the ripple and flash of her blade that followed, as easily as she breathed.
It wasn't envy that he felt – if he watched for long enough, clashed blades with her over and over, it was something he could emulate, if not embody the spirit of.
He saw more of Lady Caelin's ilk as he traveled, allegiance shifting from company to company, the same dark hair and embroidered robe he had seen all those years ago, though it didn't occur to him to ask if it had been the same swordsman, didn't think that it would have made a difference.
Gravitated toward him in the end all the same, his greeting merely a nod, and an extended hand.
"Come on. Let's spar. I don't think these idiots could match you if you were asleep."
#in character#drabble: under an expanse of stars#mastery: swordmaster#this one goes out to lyn my bestie lyn
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𝐚𝐛𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐚 , 𝐮𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 / drabble ₊
"if imitation is required, then so be it. nil's safety is all that concerns me."
we would never be human, my brother and i. we could never hope to pass. even as i said these words to the divine dragon, i recognized that it was concession only. we needed somewhere to stay, a place to rest our weary forms, and regain our strength to continue on. i would make any placations and reassurances necessary to ensure this, so long as we needed it, and leave them behind when it was no longer of use. such simple falsehoods were common, a quotidian tool to dull the fangs of the prowling and jealous until another day. they would still come, of course. just as we would still depart.
——— ⟢
we would never come close to human, my twin and i. their faces made this clear. the divine dragon was hopeful and naive, and believed baselessly in our ability to make ourselves at home because, they assured us, they had been able to do the same.
on many occasions, i said to them: "that success is owed in part to your nature as a divine dragon. you underestimate the strength of a systematic distrust."
always, they would reply that my ' systematic distrust ' could only be dismantled by time and visibility, that given enough show of good intent, the others would have no choice but to accept us. i expressed that nil and i were not here to give shows of our intent, nor was it vital to us to earn the humans' trust. we had no interest in becoming the ' good ' fell dragons for others to praise.
always, they frowned. and i was unable to tell if my words had disappointed or saddened them.
——— ⟢
"so, why the lance?"
a curious voice broke through the haze of sweat, exertion, and the punishing summer heat. i looked down to my bruised hands, to chastened palms rough and raw from the abrasion of wood, and planted the training weapon point-down in the ground between us to rest. it was as much an acknowledgement of their question as it was a wordless statement to come no closer, and in this single gesture simultaneously provided answer.
"i thought you said you wouldn't fit in."
"i have not."
and this was not untrue. seasons had passed, and nil and i had still not found a more remote, more willing sanctuary. and the faces had not changed. still we undertook tasks together and together only, at times with the divine one for company and otherwise a solemn and happy pair. for though there were those in the army who may stomach us one or the other, both at a time set them ill at ease. i did not fault them, for it did likewise for me. and i would not let nil alone, whose blood was too gentle still to wield steel against soft humanity should they strike first.
"my brother has made some progress with his axe. with a spear, i possess another means with which to protect him."
"ah," the divine one said, as though this was expected, though there appeared to me a distinct hope that there was more to be revealed. i sensed a certain expectation — that it had been a natural decision to complement the preferences of those around me: my brother's hatchets; the divine dragon's sword.
but i would disappoint. the consideration had never occurred to me; only that, of the options available, the spear proved most versatile. to slash, to pierce, to strike bluntly, close or at distance; to be thrown, and lighter weight than an axe.
and above all, to keep the enemy at bay, and nil behind me.
i turned the human weapon on the divine one now to demonstrate this. their startled blue eyes shone wide beneath the sun. "facing your sword will assist me in improving quickly. three seconds and i will attack."
——— ⟢
we could never have been human, my other half and i. after all, the humans had all taken their leave, what few remained of them, splintered and swept away like shards of glass.
and now it was quieter than it had ever been — in gradlon or amid the army camps.
regardless of what we intended, we had become the ' good ' fell dragons in the end. some of their faces had eventually changed because of this; others had not. i wondered whether seeing this had satisfied the divine one, had made them believe we had indeed managed to fit in with time and visibility; i had never had the chance to ask. regarding the fresh grave now, the spotless stone, the clean engraving, i felt that so long as this may have perhaps been true, my own intentions ceased to matter. and the praise and judgment of others ceased to matter.
my hands were once again bruised, raw from battle though the old callouses had long faded, and i tried to summon the memory of them again through vision too clear to be appropriate. i willed my eyes to weep, and it did not come. i gave that to nil instead, asked him to weep for both of us.
the spear drove point-down in the grass between the two of us once more, beside the pedestal's simple tomb, as though the iron sought the one who rested beneath it like a compass needle.
i could not reach. my hands could not reach. my tears could not reach.
yet with this lance, i may . . .
. . .
【 nel has mastered halberdier 】
┃┃┃
▀▀ BOTANICAL HEADCANONS ₊ | abatina : is there anything in life your muse has changed their mind about over time ( due to becoming more educated on the topic , certain experiences , etc .) , or that they would change their mind about under certain circumstances ? | asked by @heriteur
#——— ⟢ 𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐃𝐎𝐌𝒇𝒐𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒅 】₊ writing.#wc 900#had this concept for my halberdier drabble for a while now and was staring at the hcs left in my inbox#and was like well why not combine them...........#i still need one (1) thread so im not actually claiming mastery yet but will be soon#title - aside from obviously coming from the hc prompt#is a reference to apparently some research has said abatina isn't Technically scientifically classified as a flower?? idk i rolled w it
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wind across the plains | blade lord
Your name is Lyn and you are your father's daughter. He is the chieftain of the Lorca, as well as your sword instructor. He is a reticent man, like the rest of the men in your tribe, but you admire him like no one else. One day, you hope to be even half as masterful as your father not only at the sword, but the bow as well.
Your name is Lyndis and you are your mother's daughter. She is gentle and graceful as the winds dancing over the plains on a summer night. You don't think yourself to compare to her beauty, but when you're older, people will look at you and think the same things of you.
Your name is Lyn and you are no one's daughter, because your family is gone. In one night, the only community you've ever known is reduced to corpses. You're a fool for thinking the others would follow you. You were your father's daughter, after all.
For six terribly lonely months, Lyn is all you are.
After a chance meeting in Bulgar, you reclaim a name you never thought you would hear again, only this time a title is attached: Lady Lyndis. Your mother had been the noble lady of Caelin and now you are the Marquess of Caelin's only granddaughter. Your quest for revenge against the Taliver bandits can wait for the time being.
You cling to this information like a lifeline; you have family left and he wants to meet you.
Filthy mongrel, the nobles sneer at you. They denounce you as an imposter — no real noble lady of Caelin would have her blood tainted with that of Sacae.
Despite this, your knights (your friends), your little ragtag team of mercenaries, unfailingly address you as their lady. Even if no one else will, they treat you with respect. They follow your orders and those of the enigmatic tactician by your side without question.
It's not until you stand covered in the blood of your granduncle that you can finally meet your grandfather. A sudden fear grips you. What if it's already too late? What if he doesn't recognize you? What if he too, upon finally seeing you, doesn't want a girl with Sacaen blood as his granddaughter?
"Thank you for living," is what he tells you, feeble body holding you tight, shaking with the effort of sitting upright.
You're so glad. You're glad to be alive. You're glad that he's alive. You're glad that your name is Lyndis.
For your grandfather, you will be Caelin's princess. You will cut down anyone who thinks to harm the last family you have. You will put aside the yearning in your heart for the plains so long as your grandfather still draws breath.
Only one year of happiness is all you can afford before your life is once again overturned by something greater than you. As much strife as it causes you, you must leave your grandfather behind to travel with two of the other Lycian lords.
Lyndis, is how the mild-mannered Pheraen boy calls you. Before meeting him, you had thought poorly of the nobles who had turned their backs on you for your heritage. Now, you look at him and see what a noble should be. Even in the face of his own tragedies, he holds his head high and pushes onward. He has not just strength of heart, but unfailing kindness, as well.
Lyn, is how the brash Ostian boy calls you. He is reckless and dependent on his raw strength; a threat to both himself and allies. You see yourself, before you had allowed people back into your heart, in him and you cannot stop yourself from quarreling with him. The two of you are far too similar at heart or perhaps you're just jealous that he's stronger than you are.
Lyn.
Lyndis.
Daughter of Roland.
Daughter of Hanon.
You are your father's daughter. You will wield both sword and bow to protect those that are dear to you.
You are your mother's daughter. You were born with the power to lead, regardless of what others think of you. You are the lady of Caelin.
CLASS MASTERED: BLADE LORD
#⚔️ drabbles#⚔️ blade lord mastery#//think a lot about how lyn is referred to differently by different people and how that changes over the game :softsmile:#//sorry rai if you happen to see this before i actually submit my claim LMAO its coming#fe7 spoilers //
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Would not, could not, would not, could not
dancer mastery; word count - 637
There had always been the vaguest awareness that he was meant to be seen, from the announcement of his birth, the cannonade that had been reported to leave the air thick with magical smoke and the revelry, the tourneys and balls and the murmurs of an heir, did you hear? An heir for Baldr's blood. Just like his great father.
His steps had been followed, stumbling across the lush carpeted salles, ambling through the gleaming tiled foyers, then sprinting through halls with Chalphy's stewards and retainers just half a step behind until he left them in the dust entirely, pushing through the great entryway and out into the world.
One-two, one-two, pret-lunge-parry-ripsote, he learned the basic box of the Grannvallian waltz, could do it with his eyes on his partner - focus, boy! - could do it blindfolded, could do it on horseback as well as he could on his own two feet, eventually could move so fast and so precise that a candle held in one hand would not extinguish.
His instructors at Belhalla could not have been more pleased. An heir for Baldr's blood, just like his great father.
Even as he moved from slick tiled floors to slick mud sucking at his boots, his steps were perfect, one-two, one-two, rank and file with all of his fellows, his pace quickening by the day to place him at the head of the column, the spotlight of the sun warm on his shoulders and face as he led the lines of men into familiar patterns, familiar steps against familiar partners, familiar horns and drums and banners a call and response rhythm until the night was over and won.
Eyes on him ever still, his glide across the stage, the predictable flow of his movements mirroring generations before, the common refrain that Baldr boy a man now, that son of Chalphy followed him wherever he may have gone.
But what a shame, what a shame there's no pretty partner on his arm.
He'd never had need of one, in truth, had never yearned in the same way that so many others had, in the way his great father had for as long as he could remember, the heart aching and calling for its missing piece, whose mirrored steps made for the complete picture the audience wanted to see.
Deirdre did not complete him, but she filled him in a way that was almost the same, and he found his steps lighter as though the eyes on him had not suddenly turned quite heavier, as though the eyes had not suddenly turned to her and placed her in the spotlight beside this heir to Baldr's blood.
He recalled, occasionally, a moment where he and his sister had peered around the corner, their mother's dressing room where under the hot lights the mother of Chalphy, the wife of Baldr's blood, had covered the weakness in her failing heart with layers of makeup, the strength of her smile carrying her soft steps as she put on show after show, of light, of strength, of courage.
The virtues of Chalphy, just not her blood.
Deirdre did not know the steps, did not know what was expected of her when he had whisked her into the spotlight, but it was fine – he was Baldr's heir and he knew these steps by heart, could do them on horseback as well as his own two feet, could do them blindfolded, could take her in his arms and lift her to floating above the stage until she moved in tandem with him in the bright of the sun for all to see.
And when Seliph had been announced, it was with magical cannonade, the air think with smoke and revelry and expectation, whispers of did you hear? An heir for Baldr's blood.
Just like his great father.
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for want of a horse (paladin mastery drabble, 552 words)
The stories of knights that Forsyth so idolized and set his goals on never quite matched up to him. For one, they were noble; raised for knighthood or at least greatness, with the blood of champions in their veins. Even the tales of commoner-to-noble do not intrigue him; he did not wish to become noble, but rather for knighthood to open up to commoners altogether.
Even the one commoner-knight he's heard of, the great Sir Mycen, has something that he lacks. A steed, like so many great knights of legend.
Forsyth has never been particularly inclined towards animal handling. It was too expensive and inconvenient to own a horse even for his family, and when seeking employment as a soldier he learned quickly the class implications of horse ownership. His own body is far more suited towards the endurance of an armored knight, anyway, and his skill with such heavy armor made him stand out among the crowd of spearsmen.
There are knights like him, he knows. Those who do not ride on horseback into battle, but stand firm on the ground, absorbing hits and attracting attention as they pierce through slowly but surely, aiding their more mobile allies.
Forsyth plays his defensive role more offensively than most, both a boon and a liability, depending on the situation.
Once, Clive spent an afternoon in the stables with him, introducing him to his steed (a swift, powerful mare whose eyes bore right through him), teaching Forsyth some basics about horse maintenance. Forsyth knows Clive's mannerisms by now; this is just as much about giving Forsyth the opportunity to interact with equines as it is having an extra hand for stable upkeep.
Even as a knight of Valentia, Forsyth's stuck pretty hard to his role. The strangely agile armored knight, the green blur on the battlefield. Python, of all people, learned mounted combat before Forsyth, though his natural inclination for it is rather impressive.
(Unlike his naming skills. Cow? Really?)
It's not that Forsyth is poorly suited to mounted combat entirely. He does not have the same level of difficulty with horse husbandry as Lukas, and he as a knight surely has access to horseback training of the finest quality if he says the word.
But there's something distinct about Forsyth's identity as an armored knight. At this point, his armor feels like it's part of him on the battlefield, and though the armor horseback riders wear is not scant, he struggles to picture himself in such a position.
Yet here he is, sturdy draft horse by his side as he mulls over his status as an officially licensed Seiros paladin. It can endure far more weight than many others, though he won't be as swift as many a horseback knight. Some kind of medium met.
Horses are living creatures. Millicent is her own beast, and Forsyth carries her life in his hands as well as the others' when he rides into battle. She can sense his anxieties, his hesitations, and when he plunges forward, he puts her at risk in addition to himself.
He hates to admit it, but he's learned a bit from this, and he can feel some of his actions in battle changing, even when he reverts to the more comfortable infantry position.
But maybe that change isn't all bad.
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☆ die by the sword
swordmaster mastery drabble.
Daein armor is black.
Daein's army is great.
Daein's army will win.
Black armor, red flags — Deep red, regal and commanding. The flags aren't often flown in the fringes of Nevassa, but just outside of it, where the city leads to foot- and carriagepaths. They fly high, stark against blue, bright against ink.
What for? It's easier to believe stories of heroism and glory when you live in a warm house with a warm family. Outside, it's a matter of that blurred line between hope and desperation. — Expansion is profitable. Will any of that trickle down to them?
There are those that say no and stay out of it, hoping war will not find their doorstep instead. There are those that open their mouths and hold out their hands and pray. But King Ashnard, he extends his war-calloused hands and gives even the lowest of the low a chance to reach out, to grasp, so long as they have the strength to fight.
Was it for glory? For your country, for your hometown, for yourself?
No, not anything so naïve. It was for survival.
It's not that Edward didn't want to believe in the heroism of it all, but with glory comes acclaim. With acclaim comes money. With money comes stability for him and his. For a child and his brother with nothing else to his name, no other avenues to walk, nothing else given to him but this, what other dream should he chase? That heroism — The tales told by nannies and grannies down the street of brave men and women, his neighbours, cutting down legions and slaying monstrous beasts? That's just a bonus.
But for a brother who needed a future, he readily spun tales of valor and heroism anyway. Swordsmen in black coats, nimble and skilled, rising above and beyond. Heroes who came from nothing and gained everything, blades blessed by sunlight. The hope that they could crawl out of this nothing and gain everything, more than enough to share with eachother, with everybody who's helped them. That this was a choice, and it was worth making. He weaves the stories, pulls them around him like that could make them real, like he could become one of those swordmasters, too. Those who are strong will prosper in Ashnard's Daein, after all.
During the Mad King's War, Edward was not strong enough. Yes, they train children to fight and kill all too readily in those noble academies, but a scrawny street rat with a blunted blade is hardly better than cannon fodder. Still, maybe it was for the best he was turned away with hardly a glance. As it turns out, Daein wasn't strong enough either.
Daein armor is black.
Daein's army was great.
Daein lost.
And then Crimea didn't care, and Begnion came in. War ends. Still, red flooded the streets and washed Finch away in the undertow. Begnion armor is red. It's diluted, almost orange, a half-commitment to blood. Black-clad soldiers returned, too, but scathed, in caskets, in memory. Grief filled the streets. Hunger filled it, too. Grief and hunger and fear.
In him, grief and desperation, yes. But there was also anger. (Realisation.) It's over. The war is over. The dream is dead, and there is noone left for him to find and chase another for. And now, now, from livable to worse, everyone still clings to eachother, praying they won't drown as Begnion scum try to tear them down and apart like children at play breaking block towers.
He could stop and lie down and die. But seeing faces he knows twisted in agony? He won't stand for it. Why are they kicking everyone off the rafts and into the red? Can't they see they're already half-starved? At the other shore of bonds found, ties made, community knit, how can people be so carelessly cruel to folk who already have it hard enough? The lesson that seemed so obvious to him in childhood was completely lost on these brutes. They were acting like they were all still at war, but didn't need any reason, be it money or glory, to act like this.
In him, realisation, this time clear as day. That to earn glory, he would have had to hurt others too. He would always have had to. For togetherness, he can take it. But for glory? Glory is the stupidest reason to hurt someone. The only stupider thing is to have no reason at all.
In him, anger. In him, brighter still, rebellion. He knows how to steal. He just needs to start doing it to the right people. From Begnion, he takes food, supplies, clothes, medicine, a boy from the jaws of certain death. It's only right, to take back what was taken from people who need it, isn't it? He clings, with all he has. The light grows, comes to shine before him, a guiding star in the shape of silver hair, golden eyes. In it, he finds a hope anew, the seeds of a new dream, puts his faith in that light, to dispel the fear and the hunger and the mourning. He wants to be someone to trust, too, his hands growing ever more acquainted with the hilt of a blade.
Here, close to home, it's not for glory that he sabotages and fights and kills. Maybe it still is for stability, in the end, for safety, for home. The land bleeds because its people do, bled of hope with every step. He sees Nevassa. He knows it's not the only place that suffers. The dream sprouts.
In him, revolution. He fights now, truly for Daein, not for her glory or her pride, but for her people. Is that not the heart of it? It's the people he knows and talks to and knows and loves, the people he sings and dances and breaks bread with, the people who share with eachother no matter how little they have. That's the Daein he knows. The Daein he sees. The Daein he hopes for and fights for, hope and faith everbright in his eyes. If the black emblem is Daein's pride, then the red of its flag is the people that let it exist. The dream blossoms.
Edward fights, and fights, and fights, even when it seems stupid or pointless or like something's wrong, because the choice is once again no choice at all, and because he would rather swing his sword than lie down and die. But it's filled with a conviction, and while he would have never fought selfishly, he may have lost drive after the realisation — But for freedom, for home, for family, for the Dawn Drigade and for Daein, he does not. He fights in crimson, carmine, red, trailing behind him — No indulgent half-measures in orange-red, no glory sought or subordination in black.
And Micaiah — Does she understand? She too grants him a coat of red, bright as dawn, trailing coattails to frame his bloodied path, to show his growth — A benediction for all he has done, for all he can still do.
In that swordmaster's coat, the dream bears fruit. There is a day he looks at himself and realises that he's become someone he'd only ever dreamed of being years ago. He's strong enough now — Really, truly, a flurry of steel in sunlight, in starlight. He's strong, but this really isn't that great, is it? It's heavy, this mantle of what he thought hero, but he's strong and knows he's fighting for what'lll ultimately be right. So he'll carry it. It's no worse than five sacks of flour down the street at once.
Still. No wonder noone can keep going just for glory; It's nowhere near worth killing for, dying for. But him, he'll do anything so he can break bread with everyone again, with no fear or grief snapping at their heels. Not just to survive, but to live, too.
Living — Hah, now that's worth dying for.
It's with this knowledge that he shrugs the coat on, tightens the belts and buckles, Caladbolg at his hip, its pommel solid under his palm.
He'll keep trailing red for the people of Daein, for his family found, for that shining vision of home.
#;stories by the campfire | drabble#;wc. 1381#kind of a memory format.#all of my muses are at least a little self-deluding as a treat#guy who is so normal about his favorite color#its a swordsmaster drabble but its more stacked than ill make other mastery drabbles i think bcs this is his. canon class yknow#i had a concept on par with a brain fungus but with how long i realised this was becoming i feel the execution... idk#all these tags were made over the slow roasting course of like 48 hours btw#im looking at this again and this is fine actually. woe lil guy be upon ye
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Between Life and Death
Dark Bishop mastery : 440 words
Power was something he had always had. Political, magical, social, familial - his presence commanded attention, his words demanded heeding. The ladder climbed by so many in order to even reach up and brush his throne with their fingertips had been laid flat for him, and it had not been his own feet that had carried him across it, but the backs of servants and the blackmailed. He had been placed upon a throne he had been told had long-been made for him. He had taught magic to mages twice his age. He had controlled an empire and wanted for nothing because those who could not anticipate his whims and desires were swiftly replaced. Even romance had been offered to him on a silver platter; the greatest effort he had made was to pluck the most interesting prize from the selection. The possibility that it would one day all come crumbling down had never once been entertained, until it did.
There was nothing left for him. Of him. The prodigious magic in his veins could produce nothing with hands that had never learned how to learn. After sixteen years, he was yet again an infant. This one disgraced and buried by the sins of a past life. The ladder he had once been carried across was now the slick wall of a well dug deep into the center of the world, against which he pounded his fists and despaired until his knuckles were bruised and bloody.
His “enrollment” at the Officers Academy was seen at first as just delaying the inevitable: the rot, decay, anguish, and frustration in a prison between life and death. If one were to ask him, that is what it still is. But what he doesn’t say, because he doesn’t quite recognize it himself, is that from infancy one can only grow. The life that had been handed to him, that had been prewritten by the whims of egotistical men, colored by a fear born from love, and dictated by the hatred of a primordial beast, had never been his to hold.
He laments what had been, what had once been easy, but he rebuilds all the same. Where new relationships can be forged, a foundation can be built without bricks of shallow praise and worship. Piece by piece, line by line, brick by brick, his own hands shape the future that he wants.
Whether he deserves the chance is not a question he asks. But it is there, beneath the rubble, neglected but intact - the blank pages of Julius’ story. It is his, and he grasps it like a precious gemstone in his hand.
Julius has learned Lifetaker
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meaning in all things
She had grown up on stories of this hallowed armament. Iote’s Shield lays across her bed, a gallant, golden thing at rest upon sheets of sweet summertime yellows. Kneeling atop her bed beside it, Maria’s hand hovers over the raised metal of the design emblazoned around its ruby heart with reverence - so much that she hardly dares to touch the thing, lingering but a hair’s breadth away.
How many generations of Macedonian rulers had it seen? Not nearly enough, she thinks, hand falling to trace its outline in the folds of her blankets. A scant one hundred years since he whose name it bore rebelled within the forests and took to the sky in freedom; only five generations past, and Macedon was not truly Macedon anymore, led by his second coming to its first death.
Only five. She is its last princess.
The thought sticks with her, silences and stills her. Five generations of warriors come and gone, and the last of them is no warrior at all; Maria of Macedon is a cleric, a kidnappee, a tool of subjugation from brother to sister and a would-be lamb to slaughter. (She recoils slightly, arms folding around herself.) What she is not is a warrior. She has uncalloused palms and soft fingertips, and even her training axe is made of wood, a child’s plaything - and of abnormally tiny make, to boot!
A moment passes with history heavy in Maria’s chest, until she grabs a plushie from the coziest nook of her bed and hugs it close, flopping down onto her side to stare at the shield and still yet to touch it. Cradled by warmth, just like this – that was how she listened to Michalis’ stories half the time, the other half with rapt attention: palms pressed to blankets, legs folded beneath her, and eyes all a-shimmer. And how he shined! How he sang the history of this selfsame beloved shield, how pride painted him in vibrancy, how the adoration he held for his home opened his reserved heart until it spilled with love abundant. Like this, how could she ever have failed to adore their Macedon?
He had let her touch the shield back then, a child’s warm hand pressed to cool metal with only the utmost respect. Then with that touch, she had mapped for a fleeting moment the scratches and ridges that a near-century of history bestowed - proof positive of all that Macedon had endured, overcome. And the man for whom this shield was named? King Iote, their forebear, the leader of the rebellion that severed the yoke of slavery, the tamer of wyverns and first king of Macedon. She can still remember how his voice fair near glowed with passion…
…and rolls the other way onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. It tells her nothing; only catches her thoughts and lets them hang there. In the end, the pride they had meted into virtue lost its shape, and, battered bent and broken, became avarice. They had returned to Dohlr; they had lost their way. What would their grand first king think of what they had become? From everything she knew of him, surely he had been a kind man – brave, with a sense of justice…
Laying her plush friend aside, Maria wriggles until she has folded her legs beneath her again, just as she used to so long ago. Her eyes fix upon her homeland’s treasure for a moment that stretches long into silence, and then–
She holds up her hand; a finger pops up, and then another- “Great–” – and another– “Great–” –and another. “Great Grandfather,” Maria begins, her chin tucked down to impress upon the audience her earnestness. “Macedon isn’t Macedon anymore.”
Silence. Great Great Great Grandfather, it seems, is as talkative as Michalis in the throes of paperwork. After a beat of consideration, she hefts the shield into an upright position, resting upon her bed and held at either side.
“Hi, Great Great Great Grandfather,” the littlest princess of Macedon begins. “I’m Maria. I’m your great– well.” A flash of sheepishness across her face, innocent and bright, mischief touching the scrunch of her expression. “Granddaughter, hee hee. There were a couple wars recently – big scary ones that split up the whole continent. My big brother sided with Dohlr because they were strong, and he wanted to wait until we could take them on. And my big sister, she was queen after him, until some awful people staged a coup and locked her up. And me… I haven’t done much of anything. I got kidnapped. I almost got eaten by a dragon. Now I go to school.
“But, you know, Great Grandfather? There’s no one in this whole world who loves Macedon more than my brother; he messed up lots and fell really far, but he’s still here, alive and working so hard. And my sister is so strong and gentle, and she does what’s right, and she’s so clever in ways people can’t even see! And, I… I love them, and I love Macedon.
“...But Macedon isn’t Macedon anymore. Prince Marth– oh, that’s Anri’s great-son! You were friends, weren’t you? He beat my brother and is friends with my sister, and he saved the world! He really did! And after the second war, aaaaaall of Archanea’s coming together under his rule. So… there aren’t going to be any more princes or princesses of Macedon; I’m the very last one. But can you believe it?”
A smile unfurls upon her lips, a flower meeting a golden sun. “The whole of Archanea came together under the Hero-King, Great Grandfather. Isn’t that wonderful? And even if Macedon is different now, her people are still here. I think… I want to find the way I can help them. All of us– Michalis, Minerva, and I– we’re all doing our best, and the future is full of so much peace – so much hope!”
At last, she lays a hand over its ruby heart. Perhaps to comfort; perhaps to be comforting; like as not, it is both.
“I think that’s something you can be proud of.” A tilt of her head, a rush of crimson o’er her shoulder, her smile rocks from its axis, joy effulgent written in its skew. Then, for but a moment, she could swear – she feels its warmth aglow. Like Michalis’ ardent passion, or Minerva’s gentle kindness - like love, boundless and overflowing. She blinks.
And she laughs, merry and bright.
“Hee hee! That’s right!
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Heartpounding! A miracle of song?!
Bard mastery drabble - 630 words
Oh I can’t wait to tell you my feelings
For this moment I have been dreaming
Learning to sing while slinging my magic,
I wanna show you what I have learned
I’m healing hearts by moonlight,
And fighting darkness by daylight,
Having been blessed with this new might,
I will always win the fight!
Your words of wisdom will always guide my way
And with this light, I’ve grown once again!
Trying so hard to accomplish my dreams
I study hard so I can stand by you,
Writing this song I hope to touch your heart,
To bring a smile on your face!
I may not have her beauty or her grace,
But you thought I stood out from the crowd,
Always your student, past, present, and future
I really hope to make you proud!
I still remember when you found me on that day
And from then on, my purpose was found.
Every night as I stand under the sky
I wonder if that’s the spark in my eyes
The Spark that you saw and gave me a future,
I wonder if that’s what it could be..
This miracle that you entrusted in my hands,
I realize, I owe it to you
And so this song that tells you my feelings,
I hope to you that it will have meaning
Forever yours, your student, always!
The dreaming mage that fights for you.
The grateful mage that loves you so,
The smiling mage: Yeah that’s me!
As the song came to an end, for a moment all Ewan could hear was his own heartbeat. Badump..badump..
And then, roaring applause, followed by cheering from all sides. “We love you!!” They shouted.
Ewan bowed gratefully at the support of his loyal fans, a bright smile on his face. “Thank you, thank you! I love you all so much too!” While that was absolutely true, this song in particular was aimed towards one man. Said man was in the front row, having received a special seat. He smiled at the boy on stage, and stepped up.
“Ewan…” he said, as he embraced the boy. “Your feelings in this song, I’ve heard them. They've opened my eyes to how much you've matured already... I think you’re ready for it.” Ewan could feel his heart pound in his chest. This was it, the moment he’s been dreaming of! The moment he’d finally-
“BA-KAAAAWK!”
…wait what? He blinked and before he knew it, the man’s head was replaced by that of a rooster. Not just his though, everyone in the crowd suddenly had rooster heads too! What the-?!
“COCKADOODLEDOOOOO!”
“YIKES!”
With a shout, Ewan shot upright from where he fell asleep on his desk. His chair tipped dangerously, before it came plummeting down- with the boy sitting on top of it coming down as well. “Owwww……” Groaning, he got up to see a rooster outside, pecking at his window. “Aw, stupid chicken! I was having such a nice dream…”
He looked at the papers strewn about his desk. Oh, that’s right.. His assignment. The professor told him he should try to think about his deepest feelings and put them to song. Various scribbles, attempts at lyrics and crossed out sentences littered his papers. Writing out his true feelings was harder than he thought, especially when it had to rhyme and be lyrically cohesive. But bards write from the heart to touch their audience’s hearts, sorta like magic! ....Right? The little mage wondered if his words could someday reach the people he loves most….
He looked at his most recent attempt, titled “Miracle Encounter”.
…
……
……..
Ugh, cringe. He quickly crumpled up the paper and threw it in the bin. Sitting down and grabbing a fresh sheet of paper, he started to think. He really wanted to convey his true feelings properly…
(END)
#(Mastery: bard)#thread: Heartpounding! A miracle of Song?!#(drabble: magic to make you happy!)#// first drabble mastery attempt! woooo
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Danse Macabre
Dancer Mastery drabble: 474 words
cw: gore
The anthurium was a kind of dance. At that age, it was the only one Griss knew. Costuming of vibrant red, splattering over footsteps meandering across the grey stone bowl of the arena in looping spirals. Raptured cries, an orchestra, and the air heavy with the stench of rosebuds, dozens of which bubbled from ravines carved in flesh. Each disciple circled a partner, like dancers (like animals), but cloudy eyes were flung to a distant nirvana where the world was painted gold and skin sang for touch. Practice had left Griss’ fingers stained and blistered, but no less eager for their turn to weave past another’s spread hand to ring around a neck instead. He would leave the golden land long enough to look into their eyes, and find humanity in all its colors. He had practiced for that, and taken the sacred Eyes of God in its constituent parts until he could fight off its numbing haze for the kaleidoscope of sensation.
When his time came, his steps were flawless, and the gales he commanded made a path strewn with the hands and fingers and ears and feet of his partners, all blooming poppies like human-shaped vases. Lord Sombron, guide me. Lord Sombron, guide me. He slurred the words through the haze that ebbed every now and again, like a hymn sung over the shrieking choir. It would build a staircase over the darkening garden and its bleeding lines to the realm of gods if he kept singing. He knew this, so he didn’t look down. His body acted on its own will to survive.
Another partner. Another half-formed boxstep. She collapsed into his arms like a cut-string doll but he had missed the glitter in her glassy eyes before they shut. Another then. There had to be another. His fingers stung, his feet ached, but he knew it meant he needed more. It was the only thing he knew. The staircase before him had no end. The path behind him had no beginning. The orchestra had no melody. There was neither sky nor earth, neither life nor death here, but like the way some lowly beasts could wander for a while in ignorance of the horror inspired by their headless bodies, the dance went on in aimless confusion. One more and he would find what he was looking for. Just one more. Just one more. Just one more.
They had to pull him out trembling and slicked nearly black. Just one more. Lord Sombron, guide. Just one more. Lord Sombron, guide me, he kept saying, eyes peeled back to their whites but seeing nothing of the pulpy garden, the painted walls, or even the divine staircase, for that matter. Pulverized into nonsense, there was nothing left of an ordered world. His daydreams had forgotten to remind him of the shape of death.
#mastery drabbles#// wanted to meet my one class a month quota and this is the only accessed class griss hasn't mastered yet#// intentionally a bit messy for the sake of what's happening here#// but I was also wrestling with my concrete way of writing and a desire to make something more abstract#// since this would have been traumatic enough to prevent solid memories from forming
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a princess in all but—
pry, primp, pose. style, smile, sacrifice.
There's a silk gauze that binds her wounds, that cradles her to sleep at night. ( A promise to her father. ) Its paper thin, translucent, and knits over her brows like a silent crown.
She made a promise to him before she understood it, and she was to make it her everything because it was so. Is so. Was supposed to be so. In the mirror, Nanna leaned in closely, plying away a stray lash before blowing a wish on it. When her fingers brushed aside her long, blonde bangs, she assumed a tiara would rest here—tracing a line along her brow until it haloed.
There was never a night where she didn't feel like a princess. Not when she snuck into Asbel's stash of books, not when Eyvel poured in milk to go with their bread, not when she would notch a door-frame for every half-inch Mareeta reached. Not when she picked rocks out of the river with Osian, nor hung up lines and lines of soaked laundry with Tanya. Nor when she'd leave dried peaches by Linoan's doorstep, or sewed lace onto an old handkerchief Miranda lent her.
There was never a night when she did feel like a princess. Not when her father scolded her for straying to the front lines, nor when she never knew if her meals were coming off of one of her friends' tables. Not when villagers, old and worn, would come up close to take her hand, and bear to her their sole vial of holy water. Not when she was greeted with expectant eyes, right out of the gates of Agustria. Not when her prince would come, breathlessly throwing open the doors, to a proposal that swept the words out of her mouth.
Her thumb curved over the bow of her lips, correcting the pale pink paint dabbed onto it.
When her mother held her in her arms, she didn't tell Nanna to be anything. But when she left, Nanna learned to be proud.
When her father grasped onto the reins, shelling her between his deft hands and his chest, he told her to be proud. Her people were waiting. She learned to be theirs.
Nobility was...
Taught. Born into. Nurtured out of. Undefined. Defiant. A portrait. A promise. An expectation. A failure of such.
If this was about blood rights, then she had heard enough. Seen enough. Were they born to be elevated— or to give until they were light enough to lift from the ground? Was she so different from the girls she swapped feathers with in her youth?
In the mirror was a young woman, whose nose shined until she powdered it soft.
Nanna wondered if this would be enough, then.
To present as a nation's pride, despite knowing better.
That every privilege she was granted must be paid back with a service, a duty, and an unending promise.
It would have to be enough.
Gently, Nanna picked up her scissors to trim the halo over her eyes.
CLASS MASTERED: NOBLE 🌟
#mastery drabble: noble#word count: 506#{ i have thoughts about nanna not inheriting her mother's princess class but inheriting charm (a skill almost exclusive to the lord class)#{ I think Nanna strongly adheres to her call as a princess in address but /defines/ herself through an oath to her people (and leif)#{ thus preferentially taking on the paladin class over master knight#{ tried to have the meticulous process of make up tie into presentation and pruning herself into this image expected of her#{ she keeps her hair short or else she'd be lachesis' splitting image
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