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Thread: [M] Fire Emblem: Resolve [Cosmic Fury & Ashen]

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    Default [M] Fire Emblem: Resolve [Cosmic Fury & Ashen]

    [The following roleplay is rated mature for reasons that may include but are not limited to strong language, sexual (inexplicit) themes, violence, and mild drug and alcohol use. Reader discretion is advised.]

    As a girl, when Mags had found herself in this cursed place, the panic settled in near immediately. It always started in her throat, coiling inside her airway and choking her breaths. Then it would snake down to her stomach, pitting nausea sputtering against her insides. Her breaths would grow heavy, and before she knew it, she was hyperventilating, blushes meeting the embarrassment spelt over her face. Now, at twenty-six, her body rarely reacted so violently. Perhaps she had grown out of her panic attacks, or maybe she was just too desensitized to it all. Regardless, she knew these trips would not stop until she succeeded, so she silently accepted her surroundings.

    She reached out a hand in front of her. The smog was thick enough to seep through her threadbare gloves, palpable in her palm. It veiled the city, and for that, she was grateful. The corpses piled against the border walls only suggested worse from within. Had those bodies been Undead? Or people? Feeling a familiar sickness in her throat, she closed her eyes. She did not want to know.

    By now, she knew the routine. She stood silently as the infected air pelted the exposed skin of her cheeks. Wasn’t this taking longer than usual? The hairs on her arms stood up; bugs crawled up her legs. Then, the air cleared, the itching stopped, and a woman appeared before her. Rays of sunlight radiated from her smiling face, warming an otherwise lightless world. Mags bowed her head to her goddess, thankful that this curse would temporarily end soon. Finally, the brilliant leader of the Divine Dragons was here to guide her.

    Naga approached Mags and with gentle hands brought her gaze to her. She was wordless, but her expression said all the things Mags had never heard any human say to her. You are safe here, her bright eyes beamed. You are loved here, her smile encouraged. You can do this. The goddess leaned over Mags, and locks of her green hair fell over Mags’s clothes, leaving a sweet pea aroma where they touched. Naga’s voice, smooth as honey, whispered into her ear, warm, welcoming, delivering a new name.

    ~~~

    Mags’s eyes fluttered open, blinking in the world around her. Sweat fell down her cold skin, and a chill ran down her spine. Where… was she? The sun was just starting its climb over the horizon, and the trees were whistling loudly in the harsh winds. Her blanket had been kicked a distance away from her sleeping spot on the grass, and as the chilly autumn air blew through her lavender locks, she shivered and grabbed for it. But there was no time to go back to bed, even if the sun wasn’t awake yet. Her new mission was clear, and she needed to get moving.

    She shoved her blanket into her bag and threw it over her shoulder. The backpack likely weighed more than she did, but she showed no outward sign of struggle in carrying it. It housed her entire life; as a nomad, she had nowhere else to store her scarce belongings. The grass she’d slept on had made a more comfortable bed than she had most nights, but the ache from sleeping on stone the night before still haunted her bones. Shaking her pain, she pulled her hood tighter around her tiny body and started walking towards the nearest town. She needed to contact her companion and tell him about their new target. Perhaps afterwards they could move somewhere warmer, somewhere where she wouldn’t freeze to death. Damn she hated the cold.

    The town was only beginning to welcome the day. Few people wandered the cobblestone streets, some getting to work, others walking their dogs. The smell of the day’s array from the nearest bakery made her mouth water. She hadn’t been staying near this town for long, but she already felt she’d miss its people, its delicious smells. Her companion was likely still asleep, resting comfortably in one of the rooms of the town inn. That was fine by her; early morning and late night were the best times to find out more about her targets. She spent the morning asking around about her new name, gathering whatever information she could, and when the sun was hanging high in the sky, she thought she had enough information to recruit her companion.

    He was a mage from the future, a place not unlike the one she frequented in her visions. In his journey here, he had forgotten details about his own life and mission, even his own name. Mags had been calling him various things over the course of their relationship. Though she used lighthearted insulting nicknames most, she had also taken to calling him Jorah, for reasons she refused to disclose to him. When she had first seen him, clumsily fighting a pack of Undead, in over his head, Mags knew there was something about him. She trusted him, perhaps too easily. At any rate, he was opposed to working with Lucina and the rest of the Shepherds, so he couldn’t have been too bad. And he did make these goddess-given missions a lot more bearable.

    When she did find him, he was eating lunch. She approached him and plucked a leaf from his plate, greeted him with a smile. “I’ve got a new task for you!” she announced, a hello. “Thank gods. I’m already tired of this cold. I think I’d go anywhere that wasn’t Regna Ferox right now.” She took a seat beside him and chewed on her stolen food. As she did, she glanced over him. Why was there always something about this man that made Mags want to talk with him? They were just business partners, but in a different life, might they have been more? She turned away, brushing the bangs from her pale eyes. “We’re heading south,” she continued. “Our target is just a petty thief, but maybe he’ll have a heavy purse to loot. You up for it?
    Thanks to Craze for the beautiful Bravely set!

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  2. #2
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    Default The Man With No Name

    It was yet another dark night. It was cold, and it was dark. The acrid fog clawed at his lungs as he tried to breathe. No matter how far he tried to go from the epicenter of all this chaos, the entire castle stank of death. The sights were far more ghastly than the atmosphere. The twisted forms of undead littered the ruins of Valm Castle, and the once-living joined their ranks in random locations. There appeared to be no survivors, and the air still had the aftereffects of powerful dark magic clinging to the stones themselves.

    The power of darkness here was overwhelming, and no light could pierce the fog it wove throughout the world. The cold was bitter and infected the earth and sky alike with its disease, and the fires of the castle burning down in the wake of its freshly failed struggle for survival couldn't add any warmth to the gloom. There was only one thing that could've gotten worse, and that was the fires of Grima coming to make certain the place was truly relegated to the lost annals of history.

    The grotesque experience truly drove home the fact that this was truly a world to be hated. Grima had already won, and was busy returning the earth to the state it was before any other life moved and breathed, and in the most gruesome ways the damned lizard could imagine on a given day.

    The young man started to run, to try to get away from the castle, but he started to hear and even feel in the air the telltale signs of his arrival: thum... thum... thum... thum... It kept getting closer regardless of how fast he could run, and this it truly signaled the end.

    ~~~

    The young man woke up in a cold sweat from an otherwise peaceful nap.

    He hated this dream: it was one of a handful of vivid memories he carried with him from his own version of the future. He had no idea who (or what) sent him here. His memories were always fuzzy on that account, and his reason for even being here also escaped him. Still, he got a very strong feeling that it had to do with preventing all of this from happening.

    In all of this, he had two distinct memories. The first was he was all but the sole survivor of wherever it is he came from. He couldn't remember that either, but it wasn't Valm -- he knew that much. He got the feeling he was from some other region than these two landmasses that were always on the map. The second was that he was gifted the distinct power of fire that he now wielded with relative ease these days. By whom, he similarly had no idea. He couldn't even remember his own name, if he ever had any to begin with.

    For whatever it was worth, he truly embraced his fire. He could even burn stuff in different colors these days! It was certainly not anything he'd ever seen other fire mages successfully do. It must have been a quirk, like dark mages and their own strange, unique magic. Perhaps I have something special of my own, too. Even if it didn't matter now, it was a thought worth considering.

    In the way of lost memories, the most annoying was that he literally had no name. At all. If he did, it was lost so far back in his mind that he couldn't remember it regardless of how hard he tried. From town to town, he always introduced himself without a name, and let the townsfolk decide -- or him, if he was in a creative mood. In this town, he was known simply as "Pyromancer." It was a good working name, and the village elder saw fit to bestow it on him partly because he was the only mage he'd ever seen who used fire to the near-exclusion of all other magic -- save for the occasional lightning for added dramatic effect.

    After these past several months, it came down to it that he was a man of many names, and also none at all. There was only one person in this world who had an actual name for him: his rescuer and ally, Mags. Now if he were a weird one, she'd certainly be a card-carrying member of the club. For an assassin, she was unusually trustworthy. He had no idea, but he felt oddly... drawn to her, as if watching her back on the road was part of the reason he came to this world. He honestly had no clue, but he knew better by now than to ignore his instincts. And so far, they were spot on. She brought in work, and he brought in support. It was an excellent partnership, and she really helped his head stay attached to his shoulders -- even if her ministrations were laced with petty insults.

    That said, they were rarely together for long. The two worked together on missions, and then as soon as business concluded she insisted on parting just for a little while. She was clearly a nomad, never staying in any place for more than a few short nights. The young man (who she'd taken to calling Jorah for some reason she refused to say) most often stayed in small, nameless towns on the frontier, defending them from roving undead in the area and moving on when they had a new mission -- and well after the vermin were exterminated with extreme prejudice, sometimes along with the mage who had summoned them.

    In this particular town, he was well-rewarded for his efforts. He had a room paid for by the villagers for as long as he needed to stay, but he still insisted on earning his keep through working with the villagers to rebuild after the last attack. It was the least he could do for the trouble these good people were clearly going through to let him stay in one of their only inn's few rooms for a solid four weeks now. This was their way of paying him for his services, since they simply didn't have the cash to pay people to defend the town.

    There was also the added bonus that the work acted as some sort of physical exercise for him. Mages were rarely strong, able-bodied warriors, and he needed to be in top shape to do his job properly. And in his situation, he needed to be as strong as he could reasonably get to survive. Speaking of which, he decided to get up and get to work. A barn was going to be raised this morning, and that would mark the end of this town's rebuilding efforts.

    He had the feeling that this would be his last day here, so he decided to pitch in and give it his all to repay these villagers for their generous hospitality. It was getting close to winter, after all, and he'd feel too guilty to work if he didn't compensate these people for all that food he'd been eating this entire time.

    ~~~

    "Jorah" had conflicted feelings about this town, even after the brief time he had spent here. He liked the idyllic lifestyle here, and being treated like a hero for once was definitely nice. But for some reason, this place simply wasn't... him.

    Raising that barn was hard work, and took the townsfolk clear into mid-day to accomplish. It was good, honest work, and the villagers appreciated another set of arms to help with the task. It was among the downsides of being so small -- any raid by undead that cost lives hurt grievously, and these people needed all the help they could get even without all that mess.

    A strange atmosphere hung in the air today. He'd been here a while; he and the villagers alike knew that the time to move on was fast approaching. Winter was coming, and those folks who didn't have a place of their own to spare couldn't stay. With the undead attack having destroyed much of the village, there were no livable places left for extra guests to comfortably winter in. The village's limited food stores were sure to be burdened by extra mouths, as helpful during the summer and harvest seasons as they were. That, and the undead along with their summoner had already been dispatched almost two weeks ago. Everyone knew that the now-beloved "Pyromancer" was merely here until his much more reclusive partner showed up... and then they would both be gone on yet another quest. The stories told by the villagers and townsfolk in this region never said anything else to the contrary.

    "Jorah" tossed his bright, almost unnaturally yellow hair out of his face to keep it out of his freshly served stew. He tore into his food with gusto, and his sky-blue eyes strongly signaled his clear approval for the hearty flavor. He was served the village's finest fare today, in anticipation for his imminent departure, be it today or the few days to come. Although the meal was simple, it was very well-prepared, and the villagers had even tapped into their precious meat stocks to give the stew more flavor for their guests. All in all, he was thankful for the excellent meal after a day's hard work.

    As if on cue, a stirring rippled through the small village: someone else was arriving, and "Jorah" knew exactly who it was: Mags. And he knew exactly what she was here for, well before she would come into sight. As if performing some ages-old ritual, he quickly pulled a slender leather string out of a hidden pocket in his cloak and used it to tie up his hair. He already had the rest of his things ready to go at the inn; they always were, and they always would be.

    By the time she'd come into sight, he had already gone through his sequence of getting ready, and before she could see his oddities on full display, he'd resumed finishing off his stew as if nothing else had happened. Mags came up and, as if she were someone who'd known him his whole life, sent a friendly greeting. The young man knew not why, but it made him feel warm somewhere inside, in a place where all the fire he could muster still couldn't reach. If this world weren't as messed up as it is, we might've been easily be the best of friends.

    In any case, the mission was straightforward. "Sure thing, I'll come with you. Just let me get my things together at the inn and say my parting words with the village elder. I'll be back within five."

    This was yet another ritual he always followed. He never left a place as small as this one without making sure it was known to the villagers that he was going. He owed it to these generous people to let them know he'd be going, and why he was leaving so suddenly. This, too, was a habit known to people of this local region. He'd stay, his partner would show up, and within minutes, he'd say goodbye and they'd both disappear as if they were ghosts. If anything, this was the longest he'd ever stayed in any one place.

    As rustic as this place was, the nameless man enjoyed the break from fighting things every other day. He had a feeling this would be his last true break from combat for a while. Well, there's no helping it. Time to move out.

    Braving the Storm (A Short Story) -- role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=55314

  3. #3
    The Ashen One
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    As Jorah left to gather his belongings and say his goodbyes, Mags stared blankly at the abandoned stew he had left behind. In truth, she never understood her companion’s tendency to make friends with the natives of each town they stayed in. She couldn’t comprehend the point of a fleeting friendship like that, and she especially couldn’t understand the man’s insistence on living among the people of this world, doing their labor and sharing their conversations. He was a foreigner, a man born of a time not now, but most of the time, Mags felt that he fit into this world better than she ever had.

    Though, while the savory aroma of roasted meat and vegetables from the dish before her wafted through the air, she supposed his ways had their perks. Her stomach growled quietly, a reminder of the stretch of time since her last real meal. She was skilled with a bow; most nights, she was able to hunt her own food out in the fields surrounding whatever town they’d settled in. Still, nothing could beat the thought of the well-fed cattle of a farming village, plumped and roasted, perhaps even seasoned—she tried to push her hungry thoughts away and focus instead on something more important. She and Jorah had a new target, and they would need a plan.

    Oftentimes, Naga left Mags with only a name, and she had to figure the rest out herself. Occasionally, Naga would show her darker visions, of men turned cannibalistic, skin yellowed, eyes sunken, barely human, fighting for their survival in a world that made such a thing impossible. Somehow, Mags had always known that that would be the future if she failed her missions, if she did not dispose of the right people. When she did succeed, Naga sent her visions of a much more pleasant place, one in which that future was not even a possibility, where the skies were clear of smog and the flowers grew taller than any man ever had. She believed in such a place, but she knew she needed to work for it, and she would do whatever Naga told her to to ensure that heaven came to be.

    Though this time, her goddess had not made her job easy for her. She had only a name to go on, and the research she’d done from the townsfolk willing to speak with her that morning. She had never understood Naga’s curious method of delivering her targets, or why she had chosen Mags in the first place, but the assassin knew better than to question a deity. It would just make the hunt more exciting, she told herself. Besides, not knowing much about the man would prevent the guilt that bubbled under her skin, after.

    Jorah returned, so Mags rose from her seat and bowed her head slightly in acknowledgement. She wanted to scold him, to question him—don’t you know it’s a waste of time and energy to make all these friends you’ll never see again?*—but she held her tongue. She told herself she didn’t want to make friends in case she had to kill one at some point, but perhaps deeper inside she knew she just wasn’t that good at it. Instead, she turned and started their journey, Jorah in tow. She was silent, busy mentally preparing the battle they might encounter later that day. With any luck, she thought, they’d take their target by surprise and bypass a battle entirely—but were things ever that simple?

    The road to their destination was lined with forests and mountains. Almost as soon as they were outside the town’s borders, the cobblestone roads gave way to dark earth and overgrowth. Without missing a step, Mags tugged her bag to one shoulder and pulled from it a map. Her eyes scanned the numerous dots she had inked into the parchment. “We’ll be entering Ylisse,” she informed her companion. “Luckily, we won’t be walking far past that. Our destination should be just past the Longfort.” The border between Ylisse and Ferox was a highly protected one that had given them trouble before, but ever since Chrom had made his way through not that long ago and played nice with the khans there—which probably meant dueling with them or something, Mags didn’t know and didn’t care—traveling restrictions had been much less severe. To get away from the cold of the north, she was sure she’d fight anyone, any day.

    She stashed her map back into her bag and looked at the wizard. In the quiet of the forest, Mags didn’t feel awkward walking beside him without conversation. Still, there was a question at the back of her mind. She mulled it over for a few minutes, then finally spoke. “Do you miss them?” She turned to the road ahead of her. Absently her hand drummed at her side, subconscious. “I mean, the people of the town. Doesn’t it ever get tiring?” It wasn’t her business, and she knew that. Still, the girl in her was curious about what it was like to have people care about you. She looked back at him and smiled, carefree, a dismissal. “A stupid question,” she added. “But… I don’t think I could do it, what you do.”
    Thanks to Craze for the beautiful Bravely set!

    ~Recruitment Thread~
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  4. #4
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    The two always carried on with the same strange, ritualistic cycle. They’d come to a town, rid it of the problem they came to eliminate, and the moment their mission was complete, they’d promptly part ways for a short while. Mags would go to receive her next mission, and her nameless partner would linger a while to do his own thing. Before long, Mags would be back with yet another mission. Sometimes she would come back with a name and clues on where they needed to go, or sometimes just a name. Sometimes, the villagers from the previous mission would know something of it, and their job would be wrapped up quickly.

    This time, though, he felt this particular mission was going to pose an interesting challenge for them. It was the first one where their target was in a different country altogether, for starters. That meant that the nearby villagers would have almost no chance of knowing about their target. These were common folk, after all, and even with Chrom’s trip into Ferox changing everything regarding travel, traffic from Ferox to Ylisse was still painfully one-way for most out here.

    Strangely enough, he never once objected to offing any of the people they’d been sent after. Sometimes, he even enjoyed the act of blasting them to pieces if their quarry was of a... particular sort. Whoever (or whatever) was giving Mags her missions (and her targets) seemed to have their interests aligned bizarrely close with his -- so far. Not a single one of their quarries wound up being an objectionable target so far. They’d only ever encountered a series of thieves, robbers, bandits, and the odd Grimleal.

    So far, they’d come across no necromancers, though. Seriously, fuck those guys. He held a special, burning hatred for those sorts. He’d forgotten the details in the fog of his other lost memories, but he still knew that, somehow, they were responsible for so much evil in his own world, if not its very destruction. By the time he was old enough to do something about it, there was no world to save. Only three things of note remained in his own world: Grima, the dead, and those about to join them.

    Because he had nothing left from his previous life, the young man clearly showed little abstract interest in saving the world. The only real attachments he ever formed with this place came from that fourth type of thing: people who seemed to care about making sure their neighbors remained among the living. Here, in this nigh-blissful world (compared to his own), there was no Grima, and almost no necromancers or Grimleal swarming about every other nook and cranny.

    He was pulled from his thoughts by Mags pointing out the Longfort, along with its truly impressive border wall slowly coming up out of the horizon. It was his first trip there, having spent all his time with Mags up in Ferox. The young man noticed her parchment and its many marks, though. It was plain that she’d been far more well-traveled than he was. Way to show me up and make me feel lazy.

    That aside, her question hit out of the blue. Still, she deserved an straight answer. “Honestly, I do miss those townsfolk. They’re good people – most of them, at least. They might not seem all that different from town to town, but it beats life where I come from. If you’d call it that life. Where I come from, there’s nothing left – only that damned dragon and those he’s killed.”

    Thinking hard, he rubbed his temples, ravaging his mind for what memories he had left of the place. He wanted to sum his thoughts up, but it was difficult. A painful moment later, he found something of an answer.

    “The way I see it, there are three ways this could all end. We could die trying, or we could save the world and go back to whatever timeline we come from. In my case, I’d die anyway.” That much, at least, he knew was true. ”That, or we could save the world and find ourselves stuck here. Either way, if we make the most of our time here, there’s no way we’d possibly regret it. I figured that if there’s a two-in-three chance of me being screwed anyway, I might as well live a little. You should, too.”

    By this time, the Longfort was coming into sight from within the forest. Hopefully they’d be able to simply walk past, do their business, and move on. As nice a country as he heard Ylisse was, the young man had this gnawing thought at the back of his head that he wasn’t going to like this place for some reason. Dismissing it as a random lost memory nagging at his mind, he put the thought out of his head. It was time for business, after all, and business demanded a level head.

    Braving the Storm (A Short Story) -- role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=55314

  5. #5
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    If Mags had noticed her companion glancing at her map, she didn’t acknowledge it. She wasn’t stupid enough to mark her targets on it; rather, the parchment was inked with various other notes and reminders. To anyone else, the gentle penmanship and small scribbles would make little sense, but Mags had needed to mark them, for reasons she still wasn’t so sure of herself. She had written Spyrrha along a road in northern Ferox, and J’s grave was marked with a tiny, neat X near the eastern-most point of Plegia. These notes, and the many like it, had been written long ago, reminders, but now they blended in with the map’s terrain, its borders and names. As she planned the quickest route to their new destination, she was barely aware of the things she swore she’d never forget.

    She paused at the answer to her question, considering. Of course, her companion would want to make the life now that he never could have had in his wicked future. It made sense, but… Mags turned away, a darkness coming over her face for only a moment. That damned dragon… She winced at the words, or perhaps the way he said them. Even if she wasn’t from his world, even if she couldn’t share in his pain, nor that of the children of the Shepherds, the very mention of the fell dragon sent a chill down her spine. She shook it quickly, hoping Jorah hadn’t noticed anything at all, but a lingering discomfort settled on her chest, invasive, a reminder of the dreams she knew could become reality.

    His logic—as usual—did not make sense to her. Mags didn’t see the same three outcomes Jorah spoke of, so she found it difficult to understand where he was coming from, but she still listened, interested in learning more about how his thought processes worked. “We won’t die trying,” she assured him, interrupting. Her whisper held confidence, though her mind questioned her words. She couldn’t bare the thought of failing all this. The wasteland that she so frequently saw in her dreams, the one Lucina spoke of, the one Jorah had once known: there was no possibility of failure; she had to prevent that.

    Though, his other possibilities intrigued her. If they succeeded—or, when—what would happen to Jorah? For some reason, she didn’t think he would be sent back to his own time. Would that land even exist then? She cast a glance over him, his lanky frame, his messy hair. Mags didn’t have many allies, but she had come to like his company. True, he often spelt trouble, and she didn’t understand most of what he did both on and off the battlefield, but perhaps it was those quirks, that weird outlook on life that kept her coming back to him. She had grown too used to him now to bid him farewell when all was said and done, but she couldn’t think of anything to tell him that would make him stay. Would he even be able to stay? And when would they finish all this, anyway? There were too many factors to consider, too many loose ends, that it wasn’t worth thinking of yet.

    She was ready to dismiss his answer and her thoughts regarding it, but his last words resonated with her. I might as well live a little. You should, too. Mags shifted awkwardly. If she was honest, she didn’t quite know how to do that. Who and what was she if not an assassin? A servant of Naga? So busy running after her targets, killing those her goddess pointed out, had she ever developed a personality? Her own reason to live? Embarrassment tainting her cheeks, she tried to wave him off. “Maybe we’ll just have to find something together,” she suggested. “Be wed in some lavish hall, raise little murder children together… What every man and woman dream of.” Though it was clear she was joking, the tone did not meet her voice. The fake smile she offered him quickly faded. Women like her didn’t get married, didn’t have families. What did he know about what her life needed?

    “Never mind,” she said, awkwardly clearing her throat. She drove a hand through her lavender locks, shifting them away from her eyes. “Is that Longfort already?” She pointed to the building, glad to have a distraction from the conversation. Mags jogged the rest of the way, eager to cross the border quickly and without any commotion. Guards were stationed all around, dressed in typical Feroxi fashion: bulky armor, insulated and spiked, dark colors. They all wore the same intimidating expression, and Mags absently wondered if looking heartless was a requirement for joining the Feroxi guard. She counted them, already thinking of how she and Jorah could eliminate them if things went sour. Realizing she was being paranoid, she casually approached the fort walls. They were able to pass through the border easily, and on the other side, Mags let out a sigh of relief. Finally, out of Ferox, they wouldn’t be risking the harsh winter temperatures. Their world had just gotten a little bigger.

    But a new country came with a slew of new responsibilities. Mags would have to reacquaint herself with the customs of this land, the celebrities here, the government. It had been some time since she’d been to the Halidom of Ylisse. Just how many new targets were waiting for them here now?

    Continuing their walk, Mags suddenly stopped when her eye caught on something in the sky. A creature flew by them overhead, tall and graceful, fluid and beautiful. It soared through the clouds like a god, carefree. Its hooves sparkled like stars in a daytime sky, and its mane dripped petals from the flowers braided into it. “A pegasus,” Mags murmured. As a girl, she had always dreamt of being atop one, racing against the winds, gazing at the miniscule world below her, but now she knew better than to dream. “Looks like the Ylissean guards are out training today. Our target shouldn’t be around the border, but we should still keep an eye out. Last thing I could use right now is a night in the Ylissean prisons.” She started walking again, and subconsciously her gaze strayed to the sky, a change from its steady path on the ground.

    Now, they would need to figure out more about their target. “I wasn’t able to get much information,” she admitted. “So, mingling might do us some good. I say we get to the nearest town and spend a couple hours there investigating. I was told he’d recently come to Ylisse, so he shouldn’t be far from the border. Better for us.” She turned to him. All the emotions were already gone from her face; Mags was back to business. “How does that sound to you?”
    Thanks to Craze for the beautiful Bravely set!

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  6. #6
    Member Cosmic Fury's Avatar
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    At the mention of "murder children," it took the young man everything he had to keep from bursting into a fit of laughter. Yeah, that would be a good description of any hellions I manage to spawn on this earth. While he did manage not to laugh at the though, his face still made one weird contortion after another for a moment as he fought to keep it from coming out. As much as he privately hated to admit it, he needed a laugh.

    Despite having the moment saved by Mags' quick-witted remark, he couldn't shake the thought of what would happen if he really did settle here instead of going back. A few precious moments passed before he managed to process that all through his head. Now that I think on it, our adventures haven't been so bad. He didn't even know if he had a choice in the matter, when it was all over. Well, regardless of what happens, at least I got to meet you. Not that he'd ever say something that cheesy out loud, not in a moment like this at least. Instead, he let his expression do the talking.

    Of the two, she was about the only one with even half a plan of keeping this world from turning into the hellhole he himself crawled out of. And it was clear that, right at this moment, she meant business. With her mention of the Longfort coming into sight, he was suddenly deprived of any time to make any further comments on the matter, light-hearted or otherwise. Instead, the two silently put their conversation on hold, and the young man had already started diligently scanning the entire thing for any gaps or cracks in its defenses, should they either have to sneak or fight through. It wasn’t likely, though; he was very good at getting people to cooperate with him of their own free will.

    As they approached the fort, it quickly became apparent that a fight would almost certainly be futile, or stupid at best. Even if they did win (which he estimated a small chance of happening if they really worked together), the problem would be the follow-up. Not only would they have to remain on the run the entire time they were Ylisse (interfering greatly in their work), but they’d have to also fight or sneak their way back out, and likely never return.

    He wasn’t about to tolerate such an outcome. He didn’t feel like a fight that he was too lazy to even start in the first place. Not only that, but it was likely, if not certain, that they were going to travel right back through this very same gate the moment their mission was complete. Success didn’t matter much to the young man if he didn’t live to brag about it the next day, after all, so he decided to go the easy way.

    If there was one thing in life he excelled at, it was bullshitting someone until they’d be convinced of almost anything. Today, it so “happened” that Mags was his bodyguard, and he was an adventurer who had come here to see what life in Ylisse was really like. He had seen so many peasants with that exact story crossing the border with a new life in mind, after all. A wanderer pining for warmer climes would definitely be an easy story to sell… especially since, at least at the surface, it was already (technically) true. Thus, as they quickly approached the gate, the young man quickly motioned that he’d be the one doing the talking this time… as usual.

    As they inexorably came closer to the gates, the stream of people coming in and going out got quite a bit thicker, and it became much easier for the two to blend in as just a pair of lone travelers. The young man noticed a group of guards up ahead that seemed to be stationed there to question people on their business. He hurriedly started rehearsing what he was going to say in his head, passively hoping that they’d be simply forgotten by the guards.

    There was only one thing holding him back at this point, though. Ironically, it was a set of names he’d have to pull out of his hat for the two of them. Ehh, whatever. We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. She was the creative one with the nicknames, after all. He had a feeling that he might have to lean on her to “introduce” themselves halfway into the conversation, at this rate. 

    Braving the Storm (A Short Story) -- role-player.net/forum/showthread.php?t=55314

  7. #7
    The Ashen One
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    Even if Jorah's outward friendliness and tendency to talk to everyone was a nuisance at times, Mags was certainly glad for that quirk at Longfort. She didn't care much for conversing with the guards there, would have preferred to never see them again, and she knew she wasn't good at using her words to deal with people, not when her bow and sword spoke so clearly for her. She was inconvenienced by the rituals present at borders: the needless identity checks, the slew of questions, the waiting and waiting and waiting. She was grateful Jorah was there to help matters along. Even if she would adamantly deny it, she was impressed by the way he struck up conversations, even with people who did not matter. Though she tried to look bored, tried not to pay too close attention to what he was telling the guards, a fascination glossed over her eyes, and she wondered how he could be so good at this when she struggled to talk to even him.

    With the entire Halidom of Ylisse as their new playground, Mags and Jorah carried on their way, still wary of the nearby guards. Mags figured the presence of the pegasus knights would likely lessen by the time they reached a town, but until then, she felt the need to conceal her weapons as she walked. She subconsciously wrapped her cloak tighter around her body, hiding the sheath attached to one of her many belts. Her bow and quiver on her back were much more obvious, much harder to hide, but at least Jorah had had the sense to tell the guards she was a bodyguard. If they were stopped, that would be the same excuse they'd use, and that would explain away her weapons. She envied her companion; all of his weapons were invisible, save for an odd tome that didn't look threatening. Mags had never been very good with magic herself, and though a part of her wanted to ask the man for help with the skill, she knew it likely would only amount to her frustration and embarrassment.

    She sighed, dismissing the thought. She turned her gaze skyward again, and absently she wondered how many of those pegasus knights were watching them now. How many spears would be upon them if she so much as reached for her bow? Aimed an arrow at those majestic wings? The thought exhilarated her, gave her an inflated sense of importance, but she soon shook that too, with a small smirk over her lips. As long as they didn't do anything stupid like that, anything Naga would be ashamed of, they would easily cross to the next town without anything happening.

    Mags understood her partner's silence as an absence of protest, so she continued walking. Their conversation was abandoned but not forgotten, and Mags was thankful she no longer had to show that vulnerability again, even in jest. Her mind filled instead with all the ways she would get to her target, all the guards they'd likely have to tiptoe around, and maybe, if she were lucky, the way Naga would praise her later. It was never an obvious thing, yet it remained her favorite part of all of this. Naga rarely acknowledged her successes, but sometimes, after Mags had done what she was told, the goddess would smile down on her in subtle ways: sometimes she would feel especially lucky for a short while, finding good fortune in the form of a hefty hunt, or a warm bed where she otherwise thought she'd sleep outside, or some discarded gold to acquaint to her pockets. They were small signs she understood as her goddess saying she was watching, and that Mags had done well. She had no way of knowing whether Naga would grant her that this time, but she found herself hoping, and those hopes added a bounce to her step in the silence of her walk.

    They could tell from afar that the town was a small one. As dirt paths turned to stone, Mags let out a breath. She didn't know how long they had been walking, but her feet were starting to hurt, and she dreamt of later, when she would be able to remove her boots and stretch her toes. She heard someone approaching them, interrupting her thoughts, and instinctively her hand flew to her sword, fingers fluttering over its hilt. Her eyes came to rest on a small dog, and she relaxed again. The dog ran towards them but, seeming to get distracted by something else, it stopped and disappeared behind a house. Mags sighed. In a new place like this, she had to be on her guard, but a part of her wondered what it might be like to not be so high strung. She exchanged a curious glance with Jorah before shrugging and heading to the town square.

    It was marked by a large but plain stone fountain with several benches scattered about it. Mags eyed the shimmering coins thrown into its wells but stayed her hand. The few people bumbling about the square all greeted them with smiles. Mags hated the fake smile she put on for them, but she didn't want to raise suspicion by not returning the politeness. She let Jorah do most of the talking, and when they were finally alone again, Mags sighed. "Well, now the investigation starts."

    Finding information about their target was surprisingly easy. Mags went to the inn and talked with the elderly woman scurrying from either end of the long counter. She had seen their guy, she told them, and he was heading south; had just left. He'd been friendly, she had added, had tipped generously. Mags didn't care for such details, didn't like thinking about the personalities of her targets, so she cut the woman off and thanked her for the information. "South, then," she said, when they were outside the inn again. She smiled. "We're closer than we thought, from the looks of it. Let's go get our guy."
    Thanks to Craze for the beautiful Bravely set!

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