(no subject)

[starfelled]

A mist settles in over the monastery.

Is it morning? Night? Who can say? Today, the day feels endless. The sun is nowhere to be seen — or had it been at all? Instead, a curious green glow engulfs Garreg Mach, like an eternal twilight settling in. Time seems to be paused almost, though the wildlife in and around the area continues to act as though nothing is wrong. As though this is perfectly normal. As though it is natural for the skies to be dark, with not a single star in sight, and for the sun to be forgotten in the mist that lingers. The paths are at least lit by small orbs of light, fireflies flitting about.

However, should one come into contact with one of those fireflies, a memory of the past will be projected for all in the close vicinity to see. Joyous occasions, tragic events — they don't seem to discern one way or another. Perhaps it would be best to watch your step for now, though.

Of course, after lingering for about a day, the strange ambience will fade into what appears to be a normal night at Garreg Mach. It's as if nothing had happened at all. Did it? Or was it all simply a shared hallucination?

[ ● MEMSHARE POST. Coming into contact with the fireflies will share a memory of your character's with those around them. You can top-level with a memory to start out or have people tag you and determine it then, whatever. I don't make the rules (except I do and I say yolo). Have fun with it!
● Open posts like this one are flipping to a two week schedule instead of a weekly one.
● Because of the above, the last bit is there for people who'd maybe like to play out aftermath threads later on but don't want to wait for a new post or make a new one.
● Settings have been slightly updated. ]

Comments

[starfelled]

[ Needless to say, this turn of events is slightly unsettling to Sothis.

At first, she wasn't too bothered by it. This is how the world looks to her more often than not, after all — ignoring recent events, of course. And then, she slowly realized that she wasn't the only one seeing everything like this. As the (former?) goddess, she should have an explanation for this, but she has nothing to offer, completely at a loss. It's disorienting, to say the least.

Fortunately, because she's noncorporeal, the fireflies simply flit right through her, leaving her own fragmented memories locked away inside.

In the end, all she has to offer is a simple warning to those she passes by: ]

Ah— be careful.


[[ sothis won't be sharing memories, but I am down for others sharing stuff with her! she can be anywhere you want her to be. probably. mostly anywhere. ]]

[1x1]

[ Felix is making his way through the courtyard when the warning is aired. Unsettled, he drops a hand to his sword and spins around in search of the voice’s owner. Nothing could prepare him for the ethereal sight that Sothis makes, floating by the classroom archways. Slowly, he approaches her (somehow managing not to disturb the fireflies flitting about). ]

…You are no child.

[ The words sound idiotic as soon as they’re out of his mouth, but he’s not too embarrassed about it. Sothis is…clearly something other, something he doesn’t understand. The strange state of dress, the elaborate headpiece, the pointed ears, the floating. Good thing that Lysithea is no where to be found; this green-haired girl resembles the ghosts she’s so afraid of. ]

Be careful of what?

[cethflayn]

[grandma

Haha no but really, when Flayn spots Sothis, there's a soft sigh of relief. She'd only seen this ethereal young woman the one time, and yet to see her again made her presence feel all the more real. She comes over, giving the green lights a wary, wide berth.

It makes her path wildly wavering, and it'd be almost funny. Almost.]

I am being as careful as I possibly can be. How are you today? Or...tonight?

[It's so dark, who could say which is which?]

[crimsonflower]

[Just want to double-check you're cool with Sothis seeing Edelgard's BAD MEMORIES and if there's anything I should go light on or skim over/imply instead of describe.]

[azuremoon]

[Though they do not always speak there (Dimitri is actually quite comfortable just having Sothis hover quietly), he frequently sees her in the Knight's hall regardless. It's no surprise that's the first place he goes looking, and Dimitri ignores her warning for now as he approaches, letting out a soft sigh of relief. Once he made the connection between these lights and the ones that typically float around her, he was honestly rather worried...]

I am glad to see you well. How are you? Does this phenomenon affect you at all?

[azuremoon]

[OOC: Time for a slightly different top level! Hit me with your own memory, or just tag in and tell me what type of memory you'd want to see from Dimitri (cute, funny, embarrassing, angsty, a particular canon event, etc). I can also decide if you have no preference.

Or, if your character has seen something in another thread and you want to play out some sort of reaction to that, that works as well. Dimitri will be everywhere except for the training grounds!]

okay let's do this

[cynicfelixity]

[OOC: you know what I want 👉😎👉]

[cethflayn]

[OOC: I am cool with just about anything if Dimitri is okay with Flayn seeing his memories]

[1x1]

[ ooc | I'm game for anything. Angsty, fluffy, silly, whatever you feel like writing/threading! ]

[crimsonflower]

[I know you got something already planned. Just slap it here.]

[crestfalls]

[IT'S TIME... time for beast dimitri y/n!!!]

[axepectations]

[ Hilda will mostly be around the dining hall, going from the courtyard, through the hall itself, and to the fishing area past it. She walks slowly, eying the area with trepidation as she makes her way over.

Outside, she glances up at the sky every now and again, frowning with concern— ]

Hey. It— is day time, isn't it?

[ — while later, she'll try to calm her nerves by keeping busy inside the dining hall, trying to gather up candles to get some sort of light going that isn't, well, green. It's only moderately successful, and not just because her hands are shaking just a bit. ]

[[ hmu for any memories! let me know if you have a preference; otherwise, I'll pick something from the Verdant Wind path. ]]

[azuremoon]

[Even with this very concerning phenomenon that Dimitri suspects of being a hallucination, he does still have to eat. So he heads out to the dining hall despite his trepidation, pursing his lips with discomfort as Hilda asks for confirmation on the time of day.]

I believe so? I may not be the best person to ask, truthfully...

[But it is a relief to hear that she's seeing what he's seeing. Maybe he's not hallucinating it after all.]

SPOILERS for VW

[1x1]

[ Felix has exited the dormitories, gaze set suspiciously on the sky above, when he comes into contact with a firefly.

The Fell King, the King of Liberation, the man called Nemesis – he towers like a god unto himself, expression split with a rictus of black amusement. In his hand, the glow from the false Sword of the Creator seems to devour all other light. Felix has awaited this moment, has yearned for the conclusion of this damn war even as his warrior spirit burned all the brighter for it. And yet he can’t help but wonder if he will die here, fighting against a fairytale villain so powerful that hope seems impossibly faint.

Blood streams down his left temple from a head wound. Felix calls out for a healer in between the mad dance of death that dark magic and living weapons bring; no one responds, otherwise occupied or dead. Cursing, he manages to bring up his sword in time to parry an all-too-familiar lance aimed for his chest. For a moment, it seems as though the ghost of Sylvain fights him, wielding the Lance of Ruin with murderous intent. But even when the memory of Sylvain fades, the lance’s dark twin remains real. Too real. The commander, Gautier, knocks Felix off his feet with a blow that rattles his teeth. As he scrambles beyond the reach of a follow-up attack, Felix hears the sound of laughter – Nemesis’ laughter – in the distance. Grim determination gives him a second wind, despite his injuries and despite his exhaustion. If they don’t finish this, here and now, all of Fódlan will fall.

Snarling, he readjusts his grip on the sword and charges back into the fray.

In the present, Felix reels from the memory. He’s drawn his sword almost unthinkingly, and has it leveled on whoever is nearest to him. ]

Wh-what!?

[ Coming back to his senses slowly, he stares at the other person in blank confusion, chest heaving for breath as if he had just been in the midst of a life-or-death battle. ]

[fashionoble]

[He has seen disorientation in warriors before. Both knight and commoner alike caught in the pitch of battle fever and left confused, whether in waking from a nightmare or startled by something unexpected.

Only it is neither of those things here.

He knows well this scene, played his part in it. He remembers a thousand thoughts racing as he fights for his life and- shamefully after a certain point- only for his life. All his preening and posturing, his own ideals and noble visions left to the side in the terror of simply struggling to survive. It is not a moment he thinks of fondly, for in that moment he was not a noble but simply a man.

But this is no vision of his own making and therefore easier to gain distance from. He keeps some measure of space between him and Felix as the vision swirls about them on the fog, one hand ready to defend if he should need. Though it has been years since he last saw Fraldarius in action, it does not mean he has forgotten his skill.]

... Are you alright? [The question is asked after a moment, calm and unwavering as he locks eyes with Felix's own, seeking clarity in them.]


[ooc: or something.]

tragedy of duscur memory ( cw: blood, death, and sad )

[cutthrough]

( The mist was much preferable to the heavy rains they had experienced days before, and Dimitri was taking advantage of the change in the weather to stretch his legs properly without having to worry about finding a dry sanctuary afterwards.

There was a worried curiosity in the young prince's expression as he walked along the grounds under the dark sky, the strange green glow splashing color across his uniform. His eyes were drawn quickly to the small orbs of light, realizing they were actually fireflies. It had been sometime since he'd seen them last. The weather in the capitol was far too cold for such creatures to fly about. Without thinking, he lifted one hand, catching one of the small bugs on the tip of gloved fingers.

He doesn't register if anyone is around him, but he does recognize the flash of a memory that makes the color drain from his face and his blood run cold.

The chatter of nobles and royals was interrupted by a sharp gasp of pain, a sound that was quickly chased away by a wet cough of blood spilled from a man's lips. The soldiers were up and moving in an incident, the clatter of their armor and weapons joining the sudden shout of orders from his father.

There was a flurry of movement in every direction around him, the sounds of screams in the distance, and the early curls of smoke in the air. Tents were set ablaze, the smell of smoke and ash mixing with the night air. There was a tang of something dark and metallic on Dimitri's tongue, so unfamiliar to a child who had tasted so little in his days. His father's voice carried over the bustle of soldiers, the clash of blades, and the cries of pain and anger that washed over the peaceful camp.

Dimitri remembered hands on him, shoving and hauling him in every direction to try and get to safety. He saw his father hitting the ground, blood staining his armor and his lips. His stepmother screamed as she was hauled away by the faces of those monsters who attacked the camp, their people.

And then there was Glenn, hurriedly moving him along among the chaos. Corpses lined the path, and Dimitri tried not to look at them as hurried. His heart raced in his chest, his stomach threatening to spill its contents with every pair of dead eyes that stared at him. He stumbled to a halt in an open area of the camp, staring out across the wave of corpses. Tears rolled down his cheeks in endless streams, and he struggled to call out for someone, for Glenn, for anyone.

He turned with the realization that Glenn was no longer close behind him. Not far from him he could see Glenn on the ground, face twisted and pain and agony as the last bits of life drained from his eyes.

Dimitri choked on a sound, the air stuck in his lungs. His legs gave out under him, and he hit the ground hard on his hands and knees. Tears burned at the corner of his eyes, and despite his best efforts to contain it, a vicious sob broke past his lips. )

[cynicfelixity]

[Felix had heard many stories about the Tragedy, of course. He grew up in them, lived the aftermath, and looked at his friend as he was consumed by that disaster on so many levels.

That said, nothing quite compared to seeing the actual thing.

It wasn't the gore itself that made Felix want to retch. He's far past that point, even for this kind of bloody massacre.

No, it was the familiar faces, most of them faded into memory, that have him wanting to heave, especially when they were wretched out of the back of his mind in that manner. As if tearing out a scab that had never properly healed over, the memory poked at that raw, exposed wound, merciless as it caused it to bleed once more.

Felix tore his eyes away from the sight, briefly closing his eyes as he took a deep breath to steel himself. What drew him out of his reverie is a sob, one coming from a face that's both familiar and not.

He already knew this place bended timelines to an ungodly extent, and that it was possible for way younger versions of themselves to be brought into it. But for a younger version of Dimitri to be around here...

...He never--nay, did not--want to consider the thought.

Felix closed the distance between them, forgoing words for the moment and letting a hand rest upon Dimitri's shoulder in what he hoped to be a reassuring move. Still, what's here is here, and it simply did not feel right to leave this younger Dimitri on his lonesome.

Not after Felix had abandoned his own.]

Spoilers for beginning of Silver Snow

[cethflayn]

Memory Share

[Oddly enough, Flayn's initial reaction to the lights dancing in the mist is wonder. She had never seen such things, save for humid summer evenings when fireflies alighted to the air, and as she wandered the monastery paths, she watched them with wide eyes. Such beauty, such mystery...! When one finally floated before her, Flayn couldn't help herself. With gentle care, she reached out to cup the light in her hands, surprised at the spark of warmth that brushed her palm rather than the tiny prickle of insect legs.

And then, suddenly, the sight before her - darkness, shifting to the dim light of...the Reception Hall?]

W-What?! What is-

[The scene plays out as it did when it happened - Flayn standing side-by-side with Seteth and the Professor, meeting the reunited Knights of Seiros. (Male, female, in between - the Professor looks however you remember them to look.) Meeting in the Knight's Hall with what remained of her classmates in the Black Eagle House, all having come on a whim and a hope to the monastery to fulfill the old promise made on that night five years ago. All older, all battle-weary, and yet...all willing to fight back against the land they once called home. Giving what little they had to help. It is...touching, to her heart, to see it in front of her again, to remind her of that new beginning, of the potential for peace that rested on the shoulders of the Professor and their little group.

But Flayn is not aware of the potential for an audience. As the memory fades, she stands with her mouth agape, and it will take breaking the silence for her to be aware that anyone else is around at all.]

The Settled Night

[Eventually, the green lights are gone, faded back to wherever they had come from, and the mist clears. And Flayn, after all she has seen? She feels a distinct chill in her bones. Those lights...how had they been able to reach into her mind to reveal her memories? To reveal the others' memories? What power did they hold? Would they return?

What would they bring with them next time, if they did?

She stands near the pond, looking out at the water, and shivers. Flayn had grown used to this Garreg Mach out of time. Now, it felt...almost dangerous. Almost wrong. Just like it did when she first arrived.]

Wildcard

[If either of these scenarios aren't your cup of tea, let me know! Flayn can share other spoilery memories, or stumble into your own, or commiserate over the very terrifying experience of what the heck happened today.]

memory share

[1x1]

[ The scene elicits an unpleasant twinge of nostalgia in Felix as he watches, having stumbled into it while passing by. Somehow, the reunion of the Black Eagles house is not unlike the reunion of the Golden Deer house, a fact that makes his skin crawl as he remembers the deaths of those classmates. This is his first opportunity to really look at them all without the urgency of battle coloring his evaluation. They seem so young, he thinks, even after the five years that have aged them. Too young for the war that has darkened Fódlan’s doorstep. It makes him deeply uncomfortable, to look upon this private moment of people he cut down in his timeline. ]

Flayn, [ he calls out, once it has ended. ] Are you alright?

[ Reexperiencing his own memories had badly thrown him off guard, so he approaches the cleric cautiously so as to not startle her. ]

crimson flower & verdant wind spoilers

[outsideer]

[ ooc: mechanics: one memory half-typed out, other options that will be expanded on should you prefer one of those! ]

[ Well, how about that. Mystery upon mystery, impossibility heaped on top of impossibility. The dead walk and the the sky vanishes. Claude has long been drawn to the riddles of life, Fodlan and Garreg Mach in particular seeming rife with them. And that had been before he'd breathed his last only to breathe again here.

Still, it's frustrating, as so many of Garreg Mach's puzzles had been. At least before, he'd been able to find some book, identify some individual, some path to trace even if it went soon cold. Here? Aside from marking the new boundaries, too little to go on.

Now the sun and stars have been shrouded, and why not? The fireflies are a nice touch. At first. He's at the stables, dilapidated though they are, filling the troughs and noting the easy behavior of the horses.

(Or, he might be returning from the stables, through the entrance hall).

Brushing against a firefly, the memory —

— is it a rowdy feast in a strange hall?
— the warm if raucous laughter of a man and woman as a young boy twists, managing a run while tied to a horse?
— sixteen and surrounded by books on Garreg Mach, Faerghus, the Adrestrian Empire, even the Alliance
— a training session with a certain undefeated general
— (something else? something crimson flower? just not the death part cough)

Or, is it this:

Sun and noise, the active chatter of a marketplace. A memory bright enough that one might near feel the heat, the enthusiasm. He's young, not much more than ten, hair wild in strips of cloth. Looking through the books and scrolls on display at a merchant's booth, bouncing on the balls of his feet and smiling wide. The crowd is thick, thickens, teeming such that he can't at first be sure of who. It's luck— sheer luck that another man elbows his way forward, disruptive.

A flurry of activity, an abrupt shift: his face contorted with fury, with something else, as he scrambles for what fell to the ground and launches himself, small though he is, at the man attempting to weave his way out of the crowd. Why—

Get him off me—

Pulled off by his collar, as though a naughty cub held by the scruff of its neck. The man spits into the dirt, spitting a crude epithet before disappearing into the crowd. Claude wriggles free, runs, but not after him. One hand clutching his side, the other the hilt of a short blade.

Running, though he slows, hand tight around the throbbing of his side. Slows, but finds his mother—familiar in the shape of her eyes, the line of her nose. His eyes are hot, clenched against tears, but she cuts off his beginning— What have we told you? She examines the blade, and only the blade. It isn't poison. Go on.

Understanding her meaning, he goes. Simmering, teeth grit, but strong enough in stride. Disappointed to find Nima in the infirmary, not Ester. Ester might look at him just the same as Nima does now, with disgust thinly veiled in her eyes, but she wouldn't find an excuse to leave the moment he entered. Nima finds that excuse. It's fine. He knows where to find what he needs: alcohol, gauze, scissors. Sitting himself on the edge of a bed, now loosing his hand from his side.

His palm, fingers come away bloody. He's matter-of-fact about peeling up his shirt and tending the gouge in his side. (If he's sniffling, if his cheeks are streaked, it's clear he's fighting it.) It isn't that deep, probably. He doesn't need a healer. It's just a little awkward to wrap the gauze himself.

The memory fades, leaving Claude blinking in the dark, his eyes adjusting. ]

Yeah. That's normal.

[ Conundrum: the temptation to touch another and test whether the same thing happened, battling his wariness of seeing that again.

Or someone else seeing. ]

[axepectations]

[ Her first thought upon seeing Claude — or rather, upon seeing that memory of Claude's youth — is which one?

She immediately dismisses it because does it really matter? Claude is Claude; she'd handle it the same way regardless. Besides, deep down, hadn't she always known? It was the secret she'd turned a blind eye towards again and again. What was one more time?

As Hilda approaches, she makes sure her footsteps are heavy, alerting him to her presence before she even speaks. ]

It's showing people memories, apparently.

[ She tips her head to the side, peering over at him quietly for a moment. Which one, which one . . .

a pause, and then she points up at a firefly passing by. ]

Those little guys.

Spoilers for Crimson Flower

[crimsonflower]

Memory Sharing
[Curious little creatures, fireflies. She never paid much attention to them, but she's glad to have them about to light her way on her walk. In fact her aimless pacing turns into simply following one around. She won't even notice whoever is nearby when she lifts her hand to gently touch the critter with the pad of the gloved finger. A mistake, because soon the scene plays:]


A) How El Died cw: experimentation on minors, child death and gore
[The fact that the surrounding area is dark doesn't change. However what little light illuminates now shows the stone walls of a basement, and... cells. Iron bars holding back captives. One of them in the distance a young man, probably just a few years shy coming of age, is hollering unintelligible sentences. Words slurred together or clear but strung alone into a phrase that makes no sense. It echoes down the hall.

In a nearby cell is a small girl with dusty brown hair, or dishwater blonde. She's pressed herself to the bars and one little arm is reaching out. A few scars mark her arms and hands.

"No! Get away from her!" The voice is a younger version of her own. Almost recognizable if you're attentive.

Edelgard looks to the right where the ghost of herself is reaching out to. She remembers this clearly, but still it haunts her like a nightmare. She knows what she will see, and how it will turn her stomach, but she looks on anyway.]

B) A Burden to Bear
[The surrounding darkness lights up. Bright sun shining in from large windows as it pours into a big study area. One young girl sits hunched over papers and texts. Manners, etiquette, history, and more. She seems to be bored of it all opting to instead look out the window at whatever scenery it has to offer.

That is until two kids older than her, but still close to her age run up to meet her.

"Hey El, won't you play with us? We need one more for this game!"
"Yeah," the second replies "some of the others don't think it's fun and we need just one more!"

"I'm sorry," the girl replies as she's surrounded by work, "I have to finish this. You know that. I have a Crest so I cannot slack off."

The two boo at her. One of them complains that the Crest is always her excuse and throws one of the books on the ground. El just looks sad as her eyes rest on the text book.]

Aftermath; Knight's Hall
[After feeling so stripped and exposed to those who saw her past Edelgard just wants to hole up and be away. She wants to curl up behind a protective wall, sit with her back to a door, anything. However she cannot do so because of the cold.

In front of the fire in the Knight's Hall she sits. Her red wardress on and one of Bernadetta's quilts wrapped tightly around her. However on top of that she rests her unmistakable cloak. She's hoping its glaring red color will keep away those who wish to seek company. Betting on her bad blood with most people because of her actions will allow her some peace.

Though to those who don't find the sight of her repulsive may just see that red cloak as a "HEY I'M HERE" message which it is most decidedly not.]

Wild Card
[If the neither of the two memories provided are something you'd like just comment with a type of memory/tone of memory and I'll craft a custom one for you the best I can! If you feel you need to discuss anything PM me. OR: pick this option if you'd rather provide a memory for Edelgard instead of your character viewing one of hers.]

Memory Sharing - A

[cynicfelixity]

[Before Felix could mouth out a warning, Edelgard has already touched the firefly, lighting up the night with a memory different from the gore of war...

...But no less lacking in impact all the same.

Felix doesn't consider himself as someone who gets queasy over such things. But still, he feels sick to his stomach as he casts his gaze towards where the familiar girl--nay, Edelgard, he remembers those scars--is pointing. Towards where she is glancing as well.

Felix hangs his head as he presses a hand to his temple, exhaling as he tries to get a hold of himself. War may have a way of numbing you to certain horrors, but when it's children that have no business being treated in such a manner...

"Sickening" is an understatement to describe it, that's for certain.]

claude 2 electric boogaloo feat. more childhood trauma and vaguely vw spoilers ig

[inaurate]

[Claude just got here and what is this. This is not his beautiful house. This is not his beautiful united Fodlan. It's not a weird dream either, that was the first thing he checked.

A firefly lands on his arm.

Claude takes another step backwards, away from the boys that had followed him all the way out here. Green eyes dart to the cliff edge behind him, then back to them.

"Nowhere else to run, coward!" One of the boys taunts with a nasty grin. Claude bristles, his grip on his bow tightening.

"It's five against one and I'm the coward? Seems like you're too scared to face me by yourself." He retorts, chin jutting up stubbornly. He couldn't let them see how intimidated he really was. They were all several years older than him, at least a head and shoulders taller, stronger, and with more combat experience. It'd be a hard fight against any one of them at this short a distance, but not as impossible as trying to take all of them on at once.

His words have the desired effect. The de facto leader of their little group charges him with a shout, axe raised over his head, and Claude barely manages to dodge. The other boys hang back, jeering taunts and slurs and cutting off any chance of escape.

He doesn't have the distance to draw his bow, but he grabs an arrow from his quiver and wields it like a dagger, plunging the sharp into the arm still holding the axe. His attacker yells, dropping his weapon and slamming his other shoulder into Claude's chest. He stumbles back, sand and rock crumbling under his feet.

He falls.

Immediately he remembers something Nader told him about wyvern riders-- how they survive falls. He goes limp, hits the desert sand with a sickening crunch, bouncing once and landing on his side. At first it's the shock, the pain, that keeps him from moving.

There's a rush of footsteps above him, voices.

"Did you just kill him?" "He stabbed me, that little shit!" "Hey, half-breed! Are you alive?"

Claude keeps his eyes closed, doesn't move. If they think he survived the fall, they'll come down and finish the job.

"Good riddance." One of them spits, and it hits him on the shoulder. He doesn't move. Not until he counts five sets of footsteps walking away, until they fade out of earshot.

He bites his lip to try and stifle any sound of pain, tries to move his fingers, his hands, his arms. Tears of pain flood his vision as he pushes himself up to sitting; he's shaking, everything hurts. One of his legs is bent at an entirely unnatural angle.

He has to set it, make a splint somehow... and make himself scarce in case they come back to double-check. He has to find his way back home somehow, before it gets too dark and cold. And he will. But first, he curls the knee of his intact leg to his chest, wraps his arms around himself, and sobs.

Well, that was a vivid memory he'd rather not think about. He shakes his head as if to dislodge the remnants of it, noticing the firefly take flight.] Interesting...

[[ooc: if you want a different memory/want Claude to see someone else's memory instead, let me know! You're free to request something from canon (verdant wind in particular) or a different kind of memory (fluffy/angsty/embarrassing/smutty??)... It's pretty much all good, I'm trash for memory share... Claude just got here so he will be Around, exploring all the places.]]

[axepectations]

[ It would feel like intruding, but—

Actually, there's no "buts" about it. It's intrusive for all of them, and there seems to be no end to the fireflies that linger about the monastery. Still, when she sees Claude — a Claude, but which one? that's always the question here, isn't it — she approaches him, even as the memory plays out, her footsteps purposefully heavy against the stone pathway.

Hilda had always had some inkling about his childhood, based on his off-the-cuff remarks and her own observations (not to mention her suspicions, which she'd never voice because what would be the point?). Though nothing surprises her, her brows still crease with concern. Something about this sounds familiar . . .

She speaks up after a moment, approaching him. ]

They're everywhere, apparently.

[ At that, she gestures. The fireflies, that is. ]

potential spoilers for vw

[fashionoble]

childhood—
[Perhaps it would be a sore point to know that even at the tender age of 5, he still had that damnable haircut. It sheers cleanly through his bangs like a blade gone awry and ends neatly at a set of bangs framing a young and near ivory pale face. But for little else besides his height and clothes, there is little to mark him different from that of his academy self. An eternally smiling and bright-eyed youth with all the confidence in the world to exude.

The memory itself is seemingly no great thing. A boy poised upon the edge of a chair, too large a book in hand and thumbing through the pages with meticulous care. It is, presumably, no moment of rarity for a young noble heir to while an afternoon away at study.

Save, perhaps, in the minor details.

The longer the memory carries, the more it might strike unsettling. The boy's immaculate, unmoving posture and the unwavering gaze of a woman settled in a seat opposite. Monitoring. A gaze that narrows when Lorenz raises his hand, a befuddled look upon his brow.]

What is this man doing? [His voice betrays his youth, higher and questioning in all the ways indicative of a child as he turns the book towards his teacher, gesturing to the image of a man hard at work at an anvil.]

"Smithery," [Her voice is matter-of-fact in her response.] "He is a blacksmith. One who forges objects from metals, whether they be something as simple as a nail or as important as a blade."

[And it is betrayed on his youthful face- an unguarded interest that a nail could share its origins as a sword. Unbidden, the questions tumble out. Do they handle all metals? Shields? Axes? What of buckles and hinges. Gold? And she answers them dutifully, unbiased and intelligently- weathering a child's curiosity with a cool patience. Then,] Would it not be famous to craft a legendary sword? [Lorenz asks, bright eyes shining.]

[Her response is immediate.] "Is that something a noble should do?" [It is a question posed with no inflection, no shift in tone from her earlier answers save but a subtle arch of a once furrowed brow. And Lorenz, young and unassuming, glances up with no worldly wisdom to guard him against what is being insinuated.]

... I suppose a noble ought to wield it, instead. [He answers after a moment of thought, interest dissipating visibly. The excitement sloughs off him like rainwater, his posture returning to immaculate as the teacher nods at him with approval.]


after the war—
"Count Gloucester, a moment?" [A servant beckons him mid-stride down the hall, a handful of papers in hand. Lorenz, already amidst a gathering of several questing men and women, glances up at the call and, rather than seem harried, nods with a brief smile and returns to his conversation with a soldier.

It is in that smile, however, an indication of agitation. Absent is his usual beaming self and in its place is someone courteous but brief. Someone who is forced to answer questions as quickly and briskly as possible without seeming curt or dismissive and barely managing to succeed. The memory carries on some several minutes, discussions of finances, patrols and various complaints of nobles and commoners alike before Lorenz is able to answer the latest inquiry.]

"Their majesty sent this along. It seems your proposal for a memorial is to go ahead. They-" [The voice trails off as Lorenz takes the papers offered and scans through them, an indescribable expression clouding his face. The smile lingers yet but it is hardly an expression that could be called joyful.] "They said they've given the location some thought."

I suppose Garreg Mach would seem inappropriate. [Lorenz's voice is carefully reserved as he reads the missive, turning a page and seeming resigned.] But given all that has happened, I had thought... [And he trails off, expression turning grim.] ... no, perhaps that is more fitting. [And he is quiet a moment, silent in his thoughts, eyes growing distant as he is reminded of some grim, terrible moment.] ... thank you, [his reply comes after a pause- quietly.] You are dismissed.

—here and now
[Whichever moment your character has become privy to, the man in question is idling outside the stables, frowning at the images splayed upon the mist around him as the firefly in question perches on an upraised hand, light casting an unearthly glow upon his fingers. If there is any question lingering yet as to his feelings on the matter, a weathered sigh answers them promptly.]

Honestly... how much more am I expected to tolerate before I must ask if I have passed on? [He asks of... oh, himself. The firefly. The heavens.]

childhood

[inaurate]

I certainly hope you haven't. That wouldn't bode well for me, being here too. [Was Lorenz asking him? Almost certainly no. Is Claude answering anyway? Obviously.

And just because he simply can't resist.] You made a pretty cute kid... even with the hair.

cw for AM and bernie's shitty dad

[persecutetioncomplex]

a-i. childhood: loss

"It's monstrous," [a maid murmurs to the other.] "That poor boy—I heard the mob milord hired abandoned him broken and bleeding in the woods."

"Goddess preserve him," [the other grips her chest and shakes her head.] "To think—to think the poor young lady can't even have a friend without—"

"Hettie, hush!"

"No! No, it's not... it's not right, Cathal, and you know it! He never even lets her out, and now this? Why, if her uncle was still alive—"

"Well he isn't," [is Cathal's hot rejoinder.] "He isn't, and... and what the Count says goes."

"The Count says commoners are trash."

"Oh, you! Don't twist my meaning..."

[Their bickering fades as they head down the hall, but hidden around the corner, little Bernie doesn't follow. She can't even hear them over the static roaring in her ears. Her knees gave out at the word 'mob,' muted by the plush carpets of the estate. Her throat clogs on nothing but grief and guilt and self-hatred and fear, and chokes her to the point that she can't even cry.

She can't breathe.

She can't breathe.]


a-ii. childhood: lessons

"A proper wife," [her father announces,] "is eloquent, but reserved. Talented, but demure. Enticing, but chaste."

[Her father snaps a riding crop against his palm, and Bernadetta knows he has never used it on her, will never use it on her because welts are unbecoming. Because bruises lower the bride price. Because he doesn't need to; the sound alone is enough to make her cower in the chair she is firmly bound to—one tether across her shoulders, for posture. One to keep her ankles crossed, like a lady, and another at her knees, because a Varley does not splay like some common slattern, girl!

One more around her waist, to prohibit any escape attempts.]

"Unfortunately, you have neither talents—" [snap] "—nor eloquence—" [snap] "—nor even the barest shred of appeal, compared to other noble ladies your age." [His eyes are cold. They are always so terribly, terribly cold.] "But if I cannot instill virtue, I shall at least ensure you have some value as an obedient wife. A wife that does not unduly trouble whatever husband is merciful enough to accept her. A wife that speaks when spoken to, and at least can maintain etiquette, if nothing more."

[She's shaking. She doesn't want him here, doesn't want his eyes on her, doesn't want to listen, but—]

"I will be leaving. Until I return, you will not move from this spot. You will not make so much as a single sound. Am I understood?"

[Her eyes prick with tears. Her jaw feels as though it is glued shut.]

"Bernadetta von Varley! Am. I. Understood?"

[Slowly, she nods. Her bangs spill over her cheeks.

The door slams, and she's left alone with the silence, yet again.]


b. first day black and blues

[She's going to die. She's going to die.

Bernadetta doesn't know much, as she's gagged and shoved, kicking and flailing, into a sack. She doesn't know why the servants would turn on her, they're usually as kind as they can be, when it doesn't... contradict... and order.

—oh Goddess. Oh, Goddess, it's so much worse than death, she realizes that now, there's only one possible explanation!

Her father... has finally found a suitor who will take her. She's being dragged to the altar, isn't she?!

She hears the slam of a carriage door, feels the clatter of wheels on cobblestone, and lets out a muffled wail of panic.]

"Milady! Milady, please calm down—the Countess gave us strict instructions, and we have a schedule to keep!"

[....her mother?

Bernadetta settles down, cautiously optimistic. The footman sighs in relief.]

"There, that's better. It's a bit of a journey, but once we're closer to Garreg Mach Monastery, we'll let you out to change into your new uniform."

[Bernadetta screams through the gag anew, burning with terror at this new revelation and all the accompanying implications until she blacks out.]


c. wildcard

[If you want anything more personalized or have a specific request, fire away.]

a-ii

[1x1]

[ The vision of the memory may fade, but Felix remains transfixed with dull horror where he stands. He swallows harshly, throat bone dry. Though he’d heard rumors about Count Varley – hushed whispers spoken behind hands as classmates gossiped – he doubts anyone could have predicted the extent of the man’s cruelty. Felix may be no stranger to a father’s delusional expectations, but this memory makes his childhood seem a veritable paradise of love and acceptance. Sick with a quiet rage that simmers just below boiling, he reigns in his temper before Bernadetta mistakes its source and target. ]

Bernadetta, [ he begins as gently as he can, not approaching her just yet. ] You’re okay now. He’s not here.

[ And if he were, Felix knows he’d be in line to take the man’s head clean off his shoulders. ]

[cyriously]

[A firefly comes towards Cyril and, as if drawn to it, he opens his palm and allows it to rest in his palm.

"What should I do?" A young Cyril asks as he stands in front of two covered sheets which obviously hide two bodies of soldiers. He falls to his knees, unable to process what he should do with his life now. The young boy cries his eyes out. "Ma, Pops..." He weeps. He should have expected it. They were soldiers and it was only a matter of time before the day came for them to leave him. But he didn't think he would do it so soon. Just then, a solider comes up from behind him. He places a hand on his shoulder and gives it a small squeeze.

"Get revenge." He says. And it does not take him long to understand what he means. The memory then shifts, and Cyril is clad in battle armor all too big for him. Soldiers from House Goneril hold on tightly to his arm as they begin dragging him away along with others. The fight eventually disappears as if finally accepting his fate.

The memory then eventually fades and the now older Cyril sighs.]

It's been far too long since I thought about that.

15 days late with starbucks... again

[philandered]

general

[ When Sylvain wakes up, it’s dark. Whether that dark is dark again, or still dark, he can’t tell -- time, without the sun, is a really fiddly thing. For that matter, how many days has it been since things have been this way? Two? Five? It’s getting really old, really fast.

Sadly, there’s not much to be done about it except for carry a torch wherever he goes, and hope they don’t run out of wood or candles any time soon. And that’s exactly what he does, upon stepping out of his awful dormitory room and into the courtyard. ]

First gray, then rain, and now this?

[ Sylvain shakes his head. ] I’m kinda sensing a trend, here...

[ The only trend being that there is no trend. Not really. Unless “weird shit” counts.

...But this time, amid all the weird green haze, there seem to be lights out in the distance? Fireflies, most likely; but they all seem to congregate rather oddly, hovering in the air rather than buzzing about. That’s... not typical bug behavior, last Sylvain checked. And it’s got him perking a brow, to say the least. ]

Say... you see that?

memory a

[ It’s freezing.

He hasn’t been able to feel the tips of his nose or toes or fingers in long enough to forget they exist, just about -- and a snowstorm is only just rolling in. Arms tucked around himself for warmth, he shivers bodily, visibly at every chilling gust of wind that precedes it, tiny flakes of snow catching in vibrant red-orange locks--

--but if he runs, maybe he can still catch up with them?

So he tries it. Skids around a hairpin turn in the mountainous trail he’s on, slipping on a hidden layer of ice, and keeps going. Sure enough, there are horses in the distance, one of which with a rider of similar hair color. ]

Miklan! [ Sylvain’s voice is already hoarse from screaming, cracking and pitching wildly whenever he raises his volume beyond a certain degree. That doesn’t stop him. ] Brother! Please...!

[ Ahead of him: “You heard ‘im -- let’s go.”

And they’re off -- away from Sylvain, his own now-riderless horse in tow. They’ve left him to die up here.

He’s going to die up here. He’s going to die alone. ]

memory b

[ Since the surviving troops returned home from Duscur, everything has changed.

Dimitri isn’t himself anymore. There’s a strange, displaced sort of vacancy behind his eyes, giving them an almost doll-like appearance. He doesn’t smile; he doesn’t laugh; he rarely seems to even blink or breathe. More than once, Sylvain even went as far as to wave a hand in front of his face to gauge response, and got next to nothing. It’s eerie. He doesn’t like it.

Ingrid won’t speak to him -- won’t speak to anyone, really -- though it’s clear she’s been crying. Last he saw of her, she was knees-to-chest in her room on her bed, so adamant about denying his company that she turned her back to him to get away.

And Felix is just... angry. Bitter, and frustrated. He, the one whom Sylvain expected the most tears from, is ironically the one who seems to have cried the least this time around. Much like Dimitri’s despondent stare, it’s equally unsettling to see. But any attempts to provide comfort he has to need have been rebuffed, an easy arm over the shoulders or a quick hug, both violently swatted away.

Everything is wrong. All he wants to do is set things right again, get back to those halcyon days of the four of them playing tag in the forests or around the courtyards or stables, and all they seem to say to him in reply is--

”Go away, Sylvain.”

He’s never felt lonelier, or more helpless in all his life. ]

wildcard
(( feel free to drop in and share a memory! or pm me or ping me on discord to plot! Silent#1183 ))

general

[cynicfelixity]

[Sylvain, perhaps, is the number one person that this particular Felix wishes to avoid since his arrival in this strange version of Garreg Mach. Sure, he may have sighted several different Dimitris around as well as some other former classmates he had slain, but none of them bore witness to the horror that is him crying like a baby in the training grounds.

That experience is limited to Sylvain alone, and is one Felix is determined not to repeat or talk about.

But fate is a trickster, and has one way of bringing people together. Especially in literally dark times like this, when strange creatures are buzzing about as they glow an eerie green.]

Yes.

[Felix presses a hand to his forehead as he averts his gaze from Sylvain, not too happy to see him.]

[highkeychivalry]

[ It’s been eons since Ashe has seen a firefly! So, naturally, he must investigate. Friendlier than usual these insects are this time around! He doesn’t get very far in before he’s got one of the bugs on the back of his hand, and, quicker than he can say “Hello there, friend!” he’s transported. ]

---

[ A fresh rain has recently fallen. The stony streets and back alleys of Faerghus are muddy and dank, the air chilled and heavy. Splashing through puddles with harried steps, a boy with hair a color contrasting his age trots down a narrow passageway with something tucked closely to his chest: A single baguette.

Food has never smelled so good before. But of course, it would, when one hasn’t eaten in seven days. Granted, that’s modest compared to his longest stint; but he’d rather not endure that again, if he can avoid it. Someday, he’ll have a good, solid meal and a warm bed, he just knows it!

Unfortunately, today is not that day. That’s not his biggest concern at the moment, either.

What is, are the two pairs of green eyes that look up at him from a hole in the wall of a building -- a young boy and girl, clearly related. Before them, Ashe kneels, and reveals his treasure with a bit of a triumphant chuckle. It definitely earns a couple of soft “ooh!”s of praise from the children.

“How’d you get it?” the little girl asks, catching her brother slightly off-guard. ]

I--I worked for it, of course! Just like a future knight-to-be should.

[ He’s lying. He picked a lock, snuck into the back kitchen of a local tavern, slipped in and stole it. But his siblings need not know that. They also need not know that, at this rate, Ashe often fears he won’t live long enough to even find a way to train to be that noble knight he aspires toward. He’s got to keep up that brave face, for their sakes. It’s the most important piece. ] That’s why I was gone so long.

[ Another lie. He was gone as long as he was because a dizzy spell toppled him after the heist, and he needed a moment to get his bearings again in the wake of it. Still, ignorance is bliss, as they say -- and when so few things are truly “blissful” in their lives anymore, Ashe feels the need to nurture those that are, and that can be.

So, though his stomach rumbles a loud protest, he breaks the bread in two even parts, and dispenses them to the boy and girl, who both immediately look upset with this decision. The boy even attempts to refuse with a whimpered, “What about you, big bro?” ]

Don’t you worry about me. Everything’ll be just fine, you’ll see! You’ve got me here, your big brother, and I’m never going to leave your sides, alright? I mean that, on my honor.

[ And then, he makes a rather routine childish gesture. The boy and girl, seeing it coming, mimic it somewhat in-step with him, so that he laughs as he does it. ]

“Cross my heart.”

Now, you two eat up! I’ll hear no more about it.

[ And now he... really needs to sit and take a breather, putting his back to the nearest stone wall just in case the room turns on its axis again, as it had before. As soon as he does, of course, he’s out like a light, and the world fades to black. ]

Oh... ah, well, that sure was... something, wasn’t it?

[ He looks sheepish. Like, way sheepish. ] You didn’t see anything unusual just now, did you?

[azuremoon]

[Try as he might to avoid people, there are only so many places to be within the confines of this spell. He's seen some pretty nasty memories today, and though he can tell that this memory isn't entirely a good one, it's good in comparison to some others.

Mostly due to the presence of Ashe's siblings. They're clearly happy, so he can't imagine this is a bitter memory.]

I am afraid so. ...were those children your siblings? They are quite cute.

[cynicfelixity]

[Memory Sharing]

[Felix can be found outdoors for most of the day, not really inclined to lock himself indoors despite the so-called danger these mysterious fireflies represent.

This is one such memory he has to suffer through:

"And the winner of the White Heron Cup and the one responsible for this year's most glorious of upsets is..."

Alois' voice booms in the hall, silent as everyone holds their breath for the announcement.

"...Felix Hugo Fraldarius!"

"Nonsense," Felix says, pressing a hand to his temple and shaking his head amidst his cheeks that burn pink.

It's not at all helped by the wild cheers from the students. Mostly from students clad in blue, despite the fact that Felix retreats into a sea of red after stiffly accepting his award and corresponding certification.

Mirroring his memory counterpart's expression, Felix sighs.]

...I wanted to forget that.

[Wildcard]

[If you want a serious memory or a different one, let me know! I'm down for writing another memory if ever or threading aftermath stuff.]