Fantasy CLOSED

[comfortable]

𝔟𝔢 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔶 𝔱𝔬 𝔟𝔲𝔯𝔫

𝟘𝟙

𝔓𝔯𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢

you must be ready to burn yourself in your own flame; how could you arise anew if you have not first become ashes - nietzsche

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔭𝔢𝔱 & 𝔳𝔬𝔴𝔰

A chilling storm settles over Haeloria, the early morning sun is shrouded by looming dark clouds. Glistening stones become tragically dangerous, as unsteady footing could lead to death. Rain bares down on a train of cadets climbing the stone steps up to the parapet. Forced into a deliberate dance, each movement is fraught with peril.

Upon reaching the bridge, names of all kinds are spoken like a curse into the air. The riders are quick and efficient with their quills, checking off names and nodding for cadets to pass. Sure not to spare a glance at each that approaches.

Stones playfully dislodge at random from their ancient crevices within the parapet, mockingly plummeting unfortunate souls into the yawning abyss below. Riders cling to their threadbare cloaks, retreating into their scant warmth. With eyes closed and minds furiously attempting to drown out the drumming rain, each breath is tainted with the scent of a daunting crisis.

Valamar War College peers down at the cadets, its presence dark and unyielding in its truth to cull the weakest from its flock. Just then, all lanterns flickered a hazy warning, silence fell over the group. By the dim glow of the lanterns, menacing silhouettes are slowly revealed by the tens. Growing closer their scales are slick with a baleful sheen.

They descend with the strength and pride of the gods themselves. Many cadets held their breath only releasing when more familiar silhouettes appeared alongside the dragons.

Eerily, the smell of fear and rain intertwine tainting the air around them. Across the parapet, some moved with grace and unparalleled confidence. And just as quickly as they arrived, the line on the parapet began to move.

© pasta

Spoiler: HERE

A chilling storm settles over Haeloria, the early morning sun is shrouded by looming dark clouds. Glistening stones become tragically dangerous, as unsteady footing could lead to death. Rain bares down on a train of cadets climbing the stone steps up to the parapet. Forced into a deliberate dance, each movement is fraught with peril.

Upon reaching the bridge, names of all kinds are spoken like a curse into the air. The riders are quick and efficient with their quills, checking off names and nodding for cadets to pass. Sure not to spare a glance at each that approaches.

Stones playfully dislodge at random from their ancient crevices within the parapet, mockingly plummeting unfortunate souls into the yawning abyss below. Riders cling to their threadbare cloaks, retreating into their scant warmth. With eyes closed and minds furiously attempting to drown out the drumming rain, each breath is tainted with the scent of a daunting crisis.

Valamar War College peers down at the cadets, its presence dark and unyielding in its truth to cull the weakest from its flock. Just then, all lanterns flickered a hazy warning, silence fell over the group. By the dim glow of the lanterns, menacing silhouettes are slowly revealed by the tens. Growing closer their scales are slick with a baleful sheen.

They descend with the strength and pride of the gods themselves. Many cadets held their breath only releasing when more familiar silhouettes appeared alongside the dragons.

Eerily, the smell of fear and rain intertwine tainting the air around them. Across the parapet, some moved with grace and unparalleled confidence. And just as quickly as they arrived, the line on the parapet began to move.

 

[comfortable]

mood :

happy?

location :

valamar college - coutyard

uniform :

none atm

mentions :

reveriee

interactions :

reveriee

the blue demon

;; akeron

Everything smelled different on Haeloria. The Veil’s mornings were forever imprinted in her mind, with the fresh scent of the ocean wafting over the island, mingling with the seasonal fragrances in the air. It comforted her, soothing something deep in her soul. But now, the wind shifted with the rain, carrying the thick, unmistakable smell of human fear, making her stomach lurch.

Akeron hated everything about Haeloria, especially Valamar College. The murmured chatter of the morning seemed to grow louder as more riders gathered in the courtyard. Violet armbands dotted the crowd, some standing close to their respective riders, others away from the congregating masses.

Her own armband assaulted her eyes, anger coursing through her veins. She shouldn’t be here. She felt as if she were wasting her time rubbing shoulders with humans and dragons who believed in some sort of camaraderie. Akeron’s eyes cut through the crowd, gliding from one face to another, searching for answers. Why? Her reason was sound, and once she completed her goal, she would devour the rider on her back and burn Haeloria to a crisp for their crimes. If the Elder Six wouldn’t act, she would take matters into her own hands.

Since the first light of dawn, Akeron had watched with scrutinizing judgment the mannerisms of the dragons within Valamar. Outwardly, they were her kind; they smelled like, and looked like it, but she felt something was different about these dragons. Would her own bond do the same to her? She looked away, the thought of bonding leaving a sour taste in her mouth. Through the misty fog and rain, the oil lanterns flickered on and off as dragons of all kinds descended from the dark sky, landing heavily around the circular stone wall encasing the courtyard.

Akeron turned away from the new arrivals, grimacing as the crowd erupted in applause. The first cadet arrived, his clothes soaked and shivering against the wind. With a rough pat on the back and a quick handshake, the rider was handed a silver three-headed dragon pin, a serrated knife with the royal insignia stamped on the leather, and a black armband. Through the whispers, she caught a familiar name: Laron Alden, King Valmar’s son. As her eyes landed on the boy, confidence dripped off him like sticky sap. Akeron rolled her eyes, crossing her arms; typical, humans overconfident about basic skills.

She wondered briefly what it would take to wipe that smug grin off his face. A smile spread over her lips as she imagined the satisfaction of feeling his bones crunch under the pressure of her jaws.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Abyss]

mood :

Considerate

location :

Courtyard

outfit :

mentions :

N/A

interactions :

N/A

The Dreadnaught

Tenebris

Humans were creatures prone to ritual celebration and this event bore all the marks of such an occasion. There was anticipation, fear, and excitement all over the faces of the crowd and participants both. It was an unlucky day for the cadets. The sky was choked by stalwart grey clouds and it had begun to rain, making their path even more hazardous. Tenebris recognized few of his own kind, but he was amused to notice that many of the dragons present were seemingly captured by the event as well; their necks arching towards the parapet as their attention was swayed towards the incoming cadets.

Across from the mix of dragons and riders, the new cadets ran the length of their first challenge. Tenebris felt within himself some respect for the effort of the cadets. Though he himself was not afraid of heights, he imagined it took some significant effort to cross the parapet knowing the slightest misstep could lead to sudden death. And it was not an honorable end. Those who fell below both disappeared from sight and from the mind of their compatriots. A kind-hearted scribe might bother to add their sacrifice as a footnote to the greater legacy of Valamar War College, but otherwise history would not remember them.

“That one is King Valmar’s son. See how well he moves across the parapet?" The rider next to Tenebris leaned in to speak with him more closely, as if they were well acquainted and not strangers meeting for the first time. Tenebris, despite himself, found that he was intrigued—if only because he kept an ear out for interesting rumors and knew soldiers to be equally as fond of gossip as the oft hennish-like flocks of old women he’d found occasionally helpful while on the hunt for new information in human settlements.

A round of applause erupted.

“It’s not surprising he’s first to finish the crossing,” Tenebris grudgingly contributed to the conversation. Although the man was tall for a human, Tenebris still had to tilt his head slightly downwards in order to better direct his voice so that he would not have to shout over the crowd and draw more attention to himself. “No doubt he’s been trained very well.”

“Only the best are permitted to ensure proper training of the heir.” Said the rider proudly and puffing out his chest a bit. Tenebris wondered if he had not been among that number granted such a ‘special responsibility’ or he was merely repeating someone else’s praise. “He is to be the future king, of course.”

Tenebris sighed, regretting his earlier display of interest. He listened with one ear only, as the rider continued to make points on the highlights of the prince’s performance. His eyes wandered across the parapet, watching as the other successful cadets finished their crossings or looking further out to watch with moderate interest as more were still in the progress of crossing. It was not an overly complex affair, but it was hard to call it dull when the consequence of failure was death. What was it like for a baker’s boy to run side by side in competition with the heir to the throne? What would happen if a low-born beat the future king? Now that would be interesting.

Nearby a green dragon gazed upon them with eyes like yellow sapphires. She did not appear interested in the other cadets, only Tenebris and the man next to him. Her expression was that of someone reluctantly restraining themself to an unpleasant task. Tenebris suspected it must be her rider that was talking to him. He did not think she approved.

“Yours seems to have wandered away from you,” Tenebris called out to her.

“You would be wise not to cause trouble. I could squash you now and none would challenge my right.”

“Talk of future-Kings is for humans or companions less irritable than I. My desire lies only in having my ears returned to me.”

The green’s eyes narrowed. Tenebris waited patiently.

To his credit, the rider finished his next sentence before he stopped to look in the direction of his dragon, as if he had heard someone call his name. It was curious to witness humans communicating with a dragon via telepathy—such a thing was impossible outside the dragon-rider bond—but Tenebris did not linger. The distraction only lasted for the briefest of glances, but given the large crowd it was enough time for him to slip away and put several bodies between them. Freed from the burden of unengaging chatter, Tenebris walked through the crowd.

Tenebris would not typically feel odd among a gathering—even ones much larger than this— except that this was the first occasion in which his true identity was partially known by those he was attempting to blend with. Although he had worn the indigo-armband without fuss, the more secretive part of his nature longed to take it off or make it less visible. However that would defeat the purpose, so it was with a curious examination of the nonplussed riders and their dragons that he went along with the instruction to leave his identifier as it was. He found himself a spot near the back from which he could still observe the events clearly, but the mood amongst observers was more tame.

It still felt…odd.

In hindsight, he might eventually realize that it wasn’t as simple as an armband which caused him this feeling of unease which hummed under his skin.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Canni.Cat_27]

mood

❝ Uneasy ❞

location

Courtyard

outfit

Dragon

tags

here

GRUVOS

Gruvos glided in the air, he would be late if he didn't hurry up, he squinted his eyes in the rain, picking up the pace as his wings sent winds through the air, he stuck close to the foliage before eventually ascending once he neared the courtyard, circling the area a few times as he descended once again, managing to land as softly and quietly as he could, right as Laron Alden reached the courtyard. He scoffed lightly, a small snort emitting from his mouth as he watched the human receive his items. The dragon shook his wings, glancing around to ensure he wasn't getting anyone else near him even more soaked in the process, before tucking them in in a fluid motion.

His heart was thumping in his chest, not just from the exercise of reaching the ceremony timeously, but also out of the rising anxiety towards bonding once again. This was completely different to the last time, he had no excitement towards this process, this was simply a replacement, a means of returning to what once was, if it would ever even be possible. A sense of impending dread and doom overcame his general anxiety, fueled by the stench of human fears and anxieties, Gruvos was used to this, it was, however, the familiar, yet extremely unwelcome, scent of juvenille and immature excitement that irked him. He swung his head around to stare at the rest of the dragons, some showing excitement, others bothered expressions, disgruntled and unimpressed with the weather. He sighed.

Staring straight ahead again, and glaring at the cadets as they reached the courtyard, Gruvos couldn't help but wonder and worry once again, How long would this rider last? Would they be just as impulsive and irresponsible as his last one? Would he ever allow such a mindless concept of human-led honour guide the path to their downfall once again? He bared his teeth, trying to fight off his worries just for the time being, seeing as he hadn't even met anyone from the group yet. Gruvos focused on one thing now; making completely sure that he was strategic in his picking, he could not allow himself to become emotional over something so important. He must not choose just because he wants the familiar past to return to him in the name of comfort and happiness. Comfort was non-existent in a war, it will not save you from death.

Gruvos eyed nearby conversations, noting the fact that some, or most, dragons had opted for human forms, and promptly rolled his eyes, such a form was only used by Gruvos when necessary; he was a dragon, he would maintain his dignity in his identity. Not to mention how embarrassing the armbad was, how it made him feel even more like a mere tool, uniform was a pain to handle, the strict regulations surrounding how it must be displayed was something he did not feel like fighting over now either. The dragon laid down, maintaining his unsure and unwavering gaze towards the stream of cadets now entering, a slight sense of curiousity ignited within him, which one would end up being his rider? He only hoped it would be a sustainable bond.

coded by reveriee.

 

[ComplexDragon]

mood :

Anxious, excited

location :

Valmar College

outfit :

mentions :

interactions :

The Lost Princess

;; Cordelia

“Your life is just beginning.”

Those were the words Anya whispered to Cordelia right before she ascended the steps that would take her to the parapet. And the ones she clung to now. Standing thousands of feet above the ground behind a train of other hopeful cadets, they provided more warmth than the threadbare cloak around her shoulders. Especially as the rain practically cut through her clothes, soaking them and chilling her to the bone. Whatever higher power controlled the weather was not smiling down on them today. Cordelia squeezed her eyes shut, whispering frantic prayers. She would not die today. Not when this was barely the beginning of everything her nineteen years of life had been preparing her for. Garthen and Anya would not read her name on the death roll today. She was a rider. Not a mewling cadet.

The hopeful in front of her stepped up to the precipice. He was about her height but looked as though he had never had a good meal in his life. The wind howled as if in protest as a rider checked him off the list and motioned for him to step forward onto the parapet. Her heart lodged in her throat. Cordelia tore her gaze away from him. She would not watch the baleful wind send the boy into the jaws of the chasm below.

“Cordelia Tharna.” Her voice came out more like a prayer rather than a declaration like she had hoped. But there would be time to prove her prowess after she crossed this death trap.

The rider nodded, barely sparing a glance at her. “Good luck.”

Something about their tone of voice sent a shiver down her spine. Or perhaps it was from her sodden limbs and the howling wind. Either way, she stepped up to the precipice. The world around her was a wall of gray. Gray rocks, clouds, and the giant looming structure of Valmar College. Behind its walls lay everything. Her hopes and dreams, and the very future of her country.

How disappointing would it be for her to fall to her death now? She would be nameless. A nobody. The Jasuu line would die with her.

“No.” She whispered. “You are a queen. Now act like one.”

Shutting her eyes, she imagined she was out on the bow of a tree. Where she had practiced with Garthen standing beneath her. Opening her eyes once more, she fixed her gaze on the college, stepping out onto the slick rock.

She had intended to run across, but even her boots, with their solid soles, were precarious on the slippery granite. So instead she held her arms out for balance and kept her back straight and her head high, centering her gravity in her core.

The roar of her pulse practically drowned out the wind. And she held her breath with every step.

Any one could be her last.

The wind assaulted her from all sides and the rain continued its relentless battery against every inch of her. She might as well have been naked for all the good her clothes were doing. But she couldn’t think about that now. Instead, she imagined herself in the summer sun, walking across the bow of a willow tree.

“Atta girl, Rory. Keep your head high and your stomach tight.”

Cordelia whimpered, her little knees knocking together. “But what if I fall?”

“Princesses don’t fall. And you’re a princess are you not?”

Thunder clapped. There was a squelch as her boot skimmed across a particularly wet rock. Time slowed to a crawl. Cordelia’s heart hammered against her chest as she tilted to the left. Loose rocks skittered into the yawning darkness below.

Apparently, princesses do fall. And this time, Garthen would not be able to catch her.

“I am Princess Cordelia Jasuu, heir of Laceravian, the only daughter of Cleo Alden. And I will not die today.” The words were quickly captured by the wind, but it gave her just enough clarity to dig her stable heel into the rock below and pull herself back upright. Tightening her core and stabilizing her legs, she locked her eyes on the college again.

Steeling herself, she forced her feet to move. This time focusing her energy on placing her feet down with purpose. This was not child's play anymore. This was real life. With real consequences.

I am Princess Cordelia Jasuu. And I will not die today.

Another step forward.

I am Princess Cordelia Jasuu. And I will not die today.

The rocks underneath her feet crunched.

I am Princess Cordelia Jasuu. And I will not die today.

The college grew larger and more imposing.

Over and over she whispered the mantra Anya and Garthen had ingrained into her mind as a young child. When she was terrified and needed reassurance things were going to be alright.

Finally, taller structures rose around her as she stepped onto solid ground, where a female rider held another paper. Cordelia’s legs nearly gave beneath her, but she forced herself to stay upright. A small smile quirked on the lips of the rider. “Name?”

“Cordelia Tharna.”

A three-headed silver dragon pin, a serrated knife with the royal insignia stamped on the hilt, and a black armband were thrust into her hands by another rider. “Congratulations, cadet.”

The weight of the words came crashing down on her and it took everything in her not to scream with joy. She had done it. She had actually done it. She was no longer a hopeful, she was a real cadet. Soon enough she would be a rider.

Her eyes scanned the people around her. Black armbands and indigo armbands peered up at her from the sleeves of the various cadets standing on the grounds. Most barely spared her a glance. But keeping her head high, she strode farther into the courtyard, straining her ears to catch the conversations around her.

“Do you see him?”

“Yes. That’s the future king.”

Cordelia’s heart stuttered and red-hot anger bubbled to the surface as she scanned the crowd once more. It was certainly too much to hope that the boy had been among those to fall on the parapet. He probably had the best trainers and tutors in the country. And was likely one of the healthiest too.

She soon found the person she was looking for.

A blond-haired boy, not much older than she, stood off to the side, talking to a few other rain-soaked cadets. He looked almost exactly like she imagined and nothing like it at all. But regardless of what he looked like, she still desperately wanted to drive her knife right into his chest.

However, that would have to wait for a later day, since murdering the heir to Laceravian on her very first day as a cadet would most definitely result in her losing her own life as well. So for now, she would have to watch and wait. And prove to all the self-important riders and cadets here that she was a force to be reckoned with.

Laron Alden could run home to his daddy with news of a young upstart who took him down. She would enjoy that indeed.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Jesster]

mood :

strangely well behaved

location :

valmar war college

outfit :

mentions :

interactions :

The Escort

;; venus

One thing you learn growing up with nothing is how to make do with everything.

Whether it is a mother’s rage, or crimson fist thrown your way; perhaps it is a hunger you cannot stave away or sheltering yourself from flaky droplets of snow that stick to eyelashes and hair while you wonder if the divine beings above simply despise your very existence. And they do, they really do. You’ve learned this the past couple of years and it will stick with you til death which has become a dancing partner rather than something to fear. You have befriended him those days in which food was a stranger and money was a myth, brief encounters usually interrupted carving mould out of bread, or finding the energy to crawl from dilapidated hardwood flooring to drink a cup of foggy water that will keep you satiated for at least a couple more days.

Today it serves useful as pleated leather defies rain that would hug the body in frigid ice, practice of finding rocks that will not slip under your feet, coat of apathy hanging off like a coronation robe that belonged to the king.

Speaking of which.

There was word of the prince and a rather loud applause of clapping, so even he who cares for so little could not stave off curiosity. Stygian irises slid to meet a rather unassuming prince and they rolled back. He took back his interest almost as quickly as it came. There was nothing special about their heir. He didn’t particularly despise Haelorian royalty, but he did not hold them in special regard in the slightest. The confidence that slid off him was almost sickening, but self preserved Venus who held himself so highly had the slightest respect.

If you cannot depend on yourself, if you cannot put that amount of faith in yourself, then how are you to live amongst man eaters and vipers?

Pulling his hood up over his face, while the colleague stood intimidatingly in front of him the silhouette’s of dragons and humans alike becoming more clear his gaze does not meet the riders who are adamant of ignoring their existence. If that is their tactic he will do the same.

“Venus Konohana,”

Bite soothed with honey, the name strikes out with little meaning. For all anybody knew he was nobody and the escort preferred it that way. If he could remain a face without any semblance, then perhaps he could continue surviving in the prison of solitude where he had chained himself, holding the keys to his release.

For now, though, he would hold the black armband so graciously handed to him with a sense of pride that soothed and stroked ego as he took his place among other aspiring riders, and dragons opting for the back of the crowd for a narcotic enjoys watching his prey from afar rather than upclose.

coded by reveriee.

 

[matcha girl]

mood :

out of place...

location :

valmar war college

uniform :

none

mentions :

interactions :

The Pure White

;; kronos

Kronos was begrudgingly present at the ceremony.

While he didn't particularly want to be there, there was something about the atmosphere and tension around that piqued his curiosity. It was hard to tell what made Kronos feel more tired, whether it was the irritating wind that clung to his clothes and skin like a second layer of cloth, or the constant hum of human and dragon emotions, blending together into an overwhelming symphony of noise that left his head throbbing.

His senses were assaulted at every turn, as if the world itself had conspired to wear him down.

He found a small sliver of space amongst the mass of people gathered in the courtyard, just enough space for him to breathe and take in his surroundings without being completely enveloped by the throngs of humans and dragons. Standing slightly to the side, he leaned his broad shoulders against the cold stone wall, his eyes slowly scanning the crowd.

As he settled into his thoughts, a faint melody escaped his lips. He found himself intrigued by the variety of people and dragons gathered.

He took in the scene with a mix of curiosity and detachment, his mind mulling over something silently. His gaze wandered across the faces of the humans and dragons around him, pausing here and there on some of the more interesting individuals. Despite his detached air, there was a spark of curiosity in his eyes, a hint of a question he was silently pondering.

As the applause rang out through the courtyard, he found himself reluctantly drawn away from his thoughts. His eyes flicked towards the source of the noise, landing on the figure of King Valmar’s son. The prince walked slowly through the crowd, his every step oozing self-importance. His shoulders were held back, as if the weight of his own arrogance was too much to bear.

His self-assured manners piques Kronos interests, there was something about the prince's smugness that made him raise an eyebrow, a flicker of interest in his otherwise cool gaze. He found himself studying every move, every word, as if searching for some secret beneath the surface. It was clear that the prince thought highly of himself, and Kronos couldn't help but wonder if there was substance behind the bravado.

Humans are always such interesting creatures.

Their confidence, their brashness, their endless pride in themselves, it all gave them a magnetism that was hard to ignore, even if they were ultimately just humans.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Pitohui]

mood :

irritated

location :

valmar college - courtyard

outfit :

mentions :

interactions :

the white knight

;; Yerah

Plumes of steam escaped Yerah’s lips as she struggled to breathe in the bitterly cold air. She blinked away drops of water gathering on her lashes and cautiously ascended the first steps of the Parapet. For years, Yerah had been subjected to the will of others, forever looking up at the king's throne from beneath his feet. Though the journey across this bridge would only mark the beginning of her revenge, she could almost taste the metal of the king’s blood on her frostbitten lips.

Yerah's eyes scanned the misty stones, searching for the next safest foothold. She noted rocks out of place and slippery patches of moss. A sudden, chilling grip on her leg caused her heart to hiccup. They must have fallen victim to the parapet's petty tricks because as she locked eyes with the Haelorian cadet, she saw a pleasant defeat etched across his face. A shiver ran through her, whether from disgust or the cold rain, she couldn't tell. She hesitantly stared down at his pleading eyes, so different from the Haelorians of her past.

His shameless cries of self-pity sent a pang of sympathy through her, threatening to pierce her resolve. They were human like her, weren’t they? She heard the violence in his cries become more apparent. They twisted into berating, and she felt it defile her, echoing back to when Haelorians invaded her home. She quickly steeled herself, letting her indifference push every last fleeting idea of commiseration out with a sigh and a quick tug of her leg, callously letting him plunge into the gaping chasm below. She pledged a bloodthirsty revenge, and had no time to hand out mercy.

Closing her eyes, Yerah heaved a sharp breath in. Almost... she reassured herself. Everything she had been through, seen, heard, and felt was for this moment. And Yerah would rather eat the king's blade than die here, lost amongst all the bodies below.

One step at a time, she crossed the parapet. Her hands and legs trembled with urgency; nothing was calming her nerves. Each time her foot left the bridge, Yerah imagined the sensation of falling, of leaving her mother alone in this world. Before she allowed sympathy to slow her pace, Yerah reminded herself; death and failure await those who simply survive. Is simply surviving all you’re worth? The answer spilled out of her, and she let her gaze lift away from the parapet. Placing the entirety of her trust in fate, because the gods weren’t hers to pray to. She made one last step. The touch of frost had rendered her senses useless. She felt numb and lost under the rider's gaze. Their quills waved restlessly in the air.

"Na—"

The rider was suddenly cut off by the scattered sound of clapping. Yerah turned her attention to the front of the line. Although there was no use in shifting her gaze, she knew who it was just by the aggravating sound of the applause and whistles. Laron Alden. Even the faintest idea of him drew out a deep sense of hatred. Be calm, she reminded herself, your time will come. All you need is to be accepted and...

Taking no heed of the wind battering her around, she turned all her attention to the ethereal creatures in the crowd. A dragon would be all she required, no matter if they were with her cause—she would make them be, trick them to be. She held no particular grudge against them. But she assumed, by the preeminence of each dragon's squinted eyes, that she was just as disposable to them as they were to her. As the riders redirected their attention to her, she kept her eyes fixed ahead.

"Name?" the rider finally asked.

"Yerah Li." She listened as their quills scraped across the paper, wincing as they fastened the armband around her upper arm. Taking a step onto the courtyard, its dewdrop-adorned grass parted as she stepped, awestruck, onto the steady ground. Yerah beheld the glory of Valmar War College, absorbing every detail—the cracked walls, towering spires, and breathtaking view. She despised it, yet excitement clenched her fist, imagining her brother’s was in it. She made her way through the crowd, stopping abruptly as Laron's face reflected dimly in her eyes. Her expression fell and her jaw clenched, making an uncomfortable pressure in her ears. She absorbed his nauseating visage, volatile adrenaline pumping through her veins, fueling an insatiable desire to spill his blood.

coded by reveriee.

 

[comfortable]

ℑ, 𝔱𝔬𝔬, 𝔥𝔞𝔳𝔢 𝔞 𝔡𝔢𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔶

𝟘𝟚

𝔓𝔯𝔢-𝔱𝔯𝔦𝔞𝔩𝔰

Something wicked this way comes and as I set to face it, I'm unsure should I embrace it, should I run? What motivates me? Hatred?

𝖋𝖆𝖓𝖌 & 𝖋𝖎𝖘𝖙

“FALL IN!” Ehara Kazuhiro’s voice thundered across the courtyard, echoing off the stones. With confident steps, he moved to the front of the riders quickly assembled into perfect rows, hands tucked behind their backs. The rain had long ceased, and so had the trials. Many cadets had taken their last breath on the parapet, their remains scraped from the rocks and burned by dragonfire.

Ehara's cold, dark eyes scanned the hushed crowd. “Many believe joining Valamar War College takes bravery. They’re wrong,” he declared, letting his words settle into the crowd. “Snakes do not jump from cliffs, not because they aren’t brave, but because they weren’t born to. Birds do not have venom in their beaks because they aren’t brave. They simply weren’t born with it.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. “So why do you stand before me? Bravery and courage don’t hold you here; it’s because you were born for this. Born with grit, fire, and steel in your blood. This cosmic mettle of yours is forged to be endlessly tested. You will be broken and put back together, mended by dragonfire.”

“But like the bird is destined to feel the wind under its wings, and the snake destined to kill with its venom, this is now your purpose. You were born to fight, wash yourselves clean of who you were before you crossed the parapet. Today, right here you have no other life than this one right here.” Ehara’s voice grew louder with each word, and the courtyard erupted in cheers. “Every kingdom needs an army, and the gods themselves have chosen you to fill that role. So I welcome you again, cadets!” The crowd's cheers grew louder, echoing through the courtyard.

A soldier stepped up next to Ehara, his eyes hardened, the black relic spiraling up the side of his face. Daimik Thigo, Fang unit commander and Ehara’s right-hand man commanded attention. “Valmar’s prayer!" His voice cut through the cheers, and a deep humming began from some of the dragons perched on the stone wall, a haunting sound to the newcomers.

“RISE UP O’ FLAME! BY THY LIGHT GLOWING! SHOW TO US BEAUTY! VISION AND JOY!”

TIMESKIP - ONE DAY

The Fang unit stood in front of the courtyard as Nirili, Daimik’s dragon and Fang’s squad leader, addressed her cadets. She clicked her tongue at her ragtag group, circling them like prey. Six humans and dragons, including the King’s son Laron, were under her gaze. The sun peeked through sparse clouds; despite yesterday’s storm, the weather was mild. Nirili placed her hands on her hips, scrutinizing the group before her.

“I’m Nirili, your squad leader.” A grim smile crossed her lips. “I don’t care who you are or what bloodline you come from,” she said, her eyes locking onto Laron. “I’ve trained hundreds of cadets to near perfection, and you won’t be my last. My one rule: my word is law.” With a swift turn on her heels, the clack of her boots resonated against the stone as she moved.

“Follow!”

The group arrived at wooden double doors, and with a heavy thrust, she swung them open. Inside was a large training room, the floor padded with soft black mats, and the windows allowing just enough light in. She stepped into the center, the cadets following her in before she faced them again.

“We’ll begin with sparring. The winner must get their opponent to verbally concede or pinned to the mats.” She paused for a beat. “I will pair you off, the same rules apply. Hold nothing back from your opponent.” She felt her words echo in the minds of the six dragons.

“Agares and Aeternas. Gruvos and Tenebris. Akeron and Fang. Dillon and Holly. Mara and Cordelia. Yerah and Laron. Pair off. I will be coming around to observe." With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed the pairs. Her eyes landed on the last two cadets standing in front of her. Miraeth and Flint. "The two of you will have the center mat. Same rules apply."

Her eyes cut to Miraeth before she turned, her thick braid whipping in the air, the sound of her heels stifled against the soft mat, "Except you must play a delicate dance with humans. While our strength exceeds humans by far, understand that one wrong move could spell death for them. Keep your strength controlled when you spar. Win or lose, your choice blue dragon."

© pasta

Spoiler: HERE

“FALL IN!” Ehara Kazuhiro’s voice thundered across the courtyard, echoing off the stone stage. Silence followed. With confident steps, he moved to the front as riders quickly assembled into perfect rows. The rain had long ceased, and so had the trials. Many cadets had taken their last breath on the parapet, their remains scraped from the rocks and burned.

Ehara's cold, dark eyes scanned the hushed crowd. “Many believe joining Valamar War College takes bravery. They’re wrong,” he declared, letting his words settle into the crowd. “Snakes do not jump from cliffs, not because they aren’t brave, but because they weren’t born to. Birds do not have venom in their teeth because they aren’t brave. They simply weren’t born with it.” He paused, allowing the weight of his words to sink in. “So why do you stand before me? Bravery and courage don’t hold you here; it’s because you were born for this. Born with grit, fire, and steel in your blood. This cosmic mettle of yours is forged to be endlessly tested. You will be broken and put back together, mended by dragonfire.”

“But like the bird is destined to feel the wind under its wings, and the snake destined to kill with its venom, this is now your purpose. You were born to fight, this is all you’ve been given, and you have no other life than this one right here.” Ehara’s voice grew louder with each word, and the courtyard erupted in cheers. “Every kingdom needs an army, and God himself has chosen you to fill that role. So I welcome you again, cadets!” The crowd's cheers grew louder, echoing through the courtyard.

A soldier stepped up next to Ehara, his eyes hardened, the black relic spiraling up the side of his face. Daimik Thigo, Fang unit commander and Ehara’s right-hand man, commanded attention. “Valmar’s prayer!” His voice cut through the cheers, and a deep humming began from some of the dragons perched on the stone wall, a haunting sound to the newcomers.

“RISE UP O’ FLAME! BY THY LIGHT GLOWING! SHOW TO US BEAUTY! VISION AND JOY!”

TIMESKIP

The Fang unit stood in front of the courtyard as Nirili, Daimik’s dragon and Fang’s squad leader, addressed her cadets. She clicked her tongue at her ragtag group, circling them like prey. Six humans and dragons, including the King’s son Laron, were under her gaze. The sun peeked through sparse clouds; despite yesterday’s storm, the weather was mild. Nirili placed her hands on her hips, scrutinizing the group before her.

“I’m Nirili, your squad leader.” A grim smile crossed her lips. “I don’t care who you are or what bloodline you come from,” she said, her eyes locking onto Laron. “I’ve trained hundreds of cadets to near perfection, and you won’t be my last. My one rule: my word is law.” With a swift turn on her heels, the clack of her boots resonated against the stone as she moved.

“Follow!”

The group arrived at wooden double doors, and with a heavy thrust, she swung them open. Inside was a large training room, the floor padded with soft black mats, and the windows allowing just enough light in. She stepped into the center, the cadets following her in before she faced them again.

“We’ll begin with sparring. The winner must get their opponent to verbally concede.” She paused for a beat. “I will pair you off, the same rules apply. Hold nothing back from your opponent.” She felt her words echo in the minds of the six dragons hiding in her presence.

“Agares and Aeternas. Gruvos and Tenebris. Akeron and Fang. Dillon and Holly. Mara and Cordelia. Yerah and Laron. Pair off. I will be coming around to observe." Her eyes landed on the last two cadets standing in front of her. Miraeth and Flint. "The two of you will have the center mat. Same rules apply." Her eyes cut to Miraeth,

Her eyes cut to Miraeth before she turned, her thick braid whipping in the air, the sound of her heels stifled against the soft mat, "Except you must play a delicate dance with humans. While our strength exceeds humans by far, understand that one wrong move could spell death for them. Keep your strength controlled when you spar. Win or lose, your choice blue dragon."

 

[abidebynunchi]

mood :

CONFIDENT

location :

Valamar College - courtyard

mentions :

reveriee

interactions :

reveriee

THE UNBROKEN

;; Aeternas

“ Wash yourselves clean of who you were before you crossed the parapet. ”

There, in the rain, those words take a firm, deep root in the back of Aeternas' mind. 'Tis a reality that had long since found a comfortable place within his core. The moment he'd stepped foot into this place, he had abandoned all signs of self, all his hatred left for a tomorrow that could home it.

That day, he had come to terms with a simple reality:

' you are no longer the red prince, you are dust to be reforged in the embers of a new tomorrow.

But you will shatter their sky, I know it '.

The rain took shape in little specks nestling on his eyepatch, hand clasping the back of his other where he listened. His head is canted south of his verticality, submission given alongside the absence of his gaze in an eye shut by an equally widowed eyelid. When they cheer, so does he; but he does not shift or move from his formal stance, nor does he raise his voice over the others, simply a faint chorus to those truly invested in their faith. Tomorrow, he would lay the foundations of a better future, for better or for worse.

---

You open your eye.

Before the single-gazed Aeternas, Nirili. Leader and figurehead of today's numbers. Aeternas is a solemn figure where he stands, a leather coat that ends at his knees the design of his wear. A belt secures the garment tight at the midsection, metal buckle firmly secured at a slight angle towards the left. It's a finely crafted attire, though it is far from regal or beautiful in nature, its dark hues more practical than anything else; much like his eyepatch.

While she speaks, his eye finds nothing, daring not to set his gaze on her of all things, though sparing the occasional glance of amusement at his fellow cadets. Every single demand, every command, Aeternas does his damndest to be the second to follow. He isn't eager to please, nor aching to be the last.

She speaks of sparring once they've reached their destination and a certain emotion washes over Aeternas' visage, delighted at the notion. For once, he's the first off, taking the initiative in the interest of furthering Nirili's request today.

Though, not without commentary for his fellow cadets in a playful whisper to the two most uneven of the pairs.

“ Try not to split sweet little Flint in half, Your Highness. ” His tease delivered with a grin and a snort; Aeternas knew all too well that Mireth's kind could be vicious, he knew one once all too well.

Approaching a nearby weapon rack, a long study of the options is taken, eventually settling for a pair of dulled longswords. In the hands of a disguised dragon, however, the raw force alone could deal a man grievous wounds aplenty.

Agares will be fine.

His steps are decidedly casual as he returns to the group, moreso, his sparring partner. A sword is offered, the grip pointed Agares' way in a question that is the act in of itself.

“ You playing nice, too-tall? ”

coded by reveriee.

 

[comfortable]

mood :

smug

location :

valamar college - training room

uniform :

custom made royal uniform

mentions :

nirili

interactions :

reveriee

the prince

;; laron

Laron Alden gave Nirili a curt nod and a playful smile.

He stood amidst his fellow cadets, hands tucked gracefully behind his back, his posture exuding a calm confidence. Draped in Haeloria’s finest black leather uniform, the family crest embossed proudly over his heart, he was an unmistakable target for those quick to judge the young prince. Nirili’s pointed remark barely fazed him; he was well-versed in deflecting sharper barbs in his father’s court.

Laron had never been a bashful child, at first he was afforded the luxury of shying away from what was expected of him. As the group followed their squad leader, his footsteps were resolute, a reflection of the burden he carried. But now Haeloria wouldn’t tolerate another feeble king—especially not in times like these, with his people dying at the hands of rebel scum desecrating the beautiful city of Stagon.

His eyes remained fixed on Nirili’s bouncing black braid as they moved from the courtyard into Valamar’s training room. The space was modest compared to what he was accustomed to, but he kept his judgments to himself. His gaze swept over the room, then returned to Nirili. Sparring?

A thrill surged through him like a bolt of lightning. As Nirili paired them off, Laron toyed with his opponent’s name on his tongue, scanning the departing crowd until his eyes locked onto a woman with striking features and skin as pale as porcelain. A smile played on his lips; he wasn’t a chauvinist, but he was confident Yerah would be no match for him.

Poor thing.

The god's favored him today.

“Yerah!” he called, waving her over before turning his back, certain she would follow. As he approached their mat, he spun on his heel, the same smile lingering on his lips. “Lady’s choice: shall we spar with our god-given weapons, or,” he gestured to the rack of wooden and dulled metal weapons, “pick up something else?” He turned his back on her again, stretching his arms above his head as a yawn escaped his lips.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Pitohui]

mood :

irritated

location :

valamar college - training room

outfit :

mentions :

Nirili

interactions :

reveriee

the white knight

;; Yerah

The air was tepid on her skin. The sun, ephemeral as it peeked through leaden clouds. She let her gaze wander above the strained assembly, seeping in the only calming familiarity since stepping foot on that dreaded parapet.

How easy it was to entertain with idiocy, when you’ve been dulled to truth and reason. It would do the gods good to shed light on those they forsake every once in a while. If not, the blessed chosen masses will find themselves suffering the brunt of the rejected’s volatile ire.

Yerah felt her posture half heartedly straighten as Nirili spoke. Her night dipped shirt clung to her, hissing against the walnut toned belt fastened around her waist as she moved. Nirili’s distant blur of words became abruptly loud when naming partners off. This may have been the only time she's prayed. Having the king's son as a sparring partner would be all too convenient.

The strike she felt as Laron spat her name out like a foul tasting meal caused a visceral reaction within her. Suppress your indignation, ease your gaze, and smile, she recited in her head.

She walked nimbly behind him, fingers itching to fall back into the comforting place that was the tough skin on her palms. The unburdened swiftness Laron turned his back to her, spoke directly to the illusion of safety and security his father had instilled within himself and evidently his son. A sign the king knew the grooves of his throne too well.

“Save your honeyed words for the blushing maids in your halls, Laron” She let his name move like arsenic over her tongue “I would hope your father taught you not to feel sympathy for your enemy” Yerah let feigned worry twist into her tone. She consoled herself not to mention his habit of turning his back, as what good would it bring to his inevitable misfortune. She raised her fists up to her chest.

coded by reveriee.

 

[opaline]

Dillon Cadel
& Holly

written by opaline and Nebulous Stars

When they had asked for his name, their focus was entirely on his last. Dillon had hoped to angle his neck to see if they’d even heard or written his first name correctly, but the anxious energy of possible cadets behind him surged his feet straight upon the slippery parapet with little time to steady himself.

Somehow, it felt much like an omen of his time to come, notwithstanding that he had crossed without so much as stumbling. Condemnation clung heavier than the storm-ridden clouds that had pelted down upon them.

The triumphant speech for cadets had rung clearly, perhaps banishing the rain itself. Born with grit, fire, and steel in your blood. Dillon did not cheer. You have no other life than this one right here. His silence remained steadfast, a stark contrast to the concoction of fear, excitement, sickness and restlessness that smothered them.

Holly remembered the speech that day as a thing of death. Marking death that was, and death that would come. She had wondered how many would survive. Wondered whether the coming years would claim more lives at the Threshing or between them. Wondered how long even those successful among them would live. Wondered which way her blades would have to turn.

She cared little for the Rebels, but little more for the Empire. Her marks were indelible, and she looked to the people around her and the officer in front of her with a poisoner’s eyes, their future untold. She wanted to heal, people’s body’s, people’s mind’s, and people’s lives. She wanted to make a better world, but there was an ocean of blood between that and their current strife. She did not wonder if she would make it.

——————————​

It had been a dreamless night. He’d awoken at dawn, ran, and found himself with the rest of the group facing Nirili. It was a motley crew, and Dillon could only begin to fathom the multitudinous nature of their skills and more importantly, motivations. Everyone did much the same, measuring up those who were both their competition and their lifeline. He observed the room itself, composed of stones and woods—albeit only of the finest kind, for the village he'd grown up in was made of the same basic minerals but so distinct in quality and construction. The college, he imagined, was likely fashioned to resemble a military stronghold though he had little points of comparison.

Dillon and Holly.

Nirili reciting names pulled his attention back, though he didn’t know names yet. But the way whispers rippled and people dispersed, as his eyes scanned. Dillon was only grateful seeing Laron was paired off with another: it was the only name he knew, like everyone else would, and Dillon was not interested in the layers of political intrigue a brawl with the prince would inevitably be tainted with.

Holly woke early, making time to train further. Her time here had already made a difference, but she was still far from turning a body that walked uncounted miles into the body of a soldier. She wasn’t looking forward to what today would reveal.

Dillon and Holly.

She knew Dillon at least, entirely impersonally, but she had made it her business to know her fellows at least to a glance. A Healer’s use, and a traveler’s precaution. She didn’t like her odds. He didn’t have the look of a soldier yet unlike some of the others, but he had a farmboy’s build, and that was ill-fortune in this kind of match. Nor would her style help her case. Still she stepped forward onto the mat and turned to face the boy with a nod.

Dillon took his place opposite Holly, examining her form. She was shorter than him and if anything arguably underweight. He did not imagine fairness was an ideal at the war college. He nodded in return, and settled his stance in a well-rehearsed parting of his feet and rolling of his shoulders and neck as his hands were brought up ready to strike.

There was no ceremonious calling to signify the beginning of the matches: each pairing only peeled off and began embroiling themselves in combat while Nirili stalked about, reminding him more of a predator watching prey than a squad leader assessing cadets.

He brought his attention to his opponent, shrugging, “If you’re ready.” Dillon did not intend to harm her, but he also did not intend to lose. They began circling one another waiting for a strike, Dillon growing impatient and throwing the first arcing punch.

As they began to square off Holly understood, for the first time, that she would make herself skilled at this as well. It was with some irony through inadequacy that she realized it, sinking into a surgeon’s mindset, but finding herself without the needed knowledge. It was frustrating to understand just enough to see how much she had neglected in her training. Healing had always been more important, really it still was, but this too would be everything now.

As Dillon took the first swing she was forced to react less internally, lunging backwards. Her legs at least she could have confidence in, made certain by long years of travel in the swiftness and surety of her footing. Her glance was a little thoughtlessly obvious to the legs, staying back as she considered trying to bait him in and settle this at the legs.

Dillon steadied when she lunged out of the way. Good reflexes. Half of a fight was the mental dance, watching and reading your opponent. Subtle shifts in their body language allowed you an extra few seconds of understanding to outmanoeuvre them. In some ways it was easier with a less-experienced fighter, which Holly was, but in other ways it was harder as they tended to act erratically, beyond the well-rehearsed steps. He flickered his eyes to their legs, following her own careless glance and dashed forward, his arms reaching to grab her, intending to twist and slam her onto the mat.

Adrenaline and instinct were riding her a little too hard, and she rather rudely informed herself of that fact. That is to say she had a lot of second thoughts as she bounced off Dillons chest after trying to shoulder under his grab. She thanked a lucky trail or two that the force involved had thrown her off to the side, and her travels had taught her to roll to her feet, but she also stubbornly refused to look anywhere near the others. She was going to think about that as little as possible, and in keeping with that she threw herself back in, alongside a sharp kick aimed towards his calf.

He was momentarily taken aback with how she stumbled off his chest, but more so by her speed, Holly quickly dashing back forward and clipping his calf as he did not manage to pull fully out of the way. That will leave a bruise. Dillon slightly lost his balance, due to the surprising force amplifying his movement, deftly adjusting to instead roll with the momentum, angling towards her and sweeping out his right leg to bring hers out from under her.

Holly was rather direly unprepared for her opponent to return the favor. Training with daggers and poisons was incredibly helpful in a real fight, but as she crashed into the ground she wished she had been a little more diligent in training past first blows. Finding her feet again with a roll remain easy at least, sleep rough enough times and you either got really good or really bad at standing up. Finding her footing in the fighting itself was more difficult, midfight rhythms strangely alien. For the moment she simply backed off a step, beginning to circle and hopefully buy time.

After his sweep, Dillon pulled back and settled comfortably once more into his solid stance, finding himself unable to capitalize on his upper-hand more as she recovered quickly. But compared to the others he had sparred with, she was fraught like an animal, not feverish like a predator. They circled each other for a beat, Dillon momentarily becoming aware of the pairings along the others mats with their ragged breaths, blocking them out as fast as they had come. He knew now Holly was fast–so he rushed forward again, feigning another punch with his left hand this time, expecting her to duck out of the way. Before he had fully thrown his bodyweight behind the punch he leaped to be directly to her left, and dropped his shoulder to charge into hers and knock her aside, this time his full effort behind it.

Holly’s reflexive speed, unhoned by real mastery, betrayed her in the end. A jab, a sidestep, her agility her best weapon. A sudden shoulder to the chest was an abrupt reminder that experience and weight class often reigned supreme. Not of course that she thought any of that until well after her body had hit the ground rather abruptly. Still, if nothing else, the long humiliating process of learning to heal had taught her humility, no matter how much her pride wished her to be stubborn. With a voice betraying only a small amount of winded wheeze, she spoke “I yield.”

Dillon was about to launch himself again, but recoiled upon her winded voice. He blinked, staring down at her as his chest rose and fell in short breaths, sticking out his hand to help her up. He had been fairly convinced he would win, but he had also expected it to be longer. However, as she took his hand he realized what he had caught glimpses of on her way down and as she pulled herself up, the inky swirls unmistakable–a rebellion relic. Dillon did not know her, but it became easier to understand why she may not be as trained in the basics of the war college such as sparring. Most Haelorians who intended to test their mettle as a dragon rider prepared for a large portion of their life. The rebel children were not afforded the same privileges.

“Not bad,” he mused while rubbing his knuckles though they were not sore, “You’re pretty damn fast.”

Holly accepted the hand up gracefully, even if moving still wasn’t too bad. In a fight, she had been as good as dead, and that was all she really needed to know. There was a long way to go, an entire new web of knowledge to develop, and she would need it. Still she couldn’t help but admit that a backsheath hurt, even if she was grateful it was built to fall on. With a thoughtless hand she reached under her loose tunic and released the sheath, taking it into her hand and drawing the blade.

Razor-sharp still, but she applied a very, very carefully handled oil as she responded to Dillon’s friendly overture with evident enjoyment and mild confusion, “A good match to be sure. I still have a lot to learn. I was a healer above everything, and before I trained only enough to be able to kill the kind of fool likely to attack wandering healers. I am finding myself confronting a frustrating depth of missing knowledge, but I guess it’s only one of many things we must conquer here. You pressed your own strength well, that feint at the end would have bought you the end of the fight if pushed.”

Dillon nodded with a nonchalant shrug, “I am well-versed in sparring. Less so where we use deadly weapons.” His gaze flickered to her blade–his experience worked flawlessly today, but he wasn’t certain beyond the controlled environment. Especially not considering the oil she coated the blade with. He hadn’t a clue what it was, nor what it would do, but he hazarded he did not want to find out.

“I’m not truly trained like many here. Just underground fights for years.” His dark eyes swept over the room, many of whom were still locked in their battles, “But that’s rather how it goes for us.” His emphasis on the last word need not be elaborated, the lower tone echoing in his chest grimly.

The gaze she returned to him, more than even the drawn knife, revealed her twofold familiarity with death. A healer’s proximity and a poisoner’s intimacy. It wasn’t a hostile look, just one without edifice, and with far too much familiarity with what these marks meant. Her voice when she spoke was entirely recovered, and distinctly flat, “What a legacy. Unasked for, unsuccessful, yet no less an indictment. It is the only legacy we will be given, and the only one they wish to define us by.”

Holly returned the knife to its sheath, and the sheath to its place on her back with the same ease she rose to her feet in the midst of a fight, a thumb checking it’s integrity briefly. Her gaze turned a bit more friendly again, never hostile, but now no longer showing the ice she had built up around her devotion. When she spoke her voice was a deliberate olive branch, friendly but without presumption of like-mindedness, “It is not a legacy that I will allow myself. It is not mine and it will not bury me. I was a healer, and I will rise above any other mortal healer, and in time any other Sanctorum. These brands ill-define a future.”

Dillon rather liked her. Often bogged down by his markings, he knew he wanted to be known as more than his birth, his blood. This life wasn’t the chance they chose, but now they had the ability to shape it. But not long, the kiln was already hardening their mouldable clay. “Perhaps we’ll be so lucky to create our own legacy.” Dillon said with a tight smile.

 

[ComplexDragon]

mood :

Irritated, excited

location :

Valmar College > Valmar's Sparring Room

outfit :

mentions : Bumblebeee

interactions : Mara

The Lost Princess

;; Cordelia

The first day passed in a frenzy. Soon enough, Cordelia stood outside in the courtyard with her new squadmates. She pulled at the padded sleeves of her uniform. It was nice enough. Garthen and Anya spent good money ensuring she was very protected. And it was purple. The color was a bit extravagant, but it happened to be her favorite. Unfortunately, neither the decent weather nor her fancy new outfit was enough to distract her from the large, blond man standing mere feet away.

Either the gods were smiling upon her or playing some sick joke. Because somehow, some way she’d managed to end up in the same squad as Laron Alden. And while now she could keep an eye on him, she would also have to deal with him every single godforsaken day.

Only one person stood between the two of them, but Cordelia didn’t even register what they looked like. Instead, her eyes were trained on Laron. He held his head high, ever a pompous ass, with his fancy black leathers and crest stamped on the front like some sort of brand.

In another world that could have been her. It should have been her. Her mother should be on the throne. Her father should still be alive. How was it fair this little jerk got everything that was rightfully hers? She clenched her jaw, training her eyes ahead, adding to the mental list of reasons why she should be in that position instead of him.

Until Nirili made a quick barb at the young “prince” - the severity of her situation dawned upon her. For the first time, she understood what Garthen and Anya had meant. Cordelia’s greatest weapon at this moment was her anonymity. She was just another cadet. But soon she’d show them all exactly who they were messing with.

She wouldn’t go into this thing with a target on her back. No, she’d earn it. Her goal was to bond with a dragon, once that happened, everything else would fall into place. Provide her protection. But for now, she’d have to focus on the next step. Which seemed to be… sparring?

It looked like it, given that they were heading straight for Valmar’s sparring room. Is every single building in this college named after that-

Her thoughts halted as Nirili began barking orders at the cluster of anxious first years. They were to spar, just as she had assumed. A grin split her face when her squad leader gave the details. They were to hold nothing back. Despite lacking in other areas, Cordelia loved to spar. Garthen ensured she could hold her own.

Well, maybe having Laron in her squad wasn’t so bad after all.

This would be fun.

Unfortunately, when Nirili announced her name, she found her partner wasn’t Laron. He was paired with another cadet. She let out a small sigh. Perhaps it was better this way. It was a chance to practice before she had to face him.

Her warm-up was Mara. A name she didn’t recognize, though truthfully she knew none of her squadmates aside from the imposter prince. Cadets began to pair off and she scanned the room until her eyes landed on a scrawny girl with dark hair. Her face was a deathly shade of pale, and she looked as though a light breeze could topple her.

Pressing a hand to her mouth, Cordelia stifled a snort. Oh, this was too easy.

“I assume you’re Mara?” She slowly sauntered up to the mat closest to the girl, flexing her fingers and curling them into fists before releasing them. “You look a little uncomfortable. Is it chilly in here? I mean, I wouldn’t notice since I’m used to harsher climates.”

Upon closer examination, it was almost laughable how quickly this fight would conclude. Cordelia would be lucky if she managed to get a blow in before the twig-like thing collapsed in on herself. Which meant that if it was going to be interesting, she’d have to make it interesting.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Bumblebeee]

mood :

Amazed, nervous

location :

Valmar College > Valmar's Sparring Room

outfit :

mentions : ComplexDragon

interactions : Cordelia

Esen

;; Mara

Last night, Mara had gone to bed with victory in her heart and stars in her eyes. She had crossed the parapet in old riding boots worn flat from her migration, she had cheered with the new cadets and felt part of something for the first time in years, and she’d survived to tell the tale after standing before dragons breathing glorious arches of fire and ash into the air. As Mara closed her eyes she felt like a character in one of Petr’s stories, a young hero taking their first step on a mighty adventure.

Then her dreams came to chase the ignorance away.

Behind her eyelids, dragons ravaged her hometown. She saw Aldagrove’s golden fields turn to charcoal and smoke, heard her brothers’ cries from inside a barn being consumed by an inferno, and her nose burned with the acid smell of sulfurous dragonfire that she’d only just discovered. It didn’t smell like victory anymore.

It was like the stories of the old or the stories Papa told around a campfire when the days started to get shorter and the harvest was finished. Whether it was war times or tax collection, propaganda or patrols, riders or the riderless dragons from the time before, all kids in Aldagrove knew that dragons were trouble. Dragons always meant someone wanted something, demanded something, and if it wasn’t something Aldagrove was able to give? Well, farms burned faster than forests. She didn’t need dragons to know that.

In her dreams, Mara saw River Hightower, his stupid too-big chin and overly sharp smile, looking down on her from behind a snake-like neck and fangs that mirrored his only three times as large. She knew deep in her gut that the dragon who held her tormentor aloft was one that had refused her, a personal insult that her mind concocted for this viscous reminder. It was a twisted knife, a mocking laugh, a pointed raised brow at the lofty dreams from the day before. River hadn’t struck her with his own fist this time. He had a dragon with claws half Mara’s height for that.

Even though she knew it wasn’t real, whispered as much to herself under her breath as she bolted upright and curled her knees to her chest, Mara still clutched her shoulder to make sure her arm was still there. The dragon’s claw hadn’t severed the limb.

At least she was quiet about her waking. Bodie and Byron’s cot was beside her own back home and they’d always been light sleepers that she’d learned not to wake… Though, Gods be good, she’d give anything to see them instead of a stranger’s face next to her right now. It was a dream, only a dream, but she wanted to see their little chests rising and falling, to hear their grumblings about being woken up just to help chase away the small voiced screams echoing in her mind.

The night had reminded her of a lesson she’d try not to forget again. Dragons didn’t choose heroes. They chose riders as monstrous as they were.

By the time the other girls woke, Mara was already up and dressed to watch the sunrise, sitting by the window and squinting into the clouds. That’s how she spent much of the morning, listening with half her mind and watching the sky with the other. At least, that had been how she had been spending her morning until they reached a part of Valmar that didn’t have any windows. Goodie.

The room was tall and wide and unlike anything Mara had ever seen before. It had padding spread out across the stone floor in over a dozen separate squares about a quarter as wide as her Ma’s garden back home. As Mara craned her head to get a look at the room, trying to piece together the purpose of such a peculiar space, windowless and colorless and vast as it was with only the black padding to house, the instructor began to speak.

Mara puffed out a long, slow breath. She was dumber than a sack of rocks, wasn’t she? The mats, the secrecy, the fucking war college, of course it was a fighting room. Sparing room? Combat training space? She tightened the straps of her slightly oversized leathers and swallowed thickly, eyes skimming over her fellow cadets. It didn’t matter what it was called, this was still going to suck… But maybe this wouldn’t be so bad, some of them looked about her size, and she knew what to do in a fight. You just protected the important parts and swung for between their legs when they stopped to laugh at you. Easy, really.

But it wasn’t easy, actually, because the cadet that approached her wasn’t a man, wasn’t about her size, and wasn’t the type of person Mara felt comfortable hitting at all! It was a woman, a woman with a bright white smile, twinkling eyes, and an easy sort of confidence that Mara could only wish to one day possess. The Gods must be punishing her for something. Why couldn’t she have had a pimply, carrot topped little toad of a man to spar with instead?

Mara felt the need to avert her eyes as if staring would get her in trouble. She fought the urge, this wasn’t Aldagrove, and gave a quick glance over her squadmate. She was about to fight this woman, she needed to look. It wasn’t staring. It was different!

She wasn’t going to let her eyes linger on the silkiness of Cordelia’s hair, or the warm glow of her skin because what was important was the way she clenched her fists like she was thrilled at the prospect of a fight and the way her armor shone in the magelights.

“Um, yes, Esen.” Mara blinked one too many times, eyes darting from the other woman’s eyes to the purple scaled design of her chestplate. It was nothing like the standard flat leathers that Mara had received after intake. Her eyes darted again. Those shoes were nice too, good laces but the soles were just worn enough to make her think they were broken in, unlike her own fresh boots that rubbed against her heels uncomfortably. This woman, Cordelia, had come to Valmar with her own armor. She had money, which means she probably had training too. “Mara Esen, I mean.” She was screwed.

Mara didn’t rush to the edge of the mat. The clenching fists and fancy armor clashed with the pretty smile and concerned words in Mara’s mind. Cordelia’s voice sounded like a brook’s babble, her face was one of welcome, but something about Cordelia made the hair on Mara’s neck stand on edge. It was a bizarre clash of expectation and instincts to wrestle with.

Mara’s brow pinched in a show of perplexity as she looked at Cordelia, circling as far as she could around the black mat without seeming impolite. Maybe she was being too harsh about Cordelia? Just because someone had been able to save up, and save a good amount by the looks of it, didn’t mean they were cruel, right? Not every rich man, er, woman, was like River.

She took two delicate steps onto the mat and felt herself drop lower, steps light and muscles braced for impact as anticipation crawled dreadfully up her spine.

“I suppose I am a bit uncomfortable, but not because of the temperature,” Mara confessed. She was trying to keep a distance between herself and Cordelia, circling as the other woman did. She swallowed thickly, eyes flicking between Cordelia’s feet and her fists and her pretty face and even prettier armor.

She didn’t know what to do, what to say, so she blurted, “your armor is lovely.”

Then she felt like a fool.

coded by reveriee.

 

[ribbitz]

mood :

anxious, frustrated, determined

location :

valmar college sparring room

outfit :

mentions :

interactions :

Parrot Parfait
ribbitz

MIRETH

& FLINT

Mireth—-
This uniform, a costume, and this armband, a signal to everyone that she was other. Mireth was not a fan.

She felt stained by the labeling. It was a stab to the semblance of dignity she had left. The dignity that had brought her to this War College in the first place. It was a demand to better herself, to have a firm foot in this world that would lead her on a firm path.

“Wash yourselves clean of who you were before you crossed the parapet. Today, right here you have no other life than this one right here.”

Perhaps the latter of that statement was true. It would be far-fetched to claim the life Mireth led prior to her arrival was just that, a life. Most would describe her day-to-day as thoughtless, uncaring, unmoving.

She was promising herself and these strangers to leave that behind. It wasn’t a big ask, when she thought about it. The hardest part would be the reminder of her mother.

What person would ask another to cleanse themselves of those memories? Of the one thing that demanded Mireth to fight. She would have to lock those memories within if she were to remain motivated.

Flint—
Flint barely stirred during the ceremony. His goal was merely to gain a boon for his own purpose, the empire’s needs being secondary. Flint surmised the same was for almost everyone in this room, noble bastards and desperate commoners alike, clawing for a bit of power merely to survive. Flint felt pity towards the commoners.

“Wash yourselves clean of who you were before you crossed the parapet. Today, right here you have no other life than this one right here.”

Those words fell to Flint’s feet as he resisted the urge to sigh in disappointment. He’d serve the college alright, but as soon as this entire rebel business was done, he’d be returning back to his old life (with a dragon in tow). If he learned anything from his previous academy, these “teachers” often saw students as tools to further their own goals.

When the day finished,

FANG & FIST

Mireth—
Mireth was not fond of standing in this gathering of bodies.

These were supposed to be her people moving forward, whether she liked it or not. Humans and dragons all decorated in the same uniforms, shoulder-to-shoulder. Trailing after authority for their first task.

Yet here Mireth walked, thinking about how she didn’t like being this close to everyone. She rolled her eyes at herself. Focus.

Her steps were light but nothing could stop the beat of her boots against the stone tangling with the clack’s and snap’s of her fellow cadets. Her breathing - shallow, quiet. There was an unmistakable twitch of her eyebrows raising upon entering the large training room. The sound of the double doors being thrown open was what caught her off guard first.

Nirili’s instructions were clear as day. It all sounded easy and fair enough until she was given the outlier pairing. Just Mireth’s luck, a human for her spar.

She’d bristled at the thought and felt her shoulders tense further at the warning.

A delicate dance.

Mireth’s entire being was coded for strength, aggression and dominance. It was a part of her being as much as she may despise it. The unfortunate reality was that Mireth had yet to strike a balance between weakness and power.

Her abilities were like a switch. Up or down, off or on. She would either go all-in or follow this human’s lead.

Her eyes flitted past her sparring partner and landed on a rack of swords nearby. A weapon she was unaccustomed to using. If strength was a number to be concerned about, perhaps this would even the playing field. She would treat this with fragility.

After all, it would be a shame to break the human in their first round of sparring.

“Come on,” her lips were tugged into what seemed to be a permanent frown. She noticed some of the other dragons were far more amused. She couldn’t imagine why a little spar was exciting, especially given her unfortunate partnership.

Flint—

Seriously? Going up against a dragon? Even if in the shape of a human, dragons were no joke. Flint could see the inevitability of a match up like this forming given their numbers… but at the same time, why did this misfortune have to fall on him? Had his opponent been human, Flint need not be careful with his strength. However, with a dragon, Flint had to tread carefully. Displaying too little skill would look bad for him… but dominating the dragon in combat would likely lead to a couple of broken bones plus potentially pissing off a dragon.

Flint walked over to the rack of swords, picking up a random practice sword. He’d usually feel the weight of each one to find one he’d like, but having a slight handicap might make it easier to dampen his skill. Also, keeping a dragon waiting would be unwise.

On the ring, Flint spoke nary a word, simply giving a respectful bow before getting into position. He simply wanted to get this dangerous matchup over as soon as possible.

THE SPAR

Mireth needed to be careful. To study him, calculate how he fought. Odds were that the human had more experience than Mireth, anyhow.

Her knees were bent, keeping her weight lower to the ground. She began by rounding the mat and for the first time since they’d been partnered, never shifted her gaze from Flint’s form. Her first thought was intimidation. Pressure him into a reaction. She lunged briefly, a stab into the dark, before shifting her weight back.

Flint shifted slightly to avoid the jab before Mireth retreated back. Flint’s face may have been as cold as stone, but internally, Flint was in slight disbelief at such a weak attack with such poor form. Was this dragon serious? Where was the confidence of such a proud race? Flint internally sighed. Flint surmised his opponent was holding back along with the fact dragons typically don’t sword fight. Somehow, this fact insulted Flint, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t take advantage of it. As unexpected as the wind, Flint made a quick but simple approach, giving a swing that left little in the way of openings.

Mireth slid back with a practiced ease but she wasn't quite fast enough to dodge the swing, allowing the tip of Flint's sword to nick her skin. He seemed practiced, smooth - she tested the weight of her sword in her hand, rounding him again in anticipation of another strike.

Flint felt his strike connect, if not, then merely grazed Mireth. After retracting his sword, Flint nearly retreated, but upon observing the slight bob of her sword, Flint’s gaze grew sharp. Flint might’ve been going easy on Mireth, but showing weakness as simple as adjusting to a sword would need to be corrected. Flint sprung on the opportunity to surprise Mireth while she adjusted her sword. His attack, due to the close followup, left an opening in Flint's offensive.

Mireth's wrist twisted awkwardly in an attempt to knock Flint's sword away with her own. She backed up then, following up with a less than gracious counter strike aimed at his shoulder.

Flint's sword glanced a blow with Mireth's own, the clash sounding a loud clack. No hesitation followed his next move as he lunged at Mireth, matching her retreat. A swing would have followed, but when he noticed Mireth's counterattack, Flint noted how… unrefined the strike was. The lack of form greatly annoyed him. A subtle shift in his movements were all he needed to turn his swing into a parry that redirected Mireth’s strike over his head.

Mireth didn't retreat this time around but she did bring her sword back into a more defensive position, taking in a second to study his stance. She decided to push forward more aggressively, though her lunge was less-than-graceful compared to the skill he had shown earlier.

Flint's sword clacked against Mireth's as the two slid off in a glance. During the clash, Flint noticed the slight change to a defensive position. Flint backed off a bit before Mireth threw herself haphazardly at him. Without much effort, Flint shifted his stance, allowing Mireth's swing to pass by him harmlessly. In that moment, Flint’s annoyance hit a limit. This dragon was clearly bogged down by that sword, an unnecessary ornamentation in Mireth’s grasp. With his free hand, Flint took the opportunity to smack Mireth's sword out of her hand while she was still in movement.

What was once a blistering frustration quickly blossomed into something more akin to anger when her sword clattered to the ground at her feet. She didn't make an attempt to retrieve the tool that was so foreign to her. She instead kicked it out of her way, shifting her body to the side and kicking out in an attempt to catch him off guard.

Perhaps that move wasn't Flint's wisest, but he felt the removal necessary. A human tool had no place in a dragon's hand. Twas far too limiting for such a creature. Mireth's kick was somewhat predictable, but her speed caught him somewhat off guard. In his attempt to dodge, he felt her foot nick his chest. Flint looked down. His uniform was slightly torn, his chest slightly stinging from the attack. Flint looked at Mireth with a straight face. A spark of thrilling adrenaline lit inside him. All his senses were against him engaging, but he could not contain his thoughts. Finally, an interesting challenge. Flint shifted his stance before the air around him grew sharp. With flowing movements, Flint began an elegant but relentless assault on Mireth. Flint hoped Mireth would use the speed blue dragons were known for.

Without the weight of an untamed sword, Mireth found it easier to move around Flint's swings. Her body navigated the mat with a grace she hadn't shown before. Every arc of Flint's sword made her more anxious to attack back. Before he could get in another attempt at striking her, Mireth reached for his arm to maneuver the sword farther away from her. She didn't attempt at fully disarming him or knocking the weapon out of his hand.

Flint continued his volley of attacks, swerving his sword left and right. While his sword did graze the blue dragon a good many times, Flint never got a solid hit on Mireth, which merely encouraged him to continue his reckless behavior. As he prepared to make a swing, Flint noticed Mireth's brief gaze at his arm. Instead of dodging, Flint allowed Mireth to take a shot, allowing her grasp to reach his arm. However, when she did, Flint attempted to quickly close the gap. If successful, Flint would leverage her human shaped body, sweeping her off her feet and onto the ground. Twas a trick he learned while at an academy.

Mireth should have expected Flint to be quick enough to knock her down. Although she'd been readying up for a similar move to catch him off balance. As her body fell backwards to the ground, her leg entangled with his own to drag his weight with her. She had to blink off the surprise - and some embarrassment? - to take the brief opportunity to reach for his sword first. Her first thought unfortunately wasn't to pin him down then and there.

Flint expected Mireth to try and drag her down with him. To avoid getting a full entanglement, Flint shoved Mireth back using his arms and weight as she attempted to trip him. Mireth's leg did reach Flint's leg, but only at the foot instead of the knee. With that, Flint simply lifted his leg a little bit, causing Mireth's leg to slip beneath his foot. Once Mireth was down, Flint backed off slightly. There was no way he was going to attempt and pin the dragon down. He could imagine himself getting launched ten feet in the air if he attempted that.

Mireth shifted to stand once more, part of her surprised that Flint hadn’t jumped at the opportunity to pin her once he’d knocked her back for good. The dragon took a moment to crack her knuckles, her mind focused on ending this - once and for all. If this was what life would look like at Valmar, she was already exhausted. She began to approach Flint again, her fists her only defense between them. Her eyes were trained on that sword, the added benefit she’d encouraged before their spar began and now wished she’d never agreed to. She would either get rid of it or concede that she’s lost.

When Mireth cracked her knuckles, Flint felt this exchange would be the last for this spar. With that, Flint placed himself into position, carefully standing off Mireth. The punch flies at Flint’s sword, but he anticipated this move when he saw her gaze. With a careful tilt, Flint arranged his sword so that her punch would glide off of it.

The clattering of a coin echoes from a far distance. The engraved face of the emperor is showing.

Flint is pushed back slightly at the connection, but his sword manages to slide cleanly underneath Mireth’s fist and down under her arm. The sword then crashed against Mireth’s side as the second impact slightly rocked Flint’s stance. Flint couldn’t stop there. He forced his sword upward, causing the sword to slip from underneath Mireth’s arm and up against her chin with a loud thwack. After that move, Flint immediately backed off so as to avoid any retaliation from Mireth, especially if she used a dragon’s strength instead of a human strength.

The thwack against her chin sent the blue dragon backwards once more, her hand shooting up to grab where she’d been knocked.

“Yield,” Mireth grumbled unhappily, shoulders slacking as she stared across the mat at her sparring partner. Still, a glint in her eye showed a curiosity at just how well of a swordsman this man was.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Abyss]

mood :

Focused

location :

Sparring Arena

outfit :

mentions :

N/A

interactions :

N/A

The Undeserving

Fang

Fang was an odd figure within the unit that shared his name. Pale as a ghost and with the red eyes of a demon, he possessed an ethereal quality that could have been beautiful if he did not otherwise invoke the image of a wild animal. Some of the wiser cadets gave him a wide berth, while others watched him curiously. One very unwise cadet had already lost the tip of his finger trying to win a bet to find if Fang’s face had been painted.

Fang’s clothes were cobbled together from things he had stolen or made, or repaired several times over until it was impossible to tell what their origin might be. Most were the durable sort of linen, or leather where extra protection was needed—like at the knees and elbows where scrapes were likeliest to occur—but there were odd bits of colorful fabrics and bits of colorful cords attached to his person as if he were a magpie lining it’s nest with all the pretty bits that had caught his eye. The most prized of his fastenings was also the newest; a band of indigo that proudly proclaimed Fang's true status as a dragon. He had taken immediately to it and already found himself checking often to be sure it still remained secure around his arm.

Though his participation had been accepted at the War College, Fang alternated between suspicion that he had somehow been tricked into being the butt of a joke and peacocking about in full view of everyone, overjoyed that he'd been right after all! Though the other dragons looked down on him with their great gemstone eyes full of disdain for his presence, the humans had not even considered sending him away. They must have been suffering terribly indeed for more dragons, for they had almost seemed pleased with him despite his small stature. Fang had paraded about them afterwards in delight.

Fang did not stay long in his true shape, however. After the parapet he joined the rest of the cadets in human form. He’d spent the duration of his free hours investigating both the academy grounds and the various people and dragons whom he now lived alongside. Perhaps most importantly, he kept his distance from the terrible black dragon Tenebris, whose presence had surprised and disturbed him immensely. After an intense encounter in which Fang had given his word that he was not intent on causing mischief at the academy the other dragon had left him alone, but Fang still felt as if he were being watched by dark eyes at every turn.

At the announcement that they would be expected to fight against one-another, Fang felt fear creep up along his spine like a swarm of blood-suckers seeking exposed flesh. And like a swarm of insects, he swatted (mentally) at the feeling; urging it to go sink its teeth elsewhere. This was only the first (official) challenge and he would not be made to back down. If he were to run away with his tail tucked now, then he might as well flee to the deepest woods and never emerge again. Such would be his well deserved shame. With a hateful glare he eyed the dragon who was his assigned opponent:

Akeron was not so large and she was female; if she had been human, then it would have been easy to tackle her to the ground and subdue her with his bare hands. Fang had killed many humans, and he was as intimately familiar with their many vulnerabilities as he was the many prey beasts that dwelled in the forests or swam under the waves. However, although Akeron looked like easy prey, she was surely anything but. Blue dragons were the smallest breed, but even so the weakest of their kind would still be a great deal stronger than Fang. He would never say so aloud of course—he was as proud a dragon as any—but to truly believe otherwise would be to deny the many lessons that crisscrossed his skin. One could rightly say that Fang was not particularly clever in most regards. He could not read or write, and he did not even know the proper names for most of the animals which he hunted. However if there was one subject in which Fang was properly educated, it was to fight.

So when the opportunity to select a weapon was given, Fang stayed true to his instincts and pulled out the Dragon Fang from which he’d taken his name. He had stolen the tooth many, many years ago from the skeleton of a long dead dragon that had decayed in some tunnels far below in the earth. He had been even smaller back then, and his own teeth had not offered much defense, so he’d taken the fang and made it bite through enemy scales as his own could not. The tooth was roughly the same length as a shortsword, but thicker around and with a serrated edge. He gripped the pommel of the blade and felt his fear transform into a surge of advantageous energy; the weight of the weapon in his hand was familiar—more like an extension of himself than an object, really—and wielding it raised his spirits immensely. Fang welcomed the flood of adrenaline which he thought of as the awakening of his hunter’s heart and stepped forward to meet his opponent. His steps were carefully measured, no different than if he were stalking prey and his red eyes were focused with a savage gleam.

As the other sparring partners stepped forward to begin their own matches and loosed their tongues alongside their weapons, Fang simply bared his teeth and snarled a dragon’s challenge. He would not give Akeron time to gain her wits. As soon as possible, Fang lunged forward towards his opponent—intent that he would strike first and put her on the defensive.

coded by reveriee.

 

[comfortable]

mood :

happy

location :

valamar college - training room

uniform :

none atm

mentions :

reveriee

interactions :

reveriee

the blue demon

;; akeron

The first day passed uneventfully, marked only by the acrid smell of burnt flesh that stung her eyes and nose. The living perished swiftly, their bodies either impaled on the jagged rocks below the parapet or their skulls shattered by the impact of the fall.

Akeron walked to the open edge of the courtyard and peered down at the charred rocks, then turned away. Humans were such fragile creatures, their lives fleeting, their breaths cynically counted by their cruel gods.

___

Nirili seemed at ease among the humans. Akeron observed her closely—the quick flick of her hair as she tucked it behind her ears, a human habit. The dragon frowned and turned her nose up at the gesture. She would sooner endure dragonfire than allow herself to assimilate to the human customs surrounding her.

Akeron trailed behind the eager group of cadets, her steps unhurried, her mind occupied with whatever the morning had in store for the Fang squad. It was too early, the morning clouds still smothering the sun, and she yawned lazily. As the squad gathered before the wooden doors, Akeron found it difficult to muster any interest in what Nirili was saying.

Her eyes wandered, taking in the fully stocked caches of weapons in each corner. When Nirili’s voice echoed in her mind, Akeron acknowledged the brown dragon with a slight nod, her frown deepening. Younglings often sparred with their nestmates, but to do so with a foreign dragon? That could lead to disaster.

When her opponent was announced, she followed behind Fang, quietly sizing him up. He stood a foot taller than her but was thin, with little muscle to speak of. As they faced each other, she cocked her head curiously—he was a white dragon, a rarity among their kind. Odd, vicious creatures.

Inhale.

Akeron watched as his expression twisted into something dangerous, unrestrained. A mocking smile tugged at her lips; he was a wild thing.

Exhale.

In a single breath, Fang had closed the distance between them. Akeron’s heart skipped in her chest, her eyes widening as he lunged at her. She bared her teeth, sapphire eyes narrowing in silent annoyance. He was faster than her, but it was clear she had more experience. Akeron deftly dodged his swings, staying just out of his reach, toying with the white dragon.

"You are a wild little thing, aren't you?"

Her voice was playful, mocking. Unlike the moment he had caught her off guard, there was no fear in her heart now. Before he could respond, she was behind him, forcefully pushing him with both hands.

"But you are rather determined. It's adorable."

coded by reveriee.

 

[ComplexDragon]

mood :

Amused

location :

Valmar's Sparring Room

outfit :

mentions : Bumblebeee

interactions : Mara

The Lost Princess

;; Cordelia

It was almost comical, watching Mara circle as far as she could, eyebrows knit together in confusion. As if she believed Cordelia was some puzzle to decipher. Of course, the future queen had never really thought of herself as much of an enigma. She was fairly upfront and Garthen and Anya often scolded her for being too much on an open book. They said that’s how she’d get herself killed.

Still, was she truly that difficult to decipher?

Finally, Mara took a few light steps onto the map and dropped all muscles in her body tensing up. Even though the girl was trying to appear relaxed, everything screamed otherwise.

“I suppose I am a bit uncomfortable, but not because of the temperature.” Mara continued to circle, eyes darting this way and that.

Meanwhile, Cordelia took the opportunity to finish sizing up her opponent. Skinny, small, and flighty. While most of her clothes seemed to fit well enough, they had the air of being fresh and unworn. New. Much like the girl wearing them. Cordelia would bet most of her sparse belongings that Mara had absolutely no experience with anything remotely like what she would face at Valmar College.

It was like fighting a child or a puppy. Fortunately, no one would shame her for knocking this puppy to the ground. Since it was the puppy’s own fault for showing up in this deathtrap of a college. Cordelia and most of the other recruits (save the rebel children drafted) chose to come here of their own free will and they prepared their entire lives for this moment. Meanwhile, Mara Esen looked like she had woken up one day and decided that it might be fun to go on a suicide mission to war college.

What in the gods' names was she doing here anyway? That was the one thing Cordelia couldn’t quite figure out. And it annoyed her to no end that Mara was so terribly easy to read, and yet her intentions and motivations were about as clear as mud.

“Your armor is lovely.” Mara suddenly blurted out.

The statement was so entirely ridiculous that Cordelia laughed before she could stop herself. She glanced down at her shiny, purple chest plate. Mara truly had no idea what she was doing. Instead, she was gawking at a decent piece of metal.

“Why thank you. It’s one of the many benefits of being the warden of a merchant.” Cordelia plastered on a sugary tone and an even sweeter smile. “Purple has always been my favorite color. So it seemed only fitting to take it with me. Though hopefully I won’t need it.”

The poor thing had likely never seen anything so lovely in all her life. It still boggled the mind how so many Haelorians wasted away in tiny little huts while their glorious king engorged himself on Laceravian’s finest goods. And yet they all still worshipped him.

Someday she’d finally make them all see reason. The first step to doing so was climbing the ranks by taking out any people standing in her way. And unfortunately for Mara, she happened to be in the way.

Might as well put this to rest now. So, Cordelia lunged. She swept her leg out and caught on the back of Mara’s leg in a practiced movement and knocked her feet out from under her. Toppling the twig without breaking a sweat. With a snort, Cordelia stood over her, flicking her eyes around the room to see if anyone was paying attention.

This was absolutely too easy.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Bumblebeee]

mood :

Amazed, nervous

location :

Valmar College > Valmar's Sparring Room

outfit :

mentions : ComplexDragon

interactions : Cordelia

Esen

;; Mara

Why in the Three's name did people stand around babbling about how much they wanted to be seen? Girls were always going on about catching boys staring at them back home and the lads were just as bad, bragging about catching a lady's eye. Mara might have recently fallen victim to a similarly stupid delusion of grandeur, sure, but she'd snapped out of it! Why would anybody ever want for this feeling? The books made being looked at by a- well, by someone like Cordelia with a charming smile and big brown eyes, seem to be a warm, tingly sort of thing. Mara certainly felt tingly enough, but it wasn't in a fun butterfly sort of way. More like a 'I hope the twister doesn't get close enough to pull the doors off the cellar' kind of way. Something wasn't quite right about that look... Or at least, she hoped it was this particular look and not just something wrong with her in particular. The shadows never made her feel quite so much like she was being looked at inside out.

Mara stuttered in her circling shuffle. Cordelia was laughing. It sounded like bells, loud alarming bells, but still bells. It was kind of nice, actually, and Mara felt her shoulders loosen in response. River never laughed like that, it was always more of a bark or a huff and then he'd say something snide, but Cordelia didn't. As she paced the mat like a wolf eyeing prey Cordelia said sweet words.

"Why thank you. It’s one of the many benefits of being the warden of a merchant. Purple has always been my favorite color. So it seemed only fitting to take it with me. Though hopefully I won’t need it."

Too sweet. Sweet like syrup gone bad or fruit starting to ferment... Mara didn't realize she'd been smiling until her lips wavered unsurely back down. Too sweet. She took two quick steps, hopping like a fumbling baby deer across the mat to keep distance from the wolf looking to devour her.

"Purple is a nice color," Mara responded, fighting to put the wavering smile back on her lips more firmly. It felt wrong. She never was good at being sweet, maybe she should have tried harder to learn. Maybe it would have kept her out of Valmar. But maybe she was being judgemental. Cordelia hadn't done anything wrong. She hadn't pointed Mara out of the crowd and declared her intentions to dual like a mustachio twirling Rayvn rider, she'd just been assigned to spar and was frankly being really gentle by allowing them to stall like this. Mara wasn't oblivious to the sounds coming from the mats around them- the others had begun quicker.

They had been circling for a while, maybe she didn't want to be fighting Mara just as much as Mara didn't want to hit her. What reason did she really have to be weary of Cordelia in the first place? A nice set of armor? It was purple, for Gods sake! Purple wasn't the color of badass warriors, it was a gentle color, one for ladies and spring flowers and sunsets across the wide lake beyond the fields. She straightened up a little more from her crouch. "It's better to have something you don't need than for it to be absent when you wa-"

The world tilted and blurred before it came up from below, cutting off her surprised shout by pushing the air from her lungs.

Mara wheezed out a cough. Coughing was the best way to get yourself to start breathing again when your lungs felt tight around nothing like hers did now. She'd learned that by fourteen. The mats weren't as squishy as they looked, Mara absently thought as her mind caught up to her body. They must be more for the cleaning crew's benefit than for her own. She'd learned by twelve that bloodstains were hard to get out of wood flooring and sunk into stone if left for too long. She'd used hay, not mats, to hide it but the principle still applied.

It only took a moment on that stupid rock hard mat, staring up at a woman that didn't even bother looking down at Mara in return, for her to understand that she had been wrong about Cordelia. She wasn't a wolf at all, certainly not a lady either. She was a snake, striking with the speed and precision of an Adler but none of the hesitation or so much as a warning hiss first. In fact, Cordelia snorted. Snorted! Fuck snakes, she was a pompous pig who had been playing with her food before she gobbled it down fast as she could and Mara had been daydreaming about flowers the whole time.

Mara's cheeks heated, but rather than feeling the pressure build behind her eyes or in her throat as a warning for humiliated tears, it burned hot and high in her stomach. Mara thrust her fists forward and took hold of the first thing she found. Fingers strong from years of hauling buckets and climbing trees latching under the bottom lip of that fancy purple armor and she pulled with a growl of frustration. For good measure Mara shot a leg out and kicked as hard as she could at Cordelia's ankle. It always hurt like a bitch when she got kicked there, boots protect the toes not the ankles. Mara might not have fancy training to throw people down, but she knew what hurt just as much as any trained Valmar hopeful. If Cordelia wanted to act like that, to push down and dismiss someone who didn't have the privileged life her fancy merchant Daddy had bought her, then Mara would pull her piggy ass down into the mud, too. Maybe she'd learn some manners there.

coded by reveriee.

 

[Nebulous Stars]

Dillon Cadel
& Holly

written by opaline and @ Nebulous Stars

His words landed uncomfortably, and a part of her flinched, leaning on a surgeon’s certainty to keep it invisible. Luck was the closest thing to a god many of her patient’s had worshiped, and it failed just as many as it saved. She could not allow luck to define her fate, could not allow her fate to be defined by anything other than her own hands. She would succeed, could acknowledge no other option, could hold no other path in her head.

Still, somewhere in her chest it struck a chord, the knowledge of what the two of them would face, what they would have to do. The choices they would have to make. Glancing towards his face she knew that in a scarce handful of years they could both be dead, in battle or otherwise, back to back, or face to face, a knife in his chest. A glance around the training room was a glance around a graveyard, before the tombstones were ever carved. Well, the noble brats would get tombstones, the rest of their bones could rest anywhere from a battlefield to somewhere at this school.

A glance over the room also revealed all sorts of fascinating battles, dragons and humans alike. In all honesty her gaze only stopped twice, the need to understand a bit more of dragons paramount, as she took in some of the details of their matches. It told her little she did not already know, dragons as capable of vicious brutality or cold control as any other. As she turned back to Dillon her gaze was briefly interrupted by a match in progress between two beautiful women. Opposites both, one radiating confidence, one very much not, and from her form, she suspected that confidence wasn’t undue, training entirely visible. Still that evaluation wasn’t the reason she stopped nor the source of the flutter in her heart.

Still that wasn’t the only thing the room told her. Neither she nor Dillon were prepared for the killing field that was now either the start of their lives or the end of it. They had a long way to go and a lot of work to do. The question she found herself stuck on was how much she was willing to reveal, and how much the people around her would see. A part of her wanted to keep all her cards close to her chest, but her truly dear secrets were all alchemical, fighting skills or lack thereof was a separate problem.

Maybe there was a way to make this day more productive, push their limits further and figure out what work needed to be done. She couldn’t say she trusted the man yet, but he seemed genuine, and at least for the moment, their interests were entirely aligned. Perhaps a new kind of match then, a contemplative tone in her voice as she spoke, “What say you to another match? Different rules, let’s play to points. All out, but sheathed blades and pulled blows. I use poisoned weapons, and you have a large advantage in raw mass, so clean knife strikes or any kind of topple or throw would count, as well as appropriate strikes from whatever weapon you might choose. Interested?”

Dillon had taken but a moment to survey Holly, her eyes panning across the room and her face diligently still: he knew the trained expression well, for he wore it often. They shared a moment of silence, in which he took the opportunity to take stock of the room. The dragons held a raw veracity in their fighting, their strength could almost be felt piercing the otherwise stale air, while the humans were more varied in their skills–some appeared to be engaged in a practiced dance, twisting like leaves in the wind, while others reflected all the bumbling grace of a newborn deer.

He assumed if Nirili had her way, give it but a few weeks and they’d all begin looking like a well-oiled sparring machine. Admittedly, he still felt the gratification that came with challenge, and the fervor to establish himself independently of all the names that could be haphazardly strung together in a half-hearted attempt to label someone: Rebel child. Cadel son. Farm boy.

Dillon supposed it were true he was all those things, but everyone in this room was likely to become another entirely with each blow molding them as gods did clay men. At least, so one of the many mythologized stories in the melting pot of Haeloria went.

And in all his thoughts, Dillon’s eyes never strayed far from those still fighting, mental notes of their technique, speed, and exploitable openings carefully filed away (though, those files still largely lacked names to be assigned to them).

At Holly’s suggestion, Dillon raised an eyebrow and had the ghost of a smile and shrugged. “Why not? Better make use of the time than just stand around.” It was interesting she explicitly told him she used poisons, though. That was the kind of information he would stow behind tight lips.

Like how he was exceptionally average with anything other than his fists. Underground fighting rings preferred the drama of a bloodied fist than a cut throat, after all.

And so, he would make use of the time. Dillon walked to where the weapons were, and chose a simple short sword, testing its weight with a few steady swings as he returned to Holly’s side. As they stepped back onto the mat, he momentarily wondered if Nirili would stop them since they had technically completed the task, but no such interference came. Perhaps she felt the same: it was better they used the time in its totality.

“Ready when you are,” he said, settling into his stance once more. “I hope this is not a ploy to actually poison me.”

Subtly, but knowing it gave up information all the same, she drew the knife from her back again, leaving it sheathed, and then, after a moment of consideration, drew a second from her boot. Of the weapons on her person, the boot was likely the best second to reveal. It was after all inaccessible under many circumstances, and anyone sharp enough to be monitoring that quiet motion right now of all times likely knew better than to leave boots unchecked.

She couldn’t help the ripple of amusement she felt thinking about her skill with concealing them versus her skill with using them. Knife-fighting had always felt less important than further mastering her stability and scalpel work, but concealed carry had been far too useful. She hadn’t even used it for weapons until later, too many guards either too touchy about edgecase herbs, or too stupid to understand what was legal. Best to be subtle, especially when briefly out from under her Mother’s cover.

It was the thought of that cover never again really mattering that set the tone of her movements, taking a position, keeping her stance low and flexible, a hidden aggression. Conventional styles needed center mass hits, or at least strikes to arteries and armored muscles, she just needed a single good strike. When she spoke her voice was tense, although she tried to keep her expression friendly to make clear it wasn’t personal, “If I was going to poison you I wouldn’t have told you that. The human body for all its resilience is rather fragile, the right chemical or mechanical actions destroying it rather simply, but there is only so fast it can get without rare and expensive ingredients. Especially with how varied human resilience can be, could tell all sorts of tales laying ther-” cutting herself off she lunged forward, a simple right-handed testing stab to center-mass despite her previous meandering.

He was listening to her, but more importantly took in her body language. She sat more comfortably with her own weight, that of someone more in their natural elements, while he was slightly further out of his own. It was almost funny how only a few differences led to a completely different hand. Almost, if it hadn’t been for the fact that meant death could be upon them if not in the most favorable of positions.

Dillon let her seemingly ramble, only to jerk in alarm as he narrowly stumbled out of the way of her stab. He never liked being caught off guard. Dillon barely steadied before he lunged towards her, a heavy, long arced swing aiming for her torso. Though his movements perhaps a bit more unruly and less practiced, it was still a dance to him–only now he had no rehearsed steps to guide him, but rather only the music of involuntary grunts from winded lungs alongside the arrhythmic collision of fists and weapons.

Holly’s lack of commitment to her attack made it easy to react in that split-second of action and reaction. This, with some irony, was what she had trained for. A committed attack, open, direct, one she was positioned to prey on by something as simple as the flexibility of her body and the three dimensional way she had been trained to understand a fight. As she ducked beneath the swing she remembered what her mother had called the way she fought, a viper’s style, very different from her mother’s. She lashed out with the speed of one towards a spot just above her opponent’s knee, useful for getting poison into the blood. and muscle damage.

She pulled the strike before it fully landed, though even sheathed it would bruise. Keeping her momentum was oddly slightly easier, the difference from a real stab throwing her off, but not having to rip it out proving beneficial as she rolled a few feet away and up into a crouch.

The pain of the somehow simultaneously blunt and piercing force rippled along his leg, and he contorted to land most of his weight on the other due to his momentum. As he settled, Dillon watched Holly roll into a crouched position, once again ready to strike. With her daggers in hand, she was certainly more capable but perhaps more importantly, she was confident. Comfort zones were a wondrously constraining concept, only as real as a mind wished it to be.

He noticed that some more of the spars began to wrap up around them, the sounds of battle melting into chatter and grumbles. Though Nirili had seemed to pay them no mind in engaging again, he thought it unwise to be leaving everyone waiting for their spontaneous yet unnecessary second bout.

A few more strikes, then.

Dillon approached in a lower stance, and swung instead in a diagonal arc, crossing from Holly’s left shoulder to her right knee.

As she watched him adjust and sink into the moment to moment heart to heart of the spar she felt a slightly toothy grin cross her face. Medicine had consumed her life, still did, but there was a joy in the communication of a spar, the way you could sharpen and improve each-other. Here the first lesson, learned by instinct or choice, swing for where your opponent needed to be, not where they seemed to intend to be.

In a real fight she still had a chance here, just as he would likely already be foaming on the floor, but the angle and leverage of the blow would render any such attempt a matter of luck, of their expectations and instincts arrayed against each other. If he had entered the fight thinking this way, the first blow would have been impossible, at least in that specific way. The blow itself she simply took, although with due caution she used one of her blades to help dull the blow as it thunked in, ready to cleave into her chest if it were real.

Unthinkable in a real fight, but helpful when sparring if you needed your shoulders for surgery. Perhaps impishly, her other blade lashed out towards his wrist. Always good to keep at range against madwomen with knives really. Although if he had the instincts, and in a real fight the strength to pull the blade back out of flesh and bone so easily, it was a desperate blow weak to evasion or deflection at her wrist or arm.