Senka Rinaldi, from Fire Emblem: Apotheosis, a roleplay on RPG

Senka Rinaldi's Story

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#2019-08-12 09:59:26, as written by Nemeseia

I.Y. 1180 - Great Tree Moon - Monday the 6th
Officers Academy - Morning - Overcast
Senka Rinaldi

Senka sighed softly as she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. The uniform for the Officers Academy was strange to her, however; she pulled at the hem of her skirt to fix it. Smoothing out her shirt, she was satisfied with the over all appearance. Her hair, loose and curly behind her back, was another thing entirely, though. She had grown used to not doing much with it over the past three years. Growing up with various ornaments and pins through it was a habit hard to kill, but she'd mostly managed. The only item in her hair, now, was a pin in the shape of a lily, fastened to keep half of her hair up.

Sorcha had given it to her last year for her seventeenth year of life, and she'd worn it without fail, every day since. It was a memento she cherished, dearly. Sighing once more, Senka made her way towards the staircase for the upper levels of the dormitory. They were reserved for the nobles's children and those of royalty, a position Senka no longer occupied. It seemed like a life time ago, despite it only being three years. She had to enroll under her mother's birth name of Argyris. Even if they were a noble house in Faerghus, it wasn't quite as reputable as any of the other Crest houses. She was just a commoner from Almyra to the people here, and she was fine with that lie.

With her hands at her sides, she waited patiently at the bottom of the stairs for Sorcha. Even if the princess had expressed multiple times that she was allowed to greet her upstairs, Senka refrained from doing so. Even if she was under a different guise, people still spoke; still whispered behind her back of how she earned her position in the princess's good graces. And she pushed those voices from her ears and thoughts.

It wasn't that Sorcha was hard to rouse from sleep. Quite the opposite actually; she was often earlier to rise than the sun itself. But she did have a way of getting caught up in her training, and she'd never been the most concerned with her own appearance, either. So it was hardly surprising that when she came down the stairs from the second floor, it was at a sprightly run that suggested she'd already been up for a while, and also a touch disheveled. She tended to pin her long, cornsilk-blonde hair up behind her so it was well out of the way, but she was still in the process of doing that as she hit the landing, and grimaced when she poked herself a bit too hard with one of the pins, sighing heavily.

“Senka, good morning!" she said, smiling perhaps a tad too brightly. She'd been a little off all weekend, but hadn't seemed to want to speak of why. Still, she seemed much like her normal self this morning. “I uh... don't suppose you could maybe, um... help?" She gestured vaguely with the pin.

She nodded, a faint smile briefly touching her lips before it faded. Sorcha knew by now that she could tell Senka anything, however; Senka knew when to push for something that was bothering Sorcha greater than normal. Since it was the first day of class, she was going to refrain from doing so... for now. She retrieved the pin from Sorcha, and walked so that she was behind her. Running her fingers through Sorcha's hair to pull out any of the tangles, she pulled it up and placed the pin to secure the tresses. Once she was finished, she moved so that she was back in Sorcha's view.

“Is it sufficient?" she asked. She would fix it again if it were not up to Sorcha's expectations, but in the back of her mind, she already knew the answer.

Sorcha breathed an immediate sight of relief, reaching up with both hands to feel along the contours of her hair. It was rather lovely, as hair went; the color was clear and the strands thick and soft, but able to lay smoothly, with only a few pieces loose at the front. “You're a lifesaver, Sen. Thanks so much!" She shook her head. “I swear I learned about all this feminine stuff, but I can't ever remember a lick of it."

Smoothing down her uniform skirt—she'd chosen the knee-length one, and wore fitted shorts underneath in case of activity—she patted herself down to be sure she was in order. Seemingly satisfied, she tossed her blue cloak back over her shoulder to rest mostly out of the way. “Anyhow, let's get going. First day of class and all—are you excited?"

She blinked for a moment, chewing on the bottom of her lip as she thought about the question. Excited was an irrelevant term to Senka. She wasn't sure what to find exciting, but for the sake of her friend, she was trying to be. “I am... anticipating how the first day will go," she spoke truthfully. “Excited is not the word I would use," she continued, not wanting to be dishonest.

“What about you? Are you prepared for the year?" she asked, turning so that she could walk with Sorcha towards the main hall. It wasn't too far from the dormitory. It would take them through the courtyard which meant that they would be passing the other students. Taking in a deep breath to steel herself, she began walking with Sorcha. “And are you prepared to meet our professor?" she added. She'd been told by Sorcha that their new professor was hand chosen by the Archbishop, and for a moment, she wondered what kind of person they could be.

Sorcha smiled broadly, nodding a little. “Actually... I've already met him," she confessed. “I didn't know he was going to be our professor at the time, though—neither did he, I'm sure. He's really..." She trailed of, apparently trying to find the right word. “Different. And interesting, I think. He was a mercenary, before."

They turned north before they reached the main hall, skimming the dining hall to head into the small courtyard in front of the classrooms. The three were quite close together; students milled around outside, enjoying the last little while before classes started. Some were still eating breakfast as they went, it seemed.

“I think you'll like him," Sorcha continued, lifting a hand to wave to another student who'd waved at her. Most of them only wore small pins to indicate which house they belonged to, but Sorcha's bright blue cloak would have stood out even if the Princess herself was not so distinctive as she was. Though there was some mixing of the houses out here, they did still tend to cluster; it seemed a rather large collection of Black Eagles were gathered around a man who had to be the so-called Silver Prince. Clearly, the name had been given to him for the distinctive white color of his hair.

The Golden Deer were gathered around a young man who shared the same skin tone as Senka. He was talking animatedly to one of the students, smiling as if he had no care in the world. She had to quash the envious feeling in her chest, quickly, and turned to Sorcha. She nodded at the statement and made to reply, however; Senka felt something collide with her back, and tipped her forward. She managed to catch herself, twisting so that her left foot was further out than her right in order to keep her balance.

“Ow, ow," a young woman stated, rubbing her forhead. She was dressed in the same uniform as Sorcha, the one with the knee-length skirt, and her hair was a vibrant green. While not quite emerald, it did stand out quite a bit. “Oh, oh, I'm so, so sorry! I didn't mean to bump into you like that! Are you alright?" she stated, taking Senka aback. She blinked slowly before straightening out her composure.

“I am not harmed, if that is what you mean," she replied. The young woman smiled brightly at the statement, looking relieved. Senka found it slightly strange, but she did not comment on the behavior.

“I'm so glad. I'm just so excited! I just joined and was looking for my Houses' main room. Oh," she spoke in quick succession. Senka almost found it difficult to keep up. “Do either of you know where I can find the main room to the Blue Lion house?"

Sorcha snorted softly. “As a matter of fact, we do," she said, picking up the edge of the cape and flapping it a little. “I'm Sorcha, the Blue Lions House Leader. This is my friend Senka. Can I ask your name?" By now the both of them were familiar with the noble houses in Faerghus that had children of their own age. Not only was this girl not someone they'd seen before, but she didn't look much like any of the noble families Senka had met either. Apparently the same was true of Sorcha.

“Oh! That makes you Princess Sorcha! Oh what a pleasure to meet you! I'm Amalthea! I've heard so much about you," she greeted. The energy that poured from her was a little overwhelming to Senka, but she kept her face smoothed. Amalthea turned towards Senka, though, and the smile seemed to brighten. “It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Senka. I hope we can all be friends. It's just... I've never had the chance to actually join before," she continued.

Senka, however, narrowed her eyes slightly at the statement. Friends? With her? Sorcha, she could understand. Why did she want to be her friend? “Have you applied before?" she decided to ask, treading on careful waters. Amalthea laughed lightly, though it sounded a bit nervous as well.

“I have, but this is the first year that my sister actually allowed me to participate."

“Sister?" Sorcha asked, tilting her head a bit to the side. She seemed to bear none of Senka's slight suspicion of the girl, nor any particular reserve at the sentiment. But then, that was the kind of person she had always been: constantly willing to extend her hand in trust and friendship, even to people who were cold and reluctant. To someone who reached back, it was probably the easiest thing in the world for her to do.

Amalthea nodded her head violently. Enthusiastically, perhaps? Senka didn't know the proper word, however; Amalthea continued to speak. “She's Archbishop Rhea's advisor: Lyanna von Kreuz. I'm Amalthea von Kreuz!" she clarified, causing Senka's eyes to widen faintly. Taking a closer inspection of her features, she did bear some similarities to the Archbishop's advisor. She supposed it was true.

“Oh, can I join the two of you, then? I mean, if you're heading towards class?" she asked. Senka glanced in Sorcha's direction for a moment. She already knew what the answer was going to be, and decided to nod her head in agreement. They were headed that way, and she supposed it would be okay if Amalthea wanted to follow them. Sorcha would have agreed to it, regardless.

“If that is what you wish, I will not stop you," she stated, watching as the young woman fell in line with Sorcha and herself.

“Sure you can!" Sorcha agreed with considerably more verve, though definitely not as much excitement as Amalthea seemed to have. “And welcome to the Blue Lions. I'd ask why you chose us, but... we're going to be great, so it's really not that surprising." That was definitely a joke—though many nobles thought rather too highly of their status and such, Sorcha had never been like that.

The classroom they led Amalthea to was the middle of three, its entranceway decorated with blue banners in the same shade as Sorcha's mantle. There were several rows of desks, all arranged to face one at the head of the room, where a young man stood, apparently paging through some kind of book. He couldn't have been much older than Senka; though he had the fairer complexion shared by many in Fódlan, he also clearly saw sun, and regularly. He wore a neat tunic in dark teal, some unfamiliar insignia embroidered at the wide collar of it, and a dark, close-fitted turtleneck shirt beneath. Neither did much to conceal the obvious musculature of his build, and he was quite tall, apparently.

It would seem no other students had yet entered—perhaps they found him intimidating?

Whatever it was, it did not deter Senka. How could one expect to improve if they found simply looking at a young man, intimidating? Senka could understand the why aspects of the intimidation. It was evident enough that the young man knew a life of battle or some equivalent life style. He didn't seem to have the bearings of a noble, but there was something to him that could certainly pass for it if he chose. Amalthea, however, seemed excited that this person was here as well.

“Hello!" she greeted, making her way towards the young man. “It seems we're early. Are you part of the Blue Lion house as well?" she asked, clearly intrigued by this person. Senka supposed that Amalthea didn't have the same reservations as the other people who were not yet present. She seemed almost immune to intimidation, or she wasn't quite aware of what it could do to someone. Senka was not going to be the teacher on that subject, though. Everyone learned in their own way.

The question drew a quiet snort from Sorcha for some reason, but it was the man himself who answered, speaking in a voice with a smooth, low timbre. “In a manner of speaking," he replied, his visage rather blank in much the same manner as Senka's often was. That alone gave no clue as to why, however.

“Hello again, Cyril," Sorcha said, taking a seat at one of the desks in the front row and patting the seat next to her in invitation to Senka. “Or I guess I should call you Professor now?"

Senka took the seat as she heard a light gasp from Amalthea. “Oh, how very rude of me! I should have addressed you properly." she stated, causing Senka to shake her head lightly. She did not say anything, though, and glanced towards the Professor. It did not make sense as to why Sorcha thought she would like him. Perhaps because there was some similar manner of their expressions? She did not think that was the case.

“It's quite fine," he said mildly, shaking his head as though it were indeed of no consequence to him.

“That would make you Professor Eisner, correct?" she spoke, her voice soft and flat.

His eyes shifted to Senka's, locking with an almost uncanny sort of accuracy, with all the intentness of a cat tracking motion. That, and the vivid golden color of them, stopped his face from looking dead, despite the passivity of the rest of his expression. “In theory," he replied. It might have actually been a rather deadpan joke. “Until a few days ago, however, I was simply Cyril, so if you prefer that, I do not mind. The choice is yours."

The choice was hers, he'd said. She made a soft noise in the back of her throat as way of acknowledging it. She wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that. Whether or not in theory if he was a professor, then he should be addressed as such, however; she knew Sorcha preferred to be spoken to on friendly terms. If the professor was giving her a choice, she would honor that.

“Oo, professor Cyril sounds really cool," Amalthea spoke again. She was... energetic to the point that Senka felt slightly overwhelmed by it. She had never known someone with the energy and innocence of a child who wasn't a child. She made her way towards Sorcha and Senka, though, and took a seat on the other side of Senka that was empty. Senka titled her head slightly in confusion, but the expression didn't make it to her face.

She did, however, place her arm behind Amalthea when she took a seat. Her excitement caused her to sit down rather roughly, and she almost fell backwards. “You should be careful," she spoke softly, earning a nervous chuckle from Amalthea.

“I'm sorry. I'll be more careful from now on. It's just—"

“You're excited, yes I am aware," she answered before Amalthea could finish. For some reason, the statement brought a large smile to Amalthea's face before she turned towards Cyril.

“What were you doing before this, Professor?" she asked, the same curiosity littering her eyes as it did earlier.

“I'm a—" he paused, considered, and amended. “I was a mercenary."

It's an occupation to which there are varying attitudes. Some see the exchange of loyalty for coin to be base and distasteful. Others think it's a job like any other. It's likely Cyril can't be sure which they are, but if it bothers him, he gives no sign of the fact.

“He saved my life," Sorcha said, calmly enough that it almost qualified as nonchalant, except something like that would never be nonchalant with her. There's a note of genuine admiration, almost something like awe, buried well beneath it. “Last Friday, during the House Leaders' training exercise."

Cyril didn't deny it, though he didn't rush to confirm or claim credit either.

Senka pursed her lips at Sorcha. Was that why she'd been acting weird when she returned? “Why did you not tell me this?" she stated, but her voice wasn't reprimanding. She sighed, though, and turned her attention back to Cyril. “I express my thanks to you for doing so," she stated, nodding her head in Cyril's direction as a way of a bow. She wasn't standing at the moment, and it would be strange if she stood in order to do so.

He simply returned the nod.

“So that means you were able to travel all over the world! When there's time, because it would be impossible to do now," Amalthea didn't seem to have any reservations on how she addressed the Professor, and was speaking almost amicably now. “I would love to hear the stories you have. You must have plenty of them, right?"

Senka would admit that it would be slightly beneficial to hear these stories. After all, what was a mercenary but a trained soldier? And soldiers who were not bound to the teachings of the Church or Lord were able to find ways to fight that worked for them. “I, too, wish to hear these stories. If you are amenable to the idea," she added. Class would be starting soon, but perhaps after would be a good time. Or, if they were fortunate enough, he would include some of his stories in the lecture.

This seemed to puzzle Cyril a little bit, if the way he tilted his head was any indication, but then he shrugged and nodded again. “I understand there is a break for lunch between morning and afternoon classes," he said after a moment. “Perhaps you would prefer to hear them over something to eat."

It was then that the bell rang, signaling that students needed to finish making their way to the classroom lest they be counted tardy. There were about ten Blue Lions students in total, including Amalthea. Senka had gleaned the impression that the other classes were about the same—the Academy didn't admit everyone who applied, by any stretch of the imagination. The assembling group were clearly somewhat astir to note that the professor was... well definitely not the one they'd been told they'd have in their admittance materials, to say the least. That fellow had been some kind of Church person—a minor bishop of some kind or something like that.

Whatever else he may have been, Cyril did not look like a bishop.

When they'd settled, he cleared his throat, and the effect is oddly instantaneous. Something in his body language changed, and suddenly he was the center of the room's attention, not in the sort of hurried-glance way that meant people were talking about him and trying to be surreptitious, but in the sense that—it was almost as though his very presence had changed, exuding a kind of authority that Sorcha would probably envy.

When he spoke, though, it was simple. His voice carried without needing to shout, the low, quiet tone of it almost forcing the silence so that he could be more clearly heard. “Welcome to class," he said. “My name is Cyril Eisner, and I've been hired to replace Professor Morrow, who abandoned his students when their training exercise was attacked." The words were blunt, direct, and honest, and he let them sink in for several moments before continuing.

“Unfortunately that's something that happens when some people see real battle. They get scared, and they can't think of anything but protecting themselves, saving their own lives. They abandon their comrades, even if they believe they are the sort who could never do such a thing. It is a human weakness, and it is understandable." He paused, then shook his head faintly.

“I will not. I know this because I have not. Whatever else you may think of me, you may rest assured in that much at least." His tone didn't sound very assuring, but at the same time it was abundantly clear that he was being truthful. “And my job, as I see it, is to turn you into people who will not, either. And to give you the skills to succeed when you choose to fight. I have no noble title to offer you. No knowledge of prayers or blessings or rituals. But I have experience, and for as long as you are my students, it is at your disposal. Are there questions before we begin?"

Senka respected that statement. It wasn't a matter of whether or not she left anyone behind, but moreso that she was left behind. If it came down to it, Senka would gladly allow herself to be left behind if it meant that Sorcha would be safe. She glanced towards her friend, before her gaze shifted back to Cyril. A student had raised their hand when Cyril invited the questioning.

“What do you mean, exactly?" he asked, his entire face pulled into confusion. “If the situation is lost, then wouldn't it make sense to flee?" he continued. Senka felt the slightest twitch pull at her lips.

“I believe what the professor means is that he is to instruct us so that we may be courageous enough to stay and fight. Not flee no matter how dire the situation may seem," she replied in earnest. The student huffed lightly, whispering beneath his breath about not asking her. She knew he had not addressed her, but that didn't mean she couldn't explain what she thought he meant.

“That makes sense. I wouldn't want to leave my friends behind, ever," Amalthea spoke, a strange determination behind her eyes. “And if Professor Cyril can teach me to be stronger, I'll gladly take as many notes as possible," she continued, the strange smile never leaving her face. Senka supposed she could respect that.

“It will be more than just note taking. You cannot write something down and expect it to work when you are in actual combat. You must also apply it so that you can learn and master it," she stated to Amalthea. It was something she'd read in a book, long ago.

“Oh... I suppose that makes sense, too!" Amalthea exclaimed as she seemed to write what Senka stated, down.

“It's not a matter of never retreating," Cyril clarified. “There may be times when tactical withdrawal is the smartest option. However... a tactical withdrawal is a very different thing from fleeing. It is organized, deliberate, and well-executed, driven by analysis and not fear or other emotions. Being able to distinguish the times to withdraw from the times to stand is vital, and if you learn to master your fear, you'll be able to do it."

Cyril paused, then shrugged. “I suppose since there's some interest in the question, we'll start with a tactics lesson. I'll draw you all a scenario, we'll discuss it, and then I'll tell you what I'd do and why. My answers may not be the only viable ones. They may not even be right. Tactics is a matter of a lot of factors, and how I weigh them may well be different from how you do. It is rarely a matter of one right answer and the rest wrong."

He turned, diagramming a scenario out on the board with smooth strokes. The rendering was precise, and it wasn't hard even for the inexperienced class to tell that it represented a group of soldiers about to fall into a pincer maneuver. They were in the middle of a field, a river to one side and forest to the other, with flanks of enemy troops closing in.

“You're the group in the middle. What do you do? Open discussion; no need to raise hands, but let each other talk."

“That's easy," one student stated, seemingly confident in what they were about to say. “You cross the river to the other side to make sure that they can't execute the pincer." Senka pursed her lips together. That didn't make sense to her.

“That wouldn't work, though," Amalthea interjected, causing Senka's attention to be drawn to her. “If you have heavy armored units, they would drown depending on the depth of the river, and if there are soldiers who couldn't swim, they'd also drown. You would, effectively, kill yourselves and fail," she stated. Senka could see the reasoning behind that logic, but there seemed to be something missing.

“But staying in the middle means you get attacked either way," another student chimed in. “Wouldn't it make sense to push forward and block the enemy with a counter attack?"

“There would be no time for a proper counter-attack," she finally spoke, pointing to one of the flanks. “Here, you are exposed. And here, you would not see the enemy from the forest lines. The enemies to the back, however, are not as well-covered and are at a disadvantage, sight wise. We could possibly line up those who have bows to take out the ones across the rivers while a magic user there," she stated, pointing to the front of the circle facing the forest, “would allow them to set a small fire to at least partially disrupt the pincer attack. The heavy armored units could build a shield wall to push the ones who make it past and be our defense."

“In other words, we would be able to attack from the inside of the encirclement to escape if we dug in, first?"

“But what if we didn't have any archers or magic users?"

“Even if you did it'd probably be suicide for them," Sorcha added. “Posting them on the high ground is good, but there's no cover. It's harder to fire up a hill but not impossible, and if the enemy used their shields to make a charge up, you've got your most lightly-armored units in front. Plus it's hard to start a fire that'll last, and the magic users don't get to control the burn." She sounded as if she were speaking from personal experience. “It's inherently risky to use up their magic like that. Maybe if there was no other way, but..." She frowned, humming thoughtfully.

“Well..." another boy piped up, this one maybe Sorcha's age and rather short. “What exactly do we have in terms of troops, Professor?"

“The first and perhaps most important question," Cyril replied with a small nod. He tilted his head in clear invitation.

The student recognized it a moment later and flushed pink. “Oh! Devon," he said hurriedly. “Devon Margrave."

“Good. To answer your question, Devon, you have a total of thirty soldiers. Half of them are a detachment of pegasus knights. The other half are mixed cavalry and infantry—you've got two warlocks and a bishop for the whole troop." He shaded in the appropriate units with colored chalk.

“And... what does the enemy have?" Sorcha asked.

“On the other side of the river are wing of wyvern riders, which is how this is a pincer at all," he said, nodding briefly in Senka's direction. “They need not worry about drowning. On the other side you've got mainly ground troops, soliders and fighters mixed with some mages and archers."

“Well, I don't like the idea of sending the pegasus knights that close to a substantial number of arrows," Sorcha noted. “Nothing hurts a sky cavalry like being shot down. Are their numbers better than the wyvern riders'?"

“Slightly. The enemy has more ground troops than you do, however."

Senka hummed thoughtfully as she digested the information. Amalthea seemed to be writing things down, perhaps so that she didn't forget something. Sorcha had a point about the pegasus riders, though. They were susceptible to arrows quite easier than their wyvern counterparts, perhaps partly because wyvern's were slightly thicker to penetrate.

“We only have two warlocks, so shouldn't we pit them against the fighters?" another student asked. “Fighters usually don't have high resistance to magic."

“That doesn't make the warlocks invincible, though. Two people against ten isn't exactly fair odds, and magic isn't something you can just summon. You need to build up the mana for it and that usually takes a couple of seconds. It's enough time for enemies to attack the two warlocks. They could probably take down four or five fighters before they're killed. We don't want to get them killed." Amalthea frowned at the thought of people being killed, it seemed.

“If we send some of the cavalry after their mages and archers to pick them off, we could use a mix of the infantry to support a warlock to attack fighters. Keep one to help defend the warlock through their lag in magical abilities, but also make sure the mage has a means of defense as well. Mages do not have an endless supply of magic at their disposal, after all."

“You would still have Wyvern's to contend with. If some of the cavalry unit uses lances, they would be most effective against a rider. The ground soldiers would be best to hold out against other soldiers, but fighters sport a higher strength. Their flaw is that they sacrifice their speed for their strength. Take advantage of that with the Pegasus Knights and have them move with swift attacks," another student stated, leaning forward on her hands.

“But don't forget that a lot of non-regimented fighter types can use bows, too," Sorcha remarked. “They may not be specialized archers, but we never asked what they were armed with." She looks to Cyril, but he shakes his head.

“From where you are, you cannot say."

Sorcha frowned. “Then I'd rather be safe than sorry, I think. I'd send the pegasus knights to fight the wyverns, fast and as quickly as possible, and then have my more armored cavalry units just try to hold off the ground troops long enough for them to circle back and reinforce."

Cyril nods. “And the rest of you? Plans?"

“I think I'd go into lockdown," Devon said. “Put everyone's backs to each other, and try to weather the assault. I don't know how the pegasus knights would do, but the rest of my team sounds more defensive than the enemies anyway."

“Wyvern's have a higher defense than a Pegasus Knight, though. Chances are, you'd loose a majority of them before you've whittled the wyvern riders down," the young woman stated before nodding in Devon's direction. “But I agree with Devon on the lockdown. You'd be able to see on all sides where the attacks are coming, and bishops know a few offensive spells. The one we have could hurl a few magic spells from within the wall and be protected at the same time."

“Oh, I forgot about the bishop!" Amalthea interjected, turning towards the young girl and smiling as if she'd figured something out. “And what would you do..." she trailed off, as if the young girl would fill in the rest. From the looks of it, she wasn't much older than Sorcha, maybe a year younger than Senka, herself.

“Sylvi. Galatea," she stated as if reading Amalthea's intentions. “And I would be on the offensive trying to break through the lines. I'm learning to be a War Master," she stated, winking in Amalthea's direction. Senka blinked slowly. So that meant she was a physical fighter who wanted to do mostly hand-to-hand and some training with the axe.

Cyril nodded, eliciting answers from the remaining four members of the class as well. More than a few of them seem really hesitant, but none of the answers seem especially bad, especially due to all the discussion that went on before. It was hard to tell if he found any of the answers better or worse than any of the others, honestly; his face was mostly unreadable.

In the end, he set down the chalk and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the edge of the desk. “As it happens, this is a battle I was actually in," he said. “The pegasus knight detachment was from a local kingdom lord's domain, and the rest of the troops were my father's mercenary company."

He tilted his head to the side, a soft breath escaping him in what was almost a huff. “What we ended up doing was setting the warlocks up on the backs of two of the pegasi. Their riders focused on steering them, and the magic along with the rest of the riders was plenty to deal with the wyverns, who weren't expecting it and have serious trouble with electricity in particular. Meanwhile, the bishop and the ground soldiers moved back into the forest, to draw the enemy in."

“Wouldn't that be a disadvantage for cavalry, though?" Devon asked.

Cyril lifted one of his hands, tilting it back and forth in a so-so motion. “Typically yes. But the cavalry all dismounted. The horses were a good distraction, too—drew a lot of attention moving around, and enabled the dismounted riders to join the infantry and fall on the opponents. The most important part was preventing the pincer from actually becoming one, which we were able to do because of the ground/air difference. If we'd been all ground, I'd have drawn us all back, and made the wyverns try to contend with flying around trees, but it would have been just as hard for the pagasi, so they needed something different."

“Oh, that's smart. Thinking outside of the box and using that as a surprise," Amalthea stated, writing down more information. Senka followed suit, and wrote down what Cyril had done during that battle. She wanted to learn as much as she possibly could, the different tactics that could be employed. But as she'd said earlier, writing wasn't the same as applying it. She was certain they would have practice battles, eventually.

“To think that there could be so many strategies for one simple battle. One wrong move is the difference between life and death. I guess you have to be a really good strategist in order to come up with something like that, and have the complete and utter faith of the ones you command in order for them to see it through," she spoke as if she were in awe and some kind of reverence.

Senka doubted that was the case. Perhaps they did respect him and trust him, but they also had to put their trust in the plan to work. If one person doubted it for a second, chances were that they would not have succeeded.

“Trust is helpful," Cyril admitted, “but if it were enough then a pack of puppies could have won. Skill makes a difference, too. And since for the most part you'll all be leading different groups someday, it's the skill I'm going to try and teach you. When you're done writing, we'll take a break for lunch. Try not to eat too heavily—this afternoon we're going to run a version of this same scenario on our feet."

Amalthea giggled lightly, but continued writing down information. Senka, however, was looking forward to the scenario.

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#2019-08-13 06:54:10, as written by Aethyia

I.Y. 1180 - Great Tree Moon - Thursday the 9th
Library - Late Evening - Light Rain
Vridel von Hresvelg

It had been an interesting week.

Vridel had to admit that if he'd been at Garreg Mach for his actual stated purpose—to learn the arts of war—he'd have found it entirely... satisfactory. Professor Manuela was quite competent, and the practical lessons and special lectures from the other two had been interesting, particularly Cyril's. It was just a different sort of thing to learn tactics from someone who'd applied so much of what most people only ever saw in books. He might have been young, but his experience was clearly that of a much older person. The Prince would put money on his house being the one to win the upcoming mock battle.

His own house, on the other hand...

Vridel had long thought too much of the Empire devoted to a decadence and self-indulgence he greatly disdained. Its nobles were power-hungry, its peasants crushed beneath the iron of toil, and everyone in the middle was simply trying to survive. Hardly any way to live, even if the blame could not be laid solely at their feet. There were certainly other responsible parties, though the twisting web of connection between all of them was something he was only just beginning to unravel. In any case, the imperial youths with whom he attended the Academy did little to hold his attention—while there were no doubt a few decent folk in the lot, they had not much distinguished themselves, and the overall pattern was still certainly one of mediocre people being convinced of their own greatness.

He was well aware that unless he shaped up, he was likely to become the same, and the thought rankled so much he couldn't stand it. So on this night as on the ones before, he exited his dormitory room and made his way instead to the upper floor of the main monastery building, where the offices were located, and hung a right at the end of the hall, which took him to the library. It was unoccupied at this time—most of the students were more concerned with horses and axes than books and history. Vridel, however, had to admit a fascination for the magical arts, one that was equal parts visceral and vaguely disconcerting. He wondered how much of it was naturally his and how much had to do with his... circumstances.

Still, either way it was there, and if he turned it into proper skill it would be useful, so he headed to the section he'd found yesterday, climbing the stairs for the upper shelves. He supposed they were blocked off for a reason, but if they were just going to leave the place open and trust that their rules would be obeyed they deserved what they got, to his mind.

This time, however, when he arrived, the area was not empty. Standing by one of the shelves was a young woman, about his age if he had to guess. There was a small candle by her, casting light enough to see that she was reading one of the books with slight ease. It illuminated a dark sheen of purple in her hair, and when she turned and locked eyes with him, they were easy to tell as a pale amethyst color. She blinked slowly, as if she weren't expecting anyone else to be there, before she closed the book, and placed it back in its place.

“Are you here for the tomes?" she asked in a simple tone. “I'd recommend this section if you are searching for the darker ones," she stated, placing her hand against the shelf she was standing next to. She said nothing further and grabbed another book, her eyes scanning through the pages as she slowly flipped through them.

Vridel's eyes, a richer, more saturated purple, narrowed. As it happened that was exactly the section he'd already been headed for. He hadn't expected too many others to so casually disregard the rules, however. What was more... he was fairly certain he had seen this woman in Sorcha's company before. Much as he didn't want to care about this fact, he had to admit that he sort of did.

Still, he schooled his features into an expression of polite interest, and when he spoke, his tone was one of detached observance. “Oh? Are there any in particular you would recommend, then? Naturally one can't really ask the librarian which of the books we're not allowed to read would be most useful."

“It is their fault for not securing the restricted places, better," she replied, her eyes never leaving the book in her hands. She glanced up at him after a moment of silence and tilted her head to the left, though no curiosity was evident in her face. It was smooth and impassive, if anything. “That depends. What sort of magic are you looking to accomplish? If you are looking to improve your dark magic," she began, pausing only to scan the books near her.

“I recommend this one for Luna. It is especially effective if you are looking to negate an enemy's resistance. It also helps if you have high amounts of magic," she stated, pulling the book from the shelf and handing it in his direction.

It wasn't as though he had no idea what a Luna spell was. Vridel was not yet an expert in this area of magic, practically speaking, but his theoretical knowledge outstripped some people thrice his age. It had to. He'd had to.

Still, if there was one thing he was good at, it was playing dumb, and as he didn't know what to make of this woman yet, he elected to do so. “Luna?" he said, taking the book with slightly-exaggerated delicacy. “I'm... not sure I'm all that good at magic, really," he replied, putting on a self-effacing smile. “But then I suppose that's what studying is for. Can I ask what you're interested in, there?"

“All of it," was her simple reply. “I wish to learn the properties of all the dark and black magics. I am not particularly skilled in the areas of the white and light magic, however. I have managed to learn the Blizzard tome and Miasma, though." she continued, keeping her gaze with his. “And it is not a matter of whether or not you are good at it. As you say, studying can help, but practicing it bears more fruit," she spoke. She stared at him for a few seconds, as if she were having some internal debate with herself about something before she spoke.

“If you wish, I... can help you. I do not know how much help I can be, but I do not mind," she spoke with some hesitance, though it seemed more in regards to herself than to him. Her shoulders had slumped almost as if she were expecting some sort of harsh refusal, but her expression did not convey it. It remained impassive as she waited for his reply.

What an odd mixture of demeanors. A blunt, know-it-all sort of manner paired with the clear expectation of rebuke. The first he didn't mind, the second he could do without, and the third was simply... puzzling. Rumors stated that this woman was half-Almyran, and a friend of the Princess through her mother's side, who were Faerghus nobles of some minor sort. Vridel did not know how true any of that was, as it was all rather past the time he had spent in Sorcha's company, but it was interesting.

And, perhaps, something to look into. Fortunately, she had afforded him the perfect opportunity.

“Would you?" he returned, genuine amusement and interest mixing freely with the slight hint of put-on guilelessness. He was sure it made him sound rather ambiguous indeed. “I should be most grateful. I've a small talent for white magics, myself, so if you are inclined to learn more...?" He trailed off, clearly inviting her to properly introduce herself.

Her features smoothed over, almost as if she were trying to smile but finding it difficult to do so. “Senka Argyris, your highness," she stated, placing an arm over her chest as she bowed. She at least knew who he was from the way she'd addressed him and her bow. She straightened back up to her full height, which wasn't much shorter, if at all, than Vridel.

“I do wish to learn more about the white magics, but I am afraid I would be a most unworthy student," she stated. It was difficult to tell if she were doubtful of her own abilities, or if it was something she was stating as a fact. Her voice has mostly the same with little to no inflections in it. Almost monotonous.

“But I shall do my best to ensure that I am sufficient help in your studies," she added.

“Well as I am an entirely unworthy teacher of dubious talent to begin with, that shall work fine for me," Vridel replied, moving past her to take a few tomes down from the nearby section on light magics. “However." He enunciated the word with the delicate emphasis that came so naturally to his tone of voice, and turned his head to look at her again, eyes vaguely shaded by a fan of white lashes. “No more of this 'Your Highness' business, please. Else I shall feel obligated to maintain the same level of formality and have to refer to you as Miss Argyris, and your first name is rather more agreeable, no? Senka has a nice sound to it."

It also did not sound especially Almyran, at least not to Vridel, who'd made some study of such things. This, he elected not to say. He wasn't trying to chase her off, after all. Rather the opposite.

“As you wish," she replied, nodding her head in understanding. “I will address you as Vridel, from now on," she continued, her eyes going back to the book shelf. “It will help if I know where you are," she began pulling a book from the shelf before frowning and placing it back. “As far as your magic abilities are concerned," she clarified, turning so that she was giving her full attention to him.

“That way, we can decide if the books located, here, will be of any help. They have... other copies located in another area of this room. They are locked, but," she paused, her eyes never leaving his as if she were searching for something. They narrowed, seemingly satisfied with something before she continued. “I know how to get around the locks."

Vridel contemplated this. He could give her an accurate assessment and get through the locks to the more interesting books, but that would involve making her aware of the fact that he was actually quite competent in all of the magical arts, and he wasn't sure he wanted anyone to know that. On the other hand... he tilted his head.

If he had his guess—and he usually did—Senka was an outsider. Not the type to gossip or socialize heavily with others. Rumors put her at Sorcha's side almost constantly, and suspicion swirled about this fact. The kind of suspicion that alienated. He was quite familiar with it. Even if she were to know a bit more than others of his intentions, or anything else, it was unlikely her word would be taken against his. He'd have to be careful about it, but....

“Well then I might as well tell you I recently passed D-certs for black magic," he said, referring to the standard benchmark tests used by official armies schools and the like to classify the skillsets of their members. A rough heuristic that lost a lot of nuance, but useful enough for conveying the basics of his aptitudes. Presumably, she was a bit better than that, given her apparent facility with it, but he didn't think any of the students at the Academy had their C-certs in anything yet. Garreg Mach tended not to take people with that kind of preexisting experience.

Senka hummed softly and nodded her head. “That places you around the same level as myself," she stated as if clarifying something to herself. “My specialties lie with the Blizzard tome, and the Miasma. May I ask where yours lie?" she stated, her head tilting in a curious manner.

“I know Miasma," he replied. “Not blizzard, though. I suppose that's a northern sort of thing." He smiled a little, the faintest edge of sly amusement in it. “I can use fire and thunder to some degree, however. I don't suppose you know any wind magic? We'd have the set between us if so."

“It is. My father was Almyran, but my mother was from Faerghus. She raised me there, where I picked up the magic. And Blizzard is a form of wind magic. I do know the basic wind and ice magics. Fire and lightning magics have never been my strong suit. Mother said..." she paused, an emotion flickering over her face before it was smoothed back out. “Mother used to say that it was because I inherited her country's magic," she stated as if explaining herself.

“Since you and I are opposites, perhaps that will benefit us. I will teach you all that I know of wind and ice magic, and you will help me learn fire and lightning magic," she stated, the smallest inflection of delight in her voice.

He supposed he should have said wind spells, so as to properly differentiate them, but it was all fair enough. The idea of expanding his repertoire beyond what was typically taught to the battlemages of his region was rather enticing; he was certain there were insights to be had from it. So naturally, he nodded, smiling a little almost despite himself.

“I do believe that sounds like a plan. Perhaps we could arrange a time and place where the interruptions would be..." He paused, running his tongue over his teeth and considering the word he wanted. “Unlikely?" The library was good, of course, but to actually practice, they would require an alternative venue.

“Perhaps, on Sundays, we can make use of the training grounds to practice. No one uses them on Sundays, only during the week when they are practicing new techniques," she spoke as if she knew this from experience.

That sounded perfectly fine to Vridel. “Sunday, then," he replied. “Perhaps... Sunday morning. Few people awake to notice anything."

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#2019-08-24 16:11:00, as written by Aethyia

I.Y. 1180 - Garland Moon - Thursday the 26th
Training Grounds - Evening - Light Rain
Cyril Eisner

Rain pattered gently on the roof of the indoor training grounds. Cyril had invited those of his students who had Crests to this additional practice, but only those Senka was comfortable with. It was something he'd like to offer to all of them, eventually, but his first priority for the moment was helping her with the immediate aftermath of her discovery, and to that end he had no desire to populate the event with anyone she did not trust to keep her secret.

It meant the group was small, only himself, Vridel, Mercer, and Sorcha besides Senka herself, but for now that was plenty. They were all inside the ring, but as of yet none of them were armed or anything. In fact he wanted to get a little more information first, and give some, in turn.

“I invited you here because I've been told that training Crest use can be difficult," he said, glancing between them. His arms were crossed loosely over his chest. “I understand all of you have Crests of some kind. I admit this was not a concept I was familiar with before coming here, but apparently I have one too. I'd like to hear what you all know about yours, and more about how they've affected your lives, if you do not mind sharing. I think it might help me figure out how to help you train them. If worse comes to worse, I think I can force you into needing to use them, but I would much prefer not to use that method, so if those of us who don't know how to activate them could learn from those of us that do, I believe that would help."

Senka winced a bit, but otherwise remained calm. Mercer's lips, however, were pursed into a fine line. “I've never really had to use mine. As far as I know, the Riegan Crest has always made its bearers uncannily accurate with their shots. I mean, I'm good, but there are times when I'm damn good, and... that's actually a little unnerving now that I think about it," he stated, crossing his arms over his chest. “So... I actually don't know how to use my Crest. I just put it down to luck. If it happens, it happens." He shrugged his shoulders.

“I... am not aware what mine does, or how it benefits me in anyway," Senka replied, her gaze down and not meeting Cyril's. It seemed she was still having a difficult time accepting what her Crest was.

Sorcha had rolled her eyes at Mercer, but when Senka spoke, she grimaced. “Mine's the Minor Crest of Blaiddyd, as I'm sure you all know," she said, opening her hand in front of her as if she expected to find an actual mark on her palm. “I've... never used it, that I know of. My father had the Major one, and there are stories of his strength and speed in battle, which might have had something to do with it, but..." she shrugged, a bit listlessly, and looked back up at the others.

“He was a beloved King, and people always tell stories like that about beloved Kings, especially where I'm from."

Vridel studied the others with an increasingly furrowed brow until it was his turn. “Am I... really the only one who can activate a Crest at will?" he asked. He seemed more confused than anything, certainly not condescending. Clearing his throat, he continued. “Well... mine's the minor Crest of Seiros, which the Empire's had forever. Its effects are pretty well-documented, actually; the people in my family who have it are too strong for their builds, and too precise for their strength, especially when they're well-trained otherwise. My grandmother could apparently just casually lift furniture by herself even without activating it—I think they call it Crest Bleed. It just kind of... happens, eventually. Some part of the Crest's power turns on and stays on. Not most of it, just enough for the Crest-bearer to be noticeably different from an ordinary person."

He paused, tilting his head at Sorcha. “Do you really not remember Lambert complaining that any weapon but Areadbhar broke after only a few swings? Only a few of his Crest-bearing retainers could tolerate sparring with him."

She shook her head, looking vaguely troubled. “I... wasn't aware, no."

“Interesting, I wasn't aware of that," Mercer spoke, however, something flashed across his face, surprise, maybe. “Hey, I didn't know you had a Crest, Sen," he stated, as he regarded her with a smile. “I didn't even know Almyrans had Crests so it must be from your mom's side, right?" he continued. Mercer and Vridel were the only ones who weren't present when Senka found out about her Crest, which made sense as to why he didn't know.

Senka, however, pursed her lips together. She seemed to contemplate his question for a minute before she exhaled slowly. “I, honestly do not know if it was my mother's side, or my father's," she answered. “From what... Professor Hanneman told me, my Crest is the Major Crest of Maurice," she continued in a soft voice. Mercer pursed his lips together in a fine line.

“Maurice? That... can't be, I thought he didn't have any descendants," he stated, clearly confused.

“So the Church said," Vridel mused. He didn't seem especially surprised, but then perhaps he had no reason to be. Cyril had observed no interest in Crests on his part, and it was quite likely he'd never asked Senka whether she had one, or bothered to consider it. “Anyway, if we're talking about voluntary activation, it's..." he made a small noise, akin to a hum.

“Well learning the way I did won't work, but I can tell you that it feels a little like... reaching for magic. Only you're tapping something even deeper in yourself than that, if it makes sense to say so."

Like magic, but deeper. Cyril frowned slightly. “Is there any particular feeling that goes with it?" To him, lightning felt different from fire, felt different from darkness or the little recovery magic he knew.

“How to put it... each Crest, I'm given to understand, has a sort of... character. I do not know where the metaphor comes from, but I learned of the Crest of Seiros as associated with 'the Sky Dragon.'" He shrugged. “A silly story told to a child, I'm sure. But there is truth in it. When I tap the Crest, it tastes like petrichor and feels like flying. The same rush, like cold air on my face, but without the physical thing." He pursed his lips. “Do your houses not tell these stories?"

Cyril and Senka had no 'houses' to speak of in the relevant sense, but Sorcha shook her head too.

“All right, well..." he pointed at Sorcha first. “Grim Dragon." He shifted his hand to indicate Mercer. “Star Dragon." Last, it fell on Senka. “Storm Dragon." He shrugged. “I can't help you, Professor, as I have no idea what your Crest is."

“Nor do I," Cyril admitted.

“I always knew I was a star," was Mercer's light reply. Senka seemed to be in a contemplative mood, though, once Vridel had explained. “So, what you're saying is that, in order to tap into our Crests, we have to associate it with the sign? How do you associate with a star, though? They're bright, but they're so far away... distant," he stated, pursing his lips together as he trailed off.

“I... do not know if I should," Senka stated mildly. “Storms are not pleasant, and they are dangerous and destructive," she continued, causing Mercer to place a hand on her shoulder. She turned and regarded him with a soft stare.

“That's not entirely true, Sen," he stated, smiling at her. “They can be calming, too," he continued, earning a confused look from her. He shook his head and continued, “like rainstorms. They make it easier to fall asleep. At least for me, they do." She didn't seem to be too convinced, though.

“Try not to read too much into it," Vridel advised. “Like I said, it's a kid's story. A metaphor for how the power feels to reach for. It's only meant to teach. I bet the Professor's lightning magic doesn't feel so different from a storm, right?" Vridel flicked his eyes to Cyril, who nodded.

He wasn't sure how best to put it to words, but he tried. “Some power is more... raw," he said with a slight purse of his lips. “It takes more effort to shape, and you always have to be conscious of it, but it's just as usable as anything else." Electing to demonstrate, he pulled a ball of crackling lightning into one hand, and a sphere of still-looking darkness into the other. “If anything, this stuff has a bad reputation," he added, rolling the sphere of darkness around in his palm and over his fingers like it was just a simple toy.

“But I've been using it since I was a child. It doesn't feel inherently evil to me. If it is, I suppose that says something about me, since it was the first thing I ever learned how to cast."

“Of course it's not evil," Sorcha said firmly. “It isn't what power you have that matters. It's what you do with it. Dark magic, or an 'unlucky' Crest used in service of a better world is a million times better than all the light and healing there is used to keep people down."

“Well said," Cyril agreed, letting both spheres wink out harmlessly. “Now. If the others vacate the ring, are you willing to try calling it up? I won't let you hurt anyone. I promise." He met Senka's eyes steadily, but did not exert any pressure on her.

She pursed her lips into a fine line. She seemed to contemplate his statement for a moment more before she nodded. “Very well," she finally stated, her expression smoothing back out. Mercer was already moving out, though he didn't seem to be in too much of a rush. She, however, moved so that she was standing directly in front of Cyril, at a respectable distance. “It is the feel of it," she spoke softly, casting her eyes to the ground for a moment.

“You've got this, Sen. We're all here for you," Mercer stated, causing her expression to soften a bit, like when she was smiling in the way she knew how to around them. “And Teach is there, too, so you'll be fine!"

She took a deep breath before she turned back to Cyril. “Alright," was the only word she spoke before she pulled her magic to her. It was a small snow flurry she'd summoned, Blizzard, perhaps. She stared at it for a moment as if she were concentrating on something. Something in her expression seemed to blank, though, as the flurry grew. It had started out small, encompassing most of her hand until it grew large enough that she was surrounded by a large flurry of snow. Wind whipped wildly around her, her hair flying and clothes rustling. She didn't seem to be aware, though, of what she was doing, until the flurry grew larger, and she abruptly dismissed her magic. “I... can't."

Vridel and Sorcha were quiet in their places outside the ring. While Sorcha looked very much like she wanted to say something, perhaps encourage her friend, the both of them were regarding him with obvious expectancy. Like they thought he would know what to do, because he was their teacher. Even what Mercer had said—Cyril did not think anyone had ever trusted him to such a degree as that. Not even his own father.

Trust.

Maybe...

He took a couple of steps forward, ducking his head slightly so he could speak quietly to Senka, enough so that even the others wouldn't be able to hear him. “You don't have to trust yourself yet, Senka. But if you can, trust me. When it happens, even if last time repeats itself, I'm going to be fine. And I won't let you hurt yourself, or them. What I'm going to do is try and talk you through it." Maybe knowing what was coming would be of some assistance. “If I have to physically restrain you, I will, but I won't hurt you. This is a much more controlled setting than last time, and I'm right here, all right? I'm going to stand right here, and I'll react just as soon as anything looks off."

The expression she'd given him when he spoke was one she'd never had before. It almost seemed vulnerable, and her eyes seemed to be searching his for something. She regarded him for a moment longer before she released a breath, as if she'd been holding it. “Alright," she finally replied, her eyes never leaving his. She summoned her magic once more, allowing it to stay small in her hand before it grew once more. It continued to grow, slowly, like a small snow flurry before something started to crackle.

“I..." she stated, but refrained from speaking. Once it was as large as it had been earlier, Senka regarded him with a questioning look. “What should I do?

“It's not the same as the magic, like Vridel said," he reminded her. “You have to dig deeper. Try to find the way it felt, just before what happened in the battle. The storm, but not the rage." He didn't know if he had a better way to put it than that, but he almost thought it was more important that he say something than anything in particular. Wind whipped around him, chill air stirring his hair and clothes, throwing dark strands in front of his eyes, but he didn't so much as waver.

She furrowed her brows lightly as she closed her eyes. “The storm, but not the rage," she repeated. Her brows furrowed further until it appeared that she was stressed about something. “Storm, rage," she murmured as if she were trying to keep the two separate. There was a brief glow on her forehead, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared. “Storm," she murmured once more, the air becoming colder as her magic seemed to increase. “Storm, storm," it was repetitive this time, as if she were chanting it.

When she opened her eyes, however, the Blizzard around them had grown significantly, encompassing the entire area in a snow flurry. There, on her forehead, though, was a glowing symbol. He could easily recognize it as the Crest Hanneman had showed them, of Maurice. She did not seem to let up her magic, though, and it seemed to be growing stronger, still, her expression blank.

That had to be it. The sign that she'd properly manifested the thing. The fact that the magic only seemed to be growing meant she probably wasn't totally in control of herself, though, and so Cyril did as he'd promised: he interfered.

“Senka." He pitched his voice just loud enough to be heard over the rising winds, not yet approaching in case she interpreted that as hostile in her current state. He kept his tone flat, modulated, no more urgent or panicked than the way he usually spoke, but eased his arms down to his side, to present a more open posture. “Senka, can you hear me?"

She didn't respond, immediately, and merely continued to stare out. She was still repeating storm, and the winds were growing stronger with each passing moment.

Well that wouldn't do. One way or another, he had to at least have her attention for this to work. Deciding it was worth risking her ire, he took another half-step in and lifted his hands. He considered placing them on her shoulders, but that was something he'd done before. Not that difficult to ignore in a fugue state like the one she seemed to occupy. So he went for surprising, instead, and gently took hold of either side of her face, tilting up so her field of vision changed and there was no way to avoid him being in it.

“Senka. It's Cyril. You're at Garreg Mach, in the training grounds. I need you to show me you understand."

She regarded him with the blank stare, however; something in her expression shifted slightly. There was a brief moment of conflict before the winds finally died down, and the mark on her forehead disappeared. A small spark behind her eyes seemed to signal her return, and she brought one of her hands up to rest on his wrist. “Professor? Where... where am I? What happened?" she stated, glancing around at her surroundings before her attention was back on him.

He let his hands fall away, brushing over her shoulders for just a moment before settling at his sides. “You did it," he said simply. “You called up your Crest, and you didn't hurt anyone. You didn't even try to. It seemed like you were... somewhere else, for a moment, but that was all. How do you feel?"

She didn't immediately reply. There was something glistening in her eyes before she closed them, and shook her head. “Sick," was the only reply she gave him before her shoulders dropped. “I was... there again, the anger, the..." she didn't seem to know what to say, though, as her gaze fell to the floor.

“It looks like you did it, Sen!" Mercer shouted from his spot, seemingly happy for her, but she did not seem to share the sentiment. “See, told you we'd all be here for you," he continued, grinning rather largely. Senka did not look up from the floor, though.

“Sen?" Sorcha seemed to notice that something was amiss; she made to hop over the fence and into the ring, but Vridel caught her shoulder and shook his head before she could.

Cyril frowned, moving his attention back down to Senka. After a moment's consideration, he called up what little white magic he knew and brought it to his hands, raising then back to hover at her temples before tilting his head in query. “May I?" He always asked, when circumstances permitted, well aware that she could have any number of reasons for not wanting to be touched, or by him in particular.

“Do what you will," was her only response, soft and quiet in sound. She did not move, nor raise her head. She simply stood still, as if she were half-expecting him to leave, for some reason.

He wasn't sure why she would expect something like that, but everyone had their own backgrounds, and he knew hers to be especially bad, in some ways. Her response was hardly a ringing endorsement of the idea, but he doubted she would endorse much at all right now, so he took it for the permission it was, carefully brushing a bit of hair back from each of her temples to rest his fingertips there. He left the touch of the magic light and soft, too; she wasn't physically injured, but healing itself sometimes had a bolstering effect, removing fatigue and lingering grogginess. It felt nice, at least in his experience.

Her hair was rather softer than he expected, even from the way it looked; Cyril made an effort not to think about it as he let the warmth of the magic seep in. An odd feature of his physiology was that he seemed to run a little warmer than most people, and his magic felt the same. Perhaps why he'd never had much luck with blizzard-type spells compared to others.

“You didn't fail, you know," he said mildly. “This was progress. Leaps and bounds' worth. You just did something even I can't do. I'm sorry it made you feel ill; if you'd rather not do this again, I understand. But I think you can, and I think you'll keep making progress at it."

“Why?" she whispered softly, finally glancing up to meet his gaze. “It's my fault, so why..." she took a shuddering breath before shaking her head. “It's not that I don't want to do this again. I don't..." she paused again, seemingly to swallow thickly, “I don't want want to fail. I don't want to lose control like that, again, and I don't want this Crest to define me. You say that it doesn't define someone, that a cursed Crest or power can be used to better things, but..."

“If all it's ever done is cause misfortune, how am I to believe anything else?" She was looking at him as if he had the answer somehow, but shook her head. “Perhaps, we should let the others practice theirs. I... believe I am done for the day."

Cyril had knit his brow and was about to reply when he noticed a motion in his peripherals. Instinctively, he moved to intercept it, as it was heading for Senka's back, but with a start he realized it was Sorcha. Apparently she'd decided she'd had enough of waiting for the verdict, and from the look on her face, she'd heard at least the last part of that.

“Hey!" she said, grasping Senka's upper arms with her hands and turning the other woman towards her. Her eyes, usually bright and clear, all but flashed now. “You don't get to say things like that about my best friend. Not ever. People—" She swallowed, voice thick with emotion. “People are not bad luck. Ever. And neither are Crests." Frustrated, she stomped her foot into the loose dirt of the practice ring. “There's no such thing as luck! There's bad circumstances, and challenges, and all kinds of ways the odds can be arrayed against you, but 'misfortune' is a word people use when they don't know what really caused something, or when they won't take responsibility for it."

She expelled a breath, heavy and harsh, but her eyes softened. “Only you get to decide who and what you are. You know that, Sen. You don't let people knowing where you're from bring you down, and you can't let this either. You've still got things to do. A whole—" She hesitated, throwing a quick glance back at the others. “A whole lot of things. You can't stop just because other people are superstitious and stupid! Or is what you want really worth that little to you after all?" She said it like a challenge, but only the most well-meant kind. The kind designed to help someone else stand, instead of knocking them down.

If she had been at all affected by Sorcha's words, she did not show it. She merley held Sorcha's gaze before she spoke, “But am I truly fit to do that?" She stayed quiet for a beat longer before she continued, “If it is true, then who is to say I am fit for any of that, regardless of what I want." Her eyes narrowed slightly before she dropped her gaze from Sorcha, unable to hold her gaze much longer, it seemed.

“Who and what I am... what does it matter if all I bring is... unpleasant rumors to you, and misfortune to them? You don't understand, Sorcha. What... what if I do lose control and I hurt you. Or them? Do you know how important you are to me? How important they are to me? I don't... I can't... I..." she was struggling now for words she could not seem to find.

“Fit?" Sorcha echoed, eyes returning to a state of snapping, hard clarity. “Fit?" Quick as a flash, she struck Senka on the cheek. It didn't seem to be a hard hit, from the sound, but clearly was intended for something similar to what Cyril had done in the first place: shock value.

“It doesn't matter if you're fit, Sen! You're the only hope they've got, so start acting like it!" Her eyes welled with tears; she looked disgusted with herself. Perhaps for striking a friend that way. “You can't give up on them," she said, much more quietly. “And you can't give up on yourself. Not for such a—such a stupid reason. It didn't matter when you had no Crest at all, and it doesn't matter now." She sniffled, clearly suppressing a sob.

It seemed to have the desired effect as Senka's arms wrapped around Sorcha's shoulders, and she pulled her closer to her in an embrace. Senka's shoulders were shaking softly, but she made no sounds at first. “Thank you, Sorcha," she whispered softly, “please... even when I forget to do it myself," she paused for a moment to release Sorcha, “please don't stop believing in me." It sounded like a plea, if anything.

“Don't stop."

“Never," she promised, looping her arms around her friend's back and squeezing. “And uh... you can get me back for that slap whenever you want, okay?"

“Never."

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Senka Rinaldi

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a character in “Fire Emblem: Apotheosis”, originally authored by Nemeseia, as played by RolePlayGateway

So begins...

Senka Rinaldi's Story

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