rokubiraijuu

J21, attack Myrmidon A with Slim Lance, Canto to J19.

Of course. Gaze drifts disappointedly to the floor again, weariness of more than just the body seeping into his expression, the fall of his shoulders. No answers. Ceda, his exile, the Icons of Sin, War. Kane and the others insisted there were some answers, which he hears haltingly in Lucy's timorous voice now, too — the Icons of Sin with their own goals, her defection. But none of them feel like answers, as least not the ones he's seeking. What is he seeking? What is this big why that keeps hanging over him, forever unsatisfied? Yet another dead end. But as he exhales deeply through his nose and looks back up at Lucy who looks as though she's about to rattle apart at any moment, he knows that he can't rightfully depose those frustrations onto her — as tempting as it is, as resounding as they are bouncing off like echoes inside his skull. "... What did you all talk about?" he asks, out of the blue, born of an intrisic desire to soothe that's gone so unused in recent weeks. "You have said you all despised your job, so you must have commiserated about it. Though you all kept your origins secret, what were your days with them like?"

He's silent as Lucy stammers out his own justification for him, the justification he's repeated to himself for over a year. Of course, he doesn't need to hear it from her. And he's not going to refute her. As she curls up into a tighter, trembling ball, however, and her words begin to crack under the strain of incoming tears, his gaze slides away — down, off to the side — expression remaining unreadable. "War..." he starts, as if testing the name out. "She came earlier." ( Behind Baldur rapidly draining of color, there stood another, flagrant red tresses unhooded; a strangely delicate face frozen in shock. ) He clears his throat and looks back to Lucy, has to school his tone into something less fierce than before, despite how much he wants answers. ( Any answers. To anything. ) "You... worked together for some time. Who is she? Or, do you know where she came from?"

He simply doesn't know what he'd done with the passing hours. And now they're standing here again, and Kane is telling them about their next plan, and some part of Ferdiad wonders if something is wrong. The man he's known over the last year doesn't seem the same as he used to be. But then, he thinks, redirecting his gaze to the stone floor — is he? Are any of them? He looks around at the loose group, then back to their leader as he beats a hasty exit as though something was chasing him. Different. His hands curl loosely at his sides, iron of his gauntlets creaking. His thoughts seem to come and go, each one drifting away before he can grasp it, leaving him blank. They're off to another fight soon. One after another. There's Simeon getting ready to work on masks, a handful of newcomers. Somehow, it'd felt as though Kane was simultaneously too on-edge about letting them join and also too irreverent about the same. But perhaps things are just... different. The thought makes his head hurt. He glances over to Baldur, now mobile and seemingly back to health after... and that makes his head hurt too. Part of him wants to go after Kane, see why he'd left in such a haste, find out if it's simply his imagination or if something is troubling him, shoulder it with him like he used to. And part of him wants to approach Baldur, pose the looming question — why? He does neither, of course. Instead, at a loss, he simply walks and sees where it takes him, not wanting to draw attention to himself by simply standing in the middle of the hall while everyone else is busying themselves. Clunk, clunk, clunk... "... Oh." He looks down, finding that his steps had brought him a few meters shy of Lucy, by herself off to the side. She looks as nervous as he remembers. There's a prolonged, uncomfortable silence, before he quietly offers: "... I... apologize for earlier, when I yelled at you."

After letting Baldur rest, he'd found himself suddenly at a loss of what to do. Casting a distracted gaze across the bloodied, battle-torn fort, he'd eventually gone sorting through the bodies of the dead. Closing the eyes of those locked in expressions of pain, making note of weaponry and armor. It wasn't their job — nor did they have the luxury of time or means, even if it were — to put them to rest, but he did these small gestures anyway, as though they would be somehow useful. At some point, the rest of their caravan make it through, and talk turns to scouting a nearby town for supplies. Though he knows his answer even before Kane asks, he can't help but feel... something — when the other mentions need of his horse, even for something as simple as transport. Is it relief? Or guilt? It's hard to say for certain. At least until Shin mentions his own steed. Ferdiad blinks, suddenly feeling a little awkward. "Er, I am happy to lend you all Bradwr, still, if... you have need of him." He clears his throat, tries to sound surer than he feels. "I'll stay here." He's about to say more, then realizes there isn't really anything more, and trails off lamely instead with "he's tethered just outside."

He's grateful when the girl arrives on the scene — a healer; he doesn't know her name yet. He suspects she had stayed behind after the skirmish, though why and who she was... escape him. And he lets her presence, small in comparison as she is, edge him aside. Off to the side, his blade lies crimson in the snow. Eyes watch the scene idly: the next act in this pantomime. Baldur — Orchid, a stage name; just a stage name — coughing. Snowbird, wiping away tears. He remembers attending operas that looked much like this, back home. He could imagine wooden scaffolding, velvet curtains, the relief of letting oneself be swept away for even a handful of fanciful hours. Startling violet breaks the fourth wall, no longer as pale and still as moments before, looks him in the eyes. He finds himself affixed at the lines addressed to him — mind, words, all feeling stuck. He doesn't know what his expression is at that moment, nor can he find what words are needed to respond. A flicker of red; a surprisingly delicate face. These don't make sense. It's a portrait that doesn't make sense, just like the bloodied man in the snow before him, just like the desperate Queen sunk to the floor of the front hall. ( You foolish man! You're mad! You're mad...! ) ( You are a disgrace to this kingdom, and I order your exile immediately. ) "... He... should rest." He looks to Godiva, detached but not unstable, awaiting her confirmation. "I will carry him inside. If I may."

Fleeing steps crunch in the snow; his head snaps up to a billowing dress, wild red hair already diminishing into the treeline. "Wait—!" It's fruitless, of course. And again he watches answers slip out of his grasp and vanish. Mim is crouching nearby, turning his attention back to Baldur, pulling bandages from her bag. Someone is yelling; possibly multiple people. It's a lifetime of training and experience he has to thank for steady hands that set Baldur down and take her supplies without hesitation, for weight that shifts naturally to apply proper pressure, for mien that doesn't flinch at the cracking slide and suction of metal leaving flesh and seeping fountain of red — all seeming very far away, a pantomime playing out on a boreal stage.

There's a lurch of purple and teal. Movement; the spray of snow. He'll remember that it had all been cold, later. There's the conflagration of scarlet — a splash of vibrant red on the scene, like wine on an ivory carpet, or blood on snow. And at the last moment, there's motion — no — so fast he can't hope to have changed course — Baldur — and he knows before the reverberation up his arm tells him his strike has connected that it's all horribly wrong. The figure lurching backwards is too familiar, the roaring in his ears disjointed. It's not the face of his target. But past it, wreathed in that scarlet, is another, and he thinks everything must be wrong, perhaps this is a vivid dream, for like a wraith come forward from some buried anamnesis, that other face seen for the first time up close carries with it some vague sensation of dappled sunlight and frail stems on which flowers bloom. But Baldur— Footsteps draw back and he watches trembling, gauntleted hands lift from a blade hilt. And the blade doesn't drop. Doesn't drop but remains fixed there, a grotesque protrusion of silver, garish against the bloodied white. And is that him who lunges forward to catch the other man as he pitches, sinks to his knees with a hand pressed hard to where the blood pumps out to try and stem the hemorrhage? "—Mim! Your potions! Please." Is that his voice? His eyes flicking to Arthur, to Pestilence? "Someone, call a healer! Quickly!" If this is a dream, then it is a persistent one. Her face has not changed. It's a strange illusion. His own mind coming to haunt him? Do I know you? his expression seems to ask. But it's only a passing second. "Baldur, you must stay with me. Keep your eyes open." He'll remember that it had all been so cold, later.

His breath clouds in the mid-winter hoarfrost as he crouches amidst the sleeping shrubs and low foliage of the woods, careful not to give away his position in the snow. Closer... just a little bit closer. They still haven't spotted him; good. There's Arthur, the Rian prince who walked with them, there's Mim, there's Baldur. Pestilence. ( A timid wash of lavender. She looks even smaller from atop his horse. She doesn't look him in the eye. I assure you we want nothing more than to go to our families as soon as possible. ) The flowing head of scarlet. It's a conflagration now, no longer just a taunting ember in passing. ( Strands of red, a smirk beneath a hooded face. The horsemen draw further away, as does everything he knows. The horses had been his. ) And the blade is in his hand. And the world goes quiet and much too loud all at once as he rushes at her back — only scarlet in his eyes, not even a battlecry on his tongue.

He hadn't gone far. Or it should be more accurately said that he hadn't managed to go far. The Icons of Sin still lingered, even after being defeated. He'd thought they'd run like cowards, with tails between their legs... and at least, maybe some of them had. But there had been a flicker of scarlet amongst the trees — a sight he's come to recognize. Something similar had predated his last encounter with them by the lakeside, when he'd run Death through. Last time, it'd gotten away. He wouldn't let that happen again. Ferdiad had always been, by nature, a genuine soul, as antonymous to deceit as a dove to black. But the heart worn on his sleeve is also one tempered by a lifetime spent training for combat, and battlefield knowledge doesn't stop at how to throw a javelin. He pretends not to have seen, adjusting his gauntlet as he makes his way a little distance down the path from the fortress, leading Bradwr by the reins. Far enough, at an easy enough gait, to suggest that he's none the wiser and will walk right past. Only once he's sure he's out of sight does he swiftly stop Bradwr by a tree, whisper a soft command to stay quiet, and redouble his steps to the fort again along a different path — keeping low and using the forestry as cover, downwind, with that head of unhooded scarlet just in sight.

Didn't know. It's not surprising, but frustrating all the same. The moment's debate of whether to demand the location of her brother's previous hiding spots is interrupted when a third figure inserts herself between them, yelling vehemently. This girl didn't know. Cold cerulean flicks back to Lucy briefly. Wisps of violet beneath a hood. His jaw tightens. Turning, restless hands re-tighten Bradwr's reins where they'd loosened mid-battle, and he begins leading him out of the throne room, back down the carpeted path towards the entrance of the fort where they'd come in. It's clear Pestilence had no answers for him, so he'd seek his own.

The Icons of Sin dare to show their faces, as if to taunt him, and then vanish? Were they playthings, just animals to be baited for sport? Cowards, each of them! Assassinating royalty in cold blood without even the gall to show their faces, and fleeing when the tides turned. His former allies in Virtuous might be fond of sparring against them with words, but that had never been his strength. There is, of course, only one option open to him. None too gently, he dismounts from Bradwr's back and rounds on Lucy, who's little more than a splash of lavender crouched small atop the fortress throne. "Where have they gone." In frustration, it comes out more forcefully than he intended, but he also makes no move to reign it back. Gauntleted hand comes up briefly to wipe at blood — not his — dripping down his forehead, but he gives neither thought nor care to his disheveled appearance, only the enemy and how far they could've made it in the time he's already wasted. "Tell me, quickly." If you're worth being trusted, goes unsaid.

With the Icons of Sin now in the picture, it looks like Kane had made good on his promise after all. Had he known that this fortress would house them, or lure them in? But these would be thoughts a later Ferdiad would sit on; any regret he might have felt for doubting Virtuous' leader is eclipsed easily by the sight of the four — the four, each of them the colors of this burning that wouldn't subside. Not until they'd met their end; not until he, and Ceda, and all the others who'd lost at their hands were vindicated! Death, who had sneered at him, whose injuries Ferdiad hoped from last time still pained him, was gone. Gone, but not dead; still, he couldn't get to him in time. A guttural shout of frustration tears out of him, and grip tightens on the hilt of his blade. The others, then, one by one. G4, attack Spy A with Iron Blade.

L4 and Iron Blade Fighter B.