Event Log: January, Return to Dorchacht

[faileas]

Event Log: January, Return to Dorchacht

I. A Tarnished Reality The teleporter to Dorchacht becomes operational by the 4th and the ambassadors return to their city with the first open, ceremonial operation of the device - along with any Mirrorbound who wish to join them, and Theodore Rosethorne and Sowilo, who make the trip as representatives of the Coven to ensure that all is well. Those who missed the first teleportation, never fear! Now that both waypoints are functional, Mirrorbound and others may travel freely between Aefenglom and Dorchacht at any point they choose to. Notably absent from the group, though - most of the Dorchacht refugees originally smuggled into Aefenglom. Only three or four are going back with the ambassadors, and they're primarily Witches. The rest have chosen to stay. Upon return to Dorchacht, it's obvious that some major changes have been made with the new regime. The sky is overcast, but it's merely fault of the weather at this time of year - the oppressive fog that used to hang over the Black City is gone, along with its effects on the natural lunar cycle. The auction blocks, damaged in the fires of the event the locals now call "The Rising", have been fully torn down, not a trace of them left to sully the streets. Where the triple stars of the Resistance used to be worn in secret, a majority of citizens now bear them openly (and in many cases, proudly) on pins and on clothing. In fact, any Witches who do not display the triple stars on their person somewhere, are generally regarded with suspicion, disgust, or fear unless they're recognized as Mirrorbound Witches - careful not to be mistaken for a Drummond sympathizer. The Monster citizens won't be outwardly cruel to any Witches, but will be somewhat fearful, hurrying their children along or crossing the street to get away. Recognizable Mirrorbound, those who were there during The Rising and before, are treated a bit like celebrities on the streets, though any Mirrorbound are given a warm welcome, albeit a little less warm for Witches. Storytellers share tales of how diplomats treating one another, Witches and Monsters alike, as equals so publicly and openly within Dorchacht gave them hope that such a life is attainable, or how a band of Mirrorbound snuck into the city under the cover of darkness and helped give their Resistance a leg up in the good fight against Drummond's extremists. Others share stories of being rescued from burning buildings or cruel Witches during The Rising by brave heroes. Many of these tales are shared in the form of song, as homage to those Mirrorbound who brought hopeful music to Dorchacht through the radio, which is still operational and playing a selection of music with a little more variety. Still a bit soft, their speakers and songs are, but as time passes, they grow a little more experimental, branching out from the lullabies that used to be played. Overall, the Black City is much less black these days, a little greener and brighter from the plants left by Mirrorbound before. Where the old Dorchacht could take your breath away with its feeling of barred oppression, many of those barricaded windows have been opened, reinforcements on the doors broken down. Though things are never perfect after a revolution, and it's clear that the work continues. Armed Resistance guards patrol the streets in trios, normally two Monsters and a Witch, to keep the peace. Their first priority is the protection of Monsters, many of whom still seem anxious and scared as they go about their days - not of the guards themselves, who they often greet with smiles, but of the Witches and humans they pass on the streets. In some cases, keeping the peace means breaking up fights between their own and those humans and Witches who do not want to accept Monsters as their equals, and in some cases it means putting Drummond sympathizers in their places with intimidation and force. While they do their best to keep skirmishes out of Mirrorbound sight, it's clear that despite the improvements, Dorchacht is still no utopia, and the road to a true peace is fraught with speedbumps. As noted, characters are free to travel between Aefenglom and Dorchacht by teleporter as often as they'd like! The waypoints will remain open even after this month and travel will be unrestricted; we will note if this situation changes in the future. Dorchacht quests are also now available ICly!

II. A Few Alterations a. The Coven Major changes are still underway. One of the biggest that Mirrorbound will notice is that the new administration of Dorchacht have moved the Coven. The old building is in a state of disrepair right now, doors and windows wide open, the interior stripped of trappings. The library has shed its books to somewhere else. The basement where so many horrors took place is abandoned. Instead, a sign has been erected outside it, stating that this center of Drummond's operations will be turned into a museum to remember their unpleasant history, and to memorialize those who lost their lives fighting for freedom. It's still a work in progress, and not high on the priority list when survival and care of the citizens have to take precedence, but inside, characters may still find small shrines set up in various places to Resistance members who died there. Instead, Dorchacht's new Coven is currently based inside an old manor located just a handful of blocks from the town square, and it's a much more informal affair. Magic lessons have continued with Resistance Witches, though the subject matter has changed instead. They experiment with different types of magic based on their own interests, but many are studying plant magic, medicine, and defensive spells that can be used out in the Wilde. Anything that will prove to be practical going forward. Lessons are also open to Monsters now, so they can see what their magical brethren are learning (and know that the compulsion and control spells that Morgana loved so much are no longer being taught). With the Coven being moved, visitors from Aefenglom are offered places to stay either within the manor of the new Coven, or in various empty houses around the city. Stay as long as you'd like, they say, and apologize that the accommodations aren't nicer - reconstruction is still obviously ongoing all over the city, repairing damages from The Rising and the fighting that happened afterward. They don't really have anywhere as nice as the rooms their ambassadors were given in Aefenglom. b. The Walls One of the biggest on-going projects in Dorchacht right now is removing the Monster control spells from the set of enchantments on their city walls. High on the list of priorities is making sure that Monsters can feel safe again, secure in their own minds and bodies. As the spells are made visible, particular sets of runes have to be ground down and smoothed over. A spell is either cast or provided to soften the stone temporarily, and then it's basically going at it with magitech-powered sanders created by Hilda. The particular runes that need to be gotten rid of will be provided on reference sheets - please don't touch the others, they chide! Those are to protect from the Cwyld, and are still very important. While help is welcomed with open arms and enthusiasm at most sections of the walls, those guards posted at one particular small district, guarded with trios of Resistance members at each entrance and warded with alarm magic to warn of escape, turn Mirrorbound away; these runes are being altered, not removed, to help contain unruly Drummond loyalists, they say. The people who now live in that guarded district are all human, whether they're Witches or no, and all refuse to bear the triple stars. "Troublemakers," the guards will explain grimly. "We have to contain them for now. It isn't a perfect solution, but they've hurt people, or tried to hurt people, since Drummond was run out of town." c. Bond Lessons Bonding is a bit of a tricky subject in the new Dorchacht. Many Monsters are afraid of the idea, as it was once used as one of the collars around their necks, but the Circle of Three recognize it as an important way to wean citizens off the lullabies and calming draughts that prevent going feral during full moons. As part of encouraging others to form Bonds, partnerships at the very least the way most Resistance members describe theirs, there are demonstrations and public seminars that pop up around Dorchacht on the regular. They may be as informal as a circle in what's going to be a park or as official-seeming as a talk held inside a shop or lecture hall, but they have one thing in common. Many of the citizens are keen on getting Mirrorbound in on it -- mostly by dragging them in, asking if they have a Bonded, and if they do, they tell the Mirrorbound to talk about their Bonded. They're interested in the ups and downs (but mostly ups) of having one in order to show that if the Mirrorbound are into it, you should be too! They accept all stories but prefer the happy ones - the aim is to encourage their Monster citizens and help them be less afraid of taking that step with Witches. And for those who aren't in a Bond, or decline to talk -- well, they get what amounts to a "flour sack baby" in the form of a Dorchacht citizen of the opposite role of their own (a Monster would receive a human/Witch, a Witch would receive a Monster) that they must hang with for a day, ensuring no harm comes to them, bound by one of the temporary Bonding potions so popular in the Wilders' ranks. (As a note, for the second option, you have free reign of the NPC; do the personalities you find fun, be they cooperative or mischievous, shy or loud, abrasive to your character or someone they can genuinely get along with. They are all willing - no one is being forced into this. No Fae or Dragons allowed for Monster NPCs, unfortunately, as they are still very much not about.)

III. Ahoy Mateys! With Dorchacht opening up again after the last few months of closed off internal fighting, plenty of trading ships' Captains are ready and raring to go build business relations with the new regime and find a new market for some of their wares. There has been increased interest in finding a shorter route to Dorchacht by sea - the teleporter is useful for small groups of people, sure, but it can't handle much cargo. The only problem? Ships are being turned back, barely halfway there, with significant damage to their hulls. Brave individuals looking for a seafaring adventure are asked to come aboard and help the crew navigate tumultuous waters, hopefully figuring out along the way what's causing the damage to previous ships. It's a three day trip to Dorchacht if the waters are kind, and characters can simply teleport back home once there. On board the various ships brave enough to return to the sea, Mirrorbound find the problem halfway through the trip: a colossal squid that's made it home at this point, thrashing ships that come too close to its den. While uninfected, it does have injuries on its body, which may be the source of its lashing out. The ships are able to bring themselves close enough for longer ranged attacks, and the Harpy on board are careful not to be captured by the churning waves caused by the thrashing, but there's others who want to seek a less violent mean to end this surf and turf conflict. Killing, healing, subduing, or relocating it are all valid options, but getting in close to do any of those will be difficult, as it has a tendency to ink up the waters around it and reduce visibility to nothing. Be careful of any creatures swimming around that are interested in the weakened squid as well, such as various carnivorous fish, sea-plants, and things that appear alike to Merrow, but rely only on instinct. The Merrow cannot be spoken to, nor are they infected; the Captains of the ships will explain that they're "wild", and refer to them as distant cousins to the Merrow that sparsely populate Aefenglom itself.

IV. Back At Home Back in Aefenglom, the stir caused by the Circle of Three's arrival takes time to calm. It's the talk of the town for days - many seem happy about Morgana Drummond's apparent demise. "Good for them," is the general sentiment in the residential areas more populated by Monsters and the Harbor District. They're glad to know that things are on the way up there. Others think this is a boon; should anything happen, now Aefenglom has an ally city to stand with them, one in their debt. Others still don't really care either way, and go about their lives as if nothing's happened. The refugees, in their neighborhoods on the far reaches of the Haven, seem happy to hear news from home and find The Dragon/Starlight/Fafnir freed, and while a few of them choose to return to Dorchacht, having never put down roots in Aefenglom, more still don't wish to leave the homes and families they've formed here, or the Mirrorbound who have helped them so much over the months. Some even doubt that things are as good as they say, and choose to remain for that reason - slavery and ill treatment from the upper class in Aefenglom instilled in them a sense of (well-earned) paranoia regarding the intentions of Witches, especially those back home. They hear that things have changed, but don't necessarily want to find out for themselves. Even still, the mood is upbeat, with a general consensus that if Morgana is really gone, that's at least a solid step in the right direction. In the Aristocratic District, though, the atmosphere is sour. The general sentiment is that they wish the refugees would have left with those ambassadors. The kinder ones think Aefenglom should focus on its own citizens - the people from the Outer City brought in to weather the blizzard have never left, after all, still living in the neighborhoods with the refugees. Those who are more vocally outspoken about the Mirrorbounds' presence in the city think they should have all left to Dorchacht. Let another city shoulder all the misfortune they bring with them! Many of the people grumbling about that are ones who were directly affected by the Mists back in October, either through temporary changes themselves or through being attacked by ferals. Some of the more hot-headed young people try to spread this message - through graffiti, on homes and businesses in the Haven and the refugees' district, though if caught, they're quick to run away and not willing to enter into a confrontation. The graffiti is wholly mundane and not particularly difficult to remove, just unpleasant, telling Mirrorbound and refugees alike to "go home" or "go back to Dorchacht", in so much colorful language. Seems there's still some work to do at home, as well.

Welcome to your establishing post for the current situation in Dorchacht! This log takes place through the entire month; characters can come and go as they please. As always, you can direct all your questions HERE. This month we're also putting up a City Tracker for PC actions, both in Aefenglom's plot later on and Dorchacht's log here. Let us know what your character is doing, good or bad! The cut-off for the tracker is February 3rd.

Comments

Asura | Witch | OTA (Dorchacht)

[mirshikar]

I): A PIN FOR YOUR TROUBLE

[ Asura understands the importance of symbols. For the Lost, they fostered community; marked the places that were safe, those hollows where they could belong. They stood as staunch reminders that even those forgotten by the world could be unshakeable, utterly inviolable in their standards and in their principles, and that every soul among them who donned their heraldry with pride would forever be a custodian of the highest purpose of all—freedom. In this way, the triple stars of the Resistance are no different from the Biscione of the King's Freehold in Milan, and that's why... in the days before setting foot in Dorchacht for the second time, Asura had taken to the forge, smelting down a gilded torc of solid gold (a 'gift' from the other side of the mirror) and had hand-poured the molten metal into custom molds.

The first of his design: the triple stars. And the second? A crowned, coiling dragon, its maw opened wide to devour a man whole.

To your good fortune, it is not the latter emblem which Asura offers to you. Though he wears it for himself, the miniature dragon form fastened to the lapel of his red and gold brocade overcoat, what he presses into the palm of your hand is a triple star pin—you hadn't been wearing one, right? And because that golden torc had been more weighty than a damn Gargantuan, Asura's got plenty of them to spare. ]

It'll help you to open some doors, yeah? [ Regardless if you're Witch or Monster. ] Wear it with pride.

II): SUMMER IS FOR TRAINING

[ Just outside the reaches of the Onyx Wall, see....! A gaggle of Wilder recruits, all in the thick of running basic training drills to the tune of Asura's draconic bellowing. All those present, Monster and Witch alike, have seized upon the King's offering of tutelage for hunting out in the Wilde.

And for it...? W e l l, they're doing fine. Before one can hunt, they first need to learn how to survive, and the ground fighting techniques that Asura's got pairs of two (battle buddies, he's called them, and while it's far from a Bond, it'll do) working through will give him enough insight into their current level of ability. Sure, if this were Summer territory, Asura wouldn't be nearly so kind (new recruits, they get dropped off in the middle of nowhere in the Hedge with nothing but an auroch's horn, and are judged by the length of time they can go without pissing themselves sounding the horn for help). But... here, while Asura is hard-nosed and scrutinizing, he is not unkind while correcting ("an attack must be grounded in the proper footing! do not attempt to press your opponent before regaining balance!"), and there is even—

—a hint of a smile playing upon his lips. Asura, he is almost at home, in this. If he let it, it could remind him of his Court's training grounds at the crack of dawn; the Wilder recruits none too dissimilar from wrathful novitiates.

But that sentimental shit doesn't happen upon him, because you do first. And recognizing you as Mirrorbound, Asura's voice breaks from the rolling deep of its thunderous holler to...! Extend an offer?: ]

You up for joining me in running these newbies through a drill or two?

III): A NEW SPECIES

...should use you damn kids as bait on the regular. [ The kids in question being a trio of Wilder recruits (two of them Asura's own students, so hungry to earn for themselves the laurels of battle that they hadn't bothered to heed his wisdom of before: venture out into the Wilde before you are ready, and you are dead!), wounded and bloodied but still breathing now that you and Asura are here. The recruits stammer, telling the tale of how their party had been separated by one of t-t-those things, or whatever it is that lies in the stillness of death at the King's feet. ]

Yeah, it's particularly nasty, isn't it? [ —Asura agrees, but the way he says that, it sounds like he's giving the creature its due acclaim rather than calling it repulsive. Sure, there's no way to put lipstick on a ...shrieking horse-man-beast with its guts on display, but the way the creature had pursued (the kids) its prey so single-mindedly (ferocious and unyielding, jaws gnashing until the instant it'd lost its human head) deserves acknowledgement. And were you and the King both not around to take the Screamer down, the would-be Wilders would have been toast.

Looking nearly as wild as the horse-man-beast had been (Asura, his hair is heavy and matted with blood and gore from the kill, the red of his overcoat darkened with the same because the take-down had been far from clean), the King crouches down beside the felled creature, taking his time to study it now that the wayward recruits have quieted.

To his Mirrorbound companion, he murmurs: ] You ever seen a creature like this before, out in Aefenglom's Wilde?

IV): WILDCARD

( Asura can be found in and/or around Dorchacht through Ieneu 13, doing the following!: (1) playing the flute, (2) starting to map the Wilde outside of Dorchacht, and (3) drinking heavily somewhere while canvassing the locals about how things have been since the Circle of Three came to power. Want to incorporate any of these things into a thread? Go for it! Got another idea? I'm still game! o9 Feel free to write a starter or hmu on the CR meme to plot something out. )

ii + a little bit of wildcard ✨

[usurpers]

[ eren wasn’t a drill sergeant— but he’s been through one. as much as a bystander keith shadis spoke of being, he was still a respected man on paradis and among trainees. used to be in the corps. how much respect he held now, he hasn’t been so sure with the military dividing so poorly amongst themselves (god damn it floch? the “jaegerists”, as they call it, are an embarrassment).

it isn’t so far fetched an idea for eren, especially with thoughts so painfully scattered into places where you wouldn’t find reminders of sex so easily— yet, here he is. he finds them just about everywhere, and it’s gotten excruciatingly difficult to concentrate. such adversities brings frustration to his mood, of course! he readily accepts asura’s offer to give these kids a good time, perhaps holds his hand a little longer than a greeting should, and scrapes his talons against the opposing until light clicks sounds on them in scrapes. augh. even that sort of contact makes the thin spines along his back rise visibly, and not underneath his wilde-appropriate clothing (because he’s just wearing pants; his poncho is folded and tucked away somewhere to put back on when they enter city territory, and winter once more). his scales are scandalous in color, and he’s rather given up on being reticent as he struts. much less blacks than stormy sunset hues drag down his cheeks and his lengthy arm-wingspan, joints and tattooed back. tail, legs and more. is he . . . are his muscles flexing as he weaves through daunting exercises? he has ten abs. ten real abs, born and raised on his island.

after plenty of scrapes to make a kid or two cry, well! he’ll probably be sorry for this later, or not— it’s just too much. onto the last stretch of the day, and homework for the next meeting. they weren’t bonded, but the witch-dragon and the dragon-human could be the testimony they need. what do you do when you’re in the wilde? you’ll come across plenty of monstrosities. but, the first thing he learned, before being prepared to dual with a beast, was dual with your own kind.

annie taught him better, in fact, and he thanks her for his growth in the right direction to this day. his stance in front of asura and some safe steps away is a dedication as much as an invitation. ]

They’re going to need a demonstration.

[ so, if the king of summer hasn’t already realized— this is what eren looks like when he tries to flirt. ]

[mirshikar]

[ Hasn't already realized? Pssssh. Asura could hardly call himself a fucking Fairest (emphasis, there, on the fuck), if he weren't able to pick up on Eren's concupiscent affect, that full-bodied dynamic energy which had the guy stuck on one setting: peak promenade, all ten of those abs put on display for the King's appraisal as Eren imparted valuable lessons in combat upon the too impressionable (and too keen to cry) recruits. And Asura? Well, he'd bought into the peacocking (what else could it be, with that riot of color adorning Eren's once-ebon scales?) early on, in the instant talon had grazed talon in a scrape which electrified, running right down the spine. Yeah, yeah, Asura's the King of Summer, and his Crimson courtiers are a lot which widely regard all avenues of pleasure beyond the heart-thrumming, adrenaline-pumping thrill of a f i g h t to be petty dalliances and distractions, but wearing the diadem hardly stifled Asura's proclivity to enjoy all things, and enjoy them them deeply. Gratification, after all, keeps his dragon's temper in check, and Asura's never been one to shy away from showcasing his own vibrant sexuality— much to his Wroth General's dismay.

And fortunately, that old Ogre (a Bloodbrute, veteran to so many wars that everything but the fight had been stripped from him) isn't around to see the way Asura looks at Eren, the weight of his regard smoldering in his stare, lashes set to half-mast over green eyes. Yet, thoroughly exhausted, the recruits seem not to notice (and despite that first-day fatigue, a few still boast energy enough to bellyache about the announcement of homework—something which is quelled in the instant when Asura sets his sights upon them instead, his gaze acute and silencing), remaining thoroughly oblivious to the invitation which the King sees plain as day in Eren's stance (head down, eyes up, leading hand signaling come forward, rear hand promising I will defend myself). Now, how is Asura supposed to go on and ignore that...?

Answer: he doesn't. There's a grin which splits his lips, wild and full of dragon's teeth, as Asura rolls his shoulders, loosening up all that corded muscle before...! Addressing the recruits (??)— ]

At attention, cadets. Refrain from blinking during the demo. You'll miss it, if you do.

[ —because he intends to put an end to the day. Quickly. True, he's never fought with Eren before, but that's precisely what will give one of them the upper-hand if Asura pulls a move which will either immobilize the guy, or provide Eren with ample opportunity to return the would-be favor, succeeding where the King had not. And so, Asura wastes no time at all: grin deepening, he surges forward without further preamble (spend too long in a stance, and you'll lock right up) and lunges...! Not to throw a punch, but into the beginnings of a double-leg takedown. It may just be surprising, how solid Asura is (beyond the suggestion of his stalwart frame); how damning the one-two combo of a drop-step and drive of his shoulder into a hip could be, because, well, he's a rock. One that's heavy with layers of chalcedony beneath the skin, protecting fire crystal and hot silica insides.

Maybe, it'll be enough to topple Eren with its follow-through (and provide the recruits with a reiteration of Asura's first lesson: become entangled with a more powerful opponent, and you are dead!), leaving the dragon-human pinned beneath the King's weight. But if that isn't how the story goes, then— good. Grappling is raw physicality, something which Asura's appreciative of (and something which Eren needs), and winning either way seems like a fine way to start the evening. ]

[usurpers]

[ eren foresees impact approaching as soon as asura launches himself and angles his frame into his middle, while arms would very easily go for his legs— it reminds him, in flashes, of the armored titan’s brute force assaults. reiner was sturdy duress that couldn’t be stopped with a mere perry, a punch or even a kick to put his momentum on halt. it was an impossible tackle that shakes eren’s form once asura connects, just as heavy and rock-like as his aforementioned ex-comradee, down to both forms being forged of crystal, mind you; another similarity that springs onto eren’s thoughts as he has no choice, since the beginning, to abandon his stance and fall.

the summer king gains the first upper hand, but being so easily subdued would’ve been a disappointment eren would find shame in. the thunk against eren’s back vibrates through both him and the earth they meet on, dragon spines scraping against the dirt as his tail complains of being in guard position so soon. but, such was the element of surprise, and the untamed fighter in him couldn’t be happier with a challenge to test not only his clout, but his nimbleness to perceive, adapt, and overcome whatever it was that provoked him.

eren welcomes his opponent with open arm-wings, but not without his pelvis angling up sharply, until his hips follow the curve of asura’s own. friction was a given and heat runs predominantly high, but not with any loss of focus (not yet, definitely not yet! this was a battle of endurance as well!). the dragon’s legs clamp tightly around the other’s waist until talons curl and feet lock to keep from releasing. the next step had been to get his bicep into a fold around asura’s neck, trap him in a guillotine hold— but simply getting his arms, now wings, to perform such a feat as fluidly was a separate trial on its own. eren inhaling through jaws fastened together forces a hiss to sound past them, and with struggle, he certainly attempts to sit up enough to now, with clarity, announce his counter-attack in full.

he doesn’t say it, but the rest of him screams and brawls: give me your neck. ]

[mirshikar]

[ Their natures are the same, aren't they? At their fighter's core, the prospect of a challenge makes the heart sing, the body move with abandon, and gives rise to the wild, primeval hunger which leads all combatants to demand submission from their adversaries— Eren included. But for all that Asura finds himself effectively trapped within Eren's guard (a risk taken and price paid for sinking all of his momentum and power into a singular maneuver), it is only a temporary encumbrance. Grappling, after all, is nothing more and nothing less than continuous upsets and resets of balance; a constant exchange and redirection of force in the form of unforgiving takedowns bleeding into the rigidity of iron-clad holds. And to see that rhythm maintained? One needed only to keep moving.

And move Asura does, lest the crush and hold of Eren's arm begin to restrict bloodflow. To escape that fate, Asura does not impede Eren's attempt to rise— rather, he encourages it with one taloned hand snaking around the bend of Eren's neck to plant itself on the dragon's back (drawing Eren's torso in close for the breadth of an instant to alleviate pressure), the other pressed flat to the earth below. After that? It's all a matter of putting the lock of Eren's legs to the test. Rocking forward does not dislodge either the guillotine or goad talon-cinched feet into releasing, but it does produce friction in abundance a n d so too creates the chance for Asura to make Eren bear the full force of his weight for the second time as his hips snap back like a damn professional, feet beneath him once again as he stacks into Eren, his shoulder driving hard into the neck. And with one flush-with-color dragon holding the other up, that hand against the ground is no longer needed—

Instead, it goes to one of Eren's bent knees, pushing it down until it gives, and the King can fall to the side, wresting himself out of the hold. Well, out of the guillotine itself, at least. If Eren is determined to hang on despite the burning and strain in his thighs, that's another (admirable) story.

But then, Asura's gone and propped himself up; spread his hand over center of Eren's chest, the tips of his taloned fingers touching to the dragon's sternum, dragging along it, but not breaking the skin. Just as he'd been by the bonfire during the Modranicht festivities, Asura is warm, almost unbearably so in the heat of his season, and there is something animal in the way his gaze interlocks with Eren's own, a lush smile upon his lips as he demands not submission but— ]

Show me your strength. [ Again, again, again. In whatever way Eren chooses to, Asura will take pleasure in breaking his hold each and every time.

(Much to the confusion of those poor Wilder recruits. Hadn't Asura said not to blink??? Their poor watering eyes.) ]

[usurpers]

[ (it’ll be of no surprise if some of said recruits begin to whisper yet too eager to actually blink, these poor souls being forced to watch this)

eren’s body— is on absolute fire, both visually and to the touch, though it may be difficult to distinguish if it isn’t just asura’s own fieriness. the heat is pronounced in every run the witch-dragon digs his structure into, rubs the right way that sets patches of golden yellow scales to deep titian leaning closer to crimson. f u c it was tempting and yes he steals attrition in a way that makes him grunt too thickly— but all in a beast’s wild attempt to dominate in his guard.

grappling had been like a push and pull of waves and a battle of wits over brawn, but not completely capable without the former. his guillotine hold had been no match for skilled escapes as these, arms smacking into the mighty torso pressing free (no good, he thinks—). the points of his fangs seethe into the shoulder that forced him, only to snort and agh! in mock agitation. to preserve his knee from popping, eren’s legs finally break their constricting chain, as do his arms com to rest momentarily behind his head in a position well known for deliberate, transitory pauses.

to give his jittering muscles room to breathe, to allow the rise and fall of his lined chest to steady, and, for pin-needle eyes, as intensively blue as the crystal horns that curve back with his skull, to admire the mighty challenger roosting on his torso in temporary victory. there’s fervor in his gaze as he huffs, a tight abdomen stiffening further when the point of a talon tickles him and calls him back for more. the golden dragon’s smile flashing brightly behind olive skin in a manner eren could only define as exotic, tantalizing and provoking in every way—

the touch of fae smell, of sweat, magic and flat out allurement makes eren enjoy this, truly enjoy this more than what a dare would stir in him. not wanting to lose and a rising will to rebel was etched into eren’s being, from birth to growth, and where life experience made such qualities flourish. here, he wanted more, as he bucked his knees into a stretch, and curved his bottom until his foot could squirm its way between asura’s neck and the arm he gives to “try”. he wanted to taste, from flesh to blood, he wanted to see free, he wanted to feel and he wanted to cherish something his soul demands. a second leg wedges into asura’s opposite side, and eren attempts his second strike to struggle his arm into a secure bar. ]

Give me yours—

[ he’ll do it until he exhausted himself, but surrender willingly, he wouldn’t. he was alive and unrestrained and hungry for not just what this preludes, but what he was in fact, sharing. it’s been a long time since eren’s felt younger and swallowing every ounce of knowledge from a superior, or from a comrade who knew more. show me everything. ]

III

[glitzandglamour]

[It's not like Mettaton to take on dangerous quests himself, but he figures that with a Witch at his side and ample experience in the outer city at his back, it couldn't be too steep a challenge. Boy, was he wrong.

Not too unlike the amateur Wilders, Mettaton wasn't much help in slaying the beast — he forgets how much of his offensive abilities he's lost in coming to Aefenglom, and how little his new abilities lend themselves to combat. It wouldn't be the first time he's seen a creature who looked so much like the sum of many parts, but its behavior was fearsome and powerful... And Asura, equally so in his action. Its appearance and its thirst for blood caught him off guard less than their collective ferocity. If he had any sense for temperature, he'd consider the Wilde's summer heat sticky and oppressive in this heart-pounding moment. Even without, the thought strikes him. Who knew that it could all happen so quickly?

Or maybe Mettaton lost track of time — with his sore-ridden ears tied back and wrapped neatly in a golden scarf to hide its unsightliness, it might be easy to forget that the android's becoming a Puca and is, therefore, susceptible to the way which Puca handle shock. Few things have scared Mettaton up until now, but this was enough to elicit a very primal response in him. He's been standing frozen still, eyes wide and unblinking. Compared to Asura's blood-splattered appearance, the TV star has but a few splashes of deep scarlet on his thighs and across his chest, at best.

It takes Asura's address to snap him out of his reflective trance.]

. . . Hmm? Have I...?

[He tries to pull himself together; his blank expression is replaced with a cool smile. He continues, doing his very best to disguise his previous unease with well-practiced acting.]

Ah, no. But that's to be expected, isn't it? We're in a whole different world, in a manner of speaking. Aefenglom and Dorchacht... It DOES feel as though Dorchacht's Wilde is untamed in a way entirely unlike Aefenglom's.

[mirshikar]

Untamed, huh? [ Good, that Mettaton's surfaced from the stillness of shock. Better, that the guy sets both standard and example for the Wilder recruits: when overcome or unbalanced in the field, do not allow yourself to be paralyzed; keep moving, observe, and always, a l w a y s analyze, lest you become the architect of your own demise. Because... let's face it, not everyone is as crazy dauntless as Asura, the Witch-dragon who is as busy assessing the Screamer's corpse as he is listening to the forest surrounding, perhaps waiting for the inevitable sound of a secondary, shrieking creature to reach his ears the sensory horns on either side of his head. For now, all that is apparent to him is an almost inaudible mechanical hum (for which there can only be one source), and the still-racing heartbeats of the trio both he and Mettaton now accompany. ] I like it.

[ Prefers it, even, to the Wilde of Aefenglom. There's something about this particular stretch of forest, dense and lush, which is evocative of the Hedge, those thorny trods—rife, with the pulse of Faerie and teeming with grotesqueries and fantastical creatures for it—which served as grounds for Summer's ritual hunt. But... hunting is far from the ask today, and the kids have begun to warble anew, fearing the worst has befallen the rest of their party. Several more of their ranks are out there somewhere, and there's n-n-no telling where they might be, or what has happened to them!

Asura gives rise, after that, the scent of the beast in his nose (the pungent smell of entrails and all), and a sepia-toned photo of the corpse saved to the Watch (he and Mettaton, they'll both be debriefed upon returning to Dorchacht, and the creature responsible for the missing recruits will need to be identified ). What the Mirrorbound should do is report back straight away, seeing to the safety of the three novices that had been found in swift succession of one another— there's no guarantee that their equally blundering comrades yet draw breath, and the trek back to the city will take double the time with recruits unaccustomed footslogging through grueling terrain.

Yet all Asura does is card a taloned hand back into the fall of his hair, combing blood through the locks like it's mousse (hey, at least it won't go and drip into his eyes this way), and fixes Mettaton (a Puca, right? had to be. like a Runnerswift, if Runnerswift had mechanical parts, but then, Asura's seen stranger things) with an appraising stare: ] You any good with dispensing first-aid?

[ Because, with a shrug of his shoulders, Asura slips off the pack he's been wearing—it's bloodstained all right, but sealed such that it won't have effected the contents: rations and medical supplies. ]

To be honest, I'm shit in that department. [ Ungentle as he is. The kids are better off with Mettaton cleaning them up. ] Think I'd be put to better use scrying for those who remain missing.

[ And would you look at that, the statement elicits sounds of relief and exclamation from the recruits. No, they didn't want Asura slapping bandages on them with all the abandon he'd employed to behead the Screamer, and yes, confirming that their friends are safe is of paramount importance. Their eyes are on Mettaton, then, large and round and silently pleading for the Mirrorbound's agreement. It's a good plan of action, right? ]

[glitzandglamour]

[Asura says he likes it, and Mettaton knows he doesn't mean his answer. He likes these tangled brambles and the thick green, the monstrous plants and even more monstrous creatures. His eye skirts to scan the furthest distance he can see as he takes it all in, comparing Asura's energy with Dorchacht's Wilde. Mettaton tips his head thoughtfully, taking it in, before pulling his attentions back to their situation.

The intensity with which Mettaton watches Asura isn't robotic or impartial, nor is it uneasy any longer. It's with a quirked brow, a gleam of intrigue in his golden eye, noting the texture of his hair and the shadows cast by his lashes while he moves from hovering over the carcass of a beast to taking care of business. This is business, after all. Mettaton plants his gloved hands on his hips.]

Ha. And a robot like myself should be any better? I relegate even my own repairs to other capable hands... Which could hardly be considered "first-aid" by any stretch of the imagination.

[Of his many Puca features, most are hidden under luxury fabric. But his incisors are long, the tips of his pink heels mutated into silvery rabbit toes, blistering skin, and curling metal. His thighs bow, making way for wider hips and thicker muscle. ..."Muscle." It's an awkward ordeal, being part-way through a transformation with months left to go. Worse yet as a metal Puca with nothing suggesting "health" anywhere organic on his body. For Dorchacht's young Wilders to be giving him shiny, pleading eyes for first-aid by his hand instead of Asura's by preference, then, speaks greater volumes about the Witch than it does about him. They do not want to be handled by the likes of this rough, powerful beast of a man, so much that they'd take the dubiously experienced robot tending to their injuries.

Mettaton can't help smirking at the situation, amused. He eyes Asura's pack, recognizing some of the supplies. (A blessing and a curse: while some he recognizes from his time in Aefenglom, a lot are recognized from... movies. He thinks that's a good thing, but objectively, not so much.)]

However. I have been seen in the Coven for medical reasons more times than I'd care to count... So I'll consider that "good" enough. [A wry smile directed toward Asura.] I should be able to muster some of the tenderness complimentary to a man so rugged and commanding. Besides. Scrying, at a time like this, is incredibly helpful.

[He goes right into action, much to the pained relief of the recruits. They try not to show it, of course, (especially not the two who consider Asura to be their mentor,) but they both perk up and relax all at once. Mettaton starts by dramatically pulling at the black glove he wears over his hand and moves next toward looking for whatever is meant to clean. He thinks that's what happens first. Especially as blood mingles liberally with dirt and grime. A decent call for someone who's never done first-aid.]

Poor at first-aid or not, you have quite the talent for killing. It's something I've never witnessed before. [Puts his own half-hearted attempt at murder to shame!]

[mirshikar]

[ You have quite the talent for killing, Mettaton says, and Asura—already in the midst of making preparations for scrying—lets loose a bark of a laugh, flashing a mouthful of dragon's teeth as he grins in good humor, mirthful like no other. Mettaton, with his heavily modulated voice, articulates his observations like mordant flattery, each volley of his synthesized speech carrying with it more complex notes of dynamism than most humans a l l while a gloved hand sits pretty atop a cocked hip (at least, until tending to the recruits takes priority over posturing).

And Asura? Well, call him charmed. He likes Mettaton as much as he likes the Wilde and the Screamer it birthed, his Mirrorbound companion some fantastic amalgamation of organic, inorganic, and Talam's magic. But there's always a price, isn't there, for being so aberrant in composition. For the Screamer, it had been a surplus of weak points (two heads instead of one, what a riot), and for Mettaton... it's blistering skin where flesh creeps up from metal. Likely discordant natures, too, but hey— that's true for all those transitioning into Monsters.

From his vantage point (crouched low on the ground again, a few paces away from the Screamer's carcass), Asura flicks his eyes up, surveying Mettaton as the robot goes through the pack of supplies, thoroughly lacking in hesitation despite that rejoinder of and a robot like myself should be any better? from before. And that, there, is either a good sign or a bad one.

Amused, Asura huffs— ] What's gone and made you so sure it's talent, then, if you're absent a gauge of comparison? Could've been a fluke.

[ No, it couldn't have been (it'd been a grisly kill, yes, but decapitations of larger beasts are seldom clean, and the King's clearly accustomed to it—beheading), but then, Asura's never passed up on the opportunity to razz someone jest and find out exactly how combat oriented Mettaton may be.

Not everyone is Summer (least of all the trio of recruits, all of which provide Mettaton with direction where it is needed, advocating that one of the canteens of water in the pack will do the trick for cleaning wounds; that topical antiseptic should come afterward), but most among the Mirrorbound can fight with decent capability. The way Mettaton had gone still before, it had reeked of something animal (and not at all robot), and Asura's keen to chalk it up to Puca instinct. So maybe, there's more to Mettaton, and if so, it'll be be a boon— there's no doubt that Asura can handle (rugged and commanding, indeed) the offensive line, but someone needs to handle defense (and the would-be Wilders) too. ]

Don't think your alacrity as a medic is a fluke, though. [ Don't think for a second that Asura had missed it, that theatrical gesture of 'snapping' on practitioner's gloves. It brings a grin (wry, not so different from Mettaton's own), to his lips. ] Are all robots so assured, or is that just you?

[ Color the King curious (genuinely so), as he finishes with digging out a divot (by way of hand) from the peat-soil which sustains the Wilde's tangled thicket of vegetation. A bout of evocation sees the left-behind depression filled with water, its reflective surface the first tool Asura uses to scry. The second is a needle of crystal, set to float upon the miniature pool of Asura's design, its point acting as a compass (direction, to accompany whatever vision it is that Asura receives) which whirls and whirls, constantly in motion from the moment when the King invokes the spell to—

—the instant when it ends, that crystal needle-point swinging in the direction of the Screamer's corpse and staying there. ]

...fuck. [ A guttural, resounding, exasperated like no other f u c k. It draws the attention of the recruits, demands that they remain on high alert, regardless of the stage of care they're in.

Well now, that can't possibly be good news, can it? ]

[glitzandglamour]

Not all of them! I'm flattered... I AM the only robot quite like me. In all respects. I would say I have a verve for all I put myself into. Not just crude medicine.

[Thank you, helpful Wilder, for the tip about the canteen. Mettaton trades it for the antiseptic with a flourish of his wrist, idly moving to the trio on easy steps. Their wounds are awful up close, he thinks with an appraising eye, and glances over the first kid's shoulder at how comparatively unscathed Asura is. They must be thinking the same thing: he easily outclasses them all. Doesn't this count as justification?

Mettaton considers shortly his perception of Asura's ability to deal a killing blow. Asura's right: he has nothing to compare him to save for a small human child with an absence of killing intent, whose strike was practiced, straight and true, but void of the desire to kill. It all comes down to his feeling. For a monster such as himself, intent is palpable. No longer can he yank people's souls from their bodies and examine it for himself, but it's something electric in the air. Their experience, their mercy, their passion, their joy, all put on display when they land a strike. Mettaton thinks fondly about how expressive these creatures of flesh are, even without the magic of a monster's soul.

...Never mind any of that. Intuition's enough for Mettaton, who saw readiness and ease. It wasn't a clean operation, sure, but he decides that's the most fluke part of all.

(An error, on his part. Weapon though Mettaton was built to be, he's not programmed with anything special to help him play the role, to his detriment. All he has are his observational skills, which are trained by human dramatization.)]

You could say I also have a good eye for talent. You could have had a stroke of luck... But that was something else.

[He'd been working on one of their shoulders, the Monster girl handing him the supplies he'd need in the order she thinks they go. The three don't seem to mind that they're no longer scrutinized for their poor performance, and watch eagerly as the King of Summer wraps up his preparation for divination. . . . .

And curses. Mettaton freezes. If his ears weren't wrapped, and if they weren't useless as-is, they'd stand upright in attention. He feels the impending sense of danger, or he thinks he does — he's only felt it once before, to his recollection. The TV star tilts his chin down, watching carefully as the trio of Dorch's Wilders try to calm their thudding hearts.]

...Asura?

III.

[manlet]

[As far as combatants go, Andersen is easily overlooked. The build of a child with no combat skills to boot - he's better suited for support, and that's precisely why he came. Though he grumbles about how dangerous the Wilde is, the moment he hears the kids crowing about how they'll return home in glory, he declares his intent to watch them, because someone has to make sure these knuckleheads can reattach any sundered limbs.

He would have asked his Bonded to come for additional protection but he knows the man has his own plans. Instead, his companion is a silent sheep faun he has temporarily bonded with, whose lack of a voice and veiled features makes it difficult to tell what they're thinking. The kid did well in lending a hand and they squat on a stump, quietly rubbing off blood from their pure white fur.

Asura looks like a frightful beast but Andersen still joins him to inspect the strange creature. He's in much better shape, for he's stayed out of the thick of the fight, but his face is drenched in sweat, forcing him to take off his glasses to wipe the fog off. He hasn't worked out like this in a long, long time and he no longer has the stamina of a Servant.]

Can't say I have. [His voice is just as quiet - partially from exhaustion, partially from wanting to maintain confidentiality.] It's worth taking back some of the parts. I'm sure the Witches can document it and find some use for it.

[mirshikar]

[ Even from his crouch, Asura boasts the advantage of height over Andersen— who, despite their child's form, is no true child at all. Asura had suspected it, at first, when he'd locked his gaze with Andersen's own, seeing something fathomless there which belied the other Mirrorbound's apparent youth. Then, when Andersen s p o k e, well... (truth be told, it'd been difficult not to imagine Andersen styled as some hobgoblin baron, pint-sized and industrious with the deeply resonant voice of a seasoned connoisseur, one particular to Hedgespun goods) all doubts were banished from mind.

Andersen, he's something else, and that's why Asura is frank with him: ]

I'm no butcher. [ Hard to tell, who boasts the deeper baritone between Andersen and Asura himself— but when the King speaks (enunciating the word butcher with bone-rattling rancor), his voice resonates like a low clap of thunder from a Summer storm. He is a hunter, yes, by virtue of his crown and Court (it is the banner of the Iron Spear, after all, which rallies all allies of the four Great Courts to battle, signaling the pursuit of the Freehold's adversaries), but he will never be a butcher. ] Back home, my people and I were seen as little more than crops of exotic reagents at the ready for harvest. Our lives to be reaped for the sole purpose of furthering the spellcraft of irreverent human mages.

[ Witches. Mages. There is no difference. What's more, it remains the most profound of ironies, that Asura (disdainful of human magic, professed enemy of all mages belonging to the nine mystric Traditions) has been relegated to the role of a Witch by the world of Talam. ]

This beast here? It gave us a magnificent fight, [ as Andersen himself can attest to, his forehead shining with a sheen of sweat borne of battle and the sultry, Summertime heat of the Wilde ] and I'm not about to repay that by delivering its remains into the hands of Witches. That's too damn ignoble for my liking.

[ Leaves a sour taste in the mouth, to boot. ]

[manlet]

[Indeed, his companion is a goliath beside Andersen. Were the author more conscious of the difference between them - or had he a shred of humility - he would have conceded to the natural authority granted to Asura by his tone of voice and by his sheer size. But he has grown accustomed to bantering with royalty and monsters in Chaldea, and he has always been the sort to choose death over holding his tongue. So when Asura voices his disapproval of cutting up the creature, Andersen makes the irreverent choice and plays devil's advocate.]

Some would say that leaving the corpse here to rot would be more ignoble, considering the number of people it could provide for.

[Should the meat be edible, it could feed someone. Medicine could be made from its remains. So on and so forth. And at Chaldea, there was no hesitation in cutting down monsters for materials if they demonstrated no sign of sentience. Them or us - that's how the organization's mindset has been for the past few months.

But as someone who breathed life into objects like thimbles, who saw the value in frozen sparrows, who believed in even the most heinous of monsters, Andersen understands where Asura comes from - even if he doesn't wholly agree with it.

He doesn't press the subject any further and instead switches to:]

Would you rather bury it?

[It's a genuine question.]

If that's what you want, I won't stop you. But know that I'm useless when it comes to manual labor.

[mirshikar]

[ Perhaps it is surprising, that Asura is not without appreciation for the other Mirrorbound's dissenting opinion, that irreverence presented as a counterweight to the King's own unyielding convictions. Long since has cold rational been pitted against impassioned, honor-bound ceremony; the age-old clash of ideals leading to more bloodshed and more conflict than even Winter's Iceclad Amigers could document in their great compendiums of all the realms, and— It is this careful articulation that lets Asura know that Andersen is no fool to fall to sway of another, but more than that, it's the question which follows (would you rather bury it?) that garners a measure of respect from the King.

At the very least, Andersen wishes to understand. Indirectly, he lets Asura know he would have assisted with burial rites, had he only the means.

Huffing, with an ease in temperament (ah, ah, is that good humor?): ] I've seen hobgoblins half your size break ground to build monuments taller than this city's Onyx Wall.

[ He rises, after that, his nose full of the stench of blood and the carcass' innards. Rivulets of gore stemming from his hairline follow the pull of gravity, dripping down to follow the curvature of his face, and... Well, much as he could use a bit of cleaning up, that doesn't take precedence at the moment.

This does: ] But to your good fortune, I would rather see it burned.

[ Even if magic must be employed to do it. ]

You are not so useless with spells, I trust? [ If Andersen's temporary bond is at all telling, the child who is no child at all should be a Witch. ]

[manlet]

[Hobgoblins - that's a new creature he hasn't been compared to. Andersen can't help his snort of amusement. Asura looks horrifying, closer to demon than man with the guts dribbling along his cheek. A more cautious man would've watched himself.

But the author is incapable of reining in his honesty. His body language, his words, his quirks: all of it is on display to his conversational partner and he reflects what he sees just as frankly. Which is why, when Asura poses his question, Andersen folds his arm over his chest and bows - deeply, as an actor would for dramatic effect.]

I'm passable, Sir.

[Asura speaks with the inflection of authority, with the grace and ease of someone who understood the intricacies of court talk. Whether he was a noble or a king was still up in the air, but Andersen has spent enough time with blue-blooded clients to know a man of authority when he sees it.]

But my specialty lies in exaggerating the talents of others. My own are too mediocre as a foundation. Consequently, my main focus has been on enchantment and healing. If it's fire you're looking for... we will have to start one for me to fan. May I suggest a crude pyre?

ii!

[joies]

Hmm, we shall see. We do, however, bring provisions for your new recruits.

[Is the jovial response, from one certain, flowering, dragon - a hefty basket, a picnic one at that, held securely in her talons as she approaches Asura and his gathering of recruits. Yet, she doesn't seem to be alone, as closely behind her trails a young woman - a naga, albino at that, judging by her impressive, white tail - who holds a just-as-hefty thermos. The younger woman seems a tad uncertain about... well, everyone, but how casual Persephone is seems to put her worries at ease.]

I imagine everyone has maybe worked up an appetite, yes? Or does their instructor demand more to be done, before a break can be had?

[Would Asura be so cruel, when the scent of freshly cooked goods wafts towards the new recruits, after they worked so long and hard already? Surely not! But judging by the grin she flashes him - as mischievous and bright as spring sunlight peeking behind clouds - suggests that she could assist with making sure they earn it. No pain, no gain, after all - and she knows these recruits need to be in top shape before they're ready to head out on their own.

The naga girl, while not nowhere near as cheery as the dragon, peers curiously around her - tongue flicking to get a better gauge on who is before her. Yet she's unwilling to move from where she's comfortable, as her tail loops with Persephone's once they finally come to a stop - a subtle gesture, but one that speaks of the comfort Persephone brings to her. A monster she has taken under her (literal and figurative) wing, assisting her with her new sense of freedom, and helping her to find her voice - and so, she asked to come along, to meet others and to feel more at ease among strangers once more, both monster and witch.]

[mirshikar]

It is not yet midday. [ —Asura purposely drawls his response, instinctually aware that the eyes of the new Wilder recruits are upon him, boring into his back, silently beseeching the King to please, p l e a s e call a break because the morning activities have been by far more akin to a Trial by Fire than anything else. Buuuuut, perhaps worthy of commendation, none among their number let slip a word, all unwilling to verbally articulate their discomfort in Asura's presence. In fact, when the King glances back, over his shoulder...! Oh, look there, the recruits are expediently working through their training once more. If they had at all been wearing pleading expressions (touched by hunger and fatigue in turns), the nonvocal communication had been perceived by Persephone's eyes alone. ] Nor have my students fully grasped their current exercise.

[ The exercise in question? A basic drill, where all recruits move together as a single, cohesive unit, reacting to (and defending against) the appearance of 'threats' (stationary illusions of Asura's own conjuring, each mimicking a creature common to Aefenglom's Wilde). ]

And so... [ Taking his time, Asura's certain that he can hear the collective hitch of bated breath from those under his instruction as they eagerly await his decision—and in this, he is proud that they're at least acting in unison like a true squadron of merit. So there is hope for them. They will make fine Wilders, someday. But first, a verdict!: ] ...perhaps I will substitute their lesson with another of higher importance: never turn away resources from a friendly party, lest one risk offending an ally.

[ And then, that moment of shared tension breaks with the realization that yes, the friendly party is none other than the woman with petaled wings and a sizable picnic basket upon her arm coupled together with the naga boasting the offering of a thermos. Among Asura's students, there is a building crescendo of whoops and hollers ("we did it! we survived! we get a break!"), borne of both fulfillment and simple excitement from the promise of a meal. Doubtless, that recruits will soon come to swarm both the Queen of Spring and her naga companion (has Asura met the girl somewhere before...?), but in the precious seconds before the famished trainees have the chance to surge forth, Asura bids both Persephone and guest warm welcome to the training grounds— ]

That is to say, you have our sincere gratitude for the meal. Let us enjoy this late morning together, as allies. [ Then, voice gentling, he shifts to address the naga alone: ] What's more... any friend of Persephone's is a friend of mine. She is precious to me, as I hope she will be to you as well.

[joies]

[Persephone watches the desperate expressions upon the recruits faces with the barest hint of amusement, though she won't let anything slip to Asura while he's not looking. Even if she does crack a slight grin once the King glances back over his shoulder, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. Oh, these poor souls... A few times she has witnessed Asura whenever he trained the new subjects of Summer, and she can recall them too wearing similar expressions of fatigue.

But Persephone did not extend succor then, and she shall not now. They are not her students, after all, despite the delectable offerings she and her friend have brought. Who also listens to his decree from behind the flowering dragon, the relief an almost palpable thing once the students realize what this new lesson means. The Spring Queen lifting the basket now with a bright grin, trying hard not to laugh at their cheers and excitement - but it doesn't stop the amused glance she flashes to their trainer, in the moment before they descend upon them.]

How hard are you working them, Asura, that a simple break like this is a cause for celebration? [The words are soft and teasing, as Helena keeps peering at Asura - tongue flicking curiously, before understanding dawns in unseeing eyes. Shyly nodding at his words to her, yet a response dies on her lips the moment she tries to speak, hesitating for but a second before leaning towards the dragon - Persephone canting her head slightly, to allow the naga to whisper something to her. Her voice is practically non-existent, a whisper on the wind, but Persephone understands all the same - her smile warm and undeniably fond, once she turns sunset eye to Asura once more.]

Helena says she recognizes you, from when you helped free the city. She gives you her utmost thanks and gratitude, for that and your words.

[The naga, seemingly flustered now judging by the very clear flush on pale skin, simply ducks down her head and turns her attention to the recruits. She doesn't speak another word, yet she still dutifully makes sure that the hungry students are fed, Persephone opening the basket so she can assist with that. It's a generous spread, freshly made sandwiches, colorful fruits and an assortment of foods that is sure to fill the stomachs of some fatigued recruits.]

Now I only hope we prepared enough to feed everyone!