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[arcstral]

"Does anything hurt?" Those were Alears first words as she cut her distance with the hero-king. As an spectator she had seen him shine like the brightest star in a sea of warriors, unfortunately even the brightest star grows dark one day. And despite him not raising victor having seen his skills set happiness in her chest.

His javeling took down a rose haired Eagle before his own downfall by a purple haired one. It had been an entertaining fight that she was sure of, her lungs that had been cheering his name alongside many others were proof of that.

A smile on her face as she continued. "I truly believed you would make it, a shame that wasn't the case! Still you did a wonderful job out there." It made her wonder how it would have been to experience it as one of his team members rather than someone cheering for a friend, perhaps it would have felt like old times that had never happened in the first place. "Next time you will do even better, i'm sure of it."

Despite the encouraging words she lifted a pinky towards him.

"If next time i join i would love to fight by your side and if not i'll keep on cheering for you." The Divine Dragon began the search of a promise for a year ahead. "Why don't we promise that we will work hard for next time, together? Do you like the sound of that?"

Bitten by defeat and yet soothed by the inspiriting knowledge that his allies would move on, such is the dichotomy of a loss that is not unwelcome. The way of the Hero-King where every sacrifice of his own is worth the pangs for someone else. That Ephraim and Yuri have proceeded to the next stage, their progression alone instills value in moment otherwise devoid of triumph. Marth's own place for now consigns itself humbly to the medical tents - and to the receiving end of a most pleasant visitor.

"Ah, Alear, not at all, the healers here are exceptionally talented. Within mere hours of admission I have felt rapidly improved." He smiles appreciatively at the girl, agreeable and serene with hands in his lap, nursing a juice box conveyed to him by a helpful young man. A taste as sweet as last year's one could easily note; the reparations for the injured and bed-bound were certainly never spared in quality.

Another sip, another quiet ear lent to the optimistic Elyosian woman. He is in good hands, not singly for the medics that have restored him from his wounds, but the pleasant conversation afterward that allows for the mind to linger on less heavy affairs. Distraction, after all, is but another facilitation and form of healing.

Upon his swallow, he divulges the words on his mind. "I appreciate your kind words. Though I would find it shameful to lose in a true battle, this one is curiously different. Every year of the Battle of Eagle and Lion brings with it cherished memories."

The reunion with Sara, the stalwart front raised alongside two allies, new faces encountered from nothing, all were worth the highest regard and distanced themselves from the shame. A mystery, but one that has been produced time and time again for those entered into this annual ceremony - both the losers and winners to come out of it. Naturally, it is an experience he would wish for the other monarch as well. But first he stirs.

Amusement sparkles in the king's face as he eyes the other's upraised pinky finger, by now solidified as a most faithful habit. An invincible quirk? A tradition carried over from her native land? Though unable to be discerned, it was clear that this gesture replicated itself often in the dragon's behavior. "That is most agreeable to me. Should you join, I am sure it will become an even more inspiring year." In that regard, a shift of his arms links two fingers together, raising up their hopes for the next shining year.

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #alliberacio #miss alear in the inbox:soft_smile: #fingers crossed hope she joins boel with the gang next year #toaboel2024

[rafent]

🍪 "Oh, Lord Rafal! There you are." The flush across Gregory's cheeks speaks of the distance he'd trekked - sprinted, perhaps - to find the dragon, but he calls attention down to a red box in his hand, offered out for Rafal to see. "I found these little cookie sticks on the ground near the well." His smile flusters when he realizes how that sounds now outside of his own head. "Th-they're not poisoned or anything! I checked." He plucks the top of the box open and shows Rafal the sealed wrapping inside. "Anyway, if you still have that sweet tooth of yours, I thought maybe... we could try them together. What do you think? I heard there's some sort of game you can play with them, too." [ // surprise!gregory, because griss would have nothing to do with this game 😌 ]

Just the man Rafal had hoped to see, along with just the palm-sized motherlode he had hoped for him to find.

Everything imaginable of the dragon's appearance distinguished his comparative differences from the other, his sharp cat-eyed poise at odds with droopy-eyed turbulence. His dry, untouched complexion divided from the affected and not distastefully moist kind standing before him. One in greater knowledge and one in total ignorance; Rafal appreciating the light sheen of sweat that glistened upon Gregory's skin as Gregory himself remained unaware, though this were certainly not any fact he intended to relay.

After all, the former heir of Sombron still clung to a handful of his secrets and he would do so without change. Or on a carefully inconvenienced sigh. He crossed his arms in an equally contrived motion, playing the farce through for as well as he'd planted it: "Of course they are not poisoned. We reside within a soft world guarded by an even softer dragon. Do you think the Divine One would permit any influx of assassination techniques to run rampant?"

How strange it was - that in spite of his derision he stepped forward in wordless acceptance before further words could come to light. How strange that Rafal would come to strike the very match himself. Plucking a chocolate-coated stick from the box then suspending it between them on a clench of his teeth, a minimal tilt of his head accounting for slight differences in height.

Two fingers curled into vacant belt loops like places where they belonged. "But as you have proposed an otherwise fine idea, Gregory—challenge accepted."

Naturally, the Fell Dragon mastermind accommodated for the steps that plunged next into line. A nibble of his chocolatey end turning up steady progress, encroaching firmly into the middle ground of biscuit territory, then arriving at the final destination marked by Gregory's lips. Though it were only a graze between them, the pressure left an ever lasting impression that incited his rare inability to think. For as difficult as it was to remember it, last but not least came the hammer - the immaculately, irrefutably, and totally composed suggestion on brightly tinged pink ears.

"In disfavor of senseless waste, shall. . .s-shall we continue until the box turns empty?"

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #twistedisciple #REE WITH THE GRISS (GREGORY) GOODIES TODAY #rafal would definitely do this for the record :') #engage calling card: tsundere dragon man who takes 500 circuits to get to an easy destination #even if it means playing pocky with his Very Good “and they were roommates” knight

[arcstral]

🧃

Ewan approached the man that had a very sparkling air about him. “Hiya! You were super eye catching out there!” He complimented him, before handing him a juice box. “Here, to recover some strength!”

Bright, glistering eyes noticed first and an offering second. Marth can only smile at this heartfelt combination, now made aware to the great profusion of small boxes and littered straws that have laid claim to the infirmary scene. Taking the juice in hand reveals a light seal of perspiration upon its surface and the visual demarcation of an apple - a favorite flavor.

No wonder some students and professors have reached for seconds.

"A most appreciated gesture, I thank you kindly. Your work is no less eye-catching at that. I pray you will take breaks throughout such earnest endeavors." With that said, there is a time for wars and monarchs and great sprawling battles between houses, but now is not that time. In order to recover strength as the other student suggests, the perfectly dignified Hero-King seats himself on a cot with ever so slightly swaying legs and proceeds to sip away on his juice box.

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #optimismxmagicism #awh... ewan is so cute thank you for the juice box #toaboel2024

[arcstral]

When all is said and done, Kris doesn’t linger long; quick to duck out of sight as shadows do—with an ulterior motive this time to boot. For all that not a single physical trace of one’s experiences follows them out of the arena, whether they be scars from minor and fatal wounds alike or residue from, say, an entire bog’s worth of noxious sludge, still he feels compelled to scrub himself down until the memories no longer grate as harshly. Until it is less jarring to see the lack of visible change to his appearance between entering the illusion and leaving it. Subjected to drowning, getting skewered, and needing to be rescued by an ally on not one but two different occasions, he’s not at all proud of this particular performance.

(Is he ever, though? His sole saving grace is that no one who matters had been watching. ...He hopes.)

Some time later, it's with azure hair still damp and a change of clothes thrown on—favoring his old tunic and trousers rather than the student uniform—that he approaches the staircase to the second floor dormitories. Ascending the steps and slipping down the hall towards a certain door while all is still relatively quiet in the day's aftermath, knuckles raised as if to knock but pausing before they can commit proper.

...The worst that can happen is no one being on the other side. One, two, three raps against the wood in quick succession; a beat passing before he calls out next. “It's me, sire. Can I... come in?”

As a commander the need for patience is undisputed; an overeager or self-serving tactic cannot hope to outwit the enemy, to turn the tide of battle, or even to weather the storm of reconstruction that follows in the footsteps of every difficult war. In Marth, fifth king of Altea and first king of the Archanea Alliance, so then must the quality of patience be ingrained and stamped.

Even if he is hard pressed to remember its necessity now.

A sigh leaves him. He cannot find comfort in a silence without the unsung shadow to arrange himself in it. The return of a knight to a king is as much a return to normalcy; to stability, to security, and to all the quiet, gentle things that span between the two of them in particular. With distance judged always too long whenever they should be set apart. In that way, he waits restlessly in his chambers, pristine on the outside looking in - to those none the wiser and at a distance - yet revealing his own mind by the anxious tap of his foot against the floorboards. The quill in his hand that scrawls heavily across the page without the regular lightness of a feather.

Once more, albeit not for the second or third or fourth time, another sigh pushes from him. It is a training exercise that reserves his royal guard, he reminds himself, only and just a simulation - the matter of too-real swords and too-real tomes. Not real deaths. His brows lower on the disturbance of his own worried making. And yet even so, even in consideration of all those things. . .is a battle still not a battle?

Then there it is; a series of knocks which rouses him to his feet, a movement between rising and jumping nearly able to be called flight:

"Yes, of course–one moment!"

In his scramble to answer, to meet Kris and to return one knight to the rightful place he should be - at Marth's side - the king is markedly disheveled upon opening the door. Tousled hair, eyes bright, collar askew; all deemed dim to the radiant smile of relief and welcome he wears. "Kris. Please come in and sit wherever you like. You've returned from the arena I take it? It would please me to hear of your stories if any. As you were occupied by that training, I too was—"

The chatter stops abruptly, on his sheepish look directed toward the cluttered state of his possessions and chambers. ". . .occupied."

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #kwis :) #something something krma on the last day of the year- #unsungblade

[arcstral]

Ever the busy bee, some time passes before Maria presents herself before the Hero-King, though he might not have missed her peeking at him every time she passed by. Then finally, once she's certain he isn't busy, and with her own preparations seemingly complete, the little cleric skitters over happily.

"Prince Marth!" Holding up two juice boxes, one to either side of a toothy grin, Maria then places the drinks beside him. Rising with middle and index fingers newly upheld, there comes a conspiratorial giggle before she shifts her number into a wall, cupping the corner of her mouth.

"Two juice boxes, just for you!" Not that it's anything to be ashamed of -- there's no rule about how much juice someone can have, and Maria wouldn't break the rules if there was -- but the point of it all is the fun of a shared secret. When she retreats, it's with a smile, a wink, and then a freely flowing laugh.

"Don't tell anyone, okay? Oh, and good work out there! Hee hee."

For the watchful Marth who surveys his surroundings, the medical tent thrums with the coming and going of people, not all who enter mundanely in a featureless way identical to others come before them. A fact most gladdening at that, for what a bore such monotony would be! Instead, a familiar robin twitters and her familiar mischief glisters; peeking and passing for many instances, before trumping them all with her eventual approach. The commingling of these things springs an unthinking smile to the Hero-King's face before he can put a thought to its appearance.

When confined to bed rest and recovery the lack for things to do seeds a contrary state of unrest, but an eventful visitor or two is enough to split that spell in half. Welcoming her presence, cornflower eyes land expectantly upon Maria on the brink of greeting, then blink rapidly as not one but two drinks are posited in the space beside him. Testimony, of course, to the ways of a benevolent trickster.

"Oh? I am truly honored to be the target of such a mysterious benefactor."

He chuckles in immediate understanding at the secrecy, with one singular breathy laugh - not too loudly as to draw attention, either. A good and upright king might put in a word of reprimand, but Marth at least in this respect is not the spotless moralist that others think him to be. With Maria as the mastermind, and Marth as accomplice, they will both share in the most sinister, world-ending duplicity evocative of children stealing one too many treats from a midnight pantry.

"I would return the sentiments fully to you, dear Maria. Your work on and off the field is appreciatively observed." As she makes to leave, he raises his juice box in a playful gesture of toast, the other tucked with pantomimed secrecy behind his back; a pirate's plunder too selfishly guarded for viewing by any other eyes. Sealing the vow between them is a wink, returned in kind. "—and will not go told."

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #toaboel2024 #princessmacedon #maria my darlingest daughter hello hello helloooo #i care for them deeply but you knew That

[arcstral]

As his battle came to a close and whatever light wounds he sustained from the Fire and Blizzard spells were patched up, Merric, true to himself, put his own tome aside for the time being and began to tend to others. His own injuries bothered him little - being a Mage, he possesses a resistance to spells above average, after all, especially to small wounds suffered in a mock battle, which pale in comparison to the scorching infernos he and his enemies unleashed upon one another in a true fight to the death.

After a few visits, bandages, healing spells and friendly chats for lifting spirits, the Altean's eyes land on a face well familiar. With a smile, he makes his way through. Though whatever injuries Lord Marth may have seem already taken care of, Merric will never neglect to greet his king and friend.

"Hello, sire. Some formidable opponents you had, huh? Yours truly, too, had to unfortunately excuse himself a bit early. Still, I do hope you found your match enriching and enjoyable."

The reunion with a cherished friend not through battlefield, but through infirmary, is a circumstance that is amusing as much as it is illuminating. Before Merric might even utter a word, Marth is already made acutely aware to the sage's defeat and to the subsequent reflection of their respective losses. This year's Battle of the Eagle and Lion has not been paved by their personal triumphs. The other confirms as much and the smiling king is quick to ready a place for him.

Quiet shuffling scoots him sideways on the cot to make room, several juice boxes at his elbow - one sipped and two unopened, reserves recently attained courtesy of Maria. He extends one such drink to the other, smoothly passing it to his hand in accordance with the traditional lack of decorum between them. "Hello, Merric. I see the same goes for yourself. You are a talented mage—the best I know—I could not envision your defeat to be anything less than close. Your opponents must have been very strong."

A comfortable silence shines in the brief intermission of slurping fruit juice. A bend in the Hero-King's straw occludes the passing of liquid and he adjusts it, fiddling with the angle for a few seconds in correction, before returning to the conversation at hand as if nothing had occurred.

Slurp. Sip. Sluuuuurp.

"And yes, I did find it enriching and enjoyable. It is a pleasure to fight on behalf of one's house, and to cross blades with others doing the same." On that line of thought, curious eyes briefly scan the medical tent for the recent shades and bright pigments of his memory. Pink. Purple. Silver. Lavender. Teal. His attention circles back to Merric with a brightening of features. "But of course, I would care to hear of your thoughts on the experience as well, my friend."

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[arcstral]

[ Sparkling Water ] "hey, marth." with a glass of sparkling water in his hand, alm approaches the familiar face he spots. he's been meaning to talk to him for a while,   &   what the ethereal ball turned into offers him as good an excuse as any.

"or should i say 'king marth?'" he continues, eyebrows raised before breaking into a slight grin, "just kidding. let's keep the formalities dropped... but seriously though, were you ever going to mention you are a king too?"

"So it seems I am discovered."

Where thieves and stowaways and fugitives might utter these very words during the peak of discovery, it is deemed this king's prerogative just as well when his royal station is brought to light. Contrary to their anguish, however, his twinkling eyes betray only amusement toward the unearthing of his identity, a smile equal to the one shone his way. "Call it nothing if not unwitting deception, Alm. Though I would be hard pressed to call it that. During the first motions of our acquaintance I simply did not figure titles would hold much importance, if any at all."

That much at least is plenty true from his standpoint; a throne sat and a crown worn hardly mattered to Marth on the front of friendship. One could argue that the grandiosity of titles even clouded judgment through those tempted by vice, who may seek a king's favor in the weight of his gold, once known to its fullness in his hands. But, of course, that has been shown to be no concern with such an agreeable Valentian friend- fair enough to keep spurned formalities to a low, merciful enough to show neither wrath nor disappointment at the lord's secrecy, and certainly wealthy enough to evade the siren call of greed.

Gracious behavior of which can only be met in kind. "Still, I suppose informing you sooner would have spared you of the shock at present. For that my apology is yours." Following a serenely bowed head, some thoughtful inflection lifts his voice as he regards the other, honed by a brighter and happier edge. ". . .Now with all secrets cast aside, no doubt a proper introduction is in order."

The sense of mystery toward his intentions is soon to dissolve. With no further ado, the offering of his handshake suspends in the air, joining together the curly insignias of air spread across two palms. A fateful irony to chase these identical natures, mirrored elsewhere in the twin fangs of Naga they wield.

"I am King Marth of Archanea. Making your acquaintance twice now, the pleasure is no less well mine."

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #dracofalchions #toaball2023 #so the two kings properly meet :)

[arcstral]

. [ ━━━ ACT I. grievances, ]

SUNLIGHT CONTINUED TO IDOLIZE ITS ADVANTAGE OVER HER, even now, with the sky resolute in its emptiness above the monastery, everything the day was not. the bishop worried away at her bottom lip, scratching restlessly at the reddened irritation spreading across sepia skin, stretching over her knuckles and retracing the invisible edges of old, burn scars. if not for her inability to cling to slumber, she would be tucked beneath a duvet, reciting the inked lines of her journal until fatigue took her. but this night was not kind to her.

this revelation was, thus, reiterated by the soft fall of footsteps behind her. eremiya huffed, still scratching at her hand, utterly stuck between returning to her chambers or turning to face the strange without the safety of a veil. Do not, came the utterance of His voice, but she had. turning on her heel, hands joined at her stomach, she mustered a monotone smile, thinly pulled to fit the gap of her countenance. though she opened her lips to speak━━━apathetic heather irises met a gentle cobalt━━━recognition stole the very breath from her throat. her nails dug into blemished skin, marking herself with crescents absent above them.

hero-king stood before the bishop, regal even in the wake of his restlessness; certainly, too, unable to sleep as she had. and the thought of him simply being able to wake and sleep and repeat the torturous process of rest that was once stolen from her, only a fortnight ago, upon death, nearly sent her forward in a lunge. her hands trembled against her stomach, a vulnerability untraceable in her countenance. how unfortunate, it was, that he seemed so at peace, far away from his home in altea; a king so selfish he could not be satisified with just one continent knowing of his fame.

but the marth that stood before her could not be the same marth that wielded against her, the magic of her daughter. the very marth gharnef confessed, to her, a hopeful, similar fate of hypocrisy. Apparations, He suggested, and she took any excuse over the bitter possibility of truth.

when words left her, they were hardly better than a growl, “you,” eremiya seethed, a twitch in her eye and once placid smile, now recognized only as a scowl. He had been your responsibility, and she knew it, forsaken by the memory of a violet-haired disgrace. thus, she clicked her tongue, “i refuse to be taunted by the hospitality of ghosts.”

a pause. eremiya could not bring her gaze from his; untrusting that her eyes would not be led astray by the weight of a weapon at his hip. she had not looked yet, and would not introduce the hostility when her mage hand refused to commit to the magic it once conjured. so, she turned her head and sharpened her inner turmoil into a shield, “join the faint memory of your knight-toy and let me be. archanea is... yours, boy. lord gharnef and i have sought elsewhere... somewhere far from you and your heroic guilt.”

and quieter, she spat, scratching restlessly once again at the burns on her hand, "unlike reese, i will not tame the urge to kill you if you appear before me again."

The stillness of a serene night passes unexpectedly to throes, a rasping and growling voice that shatters the peace with its violating presence. Light and feminine, yet harsh and unforgiving, wickedly hateful above all those things, the disturbing figure it belongs to is as much a force of reprehensibility as a beast in a nursery. Gloved fingers travel to the wrapped hilt of his sword on a quick-second judgment, but standing before the obstacle now elucidated on his path - before the dreg of Gharnef known as Eremiyah - his eyes only widen with surprise.

Uncertain what to think, but known more than certainly of what to say, "Eremiyah? It is I who should be speaking of ghosts. I did not know you survived, much less made your way here as well."

The memories she stirs are unwelcome, of course. The twisted mother Eremiyah who did not care of the fate of her 'children' so long as they served their uses. It is the phantom heat of her Meteor that compels his fingers to stay where they are though his thoughts wander elsewhere. Katarina; aware of Eremiyah's return and fixated on that tumult, or unaware and merely waiting to be caught in the difficult discovery. . .

His eyes narrow, not merely for that line of thought alone. "Lord Gharnef? You speak of him as if he is still. . ." He holds; his tongue, his sword hand, and the very thought that Gharnef yet lives with this woman's word alone as its intimation.

The pious servant before him scratching aimlessly at her own skin is not perfectly stable, he realizes. Or had she been ever? Marth could recall the wicked expulsion of spells and curses in the unlit dungeon thought to prove her sepulcher, the unholy names branding the orphans she'd purposed as assassins and soldiers, the hatred spilled onto Katarina who had yet to die for her. He remembers, too, that such a clash had felt less like a battle - and more like putting out the last piddling flames of Gharnef's servants so they would never catch again.

"Whether or not we cross paths, know I've no desire to disturb you. The time for our battles is far in the past. In fact, I hope you will reach the same conclusion. There is no meaning to conflict any longer. Even if Gharnef is alive there is no way for his ambitions to continue either, and if there is—

The Hero-King's gaze turns steady; unwavering lapis resolve without pollutants of fear or incertitude or even hatred. Every enemy of peace will not know merely his sword, but a hundred, a thousand, a million more, numbering as many as the faces at his side who stand with him for the same dream. That much is not promise but fact.

"—we will stop him again."

Hand slips away from blade and distances from the perceived threat of Eremiyah. The fangless mother without the bite of her children or the leash of her master. His boots tread forward and past with the crisp contact of heels and cobbles, a ghost only in the way his airy voice passes her. "There is always a chance for redemption. Katarina has seized it admirably. So may you. Have a good evening, sister."

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #motheruin #hello sister eremiyah :') #your voice for her is so vicious but charming #excited to observe her future arcs

[arcstral]

The first friend she had made upon enrolling here stood before her, blue hair and eyes beautiful as the sky above them, a kind smile that was nostalgic yet unique to him alone. Despite their first meeting many moons ago being a little awkward at first, his welcoming nature made forging a bond much easier.

What she wished to convey today was gratefulness for that day but most importantly to celebrate that he exists in this lovely world. "Today's a special day, Marth. I brought two little gifts to celebrate."

She trailed closer to the archanean, a curve forming on her lips as their distance was cut short. In silence she placed a small box in one of his palms the contents inside were a pair of earrings with a simple design, golden with a small blue gem incrusted in them. Alear had noticed his ears were pierced, although the design wasn't close to what she had seen him wear the color of the gemstone reminded her of his eyes.

On the other box that she held as to not busy his hands rested a necklace, a golden chain with a charm at the center of it shaped like the falchion incrusted in the place were the red gem of the sword would be rested one mimicking her hair color. This gift was complicated to find someone capable of making it but she was glad it was able to be completed. "I am so happy to know you and the bond we have, you were the first to welcome me when i joined the academy, that day is special to me. It's truly an honor to stand by your side as friends, now and always."

"Your life is precious to those who love you so i wanted to tell you... happy birthday Marth!"

To enter into another year of life spent beside countless loved ones and allies is bliss enough for the Altean king. Which is to say, Marth does not often desire for material possessions, either on the day of his birth or any other. His interest is captivated by the gifts already planted into his hand; an Archanea unshackled by conflict, the daily pleasures of life attainable due to a world at peace, and - last but not least - the priceless bonds regarded as his treasures. Those maintained from old as well as those newly forged.

"A special day, you say? Hah. I am truly happy that you think so. To me, it is not that special when compared to every day I spend in enjoyment of life." Cerulean gaze sparkles warmly, pleased and amused in equal measures by the Elyosian woman who numbers among said bonds. Her honesty easily met with his own.

But his attention soon switches tacks, awe occupying a wonder-filled face as he is presented with two gifts. A fashionable pair of earrings alongside a resplendent necklace, one evocative of his emblematic blue color and another of Falchion itself. Their quality is easily discerned even by one who knows mandates and laws better than precious metals and gemstones. The heart he expresses is deeply touched and above all sincere: "Goodness, I am at a true loss for words! They are beautiful gifts and your consideration for me has gone to lengths I scarcely deserve."

Her regard alone would have been enough to make this a shining occasion. Not for the first time he finds the aura surrounding Alear to be curious. Though earnest, thoughtful, and undoubtedly kind, from their first meeting across the monastery grounds he could sense a certain way about her deeper than all those things - just as he'd observed of the male Alear. A phantom familiarity, perhaps; as one might judge of a tune or cuisine reminiscent of childhood.

And, naturally, what is familiar to Marth is comfortable.

He smiles, gratitude mingling with friendliness, an expression tenderly warm. "You have my thanks, Alear, for gifts and sentiments both. Let today not merely be a celebration of myself, but also that of our friendship. I would like to imagine us always at the sides of one another. . .as welcome allies."

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #alliberacio #miss alear :plead: :plead: #may their bond shine on....

[arcstral]

“MAR-MAR!”

A small yellow ball barrelled straight towards the Hero-King, slamming head first into him with the widest and brightest smile in the universe. Little arms hugged tightly around Marth as the little dragon hood on Tiki’s head flew off in her momentum, revealing Tiki’s bright emerald eyes shimmering at Marth. The fluffy dragon wings on her onesie fluttered slightly as she buried her face into Marth with a giggle. “I missed you Mar-Mar!” She squealed, taking a moment before pulling away and reaching into the satchel on her shoulder.

“Look!”

Sweet Bun Trio: The first bun is filled with sweet cream and topped with icing and a candied cherry. The second is a sweet roll filled with almonds, pecans, and dried cranberries and glazed with honey. The third is a bun sliced in half, filled with almond paste and whipped cream, dusted with powdered sugar on top.

“I found these at the tables! They looked really good so let’s share them together, Mar-Mar!”

The prophetic prince of light who twice saved the world, and the pivotal divine dragon princess who shadowed him every step of his way- between them stretched a timeless red string, like no force of nature could truly wrangle them apart. Naturally, he'd heard from his beloved that Tiki stepped foot onto the monastery grounds, and with that knowledge came his bright-eyed anticipation of their reunion. She was by all spoken accounts a dear companion to the Hero-King; to Marth and Caeda the more intensely adored figure of both a daughter and a little sister wrapped in one.

Also a truly concentrated ball of joy who happened to feel like one, too. The force of her body on a running start nearly knocked him askew, headed by two glittering eyes and a beaming smile that revealed themselves from beneath a hood. If not by such an adorable face, he could discern her by the feeling of a vicelike embrace alone, impressively strong for a child of such proportions- strong as ever, at that.

"Oh, Tiki, it is ever good to see you! I've missed you, too—seeing you again I feel as if the sun could dawn twice." She hadn't grown much taller from the last they'd seen one another, but that was to be expected from the manakete race. Too slowly grown for the same span of years that a human endured. Nevertheless, his careful inspection of her differences lowered him onto a crooked knee, leveling them eye-to-eye. How nostalgic.

And gold and brimming as the king's expression, it seemed to radiate all the brighter as Tiki presented him with the desserts.

"Those are some very tasty looking sweet buns. We can most certainly share them over a nice, long talk." Nothing could deface the spark of joy in his eyes at this rate. Wasn't the feeling identical to fathers who received from sons and daughters their amateur crafts? Though simple and homely, the endearment of it all came from a universal tendency to love and cherish what those little hands brought before him. And- setting the desserts down- he took those very hands gently into his with the touch of their branded palms: "You've been in good health, I hope? Eating Bantu's pickled vegetables? I've been receiving quite the reports from him and Lord Gotoh. They say you've been a very good girl, but I would like to hear it from you!"

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #dreamingdragonscion #toaball2023 #soft smile ... what warms the heart more than marth and tiki #hello my sweet hello my daughter #together forever isn't that right

[arcstral]

Seeing that shining blue makes her blood boil, simmering in her chest as she tries to hold back the best she can from causing a scene. It is almost the same shade of blue as that infernal child, that defect, wears halfway in their hair. It is the same blue that glimmered from a ring worn as she faced her end. And it is the same blue that plagues her now. He had looked much better when summoned by Lord Sombron, red with rage and the stain of blood.

Seeing him here and happy while she'd had to die and leave Lord Sombron behind, it almost makes her want to stride over and give him a true piece of her mind. But she can be civil. She must think of it as another thing she has to do to serve Lord Sombron, then there is nothing for her to worry about.

"Marth-" His name comes out as more as a sting than she had meant for it, barbs splintering at the edge of her tongue while everything else about her body language conveyed someone who simply wanted a nice, civil chat. This may not be the same Marth from within the rings, rather the real Marth, the one from the stories of heroes told of the rings, but he still shares that face, the one that she had stared down as her life faded. "How... unexpected to see you here, darling. The great Hero King, at a simple academy. How noble of you."

               The 'great Hero-King' turns- senses balking with alarm, confusion, then at last realization at the venomous inflection in the woman's voice. Just like his encounter with Alear, the notion of familiarity to which Marth can offer no understanding is the same, and, just like Alear, this stranger must derive her knowledge of him from an echo; the Hero-King belonged to another world. Though he still grapples with acceptance over the newfound knowledge, it is the most reasonable explanation that exists to date in explaining such strange, one-sided encounters. Weighing heavily toward love or hatred while Marth himself possessed no memory of a former meeting.

               But... upon first look there is one point of nostalgia that follows his inspection of the other. Friends, enemies, acquaintances, gods- dragons have taken so many a shape across his life that to identify their kind is a perk of natural progression. That same area of expertise shines an illuminating light upon the woman before him.

               Ears uniquely slanted into fine points, serpentine pupils gouging into the middle of the iris, and even the indiscernible metric of strangeness that an inhuman presence can hold to full, such signs serve unfailingly to signal that she is dragon. Of this there is no mistake. Even if his eyes should fail him then surely it will be the heart that knows just as well. But this dragon... this one defines his very dread, come in the form of a mage dragon; belonged to a tribe flowing with countless villains upon his native continent. To the one that stole from him a mother.

               "You..."

               Surprise gives way to a middling ground, suspended between horror and judgement, a clench of his fingers, and then—

               release.

               "You are new to the academy, I presume? Welcome." All inhibition is cut away by the shears of hospitality. While a smile, too, can be a weapon, the king wields his only in complete sincerity. Whatever the distasteful experiences between this woman and the Hero-King that walked- floated- before, in his eyes their present encounter is a seed that has yet to sprout in any sort of way. "A denizen of distant Elyos is clear in these parts, milady.... your way of speech informs me that you are plenty informed of my whereabouts. The version of me that once resided in your land, anyway."

               The same wise eyes peer back at her, the same blue they may be, and even an identical soul churning behind the difference of skin, bone, and flesh, but it is memories that make a man in the end. Or a ghost. His gaze does not flicker with recognition and in its place is a curious, prodding warmth. "—I am not your Hero-King I am sorry to say. I know little of you, not even a name. But if you will introduce yourself then perhaps here we can start anew."

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #melusinezephyr #chronologically zephia's ask takes place after his meeting with alear who is giving him many Revelations #so i'm going to place marth in this pending sort of acceptance and knowledge about the elyosian emblems #welcome to the academy zephia :) #engage spoilers

[arcstral]

an exploratory kiss,  testing the waters between them — it can hardly be called a kiss at all, pressed hastily against the corner of his mouth, caeda pulling back just as suddenly as she had initiated it. scarlet red blossoms across her face as she looks up timidly at him.

              Engaged for all the short yet meaningful quarter of a year, their romance has traveled far since the day he proposed to her on an ungainly gauntlet of his affections. The life of a lord and lady- a prince and princess- ought to emulate a garden in such a way, sprouting with the sundry flowers of passion, filled with gold-spun light. Just as the nest they build together in Altea grows warmer by the day, so, too, does their love. For them this is just the start. Yet, coupled with that newfound excitement is an ample reserve of novelty as well.

              Their company on its lonesome graces the solitude of her quarters, ticking only with the sound of his breathing. The guards dismissed, the hour deemed their own, their playful flirtations have led to this moment. Face-to-face, knee brushing knee. The next step is writ clearer than the writing on stone. He's thought of kissing her, of course, but never chanced upon the courage, and- as always- Caeda takes it upon herself to be the stork that delivers them onto the right path.

              Sitting across the most plush bedding, still he finds the scantest touch of her lips to be softer. He turns his head away at the contact, knuckles raised to his mouth to obscure his embarrassed expression. The subtle notes of a floral perfume following Caeda's retreat sets his heart aflutter- the one he gifted her a fortnight prior. One part of Marth could leap for joy at the situation—finally, finally!—whereas another could shrink into a burial mound of his own making.

              "U-Um... May I? That is, I mean. I would like to..." The prince's words always seemed to fail him when they were born from the heart and not the mind. He nevertheless turns to face her firmly, resolved to finish the course she has started. The course they have wanted but skirted for so long with a yearlong war to place it on hold. Cupping her face between his hands, he shuts his eyes and brings their lips together- missing the center of her mouth at first, then inching with a smile that she can feel to the proper place.

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #arcaeda #maeda who are so LOVELYYYYYYYY

[arcstral]

( a desperate kiss as if they are convinced they’ll slip through each other’s fingers )

              "What's wrong?" It's a foolish question with an answer Marth already knows. The words of which pass into oblivion, into the charged space between two mouths closed to a dainty sliver, then to nothing at all.

              Sucked into the black hole of another man's fears, he's dragged into a kiss by the cinched belt around his waist. His fingers fist into the tousled hairs at the base of Alear's neck in turn- soothing under most occasions, but hard and comforting in this one. Where the lips lead the rest of the body follows as if tugged by a magnet. A force greater than themselves demanding for the press of their chests and hips together that makes no allowance for space, or for further thought. His brows pinch together in low arches of pleasure. Sometimes, pain.

              Their abandon diffuses over time.

              He swears the name of his god faintly- another divine dragon- into the mouth of the monarch. A cue for passion to cool, for boys to stop their roughhousing, but even more a familiar step to their routine; where one stumbles, the other holds. Kindly waits. Throughout that silence, understanding settles. The mood preceding Marth's long deployments is always the same, a fraught and unspoken tension building in the air- heavy with the weight of the Divine One's anxiety toward abandonment- then sputtering out in release. Today, it had started with Alear hovering by the door. It ended with Marth pressed against it.

              "I'm not going anywhere," he says the words that most need saying, collecting himself. Analyzing Alear in the low light with wise blue eyes. If one looks closely there is unconditional love in that gaze; determination, too. The Hero-King's gentle fragrance returns, overpowering the stench of anxiety that lied pungent beneath desire. It was never singly about desire, after all. "I am aware of your past. The people you've lost. Your fears. But, I won't give them a reason to be founded. I am here before your eyes, Alear. And above all, here to stay."

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #alyration #engage spoilers #i call marth and alear a lot of things #one of them is the shadow s support of engage

[arcstral]

Once more does she step foot on Gronder Field, encompassed by Adrestian territory. This is the second time she finds herself as a member of these crowds, axe in hand amongst a sea of distant prying eyes. Perhaps it is a test of one's strength, stakes held to a minimum compared to a real battlefield. And yet, Edelgard feels a compulsion to continue giving it her all. To do any lesser would be a disservice to her ambitions.

There are many opponents she may face, but she gravitates towards Marth in particular. She's heard of his strength— His demeanor and status as a Hero-King. To be bestowed such a thing is a grand effort, and thus, she desires to know more. Edelgard allows the bottom of her axe to grace the ground, but only slight, as she speaks, "I've caught wind of your immense prowess. I'd be eager to learn how that came to be." Tightening her grip on the axe, she makes her way forward and strikes.

Edelgard attacks Marth w/Killer Axe (Helmsplitter): 1d20+2= 13 -> 15. Crit w/Death Blow. -7. Edelgard's HP: 5/5.

                Long silvery hair, a carriage suggesting immovable self-worth, daubs of purple, and a short young woman on which these things are all proudly worn- it feels to him like gazing into a mirror or stepping right through it. Just one look at her throws Marth into remembrance of the previous year. But, unlike Sara with her cruel joy and her childlike whimsy, the one known as Edelgard comes to him with the severe and unsmiling expression of a leader; a princess who must offer up a fine showing in the name of her house, people, and empire, for victory in not just one woman's stead alone.

                It is easy to see why she stands unflinchingly before him with an axe, why he returns that stance with a bow readied in understanding, a partial reflection of that duty. The crown Edelgard readies herself to wear is one whose weight Marth knows well. But that aside, they call this the Battle of the Eagle and Lion, and by his long-standing lion allegiance, there is some fateful role he honors in that. In proving the white-eagle's first opponent... or first prey.

               The shadow of her axe falls over him, much too quickly to squeeze out a word. His pale knuckles tighten around a bow, raising a slender arch of wood in defense, not really for any actual expectation that it will hold but for plain instinct alone, as the Hero-King is a swordsman first and foremost. And so, even predictably so, the bow gives like a twig, like any sane material that would do the same, snapping rather than bending and daring to contest the weight of so vicious a blow.

               He staggers back as Gronder Field spins on a wheel of colors- black uniforms, green grass, blue-red-yellow banners. Arriving to his senses pulls the waiting princess into view, no longer inclined to continue past a single strike. The shattered debris of her assault sat around him in the dozen pieces of a broken bow and then some, the remainder tossed aside from his hand; with no possibility of subversion, the lack of a weapon spells only certain defeat, then a bashful smile on the Hero-King's part.

               "Your own prowess goes understated by far, Edelgard. I can see you are one who holds nothing back." Such a petite form and long sleeves concealed within them an illusive measure of strength. Were it a true battle with capacity for loss- human casualty- it would be an observation alerted to every ally within his range. He straightens with an admiration yet to dissolve. "Forgive me, that I could not honor your expectations. It seems I still have much to learn. You brought your strengths, clear and polished, to this battle, and here I stood before you with a bow!"

               A shake of the head, and the friendliness remains, but some part of his levity clears; like the soft lichen scraped off a rock face, the pride maintained by one who calls himself king, and of course, a lion, meets her sights beneath the shroud of defeat with unbreakable resilience. "It would be my honor to face you with a sword next time. Until then- this battle is continued by my allies. They will not lose to you."

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #hresvelged #TOABOEL2023 #the comedic timing of edelgard hyping up marth only for him to explode into atomic matter #anyways. edelgard and marth (smile)

[arcstral]

"Sire..." Her voice crumbles softly into silence as she takes the measure of his injuries, a knit of her brow soon enough undone in... not satisfaction-- that it was she who returned to him felt odd no matter the situation, it seems-- but relief, certainly. Another moment passes, and she places the drink near to his hands; the knight searches in that time for something to say, lips parted but still, until:

"...I've brought you a juice box." At last, a faint smile unfurls, a gentleness touching the corners of her eyes. Relief, warmth, affection... the name hardly matters. "I hear they're very good." Only now does her posture ease, hands held not to her chest in hiding, but by her stomach in simple idleness. After all of this, Katarina finds she does feel emboldened, somehow.

"Next year... Next year, I'll make you proud, Sire." There is even a twinkle in her eye, faint though it may be! And though she means it full-heartedly, there is a levity to her tone -- a joke, in some sense, albeit she has not once in her life made a good one. But she tries; she smiles, for him.

                Before the utterance belonging to a single 'sire', violet hair reaches the fringes of his vision first, going on to command its space entirely as he twists upon his seated hip to gaze upon a familiar knight. The circumstances of Katarina's arrival then are made immediately clear- visitation or not, only those who lose their battles find themselves trickling downstream into this particular pond; swimming with the injured, their unfashionable regrets, and those with too much time on their hands. Katarina, following hot on the heels of her lord, has lost.

                Within the fast fall of seconds, his knowing expression greets - acknowledges - parses her all in the same breath. This range of activity lands him somewhere in the nebulous ditch between friendly and fatherly regard, but above all, Marth's voice for her is kind. "—Katarina. You did well."

                Gauging her foremost, his eyes flicker down to the offered drink last. True to her statement, there is a juice box, and there is Katarina, too. Hands wringing at her chest and standing at the base of her lord's cot awaiting his response, this initial image of her reels in two imaginative, humorous impressions; the one of a wagging tail and retrieved disk in mouth at Marth's feet, or another involving a penitent sinner; her libation placed upon an altar in redeeming gesture. But he knows the other is neither begging for one man's favor, nor beseeching his divine forgiveness, and the amusement he wears is decidedly all to his own.

                "...Hm." His laugh is a mystery as Marth gathers the juicebox into his hand and pokes into its orifice with a straw. It is hardly her earnest promise that he pokes fun at alongside, but the fact that Katarina does not know she has already reached its end- his unfurling words, slow and sincere, reveal everything to the mind in due time. "There is no need to look for another year. You have always made me proud, Katarina. Trying one's best, giving one's all... such things matter, too. You needn't bring a lord victory to earn his highest regard, and the same is true for mine." Or a seat at his table for another matter.

                If there is one upside for which two losers can be grateful it is the time they can spend together. His free hand pats the space beside him with a smile, more expressive of invitation than any scrawl of ink upon a letter. "Now, then. I know of a way to pass the time. I'd like to know of your battle—and I insist you do not leave out a single detail."

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #TOABOEL2023 #ephemeralove #katarina my sweet little wallflower if only you KNEW how proud you make him

[arcstral]

This Marth did not know him. Zelkov had made a blunder or two with the living lords he’d met as Emblems. The urge to rush to him, to spill his heart out, had to be paused. He would give context for this encounter. Marth deserved it.

Zelkov bowed slightly, a hand on his chest. “Your Majesty— I know you, some small *part* of you, yet I know we meet as strangers.”

Oh, it was harder than he thought it’d be.

“Even so, I must give you my thanks. Your spirit, a friend to mine. Your words, sweet but far from nothing. Though I am unsure I want to spring exactly what I am thankful for on you on a first meeting… I needed to express my sentiments anyway.”

Lost families, a black hole stuck inside their souls that vengeance could not force closed. No, no he could not dress that wound there in the sunny afternoon of this greeting.

“I am glad to see you again. You are someone worth getting to know *twice.*”

                Another arrival from Elyos, a population with little rarity yet so many unique individuals to make up for it. Marth straightens with the recollection of a freshly minted faculty member- cranes his neck, really, for the other is considerably tall. New names may float on the periphery of knowledge for some; painlessly pushed aside minutiae, much too easily forgotten until they earn their relevance; but not to this king who prides in those around him. Faces and names even never before crossed held value. The potential to evolve into something more just as a stranger might bloom into a friend or an ally on a choice bit of sunlight, a little spritz of water, a kindly exchange just like so.

               "Zelkov, is it? You have a way with words that stirs the heart. That makes a stranger feel that he is worth something." He is not the spirit Zelkov speaks of, the very first words shed from Marth's mouth express this, but such tenderhearted speech could nevertheless honor anyone and humble them in the same stride. "...Though, I suppose in your case stranger is not truly the right word."

               A sheepish quality tinges him on the note. The emotions splayed out to him with the unbolted honesty of an open palm are not new. Similar encounters have lined his week without seeming end. It troubles the heart in some ticklish way- though his ignorance by no means deems him responsible, a compassionate man cannot help but to feel helpless at the things he cannot recall. For these happy, sad, or bitter reunions Marth can offer no recourse except a new path they might walk together. But... for the passionately spoken Zelkov, there is at least one thing more:

               "I cannot speak for the other one- the Hero-King of your land. But hearing your fond admissions, I am certain the feelings within them reached him as well. He must have treasured your friendship just the same." Fingers press into a light perch against his heart. With the sensitivity of one who does not wish to dishonor a memory, the present Hero-King forms his words carefully. He is little known to the fact they leave him with surprising ease, a familiar warmth and gesture of equality.

                "It brings me to say that I wish to know you as he did. But to that perhaps there is one deterrent." A play performed by different actors, even traveling at an oblique, will still conform so long as it follows the same script; falling within bounds of the same fatebound song and dance. Such forces march him onward to the same kind statements, the same destination and smile, with an inexorable nature that even a king cannot undo. "You called me 'Your Majesty', but I will accept no offer nor implication of service. Let us enjoy this time together, Zelkov. As equals. Simply Marth will do."

#◜ ╰ ♕ ◦ › royal mandate ‹ ASKBOX. ◞ #elusivia #zelkov marth c support things :) #zelkov makes me into a big softie hello #engage spoilers