#linhcrdt

[hotheadhero]

f in the chat for caspar von spookliez

spirits don’t exist. this was an apparition… from his imagination. at least, that’s what linhardt thought at first. unfortunately, the said spectre is very much real and very much following him. linhardt tried to ignore it at first, tried to feign ignorance, but the offending spirit triggers his senses in a manner that makes it impossible to ward away. the spectre possesses a magical impression that’s hard to define, a peculiar aura with no clear allegiance– pure, raw mana.  

it’s annoying.

even worse, as linhardt’s miniscule patience thins and his attention finally snaps towards the blasted thing, the heir notices that the apparition has taken the vague form of caspar. that was the last straw. features scrunching, the hevring heir slams his book shut. he directs an irked expression at the dreadful fiend and raises his hand in offensive stance.

“disappear.” he launches a gale of wind. it’s a warning more than anything else, an attempt to make the spectre scatter and drift elsewhere. if the thing was truly relentless… well, then an exorcism would be in order. linhardt’s seen hevring’s prayer troops perform them once or twice. with a bit of refreshing and some old tomes, surely conducting one wouldn’t be too hard to do. 

He’d thought finding Linhardt would be a godsend, even if he was an easy mark compared to the other two mages who'd first come to mind when all of this began. Departing the Black Eagles house hadn’t meant departing his usual haunts as well, and Caspar found the mage-transfer reading in the library as ever. Linhardt didn’t particularly enjoy being bothered while engrossed in a book, he knew, so he’d tried to be patient and wait it out - but minutes passed and the mage hadn’t even advanced one page! Didn’t he know his best friend was in danger here?! 

(Of course not. He wasn’t sure if anyone at all knew what had happened to him. That didn’t make his screaming sense of urgency fade one bit–)

Wait, Linhardt’s moving. Hurriedly he floats after him, too distracted by the fact that he’s glowing and floating aboveground to notice that for once he’s eye level with the mage–

Linhardt stops… You’ve got to be kidding me. He opened the book again?? Heaving a long and frustrated sigh that sounds more like the whine of cold air through a slivered-open glass pane in winter, Caspar resigns himself to waiting agai– But Linhardt’s back is to him now; is he already changing location?

They keep up this strange game of cat and mouse for another couple rounds before Caspar’s own patience wears out. Before he can open his mouth to snap at the mage, he realizes that in chasing him, he’s let his physical image decay. Oh. Linhardt has no reason to pay any heed to a nondescript blob of mana, let alone help it in any way… But Caspar’s no vagrant blob - he’s Linhardt’s best friend, for crying out loud, and Lin's the only one who can help him right now! Maybe if he sees something he recognizes, he'll be more inclined to listen. The boy’s expression tightens as he focuses, gathers up his fuzzily dispersed matter, coalesces it all into a ghostly version of his normal appearance by sheer force of will–

He misses his friend’s peevish face, but there’s no mistaking that tone, nor that gesture. He’s seen the latter countless times before - but to think it would be aimed at him?

“Disappear.”

That’s all the warning he gets before a gust of wind tears into the form he’d so painstakingly assembled for his benefit. The novice ghost cries out as he’s ripped apart; he nearly passes out the metaphorical pain is too much to bear - only desperate determination keeps him from losing himself entirely to the void, yet the toll Linhardt’s “harmless” gust of wind takes on him is quite obvious in how slowly he pulls himself back together. Softly glowing light-motes eventually coalesce back into a(n infuriatingly, to Linhardt) familiar form - a short robin-haired boy, doubled over from the combined strain of being incorporeal and having to rely on forces he'd never even been able to understand before all this happened, yet he's still floating; his feet still hover aboveground; his body is still suffused with that otherworldly glow. So he remains for several seconds more before hurriedly straightening up. He’s a ghost right now; he shouldn’t have any nerves with which to feel pain - yet that simple motion taxes him nonetheless, manifests in scrunched eyebrows over eyes that, were they tangible, might even be threatening to spill over at the sight of his oldest friend glaring, hand poised as if to strike again.

“Linhardt, wait! It’s me, Caspar! Something happened to me while I was sleeping and I just woke up like this without a body - you gotta help me, please!”

It’s difficult if not impossible to explain things when he doesn’t even know what’s going on himself… but what hurts most is the distrust, even outright hostility, he sees in the other’s eyes. 

Linhardt doesn’t believe him. He doesn't even recognize him. Why?!?

#april fools #au: ghost #linhcrdt #// rip caspar he's on his way to an exorcism isn't he #submission #thread: f in the chat

[boundlesshart]

ah, so there's his house leader. linhardt weaves himself between bodies of students to get closer to future alliance leader. he doesn't speak up at first, opting to merely ghost claude around in order to pass time. it isn't until he's noticed that the hevring heir takes out his card and cocks his head to the side, "spare a stamp for a young fawn?" a frown plays at glossed lips, "it's the most you can do, given i've quote-unquote 'betrayed' my house for yours."

“Betrayal?” Claude echoes. Is that how people view house transfers? Yikes. Sure, it’s hard to forget how sad he felt when Leon decided to transfer from his house to the Black Eagles, but calling that a betrayal is a step too far. “Who’s saying anything about a betrayal? It’s not like we’re at war, Linhardt.” Honestly, these house divisions were cute at the start, but now that they are coming up to the end of the school year they’ve become more of a nuisance than anything. Yet another arbitrary division for people to categorize themselves with. 

The new fawn’s card is quickly stamped and signed, as requested. When Claude returns it, however, it’s covered with his own card with its lone signature from Lorenz. “Stamping this is the least you can do for your poor house leader,” he comments innocently, echoing Linhardt. “Tragically it seems you’ll have to do it yourself. The professors are getting better with telling forgeries, if you could believe it.”

#toaball2020 #thank you! #linhcrdt

[vonvestra]

birthday.

word of mouth claimed that it was hubert’s birthday today. normally, linhardt wouldn’t have cared: the personal details of his peers are neither his business nor interest. he’d pass the day without much of a second thought to the ‘occasion’ and truly planned to do so until an idea hit. naturally, after that, the mage decides to approach his ex-housemate.

“hello, hubert.” he greets. wrapped in garishly golden paper, the hevring heir pushes a small parcel against the taller’s chest. “your birthday is today, correct? i’d like to take this opportunity to give you a gift that you desperately need.” inside the paper was a book, appropriately named ‘obsessive bonds: a guide on how to be an independent person’. the younger mage smiles, “consider this an act from friend to friend… happy birthday.”

“Desperately, you say? Hm.” Exasperation at meeting his former classmate so early in the morning comes out in a huff of a laugh. But Hubert takes the gift - he hardly has much choice in the matter, as it’s shoved into his arms - and narrows his eyes at Linhardt’s deceptive smile.

“I’ll consider this a truce,” he counters. They had never been friends.

And later that evening, when the garish yellow Hubert had tried so hard to forget catches his eye from the corner of his room again, he finally opens it.

Then wraps it haphazardly again.

The next morning, one early fisherman might hook a water-logged book.

#linhcrdt #// inb4 byleth finds it #submission

[theofficersacademy]

Linhardt von Hevring, switching to the Golden Deer. Thank you.

To honor the pursuit of their own ideals, or perhaps inspired by the bonds forged with teachers and friends, Linhardt has decided to change affiliations.

Linhardt is now a member of the Golden Deer! The Masterlist has been updated to reflect this change. 

 - Mod Ree

#linhardt von hevring #three houses #fódlan #fe rp #affiliation change #linhcrdt

[minorindech]

through the grapevine

“Oh, but you heard about it right?”

“Who hasn’t yet, it was such a scene!”

“But he went after that Varley girl too...”

“Oh please, that’s an easy target. Have you seen her?”

“Quiet you’ll get cursed!”

It made sense that Bernie was the last to know that anything was going on. It didn’t make it any less upsetting though when she found out.

The gossip was flying around the ball wildly. About the first argument. And then the second. Of course, Bernie herself had been sad to see Linhardt leaving the Black Eagles, especially when she thought they had gotten along fairly well. Sure, she screamed when she saw him like everyone else, but he didn’t yell at her. That meant he was at least a little nice, right?

Not as nice as she thought, apparently.

Bernie knew she was an easy target. Bernie knew most people didn’t think she was good for anything.

Bernie didn’t think her own classmates would actually confirm it for her.

Bernie sniffed, curling into a tighter ball. She’d ducked under a table when she began to hear whispers flying around about herself. She regretted not just making a dash to her room. Her jaw began to hurt like it always did when she was trying not to cry. She buried her face into her knees.

@linhcrdt

#ic #linhcrdt #linhardt support #thread: through the grapevine #toaball2020

[flowerofgoneril]

🚨"honestly? i'm surprised seteth let you walk out in that."

Hilda laughs and does a twirls in her rather low cut gown. "Oh my dear Linhardt, I've spent my whole life sneaking around an over protective big brother. Getting past Seteth is easy compared to dealing with Holst! All I have to do is throw my shawl on if the funsucker starts coming toward me and take it off when it's safe for me to look hot again. My plan is fool proof!"

#linhcrdt #toaball2020

[gallantgautier]

an orange worm? linhardt's never seen the likes of it before! handkerchief covering his hand, the hevring heir swoops down and plucks the said specimen up. it's bigger than the average worm, plump, albeit a bit fuzzy... regardless, it looks like--- "exceptional bait," linhardt muses, head flickering to the side. he applies pressure onto his grasp as his eyes scan 'round the pond's dock, "where did i leave my fishing rod..."

Darkness suddenly envelops him, surrounded by cloth, and Sylvain squirms fruitlessly against it. Let go!

As the cloth falls away from his face at last - now recognising it as a handkerchief, Sylvain is met with the face of the sleepy scholar, and he immediately stops struggling. Perfect! If anyone could help him, it would be him.

Linhardt! Perfect timing! I can’t find the-

Wait, bait? What fo- Fishing rod???

Understanding suddenly dawns on him. Eyes scrunched shut, he flails as Linhardt’s grip on him tightens, furiously whipping his head against the side of his fist, squeaking for all that he’s worth.

Waitwaitwait!! Linhardt! It’s me! 

#there's plenty more fish in the sea #String: Gone Fishin' #Not IC #April Fools! #when Sylvain heard #(or pond in this case) #meeting them close up isn't what he expected #linhcrdt

[regalblades]

7 & 4

Extremely Personal Questions

4. Who is someone you’ve cut out of your life, or wanted to, and why?

“Does it count if someone else handled the cutting out part? If it does, Sonia.” The second he laid eyes on her all of his alarm bells went off at once, but without proof that she was bad news there wasn’t anything he could really do. He does wish he’d gotten the chance to kill her first, though. (He’s secretly proud of Nino for standing up to that woman.)

7. Has someone close to you ever said something that hurt your feelings? If so, what was it, and did they ever make up for it?

Few things get under his skin in a way that matters; the best time to say something that might hurt his feelings would have been when he was a child and had yet to grow into the person we know him as now. Childhood bullies tended to be deterred by his giant of a father, though.

#linhcrdt #«wonders if he’s shared too much (answered ask)» #«douse the light and embrace darkness (ooc)»

[amenomakakoyumi]

“oh, wow, you’re still here.” truthfully, linhardt had no reason to approach his first opponent, but he had noticed the lion from the corner of his eye and decided--- why not? “it should be of your interest that i’ve been taken out of the battlefield. do you want to know how i was defeated?” a smile graces blush lips. “i fell by my own uniform embellishment. it impaled my forearm and i decided not to keep fighting. this battle is pointless, after all.”

There was a hierarchy of people in Takumi's head at the moment, while he lay in bed. There were the people he actively wanted to approach him in his awful stat even if he'd rather not be seen: a hierarchy pretty much reserved for Sakura and Azura. Then there were the people he'd rather not be seen by, but wouldn't disregard their company: this was where people like Felix, Marianne, Charlotte, and the recently added Sharena were. Then there was almost everyone else in the 'do not approach me' section— and then at the way bottom, the people he'd rather die via bleeding out than be seen by: this list comprised entirely of Claude, the female Morgan, and...

"...You," Takumi's voice dripped with an exhaustion, an exhaustion that was the only thing barricading him from going for his bow and finishing what his fusillade should have done. "Why do you have to be the one talking to me?" Takumi gritted his teeth, wishing he could turn his body away without risking reopening his wound.

"I don't care if you also got taken out and I really don't care about your attempts to play up your own incompetency," Takumi refused to believe something as stupid as a uniform embellishment took out this guy. In fact, he was having doubts that the guy didn't train. There was no way someone as bumbling as that kind of person could have beaten him. "At least you're right about one thing; this battle was a waste of damn time," Takumi could think of basically zero positive outcomes to this battle. "But that's not changing one thing; this battle was a fluke and I will defeat you in a proper battle, mark my words." Takumi, unfortunately, did not sound very threatening while he was recovering from a wound caused by a hunk of wood.

#ic #support: linhardt #SORRY I'M A TAD LATE TO THIS #linhcrdt

[abrushwithvictory]

Shiva - Does your character often find themselves thinking about the past, or being weighted down by memories? If so, give a little insight as to what these memories are and why they have this effect on them.

ignatz doesn’t necessarily enjoy focusing on the past -- not only does he find himself rather plain and uninteresting when recalling his childhood, the day raphael’s parents died rings in his mind much too often, especially when he spots the man he used to call his best friend.

it’s one of the memories he’ll focus on the most, and it’s the little things that will stir it up, like leaves rustling in the wind, dead and skittering across cobblestone. he’ll hear raphael speak of how he’s supporting maya by becoming a knight, sending her home whatever gold he can or letters that he’s doing well, or perhaps a gift he’s made for her with help from hilda.

and he can’t just help to remember hearing the news that they had joined the goddess, and the week that followed, and it’s his fault, those were his parents that were supposed to go -- but of course, he hardly wishes for the death of his parents, and is stuck in an endless cycle that does nothing but tear at his heart.

#((thanks for sending!! sorry this was sad oops)) #linhcrdt

[exalteye]

16: a memory that makes them angry

A WINDOW TO THE PAST / TW: TORTURE, VIOLENCE

Some tenth birthday. A bloody hand pressed against the open wound on her neck, the other held tight to Falchion, freshly christened in her reign. Hissing in pain, Lucina gathered her rage–staring down at the broken body of a man she thought she could trust. He’d been by her side for these three long years–only to leave her stranded on Carrion Isle, neck deep in enemy territory.

Stranded. With Grimleal no doubt waiting nearby for her delivery, and an entourage ready to receive her in Chong’sin. She stared blankly at the sword in her hand, removing her hand from her neck to tear a large strip from the hem of her tunic, wrapping it gently. Don’t lose hope. She’d follow her father’s legacy–defeat Grima, restore peace to the land….

The blood loss was beginning to make her dizzy, she was far less alert than usual and the Grimleal were nearly on top of her by the time she recognized their arrival. With a strangled yell, she thrust the holy sword through the witch’s solar plexus, yanking it free to use the momentum to sloppily slash at an approaching mage.

A scream of pain tore from her throat as the Falchion clattered against the packed earth, her arm bubbling with the effects of the Mire spell that had hit her. Lunging for her weapon, Lucina had only just wrapped her right hand around the pommel when her body seized with a terrible energy as lightning coursed through her veins. 

And so she fell, face-down in the dirt–stained in tears and blood, praying that this wasn’t where hope was lost as the young exalt was roughly carted to the Plegian warship and tossed uncerimoniously in the brig, weighed down by iron chains. Lucina found in the three days it took to reach the Plegian ports just how badly magic could hurt.

Her voice had long since run hoarse, her tears gone dry. For all she knew, her sword was left to rust on the foul soil of Carrion Isle while she was forced to trudge blindfolded behind a horse for what felt like an eternity. Lucina could only count the small miracles–they’d properly wrapped the wound on her neck and forced some foul-tasting concotion down her throat that seemed to make some of the pain recede. They clearly wanted her alive–though Lucina had yet to determine if that was a good thing.

And each night, as they traveled further inland, Lucina would whisper her prayers to Naga–and each day as she stumbled along, struggling not to fall face-first, they would remain unanswered. No one was coming to save her. For all they knew she was still on a ship headed to Valm, a journey that wouldn’t have her reach her destination for another two moon cycles.

How long had it even been? The days began to blur together until the vast plains of enemy territory changed to the stifling heat of the desert, the damp stone of a dungeon. All she knew was she was alive, she was breathing—hope would live on within her. Even as she coughed blood onto the floor from another thoron spell, or the strange liquids they forced down her throat–even as her skin boiled and bubbled from the fire–she refused to bow, to lose hope. They would never break her. Not as they cursed her, stabbed her, shackled her in a room with monsters wearing the faces of the people she loved. 

The months wore on, Lucina beginning to wither away with them. Her skin now ghostly pale, her scalp burned and hair shorn, nearly every inch of her seemed to always ache–and the Grimleal were never merciful enough to heal her more than what was needed to keep her alive, painfully scraping away infection from her raw wrists and ankles, dousing her in a weak vulnerary. In her worst moments, she’d pray for death. To see her father again–and not in the hallucinations that plagued her (though she didn’t know if it was insanity creeping in or one of the drugs forced down her throat on the daily). 

Hell was never ending. The four walls of her cage felt like all she’d ever known–the only thing she’d ever see again. Her tears had long since dried, there was nothing left to spare on them. Never lose hope. But it was so tempting. To submit to her body, to the ever-growing voice in her head that no one was coming. For all she knew, the war had been lost five times over–and her friends were nothing more than the ghosts she saw in her head. 

At least they’d be spared that way, kept from pain and harm–safe in the arms of Naga. That was a kind of hope, wasn’t it? But Lucina could feel her heart stutter. It was merely resignation. And how she wished to join the ranks of the dead, to be free from the endless pain and torture that left her at her breaking point. They were going to win. Her battered body would be paraded down the streets of Ylisstol (long live the exalt!), extinguishing the last of the hope from this world.

Never lose hope. Why? Who had said that? What was the point? Blue eyes were glazed as she stared into the middle distance, leaning into a hand that wasn’t there. Father. That’s right–her father had told her that. Her father had believed the best in her, and she betrayed him by wishing to be by his side again. Her pain….her pain was nothing compared to that of her people, the suffering inflicted upon them all by the forces of sheer evil.

For the first time in ages, a spark of emotion grew bright in Lucina’s chest–sheer rage at what they’d reduced her to, at what she’d been subjected to. Every burning wound fueled her as she found herself again, found the hope she had nearly lost grasp of. 

How many moons had passed? Jolted from a daze by shouting–the gut-wrenching sound of metal on metal, screams that reached even her cell buried deep within the earth, hope bubbled up in her throat, a hoarse cry of relief. Lucina wondered when she’d forgotten she was capable of more than screams. But it wasn’t her saviors who came bursting into the molding dungeon, but mages with panic on their faces–and a vial of noxious liquid ready to be forced down her throat.

She fought back. Strength had long since left her, leaving her hardly more than bones wrapped in skin–but Lucina refused to let it end here, not when freedom was so close. Even as the first shock of the poison against her face made her want to scream, to fall and writhe in pain as it dripped down her neck, leaving bright red skin in its track; even as two Grimleal pinned her to the ground, forcing her mouth wide–even as a tear slipped from her eye for the first time in a year.

Lucina was sure she must have died, her insides boiled away from whatever was held within the vial. But surely death wouldn’t be so painful. Her body refused to move as she wanted it to and her eyes snapped open in panic–only to be greeted by the long-forgotten sight of canvas stretching above her. A tent. A medical tent.

She was free.

It was finally over.

Covered in bandages though she was, Lucina laughed–a sound she never thought she’d make again. “Thank you,” she whispered, hoarse and broken. Her prayers had been answered, at long last.

#1200+ words of pure pain #enjoy #man if only i could always write this much #also like this itself doesn't contain much anger #but when luci thinks about it /now/ #it makes her angry #tw: torture #linhcrdt #* answered

[hotheadhero]

linhardt was aware that the biggest con of leaving the black eagles was being in the same class as caspar-- but it wasn't as if their friendship was confined by house alliance. "here." he places a stack of papers before caspar, a simplified study guide for the remaining lessons of their magic theory and tactics classes. "the deer use different textbooks from the eagles, so i compiled the remaining essentials for you, caspar. i won't be awake for tutoring."

As with any other day when bad news dropped, it began like any other. As one who favored routine (when he wasn’t punching fools, at least), Caspar had finished his afternoon classes and was predictably sitting at the same bench by the fishing pond, making some attempt to comprehend these esoteric texts, when Linhardt came by and most unceremoniously dumped a whole new stack of papers onto him. (Never mind that dumped might perhaps be more aptly used to describe what the mage would tell him in a few moments than what he did with the papers themselves, which had more accurately been neatly placed beside his hip.) “Here,” Linhardt said; “The Deer use different textbooks from the Eagles, so I compiled the remaining essentials for you, Caspar. I won’t be awake for tutoring.”

“Huh? Uh, thanks, Linhardt…” It was unlike him to be so proactive in this sort of thing - usually Caspar had to knock on his door first (or raid the mage’s dorm himself). His distracted robin gaze shifts between his old papers and these new ones before something else Linhardt said finally catches up to him.

“Hold up; you’re joining the Golden Deer?!?” He’s too surprised and aghast to keep it out of his voice, nor out of the way he springs abruptly to his feet. “I thought you were going to stick with me in the Eagles ‘til we graduate! What made you change your mind all of a sudden??”

As soon as the words left his mouth, others he’d said not long ago came back to mind. You could probably stand to learn something about magic from Sakura. 

“Wait a minute… Did you transfer because of something I said?” Now the vexation sounds something more like distress. Had it been his fault Lin had decided to transfer? The thought saps the energy from him as his upraised fists (not poised to hit the mage, never so poised) loosen and fall limply to his sides and he averts his gaze. “I didn’t mean for you to take it like that…” The words are quiet enough to almost have been uttered to himself. Now who would sit next to him in class like a sleeping cat, keeping him unconscious company through many a long and boring lecture?

Caspar remains silent for several moments longer before the breath he’s holding (perhaps that they both are holding) comes out in a dragging sigh. “Well… If this is to help your studies, far be it from me to stop you,” he admits, as if the words need to be pried from unwilling lips. “And besides, it’s not as if you’re going to go live in Leicester now, right? There’s still a place for you in Hevring and Bergliez, and it’s not like we won’t have time between classes to hang out again… right?”

Goddess, he’s going to miss having Linhardt in his class. And now he needs to find a new magic tutor.

#answered #linhcrdt #// structured to stand alone #// but could be replied to anyway #// woe betide them if this were in-game XDD

[boundlesshart]

"hello, claude." for once, linhardt actively approaches the leader of the golden deer. sitting across from him in the library, the former eagle continues: "from tomorrow onwards, i am going to be a deer... that being said, i require two hours of nap time during class, complete control of what i do on my freetime-- oh, and you still owe me a thorough investigation of your crest."

Claude slams his journal shut as soon as Linhardt takes a seat across from him (afterwards wincing internally–that ink is still wet). His eyes are already wide from shock, but the other student’s message make them even wider. “What? You’re joining us?” How long has it been since the class rosters were shaken up like this? An easy grin finds its way to Claude’s lips, he can’t help but laugh. “Huh! I would have thought the idea of changing your schedule would have scared you off from joining us. Glad it didn’t.”

Linhardt’s demands don’t surprise Claude in the slightest, though he can’t help but snort at how Hilda it all is. “’Complete control of what I do in my freetime’? What, does Edelgard yap at you in between breaks? Or does Hubert hide under your bed and time your naps…” He laughs to himself at the mental images, waving his hand. “Come on, who do you think I am? Do what you want. Though you ought to know that as a House Leader, it behooves me to check in on my fellow deer when they are slacking in class or being a general nuisance. You can ask Hilda all about it. So while we’re making negotiations, let’s make a mutual agreement to not make more work for the both of us. Meaning you better keep up your grades… and start learning what personal space is.”

At the mention of Claude’s crest, his right hand briefly touches his left elbow. “As for my crest…. well, can you start today? You study white magic, don’t you?” Claude lifts his left arm with stiff movements, hardly bending at the elbow. His hand carefully rolls back his sleeve to his upper arm to reveal bandages wrapped around his elbow. When he unravels them, they expose a large, angry red and purple bruise blooming just above his elbow. “My bowstring slapped me, and my crest didn’t activate.” The distinct bitterness in his tone is soon wiped away when he pushes his bad arm towards Linhardt, whining, “Manuela treated it naturally, but it still hurts like a bitch. Can’t you abracadabra this away or something?”

#sorry im late! thank you! #pwease help him out linhardt pensive emoji......... #linhcrdt

[vonvestra]

For Honor [Hubert & Linhardt]

for @linhcrdt | continued from here

Perhaps it had been too generous to assume that Linhardt would recognize what was expected from him without Hubert needing to say it. Again. For all of his intelligence, instructions seem to go in one ear and out the other with Linhardt, and if Linhardt is vexed by the constant hounding, Hubert is equally frustrated by the necessity to repeat himself. This attempt is more passive aggressive than his usual methods, but he's begun to run out of options. Something has to stick. They'll just continue wasting each other's time otherwise.

So Hubert stands near the doorway, arms folded, staring. He knows his presence has an effect - he has seen the way Linhardt's posture has changed to keep him out of sight. For some time he manages to ignore him, but as Hubert has a schedule that is relatively open this afternoon, he can afford to wait. Eventually, that patience pays off.

“Must you and Edelgard treat the class like some sort of jailhouse?”

Hubert snorts.

"Were you to meet Enbarr's guards, you would realize how merciful Lady Edelgard and I are by comparison."

He's outlasted Linhardt's tolerance, and now he can act. The dismissive wave does not deter him, but rather draws him to his desk. The book is snapped out of his grasp and Hubert tucks it behind his back as his hands come to rest. Smirk sits at odds with the cold contempt in his eyes, earlier glare returned now down the length of his nose, and he allows Linhardt a beat to react. Would this at last stir him from his indolence, Hubert wonders. Would he attack? Fight back? He is no stranger to playing the role of the bully - his domineering posture says as much.

"If you have time to read, you have time to train," he insists sharply. "The others are gathered in the training hall to practice for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. You, of all of our classmates, should be preparing yourself there."

#linhcrdt #thread : for honor #mission season: reconnaissance #// what a perfect time to combine this with upcoming BOEL #// this can be a short thread if you'd like

[wolfhednn]

10 & 24 mun interview questions !!

INTERVIEW THE WRITER ( VOICE ) | @linhcrdt

10. talk about your writing & 24. share a funny story

i like how these are just getting long now smh me

#thank you for sending!! #once again i rambled god i need a timer or some shit on these #linhcrdt #「 ✘ 」 day breaks without war » ooc .

[minorindech]

@linhcrdt | conitnuation from here

Bernadetta squeaked with terror as his eyes raised to meet hers. “Oh no...” He wanted something? What could he possibly want that Bernie had? Bernie didn’t have anything of interest to someone like Linhardt, as far as she knew! Bernie didn’t even know Linhardt had interests beyond- uh oh...

“I-I can’t! I can’t let you chop my body into bits so you can study my crest! I like not being in tiny little bits! An-and my father would get so upset if  you took my Crest! It’s the only good thing I have!”

He just kept staring though. Was he expecting something? Bernie didn’t know what she was supposed to do...it’s not like she could just reach inside and pull out her Crest. She lip trembled a touch as she tried to prepare herself emotionally for the toll she would have to pay. Small price to pay for a stamp to leave the ball, she supposed...

#((Lin pls)) #ic #linhardt support #linhcrdt #toaball2020 #thread: spare crest maam