They say Emperor Edelgard is the most charismatic leader this land has ever seen. Perhaps they did do it willingly. We have no idea what it is she's told them about us.
[ Words have power. Nobody believes that more sincerely than Claude -- and while Claude has a gifted tongue and can dance around negotiations and sidle his way through politics like nobody's business, Edelgard is gifted with a different oratory skill than his own. She's powerful, commanding, incredibly persuasive, speaking only as someone who believes so whole-heartedly in her goal that one would think those who follow her see her as having the same divine right that she scoffs at.
He's seen how Fodlani and Almyrans have gone at each other's throats for generations, having heard only bitter tales of cowardice and brutality. What someone like Edelgard could have told her men... he shudders. Or perhaps he's deluding himself. Perhaps he wishes to kill a foe who had a choice in the matter over yet another victim of a pointless war. ]
They've been fighting with these beasts for so long... there's no way they're not aware of the consequences. If they're given a choice in the matter.
[ He inhales sharply from his nose. ]
Focus on the beasts! [ He calls out, suddenly imperious. ] Their hides are too thick to be penetrated by your weapons -- focus only on their haunches until you draw blood!
[ He gazes upon them, waiting for anyone to turn tail and run. He wouldn't blame them. But to his pride, to his horror, his men stay staunchly committed to their efforts. ]
Attack!
[ What comes next happens in a flurry; the beasts are so mindless that they're apt to turn on their own if one of the enemy soldiers find themselves underfoot, with Claude's men all but ignoring the footsoldiers in favour of the beasts. Up at the very front, high above everyone else, is Claude. He darts to and fro, dodging arrows and magic with a deftness he rarely displays, raining arrows upon one of the beasts in a way quite unlike any archery Ethlyn would be used to, focused more on unloosing as many arrows at a time as possible than strictly aiming for accuracy. Even from above, he makes eye contact with Ethlyn in mid-battle, searching her face for answers: how fare you down below?
Claude does his best work from the sky. As does the rest of his wyvern battalion. But... still. Sometimes it feels like cowardice not to be at risk of being snapped at by those massive jaws like the rest of the army. ]
[It's astonishing to see the way Claude fights from dragonback, inasmuch as Ethlyn can even spare the time to look up at him. All that she has learned has painted the archer as the bane of the flier--whether on the back of a dragon or a pegasus, a man with a bow and arrow spells doom. It's just like Claude to throw that expectation into reverse.
The hail of missiles from above helps to keep the beasts disoriented--with attacks coming from literally all directions, they're forced on the defense, and an imperfect defense at that. But that doesn't mean that the men on the ground are in the clear--far from it. One strike from the flailing tail or undirected swipe of a claw can send fully-armored soldiers flying... and they do.
Such injuries claim all of Ethlyn's attention and skill. When she makes eye contact with Claude, she gives him a nod... and in her own eyes is a plea to be careful up there. Wyvern riders are powerful, feared for their ability to rend from the skies while being in a place of relative safety, but... that safety is very much relative.]
Perhaps quick isn't the right word -- but fights always take less time than Claude expects them to, somehow, the swiftness and immediacy of terrible violence something that is generally performed quickly instead of a prolonged affair. When everyone is shooting to kill, kill they do, and it only takes a single strike of a pike or the sailing of a well-placed arrow for their enemies to fall. It is a brutal, bloody affair, one in which Claude himself showers death grimly upon their foes as swiftly as Ethlyn strikes as certainly as she's healing - a glance down at her makes the thought cross his mind: she should be healing, not hurting, but then he shakes it off, confused as to why he'd think such a thing about a master swordsman such as Ethlyn - but in the end, the field is littered with the corpses of their foes and countrymen alike, and it is time to lick their wounds.
Ethlyn is whisked off, for a healer's job is never done once a battle is, and Claude sets to work as well. He checks in on Ethlyn, of course, gripping her shoulder and leaning against her for a moment to quietly inquire if she's altogether well, and so his closest compatriots (Ethlyn will see women with pink and blue hair respectively, as well as a tall man with long purple hair) gather there as well. She will hear scraps of conversation from them, murmured but not secret, a shadow of grief passing over their faces during snatches of knew her at school, and he'd always been kind. They look weary, sad despite their victory, but then realize where they are and brighten up enough to visit some of the patients, complimenting them on their performance and their bravery before wandering off, murmuring about barrels and provisions.
Time passes in a strange, dreamlike morass when they find themselves with the army, diminished in size and morale, with Claude striding before them, not a trace of grief in his expression, merely a victorious grin with one fist held aloft, full of effusive praise for the soldiers, how much they had earned their victory, how proud they should be, how they had done what they could to protect their brothers-in-arms, their countrymen, their peace. ]
...and so what better way to celebrate than a feast? Eat, drink, dance! You've all earned it!
[ It's a welcome thing, some food and ale after a hard battle. Even the more reticent of the soldiers manage to loosen up in Claude's company, an arm slung around a shoulder, a fretful healer pushed to eat, a well-placed compliment to a young soldier who had by and large quailed and trembled throughout his entire first battle. He is loud, bombastic, gregarious, endlessly proud --
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expiationlogs2025-01-13 12:39 pm
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[ Words have power. Nobody believes that more sincerely than Claude -- and while Claude has a gifted tongue and can dance around negotiations and sidle his way through politics like nobody's business, Edelgard is gifted with a different oratory skill than his own. She's powerful, commanding, incredibly persuasive, speaking only as someone who believes so whole-heartedly in her goal that one would think those who follow her see her as having the same divine right that she scoffs at.
He's seen how Fodlani and Almyrans have gone at each other's throats for generations, having heard only bitter tales of cowardice and brutality. What someone like Edelgard could have told her men... he shudders. Or perhaps he's deluding himself. Perhaps he wishes to kill a foe who had a choice in the matter over yet another victim of a pointless war. ]
They've been fighting with these beasts for so long... there's no way they're not aware of the consequences. If they're given a choice in the matter.
[ He inhales sharply from his nose. ]
Focus on the beasts! [ He calls out, suddenly imperious. ] Their hides are too thick to be penetrated by your weapons -- focus only on their haunches until you draw blood!
[ He gazes upon them, waiting for anyone to turn tail and run. He wouldn't blame them. But to his pride, to his horror, his men stay staunchly committed to their efforts. ]
Attack!
[ What comes next happens in a flurry; the beasts are so mindless that they're apt to turn on their own if one of the enemy soldiers find themselves underfoot, with Claude's men all but ignoring the footsoldiers in favour of the beasts. Up at the very front, high above everyone else, is Claude. He darts to and fro, dodging arrows and magic with a deftness he rarely displays, raining arrows upon one of the beasts in a way quite unlike any archery Ethlyn would be used to, focused more on unloosing as many arrows at a time as possible than strictly aiming for accuracy. Even from above, he makes eye contact with Ethlyn in mid-battle, searching her face for answers: how fare you down below?
Claude does his best work from the sky. As does the rest of his wyvern battalion. But... still. Sometimes it feels like cowardice not to be at risk of being snapped at by those massive jaws like the rest of the army. ]
no subject
The hail of missiles from above helps to keep the beasts disoriented--with attacks coming from literally all directions, they're forced on the defense, and an imperfect defense at that. But that doesn't mean that the men on the ground are in the clear--far from it. One strike from the flailing tail or undirected swipe of a claw can send fully-armored soldiers flying... and they do.
Such injuries claim all of Ethlyn's attention and skill. When she makes eye contact with Claude, she gives him a nod... and in her own eyes is a plea to be careful up there. Wyvern riders are powerful, feared for their ability to rend from the skies while being in a place of relative safety, but... that safety is very much relative.]
no subject
Perhaps quick isn't the right word -- but fights always take less time than Claude expects them to, somehow, the swiftness and immediacy of terrible violence something that is generally performed quickly instead of a prolonged affair. When everyone is shooting to kill, kill they do, and it only takes a single strike of a pike or the sailing of a well-placed arrow for their enemies to fall. It is a brutal, bloody affair, one in which Claude himself showers death grimly upon their foes as swiftly as Ethlyn strikes as certainly as she's healing - a glance down at her makes the thought cross his mind: she should be healing, not hurting, but then he shakes it off, confused as to why he'd think such a thing about a master swordsman such as Ethlyn - but in the end, the field is littered with the corpses of their foes and countrymen alike, and it is time to lick their wounds.
Ethlyn is whisked off, for a healer's job is never done once a battle is, and Claude sets to work as well. He checks in on Ethlyn, of course, gripping her shoulder and leaning against her for a moment to quietly inquire if she's altogether well, and so his closest compatriots (Ethlyn will see women with pink and blue hair respectively, as well as a tall man with long purple hair) gather there as well. She will hear scraps of conversation from them, murmured but not secret, a shadow of grief passing over their faces during snatches of knew her at school, and he'd always been kind. They look weary, sad despite their victory, but then realize where they are and brighten up enough to visit some of the patients, complimenting them on their performance and their bravery before wandering off, murmuring about barrels and provisions.
Time passes in a strange, dreamlike morass when they find themselves with the army, diminished in size and morale, with Claude striding before them, not a trace of grief in his expression, merely a victorious grin with one fist held aloft, full of effusive praise for the soldiers, how much they had earned their victory, how proud they should be, how they had done what they could to protect their brothers-in-arms, their countrymen, their peace. ]
...and so what better way to celebrate than a feast? Eat, drink, dance! You've all earned it!
[ It's a welcome thing, some food and ale after a hard battle. Even the more reticent of the soldiers manage to loosen up in Claude's company, an arm slung around a shoulder, a fretful healer pushed to eat, a well-placed compliment to a young soldier who had by and large quailed and trembled throughout his entire first battle. He is loud, bombastic, gregarious, endlessly proud --
And then he slips out. ]