Fire Emblem Contest

Challenge 025 Submissions Closed

2013-08-19T03:34:30Z

Submissions for the language challenge are closed.

Mod announcement forthcoming.

[Challenge 025] Thread

2013-08-17T23:54:59Z

Title: Thread
Game: FE8
Word Count: 4,125
Characters/Pairing: Tana, OC, mentions of Seth/Eirika
Comments: Also on ffnet here

Thread

It was Tana who found her, the morning after a storm.

The dawn light splashed over Tana’s back and turned the wings of her pegasus to filaments of gold, but ahead, the sea was a rolling blue-back beast beneath the violet sky. When she peered down, she found the beach strewn with debris–broken wood planks, a mess of torn and muddied fabric, several barrels, bobbing near the shore. When she landed, her pegasus’s hooves sinking into the wet sand, she found something else.

A figure, curled up against a rocky outcropping.

Tana hesitated a moment, torn between pressing on and going back for help, but a second look decided her. "Hello? Are you all right?" she said as she closed the distance and knelt by her side–for she could see now that it was a young woman. Olive skin showed through the remains of her once fine silk dress. A tangled mane of black hair was wrapped around her face and neck like a fishing net. Tana reached out to push it back and saw a face streaked with brine and blood. Her skin was cold but she shuddered at Tana’s touch. Alive. Thank the gods!

The girl’s eyes sprang open and she stared wild-eyed at Tana.

"Are you hurt?" Tana asked. "Can you stand?"

A babble of words, rapid and incomprehensible to Tana, tumbled from the girl’s lips like notes from a untuned lyre.

"Calm down," Tana said. "I don’t understand."

More words, gushing forth, but all strange to Tana’s ears. And then sobs, and Tana understood those well enough.

Tana looked the girl up and down and saw blood oozing down her leg. No, she could not walk, and she would need a healer. The morning was chill, though, and Tana could not leave the sodden girl on the beach. Glancing over her shoulder, she clicked her tongue to summon Achaeus. Her pegasus clopped towards them, eliciting a screech from the girl. "It’s all right," Tana said softly. "He won’t hurt you."

Achaeus approached and Tana patted his nose to show that he was tame. "Down, boy," she said, and gave a gentle tug on his bridle. Achaeus bent his knees and eased his belly down onto the sand. He had done this many times during the war when they had taken injured comrades from the battlefield. The girl’s eyes were fixed on the pegasus as if expecting him to try to eat her alive. It was as if she had never seen one, Tana thought.

The girl flinched when Tana reached out to her. "Come with me," Tana said gently. "I’ll bring you to a healer."

The girl spoke again, a rapid stream of words, but Tana could no more understand her than the grunts and screeches of a wyvern. A breeze gusted past and the girl shivered.

Tana unfastened the cloak from around her shoulders and put it over the girl like a blanket. The girl looked down at the thick, woolen cloak, its edges embroidered with silver thread. Her fingers reached out to trace the winding scrollwork. When she looked up, she seemed calmer and Tana was able to ease her into Achaeus’s saddle. She didn’t dare fly so she walked the pegasus back to the castle with the girl on his back, pulling the cloak tightly around herself.

#</center>

A spray of sunlight through the castle window flashed off the tiny gold thread stitches on the fabric clutched between Amy’s fingers. Tana halted in the doorway to watch in wonder as the girl’s fingers deftly drew her needle through the satin. Several other young ladies worked in the room, seated at square frames, or on chairs with small, circular frames on their laps, but not Amy of the Sea, as they had taken to calling the girl Tana had found. She embroidered without a frame, with stitches unknown to the Frelian ladies.

Amy smiled as Tana approached. "Preencess," she said by way of greeting, the word still tinged with that foreign accent none in Frelia recognised.

"Hello, Amy. How are you?" She spoke slowly, deliberately.

"Whell."

"Me too," Tana said and smiled brightly. "I’m going to the seaside today. Would you like to come?" Amy stared at her blankly. Tana pointed to the window. "Come?"

Amy nodded. "Yes. I come." She set down her embroidery and followed Tana.

Even after all these weeks, that was as much as their exchanges amounted to, though Tana came to see her every day and tried to teach her words and phrases. With no one to translate for them, it was slow going, and surely she must be lonely with no one to speak to. The first time had come down to Tana pointing to herself and saying her name until Amy had pressed her fingers to her chest and spoken her own name. Her fine clothes and gentle manners marked her as nobility, and Tana’s father had been happy to take her in–though it was true her manners were sometimes peculiar. Upon first being presented to the king, rather than curtsey, she had knelt on the floor and bowed her head.

Syrene and a few of the other pegasus knights tagged along as escorts. Amy had gotten used to the pegasi, but still clutched Tana’s waist in a death grip when they were flying, even on the short ride between the castle and the seaside. They ate a simple lunch of bread, cheese, and berries, and lounged for a while along the shore.

"I had a letter from Eirika. She plans to visit soon," Tana said. Though she knew Amy understood only a handful of words, Tana did her best to fill the silences with chatter. Save when she was intent on her embroidery, Amy always looked melancholy and Tana didn’t know what else she could do to cheer her. "Eirika is the princess of Renais. Her brother Ephraim is the king."

Amy nodded. Princess, brother, and king were all words she’d learned in references to Tana’s family. But she turned again to look back out at the waves lapping the shore, her gaze distant. Her fingers plucked at her dress as if wishing to be busy with needlework. As soon as she’d been well, she’d managed to mime sowing and ask for needle and thread. Her skill had been immediately obvious. Needlework was a popular pastime for noblewomen, but Amy’s abilities surpassed the hobbyists and more than matched the castle seamstresses. She possessed techniques unknown in Frelia, and soon the other ladies had been gathering around to watch her work her stitches.

When she was working, she was absorbed, intent. Now, out here with the sunshine burnishing her olive skin and the breeze whipping her dark hair around her shoulders, she looked like a rag doll that had lost its stuffing.

Tana touched her shoulder to draw her attention from the rolling waves. "Why do you watch the sea?"

For a long moment Amy said nothing and Tana thought she’d not understood, but finally she finally she sighed and spoke a single word. "Joffre."

Tana shook her head.

Amy, put her hand over her heart and said her name. Then she placed a hand on Tana’s shoulder. "Tana." And then she reached as if to place her hand on the shoulder of one who was invisible. "Joffre," she said.

"Ohhh," Tana said, understanding. "Geoffrey. Of course. Was he..." She looked out to the sea. "Geoffrey was with you... on the sea?"

Amy nodded. "Yes. With Joffre."

***

When Princess Tahna touched her shoulder, Aimée turned to glance at her. She understood the words "why" and "sea" and had a notion that the words in between meant "to look at"– or something of that sort. After weeks, she had still only picked up simple words. So much of what these people said was a jumble to her. Even when she knew a verb, she could not follow its sinuous path as it twisted and turned from one tense to another; it was like trying to hold on to an eel.

"Joffre," she replied, and then had to explain that it was a name.

She could, perhaps, find a map and then point out her homeland, one of the many islands that stretched far out into the sea beyond Jehanna’s southern coast. They might find someone who spoke her language, perhaps among the sea captains or the merchants, but then they might learn who she was and try to return her. She had not told Tahna that she, too, was a king’s daughter.

At least her embroidery allowed her to repay their kindness, and the work took her thoughts away from her sorrows, away from the sea and what it had stolen.

#</center>

A whinny, high and long, distracted Aimée for a moment from her work. She glanced through the window and caught a flash of white feathers slicing the air. One of Frelia’s flying soldiers. She had wondered at first how a princess like Tahna could have callouses on her palms, but she had seen the princess training on her mount, spear in hand, and understood.

She turned her attention back to the work in her hands and her pupils, gathered in a circle around her. It was difficult sometimes not to be able to speak to them, but in any case, embroidery was learned by doing. She was trying to teach them paned work, the practice of combining fabrics with varied textures for greater effect. The touch of thread and silk beneath her thumb was as soothing to her as lullaby.

When heavy footfalls echoed down the hall, Aimée bit her lip, hoping it was not the prince. Tahna’s brother’s Prince Inais was always so dour and humourless, and he watched her as if he believed her a spy.

But no, not Inais. Instead, the footfalls were those of the red-headed man who followed behind Tahna and the young lady with her. Everyone in the room set down their needlework to curtsey to the princess and her guests, and Aimée was no exception, though she snuck a glance at them as she did. A girl who seemed Tahna’s age or a little older. Her long hair fell around her shoulders and her smile was like summer sunshine. The man with them puzzled Aimée. He stood very straight and carried a sword at his hip. His clothes were finely made, but plain.

Tahna made introductions from which Aimée was able to decipher that the girl was Princess Arika, the friend Tahna had said would visit, and that the man was Set, though his title of "General," confused her.

She remained confused even as she joined them for a stroll in the castle gardens. At first she thought that he might be some sort of honour guard, but rather than be alert for danger, he had eyes only for Princess Arika, who took his arm as they walked and smiled up at him. In the dining hall, he was seated next to her at the long banquet table, and Prince Inais scowled at them at intervals.

Later that evening when Tahna came to see her, she did her best to ask about it. She scrunched up her face in an exaggerated imitation of the prince. "Inais not happy?" she said.

Tahna laughed. Aimée didn’t quite understand Tahna’s next sentence, or the one the followed–something about Prince Inais, Princess Arika, and General Set. She must have realized this for she stopped and began again. "Eirika and Seth," she said. Aimée nodded. "They are to be married."

Aimée followed as far as "they are", and then the eel of a sentence squirmed out of her grasp. "Mari-ed?" she repeated the foreign word.

For a moment Tahna paused and seemed to consider. Then she held up her right hand. "Father," she said. And then her left hand. "Mother." And then she brought her hands together, interlacing her fingers. "Married."

And then Aimée understood. Princess Arika was to wed General Set. She tilted her head to one side. "Princess Arika and... Prince Set?"

"No," Tahna replied, shaking her head. "Not a prince. A knight."

"Nayt?"

Tahna appeared to struggle for a moment. "Like Syrene."

Aimée knew Sarine of course, Tahna’s chief escort whenever they left the castle. She was not a princess, only a soldier...

It was not clear to Aimée whether they were married or would be married, or intended to be married–what was clear to her was that she was in a land where a princess could marry a vassal, a land very different from her own.

#</center>

After that, Aimée began embroidering in earnest. She tried to learn the words, one by one, their twists and turns, their meanderings through number and tense, but what she remembered most were the names of the fabric and thread she needed, the colours she required. Silk. Satin. Silver. Gold. Azure and crimson. Ochre and umber.

She rose early to get the first of the morning light and worked until her nimble fingers grew sore. She worked week after week and was always careful to cover her work when Tahna came to visit so that she might not see the piece until it was finished.

***

"She seems melancholy, Syrene," Tana said as they walked the castle corridors. "I thought that if I told her she could come to Renais with me for the wedding it would cheer her, but..." The lines around Amy’s eyes were deeper, her cheekbones, sharper: she kept forgetting to eat. Tana rubbed her arms. While the stone halls were comfortably cool in summer, now, as autumn approached, they became chill and draughty. "She seems further away than ever. I just–I don’t know what else to do."

Syrene patted Tana’s shoulder. "You’ve been very kind, Princess, and you’re doing all you can."

"If only she could tell me what’s the matter."

"Sometimes," Syrene said, giving Tana a sideways glance, "speaking an old wound is much the same as reliving it."

And Tana bowed her head because she knew it to be true. The war had left them all with wounds, and most found greater solace in silence than speech.

#</center>

Tana found Amy still at her embroidery, even though the afternoon brightness had faded, leaving the space in a cave-like gloom. The other women had retired for the evening, leaving Amy to her own devices. Bent over her work, squinting at the stitches in the dim light, she didn’t even notice Tana’s approach. She started when Tana called her name.

"I’m sorry," Tana said. "I didn’t meant to startle you." Amy shook her head. "I just came to see whether you were ready for the trip." They would be leaving for Renais in the morning and spend several weeks there at Eirika’s invitation.

"Ready," she murmured, but her eyes had turned to the length of fabric draped over her lap. Her eyes were red-rimmed as if she’d been crying.

Tana reached for her hands. "Oh! Your fingers–they’re swollen," she whispered, rubbing her thumbs over the back of Amy’s hands. "You need to rest."

Amy shook her head again. "Needed finishing before Renais."

Tana squeezed her hands. "No, no need," she said as clearly as she could. "You’re a guest, not a seamstress. No one expects you to finish anything on a schedule."

Shaking her head, Amy tugged her hands out of Tana’s grasp and reached for the fabric. She rose. "Come see."

A table rested on the far side of the room near one of the windows. As Tana approached, Amy spread the cloth out on the table. Tana gasped.

She could see now that the fabric was a silk cloak decorated by a series of richly embroidered panels surrounded by gold scrollwork. Two square panels lay side by side at the top and bottom of the cloak, with a longer panel in the centre. As she took in the images on the five panels, she realized that they told a story. Tana looked from Amy to the cloak, at a loss for words.

In the first panel a man and a woman stood apart, facing opposite directions. The woman had dark hair and wore a flowing gown, while the man appeared to be a soldier, sword in hand. In the next panel the two figures were facing one another, hands clasped. Standing above them, a man wearing a crown–a king– pointed accusingly at them.

In the central panel, the two figures appeared together once more, standing now on the deck of a ship. Angry clouds loomed over it and a bolt of lightning zig-zagged down to strike the boat.

The woman appeared again in the bottom left panel, alone by the sea, crouched on the ground. But then in the final panel a second woman was standing next to her, taking her hand.

A faint smile graced Amy’s features. She pointed to the figure of the woman in the first panel. "Aimée," she said. And then she pointed to the man. "Joffre."

Hesitating for a moment, Tana finally pointed to the king. "And this?"

"King Yves. Father."

Tana’s mouth opened and an "Oh!" squeaked out of her, even as she raised her hand to her lips. "You’re a princess then?"

Amy nodded. "Yes. Princess Aimée."

"And you and Geoffrey... eloped?"

Amy tilted her head. "Ellop?"

"It’s when you run away to get married."

She nodded then, her eyes turning to inspect the cloak. "Yes. Me and Joffre. Run away... to marry." She pointed to the central panel. "Aimée and Joffre. On the sea."

"Oh... I’m sorry."

She nodded vaguely and then, after a few moments she pointed to the final panel. "Aimée and Tana. By the sea."

In silence, Tana regarded the cloak, her fingers reaching out to trace the scrollwork that surrounded the panels. Her fingertips followed their loops and curls, but when she reached the bottom panel, the stitching trailed off. At first she thought that perhaps Amy had not had time to finish the piece, but no, the same trailing pattern was imitated on the other side of the cloak beneath the bottom panel. It was symmetrical. Intentional. She took a step back to look at the cloak as a whole. It was not normal scrollwork, she realized. The twining lines around the panels represented a rope, a rope which dangled loosely beneath the bottom panel, its ends frayed. Severed. Like the two lovers.

"It’s beautiful," Tana whispered, wiping at her eyes.

Amy smiled again. "Gift," she said. "For Tana."

#</center>

Autumn had swept over Renais and its woods were awash in shades of crimson and ochre that would be the envy of any dye-maker. Leafy boughs and fruits of the fall harvest decorated the castle courtyard along with reams of cloth in rich browns and red. There was a festival atmosphere, Tana thought as she strolled along the edge of the courtyard. Syrene close at her heels, kept a wary eye on the assorted locals who were gathering to see the wedding of their princess.

As a breeze whipped her hair about her face, Tana drew in a deep breath of cool air and smiled, tugging Amy’s cloak around her shoulders. Eirika was almost beside herself with happiness and excitement. Amy, too, seemed to be faring well. After seeing the cloak and hearing the story it told, Tana had worried that the trip would leave Amy more downcast than ever, but she’d been adamant about accompanying Tana. When they’d arrived, Tana had made certain to show Eirika the cloak so that Amy might enjoy Eirika’s warm praises. Though Amy could not understand all the words, she could understand their warmth.

A raised platform had been erected in the courtyard so that the ceremony could be held outdoors and witnessed by all the guests, noble and common alike. The bustling from that direction drew her attention. Craning her neck to see past the groups who’d paused to look, she could make out Sir Seth, decked out in ceremonial armour that glittered in the sun as if the metal plates were studded with diamonds. All agleam though he might be, the way he wrung his hands gave him away: he looked as nervous as a newfound squire .

"It’s almost time, Princess," Syrene said. "We should take our places."

Tana nodded. "Amy is probably already waiting for us."

While the ceremony’s participants would occupy the centre of the platform, the many noble guests would occupy raised stands overlooking it, much like those used during jousting tournaments. She paused, though, before she quite reached them as her gaze was arrested by the sight of the Silver Knight standing there in the centre of the platform, shifting from foot to foot, clasping and unclasping his hands.

She turned to Syrene. "Just a moment." And with that she ascended onto the platform and crossed the space to Sir Seth.

He bowed hurriedly. "Princess Tana." His face was a mask of anxiety. "Has there been a delay?"

She had to stifle a laugh. "Everything is fine, General. The maids are just fussing with Eirika’s dress and hair to make sure it’s all perfect."

A hint of relief crossed his features, but his hands still moved about restlessly in a way they never had during the war even on the brink of battle. "Is she–" But then he broke off, his spine suddenly stiff, his eyes trained on something behind them. His hand reached for his hilt and Tana spun to see what was the matter.

A man was pushing through the crowd toward the platform. He was yelling something that she could not make out. Sir Seth stepped in front of her, his hand gripping the haft of his sword, ready to draw, all sign of nervousness vanished.

A pair of guards were closing in on the man. "Lady!" he yelled. And then she heard another word that might have been "cap" or maybe"cape" ?

He did not struggle as the guards grabbed his arms to restrain him, but he continued to yell and try to move forward as if oblivious to them. Sir Seth strode to the edge of the platform. "What is this about?"

"Lady. I talk with lady. Pleasing, sir!" Sir Seth’s bafflement was as clear on his face as his anxiousness had been a moment before, but something about the man’s speech, the odd way he formed his words, was familiar to Tana.

She moved closer. "Let me speak to him." The guards glanced at Seth who, after a moment’s consideration motioned for them to approach. They still held man’s arms as they moved to the foot of the platform. "You wished to speak to me?"

"Lady, pleasing... your cape... where have you gotten it?"

The knotted sentence took her a few seconds to unravel. "My cloak?" she said, brushing her fingers over the embroidered fabric. He nodded vigorously. "It was a gift."

He looked crestfallen but after a moment he recovered and spoke again. "Who maded it?"

But just as Tana opened her mouth to reply she heard a voice calling her. She turned to see Syrene crossing the platform with long strides, and Amy behind her, looking both curious and concerned. And then Amy froze. Her hand covered her mouth. She stared, eyes wide–at what, Tana was not certain–and then a word burst from her lips. "Joffre!" She grabbed her skirts, pulling them above her ankles so that she could race across the platform.

"Joffre!" she called again.

"Aimée!" called out the man, his face lighting up as he saw her.

Tana looked from Amy to the man and then spun to face Sir Seth. "Let him go," she said frantically.

"Princess?"

"Please, Sir Seth, release him."

Sir Seth appeared a bit dazed, but gave the signal to his men. No sooner had they released the man than he scrambled up onto the platform to meet Amy. She threw her arms around his neck while his own arms made a tight knot around her waist. They were each speaking very quickly in a language Tana could not understand, alternately embracing and drawing back to look into each other’s faces, babbling all the while.

It was Amy’s Geoffrey. Somehow he had survived the sea, found his way to Renais, even come to see the wedding.

Fingering the gold scrollwork of her cloak, Tana realized that she did not need to speak their tongue to understand. There would be time later to learn what had led Geoffrey here, to learn where he had washed up, whether he had given up hope or been searching all this time. For now, Tana took joy in the knowledge that the thread connecting the two had not been severed. Though they might be frayed, the stitches binding them together had held.

The End

Challenge 025 Extension

2013-07-22T20:59:17Z

OK! We had a couple of people get in early requests for a deadline extension, so here we go: one three-week extension to Saturday August 17th.

Have fun!

Challenge 025: Language

2013-06-13T00:32:19Z

And here we are at Challenge Number 25!

wolfraven80 has provided us with the theme Language.

"Is it your mother tongue or your second language? The language of the heart or the language of flowers? Sign language or body language? Whatever it is you want to say, whether the truth, a lie, or something in between, language is the medium."

Please submit entries between 500 and 5000 words in length. Entries for this challenge due on Saturday, July 27, by 1159 PM EDT.

Happy Writing!

Challenge 024: Winners

2013-06-04T21:04:42Z

All right, we have our winners for the AU round of this contest.

In second place, we have "Buried Beneath" by writerawakened.

In first place, we have "Flight" by wolfraven80.

Congratulations to everyone who participated! wolfraven80, please PM the challenge for the next round to me or to starlitlady.

Challenge 024: Voting

2013-05-18T22:59:14Z

All right, let's vote!

PLEASE READ THE RULES CAREFULLY

Please vote for THREE entries - no more or less - using the correct letter, title, and author, and comment here with your choices. Votes are screened. Only members and watchers may vote. Everyone who submitted an entry should also feel free to vote!

Example vote:
1st - B, title, Author
2nd - A, title, Author

Winners will be determined on a "points" scale.

3rd place - 1 point
2nd place - 2 points
1st place - 3 points

And the person with the most points after the voting is tallied wins! Votes are due by 1159 PM on Sunday, 6/2.

The entries:

A: "Buried Beneath" by writerawakened

B: "Flight" by wolfraven80

C: "It's a Trap!" by crimsonmorgan

Challenge 024: Submissions Closed

2013-05-12T13:18:03Z

Right. I was out of the country last night with no 'Net access (star party in Canada, yo), so as of NOW round 024 aka "AU" is officially closed.

Voting post to follow when I fully wake up.

Thanks!

[Challenge 024] : Buried Beneath

2013-05-12T09:10:08Z

Title: Buried Beneath
Game: FE7...ish
Word Count: ~4,709
Characters: Some guy named Arvid and a girl named Lynne
A/N: Few hours late, but better late than never, right? This isn't technically an AU. Alternate Universe would imply familiar characters in an alternate world. This fic is a bit different. The world itself is the same...just, seven hundred years in the future. Apologies in advance if LJ eats all the formatting.

As usual, hope you all enjoy!

“Professor Lazlam? I brought those files you were asking for.”

           The professor looked up from his desk. ‘Clean desk, clean mind’, was ostensibly his motto; like his mind, however, his desk lay awash in sundry objects scattered haphazardly, papers and ballpoint pens and manila folders cast about, the remains of the day’s turkey sandwich stuffed in his right hand.

           The young man at the door looked from the professor to his workspace, and gave the professor a look of amusement or maybe befuddlement—it was hard to tell.

           “Oh, Mark. Thanks.” He took the files graciously—disinterestedly—and almost immediately returned to his work, eyes darting from the hypnotic light of his computer’s flat monitor to the dull yellowed parchment sitting curled beside it. The files were for a different class, a different endeavor altogether, one decidedly less interesting and less personal than the one currently monopolizing his attentions.

           “No problem, professor,” the young man said. If he had ever wondered why the professor chose to work with the blinds drawn, door closed, and lights off, he didn’t ask. Not knowing any better, Mark might have taken Professor Lazlam for an old man, so obsessed with antiquity, his auburn hair streaked very prematurely with bolts of grey, dark hazel eyes often sunken and rung with dark circles. But there were people to do and things to drink, so Mark gladly left the professor to his work, knowing full well he was able enough not to keel over from a few term papers.

           Historiography, to some extent, had always been Arvid Lazlam’s calling. Teaching, to all extents, hadn’t, although it wasn’t terrible that it turned out that way. If he hadn’t, he would never have found both the desire and the means to unearth and untangle his family tree. His mother had told her a long time ago a woman with the surname Pherae had married a man named Lazlam, and that somewhere within him, from sometime far past, coursed the blood of the great Heroes Roy and his lord father Eliwood, and before them the valorous hero Roland.

           Ever since his childhood, those stories of gallantry and heroism had entertained Arvid, capturing his live imagination and sending images of swords and shields through his mind, pictures of princesses and oaths sworn kneeling at the foot of thrones and kings and crowns. His mother had been quite a storyteller, recanting the tales of Eliwood’s triumph at the Dragon’s Gate or Roy’s bravery at reclaiming the Tower of Light with as much joy as Arvid felt listening to her. Eliwood and Roy and all their kin were kin to her, if distant, and telling their stories was her matrilineal birthright. One day she’d told all the stories she had to tell, and one day he’d become too old for bedtime stories, and one day he woke and realized she no longer lived and his father was beyond the age of remembering.

           I can’t let those old stories die, he’d thought. Those legends were his birthright, too, even if he did imagine they’d been embellished through the years. There was no way Eliwood could have been as pure-hearted and righteous as the stories said. Especially if he had been as dashing as the surviving frescos and oil portraits made him out to be. He’d have been in the pants of—or rather, beneath the silks and cotton chemises of—hundreds of women! His son Roy, in particular, could rival even the most diligent of nightclub crawlers!

           ...or, that’s what people said, anyway, in history classes and on message boards. Arvid had the lingering suspicion (hope, really) that the truth was a bit more nuanced than common sentiments dictated. The knights of the time were less than shining arbiters of justice and virtue, the lords and ladies not as immaculate and gallant, nor the villains quite as irredeemable as the stories, over time, made them to be.

           There were so many gaps in the legends and contradictory bits of information to dismiss as mere coincidence, and there were so many things that even recent history did not know about Elibe’s time of kings and crowns. The recent Medieval Revival in the popular consciousness (no doubt inspired by the surprise hit show Playing at Crowns about dark, dark life in the Dark Ages) might have influenced Lycia on a superficial level, but it did nothing for historiography save for the sudden influx of people who thought they knew what they were talking about.

           “What really happened?” Arvid leaned back in his ragged old office chair—it squeaked as if to protest in its old age—and sighed, drawing his fingers firmly across his forehead and his closed eyes. “Hm. If there were someone to tell us. Seven hundred years...maybe if the Archsage had lived a thousand more years...or if the divine dragons were still here to share their revelations...”

           Arvid was snapped from his sentimental reverie by the sound of his cell playing familiar fanfare.

           “Hello?”

           A woman’s familiar voice answered. “Arvid! It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

           Arvid sat up, quickly rigid. “Oh, Professor Winds! Ah—yes, yeah, it has been a while. Last time was the symposium at UThria, if I recall.”

           “You recall correctly,” she replied, and he knew enough to know she was smiling on the other end of the line. “Also, how long have we known each other, Professor?” she added with no short supply of amusement. “Really now. ‘Lynne’ is fine!”

           “Right. Of course! Sorry, I just didn’t expect to hear from you out of the blue. Need to get my thoughts together, y’know. So what’s going on?”

           “Heh, well, I’ll get right to it. My department and the archeology department are sponsoring a dig near the ruins of Castle Ostia. The chair thinks they’ve found evidence of the invasion of the keep during the Secret War. I was planning to drive out there this weekend. Don’t suppose you’d like to join me?”

           “Join you?” In truth, she’d had him at ‘sponsoring a dig’, but he had to play it cool. “This weekend is kinda short notice. It’s Thursday night...”

           “Alright then,” Lynne replied. “Just figured I’d offer. Well, talk to you la—”

           “Wait!”

           She stifled a laugh on the other side of the line. “Yeees?”

           “No, I’ll—uh, I’ll go with you,” Arvid said, fiddling with the papers on his desk. His computer had gone to screensaver: two dragons, one black and one white, intertwined, rising from their long slumbers.

           “Are you sure? You don’t have any night classes this weekend?”

           “Let’s see, er... I think I might have—” he paused for a very brief moment, blinked, then said (emphatically, as it were), “No. Nope, no classes this weekend.” Professor Arvid shook his mouse and quickly opened up a few email windows as Lynne shot him a few of the details. Quite a shame, Mr. University President, that he had to fall suddenly terribly ill that weekend.

- O -

           Professor Lynne Kulah Winds was perhaps the ablest of Sacaen historians Arvid knew personally, no doubt a product of her intense pride in her own culture; not to be outdone, their conversations usually consisted of friendly ribbing about whose obscure cultural heroes might have emerged victorious in single combat. Eliwood (named the True after his death) was a stalwart—had he ever lost a battle?—Arvid would argue, always in vain, against the exploits of the Silver Wolf and his thunderous kin.

           But what Lynne might have lacked in the quality of her idols, however, she more than made up for. She might have been headstrong, maybe even vain, but she’d every reason to be. Youngest professor of history one of the most prestigious universities in Lycia, she was smart enough to know she could not know everything and stubborn enough to let her thirst for knowledge drive her sometimes into overwork.

           She was a great many positive things, and she was also his good friend. They had met what seemed to Arvid like eons ago, when they both paid their dues at the University of Thria and then by some minor miracle, their grad work at the University of Laus under the watch of the big-nosed chair of the history department. That big-nosed chair became Arvid’s boss when he began his youthful professorship, a gregarious and gentle man very different from his similarly-named Lausan ancestor.

           Arvid had known Lynne Winds long enough to take most of her great and sometimes terrible qualities for granted, but there was one he was reminded of whenever he saw her. She was, as her many, many male admirers could attest, strikingly beautiful, and in that she was very much like her legendary namesake. Sacaens were not often known for their blue hair, but hers was darker than the sea and tied in a traditional ponytail. Her eyes were the same green people expected her hair to be, mossy as a still stone and bright whenever she smiled. And her legs, of course, were simply the best.

           That Saturday afternoon they drove west with the morning sun and the afternoon wind at their backs, down the highway that moved serpentine through the city states of Lycia. It was a great day for a drive, and Professor Lynne loved nothing more than to put down the top of her sleek red baby, let her brown skin shine in the sun (smiling at everyone) and loose her hair to the wind, gripping the stick a little tighter. Beside her, Arvid reclined, looking up at the near-cloudless blue sky through rose-colored glasses. Sunglasses, of course: their color a remnant of his pupating sense of humor in his highly-cynical college years. Lynne never missed an opportunity to tease him on just how stupid they really were. No matter, they blocked the sun. It was all good.

           The skyscrapers of Thria and the sprawling cityscape of Kathelet gave way to forest and farmland as the speed limit rose as high as it went in Lycia. Next to Road 169 in Bern, there was no better place to drive a red car and go really, really fast. You could drive a red car fast basically anywhere. But to drive a red car fast in style took hard work and dedication to the craft. Neither here nor there, but the Bernese were always well known for their crafts.

           It was about an hour and a half from Thria to Ostia, and Arvid took the time spent speeding through the only country he’d called home to wonder about the dig site. Most of the Lycian capital was a cityscape now, with Ostia proper the largest city east of Etruria, but most of the land around the ruins of the great Castle Ostia was still underdeveloped, either farmland or small suburban towns nestled not-so-close-together in a ring of reverence all encircling the legendary keep. It might have been the intense national pride for the “Great Fortress” that kept the creeping tide of modernization away, but more likely (in a world where 75% were un-Abel to tell Hector apart from Cain) it was its location, short miles from the Etrurian border, that kept it sparse.

           Arvid Lazlam thanked the Saint for that. The idea that anyone would consider tearing the castle down to build cube farms, storefronts, or anything including the word “strip” made him weep for society. Let everyone else worry about cells of fringe nutjobs from Sacae and arms proliferation in Bern! His priorities, at least, were in order. Yep, yep.

           “You probably know better than I do,” Lynne said after a long time of peaceful silence. They’d stopped twice, once for iced coffee at the nearest Doughnuts For Dippin’ and once to check the tires, but it had been at least 45 minutes of clear sailing in beautiful weather. Lynne Winds turned to her fellow professor, hand still on the stick as she downshifted, sun beaming off her smile. “But how exactly did Hector of Ostia die?”

           Arvid took a moment to straighten his dress shirt. When he spoke he shouted over the roaring of the wind. “No one really knows! From what few written accounts there are, he died about the time of the Great Bernese Insurrection. But no one has ever found where he was buried—in fact, we don’t even really know how he died, although if Nineneyson’s War’s Bloody Delights is any indication, he died in battle. And if the poets knew anything, it was the history.”

           “Yeah, the legend is he died at the gates of Castle Ostia defending the keep from Zephiel the Dragonhearted, right? With his trusty ‘Axe of Lightning’ by his side?”

           Arvid had to chuckle. “ ‘The Dragonhearted’. What a fascinating sobriquet. Because ‘Zephiel the Warmongering Brain-dead Son of a Bitch’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it.” He looked to the side as Lynne turned off the freeway. The car chunked inelegantly as they decelerated at a record pace. One might be tempted to think there was nothing of value off that particular exit if not for the small, small brown sign printed with “Scenic Attraction: Castle Ostia 5m” written in barely-visible forest-green text.

           “Well, if there are any thoroughly desiccated corpses of broad-bearded axe-bearers lying around Castle Ostia, I hope we don’t find them,” remarked Lynne.

           “I don’t think you have to worry. There’s no way in all the world that Hector died in Castle Ostia? If he had, he would have been buried in the royal cemetery. Knowing him, he probably died somewhere in Bern fighting off a myriad of wyverns. And of course once he was dead the Bernese treated him most discourteously...”

           “The brave hero of Ostia...wyvern food.”

           “Hey,” Arvid said, his expression stern in mock warning. “Watch yourself, miss.”

           Lynne shrugged. “At least it’s better than puking yourself to death.”

           The two professors shared a glance. On the horizon, the great Castle Ostia began to slide into view, in its picturesque position atop a hill past a sea of green—trees and grass alike.

           Arvid only nodded. “Fair enough.”

- O -

           The gathering was less an “archeological dig” than “a bunch of history people exploring a really old place for fun.” Truth be told, Arvid preferred it that way, mostly because digging seemed rather pedestrian and he’d just starched his shirt, dammit! A few of the staff members from the symposium at UThria were there, to whom Arvid re-introduced himself. Professors Arvid and Lynne explored together, walking the hallways, and Arvid saw for the first time in person the halls of the place he had only seen in pictures and “interactive tours.”

           The almost-childlike glee must have shown, because they had not gone very far before Lynne said, “Is this is your first time inside Castle Ostia?”

           Arvid nodded.

           “I’m surprised. I would have thought in your travels far and wide you would have at least come here once before, right?”

           “I’ve been to Castle Pherae three times, and I could probably walk some of the old brigand ruins in Thria blindfold. I’ve just...never had an occasion to come to Ostia. Today I just have a really good one.” He turned to Lynne and smiled serenely. Their eyes met for about a second, and she turned away.

           “I came here once before. Our department really likes to send people places whenever they have even the slightest reason. Good thing I like to travel, huh?”

           “Now how does a ‘Professor of Sacaen History and Cultural Studies’ get off visiting Castle damn Ostia?” Arvid was more amused than anything. For her part, Lynne could only shrug sheeplessly (without sheep).

           “Right place, right time, I guess.”

           “Sounds like you, alright,” he said sarcastically.

           “Welll...you’ve heard the stories about Hector, right? How he might have married a Sacaen girl?”

           Arvid shook his head. “Wasn’t that only a rumor spread by Zephiel to try to sway some of the more prejudiced Lycians to rebel?”

           “Maybe? Well, you know more about that than I would. All I know is that mysteriously no one knows the name of Hector’s wife, or what might have happened to her. Isn’t that curious?

           “Of course it is.”

           “He might have married Lyn of the Kutolah!” Lynne flipped her blue hair. “I might just be a descendant of Hector of Ostia as well! ...maybe.”

           Arvid laughed. “Who knows? There’s so much we don’t know. We’re going to find it all out someday. Just too bad we can’t ask the Dark Seer Bramimond. His second sight might come in handy, hm?”

           “Well, sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic...someone said that, anyway.

           “So. What about in Sacae? Have you been any place interesting there?”

           The two professors turned a corner and found themselves at a spiraling staircase. At the top was what appeared to be a small opening from which boiling oil could be poured onto the poor souls who wished to assault the castle’s second floor.

           “I’ve been to Bulgar a lot,” Lynne answered, “and a few of the Jute ruins. See, the problem with coming from a nomadic peoples is that there’s not always a lot of stuff left behind in any one place for us to find. Which isn’t to say there isn’t interesting stuff to find out on the plains. You just have to look a little bit harder. Dig deeper.”

           “There’s still so much we don’t know about the Sacaens, isn’t there?”

           “Ehh.” Lynne poked a bit at her phone. “I wouldn’t say that. We don’t know everything, sure, but I could probably piece together how people lived, say, 1000 PS. It helps that the eastern plains hasn’t really left prehistoric times. Out where the Jutes used to roam? Might as well be dragons living in the green mountains as far as we’re all concerned.

           “Just a really lawless place. I’ll spare you my unsolicited thoughts on the sort of brigandage that goes on out there. I will say this though: archaeologists have found piles of bones out there. Human bones. And the Jutes used to use charred human bones for their Druids’ prophesying rituals, but some of the bones they’ve found are more recent. Like I said, lawless.”

           “And Bern’s funneling arms to them,” Arvid said, matter-of-factly.

           “I just—” Lynne shook her head. “It pisses me off, if you want to know the truth. Honestly, Sacae has a lot of problems. I know I’ve lived here basically my whole life, but sometimes I don’t know. Cognitive dissonance between the place I knew and the place I see every day on the news. It pisses me off.”

           “I don’t blame you,” Arvid said softly.

           “Honestly, I’d rather not talk about it.” She pressed her lips shut. Her green eyes had turned dark.

           Arvid nodded. An awkward silence passed between them, and as they walked, their footfalls echoing off the deserted stone pathways, Arvid could only think back to when they were both fellow students, and he really didn’t want to be a teacher but it seemed the only place his passion for antiquity could take him, and she was as lost as he was, probably more. She used to come to his dorm with a bottle of Bulgarian wine and some cheap Magyar scotch from some cheap place wherever, and they’d drink together and make stupid jokes, and when she’d happily drunkenly amble back to her room at the end of the night, he’d always sigh and think about her and wonder what the purpose of life was and what he really wanted from it.

           Sometimes Arvid had the feeling he didn’t really care about Eliwood or Roy or Hector or Roland the Valorous and Hartmut the Brave. No one else seemed to, so why should he? Of course there were departments in every school everywhere dedicated to the study of things he adored and legitimately found fascinating, but it was always hard to find kinship with someone who was at least as passionate as he was. Deep in his heart though, he did realize: he wanted to keep those stories alive, the stories of heroism and courage and sometimes unfathomable evil, the kind that always seemed to sadly stay relatable. He didn’t find many who felt like he did. Only her. They were friends but never lovers. She was too caught up in herself and he was too caught up in everyone but himself.

           Would it have worked? Arvid ran his hand across his brow. The sound of their footsteps seemed to travel across time. I don’t know. I don’t know.

            They stopped inside a small room, filled with dusty, moth-eaten pieces of furniture, most of which seemed to be from long after Hector’s time, yet still old enough to have accumulated centuries of cobwebs.

           “Huh,” Arvid said, looking around. The only light came from a small window high on the wall. He squinted and looked around. “Is it just me or does it look like no one’s been in here for quite a long time?”

           “Yeah,” Lynne said distractedly. She stole a glance at Arvid, a strange expression on her face, then turned towards the window. “Seems it.”

           Professor Lazlam walked towards the back of the room, searching for anything interesting that might have gone unnoticed by researchers past. Failing that, he leaned up against the far wall—and was surprised when it gave. Only slightly, but it gave.

           “Lynne. Come here for a sec.”

           Lynne came over, and Arvid pressed up against the wall with both hands. “This wall. It’s not a wall.”

           “Looks like a wall to me.”

           “No, I mean, it is a wall, but it’s giving way a little bit. Come on, help me push it!”

           Indeed, with her help, the wall gave way more, and slowly, it began to turn. The two professors pushed until there was an opening enough to squeeze through. The secret passage opened into a decent-sized, completely circular room, with a high ceiling ending in a dome at the top. Arvid pulled out his flashlight and illuminated the room, and what they saw amazed them.

           In the center of the room there was a single wooden table and two chairs, bare but for a heavily rusted sconce lying on its side, and an empty brass goblet. More of interest were the walls. In sharp contrast to the rough, bare walls of the rest of Castle Ostia, the walls of the circular room were perfectly smooth. And painted. The walls were covered with a colorful, bright fresco that spanned the entire room, up to the dome ceiling, which showed Saint Elimine, golden halo around her head, reaching a hand out towards the Eliminean God. The room probably had been a hidden pantry of some sort in the time of its subjects but over the course of years had been vacated and made into a history in color of Lycia’s glorious past, painted in painstaking detail with recognizable figures from across Lycia.

Speechless, Arvid placed a free hand against the wall and shined light against what he was seeing. There was Roy, red hair burning bright, star-spangled armor and Sword of Seals held high. There was Hector, blue beard bright and bold, Armads held high in his right hand, flask of beer in his left. Arvid inspected further and Lynne followed at his heel as he traced his hand around the room, walking in a great circle and then retracing his steps. All the major figures from the Secret War and the Great Bernese Insurrection were present: Zephiel with his two dragons, red and purple, shadowing him, Eliwood with Ninian the ice dragon at his side, and the great fire dragon in the shadow of the Dragon’s Gate.

“This is...” Arvid laughed, shaking his head in disbelief that something this magnificent was right in front of him. He was almost giddy. No, he was giddy. He was a schoolboy and this was the candy store. “This is fucking incredible.”

“See, this is why the chair wanted to send people here,” said Lynne, herself in awe. “They wanted to slash funding to the whole department. But I told them, I said ‘Don’t do it. If we don’t keep looking, someone else is going to find that big something before we do.’ And what do you know?” Lynne put her hands on her hips and looked up, as satisfied as Arvid had ever seen her. “Yeah, slash funding, okay.”

“How did we not know this was here?”

“Probably the secret passageway,” Lynne deadpanned.

“Yes, but, how did no one know about this? Or write about this?”

           “Secret.”

           “Well, Miss Anna and her ‘VIP’ store were ostensibly secret. But every historian worth his—or her—salt who wrote of the wars at the time somehow mentioned her and her ‘secret shop’.”

Lynne giggled. “ ‘Miss Anna’s’ is the name of a, er, ‘gentleman’s club’ near my old apartment in Laus.”

           “She would be proud, I’m sure.”

           “This is an incredible find,” Lynne said, using the backlight of her phone as a makeshift flashlight. After a few moments of looking she found her namesake, standing near the horse archers Rath and Rath’s daughter and young ward, Sue and Shin, respectively.

           Meanwhile, Arvid shone a light on one particularly interesting section of the fresco.

           “Is this...a picture of women throwing their panties at Roy?”

Arvid tilted his head to the side and regarded the portrait peculiarly. Lynne came to join him.

“By God, it is.”

“Yep,” Lynne said, nodding her head matter-of-factly. “He was a real pimp, dontchaknow?”

           “An even more incredible find,” Arvid said, chuckling. He barely contained himself from jumping into the air.

“And who’s the redhead by that small tree?”

           They answered in unison. “Anna!”

“This is truly something. Maybe Roy truly was the ladies’ man people made him out to be.”

           “Or maybe the people of four hundred years ago had the same idea then that we do now. When you have a hot teacher like Lady Cecelia of Etruria giving you private lessons, people’s minds start to wander.”

           “Hot teacher indeed...”

           Lynne smirked. “Didn’t realize she was your type.”

           “Not what I meant, but anyway...”

           For a while longer they looked over the fresco and when they were done they met at the center of the room.

           “So...should we tell anyone else about this?” Lynne asked.

           “What? Of course we should! This is a historic discovery. I was leaning against a wall, for God’s sake! How did we find this by me leaning against a wall?”

           “Strange. I never thought I’d ever be in a position like this.” She pulled up a chair and sat, her phone hanging limp at her side, casting its light on the bare floor. “I used to feel like I was always the one on the outside, just studying while everyone else made all the great discoveries to share with the world. But now that I’m here—I don’t know. I don’t know what to feel.”

           Arvid pulled up the other chair and sat beside her. He opened his mouth to speak and nothing came out.

           “I’m not too proud to say,” Lynne said quietly. “Sometimes I feel...powerless. If this is all there is, and meanwhile all the bad shit is happening somewhere else. Just really powerless.”

           He could hear her fight back tears. Arvid bit at his lip, heart pounding in his chest.

           “We’re not heroes. And I won’t tell you you’re wrong to worry. But we’re both doing this because we love this. We’re not going to save the world. One hidden room isn’t going to shed light on anything. But we can’t just stop looking, or give up what we’re doing. What’s the point? Just...be who we are, I suppose. That’s all we really can do.”

           Another moment of silence passed between them. Finally, Lynne turned to Arvid and smiled in the light of his flashlight, her bright green eyes moist.

           “Well, you didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know, but...

           “Thanks.”

Challenge 024 Extension

2013-04-27T02:10:21Z

Well, we've had multiple requests for an extension, so the new deadline for Challenge 024 (AU) will be two weeks out: Saturday, May 11th, at 1159 PM.

To those who've already submitted your pieces, we're making a special offer: feel free to revise and resubmit your entry. We don't usually do this, but given the scope of this challenge and the work you've put into trying to make the deadline and the word count, if you want those extra two weeks, have at it.

However, so as not to move the goal posts indefinitely this will be the one and only extension offered for this particular challenge. :)

Happy writing!

[Challenge 024] Flight

2013-04-26T23:48:27Z

Title: Flight
Game: FE8
Word Count: 5,199
Characters/Pairing: Tana, Seth/Eirika
Comments: When I saw this was AU and that queenlua had specifically mentioned World War I, I couldn’t help it–I just had to go and write another piece for my WWI collection, Grey. No need to read the earlier chapters as this piece functions as a stand-alone. I managed to trim as per our admin’s suggestion and got it down to 5199 according to my word count software.

Also posted on ffnet here

Flight

Across the airfield, a pair of infantrymen stopped to gawp at an aeroplane circling overhead. Captain Tana of the Royal Frelian Air Force smirked. It happened every time a trenchman visited the airfield; most of the poor lads and lasses had never seen a plane up close. She had seen her first one as a child during an airshow in Frelia’s capital and she’d known from that moment on that she wanted to fly. That had been before anyone had thought to strap machine guns onto them.

With a sigh, Tana turned her attention back to the letter in her hands. She leaned against the fuselage of her plane, relaxing at the feel of the solid wooden frame at her back. Her brow furrowed as she read on. So intent was she that she started when someone approached.

"Sorry, Captain," the mechanic said, "but there’s someone here to see you."

"I don’t have time for visitors. We’re waiting for flight orders."

The mechanic ducked his head and, fidgeting, glanced over his shoulders. "They said you’d really want to see them, ma’am. And they had this." He handed over a creased and slightly crumpled sheet which, she realized with a shock, bore the coat of arms of Renais.

Tana glanced past the mechanic to the pair of infantrymen who approached at a halting pace–one of them was on crutches. The other...Her eyes narrowed. She stared. And then she broke into a trot, hurrying to meet them.

"Eirika!" Tana said, wrapping her arms around her friend. "I’ve been so worried."

Eirika squeezed her in return. "I’m sorry. We ran into...delays...and I wasn’t able to check for letters. I only got your message a few days ago. We hurried here. Are we–"

"Yes, you’re in time. They haven’t moved him yet, though we just got the orders," she said holding up the letter in her hand. As she released her friend, she stepped back and took a good look at her. Eirika’s hair was cropped short–much shorter than Tana’s own. She was garbed in the drab tunic and trousers of a Renais Lieutenant, complete with peaked cap and sidearm. Tana could not help but notice the dark circles beneath her eyes.

Her attention turned to the man standing next to the Princess of Renais, leaning heavily on his right crutch. His face was thinner than she remembered, but she recognised him still. "General Seth," she said, offering a smile and a salute.

He shifted, looking quite uncomfortable. "Only a major now, Princess."

"You still outrank me and please, no titles. Only my commanders know I’m not just another pilot, and I’d prefer it remain that way."

Seth raised an eyebrow. "Is Innes aware?"

Tana winced. "Yes and no. He thinks I’ve been flying one of those," she said jutting her chin towards the line of two-seaters. "Reconnaissance planes," she added, realizing that they might not recognise the planes as she did. Renais had had little in the way of an airforce at the start of the war and there had been no chance to build one up since Imperial Grado held Renais’s territory in its entirety. "As far as he knows I’ve only been patrolling within our lines."

"And that’s not the case?" Seth asked warily.

"Come and see him." She gestured for them to follow as she moved towards her plane and patted its wooden fuselage fondly. The two parallel wings and the struts that supported them were painted white, while the fuselage was dull brown, but halfway between the cockpit and the tail was the shining white pegasus that stood as the emblem of her kingdom. At rest now, the biplane’s tail lay on the ground, its nose tilted upwards as if the plane were gazing up at the sky. "This is Achaeus."

"This is a...fighter plane," Seth said.

Tana nodded. "And it’s fitted with a synchronised machine gun just like the ones the Imperials use."

"Synchronised?" Eirika repeated.

"It can fire through the propeller," Tana explained. "It makes it much easier to fly and shoot at the same time."

Seth looked paler than ever as he eyed the plane. "You’re flying a fighter plane."

"Officially," Tana said, "Captain Tanner is flying a fighter plane."

The major looked from her to Eirika with an air of exasperation. "You’ve both assumed aliases and are fighting unbeknownst to Innes. Two rogue princesses..." He shook his head. "If he ever gets word of my involvement in this, Innes won’t bother to have me court-martialled, he’ll just have me drawn and quartered."

Smiling up at him, fondness obvious in her features, Eirika reached out to squeeze his arm. "I would never let that happen, Seth."

"And I have a little influence in Frelia myself," Tana added, smiling to cover the sudden ache in her chest. To have found each other again in the middle of the war–she envied them.

She could see them as they would have been without the war, as they should have been. Seth, standing tall, general’s stars glittering on the collar of his dress uniform, Eirika, dazzling in an evening dress, her long hair cascading over her shoulders. Arm in arm, they would walk into the ballroom. The assorted guests–princes, politicians, ladies of fashion, and lieutenants–would turn their heads to catch a glimpse of them as they stepped onto the floor and danced. Tana knew she herself would have danced all night long, hoping to catch Ephraim’s eye as he stood in a corner discussing the merits of armaments and stratagems with General Duessel and her brother.

What of that now? Just a dream, the fleeting fancy of a sheltered girl, one to be put away like all the playthings of her childhood.

Looking only slightly reassured, Seth’s eyes ran the length of the plane. "Forgive me for asking, Captain, but how did this come about?"

Tana shrugged. "I did fly reconnaissance for a while but I managed to talk Syrene into letting me test fly the single-seaters. When she saw what I could do in the cockpit of one of these..." She patted the plane again. "She’s risking her career because she believes in me. I have ten kills to my name–or to Captain Tanner’s name in any case."

"What’s the record?" Eirika asked uncertainly.

Tana grimaced. "I believe the Moonstone has fifteen." Major Valter, the Moonstone, was the most renowned pilot in Grado–and the most feared outside of it. His plane’s fuselage was painted the same gold as the Imperial emblem so that other pilots would recognise him at a distance. "It’ll be different now that we have better guns. The Imperials won’t have an edge on us anymore."

"I wish your squadron luck, Captain," Seth said, eyeing the plane warily. "I must confess that I prefer to do my fighting on the ground."

"At least there aren’t any rats in the air," Eirika said with a shudder.

"Rats?" Tana repeated.

The look on Eirika’s face then made Tana’s chest constrict. "Pray you never need set foot in the trenches." She shook herself. "Shall we go see your prisoner?"

Tana nodded and led the way toward a small manor house that had been comandeered as the squadron’s base of operations and barracks. They moved at a leisurely stroll to accommodate Seth’s injury. She’d known of Eirika’s search for Ephraim and her plan to seek out Seth’s aid. The most recent letter she’d had from Eirika had been from a military hospital where Seth’s leg was being treated. But after that nothing. "You said you were delayed?"

Eirika glanced at Seth before replying. His expression was grim, his lips pressed together into a thin line. "We discovered that an acquaintance of ours, Colonel Orson, has defected to Grado and that he’d been passing information to them."

She almost laughed. The irony! "I suppose our guest evens the scales then."

"Perhaps," Seth said. "If he has information worth sharing."

Tana shrugged. "He wouldn’t tell Syrene a thing. He insists on speaking to someone from Renais." She pointed to a plane that stood alone, a short way from the manor, beneath a canopy to prevent enemy scouts from spotting it from the air. It was painted a greyish blue and emblazoned with the golden wyvern of Imperial Grado. "That’s his. It’s going to be shipped off today so the engineers can poke at it and see what makes it tick. We don’t often get to see an enemy plane intact." And indeed, several mechanics were clustered around it, preparing to dismantle it.

There was a fair bit of saluting from all manner of junior officers and staff as Tana led them into the manor. "He’s upstairs," Tana said, glancing apologetically at Seth.

He eyed the narrow stone stairway with evident trepidation, but, without a word, made his way up, step by narrow step. By the time they reached the top, he was alarmingly pale and his brow was slick with perspiration. Eirika clutched his arm to steady him. "Seth–"

"No, it’s all right," he cut in. "I only need a moment." He leaned against the nearest wall, taking the weight off his injured left leg.

Tana looked away from Eirika’s worried face. She knew worry all too well. The sky was the only place she could escape it.

Before the war, she’d received letters from Eirika that had announced with gleeful exuberance that General Seth, a family friend since he’d been a boy, and a favourite of her father’s, was courting her. Tana had met the general during her visits to Renais and had always found him very formal and serious, but Eirika had always spoken fondly of him. They would surely be married now had it not been for the war. It would have been a grand affair–a week’s worth of parties filled with music and dancing, feasting and champagne, ball gowns and bow ties. Tana would perhaps have been the maid of honour at the wedding and perhaps, a year or two later, a godmother. Instead...

Seth drew in a deep breath and righted himself. He nodded to Eirika who, in spite of the worry still etched on her features, released his arm. Tana took them to the room where the "guest" was being kept.

A private, clutching a rifle to his chest, stood guard at the door. He saluted as Tana approached. "Captain! I have orders from the squadron leader to allow entry to you, the major, and the lieutenant."

"Open it," she said and without further ado, the private unlocked the door. She held out a hand, inviting Seth and Eirika to go in ahead. They did, blocking her view of the prisoner, and Tana lingered behind them. She didn’t want to see his face.

The private glanced at her. "Is there something wrong, Captain?"

Tana shook her head. "No, nothing. It’s fine." She stepped into the stuffy room and the door closed behind her. The space was slightly bigger than a closet, the walls plastered but otherwise bare with only a chair and a straw mattress as furniture. A narrow window covered in metal grille, decorative but very sturdy, allowed light to slant into the room in long, golden lozenges.

The prisoner’s back was to them as he gazed out the window. "There are some people here to see you," Tana said. "They’ve come from Renais." He turned and the sunlight illuminated a shaggy mop of blond hair and the hawk-like features of Captain Cormag of Imperial Grado. His lips twitched and a crooked smiled appeared on his craggy face. Tana looked away. It had once been the face of her hero.

Two years before the start of the war, her father, King Hayden, had hosted an international airshow in Frelia’s capital. He and Innes both had been forward-thinking about the role of aircraft in Frelia’s future and had been strong supporters of new aeronautic developments. The show had brought together pilots, engineers, and mechanics from all over Magvel. Pilots had shown off the capabilities of their new crafts through daring air-acrobatics, and the shining star of that show had been Cormag. She remembered even now as he’d landed. He’d hopped out of his plane and tugged off his aviator goggles to grin at the adoring crowds as if he’d not been risking life and limb just minutes earlier. A sixteen-year-old princess was not allowed much freedom, so she’d only heard tales of the raucous adventures Cormag and the other pilots had had during their stay in the capital. But oh how she’d wanted to be there, to be a part of it all! After the show she had finally pestered her father into allowing her to train as a pilot. She had wanted to fly like him, to be like him. But that was before he’d started killing her friends.

The jagged scar on Cormag’s left cheek was new and gave his face a perpetually lopsided air. His brow crinkled as he peered at his visitors. "You’re...General Seth?"

"Only a Major now," Seth replied. Tana wondered how often he’d had to say that over the past year and whether it became easier with practice.

"I see. Then the rumours of your accepting a demotion to go to the front were true."

Seth’s features remained impassive, but Eirika’s eyes burned with ire–not for Cormag, Tana knew, but for Innes. Tana was uncertain of the details, but knew that Innes had had a hand in Seth’s predicament.

Cormag’s attention turned to Eirika and he raised an eyebrow. "Lieutenant..."

Eirika drew herself up. "I am Princess Eirika of Renais. If you have something to tell us on behalf of Imperial Grado then say it now."

He straightened, eyes alert and boring into Eirika. "Princess Eirika? Then you knew my brother, General Glenn."

"We met, yes. He dined with us once a few years ago. I’ve not spoken to him since."

"And you won’t again." Cormag’s eyes blazed. "He’s dead."

Eirika fell back a step, dismay plain on her features. "But we’ve heard nothing of this. How?"

"Oh you’ll hear of it soon enough once they announce that he was killed by a small band of Renais assassins led by the crown prince himself."

"No." Eirika shook her head vigorously. "Ephraim would never do such a thing."

He levelled his gaze at Eirika. "And that the princess of Renais orchestrated the entire thing."

"That’s outrageous!" Seth snapped at the same time as Tana and Eirika both uttered an alarmed, "What?"

Cormag’s lips twisted into a lopsided smile. "It’s a very good lie, one the people of Grado will eat up. My brother was a hero to our nation. But I happen to know that the crown prince of Renais was on the Jehanna border the when my brother was murdered."

Tana’s heart leaped. Ephraim was alive then! She’d been so worried all these months since he’d vanished. With every letter she sent home she asked if there was any news of him but always nothing, not even rumours.

"You’ve seen my brother?" Eirika asked eagerly, stepping closer to the prisoner. Seth, eyes narrowed and keeping a close watch on Cormag, moved closer to her, though with his crutches he made for a peculiar armed escort.

He nodded. "I was on leave in the capital and then I was sent on a sudden errand to Jehanna–to get me out of the way, I suppose. While I was there I glimpsed Prince Ephraim’s group on the border."

"And General Glenn?" Seth said, his air sober.

"When I returned to Grado, Valter told me he’d been killed. He told me he saw it with his own eyes but couldn’t do anything to stop it. He told me a very pretty lie and that same day I headed back to my aerodrome, got in my plane and flew it into Frelian-controlled air under a white flag."

For a moment there was complete silence. Tana could not look at his face, this man who had fled his country in search of revenge. She had lost friends because of him. All she wanted at that moment was to fly from the room and go back to her plane. She wanted more than anything to be in the sky, above all of this, and feel the frigid air on her face.

Seth was the first to speak. "But why would Valter do it? From what I’ve heard he’s a national hero and a personal friend of Emperor Vigarde."

A bark of laughter from Cormag. "All isn’t as it seems in Grado. You heard that the emperor is ill?" Seth and Eirika both nodded. "Decrees still officially come from his office, but it’s Valter and Reeve who are behind every Imperial decree. The emperor is no more than a puppet. My brother had spoken out against them; it was what we talked about the last time I saw him."

When she spoke, Eirika’s voice was barely more than a whisper. "What about Lyon?"

Cormag leaned back against the wall as if he were weary, letting out a long breath. "The prince has been working tirelessly on his research. They say he barely sleeps or eats anymore. Rumour has it he looks like a walking corpse."

Tana’s eyes turned to Eirika’s expression of distress. Of course, Erika had known Lyon before the war. She’d said he’d been kind, quiet, and dedicated to his studies. Tana remembered Eirika’s adamant insistence that he would never have condoned the war.

"And this research?" Seth pressed. "What do you know about it?"

Cormag shrugged. "It’s cloaked in secrecy. From what I’ve heard, the prince hopes it will lead to a cure for his father. Reeve on the other hand thinks it will have applications as a weapon, worse than what any of our artillery cannons can deliver." He raised his hands, palm outwards. "That’s all I know of the matter."

Eirika nodded. "Thank you for telling us about this. And about Ephraim."

"I’ll do anything in my power to bring down Valter," he replied, but as he did, his eyes drifted to Tana and hovered there. She scowled at him.

His brow furrowed as he stared at her. "Have we...met?"

He drew out that last word as if suggesting they had done more than simply meet. Tana bristled. She was certainly not one of his conquests. "You signed an autograph for me at an airshow in Frelia."

It took a moment, but then it registered and his eyes widened. She could see it in his face–he remembered. He remembered dinner in the palace with her family, how her brother had pestered him during most of the meal about the mechanics of flight, how she had managed to steal a moment alone with him to gush about his flying and how she so wanted to fly as well. Flight had seemed a grand adventure to her. And Cormag, to her eyes, had seemed heroic, roguishly handsome, daring. The perfect pilot.

She’d been such a little fool.

"Princess Tana," he said, bowing his head. "So you managed to win your wings after all."

She returned a curt nod. "Just in time to shoot down your fellows."

His jaw dropped but what he might of said, she never discovered, for the door flew open and they all spun to find a breathless corporal in the hall. "Captain, they need you in the air. Bombers sighted. Heading this way."

Tana’s heart began to race. "Right. On my way." She turned to Seth and Eirika. "You need to get down to the cellars. Just in case."

She sprinted down the hall and took the stairs two at a time, all but flying out of the manor and across the airfield toward her fighter. The only reason for bombers to be in this area was to try to eliminate Cormag and his plane. They must have discovered somehow that he was being held here.

Her squadron was already preparing for takeoff as she finally reached the line of one-seaters, several already taxiing across the field to turn into the wind. With an easy hop, she was in the cockpit. The familiar but tedious takeoff drill followed as she flicked switches and pressurised the gas tank. When one of mechanics stationed next to the plane decided that the pistons had taken in the necessary gas, he nodded. "Contact, ma’am?"

"Contact," she repeated. She flicked the ignition switch. The mechanic gave the propeller a heave and then leaped out the way. The engine growled to life. It coughed a couple of times, as if it were clearing its throat before a speech, but then the pistons were hitting on the cylinders and the growl became a steady roar. Tana pulled her goggles over her eyes and then her hands settled on the joystick.

The mechanics were pushing against the plane to hold it back, straining against the machine which, like nearly all current models, lacked brakes. Tana throttled down until the engine was emitting a comforting purr. She signalled the mechanics and they began removing the chocks from beneath the wheels. They stepped away and she taxied across field, turning the plane into the wind. Opening the throttle wide, she bumped across the field until the tail rose off the ground and then, with a thrill that never lessened, she felt the plane rise into the air like a winged beast.

Slow circles around the aerodrome allowed her to gain height. The rest of her squadron was doing the same. When they’d reached the proper altitude, they would form up and prepare to take on the enemy fighters that would be escorting the bombers.

Tana glanced at her polished nickel instruments. Height, speed, angle. Everything read as normal as she climbed. It felt good to be in the air. These days, it was the only time she felt good. It was the only place she could forget her gnawing worry. Up here she felt alive, focussed. Her attention was centred on the plane’s controls and the machine gun’s trigger, where her squadmates were and where the enemy was. There was no time to fret about the war or Ephraim or Eirika. Her entire being was focussed on keeping herself aloft and sending her foes crashing to the earth. Purpose filled her when she was airborne like at no other time in her life.

As squadron leader, Syrene took point. The other nine planes formed ranks in a cluster, above and behind her. Tana shuddered as they gained altitude; the air was frigid in spite of her fur cap and long leather coat. Fur-lined gloves saved her fingers, but her chin and cheeks always had to thaw out when she returned to the ground.

They had been flying west for only a few minutes when Tana spotted dark flecks against the pale haze of the sky, slightly below them over a cloudbank. She could not make out the markings on their wings but even so she recognised the silhouettes, the very feel of them: they were enemy machines. And there, yes, in the centre of the group were the larger bombers. With wingspans of over seventy-five feet, more than twice that of the fighters, they were much like the wyverns emblazoned on their hides.

Including the bombers, there were only eight Imperial planes to their ten. Syrene signalled the others, and the squadron moved to engage the enemy. As a group, they descended upon the Imperials, diving like birds of prey.

Tana’s plane roared as she dove towards one of the enemy planes. She was focussed on getting close enough to fire when something shot out of the clouds below, almost under the nose of her fighter–another Imperial plane! She shifted direction to give chase. From the corner of her eye she spotted several more of them darting out of the clouds and breaking off to attack the Frelian machines. Dammit! They’d been using the clouds as cover, hoping to catch her squadron off guard.

Her engines roared as she closed in on the enemy plane. He tried to circle away, but she followed his every move, gaining ground. He was in her sights now, maybe two hundred yards away. She opened fire. Nothing. Damn.

Before she could close again for a second attempt, she heard machine gun fire close by. Glancing over her shoulder to the left, she saw two more dogfights. And more planes a bit below and behind, judging by the stuttering sound of gunfire. The well-ordered formations of both groups had broken into a general melee. Her stomach knotted; where were the bombers?

She spotted one of her wingmates attempting to a evade a trio of machines half a mile away and turned to assist. Her plane tore across the distance in half a minute and she dove at the Imperials, breaking up their pursuit. One of them banked and dove. She followed. They circled each other, rising and falling in an aerial dance.

Machine gun fire rattled close enough to set her nerves jangling and she could see bullet holes in her plane’s wings. But she’d had closer calls than this and no one stayed on her tail for long.

Tana pulled back on the stick until the nose of her plane pointed straight up, the classic first gesture of a loop. Her pursuer shot beneath her, but she did not finish the loop. Instead, the plane stood on its tail for a few moments before she dropped it back and then tipped the stick forward, diving at her would-be pursuer. She opened fire; she was too close now to miss. The Imperial machine plunged, gaining speed. She followed to make certain it would not recover from its dive. After a few moments she pulled up. When she glanced down she could see a flaming wreck on the earth below.

There was no sign of anyone else.

Scanning the skies for the enemy and the rest of her squadron, she spotted a great deal of movement to the west. The battle was getting closer to her aerodrome–that meant the bombers surely were as well. She made several slow circles to gain altitude and turned west.

Tana reached the fray in time to spot one of their planes dive like an eagle and open fire on a bomber–Syrene, Tana was almost certain. The bomber’s nose dipped steeply and in a few seconds it was in freefall, flames trailing from its fuselage like a feathery tail. But where was the other bomber?

Sighting an enemy machine a short distance ahead, Tana angled her wings and pursued. There seemed to be planes everywhere; they moved in and out of her field of vision, sometimes like gnats for their distance, and other times so close she could see the head of the pilot poking out of the cockpit. But these things remained peripheral as she focussed all her attention on the wyvern-marked machine that zoomed in and out of her machine gun sights.

She was closing, almost close enough to open fire, when she realized she had someone on her tail again. Looking over her shoulder, she could see an Imperial plane, its fuselage painted the same gold as the wyvern that roared on its dark blue wings. Her heart lurched. She knew that plane; everyone knew that plane. Valter.

Her hands were already tilting the stick, circling around before she was in his sights. He’d crept up on her from a greater altitude, giving him the advantage of speed and angle. She circled and zigzagged, but every time she checked he was still there.

She saw no help on the way; the rest of her squadron was occupied. In spite of the frigid air, sweat beaded her brow beneath her aviator cap. The newest batch of Imperial planes was known for their manoeuverability. Achaeus was a steady old boy, but not as nimble as Valter’s plane. Banking and circling led to nothing. He was closing. Valter was known for coming in close before he opened fire and few who ever came in his sights lived to tell the tale.

Heart thrumming, hands slick inside her gloves, Tana scanned the skies. There. The low cloudbank to the south. Banking to the left she opened the throttle full and tore towards the clouds. He followed. She didn’t even need to look; she could almost feel his hot breath on her neck.

She swerved, trying to lose him in the clouds, but he was too close now. The rattle of machine gun fire sounded and she felt the plane shudder and then lurch to one side. She tugged on the stick to adjust, but something had been hit. Damn. She could think of only one way out of this now.

Titling the stick up, she dove.

The rush of air in her ears matched the roar of blood pounding in her temples. The earth hurtled towards as she dropped, the fields surrounding her aerodrome, stretched out like a mottled green cloak. She counted under her breath, estimating how long she could maintain the dive without losing control. A quick glance over her shoulder showed that she had gained some distance but it wasn’t enough. Seconds ticked by. Now, it had to be now.

She tugged on the stick to level her dive. "Come one, Achaeus," Tana murmured. She wanted to pat the fuselage as she might a faithful hound or horse, but it took all her strength to pull back on the stick and bring the plane under control. And then she had it. The wings were level again. Something creaked at the back of the fuselage. There was nothing for it; she had to land. Wasting not a single second, she turned towards her aerodrome and aimed for a clear landing area. When she glanced over her shoulder, Valter was circling away. He’d driven her to the ground and would have to be satisfied with that for today.

The landing was a bit bumpy, but finally she coasted to a stop. Pulling off her goggles, she stared up at the sky. A few planes still circled the area, but the fighting had died down. Her chest clenched. Smoke...rising from the area of the aerodrome.

After an inspection of the damage, she decided she would have to walk back. Though she hated to leave her plane, she would need assistance to get it back to the hangar and it looked as though there might be more urgent matters to deal with at the aerodrome. The smell of smoke wafted to her nostrils and she felt heartsick all the time that she walked. The second bomber must have dropped its load.

When she finally reached it, she found the manor in shambles. Cormag’s plane was intact, she realized with a shock, spotting it still whole under the canopy, but Cormag lay on a stretcher, blood smearing his face, a medic crouched next to him looking grim. Seth and Eirika, faces smudged with soot, watched in silence. The medic shook his head. Tana looked away.

You could fly as far as you liked and as high, but eventually you always had to come back down.

The End

[Challenge 24] It's a Trap!

2013-04-21T10:16:36Z

Title: It's a Trap!
Game: FE 8
Word Count: 3430
Characters: Seth, Eirika, Orson
Warnings: Bloody images here and there
A/N: Notes can be found here. And a big thanks to samuraiter for betaing!

Summary: It is Captain Seth's mission to find the missing Adamant and Captain Ephraim, but he only finds a traitor. -- A Nautical AU version of FE: SS Chapter 8.

The coast was eerily quiet. Captain Seth, standing on the quarterdeck of the frigate Valour, let his gaze roam over the coast of Serafew. The Adamant, Captain Ephraim’s ship, had last been seen around there. After the devastating loss of the Renais two weeks ago, the Admiralty had fought over every ship that was loyal to them. It still had been difficult to make them agree to a search mission. They couldn’t risk losing the Adamant, but sending a second ship into enemy-controlled territory when they didn’t even know if the Adamant was still afloat was a folly. Still, Lady Eirika had convinced them and now they were there, beating down the coastline.

The long, thin beach area was deserted; no fishermen from Serafew were bustling on the dozen jetties. The small boats lazily rocked in the calm sea. Squinting his eyes, Seth looked up into the forest. Thanks to the harsh winds, many trees were half-bare. The traitors wouldn’t be able to hide any marines there; they would be an easy target. No, Seth was sure there were ships lying in wait for them in the bays.

He looked up at his sails; no flapping but taut canvas. The breeze was weak but sufficient. His gaze fell to Valour’s main deck. The gun crews were hanging over their cannons, watching the coast passing by. Behind every starboard cannon was standing a midshipman, most of them fretting. Lieutenant Gilliam, an experienced sailor Admiral Hayden had forced on Seth, was pacing up and down the main deck. Most of the middies’ nervousness seemed to come from his grim presence.

A movement on backboard caught Seth’s notice: the men who were not currently working on the sails or the guns were mingling about. Seth frowned deeply. "Lieutenant Franz." The young first lieutenant immediately stepped close.

"Aye, sir?"

"Send these men below deck." Franz followed his gaze to the men.

"Aye, aye, sir." Franz quickly climbed down the ladder to the main deck and Seth returned his gaze to the coast.

They would soon round a spit. It was tall, too high for them to look over it. Serafew was a region characterised by many mountains and the accompanying vales. The foothills of the Borgo Range reached down even until the coastline. Seth gritted his teeth; this was only the first of several spits behind which the traitors could lie in wait. "Lieutenant Vanessa."

"Aye, sir?" She was the other officer Admiral Hayden had given to him; she was as competent as Gilliam, and after losing most of his officers in the battle of the Renais and Grado, Seth was glad that he had not been given the worst of the worst. It was probably not his fame or name that had secured him this favour, though.

"Send someone with good eyes up on the mainmast as high as possible. See if they can see over the spit." Vanessa saluted and left.

Minutes later the reason for the Valour being in the Admiral’s favour climbed on the quarterdeck. "Lady Eirika," Seth greeted her, lifting his hat. She smiled and touched her hand to her head.

"Nothing so far?" She stepped forward next to him. Captain Seth didn’t like her being there; it did no good for the crew’s morale when a lowly surgeon’s mate was allowed to converse with the captain so free and easy, but, in light of the nature of their current mission, he didn’t want to send her back down below deck.

"Nothing." The Valour carefully and slowly wheeled around the spit; Seth still hadn’t heard anything from the lookout. He glanced up the mainmast. There was a sailor sitting on the yard of the topsail, looking towards the land. Five, maybe ten minutes, then they would be around the head of the spit. They could already have one broadside in their side before they could even run out their cannons, should a traitor wait for them. Seth suppressed a sigh and straightened, clasping his hands behind his back.

"I see," Eirika said lowly, and, after staring at the coast for a second, she shook her head. "I’ll go back to my post." A knowing smile played around her lips as she met his gaze for a moment. "Doctor Moulder is waiting for me." Seth only nodded and immediately returned his attention to the coast.

"Coast is clear!" he suddenly heard from the mainmast. He could just prevent himself from relaxing with relief; it would do nobody good if he showed his crew how nervous he was about this mission. They had already lost so many ships to Admiral Vigarde and the Grado. This mission needed to be a success.

They were barely around the spit when the next came into sight. Seth yearned to pace the quarterdeck to relieve some of the stiffness in his legs, but he wouldn’t with so many eyes on him. The call from the lookout had not only roused him but also the gun crews. He could see the men and women looking up at him, wondering what his next move would be.

Captain Seth ignored them as best as he could – he would give them no reason for relaxing or fretting – while he impatiently waited for the next spit to draw close.

In the weak wind, it took them more than an hour until they reached the tongue. Seth ordered the midshipman of the watch to gauge their speed; he might have to suspend the search if they weren’t able to sail down the whole coast before nightfall. While he waited for the results, the lookout of the mainmast called again: "Ship to backboard!"

Seth stepped to the railing, shielding his eyes against the light reflecting from the water. There was indeed a ship sailing towards them, not from the land but from the sea. Frowning, Seth put his telescope to his eye. "The Faithful," he whispered to himself. Unbelieving, he lowered the telescope. Only seconds after the news had been carried through the whole ship, Eirika appeared next to him.

"Is it Ephraim?" she asked breathlessly.

"No, it’s Captain Orson."

"Captain Orson? He must know where my brother is. He was positioned next to the Adamant." Seth nodded slowly. He didn’t like it.

"Course towards the Faithful. Get in the mainsail!" As the Valour slowed and turned, Captain Seth watched the Faithful. There were men bustling about on the main deck, as expected, and Captain Orson was standing on the quarterdeck. Seth couldn’t see it clearly through his telescope, but the man looked terribly thin and sick. He checked the Faithful for signs of repair; his frown deepened when he found none. It was impossible that the Faithful should’ve been able to flee the battle of the two admirals without being hit, nor was it possible that she had been repaired that perfectly. It had been only two weeks; there were no odd-looking planks covering holes and the paint was still perfectly complete. They couldn’t have made port anywhere, not when most of the port cities around Serafew and Renvall were in the traitors’ hands.

With a snap, Seth shut his telescope. "Lieutenant Franz?" The officer stepped forward; his expression openly showed his relief at the sight of their perceived ally. "Tell the men to inconspicuously man the backboard guns. Do not run them out yet."

"S-sir?" The young man looked at him with big eyes. Seth frowned darkly at him. "I’m sorry, sir," he saluted curtly, expression sheepish, "I will do so at once." As Franz hurried down the ladder, Seth shook his head.

After twenty minutes, the two ships laid alongside. Eirika had come on deck again and was a step behind Seth as he stood at the railing, waiting for Orson to come into speaking range. Faithful’s deck and masts were looking clean and new as well. Seth could not keep his doubt at bay any more; something was very wrong.

"Captain Seth, Lady Eirika!" Seth snapped to attention. Captain Orson was walking towards them; he looked changed. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes hidden so far in their sockets that they were barely more than two dark holes. His skin was grey under his sunburn. His uniform was clean and impeccable, but his hair glinted oily.

"Captain Orson, it’s a delightful surprise to see you," Seth said pleasantly and touched his hat to him. The gesture was returned. "We feared you had fallen alongside the Renais." Captain Orson shook his head and smiled tiredly.

"We followed the Adamant. She was surrounded by four ships and couldn’t have freed herself on her own. While we distracted one of them, Captain Ephraim sank one of the remaining three and then fled. The two ships followed him. They continued their fight the whole time and the Adamant was heavily damaged. We couldn’t let her go alone."

"Do you know if Ephraim is still alive?" Eirika asked. Seth bit back a reprimand, since he could use the distraction. His gaze flickered over the Faithful, searching for any sign of betrayal.

"We’ve lost the Adamant at Renvall Bay. We’ve been searching for her for a week now. I assume you’re here to do the same?"

"Yes."

There! Out of the corners of his eyes, Seth had seen movement on Faithful’s gun deck: the flap of one gun port had opened. Nobody would be down there at the flap if they didn’t wait for the order to shoot. Goddess bless impatient and stupid sailors.

"We are." Seth returned to the conversation while dread filled the back of his mind. He threw a sharp glance at his First Lieutenant. Franz noticed his gaze, but didn’t seem to understand him. "Have you any hints to her whereabouts?"

"I fear not," Orson answered, his expression concerned. Disgust gathered in Seth’s stomach. How the traitor could act so calmly when he was about to betray them as well. "But I have heard something."

"Oh?" Seth raised one eyebrow while inconspicuously watching the Faithful’s gun ports.

"Yes, I’ve heard that Admiral Vigarde is not only trying to destroy the Admiralty and the line, but is also searching for two bracelets."

"Bracelets?" Seth asked genuinely surprised. Eirika mirrored his feelings.

"Yes, bracelets that Lady Eirika and Captain Ephraim are supposed to possess." Captain Orson threw a glance at Eirika that sent cold shivers down Seth’s back. Greed, the basest greed he had ever seen, was lurking behind the fake worry; she didn’t see it because she didn’t know him as well as Seth. Instinctively, Seth stepped forward, between Orson and Eirika.

"Why?" he asked simply, staring down at the smaller captain.

"I don’t know," Orson answered, his tone slightly changed. Guarded or distrustful. "I only know the admiral wants the bracelets and will hunt whoever has them."

"But…" Seth glanced over his shoulder at Eirika. She was clutching the thin, golden bracelet against her wrist. "But why? They’re just bracelets. They’re nothing special."

"It doesn’t matter why," Orson said, trying to look around Seth, "it only matters that he will come after you. We need to hide the bracelet in a safe place." The hairs on Seth’s neck stood on end. "Or give it to someone whose death wouldn’t be as harshly felt as yours. Give it to Seth or me."

"Enough." Seth’s voice was calm and low and seemed to cut the air like soft butter. He couldn’t hold back a glare now; Captain Orson stiffened and finally directed his full attention at Seth. "You will neither get the bracelet nor our lives."

"Seth?" Eirika asked, confused.

"You are a traitor." Orson didn’t even have the decency to flinch.

"What are you talking about?" Eirika asked, her gaze flickering between Seth and Orson.

"Or a coward, whichever you like better." Orson smiled condescendingly and shook his head.

"You wouldn’t understand, Seth. You’ve never lost something that is worth more than your own life."

"And the life of hundreds of sailors, it seems." A dark melancholy seemed to flickered over Orson’s face before his expression grew oddly blank.

"Fire!" Orson yelled and the gun ports beneath his feet collectively snapped open.

"Guns out!" Seth yelled at almost the same time. Thunder rolled through both ships as the heavy cannons were moved. Almost simultaneously, the ships recoiled from the force of firing a full broadside. At the same time, their sides burst into a rain of splinters. Smoke burned in their eyes, screams deafened their ears. "Heave to!" Seth yelled over the noises.

Thanks to strict drills and years of discipline, Seth’s men immediately went to work. The main and mizzen sails fell, slowly filling in the light wind. The guns roared again, the ships recoiled and the Valour began to creep forward. Seth hastened back up on the quarterdeck. "Heave to as soon as we can get behind her," he called towards the sailing master. The Faithful moved as well, twisting away her rear; Orson had expected that move. It didn’t bother Seth because that would still buy them time, and they were not in reach of a full broadside.

"Capt’n, Capt’n," somebody suddenly yelled. Seth reluctantly ripped his gaze away from the traitor ship. His blood froze when he saw what his men saw. Three ships were coming around the spit; a two-decked man of war, judging from the cut of the sails made in Carcino, and two frigates. And the Valour was caught between them.

"Get out the tops’ls," he yelled up at the men in the rigging. "To the sea," he said over his shoulder to the sailing master. They would be dead if they let themselves be surrounded.

Painfully slowly, the topsails fell and filled out in the wind. Even more slowly, the Valour completed her turn and crept towards the open sea. The Faithful was close and Seth could see her forward guns aiming for his ship. Orson moved to his backboard side. Seth looked over to the newcomers; he cursed inwardly when he saw that they were already splitting up. One of the frigates was hurrying towards them, probably intending to cut off their escape route. The slower man-of-war moved to Valour’s stern.

"Captain, sir!" Franz was suddenly standing next to Seth. "One gun is lost, sir. The carriage was broken." Seth set his mouth in a grim line.

"Any other damage?"

"Not yet, sir." Seth nodded, which Franz correctly interpreted as a dismissal. Seth raised his eyes to his sails; they were starting to flap. The wind was easing up. He looked over his shoulder; the Faithful was struggling as well. The newcomers, however, were still racing towards them. The wind had turned to their favour.

"Man all cannons!" Seth called. There was no way they would get away, not against four former ships of the line. They wouldn’t give up without a fight, though. The men poured out of the lower deck and the starboard guns were run out. Seth took a deep breath to clear his head.

"Heave to." The sailing master seemed to hesitate for a second, but did as he was told. The frigate which was destined to stay on their starboard side was still too far away, as was the man-of-war. But the Faithful and the other frigate were close. Valour slowly turned, her sails fluttering, but Seth knew they could still return to their old course with the help of their jibs.

"Aim carefully!" he called as he watched the men of the Faithful prepare their guns as well. "Fire at will!" As soon as the words fell from his lips, the first cannons roared. The cannonballs were far too low; they sank into the depths of the sea a good ten metres from the Faithful. "I said ’aim carefully’!" Seth yelled angrily. He wondered briefly if they wanted to die early so that they wouldn’t have to do that much work any more.

The next round hit home. The cannonballs buried themselves deep into the Faithful’s sides. "Aim for the masts!" Seth said after he saw just how little damage his guns caused. Only a lucky hit would sink the Faithful and they were painfully out of luck; they needed to incapacitate her.

Suddenly, his starboard guns roared. The frigate had come upon them and fired a broadside at the Valour as they moved towards her hull. Seth cursed inwardly again.

Minutes seemed to stretch into hours as Seth watched their certain death encircle them; the Valour valiantly tried to push back her enemies, but it seemed like she did little more damage than a toddler’s fists did to an adult. And yet, it felt like only seconds had passed between the first sighting of the traitors and the death lock the Valour was now caught in. Seth gritted his teeth painfully as four broadsides crashed into his ship; his ears rang from the sound of more than two dozen guns firing at once, the breaking of wood and the blood-curdling screams of his men as they were torn into little pieces by the cannonballs.

There was nothing they could do; most of their guns were destroyed. The first salvo had killed most of the men on the main deck. Seth knew that Valour’s guns were still firing if they could but there was no hope.

And yet.

Suddenly the mainmast of the man-of-war fell. Seth could almost not believe his eyes. There was confusion on the ship’s main and quarterdeck. The man-of-war stopped in their assault for a second. Then Seth saw her: a three-decked man-of-war, her sails billowing as she rounded the traitor and all her guns were out and firing. Seth felt the urge to rub his eyes to make sure the smoke wasn’t making him see things that weren’t there. The man-of-war didn’t disappear, though, and then he saw the ensign on her hull. Seth wanted to cheer: it was the Adamant.

The traitors were confused and the Faithful was turning. "Jibs out!" Seth called immediately. "Get us out of here!" He grabbed the steering wheel and threw it around after noticing pieces of his sailing master to his feet. The Valour swung around very slowly, her planks groaning like a hundred-year-old. Her guns were still giving as best as they could.

A sudden cheer from his men brought Seth’s attention back to them for a second. The second frigate’s mainmast was falling; someone was a lucky shot. Hope was returning to Seth; maybe they would not die today.

Suddenly, there was a crash so loud that Seth’s eardrums almost ripped. A shock wave slapped against his back and blew his hat off his head. He whirled around when the noise had subsided. The man-of-war in their back was gone; wooden splinters rained down into the water, pieces of the keel floating on the waves and burning scrapes of canvas dancing in the air. Seth swallowed hard; even if they were enemies, the destruction of a ship by a hit in their powder stores sent a cold shiver over every captain’s back.

Only the Faithful and one frigate were left, and the Adamant was already taking on the frigate. "Clear away the debris!" Seth called to his men. With only two enemies left, they could join the fight again. They had lost half of their guns, but the Valour was still afloat so she could fight. And Seth still had some unfinished business with Captain Orson.

Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Seth turned to check Faithful’s position. His mouth almost fell open in disbelief: the Faithful was turning to flee. Now that her allies were beaten, she was running like a coward. Seth gritted his teeth and want to throw around the steering wheel to follow her, hunt her like game, but reason intercepted.

It would be madness; even though this was not the worst damage the Valour had ever received, she was still in no shape for a pursuit. Instead, he heaved to; the remaining frigate had given up, a white flag fluttering on her stern. He saw men from the Adamant boarding the traitor. The other frigate was also still lying motionlessly to Valour’s backboard; she would be soon taken over as well.

"Clean up the deck," Seth said to Lieutenant Franz, whose face was blackened from the smoke. The young man saluted, his hands trembling lightly. After Franz had left, Seth positioned someone at the steering wheel. He grabbed his telescope and looked towards the Adamant. There, on her quarterdeck, Seth saw the familiar figure of Captain Ephraim, alive and well.

Maybe hope wasn’t completely lost yet.

Challenge 024: Alternative Universe

2013-03-18T03:34:29Z

OK, all.

For the next round, queenlua has given us the AU Challenge. Says Lua, "Throw FE characters into a zombiepocalypse, a high school prom, a magical girl anime, the trenches of World War I—anything goes so long as it's different from the world we usually see them in. Have fun with it :D"

Length should be 1K-5K words; that's a little long, but if you're into it, develop this sucker.

Entries are due at 1159 EDT on Saturday, April 27th. As always, feel free to ask for an extension. We want you to have some serious fun with this one.

Challenge 023: Winners!

2013-03-04T11:23:39Z

Hello again, everyone.

The winner of our first-ever visual prompt was "Kingdom of Earth" by queenlua!

Lua, please PM me or starlitlady with the prompt for the next round. In the meantime, we'll be looking into the pros and cons of moving this comm to Dreamwidth. Stay tuned!

Challenge 023: Voting

2013-02-18T04:18:16Z

Looks like that visual challenge was more, ah, challenging than usual. Our extension-requesters have agreed to cede, and while we always want as many entries as possible, we've accepted that this'll be a two-choice battle this time.

PLEASE READ THE RULES CAREFULLY

Please vote for TWO entries - no more or less - using the correct letter, title, and author, and comment here with your choices. Votes are screened. Only members and watchers may vote. Everyone who submitted an entry should also feel free to vote!

Example vote:
1st - B, title, Author
2nd - A, title, Author

Winners will be determined on a "points" scale.

2nd place - 2 points
1st place - 3 points

And the person with the most points after the voting is tallied wins!

The entries:

A: "Continuum" by shining_valor

B: "Kingdom of Earth" by queenlua

Deadline EXTENSION, Once Again

2013-02-10T13:11:39Z

Argh. Two people request an extension before yesterday at midnight, and I couldn't post because LJ was being weird. I see some of you have met the deadline, and I'm sorry if you felt rushed because of it. (Frankly, if we could only move this comm to DW it'd be a nicer world in my opinion).

The new-new deadline is this upcoming Saturday, 2/16, at midnight. If those of you who posted last night would like some time to edit or revamp, I'd be fine with that-- it wasn't your fault you didn't know about the extension request.

Thanks for your patience, guys!

[Challenge 023: Image Prompt] Kingdom of Earth

2013-02-10T02:09:30Z

Title: Kingdom of Earth
Game: FE9/10
Word Count: 1,636
Characters: Naesala, an OC
Warnings: I interpreted the prompt as looking sort of like tendons/flesh/veins/innards/etc—so if you're super-sensitive to gore, may not want to read.
Summary: After attacking the Phoenician homeland, Naesala retreats—and reflects. Set during FE10.
Notes: FFN mirror is here.

The deer wasn't a bad find, by any means. Hell, if he'd been a bit younger and in less of a foul mood, he may well have been pleased. The doe couldn't have been dead for more than a few hours—enough time for the blowflies to find it and for the maggots to start crawling, but still hours before the carrion beetles would start wriggling their way inside. He preferred the texture of fly-eggs and maggots to the stiff, bitter-shelled beetles, and he much preferred carrion to the bother of trying to hunt down a deer with his own talons.

Still—though the flesh was still soft, it had just been so long since he'd had to feed out in the wild. Years of schmoozing with Begnion nobles and being seated upon the throne, it seemed, had made his palate go soft.

A faint, ancient admonition of Tibarn's echoed in his mind: let yourself get coddled too much and you'll become useless as the beorc. At the time Naesala had laughed at Tibarn's reverence for the old ways; now, he frowned.

Ah well. Flipping the deer on its back, Naesala sprawled its legs flat and jabbed sharply into its neck. Then he scraped around the puncture, pulling and stabbing and peeling—worrying the wound open and revealing the dark flesh beneath. At some point he grazed the windpipe, tore it—and as he scraped across the skin he could feel it flay in his beak like shaved salami.

Once he'd thoroughly opened up the little gash, he hooked his beak around a fur-coated skin-flap at the puncture's edge and pulled it backward—a jerky, ragged, messy business. The torn bit of skin widened as he pulled it down past the deer's shoulder; by the time it reached the stomach Naesala was no longer pulling, but instead began tearing at the tough fleshy tendrils that bound fur to skin, until nearly the whole side and stomach was laid bare and furless.

Then, at last, he drew a set of talons down the center of its chest; as he jerked down through the flesh, the deer tipped onto its side, spilling its innards. The intestines pooled at his feet, a gray twisted snarl.

Good. Naesala lowered his head to eat, but just as he did so, a sudden sweep of shadow caught his eye. Jerking his head up from the carcass, he twisted around to survey the area—eating out in the open like this, old instincts were strong, and he bristled his feathers in anticipation of a rival. Some upstart raven, maybe, or a wild mountain-cougar. When he glanced up, however, he saw only the ragged silhouette of Nikolias, scrappiest of all his attendants.

Naesala sighed, seeing how cluelessly the raven seemed to be circling in the sky—Nikolias had a mind sharp as flint, Naesala knew, but his street-sense and talon-strength left something to be desired. Kilvas's old king never would've paid any mind someone like him, but Naesala had taken special interest in the boy—particularly after the raven's knack for tactics had helped them weave their way out of a jam off the west coast of Begnion a few years prior. The old way of letting raw muscle rule the roost had to come to an end, Naesala had decided; it was not Begnion's muscle but their trickery and wit that had gotten Kilvas ensnared by the damned blood pact. The cunning beorc nobles may be able to try something like that on meatheads like Kalik or Salir—but not a cautious, clever mind like Nikolias's. Naesala hoped, at least.

Either because Naesala was suddenly in an indulgent mood, or perhaps because the raven's appearance had given him a strange stab of loneliness, Naesala gave a sharp caw—come down here—toward the smaller raven's shadow. Nikolias turned mid-flight, quick and obedient, and as he spiraled down Naesala edged to the right, giving the younger raven a place to crouch by the deer's upper flank.

As the raven landed, Naesala was busily nibbling away at a particularly fat bit of intestine. Nikolias stood still for a moment, expecting Naesala to address him—customarily the king ate alone, and he did not recognize this invitation for what it was until a few moments later. Once Nikolias understood, however, he joined the meal in silence—eating with small, tentative pecks, digging at scraps of muscle that were bound to the body by only a few thin tendons, or plying away bits of membrane to snatch the tenderness beneath. Naesala, by contrast, was ravenous—once he'd tired of intestine he began digging into the tougher parts of the carcass—spitting fur, scraping his beak down bones, wrenching chunks of the shoulder-meat away with such force that sometimes he yanked the whole carcass with it.

After a few minutes of tentative pecking, Nikolias stopped eating altogether; for a moment he just stood hunched over deer-flank. Then, with a small sigh, he shook his head, stepped backwards, and shifted human. For a moment his face scrunched up in disgust; human-noses were more sensitive to the stench of rot than raven-beaks, and the impulse to retch was strong. But he regained himself, swallowing: "My king, might I ask a question?"

Naesala tilted his head back slightly, indicating that he was listening, but didn't stop digging into the carcass.

"It's Lekain." Ah. That. Nikolias's stance was small and uncertain. "I know our arrangement with him is profitable, but I—I'm just not sure if—I mean, this attack was an awfully bold move, and… I don't think I fully understand it."

Still raven-shaped, Naesala spat out a bit of flesh and fixed Nikolias with a glare—both curious and critical. For a moment Nikolias balked, but Naesala's posture was encouraging in its own sharp way.

"I don't care for Tibarn or his hawks, particularly," Nikolias continued, "and ordinarily I'd have been glad to press our advantage. But the time wasn't ripe, and this was… too much. Inelegant. And Lekain." He scowled. "Lekain, he's useful, but he's no ally."

Naesala snorted. No ally—an understatement, even moreso than poor Niko knew. At the wild whim of that senator, they'd been sent halfway across a country and over an ocean against the hawks—and the hawks, though ambushed, did not go quietly; a fifth of Naesala's own number was struck down. Afterwards they'd flown night and day in retreat, nearly nonstop—had to keep from getting caught by Tibarn's band, who surely would be at their failteathers soon—had to beg Begnion for sanctuary. In Lekain's manor, Naesala had dropped a handful of hawk-beaks in front of the senator as evidence of the deed and fought against the dizziness and the bleariness that came from those nights of sleeplessness; Lekain did not offer a seat.

And what had they gotten in return? A laugh, as Lekain picked up one of the hawk-beaks and stroked it with his hand, holding it way one might hold a particularly intriguing antique, and asked about the differences between hawk-beaks and raven-beaks—holding the hawk-beak near Naesala's face—what does that King Tibarn's beak look like, I wonder? Then Lekain had told him the manor was too full to accommodate them that night (despite the obvious lack of other guests), and mildly suggested that they ought to find a place to rest somewhere out there (gesturing toward the field where the cattle and goats slept). And so here they were, feasting on dead deer they'd scrounged for in the hills outside the manor, readying themselves to find someplace to roost for the night. Maybe he ought to just count it fortunate that Lekain hadn't tethered them all to stakes in his manor—though that'd nearly amount to the same thing.

With a sigh, Naesala shifted human at last. Unlike Nikolias, he did not scowl or gag when the rotting deer-flesh scent struck him. "Your concerns are well-placed. They are also accounted for." Naesala gave his attendant a deliberate look—cutting, probing. "I'm sure you understand."

A pause. "Of course," Nikolias answered, though his voice was uncertain.

Naesala didn't bother clarifying. Turning back to the carcass, he saw that Nikolias's half was still barely picked at. "Weren't you hungry, Nikolias?"

Nikolias scrunched his nose up all over again, following Naesala's gaze. "I'd… I'd rather not. It's… It's beneath us."

Nikolias had eaten so stiffly and daintily that after shifting to human form, he was spotless. Naesala hadn't been half so careful—he stood with smears of blood on his cheeks, stood in boots soaked with guts and grime, stood with the faint stench of rot clinging to him.

"You say this is beneath you, Nikolias?" Naesala asked.

Nikolias lowered his head and started stammering out something insensible, sensing the darkness underlying Naesala's tone—sensing how Naesala was bristling. Naesala, standing soaked in the guts of what little profit he'd managed to wring out of Lekain, suddenly had very little patience for overcautious runty hatchlings, and it struck him how very much Nikolias's square jaw and beady little eyes reminded him of so many of Begnion's senators.

Naesala shifted raven on impulse—whether out of anger or annoyance, he wasn't sure. Nikolias balked, staggered backwards, turned around, and shifted; two seconds later he was raven-shaped and flapping away, cawing weakly as he did so.

Cowardly runt. Naesala watched until the raven's silhouette disappeared into the trees, then turned once more to the deer. He'd picked out all the juiciest bits but there was still plenty of meat left. He wasn't hungry anymore, but he kept at it, gnawing the flesh down to the bone out of spite.

fe_contest @ 2013-02-09T20:35:00

2013-02-10T01:35:58Z

fe_contest challenge 023: Image challenge
Title: Continuum
Game: FE7 and FE:Awakening mentioned
Words: 670ish
Rating: T
Pairings/Characters: Canas, MUnit/Tactician(Awakening), Chrom, Lissa.

“We are all of us connected. Fated lines drawn together, worlds spun about a fate that none could choose. Based upon the whim of some outside force, whether divine or demonic we cannot tell…”

~9~

Fic can be found here in my journal.

Challenge 023: Deadline Extension

2013-01-25T23:41:08Z

All right. We've had a couple of requests for a little more time for this prompt, so the new deadline will be February 9th at 1159 EST.

Happy Writing!

Challenge 023: Reminder!

2013-01-21T14:14:22Z

Hey, all--

Remember the due date for the current challenge is this upcoming Saturday, January 26th, at 2359 hrs EST.

If you need an extension, don't hesitate to ask me or starlitlady!

-- Mark

Challenge 023: Image Prompt

2012-12-16T18:56:29Z

OK! amielleon has give us something a little different: an image prompt. (Link is totally SFW.)

"Whatever this image says to you," she says.

(Credit: http://fractalangel-stock.deviantart.com/art/Roots-stock-46094515 But don't limit yourself to its title -- "[this picture] is a wonderful stock fractal that I have seen used as a texture, roots and even hair.")

Since this is a different sort of challenge, let's be lenient with the word requirements: 500 word minimum and 5,000 word maximum.

Entries will be due on January 26, 2013, at 1159 PM EST. Happy writing!

Challenge 022: Winners!

2012-12-14T01:33:50Z

Ook. Sorry for the delay, all, but real life got hairy this week.

Anyway, coming in at third place is a tie between "Last Chances" by blankspectrum and "Provincial Life" by aviatrix8.

At second place, we have "Every Little Thing" by queenlua.

And our winning entry is "In The City" by amielleon!

Congratulations to all our winners! Ammie, please IM me or starlitlady with the prompt for Challenge 023.

[PS: Wow, this new LJ interface is gross.]

Challenge 022: Voting!

2012-11-28T15:40:00Z

OK. Voting is now open for Challenge 022!

PLEASE READ THE RULES CAREFULLY

Please vote for THREE entries - no more or less - using the correct letter, title, and author, and comment here with your choices. Votes are screened. Only members and watchers may vote. Everyone who submitted an entry should also feel free to vote!

Example vote:
1st - B, title, Author
2nd - A, title, Author
3rd - D, title, Author

Winners will be determined on a "points" scale.

3rd place - 1 point
2nd place - 2 points
1st place - 3 points

And the person with the most points after the voting is tallied wins!

The entries:

A) "This Is It" by wizzrobes
B) "Franz-al Destination" by samuraiter
C) "Every Little Thing" by queenlua
D) "Prodigal" by raphiael
E) "In The City" by amielleon
F) "Provincial Life" by aviatrix8
G) "Last Chances" by blankspectrum

Voting will end on December 8th at 11:59 EDT. Winners will be posted the next day.

Challenge 022: Submissions closed

2012-11-26T23:16:13Z

All right!

It's well past midnight on Saturday and the submission window is officially closed. Expect a voting post soon. :)

[Challenge 022] Last Chances

2012-11-25T12:09:08Z

Title: Last Chances
Game: FE4
Word Count: 499, according to this.
Pairings/Characters: Sylvia, with brief implications of Levin.
Warnings: Implied (non-graphic) references to physical abuse.
Notes: This is unbetaed (and I'm still pretty uncertain about... the whole thing, really) so I apologize if the fic is affected negatively by that to a great degree. I'm also sorry this is a bit late. I had every intention of publishing it earlier but it's been an unexpectedly hectic week and I seem to have come down with a cold over the past few days... Either way, I totally understand if it's too late to qualify for voting.

FFN link: You said the town life's not for me/It wasn't big enough for who I'm meant to be.

Deadline EXTENSION, Challenge 022

2012-11-17T04:45:17Z

All right! We have a number of entries already, but more is always merrier, and we received a request for an extension tonight. The deadline for Challenge 022 is being pushed back one week, to 11:59 PM on Saturday the 24th of November (EST).

Keep 'em coming, folks!