016 » it's a shot in the dark but i'll make it

[lugria]

( continued from here! )



[mornings, in ramza's camp, move both early and sluggish.

as dashing and heroic as it would be to simply run off to zeltennia, a party of roughly twenty men and women can do no such thing. a few well-trained soldiers rise before the crack of dawn; the others wake as the sky brightens, or else, because the sound and chatter of those that are packing to leave become impossible to ignore.

ramza and agrias are two of the precious few "heretics" that are up before sunrise, and they set to work immediately, with little conversation to spare. armor has to be put on, strapped, buckled; blankets must be packed, tents folded into canvas squares. ladd and mustadio join in the morning chores a bit later, taking stock of the party's food and water; rapha and marach, more keenly trained, work at concealing all traces of their tents and campfires in case anyone may be following their trail. alicia and lavian, the sentries from last night, are apparently being rewarded with the privilege of napping astride the pack chocobos while the others saddle the birds up with luggage and gear.

it's only later — when almost everything has been done, and the group is mostly waiting on some fastidious healers who insisted on washing themselves of last night's dirt in a nearby stream — that ramza realizes he hasn't yet seen the group's wayward knight templar, and raises his voice in the middle of camp.]

Isilud?

Comments

[lugria]

[boco gives isilud the most unimpressed side-eye glance, as he fluffs himself ever larger and settles down upon ramza even more firmly (ramza makes highly undignified squeaks, muffled by the fact that he is face-first against the ground).

apparently it is simply a test. when isilud does not falter, eventually, boco relents, standing once more at his full height and allowing ramza the room to breathe; while ramza rolls himself into a more comfortable position, boco nuzzles into isilud's hand, surprisingly affectionate for the disgruntled murder-bird he'd been only moments prior.

melodramatically, ramza sighs, still lying prone on the forest floor:]

Ah, I yet live...

[isilud]

[ Isilud allows himself laughter, rubbing his thumb over the side of Boco's head, reaching up with his free hand to give the bird's flank an approving pat for his cooperation. For a moment, that moment filled with Boco's defiance and Ramza's muffled protests, he'd doubted his approach. ]

There... And now, your breakfast and your friends await, Boco!

[ But Isilud stands over Ramza first, stooping, his hand extended to help the young man to his feet. A few downy tufts of feather adorn Ramza's hair, and an imprint of the grass marks his cheek. No thought goes into Isilud's actions; reflexively, instinctively, his fingers brush through Ramza's hair, dusting him down. Boco's shed feathers flutter to the ground. ]

You seem accustomed to Boco's... [ Broody moments? Capers? ] ... Care.

[lugria]

[apparently fully awake from the morning's antics, boco obediently struts off to join his fellow chocobos at the stream, yellow tailfeathers swaying in the breeze.

ramza, for his part, takes isilud's hand and climbs to his feet, brushing feathers and pieces of grass off his tunic and his pants. ramza's resemblance to one of boco's chicks is perhaps more than skin deep, though; like the bird, he half-nuzzles into isilud's hand, or at least he sort of tilts his head into it, and only pulls back when the last of the feathers are brushed from his hair.]

That I may be, but this is the first time he's sat upon me... Perhaps he truly has mistaken me for a chocobo chick?

[or, assuming that chocobos can understand human speech, the bird was merely made upset by the mention of wiegraf — but ramza's not sure he wants to entertain that possibility.]

But, look — he has graced us with his mysterious eggs once more! A breakfast fit for kings — provided you don't burn anything. [a cheeky grin punctuates ramza's remark, as he bends over to gather the eggs. (at the very least, boco doesn't seem to have any attachment to them.)]

[isilud]

[ Isilud's face takes on a look of utmost concentration until he has combed every feather free and smoothed Ramza's hair back into place. His fingers carry out their work carefully, gentle so as not to pull at the strands. There is that stubborn curl at the crown of Ramza's head, of course, which no amount of smoothing will tame — it springs back as soon as Isilud's thumb releases it.

It is then that awareness sets in: no feathers remain to be removed and Ramza's hair is no longer rumpled. Isilud's hand hovers above it, then lowers as Ramza leans away. ]

You've the hair for it...

[ Fine and fair, soft like the fluffy down of chocobo hatchlings; so he teases, collecting the rest of Boco's truly mysterious eggs in his arms before he pauses, appraising them. ]

I promised you scrambled eggs, not charred, and scrambled eggs I will deliver — may Boco forgive us. [ A pensive shadow crosses his face. ] ... He was Wiegraf's mount?

[lugria]

[ramza hesitates, only slightly, before he answers.]

He was, though not while you knew the man. Wiegraf abandoned him after the Corpse Brigade was routed, quite some time ago.

[for a moment ramza wonders if he should mention what hand he had in crushing the corpse brigade's last stand — but in the end he decides it's irrelevant. isilud no doubt has heard something of the tale, of how the order of the northern sky retaliated, and fort ziekden burst into flames.]

Lady Agrias and I found Boco in the Araguay Woods not long after Princess Ovelia was first abducted. I suspect Boco picked up his bad habits while he was on his own. Were it not for the tattered remains of Wiegraf's colors upon him, I would have never known him for a trained mount among wild birds.

[isilud]

I did not think you— [ The sort to steal another man's chocobo? The words, blurted, cut off suddenly; Isilud recalls accusing Ramza of murder committed for the Stones. He remembers the priests at Orbonne, their pleas silenced.

This is a pointless trail to take. The past is done. ]

... I only struggled to imagine Boco seating himself upon Wiegraf.

[ But then, he barely knew Wiegraf. He knew of Wiegraf, knew his ideals and his strength, all of which made the man a valuable ally to the Church. He knew less of Wiegraf's ghosts and nothing to suggest that Wiegraf wanted his fate, host to a demon, his memory stained. ]

He must have spent months in the company of wild chocobos and fancies himself his own master.

[ Eggs in hand, Isilud turns to lead the way back to their camp proper, to light a fire and devote the coming minutes to following Ramza's recipe, away from his thoughts of Wiegraf's end and inevitably his father's. ]

[lugria]

No, I imagine Wiegraf would not have tolerated such disrespect.

[is it right, for ramza to speak of wiegraf as though they were once friends? what right has ramza to speak of those men who once had lofty goals, who turned to terrorism in their desperation?

but then — but then, he did know wiegraf, and milleuda as well, knew what they wanted even if he did not fully understand. it would be worse to pretend that he did not.]

...He was a different man in those days — and Boco was a rather different bird.

[on that wistful note, ramza takes up his own share of the eggs, and carefully retraces isilud's steps.

the camp is still quiet, though some of their companions are beginning to stir from light slumber; mustadio, at least, is lumbering off to the stream to wash up with the chocobos. the galthena siblings have been awake the whole morning, and already have their bags packed; oddly enough, both raise their brows at the two men as they return, but rapha smiles, while marach scowls.

ramza, cautiously, chooses the most careful turn of phrase available to him. "is... everything all right?"

"oh — yes, i think so," is rapha's mysterious reply. "i think so indeed."

the blond opens his mouth, presumably to reply — then thinks better of it, and excuses himself. there will be time to speak with rapha in private, later.

ramza joins isilud by the fire, and relays to him the gollund innkeeper's recipe — substituting, of course, butter for cooking oil, which they do have. the woman had sworn that the consistency of her eggs depended on a particular folding method...]

[isilud]

[ Marach's surliness and Rapha's knowing smile are questions to leave aside for another time, like the talk of Wiegraf's past. On his knees facing the fire-pit, Isilud is quick to build the cooking fire from the previous night's excess tinder and kindling, and to fashion a makeshift stand to support the skillet. The recipe's steps are simple, perhaps deceptively so, though scrambled eggs are hardly a dish that requires years of experience to prepare well. Crack the eggs open, stir all the ingredients together, pour the mixture into the heated skillet — and rely upon the innkeeper's guidance to fold it into curds.

Indeed simple enough, but Isilud takes greater care in scrambling these eggs than he has ever exercised before, the handful of times that called for plain meals cooked by his hand. The promise of a warm breakfast wafts through the air, soon drawing their waking companions closer, no doubt in part because of the scene itself.

Mustadio returns from his washing up with an odd, faraway look on his face, which vanishes to make room for interest as he sights Ramza and Isilud and heads over in time for Isilud to take the skillet from the fire and offer it to Ramza first, to do the honours of sampling the eggs. ]

[lugria]

[if mustadio wears interest in his expression, ramza wears delight.

it's a funny sight, really: ramza beoulve, wanted criminal, charged with inexpiable heresy and murder and still worse — ramza beoulve having freshly-laid (?) chocobo eggs for breakfast. dining utensils produced from one of the group's many voluminous bags enable the young man to take a dainty forkful of scrambled eggs and lift it to his lips. he chews. he swallows. he smiles.]

Delicious. [he takes another forkful, and contemplates it as it melts in his mouth.] Truly divine, Isilud. Would that you could make all our meals so fine.

[with that said, ramza waves mustadio over, looking as gleeful as if mustadio had brought him another cold glass of milk.] Mustadio! Our skillet has been put to good use. Would you like some?

[isilud]

Would that I could...

[ Isilud agrees with a laugh. It was never a goal of his to perfect his skills in the kitchen, but Ramza's praise is enough to make him wish for a wider selection of recipes to choose from, if only to see more of the same reaction. Ramza grew up wanting for nothing, surely. Servants prepared the majority of his meals for their living, and hunger would have been unknown to him — and yet he radiates delight over milk and over scrambled eggs, no particularly fine fare.

The reaction is a novelty, which may explain the rush it brings, this sense of having accomplished some incredible feat, akin to the day that Isilud was made a Templar, or the day that saw Pisces entrusted to him.

"Were these Boco's?" Mustadio asks, taking up a fork for himself and poking it into the gently steaming mass of cooked egg before him. The forkful disappears in his mouth and his eyes widen in astonished approval. "Our skillet and Isilud's hands! I'd almost think that we were back at Gollund's inn."

Over breakfast, Mustadio learns of the day's plans, and not long afterward, he and Isilud are ready to set out, travelling lighter than the rest of their company. With a final promise to meet at Bervenia's eastern gates, they depart for the city. ]

[lugria]

[with the sun and the skies for a pocket-watch, ramza puts the time at seven or eight in the morning by the time mustadio and isilud leave for bervenia.

it is still early, and there are still things to do. enough people were roused by the sounds of a crackling fire that ramza finds himself scrambling a second helping of eggs, to be equally shared among the late-wakers. when at last the eggs are exhausted and the fire is put out, the beoulve returns to the business of tending to the chocobos, taking them from the stream to be saddled and inspected for good health. boco is unusually affectionate, perhaps in an effort to make up for sitting on ramza earlier in the morning; ramza forgives his faults, though he does flick the bird's head with a reprimand and uncharacteristic impatience.

he keeps a hopeful eye for ladd's company over the horizon, but the sellsword doesn't show up — and lavian and alicia, who went with him, are equally nowhere to be found.

in the end ramza is forced to wake agrias from her perch in the trees after all, and makes his way back to the riverside clearing to catch her attention. she wakes the second time her name is called, taking only a few short moments to rub the sleep from her eyes and shake her head clear of evanescent dreams — but, when he makes as if to break her fall, arms spread, she chooses instead to descend from the other side of the branch, and lands neatly on her feet with all the spry dexterity of a cat.

ramza's assistance is clearly not required.

(it's hard not to feel a little insulted, but this is agrias, after all.)

they are ready to leave around nine-thirty, by ramza's count. their bags are packed; everyone has had the chance for food and water; all traces of the camp are concealed. "we ride to bervenia!" ramza calls out, unaggressive, and merely commanding. "isilud should have had the chance to speak with his sister by now. we agreed to meet at the eastern gates. lady agrias, with me, please!"

with any luck, bervenia's western gates is open to a group of adventuring sellswords in search of their companions, this day.]

[isilud]

[ As he and Isilud ride onward, keeping a good pace, Mustadio carries the conversation, combating silence with questions and anecdotes. Meliadoul is the former's focus, while the latter features Ramza and his company, chocobos included. Feeling somewhat as though Boco sat on top of him instead of Ramza, trampling him first, Isilud is content to answer and let Mustadio talk — it shortens the journey and distracts his mind from the uncertainty of what they will arrive to, at their destination.

He knows his sister's routines — she visits Bervenia once a fortnight to assess the progress of new recruits before they go on to complete their training in Mullonde — but much has been in upheaval of late.

The war's reach extends to the Free City, where pitiful figures huddle in street corners, hollow-cheeked and sunken-eyed, despair given form. Mustadio's chatter has ceased. One or two heads lift as the two men dismount; hands stretch towards them beseechingly. They risk unwanted notice, but both Isilud and Mustadio rummage for what little money they have on their person, moving on again with far lighter pouches and heavier hearts. The gesture means nothing, buying these people a day's meals — what of tomorrow? The days to come?

An end to their plight must seem out of reach on this earth.

Mustadio agrees to see the chocobos housed in stables until the others arrive, freeing him to keep watch near the eastern side of town, occupied with a sewing needle and thread to stitch up the hole in his glove. Alone, Isilud makes his way to Bervenia's church. The old building is a familiar sight, less imposing than Mullonde's cathedral, but its stained glass windows depict the legend of the Zodiac Braves, and Isilud turns his gaze away. Pointlessly, in truth — he cannot pretend the images gone from his mind. Looking upon them countless times etched them there.

The tall wooden front doors open to let a slip of a girl emerge from the church and nearly collide with Isilud's legs. In her hands, she carries a loaf of bread, almost dropped with a cry. She clasps it to her chest, her eyes large and wary in her small face as she tilts her head back, then tips her chin downward and hunches her shoulders, darting sideways and breaking into a run.

Isilud stares after the girl, taken aback, until he collects himself and resumes his own task. Inside, the rows of pews he passes, crossing from one end of the nave to the other, are empty. Sunlight filters through the dusty windows in beams and casts glimmering patterns of colour across the floor and walls. At the far end of the aisles lining each side, doors close off passageways leading out to a courtyard, and beyond it lie the clergy house and the quarters set aside to accommodate recruits.

The courtyard is empty like the church when Isilud steps outside, but the robed figure that leaves the clergy house then stops him in his tracks. "Loffrey—" Perhaps it was a mistake to call out. Isilud's hand wanders to the hilt of his sword, only to ready himself, this time, should Loffrey—

But Loffrey has never carried a Stone.

"Ah. Isilud." Loffrey, his face unreadable, framed by the folds of his hood, stands still. Does he know? Isilud wavers, watching in vain for some indication that Loffrey, too, was deceived into aiding the Lucavi. "I must speak with my sister," he tries, probing for a reaction, any sign that he has a man before him, someone he knows, no demon, "and with you — with any and all who will listen—"

Loffrey's answer is to draw his sword and swing it in an arc, and Isilud recognizes the movement immediately, a Divine Knight's characteristic attack, witnessed so often that he should evade it in his sleep. He leaps aside — a moment too late. The blow catches his shoulder, crushing metal that might have withstood its force, had he thought to reinforce it, wrenching his arm in its socket. Pain lances through him as he steadies his stance and prepares to leap higher, to use the colonnade enclosing the courtyard to his advantage.

Loffrey carries no Stone, but his eyes are cold, his arm unwavering. "You rob your grieving sister of a body to bury." He strikes again, and the nearest pillar shatters before Isilud's feet touch it, spraying stone fragments. Flung to the ground, Isilud scrambles to regain his bearings and pick himself back up, only to cry out when another blow pierces his breastplate. Something gives. He staggers, crumpling against a second pillar; his right arm dangles uselessly, but he hefts his sword using his left, blinking blotches from his vision. Then Loffrey stands over him, the edge of his blade pressed against Isilud's throat. Delivering a kick to Isilud's hand, he knocks the boy's sword from his fingers. "I've a question simple enough even for you. Answer it false and you go to your grave a heretic." He pauses, as if for effect. "How many Stones were lost at Riovanes?"

Isilud is silent.

"... So be it. Your choice is made — unless Lord Folmarv's generosity was not wasted on you." And with that, Loffrey brings the heel of his boot down upon Isilud's chest and the world flares white, then dims to darkness.

Bervenia's gates are in high demand today, under close watch as one Meliadoul Tengille reaches the city walls and instructs her soldiers to surround them, leaving no entrance unguarded. A smaller group is tasked to scour the streets for any sightings of their foe and report back. The Divine Knight herself looks out towards the mountains, grim-faced.

This latest turn of events drives Mustadio to retreat from his post, in search of Isilud. ]

[lugria]

[ramza's group finds itself stalled at the gates.

they rode in pairs instead of triplets, because ladd and the others are still away in gollund, and mustadio and isilud have gone ahead. the missing members thin their numbers more than ramza would like. they were already short on healers — now he has only the galthena siblings and some members of their artillery (mages and archers, mingled) to strategize with. but, at a distance, agrias had noticed something amiss with the gates; they sent rapha and marach to scout ahead, on foot, concealed in the shadows.

the netherseer is the first to report, enshrouded in the faint glow of teleportation magick. "it is as we feared," are his first ominous words, as he drops to one knee and lowers his head. "we will not find free passage through the gates. all who would enter bervenia are being stopped and searched — it is no secret that they seek ramza beoulve."

rapha returns not long after, materializing like rain upon grass. "the high confessor's knights, by the look of them," she adds to marach's observations. she does not kneel on first instinct, but she takes her brother's cue once she sees it. "there is a woman at the western gates who wears the hood of the templarate. 'tis forest green, as isilud's was. she must be the sister of whom he spoke."

ramza frowns at the news, crossing his arms and leaning heavily on boco's flank. "then he did not meet with her?" he wonders aloud, brows furrowed.

agrias's assessment is characteristically cynical. she is not smiling — then again, she rarely is. "or he did, and they now make to ensnare us, with mustadio held captive for bait."

marach, oddly, is the first to speak in isilud's defense. "i think it more like that he failed to persuade her, and she has killed him or taken him captive," he offers, quietly. his dark eyes do not lift from the grass beneath his feet.

it is the first time in a long while that marach has actively expressed an opinion.

ramza casts his eyes toward boco's tailfeathers. he is seething with anger, but the anger is for himself, and not for anyone else. he should have never allowed this. he should have never agreed to let isilud make the journey on his own, or even with mustadio in tow — it was his softness, his vulnerability, that relented. but regrets are worthless and anger is even more so, and he has to find it within himself to let go of his emotions, to think with a logical mind. he wants to yell, he wants to shout, he wants to curse — but the only expletive to come to mind is fiddlesticks, and that doesn't quite seem appropriate.

finally, he sighs and unfolds his arms; he drops to rapha's and marach's level. "you two may rise, if you wish," ramza says, his voice gentle, his gaze warm. "i surely need not remind you that you are free — free of the grand duke, for now and for ever, and you need not fear retribution from any who were once under his employ. you need not kneel before me, nor before anyone else."

"i kneel because i respect you, ramza," is the netherseer's stubborn reply — and, flustered, ramza gives up, and pushes himself to his feet.

"nevertheless, we must enter bervenia," the beoulve continues, casting his gaze in the direction of the western gate.

"you would storm the gates with so few men to reinforce your charge?" agrias asks, but her tone is not disapproving — merely doubtful, and reasonably so. "we cannot even know whether mustadio is truly being held captive! suppose he is not — would he not be waiting for you at the eastern gates? we could simply try to ride around the city, and strike there."

"it would take too long. western or eastern gates — no matter where we fight, the battle will likely cause a commotion. if mustadio and isilud are yet free, they will make our way to us." sensing uncertainty, ramza tries to rally his troops to his cause. "we did well with a smaller group at orbonne, did we not? we simply must be careful."

rapha stands, helping her brother to his feet. "ramza is right. we have no other options — unless you would abandon our companions inside the city. but i'd not place any value in trying to sway isilud's sister with your words. she wore the anger of a woman in mourning."


(not all in ramza's group share his boundless idealism. the blond man who has designated himself the leader of the artillery unit in mustadio's absence is a minor noble from gallione, who knows ramza from his time at the gariland akademy — a former knight-apprentice, still young though he is older than ramza, older than isilud and marach and all the others in their group of boys-turned-men by some twist of desperate fate. he has seen ramza at his weakest, his most naive. to him, ramza is more of a responsibility than a friend, sometimes, and now is one of those times — but he is willing to play the role of demon, if it is for ramza's sake; he is willing to sin that ramza's hands might remain clean.

"be careful, he says," the young noble murmurs, sarcasm darkening his velvety tenor. "of course, you know what that truly means. we give them no quarter. strike to kill, and be quick about it."

his subordinates nod assent. it does not mean they do not love ramza; rather, it means they love him too much. they are pragmatic. they've had to be.)


when they ride to the western gates, ramza does not announce himself. he allows himself to be noticed, as is his wont.]

[isilud]

[ The archer-lookout stationed at the gates is the first to notice the mounted figures approaching the city. She announces them to her leader, describing numbers and traits of note, and recognition blazes in Meliadoul's eyes. "Remember, be on your guard!" she raises her voice to ring out for her soldiers to hear. "The heretic's men are yours to bring to justice, but Ramza Beoulve himself is my sword's quarry. The gods watch over us!" Briefly, she looks skyward, softer words on her lips, murmured to no one there. "... Do you, Isilud?" Her hands clench at her sides; her expression clouds with grief.

But her composure is restored as quickly as it faltered, or at the least, she buries her sorrow, cloaking it in a thick shroud of hatred for her brother's murderer. That hatred burns hotter than Mount Bervenia's molten core, stoked into an inferno upon observing the heretic's audacity, to tread the ground where Saint Ajora once walked — this soulless devil wearing a child's face. Indeed, the sight of his face alone fuels her anger; rumours painted Ramza Beoulve a fiend, but the fiend hides behind an angel's mask. The handbills capture his likeness well only in that they give his spaulders their menacing spikes.

This was Isilud's last sight to look upon in this world.

"Ramza Beoulve!" Meliadoul calls, as soon as the man in question comes within earshot. He deserves no courtesy, no explanation, but there is one thing that she will force him to reveal while he yet draws breath. Behind her, the archers nock their arrows. "I am Meliadoul Tengille! You took my brother's life, and now my blade will end yours!"

She unsheathes it. ]

[lugria]

[how cruel must meliadoul think the gods — or, else, how clever must she think the demons? ramza's wide brown eyes speak of untold innocence and a world of hurt as he turns his gaze upward, towards isilud's sister, looking for all the world like a seraph pleading. the beoulve's hand finds his sword as well, but it remains unsheathed; he would try his hand at parley before battle erupts.

(ramza's archers offer meliadoul no such courtesy. they, too, nock their arrows. all silently find their targets. all know that ramza's attempts at mediation will fail. even so, they do not take aim — yet.)

boco's talons rake the earth impatiently.]

I am not your brother's killer!

[the words come out more aggressively than he intends — he would say it gently, quietly, but with meliadoul on the parapets, he has no choice but to yell.]

Isilud is not dead! He came with me to Bervenia — he chose to ride ahead because he wished to speak with you!

[isilud]

[ Even raised in a shout, Ramza's voice matches his face, as though his is the purest soul ever to dwell in Ivalice, in all the world since its earliest days. Meliadoul meets the too-guileless gaze lifted to her vantage point. For a moment, she thinks that she might break her sword in her grip and mayhap her own fingers with it, so tightly does her hand clutch the hilt. A struggle to contain, fury courses through her, but she pours it into bitter laughter.

"You dare come here to lie? Is it not enough that you left us no body to recover? Now you would seek to blacken his soul like yours?" Arm outstretched, she points the tip of her blade at Ramza; no more than that, not yet. "My brother would never betray his family, nor his faith! I will ask it but once, Ramza: what have you done with him?"

The need to know stays her hand, for now, eclipsing her desire to expose this heretic's true face, his thirst for chaos, before she makes good on the vow she swore to Isilud and the threat that was her greeting for House Beoulve's godless son. ]

[lugria]

[what has ramza done with isilud? well, lain beside him, and held his hand, and enjoyed his tight embrace, all within the first few days of their meeting... and perhaps if ramza had some of ladd's roguish wit, he would say as much, just as a humorous provocation, but ramza knows better than to jest with meliadoul, and isn't going to try.]

I have done nothing to him! He is in Bervenia, searching for you now alongside a dear friend of mine!

[logical appeals had not worked well against isilud at orbonne monastery; suspecting much the same for meliadoul, ramza tries an emotional appeal.

(behind him, his mages grip their staves.)]

He told me you were as the earth to his sky — that you kept him grounded, that we could trust you, if we had but the chance to explain ourselves! We mean you no harm!

[no, isilud had not been quite so lyrical, perhaps, but such is the impression that ramza received...]

[isilud]

[ The impact of Ramza's words is immediate: Meliadoul's eyes widen as her face drains of colour and her arm trembles. Her lips part, but the next moment, she pulls her shoulders back and straightens her spine, hardening her expression and sealing all vulnerability from sight. The hood of her cloak, drawn up, serves to conceal her unshed tears in its shadow, and they veil her vision only until she blinks them away.

"You mean me no harm?" Her voice is quiet at first, but from there, it rises in volume. "You have done me harm beyond repair, and still you do more!" Meliadoul's free hand makes a fist, and she pounds it against the stone parapet. "Pray tell, Ramza, when did you and Isilud speak as friends? When Wiegraf fell? When you spilled my brother's blood? You would have me believe him a traitor and my father a liar!" Once more, her fist and the barrier meet. Barely pausing for breath, she launches her verbal counterattack in a torrent to refute Ramza's claims.

"I saw Riovanes. Among the scores of corpses that we came upon, we found your taunts — the scant remains you left behind. Tattered cloth and mangled plate, and you feign innocence! My brother's Stone was—" Suddenly, her arms lower. "Know you which one he held?" ]

[lugria]

[ramza is too honest.]

Pisces — [the word is out of his mouth before he can stop himself] — he held Pisces, but — the Stones are not the holy relics you think them, Meliadoul!

Isilud is alive. He has not betrayed Ivalice, no, nor has he betrayed you — but your father has!

[the grip around his blade loosens. he presses his sword hand against his chest, to indicate an earnest plea.]

You will not believe me, I know. But this I must tell you, lest he take you unawares. Folmarv cannot be trusted! He is not the man you knew! Within the auracite lie imprisoned the Lucavi of legend, and they would see Ivalice in chaos! They walk among us, demons given flesh, and your father is host to one of them. It was he who bloodied the halls of Riovanes!

[isilud]

[ "My father, a demon's host?" Again harsh laughter bursts from the Divine Knight. "You insult my kin with every breath, but your lies are breath wasted. You'll not deceive me! One thing alone to leave your tongue is no falsehood: my brother has betrayed neither Ivalice, nor us. It was his dearest wish to see this land made a better world. Now he will not see even his seventeenth year." A faltering note creeps into her voice, fleetingly; her tone turns rougher. "You admit your guilt. If you speak true, where is Isilud? Bervenia, so you say, yet he does not come! Will he sprout wings and fly to my side? On the condition that we grant you passage, I suppose!"

Meliadoul draws herself up. "Atone for your sins, Ramza. Demons walk among us, I see it well, though you play the purehearted saint in the making. Your disciples you may send hence, but if you possess a scrap of honour, you will stay and you will face me. Draw your blade!" ]

[lugria]

I will not.

[ramza's tone is steel upon steel, harsh and passionate.]

If you would have me draw my blade and begin this battle, then I will not draw it. No one needs to die this day, Meliadoul. I seek nothing in Bervenia. I wish only to find my friends within her walls.

[boco paws the ground again, fluttering impatiently, but ramza holds his reins tight, and the bird is not fool enough to disobey orders. agrias no doubt has her uncertainties as well, but she keeps her hand on her blade and her eyes trained on the soldiers at the gates, unblinking, ready to strike at a moment's notice.

all are ready. all are waiting.

the young noble from gallione flicks his cloak over his shoulder.]

[isilud]

[ From her robes, Meliadoul retrieves a stone, a green crystal that catches the sun's rays as she holds it above her head — Sagittarius. "And what of this? You do not lust for one more piece of auracite to add to your growing collection, as you did Pisces?" She spits the words like curses, throws her accusations at Ramza as though they were stones themselves. "So long as you deny me my right to seek vengeance, none shall enter the city!"

Sagittarius disappears between folds of fabric again.

"Your companions need not follow you to their deaths. Consider this my offer of mercy." As proof, Meliadoul lifts her hand, this time to signal for her soldiers to stand down. "Undeserving you may be, but I would have us cross blades in a fair duel." ]

[lugria]

[she knows not what it is she holds. ramza's desire to wrench the stone from her hand is strong, yes, but not for the reason that meliadoul thinks; every breath that the divine knight takes with the auracite in her possession is fraught with danger, and she remains yet unaware of it.

but it cannot be helped, and he cannot be percieved to be coveting the stone here; he pushes all thoughts of demons and their prisons away from the forefront of his mind.]

And if I win?

[soft-spoken and angelic though he may be, ramza meets meliadoul's challenge with a sword-saint's confidence.]

If I win, will you grant us a peaceable passage?

[isilud]

[ Meliadoul Tengille is no fool. The boy before her lacks a cunning mind, if he thinks to persuade her with his ludicrous talk, but he is a foe to beware; this truth is written in the blood of those slaughtered at Riovanes, in Wiegraf's and in Isilud's. Though she has the skill to hold her own, she intends to heed her advice and remain on her guard.

"I will grant your followers passage," she replies evenly. "They are free to go, no matter the outcome of our duel. If you win, I go to my brother, my vow unfulfilled." Her hand returns to her blade, fingers settling around its grip. "But you will not win. This day is your last, Ramza!"

Meliadoul Tengille is no fool, but this amount of confidence she will permit herself to show. ]

[lugria]

...Then I accept your challenge.

[agrias is the first to intervene. "ramza!" she cries, her voice dipped in a near-growl. "you would trust her in this?"

the beoulve's response is a gentle smile. "even if you do not," he replies, "won't you trust me in this?"

(agrias looks dubious, even as ramza gracefully dismounts and walks closer to the ramparts — but even so, she takes hold of boco's reins, leading him and her own bird toward the far end of the field where their archers are waiting.

the blue-eyed blond watches the proceedings with crossed arms. "be at ease, lady agrias," he murmurs, with generous warmth. "we all know ramza is not infallible. of course i have seen him defeated: i have seen him cornered, injured — even crying, once or twice. but in all my years of knowing him, milady, i have never seen him lose a one-on-one duel.")

on his feet with meliadoul above him, ramza draws his blade. no doubt the divine knight will take some satisfaction in it — it is hard and unyielding and edged in dark metal, like the menacing spikes of ramza's armor, and it is distinctly at odds with his innocent face. he runs his gloved hand along its length, as is his usual custom; his eyes lower as if in prayer, then rise once more to meliadoul's face.

she will have to come down from the gates; clearly, he is not about to scale the wall.]

You may have the first strike.