[It was foolish, riding out like this. Arrogant. It doesn't matter that the King of Faerghus and his right-hand advisor are a formidable duo, still battle-honed and ready for action after the end of the war; they're barely two weeks into a three-moon-long tour of war-torn Fódlan, and there was no reason—no reason—for the two of them to ride ahead of the royal retinue, seeking to verify reports of a particularly nasty band of bandits in the area. That's what scouts are for, after all. Battalions.
But here is the simple truth: Felix was by Dimitri's side when the reports were delivered. Felix watched Dimitri's face tighten as he considered the villagers being terrorized by these well-organized bandits, many of which were, according to survivors, former Adrestian soldiers, skirting the now-defunct border to wreak havoc. Felix saw that flicker of guilt, as though he were to blame for the aftershocks of war, and Felix felt a familiar flash of frustration so strong it sent him abruptly turning away. Always making things difficult for himself, this king of theirs! Always wanting to make up for the past so, so badly that he allows his many emotions to weigh him down, and Felix...
...Well. Felix didn't always know what to do, in their shared past; Felix doesn't always know what to do now, which is why he wound up agreeing to ride out with Dimitri in lieu of another, lesser soldier. A quick, efficient survey, no different than any scouting mission undertaken during the war—and it made sense, really. It did. Aside from granting Dimitri a brief break—because Felix is watchful, ever watchful, wary of even the smallest sign of strain—two men can go where twenty cannot.
And two men should, theoretically, have an easier time remaining unnoticed, but the combined luck of Dimitri and Felix has always been shit. Honestly, Felix isn't terribly surprised when they're swarmed by a small group of bandits in some backwoods clearing, cut off from escape by a cleverly executed pincer maneuver. Aha. Smart bandits, then. That makes this all the more annoying—but it's dusk, made darker by the canopy of trees, and Felix sees the familiar glow of Areadbhar from the corner of his eye. A reminder of what Dimitri is capable of, as well as a reminder of where Felix's responsibilities lie.]
More in the trees.
[A low, almost murmured warning as Felix lowers his reins, cutting Dimitri a brief glance in the process. Assessing him. The closest bandits are still a good distance away, eager, but obviously wary; they have time, Felix thinks, but not much of it.]
They're well entrenched. Lying in wait for hours, no doubt. [Cowardly, hence Felix's quiet huff. So they were expected, were they? That raises all manner of interesting questions, but as there are more pressing matters at hand, and as Felix can't make the call alone:] Well?
[They could stand their ground; they could rush the line; they could ditch the horses and fight their way through the forest. There are options, even if they are all less than spectacular.]
[The responsibilities of wartime had been heavy; they lay deep in his bones and made Dimitri endlessly weary during that long campaign. But they were tended to due to necessity, for the sake of his homeland and all those that would suffer under the ambitious, unrelenting expansion of the Empire. It had kept him pushing forward, that necessity — coupled with a new desire for atonement and burgeoning the duty to his people he had ignored for too long, there was no other path to carve out and tread.
The war is over now, but the nature of his responsibilities have not lifted, but rather transitioned into a different, more encompassing form. Instead of a straight line with one clear objective — to lead the Kingdom to victory — the path has expanded into that of a spider’s web. He is at its center; a thought that might come across as conceited to most, but for Dimitri, it as a position that required everything from the man who would call himself King, the one who should give himself all to his people, the one who accepts being pulled in every direction of that web, because it is where he is needed, and a King serves not himself, but the Kingdom in which he is tasked to oversee.
For him, this means many meetings, appointments, schedules that shift in accordance to the hour of the day. It means tending to territorial disputes and hearing reports of where blisters of skirmishes still exist across the once-borders of the Empire. It means carving out time when he feels he has no more to give, but he must create it nonetheless, and he does so stalwartly and without complaint. It means that somewhere, nestled in all those responsibilities, was a tour of the land that would span several moons, escorted by handpicked advisors and battalions to make certain that no trouble came to them. Or that any trouble that did could be warded off without issue.
Perhaps it is foolish, then, for Dimitri and Felix to ride off alone to face an array of bandits that had raided a small village nearby. Maybe so, and while Dimitri has changed since those five long years of isolation — in many ways for the best — there is a part of him that sticks like a stain, that is indelible and simply unwilling to budge: to protect those who cannot protect themselves, to feel a righteous indignation against the ones who would take advantage of them, all bolstered by that telltale guilt that still gnaws at his insides in the late hours of the night.
And so they ride, and as their luck would have it, they are the ones caught unawares by bandits who anticipated their arrival. Dimitri frowns as he pulls his mount to a stop and the mare whinnies beneath him, kicking at the loam of the earth. That old flash of anger crawls along his skin like spilled, heated oil.]
We break their front line.
[This, too, is an old relic of bad habits, even though he keeps it tamped down these days, and maybe it is a fair strategy to consider. Charging forward to put the pressure on an opposing force is nothing new to him, he had relied on it more times than he can recall. But he was careless in those days, and alone. Now, he has Felix by his side, and the odds are a bit better than a battle of attrition when their numbers are only two.
Areadbhar glows like an ember in the dusklight, as though anticipating the command.]
Magic would deal well with those lying in wait in the trees. [Well, that much is obviously an expectation for Felix and not himself. But the advice has only a moment to linger, for the urgency of indignant emotion has him nudging at his horse, sending him in a forward gallop. He trusts his friend to follow suit.]
[Protecting one's subjects is not a bad thing. Of course it isn't. The familiar weight of Felix's Relic, literal and figurative, serves as a reminder of that—and as a warning, of sorts. To protect those who cannot protect themselves, one must live.
And as Felix eyes what portion of this threat they can actually see, imagining how a frontal assault will send them scattering, he's well aware that this is winnable. They've dealt with—defeated—far worse throughout the years, but it's—hmm. It's that aforementioned weight, isn't it? The knowledge that nothing is ever written in stone. It felt lighter, once; even during the war it didn't feel quite so heavy, but now Felix thinks of the kingdom, thinks of the king, and it's as though there's a rock sitting in his stomach. To lose all that is being rebuilt...
But he ignores that? Focuses instead on Dimitri's suggestion, allowing a minor flare of (unwarranted) annoyance to override the rest—and it's timely, given Dimitri's sudden drive forward. There is suddenly no room to consider anything other than survival, and Felix, too, urges his horse forward, unsheathing his sword even as he tracks the trees. Break the line first; send the others hurtling into the chaos with a well-placed, well-timed Thunder or two, giving them no time to regroup. As good a plan as any, Felix thinks, bracing himself for the clash.
And a clash it is, their horses sending the bandits falling to either side. This is most assuredly not Felix's preferred manner of fighting; he has none of, say, Sylvain's expertise, nor a lance's reach, and thus he relies on the sheer size of his horse to scatter those he charges past. Pros and cons, pros and cons—but it is, at least, relatively easy to reach for that familiar magic as he sharply pulls the reins to the side, forcing his horse to abruptly wheel about. Thunder is quick to cast, the bolt of electricity zipping toward the trees leaving the scent of ozone in its wake. It finds its mark—many of them, based on the yelling, the amount of shadowy figures leaping to the ground to escape the ensuing blaze.
There is, however, no time to admire his handiwork. If only he could slide from his horse and throw himself into the fray on foot—but no, no. It's impossible for now, and thus, loud enough to rise above the rest—]
Dimitri!
[Less a warning and more of a notice, really, that Felix is shifting positions, moving to rout those attempting to make sense of this mess. As he charges through them, further disorienting them before casting another blindingly bright spell, he trusts that Dimitri can and will handle himself.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
why talk when we can fight: the thread
But here is the simple truth: Felix was by Dimitri's side when the reports were delivered. Felix watched Dimitri's face tighten as he considered the villagers being terrorized by these well-organized bandits, many of which were, according to survivors, former Adrestian soldiers, skirting the now-defunct border to wreak havoc. Felix saw that flicker of guilt, as though he were to blame for the aftershocks of war, and Felix felt a familiar flash of frustration so strong it sent him abruptly turning away. Always making things difficult for himself, this king of theirs! Always wanting to make up for the past so, so badly that he allows his many emotions to weigh him down, and Felix...
...Well. Felix didn't always know what to do, in their shared past; Felix doesn't always know what to do now, which is why he wound up agreeing to ride out with Dimitri in lieu of another, lesser soldier. A quick, efficient survey, no different than any scouting mission undertaken during the war—and it made sense, really. It did. Aside from granting Dimitri a brief break—because Felix is watchful, ever watchful, wary of even the smallest sign of strain—two men can go where twenty cannot.
And two men should, theoretically, have an easier time remaining unnoticed, but the combined luck of Dimitri and Felix has always been shit. Honestly, Felix isn't terribly surprised when they're swarmed by a small group of bandits in some backwoods clearing, cut off from escape by a cleverly executed pincer maneuver. Aha. Smart bandits, then. That makes this all the more annoying—but it's dusk, made darker by the canopy of trees, and Felix sees the familiar glow of Areadbhar from the corner of his eye. A reminder of what Dimitri is capable of, as well as a reminder of where Felix's responsibilities lie.]
More in the trees.
[A low, almost murmured warning as Felix lowers his reins, cutting Dimitri a brief glance in the process. Assessing him. The closest bandits are still a good distance away, eager, but obviously wary; they have time, Felix thinks, but not much of it.]
They're well entrenched. Lying in wait for hours, no doubt. [Cowardly, hence Felix's quiet huff. So they were expected, were they? That raises all manner of interesting questions, but as there are more pressing matters at hand, and as Felix can't make the call alone:] Well?
[They could stand their ground; they could rush the line; they could ditch the horses and fight their way through the forest. There are options, even if they are all less than spectacular.]
no subject
The war is over now, but the nature of his responsibilities have not lifted, but rather transitioned into a different, more encompassing form. Instead of a straight line with one clear objective — to lead the Kingdom to victory — the path has expanded into that of a spider’s web. He is at its center; a thought that might come across as conceited to most, but for Dimitri, it as a position that required everything from the man who would call himself King, the one who should give himself all to his people, the one who accepts being pulled in every direction of that web, because it is where he is needed, and a King serves not himself, but the Kingdom in which he is tasked to oversee.
For him, this means many meetings, appointments, schedules that shift in accordance to the hour of the day. It means tending to territorial disputes and hearing reports of where blisters of skirmishes still exist across the once-borders of the Empire. It means carving out time when he feels he has no more to give, but he must create it nonetheless, and he does so stalwartly and without complaint. It means that somewhere, nestled in all those responsibilities, was a tour of the land that would span several moons, escorted by handpicked advisors and battalions to make certain that no trouble came to them. Or that any trouble that did could be warded off without issue.
Perhaps it is foolish, then, for Dimitri and Felix to ride off alone to face an array of bandits that had raided a small village nearby. Maybe so, and while Dimitri has changed since those five long years of isolation — in many ways for the best — there is a part of him that sticks like a stain, that is indelible and simply unwilling to budge: to protect those who cannot protect themselves, to feel a righteous indignation against the ones who would take advantage of them, all bolstered by that telltale guilt that still gnaws at his insides in the late hours of the night.
And so they ride, and as their luck would have it, they are the ones caught unawares by bandits who anticipated their arrival. Dimitri frowns as he pulls his mount to a stop and the mare whinnies beneath him, kicking at the loam of the earth. That old flash of anger crawls along his skin like spilled, heated oil.]
We break their front line.
[This, too, is an old relic of bad habits, even though he keeps it tamped down these days, and maybe it is a fair strategy to consider. Charging forward to put the pressure on an opposing force is nothing new to him, he had relied on it more times than he can recall. But he was careless in those days, and alone. Now, he has Felix by his side, and the odds are a bit better than a battle of attrition when their numbers are only two.
Areadbhar glows like an ember in the dusklight, as though anticipating the command.]
Magic would deal well with those lying in wait in the trees. [Well, that much is obviously an expectation for Felix and not himself. But the advice has only a moment to linger, for the urgency of indignant emotion has him nudging at his horse, sending him in a forward gallop. He trusts his friend to follow suit.]
Grant them no room to breathe!
no subject
And as Felix eyes what portion of this threat they can actually see, imagining how a frontal assault will send them scattering, he's well aware that this is winnable. They've dealt with—defeated—far worse throughout the years, but it's—hmm. It's that aforementioned weight, isn't it? The knowledge that nothing is ever written in stone. It felt lighter, once; even during the war it didn't feel quite so heavy, but now Felix thinks of the kingdom, thinks of the king, and it's as though there's a rock sitting in his stomach. To lose all that is being rebuilt...
But he ignores that? Focuses instead on Dimitri's suggestion, allowing a minor flare of (unwarranted) annoyance to override the rest—and it's timely, given Dimitri's sudden drive forward. There is suddenly no room to consider anything other than survival, and Felix, too, urges his horse forward, unsheathing his sword even as he tracks the trees. Break the line first; send the others hurtling into the chaos with a well-placed, well-timed Thunder or two, giving them no time to regroup. As good a plan as any, Felix thinks, bracing himself for the clash.
And a clash it is, their horses sending the bandits falling to either side. This is most assuredly not Felix's preferred manner of fighting; he has none of, say, Sylvain's expertise, nor a lance's reach, and thus he relies on the sheer size of his horse to scatter those he charges past. Pros and cons, pros and cons—but it is, at least, relatively easy to reach for that familiar magic as he sharply pulls the reins to the side, forcing his horse to abruptly wheel about. Thunder is quick to cast, the bolt of electricity zipping toward the trees leaving the scent of ozone in its wake. It finds its mark—many of them, based on the yelling, the amount of shadowy figures leaping to the ground to escape the ensuing blaze.
There is, however, no time to admire his handiwork. If only he could slide from his horse and throw himself into the fray on foot—but no, no. It's impossible for now, and thus, loud enough to rise above the rest—]
Dimitri!
[Less a warning and more of a notice, really, that Felix is shifting positions, moving to rout those attempting to make sense of this mess. As he charges through them, further disorienting them before casting another blindingly bright spell, he trusts that Dimitri can and will handle himself.]