Correct. I am confident in my ability to do so where I come from. I've little need or opportunity yet here to test my limits in this realm.
[ their resident souths are so industrious in that regard, after all. ]
Better to find out now than in a more dire situation...
[ he trails off because he also hears the sounds of the battlefield. he's been here long enough that he knows what to expect from this place, and by now mostly— mostly only harbors a faint, wry curiosity for what the forest will dredge up next. this particular scene... ]
... Well, I suppose it could be worse. [ he remarks, musing. ] This field and climate ... Northern Valm? —Ah. I see.
[ what he sees is made starkly apparent once the rest of the illusion finishes painting itself into being: a siege on a fortified keep, defended by the most powerful cavalry in the world. around them battle has already broken out, faceless soldiers meeting each other in fatal clash.
but one man stands out for the bloody red of his armor, eye catching by design. he rides out to meet them rather than hide away.
"you do your sister's legacy proud, little king!" his voice booms out, cutting uncannily through the din. memory is a strange thing, what it etches into permanence, what it allows to fade. this man is the focus of the memory, that much is clear. "but humanity already has a savior. a conqueror who broke stronger men than you when they refused to bow. warriors of valm! ride with me now! together, we will stamp out this final pack of insurgents and unite the world!"
a god amongst men, that's how his followers see him. simply a man, and yet, at the same time...
two phantom figures dart through the battlefield, navigating its dangers deftly; the divine sword blocks the sharp bite of an axe that means to maim the mage. a spell-wrought tempest handles the foes who would think to strike them down from afar. a younger robin in regalia the current no longer seems to favor, shadowing a man clad in shining armor and wearing the marks of his station. it's all a blur, weapons clashing in a dangerous dance ...
up until the man is in front of them, the sanded edges of the memory giving way to a sharper clarity once more. all parties have their weapons drawn, but for now they speak.
"why do you resist me, your grace? did your exalted sister not want peace? yet here you stand, betraying her cause."
"don't you dare use my sister to justify what you've done. you enslave the weak and kill the able. you are the enemy of peace."
watching all this, both robins, older and younger, remain silent. his hood shadows his expression as he settles into a guarded stance, sword drawn, at his king's back.
this is not a place for tacticians to speak their thoughts. this is a conversation for king and conqueror only, ideologue against ideologue, beliefs brandished like steel. this triumph will only have any meaning if they break the valmese belief that walhart the emperor is a god among men. ]
no subject
[ their resident souths are so industrious in that regard, after all. ]
Better to find out now than in a more dire situation...
[ he trails off because he also hears the sounds of the battlefield. he's been here long enough that he knows what to expect from this place, and by now mostly— mostly only harbors a faint, wry curiosity for what the forest will dredge up next. this particular scene... ]
... Well, I suppose it could be worse. [ he remarks, musing. ] This field and climate ... Northern Valm? —Ah. I see.
[ what he sees is made starkly apparent once the rest of the illusion finishes painting itself into being: a siege on a fortified keep, defended by the most powerful cavalry in the world. around them battle has already broken out, faceless soldiers meeting each other in fatal clash.
but one man stands out for the bloody red of his armor, eye catching by design. he rides out to meet them rather than hide away.
"you do your sister's legacy proud, little king!" his voice booms out, cutting uncannily through the din. memory is a strange thing, what it etches into permanence, what it allows to fade. this man is the focus of the memory, that much is clear. "but humanity already has a savior. a conqueror who broke stronger men than you when they refused to bow. warriors of valm! ride with me now! together, we will stamp out this final pack of insurgents and unite the world!"
a god amongst men, that's how his followers see him. simply a man, and yet, at the same time...
two phantom figures dart through the battlefield, navigating its dangers deftly; the divine sword blocks the sharp bite of an axe that means to maim the mage. a spell-wrought tempest handles the foes who would think to strike them down from afar. a younger robin in regalia the current no longer seems to favor, shadowing a man clad in shining armor and wearing the marks of his station. it's all a blur, weapons clashing in a dangerous dance ...
up until the man is in front of them, the sanded edges of the memory giving way to a sharper clarity once more. all parties have their weapons drawn, but for now they speak.
"why do you resist me, your grace? did your exalted sister not want peace? yet here you stand, betraying her cause."
"don't you dare use my sister to justify what you've done. you enslave the weak and kill the able. you are the enemy of peace."
watching all this, both robins, older and younger, remain silent. his hood shadows his expression as he settles into a guarded stance, sword drawn, at his king's back.
this is not a place for tacticians to speak their thoughts. this is a conversation for king and conqueror only, ideologue against ideologue, beliefs brandished like steel. this triumph will only have any meaning if they break the valmese belief that walhart the emperor is a god among men. ]