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dvsn

[Old World] dancing under the sun.

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Camus' pertinancious disposition is ineffable. As obscure and recondite as the wonders of the stars to which he's indebited to the will of Corvinus, the young Soulseeker exists as an enigma of probity of which very few have the chance to grasp. Without acquiescince or the thought that his will even mattered he executes everything that is tasked to him without delay— willing to be a sacrifice regardless of the pain and suffering that may enamor him. It was for this reason that when the apathetic yet uncouth Lancer of Caelorum received an invitation from his fellow colleagues to hone their skills and gauge their strength in the Old World that Camus could never refuse. Whether or not Camus believes that the road to true devotion and power in his investment into Corvinus is one he should walk alone he is forever indebted to the Greater Authority and all who would give everything within them to the true ruler of all. For this reason he finally arrives at the ruin of the Old World, a mystical desert where the lore and history is as vast and misunderstood as life and nature itself. 

“This desert...it feels familiar...”

While the blowing wind begins to stagnate and bring about the heat that would topple any mortal, the stone faces of a civilization long past litter the site where he is meant to meet his compatriots. Each booted foot he drops into the sand resets his balance and causes him to tumble multiple times, but by focusing solely on his footsteps and not the metricious world around him, he's able to make it to one of the stone faces that looks upward to the sun as if cursing its own existence. Taking a seat, Camus' removes one of the ancient books of Vystriata from his satchel and takes one final look around. Just beyond there are stone faces that are larger and smaller than others almost as if they're heads of those who truly lived before, yet their saturine expressions match their tenebrous design. It's eerie but thoughtful to their conclave. Camus shifts his attention from his observance of the world around him and begins reading, leaving his mind open to the moment to the moment that one of his colleagues, perhaps as new to the world they know as him, should appear. 

Edited by dvsn

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'Thank you brother...I can see the lies now...'

Those words had been ingrained to Lordran's mind since the day he had started his path to becoming a Soulseeker. Stricken with grief, but compelled by his honor, he had taken the steps to becoming the holy warrior he is today. Nothing could deter him from this path, for he felt closer to his God now more than ever.  All that lied in wait for him at the end of this path was eternal glory in the grace of his Lord.

Prayer was not all that was required of him, for he was not only a believer, but a warrior deigned worthy to enact the will of Corvin himself. It was imperative that he keep his body strong and his mind fortified to assault the enemies of humanity. Training was acceptable, but only through battle could one truly gain the reflexes and experience needed to dispatch the horrors of the Sea of Corruption. For this reason, Lordran had traveled to a dessert in the Old World, so that he may do battle against his fellow brothers and sisters, to hone their skills for the battles ahead.

The weather was agreeable to him, the breeze feeling pleasant upon his face. With his hood protecting him from most of the harshness of the sun, he was able to move about as he pleased. Traversing the sands was difficult, but he was soon able to find a dune in which to shield himself from the dessert. From there, he spotted his fellow Soulseeker and called to him

"Hail! It is good to see a fellow warrior out in these lands. I was beginning to worry I was tricked into coming here for some nefarious plot. Who might you be?" He was not familiar with all the Soulseekers within the Ecclesiarchy just yet. This would be a good exercise, that much he could tell.

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The divine claristence accessed by a higher faculty gives Camus the idea that someone is approaching— and he know it can only be one of his brethren. This location, isolated from most of the world in the recesses of it's many mysteries was perfect for the conclave. As his fellow Soulseeker approached Camus would wait until he begins to speak  to raise his timid celeste eyes to meet Lodran's welcome. 

Though his disposition and outward appearance is that of a high-class patrician within the Soulseeker's society, his words flow almost as clumsily as his actions in his day to day life. 

“W-well m-...hello. I am Camus Derg, herald of M-Mo Chroi...”

He stutters almost profusely but when first meeting someone as intimidating as Lordran, who seems to have an air of confidence and superiority to him, it's clear that the putative reputation of the Ecclesiarchy is no bluff. While he knows his spurious welcome seems misplaced Camus means well. Camus has thus far made a dilatory effort in concerns to connecting to others within the Ecclesiarchy, preferring to remain in solitude as it disallows his mind to be spoiled by the egregrious impressions of others: yet he often realizes this is a misfortunate inveterate developed from a world that he no longer recognizes. The hoary haired Soulseeker takes a deep breath and speaks again. 

“Mmh...I believe we will be joined later by those above...L-lord Deiter...and those alike...”

There's another pause as tremendous zephyrs crash into the sands around them, momentarily blinding the Soulseeker who realizes what he must inevitably say next. 

“I...hm. I suppose this means we should take this time to test each other then...?

A fair question, one he knows that Lodran would no doubt inevitably propose anyway. However make no mistake, it isn't fear that strangles Camus in this moment— it is droll anticipation.

 

 

Edited by dvsn

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He gave a nod, knowing that the sooner they trained, the more they could home their skills. Without constant vigilance, constant exercise, one could fall to the forces of darkness, and risk the safety of all of humanity. Lordran would rather boil in hot oil before allowing such a fate to befall his people, so long as he drew breath.

"We shall begin then, if you have no other questions to ask." He was uncertain how much of the fire this one had. Those that stuttered usually had no stomach for battle, but he would know soon enough. Cowards had no place on the battlefield, the best they could hope for was to die without getting in the way of true warriors.

Taking out his weapon, he would take some steps until they were sufficiently apart from each other. At fifteen feet away, the Gray Knight looked upon his foe and bid him to brandish his weapon. "For the glory of humanity, we shall fight, and we shall become stronger for it." This one could not possibly be a craven, as the trials of his station would not possibly allow it. 

In preparation for this, he kept his right hand holding the maul, the head resting upon his shoulder. The wind had blown in from the east, his cloak covering most of his body as the fabric whipped in the breeze. With his left hand unable to be seen, he would be prepared to fight with all that he had, his hand making sure the cloak was still in position to hide his body.

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BGM • THE FINAL DECISION WE ALL MUST TAKE ]

Their amicable arrangement would prove fruitful after-all. 

As Lodran makes his preparations Camus shuts his book and places it in the wool satchel attached to the Lance of Omnis. The length of the pole is two and and a half feet shining respledently in the beaming sun that seemed to highlight the battle to ensue - while the length of the blade itself is fifteen inches long from the circular socket at it's center, the central ridge protruding ever slightly in it's width. The winged lugs at the side, while harmless at first glance, are far sharper than they appear - if his opponent is as intuitive and sharp as himself then he'll recognize that the holy weapon that Camus wields is as heavy and powerful as two-handed weapons usually can become. His left hands slides to grip it closer to the top of the haft, though still several inches away, while his controlling hand's insipid digits wrap curiously around the lance from behind, which by the measure of the lance, was closer to the middle. Everything he has learned about the world of battle and combat predating the celestial teachings of the Ecclesiarchy, while useful, pales in comparison to the skill and acclaim he's been given since becoming a SoulSeeker. If Lodran is wise, he will know his name and the fame that it has granted him in his infancy. 

His left knee kicks out and positions itself at a ninety-degree angle at best in the sands below, his knee vertical to the blade that he's come to raise to his opponent who stands fifteen feet away, while his right foot remains horizontal and slanted to his forefront axis, closer to his body, allowing him if need be to make a sudden adjustment: his anchor, if you will. If he slides his legs together his feet will form a ninety-degree angle, and with both knees bent and his lance lowered to a slanted line where the blade could, if within reaching distance, penetrate the Gray Knight's abdomen, his positioning is immaculate and done on the basis of dedicating instruction and almost instinct.

There is a stillness that fills the air after.

The wind continues to blow east and Camus instantly recognizes that Lodran has a plan that isn't as simple as using his maul, that is by nature of his hand that remains hidden beneath his cloak. 

Letting the wind continue to blow Camus moves not. Without any other accessories or weapons to speak of, he slowly begins to mutter to himself, a call to the blessings of Corvinus1 to grant him a specific countenance to the occassion. It is now that Lodran will no doubt feel the cosmic vibrations of a battle ready soul falling from Camus' semblance, a complete change of spiritual intensity in comparison to before. His eyes remain stalwart and forward, and he readies for his opponents move. 

Omnem creaturam gaudet in te gratia plena...

 

 

Edited by dvsn

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Lordran was glad to know they would not be hindered by anymore formalities. In battle there would be no ritual, no code of conduct, there would only be blood and carnage. If he wanted to truly test his ability, he would have charged at him while he still had his book, and attempt to pummel him into the sand. Of course, the knight was not a savage, he still held onto some of his principals at the very least.

His weapon was impressive, one that Darkhallow had no doubt was more lethal than at first glance. As a soldier, he knew much of battle, of weapons, and of the reputation of others. Yes, the Lancer was known to him, though he doubted anyone spoke of Lordran's exploits. Those that knew him spurned him, and wondered how such a broken man could still call upon the power of his God.

'I can finally see through the lies...the lies our teacher told us...I'm sorry brother...'

There were many other weapons besides steel and powder. Heathens use magic for their vile actions, and the treacherous heretic uses words to lure the faithful away from the truth. Sometimes it wasn't enough to be faithful and to be strong, sometimes you had to stoop to their level, just so you can get close enough to beat them to death with your bare hands. They called him Gray Knight, for he was willing to do whatever was necessary to destroy the enemy. In this moment, he would show just how, by revealing his little misdirection.

Strapped to his left was his standard issue Polybolos rifle, an impressive weapon in its own right. In one fluid moment, he let go of the cloak, pulled up his rifle, and fired three rounds at his opponent. His impressive strength alone was enough to keep the kickback from hampering his aim. The first shot ripped towards the center of his opponents chest, then one fired to the leg being used as an anchor, with the final shot going back to the chest, wherever he may have attempted to move in order to avoid his attack. Dishonest and cowardly they may say, but he was alive, and they were dead.

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BGM • THE FINAL DECISION WE ALL MUST TAKE ]

Some say on the battlefield there is no such thing as honor, only life, death, and victory— others would conclude that chicanery defied the laws of higher virtue and mutual respect. Camus Derg has no thoughts on either notion, he simply follows the beliefs instilled in him by the Ecclesiarchy. However, there is a fine line between attention to detail and ignorance, something that anyone who inhabited the battlefield either knew or would learn: usually when it was too late, and neither of them were an exception. Camus has since made the mistake of making the wrong assumption of their duel, it isn't one to test their skills but one clearly for life and death, and the moment that Lodran makes his fluid motion to draw his rifle from his side in an attempt to fire at Camus, he knows blood will be spilt. 

Lodran, with a single arm, hoists the infamous Polybolos rifle, a weapon as equally impressive as many across the lands, especially for a standard issued rifle. The problem for Lodran is that, with his left arm rising and having to take aim to fire at his chest, this easily enough time for Camus (who is focused and prepared to make a counterintuitive motion as stated prior) to simultaneously close almost the entire gap between them in a single stride. The Soulseeker's supercedes that of an average mortal by far, infact, their parameters altogether are exceptional by comparison: so for Lodran to raise a rifle and aim it with a single arm isn't farfetched, however, raising it and aiming it in the time it takes Camus to close the distance with a single lunge forward, is what inevitably becomes the problem for him. When the cloak whips aside (against the churning winds) and the weapon raises to Camus' chest, the young Soulseeker is within striking distance, his body slightly lowered to his sudden jolt across the sands that separate them: and this is where things grow interesting.

While it's then that Lodran would simultaneously fire his weapon, Camus, only having enough time for a minimal reaction, twisted his torso counter-clockwise while thrusting the end of his lance foward towards the epicenter of Lodran's right leg, a single rotational movement. Using the momentum of his sprint forward, he needs only guide the Lance of Omnis to it's target with his right, forceful hand, while his left is left to leave the upper middle of the pole, allowing for a proportional reaction that will see the first bullet penetrating flesh, and even clipping the bone of his shoulder. Lodran, on the other hand, won't get off nearly as well. Not only is he with a lance that's diving for the center of his right kneecap in the time it takes for him to raise and fire the first shot: but he's now also dealing with limited possibilities as far as eastern or western movement. The lugs on each side that stick out a few inches each are meant for precisely that reason, and with their length, easily enough to cut through half of his knee even with a desperate evasion. 

One could say that Camus could have avoided taking damage altogether by simply avoiding the gunfire, which when predicting the trajectory based on his preference of power and perception in comparison to speed, would have been equally as risky. As a man of overwhelming strength and intuitive ability, he decided his best course of action was to explode using all of the energy he had in his legs forward, in the gesture of a single thrust, and while not the fastest, his chest, being covered primarily by the lance and his leading shoulder, was that much harder to aim for the center of - which gave Camus just the amount of time to make a split-second adjustment to save his chest from being ripped through by a bullet. He will hence suffice with a shoulder injury, but Lodran will likely have much more complicated issues as his kneecaps are the most exposed location of the armored Grey Knight.

 

1.

 

 

Edited by dvsn

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Something was wrong, and Lordran knew he had made a grievous error. As the bullet ripped into skin and blood, the shock nearly cost him his knee. With a quick lowering of the handle of his maul to intercept the blade, there were was a flash of steel and the wing of the blade had cut partially into his joint. 

"Yield!" The pain was nothing compared to the shame of his mistake. Thrown to the side, the rifle now seemed sullied, though he had no idea how such a thing had occurred. Lordran could have sworn he had placed rubber bullets inside the clip, so how did real ones get in there? "I yield."

Backing away, blood flowed from his injury in a small river. It did not appear that an artery or a tendon had been hit, but the pain was still enough to put him to one knee. "That was not supposed to happen...I don't understand..."

'I have seen through the lies...brother...'

What lies have clouded him, that such a monumental accident could occur? "My apologies...those were not supposed to be live rounds." He felt the part of a fool, and wanted to flogg himself for his idiocy. Next time he would make certain that same mistake would not happen again.

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BGM • MOTHER SEA ]

Everything becomes a messy blur when the live ammunition strikes and in a matter of moments Camus feels the debilitating effects of the lead laced with poisonous, paralytic quantities. When the spear is struck down and falls into the sand by Lodran's maul just before it can tear through his flesh, Camus' grip tightens, causing him to flip over and past Lodran where he then slams into the scorching sands with a loud crash. Having consolidated and structured the information of his combatative artform - Camus only has a few seconds to be disappointed: unlike Lodran, who has fallen to a knee due to the lesser injury inflicted. The few moments that Lodran has to contemplate the culprit of the crime is all it takes for Camus— who rests in a numbing relaxation upon his back, to dissolve into unconsciousness. The last few thoughts that flood his mind as his warrior's spirit has departed and he begins to lose feeling is regret. Even after dedicating everything he knows to The Greater Authority he still lacks control over vital impulses that could have taken his colleague's leg. Were it not for a swift and very nimble adjustment on his partner's part and a moment of hesitation that caused Camus to pull back his weapon ever slightly, Lodran would be without his leg, or even his foot. 

Then there was nothing. 

In this abyss of his mind strangled by the poison of the bullet that had struck him, Camus sees children running through an evershifting light. Ephermeal, warm, it flickers like a cinematic reel that cuts in and out, perhaps the faulty wiring of his mindscape, or something even deeper and misunderstood. Camus has no time to investigate - the two children, a young boy and girl, one who resembles himself, and another who's name escapes him, hold hands and continue running into the somber light that warms his chest the quicker they approach. What is this? Where is he? Memories? Camus remembers nothing of a younger girl that he's befriended, let alone one who would grasp his hand at any age, yet the two seem lost in happiness— unaware that a man possibly on the verge of death watches them. 

L...Lyssera? the unconscious Soulseeker speaks into the void. 

An ethereal light envelops his view. 

His sky blue eyes open to what he might first believe is the afterlife. From the moment the poison took root and began to manifest he'd made a point to finish channeling one of the supplemental chants that gave birth to Return to Darkness. It was one of the Soulseeker's more prominent abilities, and one that Camus had made a point to prepare in the event that his opponent was preparing poison of any form to inflict upon him. It wasn't out of expectation, merely precaution, one that he's glad he'd taken. It isn't but for a few moments that he awake to see Lodran kneeling by his side, though he can't immediately make out the emotions of how he may feel in this moment: instead his mind focuses on how surreal the sky looks, a sudden renewed appreciation for his own life and the life of his newfound friend. He has heard his apology, and though he has one to issue himself, he feels it only right to admire their windless surroundings. 

T-the wind...finally it has stopped. How do you fare?

His voice is as tranquil as the cloudless sky. 

 

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O2N4Jo6.pngPerhaps it's the lions blood in her veins that kept her approach warm and welcoming, with only a subtle hint of coldness tainting the earth beneath her gentle steps - perhaps that's the work of the raven.

Dark boots sunk into the sun-kissed sand, warming ankles to toes with summers welcome; salty strands of charcoal hair shaped a youthful face harboring large black eyes and lush lips trained to smile readily. She is colored dark like her father, that they will tell instantly, but she is shaped like her mother - long legged, lithe, and impossibly warm. And there she stood above them, hands on hips, impractically lovely and foreboding.

“I assume a lesson has been learned here.”

Her attention first found Lodran; angry eyes searched his face in a sluggish pace.

“Such a weapon should never, ever be used against a fellow SoulSeeker, let alone a denizen of Kadia. Shame on you!”

Olympia wore her emotions clearly on her face and in her voice. The youngest of all her siblings, she has mastered the voice as she is often at the receiving end of such punishment. Young and often impetuous, Oly is no stranger to being reprimanded.

Next she found Camus, who had remarked on the lack of wind before checking on his partner while recovering from his wounds. She wasn't sure if she should admire his will or not.

“And you, be a little more forthcoming - he could have killed you.”

Olympia found that it is easier to say what is on your mind instead of locking your words away. While she could have been softer and perhaps a little less brisk, she could also be a little harsher and colder. Pragmatic perhaps, though she hasn't the skill to be a leader, thus she is no wordsmith that would sway her fellow comrades to think about their shortcomings in a manner of prose. Instead she aimed for the heart.

Edited by Aleksei

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Steps crossed the sand wolfishly, as that could only truly describe the gait of the first imperial prince. Unlike his adoptive siblings he resembled neither the Lion or the Raven. Oh, indeed, he was tall and broad like his brothers, regal of bearing with a mein of power. The differences ended there. His eyes were a deep gray like the sea during a storm. His handsome face, with a boyish charm to its features. His face was framed by auburn hair, not the blonde of Leoa or the dark black of Corvinus, but fiery auburn. His expression, normally bright and cheery, was serious and stern. He was not pleased, that much was obvious. Such negligence by his Soulseekers would not escape his notice.

He towered over Olympia when he came to stand beside her, gray hues bearing down on the two Soulseekers. “First, as Oly stated, when in a spar against a fellow Soulseeker you do not bear a polybolos at them.” He frowned, fixing his gaze at squire Darkkhollow. “Secondly, if you are to train with a comrade in the use of firearms, you double and triple check what rounds you are using.” He stated, his tone lacked anger, it carried low and soft forcing the young man to listen. Disappointment touched his voice, perhaps more severe than if he had allowed anger to control him. He approached Darkhollow and gestured for him to hand over his rifle.

Once he had the weapon in hand he popped out the magazine, letting it hit the warm sands, the he pulled back the slide, ejecting the chambered round so that it to hit the sand. All of it happened quickly, with the smooth and deft movement of knowledgeable hands. “The polybolos is designed to kill the non-human, and is never to be bared at your fellow man. Unless absolutely necessary.” He said, shouldering the weapon. “Am I clear?” He looked at both of them, an auburn brow raised in question. He had considered being far more harsh, but it seemed the idea of almost killing his peer was enough to put some sense into him. “Regardless of if it was tampered with.”

He turned then to Camus. “You're well enough to still be breathing.” He glanced about, gray eyes piercing across the seemingly endless sands. “It is best not to linger after all of this ruckus.” He looked to Oly them. “It is a good thing we were in the area, albeit a bit late.” He shrugged, nothing for it now. “At least no one got killed.” It seemed he would have to contact the Emperor, someone was tampering with his weapons, this was going to be an inquisitorial matter. “Come on, let's get you up.” He said, holding out his hand to the youngster. Glancing at Lordran he said, “You are to report to me directly, we will be running through all the information and records of your weapons locker.”

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Further shame and indignation covered him as he was scolded by two members of the royal family. His pride would take a beating, but he would recover, for he was still a tool for the emperor.

"Yes, my lord. As you command. I will wash away the taint of this dishonor, this I swear as a Soulseeker."

He rose, the sun on his face as he attempted to recover from his mistakes. If they're to travel, then he would have to grit his teeth through the pain of his injured leg. As a warrior and a servant of the Emperor, he would not complain, only do as he bidden to him. Lordran had given himself completely to his God Emperor, his life was no longer his to control.

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Inevitably those arguably of nobility and higher stature appear as if guided by Corvinus himself to the lands, and it begins with the lithe, alluring Oly. An inspiration to her peers it is humiliating to find himself injured and at the mercy of his fellow Soulseeker's upon her arrival— and what damages him permanently is her harmless yet dignified verbose. Camus has found himself struggling to remove himself from the failures of his birthright, his people, his destiny yet this does not mark the beginning of his frustrations. No, this is only the breaking point of which Camus realizes he has made yet another mistake. Acting in unneccessary haste almost cost him his life and the livelihood of Lodran someone who was obviously more devoted to victory than himself— yet he is being scolded for Camus' inability to adapt and defend himself? Perhaps it is vanity that bring these thoughts to his mind, casting aside the sand that dirties his hoarse hair and the blood that runs across the sands just underneath him, likely before Lodran had patched the wound and his own. 

More forthcoming? Camus retains his pause in silence. It is completely against the beliefs he has set aside for himself to do anything of the sort, he acts only as a servant of divinity: yet is she right? Should Camus be upset? Should Camus be more vain in his not only his words, but his thoughts, and his life? A curious question stirred by an influential woman, whether by beauty or reputation. Not a moment too soon after Oly has arrived, with Camus' eyes starring into her own almost in mesmerization did a man of impossible stature come about. 

Deiter, and with every footstep he took it became abundantly clear why he was the leader of the Soulseekers, and ascended beyond anything they could, in their current state, possibly imagine. Just the weight of his magnanimous soul causes something preternatural to stir within Camus, something of his distant past, whether dangerous or not remained unseen: but his conscious respect of Deiter, his accomplishments, his skill— in most it would culminate to jealousy. Women, the world, everyone viewed him differently. Deiter was, in a sense, not of this world, but of it at the same time. 

When Deiter extends his hand to help Camus from the ground his expression changes from contemplation and respect to surprise. A few seconds pass, but realizing the error of making someone of this man's stature wait, his right hand grasps Deiter's own and before long he's helped onto his feet. In comparison to Deiter he's not nearly as tall but the athletic tone of his the muscles that do adorn his bone are indelible, that which few would forget upon glancing at his physique: a stark difference between the two though strong in different aspects. 

I stand before you a failure, disappointed in myself.” Camus announces vehemently, realizing the error of their mistakes.

I am prepared to suffer the consequences of my mistakes whenever you see fit, sir.” he finishes, bowing graciously to the presence of both Deiter and in an obvious sense Oly herself.

When it pertains to royalty Camus shows decisive dexterity in his words. Yet even as he speaks, something has budded in the back of his subconscious, something that none of them can pinpoint, but that Camus can feel as he is all too aware of his disposition and the way that his mind works. Exactly what this engimatic change is, no one can tell. 

 

Edited by dvsn

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O2N4Jo6.png"Olympia."

There was something wrong with him calling her Oly in front of her fellow comrades. While their are siblings, have grown through the small handful of wars together, that doesn't mean he should treat her different in comparison to the rest. She is just as green (if not more) like the rest of them, and she fully expects to be thrown through the ringer right along them. When it's just them during their private travels across Valucre, he is welcome to call her Oly, but during business like this he may call her Olympia - nothing else.

She watched Deiter take control over the situation, taking notes for the eventual position she will be taking. He was a goal, something that she has only just recently realized, and nothing will sate her hunger to stand in the same shoes he wears, carry the same markings as he, and handle the same burdens he does. Deiter is someone she has always looked up, and together they will accomplish her goal.

"We would have been earlier, but someone was too occupied with the scenery."

Deiter and Desmond shared something very common: poised distraction. While the two are masters of their skills, they often have a strange aloofness to their ways (nothing can compete with Altair though) that left them to be curious men amongst their peers. They had gotten distracted along the way, with Deiter telling her a story about his home, a place that always felt like something out of a fairytale book - it just may be. He teased her, making her wonder how often he's turned the truth for his games.

"While we must learn from our mistakes, we shouldn't allow them to burden us."

Her attention turned to Lordran, his manner making her a smidge concerned. All must honor her father, look to him like the god he's proclaimed to be, but none should be lost in the teachings of his rule. They are their own individuals and they must cultivate their skills, their beliefs, and their hearts to properly assist the Empire.

Afterwards, she playfully pats Camus on his shoulder, forcing him to stand straight. Oly is a SoulSeeker first and foremost in their group, not a Princess, certainly not an Imperial Princess, the second youngest to all their God-Emperor's children.

"It looks like you both are going to suffer enough with the demons of failure, I don't think there's anything else Deiter can do to make you both see the disappointment of your actions."

A smile paints her youthful face, her mother's gracious light accentuating the curves of her cheeks and the twinkle in her dark eyes.

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