Did they? . . . Caiman's responsible for Mollymauk. They cornered him first, but the confirmation came after Byleth's confession. Caleb was the executioner.
Kinda like Ordine then. Even if, y’know. Ordine ain’t a sword. [ and he’s not entirely sure he has a soul either, but he sure does have a personality. ]
[Because it's pretty self-explanatory, too—and not something about which anyone just asks.
Sieghart opens his mouth to move on from the subject of memories when one of his own takes them by storm:
The ashen smoke and stench of burnt flesh choke your throat, leaving a rancid aftertaste, as you navigate the burning ruins of your second home. What was once a warm refuge attended by the kind souls of your brothers is now a hellish purgatory with their bodies strewn everywhere like ragdolls. There are so many of them, yet nary a one so much as utters a cry while the fire claims their limbs. Every step you take lands your feet in a puddle of their blood, growing increasingly desperate as you call out their names, hoping against hope for a response.
You cough into your excoriated arm, damaged from a collapsing pillar you passed earlier. How long have you been in here now? If you don't hurry, you may collapse before you can get anyone out.
Your breath hitches when you come upon Graham, crumpled on the ground, with the fire raging all around him. Dropping to your knees, you gather his body in your arms and shield him from the scorching heat, only to find that his chest neither rises nor falls.
"N-no!" Your vision blurs and voice cracks as you give him a shake. "Get up! Wake up! Please!"
But Graham doesn't open his eyes. Your dearest friend, who saved your life when he found you, a lonesome stranger on the verge of death, with nothing but kindness in his eyes and who later accepted your nameless self into the fold as family, is gone.
Everyone is gone. The fire is just meant to bury what's left of them.
Ignoring how the same fire pricks your eyes, chokes your throat, and sears your skin, you hold Graham's corpse close and wail in a terrible combination of grief and rage.
Who could've killed the immortal Highlanders? The question rattles harshly within your mind, piercing the deafening roar of the flames. Whoever it was, you'll kill them. You'll tear them apart. You will get revenge.
If only you hadn't been so careless.
Your chest tightens. Although you scream yourself hoarse, it does nothing for the pain in your heart as you weep at once. You can't breathe. You don't think you can even live with yourself. The grief, the rage, the guilt—they hurt. They hurt so much that you think you may just go mad from it all.
This is your fault. It's your fault—all of it. Your fault. Your fault, yourfault,yourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT—]
[ i am reminded of literally yaywon making a reference to that joke i just made because like.
wow.
what do you actually say to that. you can't really ignore it because oof. that's a lot. but seriously, what do you say? "good luck with that, bro"? "did you try therapy?" ]
Sieghart would've preferred to ignore it. The memory leaves him winded, and he directs his wet gaze elsewhere to will the tears away. He inhales quietly, pushing down the lump in his throat, before turning back to Crow.]
. . . Yeah. All that's left is to catch the bastard.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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I’m assuming if Caiman’s here they either caught the killer, or panic voted. I know people suspected him of killing you last week. [ ironically. ]
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[ hm ]
Well. That’s that then I guess.
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[He glances at his sword, whose hilt is now firmly in his grip. His shoulders drop in a muted sigh.]
. . . If it were anywhere else, Soluna would have rejected her.
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[ huh. ]
Your sword can decide if it likes people enough to let them wield it or not?
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…
Kinda like Ordine then. Even if, y’know. Ordine ain’t a sword. [ and he’s not entirely sure he has a soul either, but he sure does have a personality. ]
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[ boy. ]
Ordine's Ordine. If I say "bigass metal man", would that mean anything to you?
[ also: ] Not many swords where I'm from have souls in the first place.
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You don't seem like the type who'd wave a sign around like that, though.
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[ there is no further explanation. ]
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Sieghart opens his mouth to move on from the subject of memories when one of his own takes them by storm:
The ashen smoke and stench of burnt flesh choke your throat, leaving a rancid aftertaste, as you navigate the burning ruins of your second home. What was once a warm refuge attended by the kind souls of your brothers is now a hellish purgatory with their bodies strewn everywhere like ragdolls. There are so many of them, yet nary a one so much as utters a cry while the fire claims their limbs. Every step you take lands your feet in a puddle of their blood, growing increasingly desperate as you call out their names, hoping against hope for a response.
You cough into your excoriated arm, damaged from a collapsing pillar you passed earlier. How long have you been in here now? If you don't hurry, you may collapse before you can get anyone out.
Your breath hitches when you come upon Graham, crumpled on the ground, with the fire raging all around him. Dropping to your knees, you gather his body in your arms and shield him from the scorching heat, only to find that his chest neither rises nor falls.
"N-no!" Your vision blurs and voice cracks as you give him a shake. "Get up! Wake up! Please!"
But Graham doesn't open his eyes. Your dearest friend, who saved your life when he found you, a lonesome stranger on the verge of death, with nothing but kindness in his eyes and who later accepted your nameless self into the fold as family, is gone.
Everyone is gone. The fire is just meant to bury what's left of them.
Ignoring how the same fire pricks your eyes, chokes your throat, and sears your skin, you hold Graham's corpse close and wail in a terrible combination of grief and rage.
Who could've killed the immortal Highlanders? The question rattles harshly within your mind, piercing the deafening roar of the flames. Whoever it was, you'll kill them. You'll tear them apart. You will get revenge.
If only you hadn't been so careless.
Your chest tightens. Although you scream yourself hoarse, it does nothing for the pain in your heart as you weep at once. You can't breathe. You don't think you can even live with yourself. The grief, the rage, the guilt—they hurt. They hurt so much that you think you may just go mad from it all.
This is your fault. It's your fault—all of it. Your fault. Your fault, yourfault,yourfaultyourfaultYOURFAULT—]
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wow.
what do you actually say to that. you can't really ignore it because oof. that's a lot. but seriously, what do you say? "good luck with that, bro"? "did you try therapy?" ]
... Did you figure it out?
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Sieghart would've preferred to ignore it. The memory leaves him winded, and he directs his wet gaze elsewhere to will the tears away. He inhales quietly, pushing down the lump in his throat, before turning back to Crow.]
. . . Yeah. All that's left is to catch the bastard.
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Good for you. It's... well, if you make it stick it's a good feeling.
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It feels like vengeance.
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