agogelogs | [OPEN] Like the stars chase the sun, over the glowing hill, I will conquer

I. Oh, the king gone mad within his suffering
When you come to, it's to the wind whipping your cheeks. Air cold enough to numb your fingers. Pale, silver hair knotted in a singular plait, streaming behind its owner and brushing your cheek. She doesn't look at you, her gloved fingers gripping darkened scales of the giant beast you ride.

No, not a beast: a dragon.

Beneath you, a horde rides the sea of green. The Dothraki's war cries echo like a siren's song, horses galloping to an imagined drumbeat. Those you do manage to see wave their sickle-like blades in deference to you both. The dragon you ride roars, and Daenerys tenses. "Hold on!" she tells you above the howling winds.

Further ahead and quickly approaching is an army. Beyond that, King's Landing stands in all its shimmering glory. She spares the city one glance, one brief moment of yearning, and then her attention is back on the Lannister army. Banners with red and gold--a lion its centerfold--stream in the air.

"Dracarys," Daenerys commands, when close enough.

And Drogon breathes flames upon the troops directly ahead of you.

II. Called out for relief, someone cure him of his grief
She stands before the khals, back straight, hair long since fallen out of its elaborate braids. She dons not the fineries of a queen, but the textiles of a Dothraki. And you? You're seated beside Khal Moro. Daenerys meets your gaze, her blue eyes cold like sheets of ice. You shouldn't be here, her look seems to say.

"Who cares about her? She's a midget," one of the men says in Dothraki.
"I like her."
"She's paler than milk."
"I'd like to know what a khaleesi tastes like."

Their banter continues around you both, demeaning, and their raucous laughter seems to expound upon this. On and on the bantering goes, so very disrespectful, but Dany maintains an impassive, almost bored look, until finally, Moro says: "She belongs to the Dosh Khaleen."

Debates about horses and her being wanted by the Masters follows, as these little men with their drink and beards, belittle her. Who are the Masters, you might be wondering? It's of no matter, for soon she speaks: Dosh Khaleen, the Stallion Who Mounts the World, a sorceress, her dead baby and husband (Khal Drogo, do you remember him?). Moro is quick to counter and speak of her foolishness.

By this time, she's stepped up to the dais and stands near the fires on their stands. "You are small men. None of you are fit to lead the Dothraki." The men who sit around you stiffen, about to rise from their seats. "But I am. And I will."

Laughter. More threats.

"You're not going to serve. You're going to die."

And the flames erupt, roaring like dragons, engulfing the entire tent with you all in it. Bright light fills your vision--

--and then you are both standing in crimson-soaked snow, the corpse of a very large dragon before you.

III. His only son, cut down, but the battle won
Dany is scarce in the halls after learning of Drogo's death--but it's not just his death she mourns. There are the mistakes in Paris, the soon-to-be loss of Viserion, even the frequent loss of her allies in Westeros. For however little time she spent with Yara, Olenna, and Ellaria, losing her allies one after the next sits like a heavy stone in her stomach. Mistakes she's made.

Time to mourn, time to plan, and then, time to train. There are those who are kind enough to offer her lessons in long range combat--guns and archery--and she takes advantage of the time not spent with Jon by doing so, be it with them or without. Little to no responsibility. No city to rule. No people to lead. She is, for lack of a better word, spiraling in this new environment, grappling to find leverage and her place.

Of the scraps she's obtained, she manages to craft a tunic similar to the one she wore while in Essos. Blue. Her homage to the Dothraki and Drogo. She mourns his death anew, donning the blue fabric when she trains, as if this is some strange punishment and tribute all in one.

If you find her sooner when she arises, she will be alone; however, after roughly a week, you may notice a white spider nearby. If you're large enough, it may begin clicking appreciatively at you before it skitters toward Dany.

"Lest you're here to help me with my aim, I've no interest in speaking," she says to whoever steps foot near her.

IV. Oh, what is it worth, when all that's left is hurt
Brooding Dragon Queen she is not. On the days where she's spared a mood, she walks the halls, more receptive to speaking with those around her. This comes roughly two weeks after they've arrived on Base.

She's been gifted her garb from home, a more recent dress which allows her to feel more connected to who she is back in Westeros. Daenerys Stormborn. Not a mourning wife. Not the Queen of Nothing. She is far more than nothing, and her posture alone speaks of this.

Perched upon her shoulder is a spider-like creature. Try to talk to it, and it will ignore you, instead busying itself with running Dany's long, silver hair through its mandibles. Dany seems undisturbed by the motions, and by the creature on her shoulder.

You might catch her as she walks to the library, or wandering with a cup of coffee, an easy look about her.

Oftentimes, you may find her playing mediator between her pet and the crows, the two opposing sides making quite a ruckus. "Gīdāpa, Irriella," she says in a language you've likely not heard of before. And if she sees you, her look might be asking for you to quiet the crows on her behalf.

Chiron's own interest in the weaponry available has been a healthy mix of traditional archery and modern firearms. The former is what he is best known for, after all. He would not have been summoned to the archer class if he was not a master of a bow, regardless of the shape of it. It did not stop him from working with each and every single one available within the base's holdings, if only to determined which ones he liked best. (There was a composite one made of wood and bone and seemed to carry a patina of centuries that he liked best.) The latter was what he needed to practice with. As 76 had remarked, the only way to get better at reloading firearms was to practice, and as such, that was where his focus lay for most of the hours he spent training.

When he walked past Daenerys and her white spider, it was the composite bow Chiron had in hand, quiver slung over his back as if it was a natural part of him.

Her response catches his attention.

"My own intention was to refine mine, unless you so wish it otherwise."

She is no archer. Her fingers are clumsy, her grip and hold unsteady when she takes aim with her bow. Her muscles are not honed the way a warrior's is, not her Dothraki, nor a knight's. This seems like a foolhardy endeavor, if there ever was one.

Suffice it to say, her temper flares because of her inadequacies in this.

Irriella is on her shoulder, her delicate mandibles clicking in what sounds like an approving, near calculative way. Very few garner a positive reaction from the Day-One; not even Jon had, initially. It's why she turns around to face the male who offers his aid.

"He is a strong one, Lady Mother," Irriella supplies in the silence.

"Not to eat," she firmly says, sighing, then, she looks up at the newcomer. "You walk as if your weapon is a part of you. You've practiced long?"

"A lifetime," is the reply, all calm confidence, the words a simple statement rather than a brag. It is, in it's way, a private joke as well, but not one that Chiron is inclined to smirk at or indicate has even been made.

Chiron's eyes move to Irrielle, his eyebrows rising slightly as if to question who Daenerys' companion is. The additional question of where said companion came from is there as well, both inquires unspoken.

"But still learning and refining technique."

"A lifetime of learning, and you still believe there are more things to learn and perfect in your craft?"

Modest. Likely, he would be fierce in battle with a bow, if what he says is true. Jon's taught her some, correcting her posture in those first initial lessons. But Jon is far more equipped to handle a sword.

"Do you have advice to proffer someone just learning?"

She doesn't miss the way his eyes stray to her daughter. Absently, she's reaching up to lightly trace one of the fine, silky legs with the back of her finger.

"Her name is Irriella. You must pardon her, she's not receptive to any, save me."

"Naturally," Chiron said, inclining his head just a little. "No two bows are alike, after all, and so while you may master technique, you will always need to re-learn a new bow. Or else you'll be able to take your overall skills and then have to learn a new way of launching the projectile, such as with the firearms."

He had improved since first working with the things in France, but no where to the point that it matched Chiron's skill with his weapon of choice.

"There's nothing to apologize for," he continued warmly. "Familiars and similar friends have that nature. Goodness knows it's something I understand."

He finally comes around to the second question, and it's greeted with a low, warm rumble of consideration. "Strengthening one's body independent of the weapon does help. It builds the muscle you need to draw back with confidence, just as much as practicing the motions and working through quiver after quiver. If you'd prefer something less abstract, then I'd need to see where you stand."

[ This 6'1" tall man with broad shoulders just happens to be walking down the same hall the queen has taken to stroll through. At first, due to his own distraction, he doesn't spare the girl a second glance as he passes by, too preoccupied by the worrisome events that have recently occurred and how he's supposed to fix it all.

But the moment the present catches up to him, he stops just short of turning around the corner and realizes that he'd just ... seen a face.

He turns, looking down the length of the corridor to watch her.

Also, if she needs an excuse to turn to do the same (for romcom effect), he is wearing armour and wielding a spear that he rests against his shoulder, all of which haven't been issued by COST, but are his own. ]

[ It's not the armor or spear which ultimately captures her attention (though admittedly, the presence of both does require further investigation); it's his hair. Couple that with the near manic clicking of Irriella, and her steps are slowing. Halting. And she's half turning around to glance back, much to the Day-One's approval.

Green hair. Bright and not at all reminiscent of the Dothraki sea, or the ocean, or anything she's seen save for silks in one of Essos' cities--and Rhaegal's scales under the gleaming sun, when the light hits it just right.

The pang is near instantaneous.

She links her fingers together, assuming a familiar stance. No use in walking away, now that they're looking at each other. ]

Well met, warlord. Curious you find the need to don armor here.

[ With a cock of his head, he regards her with a smile, eyes creasing. The clicking of the spider goes ignored as he appraises the woman, relying on his looks to get himself a memorable first impression. A grin is usually enough to make women melt, but this one... Well.

The regal air she carries about herself is familiar somehow, reminding him of the women who frequented his father's palace. He's been around enough aristocratics to know one when he meets them. He's instantly aware that she isn't a commoner, or a soldier. ]

We're at war, aren't we? Come on, now.

[ He moves his spear across his shoulders, hooking both of his wrists over the shaft and stretching back and curving his spine. He seems more like a lion basking in the sun, rolling onto its back and enjoying its leisure rather than a warrior who is diligently patrolling the area. ]

I'm also on a hunt, you see... [ The shapers have been mostly cleared out of the base, but the implication that he's continuing the search is there. ]

[ A grin is not enough to make her melt, alas. Though, remarkably, she doesn't don the cool mien normally worn like armor. A step, perhaps. That he reminded her of Rhaegal, however unintentional on his behalf, is enough to hold her focus.

And then his words accomplish a far greater feat: the hint of a smirk. ]

I hadn't realized you took your duty so seriously. You must forgive me...

[ Just enough of a pause for him to share his name. There's still far too many faces she does not recognize, and this one... well, how can one forget green hair whilst in Paris or Jerusalem? Or someone so tall? He's the height of Drogo and ser Jorah. Perhaps a hybrid of both with his build, which he clearly has no reservations of flaunting.

In the stretch of silence, she steps closer. It's rather silly to talk with so much distance, no?

Irriella would seem to think so. Grooming habits forgotten, the Day-One regards him with unblinking eyes, still clicking her mandibles. ]

Though I imagine you're more than equipped to address the current infestation without need for armor?

[ Her smirk is mirrored, though his is much sharper and defined. If only he knew what she was thinking, how she was comparing the young hero to a pet dragon because of his hair.

He steps towards her in return, dropping his spear to the floor so that the end of it thuds against metallic tiling.

And working off of his assumption of noble status, he bows his head slightly out of respect. ]

Call me Rider, miss.

[ Placing his hand over the breastplate of his armour, he stretches to his full height. ]

Against most enemies I don't need armour, but I find that I'm most comfortable wearing it. I feel a little closer to home.

[ He withdraws his hand, revealing the bird of prey symbol on the plate, as well as the laurel wreath above it. His attention is now on the creature at her shoulder, since it seems to be demanding attention with all of its noises. ]

Does your friend not like me or something? [ Leaning down, he offers a hand to the Day-One, like he would any regular dog or cat. ]

[ Miss? Her head cocks just slightly in response. A strange title in reference to herself.

Still, his respect softens her smirk into something slightly more companionable. He catches her in a better mood today, in a mood which would allow for something a little more relaxed sans thoughts of vengeance swimming in her mind. ]

Daenerys. [ Neither his queen nor khaleesi, so she refrains from correcting him. That he has any desire to extend even a modicum of respect puts him in a more favorable light than some of the others. ] Are you a knight, Rider? It seems we've an abundance of them since visiting France.

[ It might also explain his comfort wearing it.

Her gaze hovers on his House sigil, and whilst she's half tempted to study it closer, she refrains. His focus turning to her daughter has the spiderling quieting, stilling. She does not answer.

And Dany sighs. ] Daughter. She seems to prefer taller men. It's--

[ The spider clicks her mandibles again. ]

We do not eat our allies, Irriella. [ To Rider, with the hint of a grimace: ] She wishes for me to lay eggs in you.

[ At the mention of a knight, he scoffs, tossing his head back with a brief, shallow bout of laughter. But before he can deny being such a thing and explain why being called that is so offensive, she's laying on a real shocker.

At first, he has no idea how to process it.

Eggs... Inside him. She wants her to lay eggs in him?

He wears his confusion nakedly, brow furrowing as he mentally tries to make sense of her casual explanation. ]

What... do you mean? You lay eggs inside people?

[ He would easily believe she wasn't human, but does that mean she reproduces entirely differently?

He's stuck in this situation now. There's no turning back from the topic of conversation, and he wishes he could simply cough into his hand and excuse himself.

Damn, why did she have to be so attractive? ]

[ ... Gods help her. ]

I cannot and do not lay eggs, [ she says, slowly and patiently and oh-so carefully to avoid further misunderstanding. Her tone does not invite further questions about her reproductive capabilities--it's one discussion she would not have with a stranger. ] I've hatched eggs, this one's included.

[ As opposed to gesturing blindly toward the white spiderling, she reaches up to gently drag the backs of her fingers against its back. ]

She would prefer to find her mother what she believes is a proper mate. Or perhaps she merely wishes to eat you.

[ Now she's just being mean. But at least she does a good job of hiding her smirk. ]

It makes sense. "I was never taught to use weapons. Not likely very becoming of a princess when I was nothing but a girl, and by the time I became khaleesi, my husband was there to defend me. My knight. My armies and dragons after that."

With a nod of consent, she reaches forward and Irriella crawls down her arm, resting on the small table beside her. Then Dany lifts her weapon, assuming the stance Jon had adjusted her into until it became second nature.

"Much like one must adjust when riding a horse and shooting an arrow. Would you say the weapons we've received thus far have put you at a disadvantage, even with your trainings?"

She'd had very little improvements, save for no longer flinching when she shot a gun. Her aim and reloading the weapon left much to be desired some days, depending on how focused she was on this task. A wandering mind aided her little.

"Familiars?" Irriella doesn't react to the title. It's not one she's heard, but it doesn't sound demeaning as one might imply by calling an animal a pet. "We don't use that term in my world. Some would call her a pet, or a beast. She's neither."

"You learned to command instead. That itself is a valuable skill for your station. Perhaps the most important." After all, what else is the job of a ruler than to do just that? Chiron's home never had a ruler, but he had taken in enough heroes that were sons of kings in life to knw this.

The question asked is a thoughtful one, and it puts a wisp of a smile on Chiron's face. "I will admit, learning to reload firearms has proven itself difficult. Firing, far easier, as the principles of marksmanship still apply." There was zero shame in admitting it either. He had improved, and that was far more important.

"Ah, my mistake. Familiars are often connected to mages," he explained. It was something Chiron knew about because, technically, summoned Heroic Spirits qualified as familiars. "Their uses can vary, but they are directly tied to the mage in question. Often they're used for spycraft, or else as an assistant of sorts be it personal or as a weapon."

"It's difficult to lead, sometimes," she admits. It's the first time she's done so, and not such a casual admission, despite the air of casualness to her. "To win their hearts, inspire their swords and passion. It took a long time, but it's been worth it."

She nods in thought, aiming, and then releasing the bow. The arrow soars across the space, hitting the outermost ring on the target. Which, incidentally, has been better than most of her other shots. Looking somewhat pleased, she glances back at Chiron.

"The birth of my dragons brought magic back into the world. I can walk through the flames and remain unharmed, and I've bonded with all three of mine. I can't imagine myself a witch, however, seeing as I don't dabble in sorcery." She's always wondered, however, if her premonitions were a source of magic in and of itself. "How does a familiar become tied to a mage?"

"It isn't the kind of thing you do once and you're done either, is it?" he asks the question mildly. That kind of power feels like it is a thing that must be renewed every day, and that is the kind of strain he has seen others take on. What a weight it is.

He is silent when the arrow fires, and when it does sink, an eyebrow goes up. There is no offering advice unless he's asked. That would be rude.

"I believe that would still be considered some kind of magic in my world. But what defines sorcery for your time and place?" Chiron's used to magic and magecraft, and he has little issue with either. "Words are said to bind. Sometimes it's voluntary, sometimes it is. Sometimes that matter is...unclear. I can only speak to my experiences on the topic."

"To lead?" There's a faint hint of a smile. "I suppose not, seeing as I am to reclaim my birthright and rule as queen."

His silence stretches and is met with an arch of her brows. Silent prodding for him to offer his advice.

"Would it?" She'd always imagined that a real dragon is immune to fire. Viserys was not one. But still, that her own inherent... qualities would be considered magic? "Blood magic, illusions... certainly not anything I've accomplished."

She watches him, biting back her question about his experiences. It would be rude to ask, if he's not to supply those things himself.

"So words in your world are binding? Not merely a vow, but magic of some sort backs these claims?"

"To win hearts and minds," he clarifies. It was an ambigious statement, but the answer it got him is perfectly true as well. "They can be stormy things, and always need to be reclaimed. Although it sounds as if your birthright might pose the same problem.

He sees the eyebrows. Those are in a perfect arched form, as it were, and he turns his attention back to the targets. "Do you want input? I don't wish to presume."

"Mm. Walking through flames and bonding with creatures thought to be only things of legend would both qualify. There are various manifestations, after all.

But words. He smiles faintly at that, as it is entirely true of Chiron's own case. "Think of it as an energy that can be directed in various directions. Some people will rely on words to direct that energy, others blood, others physical actions. It's about the person and their ability to force their will upon the energy."

"Ah. Earning their favor is..." She drags the pads of her fingers along Irriella's back, and the spider seems to shiver under the motion, her mandibles clicking appreciatively. "They call me a number of things, Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons... but the most surprising was perhaps when I was called Mhysa. It means mother."

There's a stretch of silence after her translation, where she considers the Day-One. They called her mother, but she'd failed them in many ways as she fumbled in her attempts to rule, not conquer. "Difficult to win that favor back, when you've lost it. But there are still some, and there will always be those to fight for."

It's not quite an answer in response to his comment, but it's the best she can proffer in the moment. Soon, he offers her what she seeks, and with a nod, she say, "Please."

Creatures thought to be of legend. "So I am magical, you think, with my dragons and my immunities. And you are magical with your words, I take it?"

"I hope your success continues then, if your previous titles are anything to go by. Have there been tales composed yet? Having so many names must make the poets very happy indeed."

The ones of Greece so loved their epitpets, after all. Chiron's understanding of what Westeros' literary and oral culture doesn't exist, but this is a pathway to understanding.

"Doubtlessly you've already been told to account for wind and environment in firing," he continues, eyes resting on the bow. "But accounting for your own movement is just as important. Release a few arrows, and note if your bow moves any during that moment. That will impact your final target."

It's all little things. Little things that can be focused on while having heavier discussions.

"You have a talent for a particular type of magic. I am a being of pure magic, as I am a summoned spirit."

That earns a light laugh, followed by a shake of the head. "None I've heard of, alas. There are far more titles than that, Chiron. Don't be dazzled yet."

She's not so naive to believe they have tales of her, lest they're about her dragons. It's as ridiculous as the idea of the smallfolk making toasts in her name while she'd been across the Narrow Sea. Silly and stupid. She wasn't as gullible as her brother had been.

His words are those of one seasoned with a weapon, and she considers her bow thoughtfully. He's spared a brief look upon mention of being pure magic, and then she's aiming at the target.

"Like a god?" she asks, then looses the shot. She'll notch the next one, ignoring that she's missed her target completely this time.

"Just because they haven't reached your ears doesn't mean they don't exist in some form or another," he counters lightly. "They're likely being worked and re-worked, elaborated and built upon. The stories need to be told a number of times and go through their paces before anyone actually writes it down."

The ones Chiron lived through were not on parchment in his own time. It took much longer for the tales of himself, his students, the gods, the matter of Troy to finally move past the poets and onto the page.

"In life, I would have said that you were not far off. But now," he pauses, not offering a comment on the target that has been missed. "I was summoned as part of a ritual, and meant to be a servant."

"Likely they speak of the foreign invader riding her dragon's back, bringing with her savages and eunuchs." For however lightly it's said, she gives no hint that such claims bother her. For a place purportedly so civilized, Westeros' nobility can be rather backward. "But I will keep such advice firmly in mind, and refrain from any offense over not hearing the tales of my adventures."

The next arrow just skims the target's rim, before clattering off course. She's noticed her bow shifts just slightly upon her release. Twice, now.

"To serve what, exactly?" She reaches for another bow, glancing at him briefly. Irriella watches him, still as a statue. "And how can one summon you, when you are flesh and bone?"

"There's a chance that the final version won't ever reach your ears," he says with a light shrug. "I know that mine certaintly weren't done when I passed."

If Chiron's bothered by that, he says nothing. What he does know is that the version of himself that is still very much alive does take issue with stories that have been written down and what kind of deeds they inspire.

But that is a personal matter. Chiron's own attention is now better spent on how that bow shifts, and gauging the exact movement of it. Before offering advice on that, Chiron decides to make a point.

For a moment, he stands there. In the next, his form begins to disappear into gold dust, before there is nothing at all. It is perhaps a cheap trick to do this, but it is far easier to make the point like this.

Chiron reappears on the opposite side of Daenerys, his arms folded across his chest. "I'm a spirit, composed and maintained by magic energy, just as those who are living are sustained by food and water."

And then: "You've noticed that you pull slightly by now, right? Try moving your aim over slightly to the right, and see how that impacts your final target."

When he passed? Drogo had no recollection of his death, so how can Chiron possibly--she inhales sharply as his body dissipates into gold dust. Irriella at once begins clicking her mandibles in a frantic rhythm, even as Dany steps closer to where he'd just been standing, reaching for the quickly dimming remnants of him.

It's gone before she can touch it, and she's left casting her gaze about. How could he possibly... but a person can't just simply disappear! Unless his physical form was nothing more than an illusion. Was this magic such as the likes of Pyat Pree's? Certainly not blood magic, this much she can say for certain. But he'd made no motion, nor had he done anything to suggest a spell had been cast.

"Lady mother!"

Dany spins around, just in time to catch Chiron reappearing. It takes much for genuine surprise to morph her features, having grown adept at schooling her expression. This, however, is the exception. She stares at him with widened eyes and a mouth hanging slightly open.

"How did you move?" She'd not felt the gust or the heat of him. Would magical energy have a physical feeling to it? She shakes her head, sharply, dispelling the first question. "How do you sustain yourself, now? You said you were summoned, that words held power. Are you bound to COST?"

She doesn't like the notion of that, and sincerely hopes that's not the case.

His advice receives a nod, but she doesn't make to take aim again. Not until she hears his answer.

"Being a spirit gives me some advantages, such as declining to take physical form."

Spirit, he hopes, gives a few things away. Where his differences with the living Chiron begin, for one, and why he can speak of death so easily. Those are intertwined, yes, but he considers them distinct matters.

"The type of energy I require can be drawn from various sources, although the set up here is a bit more unusual than most. More traditionally, I would be summoned to partake of a particular ritual, and be bound to the person who called me forth. The contract between the two parties can be complicated, but it boils down to this: they supply magic energy, and I fight on their behalf."

It is more nuanced, and Chiron expects questions. But for here, now, and getting the basics down, there's no reason to overcomplicate.

"Do you enjoy being a spirit?"

'Spirit' proffers much in terms of what he may be. Still, it's such a foreign concept to her. But is it really? When the dead may be revived, as Jon's spoken of, and she's witnessed in a dream, then why can a spirit not rise?

She dares to take a step closer to him, attention rapt as he further explains this. Another step, and she could extend her arm to try and touch him. Dany doesn't. She knows he is real. He'd been real that day she'd drowned and attacked him.

"How does this... current situation hold you?" If he says he is bound to Grothia or Chiron, well... "I imagine this person who calls upon you does so against your wishes? Do you have any say in that ritual?"

"It's...hm." No one had ever asked if Chiron actually enjoyed this new form or not. It was certainty different from what he was used to, but any actual pleasure? It was embarrassing that he had to actually stop and think about that fact. "There are advantages and drawbacks to it, the same with being a human versus centaur versus anything else"

He did miss his proper form though, that much he could admit to and feel no shame in the sentimentality of it. It was only to make it harder to guess who he was in the Grail War that Chiron had even accepted a change in shape.

"You can refuse to answer the call, but I don't know if it has been done before. The ritual, called the Holy Grail War, promises the victor and the mage who has called them forth a single wish each that can change either the past, present, or future. It's hard not to be tempted by such a thing."

Chiron's own wish, regaining his immortality, was something he was questioning now after speaking to himself. No one else knew that though, especially none of his fellow servants.

"At the moment, I'm unbound and can sustain myself. That may change in time."

Her lips twist in the faint traces of amusement. That answer is a non-answer, in many ways. There are advantages and disadvantages, indeed, to so very many things. This place is a prime example of such. Being happy, however, or enjoying a new opportunity to live...

"But this... spirit--this is what you are, now? I imagine it's proffered you much in the way of new experiences?"

Some, hopefully, were enjoyable. She grips her bow, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before she turns and notches the next arrow. With her surprise (mostly) abated, she focuses on his advice from earlier while he still speaks.

Aiming, she says: "What would one gain from refusing that call? Are you expected to be the sorcerer's slave whilst you battle? Do you know these other spirits?"

The temptation to change past, present, or future. She frowns, sparing the Day-One a brief glance. She's since ceased with her clicking, and watches Chiron with a wary air. "COST allows us that very same opportunity."

The thought's murmured lightly, and then she's releasing the arrow. The solid thwunk! as it embeds itself in the third outer circle fills the silence for her, and she's soon turning a pleased little smile on to Chiron.

"How do you sustain yourself now? What circumstances may change that?"

"Well, it's offered me a chance to have two legs instead of four, which is doubtlessly a mixed bag." He can't run as fast as he used to, which frankly, is nonsense. It's also a very strange thing to actually say outloud, and the novelty of that fact puts a small smile on Chiron's face.

As she aims, Chiron keeps his voice low, as not to disrupt concentration. In the heat of fighting, that won't be an option, but for now? Far more important to get these key things down.

"That is rather the point. In ignoring it, there's no benefit. In responding, you could potentially have everthing and defy fortune. As for the nature of the arrangement," Chiron paused, seeking the best way to respond. "In theory, the mage in question could do that. It's foolish, but possible. Those who are wise work alongside the spirit they've summoned, rather than issue ultimatiums. The young woman who called me forth is an excellent partner."

There's a faint smile on Chiron's face. Fiore was a kind hearted girl, far better suited to the world outside of magi, one that didn't demand cold demeanors and having no emotions.

"Sometimes yes, you do know the spirits you fight against. But it can be a complete matter of chance."

There's an irony in how COST affords the same opportunity as the Grail War, given how hard it has pushed Chiron to re-examine his own decisions. He murmurs only, "Very much so."

Silence follows, along with a grimmer face that Chiron is glad that no one can see. The arrow finding it's target puts a smile on Chiron's face as well. Good, that means she's figured out how to account for movement. "That's an improvement. When you're in less controlled conditions, you need to account for other factors like wind, so needing to correct this is actually a huge boon for you in the long run."

Archery and mana feels like a strange combination, but Chiron answers the question frankly. "Food, sleep, slipping into that invisible form, all of those help with energy conservation. In combat though, when it would be natural for me to invest energy into my true capabilities, I can potentially run myself into nothingness if I don't pay careful attention or find another tether."

Two legs instead of four. It's such a queer thing to say that it surprises a huff of laughter out of her. "I can imagine how strange it must be, in more ways than one. Did you struggle much when you first walked on two?"

It seems a great temptation. Partake in battle and possibly win such a power. "So you battle other spirits and mages, all in the hopes of achieving victory for this wish. I would say it strange, but I suppose it's much the same as my world, where we battle for a throne." Similar enough, at least, that she understands the appeal of that wish. "What becomes of the losers in these battles? Spirits cannot die, I imagine?"

In her world, typically when a person dies, they remain dead.

"The wind will very much throw things off balance." She regards the target with the lightest hint of a frown. "Drogon, my fiercest, was struck by a spear. A similar idea enough to a bow, but thrust from a mechanical device our enemies created. But arrows? Those were easily deflected off his scales, or by the gusts of wind his wings created."

The attack on the Lannisters is still vivid as ever, despite it no longer being her most recent memory. To account of wind would be a difficulty that would take her time, and time is a luxury she doesn't have.

"Do you slip into that invisible form often, here?" She reaches for Irriella, and the spiderling scurries back up her arm, perching upon her shoulder once more. 'True capabilities' is another strange figure of speech. It's like he dangles more and more curiosities before her, coaxing her closer, engulfing her more fully into his world with each answer. "What will happen to you, then? You've no tether here, especially not whilst we're employed in a mission."

"Strangely enough, the movement was natural. What I was not used to was the amount of space I took up." Years of being used to one's behind being a ways well, behind...is hard to shake. "There were moments of looking over my shoulder to account for myself, only to find nothing there."

It's the first time he's admit it, actually, and Chiron shakes his head at himself. Riduclous, that's what it was. Something that no one else needed to hear about, and yet...well. Chiron could trust that this particular detail wasn't one that would be shared.

"A different prize, and I imagine slightly different rules. Heroic Spirits would be comparable to your dragons more than anything else, and would take the place of any additional armies." There are likely spirits who come with their armies, but Chiron can't think of any who might fit that bill. "Spirits pass in their way, and become raw energy again. That raw energy fills the Holy Grail itself, and eventually gives it the power to grant the victors' wish."

It was a neat, tidy system with little waste, in it's way.

"There are bows that are just as mechanical. You just need to reload the arrow and pull a trigger, and the firing is done for you, so long as you line the shot up. Learning this is far more demanding of time and concentration. But better, because once you've masted this, the one I just described is truly no work."

Crossbows, guns, everything builds on the principles of proper archery. It was better to work with the harder equipment first in order to build the fundamentals.

"If I've nothing else to do, yes," Chiron confirms. It was rare that he didn't sit up in the library reading though, or spend time working with the equipment in the training rooms. "If I run myself ragged and deplete my energy supply, I cease to be. Simple as that."

People die when they are killed. Heroic spirits die when they have no mana.

[OPEN] Like the stars chase the sun, over the glowing hill, I will conquer

DREAMS

BASE

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https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9K7rmxjk5RQ mood music ig

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hnn that lady mother line was supposed to be irriella saying it

Gotcha! also in which someone foreshadows his exact problem in current game time

lmao chironnnn go bond with dragon mama

I mean it is a possibility.

:P

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