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 Posted: Sat Jul 19, 2025 10:49 am
| A thread between Sethos and Lily - Everything she was told was a lie, and she's about to find out the truth. |
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Posted: Sat Jul 19, 2025 12:04 pm
 
For the past week or so, Lily had been getting sick. Not the kind of sick where you cough a little and power through the day, no, this was the kind where you’re hunched over the toilet, gagging, retching, vomiting until your ribs ache. And yet, in the moments between the nausea, she felt... fine. Exhausted, sure. But otherwise, totally normal. Unfortunately, this was one of those mornings. She was back in the bathroom, hugging the toilet, cold water splashing against her pale, green-tinged skin. She stared numbly at the swirling water as it drained down the sink, her stomach twisted in unnatural ways that scared her more than she wanted to admit.
She had a sinking suspicion about what was happening, deep down, she knew. But denial is a powerful thing, and it settled firmly in her chest like a stone. She forced herself up, rinsed out her mouth, brushed her teeth, and stripped out of her bedgown before stepping into the shower. She needed to wash the sickness off.
Today, she planned to train. It had been too long since she’d set foot on the practice grounds, and she missed it. Lately, everything had been consumed by her maybe-relationship, her classes, and that awkward, frustrating art project. She needed to burn off some steam, and today was the perfect day. The weather was that rare balance between chill and mild and snow dusted the ground in a way that didn’t quite crunch beneath your boots. If the illness crept back in, the cold air would help keep her grounded.
She stood in front of the mirror, running her eyes over her reflection. She wore warm but lightweight clothing, loose enough to move in. Once her hair dried, she pulled it back out of her face, then slid on her boots and opened the closet door. There, leaning against the corner, was her claymore. It was collecting dust. With a sigh, she reached for it, “Sorry, Grandfather…” It had been passed down to her years ago, an extension of her since childhood. Despite its size, she’d always wielded it like it was made for her. But now, as she lifted it, the weight struck her. It was heavier than she remembered. Her lips pressed into a flat line, it seemed that she was weaker than she liked to admit, and that wasn’t like her. She was not fragile. No matter what people may have assumed, that wasn’t who Lily was.
She adjusted the leather scabbard across her back, sliding the claymore into place. The moment she did, her balance faltered and her body swayed under the weight. She was glad no one saw it… that kind of stumble would only prove them right. But as she walked down the corridor, her footing steadied. The sword began to feel natural again, and she let out a quiet breath of relief. Maybe she hadn’t lost everything after all. When she pushed open the doors to the courtyard, a gust of wind greeted her, whipping her bangs out of her eyes. She smiled faintly. The chill was refreshing, and for the first time in days, her eyes were bright.
Even the steps leading to the training yard didn’t faze her. With each step, the claymore felt more like an extension of her body. She could feel it, her rhythm returning, her balance sharpening and everything felt right again, if only for now. The walk to the yard was short, and thankfully so. She slid the scabbard off and leaned the blade against a fence post, then bent over, hands on her knees, breathing heavily. Her chest rose and fell too fast. “Gods…” She muttered lowly, cheeks flushed with the chill and exertion. She was embarrassingly out of breath. Just from that? ’Okay, maybe I need to go to the nurse.’ She stared at the ground before straightening her spine, “Clearly this flu isn’t going to go away on its own…” Her voice came out with a hint of annoyance. That short walk shouldn’t have winded her. It never used to.
She shook it off and after a few calming breaths, she began to stretch, preparing herself. Then, finally, she unsheathed her blade and her face hardened. Everything that had been gnawing at her mind surged to the surface, her father lying about her real mother and how she died from illness, that cursed history class in faux Musique filled with corpses she still dreamed about, and the art group that made her feel like an outsider. With a yell, she raised her blade and ran. The edge sliced through the training dummy with a clean, violent force, and she landed on the other side, breathless, heart racing with adrenaline flooding her veins. This felt like home. She couldn’t for the life of her understand why it took her so long to come to the training yards.
But then, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed someone else. A man, not far away, dropping massive objects onto the ground- weights, maybe? They were huge. Her brows furrowed as she stood upright, watching him. He was massive and towering. His body was marked with tribal tattoos that even stretched onto his face. She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. There was something oddly familiar about him… but she couldn’t place it. Her gaze lingered as he bent to lift another weight. Maybe she’d seen him around campus, or in passing during class? She chewed her cheek, then turned back to her other training dummy that she had set up. Whatever. As long as he didn’t bother her, he could do whatever he wanted, over there. She’d stay right here, far away. Because truthfully?
He looked a little scary.
OOC: NA Location: Dorm - Training Yards Company: Some scary lookin guy Wearing: Outfit
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Posted: Fri Dec 05, 2025 9:43 pm
Sethos Volkov - Duke of Mars
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It was never hard to track down the berserker. He would never admit it, but the stone walls made him feel smaller. It was suffocating being mixed in with perfumed royals, for some “dutiful” purpose. It only deepened his discomfort for buildings in general. They called it order, Sethos called it rot. Should a sliver of freedom shine before him, he would rampage into the kitchens, nourishing himself. Then it was off to the training yards or wherever he can roam freely to push the limits of his strength. If there was anything he liked about Utopia, it was the weapons room. There he would search for something new, a foreign weapon to evaluate and pursue its potential when in the face of war. They were like missing pieces to himself. But today wasn't a day for weapons, it was a day of strength and endurance. So he thought.
Weighted bags burdened his war etched chest, heavy bracelets and anklets anchored his being to the earth. The Martian needed any opportunity to keep up with the rest of this lot. Especially with those who were granted with tremendous ability that he envied.
Sethos grunted across the yard, by no means was there silence in the air. Loose golden strands strayed away from his braided hair. Sweat trickled down to his jaw indicating he had been making use of his time out in the yard. His legs heaved through the aches, commanding his body to endure this “final” round for the umpteenth time. He welcomed the burden, it was his own punishment for any willingness to give up.
Through the grit of his teeth he could hear someone squeaking. Ignore it, he told himself, as he pursued more weighted steps. But instinct took hold of him as he turned his head to see who else entered his sacred space.
He stood his ground watching her, and then following the flash of steel ripping through the training doll. At the sound of her yell, one brow rose. Why did this woman sound exhausted in such a mediocre amount of time? Sethos rolled off the excess weights off his back, disturbing the ground to a loud thud. He rolled his shoulders, stretching his back upright to his full height. With one last crack from a twist in his neck, he didn't wait for an invitation to join her. Still lugging weights attached to his limbs, he stomped over to the dummy, observing its pierced gauge. There must be more to it, he thought as he observed the dummy. What Sethos was expecting was some sort of after effect or perhaps some hidden blow he missed. But by the looks of it, huffy over here gave it all she could in one run. And that was that.
The berserker stifled a laugh as he rested an arm over its shoulder. “You know the difference between you and this?” he gave it a shake as he looked down at her. “Nothing” no longer contained by his own amusement, Sethos let out a single breath of laughter.
The Martian wasn't one for charity work, not a teacher by any means, but he could force a test on just about anyone. She had squared herself to strike her next opponent, and Sethos made sure that he was her consequence. Grabbing the next doll, he flexed violently, hurling it up to toss it far, far away leaving it to shatter elsewhere. His weighted wrist pushed back his loose strands and cleared the sweat from his brow. He extended a hand, urging her to proceed.
“Let the blade do what it was made to do. he grinned, digging his way to pull the fighter out of her.
She came fast, and Sethos evaded the first swing. He watched the pivots in her groundwork, the balance and imbalance of sword and swordsmen. The look in her eyes did not convince him of imminent danger, maybe frustration from lack of stamina and imperfections. Sethos knew it well, especially at this moment.
It was all that fatigue needed to slow him down, narrowly escaping a full slash of her sword. The blade nicked his shoulder, but the Martian didn't recoil. Instead he whipped around her in a blur. His hands over hers as they shared the grip of the claymore. Breath to breath, he shrunk down, “Don't get cocky, girl.”
Sethos paused, as his eyes traced the blade. He stilled at the sight of the pommel's family crest. This wasn't just any sword, it was Whilem’s.
“You are Martian?”
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