[The Empire must surely have figured out by now that sooner or later, his bloody rampages across the Fódlan countryside always lead back to Garreg Mach in the end. That's the direction he's heading now — southwest from Fhirdiad, down as far as the border that runs between old Empire and old Kingdom lands, before bending back again through Gaspard toward the monastery in its center. It's not a course he's specifically planned so much as it is one that just suits him; for all his wild and bloodthirsty exploits, there's still a part of him that has never quite given up hope that someday he'll cross over the boundary line onto the crumbling church grounds and find Byleth there waiting for him, alive and unharmed.
It's a compulsion, almost. A religion all his own. It's why he always goes back eventually, to slaughter the bandits and assassins that desecrate the place in his absence, and hold it in place just in case — just in case —
But that's later. Now, he is still far afield to the northeast, sleeping beneath trees and in burned-out buildings that might once have been homesteads and barns, left with no company but his own ghosts — and the voices of the soon-to-be-dead soldiers that seem to have tracked him down, again.
Good. It's a good day for hunting, and a better one for killing.
He packs up his belongings efficiently, storing them in a hole beneath a pile of rocks for safekeeping, and then picks up his lance and takes off through the cover of the sparse woodlands around him, intent on stalking his prey while they seek to hunt him in return.]
no subject
It's a compulsion, almost. A religion all his own. It's why he always goes back eventually, to slaughter the bandits and assassins that desecrate the place in his absence, and hold it in place just in case — just in case —
But that's later. Now, he is still far afield to the northeast, sleeping beneath trees and in burned-out buildings that might once have been homesteads and barns, left with no company but his own ghosts — and the voices of the soon-to-be-dead soldiers that seem to have tracked him down, again.
Good. It's a good day for hunting, and a better one for killing.
He packs up his belongings efficiently, storing them in a hole beneath a pile of rocks for safekeeping, and then picks up his lance and takes off through the cover of the sparse woodlands around him, intent on stalking his prey while they seek to hunt him in return.]