pullmeoutalive | Because my heart

[ She's never really forgotten, even as she's gazed upon Lucina and known that she's only ever had one sibling, and that was Cynthia. There's always been someone else with blue hair, someone incredibly important, and that was why Noire was one of the few who didn't turn to romance amongst her friends. There was someone else, and he wasn't there. She has to resign herself to this, and accept it. Her best friend understood. The war is over, Robin had returned to them, and that's more of a miracle than she could have ever expected. Asking for anything else...

But then it happens. Inexplicably, without warning, she finds herself in the Outrealms, called by Naga herself. Another realm needs assistance, more than just one army can provide, and she's not offered much more explanation than that before she and the others are thrown into the fray again.

Dusk has already fallen, and the rain isn't making a battle any easier, her allies (current and new) hard to pick out, but for the most part, it's an age-old struggle-- something Noire's experienced since she was old enough to remember it. Arrow after arrow, duck and skid, call out every so often so your comrades knew your position and that you were still alive. It's grueling, yes, but the amount of oddly intelligent and resilient Risen are starting to taper off by the time she pauses to catch her breath-- and freezes when she spots movement out of her eye, a sniper taking aim at a rain-blurred figure.

She thinks she might have shouted something maniacal and threatening, drowned out by the rage of battle, but her arrow slams into the ribcage, and the Risen falls.

Noire's sigh of relief is quiet, as she slowly lowers her bow. ]

S-somehow... made it... thank goodness.

Threaded | Flat

[ Morgan doesn't even know the sniper is there until its body hits the floor with a splash. Even that's hard to hear with the constant patter of rain against the hood of his robe -- but Noire's familiar declaration of demise cut through it all, almost as piercing as her arrow.

Noire is out of formation, if he recalls his mother's battle plan correctly, but he can't say he's ungrateful. Quickly, he finishes off what had been been distracting him: a battered Risen war monk, simple prey to Morgan's sword and the weapon triangle. With a satisfied huff, he turns back toward Noire, her shape vague in the rain.

It was strange seeing her again, with hair too light and manners too distant. Not that she was ever cold -- they were trusted friends, just as they'd always been. The first time he saw her, after months and months and months for him and but a day for her, she'd asked if something was wrong. He was staring, and... was there something on her face, Morgan?

It was stranger still to watch her fall in love with someone else. It wasn't a surprise, really; he'd learned long ago, in another place, that different timelines were different realms of possibility. But he couldn't help looking and seeing and remembering, and if at times he said too little or excused himself too early in their presence, it was only because he remembered too well.

He raises a hand in greeting now, crossing to her darkened form. ]

Thank you, Noire. Great timing.

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