On the Road to Elspar [Book 1] (Dryad Mercenary Schoolgirl Quest)
- Thread starter Kei
- Start date
- Original Fantasy
- Location
- United States
[x] Squad Four
[x] Florence Regilaine
[x] Florence Regilaine
Spectrum
Tell me a secret~
- Location
- Behind you~
It takes a certain panache to rebound like that. (Take notes, Neianne!)
Don't worry, that'll be you in a couple matches. Maybe. Hopefully.
Mia's pretty high tier, y'know!
*raises eyebrow* Oh my.
The unfortunate reality. Right now is actually the romantic part!
The dirt and the killing and the dying isn't.
Hey now, I'm sure it'll be a Faulken day by the end of things.
----
[x] Vesna, Kylee
BEST. GIRL. And also salving Neianne's worries about the sow. C'mon thread, you know in your hearts she still wants to make the attempt.
[x] Florence Regilaine
No strong opinion but a tactical vote for the moment. It could be fun, anyway.
[X] Squad Four
[X] Florence Regilaine
[X] Florence Regilaine
- Pronouns
- He
[x] Vesna, Kylee
[X] Florence Regilaine
[X] Florence Regilaine
Crow
Falling is a Pleasure. Regardless of its Fate
[x] Squad Four
[x] Florence Regilaine
Not actually sure what kind of progress could be made with Squad Four but considering all the earstwhile drama Im hoping beyond hope something improves.
Also Liz.
And Florence cuz Florence. she's bae.
[x] Florence Regilaine
Not actually sure what kind of progress could be made with Squad Four but considering all the earstwhile drama Im hoping beyond hope something improves.
Also Liz.
And Florence cuz Florence. she's bae.
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Sufficient Velocity is full of subs like you and @Gazetteer. Subs, I say.
Neither of the two have fluffy tails. =P
im sorry x_x
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
there's no point in arguing with that considering my member title
@VagueZ and I present: RWBY Retold, a retelling of RWBY with all new worldbuilding, backstories, and dynamics, but in keeping with the show's spirit. An attempt to do more with the fun ingredients that RWBY never fully managed to make the most out of. Written between someone pretty well-suited to writing a fun romp with ridiculous martial arts and someone who probably has no business writing something like RWBY.
I'm the latter, by-the-by. >_>
update will be worked on soon rly >_<
I'm the latter, by-the-by. >_>
update will be worked on soon rly >_<
- Pronouns
- He/Him/His
Sounds fun. I'll need to catch up on the actual show to better appreciate the work, but I will check it out then.
2.13.1 Swords and Flowers (Part 1)
[x] Florence Regilaine
[x] Squad Four
The most pressing problem about being maybe asked out on what might be a date by a near-total stranger who failed to give a time or a place for actually meeting up is figuring out when and where to meet them for what presumably is the start of your date.
There's also the issue of trying to figure out whether or not Florence was actually serious about the whole date idea to begin with, at least until you resignedly reason that, yes, Florence was probably serious. Actually, you're not entirely sure she even knows what a date is.
Actually, you're not sure she asked you out on a date insomuch as she interpreted a comment you made about highborn interracial marriages and preferred heirs as "asking her out". With a sinking feeling in your heart, though, you are sure that it's too late to correct any misconceptions now.
It is thus at an obnoxiously early hour in the morning that you blearily look for Florence across Llyneyth Academy. Fortunately, it doesn't take too long to find her; assuming that she isn't still asleep - or that she didn't actually expect to go on a date with you to begin with, which would've been fairly humiliating - there were only a few logical places she would be. She didn't turn up in the Great Hall, or the library where this whole episode began. The third spot you think about looking - right before the training grounds or the arenas - is the elevator.
Sure enough, a familiar-looking strawberry-blonde elf is standing on the slate platform next to a waiting elevator. Upright though she remains on both feet, she's very obviously nodding off, her head bowed, her eyelids heavy, and her figure just swaying back and forth a little bit while alarmingly close to the edge of a precariously long drop. Granted, the platform has railings, and the elevator travels down a steep mountainside slope rather than a sheer cliff, but that doesn't stop you from hurriedly scurrying over in a panic, yelping, "F-Florence!"
Slowly, the elf's eyes sleepily open, not at all dissimilar to how you first met her upon arriving at Llyneyth Academy, the Regilaine seated in front of the front doors of the Academy's main building, apparently patiently waiting to greet all their guests from the other Caldran mercenary academies. Although hardly ever a picture of lucidity - Florence constantly looks like she's in a state of mildly dull surprise - she at least doesn't look like she's going to fall back asleep as she lays eyes on you and greets, "Good afternoon."
It takes a few seconds of internal debate before you finally close the distance between the two of you and decide that it's probably not worth the trouble of informing your "date" that it is not, in fact, "afternoon". It doesn't stop you from pulling her a bit further away from the platform's edge, though. She has apparently decided that her white-and-black Llyneyth uniform is the proper attire for this occasion, although Florence - rather like Azalea and Aphelia, now that you think about it - does seem like the type of person that would look good in anything. By contrast, you're wearing a relatively more well-woven but ultimately rustic dress, the kind that a villager would wear for the solstice; you didn't bring anything super fancy to Llyneyth, and the one fancy dress you do have - gifted to you by Elizabeth for your trip to Stengard - seems a bit like complete overkill for the occasion.
"H-How long have you been here?" you demand. Yes, you got up obnoxiously early for fear that Florence may have done so, but you didn't think she actually did. It was a precaution rather than an expectation. Now that she's actually here, you're almost at a loss over what to do.
Florence thinks about this for a moment. Then she allows, "Since morning."
This is probably not as useful an answer as she may think it is. Actually, you're already regretting not informing her that it is not, in fact, "afternoon".
"You should've told me when and where you wanted to meet!" you insist. And that you were actually serious about a date, you want to add, but don't. Somehow, it's embarrassing enough without actually saying the fact out loud, not at all helped by the fact that - despite the early hour - you aren't entirely alone out here on the periphery of Llyneyth Academy; for whatever reason, there is a small handful of Llyneyth apprentices out and about in the courtyard and around the training grounds, looking over at you and Florence. Their expressions betray surprise, curiosity...and maybe even a bit of displeasure. You can't say your experiences here have made you feel particularly welcome.
Florence merely blinks. "I didn't?" she asks.
You suppose this isn't the first time you're witnessing her absentmindedness. "N-Never mind." It's reasonable that Florence would want to go somewhere not here for a special occasion, which was certainly why you thought the elevator was a possible spot where she would be waiting for you. "Did you want to go somewhere?"
It's a bit of a superfluous question; the elevator only leads down the mountain to the town of Llyneyth. Nonetheless, Florence nods in a manner that treats your question with all seriousness. Florence spins some kind of crank wheel on the platform several times before you step onto the elevator. You were told beforehand that it would signal to the elevator crew further down the mountain that they needed to drive the oxen that powered the elevator, although this knowledge has not actually been necessary until now. It takes a few minutes, but eventually - with a groan and creak of ropes and wood and metal - the elevator beneath your feet shifts, the contraption begins to move down the tracks, and you find yourself and Florence - the two of you alone, with no others joining you on the elevator - descending down the mountain into the sea of clouds below.
You expected this, but the trip down the mountain is no faster than the trip up from when you first arrived at Llyneyth Academy days ago. For the first few minutes, the view over the sea of clouds is still quite stunning, even if you've gotten just a bit used to it from looking out the window of your guest room here at Llyneyth Academy. Then the elevator dips into the clouds, and there is nothing but mist all around you, your surroundings beyond the elevator a foggy white. You will likely remain here for some time, at least until you reach an altitude low enough that the clouds are replaced with mountain paths.
"I've thought of a few names for your sword," Florence suddenly announces without preamble.
You look at her, startled. You feel like there's going to be a lot of that in your immediate future. "For m-my sword?"
"For your sword," she repeats and nods. "Number one: Sky-Cleaver."
"Th-That's a little much!" you protest.
"Is it really?" asks the girl who carries a sword named "Justifier II: Vengeance" as she quizzically tilts her head slightly to the side.
"It can't even reach the sky! Y-Yours comes closer!"
Florence gives this a moment of thought before nodding, as if agreeing with you. "Mine is already named 'Justifier II: Vengeance', though."
You nod agreeably, hoping that your inability to come up with anything to say in response doesn't stretch on into a long, awkward silence.
Thankfully, your companion delivers. "I have more. Number two: Aldwyna, Slayer of Mountains."
"...My sword can't slay m-mountains either."
"Number three: The Wrath of the World."
"I-I don't want the World to be angry at me!"
"No, the world isn't angry at you; your sword is the world's anger."
"That doesn't make it better!"
"Number four..."
Giving up, you just nod along, swept up by the avalanche of baroque sword names. It is with mingled fascination and dismay that you realize she has enough of these to take you all the way down to the bottom, and has memorized them all without visible hesitation or forgetfulness. At the very least, there's something endearing about how seriously she's taking this, even if it's also quite bewildering to you. It is making the elevator trip down feel remarkably shorter, for what that's worth.
It is in the middle of her list that your elevator reaches the halfway point of the tracks, and from further down the mountainside, the elevator on the other end of the pulley - the counterweight to your own elevator - emerges below you from the thick mist. Compared to yours, the platform crawling towards yours carries at least a dozen people of varying ages, adults and children both, their dress and demeanor and general impression being that of the townsfolk of Llyneyth. Just as you see them, they also notice you and Florence - mainly Florence - and wave cheerfully.
"Good morning, Florence!"
"Morning, Florence!"
"Going to show the other academies what for, eh?"
The people of Lindholm are a bit stiff relative to the Apaloftians you're accustomed to, but even so, you can feel the sort of hometown celebrity status that Florence enjoys, a degree of admiration but also familiarity that is all too reminiscent of how the people of Marloch treated Elizabeth when you visited her during summer vacation. Here, Florence is not some great untouchable heroine, some distant descendant of a legendary bloodline, but - at least to the townsfolk of Llyneyth - one of theirs.
It would have been convenient if matters were left at that, but - for better or for worse - your presence does not go unnoticed by the townsfolk on the elevator as the platforms begin to pass each other by. "Who's the sweetheart?" a middle-aged woman calls out to the amused laughter of her fellow elevator occupants.
Your mewling at this only increases in intensity as Florence replies with a straight face: "This is Neianne. She's not my sweetheart yet, we're just on a date."
The elevator finally reaches its destination many long minutes later, where you are greeted by another entourage of Llyneyth townspeople waiting at the bottom, hoping in all likelihood to arrive early to get choice seats for today's lower bracket competition in the afternoon. They, too, greet Florence with the same sort of familiar exuberance, all while regarding you with amused curiosity. You suppose you are grateful that those of Lindholm are more reserved than of the other four regions of Caldrein; you doubt you would have survived the intrusive inquisitiveness of those back home in Apaloft.
Llyneyth is still an unfamiliar town to you, what with your few hours of experience with it prior to your elevator ride up the mountain days ago. For a rural girl from the Apaloftian countryside, for someone whose standards for township have been influenced significantly by Faulkren, Llyneyth is still an unexpectedly grandiose place. Certainly, it has nothing on the major city you've been to - Stengard, specifically - nor is it quite as majestic as the seat of a viscomital - Marloch, in this case - but this mountainside town is ostentatious in a style you've recently heard described in passing as "classic Lindholm architecture". The pillars look a bit thicker than necessary, the archways a bit taller than necessary, the black-and-white walls cleaned so pristinely that it almost hurts to look at, especially in the cold. It makes you wonder just how much the apprentices of Llyneyth Academy spend in town every year to permit such extravagances.
Florence guides you through the busy streets with the familiarity of a local; you don't actually know if - being the heir to the Regilaines - Llyneyth technically counts as her family's fiefdom, but you certainly command a level of familiarity with the town of Faulkren after a year of living next to it; the same can easily be said for your elven escort. Not that you have any idea where you're going. You doubt Florence is actually trying to keep it a surprise as much as she has simply forgotten to inform you.
Your destination turns out to be a large, handsome building, a well-kept looking shop with what looks like a stone smithy attached at the back. The sign hanging over the doorway reads "Caldrein's Finest, Swords and Arms", and features a simple image of a classic straight sword underlining the name. You imagine the iconography is perhaps not solely for the benefit of the illiterate; given the locale, Llyneyth gives you the impression of being populated largely by educated well-to-do's. Certainly, this shop has the air of the sort of place you'd instinctively avoid as being obviously far too expensive for your means. Florence apparently has no such reservations; she drifts across the street with the same strange mix of obliviousness and purpose that she's had all morning, pushing open the door, and only barely remembering to politely hold it open for you. It's an oddly earnest gesture, if a little unnatural, as if someone had told her once that she should do that on a date. You give it an awkward smile.
The shop inside is as expensive as it looks from the outside, built with the characteristic black-and-white stylings of the entire town, coupled with warm, honey-colored panelings of treated ash in its flooring, paneling, and furnishings. It's warm inside, the air in the shop filled with the scent of well-oiled metal, beeswax, and a distant tang of smoke from the smithy. There are about half a dozen customers inside, five of them apprentices you don't recognize from other Caldran mercenary academies, and a lone adult similarly unknown to you. The girls recognize Florence, and some of them start chattering in hushed but excited voices to each other, making you feel even more self-conscious about standing next to her.
The shop is being attended by a middle-aged human woman in the process of meticulously polishing an Ornthalian-style dueling buckler. At the bell above the door ringing, she glances up from behind her counter to see the two of you, her attention fixing on Florence with an unsurprised air. "Regilaine," she says in greeting with a curt nod of her head.
"Hello, Mildred." Florence acknowledges the woman whose shop you're invading a little absently. Not out of arrogance so much as out of preoccupation with the weapons on display all around you; the walls are lined with them. Greatswords and rapiers, longswords and all their various cousins, rows of gleaming daggers in all shapes and sizes. Spears, axes, and other weapons make their token appearance here and there, but it would seem that the primary focus of Caldrein's Finest is, after all, swords.
Mildred's eyes fall on you now with a little more curiosity now. "Good morning."
"G-Good morning," you reply with a polite bow of your head.
After a squirmy moment on your part, Mildred's attention goes back to Florence. "Here to window shop again?"
Mildred's words sound a bit admonishing despite her friendly demeanor, but Florence seems almost oblivious to this as she simply nods politely in the affirmative. You wonder how much of it is familiarity and how much of it is Florence's general obliviousness. What she isn't oblivious to, however, is the shop's catalogue of merchandise. The elf remains as inexpressive as ever, but stars dance in her eyes the same way they did when she stared at Mysterious Mask during the feast in the Great Hall after the first round of the tournament. Her gait, too, is notably different as she almost floats over to weapons mounted on the walls, laid in display cases, stacked into racks. You give Mildred a half-apologetic sort of look even as you follow Florence, who isn't drawn immediately to the most expensive-looking swords tucked away behind glass; instead, she attempts to draw your attention to a steel greatsword taller than you are on a weapons rack, her eyes fixed on the metal.
"Classic Lindholm pattern," the elf declares authoritatively. "The blade is more than a hundred centimeters long, but it's perfectly balanced." Her eyes, more intent than you've ever seen them, trace the length of the blade as if they might wring out more secrets from the flawless metal. "The leather is bark-tanned goatskin. It's not my favorite for grips, but it's water-resistant and great for if you're traveling. The blade is also lighter than it looks." She raises a finger and makes a motion as if running a finger across the groove running along the spine of the blade, but the finger doesn't actually touch the blade in question, as if maintaining a respectful distance even towards a sword that's clearly a more affordable selection in this shop. "The fuller reduces the weight just enough to keep the sword's center of weight here," she points to a spot just above the guard, "which is one of the perfect spots, depending on whom you ask. I call it the Great Divider."
Mildred sighs from behind the counter: "Please don't name my swords on your own."
"I'd ask for your permission first," replies Florence innocently, oblivious to the giggling from the other apprentices in the shop.
"You can get permission by actually buying it," snorts the blacksmith, but she still doesn't actually sound admonishing.
There's almost something nostalgic about coming back to a greatsword. You're certain you can still wield it with all the competence expected of someone who began her training with such a weapon, but something about fighting with a buster sword just feels like an intrinsic part of you now, despite all the confused reactions it seems to attract. "I don't think that's going to help me too much," you say half-jokingly.
Florence looks at you, tilting her head slightly to the side. "Why not?"
"Um, I...d-don't think a fuller will make a buster sword more balanced." A groove along the spine of a slab of steel certainly doesn't seem like it's remotely sufficient to achieve equilibrium with your primary weapon's thick, elongated grip.
Blinking, it takes Florence a moment to actually seem like she understands what you mean. Then she says thoughtfully, "Mithril would be a good metal for the blade, then. It doesn't stay sharp as well, but it's lighter than steel and just as durable. The buster sword's blade will still be heavy enough that the sharpness won't matter that much. It's wide enough that large, multiple fullers would probably be a good idea. The hilt can be forged from steel to make it heavier on that end. It probably still won't be perfectly balanced, but it'll help." She pauses before asking, "Do you know the differences between the materials used for swords?"
You're no blacksmith, but your Caldran mercenary education at Faulkren has at least taught you the very basics of weapon composition and its applications in actual combat. "U-Um, iron is the most common metal for swords, found in the hands of m-many guards and conscripts. Better choices w-would be obsidian, which is brittle b-but very sharp; mithril, which isn't as sharp but is light and durable; and steel, which is heavy and e-even more durable, good for heavy weapons." Of course, as Florence alluded to just a moment ago, there are only dozens of variants of each material with differing levels of purity and strengths - alleged or otherwise - but, again, you're not actually a blacksmith. "In general, swords that are durable are h-hard to keep sharp, and swords that remain sharp are e-easier to shatter." You pause and think for a moment, digging the recesses of your brain for distant memories of long-forgotten lectures. There are, of course, materials in blacksmithing that are superior to the aforementioned conventional metal, materials so valuable that they defy the conventions of the sharpness-durability spectrum, but you've also been taught that they are rare and unlikely to ever consistently show up in your career as a Caldran mercenary. "Blacksteel and azurite have d-different types and qualities, but are durable and sharp. Blacksteel is good for heavy weapons and azurite is good for light weapons. And the very, very best of swords are c-crafted from crystal."
To her credit, Florence looks like she is rapt at attention as you go over information that every Caldran mercenary apprentice is likely to know already, and she nods eagerly at this explanation that probably isn't news to anyone in this shop. "Iron is just steel, though," she says once you are done.
"Steel is just iron," corrects Mildred absentmindedly. "And people say 'iron' in ordinary conversation."
"Swords aren't made out of pure iron, though."
"Yes, yes, pure iron is too soft, it's supposed to be a lower grade of steel. And blacksteel has nothing to do with iron or steel. Let it go."
Florence considers this with a tilt of her head for a moment. Then she seems to let it go, turning her attention back to you. "There's one more metal: Orichalcum."
Your eyes widen at this. "I-I thought it was a myth!"
"It isn't. Caldrein doesn't have any orichalcum weapons, but both Ornthalia and Tenereia do. As do a few other countries. It is said that orichalcum never breaks, that its edge never dulls, that it cuts through everything like butter, that it's imbued with magical properties. It's said that countries have gone to war over it."
That sounds almost too amazing to be true. And it hasn't escaped your notice that Florence has prefaced all of this with "it is said". "'It is said'?" you repeat, trying not to sound too dubious.
Florence looks at you for a moment. Then she looks at you, as if she's looking in your general direction. It's been a while since you lost saw this, but Florence's eyes take on a distant quality - even more distant than she usually looks - and there's a moment where she seems almost mildly surprised as her far-off gaze seems to rest on a spot just over your shoulder. Then - clearly not to you - she asks, "Is orichalcum real?"
It's been a while since you've watched any elf communicate with the fae. Their existence continues to be one of those things that you know about - that the elves can see them, that they're supposed to govern the laws of the universe - but rarely ever aware of, something that just never intersects with your life or the lives of the people around you. Most elves just don't bother communicating with spiritual entities of arcane energies that don't see the universe in the same way as mere mortals and are thus almost entirely incomprehensible. It's not surprising that Florence is someone who'd try anyways, though.
After a moment, Florence's gaze refocuses and then settles on you. "She says yes," she nods.
"The fae?" you ask. And when she nods, you can't help but skeptically add, "That's...what she said? W-Word for word?"
"She said that red smells like thirteen. I think that means yes, though."
Somehow, it's actually a comfort that even Florence isn't quite as weird as the fae.
For a while - maybe half an hour, maybe an hour - Florence takes you from sword-to-sword, detailing each and everyone one of them in painstaking detail, interjecting the occasional commentary about your respective weapons - as well as the swords of a few other apprentices who are participating in the tournament - between some explanations. It's rather fascinating, although you admit that everything eventually seems to blend together to your layperson's ears after a while of this; you don't want to say that you're getting bored, but Florence obviously holds an interest on this subject that would be more appropriate for a blacksmith. In the meantime, the apprentices originally window-shopping here are gradually replaced by other apprentices doing the same. Few of them are from Llyneyth; those who are regard you with complicated looks that don't seem too friendly, making you feel nervous standing beside Florence. Not that Florence seems to notice, and the Llyneyth apprentices also come and go.
You are beginning to worry about how much longer you can pay attention to Florence's explanations and whether or not she intends to talk you through each and every sword in the shop. Mercifully, three apprentices you don't recognize come up with giddy smiles. One of them asks, "Um, Miss Regilaine?"
Florence looks over and greets with a blank face, "Regilaine is my mother."
The three apprentices exchange an awkward look before the first one gathers her courage again and asks, "Oh, um...Miss Florence? May we get an opinion about a sword?"
You strongly suspect that the apprentices aren't actually really looking for an opinion about a sword insomuch as they're trying to become familiar with a celebrity among Caldran mercenary apprentices, a descendant of the woman who started the tradition. Florence, however, either doesn't notice this or doesn't care; she readily turns her attention to the three happy apprentices who mostly ignore you. Honestly, you're fine with this development as you give them space and casually drift over towards the counter where Mildred is now polishing a rapier. It gives you a moment to catch your breath; Florence's enthusiasm is endearing, but you can admittedly only take in so much minutiae about swords at once.
You're making a casual effort to look like you're still looking around at all the weapons in the shop - trying not to look like you've given up even the pretense of window-shopping at an upscale place beyond your means - when Mildred observes, "You're an apprentice for the tournament upstairs." It's a half-question, half-statement, like she already knows but is just double-checking.
"From F-Faulkren Academy," you answer politely.
"Apaloft, yes? Nice place. Warm."
"It's a bit cold here," you agree politely, honestly.
Mildred quietly regards you for a moment longer before she suddenly recognizes you: "You're that squad leader with the buster sword, aren't you?"
"Y-Yes," you nod in mild surprise. Yes, your buster sword is distinctive, and yes, people obviously came up from town to watch the tournament, but you didn't think you'd meet anyone who would remember you this readily. "Did you come and watch the tournament?"
"Only the first round. Shop doesn't keep itself. I'll be around for the semi-finals and finals, though."
That sounds reasonable. Looking around and looking at the respectable number of customers inside a relatively small shop, you observe, "Business looks good, though."
"It's alright. I get a healthy batch of orders when the apprentices here graduate. Another batch of orders whenever the tournament rolls around. Sometimes the Academy buys surplus weapons off me or asks me to smith some more weapons, practice or otherwise. Some people make their way here to buy weapons from me."
"Oh." You give this a moment of thought before deciding this makes sense. "You must be very famous, then."
"Hardly," Mildred scoffs, although it sounds like it's good-natured self-deprecation rather than anything aimed at you. "I just run a blacksmith next to a Caldran mercenary academy mostly full of rich kids, so I get to work with expensive materials that people will pay for. They know quality isn't in want here." There's a lull in the conversation where both of you watch Florence talk with the other apprentices when Mildred suddenly asks, "Are you dating Regilaine?"
"N-N-No!" you stammer, blushing, managing to keep your voice to a quiet squeak at the last minute to prevent the apprentice in question from hearing. You are very glad that Florence is, in fact, not an aseri. "I-I mean, we're just...w-we're becoming friends."
The blacksmith looks at you with what may be mildly skeptical amusement, but she seems to casually accept this explanation without pressing on further; you know you never would've gotten away with just that explanation back home. "Don't see her around with people much," Mildred shrugs, her gaze returning to Florence.
"Really?"
"I don't know what it's like up there, but Regilaine is not exactly Llyneyth's best people person. Whenever she comes down here, she almost always comes down here alone. She seems happy that way, though, so who am I to judge? It's nice she's meeting new people, though."
This comes as a bit of a surprise; Florence has clearly not been in want for company up at Llyneyth Academy, and although she's certainly weird, you've never really gotten the impression that she might be unpopular.
You want to give this some thought or reply to Mildred - just something polite to fill in the gap in the conversation while you consider the implications - but something else catches your attention. You almost don't; it's something in the periphery of your vision, out the window, behind a small crowd. But it's something that causes your jaw to drop and causes your face to pale and demands your immediate attention. It isn't even Florence this time.
Frantically, you bow your head a couple of times to a puzzled-looking Mildred, saying to her, "I-I'll be right back." Scurrying towards the front door out of the blacksmith's, you don't quite pass by Florence, but when she notices you leaving, you also bow your head to her a few times in rapid succession, squeaking, "I-I'll be right back!" She looks puzzled in her usual blank way, but she makes no move to follow you. Hopefully, the other apprentices will keep her occupied and inside for a few minutes.
You slip mostly politely out the door before your gait turns into a stomp as you cross the neat brick road. Worming your way through a small crowd, you politely shoulder past a handful of people - mostly girls your age, plus one or two adults - before latching your hand on a small, blonde elf standing openly at the intersection outside the blacksmith's and pulling her around the street corner. You don't need to do this to the tall raven-haired elf or the aseri brunette; they, at the very least, are actually attempting to hide a bit, albeit one more successfully than the others.
Once you're out of the crowd and have rounded the corner and made sure that you can't be spotted with a cursory look out the blacksmith's window, you whirl on the rest of Squad Four and demand with a uselessly covert hiss, "W-W-What are you doing?"
Reaching into a warm bag pressed against her chest, Elizabeth - dressed in a pretty winter cloak - blithely pops some popcorn into her mouth and bluntly replies, "Spectating."
From the side, Sieglinde - herself in a more elegant longcoat - gives the smaller elf an admonishing look as she says, "That's not what you said when you dragged us out here."
"I lied."
"Seriously?" you hiss again in disbelief. "I have my hands full."
"Oh," Elizabeth snorts suggestively as presses her bag of popcorn deeper into her relatively flat chest - as if affecting a crossing of arms - and smirks, "is that how you're describing your date? Hands full of what, I wonder?"
This time, it doesn't take you too long to be promptly reduced to useless blushing and stuttering. You hate words.
"Still," Elizabeth continues, popping another handful of popcorn into her mouth, "you look like you're spending more time with the blacksmith than with Regilaine. I didn't take you for the type to prefer older women."
"Zabanya," Sieglinde sighs.
"Well, don't mind us too much. We're just participating in our entertainment after all."
"Zabanya."
Rolling her eyes, Elizabeth sighs explosively, "Fine, we're here to make sure none of the other Llyneyth snobs gets too worked up over a gold-digging dryad girl trying to steal 'their' darling celebrity. And we're trying to find something to do this morning before the lower bracket matches today." She sends a droll look at Sieglinde. "Happy?"
"I'm not sure I am," replies the taller elf flatly.
"We're also here to protect your innocence," adds Elizabeth, ignoring Sieglinde. "Who knows what Regilaine and older women will do to you when you're unsupervised."
"I-I-I wasn't spending more time with Miss Mildred!" you squeak after finding your capacity for coherent speech once more. "I was only talking with her for a m-moment! I don't p-prefer older...how long have you been following me?" Your squadmates were still in your guest room when you left to search for Florence, and they certainly didn't take the elevator down the mountain with you.
"Just now," Elizabeth yawns.
"Zabanya thought to procure snacks along the way," Sieglinde adds. Her hands are devoid of food, which doesn't really surprise you; she has always struck you as a judicious eater. Your final squadmate is similarly without any snack of her own; you suspect it's difficult for Mysterious Mask to enjoy any food out here, for obvious reasons. You can't see her expression underneath the fox mask, but her body language - droopy ears, her tail unmoving beneath a plain winter cloak - communicates a degree of resignation towards tailing you, towards being forced to wear her mask next to Sieglinde and Elizabeth to prevent from being found out, towards having a small crowd of apprentices excitedly watch her as if she's some local celebrity. At least Sieglinde - tallest among you - is making an effort to try and stand in between them.
"H-How did you even find us?" you demand.
Elizabeth rolls her eyes. "Oh, I don't know," she drawls lazily, sarcastically. "Llyneyth isn't a big town? Regilaine's a local celebrity? Redhead dryads aren't that difficult to notice?"
"Regilaine has a known fondness for weapons," Sieglinde cuts in helpfully.
"Regilaine really likes swords?" Elizabeth continues as if Sieglinde had not spoken at all. "Take your pick." Another handful of popcorn goes into her mouth. "So how's the date going?"
"It's not a d-d-date!" you insist, blushing again. "We're just being friends and she's showing me around town!"
"Is that so?" snorts Elizabeth. "You're going to break poor Regilaine's heart."
Giving you a gentle push by the shoulder, Sieglinde elects to ignore her fellow elf as she gently advises, "You should head back in and enjoy your time together. We'll...try to keep out of sight. Don't worry about us."
"It's too late for that!" you want to say. Instead, you mostly just slump your shoulders as you sigh and return whence you came, crossing the street once more and pushing your way through the door of Caldrein's Finest. Florence is still caught up in an explanation about swords to an enraptured audience, but her gaze turns to you when you enter, and you smile apologetically as you say, "S-Sorry. I saw some friends outside, so I just wanted to say hi."
Florence nods, taking this at face value. Then she turns to the other apprentices and says, "Sorry, we need to go."
The other apprentices don't look too disappointed at this, although you yourself are a bit surprised. "We're leaving already?" you ask.
Florence nods again, moving to where you stand at the door. "There is somewhere else I want to take you." She turns back to Mildred, says, "Thank you for letting us look at your swords again."
Mildred waves a hand dismissively. "Buy something next time," she says, but it's clear from the tone of her voice that she isn't actually upset, and that she - at worst - doesn't actually mind Florence window-shopping here.
You're soon back on the streets of Llyneyth once more. As morning moves towards noon, it is getting a bit warmer, although you're still rubbing your gloved hands together in search for more warmth. Hardly unexpectedly, Florence seems entirely accustomed to the local temperature as she leads you onto increasingly wider streets, talking a bit more about swords in the meantime. It's nice, you suppose, that this is someone who clearly knows what she's interested in. The conversation lasts only so long, though; after a few minutes, you find yourself walking into a large, crowded plaza before two shrines standing side-by-side.
Unlike the obelisk back in Faulkren Academy before which an adherent of any faith can pray at, the two shrines here are very obviously Primordian and Conceptualist. The former is hardly surprising to see, with a basin ritually filled with water representing the Sacred Spring, that omnipresent source of aether that constitutes all existence and governs all reality. It's also twice as large as its Conceptualist counterpart, roughly the size of your dorm room back in Faulkren; it's a bit larger than what you'd expect from a town of this size, but you suppose Llyneyth is a bit unique. By contrast, the Conceptualist shrine back home in Caelon is little larger than a shed, and your parents' own private Gaianist shrine no larger than a cupboard. Shrines in the cities, meanwhile, are often as large as the guest room Squad Four is sharing here in Llyneyth, although almost all of them are Conceptualist.
You've never left Caldrein before - you've never even left Apaloft until you visited Elizabeth during summer vacation - but there are stories of titanic Primordian shrines in Ornthalia, as large as the Great Hall in either Faulkren or Llyneyth Academies. Similarly, you've heard people speculate that this Ornthalian influence on religious architecture is why shrines seem to be growing larger and larger with each passing generation.
But despite the obvious difference in architectural size, there doesn't actually seem to be a significant difference in the number of people at either shrine. In a country that is becoming increasingly culturally Ornthalian - or so it is said by older elves, for you are too young to really have anything to compare your lived experiences to either way - Primordialism seems to have long dominated faith in Caldrein. Seeing a Conceptualist shrine still going toe-to-toe with this giant stands out. You try not to look over your shoulder where suspect Mysterious Mask is following along; you wouldn't be able to tell what she feels about this from underneath her mask anyways.
"There are a lot of Conceptualists here," you observe, looking around. Over Florence's shoulder, you spot two Llyneyth apprentices sending you distractingly unpleasant looks, as if offended that you are spending the day with Florence, with half a mind to come over and ruin your day.
Florence looks at you as if you have just stated the obvious. Which, technically, you did. "It's a Conceptualist shrine," she says, even as - ten meters behind her - Mysterious Mask marches over to the two Llyneyth apprentices.
"Oh, sorry," you apologize quickly, trying not to pay attention to the Llyneyth apprentices uneasily looking at Mysterious Mask, who has stopped in front of them and is now glaring at them with all the inexpressiveness of a stylized fox mask. "I-I mean...I thought there'd be many more Primordians than Conceptualists."
Florence blinks. "Would there?" she asks, even as her fellow Llyneyth apprentices behind her lose their nerves before Mysterious Mask's relentlessly unexpressive glare, quickly fleeing the scene, probably the only one time Mysterious Mask has ever not regretted buying the mask. Then she allows, "I guess there would. Lindholm likes the old ways, though."
You suppose that much is true. Even before you ever set foot in the region, stereotypes of Lindholm traditionalism have always been well-known even in Apaloft. Still, you suppose it's easy to forget; the two Lindholm elves on your squad are hardly shining icons of "the old ways" or "traditionalism".
Florence hesitates for a moment before asking, "Are you a Gaianist?"
"My parents are," you allow. "I'm...u-undecided." You suppose you're culturally Gaianist, but you've never really strongly believed in the faith of the World.
Florence fidgets a little before she allows, "Well, it's a nice spot." She seems like she's making an effort to be engaged. Still, there's a level of detachment from this leg of the tour, with little of the obvious enthusiasm she showed back at the blacksmith's. In fact, you get this faint, weird sense of apology baked into Florence's demeanor since you've arrived at these shrines, as if she's trying to make up for having dragged you into her gushing over weapons, but being unable to truly understand why anyone would want to visit shrines over a blacksmith's.
Still, you politely asked, "Are you a Conceptualist?"
Florence thinks for a moment, even as - for whatever reason - Elizabeth throws a snowball at Mysterious Mask. "I think so?"
"You think so?" you repeat, trying very hard to stifle a laugh when the snowball - thrown true by a tiny elven mage's arm - splatters harmlessly against Mysterious Mask's mask.
"My parents are Conceptualists," Florence replies as Elizabeth catches a snowball to her notably unmasked face. "There's no reason why I shouldn't be."
That isn't precisely your own position religion-wise, nor is it Sieglinde's staunch agnosticism, but Florence does sound like she's at least similarly not as committed to the tenets of your respective parents' faiths beyond a general sense of cultural inertia. You suspect it's due to how you're caught in between cultures after having urbanized at five - Elana is a dyed-in-the-wool Primordian, after all - and how Florence is...well, caught between reality and something else. You wonder how much coming here is actually her idea, as opposed to something that was suggested to her or something she thought "normal" people go to on dates.
But that isn't necessarily something you want to bring up this early into your friendship, and certainly not something you want to talk about now. "Which goddess do you pray to?" you instead ask politely.
Florence's answer is entirely unsurprising: "The Queen of Blades."
Trying not to smile too widely, you suggest, "D-Do you want to go pray?"
Again, Florence thinks about this for a moment before nodding, "Alright."
The line in front of the Conceptualist shrine is long, but everyone in front of you thankfully give quick prayers before moving on, and although some time passes before it's finally your turn to stand before the altar. Florence closes her eyes and intertwines her fingers before her abdomen, and although you aren't Conceptualist yourself, you mimic the stance in a gesture of solidarity.
"May there be peace in Caldrein," Florence prays. "May people live happy lives." And you struggle harder to stifle a laugh as she unsurprisingly adds, "May there be more swords."
You stay for a while longer to admire the dual shrines, but the two of you eventually leave to grab a bite. The two of you don't have to travel far; you soon find yourself seated at the same tea shop that you, Azalea, Wilhelmina, and Nikki visited when you first arrived in town days ago. As was the case the first time you came here, there are a handful of Llyneyth apprentices here, most of whom look at you with mild distaste as you and Florence seat yourselves at a table for two, something you do your best to ignore.
Your cups of tea arrive at your table minutes after ordering when Florence suddenly asks without preamble, "Has your family always been dryads?"
You suppose this is not a surprising question coming from someone who claims to be "one-five-hundred-twelfth dryad". The moment does give you pause, though. You've never been very inquisitive about this, but while your parents have always been ready to share with you the traditions of their dryad communes - ones that you can now only barely recall from the faintest of childhood memories, ones from before you urbanized at the age of five - your mother and father have been less forthcoming with regards to their personal story and why they left to begin with. You have no proof - and you doubt that it was anything as dramatic as mixed ancestry somewhere along the family tree - but you've always had a nagging suspicion that your parents departure from Thionval was not as completely voluntary as they sometimes insist it was.
But this is not the place for such a conversation. "I-I think so," you answer Florence's question. Over her shoulder, Sieglinde has risen from a table Squad Four had covertly seated themselves at, making her way over to the table of three Llyneyth apprentices. She adopts what you recognize as Sieglinde Lecture Stance Number Two: Seated, legs crossed, one arm resting on her waist, the other arm with an elbow resting upon the first arm and the fist resting thoughtfully on her chin. Sieglinde Lecture Stance Number One would involve a book in her hands. Whatever her lecture is about, though, the Llyneyth apprentices are listening with muted looks of abject horror, much to the smugly pleased look on Elizabeth's face back at Squad Four's table, sipping daintily at her tea.
Florence nods, and then asks just as abruptly, "Do you know what kind of flower will grow from your hair?"
Most of the time, young dryads eventually grow the same flowers as their mother from their hair; in your case, it would be zinnia. There's no small chance that a dryad may take the flower of her father, though - your father has a tuft of valerian running down her hair - or even a completely random flower not of either parents'. So you do the honest thing by shaking your head and admitting, "Not yet. My mother's flower is zinnia, so it...might be that?"
"What kind of flower do you think I'd have in my hair?"
Putting aside that Florence is only one-five-hundred-twelfth dryad - or, in Sieglinde's words, "not a dryad" - you honestly have no idea. Still, looking at your counterpart for a moment, you eventually allow, "Hyacinth?" Certainly, the flower in question comes in a variety of colors, but you are specifically thinking about how the long, purple-colored variant would be a good match for her strawberry blond hair and blue eyes.
Florence thinks about this for a moment before nodding in the affirmative; she almost seems happy with this conclusion. "I suppose I am playful," she allows.
You blink. "P-Pardon?"
"Hyacinth. In the language of the flowers, it means playfulness."
"Language of...the f-flowers?"
"It's an old tradition. Different flowers are supposed to convey different messages when you gift them to others. Red roses mean you love someone. Hollies represent foresight. Hyacinths mean playfulness. I like to think that I'm playful and make other people happy."
"Oh," you say politely, absently, realizing that Florence has given more thought to flowers as an elf that you ever have as a dryad. "I...th-think it suits you."
Over Florence's shoulder, the three Llyneyth apprentices Sieglinde was lecturing at rise from their seats and flee the tea shop, leaving you and Florence happily undisturbed. You suspect, not for the first time, that Sieglinde's own sensibilities are a poor match for her allegedly traditionalist Lindholm heritage.
A few minutes down the line of idle conversation, you try to steer the topic to something that you think would be of greater mutual interest: "Your duel with L-Lady Lanerran was amazing."
"She's a very good opponent," Florence readily agrees.
You may not share the same level of unbridled enthusiasm for swords as Florence, but you'd like to think that you are at least as interested with regards to combat technique and battlefield tactics. Certainly, it's a subject that's more approachable for you compared to religion, your dryad heritage, or the language of flowers. "How did you do it?" you ask eagerly.
This is obviously a topic that Florence is eager to talk about. "Well, Hazel made many attacks, but I went fwah," she exclaims, gesturing animatedly with her arms in an approximation of her own moves with an odachi, her movements so abrupt - so out of place in a tea shop - that you find yourself momentarily dumbstruck. You actually freeze up with your teacup in a hand, looking furtively around, suddenly feeling an acute sense of secondhand embarrassment that Florence herself clearly does not feel as she makes a scene. "And then she started testing my defenses, but then I went ding-ding-ding. And then she went schink-schink-schink, but I went tink-tink-tink. And then she went whump, but then I went whoosh. And then she went kssh, but then I went fwoosh."
...Right, you're just going to pretend you understood that. Behind Florence, clearly having heard her, Sieglinde buries her face into a palm in a gesture remarkably reminiscent of despair.
The day swiftly passes noon, and it is soon time for you to return to Llyneyth Academy. Neither you nor Florence are participating in today's round, with your respective squads still in the upper bracket, but you still feel obligated to show up and cheer for your fellow Faulkren squads. The next round is still two hours away, but a long line has already formed with townspeople and other guests waiting for their turn up the agonizingly slow elevator ride up. Thankfully, everyone readily allows you and any other Caldran mercenary apprentices showing up to cut directly to the front, sparing you a lengthy wait on top of the elevator's agonizingly slow travel speed. No Sieglinde, Elizabeth, or Mysterious Mask in sight, though; you suppose they decided that riding the elevator up with you would be too obvious.
Compared to the trip down, the ride back up to Llyneyth Academy feels even slower than usual, probably because of how self-conscious you are about all the attention you're receiving next to Florence. More than a few - like the girls back in Caldrein's Finest - take the opportunity to speak with Florence, who politely engages in conversation. You politely make some room, which may or may not be a polite way of saying that you're slowly edged out of a small crowd of girls coalescing around Florence. It isn't precisely a sting to your pride, although it's alleviated a little when a small handful of other apprentices from the other academies recognize you as the leader of Faulkren's Squad Four and express polite interest about your optimism moving forward.
Many, many minutes later, the elevator finally reaches the top, disgorging its occupants onto Academy grounds. The apprentices disperse, presumably to find their squads before the lower bracket round starts; the townspeople, in the meantime, move towards the bleachers around the woodland arena in hopes of getting good seats. Florence, thankfully, has not forgotten about you in the meantime, politely excusing herself to walk with you across the courtyard and towards the main complex.
"You're very popular," you say to Florence with a polite smile once the two of you have some room to breathe without fear of everyone else picking up on your conversation.
The popular elf in question takes a curious moment to actually process your observation before allowing, "I guess so."
That was far too long a pause for you to not worry about whether or not you've stepped on a nerve. "Do you...n-not like it?"
Florence shrugs, seemingly unsure of how to answer that. She's silent for a long moment as the two of you walk up the steps through the Academy's main doors, then take a turn in front of the Great Hall down the corridors leading to the lodgings. You start to half-worry she's forgotten you're there.
The two of you make a turn down a less-populated hallway when she stops, turns around to look straight at you, and asks, "Do you like me?"
That question catches you off-guard. It takes you a moment before your face turns red and you almost instinctively stammer, "Y-Y-Yes?" Part of you is really glad that you didn't immediately say "n-n-no" instead; that would've come across poorly. Still, it takes you a moment before you calm down and decide that Florence probably didn't mean "like" in that way. Probably. It's hard to tell with her sometimes.
She nods, characteristically absentminded and blank-faced, but still unmistakably a little relieved. "That's good."
"People like you!" This much seems obvious to you, from the short time you've known her. Have you done something wrong?
Florence shrugs again, giving off a very faint sense of frustration. Not at you, but at the difficulty of making words express how she feels. "I know. But I'm...not good at telling. I...talk about swords a lot. And people seem like they're interested at first. But then people start avoiding me. People are hard."
You suppose this contextualizes the short conversation you had with Mildred about how Florence typically visits Caldrein's Finest alone. "I had a good time," you say, giving her a small, shy smile. "R-Really, I did." It's even true, as odd an experience as it's been. You do have a high capacity for having things explained to you at length by elven girls, it seems.
Florence seems pleased by this. "I did too. It's my first date."
You are not actually sure this particular outing qualifies as a "date", nor did you expect that this has turned out to be her first, but you suppose this is not a moment where you should correct Florence's conclusion, misconception or not. Maybe it doesn't matter; it's not as if you're an expert on dating, after all, "Mine too," you say.
Florence nods. Then, with little warning, she leans in and presses her lips gently on your cheek. It's a quick thing, chaste and friendly. But it catches you so off-guard that you can only stare blankly for a long moment, even as Florence pulls back, looks at you with her usual blank face for a moment, then gives you a nod, declaring, "See you at the tournament." And then she wanders off down the corridor and around the corner, disappearing from sight, leaving you standing alone and motionless where she left you.
Staring blankly at the corner around which Florence disappeared, your hand reaches up to touch where Florence pecked you on the cheek. Another moment passes. And then you can suddenly feel your face rapidly heat up against your palm as your eyes widen and your shoulders hunch in and something approximating a subsonic mewl passes through your vocal cords.
Suddenly, your doubts that this counted as a real date feel very, very far away.
"So," asks Elizabeth back in your guest room, voice smug, an hour before the lower bracket round is set to begin, having found you still red-face despite you having buried your face into a pillow, "did Regilaine do anything lewd to you?"
"Sh-Sh-She did nothing lewd!" you whine into the pillow in protest.
Both Stephanie and Sieglinde look entirely too tired with today's misadventure to come to your aid, and their reactions reveal just how convincing you come off as, much to your despair.
[x] Squad Four
The most pressing problem about being maybe asked out on what might be a date by a near-total stranger who failed to give a time or a place for actually meeting up is figuring out when and where to meet them for what presumably is the start of your date.
There's also the issue of trying to figure out whether or not Florence was actually serious about the whole date idea to begin with, at least until you resignedly reason that, yes, Florence was probably serious. Actually, you're not entirely sure she even knows what a date is.
Actually, you're not sure she asked you out on a date insomuch as she interpreted a comment you made about highborn interracial marriages and preferred heirs as "asking her out". With a sinking feeling in your heart, though, you are sure that it's too late to correct any misconceptions now.
It is thus at an obnoxiously early hour in the morning that you blearily look for Florence across Llyneyth Academy. Fortunately, it doesn't take too long to find her; assuming that she isn't still asleep - or that she didn't actually expect to go on a date with you to begin with, which would've been fairly humiliating - there were only a few logical places she would be. She didn't turn up in the Great Hall, or the library where this whole episode began. The third spot you think about looking - right before the training grounds or the arenas - is the elevator.
Sure enough, a familiar-looking strawberry-blonde elf is standing on the slate platform next to a waiting elevator. Upright though she remains on both feet, she's very obviously nodding off, her head bowed, her eyelids heavy, and her figure just swaying back and forth a little bit while alarmingly close to the edge of a precariously long drop. Granted, the platform has railings, and the elevator travels down a steep mountainside slope rather than a sheer cliff, but that doesn't stop you from hurriedly scurrying over in a panic, yelping, "F-Florence!"
Slowly, the elf's eyes sleepily open, not at all dissimilar to how you first met her upon arriving at Llyneyth Academy, the Regilaine seated in front of the front doors of the Academy's main building, apparently patiently waiting to greet all their guests from the other Caldran mercenary academies. Although hardly ever a picture of lucidity - Florence constantly looks like she's in a state of mildly dull surprise - she at least doesn't look like she's going to fall back asleep as she lays eyes on you and greets, "Good afternoon."
It takes a few seconds of internal debate before you finally close the distance between the two of you and decide that it's probably not worth the trouble of informing your "date" that it is not, in fact, "afternoon". It doesn't stop you from pulling her a bit further away from the platform's edge, though. She has apparently decided that her white-and-black Llyneyth uniform is the proper attire for this occasion, although Florence - rather like Azalea and Aphelia, now that you think about it - does seem like the type of person that would look good in anything. By contrast, you're wearing a relatively more well-woven but ultimately rustic dress, the kind that a villager would wear for the solstice; you didn't bring anything super fancy to Llyneyth, and the one fancy dress you do have - gifted to you by Elizabeth for your trip to Stengard - seems a bit like complete overkill for the occasion.
"H-How long have you been here?" you demand. Yes, you got up obnoxiously early for fear that Florence may have done so, but you didn't think she actually did. It was a precaution rather than an expectation. Now that she's actually here, you're almost at a loss over what to do.
Florence thinks about this for a moment. Then she allows, "Since morning."
This is probably not as useful an answer as she may think it is. Actually, you're already regretting not informing her that it is not, in fact, "afternoon".
"You should've told me when and where you wanted to meet!" you insist. And that you were actually serious about a date, you want to add, but don't. Somehow, it's embarrassing enough without actually saying the fact out loud, not at all helped by the fact that - despite the early hour - you aren't entirely alone out here on the periphery of Llyneyth Academy; for whatever reason, there is a small handful of Llyneyth apprentices out and about in the courtyard and around the training grounds, looking over at you and Florence. Their expressions betray surprise, curiosity...and maybe even a bit of displeasure. You can't say your experiences here have made you feel particularly welcome.
Florence merely blinks. "I didn't?" she asks.
You suppose this isn't the first time you're witnessing her absentmindedness. "N-Never mind." It's reasonable that Florence would want to go somewhere not here for a special occasion, which was certainly why you thought the elevator was a possible spot where she would be waiting for you. "Did you want to go somewhere?"
It's a bit of a superfluous question; the elevator only leads down the mountain to the town of Llyneyth. Nonetheless, Florence nods in a manner that treats your question with all seriousness. Florence spins some kind of crank wheel on the platform several times before you step onto the elevator. You were told beforehand that it would signal to the elevator crew further down the mountain that they needed to drive the oxen that powered the elevator, although this knowledge has not actually been necessary until now. It takes a few minutes, but eventually - with a groan and creak of ropes and wood and metal - the elevator beneath your feet shifts, the contraption begins to move down the tracks, and you find yourself and Florence - the two of you alone, with no others joining you on the elevator - descending down the mountain into the sea of clouds below.
You expected this, but the trip down the mountain is no faster than the trip up from when you first arrived at Llyneyth Academy days ago. For the first few minutes, the view over the sea of clouds is still quite stunning, even if you've gotten just a bit used to it from looking out the window of your guest room here at Llyneyth Academy. Then the elevator dips into the clouds, and there is nothing but mist all around you, your surroundings beyond the elevator a foggy white. You will likely remain here for some time, at least until you reach an altitude low enough that the clouds are replaced with mountain paths.
"I've thought of a few names for your sword," Florence suddenly announces without preamble.
You look at her, startled. You feel like there's going to be a lot of that in your immediate future. "For m-my sword?"
"For your sword," she repeats and nods. "Number one: Sky-Cleaver."
"Th-That's a little much!" you protest.
"Is it really?" asks the girl who carries a sword named "Justifier II: Vengeance" as she quizzically tilts her head slightly to the side.
"It can't even reach the sky! Y-Yours comes closer!"
Florence gives this a moment of thought before nodding, as if agreeing with you. "Mine is already named 'Justifier II: Vengeance', though."
You nod agreeably, hoping that your inability to come up with anything to say in response doesn't stretch on into a long, awkward silence.
Thankfully, your companion delivers. "I have more. Number two: Aldwyna, Slayer of Mountains."
"...My sword can't slay m-mountains either."
"Number three: The Wrath of the World."
"I-I don't want the World to be angry at me!"
"No, the world isn't angry at you; your sword is the world's anger."
"That doesn't make it better!"
"Number four..."
Giving up, you just nod along, swept up by the avalanche of baroque sword names. It is with mingled fascination and dismay that you realize she has enough of these to take you all the way down to the bottom, and has memorized them all without visible hesitation or forgetfulness. At the very least, there's something endearing about how seriously she's taking this, even if it's also quite bewildering to you. It is making the elevator trip down feel remarkably shorter, for what that's worth.
It is in the middle of her list that your elevator reaches the halfway point of the tracks, and from further down the mountainside, the elevator on the other end of the pulley - the counterweight to your own elevator - emerges below you from the thick mist. Compared to yours, the platform crawling towards yours carries at least a dozen people of varying ages, adults and children both, their dress and demeanor and general impression being that of the townsfolk of Llyneyth. Just as you see them, they also notice you and Florence - mainly Florence - and wave cheerfully.
"Good morning, Florence!"
"Morning, Florence!"
"Going to show the other academies what for, eh?"
The people of Lindholm are a bit stiff relative to the Apaloftians you're accustomed to, but even so, you can feel the sort of hometown celebrity status that Florence enjoys, a degree of admiration but also familiarity that is all too reminiscent of how the people of Marloch treated Elizabeth when you visited her during summer vacation. Here, Florence is not some great untouchable heroine, some distant descendant of a legendary bloodline, but - at least to the townsfolk of Llyneyth - one of theirs.
It would have been convenient if matters were left at that, but - for better or for worse - your presence does not go unnoticed by the townsfolk on the elevator as the platforms begin to pass each other by. "Who's the sweetheart?" a middle-aged woman calls out to the amused laughter of her fellow elevator occupants.
Your mewling at this only increases in intensity as Florence replies with a straight face: "This is Neianne. She's not my sweetheart yet, we're just on a date."
The elevator finally reaches its destination many long minutes later, where you are greeted by another entourage of Llyneyth townspeople waiting at the bottom, hoping in all likelihood to arrive early to get choice seats for today's lower bracket competition in the afternoon. They, too, greet Florence with the same sort of familiar exuberance, all while regarding you with amused curiosity. You suppose you are grateful that those of Lindholm are more reserved than of the other four regions of Caldrein; you doubt you would have survived the intrusive inquisitiveness of those back home in Apaloft.
Llyneyth is still an unfamiliar town to you, what with your few hours of experience with it prior to your elevator ride up the mountain days ago. For a rural girl from the Apaloftian countryside, for someone whose standards for township have been influenced significantly by Faulkren, Llyneyth is still an unexpectedly grandiose place. Certainly, it has nothing on the major city you've been to - Stengard, specifically - nor is it quite as majestic as the seat of a viscomital - Marloch, in this case - but this mountainside town is ostentatious in a style you've recently heard described in passing as "classic Lindholm architecture". The pillars look a bit thicker than necessary, the archways a bit taller than necessary, the black-and-white walls cleaned so pristinely that it almost hurts to look at, especially in the cold. It makes you wonder just how much the apprentices of Llyneyth Academy spend in town every year to permit such extravagances.
Florence guides you through the busy streets with the familiarity of a local; you don't actually know if - being the heir to the Regilaines - Llyneyth technically counts as her family's fiefdom, but you certainly command a level of familiarity with the town of Faulkren after a year of living next to it; the same can easily be said for your elven escort. Not that you have any idea where you're going. You doubt Florence is actually trying to keep it a surprise as much as she has simply forgotten to inform you.
Your destination turns out to be a large, handsome building, a well-kept looking shop with what looks like a stone smithy attached at the back. The sign hanging over the doorway reads "Caldrein's Finest, Swords and Arms", and features a simple image of a classic straight sword underlining the name. You imagine the iconography is perhaps not solely for the benefit of the illiterate; given the locale, Llyneyth gives you the impression of being populated largely by educated well-to-do's. Certainly, this shop has the air of the sort of place you'd instinctively avoid as being obviously far too expensive for your means. Florence apparently has no such reservations; she drifts across the street with the same strange mix of obliviousness and purpose that she's had all morning, pushing open the door, and only barely remembering to politely hold it open for you. It's an oddly earnest gesture, if a little unnatural, as if someone had told her once that she should do that on a date. You give it an awkward smile.
The shop inside is as expensive as it looks from the outside, built with the characteristic black-and-white stylings of the entire town, coupled with warm, honey-colored panelings of treated ash in its flooring, paneling, and furnishings. It's warm inside, the air in the shop filled with the scent of well-oiled metal, beeswax, and a distant tang of smoke from the smithy. There are about half a dozen customers inside, five of them apprentices you don't recognize from other Caldran mercenary academies, and a lone adult similarly unknown to you. The girls recognize Florence, and some of them start chattering in hushed but excited voices to each other, making you feel even more self-conscious about standing next to her.
The shop is being attended by a middle-aged human woman in the process of meticulously polishing an Ornthalian-style dueling buckler. At the bell above the door ringing, she glances up from behind her counter to see the two of you, her attention fixing on Florence with an unsurprised air. "Regilaine," she says in greeting with a curt nod of her head.
"Hello, Mildred." Florence acknowledges the woman whose shop you're invading a little absently. Not out of arrogance so much as out of preoccupation with the weapons on display all around you; the walls are lined with them. Greatswords and rapiers, longswords and all their various cousins, rows of gleaming daggers in all shapes and sizes. Spears, axes, and other weapons make their token appearance here and there, but it would seem that the primary focus of Caldrein's Finest is, after all, swords.
Mildred's eyes fall on you now with a little more curiosity now. "Good morning."
"G-Good morning," you reply with a polite bow of your head.
After a squirmy moment on your part, Mildred's attention goes back to Florence. "Here to window shop again?"
Mildred's words sound a bit admonishing despite her friendly demeanor, but Florence seems almost oblivious to this as she simply nods politely in the affirmative. You wonder how much of it is familiarity and how much of it is Florence's general obliviousness. What she isn't oblivious to, however, is the shop's catalogue of merchandise. The elf remains as inexpressive as ever, but stars dance in her eyes the same way they did when she stared at Mysterious Mask during the feast in the Great Hall after the first round of the tournament. Her gait, too, is notably different as she almost floats over to weapons mounted on the walls, laid in display cases, stacked into racks. You give Mildred a half-apologetic sort of look even as you follow Florence, who isn't drawn immediately to the most expensive-looking swords tucked away behind glass; instead, she attempts to draw your attention to a steel greatsword taller than you are on a weapons rack, her eyes fixed on the metal.
"Classic Lindholm pattern," the elf declares authoritatively. "The blade is more than a hundred centimeters long, but it's perfectly balanced." Her eyes, more intent than you've ever seen them, trace the length of the blade as if they might wring out more secrets from the flawless metal. "The leather is bark-tanned goatskin. It's not my favorite for grips, but it's water-resistant and great for if you're traveling. The blade is also lighter than it looks." She raises a finger and makes a motion as if running a finger across the groove running along the spine of the blade, but the finger doesn't actually touch the blade in question, as if maintaining a respectful distance even towards a sword that's clearly a more affordable selection in this shop. "The fuller reduces the weight just enough to keep the sword's center of weight here," she points to a spot just above the guard, "which is one of the perfect spots, depending on whom you ask. I call it the Great Divider."
Mildred sighs from behind the counter: "Please don't name my swords on your own."
"I'd ask for your permission first," replies Florence innocently, oblivious to the giggling from the other apprentices in the shop.
"You can get permission by actually buying it," snorts the blacksmith, but she still doesn't actually sound admonishing.
There's almost something nostalgic about coming back to a greatsword. You're certain you can still wield it with all the competence expected of someone who began her training with such a weapon, but something about fighting with a buster sword just feels like an intrinsic part of you now, despite all the confused reactions it seems to attract. "I don't think that's going to help me too much," you say half-jokingly.
Florence looks at you, tilting her head slightly to the side. "Why not?"
"Um, I...d-don't think a fuller will make a buster sword more balanced." A groove along the spine of a slab of steel certainly doesn't seem like it's remotely sufficient to achieve equilibrium with your primary weapon's thick, elongated grip.
Blinking, it takes Florence a moment to actually seem like she understands what you mean. Then she says thoughtfully, "Mithril would be a good metal for the blade, then. It doesn't stay sharp as well, but it's lighter than steel and just as durable. The buster sword's blade will still be heavy enough that the sharpness won't matter that much. It's wide enough that large, multiple fullers would probably be a good idea. The hilt can be forged from steel to make it heavier on that end. It probably still won't be perfectly balanced, but it'll help." She pauses before asking, "Do you know the differences between the materials used for swords?"
You're no blacksmith, but your Caldran mercenary education at Faulkren has at least taught you the very basics of weapon composition and its applications in actual combat. "U-Um, iron is the most common metal for swords, found in the hands of m-many guards and conscripts. Better choices w-would be obsidian, which is brittle b-but very sharp; mithril, which isn't as sharp but is light and durable; and steel, which is heavy and e-even more durable, good for heavy weapons." Of course, as Florence alluded to just a moment ago, there are only dozens of variants of each material with differing levels of purity and strengths - alleged or otherwise - but, again, you're not actually a blacksmith. "In general, swords that are durable are h-hard to keep sharp, and swords that remain sharp are e-easier to shatter." You pause and think for a moment, digging the recesses of your brain for distant memories of long-forgotten lectures. There are, of course, materials in blacksmithing that are superior to the aforementioned conventional metal, materials so valuable that they defy the conventions of the sharpness-durability spectrum, but you've also been taught that they are rare and unlikely to ever consistently show up in your career as a Caldran mercenary. "Blacksteel and azurite have d-different types and qualities, but are durable and sharp. Blacksteel is good for heavy weapons and azurite is good for light weapons. And the very, very best of swords are c-crafted from crystal."
To her credit, Florence looks like she is rapt at attention as you go over information that every Caldran mercenary apprentice is likely to know already, and she nods eagerly at this explanation that probably isn't news to anyone in this shop. "Iron is just steel, though," she says once you are done.
"Steel is just iron," corrects Mildred absentmindedly. "And people say 'iron' in ordinary conversation."
"Swords aren't made out of pure iron, though."
"Yes, yes, pure iron is too soft, it's supposed to be a lower grade of steel. And blacksteel has nothing to do with iron or steel. Let it go."
Florence considers this with a tilt of her head for a moment. Then she seems to let it go, turning her attention back to you. "There's one more metal: Orichalcum."
Your eyes widen at this. "I-I thought it was a myth!"
"It isn't. Caldrein doesn't have any orichalcum weapons, but both Ornthalia and Tenereia do. As do a few other countries. It is said that orichalcum never breaks, that its edge never dulls, that it cuts through everything like butter, that it's imbued with magical properties. It's said that countries have gone to war over it."
That sounds almost too amazing to be true. And it hasn't escaped your notice that Florence has prefaced all of this with "it is said". "'It is said'?" you repeat, trying not to sound too dubious.
Florence looks at you for a moment. Then she looks at you, as if she's looking in your general direction. It's been a while since you lost saw this, but Florence's eyes take on a distant quality - even more distant than she usually looks - and there's a moment where she seems almost mildly surprised as her far-off gaze seems to rest on a spot just over your shoulder. Then - clearly not to you - she asks, "Is orichalcum real?"
It's been a while since you've watched any elf communicate with the fae. Their existence continues to be one of those things that you know about - that the elves can see them, that they're supposed to govern the laws of the universe - but rarely ever aware of, something that just never intersects with your life or the lives of the people around you. Most elves just don't bother communicating with spiritual entities of arcane energies that don't see the universe in the same way as mere mortals and are thus almost entirely incomprehensible. It's not surprising that Florence is someone who'd try anyways, though.
After a moment, Florence's gaze refocuses and then settles on you. "She says yes," she nods.
"The fae?" you ask. And when she nods, you can't help but skeptically add, "That's...what she said? W-Word for word?"
"She said that red smells like thirteen. I think that means yes, though."
Somehow, it's actually a comfort that even Florence isn't quite as weird as the fae.
For a while - maybe half an hour, maybe an hour - Florence takes you from sword-to-sword, detailing each and everyone one of them in painstaking detail, interjecting the occasional commentary about your respective weapons - as well as the swords of a few other apprentices who are participating in the tournament - between some explanations. It's rather fascinating, although you admit that everything eventually seems to blend together to your layperson's ears after a while of this; you don't want to say that you're getting bored, but Florence obviously holds an interest on this subject that would be more appropriate for a blacksmith. In the meantime, the apprentices originally window-shopping here are gradually replaced by other apprentices doing the same. Few of them are from Llyneyth; those who are regard you with complicated looks that don't seem too friendly, making you feel nervous standing beside Florence. Not that Florence seems to notice, and the Llyneyth apprentices also come and go.
You are beginning to worry about how much longer you can pay attention to Florence's explanations and whether or not she intends to talk you through each and every sword in the shop. Mercifully, three apprentices you don't recognize come up with giddy smiles. One of them asks, "Um, Miss Regilaine?"
Florence looks over and greets with a blank face, "Regilaine is my mother."
The three apprentices exchange an awkward look before the first one gathers her courage again and asks, "Oh, um...Miss Florence? May we get an opinion about a sword?"
You strongly suspect that the apprentices aren't actually really looking for an opinion about a sword insomuch as they're trying to become familiar with a celebrity among Caldran mercenary apprentices, a descendant of the woman who started the tradition. Florence, however, either doesn't notice this or doesn't care; she readily turns her attention to the three happy apprentices who mostly ignore you. Honestly, you're fine with this development as you give them space and casually drift over towards the counter where Mildred is now polishing a rapier. It gives you a moment to catch your breath; Florence's enthusiasm is endearing, but you can admittedly only take in so much minutiae about swords at once.
You're making a casual effort to look like you're still looking around at all the weapons in the shop - trying not to look like you've given up even the pretense of window-shopping at an upscale place beyond your means - when Mildred observes, "You're an apprentice for the tournament upstairs." It's a half-question, half-statement, like she already knows but is just double-checking.
"From F-Faulkren Academy," you answer politely.
"Apaloft, yes? Nice place. Warm."
"It's a bit cold here," you agree politely, honestly.
Mildred quietly regards you for a moment longer before she suddenly recognizes you: "You're that squad leader with the buster sword, aren't you?"
"Y-Yes," you nod in mild surprise. Yes, your buster sword is distinctive, and yes, people obviously came up from town to watch the tournament, but you didn't think you'd meet anyone who would remember you this readily. "Did you come and watch the tournament?"
"Only the first round. Shop doesn't keep itself. I'll be around for the semi-finals and finals, though."
That sounds reasonable. Looking around and looking at the respectable number of customers inside a relatively small shop, you observe, "Business looks good, though."
"It's alright. I get a healthy batch of orders when the apprentices here graduate. Another batch of orders whenever the tournament rolls around. Sometimes the Academy buys surplus weapons off me or asks me to smith some more weapons, practice or otherwise. Some people make their way here to buy weapons from me."
"Oh." You give this a moment of thought before deciding this makes sense. "You must be very famous, then."
"Hardly," Mildred scoffs, although it sounds like it's good-natured self-deprecation rather than anything aimed at you. "I just run a blacksmith next to a Caldran mercenary academy mostly full of rich kids, so I get to work with expensive materials that people will pay for. They know quality isn't in want here." There's a lull in the conversation where both of you watch Florence talk with the other apprentices when Mildred suddenly asks, "Are you dating Regilaine?"
"N-N-No!" you stammer, blushing, managing to keep your voice to a quiet squeak at the last minute to prevent the apprentice in question from hearing. You are very glad that Florence is, in fact, not an aseri. "I-I mean, we're just...w-we're becoming friends."
The blacksmith looks at you with what may be mildly skeptical amusement, but she seems to casually accept this explanation without pressing on further; you know you never would've gotten away with just that explanation back home. "Don't see her around with people much," Mildred shrugs, her gaze returning to Florence.
"Really?"
"I don't know what it's like up there, but Regilaine is not exactly Llyneyth's best people person. Whenever she comes down here, she almost always comes down here alone. She seems happy that way, though, so who am I to judge? It's nice she's meeting new people, though."
This comes as a bit of a surprise; Florence has clearly not been in want for company up at Llyneyth Academy, and although she's certainly weird, you've never really gotten the impression that she might be unpopular.
You want to give this some thought or reply to Mildred - just something polite to fill in the gap in the conversation while you consider the implications - but something else catches your attention. You almost don't; it's something in the periphery of your vision, out the window, behind a small crowd. But it's something that causes your jaw to drop and causes your face to pale and demands your immediate attention. It isn't even Florence this time.
Frantically, you bow your head a couple of times to a puzzled-looking Mildred, saying to her, "I-I'll be right back." Scurrying towards the front door out of the blacksmith's, you don't quite pass by Florence, but when she notices you leaving, you also bow your head to her a few times in rapid succession, squeaking, "I-I'll be right back!" She looks puzzled in her usual blank way, but she makes no move to follow you. Hopefully, the other apprentices will keep her occupied and inside for a few minutes.
You slip mostly politely out the door before your gait turns into a stomp as you cross the neat brick road. Worming your way through a small crowd, you politely shoulder past a handful of people - mostly girls your age, plus one or two adults - before latching your hand on a small, blonde elf standing openly at the intersection outside the blacksmith's and pulling her around the street corner. You don't need to do this to the tall raven-haired elf or the aseri brunette; they, at the very least, are actually attempting to hide a bit, albeit one more successfully than the others.
Once you're out of the crowd and have rounded the corner and made sure that you can't be spotted with a cursory look out the blacksmith's window, you whirl on the rest of Squad Four and demand with a uselessly covert hiss, "W-W-What are you doing?"
Reaching into a warm bag pressed against her chest, Elizabeth - dressed in a pretty winter cloak - blithely pops some popcorn into her mouth and bluntly replies, "Spectating."
From the side, Sieglinde - herself in a more elegant longcoat - gives the smaller elf an admonishing look as she says, "That's not what you said when you dragged us out here."
"I lied."
"Seriously?" you hiss again in disbelief. "I have my hands full."
"Oh," Elizabeth snorts suggestively as presses her bag of popcorn deeper into her relatively flat chest - as if affecting a crossing of arms - and smirks, "is that how you're describing your date? Hands full of what, I wonder?"
This time, it doesn't take you too long to be promptly reduced to useless blushing and stuttering. You hate words.
"Still," Elizabeth continues, popping another handful of popcorn into her mouth, "you look like you're spending more time with the blacksmith than with Regilaine. I didn't take you for the type to prefer older women."
"Zabanya," Sieglinde sighs.
"Well, don't mind us too much. We're just participating in our entertainment after all."
"Zabanya."
Rolling her eyes, Elizabeth sighs explosively, "Fine, we're here to make sure none of the other Llyneyth snobs gets too worked up over a gold-digging dryad girl trying to steal 'their' darling celebrity. And we're trying to find something to do this morning before the lower bracket matches today." She sends a droll look at Sieglinde. "Happy?"
"I'm not sure I am," replies the taller elf flatly.
"We're also here to protect your innocence," adds Elizabeth, ignoring Sieglinde. "Who knows what Regilaine and older women will do to you when you're unsupervised."
"I-I-I wasn't spending more time with Miss Mildred!" you squeak after finding your capacity for coherent speech once more. "I was only talking with her for a m-moment! I don't p-prefer older...how long have you been following me?" Your squadmates were still in your guest room when you left to search for Florence, and they certainly didn't take the elevator down the mountain with you.
"Just now," Elizabeth yawns.
"Zabanya thought to procure snacks along the way," Sieglinde adds. Her hands are devoid of food, which doesn't really surprise you; she has always struck you as a judicious eater. Your final squadmate is similarly without any snack of her own; you suspect it's difficult for Mysterious Mask to enjoy any food out here, for obvious reasons. You can't see her expression underneath the fox mask, but her body language - droopy ears, her tail unmoving beneath a plain winter cloak - communicates a degree of resignation towards tailing you, towards being forced to wear her mask next to Sieglinde and Elizabeth to prevent from being found out, towards having a small crowd of apprentices excitedly watch her as if she's some local celebrity. At least Sieglinde - tallest among you - is making an effort to try and stand in between them.
"H-How did you even find us?" you demand.
Elizabeth rolls her eyes. "Oh, I don't know," she drawls lazily, sarcastically. "Llyneyth isn't a big town? Regilaine's a local celebrity? Redhead dryads aren't that difficult to notice?"
"Regilaine has a known fondness for weapons," Sieglinde cuts in helpfully.
"Regilaine really likes swords?" Elizabeth continues as if Sieglinde had not spoken at all. "Take your pick." Another handful of popcorn goes into her mouth. "So how's the date going?"
"It's not a d-d-date!" you insist, blushing again. "We're just being friends and she's showing me around town!"
"Is that so?" snorts Elizabeth. "You're going to break poor Regilaine's heart."
Giving you a gentle push by the shoulder, Sieglinde elects to ignore her fellow elf as she gently advises, "You should head back in and enjoy your time together. We'll...try to keep out of sight. Don't worry about us."
"It's too late for that!" you want to say. Instead, you mostly just slump your shoulders as you sigh and return whence you came, crossing the street once more and pushing your way through the door of Caldrein's Finest. Florence is still caught up in an explanation about swords to an enraptured audience, but her gaze turns to you when you enter, and you smile apologetically as you say, "S-Sorry. I saw some friends outside, so I just wanted to say hi."
Florence nods, taking this at face value. Then she turns to the other apprentices and says, "Sorry, we need to go."
The other apprentices don't look too disappointed at this, although you yourself are a bit surprised. "We're leaving already?" you ask.
Florence nods again, moving to where you stand at the door. "There is somewhere else I want to take you." She turns back to Mildred, says, "Thank you for letting us look at your swords again."
Mildred waves a hand dismissively. "Buy something next time," she says, but it's clear from the tone of her voice that she isn't actually upset, and that she - at worst - doesn't actually mind Florence window-shopping here.
You're soon back on the streets of Llyneyth once more. As morning moves towards noon, it is getting a bit warmer, although you're still rubbing your gloved hands together in search for more warmth. Hardly unexpectedly, Florence seems entirely accustomed to the local temperature as she leads you onto increasingly wider streets, talking a bit more about swords in the meantime. It's nice, you suppose, that this is someone who clearly knows what she's interested in. The conversation lasts only so long, though; after a few minutes, you find yourself walking into a large, crowded plaza before two shrines standing side-by-side.
Unlike the obelisk back in Faulkren Academy before which an adherent of any faith can pray at, the two shrines here are very obviously Primordian and Conceptualist. The former is hardly surprising to see, with a basin ritually filled with water representing the Sacred Spring, that omnipresent source of aether that constitutes all existence and governs all reality. It's also twice as large as its Conceptualist counterpart, roughly the size of your dorm room back in Faulkren; it's a bit larger than what you'd expect from a town of this size, but you suppose Llyneyth is a bit unique. By contrast, the Conceptualist shrine back home in Caelon is little larger than a shed, and your parents' own private Gaianist shrine no larger than a cupboard. Shrines in the cities, meanwhile, are often as large as the guest room Squad Four is sharing here in Llyneyth, although almost all of them are Conceptualist.
You've never left Caldrein before - you've never even left Apaloft until you visited Elizabeth during summer vacation - but there are stories of titanic Primordian shrines in Ornthalia, as large as the Great Hall in either Faulkren or Llyneyth Academies. Similarly, you've heard people speculate that this Ornthalian influence on religious architecture is why shrines seem to be growing larger and larger with each passing generation.
But despite the obvious difference in architectural size, there doesn't actually seem to be a significant difference in the number of people at either shrine. In a country that is becoming increasingly culturally Ornthalian - or so it is said by older elves, for you are too young to really have anything to compare your lived experiences to either way - Primordialism seems to have long dominated faith in Caldrein. Seeing a Conceptualist shrine still going toe-to-toe with this giant stands out. You try not to look over your shoulder where suspect Mysterious Mask is following along; you wouldn't be able to tell what she feels about this from underneath her mask anyways.
"There are a lot of Conceptualists here," you observe, looking around. Over Florence's shoulder, you spot two Llyneyth apprentices sending you distractingly unpleasant looks, as if offended that you are spending the day with Florence, with half a mind to come over and ruin your day.
Florence looks at you as if you have just stated the obvious. Which, technically, you did. "It's a Conceptualist shrine," she says, even as - ten meters behind her - Mysterious Mask marches over to the two Llyneyth apprentices.
"Oh, sorry," you apologize quickly, trying not to pay attention to the Llyneyth apprentices uneasily looking at Mysterious Mask, who has stopped in front of them and is now glaring at them with all the inexpressiveness of a stylized fox mask. "I-I mean...I thought there'd be many more Primordians than Conceptualists."
Florence blinks. "Would there?" she asks, even as her fellow Llyneyth apprentices behind her lose their nerves before Mysterious Mask's relentlessly unexpressive glare, quickly fleeing the scene, probably the only one time Mysterious Mask has ever not regretted buying the mask. Then she allows, "I guess there would. Lindholm likes the old ways, though."
You suppose that much is true. Even before you ever set foot in the region, stereotypes of Lindholm traditionalism have always been well-known even in Apaloft. Still, you suppose it's easy to forget; the two Lindholm elves on your squad are hardly shining icons of "the old ways" or "traditionalism".
Florence hesitates for a moment before asking, "Are you a Gaianist?"
"My parents are," you allow. "I'm...u-undecided." You suppose you're culturally Gaianist, but you've never really strongly believed in the faith of the World.
Florence fidgets a little before she allows, "Well, it's a nice spot." She seems like she's making an effort to be engaged. Still, there's a level of detachment from this leg of the tour, with little of the obvious enthusiasm she showed back at the blacksmith's. In fact, you get this faint, weird sense of apology baked into Florence's demeanor since you've arrived at these shrines, as if she's trying to make up for having dragged you into her gushing over weapons, but being unable to truly understand why anyone would want to visit shrines over a blacksmith's.
Still, you politely asked, "Are you a Conceptualist?"
Florence thinks for a moment, even as - for whatever reason - Elizabeth throws a snowball at Mysterious Mask. "I think so?"
"You think so?" you repeat, trying very hard to stifle a laugh when the snowball - thrown true by a tiny elven mage's arm - splatters harmlessly against Mysterious Mask's mask.
"My parents are Conceptualists," Florence replies as Elizabeth catches a snowball to her notably unmasked face. "There's no reason why I shouldn't be."
That isn't precisely your own position religion-wise, nor is it Sieglinde's staunch agnosticism, but Florence does sound like she's at least similarly not as committed to the tenets of your respective parents' faiths beyond a general sense of cultural inertia. You suspect it's due to how you're caught in between cultures after having urbanized at five - Elana is a dyed-in-the-wool Primordian, after all - and how Florence is...well, caught between reality and something else. You wonder how much coming here is actually her idea, as opposed to something that was suggested to her or something she thought "normal" people go to on dates.
But that isn't necessarily something you want to bring up this early into your friendship, and certainly not something you want to talk about now. "Which goddess do you pray to?" you instead ask politely.
Florence's answer is entirely unsurprising: "The Queen of Blades."
Trying not to smile too widely, you suggest, "D-Do you want to go pray?"
Again, Florence thinks about this for a moment before nodding, "Alright."
The line in front of the Conceptualist shrine is long, but everyone in front of you thankfully give quick prayers before moving on, and although some time passes before it's finally your turn to stand before the altar. Florence closes her eyes and intertwines her fingers before her abdomen, and although you aren't Conceptualist yourself, you mimic the stance in a gesture of solidarity.
"May there be peace in Caldrein," Florence prays. "May people live happy lives." And you struggle harder to stifle a laugh as she unsurprisingly adds, "May there be more swords."
You stay for a while longer to admire the dual shrines, but the two of you eventually leave to grab a bite. The two of you don't have to travel far; you soon find yourself seated at the same tea shop that you, Azalea, Wilhelmina, and Nikki visited when you first arrived in town days ago. As was the case the first time you came here, there are a handful of Llyneyth apprentices here, most of whom look at you with mild distaste as you and Florence seat yourselves at a table for two, something you do your best to ignore.
Your cups of tea arrive at your table minutes after ordering when Florence suddenly asks without preamble, "Has your family always been dryads?"
You suppose this is not a surprising question coming from someone who claims to be "one-five-hundred-twelfth dryad". The moment does give you pause, though. You've never been very inquisitive about this, but while your parents have always been ready to share with you the traditions of their dryad communes - ones that you can now only barely recall from the faintest of childhood memories, ones from before you urbanized at the age of five - your mother and father have been less forthcoming with regards to their personal story and why they left to begin with. You have no proof - and you doubt that it was anything as dramatic as mixed ancestry somewhere along the family tree - but you've always had a nagging suspicion that your parents departure from Thionval was not as completely voluntary as they sometimes insist it was.
But this is not the place for such a conversation. "I-I think so," you answer Florence's question. Over her shoulder, Sieglinde has risen from a table Squad Four had covertly seated themselves at, making her way over to the table of three Llyneyth apprentices. She adopts what you recognize as Sieglinde Lecture Stance Number Two: Seated, legs crossed, one arm resting on her waist, the other arm with an elbow resting upon the first arm and the fist resting thoughtfully on her chin. Sieglinde Lecture Stance Number One would involve a book in her hands. Whatever her lecture is about, though, the Llyneyth apprentices are listening with muted looks of abject horror, much to the smugly pleased look on Elizabeth's face back at Squad Four's table, sipping daintily at her tea.
Florence nods, and then asks just as abruptly, "Do you know what kind of flower will grow from your hair?"
Most of the time, young dryads eventually grow the same flowers as their mother from their hair; in your case, it would be zinnia. There's no small chance that a dryad may take the flower of her father, though - your father has a tuft of valerian running down her hair - or even a completely random flower not of either parents'. So you do the honest thing by shaking your head and admitting, "Not yet. My mother's flower is zinnia, so it...might be that?"
"What kind of flower do you think I'd have in my hair?"
Putting aside that Florence is only one-five-hundred-twelfth dryad - or, in Sieglinde's words, "not a dryad" - you honestly have no idea. Still, looking at your counterpart for a moment, you eventually allow, "Hyacinth?" Certainly, the flower in question comes in a variety of colors, but you are specifically thinking about how the long, purple-colored variant would be a good match for her strawberry blond hair and blue eyes.
Florence thinks about this for a moment before nodding in the affirmative; she almost seems happy with this conclusion. "I suppose I am playful," she allows.
You blink. "P-Pardon?"
"Hyacinth. In the language of the flowers, it means playfulness."
"Language of...the f-flowers?"
"It's an old tradition. Different flowers are supposed to convey different messages when you gift them to others. Red roses mean you love someone. Hollies represent foresight. Hyacinths mean playfulness. I like to think that I'm playful and make other people happy."
"Oh," you say politely, absently, realizing that Florence has given more thought to flowers as an elf that you ever have as a dryad. "I...th-think it suits you."
Over Florence's shoulder, the three Llyneyth apprentices Sieglinde was lecturing at rise from their seats and flee the tea shop, leaving you and Florence happily undisturbed. You suspect, not for the first time, that Sieglinde's own sensibilities are a poor match for her allegedly traditionalist Lindholm heritage.
A few minutes down the line of idle conversation, you try to steer the topic to something that you think would be of greater mutual interest: "Your duel with L-Lady Lanerran was amazing."
"She's a very good opponent," Florence readily agrees.
You may not share the same level of unbridled enthusiasm for swords as Florence, but you'd like to think that you are at least as interested with regards to combat technique and battlefield tactics. Certainly, it's a subject that's more approachable for you compared to religion, your dryad heritage, or the language of flowers. "How did you do it?" you ask eagerly.
This is obviously a topic that Florence is eager to talk about. "Well, Hazel made many attacks, but I went fwah," she exclaims, gesturing animatedly with her arms in an approximation of her own moves with an odachi, her movements so abrupt - so out of place in a tea shop - that you find yourself momentarily dumbstruck. You actually freeze up with your teacup in a hand, looking furtively around, suddenly feeling an acute sense of secondhand embarrassment that Florence herself clearly does not feel as she makes a scene. "And then she started testing my defenses, but then I went ding-ding-ding. And then she went schink-schink-schink, but I went tink-tink-tink. And then she went whump, but then I went whoosh. And then she went kssh, but then I went fwoosh."
...Right, you're just going to pretend you understood that. Behind Florence, clearly having heard her, Sieglinde buries her face into a palm in a gesture remarkably reminiscent of despair.
The day swiftly passes noon, and it is soon time for you to return to Llyneyth Academy. Neither you nor Florence are participating in today's round, with your respective squads still in the upper bracket, but you still feel obligated to show up and cheer for your fellow Faulkren squads. The next round is still two hours away, but a long line has already formed with townspeople and other guests waiting for their turn up the agonizingly slow elevator ride up. Thankfully, everyone readily allows you and any other Caldran mercenary apprentices showing up to cut directly to the front, sparing you a lengthy wait on top of the elevator's agonizingly slow travel speed. No Sieglinde, Elizabeth, or Mysterious Mask in sight, though; you suppose they decided that riding the elevator up with you would be too obvious.
Compared to the trip down, the ride back up to Llyneyth Academy feels even slower than usual, probably because of how self-conscious you are about all the attention you're receiving next to Florence. More than a few - like the girls back in Caldrein's Finest - take the opportunity to speak with Florence, who politely engages in conversation. You politely make some room, which may or may not be a polite way of saying that you're slowly edged out of a small crowd of girls coalescing around Florence. It isn't precisely a sting to your pride, although it's alleviated a little when a small handful of other apprentices from the other academies recognize you as the leader of Faulkren's Squad Four and express polite interest about your optimism moving forward.
Many, many minutes later, the elevator finally reaches the top, disgorging its occupants onto Academy grounds. The apprentices disperse, presumably to find their squads before the lower bracket round starts; the townspeople, in the meantime, move towards the bleachers around the woodland arena in hopes of getting good seats. Florence, thankfully, has not forgotten about you in the meantime, politely excusing herself to walk with you across the courtyard and towards the main complex.
"You're very popular," you say to Florence with a polite smile once the two of you have some room to breathe without fear of everyone else picking up on your conversation.
The popular elf in question takes a curious moment to actually process your observation before allowing, "I guess so."
That was far too long a pause for you to not worry about whether or not you've stepped on a nerve. "Do you...n-not like it?"
Florence shrugs, seemingly unsure of how to answer that. She's silent for a long moment as the two of you walk up the steps through the Academy's main doors, then take a turn in front of the Great Hall down the corridors leading to the lodgings. You start to half-worry she's forgotten you're there.
The two of you make a turn down a less-populated hallway when she stops, turns around to look straight at you, and asks, "Do you like me?"
That question catches you off-guard. It takes you a moment before your face turns red and you almost instinctively stammer, "Y-Y-Yes?" Part of you is really glad that you didn't immediately say "n-n-no" instead; that would've come across poorly. Still, it takes you a moment before you calm down and decide that Florence probably didn't mean "like" in that way. Probably. It's hard to tell with her sometimes.
She nods, characteristically absentminded and blank-faced, but still unmistakably a little relieved. "That's good."
"People like you!" This much seems obvious to you, from the short time you've known her. Have you done something wrong?
Florence shrugs again, giving off a very faint sense of frustration. Not at you, but at the difficulty of making words express how she feels. "I know. But I'm...not good at telling. I...talk about swords a lot. And people seem like they're interested at first. But then people start avoiding me. People are hard."
You suppose this contextualizes the short conversation you had with Mildred about how Florence typically visits Caldrein's Finest alone. "I had a good time," you say, giving her a small, shy smile. "R-Really, I did." It's even true, as odd an experience as it's been. You do have a high capacity for having things explained to you at length by elven girls, it seems.
Florence seems pleased by this. "I did too. It's my first date."
You are not actually sure this particular outing qualifies as a "date", nor did you expect that this has turned out to be her first, but you suppose this is not a moment where you should correct Florence's conclusion, misconception or not. Maybe it doesn't matter; it's not as if you're an expert on dating, after all, "Mine too," you say.
Florence nods. Then, with little warning, she leans in and presses her lips gently on your cheek. It's a quick thing, chaste and friendly. But it catches you so off-guard that you can only stare blankly for a long moment, even as Florence pulls back, looks at you with her usual blank face for a moment, then gives you a nod, declaring, "See you at the tournament." And then she wanders off down the corridor and around the corner, disappearing from sight, leaving you standing alone and motionless where she left you.
Staring blankly at the corner around which Florence disappeared, your hand reaches up to touch where Florence pecked you on the cheek. Another moment passes. And then you can suddenly feel your face rapidly heat up against your palm as your eyes widen and your shoulders hunch in and something approximating a subsonic mewl passes through your vocal cords.
Suddenly, your doubts that this counted as a real date feel very, very far away.
"So," asks Elizabeth back in your guest room, voice smug, an hour before the lower bracket round is set to begin, having found you still red-face despite you having buried your face into a pillow, "did Regilaine do anything lewd to you?"
"Sh-Sh-She did nothing lewd!" you whine into the pillow in protest.
Both Stephanie and Sieglinde look entirely too tired with today's misadventure to come to your aid, and their reactions reveal just how convincing you come off as, much to your despair.
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Really sensitive religious commentary from Florence here. Love how the World is capitalised when Neianne says it, but not when Florence does.
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I really enjoyed this update. I found myself emphasizing with Florence more and more as I realized what was going on. I can relate with being pretty focused on a narrow set of topics and being super excited to talk about them and missing social cues that the other person really isn't that interested in the subject. Heck, even adults like Mildred noticing the issue, and I'd like to think having identified that I've learned how to mostly dial it back - perhaps even over compensating at that - but still, if you can get me going on certain topics... it can be hard for me to stop even as I realize I've gone on way too long for any normal person to bear. So while I know Neianne means entirely well here, it did feel a bit painful for me to watch as she increasingly started tuning out on Florence.
Because Florence was absolutely taking this seriously and being 100% earnest. I think she definitely realized she might have accidentally gone overboard and pushed Neianne away and was trying to "make up" for it by taking her to the shrines in the desperate hope that even if she doesn't have much of an interest in it, maybe Neianne would. Definitely think she misinterpreted Neianne running out to confront Squad Four as "Oh no, I've driven another person away from me" and that's why she abruptly had them leave and tried desperately to course correct.
All these thoughts were running through my head as I read so to then have her all but outright confirm it here:
...On lighter topics, Squad Four was hilarious. Having them act as "security" in the background kept bringing a smile to my face, and Sieglinde's reaction to Florence's retelling of her duel was priceless.
Because Florence was absolutely taking this seriously and being 100% earnest. I think she definitely realized she might have accidentally gone overboard and pushed Neianne away and was trying to "make up" for it by taking her to the shrines in the desperate hope that even if she doesn't have much of an interest in it, maybe Neianne would. Definitely think she misinterpreted Neianne running out to confront Squad Four as "Oh no, I've driven another person away from me" and that's why she abruptly had them leave and tried desperately to course correct.
All these thoughts were running through my head as I read so to then have her all but outright confirm it here:
Just made me want to give her a hug. First Sieglinde, now Florence I guess maybe it's not too much of a surprise I quickly gravitating to characters I find myself relating to... even if I did so before consciously realizing how.
...On lighter topics, Squad Four was hilarious. Having them act as "security" in the background kept bringing a smile to my face, and Sieglinde's reaction to Florence's retelling of her duel was priceless.
LOL.
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- Location
- ⇙
Great chapter.
More or less what I expected from the date. Not sure about shipping, but I definitely friendship this. Let's see where it goes.
More or less what I expected from the date. Not sure about shipping, but I definitely friendship this. Let's see where it goes.
- Location
- PA
Indeed. Hopefully we can get Stephanie to weigh in on the whole 'SWORDS!' thing sometime. Neianne might be too much a farmgirl and the Noble duo don't do blades, but I bet Stephanie will have at least a few comments.
(the crit roll is getting Stephanie to go 'woosh swosh clang!' like Florence was doing!)
Maybe. Steph is not a strict traditionalist, so she might have broader interests, and I could be completely misrecalling/misinterpreting the situation, but I feel as though The Knights focus upon perfecting a single weapon configuration, and likely
I actually suspect that perhaps the biggest vulnerability of The Knights is that in their quest to seek absolute perfection, they may have disregarded the role that opponents play. They might consider their opponent irrelevant, not out of disrespect or disregard, but rather a belief that a battle is won by a perfect warrior being perfect for themselves, so assessing your opponent is just sort of not how it's done. Essentially sacrificing "know your enemy" in order to maximise "know yourself".
- Location
- Nova Scotia
- Pronouns
- She/Her
You know, ever since Mysterious Mask joined the cast, it's like poor Stephanie just gets no screentime anymore. I keep expecting them to meet eventually, but they're never in the same place together!