On the Road to Elspar [Book 1] (Dryad Mercenary Schoolgirl Quest)

holy crap this only took forever now i might actually write the real update

[2:19 AM] Gazetteer: you can't save everyone, sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying, you can't undo killing someone (or liking it), knowing what to say after someone dies is hard


Interlude 2
Remember the Dead

"She's not going to make it."

Running the back of her forearm across her forehead to wipe the sweat from her brow, Azalea Cherilyn Charmaine concentrates harder on the wet, messy hole barely compressed with bloodstained hands, her breath quickening with every extra bit of focus summoned for the magecraft channeling through her staff. The tip of her staff glows with faint light above Peggy's exposed chest, where fabric has been hastily torn away only for blood to cover her instead.

"The bleeding's getting worse," Vesna Rainer whispers beside the dryad mage. Looking just as tired, her sweaty, pale face betrays a look of increasing fear, even as she tries to keep the volume of her voice low enough so that Peggy cannot hear. Azalea isn't sure that's working; Peggy's body is twitching and spasming harder where she's been set on a roll of burlap, which can mean she's panicking upon overhearing Vesna's words...or panicking because she's still losing copious amounts of blood and now she can't breathe.

"Please press down harder," commands Azalea determinedly.

"I am!" Vesna hisses back, more out of desperation than anger. Her hands, closing around a deep wound where a spear found its mark, look knuckle-white where blood doesn't stain them. There is less and less of these spots; blood is pooling around the wound, ebbing past even Vesna's fingers, and Azalea's worried that Peggy's ribs and lungs will collapse if Vesna presses any harder.

"Okay. Move your hands a little. I'm going to try to seal the wound just a little more."

Vesna adopts a slightly worried look as she parts her hands pressing down on that deep wound in Peggy's chest. "As deep as possible, please, Lady Charmaine."

Azalea tries to smile a little cooly, as if trying to ease the mood. "That might be a little difficult," she murmurs, not feeling any more relaxed than before. After all, the working conditions aren't exactly ideal, crammed into the common area of the West Wing along with all the other wounded and dying, dozens of them being attended to by a limited amount of healers. The sounds of screaming and crying, echoing off whitestone walls, mixed in with the overpowering smell of sweat and the sense of fatigue from everyone around in this closed space, does not help at all. It was a relief when the instructors came back, some of whom were mages with mastery over healing magecraft, but where Azalea previously thought they only had wounded apprentices to help, now grievously injured members of staff - helplessly attacked by the same Tenereian assault - have been dragged in as well.

Many were dragged into the West Wing because it was more defensible than the infirmary during the Tenereian attack. Now, these people are too grievously injured to be carried over to the infirmary; even if there are enough beds over there, the trip will likely kill their wounded.

Even before Azalea started working on saving Peggy, she was overcome with the realization that Peggy is beyond her capacity to save. Vesna coming over to help is certainly welcome, but now - without a master healer, all of whom are busy with other victims - Azalea is struggling with the terrified realization that they're merely prolonging Peggy's suffering.

Still, Azalea attempts to concentrate, attempts to focus all the arcane energies inside her through her staff, trying to heal the hole sinew by sinew, fiber by fiber. As a dryad, her magecraft is more powerful, more forceful compared to mages of other races...but unlike humans, she can't last quite as long - and she's already exhausted from hours of trying to stabilize everyone - and unlike elves, her magecraft isn't as naturally and innately precise. Oh, certainly, as the daughter of a baroness, she's been trained to possess exquisite control over her abilities, including in the arts of healing...but for a wound that her reached as far as Peggy's lungs, Azalea can't help but think it's not nearly enough.

Plugging the hole in Peggy's muscles and skin won't be enough. The healing needs to reach as far down as her internal organs where Azalea can't even see them. And asking Vesna to help pry the wound open so that Azalea can seems like an utterly horrible idea.

But Peggy is thrashing on the ground now; though weak and pale, she twitches and convulses and kicks, and with everyone shudder, Azalea's magecraft misses their mark. "I can't..." she mutters, trying to move her staff in tandem to Peggy's twitching, but mostly failing. "Peggy, please, you have to hold still."

But it's not as if Peggy's in full control of her body anymore, as it fights for life and for air. More blood flows from the wound, and Peggy coughs and hacks in an uncontrollable manner that sprays her and Azalea and Vesna with more splatters of blood. Not that it stops either of them. Vesna blanches even further and trembles, but is still trying to compress Peggy's wounds. Azalea doesn't even seem to entirely notice.

"Mina," calls out Azalea to the apprentice watching from the side, "help me hold her down. By the torso and legs. Vesna, her shoulders, please."

Wilhelmina Adelaide Marienberg - despite having noted mere moments ago that Peggy is unlikely to make it - sets her longbow against the wall and expressionlessly descends onto her knees, moving to hold down Peggy's lower body, giving little care of the blood that's staining her nightclothes.

"Do I stop pressing down?" Vesna asks, watching her hands failing to stop the flow of blood with an increasing sense of panic.

"Yes." It doesn't seem like they're successfully stemming the bleeding, and trying to seal Peggy's wound - if only just a little bit, so there's enough space for Azalea to work deeper - seems like it's more important now.

Obediently, Vesna moves to pin Peggy down by the shoulders, trying to stop her from moving, trying to whisper comforting words into her ear in her trembling voice. Azalea focuses once more, sealing just a bit of that deep gash at the edges. Maybe just enough to close off some of those blood vessels, enough to give her a bit more time to somehow repair the damage to her internal organs.

Which - if they are very lucky - will not have cascaded into multiple internal injuries from all of Peggy's thrashing. Which is very worryingly getting weaker under Vesna and Wilhelmina's hands.

"Well?" gasps Azalea after several more moments of healing, letting go of the concentration over her magecraft before mana exhaustion takes even that from her.

Vesna lets go of Peggy's shoulders for a moment - she's getting weak enough, too weak to even shudder under her own power, that the human mage doesn't need to hold her down enough - to user her hands and wipe away the blood around her chest, so that maybe she can see the wound properly up close. The soft morning light coming in from the windows is just barely enough for the purpose. "I don't think it's helping," Vesna whispers after a moment, looking up at Azalea with wide open eyes.

From Azalea's other side side, Wilhelmina points out in an infuriatingly calm and almost dispassionate voice, "Even if she doesn't bleed out, the blood pooling in her lungs will suffocate her."

"The worst of it is coming from her chest," mutters Azalea, trying to take the elf's comments constructively. "If we don't stop the bleeding and seal the wound, she won't make it."

Vesna bites her lip in clear worry and hesitation. "If we seal the wound now," she points out, "we can't do anything about the bleeding in her lungs."

"Do you think we have time?" It's not a challenging inquiry; Vesna is a fellow support mage and healer, and Azalea wants a second opinion before committing to what's arguably a risky move.

The human mage gives this a moment of thought. "What about more bloodroot solution?"

"You'll kill her by coagulating her blood," observes Wilhelmina, looking down at their patient.

"Mina," hisses Azalea in a moment of uncharacteristic emotion, trying to push any hint of anger out of her voice and instead trying to just come across as stern, "please be quiet for just three minutes."

Vesna stares, her shock partially alleviated only by the grim atmosphere being of far stronger concern. Wilhelmina's eyes widen just a bit, as if this side of Azalea surprises even her. But at the very least, the elven childhood friend has the grace to not have anything to say after that.

Tears are freely flowing from Peggy's eyes now; they were welling before, but now they stream, as if she has realized that she isn't going to make it. But Azalea determinedly ignores it as she focuses on the problem. As one of the maids at Faulkren Academy, Peggy - despite being a few years older than all the apprentices here - has been cleaning their rooms and cooking their meals and washing their clothes since the very first day Azalea and all the others arrived. She's been nothing but polite and humble, and Azalea even managed to get her to tease back a little bit in their interactions. Yet here she is, caught up in an attack beyond her making, and grievously wounded by beasts and strangers who were really aiming for apprentices like Azalea instead.

This isn't fair, and Azalea will not let her die.

"Do you have any other ideas aside from bloodroot solutions?" Azalea asks Vesna.

The human mage gives this a moment of thought before shaking her head: "No."

Azalea doesn't blame her; she can't think of any other solution either. "How many vials have we used so far?"

Vesna looks down to count the empty vials set beside them. "Four."

"It's a little much, isn't it?" As much as she hates to admit it, Wilhelmina is right. Four vials of bloodroot solution is already a little dangerously excessive; they used it earlier in an attempt to complement the mending of Peggy's flesh, underestimating the amount of damage that was inflicted. Now they need to stem the bleeding as an effort to buy time, but with five vials, they're potentially trading fatal blood loss for circulation in Peggy's arteries basically stopping, which is pretty much about as fatal.

But Vesna isn't about to give up. "She's going to die regardless if we don't do something about the internal bleeding. If we can stop the bleeding, if we just have a few minutes, we can maybe reopen the wound just a little, focus on repairing the lungs."

Azalea nods, understanding where Vesna's trying to go with this. "And then we can use bleed balm to encourage circulation once we've mended the worst of it."

It's a daring plan. If they don't coagulate Peggy's blood enough and reopen her wounds, she'll just bleed out faster. If they do coagulate her blood, it means the two exhausted mages will only have so much time - maybe five or six minutes - to delicately repair the deep wound in Peggy's intricate vital organs and restart circulation before she dies.

Vesna seems to realize the risks therein as she slowly turns to Azalea and asks in a quiet, almost dreading tone, "Have you ever healed someone's internal organs before, Lady Charmaine?"

"No," admits Azalea with a deep exhale. She cannot believe she's doing this. She swivels her head around, trying to look for an instructor - a far more competent and more experienced healer - to take over, but they all seem occupied with their own grievously wounded. Trying to gather all of her resolve, she whispers, "We're just going to have to try."

The human mage hesitates once more before nodding; maybe some of Azalea's visible confidence - what little she can gather - splashed on her too. "Alright," she mutters before raising a hand, calling out, "We need more bloodroot solution over here!"

It takes a moment for one of the maids to scurry over with several vials of bloodroot solution. Several of them are stationed in the common area of the West Wing, brought here to fetch more medical supplies or help where they can, rushing to and fro. The young girl's face is pale, marked with fear and panic. Her eyes are red and her cheeks glisten with dried tears. There are messy blood stains on the front of her maid's dress. Her hands shaking so much that for a moment, Azalea is terrified that she may drop all of them.

But the maid manages to hand two vials to Vesna in time, who whispers, "Needle." Wilhelmina - courteously silent - reaches for the spare needle to the side of the burlap quilt, and Vesna quickly attempts to fill the needle in trembling hands with bloodroot solution. And again, Azalea fears that moment when the vial and needle may slip from Vesna's fingers, but that moment never comes. Vesna fills up the needle, and is beginning to look for an artery, preparing to inject Peggy, and...

A hand reaches out to grab Vesna's wrist - the one attached to the hand holding the needle - and heads swivel to see one of the instructors standing over them. "What do you think you're doing?" she demands with a frown, looking down at the three apprentices around a dying maid. Azalea is careful not to get her hopes up; an instructor she is, but not a mage or a healer.

"We need bloodroot solution," Vesna answers, eyes wide. "Blood is pooling in her lungs. We need to..."

The instructor grimaces, removing the needle from Vesna's fingers before letting go of her wrists. "There are other wounded who need you more," she murmurs, "people you can save." Her tone isn't unkind, but there's a hint of finality in it. "Go find someone else."

Azalea and Vesna look at each other with somewhat horrified expressions. "But..." the latter is already beginning to come in with an objection.

But the instructor cuts her off instantly as she hisses dangerously, "I said go."

Vesna recoils, and again she looks at Azalea, as if trying to ask the baroness' daughter about what they're supposed to do. And, for a moment, the dryad lady hesitates as well, trying to think of a way to convince the instructor that they have a shot at saving Peggy, that they have to stay.

But in the end, Azalea masters her expression - a grim countenance nonetheless - and simply stands up. This gesture alone seems to deflate Vesna as she, too, rises quietly, a defeated look on her face. Expressionlessly, Wilhelmina joins the two as they walk away. They can barely hear the instructor kneel beside Peggy, holding her hand, quietly murmuring, "You're alright. Close your eyes. Close your eyes. Do you believe in the Spring? You're alright, then. I'm going to pray with you now:

"Before the beginning, there was the Spring
And from the Spring, there was the beginning
And from the Spring came all things
Within its refuge can we be at peace
By its grace do we find boundless love
Through its power are we one with the world
From the Spring we come and to the Spring we return
From beginning to end, forever"

And so the morning passes, as too few healers rush between too many wounded, stabilizing whom they can stabilize and saving whom they can save. As fatigue and mana exhaustion begins to build, and as her instructors tell her that she needs to take a breather, Azalea can at least claim that maybe she helped save one or two other members of staff, people who maybe might not have made it.

But when she returns, Azalea is not surprised - and only feels all the more tired - to see Vesna standing next to a still, lonely, aseri-like outline beneath a second burlap sheet, desperately trying to hold back tears as her lower lips trembles. Someone - maybe Vesna, maybe the instructor who told them to go, maybe another maid - at least closed Peggy's eyes and covered her chest with another burlap sheet.

Wearily, Azalea walks over beside Vesna, quietly taking one bloodied hand into her own, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Perhaps the instructor was right; perhaps Peggy was really just far too wounded, beyond saving. Or perhaps the two apprentices mages could've saved Peggy, but were sent away before they could've made a difference.

Azalea supposes it's probably the former. They are only desperate first-year apprentices with little idea of what they're doing, seeing someone die for the first time. And in the end, maybe it doesn't matter. Peggy's still dead.

"Come on," she whispers to Vesna, pulling her along towards the part of the common area with chairs. The couches have been repurposed into makeshift sickbeds, so they'll have to make do with just wooden seats and tables, close enough to the instructors so that they can call on them if needed. So they can be reminded that once they're finished resting, other dying people still need them.

Azalea makes sure Vesna is settled down into her chair before taking her own. The human mage slumps forward a moment after, burying her face into her arms on the table. The dryad isn't sure if Vesna is crying or if she's just tired. A bloodied hand reaches out to stroke Vesna's hair comfortingly nonetheless.

Belatedly, Azalea realizes that Wilhelmina is standing beside her, expressionless, a steaming mug in each hand. Maybe she got it from the Great Hall, or maybe from the townspeople visibly bringing relief supplies to the courtyard out the window. The two exchange quiet, tired looks for a moment, amidst the sweat and the crying and the pain and the death, as if trying to come to terms with each other over this.

Finally, Azalea sighs and shakes her head, murmuring, "Please don't say you told me so."

Wilhelmina seems to consider this over for a moment - she seems to want to shrug, but in the end, she doesn't - before sitting down beside Azalea, quietly sliding a mug each over to the dryad and human mages.

The coffee is warm.


It is still early enough in the morning that the shadows of the academy's eastern ramparts stretch across the courtyard to the western walls, shafts of sunlight across the morning mist marking the boundary between shadow and daylight. Slowly, the sun continues to rise, and the shadows begin to recede, and the shafts of light angle further and further down, promising to shine upon the walls of the West Wing from top to bottom.

It is within this receding shadow that Nikki finds Emilie, seated on the grass against the wall of the West Wing, a scant ten meters away as the tan-skinned aseri passes through the building's doors. A staff clutched in her hands has its shaft settled between her legs, and her head is buried in crossed arms propped up on her knees.

It's good to let a mage who has been trying to heal the wounded and dying in the West Wing rest, but Nikki wonders whether or not it'd be a good idea to let Emilie know that - hugging her legs in her nightclothes - her underwear is showing.

"Hey," Nikki eventually greets softly, tapping Emilie's legs at just enough an angle to straighten them out, which has the added effect of waking the blonde human girl up as the knees supporting her head give out. It takes a moment for Emilie to clear the bleariness from her eyes, for them to focus on Nikki, who smiles when it seems like the mage has finally registered her presence. "How are you holding up?"

"Alright," Emilie smiles weakly, softly slapping her cheeks to wake herself up a little. "I just need a few minutes. A bit of fresh air and sunlight."

"Yeah, it's a bit stuffy in there." Nikki slumps against the wall as well and slides down to a sitting position, cradling her spear in the way Emilie cradles her staff. "Where's your squad?"

"They said they'd go get some food first. The instructors are back, so I don't think we need to stand watch anymore, right?"

Nikki sighs. "Yeah."

Although it isn't entirely silent, there's a quiet, oppressive air that hangs above the academy. The day is growing brighter and the clouds are parting, but Nikki doesn't exactly feel any better about the new day. A flock of birds take off from the fields, the flapping of their wings breaking the quiet and temporarily drowning out the shouting, crying, and sobbing from inside the West Wing. Nikki considers finding somewhere further away to sit, but it doesn't look like Emilie's in any hurry to relocate.

"What about you?" Emilie suddenly asks, her head swiveling to face Nikki despite still being semi-buried in her knees.

"What about me?"

"Are you alright? Here? We're safe now, you don't need to stay."

"Yeah." In this, at least, Nikki sounds semi-convincing, coolly trying to brush off concern but casually running her hair through her long, wavy hair. It takes a moment before she admits, "I was just watching my squad leader tell some healers that a maid they were trying to save was going to die and they should leave her."

"Oh. Lady Marienberg?"

"Yeah." Again, Nikki lets a few seconds draw out before adding, "Vesna was there too."

"Oh," Emilie repeats. "Is that why you're here?"

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, she's helping Lady Charmaine, I think, and we figured someone should at least stay with our squad leader."

To the side, Emilie nods wordlessly. More and more wagons are beginning to trickle in through the gates of the academy's walls, townspeople from Faulkren coming in with relief supplies like extra blankets, medicine, food, and coffee. A somewhat unnecessary gesture - the academy is kept well-stocked with extra supplies - but noble nonetheless, that Caldran sense of community. Being Sandrian herself, centuries after the Tenereian Empire took what is modern-day Caldrein as its own province, Nikki absentmindedly wondered if this camaraderie is why her distant ancestors formed the Confederacy alongside those Treiden separatists who were once their masters.

"Is she okay?" Emilie suddenly asks.

"Who?" Nikki doesn't need to turn to reply. "Vesna?"

"Yes."

There is a moment of quiet thought. "Lady Charmaine's with her," she eventually allows. That seems to be the end of her thoughts, at least for a few seconds, until the aseri adds. "She's strong. Vesna, I mean. I think she'll be fine." Finally, Nikki turns to Emilie, her brow furrowed with concern. "Are you okay? I mean..." she takes a deep breath before turning slightly in the direction of the building they're leaning against. "People have died in there."

"Yes," Emilie acknowledges quietly with a weak smile. "I..." she, too, trails off before closing her eyes and sighing. "...This doesn't feel real, does it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. I know we've been attacked. People have died in there. But it...doesn't feel real. People inside are crying, but it's like watching a bad play, not something that happened. I just feel...tired, not sad. It feels like I'm still in a dream, and that I haven't woken up yet, not really." Emilie heaves another sigh, shaking her head sadly. "I don't think it's sinking in yet. All of this."

"Yeah," exhales Nikki, patting Emilie on the back sympathetically. "It'll sink in, eventually. Is this the first time you've seen someone die?"

"No. Just...not like this. And you?"

"There was a big fire when I was younger. My parents said they've seen bigger, before I was born, but it was still pretty big."

"Ah..."

"I was too young to really help after, but even from your bedroom window you can see things. This...isn't the worst thing I've seen, I guess. The fire stopped a few streets from our house, but..." Nikki pauses for a moment, as she thinks of the people, half-charred people being carried down the street away from the fire, screaming and crying. The corner of her lips twitch, and she decides to say something easier: "Some of my friends still died."

"I'm sorry."

"It's an old memory. Nothing to be sorry for."

Vaguely recognizable in the distance - even as the courtyard begins to fill with more townspeople coming in with supply wagons - is Nicole, proprietor of the Aroma, a drinking establishment in town. From that wagon marches a tall, lanky elf in the direction of the West Wing. She doesn't have the effortless grace of Aphelia, but Wilhelmina Adelaide Marienberg has an impressive poise to her that's difficult to ignore, even while holding onto a couple of mugs, probably filled with coffee. She, too, looks a little tired, but the elven lady still manages to keep herself together fairly well, even as she approaches conversational distance of the two apprentices sitting against the wall of the West Wing.

"Nikki," Wilhelmina greets with a nod as she passes. It doesn't sound warm, but there's a definite tone of courtesy and respect there.

"Lady Marienberg," Nikki replies politely.

And that's the end of the conversation, as Wilhelmina - cups and all - pushes open the door to the West Wing with her shoulder. The screams and cries from inside is momentarily much more chillingly audible through the partially open door, at least before Aphelia closes it behind her. Nikki really hopes the coffee is for the healers; they need it.

"She looks like she's a little hard to approach," Emilie whispers, a few seconds after Wilhelmina closed the door behind her to ensure that no one else can hear their conversation.

"Yeah, well," shrugs Nikki, "she's actually pretty approachable. Just sort of a pain to deal with, what with the stick up her ass."

"Nikki!" scolds Emilie, sounding a little scandalized at the language.

"What?" grouses Nikki just a little indignantly, but whatever excuse she means to provide is suddenly interrupted by a familiar yet almost mismatched visitor.

"Hey!" a voice calls out, and both Emilie and Nikki look up in mild surprise, not only at the interruption, but how strangely cheerful it sounds. It is perhaps unsurprising - yet perhaps also somewhat exhausting - to see a smiling Mia walking up towards them, apparently having moved in from the courtyard. It's amazing, in a way, as to how they did not hear her previously. Neither Emilie nor Nikki rise to their feet, however, as Mia - dressed back in her everyday clothes - comes to a stop before them. "How are both of you holding up?"

"Um." Nikki blinks, almost in mild confusion, exchanging hesitant looks with Emilie. "I'm...alright."

"Yes, me too," Emilie adds a moment later, just as uncertain. Mia's presence and tone seem almost surreal, given the circumstances. "I'm just...recovering from mana exhaustion."

Mia nods, looking almost a little self-assured with their replies. Nodding in the direction of the West Wing, she asks just a tiny bit more quietly, "Is everything okay in there?"

"Most people will pull through. We hope."

"That's good!"

Her brow creasing just a little, Nikki observes flatly, "Some won't."

"Well," Mia laughs with a hint of awkwardness in her tone, "that's...less good. But you do what you can, right?" She smiles in Emilie's direction. "We're counting on you."

"Yes," the human mage nods blankly, again looking at Nikki. It's Mia, of course, but given the somber atmosphere, her usual attitude seems almost...inappropriate. Offensive, even, to those less charitable. But Emilie is not less charitable, and she allows, "Thank you. I mean, I'll try my best."

"You seem alright," Nikki sees fit to interject, frowning a little bit more.

Mia shrugs with a grin. "Well, I'm not dead. That's always a plus."

"Some of the people inside are not."

"Nikki!" Emilie cuts in with an upset expression, nervously looking in Mia's direction.

There is, after all, a very noticeably dropping of heart on Mia's part, if her expression - smiling but now looking a little pained - is any indicator. "Yeah," she allows with a sad smile, "I guess they're not."

Grimacing, Nikki mutters, "I'm not trying to make things awkward. Sorry. I guess I'm just surprised you're not even a little upset about this."

The red-haired aseri frowns, and even that sad smile slips from her lips. "Are you kidding? I'm totally upset."

Nikki blinks. "You don't..."

"My friends died."

Momentarily startled, Nikki has the grace to look at least a little contrite as she mutters, "Sorry. You just seem...over it."

"I'm not really over it. I'm just glad I'm alive. I'm glad you're alive. And you too. And everyone else who's still here. I'm just relieved."

"We lost people."

"We did. But I think we will always lose people at some point or another. I'm just glad we won this one. Most of us are still here. The enemy's fleeing with their tails between their legs. I wish last night didn't happen too, but it did, and I think we got off okay." A tiny bit of Mia's typically infectious smile returns to her lips, even if it's still strained with a touch of sadness. "I'm trying to look at the bright side."

"Yeah," sighs Nikki.

"There will probably be people who feel guilty about having survived," murmurs Emilie. "Especially those who lost friends and squadmates."

"Yeah," grimaces Mia, looking once more at the walls of the West Wing, as if she can see the wounded and the dead and the healers through whitestone. "We'll just have to get through this together, won't we?"

"Easier said than done," Nikki chuckles bitterly, but she's trying to recover some of that earlier normalcy.

"Please be careful," advises Emilie softly. "Some other people may not look at it the same way you do."

"Maybe," Mia shrugs. "If I had died, though, I would've wanted everyone else to make the best of it. Move on. Not wallow over my corpse." The smile slips from her lips again, and for a moment, she looks almost frighteningly somber. "I want to believe those who've left us feel the same."

There's a long moment of quiet, contemplative silence - as the group considers Mia's words - before Nikki flatly declares, "You're weird."

That infectious smile returns to the lips of the red-haired aseri again, and she laughs, "I get that a lot!"

"Please ignore her," Emilie says almost apologetically, elbowing the tan-skinned aseri in the side. "Nikki's a good person, but she's kind of an idiot."

"Hey," protests the aseri in question.

"Can you...go in and help a little?" Emilie continues, the request delivered in a slightly plaintive tone. "I know you're not a healer, but we really need some extra hands. Anything you can do."

"Yeah," Mia nods, already moving for the doors of the West Wing, "I'll do that. It's good talking to both of you." She hesitates. "Unless I've made you angry?"

"No," Nikki allows after a moment of thought. "No, I guess I'm not angry. It's just...different. Seeing someone so cheerful after all of this."

Before she steps into the common area of the West Wing to help with the wounded, Mia gives Emilie and Nikki a slightly sad smile, quietly murmuring, "Somebody has to be."


"Fundamentally, unlike other elements, the efficiency and efficacy of wind magecraft is far more reliant on focus than force."

It was sunny for nearly the entire day after the Squirrels attacked and fled. On the morning of the second day, the rainclouds rolled in, and a light drizzle began to come down on the Faulkren area. Even now, early into the afternoon, the skies are overcast, and the dull light of a cloudy sky is barely enough to light the library without additional candles and chandeliers. The sky feels oppressive, a dark weight hanging over the academy, a parallel to the heavy mood that has descended upon the academy.

Perhaps it's just a rain, but a dull, almost uncharacteristic quiet has settled down even here in the library, where ambient noise from outside often distracts from heavy reading.

"Fundamentally, unlike other elements, the efficiency and efficacy of wind magecraft is far more reliant on focus than force."

The dead have been tallied alongside the wounded, forming gaps in squad either permanent or threatening to be permanent. There are hushed conversations about staff members asking to leave, wanting to find jobs elsewhere, in places less likely to be attacked. Apprentices are worried about being - or, alternatively, hoping to be - summoned home. Bodies - both of the academy's and of the enemy's - have been relocated but not dealt with. The tragedy has triggered grief and anger. It's difficult to go back to the way things were just two days ago.

At least, Melanie supposes, the Tenereians didn't manage to burn down the library.

"Fundamentally, unlike other elements, the efficiency and efficacy of wind magecraft is far more reliant on focus than force."

Melanie Aster closes her eyes, shutting out the image of the book on magecraft theory currently in her hands. She has been reading and re-reading the same sentence over and over again for some time now, the beginning of the next chapter in this textbook. She reads the first sentence, her eyes glaze over, her mind wanders, she realizes she's drifting off, and then she tries to concentrate, and then the process repeats itself. It seemed like a good idea at the time - to take her mind off of things - but as it turns out, it's hard to really concentrate when the events over the past two days have proven to be something of a distraction.

Plenty of people died already. One of her squadmates was wounded, although fortunately not seriously; she should be given a clean bill of health soon. But it could've ended very differently. A severed artery could've killed her before anyone could get her to the healers.

Sort of like how the arteries in a Squirrel's throat was severed two nights ago. A moment of focus, a moment of incantations, a flicker of a thought; and then suddenly an invisible blade struck out - with her eyes closed, she can see it in her mind now - and a spray of blood majestically spilled out in a brilliant, glistening arc.

It was so pretty.

Then Melanie blanches, catching herself; she opens her eyes and shoves her nose into her library book, trying once again to focus on the words on the page. "Fundamentally, unlike other elements, the efficiency and efficacy of wind magecraft is far more reliant on focus than force..."

It has been difficult, trying to pry that thought out from her mind. When she closes her eyes, she can still see the moments - several of them - where she slit the throats of two or three Squirrels. In the heat of the moment, she can't remember the exact number...not that she thinks it matters. Either way, it wasn't very hard. With fire, ice, and lightning, you can see the spells coming. Magecraft isn't instantaneous; opponents can see you winding up and take appropriate defense or evasive measures, making it incumbent upon the mage to plan ahead of time and be clever. With wind, however...wind is invisible. According to her magecraft instructors - her academy instructor, her tutor back home, as well as her sister in Llyneyth - a quiet, shrill pitch in the air and a change in pressure is all the warning one ever gets when one's on the receiving end of a particularly focused blast of wind. So it was simply a matter of remaining conspicuous, waiting for a moment where the Squirrel was still just for a few seconds, and then...

It helped that the Squirrels were moving around, not realizing they had been cut, exacerbating what was sometimes a minor wound until it was too late. Of course, it also helped that Melanie wasn't trying to cut anything as hard as a wyvern scale. Nothing like a direwolf's fur to have to cut through either. And their throats were just so soft...

Melanie slams her forehead against the book, as if trying to physically knock the images out of her head, realizing where her mind is wandering again. Again, she tries to drown all of this out with words, panickedly trying to focus on the text once more. "Fundamentally, unlike other elements..."

"Don't get your snot all over that book. I actually want to read it."

The voice speaks suddenly and without warning, and in spite of its angelic tone, Melanie still nearly falls out of her chair, her canid ears and tail perking up in shock, dropping the book onto the table as she realizes that there is someone seated just around the corner a mere meter away, kicking her legs to and fro where they are suspended above the carpeted floor.

"L-L-Lady Zabanya," whispers Melanie, and she makes a conscious attempt not to hide half her face behind the book still in her hands. It's more like a statement than a greeting.

Around the corner of the table, Elizabeth Irivich Zabanya - the tiny, waifish elf looking every bit her imperious self despite her almost angelic appearance - looks Melanie over lazily, even as the latter struggles to answer how the former even managed to sit at the table without her noticing. "You're the Aster girl," the tiny elf observes.

"I-I'm Melanie Aster, y-yes."

"The one riding Celestia's coattails."

Melanie decides there is no real need to respond to this statement. She has no experience with Elizabeth, and doesn't really know anything about her beyond her general reputation - enough to convince the aseri to stay away whenever possible - but Lucille has never had anything kind to say about Elizabeth. The aseri is beginning to see why.

Elizabeth scoffs, but then her gaze goes to the cover of Melanie's book, and there is an amused quality to her expression. "Wind magecraft. Not a popular element."

"I...s-suppose not, milady," the aseri allows quietly, her ears drooping a little.

"Trying to live up to someone?"

"N-Not really." It isn't really a lie. It's not really the truth either. Melanie's mostly trying to frantically figure out how Elizabeth even knew about this, and trying twice as frantically to not appear frantic. Did Neianne tell her? She was there during the Roldharen field exercise when it was mentioned, and she's on the same squad as Elizabeth.

Although she looks at Melanie in such a way that suggests she knows it's at least not the entire truth, Elizabeth seems to let it go. "Well, you're on the right track, at least, if you can keep doing what you did last time."

"O-Oh."

"Oh?" Elizabeth repeats, raising an amused eyebrow in the manner of a predatory cat pleased to see a helpless mouse on the other side of the table.

"I-I mean," Melanie is quick to add, even though her heart isn't in it, "th-thank you, Lady Zabanya."

The tiny elf regards her aseri counterpart for a long moment - and Melanie has to force herself not to squirm under the scrutiny - before she smiles knowingly, something that does not remotely comfort Melanie. "Ah. Not very proud of it, are you?" The smile turns slightly sinister. "After feeling so good about it then."

Melanie's eyes widen, and all of the sudden she sees that splash of blood glistening in midair under the moonlight once more. "How..." The aseri stops, just a bit too late to stop a single word from coming out of her lips. To her credit, she takes only a moment to master herself - what little good it does - before stammering, "I d-didn't feel good a-about it."

Again, Elizabeth regards Melanie for a long, quiet moment, as if trying to read the latter. Then, suddenly, she laughs. "This is your first time. This is your first time, isn't it?" She giggles even harder, a hand on the table for support, stopping herself from doubling over. "Yes, it is! Like a nervous virgin on her wedding night!"

Blushing furiously, Melanie doesn't speak as she waits out Elizabeth's uproarious laughter, bowing her head and giving furtive glances around, hoping no one else is in the library to hear Elizabeth laughing at her. Perhaps she's too embarrassed to say anything. Or perhaps - once again - there is just no need to say anything.

Eventually, the laughter dies, Elizabeth calms, and when she regards Melanie's unmoving reaction, she rolls her eyes, sighing, "Oh, for crying out loud, you're worse than Neianne."

"M-My apologies," Melanie stammers.

Again, Elizabeth studies her, as if something in her head just clicked. "You brought her back after Midwinter's Feast. I remember you now. At least you're doing something like her." And when Melanie again remains quiet, the elf again rolls her eyes. "Although at least Neianne does me the courtesy of making little puppy noises after I speak."

"M-My apologies," repeats the aseri, wondering what "puppy noises" Neianne even makes.

"You're not very like her, though. You're more like me."

Melanie blinks. "L-Like...you?"

The corner of Elizabeth's lips curls in cruel amusement. "Are you dissatisfied?"

"N-No. I just d-don't...I-I don't...know how I'm..."

There is something a little colder about how Elizabeth sighs in response that prompts Melanie to force down a shiver. "Let's go ahead and assume I'm not an idiot, yes?" She smiles, although it is not in any way reassuring. "You're a natural killer, like me. You'll get good at it, like me. And like me, you like it."

Again, Melanie pales, and she has a hard time trying to look Elizabeth in the eye. "I-It's not..."

"I'm impressed, in a way. It's no small thing for someone like you to focus wind magecraft just enough to cut through flesh, especially for someone who isn't an elf."

"I-I don't..."

"The effort must've been something to see." The tiny elf giggles. "And here I thought 'hard work' was just something people in Caldrein say for pats on the back."

"B-But..."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of. It's who you are. And you're in the right trade." Again, she smiles chillingly. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be here, reading a book on wind magecraft, learning how to better slit throats."

Realizing she isn't going to be able to get a word in edgewise, Melanie falls silent, meekly running her fingers through the white fur in her tail.

And, of course, Elizabeth chooses now to acknowledge that she may have interrupted the aseri. "Well, you had something to say, didn't you? Let's hear you say it."

It takes Melanie a bit of fidgeting and hesitation; after being stopped from trying to clarify herself multiple times, it felt like the wind has been taken out of her sails. Still, under the scrutiny of what is possibly Faulkren Academy's most terrifying elf, she takes a deep breath...and proceeds to speak under it: "I-I didn't l-like it."

"You don't have to lie in front of me." Elizabeth scoffs again. "And you're not very good at it."

"B-But I didn't."

"Aster," the tiny elven mage leans in and smiles, as if indulging Melanie's denial, and when she does, Melanie suddenly gets the unsettling feeling that Elizabeth is only trying to sound patient, "I've been casting spells before your parents started teaching you arithmetics. I respect how hard you've tried, but don't think for a moment that I haven't tried harder until I've mastered every little piece to know about magecraft. I know what to look for, and you weren't being particularly discreet even fifty meters away from me. I know how to tell the difference between someone who uses magecraft like a tool and someone who holds it like a lover." The smile turns darker now. "And you're at your best when you're trying to murder someone."

Melanie looks away unhappily, fidgeting. There's something about what Elizabeth says and how she says it that...isn't wrong. Or at least Melanie can't deny it. But somehow, this is not what she wants to hear or even what she needs to hear. It isn't making her any happier.

Elizabeth can tell as much as she dryly notes, "You don't agree."

Pursing her lips - all while wondering why she is even talking about this to Zabanya, of all people - Melanie whispers, "I-I don't...w-want to like it."

"Why not?"

The white-haired aseri stares at the blonde elf, clearly shocked that such a question even needs to be asked. "It's wr-wrong."

"What's so wrong about it?"

"I-It's wrong to k-kill."

Elizabeth narrows her eyes, looking at least partially incredulous. "Are you seriously telling me that as a Caldran mercenary apprentice?"

"It's wr-wrong to e-enjoy killing," Melanie quickly amends, flushing red with embarrassment.

But the elf only rolls her eyes. "You are a Caldran mercenary apprentice. And I somehow thought enjoying your work is life's greatest fulfillment. Seriously, remind me why it's wrong to enjoy killing. No one's telling you to murder an entire town to get your kicks, I'm talking about just killing the enemy in war. Why is it wrong?"

Melanie falls silent. It's questionable as to whether or not she ever means to reply - whether or not she's just waiting for Elizabeth's words to wash over her so this can eventually be forgotten as an idle memory - but even as her mind slowly probes at the idea, the aseri realizes...that she can't really find a good answer. Not in the context of war. Not in the context of her missions as a Caldran mercenary. Not in the context of killing Tenereian Squirrels.

Then Melanie realizes that it's not about whether or not it's "right", but what it says about her. She's not sure she likes it. But nor can she fully articulate why, not in a right-or-wrong fashion. It doesn't make her any happier.

"Don't quote empty platitudes at me about things being wrong just because you've been told that by simpletons," Elizabeth snorts, "if you can't even tell me why." Then, of course, right-or-wrong or whether or not Melanie's happy about it suddenly goes out the window when the elven mage concludes, "Spending too much time around Celestia isn't going to help you discover who you really are."

Melanie stops moving, tail going still in her hands, her gaze suddenly fixed and narrowed on Elizabeth. She isn't fidgeting now or averting her gaze, and any hint of that anxiety or nervousness or skittishness is gone from her eyes and her expression and her body language. Her ears are pulled by instinctively in what's almost universally a subconscious aggressive tell for an aseri, her every muscle tenses and goes very still, and there's something cold and steely in Melanie's tightened blue eyes.

If Elizabeth's mere presence brings a chill in the room, then suddenly the change in Melanie's mood brings the ambient temperature down nearly again as much.

"Ah," Elizabeth smiles as she regards Melanie's subtle changes, clapping her hands once in satisfaction and pointing at the aseri. "There it is. There's that look, that killing instinct." She's clearly not intimidated; if anything, the way the elf crosses her arms is almost approving. "I never would've expected it from you, but it's there."

"You have no idea what it is you're talking about," Melanie whispers. Her anger is not a raging fire, but a cold, deadly blade of ice, an intense concentration of understated fury.

The elven mage snorts. "Don't I? Do you think I don't know Celestia? Don't you think I've had to deal with her even as children in one ball after another while you sat outside like a good little puppy? Watched her struggle to comprehend even the most basic of concepts?"

"No, I don't think you know Lady Celestia." The white-haired aseri's eyes dangerously narrow even more. "And I advise that you stop."

Elizabeth's smile grows into an outright grin, her tone strangely and terrifyingly pleasant, almost cheerful. "Are you threatening me now? Don't forget yourself now. I think I'm beginning to like you, but I can still wipe the floor with you without batting an eye."

There is a moment of hesitation on Melanie's part. But it lasts half a heartbeat, and she replies, "Perhaps. But you might lose it."

Almost as if on cue, the clouds outside thicken, the light flowing through the windows dimming, the library darkening until the candles inside draw harsh shadows across the chamber. For a moment, a wind mage and a lightning-ice mage stare each other down, unseen arcane energies bristling between them, as if all that is required is a spark to set the whole library on fire.

Then, suddenly, Elizabeth throws her head back and laughs. Melanie flinches at this; somehow, this shocks her more than any other reaction. And just like that, all that dangerous tension seems to dissipate, and Melanie can't help but feel confused, maybe even silly.

"I do like you," the elf grins when her laughter dies down.

Melanie is fairly certain she does not return the thought.

But then there's a familiar shout of "Melanie!", and the aseri turns just in time to see Lucille Lorraine Celestia at the doorway in and out of the library, her voice tinged with alarm and concern even as she tries to march over as quickly as possible.

Her smile turning thin - almost bored - as she sees Lucille approach, Elizabeth shrugs and turns a lazy eye towards Melanie, imparting a few last words before the Celestia's inevitable interruption. "Your family probably likes you to cozy up to her to keep up good relations," she says, "but if you keep yourself tethered to useless people, they're only going to hold you back." She smirks and shrugs. "Take it or leave it."

Reaching Melanie at a brisk pace, Lucille arrives just as Elizabeth finishes her last sentence, wrapping her arms around Melanie's shoulders almost protectively. The friendliness that seems to characterize Lucille's entire personality seems to be entirely absent as she looks at Elizabeth; her brow creased, her look guarded, Lucille acts with the minimum required courtesy and none of the warmth as she asks the even shorter elf, "Do you need Melanie for something?"

Elizabeth smiles sweetly in response. "Just giving her advice as a fellow mage." She walks past the two of them, already on her way out of the library. "Nothing you'd understand."

Lucille gives an unpleasant look in Elizabeth's direction, but she's already on her way out, lazily waving a hand over her shoulder as a means of parting. Melanie waits until Elizabeth fully disappears around the doorframe, and then waits another three seconds to make sure she isn't suddenly going to turn back around, and then heaves a sigh of relief...

...Only to take another gasp of breath, squeaking as Lucille's arms turn from "protective hug" to "relieved hug", squeezing her around her forearms now. "Are you okay?" Lucille asks, the standoffishness that was in her voice when she spoke with Elizabeth melting away entirely to naked concern. "Did she hurt you?"

"N-N-No," Melanie stammers. She tries to relax a little, trying to smile with an air of reassurance that she doesn't feel. Elizabeth didn't hurt her, after all. All the tiny elf did was ask questions. She didn't even insult Melanie, at least not directly. But the answers Melanie now has doesn't make her happier. It doesn't stop creating more uncomfortable questions.

And it doesn't stop the back of her mind from replaying that one moment two nights ago, that viscerally satisfying moment when an invisible blade of wind sprayed a glistening arc of blood into the cool night air.

"No," Melanie answers, "it's n-nothing at all..."


"It is with a sad heart that I am writing to you."

Or so Penelope mutters slowly, as if speaking the words out loud would will her pen to keep up with her lips.

Leaning over from the table they're both seated at in the Great Hall, Wendy looks at what Penelope is writing before noting, "I think it's 'heavy heart', actually?"

Penelope looks over in equal parts surprise and annoyance. "Is it?"

Wendy shoves a slice of veal into her mouth. "I saw it in a book," she mutters between chews.

Penelope scowls. "It sounds stupid." That doesn't stop her from crumpling the piece of paper into a ball and rolling it to a growing pile of crumpled parchment balls to the side of the table. Once upon a time, the act would've horrified her; paper isn't exactly cheap, and certainly not within her economic means. But now, it feels like the academy is flooded with them. Penelope's sure that the staff won't miss a few extra pieces.

The light drizzle in the afternoon has transformed into a rainshower, and even in these whitestone halls, Penelope can hear rain pound against the windows, a dull rumble echoing across a largely empty chamber. The chandeliers are lit and the first plates of food are being brought out from the kitchens, but only a small handful of incomplete squads are present, each largely keeping to their own, scattered across their own tables. There is an air of awkwardness now that the immediate crisis has passed, a weighty uncertainty pervading the atmosphere. The halls are often empty, with apprentices staying in their rooms. Even for those who haven't lost friends and squadmates, many are still processing their first real battle, their first real brush with death. A sensitive nerve has been exposed, an emotional vulnerability not often willingly shared.

In spite of her prickliness, Penelope understands; they too, after all, lost someone two nights ago. They need a bit of time and space. Penelope and Wendy aren't exceptions.

But food is food, and she hasn't been so accustomed to life at the academy that she doesn't remember the gnawing feeling of hunger.

"'Heavy heart'," mutters Penelope once more, scribbling furiously - albeit not very elegantly or proficiently - trying to recover her lost progress with the new adjective. Finished with writing that first sentence, Penelope regards her writing with a look of skepticism. "Does that make me sound like a posh bitch?"

"Trust me," Wendy snorts between bites, "you couldn't sound posh if you tried."

"Shut up," scowls Penelope.

Somewhat surprisingly, Wendy does. They - and many who come from communities just like theirs - are often accustomed to ribbing each other as a sign of respect or even endearment; where certain hostile terms used in certain contexts are actually affectionate, while the same terms used in other contexts will inevitably be met with violence. It's a dance that both of them instinctively mastered as children, which means that Penelope's usual "shut up's" in the past - which would've invited more ribbing - is different from her "shut up" now.

Furrowing her brow as she struggles with her words, Penelope determinedly continues, her quill scratching away in awkward strokes, muttering aloud each word inscribed on the sheet of paper. "I was with Becky for only half a year, but..." She trails off, frustrated by her inability to properly word the second half of the sentence. It's not that she's bad at talking, but this is supposed to be a consolation letter to the mother of a deceased friend, and Penelope realizes she is just awful at writing in such a tone. Or perhaps just writing in general.

To her credit, Wendy waits a full minute - watching Penelope repeatedly tap her head with her quill to no avail while working away at her veal - before remarking, "We want to finish the letter before they send Becky home, you know."

Penelope pushes herself away from the table a little bit, exasperated by her evident lack of progress. "I am happy to let you write this, if you're going to whine so much."

"Oh, no, it's all yours." Wendy looks appropriately smug, even if the expression is muted by the recent tragedy. "You came up with the idea."

Scowling once more, Penelope picks up the very unfinished letter in her hand, staring at it as if it would help. "This is stupid. We should be sending Becky home ourselves, not sending a stupid letter." Slamming the letter back onto the table - and looking mildly startled but largely unapologetic over the surprisingly loud sound it makes in the relatively empty Great Hall - she continues, "Does Becky's ma even read? They're from Sandria."

"Sandrians can read, Pen."

"How would you know? Have you been to Sandria?"

"Nikki can read."

"She might've learned how to here."

"Just...focus on the damn letter."

"I am focusing! You keep giving me a hard time over it!" Penelope glares down once again at the mostly blank page, as if reminding it that a similar crumpled-up fate - a fate that has already befallen several pieces of paper that came before it - awaits it if it fails to somehow produce words. The piece of paper is unmoved.

"It works better if you move the quill too." After a moment of further glaring, directed at Wendy this time, Wendy relents. "What did you want to say to Becky's ma, if they'd let us go?"

"That she was a tough bitch who pissed off giving the Tenny whores a real good ass-fucking."

To her credit, Wendy manages not to make a face. "...Okay, let's start with that and maybe change a few words."

And maybe Wendy was going to give her suggestions on exactly what words to change, except her gaze suddenly drifts off from the sheet of paper Penelope is writing on and sharpens a little, and Penelope follows that gaze just in time to see an unwelcome figure approaching their table.

Tall, willowy, and - at least in Penelope's opinion - imperious, Aphelia Meredith Treiser - her characteristically fashionable clothes in mourning colors - walks forth with an inscrutable expression and effortlessly dainty footsteps, typical for that daughter of House Treiser to the west. She is not, Penelope notes, followed by a clique of admiring apprentices today, which is more credit than the human would've otherwise given them. Not even Lucille Lorraine Celestia is around, although given what happened to her squad, Penelope would've been impressed if Lucille had the nerve to show her face around the academy over the next few days.

In spite of everything, however, Aphelia does not look or sound unkind, stopping beside the table as she gently set her hand on it as if to lean in. "Are you alright?" she asks after giving both humans a quiet, respectful nod of greeting. Or perhaps just acknowledgement.

"What do you mean by that?" demands Penelope. She isn't angry yet. Not really.

Aphelia doesn't seem to lose her balance or even pause. "You lost a squadmate." She pauses, then, in a more solemn tone and quieter voice, "I assumed you were friends."

"We were," Wendy acknowledges, almost politely. Of the two, she has generally been more reserved, better at keeping her thoughts to herself.

"Did you know her?" Penelope asks, noticeably less-than-almost-politely.

"I did not," Aphelia admits.

"Then what does it have to do with you?"

And with that, Penelope is promptly on the receiving end of a sharp elbow to the side from Wendy.

Aphelia, for better or for worse, does not seem to take offense, nor does she even seem to register the curt response from Penelope, who is scowling as she rubs her pained ribs. "I thought I would offer my condolences. Whatever else, we've trained together to be Caldran mercenaries. I mean it as a courtesy."

"Thank you," Wendy bows her head. It sounds respectful, at least, as if the gesture is actually appreciated. Even for Penelope - who has been squadmates with her for more than half a year now - it's hard to tell when Wendy is or isn't lying. "It's kind of you to do so."

Aphelia shakes her head to suggest it's nothing. "Is there anything I can help with?" she asks softly.

"It's nice of you to say, but no, we just...would like to be alone for a bit." Wendy even manages a grim smile. "If so we can write a letter to Becky's parents, something the instructors can carry for us when they send Becky home."

"A valiant gesture. It's a shame you can't go yourself."

"So," Penelope interjects, and Wendy only needs one look in her direction to realize that this isn't going well, that someone's temper is already beginning to boil. "Are you just...going around, telling everyone who's lost a squadmate how sorry you are?"

The elven highborn seems just mildly surprised at the question, but answers, "Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I'm a Treiser. I have an obligation to the people of Caldrein, to ensure their well-being and comfort."

"It is noble for you to think so," Wendy quickly interjects, hoping to cut off this conversation at the stem, but it's quickly becoming clear that she's just a bit too late.

"No," Penelope narrows her eyes angrily, "why do you think you get to do this?"

"Pen..." Wendy hisses warningly, although at this distance, it is impossible to do so without Aphelia noticing as well.

But of course, Penelope - short-tempered Penelope - misses it entirely, and although she may regret it later, she's already charging full-steam ahead, rising to her feet as she learns forward with her hands on the table. "No, just who do you think you are? Going around and acting like you give a damn about people who died? People you didn't even know?"

Aphelia blinks. "I intended..."

"You didn't know Becky," Penelope snarls, and already she's loud enough that even above the dull roar of the rain smattering against the Great Hall, the few apprentices who remain in the Great Hall are now looking towards them with alarm. "You don't know the first thing about her. You don't know the first thing about us. And you just come over here, acting like we need you to feel sorry for us. Where are your friends who died? Or maybe you've just found out that no highborn lady like you will be going home to their families in a coffin?"

Penelope is glaring at Aphelia now, who - at least for a moment - actually seems shocked in her own muted way; even before such hostility, Penelope has to concede that the elf is good at mastering her expression. Then, slowly, the Treiser's expression begins to harden into something cold and dangerous, and although she hopes she doesn't show it, Penelope is suddenly acutely aware - and judging by Wendy's expression to the side, she knows it too - that she has just picked a fight with a second elven highborn this year, someone who is likely far more powerful than the two humans at the table combined...someone they can't beat.

For better or for worse, Aphelia chooses to use words now instead of violence, although her voice is cold and sharp like a dagger through the chest. "Is this the first time you've lost someone?" she asks, and even with the rain, the Great Hall has fallen into such a silence that Penelope would've been surprised if the other apprentices - staring like little sheep - can't hear her now. "First time someone close to you was killed?" She smiles bitterly. "House Treiser is of Arnheim, all the way over in Elspar. Where we're fighting the Tenereians. Where my family has been fighting the Tenereians since I was a child, since I was six."

"Yeah?" laughs Penelope in a bitter tone, powered by false bravado. Somewhere in the back of her head, she knows this is a bad idea, but she's too far committed to back out now, not without looking like a coward. "Who are the actual people doing the actual fighting for your family?"

Aphelia's expression grows even stormier, and in spite of herself, Penelope suddenly has to fight the great urge to flee. "My friends have lost aunts, cousins, sisters, parents. I have lost a cousin, who took care of me and raised me when my own mother was too busy with the war effort. They did so fighting Tenereians, trying to stop them from taking that extra step into Caldrein, instead of hiding in their manors like you would so suggest." Her eyes narrow. "Do not for a moment think that you are somehow unique in your loss. And do not again imply that my family is craven. I'll overlook it this one time, but do so again, and you face my wrath in a duel."

Penelope may not have backed down. Perhaps - in all those years of surviving on the streets - Penelope doesn't know how to back down. At best, she could glower at Aphelia until the cows came home, until Aphelia decides that she will take this as a slight after all, leaving Penelope writhing in pain on the ground after a disastrous duel.

But thankfully, there's Wendy, someone who is - by Penelope's own admission - clearly better at learning from past mistakes. "She's taking Becky's death a little hard," she whispers to Aphelia, stepping in between them to forestall any further confrontation. Her voice even sounds appropriately contrite, at least just a little. "We're all a little on edge. I hope you won't hold this against her."

For a long moment, it remains in question whether or not Aphelia accepts Wendy's justification, so fixated is her glare on Penelope. But after that long moment passes. Aphelia closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, sighs. "I'll overlook it," she finally allows, and - with a polite nod to Wendy but conspicuously not to Penelope - Aphelia turns and starts walking away. Perhaps back to a table, perhaps out of the Great Hall altogether.

And that would've been the end of that, with Aphelia walking away from Penelope and Wendy to fae know where, except there suddenly comes a voice that calls out from the table: "Hey, Treiser."

Aphelia stops in her tracks and half-turns, looking just a bit over her shoulder to Penelope, who remains where she is at the table, locking glares with the elven highvorn. Is the human still looking for a fight regardless?

But instead, it takes Penelope another moment before she asks, "Are you any good with letters?"

After a moment of mild surprise, Aphelia looks from Penelope's surprisingly neutral expression to the quill she has to a sheet of paper, from that to a pile of crumpled paper to the side of the table, from that to Wendy's suddenly surprisingly innocent expression, and then from that back to Penelope's now-annoyed face. With a small but not unfriendly sigh, Aphelia flexes the wrist of her writing hand as she returns to the table. "Let's find out. What are you trying to write?"

Penelope - missing Wendy's warning looks entirely - immediately replies, "That Becky was a tough bitch who pissed off giving the Tenny whores a real good ass-fucking."

To her credit, Aphelia manages not to make a face as she sits down at the table. "...Alright, perhaps we can start with that and then change a few words..."


I am not a medical doctor. Please forgive me if I suck at writing about even fantasy magecraft versions of the field.

I'll probably start counting votes for the next update soon.