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

A fairly short interlude this time. Just a bunch of snapshots. I dearly hope everyone likes it.


Interlude 3
Some Other Summer Vacations

Solle Hill
Arkenvale, Apaloft

There is, in Wendy's approximation, no need to ask about the fresh bruise on Penelope's face. In this regard, Wendy is fortunate; her parents are harsh but supportive, and her little corner of Arkenvale is fairly supportive of the community. But one does not come from the rougher parts of any city without being surrounded by miserable families, dysfunctional parents, and broken children.

"It doesn't really feel different coming home, you know?" Penelope murmurs, lying down on the hill of grass, her eyelids protecting her eyes from the morning sun. "Just...same shit, different day."

"Well," Wendy offers with a shrug, sitting up where her squadmate is lying down, "my friends have been giving me a bit of shit."

"What for?"

Wendy's voice takes on a sarcastic, dramatic lilt as she mimics her "friends". "'Ooh, Wendy can read letters now, the fancy-pants little cunt.' And whatnot."

Penelope snorts. "Did you punch them?"

Wendy smirks and - in her most smarty-pants voice - remarks, "I find the threat of violence to be more useful than its application."

Penelope rolls her eyes but otherwise says nothing. An adult couple pass by, their clothing suggesting that they hailed from a merchant family or perhaps minor aristocracy; as they do so, they cast looks of mild surprise at the two girls lounging on the incline of green grass. They are not the first to do so; although Solle Hill is hardly the sole domain of the privileged, although no one has attempted to shoo them away from the spot, it is evident - even at a passing glance at its frequenters and trappings - that this is not a popular haunt wherein people of lower socioeconomic means would usually find themselves spending their spare time. Seeing Penelope glare smugly back at the two passerbys, Wendy can't help but think that it was for this reason that her squadmate chose this place to meet up this morning.

Unprompted, Penelope suddenly asks, "You think Trudy's faring any better?"

Wendy gives Penelope a glance for a moment - the latter is being unusually subdued todayd - before responding, "Oh, you know. She'll go back to her village and be the wonder of her neighbors for months. Then she'll return to Faulkren, too early to help her family with the harvest. You know how it is."

"Mm," Penelope intones. Her heart doesn't seem into it, nor does it seem like she's actually giving Wendy her undivided attention.

To her credit, Wendy actually gives Penelope a moment before asking, "Are you okay?"

Penelope opens her eyes and blinks at Wendy in mild but fraught confusion. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Wendy gives Penelope another moment before shrugging. "It's nothing, then."

Grunting, Penelope closes her eyes again, as if satisfied that Wendy got the message. But a long, silent minute passes, awkwardly providing a void in their conversation. Eventually, Penelope sighs, and Wendy is caught a little off-guard by how surprisingly brittle it sounds. "I mean," Penelope exhaoles, "things haven't changed. It took my mother three days to get drunk and be a bitch. Nothing's really changed in the year that I've left."

"Mm," Wendy grunts, her tone sounding indifferent, but she places a sympathetic hand on Penelope's shoulder. Girls like them don't go for hugs; it's unseemly, even if she feels painful tugs on her heartstrings at what her friends gets to look forward to when she goes home. Wendy has only heard this story a million times, but it's always hard to get used to it. Wendy wonders if one day she'll grow old, and hearing about girls being beaten by their parents will be a part of life she'll become completely indifferent to.

"I guess it was the same as well," snorts Penelope, "but my mom never whupped me unless there was reason, I guess."

"There's always a reason," Wendy murmurs. "I guess I'm just kind of surprised you let her."

"It's stupid," Penelope mutters after several contemplative seconds have passed, closing her eyes. Then she repeats, "It's stupid. She yells at me and raises a fist, and everything over the last year goes out the window, and I'm a snot-nosed little bitch again. For days and days." She gives another shaky exhale. "It could've been worse, I guess. Mom was..." she pauses for a long moment, licking her lips, before continuing, "...she really fell apart when dad left. Compared to now..." she gives a small little laugh and her voice is tiny as she concludes, "...well."

Not for the first time, Wendy wonders about Penelope's attitudes towards the enfranchisement of the commons. About just how much these people - these people who get can't read and can't count and get drunk and beat their children and leave broken families behind - should have any hold on the reins of power. That they shouldn't make any decisions of import until they've managed some level of self-improvement that doesn't just involve laughing at literate girls and beating children.

What she says instead is: "You shouldn't let her keep doing that to you."

Penelope opens her eyes again and sits up, pushing herself up with her arms against the grass, and as she does so - as Wendy suddenly notices the fresh, bloodied calluses on her squadmate's knuckles - Penelope gives a bittersweet smile, full of triumph and smugness and guilt and resignation, replying, "I didn't."


Ravenhill Manor
Arcaster, Lindholm

"No," snaps Viscountess-Consort Ravenhill in the study of her family's manor. "I don't understand why you want to stay."

For her part, Sieglinde Corrina Ravenhill sounds entirely calm as she reasons, "Faulkren is an entirely functional academy with excellent instructors and an equally excellent pool of apprentices. I see no point in changing my circumstances now."

Sighing in exasperation, Sieglinde's mother turns beseechingly to her husband, murmuring, "Dear, please talk some sense into her."

Seated behind her desk, the night sky outside the window framing her lean, gaunt figure, Viscountess Ravenhill sighs and mutters, "Your mother feels that Llyneyth would have much more to offer you. If nothing else, the most renowned of Caldran mercenaries teach there."

"None of whom actually trained at Llyneyth," Sieglinde points out, looking at both her parents intermittently. "Does it surprise you that the same instructors who gained so much hard-earned experience on the battlefield also happen to not be the mercenaries who trained at Llyneyth and were thus held back from any battlefield of consequence because they were more politically important?"

Burying her face into her hands, the viscountess-consort wails, "Why do you hate this country so much?"

"I don't hate this country," Sieglinde murmurs, trying to sound placating despite knowing that this is hardly the first time her mother has tried to guilt-trip her. "I'm trying to make it better. I'm trying to make it more than just a country known for its bull-headed neutrality and its Caldran mercenaries. Is that too much to ask?"

"If you want change in the confederacy," Viscountess Ravenhill offers in a measured tone, "all the more reason to be in Llyneyth. You need allies in the future, at Council during the political season. You can't do this by yourself."

"Except I'd learn nothing from sheltered, pampered squadmates and other apprentices." Sieglinde fixes a steady look at her father, and although Viscountess Ravenhill always knew her daughter is special - that she's wise beyond her years and intelligent beyond measure and more mature than her peers - she can't help but feel like Sieglinde has suddenly become an adult. "I like my squad." The daughter pauses. "Well, except Zabanya, but she's an acceptable fixture at this point."

"There's a reason why Elizabeth Irivich Zabanya couldn't get accepted at Llyneyth," says Viscountess-Consort Ravenhill coldly.

Sieglinde casts a critical look at her mother. "Is that what you really think happened?"

"That's enough," snaps the aristocratic, gaunt viscountess. And just like that, the bickering comes to a close. Tiredly, she turns to her daughter and, in a tired voice, asks, "I assume there's little we can do to dissuade you."

Sieglinde is gracious enough to grant this a moment of serious thought before answering, "I'd like to think I'm being entirely reasonable in my decision."

Viscountess Ravenhill locks look with her daughter for a long moment, ignoring the pleading looks from her wife. Finally, after a long moment, she sighs in resigned acceptance. "Very well. It's late. You should get some rest."

"Dear!" the mother gasps, but she remains ignored.

"Thank you," Sieglinde bows, as is expected of someone of her station to her parents. "Father. Mother."

Viscountess-Consort Ravenhill, fuming as she is, at least has the grace to wait until her daughter has walked out of the study and closed the door behind her before turning on her husband. "Are you just giving up?" she demands.

"She's not just a child anymore," Viscountess Ravenhill groans, burying her own face in her hands in exhaustion. "We need to respect her decision."

"We need," insists the wife, "as responsible parents, to correct her decisions when she's obviously making the wrong one!"

But the viscountess fixes a tired look at her wife. "Do you remember the last time Sieglinde said she liked anyone?" She waits for a moment for an answer, watching her suddenly silent wife, before providing her own: "I don't. I don't remember my daughter doing anything else but sit in a room, isolated from her peers, silently reading a book, just like that Zabanya girl."

A long moment passes before the viscountess-consort whispers, "She's going to sit in your seat one day. She'll be viscountess, she needs allies."

"Yes," Viscountess Ravenhill acknowledges. "But I don't think she'll find them in the girls at Llyneyth."

Grimacing, her wife promises. "She'll regret it."

"Maybe. I can't say. But she won't be happy at Llyneyth. As her father, I just want her to have a modicum of happiness, fleeting though it may be, with girls she actually considers her friends." She looks imploringly at her wife with a soft, resigned smile. "Is that too much to ask?"


Rural Outskirts
Arkenvale, Apaloft

"Ashlyn!" declares Lucille Lorraine Celestia happily as she finds the peasant girl seated at her usual solitary rock overlooking her family's flock of sheep. "We're here to play!"

Although she rolls her eyes, the smile Ashlyn offers upon seeing Lucille and Melanie is at least a little sentimental. "Don't you have more important things to do, you Celestia?" she demands with mock gravity. "Like staying in your manor and actually decide on policy for Apaloft?"

"Are you kidding?" snorts the Celestia in question. "My family never lets me near the important stuff."

Politely, Melanie Aster - having arrived with her lady - offers a nervous smile and a slight bow of her head to Ashlyn as she says, "G-Good day."

Snorting, Ashlyn mutters, "I'm sure that's why they sic you on her."

Blushing, Melanie demands, "Wh-What do you mean?"

Ignoring the aseri, the human turns to the elf and drones, "Please don't ride on the sheep again. It has never ended well for you."

Lucille sticks her tongue out. "I make no promises."

Lazily, after some time horsing around - which may or may not have involved sheep - the three eventually find themselves lying in a circle on the grass, watching the idyllic Apaloftian clouds float across the sky on a typical sunny day. It is just as if they were back in more innocent times, when they were children once again, up to their usual mischief that they can no longer condone given their respective stations in life.

"What has it been," asks Lucille fondly in reminiscence, "nine years?"

Ashlyn makes a rude sounds. "Since you got my ass whooped?"

"Look," grouses Lucille, not for the first time, "there is no way your parents spanked you harder than the dirt was doing to your feet. I was thinking more about your feet than your butt, alright?"

"I'm sure, I'm sure," Ashlyn snorts, but it at least sounds a little affectionate, if not grateful.

"I-It's been a long time," offers Melanie, trying to inject more uncomplicated positivity into an otherwise amicable conversation using harsh wording.

Smirking, the human looks over at her aseri counterpart and notes, "I used to hate you."

Not so surprisingly, Melanie smiles wistfully as she replies, "I know."

Grinning, Lucille remarks, "A peasant, a merchant, and a highborn walk into a bar..."

"Oh, shut up," Ashlyn snorts.

"Ashlyn!" Melanie protests, sounding mildly scandalized.

"Look," the peasant girl rolls her eyes, "it's going to end with 'what's this, some kind of joke'."

Melanie pouts a little as she mutters, "Mean."

"By the Spring," exhales Lucille, closing her eyes in bittersweet bliss, "I wish everyday could be like this. I don't want to go back."

"Go back wh-where?"

"Yes," Lucille remarks, her smirk all too clear in her tone.

"One of these days, you'll have to stop whining," Ashlyn drawls. "You'll have to go back to Faulkren. And your family. You know it."

Lucille sounds a little glum as she replies, "I know."

"Then stop complaining about things that can't be changed."

"Lady Celestia can c-complain sometimes," Melanie murmurs.

"And you're too soft on 'Lady Celestia'," scowls Ashlyn.

"She's right," Lucille sighs before Melanie has a chance to offer an impassioned objection. "You should be a bit strict with me, at least. Like all of my tutors up until the point they gave up."

Melanie is quiet for a while. She's hardly a stranger to Lucille's self-deprecation, but it never gets any easier. "I think you're f-fine the way you are, milady," she finally says.

With a bittersweet laugh, Lucille remarks, "You'd be alone in that."

"I certainly don't," Ashlyn offers, but there's something about her tone and voice that makes her statement less critical than it is an affectionate comment for someone who has been her friend for so many years, socioeconomic class be damned. Whatever else, she will always remember how this highborn girl - one whom Ashlyn distrusted so much at first - ignored the fact that she's a peasant girl and offered her boots.

Yes, that led directly to Ashlyn having her ass "whupped", but that is neither here nor there. Lucille comes with crippling flaws, but Ashlyn knows she'll be forever grateful, regardless of the hijinks the Celestia gets up to.

She is, in fact, getting up to her hijinks now as she sits up and grins at the flock of sheep grazing peacefully on the Apaloftian plains. "Come on," she declares, "let's ride some sheep again so I can get scolded for getting mud on my dress."


Marienberg Manor
Frevalle, Apaloft

It's a relatively cool reception that Wilhelmina Adelaide Marienberg receives in the afternoon upon returning to her ancestral home, in the scheme of things, though not for any lack of love the household bears for her.

"Good day, milady," comes the pleasant voice of Marigold, head of staff since Wilhelmina was too young to remember. The aging servant gives a dutiful curtsy, the line of maids and other servants standing outside the manor following suit. It's a sturdy, two-story structure with ivy growing along the walls, sitting sedately in the center of the bustling town of Frevalle. Noise from the street behind Wilhelmina can still plainly be heard.

"Hello, Marigold," Wilhelmina says, nodding politely in return as she disembarks from her wagon.

"I trust your trip was uneventful?"

"For the most part. We had to take a detour to avoid trouble with a chimera." Wilhelmina turns to fix a mildly displeased look on the wagon driver with whom she'd made the trip. "We decided to simply leave the matter to the guard."

The driver gives her a grin that is only mildly repentant. The detour wasn't Wilhelmina's idea; with the amount of time it had taken, she might as well have simply helped the guard kill the beast.

"A wise decision, milady," Marigold says, a knowing glint in her eye as she eyes the elven heiress. "Won't you come aside? We can have a meal and a hot bath prepared for you shortly."

There is no family to greet her, of course. Her mother is long dead, the late viscountess-consort reduced to a face in the portrait over the hearth, a ghostly presence imbued in the now-dated Elsparian sensibilities of the manor's decor. Her mother was visiting with family, attending the birth of her youngest sister's first child in Elspar when the Huntress' War broke out. The last letter the family ever received from her was a happy one. Wilhelmina's cousin had been born without complications, both mother and child healthy.

Wilhelmina's father still keeps that letter in her desk, the paper aged and crumpled from too many readings. Viscountess Marienberg herself is in Elspar herself now, with the army. Wilhelmina will see her at Stengard for the political season, she knows, along with many other friends and acquaintances, but for now, it's going to be a lazy two months in the sturdy slate manor with only the servants for company.

There are worse fates.

"My year was quiet, milady," Lilith chirps, giving Wilhelmina one of her usual shy smiles, before returning to dusting. It's late now. The maid had been prepared to wait for her lady to finish with the sitting room before conducting the chore, but Wilhelmina, who had simply been sitting with a cup of tea, preferred that she stay. "There was that bad accident at the mill, four months back. I think I wrote to you about it?"

"You did," Wilhelmina agrees, taking a sip from her cup, watching Lilith work from the far side of the room. "I assume that you offered the healers your aid?"

The maid pauses at this, body stretched out partway through a dusting motion, aseri ears drooping a little with embarrassment. "Well, um...yes," she says, fidgeting a little with the duster. "I mean...I'm not a real healer, or...or..."

"Or a real mage, yes, you tell me that often, after you've done something amazing." Wilhelmina's tone is dry, and could be taken for harsh, Lilith knows her well enough to recognize the teasing for what it is.

"All the workers are fine now," Lilith confirms, heat rising in her cheeks as she goes back to her task at hand. "Hm...other news? Um..." she falls silent and simply works for a moment. Her dark, white-tipped tail swishes back and forth the way it always does when she's lost in thought. "Well!" Lilith says, rallying, "Tess left right after you left for Faulkren. Nothing bad! She married a farmer out in the countryside. The girl we replaced her with, though, that took a bit of adjustment. She's nice enough to talk to, but it's not exactly..."

Wilhelmina isn't tuning her out to be mean or negligent, but she realizes that she isn't really listening to the content of Lilith's half-nervous, cheerful chatter, peppered as it is with the familiar names of the household staff. Instead, Wilhelmina is just enjoying the sound of her voice after so long away, the energetic swishing of her tail as she putters around the room, the way she gets up on a stool and stands on tiptoes in order to reach the top shelf, without even pausing for breath in her talk. It's alright, she decides; Lilith is most likely talking to fill the silence, to hide her anxiety over the bloody attack Wilhelmina survived not very long ago. In a sense, coming home to the same manor, the same lack-of-family and the same Lilith is a relief so soon after that.

On the other hand, an unwelcome thought stirs in the back of her head. A memory of another maid - a human, not an aseri - bleeding on the floor while two young healers gave everything they had to try and save her, even though it was plainly far too late. Azalea thinks she's heartless, Wilhelmina knows. For being able to coldly let go of that dying girl. For urging Azalea and Vesna to do the same. But, for all her calm at the time, Wilhelmina finds herself not unaffected by that experience now, watching her own maid happy and alive and without a sucking stab-wound in her chest.

Lilith is very pretty. Wilhelmina had noticed this right away, of course, a thirteen-year-old girl given a maid two years her senior. It isn't as though Wilhelmina has never thought about her. For most of that time, though, it was only idle thoughts, nothing serious or with intention behind it. And as she's gotten older, as the way she'd noticed the servant girl had changed, there had been a lingering sense that the aseri - who had been fussy as an elder sister in the early years - was somehow out of bounds. Her father certainly would not have approved. But her father is very far away now, it seems. And that age difference, once a vast and unimpeachable gulf, doesn't feel like so much anymore.

Setting her tea down on the end-table, Wilhelmina finds herself standing up from her comfortable chair by the unlit hearth, not sure at first what she intends to do. "...Milady?" Lilith asks, ears perked quizzically. "Is there something you nee...?"

Her voice cuts off into an adorable squeak as Wilhelmina closes the distance between them and finally claims Lilith's mouth with hers. After a moment of tension, she feels the shorter aseri melting into her, the feather-duster falling to the floor with a clatter as small hands grip the front of Wilhelmina's jacket.

"Yes," Wilhelmina says, finally breaking off, lips curving up into an almost self-satisfied smirk in spite of her shortness of breath, "there was."

For a little while at least, in the privacy of the little study filled with reminders of her late mother, the aseri doesn't fret, or pull away. Or protest that what they've just done isn't proper, could hurt Wilhelmina's reputation, could lead to Lilith being fired if Viscountess Marienberg ever found out. Instead, face flushed crimson, Lilith stares up at Wilhelmina with wide, green eyes, gasping quietly from surprise and exertion. Then she closes them, burying her head against Wilhelmina's shoulder, all the tension leaving her narrow shoulders, accompanied by a single, tiny mewl. One of her ears, black as her tail and silky soft, tickles gently against Wilhelmina's jaw.

This was not, Wilhelmina decides there and then, a mistake.


The section with Ashlyn, Lucille, and Melanie is in reference to an omake I've half-written, which I don't want to reveal until at least year two or three. Please look forward to it~

Evening descends upon Faulkren as the convoy of carriages - most of its passengers the aristocratic Caldran mercenary apprentices of its local academy but also including the odd addition of you - pull through familiar whitestone gates. Maids and servants rush out to brave the rain and unload your belongings from the wagons, and you find yourself running towards the West Wing with them. It isn't long afterwards that you finally return to your old dormitory, drying yourself off with Sieglinde and Elizabeth next door.

Your time spent in Marloch and Stengard was exciting and illuminating, and you were pampered well beyond your own socioeconomic means, but there's something comforting and relaxing about returning to Faulkren, your home away from home. There's just something nice about collapsing into a familiar bed that you've slept in for close to a year, a sign that everything - despite your misgivings - is going to be alright again.

You are among the first to return to Faulkren. Now that you are in your second year, you are allowed to keep your weapons - an iron buster sword that you took back with you on summer vacation - in your rooms as opposed to training weapons. While Stephanie left behind a significant amount of her belongings in this dorm room, you don't see her bags, or her katana and wakizashi, so you assume she hasn't returned yet. She remains absent even when Sieglinde knocks on your door to remind you that it's time for dinner. It doesn't take too long for you to find yourself in the Great Hall, sharing a table with Sieglinde and Elizabeth as you enjoy your dinner.

"Did you enjoy explaining things to Neianne?" Elizabeth asks as she chews down on a slice of beef.

Sieglinde seems to consider this for a moment, cutting a slice of her scrambled eggs, before allowing, "She's a receptive audience."

Elizabeth rolls her eyes. "Because no one else can handle your droning?"

"I-I don't think Sieglinde is droning!" you say quickly, hoping that Sieglinde won't take offense.

The tallest amongst you gives you a polite nod. "It's very kind of you to say." And then, to Elizabeth, "And it's good that Neianne is thoughtful."

"Thoughtfulness can only get you so far," the tiny elven mage huffs. "But I suppose there are worse captive audiences." But before you can feel relieved that the two seem to have stopped bickering, she turns to you with an ever-so-innocent smile and asks, "Neianne, which of us do you like explaining things to you more?"

For a moment, you mewl incoherently as you panickedly look from one elven squadmate to another, your jaw working up and down but managing to produce no words as you try not to show any sign of favoritism. But mercifully, much to your elation and relief, any diplomatic answer you may have had to provide end up being entirely unnecessary as you spot a familiar face walking through the doors of the Great Hall. "Stephanie's back!" you exclaim, rising from your seat to rush over and greet your roommate. "Stephanie!" you exclaim, wanting to be the first to welcome her back to Faulkren. But as you close the distance with her, your excitement turns to alarm as you stammer, "A-Are you alright!?"

Your roommate has always kept herself reasonably well-groomed, washing thoroughly and keeping her dark hair remarkably straight and long. Stephanie's current state, however, goes well beyond having been battered in the rain with little more than a dirty cloak to shield her; you can't help but think of her as a mattress that has been left outside to suffer the elements through all of summer vacation. As her hood is thrown back, you see that her hair is greasy and matted against her face. There are splotches of dust and dirt on her face and hands that look like they have sunk into her very skin over the last three months. It's almost as if she has washed little through the course of summer vacation, and only with lake water even if she did. As if she spent almost every night outdoors, seeking shelter under trees or in caves.

Stephanie, however, merely blinks in mild surprise at your startled reaction. "I'm fine," she says, sounding a little uncertain at your concerned look. "Is...something wrong?"

Well, at the very least, Stephanie isn't in discomfort or pain. "I g-guess not?" you fidget, suddenly feeling very awkward about calling so much attention to your roommate. "You just look like you've...b-been on the battlefield for months."

"Nothing so dramatic," Stephanie assures you. "I...took a bit of a detour on my way back, let's say."

"Oh."

There is a moment of awkward silence - neither you nor Stephanie are the most social of people - before the aseri manages an awkward smile. "It's good to see you again."

You smile right back, preparing to hug her. "Welcome back."

But Stephanie holds up a hand that stops you right in your tracks. "Don't hug me," she warns. And before you can feel awful about having a heartfelt hug denied, she clarifies, "I'm wet and I smell. I'm only here to grab a few bites before drowning myself in the baths because I'm starving."

"Y-You don't smell!"

Stephanie gives a small wry smile in the manner of someone knowing that her roommate is blatantly trying to sound polite. "Yes, I do. Trust me, my nose is much better than yours."

It's hard to argue against that, and Stephanie doesn't give you the chance as she's already walking to your table, and you follow along, sulking slightly. As soon as your roommate is within earshot, Elizabeth looks over and announces in that amused tone of hers, "Dark, fluffy, and mysterious returns!" Then she looks Stephanie up and down for a moment before adding, "Although not quite so fluffy as usual."

"Welcome back," Sieglinde gives a polite nod to Stephanie, ignoring Elizabeth. "You look a little haggard."

"A little," Stephanie concurs; she doesn't sit down at the table, but reaches over to grab several cuts of beef, devouring them with alarming alacrity. "I'm just here to grab a few bites. I'm famished."

Just how hungry Stephanie is right now is a little concerning to you, even as - in an attempt to sound polite - you ask, "Where did you spend s-summer vacation?"

"Neianne," Elizabeth drawls with a smirk, like an older sister chiding a younger one for asking a question so foolish. "Do you think she'll tell poor little plebs like us?"

But impassively, Stephanie does answer your question: "I did intensive training. In the forests. And up in the mountains."

Elizabeth looks at Stephanie with a raised eyebrow in mild surprise. "That's the most upfront lie you've ever told. I'm impressed," she remarks.

"It's not actually a lie," Stephanie insists between bites. You almost want to worryingly remind her to chew thoroughly before swallowing. "I actually did do that. Every day of summer vacation. Train, I mean. Not...all of those places at once."

"Wow," you blink, sounding impressed. You certainly are impressed; the most you did was train a bit in the woods behind Caelon, and that was before Vesna showed up and before you were whisked away by Elizabeth to Marloch. "That's...you w-work hard."

Stephanie gives you a polite, thankful nod. "How about you? How did you spend your summer vacation?"

Smirking, Elizabeth leans over to Sieglinde - who doesn't provide any reaction beyond continuing to eat her meal - and says with mock sadness, "Note how Stephanie asks only Neianne and not either of us."

"I know how you spent your summer vacation," Stephanie points out. "You were in Stengard for the political season."

Her smirk turns from merely wry to triumphant as Elizabeth quips, "Did you know Neianne was with us?"

This actually makes Stephanie blink as she looks from you to Elizabeth to back to you again, making you suddenly feel very self-conscious as Stephanie exclaims, "Wait, what?"

But Elizabeth doesn't give Stephanie the satisfaction of letting you answer her as she suddenly gives your roommate a smug, knowing look and comments, "Did you even actually go home?"

This creates an awkward, silent moment as Stephanie simply looks impassively at Elizabeth without answering for several seconds, and you are suddenly plagued with the cold realization that Stephanie probably didn't go home. All those short, veiled conversations you had with your roommate about her complicated family situation - which revealed little beyond "it's complicated" - suddenly comes bubbling up to the surface, and you don't know how to fill the silence.

Thankfully, Sieglinde does, albeit only after several seconds have passed. "Go on and wash up," she offers in a soft tone. "We'll make sure to keep some food for you."

Stephanie nods gratefully in Sieglinde's direction. "Thanks," she says before leaving. "I'll be back soon."

Sieglinde watches Stephanie leave earshot - aseri earshot - before sighing and casting a glance at Elizabeth. "Did you really have to?"

But Elizabeth only rolls her eyes: "If Dark and Not-So-Fluffy wants to be Mysterious, then she should know mysteries are meant to be unraveled." She shrugs as she helps herself to a cupcake. "Her thing is getting boring anyways."

"Or you can give her some space."

"I could," acknowledges Elizabeth with an insolent smirk. "But where's the fun in that?"

---

A few days pass as the remaining Caldran mercenary apprentices finally manage to arrive at Faulkren Academy. The occupancy swiftly turns from a handful of people to more than a hundred apprentices and their instructors, happily chatting about what they've done over vacation. Before you know it, you're in the Great Hall, feasting on the typically excellent food at Faulkren, enjoying the evening feast before the academic year officially starts.

The gaiety and excitement that you have become accustomed to at Faulkren has largely returned, even as rainfall steadily thrums against windows separating the Great Hall from the stormy night outside. Although you know this chamber is missing a number of people compared to when you first arrived, it doesn't feel that way; friends and squadmates reunite joyously, chattering excitedly over their vacations and what they're going to look forward to in the coming academic year. Familiar faces - those you did not already run into in Stengard or on the trip back - make rounds across the Great Hall to greet you and other apprentices. Food is served in generous quantities, and warm lights flicker from chandeliers and torches. It's an impossible ask, but you wish moments like these could last forever.

But just as it was in your first year, your meal is interrupted halfway as Headmistress Cornelia Rastangard stands from her table, and the Great Hall slowly falls silent, heads swiveling in anticipation of whatever announcement she intends to make this year.

"As some of you already likely know," the headmistress announces after nothing but rain against glass and rafters can be heard, "the Inter-Academy Tournament will be held in Llyneyth in two months' time." Muted but excited murmurs break out across the Great Hall, and Rastangard waits for the moment to pass before continuing. "The tournament will pit some of the best squads of Caldrein's mercenary academies against each other in controlled duels, before an audience of apprentices from all five regions and possibly even Countess Athalast herself, providing a more...competitive outlet for the hard-won skills you have accumulated thus far."

You have heard of the Inter-Academy Tournament before, of course, only sparingly and in passing before becoming a Caldran mercenary apprentice ever even became a remotely serious thought in your childhood, and then less sparingly or passingly when you found yourself at Faulkren. Held every three years amongst the Caldran mercenary academies, the tradition has lasted for somewhere around three centuries. Only several squads are chosen to represent each academy, a mark of prestige for any apprentice that steps into the ring; with Faulkren being one of the larger academies in terms of number of apprentices, the competition for this honor here will only be more fierce.

"It is, of course," continues Rastangard, "important to stress what the Inter-Academy Tournament is and isn't. Because this means our delegation of apprentices will be leaving for Lindholm in merely a month and a half. If you're wondering why such tournaments are held so early in just the second year of your time here - as opposed to near the end of your third year - it is because it's an early self-assessment and validation of your own capabilities. You have spent a year here already, meaning to some degree, you know what you're doing. But from the second year moving forwards, your education and training will be self-guided. You will choose - with the consultation of your instructors and your squadmates - who you will be on the battlefield when you leave these halls in two years. As such, the tournament is a means through which you engage with other Caldran mercenary apprentices, learn from them, and learn more about yourself, so you can self-assess and grow over the coming two years. This tournament is a question for you: Are you ready?" The headmistress leaves that question hanging in the air for a moment, letting each apprentice grapple with their own answers. "No doubt you and other apprentices will feel competitive, but the tournament is not a juvenile schoolyard fight to see which academy is the best." She shrugs and - without a hint of a smile on her lips - concludes, "We already know it's us."

Soft laughter ripples awkwardly through the Great Hall. The joke, though appreciated for what it is, seems like forced self-aggrandizement; it's hardly a secret that - in spite tradition dictating that all academies are equal - Llyneyth has the most funding, the most prestige, the best instructors, the best facilities, and the first pick of the most talented members of the aristocracy in the confederacy. Which only makes Sieglinde and Elizabeth's presence here at Faulkren all the more curious, but you've never really had a chance to talk to them about it; it's an awkward, intrusive, and potentially embarrassing question as is.

"Those selected to represent Faulkren will be drawn from squads that choose to volunteer for the tournament, a decision that will be at the discretion of each squad leader." Rastangard pauses, knowing that the apprentices are steeling themselves for a moment they knew was going to come. "Of course, this means we will have to appoint them." Knowing looks are cast here and there amongst the apprentices; there has been no shortage of excited betting - and, in some cases - foregone conclusions - with regards to who will get selected as squad leader. "These are decisions we have been making all year long, made in consideration of every assessment made by every instructor to train and tutor you, as well as the composition of your squad. Moving forward, squad leaders will make final decisions regarding group training and projects, lead in exercises and competitions, and so on and so forth. These decisions have been made both in terms of the suitability of the apprentice relative to her squad and the challenge therein, and are final and not subject to further debate."

With this, Rastangard gives a nod to one of her instructors, who rises with a list in her hand even as the headmistress seats herself. The apprentices - having been whispering excitedly to each other before - fall silent in anticipation, although not before Sieglinde - barely audible to the rest of your squad - murmurs, "Let's see how many are elven highborns, shall we?"

Elizabeth rolls her eyes.

In a clear voice that rings through the hall, the instructor announces: "Squad One, Lucille Lorraine Celestia."

The instructors are the first to clap immediately, but there is a painfully awkward moment before a polite applauses rises out of the crowd of apprentices. It's almost excruciating on your part to crick your neck so as to see your friend in question, who is clearly putting a great deal of effort not to look glum and miserable, and isn't really doing a good job at it. That two of her squadmates died and the remaining member dropped out is bad enough; what is worse and largely incomprehensible to you is the fact that the three were recently replaced with a squad that lost one of their number.

Seated at the same table are her new squadmates. Penelope, Wendy, and Trudy - formerly of Squad Twelve - don't look particularly thrilled with any of these decisions either. Wendy, at the very least, is clapping lightly and holding a determinedly neutral expression. The same can't be said for Penelope and Trudy, both of whom only barely restrain themselves from glaring at Lucille through the clapping.

From neighboring tables, Melanie fidgets with intense worry, and Ashlyn sighs and shakes her head.

The standing instructor begins to announce the squad leaders for Squads Two and Three, but you're already wondering who will be selected to lead Squad Four. The most obvious candidate, you suspect, is Sieglinde; of the two prodigies in your squad, she is probably the most agreeable. It's not that you doubt Elizabeth's capabilities, but you're not certain that your instructors are particularly charmed with her attitude. But Sieglinde seems intensely opposed to taking a leadership role - the Squirrel attack on Faulkren so many months ago is a testament to that - and now that you think of it, you don't really think Elizabeth is super eager to lead either. Nor Stephanie, as a matter of fact, with her low-key attitude and her secrets.

But the third round of applause dies down and you hold your breath in anticipation, watching intently as your instructor announces: "Squad Four..."

[x] ...Elizabeth Irivich Zabanya.
[x] ...Neianne.
[x] ...Sieglinde Corrina Ravenhill.
[x] ...Stephanie.

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At long last, the first update in more than half a year (and 62k words) where you actually get to vote. =P

...I miss the days when I could churn out 50k words a month. T_T

Picking Neianne as the leader of Squad Four carries a lot of implications down the line, implications that I don't want to spell out for you, but have their ups and downs. So it's not necessarily something that you should see as "gaming the numbers", because there are no numbers. Besides, it's not as if Squad Four has an obvious leadership candidate; Sieglinde clearly doesn't want to lead even during a life-or-death scenario, Stephanie is trying to eschew all attention, and Elizabeth is...well, Elizabeth.

Still, though, each member of Squad Four as the squad leader will bring different things to the table. So vote wisely, but don't get too worked up about it. They'll lead to different things regardless.

Arc Two will hopefully have faster pacing (and a smaller word count), now that introductions to the characters and the setting are largely over with. I still have a few surprises going for it, but hopefully this arc will involve less talking and more doing.