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

[Kei]

A massive thank you to everyone who has pledged to support me on Patreon thus far~ I really can't express my gratitude in words. X3

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[x] ...resigned and philosophical. This is ultimately what war is like; although you've never experienced it before, deep down inside, you probably always knew that this has always been a very real possibility. The Tenereians did what all soldiers do during wartime.
[x] ...angry and vengeful. Maybe you and your friends are actually military targets, but the Tenereians clearly did not care whether innocent people were caught up in all this. This attack on Faulkren drives your hatred against the enemy like you never thought possible.

You are peripherally aware of one of your instructors making the rounds around the Great Hall, stopping to talk to apprentices and your guests from town. She eventually reaches your squad, looking at the four of you huddled in your seats. "Hey," she says, not without a hint of gentleness in her tone, "if you're done eating and drinking here, go get washed and get some rest." Her grimace has a sympathetic edge to it. "You'll need it."

As reluctant as you are about getting up from where you are seated with your squad, you can definitely understand where your instructor is coming from. You've barely gotten any sleep since last night, and the fatigue from all the fighting has seeped into your bones. You and your clothes are still stained with blood, and you haven't cleaned off the sweat and grime from combat. Now that you really think about it, after you've had food and drink, there's little more that you'd like to do than to plop into your bed and hibernate over the next few months.

But a bath is definitely preferable first.

You and Stephanie rise from your seats, but it's apparent that Elizabeth has fallen asleep, her head resting in her arms on the table. You suppose that's not really surprising; the elven mage has always fostered an impression of being constantly sleepy when she isn't wreaking one form of havoc or another. Noting this, Sieglinde says softly, "I'll take her back to her room first. You two go on ahead."

You suppose it'd be relatively easy for the tall, strong Sieglinde to carry the tiny Elizabeth back to her room, at least. Either way, you and Stephanie blearily nod and wordlessly make your way out of the Great Hall and towards the bathhouse. You feel mostly dead, or perhaps just mostly undead; your brain works with all the efficiency of mush. You only barely register the people around you and the sounds of crying, and your path to the bathhouse feels more like habit subconsciously kicking in than any real effort on your part. In fact, the journey seems simultaneously too long and too short; it feels like it takes up too much time, but you're here before you even realize it.

Rounding the corner to the bathhouse, you spot an aseri instructor coming towards you from the other side. You and Stephanie tiredly offer your greetings while your instructor nods in response as you come upon each other almost directly in front of the doors to the bathhouse. "Some of the girls have probably died in the baths," she tells the two of you, languidly cocking a thumb over her shoulder back inside. Then, a moment later, she seems to swiftly regret her word choice - people have actually died last night - and hurriedly amends, "I mean, they've probably fallen asleep in there. Wake them up and tell them to go sleep in their rooms."

Indeed, by the time the two of you step out of your clothes and into the baths, you spot an entire squad dozing off in the water. Amazingly, none of them have slipped under yet, although you'd hope that they'd wake up if that happened. Thankfully, you and Stephanie rouse them from sleep, and pry them from their baths by informing them of the instructor's wishes. Similar to the two of you, they shamble lifelessly to the shelves, shamble lifelessly into their clothes, and shamble lifelessly out of the bathhouse. Preferably back to their rooms. You hope they make it, as opposed to collapsing in a hallway. Or the courtyard.

But easing into the baths feels like the most indulgent feeling in the world, as you dip your blood-stained skin and sore muscles into the water. You slide into the bath with a contented - or perhaps just exhausted - sigh, barely registering the fact that Stephanie is doing the same in an adjacent bath. Your relative weightlessness in the water is a blessing, considering that even with your dryad strength, you have been hauling a buster sword with you for hours since last night with little rest.

And, for a while, all seems right. The warmth of the water is just enough to allow you to relax, to almost float in the bath. Your mind in a tired haze, you barely wonder whether or not you will be plagued by a nightmare of last night. Instead, you don't really fall asleep so much as slip into a shallow level of semi-consciousness. And in the place of the nightmares you expected, you instead have a subconscious daydream - barely a dream - of being tackled by a pack of tiny, affectionate direwolf cubs with lots of play-biting and rapidly-wagging tails.

You are struggling to push a particularly adventurous cub away when, suddenly, it looks at you and asks in a soft voice, "Are you still awake?"

Then you realize, of course, that isn't the imaginary cub at all; Stephanie is speaking up from the adjacent bath in a tired voice, her words barely echoing in the enclosed chamber. "Y-Yes," you reply, although that's admittedly just reflexively; you aren't really even awake enough to feel particularly embarrassed about this. It takes you a few more moments to really register the fact that Stephanie is talking to you.

"Are you okay?"

You think for a moment, but the wheels in your head are still barely able to gain traction in the sludge that is your brain. "Are you?" you ask in turn.

Although you can't see her, judging by the pause that follows, you assume Stephanie is thinking this over. "I'm..." she finally allows after a moment, "...alright. I guess."

"I guess I-I am too," you answer softly. You're so tired, you're not even stuttering properly right now, and some of your words almost come out in a bit of a slur. "Th-Thanks for saving me from the direwolf."

"Thanks for having a giant club as a weapon."

"I-It's a buster sword," you insist, although it's difficult to be strident about it when you're melting in the bath.

"That swing was something to see," notes the aseri. Even in her exhaustion, there's a hint of good humor in her tone. "The one where you split a direwolf in half."

"I...d-didn't think too much about it. It just s-seemed right...I-I guess." Then, after a moment, you decide to divert the topic away from yourself, pointing out one of the elephants in the room: "You were really fast."

Stephanie seems to brush it off quickly. "Dryads have their strength, aseris have our speed."

"You're s-so much better than me."

Even in her fatigue, the aseri's words sound dry and deadpan. "I will remind you that you've had three direwolf kills to your name."

"One. Th-The first two didn't count."

"Yes, they did."

"They didn't."

"They did. And I shared my kill with Lady Ravenhill."

"Mm," you mumble. The warmth of the water makes you sleepy. "You d-did a lot more than that."

Stephanie sighs, "Just accept a compliment already. Don't make me go over there and wash you."

Despite the resurfacing memories of Stephanie helping you wash with your fractured arm after the Roldharen field exercise, you only feel mildly embarrassed through all the exhaustion. Not that it stops you from stuttering just a little harder. "Y-Y-You've already done that before," you insist.

"Mm," intones Stephanie, as if she too is too tired to think of anything witty to say in response.

You give things a moment before continuing on your previous tangent: "You were n-never that fast when we sparred."

Stephanie seems to hesitate for a moment before answering, "I...was a little bit more desperate last night than when we sparred."

"You were t-taking it easy on me."

Again, another moment of hesitation from the aseri. "We both knew I was more experienced," she eventually allows cautiously, "given my...family. I didn't want to rub it in your face."

"You're always so c-considerate."

"Am I?"

"Mm," you drowsily murmur in the affirmative.

For a few minutes, it seems like the two of you have exhausted your will to talk. Or, perhaps more accurately, you're too exhausted to continue talking. And so you continue to bask in the warm water, drifting off in a manner not unlike the apprentices that you yourself have shooed from the baths when you first came in. The imaginary direwolf puppies are coming back to lick your face, and all you can think of lazily is that the next apprentice who comes in better not try to rouse you and Stephanie from your current comfortable predicament.

But then Stephanie whispers, just loud enough for you to hear: "I didn't really think it'd be like this. I mean..." she draws a long breath, goes silent for a moment, then clarifies, "...I've always known about the atrocities that would happen in war. But this...this is something else."

"Wh-What do you mean?" you ask. You're trying to figure out whether you're simply asking her for clarification or if you're too sleepy to really parse what she's saying.

"I've always heard from others about the barbarity of war." You can tell from tone alone that there's a grimace on Stephanie's face. "And I guess I was prepared to see the fighting, the bloodshed, the...deaths." This time, the aseri sighs deeply. "I guess I just didn't expect...this." Then, with more agitation in her voice, "Who sends assassins all the way out here, far from the frontlines, to kill...us? People who live here? The people who cook our food and wash our clothes? We're not even in the war yet."

"B-But we're preparing for it," you point out, even though your heart isn't into it. It's like explaining something academically to an instructor. "Even c-conscripts in training are fair targets."

The sound of water rippling on the other side suggests that Stepahnie has turned her head slightly towards you. "Should they be?" There's a hint of frustration in her tone.

The conversation taking a turn for the serious forces some lucidity out of you, and you give her words a bit more thought before acknowledging, "I don't th-think it matters. I think we're a-acceptable targets. And even if the s-staff at the academy aren't, even if the t-townspeople aren't, this has not ch-changed how wars have been fought for as long as a-anyone can remember."

Stephanie seems to think about this for a moment. Then, perhaps a bit begrudgingly: "You've been reading too much."

"I-It's true, though," you murmur. On another day, you may have reacted to Stephanie's dig at you being influenced by Sieglinde, something she's been doing since you've picked up more books to read. Right now, though, you just feel drained, and not just in a physical sense. "Tenereia has done so b-before. So has Ornthalia." Thinking of all the war history assignments you've done, you add quietly, "Even our Caldran mercenaries have d-done so in the past, when hired."

"And you're just...alright with that?" she asks. "You're alright with this?"

"I-I don't think it has anything to do with wh-whether or not I'm alright with it. It just...is. There's n-nothing girls like us can do anything about."

There is a moment's pause before Stephanie gives a big sigh, her tone almost resigned. "I guess I just didn't think you were going to view this so...philosophically," she mutters. "That you're so calm about this." She pauses before quickly adding, "I mean, I guess I'm calm as well, but..."

Stephanie trails off, and perhaps the conversation would've ended there. But a longer moment passes before you speak, and the coldness of your voice and in your heart surprises even you, were you in any mood to actually think about it. "I-I'm not calm, Stephanie," you say flatly. "I'm f-f-furious."

Stephanie turns towards you, stunned. "Neianne...?" she whispers, confused. This is not a side of you she's seen before. This is not a side of you that you have seen before.

But you keep going anyways, the rage building in your chest. "Th-They killed D-Dorothy. They k-killed Lani. They killed Sophie and Lison a-and..." the words are getting all tied up on your tongue, and you have to take a moment to calm down and even try to master your stuttering, exacerbated by your fury. "Th-They used d-direwolves, and th-they knew i-innocent people would die, b-but they didn't c-care, b-because..." you trail off again, although this time because something's caught in your throat rather than on your tongue. If you were less tired, maybe you'd be shaking with anger. "I kn-know it's supposed to be normal, b-but...I-I didn't think it was p-possible to h-hate someone this much."

"Good," comes an angelic, singsong voice from the entrance to the bathhouse, and both you and Stephanie whirl around despite your fatigue to spot the source of this familiar voice. "Remember this feeling."

"Zabanya?" Stephanie blinks, surprised, sitting up where she is in the bath. Somehow, Elizabeth's presence alone makes the two of you much more awake and alarmed than you were just a moment before. She isn't alone either; Sieglinde is walking in next to her with a towel, looking mostly impassive but perhaps also just mildly exasperated. "I thought you were sleeping."

"I was sleeping, unlike the rest of you," says Elizabeth with a smile, which of course only serves to make you and Stephanie a bit more wary. "Now I've woken up."

"Immediately after I got you to bed, too," Sieglinde adds; her tone suggests that this is as close as she gets to a sigh most of the time.

"Before you managed to do anything funny to me," Elizabeth quips in response, even as she steps into a bath nearest to the entrance, just a bit away from you and Stephanie, basking in the water with a look of self-content.

If it was from anyone else but Sieglinde, you'd imagine a rolling of eyes. "I'm your roommate," she notes as she, too, steps into a bath in between all of you. She's less expressive, but at least the elven lancer seems a little bit more relaxed in here.

Turning the discussion back on topic, Stephanie presses her lips together before muttering, "I don't think it necessary to encourage Neianne to harbor a grudge." There is a sense of deep unhappiness in her statement, which makes you think this isn't just about Elizabeth's influence on you.

But the tiny elf raises an eyebrow at her and snorts, "Who said anything about a grudge?"

The aseri frowns. "You just told her to remember her anger."

"Yes, anger. That's different from grudges. Grudges are for children. Anger is a conviction. Or at least a fuel for it. It's an entirely reasonable reaction for someone who wants change, who doesn't want to be tread underfoot. It's something to remind her why she's even here."

Narrowing her eyes at Elizabeth, Sieglinde's voice is chillingly flat and level even for her. "I suspect this is one thing she won't need to learn from you."

The elven mage smiles, but there's something deeply unsettling about it, even moreso than her usual smiles. "And I suppose you are a shining example to learn from?"

"There are other, perhaps healthier emotional reactions."

"Maybe. But it's not hers." Elizabeth tilts her head lazily to the side by a few scant degrees. There is suddenly something altogether imperious about that gesture of hers, a cold vibe she doesn't often give off. "And who are you to tell Neianne she can't be angry and use that to tell herself that she needs to get better? Or do you just want her to be a soulless bitch like you?"

Both you and Stephanie tense as Sieglinde lazily turns towards Elizabeth. Surprisingly, her expression has gone entirely neutral, her voice completely level, but somehow this is more terrifying than when there was a chill in her voice just a moment before. "Are those fighting words?" she asks.

"I don't know," Elizabeth chimes. Even when she's being threatening, her smiles are sweet, but there's something false there this time. "Are they? Or did they just hit a little too close to home?"

There is a tension in between Sieglinde and Elizabeth that you've never witnessed before. The two have traded barbs often, but there was always a kind of levity to it, like two friends bickering, even if "friends" seems too generous a term to describe the two. You sense nothing of the sort right now, and feel like there is genuine animosity in the air. A fight between Sieglinde and Elizabeth right now in the baths would not only be terrifying, but it would be horribly inappropriate.

So courtesy of your dryad strength, bathwater from across the aisle manages to splash on the faces of both Sieglinde and Elizabeth. But mostly Elizabeth.

"No fighting," you insist. And there must've been a look of genuine upset on your face, because both elves look at least mildly surprised. "Not after last night."

For someone who got splashed in the face in the baths, Elizabeth doesn't seem particularly bothered as she smiles serenely - almost genuinely serenely - and shrugs. "I wasn't looking for one," she says. To the side, even Sieglinde seems to settle down, tense shoulders relaxing as the charged moment passes. Then, looking directly at you, Elizabeth adds, "Anyways, I'm not overly worried about you. You're not Aster, after all, for all you two sound alike." Her statement confuses you - what is this about Melanie? - but before you can ask any question in that regard, the elven mage has already turned to Stephanie, and her smile twists into something a little bit more wicked as she remarks, "Besides, we have our own aseri on the squad, and it turns out you're a lot more skilled than you let on, Fluffy and Mysterious."

Again, Stephanie seems surprised that she's suddenly the topic of conversation, but she's quick to reply, "Was I? I thought I was just desperate."

Elizabeth laughs. "Well, if you're lying, at least you have a good poker face." She smirks again. "Do try looking a bit more confused, though. That always helps."

Rolling her eyes and giving a small sigh, Stephanie mutters, "And I suppose you're not too bothered by Tenereians coming into our academy and trying to murder everyone in sight."

"It's not murder if it's a war," Elizabeth sings sweetly.

One of Stephanie's fuzzy black ears twitches once almost imperceptibly. "I thought so."

But Elizabeth's look becomes a bit less whimsical. "I'm quite serious. What did you expect them to do, hm? Wait until we grow up into real Caldran mercenaries so we can smash their faces in?" Her smile is a little wry, and a little...something else. Not angry or upset, certainly, but for the first time, it occurs to you that maybe being woken up in the middle of the night by girl-eating direwolves is not exactly a pleasant experience even for Elizabeth, no matter how much fun she had frying Squirrels with lightning. It occurs to you that the two elven members of your squad may have been agitated by the events of last night - may still be agitated - and that they were displaying uncharacteristically short tempers and frayed nerves. There's a modicum of effort to her air of amusement that normally isn't there. "Did you even care that armies all over Iuryis have done this up until now?"

Stephanie narrows her eyes and her ear twitches more irritably this time, but she doesn't have anything to say in return, which only makes you feel all the more insecure. Why do you feel about this the way you do, and now? It's not as if you were particularly bothered when the subject came up in your classes over the history of warfare. Is this another symptom of - as Elizabeth put it - your selfishness? That it was all well and good until the Squirrels did this to you?

But if you expected Elizabeth to look smug about this, she at least laughs in what you suspect is meant to be a good-natured gesture. "Don't feel too bad about it," she smiles. "This tragedy belongs to you. The anger is yours, as it is Neianne's."

"I'm not angry," Stephanie protests in a frustrated voice. "I just didn't want it to be like this." She grimaces, quiets down for a moment. "I'm not naive. I just thought maybe it'd be different this time. That all this talk about how we're all of the Treiden people meant something."

Elizabeth makes what sounds like a mix between a giggle and a snort, and you wonder if she does think your roommate is naive. If she does, however, she doesn't say anything about it, and instead chooses to sigh contentedly in her bath, sinking just a little deeper into the water.

The bathhouse is quiet again save for the rippling of water. And it takes a little bit longer for you to ask the one person who has talked the least thus far: "A-Are you alright, Sieglinde?"

There is a long, awkward pause immediately after this question, and you wonder if the elven lancer has fallen asleep. It takes a bit, but eventually she answers, "I am, insofar as I can be." The moment of quiet that follows gives you a chance to think about whether or not this is actually true, but you don't really have much time to ponder upon this before she continues, "Why ask?"

"Um, you're just...q-quiet."

"Perhaps I have little to say."

"...Oh." There doesn't seem to be much else to say after that.

A soft laugh comes from Stephanie's bath. "It's hard to get a word in edgewise when Lady Zabanya is talking," she points out, turning towards Elizabeth almost warily to see how she reacts to this. But what she sees stuns her. "Wait, is she asleep?"

Sure enough, the tiny form of Lady Elizabeth lazes in her tub, arms folded against the edge, head resting on her arms, golden hair floating in the water around her like a halo. Someone with less experience with her may have even called the resulting effect "innocent".

"Yes," Sieglinde confirms, a little unnecessarily.

"I thought she said she just woke up," the aseri mutters in mild disbelief, shaking her head almost as if in complaint. "How does she fall asleep so quickly?"

Ignoring the commentary on Elizabeth for now, Sieglinde turns to both of you and notes, "It's fortunate that your first kills are direwolves. Killing people feels...different."

Stephanie cocks her head slightly to the side. "You sound like you're talking from experience."

"I am."

"Oh."

Hesitantly, you quietly speak up, "I...k-killed someone. Last night." A pause, as the two squadmates who are actually awake turn to look at you in varying degrees of surprise, which makes you swiftly insist, "A-Accidentally."

"Accidentally?" Stephanie asks, with a hint of incredulity in her voice touched with a spot of concern.

"They f-filled with hallway with smoke to escape, and I was t-trying to protect myself by swinging my sword, a-and...I hit someone." You shrug a little helplessly. "Accidentally."

Sieglinde seems to process this story for a moment before simply intoning, "Ah."

"Are you alright?" asks Stephanie, reaching across the bath to touch your shoulder.

"I-I think so," you answer quickly enough.

Your roommate's shoulders seem to relax for a moment. Then they tense up again before she hesitantly asks, "That...'someone' was a Squirrel, right?"

You are just barely awake enough for your eyes to widen in horror; this conversation would be going very differently if you had killed someone else. "Y-Y-Yes!"

Again Stephanie slumps in relief. A moment passes before she asks, "Any...difficult, complicated feelings?"

"Not...really. I...w-wasn't happy about it. I mean, I had k-killed someone. It's hard to feel happy about that. B-But...I-I guess I was..." you purse your lips, take a deep breath, pause again to consider how to best word your statement. At the very least, you're being honest about this; your feelings with regards to your first kill is far less complicated than the episode last night in general. Eventually, you allow, "I guess I r-realized I could defeat a real soldier with my strength, even if it was by a-accident."

Nodding in the way seemingly only she can nod - a relaxingly calm affair - Sieglinde replies, "I'm glad you processed it well."

"Th-Thank you," you murmur, even though it feels like the statement of gratitude is a little awkwardly misplaced. Then, after another long quiet moment, you ask Sieglinde, "Are you a-alright?"

It actually takes a moment for the elven lancer to suddenly realize you're addressing her, not Stephanie. And it takes another moment for her to visibly think about her answer. Eventually, however, she replies, "Yes. Thank you for asking." And by all indications, she's genuine about it. Not that you're sure you can tell anymore; it's not like you could read Sieglinde's stony face when Lucille vented at her. But then you think of the unusual friction between your two elven squadmates just minutes ago, and you can't help but wonder if Sieglinde's lying.

"No awkward feelings?" Stephanie asks, sounding mostly amused but also with a touch of concern. Sitting up a little straighter in her bath, her fingers begin to stroke her black silky tail in the bathwater.

"Not that I'm aware of. It would've been surprising if the Tenereians had not launched a similar attack. That they targeted Faulkren instead of Alvimere is what surprises me. But I suppose their mission was always to attack something deep behind enemy lines."

The aseri makes a face. "I see where Neianne is getting some of her answers," she mutters.

"I'm just r-reading more," you pout, trying not to be too embarrassed about it.

Sighing, Stephanie looks between the two of you for a moment before finally muttering to Sieglinde, "So you're not bothered either."

The tall elf shrugs. "I believe things are as they are. And until such a time I am able to change them, there is little we can do but confront reality as it is presented." Yet when Stephanie expels a small sigh from her hungs, Sieglinde seems to consider the matter a little more before answering, "But if you are bothered, then I suspect your first moral instinct was correct, regardless of how you compartmentalize those emotions later on. That brutality is our line of business does not mean it should be tolerated as the first resort, nor that..." she trails off, thinks a little more, then gives the tiniest of exhales, almost as if she is sighing. "What I mean to say is that you can understand what happened last night as a perceived military necessity while also always remaining certain that it should be wrong, if that is what you believe at heart."

Your aseri roommate seems to accept this as an answer, although she looks like she still remains deep in thought. It takes a while longer for her to ask Sieglinde, "What do you believe at heart?"

Looking almost surprised that she's being addressed again, Sieglinde gives the question some thought. Or perhaps she is simply deciding how to express herself. Finally, she answers, "There are two ways of looking at the world: As it is, and as it should be. I believe the person who says you can but choose one or the other to be a fool."

"So..." you work up the courage to ask, since the topic is still recent, "...d-do you think it's alright for me to be a-angry?"

"I suppose I also believe anger to be a reasonable reaction, and I do not think it my place to take it away from you, whatever else Zabanya says. But I find it ultimately self-destructive, one that clouds your judgment and does more harm to you than it does your enemies. I have no use for anger."

"What about grudges?" asks Stephanie, although her tone suggests that it's less a serious question and more a light attempt at gentle ribbing.

Of course, Sieglinde answers it seriously anyways. "Taken too far, and it's merely anger, or something indistinguishable from such. But I suppose it's...a possible way to remember who is friend and who is foe. Although perhaps that alone would not qualify it for a grudge." But if you were wondering whether or not Sieglinde missed the fact that Stephanie was just trying to tease her a bit, any doubt is dispelled when the tiniest of tired smiles forms on the elf's pale lips. "Now, are you quite done comparing me with Zabanya?"

Stephanie in turn gives a tiny smirk and titter. "I'm done."

The bonding moment shared among your squad finally settles down, even though one of your members has already fallen asleep. It's certainly tempting even as the four of you ease yourself into the warm, comforting waters, satisfied with this moment of respite after a dangerously long night. No one is happy with the outcome, but - if nothing else - it does feel like all of you are closer, a truly daunting feat, given the personalities involved: A relatively stoic aseri, an even more stoic elf, and a frankly unsettling mage.

This moment of camaraderie, of the lowering of barriers amongst seemingly untouchable personalities, admittedly puts you in an inquisitive mood. You have questions you want to ask, proverbial elephants in the room. Such as what Stephanie did to set her training katana and wakizashi aflame when the two of you were alone in the corridor with a direwolf and Lani's corpse. You know for a certainty that Stephanie has not trained in fire magecraft since arriving at Faulkren, nor have you ever seen any hint of any such proficiency from her. You are certain that she saved your life at the very beginning with her mysterious abilities, though, and the curiosity is real, even though Stephanie's body language at the time of the attack seemed to suggest that it's not something she wants to talk about. Or maybe it's just not something she wanted to talk about under the circumstances then.

It isn't just Stephanie whose actions last night draws your attention either. Or perhaps in Sieglinde's case, it's really more of a lack of action. You can't forget how Lucille looked at Sieglinde beseechingly when the apprentices began to gather in the corridors of the West Wing, slowly realizing that they were under attack. You weren't certain then, but it seems so obvious now - now that Lucille berated Sieglinde in that hoarse, broken voice - that the former was trying to get the latter to take command. Yet Sieglinde didn't, and events unfolded as they did. Perhaps Sieglinde would've been better suited for command - Lucille certainly seemed to think so - but that she did not makes you wonder why. Why she did not take up the responsibility even during a night of life and death.

And perhaps there are other questions you'd like to ask as well. Perhaps now is the best time to ask. You have a hard time imagining any of your squadmates being as open and unguarded with their inner thoughts and emotions after this moment.

Stephanie
[x] Ask Stephanie about her mysterious abilities.
[x] Do not ask Stephanie about her mysterious abilities.
[x] Write-in.

Sieglinde
[x] Ask Sieglinde why she did not take command last night.
[x] Do not ask Sieglinde why she did not take command last night.
[x] Write-in.

Other Topics
[x] You should just let everyone relax, yourself included.
[x] Write-in.

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I don't see an immediate need for this vote to be tallied by set, so I will simply take the most-voted option in each category and work with that.

 

[Kei]

[x] Ask Stephanie about her mysterious abilities.

[x] Write-in: In private at a later time.​

[x] Write-in: Let her know you don't need to know, you're just wondering. You're still thankful she used these abilities to save you, even though she was trying to hide them.​

[x] Do not ask Sieglinde why she did not take command last night.
[x] Write-in: The four of you had no real cohesion as a squad. Figure out how to fix this?

It's hard to ignore it when it's something that happened before you, but you ultimately resign yourself to the fact that Sieglinde has told you - at least to some degree - as to why she does not consider herself a leader. It doesn't quite answer she was resistant towards it - if utterly ignoring Lucille's pleading looks could be described as "resistant", anyways - especially when lives were at stake, but it doesn't seem like rehashing this discussion in the baths here and now is a good idea.

Of course, the other thing that's hard to ignore is Stephanie's mysterious abilities - channeling some sort of fire through her katana - but that's probably something that's not for the bathhouse.

So instead, you bring up something else that is on your mind. "U-Um," you take a moment to start, feeling a little awkward at drawing attention to yourself. "D-During the battle, we...d-didn't do very well as a squad, d-did we?"

Stephanie frowns a little as she asks, "Didn't we?"

"I...d-don't know," you admit. You did survive. You've even managed to slay several of your foes. It's just... "I thought we c-could've done better."

"Well, sure, I suppose so," shrugs Stephanie. "But you killed three direwolves, you know..."

"Th-The first two don't count."

"...as well as a Squirrel."

"Th-That doesn't count either."

"Yes, it does," grumbles the aseri, an ear flicking once in mild annoyance. "And Sieglinde and I had another direwolf between us, although I guess Lady Marienberg managed to take that third direwolf."

"What she means is that we have no cohesion," Sieglinde cuts in from across the aisle, and you're grateful because you think that's really what you're actually talking about.

"We don't?" ask Stephanie, sounding mildly surprised.

"Well, I suppose I'm not surprised. Most of our training thus far has been personal. Emphasis on squad action doesn't begin until year two. The reality of it is that we're not accustomed to fighting with each other." The elf turns towards you. "Neianne, running off with barely a warning to your squad - one with whom you've never actually fought with before - is foolish." You try not to flinch, averting your eyes instead; this is the closest Sieglinde has ever come to reprimanding you, and it stings a little. But she's already moved onto your roommate as she observes with a bit more caution in her tone, "Stephanie, your swordplay is...interesting."

"My parents taught me a bit."

"Yes, I believe you've mentioned long ago. But there's something about your movements that makes me think you're trained specifically in a way that involves fighting alone. It was difficult trying to fight alongside you."

"I'm guessing I got in your way a few times."

"Deliberately as well. Or perhaps instinctively?" Sieglinde looks thoughtful as she tries to remember the exact pacing of that battle. "As if you were trying to defend yourself from an approach without thinking? It seems like a dueling technique."

"Perhaps," Stephanie shrugs. For some reason, her tone sounds remarkably neutral and level.

But Sieglinde simply continues, "We did not fight well in formation, capitalize on each other's strengths, or defend each other's weaknesses. All of us moved away from Zabanya, and Neianne moved away from us, making it so we could not cover each other. It is fortunate that we had other apprentices helping, and that Neianne was able to cut through a direwolf on her lonesome. But it won't be enough in the future."

"Wh-What can we do about it?" you ask.

"Neianne, as you have discovered, your weapon is peerless when it comes to fighting beasts, and although it did not show last night, it is an excellent battlefield weapon when combatants are many and the fighting chaotic. And I see you have found it useful as a shield, unintentional though it might be."

"It's not nearly as useful indoors, though," Stephanie points out. She's certainly skilled enough with her own sword that she's noticed. "And it's not a great dueling weapon. You'll take down anyone who gets hit like that direwolf, but hitting them might be difficult if they know what they're doing."

"Y-Yes," you acknowledge.

"In a squad, however," adds Sieglinde, "it means until you've chosen a second weapon with which to complement your capabilities, your role puts you in a position where you must manage both offense and defense situationally. Yours is not like Stephanie's katana and wakizashi, fitted almost only for attacks and duels. In a way, you should attack in a way that creates space for Stephanie and I to launch faster counters. Although we, in turn, should create opportunities for you when it comes to larger monsters or crowds."

"Oh," you murmur. For some reason that you can't quite explain immediately, you have complicated feelings about Sieglinde's assessment.

The elf notices this as she observes, "You don't look happy."

"N-No, it's not..." you try to ward off her concerns even as you try to sort out your own feelings. "I-I'm not..." you trail off, pause, take a deep breath, then slowly admit, "...I th-thought I'd have a more offensive role with a buster sword."

Sieglinde makes a soft "ah" sound. "You want to put your oversized blade to use. I understand."

That much, you suppose, it's true. You've always thought that with such a large blade, you were going to swing that around in a hurricane of death, acting as the most devastating mercenary out there. But it seem as if some of your assumptions have been premature. Or you'll just have to work harder to make this work.

But Stephanie cuts in first before you can say anything, her tone dry. "You know," she mutters, "if we weren't fighting direwolves, I'd think most people would run from your sword before you ever actually have a chance to use it."

Judging by the reactions everyone had to your buster sword when you first got it, Stephanie's observation may not actually be an exaggeration.

"There's that," Sieglinde acknowledges with the tiniest of smiles. "Well, this is all conjecture, anyways. It's hard to say what works and what doesn't until we train together, and until we fight together." She looks over the partition to the tiny elf still sleeping in the bath beside her. "Including, I suppose, with Zabanya," she allows.

Eventually, the conversation simply drifts off; all of you are tired, and the warm water you bathe in is good at soothing nerves and lulling you into a shallow sense of unconsciousness. Of course, time passes, and eventually the worst comes to pass: Another squad shows up and tells you that the instructors want apprentices to just go to bed if they're going to fall asleep in the baths. Reluctantly and with obvious exhaustion, the four of you drag yourselves out of the baths. Or, really, the three of you, because in an almost infuriating manner, Elizabeth doesn't really look that much more tired than before even as Squad Four dries off, gets dressed, and returns to your rooms.

Naturally, you and Stephanie waste very little time in collapsing into your respective beds, ready to sleep the entire day away, to hibernate until every single one of your muscles feels less dead. Already, the sleepiness that has been dogging you since you've stepped into the baths is dragging your mind down to sleep. But before you do...

"Stephanie?" you murmur.

"Hm?" comes Stephanie's drowsy reply.

You hesitate for a moment, trying to assess just how secretive your roommate is trying to be with this just based on what happened last night. "I-I know you didn't want me to talk about it then. And m-maybe you don't want me to talk about it now, a-and you don't have to tell me, and I'm still g-grateful you saved me from the direwolf, but..." you trail off, hoping Stephanie gets the point.

It takes a long moment before Stephanie echoes, "...But?"

Again, there is a pause where you reconsider, where you wonder - given that Stephanie either missed or ignored a hint for her to catch on - whether or not it's a good idea to press. "What happened when your k-katana caught aflame?" you finally ask.

A stretch of silence longer than anything since the conversation began follows. And for several almost-terrifying moments, you wonder if your roommate has fallen asleep or if she's now angry with you for asking. But before this anxiety can transform into outright panic, Stephanie replies in a surprisingly clear voice for someone so tired, "It was just fire. It's really not very important. Thank you for being considerate."

"Oh," you murmur. You can read between the lines. "O-Okay."

Sometimes, people have their secrets. Stephanie clearly has hers. But you have already resolved not to pry too much...at least, not tonight. Not after everything that's happened. And for now, you'll just have to be fine with that.

Besides, you don't really have to think about it that much longer. Your pillow seems to channel drowsiness into your mind, and you are - after so many hours kept awake - finally asleep before you even know it.

---

"This was not how they thought they would pass on."

Despite the mournful occasion, it is neither particularly foggy or rainy, as you'd often imagined the weather to be. Nor, in fact, is it even particularly cloudy, with only a few white puffs in the sky floating idly by, typical of the weather in Faulkren. It feels almost inappropriate, as you and around a hundred other apprentices stand silently in rows in the courtyard of Faulkren Academy, surrounded by your instructors. Conspicuously, there are empty spots in the rows of squads, apprentices who are either not in attendance because they are still recovering from grievous wounds in the infirmary, or laid to rest in sixteen small wooden caskets arranged on the stone platform functioning as a podium before all of you. A reminder even now that something has gone missing, and will now never return.

It's hard to ignore it. Several apprentices are openly crying. Some stand with injuries that have been stabilized by magecraft, but still resulted in bandages and scars, some light and temporary, others seemingly permanent. You are lucky in that the arrow that grazed your shoulder resulted in a wound that was only skin-deep; three days after the attack, you can't even feel that slight stinging sensation when you press down on where magecraft healed your now-invisible wound anymore.

You still remain at attention, though. None of your squadmates or your closest friends were killed, so you feel like it's unseemly for you to do anything but stand solemnly. It isn't just that; standing beside the podium is Countess Lorraine Estelle Celestia, the master of the entire region of Apaloft. The woman, looking almost as old as the headmistress herself, stands quietly in quality riding clothes stained by mud at the hems. She looks quite different from Lucille, what with the higher cheekbones and a sharper nose and a more severe expression compared to the much softer features of her niece, but you can see at least a bit of a resemblance if you squint. She rode in on horseback just in time for the funeral, and she didn't come alone; a small army of guards and soldiers have accompanied her on horseback, even as many of them now man the walls of the academy, providing security for not only one of the five Caldran countesses - one of the five paramount leaders of the confederacy itself - but also for the apprentices here.

Given the distance between Faulkren and the regional capital of Arkenvale, the messenger from Faulkren must've rode as fast and hard as Countess Celestia herself.

From the platform, Headmistress Rastangard concludes her eulogy, speaking to the crowd assembled in the courtyard, "And though they have departed in untimely ends, we will carry them with us in our hearts and memories through the years to come. We will remember their sacrifices as we soldier forwards. We will remember them as the cost of war, and why we fight. For our homes, for our loved ones, and for the Confederacy."

The headmistress did not say that those who died are now Caldran mercenaries, even if only honorary. Nor did she speak of whether they died bravely, or fought with valor against the enemy in their last moments. You suppose you appreciate the honesty and the avoidance of platitudes, but then again, you didn't lose anyone; a part of you wonders if it would've been better if the headmistress at least gave token praise to those lost, if only for the sake of those who lost them.

Cornelia closes her eyes and bows her head, a cue for a moment of silent prayer. By tradition, everyone present prays in accordance to their own faith, but it is hardly surprising that most present - including the headmistress and the countess - place their right hand over their sternum, the classical Primordial prayer position. A few apprentices intertwine their fingers at their abdomen in a Conceptualist stance, while a few dryads - with the obvious exception of Azalea, who also touches her sternum - take a knee in the Gaianist way with a hand to the ground.

This lasts until Cornelia's voice murmurs just loud enough to be heard over the crowd: "It is done." Turning to the instructors, she murmurs, "Take them home." Then, to the apprentices, "Dismissed."

With quiet murmuring and hugs exchanged, the crowd of apprentices slowly begins to disperse. The headmistress quickly marches over to the countess, and they start talking with the air of old friends, the former soon guiding the latter indoors. The instructors march forth to carry the caskets into waiting wagons beside one of the academy's gates, although most of the squads to which the deceased once belonged are quick to rush forward and help send off their late squadmates one last time.

"You'll send her home, back to her family, won't you?" you hear one of the apprentices carrying a casket tearfully ask a grim-faced instructor by the wagon.

Without hearing the answer from the instructor - you've just sort of assumed this will indeed be the case - you think about how the families of the deceased will feel. How their only warning for the deaths of their children will be a casket and an instructor to accompany it. How they will process the fact that their children died horrifying deaths before the first year of training is even over, that they were killed before even stepping onto the battlefield.

You try not to make a face as you detach yourself from your squad, but blood is pounding in your head.

"Are you going somewhere, Neianne?" Sieglinde asks, noticing you stepping away, having assumed you were just going to return to your dorm room.

"Just the r-restroom," you say. Which is true enough, at least. But it isn't really an answer to why you're heading for the restroom in one of the academic buildings on campus instead of the one in the West Wing. Thankfully, Sieglinde doesn't pry, and merely acknowledges your departure with a tiny nod.

After everything else that has happened, classes have not resumed yet. The staff has returned to their duties, but there is an air of disquiet that accompanies their chores, a heavy weight that bears down on everyone here. Still, it means that the building is largely vacated of any apprentices save for a wandering few. Stepping into one of the first-floor restrooms, you quickly duck into one of the stalls and sit down on one of the toilets.

One of the things you've been too embarrassed to admit to your friends or squadmates, considering most of their backgrounds compared to yours, is that the restrooms at the academy were a little intimidating at first. While a rudimentary level of plumbing existed in your own village, hot water on demand simply from turning a valve seemed like an absurd luxury, and while you've long since gotten over this, you now and again still have pangs of being out of place.

Not that you need to relieve yourself - not right now - but it just seems like a quiet place to sit down and clear your mind without being disturbed. Just a few minutes so that you can stop thinking about how your parents and younger sister would react if you had been sent home in one of those caskets.

"That shot really saved Jessica, though."

The voice is muffled at first, coming from beyond the door of the bathroom; it's coming from an apprentice, judging by the tenor, accompanied by what you think are two sets of footsteps. You don't think much of it, at least until you hear the sound of the door creaking open, and then footsteps walking in.

"It was nothing," says the second apprentice. "She wasn't really in that much trouble, what with Instructor Ana there. You should've seen Lady Marienberg with her longbow on the walls. I can't even dream of landing shots like that."

You can't immediately place either voice, although they have the quality of dim familiarity. The school isn't that big, and you've almost certainly had some sort of interaction with one or both of them. You're too preoccupied with memories of the battle, anyway, to immediately invest time in trying to figure it out. You can still sometimes smell the fetid breath of the wolf that a different shot from Lady Wilhelmina narrowly saved you from.

"She is Lady Marienberg," the first girl says, with almost the quality of gushing. She doesn't seem particularly deterred by her first example being sort of ignored. Her voice takes on a dismissive, almost smug tone as she adds, "Brianna was being stupid and talking about how people were only saying Lady Marienberg's the best shot because she's a noble. I'd like to see her swallow her words now."

There's a heavy pause, before the second voice says, cautiously, "It's probably bad fortune to say that sort of thing. I haven't seen Brianna since the fighting started. Have you?"

"...no," the first admits. "But I've been hibernating in my room for the last day or two. I mean, her name wasn't mentioned at the funeral...was it?"

"No, but she could be one of those badly hurt." The second girl, the archer, stops talking long enough for an uncomfortable silence to descend, broken only by the sound of running water in the basin. Rather than leaving, though, as you had quite been hoping, they pick the thread of their conversation back up, if haltingly at first. "They say some of them won't be able to make it through training anymore, you know?"

"Didn't you see her at the funeral?"

"I...wasn't really looking at the time. Were you looking?"

"No, not really." A shorter moment of awkward silence, before the first girl quietly replies. "She'd better be okay."

You thought about leaving but ultimately hesitated, gripped by the admittedly absurd concern that you'd somehow be interrupting. By the time you've told yourself that this is absurd, you've already waited far too long, and you're now afraid of being thought of as an eavesdropper. Which, if even just inadvertently, your proximity to the conversation moreorless makes you anyway.

The quiet stretches on for another second or two further, before - with the air almost of apologizing for sucking the fun out of the conversation - the second voice picks up the thread of the original conversation. "Well, noble blood isn't perfect. Lady Celestia, remember?"

You hunch your shoulders with discomfort. Eavesdropping someone exclaiming over the skill of a classmate is one thing. This...feels somewhat different, and more uneasy.

"Yeah, she was disappointing to watch," the first girl agrees, eagerly accepting the topic change. "And terrifying to be in a group with, now that I look back."

"Like, she just literally walked us right into those direwolves." So the two are from the West Wing, and were present with you on the night the apprentices started gathering out in the hallway.

"And, what was she thinking after that? Trying to make up for it by volunteering her squad to hold them off with training weapons?"

"Well, she was brave, at least," the artist offers, a little dubiously.

"Brave? Sure, if it was just her own life she was risking, but it was her whole squad, and they didn't stand a chance on their own before Instructor Mara showed up. I mean, I ran for the armory too when she told us, but we could have held them off together, I think. Half her squad is gone."

You're recalled, vividly, to the sight of Lucille's vacant, shocked face, at her almost directionless anger taken out on Sieglinde. You're not sure that the girls are wrong, necessarily, but it's still quite harsh. After all - and maybe you're just feeling this way because of the mood pervading the academy, but - it's not as if these girls volunteered to help, or even went back to try afterwards.

"More than half, I've heard," the archer comments, lowering her voice. "Have you heard about Erin?"

"Erin wasn't hurt badly, was she?" the first girl says, suddenly alarmed.

"No! No, nothing like that. But she's been talking about...well, going home and not coming back next year, I've heard. The instructors are trying to get her to wait a week before making the decision, but she looks like she hasn't slept a wink since the battle."

"So she might have lost her entire squad?" The girl sounds scandalized, almost affronted.

"Looks that way," the archer agrees. Finally, mercifully, you can tell that they're heading for the door. "If it were me..." the rest of the words are lost as you hear the door click open, then shut.

Hesitantly and cautiously, you finally pull open the door of your stall, peeking out with almost comic apprehension as if to make sure both of the girls are indeed gone. Peering around, you do see that the area around the water basin is now entirely vacant.

Although when a stall door slowly creaks open behind you, you realize that you may have been paying attention in the wrong direction. And you try not to look too startled and embarrassed when you realize who steps out from it. Lucille Lorraine Celestia doesn't look directly at you, but her gaze passes over you just enough to be certain of who was "eavesdropping" in the next stall. But if you were afraid of a rebuke - afraid of being on the receiving end of Lucille's anger, as Sieglinde was days ago - your fears don't ultimately come to pass; the elf merely walks by quietly, moving for the water basins.

"They're right, aren't they?" Lucille asks in a quiet, tired voice, even as she turns on the water and begins to wash her hands. She stares into mirror, not looking at you, as if she doesn't want to see your expression. Her own expression is uncharacteristically flat, and her voice uncomfortably thick with bitterness. You've only seen her quite like this once before, when she was reminding Aphelia exactly whose necks will be on the block first if you lose the war. "It's funny," she continues. "Everyone at home already knows I'm a disappointment. Now you all know it too." She sighs, turning off the faucet and trying her hands in a towel nearby. "This is going to get back to my aunt eventually," she whispers in a tone that's simultaneously resigned and bitter, "and then my parents will find out about it, and then they'll send a scolding letter about being an embarrassment to the family name. Like that's the worst part of me getting people killed. If the Spring has any mercy, it'll be that instead of her finding out right now and saying it here. I guess I'll have to face the music sooner or later."

With that, she gives you a bitter but mostly sad and resigned smile, waves a tired goodbye, and walks out the door. And in your hesitation, you actually stand there at the door of your stall, stunned and frozen for just a moment. But then impulse takes you - the events three days ago still fresh in your memory and an mental insistence that this is the fault of the Tenereians rather than anyone here - and you quickly rush out the door after Lucille - she hadn't gotten very far, fortunately, heading for the stairs leading up the building - and blurting, "I-I don't think you're a d-disappointment, Lady Celestia!"

Lucille whirls around for a moment, looking a little stunned - if not cringing a little bit - when she realizes that you're suddenly following her. Her shoulders visibly slump as you catch up, and although she waits for you just a little, she also starts climbing the stairs of the building with a mildly bitter smile. "I'm a lousy shot with a bow. I'm not much of a healer. I can't get people to listen to me when it matters, like back in Roldharen. And when people are listening to me, I'm terrible at leading or forming strategies. I'd say that's a disappointment."

"But I-I can't do any of those things."

Her smile turning a little less bitter and a little more resigned, the elf gently murmurs, "I'm a Celestia. It's expected of me. I'm supposed to bear the responsibilities of a household that governs Apaloft. People are supposed to look to me to solve their problems. My aunt is one of the five most powerful leaders of Caldrein." She hesitates, as if trying to very carefully word her next sentences in her head, trying to make sure they don't come out the wrong way. "I'm...I don't mean this in a bad way, and you're definitely more capable than me, but....I have to be able to do these things. No one asks you to tell them what to do in a crisis, or to shoot a bow as well as Wilhelmina or to know everything." She takes a deep breath and sighs, even as the two of you reach the third floor of the building, you following somewhat absentmindedly along. "What people expect of you are different from what they expect of me. That no one else can do it doesn't cut it, not for me." She visibly deflates. "And I'm just...mostly useless. A wishy-washy good-for-nothing whose greatest accomplishment is consistently shaming the Celestia name."

But you try to sound as insistent as your feel. "You f-fought against the T-Tenereians, Lady Celestia. Anyone who d-does that can't be useless."

And you mean it. Maybe if you were a noble who really, truly understood the expectations foisted upon people like Lucille or Sieglinde or Elizabeth or Azalea or Aphelia, you'd feel differently. But noble or not, it's hard not to think about the battle that was fought, those who fought in it, and those who died. It's hard not to come away from three nights ago and remember that everyone helped against a vicious enemy willing to do anything to win. You mean it.

And maybe Lucille understands that - that you mean what you say, at least - because she gives a tiny, tired laugh, a hint of gratefulness in her eyes. "It'd be nice if my family felt that way," she sighs almost wistfully, "Or, you know, everyone else." She shrugs and stops in the middle of one of the corridors, and, a moment after, turns around and adds, "And please, just call me Lucille. 'Lady Celestia' sounds stupid."

"Oh," you blink, nodding before you even think about it. The number of nobles who are insisting you not address her with "lady" - even if it's just in private with Azalea - is steadily climbing. "O-Okay, L-Lucille."

"Yeah," Lucille smiles a bit more broadly, even if it looks like a forced attempt to give more cheer to the moment. She fidgets awkwardly for a moment, then, "And, um. Than..."

"Well, then you're a blind bloody fool!"

Both of you whirl around in shock, staring at the door that you're standing right outside, behind which that angry shout came from. The voice was definitely that of an adults, probably one of your instructors. And then as you look closer at the door and realize exactly what it is, you blanche. You didn't really pay attention to where you were going, just following Lucille along while trying to assure her that she's not useless, but now that you actually remember which building you're in and what floor you're on and whose door this belonged to, you suddenly realize that you're standing right outside the office of Headmistress Cornelia Rastangard. And someone inside was angrily shouting just now.

The words that come afterwards are also angry, but they're quieter this time, unintelligible behind the heavy wooden door. For a long moment, both you and Lucille are paralyzed with shock and maybe even a little bit of fear, and it takes another moment for the two of you to stare at each other in confusion and uncertainty. But before any of you can make heads out of tails, or really even ask each other what's going on, the wooden door is abruptly opened with angry force. From the headmistress' office, Countess Celestia marches out stiffly, a stormy expression barely suppressed on her face. From where you are standing outside the door, you can't actually see Headmistress Rastangard, which is probably all for the better; you're terrified at the possibility of looking at the face of a possibly-furious Caldran mercenary right now.

The countess seems about ready to storm down the corridor after slamming the wooden door behind her, at least until Lucille whispers in a tiny, almost scared voice, "...Auntie?"

The countess whirls around - and both of you apprentices flinch before the icy glare of a Caldran countess - but then she sees who it is asking for her, and her expression visibly softens, her body language clearly attempting to suppress whatever anger she felt at whatever happened in the headmistress' office. "Lucille," she murmurs with a sigh, her shoulders slumping for a moment before stiffening just a bit again in semi-formal greeting. "I'm glad to see you safe." She places her hands gently on Lucille's cheeks. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Lucille replies in an almost hesitant tone, and she makes several efforts to not look too hard in the direction of the headmistress' office, as if almost afraid that Rastangard is suddenly going to come charging out. "I mean...yes." Pursing her lips, she is unable to constrain her dread curiosity any longer, and asks, "What was...?"

Catching Lucille's gaze, Countess Celestia sighs deeply for a moment. "We were discussing security," she says blandly, trying to inject some gentleness into her tone. "It's a trifling matter."

Then the countess looks over her niece's shoulder to spot you, and after jumping in surprise, you are quick to nervously drop into a curtsy and greet, "M-M-Milady."

The countess gives you a nod of acknowledgement, and although some of the formality returns to her voice once more, her tone isn't unkind. "And you are?"

"N-Neianne, milady," you introduce yourself, dropping into an even deeper curtsy.

Lorraine gives a small smile, even if it's a touch grim. "It's good to see you safe as well," she says with some warmth. "It's rare seeing dryad apprentices here. We could always use more of you. Are you friends with my niece?"

You try to stammer an answer, complicated by the fact that you're not entirely sure whether or not Lucille technically qualifies as your friend. But before you can answer - or possibly because you're taking so long to say something intelligible - Lucille quickly turns to her aunt and speaks up for you: "She is. She's the one who helped us back in Roldharen, with the wyvern."

"Ah," the countess intones, looking mildly impressed, almost as if recalling a fond memory. "I've heard of your bravery then; it's good to meet you at least. And you've beaten back the Tenereians as well. You've done well. I look forward to seeing you become a Caldran mercenary for true in two more years."

Flustered and more than just a little embarrassed, you drop into another curtsy and stammer, "Th-Thank you." Then, realizing you forgot it in your mild panic, hurriedly add, "M-M-Milady."

The countess smiles kindly at you before declaring, "I need to ride for Invermere; they, too, were attacked, and I need to see to them." She looks at her niece again, asks, "Did you need me for anything, Lucille?"

"No," Lucille whispers, "I just..." she trails off, and it looks like she is thinking about something she wants to say to her aunt. But then, she finishes, "I...just wanted to make sure I passed on my greetings first." She pauses for a moment, then, almost as an afterthought, "Please tell my mother I'm alright."

"I will, of course," the countess nods. "I'll see you in Stengard in...two months or so, I suppose. Or Arkenvale, if that doesn't come to pass." She lets go of her aunt and prepares to leave. "Do honor to the family name, Lucille. Farewell." And, to you, "Neianne."

"Milady," you curtsy one last time in farewell, and the countess marches off towards the staircase you and Lucille climbed up just earlier, presumably heading back to the courtyard, back onto her horse, and off to Invermere.

For a moment, both you and Lucille stand there silently, a little stunned, contemplative, confused, anxious. Then, almost as an afterthought, the two of you turn towards Headmistress Rastangard's closed office door, remembering the angry yelling within, and remembering that the headmistress is still very likely behind that door.

The two of you swiftly flee.

---

The small army that the countess brought with her, it turns out, is not actually for her own protection, but for yours. Or, really, the academy's; a contingent of roughly fifty guards are stationed on campus for security, and as far as you can tell, they will be here for the remainder of your first year, meaning only for a couple of months. You suppose you feel a little safer with them around, although if you really stop to think about it, nothing really beats security like a bunch of Caldran mercenary instructors actually staying on campus. At the very least, your instructors seem certain that the Squirrels won't be coming back anytime soon.

Not that it's helping all the nerves. An air of disquiet still pervades the academy even weeks after the attack. The instructors are quick in their attempt to restart classes and training, but it's hard for most to focus and keep their minds on it.

In the weeks that follow, as letters are sent back and forth, another small crisis arises as parents learn of the attack. In three cases, a parent makes the journey to Faulkren to take their children back. In one fortunate case, the headmistress is able to talk the parent down from pulling their child out from the academy, but for the others, the academy is forced to say goodbye to two of their number.

There are, of course, some letters that make it back - at least amongst those who are literate - demanding that their children return. Some talk about it openly with their friends, while others are subject only to third-party rumors of their impending departure. Stephanie, at the very least, confirms that she received no such letter - "And I wouldn't leave even if I received one anyways," she assures you with something a bit more than just sheer determination - but it's hard to tell about everyone else.

For the most part, the worst of your first year is over, even as the academy attempts to make a return to any form of normalcy. As the remainder of your academics and training slowly but surely draws to a close, you have more time to befriend, interact, and deepen your relationships with the other apprentices you've come to know.

[x] Aphelia Meredith Treiser
[x] Ashlyn
[x] Azalea Cherilyn Charmaine
[x] Elizabeth Irivich Zabanya
[x] Emilie
[x] Lucille Lorraine Celestia
[x] Melanie Aster
[x] Mia Honette
[x] Nikki
[x] Penelope
[x] Sieglinde Corrina Ravenhill
[x] Stephanie
[x] Vesna Rainer
[x] Wendy
[x] Wilhelmina Adelaide Marienberg
Choose five.

See Also:
1.18X1 Interlude 1: Of Course It's a Political Problem
1.18X2 Interlude 2: Remember the Dead

---

Once again, votes will not be counted as a set; the five most popular choices win. Certain combinations of characters will have them talking with Neianne together instead of individually. Also, if you'd like, please provide a write-in if there is any particular topic you want to talk about with any specific friend or acquaintance, and I'll try to do my best to accommodate. Otherwise, I'll simply write as I think works best. ^_^;

Please expect two interludes before the next update~

 

[Kei]

A little rushed, again, but what can you do when you're short on time.

Hopefully, this first interlude will help fill in a few narrative gaps that I couldn't justify observing from Neianne's point of view, because she's not the center of the universe and there's no reason why she would be privy to this kind of conversation. Except, I suppose, more eavesdropping.

*****​

Interlude 1
Of Course It's a Political Problem

"This was not how they thought they would pass on."

In a way - or so Countess Lorraine Estelle Celestia of Apaloft thinks - it is fitting for Cornelia Rastangard to give the eulogy for the deceased. Even when they were children, there had always been a grim quality to the latter's personality; Cornelia becoming a Caldran mercenary - and the wars she fought abroad as one - only seemed to entrench that aspect of hers. If nothing else, however, it strengthens the gravity of her speech before a hundred apprentices and their instructors, to say nothing of the small army of soldiers and guards that have been gathered here at Faulkren.

"And though they have departed in untimely ends," continues Cornelia on the platform, the older aseri looking out at a crowd of apprentices still shaken by an attack three nights ago, "we will carry them with us in our hearts and memories through the years to come. We will remember their sacrifices as we soldier forwards. We will remember them as the cost of war, and why we fight. For our homes, for our loved ones, and for the confederation."

Still, even as Cornelia leads the academy in a long moment of quiet prayer, even as the countess joins her in placing a hand to her sternum, it's hard to keep the anger from her mind. It was bad enough when a rider rushed into her estate with dire news. An attack by Tenereian saboteurs? This far into Caldrein? And here, in the heart of Apaloft! It took a bit more than an entire day of hard riding with what soldiers and guards she could muster and spare for her to compartmentalize some of the emotions she felt. Seeing the caskets, however, threatened to undo all that.

Lorraine does her best to untie that knot deep in her stomach, that churning realization that even as the Tenereians murder in her region with impunity, that even with all the soldiers and guards she has brought with her to Faulkren, it cannot stop the war slowly grinding the confederacy towards defeat. That this - like all things in this Huntress' War - is something she can do absolutely nothing about.

There is that cold, creeping thought that all of this is somehow inevitable.

"It is done," Cornelia announces, snapping Lorraine out of her reverie, and all at once, the countess is out of that dark corner in her mind, returning to the whitestone walls and sun-kissed plains. "Take them home. Dismissed."

The apprentices and instructors disperse, some of them moving the caskets onto waiting wagons. Solemnly, Lorraine has the grace to quietly watch over the casket for a moment - a respectful gesture - before striding in the direction of Cornelia, who herself is walking down the steps to the stone platform she was standing on previously. Behind the countess, an elven lieutenant - also functioning as an honor guard at the moment - remains at a respectful distance; there's no need to protect the countess from the headmistress of Faulkren Academy.

"Nelly," calls out Lorraine, and Cornelia quickly turns around from giving instructions to one of her mercenaries responsible for sending the bodies back home. A flicker of fatigue shows on the aseri headmistress' expression, and the two childhood friends share a small hug. "Thank the Spring you're alright."

"It could've been worse," Cornelia mutters before they let go of each other. Looking around, she sighs, grimaces. "Sorry for making you ride all the way here."

"Nonsense. An attack at the heart of Apaloft? And you expect me not to be here?"

"Of course not," the headmistress sighs. After a moment, she gestures in the direction of one of the academy's larger buildings. "My office, if it pleases you?"

"After you," nods the countess agreeably.

Lorraine supposes she hoped that the extra manpower she brought with her from Arkenvale and the surrounding boroughs on short notice would ease nerves here at Faulkren. It seems like a silly thought now; the apprentices are already being protected by the deadliest warriors in Apaloft, and maybe even all of Caldrein, if Llyneyth would kindly remove the stick from its ass. Still, it's unsettling to see a hundred apprentices walking away with somber faces from a funeral.

It's not that Lorraine has never been to funerals and ceremonies of the war dead. There's just something different between watching adult soldiers on the battlefield mourning their dead and watching teenagers do the same.

"Sorry about the mess," Cornelia says over her shoulder, and Lorraine realizes they're walking past another wagon - larger, with an open top - with the corpse of a direwolf tied down to it. It isn't alone; there are other wagons just like it, as well as cadavers still on the ground, waiting to be loaded. Presumably somewhere outside academy grounds where it can be buried. "Our alchemists were doing tests with the direwolves. Between that and patrols in the area to make sure there are no more stragglers, we haven't had that much time to clean up."

Lorraine shakes her head. "It doesn't look so bad," she observes. She's being honest, at least; the direwolf corpses are a bit unsettling - there's one that looks like it was cleaved messily in half, forcing the countess to wonder how that even happened - but aside from the potholes in the courtyard where much of the fighting took place, there really aren't many signs of the aftermath of violent combat. Blood, at the very least, has been washed away. Shattered windows have not yet been replaced, but the broken glass has been swept away. There are no scars or scorch marks from magecraft, no walls that have been collapsed by sappers or siege engines. "I guessed you've cleaned things up since then. You couldn't tell there was an attacks if you didn't see all those caskets outside."

"The Tennies weren't stupid enough to go for a siege. Especially not this outfit." The headmistress grimaces a little as she leads the countess into the building and towards the stairs. "It could've been worse."

The walk up to Cornelia Rastangard's office is a familiar one, as is the sight of its interior. Contrary to her sometimes almost spartan demeanor, the aseri has always preferred a homier setting. Her office isn't particularly opulent, but nor is it particularly sparse: Red carpets, mahogany furniture that reflected a warm glow from the sunlight, filtering in from windows fitted with patterned drapes. The walls, too, are lined with bookshelves, paintings, and - often a surprise for those who step into her office for the first time - glass displays featuring her porcelain collection.

As is custom, Lorraine sets herself down on one of the cushioned armchairs across Cornelia's desk, even as the headmistress moves towards one of the cupboards. "Would you like a drink?" she asks. The liquor cabinet, then.

"That would be wonderful, yes," Lorraine exhales deeply, sinking into her seat's cushions. "Although just the one, though. I can't stay long; we still need to ride to Invermere and hopefully make it before sundown. Do you still keep your cabinet stocked with at least a Sandrian white?"

"Yup." Already, she's working the bottle of a bottle of white wine.

"Good," smiles Lorraine. "All that riding is sore on these old bones."

"You're old?" snorts Cornelia wryly as she starts pouring wine into two goblets produced from the cupboard. "What does that say about me?"

"You could lord that over me when we were children, Nelly," drawls the elven countess with a roll of her eyes. "It just makes you look like an ass if you do it now."

Ignoring the quip, Cornelia sets down the bottle and passes a goblet to Lorraine. A soft breeze passes through the open windows, and for a moment the drapes sway, soft shadows dancing across a room glowing with sunlight reflecting off stone walls. For just a moment, the two old dogs are young again, returning to more innocent times when their greatest worry was waking up to discover all the shenanigans they had partaken in while in a drunken stupor.

"To the confederacy," Lorraine smiles, raising her glass.

Cornelia clinks her goblet against her childhood friend's. "Long may it stand."

They drink, and for a moment, they let the alcohol do its work, causing just enough of a warm flush to ease tired, stress nerves. On the other side of the desk, Cornelia finally settles down into her chair, sighing in a restrained sense of content.

Then the moment passes, and they are old women at the helm of a sinking ship once more, slowly crushed by the weight of their burdens and responsibilities. The air is grim once more. "What happened?" asks Lorraine with a deep sigh of frustration. "Was this the Squirrels you sent word about?"

"As far as I can tell, yes," Cornelia grimaces. "The vanguard included disposable beasts, mostly direwolves. And then the Squirrels themselves moved in when they thought we were in disarray to try and finish the job."

"Is the damage extensive?"

The aseri steeples her fingers on her desk and considers her answer. "I wouldn't say it's an extensive amount of damage," she eventually allows, "but it's true that we were not at our best. Most of us rode out to Invermere when we heard word that there was an attack there, like we had agreed. We left behind a token guard, of course, just out of principle. And when they saw fires on the horizon where Faulkren was, they suspected - rightly - that it was a ploy to lure the last defenders out of Faulkren Academy. The enemy overplayed their hand, and we had some time to prepare. To secure the armory as best as we're able before anyone burned it down, and to wake and rally the apprentices."

"And the direwolves?"

"Drugged up and unleashed on the academy. They knew this was a suicide run for their beasts. Direwolves aren't as short-tempered as wyverns. With a wyvern, they just needed to cut it a few times before letting it loose. Direwolves know when to cut their losses and run. That's why they were drugged up, to make them more aggressive and agitated, so they wouldn't just flee."

Nodding grimly, Lorraine is quietly thought for a long moment. Then, almost in an angry spur, she takes a large swig of wine from her goblet, looking like she desperately needs it. "I counted sixteen coffins," she growls after managing to work down the alcohol. "Should I be hearing any other bad news?"

"More injured," sighs Cornelia, "some grievously. A few might not be able to continue here. Frayed nerves." She pauses, grimaces, thinks, then eventually allows in a surprisingly soft tone, "We'll pull through."

Although she looks skeptical for a moment, Lorraine eventually purses her lips; her expression softens, and she nods slowly, conceding this point. Then, quietly, "Any losses among the nobility?"

"Some injuries, no deaths."

Lorraine exhales deeply. "Lucky us." Another moment of hesitation - longer this time - and the countess actually sounds a little embarrassed when she asks, "My niece, is she...?"

"Lucille Lorraine Celestia is unharmed," Cornelia is quick to pick up where Lorraine trails off. "A few scratches, mostly from running around. Just shaken."

Her reaction is restrained, but there's a strong hint of relief and gratitude in the countess' body language. "I'll have good news for my cousin, then." She takes another swig from her goblet - emptying its contents this time - and angrily mutters, "By the Spring, what a mess."

But the headmistress offers, "Less than you'd think." She takes a slow sip from her goblet - as if leaving her childhood friend in just a moment of suspense - before elaborating, "The fact is that their attack - strategically, tactically - was not really worth the cost. They expected an easy assault, in and out, one that could seriously take out the next generation of the Faulkren warband." She scoffs. "In this, they failed miserably."

The corner of Lorraine's lips twitches. "Define 'miserably'."

"A professional group of saboteurs lose several of their number, as well as their entire pack of direwolves and other beasts that were set loose in Faulkren and Invermere. They do so in an attack where they were supposed to have an initiative, with only sixteen kills among their intended targets to show for it, and are instead beaten back by first-year apprentices." The smile on the aseri's lips is a little mirthless, but it's a smile nonetheless. "Miserably."

Lorraine considers this before nodding a bit. "It could've been worse, I suppose," she allows.

"It could've. One of my instructors overheard some of the Squirrels before she ambushed them. They apparently thought the apprentices have only been here for three, maybe four months, when they have in fact been here about twice that time. They underestimated how hard the kids would fight back."

The elven countess doesn't try very hard to hide her surprise. "Is that even possible?"

"Academic years in Tenereia generally start in November, late October at earliest, just after the major harvests."

"And here we start somewhere around July," Lorraine fills in the blanks thoughtfully. "Or August at the latest."

"Right after the political season," the headmistress confirms. "Could've been assumptions. Could've been bad intelligence. Maybe they just overlooked it. Either way, they thought they were just dealing with children who were only beginning to learn where the sharp end of a weapon is." A pause. "Which makes me think that maybe Roldharen was not aimed at us. Not our apprentices, anyways, not then. I think they were targeting the dryads there."

"Mm," intones Lorraine, although she sounds a little distracted as she looks off to a random point in the distance. Hopefully something out the window over Cornelia's shoulder. After a moment, she slowly raises from her seat on the other side of Cornelia's desk, bracing herself on the armrests and feeling all her years. "I'll send an envoy to Roldharen at some point, let them know that we've shared in their pain and that the score has been settled...somewhat." She sighs explosively. "Is there anything else I need to know?"

"No," Cornelia shakes her head sympathetically. "We've already told your people about the Squirrels trying to make a mad dash back to Elspar?"

"We'll take my cavalry and run them down if we have to."

The headmistress nods. "Be certain to station your infantry at the villages you pass. Who knows if they're hiding in the wilderness again."

"If only I could," sighs Lorraine. "The footsoldiers I brought along are staying here, actually."

Cornelia blinks. "Pardon?"

"For your security," Lorraine clarifies, although in a tone that suggests this is perhaps the most obvious thing in the world.

The headmistress of Faulkren Academy pauses for a moment before declaring, "I appreciate the thought, but your guards are desperately needed elsewhere. They need to start looking for the Squirrels, defend other towns, or cut off any avenues of retreat."

"Nelly," sighs Lorraine, leaning in on the headmistress' desk, "your academy was just attacked. The guards are here to ensure your security until we fight the Squirrels and deal with them, or at the very least chase them back across the frontlines."

"They're not needed here," frowns Cornelia. "The Squirrels won't be coming back. They tried their best and we gave them a beating. We know what to expect this time, they can't fool us anymore, and they know it. They're going to try to find softer targets now, or they'll go home. Your guards can't stay here."

"It's not about soft targets, Nelly," Lorraine mutters, her tone now a little flat and frustrated. "People talk. The second I pull out the guards, you can bet at least one of your apprentices - an important - will be writing home about it."

Again, Cornelia frowns, tilting her head one way as she realizes something. "You're afraid of a political problem?" she asks.

"Of course I'm afraid of a political problem!" the countess exclaims, almost a little angrily; Cornelia has been loyal to Apaloft as a Caldran and to her personally as a friend since they were children, and entirely beyond suspicion. But like so many other aseri, for all her guile and wits, she is still always infuriatingly stubborn over issues where she isn't seeing the bigger picture, and now they're debating over how the countess of Apaloft gets to deploy her own soldiers. "Withdraw the guards? The other countesses will call for my head on a pike, and yours would follow soon after that."

"We put a hold on all letters home until the vacation starts," Cornelia decides instantly, missing the point entirely. "We say it's for security reasons, to throw off spies and any other bloody saboteurs hidden around Faulkren."

"Need I remind you," sighs Lorraine explosively and with dwindling patience, "that, among others, you have the heiresses to Houses Ravenhill and Zabanya from Lindholm under your roof? A daughter of House Treiser from Elspar? You have a Charmaine as well; how do you think the rest of the Confederacy will react if a daughter of the only dryad noble house is killed on academy grounds?"

"It won't happen," insists Cornelia, also growing impatient.

"You're being dangerously overconfident," the countess grimaces. "And it's not about whether or not it will happen, but whether or not people think it will happen."

"The children signed up for this."

"They signed up to be trained for a war," snaps Lorraine, "not be killed before they're even properly trained."

Her eyes narrowing angrily and her ears pulling back in agitation, Cornelia scowls, "You're going to let a bunch of Tenereian saboteurs get away with killing our own because you're afraid the apprentices aren't being babysitted enough?"

"No, Nelly," the countess of Apaloft says coldly, her patience running out. "You let them get away. Twice now. And maybe that couldn't be helped, but now I have to pick up the pieces, and that includes making sure the academy and its apprentices - attacked twice now - are safe." She takes the tone of a parent telling her children that her decision is final. "The guards stay."

Bolting up from her chair and slamming a fist on the table, the headmistress of Faulkren Academy - a veteran Caldran mercenary of the Faulkren warband in her own right - bellows, "Well, then you're a blind bloody fool!"

And perhaps in all their years of friendship, Lorraine forgot that Cornelia is still one of the deadliest warriors alive on the continent of Iuryis. But whatever the case, there is isn't a chill in her tone as she stands up to her childhood friend and hisses dangerously, "Careful, Cornelia. You are my dearest friend, but I am still your countess." She slams a fist on the headmistress' desk, not nearly as hard as Cornelia, but a reminder of who is actually in charge. "I will not tolerate this sort of insubordination, not even from you."

For a while, they are two women, separated by an abused mahogany desk, breathing heavily in anger, in the way that two powerful women in a nasty argument are. And for just a flicker of a moment, Lorraine wonders if Cornelia will really attempt to test that patience, to deny her decision - as her countess - to station troops at Faulkren Academy. If this fight is really about the escalate.

But Cornelia realizes better, and slowly she masters her temper. It's still there - Cornelia has never been without one - but it's forced back down just enough for the headmistress of Faulkren Academy to mutter in a tightly-controlled voice, "Yes, milady."

It's not satisfactory. Lorraine is not happy about this. But, unfortunately, this will just have to do for now. "I need to ride to Invermere," mutters Lorraine in a similarly flat voice, shaking her head a little, "see how bad things are there, maybe even organize a pursuit party." She presses her lips into a thin grim line. "If time permits it, I may return. Otherwise, I shall ride back to Arkenvale afterwards." She glares at the aseri across the desk one more time to make sure she's getting the message. "The guards stay, Cornelia."

Cornelia looks no happier than Lorraine, and that anger still simmers. But she at least has enough self-control to mutter once again in that suppressed tone, "As you wish."

Scowling with dissatisfaction - the countess is by no means happy about having to fight with the headmistress, even if she ended up getting "her way" - Lorraine whirls around where she stands and marches out the office door in angry strides, slamming shut it behind her. Cornelia doesn't call out to her, nor does Lorraine turn back around to say anything.

This isn't the first time they've fought. And they'll forgive each other, in time. It doesn't make each new fight easier, though. Nor is it remotely reassuring to have them while their losing war rages.

There's just no good solutions for political problems sometimes.

"...Auntie?"

Whirling around in restrained anger, Lorraine settles her eyes on a familiar face, a young, frightened face - family - and if only for now, she does her best to quell her anger, to push it back down, to give way to relief that, at the very least, there's one person she knows who hasn't died, even if she's not precisely the most promising of House Celestia's children.

"Lucille," murmurs Lorraine softly as she caresses her niece's face. "I'm glad to see you safe..."

 

[Kei]

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.

 

[Kei]

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super kudos to @Lazy Minx for commissioning it and for soojin paek for accepting the commission pls check out her tumblr and her twitter we now return to your regularly scheduled screaming

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[Kei]

I'm in a hurry, so I'll post this part for now and dealing with details (formatting, links, BGM) later. Congrats, I'm not a splatter on the pavement.

---

[x] Wendy

Shafts of light dance across the sky as seas of clouds merge and part in the afternoon, lines of sunlight growing and then vanishing, lighting up random parts the Faulkren area with a warm, fleeting afternoon glow. It's a beautiful scene to watch, one that you have enjoyed at the window of a building taller than just one story, and on many other days, you would've stayed at that window to watch sunlight lay its kisses here and there like a particularly teasing lover.

This is not one of these days. Or perhaps it's just one of those waking hours where you wake up without nightmares, get through many more hours of the day without moments of intense sadness and melancholy and anger, look at the scars of the battle that took place many nights before with naught but the intellectual thought that you must do better, only for your mind to wander back unannounced and uninvited to that dark little corner of self-doubt as you attempt to process everything that has happened.

It's clear that you aren't alone by the time you reach the courtyard of the academy with your practice buster sword, seeing how at least half a dozen other apprentices are also down here with their own practice weapons, sparring or practicing against dummies in hopes that such activities will be just enough to distract them from the ghosts that haunt their memories. You exchange polite greetings with the few apprentices who notice you in the middle of their training even as you move towards the dummies, contemplating whether or not you'll try to cleave one in two with your practice buster sword today...

...At least you recognize a more familiar face amongst the apprentices here in the courtyard. Wendy, too, is working on a variety of thrusts against the practice dummy with her own practice spear. You can see as you approach that Wendy has gotten better since your instructor last pitted you together in spars. Her maneuvering - even as she slips side to side around the dummy as if it were a real opponent - has become much less awkward, and her movement economy - gracefully executing attacks with as few unnecessary movements as possible - has significantly improved. Her understanding of the range of her attacks - never shabby to begin with, seeing how you have been on the receiving end of her well-distanced attacks - has been honed well; she's only close enough to the dummy so that although the practice spearhead doesn't thrust too deeply into the dummy, it's just enough to transfer the full kinetic force into the target. The harm, you'd imagine, will only increase when Wendy has a real spearhead at the end of that pole.

Eventually, Wendy steps back from a rapid series of attacks on the dummy to catch her breath, her forearm wiping away the sweat accumulating on her forehead and brushing away her mousy brown hair. It's as she does so that she notices your approach, and she gives you a nod of acknowledgement, casually greeting, "Hey."

"G-Good afternoon," you greet with a polite bow of your head.

BGM: Kingdom Hearts 3D Dream Drop Distance - Traverse Town

"You need anything?"

You don't really. Although now that she asks, an opportunity does come to mind. You wouldn't necessarily call Wendy a "friend", and your relationship has always been at least mildly awkward, but the weeks and months following Roldharen haven't been completely disastrous, so you feel tempted to press your luck as you fidget for a moment before asking, "Do you w-want to spar?"

Wendy pauses before eyeing the practice buster sword slung against your back suspiciously. "You're not going to hit me with that again are you?"

"Th-That was an a-accident!" you stammer, flustered and maybe a little defensive. "And y-you were fine!"

Wendy narrows her eyes. "You know, when you send someone flying five meters away with a big stick, I don't think you get to decide if they're fine or not."

You fidget awkwardly again. "I-It was four," you insist.

Wendy rolls her eyes are you, but after a moment, she sighs a bit, twirls her spear, and concedes. "Right, fine, let's do this."

In the weeks you've been sparring with Wendy and Wendy alone - who has suddenly developed a very healthy respect for your latest choice of weapon - you've come to understand her fighting style, her tactics, her quirks. You know that her fighting style tends to be calm and technical, although she's given to panic a little if you press hard, and she can't help but sacrifice some of that precision for a bit of flair, as seen whenever she twirls her spear with a flourish after emerging victories in a bout. You instinctively understand her preferred angles attack, the timing of her blows, how far you can press an advantage before she gives ground or counterattacks. Technically, her spear is longer, but she understandably doesn't want to take full advantage of this by closing into a distance where she's more likely to be hit by, at least as she once bitterly described it, "a bed masquerading as a sword".

So, in a way, the sparring is almost like a choreographed dance. It isn't at all, of course; both you and Wendy are trying to best each other with practice weapons without actually hurting each other, especially since neither of your instructors are here to stop you when they sense you're going too far. But this instinctive understanding of each other's pace and limits also means you match each other well, with Wendy being faster and more clever, but with you compensating with a degree of foresight and the fact that Wendy simply doesn't want to be in range of a weapon that she once again described bitterly as "a shrine door on a stick". You swing your sword gently enough to conserve your energy but hard enough to make sure Wendy backs up two times more than she really needs to, while she tries to find clever angles in between your swings under which to squeeze in a riposte in counterattack. She's the wind and you're a boulder.

No longer are you constantly losing either. It's been weeks since you had to run around academy grounds with your greatsword as penance for losing your instructor's drinking coin. Now the two of you have achieved rough parity. Maybe Wendy has a slight advantage over you - as your instructor put it, she did grow up in a rougher neighborhood - but it's so very slight now. She'll try to kick dust into your eyes, she'll try to use her hands to pry past your practice greatsword, she'll try to shove at your feet, but you've long since developed counters to those, and the counters to her counters to your counters.

A few apprentices passing through the courtyard stay for just a moment to watch every now and then. You and Wendy are not Sieglinde and Aphelia - you're not drawing an adoring crowd of fangirls - and you suspect that many of those who are watching are mostly curious about how you use as improbable a weapon as a buster sword. But spectators are spectators.

This goes on for some time. You have learned to conserve your energy despite wielding a buster sword, lasting longer than you ever have before, but Wendy is still a human with a much lighter weapon. At last, the two of you finally take a rest, alone in the courtyard. You are sitting on a bench, catching your breath, when Wendy walks up beside you and offers you a cup of refreshingly cold water.

"Th-Thank you," you say politely, even as Wendy sits down beside you - not far enough to be impolite, but not so close as to suggest familiarity - and the two of you take gulps from your respective cups.

Leaning back against the bench, it occurs to you that there's a level of irony in your current relationship with Wendy. Once a member of the squad that probably hated you the most, Wendy has nonetheless become the apprentice that you've sparred with more than anyone, to the point where the two of you are familiar with each other's combat styles and tempos. You have always meant to train with Sieglinde instead - she's a squadmate and she offered - but instead it's been Wendy you've been growing alongside. Things are still a bit awkward with her - you haven't really talked much beyond what's necessary for your training and classes, and her apology comes at the end of some hostility on her part - but at least they're not actively unpleasant.

Although it definitely feels awkward to be sitting with her awkwardly on a bench at an awkward distance and awkwardly not saying anything. So you muster your courage, take a deep breath - barely noticing in the periphery of your vision that Wendy is also taking a deep breath - and start, "U-Um..."

You are stammering, so before you manage to actually say anything of substance, Wendy - despite being just a second late - finishes first: "Let's be friends."

You blink, confused, your mind momentarily going into a incomprehensible feedback loop. "Y-Y-Yes?" you stammer without really thinking about it, as if you're trying to answer a question.

"Okay," Wendy nods. "Good."

Then your brain finally catches up with the conversation, your eyes widen, and your face tries to decide whether it should pale in shock or flush in embarrassment. "W-W-Wait!" you stammer harder, waving your hands in front of you in a panic, realizing what has just happened. "Not yet!"

It's Wendy's turn to blink, and for the first time ever, she looks almost insecure. Not awkward in the way she was when she thanked you for saving her from a wyvern some time after Roldharen, but momentarily brittle. "Not yet?"

Caught even more off-guard by Wendy's expression, you fidget nervously - perhaps even a bit guiltily - as you try to recover from your surprise. "I-I-I mean...!" you squeak, trying to force out words, preferably in an order that makes sense. It's not quite working.

Thankfully, Wendy's shoulders slump a little, and she gives a small grimace that somehow almost qualifies as a smile. "Sorry, it's a bit out of the blue," she admits quietly. "It was a bit easier blurting it out, I guess."

"O-Oh," you finally allow rather pathetically when you've finally caught up with where the conversation actually is right now. At least you're not quite fidgeting or flailing your arms anymore.

Because it's time for Wendy to fidget a little, although at least she's not flailing her arms like you did. "I've...kind of wanted to do this a long time ago, I guess. After Roldharen. After..." she looks around awkwardly, makes a face, sighs, "...you know. It was easier putting it off, though. Thinking the time wasn't right. That you'd say no. Wondering if you hate me."

"I-I-I don't hate you!" you're quick to panickedly interject.

Wendy awkwardly gives one of her small grimace-smiles again. You wonder if that's just how she always smiles. "That's a relief. Pen is...Penelope, I mean. She wanted to tell you she was sorry about...well, before."

"Oh. Th-Thank you."

And a moment of silence reigns, as the two of you fall quiet and desperately think of something to say to fill the gap. It is almost deathly silent; compared to the liveliness that often characterizes an academy full of more than a hundred apprentices, the somber atmosphere means that more and more are staying in their rooms in quiet contemplation. You hope things won't stay like this, especially after summer vacation when everyone comes back for the second year.

It is Wendy who first speaks after several painfully long moments wherein both of you are pretending you're still trying to catch your breath from sparring. "Nothing, uh, embarrassing happened, right?"

"Embarrassing?"

"When I almost got killed by a wyvern." And when you tilt your head slightly to the side in confusion, Wendy looks mildly unhappy as she mumbles, "I didn't have a boob hanging out or anything, did I?"

You immediately flush red once more. "Y-Y-You didn't!" you insist, flailing your hands in front of you once more in a warding, denying gesture. Then, as an afterthought, you add much more hurriedly, "I-I mean, I wasn't l-l-looking!"

It does occur to you that Wendy doesn't really have much of a chest for anything to "hang out". It also occurs to you that perhaps it is not the wisest option to point that out, even if you mean it as a word of comfort.

Wendy makes a face that doesn't really telegraph relief or frustration. "Pen keeps teasing me about it," she scowls, although not really in an excessively hostile manner. "And I keep asking if she's just joking, but I can't get a straight answer out of the bitch." She grimaces once more for a moment before her shoulders slump and relax, and she exhales deeply with an almost apologetic look. "Sorry, I'm kind of avoiding the topic because it's embarrassing." She pauses, thinks about it for a moment, then mumbles, "And I'm avoiding it with an even more embarrassing topic." Sighing once more, Wendy fidgets a little before attempting to speak as clearly as possible, which somehow ends up sounding like even more mumbling, "I think you're okay. I'm sorry I'm late about this." She does her best to master her expression and self-consciously sticks a hand out in your direction in a manner that suggests this is not a ritual she's particularly familiar with. "I'd like to be friends with you."

In spite - or because - of everything that has happened, it's difficult to refuse Wendy when she's trying so hard to be earnest. With almost equal awkwardness, you reach out gingerly to take her hand. "I'd be h-happy to be your friend," you say with a bit of a smile.

There is a shaking of hands. "Don't send me flying five meters with the stick again, though."

"F-Four."

Wendy rolls her eyes a little, although it doesn't seem actively disdainful; whereas Penelope always seems constantly angry, Wendy tends to gravitate towards mild dry annoyance. "You know, I was going to pick the lance."

"Oh." You wouldn't have been able to tell, seeing how Wendy has kept the same spear she always had instead of anything that looks particularly different. You suppose your initial assumption that you have progressed faster than Wendy is misfounded, even if it's something your mind didn't really dwell on. "H-Has your instructor offered you specialized weapons?"

"Yeah. It was the lance, the glaive, or halberd." She smirks wryly at you. "And I thought really hard about using that lance to ignore your ridiculous weapon."

"Oh." Then, holding your practice buster sword a little defensively, you mutter, "I-It's not ridiculous."

"I would've been able to hit you well before you can come close to me with your door-on-a-stick. But then I wouldn't have been able to use the lance in a city or in the woods or whatever." She shrugs, and that wry look returns to her face. You suspect you'll be seeing a lot of that in the future. "Congratulations for making me think this hard."

"U-Um." You shrug helplessly, not sure exactly how to properly respond to Wendy given her tone and body language. It's hard to tell whether she's complaining or complimenting you. "Thank...you?

"I can still beat you with this spear, though."

You make a bit of a face. "...Sometimes."

Wendy actually chuckles a little at that, and you find yourself smiling a little in spite of yourself. You would never have thought that you'd respond so openly to a challenge...or at least as openly as you'd ever allow yourself to. But then again, Wendy has been sparring you and cheating for so long now that you feel like it's entirely appropriate.

Probably. Mostly.

"So," the human finally notes as she looks you up and down, as if trying to discern something. "You're a village girl, aren't you?"

"Y-Yes," you acknowledge, blinking in mild surprise. "How did you guess?"

The human lancer gives a small smirk. "It's really not hard to tell."

You try not to make a face; you never fancied yourself as mysterious like how Stephanie and Sieglinde are, but it still stings a little - even for you - to learn that you have about as much mystique as an open children's book. "How s-so?"

"Well, you don't talk weird like a real dryad, like the ones at Roldharen," Wendy explains, and again you're not sure whether she's trying to mock you or praise you or somewhere in between, "but your sort don't really go for cities much, right? You don't talk like it and you definitely don't dress or act like it either, not like...Mia or Vesna or Nikki. But you're not much like the farmgirls either. Becky and Pisha and Ashlyn always have this kind of...squirrely thing where they don't want to look anyone even a little bit posh in the eye and they sound at least twice as hickish as you do. So: Village girl."

"...Oh." You are still not entirely sure how to respond to Wendy's reasoning, and are left to suppose that the human probably isn't someone who tries to alienate new friends literally minutes after making them. "I...th-think I used to, um. 'Talk weird'. I th-think my friends said I sounded too p-polite."

Wendy's brow creases in slight puzzlement. Or perhaps even amazement. "You don't sound too polite now?"

Taking a few awkward silent moments to find that you don't have a good response to that, you instead change the subject, "Wh-Where are you from?"

"Arkenvale," Wendy names the regional capital of Apaloft, "where five people have six opinions."

"Really?"

For a moment, Wendy regards you in a droll manner. "Yes, Neianne," she says dryly, "believe it or not, I'm really from Arkenvale, even if I'm not posh enough for the largest city in Apaloft where the countess is."

"N-N-No, I m-mean!" you panickedly clarify, suddenly horrified that you may have offended Wendy by accident. "Do f-five people really have s-six opinions?"

"Probably more. We're where House Celestia is, so everyone has at least a few opinions on politics. People will sit down together, get roaring drunk, argue about what the countess and her minions are going to do next, and then get into fistfights when someone says someone else's guess is a load of..." she looks at you, trails off, then decides that you are - after all - "too polite", and mumbles, "...well, you know."

"Oh." That does, after all, seem to be the only real response to give. You've been to Arkenvale once, but that was years ago, and you don't quite remember how the people were like. And certainly not people like Wendy; your parents never would've allowed it. "Do you like it there?"

Wendy makes a face, and you can tell that she has complicated feelings on the matter and is not entirely sure how whether or not she's glad you asked. Which, of course, makes you regret that you asked it. "It's...not exactly great," she finally allows after a moment of conflicted thought. "I mean, it's not all bad. I probably shouldn't complain." That doesn't stop you from getting the feeling that she does want to complain. "Although again..." she shrugs, and gives a smirk that seems just as complicated as before, "...I'm here, aren't I?"

The two of you end up sparring some more, making a bit more inconsequential small talk, and then eventually part ways warmly, or at least as warmly as someone like Wendy permits. But when you have a moment to flop onto your bed to rest your muscles and wait for dinner, it occurs to you that many of your friends are largely satisfied as to where they are in life. Melanie and Vesna and Mia seem largely happy being daughters of merchants. Emilie and Nikki seem happy being freeholders. Sieglinde and - to some extent - Elizabeth seem critical - again, to some extent - with their lot in life, but you don't get the feeling that they're entirely unhappy with it. And if you really think about it, if you consider why you even came here in the first place, you realize you're happy being the daughter of a humble freeholder family as well.

But it's perhaps at some point as you stare at the ceiling in your bedroom that you come to understand that Wendy isn't. And although that may be the most enlightening thing you've come to learn about the mousy human girl with a spear - more so than anything else that you've come to learn about her ever since you saw her help spill soup on Elizabeth - you also realize that you have no idea what to think about it.

And you're not sure whether it says more about Wendy...or about you.

 

[Kei]

A little late, but.

Cuts off

Click to shrink...

Edited:

Technically, her spear is longer, but she understandably doesn't want to take full advantage of this by closing into a distance where she's more likely to be hit by, at least as she once bitterly described it, "a bed masquerading as a sword".

Click to shrink...

Other stuff fixed too, thanks~

Now, if you don't mind:

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Once again, thanks to @Lazy Minx for commissioning more artwork (again), and thanks to @Sinkquattro for the art~ Please check out their profile on the SV Artist's Registry and their Tumblr~

Now, if you would excuse me.

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[Kei]

Elizabeth in more formal wear compared to her usual "I'm lazing around" sundress.



im serious the amount of art @Lazy Minx is commissioning for me without me even asking is reaching super guilty levels

Thanks once again to Soojin Paek for accepting the commission. Please check out her Tumblr and her Twitter.

I want to try to get the next update out within the next few hours. There may or may not also be an omake in the works.

 

[Kei]

so i cheated a bit

---

[x] Elizabeth Irivich Zabanya
[x] Stephanie

It takes more than two weeks for your squad to finally loosely decide that all of you need to talk about squad tactics in much greater detail at some point, preferably soon.

It's not that apprentices haven't taken tactics classes; every single apprentice has, even though some are clearly better at it than others. But the fundamental point - as made clear more than two weeks ago - is that Squad Four has never fought together before until the night the Squirrels attacked, and translating theory to practice without ever even having discussed theory with your squadmates in the middle of your first real battle was...difficult, as it turned out.

So it is on an afternoon that you and Stephanie decide that now - on a weekend and with little better to do other than wallow under the oppressive atmosphere of a traumatized community - is as good a time as ever to step out of your shared dorm room and pay Sieglinde and Elizabeth a visit.

Except almost immediately, you see two things: That Elizabeth is currently standing in the hallway right outside her room, leaning against the wall with an expression that hints at mild impatience and irritation; and that that the door to the room she shares with Sieglinde is half-open.

As you helplessly approach despite suddenly not very much wanting to, you are consumed by the fear that Sieglinde and Elizabeth have fought, and that the West Wing is about a minute from transforming into a massive pile of rubble with everyone still inside.

But as you approach Elizabeth - or more precisely, the door she is standing next to - she reaches out and grabs your forearm, stopping you. Her grip is actually surprisingly gentle, but it may as well have been vice-like for all you attempt to struggle out of it. "L-Lady Zabanya?" you stammer, wide-eyed, when you realize that quiet, hushed, but agitated voices are coming out from inside the room. At this angle, you barely managing to see two figures talking to each other inside: An adult woman you don't recognize, who wears the garb of a noblewoman, and Sieglinde who only betrays hints of frustration on her features yet is still the most upset you've ever seen her.

Elizabeth starts walking whence you came, walking towards the staircase at the end of the corridor. She barely exerts any force on your forearm, but you somehow feel yourself being pulled along as she casually suggests, "Let's go for a little walk downstairs."

You vaguely sense Stephanie catching up with the two of you after a moment of hesitation. "Lady Ravenhill..." she starts.

"Ravenhill is busy."

"W-Was that...?" you nervously ask.

"Ravenhill's mother," Elizabeth confirms. "Her visit was rather discreet, all things considered."

"They don't really look alike," Stephanie observes.

"She takes after her father."

"Is something wrong?"

"She's being summoned back to Arcaster."

"What?" you and Stephanie exclaim at the same time, freezing up in the hallway and find yourselves looking back down the corridor to make sure the two of you weren't overheard by the two Ravenhills in Elizabeth's dorm room after a moment of shock.

"Yes," smirks Elizabeth, not bothering to stop or even slow down in her stride, and you and Stephanie have to catch back up, "it turns out her parents were never entirely happy that she chose to come to Faulkren instead of Llyneyth, first among equals and closer to home."

"She c-can't just leave!" you protest. Whatever else, Sieglinde is probably the person closest to you in the academy and - perhaps just as importantly - a member of your squad. You've already lost fellow apprentices here at Faulkren; you don't know what you'd do if Sieglinde left as well.

"Oh?" laughs Elizabeth, grinning at you the way a smug older sister would at a foolish younger sister after a particularly ill-conceived bit of mischief backfired spectacularly. "And what are you going to do? Charge in with your buster sword and scare off Ravenhill's mother with it?"

The thought of even possibly threatening a noblewoman with bodily harm - especially with a buster sword as large as yours - sends you into a panic: "I-I..."

"Neither of you can help," Elizabeth waves a hand over her shoulder dismissively as she and Stephanie reach the top of the stairs, and you have to catch up from where you've frozen up behind them. "Let it go. Whatever else, Ravenhill's putting up a decent fight. Don't go in there and ruin it."

You hesitantly look back towards Sieglinde's room, but after a moment, you reluctantly chase Stephanie and Elizabeth down the stairs towards the common area.

Of course, your alacrity quickly comes to an end as you reach the bottom of the stairs...and find in front of you - sitting on a couch in the common area with a somewhat impatient and frustrated expression on her face, muted as it is - Headmistress Cornelia Rastangard.

"H-Headmistress Rastangard," you stammer, bowing your head slightly. Stephanie, too, politely murmurs "headmistress" in greeting.

Rastangard looks up at the three of you and nods in acknowledgement, mastering her expression: "Girls." Then she swivels her head towards Elizabeth and asks, "How is it?"

"Ravenhill is being stubborn," the tiny elven mage says. You suppose you aren't surprised that the headmistress herself is waiting here for whatever conclusion comes out from upstairs. Not only is a lady of House Ravenhill here, but she risks losing one of her three prodigies here at Faulkren.

"Which one?" inquires Rastangard.

You don't actually turn to look as your stomach drops and your blood momentarily freezes in your veins, but you're almost sure that Elizabeth is smirking when she answers, "Yes."

That look of mild annoyance - the kind an aunt might have with a particularly cheeky niece - returns to Rastangard's face as she rolls her eyes and mutters, "Get out of my face."

You quickly flee the immediate area with Stephanie, and find yourself entirely unsurprised as Elizabeth leisurely strolls towards you in the center of the common area with a big grin on her face.

"Come on," she declares when she finally catches up with the two of you, gesturing to a constellation of couches arranged around a tea table, "let's have a game of chess." Conveniently, there are already two chessboards on the table, albeit with scattered pieces; someone probably abandoned a game midway. "I'll play a game with both of you each simultaneously. You do know how to play, yes?"

Stephanie hesitates, clearly not sure she wants to play a game with Elizabeth, but she allows, "I'm not good at it, but...yes."

"I kn-know the rules," you answer. Indeed, you were taught the rules of chess as a child back in your village school, but you doubt that your schoolteacher really actually knew how to play either.

Elizabeth shrugs in a manner not unlike a girl being presented with chocolate that she doesn't particularly like but doesn't particularly dislike either. "Good enough. Sit."

BGM: Final Fantasy XII - Sorrow: Resistance

You are the slowest to set up your side of the board as you sit beside Stephanie. Your aseri roommate is the first to finish, although Elizabeth - on the other side - is done mere seconds after the aseri, and she was setting up two separate boards in vaguely lethargic motions. Fortunately, you don't take that much longer, although there is an embarrassing moment where Elizabeth has to point out that you put your marshall and champion pieces in reverse.

"I'm guessing we're not having our squad tactics discussion today," Stephanie speculates as the two games begin, and because she moves one of her lances forward by two spaces, you do the same.

"Until such a time that we are sure Ravenhill's staying," responds Elizabeth, "I am not about to waste my time." Noticing that you looked at Stephanie's board and perhaps just to mess with the two of you, Elizabeth moves her identical lance on both boards two spaces forward as well. "I assume the two of you are staying, given the absence of parents of packed bags."

"I am."

"S-Same," you quickly stammer when you realize that Elizabeth is looking expectantly at you for an answer.

"Good," Elizabeth smiles sweetly. "Having to deal with new squadmates would be a massive pain."

Stephanie looks like she's trying to withhold a sigh as her second paladin moves forward on the board. Their game is progressing fast enough that the first line of lances are advancing and the major pieces are slowly moving up offensively. "You don't really care that much about whether or not Lady Ravenhill leaves, do you?"

Elizabeth tilts her head slightly to the side in an almost angelically childish gesture. "What could possibly make you believe so?"

"Have you actually seen people who have lost roommates?"

Elizabeth pauses for a moment, and for just that moment, you think that Stephanie may have hit a nerve, or at least forced Elizabeth to reconsider. This moment ends when you realize she's just looking at Stephanie's board in contemplation, and quickly moves her mage out from her corner of that board before quickly moving her paladin behind a formation of lances on your board. Then she looks back at Stephanie with an amused expression. "Ravenhill isn't lost yet."

Stephanie sighs. "Never mind. Forget I asked."

And, for a long moment, it seems like that's just how the conversation is going to end, even after Stephanie moves her champion close to the midboard in a somewhat aggressive move, only for Elizabeth to move her skirmisher in a flanking position in what seems like a surprisingly balanced play, before returning to your own game and advancing her own paladin to the midboard.

Except you aren't really thinking about chess at the moment. Gulping, you muster your courage before murmuring just loud enough for the other two to hear, "I...I-I think Lady Zabanya cares." Then, blushing furiously as you realize that both of your present squadmates are staring at you in surprise, you stammer, "A-About Sieglinde, I mean." You are, after all, thinking about that night you walked with Elizabeth to Faulkren for Midwinter's Feast. "I think she respects her."

You don't really peg Elizabeth as someone who would compliment another person she doesn't like. She may have coated the point with a conversation about how "genius deserves respect", but it doesn't really change the fact that the respect is there. It doesn't really change that Elizabeth dragged you and Stephanie away from her door, pulling both of you into a chess game, because Sieglinde is "putting up a decent fight". Her actions - in all the months before and just today alone - don't really lend to an impression that deep down, Elizabeth just doesn't care about Sieglinde leaving. And you realize it bothers you, a little, seeing Stephanie having the wrong idea.

The elf in question seems genuinely surprised for a slightly longer moment that you would've otherwise expected, staring at you with a curiously blank expression. Then she giggles, and you feel like the hair on your skin stands on end slightly. "Oh, Neianne," she beams. Whether she appreciates you coming to her defense at all isn't entirely clear. "If you keep telling other people about me, you're going to strip away all my mystique."

"I-I'm sorry," you squeak. You wonder if you should have bothered to open your mouth at all.

Elizabeth shrugs, not really caring to either acknowledge or discourage your apology. Instead, she taps you chessboard as if to remind you to make your move before turning to Stephanie. "Still, I suppose I'm doing better than Fluffy and Mysterious."

The aseri in question blinks, her muted surprise towards you transforming into muted surprise towards the elven mage. "Is that supposed to be me?"

"Part of being mysterious is knowing when to lead the curious along." Elizabeth and Stephanie have both taken two of each other's pieces thus far, but even a quick glance at the board shows that, even to your inexpert eyes, Elizabeth's side of the board is clearly better developed, her pieces moving out to support one another with an almost mathematical grace, the purpose of some moves only becoming clear a turn or two after the fact. "If you're just being evasive when it's obvious you have a secret, you're just being boring."

She hides it well, but months of being her roommate tells you that Stephanie is probably trying to suppress a sigh. "Maybe I like being boring. Maybe I don't actually have a secret. Maybe there's nothing to be evasive about."

The tiny elf rolls her eyes. "It was cute for maybe the first half year, but you're not exactly convincing anyone." She glances towards you, and a mischievous smile graces her face as she asks, "Isn't that right, Neianne?"

"U-Um." Squeaking again upon realizing that attention has turned to you once more - and on a subject you certainly feel conflicted about. Stephanie is your roommate and yet you know little about her. The fact that Stephanie herself seems to like it that way makes you both disinclined to pry...but also deeply curious. And, you have to admit, a little bit hurt. You look between your two squadmates with a conflicted expression. "I...d-don't know," you finally admit, fidgeting and glancing at your chessboard for a moment longer than is really necessary. Then, understanding that you're really just avoiding the topic, you glance hesitantly at Stephanie before finally murmuring, "I...want to r-respect Stephanie's privacy."

Stephanie's shoulders sag in relief, and it's only then that you realize she had been tensed for your reaction. She gives you a nod of respect, if not gratitude. Elizabeth, for her part, scoffs a little and makes a wry smile, shrugging her shoulders and saying, "Have it your way."

In spite of that almost ominous last line that Elizabeth lets the topic go, and the conversation largely continues unabated. For a while, topics come and go, from hobbies that you share - you even bring up Elizabeth's singing, to which the elf in question seems amused by - to the topic of deserts - which Stephanie and Elizabeth seem to have a greater affinity for. Yet you somehow can't help but feel that the conversation - to a degree - is performative, with the three of you dancing around topics in a manner that almost seems like you're avoiding the two subjects that matter the most right now: The Squirrel attack on Faulkren and the possibility that Sieglinde may very well leave the academy.

You're trying your best, but somehow, this squad conversation - one that already includes Elizabeth - feels even more awkward and forced than usual.

It really doesn't help that the degree to which you're losing in your chess game is evident to anyone with even a passing familiarity with the rules. Although her playstyle has ended up being far more measured and far less aggressive than you otherwise would've thought, Elizabeth has already taken twice the number of pieces you have, and has advanced far into your half of the board. Her moves are almost painstakingly methodical, but that doesn't change the fact that she is pulverizing you with little mercy. She is very much not a chess player who toys around with a weaker opponent, and seems almost single-mindedly intent on crushing you, a player who barely remembers the rules of the game and had no chance of victory to begin with. It's more than a little frustrating, not only because you're losing so badly, but also because you're fundamentally not learning anything from this game other than how wide the gulf is between you and Elizabeth, at least in terms of chess.

Sometimes, it feels like Elizabeth is a passable teacher in some ways and a horrible one in others. Or she's not remotely inclined to teach you how to get better at chess. Then again, you haven't asked her to. And, you suppose, everyone blows off steam in different ways, and there are certainly...less desirable ways that Elizabeth Irvich Zabanya could be doing so than making you look stupid at chess.

The conversation has just turned to the matter of a reduction in the services provided by the academy staff when - out of the corner of your vision - you see Headmistress Rastangard suddenly rise impatiently from her couch, and the conversation swiftly dies - at least because you and Stephanie instantly stop talking - as eyes track the headmistress stomping her way up the staircase, eventually disappearing from sight.

Elizabeth, who only barely acknowledged this with a glance, smirked, remarking with just a bit of a drawl, "This should be good."

You are not sure a potential confrontation between Headmistress Rastangard and a lady of a viscomital can be described as "good". "W-Will they be alright?" you ask in a nervous, furtive voice, as if the headmistress is actually waiting atop the flight of stairs, listening to anything you may have to say about her departure.

But the elven mage merely shrugs as she takes your last cavalier, ignoring your dismayed pout as she slides over back to Stephanie's board. "Rastangard isn't so foolish as to do anything entirely stupid with Ravenhill. And although she outranks her, Ravenhill is far from Arcaster, dealing with the trusted headmistress of Countess Celestia in Apaloft. I suspect it'll be a barbed conversation, nothing more." She repositions her mage from the flank slightly closer to the center as an answer against Stephanie's advancing skirmisher before sitting up slightly in her couch, looking around the common room, and producing a look of mild disappointment as she slides back down against the cushions of her seat. "And you'd think that maid would be here with tea by now, especially with the headmistress here. The service here has truly degraded."

Rather than looking just upset, Stephanie suddenly looks stern - perhaps even a little cold - as if an invisible line has been crossed. "There were injuries amongst the servants," she points out quietly. "Deaths." She advances her cavalier and places it down against the board with just a tiny bit more force than is necessary, but with the common room empty and the academy somberly quiet, it almost sounds loud enough to make you flinch a little.

"Indeed," the elven mage answers. And although she still sounds calm and lazy, there's just something about her - her tone, her expression, her body language - that suggests a degree of quiet reflection that you do not often see coming from her. "Such is the consequence of our weakness. People are maimed and killed, and there is little we can do about it."

Even Stephanie seems at least a little surprised by the answer, sharing a look with you when it seems like Elizabeth is concentrating on the chessboard. As far as the two of you can tell, this is the closest either of you have ever seen her come to regret, or ruefulness, or even guilt. She isn't talking about how other people are weak and thus powerless to change anything; it comes with the qualifier of "we", but somehow you get the feeling that she's talking about her own weakness rather than just the other apprentices of Faulkren Academy, or perhaps even the confederacy.

But then Elizabeth sighs in an almost content manner as she slides a skirmisher closer to the center and kicks back against her couch. "And, of course, some of them are leaving," she concludes. "This includes the maid who usually serves me tea, now that I think about it. There's no helping cowardice, I suppose."

Stephanie sighs in a manner not unlike someone who has witnessed something unpleasant but is not really surprised by it anymore. "You don't care about people very much, do you? Especially those of lesser means."

"You are making a lot of assumptions today. Praytell, what makes you think I don't have her best interests at heart?" Elizabeth's tone is almost gently mocking. "The maid leaves now, but do you think she'd rather be in town when the Tenereian armies arrive at our doorstep, or here, behind stone walls, a few dozen Caldran mercenaries, and more than a hundred apprentices?"

Stephanie makes a face as she realizes she doesn't have a good answer to that. Nor do you, not really. Certainly, you understand why people might want to leave after the academy was so brazenly attacked, but...where else, exactly, is "safe"? It's not like Faulkren and Invermere hadn't been attacked. If it could happen here, there it can happen anywhere else. In a manner of speaking, the academy is perhaps the safest place for kilometers.

Not that Stephanie wants to admit as such, so she merely holds her silence with a tired glare.

But Elizabeth is already shrugging and moving on in the conversation. "As you can see, I do think for her," she smiles, staring down at her boards...rather curiously, as if contemplating her next move for the first time since you've started. "Besides, she had a nice butt." She slowly moves her champion up to flank the formation on your left with a tenderness in her motions that cannot be attributed to her usual lethargy alone. "I...should have grabbed it, at least once," she adds, almost wistfully.

You and Stephanie exchange a startled glance. "The...tall human girl?" you ask, face coloring at how frank she's being. And also at how your first thought was to go down your mental list of maids who have a cute butt.

"With the dark hair and bangs?" Stephanie adds, her face less flushed but her eyes no less wide. "Who serves table?"

You recall that she was the one at your table during meals, almost unfailingly. You hadn't thought to make anything of that before now.

"She also tidied the library," Elizabeth confirms. She tilts her head, as if lost in vaguely pleasant memory. "Her chest was nicely shaped too."

"So, you're sure it was the battle that chased her off?" Stephanie asks. "Because if you were staring..." Which is as far as she gets, because there is a small crackling as Elizabeth leans over the table, and Stephanie yelps almost exactly at the same time as if poked by a needle. "Since when is it allowed in the rules to shock your opponent?" Stephanie rubs at a fattened eartip gingerly.

"It's allowed when she's being a brat," Elizabeth says, moving a piece in both games. "And believe me, that wasn't a shock. If I ever shock you, you won't be talking back about it." She leans back in her couch again, looking almost a little sullen at Stephanie's "joke"...but then she shrugs, and then that angelic, lazy, carefree smile easily returns to her lips once more. "Oh, well. What's done is done. If she's leaving, there's little else to think about."

"Why do you keep d-doing that?" you suddenly demand without really thinking about it, without really considering the consequences, and there must be something in your tone that causes Stephanie and Elizabeth to suddenly stare at you in surprise. Most of the time, this is your cue to realize you're speaking out of turn and clam up, but there's just something about Elizabeth that always feels aggravating to you from time to time. "You keep t-trying to seem like you don't care, b-but you do. It's a-alright to say that you're sad if p-people go and you'll miss them."

Unlike you, Elizabeth doesn't exchange glances with Stephanie, whereas the aseri furtively casts an anxious glance at the elf's temporarily unreadable expression. You are hardly a great reader of hidden emotions, but the fact that you can't tell what Elizabeth is thinking with regards to your outburst definitely makes you nervous, with the thoughts about possible consequences finally catching up with you, far too late to stop you from saying anything...

...At least until Elizabeth suddenly starts giggling.

You and Stephanie exchange nervous glances as the tiny elf doesn't just giggle, she hugs her stomach and almost starts kicking her legs, so apparently hilarious did she find your statement. It takes her a moment or two to finally master herself, and there's a rather wide grin on her lips as she looks at you and shakes her head. "You are giving a lot of tongue today, aren't you?" she laughs in a manner that somehow reminds you of ringing porcelain. "You are so very sweet."

You try to find something coherent to say, but you're mostly reduced to looking at Stephanie futilely for help and nervously stammering, "I-I-I..."

"And it's nice to see you finally speaking up more often, even if you're so often wrong. I don't care about people very much, but persons. Especially interesting ones." The tiny elf looks directly at you and her gaze lingers for a moment, for some reason. "There's a difference." Then Elizabeth moves her champion, and as she slides over to Stephanie's board, you slowly realize that you've been checkmated. As you sulkily pout once more at your misfortune, Elizabeth smiles at Stephanie, and there's just something about it that seems a lot less endearing than the one she gave you just now. "I suppose that answers your questions, doesn't it? I hardly hold those of lesser means in disdain, merely those who insist on making stupid decisions."

"I suppose it's you who gets to decide what's stupid and what's not," Stephanie mutters.

"I...think she l-liked you too," you offer, relatively quick in your attempt to interject this time, changing the topic. You pretend that all you're doing is calmly watching the game, too; the aseri is putting up a much better show than you are, achieving a degree of parity with the elf, but to your unpracticed eye, the elf is slowly pushing her advantage, prioritizing neither positioning nor the taking of pieces. It's almost as if Elizabeth's playstyle - a contrast to her usual seemingly nonchalant personality - embraces a balanced technical approach. "I-I mean...now that I think of it, sh-she always served your tea first. And w-was in the library when you were."

Elizabeth scoffs in an almost dismissive manner, but some of that amusement returns to her tone in a way that was absent when she was talking with Stephanie. "'Like' is a rather strong word, isn't it?" She shrugs and smirks. "Watching you make these assumptions is amusing. Either way, she's leaving. That's her choice, whether or not it's the wisest one to make. Common girls don't often survive bad decisions. Nor do they often get many second chances."

"I wonder why," Stephanie asks; her tone is even, but it's clear she means it sarcastically.

Matching her squadmate with a roll of her eyes, the elf snaps, "Because they're of lesser means. Because they often do not recover from poor decisions. Because there are too many hurdles they must overcome." She smirks a little, but it's clear that she's not being as patient as before...not that it's being reflected in her playstyle, which remains as balanced as ever. This does terrify you a bit even as you struggle not to shrink back a little. "Is that what you wish to tell me, Stephanie?"

"I haven't said anything," the aseri says coolly, neutrally, deliberately, slowly.

"Pray do not say such, then. Until you change how the world works, you can only make do with how the world is. I've heard enough prattle from the likes of Celestia and Penelope for a lifetime, and you don't see either changing the world. How would you like Penelope as a squad leader?"

Stephanie makes the slightest of faces, as if the very thought of it hurts her brain. "Does it have to be Penelope?"

"And just who are you trying to convince, anyways?"

This catches your roommate off-guard as she tilts her head slightly to the side. "Pardon?"

The elf leans forward in a way that - for just the tiniest of moments - makes you terrified for the aseri, but Elizabeth mostly lazily stares at Stephanie for a moment, as if studying her squadmate for the first time in a way that makes Stephanie shift uncomfortably under the gaze. "You're not the kind of evangelize. Nor are your arguments anything but the typical dreck. It's not even rehashed." She tilts her head slightly in your direction. "I'd be surprised if Neianne is particularly taken by your arguments."

A little surprised and alarmed at suddenly being dragged into this conversation, you stammer,"M-Me? I-I'm..."

But Elizabeth doesn't actually seem to intend to drag you into the conversation after all as she continues on, causing your lips to snap shut the moment she leans back against her couch and speaks again. "I have, at times, thought about whether or not to figure you out. How you're all over the place when it comes to describing your thoughts." She grins. "You didn't make it easy, seeing how little you've ever offered. But maybe that's why what little you have seems so jarringly mismatched, jumping from one thought to another. Where was this fervor, I wonder, when you were complaining about the likes of Penelope taking out vengeance by proxy on you? Or when you were so very worried about Neianne having eavesdropped on Rastangard about the Squirrels?"

Again, Stephanie's expression and tone is carefully mastered as she moves her remaining skirmisher in a defensive manner, completing a loose retaliatory formation around her marshall. "People change."

"Or maybe you didn't have much to begin with." Her smile is still there, but Elizabeth's eyes narrow a bit. "So, really, who do you think you're really serving with comments like that? Who are you really trying to convince?"

To her credit, Stephanie is impressively impassive as she simply considers the chessboard, even though her ears and tail barely hint at least a bit of agitation. "You, perhaps," she shrugs. "The...Spring knows I try."

For a moment, the elf raises an eyebrow at the aseri, regarding her in a skeptical, unimpressed manner. But then she shrugs, and that easy, lazy smile comes back to her lips. "I suppose you're more amusing than you're interesting, at least," she concedes, moving her paladin in an aggressive, threatening advance. "Check."

Your roommate lasts a few more turns as she tries to salvage the situation, but it is perhaps unsurprising when she is checkmated a few turns later.

---

The good news, at least, is that by the time day turns to night, Sieglinde confirms - much to the relief of the rest of the squad - that she'll be staying in Faulkren, at least for now.

You're still no closer to having that discussion on squad tactics, though.

---

holy crap im not dead yet from sheer utter uselessness

i will fill in bgm stuff for this update and the last update soon seriously

 

[Kei]

[x] Lucille Lorraine Celestia
[x] Melanie Aster

The days pass, and sure enough, even before the shock of the attack on the academy fully abates, spring is here in full force, and despite reluctance from some of the apprentices, the instructors forcefully rouse all of you from a pall that frankly has not yet fully lifted, given the somber quiet that rests through the academy, a stark contrast to the days of chatter and laughter and steel.

Some have adapted well, behaving - or at least trying to behave - as if nothing had ever happened, those such as Aphelia and Mia. Others seem to have taken whatever lesson they've learned from the attack to heart, as if the attack was an epiphany on exactly what is at stake, working harder in their training and academics, including Azalea and Vesna. Yet for others still, the entire episode might have been close to the straw that broke the camel's back...or perhaps one that did, for whom the trauma seems to have played havoc on their spirit, translating to an inability to concentrate or apply themselves. Gossip and rumors of who may or may not be leaving - apprentices traumatized by death and destruction - refuses to disappear.

And really, how immune are you to its effects? Watching sadly at apprentices at mealtimes, slower and quieter than you remembered compared to Midwinter's Feast? Carpenters from Arkenvale arrived mere days after Countess Celestia left to repair the damage done to the academy, but every now and then, you see a scar from the battle - places where the coloration of new wooden beams are different, places where whitestone still bears scars of steel and magecraft - and there's just something that twists in your head, as if your thoughts are wrought by anger into red-hot knots, and you end up needing a minute to calm yourself down, to inhale and exhale deeply so the moment passes.

The academic year will end soon, and maybe after everyone has been able to go home - surrounded by family and friends - everyone will be able to return in high spirits once more, and things will be as if the attack never happened. You can only try to move past this anger...and hope that everyone else does as well.

These are not days that you will likely forget anytime soon.

At least, that's what you think, sinking into a deep reverie. But then you crash into something, yelping as you tumble backwards at a hallway intersection, and suddenly you aren't thinking very much anymore.

"I-I'm sorry!" you say almost reflexively, looking up hurriedly to see whom you crashed into; given the sound in front of you, it seems likely that you managed to knock someone over as well.

Of course, due to the fact that the two of you said it together, you almost miss the fact that Melanie Aster, too, is apologizing to you from where she landed on the ground, the white-haired aseri looking at you wide-eyed and guilty.

It occurs to you that you may as well have been looking at a mirror, putting aside the fact that she's an aseri and white-haired and taller than you and dressed differently.

Melanie rises to her feet first, of course - limber and svelte as she is - and quickly extends a hand to pull you up. You take it gratefully, even as she quietly stammers, "A-A-Are you alright?"

"Y-Yes," you answer, dusting yourself off now that you're back on your feet, feeling embarrassed. "Thank you. I-I mean, sorry."

"It's I who must a-apologize. There is...m-much on my mind."

"I would s-say the same." You pause, and when you next speak, there must be something about the inflection of your words that's different - perhaps as it should be - because Melanie suddenly seems more melancholy when you ask, "A-Are you alright?"

There is a noticeably longer version of hesitation when the white-haired aseri processes this question. It's only after that long moment passes that she smiles awkwardly - almost apologetically - as she murmurs, "M-Maybe I should think harder about my th-thoughts."

"Oh. D-Do you want to talk about it?"

Again, Melanie takes a moment to think. "I th-think I shall hold for now," she gives a small awkward smile. "Th-Thank you."

You nod respectfully, although deep down you wonder whether this means Melanie doesn't trust you enough yet. "Are you d-doing anything?" you ask, partly to distract yourself from such thoughts.

"O-Oh, I...th-thought to visit Lady Celestia." She fidgets with mild discomfort. "She's...b-been under much pressure lately. Because of..." Melanie's shoulders slump just a hair, "...y-you know."

Given your encounter with Lucille not so terribly long ago in the restrooms, you know. Which does give you a bit of motivation as you ask, "M-May I come along?"

Melanie seems surprised by the offer, but after a short moment, she gives a shy little smile. "That would be n-nice, I think. Lady Celestia could u-use the extra company."

And so the two of you end up departing from the main academic building, walking out into the pleasant spring winds of a lazy weekend afternoon. A semblance of normalcy has returned to the academy, even if it had to be forced out by your instructors, and small groups of apprentices are scattered across the courtyard of the academy, some of them merely in transit, others - more than you saw when you sparred with Wendy some time ago - training with their practice weapons while two instructors watch on.

"H-How is your squad?" Melanie asks you as you walk the length of the courtyard back to the West Wing. Perhaps she was reminded that Squad Four, too, spends your nights at your destination.

"Oh," you say after a moment of surprised blinking. "Th-They're alright." It's hard to imagine people like Sieglinde and Elizabeth not being alright. "A-And yours?"

"A few m-minor injuries." Melanie pauses before giving a tiny, hesitant smile, as if wary that she may be jinxing her squad. "W-We'll make it."

"I d-didn't see you during the f-fighting. Did your squad have things v-very bad?" You wonder if you should be asking such things, as soon as they leave your mouth, here on this nice day, on your way to help someone still struggling with memories of the fighting. And from the brief, complicated, almost unreadable expression that crosses Melanie's face - relief, panic, and perhaps something else - you think, for a moment, that you made the wrong decision.

But that expression passes quickly, and she answers, "Th-there was only one wolf in our wing. And we had warning. M-Mia was awake, for some reason, and sh-sh-she smelled it c-coming and sounded the alarm, so we...it wasn't so b-bad, when the enemy came." You're aware, particularly from her expression, that "not so bad" is something of a massive understatement, given the context, warning or not. "We g-got to the armory f-first, and we were...I-I was..." she falters suddenly, face flushing, "I was...t-too distracted with f-f-fighting to realise that..." She trails off, looking in the direction of the dorms you're walking toward with a troubled expression.

You are courteous enough to wait a moment, but you've long made it past halfway on the way to the West Wing, and Melanie doesn't seem to recall that you're walking right beside her. "Are you o-okay?" you ask, hesitantly touching her on the shoulder. She jumps, slightly, but doesn't pull away.

"I've... " she falters again, taking in a deep breath, "I'm supposed t-t-to be watching out for her, and I was nowhere t-to be found."

A bird chirps on a tree branch overhead, high and cheerful, and you're filled with the absurd impulse to glare at it for being inappropriate and rude. Given the line of Melanie's gaze, it's clear which "she" she's referring to. "She was v-v-very brave," you say, honestly. And she was. The memory of the girls in the bathroom scoffing at Lucille's willingness to put herself between the wolves and her classmates still fills you with a quiet indignation. "I'm sure she d-doesn't blame you." In no small part because, as of the last time she spoke to you, Lucille was too busy blaming herself. Then, hesitantly, "Did...s-someone t-tell you you need to look out f-for her?"

For a moment, Melanie doesn't respond; you wonder if she's just distracted or if she deliberately ignored your question. But a few seconds pass, and then, as if snapped out of her melancholy - or perhaps simply because she has to push through the doors leading into the West Wing - the aseri stammers, "Oh, u-um...my parents. My s-sisters serve Apaloft, o-one way or another, so..." she trails off, awkwardly waving her hand a little, as if suggesting that the conclusion is easy to spell out.

"I-I see," you reply politely, the two of you making your way up the stairs to the dorms. You have a vague understanding of what's going on, at least. One of Melanie's sister is a Caldran mercenary under the Llyneyth warband, the other is the quartermaster for Apaloft's armies in Elspar. Even to you - unpracticed in the finer points of politics - you can at least understand the idea that Melanie's family may want to position her close to another member of House Celestia.

If nothing else, Melanie and Lucille seem close. How much, though - or at least so you wonder - did Melanie have a say in this?

"Th-The two of you seem close, though," you point out, trying to sound encouraging.

Of course, what you really manage to accomplish is making Melanie look shocked as she swivels her head at you, her ears perking up in alarm and her tail suddenly twitching this way and that in agitation. Of course, this makes her nearly trip on the top of the stairs, and you panic a little as you try to arrest her fall; Melanie catches herself instead of sprawling across the second floor carpet, although this does nothing for her composure. "D-D-Do I?" she squeaks, looking a little horrified. "A-Am I too familiar w-with Lady Celestia?"

"N-No, I don't..." you start, waving your hands in front of you in a gesture of denial. But then you realize that's really what it amounts to, denial. Gathering your wits, you slowly - hesitantly - note, "I...d-don't think it's a bad thing?"

Melanie smooths out her hair and clothes as she recovers from her nearly tripping over the top of the staircase. "I'm...n-not supposed to," she finally allows, the two of you moving down the hallway again towards Lucille's room.

You nod quietly, not entirely sure how to react to what seems to be Melanie's rigid sense of propriety. It takes walking down one stretch of the corridor and turning the corner before you quietly point out, "But I th-think she likes your company."

The white-haired aseri fidgets at this. She seems to be in thought, perhaps contemplating how to best reply to you, but any such reply disappears into the aether as the two of your reach Lucille's room, noticing that the door is already open a crack, as if someone has thrown it shut behind them without making sure it latched. You exchange a glance, and you let Melanie take the lead as she cautiously eases the door open, calling out before she enters, "Lady Celestia...?"

There is no answer at first, but as Melanie quietly slips in, the white-haired aseri is abruptly struck by an elf-sized projectile of tears and flying brunette hair. Melanie staggers back, but she keeps her footing even as Lucille bodily hugs her, burying her face in Melanie's shoulder. You can tell, even from this distance, that she's shaking in Melanie's tentative embrace.

"L-L-Lady Celestia?" Melanie stammers in shock, flailing and blushing and squeaking at the same time.

For the moment, however, Lucille is intent on simply holding tight onto Melanie and burying her face into the latter's shoulder. Or chest. It's hard to tell from this angle, and the shock isn't exactly helping. "It's my fault!" she sobs, cringing in Melanie's hug. Or perhaps it was less of a hug and simply how her arms ended up when Lucille barreled into her. "If it wasn't for me, Glenda and Sadie wouldn't be dead, and Erin wouldn't be leaving!"

Melanie blinks, and - for just a moment - she seems surprised enough to at least formulate intelligible words with her lips. "Erin's...l-leaving? D-Didn't Headmistress Rastangard t-talk to her?"

Lucille sniffs audibly. "She's going home tomorrow."

Stiffening a little, Melanie makes to turn around, murmuring, "I-I'll go talk to h-her..."

But Melanie barely completed a half turn when Lucille's hands cling onto her tighter, as if trying to stop her from leaving. "No," she whispers, "please, don't. Please..."

It is at this point that you realize - with Melanie's body turned slightly away - you can see Lucille's tear-stained face through the gap in the door. And it is also at this point that she realizes you are standing behind Melanie, frozen in place by these startling events. For a moment - with a fidgeting Melanie standing helplessly in between you - the two of you exchange disbelieving - and, frankly, embarrassed stares.

"Oh," Lucille finally mumbles after a moment, and she finally lets go of Melanie as she wipes away her tears with her sleeve. Not the moment elegant of gestures, but under the circumstances, it's hard to blame her. "Hello, Neianne." The elf still sounds down, but at least she sounds like she's making an effort to sound as welcoming as possible. Again, difficult to blame her, given the circumstances.

"L-Lady Ce..." you start stuttering, but manage to correct a moment later, "...Lucille." Helplessly looking around awkwardly - as if looking for escape paths down the hallway - you quietly squeak, "Sh-Should I come back l-later...?"

"No, no," Lucille is quick to say between hiccups, "don't, please." She makes a face. "I'm sorry. Do you...want to sit down?"

"Is it...o-okay?"

"Yes, of course," Lucille nods, opening the door wider to admit you inside.

You're not actually sure things are alright, but it's hard to say no now. It doesn't take long for the three of you to settle down in Lucille's room - this time she remembers to close the door - as you and Melanie take the seats while Lucille sits on her bed, hugging her pillow.

None of which, of course, helps the awkward silence that pervades the room for several very long, uncomfortable moments as Lucille works the last sniffs out of her system, leaving you and Melanie as helpless, silent observers.

BGM: Kimi no Na Wa - Theme of Mitsuha

The awkwardness seems almost ready to reach a boiling point when Lucille finally asks in a quiet voice, "So...are you going home?"

It takes you a moment to realize you're the one being addressed. "Y-Yes," you hurriedly stammer. Then, upon realizing what Lucille really means, you splutter, "I-I-I mean, o-only during the summer b-break! I'll come back after!"

For what it's worth, Lucille does look a little relieved at this clarification. "Where do you come from?"

"Do you mean...wh-where I was born? Or where m-my family lives now?"

"What about both?"

"I was b-born in Thionval, and I lived there u-until I was five. Th-Then we moved to Caelon."

"What were they like?" asks Lucille; she actually seems genuinely interested, which surprises you...but also not really. It does seem like a very Lucille-like thing to do.

"I...d-don't remember much about Th-Thionval. But it was...l-larger. In terms of, um, s-space. Everything in villages and towns and c-cities are a bit...c-clustered together. But the commune had m-much more empty space. H-Houses were further from each other. There wasn't much, b-but all of us had more room. M-My parents tell me that dryads prefer more p-privacy."

"Really? I thought we have enough space ourselves. Did that make things difficult when you moved to Caelon?"

"A little. B-But I was young, so it was e-easier for me to adapt. I...think it was a bit more d-difficult for my parents. They kept th-thinking our neighbors were peeking in through our windows."

This makes Lucille smile a little. "Is that why you're so shy? Because everyone kept getting closer to you than you were used to?"

"I-I was always like th-this!" you insist, blushing a little. "And I'm not th-that shy! I think!"

Smiling a bit more, Lucille asks, "Do you miss Thionval?"

"I...m-might've, when we first moved. M-Maybe. But Caelon was...e-exciting." Even now, you remember the sense of wonder you felt as a young child, even if it seems so silly compared to where you are now. "Before, I would only s-see an elven traveler or an a-aseri merchant perhaps once every season. Suddenly, I-I had elven, aseri, a-and human neighbors, just living next door. And it s-stopped feeling strange that their hair was n-naked."

Lucille's eyes widen a little, as if caught by surprise. Melanie, for her part, makes a squeaking sound that is very similar to a high-pitched "um", her hands going up to her hair reflexively.

Looking between Lucille and Melanie, your face rapidly colors. "I j-j-just meant the l-l-leaves! Hair l-l-leaves and fl-flowers! You d-don't have them!"

Lucille looks between the two of you, and for the first time since you've entered her room - for the briefest moment - breaks out into an unconflicted smile as she giggles into her pillow. Your face burns even brighter, but Melanie gives you an oddly grateful look from over Lucille's bowed head.

"That's amazing!" laughs Lucille uncontrollably, kicking her feet as she does so. "So you spent several years thinking Caldrans like us were all lewd!"

"I-It was only for a few months!" you insist, your eyes squeezing shut in embarrassment. "A-A-And I didn't think it was l-lewd!"

Lucille grins. "Oh, so it's true that being naked is normal for dryads?"

"Th-Th-That's not what...n-naked doesn't mean..." You look over at Melanie for assistance, but she seems to be blushing too hard to string any words intelligibly together in her defense, never mind yours.

It takes a while for Lucille to master her giggling, even as she says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to tease you too much. It just sounded really funny." Her laughter finally dies die and she smiles a little guiltily. "Don't be mad."

"I'm not mad," you pout. Which is different from mad.

The conversation eventually turns to Lucille and Melanie instead, and it's convenient that both of them share a hometown of Arkenvale, the capital of the region of Apaloft. Lucille does most of the talking - or perhaps all of the talking, save for a few confirming noises from Melanie when she's mentioned - and although she's not as cheerful as she usually is, the elven lady of House Celestia does seem like she has stabilized into better spirits than she was when you first entered the room.

You've only been to Arkenvale once - you were eight at the time, to the best of your memory - and to a small, young, impressionable dryad, it seemed grand and perhaps more than a little intimidating, with its great walls and rows of houses and giant structures. It was certainly far more imposing than your commune of Thioval and your village of Caelon. And Lucille's own stories about her hometown seem to reinforce these memories. Through the recounting of her experiences, you get the feeling that the elven lady doesn't actually leave her hometown and the surrounding areas very often, but that doesn't stop her from having seemingly inexhaustible stories of her childhood, many of them glowing and exciting. It is, in ways, quite different from the picture Wendy painted.

"Maybe Arkenvale isn't quite as grand as Stengard or Valrein or Wynholm," concludes Lucille easily, as if not particularly shy about conceding this point, "but it's prettier. And the people friendlier. They're warm and engaging and friendly and..." she trails off, doubtless trying to think of an adjective she hasn't used already, especially not "friendly".

Thinking about Wendy, you offer, "Where f-five people have six opinions?"

Lucille smiles at that. "Mostly about shoes." Then, looking over to the other roomguest who has yet to speak any particularly lengthy sentence ever since all of you say down, the elf adds, "Have you ever seen Melanie in heels? She looks really pretty."

Her face coloring with embarrassment, Melanie weakly protests, "L-Lady Celestia...!"

"It's not my fault you have such nice long legs."

Curling her legs together and hugging them almost protectively - it's clear she doesn't take compliments well, but she probably doesn't realize it only makes her slender legs look prettier, and you have to shyly look way to not blush - the aseri tries to stammer a denial,"I-I don't..."

Melanie isn't getting very far, especially as hard as she's blushing, so you try to dive in for a save as you ask the aseri a more innocent question. "A-Aren't you also from Arkenvale?"

Melanie picks up on the cue and quickly collects herself as she answers, "Y-Yes."

"Wh-What do you think of it?"

"Oh, I...a-agree with Lady Celestia."

Lucille rolls her eyes a little, but she somehow doesn't make it seem like a sarcastic or condescending expression. "You agree with me on everything!" she exclaims, her tone tinged with mock frustration.

Melanie fidgets, as if realizing she's caught in an awkward spot. "B-But you're right," she squeaks quietly.

"You're the only one who believes that," shrugs Lucille, her tone surprisingly casual and matter-of-fact, as if she's talking about the weather. "Everyone knows I'm actually an idiot."

"Th-That's not true!" protests Melanie, this time with a mild hint of distress in her tone. "Your tutor gave you g-glowing remarks before you came here!"

"Because you spent weeks tutoring me. I think we both know I'm just holding you back."

Melanie's face suddenly shifts into something approximating that of a frown - it's hard to tell with her sometimes - and there's a bit more conviction in her voice as she quietly repeats, "That's not true."

Lucille shifts uncomfortably, and there is an awkward lull in the conversation, one that stretches on for more than it really should before you decide to intervene once again, quickly stammering, "W-Wendy is also from A-Arkenvale."

From the corner of your vision, you can see Melanie's eyes narrowing upon mention of Wendy's name, and you instantly regret bringing the subject up. For her part, though, Lucille is polite enough to remark, "Is she, now?"

You nod, cautiously clarifying, "I th-think she comes from the...l-less friendly neighborhoods."

"Yeah," Lucille nods, and there's something in her expression that's complicated. Sympathy? Or perhaps resignation? "Arkenvale has those too. Just like everywhere else."

"H-Have you seen them?"

"Of course I have. I mean, my family did their best to stop me, but," the elf smirks, "what can I say? I'm a mischievous girl, sneaking out into the cities and farmlands with Melanie in tow." That's a bit of a surprise - you wouldn't have expected a lady of House Celestia to have visited the slums herself - but the way she concludes the sentence suggests these escapades - at least for Lucille - are fond memories.

Melanie probably remembers thinks differently because she fidgets and murmurs, "I-It was very dangerous."

"Not really?" shrugs Lucille. "I mean, that's how we met Ashlyn, right?"

That's an interesting detail. You have always thought that Lucille befriended Ashlyn during their time at the academy, but it seems like they've met long before that. Although speaking of the rural farm girl in question... "I-Is she staying?" you ask.

"Ashlyn? Yes, thank the Spring. I don't know what I'd do if she left too."

You nod politely. "And w-will you be s-staying, Lady Ce...Lucille?"

The further quiet that greets you - combined with a nervous look from Melanie to Lucille - tells you that maybe this isn't the best question to ask. But although her expression turns a bit somber, Lucille's awkwardness transforms into a casual, almost resigned air as she answers, "Well, yeah, of course I'm staying. I have to."

"You...h-have to?"

"Of course I do," Lucille mutters with a tone of clear reluctance. "Even if my aunt wouldn't murder me, even if my mother wouldn't murder me..." it's a little concerning how it seems like Lucille feels like her mother is the one more likely to murder her, "...it...would be a horrible look for a Celestia to abandon the academy because of...this."

You nod quietly, giving the conversation a moment of quiet out of thoughtfulness and consideration. Then you ask, "But...d-do you want to be here?"

Lucille visibly hesitates. That hesitation lasts first for three seconds, then five seconds, then ten seconds, lapsing into uncomfortable silence as awkward looks are shared among the three of you, as Lucille clearly struggles to answer "yes" or even "no". Somewhere in the back of your head, it occurs to you that Lucille has never really struck you as the kind of person who you would have thought would train as a Caldran mercenary. Certainly, in a way, there are others like her - Mia comes to mind, although Lucille isn't quite as loud - in that they are friendly with pretty much everyone, almost in a guileless, unprejudiced, uncomplicated sort of way. There's nothing calculated or elegant or poised about her amicability. But Lucille is the only one among them who has a claim to one of the great bloodlines of Caldrein, along with all the responsibilities that it entails. And when you really give it a moment of consideration, you can't really help but feel that Lucille is so obviously misplaced here, with neither the personality nor the temperament or the will to really want to be here.

You are almost about ready to apologize for even asking the question with Melanie speaks up: "Do you want to l-leave?"

Mercifully, Lucille seems to outwardly relax for a moment, immediately replying, "No, I don't."

Quietly, when Lucille seems a bit distracted, you and Melanie exchange relieved smiles.

For just a bit longer, the three of you exchange further smalltalk, at least until it's time for dinner. You go to the Great Hall together, although when you actually get there, the three of you wave your goodbyes as you sit with your respective squads.

Although you suppose that's only true for two of your number. Your squad has already settled onto a table, eating their meals, and greet you when you sit down beside Stephanie; as you do so, you give a furtive glance in the direction of Lucille, who sits at a lonely table occupied by only one other. Erin is here for dinner tonight, eating slowly out of her plate, and Lucille with her, but for how much longer? Two of their squad died in the Squirrel attack, and now Erin is leaving too. Soon - at least until apprentices are shuffled around to make up for the losses - Lucille will be on her own.

Try as you might, you suppose that sometimes, there just isn't a happy ending.

---

Belatedly, as you lie in bed and drift off in the general direction of sleep, it occurs to you that if Melanie is right, that displays of familiarity between her and Lucille are improper; then clearly no one has bothered to inform the latter.

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Part 4 should be short, and will lead to the last update of Arc 1. It's only taken two bloody years.