So since this has been advised by a number of people both in this thread and elsewhere, I'm going to give this a try: From here on out, wherever I think it appropriate (usually when the update gets too long or I take too long to update), each "chapter" (I guess I'm calling them that now) will be divided into smaller "updates". This allows me to post stuff more frequently, even if I'm not done writing a "chapter" with a word count in the five-digit range; it allows for readers to digest each update more readily (instead of having to read ten or twenty thousand words in a single sitting), and it'll hopefully put a dampener on my increasing sense of self-loathing.
Organizationally, this means this "update" will be 1.12.1, followed obviously by 1.12.2, and so on, until we hit 1.13. Naturally, however, unless there is a need for it (some chapters have multiple voting options in different segments, after all), these will be non-voting updates until the very end of the 1.12 series (which I suspect will be 1.12.4, given me current rate of progress, but I'm not certain). I've actually finished about sixty or seventy percent (I think) of 1.12.1 in terms of word count (roughly twelve thousand words at this point), with 1.12.1 being a bit more than six thousand words long, but most of them are incomplete fragments not fully connected with other fragments. So 1.12.1 will have to do for now.
For the record, this will put me in danger of murdering myself through OCD, but.
Once again, this "chapter" (not necessarily this specific update) features the super-lewd
@Gazetteer as a co-writer, because I suck too much to consistently write on my lonesome. Please shower her with love, and thank you for still bothering with this quest.
[x] Go to town for Midwinter's Feast festivities.
You've been making friends and spending time with them, certainly far moreso than you've ever done before. One may well come to the conclusion that you've hit your "quota" - that you've done enough to move out of your comfort zone, that you're entitled to a bit of peace and quiet - but you ultimately decide to challenge yourself, going out to town to attend festivities. Faulkren - though hardly "small" - is not a particularly large town, but it's certainly much larger than the village you grew up in. This will be the largest Midwinter's Feast you've attended...and if you're going to look for an excuse to spend time around crowds, it may as well be for this.
That being said, you are just a bit late by the time you return to your room and change into clothes better suited for the winter outdoors. Most of the apprentices, eager to go into town, have already left the Academy; you spot several already in outdoor clothes on your way back to your dormitory. By the time you change into your usual clothing - a thick combination of a jacket over a dress and a cloak over that - the Academy is vacated by just about everyone who wants to head into the village.
This leads you - more out of happenstance and obligation rather than anything you actively desired - to finding yourself with a rather unusual companion in this dark, chilly night.
"
♫ The Winter Lady passeth by
Her presence heralds snow
Yet when the Solstice comes on high
She takes our yearly woe ♫"
Given how pretty Elizabeth's voice sounds even when she's merely talking - even when she's being
threatening - it really doesn't surprise you that her singing voice is angelic, practically pitch-perfect. What
is of surprise, however, is how freely she chooses to sing with you as "company", the two of you perhaps the last two apprentices to walk the road towards the town of Faulkren.
It was startling, almost awkward, when Elizabeth first started to sing with a complete lack of embarrassment. She doesn't seem like she's showing off, although you're hardly the best judge of that; if anything, she seems like she's simply enjoying the simple act of singing, and has ignored your presence in the process of doing so. But now you listen attentively, careful to give Elizabeth room, as if your proximity would ruin the moment. Or perhaps you're still just a little afraid of the tiny elven girl.
"
♫ And in her wake as gray clouds break
The Hunt rides, her steed bloom
For Sun nor Harvest shall forsake
Our days of light resume ♫"
The last note drifts into the cold night air, and moments after the song comes to an end, you can't help but say, surprising even yourself, "Th-That was beautiful, milady."
"How kind of you to say," Elizabeth smirks as you fight down a blush, even though she sounds less grateful than she does amused. "Although not particularly special. Most young nobles are trained in songcraft in one manner or another. Ravenhill, for example, couldn't sing to save her life, but she plays the harp quite well."
You are surprised at this, and also mildly pleased that you've learned something new about the otherwise enigmatic Sieglinde. "I-I didn't know," you admit, although something in your tone betrays the fact that you're surprised that
Elizabeth, of all people, knew this.
Your tone doesn't escape her notice, however, and she rolls her eyes a little. "The two of us are from Lindholm. My family had me sit in on her recital once. It was a very boring affair. I'm not even sure she enjoyed it."
"O-Oh," you stammer, uncertain what to add to that.
And perhaps that would've been an end to this conversation - certainly there are several moments of silence that follow - until Elizabeth suddenly notes, "I didn't think you'd come."
"O-Oh. I..."
"Thought it would be a good idea to break out of your meek and quiet routine?"
Although it isn't as surprising as the first time you heard it, it's still startling - and perhaps concerning - that Elizabeth knows this much about you. You told a very limited number of people, and you can't imagine them telling anyone, certainly not
Elizabeth, of all people.
Giving you a droll look, Elizabeth ordered, "Stop looking like you're a puppy I kicked."
"I-I'm sor..."
"Don't be sorry, speak your mind. If it's stupid, I'll just punish you later." She paused, then added, "After cake."
Elizabeth's response encourages very little confidence in you, but it seems a little late to back out now without possibly offending her. "I-I was wondering how you knew, m-milady," you eventually relent.
"Knew what? That you're trying to
not be a shrinking violet eight days a week?"
Putting aside that a week only has seven days - you're probably missing a joke there anyways - you nod hesitantly, feeling somewhat uncomfortable about the fact that
Elizabeth, of all people, figured this out.
Smiling sweetly, Elizabeth looks around furtively for a moment before leaning towards your ear - not difficult, she isn't much shorter than you - and whispering, "I'm going to let you in on a secret, and you will die if you tell anyone." Ignoring your sudden flinching at the threat and a dread building up at the pit of your stomach, the elf continues, "There exists a forbidden magecraft technique among the elven aristocracy that allows us to read minds, which is why elven nobility reign in virtually every part of the world."
Your eyes widen as you stare at Elizabeth. "...R-Really?" you gape.
But the blonde swiftly rolls her eyes and returns her attention back to the road. "Don't be daft," she mutters, suddenly making you feel quite silly. "Aside from the imperfect and misleading methods of communicating with the fae, of course no such technique exists." She pauses, thinks, then adds, "...
Yet." You aren't left with much time to think about this vaguely sinister-sounding proclamation, because Elizabeth continues, "No, I
guessed. It wasn't very difficult. People are not particularly complicated."
"Th-They're not?" you ask, trying not to feel
too conflicted about being characterized as "not particularly complicated". You didn't think you were, but hearing someone basically say you're simple makes you feel a little inadequate.
"
Circumstances are complicated. There's always a wide variety of illegitimate children born through a wide variety of people a wide variety of mothers could've had a wide variety of affairs with. And different versions thereof." Elizabeth shrugs. "
People are not so complicated. There are only so many ways a person can process drama, so many ways they can feel about life." Turning her gaze from the road to you, she continues, "You don't talk in any matter remotely resembling Ravenhill or Treiser, who care
so much about the Confederacy, if not the world. Nor are you like, say, Celestia," her tone takes a more contemptuous flavor, "who cares
so much about the people around her. No, yours is more selfish: The fixation with self. You're not here to make a better living for your family, not with how lukewarm your response was to whether or not you were hoping to better your family's finances. You certainly didn't seem disappointed with their lot in life. So your goal is more
personal, more
selfish. It wasn't hard to guess from there."
You try hard not to flinch, unconvinced that you were successful in that endeavor. It's not that you've ever considered your own motivations to be particularly noble or grand, and you've entertained such insecurity and uncertainty when speaking of the matter with Sieglinde, but to hear it come so openly and bluntly from Elizabeth... "D-Do...you think I'm s-selfish, milady?" you ask hesitantly, reluctantly in a half-whisper.
But instead of condemnation or reproach, Elizabeth merely raises an eyebrow and asks, "And what's so wrong with that?" And when you return a look that you're sure - to your chagrin - must've been surprised and wary, the tiny elf laughs, "Ah, you wish to aspire to a higher principle, do you? Do as you wish. Hardly be it my place to judge. It's not as if my own desires are any less selfish, an accomplishment grand enough to call my own, my name to be remembered after a thousand years. There's no need for anything grander than that, nor is there any need to be restrained by self-actualization alone."
The admission shocks you. It's true that you've never considered Elizabeth to necessarily be a role model to strive after, but your impression had always been that, if nothing else, the aristocracy of Caldrein aligned their goals, their wishes with the well-being of the Confederacy. Or, perhaps more importantly, although you have always heard rumors of highborn ladies who lived and ruled with excess and amorality, you've always believed that they were the exception, that most were at least trying to adhere to certain principles.
That Elizabeth so easily encourages you to disperse of the notion of higher service bothers you, and it shows on your face again, because the elf, amused as ever, remarks, "You hardly seem at ease. Speak your mind. I'll judge whether or not what you have to say is foolish."
You're not exactly comfortable "speaking your mind" - never mind "be at ease" - but you work up the courage to inquire, "D-Don't you ever wish to aspire to be...
more?"
"Perhaps when I'm older, I shall feel differently. Now, though? I feel no particular desire to be Treiser or, worse, Ravenhill. Or, even worse, Celestia."
"D-Do you dislike Sieglinde so?" you ask, the slightest of frowns on your brow, before hurriedly adding, "Lady Elizabeth?" You don't dislike Aphelia or Lucille either, but Sieglinde - being on your squad and being Elizabeth's
roommate - seems to be a more pressing concern.
But Elizabeth only laughs. "Hardly. I have immense respect for her, likely far more than she does for me. I certainly respect her more than Treiser, who merely wants to support the status quo, or Celestia, who doesn't know what she's doing or what she even wants. Ravenhill's principles, whatever else I may think about them, are ambitious and daunting, and she has her plans to see them through." She gives you a complicated look. "Whether or not I agree with them is immaterial; genius deserves respect. We
understand each other."
You're not sure you understand that last part. "U-Understand genius?" you repeat, seeking confirmation.
Regarding you quietly, thoughtfully for a moment, Elizabeth eventually asks, "Why do you think Ravenhill is
here?"
You realize that Elizabeth is perhaps asking a rhetorical question, but just a split-second too late to stop yourself from hesitantly offering, "To...b-become a Caldran m-mercenary?"
Elizabeth's gaze looks less droll and more impatient. "You're more daft than I thought if you think that is her ends," she remarks, her voice flat and devoid of her usual cheer, and you fail to stop yourself from flinching. But then she sighs, turns her attention back to the road, and explains, "For all of Ravenhill's hilariously high-minded ideals to save people whom she doesn't even
like, she
understands. She
understands that she needs to come here to attain
power, whether that's martial prowess, political capital, or simply sheer ruthlessness. She
understands that without power, ideals and principles that you can't enforce are just cheap talk. They're words you bandy about without the means to actualize them, and thus have no value."
You recall your conversation with Sieglinde, about why she's here at Faulkren Academy, and you see how the lines connect between her explanation and Elizabeth's elaboration...yet it just doesn't feel
right.
Maybe Elizabeth is right and Sieglinde is here for power...but the latter's words - the thoughts that she has shared with you - does not strike you as belonging to someone who only seeks strength.
Again, Elizabeth reads your expression accurately. "You disagree," she smirks. And when you provide no answer, she sighs and mutters, "If I have to tell you to speak your mind one more time..."
Managing not to flinch this time, you ask, "I-Isn't there a saying about h-how if you didn't have p-principles when they were i-inconvenient, th-then they weren't very strong principles at a-all?"
"When '
inconvenient', not when '
without power'. A saying attributed to Martha of Nanster, who wrote of a republican reformation of the Tenereian Empire, was executed alongside her family after she refused to recant, and was ideologically succeeded by a revolutionary government barely any more republican than its predecessor. Some '
strong' principles they were." The wryness in the elf's tone sounds like it has reached critical mass. "Do you think our Caldran principles will matter if we fail to repel the invasion? Do you think they will be allowed to persist? When the Tenereians invade Apaloft and hold your families hostage to bring you and all the other Caldran mercenary to heel, will you look them in the eyes on the gallows and tell them that
they are the inconvenience you must endure to hold onto your principles? If your sister starves, will you tell her that stealing for food is against your code?"
This conversation suddenly makes you intensely uncomfortable - intensely
unhappy - in a manner that usual conversation with Elizabeth doesn't. Bringing up your loved ones feels like it has crossed a line, and it takes effort for you to will your tongue to be still.
"I don't particularly care about what principles you hold," Elizabeth concludes. "What
matters is whether or not you will be able to defend them when the time comes. How you gain that power - whether you were born into a noble household like me or claw your way to a position of strength - is your journey and yours alone. Until then, you're just a lapdog that barks a lot." She looks at you with lazy, half-open, but inquisitive eyes. "Are you here just to be someone's lapdog?"
Something about how Elizabeth goads you - coupled with an unsettling upset from just earlier - stirs a hint of rebellion against your better judgment, and you staunchly reply, "No." The word is out of your mouth before you even realize it, and a tiny voice at the back of your head tells you that this is a huge mistake.
But Elizabeth only laughs. "See?" she smirks, looking very self-satisfied. "You do have a spine after all." And before you can say anything to that, she turns back in the direction of Faulkren - now so very close - and declares, "Come on. Midwinter's Feast isn't going to celebrate itself."
The sounds of the celebration reach you even before you pass the first buildings that mark the very edge of town. Cheerful music plays over the background rumble of a crowd, while laughter and general merrymaking become more distinct the closer you get. The celebration is nominally in the market square; braziers have been set up against the cold, along with a space cleared for dancing. Ringing around these are various vendors and performers, both local and from farther afield. The town is
just large enough to attract a number of the latter, which is an exciting change of pace from the smaller spectacles of your own village's celebrations. Between the fires and the decorative lanterns hung all around, there is plenty of light. In practice, however, the merrymaking extends its way to the various shops and businesses surrounding the square as well; the local businesses who can possibly offer anything to the festival-goers have stayed open late, most offering small trinkets or treats free of charge to any who pass by. You pass the inn on your way, and even at a glance you can tell that it's utterly packed.
The deeper into town you get, the thicker the crowd grows. In addition to the ordinary townsfolk and academy apprentices, there are strangers who aren't in town just for selling souvenirs. Judging from the rough, homespun clothes many of them are wearing, it's easy to guess that the bulk of them are farmers from the outlying areas, here with their families on a rare trip to town for something other than delivering a cart full of cabbage.
Even as the the streets grow uncomfortably dense for two short girls, Elizabeth seems to be moving relatively unhindered via some unknown technique known only to domineering highborns like her. Whether it's polite deference by the festival goers, sheer force of personality, or
slightly sinister reputation, the small elf manages to part the crowd ahead of her by just enough that you're able to scurry along in her wake. The music is loud but joyful, and you find yourself syncing your steps to the beat.
Up ahead is the bakery, a cozy, well-kept family shop of the sort that can only exist in settlements past a certain size and level of prosperity. It's a far cry from the crude little outdoor oven behind the tavern in your hometown, where a matronly older woman sold rustic, rough loaves of bread. There is a particularly dense throng outside the shop, but through it you can catch glimpses of tables set up outside the shop, laden down with small rolls, tarts, and pastries that the passerbys seem to be taking free of charge. As you watch through a gap in the crowd, the baker's girl - all of twelve, but already your height - comes bustling out of the shop, laying down a fresh tray of golden brown buns from her mother's oven. She moves with a brisk efficiency and effortless confidence you find yourself envying, perhaps a bit absurdly.
At the edge of this crowd, Elizabeth pauses, glancing around to look at you. "You don't have any money, do you?" she asks.
You flinch a little bit. Obviously, you're aware that you're poorer than most of the girls you've become friends with, but no one has ever asked about your finanical situation so bluntly. You do have
some money; your freeholder family may be modest, but you've never starved. Still, the small handful of pocket change that your parents pressed on you when you left seemed like more money than you'd ever held in your life, at the time. Then you saw the prices in the stores here.
"I have s-some!" you protest, flushing, raising your voice to be heard above the general din. Then, after a moment or two of fidgeting, you admit, "B-But things are free on Midwinter's Feast."
Elizabeth rolls her eyes. "Cheap things, yes," she says. She's raising her voice too, but somehow it sounds both dignified and refined when she does it, more like she's simply
projecting instead of merely shouting. "The merchants are expected to be generous, not
ruin themselves. The best things still cost money." She looks over to track a family of farmers, the youngest girl staring around at the town in obvious wonder. "My parents always give the peasants a coin or two at Midwinter," she says, musingly. "To show that they can look after the people who serve them."
"Those are probably f-freeholders," you say, a slightly defensive note in your voice. Peasants are much more likely to go to the their lady's seat of power for any such celebration like the kind Elizabeth is alluding to. And their clothes wouldn't be as nice as what those people are wearing.
But Elizabeth seems to ignore your reply as she instead commands, "Hold out your hand."
Confusedly, you comply, and she drops several coins into your palm, barely looking as she does so. "I'm n-not a peasant either!" you exclaim, the first thing coming to your mind.
"Oh?" Elizabeth asks, arching a golden eyebrow at you. "Are you questioning my ladylike generosity? Is Neianne so high in the world that she can afford to spit on the benevolent hand of a noble?"
"N-Neianne doesn't..." you stop short, forcing yourself to continue without referring to yourself in third-person. "
I don't s-spit on...on..." you trail off helplessly, close your hand over the money, and fidget a little. "Th-Thank you," you say, almost too quietly to be heard over the sound of the crowd.
Elizabeth laughs a little in a manner resembling tinkling bells. "There's a good girl," she says. "Pride isn't going to buy you a souvenir. Save it for when you have two coins of your own to rub together." The way she says this, strangely, does not seem to be deliberately unkind. As if she believes it's genuinely thoughtful advice. Condescending as it may be, she actually seems to mean it as a nice gesture.
Or she's teasing you. Or both.
As the two of you manage to squeeze your way to the bakery proper, the baker's girl notices the two of you - or at least Elizabeth - and her face lights up. "It just came out of the oven ten minutes ago, Lady Elizabeth!" she exclaims loudly, even as she shoves a butter tart into the eager hands of an aseri farmer.
"Your mother has fortunate timing," Elizabeth says with an angelic albeit sleepy smile, managing to make herself heard without the appearance of any particular effort. You can't help but think of her conspicuous lack of any promise not to do anything terrible to the baker.
"I think it's the finest looking solstice cake she's ever made," the baker's girl adds, practically gushing. "Almost too good looking to eat!" Without even looking your way, quick as lightning, she has somehow deposited a warm, gooey pastry in one of your hands, and a cup of something that smells strongly of grape into the other.
"Th-Thank you?" you stammer.
"Happy Midwinter!" the girl says, brightly.
"I hope y-y-you enjoy your cake," you tell Elizabeth.
"I'll do my best," she says airily, disappearing into the bakery.
You have a feeling that - large meal a few hours ago or no - if you were to follow her inside, the money she's just given to you would disappear in rather quick order. You instead take an experimental sip of your grape juice and wander your way further into the square. It burns your tongue and throat a little, and you feel a bit flushed with a warm glow spreading across your cheeks, but the experience isn't entirely unpleasant.
The music gets louder the closer to the square you get, and you're slightly relieved to see that the dancers are sticking to a familiar routine: A circle dance, with different pairs breaking off to dance in the middle until the music switches up again. The music is fast enough that many of the dancers have shed their thicker winter clothing, the swaying, spinning movements of the dance and the nearby fires - a bonfire in the middle and torches around - keeping them warm enough.
You remember doing something like this more than once in your own village. It was both fun and occasionally embarrassing to have your friends from home suddenly push you in the direction of a less self-conscious girl and finding yourself carried along into the middle. The thought of it brings up a complicated mix of nostalgic homesickness and slight residual mortification over the time two years ago, when you tripped and sent your partner crashing to the ground to general laughter.
Perhaps with this thought in mind, you find yourself hanging back a bit. You have money after all, you tell yourself, and instructions to spend it. Maybe you can find something nice to send back home to your sister; she'd like that.
With this in mind, you find yourself drifting over to what you at first take for a group of wagons selling souvenir toys and knick-knacks. As you approach, you hear an odd series of clinking sounds, like glass or ceramic knocking together. The booth that catches your attention appears to be set up around a small, horse-drawn wagon, and it
is laden down with toys, ornaments, and small articles of clothing. But that's not what people are paying the most attention to.
To one side of the booth, the counter is completely clear, leaving a straight line of sight between customers and an odd sort of display roughly ten meters further to the left: A pyramid of ceramic bottles, stacked seemingly precariously on a table.
"Knock them all down, and you win whatever you like," a thin-faced elf is saying through an obsequious smile. "It's Midwinter's Feast, so you get two throws completely free!" The object of the context appears to simply be to throw a fist-sized leather ball into the ceramic bottles, but visibly, the people ahead of you are struggling; the distance alone challenges the accuracy of any untrained throw. Whenever someone loses, the elf manning the booth passes them a small Primordian charm bracelet meant to confer good luck; most are carved from wood, but a few are made of polished bone. You wonder from what animal carcass they were taken from.
There's a slight line up in front of you, and it takes you a moment or two to pick out familiar faces under their warm clothing.
"This shouldn't be so hard!" Penelope exclaims, half-laughing but also a bit angry, as she throws her second ball. You're somewhat sure that Penelope is
always a bit angry. The ball actually manages to hit the bottles on the bottom of the pile, and the table shivers, the bottles wobble, but nothing falls over.
"Ornthalian bottle toss is a difficult art," the elf says gravely. "But it can be done! That was a fine attempt." She reaches into her basket, and gives Penelope a charm bracelet. You're not entirely certain, but you think you catch sight of a frowny face dangling from it.
Scowling, Penelope steps to the side, glancing with some envy at the goods that the vendor is carrying. In particular, at a pair of fine, fur-lined gloves that are certainly more than anyone would give away for free, even at Midwinter's Feast.
"They can't actually win," a familiar voice tells you, and you look up to see Aphelia standing behind you, temporarily detached from her usual rotating entourage of friends and admirers; you can barely seem them further down the street when the crowd parts just enough, looking excitedly through storefront windows. Her hood is up, and she's standing close enough to a crowd of onlookers to suggest that perhaps she's trying to be a bit discreet. "She'd lose her shirt if it were actually fair."
You blink, a little shocked. "So she's ch-cheating people on Midwinter Feast?" you gasp, trying to keep your voice low.
Aphelia regards your surprise coolly for a moment. "Yes and no," she allows. "She isn't charging people for it, and she is still giving away a prize. But her aim is to tempt people into spending coin for more than just the two free throws, not to make this game competitive. See the bottles at the bottom? It's hard to tell from this distance, but their base is a little wider than those at the top. The upper bottles being 'fair' makes little difference if you can't knock them all down by hitting the bottom. The ceramic is probably heavier than they look, the leather ball lighter. I suspect the bottles are opaque for a reason as well. Penelope never stood a chance."
You watch as one of Penelope's teammates - you can't see Wendy here at present - tries her luck, with similar results, albeit with less anger.
"Is that right, Treiser?" Penelope suddenly asks, apparently having drifted far enough over to catch wind of
part of the conversation. Probably the
last part of the conversation, without the accompanying context that came before, much to your sinking dismay. There's heat in her voice, but not too much; you wonder if she's learned her lesson from trying to bully Elizabeth...or if she just knows that Aphelia is not one to be trifled with. There's no underestimating Aphelia the way she underestimated Elizabeth. "You think we're too stupid to throw a ball in a straight line?"
The elf doesn't seem particularly moved by the human's hostility, though. "Knowing
if you should do so is often more important than simply being able to," she says evenly.
Penelope scowls, and turns back to see her third squadmate taking her turn. The first throw knocks the bottle off the very top. The second, like Penelope's, hits the bottle on bottom - once again, the bottles rattle, the table shakes slightly, and nothing else happens.
"Are you sure they're not bolted to the table or something?" asks the girl who'd just thrown. She was the one who Elizabeth had nearly brought to tears earlier, although you cannot precisely call up her name at the moment.
The elven vendor adopts a stricken, almost hurt expression, and makes an elaborate show of lifting up each and every bottle as she sets the fallen ones back up. "As you can see," she says, setting the pyramid back in order, "everything is perfectly as it appears."
"...Neianne should do it," comes a sudden suggestion from the second team member one who'd thrown after Penelope, but they all suddenly turn to look at you.
You make a sound that most closely resembles a startled squeak before you manage a more coherent response: "M-Me?"
"Yes, you," Penelope says, apparently latching onto the idea. "You'll be perfect."
"Your arm's better now," the third girl notes. "And you're strong enough to punch a boar to death during the field exam."
"I c-cut it with my sword!" you clarify, looking between Aphelia and Penelope for backup.
Penelope waves a hand in the air vaguely as if to dismiss the distinction. "You're strong either way," she says. "Now are you going to do it, or are you going to stand back and be disdainful with all the fine ladies who are too good to try?"
Aphelia is the only such "fine lady" present, although that's probably just who she meant. "Lady A-Aphelia isn't being disdainful," you protest, fighting hard to keep from cringing back a little.
Penelope looks like she wants to say something harsh to that, but instead simply sucks in a deep breath. "Fine. Are you going to do it or not? It's free."
Aphelia gives Penelope a hard look, but doesn't quite respond. "It can't hurt anything," she says, after a moment.
"O-Oh. Um...a-alright," you stammer, suddenly aware that your hands are, in fact, full. You quickly shove the rest of your pastry into your mouth - it's delicious, and was getting cold anyway - and drown it down with your grape juice, managing
not to choke yourself in the process even as your face feels even hotter than it already is. You're beginning to think that Aphelia is probably right, but it can't hurt to try, at least.
When you approach, the elven merchant hesitates slightly, glancing from the leaves in your hair to the markings on your skin, then to the stack of bottles. Then she relaxes, and hands you the ball, which is definitely lighter and softer than first impressions may have suggested. "Give it a try," she advises, smiling.
You nod and look at the bottles, narrowing your eyes a little in a vain attempt to judge precisely where the invisible point of stress is that will send them all crashing down. It's not a difficult throw beyond the fact that the pyramid is ten meters away, but the ceramic - as Aphelia suggested - must be heavier at the the bottom than it looks. Accepting that you're not going to see anything that the others missed, you wind your arm back - there's some residual stiffness, but nothing too bad - and throw the ball as hard as you can.
It hits one of the bottles on the bottom of the pyramid; a few on the top topple onto the table, the table gives a very violent, creaking shudder, and nothing else happens.
You deflate a little while the others behind you are muttering in quiet suspicion. You hit those bottles about as hard as anyone was going to, and still nothing.
"Second try," the merchant advises you, handing you the ball. All of her earlier apprehension has vanished, and she seems entirely confident once again. You take it, eyeing the table thoughtfully. You think back to the brief exchange between Penelope and Aphelia, understanding that through whatever methods that turn profits, the odds are stacked against you. There's no way to win "fairly"...so it was time to be
creative.
The top-heavy table is set up on the cobblestone street, and the wobbling is, as far as you can tell, caused by a combination of loose construction and a single paving stone jutting up
right behind the back right-hand table leg. Taking a deep breath, you swing your arm once again to let the ball fly.
You don't actually expect your creativity to get anywhere. At worst, it doesn't work. At best, this isn't precisely the "proper" way to play this game, and this little trick is really more about the principle of being able to knock the bottles down rather than doing anything that will net you a prize.
Your throw is true, striking exactly where you intended: The edge of the tabletop. It hits with a heavy crack, and at first it seems like the table is just going to wobble again. Instead, it tips up, with the front legs leaving the ground, and the back leg levering over the raised paving stone. The merchant lets out a cry of alarm as the entire table topples over, and all the bottles hit the ground at once.
There's a general cry of jubilation from the humans, and Penelope's two squadmates are suddenly slapping you on the shoulder and ruffling your hair in a way that's mildly uncomfortable but still a bit gratifying. Aphelia looks mildly surprised, but also a little amused. "Well, that's one way to do it," she concedes.
"I j-just did what you suggested," you admit. When she tilts her head slightly to the side in mild puzzlement, you remind her, "You said th-that sometimes you need to know wh-when to
not to throw in a s-straight line."
Her expression betrays a hint of surprise until suddenly her amusement turns into a slight but more genuine smile. "You
do have a talent for thinking outside the box," she notes, and you can't help but feel a prideful swell in your chest.
"Look!" comes an urgent whisper from Penelope. You turn back to the stall to see her leaning so far over the counter that her legs are actually in the air, pointing at the toppled bottles. As you approach and look along with the others - it's a little difficult for you, given your height - you see what she means. The merchant is on the ground frantically trying to pick the bottles up with an unusual amount of haste, and you can see that it's largely because of the rounded stones that have come spilling out of the bottles that were on the bottom. "She
cheated!" Penelope hisses, facing starting to heat up indignantly.
The elven merchant flinches, looking around to see who else might have heard that. Surprisingly, though, Penelope is keeping her voice low enough that it doesn't carry. "I'm not even charging anyone," the vendor insists. "It's nothing like cheating, just...a little added challenge."
"How many people pay for extra throws once they run out of their free ones?" one of Penelope's friends demands.
The merchant looks uncomfortable. You glance up at Aphelia, instinctively looking to her to resolve this, but surprisingly it's Penelope that comes up with a solution.
"Give all of us a real prize, and we won't say anything," she says. Beside her, the other girls catch on, and move in to flank her, arms folded, forming a united, oddly threatening human front.
"All of you?" the merchant asks, eyes wide.
"Yes," Penelope insists. "Treiser too, just because I don't like you."
The elf merchant waffles a little bit, but she clearly notices a small crowd gathering behind the human girls - an oblivious crowd, but for how long? - and her shoulders slump in mute defeat. The five of you walk away not terribly long later, Penelope and her friends looking smug with their own prizes, Aphelia looking vaguely amused, you clutching a large stitched toy wyvern that was pushed into your arms by unanimous decision.
"That," Penelope says, looking entirely satisfied, "calls for a drink." She and the other human girls quickly raid a stand full of complimentary beverages, and with your arms full of toy wyvern, you feel someone press a cup to your lips. The pressure is somewhat insistent, and when you open your mouth, you try not to splutter as you feel whomever's holding it tip the entire contents down your throat at once. Your senses are momentarily overwhelmed by grape, and you hiccup a little once it's all gone down. This leads to another round of enthusiastic jostling and back-patting.
Off to the side, the odd girl out is Aphelia, the elf with fine winter clothes. When you glance to her a little questioningly, she only shrugs. "I try not to think
too much about extorting a cheater," she says, flipping over the prize she reluctantly extracted: A small statuette of some kind, you can't precisely tell of what. She glances over to Penelope, remarking, "I am surprised you did not report her or punch her in the face."
Penelope shrugs. "Best case, we get a pat on the back, she gets told to pack up and leave or gets some kind of fine. No prizes for us. Worst case, she's someone important's third cousin and they don't want to do anything to annoy her so they decide not to believe us.
This way, we get the prizes, and she isn't going to dare pulling this kind of thing here again."
"I suppose," Aphelia allows.
