This one ended up being a bit longer than I expected. A significant amount of this update was provided for by
@Gazetteer , who is a mewly brat. Please appreciate her.
The primary thought you have as you sit at the dining table of the Zabanya manor is that Elizabeth's sundress - the one that you're wearing - keeps your shoulders exposed in front of a lot of important people.
It feels
incredibly awkward, sitting to the side of the table with Elizabeth in front of you, the viscountess at the head of the table to your right, and Elizabeth's two sisters on both sides of the table to your left: Diana Sofia and Anya Victoria Zabanya, so you've learned. It's clear that the three children were born merely years apart, which would explain any potential sibling rivalry had, although it does seem obvious that Elizabeth has decisively won that competition, given the amount of wariness the two sisters show to the eldest of their generation.
But even beyond that awkward family dynamic, there's something just fundamentally
uncomfortable about two maids standing politely to the side of the room, waiting on the five of you. The servants at Faulkren bring the food to the table doing meals, but they serve the room at large and don't hover silently behind you.
The cuts of meat on the plate before you look even juicier and appetizing than what you're served at Faulkren Academy. It almost feels guilty for you to be supping on this, dining with a viscountess and her family; you know plenty of fellow apprentices that are likely making do with less back at their homes. The food is distracting enough, in fact, that you barely realize that one of the Zabanya sisters is speaking with you. "Oh, s-sorry?" you quickly stammer, bowing your head at Diana apologetically.
"I just said, I've never heard of Caelon," she explains. She doesn't seem annoyed, but the way she's looking at you only adds to your overall discomfort. Her eyes are the sun-colored gold as Elizabeth's, but they have a narrower, more wary quality about them. She's the middle sister, you've been made to understand, which is easy to remember due to her being of middling height, neither as tiny as her elder sister nor as tall as the youngest. "Embarrassing, I know," she adds, as if she should have been familiar with your out-of-the-way village. "What part of Apaloft is it?" You suppose she's being polite - especially towards someone from such rural origins - but the way she's looking at you makes you feel, somehow, like you're a puzzle waiting to be solved as much as you are a dinner guest. You have gotten the sinking feeling that you may well be the first guest her own age that Elizabeth has ever had over.
"You w-wouldn't have," you admit. "It's just a tiny village, n-nothing grand or noteworthy."
"It's in Barony Langmere," Elizabeth says, not looking up from her soup, somewhat to your surprise. Elizabeth does know how to use a map, obviously. "She didn't have very far to travel to Faulkren."
"I don't suppose you've heard if Baroness Langmere's health has improved?" the viscountess asks.
It's with a faint pang of panic that you realize she's speaking to you. Caelon being at the far end of a barony that contains several more prosperous settlements, the baroness theoretically in charge is not so much a personal figure as she is a distant location where the annual tax money disappears to. You've always
vaguely known that the local baroness is perpetually unwell, but you can't firmly remember any news at all about the ruling family aside from a vague recollection of her youngest daughter running off with a foreign merchant several years past. "N-No," you say, "I-I haven't heard any news a-about her health."
"Is there ever
any news about her health?" Elizabeth quips lazily. "She's been 'dying' for over ten years, but she doesn't seem to have gone anywhere."
The viscountess gives the smallest of long-suffering sighs - and you are overwhelmed by a feeling that sighing over Elizabeth is something that comes naturally and often to her - but doesn't actually contradict Elizabeth's blunt summation.
"Please forgive our dear elder sister her eccentricities," Anya says, almost absurdly politely, giving you a look that's somehow even
more searching than Diana's was. All four family members are variations on a theme; if Elizabeth's angelic features are delicate but infused with sleepy menace and Diana's possess an almost fox-like shrewdness, the strongest impression you get from Anya is a sort of endearing innocence. As this is based more on a certain softness to her face, a certain wideness to her eyes that the other two don't possess, you elect not to put too much stock into it.
"It's n-nothing that bothers me, Lady Anya," you tell her. This is honestly only a half-truth. While Elizabeth rarely outright
offends you, she does have a frustrating habit of saying things that stick under your skin for days or weeks afterward. Still, you feel as though you should stick up for your squadmate. It's hard to tell if Elizabeth's sound of quiet amusement is directed at Anya, or you.
But Anya continues to look at you, expression oddly...expectant? Hopeful? It's making you more than a little uncomfortable. Averting your gaze, somehow, seems to make her expression even more intent.
"I suppose living so close to Faulkren," Diana says, picking her conversation thread up again, "your family was fine with sending you to become an apprentice."
"Yes," you reply, glancing at Elizabeth for help that you don't receive. There's a subtext to all this that you're not privy to. Evidenced by the viscountess giving Diana a mildly disapproving look. "Mother said that taking risks is h-how I'd grow."
"How you'd...
grow?" Diana sounds mildly incredulous.
"Y-Yes," you say, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious; you're aware of the sudden dissonance in values. "'
The World is risk, and a tender sapling dies in winter.'" The Gainist truism comes easily to your lips, after time spent so recently at home. Feeling the stares as much as you can see them, your face heats and you hastily add, "Th-That's what my father likes to say, anyway, Lady Z-Zabanya."
"That sounds like you could just...
die."
From the other side of the table, Elizabeth snorts, and Diana bristles visibly when her older sister declares, "And that's why you will always be mediocre."
"I'm not afraid!" Diana insists in a sort of bitter tone - along with the mildly exasperated but almost resigned reaction of the mother - that somehow gives you the impression this sort of back-and-forth is common between the two sisters. "I'm just...there's no point in dying!"
"Not being afraid is the
opposite of accepting risk."
"Gaianists believe in growing stronger through experience," Anya interjects in explanation, giving you a smile that you expect is supposed to be knowing. Elizabeth shoots her a smirk. For some reason, pink rises to Anya's cheeks, and she focuses on her meal again. It wasn't wrong, precisely, although it
is a fairly simplistic way to articulate a core tenant of Gaianist philosophy.
Everyone grows stronger through experience. The distinction is whether one considered hardship to be something to simply be survived, or something that intrinsically builds character.
You are momentarily distracted as the doors to the dining room open, and an aseri maid walks in, moving around the table before coming to a stop beside Viscountess Isabella Eleonora Zabanya. Curtsying and leaning down to ear-level of the viscountess, the maid nevertheless speaks in an almost conversational volume: "Milady, Miss Dakota is here to see you."
The viscountess makes a visible attempt to suppress an unhappy sigh at this. "Take her to the drawing room," she murmurs in reply. "I am having dinner, and I have a guest. I'll be around shortly afterwards."
"Yes, milady," the maid bows and shows herself out, presumably to do the aforementioned escorting.
Stabbing at her cuts of meat with her fork in somewhat impatient movements, the viscountess mutters, "It's always the same damn thing with them."
Elizabeth shrugs; you notice that she's already moving onto a generous helping of dessert provided by one of the maids. "You could always send them away," she opines.
"You know I can't."
"They don't have anything particularly noteworthy to say if they think we've just been rolling over all this time."
"Miss Dakota represents some of the smiths here in Marloch," Diana leans over and explains helpfully in a quiet voice, giving some context to a conversation that largely leaves you lost. "They're worried about the uncertainties over the prices of iron and silver, and they wish for mother to take their concerns to Stengard. Much of the confederacy's ore supply comes from Elspar, and the war has wreaked havoc on their expenses."
"You'd think they're actually Elsparian themselves, seeing how tightly they're pinching their purses," Elizabeth says in a tone you've long since recognized as cruel amusement, as if she finds something funny about a phenomenon that she otherwise has a dismal opinion about. "It isn't as if they're contributing to the war effort either."
You blink, surprised, and ask, "Th-They're not?"
"Marloch is an artisan town," Diana explains again, "and we don't have enough blacksmiths to make a difference. Little of what we produce goes to the front."
"We contribute to the economy," Anya points out. "That feeds into coffers that procure contracts for the armies."
"Why, yes," Elizabeth smiles at her youngest sister, who seems to grow pale instead of flushing pink as she did earlier, her expression tightening. Elizabeth's smile and tone are sweet, but you've long recognized when she's sarcastic and scathing. "Thank you for sharing facts about the confederate economy that a baby would know. Surely, our artisans only work their craft for giggles and..."
"
Elizabeth," interrupts Viscountess Zabanya sternly.
Elizabeth merely shrugs, but she
does go silent as she continues to help herself to large spoonfuls of pudding. That she manages to stay so slim regardless almost makes you feel a little jealous.
Sensing an awkward lull in the conversation - triggered by the unseen rivalries amongst the members of this family - you try to bring the conversation back on a less harmless topic as you ask, "A-Are the mines in Elspar endangered?"
The viscountess' expression is a bit grim as she explains, "Countess Cenoryn is keeping this quiet, but ever since the fall of Wynholm, ore production has fallen dramatically. Already, the Tennies control more than a third of the mines in Elspar..."
"
Half," Elizabeth suddenly interrupts between bites in an almost lazy tone. And when the table falls silent and with all gazes on her, she clarifies, "The Tenereians control
half. The area around Halissen isn't nearly as defensible as Viscountess Nornfel had hoped. The Tenereians had already pushed out the armies defending the mines around the area."
"Then the output..." Anya starts.
"They're making up for it by increasing production in the remaining mines. More labor, more hours, less pay. The workers aren't terribly happy about it, especially since the refugees are moving in and willing to work for lower wages."
"Ah, yes," sighs Viscountess Zabanya, as if this has been a long-standing concern. "The refugee problem. I suppose we should consider ourselves fortunate that we are this far north, fairly out of the way despite bordering Elspar."
"There's a r-refugee problem?" you ask, a little surprised...and then you feel a little foolish for being surprised at all. Dorothy, after all - the little orphan girl who took you to your dormitory when you first arrived at Faulkren, the girl who helped clean your rooms and do your laundries and wash your dishes - was an orphan from Elspar too, albeit an early one. You suppose it's only natural that there would be more girls like Dorothy...and the thought is more than just a little painful, as your mind momentarily recalls that image of her tiny corpse along with so many others on a roll of soiled linen.
"Of course there's a refugee problem," mutters the viscountess impatiently, albeit not
at you, so you only flinch a
little. "Halissen is already stuffed to the brim with refugees. One would hope that they'd at least be incorporated into the defense effort, but the Elsparians are a quarrelsome lot. Arnheim is much the same as well. That's why they're spilling over to the rest of the regions, Lindholm and Apaloft most of all."
Your purse your lips, your mind coming to the most obvious proposal - from your perspective, at least - about what to do with all that extra manpower. "Don't they...e-enlist?" you ask, thinking about how you have gone out of your way to train as a Caldran mercenary.
From the other side of the table, Elizabeth drawls the obvious: "If they're enlisting, they wouldn't be refugees, would they?"
"Some still have children," the viscountess explains over Elizabeth with a small sigh, "including those whose spouses have already joined the armies. There are the old, the infirm. And there are those who do not wish to fight. Countess Cenoryn has demanded that the other regions impose a draft, but..." the viscountess closes her eyes and heaves a larger sigh, "...bluntly speaking, the armies Lindholm has fielded for Elspar's sake is stretching us thin. And I'm not talking about just coin; already we have fewer farmers barely managing enough of the harvest to send to soldiers at the front who aren't eating enough because agricultural production is down. Bolstering the ranks of our armies with refugees is hardly going to make things better."
"Few of the artisans in Marloch, for example," adds Diana in a more patient tone, seeing you cringe at the viscountess' frustration while you wrap your head around the logistical problems of war, "would be of greater use on the front than they are here." So engrossed are you in the conversation that you barely notice the maid from earlier re-enter the dining room, even as the middle Zabanya sister concludes, "If we cannot maintain the economy at home, too many problems would pile up for our armies to fight at the front. The countesses are balancing a great deal of concerns."
Stopping beside the viscountess, the maid has a somewhat embarrassed - if not outright troubled - expression on her face as she curtsies again, murmuring just loud enough for you to hear, "Milady, Miss Dakota is insisting..."
Although Viscountess Zabanya shakes her head, she suppresses a sigh as she tosses her napkin on the table. "Very well," she mutters, looking at what little remains on her plate. "I suppose I'm done anyways." Looking at you, she gives a respectful nod in your direction, and you bow your head almost instinctively as she says, "My apologies, Neianne. I hope to talk to you more in the coming days."
"I-It'd be my pleasure, m-milady," you stammer.
Standing up from her seat, she says to her three daughters, "Be good girls and entertain our guest for me."
"Yes, mother," Diana and Anya echo in unison at the viscountess' departing back.
"Is Miss Dakota p-powerful?" you ask nervously after the viscountess leaves the dining room, but the confused glances from the two younger Zabanya sisters tell you that you're almost certainly off-mark.
"Hardly," Elizabeth scoffs. "She's little more than the least objectionable choice as a point of contact for everyone involved, and easily replaceable."
"O-Oh." The Zabanyas, certainly, have a much better understanding of local power dynamics than you do, so you say little beyond that. Still, you suppose you're surprised that insistence from a mere "point of contact" is enough to drag a viscountess from her dinner table.
"In fairness," Diana opines, "not even Miss Dakota has the nerve to suggest that the confederate armies just need to
fight harder. She's more likely to ask that mother advise Countess Athalast over how to handle the influx of refugees." You recognize the name Athalast to belong to the countess of Lindholm and her elven noble house, from the regional capital of Valrein.
"To...integrate them into Lindholm?" you ask, almost hopefully.
"To situate them elsewhere. Lindholm is poorly situated to take in more refugees. Should Elspar fall..."
"And we pray it doesn't," Anya adds in an almost dutiful tone.
"...Lindholm and Apaloft and maybe even Sandria will become the new frontlines. We can't fight a war at the front while also caring for refugees to the rear. They'd be better off in Fulwaite anyways. Maybe Sandria. But not Lindholm. Crime has already risen over the years. We really don't need more."
Fidgeting uncomfortably, the values of the confederacy are admittedly on your mind as you awkwardly admit, "I h-hoped we would be more a-accommodating to those who need help."
Diana has the grace to blush as she quickly elaborates on her position: "I-I mean, I don't have anything against refugees. Honestly, I wish we could help more of them, I really do. But it's not that easy. The strain on our finances would be immense."
"We'd break even eventually," Anya interrupts. There continues to be an earnest quality to her voice, although the fact that she keeps looking at you makes you feel just a bit unsettled. "Many of those from Elspar would be talented artisans and craftswomen."
"At the rate refugees are coming in from Elspar, they'd far outstrip our ability to accommodate them. Never mind charity; we wouldn't even be able to create enough jobs for them. Already, demand for artisan products is falling, seeing how the war is wreaking havoc on the economy and thus the purchasing power of the average household. It's amazing that the guilds aren't
laying off the workers they already have, if you've been paying attention to their accounting books. Our community would certainly accept a decent number, but..."
"This is Caldrein. We take care of each other. Our people should know of this."
"Of course they know of this!" Diana snaps impatiently. "But they have their families to look after too, you know. You can't tell people like Miss Dakota that we're taxing their coin for the good of the town, but then spend the bulk of it on refugees. The people of Marloch would wonder why their hard-earned coin is going into a deep hole that never seems to fill. We can hardly expect the refugees to pay taxes, after all. And we certainly don't have enough to provide for them all. We can't control the hearts of the people of Marloch. Animosity and desperation will likely turn to crime. And that's something we can ill afford especially if we're expected to do more of the fighting in the coming years."
"The coming years". There's something about this statement that makes your blood run cold, and you stare down quietly at your plate uneasily. You already
knew, of course, that Caldrein is hardly doing
well in the conflict, that the Huntress' War still has some fight left in it. But to hear a member of the aristocracy - a daughter of a leader here in Lindholm - suggest that the frontliner will eventually move to Lindholm and Apaloft, that the war is likely to see many more years...
Anya is clearly trying to take a compassionate line of argument, but you can't help but feel your homeland is beset by so many problems when she points out, "Fulwaite is still recovering from a crop blight, though. And they and Sandria are the poorest regions of the confederacy."
"And how rich do you think
we'd be," smirks Diana mirthlessly, "with Elspar gone, the fighting on our doorstep and the countryside flooded with refugees?"
"It's still not
right."
"Oh," the middle sister rolls her eyes, "and you think that the world is going to change for you just based on what you think is right?"
"Don't just quote Elizabeth at me," snaps Anya, and there's a tone in her voice that somehow makes you feel like the youngest sister knows this is something that gets under Diana's skin. "It doesn't actually make you sound smart."
"I was..."
The delicate clink of a spoon against porcelain is followed by the equally delicate sound of a tiny sigh. In spite of this, the two younger Zabanya sisters react as if their eldest sister had just shouted for quiet - as opposed to having just finished her pudding, placing her silver spoon back onto her plate - and their mouths instantly snap shut, both turning to eye Elizabeth with a wary, attentive air. It's both impressive, and a little scary.
"I wonder," Elizabeth says, not quite looking at either of them. She raises a hand in a signal that's inscrutable to you, but instantly results in a maid at her side, refilling her cup. "If I knock your heads together hard enough, will you combine into someone with
halfway balanced policy recommendations? Or is that just wishful thinking?"
Diana and Anya slump in their seats, both looking displeased by this characterization, but seeming to know from long experience that arguing with it was not going to go places either of them will like. This certainly makes you feel awkward, but what makes you even more uncomfortable is the fact that this back-and-forth is happening in front of a few maids still standing to the side, waiting to serve you. It's as if the sisters have absolutely no concern about having these kinds of disagreements with their servants present.
For better or for worse, after an extended period of silence - broken momentarily only by Elizabeth's yawn - Anya tries to salvage the conversation as she looks to you again, and you're fleetingly grateful that the discussion has moved on from politics. "Is it true what they say about young dryads?" she asks.
"Is...wh-what true?" you blink.
Anya's voice is tentative as she looks at you. That same look is in her eyes. Inquisitive and...something else that makes you fidget in place a little. "About forest hospitality?"
Oh. Was she just curious about that? "Y-Yes," you say, smiling tentatively, thinking about Vesna's own visit not so long ago. "In the woodlands, th-things are quite solitary, without towns or inns. So if a traveller comes by, it's p-polite to let them stay and feed them, in return for doing some ch-chores, or other tasks."
For some reason, this seems to bring a slight flush to Anya's cheeks. Not embarrassed so much as excited. "Other tasks?" she asks.
Against your will, your accommodating smile begins to slowly wilt. You feel like you're missing something important here. Something
dangerous.
Unexpectedly, Elizabeth provides the rationale for your unease, although it swiftly proves to be of little comfort. "She's wondering," drawls your elven squadmate through a smirk, and already you can see Anya's expression transform into that of moritification, "if you've ever torn an elf girl's dress off and had your way with her on the soft bed of moss at the feet of an ancient tree, while birds and squirrels play on, unperturbed by her throws of passion."
"
Elizabeth!" whines Anya, sounding both panicked and affronted, her face turning red. Although probably not nearly as red as yours, given all the heat you're suddenly feeling on your cheeks.
"I-I-I..." you stammer rapidly, a well of constant false starts.
"What?" Elizabeth rolls her eyes as if this is all very silly, but the smirk on her lips makes it clear she knows
exactly what she's doing. "Are you going to harass my squadmate and expect me
not to start quoting from the novels you read?"
"I'm not harassing your squadmate!" protests Anya. To the side, Diana looks a tiny bit smug at her younger sister's humiliation. "I was just asking her about dryad hospitality! It's an entirely innocent question!"
"I-I-I..."
"Sure, '
innocent'," snorts Elizabeth. A door to the dining room creaks open, a sound that you barely register, something you
should've taken more notice of. "Would you like me to show Neianne your collection of novels?"
Anya scowls. "Oh, don't you..."
"I-I-
Idon'ttearoffdressesandhavemywaywithgirlsonsoftbedsofmossatthefeetofanancienttree!" you blurt out all at once, panicked, feeling so embarrassed that you're literally squeezing your eyes shut as you say this.
In hindsight, you really should've kept your eyes open too. Because standing at the open door - having returned from her discussions with her visitor - is Viscountess Zabanya, having returned just in time to hear - sans context - your outburst...and stare at you with a startled, bewildered expression.
"...
Pardon?" she blinks.
Diana has to pry you from the table to prevent you from constantly banging your head against it.
"So, how were they?" Elizabeth asks, looking at you with vague interest.
You look back at her with frank confusion, tinged with the vestiges of mortified embarrassment and a bit of resentful pouting; you
do blame Elizabeth - at least a little bit - for trapping you in such a shameful situation. "The...pies?" you offer, thinking back for what in the world "they" could mean.
"
My family," she sighs, but you're instantly certain that the awkwardness of this question is only something that would amuse her rather than give any kind of pause.
You give this a moment of thought as the two of you walk down the halls of the Zabanya resident that would take you back to your guest room. "Y-Your mother is a very gracious host," you offer, truthfully and without substance. She crosses her arms and looks at you, as if waiting for you to continue. You fidget silently for a moment, but it works. "Your s-sisters, they...when they're t-talking to you, they seem very...very..."
"Respectful?" she yawns.
You were
trying to find a better word than "terrified", so you suppose it's close enough that she at least realizes the general sentiment you're referencing. "I don't th-think
my sister has respected me once since she learned to speak."
Elizabeth takes this information on with an almost mockingly sympathetic nod. "As one older sister to another, I would suggest the use of lightning."
You laugh nervously, painfully aware that she isn't laughing along with you, just smiling. "I d-don't think that would have worked on Elana." If you'd somehow used magecraft to administer the kind of shock Elizabeth gave you earlier, you're very certain Elana would have found the nearest opportunity to put worms in your food.
She pats you on the arm, in a way that is not even remotely reassuring. "Sometimes," she declares, "you just need to use
more of it."
"Good morning, Miss Neianne. Lady Elizabeth is in the study. Would you like me to take you to her?"
The freckled maid greets you at your door, the picture of efficiency and propriety. Just an innocent servant-girl, after all. Not at all the kind of evil person who lures innocent dryads to their doom. You pout at her for a moment, but when she continues to look entirely unrepentant, you decide to simply let it go. "P-Please, thank you," you murmur.
The bed you slept in the night before had been so big that it could have easily housed your entire family, and so soft that it had seemed in danger of swallowing you up. You'd thought, at first, that you simply
couldn't fall asleep in such settings...until abruptly you'd awoken the next morning, feeling utterly refreshed, with the enticing smell of fresh tea and porridge laid on your bedside by persons unknown. It was the freckled maid, you now suppose. Now, you're dressed properly, donning a clean set of your usual dresses. You thought you were accustomed to maids at Faulkren doing your laundry, but somehow, it still feels intensely embarrassing for new people to take your clothes for washing. It feels like you're unfairly imposing upon them, and the thought that they'll also be handling your underwear does
not help.
It's much easier to navigate the hallways of the manor, now that the residual electrical tingle in your arm has gone away, and you're no longer carrying a buster sword that seems likely to topple every vase and knock every painting askew. Despite her longer legs and being ahead of you, your guide somehow matches your pace exactly, even as she guides you down the stairs and towards another section of the manor, opposite of the wing that houses the dining hall you found yourself in last night. It doesn't take her long to stop at a lacquered black door. Knocking politely, she waits for an answering invitation before easing it open for you.
"Don't worry," she whispers as you pass, an exemplar of benevolent helpfulness. "She's awake."
You don't really have time to pout this time, as - stepping through the door - you're stopped up short by the sight that greets you. The room is large, easily at least twice as large as the dining room of the manor, a room you already think is intimidatingly large, yet it's not particularly spacious. This can be chalked up to one specific reason: Books. More than you've seen anywhere other than the library at Faulkren, filling every conceivable space from floor to ceiling, in all different shapes and sizes, on bookshelves that run the width of the room, lining every wall save for the windows letting in a healthy amount of sunlight and, mercifully, around the unlit fireplace. The spines boast of subjects as diverse as magecraft, history, finance and - in one small, slightly neglected looking section - religion.
"Stop gaping like an idiot."
Your eyes belatedly snap down to the familiar, blonde figure nestled up in a comfortable armchair near the window. Elizabeth has only looked up from her reading, it would seem, to give you a quietly disapproving glare.
"S-Sorry," you murmur, stepping fully into the room and awkwardly taking a seat in one of the other chairs huddled together in the bookshelves' looming shadow.
Elizabeth studies you for a moment before a small, slightly smug smile crawls upon her lips. "You thought
Ravenhill was the only one with a large collection of books, didn't you?" The accusation is more than a little self-satisfied. You're not entirely certain, now, that Elizabeth even was displeased by your reaction to her collection, so much as merely by its duration.
"I've never s-seen her collection," you remind her, a little sheepish.
Elizabeth seems to consider this. Perhaps it had simply been an opportunity to brag, but you consider that she is simply used to entertaining guests who are at least passingly familiar with the homes of the other major noble houses around Lindholm. "It's
adequate," she allows with a sniff, as if only
barely conceding that Sieglinde's own collection of books is worthy of some notice.
Given the sheer quantity of the books around you, to say nothing of the stacks you'd encountered in her actual bedroom, you find this summation ever so slightly suspect...and you can't help but wonder whose study or library is larger, what the aftermath of a bibliophile duel between Sieglinde and Elizabeth would look like. "Wh-What are you reading?" you ask. It seems wiser not to voice this suspicion, with no corroborating evidence.
"Records on a series of experiments about the permanence of residual mana conversion effects," Elizabeth informs you, as if none of what she just referenced should be the least bit obscure.
"Oh."
After a moment, she glances up, studying your politely blank expression. "Mana conversion is what happens when you use magecraft to cast a spell. Casting a spell is a form of mana conversion, but mana conversion is not the same as casting a spell, so to speak. For some time, scholars of magecraft have been attempting to explain the lasting effects of mana conversion - whether that's magecraft or a natural phenomenon - on the physical environment in a consistent way."
"D-Do you mean whether something catches on fire wh-when you cast fire magecraft?" you guess, flailing for any relevant example in the midst of this conversation you feel woefully unequipped for.
"Similar, but incomplete." She seems very slightly pleased with you in spite of her words, perhaps for at least not being completely lost. "And I'm talking about what happens afterwards. That is to say, magecraft is fundamentally a simulacrum of natural phenomena. When I cast fire magecraft, I am not actually creating
fire, I am creating a
replica of fire, so to speak, mana given temporary form."
She slips an ornate bookmark into the tome, carefully shutting it and laying it down, in order to give you more of her attention. Or so you
thought. Instead, she holds up her right hand, and a tiny, flickering spark of flame blossoms there. How weak and frail the flame looks is surprising to you at first, even compared to the fire magecraft you've seen from other apprentices, to say nothing about the strange technique Stephanie managed. But mastery over
three elements at Elizabeth's age, you suppose, would be a bit much even for a slightly evil genius.
"Granted, the simulacrum is authentic enough that by most metrics, it is as real as any flame. Yet by cutting off mana, the spell in question ceases to be fire, regardless of the conditions that would allow fire to exist." On cue, the wisp of smokeless flame in her palm fizzles out with almost a relieved air. "But if I were to cast fire magecraft on, say, a piece of firewood," she nods at the fireplace, although it's empty for the summer, "the flames
created by that simulacrum of fire would remain, and the firewood would still be aflame." Elizabeth's expression takes on a thin hint of a smile. "If
someone were to use lightning magecraft to shock, say, some impudent wenches, the pain would remain well after the magecraft is done. If
Aster were to use wind magecraft to slit someone's throat, the throat would also remain slit after the wind is gone."
"O-Oh," you mumble, fidgeting uncomfortably, unsure whether or not that's an admission of what she did early in your first year at Faulkren to Squad Twelve, nor sure why Melanie is suddenly being brought into this, even as an example. Perhaps Elizabeth somehow found out about Melanie's training with the wyvern scale? It's difficult imagining any two people who would have less to do with each other than she and Elizabeth, so you have an unfounded suspicion that something
else happened.
Elizabeth regards your confusion with a slightly satisfied but secretive air, continuing before you have a chance to ask about either example. "But there are ultimately still inconsistencies. If I were to freeze Lake Marl, for example, once the mana is gone, as opposed to slowly melting from its ice form, Lake Marl would simply return to a water state...which seems at odds with what happens with fire magecraft on firewood. Raising the temperature causes flames to remain, so why does lowering the temperature not cause ice to do the same?"
"Do scholars have an a-answer?"
"The prevailing theory is that of matter displacement. That is the idea that fire magecraft transforms mana, a type of energy, into another form of energy, which doesn't cause a contradiction with natural matter due to the presence of a two-tier energy framework; whereas ice magecraft
does create matter, or at least transforms matter, and thus matter must return to its natural, pre-conversion matteric state in a way that does not exist for fire."
"O-Oh," you say blankly, feeling like this is going even further over your head.
"I'd say about...seventy percent of the Caldran scholarship on magecraft either believe in the theory of matter displacement or believe it's close enough to objective reality that contradictions in the theory are statistically insignificant."
Her earlier amusement has faded away into an almost studious inscruitibility, so it's difficult to really read her reaction to this theory. But... "So y-you belong in the thirty percent."
"Whatever makes you think so?" She looks genuinely interested, without giving you any impression that your hunch is actually right. It gives you the feeling that there is a wrong answer to this question.
You hesitate slightly before responding, "I-If you believed in the theory, I don't think y-you'd mention there are people who don't b-believe in it."
"Very good," she concedes, giving you a slight nod that very briefly makes you swell with an unaccountable pride. "You're not
smart, but you're
sharper than you let on."
You're not entirely sure whether this is a compliment or a put-down. "Th-Thank you?"
"Being 'smart' is something you
acquire.
Anyone can be smart through reading, studying, learning, hard work. You're
born with sharpness, or at least something close to it."
You think about this rather myopic view of mortal capability for a moment before slowly and cautiously murmuring, "I don't think that's true."
Elizabeth rolls her eyes in the manner of someone who has heard something unbearably naive. "I know someone of my age who is
terrible at magecraft. Absolutely has no natural talent for it. She
constantly failed in her studies. Disappointed tutor after tutor, until after years and years of hard work, she rose to a
barely acceptable level. But the ability to grasp theory doesn't translate to competence in
actual magecraft. She'll kill someone by accident one day, and she won't even understand
why."
You're not sure what to feel about Elizabeth's statements, myopic as they often are. You don't know whether or not she's right, whether or not what she's saying is
fair. You suppose, at the very least, that it's fortunate that accidents in swordplay doesn't necessarily lead to incidents of death.
Then you remember the actual
size of your buster sword, and swiftly surmise any relief on your part may be premature.
But Elizabeth stands up from her sofa, and almost instinctively, you do so as well. "Come on," she beckons, walking for the door, "enough talk about my scholarly pursuits. We're heading out. Did you bring your sword?"
"Y-Yes."
"In your room, then? Go get it."
A few minutes later, the two of you are walking down the grand foyer, heading out the doors of the Zabanya residence. Greeting you there are two maids, who curtsy politely as Elizabeth passes them by, declaring, "I'm going outside."
"Do you need someone to accompany you?" one of the maids asks.
Tilting her head at you, the tiny elf notes, "I have someone already."
"Is it...d-
dangerous in Marloch?" you ask Elizabeth privately moments later, when the two of you have stepped outside with the doors closed behind you, without anyone around to eavesdrop and be offended over your question.
"No. I just want people to look at you funny."
You give her a long, searching look and quickly ascertain that her amusement is at your dismay, not because she's actually joking. You cross your arms, pouting.
"If you didn't want to draw attention to yourself, you would have taken up magecraft. Not dedicated yourself to the art of the ridiculously-sized sword."
"Y-
Your magecraft draws attention!" you point out. With some justice, considering the spectacle of Elizabeth flying around, laughing maniacally as she killed Squirrels with extremely conspicuous lightning and ice. That may not be
exactly what happened that night, but
surely it's close enough.
"Only when I want it to," she says, infuriatingly. "And you already went to get your sword like a good little bodyguard, anyway."
With a slight mewl of displeasure, you follow along, taking the few steps forward to reach the top of the incline - the top of that winding road up to the Zabanya residence that you rode up on Clarine's wagon - a and what you see takes your breath away.
The fog receded sometime during your stay in the Zabanya manor. You've seen Marloch on a map before, and knew it to be nestled between a lake and a small constellation of mountains, but this is the first time you've been able to see the town -
really see the town - with your own eyes.
Tree-coated mountains, almost blueish-gray in an optical illusion, surround Marloch on all sides but the south, but those on the east are low enough that the morning sun shines easily onto the town and the lake. The five-kilometer oval of a lake is almost painfully blue, and you have an irrational thought that the water is probably incredibly icy. Marloch, in fact, is situated on the west side of the lake, and the mountains to the west probably block out the sun as it sets, which explains why it was unusually dark last night as your wagon pulled into town. Several patches of woodlands stretch from the lake's shores and up the mountain, but for the most part the base of the mountains - flat enough for a town to be built and remain sufficient - are colored a deep green with fields of grass dotted with colorful flowers.
But it's the town that catches your attention, stretching down from the Zabanya manse - which, now that you can see it clearly, looks like an elegant manse instead of a haunted house - down to the shores of the lake, laid out across an incline that is not sharp enough to translate into a mountain face just yet. As you walk down the cobblestone streets, rows of picturesque houses - with their sloped rooftops and occasional spires, painted in a charming variety of colors - cascade down to Lake Marl like a giant, albeit short and broad, flight of stairs. There's a verticality to Marloch that results in your descending stairs and slopes, squeezing into alleyways in between colorful houses of wood and stone and brick.
And the streets are lively in a way that Faulkren, the town, does not match. Where Faulkren is quaint in a classically traditional way, it doesn't take a great deal of observation to notice that Marloch is obviously an artisan town. The ground floor of many buildings are open areas where craftmasters practice their art; you've lost track of the many workshops that create weapons, tools, furniture, tableware, glass, statuettes, and more, gathered around furnaces and smithies and workbenches. You spot at least two workshops that handle the sculpting of wood in large operations that you suspect would make your mother - who runs her workshop by herself - jealous. The air rings with the sounds of hammers, saws, flames, and craftmasters yelling at hapless apprentices.
"It's beautiful," you breathe at the sight as you catch another view of the entire town from a street high enough to warrant wooden railings.
"It's alright," Elizabeth shrugs, but you have a suspicion that she's actually rather pleased as she makes another turn that brings her before a door to a two-story building that's actually rather quieter compared to the many other workshops you've already passed through. A sign that hangs above the door takes the sign of a pair of shears, and two mannequins wear dresses behind a large glass window, designating this building as a tailor's shop and answering your question about the lack of a cacophony.
Elizabeth pushes through the door, the bell atop it ringing as the two of you step through. You expected the interior to be filled with rows of racks full of clothes and dresses, but there's surprisingly very little of it. There are four more mannequins inside wearing different styles of dresses, but surprisingly, the setting you find yourself in is particularly business-like, with counters and shelves and drawers, some of which hold large rolls of colored fabrics.
From one of the open doors in the back emerges a human woman - aging and thin - and behind her a much younger elven girl - close to your age, in fact, looking like a shop assistant or even an apprentice. The woman's lips twist into a little smile as she bows at the sight of her current patrons. "Lady Elizabeth, good morning," she greets, her assistant dropping into a deep curtsy behind her. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
Elizabeth cocks a thumb over her shoulder at your direction. "Her measurements," she declares.
"Ah," smiles the woman, moving past Elizabeth and stopping in front of you, "yes. Your long-awaited guest." Which implies that your visit has been expected, but you don't get too much time to think about it before a hand is offered. "An honor to meet a friend of Elizabeth's and an apprentice at a Caldran mercenary academy. I am Tracy."
"N-Neianne," you introduce yourself, shaking Tracy's hand and trying to be as amiable as possible in spite of your confusion...and in spite of the fact that the elven shop assistant is suddenly getting on her knees and wrapping a tape measure around various parts of your body, and you try not to feel
too self-conscious about it, especially since she seems to hesitate a little at the sight of your buster sword, as if wondering whether or not you're dangerous, and - perhaps more importantly - how she's supposed to take measurements around it. "N-Nice to meet you."
Looking you up and down, Tracy smiles before leaning over to Elizabeth. "I
do like the color of her dress," she observes, and you look down in further confusion to see your usual dress, as green as healthy leaves. "It matches the color of her eyes and the leaves in her hair. I don't suppose you'd be opposed?"
"I don't care about what color you choose as long as it suits her well," Elizabeth yawns.
"I'm also thinking gold-ish highlights," Tracy continues to murmur, lost in thought, looking you up and down, although you're beginning to understand that she's not looking
at insomuch as she's...envisioning clothes on your body? "Something to round the design out. Maybe a little bit of black? Or brown...?"
"U-Um," you interrupt, looking at Elizabeth nervously, beginning to realize what this is all about and why you have been brought here, about a deal that was struck well before you ever arrived. "Are you...
getting me a
dress?"
"No," quips Elizabeth immediately, glancing at the shop assistant still on her knees, "she's just measuring you for fun." And, after a moment of looking at your confused expression, she rolls her eyes and amends, "She's making you a
gown, more specifically."
"W-W-Wait," you stammer, eyes wide, "I couldn't p-possibly accept!"
The blonde elf raises an eyebrow. "Why not? Do you want to keep wearing my sundresses so much?"
"N-No!"
"Well, you can't. I like my dresses, you know." Her lips curl cruelly. "You can't just tear them off."
"I-I-It's e-
expensive!" you explain, your face flushing even redder as you realize Elizabeth is pulling ammunition from last night's disastrous dinner at your expense. At least the elven girl has stopped measuring you all over your body. "I c-couldn't pay you back!"
"You probably can't," Elizabeth shrugs and observes in an almost painfully easy manner. Then: "You can think of it as a gift, if you want."
"B-But..."
"I feel like it. So you'll accept."
You fidget uncomfortably. That you have no say in this is naturally off-putting, but this
is something you're getting for free after all, casting doubt on just how much you're actually allowed to be upset. "Th-Thank you...?" you manage awkwardly in a quiet squeak after a long moment of hesitation, but already Elizabeth is moving onto other concerns.
"How long will it take?" the young elven mage asks the aging human tailor.
"I'll have your order placed in front of the queue, of course," promises Tracy. "With that, I'd suppose...oh, three, four days of careful work. Two, maybe, if the design is
bolder."
"Ah." Elizabeth smirks. "Less fabric, yes?"
"Less fabric" is not a term you expected or want to hear with bated breath. "Wait," you blink, a bit of alarm slipping into your tone. "w-
what?"
"I suppose you'd know fashion best," the elf shrugs, ignoring you completely.
"W-What do you mean, '
less fabric?"
But Elizabeth is already turning around, beckoning you with a lazy hand to fllow. "I'll leave you to your work, then," she announces, even as Tracy and her assistant bow again. "Come along, Neianne."
You follow Elizabeth haplessly out of the tailor's, stepping back onto the streets of Marloch with the sun shining overhead. Already she's guiding you down the streets in a series of twists and turns, heading determinedly to what seems like a predestined destination. Which, as it turns out, is a bakery.
The bakery at Faulkren at first seemed to you the height of artisanal decadence, when it comes to baked goods. Everything was so perfect, so cleanly shaped, so light and fluffy. The scents that hung around the place had always been heavenly; it's no surprise that Stephanie spent so much of her time window-shopping around it. Upon seeing this gaily painted shop that Elizabeth had made a beeline for, you are forced to revise that opinion...as well as acknowledge, for what seems like the hundredth time on this short trip alone, that your upbringing is almost painfully quaint in comparison to your companion.
The wonderful smells of fresh-baked bread wafted far ahead of the actual shop interior, along with chocolate, buttery pastry, fruit pies, and untold wonders. In a short timespan, you witnessed several passersby on the street pause in front of it just to take in the aroma before moving on. Elizabeth doesn't pause at all; instead, she simply forges on ahead with all the contentment of a well-fed cat in its own home, entirely confident that everyone will simply make way. And, of course, they all do.
Even informed as you have so recently been that you're allowed not to react to
everything with wide-eyed awe, wide-eyed awe is how you reacted as you looked around you at the crammed display shelves. What hadn't quite surprised you was how the proprietor knew Elizabeth well.
"Linda!" your elven squadmate calls out the moment she pushes through the door to the bakery, her behavior almost rude. "You'd better have my sweets ready."
Where Tracy is aging and thin, the human woman who emerges from the door leading to what you assume to be the kitchen is only middle-aged yet plump, dressed with an apron that strengthens her image as a chef or - more likely - baker. There is an easier, wider smile that she carries compared to Tracy as well, even as her gaze settles upon Elizabeth and she booms, "Oi, so you're finally here, aren't you?"
Elizabeth rolls her eyes, ignoring your look of mild alarm; this baker's familiarity with Elizabeth is certainly a little surprising, if not startling, even if the elf herself isn't taking offense. "Are you implying I'm late?"
"You're
always late," snorts Tracy, but then she turns her gaze to you and offers an infectious grin. "Who's your friend?"
"Neianne, Linda," Elizabeth introduces lazily. "Linda, Neianne." And before you can say anything in introduction, the elf notes to Linda, "So since I've given you extra time, I trust you have my delights nice and hot?"
Again, Linda snorts, but she doesn't seem even remotely put off by Elizabeth's almost semi-brusque behavior, something that strikes even
you as a bit unusual for her. "Not to worry, your delights came out of the oven not
too long ago, and they've cooled down since. I tried being a bit more creative about this batch. I'm pretty proud of it." She swivels her head towards the kitchen and shouts, "Oi, Agatha! Lady Zabanya's here for her cookies, so bring it out!" Then, back to you, she smiles and winks, pointing at Elizabeth and noting, "Don't worry
too much about this one, Neianne, she's
always like this."
You smile a little as Elizabeth rolls her eyes. "She's a-alright," you admit.
Elizabeth raises an eyebrow, looking at you with the kind of expression you imagine a cat would have upon cornering a mouse. "I'm 'alright', huh?" she smiles sweetly, which is certainly incentive enough for you to make emergency course corrections.
"I-I mean, I don't d-dislike you as you are!"
The elven girl beams, which only serves to scare you a little more. "Aw," she coos, "how sweet."
But Elizabeth doesn't get to follow up on that as someone else emerges from the kitchen, a human woman who looks only slightly younger than Linda. Agatha - at least so you presume, given the similar attire and Linda's calling out earlier - steps up to Elizabeth, greeting her with a "Lady Zabanya", holding a tray of bite-sized pastries just low enough for the elven highborn to inspect them.
And certainly, the pastries seem...
special, in their own way. Albeit not necessarily in a way that is necessarily entirely pleasing to Elizabeth, even as she sniffs with a hint of disdain and remarks, "Linda, these are ghastly."
The tiny delights are each shaped in the form of Elizabeth's own face. That you can tell who they're supposed to be, you suppose, is to the baker's credit; the hair and eye color are almost precisely correct. And the general face shape is in the right neighborhood for a few. Most, however, stare up at the three of you, their vacant, misshapen visage greeting all the world. On one hand, they honestly
do look ghastly. On the other, you're quite certain that if someone went through the trouble of making something like this special for you, you would not have responded
quite so harshly. Even though this
is Lady Elizabeth, you had not quite been prepared for such a blunt dismissal.
But you are not
remotely prepared for the baker crossing her plump arms and declaring with an almost nonchalant air of familiarity, "Why don't you actually try one, you mouthy little brat?"
It is not entirely an exaggeration to say that your blood starts running cold, your eyes widening in terror as you stare at the baker, who seems largely oblivious to your own reaction, staring instead of Elizabeth's own lazy expression. You have never -
never - heard anyone speak to Elizabeth in such a manner. Not Sieglinde, not Aphelia, not even Headmistress Rastangard, the last of whom had only "get out of my face" as her harshest words to the tiny Zabanya. Granted, you've only ever seen Penelope and Wendy the rest of Squad Twelve be on the receiving end of Elizabeth's acute displeasure - and for an offense that was significantly worse than just defiantly calling a "mouthy little brat" - but the act itself was a message that Elizabeth is not to be displeased.
But rather than doing something horrible to Linda, rather than shocking her or trapping her in ice or issuing heart-stopping threats, Elizabeth just...rolls her eyes. She gives a girlish but long-suffering sigh, selects the worst looking of the entire lot, and obligingly pops it into her mouth.
"...Linda, these are wonderful." She makes the correction as if she never thought otherwise, and promptly takes another. And a third, while Linda looks on with a decidedly smug contenance.
You look between Linda and Elizabeth with a slightly traumatized expression, still not entirely certain how someone had just gotten away with speaking so disrespectfully to the dread heir of House Zabanya. You gape, your mouth hanging open, uncertain of what precisely you're about to ask...and you must've kept your mouth open for
too long, because it is suddenly half-filled by an Elizabeth-shaped cookie, deposited there with a nonchalant, over-the-shoulder motion by Elizabeth. "Here," she says, "try one."
"Mm!" you squeak, surprised and a little taken aback. You move to pull the cookie out, but then... "Mm..."
It's heavenly, like someone has just put a sweet, lightly-spiced cloud into your mouth. Each of the colors on Elizabeth's face seem to have their own flavors that work as well together as they do apart. You actually go a little weak-kneed, closing your eyes and savoring every last morsel.
"Linda," Elizabeth comments out of the blue, that bit of smugness returning to her expression, "I think you may have just taken poor Neianne's virginity."
Your face instantly goes as crimson as Linda's cherry pies, and you begin to half-choke on the wonderful cookie. Laughing uproariously, the baker moves around behind you and pounds you firmly on the back until you stop. It's only after you leave with a basket full of pastries that you wonder how Linda managed to do so around the giant sword on your back.
@AnonymousRabbit : There's your lake.
