A Different Heir
- Location
- Aotearoa
In a slightly divergent reality:
...
You wonder about the person you're to meet, this 'R v Hal'. You don't even know for sure if it's his eldest child, or merely the one that decided to answer the call. Abelhelm said that his wife died in childbirth in '66, so they must be at least eleven, but could be as old as... early twenties, you suppose? Depends how young Abelhelm was when he fathered them. Surely not as old as you. Surely.
Finally, the gate guard gives the signal that Anton convinced him to pass on and Anton quickly shuts the door he had been peeking through. "They're here!" he says excitedly. You give yourself a final once-over, despite wearing the same robes and hat and sword you always do. First impressions count, after all.
After a moment that stretches for an eternity, the door swings open, and for a heartbreaking instant you think Abelhelm has returned. Then your senses return, and you study the Witch Hunter that stepped through the door and is scanning the room; shorter than Abelhelm, more scarred, older. Not his ghost returned, and not his heir, either. A bodyguard, perhaps. The man gives you a resigned stare, but steps aside allowing the entrance of another.
Tall, but thin, her hair growing out awkwardly and looking unsuited to the loose robes that she wears. Late teens, early twenties, if you had to guess, with a large sword on her back and carrying herself with the awkward over-eagerness of someone who has yet to grow into their own identity. You glimpse both hesitation and enthusiasm in her eyes, barely kept from bubbling over by a will of iron. "I," she announces, "am Roswita van Hal. The Elector Countess of Stirland."
You are rendered speechless by the implications, so are pleased when Anton is as ever the first to break an awkward silence and introduces himself, bowing to her and almost stuttering over the ritual greeting of nobility. She returns his bow with an inclination of her head, dislodging her... ludicrously pointy hat. Gustav is next, and you can see from his expression that he's weighed her up just as you have and found her wanting, but he too knows the rituals and speaks them flawlessly. Schultz is next, and presents himself as the skilled craftsman he is, with deference but not obsequiousness. Then you step forward, wincing as she claps her hands together and lets out a small squee of delight.
You dredge up the ritual from Anton's lessons to you so long ago; Mathilde Weber of Stirland, at your service, and a bow, sensible hat remaining firmly in place. Wizards and knights alike bow, rather than curtsy. She eagerly follows through on the courtesies, her eyes on you the entire way through, reconciling you with the character from her father's letters, and an impressionable young mind enthralled by... Wizard Chic. Everyone looks between you and the Elector Countess bemusedly. If they're not familiar with the fashion trend, it would look rather as if Roswita was attempting to disguise herself as... well, you, if she only had a vague description and stereotypes to go on.
[Among a great many rolls to generate her attributes and attitudes:]
[Her attitude towards magic-users: Roll, 90.]
Then she steps outside the formality of the greetings. Only well-honed instincts developed avoiding hair-ruffling by your Master let you avoid her grab for your hat. "I looove your hat! My father spoke so highly of the service you provided him, I just knew I had to learn more about you, and Wizards. Amazing!" she says, her voice giddy and too familar. "I'm sooo pleased to meet you! A real Wizard! And a war hero too! The Dämmerlichtreiter! I am such a fan! You're sooo lucky to be able to cast magic! My first... command is- please can you show me a Spell?"
Your eyes narrow as you stare back at her wordlessly, and she leans away from you as the silence stretches, nervousness growing in her eyes. But then you incline your head. "As you wish," you murmur.
Briefly, you consider Mindholing everyone here and disappearing from Stirland forever, to hunt down whichever fool was responsible for this fashion craze. But only for a moment.
You flutter your fingers and make some arcane gestures. You notice the older witch hunter tensing up, but pretend to disregard him. The enormous hat floats up off the ground and hovers in front of Roswita. "You appear to have misplaced your hat, your Grace."
Roswita claps her hands together with glee and grabs her hat before perching it precariously on her head once more. "I just know we're going to be the best of friends! You're going to be my Spymistress, and Court Wizard and you'll tell me all about Magic, and the Winds, the Colleges... Oh! What was apprenticeship like? Were you taken from your parents as a child? Did they cry to see you go? Soooo romantic!"
"Ahem. Your Grace?" says the older Witch Hunter. "Perhaps you can quiz... Journeywoman Weber later. We have some other formalities to attend to."
Mindhole. Take No Heed. You could be out of here and on your Shadow Steed in minutes. But, no. It seems, once more, you have a heavy duty to Stirland.
---
...
You wonder about the person you're to meet, this 'R v Hal'. You don't even know for sure if it's his eldest child, or merely the one that decided to answer the call. Abelhelm said that his wife died in childbirth in '66, so they must be at least eleven, but could be as old as... early twenties, you suppose? Depends how young Abelhelm was when he fathered them. Surely not as old as you. Surely.
Finally, the gate guard gives the signal that Anton convinced him to pass on and Anton quickly shuts the door he had been peeking through. "They're here!" he says excitedly. You give yourself a final once-over, despite wearing the same robes and hat and sword you always do. First impressions count, after all.
After a moment that stretches for an eternity, the door swings open, and for a heartbreaking instant you think Abelhelm has returned. Then your senses return, and you study the Witch Hunter that stepped through the door and is scanning the room; shorter than Abelhelm, more scarred, older. Not his ghost returned, and not his heir, either. A bodyguard, perhaps. The man gives you a resigned stare, but steps aside allowing the entrance of another.
Tall, but thin, her hair growing out awkwardly and looking unsuited to the loose robes that she wears. Late teens, early twenties, if you had to guess, with a large sword on her back and carrying herself with the awkward over-eagerness of someone who has yet to grow into their own identity. You glimpse both hesitation and enthusiasm in her eyes, barely kept from bubbling over by a will of iron. "I," she announces, "am Roswita van Hal. The Elector Countess of Stirland."
You are rendered speechless by the implications, so are pleased when Anton is as ever the first to break an awkward silence and introduces himself, bowing to her and almost stuttering over the ritual greeting of nobility. She returns his bow with an inclination of her head, dislodging her... ludicrously pointy hat. Gustav is next, and you can see from his expression that he's weighed her up just as you have and found her wanting, but he too knows the rituals and speaks them flawlessly. Schultz is next, and presents himself as the skilled craftsman he is, with deference but not obsequiousness. Then you step forward, wincing as she claps her hands together and lets out a small squee of delight.
You dredge up the ritual from Anton's lessons to you so long ago; Mathilde Weber of Stirland, at your service, and a bow, sensible hat remaining firmly in place. Wizards and knights alike bow, rather than curtsy. She eagerly follows through on the courtesies, her eyes on you the entire way through, reconciling you with the character from her father's letters, and an impressionable young mind enthralled by... Wizard Chic. Everyone looks between you and the Elector Countess bemusedly. If they're not familiar with the fashion trend, it would look rather as if Roswita was attempting to disguise herself as... well, you, if she only had a vague description and stereotypes to go on.
[Among a great many rolls to generate her attributes and attitudes:]
[Her attitude towards magic-users: Roll, 90.]
Then she steps outside the formality of the greetings. Only well-honed instincts developed avoiding hair-ruffling by your Master let you avoid her grab for your hat. "I looove your hat! My father spoke so highly of the service you provided him, I just knew I had to learn more about you, and Wizards. Amazing!" she says, her voice giddy and too familar. "I'm sooo pleased to meet you! A real Wizard! And a war hero too! The Dämmerlichtreiter! I am such a fan! You're sooo lucky to be able to cast magic! My first... command is- please can you show me a Spell?"
Your eyes narrow as you stare back at her wordlessly, and she leans away from you as the silence stretches, nervousness growing in her eyes. But then you incline your head. "As you wish," you murmur.
Briefly, you consider Mindholing everyone here and disappearing from Stirland forever, to hunt down whichever fool was responsible for this fashion craze. But only for a moment.
You flutter your fingers and make some arcane gestures. You notice the older witch hunter tensing up, but pretend to disregard him. The enormous hat floats up off the ground and hovers in front of Roswita. "You appear to have misplaced your hat, your Grace."
Roswita claps her hands together with glee and grabs her hat before perching it precariously on her head once more. "I just know we're going to be the best of friends! You're going to be my Spymistress, and Court Wizard and you'll tell me all about Magic, and the Winds, the Colleges... Oh! What was apprenticeship like? Were you taken from your parents as a child? Did they cry to see you go? Soooo romantic!"
"Ahem. Your Grace?" says the older Witch Hunter. "Perhaps you can quiz... Journeywoman Weber later. We have some other formalities to attend to."
Mindhole. Take No Heed. You could be out of here and on your Shadow Steed in minutes. But, no. It seems, once more, you have a heavy duty to Stirland.
---
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