It broke Seele’s heart to see Artemis in such a state. The poor girl had only just joined them, and already things had exploded—quite literally. She hoped this wouldn’t ruin things for her, but she couldn’t blame her if it did. Right now though, that was a distant concern.
“No, honey, no no,” she said softly, keeping her smile firm in the face of the girl’s hollow dismay. “You didn’t do anything wrong. The only mistake you can make now is blaming yourself, okay? It’s all handled. Just go back in and try to relax. I’ll be right behind you, I just want to make sure Graves is alright, first.”
It was impossible to ignore the way she had looked at him. Seele knew what fear looked like, and she knew how different it was to be afraid of someone rather than something. She stroked Artemis’s shoulder gently.
“Hey, it’s okay. I promise. Look at me. No one is going to hurt you, no one. We won’t let it happen.”
With that she left the archer, stopping momentarily on her way to Graves to speak with the siblings. To her relief they seemed fine, though she knew from the incident with Kazuki that, with things like this sometimes it was the bond that suffered more than the body. Sif and Siegfried had been with them from the start, they were part of the family, and she paled at the thought that she might lose them this way.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, bowing low like her mother had told her was right to do when you were truly apologetic. “I hope neither of you were hurt. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know what would have…happened, back there. Thank you for your help.
“And, Siegfried…you’re right. You are—about my plan. It’s stupid, and hasty, and chances are it’s going to get me killed, but…it doesn’t matter. This whole city’s collapsing on itself, maybe the whole world is, too. Someone has to do something. Even if it’s not the world, even if it’s just a few missing people.
“I’m not calling you a coward. You were in that dungeon, you were there when Aag…well, you’re one of the bravest people I know. I meant what I said; you don’t have to be part of it. Neither of you do. I’m sorry that I got you into this. I hope we can still be friends,” she managed a small smile. “I like you both very much.”
Once again she left, finally coming to the side of Lendie’s healer, and kneeling down next to Graves.
“Andrecille, right?” she asked. It seemed the woman had worked her magic on him already. “Thank you so much for helping. I’m sorry for the trouble.”
Her attention turned down to Graves, then. A pang of frustration flashed through her, along with the realization that she was upset with him. But that was silly, and she knew that. She was just embarrassed about being in the middle of a scene, and a little stressed from having to talk her way out of jail. He was hurt, and clearly much deeper than Andrecille’s magic could reach.
So, with a little muster she kept her smile alive for him. “Graves, sweetie, are you alright? Can you stand, do you need help?”
Full Name – Dot "Dorothy" Mummer Age - 14 Gender - Female Heritage – Alexandrian, with ancestral ties to Grayle. Magical Affinity - Light
-
P E R S O N A L I T Y
My Song is Fury There was a time when Dot saw the world as her mother did: a shining sprawl of adventure, filled to bursting with wonderful sights and friends waiting to be made. She gave her smiles freely and often, and saw the best in those she met, even when they didn’t deserve it.
That time has passed.
The girl that left Alexandria sees the world differently now. Sprawling, still, but like a corpse, filled not with promise but festering with the maggots of aristocracy. What was once a starry-eyed thirst for glory and adventure has soured into a bitter cynicism. Her smiles are guarded behind a cold wall of distrust, and she has a bad habit of assuming the worst in just about everyone she meets—especially those she perceives as nobility.
Short-tempered, driven, and loathe to let go of a grudge, Dot is likely not what Grayle expected of the Heir of Light.
That suits her just fine.
My Dance is Justice Dot is not angry without reason—at least, not in her mind—and certainly not without purpose. In the nations of Grayle and Alexandria, where the strong do what they can and the weak endure what they must, she sees nothing but megalomaniacal beasts clawing over one another for the privilege of tormenting those beneath them. To them everything is a game, and every person a piece to be weighed, judged for its value, and then discarded. No heed is given to the lives they ruin, the suffering they mete out, or the fear they’ve sown so deeply into the populace that no one would even consider standing against them.
Nothing would please Dot more than to remind the nobles of Grayle how human they are. How human she is, despite the heap of ancient glory she acquired by virtue of being born. Where once her undue gifts repulsed her, she now sees the potential to bring an overdue balance to the country’s elite.
For the Light no longer serves a country, it serves a people.
My Love is Honor The downside to laying immense responsibility and expectation upon a child is that, no matter their capabilities, at the end of the day you’re still laying immense responsibility and expectation upon a child.
Dot is fourteen. She’s spent half her life locked in a tower, training for the day she might get to affect real change on the world. But the truth is that it’s been so long since she was actually in that world, and as much as the systems that govern it disgust her, she still missed it. Beneath the angry veneer is a girl longing for the wonderment of a lost childhood; companionship, adventure, the safety of trust. She's forgotten the sound of her own laughter, or what it feels like to confide in someone.
Yet she can’t reconcile these desires with her own, self-imposed duty. If she can’t put herself aside for the greater good, then what’s the point? What separates her from the people she despises?
Fidelity to her cause has seeded guilt deep within her, and Dot struggles constantly with her own morality. Is she really ready to bear the consequences of making so many enemies? And if she is, can she really do that alone?
She doesn’t want to be alone.
S K I L L S E T
The Heir in Cold Light The successor of Arbert Grayle, born to a vagabond in Alexandria. There’s an irony there lost entirely upon Dot, who could hardly be more disgusted with her gift than she already is. Having spent only a year performing menial infusions for the Sages’ research, once Verite allowed her other avenues to train, she scarcely ever summoned her aura again.
However, hearing how so many of Grayle’s elite harbor powerful magics of their own has her reconsidering. If the stories are true, and the Light can be harnessed for the purposes of negation, then perhaps she can yet turn the curse of her legacy towards a better cause.
There is, of course, a long way to go. She is effectively starting from nothing—over the years she’s lost her touch with even the meager feats she performed as a child. The idea of learning from the very people she seeks to unseat twists her stomach, but in the end, she knows, it will be worth it.
Balletic Grace As Dot’s memories of Lerenna begin to fade, what remains is her mother’s spirit. She danced them across Alexandria, with enthralling grace born from her time as a warrior. When she finally achieved some measure of freedom in the Sages’ Tower, learning to dance was the first thing she thought of. Verite spared no expense. He brought in tutors from every corner of Alexandria, Valefor and beyond, and she met their instruction with an almost innate talent.
Fast, nimble, with the balance and coordination of a cat, at fourteen Dot already bears Lerenna’s grace in full. Be it in simple clothes or lightweight, piecemeal armor, her movements are fluid and unencumbered.
Alone her dances are sharp and captivating, but her brand of performance prefers a partner.
Mummer's Waltz In learning swordplay, Dot had several obstacles to overcome; chief among them was the fact that she had decided upon a greatsword as her weapon of choice. Training with lighter wasters served well enough to develop her foundation, but the next issue arose when she met her tutors.
She could not, or perhaps simply refused to, divorce her dancing from her swordsmanship. Waster in hand, she would twirl, and dip, and leap, and every time she fell, or tripped, or threw herself off balance, she got right back up. Her tutors were baffled and incensed, demanding she use proper form. Fighting, they said, was ugly, brutal, and above all, practical.
But Verite saw differently, and much like how he had fostered her anger, he chose to nurture her peculiar style into something wonderful. He dismissed her tutors, and took up the role of teacher himself. Much to Dot’s surprise, he was incredibly well-versed, matching and surpassing both the tutor’s skills and her own elegance, as though he’d been fighting and dancing his whole life.
For six years this was her morning noon and night. Hard training as well as the exercise to ensure she could wield her sword as gracefully as she danced. Though she never managed to best Verite in their spars, he did invite other youthful trainees to measure her against. There, her unorthodox style and swordsmanship granted her a taste of victory.
It was addictingly sweet, and by the time she left for Grayle, she was eager to taste it again.
Physical Description
Despite her best efforts, Dot does not strike an imposing figure. She’s short, and still carries a youthful countenance even when she’s glowering. When she must begrudgingly don the long dresses and frilled skirts of nobility, her pale-gray hair and glassy eyes lend her a doll-like appearance. Normally, she can be found wearing simple clothes, plain and well-fitting from shirt to boots, save for the addition of waist or shoulder cloaks.
She moves with incredible grace, calm and measured even when her emotions are high. While not exactly stealthy, her height and the ghostly ease with which she navigates can take her in and out of a room before she’s so much as noticed.
As a result of all this, seeing her heft such a mighty weapon might come as a surprise. Part of her strength undoubtedly comes from her aura, but the majority of it is borne from years of rigorous training. Dot’s stature belies a form of hardened muscle, maintained through determination and routine conditioning, as well as the agile flexibility required of a dancer.
Character Conceptualization
Two elegant, curved swords once wielded by the nomad Lerenna. Red ribbons are fastened to each pommel, meant to be twirled and spun as part of a performance, but their fabric is shorn short and faded by the sun.
A woman of no nation, they say Lerenna fought on a hundred fronts in her youth, but eventually grew weary of battle and sought a more colorful life. After her adventures in Grayle, she traveled the roads of Alexandria as a roving entertainer with a new name, and a new daughter.
It is said that when she visited Ferrous Shore, Baron Auferrum was so taken by her performance that he offered her board in his own keep so that she might dance for his court.
“Listen close, daughter-mine. To truly live in this world you must do three things: Sing loudly, dance boldly, and love bravely.”
A cracked emblem depicting a star crossing over the dull gray sands of the Ferrous Shore, once the symbol of House Auferrum.
The evening Dot Mummer’s aura manifested, Baron Auferrum was the first to act. He confined his guests to their quarters, permitting none to leave his keep save only for Lerenna, who he had named traitor, and banished. With the Heir of Light in his custody, he sought to elevate his House, and his own station, by demanding the Sages’ Tower reinstate him.
Instead, they had him murdered, and Dot was seized from the Ferrous Shore. Without its head, House Auferrum quickly collapsed, its territories picked apart by rival neighbors. Now its legacy shines as brightly as its sands.
A broken, silvery shard carved with a latticework of markings. Embers of pale light still glint upon its surface.
Dot was seven when she was brought to the Sages’ Tower, where her confusion and tearful pleas for her mother were met by the Sages’ deaf ambitions. Tutored by a man named Verite, she was put to work immediately. Day in and day out, she channeled her light into all manner of objects, while the scholars studied her.
These stones were her greatest challenge, drinking greedily from her aura, but breaking like glass when they grew too full. It took nearly a year to infuse one properly. Dot grew embittered, not only with the Tower, but with herself. The wonderment of magic soured, and she began to view her divine heirdom for what it truly was: a leash.
It is said that by the time she was only eight, the golden brilliance of her magic had withered to a cold, lunic white.
Solid and heavy, the blade is weathered from years of practice. At first, Dot could not so much as lift this sword off the ground, but that did not deter her—she was determined to make it her dance partner.
Though his excursion was brief, Verite returned from Grayle a different man. Upon reuniting with Dot, he threw himself down and inexplicably begged forgiveness for her treatment. He confided in her a deep resentment for the Sages’ cruelty and the confinements of the Tower. Though he could not free her, he asked her what she would study had she the choice.
Dot told him she wanted to dance. Then she told him she wanted to fight. He agreed to teach her both.
A letter sealed in golden wax, hand-delivered to Dot at the Sages’ Tower. Though sweetly worded, the invitation’s undertones are clear: ‘return the heir to her proper home, or face severe consequences.’
Dot loathed to go, though not for any love of Alexandria. By her fourteenth year she had developed a conspiratorial camaraderie with her mentor, who had nurtured her desire for revenge upon the aristocracy. His stories of Grayle were plenty, and painted a horrid picture of a land ruled by people every bit as corrupt as the Sages.
When she received the summons, Dot was said to have ripped it in half right in front of the courier. However, she did not refuse them. Instead, she asserted that if she was to go to Grayle, she would earn her keep in the way afforded even to the peasantry: by becoming a knight.
A simple document confirming Dot’s identity, though her parentage is incomplete. While it lists her name as ‘Dorothy Mummer’, she insists that her mother never called her that.
By the time she left Alexandria, Dot had come to consider Verite as her true father. On the eve of her departure, he entrusted her with a plan.
The thought of meeting the man responsible for her curse enraged her, but even as she entered Grayle, no one in the royal family had stepped forward to claim her. Content to let them hide, Dot set her sights on knighthood. They could not avoid her forever, and as the heir of Light, she would shine down on every shadow until she found them.
Then, as so many things that lurk in shadows do, they would burn.
Other Information
Questions of Dot's parentage travel briefly up the chain of command before being stonewalled. Though her roots in the Grayle bloodline are undeniable, it would seem someone is protecting the identity of her father—or perhaps, protecting themselves.
Full Name – Dot "Dorothy" Mummer Age - 14 Gender - Female Heritage – Alexandrian, with ancestral ties to Grayle. Magical Affinity - Light
-
P E R S O N A L I T Y
My Song is Fury There was a time when Dot saw the world as her mother did: a shining sprawl of adventure, filled to bursting with wonderful sights and friends waiting to be made. She gave her smiles freely and often, and saw the best in those she met, even when they didn’t deserve it.
That time has passed.
The girl that left Alexandria sees the world differently now. Sprawling, still, but like a corpse, filled not with promise but festering with the maggots of aristocracy. What was once a starry-eyed thirst for glory and adventure has soured into a bitter cynicism. Her smiles are guarded behind a cold wall of distrust, and she has a bad habit of assuming the worst in just about everyone she meets—especially those she perceives as nobility.
Short-tempered, driven, and loathe to let go of a grudge, Dot is likely not what Grayle expected of the Heir of Light.
That suits her just fine.
My Dance is Justice Dot is not angry without reason—at least, not in her mind—and certainly not without purpose. In the nations of Grayle and Alexandria, where the strong do what they can and the weak endure what they must, she sees nothing but megalomaniacal beasts clawing over one another for the privilege of tormenting those beneath them. To them everything is a game, and every person a piece to be weighed, judged for its value, and then discarded. No heed is given to the lives they ruin, the suffering they mete out, or the fear they’ve sown so deeply into the populace that no one would even consider standing against them.
Nothing would please Dot more than to remind the nobles of Grayle how human they are. How human she is, despite the heap of ancient glory she acquired by virtue of being born. Where once her undue gifts repulsed her, she now sees the potential to bring an overdue balance to the country’s elite.
For the Light no longer serves a country, it serves a people.
My Love is Honor The downside to laying immense responsibility and expectation upon a child is that, no matter their capabilities, at the end of the day you’re still laying immense responsibility and expectation upon a child.
Dot is fourteen. She’s spent half her life locked in a tower, training for the day she might get to affect real change on the world. But the truth is that it’s been so long since she was actually in that world, and as much as the systems that govern it disgust her, she still missed it. Beneath the angry veneer is a girl longing for the wonderment of a lost childhood; companionship, adventure, the safety of trust. She's forgotten the sound of her own laughter, or what it feels like to confide in someone.
Yet she can’t reconcile these desires with her own, self-imposed duty. If she can’t put herself aside for the greater good, then what’s the point? What separates her from the people she despises?
Fidelity to her cause has seeded guilt deep within her, and Dot struggles constantly with her own morality. Is she really ready to bear the consequences of making so many enemies? And if she is, can she really do that alone?
She doesn’t want to be alone.
S K I L L S E T
The Heir in Cold Light The successor of Arbert Grayle, born to a vagabond in Alexandria. There’s an irony there lost entirely upon Dot, who could hardly be more disgusted with her gift than she already is. Having spent only a year performing menial infusions for the Sages’ research, once Verite allowed her other avenues to train, she scarcely ever summoned her aura again.
However, hearing how so many of Grayle’s elite harbor powerful magics of their own has her reconsidering. If the stories are true, and the Light can be harnessed for the purposes of negation, then perhaps she can yet turn the curse of her legacy towards a better cause.
There is, of course, a long way to go. She is effectively starting from nothing—over the years she’s lost her touch with even the meager feats she performed as a child. The idea of learning from the very people she seeks to unseat twists her stomach, but in the end, she knows, it will be worth it.
Balletic Grace As Dot’s memories of Lerenna begin to fade, what remains is her mother’s spirit. She danced them across Alexandria, with enthralling grace born from her time as a warrior. When she finally achieved some measure of freedom in the Sages’ Tower, learning to dance was the first thing she thought of. Verite spared no expense. He brought in tutors from every corner of Alexandria, Valefor and beyond, and she met their instruction with an almost innate talent.
Fast, nimble, with the balance and coordination of a cat, at fourteen Dot already bears Lerenna’s grace in full. Be it in simple clothes or lightweight, piecemeal armor, her movements are fluid and unencumbered.
Alone her dances are sharp and captivating, but her brand of performance prefers a partner.
Mummer's Waltz In learning swordplay, Dot had several obstacles to overcome; chief among them was the fact that she had decided upon a greatsword as her weapon of choice. Training with lighter wasters served well enough to develop her foundation, but the next issue arose when she met her tutors.
She could not, or perhaps simply refused to, divorce her dancing from her swordsmanship. Waster in hand, she would twirl, and dip, and leap, and every time she fell, or tripped, or threw herself off balance, she got right back up. Her tutors were baffled and incensed, demanding she use proper form. Fighting, they said, was ugly, brutal, and above all, practical.
But Verite saw differently, and much like how he had fostered her anger, he chose to nurture her peculiar style into something wonderful. He dismissed her tutors, and took up the role of teacher himself. Much to Dot’s surprise, he was incredibly well-versed, matching and surpassing both the tutor’s skills and her own elegance, as though he’d been fighting and dancing his whole life.
For six years this was her morning noon and night. Hard training as well as the exercise to ensure she could wield her sword as gracefully as she danced. Though she never managed to best Verite in their spars, he did invite other youthful trainees to measure her against. There, her unorthodox style and swordsmanship granted her a taste of victory.
It was addictingly sweet, and by the time she left for Grayle, she was eager to taste it again.
Physical Description
Despite her best efforts, Dot does not strike an imposing figure. She’s short, and still carries a youthful countenance even when she’s glowering. When she must begrudgingly don the long dresses and frilled skirts of nobility, her pale-gray hair and glassy eyes lend her a doll-like appearance. Normally, she can be found wearing simple clothes, plain and well-fitting from shirt to boots, save for the addition of waist or shoulder cloaks.
She moves with incredible grace, calm and measured even when her emotions are high. While not exactly stealthy, her height and the ghostly ease with which she navigates can take her in and out of a room before she’s so much as noticed.
As a result of all this, seeing her heft such a mighty weapon might come as a surprise. Part of her strength undoubtedly comes from her aura, but the majority of it is borne from years of rigorous training. Dot’s stature belies a form of hardened muscle, maintained through determination and routine conditioning, as well as the agile flexibility required of a dancer.
Character Conceptualization
Two elegant, curved swords once wielded by the nomad Lerenna. Red ribbons are fastened to each pommel, meant to be twirled and spun as part of a performance, but their fabric is shorn short and faded by the sun.
A woman of no nation, they say Lerenna fought on a hundred fronts in her youth, but eventually grew weary of battle and sought a more colorful life. After her adventures in Grayle, she traveled the roads of Alexandria as a roving entertainer with a new name, and a new daughter.
It is said that when she visited Ferrous Shore, Baron Auferrum was so taken by her performance that he offered her board in his own keep so that she might dance for his court.
“Listen close, daughter-mine. To truly live in this world you must do three things: Sing loudly, dance boldly, and love bravely.”
A cracked emblem depicting a star crossing over the dull gray sands of the Ferrous Shore, once the symbol of House Auferrum.
The evening Dot Mummer’s aura manifested, Baron Auferrum was the first to act. He confined his guests to their quarters, permitting none to leave his keep save only for Lerenna, who he had named traitor, and banished. With the Heir of Light in his custody, he sought to elevate his House, and his own station, by demanding the Sages’ Tower reinstate him.
Instead, they had him murdered, and Dot was seized from the Ferrous Shore. Without its head, House Auferrum quickly collapsed, its territories picked apart by rival neighbors. Now its legacy shines as brightly as its sands.
A broken, silvery shard carved with a latticework of markings. Embers of pale light still glint upon its surface.
Dot was seven when she was brought to the Sages’ Tower, where her confusion and tearful pleas for her mother were met by the Sages’ deaf ambitions. Tutored by a man named Verite, she was put to work immediately. Day in and day out, she channeled her light into all manner of objects, while the scholars studied her.
These stones were her greatest challenge, drinking greedily from her aura, but breaking like glass when they grew too full. It took nearly a year to infuse one properly. Dot grew embittered, not only with the Tower, but with herself. The wonderment of magic soured, and she began to view her divine heirdom for what it truly was: a leash.
It is said that by the time she was only eight, the golden brilliance of her magic had withered to a cold, lunic white.
Solid and heavy, the blade is weathered from years of practice. At first, Dot could not so much as lift this sword off the ground, but that did not deter her—she was determined to make it her dance partner.
Though his excursion was brief, Verite returned from Grayle a different man. Upon reuniting with Dot, he threw himself down and inexplicably begged forgiveness for her treatment. He confided in her a deep resentment for the Sages’ cruelty and the confinements of the Tower. Though he could not free her, he asked her what she would study had she the choice.
Dot told him she wanted to dance. Then she told him she wanted to fight. He agreed to teach her both.
A letter sealed in golden wax, hand-delivered to Dot at the Sages’ Tower. Though sweetly worded, the invitation’s undertones are clear: ‘return the heir to her proper home, or face severe consequences.’
Dot loathed to go, though not for any love of Alexandria. By her fourteenth year she had developed a conspiratorial camaraderie with her mentor, who had nurtured her desire for revenge upon the aristocracy. His stories of Grayle were plenty, and painted a horrid picture of a land ruled by people every bit as corrupt as the Sages.
When she received the summons, Dot was said to have ripped it in half right in front of the courier. However, she did not refuse them. Instead, she asserted that if she was to go to Grayle, she would earn her keep in the way afforded even to the peasantry: by becoming a knight.
A simple document confirming Dot’s identity, though her parentage is incomplete. While it lists her name as ‘Dorothy Mummer’, she insists that her mother never called her that.
By the time she left Alexandria, Dot had come to consider Verite as her true father. On the eve of her departure, he entrusted her with a plan.
The thought of meeting the man responsible for her curse enraged her, but even as she entered Grayle, no one in the royal family had stepped forward to claim her. Content to let them hide, Dot set her sites on knighthood. They could not avoid her forever, and as the heir of Light, she would shine down on every shadow until she found them.
Then, as so many things that lurk in shadows do, they would burn.
Other Information
Questions of Dot's parentage travel briefly up the chain of command before being stonewalled. Though her roots in the Grayle bloodline are undeniable, it would seem someone is protecting the identity of her father—or perhaps, protecting themselves.
Lilann had not expected to stay dry, or alive even, if she let herself be as cynical as she ought to have been. However, by the time Esvelee pulled them off the road they were both, and she was not about to complain. Telling stories with her nerves on the fray had been an exercise for her composure, and she was mildly proud for keeping herself together. Entertaining people with a black eye or a bruised lip was one thing, but no mask could hide a quavering voice or a scattered mind. Thankfully she’d avoided both.
Look at you, acting like a professional.
As far as audiences went, her companions fell on the acceptable side of ‘didn’t try to kill me,’ so she couldn’t complain. Kyreth especially had been quite receptive, and while she’d delighted in his fascination, it also gnawed at her to view him as a listener. So often she held a silent disdain for the crowds she tended, nearly to equal the subjects of her stories. And as she walked, lyre strumming, spinning her tales, she’d met his eyes and seen the wonder in them, and for a single, involuntary moment she hated him.
In the next moment she felt incredibly guilty. Didn’t trip her up though—professionalism and all that—but she was more careful. The feeling had settled by the time they’d come to a stop, which lasted all of a few minutes before Kyreth offered her some of his rations.
Gods, if she ate it now she might be sick. She didn’t deserve this, but then, it seemed that wasn’t really her call.
“Kyreth—” she said, as he turned back for the cart. She doffed her mask, offered him a smile that probably didn’t seem as grateful as she meant it to. “Thank you.”
Alone, she tested her stomach on the hardtack. When it stayed down, she let herself nibble on the rest, but despite having eaten nothing all day, hunger had fallen to the back of her mind. What came to the front, regrettably, was Ceolfric. Kyreth had Cerric busy, and with any luck, Esvelee would be distracted as well. It was as good a time as any.
She slung her mask to her belt. As much as she would have preferred an extra layer between her and the hedgeman, she gained nothing hiding from him on this matter. So, bucking up, she made her way over to him.
“Hey, sst!” she hissed, keeping her voice low. “We need to talk about your message. Your friend and I are recently acquainted.”
Looking around, there wasn’t exactly a great place to talk inconspicuously. Yes, it was darkening, and the others were busy, but they were in a clearing and if the two of them just wondered off to the shadowed fringes, they might draw Esvelee’s attention. Or worse, Cerric’s. She had half a mind to ask him to use his magic, see if they could simply think at each other, but perhaps it was unwise to waste the aether. As much as she disliked the man, he was doubtlessly the best fighter among them—perhaps discounting their chaperone—and if things turned poorly in the night, they’d all be better off with him at full capacity.
Damned, but she’d about given up trying to read Cerric. He had in impossible way about him, an unhinged sort of charisma that inclined her to believe him, at the same time that it cast the shadow of doubt on his every word. For some, sincerity was the cost for sincerity, but he seemed to only pay in halves—which was fair, for she’d tried to cheat him on the deal herself. To be entirely honest, the thought of what his true sincerity might entail disturbed her.
“I suspect we could fill libraries with the things he knows that we don’t,” she replied to Kyreth just as quietly. “For now, I’m choosing to believe that works in our favor, or it least in our client’s.”
She stood aside from the wagon with him, nodding a greeting to Eila. She allowed herself a small amount of pity for the woman, strictly on account of her inexplicable kindness towards Kyreth the other day. Technically Cerric’s warnings were right, but she suspected his dressing down of Eila was meant more as a message to the lot of them. Professionalism was expected, standards were paramount.
“Wait, Lilann, where’s your bag?”
Shit.
“Shit.” She flipped hopelessly through her satchel, as if ten days’ worth of rations might be hiding beneath the whittling knife. Dammit all, she’d lost so much time yesterday, and that infuriatingly cryptic dream had occupied her mind all morning.
“Looks like I’ll be sampling the flavors of the Finnagund wilds,” she said, trying not to sound as dejected as she felt. Hunting would be more than a little difficult, considering she’d lost her sword. She’d foraged before, on the longer and less fortunate journeys back in Dranir, but most of her life had been spent earning her food through performance. Somehow, she doubted the woods would trade game for tavern gossip. “I’ll try to keep away from mushrooms, but if I start hallucinating, Kyreth, do make sure I don’t embarrass myself.”
As if fate meant to mock her, the brute’s voice invaded her mind and there was a quiet jolt from Lilann as she strangled a yelp to death beneath her mask. His warning not to look around came too late, but with her face hidden she was at least subtle about it. A knot formed in her gut at what he told them. She wanted to scream at him, say: I saw it! but she kept herself calm. Hopefully they would have a chance to convene before the storm—and whatever might be dwelling within it—were upon them.
“Kyreth,” she spoke softly, keeping up beside him. “That’s it. That’ll be the beast.”
She fished through her satchel once more, and though she still found nothing behind the little knife, she plucked it up anyway and slid it into her belt. A sword it was not, but it was better than nothing.
Murasame had agreed to help her, which was good because he’d almost offered a reasonable solution before that. Instead, they were going to do things the right way. The stealth way. As he placed himself broadly between her and Izuna’s group, she blinked, trying to piece together their strategy.
“Just try an' keep up with my pace, okay? I ain't gonna be able to see ya while I'm going.”
His words were like WB40 to the gears of her mind; suddenly everything was buttery smooth. She aligned herself behind him, bouncing on the balls of her feet until, finally, he started to move. Holding the WcDenji’s bag close to her chest, she brought her shoulders in to make herself as small of a target as possible. But that wouldn’t account for the gap left by each big-ol’-boy step he took.
No problem. She could keep up.
Saika mimed him, though her comparative size necessitated…exaggeration. Her leg came up almost past her hip, so that her foot could stay behind his. She stood bow-legged until he slid back to full height, where she did the same. Then again, and again, raising a leg up and bringing it down like a sumo ritual.
With the combined efforts of their subtlety, they crossed the courtyard entirely inconspicuous. They might as well have been invisible, like the kid from her grade school class, Donko-kun—though only his skin was invisible. She followed diligently, her very life entrusted to Murasame’s navigational abilities, and was not left wanting. Eventually they came to a doorway leading inside, and she tapped him on the back.
“I’m in,” she whispered, in as low and cool a voice as she could muster as she backed through the entrance. Just for good measure, she checked around the hallway. Students aplenty, but no Izuna—her clothes were safe. “Clear. Form up.”
When the doors shut behind Murasame, Saika had to restrain herself from leaping up, shouting, and pounding his shoulder in joy. She settled for an enthusiastic hiss, and a very energetic fist pump.
“My man! You are one smooth fuckin’ operator. I owe you one, don’t lemme forget.” She looked down the hallway, towards where most of the students seemed to be funneling. Auditorium, had to be. “Guess we can just follow them in, huh? Hope it doesn’t drag on too long, I’m ready to see what kinda rooms we’re livin’ in.”
She started off, spinning around again so she could face him while she walked. “My bet’s, like, some kinda closet, with a tiny bed, paper sheets. Windows with bars. Maybe a toilet, if we’re lucky.”
Seele couldn’t help the heavy breath of relief, or the way her whole body slumped as if she’d just cast off a tremendous weight. She wasn’t good with being on the wrong side of the law, always one to stick closely to the rules—even in video games. As a kid, her friends forbid her from being their driver in anything with a car, because she always stopped at red lights and crosswalks. Though she had never had to talk her way out of virtual jail before. Beginner’s luck, perhaps.
Either way—no jail, and it seemed their investigation had Lendie’s support in some fashion or another. She gratefully took the stone from her marveling at her for just a moment before she remembered herself.
“Thank you, captain, sincerely,” she said, bowing low. “I promise you, you won’t regret this.”
Part of her felt it wasn’t enough to repay the leniency they’d been given, but she knew better than to push her luck, and Lendie did not seem the kind to respond well to perceived obsequiousness. So, she pocketed the stone, bowed again, and started back towards the others, stopping only the fix the captain with a bold look.
“We’re going to find those people,” she said.
Graves was being seen to by a healer. He seemed lucid, or at the very least awake, and though she had much to say to him, that absolute last thing she wanted right now was to interfere with him getting better. Instead she shuffled over to their newcomer, the archer, Artemis.
Seele had not been deaf to the girl’s breakdown during the ordeal—though she had at the end been blinded, just a smidgen.
“Sweetheart?” She smiled softly, placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. The girl had a nasty red mark on her face. “It’s okay, we’re all done here. Why don’t we get back inside? Maybe get some ice for that cheek, hm?”
Pressing into the courtyard, Saika took stock of the gathered horde. Tons of kids, more than she could count—or could be asked to, anyway—in every flavor of freak and geek you could ask for. In a way, it reminded her of her old school, and frankly it wasn’t a mark in Ishin’s favor, but she couldn’t hold that against it, either.
Alright alright, enough moping. Don’t make Murasame late on the first day.
Tossing her goke, and the rest of her own bag into the trash, she started towards the main building. “M’kay, so, we’re just supposed to head into the auditorium, right? God, think they’re gonna give us some spiel ‘responsibility’ and ‘national pride’? Guess that sorta thing’s a big deal here.”
Truth be told, Saika wasn’t much of a patriot. She wasn’t out protesting in the streets or anything either, but she knew for a fact that her love for the country hadn’t been what got her in. Hell, she figured it wouldn’t be long before she got barked at for wearing a shirt with English on it, but that was nothing new.
Before she could worry over it any more, she spotted a very distinctive, very aquatic figure near the entrance. A guilty leaden ball dropped into Saika’s gut, and she quickly shimmied to Murasame’s other side, using his bulk to shield herself, albeit subtly.
“Shitshitshit, hey, buddy, hey. See that girl over there? Tall, with the hair. Looks like she’s about to turn into a fishcicle?” she said, nodding. “Great girl, like I said. Awesome, really. Thing is, I’m late, and she’s prolly been waiting out here ‘cause I forgot to text her. I got her some WcDenji’s, but I need a bit to think of what to say so I don’t get sprayed. So here’s the deal—you let me hide behind you on the way in, and I’ll introduce you later. Sound good?”
Lilann fixed Ermes with a tilt of the head and an odd look that was hidden to the world. For a moment she was at a loss—normally she was so good at reading people, but suddenly she couldn’t make heads of tails of the impish boy’s attitude. He didn’t seem as aggressively suspicious as yesterday, nor had he risen to her bait. Only a little startle, and a peculiar, off-kilter smile.
Kids.
As he went off to make his introductions, she heeded his advice, and approached Cerric at his seat. He was quite a bit higher up than she was, but even with her head craned all the way up at him, the hat stayed firmly in place. His face was as indecipherable to her as Ermes’, and she hoped that was simply because she was still on edge, and not just losing her touch. Either way, though she couldn’t pin his intentions, she knew a dishonest question when she heard one.
Goddammit, she thought. Did I somehow make an enemy of him without knowing it? Usually people are much more forward about wanting me dead.
Doing her best not to wilt under that strange gaze, she nodded. Her voice was quiet, but, she hoped, not fearful. “Mr. Liadon if I in some way offended you the other day, I do sincerely apologize,” she said, lifting her hat just enough to tip it. “Otherwise, I think I’ve come to understand why some things should remain mysteries. Doubt it’ll dissuade me from making the same mistake in the future, but regardless. If you were to pit this crew of ours against that fabled Rancor, just, say, for the sake of a story, how would you favor the odds?”
Rain preened when the mighty giant called her a “great hero”. It made her ember crackle in her chest, but not in the usual, painful way, more how thunder and lightning could set your skin prickling. She didn’t much want to go out and tear things apart anymore—well, she did, but not as much, not right now. Instead, she wanted to stay put, and try ‘beer’, and watch Quinnlash and granny beat the teeth out of each other until it stopped being funny.
Pink and blue introduced themselves though, and it only confused Rain even more. Quinnlash, Lexann, Trantascilia. None of these were words, she was certain of it. ‘Stormbrew’ at least had it partly right, but fucked if she any idea what a Loughvein or a ‘Kimna…Kimmython…’ a whatever that was, was. And those were their chosen names, too! She could tell, ‘cause there wasn’t a single number in any of them. So they’d just…what—made them up? Could you do that? Was that allowed? But you couldn’t like something made up.
Oh well, if nothing else, it reminded her not to introduce herself by her old name. She’d done that on accident on her way to Uglydein, and gotten weird looks, like they all knew she’d left that name behind.
“Rain on My Skin, Ice in My Mouth,” she said, climbing onto one of the chairs by the table, so she could shake Lexann’s hand before it was pulled away from Tranta. She could quite get her fingers around it, even with her claws, so she settled for just patting the woman’s massive hand. “Best, most awesome Hunter in Scila, and probably Assyl, too, but I haven’t seen it all yet so I still gotta make sure.”
She hopped back down again, teeth rattling in her pockets. A few spilled out to clatter on the ground, but she left them to pick up later. “Hey,” she said, looking back up to Tranta. “You said we gotta wait for Galeel, that’s the big pyromancer, right?” her lips pulled into a sharp, disgusted frown. “He’s not gonna hang out with us, is he? He’s kinda really old. And gross.”
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