Daybreak:Alpha Chapter: Difference between revisions

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===Chapter 1 - By the Crossing Shores===
===Chapter 2 - The Oriflamme Princess===


The chamber was lavishly furnished and fit for royalty. Spacious enough to fit three carriages, its wide floors were covered by intricately decorated rugs of the richest wool. Dressers and drawers built from the finest mahogany lay interspersed along the walls, while two renowned watercolor landscapes sat within gilded frames as large as bookshelves. Atop the nearby bedside counter sat a tray of gleaming silver, filled with breakfast pastries and sweets almost too beautiful to eat.
(still WIP)


None of that changed the fact it was a prison, occupied by a young girl no more than seven years old.
For the first time, Kaede spent considerable time obsessing over the ruffles and wrinkles of her pseudo-uniform. But it wasn't her appearance that she cared about. Her eyes merely needed an excuse to avoid Pascal's gaze, since reading wasn't an option when they were preparing to leave.


The sun pouring in through the windows was approaching a noontime high; but the girl still laid awake in bed, curled up under the bedsheets with only her head poking out. Her light-violet eyes were bloodshot after an entire night spent weeping, with tears still staining her soft cheeks.
Recollections of last night still looped through her mind on replay, reminding her of behavior that was simply not normal for anyone in a non-romantic relationship.


It was part of why she refused to come out of bed. No one must be allowed to see her like this, not even the maid who delivered the food.
There was little doubt that after the twin hammer blows of her residency and his loss, rampant emotions had carried her away.


To reveal her disgraceful state would be worse than embarrassment. It would humiliate the proud people of her entire nation before the eyes of their enemy.
Part of her wondered how much of that could even be attributed to the psychological and hormonal differences between genders. The rest of her was less theoretical, even if simply berating herself was no more practical.


Perhaps it was just as well, as her depressed mood certainly did not wish to partake in anything else.
Kaede needed the relationship between her and Pascal to stay within a safe zone. It wasn't even a matter of whether or not she wanted romance as a girl. Her life in the new world simply depended too much on the stability of their bond for her to risk anything beyond mere friendliness.


The sound of scampering footsteps resounded from outside her door, which had laid silent for hours other than the occasional soft clink of armor.
...Especially if he already had a fiancée, a royal one at that.


"She is inside right? Open the door."
Kaede stole another glance at Pascal. A blank expression replaced his usual dashing smirk as he adjusted his collar and the Knight's Cross hanging below it while facing his mirrored reflection. His countenance was still stern as he proudly saluted his own image before turning to face her.


The childish voice couldn't have belonged to anyone older than a mere boy. Yet it was spoken with imperturbable pride and confidence capable of matching any crown prince.
She hurriedly glanced back to her short skirt before their eyes could meet.


"I'm sorry Milord, Marshal---"
"Ready to depart?"


The soldier's feeble retort was cut off before he could finish.
His tone was composed, perhaps 'controlled' was a better description. It certainly lacked the self-humored arrogance he began most days with.


"My father has already left this morning, which leaves me lord of this castle. Perhaps you are not aware of how insolent your behavior is towards a presiding lord? The word of a mere ''garrison'' against the prodigal son of a Landgrave and Weichsel's hero. Who do you think your officer will believe when my armigers come to arrest you?"
"Y-yeah," Kaede replied, willing herself not to pull away as Pascal leaned in to adjust her appearance to the perfection he demanded.


Even across the wide room and through closed doors, the girl could feel the pressure of the young boy's threats.
"Do not worry. King Leopold is a true monarch of his troops -- an open-minded, martial ruler not given into petty formalities. Just stay behind me, be respectful, and you should manage fine..."


"But the Marshal expressly forbid any---"
Kaede nodded back faintly. With everything else on her mind, the stress of an impending royal audience really did not add well to her nerves. But however daunting meeting a King may be, the prospective of facing Pascal's royal fiancée while being a ''girl'' bonded to him was... far worse.


"Does that include the maids who deliver food? Does that include the King should he stop by? I am now the castle's ''lord''. It is only natural that I pay homage to our guest of honor. Did my father expressly forbid ''me'' from carrying out my duties as nobility demands?"
"--Sylviane, on the other hand, is somewhat too serious and pressured by her role as a Crown Princess. Be courteous, do not speak until spoken to, and only keep to answering her for now. I am certain she will warm up to you given time, but best you tread carefully at the start."


"No Milord!" The soldier almost shouted, before clinking armor could be heard beyond the door once again.
His advice didn't make her feel any better. Kaede simply couldn't shake the feeling that she was like a mistress about to be introduced to the official wife.


The soft click of a door unlocking soon followed, and the girl rushed to toss the bedcovers over her head once again.
With one finger under her chin, Pascal brought her eyes back to his stern turquoise gaze. Waving his hand and its glowing ring over her face, he cast the usual ''Refreshen'' spell to brighten her appearance.


"Thank you, soldier. Carry on."
Kaede finally realized that she was being awkward by herself.


Light footsteps marched in, and the thick doors shut closed behind them.
Sure, his expressions were different, and his attitude unusual. But that was expected for any normal person who just lost their parents. The key point however, was that he treated her the exact same way as before.


For a minute, nothing happened. Then she heard a single word spoken near the door, voiced in Ancient Draconic -- the preferred language across Hyperion for mnemonic spellcasting.
Meanwhile she was trying to keep more distance, reneging upon the very words she said to him on the rooftop the night before. If Kaede kept this up, she would unintentionally harm Pascal during a time he needed support the most.


''He must be older than me then,'' the girl thought. She was still one year too early to learn, and few mages managed to cast any actual spells before the age of ten.
"Well... would you prefer Milord, Sir, or ''master'' then?" She forced out her words, half-jokingly as she sought familiar ground in the atmosphere between the two of them.


"I know you are awake. Do not worry though; that was merely a simple ''Silence'' spell on the door."
"Since I am your liege, 'Milord' should be fine for the formalities. It certainly overrides the 'Sir' for addressing my knighthood. And as I had told you on the first night, I am not some faux noble who need ego stroking, so please do not give me some weird reputation with the last..."


She neither moved nor answered, so the boy continued on in his self-assured voice:
Then, Pascal finally smirked -- lightly, but nevertheless the first time his arrogance manifested itself all morning:


"My name is Pascal Kay Lennart von Moltewitz, son of Weichsel Field Marshal Karl August von Moltewitz, heir to the Langrave of Nordkreuz. What of Your Highness?"
"--Although if you wish to do so ''in private'' in the future, I would not really mind."


Still she neither shifted nor replied, and a nervous silence soon fell between the two.
Kaede's right hand balled into a fist as she wrestled with the urge to hit that handsome face again.


One minute passed...
It was the first time she found her feeling and his expression oddly reassuring.


Five minutes passed...


Ten minutes later, she was almost wondering if he had quietly left, with the door's closing silenced by his spell.
...
 
She slowly peaked out from under the covers, only to meet eye to eye with a boy of her own age.
 
Pascal wore a faint grin below turquoise eyes brightened by curiosity. His golden soft curls were neatly cut and draped over both ears. His visage was well-proportioned, poised confidently atop a balanced build. Even at a mere seven years old, it was already apparent that he would grow up to become a handsome young man.
 
For a moment she paused, her attention captured by his gaze, before she realized her need to pull the covers back up.
 
"I just saw your eyes, by the way. You need not hide your tears any longer."
 
His calm words of sympathy only annoyed her further.


"I'm not crying!" she said as her hands pushed off the comforter.


"Of course not. You are a Lotharin Princess after all. Although... you are not exactly what I expected."
"Oh hey it's the Runelord. Out for an errand this early?"


With eyes full of amused curiosity, Pascal's slow speech had a nature of being almost... irritating.
Just as they exited the dormitory keep, Kaede and Pascal met Reynald and Parzifal. The two men both wore gray cotton sweats with red lines, panting hard with lingering sweat as they cooled off in the winter breeze after an early Saturday morning workout.


"What, did you expect me to wear a flower tiara as appropriate of ''tribal'' Rhin-Lotharingie!? You arrogant Weichsels are little better than Imperials!" she retorted in an almost yell.
"Are you alright, Pascal?" Parzifal's worried glance for his former arch-nemesis just a week ago reminded Kaede once again of how saintly the healer was.


Yet somehow, Pascal smiled:
"I am now, thank you," Pascal answered a bit stiffly. "And I must travel to Königsfeld today."


"Not really, although I thought princesses had more... you know, attitude. ''Bow down before me!'' and all that..."
"Ah, of course. Noble duty calls," Parzifal nodded back with the understanding of a gentle smile.


Her cheeks heated as embarrassment permeated them, followed closely by annoyance and anger.
"More than that actually. My fiancée is visiting to have an audience with the King. After what happened recently, it is only appropriate that I join her there."


She didn't need some petty Weichsel lord-junior to tell her that. She had already heard enough growing up. As the third and youngest child of the Geoffroi the Great, Emperor of Rhin-Lotharingie, she spent her years under the adoration of two older brothers. They were perfect noblemen, as handsome as they are talented, as capable as they are kind. Few younger sisters enjoyed the blessing of even one admirable and caring older brother, let alone two. Yet even though she loved them with all her heart, she couldn't help but feel the slow creep of inferiority every time she watched them from afar.
"The ''Cerulean Princess'' is coming?" Reynald's spring-green eyes light up with piqued curiosity before his feet rushed towards the door. "Give me a min to get changed. I'll give you two a ride."


It certainly didn't help to hear the nobles, and even the ''servants'' chatter from behind corners, admiring how 'princely' her brothers were while expressing that she looked less of a princess than a mere countess' daughter.
"I can manage..."


"--But of course, none of really matters," the boy named Pascal continued. "Nevertheless, there are still some protocols to follow."
At Pascal's words, Reynald instantly spun around and leaned in with a stern glare. Despite being shorter by a full head, he berated the Runelord as though a freckled kid admonishing an adult:


He then bowed down, his hands waving with the perfect gestures of a nobleman placing a request towards a lady:
"Don't be an idiot. You'll need five ''Teleport'' jumps to get to Königsfeld, and that'll strain even your ''prodigious'' ether reserves. Is that what you're looking for? Window of opportunity for assassins to prove your newly entitled lordliness?"


"May I have the honor of hearing your name, my beautiful princess?"
"That is why I have ether-storing gemstones," Pascal replied flatly, unflinching.


The praise 'beautiful' was never one she could seriously take from another, but she nevertheless responded with composure as she sat up in her bed:
"Yes, because that's so much more efficient, the hours it takes to create those things. In case you haven't noticed ''Runelord'', we have wars coming up, so save your beauty accessories for when it really matters. Seriously, just wait a few. I'll get you and Muffin there in two clean jumps."


"Sylviane Etiennette de Gaetane, daughter of Emperor Geoffroi Jean de Gaetane of the Empire of Rhin-Lotharingie."
Reynald then spun his heels and ran into the keep without another word.


Pascal then stood back up straight, a playful smile stretching across his countenance:
With an amused smile, Parzifal caught Kaede's raised eyebrows and shrugged:


"Now, that was not too hard, was it now? Although I could certainly see how one would be troubled by worries in such a stuffy room. What was father thinking!? No maps, no projectors, not even a single shelf of books, not to mention bright sun and open air to let the mind flourish!"
"This is pretty normal for him, actually."


The girl named Sylviane blinked. The boy's lines seemed almost... contradictory. His first three items listed were precisely the culprits that palace servants often accused of stuffiness. Meanwhile free sun and air were simply not comforts normally given to any prisoner of war, which she certainly was.
"Turn time back a week, and I never would have thought he could even think that far ahead..." Pascal noted as he turned to face the other two.


"So! How about it, my princess. Do you ''dare'' to brave the foreign lands of a hostile liege? Or would you rather cower within this bedchamber, doomed to dust and mold like the expensive but nonetheless useless furnishings of a trophy room?"
"What, you've never heard of 'playing the buffoon?'" Kaede asked. "It's not that rare in political circles."


''Who does he think he is!?''
"Pretending to be an idiot is valid for rulers and heirs trying to avoid attention, especially in succession struggles," Pascal replied like a know-it-all. "Reynald is the only son to an unlanded noble family that does not even own fiefs. There is no point for him to hide his potential. Unless..."


Her temper, although not exactly matching those of a royal princess, were at least finally rising.
"Unless he ''wants'' arrogant nobles like you -- or at least the old you -- to underestimate him. Given that he kicked your sorry butt twice before you learned your lesson, I'd say he succeeded at it," Kaede finished before switching the topic: "What does he mean by two jumps versus five?"


Yet oddly enough, Pascal seemed ''happy'' about it.
It was Parzifal who explained this time, his tone oddly wistful:


"Only if your bravado is capable of getting me out of this room," she retorted.
"Standard ''Astral Teleport'' spells have a safe maximum range of ten kilopaces. Reynald has wayfarer training thanks to his affinity with teleportation spells, and they can jump up to twenty-five kilopaces while bringing along more passengers. But honestly, you could also get there in under an hour by ''Phantom Steed'' gallop, even if it's rather windy."


"Now that, is a challenge no knight could possibly refuse. Shall we go then?"
"Unless I am misreading the weather, we should expect snow sometime today, so I would rather not be caught in a blizzard." Pascal glanced at the cloudy skies before turning back to Parzifal: "can you manage teleport at all? Given your problem with non-bio spells?"


Pascal offered his hand, but Sylviane merely looked down at the white blouse with violet ribbons she was wearing.
It took a second for the realization to pass, but Kaede almost slammed her palm into her forehead. Instead, she settled for two fingers on her temple as annoyed thoughts rolled across her mind: ''darn it Pascal you're not support to just raise touchy subjects like this.''


"I need to get changed first."
"No, I can't even manage a short-ranged ''Astral Leap'', let alone long-range teleportation," Parzifal admitted with a wry grin. "But then, most mages have trouble with it, otherwise it wouldn't be considered a 'career spell'. You, Cecylia, and Reynald are among the rare ones to manage solo-teleportation. Even Ariadne still require my help to align the spell."


"Sure," he turned around and left.
Pascal frowned back:


But rather than departing, he merely went to the nearby dressers, pulled out a long, purple dress, and walked back to her.
"I thought only metamages could directly influence another caster's spells, given the usual non-compatibility between different individuals' ether."


"Here, let me help," he offered as he laid the dress down on the bed.
"I don't know why," Parzifal shrugged again. "But part of my knack with bio-spells has been the ability to work well with others. In fact, I can heal other mages to a degree even without the need for Samaran blood. The problem is that metamages are rare, and we don't have one here at the academy."


"Whoever heard of any man other than her husband helping a ''lady'' dress!? Now GET OUT!" Sylviane finally snapped.
Kaede watched with an encouraging smile as Pascal took a moment to mull things over. But she already knew his obsession with expertise well enough to anticipate his response:


She couldn't help but notice that Pascal was grinning as he strode away.
"Let me tap into my family contacts in the government. The claim is that metamages usually learn their abilities by nature once their magic reaches full-bloom after the age of twenty-five, but it is never too early to start exploring and grooming a potential affinity, especially if it is a rare one."


As Sylviane dressed herself in a purple two shades lighter than her dark-plum hair, she heard the boy toss more barely-veiled threats at the guards outside in between enticing them with bribery.
"If you don't mind, that is," Kaede nodded courteously towards Parzifal.


"--What use does my father have for you if your entire unit cannot even keep watch over two ''kids'' by the lakeside!? Or do you think you will be free of responsibility if father returned to find her gravely ill because she did nothing but mope inside a gloomy room all day? Would it not be better for everyone involved to breathe fresh air and stay happier while your friends earned some extra silver for bar tabs this weekend...?"
Perhaps it wasn't really needed. The healer's hopeful eyes seemed as though the holidays had arrived early this year:


In just one meeting, Sylviane decided that she had never met a nobleman -- or noble son -- as rude, audacious, downright impertinent, and... Holy Father forbid, as ''interesting'' as Pascal.
"Of course not! I'd appreciate that quite a bit!"




Line 139: Line 127:




"I still can't believe I'm sitting next to Cross Lake."
Kaede hated teleportation more every time she did it. The feeling of undergoing freezing and sublimation while simultaneously being flushed down a whirlpool simply wasn't something she could ever acclimate herself to. As she confirmed all her bodyparts while their nerves reconnected, Kaede felt immensely grateful to Reynald that she only had to ride two teleportation spells instead of Pascal's originally-planned five jumps.
 
Sylviane's wisteria gaze swept across the calm waters, towards her home country beyond the opposite shores that blurred into the horizon. It was a peaceful autumn day. The soothing sound of gentle waves rolling onto the stone embankments was the essence of tranquility for the second largest lake in Northern Hyperion. Yet her eyes couldn't help but moisten as yet another surge of homesickness washed over her.
 
The princess suppressed it, hard. This was no place to be seen crying.
 
Aside from the boy Pascal, who laid back besides her against the grassy earthen flood-dike, they were also watched by at least two dozen soldiers. Some of them were Pascal's armigers and had already learned the bodyguards' art of discretion. But most were garrison guards responsible for the captive princess, and she could almost feel their sweeping glances continuously crisscrossing over her back.
 
Sylviane had just enough martial training to realize how suicidal it would be to take her this many soldiers at once, even assuming she had a weapon. Yet just because she was helpless didn't mean she could allow them to see it.
 
"Let me guess -- your father wished he stood here," Pascal asked with nonchalance after a moment's thought.
 
She almost spoke the truth before holding herself back and deciding for a more neutral answer:
 
"Why do you say that?"
 
Pascal bolted back up before his bright turquoise gaze caught hold of her eyes once again.
 
"Do ''you'' know how strategically important this Lake is?"
 
It wasn't a question, but a challenge.
 
Thinking back, Sylviane was beginning to realize that many of this seven-year-old boy's statements were precisely that: challenges, tests.
 
''But for what?'' She didn't have a clue.
 
"I don't remember the maps well, but father once said that the Cross Lake is where the Lotharingie Rivers united before flowing towards the sea."
 
"Do you know what that implies?" he asked again.
 
Sylviane took a minute to ponder it over. Even for royalty, she was still too young to receive schooling on military or economic strategy. But it hardly required official lessons to understand the importance of rivers to transportation, and therefore every aspect of civilization.
 
"Ummm... that whomever holds Cross Lake controls the two largest rivers of Rhin-Lotharingie, and... through them, power across the whole Lotharin heartlands?"
 
It would take years before she realized how much difference this simple answer by a seven-year-old girl made in the course of her life.
 
"'Control' might be a tad excessive..." the boy followed up. "But definitely a strong military influence, and maybe dominance over trade. Not to mention the third river, Nordkreuz, that flows here from the northern parts of the Holy Imperium. One could definitely say that this lake is the crux, the most important strategic location in Northern Hyperion."
 
Pascal then shrugged before a wide grin lit up his expression from cheek to cheek:


"But good enough! Wow, a princess is a ''princess''. You really are different from all those other noble daughters. I have met plenty twice your age yet all they know is gossip and arts."
She was even ready to forgive all the times he had annoyingly called her 'Muffin'.


It was the first time Sylviane had received such conflicting words from outside the family. On one hand, his sincerity towards her worthiness as a 'princess' was so genuine she could almost taste it. On the other hand, he indirectly insulted one of her favorite interests -- one that her parents encouraged and the nobles praised.
"Let me make one thing clear," Pascal said as he lead the three of them up a stone-paved street with 'sidewalks', wide enough to be considered a long plaza rather than a mere highway. "You may come along as part of my gratitude for your help, but I will not tolerate any of your disrespect towards my fiancée. She is far more sensitive than I am."


Between shy modesty and annoyed retorts, her pride automatically seized the second:
"Ha! As if your sensitivity is any comparison to speak of..."


"What's wrong with arts?" Sylviane pouted. "I ''like'' music -- especially Lotharin music. It's festive, and joyous, and easy to understand. Never fails to cheer the heart. Not like your Weichsel orchestral, all martial and stuck up on drums and trumpets."
Reynald's retort attracted a harsh glare from Pascal, and he quickly appended it:


"That is because Lotharin music source from folk songs; hence they are popular among the commoners even here in Weichsel. But you misunderstand, Your Highness..."
"--Don't worry you playboy. I have no desire to put my head on a chopping block, and she's royalty -- the first Oriflamme ''princess'' too," the redhead tone's was in sheer awe as he continued: "This will be my first time even meeting an Oriflamme, even if she's far from the best."


"Sylviane is fine," she cut in. "All this 'Your Highness' when you're the one actually in charge makes it feel like you're mocking me."
Kaede filed away her question for the moment as she followed Pascal's wake on the left, her eyes transfixed upon the mighty fortress before her eyes.  


Truth be told, Sylviane couldn't help but feel jealous of Pascal. She had always felt daunted by her royal rank, always afraid she would not live up to expectations. Yet here beside her sat a boy her own age, who spoke and acted as though he was born to command others.
Built on the shores of the North Sea, the 'Black Dragon Castle' was the seat of the Weichsel crown. As a three-layer concentric castle that formed the northern stronghold to Königsfeld's capital defenses, it was built entirely from ashen-black rocks on a steep, spell-terraformed hill which overlooked the sea. Mounted atop the powerful citadel keep was a sleek central tower, decorated by a massive dragon's head carving raised over twenty stories high. Combined with artistically designed 'wings' that stretched out from curtail wall battlements, the redoubt really did give the rough impression of a legendary dragon watching intently from the shores in defense the city behind it.


"Sure, Princess Sylviane," Pascal beamed back, completely ignoring the annoyed pout she gave him. "As I was saying, I have nothing against the fine arts. But people cannot live on culture and artistry alone. What can noble art accomplish when the people starve from poor agriculture, when they wallow in destitution due to a lack of commerce? Father believe too many nobles forget this as they raise their heirs -- daughters especially -- and I fully agree."
It was a powerful symbol of Weichsel's strength -- the declaration of its people's defiance and vigilance against the barbarian raiders from across the sea.


"But mother and father said that it was still too early for me to study what my elder brothers learned," she countered with a matter-of-fact tone. "They just want me to train a properly royal demeanor for now. They said an interest in the arts would help my image."
Several minutes passed before Kaede finally pulled her admiring eyes away from the fortress and asked Reynald:


"Royal demeanor? Demeanor is easy to fake. Watch me!"
"I read that the Oriflamme Paladins are chosen by the twelve phoenixes of Rhin-Lotharingie to serve as the nation's guardians. What else is special about them?"


Pascal hurriedly stood up over the dike. With his back straight and chin high, he began to gesture sternly at the lake with pointed fingers while calling out in a deliberately pitched voice:
The response came back with the excitement of a starry-eyed fanboy zealously worshiping his heroes:


"Hmph! You better be grateful! That is a royal gift from the house of de Gaetane...!"
"Only that they're some of the best spellswords across Hyperion, both in prowess and sheer ''style''. When duty calls, they form a union with their phoenix familiars, and look absolutely kickass in their halo of golden blue-white flames. They glide through the air on burning wings and hurl blue flames that melt through plated steel... any knight of Hyperion who claim that they aren't envious of the Oriflammes in some way is outright lying."


"Don't misunderstand. I am merely issuing you a fair reward for your accomplishments..."
Kaede wondered just how much resemblance they bore to Arthur's Knights of the Round Table, or perhaps more appropriately -- the Twelve Peers of Charlemagne. The translation spell did match their name up with ''Oriflamme'', the golden flame battle standard once carried by the great Kings of France.


"It's not like I favor you or anything! As a princess I must show kindness to loyal attendants, that's all!"
"Not all sword-and-sorcery either," Pascal added as he continued to stride ahead. "They also make some of Rhin-Lotharingie's best commanders and mages. In fact, the latest addition to their ranks is a young bard of sorts. Furthermore, only Oriflamme Paladins -- their character proven by the phoenixes' choice -- may inherit the throne, so the phoenixes always select at least one individual from the royal line of succession. As you can imagine, Sylviane's appointment is more political than purely martial."


He then gracefully sat back down.
"How is it that you always manage to pick the most hopelessly realistic thing to say?" Reynald pouted. "Way to ruin my romantic childhood dreams of knights-in-burning-armor."


"Well, what do you think?"
"I ''practice''," Pascal replied sarcastically. "Romanticism has no place in my army, or any army..."


Sylviane's light-violet eyes were lost between astonishment and puzzled.
"''Your'' army?" Reynald cut in. "Think the King might care to hear this?"


"It definitely has 'attitude'. But nothing like what my tutors taught me."
"The King is the one who kept comparing me and father when he ''personally'' knighted me. Mark my words -- I will become Marshal. It is just a matter of time..."


"Please! What do those old men and women know about being a ''princess''!?"
"Aren't you--"


While not directed at her, Pascal's voice held nothing but disdain as he spoke of hired tutors:
Pascal then trampled over Reynald's interjection by the sheer weight of his stern voice:


"I chased away three of them before father gave it up. Not a single one of them could stand up to me in either a contest or will or knowledge, always resorting to barbaric violence instead! Of course... if your mother had advice, that would be something else entirely."
"But as to the topic: we already have enough necessary wars, Reynald. There is no need for unnecessary ones because some foreign idiot believes it is 'noble' for them to launch one."


"Mother was only the daughter of a Count before father married her. As much as we love her, mother never even grew accustomed to being empress. There's no way I would bother her for such advice!"
"I wholeheartedly agree with that," Kaede added with a firm nod. Philosophers may disagree with how 'necessary' any war was; but as a historian, she couldn't be more proud of Pascal's attitude towards his profession.


"A mere Count?" Pascal's brows went up. "I thought noble marriages were usually made for more political gain than that? A county will not offer much to back up an Emperor's crown authority."
"I thought real generals only feels at home on the battlefield?" Reynald tossed in rather hypothetically, not even taking a moment of thoughtful break.


Sylviane snapped her irritated glare back onto him. Only then did she realize that his turquoise gaze held not an ounce of condescension, merely curiosity and surprise.
"'Real' generals also do not enjoy seeing their men get killed," Pascal countered harshly. "There are other ways to simulate a battlefield, whether over a beer casket or under a projector. Kaede even introduced me to a term from her home realm -- marvelously simplistic really: they call it 'wargaming'."


After taking a deep breath and donning her 'royal composure' once again, the princess started to explain:
By this time, they finally walked across the castle moat's lowered drawbridge and saluted the guards: a squad of garrison in partial plate and two officers in pitch-black armor.


"Father always said that political marriages are the folly of short-sighted nobles and certainly not the 'de Gaetane' way. He told my elder brothers and I that because we are royalty who bear the burden of the realm, we must take extra care to create warm, caring families. Because only a good family may raise a good heir, and only a good child may become an excellent liege..."
Pascal then stepped forward and produced a tightly bound scroll from his enchanted pockets before handing it to the officer in charge.


"I'm still a child, so I don't really understand it all. But I know they're right! It is because of father and mother that my brothers became the kind, smart, and diligent young men that they are. Because after everything they've done and devoted for us, we would never be able to bear the sight of our them disappointed and ashamed."
"I am Pascal Key Lennart von Moltewitz, the new Landgrave of Nordkreuz, and these two are my retainers. We are here to request an audience with the King."


Turning back towards the lake, Pascal thought it over as his golden soft curls swayed in the waterside breeze. Then, with his eyes still far away, he began with pensive words:
The two officers were meticulous, first scanning the scroll with magic and then the three of them.


"I think you are probably right. My mother died before I really knew her, and father is too busy to return home often. But it does not matter how far busy or how far away he is, he always makes sure to write to me, or send long messages every week through our Majordomo Wilfried. He is one of the main reasons I want to learn and understand all manners of stately affairs, and magic too--!"  
"You're clear, Milord," the guards saluted after they finished their security procedures. "My condolences for the Marshal. Every soldier of Weichsel shall miss his passing."


Pascal's tone suddenly rose in excitement:
"Thank you," Pascal said simply before continuing on into the outermost castle courtyard.


"I simply cannot wait for the day when I can receive ''Farspeak'' calls directly from him!"
"What am I, your squire?" Reynald snubbed back at Pascal once they were out of the soldiers' earshot. His voice was dripping with sarcasm: "would you like your greaves polished with that, Sir?"


By the time he turned back around to meet the eyes of the princess, Pascal's gaze held a new light even as he repeated old words:
"After the trip here? You can be my stablehand."
 
"Like I said, a princess is a ''princess''! You are just so much better than all those other noble girls!"
 
This time, Sylviane no longer had the distraction of another mood. This time, she turned away coyly as her cheeks blushed faintly.
 
"You're actually the first one outside my family who sincerely meant that," she admitted. "Everyone else keep whispering behind my back that I'm not graceful enough, or not beautiful enough, or lack that alluring aristocrat refinement..."
 
"Oh please, do not tell me you actually listen to those idiots," Pascal cut in, his hard eyes insistent if not imperative, more pressuring than any tutor she met:
 
"Sure, some noble girls may ''look'' nice -- beautiful as a peacock! With just as much birdbrain! I have met many of them, and most of their thought capacity barely extends beyond squealing like pigs and chirping over which set of feathers to admire tomorrow. Seriously, those ''nobles'' can go jump off a cliff and the world would hardly have missed a thing."
 
Sylviane knew that his statement was rather excessive and mean if not outright horrible, but she nevertheless smiled and grinned as he bashed upon the same people she always held an inferiority complex towards.
 
With disdain rapidly draining away from his gaze, Pascal returned to his appreciative voice:
 
"Now being a real ''princess'' -- that requires skills and knowledges. Royal demeanor is important too, but that is easy to learn and act! The rest is what truly requires work. I cannot say that I am sufficiently learned myself to teach you, but I could certainly help you study!"
 
At the time, Sylviane mostly thought that Pascal was boasting. After all, even if he was smarter than the average, how much could a mere seven-year-old understand about affairs of state and governance?
 
It took but days before the princess realized how wrong she was.
 
While other children their age spent most of their time playing outside while learning language, numbers, etiquette, and equestrian skills, Pascal had already skipped ahead several stages. Instead of comparing dresses and dance steps or matching bravado with toy swords, the young lord spent every day dragging her to study map displays and book projections:
 
--Administrative sectors and the effect of synergistic coupling on managerial efficiency.
 
--Trade networks and their convergence points' need for transport expansion.
 
--Climate zones and the inevitable limitations of agriculture based on weather.
 
--Resource maps and the optimal placement of supply-production chains.
 
--Military strongholds and their potential for mutual support and coordinated defense.
 
The list went on...
 
For over a year Sylviane stayed at the von Moltewitz estate in the Landgraviate of Nordkreuz as a political hostage. Landgrave Karl August von Moltewitz never disrespected her, and even King Leopold of Weichsel treated her as the royalty she was during his cordial visit. Other than her limited freedoms and the dozen soldiers constantly tailing her, she could easily be mistaken for some other noble daughter staying at the fortified estate as Pascal's study-mate.
 
After many months, Sylviane slowly came to the realization that she had never been a foreigner in his eyes. She had held a suspicion since her first week that the entire meeting with Pascal may have been set up by the elder von Moltewitz. But in the end it hardly mattered whether or not the old Marshal plotted and schemed, for Pascal himself was truly sincere.
 
It was his precious chance to garner a new friend.
 
...One of his only.
 
Yet despite all their time spent huddled in libraries and studies, despite all their heated lakeside discussions and peacefully humored strolls, it was Pascal's words during her last day beside the shores of Cross Lake that would forever be engraved into her memories:
 
"Tell your father I think he should hire healers to check the his court nobles for vision problems," the nine-year-old Pascal said nonchalantly as his beautiful aquamarine eyes left the sunlit glittering lake and turned towards her.
 
Sylviane almost giggled. Saying something equivalent to ''tell the Emperor to do this'' was just... such a Pascal thing to do.
 
"Why is that?"
 
"Because blindness is their only excuse for belittling the sight of the most beautiful girl I have ever met."
 
Pascal was beaming, completely unabashed.
 
For a second, Sylviane almost thought she misheard. For a moment after that, she thought he was joking or perhaps teasing her again.
 
Then, her entire face ripened like an apple as she realized that he was absolutely serious. If embarrassment actually burned as hot as it felt, Sylviane was certain that her lightheaded mind, her overheating shoulders, her fluttering chest... her entire body, would have erupted with steam.
 
Her light-violet eyes reflexively turned away as they fled his gaze and sought the cool blue ripples of the lake.
 
"D-d-don't get too ahead of yourself with flattery," her failing voice stuttered out. "I am still the Royal Princess of Rhin-Lotharingie!"
 
"Of course, Your Highness."
 
Joyous pride filled Pascal's voice as he lifted and kissed the back of her hand.
 
...
 
Sylviane never figured out if Pascal intentionally did it or if his lack of social common sense simply left him misguided. But her father certainly did not appreciate Pascal's idea of 'royal attitude' rubbing off on her. With the rest of the family now gone, Emperor Geoffroi took it upon himself in the following months to stamp almost every vestige of it out of her.
 
Almost...






<nowiki>----- * * * -----</nowiki>
<nowiki>----- * * * -----</nowiki>
"Your Highness?"
The words of Sir Robert de Dunois, wayfarer mage and Oriflamme Armiger to the ''Cerulean Princess'', pulled Sylviane's thoughts back to the present.
"Just planning ahead, Sir Robert."
Sylviane Etiennette de Gaetane lied through her royal mask of imperturbable confidence. Her shoulders felt heavy, burdened by the responsibilities that may spell victory or defeat for the entire realm. But she could not reveal an ounce of it -- not to her closest guards, not to the ministers in court, not to anyone, except maybe the two most important men in her life.
Fairy tales aside, being a royal princess had never been about an admirable and enjoyable life. It was hard, and lonely, and just outright tiring.
It was but another reason why no true heir of 'de Gaetane' ever wanted the throne.
Sylviane's gaze looked ahead, from the plaza that held Königsfeld's diplomatic teleportation beacons, across the stone-paved Drachenlanzen Royal Pathway lined with the King's finest men on both sides, and towards the powerful Black Dragon Castle that loomed over the city.
"The Black Eagles stand before us. Form up and show them the pride of Rhin-Lotharingie!"
"Yes, Your Highness!"
As Sylviane strode ahead, her twelve Oriflamme Armigers -- the second best knights of Rhin-Lotharingie -- fanned out behind her with perfectly coordinated steps to form the wings of an inverted-V. Each of them wore a uniform of white and aqua on bright-cerulean, draped by an enchanted cape that billowed flames of golden-white to match her burning embers.
All around them, the citizens of Weichsel watched in spellbound awe as the ''Oriflamme'' advanced towards the ''Black Dragon'', heralding a union of sovereign supremacy.

Revision as of 20:52, 17 February 2014

Chapter 2 - The Oriflamme Princess

(still WIP)

For the first time, Kaede spent considerable time obsessing over the ruffles and wrinkles of her pseudo-uniform. But it wasn't her appearance that she cared about. Her eyes merely needed an excuse to avoid Pascal's gaze, since reading wasn't an option when they were preparing to leave.

Recollections of last night still looped through her mind on replay, reminding her of behavior that was simply not normal for anyone in a non-romantic relationship.

There was little doubt that after the twin hammer blows of her residency and his loss, rampant emotions had carried her away.

Part of her wondered how much of that could even be attributed to the psychological and hormonal differences between genders. The rest of her was less theoretical, even if simply berating herself was no more practical.

Kaede needed the relationship between her and Pascal to stay within a safe zone. It wasn't even a matter of whether or not she wanted romance as a girl. Her life in the new world simply depended too much on the stability of their bond for her to risk anything beyond mere friendliness.

...Especially if he already had a fiancée, a royal one at that.

Kaede stole another glance at Pascal. A blank expression replaced his usual dashing smirk as he adjusted his collar and the Knight's Cross hanging below it while facing his mirrored reflection. His countenance was still stern as he proudly saluted his own image before turning to face her.

She hurriedly glanced back to her short skirt before their eyes could meet.

"Ready to depart?"

His tone was composed, perhaps 'controlled' was a better description. It certainly lacked the self-humored arrogance he began most days with.

"Y-yeah," Kaede replied, willing herself not to pull away as Pascal leaned in to adjust her appearance to the perfection he demanded.

"Do not worry. King Leopold is a true monarch of his troops -- an open-minded, martial ruler not given into petty formalities. Just stay behind me, be respectful, and you should manage fine..."

Kaede nodded back faintly. With everything else on her mind, the stress of an impending royal audience really did not add well to her nerves. But however daunting meeting a King may be, the prospective of facing Pascal's royal fiancée while being a girl bonded to him was... far worse.

"--Sylviane, on the other hand, is somewhat too serious and pressured by her role as a Crown Princess. Be courteous, do not speak until spoken to, and only keep to answering her for now. I am certain she will warm up to you given time, but best you tread carefully at the start."

His advice didn't make her feel any better. Kaede simply couldn't shake the feeling that she was like a mistress about to be introduced to the official wife.

With one finger under her chin, Pascal brought her eyes back to his stern turquoise gaze. Waving his hand and its glowing ring over her face, he cast the usual Refreshen spell to brighten her appearance.

Kaede finally realized that she was being awkward by herself.

Sure, his expressions were different, and his attitude unusual. But that was expected for any normal person who just lost their parents. The key point however, was that he treated her the exact same way as before.

Meanwhile she was trying to keep more distance, reneging upon the very words she said to him on the rooftop the night before. If Kaede kept this up, she would unintentionally harm Pascal during a time he needed support the most.

"Well... would you prefer Milord, Sir, or master then?" She forced out her words, half-jokingly as she sought familiar ground in the atmosphere between the two of them.

"Since I am your liege, 'Milord' should be fine for the formalities. It certainly overrides the 'Sir' for addressing my knighthood. And as I had told you on the first night, I am not some faux noble who need ego stroking, so please do not give me some weird reputation with the last..."

Then, Pascal finally smirked -- lightly, but nevertheless the first time his arrogance manifested itself all morning:

"--Although if you wish to do so in private in the future, I would not really mind."

Kaede's right hand balled into a fist as she wrestled with the urge to hit that handsome face again.

It was the first time she found her feeling and his expression oddly reassuring.


...


"Oh hey it's the Runelord. Out for an errand this early?"

Just as they exited the dormitory keep, Kaede and Pascal met Reynald and Parzifal. The two men both wore gray cotton sweats with red lines, panting hard with lingering sweat as they cooled off in the winter breeze after an early Saturday morning workout.

"Are you alright, Pascal?" Parzifal's worried glance for his former arch-nemesis just a week ago reminded Kaede once again of how saintly the healer was.

"I am now, thank you," Pascal answered a bit stiffly. "And I must travel to Königsfeld today."

"Ah, of course. Noble duty calls," Parzifal nodded back with the understanding of a gentle smile.

"More than that actually. My fiancée is visiting to have an audience with the King. After what happened recently, it is only appropriate that I join her there."

"The Cerulean Princess is coming?" Reynald's spring-green eyes light up with piqued curiosity before his feet rushed towards the door. "Give me a min to get changed. I'll give you two a ride."

"I can manage..."

At Pascal's words, Reynald instantly spun around and leaned in with a stern glare. Despite being shorter by a full head, he berated the Runelord as though a freckled kid admonishing an adult:

"Don't be an idiot. You'll need five Teleport jumps to get to Königsfeld, and that'll strain even your prodigious ether reserves. Is that what you're looking for? Window of opportunity for assassins to prove your newly entitled lordliness?"

"That is why I have ether-storing gemstones," Pascal replied flatly, unflinching.

"Yes, because that's so much more efficient, the hours it takes to create those things. In case you haven't noticed Runelord, we have wars coming up, so save your beauty accessories for when it really matters. Seriously, just wait a few. I'll get you and Muffin there in two clean jumps."

Reynald then spun his heels and ran into the keep without another word.

With an amused smile, Parzifal caught Kaede's raised eyebrows and shrugged:

"This is pretty normal for him, actually."

"Turn time back a week, and I never would have thought he could even think that far ahead..." Pascal noted as he turned to face the other two.

"What, you've never heard of 'playing the buffoon?'" Kaede asked. "It's not that rare in political circles."

"Pretending to be an idiot is valid for rulers and heirs trying to avoid attention, especially in succession struggles," Pascal replied like a know-it-all. "Reynald is the only son to an unlanded noble family that does not even own fiefs. There is no point for him to hide his potential. Unless..."

"Unless he wants arrogant nobles like you -- or at least the old you -- to underestimate him. Given that he kicked your sorry butt twice before you learned your lesson, I'd say he succeeded at it," Kaede finished before switching the topic: "What does he mean by two jumps versus five?"

It was Parzifal who explained this time, his tone oddly wistful:

"Standard Astral Teleport spells have a safe maximum range of ten kilopaces. Reynald has wayfarer training thanks to his affinity with teleportation spells, and they can jump up to twenty-five kilopaces while bringing along more passengers. But honestly, you could also get there in under an hour by Phantom Steed gallop, even if it's rather windy."

"Unless I am misreading the weather, we should expect snow sometime today, so I would rather not be caught in a blizzard." Pascal glanced at the cloudy skies before turning back to Parzifal: "can you manage teleport at all? Given your problem with non-bio spells?"

It took a second for the realization to pass, but Kaede almost slammed her palm into her forehead. Instead, she settled for two fingers on her temple as annoyed thoughts rolled across her mind: darn it Pascal you're not support to just raise touchy subjects like this.

"No, I can't even manage a short-ranged Astral Leap, let alone long-range teleportation," Parzifal admitted with a wry grin. "But then, most mages have trouble with it, otherwise it wouldn't be considered a 'career spell'. You, Cecylia, and Reynald are among the rare ones to manage solo-teleportation. Even Ariadne still require my help to align the spell."

Pascal frowned back:

"I thought only metamages could directly influence another caster's spells, given the usual non-compatibility between different individuals' ether."

"I don't know why," Parzifal shrugged again. "But part of my knack with bio-spells has been the ability to work well with others. In fact, I can heal other mages to a degree even without the need for Samaran blood. The problem is that metamages are rare, and we don't have one here at the academy."

Kaede watched with an encouraging smile as Pascal took a moment to mull things over. But she already knew his obsession with expertise well enough to anticipate his response:

"Let me tap into my family contacts in the government. The claim is that metamages usually learn their abilities by nature once their magic reaches full-bloom after the age of twenty-five, but it is never too early to start exploring and grooming a potential affinity, especially if it is a rare one."

"If you don't mind, that is," Kaede nodded courteously towards Parzifal.

Perhaps it wasn't really needed. The healer's hopeful eyes seemed as though the holidays had arrived early this year:

"Of course not! I'd appreciate that quite a bit!"


----- * * * -----


Kaede hated teleportation more every time she did it. The feeling of undergoing freezing and sublimation while simultaneously being flushed down a whirlpool simply wasn't something she could ever acclimate herself to. As she confirmed all her bodyparts while their nerves reconnected, Kaede felt immensely grateful to Reynald that she only had to ride two teleportation spells instead of Pascal's originally-planned five jumps.

She was even ready to forgive all the times he had annoyingly called her 'Muffin'.

"Let me make one thing clear," Pascal said as he lead the three of them up a stone-paved street with 'sidewalks', wide enough to be considered a long plaza rather than a mere highway. "You may come along as part of my gratitude for your help, but I will not tolerate any of your disrespect towards my fiancée. She is far more sensitive than I am."

"Ha! As if your sensitivity is any comparison to speak of..."

Reynald's retort attracted a harsh glare from Pascal, and he quickly appended it:

"--Don't worry you playboy. I have no desire to put my head on a chopping block, and she's royalty -- the first Oriflamme princess too," the redhead tone's was in sheer awe as he continued: "This will be my first time even meeting an Oriflamme, even if she's far from the best."

Kaede filed away her question for the moment as she followed Pascal's wake on the left, her eyes transfixed upon the mighty fortress before her eyes.

Built on the shores of the North Sea, the 'Black Dragon Castle' was the seat of the Weichsel crown. As a three-layer concentric castle that formed the northern stronghold to Königsfeld's capital defenses, it was built entirely from ashen-black rocks on a steep, spell-terraformed hill which overlooked the sea. Mounted atop the powerful citadel keep was a sleek central tower, decorated by a massive dragon's head carving raised over twenty stories high. Combined with artistically designed 'wings' that stretched out from curtail wall battlements, the redoubt really did give the rough impression of a legendary dragon watching intently from the shores in defense the city behind it.

It was a powerful symbol of Weichsel's strength -- the declaration of its people's defiance and vigilance against the barbarian raiders from across the sea.

Several minutes passed before Kaede finally pulled her admiring eyes away from the fortress and asked Reynald:

"I read that the Oriflamme Paladins are chosen by the twelve phoenixes of Rhin-Lotharingie to serve as the nation's guardians. What else is special about them?"

The response came back with the excitement of a starry-eyed fanboy zealously worshiping his heroes:

"Only that they're some of the best spellswords across Hyperion, both in prowess and sheer style. When duty calls, they form a union with their phoenix familiars, and look absolutely kickass in their halo of golden blue-white flames. They glide through the air on burning wings and hurl blue flames that melt through plated steel... any knight of Hyperion who claim that they aren't envious of the Oriflammes in some way is outright lying."

Kaede wondered just how much resemblance they bore to Arthur's Knights of the Round Table, or perhaps more appropriately -- the Twelve Peers of Charlemagne. The translation spell did match their name up with Oriflamme, the golden flame battle standard once carried by the great Kings of France.

"Not all sword-and-sorcery either," Pascal added as he continued to stride ahead. "They also make some of Rhin-Lotharingie's best commanders and mages. In fact, the latest addition to their ranks is a young bard of sorts. Furthermore, only Oriflamme Paladins -- their character proven by the phoenixes' choice -- may inherit the throne, so the phoenixes always select at least one individual from the royal line of succession. As you can imagine, Sylviane's appointment is more political than purely martial."

"How is it that you always manage to pick the most hopelessly realistic thing to say?" Reynald pouted. "Way to ruin my romantic childhood dreams of knights-in-burning-armor."

"I practice," Pascal replied sarcastically. "Romanticism has no place in my army, or any army..."

"Your army?" Reynald cut in. "Think the King might care to hear this?"

"The King is the one who kept comparing me and father when he personally knighted me. Mark my words -- I will become Marshal. It is just a matter of time..."

"Aren't you--"

Pascal then trampled over Reynald's interjection by the sheer weight of his stern voice:

"But as to the topic: we already have enough necessary wars, Reynald. There is no need for unnecessary ones because some foreign idiot believes it is 'noble' for them to launch one."

"I wholeheartedly agree with that," Kaede added with a firm nod. Philosophers may disagree with how 'necessary' any war was; but as a historian, she couldn't be more proud of Pascal's attitude towards his profession.

"I thought real generals only feels at home on the battlefield?" Reynald tossed in rather hypothetically, not even taking a moment of thoughtful break.

"'Real' generals also do not enjoy seeing their men get killed," Pascal countered harshly. "There are other ways to simulate a battlefield, whether over a beer casket or under a projector. Kaede even introduced me to a term from her home realm -- marvelously simplistic really: they call it 'wargaming'."

By this time, they finally walked across the castle moat's lowered drawbridge and saluted the guards: a squad of garrison in partial plate and two officers in pitch-black armor.

Pascal then stepped forward and produced a tightly bound scroll from his enchanted pockets before handing it to the officer in charge.

"I am Pascal Key Lennart von Moltewitz, the new Landgrave of Nordkreuz, and these two are my retainers. We are here to request an audience with the King."

The two officers were meticulous, first scanning the scroll with magic and then the three of them.

"You're clear, Milord," the guards saluted after they finished their security procedures. "My condolences for the Marshal. Every soldier of Weichsel shall miss his passing."

"Thank you," Pascal said simply before continuing on into the outermost castle courtyard.

"What am I, your squire?" Reynald snubbed back at Pascal once they were out of the soldiers' earshot. His voice was dripping with sarcasm: "would you like your greaves polished with that, Sir?"

"After the trip here? You can be my stablehand."


----- * * * -----

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