grievinglands
patreon
TO&FQ: Book 1 - Chapter 35 (RAW)
🕑 Added 2024-12-06 07:19:15 +0000 UTCChapter 35 - Her Progress
"A person of wisdom does not rely solely on one transaction or one path. Instead, they keep many options in motion, for even the most promising flower can fade before it fully blooms."
- The Path of the Merchant by Gelgor Badawi.
Masculinity and its affectations have, for most of history, been closely tied to war. In modern warfare, which is largely impersonal and random, and where death is dealt from a great distance, the emphasis has shifted to camouflage and invisibility. This shift is reflected in fashion—men’s clothing typically features simple lines and muted colors, embodying what many consider the masculine aesthetic.
This had not always been the case. In ancient times, being seen was often the point. Men embraced beauty and bold fashion, both on and off the battlefield. This ranged from pragmatic intimidation to the noble pursuit of personal style and self-expression. In Aranthia, with its quasi-medieval European setting, this was still very much the norm, as Seraphina observed while watching her father’s household knights. Her escort for her progress.
Despite their colorful plumes, stylized armor, and bright personal heraldry, the knights' faces betrayed them. These were not merely men who had seen war—they were men who welcomed it. Their grim, resolute expressions spoke of a simple truth: in a land starved of proper diversion, crude war became its own grim entertainment. Such was the curse of this place, where swords sang louder than laughter, she lamented. Seraphina resolved that one day she would change that—not for them, of course, but for the preservation of her own sanity.
Ibn sat across from her, his unsettling red eyes fixed somewhere on the horizon. His sword, unbuckled and leaning against the carriage door, seemed almost comically large for a child his size. Yet Kellan had assured her the boy wielded it with the ease of a prodigy, taking to its deadly dance as naturally as a duck to water. He might have appeared endearing and cute, were it not for the ever-present shadow of intensity that aged him beyond his years. Still, even Seraphina had to admit that would grow up in a few years to be a handsome man. Bonus points if he kept his mouth shut and cultured an air of mystery about him.
Beside her, Eloise was buried in an arcane tome, her concentration unfazed by the carriage’s jostling. It was a feat Seraphina could scarcely fathom. Even with the crude suspension she had commissioned, designed with the wainwrights and the blacksmiths of the castle town’s cooperation, the vehicle jolted still every now and again at a few of the bigger bumps and deeper ruts in the road. The plush, velvety cushions she had also insisted on provided some relief, but Seraphina still found the motion vexing. Eloise, however, seemed entirely unbothered, lost in the mysteries of magic. Perhaps she would have Eloise go about and fix the roads with her magic, she thought to herself. She did always go on about how the roads of her father’s lands were so smooth.
The vehicle itself was actually the royal carriage that Vellens had inadvertently left behind, recovered, repaired, and vastly improved at Seraphina’s command. The whole thing had taken up almost half of her allowance.
After all, this was no mere conveyance; it was a statement. A girl deserved to travel like royalty.
Across from her, Miriam sat quietly, her gaze lowered, her thoughts unknowable. The inscrutable Palisa Slug might have been pondering the divine or merely dwelling on nothing at all. It mattered little to Seraphina, so long as Miriam obeyed when called upon.
Haze Finleigh, had chosen to ride with the driver. The Bard, despite dropping her disguise as a man, still wore the masculine clothes of her profession. It had raised a few titters here and there and the odd stares from her father’s men, but they would simply have to live with it.
After all, Seraphina herself was not averse to wearing trousers. She appreciated how they accentuated her graceful form, subtly commanding attention. They, far from detracting from her femininity, only heightened it by contrast, adding a striking balance to her presence that was impossible to ignore.
Seraphina could imagine Haze now, exchanging idle chatter or perhaps singing a tune to pass the time. Finleigh, her Bard of rare talent, could replicate any melody by ear, though she always notated Seraphina’s compositions in the peculiar Aranthian script used for musical scores. It was one of those skills that Seraphina admired but had little interest in.
The day itself was fine, the morning sun radiant and golden, casting a cheerful glow over the late summer fields. The air carried the mingled scents of ripening wheat, rich, loamy soil, and—unfortunately—the occasional waft from a pig farm. Such were the realities of a land built on agriculture, thought Seraphina who endured it with faint disdain.
This journey was not to be hurried. Seraphina had decided to treat it as a leisurely holiday, an impromptu musical tour rather than a direct route to the capital of Aran. King Elidion and the Vellens could wait upon her pleasure. It would strengthen her bargaining position. She could see it now, her first stop: Lucalle’s Ford, a bustling town barely half a day’s ride from the castle town of Sariens.
Seraphina took this moment of peace to idly review her Status, her eyes taking on a faraway look.
[STATUS] Seraphina de Sariens - Noble (Human lvl.16)
STR:
DEX:
CON:
INT:
WIS:
CHR:
LCK:
37
19
20
21
10
40
13 [18]
Health:
Stamina:
Mana:
Experience:
308/308
48/48
13/13
815/1848
[Skills & Proficiencies]
Swords
(lvl.3)
Bows
(lvl.3)
Crossbows
(lvl.4)
Throwing Weapons
(lvl.2)
Dodge
(lvl.3)
Critical Hit Mastery
(lvl.4)
Improved Riding
(lvl.3)
Monster Taming
(lvl.2)
Herbalism
(lvl.1)
Daggers
(lvl.5)
Unarmed
(lvl.5)
Rest
(lvl.3)
Power Strike
(lvl.1)
Slings
(lvl.4)
Polearms
(lvl.1)
Medium Armor
(lvl.2)
Heavy Armor
(lvl.1)
[Gifts]
Strength of the Old Ones:
+25 Strength
Notably, her practice with slings had also improved her Throwing skill. It mirrored the mechanics of a game, where progress in one skill could gradually benefit related ones. Seraphina speculated that if she continued wielding a halberd, she might eventually develop proficiency in the Axe skill as well. Of course, the easiest way to gain the Axe skill would be for her to just simply cleave someone’s skull in at the next opportunity. All that being said and done, she was well on her way to her next level, she mused as she looked out of the carriage’s window.
As they neared the town, its famed bridge came into view—a masterwork of stone and ingenuity designed by the legendary architect Luc de Lucalle. The bridge arched gracefully over the wide river Loierre, a lifeline for the trade and travelers that passed through this vital crossing. A hub of trade, the town itself was alive with activity: carts laden with goods, merchants calling their wares, and townsfolk bustling about their lives.
Seraphina had sent word ahead, instructing Mayor Franzo of Lucalle’s Ford to prepare the main square for her arrival. It was to be cleared and ready for her performance, and the citizenry were to be informed. If he had failed to heed her demands, she thought with a flicker of menace, his tenure as mayor would end swiftly—and perhaps permanently. She would perhaps even see to it personally.
As they reached the gates of Lucalle’s Ford, a long line of wagons and travelers stretched out before them. The queue was a reminder of the town’s prosperity, but Seraphina had no intention of waiting. With her entourage flanking her carriage, they bypassed the common rabble entirely. Waiting, after all, was for peasants.
*****
Mayor Franzo had, of course, extended an invitation for Seraphina to stay at his own townhouse, a gesture of politeness and respect. Yet she declined, not wanting to be an imposition, and instead chose the Swan’s Song. Ill-omened though the name might seem, she hoped its original meaning had not crossed over to this world. Besides, she had always admired swans for their easy grace, and that alone amused her enough to decide on such accommodations.
Also, the Swan’s Song was no common inn—its reputation reached far beyond the city’s borders. It catered exclusively to the distinguished and wealthy, its marble floors and polished balustrades gleaming like a polished jewel. Its proprietor, a certain Mr. Martelli, practically fell over himself when Seraphina arrived. He offered her and her immediate retinue the finest suites, free of charge, a lavish courtesy meant to secure her favor. The only problem was that her father’s soldiers, the men serving as her escort, would have to lodge elsewhere. Though they could of course find lesser lodging, it could hardly compare to the splendor of these suites, and the limited courtesy rankled her sensibilities.
At first, she coolly refused Martelli’s offer, suggesting instead that he might petition the Duke, her father, for a reduction in the year’s commerce and trade tax. It was a subtle message, letting him know she was well aware of his ‘creative’ bookkeeping. Martelli, shaken but perceptive, promptly amended his proposal. Soon enough, the entire party, including her armed escort, would enjoy the Swan’s Song’s hospitality. For free, of course.
Pleased, Seraphina sweetened the arrangement by offering to sing for her supper—an act that, if nothing else, would provide a little spectacle. Martelli’s skeptical half-smile betrayed his doubt in her talent. She allowed herself a brief flash of annoyance before realizing that he simply did not know who he was dealing with. He would learn soon enough.
Overall, it was yet another instance where her deep understanding of the game proved to be an invaluable asset.
Once settled, Seraphina ventured into the main square with a smaller escort, led by the stalwart Sergeant Frest. Her usual retinue accompanied her, save for Eloise and the two brothers. Eloise because she seemed very busy deepening her understanding of the Earth and the brothers because they would serve as suitable guards she at the Swan’s Song. The diminutive Ibn followed her as well, trailing like a disgruntled shadow, his demeanor both surly and curious.
“Why are you doing this…?” he dared to ask, voice somewhat rough and resentful.
Seraphina’s eyes slid toward him, cold as polished steel. He visibly shrank beneath that aristocratic glare. “...Lady Seraphina,” he added hastily.
“In a way, for the same reason I took in an ungrateful little urchin like you,” she said, her tone mocking yet honeyed, watching him flinch at the word ‘little.’ He was so easy to needle. “My charitable heart,” she continued. “I mean to bring a spark of joy into their otherwise gray lives.” She smiled sweetly, a challenge in her eyes, as if daring him to defy her. “This might very well be one of the happiest days they’ll ever know.”
“I see, Lady Seraphina,” Ibn muttered, gaze downcast with a sigh.
Once they entered the main square, she found only a handful of onlookers—surly figures in rough work clothes, likely dockhands and field laborers readying for the end of their day. Not the crowd she had envisioned. Even more vexing was a stubborn merchant who refused to leave despite the town guards’ threatening stance. The man was still fussing over his stall, which displayed small cages rattling with trapped creatures—a disconcerting menagerie destined either for some noble’s exotic table or pampered child’s pet. Their frantic chirps and squawks set Seraphina’s teeth on edge.
She advanced, her presence immediately silencing the grumbling guards and causing the merchant to doff his cap, clinging to it as though it were a shield. “What seems to be the matter, gentlemen?” she asked icily, her voice cutting through the tension. Each word was a shard of frozen crystal, cold and precise. The guards fell silent. Seeing her noble bearing, the merchant swallowed hard.
“M-My lady,” he began nervously. “Me name’s Gage Barrelmaker, if it please you.” He glanced at her formidable armed escort, then at her eyes, which were even more formidable.
She inclined her golden head with regal delicacy, wordlessly commanding him to continue. As the Duke’s daughter, it was her right to dispense justice as she saw fit—no one present would dare challenge her authority.
Gage swallowed again, words tumbling out. “It’s like this, milady. I paid near double for the right to set up here for the whole day, on account of not being from these parts. Now I must heading to Belleville tomorrow. Not sellin’ my stock today has cost me dearly. I beg your pardon, but I be needing to sell my goods, and this is the only place I have permission to be selling.”
Seraphina sighed inwardly. She would have to dispense more noblesse oblige. More problems of the mundane world laid at her feet. “What is the most expensive item you have?” she asked without preamble, her patience waning.
The merchant blinked, utterly surprised. “P-Pardon, milady?”
She arched one eyebrow, tapping her foot lightly against the cobblestones. “Must I repeat myself? What is your most expensive item?”
Understanding dawned, and he fumbled to answer. “Ah, yes, milady… I have this mysterious egg from the mangrove swamps far in the southern jungles. A rare sort of…”
“I’ll take it,” she announced, cutting him short.
“But milady, it’s quite rare and precious…”
She waved a hand languidly, as though brushing aside a trifling insect. “Speak to my maid Milly about the price,” she said, motioning to one of her attendants. “Now then, kindly remove all these cages and creatures from the square at once.”
The order was absolute. The merchant, Gage Barrelmaker, nodded fervently, bowing repeatedly as he hurried to arrange his things. Soon, the animals and their discordant cries would be swept away, leaving the square free for whatever grand performance Seraphina intended.
Let the world see her charity, her magnanimity, and her inevitable splendor. Let them witness the day she bestowed upon them a memory that would glitter, if only briefly, in their otherwise dim lives.
