Chapter 189 - Skyreach Spire
“You still alive, Tyl’ick?”
The question was voiced five minutes after Claire’s departure, its speaker the tallest of the five men stationed in the room’s far corner. While the others had already vanished into the shadows, he alone stepped out into the open, leapt over the rubble, and parked himself next to the admiral. To describe his position as seated would be generous, but it was the closest that he could get with his body shaped the way it was. At a glance, the medical specialist looked every bit like the average killer whale, only with gills running the length of his sides, and several sets of octopus-like tentacles sprouting from his forehead, his rear, and his stomach.
“I’m fine. Starting to remember why I normally keep an army between me and any foreign VIPs, but still fine.” The old seahorse groaned as he lifted his flippers and checked his wounds. Most were already closed, with only a few particularly deep gashes still bleeding. “How’s the lady?”
“Passed out and roughed up, but still alive.”
“Thank Griselda.” Count Ray’esce tried to push himself off the seafloor, but a piercing pain in his ribcage stopped him halfway. Rolling onto his back, he slowly opened his eyes and stared at the broken ceiling. “Freshly twice ascended my ass,” he said with a groan. “What the hell was that?”
“Can’t say I didn’t warn you.” The orcaped laid his feelers on the other man’s injuries and closed them with a bright yellow-orange light. “Didn’t fix everything, but you should be good enough to move. Natural regeneration should take care of the rest of your ribs in another few minutes.”
“Thanks,” Tyl’ick shook his head as he rose. The first place he looked was towards the wounded royal, who lay collapsed on the ground, a trail of blood leaking from her missing arm. “And yeah, I know you warned me, but that was way too much. I still have no idea what she did to me.”
“Some sort of nasty status condition, I bet. Check your logs.” The medic shrugged as he followed after his boss and began to examine the princess.
“I did. Nothing.”
“Weird.” Frowning, he tore his focus away from the seahorse and concentrated on healing Arciel. He applied three different spells, each more powerful than the last, but her arm refused to regrow. “There’s something weird going on here too. Something’s getting in the way of my healing.” The orca raised his front tentacles and formed a pair of knots in front of his eyes. “Destroyed for two hours? Don’t think I’ve seen that one before.”
Absolving the debuff with a cleanse, he applied another heal and restored the missing limb. Once sure that there was nothing else wrong with her, he lightly grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her awake.
It took her a moment to rouse, but her eyes shot open as soon as she did.
“Thank you, doctor,” she said, as she pressed a hand against her head.
“How are you feeling, Princess?” asked Count Ray’esce.
“Certainly shocked, but otherwise impeccable. I was not expecting her to attack me without any warning.”
“Intel messed up,” said the admiral, with a grimace. “They said she wasn’t as aggressive as her father. Clearly, they were wrong.” He glanced at all the corpses piled up around the room. Not a single one of the prisoners had been spared, regardless of age or gender. “It ain’t too late to cut her off just yet, if you’d rather pivot to plan B.”
Arciel shook her head after a brief pause. “I believe we should continue on our current course. She may be more aggressive than anticipated, but having seen her abilities for myself, I am rather confident that working alongside her will prove more fruitful than the alternative.”
“It’ll be risky. There’s no telling when she’ll attack you again,” said the seahorse. “And next time, you won’t have a whole fifty corpses’ worth of blood.”
“I do not believe she will,” said the witch. “It is not a conjecture I can put into words, but I am confident that she will remain amicable, so long as we do the same.”
“Even if it means owing her a favour? She could ask you for anything.”
“I shall cross that line when I reach it.”
The count sighed. “Well, your call I guess. Me, I’d try to play it a little safer.”
“Perhaps if our knights were more powerful.” Arciel looked towards the massive gaping hole behind her, and the half-evaporated corpses of the men that lay throughout. “How many did we lose?”
“We’ve lost contact with squads 3 and 7 as expected,” replied Ray’esce, after a brief pause. “Some of the others have a few casualties, but are still alive. Cas’ahl, could I ask you to attend to them?”
“Orders received, Boss.” Lazily saluting, the orcaped medic swam off and began treating the wounded knights one by one.
The blood mage frowned. “That is far from ideal, but not unreasonable.”
“I sure as hell hope it really turns out to be worth it,” muttered the count. “We don’t exactly have the bodies to be throwing them around willy-nilly.”
“It will be fine, Admiral. I will work to ensure that all goes according to plan.” The princess got to her feet and brushed the silt off of her ruined dress. “Let us quickly return to the surface. There are only a few hours before the event begins.”
“Yeah, let’s.” Picking his hat up off the ground, the admiral nestled it on his thorny head, blew a horn to call his testudinian mount, and prepared for departure.
Though he was ready, it would be quite a while before they would finally set off. The princess would find, upon attempting to return to her quarters, that they had been destroyed, and that her once bountiful wardrobe had been reduced to nothing but the occasional sad scrap.
___
Arciel was not the only one that had to scramble to put together an outfit. Natalya, Claire, and Sylvia soon found themselves suffering the same fate. Upon reuniting in the city—a task made easy by the lyrkress’ catgirl detector—and reviewing the events that occurred in their separation, the group made its way to one of the city’s high-end clothing shops.
Though the many unique novelties lining its display cases begged to differ, Silkroad, Olga’s store, was a boutique first and a centre for miscellaneous goods second. The store’s owner had, immediately upon hearing of the occasion, given them permission to commandeer a set of outfits at a fairly steep discount. Claire did walk around the shop and examine everything that caught her interest, but refrained from making any purchases. Her runecloak rid her of the need; she was confident in reproducing not just the goods that filled the huskar’s store, but also all the dresses that she had worn prior to her rude disownment.
Sylvia, whose outfit choices were far less numerous, was practically dancing around the shop in her tiniest form, zooming between the various evening gowns and carefully looking over each. Most of the things she tried on were ridiculous, foreign clothes she had never seen before, or unique novelties imbued with bizarre and oftentimes useless magical properties. There was little purpose in a dress that would attempt to strangle its wearer, after all.
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Regardless of what Claire thought, the fox received nothing but compliments from the pickiest of the three shoppers. She approved of just about every outfit that the others wore, but when it came to her own purchases, Natalya took her sweet time examining every last detail, comparing and contrasting her options not just for looks, but their make. It was not everyday that a commoner was given the opportunity to purchase such a luxury good, and she had every intention of finding something that would last her through every relevant occasion.
It was not until a few minutes before sunset that the cat finally decided on a modest tea-length that covered her collar. Its light-blue colour complimented the sheath of her blade, but left her heels exposed to the cool, evening breeze. Claire had opted for a much less modest asymmetrical halter that highlighted her shard. As if to contrast the exposure of her neck and chest, she wore a crimson veil that hid most of her features, a protective failsafe meant to keep the Cadrian knights from recognizing her on sight. Meanwhile, Sylvia had gone with a more traditional elven dress, citing a sense of discomfort with the various unfamiliar outfits she had attempted to equip.
While the average finely-dressed trio of ladies would have arrived on the scene by way of carriage, the haphazard bunch walked through the streets without a care in the world. The girls’ expensive attire had drawn many eyes, with few immediately turning away, even after taking note of their weapons. Both the deer and the dog had been able to continue as normal, but the cat was fidgeting, squirming whenever she met a passerby’s eyes.
“Hey uhmm… Claire?” Still, it was not her, but the fox that addressed the longmoose with a pensive frown.
“What?”
“Why don’t you ever wear any shoes?”
“They’re uncomfortable. I hate socks. They get soggy when people try to pour things on my dress.”
“Yeah, but we’re going to this like big formal event thing! Shouldn’t you at least dress up a bit more?”
“I don’t see a point in putting on airs. I haven’t even had my hair done.” She toyed with her silvery-blue strands as she spoke. They had grown since her arrival in Llystletein. What had started as a neat cut, trimmed just beneath her shoulders, had become an unruly mess that ran more than halfway down her back.
“I think you look wonderful,” said Natalya. “A pair of heels would make you look even prettier, especially with a nice, fluffy pair of socks.”
Claire stared blankly at the catgirl, holding her gaze for a few seconds before slowly shaking her head. “I’m beginning to understand why Paunse and Cadria never did any trade.”
“Huh?”
“Etiquette dictates that heels are worn on their own, without any socks or stockings.”
“Wait, wait, wait!” Sylvia spun around and grabbed the lyrkress’ shoulders, stopping her in her tracks. “Is the sogginess even going to be a problem anymore?”
Claire tilted her head.
“I mean, just think about it! You haven’t worn any shoes ever since you ascended the first time, right? And now, you don’t even really care if your clothes get soggy when you go in the water.”
“They’re still uncomfortable.” Despite complaining, the lyrkress silently grew two inches taller, with the back of her feet rising up off the ground.
“Yeah, I know, but at least it’s still better than a stuffy suit.”
“Maybe a bit.”
They continued speaking about one random topic or another as they made their way across the city. Upon arrival, the guards waved the bunch in with nothing but a casual glance. The only sentry that had so much as bothered to make a sound was one who had yawned after moving out of their way. Just as unenthused as the gatekeepers were the escorts that led them to the garden venue on the other side of the castle’s grounds. They said nothing, and simply guided them without so much as a formal greeting.
Upon arrival, they found that less than a third of the people present were dressed in anything that even remotely suited the occasion. Most wore the same equipment that they would have taken on any other job, pieces of armour made of leather and metal, cloaks and mantles that obscured their visages, and blatant holsters for their equally blatant weapons.
Of those that had refrained from wearing their gear, most had dressed themselves formally, with men donning beautiful evening gowns, and women clothed in neatly-tailored suits. Only a few had gone the wishy-washy route, and worn traditionally gender-appropriate clothes.
“I can’t believe we still stand out,” complained the cat. “We should have listened to Auntie and gone for suits.”
“We’re not Vel’khanese,” said Claire. “And dresses can hide more weapons than suits.”
“That might just be the most Cadrian thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”
“If you think that’s bad, you should meet my father.”
Lia sighed. “I already have.”
“Doesn’t count. You didn’t even speak to him.”
“Wait, why are we in the garden?” Sylvia looked up at the castle, whose landing platform was still high in the air. There were a few centaurs mingled into the crowd, but not anywhere near enough to describe the Cadrian presence as substantial.
“I don’t know. I thought we were supposed to be going up,” said Lia.
“We are, a little later in the night.”
Spinning around to greet the soft, gentle voice, the Paunsean found herself face to face with a familiar Cadrian trainee. The elf was standing right behind them, her delicate frame decorated with a deep violet dress woven with silvery patterns that shimmered in the night. Her skeletal companion stood next to her, ribs covered with a loose-fitting suit, and a top hat sitting on his head. The undead mage wore not a traditional tie, but the same sort of bow that adorned Boris’ neck. The two were walking arm in arm, perhaps to ward off any unwanted suitors.
“Good evening,” she said. She almost broke free of the escort to greet Claire with a curtsy, but a silent hand stopped her in her tracks.
“Why hello!” said the lyrkress. “How wonderful it is to see you again, dear friend.”
“Oh, hey uhm…” Sylvia pressed a finger into her cheek as her tail flicked back and forth.
“Nymn,” said the squire.
“Yeah, that! Hi Nymn! Haven’t seen you since we fought Farenlight.”
“Congratulations on your victory,” said the unabashed elf.
“Thanks!” chirped the fox, who had clearly been a key part of the battle. “Oh, and hi Drocksie!”
“Hello, hello. It’s nice to see you all again,” said the skeleton, with a friendly wave.
“Yeah… it’s nice to see you too,” said Natalya. She gave the pair a bit of a peeved look, and while the elf didn’t react, the lich certainly did. He lightly chuckled, the fiery lights in the dark sockets of his eyes dimming.
“Sorry about the boss.” Eventually, he put his teeth together, as if to smile, and rattled his neck bones. “We didn’t think that would happen.”
“Oh, don’t you worry your silly little heads,” said Claire, with a sickly sweet giggle. “I am just glad to see you so well.”
Her face twisting into an uncomfortable smile, Nymphetel pressed a hand against her chest and bowed. “Likewise. Now, unfortunately, we’ll have to excuse ourselves. We have a prior commitment.”
“What a shame.” Her face was still hidden by her veil, but her intonation was so easily read that her pout was practically audible. “I suppose we will have to find some other time to chat.”
“I’m sure we will, My Lady.” Adjusting her hat, the elf turned around, approached a group of centaurs, and lowered her voice for another conversation.
Her departure was followed by a brief moment of silence. Sylvia was looking at Claire with her eyes narrowed into a suspicious glare, while Natalya was staring at nothing in particular with her face twisted into a frown.
“It isn’t unnecessary.” Eventually, Claire gave in and returned the fox’s gaze. “There’s no telling who he’ll speak to.”
“Mhm…” Sylvia nodded, but her gaze remained skeptical, knowing full well that the lyrkress would refrain from tugging on her cheeks in the midst of a public event.
“I’m tickling you until you run out of air later.” Muttering under her breath, the oppressor turned to the other troublemaker and gave her a magical poke. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” said Lia, with a small frown. “I was just thinking that Nymn is really pretty. I’m almost a bit jealous. We have the same body type, but she looks way better in a dress.”
Claire furrowed her brows. “Your jealousy is wasted,” she said. “Competing with Nymphetel is a fruitless effort.”
“Wow, thanks Claire, that really makes me feel better,” said the cat, with her head hanging.
“That’s not what I meant.” The lyrkress lifted a glass of wine off a nearby waiter’s tray and swished it around in her hand. “I was not implying that you were inferior. I was informing you that Nymphetel is not a woman.”