[x] Azalea Cherilyn Charmaine

Given that Azalea explicitly invited you to a proposed tea party the last time the two of you had any extended period of time together, it feels impolite to skip out on it. Besides, you don't deny a degree of curiosity at play; while you and your childhood friends used to play-pretend high-class tea parties, you were ultimately commoners having fun, and a part of you certainly wonders what a tea party hosted by a dryad noblelady would be like.

You find yourself in luck when you finally manage to flag down your fellow dryad in between classes to express your interest. "Wonderful," Azalea smiles when you manage to find a discreet moment together and tell her that you'd like to come along. "I was just starting to make arrangements at the Aroma. It would've been earlier, but, alas, coursework, a field exercise." Her smile turns a little mischievous. "I'm sure there will be many people who would like to come along now that you'll be there."

You squeak a little in mild alarm, and attempt - not very successfully - not to cringe and draw into yourself. "Not...too many people, right?" you ask almost beseechingly.

Azalea laughs in a manner that sounds almost teasing, but her words, at least, are reassuring as she points out, "Insomuch as it may be good for business, I somehow doubt Nicole and Tiffany can hold our entire Academy at the Aroma." You wonder worryingly how seriously Azalea considered inviting the whole Academy, but she doesn't give you much room for thought as she continues, "Probably just enough for a table, no more."

That is a note of relief that stays with you by the time the appointed tea party comes around days later, and you find yourself making your way through the now-familiar path to the town of Faulkren. Rather cooperatively, the weather is sunny and pleasant, par of course for Apaloft, and the less-than-three kilometers it takes to reach town feels like a pleasant prelude rather than a chore, even with your healing arm, a testament to your growing physical prowess. After months of calisthenics, drills, marches, and field exercises, the walk to town ends up being almost like a leisurely stroll, even at a brisk pace. Rolling emerald plains under azure skies slowly transform into an equally familiar congregation of earthly bricks and red rooftops that characterize the town. The streets snake in elegant mazes in between buildings, but the town itself is fortunately not so large that getting lost is a real danger.

Following directions given to you by Azalea and eventually a few pointers from the locals, you finally find the Aroma, a classical two-story building that seems to be the default for family businesses in the country, meaning the cafe is on the first floor while the owners live on the second. The building is largely made of wheat-colored bricks and mortar, complete with a small terrace equipped with tables and chairs, giving the establishment a rather homely, classy, rustic feel. The terrace is unadorned and unoccupied, though, on the account of the season; snowfall is expected to arrive in the coming weeks, if not days, but the chill has already arrived ahead of time.

You can hear voices as you stop at the door, trying to gather your courage, fully aware that you are stepping out of your comfort zone. You take a deep breath, doing your best to remind yourself that there's nothing to be nervous about. That you've faced down a wyvern before. What's conversation with a few strangers from the Academy to you, then?

Trying to look as relaxed and confident as you can - you don't feel either - you gently push through the door, trying your best not to cringe as the bell against the door chimes at your entrance.

A blast of warmth hits you as you enter; a strong but gentle flame burns in the fireplace, adding light to the candles and lanterns that provide the cafe with a generous amount of lighting. The interior of the cafe is a chamber of impressive woodwork, giving off a warm, homely vibe in spite of its occupants; even before you see anyone from the Academy, you note that at least a quarter of the cafe's dozen-or-so tables are occupied, most of them by what looks like the residents of Faulkren. From behind the counter, you spot Tiffany, who gently calls out her welcome before a light of recognition dawns in her eyes as she sees you at the door, a warm smile greeting your arrival. On the far end of the cafe, a gentle melody is carried on a lute, and you remember the bard playing it as Alexia, the silver-haired Ornthalian bard whom you met just a couple of weeks earlier; she does not yet see you, focusing instead on her song, and you can't help but note that she has an incredibly lovely singing voice, better than anything you've ever heard...not that you've heard many bards sing through your life.

You smile awkwardly at Tiffany and give her a small wave. Ordinarily, you might exchange a word or two with the friendly face before finding a cozy spot to drink some tea. Today, though, that isn't an option, and it isn't long before you hear someone familiar call out to you.

"Neianne!" Azalea Cherilyn Charmaine's voice - calling out to you from across the cafe - is gentle and friendly, but somehow pitched to carry over both the music and the muted chatter of the tea house. She has risen up from her seat at a round table, smiling and beckoning you over to an empty seat beside her. "We've been waiting for you!"

You've noticed before that the daughters of noble houses seem able to make themselves heard no matter the setting, a thought you cling to as your legs carry you toward the seat, face burning a little. The reaction doesn't feel unwarranted on your part: Everyone is staring at you, all the girls at the table. Azalea promised that there would be only so many girls as could fit a table, but in retrospect, she failed to mention just how large the table would be, and being on the receiving end of a dozen looks - practically a tenth of all the apprentices at Faulkren - is not precisely something you were looking forward to. You almost think Alexia the bard casts a look your way as you mutely make your way over to the spot offered to you, but there's not much time to reflect on it. "H-Hello," you say, blushing and more than a little flustered by the attention as you sit down on Azalea's right. You hadn't expected her to have saved you a seat so close to her; there are certainly girls here whom you've seen around Azalea often, even if you can't quite put a face to a name for anyone aside from Wilhelmina Adelaide Marienberg.

The tall, blonde, normally stoic elf in question is also seated at the table on the other side, a subtle expression on her handsome face suggesting that she is deriving a bit of quiet amusement from your embarrassment. "It's good that our guest of honor has finally arrived," Wilhelmina says, before taking a small, ladylike sip of tea.

"We've all been waiting for you!" a girl nearby adds.

"It isn't everyday we get to have tea with someone who seduced a wyvern!" another chirps.

This sets off a chorus of giggles that doesn't actually seem mean-spirited at all, but still makes you rather wish you could hide under the tablecloth.

"Now, girls," Azalea says, voice gently admonishing, although she's smiling too, "don't tease Neianne too hard when she hasn't even gotten tea yet. Here," she adds, reaching for the cheerfully-painted stoneware teapot from its candle-lit warming stand, "let me pour for you."

The cup in front of you is soon full with a pale, fragrant tea, and you snatch it up almost immediately; it's still far too hot to drink, but it offers you a convenient thing to hide behind, clutched in both hands, as you wait for it to cool. "Th-Thank you," you murmur.

"As Mina has said, we've decided to make you our guest of honor," Azalea smiles and raises her own teacup as if in toast. "For your heroism and bravery!" You let out a slight squeak in response at the dryad's sudden pronouncement, causing more than one girl to laugh again. The table takes another sip of tea before Azalea adds playfully, "Although the way you did it does reinforce some very backwards notions about dryads. The humans already assume we all frolic naked in the moonlight."

"I-I-I didn't mean th-that!" you exclaim, mortified. "It was...it was the only thing I could th-think to do!"

"Oh, don't look so upset," Azalea giggles. "I was only teasing. Here, have a finger sandwich. They're fantastic."

The food is, in fact, quite good, and the snacks and the tea gives you an excuse to calm your heart a little and allow the conversation to progress without you. After a moment or two, you start to ease into the mood; gentle teasing aside, the gathering is relaxed and friendly, and topics are light. There's little discussion of the war here, or of the more unpleasant aspects of what happened with the wyvern. It's a proper, almost frivolous tea party, and discussing such sordid things would destroy the cheerful atmosphere.

Azalea is unquestionably "in charge" of the tea party, but she's seldom overt about it. She presides over conversation, providing a gentle bit of teasing here or a kind word there. When she speaks, everyone listens, and she goes out of her way to make sure everyone is included, providing openings or prompts for the quieter girls to break into conversation. The other girls are all too happy to be caught up in Azalea's tempo, and to be fair, your earlier apprehension begins to fall away as you find yourself having a good time. There's a great feeling of fellowship and general good will toward one another, even though you don't know most of the girls present; there was a round of introductions, of course, but so many went by at once that you knew you'd never be able to keep track of all the names. It helps, perhaps, that the other highborn, Wilhelmina, is quiet by nature and largely fine with leaving the talking to Azalea, but regardless, you find yourself a little envious of Azalea's social grace, the ease with which she seems to lead without effort. It really is the furthest thing from yourself.

"...What do you think, Neianne?"

A girl is talking to you, you realize abruptly. Human, dark-haired, freckled. Alice, you think. "M-Me?" you stammer; you have briefly lost track of the conversation, lost in thought about how palely you compare to Azalea. Your vaguest recollections - that tiny part of your brain that absentmindedly registered bits and pieces of the conversation - tell you that talk has turned to noble families and the like.

"Of course you," the human says. "What do you think? Surely you'd be happy to see another dryad noble family."

You glance between her and Azalea, eyes a little wide. "I-I suppose so," you say hesitantly, a little startled. You've never really given this too much thought; while there was an increase in dryads who moved from the woods to the plains after the Charmaines were granted their barony nearly two decades ago, your parents have never seemed to be terribly interested in that in particular or dryads in politics in general. Nor have you really thought about the idea of more dryad houses; although you've spent most of your life in the plains, it occurs to you that - given how most people talk about the past few decades of dryad "immigration" - only that tiny rarity consider dryads to be native to the Confederacy, that they are still newcomers who must prove themselves as the Charmaines did. So it leaves you at a bit of a loss as you try to come up with an answer on the spot. "It would make us m-more..." you try to find the right word, thinking hard, "...involved with things."

...That is such an underwhelming response on your part, and retreat back to sipping at your tea inconspicuously.

"Well," another girl declares, thankfully not terribly bothered by what you see as a truly pathetic response on your part, "there's a war on! Maybe a dryad will go to Elspar, make herself out to be a big hero, and get rewarded with some land and a title. It's happened before!"

"No pressure," Alice says, smiling at you.

"Th-That actually sounds like...a lot of pressure," you mumble.

"Well, someone could always just marry into an existing noble house," someone else points out, after a pause. "Just a matter of finding some young elven heiress ready to buck tradition. From there, it's a fifty-fifty chance."

"Or," Azalea says, a little more philosophically, "even if the first child is a dryad, the family would just wait long enough for the dryad to be the father, and call that child the heiress."

Wilhelmina nods, "That is possible." It's hard to say whether she's slightly amused or slightly annoyed by all this talk. That aside, you're not entirely certain how you'd feel about arranging a marriage and children specifically so that an existing noble line could become a dryad one; you knew instinctively - even before Wilhelmina said anything - that not many others would like it.

"Still," Alice - or was it Annie? - says, looking a little wistful, "it wouldn't be so bad marrying an elven lady, even if it would turn out that way." She sighs. "Lady Elizabeth is so beautiful, like a porcelain doll! And so talented! I...are you okay, Neianne?"

The tea, lovely and gently floral it might be, is a lot less pleasant to choke and sputter on compared to drinking it, as you have just discovered. Fortunately, you come short of spraying everyone with tea, although you are certainly worried about whether or not you have to wipe away drool before anyone notices. It seems impossible, just then, to fully articulate exactly how ill-advised any infatuation one might develop for Elizabeth Zabanya might be. "F-Fine!" you manage, waving off the concern, but accepting the napkin Azalea offers to wipe at your watering eyes and trying rather hard - failing, though - not to blush too much. From her expression - as well as from Wilhelmina and some of the other girls - not everyone present is as ignorant as Alice about Elizabeth's personality.

"I'd rather someone tall and dark and mysterious," a shorter girl at the next table over says, voice dreamy. "Like Lady Sieglinde. I'd never be brave enough to actually talk to her, though." Her aseri ears droop noticeably as she says this, even as you're left to wonder why the two elves on your squad are getting the attention.

"Elves are overrated," someone says, dismissively. When Wilhelmina looks at her, one eyebrow raised casually, her eyes go wide in embarrassment and amends, "I just mean, having any kind of girlfriend would be good enough for me, without fantasizing about elven ladies." There's a general, breathy sigh of agreement from around the table. Fortunately for everyone involved, Wilhelmina doesn't seem to have taken offense in the first place, merely looking on with wry amusement.

"We're here to learn to be mercenaries, not develop our love lives," a different aseri girl says piously.

"That's easy for you to say," Azalea notes with much cheer, "considering you have one back home."

The girl flushes. "That's not..."

"Weren't you just talking about how silky her ears are?" someone else adds smugly.

"You're all awful," the girl pouts, as the table devolves into another round of giggling.

"I bet Neianne doesn't have any problems with this sort of thing," Alice says, suddenly.

"Wh-What?" you splutter, startled enough that you nearly spill your tea.

She leans across the table, using a finger-cookie as a pointer. "You're always spending time with the cutest girls, and you manage to look all helpless and adorable."

You can only stammer out a response, and not a terribly coherent one. Thankfully, before the laughter can go too far, Azalea suddenly observes, "There's lavender in this tea, I think."

You feel immensely relieved as attention is shifted away from you for a moment, and shoot her a look of open gratitude. "...I th-think so too," you say, taking an experimental sip.

The table is quick to take up this new line of conversation, even if Alice seems a bit saddened by the teasing being cut short. "It's definitely not jasmine."

"Or camomile."

"Maybe there's..."

The rest of the tea party goes by in a heady blur of hot tea, enough snacks to make you nearly uncomfortably full, and light conversation. Your status as a newcomer who is amusingly easy to tease makes you a target now and again, but nothing rises to the level of discomfort, and while Azalea is certainly not above joining in, you get the impression she knows where to draw the line and stops things from feeling like you're being ganged up on. Eventually, the party ends, with girls slowly leaving in small groups of two or three, chatting amongst themselves before going back out into the cold. With only a few other girls lingering behind, you soon find yourself standing alone with Azalea by the counter.

"I'm very glad you could make it," she says, smiling at you. "You looked like you had a good time, I hope?"

"I-I did!" you say, a little louder than you intended, and she smiles at you in amusement. "I m-mean, there were a lot of new p-people at once, but it was still..."

"They're nice girls," Azalea agrees, "even if we do tease others a little mercilessly. It's a terrible habit, I know." She looks utterly unrepentant.

"...It w-wasn't always merciless," you murmur, glancing away.

Azalea tilts her head thoughtfully. "No? Well, I suppose not. You have to draw the line, when it's a dozen against one. I asked you here to have a good time, not to be picked on the whole time."

"Th-Thank you," you say, smiling a little.

"You deserve a party or two, after what you did. I don't think I would have thought to strip in order to evade a wyvern. It never would have occurred to me. It must be because you were born in the forest."

"...I suppose," you say, much less certain. Something in the back of your head tells you that you should be feeling a little uncomfortable about that observation.

"You're just a bit closer to nature than I am," she says, not without a pleasant note of fondness. She smiles again. "Alright, I'll be off now, I suppose. Everyone else is leaving. Walk back to the Academy with us?"

You nod, even if you're still not sure how you should feel about being characterized as "closer to nature". You nonetheless begin to follow the other girls out of the shop, but as you turn to give Tiffany a friendly, farewell wave, you're confronted with a different woman entirely.

Alexia stopped playing on her lute at some point during your conversation with Azalea, and - now that you've turned around - is standing directly in front of you at a startlingly close proximity. You can't help but give a bit of a squeak of surprise, jumping back a little ways. "Lightning reflexes!" the bard laughs merrily. "The mark of a true warrior." It's hard to tell if she's serious or mocking you.

"Y-You snuck up on me!" you accuse, blushing a little.

She smiles serenely and makes no effort whatsoever to deny it. "It's been a bit of time, hasn't it?" she chirps happily in just the slightest of accents; if Headmistress Rastangard had not pointed it out on the day you met, you would've never suspected that Alexia is actually Ornthalian. "Was that your girlfriend just now?"

The latter comment sends you scrambling before you have time to dispute the moniker. "L-Lady Azalea is j-j-just a friend!" you insist, flushing harder.

Alexia shrugs and sighs melodramatically. "Alas. Every good story needs a romantic angle." She winks. "Well, you've got time, anyway."

"T-Time?" You have very little idea of what she's talking about.

She nods. "Your little adventure with the wyvern would make a great opening chapter to a novel, or at least a funny-but-impressive story to tell people when you're famous and successful, so I can brag that I knew you when you were still training." She deepens her pitch slightly, dropping into something you recognize as a standard storyteller intonation: "'You all know about Neianne, who singlehandedly saved a bevy of beautiful maidens from a band of wicked paladins, but have you heard the tale of how she outwitted a woman-eating monster when she was just a girl of fourteen?'"

"F-Fifteen!" you insist, flustered and not sure which part to protest at first. Behind her, you have the sinking feeling that Tiffany is trying very hard not to laugh.

"Alas, most listeners won't pay much attention to such a detail. If you ever do make it so far, I expect someone will change the wyvern into a dragon, with you sneaking up on it and killing it somehow. Or they'll age you up to add a bit of, well," she winks again with a strong hint of mischief, "appeal to the situation."

"It w-was v-very scary!" Somewhere in the back of your head, a voice tells you maybe there's a slightly more urgent tangent to Alexia' explanation that should be violently rebuffed - something about "appeal" or something - but your mouth is already running and stammering. "And it took ages t-t-to get all the m-mud out of my hair!"

"I doubt many listeners will care to hear about that. It's a story. Have you ever heard anyone telling the story of Antoinette the Lioness stop to explain how much time she had to spend patching up the holes in her cloak? Of course not. People want their heroes larger than life, not just people."

"I'm not a hero! I haven't even finished training!"

"Well, no, you're not," Alexia agrees, and you're suddenly not entirely certain whether to be pleased or slightly offended by how readily she treats this observation. "You still have a long way to go, but I think you have potential." She smiles almost infectiously. "I have a good eye for this sort of thing. All you need to do is keep up the heroics and try not to die!"

"I'm not t-trying to be a hero," you try to explain.

"Even better! Everyone likes a humble heroine! Well, at least most people do. As I said, you have potential." She smiles again. "It's a compliment. Please do endeavor to take it with some grace."

Well, when she puts it that way, it is a bit flattering. If also confusing. And not entirely unwelcome. It's complicated. "Th-Thank you?" you manage hesitantly.

"There's the spirit!" she declares, as if you did not sound hesitant at all. "Anyway, I'm glad I caught you like this. I like putting potential stars on notice. We'll probably speak again, I hope."

Still a little stunned, you hesitantly return her airy wave, uncertain what else to do. A moment or two later, you remember yourself, thank a clearly still-amused Tiffany, and hurry out the door to catch up with Azalea and the others.

----------------------------------------

It is a familiar classroom, one of several at the Academy, one that you have sat in for months now. It comes complete with rows of tables and seats facing a podium at the front of the room. Tall windows allow for a sufficient amount of sunlight to flow in. This is a setting you have long become accustomed to.

There are just two differences. First, your experiences in the Academy's classrooms tend to be during the mornings, not in the afternoons when apprentices are taken outside to do intense calisthenics and weapons training. Indeed, even in this classroom, you can hear the yelling and shouting of dozens of other apprentices in the courtyard outside, audible alongside the clash of practice weapons.

Second, there are only two other occupants of the room: Wendy and an elven instructor.

"I'm sure you've already been informed of these arrangements," the kind-faced instructor explains, pacing before the front-row table that you and Wendy are seated behind. It's only the three of you, so the arrangement of the classroom's occupancy is a bit more informal, with the instructor moving relatively close to you and Wendy to emphasize her attention. "But to reiterate, along with your usual academic classes, you'll also be taking supplementary private classes with myself and your other instructors to make up for the fact that both of you are healing." She gestures out the window towards where the sounds of physical and combat training are coming from. "That way, you'll be ahead in academics when you've recovered enough to take remedial physical training. This is part of your standard curriculum, and you will be tested, so start taking notes."

"Yes, ma'am," you and Wendy answer in unison. It feels a bit strange sharing a class alone with a human who had - until the field exercise - disliked you, and things are still a little awkward now. But the statement of gratitude from her does make certain things feel better, and the current academic setting smooths out everything else. Your arm is still healing, but fortunately, it's not your writing hand, so you have no problem taking notes.

"You've been studying the history of warfare, learning from the successes and mistakes of the armies of yore. But the open field is not the only place a Caldran mercenary does battle. There are also the alleyways, the drawing rooms, the banquet halls. A Caldran mercenary is not just a soldier of fortune. She is a scout, a spy, a saboteur." The instructor taps her forehead thrice, declares, "Her mind must be as sharp as her blade, and yours shall be too. We will not defeat the enemy if we cannot understand them, understand their values, understand how they think, understand how they can be exploited." She allows that statement to end with a dramatic pause before stating, "So we shall be looking at their history today. Our first question: What do the peoples of the Confederacy of Caldrein and the Tenereian Union have in common?"

"We're both of the Treiden people," Wendy answers; that question is easy enough.

"Very good, yes. As Treidens, we share the same heritage, the same language...and we used to share the same faiths. The Treiden tribes of antiquity have historically been spread out across Western Iuryis, although they were fractured and disunited. One particular tribe, however, managed to grow and expand from the Brycott River Valley." You have not forgotten that Brycott is the historical and modern capital of Tenereia, both Empire and Union. "The conditions were excellent: Natural defenses that didn't get in the way of great patches of arable land. Plenty of water from the rivers, sufficient rainfall, and a river-based trading system, a set of conditions hardly unlike the Ornthalian capital of Isakyria. These conditions allowed the Treiden tribes in Brycott to expand, build great cities and rich economies, form sophisticated bureaucracies and large armies. Eventually, they began to unify the Treiden people in a political, diplomatic, and military campaign stretching from the second to the fifth centuries, forming the Tenereian Empire. Of course, this also included our own Treiden ancestors here in Caldrein."

"Caldrein was once an imperial province," Wendy observes. This much everyone knows. "The furthest one to the east."

"Indeed. If Caldrein was not the last acquisition of the Tenereian Empire, it was certainly one of the last. This was also the point where the empire's sphere of influence collided with that of the Imperial Ornthalian Republics. Still, the empire entered a golden age of development, and the empire stood for..." The instructor trails off, looking expectant once more, challenging both of you to come up with an answer. "How long?"

Wendy clearly has no idea. You, on the other hand, are feeling grateful that Sieglinde had you read The Belltower of Brycott; it still takes you a moment to recall those exact details from the Tenereian novel, but you soon answer, "U-Um, until the...n-ninth century, so, um..." you do some quick mental math, "...f-four hundred years, ma'am."

"Very good," the elf nods and smiles, pleased. "Do you know what caused the empire to collapse?"

"Um...the A-Atrium Coalition was formed. They were a group of, um...s-special interests?" Even the descriptions of the Atrium Coalition in The Belltower of Brycott are ambiguous. Every Caldran knows them to be the true leaders of the Tenereian Union, a cabal of Tenereia's most powerful and influential...but not much beyond that. "And they promised reform within the empire, challenging the imperial family in the Tenereian Civil War."

"Yes, but what were the circumstances that allowed the Coalition to take power?"

You try to think harder about the details you've read. "The empire had overexpanded. Trade and taxes h-had become imbalanced. The common people suffered the most as m-markets dried up, the economy stalled. P-People further out in the empire couldn't buy food, and people in the h-heartlands couldn't collect taxes to rebuild aqueducts, r-roads, city walls."

The instructor watches you as you struggle with your answer with an unfurling grin on her face. "You've read The Belltower of Brycott," she guesses. Or, really, declares; she sounds very certain in her assessment.

You find yourself blushing with embarrassment and a little nervousness as you mumble, "Y-Yes."

If you were worried that the instructor would judge you for having read a Tenereian novel, you need not have bothered. "An excellent choice," she nods approvingly, "and a very good answer. Do keep in mind, however, that the author of The Belltower of Brycott is believed to have lived through the Rose Revolution, not the Tenereian Civil War that came before it. She could have been drawing inspiration from the revolution to fill in the blanks for what she did not experience in the civil war. The real answer is that we don't actually know."

This surprises Wendy as she echoes, "We don't?"

"Varying accounts of the civil war exist, but they are unsubstantiated. Brycott would've held all the reports, all the accounts, a centralized repository of the empire's troubles...and they were lost when the Three Great Libraries burned down in the chaos of the Rose Revolution. This, of course, led to Caldrein becoming the center of Treiden culture, no matter what Brycott today says otherwise...but we will discuss that another time. Naturally, with the Tenereian Civil War and the Rose Revolution after it, much of the 'old guard' perished, everyone from the imperial family to many noble houses, soldiers, merchants...even neighbors. This was not just in Brycott; the chaos was everywhere. But those who survived retreated, fleeing as far as they could from Brycott to the furthest reaches of the dying empire."

"Caldrein," Wendy murmurs the obvious.

"Indeed. Caldrein was close to the frontlines of Tenereia's cold war against Ornthalia, so it was home to a large military force far from the politicking of Brycott, and they were no friends to the emerging Atrium Coalition or the Tenereian Union that came from it. This antipathy was only magnified when the exodus of the old guard arrived in Caldrein, who came with as much personal and cultural wealth they could bring with them. It wasn't just wagons of riches; they came with priceless heirlooms, national treasures, cultural artifacts, things passed down through generations of Treiden history that would've been lost had they been left to the Rose Revolution in Tenereia. They brought with them the customs, traditions, and beliefs of the Treiden people at the height of our glory." With a clap of her hands in conclusion, the instructor finished, "Then, in the tenth century, four hundred years ago, the imperial province of Caldrein seceded from the Tenereian Union, declaring itself the Confederacy of Caldrein, thereby independent."

You can't help but smile a little. It's a nice ending to the story of how your homeland was formed.

Your instructor gives you and Wendy a few moments to finish taking notes before clapping her hands again to catch your attention. "Now, the Tenereian Union was and still is many times larger than us. Why didn't they send armies to crush us when the Confederacy was still in its cradle?" When the silence and helpless looks that greet her make it clear that neither you nor Wendy actually know the answer, the elven instructor smiles a little and tries, "Alright, why do you think they didn't? Wendy?" The human gives no answer and shakes her head, so the instructor turns to you instead. "Neianne?"

You purse your lips and offer a guess after a moment of thought. "Th-They just fought the civil war and the revolution," you hypothesize. "Wouldn't the army be weak?"

"A good answer, although only partially correct. Yes, the army was weak, although not so much that it would've mattered. Caldrein, too, had been devastated by the wars, and the refugees that eventually fled there would not have stood up well to a Tenereian invasion. Of course, the Tenereians didn't know just how many soldiers we had compared to them, nor did they know how many soldiers they could've spared without loosing their grip on other potentially rebellious provinces. A more simple answer was that the Atrium Coalition did not trust the army. And why would they? Much of the military leadership had fled to Caldrein and seceded. What was to stop an invasion force - one that the Coalition had just tenuously taken control of - from defecting to this new confederacy? And furthermore, with Tenereia having only recently come through a civil war and a revolution, they were in a fragile position. Would an invasion of Caldrein have encouraged Ornthalia to come to Caldrein's aid? The Confederacy was still young, after all, and had not yet fully developed its policy of staunch neutrality. Would Ornthalian aid have been sought at this precipice in history?"

The second part, at the very least, is news to you. Caldrein - caught as many other smaller countries are between two great superpowers - has always been famed for its steadfast neutrality, a policy adopted to survive the proxy conflicts fought across the continent of Iuryis. It is, in fact, almost a point of pride for the people within the Confederacy. By remaining uninvolved in foreign conflicts all while exporting Caldran mercenaries as third-party agents, Caldrein has historically managed to maintain a political equilibrium that worked to its advantage, at least until the Huntress' War.

"The Union eventually established some level of diplomatic ties with us," concludes the instructor, "but they have never formally accepted our secession or recognized our independence. Tenereia has, for the past four centuries, promised to 'retake' Caldrein, and such has been what spurs on Tenereian soldiers with the outbreak of this war, a social, ideological, and cultural goal."

This would have been the end of that, except Wendy suddenly asks, "Do they really?"

The elf turns to the young human with mild surprise. "What is that?"

"It's been four hundred years. And most of the Tenereian army is made of conscripts, like the headmistress said. Probably peasants taken from their farms, given a spear, and beaten on their way to the border. What makes them care about a distant war and a four-hundred-year-old disagreement over who really owns Caldrein?"

"The same reason why people defend the Caldrein, or at least a reason near it. A sense of a cultural destiny greater than you, a perceived wrong against you and your community. A vestige of remembered pride, yearning to be reclaimed. A lingering revenge to be picked up by children from their mothers and grandmothers." She makes a sweeping gesture with her arm. "History is full of cross-generational grievances with origins from well beyond living memory."

That sounds like it makes sense to you, so you give a small nod. Wendy looks less convinced, but this time she holds her tongue.

"I will be expecting a written or oral report of how this history has influenced Tenereian military tactics and social mores this time next week," the elf instructor declares, even as the lecture continues, "and I expect concise answers instead of broad statements. Now, moving onto the military reorganization of the Confederacy of Caldrein following its founding..."

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[x] Sieglinde Corrina Ravenhill

Your injured arm forbids you from taking up on Sieglinde's offer of training immediately, but that doesn't mean you can't visit your squadmate. Or your friend, if you feel bold enough to call her that. Seeing how both of you live in the same dorm building, sharing adjacent rooms, she's not particularly difficult to find either. In fact, merely leaving your room shortly after lunch one day is enough for you to catch her closing the door to her own dorm room, a bag slung around her shoulder.

Your eyes meet, and you exchange polite greetings before you ask, "Are you going somewhere?"

"Just to town," Sieglinde explains, but she sounds patient when she follows up with, "Do you need something?" Then, with a face that's somehow both amused and stern, she looks towards your arm and remarks, "I hope you're not asking to train, given the condition of your arm."

"N-No, nothing like that," you reassure her in a hurry. "But...d-do you mind if I come along?"

"I don't, but I'm just out to take a breather. It's likely to bore you."

"It's okay," you give a small smile. "I w-wouldn't mind a breather myself." A walk hardly sounds unpleasant, and you suppose you're sufficiently curious about exactly what Sieglinde has in that bag if she's going to town. Shopping? Unlikely; Sieglinde does not strike you as a shopper, and the bag looks like it's already carrying something.

Sieglinde doesn't think about this for long as she shrugs. "Come along, then."

The skies are overcast as the two of you leave the Academy, just as they have been for some days now. The clouds have moved in, graying your days, even as it's gotten cold enough for your every breath to become visible as they escape your mouth. The plains are still green as the two of you walk the familiar path to town, but said path is becoming increasingly vacated as the days go by and the cold becomes too much of a deterrent for casual visits outside when the alternative is heated Academy halls. You and Sieglinde are dressed warmly in heavy winter clothes, although Sieglinde - ever the simplistic utilitarian - somehow manages to make it look effortlessly good on herself; whereas the robes seem stylistically draped across her, you feel more like you're bundled in clothes. You suspect with a touch of jealousy that it's not quite effort on the older, taller girl's part; she just has one of those figures that makes everything look good on her.

Then Sieglinde spots you looking at her as the two of you - one a rather tall elf, the other a rather short dryad - walk side-by-side down the road, and you scramble for something to say to hide the fact that you were staring, stammering, "I-I, um, n-never asked how you did during the field exercise."

"Well enough," Sieglinde shrugs, speaking in the sort of tone that suggests she doesn't consider the exercise itself to be anything particularly memorable. "Nothing nearly as exciting as what you went through, of course."

"I could use a little less excitement," you sigh wistfully; somehow, it seems you've gotten to know Sieglinde well enough to get away with sighing so casually in front of someone who's technically a daughter to a viscountess in Lindholm.

Sieglinde's nostrils flare ever so slightly, as if letting out a single silent chuckle. "You sound like you're in the wrong job."

"I-I mean," you are quick to correct, not wanting her to mistake your lamentations for any wavering of commitment or determination, "well...maybe not 'wyvern' exciting."

Ever so slightly, Sieglinde lets off a ghost of a smile.

Contrary to when you first arrived at Faulkren - when the weather was warmer and the novelty of the town still enticed apprentices to make frequent journeys - there are far fewer people on the streets than you're accustomed to. You and Melanie did agree during the field exercise that snowfall is a little late this year, but you'd be surprised if it doesn't snow soon. Doubtless the town is getting ready to weather the winter, with the solstice already fast approaching. Still, it does make it easier for you to return the relatively sparse greetings given by passerbys as opposed to overwhelming you; the apprentices of the Faulkren Academy have, at this point, integrated well enough with the local community to be welcome and familiar, and there have fortunately been no particularly troubling incidents aside from the occasional harmless tomfoolery.

The two of you turn down one of the town's larger streets when you politely inquire of Sieglinde, "M-May I ask you a question?"

"What is it?" encourages Sieglinde.

Pushing down a wave of nervousness - it's a question that makes you feel a little insecure - you ask, "Wh-What would you have done if it was you who ran into a w-wyvern?"

The raven-haired elf's reply is immediate: "I would have retreated."

You blink in surprise. "Y-You would?" True, the opponent was a wyvern, but you have a hard time imagining that there's anything Sieglinde can't defeat, even a fully-grown giant winged reptile.

"Even if I could fight a wyvern on my best day - and that is a very big 'if' - I most certainly could not do so if I also had to rescue someone else, someone injured and unable to move. That means having to risk the lives of others. That means we may have to trade one life for another, one which is not my own. That means we may lose more than just one life if we fail." She swivels her gaze to you before concluding, "A Caldran mercenary must know the meaning of sacrifice. We do so because victory means something more than just our lives. But it would've been difficult to justify sacrificing one mercenary apprentice for another, at the risk of more apprentices dying."

"I...see," you murmur hesitantly, trying to reconcile several thoughts. The idea that Sieglinde would've abandoned Wendy. The idea that she doesn't regard herself as being able to save her. That perhaps your course of action at the time was, in fact, extremely foolish. You've never forgotten the fact that you got lucky...but had it been a worthwhile risk? Or was luck the only thing that saved you from sheer stupidity?

But Sieglinde catches the conflicted expression on your face. She seems to consider and weigh her words for a moment before clarifying, "You did what you did and succeeded because you were you. It's good if you're just soliciting ideas. But there's very little point to trying to compare yourself against me. It would be better for everyone if you stopped."

Fidgeting, you murmur, "F-Forgive me, I didn't mean to offend."

"You didn't," Sieglinde reassures you even as she finally stops in front of a stone bench, sitting down on it. You quickly follow suit, swiveling your head around to take note of your surroundings. You are in the center of town, but what is most noteworthy is the fact that the bench sits one plaza away from the town Conceptualist shrine, an early and lasting example of imperial Treiden architecture, a cascade of gable roofs with one or two flat-top towers at the fore; in Faulkren's case, the single small tower is not unexpected for a town of its size. You have stayed here long enough to recognize it as the dominant structure in the town proper, the first structure visible when the town appears on the horizon.

From her bag, Sieglinde produces a small stack of paper and a wooden box holding what turns out to be several pencils. Wasting little time, Sieglinde begins to wield the pencil with all the deftness and agility of Aphelia with her rapier, and lines quickly begin to form on the paper. You watch, intrigued, curious as to what Sieglinde is doing, distracted at times by Faulkren residents who pass by and wave, at least until enough lines intersect on the paper that you note the resemblance between them and the structure a plaza away from you.

"Are you...sketching?" you ask, astounded.

Sieglinde sounds almost a little wry as she responds without so much as prying her gaze away from the paper, "A lady is permitted a few hobbies, I would hope."

You blush a little in embarrassment, but content yourself for a few minutes with watching Sieglinde sketch. You've seen sketches before, but you've never actually watched someone draw, at least not with the proficiency Sieglinde has. The sketch is eerily perfect; Sieglinde manages to captures the nuances of the architecture, drawing each component of the structure in proportion to each other as line intersects with messy line. "It's beautiful," you whisper.

"Thank you."

Smiling wistfully, you remark, "It feels like you can do anything."

Her gaze still does not wander from her sketch, but one of Sieglinde's eyebrows arches in amusement, and there is again that wryness in her voice as she remarks, "Anything? If only that were true."

"Oh," you murmur blankly, wondering if this is what people refer to as "false modesty". After all, it certainly feels like your earlier comment is true.

Sieglinde again gives one of her chuckles: A ghost-smile with a single exhale that stops short of a "snort". "Too polite to disagree," she observes, and you blush again. "You hunted a boar on the first day, I've heard. Perhaps you are entitled to feel more confident about yourself and your opinions."

Fidgeting uncomfortably, it takes you a few moments before you find the courage to speak again. "Y-You're...well-learned," you point out, trying not to sound jealous. You're not, but you know how easily it might be taken that way. "You're considerate, you fight like no one I've ever seen...and y-you're an artist."

"Artist? No, not really. I'm no good at art."

You are beginning to think that Sieglinde is truly being falsely modest. Looking at her sketch confirms it; already, many of the building's details have been etched in, and she's moving into the process of shading. "B-But it looks...really good."

"I'm cheating. I studied architecture for a time. This," she taps the paper with a spare finger, "is as close as I get to it these days."

"Architecture?" you echo in surprise; you did not expect that answer.

The elf shrugs in between pencilstrokes. "It felt like a true calling at the time, and my parents permitted it until circumstances demanded otherwise."

That's an interesting fact you've never known about Sieglinde. You entertain the thought that you're one of the very few people who actually know. "But you ended up here."

"The Huntress' War, among other things, changed minds, yes."

You nod sadly, even though Sieglinde doesn't see it, her concentration on the sketch unabated. "You must become viscountess some day?"

"Were it otherwise, I'd rather my elder sister did so."

This is another fact that surprises you, perhaps moreso than anything else revealed about Sieglinde thus far. "Y-You have an elder sister?"

There is a hint of amusement in Sieglinde's tone. "Is that so strange?"

You blush, hurriedly stammer, "N-No, I suppose not." Although you suppose it is a little strange; Sieglinde has always seemed so mature, so dependable, and the idea that she isn't an eldest sister has never really quite occurred to you. It has always been so easy to imagine her as having to herd one or several younger siblings.

But when she replies, the casual and easy tone of her response belies the weight in which you receive it: "Well, had."

That kills your embarrassment very quickly, replacing it instead with a far more acute sense of horror at how lightly you treated the subject. "I-I'm sorry," you murmur, bowing your head.

Deliberately or otherwise, Sieglinde seems to choose to assume you are expressing condolences for her loss as she nods, "Thank you. I've had my chance to grieve. These things happen. We weren't really close anyways."

"You weren't?"

Again, Sieglinde sounds a little wry as she remarks, "Who would want to be close to a younger sister with such a horrid personality?"

You are very quick to counter with a stammer, "I-I-I don't think your personality is horrid!"

Although she still doesn't look up from her sketch, another sliver of a smile spreads across her lips. "That's very kind of you. That was a joke, though." She doesn't give you too much time to process your embarrassment at your outburst before she continues, "I was born rather late after my elder sister, so there wasn't much tying us together beyond family. Blood rarely overcomes such a wide gap in years. And she was busy learning how to become heir to the viscomital." She shrugs. "Now, that is me."

You nod solemnly, wracking your brain for something appropriate, comforting to say to Sieglinde. In the end, it is a platitude that comes to your lips: "You will be an excellent viscountess."

But Sieglinde scoffs at this, although it seems good-natured rather than something rude. "I very much doubt so. My younger sister would be better, but I doubt my family would forgive me if I have her become heir instead." She spares a glance at you and - upon seeing that look on your face - huffs in mild amusement. "You seem skeptical. A little philosophy, then: What makes a good leader?"

You blink, caught a little off-guard. You've never actually considered this before, a question about leadership. Coming to Faulkren has been the first time such a trait has ever felt relevant in your life, and you've approached it with the understanding that you're not a leader, and that you'll remain content following orders from your betters. It's not like squad leaders have been appointed at the Academy either, and they won't be until the second year; in fact, now that you think about it, you're not really sure who is the leader - official or otherwise - for Squad Four. Sieglinde seems to be the natural choice, but she's also often simply content being in the background and keeping to herself.

Seeing you struggle with the question, Sieglinde prods, "You were with Aphelia in Roldharen. What makes you think she was a good leader?"

You think back to the field exercise and attempt to dissect your experiences. "She was very capable," you explain. And when that feels inadequate, even to you, you quickly add, "U-Um, Lady Aphelia was...very powerful. Being next to her, it felt like she could overcome any challenge."

There is an understated humor to Sieglinde's reply as she observes, "The same, I believe, could be said of Zabanya." As you come to grasps with the horrifying realization that Sieglinde is right - you don't think Elizabeth is no match for Aphelia, after all, and the idea of Elizabeth as a leader is just a little bit horrifying - Sieglinde encourages, "Let's try again."

Again, you struggle with your thoughts. "She's...very smart? I-I mean, she has good plans."

"So do you, yes? It was you, after all, not Aphelia, who came up with the plan to rescue Wendy. Also, again, you're describing Zabanya. For all her faults, she is a beneficiary of an education available to a viscountess' child, and her mind is quite sharp, if constantly...misapplied."

Despite sparing the question some more thought, it soon becomes clear - especially with how you twist your features in consternation - that you don't really have an answer.

Taking pity on you, Sieglinde eventually deigns to explain, "A good leader makes others want to follow her." And when she sees that you are practically pouting at what you consider to be a non-answer, Sieglinde actually smiles a little as she finally stops sketching, setting down her pencil on the bench and flexing her long, elegant fingers. "A leader is someone who is able to bring the best out of people for the sake of a greater goal beyond a single person. I would dare say that I am equal to Aphelia when it comes to intellect and martial prowess. We are, after all, of age, daughters of viscountesses in Caldrein, with all the benefits such affords. But Aphelia not only knows how to deal with people, she knows how to deal with groups, multiple people. She can make use of their strengths, make them feel that their skills are worthy in a given situation, mediate between them. She makes others believe that they can accomplish more than they otherwise would've thought, to instill confidence and pride. She encourages them to be more."

"But you are the same, aren't you?" you ask, thinking about how Sieglinde has encouraged you.

"I am not. I am someone whom others depend on." And when she sees your expression indicating that this is an incredibly unsatisfying answer that doesn't address any of your confusions, she continues, "During the field exercise, all three apprentices on my team did not benefit from the experiences I had as a child. When they discovered I was on their team, and after I reassured them that I had no interest removing them from the exercise, their reaction was one of..." she pauses for a moment, thoughtfully searching for a word that fits but also won't disparage her temporary teammates, "...relief. A sense that I can protect them from challengers, as opposed to someone who can encourage them to face their challenges." She tilts her head back a little and exhales into the air, allowing a small cloud of mist to float up from her lips and disappear into winter's chill. "Leading by example is only useful if you can inspire others to follow your example. A good leader is not a cold, hard crutch; she's a warm cup of coffee." Her lips curl into something that isn't quite a smile, resembling something with a wry edge. "And you may have discovered that I am not particularly warm or sociable, never mind inspirational."

You are silent, left without an immediate response, finding yourself thinking solemnly about Sieglinde's response. How much of what she has said is true? Regardless of what others think of her, you do find yourself inspired by Sieglinde in different ways. But perhaps she knows herself better than you know her. And how much of your impression of her is you projecting your image of her onto the real person?

"Well," shrugs Sieglinde almost blithely, "of course, there are many types of leadership. I suppose my definition is a narrow one tailored to what it is I wish to do. And my mother would likely point out that such has nothing to do with how I must one day manage our estate. I'm certain I have the capability to be a glorified accountant, at the very least."

For a long moment, you remain quiet, thoughtful, desperate for something to say. Something that sounds meaningful, something that doesn't just sound like a platitude. Something that will reassure Sieglinde in the same way she has reassured you at different times since you've come to Faulkren.

Whatever answer you are about to give, however, dies on your parted lips. Instead, your attentions - yours and Sieglinde's - turn skywards in mild surprise, watching as white, cold flakes begin to slowly descend from the sky. They may be tardy, but they ultimately and finally come.

"Snow," you exhale, and whatever else you meant to say dissipates along with the mist of that very breath.

----------------------------------------

[x] Melanie Aster

The weeks pass largely uneventfully - especially uneventfully for you - as the days grow shorter and darker, snowfall picks up, and Apaloft is covered in a gentle blanket of chilling white. You find yourself fortunate that your injuries prevent you from having to participate in physical training in this weather; by the time your arm fully heals, the weather will have already warmed up enough for you to be spared the worst of the cold, a fact that Stephanie seems aware of and willing to rib you over.

"You're an aseri!" you protest weakly as Stephanie pokes you ticklishly in your side again, the two of you largely dressed for sleep and simply catching up on your last-minute late night studies. "Foxes are supposed to be okay with the cold!"

"Yes, well," Stephanie answers, poking you again with the desired effect, giving no hint that you're actually wrong about your observation. "You're a dryad, so I'm sure trees are not ticklish."

One wonders if Stephanie is actually frustrated by the cold or simply ribbing you on principle.

Your situation and schedule, however, ultimately results in you - and also Wendy, for that matter - being assigned a great deal of reading and papers. This translates to you spending a great deal of time in the library, which - by extension - puts you in a good position to see who comes to the library the most. You are not particularly surprised, of course, by Sieglinde's near-constant visits to the library during her free time, where she seems to prefer the company of books over that of other living beings. Coming very close after her, however, is one Melanie Aster.

You haven't actually had a chance to really talk to Melanie - the shy, snow-haired aseri whom you survived that encounter with the wyvern alongside - after the hectic events of the Roldharen field exercise. You were busy, and then she was busy, and with the way classes are currently arranged for you, there hasn't really been any real chance for you to approach her, especially when she is caught in the orbit of her own social circle, even while studying in the library. On this particular winter day, however, you find her in a relatively sparse library, having arrived earlier than even you, metaphorically buried under a pile of books that has formed towers around her on the corner of the table she is seated at.

The situation seems innocent enough - and the library unoccupied enough - for you to unobtrusively approach the same table. Once upon a time not actually so terribly long ago, you wouldn't have dared approached someone in a library without cause or invitation, but there's something about surviving a wyvern attack together that gives you a semblance of self-confidence...or, if nothing else, the impression of mutual closeness.

Although obviously surprised at your approach, Melanie gives one of her shy smiles at you - one that's almost identical to yours, honestly - as she whispers, "H-Hi." Her quiet voice may well owe to the fact that you're both in a library...or the fact that this is just Melanie's normal speaking voice.

"H-Hello," you smile back and - interpreting her reply as a gesture of welcome - sit down at the table in the other corner seat perpendicular to hers.

There is a moment of somewhat awkward quiet after that. It's not entirely unexpected; both of you are people who need a bit of momentum before you're remotely comfortable having what others interpret as a "normal" conversation. It takes about half a minute before Melanie speaks up again. "U-Um," she stammers nervously, averting her gaze for a moment before asking, "how's your a-arm?"

"Healing," you reply honestly.

Melanie gives a small smile. "That's good."

Again, the conversations enters a lull, and it's a full minute or thereabouts when you suddenly stammer, "U-Um." You pause and blush at your less-than-elegant start, but eventually continue when it's clear that Melanie's innocent, clear-eyed look at you in response precludes any judging. "I'm sorry I h-haven't really talked to you s-since the...field exercise. Things have been, u-um...hectic."

"I-It's alright," Melanie is quick to reassure you, seemingly flustered and apologizing for the fact that you are apologizing to her at all. "I-I'm sorry, I should've sought you out s-sooner."

Again, with no natural continuation to that line of dialogue beyond more apologies, the two of you silently return your attentions to your books. After a few moments of this, you glance over at Melanie's book, spy its title in passing, ask, "Is that...m-magecraft theory?"

"O-Oh, um," Melanie stammers, actually having to close her book for a moment - keeping a thumb on the page she was reading - to look at the cover, as if this is necessary to remember what book she is reading to begin with, before answering, "yes. I'm...a little b-behind, so..."

"Oh," you murmur. You're having a hard time believing that Melanie - having spent so much time in the library, at least as far as you can tell - is behind, but you decide against questioning it. "I-I wish I could help you." Realizing that your ambiguous statement could be taken incorrectly, you quickly add, "I-I mean, I'm...p-probably ahead in my studies because I can't t-train right now because of my arm, b-but I know almost nothing about m-magecraft." Which is an exaggeration; you are no mage, nor are you expected to take up advanced magecraft theory unless you choose it as your second martial proficiency, but you've been taught enough of basic theory so that in the event you need to go toe-to-toe with a mage, you'll know what to expect.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

Still, Melanie smiles shyly. "I a-appreciate the thought. You'll have to c-catch up with all the t-training afterwards, though, yes?"

You slump, sighing, "Yes..." You are not looking forward to non-stop physical exercise after non-stop studying.

Shifting awkwardly, Melanie's voice is almost a squeak as she tries to encourage you: "P-Please hang in there. I'll pray for you!"

Her effort is so sincere that it's almost embarrassing, and you blush as you stammer, "Th-Thank you."

For quite some time after that, the two of you read in silence at the table. In contrast to some of your previous experiences in attempting to interact with other apprentices at Faulkren, however, you don't really feel that terribly awkward about the lack of words exchanged. Not to say that you aren't feel awkward at all, but in many ways, that sentiment is not quite as strong due in part to how alike both of you are sometimes. Both of you are shy, demure girls. Even your appearances are similar; although you're a dryad and she an aseri, and although she is taller than you, both your red hair and her white hair are straight, long, and unadorned, and both of your modes of dress trend towards the conservative. In most cases with other apprentices, the awkwardness stems from the asymmetry in conversation, the idea that you should be talking but you can't think of anything to say; here, you're largely fine with the fact that neither of you are in a hurry to say a lot immediately. There is a shared tempo that both of you are comfortable with.

In fact, it's nearly two hours before the two of you finish studying, punctuated by Melanie exhaling to relieve her stress, and as you look at her, you suddenly notice what seems to be a necklace that wasn't there before today. Or perhaps less a necklace and more a pendant; hanging at the fore was a strange, leathery material - about half the size of a playing card, perhaps - that you don't recognize as anything resembling the gemstones and jewels that typically accompanies the jewelry you've seen on the richer apprentices here. In fact, when you realize what it is, you almost feel embarrassed for not recognizing it sooner as you splutter, "O-Oh. I-Is that...?"

Melanie traces your gaze before taking the piece of wyvernscale between her fingers, looking at it. "Y-Yes.," she nods. "I...a-asked one of the i-instructors to cut a piece out for me."

That surprises you a bit; wyvern scales are some of the most valuable materials for making sturdy and lightweight armor, so the idea that an instructor was fine with just cutting off even a small piece of it for the sake of Melanie seems incredible. Then you remember that the Asters are not only a mercantile family, but also one that serves House Celestia. Perhaps a bit of wyvernscale is simply well within Melanie's means.

"Maybe I should've asked too," you murmur with a sheepish smile. "I-It would've been a nice memento." Then, after a moment wherein you catch a complicated expression on the aseri's face, you pause before asking, "I-Is it...n-not a memento?"

Melanie fidgets just a tiny bit in her seat, pressing her lips tightly together. "C-Could..." she starts quietly, not quite meeting your gaze. Then, just a touch more firmly, "C-Could you come with me, p-please?"

It takes the two of you a bit to put back all the books you've been reading, but you and Melanie eventually leave the library and step outside. Small slivers of snow descend from overcast skies, although it is not nearly so dark that torches need to be lit during the day, nor is the snow so deep that each step you make comes with a compacted crunch underfoot.

Melanie leads you in the direction of the training yards of the Academy, which is devoid of any apprentices or instructors or staff, save for the two of you. This is hardly surprising; although hardly the coldest of Apaloftian winters - and certainly not as cold as winters in Lindholm, or so you've heard - no apprentice is in a particular hurry to train in these temperatures. Vapor escapes your mouth with every breath you take, and you wonder how far Melanie intends to take you until she stops by a tree stump. No one is entirely sure why the tree stump is here - perhaps it used to be a seat, or perhaps it was just a tree that needed to be cut down - but what it has become with the passing of generations of apprentices at Faulkren Academy is a spot for archery students bored with shooting target stands to place more "interesting" choices of targets onto. Through the course of your time here, you've seen the heavily scarred stump play host to empty wine bottles, pieces of fruit, and one unfortunate childhood toy.

Now, it plays host to the wyvernscale. With you beside her, Melanie steps up and deposits the strange trophy there before stepping about five meters back. Her tail is sweeping back and forth in a tight, agitated way, and she's moving in an even more self-conscious manner than she otherwise would be. She looks up at where you're still standing beside the tree stump and advises, "P-Please back up a little."

"R-Right!" you stammer in anticipation and even mild nervousness, dutifully taking a step backward.

Melanie looks between you, then the stump. Then she sheepishly raises her hand in an odd sort of assessing gesture between the two before saying, "U-Um, a l-little more, please."

Slightly alarmed, you backpedal until you're several meters away, like you do when those archery students were aiming at empty wine bottles or worn-out stuffed animals.

"N-Not that much!" Melanie calls, looking increasingly embarrassed.

Sheepishly, you come in several more steps, until Melanie finally gives a small nod of approval, and turns back to the stump. She adopts a position you recognize from training as a basic casting stance - standing at a slightly slanted angle, legs slightly apart, hands held up in front of her - and briefly closes her eyes in concentration. There is almost a strange, arcane aura surrounding her that you feel - if only barely - rather than see. Then, as you watch, enraptured, the white-haired aseri throws her hands into a series of brief but complex motions, ending in a sharp downward cutting gesture with one hand.

A strange whistling fills the air, followed by a odd, soft, almost inaudible high-pitched shriek that almost goes unnoticed, that almost sounds like it's a whisper instead of a sharp whistle.

And absolutely nothing happens.

You look around, not sure whether you should've expected something or whether you should feel embarrassed for Melanie. "Did...s-something happen?" you ask, looking around a little desperately.

Melanie's shoulders slump, and she gives the stump a look that is half-sad, half-frustrated. A moment later, you understand. It's not that you're particularly slow. On the contrary, the tardiness of your realization owes a great deal to the fact that you are informed. Of the elements in magecraft, wind is the most versatile: It can cause sounds where there are none, manipulate the path of an arrow, quietly extinguish the flame of a candle or torch, carry objects in flight. But the wind school of magecraft is also not the first choice anyone would make when it comes to wholesale destruction of any kind, lacking raw power. Fire and lightning and their ilk are far better suited to breaking things or forcefully killing people.

What finally clued you in to what Melanie was trying to do was the stump: Twin notches have been carved into it on either side of the wyvern scale. Like someone actually took an invisible axe and swung it at the stump. The two new scars may be shallow, but they're visible.

"You...w-want to cut it in half?" you ask, staring at her in surprise.

Melanie looks away, embarrassed, and walks over to the stump before retrieving the utterly-unharmed scale. "I couldn't d-do anything b-back then," she says, turning the scale over and over in her hands, ears slowly flattening out on her head. "You were v-very brave, but if I'd been able t-to do anything, you w-wouldn't have had to."

"N-None of us could f-f-fight something like that!" you whisper. "N-No one expects first-year apprentices to be able to beat w-w-wyverns!"

"Not b-beat it. Just...distract it. Or...s-something like that. And I know that f-first years can't d-d-do things like that. That's w-why I'm training. I-I'm not an elf, so I can only m-make up for it with p-practice."

You glance at the scale in her hands. "With w-w-wind magecraft?" you ask, trying not to sound too incredulous or think too hard about the lasting cultural belief that elves are better at magecraft than aseri.

"It's what I'm g-g-good at," she murmurs, shoulders slumping a little more. There is, however, a hint of stubbornness that accompanies that frustration. "I j-just want to be able to..." she stops, blushes slightly, then amends, "I just w-want to be able to protect m-my squad. And the people who m-matter to me."

You nod cautiously. Cutting something as hard as wyvernscale with wind magecraft is an utterly unreasonable goal. Theoretically possible, as far as your limited experience of the art is concerned, and you've heard of master mages who've been able to do so, but still completely unrealistic. Wyvern scales are strong enough to deflect heavy sword blows, let alone magecraft that amounts to blowing really hard against something. Something tells you just then, though, that this isn't what Melanie needs to hear from you.

"It will be a m-m-memento," you say, slowly, "once you c-c-cut it."

Melanie looks at you strangely and more than a little skeptically. For a moment, you think she's going to correct your "when" with an "if". But she doesn't. Instead, her ears go back up a bit, she gives you a small, shy sort of smile, and says, quietly, "I'll...I'll g-give you half if it c-comes to that. That way you would have one a-after all."

"I'd l-like that," you admit, smiling back in an almost comically similar manner.

The two of you stay like that for a long moment, before a particularly nasty gust of chill wind cuts through the training yard, flattening Melanie's ears all over again and making you hunch down against the elements. Being a dryad means you can withstand the extremes of the outdoors better than most, but it does not necessarily make it fun.

"We s-should really go inside," Melanie admits.

"B-Before it gets any c-c-colder," you agree.

With that, the two of you walk back to the school, slightly huddled together for warmth. You can talk about both of your goals for self-improvement while you're nice and warm inside, preferably beside a burning fireplace.

----------------------------------------

For natives to Apaloft like you and Melanie, it's clear that this year's snowfall will be fortunately short. Already, the solstice comes upon Iuryis, and with it Midwinter's Feast. The servants at the Academy, whose hustlings and bustlings are generally quite visible to the apprentices, seem to be further put upon as the end of the year approaches. While they generally aren't above chatting or even sassing with apprentices, the servants are clearly too busy in the lead-up to the feast to chat with a hundred-or-so teenagers. To celebrate the time of the year when the sun stops sinking further into the horizon with each passing day, when the days finally start getting longer until midsummer, cities and towns and villages across Caldrein - and indeed, across Iuryis, each with their own customs and variations - hold great feasts, bringing out the crops and the food and the preserves that won't last the winter. It is characterized with general revelry, with food and drink and singing and dancing. At least, that is how your village celebrates it; Faulkren is still in Apaloft, so you doubt it will be much different, just...larger. Aside from the apprentices at Faulkren Academy, there's the neighboring town itself, which will likely hold their own celebration as well.

It's three days before Midwinter's Feast that Headmistress Cornelia Rastangard takes advantage of dinnertime to make an announcement to the vast majority of the apprentices having their meals. "Classes on Midwinter's Feast will end at noon," she announces after the room hushes upon a bell being rung at the instructors' table, only for her to have to fall silent again for a moment as her first announcement is met with excited chattering amongst the apprentices. It will give more time for the apprentices to prepare for the evening, and won't leave them tired after an entire afternoon of calisthenics and exercises, even though most apprentices have already acclimated themselves with that level of physical exertion. After another instructor hushes the Great Hall for quiet, the headmistress continues, "You will have the afternoon free to yourself, although attendance at dinner will be mandatory. Afterwards, you are free to go into town to attend the festivities there. Dinner will be held an hour earlier to reflect this." Her voice takes on a wry tone as she adds, "Furthermore, to prevent any accidents while under the influence of grape juice, also mandatory will be checking in any and all weapons into the armory prior to dinner, training or otherwise. I promise that anyone who does not do so will not enjoy the consequences."

Quietly, the apprentices exchange looks with one another.

"Weapons or no, your conduct will reflect upon this academy, and revelry is no excuse for troublemaking. Trips such as these are a privilege, not a right, and they can be taken away. Is that understood?"

There was an emphatic, automatic chorus of "yes, Headmistress Rastangard" from around the hall.

"Good. That aside, do enjoy yourselves; we all must take what merriment we can in troubled times."

As the hall empties out, Squad Four stays together, heading back in the direction of your dorms, with Elizabeth slightly ahead of the group with a book in her hand, and Sieglinde holding up the rear. Still stretching from the prolonged period of sitting, Stephanie - walking right beside you - looks over at you and asks, "Any plans for Midwinter's Feast?"

You tilt your head slightly in thought. "I haven't r-really decided on anything," you admit, almost embarrassed. "I...guess I'll have to see wh-where everyone else is going. What about you?"

"Oh, I thought I'd just stay at the Academy for some quiet time of my own. I'm...not very good with large crowds." Then, a little quickly, she turns to the tallest of your quartet and asks, "What about you, Sieglinde?"

"I suppose I should attend the festivities in town," Sieglinde acknowledges, with just the slightest hint of reluctance.

Your roommate raises an eyebrow in what could be interpreted as quiet amusement. "But you'd rather stay in and read a book."

This earns her a slight tilt of the head from Sieglinde, one that does not seem particularly displeased. "You are likely not wrong."

You glance over at the fourth member of your squad, walking slightly ahead of the rest of you, lost in her own unknowable thoughts, and - from a combination of politeness and curiosity - you ask, "L-Lady Elizabeth?" In spite of your fear for her, you do feel like you're obligated as a squad member to show at least token amounts of interest.

Elizabeth looks around almost sleepily, and regards you for a long moment. Long enough that you're worried you've annoyed her. Finally, though, she says, "The bakery in town is selling solstice cakes. With lots of honey, and almonds, and baked blackberry jam on top." Then, as if that answers that, she looks back down at her book.

A solstice cake is a large, dense oat cake, topped or filled with different ingredients depending on the region or the baker, although honey and some sort of jam is usually considered ubiquitous. As part of the holiday, though, it is a treat that is big enough that it is traditionally shared with family, friends, or a special someone. "You...have someone you're going to share it with?" Stephanie asks.

Elizabeth lets out the smallest of sighs, before glancing around again in a way that makes Stephanie's ears droop a little. "No one. It's just for me."

Sieglinde gives Elizabeth a slightly strange look. "That's a lot of food for one person," she notes lightly. Particularly someone Elizabeth's size. Eaten after Midwinter's Feast, just a fourth of one has always been a bit much for you.

"They keep for most of a week, usually," the tiny elf replies with a slight shrug as the four of you exit the Great Hall and out into the snowy courtyard of the Academy, snow crunching beneath your footsteps. "So I eat a piece every day until it's gone." For a moment, it seems like she's going to leave things there. Then, unprompted, she adds, "It's what I'm used to. My family always used to give me one every year."

This is, perhaps, the most personal detail Elizabeth has ever shared with you as a group, and it's hard to say whether that's a good thing or bad. You find yourself responding, "A-Are you an only c-child, Lady Elizabeth?"

She looks at you like you're an idiot. "Of course not. I come from a noble house. We always have a large one baked for my sisters to share, but I get to have a smaller one just for me." She says this with an air of faint, almost affectionate nostalgia and just a tiny bit of smug satisfaction.

"O-Oh," you murmur in slight surprise. Then, hesitantly, you venture a guess, "B-Because you're the eldest child?"

Elizabeth blinks and pauses for a moment. Is she simply surprised because she's never actually shared the fact that she's an eldest child, and that you've guessed correctly? Or perhaps she isn't actually entirely sure of the answer herself? Finally, she shrugs and replies, "I suppose so. My sisters and I used to fight over the cake all the time anyways."

"...A-Ah," you say, trying not to think too hard about just what that could mean. You shuffle and fidget a little awkwardly. "My p-p-parents would bake one t-together. And th-they'd share it with me and m-my sister. Just with some d-dried fruit and berries from the land a-around our home, and a bit of f-forest spice."

"Forest spice?" Stephanie asked, tilting her head in your direction. "What's that, exactly?"

"I d-don't actually know. It's a spice blend p-popular in the..." you pause, slump helplessly, and conclude pathetically, "...the forest." Trying not to blush when Elizabeth snorts at that redundant statement - it's not your fault that your parents only ever called it "forest spice" when telling you and your sister about it - you continue in a stammer, "My m-mother always keeps some in a ch-chest above the mantle. I've n-never asked what's in it."

Sieglinde looks over again, as if weighing whether or not to break into this conversation. "I imagine mine is much the same as Zabanya's family," she says, after a moment, "barring her special case."

Elizabeth smirks. "True in many ways," she chirps.

"It's common in Lindholm to bake them in the shape of a star, especially for children. Everyone can break off a point, then you play a game to decide who gets the middle. It has the largest amount of jam or jelly of some kind, which is quite honestly a bit too sweet for me, what with the amount of honey we put in them already. Usually, if a parent wins the game, she takes an obligatory bite out of it before giving the rest to her children."

"I always won the middle," Elizabeth says with an air of pleasant self-satisfaction. "Maybe that's why they got a separate cake for my sisters. It must be sad, losing to me all the time."

"We d-don't really make them like th-that here," you point out. After moving to the plains of Apaloft, your family adopted the local custom, with only a slight variation to the regional standard to fit their tastes in terms of seasoning. Even the fancier solstice cakes sold at a proper bakery in town don't stray far from the same theme. "Th-The ones at the bakery back home will be made with dried fruit a-and spice of some kind. A-Apples and cinnamon are the most common. And th-they're usually square. Th-The cake, I mean, not the apple." A moment later, you feel a little embarrassed for even suggesting that anyone assumed the apple is square.

"I don't care if the shape's boring, since I'm not sharing," Elizabeth says airily, "but the flavor won't be a problem. I already spoke to the baker last time I was in town. She'll be making a special one just for me. She almost charged me extra, but she thought better of it."

"Please don't do anything terrible to the baker, Lady Elizabeth," Stephanie mutters with a mild hint of cautious exasperation, as if careful not to offend with her tone. That being said, Elizabeth seems to be more forgiving of backtalk and some level of impudence than first impressions would suggest, so you don't feel acutely concerned for Stephanie's safety. "One day, I'll break down and spring for a tray of those tarts she always has cooling in the window, and I need that motivation some days."

Elizabeth looks at her, and actually smirks a little, the way she does sometimes at Sieglinde, or other rare individuals she perhaps sees as actual people. "That's going to depend on how good that cake is."

After a tense moments, Sieglinde dryly adds, "She's joking."

"Probably," Elizabeth concedes nonchalantly. "Look at it this way: If she can't even make a simple solstice cake, with honey and almonds baked in, and blackberry jam just right on top, then the tarts wouldn't have been that good anyway."

In spite of yourself, you give a small laugh, if a little nervously. It seems like the right thing to do.

Sieglinde, perhaps attempting to rescue Stephanie from this line of conversation, remarks, "This is possibly my first Midwinter's Feast away from family." She seems to leave it at that before adding with a thoughtful air, "I suppose it shall be liberating, in a way."

"L-Liberating?" you echo. The four of you have finally reached your dormitory building, shivering off the last vestiges of the cold outside as you enter the heated interior.

The tall, raven-haired elf gives a small shrug. "I would have had obligations during the solstice were I back home. Much of the morning would have my house present for temple with the rest of town. I would then be with my parents to play host for lunch and tea with persons of importance: Titled vassals, visiting nobility, local merchants, distant family. And I would be present for the town feast in the evening, entertaining and speaking with the townspeople."

"Arcaster is hardly just a 'town'," Elizabeth points out in a bored voice, rolling her eyes.

"It's a small city," Sieglinde concedes. "Or a large town. Not that it detracts from my point."

"You...d-didn't like it much?" you venture cautiously, thinking about Sieglinde's self-professed shortcomings at socializing, but also wondering if it is the sort of topic that you yourself should approach so easily.

Elizabeth, at the very least, seems to find humor in all this. "Why else do you think she," the tiny elf quips as she leads the group up the staircase to your dorm rooms, "a lady of Lindholm, came all the way out here to Faulkren in another region altogether instead of enrolling in Llyneyth?"

This does strike you as at least a little intriguing. As a "first amongst equals" in the hierarchy of Caldran mercenary academies, Llyneyth is certainly far closer to Sieglinde's home of Arcaster, and you can't imagine Llyneyth not accepting someone of Sieglinde's capabilities. Nor, for that matter, Elizabeth's; as much as her reputation at Faulkren Academy is complex, no one denies the raw power the elven mage casually carries with her.

But Sieglinde makes a dismissive shrugging gesture. "Zabanya exaggerates my disinclination for social events," the tall elven spearwoman replies, to which the tiny elven mage merely smiles in the kind of way you associate with Elizabeth being dangerously amused. "I am merely aware of what I am and am not proficient at." You are just beginning to think about asking Sieglinde why she's here at Faulkren instead, but the elf instead turns in Stephanie's direction, asking, "Does your family do anything in particular?"

Stephanie seems a little taken off-guard by the question. "Hm?" she blinks, not comprehending.

"For Midwinter's Feast."

"Ah," Stephanie says blankly before calmly responding, "no, nothing special. We usually have nicer meals than usual, that's all." She decidedly does not have the air of someone who wished to continue.

Elizabeth gives her a lazy look before just as lethargically sharing a glance with Sieglinde, but neither of them press. You yourself remember that Stephanie alluded to a complicated home situation on day the two of you first met, and decide that leaving that matter be is the most prudent option. The timing seems to work out, seeing how the four of you just happen to reach the doors of your adjacent rooms before anyone truly reacts to Stephanie's answer.

"We'll see you tomorrow, then," Stephanie declares, turning to unlock the door to the room she shares with you, and a few tired words of parting are exchanged before you return to the familiar surroundings of your dormitories.

Stephanie settles down in her bed, looking at the ceiling with a carefully and curiously blank expression, even as you settle into the chair. The quiet that follows afterwards - even though Stephanie is a fairly quiet individual - is a little awkward, so you finally say after a moment, "I'm still n-not sure if I'm going or not."

"Well," Stephanie says from her bed, not unkindly, "you have three days to decide. I'm sure lots of people will be going."

You nod; three days should be plenty of time to come to some kind of decision. Or so you tell yourself.

----------------------------------------

Then, suddenly, it's three days after, and you realize you haven't actually come to any kind of decision.

"We thank the powers that be for this year of great blessings," says Headmistress Cornelia Rastangard from the front of the Great Hall, standing with her head bowed, her eyes closed, her hands clasped before her abdomen. Her voice is soft, but it carries well in the solemn silence of the Great Hall.

In front of her are the apprentices of the Academy, and behind her are the instructors, all seated at their respective tables, their heads similarly bowed and their hands in whatever manner their faith dictates...or, for those who are faithless, in whatever manner they feel most comfortable. Flames from the torches and the candles and the chandelier above brighten the Great Hall this evening, their light glistening across the truly massive array of food spread throughout the tables in this grand chamber, a probable source of more thoughts for the honest of young apprentices than whatever spirits, deities, or greater powers they may have been praying to at this time.

"We thank our families for this year of love and devotion," continues the headmistress. "We thank our friends for this year of steadfast support. May we find health, happiness, and good fortune in the next year and all years to come." There is a moment of silence after this as the occupants of the room open their eyes and shuffle expectantly. It is only after a long moment passes that the headmistress looks around the room with just the slightest hint of amusement and mischief - as if playfully dragging out this moment for as long as reasonably possible - before declaring, "And now we feast."

The Great Hall is instantly a flurry of motion as apprentices reach out frantically for the food placed on large communal plates. Some stand up to look for favored dishes further down their table. The kitchen staff has really outdone themselves this time, coming up with this much delicious-looking food for this many people. It's not that their usual food isn't delicious, but the typical Academy fare is cooked in a manner ensuring nutritional balance. Tonight, however, it's as if the cooks have given you permission to indulge in your guilty culinary pleasures by providing you foods you're almost certain are fit for nobility. The dishes in front of Squad Four alone include honey roasted beef with nuts and pepper, veal marinated with citrus and rosemary, creamy buttered rice mixed with cheese and assorted vegetables, tomato-soaked baked bread with goat cheese and basil, and more. Whatever worries everyone else has - studies, training, interpersonal drama, the approaching threat of war - tonight is a night of joyous festivities and celebration, and a cheerful din fills the Great Hall. The collective excitement of the apprentices is understandable, and you are frankly by no means immune.

"Oh, w-wow," you turn to Stephanie excitedly, trying to speak in between swallows rather than in between bites, even as you savor the juicy pieces of your meal melting into bliss in your mouth. "The food is r-r-really good."

Giving you a sidelong glimpse that could almost be interpreted as contempt from just about anyone else but reads mostly like wry amusement from Elizabeth, the tiny elven mage dryly remarks, "Neianne, you look like a starving matchstick-selling girl wolfing down stale bread the baker threw out."

You are in the middle of flushing bright red and dropping your food and trying to think of a response while stammering something unintelligible to fill in the awkward blank in between when Sieglinde makes a sighing sound and counters, "She's doesn't." Her attempt to put you at ease probably doesn't have her desired effect, though, given how both she and Elizabeth dine with evident ease and reserve, as if they are entirely at place with the delicious food served before them.

Stephanie notes your reaction, eyes both elves across the table from her, and quips, "Not everyone is as rich as...well, viscountesses." Although the aseri herself also seems at ease with the food before her - if not exactly as poised as Sieglinde and Elizabeth - making you feel increasingly insecure about your own personality and temperament.

"M-M-My family doesn't starve!" you blurt, finally recovering your faculties of speech, temporarily robbed by your embarrassment over what you're sure was a shameful display at eating. "We...g-get by every year with little p-problem. We're...j-just not very r-rich."

Looking down at you despite the fact that all of you are seated, Stephanie seems to give your physique a once over before asking rhetorically, "So is that why you're so small?"

You blush and fidget your short body under the gaze of the average-height Stephanie, but it's at this point that an even tinier Elizabeth makes a show of clearing her throat, causing Stephanie to look awkwardly over at a highborn elf whose stature has clearly not been affected by the availability of rich food. Looking pleased that Stephanie has been pushed into an awkward silence, Elizabeth swivels her head just slightly towards you, enough to give you a sidelong glance, and asks in an almost challenging manner, "And I assume you look to change that as a Caldran mercenary?"

"I-I...suppose it'd be nice to grow a little taller," you murmur with a hint of sullen resignation; you know that you're at the tail end of puberty and highly unlikely to grow any taller.

Elizabeth only rolls her eyes impatiently and mutters, "I mean you'd like to change your family doing more than just 'get by."

Blushing furiously, you pathetically allow, "A-Among other things, I g-guess." You're not sure you feel close enough with Elizabeth to give a more detailed, complex explanation that you've given Sieglinde. Nor are you really sure that Elizabeth wouldn't find the story boring and react harshly. She hasn't really actually done anything to you in all the time you've been here, but it's hard to tell with her sometimes, just as it's hard to get over certain strong impressions.

"And I assume you're here for more than just a feather in your cap," Stephanie mutters in Elizabeth's direction, but helps herself to another serving of veal.

Rather than seem offended, however, Elizabeth merely smiles a little and quips, "So to speak."

With the poised stature of a noblewoman enjoying her meal, Sieglinde swallows her bite before remarking, "The impression one has is that Lady Elizabeth Irivich Zabanya wishes to legally explode as many people as possible."

The elven mage turns her usual, serene, dissonant smile towards Sieglinde and replies, "I wouldn't protest against the notion, no. Although one supposes there's only so far you can go with that."

Intrigued, you ask, "H-How far do you want to go?"

Elizabeth seems mildly surprised at your sudden question, but she soon thinks about that for a short while before taking an air as if she only deigns to respond. "As far as I can go," she answers. "As far as I can discover breakthrough after breakthrough in magecraft. Centuries from now, even farmers and laborers shall know my name because I unraveled the mysteries of our world - magecraft, the fae - in manners no others could. Exploding people is fun, it's cathartic, but it isn't..." she searches for the right word before shrugging and taking on a different track. "History is full of people who explode people. It's like swinging a cudgel. Anyone with a bit of power can do that."

You decide not to point out Elizabeth's magecraft - conjured so easily and casually - probably requires a bit more than "a bit" of power. Perhaps things seem different for people with Elizabeth's kind of prodigious talent.

"Discovering something really new," Elizabeth continues, her legs almost girlishly kicking back and forth in opposite directions, her feet falling short of touching the ground once seated in her chair, "something that's worth passing down for generations, that can be built on for centuries, that will be taught in schools long after I'm gone?" She smiles, and unlike her usual smiles - that serene, almost angelic smile on her delicate features that almost seems dissonant with whatever situation she finds herself in - this one betrays a hint of grim determination and naked ambition. "That's something worthwhile."

Her proclamation is met with a bit of staring. Mostly from you and Stephanie, although Sieglinde does seem at least mildly surprised as well, if the slight arch of one of her eyebrows is any indication. At some point in the months you've been here - practically half the academic year now - you've always just sort of assumed that Elizabeth wanted to be able to hurt people. That time you found her standing in Penelope and Wendy's room - the room crackling with ice and lightning where she stood amidst four writhing bodies on the ground and winked at you - certainly doesn't help with first impressions. So this revelation is, if nothing else, unexpected.

Elizabeth, for her part, seems entirely indifferent to your staring, and instead casually eats the food on her plate.

It's Stephanie that speaks first: "If you want to pioneer breakthroughs in magecraft, why are you even here? Why train as a Caldran mercenary instead of going to the University of Valrein or Stengard?"

"For the same reason good historians also train to be archaeologists," the tiny elf rolls her eyes. "Practical experience. Knowing where your limits are. Doing things firsthand. There's little to be learned trying to tests the limits of your theories in a courtyard."

"Besides," Sieglinde shrugs, "you'd like to be able to test your theories on actual people in war."

"That, too." Elizabeth happily eats her food for a few moments before glancing over at Stephanie and quipping, "What about you, Dark, Fluffy, and Mysterious?"

The aseri seems surprised that Elizabeth is even talking to her specifically, then surprised that this is somehow her nickname. "What about me?" Stephanie asks, looking like she's trying not to bristle a little. You've been her roommate long enough to recognize when she's being cautious; she masks it well, even in terms of aseri tells with the ears and tail, but there are just a few subtle hints.

"Sieglinde wants to get better at serving the Confederacy, I'm sure. Neianne wants to...change herself to someone she actually wants to be, or something like that." You shoot an alarmed look at Sieglinde, wondering how Elizabeth even knows about this - you've shared this with few people - but Sieglinde only arches an eyebrow at the smaller elf, as if she is just as surprised that Elizabeth knows. "So what are you here for?"

Stephanie regards Elizabeth for a moment, keeping her expression carefully thoughtful and neutral. Finally, after a moment, she explains, "To prove myself, I suppose."

Elizabeth's grins as her eyes narrow almost tauntingly. "Oh-ho? Difficult parents?"

The aseri frowns slightly, but only allows herself a moment before neutrally replying, "In a manner of speaking." The expectant silence, as the rest of you wait for her to continue, slowly turns uncomfortable as it becomes obvious that, left to her own devices, Stephanie isn't going to. Instead, she has returned to her meal.

"Now you're just trying to be mysterious," Elizabeth snorts, but with an air of amused good humor.

"I'm not trying to be anything," Stephanie replies, carefully schooling her reaction. You feel her tail brush against your ankle beneath the table; given how far away from you she's sitting, it is probably moving in some agitation. "Things with my family are difficult. It's not that interesting a story. Not everyone's father is a viscountess."

"Mother," Elizabeth corrects, stifling a yawn, but she seems content to let the matter drop for now. Privately, you somewhat doubt that Stephanie's situation is as dull or unremarkable as all that, but you're also notably less inclined to pry into sensitive subjects than Elizabeth is.

Silence reigns afterwards, which no one else but you seems to find particularly awkward. Desperate to try to move the conversation on, you quickly stammer, "I-I-I'm truly glad to be on the s-same squad as all of you, th-though!"

"Oh?" Elizabeth raises an eyebrow and cackles in that soft, angelic voice of hers, taking on a clearly amused tone. "What's this?" She looks you up and down, making you feel a little bit like a sheep being sized up by a wolf. "Is the solstice making you sentimental, Neianne?"

Sighing in mild exasperation, Stephanie cautiously allows, "I suppose we are a functional squad, at the very least. Not that we've had a chance to do things as a squad throughout the year except attend classes together."

"We'll be given more autonomy and duties in our second year," Sieglinde notes, setting down her fork and knife as if she's done with dinner. It doesn't look like she's a big eater. "I suppose we'll find out how functional we truly are as a squad then."

"Oh, Ravenhill," Elizabeth bats her eyelashes at the taller, raven-haired elf in mock sweetness. "Where's your optimism? We've already been roommates for so long. I'm sure we'll get along just fine."

"Yes," the squad's aseri rolls her eyes, although she doesn't actually sound annoyed or resentful, "I'm sure Neianne and I are merely extra baggage."

"Neianne has faced down a wyvern," the elven mage points out casually, happily popping a cherry into her mouth. "You have some catching up to do."

Stephanie has the good grace not to have a rise gotten out of her. Sieglinde, however, raises an eyebrow and calmly challenges, "I haven't seen you accomplish anything similar while at Faulkren."

Continuing to smile sweetly, Elizabeth retorts, "I'm more than happy to duel Neianne if you find the need to have me proven against her." You try - and fail - not to flinch at the idea, but the tiny elven mage has already turned her gaze to her own roommate as well and added, "And you're more than welcome to a duel with me if you wish to fall on a spear for Neianne's sake."

Growing pale and fearing what a duel between Sieglinde and Elizabeth would even look like - probably something involving the end of the world - you squeeze your eyes shut, lean forward, and stammer-squeak, "N-N-No talking about fighting during Midwinter's Feast!"

You flush red almost immediately after and try to hide under the table. You hoped to sound at least halfway stern or at least older-sisterly, but you sounded more like a mouse.

Elizabeth, however, easily seems to find humor in this as she laughs unreservedly - her voice like tiny little jingling bells - before she allows with a permissive smile, "Yes, yes, enjoy the food while you can." Beside you, Stephanie is only barely suppressing a smirk. And Sieglinde has her eyebrows raised in the way she often does when amused. You can't help but feel that you're being treated as the baby of Squad Four.

Fortunately, this feeling is temporarily alleviated as a familiar, friendly, but slightly hesitant voice awkwardly laughs, "Oh, hi, did I come at a bad time?"

"Vesna!" you greet the human after swiveling around, relieved to see a friendly face. The brunette gives you a slight hug - really just touching arms as you stand up to meet her - as she waves amicably to the rest of your squad as well.

"Someone's already up and about," Sieglinde remarks, her tone a little wry. Not that she sounds like she disapproves. And it isn't as if she's alone; already, apprentices in the Great Hall have begun to leave their seats to mingle with friends in other squads...and, you suspect, sample the foods set on other tables.

"Well, there's so many people celebrating together!" Vesna gushes, practically bouncing a little where she stands. "And there will be more people in town soon, won't there?"

"Someone's excited," Stephanie adds as her own muted point of observation.

Ignoring your squadmates for the moment, you inquire of Vesna, "You'll be g-going to town, then?"

The human beams infectiously. "Of course I'm going to town," she gushes. "You're coming too, yes?" Then, abruptly, as if she remembers something important, she looks down at your arm and adds sheepishly, "Oh, is the arm getting any better?"

"It i-is," you give an awkward smile, "th-thank you."

"You're awfully giddy over a small-town celebration," Stephanie notes, looking over.

Vesna seems a little surprised and embarrassed as she stammers for a moment, as if trying to find words to defend herself with. "My family doesn't usually settle down long enough for festivities," she pouts a little after finally managing to recover her composure. "Our celebrations are more a...subdued family affair." She pauses before adding a bit more quietly, "With maybe some friends, but..."

Stephanie quickly but calmly holds up her hands in a neutral, placating gesture. "I'm not judging. Mine isn't terribly different, I suppose."

From Sieglinde's direction comes a soft cough that sounds very suspiciously like "lucky you".

Elizabeth snorts, "It's your own fault for being such a goody-two-shoes. Your parents expect you to do everything when you are."

"What a carefree heir to House Zabanya," the taller elf fires right back, although characteristic of the two of them, there doesn't seem to be any sense of hostility in that retort. If anything, both Sieglinde and Elizabeth react with calm, perhaps even normalcy, as if this is something that is done regularly and beneath general notice.

Her spirits quickly recovered, Vesna turns to Sieglinde and cheerily asks, "Are you going to town, then?"

But Sieglinde shakes her head. "I suspect I shall pass. The festivities would do well without my gloomy presence."

"Oh," Vesna blinks, looking mildly surprised and maybe slightly disappointed. Then, with a hopeful tone, she turns to the resident aseri. "Um...Stephanie?"

"Probably not," your roommate replies. "I'm not very comfortable in crowds."

"Ignore these gloomy killjoys, then," Elizabeth snorts again, happily poking fun at her squadmates as she negotiates another piece of beef with her knife and fork.

Turning to the last member of your squad, the human ventures, "You are going, then, Lady Elizabeth?"

"She's going to pick up her solstice cake," Stephanie points out, "so don't get your hopes up."

But if Stephanie meant to suggest that Elizabeth is only going to town for non-festive purposes, Vesna must've missed the point as she cheers up and gushes,"Solstice cakes are good!" Already, she's moved closer to Elizabeth, as if she's now the focus of this conversation, something that also seems to catch the elf off-guard, looking at the human with mild confusion. "At a bakery? What are you getting?"

Elizabeth seems to be trying to answer in a manner that's perhaps even halfway polite and earnest, unprepared as she is by Vesna's earnest enthusiasm. You can't say you expected Vesna to approach Elizabeth so easily either, never mind be quite so happy about cakes. Beside you, Stephanie mutters softly into your ear, "She scares me a little sometimes."

"S-She's nice," you insist.

"She's one of the girls who stared down a wyvern with you, isn't she?"

"...Y-Yes," you reply again, hesitantly, wondering if Stephanie just compared Elizabeth to a wyvern.

"She scares me a little sometimes," Stephanie repeats. And you would pay more attention to the conversation between Elizabeth and Vesna, except a pair of hands suddenly descend in front of your eyes, completely blocking your vision. You let out something of a squeak, wobbling precariously to avoid spilling your drink.

"Neianne, guess who?" a voice singsongs close to your ear.

"Wh-Wha?" you babble, confused.

"You have to guess, or I'm not letting you go," your captor informs you with exceedingly mock gravity. You can barely hear what sounds suspiciously like desperately muffled giggling from where Vesna was last seen and a Stephanie-like snort in front of you.

It takes a second two for your heart rate to slow back down and your brain to start functioning properly again. Her voice is familiar enough, and...

"M-Mia?" you venture.

The hands let go, and you can't help but squeak again as they spin you playfully around to face the red-haired aseri in question. "Aw," she grins. "How did you guess so fast?"

"N-No one else would do something like that with m-me!" you say, a little exasperated. Maybe Vesna would, but you were just talking with her, and Mia is certainly much louder than Vesna.

Mia crosses her arms, and nods almost sagely. "Yes, that makes sense."

"...It does?" Somehow, from her tone, you can't help but feel like she took more away from that statement than you meant for her to.

"Oh," Mia remarks, distracted, reaching over your shoulder and grabbing a slice of veal from the communal plate, unbothered by the fact that she is using her fingers. "This looks good. We don't have that dish over at our table." She takes a bite out of the meat, chews for a bit before swallowing, then - as if finally remembering your previous topic - clarifies, "Well, just look at your squadmates." She nods behind you in the direction of Squad Four, where at least one person has since produced a book already. At your blank expression, Mia laughs: "They're all so broody except for you!"

Elizabeth raises an eyebrow and sweetly remarks, "I'm not 'broody'."

Mia gives a laugh that is equal parts awkward and nervous as she raises her hands in a placating gesture - which is probably also in response to Sieglinde's amused look and Stephanie's mildly unimpressed expression - hastily clarifying, "Not that I'm trying to say anything against you."

"Just blurting it," Sieglinde offers, although she doesn't sound terribly annoyed or upset, nor does she actually look up from her book. Still, you think the raven-haired elf is amused.

"Or yelling it out," Stephanie adds with a shrug, getting over her initial bemusement.

"I'm not that loud," Mia laughs loudly, without any indication that she's offended or taking any of this as a slight. Then, again, she's already pulling you from the table before you have a chance to protest and whispering conspiratorially. "But whoever thought to put that much broodiness on one team was just not being fair."

You shuffle a bit uncomfortably. "I'm h-happy where I am," you say. You don't want to take this line of comment the wrong way, but you can't help but feel slightly defensive of your team.

"You are so cute when you're all earnest like that!" Mia sighs wistfully, giving your head an encouraging pat, the leaves in your hair rustling as she does so. "Anyway, you need to come say hi to Lucille. And Melanie."

"...Eh?" you ask, stumbling along after her. Already, Vesna is waving farewell at you with a hint of mock tragedy, as if resigning herself to the fact that Mia has successfully hijacked your attention span, as she is wont to do with anyone caught up in her orbit.

"You're going to be visiting people anyway, aren't you?"

You can't in all honesty dispute that.

Sure enough, you find both Lucille and Melanie at once. They're sitting at a somewhat crowded table, filled mostly with girls you don't know particularly well. Their friends, you assume at first, are a collection of almost ten different girls from a variety of different squads all crowded together, talking and laughing and sharing around food and drink. They don't seem to come from any particular rank or social class. At least a third of them you faintly recall come from poor families of Iuryis' three main races, many of them attacking their food with as much enthusiasm as you did yourself.

"I found Neianne!" Mia announces as she drags you to the table, turning a few more heads than you would have liked.

"Hello!" Lucille says, grinning at you. The hand she waves is the one holding her fork, the movement sending a piece of meat flying off. There's a series of shrieks as girls attempt to dive out of the way, followed by some good-natured complaints. "Sorry, Ashlyn!" Lucille says with a notable wince. It's impossible not to note the contrast between her table manners and the two poised noblewomen delicately eating their food back at your table. Lucille turns back to you, looking more sheepish than before. "I was hoping you'd say hi! Melanie's already here too."

The aseri in question smiles at you, evidently rendered even shyer than normal by her boisterous surroundings. "H-Hello," she says. She's sitting by Lucille, having moved in from her own squad, but now that you look, she's somewhat on the edge of this gathering, not making a particular effort to join in conversation, merely quietly eating her meal. She doesn't seem unhappy so much as perfectly willing to let the conversation happen around her. You can relate to that.

"H-Hello," you reply, inwardly cringing at the unintentional echo.

"Oh, no, Lucille, you have two of them now?" asks the girl who is fishing the piece of meat from her hair. Ashlyn, you think she was called. "I don't know if I can handle this!"

"No way!" Mia protests, jumping in between you and Melanie and slinging her arms around both of your shoulders even as your faces heat up from embarrassment. "I have both of them, not Lucille!"

"I don't have two of anyone," Lucille retorts as she sticks a tongue out, coming to both your and Melanie's defence, pulling the two of you out from under Mia's arms. "Neither do you, Mia. Now, stop picking on them or I'll fling more food at you. On purpose this time."

"I thought ladies were supposed to be gracious!" Ashlyn complains with feigned unhappiness.

"Try to catch it with your mouth next time," Lucille advises with all evidence of good nature, to the response of a general bout of laughter.

"Ashlyn," someone else quips with good-natured teasing, "circus dog."

"Oh, shut it, you," Ashlyn retorts, but there's no indication that she's actually offended, "before I shut it for you."

In the general mirth, you have time to lean in close to Lucille, and whisper, "Th-Thank you."

Lucille looks a little surprised, if not outright embarrassed. You could do without the additional teasing and being put on the spot at the moment.

But Mia is talking again before Lucille can actually respond. "Anyways," she declares triumphantly, "Neianne's here, my job is done."

One of the girls blinks at Mia, points out, "I don't recall anyone giving you that job."

Mia ignores this entirely and continues, "I'm going to check out some other squads now." Already, she's swiveling on a heel and heading off to the next table. "I'll be back later, maybe!"

"Do you ever, like," asks another girl with a mock sense of exasperation, "actually spend time with your own squad?"

"Yes," Mia calls back casually without skipping a beat, slowing her gait, or even turning around. "Be back!"

"Whether you're invited or not," Ashlyn calls out after her. You're starting to think - or hope at least - that Ashlyn simply has that sort of sense of humor. This time, Mia does turn around very briefly...if only to playfully stick her tongue out.

"I like having her around," Lucille remarks, "even if she does pick on Melanie too much."

"Don't you pick on Melanie too?" one of the other girls says, using a glazed carrot as a pointer.

"I do not," Lucille says loftily. "It's not picking on her when I do it." She gives Melanie a quick hug around the shoulders. "Right?"

Melanie seems briefly panicked at not only being included, but actually being expected to contribute to a conversation about herself. "Um..." she briefly seems to panic.

"You're picking on her right now," Ashlyn points out.

"N-No!" Melanie finally blurts out, flushing. "I'm fine!"

"You see? Fine." Oddly smug, Lucille releases Melanie and pops another morsel into her mouth.

"If milady says so," Ashlyn drawls, and while the honorific is not quite backhanded, there is a degree of underlying insincerity there, albeit an insincerity that seems more like a hint of affection rather than something truly disrespectful.

Lucille only swallows her food, and grins.

Time flies, as does the conversation, which remains high-spirited and fast with this group of people. Topics change quickly and often remain silly, and sometimes it feels like multiple independent strands of chatter are going on at once. One moment it's about food, and before that topic is even done, someone else has brought up having watched a tournament before, which eventually turns the topic back to training here at Faulkren Academy, which then starts being about the latest gossip amongst the apprentices, mostly who's going out with whom. And before the topic fully moves onto monster hunting, where - for a brief, terrifying moment - it looks like you're being actively pulled into the conversation to contribute, but the prevalence of louder, more boisterous voices quickly allow you to drift comfortably back to the periphery of the conversation. It's all a little dizzying to keep track of, to be honest.

Lucille, in a way, is unlike the other highborns that you've come to know thus far. She's not like Sieglinde, who is quiet, withdrawn, and not terribly social; nor is she like Elizabeth, who largely seems bored, sleepy, and sometimes cruelly amused. She's not like Aphelia, who is reserved, poised, and commanding in presence. Nor is she even like Azalea; despite superficial similarities, the dynamic here could not be farther from her tea parties. There's no indication that Lucille is "holding court" here, or even somehow "in charge". In Lucille's case, she seems merely to be another part of the group, and it hardly looks like the company she's keeping is exclusively part of Caldrein's topmost social strata.

Now that you think about it, you actually do remember seeing Ashlyn on the first day, very briefly: She didn't have shoes.

Not everyone can be a leader, you suppose. You certainly aren't. But you also aren't a scion of one of the Confederacy's most prestigious houses either, and expectations are naturally different. A small, unwelcome part of your mind can't help but wonder how differently things might have gone if a different elven lady had been present with you all back in that gorge. But that feels somehow uncharitable, and it's honestly hard to dislike her, even as she turns to talk to you again.

"Are you going to town later?" Lucille asks, with a slightly hopeful air.

"I d-don't know," you admit.

"We're going. Melanie's coming too." Beside her, Melanie helpfully nods.

"Most of my s-squadmates are staying behind. A-Apart from Lady E-Elizabeth." A few of the humans around the table - Ashlyn among them - look a bit...apprehensive at the mention. Rumors travel, it would seem.

Lucille looks momentarily unhappy at the mention of your elven squadmate. But almost immediately, she ignores that part of your reply completely. "There's going to be dancing in the square. And another feast. There's a fire and everything, so it's not going to be that cold."

"She's only been talking about it all week," one of the girls comments in amusement, the kind that only hints at wry exasperation.

"It's been ages!" Lucille laughs, albeit a little defensively. "I haven't been to a dance since I came here."

"Village square dances are a bit different from what you're used to," Ashlyn notes, giving Lucille an odd sort of look.

"Even better," Lucille says, missing any subtext present entirely.

"I'm still th-thinking about it," you say, cautiously.

"Try to find us if you do decide to come into town? It would be fun!" Beside her, composure recovered, Melanie nods and smiles again.

The conversation resumes for a time, with you and Melanie largely listening in in companionable silence while the more talkative girls carry on. Eventually, though, with time passing steadily by and with you thinking you should at least check back up on your own table, you find an opening to politely say, "I sh-should get back to my squad."

"I-I-I should see how m-my squad's doing as well," Melanie adds, taking the chance to bow out as well.

Lucille sighs slightly, but she smiles and gives Melanie another quick hug. "Have fun, then," she says. "I'll see you later for the trip in town! And you too, I hope, Neianne!"

After extricating yourselves - which required an awkward amount of waving - you and Melanie depart together...only for someone heading at crosspaths to collide accidentally with the white-haired aseri. Of course it wasn't Melanie's fault, but of course she's already beginning to stammer an apology: "E-E-Excuse..."

And then the apology dies off the tip of Melanie's tongue and her usually timid gaze hardens as they settle on and recognize the person whom she bumped into. This steeliness is reciprocated as Penelope barely suppresses a scowl and puts on only the barely semblance of civility. "Aster," she "greets" without a hint of warmth.

Melanie seems ready to retort in a similar last-name basis, but pauses for a moment as if realizing that Penelope doesn't have a last name, so instead mutters, "Penelope."

The air around the three of you chills. Or at least you feel that way. With mounting nervousness, you look skittishly between the two girls glaring daggers at each other, and suddenly you're in the ravine in Roldharen again, with Melanie and Penelope openly hostile towards one another over whether they should try and save Wendy or whether they should flee. You want to try to defuse the situation, but this is less the testy, dry dynamic that Elizabeth sometimes brings to Squad Four, and more barely-concealed animosity - if not outright hostility - towards one another. The scene unfolding before you is certainly coming close to triggering your flight responses.

But the two never have a chance to say anything particularly harsh or even come to blows, because Mia suddenly appears behind Penelope, practically bouncing into existence, as far as you can tell. "Oh, hey!" the aseri greets happily, clapping Penelope on the shoulder with no real reserve, causing the human to spin around in alarm and confusion with no hint of guilt from Mia's part. "I was going to come over to your table!" Smiling at you and Melanie, she adds, "Good to see you already catching up with Melanie and Neianne, though."

Penelope doesn't seem happy with Mia's sudden appearance, but nor does it seem like they're on bad enough terms that she's openly hostile. "I was just heading back," she tries to excuse herself.

"Oh, don't be a stranger," Mia beams, already shepherding the three of you to empty chairs at the table, making you wonder with a degree of incredulity how the aseri could possibly be so blind to the mood in the air. "Besides, these two are totally harmless, they won't bite!" She laughs, pauses, then laughs again, "Well, I mean, as harmless as a Caldran mercenary can be. Which isn't very harmless, is it?"

You want to exchange awkward, helpless looks with Melanie, but the aseri isn't actually looking at you, her demeanor like she's still keeping her guard up with Penelope around.

"Come, come," Mia continues, pushing the three of you into seats, "sit down, I'll go get drinks." And, just like that, having gotten the three of you together, with a swish of her tail, she's gone. If you didn't know better, you'd have assumed that she's in the shipping business.

Of greater concern to you now, however, is your position: Stuck in between two girls who clearly don't like each other and are keeping their mutual contempt barely concealed amidst the din of all these festivities. You try not to make eye contact while also keeping the two of them within your line of sight, endeavoring not to nervously fidget too much in your seat.

As if finally noticing you, Penelope looks slightly in your direction, and although she doesn't sound a whole lot friendlier - she does, in fact, sound a little awkward and forced - she does seem to soften just a hair as she greets you: "Hey."

"H-Hello," you try to sound as friendly as possible.

Then it's back to that awkward silence. You really wish you could just leave politely without making it look even more awkward than it already is.

Finally, Melanie speaks, her voice even and steely, although level and calm. "I see Wendy is recovering well," she says in what is perhaps the aseri's version of polite small talk.

"She is," Penelope confirms, not sounding the least bit grateful of Melanie's concern, feigned or not.

But the aseri merely nods. "That's good," she replies, and leaves it at that.

Again, Penelope barely takes her eyes off Melanie as she addresses you, and again she sounds just a touch softer, even if she isn't exactly eager to talk to you. "Your arm looks better as well."

You force a smile. "I-I should be a-able to start m-making up for all the t-training I've missed in a f-few weeks."

Penelope nods at you in an acknowledging fashion, and then it is back to baring her metaphorical fangs at Melanie. Fortunately, this one doesn't last long; Mia suddenly returns, bouncing into materialization with two mugs of honeymilk in each hand. "I'm back!" she announces, settling each of the mugs on the table before each of you. "Here, here, and here." Happily, she plops down onto a free chair, looks at the three of you, and declares, "Wow, I haven't seen the lot of us together since, well, Roldharen. I'm sorry I missed out on the action." She pauses, then sheepishly laughs, "Well, no, I'm not really that sorry I missed out fighting a wyvern, but maybe I could've at least helped a little."

"That's alright," Penelope answers evenly, although it doesn't sound like it is actually meant to mollify the aseri. Her gaze certainly doesn't leave Melanie even in between sips of the offered honeymilk. "Celestia certainly had plenty of protection."

Melanie nods, although there's nothing in her body language to suggest that it's a particularly agreeable nod. "The same way you protected Wendy, I'm certain," she replies.

"I've heard!" Mia smiles, completely missing the point. You can't help but think the flamboyant aseri is doing this on purpose. "It was a pretty great team effort. Our lecturers were using you as a tactical example for, like, a week."

"Well," shrugs Penelope, "some might wonder what would've happened if it had been, say, someone like Treiser or Celestia who was in trouble." Her eyes narrow a little bit at Melanie, and when she next speaks, you can't help but think the human isn't exactly talking about the aseri in particular...or, more specifically any aseri in particular. "But I suppose that's how it is with certain types; you'd think them to be natural allies against a common predator, but perhaps they're too clever for their own good."

"Perhaps they don't see shadows where there are none," Melanie says, her voice level and almost devoid of all tone, sipping at her own mug. "Certainly, only a dryad took any action, especially compared to those who were the loudest."

Mia gives you a hug across the shoulder, causing you to squeeze at the sudden announced body contact. "I just want to state, for the record," the aseri announces, "that climbing under a wyvern was crazy awesome, Neianne." She pulls away a bit, although her hands are still on your shoulders as she laughs, "No, seriously, how did you even think of that?"

"U-Um," you stammer, trying to figure out whether you should be giving her an answer or being more wary of the war of words happening at the table, "I-I-I..."

"Neianne had a clear view of what was right, I'm sure," Penelope offers an explanation, but it doesn't seem like it's meant for Mia or even you, "as someone with eyes unclouded by...everything else." She takes another sip from her mug. "Maybe the woods are the great equalizer. They see the merit hidden behind all everything we're taught out here."

"Oh, come off it," Mia snorts, but it sounds friendly and certainly more like a joking snort rather than a dismissive one. "I don't think anyone would've wanted to take a wyvern head-on."

Penelope finally takes her glare off Melanie for a moment to turn to the other aseri. "Would you have done the same?"

"Well," Mia crosses her arms and makes a show of thinking. "I'm in no rush to my death, but it's not like I would've wanted to leave anyone behind..."

"Something Penelope should certainly take into greater advisement," Melanie observes coolly, "before throwing accusations around."

"One day," the human narrows her eyes at Melanie, and although she doesn't scowl, her expression is certainly icy cold, "it shall be your own caught in trouble. Or perhaps it will be you who is in trouble with your 'friends' hiding behind excuses and platitudes so they don't have to come to your aid. And then we shall see then how many excuses and platitudes you can hide behind."

There is an icy silence afterwards. And only then does Mia finally show any hint of having clued into the animosity at the table, looking between Melanie and Mia in confusion, awkwardly laughing, "Sorry, but, um...did I miss something?"

"No," Penelope declares, standing up from where she was seated, "you didn't. I'd best be back with my squad." She gives a curt nod to Mia. "Thank you for the honeymilk." And then she leaves, returning not terribly far away to her table, where she shares what seems to be an unpleasant explanation with her friends.

Mia blinks, still looking mildly confused, before shrugging and remarking with a laugh, "Well, she's a little stiff." You wonder how Mia has not yet noticed that Melanie is also stiff and cold - the complete opposite of her usual personality - but already Mia is standing up too, stretching, then announcing, "I'll make a few more rounds. See you!" And she's gone before anyone has a chance to say anything.

Melanie exhales deeply and slumps her shoulders, as if all the stress and tension that has been building up inside her finally flees from her body. And only then do you realize that you're not entirely alone; a few familiar faces look on with a combination of passing interest and active concern, and it's Lucille who comes over from not terribly far away, going straight for Melanie. "Are you alright?" she asks with naked concern, holding Melanie's hands. "Did she say anything to you?"

"N-N-Nothing important," Melanie assures Lucille with what seems to be an embarrassed expression. "I-I'm alright."

"I know exactly what they're talking about," comes Elizabeth's voice as she approaches. "'Blah-blah-blah, nobles are so mean, you're all just lapdogs.'"

She isn't alone; Aphelia has arrived as well, although her usual hanger-ons are watching on. One suspects, however, that they're actually watching Aphelia herself, and not really watching whatever just transpired with you and Melanie. At least Aphelia acknowledges you politely with a curt of her head and a brief "Neianne". In the mid-distance over Elizabeth's shoulder, you can make out Sieglinde and Azalea speaking at your original table while looking on with mild concern; the two look like they're having a difficult time pursuing a conversation, though, if body language is any indicator.

Looking over at Melanie, Elizabeth smiles, and instantly you feel a chill run down your spine. "You didn't look like you agreed with anything the girl had to say," she said to the aseri. "Shouldn't you have done something about it?"

"Zabanya," Aphelia warns.

"Don't 'Zabanya' me," Elizabeth mutters. Then, her eyes flash with obvious mischief - the kind of flash when someone gets a dangerous idea - before she declares to everyone involved, "Watch this."

No one has a chance to stop the tiny elf as she leaves the group, moving in the direction of Penelope's table where she now sits with her squad. Most look on with confusion, but a mounting sense of dread grows in the pit of your stomach. You aren't alone; a slight crease is developing in Aphelia's brow, while Sieglinde also looks on grimly. To the side, Stephanie - talking with some friends of her own - gives you an alarmed look. Squad Four - especially you and Stephanie, having seen the aftermath of the last time Elizabeth sought retaliation - sees what's coming.

Elizabeth reaches Penelope and Wendy and their squadmates - Squad Twelve, specifically - and in a manner hardly unlike Mia but almost certainly meant less sincerely, she jumps in and her thin arms land around Wendy and another squadmate. "Happy Midwinter's Feast!" she gushes to the collective flinch of Squad Twelve, and from anyone else with an equally angelic voice and cheerful tone, you would've thought this to be genuine. "I hope you're all enjoying the food."

An atmosphere of fear takes hold there, and although Penelope looks clearly hostile - as does Wendy and the others - she schools her reaction carefully, and you can hear her ask in a cautious voice, "What are you doing here?"

The elven mage makes a pouting expression that would've seemed cute coming from anyone but her. Actually, it seems cute despite coming from her, and that's what makes it all the more terrifying. "Can't I pass along my season greetings to a fellow Caldran mercenary apprentice?" asks Elizabeth, all smiles. "We live in the same building. The same floor, even."

"...Happy Midwinter's Feast," Wendy mutters, her words diplomatic but her tone coated with clear reluctance. She's on edge, as is everyone else. One of the members of Squad Twelve, in fact, is literally trembling a bit, making you wonder exactly what Elizabeth did to those four all those months ago. You've only ever seen the aftermath.

"That's the spirit!" Elizabeth cheers, going so far as to squeeze into a seat as if they're all best friends. They almost certainly physically recoil a bit from Elizabeth sitting down with them, but none of them seem to have the courage to leave or ask her to leave. Looking over the table, Elizabeth asks in an almost friendly tone, "How's the turkey?"

"Good," one of the girls replies tersely after it seems like no one is going to reply, although keeping her tone barely respectful.

Elizabeth acknowledges this with some humming sounds even as she works on the slice of turkey. "Is it your first time having something like this?" she asks between bites. When all she gets are a few hesitant nods in response, she quips, "I suppose you can really get used to this. Wouldn't you like to have this on the family dining table everyday?" It's almost amazing how much she doesn't sound sarcastic.

As the members of Squad Twelve attempt to master their emotions, looking at each other in anxiety and uncertainty and fear and anger, it is Wendy who speaks: "Not everyone has dinner everyday." Her tone surprisingly even, she is perhaps slightly less thrown than the other three. Or at least, affected differently. Perhaps being mauled half to death by a gigantic monster puts things into perspective. Stony-faced, she reaches over and takes a piece of turkey, almost indifferent - or at least daring - in front of Elizabeth.

Almost surprisingly, Elizabeth smiles at this display of honesty - maybe even bravado - and there's almost a hint of approval there. "Good." And before anyone can be terribly offended by that, she continues, "That means you know what you need to do. For you and the people you care about. Plenty have certainly lived and died understanding far less."

"Death doesn't care much about understanding," Wendy agrees, a little strangely. One of the girls shoots her a somewhat concerned, confused look. Presumably they'd discuss it later.

Satisfied, Elizabeth finally stands up from where she squeezed into the table. "Well," she declares after finishing the last bite of her turkey, "you girls work at it, then. Enjoy the food while it lasts. What comes afterwards is up to you." And, with that, she leaves a discomforted table behind as she makes her way back to you and the others who have been watching with varying degrees of trepidation.

"Was there a particular need to do that?" Aphelia demands of Elizabeth with a hint of exasperation when the smaller elf finally returns.

"What?" Elizabeth smiles innocently. "It was fun. Don't pretend it wasn't."

Lucille awkwardly exchanges a glance with Melanie, the latter of whom looks like she's struggling with mixed feelings. Finally, the elf turns to her Treiser compatriot as she gives a small smile, says, "We'll see you later in town, Aphelia?"

"Perhaps," Aphelia allows, and nods her farewell as Lucille and Melanie finally detach from the group, presumably to return to their table.

Watching Lucille leave, Elizabeth remarks to Aphelia, "You know keeping her around just means more idiots pestering you, yes?" You are reasonably sure that "her" in this case means Lucille.

"I know of no such thing," Aphelia states evenly.

"Well," the smaller elf snorts, "they certainly aren't around for her company."

Aphelia sighs, and although she makes no effort to leave, nor does she make an effort to respond to Elizabeth. Feeling awkwardly out of place here, you make a safe escape to what you think are safer shores: Where Squad Four was previously congregated, Sieglinde and Azalea are still in their own conversation, having previously watched your interactions with Melanie, Penelope, and Mia. They seem to have relaxed a little, although you still get the feeling as you approach that the two don't seem entirely comfortable with each other.

Azalea, for her part, seems relieved when she sees you approach. "Neianne!" she greets cheerfully, inviting you to sit back at your own table. "Sieglinde and I were just talking about you."

"M-M-Me?" you stammer, suddenly feeling incredibly self-conscious.

The dryad giggles with a hint of mischief. "Nothing terrible, I assure you. Sieglinde speaks very highly of you, and I don't think she's particularly easy to impress."

"I try not to hold any expectations," Sieglinde says coolly, but doesn't offer much else.

There is a lull in the conversation. "H-Have you met b-before?" you ask, looking between the two of them.

"Oh, once or twice, I think?" Azalea suggests.

"Twice," Sieglinde clarifies. Then, as if trying to fish for any compliment, she adds, "She's a nice person."

"Why, thank you," Azalea smiles. "And you're certainly very sharp, in many senses of the word."

"I do my best," Sieglinde says with a shrug, seemingly deliberately ignoring the double meaning.

Azalea's smile remains intact, but her eyes are losing the twinkle you're accustomed to seeing there. "To the letter," Azalea agrees.

Sieglinde's expression does not quite change at that, but after having spent as much time around her as you have by this point, you think you can detect a certain...cooling about her that's not normally directed at you. Sieglinde is a quiet person normally, but she's also not precisely unfriendly or unreceptive, at least if you take the time to seek out her company. Her stoicism has a thoughtful feeling about it. A willingness, at least, to listen and to offer her own thoughts. Here and now, though, Azalea is on the receiving end of none of that. Simply a blank, off-putting calm.

It's a strange feeling, being effectively caught between two people whom you're normally quite friendly with, behaving so coldly to one another. There isn't even an outward hostility involved. It's more like...a failure to reach each other in any meaningful sense.

Or perhaps you're simply imagining things.

"Wh-Where did you two m-m-meet before?" you ask, feeling compelled to keep the conversation moving.

Sieglinde considers this for a moment, before answering with the air of someone certain of being uncertain. "The Fevefer wedding, if memory serves," she suggests.

Azalea instantly shakes her head. "The engagement party. I was too ill to go to the wedding."

You wince slightly in sympathy; dryads are hearty enough that most illnesses have very little effect at all beyond discomfort. Anything capable of rendering one - even a child - unable to travel was likely to have been very serious indeed.

"Ah, yes," Sieglinde says, not seemingly having made that connection. "I remember now. You didn't miss that much. One noble Caldran wedding is much like any other after a point." She says this with an air of tentative commiseration, as if Azalea might understand how tedious such functions get.

Azalea is uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. "I was looking forward to that wedding quite a lot, actually. They hired Forva to do the flower arrangements, and I was very excited."

"...Ah," Sieglinde intones. She stays silent for an excruciating half-second. "The flowers were very nice," she offers, finally.

"Yes, friends who went told me they were," Azalea nods in a way that seems like it's meant to be agreeable, but mostly comes off as strangely neutral.

"F-Forva?" you ask, uncertainly.

"A gardener famous for amazing flower arrangements," Azalea said. "She's retired now."

A silence descends after that, unbroken until Azalea pulls her smile all the way back on and says, politely, "Oh, I think I see Alice!" she exclaims, craning her neck to see the girl across the crowd. "If you'll excuse me? I hope you both have a very good time."

Sieglinde bows her head slightly in a respectful - if restrained - farewell, while you wave a little feebly and watch her go. You fidget in place for a moment or two longer, allow Azalea to safely leave earshot, before asking Sieglinde in a voice that's little more than a whisper, "Do you...n-not like Lady Charmaine very much?"

Sieglinde blinks, looking honestly a little surprised: "Hm? No, that's not it." She thinks on it for a moment longer, before deciding, "We are...merely on different planes of thoughts, I suppose. She tries very hard to become a type of person she wants to be, and it's the type of person I don't feel a strong connection to. That's all."

"I...g-guess I understand," you murmur, a little uncertainly. The two of them are extremely different.

The feast in the Great Hall continues, but it's getting to the point where most of the students have eaten their fill. Some are beginning to leave, perhaps to retreat to the relative quiet of their rooms or - more likely - heading into town to continue the celebration and the feasting. As far as you can tell, Elizabeth is the only member of your squad heading into town. Aside from her, there's also Lucille, Melanie, and Vesna. You think you see Azalea leaving the Great Hall as well with a group of friends, a fairly good sign of where she'll be going. By contrast, Sieglinde and Stephanie will be staying in...and, now that you think of it, Aphelia hasn't told you what she'll be doing, and you don't spot her around the Great Hall.

Given all the studying and the training - the former for you in particular in recent weeks - you wouldn't mind spending some quality time with most of your squad, but you've also never been to a Midwinter's Feast in a town as large as Faulkren, being a village girl yourself. And there's certainly more people heading out tonight than those staying in...

[x] Go to town for Midwinter's Feast festivities.

[x] Stay at the Academy for some peace and quiet.