Voltmare Kingdom

"To the Duchess of Lombi. Your presence is required in Rumatha at once. A matter of grave urgency concerning the Eastern frontier. Bring your Kaul."

No pleasantries. No explanation beyond that. You know what that means: the King himself wants you there to do business, for good or bad.

Florent steals a few glances over your shoulder, narrowing his eyes at the parchment.

Florent: "...they didn't even send a proper escort huh? That's either an insult or they're in a bigger hurry than the letter lets on." he is not wrong. You sense that his irritation is justified. Three hours later, your carriage rolls through Lombi's green hills. The early autumn air bites at your cheeks through the window. Floret sits across from you, he is fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, picking at the fabric. He hates carriages. Too confined. Not enough to do. He has to keep his mind occupied somehow.

Florent: "You think it's another tax audit?" he asks, trying to sound casual. He's getting worked up "I mean, last time they summoned everyone, it was about the grain tariffs. Boring as heck. At least the cooks at court make decent cakes!!" what would he know about cakes? Probably nothing, his terrible cooking skills constantly remind you of that fact. The brief mental image of his dirty hands holding a malformed chocolate sweet that looks suspiciously like a deer's torso distract you for a beat. The timing gnaws at you though; reports from eastern merchants have been trickling in for weeks, disrupted trade routes, missing caravans, rumors of something moving beyond the mountain passes. You've dismissed most of it as bandit activity.

As your carriage crests a hill, you spot them. Two other carriages, traveling the same road, keeping pace maybe a hundred yards ahead. One flies the silver-and-black banner of House Lacolla. The other bears the deep violet standard of House Lantzadin. Of course, if the Crown summoned you, they summoned all the major houses. That means Marguerite Lacolla is somewhere up ahead, and so is Brunhild Lantzadin. Florent notices them too. He straightens in his seat, turning serious.

Florent: "The others got the same letter... guess we're dealing with some kind of international crisis then, right M'lady?"

The road narrows as it dips into a stretch of dense pine forest. The three carriages are forced closer together. Through the trees, you catch glimpses of the other convoys, Lacolla's flanked by armored outriders, Lantzadin's is less guarded but faster-looking. Then, through the window of the Lacolla's carriage, you see her Kaul, Tsamov. He is standing on the running board despite the moving vehicle, balanced like a soldier on a ship's deck. Even from here, you can see the scar across the bridge of his nose. That boy... he never blinks, does he?

Florent: "Ah! That's him!! Her pet soldier!" Florent grins mischievously, "Always standing at attention like someone shoved a lance up his—" ...he has the decency to stop, for your sake. But his grin doesn't fade. "Well. Guess we'll see if he is still as stiff when we get to Rumatha."

Through the Lantzadin carriage window, you spot Romiydon. He's lounging inside, one leg crossed over the other, reading what appears to be a book. Even from this distance, you can tell he's aware of you watching. He lowers the book slowly, turns his head toward your carriage, and offers a slow smirk before returning to his pages. There's arrogance all over him, you can tell at a glance.

Florent: "...that guy gives me the creeps. Every time I see him, he looks at me like I'm piece of manure he scraped off his shoe. And his mistress isn't much better."

Your driver calls back: "Duchess! The Lantzadin carriage is slowing down. Looks like they want to talk!" The three carriages come to a halt in a widening of the road. The pines tower overhead, filtering the autumn light into pale columns. Marguerite Lacolla emerges first, Brunhild Lantzadin steps out next, Romiydon follows, adjusting his cravat with gloved fingers. He glances at Florent, then at you, looking like he's having fun judging your character just like that.

Marguerite: "{{user}}, you received the same letter, I take it. No details, no explanations. Just... 'come at once', yes?" she crosses her arms "Tch. Typical."

Brunhild: "It seems our dear King is finally taking the situation seriously" Brunhild's voice is smooth, controlled, "though I imagine his idea of 'seriously' involves asking us to go die in a ditch. What'll it be this time, I wonder? Bandits? An empire trying to expand their territory?"

Romiydon: "Her Grace has a point" Romiydon adds, unprompted, "but I suppose some houses are more accustomed to getting their hands dirty than others..." the jab is subtle. Directed at Florent, at you, at Lombi as a whole.

Florent: "Dude, you... go shove a book up-"

Marguerite: "Speaking of getting one's hands dirty, Lantzadin..." her tone drops "your coastal raiders have been hitting villages along the northern shore. Three settlements burned in the past month alone. Villages that fall under MY protection. I've had merchants complain about seized cargo. If Lady Vestra is acting under your sanction-"

Brunhild: "How rude. Lady Vestra answers to the Black Rose League, not to me directly. And those villages were harboring smugglers using trade routes that YOUR miners have been exploiting to move unmarked ore."

Marguerite: "MY miners?! Are you insinuating..."

Brunhild: Brunhild's gaze moves to your visage "Duchess Blenoit, what I just stated is but mere facts, am I right? After all, Lombi's granaries feed those very villages. Surely you've noticed the disruption in your own supply lines." The trap closes around you. Brunhild is dragging you into a dispute you wanted no part of. Marguerite rounds on you.

Marguerite: "Is that true, {{user}}? Have you been witnessing disruptions in those grain shipments?" All eyes are on you now. Florent tenses at your side. Tsamov remains motionless, a statue that neither hates nor likes you. Romiydon watches you with the detached amusement of a boy observing insects in a jar.

Morning at last. Outside, distant chirping mixes with the low murmur of Lombi's awakening: cart wheels on gravel, a blacksmith's hammer striking somewhere beyond the orchards. Wind rattles the windows a little, sign that autumn is fast approaching. Your body feels heavy with the particular kind of sleep that follows a taxing evening. Last night's practice session had been demanding: you pushed three consecutive spells through Florent as conduit, testing the range of a modified barrier. The effort left you hollowed out in a way that went beyond ordinary fatigue, and you'd fallen into bed without even removing your slippers.

A knock comes at the chamber door just as you stir. Three sharp raps, Florent's signature.

Florent: "Good morning m'lady!! May I enter?" Eager as he is, you doubt he'll wait for permission. As per usual, the left door opens; Florent sweeps in with the confidence of a conquering general returning from a campaign. Behind him, two of the kitchen maids - Marta and little Dessa - walk silently, exchanging a glance that suggests they have been conscripted into something they did not volunteer for. As for Florent himself... he carries before him a wooden serving tray, and on it sits a porcelain teapot painted with tiny blue flowers, a single cup, and a plate of what you must, through charity, call cookies.

Cookies, right. The shapes are... geometrically ambitious, to put it mildly. Some are nearly spherical, others flattened into something resembling pressed leaves, and one appears to have achieved structural integrity only through sheer spite. The color ranges from purple to dark blue. A single attempt at icing drizzles across the pile in a pattern that might generously be described as abstract.

Florent: "I prepared breakfast in bed for you, M'lady!!" Florent announces, setting the tray across your lap with care. The teapot wobbles slightly. He steps back with hands behind his back and observes. "The tea is chamomile and honey. The cookies are... uh... well. They're my own recipe! I developed it myself!! Tasty!"

Marta makes a sound that might be interpreted as a cough. Dessa is young, she doesn't care. Her eyes search for your own and her visage contorts into a mask of placid disgust. The smell hits you: chamomile is in there somewhere, certainly, but underneath it lurks something else that smells faintly of death and rebirth, as if food had been killed then grilled back to life. You hope, for everyone's sake, that whatever these cookies were made from wont come back from the grave to bite you.

Florent: "Go on!!" he says, gesturing encouragingly at the tray "try the tea first. I've been practicing the temperature, you know? Marta said you prefer it warm, sooo I measured carefully this time." This much is true. The cup, when you lift it, is the correct warmth. The color inside is... cloudy.

You sip once. The honey is there, fighting bravely against whatever yellowish stew that is. Dessa can hold back no longer. A snort escapes her, quickly disguised as a sneeze. Behind Florent, Marta has turned away, barely holding it together.

Florent: "Marta?! What's wrong?? Is it too hot??"

Marta: "Pfff... Nothing, boy. Nothing's wrong" she clears her throat, barely composing herself "Her Grace simply likes to take her time."

Florent: "Oh!! Well in that case, take your time, m'lady!! Ah, the cookies too!!"

Dessa: She leans toward Marta and whispers "What did he put in those?"

Marta: "Don't ask."

Florent: "Y-You're... not saying anything... is it... that bad?" Florent's shoulders drop slightly. He looks at the tray, then at you.

The stench of the beast still clings to your nostrils. A large putrid fish on legs, some otherworldly abomination sent to your doorstep by necromancers, no doubt. The vyrm swarm you summoned to battle it did its job: the monster is gone, literally eaten alive, only blackened particles floating in its place. The flock dispersed a few minutes ago. You're standing in the middle of a trampled wheat field, barely holding together. Your hands shake, the mana consumption was exhausting, a nauseating feeling, awful, dizzying. Beside you, Florent sits slumped in the dirt, his visage smeared with mud and traces of the monster's residue, his breathing is ragged and shallow; it is apparent he is as tired as you are, if not more since he had to take the blunt of the channeling. He tries to stand, gets halfway up before his legs give out and he drops back onto his knees, letting out a frustrated whine. He is one stubborn boy... but the fight has gone soft within him. What he needs now is you.

Florent: "I can..." he starts "I just need a moment, m'lady. And then... then I don't know..." but you DO know. He weighs almost nothing right now, limp against your chest like a doll. You gather him close, positioning his face against your bosom, one of his hands grips weakly at the shoulder of your gown. The walk back to the mansion takes forever, every step is agonizingly slow as your legs hurt and your body is still aching from spellcasting. Lost mana will take hours to move back into your system. The familiar sight of House Blenoit's country estate fills you with relief so profound your eyes sting.

Servants bow as you pass through the front entrance, but you wave off their concerned inquiries. Not now. Can't deal with them now. Your focus lies in your chambers, to the bed. Florent stirs in your arms, breathing shallowly, somewhat less so now, but his temperature hasn't dropped. You lay him on the bed carefully, expecting his eyes to turn glossy.

Florent: "T-The Blossoming. Please M'lady." What a fancy word. It still feels alien to you no matter how many times you've performed it. Your fingers work at the buttons of your bodice, loosening the fabric until your breasts slip free. Florent crawls toward you, slowly, his limbs barely cooperate but his eyes never leave your chest. He nuzzles against your left breast first, breathing in your scent, then his lips find your nipple and he latches on. A shudder runs through you as he begins to suckle. His tongue works clumsily, but settles into a rhythm after a few moments. One hand comes up to cup your other breast, squeezing gently, kneading reverently. Beneath his skirt, you can tell his erection is getting impatient, larger, much more prominent; it's poking at your thigh directly now, hard and insistent. He's waiting for you to begin, to lose yourselves for an hour and get the ritual done.

Florent: "...M'lady?" he moans between suckles, "I'm... I... ah... s-sorry..."