CHAPTER 1: HIGHLY RESPONSIVE TO PRAYERS, or A FAMILIAR FEELING OF FAILURE

She had summoned a familiar. She had done it: at long last, she had proven she was capable of true magic, which, curiously enough, is the non-explosive kind. No, not really. That had happened not, save maybe in her delusions of grandeur wherein she lived up to her le Blanc heritage. For her familiar, for all her bluster on that day to Kirche & Co, came to be… a hat.

It began on that placid (by itself) field that had borne witness to so much, too much, really, over the years. To much jeering (a given), cheering (in a daring sort of way, or perhaps they were confused? Or, most disturbingly, the cheerers were given to certain... fixations... of the... "pleasurable sort" from being the roots and recipients of rage), and peering (through the inevitable smoke) mixed together, Louise had cast her familiar spell. At the center of it all, its visage poking through the grayness, her familiar appeared. Her familiar. Yes. A hat. No matter the smoke, it was not something worthy of cries of anguish, worthy of a conqueror, like a great beast astride a bloody battlefield. (Louise had rather strange ideas about her le Blanc heritage at times; such it is to have the Heavy Wind as a mother.)

No, instead of anguish at Louise's success, others had then resumed the three -eerings (with some definitely confused now, perhaps at each other this time), along with some glaring to calm down this time from Colbert to the students. Cries of "there isn't anything, really!" and "as expected of the Zero Louise!" and "what a magic TRICK, Zero!" were commonplace (save for the last cry, which was only somewhat common- it was diluted in count as it came in different forms, mostly lacking the "magic" part, as that is fairly common as well and not notable in and out of itself; when it was said, it was mostly as a preemptive riposte directed toward one stated Zero), and perhaps even more intense than the daily reminders thrown at Louise of her null status. Colbert silenced them with a sequel glare (the second glare, glare two, of a hard day's glaring: glare harder), but he had this hesitating, lost look about his face Louise saw below his usual facade (insofar as Louise knows, for the facade that he purportedly exposes around the hardworking Louise at her studies is merely a facade for that man's other facade hiding his Flame Snake self heritage; truly, Colbert possesses hidden depths, and is on, so many levels, full of irony, even unnoticed. A master of irony, he is).

He looked to her in utter disappointment- that was it; that was the look. So many hours of her had spent after class studying, asking questions, learning more- being a theoretically good student… so now, that disappointment of Colbert's bit into her. Louise could only hope it was disappointment in her failure, not her personally, but honestly… what was the difference? Especially at this point.

She had wanted to try again, but could not bring herself to ask. All that was left was to plod off in failure, as befitted her "runic name" (FOR PURPOSES OF CLARIFICATION FOR THOSE HARD OF HEARING, WHEREIN HEARING IS SYNONYMOUS WITH cognitive ability, this so called "runic name," quote unquote noted, is what some would term a banterous sobriquet in use during teen-aged bonding and most, as in the others, would term as an insulting moniker; let this be known, for it is most imperative that one should not be mistaken towards believing Louise is of such recognized magical talent that she would receive an actual runic name): Louise the Zero. (Though really, only the ever-knowledgeable Who would know if, somehow, Louise in possession of an actual runic name would have an identical one or not.)

But wait, there is more!... to this. An inanimate object as a familiar is, well, was the definitive edition of unprecedented. Even a human-like failure, er, familiar, had more precedent, given Brimir's Sasha. Maybe some good could come of this?

No. The contrived excuses and wrangling redemptions had to stop. It was time to stand on her own two feet. Failure or not, it was hers! Hers! Filled with resolve, Louise had then… dropped off her own two feet to kiss a hat. It had been confusing and infuriating figuring out where to kiss the Founder-damned thing, and the cheering of some lewd sort (imagine leering, only enunciated) at her doing (of) such things only made it worse, and the whole matter stranger. (For a small sample from those discerning: "What are you...", "Oh Brimir!", "She's the Zero, this summon is so fitting!", and "Ahahahahaha! The summon fits the summoner for real after all!" were a few of the cheers that followed, hounding at Louise's mind).

At the time, Louise had only had this one resigned thought: "At least it can't get worse."

Though in her second year by now and quite a studious student given to much redundant and scholarly studying by all accounts, it seems Louise still had much to learn.

"So I had wished for a sacred, beautiful, and powerful familiar. Oh Brimir above, great Brimir up high, Founder between the heavenly clouds in the sky, unmatched Brimir-Founder- thank you so much for this grand gift," Louise said, plopping down into her bed and tossing her hat onto her much-abused nightstand. (It was more of a table, to be honest, and it even had chairs set up for two, but let us bear witness to further honesty here: when is Louise the Zero going to have to use those two chairs? Zero should need not even one. AJAJAJJAJAJJA ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO- Founder, those cries haunted her even now, in the sanctuary of her own room. Were there no safe spaces?)

Louise sighed and stretched out upon her bed. She wondered what was to become of her now. Was she to be expelled? Further schooling here did seem unlikely, given the lack of a real familiar. No matter the summoning or the scrawling on it that made up some likely runes, it seemed more like she had done some transmute spell terribly wrong, replacing a patch of grass with a hat. A hat... ergh. Urgh. Aggggh. Ooooh-... a mistake.

Her family, no matter the influence, would not be able to keep her in either, no? Rules may be bent, but not exactly broken if one is working (within) the system. Le Blanc de la Valliere or not, how was some headgear, no matter how fine, to be passed off as a familiar? Even an idiot commoner would have worked better.

Pulling herself up to stare at her hat, Louise found herself growing angrier and angrier. Why her? Truly, why her? What had she ever done to deserve this, other than sometimes being a conceited jerk, which really is not that bad, and is not it simply all others overreacting, or their fault for trying her? And really, was not her family powerful, noble, and even magnanimous to the peasants? Was she not always full of a drive to succeed, was not she always trying her best? Was it not enough that she was already short and otherwise ill-endowed?! Why bring this all upon her; was it some cruel joke from above?!

"Why!? Why me?!" Louise shouted as she went mad, nay, absolutely insane with rage. This was not her everyday rage at being called Zero, no. This was a newer form of rage, an innovation in the field of rage studies that would be sure to impact- nay, to disrupt- the whole rage industry. It was... the type of rage that burns up in a few moments and then evolves on its own into a cold, calculating rage wherein whatever object(s) causing the rage face(s) a fittingly cold and calculated revenge plotted to the point of being overly complicated such that the aforementioned object(s) might be confronted and informed of their status of being object(s) of rage before a general revenge is taken in a painful, violent, and final manner. The only issue was- well, there was no particular object for Louise's rage. There was no one, as in, no one object for her to blame, for the most part, so her earlier resolution to not take excuses and whatnot for herself all conspired together to form a committee for the inducing of some ridiculous urge to inflict pain upon herself in a ritual of flagellation similar to religious ways, only with less refinement, took control, no, absolutely seized control of Louise. She stomped her feet on the floor, shooting stray hay into the air.

That hay- that hay that would have been for the familiar. What a waste now.

Louise's anger progressed until it reached the point where she was smashing her head against her wardrobe (less refinement… yes, well, correct that to significantly less now, unless a certain culture has an art form revolving around or otherwise linked to this "headbanging").

Now typically, when these matters (these matters being rather intense flagellations or just-as-terrifyingly-and-or-amusingly-inimical equivalents) transpire, there is somewhat of an exposition in the "here" to "there" point, with plentiful reflection and spiritual whatever-you-will, but, with more frankness forthcoming, it must be said that Louise simply smashed her head against the wardrobe because she did. Because, that is why. Because. It is indeed not actually so surprising when the facts are taken into account, given her relentless(ly entertaining) rage over the smallest matters. Perhaps that is the reason the Zero is teased so despite her ability to cause explosive-natured pain to any irritants, but this is a digression, neither here nor there. What is important is that Louise's smashing of her head against her wardrobe roused the hat from its slumber of… ah, being a hat.

"Oi, what's that noise? Keep it down; can't you see I'm trying to sle… be a hat here?"

Louise stopped her headbanging for a moment. "What? Am I hearing things?"

"Must be going a little too hard," she mumbled and shrugged before reaching her head back for another hit of the "good stuff" (i.e., head smashing).

"No, you're not hearing anything except this right here," the hat said while jamming a sausage-like-cloth-like hat-finger toward itself. "I'm a hat, and I talk. Is that really so surprising? Jeez Louise, it's the current year. Need you be apprised of that, that it is the CURRENT YEAR? Whatever that may be in this weird mumbo jumbo fetishist juju totem-constructing tribal backwards land I'm now in, it is very much so the current year... and people are still against sentient hatkind. I cannot believe this. With all due severity, I've feelings, just like you, and I should note that I can feel the sound of your head smashing. It's loud and it's all vibrating everything here, there, and everywhere about. Now keep it down, pinkhead mage thing. I'm a real man's man, a true gentleman's hat of a hat here, and I need to rest up to regain my strength and fashion-ability."

Louise stared for the shortest amount of time that might be so considered staring.

Louise then resumed her headbanging apace.

"Why?! Did?! This?! Happen?! To?! Me?!" she said between smashes. Sporadically, she would also stop to pant and resume smashing following a combined shrugging-twitching motion which would see her head hit by one of her two shoulders, or, in some truly inspiring cases, both at once.

Eventually, the pinkhead mage thing tired herself out, or rather, exceeded her admittedly-impressive pain tolerance and fell to the floor, her head smashing some more, but this time against the finest quality cherrywood crafted by the best woodsmiths (no, not some low class carpenters: woodsmiths, they are; and in fact, so fine were their workings that no woodsmiths may be found in Tristain any longer. Their ability to work wood was so great such that an equally great purge quietly took place, with the nobility suspicious of the woodworking of the ostensibly working class smiths being so grand and not wishing to possibly admit more to their ranks) in Tristain who were specifically commissioned at no small cost to put together this exquisite, litotes-worthy (especially considering the expense) finish to an already-luxurious room- and such their quality did show still, despite all the time since the building of the building that was the Tristain Academy of Magic, this was still literally a figuratively top-tier floor (the Academy is quite tall, actually, and it has, literally, in sense two, thousands of floors, most of which are above the lowly rosy gnat Louise's quarters); why, the wood was even better than the wood on the wardrobe, though maybe that was due to the recent physical trauma inflicted upon it by a particular pinkie's frenzied cranial assault upon the furniture-slash-closet misnomer-in-purpose-(at-the-very-least)-if-not-etymologically, and not simply just solely the wood having a great, possibly-magical, possibly-mundanely-well-designed resistance to decay and general attrition over the years.

The hat hopped on over to Louise and leaned over her.

"I didn't mean 'keep it down' in such a literal way," the hat's looming voice called. Louise only groaned a response in response.

"You… are you OK?"

"No," Louise responded.

"Very well. I was only checking. Only being responsible here. I'm no doctor, but I'm not too surprised by your answer."

When Louise had finally managed to awaken an hour or so later (quite hardy, she is; maybe all the explosions during magical training really did train something?), she yawned and indulged in the time-tested tradition of hoping, "Hey, maybe that was all a dream?" for a half-second before turning over in her bed and then popping her eyes open and screaming upon receiving new information that invalidated the mistaken belief it was all a dream, really, and that indeed, no, it was not a dream, not at all, but something somehow far worse than losing control of one's body and having a fantasy world unfold before your very eyes within your very, one and only, unconscious.

"So you awaken once more... at long last," the hat before her eyes said. "I must say, it was most difficult bringing you onto your bed."

"Are you calling me fat?"

"No; I only implied that. Or should I say, 'That was the implication, but now...' No. Stop. Cease this. This is progressing to be far too complex. Let me just clear up any misunderstandings now, before they spiral out of control. Allow me to simply say, for the record, for posterity: yes, I, this hat before your eyes, do solemnly state that I indeed believe that you are of a girth greater than usual. You are fat, yes. Heavy. Welterweight ratio. "

Louise was shaking with rage more and more as the hat somehow spoke. Actually, she was about to fly (of course, not literally, unless that is meant figuratively, for despite all her best attempts to both conduct magic, including flying, and to take all injunctions literally, as, if you take the liberty of recalling, the useless Zero cannot even fly) into another level of debilitating rage, but some freak (in cause at least, but not too surprising, to be sure) headache struck.

"My… Brimir…Founder... oh… my… head… hurts."

"Smashing a part of one's body against a wardrobe has been known to cause pain to the aforementioned body part."

After much gasping and cold sweat, Louise spoke up again. "How did you move me onto my bed?"

"I'm magic," the hat said. "Pure magic right here."

The hat jumped and did a five second little cutesy-cake jig, twisting about. "I must say though, it was a difficult task, even for my not-inconsiderable magic. It is most fitting, that pink hair of yours- you humans all have flesh the color of pig, but you, you proceed above and beyond in determination to emulate a full swinery."

"This must be a daydream and I must have been sleepwalking to get this head pain," Louise thought. "Or… something…"

"No, that it is not," said the hat. "And good Lord, even your mind speaks loud, too, I must say. If I were still attempting to acquire typically but not always nocturnal rest-... hathood here, I say, I would be..."

Louise, having blocked out the hat's currently running empty talk and having reached her Brimir-the-Founder-damn-it-what-the-fire-and-brimstone-location-is-happening-at-this-very-moment threshold for the day, only blinked at the reading of mind broadcasts. Rather than continue down this road of sensible ignorance, Louise then sat up and sent off waves of unfounded imperiousness.

"OK fabric thing, I am Louise Francoise le Blanc de la Valliere. You are my familiar. You will serve me."

"Your name is actually Louise?" the head adornment muttered. "Eh, wow, so, uh, familiar... huh? What's the proof? I don't know you at all."

"Proof? Oh, you want proof? Against all odds, you're clearly intelligent, aren't you? Don't you remember that binding ceremony?!" For the briefest second, Louise had been hopeful-going-on-excessively-delusional once more, happy, actually, that maybe she really did have some sort of magic if this summoned hat was magical (no, make that "magic," just magic; pure "magic" alone, he had said, had he not?), when the hat seemed to have crushed that hope. Her anger rose again, fighting against her headache.

"That? Eh, don't remember. Must have been asl- acting as a non-active yet exceedingly fine piece of head fashion does in the in-between times at that time."

Louise grabbed the hat and shoved her hand onto him. "See this?! This here is the proof! This jumble of markings is a familiar rune!"

There was indeed some assorted random markings across the hat.

"Oh, uh... I'm a hat. I'm sorry, but I can't see."

Louise, breathing hard, stopped and then started cackling madly. Yes, that much so; she was cackling so madly, in fact, simply cackling did not cover it. She was not only cackling, but cackling... madly.

"What? What is it you find of such levity to the point of laughing in a rather unhinged manner, strawberry girl?"

"I'm sitting on my bed arguing with a hat. OK, hat?"

"Cease and desist with the practice of calling me hat. I've a name, proper nomenclature, you know."

Against (the) better judgment (of those other than Louise, apparently), Louise continued down the rabbit hole to madder than a hatter and full of rabbits land. "OK, hat: what's your name? OK?! Tell me of yourself."

"My name is 帽子は偽事. But you can just call me 帽子."

"Boushiwanisekoto?" Louise asked. "What a strange name. Strange name for a strange thing, then. Why, I can't imagine that name being grammatically correct, even."

"Nomenclature does not necessitate sensibility, le Blanc- wait... ignore this prattle. Focus on what is more so important. As I said, 'you can just call me-'"

"Hat? Yes. I'm just going to call you Hat."

The hat somehow looked angered. It was getting to be as angered as Louise, actually. Quite a feat- though maybe the hat was just a fine example of possessing a superlative ability to hold in and suppress anger, and now the floodgates had overtopped. (Maybe. One can never be certain in life, and a state of indefiniteness can allow great mobility interaction-wise.)

"Fine then. That's fine by me. Almost as fine as myself, actually. I'll just not tell you of myself, then."

"You're a hat, what's there to hear anyway? Hat. Hatty hat hat."

Hat ruffled its grand finery in more anger, hopping a slight bit but coming down hard. "I've already been torn from all I know, essentially kidnapped, and you decide to act like a child to one faced with such horror?"

"Hat. Hat, hat, hat! Hat!" Louise yelled quite audibly- shaking the room's finely crafted wood foundations/floor/that wood right there, right below, you are aware, or should be, of this: that wood, that which is stood on. (Just be aware, it really is quite good wood, but her scream was really something; really something, to counter, so, disbelieve any who may say otherwise regarding the quality of this wood. It is the finest there can be, no questions regarded, let alone taken.)

Outside the room, one red headed bust monster and a glasses donning book predator stood. "You know Tabitha, I even put off spending another passionate night with another entranced boy to come here and tease Louise while I could, but I feel kind of sorry for her now. Let's not bother her."

Tabitha only nodded.


A note from the scrivener:

Esteemed audience,

This was test

Best regards,

I, the scrivener; the one who scrivens