To Monkey999Boy: Yes, they all deserve happiness! We can all expect good endings for all of them… maybe. Maybe.
Today is August 28! August 28 is my birthday! Yahoo! As a birthday blessing gift, please be showered with bad puns and dramatic tension! No, but seriously. I wanted P is for pun to be uploaded on my [REDACTED] revolution around the Sun so I half-apologize for this tardiness.
This is also 30 pages long, by the way.
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P is for pun. There's a 99% chance of punstorm and it's coming right at ya.
Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, a determined warrior, bursting with hyper light determination that can send the most evil of villains running away, named Shovel Knight told many puns, both good and bad in quality!
/*Flying Machine*/
"You eat PAIN for breakfast." He told the French flyboy while wearing one of his stupid grins and holding a tiny croissant in his tiny hand. Propeller Knight only laughed along. 'Pain' is French for 'bread'.
"You lift my mood! Tell us more." Propeller Knight chuckled and discreetly elbowed his unamused German friend. "Hey, Albrecht, why aren't you laughing? Our petit ami here is well known for his penchant for good jokes!"
"Hmph." The Hoverhaft crossed his arms. "I don't laugh."
"You sound just like Polar Knight."
"Hey, hey, listen, I have one!" Shovel Knight chimed in. "What country has so much riches?"
"What is it, mon ami?"
"Ger-MONEY!" He loudly chortled at his own joke afterwards.
Propeller Knight could barely contain his French laughing, and Albrecht could barely resist the urge to smack the blue shoveler in the face. With his halberd. And fling something at him. Like the table. And his master along with the flying table. His country's official name was the Imperial German States, actually, and not exactly Germany!
"Hey, another one! What do the French call a bad Thursday? A TraJEUDI!"
The Frenchman crumpled to the floor, his stomach transmuting into titanium and his laugh actually fading into silence. He wheezed every now and then. Ten seconds in the cackling he couldn't breathe anymore, and he had to spend a full minute just to catch his breath.
"Hey, Hoverhaft, I have a joke for you." Shovel Knight giggled.
"I am unflappable." Albrecht boasted with a stern face. "Hit me vizh zhe best pun you have. Do your vorst!"
Propeller Knight wiped the happy tears off his cheeks. "If you don't laugh, lunch for everyone in the crew will be currywurst and breaded prawn. If you do, you're making me lots of pot-au-feu! Lots and lots of it! I love pot-au-feu!"
"Fine."
"Okay. So, what do German machines always tell each other?"
"I don't know. What."
"They say, 'warum, warum'!"
The letter 'w' is pronounced as English 'v' in German.
He knows it. Oh no.
Shovel Knight… that pun…! No!
Albrecht's lips were quivering, his face betraying his forced attempt to control the laughter that might explode from him. Fortunately, his trusty visor protected him, but not for long. His arms tensed, and his grip on his omnipresent weapon began to slip. It didn't take too long for him to make strangled cackling noises.
Suffice to say, Propeller Knight enjoyed a nice, nutritious, and sumptuous lunch of pot-au-feu, begrudgingly cooked by a defeated subordinate.
Everyone in the crew got pot-au-feu as well.
As for Albrecht... Propeller Knight secretly cooked currywurst for him.
/*Pridemoor Keep, Order of No Quarter-only chamber*/
"We have to heavily fortify this village…" King Knight pointed to a large town a little bit to the west of Pridemoor Keep.
"Yes." Specter Knight unhelpfully agreed, only nodding while being absorbed in his deep and personal thoughts, which may or may not have involved thinking of ways to stop accidentally flirting with women with a glance (because he knew he was absolutely stunningly handsome and just seemed to shoot evil love beams every time he just came into the presence of a girl). He just wanted to buy some of his favorite food, not attract the entire female population!
"And recapture this one…"
"Yes."
"And harvest the potato crops in this farm for food rations…"
"Yes."
King Knight raised a brow at his uncooperative undead 'friend'. "Assassinate any amount of rebel leader as long as there is at least one survivor…"
"Oh yes."
King Knight creased his brows in worry of his immediate health. The dead man floating beside him was already listening quite intently, his undead eyes staring into his own as if trying to read his entire life from birth to that very second. A slightly awkward moment transpired before the usurper pointed to the part of the map circled with red ink. "Decrease their morale by conducting a counterattack if they ever gain this area…"
"Yes."
"Gods dammit, Specter Knight! Why are you not assisting me as I require you?!"
A sharp but subtle response instantly formed in his mind. "Because you are a mortal borne of dull intellige-"
Divine light filled the dark war room, the sound of waves crashing to the shore and seven jubilant notes playing the theme of the holy yacht gods. A tiny orb of light floated from the 'heavens' and floated down to the two knights, eventually gaining the form of a certain blue-armored burrower whose secondary job is to pepper everyone's lives with bad puns, regardless of which side taken by the receiver of the pun.
Shovel Knight bravely pointed a finger to the puzzled apparition and said, with a great booming voice, "Because, King Knight, you see, he likes to go… SOUL-o!"
The pun immediately clicked for Specter Knight while King Knight lagged behind and had to stare up at the ceiling to process the joke. The downside of having clever wits and astute state of mind was that… well, really dumb puns figuratively flick a switch in his mind that immediately catapults his mood from "stoic and peaceful calm" to "infernal anger".
"Ohhhh! Soul! O!" King Knight snapped his fingers and chuckled. This only placed his teammate's mood to "homicidal rage", and it wasn't pretty.
"You miserable loaf, I will kill you when we see each other again!" Specter Knight screeched, bright yellow flames manifesting on his claws.
"See you soon!" Shovel Knight mockingly stuck his tongue out and put his hands on his hips as the holy music played. He departed the area in bright, heavenly light.
/*Pridemoor Keep again, after Tower of Fate*/
King Knight set his bucket of water on a ceiling beam while he angrily swept the floor. He grumbled curses against the king, against his enemies, against the successful revolt (which somehow won despite the combined stress and torture the Enchantress cruelly planned out), against the Enchantress, and especially against Shovel Knight.
"Curse you, Shovel Knight, for taking away my throne from me-"
The mischievous forces of physics toppled the bucket and drenched the former 'king' in sudsy water. He swore he could hear a small blue man crack a joke in the distance.
"So, you're now soaKING, huh?"
/*Iron Whale*/
Treasure Knight ominously turned around; his anchor hand nestled on his other arm. He glared at the tiny, blurry, and blue man some steps away from him.
"My gems… my vessel… my ocean-"
"Hey, I just thought of something." Shovel Knight interrupted thoughtfully. "What sea creature always screams?"
"…what."
"A WHALE!"
"… fuck you."
/*a certain lovely beach near the Iron Whale*/
Tinker Knight's attempt to surf a wave had proved to be absolutely disastrous.
Mole Knight's quake devices shook too much and Specter Knight wanted to show off his sheer telekinetic power. The result, according to three Liquid Samurai on the scene, was a tsunami.
The wave of water was over twenty meters tall. Tinker Knight happily surfed in the breaking wave, even touching the wall of water as he sped through. When he looked back at the shore, many things were happening at once.
Propeller Knight was already up and flying higher. He looked out of his own character, looking absolutely ridiculous with his Heli-Helmet's straps around his bare torso. The Frenchman looked less than perfect. Tinker Knight did not even want to recall the green shorts with little yellow fans decorating it. Aka, Midori, and Ao were calling out at the knights, gurgling something about a safe height. King Knight was dashing to them for his life, Polar Knight following closely behind. Plague Knight bomb bursted up and away, gliding chaotically through the air like the explosive avian he is. There were aquatic birds, but the alchemist wasn't exactly looking forward to be a duck that day. Mole Knight appeared out of the sandy dirt just beside the assembling Order of No Quarter. Treasure Knight just sat there on his lookout chair.
Tinker Knight glanced back at the water wall, and shrieked when he was a glimpse of a blue horned helmet. He shrieked and looked away, only to see a panicked looking apparition to his side reaching out his pitch black twig hand to him. He screeched louder, lost his balance, and fell backwards into the seawater.
Drama ensued. The engineer paddled up, but the force of the moving water brought him even lower. He looked up at the surface of the water, and the sunlight that still permeated through the clean blue water.
This is… the last time I will see light.
He closed his eyes as dramatically as he can. He was going to go out with whatever style he had.
Treasure Knight suddenly harrumphed loudly.
When the inventor opened his eyes, he was staring directly into the face, or helmet's glass piece, of Treasure Knight.
"Erright, nrr krrss of lrrfe nrrded!" Treasure Knight said, and then pulled off his helmet to breathe deep.
"Kiss of life?" Tinker Knight sat up, blinking away the salt in his eyes. "WHAT?!"
"Well, it's as if anyone wants to do that." The hoarder shrugged. "Look at them. They'll leave you dead if I found you dead. We are the Order of No Quarter and not the Order of Life Protectors."
"Where is the spooky ghost?" Plague Knight piped up shyly, pointing a green finger at the sea. "He was there, right?"
"Oh, yeah. Where did he go?" Mole Knight turned to the direction of the ocean. "Did he get washed up in the wave, too?"
"I saw him. He was washed up." Tinker Knight helpfully recalled.
The waves crashed into the shoreline, bringing along with it a beyond humiliated phantom. His normally billowy cloak was flat and wet and not billowing, betraying his small and thin body underneath. He lied face down on the sand, not making any motion whatsoever. The red and gold umbrella Polar Knight gave to him miraculously washed up on his spot and shielded him from the bright light of the sun.
"Nrr krrs of lrrfe needrd. Hrr's alrredy drrd."
"Dead knight looks deader than usual." Plague Knight cackled. "He's just a spooky ghost, hee!"
All of a sudden, their worst enemy Shovel Knight popped out of thin air. "I know what to do to wake this spook." He walked down to the motionless specter and loudly yelled into his ear. "Good job, Specter Knight! It was a real cool way to TURN THE TIDE!"
Specter Knight's shriveled claws curled immediately into a fist. A stream of water shot out of the sea and right into Shovel Knight's smug little face. The shoveler was pushed backwards and onto the sand.
"You will pay for this, you degenerate trowel." The ghost murmured into the sand.
Shovel Knight stuck out his tongue and disappeared into thin air.
There was a short moment of silence.
"Is it my fault that I have not done a thing to curb his… punslinging?" Polar Knight muttered.
/*Clockwork Tower*/
Tinker Knight fumed at the presence of the wooden stick that somehow got lodged in the delicate mechanisms of the entire Clockwork Tower, causing the said tower to halt its self-sustaining energy flow. In layman's terms: there was a stick in the gears, gears stop moving, and the lights turn off.
Tinker Knight pulled the stick out. The gears started rotating again, and in a short while, the power was back on.
Shovel Knight stood beside him all along. "You got out of a STICK-y situation there."
"I like your puns. I need some to entertain myself. Write me some puns."
/*Village*/
"No music sheets?" The Bard pursed his lips sadly.
"I'm really having a HARP time looking for music sheets, talented minstrel."
He chuckled lightly. "Oh, man, I wonder if ol' Sean thought of that." The Bard mused while idly plucking the strings of his lute.
"One of the yacht gods? OH!"
"Eeyup. He told us puns some time ago."
"You communed with the yacht gods?!"
"Dude, how do you think this happens?" He strummed his magical instrument. Violins, cellos, violas, harps, pianos, drums, bassoons, flutes, oboes, guitars, clarinets, horns, trumpets, kettle drums, tubas, saxophones, xylophones, glockenspiels, a vocal choir, a shamisen, and every other musical instrument in a full orchestra started to play an insane and impossible arrangement of Mozart's Turkish March.
"Musically, that doesn't make sense. So why don't we play it properly…"
The same composition was then played by an aggressive piano on his lute.
"That's how it actually sounds like."
/*somewhere else at an earlier time*/
The young tiny child with unkempt dark hair and specks of snow still on his head glared a threat of death with angry eyes at the other young tiny child. They were on the staircase, the former at an upper rung and the latter on the lower floor.
"Gimme my toy shovel back!" The former shouted, pointing angrily at the dark-colored shovel in the other's hand.
"I will, if you just stop STAIRing down at me like that!"
/*Plains of Passage*/
Shovel Knight fired his Flare Wand at the blue Liquid Samurai blob. The blob, now formless, drained into the dirt. The shoveler faced the Wandering Travellers.
"I'd hate to com-PLAIN, but I'm getting really hungry."
"Oh my gods it's the greatest punslinger ever!" Reize swooned.
/*Pridemoor Keep… again*/
"… so Mona and I had a date on that French flyboy's airship deck! Things were awkward, but I say so that everything went alright, hee."
"How nice of you. I never thought of you as a LOVEBIRD."
"Hee hee, that's a good one! So, where's your girlfriend?" Plague Knight smiled.
"I can't tell you because SHIELD kill me if anyone else knows where she's resting. She likes it that way."
"… you were born to pun, hee hee." He raised both of his arms up. "I LOVE IT!"
/*Stranded Ship, indefinite time after Tower fall*/
"So, did shovelry start out in winter?" Shovel Knight shrugged.
"Knowing you, I am going to assume that is a pun. I am not sure if I should laugh or not." Polar Knight replied with a low voice. "People do tend to shovel out winter's snow. Is it a joke?"
"Am I on thin ice? Hahaha!"
"Now, I am sure that is a pun." He slapped his former student as gently as he could on the back. "I am glad."
/*Village, two days after Tower fall*/
Black Knight approached Shovel Knight with brows creased. I can not believe I am forced by Shield Knight to ask this. The dark-armored shoveler tapped his friend's shoulder. Shovel Knight looked up at him with a weary and shocked look on his face.
Black Knight cleared his throat. "Good morning."
"Good morning as well, old friend."
Okay. So here's the part where I ask him the question. "Hey, do you happen to have a pun involving a piano."
"How about piaNO." Shovel Knight chuckled lightly to himself.
Black Knight narrowed his eyes at his buddy. "You know what? I can pummel you to the ground right now, and most probably I will never regret it."
/*Order of No Quarter soirée, just before Tower fall*/
Fists were banged on the table.
The drunken laughter of eight knights echoed throughout the entire evil Tower of Fate.
The Enchantress felt a small urge to zap every single one of them and leave only Specter Knight existing.
Liquid Samurai were confused as to what was supposed to happen.
The dining hall reeked of wine and curious Liquid Samurai liquor.
"I never make requests, but today I shall make an exception. Please stop with telling puns. It grinds my gears." "AHAH! He told a pun! Ghost made a joke!" "It is an expression!" "Hee hee, please tell us more!" "I just said- oh, never mind. You are all drunk. Today is not a good day." "I order you to make more puns!" "I should write these down so I can make some more jokes to the linguistics department tomorrow… does anyone have paper?" "Can you even fucking write with your claws?" "Si amusant!" "Propeller Knight, if you say something in French again, I'll fucking kill you." "Ohon. Bist du wütend?" "When the actual hell did you learn German?" "Oh, I've been trying to speak German for years already-"
Shovel Knight raised his goblet of… something.
"Shhh!" "Fuck you all, I can't hear shit!" "He's going to tell his next pun!" "Shut up!"
The Order fell into deathly silence. Mole Knight stood up to walk to Shovel Knight and take some notes. Specter Knight attempted to teleport out and be done with his business with the Enchantress, but was held in place by Mole Knight draping his mole claws over his shoulders when he almost stumbled. It was probably the only time Specter Knight sounded like he was sobbing in public.
"I named my shovel "Charges" once."
There was a collective "mhm" from the Order of No Quarter.
"So that when I cross paths with warriors and they want to fight me, I can say… 'I CAN PRESS CHARGES AGAINST YOU'!"
There was a split second of silence before everyone burst laughing.
"Credit goes to the Village Bard near Pridemoor!"
Shovel Knight never forgot his citations even when drunk.
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P is for pretty.
/*Tower of Fate*/
"The rain looks so surreal and… beautiful, despite the fact it is supposed to be frightening." Propeller Knight swished his glass of red wine and looked to his personal guard by his side. "Look, Albrecht, beauty can still come from the very heart of evil."
"I'm not so sure vhat to zhink about it. If it is evil, it is my duty to vanquish it, but seeing as ve are trapped here…"
The Frenchman sighed and grinned romantically, with half-lidded eyes. "Enough of that. Do you know what else is beautiful?"
Albrecht glared at him in bewilderment, many terrifying things coursing through his imagination. "Uhhhh… was?"
"Moi."
The Hoverhaft raised his brow at him and groaned.
Propeller Knight sipped his wine with the biggest shit-eating grin he could muster. "I am beautiful, Albrecht. Ohonhon."
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P is for potato.
He was on his second day with the French people he was going to work with indefinitely.
But even with the kind captain's reassurance, Albrecht still felt like an outcast.
The German-French exchange service started to feel like a very bad attempt for cordial friendship.
He's the new one. I heard he's from the Prussian Order of Knights.
Wasn't it Prussia that almost took over Eastern France?
Prussia is now the head state of the German Kingdom. Last time I checked, Prussia was the one that initiated the diplomatic peace talks. And they knew France would give in to their military and political power. How cunning and underhanded.
Albrecht couldn't understand French. But by the hushed tone of their whispers and with their sides and backs all turned on him, their unheard words were already crushing his heart.
He's their best. We don't know how much of our countrymen he already killed.
We have to trust the king on this. With an alliance with Germany, France will rise higher than before. That's what they said. I'll go with what the king says.
But what if their intentions are actually to annex France, but not in a military way?
That… is actually a valid reason to fear.
He just focused on the potato slices on his plate to block out the quiet conversations. He lifted his fork and curiously poked at the sliced potato, wondering if it was unfinished.
Propeller Knight already put the German as his personal bodyguard. Don't you think he should have put someone French instead?
Huh. Noblesse d'epée and their politics.
Tink tink tink tink.
Several pairs of eyes fell on the new Hoverhaft.
Tink tink tink tink.
The metal fork in his hand hit the plate repeatedly. Two wedges of the cooked potato had been mashed well in true German fashion, mixing with the green leaves and spices in his dish. Albrecht continued his ministrations until deathly silence reached his ears. No one was talking. Everyone was just staring at him.
Looks of judgment. Judgment narrowed by cultural bias. Judgment twisted the figurative knife of defeat and difference, of the fact that he was from a different place and a former enemy's German Iron Army, and of the reality that everyone else will be foreign and unfamiliar to him... maybe even hate him.
He cleared his throat, picked up his plate, and almost darted out of the dining lobby if it weren't for everyone standing up in his presence.
Propeller Knight, his helmet off for lunchtime, sauntered joyfully into the room with a tray of beef stew. He then started complaining about his men standing up despite him hammering on the house rules that no one has to bow or stand up to him and rambling about how his word was to be followed without any hesitation in his ship. He came across Albrecht, glanced at the plate in his hand, and poked at the latter's wrist.
"Are you going somewhere?" Propeller Knight questioned with a stern look.
All eyes were on his person again. "I... vas about to leave." The German half-growled.
"Pourquoi?"
Ask them about what they were doing! He almost blurted his offended and hurt feelings at his new boss for life. Albrecht just found some odd interest on the mushy potato on his plate, refusing to make eye contact with him.
After a short moment, Propeller Knight switched to his strict side and sternly ordered his men to go back to eating. He set his tray on a spot beside his new underling, and, without a smile, spoke to him.
"S'il vous plaît, come with me to ze deck for a few words, Albrecht."
And without any more words, he walked away and to the deck, suddenly moving with crisp snap and not with poised gracefulness. Albrecht had no choice but to follow him.
The captain was sitting cross-legged on the polished floor, looking out to the moving scenery below the airship.
"Fold ze zings on your back so we can talk already."
Albrecht wordlessly pushed a button on his belt, and the propellers on his back were disconnected from the delicate gears inside. He pushed the lower blades up, and then sat in a polite distance from his superior.
The Frenchman glanced up to the sky. "I'll guess. You feel uncomfortable with everyone else speaking anozher language."
His voice cracked. "Maybe. But I hear 'Prusse', 'mal'... ich komme aus Preußen. Ich schon viele-"
"It may feel uncomfortable at first, especially since our countries share very bloody history. We just started taking peaceful steps. We could have proposed marriage between our royals, but if my opinion would be taken, I zhink zat's… somezing of ze past now."
"You are-"
"Shush! Let me talk. So zhis is why he have an exchange program. I know our own delegate to your place is feeling ze same way as you do. I see zat you feel afraid and helpless with people who were once your worst enemies, but zat has passed, has it not?"
"Vhat are you saying?"
"Zhis is ze present. German-French alliance is starting to bloom after so many decades of war. I should wish for ze future instead, no? One day, here in our little ship, we'll all be great friends and zhink of ze first rocky days as a stepping stone!" He beamed happily. "So don't be so tense and doubtful, alright?"
Albrecht sighed deeply with a small smile. "Danke."
"Also, I'm curious. You crushed your potato. How does it taste like? I've never zhought of crushing potatoes."
"Is 'mash' a better vord?"
"How do mashed potatoes taste?"
"You want to know? Mash your potato!"
Later, the crew started curiously at their captain mashing his potato slice carefully. Propeller Knight then tasted a small amount of mush.
"It tastes good, you know." He mused quite loudly before mashing his entire plate of potato. "I zhink everyone should try it."
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P is for punishment.
He still felt empty inside. With no real heart beating in his chest to give life, he was unsure if he still felt alive anymore.
Looking at his past life's self at the mirror, he felt hollow and sad and pathetic, his throat still constricting at these feelings of self-pity and his hands becoming numb. He cut his hair shorter from shoulder length to just above his jaw, with trembling hands, hands that have been dexterous and precise for most of his previous life and even in the next until that night. The golden locks dissolved into thin air each time the blades of the scissors snipped. He looked a little better, with all of his hair framing his face.
How he wished he was still the little boy with crooked teeth and floofy hair with many friends and family. He quietly wished he was not this monster everyone hates. And that's why he frequently disguised himself as human, anyway. And how he enjoyed a little bit of life here and then, even with all the restrictions like never let the sun shine on your face to save energy, do not touch anyone, and many others. Avoiding garlic was also a must, but he can most certainly manage.
And there was something wrong with the image on the mirror.
He fumbled at his face, and it still was quite pale in complexion and still sharp in feature. His nose was definitely not broken. He glided his hands over the rest of his body. His shoulders were still in the right place. His back was straight and proper in posture, like how it was before his spine broke and his neck strangled and snapped in that fateful attack. His coat was smooth and free of wrinkles, and his hat was still as elegant as ever.
Wait. He narrowed his eyes at the peculiar little thing pinned to his hat's white ribbon.
What the hell was on his hat?
"Master? The flower on your hat looks lovely. It fits you!" His maidservant commented cheerfully. "Does it represent the yellow fire on your hands? Oh, and it looks like a yellow carnation… I love carnations!"
He stared at the flower with wide eyes, feeling his person and self-confidence sink deeper and deeper, the ache in his chest growing and worsening. The flower on his hat was not placed by him. That was not a part of him… and the fact that the flower looked gray than yellow-
He gasped at the reflection. He was black and white and gray, there was utterly no color on him. He looked around. The mirror frame was dark gray; the floor, instead of decayed brown, was gray; the curtains, instead of bright green, were light gray.
The world had lost its color.
He gazed back in the mirror. The 'yellow' carnation was not placed there by him.
It's me.
He heard the evil voice again, and it echoed in his mind loudly and painfully. The edges of his field of sight blackened, the shadows in his vision progressing to the middle and blinding him completely. He felt his left shoulder hit something hard. His hands became cold and numb, and for the first time in his undeath, he shivered in both pain and cold. He could faintly hear panicked calls to him, but it was too soft and too weak to overcome the cruel laughing.
I told you to stop.
Sadly, you disappoint me once again.
.
P is for panic.
The old teacher cracked his eyes open. He grimaced when his brain felt like being bombarded with powerful explosions. He rubbed his temples to alleviate the agonizing pain, and sat up from his sleeping quilt. What was going on? It's their second day of hiking through the mountain woods to go east for the Lost City, and he already got a painful migraine? Such a bad day. Will the can of spicy fish in his bag-
Why are the pupils not in the tent?
Where's his bag?
In a short moment of panic, he darted out of his bed (and groaned when his head protested the sudden quick motion), and strode out.
There they were, around a bonfire many steps away from the tent. Their faces were grimy, tired, and afraid, and they held colored rocks in their hands to create colored smoke. They gasped when they saw their teacher emerge out of their tent. The professor approached them carefully with wide eyes.
"Children, what happened to you overnight?"
The five students just looked at each other.
"Did you go out without my permission?"
"N-no, sir," one of them piped up, "we've already been lost for a long time."
"What? Today is just our second day. Where are our supplies? Gods, why are we using rocks as tent pegs? And what-"
There was a clap of thunder that seemed too close and too loud. The moon disappeared with thick discolored clouds quickly coming in. When light came back, it wasn't moonlight, but it was purple fire in a circle around the six. The five screamed and filed behind their professor when they saw the dreadful lady in blank and violet and green hovering near them.
She turned to the professor with a malicious smile and summoned a sphere of magic in her palm.
The old man kept his feet firmly planted in the ground. "Enchantress."
The witch laughed.
"Sir, isn't she… the master of the Order of No Quarter?"
"And isn't Mole Knight in the Order…?"
The Enchantress chuckled at the students and hovered down to them. "Yes, yes, I am. Precious, innocent, young mortals. I am just here to visit your teacher and tell him he has done a wonderful job."
"I have never served you." The old man confidently asserted.
The evil sorceress cocked her head at him abruptly and unnaturally, her eyes glowing unholy white. "Remember how you went from the mountain ranges to the east of the Lich Yard?"
The old man's memories flooded back, her magic showing the past weeks in his own point of view, how he tossed everyone's bags down a cliff, fed their food to wild animals, directed them to the fork north of Pridemoor…
"Don't hurt my students." He hissed.
"Oh. I was expecting fright and panic, esteemed anthropologist. However, all did not go as anticipated. There is only one thing left."
The sphere floating over her palm augmented and burned brilliant purple before sending a beam of concentrated magic to the old man himself.
One of the students, a small male, screamed at everyone to get out of the way and attempted to pull his professor away from the beam.
But the heat was too much.
He was thrown out of the way with a badly burned arm.
There was nothing on the spot where the old man was but a tiny pile of smouldering ash.
There were loud screams and cries for help.
"Go to sleep." She commanded, and then there was a flash if bright green light.
Silence and darkness.
And then, fire raging everywhere.
.
P is for passion.
Mole Knight could never stop talking about his love for the discipline of anthropology. He could gush forever about his passion for the art – how exciting it is to uncover fossils of strange creatures and have them named after you if you discovered it first, how fascinating it is to see how ancient peoples irrigated their farms with their own technology, how lovely it is to interpret the stories of dead and living societies through their cultures, how challenging it is to practice cultural relativism and prevent his biases from affecting what he wrote in his ethnographies, how exhilarating it is to observe peoples from all lands for the academia, and how the study on its own can supplement all other fields of sciences and arts. Anthropology was a holistic social science that can cater to all.
His knowledge knew no boundaries.
He knew why exactly alchemy was despised and controlled with so much scrutiny by reading the literature of courts and playwrights which all depicted alchemists frauds and mischief-bringers. His most recent ethnography of Plague Knight and his minions disproved that a little bit, however. Most of the pink birds just wanted a living and they liked the nice side of alchemy almost universally. Plague Knight himself was honestly just a tiny messy nutjob hopelessly in love with the Mona girl, too, but "malicious alchemist" kind of fits his general profile.
He knew why sorcery was banned almost everywhere he could see, as murals of ancient walls told of dark magicks that allowed humans to be drunk with evil power and desire destruction of all normality.
He knew why necromancy was a despised "dark" art. Veneration of the dead tended to contain well-wishes from loved ones, and raising the dead negated that veneration, according to universal traditions. He had a personal gripe with walking corpses too… who wants to see the rotten and decayed body of their loved ones suddenly live again, dig themselves out of their coffins (if they could even do that with a structurally unstable body), emerge from the dirt, and hug their living family and friends with a stupid, dead smile? For the love of the yacht gods, that just sounds yucky! Every time he would look at Specter Knight, he shivers a little at the thought of dead people hugging him and not out of fear of the dreaded knight with an obvious personality issue.
He knew the history of the horse men and the bird people and the hedgehog guys. And he knew very well just where they came from, and it was not from horses or birds shagging humans and or or vice versa. Despite an age-old barber's story saying they did come from unions between pure humans and pure horses or pure birds or whatever animal, they actually descend from a long line of weird evolution and magic (there were written manuscripts in the Lost City itself of a powerful evil sorceress forcing the top half of humans on the bodies of whatever animals).
Long story short, everything had its own story to tell, and it was his passion to interpret it.
Exampli gratia.
The Liquid Samurai were interesting him very much. Their language had a very different linguistic structure to that of English, and was admittedly hard to learn, but it was exciting nonetheless. He had a lovely time trying to memorize their numbers (they had two words for the number four, and one of them might also mean "death"!). They managed. The liquid people could understand his English but could never speak it, and there he was attempting to understand them. Mostly it was a very elaborate game of charades. It was hard to do ethnography of the Liquid Samurai without knowing the language, a large chunk of any culture. They were cooperative and cute little water people, and sometimes he forgot that they were deadly warriors. The red variety is extremely precise and swift in their slashes, and all of them seem to share a no-nonsense, austere personality. The green ones are lethally accurate and mobile, and exhibit astute skills in observation, which may have been amplified by their natural occupation of shooting from far away. The blue liquid people were few in number compared to the other two, possessed all of the skills of all the other Liquid Samurai races. Oddly, they also had none of the others' common personalities. They preferred to be in their compact blob forms for sleep. They were often a target of the wrath of the red samurai, too.
Also, interestingly, they appeared to have a hive memory of some sort. He had showed a painted pot at a blue liquid man (who was not interested at all in the pot). Days passed, he brought the pot again as a green blob was passing by. The blob reformed into humanoid form and inspected the pot, babbling thoughtfully and even said it remembered the pot (after intense charades).
That was the extent of his ongoing ethnography of the Liquid Samurai, however.
Maybe he could introduce the brilliant and cute little students that were on their way to the Lost City and have them conduct a practice ethnography too-
His heart was crushed again.
He was in the forests just south of the plains. His trackers had found evidence of a small wandering group that somehow had broken compasses and tent pegs. Mole Knight was one-hundred percent confident in the possibility that it was their tracks, and with the amount of tent pegs they retrieved from the forest (and the occasional squirrel) it seemed that they were running out of time.
He was sure they were smart kids. They would be shrewd enough to pack all their tent pegs, so what was up?
The trackers also noted that they saw odd smoke coming out of the forest sometimes. Once in a while, the smoke would puff black and white. Smoke signal code seemed to be involved, too.
Speaking of smoke, there was a pretty big wildfire nearby-
"Mole Knight!" One of his trackers pointed to a large mound forming on the earth. A mole's exit.
Out of the big hole emerged a panicked Mole Minion. "Sir! The students! I found them! I can't bring them here! I need help, fast!"
Mole Knight's heart pounded. "Where?!"
The minion's giant finger pointed to the direction of the fire.
The knight-anthropologist wasted no time and dove into the dirt, burrowing as fast as he could.
Fire meant soot and ash and smoke and heat.
No no no no no no
Charred flesh and bones...
Faster faster faster gods dammit
He tried pushing the image of the students choking and fainting out of his mind, but alas… he could not.
He crossed paths with the same Mole Minion.
"We're close! Ten others are also with us!"
He hissed and burrowed upwards when the minion did.
When he emerged back on the surface, all was hellfire.
He could see the tent cloths burn.
Four small bodies together in one place.
He felt something softly tap at his left foot. He looked down, and gasped when he saw one of his dear students, face down and wheezing heavily. He immediately picked him up, careful as not to touch the large blistering burn on his right arm.
"Child, are you awake?"
The poor student opened his eyes. His sight was blurry and painful and stinging.
"How many are you students and teacher?" His words came out faster than usual.
His head just lolled back, his world fading away.
"Get them all out of here!" Mole Knight barked.
He dug himself back into the earth, cradling the young boy as he dug through the earth.
Next thing he knew, he was already out of the dirt, with the other minions emerging with salvaged possessions and small bodies. He was shouting frantically for medics and magic healers.
.
P is for prank.
There would be some times when there would be bright smiles even when their stomachs ached to the point of painful growling when they had no food for days.
There was a carriage pulled by four horses that stopped by the establishment. Both boy and dog hid before a tall stack of crates, stupid smiles on his face as he pulled a bone out of his pocket. He laughed as quietly as he could while looking at the nobleman with ridiculously white garb. His shirt was white, his jabot was thankfully gray, his links were gold, his shoulder pads were black and gold, his pants were white, his boots were black, but he had white spats. It almost seemed like the poor man had nothing else to wear but white for the day, and just what was the best and funniest things to do when someone wore pure and angelic white?
Throw something dirty on him.
The man held the palm of a lady in guess what? White! Although her dress was more beige and brown instead of pure white, and she had her long hair in braided tresses at the back of her head. Her hat was wide and had a small yet useless veil. She had tons of makeup on, and it seemed to the boy that she was most probably squandering her riches on lipstick, powder, and blush.
The little boy giggled as he collected some soil in an abandoned cup, and scooped a little bit of water in a deep puddle. He shushed his puppy dog when it almost barked.
"Shh. Anthony, we're gonna throw this at the man and the woman. Ready?"
Anthony just gnawed happily on the bone.
"Okay."
The boy went around, approached the two elite, whistling and hiding the cup of mud from their sight. He saw the two scrunch up their noses at the sight of an extremely poor scoundrel kid wandering near them. When they directed their attention away, the boy tried hard not to giggle at himself and then swiftly flung the cup of mud to the back of the man dressed in angelic white.
"Putain de merde!"
The boy cackled and ran away happily, snapping his finger when he bolted by his puppy dog, and ran away merrily from the confused company of the man he just threw mud on.
There would be times he wished he could do that again.
.
P is for plant.
"What a cute flower!"
Mitzi dashed to the violet bloom, its stem right beside the giant hinge of the gates of the Lich Yard. It had partially yellow leaves, but the blooming flower was open and smelled quite strongly even with the stench of decay all around the place. The plant was alive and not shriveled, and the mere fact that its seed somehow drifted to the Village of Death, grew, and produced a beautiful flower was a cute and somehow defiant concept.
"So adorable!" The ghost maiden crouched and patted the leaves and the flower. "How did you grow up here? I bet this means something!"
The flower said nothing, for it is a flower.
"It means this graveyard can have something pretty aside from Master's embroidery!"
"How did you know about my needlework?" A cold and low voice snapped from behind her.
Mitzi promptly turned and shyly grinned before him. "Master! I'm glad you're awake now! I was scared, when you were having a nice haircut you went to sleep!"
"I am aware of that… also, that is an iris flower."
"What does it mean?"
"The flower?" He groaned. The meaning of the flower was unrelated to anything about him, dammit! Why do I have to talk about-
"No! How did it grow here?"
His mouth was slightly open, unable to respond with a smart reply. Plants needed healthy loamy soil and water and sunlight to grow. The Lich Yard had unhealthy soil as far as he knew, enchanted water, and no sunlight at all.
"Such a valid question, servant." After all the insane rambling and crying, he didn't add.
.
P is for place.
As Treasure Knight stood before the Lich Yard's gates with a bag full of money (and the shiny ones, too), he started wondering if puppies had preferences where they want to get buried.
Will Anthony like it if he had him properly buried somewhere secure but grim and horrible and basically inaccessible? Or would he like it better if he was buried somewhere surrounded by lovely wild flowers but anyone could stumble upon on?
What a hard guess. People liked to dictate where their body would lie rotting forever. The ones he had killed for bounty had probably been found and buried properly somehow, maybe including the mysterious man he never thought he would be able to kill because gods damn he was quite the slippery and shadowy fish.
But what about dogs? They have no way to communicate to their masters where they want to be buried for eternity. And Anthony was too good, just too good and ethereal for this fucking world. Such a small puppy dog not even half a year old.
Maybe communicating with ghosts was easier than trying to ascertain whether a puppy dog would prefer a flowery meadow or a secure village. He had access to that bastard of a phantom, who just happens to remind him of someone he went after in a bounty hunt.
He did manage to catch him and eventually eliminate him.
There was probably no connection between this high-bounty target and Specter Knight, he told himself. That man was a looker and a hider and Specter Knight was just a proud cur with some affinity for flair and presentation, but both are frighteningly effective.
Enough of that.
There he was, his back turned to him, idling around with his scythe in his hand.
Maybe he could ask Specter Knight if he, totally the lord of death, can commune with dead dogs. He just didn't know how much the spirit beside him was looking up at him, barking as loudly as it could to catch his attention, and attempting to gnaw at his metal boot. He marched up to the gate and saw a pale ghost in a dress with no feet beneath the reaper. She was grinning brightly and holding up to him a pot of… an iris plant?
Specter Knight cocked his head around menacingly and spoke. "I can feel a heart beating in my domain of death."
"It's me." You are an ass, Treasure Knight didn't add.
"Oh?" He turned around, ignored the protests of the inferior ghost below him, phased through the gate, and floated to the bounty hunter. The reaper somehow recalled something about his own death when he stared right into Treasure Knight's soul, something about the size and sheer brute force of his assailant. Wait. "You have a bag of money with you. Pray tell, what is your purpose here?"
"I need someone buried."
"Someone you killed?" He hissed.
"Not exactly. It's a dog."
"What dog?"
"I don't think you have any right to know. You can guess if you want."
"How long has the dog been dead?" Specter Knight mused, watching the small flop-eared puppy run around and bark noisily.
There was a long pause as Treasure Knight looked up thoughtfully. "It's been a long time. I can't exactly remember. Give or take twenty years. Just tell me where I can safely put the pup to rest, and I'll pay you."
"How nice." He laughed. "You must treat this dog as a precious loved one, and you are even willing to give up money to me."
Bastard. He's getting the leverage he wants on me. "I think I'll be looking somewhere else, then." Treasure Knight snapped, and turned around.
"Alright. If you wish, I shall respect it. But do keep in mind that my services are always here."
Treasure Knight said no word and just trudged away.
The phantom menace hovered back to the safety of his land, bitterly remarking to himself. Why should I bury your dog if I was never truly laid to rest?
.
P is for propeller.
"It's so heavy!" The young fencer complained when his new helmet was placed on his head. The weighty blades and controller handles were straining his neck, and he cursed at whoever the engineer was for not thinking about placing supporting pillars. If he wore this for too long it might crush the delicate bones of his neck. That would be very, very bad news.
One of his servants pulled the helmet up so that his blood would still flow properly to his head. A second one worked to hook the ends of the straps on his body to the helmet. The young noble grimaced at the awful itch due to the new and coarse cloth of the straps on his skin. He began scratching them as gentlemanly as he could.
But it felt so uncomfortable having the helmet. He wanted to become the Propeller Knight, a knight separate from all other knights, but this heavy helm was already diminishing his desire to be who he wanted to be. After all, the Flying Machine was his to command, and everyone in the crew can fly, so why not the captain as well?
Either he became Propeller Knight, a manifestation of his deepest wishes for freedom, or he just remained a hopeless heir that lived life being really good in martial fencing and trapped in an estate. He would rather be free. Free as the wind, without any much care. He would become comforting and refreshing like a breeze. Wasn't it air that helped produce the lovely voices of singers? Wasn't it air was that let mankind hear the lulling chirps of songbirds and the sweet melodies of music? Wasn't it air that gave immediate life? Air and wind, the most lovely thing in the world, for without it, nothing is beautiful.
He wasn't sure on stormy winds, however. He could be a vicious storm too, if he was provoked… after all, he was a really good fencer. Or he could order his crew to blow his enemies away. That can work!
Air is the element of will and liberty. Propeller Knight is who I am and is free. I was never bound to the earth and to the expectations of others, for I will become like wind. I was never this unhappy, ensnared, and tragic man forced to live to other people's standards.
So he started scratching at the itchy parts without any care. Propeller Knight would say 'to hell with discreet scratching'!
"Monsieur, it would be easier to hook the helmet if you would just stop moving-"
"Maman!" He completely ignored his servant's annoyed huff and waved to the old lady in an elegant lacey dress. Her hair, brown but with locks of silver appearing, was braided and decorated with golden leaves. She turned her head and immediately smiled at her constantly cheerful son. She gracefully strode to him, the train of servants following her closely, and stood before her son.
"You're starting to pursue the elegance of knighthood, my dear. And see how it suits you!"
"It is very heavy and itchy, but I think it would be the best for me."
"Of course it would be. All will not be easy when you work for it." The old lady chuckled softly. "Do you know how unruly you were as an infant? You flung your swaddles around, and one morning it landed on one of the guards who just happened to be investigating the suspicious patch of bare soil just under the balcony!"
The two servants lightly giggled while the young man blushed in embarrassment. Thankfully the helmet covered his flushed face.
"Do you know on whom your poop-filled swaddled landed? He's the captain of our guard now!"
He turned deep red. "Oh no. I have to apologize!"
"Twenty years late!" The mother laughed. "It was hard, you know, with you somehow getting your hands on your swaddles and throwing it everywhere. But I love you very much, and look how you have grown up!"
His heartstrings tugged. "Maman. I love you too."
"Now put that on, try if it works, and if it doesn't, we can always have engineers to sort out this problem!"
"The helmet has been hooked." The servant shyly piped up.
"Thank you very much, let's see if it works, oh and you can put it down now, no need to hold it." He grimaced when the weight of the helmet was gently set on his poor head. He reached for the handles, felt around for the triggers for the propeller blades to turn and lift him up.
Pull the trigger to make the propellers turn faster, pull the left and right one down to go left or right, pull any handle backwards to go backwards, pull handle forwards to go forwards, push up to reverse the spin and blow air like a fan.
He pressed and pulled too early. The servant still had something to say.
"Seigneur, the helmet is still in its highest setting so please turn the dial down before-"
"AHH!" The young gentleman zoomed upwards too fast. Everyone scrambled for safety when the young man flew up to the crystal chandelier hanging up. He missed it by mere luck and went straight to the open window.
"Aidez-moi!" He shrieked when, in sheer panic, he saw his trajectory going out of the mansion. He did not want to be out in the open, where anyone can watch him flail around helplessly in midair and see him land on top of a tree or somewhere he could not simply go down back to the ground.
Having the solid earth under his feet felt like an underappreciated privilege.
He pushed both handles up to descend as fast as he could, but realized he might break his legs when he hit the ground, so then frantically pulled at the strings commanding the speed of the spinning blades. The guards in the house also went crazy, the captain of the guard barking as loudly as he could to do all they can to cushion the fall of the screaming flying man.
Meanwhile, in a nearby gazebo, the young man's aging father was discussing with some peers about politics.
"The Prussian Division of the German Iron Army is, as we all know, the most powerful. The German Kingdom's best and most loyal knights come from the Prussian State and they have never suffered a defeat in any skirmish as far as we know. We can annihilate the Bavarian Order as much times as France wants but the Prussian Army may obliterate France permanently." One of them sternly mentioned. The decorations on his coat and family brooch told of his rank as royal treasurer. "I fear that if Prussia rises to become the head in political power in the young Kingdom of Germany, France will rapidly lose the war. Prussia has already sent letters to our king by cartier pigeon about negotiations for peace. And both our countries are being attacked by La Terruer."
"I feel like we should push for negotiating with the Germans as soon as possible. Our territories have been dwindling for the past few years due to their frightening military might." The estate's master of the house looked to the direction of the mansion, sighing. "The lands under my control have been captured and recaptured for so many times in three years already, gentlemen. I feel that my son would be incapable of maintaining my family's power."
"He is too liberal." The first man crossed his arms. "Where did you go wrong, so wrong that your heir has repeatedly proved to be politically intelligent but emotionally reliant and radical in ideology?"
"I know. I should correct this behavior, but I love him dearly and will guide him to the right path. Speaking of which, gentlemen, my son has been interested recently in tourism and knighthood, so perhaps he is not as radical as you think he is-"
They were disturbed with high-pitched and not-so-distant desperate screams of help.
The treasurer spun around. "What on earth is that-"
Suddenly a man zipped by the open gazebo wearing a ridiculous helmet. He managed to wave politely to the man who was his father.
"Bonne journée, papa! Papa's peers, salut!" He half-laughed, half-shrieked. "Adieu, papa! Aaaaah!"
He managed to fly onto open grass and land his feet on the ground. He ran around noisily as he decreased the dragging power of the propellers, until it stopped turning on its own. Adrenaline started to lose its effects, and so the young man sat on the ground, unhooked his helmet, pulled it off, put it on the grass beside him, and lied down on the soft grass.
Being free as wind was terrifying…
And also really, really fun.
When he opened his eyes, his mother and father were staring down at him in a mix of concern and relief.
"Are you alright, my dear?" His mother called out.
"Mmm."
"Are you hurt, my son?"
"Nnn."
"You want to sleep there?" His father joked crudely, and chuckled at his bad sense of humor.
"I want to do that again. But with no shouting." The young man closed his eyes. "For now… sleep."
"Before you become one with the grass, son, what do you think about an exchange service when the kings of France and the German Kingdom?"
He opened one eye. "That works." He sighed, and basked in the sun's warmth.
His maman and papa happily sat beside him.
Sometimes he would stay awake in his bed, disturbed not by the ever-present noise of the propeller blades keeping his ship high above the land, but by the scarring memories of his life. For others to see Propeller Knight, always bursting with life and laughter, weep pathetically every night was something that would tarnish his reputation. It would be crushing if anyone, even his close friend Albrecht, watched Propeller Knight express negative emotion like sadness. It would be against the point of being Propeller Knight.
The letters from his mother had arrived to him. It is as if his past self, tethered to the scrutiny of others, started to resurface. He loved his maman and papa, he held them close to his heart, but he had abandoned them out of spite and, perhaps, out of arrogance. He had done something very, very wrong. Rejecting this responsibility, going around the lands aimlessly, somehow arriving into this barren area with an ominous tower, and entering into a mess of a contract with an evil sorceress just to save his new family, the Flying Machine's crew, from death was very, very wrong.
General Bonnefoy's simple and clear order for him to return to France was frightening enough.
But it was time to mend the tear between him and his family as soon as possible, leave his crew and ship to someone else who will handle it better, and face death if ever the king decides to cut off his head. It should make up for his past irresponsibility… right?
Propeller Knight is free. Like wind, like the birds in the sky, never to be frowned upon by anyone.
I never was Propeller Knight. I'm just a hopeless, arrogant fool.
.
P is for plaything.
"Where did you two get that toy?!"
The two children jumped at the loud angry voice of their mother, who glared at them with furrowed brows and hands on her hips. Her sight was focused on the toy in his toddler daughter's hands, and then snatched the toy from the little girl's hands and then put it high above her head.
"I said, where did you get this toy?!"
"Hey! What's happening there?" A neighbor shouted from the window. "You shouldn't-"
The concerned neighbor saw the tiny music box still playing and spinning in the mother's hand.
"It's Tinker Knight's machine!"
"A man with gold armor and a crown on his head ripped her doll and she was crying a lot!" The boy cried. "I saw a tiny man with a big wrench, and actually atfirstIwasscaredofhimbuthegavemeaboxforherandwhenIbroughtittoheritbecameatinymusicboxandshewashappybutyoutookitfromher!"
The rapid outburst of the older child made the two adults pause.
.
P is for plague.
"Siegfried, why don't we have a meeting outside of my house?" Three groaned and resisted the temptation to rip his beard off when Siegfried just laughed his annoying laugh.
"Roman. Your house is the loveliest. Moreso than mine." One jeered. "Your house is the most secure! I guess Gil can lend his house, but it's too far from our base of operations."
"Maybe because I'm the head of Finance and there are hundreds of knights prowling around my home to protect the properties and gold?"
"That's the point, Roman! Besides, my house isn't exactly available all the time. You know how my sister is irritable when someone visits."
"You know, when you start mentioning your sister, I'm ninety-nine percent sure you're going to start being a doting big brother and embarrass her again." Roman prepared to filter out the gushing praises from the older brother.
And Siegfried just proceeded to do that. "Hey, have you heard the time when Irma was still this tall," he then put his flat hand just at the height of his knee, "she had this best boy friend and I was already planning the-"
"Fatheeeeerrr!" A third voice called out, and then a tiny girl with an orange dress stained with spots of glowing red liquid crashed into Three's legs. Roman grabbed Siegfried's cape to prevent himself from falling onto the ground in public because of a little girl's force.
"Apologies, One. My daughter's quite strong."
Siegfried waved his wrist. "Oh, don't worry about it."
"Father! I came from the Magicist's shop! She taught me how to make a health potion!"
Roman chuckled and patted his daughter's light hair. "How nice, Ophelia. But you scare me. You went out of the house on your own?"
"No, I was with Irma! She went home when she saw you, so I ran to you!" She dug into her skirt pocket and fished out a vial of glowing red liquid. "Here! This amount can cure headaches, she said!"
Roman hesitantly took the vial, and when he saw One nod to him, he popped off the cork and downed the red water. Immediately, he stuck his tongue out, and coughed.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you, the Magicist had no sweetener. She said a big bird took it and flew away!"
"She should have kept some sweetener, but this is fine, I think."
"Father, I want to be an alchemist when I grow up!"
One's omnipresent grin disappeared completely. Three was sure he wanted to rewind time to stop his daughter from saying what she just said. He breathed deeply, and decided to handle it like a good father would.
"One, would you care to come with us to the Martyr's Wall?" Three spoke, holding his daughter's small hand.
"Of course. You need the help."
"Come, dear." The father smiled softly and pulled her gently along. "I'll show you something before you decide to be an alchemist."
"Where are we going, Father?"
"I'll show you the Martyr's Wall."
"That's in the graveyard, right?" She thoughtfully said. "The one with a lot of little names on the wall?"
"Yes, dear. Do you still remember why the Martyr's Wall was built? Remember your school."
Ophelia tilted her head. "Weren't all names on the Wall the names of people who died?"
Three nodded. "Yes. What did they die of?"
"I don't know, teacher never said anything."
Siegfried interrupted. "They don't teach that to kids not older than fifteen, Roman."
"Hmm, I forgot that, One. Thank you. So, Ophelia, I'll tell you what killed the people."
"What is it?"
Roman pursed his lips. Siegfried patted his shoulder and sighed deeply.
"We call it the Alchemical Pestilence." One answered. "That started eight years ago, and it still hasn't ended. Your mother... died from it."
Up next: Q is for quintessential.
Translations:
Si amusant - how funny!
bist du wütend - Are you angry?
Prusse, mal - Prussia, evil/bad
Ich komme aus Preußen. Ich schon viele - I come from Prussia. I already [guess what action, it's heavily implied anyway] many...
Final note: Shameless self-promo here, but I also made a Specter Knight desktop buddy! Basically it's Specter Knight running and climbing around your desktop! It's on my tumblr, LKCSI in all lowercase. Please check it out, I'm very proud of this. I hope you like that as much as you like this fanfic!
Please notice chibi Specter Knight desktop buddy. I worked nonstop on it. T_T