ONCE UPON A TIME, a PRINCE set off on a JOURNEY to rescue the PRINCESS of another kingdom. According to his sources, a WITCH had cast a SPELL on the PRINCESS, CURSING her to sleep for a hundred years. The only way to FREE her was with, as was customary, TRUE LOVE'S KISS.
CLICHÉD as it was, the PRINCE was determined to complete his MISSION. And so, he battled evil MONSTERS, endured horrid TERRAIN, and solved puzzling RIDDLES, all for the sake of RESCUING the CAPTIVE PRINCESS. At long last, he arrived at the PALACE where she SLEPT and ascended the stairway to her quarters.
When the PRINCE entered the PRINCESS'S chambers, he was shocked to find the WITCH there by her bedside.
"Begone, foul creature!" the PRINCE bellowed, drawing a dagger to drive into the WITCH'S heart. "Leave now and I will spare your life!"
"Do not be so hasty," the WITCH retorted, calmly looking him in the eyes. "For what purpose have you come here?"
"To rescue the PRINCESS, of course-and to save this land from your WICKEDNESS!" the PRINCE replied angrily, "Isn't that obvious?"
"What a horrible man you are," the WITCH sneers, resting a hand on the sleeping PRINCESS'S forehead. "She does not wish to be rescued. It was, in fact, she who asked me to CURSE her, for the PRINCESS seeks a world far fairer than her own. It would just break her heart to return to this realm."
So, knowing that...
"Will you still wake the PRINCESS up?"
I'm standing in an open field that stretches out as far as the eye can see. Wild flowers of various colors dot the lush emerald landscape, the sky hanging overhead a brilliant cerulean, clouds stretched out thin like taffy. Sunshine drenches my skin, bathing me in a warm glow. Somewhere in the distance, a bird song calls out, a simple, haunting melody carried by the wind.
...It's a beautiful day.
I try to take a step forward, but my legs won't move. They feel heavy, as though someone has weighed me down with lead blocks. Grunting in annoyance, I try again, only to topple over my own feet. Luckily, the flowers break my fall.
I find myself collapsing down and end up on my back, getting swallowed up in a sea of colors and aromas. The sun glistens gently, the bird song softly drifting into silence. My eyes begin to flicker, suddenly overcome with an overwhelming sense of tiredness.
What is this...?
"Sleep, Estelle, sleep..." a high pitched voice whispers in my ears. The wind picks up a bit, sending petals and leaves brushing against my skin.
"Stay here forever, Estelle..." another chimes in, giggling quietly. The sky dims to a darker hue, a sprinkling of stars splattered across the canvas.
"Live happily ever after, Estelle. Forever and ever..." a third voice adds in a sing song. The moon, full and shining a powdery white, has risen, casting pale light upon the field of flowers. The wind whistles in my ears.
"Just sleep. Sleep. Sleep..." they chorus as my eyelids finally give in to the sweet temptation.
"Just...sleep..." I mumble, my consciousness slipping away into a void.
Sleep...
"MILADY! MILADYYY! MILADY, IF YOU ARE IN THERE, WAKEST THYSELF UP! PLEASE ARISE FROM THY BED CHAMBERS AT ONCE!"
"W-What the hell, Zachariah?!" I sputter in irritation, throwing open my guild room door to face the noisy knight. I must look a mess, having just been rudely awoken-and having rolled about in a bed of straw overnight-but I want to give Zachariah a piece of my mind. "I was having a nice dream until you interru-uh, whoa."
My angry rant is cut short when I'm greeted by the sharp glint of metal. Yup, that's definitely Zachariah at the doorstep, but he has exchanged his school uniform for a flowing navy cape and a full suit of armor, save for the helmet, which sports flamboyant plumage and is tucked under one arm. I would throw out a snide comment about how he reminds me of the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz but...uh...truth be told, he actually looks quite gallant.
N-Not in a handsome sense or anything, though! Z-Zachariah must just naturally look good in armor; he is the Elite Knight, after all! He must parade around in different styles of armor every day like a weird male model or something! Y-Yeah, that's it!
"I suppose that's your Quest attire..." I mutter, trying my hardest to not gawk. My gaze drifts to the ground just so I don't have to stare at Zachariah's glaring armor-or at Zachariah himself.
After having exposited all that there possibly was to exposit, Fukushi had sentenced us Elites off to bed like little toddlers. Upon entering my assigned guild room, I had discovered a new set of clothes and a note laid out on a pile of straw. It was hard to miss; there was hardly anything else in the room.
The clothing was quite pretty, in my opinion. The main article was a simple white gown with a long skirt, a wide black bodice, flowing sleeves, and a dark flowery pattern along the hem. Additional pieces were a pair of leather boots and a thick, shockingly scarlet cloak and hood. The note, presumably from Fukushi, had informed me that the outfit would aid me during Quests. How exactly, I hadn't the slightest idea (especially when you compare it to Zachariah's more practical suit), so I had shoved the ensemble somewhere and went off to dreamland.
"Indeed it is, milady. But, if I may ask, why are you not in your own Quest attire?" Zachariah inquires, crossing his arms over his chest. He spies the discarded clothing in the corner of the room and frowns. "Surely you have not been sleeping in all day, have you? 'Tis nearly noon!"
"Uh, I have." I correct the knight, running my hands though my flaxen hair to smooth out the disheveled mess of twin braids. "Yesterday was exhausting! And it's not as though we have anything better to do, so I might as well rest up..."
"What?!" Zachariah gasps, reeling back in repulsion. "Quite the opposite, milady! We must make haste if we wish to leave the Story-and those Quests are not going to complete themselves!"
"The Quests can wait until after breakfast..." I insist in annoyance, quick to dismiss his words for the prospect of food. "Hm...I wonder if the bakery has anything good today."
"Do not be ridiculous! Meals may wait!" He grabs one of my arms and begins tugging on it, prompting me to leave my quarters. "Come now! You'd best get prepared with food and supplies before we set off in the evening! Lady Carina has already gone ahead and-"
I glare at him, digging my heels into the ground to hold my place. "I'm not going anywhere, and I'm certainly not doing any silly Quests!"
Zachariah whips around, gazing at me with wide eyes. "Whatever do you mean? We will be able to escape much sooner if multiple parties embark on Quests at once!"
"I don't feel like it," I reply tersely, pulling my arm free of his grip. I'm still half groggy, so my coordination and balance isn't the best. I latch onto the doorframe to better steady myself. "You go on without me."
"Art thou concerned for thy safety?" Zachariah demands, peering at my face with confusion. It seems that passion causes the knight to return to his old-fashioned speech pattern. "Is that it? Because if so, please have no fear! I am more than confident in my combat abilities! So long as I am by thy side, thou art-"
The monologue makes my patience snap.
"No, you don't get it, Zachariah!" I bark, storming back into my chambers and throwing him a bitter glance over my shoulder, "I don't want to leave, so you can count me out of these...these wild adventures of yours!"
"You...you don't want to leave?" the knight repeats, utterly dumbfounded. He just stares blankly at me, not seeing things from my point of view. "I...I do not understand, milady! Dost thou wish to live in a Cursed realm, alienated from thy friends and family?!"
I never had those things to begin with, I want to shout at him, not really. I came in with nothing but knowledge, and I have little else to lose. But again, no one needs to know my personal business, so I simply fix him with another withering look. If side-stepping the issue doesn't get my point across, maybe telling him directly will.
"There is nothing wrong with Halkyonia. It's peaceful, it's quiet, and it has everything we could possibly need for survival. There's no war, no famine, no pestilence, no death-the complete opposite of the world we came from. Is it so bad to prefer this place?" I spread my arms out, referring to the entirety of the village. "A place where everything is like a real life fairy tale? Yeah, right! Who would choose reality over a utopia?"
At this, Zachariah falls into an alarmed silence. He gapes at me, slack-jawed and shoulder slumped, as though he were momentarily possessed, his expression a cross between surprise, horror, and disappointment. There it is again, his dejected puppy dog gaze, downtrodden hazel eyes, quivering lower lip, and all.
"Do you understand now?" I demand quietly, not daring to look him in the face as I speak. I'm afraid that it will make my resolve crumble. "I want to be alone. In fact, I like being alone.
"Leave me be." And with that, I slam the door shut without giving Zachariah the opportunity to respond. With the obnoxious knight now out of my face, I lean against the back of the door and allow myself to sink to the ground. Closing my eyes, I inhale, I exhale.
3, 2, 1...
"That cannot be true. Think about this long and hard, milady-your loved ones...they must miss you horribly! Your mother, your father, your closest allies!" Right on cue, Zachariah bounces back up from the ashes of defeat. His voice cuts clearly through the other side of the door, even at his indoor volume.
Nothing keeps the guy down, I swear...but maybe if I ignore him for long enough, he'll go away, I tell myself. Fat chance of that happening.
When I don't reply, he sighs and says in a low, melancholy voice, "Please...please, reconsider. I beg of you..."
A cold chill runs down my spine. Never have I heard Zachariah sound so pleading, so desperate. He's determined to get out of the Story-because he actually has something to return to, I remark to myself snidely. Good for him.
The door suddenly thumps violently as Zachariah presumably brings his fist down upon it in frustration. Oh no, I think. With his superhuman strength, Zachariah will have this door decimated into a bunch of wooden chips when he's done with it.
"N-No! You're not allowed in here!" I sputter in panic. The last thing I need is an overly emotional knight storming in and forcibly whisking me away to adventure.
"We need every single Elite to contribute to the Quest!" Zachariah insists like a needy child, continuing to pound madly at the door. "We need you, milady!"
The door is as good as dead if I don't think fast. I blurt out the first thing that comes into my mind.
"I-I'M CHANGING!"
"...Ah. I...I see." Zachariah mumbles awkwardly. A pregnant silence permeates throughout the stiff guild air. After a few seconds, I hear him shuffling a little ways away from the door, as though to give me additional personal space.
I heave a massive sigh of relief until the knight speaks his next words in a much more optimistic tone. "So good of you to change your mind! Well then, I shall see you this evening before the Quest Board!" His flighty footsteps then soon vanish into the distance. Pranced off somewhere for Quest preparations, no doubt.
I resist the strong urge to face palm, for Zachariah has clearly misinterpreted my excuse as me grudgingly accepting the call to action. I wonder how such a dense human being has managed to survive for this long. Maybe sheer luck? Or perhaps there is more to him than meets the eye, like Frieda said before?
...Well, whatever. Let him think what he wants for now; it's clearly effective in driving him off.
As for me...
...I think I'll just go about having a peaceful, quiet day.
"Good afternoon, Stellie! Are you ready to bake your heart out?" Priscilla calls merrily, waving me over as I enter the bakery. Beside the Courageous Elite, Lance clutches onto Mustachio Pete protectively and lets out a gruff sigh. Various tools and ingredients litter the counter before them.
It takes me about five seconds to realize what exactly is going on here.
Oh, right. This is my punishment for arguing with Lance before...and I almost completely forgot about it. Lord knows what might've happened to me if I hadn't happened to have walked in for a belated breakfast. Maybe Priscilla really would have baked me alive if I had been late or skipped. Now that's a frightening image.
"Er...yes." I mumble, making my way over to the counter where Priscilla and Lance await. It's probably best to not admit that I had almost forgotten about my promise. "Uh, so what are we making?"
"Hmph! The first thing you should do before entering the kitchen is wash your hands," Lance snickers, pointing to a small bowl of water and suds, "not ask questions about the end product."
"I know that much at least!" I shoot back angrily, not in the mood to get into another argument. "What's wrong with being a little curious?!"
"Don't 'cha know, girl? Curiosity killed the cat!" Mustachio Pete cackles, leaping to Lance's defense.
"Now, now, you two..." Priscilla says sternly, cutting in before the quarrel escalates any further, "let's not have a repeat of yesterday!" At the mention of yesterday's events, both Lance and I pale and shut our sassy mouths.
"Stellie, you'd better wash up. Good hygiene is very important when preparing food." the baker says lightly. "And do try to be as neat as possible. I wasn't able to find any spare aprons for y'all."
At her suggestion, I slam my hands into the bowl of water and furiously scrub my skin, then pat myself dry with a clean rag. I flash an anxious smile to Priscilla, who seems satisfied with me following her instructions. So long as I don't get screamed at or attacked again, I'm happy.
"And as for you, Lancie, since you've already washed yourself..." Priscilla swiftly plucks Mustachio Pete from the ventriloquist's hands and places the puppet on a high shelf. Lance begins sputter incomprehensible phrases in protest, but the baker silences him with a giant grin. "You'll be needing both of your hands for baking, sweetheart. You can get Pete back when y'all are done with your barley bread."
"B-But..." Lance stammers, still trying to make a compelling case for himself.
"BARLEY BREAD NOW, PUPPET LATER." the baker hisses, suddenly taking on a dark, grossly tone of voice. Her gentle facial features twitch with quiet, concealed rage.
"Y-Yes!" Lance yips, immediately snapping back in line. "Er...I s-suppose I don't want to dirty Mustachio Pete with anything."
Oh, gimme a break, I think, rolling my eyes. He's still keeping up that bratty attitude of his! Is he really that emotionally dependent on Pete?
"Good! I'm glad we see eye-to-eye, darling!" Priscilla chirps, regaining her sunshine-and-lollipops personality. "Let's get started, shall we? First step is to mix barley flour, wholemeal flour, and salt!" She glances at Lance and I expectantly. We stare blankly back.
"How much of each ingredient do we need...?" I inquire slowly, not sure if the baker will tolerate any questions.
"If you must know, 227 grams of barley flour, 455 grams of wholemeal flour, and one teaspoon of salt," Priscilla replies, firing off numbers like Ellanora would.
"And have we got a scale and measuring spoons to get the proper amounts?" Lance asks, raising an eyebrow. Quickly glancing over the tools scattered about the cluttered counter, I don't see anything that even vaguely resembles measuring equipment.
"Nope!" Priscilla responds cheerily. "Couldn't find any in the bakery. We're just gonna hafta wing it!"
"Wing it?" Lance repeats dubiously, obviously not pleased at the idea of throwing random things into a bowl and hoping for the best.
"Yes, dearie. In fact, since you seem so enthusiastic about it, you can be in charge of the dry ingredients, Lancie!" the Elite Baker beams, placing multiple pouches in front of the baffled Wise student.
"Wh-What..." Lance sputters, but for once has the common sense to not talk back.
"Estelle, you do the wet ingredients!" Priscilla orders, placing a collection of foreign looking bottles and containers in front of me. "Add 14 grams of yeast to a little ale so that it forms a creamy paste. Then mix in the rest of the ale, two teaspoons of clear honey, and 473 milliliters of warm water. And don't you worry none 'bout the ale. Baking bread'll make the alcohol content evaporate. It'd be awful bad if we got drunk offa it, ya know. Anyway, did you get all that?"
"Huh?" I gawk at the baker, the words falling out of her mouth like an alien language.
Next to me, Lance has torn into a bag of flour with a bit too much force, sending a cloud of powder up into the air and dusting all three of us in it. The ventriloquist launches into a short for of coughs, sending even more flour awry. If Lance is struggling with the easiest part of the recipe, I can only imagine how badly I'll screw up,
"Just go with your gut!" Priscilla advises, giving the most unhelpful tip she can possibly offer. "And when both of you are done, just pour the wet into the dry ingredients and mix until you get a dough. I'll take over then."
"I don't suppose it's too late to ask for some help?"
"Don't ask me!" the female Elite insists, waving a pudgy hand at me. "Ask Lance! And expect him to ask you questions, too! This is your bonding time, remember? I'm just here to supervise and guide y'all along the way!"
I groan, casting a sideways glance at my unfortunate baking partner to see what he has to say on the matter. The ventriloquist seems much too concentrated on his current task (or rather, on the ultimate goal of retrieving Mustachio Pete) to pay attention to my distress. Lance is staring at the mountain of flour he has heaped into a bowl, trying to access whether or not it is too much or too little for the barley bread.
Well, might as well get started on my part, I figure. My hands hesitantly hover over the glob of ingredients before me, not knowing what to pull or how much to dump in. Eventually, I manage to fumble with the yeast and ale, resulting in a weird frothy concoction. I pour some indeterminate amount of water, ale, and a few spoonfuls of honey along with the foam and pray that I did it correctly.
Lance continuously takes away and adds various amounts of flour in separate containers until he feels satisfied with the ratio of barley to wholemeal. Then, and only then, does he have the courage to throw some salt into a third bowl.
As we struggle with basic baking preparation, Priscilla cheerily hums as she watches us. She occasionally checks on the heat of the oven's open flames, poking at its coals with a fire poker. I get the feeling that if we dare misbehave, the baker would have few qualms about driving that fire poker into an eyeball or two. Luckily, we're more so avoiding each other and focusing on our own contributions to the final product rather than interacting with one another. Our eyeballs will live another day.
Pretty soon, Lance and I have managed to somehow complete our individual tasks. We're on the verge of making actual dough, minus the bloodshed of us at each others' throats. It's a miracle.
"...Uh, Lance? I think that's a little too much salt." I pipe up, staring at the ludicrous amount he is about to add to his flour mixture. "The recipe said only one teaspoon, right? That seems like a whole lot more than one teaspoon."
"I don't need you telling me what to do," Lance says, dumping all the salt in anyway. Glancing over at my liquid ingredients, he smirks and remarks, "That doesn't look too promising, either."
"This is what it's supposed to look like!" I think so, at least... "But thank you for that comment anyway," I retort as politely as I can, knowing that Priscilla is watching. In go the contents of my bowl into Lance's. An act of rebellion, if you will.
"You mix it," the ventriloquist insists, grimacing at the union of dry and wet substances. "My hands need to be clean, or else I will dirty Mustachio Pete."
"Your hands are already filthy with flour," I point out, which only deepens Lance's frown.
"I don't want to get any filthier than I already am," he clarifies sharply. "Look, just make this easier for the both of us and do it, will you? Don't waste any more of my time!"
"Hmph, fine!" I grumble, not wanting to waste any more energy in arguing with the brat. All I want is some breakfast, and then I'll be on my merry way. "But just so we're clear," I lower my voice so that Priscilla doesn't hear me, "I'm not enjoying your company."
"I could say the same to you."
What a great afternoon this is turning out to be.
Once I've managed to get the ingredients sticking together into a ball, Lance pulls the baker over to inspect our work. As though inspecting roadkill, Priscilla carefully pokes and prods at the dough to gauge its worthiness to be put in the oven. I suppose it looks and feels correct, as the Courageous student soon proceeds to plop the dough into a bigger bowl and cover the top with a cloth.
"Uh, what are you doing?" Lance demands as observes Priscilla place the covered bowl by a window, the sunlight streaming in.
"We're letting the dough rest for a few minutes. It's called proofing," the baker explains, bringing a finger to her lips, as though she has just revealed a harrowing secret. "The ball should double in size from the gases that the yeast produces. We get rid of the excess gas by punching the dough-" Priscilla pauses to pantomime the motion with a dark smile, "-and then we slice it up and let it bake for some time! Easy as pie, right?"
"Y-Yeah..." I stammer, avoiding her chaste, predatory eyes. I wonder if rage mode Priscilla makes pies out of the blood, sweat, and tears of her enemies.
I'm less concerned with the ease and more about that creepy grin you just pulled...and even worse, how innocently you tried to pass it off as! I'm honestly beginning to think that Priscilla mistreats dough just as much as she mistreats human beings. She must be a closet sadist or something...
"Can I have Mustachio Pete back now?" Lance whines, glancing longingly at his puppet companion, lying haphazardly next to the bowl of dough.
"Not until the bread is done!" Priscilla replies, wagging a finger at the ventriloquist. "I'll keep an eye out on the dough 'n prep it for the oven. You should have a nice, long chat with Estelle while you wait, y'hear? After all, you hardly spoke to one another when ya put the ingredients together."
The baker turns her back on us to tend to the oven fire, but Lance and I both know very well that her ears are primed to pick up on any mischief we may get ourselves into. We pass each other strained glances, not sure exactly where or how to begin a discussion. She really is pushing this friendship thing, isn't she? I cringe at the thought of carrying a decent, prolonged conversation with Lance-and can only expect that he is having similar thoughts.
"So..." I say slowly, taking the awkward initiative to start us off, "you really like Mustachio Pete, huh? Did you get it as a gift or something?"
"He," Lance corrects me venomously, genuinely insulted that I had referred to Pete as an 'it', "Mustachio Pete is a he. Get it right if you are going to spout his name from your unworthy lips."
"My bad," I say sarcastically, earning myself a cross look from the short boy. "Look, all I wanna know is why a puppet is so important to you. I mean, I've had my share of favorite storybooks, but I'm not that protective of them."
"You wouldn't understand," Lance insists stubbornly, "Mustachio Pete is no mere puppet. He is my confidant-he cannot be replaced. We've been through thick and thin together!"
"O-kaaaaay..." I'm beginning to think that he's a bit too attached to the puppet. Lance is sounding more and more like a psychopath who likes his toys waaay too much. Of course, saying any of that out loud would warrant another punishment from Priscilla, so I steer the conversation down a different route. "Did you get Mustachio Pete as a child?"
"I made Mustachio Pete," the ventriloquist clarifies, "when I was small." He pauses to smirk at his own accomplishment, sticking his nose up in the air. "Quite impressive, wouldn't you say?"
Well, that explains the comedically large mustache...and I wonder what Endi, the Elite Craftsman, would have to say concerning Pete's craftsmanship?
"You must've had a lot of free time, then." I remark, not willing to stroke the brat's already massive ego. "Lots and lots of free time."
"Like you spent your childhood doing anything more productive!" Lance scoffs, taking a jab at my pride. "I suppose you shut yourself away from the rest of the world, huddled up in your bedroom and reading silly old fairy tales?"
"At least I was educating myself," I counter, getting defensive. "My parents were never around, so the stories I read taught me lessons that they never could."
"You get tired of books after a while," Lance retorts, rolling his eyes at me. "Mustachio Pete, on the other hand, never stops being interesting."
I raise an eyebrow at my fellow Wise student. Suddenly, this has become a debate over whose hobby is better-but at least it's some sort of discussion, which keeps Priscilla from clocking us in the head. Speaking of the baker, out of the corner of my eye, I see her unveiling the dough from its bowl and tossing it onto a floured counter. Showcasing her widest smile, she brings her plump fist down upon the dome of dough so hard, it nearly causes the foundations of the bakery to rattle and shake.
Lance and I, of course, cast her stares of terror. When Priscilla notices us, her grin only broadens. "Oh, don't mind me, y'all. Just 'bout to put this in the bake, y'see! Carry on your conversation!" As she speaks, she continues to work with her hands, drawing a knife across the dough and separating it into two clean halves, then reshaping them into definite balls.
"Uh..." Lance pauses, clearing his throat, if only to buy time to think of a topic. "I happen to like the tale of Pinocchio." Only because of the abundance of puppets, I'm sure.
"The classics are fine, but new, innovative ones are just as good." I agree, taking more of an interest in the talk now that the subject is in my favor. "I remember reading a story where a prince sets off to rescue a princess in a deep slumber-but then he faces the moral dilemma of whether or not he should wake her up."
In the background, Priscilla hums a song as she slides the dough into the blazing oven with a wooden implement resembling a giant spatula. I think the same instrument is used to put pizza pies in to bake. Hm...from what I have read up on, I believe it is called a peel.
"Isn't the prince supposed to wake the princess up, no matter what?" Lance sneers, getting a big ahead of himself. "You know, with a mushy kiss or whatever. You're telling me the plot of freaking Sleeping Beauty. It's predictable."
"Not exactly," I explain slowly, trying to articulate my words in a meaningful way. "The witch who cursed the princess appears and tells the prince that the princess wants to dream forever, and that waking her up will only cause her more suffering. Technically, the story never concludes-the last page has the prince questioning what his next action should be."
"The witch could have been lying," Lance points out, his eyes lined with a crafty glint. "That's clearly a possibility. The bad guys always lie." He pauses, his expression souring. "No, on second thought, people in general always lie."
"That's just what stories are," I confess, "Possibilities. Escapes from reality. The witch could be lying, or she could be telling the truth. The prince can save the princess, or he won't. The princess could keep dreaming, or she can be given a rude awakening. Perhaps we will never know."
"You're weird," Lance declares after giving me a long, hard look in the face. "You overthink the simplest of things."
"You're the weird one, acting like a puppet is your best friend," I argue back. Although if I had to be completely truthful, every single one of the Elites is quirky in their own way. Whether that is bad or good, I've yet to say for sure.
"What-" the ventriloquist's face flushes red with rage-and maybe also embarrassment. His mouth flies open to defend Mustachio Pete, but Priscilla cuts him off.
"Doesn't that barley bread smell so good?" the bubbly baker inquires, stuffing herself between Lance and I. "It should be done pretty soon. Then you can each take your share with ya on the Quest."
"You're going on the Quest?" I echo, gaping at Priscilla and Lance.
"We all are, aren't we?" Priscilla asks, cocking her head in confusion. "Carina told us at the mornin' briefing that participation was mandatory. Though I s'ppose this is the first you've heard of it, since I don't recall seeing ya earlier, Stellie."
"Hmph," Lance grumbles, staring at his own shoes, which are covered in flour. "It had better be worth my time, or I'll be pissed."
"Oh...I see..." I shrink unenthusiastically. If all the other Elites are Questing, then there's a good chance I'll get pressured into joining as well.
"Don't you worry none, sweetheart. Carina's got it all fixed, you'll see." Priscilla reassures me. "Everything'll be fine-and we'll be out of this here Story in no time."
"R-Right..." My stomach lurches at the suggestion. It seems I am in the minority group when it comes to escape.
"Anywho, you children seem to be getting along much better than before!" Priscilla grins, acting like a proud, doting mother. I'm glad she has decided to change the topic, because I was starting to feel uncomfortable with the previous one. "See, I just knew you could be friends!"
"We're not friends," Lance and I insist in unison, making the baker giggle a bit. If there is one thing that we all share, its stubbornness, an unwillingness to yield.
"Stellie, Lancie, listen to me!" Priscilla puts both of her hands on either one of our shoulders, causing us to both lock up. We do not dare to move a muscle. "You guys are flour!"
"...What?"
"You're flour!" Priscilla repeats knowingly, nodding at us. "Flour makes up the majority of baking recipes. It's a very important ingredient-but no one ever eats raw flour, ya know. You need water for liquid, butter for richness, sugar for sweetness, baking soda for leavening, eggs for air...ya see what I mean?"
"Not really," Lance admits, shrugging. He doesn't seem to particularly care for her out-of-left-field declaration.
"What I'm tryin' to say is, flour can never be completely on its own. It needs other ingredients to bring out the best in its own flavor. They all help one another to create one big, delicious cake!" Priscilla explains, firmly asserting her extended baking metaphor. "A cake being a common goal, of course!"
A common goal...and in this case, escape. Can we really do it, being as different as we are? As kooky as we are? As polarized as we are? With me not even wanting to leave? I'm doubtful, but do not risk speaking up against Priscilla, especially after she has mustered so much effort into her "you are flour" speech.
"Cake sounds good right about now," Lance mutters, his gaze lingering on the empty shelves of the bakery. "Why is this the one shop that isn't stocked with food? Things would be so much easier if we didn't have to work for our meals."
"Well, baked goods can get stale or grow mold," Priscilla points out, "and we should be grateful that there are at least ingredients we can use."
"Meat can spoil, but there still stuff at the butcher's," Lance complains. It seems he won't let up on the argument-he's determined to come out on top.
"It's probably preserved with salt," I explain to him, "that's how they kept edibles fresh without refrigeration in the old days."
"...Oh." Lance, obviously not well-versed in the matter, quickly throws out an excuse. "W-Whatever, it's not like that's important information or anything!"
"You're just jealous that I know something you don't."
"N-No, I'm not!"
"Yes, you are. You definitely, definitely are."
"Yeah? Well, I bet I know a ton of things you don't!"
"Like what? Fun facts about puppets?"
"So?! Puppets are cool!"
"Tee-hee! It looks like you two are getting along just swimmingly, just like siblings." Priscilla notes, watching us quarrel in a light hearted manner. "Ah, hold on. I'm going to check on the bread."
The baker rushes over to the oven, pulling the loaves out on their peel. She whips around to us, wearing a crestfallen expression. "Oh dear. They're done, but...well...see for yourselves." Priscilla presents Lance and I with our handiwork.
Our horrible handiwork, I soon realize. From my understanding, bread is supposed to rise upon baking, but our dough did the exact opposite. It sort of...caved in on itself, forming a crater in the center. Because of this, it must have cooked unevenly, for the middle looks somewhat blotchy, while the sides appear ashy and dark.
"You screwed up the yeast," Lance announces, quick to blame me for our failure. He stares at me with beady, accusing eyes.
"W-What?! How is this all my fault?!" I demand, momentarily forgetting Priscilla's presence. "You didn't add enough flour, so the batter didn't bake correctly!"
"Or maybe it didn't bake correctly because you put in too much liquid!"
"You threw in a mountain of salt! That must have interfered with the cooking!"
"Yeah, well you-"
"But you were the one who-"
"Now, now, let's settle down. You two were just acting like friends a short while ago." Priscilla advises, putting a cap on our tomfoolery. "So the barley bread doesn't look all that great. Big deal. I'm sure it tastes okay." She removes the loaves from the oven and sets them on the counter to cool.
"I still think it was your fault!" Lance and I chant in unison, glaring at the other. Whatever fragile relation we had before instantly crashes and burns.
"It's no one's fault," Priscilla insists sternly, glancing from me to Lance and back. "Y'all just aren't use to baking, is all. It's no problem-the point of gettin' together today wasn't to make something that'd knock your socks right off, it was to get to know one another. 'N from the looks of things, it was a succe-"
"Hey, there you guys are!" a familiar voice calls out, interrupting the Courageous Elite. All eyes steer toward the doorway to see Thomas standing there, out of breath and with various clothing hanging from his arms. One of the outfits is eerily familiar-and it doesn't take me long to figure out why.
That's my Quest attire. The white gown with the black bodice. The leather boots. The hood and cloak of a blood red color.
"Oh? Were you looking for us, Thomas?" Priscilla inquires as the courier approaches in a hurry. "We were just in the middle of baking some barley bread. Unless it's super urgent..."
"Carina says to quickly get changed and meet on the first floor of the guild," Thomas informs us, panting slightly. He must have sprinted here if he's this winded. The courier holds out the clothing in his arms as though making an offering. I assume what is not mine is either Priscilla or Lance's.
"My, that sounds mighty bad! Has something come up?" Priscilla asks nervously, concern flickering across her rounded face.
"Can't be worse than the crappy bread we made." Lance huffs, still maintaining his rotten attitude on his baked good.
"This is actually serious," Thomas affirms solemnly. He hesitates before announcing the dreaded words, "We need to prepare for the Quest."
I can't believe this is happening, I think to myself as I stand in a crowd of strangely dressed Elites. I'm in my own Quest clothing, if only because my usual school uniform is covered in flour. Everyone looks like a character out of a fantasy book, sporting tunics, gauntlets, satchels, and any other assortment of medieval attire you can possibly imagine. Some of us have entirely new clothing altogether, like Zachariah's suit of armor, but others simply have additional accessories, like bags or breast plates, tacked on to their school uniforms for practical purposes.
Speaking of the white knight, it's hard not to spot him right away in his shining armor. He's wedged near the front of the Elites, the complete opposite of me. Zachariah wants to get involved. He wants to actively participate. What a fool.
I could easily spend the entire day ogling clothing and describing the other Elites' adventuring attire in excruciating detail-and honestly, I'd rather do that than a Quest. Yeah, right. Everyone knows that's not happening.
I would bet that everyone has their E-Scroll somewhere on them, as per the Story's rules. Mine, as well as the loaf of barley bread I never got to taste, are stowed away in a brown cloth pouch hanging on a string from my waist. I suppose if I ever get bored on this Quest, I can pull out the scroll to read and munch on horribly made bread as I do it.
"Ah-hem!" Carina clears her throat, silencing the group of rowdy, anxious Elites. She, our quietly self-proclaimed leader, stands before the crowd in thick leather bracers, shin guards, and a utility belt. This makes Icarus look the most normal out of any living thing present. "I would like to call this assembly to order.
"As you all know, we were told yesterday by a...Narrator owl fellow...the one way we can escape the Story. That is to say, completing Quests." Carina gestures to the bulletin board behind her-once barren, now filled to the brim with sheets of paper tacked up.
"Since this morning, there has been a large influx of Quests on the board. I have gone to the trouble of sorting through them, and unfortunately, the majority of the Quests as of now are one note, minor tasks that yield very little Experience. This is rather troublesome, as I'm sure that all of you would prefer to leave as soon as possible."
Make that most of us, I silently correct the falconer.
"However, do not fret. I was able to locate one Quest that far surpassed the others in terms of Experience rewarded. It is certainly more challenging than the others, but with the combined strength of sixteen students, I would hope that we may be able to complete it."
At this, the majority of the Elites murmur amongst themselves in excitement. I shrink farther back into the crowd. A shame that they're getting so elated to return to a mundane realm of everyday despair.
"U-Um...just what does this h-hard Quest involve, exactly?" Ellanora squeaks anxiously, wringing her hands together in worry.
"It's difficult to explain..." Carina replies, glancing at Icarus, who holds a folded piece of paper in his beak. "But essentially, we must hunt down and slay a Manifestation in the Woods."
"What the hell is that? A Manifestation, or whatever, I mean!" Johanna demands, the vagueness of Carina's instructions putting the boxer on edge.
"According to the Quest," Carina says, taking the paper from Icarus and reading verbatim from the sheet, "'A Manifestation ranks lower than a Familiar in terms of combat capabilities, for they are mere monsters formed from the remnants of stray Magic. During the night, they appear in the Woods, stalking their prey. Unlike Familiars and Witches, they are able to be slain with brute force-but as the physical form of Manifestations can vary, their weaknesses are difficult to gauge.'"
"Whoa," Jaxon gapes at the mere thought of such a creature. "those things sound really hardcore..."
"It matters not what shape the ilk takes! Surely we can defeat any matter of vile trickery it attempts!" Zachariah reassures his classmate cheerily.
"We have to actually end something's life?" Endi repeats, starting to look rather shaken. "I...I don't think I'm ready to do that!"
"You will if you want to make it out of here-or at the very least contribute to tracking it down," Carina retorts coolly, dealing the craftsman the harsh truth. "As the Quest says, we cannot anticipate what beastly form a Manifestation may take on. All that we know is that they lurk in the woods at night time."
"Eh? But the forest will be so dark then!" Nissa cries, pouting at the prospect. "Won't it be hard to see? And won't it be easy to get lost?"
"We will be traveling in small groups," Carina explains carefully, glancing over the Elites with a sharp eye, "so that navigation and mobility will be less hindered. It will also be easier to track a Manifestation if we cover a larger area with multiple search groups. Should any one group encounter the Manifestation, one scout should take off and find others to aid their party in fighting the monster."
"I call not being in the boxer's group," Lance pipes up immediately. A smart move on his part, since Johanna tried to give him a bloody nose the last time they had interacted. Unfortunately, this warns Lance nothing more than an unamused expression from Carina.
"Too bad, Mister Hawthorn. I have already predetermined the groups based on individual skill sets. There needs to be at least one capable fighter in each group in case of emergencies, as well as those with supportive mindsets to balance things out.
"Meh, Birdbrain really thought this through..." Mana grumbles under her breath. She has quickly lost interest in the spiel and is probably just waiting for the part where she gets to hit something.
"Goodness knows what would happen if you were allowed to pick your own group members," Carina continues, ignoring the mercenary's comment, "The like-minded would flock together, creating extremely polarized, all-or-nothing, brains-or-brawny sort of teams."
"But-"
"This is a serious situation, Mister Hawthorn. Even if this...this Manifestation creature is of the lowest ranking in terms of magical prowess, failure could mean death. I'm sure Manifestations would have absolutely no qualms about killing off anything in its path. If you wish to keep your life, you will cooperate."
This shuts Lance up, sending him back into a grudging silence. The threat of death looms overhead like a guillotine. One wrong move is all it takes to off our heads.
"...Why?" I demand slowly, raising my voice to speak against Carina. All heads turn to stare at me. "Why are we even considering such a dangerous thing? This is a life or death situation!"
I don't dare suggest that we spend the rest of our lives in Halkyonia, knowing that I will be vastly outnumbered. Instead, I spit out, "Why not just take smaller Quests and slowly accumulate Experience?! Why not be patient instead of jumping the gun to hunt down a monster?! Do you not care about your life?!"
"Do you not care for your freedom?" Carina shoots back, calmly countering my rhetorical question. "To gain that which is worth having, one must be willing to lose something of equal or greater value. This is the risk we must take to fight the Curse-and every last one of us must be united if we are to leave this accursed place sooner."
"That's stupid...that's so stupid!" I sputter, unable to conjure up much more of an argument. Everyone is against me. So hopeful, so eager, so looking forward to escaping the Story...and then there's me, struggling to maintain my spot as a Character.
"Stupid as you claim it to be, this is the course of action we have decided to collectively take," Carina replies icily. She redirects her attention to the Elites as a whole. "Now then, if there are no more objections, I shall announce the groups. Please go to your teammates when your names are called.
Obviously defeated, I slink back into the crowd. I wasn't heard out...Try as I might, the story continues to proceed, whether I want it to or not.
"Priscilla, Nissa, Michael, and Cado."
"Just don't slow me down," Michael hastily tells his future group members, "and we'll get along just fine." He shoves his hands into his pockets and tries to act all cool and edgy about it.
"I...I'll try to be of use...and to not slow you down." Cado promises, offering a waning smile. He's probably going to be the powerhouse of the team, given that he's the muscular one.
"Oh, this is kind of exciting," Priscilla chirps, bounding over to the blacksmith and bandit. A shiver races down my spine when I lay eyes on her. On second though, maybe Priscilla will be helpful to them as well (if she gets pissed enough, that is). "I'll make some bread for us!"
"G-Guys, I'm kind of scared of the dark...so can we make getting light a priority over food? Pretty please?" Nissa squeals, racing over at light speed. Her usual optimism is replaced with slight anxiety.
"Mana, Endi, Ellanora, and Thomas."
"Whoo! Score! No Space Case!" the mercenary cheers, pumping her fists into the air. Meanwhile, Jaxon somewhat deflates. "Alright, who's ready to kick some ass?"
"I'm not too thrilled..." Endi admits, only to get slapped hard on the back from Mana. The craftsman almost falls flat on his face from the sheer force.
"Come on, buck up!" Mana commands, as though that will instantly make Endi's pain and worry dissipate. "We're gonna nail that Mani-thingy where the sun don't shine! Until then, you guys gotta call me Captain, 'kay?"
"I'll try to do my best, er...Captain." Thomas says, awkwardly laughing along with Mana's rowdiness. "I'll carry supplies in my satchel, if that helps."
"Th-There's a 6.34% chance that I'll a-actually be useful...I'm sorry in a-advance if I don't do much to help..." Ellanora mumbles, already apologizing before she has messed anything up.
I can only see great things resulting from this group dynamic.
"Jaxon, Johanna, Lance, and myself."
"Shit," Johanna growls, proceeding to launch into a long train of cuss words, "shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"
"Oh, great," Lance groans, face palming. "Perfect, just perfect. This is exactly what I wanted," he spews, his sarcasm apparent. Apparently, the ventriloquist and boxer are not the only ones who are unhappy with their arrangement.
"Whaaaat?! I get stuck with you, Carina?! Not cool!" Jaxon protests, only to get completely snubbed by Carina. "H-Hey! Quit ignoring me, will ya? Cut a guy some slack, here!"
"Moving on...the next team-"
Crap, I think as a horrible realization dawns on me, That leaves me with...
"Zachariah, Ricard, Estelle, and Frieda."
I glance up slowly, and the first person I make eye contact with is the knight at the front of the group of Elites. Zachariah. He beams at me, no doubt elated with the turn of events. I cringe, anticipating the return of his over-the-top behavior.
Suddenly, I feel a light tap on my shoulder. Upon veering around, I'm greeted by the resident Elite Hunter, rifle slung over his shoulder.
"I look forward to working with you, Estelle." Ricard says pleasantly. Great-at least I have one sane character in my group. That doesn't, however, guarantee my own sanity once I return from this insane adventure.
"Hee hee...as do I." Frieda adds, popping up by my side as though by magic. "I wonder what kinds of sounds a Manifestation makes..."
"The foul, monstrous roars of a demonic hellspawn itself, no doubt!" Zachariah declares, nearly tackling through the other Elites to meet his team members. "I am certain that our group will be most successful in this Quest! What say you, comrades?!"
We're royally screwed.
"Those are the final groups," Carina declares, giving us one last cursory glance, "No ifs, ands, or buts. Please take the rest of the day to make your Quest preparations, and be in the Woods by 10:00 pm."
The hunt for the Manifestation begins tonight.
Well, so much for peace and quiet.
"What have you done? This was not an authorized move. The Characters are in great danger now…"
"Those that disrupt the flow of the Story must be purged from it. If allowed to run rampant, the entire Script could unravel. All it takes is one out-of-place trump card or self insert to ruin it for us. That is all I have to say for myself."
"…Well, it is too late to take it back now. All we can do now is sit by and see how it goes."
"Like good little Readers, yes?"
"Indeed. That is, after all, what Readers do-they watch the Story unfold."
"Think it'll be entertaining at all...?"
"Perhaps. We shall soon see, I suppose."
Hello, Danganronpa fans! =7= Estelle seems to have quite the...unique...perspective on their situation, huh? Very different from other Danganronpa protagonists, and not very hopeful of her. Whether that's good or bad is up to you to decide!
The baking scene with Priscilla and Lance was so mundane and ordinary that is was actually quite hard to do! I had to actually research what types of breads were made in the medieval ages, and I even used an old barley bread recipe that I found online to write Priscilla's lines. The things I do for OMMM...
Looks like the Elites are going to hunt down a mysterious Manifestation! Ooh, how exciting! Next chapter will be a lot of action, so hopefully I can get that written well. I don't have a lot of experience writing fight scenes, but I'll try to do my best.
Update on the poll: every character has at least one vote, so it's safe to say that the Elites are universally likable. Yes, even Lance. And yes, even some of the non-Elite characters like Fukushi and Icarus. Actually, what's kind of sad is that Fukushi raked in more votes than some of the students (including Estelle and Zachariah)...well, at least we have a lovable little Narrator, right? He doesn't seem to be around for this chapter, but he'll show up next time.
Anyway, I'm returning to university in about a week, so expect less frequently updates...I'll see you guys in the next chapter, which hopefully won't take months and months to get out.