Chapter II - The Capital
"Velvet... Room?" Wymare asked in answer to Igor's statement. "How did I get here? Am I... dead?"
At the young man's anxious line of questions, Igor allowed himself a chuckle. Indeed, the pleasures of having a guest were ones he did not experience often, and to feel them again now that Wymare was seated across from him brought him great delight.
"This place exists between dream and reality... mind and matter," Igor answered. "It is a room that only those who are bound by a contract may enter."
"C-Contract?" Wymare stuttered. "I never signed any con-"
The large, muscular man to Igor's left swung his arm and pounded the wall with his fist, shaking the entire carriage and intimidating Wymare into silence. Under the man's intense glare, Wymare felt as though holes were being burned into his head.
"Master Igor has the answers you seek," said the man in a deep, gravelly voice. "Limit your questions so he may answer them before you babble further."
"Now now, Archibald," Igor assured, waving his hand in a manner that encouraged the man to stand down. "It will surely be difficult for our new guest to understand this all at once. There is no harm in that."
"...Yes, sir," grumbled the man as he lowered his arm and relaxed back into the bench.
"Ah, that reminds me," Igor exclaimed, "I have yet to introduce my assistants to you."
At this, the two on either side of Igor shifted in their seats and sat up straight, presenting themselves to Wymare with a curt bow from the waist. Not used to being addressed in such a formal manner, Wymare nervously looked back and forth between the two for a moment before Igor continued to speak.
"To my left is Archibald, and to my right is Phoebe," Igor explained, his gaze never shifting from Wymare as he spoke of his attendants. "Us three shall assist you in the growth of the power that your contract will supply."
"I-I'm sorry... Mister Igor... sir...?" Wymare began, wary of angering the man named Archibald again with his questioning. The laugh that Igor gave out in response to his meek query didn't quite assuage his fears in this regard, either.
"Please, Igor will do fine," the Velvet Room master assured.
"Right, uhm, sorry. Then please, Igor," Wymare continued, "What is this place? Why am I here? And... what contract are you talking about? I haven't signed anything yet..."
"Indeed, that is currently the case," Igor agreed. "However, there can be no mistaking it... You will enter into a contract in the near future, after which we can provide you our full aid."
"The near future?" Wymare asked, the anxiety in his voice lessening the more he spoke to Igor. Despite the inherent abnormality of this 'Velvet Room' he found himself in, something about the blue velvet interior, the comfortable seats, and the piano melody in the background, now accompanied by a songstress's beautiful vocal accompaniment... It was all strangely calming.
"Would you like to see?" Igor responded, waving a hand over the table in front of him and conjuring up a deck of cards that spread themselves out. Wymare recognized the shape that the cards were forming on the table: it was a fortune reading with tarot cards, which he had seen some of the more occult kids under the Colkirk orphanage's care partake in from time to time. He was never sure of their authenticity himself, but as Igor reached down and began to flip them over, he found himself unable to voice his doubts.
"Hmmm... The Emperor, in the upright position," Igor noted, laying down the first card. "It seems that you will encounter someone of authority when you reach your destination - someone who upholds the establishment and structure of your world. And this encounter shall lead to..."
With the first card read, Igor flipped over the second card. Curious to see it, Wymare leaned forward in his seat somewhat, and on the card that Igor now laid face-up on the table, he could see two people - a man and a woman - standing underneath a towering figure in the clouds, with the numerals 'VI' written on the top.
"...The Lovers, in the upright position," Igor explained. "Your encounter with authority shall lead you to establish new bonds and face important decisions in life. From there... Ooh. Oh my, how very interesting..."
"W-what? What's interesting?" Wymare pried, now intent on seeing the result of Igor's tarot readings. "What happens next?"
"Patience, my boy," said the long-nosed man. "This next card represents your broader future. And it is..."
Pausing his explanation, Igor laid the last card on the table for Wymare to see. The card bore the image of what seemed to be a man dressed in robes and holding an odd-looking scepter, the numeral 'V' displayed above his head. However, the card differed from the first two, as it appeared to be laid upside down on the table.
"...The Hierophant, in the reversed position," Igor concluded, folding his hands over one another now that his reading was finished. "Your experience with authority and the subsequent bonds you forge shall lead you to challenge the society that reigns over you. The contract of which we speak lies therein."
As Igor finished his explanation, Wymare stared at the three cards on the table, trying to process what he was being told. The idea that he, a Scadarah, could fight against the rule of all of Brilan was a concept that he had all but abandoned prior to that moment. The words of the caster from earlier rang clear in his mind, reminding him that challenging society as someone at the very bottom of its hierarchal ladder was nothing but impudence. But now, he was faced with a burning question: who, between her and the man now in front of him, would he believe?
"We shall indulge in the details more when next we meet," Igor continued as Wymare sat silent. "But for now, it seems our time has run out."
"Huh? Time? What do you mean?" Wymare asked, his mind so still weighed down with questions that he'd almost missed what the man said.
"Your current visit is *yawn* merely a dream you are having," Phoebe answered, startling Wymare as he heard her speak for the first time. "The time for you to wake is drawing near."
"W-wait!" Wymare exclaimed, not wanting to be left with such a predicament sitting in his lap. "Please, tell me more! What is this contract? And why is that my future!?" he demanded, trying to rise from his seat but finding himself weighed down by an invisible force.
"We shall meet again once your contract has been sealed," Igor stated as Wymare's vision began to darken. "Only then will we tell you more..."
. . .
"Oy! Thiebaut!" an angry voice shouted out, snapping Wymare out of his sleep with a start. Startled, he looked around, realizing that he had been returned to the spot he had initially seen the butterfly in: sitting against the base of a tree on the side of the carriage trail, waiting for the knights to finish their maintenance check. Now, though, no other Scadarah passengers were sitting around him, and one of the knights was standing over him, arms folded and a scowl on his face.
"We're getting the wagon moving again. Cease your lazing about and get in," the knight growled, turning and heading back before Wymare could even formulate a response.
Not wanting to incur the knights' further irritation, Wymare pulled himself off the ground and slowly trudged back toward the wagon, his mind still reeling from the sheer abnormality he had just experienced. He could still see the Velvet Room's lavish interior every time he closed his eyes, the gazes of Igor, Archibald, and Phoebe fixed on him unceasingly. Had all of that just been a dream? The visions, the butterfly, and that room... They had all felt so real, and he could remember them with greater clarity than any dream he'd ever had before. But there was no way such things could be real, and besides that, he still couldn't wrap his head around Igor's vague prediction that he would challenge the social order. How could that be? Such a feat was impossible from the perspective of a Scadarah like him.
Wymare went back and forth on this predicament in his mind as his trip in the carriage continued, his thoughts far away from the other people sitting in there with him. Eventually, he decided that it was best to push his burning questions out of mind for the time being; after all, he was still en route to the labor unit no matter what, and it was best to focus on that for now. If what he'd experienced was real and Igor's predictions were to come to pass, then there was little use in toiling over it all in the present moment.
As the wagon continued its journey, night eventually gave way to day, an early morning's sun rising over the edge of the forest treetops. Wymare heard the wagon wheels bumping again on a much harder and more uneven surface than they had been for the past while, leading him to look out of the knothole again and confirm that the path had, indeed, switched from beaten-down dirt to more cobblestone - a sure sign that the transport was nearing its end destination.
Sure enough, moments after the trail changed materials, the knights riding on the sides of the wagon were clamoring with excitement. They were no doubt eager to return to their mates and hit the taverns after being away for so long, tired of having to deal with Scadarah transferees.
"Listen up, all you Scadarah!" the captain shouted, banging his fist on the outside of the wagon walls to get their attention. "We'll have arrived at the capital in a matter of minutes, and from there you'll all be taken down for processing. From there, you'll be escorted to where you need to go. No funny nonsense within the city limits, or we'll be on you and you'll be dragged off faster than you know it!"
Wymare had a feeling he knew who that remark was aimed at, and he took a sideways look at the squatter who failed to escape the previous evening. His old, calloused hands were bound behind his back, there was a length of rope done up around his waist that fastened him to the bench, and a dirty-looking cloth was tied around his mouth to keep him quiet. Most of his bindings seemed to be done out of spite on the knights' part, however; it was evident that the old man didn't have any fight left in him, visible in how he sat on the bench with his head hung and his eyes closed.
Seeing this, Wymare frowned and turned his gaze to the floor, unable to keep his thoughts from drifting back to his conversation with Igor. The old man had committed criminal offenses by assaulting Dämian soldiers; that much was beyond questioning. But the thought of the knights abusing their authority and exacting revenge on him when it was clear that he was no longer a present danger to anyone troubled him nevertheless. Was that something he could change if he challenged the rule of the castes? And from there, what else could he do?
Realizing that he was drowning in hypotheticals again, Wymare gave a sharp exhale and shook his head. He wasn't used to being this bothered about anything. Too many thoughts and possibilities were rattling around in his skull, and he knew they would do him no favors when he arrived in the capital and was dropped into the royal labor unit's ranks. He didn't even know the first thing about the contract he'd heard so much about, so he resolved to keep himself grounded and stay focused on what he knew to be true about his future.
It wasn't long before the transport carriage arrived at one of the capital city's entry gates. The horses stopped moving and the wagon slowed to a halt as the wagoner spoke to the knight guarding the point of entry, and out of curiosity, Wymare pressed his ear to the knothole to see if he could overhear them.
"...Recognize your seal," he heard a gruff man's voice say. "That's of the Caster's Guild. Not often I see that presented by people coming in."
"Believe me, I'd rather be back in the castle wing and returning to my work than overseeing this transport," the wagoner replied. "It's been a bit of a hassle."
"That so?" asked the guard in turn. "I wouldn't have thought a measly Scadarah transfer could be of any trouble."
"Rat-catching can be soured by the bite of just a single rodent, wouldn't you agree?" the wagoner returned with a bit of humor in her voice.
"Hah! This is true," laughed the guard. "Though I'm not sure I would find rat-catching to be anything but a sour undertaking. Careful on your way in now, hear?"
The guard's boots shuffled across the ground as he reentered his station, and Wymare heard the clinking of gears and mechanisms as what he presumed to be a blockade of some sort was lifted out of the way of the transport carriage, allowing them passage into the capital at last. The horses' hooves clicked across the stone path again and the wagon resumed movement, and so Wymare sat back on the bench with a downcast look, more off-put by the mocking of the Scadarah than he ordinarily was.
He stared at the floor in that manner for the remaining duration of the ride, only looking up once the wagon had stopped and he heard the clicking of the horses' reins being undone at the front. Moments later, the back door of the carriage opened again, soldiers standing at the exit to escort those inside to their destinations. Everyone in the carriage, save the squatter in the back, was released in an orderly fashion onto the ground, and Wymare joined the rest of his fellow passengers in taking his first steps within Brilan's magnificent capital city: Rìo Ghaile, the City of Brilanian Splendor.
Covering every inch of the visible city were towering spires, massive buildings, and splendid architecture that spanned as far as the eye could see. Further off in the distance over the sprawling cityscape, Wymare could see the towering Castle Gornemant, which housed the Brilanian royal family, the country's Parliamentary Assembly, and, if what he'd heard before he departed from Colkirk was true, his future lodgings.
"Line up, you Scadarah!" barked one of the knights, walking to the front of the small crowd that Wymare was a part of. "One by one; hurry on! We've a schedule to keep!"
Following the orders given to him, Wymare shuffled into a line among the other Scadarah, grateful for the chance to stretch his legs after the continuous hours of being cramped for room in the wagon.
"Off to the right you'll see the registry stations for this point of entry!" the knight continued, gesturing to a row of glass-walled booths containing well-dressed men and women that were looking over papers and documents for lines of other arrivals. "Head over there and speak to the Agelasta working there; they will verify your documents and instruct you on how to get to where you're going! Now move!"
The line of Scadarah filed toward the booths, with Wymare doing his best to not get tripped up by anyone in front of or behind him as he followed. It was hard to do so little as hear himself think with all of the noise and talking going on in his midst, and so he instead turned to observing the people around him as he waited for his line to move. There were all sorts of new arrivals to Rìo Ghaile waiting at the station, with men, women, adults, and even some children all standing by for the people working the booths to grant them permission to enter the magnificent city beyond. Most of them looked ragged and poor, which came as no surprise to Wymare - there was no way they would force the upper-class citizenry to mix with the Scadarah upon entering. Such well-off people must have been routed to a different station, no doubt leagues more opulent and pleasant to look at than the misshapen bricks and cracked concrete of this one.
At last, Wymare's line moved up far enough that it was his turn to consult the booth attendant, and so he walked up to the glass window and looked in at the man behind it, observing him as he shuffled through files and slipped them into organizing slots in a bin under his desk. The knights at the carriage departure area had mentioned that people like him were Agelasta, the working class of Brilan who were the lowest on the hierarchal ladder save for the Scadarah, and this job seemed to fit that caste well: menial enough for those of higher castes to not desire it, but important enough for the government to avoid handing it out to Scadarah.
"Welcome to Rìo Ghaile! Name and caste, please?" the cheery man behind the glass wall asked once his organizing was finished, his dimpled smile striking Wymare as odd for someone with as seemingly boring a job as basic paperwork.
"Wymare Thiebaut, and... Scadarah," he answered, a bit of chagrin finding its way into the pronunciation of his caste.
"Right, one moment," the Agelasta worker answered, bending under his desk again and thumbing through his organized document folders. "Thieee... Thieee... Ah, here we are! Thiebaut, Wymare," he announced, dropping a thin folder of papers with Wymare's name scrawled on the front onto the desk in front of him.
"Let's see here," the booth attendant said as he opened Wymare's folder, perusing the documents therein that had been prepared by the Colkirk orphanage prior to him being transported to the capital. "Seventeen years of age, average build, brownish hair, red eyes... Yes, you do match the description provided. Would you mind confirming the veracity of the documents here for me?"
"Sure," Wymare answered, wanting only to be out of line as soon as possible.
"Very good. Now then," the man began, reading over the documents in front of him, "You're arriving here from the township of Colkirk, with the purpose of joining the labor unit in the castle?"
"Yes," Wymare nodded.
"And according to these files from the orphanage you purport to come from," the Agelasta worker continued, "You spent your life up to this point living there after being surrendered to the local government by your parents as an infant?"
"That's... correct," replied Wymare, his voice catching in his throat as this perfect stranger rummaged around in the more painful contents of his upbringing. He could not remember anything about his parents, and only knew what little he did about them from the orphanage staff. From what they had told him, his mother and father were jobless Scadarah living on the streets of Colkirk, and they had decided shortly after his birth that it wouldn't be right for them to raise him in such poor circumstances. Wymare wasn't sure he faulted them for their decision, but there had been many a sleepless night in the orphanage's bunking room where he'd wished for the warm embrace of someone who loved him over access to a consistent source of food, and that alone was enough to make him reluctant to dwell on the matter.
"I see," noted the Agelasta worker, oblivious to Wymare's aversion to the topic. "Well, your documentation and paperwork all appear to be in order. I'll now have you sign a notice of arrival for the city's records."
A small slip of paper was slid under a hole in the glass to Wymare, along with a quill pen freshly dipped in ink. A quick scan of the writing on the paper informed that it was a declaration of arrival in the city of Rìo Ghaile on a specific date, as authorized by a certified entry checkpoint authorizer, which Wymare ventured to be the official title of the man's position. He took up the quill pen in his right hand and signed his name along the dotted line at the bottom, returning both items to the authorizer after he was done.
"Good, quite good," the man murmured to himself, filling in the worker sections of the paper and tucking it back in with the rest of Wymare's documents in the folder with his name on it. He then took out a small card, stamped it with a wax seal on the front, and slipped it to Wymare under the glass, instructing, "This card represents your approval to enter and reside in Rìo Ghaile. The royal family strongly advises that you keep it on your person at all times, and you will show it to the Scadarah labor unit supervisor when you arrive at the castle to have your position certified."
"Alright," Wymare acknowledged, taking the card and slipping it into his pocket. "How do I get to Castle Gornemant?"
"Well, the transports here all run on a tight schedule," the authorizer answered, looking to a sheet of times and carriages tacked to the wall of his booth. "The wagon for Scadarah bound for the castle was set to leave a short bit ago, so unless you've the patience to stand and wait about for the next one, I suggest you make the trek yourself. The main road will take you straight there; exit the gate to the right over there and you should find your way."
The thought of having to walk all the way to the center of the massive city might have sounded unappealing to Wymare under other circumstances, but given that he had had his fill of riding in the backs of wagons after the trip to the capital, getting around on foot for a while sounded far from disagreeable to him. He nodded to the man in the booth before walking out of the line and to the gate on the right, passing through along with a crowd of new arrivals to the city. As people rushed into the streets around him, Wymare stood on the corner of the sidewalk that the gate led to, taking in his first breaths of air inside the city limits.
It had been a long journey to arrive, and he'd known the sort of environment that Rìo Ghaile was famous for, but as Wymare walked up the main street of the capital, passing by populated shops and scores of happy-looking people, the atmosphere of Brilan's capital began to really sink in. It was every bit as utopian as he'd imagined it to be from what he learned about it in Colkirk: magnificent architecture in the construction of every building that harkened back to Brilan's centuries-old roots, large crowds of people bustling here and there in the shops and on street corners, opulent horse-drawn chariots rode up and down the smoothly paved roadways, and the smell of food from various regions wafted from open storefronts, filling Wymare's nose with a mix of smells that made his mouth water and his stomach rumble.
Despite all of that splendor, Wymare was not swayed to view the city through rose-tinted lenses. In every alleyway he passed on his way up the main road, he saw at least one person in ragged, dirty clothes sitting against a wall or digging around latrine perimeters for meal leftovers. Even in the heart of the kingdom - or perhaps especially here, surrounded by lavish stores and grand lifestyles that they would likely never obtain for themselves, Wymare wagered - life was hard for Scadarah people.
It was a long walk along the lengthy main street that Wymare had been made to embark upon, but after a few miles of traversing the city, he was finally growing close to Castle Gornemant. The royal center of Brilan was downright colossal, with dozens of massive towers topped with green roofs cropping up from its expansive walls and windows dotting its exterior like spots on a ladybug. With scores of important-looking and sharply dressed people streaming in and out of its open doors, it certainly struck Wymare as the beating heart of Brilan, although something was bothering him about the castle itself. He was sure he'd never seen it before, artistically depicted or otherwise, and yet something about it felt familiar.
Then, as he stood on the corner of the street just across from one of the drawbridges situated over its moat, realization struck: Castle Gornemant was identical to the castle he'd seen in the rush of visions that had followed the appearance of the ethereal butterfly - the one that had been completely engulfed in flames. Wymare wasn't sure what to make of the similarity, and as things seemed to be fine from outside, he wasn't sure there was any point in talking to someone about it, but the unease that sat in his chest as he walked up the drawbridge spoke for itself.
As soon as he set foot in the main hall of the castle, Wymare felt painfully out of place amongst the decor, construction, and important-looking officials that populated the open space. He didn't want to stay there for longer than he needed to - after all, he was already running later than the last group of Scadarah that would have been bound for Castle Gornemant - so he stuck to the closest wall and made his way to a stairwell that led into the further depths of the castle. He'd heard before in Colkirk that the Scadarah labor unit in the capital was always made to sleep in what was formerly the castle's dungeon, so if he found that area, he figured he could make his way to someone who could point him to the supervisor, like the entry point authenticator had told him to do.
Every step that Wymare took echoed off the narrow descent's stone walls, each reverberating one after another in quick succession as he hurried down the stairs. He nearly bashed into a couple of castle servants on his way down, both of whom shot him a nasty look as he hastily apologized and continued his rush into the castle's lower levels.
At last, he arrived at a floor that, upon a quick look down its halls, was lined with many rooms that still retained some of the old prison bars, giving him hope that he'd found the correct area. He walked into the hall and took notice of a corkboard fixed to the wall on his right, and a brief glance at the postings on it detailed lists of tasks, names of areas in the castle, and a handful of first and last names for each. At the top of the papers, the words "Today's Unit Assignments" were written in neat cursive, confirming to Wymare that he was indeed in the right place. Now he just needed to find the supervisor and show him his card.
And so he began walking down the hall, looking into the recycled cells that lined both sides of the corridor as he went. The 'doors' to the rooms seemed to mostly be repurposed wood planks that were fastened to the back of the old prison bars, providing some level of security to the inhabitants, none of whom appeared to be present. The trend seemed to be two beds to a room, and Wymare eyeballed the dimensions of each individual living quarters to be about four yards in width and length. Candles were placed in holders mounted on the far walls between the beds, which Wymare ventured were for a light source in the otherwise unlit former cells.
As he proceeded further into the labor unit's sleeping quarters, he began to hear someone talking, and so he picked up the pace, rounding a corner to see a young man in greenish-brown robes holding a clipboard and addressing a small crowd of Scadarah. Not wanting to interrupt him, Wymare slowly approached from behind, eavesdropping on his words to the crowd before him on the way.
"...Arrangements will be made later today for your quarters," the robed man said. "Presently, you all must become acquainted with the spaces where you will be working. You will find your uniforms in my office; put them on and go explore areas of the castle noted on today's assignment posting. That will be all for now."
The crowd turned and shuffled down the hall in the opposite direction that the young man was standing. As he stood alone in the hall, he allowed himself a deep exhale as he turned his attention to his clipboard, scribbling on the attached sheet of paper with a quill pen held in his left hand. Seeing that he was now unoccupied aside from his notes, Wymare picked up the pace and approached him.
"Excuse me?" Wymare spoke when he was within conversational distance from the young man. "Can you, uhh... tell me where to find the labor unit supervisor?"
The man in robes stopped writing on his clipboard as soon as Wymare spoke up, and he waited a moment before turning to look at who was speaking to him. His squinted grey eyes revealed no emotion as he silently analyzed Wymare for a moment or two, and just as Wymare began to worry that he may have somehow done something to irritate him, he opened his lips and responded.
"...I am he. What business have you here?"
"Oh, then... Here," Wymare noted, digging into his pants pockets and producing his wax-stamped card before holding it out to the supervisor. "The man working the entry point this morning said to give you this. I'm here in the capital to join the Scadarah labor unit?"
The supervisor regarded the card for a moment with what Wymare could only describe as disdain before taking it from his hands and inspecting it closely. His outward demeanor was anything but welcoming, Wymare thought, and he began to find himself wishing desperately for their conversation to already be over.
"...You certainly look the part of a Scadarah, Thiebaut," the supervisor flatly remarked as he picked up Wymare's name from the card. "Why were you not amongst the new hands that arrived on schedule this morning?"
"Well, the transport had already left by the time my documents were authorized," Wymare answered, "So I had to walk up the main road myself."
The supervisor blinked once, his facial expression conveying his disinterest in Wymare's reason for arriving behind everyone else. Despite that, he placed Wymare's card on his clipboard and wrote some things down, the long strands of straight black hair draped in front of his ears shaking in response to his shoulders moving to and fro as he wrote before handing the card back.
"I despise repeating myself, so you had best listen well," he said in a harsh tone. "My name is Clerebold Imbertus, but I will not answer to either - I am 'Sir' to you. And for so long as you are working in the labor unit, you are under my command and you will do as I instruct you, without question or hesitation. I am solely responsible for you and your ilk here, and I will not have a whisper of insubordination in spite of the generosity the state has shown you in allowing you here. Do I make myself clear?"
Wymare only nodded in response to Clerebold's aggrieved lecturing, recognizing right away that this was the sort of person who would latch onto any sign of weakness that he showed. People like that abounded in the Brilanian caste system, but he had never been under the direct supervision and command of one such person, so he resolved to be careful and limited with his words.
"Good," Clerebold said in response to Wymare's nodding before turning around. "Walk with me; I shall give you a brief tour of your quarters. Although I presume you already allowed yourself a look on your way in?"
"Only a brief one," Wymare lied as he followed behind Clerebold, returning his card to his pockets as he went.
"You will do well to keep it that way," Clerebold continued, launching into another slew of sharp instruction. "I have little tolerance for miscreants causing trouble among their fellow workers by invading privacy or what have you. The living arrangements for labor unit workers are co-ed, so you are responsible for keeping your hands to yourself, lest you face stern reprimands."
"R-Right," Wymare replied. He wasn't the sort of person to ever consider the sort of thing that Clerebold was inferring, so the tirade of rules his supervisor's lengthy dictation was laying out felt unnecessary.
"Garderobes and bathing chambers are communal and are separated between the men and the ladies," Clerebold continued. "They are located in the east and west halls of this floor. You are expected to keep yourself clean so as to not embarrass Brilanian royalty by performing your work covered in muck and grime. Assignments are posted on the board by the stairwell every morning, and you are expected to complete them prior to your academics for each day."
At Clerebold's last remark, Wymare blinked with surprise, and his head tilted to the side in confusion. "Academics?" he repeated inquisitively.
"Are you so thick?" Clerebold asked as he turned and entered a unique room that housed a desk, several corkboards with papers tacked to them, and bins upon bins of documents. 'Supervisor' was carved into a plaque that hung from the door. "As a member of the Scadarah labor unit, you are automatically enrolled in a specialized curriculum at the Royal Academy that will educate you. Your assignments will be completed in the morning, and you shall attend classes in the afternoon. The responsibility of balancing your coursework and your labor is yours alone, so do not come complaining to me if you trail behind. Now, take one of the mens' uniforms there."
Clerebold gestured to one of the bins sitting on the floor of his office, which was full of folded-up sackcloth clothing bearing the Brilanian Royal Academy's seal embroidered on the breast. Wymare, obeying his instructions, crouched down and took out the first pair he got his hands on from the top of the pile.
"Wear that during your morning assignments and people in the castle will recognize you as part of the labor unit, allowing you to enter the areas you are assigned to," Clerebold said. "You will also wear it to your classes. Now, since you are already here, I shall do you one favor and assign you a room before the rest of the group. However, I shan't grant you the luxury of choice; consider it the trade you made in arriving late this morning."
"What? But that wasn't my-" Wymare protested.
"Did I ask for your input on the matter?" Clerebold interrupted, the heavy emphasis he placed on his words clearly conveying his lack of patience for Wymare's displeasure. "I will hear a 'Thank you, sir' if you have the breath and will to speak at all. Or do you also desire to learn the punishment that befalls those who think it wise to give me lip?"
Wymare and Clerebold's eyes met in a sudden stare, both glaring the other down in their abrupt confrontation. However, as much as he was annoyed by the unfair proposition, Wymare knew he had no recourse against an Agelasta supervisor as a meager Scadarah, and so he begrudgingly forced out, "...Thank you, sir."
"Hmph. You ought to understand where you are before acting as though you have a say," Clerebold scoffed, flipping through the papers on his clipboard. "Now, where to put a rat like yourself... Ah, this will do: Room 417. Change there and go with the rest of this morning's arrivals to inspect the areas of the castle you'll be working in. Now be a good rodent and scurry out of my sight."
Insulted and harboring a newfound resentment for his new supervisor, Wymare exited Clerebold's office and walked down the hall with his uniform under his arm. He hadn't been expecting a warm welcome to his new home by any means, but after getting just a sampling of Clerebold's style of leadership, he was already loath to think about the kind of work he would be doing come tomorrow, especially now that it seemed like he was on the supervisor's radar.
After a bit of wandering and learning how to follow the numbers on the room doors, Wymare found his way to the door that displayed the number "417" on the front. He sighed, ready to sit down for a bit after all of the hurrying and walking he'd been doing that morning, and so he grasped the knob on the door only to be surprised by the fact that it was already open. Curious as to why, he pushed the door open and stepped into the poorly lit living space.
Kneeling on the floor space between the two beds in his room was a girl with long, straight black hair and a pale complexion. Evidently having already changed into her sackcloth uniform, she was sorting out some clothes underneath the bed on the right side of the room, the knee-length dress that made up the bottom half of the female uniform covering her lower body. For a moment she continued to sort her clothes out, but when she noticed the door to the room had opened, she quickly looked to her right and saw Wymare standing there in the doorway, a confused look on his face.
"EEK!" the girl cried as she leaped to her feet and stepped back in alarm, making Wymare flinch as well at her quick movements. Neither of them moved for a moment as they analyzed each other in total silence, the girl's soft lavender eyes darting up and down Wymare's body in a way that betrayed her fear at his unexpected appearance in the doorway.
Seeing that she wasn't going to say anything before he did, Wymare forced himself to recover from the surprise and said, "Umm... Sorry, is... Is this your room?"
"...That's... That's right," she nervously answered. "Uhh, umm... Is it... yours too...?"
Wymare pursed his lips slightly as he looked off to the side and nodded, unsure of how to bridge the awkward gap that had formed from his first impression of the girl that, it seemed, was to be his roommate. It seemed as though the peculiarities of his first morning in Rìo Ghaile were not at an end just yet.