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  “It was Order, you stupid cur! She wrecks dragons like reeds!”

  “Fatty!”

  “Knave!”

  “Fatty!”

  “Slovenly cur!”

  “Mega fat fatty!”

  “I’M NOT EVEN FAT YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE SHI-”

  “Hey,” Aoline says, interrupting Cooking Minion’s and Combat Minion’s civil conversation.

  “Yes?” Cooking Minion replies with a wide smile.

  “So you’re a good cook, then?”

  “Absolutely! Good enough to make Combat Minion here a *cough* useless fat cow *cough*,” he answers, averting his gaze with a snide grin.

  Slowly, a weary expression forms across Aoline’s face before she walks towards column holding the minions’s chains.

  Chapter Seven: Initial Relaxatiations*

  *(This being a play on the words “Relaxation” and “Negotiation”, you see.)

  Minutes later Order and Pitch, along with his wife, Tylvania, are subject to some fine massages in Liefholn’s royal five star spa.

  “-and latter to that he uttered, ‘of what drink do you speak of, chap? All here I see are adolescants!’ Pitch says, finishing his joke. Order puffs her cheeks ungraciously in humor, a side of her only seen if one were a good friend of hers.

  “Wow, yeah, that’s a good one. That actually happened?” Order asks, lying on her stomach as an elf rolls his soft knuckles along her shoulder blades.

  “Most verily so. Is it not so, my Sun?” Pitch asks, looking over to his left to meet his wife’ aqua-marine colored eyes. Tylvania hums positively, too distracted with the feeling of her masseuse’s hands to pay that much attention to the conversation.

  “I guess pubs haven’t changed a bit. Lively as ever, I’m sure.”

  “You aren’t for libations?” Pitch asks with a squinted eye.

  Order exaggerates her reach to her glass of fairy wine. “Only when on duty and at home,” she says, her cheeks no rosier for wear, though she must have put down at least three already.

  The three share a quick laugh just as one of the fairy officials peeks into the spa with an incriminating glare to Pitch.

  “Most true, most true. Now one moment as I collect my thoughts.” Pitch pauses a moment, sobering up his expression. “Would you like to, perhaps, initiate our talks? While jovial things are fast more fair, tis these weighty matters we must soon discuss for the good of those we watch over,” Pitch says, raising himself to lean on his forearms. Finishing her glass Order just takes a gulp from the bottle of wine provided for her and then does the same.

  “Alright. Speak your mind, what’re your thoughts on this?”

  “Lo, I shall discuss frankly. I hold no animosity to your order, dear Order. Rayda’s knights have ever been trusted friends to our people, from the first day the name of Chaos was written in the blackest parts of our souls, to all the days the dragons attempted to devour what we loved, you were steadfast, and held all of our oppositions under the same blade; a lover of the common cause. While our friendship is good, I worry of the nations you look after. As you have lived longer than any of their kings or lords, so is your wisdom greater. I feel that, perhaps their people have grown tireless, and seek the thrill of blood and conquest. While I would fast dismiss these blood sheddings as those of simple criminal mad-men, the thought that they would come here to do it, and showing such alliance to these nations in question on their person, drives suspicion into me, but not of your peoples. There is some outside vagrant orchestrating these attacks, but we are of need to prove such a theory. Even should I be certain they were clean of this blood, my people would think differently. You know well how easily the hearts of us longevai creatures are swayed; I feel they would ask for death just the same. If war is to be prevented between the kingdom of the forest and the kingdoms of the plains, the swamps, the snow, and the steppes, you and your men must find the identities of our secret foes who have likely planned these grim palings. Understand my words, do you?” Pitch explains, locking his eyes, alight with the glow of fireflies, to Order’s own, shining a duteous golden-yellow. Order nods.

  “We’ll do all we can to prevent the war. I’ve seen enough to know it could have been humans from the kingdoms, but like you I’m doubtful. Once we finish our investigation, we’ll know for sure.”

  “Very good. I am curious: would there be any reason you can muster in your mind as to why your dear Western Kingdoms would send killers in such a delicate time? For the record’s sake.”

  “No. Your people may not be quite privy to it, but right now the W.K.D.R. is in the middle of a crippling war with the Ulterian Empire.”

  Pitch draws back. “Those sloven cowards with the death sticks?”

  Order smirks. “We call them firearms, and yeah. So that said it would be ridiculous for them to send people covered in their insignia to commit crimes; whoever did this must take us for fools .... Also I’m curious. You yourself said this is a delicate time? Is something happening aside from the crimes?” Order asks. Pitch sighs and waves away the servants. The fairy folk quietly file out of the room, including the watchful eye of the court-noble watching them. Everyone steps off, leaving Order, Pitch, and Tylvania.

  “The High Tea is on the night of tomorrow’s breath. Should there be any assailant, or one to interrupt, we will have missed the grandest opportunity we’ve been offered in centuries,” Pitch says with a solemn look, staring out the window. Order’s gaze intensifies in shocked realization. Of course there had to be a reason behind all of this.

  “The High Tea; I’ve read of it: an event that happens every few thousands of years in which a creature from an unreachable dimension comes and answers the questions of the first person to meet with it, right?” Order asks, making sure she has the right event in mind; after all, it’s not often she interacts with fairies, so she might have forgotten. Pitch nods.

  “Your mind is as sharp as the chill of Winter, dear knightess. A first-realmer will descend to our heavenly cube and teach one blessed individual its great knowledge. Should the events and greatness of our planet be gold, this is one moment greater than diamonds… of value untellable. You, given such a noble heart, must understand that we can risk no evil entrance into our kingdom, for this meeting especially. Should the wrong life take seat at the first-realmer’s table, no mind could guess the evil that would be caused, as we fear the evil could gain any knowledge it would so desire.”

  Order fixes her hands under her chin for support. “So you think someone has found out about The High Tea.”

  “Verily. My heart is blown on by the winds of uncertainty and truly, I feel a fear only the most depraved and unlucky would know. I pray to the powers of the First Realm that my hopes are placed well, for the day next to ours is one to surely be written of, be it in poetry of joy, or of lamentation,” Pitch explains. Order takes a breath in thought.

  “I see. You’ll see us do our best, but right now that’s all I can say. We don’t know who’s behind this, as most anyone would want the kind of knowledge that’s being offered at The High Tea; I’d guess. It could be… Trench, or the Prime Lunar House… it could even be Chaos and his Towerne,” Order says, thinking of at least ten incredibly powerful factions off the top of her head that would jump at the chance to have any question answered; the Royal Knights being among the ones on the list, if she were quite honest with herself.

  “Thank ye, good soul. Every visit, you renew my hope for your kind. Humans are a strange breed, capable of great good or great evil. Now let us await your knight’s return, so that we may, too, find what they have,” Pitch says, ringing a bell to recall the servants. Order nods and laxes onto her bed. The trio while away the time, relaxing, telling jokes, and drinking, though they likely wouldn’t admit to it. The life of someone of stature is hard work, after all, and it’s not every day one gets to spend time with someone relatable.

  Chapter Eight: Serious Force Alpha: The Return of the Grizzled War Veterans

  A dwarf
wearing a really-quite-silly hat leads Law and Dresmond down through the belly of Liefholn keep into a dark room. The magic lantern lights up and illuminates the place as Law places his towering mace aside.

  It is a small room, lined with cabinets of surgical tools. In the middle is a suit of armor blatantly colored in the Ragnivanian red and white, filled with an excruciatingly-large amount of elfish arrows. To add, all of the crests on the armor are of the Ragnivanian winged blade, the symbol of the country.

  “This is the body, I presume?” Law asks. The dwarf, by the name of Bongle, nods.

  “Aye, dragon-creature, one and the same,” Bongle, hat silly as ever, says with a sneer. Law steps forward and begins looking over the armored corpse.

  “Do you have any written report on the incident?” Law asks.

  “Aye, but it was written by an elf,” the dwarf says with a mixed expression.

  “Damn, hand it over to my assistant and you’ll be on your way,” Law requests, hating the way elves speak more than any of the other fairy folk.

  “Aye. I’ll be waitin’ up top should ye have trouble figurin’ it,” Bongle says as he steps out, implying Law is as stupid as all the dragon-kin in the fairy tales. Law scoffs, not paying the dwarf another glance.

  “Alright, Knight Ulveroth, decipher the information and give me the gist. Elfish grammar is like jabbing nails for me,” he snarls before he takes a calming breath.

  While Law dislikes elves a good deal, many elves from other realms are usually considered by the general Omniverse-public to be a kind, intelligent and hospitable bunch— but not these guys, they’re total weirdos.

  Dresmond takes an initial look at the report, sighs, and then speaks.

  “Looks here ... right, looks here that this culprit walked into one of the nearby fairy villages and just started hacking away at fairy folk. He was then sh- ... Sir,” Dresmond addresses. Law looks over to Dresmond.

  “Yes?”

  “What exactly is a ‘rooty tooty stringed shooty?’ ” the young, concealed knight asks with a tone of confusion. Law sighs.

  “A bow,” the dragon-kin states plainly.

  “Oh ... I see. Right, so th- ... hmm. Now then, what’s a ‘fussy tussy footy rushy?’ ”

  “It means ‘to run’, Knight Ulveroth,” Law explains. Dresmond nods.

  “Alright. So the assailant cut down about twelve, consisting of two greater fairies, four dwarves, one halfling, and five elves, before he was chased down by the town’s guardsmen, and shot down with arrows, in which caused a slow ... ‘cryin’ sighin’ point’o dyin’, which I presume is the time of ‘death,’ sir. That said, the assailant died mysteriously after the ... hmm, thirty-seventh arrow wound, then he just stopped moving.”

  “Heh, classic elf archery-skills. They can never quite hit the right spot,” Law says as he inspects the arrows in the corpse.

  “Whats more, the assailant seemed to lose no ... um ... ‘ewey gooey crimson spe-’ ... ahh, blood. Right, then the guards cleaned up the innocents, all killed by sword-wounds, and took this guy here to wait for our inspection to affirm if he’s legitimately Ragnivanian or not. They didn’t even pull off the helmet. That’s the whole report, sir,” Dresmond explains, placing the report aside and stepping up to the other side of the table.

  “Lazyass sparkle boys…. Alright, so let’s take a look at this guy. Might as well start with the armor,” Law says, removing his gauntlets and revealing a pair of large, clawed dragon-kin hands. Dresmond removes his gloves, ready to assist in any way.

  Law begins by pulling off one of the insignia on the knight. He looks at it a moment and gives a light scoff.

  “Yeah, this guy definitely wasn’t sent by Ragnivan.”

  “How so, sir?”

  “He’s covered in these insignia. What kingdom did you come from?”

  “One of the mid-land towns,” Dresmond states, referring to one of the many villages on the roads between kingdom boundaries. It’s unusual to find someone from the midland joining the Royal Knights, it’s more often people from one of the capitals of the four western kingdoms, but Kanvane and Ragnivan in particular, as they have particularly good reputations (and propaganda budgets) in those places. Law nods, first thinking the boy was from Ragnivan.

  “Hmm, alright; which town?”

  “Frau, sir.”

  “Oh? Isn’t that where Order lives?”

  Dresmond smirks under his hood. “Yes sir.”

  “Inspired by our little goddess, eh?” Law asks jokingly.

  “Sure, sir, but that’s not why I joined.”

  “Oh?”

  “I figured I might as well. When I got older I realized the house I grew up in wasn’t really my home anymore, so I decided I might as well not be a burden and go do some good. That’s what my dad would’ve wanted; he was a knight too,” Dresmond says, pulling off his hood.

  Law can see him now: soft, inch-length light brown hair, and open, clear Spirakandrin-brown-gold eyes. His face tells of the sort of person that would go and get himself killed too early; Law’s known a few.

  “Ahh. How’d he die?”

  “He was posted in Kanvane, Chaos attacked during his service and he was one of the unlucky ones.”

  “He’ll be remembered forever for his sacrifice… Most just run, you know. That alone is proof he was a true man.”

  “It’s alright ... we’ll get him one of these days,” Dresmond says, staring blankly at the armored corpse of the killer. There is a slight pause between the two of them, Dresmond looking to the side as if he’d just told a lie.

  Law crosses his arms. “Right. So I’m sure this man isn’t on Ragnivanian orders, because normally they would only take one insignia to identify their rank and person. This guy’s obviously trying to make people think he’s Ragnivan, but I’d say he’s done a pretty shitty job of doing it ... would have been far more realistic if he just took one insignia. You understand?”

  “Yes sir, I was thinking the same,” Dresmond answers plainly. Law begins pulling off each insignia and checking the I.D.’s.

  “Tell me, Knight Dresmond, you seem like an alright sort. Do you mind going on a no-rank basis?” Law says, his thin irises scanning over each insignia’s numbers and names.

  Dresmond is set back, but quick to respond. “Not at all, sir.”

  “Good, name’s Hos’Rayull.”

  “Thank you sir, Dresmond Ulveroth.”

  “I’ve come to understand you were in the yellow company,” Law asks, placing a few of the insignias to the side on a table as he looks over them.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “First name is fine, Dresmond, you’re obviously respectable enough to be given that privilege.”

  “Thank you, Ho- eh, pardon me, sir.”

  “Yes, Dresmond?”

  “Would you prefer to be called by your first or last name?” Dresmond asks, not knowing how dragon-kin deal with their names.

  “Higher dragon-kin go by our age name when it comes to referring to one personally, Dresmond,” Law states, referring to the given on their twenty-fifth birthday, which signifies their best talent, or most defining personal trait.

  Dresmond clears his throat. “Right. Thank you, Rayull.”

  “Any time, Dresmond,” Law says with a slight smirk. Dresmond just nods, looking about nervously. “So, tell me about your thoughts on the war,” Hos’Rayull asks as he gets about half-way through the Ragnivanian insignias. Dresmond takes a breath.

  “Well, sir-”

  “Rayull,” Law again corrects with a tone so light, Dresmond would almost think it kind.

  “Roger, Rayull. I feel the war is a necessary evil. From what I’ve been told, the East has been becoming increasingly more ambitious in sight of their technological revolution.”

  “I feel precisely the same way, Dresmond. Seems like a good few of our knights are afraid of protecting our own lands, as if defending our lives from other countries is something we should be ashamed of.”

  “I s
uppose I wouldn’t blame them. The Knights have never been deployed against another country before.”

  “Hmm, you’ve done a bit of reading, I see.”

  “Just some knowledge passed around between the knights in my legion.”

  “Hmm, who was your commanding officer?” Law asks, removing the last few insignias.

  “Kanvanian Arch Mage Niad.”

  “A Kanvanian? One of the co-op units, then?”

  “…Yes,”

  Rayull sighs. “…How was it?”

  “What part of it?”

  “The whole thing.”

  “I don’t know. I hated it.”

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “The mages walked in wearing robes, and very few of them knew anything more than the fire-magic they were taught at fifteen.”

  “Ahh... How did they do?”

  “We lost half of my first group of twenty by the first day. By the time I received the post to return only two others and myself were still on the field… I got a gun by that point, so things got easier.”

  “Damn... And you’d just tell me that?”

  “I trust you, sir, you’re a knight, not W.K.D.R.. You wouldn’t rat me out for using enemy methods.”

  Law nods his head about in thought. “Yeah… well I suppose you’d have to use a firearm if you wanted to survive.”

  “Yeah, only reason we weren’t among the dead was by playing their game, and all of the dilapidated buildings caused by the siege magic from our side and the cannons from the East- that gave us some good places to hide.”

  “... How many squads were you in?”

  “About eight.”

  “Amazing.” Rayull glances Dresmond’s way. “You must have gotten hit by fire arms at least once?”

  “Four times, actually,” Dresmond says, opening up his cloak and clothing just enough to display the scars from military-grade healing-magic on his dark-ash colored Spirakandrin skin.

  “Mmm, you’re lucky to be alive,” Law says, finishing to inspect the final insignia.

  “... Yeah. There were a lot of better people in those fights ... I’ll miss ‘em.”