23rd Gemini, 1645
It’s a beautiful day in Wurzelort. A light spring breeze ruffles the leaves of the trees and bushes planted along the sides of its streets and the flowers outside various homes and businesses. The sun only occasionally shows her face fully, spending most of her time partially hidden behind light and fluffy cloud cover, keeping the temperature from getting too hot. To stand in the shade is delightfully cool, and to turn one’s face to the sun and let her rays run down over you is only as warm as a relaxing shower. There are, naturally, no shortage of friends, families, and lovers both young and old enjoying the day in the park with picnics and strolls.
Unfortunately, the small and bedraggled group of Unioknights! riding into town on the backs of a group of equally bedraggled turbo-ungulates are – for the most part – too weary and battered to derive any pleasure whatsoever from the weather.
“Ahh!” Winnifred sighs cheerily as the sun once again peeks through the clouds and bathes her and her companions in warmth, “I think I will never get used to weather down south! Is so warm and lovely, like heated private study!”
“Please let me gag her,” Hoyden asks of the rest of them.
“No, Hoyden, for the last time,” Andromeda replies wearily, in a tone that suggests she is in fact strongly considering it herself.
“Does that mean if I ask one more time you won’t say no?” Andromeda doesn’t respond to Hoyden’s counter, though whether because she deems it beneath responding to at all or because she doesn’t trust herself to keep Winnifred’s mouth unfettered none could say. “Come on, Isra, you’re with me on this, right?”
“Hm? Oh, sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” Isra looks up for the briefest of moments from her book before going right back to not paying attention to anything else.
“Do try to contain yourselves,” Veracity sighs, her normally only slightly messy tight bun quite a bit more frazzled, before muttering darkly, “Difficult though it may be.”
Of course, this story is following Winnifred’s perspective, and as she takes no notice of this conversation behind her please try to put it out of your own mind as well.
Winnifred has no idea why her companions seem so grumpy. She thinks their first job together as a union had gone pretty well, narrowly avoided disorderly conduct charges notwithstanding; they’d successfully banished the fiend who’d taken up residence in Nagahm, gotten paid, and she’d even managed to avoid being caught in that minor explosion like the rest of them! Sure, her clothes had gotten a little singed, but it’s nothing she couldn’t get fixed by any tailor of passing skill. She really didn’t get what there was to complain about!
Well, okay, she would admit that they’d hit a couple bumps on the trip back, but she’d been on the road on her own long enough to be used to it. She didn’t see how you could possibly be an adventurer without the understanding that you’d occasionally run into bandits or packs of wild hogs, or that such things could slow down progress on a trip. She was used to being slowed down after all her time on the road, and this time hadn’t even been that bad! Besides, they were back in Wurzelort now and the weather was absolutely gorgeous, so the fact that her companions were still taking the delay so poorly was…
Well, she didn’t want to look down on them (but she absolutely was).
Even so, she felt it prudent to try to lift their spirits, and so with still no awareness whatsoever of the way the majority of them were staring daggers into her back, she called out again.
“Is good to be back home, da? Bet you are looking forward to being sleeping in your own bed.”
The lack of reply does nothing to dampen her enthusiasm, and she still fails to notice anything amiss even as Hoyden and Andromeda urge their turbo-ungulate forward to overtake her own, nor as the silence grows longer and more awkward for the rest of the ride back to the Unioknights! headquarters.
Winnifred lived in a dormitory situation once before, during her first two years of university in Serpenthold. At the time, she didn’t have any particularly strong feelings on it – she kept to herself, her neighbors kept to themselves, it was unremarkable and then she went back to living with her parents once she got her generally-mandatory campus residence time done with. At times it was lonely without her brother or sisters around, but with loneliness came quiet, and that was nice in its own way. Certainly her studies were easier to focus on, though the difference once she was back at Winterfin manor was minor.
The dormitories – or barracks, as Miss Hoyden insists on (jokingly?) referring to them – at the Unioknights! headquarters are quite a different matter. For starters, the furnishment is far less luxuriant than either of the places she lived in Serpenthold, though her time travelling has long since taught her not to mind. The quarters themselves are closer, both in terms of individual rooms and how near the rooms are to each other. As a result, even though her co-workers haven’t yet bothered her directly or tried to spend any time with her, there have certainly been disruptions… particularly from Miss Hoyden (who happens to be one of her immediate neighbors) and her noisy and frequent “guests”. That one, Winnifred must admit, is actually somewhat impressive given that she knows for a fact Hoyden has a muffling spell set up and whatever she’s doing to those other women is good enough that they’re still audible next door. In any case, the Winterfin heiress has taken to spending less time in her accommodations and more in other places around the base, especially Dr. Mort-Stergen’s laboratory-slash-infirmary.
Therefore, it comes as something of another unwelcome disruption when Miss Zhuan is waiting for the returning party in the dormitories’ common room, interrupting Winnifred’s plans to deposit her things in her room and run off to said lab before they have a chance to begin.
Zhuan Chirita is an older Xyrian woman, nearthkin, average height, who leans at all times on a thin cane topped by an elegant wood carving of a wolf’s head with its snout pointed proudly upward. She has a tendency to wear simple yet professional clothing, today’s outfit a deep blue blazer and trouser combo over a plain white blouse. She wears her hair in a dark gray bob that goes down just a little further than the corners of her jaw, matching the color of her still-sharp eyes and conveying a sense of dignity in age. Her light-brown skin is leather-like, weathered by a rigorous lifetime spent outside doing gods-only-know-what, and yet even with the tolls her years have taken she carries herself with a proud bearing that seems to tell anyone who might be tempted to test her 'the world hasn't worn me down yet and you're not going to be the thing that finally does’.
After Winnifred initially arrived in Wurzelort two weeks ago and met Miss Zhuan, she did some digging. According to local records (and a few Winnifred requested from her brother Nikolai, which she had only just received by messenger the other day) Miss Zhuan had been quite the formidable wizard in her day, and some of her later escapades left Winnifred simultaneously awestruck and skeptical. Despite her doubts, she was wary of the old woman, uncertain if she could still muster that same prowess, and not particularly inclined to be in any situation where she might find out.
“Welcome back, all,” Miss Zhuan says, voice tinted by a slight accent from her homeland, as she pushes herself out of a chair with some effort and limps over to the group. “You look like shit.”
“We certainly could’ve had a smoother first job,” Veracity says, “The journey back alone was quite the ordeal.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Miss Zhuan inclines her head towards the group as she comes to a stop before them, planting her cane in front of herself and leaning on it with both hands, “Honestly makes me feel a little bad about what I need to ask some of you to do next.”
“Nope!” Andromeda breaks off for the group and makes as much of a beeline for her room as one could make whilst practically dragging herself forward, “Whatever it is, I’m not doing it tonight. I am going to bathe and then sleep for the next twenty hours.”
“Miss Starr, that’s- “
“Look,” Andromeda cuts her off, “I had to regrow a lot of skin from some severe burns on this mission. Did you know skin is the human body’s largest organ? Because it is, and that means magically regenerating it is exhausting.”
“…Very well,” Miss Zhuan turns back to the rest of the group, allowing Andromeda to disappear into her personal quarters. “For the rest of you then, here’s the situation: The Mayor is hosting a semi-formal event tonight, a rubbing elbows kind of dinner with a few dignitaries, nobles, and business types from outside Wurzelort. Some of you may know that he’s been very supportive of our endeavor here, and this dinner is another expression of that support. He wants to help us do some networking, give us an opportunity to get the word out a bit more.”
“And show off the town’s newest curiosity while he’s at it, I bet,” Isra mutters sardonically, prompting Hoyden to snicker.
“Yes, that too,” Zhuan acknowledges.
“So, what, we’re all supposed to show up there immediately after getting back?” Hoyden asks. “Sorry, Chief, but I’m kinda in the same boat as Andromeda here. I’m pooped.”
“That’s fine, Miss Hoyden, I only need two more members of the Unioknights! to attend. I want to send three total, and Miss Rajatali has already volunteered.”
“Wait, so why can’t you go?”
“Well, in all his excitement to assist-slash-peacock us about, the mayor forgot to actually inform myself, Krisha, or Miss Strent of the event in our honor until two days ago. Krisha and I have a prior engagement for tonight, and though I recognize this is quite short notice for all of you as well I must still insist someone attend.”
“Well, in the absence of yourself or Miss Ganguly, I’m an obvious choice,” Veracity states matter-of-factly. “Someone with a hand in the administrative side of things should be there. I might need to take a power nap first, but I should be fine.”
“I will go as well,” Winnifred chimes in, “I have been to many such events, and, at risk of sounding conceited, I was well liked at all of them. Perhaps I could even bring bullalaika, give small performance.”
“I’m glad you’re so eager about the prospect, Doctor Winterfin,” Zhuan nods at her, which Hoyden and Isra take as a tacit dismissal and amble away, “Especially since there isn’t a whole lot of choice in the matter. No offence to Miss Isra, we all have our own strengths, but she isn’t the most personable woman around.”
“None taken,” Isra calls back to them in her usual deadpan.
“Performing for the guests isn’t a bad idea. Get yourselves cleaned up and presentable, the dinner starts in…” Da Chief pulls a timepiece from her breast pocket, “…four hours. I want you to be there in five.”
Winnifred nods and pulls away from them. Five hours – not a lot of time to get ready, but she’s made good impressions with less time in the past. Saints, with five whole hours she might even have time to put some real thought into her outfit! How exciting, she thinks, to be able to make An Appearance after so many months away from Serpenthold! I do hope I haven’t lost my touch. Perhaps I’ll wear my old deep blue and purple dress, or…
Just as she opens the door to her room and is about to step inside, her ear pricks at the sound of a slightly hushed conversation behind her, breaking her from her reverie.
“Are you certain about this, Miss Zhuan?” she overhears Veracity ask, a note of urgency in her words, “We still don’t know what her intentions are. I’m still trying to decide if her performance over the past week made me more or less doubtful as to whether we should keep her around. Who knows what will happen if she accompanies us to a room full of influential people, especially given how impulsive she can be?”
Winnifred’s step falters momentarily, but she recovers and quickly disappears behind her door, cracking it just enough to still be able to hear the conversation.
“I know you don’t trust her, Veracity, so I’m going to ask you to trust me instead. The girl may be sheltered and a bit self-absorbed, but she’s earnest. She won’t stab us in the back.”
“But how can you be so sure? Wealth is as wealth does, and- “
“Veracity,” Zhuan’s tone is sharp and silencing. “I’ve not always been the best judge of character, but I’ve had a very long time to learn, and I’m a damn good one now. Give the Winterfin girl time, and you’ll come to understand what I see in her,” her tone and expression soften. “But for tonight, it may help to think of it this way: at least you’ll be there to keep an eye on her.”
Veracity huffs.
“Fine. Not much to be done for it anyway, I suppose.” Winnifred can practically hear the other caprican’s pursed lips in her tone.
No more conversation makes its way to Winnifred’s ears, and after several moments of silence she closes the door the rest of the way as inconspicuously as possible. She frowns and tilts her head thoughtfully. Do the others not like her? Is she really… what was the phrase Da Chief used? ‘Sheltered and self-absorbed’? Well, that can’t be right! Winnifred is one of the least selfish people she’s ever met, and she’d always gone out of her way to make it clear to everyone around her!
Of course, Miss Zhuan had also said that Veracity should give it time and she’d warm up to her, so perhaps that’s the solution. Her new co-workers simply don’t know her well enough yet, so if she needs to deal with a little bit of cold-shoulder until they realize how great she is that’s fine by her. Yes, she thinks, all she needs to do is wait.
Satisfied with her conclusions, she turns around and bustles over to her closet. In the meantime, she has a dress to pick out and a party to go to! One must always put her best face forward at such events, after all.
*********
The mayor’s home is nice, but it’s not nearly as big as Winnifred expected. Its entire exterior is marked by a dark color scheme, stormy gray walls and large windows with curtains drawn over them on the inside. Even though it’s made of wood, not stone, it gives the impression of an old castle, the kind one might find in central Listria (which, Winnifred supposes, isn’t too far from here) given a goth makeover. There’s even a couple of turret-like flourishes at the corners to add to the look. Idly she wonders if the building was designed by Krisha, and if so whether the aesthetic was the mayor’s choice or the architect’s.
A wrought-iron gate sits at the end of a path leading to the front door, opened invitingly inwards. Veracity stops the three of them just before they cross the threshold.
“Now, remember,” she says in a hushed, insistent tone, “let me do most of the talking. I trust you two not to put your feet in your mouths, but you’re not used to networking the way I am. I have a lot of practice as a rhetorician – you don’t.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Peekie says, vigorously nodding her head in a way that makes her earrings jangle.
Despite her uptight insistence, Veracity looks the most relaxed Winnifred has ever seen her. Rather than her typical tight bun, her hairdo is a much looser style that wraps the majority of her hair around her horns in an elaborate pattern, with a soft lock left hanging in front of the base of each ear. A silver chain lies around her neck with a detailed silver carving of two feathery wings folded across a spine hanging from it – the symbol of Summi, The Celestial Mother. For the first time since Winnifred met her, she’s wearing something other than trousers, a simple yet elegant light blue dress that matches the color of her eyes.
Next to her, Peekie wears a deep green dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, and a sharp pair of navy slacks. When Veracity asked her if she had a matching blazer, she had simply flushed, looked away, and muttered something that sounded like ‘in a schlock of mice”. She eschews her usual goggles in favor of a pair of spectacles and her usual bevy of piercings in favor of a quartet of dangling earrings that evoke wind chimes. The effect of the entire ensemble makes her look both dapper and adorable thanks to her diminutive stature.
As for Winnifred herself, she ultimately settled on one of her favorite gowns, low cut and semi-glossy black with white accents. The long skirt splits on one side, showing off her leg and allowing a space for her tail to slip out, drawing attention to the little ribbon she’d woven into her hair-tuft at its tip. It had taken her quite some time to settle on it, and then a good bit more to do her makeup just right; Veracity chewed her out for nearly making them late, but she’d seen the way her eyes had lingered on her chest for just a moment. Whatever the high-strung caprican might say, Winnifred could tell she appreciated her wardrobe choice on some level.
“Winnifred? Did you hear me?”
“Da. You need not worry, I have been to functions before.”
“And on that note, please keep your family on the down-low unless someone directly asks you. I worry it might draw too much attention away from everything else.”
“Okay,” Winnifred responds simply with a shrug.
Veracity looks less than convinced, but nevertheless walks to the front door and knocks loudly.
The middle-aged man who opens the door for them a few moments later is, if nothing else, impeccably groomed. Dark, shoulder-length hair falls in curly waves on either side of his face, emphasized by a purposefully-thin pair of sideburns that point in turn to a sharp goatee. A pair of spectacles, lenses tinted slightly red, sits low on his pointed nose, presumably so as not to cover his eyes, as they twinkle with mirth and mischief in a rather disarming manner. His outfit, meanwhile, consists of a pastel pink dinner jacket, matching slacks, a deeper red cravat tucked into the dress shirt beneath, and a short half cape somewhere in between the two colors.
Well, the colors themselves may not be bold but his choice to wear them certainly is, Winnifred thinks to herself, the corners of her mouth turning up ever so slightly as she internally congratulates herself on her own wit.
“Ah, velcome, velcome!” The man says cheerfully in a thick and distinct accent that Winnifred can’t place, throwing his arms wide in gregarious invitation as he does so. “You must be the members of the Unioknights! Chirita sent along to act as her representatives. Such a shame she couldn’t make it herself, but I’m certain the night vill be a delight nonetheless! I am Mayor Vlad Dracula, humble public servant of Wurzelort,” he bows deep, sweeping one arm across his front. “Please, do come in!”
The front door opens to one of the humbler foyers Winnifred has seen in her many visitations of the homes of well-to-do individuals. Its size is, like her initial impression of Mayor Dracula’s home from the outside, smaller than expected. Its lighting, on the other hand, stands in contrast to the gloomy and slightly foreboding exterior, bright and warm and cheerfully emphasizing the colorful interior, rich reds and yellows and the occasional deep green or brown that make the entrance hall feel truly welcoming. She can see a fair bit of the connected rooms – a small library, a dining room, and a lounge – and the landing of the second floor from the doorway, but her attention is drawn mostly to the few buffet tables set up in the foyer itself which are well stocked with hors d’oeuvres and seem to have drawn the bulk of the attendees.
Just under two dozen sharply dressed men and women populate the space, either milling about or chatting away with one another, glasses and little plates in hand. Some wear smiles that stretch thin across their faces, features clearly unused to actual mirth (the signs of which Winnifred is all too practiced at spotting) while others carry warmth between their lips and laugh genuinely when their companions tell a joke. The former out-number the latter two-to-one, and since Winnifred doesn’t see any faces she recognizes, she takes a moment to make mental notes of who all is which.
The sound of Dracula clearing his throat next to her interrupts her observations.
“Ladies, Gentlemen!” Dracula calls out in a clear and attention-grabbing voice. “I should like to introduce our guests of honor for the night, members of Wurzelort’s very own Unioknights! Adventurer’s Union! Please assist me in giving them a varm velcome to tonight’s festivities.”
A polite smattering of applause rounds the room, seeming to pull Veracity forward a bit towards the assorted socialites. A half-moment’s delay, and then her companions take the cue and follow.
“A pleasure to be in your company tonight,” Veracity says with a graceful curtsey that Winnifred mirrors. Peekie takes a stiff bow, looking a bit like a deer in torchlight, “My name is Veracity Judica Strent, wizard, archivist, and founding member of the Unioknights! To my left is Winnifred the Bard, and to my right Miss Priya Rajatali, machinist extraordinaire.”
“A bard! Oh, how delightful!” Exclaims one stereotypically rotund gentleman with an equally stereotypical handlebar mustache (one of the warm individuals Winnifred made note of) who looks as if he should be chawing on a cigar. “You simply must perform for us, my dear! I haven’t had the chance to hear an honest-to-goodness bard perform in ages!”
“I concur,” says another guest, an austere older woman with a dry sort of amusement Winnifred just knows to be at her expense, especially given the woman’s numbering among the cold individuals. “It’s always entertaining to see unknown talent… play.”
The bard looks questioningly to Veracity, who in turn turns to Dracula and asks, “What do you think, Mayor?”
“I think a song or two sounds like a vonderful idea! Let us move to the lounge,” Mayor Dracula gestures for the guests to follow him.
Winnifred pulls her bullalaika out of her purse (a hammerspace, naturally) as she walks, plucking at its strings evaluatively and doing a bit of fine-tuning. Once satisfied, she runs a quick scale before sliding a finger along the curving bone of the instrument’s edge, quietly humming an approximation of an invocation to The Bull Queen as she does so. No words need be given to the goddess of death and music.
The lounge has a piano in it, situated near a large window and away from the few bookshelves that creep across the boundary between this room and the library. The piano seat, curiously, is nowhere to be seen, not that Winnifred is bothered by this; she prefers to stand when performing anyway, especially when wearing a gown. In any case, the piano itself is a stroke of luck, and as Winnifred runs her palm across its body, she whistles low, gently extending her senses to the strings beneath, connecting with them one by one. She steps back and runs her pinky along her bullalaika’s horn, testing the connection, smiling gently as the keys depress themselves one at a time.
She turns back to her impromptu audience, slightly more bunched up in this smaller space. “First song I will play is ‘Romance of Snake and Moon,’ done in Serpenthold Traditional style,” she says matter-of-factly.
And she begins to play.
“The Romance of The Snake and The Moon” is an up-tempo piece, at least as Winnifred plays it. Many non-Serpensians would know a far more relaxed version, and even though she sings the words, tells the story in her homeland’s tongue, all those listening know how it goes. You’d be hard pressed to find a single adult on Nearth unfamiliar with the tale of The Glass Maiden, and The War Serpent; of the goddess of moonlight and courage who fell in love with a mortal leviathan, of the tempestuous affair which followed and the many conflicts that served to keep them apart until, finally, Myn shed her mortal coil like so many dead scales and ascended to godhood, becoming the very embodiment of victory and the sea.
Winnifred’s fingers dance across the strings of her bullalaika and slide quick and smooth along the horn with no more effort than one might expend to walk, a display of skills honed across many hundreds of hours… and yet, it is her voice which most moves her audience. Low, melodious, brimming with such emotion you could believe she was there all those eons ago, saw the trials and triumphs of the lover goddesses firsthand. Even some of the colder partygoers tear up at her display, their practiced facades of haughty indifference melting beneath the notes and chords.
When she finishes, the applause is more than polite, though still not so enthusiastic as she might have received in a tavern or proper musical venue: this event is still, after all, meant to be semi-formal.
“Brava, my dear girl!” exclaims the stereotypically rotund gentleman, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief, “To think such a talent would choose to adventure! Oh, you simply must play another!”
“Ochyen' khorosho,” Winnifred nods, “Any requests?”
“The Ballad of Syn’Taret!” suggests one voice.
“Long Travails!” calls another, at which Winnifred wordlessly strums her bullalaika again, (figuratively) casting another hush over the crowd as she accepts the request. It is a much slower, more mournful piece, one she sings in the common tongue, and she notes some of the attention drifting from her as guests resume or strike up new conversations. It doesn’t bother her – music is just as good for background noise as it is for focused enjoyment, and a subtle thumbs-up from Veracity tells her that her peer approves of the impression she made.
Upon finishing the second song, Winnifred puts her bullalaika away and mingles for a time. The conversation is pleasant enough, if a bit dull due to its superficiality, but that’s another thing she’s used to from growing up a Winterfin. She learns that the rotund gentleman is the mayor of Wurzelort’s sister city, a town in the Syllian region known as Ratton, that the austere woman is Baroness Goldleaf (and is in attendance with her gentleman consort Sir Goldleaf) and makes several other introductions besides which she knows she will promptly forget within the next twenty-four hours.
Throughout the conversation and company, Winnifred sees very little of either of the women she came with. Every so often she catches a glimpse of Veracity across the room, schmoozing it up with either genuine enjoyment or the most convincing affection thereof which Winnifred has ever seen. The prim wizardess seems to be very much in her element here, a stark contrast to Peekie, of whom Winnifred sees even less. In fact, she only spots her through the crowds twice, and both times in the same corner, blushingly chatting up a pale young woman with dark hair, a dazzling smile, and more than a passing resemblance to the good Mayor Dracula. The first time there is another person there, a thin gentleman about the same age as them, seemingly trying to pull more of Peekie’s attention away from the young lady and towards himself and frustrated at his failure to do so, but the second time it is just the two women. Briefly, Winnifred considers breaking away from her own conversation to join them, but then the young lady laughs at something Peekie says and the little engineer’s blush brightens enough that she could be a lantern and, well, suddenly Winnifred thinks it best to leave the two of them to each other’s company.
Before long the mayor calls all the guests to the dining room. Winnifred and her companions are seated near the head of the table; to Dracula’s immediate left sits his daughter, to his immediate right the Mayor of Ratton, and Peekie sits next to the younger Dracula while Winnifred takes a place next to the other Mayor and Veracity on the other side of Winnifred.
The conversation over dinner is about as eventful as that which led up to it, mild pleasantries and business talk from everyone besides the Mayor of Ratton, who shows a very genuine, almost boyishly excited interest in the affairs of the union. Unfortunately, the conversation over dinner is only uneventful until Baroness Goldleaf speaks up.
“Miss Strent, I’ve been wondering something,” The Baroness catches Veracity’s attention, interrupting what she was saying to another guest, “The name of your little… organization… ‘Unioknights’, was it?”
“’Unioknights!’,” Veracity corrects, “but yes, what about it?”
“Well… it’s just that it seems rather disrespectful to go around calling yourselves knights when you’re…” The Baroness pauses, holding herself back from saying ‘just’ in a way that still makes it clear that’s what she’s thinking, “a group of adventurers. Are any of your members titled? Any at all?”
“Well, Baroness… strictly speaking, our name does not actually imply that any of us are knights in the traditional sense, nor do we make any claims as such elsewise. The name ‘Unioknights!’ is merely meant to draw attention to ourselves, get people talking about us. It’s catchy, memorable, and if people want to say how its disrespectful, well… that simply means more people will hear it.”
Winnifred snrks quietly. As Veracity explained it to her before, all that is true, but what she’s not saying now is that the irreverence is the point. What should an organization that dedicates itself to struggling against institutions such as knighthood and nobility care if it disrespects those institutions? She does, of course, understand why Veracity wouldn’t come right out and say that to a Baroness at a networking function, but that just makes it funnier.
Winnifred’s outburst, though quiet, still draws the attention of The Baroness to her. “Miss Winnifred,” she says with a hollow smile, swinging her cold gaze from one caprican to the other, “Is something amusing?”
“Nyet.”
“Mm,” she hums skeptically. “Well, regardless, I must say that I rather enjoyed your little performance in the lounge. A bard of your caliber is rare, especially one spending her time with… well. What did you say your surname was, again?”
“Winterfin,” she says automatically, before she remembers she was supposed to keep that on the down-low. She feels Veracity tense slightly beside her and hears a small murmur of surprise run up and down the length of the table. The Baroness herself is especially taken aback.
“Winterfin? Not one of the Serpenthold Winterfins, surely! Lera and Lanitanius are both hu-“ she stops herself and half the table raises an eyebrow at her mistake. “…nearthkin, and you’re… a caprican.”
Winnifred hesitates, unsure if she should continue this line of discussion. She looks sidelong to Veracity, who sighs and gives a little gesture of ‘why not, it’s already out there.’
“I was adopted, at very young age. Mat and Otyets are nearthkin, da, but I am just as much their child as any of my siblings.”
“Hmph,” The Baroness sniffs, nose upturned, clearly wanting to say more but understanding that she would not have the support of those around her if she did. “And they’re… letting you galavant around with these… ‘Unioknights!’?”
“Mat and Otyets do not know,” Winnifred shrugs, “But I am adult. They know I am travelling, trust my judgement. Details are personal business.”
“I don’t see what difference it makes, to be quite honest,” Veracity interjects, “Our organization is not one built upon family ties, but rather on the ability of our members. If Doctor Winterfin, or anyone else of sufficient skill wishes to join the Unioknights!, we will happily accept them into our ranks.”
The Baroness does not seem satisfied with this answer, but evidently can’t think of any further objections as an awkward silence falls over the table. Until…
“You know, it’s funny,” Baroness Goldleaf says thoughtfully after a few minutes, “I do remember, now, hearing the Winterfins adopted a caprican child some years ago, but I was under the impression said child was a son.”
A little pit of unease springs fully formed into Winnifred’s stomach. A small part of her brain tells her she should disengage, let Veracity handle the conversation with Goldleaf, but she can’t stop herself from responding.
“No, that would be me. Only son of my parents is my brother Nikolai.”
“Hm. I wonder where I heard that from…?”
“Could not tell you.”
“Oh, I remember now,” The Baroness leans forward, fixing Winnifred with an appraising gaze that borders on leering, “Yes, I did hear about you. You’re one of those… transitioners that are running all over the place these days. No wonder you’d try to keep it quiet, the Winterfins must be ashamed to have taken in a deviant like you.”
And just like that, the air in the room goes taut like a sharply-pulled wire.
“Oh, let the boy indulge his little indiscretion while he’s young,” Lord Goldleaf chimes in, placing a placating hand on his wife’s arm, “They all grow out of it sooner or later. Why, I had a cousin who did the same thing when he was his age, but he got right eventually and he’s perfectly normal now.”
Winnifred’s heart slams against her ribcage, as if trying to leap from her chest and detonate, that it might take the old woman and her gentleman consort with it as it destroys itself. Her mouth is set in a grim line, teeth behind it clenched around her tongue, every bit of her mind telling her to stay quiet, to weather through it, and trying so very hard to keep herself from opening her mouth.
And yet almost of its own accord one of her hands surreptitiously, ever-so-calmly and slowly reach forward to grasp the knife at her place by its blade. She feels it cut into her palm, cool and smooth and sharp, feels her blood trickle down its length, takes in the sensation of every inch of that cool and smooth metal from the perspective of every last drop in the thin red rivulet she’s made on the blade. More vaguely, she feels the eyes of Veracity and Peekie and a few others present fixated on her through this display.
“Madame and Master Goldleaf,” the nerves in Mayor Dracula’s voice feel out of place given his usual peppy attitude, “I must ask you not to antagonize my other guests such.”
“Oh, please,” the Baroness waves her hand dismissively, “I’m not ‘antagonizing’ anyone. The Winterfin boy will have to understand sooner or later that his delusions won’t be accepted by the broader world.”
“Madame Goldleaf, your insistence on referring to the young lady as ‘boy’ is most uncouth,” the Mayor of Ratton’s stereotypical moustache is quite literally bristling with indignation, “show her some respect.”
“Oh, come off it, Stanton,” another man sneers from further down the table, “He doesn’t need you defending him. If he has a problem with us calling him what he is, he should be a man and say so.”
The argument continues, steadily growing in scope and volume, but Winnifred takes none of it in from that point on. She stands abruptly, knocking her chair over as she does so, knife still in her hand. She doesn’t register it, but the entire table hushes and turns to her, waiting with bated breath to see what she does. She stands there a moment, breathing hard, before turning and rushing from the room, only barely aware of the din that erupts in her wake.
She doesn’t mean to storm up the stairs or down the landing towards a floor-to-ceiling window at one end, doesn’t mean to push through it hard enough to crack one pane of the glass, doesn’t consciously choose the balcony beyond for her meltdown, but the next thing she knows she’s leaning heavily on the banister, panting, vision blurry and hot.
She doesn’t cry. Some part of her brain, the tiny piece that still has control over itself, doesn’t want to give that horrible old woman the satisfaction even if she isn’t there to see it. Instead, she growls through several deep breaths, bringing herself back to herself. Early in the process she becomes aware of the sting in her palm where she cut herself on the knife, and as mild as the pain is it still helps her ground herself. Her other hand reaches over, almost having to pry her fingers open to take the knife away from herself, glistening and wet. After regarding it for a moment, she tosses it aside, letting it clatter against the floor of the balcony, and hangs her head over the edge, still fighting back tears.
The sound of a man clearing his throat makes her whip her head back up, spinning around, placing her back to the railing, feeling very much like a cornered animal. The man holds up his hands placatingly, taking a step back to show he means no harm, a gesture that makes Winnifred at once grateful and irritated, as though she were being condescended to.
The man is nearthkin and comfortably at the tail-end of middle aged, about the same as Mayor Dracula, wearing a slightly loose burgundy jacket over a cream-colored dress shirt. His tan skin is marked by heavy lines of experience and stress and his short military coif of hair and beard are both thoroughly gray, the features of a man who has seen a lot in his years, yet even so his expression is gentle, kindly. His dark eyes have a certain spark in them, as well as an expression of… pity? No… not pity…
“Miss Winterfin,” he says, his voice hoarse and slightly accented, “I hope I am not disturbing you.”
“…Depends why you followed me.”
“That’s fair,” he nods, placing his hands casually in the pockets of his dress pants, “My name is Paolo Yew. I am a general of Coratai and something of a liaison between my city’s government and any adventurers we contract… but, more importantly, I am a father.”
Winnifred scoffs scornfully, turning away from the man. “Go away. Am not interested in hearing more of how I disappoint my family.”
“Oh, you misunderstand,” Paolo Yew says, stepping up beside her and leaning over the balcony railing, looking out over the street below rather than at her. “I’m not here for that – quite the opposite, in fact.”
When Winnifred doesn’t respond, he continues. “My child is like you, you know. Transgender, I mean, not adopted, though of course there’s no shame in either.” Still no response. “I am… exceedingly proud of them, every day, for a great many reasons. I’ll admit, I’ve never had the opportunity to meet with the Winterfins myself, but I’m certain your parents feel the same towards you.”
Still, no response.
“The-“ he begins, but stops when Winnifred cuts him off.
“…This was first time anyone has treated me like that.”
He turns to face her, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. “Truly?” Winnifred nods. “Well, I admit, that is a bit of a surprise, even for this day and age. I’m sorry your first run-in with… that had to be such a public affair.”
“I feel like idiot.”
“Why is that?”
“I am thinking back to… many occasions. Wondering how many times people have thought the same as Baroness but… quieter. Wondering how many did not realize, but would have said some shit if they did. I knew there are people like that, but somehow… I thought I would not be meeting them.”
Winnifred Winterfin and Paolo Yew stand together in silence for a time, each mulling over her words. Winnifred runs a finger over the still-bleeding cut in her palm, the occasional droplet falling away from her hand and down to the ground below. So pre-occupied with mentally kicking herself and with her conversation with Yew is she that she almost absentmindedly closes it back up, but she remembers just before doing so that she should avoid using hemomancy in public whenever possible. As disastrous as the dinner has been – and as briefly, bitterly tempting as the thought of making her other problem seem like peanuts by contrast is – she at least has the presence of mind for that.
Paolo Yew finishes thinking over her words first.
“I’ve met a lot of people in my years, Miss Winterfin, from all walks of life, and you know what I’ve come to realize? The vast majority of them are decent folk. Sure, there’s plenty of bigots out there with all kinds of prejudices, but there’s something they all have in common: they are sad, empty people. Not everyone understands those around them perfectly, but by and large they’re… most people are too preoccupied with their own problems to really give a shit about anything you’ve got going on. It’s a bit of a double-edged sword, sometimes, but there’s also plenty of people who are willing to stick up for you. I don’t know if you heard, but when you stormed out of the dining room earlier it caused quite a stir. Your friends, especially, were quite vocal in sticking up for you. Something to keep in mind, next time one of the bigots gets that loud.”
“And you? What do you care?” she asks, slightly suspicious.
“As I said – my child is like you. I wouldn’t want them to have to think everyone is like the Baroness and her ‘Gentleman Consort’, so I don’t want you to either.”
Winnifred doesn’t know that she entirely believes Paolo Yew, on any account; Not about his assessment of humanity writ large, not about why he’s telling her all this, nor even about his child being transgender. She doesn’t know what to make of him after a ten-minute conversation, doesn’t totally believe what he says about the commotion she apparently caused by leaving, no matter how tempting it is to take comfort in his words, and yet…
She thinks she knows now what she saw in his eyes, when he first joined her on the balcony: genuine, honest sympathy.
“Thank you, General Yew,” she says with a sigh. “That… I am feeling not so down in dumps, now. Give me moment alone, bud’te dobry?”
“Of course,” he nods, pushing himself away from the railing and padding away with quiet footfalls, the only sound in his departure when he closes the window behind him. Winnifred watches him from the corner of her eye, over her shoulder, and once he’s gone turns her attention back to her palm. Running her finger over the cut again, she takes a long, deep breath, and the flesh knits itself back together, the blood on her palm evaporating under the magical heat until there’s no trace at all of the injury.
With that done, she closes her eyes, turns her face to the night sky, takes in the sounds of Wurzelort in the dark for a long moment: laughter and music carrying from a relatively nearby bar, the plodding clip-clop of some tired turbo-ungulate’s hooves on the next street over, a chorus of insects in conversation with each other.
And she turns and goes back inside.
By the time she returns to the dining room many of the guests are gone, the party reduced to a fraction of its size from earlier. She keeps her eyes downcast, only noticing the feeling of everyone left turning to her by virtue of how impossible it would be to ignore.
“Winnifred!” Peekie exclaims, rushing to her side, eyes brimming with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Er…” Winnifred is not, in fact, okay, but she also doesn’t want to make any more of a spectacle of herself than she has already. “I… think I shall take leave.”
“Are you sure? We can- “
“Da. Will see you back at headquarters.”
“But- “
Veracity comes up beside Peekie, placing a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder, and she quiets down. Winnifred tries not to think about the cold expression of anger on Veracity’s face on the walk back to the dormitory.
*********
Two and a half hours later, Winnifred receives a knock at her door. She looks up from the scientific report she was studying, fixing her eyes on the wall in front of her for a moment, then decides to pretend she’s asleep and looks back down. Another set of knocks elicits no reaction other than internal annoyance, but the third set prompts her to get out of her chair, drag herself to the door, and open it up to Veracity, now changed out of her dress from earlier and wearing an uncharacteristically comfy-looking pair of pajamas.
“Doctor Winterfin,” is all she says by way of greeting, and though her face is impassive the pause before her next words is ample indication of her hesitation. “May I come in?”
“Da,” Winnifred steps aside to let her by, too tired to put up any kind of argument.
Veracity casts a quick glance about Winnifred’s quarters, taking in what few belongings the heiress had been travelling with, but freezes in place when her eyes sweep over her bed.
“…What in the name of the Myriad name is that?” she asks, pointing to the creepy antique doll leaned against the pillow.
“Oh, is just Lady Emilia Kalderian,” Winnifred shrugs, “is old friend of mine.”
Veracity’s mouth opens and closes in time with the furrowing and un-furrowing of her brow, clearly wanting to say something, but she ultimately shakes her head and turns back to the other person in the room. “You know what, no, not important right now. I wanted to talk to you about the events of Mayor Dracula’s dinner party.”
“Of course,” Winnifred sighs and takes a seat on the bed next to Emilia, who flops over limply at the shift in weight, “I am… sorry for causing such scene. I know you want handle things yourself tonight.”
“What? No, that’s…” Veracity grimaces and nods, taking a seat across from Winnifred in the desk chair. “Right, um. I suppose in light of my earlier… insistences I can understand how you might have come to the conclusion that’s what I’d be upset about, but no, that’s not what I’m here for. I’m actually quite impressed by how well you responded to that old hag, all things considered.”
“Oh,” Winnifred looks quizzically at her companion, “Then…?”
“I just… I wanted to make sure you know no one here is going to have a problem with you being transgender,” Veracity gains confidence after getting the words out, sitting up a little straighter. “I’m sorry the situation tonight was as… trying as it was, but we’ll have your back if any bigot tries to make trouble about it in the future. You have my word.”
“You don’t have to pretend,” Winnifred mutters, breaking eye contact in favor of gazing at the darkest corner of the room. Her doubts from when she was on the balcony, which had been lurking just under the surface of her thoughts, bubble back up. “People like me are just freaks, da? And I heard you speaking with Chief, earlier – you dislike me anyway. Just be honest, Miss Strent.”
After an extended moment of silence between the two of them, Winnifred looks back up to Veracity, face plastered with an expression of incredulity.
“Doctor Winter- Winnifred,” she presses her hands to her temples, voice is dripping with exasperation, “Almost everyone in the fucking union so far is trans. I’m trans!”
“…Really?”
“Yes!” Veracity exclaims, slapping a hand over her mouth upon realizing her volume is quite inappropriate at this late hour. She takes a moment to collect herself. “Winnifred… I will admit I do still have a few… misgivings about our association with you, but on this, at least, I would never judge someone. Not even you.”
“…I see.”
“Nines and nerves… so much for echologaytion.” Veracity lets out a slightly delirious chuckle before quickly sobering up. “So, are you going to be okay, now? No more miscommunications or bits of self-loathing to clear up?”
“Da. Goodnight, Veracity.”
“Goodnight, Doc- Goodnight, Winnifred,” Veracity says as she steps back into the hallway.
“See?” says Emilia Kalderian once she’s sure Veracity won’t be able to hear her, “I told you this was a good group of people.”
“Mm. It would seem,” Winnifred nods.
Thanks for the chapter hope you have recovered.
The doll talks!?