Aridia

"You. Shall we begin?"


Vale looked up a bit in feigned annoyance at the self-perceived taunt. Truthfully, the woman who spoke it had no intent to patronise Vale. Though, he had long become acclimated to flippant remarks posited his way since drifting to the Blue Peninsula. The woman beckoned Vale forward with am absentminded wave of her fingers. To her, today’s choice of competitors had left a particularly stale taste in her mouth. What with having to hear about what each man would do with her hand in marriage. Some devised ways to woo her heart over eventually while others we’re already too ingrained in believing they would never work again. Everyone, from the packed stands of royals and their devout servants in tow to the competitors themselves, silently understood that this competition had gone on for long enough. Despite the aggregate opinion of the bystanders, those who actually held any influence over when this competition would end had decided it’d be easier, or less tumultuous, to let the hundred or so lucky individuals escort themselves back to whatever backwater recess they emerged from rather than attempting to tell every competitor to leave empty handed. Who knows? Hopefully one of them would somehow succeed and then everyone could get out of this incessant heat quicker.

Many of the contenders impatiently waiting for a chance to meet the prized woman had assembled into their minds that they were the one destined for the woman’s hand. Even if they didn’t have a ring for formality, they knew she’d be the one to provide. That self-actualised egotistical style of belief is what brought Princess Lunaria to the ultimate conclusion that all men are selfish and a truly remarkable person, who she could actually fall in love with, was as rare and fleeting as the number of books dotting her bookshelf as the number of legends written about men that were exactly what she would accept with a ring. On the grass patch just off of the Marble prayer site, now converted into a glorified arena pit, the more enigmatic pickings of today’s bout already knew that most people here - in the wooden seats lining the stage edge to the other contenders - didn’t stand a chance against the ‘silver thorn.’ Despite the prescient thoughts; Like the other competitors, they considered ‘beneath’ them, all of them were slaves to desire. Similar to the moths in summer’s eve, who dotted porches and the front windows of small taverns, trailing one after another right into the flickering ember of the candle put out, to get rid of the insects themselves. Maybe it’s the allure of the promised fruits that causes all who attempt this bout to forget higher cognitive reasoning, after all, who wouldn’t want to become royalty? To most of the would be’s in line, struggle would become a long forgotten word, left behind on the cobblestone roads out of fringe towns on the edge of the kingdom. There, the only prospects for work are typical labour jobs - farming, mining, dockworker - but if you we’re blessed with magical latency, for a few more gold coins a month than others, you could work in the Junction of Dynamic Magic towers that jut from the ground around the kingdom like splinters to heaven.

Most of the humans standing about felt out of place in the populated waiting area just off the marble platform. “Why couldn’t a gnome or Dwarf show up to try?” A stout human said aloud as he trailed his proffered sword into the loam beneath them. Being the shortest race of competitors wasn’t something that felt reassuring when you want to be seen and admired, and especially since everyone was going to try brute force to win since magic disallowed for fairness sake. It was pointless anyway to try and cast a spell of any type as there was a powered obelisk next to the waiting area that was sapping mana.

The heat was sweltering and nobody thought to, or cared enough, to warrant a tent or a tree canopy. Hell, even a simple spell could solve this problem. It smelled distinctly of that odorous scent you could pick up with your nose from the docks of coastal towns. Like a sailor just off watch in the tropics during the summer months who decided not to wash himself clean to instead trade scuttlebutt amongst other sailors with the Valee mentality. It was as though every single man, mer and othering skulking about, was too busy boasting about future life plans with the woman ahead as though it was a given, and cared not for how they smelt, talked or acted. To Vale, everyone here wasn’t even worth acknowledging, except Princess Lunaria of course. He was of the Valee mentality as the others, though he’d be loathed to admit it if you tried to illicit a truthful response. Instead he choose to stand silently, peaking fully at a respectable height for a human. Vale was able to see over the sea of unremarkable haircuts and last minute slick-backed scalps and caught a glimpse of the Princess in action, delivering a particularly painful jab right below the knee of a young man. Wincing a bit at seeing the look on the buckled man’s face. Vale almost felt sorry for him. He began twisting a small lock of his own hair, wishing secretly that he could have a bright orange or indigo, like the albatross in the uppermost arms of the Mount Hol instead of his brown tustle. Vale shook his head and focused ahead once more, realising that showboating was beneath him, or so he wished. He believed that he looked quite well put together for someone of his background. Buckled shoes and a respectably sewn tunic that draped him not too loosely as though it was a hand me down, still showed his physical rewards of working on a field after the auburn age. 

Before the capital, Vale was a farmhand freshly a quarter century old. To Vale, he loathed that he had wasted too much of his life in one village and came to the coast to find meaning, even if he wasn’t sure what that meaning was yet. Sneaking off of his parents farm two anums prior, it was difficult to adjust at first, but being well put together mentally and physically enabled him to find work quickly as a Bailiff’s assistant. Despite being twenty five, similar to just cresting your double digits as a an elf or any longer lifeform, his outlook on existence remained relatively unchanged since he was thirteen. He had arrived at the conclusion that everyone had a purpose, a flame, meant for them and they were to obey that purpose until the day they died, less they sully the natural ebbonflow of reality itself. Vale didn’t look down with pity on those that he considered to have only coals or embers as their souls. The commoners, those who were content with the ‘simple life’ and content with the current moment. Vale believed his will was brighter and hotter than a forest fire roaring over hills in night. Not a divine flame like those of the fates, but he believed that his flame was truly fluid, capable of burning no matter what environment it laid in. Though the downside, in Vale’s mind, of this unique ember was it burned anyone it came close to touching, if he exposed it. Thus he kept to himself, most of the time. One thing his mother taught him was the impossibility to change the natural ebonflow of the world. Vale loathed this notion, even if he believed it himself until he left for the Capital. He was tired of seeing his parents take their lives and sit with them as though it was a too large book on the shelf that would take too much effort to read through. The most recent revelation occurred today. That it was too hot today. Vale wiped a bead of sweat preemptively from his sun-kissed forehead, he had never acclimated to the heat of coast. He knew today’s weather wasn’t unusual for the Blue Peninsula this time of year. At least it was bearable being near the shore. Facing the beach for a moment, he smiled and closed his eyes as he could feel the sea and hear the waves crawling onto shore, bringing in a kiss of wind.

Clang! Everyone paused their gossip and looked back at the arena. A clinical jab from the woman and within the first ten seconds, a particularly well-dressed orc, had fallen to the ground and yelled out in pain as he gripped his neck. Princess Lunaria had gotten into a rhythm of dispatching opponents rather quickly, regardless of their size or strength. She would wait for opponents to approach within striking range before lunging forward and puncturing the collarbone, where the scalene muscle meets the clavicle. It was brutally effective. Her lithe frame gave her the advantage, darting in and out of range with speed, even if it looked as though she would struggle to move as fast as she did from under her armour. Vale kept his eyes on the arena as he got closer and closer to the stage. If you couldn’t swing a sword fast enough whilst side stepping her opening thrust, you we’re screwed. After the Orc was dragged out by two members of the Black Knights, the lot turned back to their humdrum. Those closer to the stage got more impatient for their own turn to try and quieter as they continually received a clearer view of the injuries inflicted on the men in front of them. 

Princess Lunaria was already planning the rest of her afternoon as she watched another man surrender before she could inflict a parting reward for them. She already knew would it would be like back inside the palace. Her father would scold her for refusing to marry and her mother would take a more reassuring approach whilst trying to maintain the detente between her father and Lunaria, still with mostly the Valee message. Maybe after the berating she would sip on a choice vintage whilst mulling over the cultural expectations of being married at twenty-three. She looked over and saw the line have a large swath of humans in their midst. The air itself is hot, too hot for most, apparently. The elves and other races, stippling the seats meticulously set on the edges of the dais in the clearing, all thought amongst themselves how it's unusually balmy today. A few elves in the stands were thinking that maybe the Luciari mages were right and it was time to seriously consider utilising atmospheric magics.

As Vale approached the front of the line he saw how a plethora of the spectators around the stage had someone or something, fanning them. Most of the slaves, or bestowed races that were considered fit solely for servitude, held long poles made from trees older than the young man who looked sorely out of place on the edge of the stage. For most of the elves whose status warranted the need for recognition, their underling's fanning poles were distinct in their own right. A plethora of the fancy sticks had exotic bird feathers most only read about in books, while just as many had semicircle cut thick leaves from trees older than Vale’s family lineage. The human who wandered into this tournament didn't recognise most of them, but had spotted a particular indigo fan leaf, dotted with white sunspots, from the Stareus Grove, a place he visited when he was young. He looked around for a moment as most of the palm fans were oscillating back and forth at their own individual pace, undulating without care. Though the elves weren’t particularly bothered by the heat, it was necessary, for some of them to put on this show. Those unlucky in their genetic makeup, or simply not financially endowed enough, stand behind the Alibors and mutter to themselves as collars dampen with sweat and an occasional swear or mutter is propagated aloud. Most phrases about the temperature that Vale could hear pointed to magic interference as the cause for the weather. Maybe those reclusive ones who lived at the poles were doing something with the planet again. Those particularly bothered by the heat, like the human dignitaries, affixed colourful epithets to the word 'mage', as though that would solve anything.

"Hey! Hurry up and get on with it! You're not the only one here who is taking a shot!" The boy, or more specifically, the young man as he considers himself, looked back for a moment as he tightened his grip around the leather-bound sword hilt like a snake, eyeing a half-orc man twice his size. The Half-Orc was impatient and also perspiring from the heat, and clearly stood as though he was already the winner of this contest before it began. Vale squirmed a bit as he took a few steps forward, haphazardly balancing the weight of the sword outwards before giving up with that attempt and slinging it atop his left shoulder. It hurt to put it there, but he wasn't showing it. The boy refused to put on chain mail while he was getting fitted, holding a hand up reassuringly that he didn't need it. Partially, it was due to the weight and how he believed he wouldn't be able to swing a sword fast enough, though that raised a branch of questions of its own. Another part was due to the texture atop his body and hands, and how he was worried that he'll sweat through everything into a damp puddle of nervousness and unkempt expectations.

He fully faced the woman now after making a stronger step forward and caught a glimpse of something in her eyes for just a moment that nobody could notice as he was the centre of attention for the next five seconds before everyone's necks would crane back to the small opening where challengers lined up like ants finding a particularly sweet candy on the side of the road after it had been long forgotten. Everybody was well versed at this point in the competition, especially those in the stands who saw yesterday and the day before's futile events. The woman poised absent-mindedly with a silver sword that was forged by the Guaboxo long before the boy's home country had even been named what it is now. Vale could see through slightly dirty glass rims the woman, just as she was. Despite being coiled and ready to quickly feint and disarm, the boy without a break of sweat. Stepping closer, he could see her even clearer and noticed how she wore a white wedding gown wrapped around her completely juxtaposed to her unbothered facial expression, somehow, not wrinkled yet. The entire outfit was pleated and looked like geometric waves cresting up and down endlessly around her body, while even more intricate chiffon attachments dotted on her upper back, almost like a small cape that billowed a little with a small blessing of wind over the stage. The gown made the fanning poles look like sticks that children sword fought with during recess, in comparison. The boy could feel how potently she was exuding an aura that was as intoxicating as it was terrifying all at once, it felt like she said to anyone who was within sight-line of her that she was in an echelon all of her own. Not in the way of nobility, mind you. But in the way that she just didn't care for engaging in the political dance everyone else in the crowd was devoutly married to.

As all the spectators began to swing their heads back to the mouth of the arena, ready for the next pointless attempt, Vale observed something about the Princess nobody had considered before, barring her mother and father. "Huh... she doesn't even seem interested at all in any of this." A thought entered Vale's mind that he never considered before. Something that he never even knew existed in his vernacular before, not even when he was robbed outside the city walls on the way to this tournament. He dropped the sword on the ground. Garnering a sharp rattle as it struggled to settle flat. Everyone standing and sitting turned back in deigned surprise. That wasn't the usual sound people's ears had become accustomed to in this whole competition. Typically, a dull thud followed by a groan of pain is what followed from the sorry sap who tried. After all, who would turn down a chance to marry a Princess?

"What are you doing?" Lunaria said with a bit of an exasperated look. This was slowing things down and the sooner she could be done with today's challengers the better. She didn't want to have to fight someone who wouldn't know when to quit, even if she didn't have to fully try.
"Quitting. What does it look like? You clearly don't want to be married, and it wouldn't be fair of me to impose myself like that by trying to beat you." Lunaria stood there, stunned for a moment, as Vale crouched down and struggled for a moment to get a confident grip on the sword that clearly is too large for his expertise. Her grip on her rapier loosens, the tip lowering to the ground. Nobody in the Meridian Kingdom, not even her family, spoke to her this way before. The princess's eyes widen, a mixture of surprise and confusion flickering across her face. "Wait!" she calls out, her voice echoing atop the now silent marble dais. "You're… You're not even going to try?" She takes a step forward, her white gown rustling softly. The gathered crowd murmurs, some in disbelief, others in anticipation. They had never seen their princess so thrown off balance before. Lunaria's grip tightens on her sword once more, a flicker of her usual fire returning to her eyes. "Is that it, then? You're just going to walk away? From this contest, from… From me?" The last words are spoken more softly, almost a whisper, as if she's unsure whether she wants Vale to hear them or not. For the first time since she could remember, Lunaria was surprised. This wasn't how things were supposed to go and she was drawn to the moment and the enigmatic man who chose to turn her down on his own terms. "Well, I'd rather not get my ass handed to me... respectfully. And you fought and bested a literal line of people today, some towering over twice my height and size… you clearly are content, and it would be selfish of me to try and win to take your hand in marriage." Lunaria stares at Vale for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Behind her composed mask, a maelstrom of emotions swirls - surprise at his refusal, a flicker of admiration for his chivalry, and a growing sense of curiosity. This man, this challenger, is unlike any other she's faced before. Not in skill, perhaps, but in spirit. She takes a step closer, her white gown trailing behind her. The gathered crowd murmed amongst itself, anticipating her next move. Will she demand he fight? Will she have him escorted from the palace grounds for his impertinence?
Instead, Lunaria does something unexpected. She laughs - a genuine, melodic sound that startles even her. It's been so long since she's had cause for real laughter. "You're a curious one, aren't you?" she says, her voice warm with amusement. "Refusing a chance at a princess's hand, out of concern for my well-being. How… refreshing." She sheathes her sword, the metallic ring echoing in the sudden quiet. "Very well. I accept your forfeit. But…" A mischievous gleam enters her eyes. "I'm not quite ready to let you walk away just yet. Join me for a drink, won't you? I find myself intrigued by the man who would turn down a kingdom."

Lunaria extends her hand to Vale, a clear invitation. Around them, the crowd murmurs and stirs, their anticipation palpable. In this moment, the world seems to hold its breath, waiting to see if he will accept this unexpected olive branch from the princess who has never before looked twice at a suitor. "What do you say, kind sir? Will you grant me the pleasure of your company, even if you won't cross swords with me?" Her tone is playful, but there's an underlying vulnerability there, maybe a few people can see it but they are not in the Valee position Vale is currently to do anything about it; a hint of the loneliness that comes with a life bound by duty and expectation. 

Vale stood there a bit perplexed that the Princess of the Meridian Kingdom was proffering her hand out, to him of all people, no less. In actuality, he dropped the broadsword because it was digging into his shoulder a bit too much and he lost the grip on the hilt as the blade was moved to be raised out infront of him. But he didn't want to be considered just another laughing case, escorted out of the castle with snickers before heading home with his tail inbetween his legs all the way back to the Peninsula. So Vale did something that he never did before - lie. Vale had lied before, to a fault when he lived under the Valee roof as his parents when he would sneak back in under glittering stars after going out to see the sailors mooring boats at the dock late at night, and the occasional harlot wooing on the dock to passing second mates and their COs. But this wasn't an innocent lie to placate mother and father's worry about sleep schedule. This was a new type of lie for Vale. And for the first time since he heard about this competition, he felt perfectly calm as though everything was right where it needed to be.