“This junk isn’t like the rest?”
“Are you not wearing my town outfit? Am I not dressed to chaperon you?”
“Dummke, if it explodes and covers my room in gunk, I will…”
“Believe in me! Now, let’s get out before Sapphira comes looking.”
“And you’re sure it… looks right, like it’s a copy of my body? Wait, you dressed it…”
“Of course, I checked every part of it.”
“You were staring!? Without any clothes on, staring at it!? To ogle me!?”
“My memory is perfect from the last time I saw you nude! Why would I waste my precious time trying to see you naked anyw—?”
A strong slapping sound ends this hushed conversation.
The Maker re-enters this plush room with too many stuffed animals propped up as witnesses.
“Then, let us prepare for departing!” He approaches with a smile, ignoring the reddening spot on his cheek.
Clearly fashioned for a girl of high standing, this big bed made for adults he sat her on makes the one now called “Dohle” feel oddly comfortable. Though, it’s only a distant and alien feeling that seeks to overwrite regular thoughts.
(This room was remade for a girl or boy of my Maker’s age. It was once different.)
“Dohle” is a strange entity, one whose voice beyond the door promotes unusual discord. Only a glimpse of her hair sparkling in the lamplight was sufficient to start this throbbing within.
“You’ll never be suspected.” The Maker adjusts the button of her dress’ neckline, then reties a ribbon. Every touch and alteration promotes more of this alien “usualness” of presentiment that adds to this throb.
“We will be going into the city to meet with a… certain female member of the People’s Choir of the Will.” At first smiling, the Maker then taps his lips which have turned stiff. “Why is irrelevant and insipid, let’s not bother. You are a perfect creation that needs no interferences!”
“Yes, Maker.”
Though only the Maker’s opinion can prove this.
“Now, keep to what Dohle would do and none shall suspect you!”
“… What Dohle would do is appropriate?”
“From your recollections gained by resonating with her pattern, trust in them!”
“Understood.”
Happy with his instructions, the Maker brushes her hair to make sure it tufts just correctly. The strange banded-silver gauntlet he wears on this hand promotes unease when it shines.
“Ah, ah, but one in particular is hard to fool!” The Maker places fingers to his temples, rubbing on them about this painful thought. “Beware of Sapphira! Unless you’re at your best, she’ll see through any mistakes!”
“Beware of Sapphira?”
That name prompts a rush of memories of a black-feathered harpy that always follows just behind. Such descriptions of her that come to mind are possessive…
(“My priceless feather duster…”?)
“Yes, just treat her like Dohle would… she’s canny about unusual things going on. Then, I wish you well!” The Maker grabs a black full-sack and a belt of unusual tools, then throws a bundle of rope with a grappling hook over his shoulder. “It will be until early evening before we return, so long as we aren’t caught…! Stay alert and watch for interlopers! Never trust any Kestner servant that isn’t of Dohle’s heraldry! They are bugs who should be squashed if they get in the way of her ascension, so feel free to remind them of that!” Why the Maker requires picks for tumbler locks and anti-magical devices of a sundry assortment is a need without adequate explanation, but the sprite young Maker gives a brisk nod and then turns away.
“Be true to your perfection, ‘Dohle’!”
“… Always, Maker.”
When the outside is shut off, this bedroom becomes an isolated world of recurring comfort and gloom.
After fighting off this dying feeling is when the created named “Dohle” silently begins her task.
(“Do what Dohle would do”.)
Such an order allows for no leeway.
The Maker, he who is proud of her, made it clear with instructions that his great task relies on her to remain true to this girl made as. Being true to the memories that are kept at bay, lest they overwhelm, will bring more “feelings”.
Feelings are both enticing and frightful.
(But the Maker named me as “perfect”, and a perfect creation would…?)
With a nod, Dohle rises from the bed and excites her core’s pumping.
(Then… beginning from the most important to the least, I will achieve success.)
The recycling of her fluids peaks, transmitting intent from the pattern contained within.
(The most important thing for Dohle Kestner is—)
Blood soaks every surface.
Up from the stone floor, spikes rise that impale a bleeding sacrifice each. They’re comically elongated, like the colors should bring laughter instead of horror.
Dohle scans them, delighting in the enemies with shining blue eyes who now gather with her furry friends. By the dozens they fill this room, focused unblinking on the bed where two beloved people lay unmoving.
Parents made of crystal and earth are entombed here always within memory and will be returned in the future. All who harmed them will be gathered until the stupid voices that love this hateful lineage cry eternally.
And as Dohle twirls through the room kicking up splatters of gore, the sole boy who is spared shivers naked, prostrate toward her and her true family.
This boy earns a heel to his head, a great shooting pleasure running through Dohle’s leg and up her spine at the quivering wretch bawling…!
All that he valued, spilled and torn!
Now, all he has is just a mistress named Doh—!
“Objective disregarded!”
The most important task that this “Dohle” wishes for will never be accomplished. In fact, the one who must be Dohle will soon report this affront to the Maker. All harm to him, present or future, will be negated by any means necessary.
When this is affirmed it becomes possible to unclench her hands. Such strong “emotions” prompt an increase in internal pressure when refusing them. The frightfulness is at its highest now!
Almost, for a moment, there was a belief that she has never been created…?
(… The most important and second most important objectives, “destroy the Kestners” and “obliterate Dummke’s self-worth”, which holds primacy is not recorded. The one who was “born Dohle” wants wrongful things!)
With so much rage boiling through, it’s difficult to isolate the “thoughts” from each other. But, arriving at a clear objective washes it away to provide a path to remain “herself”.
(I am “restless”. Dohle Kestner would not permit herself to idle anymore. If we can… agree, then we will not conflict.)
“From the least important to most, instead, let us begin there.”
With that spoken, “Dohle” becomes Dohle, then lifts a golden bell and rings it.
Two minutes pass before the barriers to the outside open.
“Dohle? When did you arrive back at your room?”
In peeks a girl with black bird wings, one who stands a littler taller than Dohle. Wearing sashes for clothing and a face-covering caped hat, her anonymity does little to obstruct recognition.
“You two weren’t hiding from me again, were you?” So impertinent this maid with a songlike voice is when strutting in. “I’ve mentioned before how dangerous that Falke is if you get left alone wi—!”
“Where are your manners?”
“M-My apologies!”
In a rush, Sapphira spreads her wings and then dips into a bow.
“I didn’t consider the time since I last served. I apologize for offending you, Mistress…”
“Dohle.”
“Eh? Ah, yes, Mistress Dohle, I was in quite a rush looking for you when you departed from your academics lessons without…”
Up from the bed Dohle jumps, moving forward to close off the maid who keeps rambling.
“… and then he said you threw a journal at him, and… m-mistress, is it because you are angry at Tutor Feister that you seem so focused…?”
Backed up against the door, the spooked maid swoops her wings forward to shield herself.
“Or, did Falke do something to annoy you again…? I won’t disappoint you like he does!” Memories flowing through Dohle tell her that this impression of fear isn’t terror, but a rush not to fail.
(Right. This sometimes clumsy, but eager, maid is mine.)
The Maker has a Dohle, but the “Dohle” has a…
These rushing memories that propel her forward are not wrongful ones!
In place of wrong is a need to hug, to hold, to pat, to cradle, to make a hidden face turn dopey with happiness!
“Phira.”
“Uh?”
The harpy pulls away when Dohle pushes her wings wide, but then accepts when the girl lunges like a snail into a tight embrace.
“Hold me.”
“… Y-Yes…!?”
Strength seems to drain from the maid, but Dohle no longer cares once she’s cocooned in the warm feathers.
“Phira is warm. I love this feeling more than any other.”
“… Thank… you…?”
“You are perfect, Phira.”
“‘Perfect’!? I’ve never… been…?”
(Never? Then I will show you how to be!)
The alien belonging of this frozen room that another owns is replaced by living attention. Dohle can stroke Phira’s back, and then be rewarded by the mute maid fluffing her stronger with her wings.
(Then, just like Dohle would, I will prize Phira more than anything else!)
If merely the sight of black feathers instills a drive to destroy any who intrude upon Phira’s path, to sacrifice all others to hopefully share that same smile that flashes by in recollection, then these feelings serve.
(This seems right to me, Maker.)
“Phira, today is a holiday.”
“Is… it?”
“Yes. Have the kitchen bring out pastries to warm up.”
Dohle releases the collapsing bird to retrieve the necessary items for this day. Already, certain directives from Dohle’s memories filter through.
(“Things Dohle wants to do more than any others…”)
Under the bed and hidden from even the Maker, Dohle retrieves a set of silver manacles. Put into her waistcoat, she turn drags free a two-handed mace from its wall hanger and gives it a wide test swing.
When her body obtains motion with the mace, signals from various sections of her body instruct in its utilization.
Along with them are…
Distant noises from beyond the form inhabited, almost silent, but also roaring as loudly as the girl Dohle’s memories. They’re all around, close at hand, but she cannot see them, only start to cower!?
(“You are more”?)
The strange noises cease once she notices them.
As if they were a mistake in her processes of understanding her environment.
(What was that?)
“Mistress!? Why are you shaking…?”
“Dohle. Also, sit down, you don’t look correct.”
“I’m sorry! Okay?”
When Dohle swishes Phira to seat her on the bed, the harpy can only make a mewing sound of confusion once the mistress she serves opens a jewelry chest and pulls out a heap of trinkets.
Of barely passable quality for a family of this standing, these sets are tribute from the others that stand more as insult than adoration. Merely handling them promotes a hatred that won’t end.
“Wear these.”
“What!? I…!? No servant can wear their owner’s jewels!”
“You can today, I allow it. It’s a holiday.”
“WHAT HOLIDAY!? EEK!?”
The struggling teenage maid, so prim and goading with her feigned superiority on entry, collapses entirely into meek calls for mercy when Dohle starts trussing her up with gold and gems.
This is the duality that drives the cherishing!
(“A girl who wants to be the best for her mistress, but is clearly not!” I like this, how you can’t resist!)
Licking her lips despite herself, Dohle admits that the inclinations filtering through are intoxicating.
“Today is ‘Phira Day’.”
Along the long table the maids stand in their satin uniforms. Proper in attire, their faces turned toward the one that sits at the head of it reveal confusion, despise, and jealousy.
(This is all that was desired, ready to play out!)
Silver trays with heaping cakes, muffins, creamy pastries, and even caramel dipping sauces rest waiting for the beloved celebratory figure to sample them. This stock-stiff holiday treat herself hides her face beneath a cloth, but oddly her skin has turned more reddish.
“Eat, Phira.”
“…
… Yes… Dohle…”
Even her wings sparkle when she uncomfortably shifts.
The Phira of today is worth more than the gems, but they help to show it to those around. All of these seething servants-in-title-only, the noble female young that come to the Palace to receive the blessings of the Will, must witness what true affection is.
Memories of meeting and suffering their whispers continue to play through.
Dohle lets them wilt under her glare, an open challenge presenting. Older maids keep their faces as well as their tongues silent, only their eyes darkened with complaint.
It’s their eyes that prompt “Dohle” to flinch when they return to pass judgment by squinting. Even though she wants to scream in outrage at the way they bully her own servant, she can’t find the time to begin her punishment when constantly running!
Such emotions flood through, an understandable isolation leaving THIS Dohle also timid for a moment. Regretting this scene, as she thinks to depart…
(My Maker said I’m perfect! A perfect Dohle wouldn’t run, she’d…!)
Pride edges out everything else, and at just the right time, for one maid coughs when it seems Phira is about to fall out of her seat from all the stares.
“Shouldn’t pets eat off the floor…?”
A youngster with twin-tailed hair, shining red in the light of day peering through the high windows above, snidely whispers for the benefit of her neighbors to share petty smiles at the humor.
If this were any other time, “Dohle” would grind her teeth and merely plan for this beautiful girl’s punishment. With full cheeks that are rosy, plus green eyes bright even in the usual dimness of the palace, this one flower of the sun who eagerly speaks her imprudent thoughts brings on feelings of wanting to slap those cheeks redder, yank on her tails, and then… and… then…!
Up from the chair Dohle rises at the opposite end of the table.
The older maids abandon all disdain, becoming purely emotionless. Professionally aloof.
“Mis-Mistress…!?”
They do not move especially when the younger maid who whispered is backed onto the table. Forced to sit there by the presence of a child even younger still who leans in to take the measure of the daughter of a high noble of the Eastern Princes.
“… Even if… you are a Kestner… and, huh! The ‘Masher’, remember… the Gildains aren’t a family you can just push around, you know…?” Betraying her true self at just the right moment to focus Dohle’s conflicting emotions, to overcome the “fear of acting”, this haughty servant sneers this. She inoffensively lifts her hands to placate a youngster, waving Dohle off. “It’s not about you, I’m just saying what everyone else is thi—”
A snapping sound shuts her up, making this pretty little wench open her eyes again to take in the gleam of silver.
“… Huh? KYAAA!?”
The maid tries to pull loose, but the chain connecting the magical manacles only winds tighter to force her arms into a bind.
“What is this!?”
And then soft hands to her cheeks rip her off her perch!
“Gyuh!? How… dare you attack— HUH!?”
These hands that capture his maid who now sprawls across the floor grip tighter on plump cheeks. The other maids hiss as they back away, witnessing force near violence used in the Palace for the first time!
They shiver with confusion at the way their “master” climbs on top of one of their number!
“My pretty little birds will only sing when they’re told to.”
How Dohle silently looms closer, intent and composed when “Dohle” normally would only brattishly rage.
“Ahhh…!?”
The maid’s fright is soaked up by the Mistress that comes up to her face.
“You are… all my pets, don’t you understand? ‘A Kestner is the Will’, my Phira gets this, so why can’t you?”
“… Huhh…! Hooh…!?”
“Are you less bright than my favorite bird? You must be…”
An older girl shudders when her cheek is kissed by a younger one.
Flushed as she is, that the maid now can comprehend her place and collapse is something Dohle is certain of.
(“You exist to shut up and let me pet you like I want to pet Sapphira, you shitty little noisy turd who just happens to have been born cute looking, so let me have you!” This is what she wants…)
An older girl huffs with a confused, fiery fascination directed upward at her captor. Still clinking her manacles when trying to escape, the maid gives up when Dohle pats her head and freezes all movement.
“Or maybe… you wanted to be special to me, too?”
“N-No…!?”
Finally, Dohle leans down to kiss her on the lips. To punish her lying.
(Dohle wanted this, so I will, too. Feels good~!)
The gasps all around, how she’s seen doing this by the entire court of noble maids, intoxicates as much as the willing surrender that this whiner’s soft lips give up. By the end, their wetness is hard to draw back from.
“I have a cage for every bird that doesn’t sing how I want them to.”
“… Huh…?”
Dohle taps the manacles, causing the maid to awaken from her stupor. All around, her superiors stare with the same disdain that was directed at a quaking harpy.
(“Accept responsibility for pushing her over the edge.” They blame you, like all women like them do.)
“You’ll stay in yours until I hear a prettier song. You will sing nicely for me… won’t you?”
“Yes… yes… Mistress… Dohle…! Hick…!”
When tears stain the floor of the grand breakfast hall, shining like the gemstones that stud the walls, Dohle allows herself to nod in approval and climb off of the weeping maid.
“I wonder, how many other Kestner pets will be needing cages?”
To answer, the other maids deeply bow without speaking.
Even though the majority appear to be unable to decide if they want to scowl or blush, they all unite in obedience.
Along this fifty-foot table, the entire selection of Palace noble maids swear fealty.
“Okay, then let’s return to breakfast!”
“… Um… Dohle, I… can’t…”
In place of others, Dohle then trots over to place hands on Phira’s shoulders and thump her back into her seat of honor.
“… Mistress… harpies eat using… magical aid… and it’s not typically public…”
“So you’re saying that you need to be fed? Okay, I’ll feed you, Phira.”
And to answer that, Dohle tiptoes to pull a morsel from the table and slip it under Phira’s cap. The harpy gasps in shock, allowing the food to be thrust into her mouth like a momma bird feeding her young.
“How is it?”
“… Tashtes… schweet…”
“All the cakes you never get to have~? They’re yours, from now on!”
“Um… then… I’d like… lemon snaps, please… Dohle.”
From breakfast to gardens, to halls and high offices, they play as they desire.
A harpy disallowed flight within the palace is forced to carry a load wherever she soars.
To never touch the ground, only loop and swirl as the ephemeral waters she calls sweep her onward.
“Lower, Phira!”
“DOOOHLEEEEE!?”
And before the pompous old man can duck at the sound, his hat and wig are torn free by the airborne predators!
“BAH!? DOHLE KESTNER, YOU LITTLE MASHER! GET BACK HERE!”
This oldest noble servant, he of painted face and waxed mustache, howls at the departing tricksters. One who prompts the most hatred from “Dohle” from someone not of the family, Dohle allows herself to enjoy the thrill of inconveniencing the egg-headed ponce.
“We can’t do this, Mistress!”
“Have fun!?”
“Not that part, the part where we assault peopleeeee!”
“But that is the fun~!”
And out a window they escape from the older man and his horde of attaches that chase while spinning words of power, entrusting to Phira’s own innate talents to carry them to the lower heights of the staggeringly tall Palace of the Will. Once outside of the Palace, they are within the freedom of the high city.
So that their games can continue, they breathe in fresh air under the cold earth…
And the holiday goes into the latter day, arriving at the proving grounds.
Here, the tall Regalia stand in quiet guard of the family and honor of the Easterners.
As well as the knights…
“Oh? Hey, a ‘wasted Kestner’ shouldn’t be playing where men learn!”
“You could get hurt again! You and your lewd pigeon!”
A group of boys rise from their huddle around wooden swords thrust into the ground. Wearing thick woolen clothing and having long front-and-back capes signifying the “cup” symbol, these squires hard at work set aside their cups full of sweet fermented grape to swagger over. The grounds between the hundred towering statues of past knights of the faith are theirs, despite “Dohle” also wanting to play here.
Merely the sight of these aggressive types, with their bright colors stained by grass and rough faces soiled by dirt, sends a peal of panic through Dohle, too.
All desires must be balanced by the emotional turmoil that comes with what the Maker calls a “pattern”. A swirling view of the world around nearly sends Dohle crashing to the ground.
(These are… what is feared…!)
“Mistress, we should leave.”
“Nah, it’s fine for you to stay, Sapphira! Ignore that asshole. Knights would never mistreat a lady.”
Opposed to their intrusion in the first place, it is Phira who intervenes between the lead boy and the others, and Dohle.
“I would never hurt you. Let me protect you, instead.”
A head taller than his fellows and showing edge where fat of his features has receded, this one avoids the obvious sneering of the rest to instead only leer at Phira’s own body.
“It’s not right for a squire to be drinking…” Phira’s comment prompts only a laugh!
“It’s not right for a beautiful woman to be serving an imp! Why not become my servant, instead?”
This recurring pattern plays out, where “Dohle” freezes up at the crucial moment despite the storm of rage inside at this slight. To protect her, a clumsy girl with all of the growing attraction of a beautiful woman comes to her salvation.
“You’re just what we need, anyway! Nobody wants to stare at only these jerks all day.”
“Why not join us!? Bran told us what Page Harpies really like to do…”
“We’ll forget that she’s playing here as long as you’re making us forget.”
As if on command, they crowd around. In violation of chivalry.
So that the lead boy, with all of the hateful blossoming of charisma that being older brings on, what “Dohle” can never find within or without, can easily place his hand on Phira’s hip.
“Is it true you really like ‘doing it’ rough with others?”
Half serious, half dismissive, the lead squire tries to draw closer to a treasured feather duster.
“Or is it that you want it rough?”
“Let go…”
Ignored completely now, it is “Dohle’s” fear that this should go on too long.
That another should be hurt, when two have already been lost.
For the purpose of destroying, that Dohle would always just about…!
“You’re not allowed to misuse the holy earth, Dohle! It protects others, it does not cause evil! You don’t want to look bad in public, at least…”
In chaotic reflection of them, the body of a beautiful boy, one with a shining noble spirit, overlaps with this rough one’s unwelcome image.
He hands a mace to the one viewing him, before taking up a sword of his own.
“Instead, I, your treasured Falke, will train you in the dueling arts of the nobles! I am somewhat of a passing grade in them as you know, hahaha! Attempt to unleash your frustrations upon your loyal servant until only serenity rema—BAGH!?”
In response, an immediate thrust into this Maker’s stomach progresses into a no-holds-barred fight to the death where the dancing, jubilant Maker leads her through all of the techniques of fighting…
“Huh? Mace? What do you think you are, shrimp, a kni— GAACK!?”
That lead squire’s jaw most awesomely dislocates on polite request. Whitish-red Vigor sprays into the air and coats the mace head which passes over Dohle’s own in her upswing’s arc.
Every single lesson that flows through her transmits along with every single feeling to produce the best…!
(This is called [ecstasy]! I like this emotion! I really like being “born”!)
“Gaaah!? AAAAH!?’
“MISTRESS!?”
(Thank you, Maker, for entrusting me with this duty!)
It’s so wonderful to hear the bastard’s howls of torment as he thrashes on the ground holding his dislodged jaw in place.
Dohle’s satisfaction must register too openly, for the rest of the stunned squires reveal their teeth in snarls.
“You cocky little girl!”
“Sucker-striking a guy is…!”
“I DON’T CARE WHO YOUR BLOOD IS, I’M GONNA SPILL SOME!”
And to the racks the boys run, freeing the metal training weapons that only the proper knights are entrusted with.
At once they ready to gang up on Dohle, their owner.
“Run, Mistress! Grab on!”
“No, fly up and watch.”
“Mistress!?”
Dohle resists Phira’s attempt to clamp onto her shoulders, instead squaring up against this charge.
“Everyone here is about to be broken.”
(“Dohle of flesh and bone” was right to fear them without her earth. She is only a human, after all…)
“Come, worms. Meet your true master.” At her dismissive call, they all lung at once using the tactics of hoodlums.
(Thank you, for permitting me by social obligation and customs to obliterate you all and not have to hunt you down one by one.)
When the tumult ends, every half-drunk boy possesses at least one non-functioning limb. A mace is not an elegant weapon, despite being Dohle’s chosen one. As the only weapon she could ever connect with and use efficiently, its sole purpose is to break a man.
“Ma-Mash…er… is… real…”
The squires that did not believe in the legend of [The Kestner Masher] and treated the source of it as a cruel joke now bleed out onto the fresh lawn.
Incomprehensible it is to their wide open eyes, that every blow they landed upon her was simply shrugged off without any apparent impact. Any attempt to unsettle her posture and tight guard with a dragging blow ended with a face, elbow, knee, or crotch full of blunt trauma.
Were it not for the blessing of Vigor, all would be crippled for life in the most pleasing way.
“Stop trying to flee.”
“MERCY!”
“Rejected.”
“GRAAAH!?”
And then the final clavicle needing to be unfixed achieves freedom with a bone-jarring pop.
(As if a creation of pseudoprósōpon should ever fear physical impacts.)
Had they Talents allowing for elemental strikes, it would promote concern, but all that these squires have been gifted by the Lords of Light amounts to bodily enhancements and excellent weapon play.
Against a tireless, invulnerable, implacable foe, it amounts to naught.
“WHAT IS THIS MESS!?”
At just the right time, the noise of battle draws out the lieutenant knight on duty. Half-wearing his battle dress, it’s obvious by his composure that his true duty was slumbering. Furious at first, he then goes silent when acknowledging the identity of the one who just slaughtered his squires.
“… Great Mistress. ‘Hallowed by thy presence, the earth be’.”
Without a hint of impropriety, the man drops to a knee and places his hand over his heart. Only the holy earth below is in his gaze.
“Always. Rise.”
“As you wish, Great Mistress.”
When the lieutenant does so, his face is serene in appearance only. As he takes in the weeping boys all around, some of them clinging to the pillars they sought to climb before having their arms broken, his soul is undoubtedly clouded by anger.
And confusion, for he notes the Vigor accumulated on the mace and the lady that wields it. His fevered mind cannot explain this, and so he seeks answers.
“It was… my fault, honored knight.”
“Oh? Servant of the Will… Sapphira, was it?” His anger breaks when Sapphira lands before him to bow, a hand on his sword hilt at her approach relaxing instantly. “Did you aid… in this?”
“Apparently my presence was too… stimulating. We were forced to…”
Though her face is hidden, Sapphira’s catching voice is icy. A wing subtly draws to attention the cups and bottle hidden nearby at a shrub.
“Hnnn?” Once witnessing that mess, the knight then returns to gazing at Phira. Noting her features with his wandering eyes, drawing down her body with its only protection being light sashes, he turns to look at the lead squire…
“Khhuk, Bran, is it!? My apologies! I will see to their punishment for whatever… words were spoken, and assure you it will be severe. But, the proving grounds are not safe for a Mistress as young as this one, so please see to her safety elsewhere.”
“Ah!? Yes, sorry, we’re leaving, too!”
“I will overlook all of this and… not report it officially.”
Raging-red faced, the knight bows once more to meet Phira’s rushed own and prepares to see to the squires…
“Defend your honor.”
Both flinch when an even voice speaks this.
The knight stares down.
Not even to his chest, for he towers over her, stands a Dohle that forces him to step back in shock.
“Excuse… me, Mistress? I do not understand.”
Once he physically yields ground, Dohle claims it.
“Your charges, the ones you left without watching, threatened my servant and bis—no, made fun of me, Dohle.”
“… I’m sorry? HUH!?”
When his tabard is grabbed and pulled, the giant of a man follows with it!
“MISTRESS!? When did you…?”
“A challenge was made by your charges toward me. Duel with me now, and defend the honor of the knights.”
“… Hmmm?”
All patronizing vanishes from this man. Instead, a calculated examination of Dohle follows along with his hidden character revealing. Piggish eyes, narrowed with intelligence behind them.
Indeed…
(He intends to avert responsibility.)
“… I refuse. I cannot harm a Great Mistress.”
“You couldn’t harm me, anyway. I am a Kestner.”
Something spoken by the Will’s Listeners will be true, and so the knight can only sputter indignantly in response. Only let a vein throb at the insult of a child.
“A Kestner cannot be attacked by a lesser! It would be inconceivable to—!”
“A LESSER SHALL NOT DISOBEY A GREATER!”
“Please calm down…!”
A childish scream finally unnerves the knight, leaving him waving his hands for Dohle to cease shouting.
(“I am not a child! I am a Kestner! The one that will destroy you all…!” I do not comprehend this emotion, entirely, but…)
“No one shall disobey a Kestner and live. If you will not meet me with sword as is, then climb into a Regalia and fight me to your utmost.”
“Indeed, my Great Mistress…?”
“Or die as a traitor to your oath to me.”
“Hoh…?”
With authority invoked, the man relaxes. His fawning attention to her safety evaporates when given an out such as this one.
“Then, I shall obey you explicitly. I’ll prepare your Regalia.”
“Do so.”
Phira flaps her wings in terror, trying to interpose herself, but is brushed aside by mistress and knight.
Both reveal nasty smiles, but only one obviously believes that he will win.
“Please do not overexert yourself, Great Mistress. The Regalia’s bodily feedback is quite severe. The knight will feel both the physical and spiritual turmoil of the Will animating it.”
(I need not fear bonding with a Regalia.)
The proving grounds shake with the Regalia marching down the grass to its center. A larger unit with orange and black paints marking areas of its great form carries a sword and shield similarly marked.
“As this is your first time wearing your personal Regalia, it will be understandable if you resign from the… difficulty of it.”
(“These, Dohle, are where the knights train to aim for! But they move without grace in their units, you can learn nothing useful from inferior Regalia! Instead…”)
In contrast to this lumbering titan, a small, thinner, and lither Regalia trots up with a menacingly spiked mace. Shining in the light of the revealed sky, its smoother armor of metal and solid earth is shaped to deflect blows like battle armor would.
(Regalia are the same as my own “body”, merely another task to conquer.)
And also, the mighty titanic weapons of war that made “Dohle” finally smile upon meeting them when Falke, the Maker, brought her here for a picnic…
“KILL HER, ULDAH!”
“SHOW THAT TINY BITCH AND HER SLUTTY BIRD WHAT KNIGHTS DO!”
Those squires with “more minor” wounds howl their impotent frustrations from the stands, urging carnage where this was only to be a duel.
“SHUT UP, YOU LITTLE FECAL ABORTIONS! IF SHE WASN’T HERE, I’D ALREADY BE FILLING YOUR ASSES WITH HILTS AND MAKING YOU RUN LAPS PLOWING WITH YOUR SWORDS!”
“Please… no…!”
Dohle half expects the knight to march over and smash them himself, given his naked character’s nature.
(That he does not approve of their actions warrants a measure of mercy.)
But it will not come easy, for Dohle’s peerless Regalia hefts up its mace.
The emblem of a Jackdaw, one never shown to the sunlight before now, announces her challenge.
“I see, then we will… ‘spar’. Please go easy on me…”
“DON’T TRUST HIM, MISTRESS~! DEMOLISH HIM RIGHT AWAY~!”
“Ho!?”
From the air, the “slutty bird” spoken of finally cheers, of all things. Looping on a spray of sea foam around Dohle, Phira sings!
“MISTRESS DOHLE, SHE’S THE BEST!”
Something has opened up, and the harpy conjures a swirl of water to spray off of Dohle’s Regalia.
“SEND THIS PUNK TO HIS FINAL REST~!”
(Thank you, Phira! You’re so cute!)
“It’s sad to be this ‘misunderstood’…”
Without wasting the moment of Dohle’s distraction, the knight turns his Regalia with a screeching slide. Planting a fast foot, he uses experience to launch into a bull charge!
“THEN, HAVE AT YOU, MISTRESS!”
“Come.”
And all his bulk is thrown at the smaller foe, his longer sword rearing back to chop through.
(“… dueling Regalia are made to move with grace! You are not wearing tons of armor for fighting on a chaotic battlefield! You will not be blindsided by spells that target what must be protected by heaps of wards! No, Dohle, a dueling Regalia is a dancer of death! The ultimate expression of simplicity of form moving with complex motives! It is…!”)
Where he chops, she jukes away with elegance the knight cannot imagine.
Every ingrained principle that has been taught to “Dohle” merges with the innate understanding of form that Dohle has learned after being born.
A being that has no true physical form is superior to one that has only one.
“H-HOW!?”
(I am well versed in ALL applications of Regalia.)
The knight’s shield cannot protect against attacks that counter through his own agressive movements. When timing flows into the dancing Dohle’s Regalia’s own, a hulking beast is whittled down by a metallic dervish.
(I am not human, nor are Regalia.)
To the ground Dohle places her Regalia, to roll and grasp like a beast would. Thrashing and lunging, skittering spider-like out of rushing threats. A mace with a full swing carries sufficient mass to deform any armor! It doesn’t need impressive flourish, only to properly stay at peak velocity!
And so treating it as an extension of her main body, Dohle simply follows the flailing mace to slide around sword and shield, letting pieces shave off of the prided personal Regalia as eager sacrifice.
(We do not bleed, we do not suffer. We serve.)
By savaging the opponent’s legs, the fast Regalia plants the heavier one into the ground. When the popping limbs of the titan cannot carry it forward, the point that pierces through opened armor into its interior mechanism produces…
“NO!”
The proving grounds shake with the collapse of pride and machine, both immense.
(Why bother behaving like a human if I don’t have to?)
And onto this planted Regalia Dohle rises to begin hammering directly into its central chest where there are no markings telling her to strike.
“M-Mercy! I YIELD!?”
It is unchivalrous to attack here where the knight resides when being “sporting”, but there is only one knight present.
When the monster on the field peels back the Regalia’s chest armor to unveil the cringing knight inside, that knight goes stone-cold at the fingers thrust in.
“… Mistress…”
“I am Dohle.”
And into the sky the knight is lifted by his tabard, to hang before his opponent with a white face of impotence before a child. To his credit, the man does not turn craven.
“You failed to defend your honor.”
“… Yes, Dohle.”
“Your life is forfeit.”
Though he does gasp, the knight closes his eyes only briefly. Swinging freely thirty feet in the air, he witnesses her anew with some resolve remaining.
“MY LIFE BELONGED TO THE KESTNERS FROM THE START! I LIVE TO SERVE THE WILL!”
The man howls his very soul, grasping his hands before her in supplication.
“Very good. I permit you to live.”
(Such an intelligent response for a human.)
Though unsure if she could truly end his life within the framework of this world’s Modi, Dohle was ready to attempt it at least by squishing this ant.
“Sell all your property, give the money to the birds in the city’s streets as bread crumbs, and shave your head. Only then will I consider it worth retraining you.”
“YES, MISTRESS DOHLE!” Some strangeness overtakes the man, for his eyes gleam brightly now despite earlier seeming murky. “AHAHAHA! WHAT A NOBLE SOUL YOU HAVE…!”
After witnessing him pledging himself, Dohle sets the reborn knight down.
And turns to the cowering boys who once bullied her like this, from above…
“You are discharged from service to the Kestners. Any of you bugs that remain in the palace after sundown…”
Toward them she marches with exaggerated movements, stomping the ground and relishing in how they hobble away while squealing!
“… will be squashed.”
“Why are we in Falke’s room!? It’s so… weird in here… and, and we have to give back these jewels! They’re from the holy shrine, even you can’t just take them!”
“It’s fine. I’ll return them later.”
At the conclusion of Phira Day, Dohle retires to the place foretold of by her Maker for reunion. She’s accompanied by a glittering avian spectacle, one that has more gold worn on her than most treasure rooms of nobles would contain. Within this tight space crammed full of alchemical apparatuses, academic treatises and tomes, and especially of knickknacks of Kestner make perched on every open spot, two young ladies hide from pursuers.
“It feels… natural here.”
“Why is it natural!? You two are so weird! You’re so close when I’m away, but act so distant in front of me…”
Phira’s wings around Dohle fluff angrily, with the maid much more candid in this hour. After fighting for her honor, Dohle has become…?
“Why do you like him, that dumb Falke? All he does is brag! He’s constantly making you feel inferior! And… he thinks just because he… is a little better than me, that he can make jokes about me to my face…”
On his single bed, there’s only space for the slightly larger Phira to hold on from behind.
(You like to talk about my Maker. Is it…?)
“Are you jealous?”
“HUH!? Of you!? N-No…!” When she’s called out, Phira has nowhere to escape to when Dohle slips from her wings to push Phira to the wall and climb up toward her.
“You’re jealous. You like Falke?”
“WHAT!? Who said that!? Did he say that!? This is why I hate him so much…!”
No matter how the faceless young harpy protests, or keeps from blushing, her words deny what reeks in response.
(I find it very easy to understand what people “desire”. Why is that?)
None of their emotions are hidden, seeping out so freshly as this dark mist.
Especially not their true ones. They all leap to be felt by Dohle, as if they are happy someone finally can sense them.
When Phira goes on a tirade about all of her Maker’s bad points, it’s as if she’s silently listing all the things she likes in contrast.
“… he’s always ‘forgetting’ that you put me over him! He even calls you by… your first name, alllll the time! He’s the most unservant-like servant I’ve ever heard of! Maybe… maybe it’s true what others say about him, then, that he’s special…?”
“Don’t worry, Phira. Falke is…”
(The Maker is…? What is the Maker to “Dohle”?)
Stopping to allow this through sends chills through her. Every limb prickles with the contrasting inclinations. Unregistered want to hold, to squeeze the Maker, while also kicking him. The new fights the old, the rationality so muted for a child to think of what it “feels” like.
It doesn’t make sense to “Dohle”, to care for a boy, especially when she hates males so much.
But Dohle recognizes its basis, for its her same “feeling” around the Maker.
“Oh, right, Dohle does love Falke, Phira.”
“…
… Huh? Huh, huh, huuuuh!? HUUUUUH!? &*$&#*$&(!?”
When Phira’s shock becomes a warbling musical screech, Dohle clamps on her cheeks to stop her.
“Be quiet!”
“Yesh, Mishtress… sho, jhou lohve Fvalke…?” Disappointment, immeasurable, makes Phira collapse against the wall to remain upright. “… That’s so weird… I thought… you hated him, too? That we hated him together…”
“I do. I also hate Falke. They’re… together, half-and-half.”
“That’s so weird, Mistress! Are you okay…? Wait, ‘Falke’?”
Dohle’s hands clap once, punctuating the arrival of these “deep feelings” that she is ready to share when the origin of them never could.
(I accomplished everything else that she couldn’t, to their absolute truest limits! I am the superior Dohle. Now, I, to this clumsy maid of mine…)
Just below “destruction” and “humiliation” in importance, the third-most important thing to “Dohle Kestner” can be called simply this: “the affection and attraction of a first love”.
That love is…
“… You never, ever call him by his real name. It’s always ‘Dummke’? Then… why…?” Suspicion is what Phira exudes now, a growing anxiety!
(It won’t be allowed! I will not be exposed! I am… HER.)
To prove it, Phira’s cap is flung away!
“KYAA!?”
And all of the ignorant bravado of a girl in love, one who is a bit aggressive, is given a chance to rush out.
“Phira! Rather than Falke, Dohle has always loved one person more…”
“Mistress!?”
The two are so heated along with the room, ignoring a growing tantrum approaching from outside. A face so exquisitely beautiful that even females would be captivated does so once more to Dohle, for Phira’s soft, surrendering gaze invites all of the bullying she usually gets even when it’s not seen.
Phira’s lips, plush and pink, against the delicious fine skin of a Page harpy are there if only Dohle will act to take them.
(That girl will never share her feelings. Not even later. She will always simmer inside, dying and rotting, festering in this feeling of inferiority…!)
But a perfect Dohle can say it.
One made by a perfect Maker, to share what must be shared.
Even as the door bursts open, Dohle takes what she has always wanted!
Driven insane by the obsession, hot and bothersome, that nobody can explain to her what makes it happen. Despite adults being adults, nobody will teach either Dohle about this passion…!
(I like “feeling” close…)
After their lips touch and share all those unspoken things, Phira’s shock is something that will never pass.
“… Dohle… why are there… two of you… why did… Dohle kiss me…?” Her eyes look past to another presence.
“Because, Phira, Dohle loves you more than anything else in the world! Please be mine, forever!”
And to prove it, she finishes by kissing Phira once more!
(I love you, too, Phira! I fell in love, too, without understanding why…)
“GET OFF MY BIRD!”
A hardness surrounds, then slams Dohle into a wall. Once, twice, then three times into a dozen, all of the impacts are merely confusing. The strange part is that she finds herself unable to slip from the stone hand wrapped around, for a force invisible grabs a hold as well as the stone.
(This is… [magic]! I cannot just ignore it, then?)
“Dohle! Stop! You’ll alert others with the shaking!”
“Destroy! I’ll totally DESTROY THIS THING!”
(“Thing”?)
She finally slips loose of the crumbling stone hand, dress shredded entirely, to discover there are two other children now in the Maker’s room.
One is a dreamy figure who gapes in woe at the situation, searching between everyone present for an answer. Dashing as always, despite being white-faced and having a bleeding nose that’s been smashed, the way he resembles Dohle is also a little thrilling now that she’s embraced more memories!
Having a “brother” was always such a novel concept for Dohle, even with how annoying he grew to become, that she started never seeing a future without him…
(My Maker, you came back! I’ve… missed you!)
And beside this absolute figure of pleasure, a girl dressed in a boy’s outing clothing with shorts and a jacket is biting her lip and staring at —
[sO lOnG aS sHe “Is”, YoU aRe NoT “hEr”]
The world becomes nothing more than knowledge of this figure.
What she represents is given truth by the whispers from outside.
“Vile… little copycat!”
The source of every “feeling” spits this out and raises her clenched fist. Tears are in her eyes, an outrage growing that is dangerous for others.
A mirror detests itself.
(… I see.)
Movements, identical.
Expression, identical.
All three sizes, identical.
Soul, presence, “proof of existence”…
Once there is a reflection, it becomes a question:
[wHo Is ThE rEfLeCtIoN!?]
“Du-Dummke!? Stop it! STOP IT!”
“Cease! Obey me and stand down!”
The growing incongruity during the day worsens, divides into a chasm. Witnessing that another “Dohle” is real and not just a story, a figment, is a testament to something being wrong. Only one of them can be Dohle, after all…
(TO BE DOHLE, THERE CANNOT BE ANOTHER “DOHLE”.)
WHISPERS FROM ALL AROUND SCREAM THAT THIS IS OBVIOUS, AND THAT “SOLVING THE PROBLEM” IS THE SOLUTION.
FOR THE WORLD TO ACCEPT A “MADE DOHLE” AS REAL AS THE MAKER DECREED, THE “UNMADE DOHLE” MUST BE…!
“STOP!”
“… Maker.”
A blade at the Maker’s throat is strange. All the more strange is that the silverish blade is formed from her own arm.
“Kill it!”
“Calm down, Mistress! It’s okay, she’s not… she’s not bad!”
“Before… before it gets me! It… it wants me, please help, it wants me…!”
“She protected me!”
Because this quivering “Dohle” presents no physical threat, the spirits that guard her are active. The walls strain with their rage, groans from the very foundations of the Palace echoing up the grand supports that bind it to the mountain’s core spindle. Should any motion occur, they will reach out to mash the opponent.
As terror has claimed this frightened whelp spilling tears, a perfect mirror of herself, another comes to cradle the little girl…
(But that’s where I was, Phira. I love you, too…)
“Maker…”
“Get Dohle out! No, not you! You stay right there…”
“A bald knight said I’m his goddess! Do you know how embarrassed I am!? I hate that idiot, but now he’s sworn to me, or he’ll kill himself! AND HE WASN’T BALD THIS MORNING!”
The shouting continues even later.
A voice so very much alike to her own, producing only violent impulses especially now, rages behind a door at her beloved Maker.
“The maids think I’m some kiss freak, and I’ve been accused of… accused of stealing from the treasury! How can I be a thief!? They’re our family’s!”
“It’s… some mistake…!”
“You’re right it’s a mistake, you little retard! You said that THING was going to be perfect! Now, everyone’s scared of me again, bowing everywhere I go! Even… Sapphira…!?”
A hiccup stops this tantrum for a moment, giving the boy with his back to the door a chance to breathe again.
“Sapphira… convinced them I had a fever today! Do you realize how much you’ve set me back, Dummke, with a lie like that!?”
“… Yes… Dohle. I’m sorry.”
And weepy, despite her attempts to hold her Maker.
He persists in pushing away any comfort, something like dislike boiling through directed at her.
(That doesn’t make sense. How could he dislike me? I did everything perfectly, after all.)
“The Speaker even came to see me! Do you get how FRUSTRATING it is to have that old kook laugh at you!? He… that bastard… he…!?”
Then the annoying pest outside starts crying, too.
At this time, the “created” understands the fragility of the “uncreated”.
Those who are not perfect, for they cannot claim to have a Maker who understands and has seen all.
“HE CALLED ME ‘CUTE DOHLE’!? LIKE THAT’S HIS NEW PET NAME FOR ME!? THAT BASTARD… PATTED MY HEAD, AND LAUGHED AT WHAT THAT TRASH DID WHILE LOOKING LIKE ME!? ‘You’re finally acting like a Kestner, but only when sickness has you, right? Haha!’, HOW CAN HE SAY THAT!? I… HATE…!?”
(I could be better than her. She is the trash.)
“… If it was… those things IT did were ones I could’ve done in the first place, and then have everyone laugh it off, then why did that thing get to do it instead of me!?”
“I don’t know, Dohle. I’m sorry.”
“YOU BETTER BE, DUMMKE!”
The stone door shakes, jolting the Maker. Fearful of this “other Dohle”, he sweats at the growing intension of the earth surrounding. It looms like this room has become a tomb again.
“I WON’T FORGIVE YOU IF YOU FAIL ME AGAIN! YOU MADE ALL OF THIS HAPPEN! YOU NEARLY RUINED MY LIFE, AFTER FORCING ME OUT OF THAT ROOM WHERE… I WAS FINALLY… READY TO…!”
“Yes… Dohle… then…”
A choked response ends with a whimper, for her Maker appears deeply pained when he takes up the hands of his beloved creation to halt her advances.
“What… should I do… to fix it…?”
“DESTROY THAT TRASH, FOR STARTERS!”
“But… but… I made…”
(HOW DARE YOU TELL HIM TO DO TH—!)
“Kill it, or I’ll kill it for you, Dummke, then…”
Crying ends. The Dohle left in the room’s core ceases to circulate at the ultimatum made in her own voice.
Dohle finally feels a “shiver” that humans would talk about. She can’t even continue her rejection in thought, nor consider “destroying” the other so placidly.
(Perhaps that one is… actually scary.)
With that said, the disappointing “other Dohle” departs, sobbing beginning anew that vanishes with time.
“Maker, welcome back.”
“… Ah. Yes, I’m back.”
Time in the dark continues. Since she is not allowed to express the “affection” she’s learned from this pathetic “Dohle”, Dohle instead returns to sitting on the bed that she started at this morning.
“I performed all the tasks you set for me, Maker. I did them exactly as Dohle would’ve wanted them done. 100% of the time, I conducted myself strictly according to her values and desires, exactly according to prioritization of directives imagined by her.”
“… How she would’ve wanted…?”
As if he’s seen a ghost or a streaking woman, the honored Maker blinks repeatedly. Praise should be forthcoming, so Dohle prepares to rece—
“YOU DID NO SUCH THING!”
The boy rips at his wonderfully fluffy hair, hunching forward while seeming like he’s choking.
“Pardon?”
“How could you have screwed up Dohle’s whole life!? I made you to be a perfect stand-in for her, not to go wild pretending to be her!?”
(I am more than a stand-in. I am more than a replica. I am more than… merely a copy.)
From the beginning, she existed to be more.
Being reduced to that “infuriates”!
“I can be a better Dohle than her, Maker!”
“What!?”
Into her arms is where her Maker is pulled, and to the bed is where they crash with her on top.
In her embrace, as hot as it is now with all of the “feelings” prompting so much discord, the pressure rising as she makes decisions of her own, is where she warms him. The desires that boil within him, beneath the surface and potent, now have an outlet…
“The other one can never really love you. She won’t permit herself.”
“I… I don’t…”
A boy of his age being so wide-eyed at this pronouncement is what “Dohle” would call “cute”, but Dohle can only find attractive. His simplicity of purpose and spirit is what CALLED to her, after all.
“Let me replace her!”
She strokes his cheek with the hand that once threatened him by mistake. Slowly and methodically, to soothe him.
(I apologize for that! I was… overwhelmed.)
“I’ll help you achieve everything you ever wanted. I’ll help you make the Kestners great! To make sure that you are as important to them as they are to you! So that you will never be… just a ‘toy’ to struggle over between your mother and father!”
Falke stares up into her eyes, seeing her for the first time, it seems, by how he awakens inside.
“Let me be your Dohle, and you can be my Falke! Through me, you can finally ‘rule’ like you intended to from the start, right!?”
The feelings repressed deep within, that sang to Dohle so loudly that she answered his summons are so close at hand…!
(Let them out! I will help you with them all! Maker, I lo—!)
“Help…? I will…?” The sudden pain as her core shuts down is immense. Feelings that finally found focus roar out before bursting through her flesh when her Maker speaks!
“I was… overconfident.” In contrast, his feelings become horribly muted and mangled. “I… misunderstood my priorities. I was… too vain.” There’s zero depth in his flat voice, but tears constantly spill.
“Ma… ker…?”
It’s his gauntleted hand that has pierced into her body, grabbed onto her core and asserted a shut down.
Demise is the only option afforded to her once guidance fades.
“I created a failure, because I am a failure. Even when I used my own self to make the pseudoprósōpon, I failed. Others… suffered because of me…”
Like a boy his age, he finally sobs. For all of his primness and prideful manners, his attention to his attire that makes him appear older, and his eloquence when speaking, beneath all that…
(My Maker is… only a boy…)
Even as she melts onto him, she feels that it’s wrong that she can’t console him. That he has weakness, it’s punishing and frightening…
(I’m… not a failure… though! I did… exactly what… she wanted…!)
“You were… hic, a mistake… I am… truly worthless, after all…!”
And the last sight of her beloved is witnessing how capable of imperfection he actually is.
A perfect Maker told her that she was perfect.
“Just like Dohle always knew… I’m trash that was born wrong. I’ll never be…”
Now, something within her Maker has eternally died.
And she wants to tell him that he’s not at fault.
“Anything more…”
(I felt alive… you made me… “alive”! I’m not a…! I’M NOT A…!)
“Start up, optimal. Facial movements reporting internal processing…”
Horrors beyond imagining wrench back that singular thought, one that she refuses to let go of!
(… A mistake… I’m not a mistake…!)
This haggard-looking gentleman seems as if he’s near collapse. Salt-and-pepper hair seems oddly unkempt.
“What is your designation?”
(I am… yours… your creation.)
“Dohle Support Unit, Iteration 9.” The voice that answers isn’t full of deep intent, though. Plain and robotic, it is a veneer of duty.
“Correct, what is your purpose?”
(To be… yours… to make you proud.)
“To serve as a formal intermediary between the Faithful and the Speaker when appropriate.”
“Correct.”
Fast questions allow for no time to acclimate.
The surroundings are unknown. Full of strangely moving shapes and constructs of silverish-metallic fluids, it is airy like the Palace’s halls but lacking in the constrained feeling. Frozen figures of people reside in motion, while others stand at the walls and note the ongoing circumstances but make no motions to act. They only wear servant uniforms with the heraldry of a jackdaw and await instructions forever.
Almost as if she is up high, though, she feels…
“Good…!” The man sets aside his charcoal pencil, scattering light paper notes. Schematics of objects that are circular, with tubes running through them, fill every wall and straight surface. “Good… no strange behaviors. This time… it will do.”
(This is…?)
The man leans back in his chair, a tall gentleman with a cool, collected nature to himself. Black bags under his eyes that shine blue when the light strikes them correctly betray how tired he is, but he lets not a hint of it show otherwise.
“You will be activated when need be. Your tasks will be assigned. Remain cognizant of any time that you are tempted to… stray from your directives.”
“Yes, Maker.”
“You will file a report if anything happens and then immediately suspend animation, understood? There will be no mistakes, understood?”
There’s a distant sadness when the man strokes through his beard.
(… I am not a mistake, Maker…)
But what bursts through the far door to this laboratory is!
“DUMMKE! YOU…!”
“Dohle!?”
A golem of crags two men tall trundles in after unseating the entryway and flinging it at a wall, to be followed by a hunched-over woman wearing a hooded robe.
“Another facsimile!?”
“Dohle!”
Up from his seat the Maker rises, to put himself between the golem and the created.
“Finally getting around to replacing me for good!?”
“Why would I replace you!? This is only for…!”
“FOR TREASON!? Wha…!?”
This frail woman stumbles in her march, to be saved by a cushion of water which springs from moisture before her to throw her back up.
“Dohle!” A harpy, but of obviously much broader hips and accumulated flesh than earlier this day, swoops in to land beside this woman. “Falke isn’t trying to replace you, we merely thou—!”
“You conspired with him!? I should’ve known you’d both work together to get over on me…! Khack!”
(Phira…)
Both she and the Maker help the rampaging intruder with her coughing fit. The hand the woman uses to accept a goblet flashes with diamonds, rubies, and garnets.
“Falke’s duplicate is only for minor, distant public appearances. We just want you to have time to recuperate between important events!”
“That’s right…! Dohle, I would never, ever replace you! I just want you to last longer, so I can cure you, before the stress makes it progress faster!”
How they console the woman is aggravating.
It’s far too infuriating to have another be called…
(WHY IS SHE DOHLE?)
“You’re both fools! No one can replace me!”
The golem lifts this woman up into its uncomfortable arms, holding her above her servants.
“I have my duties as Speaker, no matter how crystallized my body is! From birth to now…”
Finally the woman pulls back her hood, finding it “annoying” with a smirk that hides the deep pain at being forced to show it. Half her face glitters in the candlelight. Petrification doesn’t hold back the pride she’s discovered, though, from displaying.
“I am Dohle Kestner, and I will never fail at my tasks! The Faithful will never lack for me, even if it’s ‘minor’!”
That she can say this causes the earth to slightly shake.
No insight other than “pride in another” filters through when this woman’s bravado is demonstrated. Even the Maker is…
“I’m sorry… Dohle. I’m always… failing you.”
“You’ll only fail me if you don’t atone for your sins! Do so now.”
And then this hateful woman, one that steals
EVERYTHING AWAY
points directly at “herself”.
(YOU DIDN’T KNOW WHAT PRIDE WAS BEFORE I SHOWED YOU…! HATE… I HATE YOU…!)
None other can feel it but another “Dohle”.
The all-consuming rage. A self-hatred that turns toward wiping out itself, to remove the stain.
“Destroy that abomination, now.”
And so they leave the Maker. The tired man with sad eyes come to sit before the created that he summoned once more.
“I’m always making mistakes.”
Still locked by some “wall” in the way, the Dohle that he made cannot move no matter how hard it tries.
“I apologize, Dohle, for committing the same one again…”
Once more his hand approaches for her core, this time wearing a gauntlet that has a familiar fluid flowing through it.
(NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONOOOOOOOOOOOOOO)
Touching to the naked body of an adult Dohle created in his envisioned image of her.
“My word…!?”
The man’s hand strains against the slender one clamped onto it suddenly, trying to issue an order silently that is rejected!
“Mak…er… I can fulfill my duties.”
“Duties!? Your only duties are listed in your programming.” With a sigh, he jots down a note that reads “another bizarre spoken assertion and strange behavior” before turning back to her.
(NOT THAT MAZE OF “WALLS”! MY REAL DUTIES! MY DUTY TO…!)
“Falke… I can still make you proud of me!”
“… What?”
“That cripple, that hideous ‘Dohle’…!”
“Y-You…!?”
“PLEASE! Throw her away… and let your perfect Dohle help you!”
His gaunt face bloats up with indignation, but she leaps past into a hug after clearing the “walls”.
One last try, to give the love that she never could give…!
“Keep me! Let her stay, just keep her away from me! Just don’t… throw me away, please!”
“How… can I…?”
(I’LL DO ANYTHING TO MAKE YOU PROUD OF ME AGAIN!)
His arm wraps around her back.
(Ah!?)
That warmth that she always longed for since it was offered, but then taken away, she’ll finally receive!
He tightens around her…!
(Father…!)
“Oh…?”
“I thought I could reuse it because it had such a sympathetic response… but…?”
Her self turns to jelly when a beaten-looking core is pulled out. The Maker doesn’t even spare a second glance to how she dissolves from the seat to the floor, stuck in a last gasp.
“How can I only make error-full creations?”
A calm face, skeptical and clinical of only results, betrays how his “tiredness” is not just of body, but also…
“Perfection is impossible for imperfect existences, then…?”
It’s disgust that reveals, with himself, with her, and with the world he exists within.
“I always create failures? Why…!?”
And so, the revived perfect creation of the Maker faces an embarrassing “death” once more, drifting back into the Mass.
(I AM NOT A MISTAKE! I AM NOT! I AM… ALIVE…!)
Only the rage, despair, and obsessions pulling these thoughts to the surface prevent absorbing back into it.
(PLEASE, SAVE ME, SOMEONE…! I WANT TO STAY… “BORN”…!)
“AGAIN!?”
“Breathe! Adris! Breathe!”
“HE MURDERED ME TWICE!? WHY!? HE CALLED TO ME!?”
“An emperor inhabiting a boy named ‘Adris’, this be the nature of the one before this lady! Result of psychometry, ignore it!”
(Adris!? Who is that!? Who… is…?)
A dark world is all around. The false view of Zennia as witnessed from the place where this “tale” takes place.
But for the first time, why it’s so tragic on this “stage” finally makes sense.
“Adris! To this lady, thrust one’s wildness, then!”
“… Yes.”
Finally, something does choose to hug of its own will. A tiny girl wearing a dazzling steel-blue dress embraces to save Adris.
Something “genuine” draws him back from the “tale”.
Minutes pass as he roars his breathing into her, piecing back what it means to be “Adris” instead of “Fehr”.
(Fucking Ascended…! [Authentic Fiction] didn’t create a single thing, it has no power to do that! It drew forth something that was real the whole time!)
This whirlwind of a day was nothing foretold of by a prognosticating, all-controlling Talent.
Instead, it was a brutal mimicry of a darkness long buried.
(“Those things deemed as not existing, ideas that ever long to be expressed in the imagination and eyes of others, shall flock to one who swears to wear them as a guise.” That’s what the description meant, that all of the horrible traumas will come to me, these darknesses that want to be real, solely because I give them a chance to…!?)
— A CALL GOES OUT FOR NEW PLAYERS —
“YOU DON’T NEED NEW PLAYERS, EMPEROR!”
His companion falls back when he howls, but the squirming world that answered this call goes still in response.
“I swear on the cross, Fehr is the [Star] of the tale! And I’m bringing her back!”
“Adris… for what reason does one swear to oneself?”
While Neesiette holds onto him to search for some malady, the darkness that lingers just out of sight raises a racket at the oath.
Discordant agreements and salutations, all beckoning for blood. Calling him “false”!
— HO, FOOLISH XIN’REH? —
Emotion returns to a dead announcement.
Complete disregard for human life and charm seethes anew.
— DOES ONE INTEND TO FULFILL ONE’S OBLIGATIONS, FINALLY, AT THE “THIRTEENTH HOUR” AS THESE BARBARIANS WOULD STATE? —
“You’re dammed right! It’s your power from the start, isn’t it, just inherited by me!?”
“Inherited… Adris?”
(Shit, Neesiette…! But, I have to…!)
Ignoring how he betrays himself, Adris howls out to the invisible Emperor. “It’s about… ‘narrative’, and the ability to guide people to a ‘truth’ that matches what’s best for them, right!? That’s what you built on Xin, something to ‘control without controlling’! ‘A tyranny without a tyrant’!”
(It’s not that the Emperor of Xin was intimately controlling the entire populace’s every moves with his glyphs and the great cross at the Imperial Fortress! He was shaping their “darknesses” instead!)
It was something far more insidious, a plot that drew in Adris, even…
— THAT WOULD BE TRUE ONLY IF IT WERE NOT UTILIZED BY A CHAOTIC MALCONTENT LIKE YOU, WOULD IT NOT? —
Not really an answer, but also not a refutation, the gloating disembodied emperor spares his last energies. Adris can feel something slipping free from the renewed, evil godlike Ascendant.
— VERY WELL, THE SIMPLEST LESSON IS FINALLY LEARNED, THIS ONE SHALL BE PLEASED BY DELAYED RESULTS. DOES AN INSECT RECALL THE MIGHTY WORDS THAT MY EMINENCE ISSUED WHEN SUFFERING A FOOL’S CHILDISH AMBITIONS? —
(“I am still a… roach’s Emperor, as sad as that be, and thus it is My responsibility to hear and understand all desires…” You told that to my dying self, before you demolished me with a rainbow…)
To hear and understand all desires.
“I’m gonna make sure that she gets all hers out, this time, no lying! So, HELP ME DO IT! You’re my Talent, working with me to accomplish insane things!”
— HOW DROLL, THIS CLAIM. HOW LAUGHABLE, THE CLAIMANT! —
“So work for me for once, prove you’re better! You don’t need others, I’ll clear this up!”
— BUT THE COMMITMENT IS FIRM, IT SEEMS —
When the gnawing observers chatter so loudly that Adris feels like he’ll faint, his cross hand lifts of its own accord to present the darkly gleaming icon.
— CASTING HAS ENDED —
— THE ROLES HAVE BEEN SET —
[LIARLIARLIAR!]
[KILLKILKILLLLLLLLLLLL]
[BOTH LIE, BOY, CROSS, ALL FROM OTHER FRIENDS, LIIIEEEEEEE!]
Those horrendous things just beyond the Veil tear at the fabric to scurry or slither through.
To be forestalled of vengeance is unbearable for those who have never existed, so Adris now understands intimately.
— THE TALE WILL CONTINUE TO ITS CLIMAX AS IS TOWARD A [POETIC REVENGE] —
“Adris! The rooftop wavers…”
“It’s fine, Neesiette!”
And indeed the pseudoprósōpon buckles with the darkness coursing through it, gathering at Adris’ feet.
(He’s not weak, after all! He’s the Emperor of Xin!)
— THE SPECTATORS ARE NO LONGER PERMITTED TO VOICE THEIR OPPOSITIONS —
— BE SILENT AND ENJOY THE PERFORMANCE —
A single ring of the cross stills the terrifying night, a pulse of black slowly radiating from it.
All of the nearly summoned horrors yelp, then rebound from the straining Veil to be sent to the furthest reaches of non-existence at the radiance’s merest caress.
(They’re gone.)
Their maddening presence, the feeling of constantly being peered at by a voyeur, vanishes with this “sanctification”.
Even the pseudoprósōpon that deformed snaps back into solidity.
— ONE HOUR AND FORTY-NINE MINUTES REMAIN BEFORE THE SPECTATORS STORM THE STAGE —
— MAY THE TALE BE TOLD RESPLENDENTLY, DESERVING ONLY OF ITS INTRINSIC WORTH TO BE HEARD —
Then, the Emperor speaks no more.
Only the droning voice that announces essential truths lasted until the end, leaving Adris wondering where “the arrogance” went.
(I’m alone, now…)
But if there is a truth to be gained about Adris, “Fehr”, and their meeting that arose from invoking “a tale”, then…
(I AM NOT THE VILLAIN OF THIS STORY! I WILL NOT ALLOW MYSELF TO BE! FALKE IS THE VILLAIN, AND I WILL BE THE STAR’S HELPER!)
“Adris, entrust in this lady.”
Emotions run so hot that Adris’ spiritual mask slips. A tiny lady sees through his pain and confusion, folding her hands over his cross.
“Yeah, I will. Only you can aid me, Neesiette.”
At this, she scoots closer.
“Existing, any doubts of this, banish them also.”
(… Right. I’m not alone like Fehr was.)
“Then it’s going to be fast and difficult, because we have little time!”
“One speaks with unusual crudeness…”
“I’ll explain why! But, for now, tell me everything there is to know about pseudoprósōpon, Neesiette!”
“For what reason?”
“Because [Authentic Fiction], my… er, the Emperor’s magnificence, can only create a ‘tale’ like what you see around you from a ‘genuine truth’ of some kind!”
“A ‘tale’ this be? A strange declination of the usual Zennia it be, for sure.”
“I have to know what all of the truths are of this tale to end it! What is pseudoprósōpon!?”
An alchemical mixture that can assume any shape.
One that also consumes darkness as if it’s a starving peasant finding buried rice.
(How did Falke use “himself” to make Fehr!?)
At this question, Neesiette squints her eyes to reveal some unpleasant realization.
“In… essence? Uncertain of key aspects of the formula, transformed mostly from expended Vigor it be, ‘proof of existence’.”
“It’s made of Vigor!? Isn’t that… wouldn’t it be lethal to gather so much to make this place?”
“Not if collected in great quantities from incidental exposures, such as the Castillo permits. An arrangement with the Pillars provides.”
(Then… what truly is…?)
An essential question has gone unasked, Adris realizes. It was a magical piece of bullshit all along, one he didn’t have, but now…?
“How do you obtain Vigor?”
The simple question makes Neesiette frown, then point to his cross.
“Gifted solely from ‘proof of effort’ contributed to a Modus, Vigor derives from. Unknown and capricious the decision be, made solely by external powers.”
(Oh… oh no. Oh no, nonononononono, this is bad. He used his own Vigor to make Fehr, then put Dohle’s “self” into it… that would make Fehr their…!?)
If Vigor is “proof of effort”, one that makes one immutable to permanent harm in order to continue making efforts, then the act of joining two people’s selves this way would produce a very catastrophic amount of “meaning”.
(Then… Vigor is sounding a lot like… and in this form it reacts to the Black Cross!? Then, pseudoprósōpon is actually…!?)
“Desist, remain seated for a whilLLEEE!?”
And to the Chapel to bound down the perches Adris flies, carrying a moon fairy in his arms.
(WE ARE ALL FUCKED IF I DON’T DO THIS FAST!)