XV. The Festival of the Dead. People milled all around Morroc under the violet dusk, donning stunning masks and costumes. The cooling air wafted with smells of burning incense, sumptuous food, and the inviting perfume of women; the gentle breeze carried with it the sounds of prayers offered to the dead, of joyous yet solemn celebration, and of promise.
In the midst of them all walked a somber figure wearing standard issue uniform for Schwarzwald Defense Elements swordsmen, with a helm and iron cain covering her face, and for some reason donning Valcrist’s newly-repaired chain mail and his violet cloak.
Sevrin, as always, felt as if she was out of place in informal gatherings, with the rest of her company abandoning their own uniforms in favor of more casual clothing. She managed, though, to explain why she did not want to get out of her cumbersome daily outfit.
“It’s my costume,” she had said earlier that afternoon to a concerned Valcrist. “I’m a member of the Sword of Valor.”
Valcrist then frowned. “Wait a minute. You’re coming…as you are? That’s your costume?”
“Well, as a member of the Sword of Virtue then.”
“You want me to puke some more?” Valcrist had said, an open expression of disgust plastered onto his face. “Tell them blokes you’re the bad-ass commander of the Sword of Guidance. I would want to see their faces once they 'find' out the mysterious Syn Laelithar is a female.”
Sevrin could not help but smile a little bit at the small memory despite herself. The rivalry between Sir Valcrist and Sir Laire Allicran of the Sword of Virtue was legendary; an outsider would wonder whether they were erstwhile lovers once—that could be an apt explanation for their hostile dealings with each other—which, of course, would make them want to shrivel up and die rather than for it to be true….
“Look out!” a small voice piped from behind her.
Turning around just in time, Sevrin caught and stopped a little boy from running into her, her hands steadying him up by his arms.
“You’re a Pronteran Knight?” asked the boy in her hands, catching his breath. He could not have been more than eight or nine; he looked adorable in his Midgard Academy novice uniform, complete with novice armlet and leather backpack. A simple bandanna also wrapped around his forehead, making his strikingly green hair stick out at odd angles. The faux ID plate pinned on his breast read: Cor Codis.
Sevrin curtly nodded. “Yes,” Her eyes took in the boy’s image, and let out a small laugh before she could stop herself. “I’m Syn Laelithar of the Sword of Guidance.”
The boy narrowed his violet eyes, peering at her suspiciously. “You’re not just wearing a costume, aren’t you?”
“No.”
“I thought Syn Laelithar was a guy!” exclaimed the boy, who was slowly revealing himself as a Pronteran Chivalry groupie. “You’re lying! And look…aren’t those thingies you wear under your chain mail for Schwarzwald D.E. swordies?”
She looked down at her standard issue upper garment made of tanned hide, visible underneath the openings of Valcrist’s chain mail. Damn, I should have borrowed the Commander’s Pronteran Colors vest while I’m at it; he doesn’t need it in bed anyway….
“Syn Laelithar’s not a just a swordie!” The boy huffed indignantly, his hands on his Midgard Academy novice uniform-clad hips. “I should know; I’m his number one fan! I’m going to tell!”
Sevrin wanted to tarry and indulge the boy, but she remembered that she was out in the Morroc streets to indulge her presently nagging feeling of suspicion. She should not let the festivities get into her head; even Kerensa—the occult fanatic in the Sword of Valor—could not help but be wary with the seemingly easy turn of events. But Sevrin doubted that he would be of much help to her in carrying out further investigation of the Door phenomena.
Not in his poring costume, Sevrin thought with mild irritation. Who would have thought he’d waste his wages for a full month for that monstrosity?
Sevrin just watched as the cute novice boy walked away, his green curls flouncing around. She unconsciously touched the hilt of her bastard sword, an all-too familiar feeling gnawing at her heart.
She stood there, in the midst of the street, as if she was waiting for somebody. But in truth she was stunned, a deluge of bittersweet feelings suddenly washing over her, as if she opened her eyes and saw her surroundings more clearly than ever.
Everything happening around her suddenly became painfully clearer. The tinkling laughter of children all of a sudden became agonizing to her ears; the sequins of various costumes blinded her eyes; and a covert sight of two lovers mooning over each other in a darker part of the street made her chest ache.
She felt lonely. Out of place.
Sevrin shook her head and composed herself. “I must be out of it,” she muttered. Gathering her wits, she plunged head-on into the festivities, trying to cope with the offensive happiness all around her.
