TVisTV Book 4: Chapter 2 (RAW) (Patreon)

Chapter 2 - A Warm Welcome

“The sky, tired of light, has given everything to the snow.”

- Robert Walser

The inn itself was serviceable, though it fell far short of the luxury to which she was accustomed. Thankfully, the rotund innkeeper had accepted the signet ring as proof of her lineage, reasoning that no one lacking noble blood would be quite so demanding.

Now, staring at a cracked glass mirror in her modest room, Seraphina had come to the realization that she was moping. In her old world, several of her louder—and supposedly braver—advisers had once recommended a peculiar sort of voodoo magic called “therapy” to help her deal with all her childhood trauma. In response, she had simply asked whether any of them had managed to solve their own problems with this miracle cure. None of them had. She had therefore come to the swift and sensible conclusion that it was yet another scam from the West, devised to corrupt her nation’s culture along with its fast food. Only weak people needed something like therapy, and only the truly pathetic paid strangers to listen to their problems and murmur empty nonsense and weightless platitudes. Drug assisted therapy might be for some people, but it was certainly not for her.

She knew that if she was to overcome whatever this was, she would have to rely on herself. Anger, she had found, could be useful when properly directed. Whoever claimed revenge left a person feeling hollow afterward was lying through their teeth. Revenge brought a particular kind of satisfaction, like correcting a painting that had been hung crooked. It was justice. It was a small correction to the universe.

Yes, revenge would make an excellent substitute for therapy. Or at the very least, the promise of it would let her pour her energy into something more productive. Still, she needed a reminder, because revenge had an unfortunate habit of being delayed or distracted.

The young noblewoman still wanted the crown, but now there was something else to add to the list. She knew, however, that revenge was as distant as the crown itself. Even so, the two ambitions were thoroughly intertwined.

She looked into the mirror at her short, golden-blonde hair. Yes, she thought, that would do. She promised herself she would keep it short. Speaking of which, it was already starting to grow out again.

“Desdemona!” she called, secretly wishing it were Eloise instead.

Still, one had to make do.

“What is it, Sera? They were just about to draw my bath,” the young girl pouted prettily as she sauntered into Seraphina’s room.

Seraphina fixed her with her sweetest smile. “I was just wondering, my dear, if you might help me with my hair.”

Desdemona covered her mouth and let out a small, delighted laugh. “Oh, darling, there is not really much we can do with it—”

Seraphina’s expression hardened even as her smile widened. “I only need it cut a little. Surely you can manage that?”

***

“Yer ladyship, I cant ‘ave you cutting wood! Why, it ain’t proper!” protested the innkeeper.

“Why…” Seraphina paused as she searched her mind for his name.

“Brodie, yer grace,” he answered, taking off his cap. “It’s not right. I got the boys to do things like that.”

“Consider it a partial payment for allowing my entourage and me to stay at your wonderful establishment,” Seraphina answered with a tight smile.

“But…”

“Your King’s Hart is such a fine establishment… Oh, and you best just let her, Master Brodie,” Frest said from behind the innkeeper, causing the rotund man to jump in surprise. “You really do not wish to argue with the lady when she has an axe in her hands. Unless, that is, you would like to be a few inches shorter. Just count your blessings.”

“A few inches short… shorter,” Brodie gaped like a fish, repeating in the words as if trying to glean their true meaning. Realization finally dawned on him as if in slow motion. “Yes, yes, of course, it must be one of those noble past times of the capital. Please… cut as much wood as you like.”

The man shook his head, mumbling to himself as he returned back inside away from the chill of the early winter night.

“Thank you, Sir Frest. That will be all,” Seraphina said, with more gratitude than she usually allowed herself to show.

Frest answered with his usual insouciant grin. “Glad to be of service, Lady Seraphina. But please, use these,” he added, holding out a pair of heavy leather gloves.

She took them, more surprised than thankful, though not by much. And yet, even then, she could not quite stop herself.

“Frest,” she said sweetly.

“Yes, milady?” he replied at once, though she could almost see him brace for the blow he was sure would come.

“I know you are trying your best, and I do appreciate it. That is precisely what makes it so disappointing.” She slipped the gloves on with deliberate care. “Take the evening off… to do whatever it is you do.”

Her tone made it clear she was dismissing him, not indulging him. To his credit, he understood. The grin faded, if only slightly, and he withdrew with the faintest droop to his shoulders.

So, at last, she was alone.

Seraphina drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. It steamed from her lips in thin, curling wisps, white against the cold. It was a shame she had never tried this before. Still, it seemed a fitting outlet for the strain that had been knotting inside her. More importantly, it was one of the activities in the game said to raise Strength as a primary attribute and Dexterity as a secondary one, if luck favored you. And Seraphina, at least according to her Status page, was very lucky indeed.

She set the first log in place, a stubborn-looking section of stump. Gripping the wood axe with both hands, she brought it down hard.

The log did not split. The blade bit deep and stuck fast, as if the world itself had chosen this petty moment to insult her. A snarl slipped from her throat. Irritated beyond reason by the refusal of a piece of wood to obey her, she seized the handle, lifted the stump with it, and reversed the whole thing.

In her mild irritation, she drove it down axe-first, blade up. It was, quite by accident, something close to the inverted axe technique. And this time the wood cracked apart.

The split was rough, inelegant, and far less clean than she would have preferred, but it gave way all the same. And as the halves fell apart, Seraphina felt a small flicker of satisfaction. It was not much, but it was a start in the right direction. 

She continued to chop away, as if hacking away at the innocent pieces of wood would do something about her problems. It didn’t, but it did predictably garner her a point in the Strength attribute. The trick was not so much using all of her Strength, but in its correct application she realized, her eyes misting up with tears that soon froze. Here she could finally allow herself a moment of weakness.

Yes, she could simply just bulldoze her way through her problems, but that in itself lacked a certain elegance, she thought to herself as she brushed her borrowed gloves against her nose and sniffled. She determined that, if time and circumstance allowed it, would try more finesse in the future.

By the time she finally lowered the axe, a mountain of split logs stood stacked against the inn wall in neat, orderly rows, enough firewood to carry the place through the bitterest months of winter. Her arms throbbed, her palms stung, and damp strands of golden hair clung to her flushed face, but as she looked upon the fruits of her labor, Seraphina felt a deep, savage satisfaction bloom in her chest. It was absurd, unbecoming, and thoroughly beneath a lady of her station—and yet she felt as though she had wrested something from the world and won. 

It had been cathartic.

Seraphina de Sariens called to her magic, the song that lived to restore, letting the power of her Heal spell wash over limbs and for a moment if anyone was looking they would see her enveloped with the aura of Holy. It was a warm balm, and although it did not fully restore, it still took the greater edge of what would be aching pains and chapped skin.

Smiling weakly to herself, she made her way back into the warmth of the inn. She would have to see what if Brodie could wrangle up a bath for her. It was, after all, the least he could do for her.

***

They left early the next morning, just as dawn’s rosy fingers cracked the sky. Seraphina’s small party rode at a steady clip along the ice-sheathed road, despite the modest baggage train trailing behind them. It was just before noon when they first caught sight of the walled town of Carcaronne in the winterbound distance, their mounts steaming in the cold. Even then, it took another hour and a half of riding before they finally reached the outskirts of its walls.

The walled town of Carcaronne rose from the frozen land determined to outlast both winter and time. Its high stone walls, weathered by wind and age, were capped with uneven teeth of frost, while squat watchtowers kept their vigil over the surrounding white fields. Within, the town seemed tightly packed, its slate and timber rooftops huddled close together as though for warmth, with thin streams of smoke curling from dozens of chimneys into the pale air. The gates, iron-banded and scarred by the years, stood open to admit wooden carts, riders, and fur-covered foot traffic, while beyond them Seraphina could glimpse narrow cobbled streets, crowded buildings, and the muted bustle of a place that had learned to endure hard north.

A mounted party of two score men rode two abreast in near-perfect lockstep out of the gate. Their mounts were great warbeasts that scarcely resembled horses at all, thick-muscled creatures with dappled grey coats and the mass of battering rams. The Knights of Carcaronne—for that was what they could only be—were tall, towering figures who looked as though they might snap trees like twigs. In that moment, Seraphina could plainly see that her father was indeed a son of this land.

Amid that sea of iron and steel, the crest of the Duchy of Carcaronne stood out: a white-blue snowflower on a field of spring green, emblazoned on each tabard beside the Knights’ personal heraldry. There was something deeply ironic in such a delicate bloom serving as the symbol of so obviously warlike a people.

The Knights reined in as one, and their leader dismounted before striding toward Seraphina. He stopped at a respectful distance.

Removing his helm, he addressed her with his eyes lowered. “Lady de Sariens, my name is Humbert Bloodaxe, at your service. We heard news that you arrived in Carcaronne from a certain Master Brodie of the King’s Hard inn. I am to escort you into the Duchess’s presence, if it pleases you, milady.” He bowed with a grace more suited to the capital than to this wild northern land.

That impression lasted only until one looked properly at him.

His name was violent, and so was his face: scarred in such a way that suggested he had once come to the wrong end of an axe and survived through sheer stubbornness. Golden hoops lined his battered ears. There was a hardness to him, something forged of iron and war.

It was, Seraphina found, deeply comforting.

She glanced at Frest, weighing the two men against one another for purely scientific purposes, of course, before turning back to the Knight.

“Yes, it would please me greatly, Sir Bloodaxe,” she said with a small laugh, covering her mouth. “It would please me greatly indeed.”