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sutepriRough as all hell, but at least it's (sort of) on time.
[Content Notes]
[Disclaimer]
Scrapped Princess | Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | A Fateful Choice | Part 1/4
Sunday is a day of rest . . . Such worldly common sense did not really apply to the children of Manurhin.
"'Morning, Pacifica."
"Mm, 'morning."
Pacifica, who for some reason was gazing at a scrap of paper, gave this vague reply. A small cardboard nametag had been pasted to the desk where she sat.
"What's wrong? Feeling a little down?"
The girl who had spoken tilted her head and peered into Pacifica's blue eyes. Her long, dark brown hair and the white ribbon that tied it back both swayed gently.
Her name was Mutia. Mutia Wesson. Of Pacifica's Sunday school classmates, Mutia was the one who sat beside her, and she was also the one closest to Pacifica. Well, perhaps we could call them best friends.
"Nn . . . could be?" said Pacifica, absent-mindedly folding up the slip of paper.
"About your father?"
"I mean, well . . . something like that."
In the town of Manurhin, there was a school that was open to the masses only on Sundays. Of course, compared to the formal schools attended by the children of the aristocracy, the standards were strikingly low, but on top of teaching the minimum level of education--reading, writing, and basic arithmetic--the cost was kept down to double digits.
Other towns had similar institutions, but Manurhin's educational facilities in particular were abundantly supplied, especially when compared against the tuition. This was because Count Franchi paid for half of the school's expenses.
"Hey, Muti, if I told you I wasn't really Pacifica Casull, what would you do?"
"Huh?"
"I mean, say for example, if I told you I was actually a princess of somewhere."
Mutia tilted her head to one side and thought for a moment, then she suddenly seized Pacifica's hand.
"Pacifica. Let's go to the doctor!"
". . . I don't have a fever."
"Well then, I shall point and laugh at you."
"Unuu . . . so much for friendship."
Pacifica groaned, a crease forming between her eyebrows. Mutia's light brown eyes peered into Pacifica's face once more.
"Anyway, enough with the jokes. Is it because your father left a will or something?"
"Something like that."
"But, Pacifica, you knew right from the start that you were adopted, didn't you? What are you doing, getting all upset about it now?"
"Umm . . ."
Pacifica had known for a long time that she was not really the Casulls' child. Her face certainly did not resemble her brother's or her sister's, and neither her father nor her mother were blonde or blue-eyed.
But Pacifica had never thought particularly deeply about any of that. Her father and brother, sister, and also her mother who had died so long ago--not only was there mutual acceptance of the circumstances but they also could not possibly have considered her any more a member of the family than they already did.
Even if she were told that she had another set of real parents . . . it did not affect her feelings one bit. Because for as long as she could remember, her father had been there, and Shannon and Raquel were right there by her side.
And yet . . .
"How should I put it, since yesterday, there's been something weird about Shannon-nii and Raquel-nee."
"Well, I mean your father did just die, and they're probably busy since they're going to need to take over the family business soon . . . Isn't that natural?"
"Yeah, maybe you're right, but . . . Hmm."
"Ah! Pacifica."
As though she had just realized something, Mutia grinned broadly.
". . . what?"
"You just want them to pay attention to you."
"What?!"
"Your niichan and neechan, they're a little busy and haven't been paying attention to you, so you're lonely. Yes, yes. Our Andy's the same way, you know--if we don't pay attention to him for just a little while, he gets all sulky. Tee hee. So cu~te."
Incidentally, Andy was Mutia's little brother, who was just under four years old.
"Who--Who'd do something like--!"
"You're stammering! You're stammering!"
"You little--!"
"Eek! I'm being attacked by Pacifica!"
Pacifica stood up, her face completely red. Mutia twisted away and screamed, seeming somehow pleased. The rest of their classmates watched them in apparent interest.
Well, this was not the first time these two had kicked up a fuss before class.
"LADIES! Pacifica, Mutia!"
Lessons began the very moment their homeroom teacher came in. Today was no exception.
Slapping her palm on the cover of her black notebook, the teacher spoke in a stern tone.
"Take your seats, class has begun!"
Sunday afternoon.
The magnificently clear sky and the road stretching out into the distance--these brought about a tranquil atmosphere. The ripe heads of grain, which until recently had rustled gently in the cultivated fields to the right and left, had already been harvested, and now this road was absurdly empty.
The second of seven major roads that crisscrossed the length and breadth of Manurhin Town--Harrington1 Street--if you walked all the way north along this road, a knoll would come into view.
By rights, this knoll was the private property of the feudal lord, Count Franchi, and as such, entry should have been forbidden to the public. However, no fences had been erected, and no guards stationed, so the local children and senior citizens would often come to bask in the sun or to go for a walk.
As expected in the winter season, their numbers had dropped off sharply, but one could still catch sight here and there of adults who had come out of idle curiosity and children who treated the cold as though it were nothing.
And then there were . . .
"Usually, when you talk about sneaking in somewhere, it's a given that you'd go in the middle of the night, you know." Grumbling complaints, Shannon walked along the road. "How should I put it, this kind of thing goes against aesthetics."
"It can't be helped, can it?"
Raquel's voice drifted through the air, sounding as carefree as though they were on a stroll, but she was nowhere to be seen. Of course, the same went for Shannon as well.
"If the both of us go out, we leave Pacifica all by herself. We'd worry about her if she was at home alone . . . For that matter, as long as she's at Sunday school, there won't be any strangers showing up, and she'll be in the public view, so . . ."
"No, yeah, I hear all that. Just, something like this, how should I put it . . . it needs more that-ness, romance or something . . ."
"This is just fine . . . and easy. Don't you hate going to a lot of trouble?"
"Well, that's true, but . . ."
As Shannon muttered in dissatisfaction, a child who just happened to be passing by stared in consternation. But then, while I say "stared," to that little boy's eyes, there was nothing to see but a mundane, wide-open road, sprawling expansively to no point or purpose.
"But you know . . ."
Within military-grade magic, there is a spell class known as Útgarðar.
It is a spell used primarily to infiltrate enemy territory in order to set up an ambush maneuver or the like, and Shannon and Raquel's current invisibility was a result of that spell.
In short, it creates an illusion that covers the target on all sides. Right now, Shannon and Raquel blended into the surrounding landscape. This was an extremely primitive form of Útgarðar, but by making the necessary adjustments to the casting ritual, it was even possible to assume the outward appearance of another person.
However, if too much power were put into the spell, then the surrounding area would also be obscured by the illusory wall and thereby rendered invisible to the spell's target. For this reason, the spell is generally calibrated to allow the surrounding light to filter faintly in.
In principle, it is the same sort of phenomenon that allows a glass window--due to the angle and the contrast between ambient light and shadow--to act as a mirror. Consequently, its weak point is that if an especially strong light floods it from a particular direction, or if it passes through an area where the contrast is just the slightest bit different, at that moment the illusion will come apart at the seams.
Be that as it may, if used with proper care, the spell can conceal one's form magnificently and without the slightest flaw, and (I am not certain whether it is all right to tell you this or not) one could trespass even onto a count's private estate.
"It's just this sort of thing . . . makes me feel kind of slow-witted. It's like we'll overlook something if there's no sense of tension."
"That's because you're a worrywart, Shannon."
"It's because you're an optimist, Raquel. You wouldn't think twins would be so different. I wish we'd been born as two perfect halves instead."
"Wouldn't that be boring?" Raquel said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Though she generally talked and acted like a little girl, sometimes Raquel would make remarks that had an oddly venerable feel . . . remarks that took a downright enlightened view of life. "We're two entirely different people, and that's why it's fun spending time together."
". . . is that really how it works?" Shannon tilted his head to one side.
Other people.
Beings whose thoughts you do not understand.
It wasn't as though he understood each and every thing about Raquel, his own twin. It went without saying that there was no reason to expect that he could comprehend the thoughts of someone who was not even tied to him by blood.
After all, they were different people.
"That's what I think, anyway. I mean, if you spent every day with someone who was exactly like you, I just know you'd get depressed."
"Well, that could be."
"It's in the differences themselves that we're able to find happiness and wonder, I'm sure of it."
That sleepy-sounding voice was so serene that it was a bit irritating, and it was colored with self-confidence. But for all that, the way that she never presumed to make an unequivocal assertion . . . and the way she never talked about her own ideas as though they were absolute truth, those were the things that made Raquel Raquel.
"You know, Raquel . . ."
"Ye~s?"
"That side of you . . . there have been plenty of times when it's saved me."
"Really?"
Of course Shannon could not see her, concealed as she was by Útgarðar, but he still felt like he could see Raquel smile.
"Uh . . . well, anyway. We should be coming up on the count's estate soon. Keep on your toes."
"All ri~ght."
. . . you are the Scrapped Princess.
That is what had been written at the very end of the will Pacifica's father had left to her. He had also written that she should ask Raquel and Shannon about the minor details, but both Shannon and Raquel equivocated about the contents of the will that had been addressed to them, and neither was willing to talk about the particulars.
"Nn . . ."
While listening with half an ear as their middle-aged teacher droned on about the day's lesson, Pacifica tried to dredge up her memories.
It was likely that everyone was familiar with the epithet "Scrapped Princess." However, there were few whose knowledge comprised anything more than the epithet itself.
. . . once upon a time, Queen Elmire, the queen of the Royal Kingdom of Leinwand, gave birth to a pair of twins. However, in accordance with the Oracle of St. Grendel, of those twins, the girl was deemed an abomination, and so the Royal Family had the princess put to death, thereafter feigning ignorance of her very existence. The end.
Such was the sum of the rumors. No more and no less than this.
Well, that was actually just a rough outline, and various rumors had any number of exaggerations and embellishments.
And thus it was spoken, The Scrapped Princess is in truth the incarnation of the mighty demon who struggled against the Lord God Mauser during the great war at the creation of the world.
And thus it was spoken, The Scrapped Princess was foretold of in an oracle that caused all of the priests who received it to fall down dead.
And thus it was spoken, The Scrapped Princess put forth scales.
And thus it was spoken, The Scrapped Princess had smelly feet.
And thus is was spoken . . .
"Smelly feet? What are they talking about, smelly feet?" Pacifica muttered. "Well, they figure it's someone else's problem, so they just go and say whatever half-truths they want, I guess."
At any rate, as far as Pacifica was concerned, that was fifteen years ago . . . The 5111th Oracle of St. Grendel that had become such a problem was something that happened before she was born, so this nonsense about an "oracle," or about a "Scrapped Princess" . . . even if she were told about things like that, it had no real impact on her. It was not as though any sort of tomb or memorial had been left behind, and each and every public record had been scrubbed clean of her very existence, so no matter what, none of it would ever become anything more than mere gossip.
Even so . . .
Ardent followers of the Church of Mauser felt that their ears were sullied by the very mention of the Scrapped Princess, and even among non-believers, there were many people who quite seriously believed that the Scrapped Princess was the incarnation of the Demon King. After all, in the history of the Oracle of St. Grendel, which stretched back over five thousand years or more, she was the sole person of whom it was specifically decreed, she must be obliterated.
"It's just . . . telling me 'You're the Scrapped Princess' this late in the day is only gonna upset me."
"Pacifica Casull. Read the next section."
Called out by name all of a sudden, Pacifica hastily flipped through her book.
"Ye--Yes, ma'am. Umm."
"Chapter four, fifth paragraph."
From beside her, Mutia said this in a low voice. Shooting her a grateful look, Pacifica began reading aloud from the assigned text.
---
[Next] [Previous]
Notes:
1) H & R 1871, LLC (Harrington & Richardson) is a manufacturer of firearms under the Harrington & Richardson and New England Firearms trademarks. Back
[Content Notes]
[Disclaimer]
Scrapped Princess | Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | A Fateful Choice | Part 1/4
Sunday is a day of rest . . . Such worldly common sense did not really apply to the children of Manurhin.
"'Morning, Pacifica."
"Mm, 'morning."
Pacifica, who for some reason was gazing at a scrap of paper, gave this vague reply. A small cardboard nametag had been pasted to the desk where she sat.
"What's wrong? Feeling a little down?"
The girl who had spoken tilted her head and peered into Pacifica's blue eyes. Her long, dark brown hair and the white ribbon that tied it back both swayed gently.
Her name was Mutia. Mutia Wesson. Of Pacifica's Sunday school classmates, Mutia was the one who sat beside her, and she was also the one closest to Pacifica. Well, perhaps we could call them best friends.
"Nn . . . could be?" said Pacifica, absent-mindedly folding up the slip of paper.
"About your father?"
"I mean, well . . . something like that."
In the town of Manurhin, there was a school that was open to the masses only on Sundays. Of course, compared to the formal schools attended by the children of the aristocracy, the standards were strikingly low, but on top of teaching the minimum level of education--reading, writing, and basic arithmetic--the cost was kept down to double digits.
Other towns had similar institutions, but Manurhin's educational facilities in particular were abundantly supplied, especially when compared against the tuition. This was because Count Franchi paid for half of the school's expenses.
"Hey, Muti, if I told you I wasn't really Pacifica Casull, what would you do?"
"Huh?"
"I mean, say for example, if I told you I was actually a princess of somewhere."
Mutia tilted her head to one side and thought for a moment, then she suddenly seized Pacifica's hand.
"Pacifica. Let's go to the doctor!"
". . . I don't have a fever."
"Well then, I shall point and laugh at you."
"Unuu . . . so much for friendship."
Pacifica groaned, a crease forming between her eyebrows. Mutia's light brown eyes peered into Pacifica's face once more.
"Anyway, enough with the jokes. Is it because your father left a will or something?"
"Something like that."
"But, Pacifica, you knew right from the start that you were adopted, didn't you? What are you doing, getting all upset about it now?"
"Umm . . ."
Pacifica had known for a long time that she was not really the Casulls' child. Her face certainly did not resemble her brother's or her sister's, and neither her father nor her mother were blonde or blue-eyed.
But Pacifica had never thought particularly deeply about any of that. Her father and brother, sister, and also her mother who had died so long ago--not only was there mutual acceptance of the circumstances but they also could not possibly have considered her any more a member of the family than they already did.
Even if she were told that she had another set of real parents . . . it did not affect her feelings one bit. Because for as long as she could remember, her father had been there, and Shannon and Raquel were right there by her side.
And yet . . .
"How should I put it, since yesterday, there's been something weird about Shannon-nii and Raquel-nee."
"Well, I mean your father did just die, and they're probably busy since they're going to need to take over the family business soon . . . Isn't that natural?"
"Yeah, maybe you're right, but . . . Hmm."
"Ah! Pacifica."
As though she had just realized something, Mutia grinned broadly.
". . . what?"
"You just want them to pay attention to you."
"What?!"
"Your niichan and neechan, they're a little busy and haven't been paying attention to you, so you're lonely. Yes, yes. Our Andy's the same way, you know--if we don't pay attention to him for just a little while, he gets all sulky. Tee hee. So cu~te."
Incidentally, Andy was Mutia's little brother, who was just under four years old.
"Who--Who'd do something like--!"
"You're stammering! You're stammering!"
"You little--!"
"Eek! I'm being attacked by Pacifica!"
Pacifica stood up, her face completely red. Mutia twisted away and screamed, seeming somehow pleased. The rest of their classmates watched them in apparent interest.
Well, this was not the first time these two had kicked up a fuss before class.
"LADIES! Pacifica, Mutia!"
Lessons began the very moment their homeroom teacher came in. Today was no exception.
Slapping her palm on the cover of her black notebook, the teacher spoke in a stern tone.
"Take your seats, class has begun!"
Sunday afternoon.
The magnificently clear sky and the road stretching out into the distance--these brought about a tranquil atmosphere. The ripe heads of grain, which until recently had rustled gently in the cultivated fields to the right and left, had already been harvested, and now this road was absurdly empty.
The second of seven major roads that crisscrossed the length and breadth of Manurhin Town--Harrington1 Street--if you walked all the way north along this road, a knoll would come into view.
By rights, this knoll was the private property of the feudal lord, Count Franchi, and as such, entry should have been forbidden to the public. However, no fences had been erected, and no guards stationed, so the local children and senior citizens would often come to bask in the sun or to go for a walk.
As expected in the winter season, their numbers had dropped off sharply, but one could still catch sight here and there of adults who had come out of idle curiosity and children who treated the cold as though it were nothing.
And then there were . . .
"Usually, when you talk about sneaking in somewhere, it's a given that you'd go in the middle of the night, you know." Grumbling complaints, Shannon walked along the road. "How should I put it, this kind of thing goes against aesthetics."
"It can't be helped, can it?"
Raquel's voice drifted through the air, sounding as carefree as though they were on a stroll, but she was nowhere to be seen. Of course, the same went for Shannon as well.
"If the both of us go out, we leave Pacifica all by herself. We'd worry about her if she was at home alone . . . For that matter, as long as she's at Sunday school, there won't be any strangers showing up, and she'll be in the public view, so . . ."
"No, yeah, I hear all that. Just, something like this, how should I put it . . . it needs more that-ness, romance or something . . ."
"This is just fine . . . and easy. Don't you hate going to a lot of trouble?"
"Well, that's true, but . . ."
As Shannon muttered in dissatisfaction, a child who just happened to be passing by stared in consternation. But then, while I say "stared," to that little boy's eyes, there was nothing to see but a mundane, wide-open road, sprawling expansively to no point or purpose.
"But you know . . ."
Within military-grade magic, there is a spell class known as Útgarðar.
It is a spell used primarily to infiltrate enemy territory in order to set up an ambush maneuver or the like, and Shannon and Raquel's current invisibility was a result of that spell.
In short, it creates an illusion that covers the target on all sides. Right now, Shannon and Raquel blended into the surrounding landscape. This was an extremely primitive form of Útgarðar, but by making the necessary adjustments to the casting ritual, it was even possible to assume the outward appearance of another person.
However, if too much power were put into the spell, then the surrounding area would also be obscured by the illusory wall and thereby rendered invisible to the spell's target. For this reason, the spell is generally calibrated to allow the surrounding light to filter faintly in.
In principle, it is the same sort of phenomenon that allows a glass window--due to the angle and the contrast between ambient light and shadow--to act as a mirror. Consequently, its weak point is that if an especially strong light floods it from a particular direction, or if it passes through an area where the contrast is just the slightest bit different, at that moment the illusion will come apart at the seams.
Be that as it may, if used with proper care, the spell can conceal one's form magnificently and without the slightest flaw, and (I am not certain whether it is all right to tell you this or not) one could trespass even onto a count's private estate.
"It's just this sort of thing . . . makes me feel kind of slow-witted. It's like we'll overlook something if there's no sense of tension."
"That's because you're a worrywart, Shannon."
"It's because you're an optimist, Raquel. You wouldn't think twins would be so different. I wish we'd been born as two perfect halves instead."
"Wouldn't that be boring?" Raquel said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Though she generally talked and acted like a little girl, sometimes Raquel would make remarks that had an oddly venerable feel . . . remarks that took a downright enlightened view of life. "We're two entirely different people, and that's why it's fun spending time together."
". . . is that really how it works?" Shannon tilted his head to one side.
Other people.
Beings whose thoughts you do not understand.
It wasn't as though he understood each and every thing about Raquel, his own twin. It went without saying that there was no reason to expect that he could comprehend the thoughts of someone who was not even tied to him by blood.
After all, they were different people.
"That's what I think, anyway. I mean, if you spent every day with someone who was exactly like you, I just know you'd get depressed."
"Well, that could be."
"It's in the differences themselves that we're able to find happiness and wonder, I'm sure of it."
That sleepy-sounding voice was so serene that it was a bit irritating, and it was colored with self-confidence. But for all that, the way that she never presumed to make an unequivocal assertion . . . and the way she never talked about her own ideas as though they were absolute truth, those were the things that made Raquel Raquel.
"You know, Raquel . . ."
"Ye~s?"
"That side of you . . . there have been plenty of times when it's saved me."
"Really?"
Of course Shannon could not see her, concealed as she was by Útgarðar, but he still felt like he could see Raquel smile.
"Uh . . . well, anyway. We should be coming up on the count's estate soon. Keep on your toes."
"All ri~ght."
. . . you are the Scrapped Princess.
That is what had been written at the very end of the will Pacifica's father had left to her. He had also written that she should ask Raquel and Shannon about the minor details, but both Shannon and Raquel equivocated about the contents of the will that had been addressed to them, and neither was willing to talk about the particulars.
"Nn . . ."
While listening with half an ear as their middle-aged teacher droned on about the day's lesson, Pacifica tried to dredge up her memories.
It was likely that everyone was familiar with the epithet "Scrapped Princess." However, there were few whose knowledge comprised anything more than the epithet itself.
. . . once upon a time, Queen Elmire, the queen of the Royal Kingdom of Leinwand, gave birth to a pair of twins. However, in accordance with the Oracle of St. Grendel, of those twins, the girl was deemed an abomination, and so the Royal Family had the princess put to death, thereafter feigning ignorance of her very existence. The end.
Such was the sum of the rumors. No more and no less than this.
Well, that was actually just a rough outline, and various rumors had any number of exaggerations and embellishments.
And thus it was spoken, The Scrapped Princess is in truth the incarnation of the mighty demon who struggled against the Lord God Mauser during the great war at the creation of the world.
And thus it was spoken, The Scrapped Princess was foretold of in an oracle that caused all of the priests who received it to fall down dead.
And thus it was spoken, The Scrapped Princess put forth scales.
And thus it was spoken, The Scrapped Princess had smelly feet.
And thus is was spoken . . .
"Smelly feet? What are they talking about, smelly feet?" Pacifica muttered. "Well, they figure it's someone else's problem, so they just go and say whatever half-truths they want, I guess."
At any rate, as far as Pacifica was concerned, that was fifteen years ago . . . The 5111th Oracle of St. Grendel that had become such a problem was something that happened before she was born, so this nonsense about an "oracle," or about a "Scrapped Princess" . . . even if she were told about things like that, it had no real impact on her. It was not as though any sort of tomb or memorial had been left behind, and each and every public record had been scrubbed clean of her very existence, so no matter what, none of it would ever become anything more than mere gossip.
Even so . . .
Ardent followers of the Church of Mauser felt that their ears were sullied by the very mention of the Scrapped Princess, and even among non-believers, there were many people who quite seriously believed that the Scrapped Princess was the incarnation of the Demon King. After all, in the history of the Oracle of St. Grendel, which stretched back over five thousand years or more, she was the sole person of whom it was specifically decreed, she must be obliterated.
"It's just . . . telling me 'You're the Scrapped Princess' this late in the day is only gonna upset me."
"Pacifica Casull. Read the next section."
Called out by name all of a sudden, Pacifica hastily flipped through her book.
"Ye--Yes, ma'am. Umm."
"Chapter four, fifth paragraph."
From beside her, Mutia said this in a low voice. Shooting her a grateful look, Pacifica began reading aloud from the assigned text.
---
[Next] [Previous]
Notes:
1) H & R 1871, LLC (Harrington & Richardson) is a manufacturer of firearms under the Harrington & Richardson and New England Firearms trademarks. Back
