![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
oneill posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
sutepriMan, I need to re-scan some of these illustrations.
[Content Notes]
[Disclaimer]
Scrapped Princess | Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | A Fateful Choice | Part 3/4
". . . this is why I'm always telling you . . ."
Shannon turned toward Raquel with a gloomy look on his face.
Even at a time like this, his elder twin sister wore the same carefree expression as always when she said, "Shannon . . . are you angry?"
"Not angry. Fed up . . . Anyway, whatever you do, put a little more thought into it, will you?"
"But . . ." Pouting slightly, Raquel looked at Shannon. "I did make sure that Útgarðar covered us from the front, and behind, and to the right, and to the left . . . just like I was supposed to."
"Oh, yes, you did. Uh-huh, you most certainly did," Shannon replied in an almost desperate tone.
His long, lean frame had been wrapped round and round with so much straw rope that one couldn't help thinking, Isn't that more than enough? Amazingly, it covered him from ankle to shoulder. In a pitiable manner that was reminiscent of a log, he was rolled into the courtyard of the Count's manor.
His father had taught him a technique for freeing his joints from restraints, but bound as thoroughly as this, escape was simply not possible.
"So, you're saying you forgot about 'above'?"
". . . sorry."
Raquel--who, after being wound round with rope the same way as Shannon, was rolled over beside him--apologized with upturned eyes. Sighing, Shannon returned his gaze to the four figures that stood before their eyes . . . young women who appeared to be maids.
"But, you know . . . this is one imposing mansion."
Their frilly white aprons and headbands, their dark blue one-piece dresses . . . In every way, they cut the image of exceptionally ordinary (if one wished to speak boorishly, one could even say "standard-issue") maids, but the way each wore a longsword at her hip was frightfully avant-garde.
"I'm guessing this is the only place in the world where the maids are armed with swords."
In other words.
Upon infiltrating the manor, Shannon and Raquel were promptly discovered and apprehended.
Útgarðar, the magic that allowed them to hide by blending into their surroundings, had done a good job right up until they infiltrated Franchi Manor . . . but Raquel had forgotten to extend Útgarðar's area of effect to above their own heads.
Originally a military-grade support magic, Útgarðar deceives the enemy's eyes from every angle. For the most part Raquel's knowledge of magic--and this was especially true of military-grade magic--came from replicating what she found in their mother's notes. At any rate, she only used magic after first testing its efficacy, but, being self-taught, of course she would be guilty of occasional failures of omission like this.
As they confidently strode into Franchi Manor, the two of them were discovered by a maid who had been beating dust out of some sheets on the second-floor veranda.
"Well, our maids also serve as our patrol guards."
Turning toward this voice, which was tinged with a wry chuckle, the twins saw Count Franchi and Finebel emerge from the mansion.
"Oh, thanks for yesterday."
"Mm-hm." Count Franchi reflexively nodded to Shannon, who had spoken so composedly, but then he frowned. ". . . well no, it shouldn't be 'thanks,' should it? Given that you were caught trespassing, can't you look just a bit more deferential?"
"I'm no good at making pious faces."
Shannon squirmed. It seemed he wanted to shrug his shoulders. With another wry smile, Franchi alternated his gaze between the bagworm-like twins.
"So, what were you thinking? Even though you probably would have been able to force your way through . . . why allow yourselves to be captured so easily?"
"It would have been too much trouble," Shannon answered calmly.
Just as Count Franchi had discerned, Shannon and Raquel could have managed to break through the maids' barricade.
Both of them, and especially Shannon, were able to grasp a rough estimate of their opponent's competence and battle capabilities at a glance. They had grudgingly learned this trick (which was unlikely to prove useful in daily life) from their father.
If they fought seriously, they would be able to break through . . . Surely Shannon and Raquel had reached this conclusion, but at the same time, they had known that these were not opponents against whom they could win without mutual injury. It was not as though they bore any particular malice toward Count Franchi or his household, and neither did they feel any enmity. And so they had probably thought it would be easier to talk to Count Franchi if they allowed themselves to be caught, rather than starting an unnecessary fight.
"Well, as might be expected of Yuuma's children, you certainly have spirit."
"Thank you kindly."
"And now I ask you again, what business do you have here?"
Count Franchi held his hand out to his side, and as though knowing his mind beforehand, Finebel placed her drawn blade in his palm, quick as a flash.
It was a unique weapon called a "stiletto".
Certainly the drill-like shaft was bladed, but rather than for slicing, it was crafted primarily for a thrust from behind--a tool for assassination, so to speak. It was the sort of weapon that, in skillful hands, would allow its victim to walk ten more steps before dying, without ever even realizing, I've been killed.
The Count walked buoyantly up to Shannon and Raquel, and before the maids had time to stop him, he cut both their ropes.
Shannon leapt nimbly up at once, sending his ropes flying.
At the same time, there were four flashes of silver light.
The next moment, with the hiss of blades cutting through the wind, four sword points were thrust at the nape of Shannon's neck.
". . . I give," he said, raising both hands.
At a nod from Count Franchi, the maids fluidly sheathed their swords. Clearly, these were not the movements of people who had only recently begun to wear swords.
"I have something I would like to ask, if I may," Shannon said, tipping his head from side to side, as though crisply loosening his stiff shoulders.
Glancing at Raquel (who was flapping her ankles, which were still entangled in the remnants of the ropes, as though unable to free them properly), Count Franchi smiled wryly.
"Not again."
"Again?"
"Ah, just talking to myself . . . This would be about your father?"
Shannon gave a small nod. "Our father was . . . killed, wasn't he?"
"I thought you might have realized that," Count Franchi said, sighing. "As I thought, Yuuma left a will, didn't he?"
"Yes, and a superbly pleasant one at that."
Showing a sympathetic expression at Shannon's fed-up tone, Count Franchi gestured toward the mansion.
"Well, let's not stand around talking in the garden. Come inside. I'll have some tea brought out as well."
"Pacifica! What are you doing, young lady?!"
Third period . . . Even to the irritated tone of her math teacher, Pacifica did not respond. This girl, whose vivacity was usually her redeeming feature, continued to stare listlessly out the window.
For a moment, a vein stood out on the teacher's forehead (this morning, she had fought with her husband over some trifling matter, and she was in a bad mood), but she quickly changed her mind and let out a long breath.
This was not behavior typical of Pacifica. She was a somewhat restless girl, but among her dozens of classmates, she was fundamentally of the better sort, both obedient and easily taught. At the very least, she had never rebelliously ignored a teacher's words before now.
Be that as it may . . . it had only been six days since the death of her father. Reasoning that she may not yet have been able to break free from her grief, the teacher had decided in advance that she would not meddle in the girl's affairs. For one thing, if she were to start crying, her teacher would be the bad guy.
However.
". . . there's no doubt they were acting weird, Shannon-nii and Raquel-nee," Pacifica murmured in a small voice.
It had been weighing on her mind all along, but speaking it aloud made her all the more anxious.
This is not to say that there had been anything categorically strange. If forced to put it into words, I would call this the intuition that comes from having lived with someone for no less than fourteen years.
". . . Ma'am."
"What is it, Pacifica?"
On top of not paying attention, she was now butting in during a lesson, but the teacher somehow fought down her indignation and spoke in as gentle a voice as she could manage.
"I really don't feel well at all, so I'm going home early!"
After abruptly and spiritedly raising her hand and making this announcement, Pacifica cast sidelong glances around the room--starting with her teacher and Mutia before continuing on to the rest of her classmates--and then quickly stowed her school supplies in her handbag and left the classroom.
It was a dramatic early departure. Left behind were the dumbfounded teacher and students who had seen her off.
Actually, her teacher probably should have chased her down and brought her back . . . but doing so would have interrupted their lessons. As it was, she already had parents complaining that she was behind on her lesson plans. If she delayed any further than this, she could be branded as incompetent.
Thinking this over . . .
". . . well, I'm sure it's fine."
Muttering something along these irresponsible lines, the teacher returned to her lesson.
Having taken their leave of Franchi Manor, the two hired killers walked east. They had checked in advance and learned that the school Pacifica attended was located in the Eastern District. They had also learned the route she primarily took when walking home.
"The foot traffic should thin out . . ." Big Noise took one sheet out from among the papers in his breast pocket. It was a copy of a street map of Manurhin. ". . . right around here. And if we circle around these houses, the number of pedestrians should drop off even further."
". . . we . . . kidnapping her?" Convict asked in a gloomy voice.
If they were simply going to kill her, then it would not matter whether there were other people around or not. It was a different story against an opponent like Yuuma Casull, but if one is inclined to kill an ordinary girl, then making it look like an accident is a simple matter. In all likelihood, that death would probably not be recognized as a murder even by the victim herself.
"It's only natural, is it not?" Big Noise said, smiling thinly. "Without a doubt, that brat is the Scrapped Princess. Even the ages match. And that would be a tremendous scandal for the Royal Family. Surely we would be able to take ten million cetme just in hush money. And I've heard that a group of ministers and military personnel are scheming to turn the king into a mere figurehead. I expect they would be willing to pay even more."
"You'll get us rubbed out . . . along with her," Convict interrupted in a rustling whisper.
As a matter of fact . . . even though they were walking down a public road, neither made any special effort to lower his voice any more than usual. To begin with, it was not particularly crowded, and on top of that, it was almost certain that no one would think a pair of killers would be having a business meeting here in broad daylight.
"If we conduct ourselves properly, I'm sure it will all work itself out. Depending on how we handle things, we could have money coming in from all directions."
"You intend to betray . . . our client?"
"Don't say such intractable things. You have need of money yourself, isn't that right? And as quickly as possible, at that. For adorable Linthia-chan's--"
Having said that much, Big Noise suddenly leapt aside.
A flash of silver scythed through the space where, just a moment before, he had been standing. The air shrilled as it was torn apart . . . and the silver light's noumenon vanished into Convict's sleeve without leaving so much as an afterimage.
"Never . . . speak of . . . my daughter. You'll dirty her name."
"Surely you exaggerate," Big Noise said, as a cold sweat broke out on his cheeks. It hadn't actually been intended as a killing blow, but it was heavy with bloodlust. Indeed, Big Noise had witnessed Convict dismembering a colleague for making a dirty joke about his daughter.
"But it's a fact that you need money, yes? For five mages, wasn't it? They don't come cheaply, you know. All the more so when it comes to first-class mages."
". . ."
Convict stared vaguely at Big Noise.
Surely anyone would understand that the owner of those eyes was broken . . . and more than that, broken in an extremely dangerous way.
"Now, in honor of our friendship, I'll gladly serve as one of them. But even so, that still leaves four. What's more, asking first-class mages to perform an operation in absolute secrecy quadruples the rate you'd pay for honest work, which means that you'll end up paying them around one million cetme apiece. Thanks to those useless chaps getting themselves killed, our share of the reward has gotten bigger, but even so, after splitting up three million, you won't have nearly enough."
His tone was sardonic. While speaking of "friendship," Big Noise felt not one mote of affection for Convict.
Others exist only for my use . . . surely his consciousness comprised nothing but this. As before, one wrong word could spell disaster, but so long as Big Noise said it was for Linthia's sake, this man would do anything.
"Besides, you can never have too much money."
Big Noise gave Convict a friendly slap on the shoulder.
At that moment . . .
"Big Noise."
Hearing his name called, he turned his gaze in the same direction that Convict's dark eyes were looking. Big Noise widened his eyes at the sight.
"Oh . . . ?"
Perfectly coiffured, vividly blonde hair. A petite frame. Eyes that looked as though the blue of the summer sky had been sealed within them.
"What is she doing out here now?"
The girl walking down the opposite side of the street was clearly their target, Pacifica Casull. During their preparatory surveillance, they had drilled their target's features completely into their memories. There was no mistaking her.
But of course it was exactly because of that that Yuuma Casull was able to sense their presence and forestall them in a most devastating manner.
". . . surely this couldn't be a trap."
"I don't sense . . . the presence . . . of anyone who seems to be a bodyguard."
". . . well, all right then, let's go. From here . . . let's see, if we go around the back of those houses, we should have the least chance of being seen."
". . . got it."
The two killers changed direction, heading toward the girl as she walked unconcernedly down the road.
---
[Next] [Previous]
I dunno, it seemed kind of crappy to have gone over half a year without a translation, and the next section was relatively simple, so I figured what the hell. Have two translations in one week. XD
[Content Notes]
[Disclaimer]
Scrapped Princess | Prelude of the Stray Cat Princess | A Fateful Choice | Part 3/4
". . . this is why I'm always telling you . . ."
Shannon turned toward Raquel with a gloomy look on his face.
Even at a time like this, his elder twin sister wore the same carefree expression as always when she said, "Shannon . . . are you angry?"
"Not angry. Fed up . . . Anyway, whatever you do, put a little more thought into it, will you?"
"But . . ." Pouting slightly, Raquel looked at Shannon. "I did make sure that Útgarðar covered us from the front, and behind, and to the right, and to the left . . . just like I was supposed to."
"Oh, yes, you did. Uh-huh, you most certainly did," Shannon replied in an almost desperate tone.
His long, lean frame had been wrapped round and round with so much straw rope that one couldn't help thinking, Isn't that more than enough? Amazingly, it covered him from ankle to shoulder. In a pitiable manner that was reminiscent of a log, he was rolled into the courtyard of the Count's manor.
His father had taught him a technique for freeing his joints from restraints, but bound as thoroughly as this, escape was simply not possible.
"So, you're saying you forgot about 'above'?"
". . . sorry."
Raquel--who, after being wound round with rope the same way as Shannon, was rolled over beside him--apologized with upturned eyes. Sighing, Shannon returned his gaze to the four figures that stood before their eyes . . . young women who appeared to be maids.
"But, you know . . . this is one imposing mansion."
Their frilly white aprons and headbands, their dark blue one-piece dresses . . . In every way, they cut the image of exceptionally ordinary (if one wished to speak boorishly, one could even say "standard-issue") maids, but the way each wore a longsword at her hip was frightfully avant-garde.
"I'm guessing this is the only place in the world where the maids are armed with swords."
In other words.
Upon infiltrating the manor, Shannon and Raquel were promptly discovered and apprehended.
Útgarðar, the magic that allowed them to hide by blending into their surroundings, had done a good job right up until they infiltrated Franchi Manor . . . but Raquel had forgotten to extend Útgarðar's area of effect to above their own heads.
Originally a military-grade support magic, Útgarðar deceives the enemy's eyes from every angle. For the most part Raquel's knowledge of magic--and this was especially true of military-grade magic--came from replicating what she found in their mother's notes. At any rate, she only used magic after first testing its efficacy, but, being self-taught, of course she would be guilty of occasional failures of omission like this.
As they confidently strode into Franchi Manor, the two of them were discovered by a maid who had been beating dust out of some sheets on the second-floor veranda.
"Well, our maids also serve as our patrol guards."
Turning toward this voice, which was tinged with a wry chuckle, the twins saw Count Franchi and Finebel emerge from the mansion.
"Oh, thanks for yesterday."
"Mm-hm." Count Franchi reflexively nodded to Shannon, who had spoken so composedly, but then he frowned. ". . . well no, it shouldn't be 'thanks,' should it? Given that you were caught trespassing, can't you look just a bit more deferential?"
"I'm no good at making pious faces."
Shannon squirmed. It seemed he wanted to shrug his shoulders. With another wry smile, Franchi alternated his gaze between the bagworm-like twins.
"So, what were you thinking? Even though you probably would have been able to force your way through . . . why allow yourselves to be captured so easily?"
"It would have been too much trouble," Shannon answered calmly.
Just as Count Franchi had discerned, Shannon and Raquel could have managed to break through the maids' barricade.
Both of them, and especially Shannon, were able to grasp a rough estimate of their opponent's competence and battle capabilities at a glance. They had grudgingly learned this trick (which was unlikely to prove useful in daily life) from their father.
If they fought seriously, they would be able to break through . . . Surely Shannon and Raquel had reached this conclusion, but at the same time, they had known that these were not opponents against whom they could win without mutual injury. It was not as though they bore any particular malice toward Count Franchi or his household, and neither did they feel any enmity. And so they had probably thought it would be easier to talk to Count Franchi if they allowed themselves to be caught, rather than starting an unnecessary fight.
"Well, as might be expected of Yuuma's children, you certainly have spirit."
"Thank you kindly."
"And now I ask you again, what business do you have here?"
Count Franchi held his hand out to his side, and as though knowing his mind beforehand, Finebel placed her drawn blade in his palm, quick as a flash.
It was a unique weapon called a "stiletto".
Certainly the drill-like shaft was bladed, but rather than for slicing, it was crafted primarily for a thrust from behind--a tool for assassination, so to speak. It was the sort of weapon that, in skillful hands, would allow its victim to walk ten more steps before dying, without ever even realizing, I've been killed.
The Count walked buoyantly up to Shannon and Raquel, and before the maids had time to stop him, he cut both their ropes.
Shannon leapt nimbly up at once, sending his ropes flying.
At the same time, there were four flashes of silver light.
The next moment, with the hiss of blades cutting through the wind, four sword points were thrust at the nape of Shannon's neck.
". . . I give," he said, raising both hands.
At a nod from Count Franchi, the maids fluidly sheathed their swords. Clearly, these were not the movements of people who had only recently begun to wear swords.
"I have something I would like to ask, if I may," Shannon said, tipping his head from side to side, as though crisply loosening his stiff shoulders.
Glancing at Raquel (who was flapping her ankles, which were still entangled in the remnants of the ropes, as though unable to free them properly), Count Franchi smiled wryly.
"Not again."
"Again?"
"Ah, just talking to myself . . . This would be about your father?"
Shannon gave a small nod. "Our father was . . . killed, wasn't he?"
"I thought you might have realized that," Count Franchi said, sighing. "As I thought, Yuuma left a will, didn't he?"
"Yes, and a superbly pleasant one at that."
Showing a sympathetic expression at Shannon's fed-up tone, Count Franchi gestured toward the mansion.
"Well, let's not stand around talking in the garden. Come inside. I'll have some tea brought out as well."
"Pacifica! What are you doing, young lady?!"
Third period . . . Even to the irritated tone of her math teacher, Pacifica did not respond. This girl, whose vivacity was usually her redeeming feature, continued to stare listlessly out the window.
For a moment, a vein stood out on the teacher's forehead (this morning, she had fought with her husband over some trifling matter, and she was in a bad mood), but she quickly changed her mind and let out a long breath.
This was not behavior typical of Pacifica. She was a somewhat restless girl, but among her dozens of classmates, she was fundamentally of the better sort, both obedient and easily taught. At the very least, she had never rebelliously ignored a teacher's words before now.
Be that as it may . . . it had only been six days since the death of her father. Reasoning that she may not yet have been able to break free from her grief, the teacher had decided in advance that she would not meddle in the girl's affairs. For one thing, if she were to start crying, her teacher would be the bad guy.
However.
". . . there's no doubt they were acting weird, Shannon-nii and Raquel-nee," Pacifica murmured in a small voice.
It had been weighing on her mind all along, but speaking it aloud made her all the more anxious.
This is not to say that there had been anything categorically strange. If forced to put it into words, I would call this the intuition that comes from having lived with someone for no less than fourteen years.
". . . Ma'am."
"What is it, Pacifica?"
On top of not paying attention, she was now butting in during a lesson, but the teacher somehow fought down her indignation and spoke in as gentle a voice as she could manage.
"I really don't feel well at all, so I'm going home early!"
After abruptly and spiritedly raising her hand and making this announcement, Pacifica cast sidelong glances around the room--starting with her teacher and Mutia before continuing on to the rest of her classmates--and then quickly stowed her school supplies in her handbag and left the classroom.
It was a dramatic early departure. Left behind were the dumbfounded teacher and students who had seen her off.
Actually, her teacher probably should have chased her down and brought her back . . . but doing so would have interrupted their lessons. As it was, she already had parents complaining that she was behind on her lesson plans. If she delayed any further than this, she could be branded as incompetent.
Thinking this over . . .
". . . well, I'm sure it's fine."
Muttering something along these irresponsible lines, the teacher returned to her lesson.
Having taken their leave of Franchi Manor, the two hired killers walked east. They had checked in advance and learned that the school Pacifica attended was located in the Eastern District. They had also learned the route she primarily took when walking home.
"The foot traffic should thin out . . ." Big Noise took one sheet out from among the papers in his breast pocket. It was a copy of a street map of Manurhin. ". . . right around here. And if we circle around these houses, the number of pedestrians should drop off even further."
". . . we . . . kidnapping her?" Convict asked in a gloomy voice.
If they were simply going to kill her, then it would not matter whether there were other people around or not. It was a different story against an opponent like Yuuma Casull, but if one is inclined to kill an ordinary girl, then making it look like an accident is a simple matter. In all likelihood, that death would probably not be recognized as a murder even by the victim herself.
"It's only natural, is it not?" Big Noise said, smiling thinly. "Without a doubt, that brat is the Scrapped Princess. Even the ages match. And that would be a tremendous scandal for the Royal Family. Surely we would be able to take ten million cetme just in hush money. And I've heard that a group of ministers and military personnel are scheming to turn the king into a mere figurehead. I expect they would be willing to pay even more."
"You'll get us rubbed out . . . along with her," Convict interrupted in a rustling whisper.
As a matter of fact . . . even though they were walking down a public road, neither made any special effort to lower his voice any more than usual. To begin with, it was not particularly crowded, and on top of that, it was almost certain that no one would think a pair of killers would be having a business meeting here in broad daylight.
"If we conduct ourselves properly, I'm sure it will all work itself out. Depending on how we handle things, we could have money coming in from all directions."
"You intend to betray . . . our client?"
"Don't say such intractable things. You have need of money yourself, isn't that right? And as quickly as possible, at that. For adorable Linthia-chan's--"
Having said that much, Big Noise suddenly leapt aside.
A flash of silver scythed through the space where, just a moment before, he had been standing. The air shrilled as it was torn apart . . . and the silver light's noumenon vanished into Convict's sleeve without leaving so much as an afterimage.
"Never . . . speak of . . . my daughter. You'll dirty her name."
"Surely you exaggerate," Big Noise said, as a cold sweat broke out on his cheeks. It hadn't actually been intended as a killing blow, but it was heavy with bloodlust. Indeed, Big Noise had witnessed Convict dismembering a colleague for making a dirty joke about his daughter.
"But it's a fact that you need money, yes? For five mages, wasn't it? They don't come cheaply, you know. All the more so when it comes to first-class mages."
". . ."
Convict stared vaguely at Big Noise.
Surely anyone would understand that the owner of those eyes was broken . . . and more than that, broken in an extremely dangerous way.
"Now, in honor of our friendship, I'll gladly serve as one of them. But even so, that still leaves four. What's more, asking first-class mages to perform an operation in absolute secrecy quadruples the rate you'd pay for honest work, which means that you'll end up paying them around one million cetme apiece. Thanks to those useless chaps getting themselves killed, our share of the reward has gotten bigger, but even so, after splitting up three million, you won't have nearly enough."
His tone was sardonic. While speaking of "friendship," Big Noise felt not one mote of affection for Convict.
Others exist only for my use . . . surely his consciousness comprised nothing but this. As before, one wrong word could spell disaster, but so long as Big Noise said it was for Linthia's sake, this man would do anything.
"Besides, you can never have too much money."
Big Noise gave Convict a friendly slap on the shoulder.
At that moment . . .
"Big Noise."
Hearing his name called, he turned his gaze in the same direction that Convict's dark eyes were looking. Big Noise widened his eyes at the sight.
"Oh . . . ?"
Perfectly coiffured, vividly blonde hair. A petite frame. Eyes that looked as though the blue of the summer sky had been sealed within them.
"What is she doing out here now?"
The girl walking down the opposite side of the street was clearly their target, Pacifica Casull. During their preparatory surveillance, they had drilled their target's features completely into their memories. There was no mistaking her.
But of course it was exactly because of that that Yuuma Casull was able to sense their presence and forestall them in a most devastating manner.
". . . surely this couldn't be a trap."
"I don't sense . . . the presence . . . of anyone who seems to be a bodyguard."
". . . well, all right then, let's go. From here . . . let's see, if we go around the back of those houses, we should have the least chance of being seen."
". . . got it."
The two killers changed direction, heading toward the girl as she walked unconcernedly down the road.
---
[Next] [Previous]
I dunno, it seemed kind of crappy to have gone over half a year without a translation, and the next section was relatively simple, so I figured what the hell. Have two translations in one week. XD
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-09-21 09:57 am (UTC)I get a kick out of seeing a spell called Útgarðar written in runic script, and of course (never tire of repeating this) your imagery and word choices are marvellous - The description of air shrilling as it was torn apart, and numenon, just to name a few.
just wondering - would outré be a closer description of the incongruous presence of a sword with a maid's outfit?
no subject
Date: 2009-09-21 03:25 pm (UTC)I can see what you mean, but I think the implication is meant to lean more toward a sense of daring, rather than merely strange, the better to contrast with the maids' hyper-traditional costumes. That and the text actually has 前衛的, which translates straight to "avant-garde" aha. I suspect sensei also meant to play with the fact that the maids are literal guards.