Private Tales Given the Chance

[Livia Quinnick]

Livia's return to Vel Anir seemed to be a quiet affair. The months had taken a toll on her mentality, had made things more difficult to return to a life she had once lived. She was now Dreadlord Quinnick, and able to begin her life in the reserves. Some things were still too much to return to, namely her family's estate in Ariston, some hours travel north of Vel Anir, and the pearl business she inherited from her grandfather.

She needed a moment to breath, to recollect herself after all she had endured on her mission. The Republic had awarded her handsomely for her involvement, but she had taken Cenric up on a place to stay in the capital to keep a low profile in. He owed her a favour, one she could not figure out if she truly had an idea how to redeem it, but this way she did not have to dip into her family's wealth.

A fortnight had not even passed before a letter came to her door, addressed to her, and inviting her to attend training sessions for someone in the political field. At first, she had thought it a mistake, something not so serious until the next letter came. A secretary in this man's office attempted her again, citing it would be a paid job and that through her eldest brother's connections, Livia was trusted to teach basic combat.

She thought on it all evening before penning her response.

Three days later, Livia waited in the private training court detailed in the letter. There was a cabinet fully stocked of several weapons, none of which Livia went to inspect. Not until she knew if the one she was training was indeed capable of such a thing. In the Academy, she was talented with the bow and arrow, but the sword and axe was something she had to learn proficiently as they had not come easily as projectiles she could use with her compass magic.

 

[Pawel Wilhart]

It was an undesirable affair.

Pawel Wilhart's desire was clear. An Anirian society built on a foundation of peace, where sprawling armies of military-trained civilians and mages forged for war from childhood were no longer needed as an active function of society.

It was a desire that went against the very backbone of the land he called home—overly idealistic insanity, some may have said. To know Vel Anir was to know violence. This is why he kept a firm lid on the majority of his future machinations; the man couldn't hide that he was a pacifist, but he could at least stop himself from shouting it from the rooftops, at least until he eased the nation into adopting a more like-minded view.

Unfortunately, his friends and advisors didn't entirely agree with his stance of total pacifism. Upon finding out that he had eschewed his Anirian Guard service for an alternative, they insisted, no demanded, that the man at least rectify his total unpreparedness for violence.

He had to learn how to defend himself properly. Just in case, they said.

So, in his reluctant pursuit, he reached out to the Dreadlords, an aspect of their society that the Minister had admittedly evaded him thus far. They weren't a relevant aspect of his district, which lay in the realms of labour and industry.

It was the man's thinking that he could at least salvage something more productive than combat training. A fresh perspective from a voice he had not yet personally heard.

A training room had been reserved within the Keep of Anir, a benefit of his position, which made the man feel moderately uncomfortable as if he were looking down the slippery slope of political entitlement. He wasn't entirely used to the privilege yet and hoped he never would be. Somewhere out there, Cady was screaming.

Perhaps it explained his spartan clothing—a simple tunic, breeches, and boots—which he had pulled from home and was covered in dog hair.

Miss Marzipan, naturally, was in attendance.

She trotted alongside Pawel as he poked his head into the room. He found a young woman already waiting, to which he offered an apologetic smile as he entered. "Ah! Dreadlord Quinnick, is it?" The man inquired, approaching her like a handshake-seeking crossbow bolt. "Pawel Wilhart, ready and willing to learn."

His other hand scratched at the back of his head, and that sheepish expression was still firmly affixed to his well-sculpted jaw. "I've not kept you waiting long, have I?"

 

[Livia Quinnick]

Livia straightened at the sound of footsteps approaching, turning towards the entrance to properly meet the most likely older male that perhaps would last one session before thinking this ridiculous. She had thought of refusing, but something in her had hoped to make a man feel pain while she did not break a sweat.

At first, a dog bounded ahead, tongue lolling out as the beautiful canine circled and paused, waiting for her owner to appear two strides later.

She hid the surprise from her face, even as he greeted her with a boyish smile that she was sure was the culprit to winning him political ideas. Her hand grasped his firmly, almost too Dreadlord efficient as she managed a smile. It was small, dying quicker than she had hoped but she was not being paid to be friendly.

"Not too long. I have not been to the Keep before... Had to make sure I found the right place before we start." And to get a better layout to what they were working with. Nothing here seemed stained with blood or the odd chipped tooth, not like it had been at the Academy. It was a nice and proper training ring, probably not meant for Dreadlords to practice their routines in.

She could fracture the brick walls if she found the right spot and gave a little zap of her magic.

"Would... you like me to refer to you as Pawel or Wilhart?" She asked. Taking a few steps back, Livia began to assess him as she circled him. Her lips twitched as she noticed his dog followed her, most likely thinking they were going to go on a walk. It was a slight distraction, but one she allowed to happen. "You can call me Livia. My brother and yourself run in the same circles, and I believe that gives you cause to use my name."

He was tall, but Livia was used to fighting against taller Initiates. She had watched them over time and picked up how they threw their bodies into swings and stances.

"No fighting experience?"

 

[Pawel Wilhart]

Following his election, Pawel had grown increasingly accustomed to firm handshakes. It seemed to be a game that people played, establishing some emotional hierarchy that the man never subscribed to. This one was merely solid; some of the others had just been ludicrous—crushing, wiggly, sweaty, to name a few.

"It's a lot, isn't it?" Wilhart confided, still feeling like an imposter every time he stepped foot in the keep by virtue of class.

The Dreadlord stepped back and placed him under visual scrutiny, which caused the Minister to stand up a little straighter as if nervous that he'd fail an initial assessment with poor posture. Physically, he was no slouch; the benefits of growing up working class and having to forgo the luxuries of nobility in exchange for hard labour were evident in a broad chest and robust forearms revealed by rolled-up tunic sleeves.

He'd only stopped working at his father's tannery since the whirlwind of his sudden election and had yet to let himself go to seed.

"Pawel, please," he confirmed before a hand gestured to the brown lump of fur currently following her, "and that is Marzi." An awkward flash appeared on the politician's face as he mentally leafed through the litany of faces and names that had suddenly become relevant to him in his position. He opened his mouth as if the name was right on the tip of his tongue.

"...ahhhhh..."

It was not, and Wilhart instead stood there, mouth agape, in front of a beautiful young woman that was about to hand his arse to h-

"...Okko, yes? Good man, a gem in a place like this."

Good save.

"But you are correct; I am woefully lacking in that area. I abstained from the mandatory Guard service and was given the option of a year's duty within the community." Pawel cleared his throat after the explanation, painfully aware that some perceived him as a coward after learning this. It had certainly been used against him in his campaign, only offset by the support of the Guard who vouched for him. "A fresh canvas, you might say. I hope that isn't too much of an issue."

 

[Livia Quinnick]

"Yes, Okko." She offered a small smile at that. The memory of her brothers always brought flickers of happiness to her, and in that moment she missed Okko and Bannon.

She paused, lifting her chin to meet his eyes. They were sharp, surprising to her for he gave such a passive energy in this interaction. Perhaps he had a natural eye for being attentive, and would be an advantage to his training. With his lack of experience aired out, she cleared her throat.

"Well, I am not used to teaching others, but I guess I could show you some stances. How to hold yourself." Just like a dance. Livia was a much better instructor in dance than she had been with combat. She was a quick learner, but to change her mindset and teach? It was going to prove difficult, but she survived the Academy for so long.

Liv stood before him, inviting him to mirror her stance. Her legs parted, one in front of the other, her legs bending slightly to give her a bounce that was comfortable. "Let us begin stretching the muscles we would like to engage with."

 

[Pawel Wilhart]

"Ready and willing," Pawel beamed without the slightest hint of discouragement in his voice, taking his place a few feet opposite her.

Of course, just as he had moved to become the woman's inferior reflection, Miss Marzipan decided that this was her time to shine, to show off her signature moves, or move, rather. The large mastiff stood between them both and very dramatically flopped down onto her side like a leaden furry weight that sought to mortify the Minister.

Which she did.

"Marzi!" The man blustered, looking down, aghast, at his beloved canine companion before rushing to pick the dog up and carry (drag) her off to the side of the room. "Of all times, now?" He lamented in hushed tones into Miss Marzipan's brown fur as he placed her down out of the way, internally planning a training retreat with Arcadia in the back of his mind.

Marzi let out a large huff but remained in her new spot.

"Sorry, Dreadlo- Livia," Pawel apologised as the man rushed back to his position, scrambling to copy her stance before she entirely lost all patience.

 

[Livia Quinnick]

Her lips twitched with amusement.

The dog, as large as she was, was really something soft and endearing. To see the politician break from his countenance was something more heartening about him. She had thought he would be stuffy, that he would think himself above this, but what Livia now saw were the attempts of trying.

"It is alright. Does she... do that often?" Liv inquired, her brow arching. If it were to become a problem, she loathed the idea of asking him to leave the canine at home... or restrained.

But her eyes were assessing him again. "You got some strength in those muscles then if you carried that girl so easily." The humour lit her olive eyes again, and slowly, the ice began to melt.

 

[Pawel Wilhart]

"Miss Marzipan is well-regarded across the Anirian territories for her flop," Pawel informed her with a knowing nod as if it was some refined technique only mastered by dogs who had undergone years of gruelling training. Well, the canine had a second hidden technique, one that could devastate the unexpected and ill-prepared: the ice breaker.

The Dreadlord relaxed just a fraction, and a slight grin pulled at the edges of his mouth.

"I would hope so." His focus resumed on copying her stance, his feet mirroring hers as a new, less intimidating scrutiny fell upon the politician once more. "Us Wilharts are tanners by trade, and soaked hides are heavier than they look, believe me."

Pawel glanced down at his form and then back at her, the vibrant forest in his eyes seeking approval.

"But I hope that Marzi isn't a problem. She is my companion and responsibility, and I can't bear the thought of leaving her alone."

 

[Livia Quinnick]

Livia gave the mastiff one last look, finding herself smiling slightly as the canine's lazy gaze flicked up to her. "Well, if she flops out of our way, then she can stay."

Turning towards him again, she showed him another stretch to do. All the while, she would guide them both into a new stretch every minute.

"I have never known a politician that had used to work a trade that used their hands and strength. In Vel Anir, you hear about those that grew up with wealth dictating what should and should not be done." People of her own upbringing. She respected Wilhart's history, found it refreshing even, but the surprise and curiosity could not leave her inquiry so easily.

 

[Pawel Wilhart]

"The joys of change," he remarked, practically beaming at the notion of how different things had become in such a short period of time. "Before the creation of Parliament, I wouldn't have ever dreamed of making this my livelihood. Still doesn't feel real now, truth be told."

Pawel mirrored her body the best he could, and although he lacked the grace of the Dreadlord's movements, he was managing not to bugger up stretching completely.

"Do you approve of seeing the common man at the table, Livia?" The Minister inquired with a genuine interest, her opinion as both a Dreadlord and as nobility one that he wished to hear.

 

[Livia Quinnick]

Livia twisted back to face him after flexing the muscles in her back. She always had them as a dancer, but after her years with the Academy, they grown more defined and able to withstand the grueling training expected of her. "I was brought up on respecting business. We may have had silver cutlery on our linen covered tables growing up, but the Quinnicks built their wealth on business and trade. My father had guests that came from working families more often than the friends he made in social circles."

They were a minor family, yes, but the Quinnicks in generations past were masterminds with business.

"I think it is smart that there are other voices to be heard than those that only represent a lifestyle they merely inherited and not worked for."

Livia herself wanted to set herself aside from the wealth and privilege her family gave her, but it was only a realisation she came to decide upon once the truth of her father came to light, in addition to her comfortably living a life away from her home in Ariston.

 

[Pawel Wilhart]

Good grief, she was flexible. Pawel's labourer's strength didn't lend itself to such suppleness; if he'd tried to twist like that, he would have been like to tweak something.

He offered a polite smile as she answered his question, his inner politician digesting the woman's words and weighing them against his values to reach a well-reasoned conclusion. In an ideal world, Parliament would have been this way: an open dialogue of listening before the rebuttal, but so often, it descended into the chaos of differing opinions.

"I'm glad you think so," Pawel finally replied, feeling the stretch of muscles that had started becoming too comfortable with a chair. "To tell you the truth, it's not the common opinion."

Old ways die hard. Change would come, but it was his responsibility to help facilitate it.

"But it's heartening to know that not all noble houses see themselves above the labour that helped build them."

 

[Livia Quinnick]

She could hear the strain in his stretching as he spoke, and Livia schooled herself not to smirk. He was slightly out of shape, but that was what Liv was here to fix. By the end of two months, if he kept up good practice, he would have more movement in him. "I also think leaving home and training at the Academy made me more appreciative."

Slowly, she began to unwind from the stretches and motioned for Pav to follow her on a light jog around the training ring. Many Initiates ignored working on their endurance, and if Pawel could not fight, at least he could run if left with no option.

"Either way, never stopped a few people from calling me Princess." Livia had been particular about a lot of things, first and foremost appearances. What she wore, who she spoke to, how she carried herself. Never letting anyone see what lay beneath. Someone had done that and left a thousand shards in her body. Everything still reminded her of him, but day by day, a shard or two would loosen and fall, leaving a wound to recover.

 

[Pawel Wilhart]

With stretching done, they moved onto jogging, the sight of which caused Miss Marzipan to let out a dramatic huff from her spot on the floor, signifying her disapproval of such an activity. Pawel himself couldn't remember the last time he had jogged anywhere—a great omen.

He'd expected to get soundly beaten by a disapproving tyrant, not gently exposed as mildly unfit.

"Must have been hard. I'm sorry," he spoke, following on behind her. He couldn't imagine being separated from his family, especially at the ages typical for Dreadlords. He couldn't imagine being called Princess either, but even he, for all of his kindness, found it difficult to resonate with being given a hard time for being nobility.

"What was it like? The Academy?" Pawel inquired, putting in a little extra effort to catch up with Livia so he could gain an understanding of the woman's experience. "My constituents aren't found among your ranks, so I've never had the chance to ask." No Dreadlords or Initiates in the district of Fellen, but plenty of old Guards with stories, however. He grimaced, turning his head as they jogged to seek any answer within her face as well as her words. "I've only ever heard horrendous things."

 

[Livia Quinnick]

It was clear that Livia was holding back her pace to keep up with Pawel, even with his longer strides he could not perform at a comfortable pace for her to manage. Today was going to be a day of basics, and testing her patience for such lessons.

"I... survived it in my own way." Perhaps it felt too soon to talk about, that she has not yet had a moment to reflect on it for all it's worth to form an opinion that made it easier to talk about. "I only went because... magic killed my father and I had no control."

Never mind he had been the one to force that magic on her, so power hungry that he did not cater his own doting daughter's feelings to such a transition. That she felt the magic to be violating and strange, not her own. Unnatural... and she had been so young and sheltered, Livia had not understood his vision for this gift.

She used to feel emotions so strongly, but ever since the overwhelming had killed him, that she then attended the Academy, emotions were learned to be ignored.

"I got my control and... now I am a Dreadlord. Sorry, that was a lackluster answer..."

 

[Pawel Wilhart]

Pawel fell silent into a regime of huffs and puffs through his nose as Livia served his curiosity a grim answer. Tension pulled at his jaw, causing his lips to thin in a sombre frown better known as the Wilhart grimace.

The man was no stranger to stories of trauma, his year of service and beyond had been dedicated to assisting veteran Guardsmen with their day-to-day lives after the cruelty of battle had stripped them of their independence. Their own stories were similar in the nature of loss and death, often accompanied by pangs of guilt that never left their eyes. It's my fault; words unspoken but impossible to hide.

But... your own father. He couldn't begin to imagine.

"No, don't be sorry," he replied gently as he tried to keep pace. "I'm sorry for prying, please forgive me."

It was difficult to carry on a conversation that circled death's drain, as Pawel held enough emotional understanding to let the revelation breathe for a moment. While the politician had hoped for a greater collective insight into the Dreadlord experience he would offer Livia the opportunity to move away from the topic, or carry on her lesson in the comfort of silence for the time being.

 

[Livia Quinnick]

They started another lap of the ring.

"It is alright." She exhaled, perhaps too heavily but Livia could always blame it on their light jog. "It is a question I will have to learn how to answer."

Maybe it was the fact she had spent months prior to graduation and those subsequent to traveling in search of an artifact that would be best not in the hands of an ex Archon. It had separated her from the true experience and novelty of being newly minted with the title Dreadlord, but she had not began to use it only until she had arrived back to Vel Anir and her classes' titles now worn off from all aura of new.

"You could always wait a year until my biography is printed." And here, to sever the ice between them, Livia smiled.

 

[Pawel Wilhart]

In the vacuum of silence, Pawel did become acutely aware of the increasing pace of his breathing. It was somewhat mortifying to be exposed as comparatively out of shape, although, the thought of how well-trained the Dreadlords were gave a small measure of relief.

Miss Marzipan had, naturally, grown exhausted after witnessing the barest physical exertion, and in an act of rebellion, had fallen asleep.

Her snoring was reminiscent of Amos' locomotive.

Livia eventually broke the tension with a jape. Or at least, what the Minister assumed was a jape. Given that there were Initiates moonlighting as journalists, maybe the Republic's new look Dreadlord came with a mandatory biography package.

No, that would be insane.

"I'll be first in line for a signed copy," Pawel grinned before his eyebrows knitted thoughtfully. "However, a timeless biography needs a memorable name. What will the best-selling book in all of the Anirian territories be called?"

 

[Livia Quinnick]

Liv snorted.

"Gods, it should be something interesting." She laughed, and the sound surprised her. Perhaps she was more at home in Vel Anir than she had felt traveling for all those months. It was relieving that she had not changed for the worst, and that she could still cling to the parts of her she had left behind. The smile faltered until she dropped it in the end.

"I think I would write a book on pearls, or at least on the collection my grandfather left me and the business." In fact, that business was handed off to her by her brothers, who both agreed she would do a better job with it. It also gave her something to help get back into the swing of things in between Dreadlord duties... such as this.