Kalan strides down the street, forcing her shoulders to relax in an effort to appear confident. Successfully maintaining a facade of calm, her mind whirred to a more battle ready mode: cycling through preventative measures, anticipation of violence, and peaceful ways of stopping what was about to happen. Alternatively, she could not-so-peacefully murder whoever it is dogging her steps so intently. But she's given up on that life, even if her carefully maintained physique and physical fitness says other wise.
It's not everyday a combat specialist gets stalked on her way home, and Kalan's been stuck acting as a civilian after her commander kicked her off of active duty. Kalan's veins were itching to spill some blood, minimal as it might be, because she may never get the chance to return. Kalan makes a specifically sharp turn into an alleyway two blocks from her home and climbs up the window ledges. The moment her stalker turns the corner, Kalan will drop on top of him like a demented gargoyle.
At least… that's what would have happened, if her foot didn't slip on the poorly maintained alleyway and get sent hurtling towards the ground. Her hands scrambled for purchase on the disgusting walls, but the handholds that were firm just seconds ago became slippery all of a sudden.
A giant purple portal rips open beneath her, Kalan's yelp of panic is throttled by the energy vortex.
"Aghk!"
With a crackle and the bewildered cry of her stalker behind her, Kalan shudders and gets slammed through the portal. The last thing she manages to do, before darkness envelopes her, is flip a middle finger up at whoever followed her. How satisfying, if bloodless.
The world sways around her. Kalan turns her face, nuzzling into the silk fabric, turning away from the bright light.
Silk?
Kalan's eyelids slide open, revealing piercing purple eyes that absorbs and strips her immediate surroundings with an innate sense of lethality.
She's laid upon a opulent bed laden with intricate dark blue silk and lacy decorations. On a four poster bed, laid the newly awakened woman who slowly slides off the bed, legs swinging off the side before pausing.
Kalan looks down.
Those were not her legs... but they move as she wills them. She pulls her hands in front of her, from where they were braced to help her push against the bed in order to get up.
Her hands were dainty. And pale. And well manicured with gorgeous red paint and intricate detailings in gold.
These were not her hands...but they move as she wills them to.
Kalan glances around, bewildered and unsettled, breath coming in short bursts as her eyes wildly wandered the room. What in the world is happening?
With legs as unsteady as a newborn fawn, she stumbles to the mirror- polished bronze, who uses polished bronze when glass and silver exists- and gapes at her appearance.
Where her gorgeous brown eyes that deepened with patterns in the sunlight used to be, bright purple akin to that of the portal laid instead. Her facial shape is there and the nose she got from her mother remains but everything else has changed. Her skin is… is paler than her normal tan. Her hair is a terrible white color, like unblemished snow, and her cheeks are sallow. Not deep, to indicate starvation, but deep enough to show vanity. She thinks she might puke. She loves her skin and this- this waif-like version of herself- is not what she wants to see in a mirror. This is not- this is not her body. She hates it. A trembling, pale hand touches the bronze, the cold metal in the early morning assures her- brutally screams her- that this is not a dream. Her hand slides down to the vanity, finger tips absently tracing the varnished wood as she stares once more in the eyes of her new reflection.
"Why-"
The voice that slips out is light, undamaged by smoke and lacking the sting from hours of screaming herself hoarse in the torture chambers. Kalan stops speaking, stricken by the sound of her voice.
She doesn't know how long she stands there, horrified by what she sees and the wrongness in how she looks.
"My Lady?"
Kalan turns her head slowly, unseeing eyes dragging its gaze onto the servant who stands to her side, expression muted and… fearful?
"Who- who are you?" She asks. Her mind, accustomed to the horrors of Underground work, rapidly compartmentalizes and Kalan manages to shove her encroaching mental breakdown to a later time. Information is priority. Information will keep her alive.
"I am Girren, my Lady." He replies, tone subservient and resigned. His eyes remain lowered.
"And who am… I?"
"You are the Lady Kalan, my Lady. Heiress to House Jirana, the most beautiful in all three realms."
Kalan remains silent, to allow this man to draw his own conclusions. By the way he's held himself so far in her presence, she's not exactly a liked heiress. Kalan also doesn't know what the Jirana House is nor what it is they do, but surely it must hold some sort of influence or else she would not be able to have a servant. Or these silks, or the luxury goods that littered this room. She hates the needless indulgence this body seemed to breathe. Speaking of which, the fellow in front of her seemed to be experiencing shortness of breath.
"My… My Lady, I know not what sins I have committed but- please, please, I beg of you, please spare my siblings. I will gladly- I will gladly take their punishments. Please."
By the end of his speech, his plea for mercy, the servant had sunk onto his knees, face pressed onto the ground as he supplicated to her.
Kalan is speechless, eyes blinking a slow, shocked rhythm as she stared incredulously at the man in front of her. She hasn't even threatened him with anything, let alone bodily harm… and yet he immediately goes to begging? What kind of cruel mistress was this body normally?
Bile gathering at her throat, Kalan clears her throat to speak, eyeing the rather violent flinch the man in front of her managed to make. Perhaps she had made him nervous, waiting for judgement. Like the judgement of the devil, Kalan scoffs to herself.
"No need." The man seems to tremble even more and she sighs. Perhaps she can use this to obtain information. "Get me materials on this house's history, some on general history, and a couple on culture."
The man finally dares to look up, though it is at her feet.
"My Lady… wishes to study?"
Kalan wants to rip her hair out in frustration. Was this body uneducated as well?
"I… suppose I do. Well? Are you going to get the materials?"
Girren scrambles to stand, thanking her as he comes up and all but flees the room.
While he's gone, Kalan takes the time to investigate this body's room.
She finds a novel, a diary, and a rather simple hairpin for this body's apparent tastes. She looks down at the rather soft material clinging onto her body. Luxury is not bad but there are limits. Solid gold for a vanity table is a bit much.
As she stares at the items, a bitter taste of trouble etched itself onto her tongue. Letters that Kalan had never seen before and names of places she's sure doesn't exist back home all tell her that she's in another world with another body.
Damn, at least she knows she can read this world's text by the grace of whatever asshole dumped her here. Kalan traces the edge of the diary's pages, dark look on her face as she trails her eyes down the demented scratches of ink proclaiming hatred.
Whoever this "Rirranel" is, they are unfortunate to catch the eye of this scheming young lady.
Kalan closes the diary and slips it out of sight, keen ears hearing footsteps outside of her door. Girren knocks and slips in silently after she bids him to enter.
"Here are your books, my Lady." He whispers, holding out a stack of books with his eyes steadily looking at the ground. He flinches when she lifts them from his arms, going rigid as she nears. Kalan rolls her eyes.
"Thank you. You may go."
He whips his head up, eyes wide and mouth parted. Her lips thins and he shoots up backwards towards the door, running at the first sight of her displeasure.
"Ah- ah, yes, my Lady." He scrambles out of the room and Kalan snorts. Her situation might be bad, but he seems like he was having a worse day than she was. Apparently, this version of her is extremely rude, if a servant was shocked at a barely polite thank you. Or perhaps nobles did not thank their workers?
The transmigrator glides over to the bed, laying down on her stomach as she cracks open the top-most book on the pile, the rest sitting on the floor next to her bed.
It is a couple of hours later that she slams it closed. Kalan massages the bridge of her nose, purple eyes hidden behind twitching eyelids.
A matriarchal world. A position of privilege. One of extreme privilege on top of the one she already has as a woman, as the heiress to a House dating back to the first Empress' regime. Kalan huffs to herself, rolling on her back. She opens her eyes to glare at the ceiling of the bed, limbs splayed out. That is so... unbearably annoying. An heiress of a House with this much money and influence? She'd be dragged into the waters of politics and bounced around like two dolphins playing with their pufferfish.
Kalan fishes around the side of the bed for another book, hating the way her pale limbs flopped around like the meat of dead fish. Ah, a book on culture.
She sits up, gaping at the passage she opened up to.
'Men are in charge of households for their physical abilities are more suited to carry the work of sweeping, cooking, cleaning, and ensuring the household runs smoothly while their wives are hard at work. They must dress modestly to atone for their sinful bodies and obey the words of their wives to the letter, for their wives know better. They must repay the months the wife sacrifices for a child they bring into the world with devotion and obedience.
Honorable Women are in charge of official work, as they have higher pain tolerance and sharper minds, suited for enduring the terrible pains of war to bring victory and taking their places in office with sound judgement and clear minds. They're to dress elegantly to show their worth, and command their husbands well, for a leader is only worth how well their subordinates stay in line.'
What kind of dog shit- cooking, cleaning, and sweeping are essential life skills, regardless.
Her eyebrows raise, scowl forming on her pale face. Kalan is incredibly impressed and annoyed.
Intelligence is based on the person, not the gender, and these are regular life skills that everyone... Who wrote this? The discrimination between men and women are evident through the adjectives! And they want to tell her what to wear and how to act? Mmmh.
This is like listening to one of those alpha male podcasts back home! Kalan gags, resisting the urge to throw the book. Mother didn't raise her to disrespect a book like that.
Kalan sloughs through the rest of the book, muttering uncomplimentary words at the pages.
She knows that this world favors her and her skill sets. It does not make what she's reading any more palatable.
The rest of the book- filled with the same amount of rage inducing bias- is relatively useful. For example, nail art is important here. The color your nails are painted in indicates your household and the detailings indicate your standing and your household's importance to the nation. There's even a table of the most important household colors. There's a myriad, but close to the top, on the third column, was Jirana with a monopoly on deep, fire engine red.
She stares at her hand. The nails are, admittedly, gorgeous and professional. However, her hands themselves... minimal callouses. Evidence of low activity with training, if the state of her muscles didn't already clue her in.
Kalan Jirana sighs. This body's physical potential is good, of course, because it's her. Perhaps training first... with whatever is expected of her. She gets up and goes to the closet, an understatement for what really was a large room with many options of clothing and shoes.
She stares at the closet.
How in the fuck does she wear these clothes?