On the expansive medieval-style training ground, two figures with golden hair were engaged in a spirited sparring match. Both were clad in comfortable training outfits designed for maximum mobility, but the younger of the two had a set of chainmail draping his form. Rosalind, wielding a bastard sword with practiced skill, was relentlessly attacking her son. Alistair, in turn, was frantically using his spear to parry and block the onslaught from his mother.
"Strengthen your grip; your hands are slipping!" Rosalind commanded sharply. Alistair cast a quick glance at his hands, subtly readjusting his hold on the spear. "Don't look away from your enemy!" she chided. Her words were punctuated by the broad side of her blade striking his side, causing his stance to falter and sending him to one knee.
Leaning heavily on his spear, Alistair looked up at his mother, whose face was an unreadable mask. "Break?" he requested, his voice tinged with a hint of hope.
No sooner had the words left his mouth than Rosalind swiftly pulled him into a tight embrace. "Of course, my baby!" she exclaimed, enveloping him in a smothering hug that threatened to crush him. Alistair flailed in his mother's iron grip as she carried him toward the seating area.
Once she gently set him down, Alistair gasped for air, relieved to be released. "Huuh… Please… use less strength when hugging me…" he wheezed out, still trying to catch his breath.
Rosalind pouted and crossed her arms in response. "But how else am I supposed to show how much I love you?" she asked rhetorically, her tone indicating that she saw nothing wrong with her method.
Alistair gave her a look that bordered on incredulity. "I don't know, maybe by not choking your child, or beating the ever-loving shit out of hi–"
"Mind your language, young man!" Rosalind interrupted, conveniently ignoring the latter part of his statement. Alistair sighed, picked up a towel, and began wiping the sweat from his face. His mother did the same, though she appeared remarkably less fatigued than her son.
As Alistair felt his muscles begin to unwind, Rosalind cleared her throat subtly, giving him a look that clearly said, "Get on with it." He understood her unspoken cue, setting the towel aside and focusing intently on his hand resting upon it. With the mental image of pulling a trigger, he issued a single command in a steady voice, "Expel."
Instantly, a surge of Od flowed from his magical core into the towel. In the next moment, water began to be drawn out of the damp fabric, coalescing into a small, floating orb of sweat-laden water above it. Alistair glanced towards his mother, who shook her head slightly. "Your control is still lacking; the amount of Od you used was excessive for such a simple spell," she observed, causing Alistair to look somewhat embarrassed.
Rosalind waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, offering an encouraging smile. "However, the entire process took only about a second and a half, which is significant progress, all things considered," she added in a more reassuring tone.
Acknowledging his mother's mixed feedback, Alistair turned his attention back to the orb. He wrinkled his nose briefly before daring to dip a finger into it. "Structural analysis," he announced, and once again, Od flowed from his body, this time entering the orb. Information about the orb's composition flooded his mind: "Composition: 99% H2O, the rest a mix of electrolytes – Sodium Chloride, Potassium, Calcium, Magnesium, along with trace elements of Urea and Lactate. Overall pH level is around 5.8," he recited, impressing his mother.
"That was quite impressive," Rosalind praised, nodding approvingly. "Your execution was swift, half a second, and your Od usage was more efficient this time. It seems your affinity for information-gathering magecraft is exceptionally high."
Content with his progress, Alistair severed the Od connection to the orb, causing it to collapse back onto the towel with a wet splash.
Alistair had barely a moment to catch his breath before his mother's hand firmly grasped his shoulder. Turning to face Rosalind's beaming expression, he could only offer a grimace in response. "Over so soon?" he queried, a hint of hopefulness in his voice.
"Yep!" Rosalind cheerfully affirmed, swiftly guiding him back towards the training arena. Mid-air, Alistair realized the potential pain of his impending landing. Acting quickly, he tapped into his magic crest for full-body reinforcement. A network of purple, circuit-like lines appeared along his arms and legs, casting a faint glow.
With agility akin to that of a cat, he tucked into a ball mid-air, executing a roll upon hitting the ground. He scrambled to his feet, immediately adopting a defensive fighting stance.
"Nice reflexes!" Rosalind complimented from a short distance away, her approach leisurely yet purposeful. In her hands, she wielded her familiar bastard sword, and with her other hand, she casually tossed a spear at Alistair's feet.
Watching her every move, Alistair bent to pick up the spear, never breaking eye contact. "Good, now get ready," Rosalind instructed, shifting into an aggressive sword stance.
Determined not to be caught off-guard, Alistair too adopted an offensive posture. The two shared a moment of intense eye contact before Alistair, seizing the initiative, lunged forward.
Rosalind swiftly parried his thrust, deflecting the spear with a swift motion that forced Alistair to step back and brace for her counterattack. "Widen your stance!" she commanded as her sword clashed against his spear.
Feeling his balance begin to falter, Alistair heeded his mother's advice, widening the gap between his feet to regain stability.
As Alistair executed an overhead slash in response to his mother's command, Rosalind effortlessly parried the attack, giving a nod of approval. "Next time, grip the shaft a bit lower for more leverage. It'll make your slash faster and more powerful. Not bad, though," she advised, all while engaging in a flurry of offensive maneuvers against her son. Alistair, focused and swift, managed to keep up with the blocks, yet struggled to gain any distance from his relentless mother.
Rosalind, observing her son's resilience, intentionally exposed a weakness in her guard, overextending a sword slash. Seizing the opportunity, Alistair thrust his spear towards her exposed flank. In a split second, Rosalind released her sword and, with astonishing reflexes, grabbed the spear's hilt, yanking Alistair off balance and towards her. Alistair's eyes widened just as Rosalind delivered a firm strike to his stomach. "GAH!" he gasped, collapsing to the ground as his spear clattered beside him.
"Good thinking, but your over–" Rosalind's critique was interrupted by the sound of sarcastic applause. Both mother and son turned to see Amelia standing at the entrance of the training field.
"Well done, Lady Rosalind, beating your own child so harshly. Truly the picture-perfect mother," Amelia remarked dryly. Rosalind shot her a look of annoyance. "Amelia, why are you interrupting Alistair's training?" she asked, her tone edged with irritation.
Amelia, flicking a lock of her black hair away from her face, retorted with a hint of sarcasm, "Other than the fact that any decent person should intervene when a child is being beaten by their parent, I regret to inform you that there's a meeting you must attend."
Rosalind groaned and facepalmed. "And who is it this time trying to pull me away from a Pendragon family tradition?"
Amelia adjusted her glasses, her expression tired. "The House of Lords. They're in an uproar about the legislation on aid for the Afghan rebels."
Rosalind dragged her hand down her face in exasperation. "Can't those buffoons manage anything on their own?" she muttered. She then turned to Alistair, who was still on the ground. "Sorry, sweetie, duty calls," she said, offering a regretful smile.
Alistair, still nursing his side, grinned smugly. "Please extend my thanks to the lords and ladies for saving me."
Rosalind's forehead creased with annoyance, but she couldn't help ruffling her son's hair affectionately. "We'll make up for lost time in our next session," she promised, eliciting a nervous gulp from Alistair.
She then walked over to Amelia, ready to face her obligations. "See you in a bit," she called out cheerily, leaving the training ground with Amelia in tow.
As Rosalind and Amelia moved out of Alistair's hearing range, Rosalind's demeanor shifted, her patience thinning. "I hope there's more to this than those Lords bickering over trivialities," she remarked sharply. Amelia exhaled softly, understanding the gravity of Rosalind's commitment to Alistair's training.
Rosalind, fiercely dedicated to her son's education, had high aspirations for him. With his remarkable talent, she believed he could complete his knight training exceptionally early, potentially setting a new family record. For Rosalind, any distraction from giving her son the best education she could was an unwelcome interruption.
"The Clock Tower has summoned an urgent meeting of the Lords," Amelia disclosed, her tone serious. Rosalind's eyebrow arched inquisitively. "And the agenda?" she prodded. Amelia's next words caused Rosalind to tense visibly. "Altrouge and Primate Murder have been sighted in England."
"Shit," Rosalind cursed, anger seeping into her voice. "That fiend dares to encroach on my territory."
"Amelia, get the car ready. I need to spruce up quickly," Rosalind commanded, striding off with the expectation that Amelia would efficiently execute her instructions.
Rosalind hastened to her room upon entering the manor, swiftly casting a cleansing spell to eliminate the sweat from her training session. Donning a sleek pinstripe suit and arming herself with a mystic code blade, she made her way to the front door with purpose.
Outside, Amelia awaited her with the passenger door of a Rolls Royce Phantom V ajar. Rosalind breezed past her assistant into the car, and Amelia closed the door before taking her place behind the wheel. "How long till the meeting starts?" Rosalind inquired, settling into the plush seat.
Amelia started the engine and glanced at Rosalind through the rearview mirror. "We're tight on time. I'll have to push the speed limit to get us there promptly." Rosalind sighed, sinking into the seat with a slight frown.
"At least we'll make it," she muttered, opening one eye to peer at Amelia's reflection. "And the House of Lords issue - it'll resolve itself without my direct intervention?"
"As long as you issue a statement, they should fall in line," Amelia assured her, prompting Rosalind to close her eye with a satisfied hum. "Fine, I'll rest my eyes for a bit."
"Understood. I'll wake you upon arrival," Amelia responded. Rosalind acknowledged with a hum, drifting into a brief respite as the car glided towards their urgent destination.
~~Fate/False Order~~
"Lady Pendragon, we're here," Amelia's soft voice gently roused Rosalind from her brief slumber. Rosalind's eyes flickered open, immediately catching the shift in Amelia's form of address. She peered through the open car door, offered a small, appreciative nod to Amelia, and gracefully stepped out onto the cobblestone pavement. Amelia closed the door with a soft thud and fell into step behind Rosalind, her heels clicking rhythmically against the ground.
As they made their way into the Clock Tower, a wave of curious and somewhat envious stares followed them. The air buzzed with unspoken questions and whispered rumors. Undeterred, Rosalind led Amelia down to the basement, towards the high-security meeting rooms. The heavy door swung open, revealing the twelve Lords of the Mage's Association seated around an imposing long table.
"Have I missed anything?" Rosalind inquired, her gaze sweeping across the room, taking in each face.
"We decided on waiting for you," came the deep, resonant voice of Lord Barthomeloi, his brown eyes meeting hers from his position at the table's end. Rosalind acknowledged his courtesy with a nod, her expression softening momentarily. "Thank you for the consideration, Lord Barthomeloi," she responded, taking her seat with an air of dignified ease. Amelia stood silently behind her, a picture of attentiveness, ready to assist with any task.
Lord Barthomeloi gestured towards Lord Trambelio, a man whose muscular build and military-cut blonde hair exuded an air of disciplined strength. "I have gathered you all here because one of my subordinates encountered a peculiar sight in Colchester—a young girl with dark hair accompanied by a white, squirrel-like dog perched on her shoulder," Lord Trambelio began, his voice tinged with frustration.
He sighed heavily, closing his eyes as if the memory pained him. "After informing his superiors, he was tasked with tailing this suspected Dead Apostle Ancestor." Trambelio's brow furrowed, his hand moving to pinch the bridge of his nose. "We lost contact with him soon after. His body was later found, transformed into a ghoul."
The room fell into a heavy silence, all eyes fixated on the visibly irritated Trambelio. The weight of his subordinate's loss hung in the air, palpable and somber.
"It would seem Altrouge is in a particularly foul mood," commented old Lord Vatualeta, her voice cutting through the silence. She sat draped in her luxurious green dress and cape, her eyes reflecting a mix of concern and wisdom earned through years of experience.
Barthomeloi's fingers tapped a rhythmic pattern on the table, breaking the tense silence. He leaned forward, his voice firm yet pragmatic. "It's unsurprising that a walking corpse would be in a foul mood. The crux of the matter is to extricate her, and her peculiar dog, from England's shores." Heads around the table bobbed in agreement, acknowledging his point.
"And for that, we need to understand her motives," interjected Lord Animusphere, the young lord with strikingly pale hair. His gaze drifted towards Trambelio's imposing figure. "Do you have any leads on where Altrouge might be, or clues to what she seeks?" he queried.
Trambelio responded with a shake of his head, his expression a mix of frustration and resignation. "Unfortunately not. The last sighting in Colchester was two and a half hours ago. With her abilities, she could be anywhere in southern England by now. And we have a slight suspicion that Strout and Svelten might be on guard duty in the shadows." His voice carried a bitter edge, underscoring the gravity of the situation.
A heavy silence enveloped the room, each lord contemplating the dire circumstances. Barthomeloi, sensing the need for direction, cleared his throat. "Given our current impasse, I propose we form a temporary alliance. Our goal: to either expel or ideally eliminate Altrouge." His words were measured, yet carried an underlying urgency.
Trambelio, ever the skeptic, grunted in disagreement. "And I suppose you fancy yourself as the leader of this 'allied front', Barthomeloi?" His tone was laced with reluctance, his gaze fixed skeptically on his political adversary.
Barthomeloi crossed his arms, meeting Trambelio's stare with a pointed look. "Considering my family's expertise in handling Dead Apostles, it's only logical that I, or someone from my circle, assume a leadership role for this operation to succeed." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to lead, Trambelio? Need I remind you how the last apostle hunt of yours went?"
The room crackled with the tension between Barthomeloi and Trambelio, an almost visible current of animosity passing between them. Rosalind, with an exaggerated sigh, pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "My son has far better manners than you two," she chided, casting a sharp glance at the quarreling lords. "Frankly, I'd rather be with him than watch you bicker over the leadership of a temporary task force."
She turned towards Trambelio, her gaze stern. "Here's my offer: I will contribute intelligence operatives, combat golems, and necessary funds." She paused, her arms folding decisively. "But only under the condition that Lord Barthomeloi leads this operation."
Trambelio's reaction was instant and fiery. His fist thudded against the table, his face reddening with anger. "What the devil!" he exclaimed, glaring at Rosalind. "I discovered this threat! The responsibility to lead should be mine, not his!" He jabbed a finger towards Barthomeloi.
Unruffled, Barthomeloi responded with a cool, composed air. "Lady Pendragon, your support is most welcome. I assure you, your trust in me is well-placed." He nodded respectfully towards Rosalind, his demeanor in stark contrast to Trambelio's fiery outburst.
Trambelio slammed his fist down again, his frustration boiling over. "No, this is unacceptable!" His voice was a mixture of anger and desperation. "My faction is more than capable! We have the fighters, the expertise..." He was abruptly cut off.
"No," Rosalind interjected firmly, her eyes locking with Trambelio's in a silent challenge. "I have plans for my son to visit the Clock Tower in the not too distant future, but not with Altrouge and Primate Murder, and possibly her two bodyguards at large. The Clock Tower is too vulnerable right now. And since hunting Apostles is the Barthomeloi's forte, they will take charge." Her tone was final, leaving no room for argument.
Trambelio clenched his teeth, a clear sign of his simmering rage and frustration, yet the finality in Rosalind's voice indicated that the decision had been made.
Rosalind, unfazed by Trambelio's mounting fury, decided it was time to wrap up the contentious meeting. "All in favor of Lord Barthomeloi leading the task force?" she inquired, raising her hand confidently. Beside her, Barthomeloi mirrored her gesture, a smug grin playing on his lips. Seven other hands rose in agreement, decisively tipping the majority in Barthomeloi's favor.
Trambelio, realizing his chance at leadership was slipping away, abruptly stood, his hands slamming down on the table with a resounding thud. "Meeting adjourned," he announced tersely, his voice laced with barely concealed frustration. He stormed out, his exit marked by the collective gaze of the remaining lords, who watched in silent observation.
Lord Barthomeloi, seizing the moment, cleared his throat to regain the room's attention. "I would be grateful if you could emulate Lady Pendragon's example and extend some assistance to our task force. At present, additional combatants or any intelligence on Altrouge's entourage's whereabouts and intentions would be invaluable," he said, scanning the room with a calculated gaze. "And with that, this meeting is dismissed," he concluded, his tone dripping with satisfaction.
As the room's occupants began to rise, preparing to leave, Barthomeloi called out to Rosalind, "Lady Pendragon, may I have a word?" His request prompted her to resume her seat, waiting patiently as the others filed out.
Once the room was empty, Barthomeloi spoke again, a trace of a smile softening his usually stern features. "Thank you for your support."
Rosalind dismissed his gratitude with a casual wave of her hand. "It was the logical choice. However, I must be going. My son's training takes precedence," she replied, making to stand.
Barthomeloi's raised hand halted her. "Please, just a moment. It's rare to see you here these days, and I was hoping to catch up a bit."
With a soft sigh, Rosalind settled back into her chair, shifting to a more relaxed posture. "There's not much to tell. Since Alistair's birth, my focus has shifted. I've been working from home more, keeping a closer eye on his training. Typical parenting concerns," she explained, her tone warming noticeably as she spoke of her son.
Barthomeloi raised an eyebrow, his competitive nature shining through a playful smile. "Oh? You sound quite proud of him. How advanced is his magecraft?" His curiosity seemed genuine, tinged with a hint of rivalry.
Rosalind, with a shake of her head and a lopsided smile, responded, "Not extraordinarily so, given we only started about four months ago. But he's quickly personalized and enhanced a spell and mastered the basics in record time." Her words beamed with pride.
Barthomeloi hummed thoughtfully. "My daughter began her training just under a year ago. She too has already mastered the basics, as well as improved three spells quite masterfully. I believe she's destined for greatness." His bragging was evident, eliciting a raised eyebrow from Rosalind.
"But Alistair, in his short training time, has also been undergoing rigorous knight training. He's mastered the basics amidst that," Rosalind argued, her tone a blend of pride and superiority.
Barthomeloi scoffed lightly. "Mastering the basics is one thing. But reinventing the wheel three times at the age of eight? That's quite another."
Rosalind furrowed her brows, unimpressed. "Improving basic spells is hardly groundbreaking. Even a broken clock is right twice a day. It's fortunate her tinkering accidentally bore fruit."
Barthomeloi waved his hand dismissively. "Please, don't belittle my daughter's hard work. Your son may be skilled with a sword, but..."
"He's a prodigy at spearmanship," Rosalind interjected firmly. "The Pendragon blood truly runs strong in him. He's as strong as a teenager even without reinforcement magecraft."
Barthomeloi chuckled, sending her an amused glance. "A spear? Isn't that the easiest weapon to master? Are you really taking his education seriously?"
The tension in the room escalated as they exchanged barbs, each defending their child's superiority. It was Amelia's soft cough that broke the escalating squabble. "My Lady, perhaps it would be more productive to have the children meet. They could compare their skills directly," she suggested diplomatically.
Rosalind considered this, then nodded appreciatively. "Not a bad idea. It would certainly settle this debate," she said, casting a challenging look at Barthomeloi.
Barthomeloi however shook his head. "I am sorry to say no, Lady Pendragon. But us Bathomeloi aren't allowed to leave our residence until we're of age and ready to show off what perfection looks like."
Rosalind gave him a disappointed look before standing up, while giving a low hum. "Well, that is truly a shame, and here I was hoping Alistair could get his first friend."
Barthomeloi nodded. "A pity, though I do believe they'll have ample time to get to know one another once Lorelei takes over as vice director. And who knows, maybe the two will go hunting apostles together."
Smiling at the man, Rosalind gave him an amused hum. "Maybe," she said while giving him an amused smile. "I'll be leaving now, I have a few things to sort out, have a pleasant day, Lord Bathomeloi."
With a final nod, Lord Bathomeloi gave his regards before Rosalind left, her mind already drifting back to her son. Hopefully things wouldn't take too long.
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A/N
Welcome back, my reader Overlords, please add this to your library and give me some comments, stones and Reviews, as it would be much appreciated.
Now that the mandatory begging is done, time to ask the hard hitting questions.
How was the trip to the Clocktrower? What do you think of England's newest guests?
Thoughts on what could or should happen when Alistair finally visits the Clocktower in a few years?
Can anyone guess what will obviously happen in the next chapter?
If not, then you are in luck! Just hop to the next one!