Chapter 376: Where The Snow Drifts

Those who resided in the Duchy of Triese had long grown accustomed to ignoring whatever occurred in the Kingdom of Tirea. Occasionally, the people here would lift their heads and ponder over a strange noise, blinding light or plume of smoke to rise from their neighbours, but that was only ever a passing moment before their thoughts turned to matters closer at home.

As proud citizens of one of the smallest, but not the least of the 22 duchies which made up the Grand Duchy of Granholtz, every farmer, merchant and craftsman firmly had their ears directed towards whatever gossip and scandal they could snigger at concerning their more immediate rivals instead. 

Although Triese was far from the comings and goings of the Duchy Capital, that failed to dampen the pride of its residents. And for good reason.

Triese was well regarded by the rest of Granholtz. 

Or at least as well regarded as anyone would admit. 

A natural lack of proximity with the stuffy politics of the capital combined with its tidy, cobbled streets adorned with rows of wildflowers made it a welcome retreat for those who could afford the artisanal crafts for which it was famed … providing, of course, that they could also ignore the strange noises coming from their neighbour.

Today in the provincial capital of Triese, all was mercifully calm.

In an upmarket district peppered with pristine boutiques, the wealthy and the influential gathered to peruse the windows. Immaculately groomed cats slipped between them, their tastes so refined they would not accept even the scraps from the cafés boasting fragrances from all across the world. 

Only in the Atelier Lauchelle could a hint of commotion be found. 

Here within a shop famed for its striking dresses, its clientele of young noble women regularly forgot the grandstanding they were raised to display. 

Instead, they betrayed gasps alongside curious peeks between their fingertips, all the while daring to consider a gown with far too revealing a cut or too bold a shade of violet. Each was a customer so sheltered they would readily faint if a mouse so much as scurried past.  

And currently–

“W-W-What should we do … ?”

“Perhaps … Perhaps we need to call the guards …” 

“Just … Just don’t make eye contact … don’t look and everything will be okay.”

They were holding onto each other for dear life.

Pale faces filled the bright shop as arms and legs quivered, the customers huddling alongside the staff behind the counter. Amidst the quiet sobbing, only a few steps could be heard as a brave soul made her way towards the door, only to stop, cowed by the slight squeaking of the floorboard and the attention it might earn.

Because there … in the corner of the atelier was the most alarming thing they had ever seen.

Quack, quack.

A pair of ducks.

White, fluffy … and with one of them boasting an unnaturally yellow beak.

They pecked away at their leisure, permanently scarring the hems of immaculately woven dresses by lightly creasing them. 

It was a barbaric display beyond the experiences of any present.

Even so, it wasn’t the alarming presence of these dangerous, wild creatures so far from the pond they inhabited that neither customers nor staff dared to issue a complaint. 

Rather … it was because of her. 

“Hmmmmmmmmmmmmm …”

A beautiful elven maiden.

A slim frame. Silver hair. Unblemished skin. Youthful complexion. 

She was the very image of an elven princess more often seen in portraits and the drawings of fairytales than in a clothing shop. Indeed, contrary to popular belief, even elves could suffer from clammy skin or a wrinkle every now and again.

However … despite the refined features of her face, she failed to match the dress code.

Arranged more distressingly than any vagrant to have ever skulked past the gated entrances of the surrounding houses, she boasted dirt, mud and bits of leaves upon both her travelling attire and her hair. The cloak she wore wasn’t only frayed. It was damp. Dripping, even. 

Almost as though she’d recently swam in a lake. 

She hadn’t, of course. 

That’d be silly.

And Ophelia the Snow Dancer wasn’t silly. 

On the contrary, she was the only normal elf in the world. And she was also missing a boot. That meant she’d never go swimming in a lake. People would laugh at her if she did.

Instead, the dampness was because a giant toad had believed Duck A to be a worthwhile snack. 

It took only after a few seconds of choking to realise this was very much not the case. Yet even after toweling Duck A off, the mucus still stuck to her cloak and bits of Duck A’s feathers. 

But that was fine.

After all, she was here in a shop she’d never once burgled several years ago for a very important reason.

Ophelia was making the hardest decision of her life.

… Choosing a dress suitable to wear while murdering or marrying a princess.

The elven woman thought.

And then she thought some more, her brows denting as she looked between two dresses held … no, scrunched up in either hand. 

This was a problem. And Ophelia wasn’t used to problems. 

Usually, she just needed to fling her sword and problems went away. As an A-rank sword saint, life was automatically easy. Too easy. That’s why she never needed to think about what to wear or which colours didn’t look gross. 

Whatever she wore, she was still a beautiful, A-rank elven sword saint.

This time, however, that wasn’t enough.

After all–

Ophelia needed to impress royalty … and also return some of the stuff she stole. 

That meant meeting a king and a queen. Except that the last time she’d visited a royal court, she’d been scowled at by everyone. And while she could learn to not talk while eating, put her boots on the table or loudly ask nobility she’d never met before how their assassination plans were coming along, having to wear something appropriate was something she needed to do ahead of time. 

Eventually, she settled on the lighter dress in one hand, before opting for the darker one in the other. 

Her eyes swept left and right like a twitchy owl as she repeated the process again and again, barely hearing anything other than her own humming.

Pwam!

Or indeed, the door suddenly crashing open.

“–All right, ladies, you know the drill,” called a jovial voice alongside the waltz of heavy footsteps. “Coin pouches out, jewellery on the ground. Let’s make this a quick one, shall we?”

“H-How dare you! Who are you people?! … This establishment belongs to Lord Horin Rennasch!”  

“Yeah. And your lord’s been borrowing from the wrong people. We’ve come to collect. Now, you and your customers need only present your loose change. All of it. That’ll be enough to cover the interest. Until we need to come again.” 

“You … You cannot … the guards will hear of this!”

“The guards hear what we tell them to hear. But don’t worry. You can voice your complaints to your good lord–after you’ve turned your coin pouches out. Every one of you.”

Ophelia closed her eyes. 

When she opened them again, she found she didn’t like either of the dresses. Immediately tossing them to the floor, she began her search for alternatives, walking up and down while eying the various mannequins.

“That’s right. No need to make this difficult. We’ll soon be on our way. You can enjoy the offerings of this fine store and … hey, you there.”

Then, she stopped.

The realisation came as suddenly as the nearby sound of clinking coins coming to a stop.

She was Ophelia the Snow Dancer. Not Ophelia the Apprentice Sister. 

Here she was, considering which black and white habit to pick when what she really needed was something scandalous. If she dressed boring, then everyone would think she was boring. 

There was little point in pretending to be demure when all that did was to stab herself in the foot.

She needed something to stand out. 

“... Oi. You. What do you think you’re doing?”

Of course, if she really wanted to maximise shock points, she’d just go naked.

That was definitely something other elves would do. But since she was well-adjusted, fashionable and not at all out of her league because she spent all day either in her cottage or generally being a menace to society, she knew that was unlikely to do anything than put her in prison.

She’d done that already. It was boring.

“Hey. You. I’m talking to you. Elf. Didn’t you hear me? What do you think you’re playing at? Everyone includes you. Coin pouch. Now. Don’t think pretending you can’t hear means we’ll let you be.” 

To her surprise, she soon found what she wanted.

She reached up and felt the hem of a dress yet to be pecked by her friendly ducks. Likely since it was considerably more daring than most of the others. This one didn’t trail across the floor like a carpet. It even stopped before the knees. Shameful.

… She liked it!

Anything long was bound to be a problem. She needed something practical enough to jump around in. 

“Fine. That was your last warning. Don’t think you can just ignore me. Look over here you–pfftttfftffft?!”

Ophelia casually elbowed somebody’s face.

The sound of a crack filled the air, followed by the sound of gurgling somewhere on the floor and her humming as she considered whether or not it was worth asking for this dress in other colours. 

“M-My gods! She just took out Big Merry.”

“His … His face … I think his face is broken …”

“What the heck was that? … Hey, guys, what do we do?”

“... What do you mean what do we do? Was it Big Merry who got smacked or you? That was an accident. She’s not even paying attention. You. New kid. Go teach her a lesson.” 

“Yeah … Yeah, you’re right … hey, hey you! We gave you the easy way out, but if you want to do this the hard way, that’s on you! Now, you can either hand over what you got or–bwughhhhhhhh.”

Ophelia made a decision.

She was already getting ahead of herself. 

She needed to start from the bottom. Literally. Because as her only boot found itself slamming into the sternum of someone angrily approaching, she realised it didn’t matter what she wore if her toes were still showing.

“Peter?!”

“S-She kicked him right into the wall! Hey, I don’t think that woman’s normal! I … I got a real bad feeling about this!”

“Cram your feelings! Use your eyes! She’s … She’s got no weapons! We jump her together! Now!”

Ophelia spent a moment looking around.

Thankfully, she instantly found what she was looking for. Beneath the display tables in the centre of the atelier, tips of ladylike shoes were teasingly peeking out. 

Evading the wildly thrown punches, she leaned down and scooped up the first pair.

Then … she began testing the quality of the workmanship via the faces of those hurtling towards her.

“W-Wait! Wait, stop, stop! I’m sorry! Stop, I won’t–pwaaah?!”

“Nooooooooooo, get away from me!”

“I … I surrender! Please, take everything I have, just don’t–aaaahhhh!!”

A few moments later, Ophelia admired the durability of the shoes.

They were better than her own. Or at least the one she still owned. Despite the vigorous testing, only a few scuffs were visible. 

Knowing where to start, she decided to seek professional advice.

Stepping over the twitching and gurgling bodies littering the floor around her, she scooted over to the member of staff behind the counter. Her eyes were as wide as her mouth, an expression of shock upon her face mirrored by all those huddling behind her.

“Hi there,” said Ophelia, holding up the slightly damaged pair of shoes. “I want something like this. But maybe in a smaller size. I also need a dress that screams feminine wiles but also classiness. Because that’s what I am. Classy. Can you help?”

Silence was her answer.

Eyes blinked in synchronised unison.

And then–

“Kyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!”

A chorus of joy as the atelier’s patrons rushed forwards to fawn over her. 

In moments, she was being tugged in all directions like a new doll in a toy shop, the dirt and leaves magically vanishing from her hair as a brush subtly appeared amidst the commotion.

“O-Of course! We’d be delighted! It’s … It’s yours! Anything that you want, you can have! Thank you … Thank you so much for saving us from those brigands!”

Breathless agreement filled the air. Eyes sparkling with admiration surrounded the Snow Dancer.

Ophelia was surprised.

Not by her popularity, of course. That was normal. It’s just that she was pretty sure there was a poster with her face on it just beneath the counter reminding everyone she was banned. She must have grown an extra eyelash since then. That was great. It meant she could burgle the town again.

“Really! Thanks. I think I’m going to try on everything and see what sticks.”

“Of … Of course! I’ll show you our entire inventory! If I can help, I will!”

“Great! In that case, do you know where the dragon is?”

“The … dragon?”

“Yeah.” Ophelia pointed at the nearest banner on the wall. She never had to look far to find one. “That guy. Nobody will tell me where he is.”

The staff member stared. Her smile of joy erred towards confusion.

“Are you perhaps referring to Valerian the Revered, Patron Guardian of the Grand Duchy of Granholtz?”

“Mmh. That’s the one. I need him. For reasons not to do with illicit activities.”

Only quiet confusion met her in answer.

Ordinarily, this was where Ophelia would make things simple by saying she was here to kill a dragon so she could get an S-rank certificate. She learned not to. Because apparently, killing a dragon here was considered either highly offensive or a good joke depending on which guard questioned her. 

It was a very odd place.

“G-Goodness, that’s quite the endeavour! I can tell already that you must have a noble heart to go along with your strength! … May I ask why you’re searching for Valerian the Revered?”

“Well, to make a short story even shorter, there’s this princess. She can make something called a [Big Ball Of Doom]. It’s huge and amazing. So now I need to do something huge and amazing too.”

Gasps immediately met her.

Much to Ophelia’s mild despair, she recognised the tone. It was the same one used by noble ladies when they were gossiping in the corner while everyone pretended they weren’t trading terrible literature.

“I see! … Well, you certainly wouldn’t be the first with such an ambition! But I’m afraid that while earning an audience with our nation’s most sacred defender would be highly impressive, it’s said that only the Grand Duchess knows where Valerian the Revered resides.”

Ophelia let out a groan.

Now she had to ask the Grand Duchess. That meant scaling her tower. 

She had no idea how she was supposed to do that without looking suspicious. If the guards saw her, they’d never think she just wanted to ask an innocent question about murder.

“H-However! If … If you’re seeking accolades to your name, have you perhaps considered challenging the Wandering Guest … ?”

“The who?”

“The Wandering Guest. I’m surprised you haven’t heard. She’s made quite the name for herself already. Rumour has it that she’s a powerful fae in the guise of an elderly lady.”

Ophelia’s curiosity was piqued at once.

She’d had more than her fair share of experiences with the fae. And while most of them boasted more impressive wings than they did swordsmanship, a few did at least manage to earn a faint spot in her memories. 

Any fae who was brash enough to ignore their laws to wander the mortal realm was at least worth a stab.

“Really? What does this fae do?”

“She sits beneath a waterfall just outside of Triese. People from all over seek her wisdom. But some also challenge her to contests of strength. So far, none have been able to defeat her.” 

Ophelia’s interest almost deflated at once.

Someone who sat beneath a waterfall was definitely the type of person who said lines like ‘to master the sword is to master the soul.’ Ophelia had left the forests filled with elven swordmasters who also thought they were poets specifically so that she wouldn’t have to deal with stuff like that any longer. 

“Hmm, is she a swordswoman?”

“Um, no … from what I’ve heard, she isn’t.”

“Oh. What does she use, then? A spear?”

“No, I, uh … I believe she uses a walking cane.”

Ophelia blinked in puzzlement.

Then, she gave it a moment of consideration and smiled. Apparently, it was time to pay the elderly her respects.

But first things first–it was time to choose her new dress. 

And also shoes.