Chapter 377: The Wandering Guest

Ophelia was ready for the soirée.… But was the soirée ready for her?

A black dress with a white bodice, complete with golden trimmings, buttons and other decorations she didn’t know the words for. Formal gloves reaching all the way past her elbow, so soft that anyone she punched would be sent hurtling away with a smile.

Yes.

The elven maiden was satisfied.

She was officially even more stunning than before. Carriages would literally eject their passengers hoping to carry her instead. Which would be hilarious. But as chaotic to public transportation as her new attire was, the most pleasing thing was her new footwear.

Ballroom shoes.

They were as sparkly as they were impractical. 

The type of shoes which looked better than they were comfortable. And that was great. Because the more people looked at her shoes, the less they’d see Ophelia’s sword.

There was only one problem.

She still didn’t have a sword.

It wasn’t that she was being picky. She just didn’t need one–most of the time. 

Having grown up in an elven forest, she’d learned how to defend herself using nothing more than her forehead. Not just because it was one of the best methods for beating away a brown bear, but also because it was an important means of communication. 

Bird calls, whistles and singing were all well and good, but when it came to avoiding the neighbourhood aunties because they simply didn’t understand that Ophelia had a life outside entertaining them, nothing quite beat slamming her head into the base of their treehouses. 

But right now–

She had a feeling she should have asked the nice shop staff if they also had any swords.

All around her, a beautiful meadow shone.

Nestled within one of Triese’s many picturesque valleys, it was a painting come to life. Wildflowers mingled with hopping bunnies while sparrows danced with the foxes trying to nibble them. 

And that meant someone was about to be stabbed.

It was always like that. Because as pretty as a flowery meadow looked, it only stayed pretty because someone was willing to indulge unhealthy amounts of stress making sure it was kept that way. 

Now whenever Ophelia visited a nice meadow, she readily accepted someone was about to murder her. 

This time was no different Because people were far too serious. And if it wasn’t gold that they wanted just because she stepped on a dandelion, what they usually demanded was blood. 

Or lacking that … knee caps.

“Uuuughhhh …”

“That … That hag … she’ll pay for this …”

“Why … Why does the pain … only keep getting worse?”

“Wandering Guest … More like Wandering Witch!”

Disturbing the tranquility was a line of hobbling men and women.

Some were adorned in shining armour. Others like adventurers fresh from their first dive in a cellar. Yet no matter how far they were on their personal journey of eventually being eaten by something bigger than themselves, all did the same thing.

Clutching their knees while complaining.

A battlefield of the walking wounded awaited Ophelia’s curiosity. 

As she unhurriedly skipped past while demonstrating full use of her ligaments, glares of both warning and envy met her. Each grimace beneath the bright sunshine spoke of a different tale. But they all concluded the same way.

Rejection.

And the source … was her.

An elderly lady.

Not a fae pretending to be an elderly lady. Not a dryad pretending to be an elderly lady. Not even a dwarf pretending to be an elderly lady while trying to get around a tavern blacklist, which she’d seen more times than she could count. 

But very much an elderly human lady.

However, even though she was decidedly human, Ophelia knew at once she wasn’t normal.

After all–

Clink.

She was drinking tea while sitting before a small waterfall.

Her cup made a delicate noise as it settled onto a saucer … all the while she ignored the foam spraying at her back. That’s what the parasols were for. A whole bunch had been erected like a makeshift canopy, defending her hair and her furniture.

A small table, round and white, plus two chairs. 

One for her … and one for whoever wanted their knees whacked by the glossy cane resting against the side of the table.

The Wandering Guest. 

Monopolising the very end of the meadow like it was her corner of the world, she wore an outfit good for riding. A fitted jacket, breeches and tall boots. A picture of activity.

Although she was aged, the years had been kind to her. 

The wrinkles were soft against the sunlight, with only a few streaks of silver highlighting her hair. Plenty of the black strands still remained, stubbornly refusing to turn into a feeble grey. 

Ophelia blinked several times.

She’d never seen her before. But the posture was all too familiar. 

It was someone who had a lot of money. 

Which meant she’d probably robbed her before.

Thus, she turned to her waiting ducks with a nod.

“... Okay! It’s best behaviour time! Either the old lady is going to give me a bucket of wisdom or she’s strong enough that I can poke her and call it a victory! … That means no nibbling. Got it?”

Quack, quack.

Duck A and Duck B answered in unison, each giving a flap of their wings.

Ophelia smiled in satisfaction.

Then, she made her way over to the table, skipping over the fallen figure of a guy still rolling back and forth on the grass while clutching his knee.

“Hi there! I’m–”

The elderly lady tapped at the table.

“Offering,” she said, without sparing a glance as she poured from a teapot into her cup. The other lay empty.

Ophelia tilted her head in thought.

A moment later, she took a seat opposite the lady … all the while leaning down and scooping up both ducks. She placed them onto the table, filling up what little room remained.

“You can pet Duck A and Duck B,” she said magnanimously.

The elderly lady studied the friendly ducks.

Her gaze settled on Duck A. Several seconds passed. 

“... Very well,” she said with a nod. “You may remain. Tea?”

“Sure.”

“Not for you. The duck. This one has quite the regal disposition.” 

Tea poured into the extra cup. It was nudged towards Duck A as soon as it filled.

Ophelia could only nod in agreement.

After all, she has the same impression. Even though Duck A attracted a lot of unwanted attention, everyone who tried to kidnap it at least did it with really good posture.

“You’ve fine company,” said the elderly lady, her tone brisk as she made it clear this would be a very short conversation. “A welcome reprieve from the mobs which have sought my attention so far, each larger than the last. Just a few moments ago, I wondered whether or not I was being mistaken for a troll needing to be haggled down.”

“They’re probably scared because they think you’re a fae.” Ophelia paused. “... Or a witch.”

“A preposterous notion. Both fae and witches live dull lives. I do not.” 

“Witches and fae can fly.” 

“Yes. And I am retired. Which means I’m free to explore the world where others are still chained to their daily doldrums and overly uncomfortable chairs.”

“Oh. Is that why you’re called the Wandering Guest?” 

“No, I’m called that because people lack imagination. I never give my name except to hasten my daughter’s first grey hair. But it’s true that I wander where I will and that I’m a guest wherever that might be.”

Ophelia was impressed. She wasn’t welcome anywhere.

Which was fair.

“Really? Nobody ever said no?” 

“Frequently.” The elderly lady sipped her tea. “But few ever say no twice. Particularly due to the tourism revenue I bring with the services I most certainly do not advertise. So go on. How may I help you, knowing I am very much neither a fae nor a witch capable of granting all that you desire?” 

Ophelia hummed. 

“Do you know a dragon?” 

A brow raised in response.

“I make it a point not to know dragons. I find them overly talkative even by my standards. They are bores, and if I can give any advice, it is that you seek your adventure elsewhere.” 

“Actually, I’m not looking for an adventure. Pretty much the opposite. I just want to quickly kill a dragon. I need a fang or a scale or a head. Just something to officially get me to S-rank.”

“An uninspiring goal. Accolades are no different to rain. An evening monopolised and then forgotten to sunshine the next day.”

“Well, I’m not doing it just for the accolades. I’m deciding whether or not to marry or murder a princess, and I figure I definitely need to be S-rank to not embarrass myself while doing it.” 

“I see.” 

The elderly lady took another sip of her tea.

And then–

Swish.

As swift as a diving swallow, she snatched her walking cane and sent it directly towards her knee. 

Despite her age, she was fast. But more impressive was her natural sense of misdirection. Even an entire queue of people knowing their knees were in danger wouldn’t be able to evade such a close strike.

Ophelia did it 5 times, her knees swerving beneath the table until she sat cross legged on her chair.

A moment passed.

Both offered the other a silent nod of acknowledgement. 

“You’re unsuitable to do either,” declared the elderly lady, her cane casually returning to the side of the table. “I suggest you make other plans.”

“Is that because I’m not a princess? 

“No. It’s because you haven’t offered to refill my tea even though I’ve been sipping from an empty cup. Whether it’s murder or marriage you desire, princesses may only associate with those who meet a certain social standard. My apologies, but this is simply out of your reach.”

Ophelia gave a hum, utterly unperturbed.

“But what about S-rank?” 

“A romanticised title no different than knighthood, with a much heavier burden of acceptance to carry than what you’ll find in the pages of fairytales. You will need to have achieved your rank in the name of loyal service, not to coins, warlords or personal glory. Have you performed many great deeds of selfless chivalry and unimpeachable honour to that effect?” 

“Yes,” said Ophelia, lying as easily as she breathed. 

The elderly lady raised a brow.

“... In that case, perhaps the least of princesses might be a match for you. I dare say there are enough of them in Granholtz, all proudly clinging to their names a century after being stripped of all their worth.”

“Actually, this one’s definitely a real princess. She’s part of the Tirea royal family.”

A pause.

“Really now.” The elderly lady’s voice suddenly lost all tone. It was now flat and expressionless. “You wish to murder or marry a princess from the Kingdom of Tirea?” 

“Yup!” 

“I see. Princess Florella caught your eye, I take it? She’s quite the model princess.” 

“Nope. Never met her. It’s the other one.”

“... Princess Clarise? She’s certainly a bright spark in this dreary world.”

“Nope. The other.”

The elderly lady blinked. 

“… Juliette?” 

“That’s the one!” 

Yet again, another pause.

“Juliette. The Juliette who cares nothing for marriage and will gladly escape to the ends of the world in order to avoid all mention of it? … And you wish to marry her? You?” 

“Or murder, sure!” Ophelia smiled brightly. “It’s a long story. But she’s hilarious and I don’t hate that.” 

The elderly lady simply stared. 

Silence filled the air between them. Ophelia allowed the time to pass while watching the cane.

It didn’t move.

In fact, nothing did. And so after several long, awkward moments, she did what any other elf in her place would do.

She stood up.

“Okay! It was nice to meet you. I appreciate your time. I’m just going to–” 

“Sit.” 

“Right. Sitting.” 

“What is your name, girl?”

“Ophelia.” 

“Ophelia.” The elderly lady studied her carefully. Like a piece of pottery being valued. Eventually, her eyes narrowed in familiar recognition. “... You. Would you happen to be the Snow Dancer?” 

“Yup! That’s me.”

A nod went her way.

The elderly lady refilled both tea cups. Ophelia didn’t know when Duck A’s had been drunk. 

And then– 

“Heh.”

There came a laugh.

“Heheheheh … heheheheheh.” 

No, not a laugh.

But a gentle cackle.

Like something halfway between what an evil mistress would emit while gently stroking a cobra and a how a farm girl would innocently giggle at her first dance. 

Ophelia waited for it to end … all the while a sense of foreboding began to tickle the back of her neck.

She counted the exits all around her.

“... Ah. I see.” The elderly lady smiled, making no mention of the concerning laughter. “So you already have a title, lesser though it may be in the official rolls. But you’re correct in thinking you need more. To associate with a princess, you must be worthy. And currently, you are not.” 

Ophelia shrugged. 

“That’s what the dragon’s for. And also the fancy shoes.”

Suddenly, the elderly lady stood up.

Her expression was the same as her back. Straight and proud. The cane useless as anything other than a prop. And also a knee breaker.

“The shoes you need,” she said briskly. “But not the dragon. You require something else.”

Ophelia blinked.

“What’s that?”

“Etiquette lessons.”

The elderly lady lifted her cane.

And then–

She lightly flicked the end against her tea cup, launching it towards Ophelia.