Summer Q&A — Part 1

• What would the ROS do if Romanus was captured by the Inquisition?

Hadrian would fall to his knees.

He would lose himself, for a moment only. Give in to the hopelessness that carves a hole in his guts, his ears ringing, the end of the world catching up to him. Blurry vision, he'd forget how to breathe.

And then, his left hand would find his cross, while his right curled on the pommel of his black sword. Hadrian would rise from the ground, one leg first, then the other, and when he'd get to his feet, Hadrian would vow to get you back or die trying.

---

It would hit Alessa like a bag of rocks to the face. She'd stand still, as rigid and lifeless as a cold marble statue. Inside, however, a storm would be raging. Heart shattering into a thousand pieces of glass that stabbed her from the inside out, again and again and again and again.

They are gone, and I am alone.

Tears blinded the world. There was no more light, no more warmth. Only eternal winter.

Then, she'd blink. Alessa would stare at the sun until her eyes burned, and her tears dried, and then, one foot in front of the other, Alessa White would do the impossible. She'd challenge the Church itself to get her heart back.

---

Alain would throw things.

The glass in his hand shattered on the opposite wall, the red wine spilling down like blood seeping out of a wound. The chair would be next, leg crushed under his heel, then the table, the curtains, whatever was at hand. From his throat, a desperate, shameless wail of a man who's been torn asunder.

The poor messenger would cower and flee the room, but before he could, Alain's voice would ring out. "Stay." No shouting or screaming. The tone would be lifeless, cold, and hard as steel.

Alain Theer would adjust his coat and step close to the page. Face set as a general preparation for war. "Send word to my honor guard. We leave before sunset." The noble would then pick up a long, thin rapier. "And write to my sister."

"What should I tell her, Your Grace?"

Alain would smile. "I'm sorry."

---

Ysabella wouldn't give herself a single moment. Not a second to breathe, to shake, to spill any tears. If she stopped, she'd break, and you don't need her breaking.

You need her strong.

As soon as word caught her ear, Ysabella Theer would fly to her desk. Writing letter after letter, pulling all the favors and blackmail she collected throughout the years, ambitions and games forgotten, her web of secrets destroyed. Her hand would be steady, her eyes focused, her mouth set into a thin, dangerous line.

She'd have a Cardinal willing to meet her the next morning. That wouldn't do. Ysabella would don her riding pants and set out to his estate in the next half hour.

And it was then, as she rode free, wind in her hair, rain splattering her face, it was then that Ysabella would finally, finally allow herself one single tear. One single shaky breath, one prayer, eaten by the wind. Just one of each. Before she hardened herself once more.

No weakness now. She has her love to save.

---

The Pirate would be at his desk. The letter in hand.

Smoke curled in front of his face, coming from the pipe at his lips. Slowly, he'd reach up and set aside the spectacles hanging from his nose bridge. The letter would be folded in four and stored in the inner pocket of his coat. The King of Pirates would rise, and his face would come to view, and if anyone was watching, their blood would run cold.

The door to his cabin would open, and out he'd come, boots clanking on the boards of his ship. Thump thump thump. Pirates would look at their captain and quickly look away. No one dared to approach, no one dared to even breathe too loudly. Men hardened by battle and forged in flames would lower their heads like submissive dogs.

Their general has death in his eyes.

At the helm, he would put his hands on the railing. "Set sails," the Pirate would say, voice rough like gravel, harsh fingers clutching the wood until the knuckles turned bloodless white. "All ships."

His second would pause. "The whole armada? Where to?"

In front of him, the sea stretched forever. The Pirate hears your name in the wind, your face in the clouds, and your absence as a knife in his chest. "Rome."

---

Neia, the Dawnseeker, would laugh. And what a terrible, beasty laugh it would be. "Is this how it feels?" she'd wonder to herself, her voice scratching the walls of her throat.

Yellow eyes would scan the night sky. "Father in Heaven," she'd mutter, long legs taking her to her ride. Her broken sword, split in the middle when she was taken to die, would be held the whole journey.

Blood would soon drip from it. Blood would paint the halls and the ceilings and the dungeons of every Inquisition stronghold from the south to the north of the Peninsula until she found you. "Guide me true," Neia would pray. "Or I'll drown Your world in my sorrow."

---

Lance would shake.

Whole body, teeth clattering against each other, the sound reverberating through his lonely room, where traces of you could be seen in every corner. Trembling hands would reach for a shirt of yours and clutch it with nails digging into the fabric.

"I failed you." Lance would croak. Another failure, another stain. Without noticing, Lance would mutter words he doesn't believe in and invoke a name he despises. "God Almighty, please." The words would tumble from his lips as his eyes glossed over. "Please, I give thee my blood, my soul, my flesh. Please."

And then, a wet nose would press against his leg, and grey eyes would see the little dog who calls him home looking up with sadness in her little eyes. And the world would be set on the right axis. "I'll bring them back," he'd promise to Chouriça.

Your shirt in hand, he'd seek Mist. Give the underlord all of himself, at last. Lance would do what he'd promised he'd never do again: sell himself, for all is worth to bring you back.

---

Vallen of the Red Guard would breathe deeply. There is an unfamiliar pressure on her chest. She cannot say she likes it.

Calm, owl-like eyes would fix on the horizon. She knew exactly where they took you. The problem is... are you worth it?

The Red Guard's face would be as still as an ancient pond, where the water has long dried out and even the vermin on the earth have left, for there is no moisture left. Unnaturally still, unnaturally empty. Then, Vallen would bend and pick up her travelling bag.

She has her answer. For the first time, in all her life, it’s yes.

---

Rafael would give in to despair.

He'd retch. Double over and empty his stomach. Vile bile would bite his throat and bring tears to his eyes, but it's nothing compared to the dread, the ache exploding inside. Borja wouldn't be able to think in those first moments.

He's been tortured. He's been through it. The thought of you there, in a dark room, afraid, alone, as he has been. The thought of what the Inquisition could do, horrors even he can't imagine.

Rafael vomits again. There's no more food in his stomach, just bile. Shoulders convulsing, all he can see is your face, tear-streaked and afraid and calling out to him. "Rafael."

Your voice would ring in his head, echoing into a chorus. It would grant him the strength to stand up, to wipe his mouth, and think of a plan. To not give in to despair, the end of all things.

He may be a cowardly, selfish bastard, but Rafael Borja would rather cut his own throat than leave you to such a horrible fate. He'll pull you out of it even if it's the last thing he'll do in this wretched world.

• If someone offered Alessa the power to turn off or get rid of her foolish thoughts towards Romanus, would she?

It depends on whether you're together or not. If you're together, she would not hear it. If you're not, she'd take the offer without a second thought.

Alessa isn't one to believe that memories are worth having even when they carry pain. She'd rather get rid of the pain altogether. Set her mind straight, her heart hardened, and her goals unobstructed. If you parted ways forever, Alessa would even erase you from memory if she could.

And always live with a strange, melancholy emptiness inside that she cannot explain.

This answer might depend on other factors in the future, but those are spoilers, so I'll stop here. 😊

• I would love more glimpses of Romanus and Julianna in the origins, please.

"No, like this."

A pair of hands cups yours, long fingers settling over your smaller ones. You look up and see the upside-down face of your mother. "Possum id facere," you protest, but make no move to slip your hands off your mother's grasp.

Julianna's brows furrow. "It is good to be strong and independent, my heart, but also." Mater moves her fingers, guiding yours as they weave the straws into an intricate pattern. "You should know when to accept help."

You watch attentively as your mother weaves the straws into a basket, the bottom almost finished. She repeats the motions thrice before stepping back. "Perge," Julianna gives the go-ahead, sitting beside you on the bench outside your modest farmhouse.

Gentle fields stretch to the horizon and, very faintly, you can hear the pigs start to stir. Soon, you'll be tasked to feed them, but you still have some time.

Your tongue sticking out of your mouth, you mimicked your mother's motions. You can feel her eyes on you, ever so sharp, and you can't help but feel nervous. You coil the stripes, once, twice—

A warm hand brushes your brow. "Very well," Julianna says, rising to her feet. You look up, and her long hair is framed by the golden light of a splendid sunrise. "You've mastered it."

Her smile looks soft in the gentle glow, and when she bends to leave a light kiss on your head, you blink in surprise. "Now, get dressed." Mater changes to Common. "If you want to accompany me to the Market tomorrow, you need to finish all your chores today."

You jump to your feet. "Yes, momma!"

---

"Don't insult me."

"It's all I have!"

"I'm not in the habit of running a charity," your mother says, dismissing the other woman with a wave of the hand. "Look for the churches up north, perhaps you'll meet a better fate."

You hold your breath. The would-be client is interested in your most precious item, a gem-filled elephant statue that Mater snatched from some dark dealings a few months back. So far, no place you've visited could afford it, but you're in the bustling marketplace of Cairo, and the patrons here have the kind of coin you can only dream about.

The woman offered three gold pieces. You almost jumped in joy, but your mother simply shook her head no.

The two adults stare into each other's eyes, neither willing to surrender. "Your loss," the client says at last, and turns to go.

The world tumbles beneath your feet. "Mom, how could—"

Julianna doesn't even spare you a glance. She keeps her eyes on the woman's back as she takes a step, then another... then, with a twirl of her shawl, angrily returns to your stall. "Five gold and that's the last offer."

Julianna bends her head. "Sold."

The sun is setting, and so are you. You're closing your stall for the night when your mother walks closer, a heavy punch hooked to her belt. "We have enough to last us the whole winter," Mater says with a rare, satisfied light in her eyes. "And the market will run for ten more days."

You throw a cover over the goods. "How did you know?" you ask.

"Hmm?"

You turn to your mother. "How did you know she'd break?"

Julianna's pleased look disappears. Her gaze sharpens as she steps closer. "You are no longer a child, cor meum." She whispers the last words. My heart. "All these years teaching you and nothing stuck? Do you believe I'll be around forever?"

You cross your arms. "Don't be dramatic."

But Julianna sighs. "How can I not? When my own blood flails like a fish out of water."

Part of you is offended, while the other part catches the slightest tease in her tone. "Then you should blame yourself," you say, fighting back a grin. "For not giving me legs to stand on."

Julianna stares at you before, with a huff, she ruffles your hair. Moonlight lights the night, illuminating her smile. It's becoming rare to see her this way. You've taken to enjoying every moment it happens. "Because." Your mother leans in and whispers in your ear. "I saw her coin purse. It was so fat the strings couldn't even fasten it closed."

"That's all?" you ask, smile spilling free.

Julianna leans back so she can look you in the eye. "No," she says. "I also saw the glint of greed in her eyes when she looked at the statue. You should learn to recognize it. It is as dangerous as it is malleable."

---

The boar is bleeding, corned, and exhausted. Its belly heaves up and down, and its beady black eyes gaze as you come out of the heavy shrubbery, your bow lowered and your free hand on the pommel of your hunting knife.

Mater follows in your footsteps, her presence ever vigilant on your back.

You stalk close to your prey, which you've been hunting for the better part of two days. You’re breathing as unevenly as the boar, and tiredness is making your limbs hang heavy.

You can tell the animal has given up. Three arrows stick to its back, and one more is split on its ribs. Dark blood seeps out of the wound punctures. The boar shakes, then falls sideways to the leaves. Dappled sunlight shines from the canopy above, settling like a veil over its body.

Your hand shakes as it takes out the knife. Its beady eyes follow the movement, and you can see the fear there. The absolute fear of this living thing, lying at your mercy.

And then, you stand still.

Julianna breaks the quiet. "Percute nunc."

You tighten your grip. Strike. Strike! But your hand refuses to obey.

There's another pause before Mater steps to your side. She doesn't touch you. She doesn't need to. "What do you think of?"

Your eyes are fixed on the blood. "Grizzly—"

A hand grabs your wrist and turns you to her. You have to crane your neck to face her, Julianna standing several heads taller than you. This is your first proper hunt, the first time you must prove yourself to her, but all you can think of is how Grizzly bled too, and you helped him. You didn't strike.

"Listen to me." Julianna grabs both of your shoulders, her face as grave and hard as her tone. "Do you think Grizzly doesn't hunt?"

"I— I know he does, but—"

Julianna's nails sink into your shoulders. You bite your tongue to keep from flinching. "From dirt to flesh, to dirt again. Look at it. It's in pain, bleeding heart of mine. Would you leave it to suffer or grant it a merciful, dignified death?"

You look at the boar. It's shaking, its breath ragged. There's fear there, yes, but also pain. Overwhelming pain.

Julianna gently pushes you forward. "You said you were grown enough. Prove it."

You do. You strike true and take the first life in your young existence.

You don't realize you're crying until Mater sofly takes you into her arms. You cry into her tunic, cry for the loss of innocence, for the cruel circle of life. Julianna kisses your brow, and a gentle hand soothes your back.

"Shed your tears, little one," she says, "and may these be your last. I don't ever want to see you cry over what must be done. Never hesitate when it comes to your survival."

• Are there any sides to certain characters that a high-friendship Romanus would see that a romance Romanus wouldn't? Or at least wouldn't see till much later? You know, how some things you can admit to a friend more easily than you could to someone you're dating, because there's still high trust but lower pressure to get every word right?

Hmm, this one is hard and may not work for every character, especially because I haven't written friendship dynamics outside of Hadrian, Alessa, and, to a lesser extent, Lance and Rafael.

But I'll give it a go!

Hadrian: His nightmares. I can see him admitting it more readily to a high-friendship Romanus than a romanced one because, while he still doesn't want you to worry, he wouldn't feel as... weak? Vulnerable? With a friend rather than a lover.

Alessa: Her enjoyment of 'silly things'. I think she's more at ease showing her childish side (the word she'd use, not me) to a friend rather than a lover. The reason is very simple: she's embarrassed and doesn't want her lover to think of her as less-than.

Alain: This one's a heavy one, but probably, he'd admit to a friend first that he may have a drinking problem. He has his walls set up higher with a romanced Romanus because it's so very new to him and strange, but with friendship, he'll open up more easily.

Ysabella: Honestly, nothing. Bella is the type to keep all her secrets close to her chest, but if she is to trust anyone, she'd trust her lover first.

The Pirate: You won't get much of him as a friend, I'm afraid. His friendship will be more... respect-based, and, in the future, as a bond forged through fire, but I don't see him opening up to a friend. A lover, however…. You’ll have to work for it, but he'll grow soft for you only.

Neia: Neia never had true friends. If you manage to become one, she'll regard you almost as highly as a possible lover. There are some things I could see her approaching with a friend first, mostly the way she grew up and what she endured within the Church. I think, to a lover, she'd cover that part of her past for a while longer.

Lance: Too guarded. Both romance and friendship will probably move at the same pace when it comes to his trust in you.

Vallen: 😆

Rafael: Much like Neia, the true, vivid story of what happened to him. He'd be terrified of a lover thinking him pathetic and leaving him, but, with a friend, Rafael would be more candid. He'd still care about what you think of him, but he'd believe you're his friend because you enjoy his company. In a relationship, Rafael constantly doubts why you put up with him in the first place.

• If roles were swapped with Romanus and each of the characters, and they were the one with the mark, how big would the mark/corruption level be for each person? Or if they're someone who hasn't killed before, like Ysabella or Alain, if they were given the same choices as Romanus from Book 1 to the current demo, what would their corruption level be now?

Corruption isn't only tied to death, and the mark, as you can see in the demo, is ever-growing, so none could escape it.

I'll answer as if they're the protagonist and the story has gone all the way to the current end of the demo.

Hadrian: One of the lowest of the bunch. He'd have around 6 Corruption. Five because of the dream, and one because he would have killed Wyll when he was threatening Romanus/Alessa.

Alessa: Highish. I'd say... 10? She's pragmatic to the point of cruelty, so I can see her making some pretty brutal choices — and the more she gave into that side of her, the easier violence would come.

Alain: Not as corrupt as he could be, simply because his life hasn't allowed/given him the opportunity to. He'd definitely use his darker side to be more involved in the nobility's games. I could see him growing extremely corrupt with time, but it would take a while. In the game, around 7 or 8.

Ysabella: Seldom uses violence unless it's absolutely necessary. The problem with necessity is that it's as subjective as morality. Over time, the bar for what's 'necessary' would lower more and more. But, for now, she'd have about 5 or 6 Corruption.

The Pirate: Close to 15. He's already a murderer, a pillager, and, well, a pirate. With the mark, he'd be more ruthless and brazen, possibly to the point of risking mutiny. I can see the mark eating away at his calculative, general-of-war intellect, making him less of a leader and more of a violent idiot.

Neia: She'd have a high Corruption, but the more it grew, the more she would cling to the certainty it was a divine gift. The most dangerous of the bunch, because she'd see her brutality as righteous. I'd say 15 or more.

Lance: In the low end, about 7 or 8. Despises violence without cause, but when it comes to the Church, I could see him losing it. Still, in the game, there wouldn't be many chances for it to grow.

Vallen: The highest it can go in a single playthrough. Not because she'd be crazed with bloodlust, but because she can. If the easier route is murder, Vallen takes it. If she thinks the mark can grant her an advantage? She's actively seeking to make it grow.

Rafael: Low as well. The only way I'd see it growing a lot is if Tarek were involved. Then, Rafael would lose himself to the mark. But, in-game, a 6 or 7.

• I was wondering for the reason of the flag colour change in the Mist hideout. Was it anything special or just an aesthetic change?

Do you mean when Alessa says it used to be another flag? Well... in-game, who knows? Out of game, there is usually a reason when authors/directors/video game developers make it a point to highlight a small, supposedly unimportant detail to the audience. 

You're supposed to keep it in mind. 😊

• My question for the ROs is: if you could take Romanus to see the place you truly call home, would you?

Hadrian: Definitely. If he thought returning to Lundenwic was safe, he'd love to show you the monastery he grew up in and the Order that took him in. The rainy moors, the steep cliffs, the magpies flying in pairs. Yes, he'd love it. 

Alessa: She'd like to as well. Home isn't something she thinks of often, and she tells herself her home is in Navarra, in the Company's headquarters, but, deep down, she knows it's untrue. Her home, her true home, is on a small island in the Greek archipelago. She’s fond of it, but Alessa doesn't wish to return. If it were to show you, however... what a nice, foolish thought that is. Impossible, but she catches herself smiling. 

Alain: No. Absolutely not. He doesn't want you anywhere near the nest of vipers he grew up in. Alain often drinks to forget it. 

Ysabella: Much like Alain, she wouldn't. There's nothing to go back to; she'd rather build her own little home with you. So far, she and Alain have no true home – only each other.

The Pirate: Sure, that'd be great. There's only one problem, though. Where in the Spirits is his home?

Neia: Indifferent. If home is where she grew up, Neia could take you to the first Inquisition fort she ever stepped into, but she doesn't consider it home. Home are the churches, with their candles and pews and somber organ music drifting towards the domed ceiling. Home is the road, where she followed divine orders to their end. Home is her sword, and her dead horse, and the armor that clings to her body like a second skin. 

Lance: No. 

Vallen: Hmmm. She hasn’t thought of home in a long, long time. Would you like to visit? She supposes she can lead the way. She likes travelling with you. 

She'll show you the ruins of her home.

Rafael: He dreams of home almost every night. His little house, full of his siblings, messy and unkempt, but always smelling of fresh-baked bread and the underlying smell of clean linen sheets. He dreams of his ma, with lines on her face, and the grave of his da, surrounded by flowers. He'd kill to take you there, hold your hand, and introduce you to his ma, then his siblings, then the spouses of his siblings, and any possible nieces and nephews. 

He'd love to, but he can't. He can't. 

• Can Raf swim? I'm sure he can't, but I'm trying to prove someone wrong (it ain't me.) 

He can! 😆 Sorry to disappoint. He's actually a fairly good swimmer. The only ROs who can't swim are Lance and Ysabella. Lance knows how to keep himself afloat for a bit, but, in strong tides or restless waters, he'd have a hard time. Ysabella was prohibited from swimming, while Alain had lessons at a private beach on their family estate.

All the others know how to swim out of necessity, some better than others. The Pirate is, of course, the best swimmer of the bunch. I'd say, right after him, is Alessa.

If this were true to History, pretty much all of them wouldn't know how to swim, since it was uncommon for people to swim, and do it well, in the Middle Ages (even seamen, crazy as it is). But, in the game, the majority of the cast can at least keep themselves from drowning immediately.

Just for fun, I'll also say my headcanons for each of the origins. The strongest swimmer is the Merchant Romanus because you've spent long hours of your childhood playing on the Nile. When it was calm, you swam quite far (got yelled at by Julianna once) and, when the waters got tempestuous, you loved to dive under the waves. Often you'd be caught in them, and roll around until you lost sense of what was up or down, and every inch of your body was covered in mud. 

The second-best swimmer is the Scribe Romanus. There was a stream in your farmland where Julianna used to teach you how to swim. It was always calm, so you're not used to the sea or the ocean, but you do know how to swim quite well. There were fish in that pond. When you were very little, you considered them your friends. 

The last in Hunter Romanus. You lived in the moors and highlands. There were streams and rivers, but they were either too dangerous to swim in, too cold, or too far away in some ravine. You know the basics, Julianna made sure of it, but overall, you're the most uncomfortable in water. 

• I would like to see the ROs' (Hadrian and Alessa, excluded because they have already met) reaction to Beka. Maybe Romanus is taking her under their wing without consulting their partner? 

You'll definitely see this in-game! Though you'll never 'consult your partner'. If you decide to take Beka under your wing, Romanus will do it because they want to. They need not ask anyone. 

Beka would take offence otherwise. 

• In the future, when they are already in a committed relationship, how would the ROs react to Romanus telling them that they love them? 

You'll see this in-game as well! 😆 Sorry, but this is very specifically something that will happen!!

• Do accents exist in TGR? Hadrian talking about being from Lundenwic got me wondering. I never imagined him with an English accent, but now I'm dying to know — haha! If they do exist, do any of the other ROs have one?

There are some subtle accents, especially in remote places and villages that are often cut off from the larger world. The British Islands are too big to have a universal accent, plus, the south isn't isolated at all. The Church is everywhere, and many cities and settlements are major hubs of commerce to the mainland. 

Hadrian is from the south; he speaks like the others in the Enlightenment Lands, there's no special accent. 

This world isn't like our own, and History took a big turn. Language developed very differently — there weren't many different influences to pull from. Latin ceased to exist, so Spanish, Portuguese, and French never developed. Germanic languages never existed, either, so the Common spoken (although it's written in English because, well, the game is in English) doesn't sound like English. 

It's a different language altogether. There are accents here and there, but it’s mostly homogenous. The Church wants the land united, indistinguishable, and, totally, wholly, subversive. If language started to stray too far off the 'norm', well... it needs to be dealt with. 

As for the ROs, the only two with noticeable accents are the Pirate and Lance. Lance, because his first language is Latin. He learned Common later than Latin, so there's always a kind of lightness in the tone; the vowels are less pronounced, and he speaks it like a stream, or a melody, where commas and full stops are often ignored. 

He's gotten better at hiding it, but it's still very much noticeable. 

The Pirate also speaks Common as his second language. He can be clumsy with it, especially in moments of high tension — which, to be fair, rarely happen. You'll notice a slight off-cadence to his speech, like he's dragging the consonants behind him with an iron chain.

As for Romanus, the only one I could see with an accent growing up would be the Hunter. Their village is isolated enough to allow some deviation in speech. They lost it when they traveled away, however. Now, Romanus speaks like all the others.  

• This is very much spoiler territory, but I would like to know how the group would interact with a high-corrupted Romanus.

Spoilers indeed, my friend! 

• Romanus asking or being asked to dance by their RO, and what they might chat about while they dance.

Spoilers too! I don’t want to ruin the Ball, now that it’s so close. ♡

• Before we had the "Wind," "Water," "Fire" posts of a near-death Romanus with the ROs. Was wondering if there would be one of those with Rafael and Lance as the ROs, too?

I stopped that series because, to be quite honest, I was tired of writing the same theme over and over. But, it's been some time, so sure, I can write for Raf and Lance as well! 

Those are very long scenarios, however, and they deserve their own post, so I won't include them in this Q&A ❤️

• How long ago did Hadrian, Lance, and Rafael leave their old lives behind?

Hadrian left the Templars about six years ago. Lance fled the monastery almost ten years ago. Rafael tore himself away from the Company two, nearly three years ago. 

• How would the ROs help calm down a frustrated Romanus? Frustrated with their lack of progress on a mission or them struggling to translate a text fully, for example?

Hadrian: Unwavering support. Hadrian would lay a large hand on your back and be whatever you needed him to be. "Take a breath," he'd say, soothing up and down your spine. "What can I do?"

Would you like to talk about it? Hadrian would listen. Do you want to take your mind off the problem? Hadrian would gladly accompany you wherever you wanted to go. Do you want to be left alone? Hadrian would... be hurt, but, with a quiet kiss to your temple, he'd leave you be.

Alessa: "'Tis unwise to give in to frustration. It complicates even the simplest of matters."

She'd remain calm and try to guide you out of it. Alessa is no stranger to frustration, and she knows how much worse it can be when someone tells you to 'calm down'. She'd rather be calm and hope you follow suit. If you're open to it, she'd give her advice on matters she understood. If it were a translation... Alessa would tell you that ancient texts would not go anywhere. "Take a break, darling one, and follow me. The air smells of the sea."

Alain: I could see him annoying you a bit 😭. Not necessarily on purpose, but he could be dismissive. "Is that what has your panties in a twist? Sparrow, just step away from the desk."

He would be offended in kind if you told him to shut up. Might brood a little bit.

With time, and as your relationship deepened, Alain would understand that, even if something seems trivial to him, it doesn't mean it's trivial to you. So, he'd begin by sending food and drinks to your quarters. Then, a new, beautiful quill. A plush chair with golden leaf details, coupled with a silken blanket to drape over your legs.

You'd be swarming in gifts when he stepped into the room, a shy grin in place. "How are you feeling? You don't want my head on a pike?" he'd ask, only mildly joking, as he grabs hold of your hand and kisses your knuckles. "Anything I can do? My treasury is yours to use."

Ysabella: If it wasn’t important, she'd try to make your smile. Prob the corner of your lips, tickle the side of your ribs. Lace a hand on your bicep and ask you to walk with her. "I am in dire need of an escort," Ysabella would say, pulling you along with a pretty smile. "And I know none better than you."

If it were important, however, you'd see a side of Ysabella that very few do. She'd sit right beside you, her brows in a firm set and a subdued fire in her eyes. "Tell me," she'd say. "Let's join our heads together."

The Pirate: Straight to problem-solving mode. He'd be telling you three different ways you can solve the issue. "Just tell me who's giving you trouble, peach. I'll take care of it."

"You need an in? It's done."

"Don't know what that text means? I'll try to—"

He’d snap his mouth shut when you sent him a glare. "...What?"

It'd take a while for him to get through his thick skull that you may just need to vent. When he'd understand, though, the Pirate would wrap you in his arms and be the ear you needed. If you're restless, he'd take you out to sea. And if you ever wanted his advice, he'd give it to you. In this, he'd let you take the lead.

Neia: She'd grunt, sit beside you, and stare ahead. At first, you thought she was ignoring you, but you soon understood she was waiting for you to explain. In detail. Neia would interject, cross-examining the problem until you felt like you were in an interrogation.

Overall, however, she'd be surprisingly good at it. If she saw a solution, she'd tell you, and scoff if you rejected it, but stop there. If she didn't have a solution, she'd tell you plainly that it's useless to mull on it. "Truth almost comes to light," Neia would say, her yellow eyes like two beacons. "Sooner or later, you'll have it. But you can't force providence. Either work for it or put it out of your mind."

Lance: He loves challenges. He'd love to work alongside you, if you'd let him. Puzzles, secrets, ways in without leaving a trace. Lance would team up with you and, hopefully, get rid of that frustration by showing you he won't let you do this alone.

"Lay it out to me, translator," Lance would say, his gold tooth flashing as he offered his hand. "If we fail... well, we may take comfort that we fail together."

To calm you, though, Lance would absolutely employ Chouriça. Plop her on your lap and let the little dog do what she does best. The spy would feel a strange warmth in his chest when you'd finally smile at Chouriça.

Vallen: She wouldn't get it at first. Why are you so invested in this? She'd try to understand the issue first and, much like the Pirate, she'd be more focused on finding solutions than reassuring you.

"You're complicating things," Vallen would tell you, pointing a finger at your heart. "Stop thinking with this." She'd then move her finger up, and a nail would scratch your forehead. "And use this."

She would genuinely bring new light to the issue, but the problem is... I don't know if you'd like that light 😆. If Vallen noticed you were becoming increasingly frustrated, she'd just grab your face and kiss you, shutting off your mind by pleasuring your body.

Rafael: He would be frustrated right along with you. Scowling, fingers restless, curses on the tip of his tongue. "Don't know how the hell we're s'pose to get it," he'd say, slamming his drink on the counter. "Bastards ripped us off."

You'd feed off each other until you're both ready for war xD. There'd be a time, however, if Rafael saw you genuinely in distress, where he'd rein himself in. Swallow his own frustrations and focus on you. He'd be clumsy, at first, but he'd try to talk it out with you. "Hey, softie..." A pause, then Rafael would kiss the corner of your mouth. "Hang on a moment, yea? You wanna talk about it? Without shouting?"

• How would the ROs react to Romanus showing them where they grew up? 🥺 The hunter's forest, the scribe's old farm, the banks of the Nile?

Hadrian: Solemn, almost. He knows. He knows what this means to you, how hard it must be for you. Hadrian would be holding your hand tight through the whole ordeal, and, while your home is beautiful, his eyes would be constantly drawn to your face.

The cadence of your voice as you spoke of your childhood, the soft, open look in your features, that vulnerable, precious light in your eyes. And the pain, too, underneath it all. Hadrian would drink it all in and behave as if he were stepping into a cathedral, where the air itself is sacred.

He'd remember every word, every corner. Because it's you. And there's nothing more holy than you.

"I'll never forget this," Hadrian would say, kissing your bare stomach as he knelt before you. "For as long as God keeps me on this earth."

Alessa: Outside, Alessa would be composed, matching your every step, asking soft-spoken questions. Her eyes would catch the sunlight as she observed every detail, from the rocks on the gravel path to the mountains that cut the horizon.

Inside, Alessa would be melting. This is... she has never quite felt this. To be let in, to be included, to be trusted in this manner. She thought she could not love you more, but you prove her wrong again and again. When you stop in an outcrop, and you stare at where your old house used to be, Alessa's gaze is drawn to your profile.

To the indescribable expression you wear. She wishes she could decipher it, but all she does is quietly reach for your hand. And when you lace hands together, Alessa does not complain about how tightly you hold onto her. She squeezes back, a knock on her throat, and foolish tears welling in her eyes.

"Darling one," Alessa would whisper, frigid hands cupping your face, lying on top of you. "Tell me of your friends once more. I wish to remember their names."

Alain: The nobleman would immerse himself completely in it. "Is this what you wore?" He'd want to wear something similar. He'd listen raptly to your tales and laugh along with you about the times you tripped and fell into this hole, or the times you rolled around in the sand.

The whole thing would be liberating to him. He couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to have a childhood like yours, and how he wished he could have met you sooner. He wished to see your chubby face, and your toothless smiles, and the innocence you had before the world took it away.

But Alain isn't blind. Among the genuine joy he'd have on the trip, he would see your sorrow too. He doesn't necessarily understand it — his childhood had nothing to be melancholic about, but he can imagine. So, he'd step up from behind and hold you, chin resting on your shoulder. "Thank you for thanking me here," he'd say, wiping the tear that rolled down your cheek.

Ysabella: She'd be uncharacteristically quiet. Her round, brown eyes reflecting the light, but letting nothing out. She'd listen to you, both the words and the way you'd say them. It was like Ysabella was reading a book, and she didn't want to miss a single clue.

Inside, she was adding pieces to the puzzle that you are. Little by little, story by story, the puzzle would fill — not completely, she knows that will take a long time, but some.

She'd jump on puddles, dress hitched high, and giggle when you took her into your arms and carried her across the stream of your farmland. The fields are wild now, unkept, but when you arrived at the collapsed farmhouse, Ysabella's smile would die as she saw your face.

Her hand would grab yours as if she wanted to take your pain into herself. "I can imagine it," she says, sweeping her free arm in the air. "Right there was the bathing house."

You'd crack a small smile. "We had no bathing house."

"Blasphemy! But how did you survive?" Ysabella laughs, then continues. "And there, the guest wind. Over on that hill—"

She'd entertain you, trying to keep the overwhelming sadness away, but her hand would never leave yours.

The Pirate: He looks out into the moors and shakes away the wrongness of not seeing the sea on the horizon. Instead, jagged mountain tops surround him. "Not bad," he says, the northern wind biting at his cheeks. He looks at you and smirks. "This place is harsh and wild. Fit for a warrior."

You bump your shoulder with him. "Told you."

You lead him down the perilous path, his hand firm on your shoulder. You think it's because he needs you for balance, but in reality, the Pirate is keeping you close. He felt a shift in you as you drew closer to your destination. A restlessness coupled with something deeper.

If you need to break, he wants to be right there to catch you.

When you approach the village, the Pirate has his arm over your shoulders as his black eyes sweep over the rugged houses. Despite his words, he thinks this place is unbefitting of you. You deserve gold and jewelry, the finest meats, and the smoothest wines. But you came from this, and for the first time, he realizes that you and he aren't so different, after all.

And when you finally break, in the ruins of your old house, he does what he set out to do. He catches you, tight and firm, in his arms. "Leave the past in the past," the Pirate whispers in your ear. His tone isn’t unkind, but it’s not soft either. It’s spoken with the pain of experience. "Leave it all behind, peach. Set your eyes on the horizon, or you'll be eaten whole."

Neia: Neia follows you around with a blank face. She listens to your tales and watches the scenery, but she's not particularly interested in the outside, nor does she care for what once was. She's interested in you, the current you, not the one in the past.

And because she wants to know you, she settles instead to observe what you choose to tell her. And uncover what you try to hide.

You hide the sorrow in your voice well, but you can't fool her. Not when you crouch down to touch the warm sand of a tall dune. Neia lowers herself with you, sweat dripping down her back, and tilts your chin until yellow eyes study every inch of your face. "Hmm."

"What?" you ask.

Neia's rough thumb sweeps over your sun-kissed cheek, brushing away fine sand. "You missed this."

You look down. "Of course, I did."

Neia nods, then gets up, pulling you after her. "Then come," she says, marching down towards the glinting river in the distance. "Show me all you used to do. Don't try to keep anything from me, either, sweetling."

A sharp smile over her shoulder. "I'll know."

Lance: Lance is keeping notes the entire journey. He writes of the sunset hues over the valley of Lamego, and the brilliant starry sky that stretches to the infinite. He writes of the blackbirds at dawn, and the wind rustling over the blades of grass, creating a melody even the Gods couldn't compose.

He notes about the food in the area, the clothes people wear, and the wooden churches along the road. He writes poems about the winding roads, the song of roosters on the distant farms, and the swarm of bees that chased you off a hill.

But, most of all, Lance writes about you. Your smile, the way your hair gleams in the moonlight. He writes about your eyes, and how they creased in the corners when you taught him how to weave a basket. Lance notes about the warmth of your kisses in the night, and the scent of your skin, and the secret whispers two lovers promise each other.

He writes too, of your mother. Lance writes of the pained twist of your mouth, of the shake in your voice, and he doesn't write how he held you through it because he wants the focus to stay on you.

At the end, three fortnights after you left, Lance would sit you down and sing to you the long song he composed of your outing. "In fields of gold and skies of blue, a most loved child learned how to sew."

Vallen: Her feet are ice cold, but she doesn't move.

"Hold on..."

The spear pole is wet and slippery, but Vallen holds it true.

"Hold..."

Her eyes narrow on the silvery fish lazily gliding along the shallows of a fast-moving river.

"Now!"

Vallen throws the spear.

Red mist slowly taints the crystalline water, the catfish impaled at its end. "Yoo-hoo!" You jump up, your fist in the air. Then, you grab Vallen's shoulders and shake her. "You fuckin’ got it!"

She widens her eyes. "I’m good at killing things."

You're still hollering when you plunge into the water and fetch her kill, moving as if the cold doesn’t affect you. Vallen cocks her head at your back as the echoes of your voice climb up the stony ravine above. She has never seen you this... free and happy.

The bonfire crackles softly. Vallen's catfish slowly spins above, and you cut some onions to accompany the fish. Vallen was setting up the tent, but she came closer now and sat on the log you're on.

"Was this how you ate?" Vallen asks, watching the fish's mouth hang wide open. What an ugly thing.

You shake your head. "We didn't live in the wild," you say, "tomorrow we'll get to my old village. We often ate together with the other families."

Vallen turns her head and watches you. The whites of your eyes reflect the fire, and the gentle glow outlines your profile. Your black hand holds the knife, a potato half forgotten in your grip. She watches you quietly, wishing she could reach up, split your skull open, and read every thought that festers in your mind.

But she'll settle for asking. "Tell me," Vallen says, laying her head on your shoulder. "Tell me everything."

And, in a low, monotonous voice, you do.

Rafael: Oh, but he's hurting too. For every story of your past, he tells you one of his. When you mention your mother, Rafael speaks of his. Your old friends, your pastimes, your favorite sweets, and your most hated foods.

Rafael listens to you raptly, stores the information, and then shares a piece of himself with you.

You both drift as if in a dream, in a line between the past and the present, where memories materialize out of thin air. He learns so much about you, asks so many questions, and, in turn, you do the same to him.

As you walk hand in hand at night, the Nile lapping at your ankles, you tell Rafael about all the times you used to play in the waves. "Friends came and went, always a new group each summer, but these waters..." You swallow a knock on your throat as you gaze at the moon reflected on the river’s surface. "These waters stayed the same. It was the only thing that never changed."

Rafael stops walking and looks out at the Nile. Then, his hand slips from yours to grab something in his pocket. Rafael bends down, plunges his hand in the water, and, when he straightens up, he presents you with a small, corked bottle.

"You should have it with ya, then," Rafael says, "always."

You stare at the bottle. It's filled with water from the Nile. The knock in your throat tightens until it makes your lungs ache.

Rafael looks from you to the bottle, then back to you. "Forget it, it was stupid," he says, eyes darting down as a dark flush creeps up his cheeks. "I thought—"

But you throw your arms around his neck and squeeze him tight. "Thank you," you say, the tears falling unabashedly. "Thank you, Rafy."

He buries his face in your neck. "Love ya."

----

There were a lot more questions than I expected (Thank you!). So, I'll write a scenario for each RO in the next part! I want to take my time with them, and this has gotten too big!

There are several different scenario requests, but worry not; those I don't choose, I'll keep in mind for future posts. 🌹