June Q&A

This is a continuation of the May Q&A.

• How do all the ROs deal with a Romanus whose religious beliefs are deeply opposite to their own?

I won't go into too many details with this because, for some routes, it is spoilers, but I can give a little taste.

So far, Hadrian has put it out of his mind. His former headmistresses would have accused him of turning a blind eye, but, for you, Hadrian prefers to sin. You must remember it's only been about 4 days since Romanus started to return his affections in the game, and so much is happening. Hadrian focuses on you and on protecting you and shuts everything else out.

He's a free man now. Not a Templar. He's seen what the Church does, how cruel they can be. He will not enforce what he once was taught. The world is so much grey than before, when everything was painted black and white.

But he notices. He remembers each one of your grimaces when God is mentioned. He sees you flinch away from holiness, and deep in his heart, Hadrian weeps. What will become of you? There's a Hell and a Heaven. And what will become of your soul?

If he can have eternity with you, how can he be satisfied with only this life?

If these thoughts steal hours of sleep, well, Hadrian never sleeps much these days anyway. He pushes them out of his mind... for now.

-

Alessa does not like it. Can you not see the hypocrisy? Why are you, a formidable person in every other way, on your knees begging pathetically to a God who does not listen? She understands not. She never has. But the others were insignificant fools, and you...

You are not insignificant.

For one who has lived all her life in the Enlighten Lands, Alessa knows when to keep her mouth shut and her thoughts to herself. Alessa does it around you, first out of self-preservation, then, as she trusts you more, out of habit.

So far, she has kept her mouth closed about this with you. 'Tis not worth the argument. 'Tis not worth seeing your face flash with hurt. It would... upset her. You know how she feels about it. For now, 'tis enough.

But how long can a viper hold its tongue?

-

Alain could not care less. Whether you believe vehemently, hate every sacred stone in a church, or don't give it two thoughts just like him, Alain is more than okay. Is there a Heaven? He... believes it may be. But he's also seen how the worms eat at a body, and the flesh returns to the earth, and Alain would not be surprised if he opened his eyes and was a fox in another life.

But who cares about another life? He has this one. That's the one thing he knows for certain. He won't waste any of it worrying about the end. The idiots are the monks and the scholars who can't shut up about it. God's nails, the arguments.

So, if you live and let live, Alain will much rather discuss other things with you. Like, what do you think about accompanying him to a secluded farm owned by his aunt? There's a lake nearby, with shrubbery all around, and it's been known for young nobles to discard their clothes and swim in their God-given birthday suits. Would that interest you? Just him and you? You could talk all about God then, sparrow. He'd listen passionately.

-

Ysabella... does not mind it. Not completely. What confuses her is a Romanus who believes in nothing. If your Romanus believes in the old Gods, she understands. Not the belief, but the fact that you believe. It is an enchanting thing, to believe. Ysabella does not understand those who hold none.

If you stand for nothing (Burr), what will you fall for?

What is this all for?

That.... she has trouble wrapping her head around. So, if you're a pagan, Ysabella will flood you with questions, listening raptly to all you tell her. If you believe in the Church's God, she'll go with you to mass, and secretly lace her pinkie with yours while you're kneeled in the pews. If you believe there's nothing but the tangible earth, she will question if you are capable of believing in anything at all.

-

The Pirate King shrugs. Believe all you want, peach. It's a large, vast, and complex world out there. It should have large, vast, and complex people within in. This homogeneous of the Enlightened Lands unnerves him.

Perhaps because he spent most of his life in boats, where each ship was a kingdom and a captain a different monarch, the concept of a doctrine is as foreign to him as the concept of personal propriety. Sailors are a superstitious bunch, and while most of them believed in the Church's God, he's met his fair share of those who do not.

He himself doesn't. The Pirate barely spent time at home, in a land lost in the mist, but one of the few things that stuck with him was the reverence for the ones that came before. Respect for his ancestors. Makes sense, he supposes. The old guiding the new, the snake eating its own tail, History turning in a perpetual circle.

Whatever you believe or not believe, he's interested because, buried deep in him, there's a philosopher in there somewhere. You may even have debates about it, where he assumes the role of the contrarian just because the Pirate was born to play the Devil's advocate. But it's not personal, and the debate will never be an argument. He's no judge. He doesn't like judges – they have the habit of putting a bounty on his head.

Who knows? Maybe with time, you may even convince him of some truth in your doctrine. He has no issue believing several things at once.

"That's not... You can't do that."

"Do what?"

"Believe in the Church's God and others. It's a contradiction, for to believe in God, you accept he's the sole creator."

 He takes his pipe out of his mouth. "But I believe in both. Your contradiction is null."

"So, you don't believe in Him."

"I do."

"You can't."

"Peach, I believe. See?" He puts his hands together, as if in prayer. "Father in Heaven hollowed be your name. Give us today our daily bread. Forgive our sins as we destroy those who sin against us. Lead us straight into temptation but deliver us from the evil of the privateers."

You leave the deck, his amused chuckles echoing from behind.

-

Neia... is a big spoiler 😋.

-

Considering Lance's past, it's no surprise he's less than comfortable around a highly pious Romanus. In truth, he sees the chains wrapped around your wrists and ankles, the crown of steel sitting at your head with its thorn digging into your skin, the red strings of blood dripping down your forehead. The same that once wrapped around his body, the same that once twisted his mind.

He will avoid speaking of it with you — but then again, he avoids most things. Your fervor, your devotion is like a rash that spreads on his skin, and makes him twitch, makes his back burn as if it's bleeding still, fresh and painful, and...

The bard will remove himself from the room when you or Hadrian pray.

Only with a very, very high relationship will he say plainly what's on his mind.

-

Vallen finds it amusing. It is hard for her to empathize with passionate feelings. She has never felt passionate about anything in her life. True, burning passion is a myth to her. She was once certain that people were faking it until she grew and realized that no, people really do feel as deeply.

Emotions can cloud judgment, and often they do. She likes this fact about human nature. It is highly susceptible to manipulation.

Blind beliefs, full certainty, absolute loyalty. Those are all strange to her. Not in a negative way, either. She is just fascinated. All your fervor fascinates her... until it doesn't.

Then, Vallen is surprised when she feels her first passionate, irrational feeling. Is this jealousy? If God is the first in your mind, that puts her in second. What an unpleasant thought.

-

Rafael scratches the back of his neck. Honestly? He's fine with it. Not thrilled about it, of course. He believes in Heaven, but let's be honest with ourselves, he's goin' to Hell, yeah? So, if you come with him, at least he'll have some company.

Of course, the bastard would rather you went to the pearly gates, but he's not the one to dictate anyone's life. Lord's nails, he can barely dictate his own.

Rafael's faith is very personal. He goes to church when he can, but oftentimes, he doesn't. He venerates in his own way and pays his respects with his own rituals. He's a thief, an outlaw, a tainted soul. He'll leave a coin as an offering on the table of those he robs or give food to a homeless person after he collects his bounty. A good deed for a bad deed. He knows it's not enough, but it's something.

What you do with your beliefs is none of his business. If you want to share with him, Rafael smiles for days, but he won't pester you about it.

Now, if you believe in the old gods... He's scared. For you. He refuses to talk about it. "Shh!" your thief hisses, covering your mouth with his hand. "Don't freakin' say it out loud. Do you wanna die?"

You gently take his hands away. "It's just us here, Raf."

But he's glaring at the walls. "We don't know that," he says, turning to you again. "Don't— let's not talk about this."

You don't hide the hurt in your voice. "But I want to talk about this with you, Rafael. I want to share this with you, the one who stole my heart."

That does it. He flinches away, and shame paints his features. "Damn your pretty words," he mutters, but gets to his feet and grabs your hand. "Outside. With no goddamn walls around us. And you better whisper!"

You smile victorious as he tugs you along.

• Upset Romanus being cheered up by Lance?

The night sky is a solemn companion.

Thousands of stars shine down at you, their jovial glow doing little to warm the chill of loneliness inside you. It wraps around your ribs like bandages of ice that burn through your chest to get at your heart.

Your lips tug up. What a sentimental thought. If you ever said it out loud, Benz would have scoffed, and Piki would have laughed. Your mother... you're unsure about your mother. You think that, maybe, she would have agreed.

She, too, was lonely. You can see it now.

The starts haze, and you blink, only to realize it's the tears in your eyes that are turning the world blind. Not for the first time, you ask yourself why you hold onto the people of the past. Could it be because they knew the real you? Was that naive child the real you?

Do you even know you are any longer?

The night sky is all but gone now, hidden behind a curtain of wet mist, but your ears still work, and you catch the faint rustle of a shoe against the pavement. You were about to pivot, reaching towards your spear, when a familiar voice rang out.

"Ah, mercenary. I find you at last."

Quickly, you wipe your tears away as Lance, the bard and spy, sits on the opposite bench. His blue hair is tied loosely at the back of his head, the upper strings of his deep green shirt are parted, and his trousers are rolled to his calves. Looking at him, you'd think he's lounging on a warm summer night.

The cold has you shrinking in your coat.

"You were looking for me?" you ask, your voice only barely shaking. You hope it's dark enough that he can't see the faint red in your eyes.

Lance stretches, nimble limbs cracking, and lets out a pleased sigh. "The others inquired on your whereabouts," he lies casually, rolling his left shoulder. "I wouldn't be a proper spy if I could not solve the mystery."

"Well, mystery solved," you say, your voice colder than you wanted. The human spirit is full of contradictions — as alone as you feel, you can't think of anything worse than company right now.

Lance stares at you. And the familiar butterflies that materialize whenever he's around start flapping inside your stomach. His stare pierces, and you feel the calculation coming from him. He has a habit of studying those around him, but you notice he tends to do it more with you.

It makes your face heat, and the hairs on your arms stand to attention.

"One mystery perhaps," Lance says, at last, putting his elbows on his knees to lean closer to you. "But another reveals itself."

You give him a small smile. His gaze flickers to yours, and you know he sees it doesn't reach your eyes. "There's no mystery here, Silverthread. I only want to watch the night for a bit. Surely, you understand?"

If anyone does, it's him. You remember how you found him on your second night in Tarragona, playing a mournful ballad to the moon.

Lance turns his head towards the sky. You're relieved to be out of his scrutiny. "It is a pretty sky,” he says. "But I found that when the heart grows weary, it's hard to find beauty in anything."

Lance gets up, and you think he will leave, but the bard walks towards you. You look at him in surprise when he sits beside you on the bench, his grey eyes clouded in darkness. "And your heart, translator, is weary."

For a time, you can only stare in shock. He has never been this direct. "I—"

Denial is on your tongue, but as you stare into his eyes, you see the uncharacteristic seriousness in them. "And what if it is?" you whisper instead.

"I recognize what I see in you," Lance tells you, his face hovering beside yours. "I have felt it for many years and feel it still on cold nights such as these. The distance one feels when standing in a room full of people, alienated not by them, but ourselves."

His words are like knives, sinking gently into your skin. You find that you cannot look away from him. "I know too the remedy you seek to cure it. You desire to be alone. It's the only way you can be yourself."

Your throat has a knot in it. "It's not helping much," you say through it, your voice tight and weak.

Lance smiles. His golden tooth shines sadly. "It never does. That cure is a poison in disguise, my friend."

You look down, but calloused fingertips lift your chin until you face him again. His touch spreads across your skin, warming you against the cold. "Let two lonely souls make each other company. Perhaps, together, we can see the beauty of the stars."

He doesn't remove his hand. His thumb quietly wipes the lone tear falling down your cheek. "What say you?"

"It's worth a try." You smile and lift your eyes to the stars. Lance does the same, and when you reach for his hand, his fingers envelop yours. He was right.

There's beauty in the night.

• The ROs have a dream about Romanus becoming a ferret/crow/bear, and they react accordingly.

Ysabella skips in a world full of light. Colors dance around her like living beings, swirling and tumbling out of the sky to greet her with warm voices. She lifts the skirt of a dress made of feathers as her heeled feet leap across rivers and mountains.

And then, it all wraps, and she's stepping quietly beside a well. A person is sitting at the lip. It is you. "Oh!" Ysabella exclaims, happiness filling her chest like a balloon. "My beloved!"

You laugh as she jumps into your arms, hugging her tight. She wears a dress of feathers no more. Ysabella finds herself naked. Your skin against her feels like being enveloped by a childhood blanket. "Ysabella, my stars and moon," you say boisterously, laughing as you speak, which should be impossible, but she doesn't care. "How I longed to see you!"

She giggles. "I longed to see you too."

"Then let us long no more," you proclaim. "May I have the honor of kissing you, heart of mine? Morning star?"

Ysabella cannot stop laughing. What a beautiful day it is, with cherry blossoms drifting in the gentle breeze and white doves flying overhead. And her love in her reach. "Of course. Now and forever."

You close the gap, your hands cradling her face. Ysabella closes her eyes as your lips touch—

And light goes out of the world.

"Ah!"

Like a popped balloon, you disappear. She was holding you, but now she holds onto air. Ysabella swirls around, lost and confused, staring now at a horrible world of dead forest and torn-filled roots shooting out from the scorched earth. And the well is decrepit, a foul stench coming from its depths.

Ribbit

She looks down. Ysabella lets out a shriek of horror.

You did not disappear.

You turned into a hideous, gigantic frog.

Ribbit

And before she could collect you in her arms, you leap into the well, away from her forever more.

-

"No."

You awake to Ysabella’s moan. Her mane of curls tingles the skin of your arm as Ysabella turns to your side. Her eyes are bed swollen, and when she speaks, she has sleep drenching in the words. "It was supposed to be the opposite," she whispers incoherently.

You hold in a chuckle and gently brush her cheek. "Bella?" you murmur. "You alright?"

She blinks, and now two brown eyes hone in on you. Her face goes from complete confusion to a sleepy kind of alarm, and she lifts a hand to cup your jaw, eyes roaming every inch of your face as if she doesn't believe you're really here. "I— I must do something," she says.

Your lips twitch. Her sudden seriousness is adorable. "Do as you must."

She leans forward until her lips are right beside yours. Her eyes flicker to yours, fearful, but before you can ask, Ysabella presses her lips to yours.

Having kissed you, she leans back right away, her breath held in, and stares at you.

You stare back.

And she sighs in relief. "As it should be," she mumbles, rests her head in the crook of your shoulder, and drifts back to sleep.

Uh.

- - -

Alain is vaguely aware that a lot is happening around him.

Sounds of voices, laughter, and other more guttural sounds from human throats envelop him like a cocoon, but Alain finds he cannot move his head to seek their source. Not that he wants to.

You're standing between his knees, looking beautiful and radiant. Sun shines not on your skin but from it as if you're those archangels of old, and your hair moves like a tide around your head, alive and with a mind of its own.

Your eyes glow with the light of dawn, but beneath, he can see specks of your real earthly color.

Alain is not a very devoted man, but here, under the magnitude that you are, he proclaims his devotion to no one else. "What do you want from me?" he asks and goes to touch your bare stomach, but an invisible barrier keeps him away. His hand hovers in the air, so close to you, but not close enough. "What can I do?"

You don't answer. You just look down at him, smiling an enigmatic, angelic smile. Sweat breaks on his brow. "Am I not worthy?" he asks, feeling his chest tighten. He tries to break the barrier. He wants to touch you, hold you, kiss you. But he can't. "Tell me!"

You cock your head to the side, your smile unmoving, like a painting plastered on the bottom half of your face. Your eyes, however, start weeping.

Alain pushes desperately against the barrier. He wants to call your name, but he has the cold realization that he can't remember it. "Sparrow."

The barrier gives, his hand pushes in, and he touches you.

Plop

A bubble bursts. The light is dimmed to the last rays of a dying sun.

And in his hands is a sparrow with broken winds, its heart barely beating. He knows it's you. Alain's legs move on their own volition, and he gets up, stalking down cold, dark corridors until he finds a golden birdcage.

His voice yells in his head for him to stop, but his hands obey only themselves.

Alain puts you inside and locks the tiny gate. "Now you can't fly away."

-

It's as if his eyes had been open the entire night.

When Alain comes back to the real world, the one that makes any sense, he finds himself staring at his silent ceiling. His bedsheets rest neatly against him, and his pillow sits at the center of the mattress.

He's alone.

With an aching headache.

With a groan, the nobleman sits up, sweeping back his curls away from his eyes. He finds them damp.

Don't fly away.

Alain twists his mouth, and jumps out of bed, heading for the water basin.  "Fucking nonsense," he says to no one. He’ll stay away from wine for a while. He's been drinking too much.

Alain tells himself that's why his stomach twists into knots.

- - -

Her sword is restored as if it had never been broken.

Her horse, Dawn, is behind, her attentive blue eyes tracking Neia's every move. Neia's butchered companion. 

The Dawnseeker cannot help but curl her lips into a wide, tooth-filled smile. She can feel her scar twisting her face in a snarl that has the faceless audience flinching away in fear. Neia drinks in their fear. She feeds on it, and it pumps in her blood along with her anger, ancient and hand-crafted by God Himself.

She dons her armor anew, with not a splinter or crack in sight. It's not burned to a crisp either, it hugs her body from head to toe, painting her in a steel nightmare.

Neia is happy. All is right in the world. God above her, fear around her and before her, an act of divine deliverance.

The platform is arranged like an altar. Alabaster steps take her to a long, thin table where a lamb struggles uselessly against iron bounds. Neia drags her longsword behind her, the tip cracking the ground and making the air fizzle in flames. The lamb bleats in terror, like so many other lambs have done before.

Neia grants it the same mercy she showed all the others.

None.

When she gets to the table, Neia goes around it to face the crowd. Miles long, hundreds upon hundreds of people. Thousands, stretching to a grey horizon. There is no color in this world, only the eyes of her horse, the gold of her cross, and the white of her hair.

The lamb’s panicked eyes roll into its head as Neia, the Dawnseeker, lifts her sword high above her head.

And she brings it down.

A new color paints the world. A bright, beautiful red.

Neia smiles at the crowd. "It is mine to avenge; I will repay," Neia booms. Her voice does not sound like her own. It is used by the Lord.

Smiling wide still, so wide that her mouth tears and the smile grows to her ears, Neia looks down. Her sword is plunged into a chest, but it's not a lamb’s chest.

It's yours.

-

You're roused from a wonderful dreamless sleep by a feeling.

It's not a tangible feeling. You heard nothing, felt nothing brushing your skin. And yet, some deep instinct within you was banging a gong in desperation, yelling that you were in danger.

So, you open your eyes.

And two yellow flames flicker right above your head.

You blink.

The lights stay still... and then, they blink too.

Your soul escapes through your mouth. You jerk, dragging yourself away from the creature that's about to maul you alive.

But the creature speaks. "No need to scream."

You slowly close your mouth. "... Neia?"

The creature does not answer. It simply observes you.

Slowly, your fear is replaced by bewilderment, and then, comes the anger. "What the hell are you doing?" you hiss, pushing her back. Or attempting to. Neia is like a stone wall, squatted above you.

She watches you a moment more. "I was..." Her brows crease. "Making sure."

"What?"

Neia gets to her feet. "Sleep," she commands and vanishes back into the night.

"How am I supposed to do that now?!" you yell at her back, confused, angry, but, most of all, deeply concerned.

Why do I attract all the maniacs?