Q&A — Part 2

• Your gracious majesty of the seas, how do you do it to be so stylish?

The Pirate smiles a smile that rivals the sun. He grabs his coat collars, lifting his chin high, and you realize then, how flattery works on him like a charm. "How, you want to know?" he says, black eyes on some distant horizon. "Experience. I've traveled to a hundred ports and seen a hundred different fashions."

He looks back at you. "Killed a hundred different men too," he adds in a lower tone before winking and speaking aloud again. "You see enough, and even a halfwit will pick up something. What works, what doesn't. What you want to wear on yourself." He shrugs. "And what you'd rather sell."

"Beside..." The Pirate walks forward, one booted foot in front of the other. Each step makes a clang on the boards beneath you. "I also watch the fairer sex. Your reactions, your small little tells," he says, stopping in front of you. "Your eyes tell me what you like."

You lift an eyebrow. "So, you dress to please others?"

"Oh, no." He shakes his head. "No, peach. I dress to please those I'd like to please myself."

And you hate the sound of his laughter when you flush.

• What is the weirdest or funniest job Lance has had while working for Mist?

"Ah, so you want me to spill trade secrets, as it were?" Lance asks, but his smile is playful as he pours you another drink. "You know, normally, I would say no. Or, well, not so directly, but you get the gist. I would tell you my history is like a song. One does not go around sharing the notes. If you want to learn the song, then listen, and make the hard guesses yourself."

You nod, smiling too. "But you won't say that?"

Lance shakes his head. "No, I will not. This is... an unusual circumstance. I find myself compelled to answer. So, oddest job, eh? Oh, my friend." The bard chuckles. You can see the alcohol is making his cheeks flush. "Oh, my Company friend. I could tell you some tales, but we do not have the time. I'll settle for one."

He leans on the table. "One time, I was tasked to find the location of stolen crates of wine."

You cock your head. "Stolen from Mist?"

"Mist stole it, someone intercepted it." Lance waves a hand. "A messy deal."

"Hmm," you hum. "Wine, eh?"

Lance stops and then smiles wide. "You are smart. I like that. Fine, the wine wasn't significant, it was what hid beneath." He shakes his head, then, blue hair swaying back and forth. "But that does not matter. Listen, I was tasked to find it. Pretty standard deal. It was obvious we had a traitor within our ranks, for however else would they know of the robbery in the first place?"

You nod, following along.

"So, I began my research. Names, money trail, friends, family... boring. But, not long after, I had a name. The traitor." Lance's face falls. "I liked her too, but alas. Mist did what he does, and we soon learned of the crates' location. They had been taken outside Tarragona to a field a few days away. I followed the directions straight into..."

He opens his eyes wide. You wait, but the bard stays silent. "Into?" you prompt.

Lance blinks. Oh, he's drunk, alright. "A circus," he whispers in awe. "A large, gigantic collection of tents. They had... color everywhere, and fire and music and..." Lance's eyes are so wide, they look like marbles. "Dancers. It was— I do not know how to describe it. Crazy, yes? But marvelous too. I had never seen a sight such as that."

He takes a swing of ale, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "I met a young man, no older than twenty, who had bright violet hair." Your lips part, and Lance smiles a knowing smile. "Yes, yes. You've caught on. Met another woman with pink on the tips. So, naturally—"

"You asked," you say.

"I did," Lance confirms, touching a strand of his blue hair. "I learned about dyeing on that fateful day. Ah, but there you go. Oddest job."

He smiles once again, golden tooth shining in the flames.

• How old are both Hadrian and Alessa?

I don't really think in exact numbers when it comes to these things, especially since age wasn't treated as it is today — most people didn't know their age. Alessa, for example, doesn't know when's her birthday. She has a vague idea of how old she is, but the fact doesn't bother her. The same could be said for most of the other characters.

Hadrian happens to know the day of his birth, but he so often forgets it. If anyone were to ask his exact age, he'd have to take some time to really think about it and make the math before answering.

But, I'll say that Hadrian is around 25 while Alessa is closer to 27 years old.

• Do Hadrian and Alessa have dreams of 'retirement' from the White Company or do they refuse for individual reasons to think of the future?

Alessa absolutely does not. She's not just with the White Company, she considers herself a part of the White Company. All her future plans, her ambitions, and goals revolve around it. There is no retiring from it, only retiring from a more physical type of work. But she cannot imagine herself away from the Company in the same way she cannot imagine herself living any other life.

What would she even do? What good is she but this? She has no other skills, no other passions. Her fate has wrapped itself around the Company, and that is how Alessa likes it.

As for Hadrian... he has very vague, abstract thoughts sometimes. Very vague. One day, he'll be elsewhere. One day, he won't have to carry his sword all the time. One day... one day.

But Hadrian doesn't think of the future, not in tangible ways. He doesn't make plans, he avoids those as much as he can. What will he do in the future? Hadrian doesn't know if he'll even reach the age for retirement. God may call him earlier, and, for now, he's content to make sure that when that call comes, he's lived well enough to be welcomed into Heaven.

• Do the ROs have any backstories with past lovers?

Okay, so, most of this I want to explore within the game. Yes, some ROs have backstories with past lovers (and I use the word lovers here sparingly. It doesn't mean they were in love, but almost all of them have had lovers). For those who do have a significant history, I want the characters to tell the story themselves.

But I can share a little bit here. Just a taste.

Alessa has had past lovers. Short, not very deep relationships. She's not one for quick, casual sex — mainly because she doesn't trust a stranger to get so physically close — but she doesn't allow anyone near enough to develop a proper connection either.

So she's been involved with a couple of men, one when she was really young, the other a bit older. Both are faces from the past, without much emotion connected to them. Just memories, experiences. Nothing else.

Hadrian had one lover before. You'll have to talk with him about her.

Alain... Alain doesn't hide the fact that he's dabbled. A lot. The young nobleman likes to have fun, and sex is fun. The game of seduction, the dances around one another, the thrill of the chase. It's all so very fun. Does that mean he never cared for anyone? No, it does not. There was someone, once, who meant a little more than a passing distraction, but life isn't a sea of roses, and some fly away.

Ysabella isn't as experienced as her brother, but she likes to sneak out to pass as a peasant, and that opens freedoms she doesn't have in court. Bella has had some lovers, some of which she saw more than once, but she never deluded herself. She knew it couldn't last, so she saw it for what it was: a memory to treasure, a person to remember, a fondness to keep in her heart.

The Pirate King has a long history too. He's had lovers in many ports, especially when he was a younger man and the world was still so very new. But none meant much, the sea always called him the hardest.

There was a beautiful noblewoman, however... much older than him with hair like the night. The Pirate sometimes thinks of her, in her castle by the shore, and smiles with fondness. He had done her a favor, and she repaid in enthusiastic kindness. He hopes the widowed lady is happy, with a young handsome 'servant' by her side. She deserves as much.

Neia is probably the most experienced in the physical department. No deep waters there, none of the women meant anything.

Lance closes his lips tight and looks away. "That is a rather personal question, is it not?"

You'll have no answers from him today.

Rafael has been in love twice. Once with a girl, another with a boy. He kissed one of them and got his heart broken. The other never looked at him twice and also broke his heart. Apart from them, Rafael slept with a couple of strangers but soon found he didn't like how he felt when he woke up the next morning.

Or how it felt to sneak out in the middle of the night, shirt in hand and pants hanging loosely around his hips. It feels empty, and the bastard already feels empty enough, he doesn't need to add more of that into his life.

So, he stopped the casual sex. It isn't worth it.

• some of the other asks about the bard seem to indicate to me that their initial impression of the MC (after a proper conversation) was basically along the line of "this weirdo is a fuckin MESS and is fuckin MESSY". was that a correct interpretation on my part?

Lance had many thoughts when he first saw you. One of the first was "they look like mercenaries." You were traveling alongside Alessa, and hers is a face known to Mist. Lance watched you from the shadows, and the next morning, he made sure he was playing in a square you had to travel through.

When you dropped a coin in his box, and he could finally take a long look at you, Lance assessed two things: One, you are dangerous. Two, you don't suspect him. Not yet.

And then, as you walked away, Lance stared at your back, fingers on his lyre, Chouriça by his feet.... and another thought popped into his mind: I would do well to stay away.

But alas, he cannot. And, to his surprise, he does not want to either.

-

After a proper conversation? Lance definitely thought you have some issues to take care of, but then again, so does everyone else he meets. So does himself. It is not his place to judge, he only watches so he can be prepared.

A mess? He would not call you that. No mess is functional, and, as of now, you are functional to a degree. Yes, an interesting person. Someone who demands attention, whether you like it or not. Lance's eyes often find themselves on you, for one reason or the other. It is... odd. The bard prides himself on his mastery of language but yet, he cannot find the right word to describe you.

You are unique, but no mess, no. Not yet.

• Lance, can you teach me how to make music?

Lance halts for just a moment, his face open in surprise. "Music?"

You give a half-shrug. "Music," you repeat. "That thing you make with your lyre? Music."

Lance chuckles, bowing his head in acknowledgment. "I am flattered you consider it so," he says in a light tone. He then pauses again, and looks you up and down, and never before have you felt like a horse about to be sold. "Hmm, truth is, my Company friend, that these things take time. And effort, and many, many failures."

"Perseverance?" you ask.

Lance nods. "Perseverance. It... it is not so difficult, to begin with, but we do need time." Lance grimaces, and you're not sure if he's truly sorry or if he's just doing it for show. "Time which, alas, we aren't blessed with. Not now. But... perhaps later? When there's a moment, come meet me, and I—"

He smiles, gold tooth flashing. "We shall see what those fingers can do."

You are sure, however, that his accidental innuendo completely flew over his head.

• Alessa, would you ever try some pudding that I made especially for you? I’m not a great cook, but I’d give it my best! *MC does already hold a bowl with homemade pudding behind her back but tries to hide it from Alessa’s sight*

Alessa stops mid-sentence. Blue eyes watch you in silence for a moment, a moment that seems to stretch as the bowl behind your back feels heavier and heavier. "You have made it?" Alessa asks, then, in the low and resonant tone of voice she uses when she wants to give nothing away.

You know the strategy already, almost as intimately as you know the face she's making now. Made of stone, completely still. Near impossible to read.

You shift your hold on the bowl, resisting the urge to shuffle your feet. "I did," you admit, neck starting to burn.

Alessa steps from the shadows, her hair lighting when she passes by the window. "And you have made it... for me?"

You can't read her voice, so you give up trying altogether. "Here," you say with a sigh, revealing the pudding. It doesn't look as the other did, the one you bought for her before. You tried so many times, but the custard just wouldn't thicken. "I did my best."

Alessa peers into the bowl before looking up, and she's unreadable no more. Her eyes are wide in shock and... something else. "I— of course," Alessa says, hand briefly touching yours as she pulls the bowl closer. "Of course, I shall try it. Of course."

She picks up the wooden spoon, but before she dips it inside, Alessa gives you a small, reserved smile that lights her eyes like the sun.

• Hadrian, how much do you know of the old gods? And how do you feel about them?

To say he's uncomfortable would be an understatement. Hadrian shifts on his seat, long legs turning awkward as they bump into each other, and his hand flies like a moth to a flame, direct to his cross.

You see his fingers tightening, see the way his eyes bounce everywhere but you. "Know? I don't know much. I, uh. I heard about them, but the first time I saw them was at the tomb." Hadrian's brows furrow. "I mean, their statues, not them. I've never seen any of them."

He clenches his jaw and stays peering into nothing. You sit closer to him, watching him tense, but you lean over to try and catch his eyes all the same. "And what do you think about them?" you ask. He's silent, so you tap his arm. "What do you think about the fact that someone, some other time, worshiped them as you do God?"

"Not as I do," he bounces back almost immediately, facing you with a heavy scowl, but he softens at the sight of your face. Hadrian sighs then, his shoulders falling as if he's lost all fight. "Sorry, that was... that was reflexive."

"I figured as much," you whisper.

Hadrian gives you a half smile. "How do I feel about them?" He shakes his head. "Honestly? I don't know. When I first saw them, I felt just as I did now. I felt it was wrong, blasphemous. I felt compelled to—" Hadrian sighs again. "I want to say reject them, but it was more than that. I wanted to destroy them."

Your brows lift. "Really?"

He nods, not meeting your eyes again. "But now, I don't know. As you said, people believe in them, right? Who am I to say they were wrong? I know faith, I know how it feels. Those... gods, I— I can't accept them. I can't." He almost spits the word. "But I can accept that others did. I... I think I can accept that."

• Salina, may I ask you to teach me a few things about herbs and their effects? Might be helpful in the future.

The herbalist gives you a blank look. "Do you have a good memory?"

You spread your hands. "I like to think so."

"Thinking, you'll be doing that too," Salina says and motions you closer. "Hope you're ready to memorize a bunch of names, mercenary."

You think of all the hours you've spent hunched over Latin texts, all the hours you've spent listening to your mother, putting the sounds into memory. "Oh, I'm ready," you say with a wide, wide smile.

• Captain, what do I have to do to learn your name?

"Ah!" The Pirate laughs once, the sound so sharp, it seemed to tear the air between you. When he lowers his chin, his lips are torn in a smirk, but his eyes are like two black pools of tar. Completely still. "What would you be willing to do, is that the question?"

You hold his stare. "Is it? The question, I mean?"

A pause. His smirk widens. "No," The Pirate says, and breaks eye contact to lean against the crates in the corner. He takes out a small knife and starts cleaning his nails. "No, we both know it isn't. The real question is: what is my name. That's what you want to ask, not what you have to do to get it. No one wants to do anything."

He glances back. "They just want things handed for free."

His insult has your teeth clenching, but you don't allow your temper to flare. That's what he wants, you can tell. Better to argue and leave on a bitter note than pry into affairs he's not willing to discuss. Well, too bad. "What's your name?" you ask, taking one step forward.

The Pirate keeps cleaning his nails, body relaxed, but you saw it. You saw the twitch in his fingers. "I'll give you my name," The Pirate says, at last, putting the knife down. He rises to his feet, and steps closer until your chests almost touch. "When I can give it."

He whispers the last part, face looming over yours, eyes like tar, so very still. And before you can open your mouth, he slinks past you, boots clanging on the wood boards as the mighty Pirate makes his retreat.

• Will we see Alain mature emotionally?

All characters will change as the series progresses. Events will happen that will leave a big mark on some of them, that will force them to face the world in a different light and, of course, grow because of it.

Alain isn't any different. He has been very closed in his environment, stuck inside the bubble that is high nobility. He gets a respite from it, from time to time, when he sneaks into taverns and markets dressed as a peasant, but those are only brief glimpses, shallow experiences. Does that mean he's a complete fool when it comes to feelings? No. He does feel, most of all for his sister, whom he'd readily give up his life for.

Anyone else? Meh. It's very rare that Alain cares, to be honest. At least, cares for longer than a couple of nights. I don't think he's emotionally immature as much as he's emotionally closed off.

• To The Pirate King himself, what do you like about peaches?

The Pirate spreads his hands wide, the rings on his fingers shining bright in the sun. His necklace, one you've never seen before, made of a thick black stone that seems to drink in any light, sits on his chest like a boulder. "The taste, of course," he says. "What else is there to like about food?"

He quiets then, hands resting on the handles of his axes. "It's funny. Have you ever recalled something you can't remember?"

You cock your head. "Isn't that a contradiction?"

"Yes," The Pirate admits. "It is. And yet... that's what their taste does to me. It makes me remember things that are forgotten. Not the memories themselves, just the knowledge that I once had them."

"That sounds..." You lick your lips and take the plunge. "Sad."

The Pirate smiles. "It feels sad too."

You look at each other, but then he clears his throat. "Ah! But, mostly, I just like the taste. Nothing better than a sweet little peach."

He winks at you, smile widening to a taunting smirk, and you roll your eyes but fight the flush from invading your cheeks.