Chapter 250 - The Napping Hill and the Waxing Moon II
Virillius tapped a pen against his brow as he carefully scrutinized a particularly worrisome block of text. At a glance, it appeared as little beyond a piece of fetish pornography—each document consisted of an absurdly detailed scene describing a lewd mollusc and her sexual adventures—but a careful analysis revealed that his uncle’s pen was as symbolic as it was degenerate. The recurring characters alluded to different entities and concepts, their precise identities taken primarily from the context clues of the years in which they were penned.
They were surprisingly consistent in their meanings. Domina, which was coincidentally also the name of the late king’s late queen, was a sea slug with two heads and a metaphor for the enemy. The precise identity of said enemy changed with the period, representing the thorae in the past, the Kyddarians in the present, and many others in between. Rhea, which was coincidentally also the name of the king’s favourite mistress, was a tentacled snail and an illustration of their allies, particularly those always screaming for Domina’s murder.
For the sea slug to swallow the unnamed protagonist’s girth was to describe a time in which the nation suffered a territorial loss, and for Rhea to do the same was for it to be reclaimed under the Cadrian banner. Long years of continued strife and battle were illustrated as moments where the male lead found himself unable to choose between the two, even as they lay exposed beneath him. Virillius had yet to determine what the more complicated, mollusc-specific acts entailed, but he was confident that they were more than just degenerate. Either that, or he was going insane. There was more than enough of the nonsensical pornography for him to lose his mind.
In the past few months, he had gone through at least ten million words’ worth. Perhaps because he was not sick in the head like his uncle, he derived no arousal from the poorly written erotica. Though it had somewhat bothered him initially, he had been completely desensitized by the time he finished sorting through the second pile. That was not to say that he didn’t mind it at all, of course. It was more accurate to say that he was simply too fed up to care.
The worst part of it all was that he couldn’t tell it was meant to be a sort of elaborate prank. Ferdinand had never mentioned anything about a mollusc fetish in life, and the younger cervitaur could practically see the man rolling around in his grave, clutching his sides and cackling as he watched his nephew begrudgingly sort through it. But at the same time, he could just as easily envision old Ferdy killing himself again post-mortem, if his preference was a secret he had hoped to keep. Whatever the case, he continued to read and suffer and suffer and read.
It was on the thirtieth page that his attention was finally redirected, not because of the contents, but because he felt a sudden shift within the castle’s grounds. A blob of divinity had inexplicably appeared on the other side of the property. And if his understanding was correct, that could only have meant one thing.
His daughter was back again.
Virillius knew that she was trying her best to avoid him, but he rose from his seat regardless and headed straight for her location. Her past few appearances had caused nothing but trouble, in part because she didn’t hesitate to stand opposed to his narrative. Because she spoke so openly, it had become common knowledge around the castle that the princess was finally on the road to recovery. It took only a little bit of asking around to find someone who had witnessed her speak firsthand. For the most part, however, she continued to remain silent, speaking only when she was most comfortable. Or at least that was the narrative that the king and the fake had agreed to sell, for while the latter could speak, there was nothing it could do to sound anything like his daughter. Her voice was one of the many things that it was not allowed to borrow.
The fake’s status as a homunculus did not immediately render it an outlandish creature. There were many simple life forms that existed under the umbrella, such as mimics, elementals, and golems, just to name a few. If technicalities were to be observed, the replacement fell into the lattermost category. It was a golem made from blood and flesh, harvested following the ritual that had led to Claire’s departure. Its construction was by no means simple. It had taken Virillius and Allegra three full weeks of overtime to engineer and build the fake, with only twenty hours of sleep elapsed throughout. And even then, it had not gone as planned.
To claim the result a failure would be disingenuous, but true too was the opposite. For they had wanted a brainless creation, and it soon proved itself fully capable of sentient thought.
Sentient homunculi were typically considered the cream of the crop. The circumstances that led to their creation were yet a mystery, and as far as modern magitech was concerned, any such hit was but a stroke of good fortune. Save for when its creator was in a rush.
Like a real infant, a newborn homunculus was practically useless. They possessed a basic understanding of the Marish language, and they learned faster than the children of most races, but even then, it took extensive training to bring them up to speed. Such processes were entirely unnecessary for the non-sentient variants. They would simply abide by the instructions precisely as they were provided with no deviations, regardless of whether they were truly capable of parsing or executing them; a golem told to move between point A and point B would simply walk in a straight line unless provided the locations or distances at which it needed to turn. That, of course, was not the only approach. One could also instruct the creature to avoid all obstacles, so long as one strictly defined what those obstacles were and the parameters by which they were meant to be recognised. As homunculi were unable to think for themselves, however, deviations from the descriptions could easily lead to mistakes. Of course, it was not the creature that was at fault in such a circumstance, but its creator for failing to account for all the various possibilities and potential permutations.
That was why the original plan had consisted of little more than ordering the fake to sleep all day. With it pretending to be in a coma, they could easily readjust their course whether or not the original returned. But alas, with its newborn mind as curious as it was, the homunculus grew bored and got out of bed no more than twenty minutes into her assignment. She began wandering around instead, and even visiting the places that the original preferred. It pained Virillius to watch. He was fine with it borrowing her appearance, but the emulation of her actions was a needle to the heart. It was like a piece of his daughter’s spirit was still present, ever haunting him for his choice.
Still, he did not regret it, even as he dashed across the castle grounds in hopes of an encounter. It was not wrong to value the lives of the many over those of the few. It was a warrior’s dignity to present his head for cause and country, doubly so if said warrior was of noble birth.
If the lives of luxury led by the upper crust’s members were provided to them by those that worked under them, then it was only right for them to offer those lives in turn when the masses were at stake. That was not to say that he would do something as foolish as trading himself for a random citizen. There was still a weight to the scales, and it made little sense to ignore it.
He was well aware that she would never forgive him. Not for his most recent transgression, nor any of the others that had preceded it. Still, he continued pumping his wings, galloping straight through the air with her distant figure in his eyes. She tried to flee when she spotted him through a window. She kicked off the ground as hard as she could and dashed straight for the nearest door. But he did not allow himself to be denied. The king beat his wings against the sky and crashed straight into the castle. He mowed through the brick walls and crushed the door that was her destination. She spun around immediately, but he rose from the rubble and grabbed her by the wrist before she could so much as take a step.
“Good evening, Claire,” he said.
“Good evening, Father. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Virillius was perfectly stone-faced, but Claire greeted him with an innocent mask. Her cheer was so perfectly mimicked that, without any context, not even he would have known that it was faked.
“There happens to be a rather urgent matter that requires your attention,” he said, “one that involves the advent of a rather divine guest.”
“A tragedy it is, then, that I am no longer a ritual mage.” She tried to wrench her hand away, but he stayed firm, even as she gave voice to the troublesome statement.
It was the same manner of strategy that she had used before, only to a much greater effect. The witnesses were no longer prestigious knights sworn to silence, but gossip-loving maids with no knowledge of the circumstances at hand. Some of them looked on in shock, while others exchanged muted whispers. He knew already that there was nothing he could say to stop them from communicating their findings.
Only the most diligent amongst them had returned to their work, with one running off to fetch the resident craftsmen, and another immediately turning her attention to the mess. Their names, he noted. He would ensure that they were given extra pay.
“All the more reason for us to sit down for a discussion,” said the king. “Perhaps we might yet see the class restored.”
“I’m afraid that is impossible,” she said, with a smile. “Now, I understand that you must wish to drag me off to one absurd matchmaking session or other, but I would very much like to be released before I am made into the royal equivalent of a whore.”
“I will consider it if you inform me of your current location.”
Claire tilted her head. “I am currently in the royal castle’s west wing, specifically on the third floor just outside the library.”
Virillius fought back the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall, and after nearly losing, spoke in his usual, emotionless voice. “And I have considered, and subsequently rejected the thought of releasing you.”
She raised her other hand while he was speaking, formed a blade of ice, and drove it towards her wrist. For a level 2 homunculus, it was a swift motion, but he had no trouble catching her other arm and removing the weapon with a flick.
“Must you be so dramatic? Surely a brief conversation is better than putting up with the pain.”
“I’d rather put up with a thousand years of pure torture than deal with you for another half second.”
The bare venom drew gasps from the peanut gallery, but Virillius continued to ignore it. The more he tried to hide, the worst the resulting speculation would be.
“Claire Augustus! I don’t remember raising you to be so foul-mouthed!”
“And I don’t remember you raising me at all,” she snapped. Her feet lashed out, kicking at his midsection but with little success. Not even when coated in a thorny layer of ice could she so much as break his skin. It was a clear fit of rage, a tantrum with no care for his well being. But at the very least, she was calmer than she had been during their first encounter.
“Then perhaps I will need to take some time to remind you.”
He spread his wings, and with her still in his grasp, flew out into the open sky.
“Let go of me,” she hissed. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Or what?” He asked, with a quiet chuckle. “There is nothing you can do to threaten me.”
Not bothering with a verbal response, she turned her legs into something of a tail and jabbed it towards her own chest. He inserted a wing in the weapon’s path, but it phased through him and sank deep into her body.
She ripped a glimmering, golden key from within her breast and drove it towards his face, but he evaded with a lazy twist of the neck. It was hardly a worthwhile attack. She would have had a better chance at hitting him had she completely forgone the key.
He was about to mock her again when he felt a ripple by his skull. A faint distortion originating at the tip of her prehensile rear. It was accompanied by a swell of mana, far more than the fake could have possibly contained. Their surroundings suddenly warped out of shape; he was no longer in midair, but standing upon a snow-white mountain. And she was gone from his arms.
An effect that lasted only for the briefest of moments.
He was returned right after, the previous scenario perfectly restored. His daughter had reverted to her stone face. But it was clear, even if he couldn’t quite read her expression, that her plan had ended in failure. The homunculus’ magic circuits had been fried, completely overloaded by whatever spell she had tried to cast. He had no doubts that she was in a world of pain, even though she let none of it through her mask.
She went limp after a few seconds of fronting, with the divine blob vanishing alongside her strength. The homunculus did not take over in her stead, for it too had its consciousness reaped by the failure’s backlash.
Virillius was left alone in the sky, an unconscious body in his arms, and his lips a faint frown.
Chapter 250 - The Napping Hill and the Waxing Moon II
Virillius tapped a pen against his brow as he carefully scrutinized a particularly worrisome block of text. At a glance, it appeared as little beyond a piece of fetish pornography—each document consisted of an absurdly detailed scene describing a lewd mollusc and her sexual adventures—but a careful analysis revealed that his uncle’s pen was as symbolic as it was degenerate. The recurring characters alluded to different entities and concepts, their precise identities taken primarily from the context clues of the years in which they were penned.
They were surprisingly consistent in their meanings. Domina, which was coincidentally also the name of the late king’s late queen, was a sea slug with two heads and a metaphor for the enemy. The precise identity of said enemy changed with the period, representing the thorae in the past, the Kyddarians in the present, and many others in between. Rhea, which was coincidentally also the name of the king’s favourite mistress, was a tentacled snail and an illustration of their allies, particularly those always screaming for Domina’s murder.
For the sea slug to swallow the unnamed protagonist’s girth was to describe a time in which the nation suffered a territorial loss, and for Rhea to do the same was for it to be reclaimed under the Cadrian banner. Long years of continued strife and battle were illustrated as moments where the male lead found himself unable to choose between the two, even as they lay exposed beneath him. Virillius had yet to determine what the more complicated, mollusc-specific acts entailed, but he was confident that they were more than just degenerate. Either that, or he was going insane. There was more than enough of the nonsensical pornography for him to lose his mind.
In the past few months, he had gone through at least ten million words’ worth. Perhaps because he was not sick in the head like his uncle, he derived no arousal from the poorly written erotica. Though it had somewhat bothered him initially, he had been completely desensitized by the time he finished sorting through the second pile. That was not to say that he didn’t mind it at all, of course. It was more accurate to say that he was simply too fed up to care.
The worst part of it all was that he couldn’t tell it was meant to be a sort of elaborate prank. Ferdinand had never mentioned anything about a mollusc fetish in life, and the younger cervitaur could practically see the man rolling around in his grave, clutching his sides and cackling as he watched his nephew begrudgingly sort through it. But at the same time, he could just as easily envision old Ferdy killing himself again post-mortem, if his preference was a secret he had hoped to keep. Whatever the case, he continued to read and suffer and suffer and read.
It was on the thirtieth page that his attention was finally redirected, not because of the contents, but because he felt a sudden shift within the castle’s grounds. A blob of divinity had inexplicably appeared on the other side of the property. And if his understanding was correct, that could only have meant one thing.
His daughter was back again.
Virillius knew that she was trying her best to avoid him, but he rose from his seat regardless and headed straight for her location. Her past few appearances had caused nothing but trouble, in part because she didn’t hesitate to stand opposed to his narrative. Because she spoke so openly, it had become common knowledge around the castle that the princess was finally on the road to recovery. It took only a little bit of asking around to find someone who had witnessed her speak firsthand. For the most part, however, she continued to remain silent, speaking only when she was most comfortable. Or at least that was the narrative that the king and the fake had agreed to sell, for while the latter could speak, there was nothing it could do to sound anything like his daughter. Her voice was one of the many things that it was not allowed to borrow.
The fake’s status as a homunculus did not immediately render it an outlandish creature. There were many simple life forms that existed under the umbrella, such as mimics, elementals, and golems, just to name a few. If technicalities were to be observed, the replacement fell into the lattermost category. It was a golem made from blood and flesh, harvested following the ritual that had led to Claire’s departure. Its construction was by no means simple. It had taken Virillius and Allegra three full weeks of overtime to engineer and build the fake, with only twenty hours of sleep elapsed throughout. And even then, it had not gone as planned.
To claim the result a failure would be disingenuous, but true too was the opposite. For they had wanted a brainless creation, and it soon proved itself fully capable of sentient thought.
Sentient homunculi were typically considered the cream of the crop. The circumstances that led to their creation were yet a mystery, and as far as modern magitech was concerned, any such hit was but a stroke of good fortune. Save for when its creator was in a rush.
Like a real infant, a newborn homunculus was practically useless. They possessed a basic understanding of the Marish language, and they learned faster than the children of most races, but even then, it took extensive training to bring them up to speed. Such processes were entirely unnecessary for the non-sentient variants. They would simply abide by the instructions precisely as they were provided with no deviations, regardless of whether they were truly capable of parsing or executing them; a golem told to move between point A and point B would simply walk in a straight line unless provided the locations or distances at which it needed to turn. That, of course, was not the only approach. One could also instruct the creature to avoid all obstacles, so long as one strictly defined what those obstacles were and the parameters by which they were meant to be recognised. As homunculi were unable to think for themselves, however, deviations from the descriptions could easily lead to mistakes. Of course, it was not the creature that was at fault in such a circumstance, but its creator for failing to account for all the various possibilities and potential permutations.
That was why the original plan had consisted of little more than ordering the fake to sleep all day. With it pretending to be in a coma, they could easily readjust their course whether or not the original returned. But alas, with its newborn mind as curious as it was, the homunculus grew bored and got out of bed no more than twenty minutes into her assignment. She began wandering around instead, and even visiting the places that the original preferred. It pained Virillius to watch. He was fine with it borrowing her appearance, but the emulation of her actions was a needle to the heart. It was like a piece of his daughter’s spirit was still present, ever haunting him for his choice.
Still, he did not regret it, even as he dashed across the castle grounds in hopes of an encounter. It was not wrong to value the lives of the many over those of the few. It was a warrior’s dignity to present his head for cause and country, doubly so if said warrior was of noble birth.
If the lives of luxury led by the upper crust’s members were provided to them by those that worked under them, then it was only right for them to offer those lives in turn when the masses were at stake. That was not to say that he would do something as foolish as trading himself for a random citizen. There was still a weight to the scales, and it made little sense to ignore it.
He was well aware that she would never forgive him. Not for his most recent transgression, nor any of the others that had preceded it. Still, he continued pumping his wings, galloping straight through the air with her distant figure in his eyes. She tried to flee when she spotted him through a window. She kicked off the ground as hard as she could and dashed straight for the nearest door. But he did not allow himself to be denied. The king beat his wings against the sky and crashed straight into the castle. He mowed through the brick walls and crushed the door that was her destination. She spun around immediately, but he rose from the rubble and grabbed her by the wrist before she could so much as take a step.
“Good evening, Claire,” he said.
“Good evening, Father. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Virillius was perfectly stone-faced, but Claire greeted him with an innocent mask. Her cheer was so perfectly mimicked that, without any context, not even he would have known that it was faked.
“There happens to be a rather urgent matter that requires your attention,” he said, “one that involves the advent of a rather divine guest.”
“A tragedy it is, then, that I am no longer a ritual mage.” She tried to wrench her hand away, but he stayed firm, even as she gave voice to the troublesome statement.
It was the same manner of strategy that she had used before, only to a much greater effect. The witnesses were no longer prestigious knights sworn to silence, but gossip-loving maids with no knowledge of the circumstances at hand. Some of them looked on in shock, while others exchanged muted whispers. He knew already that there was nothing he could say to stop them from communicating their findings.
Only the most diligent amongst them had returned to their work, with one running off to fetch the resident craftsmen, and another immediately turning her attention to the mess. Their names, he noted. He would ensure that they were given extra pay.
“All the more reason for us to sit down for a discussion,” said the king. “Perhaps we might yet see the class restored.”
“I’m afraid that is impossible,” she said, with a smile. “Now, I understand that you must wish to drag me off to one absurd matchmaking session or other, but I would very much like to be released before I am made into the royal equivalent of a whore.”
“I will consider it if you inform me of your current location.”
Claire tilted her head. “I am currently in the royal castle’s west wing, specifically on the third floor just outside the library.”
Virillius fought back the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall, and after nearly losing, spoke in his usual, emotionless voice. “And I have considered, and subsequently rejected the thought of releasing you.”
She raised her other hand while he was speaking, formed a blade of ice, and drove it towards her wrist. For a level 2 homunculus, it was a swift motion, but he had no trouble catching her other arm and removing the weapon with a flick.
“Must you be so dramatic? Surely a brief conversation is better than putting up with the pain.”
“I’d rather put up with a thousand years of pure torture than deal with you for another half second.”
The bare venom drew gasps from the peanut gallery, but Virillius continued to ignore it. The more he tried to hide, the worst the resulting speculation would be.
“Claire Augustus! I don’t remember raising you to be so foul-mouthed!”
“And I don’t remember you raising me at all,” she snapped. Her feet lashed out, kicking at his midsection but with little success. Not even when coated in a thorny layer of ice could she so much as break his skin. It was a clear fit of rage, a tantrum with no care for his well being. But at the very least, she was calmer than she had been during their first encounter.
“Then perhaps I will need to take some time to remind you.”
He spread his wings, and with her still in his grasp, flew out into the open sky.
“Let go of me,” she hissed. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Or what?” He asked, with a quiet chuckle. “There is nothing you can do to threaten me.”
Not bothering with a verbal response, she turned her legs into something of a tail and jabbed it towards her own chest. He inserted a wing in the weapon’s path, but it phased through him and sank deep into her body.
She ripped a glimmering, golden key from within her breast and drove it towards his face, but he evaded with a lazy twist of the neck. It was hardly a worthwhile attack. She would have had a better chance at hitting him had she completely forgone the key.
He was about to mock her again when he felt a ripple by his skull. A faint distortion originating at the tip of her prehensile rear. It was accompanied by a swell of mana, far more than the fake could have possibly contained. Their surroundings suddenly warped out of shape; he was no longer in midair, but standing upon a snow-white mountain. And she was gone from his arms.
An effect that lasted only for the briefest of moments.
He was returned right after, the previous scenario perfectly restored. His daughter had reverted to her stone face. But it was clear, even if he couldn’t quite read her expression, that her plan had ended in failure. The homunculus’ magic circuits had been fried, completely overloaded by whatever spell she had tried to cast. He had no doubts that she was in a world of pain, even though she let none of it through her mask.
She went limp after a few seconds of fronting, with the divine blob vanishing alongside her strength. The homunculus did not take over in her stead, for it too had its consciousness reaped by the failure’s backlash.
Virillius was left alone in the sky, an unconscious body in his arms, and his lips a faint frown.
