[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/rJicBem.png[/img][/center][center][h1][color=2E8B57]M[/color]anfred [color=2E8B57]H[/color]ohenfelter von [color=2E8B57]M[/color]eckelin-[color=2E8B57]T[/color]handau[/h1][/center][hr]
It was the drums that made it okay, Manfred had decided. They reminded him of being on the march: to some, endless days of drudgery; to him, a chance for conversation. He’d been half a boy back then: eager for the attention and approval of anyone his senior. There was something comforting about that sound as he entered the City of the Bells - the way that it was steady, simple, [i]rhythmic[/i]. 

Decked out in his dress uniform and sporting his medals, he pranced through the gate atop Cornelius: every inch the dashing young magery officer. Manfred knew how to wave. His horse knew how to high-step. He kept his chin raised and eyes ahead, one hand on the reins. Cornelius was an old hand at pomp and circumstance. He was a steady animal and little frightened him. 

The same could not be said for his rider, but Manfred was not some powdered lordling or flapping, demonstrative merchant who could not control his face. He flashed a smile, and then a nod for a pretty girl in the crowd, tangled red hair spilling out across the tops of her breasts, breasts nearly spilling out the top of her dress. And that was it: it had gotten to him. Soon, he would probably hate himself for it, but it was like it had been when he’d marched off to fight the Holmanians: so much hope and celebration. Why, the rose petals rained down, the crowds cheered, and the marching band slammed away at their drums, double-stepped with their fifes, and twirled their batons. The horns blared, proud and brassy, flashing and gleaming in the midday sun. The famous bells of Ersand’Enise clanged and pennants flapped. For a moment, he was fourteen again and off to fight for the Fatherland. Manfred Hohenfelter von Meckelin-Thandau waved and smiled. He winked at another pretty girl and saluted a little boy playing soldier. 

It was fantastic, really: the sound and colour and, for a little while, he lost himself and forgot what this place really was: a workshop - nay, a factory - for killers, churning them out by the hundreds. And, as he remembered, the smile faded from his face. His chin raised, his eyes focused ahead. He was a magusjaeger. Mages of Ersand’Enise filled the armies of Perrence and Revidia, making near-every battlefield on the continent their bloodstained plaything, undoing Oraff’s work, spitting on Dami’s choice, marring Ipte’s beauty, and laughing at Shune’s learning to overfeed Eshiran. 

Manfred was a Hohenfelter of Meckelin-Thandau, though: scion of a line stretching back nearly a thousand years. He knew his duty and would not dishonour his family and his country, much as he might’ve found every bit of this tasteless. He kept his expression composed - dignified. In the midst of his fellow young nobles of Kerremand, he simply followed, Cornelius knowing what to do. Manfred let his senses wander subtly, absently, taking in the heightened security. It was a detail that few would notice, he imagined, but there were many more besides the ceremonial guard. They wore plain clothes and tried to blend in, but their martial bearing and the way that they positively burned with loosely-contained energy gave them away. He imagined there were still more, skilled beyond his ability to pick them out. Such was the seriousness with which Ersand’Enise took the art of killing and such was the scope of the event. This year was the Conclave of the Five Thrones, after all, and there would be royals in attendance beyond just the Eel and the Wolf. 

The march continued, dragging on, and there were exotic clothes, languages, and faces all around him. Manfred found himself struck by the number of Rettanese that he saw - or else Tan Keouleans, Kanjikish, and others. There was a girl in front of him trying unsuccessfully to hide a cat in her dress and Kurbis came to mind for a moment. The girl looked so small and lost, though, that he almost felt bad that they’d turn her into a weapon. He had to stop himself from visibly shaking his head to clear it.

Suddenly, there were lights up ahead: lights and sound. Crackling magical fireworks, lines tracing themselves through the air, and roaring wolves of fire raced across the sky. Manfred flinched. He blinked and the sweet smell of rose petals became something else to him: another sickening sweetness from three years ago. The fire wolf… Then, there were those tongues of white-hot flame in the darkness: Ahn-Eshiran’s gift. [color=2E8B57][i]The shouts.[/i][/color] A boy hurled himself onto a balcony, like the [i]bodies[/i]. The bodies flew too. They flew in pieces. [color=2E8B57][i]The [b]shouts[/b].[/i][/color] They were… 

In that moment, he saw the girl, on foot somewhere to his left, and he knew that she was like him. He could see it in her body language - in her bearing - for just a moment. She was the fourth Rettanese he’d seen. He took in her strange dress. [color=2E8B57][i]Not naturalized, like the others,[/i][/color] he concluded, [color=2E8B57][i]maybe not a weapon.[/i][/color] One didn’t wear that look, though - the same look that he knew he’d been wearing mere moments ago - out of choice. 

It took a moment for Manfred to realize how uncivilized he was being. [color=2E8B57][i]Staring blankly at the foreigners like some kind of simpleton! [b]Scheiße![/b][/i][/color] He had fallen off the pace and was at the trailing end of the Artisans now. The scion of Hohenfelter von Meckelin-Thandau cleared his throat, set his eyes ahead, and spurred his horse on. There would yet be more ceremony in the plaza, he knew, and he would bear it unflinchingly this time. Men of Kerremand do not show their emotions without a very good reason. [hr]