[b][center][h3][color=FDC89A]ℜ𝔬𝔢𝔩𝔬 Ⅱ   [/color][/h3][/center][/b][center][color=#E1E3E2]──[/color][color=#E1E2DF]─[/color][color=#E2E1DD]─[/color][color=#E3E0DB]─[/color][color=#E4DFD9]─[/color][color=#E5DFD7]─[/color][color=#E5DED5]─[/color][color=#E6DDD3]─[/color][color=#E7DCD1]─[/color][color=#E8DCCF]─[/color][color=#E9DBCD]─[/color][color=#E9DACB]─[/color][color=#EAD9C9]─[/color][color=#EBD9C7]─[/color][color=#ECD8C5]─[/color][color=#EDD7C3]─[/color][color=#EDD6C1]─[/color][color=#EED6BF]─[/color][color=#EFD5BD]─[/color][color=#F0D4BA]─[/color][color=#F1D3B8]─[/color][color=#F2D3B6]─[/color][color=#F2D2B4]─[/color][color=#F3D1B2]─[/color][color=#F4D0B0]─[/color][color=#F5D0AE]─[/color][color=#F6CFAC]─[/color][color=#F6CEAA]─[/color][color=#F7CDA8]─[/color][color=#F8CDA6]─[/color][color=#F9CCA4]─[/color][color=#FACBA2]•[/color][color=#FACAA0]⋅[/color][color=#FBCA9E]⊰[/color][color=#FCC99C]༻[/color][color=#FDC89A]༒[/color][color=#FEC798]︎[/color][color=#FEC795]༺[/color][color=#FEC798]⊱[/color][color=#FDC89A]⋅[/color][color=#FCC99C]•[/color][color=#FBCA9E]─[/color][color=#FACAA0]─[/color][color=#FACBA2]─[/color][color=#F9CCA4]─[/color][color=#F8CDA6]─[/color][color=#F7CDA8]─[/color][color=#F6CEAA]─[/color][color=#F6CFAC]─[/color][color=#F5D0AE]─[/color][color=#F4D0B0]─[/color][color=#F3D1B2]─[/color][color=#F2D2B4]─[/color][color=#F2D3B6]─[/color][color=#F1D3B8]─[/color][color=#F0D4BA]─[/color][color=#EFD5BD]─[/color][color=#EED6BF]─[/color][color=#EDD6C1]─[/color][color=#EDD7C3]─[/color][color=#ECD8C5]─[/color][color=#EBD9C7]─[/color][color=#EAD9C9]─[/color][color=#E9DACB]─[/color][color=#E9DBCD]─[/color][color=#E8DCCF]─[/color][color=#E7DCD1]─[/color][color=#E6DDD3]─[/color][color=#E5DED5]─[/color][color=#E5DFD7]─[/color][color=#E4DFD9]─[/color][color=#E3E0DB]─[/color][color=#E2E1DD]─[/color][color=#E1E2DF]──[/color][/center][indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=bdbdbd]Roelo and Jochem stood side by side in hushed anticipation at the roadside, the silence between them stretching uncomfortably, neither quite sure of how to broach the growing chasm of unspoken words. Before either one of them could bridge the divide, it came time for them to part, with the cadets beginning their filtration through the gatehouse that Duke de Barbroeck had disappeared through earlier. Accompanying family members remained behind; a common, emotional glaze washing over many of them as they watched their kin pass the threshold. While the parents who stood on would later bare witness to the ceremony, they were, in this very moment, relinquishing authority and responsibility for their secondborns. The young men and women who stepped through the gatehouse were to swear upon new bonds, to enter into a new ménage — that of the Laachtalian army.

“Perhaps next we meet you might make match my might with a sabre,” Jochem quipped.

“Please, the only stand-off you’ve ever had the better of me in is a tanzstunde,” Roelo said back, a light smile cresting his face.

Jochem chuckled ‘fore glancing back at the mounting queue at the gatehouse. “Well, this is it,” he said, seeming to pause afterwards, unsure of what gesture was appropriate to extend to Roelo. He settled on an outstretched hand. “Good luck, Roelo. I’ll see you again before too long.”

“Until then, Jochem,” Roelo replied, accepting the handshake. It was only now that he realised how much he would miss his brother. Though they had neglected to bond with one another over the last few years, it seemed to Roelo that the two had an unspoken bond, as most siblings with a common trauma tend to possess. If he had more mettle, he’d swallow his pride, tell his brother he loved him, embrace him. But he couldn’t. Even as the thought traced his mind, he recalled his resentments; his bitterness. “I’ll see you again soon,” he said, unwittingly mimicking Jochem. “Bring my well-wishes home with you to Friða.”

And with that, they parted. Jochem watched Roelo as he fell in line out front the gatehouse, as he approached its stewardess, and as he received his seating instruction. Roelo glanced over his shoulder, catching one final glimpse of Jochem before he disappeared out of view. He wondered what ran through Jochem’s mind as they parted ways; if he had considered some form of apology, or an assertive show of affection. He supposed that it did not matter, as nothing had came of it.

As he walked down the arcade, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a hollow-cheeked, copper-haired boy who walked at his parallel. The young man’s eyes had seemingly been affixed to Roelo, but were spooked by his noticing. Roelo’s scepticism quickly reared its head; it had been foolish to arrive in procession with his famous father — it had already drawn obsequious attention.

The quadrangle that Roelo was shepherded into seemed to be at the academy’s heart, with several cloistered walkways branching out to other parts of campus. Enclosed by balustrades, the quadrangle’s well-tended lawn was perfectly square, framed by circumjacent flagstone pathways on which the cadets stood waiting. In the centre of the quadrangle, upon the grass, a military band stood uniformly, not yet performing. They wore high-collared jackets with silver epaulettes, and boasted a wide variety of instruments; brass, woodwind, and percussion. While the academy had a consistent aesthetic, it had seen gradual expansions and renovations over the years, with several of its buildings attaining characterful idiosyncracies. Some of the buildings featured columned porticoes and arched entrances, while others displayed a more austere, stately simplicity. O'er one corner of the quadrangle rested a clocktower with a pyramidal pinnacle, its great hands fashioned from polished brass; its parapets and cornices works of most admirable craftsmanship. Equidescently on each of the four sides of the quadrangle were gonfalons depicting the academy’s black-fielded coat of arms; a white, diagonal bend engouled by golden wolves, and a broken blade. The great, dark hardwood door that sealed away the ceremonial hall was engraved with the same heraldry. Sitting beneath an embossed archivolt, and providing gateway to the largest building on campus, the door was perhaps the most focal feature of the court. Within a matter of minutes they would agape, but for now they remained stolid custodians of the ceremonial hall’s mystique.

The young gentlefolk who lined the pathways of the quadrangle had abandoned any militaristic uniformity as they awaited admittance to the hall. Many had drifted over to acquaintances to chat, with several crowdlets forming around the courtyard. Roelo observed the cliques that were beginning to develop. While many of them would likely dissolve within a matter of days of classes being assigned, it was curious to observe the platonic courtship that was already transpiring. Roelo thought of them as baby birds forced to abscond the nest — desperately seeking out safety in numbers, magnetically drawn to whoever or whatever could make them feel secure. There was laughter and frivolity between some, but Roelo could see through the pleasantries. These young men and women were all playing a game, he thought, a game that no-one acknowledged. Each and every one of the pretenders who assembled in their little crowds wore a disingenuous smile, and proudly introduced a filtered, curated version of themselves to one another. One could not be plucked from their home, thrust into a new city, and then find a new flock so easily; these people were [i]pretending to be friends[/i]. The thought comforted Roelo, and made it far easier for him to reconcile with his own social leprosy. He wasn’t the only pariah here, though; as between the clusters of would-be friends were a fair few individuals who, like Roelo, stood alone. One such individual made his way, sheepishly, towards Roelo — the same red-haired fellow who he’d noticed watching him earlier.

“Ah, hello,” the fellow said.

“Good morning,” Roelo replied noncommittally, unwilling to offer his full attention to the approaching cadet, lest he unknowingly consent to a lengthy conversation. His regard remained mostly affixed on his surroundings, granting his unwanted guest the occasional glance.

“Eubén Hügerhaufen,” the red-head said with a polite smile and an extended hand. There was a little bit of a tremble in his voice as he spoke.

Roelo glanced down at his hand, but did not accept it. “What do you want?,” he said bluntly. His suspicions were redoubled by the spontaneous introduction. This Eubén was a sycophant, no doubt; an opportunist who had seen Roelo arrive beside his renowned, tangerine-clad father, and thought that he might score himself a powerful ally by befriending the son of a duke.

“Ah, ehm, I just thought it prudent that I introduce myself,” Eubén replied, his polite smile dashed away; his pale skin flushed pink with embarrassment. “I just thought, on account of us both being seated in the same section, we might benefit from introducing ourselves to one another.”

The conniving crawler had listened in on his [i]seating arrangements[/i]? Roelo had to quell the desire to strike the schemer where he stood. He sighed brazenly, making no effort to prolong the smalltalk.

The bell tolled; the conversation faltered before it had even began, and Roelo was grateful for it.

“Perhaps we might talk again soon,” said Eubén feebly, completely neutered by Roelo’s rudeness. Given the boy’s inelegance, any sycophantic intents may well have been a misread on Roelo’s part.

Eerily, by the bell’s second toll, the throng’s ambience had dissipated entirely. Nine times did it knell, marking the hour, before it resolved in momentary silence. The quiet was evanescent, almost immediately replaced by the sound of drums, cymbals, trumpets, trombones, tubas, clarinets, bassoons and serpents. Out blared [i]Dämmerungs Marsch[/i], a composition used often across the continent as a statement of regimental pride. Rousing and bold, brass and percussion interlocked in triumphant, staccato triplets. It was a feast for the ears for any true patriot, and an admirable exposition of uniformity in art for anyone otherwise. Conversely, it was intimidating — its crescendo was oppressive; paired with the sweltering heat of the morn, it formed a volcanic tempest around the cadets, reverberating across the quadrangle’s walls. For the lionhearted, it was be a euphoric baptism; for the meek, a claustrophobic paroxysm; for Roelo, somewhere in the between. He was no nationalist, but he could not deny that something stirred within him through the music — a call to heroism, a promise of [i]worth[/i]. He felt himself shiver, but quickly sought to vanquish the childlike bewilderment, composing himself; grasping back out for his usual state of irreverence. In his apathy, he was impervious, he was untouchable, and he was safe. 

The hall’s doors were pushed open, and beckon did the ceremony.
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