[b][center][h3][color=FDC89A]ℜ𝔬𝔢𝔩𝔬 Ⅴ    [/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]
The woman led Class E out through the arcade beyond a heavy pair of doors, out into the open air. As the midday heat glanced Roelo's skin, he realised how much of a repose the building's shade had given him, and drew up a hand to shield his eyes. Around the corner from this side-exit, he could just about see the main gates of the ceremonial hall, now open, with a handful of the older and more meandering guests still making their exit, but the majority of attendants long-gone. The music from the quadrangle had long fallen still, though Roelo couldn’t put a finger on exactly when it had ceased.

“My name is Frau Wiezlern,” the matron said, angling her head to regard the shoaling classmates behind her. “I am a house matron, and it is my responsibility to monitor the care and discipline of first-year students. Though you will, over the coming three years, become very familiar with the campus, I will provide a concise orientation to the principal buildings and their functions.”

She gestured first to the building behind the class; from which they had exited.

“This building, affixed to [i]Die Zeremonium[/i], is [i]Zierseldt Hall[/i]. It has many faculty offices; one of which is my own, the third door on the left of the main entrance — you will find my name engraved upon the door. Should you need to address any issues that you are experiencing, whether academic or personal, you are free to visit me there, and I will do what I can do find a reasonable solution. The other faculty, mind you, may not be so welcoming, should you arrive at their office door uninvited. Otherwise, the Zierseldt is also home to our [i]studentenkorps[/i] facilities, which you will all learn more about in the coming days.”

Wiezlern then pointed yonder to what appeared to be one of the older structures on-campus, nestled against the outer wall and crowned by a sturdy, round watchtower. She began walking oncemore, approaching the building in what would be the first adjustment in a clockwise tour of campus.

“This is Härlenger Hall: the only building within the academy that is strictly out of bounds for students. I ensure you that the faculty have our fair share of headaches within working hours to deal with, so kindly do not encroach upon our quarters. However, you are free to admire its masonry from afar. It is said that —”

It was quickly apparent that Wiezlern was not equipped with the virtue of brevity. She had a tendency to over-explain, which became all-the-more clear with each stop on her [i]concise orientation[/i] — about the many amenities of [i]Das Panoptikum[/i], and how she felt about them, or the storied history of [i]Die Zeremonium[/i] and its mighty clocktower. Little did this interest Roelo. He would not eagerly frolick through the halls in his spare time, sampling the academy’s many extracurricular pastimes, nor drinking in its architectural ambience. He was here to succeed, and was willing to be egregiously stubborn and spiteful to push himself to do so. There would be no distractions, as he had already decided. And thus again, did he find himself screaming into the void of his own mind: about what he would do here, how he would prove [i]them[/i] all wrong, and poor Wiezlerns’ words fell deaf on him. She continued her tour past [i]Die Kantine[/i] and the [i]Bistrot Bélandre[/i]; the latter of which served [abbr=a culinary speciality consisting of salted meat, potatoes, and onion][i]labskaus[/i][/abbr], of which’s qualities she proselytized in great detail.

Beyond the cantine and bistro was [i]Der Sportplatz[/i] — the largest outdoor area within the academy's walls, where parade drills and other such activities took place. Along the near-side of the field were several small sandpits that were used as arenas for duelists. Beside one, a small crowd had gathered — notably including the students and teachers of Classes C and D, along with a host of older students.

“Come, students,” ordered Wiezlern. “I believe our third-years are conducting a demonstration.”

Indeed, as Class E grew closer to the dueling ring, it was evident that [i]mensur[/i] was in process. Two girls; third-years, were engaged in single combat, a professor standing to their side as an officiant, and a nurse crouched at the ready should viscera be drawn. Both duelists were positioned most excellently in [abbr=’fencing stance’][i]fechterstellung[/i][/abbr]: feet shoulder-width, sword arm cocked at the shoulder in a high guard, the blade angled diagonally back, like a whip coiled before its strike; the other arm kept still to the back. Each young cadet wore light-cloth armor on the arm, torso, and throat, as well as  [url=https://www.album-online.com/photos/mos/OGU2MGI5MA/album_alb4874157.jpg]iron spectacles[/url] that guarded their eyes and nose; for there would be no enucleation nor rhinectomy at [i]this[/i] academy — wounds elsewhere upon the body, however, were almost guaranteed. In fact, one of the girls, red-haired and fleet-footed, wore a particularly severe scar that traced the left side of her face horizontally like a second jawline. The wound was almost perfectly parallel to the line of her chin, aside from a [i]flick[/i] of etched flesh at the end of the line that darted towards her cheek.  Sand and gravel crunched beneath her bootheals, and those of her opponent’s, as they adjusted in rhythm with their blades’ movement. Roelo squinted into the sunlight. The red-haired girl was turned slightly in profile, her neck pale and glistening where her linen collar ended. She moved effortlessly — measured, taut, refined by discipline. Her cinnamon hair was pinned back into a tight braid. He noted how the scar did not burden her beauty — it made her seem fierce, and far more beautiful than the powdered-cheeked maidens of île Monding. The girl opposite her, brunette and broad of shoulder, carried herself like a battering ram. She too wore scars; though fewer, and fainter in nature.

Their blades snapped together — a flash of lightning; a crack across heated glass. Again — again — again. Minimal was the footwork, subtle were the lunges, for if either participant left the sand-drawn perimeter, either by stumble or retreat, it would be considered a shameful abdication. What movement there was was calculated and perfect.

It was almost difficult to see when it ended. The contact had been glancing, and, at first, as the professor stepped forward to end the fight, the brunette looked over in frustrated protest, as if to argue that she hadn’t been struck. Within a moment, however, crimson had drawn from her cheek, and she withdrew any pretense of protest — by which point the red-head had already returned her sword to its scabbard.

"Blut!,” cried the professor, raising his hand, and thus marking the end of the fight.

There was no bow. No “well fought”; no proffered hand. A brief, austere applause trickled through the crowd. Some of the first-years clapped with more enthusiasm before noting the restraint of their elders, and quickly amended their own standards. This was the way of [i]mensur[/i] — while it felt in many ways like a sport, it was not one. It was a tradition, and one without a victor or a loser. While it was clear to see who the triumphant of this particular mêlée was, both had participated in a lesson, at least in the eyes of the pedagogues, and each had found ‘victory’ of their own in their learnings. The nurse did not move towards the wounded, but gladly attended her when she approached. It was likely the caregivers of the academy had seen far worse resulting wounds, and were content to allow duelists a moments reprieve before rushing to their aid: especially when only afflicted with superficial flesh wounds.

The other combatant, the unbloodied, tore off her eye-guard and wiped back the sweat from her brow. She reached at the bindings of her hair, and her braid came undone like a snare released. Strands of red hair, darkened by sweat at the roots, slipped loose in spirals and fanned out across her shoulders. Some clung to the collar of her dueling vest. Others trailed over the curve of her throat and down the pale slope where her collarbone peeked between the folds of linen. The sun caught the copper of it, as if igniting the dying embers of a fire. Roelo watched her glide back into the crowd. Despite her success, despite the pressure of being placed upon a pedestal in front of the first-years, she seemed unmoved: as if her heart had remained at resting pace all the while. Roelo could not say the same for himself, but tore his eyes away.

“Very good, very good, but enough of a delay,” called Wiezlern. “On to the barracks.”

And so Class E migrated beyond Der Sportplatz, beneath the arch of the Gatehouse, and up to the terraced buildings that would, for the next three years, be their home. There again did Wiezlern stop, and once more did she liberally orate about the various dos and don'ts of this particular locale.

[i]“Boys will keep to their bunks, and girls to theirs.”

“I should not even have to say this, but do not hang your linens from your bunk like a fieldhand. We have drying lines — use them.”

“Do not leave boots in the corridor. I will throw them out of the window.”[/i]

Roelo found his mind flâner back to the red-haired girl. He hoped he might see her again, or perhaps afford himself the courage to ask her name; though, he realised, it was likely a foolish endeavour. After-all, as a third-year, she would be twenty-one, a far cry from his boyish eighteen.

As Wiezlern drawled on, a boy shuffled beside Roelo and cleared his throat.

“Hail,” the lad said lowly, so to not be heard by Wiezlern: offering out his hand to shake. “Lutz von Ecklingen.”

Roelo, though unenthused with the idea of whatever interaction was about to be enforced on him, accepted the handshake.

"You’re a de Barbroeck, right? Like the Duke of Orange?,” Lutz continued, a trace of excitement showing on his lips. “Must be a bit dull here by comparison."

Roelo bit his tongue. This was not an interaction he had any desire to indulge, but it was bound to come sooner or later. He had considered how he might navigate such an inquest previously. He could lie — claim to be the son of a peripheral second-cousin; but it was more than likely that he’d be quickly caught in the falsity. While indeed he was Tælman’s shame; a black sheep who was seldom paraded and celebrated by his kin: he was not quite shunned to the degree in which he was totally anonymous. Should there be any other Loðyrians among his stream, it was imaginable that they’d have heard of the name [i]Roelo de Barbroeck[/i] — if not for his standing alone, then for his controversies. He was the son who'd infamously, and ignobly, assaulted a household guard. The one who'd gotten blind-drunk during [abbr=Loðyrian naval remembrance holiday][i]Reevingtide[/i][/abbr] and embarrassed himself, driven to sickness aside the plinth of a war monument after altercating with sailors at the local taphouse. The one whose noble father had ordered his own son's name stricken from the ledgers of port stewardship, and whose brother now made diplomatic rounds alone, without the troubled second son in tow. While his face might not be known across Loðyria, his name was. And perhaps even this busybody — the prying Lutz — might already be privy to these tales. Sometimes, thought Roelo, a querier will ask a burdensome question while already knowing an answer, only to see its recipient squirm under the weight. Nonetheless, Roelo had reconciled with the fact that any [i]denial[/i] of his standing would only cause him another headache down the line. He had no desire to stand in Tælman’s shadow  — but he would not hide from it, either. He would give this sycophant what he desired, but little more, by confessing his kinship to the [i]the Duke of Orange[/i]; the [i]Lion of Loðyria[/i].

As much as Roelo loathed his father, he recognised why many across the Empire, especially those who valued justice and valour, perceived Duke Tælman as something of a living legend. It was not without reason. Over the span of two decades, the Duke had taken the tide-torn, pillaged coasts of his home nation and turned them into some of the most secure harbourlands in the Empire. What had previously been a region plagued by pagan raiders from the cold north — honourless men with axes and guns and cursèd blood-oaths — was now patrolled, fortified, and swept clear of the banners of corsairs. Now, trade thrived, fishermen dared to cast their nets at sea, and children could visit the beaches at summertime without a constant peril hanging over them. Tælman had achieved this through not only diplomacy and reform, but with fire and gallows. He had sank more ships and hanged more men than anyone alive — and he had done so without being perceived as a tyrant or a madman. No, he was respected; so respected, in fact, that it was a common thought among the gentry of the Empire that he was best placed to ascend to the Imperial throne, should an election take place in the near-future.

“I am. The Duke is my father,” Roelo responded — aloof, but not entirely dismissive. To shirk this mite, he’d have to first indulge him. “And no, quite the opposite. The weather here is much more pleasant.”

Though he did not offer such an intimacy as eye contact with his unwanted interlocutor, he noted the excitement that befell Lutz’ face with his confirmation. He must’ve thought he’d struck lucky by being classed with such a [i]celebutante[/i].

“They call him the Tallyman out there, don’t they?,” asked Lutz. “On account of how many pirates he’s hanged.”

Roelo nodded, dispassionately. “That’s what they say.” He spoke curtly, of course, with intent to hamstring the conversation. But his response, to his great despair, instead seemed to invite further questioning.

“Did you ever cross swords with them? — the [i][abbr=Loðyrian word for coastal raiders: “bay burners”]brânwîchen[/abbr][/i]?,” Lutz asked, speaking the final world in an exaggerated Loðyrian accent. 

Perhaps Lutz employed a word foreign to him to flaunt his linguistic chops, or his erudite knowledge of geopolitics. Either way, it did not endear him to Roelo as intended. The lordling had to tame his glower and pull back the very reigns of his optic nerves to restrain an eye-roll. Roelo let the silence hang, hoping Lutz might tactfully interpret his disinterest and retreat. But no such luck. The boy’s grin had only widened, pleased with his own pronunciation, his own cleverness.

“I hear they’re among the most heartless and violent of men,” Lutz continued, hoping, perhaps, to elicit some epic tale of swashbuckling from Roelo.

“I never had the displeasure,” Roelo responded. “They are clever enough not to come inland these days.”

“Young man,” Frau Wiezlern spoke abruptly, aiming her icy stare at Roelo, breaking momentarily from her meandering instructions to provide a verbal slap-on-the-wrist. “You will have plenty of time to get acquainted with your classmates [i]after[/i] I am finished talking.”

Roelo dipped his head, quietly grateful for her rescue — yet still a little resentful that Lutz’s advance ended with [i]him[/i] being the one chastised. “Apologies, ma’am.”

She nodded, wordlessly accepting his apology, and then on went her monologue — describing, at length, the logistics of laundry, [i]’what to do in the event of fire’[/i], and other such equally uninteresting topics.

“[i]Sorry[/i],” whispered Lutz with a sheepish smile, nudging Roelo in the arm.

Wiezlern, winding down on her lengthy induction, then delivered a room key to the hands of each of the classmates. 

“Now, you have the best part of... oh, half an hour — how the time does pass — to get yourself acquainted with your quarters, and to see yourself fed and watered. After that, please make your way to the main complex,” Wiezlern pointed over to the building that surrounded the quadrangle. “East Wing, Room 3. Herr Schöst will be waiting. On the hour. I advise you arrive promptly.”[/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent][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]