[b][center][h3][color=FDC89A]ℜ𝔬𝔢𝔩𝔬 Ⅵ    [/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 loosened his grip on his luggage and paused outside of the door. From within, he could hear the faint rustle of fabric, the soft clunk of metal; sounds that indicated his bunkmate had already begun the process of unpacking. At a standstill, his eyes settled on the brass placard screwed into the wood before him. His name was there, just as expected — paired beneath the curlicue sprawl of another name he wasn’t sure how to pronounce.

Muruvvetoglu — a name, he recalled, that was of mid-eastern dynastic importance: though he wasn’t sure to what effect. It was a name that belonged to the Sultanate: a land beclothed in tülbend and kaftan, and clad in enameled [abbr=lamellar armour]zırh[/abbr], saber abrandished. The mother language of the Sultanate, though deft and urbane upon the tongue of a native, was rendered cumbersome and disfigured by foreigners, and so such an un-Loðyrian name as Muruvvetoglu was not so easily indexed by Roelo. Nonetheless, he imagined, young [i]Asli[/i] must be of some relative importance to find himself accepted into the prestigious Ansbourg Imperial Command Academy. He wondered about what kind of circumstances had led his bunkmate down the path to Ansbourg — perhaps he was a ward to a Laachtalian noble, issued to the Empire in diplomatic exchange, or a dignitary of the Sultan sent to tender relations with the Diet. These were questions that danced upon his mind, but he would not hazard to be so bold in burdening his new acquaintance with. Any kind of curiosity that Roelo had with the people he met was well-contained: he would be subtle in his questioning. He knew what it was like to be [i]scrutinised[/i] by the curious; to be prodded and interrogated. He was keen not to brandish such behaviour upon others. And so, for a moment or three, Roelo did take pause at the door, to consider and prepare for this pivotal moot, for as soon as he entered, he would need to obscure his fascinations and play the part of a reasonable, inoffensive roommate. He wondered if his new acquaintance would allow him the same courtesies. While, to the best of Roelo’s knowledge, the Sultanate’s noblesse were hospitable enough — for he had heard tales of their hostmanship; generously bestowing food, drink, tobacco, and various other kindnesses to foreign dignitaries who visited their demesne — he wagered they would likely be less star-stricken than a Laachtalian in the presence of a [i]de Barbroeck[/i]. This he was thankful for, for what ulterior motive might an outlander have to curry Roelo’s favour? While a few paranoid answers to this very question glanced his mind, he sought to banish them. If he could not, at least, find repose in his own quarters, he would surely lose his wits over the coming three years. 

He opened the door.

There, fairly still, was Roelo’s roommate: for now, finished with his unpacking. He seemed entranced – eyes closed, spine straightened – before being roused from his reverie by Roelo’s arrival. Roelo saw the prayerbeads that drooped from Asli’s knuckles.

In Laachtalia, such theistic practices were considered esoteric to most – and even fearsomely preternatural to those of a superstitious disposition. Roelo sympathised that deity worship could, and likely would, be looked upon with waryness, at least among commonfolk. While most had grown skeptical to such histories, it was said that laymagic – or ‘folk magic’ – was once as commonly employed in Laachtalia as a cobbler’s awl, or a smith’s hammer. Thus, gnostic religion was, to some, a frowned upon practice: for it might be conflated with witchcraft. To any educated man or woman, this thinking would be absurd; Roelo knew prayerbeads were not an instrument of occultism, but totems of faith no different to the sacred [abbr=trees carved with the stories of generations]grieving trees[/abbr] scattered most commonly throughout the northern counties of Laachtalia. Thankfully, while great swathes of the Empire lacked such tact in regard to foreign customs, Asli was unlikely to encounter such brazen ignorances within the academy. Generally, among gentry, it was considered both uncouth and foolish to speak ill of unfamiliar culture, and Roelo was certain that the lion’s share of Ansbourg’s new arrivals would adhere to this principle. After all, to the Muruvvetoglu, the Laachtalian manner of reverence was sure to be a strange one. It was most common in these lands to look upon heroic ancestors with the same kind of veneration that foreigners reserved for their saints and awliya. Roelo, for one, felt no such fidelity – perhaps, in part, due to his distaste for his own father, who, no doubt, in centuries to come, would be hallowed for his many triumphs. 

“Would it be disrespectful if I kept my boots on?,” was the cleverest greeting he could offer in reference to the supplicant; a greeting he emphasised most casually. He regretted such a dry comment as soon as it left his lips. 

“It is of little matter to me,” the supplicant replied, tilting back his head in Roelo’s direction. “Your name is on the board outside as well.”

“Still seems only right to offer you it first-hand,” said the de Barbroeck, taking a moment to regard his new lodgemate before retrieving his luggage from behind the door. “Roelo.”

“The sentiment is indeed appreciated,” replied Muruvvetoglu, swiftly returning his prayerbeads to the black bag on the table. “Yet, it would be a farce to treat a dorm with the reverence of a temple.” He extended a hand to Roelo. “Asli.”

Roelo did not enjoy introductions, but as a Duke’s son, he’d made thousands. He quickly, confidently received the handshake with politesse. He listened attentively to Asli’s voice as he spoke; an accent was there, but it did not seem particularly thick. He spoke the imperial tongue very well. Though he had promised himself not to prod or pester his new roommate, his curiosity was piqued. He was tired indeed from the politics of Laachtalia; but horizons afar were of great interest to him. He imagined the life of a lordling in the Sultanate to be a languid one – of poetry and wine, of long afternoons in silken parlours, of sweet incense and perfume, of cardamom tea and hookah molasses. He imagined the domed buildings, cut from sandstone and marble, and the fragrant, sun-drenched bazaars, far more desiccated than even such a searing Laachtalian day as this. These were fantasies that he envied; though fantasies, not truisms, to be sure. These were musings drawn from the euphemised second-hand tales of sailors and travelers who made passage through in Loðyria; tales that Roelo would pay great attention to. Throughout his mid-teens he had made quite a habit of vanishing into the of annals of île Monding, far from the encroaching eyes of his father, to hear tales of distant lands in taverns and taphouses from the commonfolk. He knew they were embellished, but nonetheless did they inspire a craving for adventure in his heart. Alas, unlike the sea-beaten, bronze-tanned raconteurs of île Monding, Roelo was not born to be a sailor or tradesman. Perhaps, however, he could still see the world and its marvels in service of the Empire. While his mind trotted the globe, his body shifted luggage in through the doorway, pushing it towards the bunk. Decidedly, he would organise it later, after the day’s classes had ended. It was far too hot to fumble with it all now.

“Have you travelled far?,” he asked neutrally, knocking back the clasps on one of his bags, searching for clothing suitable for the classroom.

“I have. The Osterlind countryside isn’t the most connected of regions.”

“Been to the heartlands before?,” Roelo returned, carrying his new trappings with him behind the folding screen in the corner of the room, and beginning the process of changing out of his ceremonial garb.

“This is all new,” said the voice of Asli from the other side of the screen. “Once – when I was very young – yet since then I have rarely crossed the borders into a city like this.”

Roelo wrinkled his nose. He’d hoped to glean more about his roommate’s origin without overtly asking. “I recognise your family name, I think,” he pivoted. “Didn’t peg the Sultanate for producing imperial officers” 

“You do, huh?,” Asli replied with mild intrigue. “But anyway, there is much in the way of movement in this realm in the countryside, with a foreign-held title of little worth. Nowadays at least. Regardless, the sword has always been my calling. And it is for my mother’s land I will wield it.”

Interesting; Roelo had never met a foreigner so willing to shed blood for Laachtalia, never mind a would-be janissary.   “Perhaps some day soon you’ll test it against mine.” He emerged a few moments later, garbed in the class dress; gauntlets tucked into epaulets. For now, he had exhausted this topic – lest he risk the possibility of uningratiating himself. “What do you make of our tutor?”

“I shall await the day,” Asli said, turning his head to the emerging Roelo. “As for the tutor? I cannot say I am very impressed. His temper is certainly nothing to sing praises about. I have seen men much older, and much weaker, hold more jovial expressions than I have seen from him so far.”

“I suppose we will soon find out, but I share your concerns,” Roelo nodded. Briskly, he took a seat at his desk and unlatched a smaller bag bundled with his luggage. Soon, the clocktower bell would chime for three quarters of an hour, instructing students to begin their exodus to class – not enough time to venture to the mess hall. He’d settle for his own dry rations.

“Glad to hear,” Asli said, before returning his attention to his own unpacking. He seemed a steady, mild-mannered young man. Inoffensive. Roelo was content: at least, for now.

Delicately, Roelo prepared his meager feast. From a bundle of wax cloth came cured sausage coins; from a small glass jar, fermented radish. With them, he paired small, black bread biscuits — dense, bite-sized, and laced with anise— chewing thoughtfully as he glanced out the window. He nearly offered his new companion a serving of the snack, but quickly bit his tongue; recalling the cultural differences in meat and its various preparations. He thanked his conscience for evading a faux pas, and allowed his mind to drift to his next introduction: that of his teacher.

Before long, the bell beckoned, and with it, the first moot with the darling Herr Schöst.

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