Mooglenet Archives

[Perhaps half a day after Excenmille has set off to retrieve Rahal, he's managed to battle the obvious nausea which is part and parcel of travelling via airship. He enters Oilvert without much circumstance -- the monsters within not even putting up much of a fight. Magic has never been his forte, so going without means absolutely nothing to him. He traverses the halls of the old place, knocking down whatever rises to attack him - eyes keen and senses sharpened.]

[Excenmille, sadly, wasn't one to recline and relax within any Kingdom's walls. He has his lessons to practise after all. And without any orcs, his lessons were taking twice as long. The monster's weakness compared to the Bloodwing Horde he's become accustomed to is disconcerting. As is their amazing capacity to flee. But he'd doing what he can -- tolerating setback after setback when they fall too easily or flee with speed he just can't match. And his mind wanders, no matter how he attempts to focus. A voice comes to him; a recollection.]

A spoony weakling like you couldn't hope to change history. As well try to stop the setting of the sun.

[He didn't want to be a weakling. He needed the strength to protect everyone. But everyone... Everyone was his mother, his father. Machegue. Phillieulais. They were all dead. He'd failed to protect every single one of them. There was Rahal, Cyraunce. The latter of which had not been seen or heard of; had vanished after his brother was slain. Rahal... probably dead. No. Most likely dead. And it was his fault. Rahal had attacked Zogbog to save him -- because he'd been foolish enough to be caught by the orc's trap. And now
There was a reason, a damned good reason, why this child was difficult to deal with. It was because he was entirely and utterly ashamed of the past. He felt powerless to prevent the ongoing cycle of death -- the destruction of his family, his friends, those he looked up to. One by one, they all died. And they would keep dying. And there was only one way to escape the pain and the grief.

...Anger. Forcing the blame onto other things. Forcing the feelings of his own inadequacy into venom, and spitting it at the nearest targets. Forming it into a ball of rage, and throwing it at the enemy. ...It was no retaliation. Just something, anything, to stop him feeling so powerless. Yet it didn't work. It never had, but he was only just starting to see it.]

...

[He lowered his greatsword -- the huge, heavy thing that signified everyone in his heart, and he stared at the ground. His eyes were wet, yet he couldn't cry like the ten year old he was. The voice wouldn't let him. He was almost afraid that the recollection would chide him some more if he did.]

You'd best learn to tolerate the truth - Nay, embrace it if 'tis truly your desire to bring about change. Now. Listen well, boy. Your stance suggests solid groundwork, but the quivering tip of your blade betrays a lack of resolve. Have I illustrated my point, boy? You don indecisiveness as if it a suit of armor, one that does naught but weigh you down.

[Finally, he understood. And he hated it. His eyes no longer showed emotion. Instead, they hardened. Lesson 67. Be not the fool that swims clad in armor. He rushed towards a monster, striking it deftly and with more power than what one of his age really should have had. It stood next to no chance, and crumbled instantly.]

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaargh!

No. T'was no better than your last effort.
These eyes will not be tricked. You mask it with blind aggression, yet you are encumbered still.

[Panting, he moved the sword back unto his back, and walked on in the search of more monsters. His voice was muted, more a question to himself than anything.]

...How...
could there have been...
any indecision in...
that?

[Excenmille has realized something very, very important during the journey to Troia alongside Lilisette, and that something will probably remain with him for the rest of his days. What is it? It's the fact that airships are not. good. ideas. The young Count is feeling remarkably under the weather as a result of his journey-- too proud to show any fear when he boarded the strange mechanical thing; and now too stubborn, far too stubborn to admit that the whole experience has made him feel remarkably sick. So he merely treads alongside the dancer, an arm twisted up to rest a hand on the sheathe of his greatsword.

Yes, they've had to deal with a few monsters on the way. Nothing of worth though; one or two charges has generally either had them bolt or die. He knows that Lilisette is more than capable of fighting; but something ingrained into him won't allow her to- not while he's here. Maybe it's the root of chivalry -- the same kind his father displayed. He has little idea, and he doesn't really think on it all that much. Instead, he's merely trying his hardest to not vomit; the nausea from the airship ride not going away all that quickly.

Finally, the pair arrive in the city, and Excenmille merely gives it a tired glance -- staring back at the soldiers which of course stare at the dark-skinned child with pointy ears in full body armor.]

...This must be it. I suggest that you rest yourself at the inn...
I will look for Rahal. The area seems guarded enough. Perhaps they may know something.

[Needless to say, he has little idea of Lilisette's relationship with the royal family. Or any of the meetings she's arranged.]

[Once Rydia's taught him how to use the skyphone and he's eaten and rested off his fatigue, it's actually the morning of the next day -- he appears to have skipped one. With a startled sound he rouses himself and looks to the device, deciding to try his luck at locating a certain someone. He's not enabling video. He knows how to, but it's quite a nice thing to remain anonymous; especially when he's so used to having everything he says disregarded because of his age.

Being looked down on, Or being looked at as a child is the last thing he wants right now. It's always been the fastest way to earn his ire, but now more than ever it isn't appreciated. Rydia doesn't treat him as a child; so he's not expecting to be by any other.]

To any which responded with concern at what the moogles transmitted through this device upon my entry into this world, I thank you. Also, I apologize for any hassle it might have caused. It was not the best of introductions... and quite embarrassing, if I am honest.

...At any rate..
I would ask something of any that listen. I search for someone. He is of the elvaan race... and eleven years of age. He would have come into this world unconscious. Possibly-- nay, probably, hurt. He is armed with both a sword and shield. I ask you to inform me upon sight, if possible. Also... if any orcs are sighted which can speak the common tongue, I would ask the same. Inform me.

I thank you.

[Filtered; Lilisette. (For when she's on her mission!)] ...I hope all goes well with you. ...Have you seen him? Any that look alike him? Any orcs that might have been carried by the spell as well?