Chapter 486: The Masked Weirdo
Ophelia the Snow Dancer’s mini-arc. 3/4.
****
Ophelia needed wine.
Not for her. But for her mother.
If there was one thing elves did better than stabbing, it was getting stupidly drunk.
Lady Celisse of the Caendrawood was no exception. There was a reason she was invited to all the best forest gatherings, and it wasn’t just because she told the wildest lies about her cute daughter as a young miscreant growing up.
With the right amount of excessive alcohol, Ophelia could slip away and go back to her well-crafted plan of how to impress a princess.
Being in a wine cellar was great for that. Except there were two problems.
The first was that all the wines were far too fancy.
Despite elves crafting a reputation as connoisseurs, the truth was their standards were awful enough to make a dwarf vomiting behind a bar shake their head. The cheaper the liquor, the more they could drink it, and the more dumb things they could do.
The second problem was rubble.
At the end of a corridor where a masked weirdo who probably wanted to hire her was now buried, Ophelia diligently worked to remove the fallen stone, occasionally using Duck A’s beak to pry away the heavier masonry.
Her mother helped by being as distracting as possible.
“... What about the Leaf Dancer’s very own grandson?” she asked, enthusiastically holding up a sketch that was 100% fraudulent. “They say he’s on track to become a sword saint just like you. You remember him, don’t you? Very modest. Sharp chin. Easy to draw. He’s going to inherit the entire mountain. You know, the one you trained on.”
“I don’t want a mountain. Especially one covered in his sweat.”
“Yes, well, you were rather ahead of your peers at the time. The things you could do with a sword were inspiring and sometimes alarming. But if it’s something more furnished you’d like, then what about a fine estate?”
“I already have an estate. It just comes in miniature cottage form. It’s great. It has a pond and a cozy kitchen. Why would I want something bigger?”
“Because you haven’t seen what Count Radran of the Fading Candle has to offer. He’s old nobility, but you wouldn’t know it. The man is quite obsessed with cleaning. He even scrubs the grass of his garden. That’s a sign of someone who takes personal responsibility seriously.”
“Yeah. I’m sure he can do all sorts of things with a mop.”
“Sweetleaf, these are all very earnest options. There are many more as well. You just need to open up slightly and I’m sure you’ll find someone who suits you. In fact, if you tell me what qualities you have in mind, I can discreetly search on your behalf!”
Ophelia flicked a small boulder away and hummed.
“Really?”
“Really! What type of partner are you looking for?”
“I want someone that’s crazy, smells nice and can summon a [Ball Of Doom].”
A pause came as Ophelia’s mother considered whether or not to ask the obvious question.
“What … What is a [Ball Of Doom]?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows. And that’s amazing. The crazy princess who smells nice does it by twirling her sword while laughing. It’s a giant vortex of lightning and furniture that sucks up everything around it and can be thrown like a cannonball.”
“A vortex of lightning and furniture that’s also a cannonball? That sounds so … violent!”
“I know. Great, huh?”
“Ophelia!”
“What? Everyone around us is violent. That means she’d fit right in with the family. I bet she’d even give us an edge when it comes to all the stabbing during Yule time as well!”
“That’s the thing. We don’t need an edge.”
“Wow. Somebody’s confident.”
“It’s not that. I’m trying to bring us away from all the family arguments. Goodness knows it’s needed after what happened last time. And the time before that. And before that …”
“In that case, she’s even more perfect! If I marry someone who’s a forest hazard wherever she goes, nobody will stir up trouble. That’s good, right?”
“Sweetleaf, there’s nothing good about an adventurer feigning to be a princess. Even if she was real, all it would do is invite trouble. You know I’m your biggest fan and love hearing about your adventures. But at some point even you will want to put your feet up. If you marry a princess it will be constant politics. You’ll be awful at it. You’ll end up insulting entire nations every time you yawn.”
Ophelia furiously removed the rubble. She needed to immediately marry the crazy princess before someone else did.
Pwoof.
A notion the guy buried under it agreed with.
As Ophelia reached for the largest slab, a dusty hand shot out between the cracks, followed by a knee, a shoulder and then the rest.
Coated entirely in a film of grey, the masked weirdo stumbled as he climbed free from the minor avalanche, prompting the two elves to retreat while waving away the drifting dust.
He did his best to shake off the worst of it.
The resulting shower of dust did little to restore the bright colours of what had once been a pristine doublet, a velvety cloak or the golden shine of a smiling mask.
“My gods, woman!” He theatrically threw up a hand, the melodic tone utterly absent. “You just hit me with a [Disintegration Beam]!”
The masked weirdo received a nod. And also a quick frown.
“Yes I did. And I’ll do it again. Please don’t interrupt me when I’m having an important discussion with my daughter.”
“Interrupt?! I am clearly a person of note! Look around! There is a hauntingly empty embassy, a pair of motionless guards, and just beyond here, worrying signs of blood, violent struggle and magic, none of which you’re investigating because for some reason you’re not moving from this room. Lacking any information, you cannot just instantly strike me with a [Disintegration Beam] before I’ve even–”
“[Disintegration Beam].”
Pwoooommph.
Once again, the masked weirdo was sent hurtling backwards.
Ophelia waited for the man to stumble out again. She certainly wasn’t picking apart the rubble again.
After several moments, a hand, a knee, and a shoulder emerged, before being followed by the rest.
He straightened his back, made an attempt at brushing himself down, adjusted his mask, then offered a cautious bow, the eyes clearly watching for another sign of an elven mother’s unpredictable temperament.
“My apologies,” said the masked weirdo, his tone far more deferent. “I do not often forget my manners. Please do not think I bear any ill will. In my enthusiasm to offer a fitting reception to such esteemed guests, I mistakenly set aside the rules of the game.”
“Apology accepted, but as I said, I’m having a discussion with my daughter. We’re not here to take part in any games.”
“Ah, but life itself is a game, my lady. We are but pieces of a board as chaotic as a stormy sea, doing our best to cling onto the flotsam even as it serves as the anchor to drown us.”
Both elven women stared at the masked weirdo.
Neither answered.
“I am the Masked Gentleman,” said the masked weirdo, as the awkwardness became too severe. “And though I’ve held many callings over the years, my first love will always be thievery. Perhaps you’ve heard of me? I have a popular book series to my name.”
Another silence threatened to loom.
Instead, the merciful Lady Celisse turned to Ophelia.
“... Is this the type of people you regularly meet?”
“Nah, most are normal weird, but this guy is weird weird. I can tell.”
“Lady Snow Dancer, I am enigmatic and mysterious, but I must object to being called weird.”
“You’re wearing a weird mask and talking like you’re on a stage. Even for most people who try to annoy me, they at least do it at a normal volume.”
“My voice speaks not from the diaphragm, but the soul. And mine is of both the greatest thief and the finest showman.”
“Okay. Because the Royal Arc Theatre is actually nearby. Like 10 minutes away.”
“Thank you, but I will not dignify that den of amateurs with my presence. I have standards. The stage I walk is the world itself, and the backdrop now is a kingdom awash in summer sunlight after nights of peril. I would invite you both onto that stage with me, even if, in truth, I expected only the Snow Dancer to be here … not her mother.”
Ophelia pointed at once.
“Hey, I hear the judgemental tone! I didn’t bring my mother.”
“It’s true. My beloved daughter doesn’t take me anywhere that doesn’t include strange individuals. It makes me wonder if she truly cares for me.”
“You never leave the forest! And when you do you don’t tell me! How am I supposed to take you anywhere that’s not already got weirdos in it?”
“By not spending precious time chasing fraudulent princesses with highly concerning abilities.”
“Yeah, she’s highly concerning, but she’s definitely a princess.”
“Then has she offered any proof?”
“You can tell just by listening. She has a laugh.”
“A laugh?”
“I can’t do it well. It’s like … ohohoho, but just 20 times more villainous.”
It turned out the impression was better than Ophelia thought.
The way her mother stepped back in horror was a really accurate response.
“Ahem.” A cough sounded from the guy who hadn’t taken the stairs yet. “... Far be it for me to interject even though I’m waiting, but has the fair lady considered that your daughter is perhaps mature enough to discern if the object of her interest is deceiving her or not?”
“Hey, listen to the masked weirdo. Even he thinks I’m right.”
“Sweetleaf, the masked weirdo is wrong. I support all your decisions. But it is also my duty to protect you against those who wish to take advantage of you.”
“Ma’am, please. I am the Masked Gentleman.”
“I am not calling you that.”
“Yeah. Anybody who wears a mask is automatically not someone we can take seriously. If you have to wear a mask, couldn’t you have picked something better?”
The masked weirdo stared, a clear frown behind the frozen smile.
He promptly leaned forwards and pointed at himself.
“I’ve had a considerable number of aliases, Snow Dancer, some of which you may very well know. But I’m not here to debate them. I’m here to invite you to stand before the eyes of every spectator in the kingdom and beyond.”
“Yeah, no, I’m not a pervert.”
The man raised his hands to his mask.
“My gods, I’m not asking you to do anything obscene. Why would you even think that?”
“Because you’re a weirdo with a mask. Look, even my mother is nodding.”
“Then look past it. I’m offering a contest of wits, of rooftop chases, and the shrieking of whistles as guards pursue our shadows. A rivalry to elevate both our tales, driving us to ever greater heights. I know why you’re here, Snow Dancer, and I’ve come to issue a challenge. Let us compete to see who can empty Reitzlake and its bourgeois of the wealth they have stolen first, as befits our reputations, and seal ourselves in history with the greatest dance ever known.”
Ophelia nodded.
“Nah.”
“Snow Dancer, may I remind you I have a book series? You haven’t considered the benefits–”
“The answer is no. If I want to steal something and you want to steal something, then I’ll compete by adding to the elves’ reputation for stabbing.”
“A rivalry with stakes, then. Bodily stakes. I can accept that.”
“You shouldn’t. I’m a lot better than you at the whole stealing and stabbing thing.”
The masked weirdo shifted in amusement.
“... Is that so?”
The sword came without warning.
Appearing in his hand despite the lack of any sheath by his side, he swept towards Ophelia with practised speed, his cloak billowing with dust behind him.
Ophelia met the blade with her own.
Flashing with darkness and light, it held the opposing sword in place as though gripping with a firm hand. Even so, there was also little weight behind the thrust aimed at her.
All she felt instead was a smile behind the mask.
“... I did not tell you what the rewards for this game would be, Lady Snow Dancer. I believe that you seek a gift worthy of a princess’s heart. I will provide it to you, whether you win or lose, for by the end of our dance, it is my sincere belief that you will see in me a worth that no mask can hide.”
Ophelia stared.
Then, she slowly creaked her head towards her mother.
“Say, can you–”
“[Disintegration Beam].”
He was duly sent hurtling back into an ever deepening hole in the wall and a rising pile of rubble.
Ophelia was pleased. She normally had to do that herself. Often using her forehead. But since she wanted to look her best, that meant keeping her hair as tidy as possible.
Her mother thought differently. All she wore was a look of deep concern.
“Ophelia, was the masked weirdo telling the truth? Are you here to find a gift for this … princess?”
“Yup, I’m looking for an engagement bribe.”
“An engagement bribe?”
“Another one, I mean. I tried giving her an arcana crystal before, but it wasn’t enough.”
“Excuse me? Do you mean you've already tried proposing?”
“Yeah. She told me to come back with a diamond, although I think anything expensive will do. It’s great! I wasn’t rejected.”
Her mother covered her mouth. It wasn’t enough to hide her widening eyes.
“So that’s what this is,” she whispered. “This … Juliette wishes to use you for your famed thievery skills to rob jewels, riches and treasures on her behalf …”
“I mean, that’s probably at least partially true. As long as I’m stealing from other people, it means I’m not stealing from her. She really doesn’t like it when I do that. That’s how I ended up eating a castle. I still have a little bump on my head from that.”
Ophelia realised at once why she never told the full story.
Her mother looked like she was about to faint. And she was pretty sure a self-proclaimed gentleman wasn’t going to help her. He was too busy helping himself.
As he probably would still be in the next few moments to come.
After all, just like Ophelia was the Snow Dancer, her mother had a title of her own.
She was Lady Celisse of the Caendrawood, Lead Gossiper of the Local Tree Tending Association and Grand Artisan of the Fading Bloom Atelier.
But very occasionally, she was also called something else … usually when she drank a lot of wine, started singing or when her shiny blue eyes did the ominous glowing thing and all the cute deer decided to hop away.
Magister Celisse of the Lumiere Order.
The Saint of the End.