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ƤαƖƖαѕ ✧: yeah, i love my king&runaways plot so much, but if i were to do another version of it i would need to be super interested in it. unless you have some
super cool plot and character ideas to add to it, i would prefer not to have another duplicate of it.
вlue вlood: it was all understandable! i also usually write most of my longer posts at least partially before bed, so mine are sometimes a little disjointed. honestly, though, your last post was a+. i didn't have any trouble reading it. ]
“I suppose you could put it like that.” The truth was a little more complex than finding a better job, but they weren’t going to subject anyone to the full details. They were complicated and not all that interesting when it came down to it. Ivetta thought he needed to learn skills she couldn’t teach him, so she pawned him off on someone else to raise. He wasn’t bitter about it. Really! Not bitter in the
slightest. After all, he had learned a lot. Most of it had focused on how to swindle people, but he couldn’t pretend that wasn’t useful information.
“It was more like I went to live somewhere else for a while. Ivetta let me stay here for a while. She’s too fond of taking in strays—kids and cats. None of her strays are around right now. The cats probably don’t like you and are hiding because you’re unfamiliar, and none of the kids will show up until later. None of them actually live with her right now. She has a few she feeds and gives odd jobs to from time to time, though. Petunia, Felix, Eli, and… Wren, I think. Like I said, I don’t work here, I just hang around. I’m not obligated to learn the little gremlins’ names.” He had absolutely no reason to tell this strange aristocrat so much about himself, but it was kind of nice to talk candidly with someone and know that there wouldn’t be consequences for anything he said. What were the chances that he would run into this man again? There was no reason not to tell the truth if he felt like it. Micu wasn’t being truthful when he pretended like he didn’t know all the kids under Ivetta’s care, though. He spent most of his free time here, but no one needed to know that. It might fool someone into thinking he was actually a good, upstanding citizen, and he couldn’t have that. The company here was better than he got at most local bars, although he had to watch his language around the kids. Because gods forbid he be a bad influence on them! Like any of them hadn’t figured out he was a thief after he dodged their questions about what he did for a living. The fruits and sweets he sometimes brought back must have tipped them off. They weren’t stupid kids. No one of his status could possibly afford to pay for luxuries like that.
Micu faked shock when the aristocrat implied he was untrustworthy.
“I do nothing but help you—spend my own free time guiding you through this clutter—and you assume I have anything less than the best intentions? I can hardly believe this,” the thief said with a sigh, placing a hand over his heart as he played up his offense. He could have been even more dramatic if he had really felt like it, but he didn’t want to knock anything over. Besides, he got the feeling that the other man was confused and uncomfortable enough already. This interaction was primarily to amuse himself, so scaring him off wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. Still, he might feel bad afterwards, and he had no time for remorse. It really interfered with his productivity.
He hadn’t actually been expecting legitimate answers to his barrage of questions. Most people would have told him to stop with the interrogation, but it appeared that this man had never learned how to properly tell off another person. That was perfectly fine by him. He did enjoy having actual conversations from time to time, rather than the insults and gossip which dominated the talks he had with Ivetta. He stiffened as the shop was brought up—it had some odd characteristics that were best to not think about. Fortunately, the man kept any suspicions he might have had to himself and continued without making a big deal of it.
That discretion would serve him well if Micu’s suspicions were true. He wasn’t certain enough yet to mention anything, but this looked like a classic runaway situation. Upper class youth wants to escape their cushy life, so they grab some supplies and run away, hoping to pose as an ordinary poor person until they come up with a better plan. He had never heard of it happening outside of fairy tales, but that didn’t mean it was impossible. Usually in the fairy tales the youth played their role convincingly, made some friends, then inevitably went back to reclaim their rightful place in society, now able to get rid of whoever or whatever had made them run away. The ending was always happy. Sometimes the aristocrat fell in love saved some poor soul from a life of poverty by marrying them. That was too sentimental for his tastes. In more realistic versions, the aristocrat used their new friends as tools and left them behind when they returned home. There was no real happy ending, but that was how life usually worked. Still, that wasn’t the most likely situation. Most aristocrats wouldn’t be able to play the role convincingly. Best case scenario, they realize they can’t handle life as a runaway and return safely. Worst case scenario, they get murdered.
“I don’t see why would someone of your standing would need to get rid of something themselves. Isn’t that what servants are for?” His tone sounded sincere, but he hoped the aristocrat would take it as a warning. No one was going to believe he was a normal person, even without the extravagant cloak. His discomfort in this unfamiliar situation was painfully evident. How would he handle himself in places that were even more foreign? He couldn’t imagine this man asking for a room at one of the local inns. Some were seedier than others, but none of them could really be described as nice. Micu gave up on trying to picture it when he saw the aristocrat was looking at him like he was supposed to do something. “What?” Oh, right. He had offered to help him try things on.
“I can’t just look at you and know what you want, you know. I may be good at showing customers around, but I can’t predict the future,” he said sharply. The man probably wasn’t trying to be rude, but that didn’t stop him from being irritated. That reminded him why he usually didn’t offer to help out aristocrats. Most of them expected you to worship the group they walked on. Doing them a favor was expected of you. If you thought you were going to be thanked for it, you were going to be disappointed. He had offered to help, however, and he wasn’t going to refuse now. He took the cloak from the aristocrat and moved to stand at his side. From this angle, he could slip the cloak onto him without knocking over any of Ivetta’s precious junk. Once he had accomplished this (without so much as bumping into anything, which he was oddly proud of), he stepped back and looked the aristocrat up and down.
“That looks like a pretty good fit. Is it comfortable?” Micu had gone back to his good worker persona, although his manner wasn’t quite as enthusiastic as it had been a few moment ago.
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CrackedSkel: i view the memory chip as a storage system for someone's mind, so they won't technically die if you kill their body and the chip exists. you can reuse a single one, but you overwrite your past self every time you make another save. remiel has older memory chips with their family (because aevs like to save a few, just in case their current one gets destroyed and their body dies), but those versions are older and the remiel that would be brought back if they died+their current chip was destroyed would have no memory of running away from home. if their current chip was destroyed but they survived, they would freak out because the current version of themselves is no longer effectively immortal. they don't care about their past self. they want the person they are right now, in that moment, to live. and if remiel died but the chip was fine, they could be brought back in a different body and would keep all of their memories up until the last time they used the chip. ]
Conla couldn’t recall a time in her life she had been likened to anyone’s mother. She wasn’t good with traditionally motherly things—comforting others, for instance, was always a shot in the dark. Her personality was simply too abrasive for her to fall comfortably into that role. Besides, she had never been good with children. Her one motherly trait was being deeply protective of the people she cared about, but she suspected that came more from a desire to keep her comrades alive, not mother them. This was an odd situation. “I still don’t exactly see how I’m like her, but I’m flattered. She sounds like a good woman. And it looks like she taught you well, although I’m not an accurate judge of magical skill. But she couldn’t have taught you all this and thought you wouldn’t eventually be found out. Didn’t she have a plan for you, in case someone found out and thought to tell the king? That seems like an important thing to consider when magic is outlawed and your child is practicing it.”
She hoped the princess wouldn’t think she was implying that she didn’t think highly of the past queen. Personally, the knight had no reason to dislike her. She was just as good as most royals, perhaps a little better. But why would she not have made some plans for her child’s safety?