B5 C22: Etiquette

The very first thing Verin noted as she began to wake up was the surprising lack of pain.

Make no mistake, it was still there, but muted. Manageable. Certainly not the sort of thing that would keep her from accompanying the others when they next headed out.

My body must have adjusted. A soul-deep relief filled Verin as the worst of her worries were washed away. I do not require my ring.

No. She shouldn’t get ahead of herself. The pain was always worse when she was actively casting something. Best to test that out before she exited her seclusion and faced her companions.

Face… Had Verin already seen them recently, or had that been a dream? She had a vague recollection of them bursting into her room, but nothing past that. No matter.

Going for something simple, Verin attempted to activate her Advancing Glacier, expecting the familiar layer of frost to coat her skin. When it failed to arrive, Verin didn’t panic.

Out of mana? That wasn’t quite right. She’d tried to cast while her mana was empty before, and the sensation was completely different. This time, it felt like the skill she’d tried to activate just… wasn’t there. No feedback at all. How bizarre.

She’d get to the bottom of her faulty class soon enough, but it was best to keep a level head about these things. Verin wouldn’t be surprised if she had a notification waiting for her that explained everything to her liking. First, the matter of casting something though. 

Still snuggled up in bed and with her eyes closed, Verin was hardly going to cast off an Ice Wall or anything so grand. A cantrip was far better suited to the situation at hand, leading her to revert back to her childhood, trying to weave the spellform for Snowflake.

To her growing incredulity, she failed. Not just to successfully cast the spell, but to pull off even a single thread from her core.

In the span of a single second, the increasingly agitated noble tried to cast off ten more spells, brutally yanking on the mana within her core, desperate to see even the slightest change.

Nothing.

It was as if she didn’t have mana at all.

Without realizing it, Verin began to hyperventilate before her Etiquette kicked in, forcing her body to return to a more noble breathing speed. Still, that didn’t stop her from frantically throwing the blankets off as she pushed herself up.

For a brief instant, the sight that greeted her was enough to push other concerns to the side.

To begin with, the room -- or rather, the state of it -- had changed quite drastically. Weeks’ worth of dishes had been removed, and it looked like someone had deep cleaned the room as she’d slept. Even her blankets, on closer inspection, had been changed out with freshly laundered counterparts. That was to say nothing of the small metal disks spread across her room, the purpose of which she couldn’t determine. 

It wasn’t too hard to figure out who could have done such a thing, either. Sitting right next to her bedside was Tess, her lap covered in wood shavings.

Carving something? Idly, Verin wondered what it could have been. Very far from the point. How had Tess managed such a thing? Had Verin truly been sleeping so deeply so as not to notice?

Worse yet, that meant Tess must have seen all the dishes she’d been hoarding. This time, she didn’t even need the poke from Etiquette to feel properly mortified. Certainly, she couldn’t know about my condition, though, could she?

Before she could come to any satisfactory conclusions, Tess addressed her.

“Hey, sleepyhead. How are you feeling?”

She was feeling… good. Far better than she should have, if her memories were any indication. But never mind that. 

“Lady Tess. Apologies. A moment, please. There seems to be something strange occurring with my skills and spells.” She would hardly be a good conversational partner until she figured it out.

Her words elicited a wince from her companion, and rather than leave Verin to sit in silence, Tess preempted her investigation.

“So. I’m guessing you’re not really going to want to hear this. But. You were apparently really beating your body, soul, and mana core up, so Sett sealed your mana. Nothing that uses mana is going to work for you.”

For a brief moment, Verin thought her mana must have been working properly again, because everything seemed to freeze. Her vision faded at the edges until she could only see a small pinprick in front of her, and the surrounding sounds seemed to vanish, leaving behind only the erratic beating of her heart.

There is some mistake here. Or I misheard.

With as little ice as she could manage, Verin whispered out a single command: “Explain.

Verin soon discovered that she didn’t much like Tess’s explanation, eventually cutting her off without even meaning to.

“Pardon. So if I am understanding correctly, I will be in constant pain. Unable to use mana. Unable to accompany you while exploring new dungeon regions. Unable to even leave this room lest I wish my pain to increase. And all of this is unlikely to change for months or years until either you or the Lady Calilah ends up saving me.”

It was clear that Tess was hesitant to outright agree with Verin’s framing, but the noble barely noticed her any longer. Disbelief was slowly morphing into a mounting feeling of dread which pumped through her body faster and thicker than her blood. Despite her frail state and the warnings not to leave her room, Verin found her body scrambling over itself to escape.

Escape where, she wasn’t truly sure. Charging past a startled Tess, into the common room, out of the cabin, and far into the tall grass, Verin kept on until her heaving breaths could no longer fuel her ailing body. Only after she collapsed did she notice the truth to Tess’s words: The ambient mana was far more pernicious than in her room, slowly and painfully grinding its way through her mana channels and into her core. She didn’t care. The pain faded into the background in light of everything she’d just learned.

The sound of rustling grass tipped her off that Tess had already tracked her down, and Verin’s Etiquette nagged at her to assemble herself lest her companion see her doubled over, panting. Knowing Tess would be able to hear her, even from this distance, she whispered out.

“No. This will not do. We will find some way for me to assist you for the rest of the dungeon. It does not matter if I am in pain. We will get the grand magus to undo the seal.” Her words didn’t sound overly convincing, even to herself, but she would make them true.

Pushing past the last patch of grass separating them, Tess sat right by Verin’s side, still clutching her carving knife as if having forgotten she was holding it in the first place.

“Verin. I don’t really want to pry if you don’t want me to. But…” Tess lazily swiped at the nearest stalks of grass with her knife, cutting through a few while deciding how best to proceed before ultimately pressing on. “What the fuck is up with you lately? Arguing so hard to come with us to the fire region. Hiding your condition. Pushing yourself to the point of fainting to prove that you can still contribute.” 

Placing a hand on Verin’s shoulder, Tess gently clamped down. “You’re sick. Get better. We’ll handle the rest for now. You’re allowed to rely on your friends. It’s not an academy class. No one is going to give you a failing grade.”

As well-intentioned as the words might have been, Verin bristled at her friend’s reassurance.

She does not understand. How could she! Verin was no simple noble. She was an heiress. A high noble, trained since birth to take the mantle of her grandmother’s role as chamber head. The pride and honor of her house rested upon her shoulders, and she had done her best to act as befit her name.

“And what? Though I am offered significant autonomy, once I return to Sylum, grandmother will certainly force me to give a full accounting of my time here.” Especially once she learned of the dungeon’s origins, Chamber Head Victa would need to make triply sure that Verin hadn’t offended the monstrously powerful emperor whose pocket space they were essentially destroying. “Do you think she will be impressed by what she hears?”

Somehow, Tess managed to respond with a simple shrug. “I mean, kind of? We’re three people challenging a dungeon designed for parties of five well-prepared adventures over level twenty. I think anything better than immediately dying is a pretty good outcome.”

Is that what I am supposed to report when I get home? Congratulate me. I did not die. Verin could have laughed if not for the growing pain in her lungs.

She had arrived at the dungeon with the highest level of all three of them. Tess had been nearly comatose for gods’ sake. Given that, had Verin, with her high level and superior training, taken charge and led them to victory?

Quite the opposite. She’d floundered from the start. Arguably, she would have died from starvation or food poisoning if not for the others, and her combat record had only been more shameful.

Their first real exploration mission had ended in Verin almost getting herself killed. After the others had asserted she was too weak to be of help, she’d had to sunder her class. Worse yet, with her minimal achievements in life, she was forced to accept Tess’s charity, only grabbing a decent class due to her Minor Class Token.

And after that? A string of embarrassing performances. She’d been practically useless in the darkness region. The least important in the air region. She’d fallen asleep and nearly died during the fight with the hydra. The Mind Reaper had put her in a coma before she knew it even existed. And most recently, she’d begged the others to take her along into the fire region, only to get her arm burnt off and her most precious possession ruined.

Now she was forcing Tess to permanently babysit her while Cal risked her life looking for a cure?

Pitiful.

No, while Verin had some successes to her name, this was not the story of a high and mighty noble heiress making her prodigal return after demolishing a powerful dungeon, coming back with a few new levels under her belt. The line was thin. Facts could always be twisted. Reframed. But her grandmother would know the truth. This was the story of a burdensome deadweight, constantly relying on her companions to keep her safe while contributing next to nothing in return.

Word would inevitably get around. She could already hear the thinly-veiled snubs at parties. She could see the disappointment in the eyes of her grandmother’s most trusted advisors. Even now, so far from Sylum, her shame burned bright at the prospect, and her breathing grew faster.

“You do not understand. I cannot be the heir of my house like this,” she wheezed out. It was already bad enough that she’d sundered her original, nobility-oriented class.

With how many distinct pains radiated through her body at that moment, it was hard to pinpoint any one in particular. As she dwelled on her shame, however, a dull ache managed to catch her attention.

Not because of its severity, but because of its novelty. If pressed, Verin wouldn’t have been able to describe exactly where the pain was, except that it grated on her while exerting an uncomfortable pressure.

Unaware of her numerous aches and pains, Tess barrelled on by saying something truly ludicrous. “I mean, do you need to be the heir? Sounds kind of annoying. Plus, you already sundered the class you chose for it. With the new one you could be an adventurer. Or just sunder it again and be a painter. I don’t really get it, but Suds always made being a chamber head sound like a pain.” In a more subdued tone, she mumbled under her breath. “Plus, decent odds everyone back home thinks we’re dead by now. I don’t think anyone has many expectations for us.”

Of course I need to be the heir! Had Verin’s lungs been working normally, she would have scoffed. Every waking moment since my childhood has been spent in preparation for exactly that!  What was she to do? Walk up to her grandmother and declare her intentions to flee her duty?

Yes, I am aware you have spent incredible amounts of time and money with the understanding that you were preparing me to one day take over for you. I am aware that the lack of a suitable candidate for the next chamber head could spawn city-wide political instability. Why, you ask? What is so important that I would besmirch my family name? To… be an artist.

Though Verin was the only member of the family to be born mana-shifted, in her mind, her grandmother’s eyes were far icier than Verin’s ever had been. The sheer thought of the conversation was enough to ratchet up her heart rate, her erratic breathing only growing faster. At the same time, that strange pain flared up, the dull pressure ramping up to something more pronounced.

A farcical fantasy. And then what? Everyone in Sylum knew who she was. Would she hide away in her shame, refusing any invitation that found her? Or perhaps would she flee the city, settling down somewhere else? There would be no reason for her family to fund such a foolish endeavor. Where would she live? How would she eat? Would she have enough to hire a chef? Gods forbid, would she have to cook herself?

Ignoble. The pain spiked once again, this time accompanied by a more familiar pushing sensation. Beneath you.

This time, Verin paused, the start of a realization dawning on her. Even as her body rebelled against her, she looked within herself as if meditating. Her mana core was nowhere to be found, but there was something there. It was hazy, indistinct, and as she focused closer on the new sensation, she felt some sort of blocker, as if running into a solid wall.

Just like that, it all clicked.

The seal. Did that mean what she was sensing was… her soul?

As if spurred on by her line of thinking, the novel pain stabbed into her again, and this time, she was certain its origin was from somewhere within the sealed-off region. While it attempted to force her breathing back into a more presentable tempo, Verin figured out its cause, too.

Is that… my Etiquette skill?

Immediately, her mood soured.

More than anything else, that skill was exactly why such harebrained plans could never work.

Her Etiquette would never let her have that conversation with her grandmother in the first place, and if it did, it would never let her live with the shame. If she fled, it would keep her from finding a mundane job or cooking and cleaning for herself. All that notwithstanding, how would she make any friends? It was impossible to hide her noble origins, and even the attempt to emulate the speech of commoners felt distasteful.

What bizarre thoughts to even harbor. For most of her life, she’d relentlessly pushed the skill as hard as she could, forcing it to far higher peaks than any of her peers. Class quests aside, it had been comforting, nudging her the right way whenever she didn’t know what to say or how to act. The skill had been her shield in social encounters and, more rarely, a sword whenever any had dared impinge upon her character.

When, exactly, had she grown to resent such a gods-send of a skill?

Was it the dungeon? Or even earlier? Her mind jumped back to her first meeting with Tess and her friend Alara, her skill practically forcing her to shrug off Alara’s forceful and crude attempts at befriending her. Even with Tess, she’d often found herself stilted, worried she’d turn the prospective friend off with her cold demeanor and aloof personality, filtered through the rigidity of her manners.

Alara’s birthday had been an even more uncomfortable position for her, with both a commoner and two minor nobles in attendance as well. There was no “acting normally” in such a case, and though she’d managed quite nicely, the entire event had been rather trying, at least until the alcohol quieted Etiquette’s cries.

Then the dungeon had only exacerbated those pains. The smallest seed of anger sprouted deep within her as she thought of how the skill had been holding her back. For over a year now, it had offered absolutely nothing to her survival, instead feeling like an all-seeing invisible presence, constantly judging her.

A proper lady does not dwell in a poorly built cabin. She does not eat the wings of monsters with her bare hands or deign to use crude stone silverware. A lady does not kick back gut-rotting moonshine or wear clothes made from bandages. She does not kneel in the dirt, sullying herself to tend to a handful of herbs.

All day, every day, the skill howled at her, a constant push to adhere to a standard her dungeon lifestyle would never allow for. While complaining was beneath her, it rankled!

And the physical aspects! It had been fine back when she’d had 25 Charisma, but since losing the threshold bonuses, maintaining her image took forever! She had no cosmetics to hide the subtle imperfections that had suddenly reappeared. No perfumes to mask the scent of those weak enough to still exude mortal odors. 

Worst of all was her hair. The upkeep for her long, perfectly straight white hair had been a challenge back when she’d had maids and servants with specialized shampoos and enchanted hair brushes. Here in the dungeon, though? Whenever she was out of sight, she found herself running shoddy stone combs through the often oily mess, aspiring to a standard she would never reach.

Everything. The skill is ruining everything. And with each passing day, its level crept forward, growing stronger as she relied on it more and more.

“Um. Verin? You okay? Is it the mana? Do you need me to take you back to your room?”

Initially not understanding, only then did Verin realize her current state. Thin, raspy breaths pulled themselves from her throat while her blood seemed to boil beneath her skin and tears leaked freely from her eyes. It was this last item that floored her the most. Crying? Her? And with company, no less? Unacceptable.

As if punishing her both for her lapse in manners and her sacrilegious thoughts, the pain from her Etiquette skill reached its climax, violently shoving against the rest of her soul. Verin cried out, her head swinging up, forcing her to view the menacing black sky which taunted her day after day.

Her sickness. The pain. The lack of any easy cure. The fact that she was doomed to be trapped in bed for months. All of them melded together into something horrendous, serving as a bloody fertilizer for the rage she’d clamped down on for so long. A flood of emotions assaulted her along with that bitter anger -- fear, regret, self-pity, an underlying numb sense of defeat -- both all were swept aside by the anger.

A snarl filled the air, with Verin not even registering that the sound had come from her own lips. Before she was entirely aware of what she was doing, the perfect, consummate noble charged forth on all fours, leaping at Tess while snatching the carving knife from the startled woman.

In a slow, ugly motion, she sawed away at her hair, her long white locks falling beside the felled stalks of grass. With each motion, Etiquette wailed painfully, but rather than bear the pain in silence, she attacked it. Instinctively, she weaponized her soul, tearing into the accursed skill, her own efforts hurting her more than the skill ever could.

At the height of the pain, right when she feared she might pass out, Verin grit her teeth. Sending every ounce of her willpower into her soul, she pulled, all while screeching out a particularly unladylike word.

“FUCK!”

As if the word itself was the last piece of the puzzle. she felt something give, a soul-deep pop filling her with an indescribable sense of loss and a giddy sense of triumph.

She was quite certain her brain must have been malfunctioning at that moment. After so many revelations and thoughts of her past, all Verin could think about now was what she would do to pass the time while stuck in the cabin.

The first answer that came to mind surprised her.

Perhaps I can finally convince Tess to teach me how to cook.

This time, much to her elation and shock, no skill piped up to chide her, and no pain shot through her body.

While Verin sank to the ground -- passing out for the third time in recent memory -- an easy smile graced her lips as she read through her newest notification.

You have sundered the Etiquette skill!