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clonechildFandom: The Last Remnant
Characters: Paris, Charlotte, some other party members in the background
Warnings: ESL, and I think my characterization of Charlotte's a bit shaky. Paris is not quite as purple-prose-y romantic as in the game.
Paris, and his misadventures with swords, invocations and his love interest.
~1800 words
- - -
Lord Priam of Royotia was known around the city to be an amazing swordfighter. He’d probably be known for it outside their territory as well if it hadn’t been so isolated. Not much news made it past the winding tunnels of Lavafender.
When he was young, Paris had often squatted at his feet, chubby little hands pulling at the loose material of Priam’s pants to get his attention, demanding stories about his father’s many adventures, about defending Royotia against the jhana and other denizens of Lavafender. When he was young Paris had been determined to be as good a fencer as Priam was.
And then he’d grown up, and his instructor had not agreed with him. Actually, his instructor had not agreed with a lot of young Paris’s wishes. Nor had Paris’s own body and sensibilities, for that matter. He had hit his growth spurt rather quickly, shooting up and up and up until he could look down on his greying father and his mother barely reached his chest. He built muscle well and looked in general like a fighter, tall and imposing.
But try as he might, he could not master the sword. Or the axe, after that. Spears too were hopeless in his hands. He could not remember the right ways to strike, shied away from the sharp metal, even when it was not there at all and he held the wooden practice weapons in his hands instead. He did not dare to strike, could not even gather the conviction to put all his strength behind it, cringed whenever he blocked. Fumbled with the grip, shifted his hands constantly and got his stance frequently wrong. And finally, his instructor pulled him to the side and told him, gently, that he might want to consider focusing all his attention on mystic arts instead.
‘You’ve got the intellect for it, whenever you’re not losing yourself in your little flights of fancy,’ the man had said. ‘If you can only learn how to concentrate better, it might suit you far more than this. At least you like reading.’
So one instructor had left, and another came in his stead. Paris hadn’t known what to expect, hadn’t really expected anything, but when his new teacher had handed him a long, heavy staff he’d still been startled.
‘You need a weapon to channel your energy through,’ the new instructor said. ‘I’ve talked with your previous tutor, and we both agree this will suit you best.’
Mystic arts were, in their own way, as demanding as weapon arts had been. And they eluded him in the same way as well.
- - -
It had taken about a year of wasted time before they settled on Remedies. By that time Paris was too tired of trying – and failing – to memorize the proper ways of channelling lightning to be anything other than glad that he’d finally found something he was good at. His mentor had been similarly relieved. But Paris would always remember his father’s face best of all when they’d given his parents the good news. He had looked… not disappointed, surely, but not exactly proud at his only child’s natural talent at healing. After all, Remedies were often used as mere secondary skill sets for even the most common soldiers, not hard at all to excel in. His mother had been beaming, her hands clapped together, as she’d exclaimed that of course something as gentle and supportive as the healing arts would be her son’s specialty, but his father’s carefully blank face had put a damper on Paris’s festive mood.
But despite that, his training flourished, skill growing with leaps and bounds. He would never be able to fight at the forefront of an army like his father still did, but he would be in the back ranks, healing wounds and making sure everybody stayed standing.
‘In a way, it’s harder than fighting with weapons,’ his teacher told him. ‘They just have to worry about how to inflict the most damage to their opponent. It’s your job to be there for them and to keep looking, even if you don’t want to. And if it goes wrong, they will point your way first.’
- - -
So his father wasn’t exactly happy with his career of choice, the blood and gore of the battlefield didn’t sit that well with his stomach, and then there was the issue of girls. Paris wasn’t exactly what they called a ladies’ man, couldn’t figure out what the deal was with making as many girls as possible enamoured of you, but he’d read enough of his mother’s romance novels (something she’d promised to keep from her husband when she’d found out) to know that apparently all women wanted a strong, good-looking man who would rescue them from any and all hazards that came their way.
Of course, sometimes he doubted that. His father had taken him along once, for a visit to the other city-states, saying he was now old enough to get to know the other rulers better. In Celapaleis he heard the stories of Violet Gilles-Barre, who did not stay at home like his mother; Violet Gilles-Barre who was apparently unhappy with her husband, something he’d never before thought possible; in the books, they fell in love in the end anyway. Ghor was a warrior’s town. Athlum had general Honeywell, who had given him the impression that she’d cut down any man who implied that she would not be as good with a sword simply because she happened to be female. And he’d overheard enough gossiping maids to know that apparently their lord David was very popular and well-sought after, even if he was Paris’s age and surprisingly short for a mitra male, only just reaching Paris’s shoulder. But, well, all those books had been written by women as well, and surely they knew what they liked.
And then they went to Balterossa, the closest city to Royotia last mostly as a veiled insult to its ruler. Duchess Bertrude was an imposing woman, and surrounded by soldiers who rather looked like they didn’t need a man to keep them safe. But it was her daughter Charlotte who Paris would remember best.
- - -
A year and a lot of travelling later, and Paris was still no closer to knowing how to handle a sword. Or axe or spear. He still had a staff, although it had been replaced and upgraded so much that it only looked like his first one by virtue of being staff-shaped. And at least he’d finally managed to master the art of Invocations, coached carefully by general Pagus of Athlum.
His father hadn’t been very happy with his decision to add himself to the ever-growing group slowly forming around Rush Sykes and David Nassau, but when Paris had come home and told about meeting all of those people from the different cities, it had changed to quiet encouragement.
‘It’s good practise for when you’ll be marquis,’ his father had told him. ‘And you’re building up quite a nice network of contacts for yourself.’
And then, of course, there was Charlotte. Charlotte with her sweet smile and her shining hair, dark skin that seemed to glow in the sunlight, surrounding her with an aura of warmth and vitality. When their parents had at long last given permission to court each other, Paris hadn’t been able to release his hold on her hand for the rest of the day.
Charlotte, who was not quite like those romance novel heroines. She wasn’t a fighter, had in fact needed Paris to save her several times from kidnapping attempts – well, Rush and his group had done the most of the fighting; Paris had just tried to keep them alive and standing – was, in the end, not willing to give up everything for their love.
Paris had seen it as a betrayal at first, had closed himself in his room and refused to talk to people for several days until David had sent general Blocter to kick his door down. Then he’d cried all over general Honeywell II who had looked incredibly uncomfortable. It had ended in some sort of giant group hug and talk about how all the others had their heart broken once. Or twice. Or, in the case of Gabriel, so many times he could not even remember them all.
And then he was clear-headed enough to think about it, and could not find it in himself to blame Charlotte. They could have eloped, run away from their families, and gone to live in a little remote village like Baaluk, but what of their parents? And, coldly speaking but possibly more important, what of their responsibilities? Paris was the only child of the marquis of Royotia, Charlotte the only child of the duchess of Balterossa. Who would take care of their cities when their parents died?
Everything had ended well, in the end. They had permission to court, although their parents still staunchly refused to even contemplate marriage, but Charlotte had said they had all the time in the world on their hands.
‘They just need to get used to the idea,’ she had said, laughter in her voice and teeth like pearls against the dark pink of her mouth. And she’d taken Paris’s hand and wrapped her fingers securely around his.
So she wasn’t a woman out of those books, but since Paris wasn’t cut out to be hero material he could live with it. And then, one morning when he was visiting her, he found her in the courtyard, carefully adjusting her grip on a broadsword that was almost as tall as she was.
‘Well,’ she laughed, when he asked her what she was doing, ‘since I seem to be such a kidnap risk, I thought I’d better take up fighting, so I can at least do something besides stand there and scream for help. And I love you, but I know how you are with weapons.’ She swung the sword in an experimental arc and laughed again. ‘And I must say I rather enjoy the idea of being able to take out monsters myself.’
Then she lowered the blade, laid it on the ground, and walked towards him. Taking both his hands in hers, she smiled again. ‘I’ll be careful, don’t worry. And I know I’ll always have you to patch me up afterwards.’ Her smile dimmed, stretching into something softer and warmer, less vibrant but no less beautiful. ‘You may be a lover, not a fighter, but I know you’ll always take care of me.’
She wasn’t exactly like those romance novel heroines, but Paris decided he liked her far better that way.
- - -
All of this started because I wanted Charlotte to take up melee fighting to dissuade kidnappers, since Paris will never exactly be a physical powerhouse, and then this happened. I don't think it flows very well, but I'm also at a loss for how to change it.
Paris's skill set is based on the XBoX version. Only Remedies and Invocations for him!
And yes, David really is that short. He's about Emmy's height, according to the character models in-game.
Characters: Paris, Charlotte, some other party members in the background
Warnings: ESL, and I think my characterization of Charlotte's a bit shaky. Paris is not quite as purple-prose-y romantic as in the game.
Paris, and his misadventures with swords, invocations and his love interest.
~1800 words
- - -
Lord Priam of Royotia was known around the city to be an amazing swordfighter. He’d probably be known for it outside their territory as well if it hadn’t been so isolated. Not much news made it past the winding tunnels of Lavafender.
When he was young, Paris had often squatted at his feet, chubby little hands pulling at the loose material of Priam’s pants to get his attention, demanding stories about his father’s many adventures, about defending Royotia against the jhana and other denizens of Lavafender. When he was young Paris had been determined to be as good a fencer as Priam was.
And then he’d grown up, and his instructor had not agreed with him. Actually, his instructor had not agreed with a lot of young Paris’s wishes. Nor had Paris’s own body and sensibilities, for that matter. He had hit his growth spurt rather quickly, shooting up and up and up until he could look down on his greying father and his mother barely reached his chest. He built muscle well and looked in general like a fighter, tall and imposing.
But try as he might, he could not master the sword. Or the axe, after that. Spears too were hopeless in his hands. He could not remember the right ways to strike, shied away from the sharp metal, even when it was not there at all and he held the wooden practice weapons in his hands instead. He did not dare to strike, could not even gather the conviction to put all his strength behind it, cringed whenever he blocked. Fumbled with the grip, shifted his hands constantly and got his stance frequently wrong. And finally, his instructor pulled him to the side and told him, gently, that he might want to consider focusing all his attention on mystic arts instead.
‘You’ve got the intellect for it, whenever you’re not losing yourself in your little flights of fancy,’ the man had said. ‘If you can only learn how to concentrate better, it might suit you far more than this. At least you like reading.’
So one instructor had left, and another came in his stead. Paris hadn’t known what to expect, hadn’t really expected anything, but when his new teacher had handed him a long, heavy staff he’d still been startled.
‘You need a weapon to channel your energy through,’ the new instructor said. ‘I’ve talked with your previous tutor, and we both agree this will suit you best.’
Mystic arts were, in their own way, as demanding as weapon arts had been. And they eluded him in the same way as well.
- - -
It had taken about a year of wasted time before they settled on Remedies. By that time Paris was too tired of trying – and failing – to memorize the proper ways of channelling lightning to be anything other than glad that he’d finally found something he was good at. His mentor had been similarly relieved. But Paris would always remember his father’s face best of all when they’d given his parents the good news. He had looked… not disappointed, surely, but not exactly proud at his only child’s natural talent at healing. After all, Remedies were often used as mere secondary skill sets for even the most common soldiers, not hard at all to excel in. His mother had been beaming, her hands clapped together, as she’d exclaimed that of course something as gentle and supportive as the healing arts would be her son’s specialty, but his father’s carefully blank face had put a damper on Paris’s festive mood.
But despite that, his training flourished, skill growing with leaps and bounds. He would never be able to fight at the forefront of an army like his father still did, but he would be in the back ranks, healing wounds and making sure everybody stayed standing.
‘In a way, it’s harder than fighting with weapons,’ his teacher told him. ‘They just have to worry about how to inflict the most damage to their opponent. It’s your job to be there for them and to keep looking, even if you don’t want to. And if it goes wrong, they will point your way first.’
- - -
So his father wasn’t exactly happy with his career of choice, the blood and gore of the battlefield didn’t sit that well with his stomach, and then there was the issue of girls. Paris wasn’t exactly what they called a ladies’ man, couldn’t figure out what the deal was with making as many girls as possible enamoured of you, but he’d read enough of his mother’s romance novels (something she’d promised to keep from her husband when she’d found out) to know that apparently all women wanted a strong, good-looking man who would rescue them from any and all hazards that came their way.
Of course, sometimes he doubted that. His father had taken him along once, for a visit to the other city-states, saying he was now old enough to get to know the other rulers better. In Celapaleis he heard the stories of Violet Gilles-Barre, who did not stay at home like his mother; Violet Gilles-Barre who was apparently unhappy with her husband, something he’d never before thought possible; in the books, they fell in love in the end anyway. Ghor was a warrior’s town. Athlum had general Honeywell, who had given him the impression that she’d cut down any man who implied that she would not be as good with a sword simply because she happened to be female. And he’d overheard enough gossiping maids to know that apparently their lord David was very popular and well-sought after, even if he was Paris’s age and surprisingly short for a mitra male, only just reaching Paris’s shoulder. But, well, all those books had been written by women as well, and surely they knew what they liked.
And then they went to Balterossa, the closest city to Royotia last mostly as a veiled insult to its ruler. Duchess Bertrude was an imposing woman, and surrounded by soldiers who rather looked like they didn’t need a man to keep them safe. But it was her daughter Charlotte who Paris would remember best.
- - -
A year and a lot of travelling later, and Paris was still no closer to knowing how to handle a sword. Or axe or spear. He still had a staff, although it had been replaced and upgraded so much that it only looked like his first one by virtue of being staff-shaped. And at least he’d finally managed to master the art of Invocations, coached carefully by general Pagus of Athlum.
His father hadn’t been very happy with his decision to add himself to the ever-growing group slowly forming around Rush Sykes and David Nassau, but when Paris had come home and told about meeting all of those people from the different cities, it had changed to quiet encouragement.
‘It’s good practise for when you’ll be marquis,’ his father had told him. ‘And you’re building up quite a nice network of contacts for yourself.’
And then, of course, there was Charlotte. Charlotte with her sweet smile and her shining hair, dark skin that seemed to glow in the sunlight, surrounding her with an aura of warmth and vitality. When their parents had at long last given permission to court each other, Paris hadn’t been able to release his hold on her hand for the rest of the day.
Charlotte, who was not quite like those romance novel heroines. She wasn’t a fighter, had in fact needed Paris to save her several times from kidnapping attempts – well, Rush and his group had done the most of the fighting; Paris had just tried to keep them alive and standing – was, in the end, not willing to give up everything for their love.
Paris had seen it as a betrayal at first, had closed himself in his room and refused to talk to people for several days until David had sent general Blocter to kick his door down. Then he’d cried all over general Honeywell II who had looked incredibly uncomfortable. It had ended in some sort of giant group hug and talk about how all the others had their heart broken once. Or twice. Or, in the case of Gabriel, so many times he could not even remember them all.
And then he was clear-headed enough to think about it, and could not find it in himself to blame Charlotte. They could have eloped, run away from their families, and gone to live in a little remote village like Baaluk, but what of their parents? And, coldly speaking but possibly more important, what of their responsibilities? Paris was the only child of the marquis of Royotia, Charlotte the only child of the duchess of Balterossa. Who would take care of their cities when their parents died?
Everything had ended well, in the end. They had permission to court, although their parents still staunchly refused to even contemplate marriage, but Charlotte had said they had all the time in the world on their hands.
‘They just need to get used to the idea,’ she had said, laughter in her voice and teeth like pearls against the dark pink of her mouth. And she’d taken Paris’s hand and wrapped her fingers securely around his.
So she wasn’t a woman out of those books, but since Paris wasn’t cut out to be hero material he could live with it. And then, one morning when he was visiting her, he found her in the courtyard, carefully adjusting her grip on a broadsword that was almost as tall as she was.
‘Well,’ she laughed, when he asked her what she was doing, ‘since I seem to be such a kidnap risk, I thought I’d better take up fighting, so I can at least do something besides stand there and scream for help. And I love you, but I know how you are with weapons.’ She swung the sword in an experimental arc and laughed again. ‘And I must say I rather enjoy the idea of being able to take out monsters myself.’
Then she lowered the blade, laid it on the ground, and walked towards him. Taking both his hands in hers, she smiled again. ‘I’ll be careful, don’t worry. And I know I’ll always have you to patch me up afterwards.’ Her smile dimmed, stretching into something softer and warmer, less vibrant but no less beautiful. ‘You may be a lover, not a fighter, but I know you’ll always take care of me.’
She wasn’t exactly like those romance novel heroines, but Paris decided he liked her far better that way.
- - -
All of this started because I wanted Charlotte to take up melee fighting to dissuade kidnappers, since Paris will never exactly be a physical powerhouse, and then this happened. I don't think it flows very well, but I'm also at a loss for how to change it.
Paris's skill set is based on the XBoX version. Only Remedies and Invocations for him!
And yes, David really is that short. He's about Emmy's height, according to the character models in-game.
(no subject)
Date: 2010-02-25 03:53 am (UTC)I love watching Paris try to sort out his place in the world here -- the way he's never quite going to get the gender stereotypes right, but it turns out that neither are most of the people he knows. ♥
One little ESL note, near the beginning -- "foot" has an irregular plural, "feet," rather than "foots."
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
Date: 2010-05-06 02:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
From: