A long time ago, during what the foreigners called the ‘Silver Era,’ the missionaries came to this small fishing village on the Adranic Ocean. When an Imperium was still in the midst of its growing pains, racked with wars against satellite kingdoms in the Reichlands and barbarian tribes in Hautwarden, and with internal succession crises between what was then the seventeen families; they came here aboard a barely afloat sailing carrack. A hull full of religious trinkets and printing presses, the strange cult of white-dressed priests and clerics was met with both wariness and a slight confusion at their poorly translated, and strange boisterous messages about some goddess who had triumphed against her evil twin in some distant heaven in the sky far away.
Seen mostly as entertainment by these villagers, who could barely even read the Tiancin Alphabet, their attempted acts of conversion were limited to literally a half-dozen believers and one church built using the last of their silver, at least according to one of the final letters sent back to Central Ensolia.
It was, for the at the time still unorganized Western Ensolian Church, a disaster.
Even now two entire imperial eras later, the town’s name of “Azuru” had been a laughingstock in linguistics; attributed as being the ensoloanization word of ‘Ocean Color’ from North-Western Ensolian and used as an official name by prideful colonialists.
Still, the small fishing village did end up growing into something more; Port Azuru as a historical town was becoming popular as both a domestic and now an international vacation spot with its azure seas (that was it, that was the pun Sophia realized that had been planted four hundred years ago).
The Erythryn Coast comes down like a demon casted from heaven. Her starboard engine still smouldering, trailing a noxious pillar of smoke as her navigator finds the most cleared farm-field outside of town to put her down.
Protocol would’ve called for the escort cruiser to remain airborne despite the damage. It was explicitly written that no military Aerostatic was to be put down over foreign territory unless absolutely necessary; especially if she was sabotaged.
In fact her Chief Engineer, holder of an Engineering Degree from Imperial University and a graduate of the Amoureuse Military Academy’s School of Engineering, had already made her diagnoses of the destroyed engine.
Well, ‘destroyed’ was the term she had to officially put in the report. This act of sabotage was quite a poor job, perhaps even purposefully incompetent. Whatever type of explosives this mystery saboteur had used did not go a long way: with most of the force concentrated on the lower glacis of the cowling (the most armored portion of the engine); the explosion was less destructive and more theatrical if anything.
If she could be honest, the damage done to the machinery was amenable with the spare parts they had stowed aboard; not even requiring a transfer from their fleet tender.
But General Marchland herself had ordered this change to the official report, with an Imperial Writ no less, and so the Chief Engineer dutifully lied to her Captain; insisting that if the Erythryn Coast did not land for repairs now the entire vessel could, without warning, plummet from the skies like a lifeless lump of metal.
Ordered to lie to my own captain about my own baby. The woman sighed. What was this Legion coming to?
And the Captain, experienced as she was, sighed as she gave a knowing look and ordered the landing a mere mile away from Port Azuru.
Brave and foolish townsfolk come to see the monster, crowded around the cobblestone fence that delimited the soybean field the cruiser found itself on. Deployed Imperial Air Marines attempting to establish a defensible perimeter around the fallen demon yell out orders for townsfolk to back off, harsh tones made much more real with rifles, swords, and suits of ceramic armor.
But still they had to come to see this marvel of Imperial engineering, so many that the assault cruiser Foudre had to deploy nearby to drop four squads of her marine contingent to assist.
From families coming on foot to curious farmers and fishermen riding on horseback, even the High Constable dragged herself out of town; loaded up the motor carriage with as many officers that it could fit and more (they had to draw straws to see who would have the privilege to go) just to come watch.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
And they all watched as the Damage Control Teams, competent as they were, forced themselves under imperial writ to make a four hour show of what was going to be at most a thirty minute patch job.
Just so nobody would notice the massive form of the Argent Dawn arriving on the lawn of the Tianci Summer Residence two miles away. Like an elephant sneaking through Central Street in Capital, the Battlecruier quietly slams down onto a cleared section of lawn within the backyard of the quite humble mansion.
The massive landing legs, in tripod configuration, touch both soft manicured grass and the harsh thorns of an entire section of rose bushes; crushing them completely.
Despite the experience of the battlecruiser’s navigational crew and the advanced instruments provided to them, they still weren’t capable of breaking the laws of reality to fit 603 feet of warship into a landing space 595 feet long. And so the Argent Dawn takes its first botanical kill: a seven month old growth of yellow roses that weren’t included on the architectural plans sent by the Apparatus.
The two watch as the Marines disembark first, three squads jogging out into the humid air of a new biome in full combat dress with rifles scanning the property; clearing every single inch for possible combatants, booby traps, or something worse.
They’re left standing there in awkward silence.
Redressed into clothes better fit for both biome and status, the central ensolian girl and tiancin boy seemed so out of place amongst the uniformed and armed crew members of Imperial Military and several members of their associated royal guards.
Sophia looked, at least according to the mirror, quite plain. A simple wide-brimmed hat allotted with a blue ribbon topped an outfit taken directly from the northern provinces of the Empire. A traveling coat, colored a rich shade of brown, flows around her in tailored perfection, Beneath it, the cream silk blouse glimmers faintly in the sunlight filtering down into the hull, a delicate lace trimming its high neck and cuffs; just barely peeking out like a whisper of refinement.
The layered skirt sways, a soft olive green of fine cotton, brushes her boots just above the ankle, creating a ripple effect with the movement of the breeze. Sturdy but refined, a craftsmanship that would stand up both in the halls of merchant guilds and 2nd class train carriages.
A silver pendant rests against her chest, the only piece of jewelry on the outfit. A design made from an understated spiral; a mere adornment manufactured probably by some traveling jeweler in Capital Valley.
On initial glance she was Central Ensolian, from a well off family most likely. One that could afford the luxuries of fine clothing but tempered enough to avoid attracting too much attention from scrutinizing business partners and jealous royals.
The perfect disguise.
Prince Zai on the other hand cuts a figure of quiet dignity, his attire clean and presentable but without any sense of extravagance. Every element of his outfit suggesting practicality and restraint, the Apparatus perhaps comically pushing a narrative of anti-royalist nature in him.
A simple tunic of navy blue, its fabric sturdy; made of a coarse yet durable weave that was already wearing away from travel (it was, unlike Sophia’s, most likely purchased second hand). Slightly loose around the shoulders, retailored from what once was a much tighter fit. While underneath, the linen shirt had a slight off-cream color from repeated washing. A visible collar soft and frayed slightly at the edges, with a single fabric tie at the neck left undone for comfort.
Trousers of dark gray, made of cheap sheets of cotton with visible stitching along the seams. Discolored patches, mended carefully in worn places, thread a slightly different shade from the original fabric. A clear sign of some handiwork from another owner, perhaps someone who cared or was poor enough to be forced to maintain them.
He was Tiancin through and through, not even a semblance of royalty emitted from his humble form. Just another face in the crowd of the hungry, the poor masses of a stumbling nation.
Now’s the chance to make a joke! One of Sophia’s thoughts suggests.
Yes! Ease the tension a bit!
Sophia references the cover name of his, moving to a casual tone as she smirks. “So… I better get used to calling you Jin~”
Zai keeps a lowered expression at the world outside the aerostatic, listening to the partner’s suggestion as he keeps a distant, cold disposition. “It would seem so.”
Sophia Elise the Eighth, for at least the foreseeable future, was Sylvia Duval.
A girl of twenty three years from central Ensolia, born from the… Duval family(?). And her family’s mercantile specialty was…
Ok yeah you don’t quite remember what they put for the rest of it, but we’ll get to memorizing all of it when we get settled down.
“I still think Sylvia fits me quite well.” She gracelessly brags, flirting her hand over her chest. “I could very easily pass as a Sylvia, don't you think?”
The Crown Prince of Tianci doesn’t even dare make eye contact, that inauthentic answer slamming into her like a cannonball to the face. “You can.”
Jin is not a bts reference go away
