#valanice

[idolsylveon]

live valanice reactions! 2015 reboot edition so there's both of them!

[fluffelhighwind]

"I can't tell you, because the author thinks that the scene would be more serious if I talked in a non-direct way." - the court physician, probably

[thewatercolours]

October Sketch #1: "Lantern"

"Well, ain't you all gussied up, to be roamin' round a bog at night. I daresay you put on your old crown, just in case you was to get dirty. Dangerous place to come by night, lass."

"Please. I'm looking for an old man with a long grey beard, very tall. He might be wearing green. He's got a baby with him. My son. Please. If you've seen them, tell me."

[thewatercolours]

King's Quest Ficlet: "Asleep and Awake"

With a grinding creak worse than nails on a chalkboard, the rusty key finally solved the lock. Graham gritted his teeth as he eased it round till it clicked. He hoped to the highest constellations that none of his half-captors were in hearing range. Now, quick. The final latch, and the chest was his to open. Now to take the contents, free Valanice, and -

“Graham?”

The voice was stern, but it was the sternness of someone sincerely disappointed.

Oh, his name.  He’d weighed the risk, counting she wouldn’t use his name. He wouldn’t have got this far without giving it to her. And she spoke it again.

“Graham.” Her voice broke ever so slightly.

Every aspect of him shuddered to attention. At those two syllables, everything in him woke up. He was aware of his earliest memories, the places where his cuticles grew over his nails, moral lines he would never cross - all that made him himself.

“Graham, put the key down and lace your fingers.” 

He did so, silently cursing the keys and himself.

“Graham, come over here and look at me. Good. Graham, plant your feet.”

The fey towered over him, more than twice his height, grey and cool as still water in early winter. She set her jaw, and leaned down to him, hands on her knees. Even so, he had to lean back to meet her gaze. He didn’t know if his fingers would unlace or not if he tried, or even if he had the willpower for the experiment.

She sighed, and placed a gigantic, cold hand on his shoulder. She sounded weary when she spoke. “I was so easy on you. I didn’t tell anyone else your name. I brought you food from your own place, and made sure no one served you food of ours. I let you stay clever. I used locks on the doors when I could have used locks on your mind.”

Just pray she didn’t see his eyes darting back and forth, looking for a way out. Could he still flee, before she gave another order? Or do something to prevent her speaking? He felt rooted to the spot, but was he really?

“Do you know why I did that?” she went on, laying another enormous hand on his other shoulder. If she closed her grip, how hard would it be to break it? “I did it because I like you as you are. The way you use your wits. How much you care about things.” Her face grew hard with dismay. “But it’s a privilege, Graham.” (Every hair on his head prickled. Did she have you keep saying it even when she had no command for him? It rocked his whole body and soul every time - couldn’t she let it be?) “You took it all for granted. And now you come behind my back like a burglar? It’s not even the theft. It’s that I genuinely like you, even now, and you just had to push it, didn’t you?”

“Graham,” he murmured under his breath, hardly moving his lips, “unlace your fingers.” It was an idiot’s hope, but at least it was hope. He strained as hard as he could to pull his hands apart. To no avail.

The fey frowned more deeply. “Really? If you had that kind of power, you’d have noticed it by now.” 

She let go one shoulder, and made a subtle gesture with her fingertips. Four gorgeous, purple roses sprouted instantly from the ground, tall and straight and growing in a strange twisting pattern like closely wound rope. Their stalks thickened, and darkened from green into a rich brown as the petals fell. From each rose head stretched a growing green surface, which joined with the others, forming into a tabletop, which likewise changed brown and sturdy. The table covered itself with a rich tapestry, purple as the roses, and set itself with silvery platters and bowls, overflowing with good things. Spilling bunches of grapes, pink marzipan, haunches of venison, faintly glowing wine.

Oh no.

He knew her next words before they were out of her mouth. “Graham, eat. Graham, drink deeply. I’m sorry it came to this, but what else am I to do with you?” 

And just like that his feet were moving toward the table. His hands were piling a shining plate high with tempting food. “Don’t do this,” he said, finally finding his voice as he spooned cherries into a cup. “We came here to save your court as much as ours. I can’t help you if you do this. Don’t.”

“Clever, aren’t you?” she said with a smile, half bitter, half fond. “You’ll be clever again by and by, perhaps. Once all this between our peoples is past. But until then I’ll be as kind to you as ever I was, even though you took it for granted. Now eat your dinner, Graham.”

He settled on the grass. His heart beat wildly as he raised the fork to his lips. Surely there must be some way out of this. Surely. 

Valanice. She’d be herself again.

The food passed his lips.

Had he ever tasted food before? It was all gravel and ashes compared to the lusciousness of that first bite. He closed his eyes to savour it, and when he open them, the world seemed a beautiful place indeed. He looked up at the lady who had blessed him with this meal, and felt there was no way to thank her enough.

“Goodbye, my king,” she said sadly. “We’ll all take good care of you.”

His wits drifted into a happy slumber, and gladness took the rest of him.

—

Valanice’s reason woke up. 

For a moment it seemed she was watching herself as though from far away, watching herself sitting in a moonlit glen, braiding and twisting a lovely lady’s hair with about half a dozen willowy fey girls. She was dressed like them, in glistening fabric softer than silk, though next to them she looked cloddish. The fey girls giggled at how slow and clumsy her braiding was, but she giggled delightedly with them. It was all so wonderful. She had never been so happy in her life, if life she had had before at all.

Then suddenly, Valanice was in her body, and everything came into focus. She still shook with happiness, but she was alert to a million other things besides happiness. Paths out of this place. Guards that watched them. The fact that so much of her had been asleep till this moment.

And Graham - oh, if she had her understanding back, Graham must have just lost his.

Crispin had warned them of the dangers of this defense. It had seemed the safest way when he had advised them before this mission. The would come into the fey court together, in their right minds, but if one of them were enchanted, a seesawing of their minds would be put into motion. If one were bewildered by fey magic, the other would come back to themselves. There would be no way to both be put right again until they returned to Crisipin, but it would at least ensure that if one had their wits taken, the other could save them. 

How long had she been like this? How long had Graham been labouring alone? Where was he?

“Valanice, twine the white flowers in now.”

Her hands obeyed by themselves. She might be herself again, but she was still subject to their commands. They mustn’t find out she was awake. Just keep braiding and laughing, and the right time to slip away and rescue her fiancé from his enchantment would show itself.

[thewatercolours]

King’s Quest: CHANDELIER

Oh, on the heels of the previous post with deleted moments from "Paths," this was for a different AU where Graham lost the tournament and ended up getting a job as a royal servant in the palace of Western Kolyma:

Someone had hung a rather plain red banner from one of the unlit chandeliers, over by the kitchen-most wall. Funny choice to decorate only one. Then the chandelier tilted violently, and someone yelped. The fixture spun all the way round, revealing a gangly young man in the castle livery,  clinging on desperately. He had looped his arms and legs through the chandelier’s golden twists, in rather a cockamamie fashion. And the banner wasn't a banner at all, but his cloak, flung upside down.

“Oh, my word!” Neese blurted out. Reflexively, she dashed to stand directly beneath the chandelier, and held her arms out wide, then hid them behind her back, embarrassed. After all, what was she supposed to do? Catch him in her arms? “Are you… do you need anything?”

The chandelier kept spinning, more slowly now, and the hapless servant came into view again. He leaned his head back so that it hung upside down, so he could see her. He turned beet red at once, so fast it couldn’t just be the blood rushing to his head. He laughed nervously.  “Oh, no! All good! I mean, I’ve got it sorted out, Princess. This’ll just take me a second.”

At the very least, she’d break his fall a little. She glanced round the room, looking for a ladder. “How did you even get up there?” She asked. “

“It’s not as bad as it could be,” he laughed, maybe a little too confidently. “I started out caught by just one ankle, but I managed to, um, finagle myself into a better hold.”

“You might have called for help.”

“I guess so, but the rafter was right there. It didn’t seem worth it to bother anyone.”

[allhailkingsquest]

Brandon Kouri wondered what King's Quest VI: Heir Today, Gone Tomorrow would look like if it had been released in the 80s instead of the 90s, and then spent the next 18 years (!) bringing his vision to life:

"The [King's Quest VI AGI Demake] re-creates the original game using Sierra's older AGI game engine from the 1980s. It features 16 color graphics and a typing interface. [...] It was made for anyone who loves King's Quest VI, the AGI game engine, text parser adventure games, or anyone looking for a nostalgic blast from the past!"

Download his magnum opus here!

[thewatercolours]

King's Quest Ficlet: "Everything Changes"

Sixty nights since the prince’s abduction. Somehow the time never gelled into weeks or months. For Royal Guard Number One it was only night upon night, searching hill and dell, patrolling corridors with the tripled guard, lying in a cold sweat in bed and replaying the night Manannan came, over and over. Each time he added yet more precautions he could have taken, moments he could have seized. Every new master plan taunted him.

But failure that he was, he was still needed. He wore himself to a ravelling, implementing every new defense he could think of. Every door was lined with magic-absorbent silver, and every lock refitted to require two keys. Guards no longer filled in on the staff’s day off by serving at table or making beds. They could not be spared from the watch. Able-bodied young people from the town and surrounding valley were invited to join a new militia. They trained in the courtyard on Saturdays, drilling in basic maneuvers.

In his heart, Number One knew none of these measures could make things right. But neither could he fail the royal family again.

One Saturday morning, as the villagers gathered round Number Two to learn how to improvise household items into weapons, Number One caught sight of the last person he expected to see. Queen Valanice.

When Alexander had been taken, the Queen had dogged his footsteps, whenever she was not out and about searching herself. She asked constantly if there was any news, whether this-or-that had been tried. On one occasion had smashed everything round her before curling up on the floor with her nose to her knees, sobbing. She’d fallen asleep there, face smeared with tears and the dust of the floor. Number One had carried her back to her apartments.

Since then, he had hardly seen her. She had disappeared with Graham and Rosella into the inner rooms of the old royal suite, just to escape. Graham came out frequently – he had to – but Valanice almost never did. Eventually, she had permitted Bramble Fey to come in sometimes, but to the rest of the world, the queen simply disappeared.

Until today. Now she came striding across the courtyard, with her purple gown gathered up to the knee, and rugged boots on her feet. Her gaze was hammer and anvil. On her hip she carried her tiny daughter, and she was trailed by Guard Number Three, dumbstruck for once.

Number One inclined his head respectfully, unsure what to expect. “Your Majesty,” he murmured.

“Please,” she said without niceties. “Teach me how to use this.” And for the first time he saw that while her one arm supported Rosella, in the other hand she carried a sword.

He considered, playing a nervous piano over the hilt of one of his own two rapiers. “My queen,” he said carefully, “You have no need. We have been giving our warning – or no, I shouldn’t say warning. Much worse than a warning. But what warning it has given us, we’ve taken. We’ve made ourselves ready. Every one of us would die for you and your family.”

“I don’t want everyone dying. I want my girl safe,” said Valanice sternly. “You’re training all these people, who don’t even have swords. Well, I’ve got one. Here, do you mind?” She handed off the baby to Number Three, pressing a kiss to the little princess’s head, then looked up at him, softening a little. “Come on, Number One,” she said. “Make me ready too.”

She shouldn’t have to. In his time as captain, he had known many great women who fought, but they had all been those naturally drawn to the role of protector, who knew a certain ferocity. But Valanice was a girl who couldn’t bear to see even a predatory wolf shot. Stars, he had once caught her giving a “proper burial” to a spider Graham had crushed. One they had all sat around the hearth discussing the looming war across the sea in Tamir, and it had quickly become clear that all Valanice’s ideas of war were either grandiose tales of old myths or tears for the stories of burned villages. No, she didn’t need to learn the blade. The protector should not be kept from protecting, but neither should the gentle have to become hard. Certainly not because those who should have protected had failed.

“My lady,” Number One said. “You don’t have to. The king-”

“Can handle a sword,” Valanice interrupted, putting a hand on Number One’s wrist, “but we both know he’s best with a bow and arrows. Long range. We’ll be a much better team if I’m good at fighting up close.”

He nodded. “Yes, I could see that. But -”

Valanice held out the sword to him. A light longsword, practical in design, but clearly of high craftsmanship.  “I asked Roberta here what the best sword for me might be. We tried out a couple, and this one worked out all right.”

Number Three cleared her throat. “We chose it because it’s easier to handle without lots of strength training, and for a shorter reach. If I can butt in, sir, she picked up the knack of the first three positions rather well.”

Number One turned to Number Three. “If you’re willing to train her, then why -”

Once again, Valanice interrupted. “Because you’re the best. And it’s what Rosella deserves.”

There was a long silence. “You can’t go into it thinking you’ll be some kind of prodigy who masters it in three weeks,” Number One said at last. “Knacks don’t go very far. It will be a commitment. And swords change people. I hope you know that.”

“Everything changes people,” said Valanice quietly. “Having babies changes you. Loving them changes you. So. Teach me.”

And he did.

[thewatercolours]

King's Quest Ficlet: "Validation"

Valanice hadn’t made any more forts under the table, so far as Number One knew. But somehow that one night when he’s stumbled across her, hiding under the tablecloth, had changed the conversation between him and the queen. On the plus side, she didn’t seem to be daunted by him anymore, and was willing to ask him to do all the normal things related to his duties as captain. And he in his turn had come to know better what to expect from her, how to anticipate her needs. But on the downside, that night had somehow turned him into a confidant for her creative woes.

Tonight Valanice had asked him to make sure that the backstair door was locked, as she had heard it swinging in the wind last night. But before he could see to it, she turned her back on him to stare out the window and muttered, “Can I gripe at you little?”

Oh, here we go. “Certainly, madam.”

Valanice leaned her head against the side of the casement and said carefully, “Would you ever… well, not you obviously. Let me start again. Do you think it’s all right to make art just so you can make opportunities to interact with others? Well, not just so you can do that. I mean, what if you love art, and you love making it – mostly – but what really pushes you to actually sit down and make it is the fact that other people might, um, say something about it?”

But why had she settled on him, possibly the least qualified person in the castle for such a topic? “You mean, is it acceptable to make art for the praise?”

“Yes. No. More like, you really hope people will enjoy it, and your imaginations will bring you together for a little while. But, um, also yes. They might say something nice, and it’ll be like magical fruit. It’ll just make you come alive, and you’ll remember it during the hard times. So yes, chasing praise, I suppose.” She turned around, crossing her arms and staring up into the rafters as though she believed Number One were hiding somewhere up there instead of standing at attention a few feet away from her. “And yet, not. It’s like a language. Like there are some parts of us that don’t talk unless they’re speaking art. And if other people like to make art too, it’s like making sandcastles on the same beach. Maybe there’s a rightness to it that takes away the selfish side of it? But then again, you don’t want to turn the people in your life into “people I hope will compliment me.” And you don’t want to turn your art to just be something you put out there so people will puff you up with praise.”

Number One cleared his throat. “With all due respect for philosophy, is it possible it’s been winter too long, and your friends have been stuck at home with the flu too long as well?”

She looked appalled, then blushed, then laughed, then went back to frowning. “Possibly.” She said very softly.

“I’ll say it again!” rang the king’s voice from the next room. “Art is about people! People are the best reason to make art!”

Valanice rolled her eyes. “I know, Graham! But making art for people is different than making art for what people will say, and sometimes it’s so hard to tell the difference!” She turned to Number One, as though expecting him to chime in.

“You’ve heard my take, madam,” he said stubbornly. “Winter, flu. Overthinking.”

“People are a good enough reason to do anything!” cried Graham, sticking his head round the corner. “You’ll never have a perfect reason to make art, or start a new project, or go adventuring. So people just has to be a good enough reason, if that’s what you’ve got. Am I right, Number One?”

Enough. “If you’ll excuse me, sire, I have a backstair door to lock, and then I have an urgent call to pay at the Fey bakery.”

Valanice tilted her head to the side. “But they’re closed. They’ve got the flu. If you go there, you’ll catch it!”

“Preferable,” he said. “At least I won’t be expected to discuss philosophy.”

As he exited, he heard Valanice whisper excitedly to Graham, “He did it! He did it! He snarked at me!”

As he gained distance, he could barely hear Graham’s reply. “Told you he’d start warming up to you soon.”