and what is her name, this maiden of darkness?

Maiden ofwhat?

Well, being called a maiden is odd in itself, but she has no clue who the girl is, but invoking storms is too specific for the other girl to not  have at least a passing knowledge of time herself.

Maybe they just attended the same class, and something about Tine's thunder magic stood out to her.

Less of that; all of this is absurd, and she hadn't addressed the more concerning part.

"Wait wait liberate?

What do you mean by that? I mean, I'm willing to hear you out; just can we talk about it first?

“Of course I would pay attention when I see a fellow sorceress summon a great bolt of thunder!” she explains.  She refers to a chance encounter at the training grounds, when she watched the girl train before going about her own training.  It wasn't worth interrupting.  “One must take careful inventory of her allies… and rivals.”

She grins, and extends an arm, hand open and reaching, towards the other mage.  “So I would have your name!”

        He's racking his brain at first, searching for a name or a face, but then she says splendiferous, and great heroine and dark sire and— There's only one person in the world Leo knows who speaks like this. One person, who had mysteriously disappeared after the end of the war.         But when did he manage to have a child? My, she does resemble her father...          Leo can't help but smile faintly. "Ophelia Dusk, is it? Then you must be asking after Odin Dark, my retainer. I didn't realize he had a daughter... If he had but sent word, I would have arranged for your provision. But no matter."         The prince's expression sobers a little as he returns to her question. “I'm afraid I don't know what became of your father, either. Sometimes he would ask strange things of me, such as what I would do if he could no longer be my retainer. I thought it peculiar at the time, but he well and truly vanished after the war was won... And I see I'm not the only one he left behind.”

Or perhaps that is an unfair assessment - he names her as Odin's daughter, and he explains he hadn't known, and if he had, he would surely have treated her kindly.  But the ultimate fact is that he doesn't know where her father is either, and Ophelia's maiden heart sinks to hear it.

What Leo suggests instead is naught but nepotism, and Ophelia isn't sure how to respond.  For what could a girl possibly want, if not her father?

She falters. Her expression falls into a rare dismay, eyes flickering to the floor before she can rightfully raise her head high.  As her father taught her.  She is a Chosen One, after all.

“I had hoped you may know which fell wind he followed,” she replies, “I hadn't expected you may also be unaware.”

And this ache in her chest.  Had Father never mentioned her to his liege?  Was she sealed away in a demesne so that he might pretend he did not love her?  Or did he pretend that he did?

No, doubt is the foe of heroism.  She resolves to push the thoughts at bay, even if they linger in the back of her mind.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” she says, offering another curtsy. (That's polite, isn't it?  More curtsy = more polite.  She's certain.)  “But this maiden is in no need of favors, no matter how prolific the offerer.  Uhm…”

"Welcome to the Gouda Times Play Arcade, where you have if you aren't having a Gouda Time, you're having a Lim-Better Time," the hostess chirped, clasping her hands in front of her. "My name is Rachel – are you here with another party?" 

"Ah...no..." Lachesis hesitated, steeling herself. It was as Ophelia had said. 

They must infiltrate the ranks. 

"I believe that I've heard quite good things about this place from...my sister, who has brought her children here a time or two. However, I should rather like to...lend a hand, if it be possible." 

Rachel looked in turns relieved, and then, after a moment, doubtful. "We have been wanting a couple of extra bodies for birthday season..." she began hesitantly, ushering them out from the main guest pathways and more along the outskirts of the space. "But I didn't hear that we were conducting interviews today..." 

Rachel seems skeptical, but Ophelia is ready with a lie of her own.

"My assistant can be oh-so humble, Miss Rachel!" she enthuses, winking with a grin. She draws forth her tome and opens it with a flourish, using that finger trick she spent hours perfecting in a dorm room to send its pages fluttering. "Lady Dusk is arrived, ready to amaze!"

A small spell sends motes of energy swirling around her, glimmering in tiny penumbras, swirling hypnotically on their own tiny axial tilts. "The lady shall forgive your failure to recognize her! As per my contract, the trial show was set for today. I had expected all to be informed and anticipating my entrance!"

"O-oh, please, erm, pardon me..." Rachel responds. She may not seem completely convinced, but etiquette prevents her from denying Ophelia's recounting outright. "We have three parties today. I hadn't been informed on your contract's terms, nor this trial show... Do I need to inform our guests to congregate in the main room..?"

His age aside, of course.

And the bow.

And probably also his patchwork clothes, too.

Still, indignation sweeps a frown across his face.

"It was for a training exercise, like I said, so I don't know why I had the blade." He feels a little bolder now. Or maybe just defensive in front of this girl who still seems like she's just one wrong word away from hitting him with her tome. The tome also called Missiletainn.

Ronan tilts his head and straightens up to stand a little taller against the column at his back.

"But there was definitely something weird about it. Some kind of dark magic controlling my body." His eyes drop to the tome in her hand and they narrow for a moment. The tales he'd heard of the dark magic wielded by the priests from the Lopt church had told of spells that could do anything from turning a person to stone, to taking over their very will, to even rotting a person from the inside out. All signs were pointing to her - and both Missiletainns - being just the same.

Her eyes narrow, too.

“Have you any idea how rude it is to ask a lady about her weapon before she even introduces herself properly? And after you’ve barged in on her training her holy blade, no less!”

The bitterness that enters her tone has but one source, and it’s not that which she notes herself.

The answer to Ronan’s question is that she doesn’t know where he is, though she would very much like to, Ophelia had amiably parted ways with her family to pursue her burgeoning heroineism, and she misses them very, very much.

Letters or visits might ease the ache in her breast that the gap in her knowledge stirs, but neither are as such within her capabilities.

Almost out of spite, she doesn’t want to tell him a single thing, but she wants – no, she needs – to know more about Missiletainn! It sets her heart fluttering to think that such a meeting of Missiletainns might be feasible, and how happy she’d be to experience it.

“Where is Missiletainn?” she asks back instead. “In all my father’s notes, he never once mentioned it possessing any eldritch abilities.”

(She dare not admit the truth – slips, dull, disappointing – in case it makes Ronan any more condescending.)

Let's say, for the sake of the girl's pretense, I know her. That Rhajat should know this, this... self-proclaimed light acolyte. She supposes it's possible that some sort of outside, charlatan, holy light has stained her once— clearly, it was ineffective, of course. So what really would be the harm in going along with it again, if it means seeing this annoying girl away?

At the same time, her interest is undeniably piqued with something other than her cursed memories, for once.

Now that sounds much more like the Rhajat that Ophelia knows and admires! Well, aside from the conditional nature of her response. She offers an explanation just as quickly, though – curse. Rhajat has been cursed, Ophelia wisely and deftly concludes, and it has both obfuscated her memories of their friendship and brought the deep stygian nature of Rhajat’s heart to the surface.

That needs to stay deep! A woman needs her charms!

Ophelia poses, one hand covering her face mysteriously as she replies through a confident smirk: “Naturally, you have my assistance, Rhajat of the blackest night!”

(Ooh, that one was good! Ophelia keeps an eye open to determine how Rhajat felt about it.)

"An examination of one's energies sounds rather invasive, but I will trust that you have all the best intentions in mind." She trusts Ophelia, without a doubt. That same trust would be granted to all of those in their number who had survived their parents' folly, without hesitation. She says as much easily, and yet…and yet, for some reason she is not sure of, there is another feeling. Deep within, something that takes the shape of a stone dropped into a well falls into her center, and she feels…

Her fingers go tight around the cup in her hands without her thinking of doing so. The next breath she takes has to be slowed to stay steady.

Though Ophelia is completely disappointed that Rhajat has failed to mention the wondrous work she'd performed for her, she isn't at all surprised.  It lessens the blow, somewhat, in that way.  For the present, though, she has another task to perform, and Ophelia is eager to get started!

Problem: she has a nearly-full cup of tea in her hands.

She can't quite go unfueled for her practice, can she?  So Ophelia finds a solution in blowing thrice across the drink's surface and swallowing the rest of it down in one swing.

It's a little too hot, and it leaves an uncomfortable tingling in her mouth and throat, but maybe that's exactly what she needs!  Discomfort is the impetus of change, and she means to shift Mitama's fates for the better, so it all makes sense to her.

Second problem: she is not entirely certain what to do with the remaining cup.

So she sets it down on the nearest accepting surface and hopes that's sufficient for Mitama and/or Mitama's father.

Her eyes, for what must be the seventieth time, trace the familiar lines of the mark on the man's arm.  It's the same shape she's traced so many times with her fingers, in time of great solitude, searching for the strength of a Chosen One to call upon.

She knows, by this mark, that she is staring at a hero.  But what's more, she may be staring at family.

Her mouth is dry.  Each footstep she takes towards him is heavy and slow, as though she's walking through knee-high snow.  And then when he turns, Ophelia freezes.

He doesn't have the face of a liar, nor does he carry himself like a tyrant.  There is no reason she should have to hesitate.

Still.

Her hand crosses her torso and comes to rest on the opposite forearm, with her palm warming her matching mark through her sleeve.  He wears his brazenly.  He has removed an entire sleeve of his outfit to show it off!

Their eyes have met, though, and she will not back down now.  She musters all the bluster inside her and brings it to the forefront.

“Hark!  Yon with the cerulean locks - you carry the mark of heroes on thy shoulder.  Know you its true meaning?”

After all, how often do the masses get to witness someone so confident in the way they move? So unashamed and proud of their mastery over their voice? Someone with so much style and flourish and command over their audience? Someone-

She is snapped out of her thoughts as an adoring fan approaches, taking L'Arachel's hand into her own. A brief moment of surprise makes way for excitement; the woman's energy seems to indicate a like-minded soul! L'Arachel is just about to encourage her to get on stage herself-

And then the woman speaks of L'Arachel being a chosen one, seemingly indicating herself as one as well.

"Why, of course!" She strikes a dramatic pose without hesitation; nothing less would be expected of a chosen one, after all!

"I am L'Arachen of Rausten, the holiest of holy women, on a quest traveling far and wide to rid the world of monsters!" She changes her pose to another cool one, one hand in front of her face, fingers making a V sign; it is one inspired by the theatre performances she loved so much as a kid.

Ophelia boils with jealousy and admiration, her stomach twists both in excitement and dread, and perhaps something else she knows not the name for.  Still, there is nothing to be done, so she swallows her turmoil and remains smiling, striking her own pose as she makes her introduction; making sure to wave her arms as she assumes the position, in order to make the most of her own handicraft hanging from her.

“I am Ophelia Dusk, Maiden of Light - ‘tis my purpose to maintain the balance of night and day; to face the forces of darkness without fear; to follow in my heroic father’s footsteps!”

as with most conversations with ophelia, he can't quite understand everything she gets at. there are only snippets shiro makes sense of—grasping only what matters, and that's the posed question of what one would do to combat the fairfolk, as she calls them.

he dips his hand into the bucket and tosses a handful of popped corn into his mouth, chewing contemplatively before speaking through a mouthful.

“That would certainly not work!” she responds.  Before she can get into the reasoning why (such as: no offense Shiro, you of all people could never out-trick a trickster) the movie scene showcases one of the male leads doing just that.

The timing of Shiro's answer juxtaposed to the picture in front of them sends Ophelia into a breathless gigglefit, handing him the popped corn so that she may appropriately clutch her stomach as she leans forward in her delight.

And then, another punch to Ophelia's stomach - 

The offending pugilist, having attempted to fisticuff the fae with a solid uppercut, is struck by lightning!

[ SPILL ] - Whoops! Maybe you trip over something unseen underfoot, or maybe something fantastic catches your eye and has you looking anywhere but where you’re going. Either way, your drink is now half in your glass and half where it ought not be.

Ophelia gasps a great breath in, the sound equally loud as it is girlish.  Clear drink covers her front, sinking into the top of her gown, and dribbling down her sternum to her stomach, where it will also begin to soak the rest of her outfit.

She's still, stunned for a moment, hands raised and mouth wide.  The cold drips sliding down the skin of her front is highly unnerving, especially as she wonders how it might destroy the cool mysticism her garb was meant to evoke.

[ SPARKLING WATER ] - Fresh spring water that has been magically carbonated. Served with a squeeze of lime or a dash of one of the many fruit syrups available at the bartender’s disposal

Ophelia sinks into the chair, sweating and satisfied.  Dancing can be so much fun when one isn't trying to… well, do anything.  Our heroine has found that she greatly enjoys dancing by moving her body wheresoever her heart decides, without any real decisions being made on her brain's behalf.

So she's danced herself tired, or at least tired enough to take a little break.  She allows her eyes to flutter closed, and then when she opens them -

“Ah!  Princess Camilla!  Did you want a flower?  I can -”

She hurriedly moves to present the princess with a hyacinth, almost as a compulsion builds in her, only to watch as the petals meet with the edge of a glass offered to her.

With her free hand, Ophelia accepts it.  “Oh, thank you very much!” she says with a wide grin.

[ MOVIE - COMEDY ] - A techno-magical reproduction of a fantastical comedy about four young lovers who find themselves in a forest that calls itself home to curious spirits.

Ophelia says around a mouth full of starch, “They likely have higher protection from the fairfolk, as the bond of love can overpower many fey magicks.”

The popped corn, as it was called, is greasy and salty, and Ophelia can't help herself but shovel more of it into her mouth.

“The texture of polyamory offers an interesting twist as well; a complex enough love that can both entertain and befuddle the machinations of the fairfolk is a solid protection strategy.”

Ophelia's eyes glimmer, reflecting the light of the magic moving picture, seemingly changing color with every frame as it overpowers the natural grey there.

"Ophelia." One song ends and another begins, but rather than hurrying off to join dance after dance, he slips away to greet an old and familiar friend. "I thought I'd heard your voice earlier; I'm glad I was able to find you," he says, and offers her a flower—a rose in full bloom, picked from his bouquet with the utmost care. "It isn't much for a reunion gift, much less a gift at all for a chosen one like yourself, but... I pray that this will suffice, if only for now."

“P-Prince Siegbert!”

The crown prince catches our heroine off guard - she covers her mouth with both hands, taking a step back, suddenly wracked with a sinking feeling, as though he had caught her doing the immeasurable crime of forgetting him.

Her face warms, but she smooths out her surprise into a smile, and accepts his offered gift before she even realizes what it is.  Right - the flower game!

“Fairest tidings, Your Highness,” she replies, bowing whilst pressing the bloom to her heart.

She has sworn to smooth over her feelings towards him, too, but many things in life are easier said than done.

[ SHADOW ] - An intense tango that celebrates the diversity of desire. Incorporates sharp, rhythmic movements that shift effortlessly from dependence and independence on one’s partner, intimate closeness and playful distance. The result is a dance that looks almost as much a competition as it is a collaboration.

Ophelia knows how to dance in theory.  The academy she lived at for the majority of her summers was partially a charm school for its students, meaning that the curricular included all sort of classes Ophelia found otherwise completely useless and forgettable.

Dancing had been one of those classes.

Accepting Soleil's hand had been a mere whim - an indulgence of her friend, who she knew values Ophelia's time as much as she values Ophelia.  (Too much at first; but now, Ophelia is fine to humor her.)

Soleil knows how to dance in practice. The movement she leads Ophelia in is wild, yet deeply control, telling a story of contrarian duality, dark as the deep recesses of Ophelia's own heart, yet as bright as her noble duty.

After all that, how could Ophelia not be breathless and knock-kneed?  Her mouth is pulled into a smile, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Soleil,” she begins, because something must be said of such a thing, “your guidance on the dance floor is hypnotic.  That display has shaken this maiden to her very core… The dark energies inside me are swirling powerfully!”

[ REQUEST ] - At the top of every hour, the band allows for any guest to come up and make specific requests, and for the extra bold, to sing and perform right along with them as your backup! Take the stage and belt your heart out or, for the more devious, pressure a friend to become the star of everyone’s next dance!

Each chime of the bell heralds a change in music - the band takes a short break to gather requests, and more interestingly: to accompany the bold.  Upon this break, the bold in particular refers to a striking woman of mossy hair, shimmering herself under the lights as brightly as the brass playing behind her.

Ophelia is transfixed.  Not only does she have a beautiful voice, which trembles with passion (some may say it does so a bit too much, but Ophelia appreciates the showwomanship), but the movement she takes pulls her audience into the song as though she were casting a play of her own.

    It's inspired.  It's inspirational.  It's inspiring.

                                                     And Ophelia is inspired.

Our heroine immediately rushes the band herself (only after giving the lovely performer her deserved applause and cheers) and volunteers herself as another glimmering star, and the band says “requests are over”!

                                                   “Wait for the next hour”!

Her sensitive heart aches!  But she'll wait.

For now, she grabs at the hands of the other woman that performed, clutching one of hers between both of Ophelia's.

“That was wonderful!  Life-changing!  World-spinning!  I wish I could follow your act, but alas!  You must be - wait!”