Chapter 71: DD3 Chapter 017 – Admissions

“And you are?”

“Lady Torrens. We have a reservation,” Typh said, discreetly lowering her arm to squeeze Arilla’s hand resting on her hip tight against her. The foyer of the Dorchoen was grand, far more ostentatious than she’d imagined and she was fearful that her warrior might wander off in the face of all the finery on display.

“Of course. You have my apologies for making you wait. It is… unusual for a noble such as yourself to arrive without servants to herald them. Had I known you were here, the wait would have been much shorter,” the waiter explained. 

“It’s no bother. We were hoping for a quiet meal without the pomp and ceremony that my title brings. Besides our coachman we came intentionally without servants.”

“I understand completely. You are not the first noble lady to seek a private evening with one of the classers under their employ,” he said with a significant look towards Arilla whose squirming couldn’t have been more organic. “And you are unlikely to be the last. Rest assured, here at the Dorchoen we pride ourselves on our diners' privacy—your spouse need never know.”

“I appreciate that,” Typh said.

The unclassed waiter took their coats and then beckoned them to follow him as he turned and strode off deeper into the building. Quick to follow, their steps clicked over polished tiles until they made it halfway through a room full of wealthy patrons and took their seats at the table offered to them. 

The man took their drink orders—whiskey and water—before departing. After a cleared throat reminded Arilla of her painfully brief etiquette lessons, the warrior pulled out Typh’s chair and then the two of them sat down.

“So what do we do now, Lady Torrens?” Arilla asked.

“We talk and pretend to be normal people. There will be a brief pause while we eat and then we’ll do some more of the same,” Typh explained.

“And after that?”

The dragon smiled.

“Maybe you'll get lucky?”

Arilla laughed and her loud outburst, while pleasing to Typh’s ears, did attract some unwanted attention from nearby tables. The Dorchoen was very exclusive and while vague promises and wrangling had persuaded the warrior to dress the part, getting her to act like the member of the aristocracy she technically was remained a work in progress. 

They talked and eventually food was served. The restaurant had a set tasting menu for the evening, which for better or worse, eliminated the need to agonise over what to eat. It was their first evening out in a long while and Typh was determined not to waste a moment of it.

“I have to admit, I didn’t think it would be so easy,” Arilla said, trying to choose the correct fork to eat her starter with.

“Are you disappointed that they don’t recognise you without your grumpy horse, ridiculous zweihander, and bright red armour?” Typh teased.

“Honestly? A little bit. I understand that hiding your dragon tag makes you relatively anonymous, but I had thought that I’d made a more lasting impression on Helion.”

“You have. Half the conversations in this place are about you and the siege. If you want people to recognise you, maybe you should stop wearing a helmet in public quite so much.”

“And catch an arrow in the eye? No thank you,” she scoffed, before turning her attention towards her plate. “What exactly am I looking at anyway?”

“Fish and potato mostly,” Typh explained. “Why don’t you try it? We have a lot of courses to get through and this is unlikely to be the most exotic.” 

“I will once I decide on my cutlery for the evening.”

“You know that’s not how it works.”  

“I could have realistically forgotten. My memory isn’t nearly as good as yours,” the warrior grinned.

Arilla eventually selected the wrong fork for her course—almost certainly on purpose—and proceeded to shovel the dish into her mouth regardless of propriety. The thin slices of sautéed potato artfully resting atop a seared scallop were no match for her heavy-handed strokes, and in a matter of seconds, the course was gone. Typh made a point of not thinking about how the restaurant had managed to source saltwater fish a good two thousand miles from the ocean and instead finished her plate with dainty little bites from the impractically small fork provided. 

She didn’t know why she used it. Arilla’s way looked far more fun, but she had soaked up her etiquette lessons like a sponge. Her high mental stats made it a challenge for her to forget which piece of cutlery went with what course, and while it was a trivial rule, her life was bound by so many that breaking one might very well lead to breaking them all.

Did the tiny course taste any better for her due diligence? She didn’t know, but she wasn’t prepared to find out if she could handle the chaos of using a salad fork on crustaceans—she was not Arilla. 

 

“So how was your day? Did it go well with the banker?” the warrior asked and Typh couldn’t help but contort her face into a grimace that maybe contained a hesitant smile. “That bad?”

“Sort of. We needed a better deal and I got one, but I had to agree to sell Tolis cannons,” she said. “On the upside, our financial worries are largely solved, but eventually they’ll lure away our craftsmen—or kidnap them outright—and then we’ll lose our monopoly on them.”

“And then the second wealthiest nation on the continent will have the weapons they need to become the wealthiest if they don’t decide to use them for themselves,” Arilla finished.

“Yes. Of course, that is all conditional on our eventual victory. If Monsters kill us all then it's all moot. Realistically, we’re going to need significantly better weapons than just cannons if we’re to win this thing. I’d just hoped to keep them under wraps until after we’d used them at least once,” Typh sighed.

“I’ll double the guard around the workshops, increase salaries all around, that sort of thing. Should buy us some time.”

“It will help,” the dragon agreed. “But we’re not supposed to be working tonight. We’re here to enjoy a nice anonymous meal… Dare I ask how your day went?”

“Death, destruction, horror, painful reminders of the utter futility of war, and a good helping of boredom to space it all out. No more tainted monstrosities though, so that’s good news.”

“I’m so glad I asked,” Typh smirked.

“It was a fairly predictable answer.” Arilla shrugged. “You know what this means though?”

“A significant escalation of all future wars on Astresia?” the dragon suggested.

“No. Not that.”

“Then what?”

“It means that we’re celebrating. We now officially have one less major crisis to deal with!”

“I suppose we are.”

Typh laughed and their hands met across the surface of the table. They had just enough time to interlace their fingers before a silent waiter—also unclassed—came to replace their plates with the next course. The couple pulled back while two small dishes, each containing a fine smelling cube of unidentifiable meat, were placed in front of them. 

No matter how good it tasted, Typh was already of the opinion that it wasn’t worth the interruption.

A foot softly kicked her under the table and the dragon smiled. It was hardly sensual—Arilla’s leather boots certainly prevented that—but it was a nice reminder that she wasn’t alone with her thoughts.

Plates came and went, gradually increasing in size and complexity until they required far more than just one mouthful to consume. Arilla kept using a salad fork and a steak knife for each course—much to Typh’s amusement—and when it became clear that the waiters all disapproved, the warrior’s enthusiasm for her mismatched cutlery only grew. 

Arilla really did have an authority problem.

All in all, it was a lovely evening until it wasn’t.

A commotion by the door drew the dragon’s attention, and with her skills it was all but impossible for her to ignore—not that she had any intention of doing so given the nature of the conflict.

“We don’t serve her kind here, and you should know better than to associate with such a… creature,” the waiter said, his tone cold and unpleasant as he addressed the couple—a human man and a ratling woman—who while well-dressed in fine cottons and silks, fell noticeably short of the grandeur displayed by the restaurant's other diners. 

“We have a booking,” the man said, calmly repeating himself from before. His partner clutched his arm in silence while he stared down the waiter guarding the entrance to the restaurant.

“And had we known what you intended to bring, we would have refused it.”

Typh found herself rising from her chair to intervene, but she was far slower than Arilla who had already closed the distance. The warrior interposed herself between the two parties before things could escalate, and while the waiter glanced at the unclassed doorman by the door, a second look at Arilla’s tag made them both think the better of it. 

“I understand that this is distressing, but please return to your table. We have this matter well in hand,” the waiter spoke.

“I promise you that you don’t,” Arilla said. “Now, you’re going to let them in and serve them well and without complaint. Otherwise, I’ll personally drag you off to the nearest jail.”

“And exactly who are you to make such threats? I think your warrior tag has gone to your head. This is the Dorchoen. There are standards that cannot be lowered even in these interesting times. It is my sacred duty as the head of the interior to protect this culinary institution. I will not bow to threats from an upjumped warrior of some foreign noble no matter how high your level is!” the man spat. 

The waiter motioned for the doorman to remove Arilla, and the unclassed guard actually complied! He mouthed what looked like a sincere apology as he hesitantly approached the warrior. The doorman seemed thoroughly unsurprised when he was casually tossed some twenty feet onto the street outside.

“Are we done?” Arilla asked.

“Gods no! I’ll see you barred and cast in chains for this. The Dorchoen has powerful friends in Helion and I will see you punished for disrespecting it!”

“I think her friends are more powerful than yours,” Typh offered, and concealed tag or not, the ratling woman who’d remained silent up until this point sniffed the air once and prostrated herself on the ground. 

“It seems the animal knows its place in front of nobility,” the waiter sneered.

“Not quite,” the dragon said. Her tag flickered as she manipulated [Sovereign’s Form]. The words changed to display her true dragon tag and accompanying level—not that anyone present was highly levelled enough to read it. The waiter staggered back as if struck, his mouth flapped wordlessly while a hush descended on the diners who’d all been watching the confrontation from their tables. “I think at the very least you owe everyone present a very sincere apology… and the doorman a raise…”

The head of the interior’s head swivelled between Typh and Arilla while he slowly connected the dots and recounted just what he’d said and to whom he’d said it. He inhaled deeply and took on a much more subservient role so quickly that she’d have suspected it was a skill if she didn’t know any better.

“Of course, Lord Sovereign. You have my deepest apologies. I will see these two seated immediately. In accordance with your wishes, I’ll see that the doorman is justly rewarded once his health has been seen to. I would also like to extend the Dorchoen’s thanks to you for choosing to dine with us today. We are honoured by your attendance.”

His change in attitude left a sour taste in her mouth, but he had apologised and she was currently being watched by a room full of Helion’s wealthiest individuals. She chose her next words very carefully.

“I’m glad this has all been cleared up so amicably,” she said ignoring the groans of the doorman lying face down on the cobbles. “I think Arilla and I will be moving on for the evening, you can forward the bill to my estate.”

“Of course, Lord Sovereign,” the waiter bowed.

“Before we leave, can we box up the rest of our meal to take with us? I believe we had six courses left to go…” 

“Of course, Lord Foundling,” he said again, this time with noticeably less enthusiasm.

The warrior took a step back and looked towards the other couple. The man was crouched down protectively by the prostrated woman who seemed deeply resistant to stand in Typh’s presence.

“On second thought, I’m not sure these two are going to be in the mood for a relaxed dinner after we leave. While you’re taking care of ours, why don’t you pack two more sets of the tasting menu for them to take home as well? I’d hate to deprive them of the Dorchoen’s fine cuisine.”

“Of course, Lord Foundling,” he said, and this time Typh thought she heard the clack of his grinding teeth. 

***

It took a long time for their food to be prepared. While the courses they had eaten were divine, the delay between requesting and receiving the remainder of their meal was a perfect example of the unbridgeable gap between the classed and the unclassed. Someone with the appropriate skills levelled to a sufficient degree would have been able to produce the exact same quality of food, far faster and with far fewer ingredients. 

Typh had no doubts that despite the restaurant's apparent aversion towards employing classed staff in their front of house, that behind the scenes, classers were doing all of the cooking and cleaning. While she had no particular desire to ever return to the restaurant—certainly not with the current head of the interior—she was curious what it would look like in a decade or two once higher-level cooks were more prevalent throughout Helion.

The wait wasn’t all that bad as they made liberal use of the bar attached to the restaurant. Eventually, the ratling rose to her feet with the aid of her partner and joined them for a series of increasingly cordial drinks. Theirs was a curious pairing—Typh hadn’t been aware that humans were even attracted to fur, or ratlings a lack thereof—but who was she to judge? Love had the persistent habit of crossing boundaries, and she pitied those who couldn’t respect that simple fact.

The couple—Rhodan and Atys—were relatively new. Both of them had fought in Rhelea and had met on the long march to Helion where they bonded over their shared experiences. Despite her ability to pass for human, Typh found it oddly relaxing to spend time with a couple that mirrored her and Arilla, even if the comparisons were strictly superficial. 

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By the time they left the Dorchoen, Typh’s head swam with a mild buzz of alcohol whereas Arilla remained entirely sober. At Rhodan’s insistence, they forwent their carriage and allowed themselves to be led through the moonlit streets of Helion to a raucous tavern on the south side. 

It was loud outside the building, where warm light escaped from the shuttered windows to spill out onto the cobblestoned street. When Rhodan opened the door, Typh felt like she'd been hit by a physical wall of energetic chatter and joyful music. Peering inside, they were treated to the sight of goblins dancing beneath tables while satyrs’ tried to do the same atop them—much to the innkeeper’s dismay. A trio of bards’ played a jovial upbeat tune, laced with enough magic to make even Typh’s feet twitch with the urge to dance. There in the confines of the small tavern, she saw everything that she’d been working towards. Humans of all stripes—Rhelians, Helions, Padians and more—mingled and drank freely with their nonhuman neighbours. The only glimmer of discontent within the entire establishment was the overworked staff, who in between pouring drinks, rushed from table to table shooing enthusiastic satyrs back onto the straw-lined floor.

From the fresh hoof marks scuffing the varnish, it was clear they were failing more often than not in this repetitive duty.

Rhodan and Atys entered and were greeted warmly by a series of what Typh assumed were regulars. When she followed suit, her first step into the tavern immediately caused every nonhuman to freeze in the midst of their revelry. It was like a spell had been cast. Drinks that were half-raised to lips hung suspended, dancers remained motionless, and the unwanted scent of fear mixed with awe rolled off of their frozen forms. 

While her disguise had failed to hold up to the nonhumans present, the humans all looked around in blank confusion while Typh walked confidently towards the innkeeper. She ignored the mixture of disappointment and anxiety that bubbled within her stomach. Hushed whispers spread and slowly the humans looked at her with the same muted fear that their nonhuman counterparts displayed.

The innkeeper stared at her, first with confusion, and then finally with dawning recognition. 

“L-Lord Sovereign. What brings you to my humble establishment?” His gruff voice shook, almost as much as the washcloth in his hand, and Typh truly wished that it wasn’t so.

“I come for merriment. Will that be a problem?” she asked.

“No, My Lord—Lord Sovereign, I mean. All are welcome here. Just not necessarily on top of the tables,” he said, somehow finding the courage to glance away from her gold-flecked eyes to glare at an unabashed satyr standing mute and motionless atop one of his precious tables. “U-unless y-you want to of course, My Lord—Lord Sovereign. Exceptions can be made for your esteemed Lordship… Sovereignship?”

“I appreciate that.” Typh reached into her purse and after squeezing the metal bar in her hand for comfort she handed over the gold talent. “This should cover everyone’s drinks for tonight, perhaps a few tables as well. If that’s not the case, send the bill to my estate and I will see you paid.”

“Of course Lord Sovereign,” the innkeeper said. “By everyone do you mean…”

“I meant everyone present,” she clarified.

In the silence of the tavern, her words spread instantly, and before the innkeeper's eyes could widen any farther in fear, a drunk satyr made a run for the bar on unsteady hooves. There he loudly ordered a round of drinks and proclaimed to anyone listening that ‘the dragon’s paying.’

The subsequent rush was far larger than what Typh had perhaps naively assumed and she soon found herself handing the innkeeper a second talent—just to be safe. Music started playing again and with slurred toasts to their Lord Sovereign, the revelry recommenced. She left the innkeeper to deal with the recent avalanche of drinks orders and made her way over to a recently abandoned table. There she hiked up her dress and stepped from a vacant chair and onto the tabletop. It teetered and creaked, but the wood didn’t buckle. After a few experimental sways, she held out her hand for Arilla to join her.

To hoots and hollers the warrior ascended, and then to the loud groan of splintering wood they were both swiftly returned to the ground. They rolled over each other before coming to a stop on the floor. Loose straw made wet from spilt drinks clung to them both, ruining the formality of Arilla’s two-piece suit and Typh’s floor-length dress.

Face to face, only inches apart, they kissed, exchanging far more tongue than they should have given the setting.

“I love you,” the dragon said.

“I know. I love you too,” the warrior replied.

***

 

In lieu of the appropriate cutlery, they ate their leftovers from the Dorchoen with their hands. Someone in the kitchens must have felt bad about the altercation and had attempted to soothe the dragon’s ruffled feathers with an excess of food that may or may not have factored into their extra-long wait. 

It had almost worked.

While Typh probably could have finished it all by herself, the atmosphere within the tavern was so vibrant that she ended up sharing it around with anyone who dared to approach the mound of packaged meals left sitting on her table. 

Earlier she had wondered if her food tasted better for eating it with the correct fork. Now, tasting it again, cold and battered from being carried by Arilla’s less than careful hands, she knew that propriety made it taste worse. Perhaps it was the vindictive knowledge that the bigoted waiter would never have approved of the sight she was seeing, or maybe it was just the copious amount of drink that gave everything richer textures and deeper tones. 

Typh didn’t know, and very much didn’t care. She was just happy to be enjoying herself, and the great food played a large part in that.

Their evening went on until it was morning. There was drinking, dancing, nudity—and suddenly a lot more nudity once the satyrs really got going—and the dragon ended up paying the innkeeper for a lot more tables that were broken on that joyful night.

When Typh finally staggered out of the tavern, it was still dark, although possibly not for long, and with Arilla’s steady arm in hers they began the long walk back to their home.

The city was quiet and the sky filled with stars. The moon's green malevolence seemed muted by all the bright lights that surrounded it, casting short shadows and pushing back the dark. The streets were nearly empty, occupied by that odd mixture of party-goers stumbling home and those who were unfortunate enough to have to start their day quite so early.

It was one of those nights where anything felt possible, and the dragon in the shape of a woman leant in close to her human lover. Typh rested her head on Arilla’s strong shoulders and was content to just let the moments pass.

When they came to the river Aregium which marked the boundary between south and central Helion—namely where the poor and the wealthy resided—rather than crossing the bridge, Arilla turned and led them both down by the riverbank. Together, they walked in silence for a time and Typh soaked in the unfamiliar sights while holding her lover close. Her time in the city had largely been spent inside "liberated" noble estates and government buildings. She hadn’t had the chance to get to know Helion like she had Rhelea, and that was a mistake she was keen to rectify. 

Instead of the well-manicured greenery and the carefully sculpted hedgerows that she was used to, here the summer grasses bloomed unabashedly between wildflowers whose pastel colours were only visible thanks to her skill-enhanced sight. The buildings had a haphazard quality to them which reminded her of her former home, and everywhere she looked there were signs of construction and renewal. Even in the dark and the quiet, the city was alive and that was a good thing. The busy settlement was growing day by day to make space for its new residents, who were not shy about putting their touch on things.

While the majority of the nonhumans still resided in liberated noble estates, Atys was just one amongst the many who had taken their wages and used them to build a new life in Terythia’s capital. Judging by the eclectic mixture of decorations adorning the houses on the south side of the river, it was clear to her that a large proportion of the nonhumans had chosen to live there.

“We did this, Typh. Do you ever just stop and think about it? All the things that we’ve changed?” Arilla asked.

“Not really, no. I’m far too busy to reminisce. Besides, one small district isn’t much to boast about,” Typh answered.

“I think it is. It's tangible proof that we can do this. That we can stop killing each other and just live together in harmony.”

“I suppose so, but I much prefer what we saw back in the tavern for signs of our eventual coexistence.”

“You’re just saying that because the satyrs took their clothes off.”

“They’re satyrs. They only wear clothes so they can take them off in public.”

Arilla laughed and pulled her closer. They kept walking for some time before Typh felt confident enough to ask the question.

“Arilla, this is nice and all, but why are we here? We both have a lot to do tomorrow and we do need some sleep.”

“I—I need to tell you something,” Arilla said reluctantly, and Typh dearly hoped that the accompanying scent of dread wafting from the warrior was unfounded.

“What is it?” Typh asked.

“I’ve… been having some trouble with my class since we came to Helion. Well… since the coup really.”

“What do you mean, specifically?”

“My warrior class is affecting me more than I’ve let on,” Arilla grimaced. “The ‘Noble Slayer’ part especially.”

“Aah… I see. And it's been well over a month since you actually fought a noble, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. Not since the duel at the ball.”

“You know that specificity brings power.”

“Is this the part where you chastise me for picking the class?”

“No. Those days are long behind us don’t you think? You make your own choices now and this is hardly your worst one. You probably wouldn’t have survived the palace without it,” Typh admitted.

“So what do you mean then?”

“You have a tiny bit of the System living inside of you. It doesn’t just make you a warrior, but it makes you want to act like one. Your class is just a bit more specific than most. The advantages are obvious, but the disadvantage is that your narrow focus translates into a very narrow set of urges that are only more intense for it.” 

“So how do I ignore them? It’s—it’s hard sometimes,” the warrior said, and Typh hadn’t heard her sound so vulnerable in a long time.

“The same way we all do. Practice and time. Everyone struggles with their classes, Arilla. Humans who actually manage to level theirs have it the hardest but don’t think that you’re alone. Even I get the urges,” Typh admitted.

“Yours don’t make you dangerous,” Arilla said bluntly.

Typh stopped abruptly. She pulled back from Arilla and stared straight into her hazel eyes.

“Are you though? I get it, I really do. I’m noble tagged and your class is whispering in your ears to hurt me—probably to do worse—but would you ever actually do it? If I was vulnerable and you were physically capable, do you feel like you'd be capable of hurting me?”

“No,” Arilla said after a long pause. “I think I’d rather die.”

“Good. You let me know if that changes.”

“And if it does?”

“I don’t know. I’ll probably lock you in a cage and feed you a noble once a month. System knows we have enough hostages. Who’d notice if one or two went missing?” Typh mused.

“You’re joking?” Arilla asked.

“Only half,” the dragon said. “Atys gave me plenty of ideas about what you can do with a cage, silence wards, and a large basement. I had no idea ratlings were so filthy!”

They laughed together at the thought, and then Typh recounted some of Atys's more entertaining ideas. The dragon was somewhat dismayed by how little they shocked Arilla, but the change in conversation helped to lighten the serious mood that had fallen over them. When Typh moved to walk forwards, Arilla reached out and grabbed her hand, once again bringing her to a stop. 

The warrior looked at her. Arilla’s expressive eyes were wide with fear and were made all the more intense by her red hair that framed her green-brown irises. In that moment Typh wanted nothing more than to kiss her until she felt better, but unfortunately there were times when words were more appropriate. 

“Typh, are you sure that I can handle it? Maybe I should sleep in a different bedroom until we know for sure.”

“Don’t be silly. We’ll handle it like we handle everything else—together.”

And there by the banks of the River Aregium, they kissed and this time they exchanged a very appropriate amount of tongue.

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