The train whistled loudly as it departed, rocking gently from side to side in a manner the red witch of calamity, Ornelle Elwyne Beauchêne, imagined she'd shiver from the cold. As its iron wheels started to turn with the rising wisps of black smoke, gaining momentum and building up increased velocity, she gripped her leather bag and placed it next to her as she slummed back on the cushioned seat. Its sponge was encased with leather and from her own judgement she'd say it was quite comfortable. She threw a glance at the window and saw the outside scenery blur out in a speeding motion as the train continued to move to its next location.
"...the beating heart of Ridgemond..." she chanted with a low and wistful sigh. The girl no older than seventeen, her honeyed voice soft as a whisper, was easily lost in the marriage of indistinguishable murmurs of the many passengers in the train. Disheveled strands of golden blonde hair framed her youthful face as she gazed out the window with focus, her pale slender frame motionless like a porcelain-crafted mannequin.
She saw the platform attendants that managed the dense crowd step away from the train as it departed further down the narrow track. One of them was a man with a weathered face and a neatly trimmed grey mustache who helped her with the tickets at the fare gates. Although she was certain he didn't see her, he nodded gently toward the train as he tipped his paperboy cap, saying his final good-byes as the coal-fed engine roared as steam powered its mechanics. It were a new machine, one only accessible to the wealthiest in Ridgemond. It were swift as a horse, could carry far more and would never tire if long as enough coal burned in its belly.
Like a child, pressed with fixation against the window as the scenery remains ever-changing, she sat in the train staring thoughtlessly out the window until a uniform-clad stewardess approached her with a brilliant smile.
She nervously smiled back as she came to a halt next Ornelle, pushing a four-wheeled cart with pastries and warm tea. The wheels wailed softly with a metallic squeaking grind.
"Would you fancy a cup of citrus green tea?" The stewardess inquired, maintaining her smile.
Ornelle rejected the offer, but as a sweet-tooth herself she didn't reject the pastries. "Ugh..no tea for me, thank you" she stammered. "But I'd sure like one of your pastries". She said that in a suggestive manner, as if the very words she spoke weren't clear as day.
"Well, we have croissants, macarons, chocolate mousse and tiramisu...." she continues to list of several pastries. Most of which Ornelle, as a wealthy child, was quite familiar with.....most.
"Tiramisu?" She repeated the name, exactly as she heard it, making sure to express the most puzzled face she can whilst repeating the name in the most quizzical manner. "Care to tell me what that is?"
"It's a soft cake-like dish" she replied. "It's gained popularity among the most recent passengers. Care for a portion?"
To no one's surprise Ornelle graciously accepted the offer. The stewardess handed Ornelle a small porcelain plate with a piece of tiramisu the following moment. At the sight of it, she immediately thought of cheesecake. Thereafter she politely asked for an additional serving of a cinnamon and honey glazed wavel, which the stewardess happily surrendered. The stewardess then nodded gently as she smiled, the same smile since the start of the conversation she hadn't fail to maintain. She nodded and greeted before pushing the cart further down the train-car toward the waiting passengers.
Some time after Ornelle reached into her bag and retrieved from it an old diary. It is a weathered but ornate red journal bound in gold. It's hard cover is made of leather, marked with intricate patterns that were pressed into shape. Within are reams of paper held together by string made from deer gut, browned by the passage of time. She release a low sigh burdened with her frustrations. It's an invisible, ghostly cloud of mist wisping in the frigid air that I breath.
"The noble house of Fontaine and the guild of Shadow Crusade...what are they up to? I need to learn about the Variants of Dietrich to know exactly what I'm dealing with".
After skipping through the pages of the journal, Ornelle buried the book under the contents of her bag and wearily slummed back against the backrest of the leather-encased seat, unwilling to stare down at the contents of that omnibus.
"What are you exactly.. Dietrich?"
Steam hissed as the metallic serpent drew to a halt at the station's end, where a uniform-clad worker unlocked the double doors, twisting the copper keys between his gloved fingers with a rhythmic snap before pushing them open like the wings of a great winged beast
"This way, if you would please?" He urged with a polite bow. "The stewardesses won't hesitate to clean your tables and my colleagues shall fetch your luggage" followed with a brilliant smile.
———————
The library of Ridgemond was as crowded of an establishment as it had ever been, of course most of the visitors were those of the upper – and middle class in the social ladder as the majority of the working – and lower class were an illiterate company and had no use for books. Sparkling silver flakes of snow shimmered in a slow fall, thickening the coat of pale white snow with yet another waver thin layer. Winter was virtually endless, and as thorough in its beauty as it was with its cruelty. Warmth gathered like a gaseous cloud in the library, constantly fed to maintain itself through countless active oil lamps and candles - and torches few, but rejected the embrace of the walls of grey stone which were all as cold as the icy tears that cascaded from the firmament.
Unbefitting of the glory of the library was a pauper boy cloaked in stained, unwashed and tattered rags for attire, hunched like a beggar over the support of a broom's steady wooden stick which he held in his grasp. An unsightly contrast to the expensive wear of the nobles and middle-class of Ridgemond, whom wore rare leather shoes and handcrafted fabric garments adorned with gold and silver embroidery. The boy, a summer elf, worked at the library for petty sums of copper coins surviving from dusk until dawn on a single stick of sailor's bread. His tasks were simple and few, sweeping and collecting the waste of the pest-erasing bats in the early morn before the doors opened wide for the public of Ridgemond when he'd have to face the grueling thought that his "poor man's baguette", a stick of moistureless stone hard baked flourdough, has risen from two copper gulden to four, leaving him to die with a single copper gulden left in his pocket. As he swung his arms in a repeated motion, sweeping the smooth-surfaced wooden floor, a glow in the corner of his eye called for his attention. Whatever it may have been that shone so spectacularly, was hidden from view behind the covers of a leaning rack of books on the upper row of the wooden shelf.
The tanned summer elf smiled as his eyes flared alive with newfound hope for perhaps, just perhaps, enough lost change for a small sack of dried tea leafs and six cubes of sugar.
"...where the privileged gather, the underprivileged are bound to find...."
The summer elf, known by name as Leroy Pettigrew, felt his heart stop as sudden as a candle flame is blown out, as what stared back at him was not some petty lost change to add for the day's spoils, nor was it a forgotten bracelet like he imagined it was — but an Odom apple. Aghast stood Pettigrew, motionless and pushed back a distance of two paces as the image that burned in his eyes tugged at his rugged, dirt-stained cloth. His fear-struck expression was warped in an eldritch reflection on the smooth-rounded surface of the Odom apple, all the clearer of the horror he felt. For what purpose does the treasure of the Vadimatican have amongst the dust that gathers in that bookshelf? Be that as it may Pettigrew was a road-bound vagabond of little faith, among the many in Ridgemund, each so undiverse in their philosophy it seemed they were cut from the same cloth.
"It's the gods that're forgiving, not religion. Oscar wouldda never let one of his precious Odom apples rot to waste. Not when selling one for six hundred copper gulden.. so how? Did someone manage to smuggle one despite the church's strictness?" he could only wonder. "The problem with religion.. Is dat ya never know when god hands you a gift or the devil sets a trap"
Lost in the currents of deep thoughts flowing through his cerebral, Leroy - his bygone environmental awareness adrift - failed to notice another pauper boy with a broom in hand walking toward him, whom then slapped him in a playful manner at the back of his head.
"Quit ye'r stalling!" He firstly yelled. "We have to finish up here before any more of Ridgemund's privileged suckers walk in. You know how the boss gets with his whole overstaying your welcome speech we got last time"
"Oh Mousse..." Leroy gasped, rigid as a doll. "..You wouldn't believe what I found"
"Darn good material, I hope! Dis Ornelle lady from the Beauchêne household is coming to the harbor this afternoon looking for more relics and the last thing I want is a high-class stuck-up noble up my arse!"
"The heck is her problem; didn't you just give her a bunch this week!? You're only rank 14, does she think creating relics is easy!...those damn nobles, thinking they can order us around for whatever. But..."he paused with a deep sigh. "Da's not what I mean, I found an Odom Apple"
"...Rii~iight, and I'm Asenathotep, flare dragon of red sparks that fell four of the 12 gods"
Leroy frowned, his lips curling downwards with the twists of his facial muscles before he released the broom from his interlocked fingers, causing it to fall to the floor with a snap. All the while, Mousse laughed deep in his throat at his own joke, hunging backward as his eyes teared slightly. Leroy lunged at Mousse and with a swift motion guided his line of sight at the bookshelf were the glow of the Odom apple beckoned for his focus.