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Princess Maker 1.5: pep!pep!
[ When you insert the key and open the door, you'll find yourself in a humble cottage, in what seems to be the living room specifically. There are several doors, but a specific one catches your eye: simple in its decoration, the door has a cute little wooden plaque with flowers carved into it. Though the door is closed, you can see through it—as if it's somewhat transparent.
A wooden cradle sits in the room beyond, which is otherwise plain. Inside, a baby sleeps peacefully. When she stirs, calling for her parent, you, her nursemaid, are there instead, to cradle her back to sleep. ]
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[ Slowly, the scene changes, fading in and out with various silent scenes—the baby coos pleasantly, giggling jovially when you (presumably) make faces at her; she tries to pick herself up and falls over, but she does not cry; a disagreement between you and her lead to a thoughtful discussion; the young girl carries a large laundry basket to do chores; she buys a pet dog, looking so proud for having earned the money all by herself; then the wall becomes opaque. ]
[ In the middle of the open doorway, a young girl the age of 11 stands, smiling at you. A stern-looking shepherd dog sits obediently next to her.
This is your little girl. You tried your best to rear her, and she's been good to you. You know she is capable of anything if she puts her mind to it—even becoming a princess. But you also know it's not easy to become a princess—she'll have to work hard, and she's capable of it but she'll need a guiding hand, you know. Better she become a princess than go off to war, though—better that she bear the burden of aristocracy than living a life of loneliness wrapped up in duty like her mother, or losing that life on the battlefield like her father. Whether she actually becomes a princess or not . . . well, that's up to fate, isn't it? Fortunately, when she goes to the Lost Continent, she won't be alone: you, as her longtime caretaker (her third parent, really, or her first, if you consider how her family's left her care entirely to you), may accompany her to her new school. You'll be her ally, her support, her greatest weapon; you'll be the one who determines her success . . . or her failure. ]
[ Of course, you're not the only one that thinks your charge can do it: Shira, one of the Queens of your Kingdom, hand-selected your employer's child. She doesn't have a child of her own to send—or rather, to be more accurate, her children are much more interested in local philanthropy than going to the Lost Continent, and besides that, you hear that Emi is against their children going overseas in the first place. Still, Shira can sponsor someone to go to the Lost Continent, so she chooses your employer's family; it seems your charge is a distant relative of her own family, after all. It's because of her that your charge will be able to go at all—in other words, it's your patriotic duty to make sure your charge gets that inheritance. ]
A wooden cradle sits in the room beyond, which is otherwise plain. Inside, a baby sleeps peacefully. When she stirs, calling for her parent, you, her nursemaid, are there instead, to cradle her back to sleep. ]
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[ Slowly, the scene changes, fading in and out with various silent scenes—the baby coos pleasantly, giggling jovially when you (presumably) make faces at her; she tries to pick herself up and falls over, but she does not cry; a disagreement between you and her lead to a thoughtful discussion; the young girl carries a large laundry basket to do chores; she buys a pet dog, looking so proud for having earned the money all by herself; then the wall becomes opaque. ]
[ In the middle of the open doorway, a young girl the age of 11 stands, smiling at you. A stern-looking shepherd dog sits obediently next to her.
This is your little girl. You tried your best to rear her, and she's been good to you. You know she is capable of anything if she puts her mind to it—even becoming a princess. But you also know it's not easy to become a princess—she'll have to work hard, and she's capable of it but she'll need a guiding hand, you know. Better she become a princess than go off to war, though—better that she bear the burden of aristocracy than living a life of loneliness wrapped up in duty like her mother, or losing that life on the battlefield like her father. Whether she actually becomes a princess or not . . . well, that's up to fate, isn't it? Fortunately, when she goes to the Lost Continent, she won't be alone: you, as her longtime caretaker (her third parent, really, or her first, if you consider how her family's left her care entirely to you), may accompany her to her new school. You'll be her ally, her support, her greatest weapon; you'll be the one who determines her success . . . or her failure. ]
[ Of course, you're not the only one that thinks your charge can do it: Shira, one of the Queens of your Kingdom, hand-selected your employer's child. She doesn't have a child of her own to send—or rather, to be more accurate, her children are much more interested in local philanthropy than going to the Lost Continent, and besides that, you hear that Emi is against their children going overseas in the first place. Still, Shira can sponsor someone to go to the Lost Continent, so she chooses your employer's family; it seems your charge is a distant relative of her own family, after all. It's because of her that your charge will be able to go at all—in other words, it's your patriotic duty to make sure your charge gets that inheritance. ]
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The question is more what we ought to teach her.
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... um, Glacies-san? we are going to give her free time as well, aren't we? If we just have her do classes all the time, she's going to get too tired to do as well.