![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
PRINCESS MAKER 1.5: sensitIV
[ 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. ]
-
[ 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: an emissary from Valkyrie Aster Hela arrived at your door. Or rather, a woman in a wheelchair who said nothing and did nothing but look blankly into the void, a small smile on her face arrived.
She just sat there for awhile, and when you awkwardly went to go fetch her water (maybe her throat was parched????) she was gone by the time you returned. All that was left was a scrap of paper nailed to your door.
In the name of the Valkyrie, saviour of our souls,
you must save the Lost Continent from the darkness that will befall it.
Do not let our deaths be in vain.
. . .
The next day, you received notice your daughter would be sent to the Lost Continent and enrolled in classes, so that she might one day become a leader of the restoration effort. You. . .suppose you have a duty to see her through it. You owe it to someone, don't you? ]
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. ]
-
[ 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: an emissary from Valkyrie Aster Hela arrived at your door. Or rather, a woman in a wheelchair who said nothing and did nothing but look blankly into the void, a small smile on her face arrived.
She just sat there for awhile, and when you awkwardly went to go fetch her water (maybe her throat was parched????) she was gone by the time you returned. All that was left was a scrap of paper nailed to your door.
In the name of the Valkyrie, saviour of our souls,
you must save the Lost Continent from the darkness that will befall it.
Do not let our deaths be in vain.
. . .
The next day, you received notice your daughter would be sent to the Lost Continent and enrolled in classes, so that she might one day become a leader of the restoration effort. You. . .suppose you have a duty to see her through it. You owe it to someone, don't you? ]
Re: DISCUSSION
Re: DISCUSSION
Re: DISCUSSION
Re: DISCUSSION
Re: DISCUSSION
Re: DISCUSSION
"That's a good idea! I will! Thanks, dad!"
Re: DISCUSSION
[gently smiles] You're, ah, a good child, Ouka.
Re: DISCUSSION
"Okay! Thank you, sibling!"