Part 1 :
A Guild – a meeting place for chatter among like-minded souls sharing the same passion. An establishment where eccentricity and high society mingled freely. Such was Gomme's imagined vision of a place where people drank and debated, or where strangers boasted and spun tales.
In the great land of Blumen, guilds were scattered across war-torn villages and territories, each governed independently. The grandest among them, the Merchants' Guild, resided in the flourishing capital of Westrange—a city alive with academies and noble pursuits.
Yet here, in the sober atmosphere of "Mon Écrit" in Scott Village, the scene was far simpler. Patrons clad in coats and berets filled the guild's modest halls. The bar was quieter, lacking the usual raucous gatherings of drunkards, though the smoking section remained perpetually crowded.
Gomme found herself captivated by the mural on the left wall—a crude, almost primal painting of a pensive man gazing into the distance, a skull serving as his cup. To her, it depicted a soul lost in profound contemplation.
"It captures the essence of great loss," she murmured.
Behind her, a man approached with deliberate grace, his presence announced by the overpowering scent of clove flowers—unrefined, a signature fragrance among the guild's affluent members, as Gomme had noted upon entering with Mr. Roselet.
"This painting embodies our journey as poets and despairing souls," he said, hands buried in his bearskin coat—a luxury only barons could afford. "Forever chasing stories, even as the specter of endings binds us."
Gomme, educated at Stein Academy, recognized his status instantly. Hesitant at first, she replied with instinctive nobility:
"The piece is beautiful, yes, but does the contrast between the skull and the man's gaze not suggest an unresolved tension? As though the painter himself was consumed by doubt, dear noble."
"A common observation, yet one worth pondering," the man mused, eyes alight. "Art, to me, is shaping meaning from the incomprehensible."
Gomme studied him, puzzled. She had spoken sincerely—his response eluded her.
"But tell me, dear maid," he pressed, "where is your master? Why leave you unattended?"
Still facing the mural, she answered plainly: "My master is occupied. He's upstairs discussing urgent matters."
"Who's fool enough to hire a Stein housemaid?" the noble thought, masking his intrigue with a faint smile. "No matter. She may prove... inspiring."
Hours Earlier;
Mr. Roselet had instructed Gomme to wait by the bar.
Now, amid deafening shouts and the crash of toppled chairs, the guild's secretary sighed in exasperation. She typed furiously, pretending not to hear the chaos.
"You've brought this on yourself, Volksfeste," she seethed internally. "Sending a contract-bound doll to Mr. Roselet? What madness."
Upstairs, the argument raged. Volksfeste, the guildmaster, cowered behind a bookshelf as Mr. Roselet hurled every volume within reach.
"I knew it was you!" Roselet snarled. "Who else would dare send Gomme to me? At first, I suspected my late father—but now, you'll pay for this!" A book sailed past Volksfeste's head.
"Such hostility, my friend!" Volksfeste quavered. "That girl's useless to me. My home—a sanctuary of freedom—is too cramped for her. Why reject my gift, Nicolas?"
"You know I can't keep her," Roselet hissed, slumping into a chair. "I'm too reckless, too buried in work to care for a servant of her caliber."
Trembling, Volksfeste emerged and surveyed the wreckage. "Then who is she? And why pawn her off on me? Your excuses are flimsy."
"Too sharp as ever, Nicolas," Volksfeste admitted with an awkward grin. He steepled his hands, expression sobering. "But first... you should hear how my family found her. East of Westrange, in the mountains—"
Roselet shot upright, eyes wide with dread. "You mean—Totmarie Peak? Then—"
"Yes," Volksfeste confirmed gravely. "She's a castoff. The Stein dolls sent there are rumored to be defective... yet in that derelict house, she seemed unaware of it."
"Speak plainly," Roselet demanded. "I'm listening."
Part 2 :
A strange sensation overwhelmed his hands, a feeling of suffocation. Volksfeste, lost deep in the mountains, screamed in terror, fearing he was about to cross into the next world, when he spotted a figure ahead of him, hair tousled by the gentle forest wind blowing eastward.
"Are you my master, Nicholas?" asked the figure in a soft yet hesitant voice.
"No, but can you help me? My leg is stuck under this tree, and if I don't get out of this mess, I might not make it with all these injuries from the fall," replied Nicholas in a voice that sounded agonized.
"If you're not my master, then I'll be on my way," said the figure, turning around and walking in the opposite direction from Volksfeste.
"Wait—why? Help me, please!" cried
Volksfeste with the last of his strength before passing out.
A bitter taste filled his mouth as someone seemed to be administering some kind of medicine. He slowly opened his eyes and realized he was in the arms of Tricha, his secretary. He jolted in surprise, noticing the bandages covering his body.
"What are you doing here, Tricha?" he asked, wiping his mouth.
"We searched everywhere for you, Volksfeste. Really, this habit of following your instincts… When you fell from the cliff, we all thought you were gone," replied Tricha, slightly annoyed but worried.
"Don't worry. With what I found, maybe the rumors about this mountain aren't so unfounded after all."
Tricha sighed and informed the exploration team that the expedition would continue.
"I hope for your sake that this is worth it because, at this rate, one more stupid move from you, and I'm going home with half the team," Tricha said seriously.
As the sky signaled nightfall, a vegetable broth with bread deep in the forest, Volksfeste stared pensively into his bowl, recalling the figure from the night before. The smell of sulfur in the air had told him where it came from.
"Tomorrow, we head toward the volcano," he announced, to the stunned looks of the expedition team.
"But—how?" Tricha asked with a skeptical gaze.
Legs weary from mud and forest under the summer sun, cheeks flushed with heat, Tricha was exhausted from the journey. Seeing his secretary's distress, Volksfeste ordered the team to halt and search for water.
"You're too kind, Volksfeste. You know I can still go a few more meters," Tricha said, fanning her face to cool down.
"We all need rest, and your distress is a good excuse to take a break."
A deep voice spoke up behind Volksfeste—one of the expedition members warning that he had spotted a house in the distance near the lake. Volksfeste stood up, surprised.
"Near the lake? But that's in the forbidden zone because of the ether emissions. Wait—what's a house doing there? Tricha, stay here. You, come with me—we're checking this out."
A pale, almost childlike face, a faint scent of sulfur in the air—a girl lay on the bed, dressed in a long white robe, her hair disheveled. Volksfeste placed his hands on her face, thinking she was a corpse, until she slowly opened her eyes.
Back in Volksfeste's office, Mr. Roselet shot his friend a disapproving look.
"So you pawned off a broken, unreliable doll on me?" Mr. Roselet shouted before Volksfeste could finish his story.
"But wait, my friend—" Volksfeste began, but Mr. Roselet stormed out of the office in his usual haste.
Tricha entered the office, looking slightly surprised.
"What did you say this time?" she asked.
"He didn't want to hear the end of my story and left in a hurry, as usual."
"He'll understand soon enough, Volksfeste. And I hope that Nicholas from that girl's memories really is him."