The Opulent Quarrel - Round One: Mademoiselle Primfel's

"Here we are, again I must say, I am terribly sorry no one guided you here earlier. The attendants will take you to your room, so you can have some time to make yourself at home before your first class."

The dragon flew off without any further explanation, but before Damse could do anything else, two mechanical girls ran out and grabbed her by the arms.

"Oh, we are terribly sorry, Lady Damse! Terribly sorry!" they cried in unison. "We do not know how we missed your arrival, but rest assured, you will receive the finest accommodations our school has to offer!"

"It's okay, really, you don't have to..." Damse began to say, but she was already being lead down a hallway towards an elevator, and being rushed through the dorm at incredible speeds. She barely had time to regret her inability to punch the attendants before finding herself in a distressingly familiar room.

"This looks just like my room when I was in Troit," she said, stunned.

"No expense is spared in making you feel at home, Lady Damse. Please let us know when you are ready for class."

And with that, the mechanical attendants left, before Damse could spit out that Troit was hardly her "home". Although Tress wasn't exactly a place she wanted to be reminded of, either.

She sat on a fine silk cushion while she tried to finally gather her thoughts. Gods, what was she even supposed to do here?

The one obvious thing was that she'd been thrown into some kind of Story. Or possibly more than one at once, but that was more than she was willing to process. The Academie's Story was the only one she was able to concern herself with for now.

And she didn't understand it yet. This didn't clearly fit the pattern of any comedy or tragedy she had seen. The next step had been made clear enough, but the overall shape was well outside of Damse's experience.

But whatever the Story was, she already hated it.

To her mind, the question wasn't whether to fight it, but how. Narra's curse ruled out physical strength. She'd tried taking another path, but she could already tell that hadn't worked; the Story just found another way to make it lead to the same destination.

Which, as she thought about it, made the look of the room more fitting. It was the same room she'd ended up in the last time she'd tried running away from her problems.

That settled it. This time, she wasn't waiting around for the stupid horse. She was going to meet the Story head-on, and even if she couldn't punch it in the face, she was determined to win.

Damse stepped out of the room, and was immediately swarmed by the attendants. Six of them this time, though you couldn't tell that from the way they spoke.

"How may we be of service, Lady Damse?" six asked at once, in perfect unison.

"I'm heading to class," she said.

No sooner had she spoken the words than she found herself swept up by the attendants again, and by the time the world stopped spinning, she was being led across the school grounds in an ornate carriage.

As far as she could tell, the carriage was actually slower than the attendants. She took advantage of the relative clarity to push aside the equisite silk curtain covering the window and take a look outside.

She couldn't see much. Just the attendants keeping the young girls nearby away - though not far enough that Damse couldn't see the expressions of adoration and envy on their faces.

Damse really wished she could punch someone.

Finally, the carriage pulled to a stop, and the door opened. Naturally, one of the attendants was already leading Damse out of the carriage and into the nearest building before she could say a word in protest.

"Here we are, Lady Damse. Sadly, we may not accompany you to your dance class, but if any accommodations are not to your satisfaction, be sure to let us know afterwards so we may correct the error."

"Dance class?" Damse managed to stammer out, but the attendant was already gone, and a decrepit old hand was pulling her into the room.

---

The hand belonged to Madame Chora, a woman who clearly was determined not to let her advanced age get in the way of teaching a new generation of young ladies the proper way to dance.

"Ah, you must be Lady Damse," she said, in a disconcertingly friendly tone. "Before the class starts, I just want to reassure you that yes, you will be paired with an appropriate dance partner. It would not do to have a lady of your status associating with riff-raff, after all."

"That's not..." Damse began, but she was interrupted by the bell before she could work out exactly what she wanted to protest. Madame Chora began gesturing frantically with her cane.

"Now, take your place! Right there, right there. Class will be starting shortly."

Damse stood a whole place to the right of where the teacher was pointing.

"Oh, my mistake. Yes, that's your place, and a delightful place it is. Just stay there while I guide everyone else in."

Damse watched as more students flooded into the room and gradually filled the space. Most didn't catch Damse's attention, but the pink-haired cat creature that stood next to her was hard to miss, even if Damse hadn't recognized her from the introductions.

"No, no, no!" Madame Chora shouted, poking the pink-haired girl with her cane. "That's not where you're supposed to be."

Damse wanted to grab the old woman and snap her cane in two, but she found herself frozen in place. Her feet refused to charge in to the rescue, and her hands refused to clench into fists. It was the damned curse again, and she felt a chill down her spine as she helplessly watched Madame Chora poke the girl repeatedly into her proper place, next to another unimpressively-clothed girl with blank eyes.

Damse tried to remember if the other girl was one of her opponents as well, but her train of thought was interrupted as a skeletal girl who had suddenly materialized next to her started speaking up.

"I knew she was the sort who'd have to be taught her place," she said, and Damse suddenly realized the real source of the cold sensation running through her body. "But it's good to see we have at least one newcomer with some class. What's your name?"

"Damse," she said cautiously.

"A lovely name. I'm Morinaga, but you can feel free to call me Mori. I trust we shall have much to discuss later, once this class is over."

"I can hardly wait."

Mori suddenly turned obediently silent as Madame Chora stepped to the front again, satisfied that everyone was where they should be.

"Well, now that everyone's here, and standing where they should be," she said, with a pointed glare in the catgirl's direction, "we can begin."

She promptly turned her cane towards a phonograph in the corner and struck it. It began playing soft music.

"We'll be doing the waltz today. Everyone take hold of your partner while I explain the positions you need to take."

Damse knew - knew - who her partner was going to be even before she felt the chilly, lifeless hand in her own. She turned to face Mori, and found to her displeasure that she didn't even have the strength to lift this bag of bones and throw her across the room.

---

"Hey, new girl? It's not going to help our grades if you keep looking over at the Princess over there."

Gally barely paid attention to her partner's protests. Damse was right over there. The vile temptress who had not only stolen her man, but broken several of his bones.

How could she be so cruel? How could she toy with poor Pygmale's heart so callously?

She would pay for her crimes. Gally would make her pay.

"Seriously, I know she's a real eye-catcher, but we've got to stay focused. You don't want to fail, do you?"

No. Gally would not fail. Gally could not fail, for she was perfect. Gally would be the best dancer in this class.

She finally turned to face her partner, a gargoyle who was having trouble keeping up with the movements due to having a stone pedestal as her base instead of legs.

"Thanks, this is hard enough as it is," said the gargoyle. "So what's your name, anyhow? I didn't catch it."

"Gally," she said.

She didn't explain that she was the most perfect woman ever to grace the halls of this school. That went without saying, after all. Pygmale had created her to be perfect, and her perfection shone wherever she walked. It was his place to call attention to it, not hers.

"I'm Rocksanne," said the gargoyle, but Gally had already stopped listening. What did she know?