Mech Pilot who you KNOW will be pulling that Puppygirl Energy Blade out of the Princess’s Chest by the end of the cours.
The knight-aspirant's Steam Armour is an antique. Lovingly maintained, the peak of condition for its type, but woefully obsolete. The Princess sighs internally, preparing to accept into her service another useless scion of a noble house, once great, now dead wood; some blockhead come to court, impossible to turn away due to the long intertwine of his family's history with that of the Crown, to sniff up skirts for a cure for family bankruptcy.
There's a shock of silence, then a swell of murmurs, as the pilot proudly presents. The Lord Vizier pants in outrage: "That's a Corgi! What is the meaning of this? Why is a Corgi presented before the Court of Borzoi!" and the Princess recalls some excited flutterings among the decorative ladies of the court. Some upset in the Provincial Circuit, the tournaments providing a notional route for those who excel to enter the Service to the Crown....
The pilot removes her protective leather pilot's cap, with its thick goggles, clasping it to her chest. She looks up, ignoring the Lord Vizier's yapping, attention solely for the Princess. And this is correct, commanding her pilots' total attention is the prerogative of the Crown; and also not, cutting through centuries of fiddly encrusted protocol — how many heartbeats to delay before making eye contact with a lady, how many demure inches to the left of them one ought look, given the relative stature of one's pedigree.
The Princess stares down with the impassive mask of power, eyes full of chestnut curls and earnest flashing eyes, and only belatedly hears a short, impassioned speech: something about proving that a Corgi can be good as any Borzoi. Proving herself.
Tucked through the back of the throne — out of sight precisely to avoid any embarassments in the course of statecraft — the icy royal's tail gives a treacherous thump atop its embroidered cushion.
