During those 30 minutes of desperate action for Isadora; Eleonora managed to get tangled three different times, with each entanglement somehow more chaotic than the last. She also almost knocked over the armor stand twice with the same innocent enthusiasm of a puppy discovering its own tail for the first time as she gesticulated her arms every which way. Eleonora even got distracted by her own golden blonde hair at least four times, pausing mid-sentence to gasp, poke it, or admire how “shiny and, like, soooo knightly” it looked in the mirror as Isadora braided it into a proper Dames braid (French braid).
And finally, every single time the reality hit her again about what today was, "that she was, like, really and truly, like, leaving, like, today, to be like, a knight" she would let out another delighted squeal, each one higher pitched than the last, as if her excitement physically refused to stay inside her body and to be expelled from her body. Isadora, of course endured all of it without flinching, adjusting Eleonora’s outfit with perfect patience, her expression stoic and eyes scanning constantly as if expecting assassins to burst from the wardrobe at any moment, although it more likely she watching for her wards erratic arm and head movements which were quite deadly in the current on going action.
Meanwhile, Eleonora’s armor glimmered on the stand, seeming to come to life in the morning light flooding in from the large windows in the room. When the morning rays struck it just right, the polished steel practically sparkled in a prismatic rainbow of colors, as though whispering to Eleonora, “like totally put me on, oh my gosh just like put me on already, so we can like go and be like fabulous and heroic and stuff.” And it truly was unmistakably Eleonora's armor. No one else in the empire would be confident enough to commission something so eccentrically lavish and whimsical.
The breastplate and pauldrons were a masterpiece or if you asked the engraver; it was a chaotic madman's doodle brought to life, having more in common with a necromancer's unholy creations. Rows of prancing unicorns danced across the metal, their tiny hooves frozen mid-skip. Elegant deer twirled in delicate loops, their poses dramatic and unreasonably cute for an instrument of war. In the middle of this cacophony of dancing animals there were little swirls and starbursts which spun about gaily between the animals like confetti tossed by a hyperactive fairy on too much pixie dust.
And hidden almost shyly; as if the original artist knew it wouldn't be approved of even by the most energetic use of puppy eyes upon a certain weak willed Papa; in the pattern was something that might have been a cupcake, with a whimsical amount of frosting, if of course one tilted their head and squinted in exactly the right way. The grand centerpiece of this bombastic monstrosity, however, was the Duana family crest.
A very proud looking willow tree engraved into the center of the breastplate, its branches arcing in wonderfully graceful lines. Its tasteful bronze inlay shimmered warmly in the light, giving the impression that the tree was glowing and above the wild bellicose scenes around it. Eleonora stared at it with wide, sparkling grey eyes and a grin so large and radiant it could have powered a mages tower worth of runes. As Isadora began preparing the armor pieces, Eleonora clasped her hands dramatically.
“Papa said it was, like, the most *‘unique’* armor he’d ever commissioned!” she announced with unabashed pride.
“Indeed,” Isadora murmured, as she fastened the vambraces with crisp efficiency. “He also said the engraver required three pots of calming tea after attempting to interpret your sketches.” In fact, the bucket talk around the manor claimed that the poor middle-aged artisan who was normally a very calm, steady man who carved engravings without breaking a sweat had completely unraveled by the third pot of his calming tea.
Supposedly, the rumor went, he'd sat hunched over for hours, pouring over Eleonora’s sketches, staring into his cup as if hoping the tea leaves would reveal answers, while the paper before him looked like a battlefield of blobs, squiggles, hearts, stars, something shaped like a lopsided goat, and one drawing labeled “UNICORN!!!” with three exclamation points and no resemblance to any known creature.
The rumor further went on that the poor man had cried out, with a voice cracking in existential despair, “God, why me?” as he tried desperately to figure out how to honor the Duke’s only daughter's request without violating every artistic instinct, professional principle, and basic standard of good taste he possessed. It was said he tried to redraw the sketches into something resembling a coherent whole, only to end up trembling so hard the ink splattered everywhere.
In the end, his wife reportedly marched in, pried the quill from his death grip, told him he was “being ridiculous,” and shoved him into bed before he could go stark raving mad. There was even a secret betting pool among the manor staff, which of course had to be kept extremely well hidden; because if Isadora found out, well no one wanted to find out what would happen, thanks to the story of the tutor which was still circulating as a cautionary tale around the well; wagering on whether or not, the poor man would go mad, retire early, or flee quietly to another duchy under cover of night.
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Eleonora beamed at Isadora’s words, absolutely certain the engraver hadn’t been overwhelmed by the task of keeping his head, so much as stunned by the sheer force of her artistic genius. “Art is, like, really hard, Isadora,” she declared, as though imparting a solemn universal truth. “Yes, my lady. And you are very gifted at it,” Isadora replied with perfect sincerity so perfect, in fact, that only someone born without social instincts could miss the microscopic twitch in her left eyebrow as she said it.
Yet the sentiment was somewhat true. Isadora’s private quarters in the manor; a perk afforded to someone of her rank among the manors staff; was a compact one-bedroom apartment which in the city would be occupied by an entire family.
The apartment's only decorations were Eleonora's drawings. Which contrasted with Isadora’s reputation among the rest of the staff; “the Golem of Willowsvale." With Isadora's living space looking almost like a quiet shrine to the girl she protected. Colorful unicorns drawn by a 3 year old Eleonora galloped across the walls. While various framed sheets of paper with stick-figure knights (all labeled “ME!!” with arrows) held hands with tall, rectangular shapes that were clearly supposed to be Isadora.
There were also glittery suns, smiling mountains, flowers with too many petals, and at least one drawing that appeared to be Isadora decapitating a monster with a caption written in chicken scratch, ISADORA IS LIKE SUPER COOL. These cheerful pieces of childish whimsy clashed violently with the rest of Isadora’s decor, which was otherwise spartan to the point that some asked her why she hadn't become a nun.
It was decorated with plain furniture. With a single wooden trunk, perfectly folded linens, and enough open floor space for a full combat workout. Despite a jarring clash with the rest of her room, Isadora had kept every piece of art. Piece by piece, Isadora assembled Eleonora’s armor: first the breastplate, then the gorget, then the pauldrons, and onward with a mechanical precision as Eleonora fidgeted about. When the final clasp was secured, Eleonora struck a heroic cutesy pose in front of the mirror. Her already-bright smile reflected off the polished metal, somehow making her look both more heroic and more eccentrically adorable.
At six years old, Eleonora had strong-armed her father into agreeing to let her be a knight. The Duke of Willowvale was no wilting violet, in fact he was the very definition of a major modern imperial lord. He was a veteran of multiple imperial campaigns which a growing empire always undertook. Through these campaigns, the Duke gained both a fearsome reputation and the admiration of his soldiers.
They called him the Stomping Willow, a nickname earned from his massive frame and the thunderous, earth-shaking way he walked in full armor. His very visage had the unique ability to make veteran soldiers suddenly remember they had urgent business elsewhere. The duke's heroics had even made it into the broadsheets when at the Battle of Duwala Han, he had personally taken the walls of the barbarian stronghold after taking an arrow to the knee. Which was an injury that would have sent most men to the healers. Instead, Duke Rowan Nigel Gregory Duana had ripped the arrow out and poured a healing potion on the wound. He is then rumored to have used the arrow to stab the archer who had shot him.
His reputation only grew further when he returned home to his duchy and dealt with a string of bandit groups plaguing the countryside. The duke had not merely made an example of the bandit, he had made them into a statement on why crime doesn't pay. Stories still spread of the gruesome executions he carried out personally. One man was even drawn and quartered; a healing potion ensured he survived until the beheading. So, when the Stomping Willow's daughter had asked to be a knight, he said no in the firm, immovable tone of a man with said reputation.
Eleonora had then immediately begun pouting, which had lasted three minutes with an impressive display of lower-lip wobbling and dramatically folded arms. Yet the Duke still remained unmoved. So, when that didn’t work, Eleonora cried. Not loudly, but with those soft, trembling sniffles that made every servant in the hallway clutch their hearts. That had lasted a full heroic seven minutes, just long enough for two maids to start tearing up in sympathy and a guard to quietly walk away because he couldn’t take the emotional damage.
Yet the Duke still remained strong but barely. For her last attempt, Eleonora deployed her ultimate weapon. Her infamous puppy-dog eyes. The very eyes that her older brothers insisted could “make a dragon cry and feel pity and reduce a grown man to a whimpering mess.” Bucket talk around the manor at the time said her eyes had gotten Eleonora an entire tray of pastries by a very weak-willed bakers assistant named Jeff.
The Duke of Willowvale, the Stomping Willow, a battle-hardened veteran folded instantly. He was famously unable to deny his daughter anything despite being a strict disciplinarian with his sons. Now nearly a decade later, Eleonora bounced out of her bedroom with that same unstoppable energy, her armor clinking in cheerful little chimes as if it were excited, too. Her smile, bright enough to illuminate the hallway without the help of mage light.
