Thank you everyone very much for the kind words.
Originally Posted by
Frostyvale
That's quite an unusual premise there. I am interested enough by the fact that Arrendelle is now stuck in the middle of Norway.
On the topic on Arendelle being in Norway, it kind of has to be in Norway if you're going to set it somewhere not in the Disney universe.
Originally Posted by
Chris Buck; Director
"...We don’t have to create a real world, but we do have to create a believable world.’ So while our setting isn’t meant to replicate Norway—we wanted to pay tribute to it and yet make it our own—it will feel familiar to audiences and ground our characters in a place that makes sense.”
Originally Posted by
Emanuel Levy
When art director Mike Giaimo began his work on the film, his initial explorations included a lot of research in books dedicated to Scandinavian countries and cultures, and even a trip to Solvang, Calif. At that early stage of his process, he’d identify imagery he liked without considering the specific locales. But after the trip to Solvang, Giaimo decided it was time to zero in on an area. “Embracing a culture or place as a starting point often ensures a certain truthfulness to the end result,” he says. “When I started reviewing all the visuals that appealed to me, it was very interesting, because 80 percent of them were Norway visuals.
However because it's in Norway I was able to get Lorelei in the story.
***********
1.
Numerous shades surround the dance floor flitting in and out towards the set platters conveniently prepared for this occasion before flirting back, craving other attentions. All the shadows in opulent gowns and crisp out-of-date suits dress the ballroom awash with small time trading partners puffing their chests declaring that Weselton is the next China while exotic pets make their rounds keeping far away from the queen of the jungle, a leopard, lying under a chair by the lone fireplace.
Its owner?
No one more than a girl, but a striking, high-minded beauty whose calculating, controlled gaze keeps away anyone who wishes to bestow upon themselves the pleasure of asking her to dance. That and the leopard under her chair as well as the stag on her lap. But alas, this is a party; the chocolate fondue is flowing and her dress is heartbreaking so, mesmerized, the suitors continue to approach the girl whose name sounds like a water spirit. Of course, at the end of it all, the girl wears the same bored expression and merely contents herself with stroking her stag’s forehead as the single men walk away muttering about “that frigid Lady Barthomeloi.”
“You should kill them for their insolence Milady.” With the men out of earshot the stag speaks.
“Not worth it and this kingdom isn’t worth half of that.” The words slide off her lips as a warning. A talking stag has no place in a ballroom other than perhaps stuffed and mounted on the wall to keep the former so-called sage rulers of this backwater kingdom company.
“What about the Princess of Corona with that healing ability Ma’am?” From under the chair comes the leopard’s mandatory wheeze of a reply.
“Using hair as a ritual item to amplify a nine count spell having its basis in the activation of a mere flower?” Barthomeloi throws a ‘hmph,’ while rolling her eyes. “If I was interested in some plant, I would call the Association’s Botany department.”
The leopard and the stag stay silent. They know their place. One who treads the road least traveled in the current era, Lorelei Barthomeloi is a magus. More than that she is a Wizard Marshal, leader of the Battalion of Kron, her own personal vampire execution squad, as well as the Vice-Director of one of the three branches of the Magecraft Association, the Clocktower, ruling as The Queen
Supreme Magus of the Current Era
Familiars, it is best to think of them as a magus’s assistant. As a magus is someone who works tirelessly in a workshop producing results, the magus must impeccably trust the one running errands and obtaining the correct reagents. The classic example that every budding magus learns is an annoying, umbrella totting, talking cricket wearing a suit, or the pre-mentioned puss in boots. By taking a corpse and settling a leftover thought within it a brand new being with a brand new personality can be created. The limiting factor in this process would be the magical energy capacity of the magus so it is generally better to use smaller animals, but Bathomeloi has no problem with supplying enough magical energy to support familiars such as these. If she were to stretch her capacity it would be possible for her to support a Magical or even a Phantasmal Beast without much effort.
“Milady, stop moping around all day about that human leech. You might consider him dark and mysterious now, but a human leech called ‘Single Edge,’ is never respectable.”
Barthomeloi’s hand twitches as she starts to grind her teeth.
“No, no, Ma’am would never be interested in a child; it is that Dead Apostle of the Lake, right, how someone got him before we did? Ma’am’s mad about that.”
Her forehead crinkles at that mention as well.
Merely a week ago, after several years of searching, Barthomeloi had finally located Number Ten, Chaos’s, successor. A vampire who not only had personally drained five thousand people but was also the curator of a collection of mystic codes that rivaled even that of the Evocationary. Of course, Bathomeloi does not care about justice or riches in the slightest. Hatred for human leeches flows as strongly in her blood as it did their need to feast on blood and she merely responded to that impulse in hopes for a pilgrimage to show her dignity. What awaited her was nothing more than a farce.
Beaten to the castle by a heretic Dead Apostle Ancestor.
Beaten to the target by the Rose Prophecy.
As if a headless chicken, Barthomeloi had done nothing that night but run around that castle in circles with a red moon overhead. To add insult to the injury even if she is the leader of the Aylesbury Investigation Committee, she was asked to follow up on all the lands that Louvre, the now former Dead Apostle of the Lake, owned or had influence over and that is why she is here tonight. Barthomeloi doesn’t care about the Association’s holdings, much less about the Association holding this backwater that stubbornly would not leave the mid-nineteenth century. As a direct order, or rather punishment, from the only person in the Association, nay, the world, Barthomeloi considers her superior there was no reason not to not at least consider it.
The leopard yawns, mumbling something about the leyline being overflowing before going back to sleep and this time he is not being snippety. With land like this, one could purchase at least one of the Crown Phantasms the Meister owned. As expected of the Dead Apostle named after that atrocious Parisian tourist trap. Even if this kingdom isn’t an item he could store in his collection it was an investment with the highest pay out. After all, it is said that trolls still live in the vicinity. With leylines that can still support Phantasmal Species this area has enough of a distortion for one to actualize True Magic. As if that still matters though.
Unlike her contemporaries, Barthomeloi has little interest in Magic or the value of spiritual land. She came here because it was her job but even an excuse like “a job,” should not mean anything to Barthomeloi. A job is merely a whim for The Queen
The Supreme Magus of the Current Era
During her introduction to the newly crowned Queen of Arendelle, Barthomeloi did not say a word; she has not even curtseyed tonight. Instead, even if it is the middle of summer she decided to keep the fireplace company. It seems what Barthomeloi has as a magus she lacks in genial social skills. That is the reason why she has her battalion; too bad she dismissed them the day before while filled with a blatant self-disgust that reduced an antique table to char.
Occasionally squirming in her seat Barthomeloi considers leaving right here and now. Away from those drab lights that creates puddles of wax. Away from the false cheer surrounding the event, away from the leyline and the new queen; the Association can take care of that themselves. She is a Barthomeloi. There are things that she does not have to do. She would have left and taken the next plane back to London however, rumor would already be afoot that Barthomeloi had failed and if she backs away from this mundane task, the crack in the confidence in the Barthomeloi would only widen into a crevice.
Barthomeloi continues to grind her teeth at that thought also frowning at how she becomes the target of a summer breeze that wafts her way. The victim of an open door it seems.
“Excuse me.”
“Coming though,”
“Pardon, sorry, can we just… get… around the- heh, thank you, Oh there she is. Elsa! I mean Queen! Me again… May I present Prince Hans of the Southern Isles.”
Weaving through the crowed, pushing and dodging as if the ballroom itself is an obstacle, was a girl with a snow-white streak in her hair pulling on a man with ridiculous sideburns. Barthomeloi remembers seeing them earlier that the evening but no names come to mind. It isn’t that Barthomeloi has forgotten but she simply doesn’t care. Although from the familiarity the new girl addresses the queen with, it would seem that she is the queen’s sister. Barthomeloi frowns even further, she does not remember anything about the queen having a sister.
“We would like your blessing of our marriage.” They stutter. It is a miracle that they finished in unison, heads on each other’s shoulders in some disgusting display of infatuation.
“That was fast,” a bluntly snide remark comes from the leopard. “I thought she hadn't seen the light of day for more than a decade.”
The stag tries laughing but it only sounded like a lamentation: “It is because she hasn’t seen the outside for so long she’s found one that quickly, or rather, one has trapped her.”
Barthomeloi stays silent for in the Clock Tower “love,” is an open door to status, heritage, and magic circuits. For Barthomeloi who has all three and is known as The Queen
The Supreme Magus of the Current Era
But Barthomeloi’s main concern right now is the fact that a princess is getting married in a couple of days which would mean Barthomeloi would have to stay for the ice-cream, soup roast, and everything else homely she despises while still trying to get the rights to rent the kingdom for the Association. It would give her more time, surely, but she would be obligated to stay while human leeches like Single Edge are allowed to roam undead.
“Party’s over.” Even if Barthomeloi is on the other side of the room she hears the Queen’s nonchalant remark over the entire party. “Close the gates.” There must be some disagreement with the marriage.
Disbelieving, Barthomeloi feels a vein in her temple bulge.
“Woah, Milady,” the stag leaps off her lap as soon as she starts to rise. “Think this through before-.” But Barthomeloi isn’t listening.
Why hadn’t she thought of this in the first place? She can’t use magecraft because it will attract attention and then she would have to cover up one unnatural phenomenon with another, but the Barthomeloi's family has more than enough wealth to buy this entire country let alone one backwater kingdom. In the beginning she was only meant to offer the queen a partnership. For that, the Association would have graciously paid the rent that will allow Arendelle to join the global economy. Now, she will ruthlessly pressure the country financially. The only thing standing in her way is how the Clock Tower would think of her but in that particular moment Barthomeloi convinces herself that, from the beginning, it is never something she cared about. Barthomeloi gets what she wants. The incident with Louvre made her need to prove that all the more.
Barthomeloi had lost. She watched herself lose and perhaps what was even worse, she did not see herself lose the second time. What was supposed to be perfection no longer matched up to the word. For the first time in what should have been forever perfection lost and now, even if she can’t admit it, Barthomeloi is lost.
A lost two-fold loss.
All the party-goers are now arranged in a dance circle and the two who should have been waltzing in the center…
“Why do you shut me out!? Why do you shut the world out? What are you so afraid of!?”
Barthomeloi can’t tell whose voice is whose but she keeps pushing. A chance that is missed is one that never existed in the first place. Throwing away her rationality, throwing away the majority of her self-respect to continue desperately clinging onto the dregs of her pride, she continues, storming towards her goal.
“Enough-!”
The famed single cry chills the party hall accompanying the fluttering of something in the air. Is the crowd being boring again or something else? Barthomeloi can’t tell. She is still in the middle of a fainting pack of perfumed ladies and powdered gentlemen. That is until she hears,
“Sorcery. I knew something was dubious here.”
Hearing that word Barthomeloi breaks into a run shoving the party-goers away not caring if they trip onto their obese loved ones or if their dresses tear themselves into ragged strips.
And when she arrives to the edge of the center of the circle and sees… Barthomeloi smiles for the first time that night. A smile she will not understand until much later.
.
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