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061 » cross my heart and hope to die

[it is a little-known fact that ishgard operates one of the largest networks of spies across eorzea.

the garleans may think themselves clever for sneaking one or two acolytes into the vault, but francel knows better. in truth, the holy see and the high houses tolerate garlean subterfuge because they have other problems to deal with, and it is easier if the imperials believe that they know things about the city-state that welcomes no outsiders. ishgard now is in a state of political upheaval; too much change has happened in too few years. under the benevolent leadership of archbishop thordan vii and — it is widely rumored — his son, ser aymeric de borel, the azure dragoon struck a decisive blow, killing nidhogg and destroying his eyes for good. instead of marching on the remaining dravanians, however, thordan vii controversially chose to offer peace to hraesvelgr's brood in the churning mists and to the impartial dragons of anyx trine — and now ishgard makes for war in ala mhigo to settle debts owed to the eorzean alliance.

the decisions of his eminence are justly rendered, even well-reasoned — but he is not especially beloved by the commonfolk. many in ishgard see the archbishop's unpopularity as a power vacuum towards which they will step.

but lord francel de haillenarte sees opportunities of his own.]

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[zephirin's blade lands skillfully along the aevis's weak spots, but she only fights more fiercely with each new injury, as if her wounds only make her more powerful. she heaves herself onto her hind legs, spreads her wings wide for what will surely be a crushing blow —

but francel comes crashing from the ceiling like some sort of dragoon, landing hard on the blind heretic's shoulders with both feet before he tears savagely through her leathery, vulnerable neck with his deadly dagger.

she roars in rage, not dead quite yet, reaching up with a clawed wing to tear him off her back — but again, as before, he backflips beautifully off her form before landing on his feet, lunging forward with both daggers at the ready, slashing through a weak point in her belly, another above her leg —

and then, the aevis keels over, slain.

francel flicks the blood off his knives, then smiles at zephirin, practically angelic in spite of the slain dragon at his feet.]

There. Didn't think I abandoned you, did you, my dearest?

[ Zephirin knew better than to make himself an obstacle, a distraction around which his nimble companion must maneuver, and so he consigned himself to the fringes of the fray, blade poised to lend the House Haillenarte agent his aid, should the aevis draw upon stubborn reserves of strength. He surged forward just as the young spy performed his graceful leap from the creature's back, striking at the aevis's nearest wing, her underbelly when she turned his way—

And then, the encounter was ended, in mere moments. Blood pools beneath the slain heretic's grotesque corpse, dots the ground. Her slayer, meanwhile, appears serene, unsullied excepting his clever knives.

The words out of his smiling mouth prompt another raised brow, but something amused and appreciative plays about Zephirin's lips as his eyes flick from the dead dragon to the man standing over his handiwork. ]

I hardly had time to think on aught but so abrupt a meeting with another of our unwilling hosts. [ He would have been foolish to grow distracted himself, chasing a pointless question's answer. ] You have my thanks, however.

[ Their way is cleared, at least the next stretch of it, and Zephirin resumes making for the room's exit, in search of the heretics' winding road. ]

I take it the message contained no other line to guide us?

No.

[francel's smile vanishes as quickly as it came. he stows his daggers away after cleaning them.]

But perhaps we ought not put too much stock in it. For one thing, how many days old was that parchment? Perhaps the Gates refer to the Gates of Judgment? For all we know, the heretics arranged among themselves a lovers' rendezvous.

[a sobering thought, that the men and women they have slain had loves and ambitions of their own. but then, such is the price one pays when one wages war upon the holy see.]

Edited 2019-06-10 15:47 (UTC)

[ Once more, the House Haillenarte agent's demeanour shifts — his words of caution are sensible, but given his teasing thus far, one might expect him to speak of a lovers' rendezvous between these heretics with the same irreverence. Instead, remarks that could have been flippant now lend him a somber air. The dead, foes of Ishgard, are made ordinary men and women beneath the choices that sealed their fate.

House Haillenarte's chosen spy is a man of many masks, but Zephirin wonders fleetingly whether this reveals something of his heart. Over his shoulder, he studies his companion a moment longer, perhaps a moment too long, guarded, before he turns, taking the lead, pushing aside the rough-hewn fencing forming the far gate to the small storeroom. ]

Perhaps. Our objective is unchanged, of course, no matter any secondary investigation, should we chance upon something of note.

[ Emerging from the room behind them, they do not find a winding road. The storeroom was a poorly-lit cave; beyond it, the path would end in a steep drop, if not for the suspension bridge stretching across the dark chasm ahead. It swings uneasily, creaking, but the ropes and planks bear their weight.

On the other side, the path curves along the rock face, through a gap between shimmering walls. Pillars of ice line the way to a set of sturdier doors — here, no one stands guard any longer.

Caution remains prudent nonetheless, for the doors are locked, upon closer inspection, and gaining entry will take some time. Like as not, the heretic slain in the storeroom carried a key, but without it, a lock pick or brute force are its replacement, one slower, the other noisy. ]

[snowcloak could be beautiful, if it were not a heretics' den. in the hands of the see, it might someday be repurposed, francel reflects — in an ideal world it would serve as a place of worship, a palace of ice not unlike halone's hall, but realistically, it will be used as another outpost, a nigh-impenetrable fortress with the right personnel and security protocols.

francel understands the allure of that, too. cold efficiency is, at times, every bit as beautiful as romance.

an adventurer or warrior of light would be forced to turn back and seek the key. francel, on the other hand, came prepared for such eventualities. putting his fantasy of the heretics' forbidden courtship aside, the young spy strides confidently toward the doors' elaborately framed keyhole, deftly pulling a set of tools from his belt.]

Come be a big, delectable hunk of a man and stand guard over me while I pick the lock, won't you? This won't take but a moment.

[ The House Haillenarte agent's solemnity is short-lived — he seems to prefer his teasing, almost veiled barbs. He has repeatedly proven himself reliable, however, effortlessly taking each new turn of events in stride, and Zephirin leaves him to his tools and his task. Relegated to playing the brawn to the younger man's brains, though not exactly a hulking brute himself, he assesses their surroundings: assuming that there are no hidden paths, the gap through which they came is the only way to reach this locked door.

This won't take but a moment, confidently promised, should give them time aplenty to uncover what lies beyond, and the dwindling handful of heretics little opportunity to follow their tracks.

The soft scrape of tools at work continues; no other noise disrupts it. Half-turning away from the opening in the far wall, Zephirin watches his companion's hands. ]

[the young spy works dutifully at his task for only a few minutes, cursing faintly under his breath about how much he hates this particular kind of lock — but then it clicks loudly, and he stands up, grinning the wild grin of a man who has just gone slightly mad picking an especially poorly-crafted and therefore unconventional lock.]

There! Right, now, carefully, in we go...

[a spy is not a spy for nothing — somehow, francel manages to swing the heavy oaken door nearly soundless on its hinges.

they're in — and they've lucked out. this is, evidently, the mother lode: the room is stacked full of magitek crates. francel has to suppress the urge to let out a low whistle.]

Well, what's your wager, friend? Crystals or ceruleum? Ten gil on the ceruleum — go on, take a look.

[ In no time at all, testament to the House Haillenarte agent's arsenal of skills, they cross the threshold to the vault containing the heretics' cache of crates. The crates, all firmly sealed, their origin plain, are indistinguishable from one another in size and shape — they could contain ceruleum or crystals, and enough of either to pose a considerable threat, whichever the case.

Quietly, Zephirin shuts the doors behind them, sealing in the sound of their voices and movements as they inspect the room. He approaches the nearest stack of crates, lower to the ground, and works carefully to pry open the uppermost crate for a look within. ]

Ten on crystals.

[ He has no interest in a wager, unconcerned if he should lose, but he replies easily, simply for the sake of an effort made to play the young spy's fellow. A summoning in Nidhogg's name now seems as likely as Ishgard set alight and razed to the ground without the aid of unholy powers. Both ceruleum and crystals gathered may be another possibility.

Heaved aside, the crate's lid opened a crack already reveals a faint blue glow. Zephirin's brows draw together; he straightens, moves out of the way to a second crate for confirmation. ]

...'Twould seem your wager is won.

[the young house haillenarte spy half-laughs under his breath, shaking his head. he's always glad, of course, to be right; he's much less so when being right all but confirms that the heretics had a plot to destroy ishgard.]

Right, then. Well, joyous as the occasion is, the day is not won in the least. Let us make sure the heretics do not discover us in their stores —

["you're a little late for that," says a disembodied voice, and its owner follows not long after, phasing in with a brilliant flash of light.

this band of heretics is led by no lady iceheart. the heretic that steps forward appears to be in his thirtieth year, though he is not disfigured like some of his compatriots, and he bears no signs of malnutrition or a life of hardship. darkly handsome with brown hair and brown eyes, he is clad in furs and tarnished gold — a fallen noble of some sort, perhaps.

he is a powerful mage, if he boasts magicks powerful enough to allow him to manaport. he demonstrates as much as he conjures a blue flame in the palm of his hand, gazing at francel and zephirin with a kind of menacing ennui.

"don't move," he says, coldly, "unless you want i should set the ceruleum aflame."]

Edited 2019-07-23 17:12 (UTC)

[ They are in need of a diversion, but the heretics' leader is an unpredictable foe — no doubt he knows what they have done, that most of his followers are slain. Precious little stands in his way. He might carry out his threat, and make his escape, all in the span of a breath.

And yet, matching his speed is not wholly impossible: House Haillenarte's daring spy could seize another opening to act as swiftly as each previous time. That much, Zephirin is willing to trust.

In a bid to keep the heretic mage's attention on himself, stalling for time, he attempts the only diversion that presents itself then — silence, after all, was not required of them. ]

You would set it aflame, even knowing that others loyal to your cause remain within Snowcloak?

[the heretic leader raises a single brow. "do you mean to try me?" he asks coolly — right as francel makes his move.

turning on an ankle, the spy leaps, lightning-quick, daggers drawn for the heretic's neck — but the mage, it seems, is no frail bookworm, slow and incapable of tracking an enemy's movements. francel has proven himself more than worthy of his title as house haillenarte thorn, but still, the fallen noble sidesteps the deadly swipe of his dagger easily enough, then wraps his arm around francel's waist, hauling the spy roughly against his own body. the fingers of his blazing hand snap, and then a spell envelops francel's hands and feet in magical chains, binding him in place. his daggers clatter to the floor.

the heretic leader brings his blazing hand nearer to francel's face, leering menacingly in zephirin's direction — the boy winces, drawing away from the flames.

the look in francel's eyes is desperate and apologetic.

"i have no need to sacrifice my companions when i can simply turn yours to ash instead," the heretic murmurs against francel's ear. his hand slides suggestively down francel's belly, making the spy shudder with a surprising ticklishness.]

[ Bound, bereft of the means to turn the tide, House Haillenarte's agent truly looks young, vulnerable in the heretic's hold. Zephirin's heart sinks to watch the scene unfold unhindered, no empty threat to taunt them. Their opponent has them cornered.

Zephirin's eyes meet Francel's but briefly before he keeps them fixed upon the heretic, following the man's wandering hand, returning soon to its counterpart near Francel's face. Any closer, and the flame flickering in the cup of the heretic's palm would singe his captive's hair, scorch his smooth skin. It would spread to his garments, the whole of him.

Zephirin does not move. The attempted diversion failed, and negotiating with their ruthless adversary is like to prove a waste of breath, but he tries again, blandly, as though speaking of something utterly mundane: ]

A single man or else the both of us? What would you gain?

[this question makes the heretic tip his head slightly to one side, brow furrowed, as if he does not quite understand zephirin's question. "true," he murmurs, almost as though he's conceded the point. "what would i gain?"

he takes his burning palm away from francel's face, eyes fixed on zephirin though his grip around the spy's waist is no less tight, and a little squeeze to francel's hips seems to make him jolt in ticklish surprise. "i can wring all the information — and satisfaction — i want out of the boy here," the heretic leader concludes. "i don't need you."

his eyes darken with resolve. "as such — farewell, knight of ishgard. if you are lucky, your masters might mourn you for an instant."

with a sweep of his hand, the heretic makes as if to cast his fire in zephirin's direction — but that is when francel twists sharply, as much as the magic bindings will allow, and bites the man's neck. something dark and purple oozes from the corner of francel's mouth — the heretic mage's fire fizzles out as he grunts in pain. francel's bindings, too, dissipate; he lands on his hands and feet, then rolls away from the mage.]

Now!

[ There is no time to marvel at the House Haillenarte spy's resourcefulness. As soon as Francel is clear of the heretic, Zephirin springs to action, leaping at the mage to knock him to the ground and hold him pinned there, twisting the man's arms behind his back. The heretic hisses through his teeth, shifting beneath the knight's weight atop him, to no avail. "Go on, then." His grimace becomes a sneer. "Finish it."

It might be for the best to end it here, Zephirin considers, rather than risk permitting the heretic to recover, to cast his spells. Hesitating a second more may cost them their chance.

But the House Haillenarte agent, who could take up his daggers and slit the heretic's throat, does no such thing — it stays Zephirin's hand, too. Instead, producing a length of rope from within his cloak, he hastens to bind the man's wrists.

Scoffing, the heretics' leader closes his eyes. "You won't break me." ]

Have you something to keep him quiet for the nonce?

[ That, and effectively disarmed. Zephirin lifts his head, turning to his companion. ]

Edited 2019-09-09 22:28 (UTC)

[francel doesn't slit the heretic's throat, firstly because he meant to take the man alive, and secondly because he is too busy spitting out the rest of the silencing potion that he slipped into his mouth before his charge. wordlessly, francel unhooks a small vial from some clasp on his belt.]

Paralysis potion. It was my failsafe if the silencing potion didn't work. But the silencing draught is easier to administer, since it doesn't take effect unless you swallow it or it gets into your blood.

[it's merely less potent held in the mouth — francel himself will be unable to use aetherial arts for the next few moments — but that's a small price to pay to silence a mage. cheekily, he shakes the red paralysis potion in the heretic leader's direction:]

Should I give it to you mouth-to-mouth, love?

[regardless of the answer, francel passes it safely to zephirin's hands for the knight to administer as he sees fit.]

[ Zephirin's hand closes around the vial, cradling it carefully in his palm. For a second, his gaze lowers to Francel's mouth, contemplative, and then he nods his thanks, and his fingers busy themselves with the potion, uncorking it. The heretic's eyes remain closed, as if he was given a draught for sleep, not to stifle his magicks — perhaps he is resigned to his fate, or ignoring his captors out of spite, or perfectly unperturbed.

It makes no difference. Tilting the vial sideways, Zephirin pours the concoction within onto the man's exposed neck, where Francel's teeth have left marks. Now, as the red liquid trickles down his skin, the heretic mage shudders, gasping sharply, and stiffens.

Zephirin sets the empty vial down beside the man, rising to his feet for a final look around the storeroom, before he stoops to haul the captured heretic up from the ground. The day is not yet won, as the House Haillenarte agent remarked — somewhere within Snowcloak, one or two of the heretics still breathe, and their leader will resist questioning.

Nonetheless, it would be remiss not to acknowledge the young spy's part in securing the day's success thus far; for Francel, Zephirin has a few grateful words to add aloud: ]

I suspect that without your ploy, I would be naught more than a heap of ash.

[ It was a risk taken, but cunning, the only way to catch their opponent off-guard. ]

[francel watches their captive impassively, waiting for the man to keel over, stiff as a snap-jointed doll — he will be docile for at least the next six bells. nevertheless, they aren't out of the woods just yet, and now they stand at a crossroads of sorts: they could leave the man here, in which case it is possible his remaining comrades may find him; they could take him with them, in which case he will prove to be dead weight; they could split up and have one take him back to ishgard while the other continues to explore...

at zephirin's remark, francel quirks a brow, modestly declining to agree.]

Oh? Why, not at all, my friend. You needn't sell yourself so short. I daresay you'd have found your own way without me to weigh you down.

[ Meaningfully, Zephirin mirrors the look for what seems to him false modesty, but he does not elaborate to point out his companion's numerous accomplishments this day, nor to assure him that he merely intended to give credit where it was due. It is done, and they have what they sought. Zephirin, at least, is minded to withdraw from Snowcloak, that they might deliver their discoveries to the Holy See.

His own mission leads him to pursue his next suggestion: ]

And what of our other friend's weight? [ The heretic leader, propped up against Zephirin, will be as cumbersome to carry as a pile of wooden planks as they retrace their steps through Snowcloak's caverns and tunnels. ] Have House Haillenarte's Thorns a holding cell nearby?

[francel shakes his head, surveying the effect of the heretic leader draped over zephirin's shoulder.]

Would that we were so well-equipped! No, my friend, I fear it may be best for you to take him back to Ishgard while we have the chance. Let me scout what remains of this place in the meantime.

[this is, of course, a risky proposition, and the young house haillenarte spy seems to recognize that. he offers an easy smile, eyes twinkling with trust.]

I can handle myself, as you know — and I'm sure the Holy See will accomplish far more with this man in their custody than we could if he were in ours. Moreover, his capture makes for a lovely feather in your cap, does it not?

[ Would that House Haillenarte were so well-equipped indeed. It was Zephirin's hope that returning with his companion might lead him directly to the Thorns' spymaster — or afford him the time for observation, at the least — but the young agent neatly extricates himself from any such plans. Zephirin, who can refute no part of his reasoning, falls silent for some moments.

He nods, in the end, the barest dip of his head, and turns to go. ]

And yours, I would assume. Our paths may cross again ere long.

[ More than that, he deems unwise to discuss just then, here in the heretics' halls. His report will recount the House Haillenarte spy's deeds, but the Holy See has cause to seek aught else that a prolonged inspection of Snowcloak yields — perhaps, by the time the Temple Knights arrive to retrieve the magitek crates, they will find the tale obscured.

Zephirin foresees another summons, a second journey beyond Ishgard's gates. ]

[yet the summons that zephirin awaits never comes.

perhaps this chapter in the tale of the house haillenarte thorns ends here. zephirin turns in the heretic leader just as planned — but whatever his blue-eyed companion discovered after he scouted the rest of the heretics' hideout never makes its way back to the holy see. the thorns make no reports, and they leave nothing behind. by the time zephirin is sent back to the scene with reinforcements from the holy see, they find only two more heretics with their throats neatly slit — a man and a woman, entwined in embrace, matching rings about their fingers.

it looks almost as if they were posed.

and one magitek crate is missing, but only zephirin would have cause to know that, if he thought to count their number ere he left.

the garleans remain active in coerthas, of that there can be no doubt, but this band of heretics has been incapacitated, and for now — for now, the people are safe. life in ishgard proceeds apace, and since no foreign plots threaten st. reymanaud's feastday, the holy see holds a lavish banquet in remembrance of the great patron who built its grandest cathedral.

it is unusual for the high houses to be invited to an ecclesiastical affair, but on this feastday, ishgard's most blue-blooded grace the halls of the vault. a newly-titled noble knight speaks animatedly with a newly-minted acolyte; each is trying to impress the other, though they stand at the bottom rung of high society. a priest accidentally brushes past the fan of a pretty, unwed young lady; both are presumed virgins, though it is true for neither of them. again, life in ishgard proceeds apace.

across the dance floor, past glasses of wine and flutes of champagne, a member of the archbishop's personal guard might have cause to catch sight of a familiar blue-eyed young man.]

Edited 2019-11-06 03:52 (UTC)

[ Traditionally, year after year, the Vault observes Saint Reymanaud's feast day with a service held at dawn, a procession from the Hoplon to the cathedral named for its patron — traditionally, the celebrations do not culminate in a banquet at which Ishgard's lords and ladies break bread with the clergy in hallowed halls. His Eminence the Archbishop himself is in attendance, seated upon a dais at the grand room's far end. A brief address opens the event, commemorating the distant past alongside Ishgard's future reshaped, thanking the nation's defenders sent to the front and those stationed at home. United, Ishgard weathers the brewing storm.

Served beside the finest refreshments prepared in the Vault's kitchens are strategic reminders and distractions. His Eminence knows well that Ishgard herself is become as a crate of ceruleum, and each spark of dissatisfaction left to burn risks setting aflame the volatile ambitions simmering in too many hearts. Talk of heretic plots and imperial agents spread swiftly through the city's streets, in the days following the raid on Snowcloak. Once more, not few called into question the sense in peace offered dragons, in splintering Ishgard's forces.

Tonight, however, the banquet-goers applaud the archbishop's speech, accept toasts proposed. They mingle and dance.

Ser Adelphel, in his element, makes his rounds, passing from partner to partner, all charming smiles and effortless conversation. Zephirin is quieter, mapping the outskirts of the festivities. As he takes up his wine glass, sifting through the chatter around him beneath the musicians' playing, his gaze pauses on one golden-haired guest's profile — no longer dressed in his adventurer's disguise, House Haillenarte's resourceful spy fits the surrounding scene seamlessly, a polished young lord.

Zephirin thinks of his mission's end, of the missing magitek crate.

Slowly, as if by chance, he draws closer. Nothing of his own attire identifies him as the archimandrite of the Heavens' Ward, but ere long, they might confirm each other's names, if nothing else.

He waits some paces away — one of the priests has recognized the lordling, it seems, approaching to greet him. ]

[by all outward appearances, the priest in question is the haughty type: he has shed his customary klobuk and sports a shimmering red powder over his eyelids, one that pairs nicely with the red ribbons adorning his cassock. most vault priests eschew luxury, but this one wears earrings of dangling pearl. plainly, he is no lowborn theologian, but a highborn lord, some master of men who was born to be a priest and is destined to someday hold a seat in the synod.

as he approaches the young lord who bears a striking resemblance to the house haillenarte spy from the raid on snowcloak, the priest breaks into a cruel smile, like that of a coeurl scenting blood. “you didn’t tell me you were coming,” is what he says by way of greeting, and it sounds almost like a reprimand. “i'd have set aside a glass of brandy for you if i'd known."

the house haillenarte thorn's face softens.]

You know I dislike brandy, Archombadin... How have you been?

[surprisingly enough, the spy leans forward, taking the man into a brief embrace as though they are great friends. father archombadin returns the embrace, clasping one hand around the lordling's shoulders, though they part soon enough, speaking casually, as men do.

"did you hear that father arvagnion was found with a parishioner in his bedchambers?" the priest's voice is darkly amused. "then you know very well how i've been."]

Like an ogre with a karakul, and the flesh still warm, I suppose. I recall you were not overly fond of Father Arvagnion.

["fury, boy, can you not compare me to something so crass as an ogre? make it a silver wolf, at least." archombadin takes a sip from the glass in his hands, stately if not holy. "i can neither confirm nor deny your speculation, as you well know."]

Oh, I would never dream of asking you to do so, Father. Forgive me, Father.

[father archombadin snorts. "and you?" he asks. "how fares the youngest son of house haillenarte?"]

Edited 2019-12-20 15:21 (UTC)

[ The youngest son of House Haillenarte — a surprising revelation, at first. Lord Francel, untested and no knight, took on his post in central Coerthas following Ser Chlodebaimt de Haillenarte's death, and his surviving siblings attend to duties and ventures far from the front lines. Count Baurendouin himself is best known as a repeated tourney victor, not a valorous leader who fought beside his men.

Yet the gentle and supposedly unremarkable lordling appointed commander of Skyfire Locks stands apart. Aught but gentle and unremarkable when last he and Zephirin met, he was clever and fearless, a master in all things spycraft who held his own throughout and completed his investigation alone.

And he is perfectly positioned to oversee the Thorns' work. He has every reason to guard House Haillenarte's interests closely.

Listening in the hope of hearing more, if not of Father Arvagnion, Zephirin lifts his glass to his lips as though taking cover from ill-timed glances and greetings. He keeps his back half-turned to the nearby pair, priest and young lord.

Once Father Archombadin moves on, Lord Francel might seek to occupy himself elsewhere. ]

He fares as well as can be expected in these tumultuous times. I am glad, truly, that the war is ended, but as you can imagine, it has left me... well, not without work, but the work has changed. We lost two vigils and a son in the last years of the war, and now we can no longer even seek vengeance. What actions can we take now to redeem the name of House Haillenarte?

[a bold and thoughtful question, to be sure, but father archombadin seems somewhat disinterested in it as something — or someone — across the feasting table catches his eye. "damn it all," he swears, in a most unpriestly manner. "mother sardelle wants a word with me — she's coming now. i'll spare you the ramblings of a wretched and very powerful old hag. write me, or else i'll write you. fury be with you, old friend."

the silver-eyed priest excuses himself with a quick pat for francel's shoulder and a surreptitious straightening of his robe as he undoubtedly goes to handle the whims and wishes of mother sardelle.

lord francel, for his part, seems bemused but not too overwhelmed. he purses his lips and shakes his head a little, raising his glass to his lips, and then he moves on.

as luck would have it, his eyes scan the crowd. they settle briefly upon zephirin, on the familiar slope of the back of his head — he jolts subtly — but after another moment, no signs of recognition show upon the young lord's face, and he makes for the balcony, ostensibly to get some fresher air.]

Edited 2020-01-05 16:58 (UTC)

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061 » cross my heart and hope to die

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