gurabad | 064 » postcards with our names signed gently

[it has been a long time now since any consortium heir or farmer's boy petitioned the scions for aid against some minor miscreant — bandit, beastkin, or common goobue — but an odd letter makes its way to the seventh heaven one day, in the heat of the ala mhigan rebellion, when all the eorzean alliance is fighting a war against garlemald on behalf of countries not its own.

poorly timed as it is, the letter passes from faillicie's hands to alys's; the barkeep judges it of enough importance to pass it to the rising stones proper. its sender is one lord francel de haillenarte, and its contents are cryptic, if evidently written in something of a rush:

if the scions of the seventh dawn remain enemies of the garlean empire, i have for them a conflict as immediate as the battles being waged in gyr abania and othard. pray permit me the honor of your audience, and i shall explain further. i have done much to ensure that this correspondence will not be intercepted — nonetheless, i cannot guarantee the safety of its contents. i would prefer to speak in person.

faillicie stands ready to deliver lord francel's reply.]

[As it happens, the senior Scions are, by and large, absent the Rising Stones when the missive arrives. Archon Y'shtola is due in some few days, but on orders to rest rather than take action, and the others are abroad or afield, handling those same conflicts that Urianger - arrived in Mor Dhona to make study of anything that might help his comrades in their efforts - reads about now, in this missive from Ishgard.

Swift is he to pen a response, brief as its predecessor, inviting the sender into the sanctuary of the Scions' facilities. They are, indeed, still enemies of the Garlean Empire and all its machinations.

Thus does Urianger, instead, wait the door of the front room, not pacing but neither sitting idle; his shaded eyes skim the pages of a brief tome on aetherology (he shall apologize to its owner for borrowing it without permission in time, but he felt he must make haste) while time passes. Alys assured him his reply would arrive unscathed and in a timely manner.]

[it takes some bells to deliver urianger's reply to skyfire locks, some bells more for the young lord there to ride down to mor dhona with faillicie's escort — so the sky is sunset orange by the time lord francel de haillenarte hitches his chocobo to a post outside the seventh heaven and steps, not too confidently, into the bar.

the "no entry" sign notwithstanding, alys sends the straw-haired elezen into the rising stones proper, where he removes his hat, scanning the room until his eyes light upon urianger.]

...Well met. Have I the company of one of the Scions of the Seventh Dawn?

[At his entrance, Urianger stepped forward; now he greets Francel with a deep bow, opting for a gentler tone - he has been told of late that his particular garb is unnerving to newcomers, and he seeks to disperse that notion.]

Well met and well come. Thou dost indeed speak with a Scion.

[And he nods to Alys, who still has her head poking through the door. Just in case. They are, to a one, prone to overcaution in the wake of all that has befallen the Scion headquarters, even without mention of the tragedies in Gyr Abania.]

I am Urianger. [A nod, to Francel this time; he turns just enough to convey an indication of the rather empty common room.] My colleagues labor afield, else thou shouldst find in us a warmer welcome.

It is no trouble. I consider myself fortunate to be welcomed at all.

[if the young ishgardian lord is surprised, offended, or unnerved, he does not show it. in truth, he expected his missive to be met with no response, as with the many others he's sent, and his predominant emotion now is shock, mixed with anxiousness. suppose this urianger hears him out and then calls him a fool?]

Full glad am I to have the pleasure of your company, Urianger. I am Francel, fourthborn son of House Haillenarte, and I shall endeavor not to waste too much of your time.

[he nearly forgets to bow in return, though he does manage it after a slightly awkward pause, his expression slightly sheepish as he straightens. after a moment's hesitation, he wanders over to a chair and seats himself in it, though not without a vaguely beseeching look at urianger, as if to ask if it's all right to sit.]

...Know you the outpost of Castrum Aquilonis?

[Of course it is all right to sit. They've a dozen and more empty chairs. What call could there be for standing in their presence?

Half a pace behind, Urianger joins him at his chosen table, smoothly disregarding this young man's hesitation and belated formalities. He has come to discuss business of a most dire sort. Forgiveness for eschewing pleasantries goes without question.

Thus seated, he folds his hands before him upon the table.]

Aye, and knoweth it well, though 'tis a looming threat thought lost to the Calamity's frozen grasp of Coerthas. It hath been some years since hearing aught of Garlemald's progress in the throes of blizzard and bluster.

[Yet here before him sits a noble lord of the city that withdrew behind her gates rather than stand with her sisters against that same threat. He finds it intriguing; not for nothing do the goggles and hood keep guard over his expressions.

If he were to guess, he would guess that Francel is here to inform him of the Scions' error in this matter. Of burgeoning activity or the advance of forces. But that is conjecture, and if he keeps silent for long enough, he'll soon know the right of it.]

[it occurs to francel, somewhat belatedly, that this man's manner of speech is... passing strange, even by ishgardian standards. still, who is he to question a sharlayan scholar's choice of words? mayhap the man hath spent one moon too many in the deepest annals of forgotten history...

there are only so many ways this conversation might play out, and urianger has already guessed at the end of francel's tale, though perhaps not at its twists and turns. solemnly, the young lord nods, lacing his hands atop the table as if in imitation of urianger's own movement.]

So it was, and so we believed, until our watches at Monument Tower spotted activity in the area. Activity in itself, of course, is not unusual: House Haillenarte has entertained many a passing Garlean scout in the environs surrounding Boulder Downs, but always had we believed they came from Castrum Centri here in Mor Dhona, and merely overstepped into Coerthan territories.

[a status quo that francel himself has never approved of, but never had the authority to question — even less so, now.]

What we see now, however, far exceeds the nuisance of one or two merely overzealous outriders. 'Tis our belief that the imperials have quietly resumed development of Castrum Aquilonis, and have moved new forces to defend the construction crew, at that. They have even installed a praefectus to oversee the unfinished structure — one Aspera sas Tempus, by word of mouth, though none of the footmen under our interrogations have yet claimed to have ever seen her in person.

The defensive force surrounding the castrum numbers few. Still, I thought this would constitute an act of aggression upon our borders, and did petition the Holy See as well as its Knights Most Heavenly for aid. With the bulk of the city's forces already stationed in Gyr Abania, however, it seems my words might as well be wind. The Lord Commander and First Commander are with the Eorzean Alliance; the Second Commander conducts ambassadorial business in Ul'dah. In short, there presently exists no one in Ishgard with the authority to act on her behalf.

And so thou wouldst petition the Scions for aid.

[He is far from alone in this; grave are the tidings that come through their doors, near and far, and more frequent than any good news that might serve as a counterweight. For his part, Urianger is several times particularly inhospitable to Garlemald and her invasion forces; he would not see them move upon yet another scarce-recovered post, let alone one so near to his colleagues as central Coerthas.]

Doth not thy House of Lords and Commons convene upon such matters? Pray do not advise me they forego an audience for thy pleas, full knowing what manner of conflict shall arise in the ashes of the Dragonsong War.

[Could they, somehow, have forgotten what befell Ala Mhigo? How readily the Empire would take advantage of turmoil and political uncertainty? How tenuous their position yet remains...even as their Lord Commander takes to the front lines in the name of further unifying Eorzea against her foes?

Regardless, Urianger speaks no censure - far from it. He would know the extent to which Lord Francel's entreaties have been received, or dismissed, before daring anything like a plan of action on the Scions' behalf.]

[at the mention of the houses of lord and commons, francel's mouth twists into a wry smile that might best be described as mirthless.]

The Houses of Lords and Commons convene upon administrative matters. Civic improvements. As a governmental body, they rule best in times of peace. The republic is far less equipped to make decisions of military strategy. It is already mired in petty and immediate conflicts of self-interest. Were I to introduce a bill or initiate a motion now, I doubt it would be heard until next moon. Even if I were to beg my lord father's aid in the matter, with Count Artoirel playing his part on the Ala Mhigan front as well, we are not like to have the votes necessary to hold an emergency hearing.

[the young lord sounds tired. none of this surprises him, of course. bureaucratic dysfunction is the obvious result of overhauling the nation's governmental systems.]

Moreover, I do not underestimate the capabilities of Garlean intelligence services. Any counterstrike against the forces mobilizing in Castrum Aquilonis requires secrecy — secrecy which I do not trust the Houses of Lords and Commons to keep.

[Urianger makes a sound, to serve where "I see" might belong had he the mind to give it voice. There seems no recourse for Francel but to venture in search of aid beyond what his city can provide - and so he has. Should the Empire establish better fortifications in the old castrum, Mor Dhona would find itself pressed on both sides, its resources imperiled and the lives of its people threatened all the more.

As the Scions of the Seventh Dawn also call Revenant's Toll home (and even did they not), Urianger believes he must act.

So he places his palms upon the table and nods but once, sharp and decisive.]

Very well. Know that thy plea hath been heard, and shall in turn be answered ere long. At the least, mine colleagues should provideth thee ample intelligence with which to begin.

[They have something of a small collection of experts at their disposal. Urianger has Riol on his mind, as he cannot ask it of Thancred, and he but hopes the man is unburdened and up to the task. He scolds himself for questioning the latter.]

Communication with the Scions afield may require no small amount of time; I shall make mine inquiries with all haste, nevertheless. Pray avail thyself of our hospitality meanwhile - might I offer thee aught to bolster thy spirits?

[Ephemie is there behind the bar; he laments F'lhaminn's continued absence, though he does not and will never begrudge her the need, counting himself its source and cause.]

[at first, francel simply nods along, following urianger's line of thought: yes, of course, intelligence with which to begin, will take time, as all things take time — but it is not a refusal, which means this is as best an outcome as he could have possibly hoped for. did some part of him expet a miracle? the warrior of light? yes, perhaps, but he is a pragmatist when it comes to political and martial matters, and he knows full well this is as much as he had any right to expect...

...what he did not expect was urianger's sudden shift towards hospitality. in truth, he very much expected to secure a promise and then be asked to leave. but this?

it suddenly occurs to francel that no one has offered him a drink in many, many moons.

there seems no particular explanation for the way the young lord's steely professional exterior suddenly crumbles — but he goes very still in his seat, and his voice softens, and he has to blink just slightly too fast as he replies very quietly:]

...A... A warm drink would be most welcome. Of any kind...

[Wherefore should he be asked to leave before receiving as thorough an answer as Urianger might provide? He seems well out of sorts already, and 'tis a safer endeavor altogether to keep him here.]

Of course. [A moment's soft smile passes across his lips as he turns away, warm spirits in his thoughts for the few steps it takes to reach the bar, and Ephemie behind it. His words to her are brief, bolstered by gratitude, and she accepts whatever it is he says and gets to work preparing a drink.

Urianger, meanwhile, disappears through a different doorway altogether. For a time, Francel must remain alone with his thoughts.

It won't last too long. Ephemie leaves a mug full of something fragrant - mulled wine, if he fancies it, warm from a bit of exposure to fire shards in the preparing - just to his left, and not a moment later Urianger re-emerges bearing a tray laden with teapot and two cups.]

Thou mayest drink to thy preference. [He inclines his hooded head Francel's way.] Pray excuse mine continued absence. The forthcoming linkpearl conversation promises both length and substance.

[And privacy is of utmost import any time he elects to speak with one of his colleagues in a public room, so Urianger thus retreats to a far corner a while, to perhaps, hopefully, produce some sort of useful answer to Francel's plea.

In a moment of pause, though, he turns back toward his visitor's table.]

The tea is of Doman origin. Let not the poignancy of its scent turn away thy taste.

[even the vault's most venerable clergymen would find something to drink among the selection of warm beverages ephemie and urianger have put together. such hospitality leaves francel mildly overwhelmed, though in truth he should not be surprised. the seventh heaven is a bar before it is the scions' hideaway, after all — or is it the other way around?

regardless, francel nods, leaving urianger to his private conversation. he leans forward a little cautiously, inhaling the crisp, unfamiliar aroma of the far eastern tea in its cup.]

I have oft been told that the people of Doma take their tea without milk and sugar... I suppose such additions would undermine the clarity of this brew...

[...but his remarks are quiet small talk, nothing more. francel sits in his chair and drinks his tea, looking for all the world like an overgrown young boy who has been told to wait for his tutor to return.

the young lord most likely has a sweet tooth. while the verdant notes of the doman tea are pleasing enough, he seems to prefer the familiarity of his mulled wine; he is holding it close to his chest, allowing its heat to warm his palms, when urianger turns to look at him next.]

[Urianger nods to Francel's observation, though someone speaks in his ear all the while.

By the time he returns to the table, though, he seems satisfied, or at least the set of his jaw does. Urianger sits in an adjacent chair and pours himself some of the tea, relishing its steam a moment.]

Thy plea hath been answered. 'Twill require an unfortunate delay, but the Scions shall dispatch some few of our number to investigate your observations.

[The delay is that Riol needs to get back to Mor Dhona, and feels himself unfit for teleportation magicks at this time. Given the disasters that arise from improper use of such spells, Urianger wished not to encourage him to go against his gut, as it were.]

Art thou well, Lord Haillenarte?

[He cradles his drink as though he cannot find warmth.]

O-Oh! Good. That is... good.

[francel's fingers tense subtly about the curve of his mug, and he swallows on a strange lump in his throat. his mouth still tastes vaguely of spiced wine and doman tea.]

Forgive me. With this issue...

[with this issue resolved — but it is not exactly resolved, is it? he struggles for a moment, shaking his head.]

...With this issue acknowledged for the nonce, I suddenly thought of... everything else that has happened. The other tasks I must attend to, the things I must eventually say... and other words that must forever remain unsaid...

[he is not crying, at least insofar as that his voice holds steady and he does not appear to have tears in his eyes. but then he blinks, and he brings one hand up to wipe at the telltale glimmer of tears on his lashes before — he thinks abstractly — anyone can notice.]

...I apologize. This is nonsense, as oft my thoughts are. The Dragonsong War is ended, and all of Ishgard should rejoice.

[Even were he a particularly unobservant soul, it would be all but impossible for Urianger not to notice Francel's suddenly...delicate constitution. Clearly, many other burdens weigh upon his heart. Responsibility for the safety of one's people is never to be taken lightly and is quite impossible to shed even in a moment of respite. Urianger knows it well.

...Would that he knew some simple and comforting way to convey such understanding to the young lord before him.]

Needst thou depart so swiftly? Thou art welcome to a lengthier stay.

[A bit of awkward continued hospitality - and a neatly folded handkerchief, quite clean, offered across the table - may have to suffice.]

War, by its very nature, claims far higher costs than any victory repays. Thy people hath suffered for centuries. That thy mourning continues is hardly unexpected.

[As usual for Urianger, it's a bit of a grandiose observation, but one he has felt at his own heart nonetheless. Mayhap it will help. Somehow.]

[some misunderstanding has been miscommunicated; francel laughs a bit thickly through his burgeoning tears, just a little too loudly. he shakes his head again.]

No, forgive me — I did not mean to say that I must go. Rather, I... when I return, I...

[and it seems impossible to explain — why should the hospitality of the seventh heaven tear at his heart so? because it is warmer here, and the scions are friendly folk, and when he turns around and rides back into coerthas, he will come in through the doors to an empty home, a cold fire, stone walls around him, the deafening silence. the expectations, the mumbled condolences of his men and his people. the looks that articulate, very clearly, that no one knows precisely what to do with him. the home to which haurchefant will never return.]

...I only meant to say that it has been many moons since last I was offered a warm drink and a place to sit. Forgive me.

Thine words and deeds both hardly warrant such petitions for forgiveness, Lord Haillenarte.

[Do his people truly hold no concern for their lord? Young he may be, and barren the snows near the specific place he calls home, but is not his territory the whole of the way twixt the Observatorium and the settlement at Dragonhead? Not to mention at least one observation tower, the like of which brings him here to the Scions' doorstep?

It beggars belief. Urianger shakes his head, perhaps at the way his thoughts tumble over and around one another, perhaps at the lack of consideration for a tired man's cares he senses from other, equally tired souls under his watch.]

If thou wouldst prefer some more private accommodation, I shall request a room prepared for thee with all haste.

[In case Francel does want to cry, but does not want to do it out here in the common room.]

No, no... I am fine. I will be fine.

[i must be fine, francel thinks as the punctuation to those remarks, but it seems to be the honest truth. he brings his gloved hands up to wipe his tears again, but after he has done so, his eyes appear more or less dry. he blinks a few more times, and then seems to settle into the fragile pieces of his heart.]

Forgive me, Urianger. You have been a most accommodating host, and I too improper a guest.

[he smiles a little weakly, and briefly so; the motion lingers about his lips for only a moment.]

Pray let it not reflect upon the good name of House Haillenarte.

Edited 2020-01-12 18:20 (UTC)

[Urianger has seen all of this before, in the manner of others who bear heavy burdens, who walk to and fro mired in grief they care not to display for the world's deliberation. Were he open with himself in this moment, he would be unable to deny, in Francel, something of a mirror.

One dare not begrudge another the ill-mended edges of such wounds as rend the breast in order to pierce the heart.]

Think nothing of the sort. Thy momentary meditation is as safe 'twixt these walls as any gilded masterwork.

[He lifts the teapot, careful not to dunk his own sleeve into his cup, tilting it just so, Francel's way. Perhaps he would like another?]

[this gesture prompts a brief pause, during which lord francel seems to digest urianger's intentions. they are both elezen men, they have that in common, and francel has certainly spent his entire life surrounded by elezen men, but it remains somehow difficult to read the scion's expressions and movements when he is shrouded in a hood, eyes hidden behind shaded goggles, even indoors. the ishgardian nobleman turns his cup gratefully in the direction of the teapot, withdrawing his hands back into his lap so as to avoid any stray drops of hot tea from its spout.

he peers curiously at urianger's whiskers for a moment, and then asks, quite without thinking:]

...Are you perchance sensitive to the light?

[it comes out a little too quickly. indeed, by the mildly wide-eyed expression that follows, lord francel likely did not intend to ask such an impertinent question without warning, but it is also too innocuous to take back now.]

['Tis no trouble to fill Francel's cup and set aside the teapot. Urianger is midway through a contemplative sip when the question comes, and he manages not to seem surprised or choke on the tea or any other such unseemly behavior. He does press his lips together ere he answers.]

Hardly so. 'Tis but a question of my raiment, is it not?

[He touches his hood, carefully, with just two fingers, which then rest against the side of his goggles for a breath.]

The remnant of a conscious decision to disguise myself from prying Imperial eyes, thus transformed into a habit of comfort in the long moons since. Think me not offended, lest thee worry.

[comfort, urianger says — this despite the fact that francel thinks to himself that he has never seen anyone look less comfortable in an indoor setting. nevertheless, urianger acts and moves in a way that suggests the hood and googles are as a second skin to him, and after a moment, francel decides that he had best accept that answer at face value.]

Ah... hahaha. I see. [he laughs in so humorless a way that it is plainly awkward.] Are you so notorious among their number? Er, pray forgive me — I suppose you would be.

[he lifts his cup of steaming tea to his lips, grateful again for its renewed warmth. the steam seems to rejuvenate his dry eyes.]

I am struck — as I often am — by the thought that we within the holy city truly do know precious little beyond our borders. I thought myself somewhat more adept than my countrymen for keeping abreast of matters in Gridania and of the Garleans at the furthest reaches of our land, but if I have treated you with aught less respect than you deserved, I beg forgiveness.

[By the Twelve. He has a penchant for self-flagellation matched by few men Urianger has known. By virtue of his goggles and hood, naught but minor concern shows in the lines about his frown, though, and he shakes his head with a good-natured wave of his hand.]

Think little and less of any possible disrespect, whilst I assure thee none was received.

[He has already made a best guess at the age of this young man, and if he is correct, Francel would have been yet a youth when the Calamity struck. When all was lost. Ishgard, set apart from the ruin of Cartenau by political distance if naught else, might scarce understand at all the weight of what transpired there upon the ground, save for the widespread news of the moon's fall and a primal's rise.

Thus he does not expect Francel, not yet come to maturity at the time, to know or care why Urianger is well known to the Garleans. 'Twas not required of him or his people.

But attention is most assuredly required of all the realm now.]

Likewise did the Alliance lack true knowledge of thy people, grounded understanding of the conflict 'twixt dragon and mortal man. 'Tis a blessing indeed that we proceed now as one.

[If that doesn't bring him comfort, then little else will. Urianger sets his teacup down.]

By what means might we best reach thee bearing news of our reconnaissance?

Oh, ah...

[urianger has said much, and there is much for francel to digest, but they proceed with the business that originally led francel here to warmer climes, and he nods his understanding before he has actually achieved it.]

Thou mayest — that is, you might —

[he fumbles.

no doubt this, too, is more cause for self-flagellation.]

You might — you may send word to me at Skyfire Locks whensoever it befits you. If that is too far for your couriers, Ser Carrilaut at the Observatorium will see to it that any missives meant for my desk will reach me.

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