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067 » lost in this mournful refrain

[ It should have been yours, voices too loyal insist, in the wake of the election, but Zephirin denies it, firmly polite, however many times he must. It was never anything so certain as a given, never a right assured him. Rifts and rumours of rivalries do Ishgard no good, besides, and no matter the whispers of strings pulled, Ser Aymeric is hardly unworthy of his new post. Sers Handeloup and Lucia have likewise earned the ranks bestowed upon them, though some think their appointment another slight against the lord commander's so-called rival.

It is no such thing, nothing born of spite. For his part, Zephirin merely offers his congratulations, succinct but sincere, and adjusts his ambitions: much of Ishgard's weight now rests upon Ser Aymeric's shoulders, and the lord commander will oft serve as the nation's face and voice henceforth, removed from the front lines to sit behind his desk and at plotting tables, to heed high society's summons — it falls to the rank and file to risk life and limb for Ishgard. It falls to their commanders to lead them home, or else to Halone's halls.

A true victory — deliverance, peace — remains all too distant.

When Houses Fortemps and Haillenarte request aid in central Coerthas, close on the heels of fresh misfortune to befall them both, the Holy See deigns to answer, sending what reinforcements may be spared within the day. Perhaps, whilst Camp Dragonhead and Skyfire Locks mourn Lord Haurchefant's passing and Lord Francel's disappearance, bands of heretics and the Horde alike perceive weak points in Ishgard's defenses to seize upon.

Zephirin's unit arrives early the following morn, just as dawn dyes the horizon in coppery hues. Joining Camp Dragonhead's forces at the garrison, the Temple Knights are to bolster patrols; Zephirin himself, meanwhile, soon rides on across the northern slopes, towards Providence Point.

One lone knight — or indeed even the knights of the Congregation and those of the high houses combined — will not succeed where search parties failed, moons prior, when any trail was not yet lost to the snows, and House Haillenarte spoke only of closure through vengeance. Svara, Naul. Zephirin goes as a scout, if not as bait. There is no need to assign others to the task.

Ahead, a sobering sight, the Steel Vigil's broken remains darken the landscape. The world is deceptively quiet, here. ]

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[not long after lord francel's disappearance — indeed, some might even say immediately after it — the rumormongers in the taverns of ishgard began to whisper of the humanoid dragon just north of camp dragonhead.

strange sightings they are, if the tales are to be believed. it's not the usual kind of humanoid dragon — not bipedal, like the syrictae or the diresaurs. no, this dragon, purportedly, has feathered wings not unlike hraesvelgr's, and a slender, almost elezen-like form. but for the horns atop its head, its wings and its claws, it might easily be mistaken for a young ishgardian man.

naturalists, of course, find the tales absurd. "one would be a fool to place too much stock in stories from ale-sodden wretches of the brume," one man snorted, when investigators from the temple knights inquired towards his opinion. "if this dragon amounts to anything, then i daresay it may be a beast of the siren variety, mayhap even a primal summoning from the ixal to the east. but it is surely no dragon!"

no dragon, indeed. and yet, as he walks toward the steel vigil, zephirin may catch a glimpse of something that seems like a winged creature coming to rest atop one of the watchtower's broken spires.]

[ Zephirin's bird slows to a trot upon cresting the mountainside, passing the first ruined remnants of the Steel Vigil's outer walls; the chocobo's rider listens for wyvern wings, the scrape of aevis claws against the frozen ground. No sudden noise demands his attention yet, however, even as the watchtower's looming skeleton shrouds the earth in shadow. The wind whistles through its gates.

Then, eyes raised, gaze wandering higher along the ridges of mangled battlements and spires, Zephirin espies it: a slight figure, some manner of being borne through the skies on seraph's wings.

He has heard the tales, not in murmurs around tavern tables, but from the mouths of the men and women labouring in Dragonhead's defense. Of late, so they explained, something undoubtedly strange seems afoot hereabouts, less a dragon sighting than a haunting. "There one moment, gone if you so much as blink." A flash of white feathers, the gleam of golden hair. Excepting the horns, the wings, the too-sharp fingers, the elusive apparition is but a man, his silhouette painfully familiar.

(No trace of Lord Francel was ever found, no body recovered, and the lilies brought to the memorial overlooking Ishgard are never left to wither.)

Zephirin tips his head back, pulling at his mount's reins until the bird comes to a halt. Dragon or man, the creature high above them sees him — he is certain of it — but it has yet to move again, whether to strike or to take flight.

The knight moves first, as if to continue onward to the cliff's edge in the distance. ]

[the figure atop the steel vigil’s spire does not stir, not at first. the longer one looks, the more it begins to resemble a man in tattered clothing curled in over his knees, his wings stretched wide behind him. he looks like a child attempting to self-soothe, or perhaps hide away from the cruel world around him. the howling wind carries a — a sound, a voice —

a snatch of song, the melody mournful, words indistinct but for one phrase: how long can i breathe...?

(lord francel’s disappearance was not clean; there was no doubt in the minds of the investigating inquisitors that some foul play befell him. his house was in disarray when his knights reported to his home in the aftermath of a stormy night. his table was overturned, his bed mangled. the contents of his kitchen lay scattered across the floor. and the blood on the walls, the blood —)

then the wind dies down, and the creature stops its singing. it must surely be aware that zephirin and his chocobo are staring up at it from some yalms below, but perhaps it has grown tired of running: it closes its wings around its body, and does not move.]

[ A siren, they said. As the forlorn, haunting notes of the winged creature's singing reach Zephirin, thready and brittle beneath the wind's accompaniment, he comes to understand. More of this, and a man might be moved to folly, perhaps lured to his doom.

But the tidings of rising unrest, patrols ambushed and porters robbed, do not pin the blame upon the Steel Vigil's new inhabitant.

The creature — dragon or man or siren — seems disinclined to stir at all. Hunched over, wrapped in its wings as though they are instead a downy blanket, it appears sad and weary, far from threatening. A desolate silence has settled heavily across the snowy slopes.

Zephirin lingers overlong, watching. He cannot scale the walls, and he has no bow and quiver on his person, but death would be a mercy, he thinks. And yet—

(The people of Dragonhead have turned a blind eye.)

Spurring his mount into movement, Zephirin leaves the Steel Vigil behind him, returning to the garrison below. They cull beasts, this first day. The next morning, he makes for Providence Point once more, and a third time when the sun rises, the morning after that.

In the same spot as each previous time, he waits, gazing up at the Steel Vigil's spires. ]

Edited 2020-01-03 23:44 (UTC)

[on his second visit, zephirin would have discovered nothing, seen nothing. he would have heard no haunting song. he would have found no sign of the winged creature save the remnants of some leafy vegetable, too heavy to be tossed about by the winds (a farmer's crops were ravaged by beasts not long ago) and the core of a fruit picked almost clean save for bits considered inedible by man (a fruit not native to the area — and why would a traveler come all this way from the sea of clouds only to drop it here?).

on his third visit, zephirin will find the steel vigil similarly empty. there are no signs that the creature has built any sort of nest; there are no indentations in the snow where it might have slept. the structure's tall spires show no signs of habitation.

and yet —

as his steed warks, perhaps sensing something amiss, perhaps merely hungry, zephirin may hear a noise over his shoulder — the soft flap of wings some distance away. he may turn to look — and when he looks, he will find the weary eyes of the winged creature staring back at him, freshly landed in the snow not six paces behind him.

it is a young elezen man after all.

or perhaps not.

it is a young elezen man with large feathered wings, white as the snow he sits in; finlike horns protrude from the sides of his head. his clothes are in tatters; his shirt may once have been a nobleman's bliaud, but it has been torn so completely to shreds that his emaciated ribs and waist are clearly visible through the scraps of fabric adorning his body. he looks at first to be coated in ice in a lacelike pattern over his neck and arms, though closer inspection reveals these bits of ice to be scales. his long nails resemble a dragon's claws, and when he opens his mouth, the temple knight may see that the boy has a dragon's fangs as well.

but his eyes are a deep blue, brighter as they catch the light. his dark blond hair has grown a little too long, but it looks as though it might once have looked like silken gold.

he speaks in a low, husky voice.]

...You have come. Again.

[his wings close around his body in what seems to be an almost defensive gesture.]

Why do you persist? Leave me be...

Edited 2020-01-04 05:17 (UTC)

[ Zephirin takes in the boy's appearance, transfixed. The transformation altering him from an ordinary youth into a dragon is incomplete, and it might yet twist his shape beyond all recognition, leaving him a monster, but for the moment, it is repulsive only for its meaning and for the toll carved upon the young lord. There is, otherwise, almost a strange ethereal beauty to the pure white wings, the scales resembling a delicate layer of rime. Never before has Zephirin seen its like.

(Those claw-like nails are sharp, those fangs unlike the blunt teeth common to aevis. Though House Haillenarte's lost lordling remains lucid, that may change — and what is left for him save this self-imposed exile or his end?)

Leave me be, the boy requests, his wings a heavy cloak shielding him like a barrier, but Zephirin dismounts to stand at his bird's flank, and reaches into a pouch fastened to the saddle. From within, he produces a plain piece of knight's bread, which he holds proffered for his would-be quarry's taking. A portion of his own breakfast set aside, it is little better than meager meals of scavenged fruit and vegetables.

The knight moves no closer. ]

Might we speak?

[plain bread though zephirin may offer, the boy's eyes light up with obvious desire when the knight makes to hand the loaf to him — yet despite his clear need, the draconic elezen does not attempt to take it. he maintains his distance, eyes bright with hunger. he hides still more intently behind his feathered wings.]

...I can grant you no wishes.

[his voice is almost drowned out by the howling wind.]

I can grant you no wishes, do you no favors. I am only another miserable creature. What do you want from me?

[ Wishes and favors have crossed Zephirin's mind not once; perplexed, he cocks his head minutely, but his outstretched hand does not falter. Lord Francel, understandably on his guard, suspects a trap, he supposes. After all, before him he sees a Temple Knight bearing not only bread, but a blade. They both know their duty to the Holy See.

Cupping his other hand around the piece of bread, too, that the young lord might see them and see that they will make no sudden grab for the sword strapped to Zephirin's back, the knight slowly steps forward across the unmarred snow between them. ]

A word — your tale.

[ The gap still to cross shrinks. ]

And it seems a shame to let fresh bread go stale, would you not agree?

[zephirin is approaching; francel has to think quickly, and he makes his choice. in a movement more beast than man, he lunges forward on all fours, swiping the loaf of bread from zephirin's hands — then he has pulled back, sitting in the same stretch of snow as before, such that the distance between them has not widened, but it has not grown smaller, either.

he cradles his loaf of bread like precious treasure, and still does not take his eyes off zephirin, as if he expects the man to attack.]

...There — there is no story here worth telling.

[his voice sounds shaky, a little breathless, as if even that quick movement has exhausted him.]

[ Zephirin's reflexes take issue with that abrupt movement, reminiscent of a beast springing at its prey, and an instinctive alertness winds tension about his limbs, but he wills it away, lowering his empty hands. He crouches to stay level with the hapless young lord. He leaves the remaining ilms of ground separating them uncrossed.

His bread clutched in his clawed hands, his wings tucked around his form, Lord Francel looks worn once more, small and fearful. Plainly, once again, he chose none of this.

Zephirin says nothing for a time. When he moves again, he only reveals his face; the biting chill nips at his ears.

At length, he breaks the silence: ]

Would you consider it payment, then? For the bread and aught else to be brought — by your leave.

[ Like as not, talk of justice and vengeance is meaningless now. ]

...You would bring more?

[francel's rusted voice cracks from disuse as it pitches upward in wonderment. he wrestles visibly with himself. on the one hand, this temple knight cannot be trusted, he may simply be here to accomplish a mission or report him to the holy see — but on the other hand, he is the first person to not react with total hostility to francel's appearance in many moons. the once and former young lord cannot help but wonder if this is his one chance to take.

(and zephirin's handsome face tugs at francel's heart — but he knows, he knows better now, he won't make the same mistakes —)

still wary, his wings half-raised as if to kick off in flight at any sign of danger, francel does not tear his gaze away as it remains locked with zephirin's. his own ears appear to be drooping.

aught else, he said.]

...Would you — would you be able to bring a blanket? Perhaps even a pillow?

[he sounds half-hopeful, half-dejected — disbelieving even of himself.]

It's the one thing I've wanted most... something soft to rest my head against...

[ A loaf of bread is easily concealed; aught else will pose a measure of difficulty, though Lord Francel's wishes are humble. Still, Zephirin nods without hesitation, casting aside what ought dissuade him from a futile endeavor. He knows full well that Lord Francel faces a grim future, that this manner of aid cannot save him, but as he watches the boy at war with himself, he thinks it impossible to consign him to a heretic's fate. ]

I intend to return.

[ Under some pretext, his visits will continue while he and his men lend Camp Dragonhead their assistance — and thereafter. ]

Would that I could promise you all of it within the day.

[ But sharing his meals will catch someone's notice ere long, and the blanket and the pillow requested must needs be his own property, brought Lord Francel from Ishgard. ]

[francel continues staring at zephirin warily, weighing his options. he has been seduced by honeyed words too many times before; he cannot afford to put stock in them again. but if he means to lure me into a trap, francel thinks, hazily, if i accept his assistance but never trust him, not even for a single moment, then perhaps — perhaps i might be safe —

he tears his gaze away, finally, though his wings remain at the ready. slowly, he tears off a little piece of knight's bread; he sniffs it carefully, as if inspecting it for poison. satisfied, however, that it is safe to eat, he puts the piece of bread into his mouth, chews, and then swallows.

there are no ill effects. it is only a loaf of bread.

finally, after a long silence marred only by the relentless gale, the dragon asks:]

...What is your name?

[ As the silence stretches on, and Francel yields enough to accept a mouthful of bread, Zephirin studies what he can of the boy's draconic features, closer than before. That horns and wings have sprouted where no such appendages should exist tells a grisly tale: doubtless they did not emerge painlessly. They must have torn through flesh as they did through the felt of Lord Francel's tattered bliaud.

Quietly, cautiously, Zephirin creeps another few ilms forward, pausing when the young lord asks his question. ]

Zephirin de Valhourdin. [ He raises his hand, palm upturned. ] I mean you no harm, but if you fear a delayed poisoning, allow me to prove your bread safe.

[ The bread is already examined, a bite of it eaten; nevertheless, the gesture may dispel the last of Francel's wariness, or so Zephirin hopes. ]

[a closer inspection of francel's body reveals several telling clues to what may have happened to him. his body bears no open wounds, no obvious scarring, but the skin around his back seems unusually pink, as if it has only just healed over from some recent injury. he has bathed somewhere, but perhaps in a location too unsafe to spend too much time: though he appears mostly clean, there is a stain that appears to be dried blood behind his ear, likely one he is not aware of. neither grime nor guts linger beneath his nails, suggesting that he has not used his claws to kill, or else to hunt. that, or the half-man, half-dragon is simply very fastidious with his hands.

his mind lingers on other things. zephirin's offer is functionally useless: francel has already ingested a piece of the bread, and besides, if there is any poison in it one would almost certainly need to consume the entire loaf before any real danger might impose itself. that the knight would even think to offer is mildly laughable, but francel merely looks at him and harrumphs quietly under his breath.]

...No.

[petulant, he tosses his head to one side like an affronted cat.]

You cannot take back what has been given.

[there is a kind of childishness to his delivery, however — one that suggests that perhaps he is joking, or perhaps he is not. regardless, the dragon (or siren, or some other creature) looks at zephirin rather soberly, and takes a more full-bodied bite of bread. he chews and swallows.]

...But since you have given me this, you may call me Joacin. If you would hear more, then bring me more gifts.

[lord francel, it seems, labors under the belief that he has not been recognized... or else, that no one is looking for him, and that he is believed dead.]

[ An unexpected change has come over Francel, his demeanor suddenly that of an imperious lordling, whether feigned or genuine — magnanimously, he eats more bread despite his initial caution. Zephirin's offer is rebuffed, and he is not yet deemed trustworthy, instructed to address Lord Francel by an unfamiliar name, but the boy trusts his gifts, at the least.

Very slightly, Zephirin's mouth curves. He rises to his feet. ]

Until we meet again, Joacin.

[ With that, he takes his leave. He reports nothing of their meeting, and in his absence, no one comes to hunt the mysterious creature roaming the highlands.

Duty affords him the time to return to the capital ere he visits the Steel Vigil once more. Required to deliver news of the developments at Dragonhead, he meets with the lord commander the next day, setting out afterward to pack together the remainder of his offerings to bring Francel. His unused family home, a place he has at times contemplated relinquishing altogether, provides a pillow and a blanket, a woolen cloak. From the markets, he purchases a bar of soap and a jar of salve. A muffin and an apple are the final items for his bag.

Thus prepared, he keeps his word, making his detour to arrive at the Steel Vigil that same evening. ]

[when zephirin arrives at the steel vigil, he will hear, not for the first time, the voice that has by now haunted several travelers as they make their way through coerthas in the dead of night. the dragon of the highlands is seated upon the edge of the stone dais still standing at the center of the steel vigil, singing mournfully to himself, perhaps as a way to pass the time, or else to measure it against the infinite silence that must make for his company.

carry on, carry on...

when he hears zephirin’s approach, however, the dragon stops his singing. he turns to look over his shoulder, wings fluttering in what seems like a gently startled — or perhaps excited — motion.]

You came...

[there is a hopefulness to those words, a tenderness, even if francel is not aware of it himself. plainly, the boy has been looking forward to this, even if his immediate next words are sulky at best.]

...I waited all day for you, you know.

[ Zephirin follows Francel's singing to come upon the boy within the watchtower's ruins. Here, Lord Francel has only his memories to keep him company, day after dreary day — small wonder that he seems both pleased and reproachful to see his visitor, curiously endearing.

The young lord, though no knight himself, is well acquainted with a knight's duties, and so he can deduce why Zephirin has returned so late even without a lengthy explanation given. Instead, the Temple Knight offers him a faint smile in greeting. ]

For me? Or for these?

[ He loosens his bag of gifts from his chocobo's back, and holds it out to Francel. As before, he stands still, waiting for the boy to approach first. ]

I regret that I cannot bring you finer fare. If you do not object to wild karakul and the like, however, I might prepare it for you, now and then.

If I wanted to eat wild karakul, I could hunt it myself...

[how sorrowful, the plight of a lordling forced to sup on unseasoned mutton when he has been raised on finer fare. knights on patrol have naught to chew upon save karakul jerky, sometimes for days at a time.

but perhaps lord francel has other reasons for which he does not hunt his own food, preferring instead to scavenge scraps and steal from farmers. regardless, he spirals to his feet — or hovers, as it were, some two or three ilms off the ground. in this position, perhaps it will be easier for him to dart away if zephirin tries anything untoward. stooped over in mid-air, francel pokes curiously at zephirin’s bag of gifts. he expected another loaf of bread, at least, but this appears to be an assortment of some kind.]

Is... is it all for me?

[ Lord Francel, Zephirin imagines, lacks the means to make wild karakul or eft palatable, without cookware and spices on hand, and raw meat remains unappetizing. It seems that he expects a Temple Knight's cooking to be no less so, or simply that Zephirin's announcement disappoints him, but subsisting on scraps will not sustain him indefinitely. Already, one can count every rib stark beneath his skin, and Zephirin thinks of what might come of a desperate, growing hunger gnawing at the boy, or else of stubborn, slow starvation.

He voices no part of it, untying the laces holding the bag closed, inviting Francel to reach inside. ]

All of it is yours, Joacin, as promised.

[ As if for emphasis, his hands raise the bag higher. ]

[starvation already manifests itself on the young lord's frame: though his face remains youthful and his cheeks are deceptively round, the circles beneath his eyes are too dark, his bones too prominent, and the movements of his body lack energy save in his most raw, bestial moments. nevertheless, he does not attempt to snatch zephirin's bag away from him this time, and perhaps that speaks to some measure of trust. timidly, the floating dragon reaches into the bag.

his hands lay upon the largest object in its depths, first. it is soft and squishy — his eyes widen in disbelief.]

Is this...?

[it is. it is! he removes the pillow from zephirin's voluminous bag, and then — and then his expression melts into a smile, sheer delight. he hugs the pillow.

holding it lengthwise against his chest as though it is a beloved friend come to offer him comfort, francel squeezes zephirin's pillow, twirling circles in the air like a toy dancer.]

A pillow! You really brought one!

[even his legs have scrunched up in glee, his toes curled...]

Edited 2020-01-07 03:16 (UTC)

[ Gone is the sullen disappointment clouding Francel's countenance, chased off when he brightens with the joy of a child receiving Starlight gifts. His delight belies his weariness, just then, and the sight of him dancing where he floats above the ground, his plush pillow in his arms, prompts another smile from Zephirin. The knight even utters a quiet chuckle, charmed. ]

May it be as soft to rest against as you desired.

[ The blanket and the cloak should keep their new owner warm — then again, by some miracle or otherwise, Francel has survived moons exposed to the elements, enduring the cold with apparent ease. He is too thin, but his limbs are neither reddened nor frostbitten.

Patiently, falling silent, Zephirin allows the young lord to embrace his first gift discovered to his heart's content and explore the bag at his leisure. ]

[francel cannot spin in place forever, and he soon settles, putting the pillow on the stone dais so that he can sit on top of it as he goes through zephirin's bag of gifts. beckoning the knight lower — an invitation — the boy goes through the rest of the bag. his wings lay folded atop his back; no longer is he ready to fly off at a moment's notice.

plainly, distrust does not come easy to him.]

What else did you bring...? Oh, a blanket! And... what's this? A cloak? I've no particular need of it, but it is better to preserve one's modesty, I suppose... and I could use it as a second blanket if need be.

[he gasps as he gets to the final items — his meal for the day.]

Ah, a muffin! And... an apple?

[he peeks into the bag hoping for more food, but the bar of soap isn't edible, and the little jar of salve doesn't appear to be, either. in a teasing tone, he whines:]

Nothing to drink? And no meats!

[ Granted permission to stay nearby, Zephirin takes a seat, withdrawing his hands and resting them upon his knees while Francel finishes appraising the bag's contents. The young lord seems less opposed to conversation today, and in reasonably high spirits despite reaching the bottom of the bag. His complaints are made in jest, but Zephirin's smile turns a touch rueful.

Standing, the knight retrieves a filled waterskin from his belongings. This, he presents to Francel. ]

Water and bread shall make for a plain meal, I fear. When next we meet, perhaps my gifts then will include cured meats. Have you a place to store such things?

[ They speak as though they do nothing out of the ordinary and Francel happily builds himself a new home in the wilds, untouched by the risk of discovery and worse. ]

[lord francel's good cheer and excitement dims, if subtly. a troubled expression crosses his face as he answers:]

No... not in particular. For the most part, I spend my time here. There is an alcove along the south wall where I may sleep unbothered, but it is no place to store food. It would all roll into the abyss before long.

[all the same, seated upon his new pillow, the dragon-boy gratefully accepts zephirin's waterskin, settling into place to eat his muffin and apple in the knight's presence. the soap and salve sit untouched for the moment; he is too excited about the prospect of food to investigate such luxuries.]

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