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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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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.]

[ Zephirin's gaze finds the south wall, which sections off the space within the ruined watchtower, the dais at its center. That wall and its alcove provide shelter to an extent, but this is no place to stay. It is a memorial, not a home.

The injustice of Francel's fate weighs on Zephirin's heart, and fleetingly — foolishly — he entertains impossible solutions, only to discard them. The inquisitors would come knocking. Lord Francel cannot hide within Ishgard's walls.

Elsewhere, on the other hand—

Made contemplative, Zephirin turns back to Francel: ]

...Should another place be found, would you take shelter there?

[ Lord Francel may have his reasons for choosing to spend much of his time here, the site where his brother fell in battle. Here, too, he is not far from Dragonhead, and he is near the monument at the cliff's edge, Ishgard within reach. ]

[now lord francel's good cheer dims and darkens. his wings seem to crumple behind him — and do his ears droop, or is that merely a trick of the light?

there is no ambiguity, however, in the way that he heaves a long-suffering sigh, having already — he believes — considered this question from all angles.]

...Where would I go? No settlement of men will take me as I am now — yet I do not wish to leave the land of my birth for lands unknown.

[morosely, he takes a bite of his muffin (itself not a very morose act).]

I briefly considered residence in the Sea of Clouds, but it is populated by beasts so fierce and hateful that central Coerthas seemed a safe haven by comparison. At least here I know the terrain and the habits of the wildlife...

[ Necessity, then, restricts Lord Francel to the Steel Vigil's alcove for the nonce. Good sense and the love he bears his home keep him from wandering, from true exile.

(Or is it resignation, a wish to die here, the land of his birth, if he must?)

Zephirin hesitates, a second's pause for thought. An idea has taken shape in his mind, but it is too soon to make its success a promise. ]

There may be abandoned cottages hereabouts. One secluded is not like to receive unwanted visitors.

If only I were allowed to enter mine own...

[this remark is half-muttered into francel's meal, a quiet aside. the young lord continues to labor under the assumption that he has not been recognized, that this zephirin has not connected the disappearance of lord francel with this strange dragon named joacin. sighing deeply, he takes another bite of buttery muffin, chewing and swallowing.]

If such a structure can be located, then by all means, I will be glad to hear of it. I lack the energy now to soar freely through the skies for malms, but last I flew over Coerthas, I found no such cottages that were not located in tracts of wilderness long since reclaimed by beasts.

[assuming such a structure can be located — but then, perhaps a knight of zephirin's caliber might be able to make one safe.]

[ Zephirin has heard enough to encourage him to proceed with his plan. It will take time — time to search, to find a suitable cottage to house Lord Francel, and to clear its environs — but it is an achievable goal. He waits awhile, that the young lord might enjoy his meal in peace, before seeking the best place to begin. ]

Do you recall where you saw these? If any strike you as habitable, the beasts will be no great obstacle.

[ The likeliest obstacle is the matter of carrying out his undertaking without arousing suspicion. ]

...There was a builders' cottage in the mountains north of the Dzemael Darkhold. Some... five malms north along the Coerthas River, if my memory serves. The wolves in the area were lean and hungry, but it must have made a fine home for the workers who once labored under House Dzemael's banner. It looked large enough to house six men, and would surely make plenty for one.

[finishing the last of his muffin, francel looks curiously in zephirin's direction, as if trying to make sense of the man. this is all a great deal to undertake for the sake of a tale, and the young lord wonders, again, whether this man can or should be trusted.]

...And you would go, then? Exterminate beasts for the sake of a beast?

Edited 2020-01-26 04:49 (UTC)

[ Securing the location named fortunately aligns with the task set the reinforcements sent to Dragonhead — these roads will be made safer. The abandoned cottage might even become Francel's sooner than expected, all without the need to sneak about.

What to make of his questions keeps Zephirin silent a moment longer as their eyes meet. Lord Francel must find his actions puzzling, perhaps grounds to maintain wary caution. They are sons of Ishgard, and why should a stranger come to the young lord's aid now? ]

Are you a beast? Regardless, I would go. That cottage will suit our purposes well.

Edited 2020-01-26 05:06 (UTC)

[our purposes, zephirin says, as though this has become his struggle, too. why does it matter to him so much whether francel has proper lodgings or not? what does he gain from helping this — this hapless dragon he has found? it beggars belief.

for a moment, francel's eyes mist over, and then they sting of tears. he remembers — a gentle smile, a laughing voice — a man i thought i could trust —

he blinks his sorrows away, looking down at the ruby red apple zephirin has given him. its shiny peel reflects his weary face as he shakes his head.]

...Do you not mark the signs of a beast? I am a monster to all those who would behold me.

[he wraps his wings more tightly around his shoulders — not because he is cold, but out of a vague need to self-soothe. his ears appear to droop.]

Who knows what the morrow will bring? Tomorrow, I might wake to find my heart corrupted. Tomorrow, you might come to speak with me again, and find my claws at your throat, my eyes void of recognition. Still, would you persist?

[ The young lord gives voice to their shared concerns, nothing unfounded. Tomorrow may come, only a matter of time, and there is but one recourse then.

But today, Lord Francel's heart remains his own. He retains his mind, his simple pleasures.

Zephirin's nod is firm, his response evenly uttered: ]

I have beheld beasts. [ Slain them, needless to say. ] I assure you, Joacin, you resemble none of them.

[ Drawing himself up after a moment's thought, the knight makes his approach, a little closer than before, hand proffered. Save his fangs and claws, neither a vicious wyrm's deadly weapons yet, Lord Francel is unarmed. ]

If your suffering might be eased, am I wrong to lend what aid I can?

[this time, at least, francel does not leap back like some injured cat, hissing and yowling and clawing at the air for zephirin to go away. he stays still where he is, his apple cradled in his hands as he slowly brings it up to his lips to take a bite out of it. his large fangs make short work of the peel; they carve deep gorges into the fruit, and the apple's flesh looks crisp and white as melting snow against francel's tongue and lips.

he chews and swallows, thinking. then, at last, he lowers his chin, as though he really is a dragon true, and he has bowed his head in order to let zephirin pet him.]

...Not wrong, no. But perhaps you are a fool, Ser Zephirin. A fool who opens himself to slander and censure.

[ They do not touch — it would be a strange invasion of the young lord's space to stroke his hair as though Zephirin has his chocobo's feathers and beak before him — but Zephirin's gauntlet-clad fingers could brush against Francel's shoulder or even the top of his head. Francel could take hold of the knight's hand, or else he could lunge, closing the remaining distance between them.

From his new vantage point, Zephirin confirms what he saw: around the base of his wings and horns, the young lord's skin appears tender. ]

Then I am readily a fool.

[ He has little to lose, at any rate. He could die tomorrow or today, and another knight would soon take his place. What lasting good has come of his efforts on Ishgard's behalf? The war continues. Their nation suffers. ]

There is salve to soothe your healing skin — shall I assist you in applying it?

[for a moment, francel's face seems to crumple like his wings — it is not disappointment that ails him, however, but merely a kind of shocked vulnerability. reflexively, he pulls his wings still further around himself, though this only reveals more pointedly how the skin around them is still raw and healing. his eyes find the little jar he has thus far ignored — a jam of some sort, he thought, perhaps something sweet to snack on.]

You brought salve for this...?

[he is touched, in truth, that zephirin even noticed his raw and chafed skin during their first brief meeting. there were many other things to notice about him — his wings, his horns, his claws, his teeth — but the knight looked past all of that at the young lord beneath the trappings of dravanian blood.

or is this just another trick?

hesitating, francel takes another bite of his apple, then turns very slightly on his pillow, presenting his back to zephirin. the knight has made it plain that he does not intend to kill the dragon named joacin, at least, and in any case, francel has felt the tightness in his back on the rare occasion that he flies...]

...If you would...

[ Zephirin says nothing more, for the moment, but he has a small smile for Francel as the young lord grants him access to his back. First, the knight sheds his gauntlets, retrieving the jar of salve with both hands unencumbered. He kneels in the snow behind Francel, slightly closer to the boy's left wing, where he remains in the periphery of Francel's vision, easily seen if Francel turns his head. Despite his partial transformation, the young lord is vulnerable, his acquiescence a show of trust not to be taken lightly.

The jar opens smoothly, quietly. Seconds later, Zephirin's fingertips glide gently across Francel's skin, slick and cold. Beginning behind Francel's ears, the knight brushes the boy's hair out of the way, rubbing the salve onto the patches of chafing around Francel's horns.

Even now, touching what ought never have been, he feels no revulsion. ]

Nnn —

[zephirin's touch elicits from francel a small whimper of — pain? no, not quite — the wings upon his back seem to scrunch up, and his toes curl as he squirms, full-bodied, with surprising sensitivity. the problem is not actually that the skin around his horns is sensitive, but rather that his ears are sensitive, and zephirin's fingers must by necessity brush over the backs of his ears to properly rub salve over the skin near his horns.

perhaps zephirin halts for a time, perplexed — but then francel breathes a relieved, almost throaty sigh, and leans back, something expectant in his manner as the tension eases from his body.]

...My ears are... sensitive, so...

[whether he wants zephirin to avoid them or touch them more seems rather unclear.]

[ To Zephirin's ears, the first sound emerging from Francel's throat speaks of discomfort, and Francel shudders palpably, as if he strains not to draw away. The knight's fingers halt in their motions then, hovering between a horn and delicate skin, but before he can investigate his conclusions, Francel disproves them. The young lord relaxes, at least, his posture open, allowing Zephirin to continue.

Even so, it seems best to be certain that his sensitive ears will endure his treatment. ]

Would you prefer that I take care not to touch them?

[ Easier said than done, considering the placement of Francel's horns — some contact, brief and unintentional, is inevitable. For now, Zephirin coats his fingers with salve anew. ]

Ah — n-no, I'd... I mean, I can't say that I... that is...

[francel cannot quite seem to muster a yes or no response to zephirin's yes or no question, but he seems to react with dismay to the thought of the knight avoiding contact with his ears entirely, even as he flounders and wrestles with his pride and his inhibitions. he has to suppress a sudden and bizarre urge to gnaw on his claws — he was never a nail-biter before his transformation, and yet...

after a moment, his wings fluffed and slightly frazzled, francel curls in on himself still further, evidently in an effort to hide his cheeks behind his arms. still, he manages some degree of icy haughtiness when he replies:]

...I-It is — not unpleasant. I wished only to warn you.

[ Zephirin's lips quirk into another slight smile. ]

Thank you, then.

[ There is another answer to piece together from Francel's flustered, evasive explanation — not unpleasant appears to be an understatement. The young lord might find it difficult to suppress any reaction when his ears are touched, startled at first, but he enjoys the contact.

Heeding Francel's wishes left unsaid, Zephirin abandons his plans to take excessive care. His knuckles rest lightly against the backs of the young lord's ears as he finishes with each side of Francel's head, his fingertips cool upon Francel's skin. Soon, he moves on to Francel's shoulder blades.

How unusual the young lord's transformation is — Zephirin thinks it a second time. The scales adorning Francel's neck like a lace collar shimmer in the moonlight as though they are indeed formed from ice. Francel's wings look soft to the touch, more so than a chocobo's feathers.

Monster fits his appearance and his behavior poorly. ]

[the young lord does make an unusual dragon, if in fact he is truly one. it is strange: most heretics who undergo the dragon transformation process turn into aevis, monstrous black beasts with scales that claim their eyesight and deformed skulls which reveal their spoken teeth. yet, instead of undergoing such a gruesome metamorphosis, francel instead sports draconic teeth in his delicate mouth, and his elezen ears have not given way to scales or horns or a flayed dravanian hide. the delicate collar of his scales is translucent enough to reveal that he retains his skin beneath, and the scales themselves are whitish only where it is coldest at the center, like true ice. his horns are of a delicate shape, more like a finely wrought hairpin than true draconic horns.

yet there are signs, too, that the young lord is not as cleanly an elezen as he used to be. zephirin's fingertips may be cool against francel's skin, but francel's skin is far colder than it ought to be. no goosebumps rise on his arms despite the fact that he has surely been out in this cold with nearly nothing to wear on his body for days.

he has yet to demonstrate whether or not he retains command of ice or fire or lightning, as most dragons possess. then again, by the look of him, surely he has some command over ice-aspected aether?

...it is difficult to tell when he is simply smiling as he rests on his meager pillow, basking in zephirin's touch. a sound like the low rumble of a cat's purr keeps escaping him, and it only grows louder as zephirin's fingers find the center of his back, directly between his wings. francel's feathered appendages stretch out in apparent anticipation as he squirms beneath the knight's hands.]

Oh, there, please — it's been so tense...

[the knight volunteered salve, not a massage.]

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