067 » lost in this mournful refrain

[valhourdin]

[ 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. ]

Comments

[valhourdin]

[ An unsettling confession, at first, but one that bespeaks Francel's budding trust gifted Zephirin after all. The young lord is wise to resist the dragonsong calling to him — to hear it, to admit to such a thing, would damn him in the eyes of most. But how long might a man bear this, alone?

Steadily, Zephirin keeps his gaze trained on Francel, who is no siren, no, though his singing lingers in one's ears, and the plea in the glance turned upon his Temple Knight acquaintance touches the soul. The knight's thoughts wander, again, to the threat that solitude poses to a man bereft of his home, unwelcome wheresoever he goes as he is.

What would that man think best for Ishgard now? ]

I do not doubt it.

[ Moving his hands apart, Zephirin slides one closer toward Francel's side of the stone table, turning it over there, palm open. The gesture is the same extended to Francel several times before, now as a diversion for the young lord's restless fingers, the promise that Zephirin does not fear him. ]

Pray indulge me once more: might there be songs that you would recall gladly?

[haillenarte]

[Still somewhat flustered by the attention paid to his musical inclinations, Francel fluffs up his wings once more and cradles himself within their feathery comforts, gazing at Zephirin with shy eyes, a surprising sweetness.]

Gladly? But it has been so long since last I heard music gladly... The songs I sing were of mine own writing.

[It isn't his intention to elicit Zephirin's pity, but the Temple Knight commander may draw his own conclusions from that statement: the young lord was most likely unhappy for a good long while before the events that dyed his cabin in blood and left him with Dravanian features. Unhappy enough to engage with heresy, perhaps? Unhappy enough to imbibe a dragon's blood?

He does not elaborate. He licks his lips absently, as though chasing the taste of his sandwich and his ruby-red apple.]

I suppose I heard the House musician sing, many years ago, before the Calamity... I could sing his song still, though it would be less captivating without the accompaniment. Would you like to hear it?

[The part-dragon, part-lordling seems to have misinterpreted Zephirin's interest as a request of sorts — though perhaps it is an encouraging sign that"Joacin" seems willing to sing on demand...]