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| [even the thirteen most powerful men in ishgard need to hone their skills from time to time.
ordinarily, the knights of the heavens' ward are given their partners. zephirin and vellguine plan assignments in advance, pairing the members of their ward according to their strengths and what weaknesses need to be addressed. last week, vellguine correctly surmised that francel found it difficult to evade spells; he spent bells dodging haumeric's conjured icicles and boulders, and still has bruises where the conjurer's volley found its mark.
today, however, practice is lax. the knights have been given free reign to choose their partners as they please; unsurprisingly, they all fall back upon old friendships. ser ignasse gravitates towards ser vellguine like a dog to its master; sers grinnaux and paulecrain pair off against one another, and fill the air with their deep-throated shouts. sers adelphel and janlenoux, as always, clash swords and dart around the room as elegantly as lovers engaged in dance (francel has long suspected that janlenoux would place higher than the eleventh seat if only he could bring himself to unleash his full fury upon adelphel). surprisingly, ser hermenost seeks out ser guerrique, perhaps hoping to imbue some calm and wisdom upon the younger axe-bearer. their mages congregate in a corner, heatedly debating the finer points of magickal theory.
that leaves ser francel with ser zephirin — the thirteenth and the first.
upon reflection, they make for an excellent match. both are shieldless swordsmen, unlike adelphel and janlenoux, but where zephirin wields a two-handed greatsword, francel prefers a one-handed rapier. francel holds it before him, drawing his fingers slowly along the dull edge of the blade.]
It would seem we are both unencumbered.
[it is a delicate jab towards their shieldlessness.] | |
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| [it is common knowledge that lord francel goes hunting once a week, and does not return until he has slain at least one karakul.
this was not a habit he had when lord haurchefant was still alive. the house haillenarte knights at skyfire locks (and those that trickle up towards camp dragonhead) speak of it often; they whisper in their barracks, behind closed doors and beneath the din of conversation in the mess hall. lord francel perseveres, they say, but he has not been the same, no, not been the same at all. the young lord they used to know was more squeamish, hated hunting, hated to see things die. now it seems to be the one thing that sates his grief.
the appointment and subsequent arrival of honoroit and emmanellain as knight-captain replacements does not change francel's routine. again, on windsday, early morning, francel dons a pair of thigh-length hunting boots and takes up his bow and quiver. stephannot has accidentally fallen asleep at his post; francel does not wake his knight as he saunters out into the snow.
the world is cold and quiet and unforgiving.
it is not unlike francel's heart.] | |
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