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072 » and we burn faster than light

[the lawful arrest of several heretics from within the ranks of camp dragonhead sets ishgard ablaze with rumor and gossip.

the fact that they were led by the once-esteemed ser barremert de valiere only adds to the consternation and frenzy surrounding the talk, but the rumormongers lose the thread of their story soon enough. despite the fact that the holy see's official announcement thoughtfully credited the azure dragoon, lord francel de haillenarte, ser corentiaux of camp dragonhead, and inquisitor brigie of the same, people soon forget that lord francel was involved at all after a few retellings of the story, and credit somehow becomes misattributed to lord haurchefant and ser estinien working in tandem.

francel doesn't mind. or rather, he does mind, but only superficially — it is a source of private frustration to him that he can never seize glory for his house in the ways that he would like, but he doesn't mind that the people of ishgard believe that haurchefant was involved.

better this than for them to know how badly he was hurt by ser barremert's betrayal, he thinks.]

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[fortunately, the victory has other benefits. the people of ishgard may not sing lord francel's praises through the ishgardian streets, but some do pay attention to the initial reports, and the count de dzemael soon sees fit to extend a dinner invitation to him some fortnights later — one which would not have been extended to him if the heretic business did not conclude in the way it did.

francel attends the banquet, of course. drink and talk has never come easily to him, but he was socialized for it in a way that his siblings never were: stephanivien is a rambling eccentric, aurvael is far too sober and serious for flattery, and laniaitte is too brusque and nonconformist to bother playing the game of masks at ishgardian banquets. his third brother chlodebaimt was good at this sort of thing, once, but chlodebaimt is dead — and that leaves francel responsible for making his rounds among the party circuits, careful with his drink as he cuts deals in house haillenarte's name.

he has never thought of himself as being particularly handsome, but he cuts a striking figure on the dance floor, dressed in a high-collared shirt of deepest black, his furs conspicuously absent (the truth is that house haillenarte has not the coin to dress him, and he is too modest to find alternatives). in this capacity, he is an extension of his father, albeit one with a markedly kinder nature, and a fairer face. he is not particularly concerned about the young lady in his arms — some niece of count charlemend de durendaire's; dancing with her is merely a social courtesy he will perform to help rouse her uncle's attentions towards other partnerships with house haillenarte — and indeed, his eyes scan his surroundings while she chatters to him about this or that bauble which caught her eye in the markets the other day.

no one seems to be watching him.

yet he received a strange letter the other day: a crude piece of vellum, blank save for an eye scrawled in what looked like blood.

he mentioned it in passing to inquisitor brigie ere he left skyfire locks, but now he wonders if he should have reported it to higher authorities. suppose someone really is watching him? could it be that they desire vengeance?

"are you listening, lord francel?" the young woman he is dancing with asks. "you seem distracted."]

Oh — no, my lady, I was listening. If I may, I am of the opinion that emeralds best suit the warmer tones of your brown hair. Forgive me. I thought I saw someone I knew.

["i thought so," she answers impertinently. "you had a look about you that told me someone else had caught your eye. you know, there are rumors about you, lord francel. i shan't name names, but a young lady of mine acquaintance did once tell me that only men seem to have ever won your attention at these banquets..."

the young lady is, unfortunately, right — especially as francel suddenly stops short in the middle of his paces, and she bumps into him, not injured but merely perplexed. it is, once again, a man that has caught his eye, but not for the reasons she and her friend would like to think. he just spotted a glimpse of silver hair — not silver-blue as the clouds in the sky, like haurchefant's, but colorless as the falling snow —

ser estinien?]

Edited 2020-02-07 20:36 (UTC)

[The business with Ser Barremert is over and done with, and Estinien could not be more relieved. He knows how the hunt goes, and is used to the long stretches of time between tracking his quarry and the moment he can finally raise his lance against it. Even then, the act of subterfuge is something else entirely. It is one thing to hunt down a beast you cannot yet see and another to face him day in and day out; to have him in your reach and yet be unable to do anything about it, to smile and play nice (but not too nice, not too docile, lest you lose his interest or rouse his suspicions-) until the moment you can finally stick your blade into flesh, assuming that moment ever comes at all. This game is its own unique form of torture, and he is glad to leave this mummery to Isghard's spies and inquisitors and other talented liars.

(Then again, the look on Ser Barremert's face when he realized the true identity of Barthovieu de Val almost, almost made up for the trouble he had caused. This is a thought that Estinien keeps to himself, though. While he is not the only man in Ishgard with a taste for blood, even he, strange and cold as he can be at times, realizes that speaking this aloud would be yet another cruelty committed against those that Ser Barremert had betrayed. While he lacks both the skill and the temperament to comfort Lord Haurchefaunt, he has no interest in pouring salt into his wounds, either. Fortunately, if there is one thing he learned during this venture, it is that the man is well loved by both the knights under his command and the commonfolk under his protection; the traitors in their midst were an unfortunate minority. So he leaves Camp Dragonhead and its people to be tended to by those who can tend to them the best, while he returns to the wilds to aid his countrymen in the only way he knows how.)

Eventually business does bring him back to Camp Dragonhead, but he anticipates nothing so exciting or wearisome as the last task that brought him here; he merely intends to trade information regarding what he and the camp's patrols have seen of late. Inquisitor Brigie, however, has her own intelligence to share: the unfortunate letter that Lord Francel had received recently.

Hrm.

He knows nothing related to it and tells her as much, but he promises that he will keep it in mind, a promise he keeps when he returns to the city proper and gives his report to Aymeric. The letter might be nothing. It might be a mere bluff. It might be nothing more than a behemoth cobbled together from scraps of old cloth and leather, something that can frighten and intimidate a man from a distance but has no force behind it when finally confronted.

Or, the behemoth could be real, and more than ready to tear Lord Francel to shreds should he get too close.

I heard he received an invitation to dinner from the Count de Dzemael, Aymeric says mildly, his tone a warning that Estinien fails to notice.

So, the boy will be safe, for the nonce-

-the same dinner that you were invited to, as I recall.

Estinien stares at him, his mouth agape. Surely he isn't going to suggest that he play dress-up and dance his way into that pit of vipers, is he? He cannot seriously expect-]

[That is precisely what Aymeric expected, and precisely what Estinien does. If the Fury is truly watching over him, then certainly She is having a good, long laugh at his expense.

They did, of course, consider alternatives. They briefly discussed another undercover mission, not unlike the one he conducted at Camp Dragonhead, but that plan was swiftly abandoned; it was too short notice to coordinate anything with House Dzemael, to ingratiate Estinien with the servants or to dream up some other role for him to play. Besides, if any of Barremert's former allies are keeping an eye on this party, then Estinien would be in a position where he would be recognized by their enemies but few of their allies, and without anyone like Ser Corentiaux to watch over him and keep their plans running smoothly. No, if he is to attend, he must do the unthinkable and attend as himself. Any heretics in attendance would not be so bold as to act with the Azure Dragoon hovering nearby, and with luck, Estinien's surprise appearance should buy more time to conduct a proper investigation.

Unfortunately, Aymeric forbade him from wearing his armor, despite the fact that they invited the Azure Dragoon. Pah! If he's meant to be noticed and to serve as a warning, then why not allow him to be truly memorable? But no, for once in his rotten life Aymeric chose to pull rank, and Estinien is forced to make his way through the Pillars in borrowed finery. Like Francel, he wears no furs, but he has no need for them; there is enough aether running through his veins now that the chill that hangs in the city air (much more mild than the howling winds that blow through Coerthas' mountains) barely touches him. For the brief walk to Dzemael Manor, Aymeric's silk justaucorps will suit him just fine. While he detests this needless frippery, it's at least easier to move in than those thick coats that are all the rage among little lordlings of late, though he could do without all these ribbons. Ribbons on his sleeves, ribbons on his back... hells, there's even a damned ribbon in his hair, in a vain attempt to tame it into something presentable.

He has one brief, blessed moment of anonymity when he first strides into the banquet, a moment where people may stare at him in confusion and whisper questions to one another behind their hands, but dare not to approach him themselves. He is, after all, practically a stranger to them, and far too old to be making a society debut; even if he were not the Azure Dragoon, the presence of a new face alone would be enough to stir gossip among the guests. However, Estinien cares not for any of them: the only guest on his mind at the moment is Lord Francel, and he moves through the crowd as he searches for any sign of the young lord, pausing when he catches a glimpse of gold hair from across the room.

No, Francel is not the only one staring at Estinien, and he isn't even the only on to feel some sense of familiarity when they spy him from afar. Another girl from House Durendaire dances nearby - a distant cousin to his own partner, perhaps - and she pauses in her steps as she furrows her brow in consternation. With more militant ambitions than her relative, the dance floor is nothing more than an opportunity to show off her miraculous recovery from an injury that, while not the end of her life, was feared to be the end of her days with a lance. Though her efforts to join the Order of the Knights Dragoon may have been derailed for the nonce, she has still known a few of those men and women who have been counted among their number (now dead and buried, Halone bless their souls), those few knights who would know Estinien's face and his demeanor. She ignores her dance partner's fretting and misunderstandings over her faltering steps, and, with no care for subtlety, whispers, "Is that Ser-"

"Ser Estinien!"

Estinien freezes; shortly after Francel and the young lady (Arlette? Ah, yes, Ser Arlette-) recognized him, so did the current Count Dzemael, and he was not content to keep to silent thoughts and idle whispers. Bloody hells, he hoped he would have at least a minute or two longer before he would be recognized. Trying (and failing) not to grimace, Estinien tries to shoot a look towards Francel before he turns to face his host, hoping that this will be enough to urge the boy to seek him out later. A new round of whispers begins anew, and Arlette's short, sharp laugh rises over the din of the crowd.

"Hah! And I expected dinner to be dull."]

[so it is ser estinien after all. as the dragoon is very unceremoniously pulled aside by the count de dzemael, and everyone on the dance floor slides back into the beat again, francel feels his pulse beat faster, though for what reason he can't quite place. is it fear? or excitement? a strange sense of privilege — what could possibly be so important that estinien himself needed to attend this party merely to speak to francel? but then, does this mean he is in danger after all?

the musicians, being professionals, never stopped playing, even beneath the disruption caused by their employers's excited shout. this part of the dance calls for a change in partners; as she prepares to be passed to a different young, eligible bachelor, francel's current brunette partner directs him an all-too-knowing, disdainful smile.

"watch yourself, lord francel," she cautions. "it would be better for you to learn to conceal your appetites."

then she twirls away, and she is gone — and in her place ser arlette slides into francel's arms.

this part of ishgardian dancing, francel thinks, is always somewhat odd. jarring, really, to go from one woman in his arms to another, as if they are all faithless dilettantes and not honorable men and women of the fury. he ventures a cautious —]

Hello. [a step and a whirl, as he adjusts to this girl's far more aggressive style of dance.] To whom do I owe the pleasure?

["arlette," the young lady ventures boldly. "ser arlette, of the knights most heavenly. soon to be the order of the knights dragoon, if i have any say about it." she fixes him with a cool smirk. "and you are lord francel de haillenarte. you've not made the banquet circuits since the calamity, as i understand it. did that recent business with the heretics change your mind?"

francel decides to sidestep this question, even as he spins arlette gracefully over the ballroom floor. he looks, a little carelessly, over her shoulder to see if he can spot where ser estinien went. failing to spot the man, the young lord answers arlette's question with a question of his own.]

You recognized Ser Estinien when he entered through the doors earlier. How do you know him?

Edited 2020-02-14 17:37 (UTC)

["Know of him," she admits, twirling back toward Francel. While Ser Arlette is clearly not above dropping names, both her accomplishments and her connections are strong enough that she feels no need to embellish either.

"My uncle first met him as a boy," she drawls, "and my cousin served alongside him when he was a man grown. And let me tell you, the only dance partner he's ever known is the lance."

Her steps grow more aggressive, quicker and just ever so slightly out of tune with the music, forcing Francel to keep up if he wants to keep taking the lead. All the while she looks him in the eye, her gaze steady and unflinching as they continue their dance.

"I wonder what changed his mind."

A smile spreads across her face as she tilts her head, and the implication is clear: You know something. Meanwhile another couple glides across the floor, untouched by the quiet games that people play around them; Francel can either stand his ground with Ser Arlette or escape into the arms of yet another dance partner, one who hopefully has less interest in gossip and military reports than the previous two.

This is at least one more option than is available to Estinien, who has no escape at all. Both him and the Count de Dzemael are flanked by nobles on all sides, and Estinien's stomach sinks at he imagines what sort of questions and thinly veiled barbs await him; while nobody has said as much yet, more than a few of them must be curious as to why he's finally decided to trade the battlefield for the ballroom, and whether or not he might respond to any other invitations in the future. Pah, he does not have time for any of that nonsense. He spares Francel one last glance and, deciding that he will be safe for the nonce, leans in to whisper something that only he and the Count can hear]

There is something I would speak to you about - alone.

[While Estinien fights the urge to grimace too obviously (this party would be so much more tolerable were he allowed his helm), a pair of servants look towards him and nod quickly to each other. One of them, a young man with platinum hair and both a few years and a few ilms over Francel, approaches his end of the ballroom with a tray of drinks in his hand. If and when the young lord wishes to take a break from dancing, he'll be ready and willing to offer him wine or whatever else he desires.]

Edited (finally got a chance to fix this up. thanks for your patience <3) 2020-02-23 05:04 (UTC)

[it has been a rather long time since francel last felt like this.

there is too much going on at once. for one thing, he needs to rendezvous with estinien, and find out why exactly the dragoon has gone so far as to seek him out here — but he will first have to deal with the girl he is waltzing around the ballroom (though it is very quickly becoming apparent that she is the one waltzing him). another matter is that he may need to help estinien disentangle himself from the count, but then the dragoon could very well escape of his own accord before francel has the chance to interrupt.

the easiest decision to make is that to stop dancing. he will have to stop sooner or later, and he doesn't like the predatory way arlette is looking at him — as if he is some sort of resource, some wellspring to be drained dry and left to waste away. francel scans the ballroom quickly, and soon spots his opening: across the hall, a young lady is parting with her companion, which leaves arlette some other man to latch on to, should she desire it.

i wonder what changed his mind, she asked.]

I wonder, indeed. He has ever been a mystery. Forgive me, my lady — I fear I am not so spry as I once was. Pray give me leave to rest a while.

[he lets go of her hands once the song comes to an end, and quickly steps away to the dining-tables. it is a brazen jest for a man who looks barely twenty, much less the twenty-and-two summers of his true age. arlette reads it, correctly, as a joke; she also reads it, correctly, as an excuse to get away from her so thinly-veiled as to be insulting. "really? you couldn't have thought of some better excuse?" she snorts, though to her credit, she doesn't seem angry. "very well, then. but we will speak again at some later time, lord francel!"

lord francel pays her remarks no mind. keeping an eye on estinien where he walks with the count de dzemael, he approaches the platinum-haired manservant, greeting him with a pleasant smile.]

Good evening to you, my man. A drink, if you would?

[though it isn't that francel's throat is parched so much as that he would like to indicate to others that he is no longer willing to dance.]

["Of course, my lord," he says with a slight bow of his head, before offering Francel both a goblet of wine and a broad smile. "If there is aught else I may do for you, you need only say the word. After all, I..."

His long eyelashes flutter as he lowers his gaze, his smile fading to something more apologetic, more reproachful.

"...I apologize, my lord - I almost forget my own place here."

Meanwhile, the servant he shared glances with strides towards the group of lords that surround Estinien and the Count. She bows her head graciously as her lord and master plucks two goblets from her tray, handing one to Estinien before he leads him further away from the crowd - whatever Estinien has told him, he appears to have taken his request for privacy seriously.]

[abruptly, francel feels his pulse beat faster, though why and for what reason, he cannot quite place. it has something to do with the way this manservant averts his gaze — almost bashful, and yet sorrowful, too, with a demeanor that makes his heart tighten in his chest.]

Oh, I — is something wrong? I did not mean to trouble you so...

[quickly, he remembers himself, and glances over his shoulder. francel is himself troubled; estinien is being led farther and farther away by the moment. still, if they do not leave the dance hall, he might yet catch up to the dragoon and the count in due time. perhaps the manservant's troubles might be resolved in only a few moments?]

If there is anything I might help with, know that I would only be too glad to lend a helping hand...

[awkwardly, he holds the stem of his wine glass in both hands, too earnest to drink from it immediately. perhaps the count and ser estinien are less demure.]

Edited ("tomorrow," i said, and then life happened) 2020-03-03 04:36 (UTC)

[While no one in their right mind would ever describe Estinien as demure, he likewise has yet to drink, seemingly content to hold his goblet in his hand as the count leads him out of the ballroom. As for the manservant, he does not seem bothered in the slightest; in fact, he's practically beaming at Francel now.

"You have given me no trouble at all, milord - quite the opposite, in fact. I merely wished to express my gratitude, is all. I..."

Again, he pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is lowered, too quiet for anyone else but Francel to hear.

"Some time ago, an old friend of mine left for the Highlands," he explains, his smile faltering at the word friend. "While I doubt he remembers much about me, I am grateful nonetheless."]

Edited (fiddled with some wording) 2020-03-08 07:27 (UTC)

An old friend?

[again, francel directs an anxious glance in the direction of estinien and the count as they leave the ballroom, but there seems time to catch up to the two of them still, and this manservant is clearly troubled. how could i call myself a son of house haillenarte if i turned my back upon a soul in need?

unconsciously, francel also lowers his voice to match the manservant's tone, and he leans a little closer, almost as if in some conspiracy.]

If there is aught you would convey to him, perhaps I could be of some assistance. I know many in the Highlands, across all four High Houses — surely it would not be impossible for us to find this man together.

[The manservant's eyes light up, and after a moment, one brief second, he's practically beaming at Francel.

"You are too kind, my lord," he says. "But, I must ask... you would not happen to know of a Ser Gaultier, would you? I fear that he may be unfamiliar to you - he is a lowborn knight, after all, one in service to House Durendaire. He was stationed at the Observatorium back when he was a squire, but I fear that I have heard little from him since the Calamity. If you do see him, however, then..."

He takes a breath, and continues, "Then please, tell him that Thibault wishes him well."

Little since the Calamity, little since the series of disasters that saw Francel take his post at Skyfire Locks. Ser Gaultier is not a name spoken of in his little corner of the Highlands, but if he is no longer at the Observatorium, then perhaps the man was sent away to one of Durendaire's other holdings.]

[a moment's nervous fluttering seizes francel once again, for no particular reason that he can pinpoint. it's that smile, he realizes after a moment, wrestling thickly with his own thoughts as if through some white haze: bright smiles from handsome men, they burn him to his core, remind him of haurchefant. he finds himself beaming back, a little more shyly, as if his smile tugs at his cheeks and he must fight it at the corners of his lips. he shakes his head.]

Thank you, Thibault. I assure you, I shall locate this Ser Gaultier — and I will send word back to you, when he is found. Upon the good name of House Haillenarte do I solemnly make this promise.

[he thinks his cheeks might be a little pink, but surely — yes, surely it is the wine? the wine from which he has yet to sip.

he reminds himself again, however, that he has other priorities. with a slight nod, he turns his back, fully intent on catching up with estinien and the count de dzemael outside of the ballroom.]

Pray excuse me for the nonce, Thibault — I promised a friend I would speak with him.

[francel takes his leave. he is a little giddy over how smoothly that went — that was smooth, wasn't it? and he didn't trip over his words, or anything so uncouth! moreover, he called estinien a friend in passing, which... while not entirely true, certainly is impressive, in its own way.

if only he showed the same such nerve around the man himself. closer to the dance hall's exit, francel slows his pace, and gently creaks the ballroom door open by a small margin — whatever the count pulled estinien aside to discuss, it surely isn't something that the youngest son of a high house should simply interrupt.]

Edited 2020-04-08 00:59 (UTC)

[Unlike Francel, Estinien isn't fortunate enough to spend his evening talking to a handsome young manservant (though, even if he was, he likely would not be able to appreciate his beautiful smile or gracious demeanor). No, instead he has only the newly appointed Count de Dzemael for company - only him, and the weight of the former count's reputation hanging over them both.

"-or do you take me for a-"

They spoke too quietly for any eavesdroppers to hear more than a few scant words, but quiet words whispered in harsh tones are not uncommon in the halls of noble manors. The moment the door creaks open, though, even those faint scraps of conversation come to a halt. There's a brief pause before the Count clears his throat; whatever indistinct whisper that follows is met with a curt nod from Estinien. With that matter set aside for the nonce, his host turns around to return to his party, and whatever frustrations were vented during his conversation with the surly dragoon do not show on his face. Only the tension in his shoulders betrays the mask of geniality he wears, the same mask he will greet Francel with should the young lordling stay to meet him when he steps through the door.

Estinien, for his part, lingers in the hall, his own face as dour as ever.]

[well, that's... not what francel expected to walk in on. as the count brushes past him, murmuring a faint and pleasant greeting, francel instinctively steps back to allow the man passage; he tries his best to look as though he hasn't heard anything, which isn't especially difficult, as what he heard isn't particularly useful. he tries his best to look innocuous, too, which again isn't especially difficult, as francel's presence is generally non-threatening even when he is doing his best to intimidate.

what happened? and what was so important that the count needed to drag estinien out into this hallway?

no matter. once the hall is clear, francel steps out into it, closing the heavy ballroom door firmly behind him. he and estinien are alone now, with the moonlit night streaming in through the windows, and the lit candelabras combating the blue chill from the falling snow outside.]

...What was that all about?

[not the most polite greeting, but it gets to the point. he already knows that estinien is not the sort of man to wait on decorum.]

[Ah, he thought he saw Francel's face peeking through the door. His head perks up for a moment, before he sighs and gives a tired shrug. When he speaks, he keeps his voice as low as when he spoke with his host]

I merely wished to warn him of Ser Barremert's old friends, and ask what preparations he has made against them. Unfortunately, he did not appreciate being told of what he already knew, nor did he take kindly to the reminder that even a more experienced count than he failed to notice the traitors in his ranks. 'Tis a shame - I cannot recall his sire ever being so thinskinned.

[And certainly any offense he took had nothing to do with Estinien's delivery, of course not. If Estinien has any regrets about his words he does not let it show, and simply shakes his head and continues]

But enough of that - what of you, Lord Francel? Have you noticed anything amiss since you arrived here?

Passing strange, indeed. Lord Tarresson is known to be a good man. That the current Count is not so suggests...

[francel does not finish his sentence; he lapses into a slightly sober silence. in truth, it suggests that lord tarresson was perhaps not as good a father as he was good a man, which is perhaps more common in ishgardian society than the men of ishgard would like to admit. francel's thoughts turn to lord edmont, and then to haurchefant, and then to artoirel, in that order. his mind lingers on a faded memory: artoirel, somber even at the age of fourteen, turned away in his armchair while francel played a silly game with his half-brother —]

...No, never mind.

[in any case, the thin skin of the current count de dzemael is not francel's chief concern at the moment. he lifts one brow in estinien's direction, quizzical despite his attempts to look serious. then he pauses. he draws back. takes in the whole of estinien, from the ribbons on his sleeves to the ribbon in his hair.

...it's hard to resist the impulse to laugh, but the young lord manages to tame his chortling into a smile, at least, while he gestures vaguely at estinien, and all that he is at the moment. a wild beast whose matted fur has been brushed slick for the evening.]

I've noticed naught amiss, no — besides this! You are a little older than is typical for one's high society debut, but the ribbons make you look younger, Ser Estinien. Why, I might think you a man of twenty and six.

[Estinien can't help but raise his brow at the young lord's musings. While he would call the current Count many things, he's not certain he would call him a bad man. A petty man, yes, and a fool as well, especially if his own preparations are not as effective as he claims, but not necessarily a bad man. He tilts his head in consideration, wondering if Francel knows something about the man that he does not...

...only to shoot the boy a sharp look when he turns his commentary towards him.]

If I am a man of twenty and six, then you must be at least half that age, to be so easily amused. Besides, all of this was not my idea - if I had any say in the matter, I would have worn something far more appropriate for the situation.

[Appropriate for the situation, or the man stuck in it?]

[the young lord really cannot suppress his laughter this time. if not estinien's idea, then whose was it? ser aymeric's, perhaps — the two are known to be close friends. perhaps francel should send a note of thanks for the ribbons. he might really never let estinien live those ribbons down.]

What is appropriate for the situation? No, even — what is the situation? You are not known to make your way through the banquet circuits. I almost thought I was dreaming when you walked in!

[despite his teasing, francel's manner does turn a touch more serious. he has, of course, noticed the obvious: estinien told him that they needed to speak alone, and that he is at this party at all suggests something nefarious may be afoot.]

...Something truly serious must have happened if you are here willingly.

[Estinien stares him down, thoroughly unamused, his demeanor not unlike that of an elderly house cat forced into the same room as a rambunctious young kitten. Thankfully, Francel straightens up before Estinien sees fit to growl or swat at him, and instead he simply shakes his head]

I am not here because of what has happened, but what may yet come to pass. I stopped by Camp Dragonhead earlier, and before I could continue onward to the Holy See, Inquisitor Brigie saw fit to tell me of the letter you had received. When I informed the Lord Commander, we decided that the best course of action was for me to attend tonight's banquet. If the warning is genuine and no mere bluff, then whoever sent it shall know that you are under my protection, and will hesitate to act even after the banquet has ended. And if it is a bluff...

[He shrugs, the ribbons on his sleeves fluttering more than he would like.]

...then we shall find out when there is time to conduct a proper investigation.

[at this, francel frowns, for several reasons. what, that strange eye scrawled over that piece of parchment? was that worth sending estinien to — to guard him, really? barremert must have allies somewhere, no doubt, but would they truly go so far as to infiltrate one of the count de dzemael's galas?

...though it isn't as though the young lord is not cautious. it's more just that he feels he doesn't warrant this level of protection. or aggression, for that matter. did anything even happen this evening that warranted investigating...?]

I confess, I hadn't thought of that message as a threat. Perhaps merely a warning. "We are watching you," or else, "you are being watched."

[though the image of the eye did look rather ominous, and did not come pressed with the sigils of ishgard, so really, it probably wasn't from an ally. but still!]

I... did dance briefly with a young lady who made me feel rather discomfited. But I did not take her for a heretic. A gossip, most like. She called herself Arlette — I believe she said she was an aspiring dragoon. But she has strong ties within House Durendaire, so I do not think...

[well. ser barremert was almost knight-captain, wasn't he?]

Well, she asked after you rather aggressively. Be it a heretic's lust for vengeance, or a mere girlish interest, I could not say.

[Francel's distinction between threat and warning earns him a cool stare and a raise of Estinien's brow. Honestly, what does this boy think the heretics will do to him if he steps out of line while being watched? Then again, that's assuming they are capable of doing anything at all; even the most dogged of Inquisitors find it difficult to measure the true strength of their enemies.

Either way, both his concerns and his criticisms are brushed aside at the mention of Ser Arlette, and any traces of judgment on his face are swiftly replaced with a furrowed brow. Arlette, Arlette... he frowns for a moment, before his eyes light up in recognition.]

Hmn... I think I recall a recruit with that name. Or rather, she was to be a recruit, 'til she was caught in a rock slide. If I have the right girl in mind, she may have simply fallen victim to the same boredom that turns all young knights into nuisances.

[There are few menaces greater than a young knight no longer bound by the instructions and advice of those that have healed them. Do not ask him how he knows this.]

Still, I cannot say for certain if that is the case. I shall find out what I can about her, when I can - but first, is there aught else that I should be aware of?

Not that I can think of.

[the evening has been just that dull, hasn't it? after speaking with arlette, he spoke to thibault, and... then followed up with estinien here. francel reviews the night's events, but finds nothing worth reporting to the dragoon.

...the fact that he found thibault to be something of a rather pretty face likely accounts for his unwillingness to discuss that matter, but that's neither here nor there.

were estinien dressed in his drachen mail — far more intimidating a prospect — francel would likely not be so bold. but the ribbons? the ribbons tempt him into foolishness. perking up slightly, he cannot help but tease:]

Were you worried, Ser Estinien?

[Estinien just gives him a look, but even with a face as stony and solemn as his, he knows that it's impossible to look intimidating while dressed in all this frippery. Fury take Aymeric and his damnable ribbons...!]

It was a reasonable concern, given the circumstances. I have said all I had to say - if any of these vipers try to poison you with more than mere words, just know that I will be there.

[It is only a jest, albeit a dark one - after all, by the time it would take for Estinien to come to his side, he'd likely be dead. Still, the sentiment is clear: firstly, he will continue to suffer this party so long as Francel is there, and secondly, this conversation has run its course.]

[much has happened tonight to make francel just a little too silly, a little too giddy — the dancing, the carefully parried flirting, his little chat with thibault — and all of it culminated is what makes francel laugh. airily, he dismisses estinien's concerns as he might wave away an unneeded, proffered glass of wine.]

No one will poison me tonight, Ser Estinien. I am sure of it.

[smiling, he whirls on his white-ankled heel, making to follow the count's footsteps back into the dance hall. it isn't that he doesn't have a care in the world — rather, he has perhaps a little too much faith in estinien, and he feels certain, now that the dragoon is here, that everything will be fine.]

Let us return to the ballroom. I should very much like to see you dance! [and then, because he knows the man will surely refuse, he adds in a teasing tone:] Do you even know how, I wonder?

[Estinien breathes out harshly, not bothering to hide his grimace. He's in high spirits, isn't he? It's better than him being a nervous wreck, he supposes, but he wishes his good cheer wasn't so grating. Is this because he's the youngest of three sons? Is that why Francel is the way he is?]

There are a great many things men that would like to see, Lord Francel, but unfortunately we rarely get everything we want from life.

[In other words: probably not. Without saying another word, Estinien strides into the ballroom; should Francel follow afterward, he might find a few curious pairs of eyes upon him.]

Oh, true. Very true. This dance floor would look rather different if that were the case.

[...that might be some vague attempt at a lewd joke, but the subject thereof is rather unclear, and francel doesn't quite have the panache or the worldly demeanor to pull it off.

the young lord, instead, trails after estinien like a puppy, or perhaps like some naive kitten following the nearest stranger in the faint hope that it might soon be fed. this in itself does not set the prying eyes of ishgard at ease; a few of the banquet attendees seem slightly discomfited, even suspicious.

"i heard that ser estinien played some role in the capture of those heretics last moon, but since when were he and lord francel so... close?"

"the azure dragoon has never been known to be so congenial. i say, has the young lordling some power over him? some manner of secret, mayhap?"

"what else could it be? forsooth, ishgard boasts many a virtuous knight, lord, and priest, but there are no good men in ishgard."

worryingly, francel does not seem to acknowledge the eyes and whispers tailing them — which means either that he is refusing to pay them any mind, or else that he genuinely has not noticed them, neither of which bode well for his chances of survival if in fact there is someone (or multiple someones) plotting to kill him at this very moment.

instead, he seems intent on accidentally (or deliberately?) stoking the fires of potential scandal, as he reaches out to touch the hem of one of estinien's beribboned sleeves.]

Should I call for anything to drink, while you're here?

[Estinien notices the eyes upon them and the hushed whispers that follow after> Good gods, can't a man have a conversation in peace? Useless vipers, the whole lot of them.

( Meanwhile Ser Arlette and her cousin - the same girl who danced with Francel earlier that night, the same one who had warned him about the trouble that his appetites would bring him - are taking a break from the dancing to enjoy some wine and gossip. The young brunette gives Arlette a sidelong glance and, in response to the whispers around them, says, "Some power indeed. I wonder what Lord Francel could possibly have to offer him."

"His assistance," Arlette says, her voice every bit as cold as the winds outside.

"Oh? Assistance with-"

"The investigation."

Her cousin glares at her before her mouth snaps shut, and with a little huff she turns to look at the crowd, finding more potential entertainment with them than her knightly cousin. Arlette ignores the silence between them as she drains her wine, thinking all the while, you owe me, little lordling.

And as for Estinien... )

Annoyance aside, Estinien cares little for his reputation; once he earned his drachen mail, it became apparent that his skill with a lance would let him get away with nearly anything short of outright heresy. But Francel... while he was clever enough during their investigation, he cannot help but shake the feeling that this crowd will eat him alive. Though, perhaps Estinien worries overmuch. After all, Francel has been raised his entire life to handle affairs such as these, or so he assumes. While he cannot have the boy clinging to him all evening, it's still best to let the crowd know that Francel has at least one powerful friend here before he cuts him loose, and whatever assumptions these finely dressed vermin have made can be addressed at a later time.]

Some wine would do me good.

[To abstain completely would be suspicious; to nurse a single glass of wine all night long would merely be sullen, which is what everyone seems to expect of him. Meanwhile, Thibault stands nearby, serving goblets to the other guests... and ready to wait on Francel and Estinien, should they need his services.]

Some wine, then.

[Smiling, the young lord turns toward the nearest manservant — now a familiar face — to fetch the beverages requested.

Estinien needn't worry. Francel may not play the game of Ishgardian society as well as some of his betters, but he has the potential to become a better player, given time and the opportunity. He is not half so sly as Lord Emmanellain, but then, he lacks Lord Emmanellain's besmirched reputation; he isn't so graceful or intimidating as Lord Artoirel, but then, he is far more approachable. One day, perhaps, he will be the hand in the shadows moving pieces on the board, rather than a hapless sparrow thrown into the Sea of Clouds to be eaten by the nearest endymion.

This is assuming that he survives the current threat to his life.

Which... considering his weakness for handsome men, does not at present seem likely. As he approaches Thibault, he breaks into a smile that is just a tad bit too friendly for a young lord addressing a manservant he spoke with only minutes ago.]

Hello again, Thibault. Might I trouble you for two glasses of warmwine?

[Even Thibault can't help but sneak a peek at Ser Estinien once he strides back into the room, but worry not, Francel, for he is not so unprofessional as to not notice a request made of him.

"It would be my pleasure milord," he says, his voice full of good cheer. "One for you, and one for your friend."

He hands over the glasses with a little wink, perhaps encouraged by Francel's own friendly smile]

[That conspiratorial wink makes Francel smile perhaps a bit more broadly than he should. Still — he isn't so lost in his thoughts that he would forget his position. Graciously accepting the two glasses of wine, Francel lifts one in a gesture of thanks before he turns and walks back to Estinien, holding one out to the dragoon as gaily as though — well, as though they are friends.

(For the people still watching them — and it isn't everyone in the room, but there are people watching them — this only raises more eyebrows. It doesn't necessarily tell anyone what they didn't already know, but it certainly looks as though Lord Francel and Ser Estinien are — well, hardly bosom companions, but still, somewhat closer than rumors would imply.)]

Here you are, Estinien. Incidentally, do you plan on staying all the night long?

[Unfortunately. Thankfully, Estinien manages to keep that thought to himself]

For the nonce. Even so, I have no plans to act as your nurse made - if there is anyone else here that you'd rather share a toast with, I shall not stop you.

[He does not mean to reject the boy when he says this, but... well, he's a young lordling, is he not? Even if House Haillenarte's star has long since fallen, certainly he must have some friends among the crowd, some lord or lady or young strapping knight that would make for better company than the elusive Ser Estinien. After all, he's learned how quickly the novelty of the Azure Dragoon fades away.]

[Estinien makes a good point, but even so, Francel just looks out at the party for a moment, pondering. No, he doesn't know anyone in the crowd, actually; it is a sea of unfamiliar faces, peppered with a handful of faces he might sort of recognize from other occasions. He could, of course, try to slide into someone's social graces and wring them of whatever use House Haillenarte might have of them, as is tradition in Ishgardian society, but it isn't the way he does things, and that's not what he wants to be. Regardless, there is no one at the party he intends to approach, either for personal or political reasons.]

Oh — but I'd much rather talk to you!

[He says this brightly, cheerily, in a manner almost innocent, and with a smile that is almost sunny. It is the sort of thing that would sound sly or manipulative if not for the fact that Estinien has by now gotten the full measure of Francel's character and ought to know very well that the young lord is neither particularly sly or manipulative.]

We didn't have many opportunities to speak during the investigation of Ser Barremert, as I recall. How are you? Have you been well?

[Well, they had plenty of opportunities to speak — they had a great many conversations — but all of them were, quite naturally, discussions of the task at hand, rather than anything like whether or not Estinien has been well.]

[There was a very good reason why Estinien only spoke of the task on hand, aside from the urgency of the situation: Estinien had nothing else to speak about. To say that he was skilled with a lance was an understatement, and he knew all that a man needed to know to survive without the comforts of civilization; however, Estinien had little skill beyond that, including the skill to spin those wild hunts into a riveting story. After all, would anyone expect the hunting hound to explain how it tracks its quarry, or the hawk how it sinks its claws into flesh? No, they simply do it, with nothing more than instinct and training to guide them.

Ah, well, the boy will realize where his talents lie soon enough. So he shrugs, speaking with a neutrality that could be mistaken for disinterest, if one judged Estinien by the standards of normal men]

As well as can be expected.

[This is the part of the conversation where someone would add in a bit of small talk, but what else is there to say? Francel said that he was well, and he is well - oh! Estinien's eyes light up in realization, as he remembers one thing he meant to tell Francel about]

I managed to chase off a behemoth, before it could make its way to Whitebrim. That ugly bast-

[Ah, right, polite society. Estinien clears his throat and tries again]

... the beast shan't be causing you or your knights trouble anytime soon, not unless it wants a lance through the eye.

[Or somewhere else that should not be said around polite society. Anyroad, he does not say this to brag, but to simply deliver good news from the Highlands. Francel should appreciate some good news, shouldn't he?]

[Pampered lordling though he may be, Francel is not a man who waits overmuch on courtesy or decorum, and he laughs when Estinien corrects himself. Oh, he may be only two-and-twenty, but it isn't as though he's never heard his men get into more colorful arguments when the ale and warmwine has loosened everyone's mythril gorgets enough that they've forgotten that their young lord is in the room.

Conspiratorially, and with a rare impishness, Francel leans forward, whispering in a way that suggests he is heedless of what the other bluebloods on the dance floor may think of him.]

I appreciate your endeavors in keeping ugly bastards away from our men, Ser Estinien.

[With a light laugh, he draws back again, and perhaps this is the way of things: the hunting-hound tracks its quarry, the hunting-hawk brings it down, and then its noble master gives it praise and a bit of food to eat. Not that Estinien is domesticated in quite that way — but it is rare for a young lord to express interest in the Azure Dragoon's hunts without weaving in tales of his own exploits or other such nonsense.]

A behemoth is no small feat! Would you say it was stronger than one of the lesser dragons?

[Estinien blinked, before his grin widened, equal parts amused and surprised - mayhap he overestimated just how stuffy the young lordling was.]

Stronger, aye, but at the end of the day a behemoth is naught more than a beast - a powerful beast, but a beast nonetheless. It does not plot, it does not scheme, it does it wage war and seek vengeance for what it's lost.

[His smile faded, and he glanced back towards the party as he took a sip from his goblet]

Nor does it have any allies... that we know of, at least. Rumor has it that the bloody things were borne from the lesser moon itself, but I know naught about any of that - though if the dragons wish to welcome them with open wings, I have yet to see it.

[And there's the return of his crooked grin, grateful for that small blessing. This is what it's like to be friends with Estinien, Francel: an omnipresent morbid mood and an odd sense of humor.]

Is that so? Interesting... I had not thought on it before, but 'tis true that the beasts were not seen in Coerthas ere the lesser moon fell. Perhaps I ought to crack open a naturalist's treatise or two on the subject...

[Drinking deeply of the wine that Thibault poured him, Francel hums and lets the liquor warm his blood, falling into a smile that seems slightly too soft for the battle-hardened man he is looking at.

They are beginning to attract eyes again — more of them curious than judgmental, this time. It is rare to see the Azure Dragoon at all, much less unplated, outside of his armor, and smiling, in that lopsided way that suggests he isn't even used to doing so, and might not even be aware that he is smiling. It is an equally rare thing to see Lord Francel smiling, although his generally sweet personality makes it seem as though this more common than it is. In other words, it isn't a surprise to see Francel smile — his smile seems natural on his face — but it's a rare thing, to see Count Baurendouin's somber and somewhat anxious son smile at anyone that isn't Count Edmont's bastard.]

Will you tell me of a battle that impressed itself more deeply upon your memory, Ser Estinien? You must have many.

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ever and always! ♥

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estinien and the count will return... next tag, probably

i finally return from the war

♥️

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