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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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[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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072 » and we burn faster than light

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