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080 » never heard carrickfergus ever sang so sweet

[the man calls himself a dwarf, but he looks more like some sort of misshapen, knobble-kneed hyur to francel's eyes than a lalafell. the young lord knows better than to try pinning the rules of his world to someone who claims to come from another, however. besides — hyur-lalafell hybrids. they don't bear thinking about. if a dwarf is what varric claims to be, then a dwarf he so shall be.

regardless, francel isn't about to dismiss someone who has been so useful over such petty concerns as class, or creed, or race. ever since he wandered into skyfire locks through a strange green rift he called the fade, varric has sought to help, in the best of ways, and not without a great deal of complaining. it isn't purely selfless: he seeks a referral to the city proper, and wishes to be introduced to the most skilled mages the vault has to offer, that they might research some way to get him through the seam between worlds back to his own.

francel has other ideas. he knows his city; he knows his people. he does not think that they will be of help.]

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[the other knights were skeptical of varric when he arrived, but the dwarf has proven his worth, and quickly. it is almost by varric's advice entirely that they managed to fend off an attack by svara without casualties. the men are jubilant, and with good reason. it will invite criticism by the holy see, perhaps even an investigation, but now, for the time being, the people of skyfire locks are ready to celebrate varric as a hero.

this includes francel himself. around the campfires, the young lord skulks, cloaked, until he at last sees an opportunity to speak with the dwarf as he is walking from one lock to another.]

You have a fine crossbow there, Varric. And even finer aim.

[this whole situation isn't ideal, for varric. for several reasons, really, but the thing that really chafes is that — whenever he gets back to the inquisition, which will be soon, hopefully — he won't even be able to write about it. too crazy. traveling through the fade to a country dominated by elves at war with dragons? who'd believe him?

besides solas. and even then, only maybe.]

Bianca? Yeah, she's a treasure.

[the dwarf takes a sip of the liquor the knights served him — warmwine, they called it. spiced and mulled, but it doesn't burn going down, and it's toasty, even sort of comforting. not too comforting, though. varric would take the cheapest piss served at the hanged man in kirkwall over the best wine to be found in coerthas, but. well. sometimes, you can't be that picky.]

You're not so bad yourself, kid. I saw you with the longbow. Good form. Good focus, too. Your problem is, you get nervous, and then you try too hard to correct your hands when they're shaking.

I — well, I —

[he had time to take all of that in during the battle? francel himself remembers little — barking orders from his chocobo, mostly, the adrenaline pumping hard in his ears as he fumbled for arrows and shot arrows that found their mark, certainly, but never quite where he wanted them to go.]

I shall keep that in mind. Thank you.

[he laughs a little nervously, lowering his eyes. the rising wind ruffles the edges of his linen cloak.]

Forgive me. I am... not normally this graceless. I simply... well, I don't believe I've ever been complimented on my archery before.

I'm sure. If you had, you wouldn't be so twitchy.

[poor kid. but francel's a good lad, as far as varric is concerned. not ideal for a leader, no, but the fact that his soldiers by and large don't resent him is a good sign. the merchant-prince hasn't seen very much of ishgardian society, not yet, but in his experience, precious few members of a wealthy and privileged class will truly ride out to battle with their men. the ones that do are typically arrogant, power-mad, or both, and francel seems to be none of that.

he's a boy, really. a boy with his back up against the wall, and tries to pretend that he isn't cornered.

varric sighs; his breath comes out white against the cold air, clouds his face as he reaches up to rub at an itch in his nose for a moment. briefly, he looks up at the night sky — the stars were all out of order, beautiful but just not right — and thinks of svara flying off in defeat.]

You really weren't kidding about being at war with dragons.

[francel tips his head to one side — he has to keep it lowered, besides, given his considerable height advantage over varric.]

Is that so strange? As I explained to you, we Ishgardians have been at war with the Dravanians for over a thousand years. One might even say that this struggle is all we know.

It's not the fighting itself that bothers me. It's that they're organized. When you said that they had generals and an army, I thought you just meant that the whole brood would go out to hunt together, or something.

[another sip of his warmwine. the spices get too strong at the bottom of the mug, he decides. though that doesn't mean that he won't have another.]

But you were serious. Your dragons aren't just hungry beasts. They attacked with a strategy, moved in units. They weren't trying to eat your people — they were just out to kill.

[francel blinks — pulls an edge of his cloak where it is flapping too obnoxiously in the wind.]

...Again, is that so strange? What are dragons like in your world?

I'm no draconologist, but I'm pretty sure the normal ones just want to eat people.

[the abnormal ones have minds of their own, varric thinks — the old gods. and he doesn't particularly want to think about what might be happening in this world if an old god has set its sights on ishgard for some reason. archdemons, blights. corypheus yelling about dumat and all that other stuff. fun. not fun at all.

varric shoves his thoughts to the side. it's not his problem, really — or at least, he has to tell himself it's not his problem. he'll go home soon, if the maker is merciful, and he'll be able to forget about francel, and skyfire locks, and the vague chime of glorious victory that stirred his heart when the house haillenarte knights rallied beneath his command to combat a long-hated enemy.]

Never mind. How about we get inside? I'm freezing.

Respectfully, Varric, you would not be freezing if you did not insist upon wearing a silk shirt with the buttons undone.

[the chest hair is really rather repulsive, besides. though perhaps if the effect is to be intentionally eye-catching...

again, much like hyur-lalafell hybrids, this does not bear thinking about. smiling, francel shakes his head and begins walking with varric to the nearest lock. this too is transient, he knows; he cannot keep varric here in ishgard, and the best thing for both of them is for the dwarf to return to the land of his birth, where he is most needed.

but the man is so very likable, and so very reliable — and francel doesn't know if varric thinks of him as a friend or merely a convenient means to an end, but even so. even so. this partnership, this vague and nebulous friendship — it's exactly what he needed in the wake of haurchefant's death. not condolences. not mournful understanding. just a friend, and one he doesn't have to love.]

You might have taken my offer of an extra bliaud when I made it.

Second piece of advice, Your Lordliness? Frilly sleeves and archery don't really mix.

[besides, his clothes are the last connection he has to thedas at this point — varric's not sure he wants to cast that aside so quickly. on the other hand, he's not an idiot, and frostbitten nipples are really the last thing he needs on his plate at the moment. with a quiet sigh of frustration, varric casually kicks the snow off his shoes before entering one of the many fortresses of skyfire locks. elves. even when imitating dwarven architecture, their ceilings always need to be so damn high.]

Get me a thick, warm, embroidered cloak and then we can talk.

Only a cloak, Varric? I did not think your loyalty so cheaply purchased.

[francel is only teasing. a rare smile touches his lips — briefly, and fleetingly. varric has met him at a time in his life when he does not smile often.]

More seriously, I shall send for it on the morrow. We owe you at least that much. As for your inquiries...

[he shakes his head as he brushes past some of his men — they should not gamble, the fury would not approve, but if it is only for the evening francel will not discipline them — and reaches for a fresh bottle of warmwine, hefting it in varric's direction in a silent question.]

I can ask my father to write you a letter of endorsement to the magical researchers of the Vault. I am only the youngest son of a High House; he is one of Ishgard's four most powerful noblemen, and so his words would carry more weight. I do not think, however, that this is your best option. The Holy See cares little for matters beyond the war. It will care even less about a man who calls himself a dwarf and must needs be returned to some other world.

Edited 2020-04-27 23:13 (UTC)

Respectfully, Lilies, I hate all this noble hoity-toity crap.

[sighing, varric takes the bottle being offered to him, uncorking it deftly and refilling his mug to the brim once more. he takes a steeling swig of the alcohol once that's done, and then looks up at francel again, a weary half-smile upon his broad face.]

Well, clearly you're about to give me a second option. What's the second option?

[for a moment, francel does hesitate — lilies? — but there are other things with which they need to be concerned, and he isn't about to pause a serious conversation to ask about something that isn't immediately important. he continues.]

I think you would be better-served by the Scions of the Seventh Dawn.

[he does think to himself, briefly, that it would be so much more convenient if the various organizations in ishgard and eorzea called themselves by titles which more clearly illustrated what their functions are. the order of knights who kill dragons and shite. imagine.

varric is rubbing off on him.]

They are... how best to explain? It would be fair to say that they are a council of sorts, and their stated purpose is to safeguard the future of Eorzea, which comprises the three nations south of Ishgard. For the most part, their efforts involve defending Eorzea from an invasion by the bloodthirsty Garlean Empire, but I understand that many of the Scions are scholars from the nation of Sharlayan, which is known for its magical pursuits.

[all this talking is making him thirsty. once varric is finished with the bottle, francel looks around for a clean mug and... doesn't see one. well. he's the man in charge here, isn't he? he takes a casual swig straight out of the bottle.]

Owing to an unfortunate series of events beyond Ishgard's borders, I understand that their numbers are not what they used to be. Nevertheless, some among them remain in Mor Dhona, which is a mere day's ride south from here, and — you will like this part — it is much warmer there. I am not affiliated with the Scions myself, of course, but I know someone who is, and I can call in some favors and to at least ensure that someone can speak with you of crossing the Fade, or the Lifestream, or... or whatsoever it is you need right now.

[it's not as though it's all that terrible a faux pas, but watching francel — soft-featured, soft-spoken, clean-cut good-boy lord francel — drink straight out of the bottle like the hardest guardsman in kirkwall makes varric laugh out loud despite himself. he knows little of ishgard, it's true, but he's quite certain that would not fly at the orlesian court, or whatever equivalent exists in this world. where's your fluted glass, francel?]

You're a day drinker, aren't you, kid?

[he shakes his head, takes a swig of his own mug of warmwine. francel's spiel makes for good intel, to be sure, but it doesn't change varric's plans all that much. so he'll be somewhere warmer, and he'll have to deal with far fewer dragons, by the sound of it. he's still — likely — just as far from home as he was before.]

All of that sounds fine. Really. If you think the Scions are a better choice than your own Chantry, I'll trust your opinion. I don't exactly have other options, do I?

[francel's lips quirk in a smile, both for the remark and for varric's reaction. he is a heavier drinker than most people expect of him, but that's neither here nor there. and varric's trust in him — however well or poorly placed — is touching. he can't deny that.]

If you have any questions, I will entertain them. But, as you can imagine, I have done my best to explain the situation as I understand it.

[he does try for a more modest sip from the bottle this time. less confident, more timid. more of what people expect from him. reserved. graceful. or at least as graceful as one can be when one is drinking directly from the wine bottle.]

I say all this because I do not wish for you to think that I have forsaken you, or that I am merely — how would you put it? — passing you off to someone else. If the Scions fail to be of help, or if things simply do not work out with them for other reasons, we of House Haillenarte will always welcome you back here at Skyfire Locks. I shall see to it as well that you will have the help of all those who bear the shield of the rose.

Edited 2020-04-27 23:41 (UTC)

I didn't think you were doing that anyway, Lilies. You're not the type. Trust me — I know the type.

[at the very least, varric thinks, when the chairs are sized for humans — sorry, hyurs — at least they're more his size. he collapses into a hyur-sized chair near one of the tables and watches the celebratory party continue for a moment, a faint contentment in his eyes, despite how badly he misses home, and how badly he knows he's missed.]

Just write those letters to whoever needs it, and I'll be prepared to ride out whenever I can. Or walk, now that I think about it. In case you didn't notice, I don't really have the legs to ride those tall birds of yours.

[after a pause, he turns back to francel, gesturing vaguely around the lock.]

By the way, this is going to be real dwarfy of me, but have you ever thought about digging tunnels between each of the forts here? Seems like that would save your cannoneers a lot of time coordinating their blasts.

[francel blinks, equal parts surprised and concerned by how quickly varric brushes aside his situation to discuss that of ishgard. it is flattering — even generous — but shouldn't the dwarf be more invested in his own problems over those of the people around him?]

It was considered, but we judged it an unacceptable security risk. The Locks exist to be shelters for the people. When one stands, it must stand alone. That is both hindrance and help. If they were interconnected, the fall of one would mean greater threat to another.

Sure, but those dragons are big. Your people are tall and thin, and the Hyurs can fit into whatever you build for yourself. If you made the passages just narrow enough to fight in, you could dig them small enough that only those little dragonflies could get through, and those are easy to kill. The drakes and the big dragons wouldn't be able to get in. They could breathe fire through the tunnels, sure, but, uh... run fast?

[actually, the thought of soldiers trying to run through cramped tunnels and being burnt to death in their armor for their troubles isn't that appealing. scratch that. the deep roads were a terrible idea.]

Okay, I didn't say it would be a perfect suggestion. But at the least, you should equip each Lock with better communications. Damned if I know how, but that seems like your biggest security risk to me. Running messengers in the heat of a battle isn't exactly the latest in siege technology.

[the young lord almost laughs mid-sip. the wine is beginning to warm his cheeks and turn him silly, but he has his wits enough about him that he can tell that perhaps varric, too, is growing a little inebriated. best to slow down a bit on the drinking.]

No, no... The criticism is warranted. I believe the southron nations have devices known as linkpearls that would allow us to establish mid-battle communications between the Locks. I shall consider it, Varric. You have my word.

[he smiles again, this time a little too fondly. talking to varric is too easy. like talking to haurchefant, before the adventurer came. and then, after that...]

Why do you keep calling me "Lilies"?

Edited 2020-04-28 00:04 (UTC)

[varric shrugs his shoulders in much the same way he always does when someone asks why he's given them some nickname or another. most of the time, in most cases, they'd figure it out if they just thought about it a little bit. but it's a good thing, he supposes, that francel trusts him enough to not think about it.]

You had a bouquet of them on the desk in your house, didn't you? Plus, you're delicate. Petals come right off when someone touches 'em.

[another swig of the warmwine. this stuff gets better the more you drink it, actually. unique. most wine gets worse.]

I considered "Frills" and "Frilly," actually, but then it wouldn't stick if you changed your clothes. Besides, your family crest is a rose. That means you've got to be tired as hell of being called a rose. Lilies? Hey, at least that's different.

To be honest, I still like roses! But you are not at all wrong — my sister has grown to detest them. Too many admiring letters scented with rose oil.

[somewhere in ishgard, emmanellain is feverishly writing out a new verse to an epic poem laniaitte has taken every word of to the fire.]

...You are very considerate, Varric. Even in your mocking nicknames. Thank you.

[heaving a quiet sigh, francel's gaze drops to the bottle in his hand, which he is holding loosely between his knees as he sits in the chair across from varric's. when was the last time he saw his people so happy? it feels too bright, too brilliant. he is still weary. part of him still wishes to sit in darkness, unmoving.]

The bouquet was for a... a friend of mine.

[well, give it to her, then, varric almost says — but he thinks better of it. things are complicated enough between himself and bianca that he shouldn't stick his nose in someone else's relationships unless he has reason to believe that it might be an interesting story to tell. but then something in francel's tone just clicks, and varric stops short, looking over at the young elven — elezen lordling in surprise.]

Oh.

[oh no.]

I'm... sorry. I should have figured that out myself. I shouldn't have brought it up.

No, no... I take no offense.

[francel smiles, a little sadly, and drinks again from his bottle.]

It was... He was... perfect. And there is no place in this world for perfect men. So it goes.

[he should not subject varric to this, he knows. the man is basically a mercenary, even if he is a mercenary with a good heart, but besides that, he has his own problems. his own lost friends — of that, francel is sure.

and yet it is impossible to not at least tell part of the story once he's started.]

...I do wish, sometimes, that he had not met... someone in particular. But what was I supposed to do? We cannot keep the things we love in locked chests, away from the world.

Some people wouldn't agree with that, you know.

[some people would do exactly that. varric heaves a tired sigh, not because he is ill-equipped to help francel with this, but because he himself has never had appropriate answers. how to mourn? how to remember? he's only ever known how to brush everything aside and focus on the now.]

It'll be all right, Lilies. You'll...

[you'll what? find someone else? no one could ever convince varric of that about bianca.]

...It'll be all right.

Thank you, Varric.

[what else is there to say? francel closes his eyes and thinks of silver hair. of blue eyes. of the past he cannot change, and the morrow where he has nothing to look forward to, not any more.

but still, he must persevere. that is the way of things in ishgard.]

I'm sure I will be, someday soon.

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080 » never heard carrickfergus ever sang so sweet

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