francel de haillenarte (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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gurabad2020-11-01 12:04 am
haillenarte) wrote in gurabad2020-11-01 12:04 am
Entry tags:
094 » seventeen shots no thirty-eight
[ The party is the same sort of affair it always is: someone's nameday, someone's wedding, the birth of a child. All such fleeting moments of joy as they may cling to when their nation is caught in an eternal war and their lives are marked by endless tragedy. Francel has forgotten what the occasion of this one is supposed to be: he suspects that some niece or nephew of Count Durendaire's has gotten married, but it doesn't really matter. The banquets merely provide a sophisticated pretense for the nobility of Ishgard to make merry, and more importantly, to cut the sorts of deals that are best made when one or both parties are deep in their cups.
Francel has nothing to negotiate on behalf of his House tonight, though. He has come mostly at Haurchefant's behest, and also because it would be terribly dull for him to spend yet another evening in the simple comforts of his home at Skyfire Locks, drinking wine and tending to the fire. He is dressed in an alpine coat he borrowed from his brother Aurvael — a little too big in the shoulders, but not to an extent that others would notice — and he has done his best, as he promised, to be happy. He has drunk deeply of Count Charlemend's wine, and danced with various young maidens — but he isn't quite there, enjoying the moment. He looks through his dance partners to wherever Haurchefant is, and then looks away every time he manages to attract his friend's gaze.
Later, when the musicians are taking a break, Francel stops dancing. He slips out to a balcony to get some night air, feeling altogether too warm and uncomfortable, though some lady so-and-so has been trying to petition him for one more dance. He takes a bit of dessert with him — a quivering plateful of pudding, just the same as he liked to eat sixteen years ago — and then he sits beneath a gazebo, staring forlornly at the stars.
He isn't surprised when Haurchefant comes out to find him. This is, after all, not unlike how they first met. ]
...Haurchefant. [ A brief pause. ] Are you enjoying yourself?
Francel has nothing to negotiate on behalf of his House tonight, though. He has come mostly at Haurchefant's behest, and also because it would be terribly dull for him to spend yet another evening in the simple comforts of his home at Skyfire Locks, drinking wine and tending to the fire. He is dressed in an alpine coat he borrowed from his brother Aurvael — a little too big in the shoulders, but not to an extent that others would notice — and he has done his best, as he promised, to be happy. He has drunk deeply of Count Charlemend's wine, and danced with various young maidens — but he isn't quite there, enjoying the moment. He looks through his dance partners to wherever Haurchefant is, and then looks away every time he manages to attract his friend's gaze.
Later, when the musicians are taking a break, Francel stops dancing. He slips out to a balcony to get some night air, feeling altogether too warm and uncomfortable, though some lady so-and-so has been trying to petition him for one more dance. He takes a bit of dessert with him — a quivering plateful of pudding, just the same as he liked to eat sixteen years ago — and then he sits beneath a gazebo, staring forlornly at the stars.
He isn't surprised when Haurchefant comes out to find him. This is, after all, not unlike how they first met. ]
...Haurchefant. [ A brief pause. ] Are you enjoying yourself?