francel de haillenarte (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
haillenarte) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
gurabad2021-11-07 10:36 am
haillenarte) wrote in gurabad2021-11-07 10:36 am
Entry tags:
133 » but being modest's just not an option
[Nowadays, almost everyone is whispering that House Haillenarte's youngest has at last blossomed in the most remarkable way.
It was always Count Baurendouin's intention to groom his youngest as the family socialite — and right he was for it, given that his first four children all managed to fail at the task in their own ways. Stephanivien, genius engineer though he may be, lacks the tact and poise for etiquette and lace collars. Aurvael has the right exuberance, the right attitude, but the wrong tongue, the wrong face, a certain lack of razor-sharp wit — he has long been absent from banquets and parties owing to the fact that most in high society find him something of a bore. Laniatte, despite being a radiant beauty, absolutely detests pomp and circumstance of the sort that may be found in Ishgard's ballrooms, and is simply better suited to steel and swordsmanship than she is to swift steps and seduction. And Chlodebaimt — dear, sweet, beloved Lord Chlodebaimt — is dead, though it seemed for a time that he would be the shining star to lead House Haillenarte in the coming years.
For a while, it looked like Lord Francel was not up to the task. There stood the Count de Haillenarte's youngest child, soft and meek and eternally accompanied by the Fortemps bastard — how would a fourthborn son succeed where his elders had failed? He'd been devastated when Lord Haurchefant died, everyone said as much. He seemed more likely to die of a broken heart than he was to emerge from the ashes as a new man.
(He wasn't the same after that, some of his old attendants whisper, when one sends the right eyes to look, the right tongues to probe. The Lord Francel that everyone knows now — that isn't the young lord that I knew. That I raised. He was — he used to be —)
But then the Restoration happened, and Lord Francel had led it with surprising aplomb, enlisting the help of adventurers and mercenaries, so long frowned upon by the city's elders, to great effect. And he'd built the city with such a joie de vivre! He led musical ensembles, great artistic revivals, created public baths and glorious statues to preserve the worship of Halone for a new age. How delightful that he proved to be quick-witted and easy on the eyes and an excellent dancer. Some even titter behind their lace handkerchiefs that he is nearly as fine-featured as the late Ser Adelphel.
And his politics? Ah, well — there's the thing.]
Ser Aymeric.
[He's resplendent in his newly-tailored finery, House Haillenarte's sweet Lord Francel. A fine alpine coat for the occasion, glittering rings over his gloves, a glass of wine held delicately by the stem. He meets Aymeric's piercing blue gaze without fear. Smiles with his own navy blue eyes, warm and strangely inviting, like the call of the sea on a summer's day before the Calamity. He sips delicately at his wine, his eyes never once leaving Aymeric's face.]
Are you enjoying the evening? Lady Marcelaine's taste in music is exquisite as ever, I think. The harpsichordist is particularly skilled.
It was always Count Baurendouin's intention to groom his youngest as the family socialite — and right he was for it, given that his first four children all managed to fail at the task in their own ways. Stephanivien, genius engineer though he may be, lacks the tact and poise for etiquette and lace collars. Aurvael has the right exuberance, the right attitude, but the wrong tongue, the wrong face, a certain lack of razor-sharp wit — he has long been absent from banquets and parties owing to the fact that most in high society find him something of a bore. Laniatte, despite being a radiant beauty, absolutely detests pomp and circumstance of the sort that may be found in Ishgard's ballrooms, and is simply better suited to steel and swordsmanship than she is to swift steps and seduction. And Chlodebaimt — dear, sweet, beloved Lord Chlodebaimt — is dead, though it seemed for a time that he would be the shining star to lead House Haillenarte in the coming years.
For a while, it looked like Lord Francel was not up to the task. There stood the Count de Haillenarte's youngest child, soft and meek and eternally accompanied by the Fortemps bastard — how would a fourthborn son succeed where his elders had failed? He'd been devastated when Lord Haurchefant died, everyone said as much. He seemed more likely to die of a broken heart than he was to emerge from the ashes as a new man.
(He wasn't the same after that, some of his old attendants whisper, when one sends the right eyes to look, the right tongues to probe. The Lord Francel that everyone knows now — that isn't the young lord that I knew. That I raised. He was — he used to be —)
But then the Restoration happened, and Lord Francel had led it with surprising aplomb, enlisting the help of adventurers and mercenaries, so long frowned upon by the city's elders, to great effect. And he'd built the city with such a joie de vivre! He led musical ensembles, great artistic revivals, created public baths and glorious statues to preserve the worship of Halone for a new age. How delightful that he proved to be quick-witted and easy on the eyes and an excellent dancer. Some even titter behind their lace handkerchiefs that he is nearly as fine-featured as the late Ser Adelphel.
And his politics? Ah, well — there's the thing.]
Ser Aymeric.
[He's resplendent in his newly-tailored finery, House Haillenarte's sweet Lord Francel. A fine alpine coat for the occasion, glittering rings over his gloves, a glass of wine held delicately by the stem. He meets Aymeric's piercing blue gaze without fear. Smiles with his own navy blue eyes, warm and strangely inviting, like the call of the sea on a summer's day before the Calamity. He sips delicately at his wine, his eyes never once leaving Aymeric's face.]
Are you enjoying the evening? Lady Marcelaine's taste in music is exquisite as ever, I think. The harpsichordist is particularly skilled.