(open) & i may not see the future,

[civicbooty]

Who: Aymeric and Francel and Solas in closed prompts; whoever wants an elf goodboy who likes ethics discussions and long walks on the beach in the open prompt!
When: mid to late May.
Where: the Coven, the Haven.
What: magic, ruminating on politics, rich boys probably putting mattresses on the floor, etc.
Warnings: gore, actually, but it's fine, everything's fine,



♞ practical magic. (the coven, open.)

[ Every day, without fail, Aymeric can be found at the Coven, diligently working on his magic. He's progressing slowly, in part because he's chosen no straightforward discipline: often he has an object in front of him on which he'll cast a spell; then he'll wait a little and touch it lightly with his fingertips. Many times he'll only purse his lips or frown, but other times, he'll yank his hand back as if burned (and he might be).

He also practices shielding magic, as best he can — he may turn, sometimes, and ask the nearest obvious newcomer if they wouldn't mind throwing something at him, yes really, harmless or otherwise. He's wearing armor; it's fine. ]

♞ walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut. (moving in, for francel.)

[ The house, the witches assured them, is perfectly safe. Yes, it did once belong to a family who succumbed to the Cwyld, but that's no reason for alarm, of course, they said; get a tea table and some chairs; get a fire started in the hearth, and it'll feel just like home.

It feels nothing like home, though, even after he and Francel have dusted all the rooms and carried in a few pieces of inexpensive but solidly-built furniture. Aefenglom is much too warm, for one thing.

By the time night falls, and there's nothing else to bring in or to clean, Aymeric has shed his armor in the house somewhere, poured two glasses of water, and coaxed Francel out to the covered front steps with them as a remedy for the house's stale air.

No one, at this hour, will see Francel's emerging scales.

The twin moons are bright overhead. Aymeric settles on the top step, allowing Francel space, and stretches out his dusty legs, looking pensively up at the sky. He takes a long, cool sip before he speaks. ]

I've wondered, I must confess, how much they truly know of that lesser moon. Folly, I suppose.

♞ a strategy discussion. (tea, for francel & solas.)

[ It still hasn't occurred to Aymeric to use his watch more often — or almost ever — so he's delighted when he runs into Solas by pure chance a day after they've moved into the Haven. They can't offer much in the way of hospitality, but they do have tea, and a table, and chairs, just as the witches suggested, and Aymeric extends a prompt invitation.

The house is too large for two people, though not as luxurious as some of those nearer the center of the city. The yard is a tangled mess of weeds, and thick ivy has smothered all but the windows on one side of the house. Part of the quaint carved wood detail above the covered porch has a sizable splintered hole in it, as if it was struck by something heavy, and a massive scrape mars the faded paint on the front door. The towering pale wall that separates the inner city from the outer is starkly visible, here, through the other homes.

Aymeric slows as they approach the door. ]

Francel has been reclusive, of late. I've no doubt he'll be glad of your company, but if he appears reluctant, pray forgive him.

[ He pushes it open, stepping into a clean but empty narrow foyer split by a staircase, and raises his voice: ]

Francel?

(note/the wildcard option: prose is always okay. for any other ideas/whatever, feel free to pm me or hmu on plurk at elegiae ♡

unrelated note that a reference to the parliamentary records building is now undermael college because I didn't see a question on the faq until right now,,,)

Comments

coven;

[fordola]

[ Perhaps Aymeric hadn't noticed exactly who this woman was. Or perhaps he had, as he asked her to throw something at him. But Fordola knew him, knew his face. One of the Grand Alliance, one of her... well, still enemies, probably? Thankfully for Aymeric, there wasn't anything too pointy nearby, or else Fordola would have likely thrown that. Anger still filled her from home, even as Thancred... well, looked after her? They hadn't talked about it much.

Instead, she threw a half-full cup of water at him, precise and aimed right at his head. Slightly frowning, very tense. ]

[civicbooty]

[ On the upside, the cup bounces harmlessly off the spell an inch from his head, and the success of it distracts Aymeric for half a second. On the downside, it doesn't prevent him from now being covered in water — and, upon closer inspection, he recognizes the woman who threw it at him.

She was moved to a cell after the liberation of Ala Mhigo, he recalls, under the heavy presence of soldiers. Not directly under the crown prince, by rank, but close—

He pushes his dripping hair back out of his eyes, still outwardly pleasant, but cooler, watching her as he might watch a feral dog. ]

Ah. Apologies — your name has slipped my mind.

[fordola]

...Fordola. Fordola rem Lupis. [ Her own gaze was still piercing, still judging. Moving swiftly to hide her talon-line hands, moving to move slightly out of the light so nothing would seem wrong with her. But her eyes - one stained red, the Resonants' mark left on her - were far too focused on him to look elsewhere, a mix of hatred and confusion in her eyes.

For he was one of the signs of her imprisonment, of what an enemy could be. But, at the same time... she had moved in with a Scion, who seemed to either not remember or not judge her for her deeds. Things were confusing. ]

You're... the leader of Ishgard. [ His name, too, slipped her mind. (Did it matter?) After a moment, she shook her head. ]

[civicbooty]

Ishgard is no longer ruled by a single man.

[ His voice is deliberately calm, devoid of emotion, but there is authoritative force behind it, each word too-crisply enunciated, as if something in him prickled at the suggestion.

He wipes droplets of water off his cheek with his thumb, stoops to pick up the cup and place it on the nearest surface. That she gave her name was a minor courtesy, and he returns it: ]

I am Aymeric de Borel. I have the honor of commanding the Temple Knights. Thank you — Pilus, unless I am mistaken?

[fordola]

[ There was a long, deliberate pause. As if she was sizing him up, or considering her next words carefully. Sure, she was free here, but... ] I'm nothing now - even if you are correct, Aymeric. As long as I'm a prisoner, my rank is meaningless. [ A pause. ] Before then? I was the Primus Pilus of the XIIth, Commander of the Cania Lupi, and the last one left. [ A mix of pride and sorrow in the 19-year-olds voice, as she stood a little at attention - before... moving slightly, offering him a cloth to wipe up the rest of the water. ]

[veilfires]

[As they walk up the garden path, he looks up at the shattered wood detail (fresh destruction, or old?), drinking it in. He has a special appreciation for decrepit places: they have a way of telling stories. Forgotten buildings that once hosted life and laughter, then final conflict, then given up to time and its slow creeping vine. Now this one is a home again, of a sort.

Aymeric’s preemptive apology is suggestive – whether of Aymeric’s character, Francel’s, or of the men’s friendship he is unsure. Knowing himself ignorant of Francel’s possible flaws, he does not want to criticise nor condone. But he is inclined to sympathy for recluses, and moreover for Francel.]

It is no matter. If I expected men to jump for joy upon seeing me, I would find myself sorely put out.

[He takes off his simple Aefenglom hat as he enters – hat-wearing in the streets is a new affectation. A deliberate one, to go with his plain Coven robes and black leather boots.]

[haillenarte]

[the sound of a closing cabinet, the rattling of porcelain, and then francel emerges from the kitchen holding two extra teacups to go with the one he has set beside the teapot in the sitting-room.

crossly, he thinks to himself that aymeric could have waited more than a day to begin inviting guests over: the tea and milk and sugar has only just been purchased, and the house could use some work. houses of wood, francel thinks despairingly; this is why we build our manors of stone. already, the young lord suspects he will have to take up new work in order to pay for various other household necessities, but he has not been feeling well lately. the temperature in aefenglom disagrees with him, likely; sometimes he feels hot, other times too cold, ice cold, as if he is out in coerthas again with nothing to protect him from the elements.

the young lord sets the teacups down in the sitting-room, then flits back out into the foyer again. like solas, francel, too, has chosen to adopt local fashions, but he wears no coven robes, instead a plain white shirt and — strangely — an ascot tied in a bow over his neck, drawn almost a little too high, as if francel cannot bear to have even the slightest bit of his neck exposed.]

Aymeric. [a nod.] Solas.

[he does seem unusually anxious — francel says nothing further, but laces his hands behind his back, a little girlishly.]

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric had a ready grin for Solas's joke — he might have said it himself — but Francel's presence is immediately sobering. (In part it's Aymeric's own fault: there is something off about Francel, something that has nothing to do with his scales or his claws, and despite devoting several hours of thought to the problem, Aymeric hasn't been able to pin down a way to counteract it.) ]

Good! Let us share what we've learned. [ He clasps his hands together, too cheerful to be awkward, and moves toward the sitting room half-turned to both of them, to avoid speaking over his shoulder. ]

This place, according to the Coven witches, is considered cursed, on account of having housed victims of the Cwyld — it has been vacant for some time, but it was a far more palatable prospect than accepting the home of a household alive and displaced against their will.

[ His voice is mild, but he doesn't mask his disapproval. ]

[veilfires]

[Francel’s harried, nervous manner is a contrast to the times they’ve met before. Solas does not feel slighted: he is the one imposing, after all. His own greeting is calm, and sincerely warm.]

Francel.

[Long ago, when he was at a comparable stage of his life to Francel, he had been exceptionally foolish, moody: possessed of a combustible temper, and prone to melancholic fits. Experience had not yet earned him perspective and patience.

He understands it now as the common affliction of sensitive, intelligent young men. Francel is certainly not cast from the same mould as he (thankfully), but if Francel’s youthful, changeable moods are sometimes master of him rather than vice versa – he empathises. It’s soothing to see something familiar in another.

Obligingly, hands folded before him, he follows Aymeric’s direction, into the sitting-room and into the conversation both.]

More palatable to the cityfolk, no less. [Lightly in tone, but not exactly mincing words,] We will all need to comport ourselves well enough to notice when we may be treading on the toes of our hosts.

moving in;

[haillenarte]

[out in the moonlight, with no one to see him, francel has at least thought to open his collar and let in some of the night air — but the cloth still obscures most of his neck from view, and he's still not comfortable, not really, with his hands. his nails are sharp and pointed; a smattering of white scales has broken out near his knuckles.

he keeps his palms face-up as he reaches out to take a glass of water.]

...With luck, no Garlean madmen will tempt the ire of Menphina's hound in these lands.

[francel knows a little more about dalamud's fall than most men in ishgard, it seems.]

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric laughs, a quiet huff, and leans back on his elbows, drawing up one leg boyishly on the step. ]

You jest, yet two Ishgardians with titles are most improbably here, no? We may well be joined by the emperor himself, presently.

[ He looks at Francel with muted sympathy, smile fading. ]

Does it cause you any pain?

[haillenarte]

[francel seems startled by the question, and something like panic crosses his expression — he did not want aymeric to acknowledge his changes, did not want anyone to notice them, because noticing them would make them more real.

guilt tugging the corners of his lips low, he cradles the glass between his palms, and does not drink.]

...Not... pain, as such — nothing sharp or refined. But a dull ache... in my bones, behind my ears...

[sometimes, late at night in his own bed, he imagines that he is being torn to pieces from the inside out, that his skin and sinew will fail to accommodate whatever is growing inside him. he feels sick to think of it.]

I've... asked the Coven, but... there's little they can do. Others... are similarly afflicted.

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric looks at him a long time, very still, deep in thought. If it's occurred to him that Francel might not appreciate a lingering stare mixed with pity, just now, he's disregarding that.

He pushes himself up again, restless, drapes his arm across his knee. His knuckles are covered in the house's grime; he flexes his fingers, scrutinizing them idly. ]

It may be true that there is little the Coven might do on their own, but — and mayhap I misremember — did they not suggest that bonds are beneficial for one so afflicted?

[ He remembers it very clearly, in truth, but Francel is owed a chance to make his own relatively rational decision. ]

cw: body horror, mild gore

[haillenarte]

[when the full moon rises over the eighteenth of maiuril, the house is quiet.

then there is a heavy thud from francel's room.

the young lord hasn't been around all day — eerily so. ordinarily, the house is still when he is at the library, or else when he is painting signs around town; it is alive with his activity when he returns home, and sets about making food. today, however, he was not scheduled to work — and he has not emerged from his quarters to make dinner, nor indeed to eat, or ask for anything at all.

the door to his room has been shut all day.]

[civicbooty]

[ An evening without Francel has taught Aymeric, primarily, that his limitations in the kitchen are much worse than he estimated. Making raw game and garrison rations palatable with the help of an open fire and such occasional luxuries as eggs and salt is, it turns out, not the same as practical day-to-day cooking, and he has rarely set foot in the kitchen of his own manor without his elderly cook fondly chasing him out.

So he's given up, by late evening, on doing anything more complicated than slicing pieces of fruit into two bowls: one for himself, one to bring to Francel's room as an offering. Thus far, Aymeric has guessed it's the customary melancholy combined with Francel's slowly worsening condition, and the residual shame it must be causing him, that have kept him shut up in his corner of the house—

—But then he hears a thump, and feels a twinge of something indefinable, a spike of foreign anguish.

Leaving his pathetic bowls of fruit on the counter, he snatches up one of the apothecary's phials and makes his way in long strides to Francel's door, and knocks— ]

Francel?

[ —and pushes it open without waiting, peering in. ]

[haillenarte]

N-No — No, don't look —

[francel is on the floor, fallen from his bed, and he is not well. he is far from well.

first, one might notice the blood; then, one might notice francel. what aymeric is seeing may not be immediately clear to him: francel is on his hands and knees, certainly, with his golden head bowed, but there seems to be a — a mass upon his back, obscured by the fact that he has torn his bedsheet from his bed and wrapped himself in it, but the sheet is stained with blotches of dark red.

blood stains francel's face, too, trickling from his jawline down to his chin — his horns now protrude cleanly from behind his ears. the floorboards beneath him are clean, perhaps due to the bedsheet's absorbency. the young lord wipes his chin on the back of his hand, then his hand fumbles for the hilt of his knife — his ornate, bladed letter-opener lies mere ilms away from his fingers.]

[civicbooty]

[ For a half-second, old instincts whisper to Aymeric to let him do it, let him keep whatever dignity remains, he is becoming a monster, and Halone will not have mercy on him—

Then he's across the room in another second, kicking the blade away in his plain boots, dropping hard to his knees. ]

Not yet.

[ Every motion he makes is fast and urgent — tilting Francel's chin up with a hand firmly on his jaw, uncorking the glass phial with his teeth — but his voice is deceptively calm, full of gentle authority. He tips the phial, smelling of something sharply herbal, to Francel's lips: ]

Drink.

the bad luck boys ride again

[lovebiter]

Knock knock, your two days are up!

[ He called into the house while rapping on the door, mouth split into a lazy, slanted smile.

He looked like a thug. Black hair greasy from a day or two without washing, sweat-stiff and blown back from his face by the steady sea breeze. Clothes threadbare and clearly bought used, a ratty dark shirt with poor stitching and a black cloak gone all to tatters at the hem. But the weave was tight, and with the help of a decaying spell in the fabric it turned away bitter night chill and the worst of the frequent drizzles. The skin aroung his left eye was mottled green-yellow, a healing bruise.

A leather satchel was slung over his shoulder. ]

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric, when he tugged open the door, was Cain's opposite: his plain shirt was no match for the thick-woven well-tailored collection he had at home, but care had gone into its choosing — with a few formalities, it might have made him seem above his adopted station. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, hovering over spare smudges of dirt. Whatever he'd been doing, the evidence had just been washed away: a streak of water gleamed on his forearm. He smelled of soap.

He gave the bruise a quizzical tilt of his head, half-amused. Everything about Cain, particularly now, reminded him of the people he sometimes thought of as his, back in Ishgard: the people most in need of a champion in the society that controlled them, who were never welcome above the clouds and ice storms and windswept shelters, where life was hard and cold and dependent on luck and warm fires.

He stepped back, gesturing broadly to the house: the hall was clean, but narrow and empty, split by a staircase that almost certainly creaked all the way to the top. The light came in through small windows high in the wall, casting the corners in shadow. ]

Come in! Dare I ask what's happened to your eye?

[lovebiter]

Hah!

[ Cain grinned up, knocked the soles of his boots against the step to make sure they were clean before he followed the wave of Aymeric's arm and stepped into the modest home. ]

A work thing this time. Some new pup was on the lines, didn't tie his knots right, so of course right as they were lowering an ironwood crossbeam to me the rope slipped, and I caught it with my fucking face. Lucky the first knots held, or my whole head mighta been crushed against the hull.

[ He stepped into the hall, peering curiously into it, and up toward the light, with an air like a stray tomcat let into a house for food: in his posture, he owned the place. ]

What were you up to? I didn't think to call first, figured you wouldn't mind.

[civicbooty]

[ A work thing — he'd mentioned a job, Aymeric remembered; shipbuilding, from the sound of it. ]

Oh, I— [ he glanced at his arms, inspecting them, pursing his lips at the lingering dirt. ] No, nor do I. Not at all. I was tearing out a shrub; I've meant to for some days. [ He allowed the absurdity of it into his voice: him, gardening.

There was more he could say on it — why he'd bothered when he intended for this place to be a temporary shelter more than a home — but they had more important things to discuss than how unnatural it felt to be bonded to someone.

He headed into a small dim kitchen with a low ceiling, also faultlessly clean, also spartan. The table and chairs by the sole window had been made for tea, not company. He'd already put a kettle on for himself.

Going to the sink to scrub the rest of the dirt from his arms, he added: ]

I've gotten reasonably effective at small healing spells, you know, if you'd rather not live with that bruise.

what do you get when you cross 2 swords, 1 fantasy plague, 1 great knight and 1 cussy space marine

[lovebiter]

[ Cain was excited about everything. He'd trot ahead as the city crumbled into its more poverty-stricken districts near the wall to get some horrifying streetfood he hadn't tried yet. Lizards on a skewer, fried chicken feet. Dropped spare change to buskers, nodded along to their music. Invariably gave half the food away to some bold pickpocket kid angling for his coinpurse after slapping away their hands from his belt. Marveled openly about how blue the sky was, and didn't that cloud look kind of like a little dog.

The sword, though, had excited him probably most of all. Gotten him stunned speechless when first presented at the beginning of their outing, and he patiently listened and said almost nothing. But his eyes just couldn't lie about it.

So the rest of the long-ish walk, he was floating on cloud nine, a happy energy, self-consciously trying not to touch or think about the sword at his hip, set so he could use his left hand, and not his right. They passed the gates while he was laughing with the guards about recent rains making the mud in the streets impossible to avoid. ]

[civicbooty]

[ Aymeric was in full regalia. His armor clinked as he walked, even as the road became uneven packed dirt. He was rarely not in an outwardly pleasant mood — it was ingrained into him; one could accomplish much more by presenting oneself as generally optimistic — but the outer city took that and amplified it, turned it into a serene aura. He was a familiar enough sight just outside this particular gate that an old man tending a cut-rate apothecary stall raised a hand in greeting which Aymeric readily returned, and a young child barreling out of a tiny wooden house close to the wall skirted the hem of his long coat and called him blue man with a kind of neutral affinity.

A short while down the road, Aymeric nodded ahead of them and leaned a little toward Cain. ]

When we reach there, down by the hut with the caved roof, we can draw, if you like. Only make it plain that you're practicing, and your target is me. There are infected people here. No danger, I would say; they keep largely to themselves, the same as any plague. So many of these stalls and shops, as you can see, are dedicated to superstitions, remedies, blessings...I suspect they account for the most part of commerce outside the wall.

[ His voice was calm, tinged with pity. ]

[lovebiter]

[ Cain was Aymeric's inverse, and still looked like a ratty street thug. Or, in the right moment, some over-enthusiastic common boy swept up to serve as squire in a pinch.

The sense of poverty and doom were all familiar, and he waded through it easy as a duck to water. Nodded, eagerly, when he was given instruction. ]

Alright. I will. And... tch, reminds me of the old death lottery.

It'd be fucking fantastic, if we could cure this thing from people with something simple as antibiotics. Probably a dream, but... there's gotta be a biological component.

[civicbooty]

[ Antibiotics, Aymeric filed away: a particular kind of curative. ]

If you think it possible, then perhaps it is. Your ways are plainly far more advanced than the city's healers.

[ He half-turned to Cain as they walked, then, with a distaste in his furrowed brow and pursed lips that said a little of what he thought of wherever the man had come from. ]

What is a "death lottery?"