(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. ]

[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.]

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.]

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.]

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. ]

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. ]