middaeg | (open) & i may not see the future,

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(open) & i may not see the future,

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,,,)

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That —

[for a moment, francel's youthful pride bristles, not quite at solas but at the mere thought of elezen being overtaken by hyur. the young lord holds few prejudices, for an ishgardian; it does not mean that he has none. francel has always been fond of the hyur. it is easy for him to be, when, deep down, he believes himself inherently superior to them.

but he cannot deny that solas speaks only the truth. it was not long ago that the commonfolk chafed beneath the leadership of house maintigny, and stormed the manor, killing their cruel lord and his sons. that the father was corrupt, francel could understand — but that the sons deserved the same treatment...

his expression hardens.]

...I am foolish and reckless, and have oft been chastised for it — [he shakes his head] — but know, that if it comes to that, I will gladly fight for the both of you, in whatever way I can.

Edited 2019-05-23 02:19 (UTC)

[ Aymeric raises his eyebrows mildly at the declaration. Francel is often earnest and well-meaning, he's learned, but this is that in the extreme: he's arrived at the most dismal possible conclusion, and then set himself to the most dramatic end he could derive from it. ]

I...am certain it will not come to that.

[ He glances at Solas, openly looking for agreement. ]

For a mercy, we can be of great use to them — not now, perhaps, but if we are diligent. It may be wise, as well, to seek out those who are like-minded: then, in the event that any significant number of our fellows should decide to scorn the Coven and Parliament's arrangement, we might posit ourselves beneficially as a friendly faction. 'Twould doubtless invite scrutiny, but that, too, might benefit us — supposing we are aiding either the Coven or the city in some way.

[ A potentially massive organizational undertaking, but he proposes it with a breezy optimism for which he's possibly in the wrong company. ]

[Francel’s declaration is... surprising. A little amusing, and deeply moving. He fears precisely such a grim conflict, though his inclination bends more to flight than fight. Though they were only brave words, it is more than he had expected to hear in dark and cynical times, and he is not one to spurn such kindness. He turns in place, gratitude shining towards Francel. With an earnestness uncommon to him (and implicitly contradicting Aymeric):]

Yours is a noble spirit, Francel de Haillenarte.

[He recomposes himself – takes up his teacup and drinks, desiring at once a bitter counterbalance to idealism – and listens to Aymeric’s proposal with seriousness. He frowns, ambiguously either at the tea, or at the concept.]

Then you are proposing a plan of action? [He furrows his brows, though voicing approval.] There is advantage in it. As there is when any unheard, disparate group bands together as a fraternity, amplifying their voices by way of unison.

[More succinctly: it’s more than they will achieve by doing nothing.]

Edited 2019-05-23 12:39 (UTC)

[francel smiles briefly at solas’s approval; he raises a brow at aymeric’s optimism, but does not seek to crush or correct it. instead, he asks as neutrally as he can manage:]

Do you intend to build a coalition like the Temple Knights here, Ser Aymeric? Or something less organized — the Convictors, mayhap?

[...some skepticism may bleed through despite his best efforts.]

Edited 2019-05-23 13:55 (UTC)

[ He looks at Francel blandly for a moment, refusing to entertain the suggestion that he might be hoping to create an army with himself at the head. ]

Nothing formal, unless or until formality is needed. For the nonce, an undeclared association without a leader may be wisest. My primary concern is that we maintain our access to the Coven, and to the inner city generally. If we should find ourselves relegated to the outer city, all hope of self-reliance in research might be lost — or else we may be forced to earn our rights again, thereby wasting time while risking infection.

[He nods his firm accord with the goal.]

Well-considered. In its early stage, your group will not have power as might necessitate formal strictures. Premature consolidation can handicap growth. Better if you may restructure with flexibility, as strategy or need will dictate.

[Aymeric’s spirit is purposed for command, Solas thinks. Though they suggest nothing formal, he hopes that Aymeric is not a man as to be swayed by false modesty, and that his de facto leadership will from the start be assured.

Though the specific Ishgardian concepts give him pause – if he’s to assist, he would know more of the experience and reference that may be guiding the pair.]

Indulge my curiosity – what are the Temple Knights?

Ah...

[francel is no leader, though he is one in name. instinctively, caught off-guard, he looks to aymeric for approval — this in spite of the fact that he has subtly been at odds with aymeric throughout this entire conversation.

whatever he seeks in the lord commander's limpid blue eyes, he must find it, because he nods, then explains for solas's benefit.]

The Temple Knights are Ishgard's leading military force, and they operate under the direct authority of the Holy See. They are responsible for the defense of national interests, as well as maintaining public order. It is a large and complex company; as an example, under the banner of the Temple Knights are such subdivisions as the Order of the Friars Templar and the Order of the Knights Dragoon.

In addition to the Temple Knights, however, the four High Houses have their own knightly orders. My sister, as an example, commands the Rose Knights of House Haillenarte. But all that is irrelevant....

[as if his house does not matter — or, slyly, keeping high house business to himself, even in this strange new world — francel breezes over the matter of his knightly order, moving on.]

I contrasted the Temple Knights with the Convictors — the Convictors, if one is to be generous, might rightly be described as aspiring knights. They are, as a general rule, a group of commoners, rogues, and the noble sons of dishonored families, all of whom seek the singular goal of acquiring knighthood by means of slaying named and notorious dragons. They are amateurs. Most die in their attempts.

...With brevity, I suppose I might have asked Aymeric whether he planned to lead an army or a loose band of mercenaries.

Edited 2019-05-24 04:07 (UTC)

And the answer is neither. Against the Cwyld we may be soldiers, but in our dealings with Parliament, we must be ambassadors. For that matter — I thought to dispense with titles, here, as most of Aefenglom's people are like to suppose us mummers and charlatans, but there is a possibility that the city's highborn will be usefully amused by them.

[ He looks to Solas, for that, awaiting his (perhaps bluntly) honest assessment. ]

[He listens with careful appreciation, making some further private deductions about Ishgard from the new information. At the end, he only smiles at Francel’s artless finishing line. How amusing the social gatherings of the ruling classes invariably are. So much sophisticated veneer for the elaborate word games that allow old grudges and rivalries to be aired and played out anew. The players only vary in their deftness.

He still has a trace of that smile when he replies to Aymeric.]

That depends on how amusing you wish to be.

[More seriously:] I believe such affectations are simple and useful – to the same degree wearing a hat can be useful. If the title is customary to Aefenglom, for example, it could be a posture of compliance. The local observer will see what is alike to them, and perceive us as willing and eager to assimilate: we cease to be uncomplicatedly alien, exotic strangers.

[francel nods his assent, more or less; he sips gratefully at his tea, slaking his throat after his long explicative spiel.]

...The highborn and the privileged enjoy the company of the highborn and the privileged.

[it occurs to francel, suddenly, that he and aymeric must have had very different receptions in the extravagant halls of ishgardian high society. he sets his cup upon his saucer, staring thoughtfully at the lord commander. it would be easy to lie about his origins, to recast the man as a foreign prince from a distant land, although he thinks that aymeric would be annoyed to hear it said aloud.]

And if a thing can be of use, I would use it.

[ Aymeric tilts his head in acquiescence, mirroring Solas's little smile. ]

Then I suppose I shall be commander of the Temple Knights, after all, and viscount of House Borel, if the title is known to the city. And you— [ he peers at Francel, lips twitching— ] certainly the lord of Skyfire Locks, but we might credibly call you a count. You must know how to play the part, and there are no other men of House Haillenarte here.

Edited 2019-05-25 01:19 (UTC)

I — I, the count? I mean — I can play at being my father, but — Aurvael was ever positioned as the heir —

[the young lord grows agitated, though in a charming sort of way; plainly, he is embarrassed, but his lips seem drawn in the kind of flustered curl that suggests a suppressed smile, and he seems more bashful than angry. at some point in time, perhaps house haillenarte's fourthborn son once dreamt of being count.]

In the first place, who would believe that I outrank you?!

[though technically, he does, after a fashion, but...]

Edited 2019-05-25 02:58 (UTC)

[ He shrugs lightly. ]

A title is not earned. [ This may or may not be a burn, but if it is, it's a gentle burn. ] Your house is more esteemed than mine; if Aefenglom has nobility in a similar manner to Ishgard, they will certainly understand. Perhaps your father merely stepped down to enjoy a life of leisure.

[ He waves vaguely, leaving it to Francel. ]

Think on it. If it discomfits you, we'll not use it.

[ He turns— ]

Master Solas, you must bear some title — of accomplishment, if not nobility.

Edited (SORRy) 2019-05-25 03:17 (UTC)

[Solas thinks, watching them with a benign smile, that their quick turn to aristocratic titles is also both funny and characteristic.]

I must decline. My professional title was Fade expert. [Also elven manservant, on more than one occasion.] As we are in a world absent of the Fade, I am without my area of expertise. Any claim I could make to accomplishment here would be pure pretension.

Likewise, I am no noble: and I do not wish to be taken for one.

[He does not seem modest or self-effacing, but rather proud. (He himself certainly is not so myopic he would take up a bogus title of Marquis and thus hamstring his society with the lower classes. They remain in his opinion the more interesting and fruitful prospect for organisation.)]

[francel runs a hand through his hair, frustrated and flustered, but trying to compose himself.]

You mentioned, last we spoke, that magic from your world was drawn from the Fade, no? May I inquire as to what it is?

[he gave his own explanation on aether, but it sounds as if the fade is... different.]

[ Taking no offense at Solas's implication — he's familiar with the sentiment; it must be universal — Aymeric only sips his tea, raising his eyebrows across the table at Solas in silent agreement. The subject of the Fade is like as academic here as the subject of aether, but Francel's question is such an abrupt shift that he can only interpret it as genuine interest, which, as far as he can tell, is rare. ]

[He’s never one to decline talk of his favourite subject, though he’ll aim for concision. For the sake of accuracy:]

Magic can also be sourced from lyrium, or drawn by a mage from blood… but the Fade is the source of most magic, yes. It is a complex, frequently misunderstood place.

[He continues, voice calm and even, quite as a confident academic though the subject is esoteric in the extreme even in Thedas.]

When a dreamer slumbers, their soul does not lie still. It roams the Fade: the realm of thought and flux, ever-changing as does a mind.

A dream is as shadows that play on a wall, cast there by spirits, the Fade’s native denizens. [It is sad to talk of the spirits so: he misses dreaming, and his friends.] There is much to be learned from these spirits, though few ever dare to try.

[indeed francel seems genuinely interested, and indeed, it is rare for him to show interest in... most anything that is not grieving, or moping, or the affairs of ishgard. he leans forward in his chair, so slightly that it must be an unconscious movement. now he understands what solas mentioned in the library about divination and dreaming.

(he was always the kind of student who would awkwardly allow his lessons to wash over him, mostly because he never knew how to give voice to the questions he wanted to ask.)]

Lyrium, then — it is a kind of substance? And the spirits — I presume you don't mean the departed — are they very difficult for most men to understand?

[this would be an odd thing to intuit if not for the fact that francel has guessed: there seem to be certain commonalities in their world, and spirits sound like the elementals of gridania.]

[The corner of his mouth pulls up.] These are two disparate and complex subjects. We would run out of tea before I had begun to answer either question with the fullness they deserve.

Lyrium is a substance, yes: it is a rare, volatile mineral, which flows freely between the physical world and the Fade. It is mined from the earth, and then tempered so that it may be used safely for enchantment and other useful magical applications.

[Francel has not been schooled over the course of his life to fear and avoid spirits: he does not carry a hundred falsifications and misinterpretations he must rebuff. It is a joy to speak freely of the Fade to those who can view it as he does – freely, as a world of discovery and wonder.]

Spirits reflect mortals’ hearts. If a man expects to misunderstand them, they will ever perplex and confuse him. And, as most men fear and shun spirits, so they adapt: becoming frightening, hungry demons, looking to prey on lost souls.

But if that same man leaves behind his preconceptions, and sets forth with wisdom, those same spirits become capable conversationalists. If his mind is truly open, so too will the Fade open to him, and those spirits will be his guides and friends. [Wistfully:] I could have spent lifetimes more walking its winding ways.

[francel smiles at solas's wistfulness — not because he sympathizes, precisely, but he understands the idea of longing for something that has been lost.]

I fear such a world would try me, and find my mind inadequate. But how fascinating this all sounds! Far more life to this, I think, than there is in aether. You sound as though you miss it — I am sorry, then, to have pried.

[a contrary sort of statement, given that aether is itself the essence of all life — but in eorzea, even such things as crystals and sprites are hard and tangible matters of science. the fade that solas describes sounds far more romantic.

in a much better mood than he has been previously, however, francel turns to aymeric, tipping his head to one side in apology.]

And I am sorry, too, to Aymeric, for derailing our conversation. I suppose we should talk about matters here and not in our homelands.

Not at all. The more we understand about our respective vantage points, the better we may plan for what lies ahead. Master Solas plainly has a natural affinity for magic beyond mere skill and learning, and you, it seems, are an avid student.

[ It is easy, more accurately, to hear a telling dissatisfaction with home stoking the fire of Francel's interest. ]

And I, of course, am hardly more than a fool whose skill for magic has been thrust clumsily upon him.

[ He sets down his teacup as he looks at Solas, marking his own interest. ]

Do you believe this place might host spirits of its own?

[He puts no stock in their own estimation of their abilities. Though it is outside their experience, their curiosity is most agreeable and natural: elves are by their essence beings of magic, however apart from themselves they may be. And he believes any dreamer, elf, mage or no, with due effort and self-cultivation, could achieve much.]

Anything is possible. So much of the dreaming is unknown to the Coven: never-mind the otherworld. And spirits are, above all else, malleable. It would be unexpected if the spirits of this world were as the spirits of my own.

[He laces his fingers together, gently resting on the edge of the table.]

Consider the Fae. Though they are not spirits, they are beings delicately entwined with magic in a realm of dreams. Imagine if they were once spirits, who as ages went by formed bodies until they created a new people and society. That is not impossible.

Perhaps spirits of ages past have left their mark on Talas in the form of Monsters. Spirits thirst to experience life. That can mean the desire to change: to inhabit bodies, and feel the physical sensations of life and the joy of imagination. They might create new bodies, or, more often, possess a mortal and transform it as two merge to be one. [He doesn’t deliver this in the tone of it being a terrible fate. It is merely a fact of nature, which can be good or terrible, neither or both.

He looks inquisitively at Francel, to be sure his speculations aren’t causing undue distress.]

[they're not — or, at least, he is not precisely afflicted with distress. at first, francel wonders whether or not the spirits of solas's homeland can posses the dead — but then solas gets to his speculation on what monsters are, and the young lord frowns.

two souls joined in the same body as one?

if he is a dragon in this world, then what does that make him?

he wishes, not for the first time, that he could simply tear the scales from his skin, clip the claws from his hands, but he knows that such self-mutilation would be pointless and accomplish nothing. in any case, this is only a theory that solas has proposed. as calmly as he can manage, francel drains his cup of tea and sets it back upon his saucer.]

...I used to say that I would sooner die than become a thrall of the dragons. I suppose I should not have spoken such words aloud.

Edited 2019-06-02 16:34 (UTC)

[ Aymeric lays a reassuring hand on his arm. ]

You are not a thrall; a thrall has no mind of its own. I have seen nothing to suggest you are changed. [ A comforting lie; he's not well acquainted with Francel, and wouldn't know. With gentle humor: ] Solas is presenting a theory founded upon the knowledge of his home; it is not a certainty. When I mentioned the second moon just this past night, as I recall, you laughed.

[ Possibly this is a self-own. ]

Edited 2019-06-03 00:14 (UTC)

[Solas, who is not the sort to indulge in comforting untruths, does not put faith in Aymeric’s judgement on how changed Francel has or has not been. Nor can he trust himself to know if he himself has been changed by this world. He remembers with amusement and affection the Inquisitor’s point on this subject. If it had, do you really think I’d have noticed?]

The manner of possession I allude to is not thraldom: it is more... peaceful symbiosis.

Many times I have witnessed its dark inverse. The unheralded destruction as wreaked by abominations... [Dryly:] Take heart, Lord de Haillenarte. That is more bloody, and invariably involves less tea parties.

[He continues apace, as Francel is not exactly distressed, and, well, he's just gotten warmed up.]

In my world, spirits served as a catalyst of creation. Perhaps it is so here, and thus the native Monsters were formed.

[He thinks this extends to himself and the other newcomer Witches as well as Francel and the Monsters, so he adds:] Perhaps curious spirits watched us as we crossed through our mirrors, and wished to make sense of us. With benevolent intent, they sought to fit us into the order of this world. [Or perhaps not! Still, he takes comfort in such contemplation, and he’s known stranger things to happen.]

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haillenarte - 2019-06-05 22:29 (UTC) - Expand

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