#Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin

[veliara]

Junelezen2024 Day 13 New Acquaintance

[claire4545]

"A lowborn runt… whose every effort went unrewarded. Whose very name disqualified him from ever leading the Temple Knights. But His Eminence raised me up. Granted me a place at his side…."

Drew Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin the Just, the Very Reverend Archimandrite of the Heavens' Ward... Bit of a long title.

[scrollsfromarebornrealm]

on our fates alight--first warning

Augustine pulled the cloak around his shoulders, securing the ties together. Pausing to make sure his sword was buckled securely to his hip, he headed for the door.

“I’ll be back with the soup!”  He called, turning the handle. “In the meantime, just stay in—” As the door opened fully, Augustine found himself trailing off.  Standing in the hallway, a fist raised as if to knock on the wood, was Lord Haurchefant. There was a dark look on his features, and Augustine blinked as the elezen’s eyes met his own.  Then suddenly ice started to crawl up his spine—Halone flaring to life—just as the paladin’s eyes moved past the Fortemps lord. Directly behind Haurchefant were Zephirin de Valhourdin and Haumeric de Peulagnon.

Shite.

“Ser Augustine!”  Haurchefant said a bit too cheerfully. “I’m sorry, did we catch you at a bad time?  My lords of the Heavens’ Ward were nearby and wanted to pay a visit!” 

“I was about to head to the city, actually.”  Augustine replied, and then froze at the sound of a body hitting the floor. Fear made him whip around, staring at the hallway behind him.

“Mathye?!”

-------

Haumeric sighed.

“Not even aetherical exhaustion from Priming has the capacity for you to stay still.”  He commented dryly, pulling the tunic back over Mathye’s wound.  “But you didn’t rip open the stitches, so that’s good.”  Mathye didn’t say anything, electing to stay as still in bed as he possibly could.  Halone had alerted him to the presence of the two members of the Heavens’ Ward. Worry for Augustine had given him a brief burst of strength to get out of bed—but then that had been his limit. He’d fallen, and then suddenly Augustine was exploding through his door, Haumeric and Zephirin on his heels.

“You need to be more careful.”  Haumeric continued. “Your devotion to your duty does you credit, Ser Mathye, but you—like your brother—are both precious and valued by the Archbishop.  Surely there is no need for you to go haring off on every single little errand…” 

“I go where the work is needed.” Mathye countered. Gods, he was exhausted. All he wanted to do was curl up and sleep. He could feel Halone’s alarm—he was at his limit, he needed to rest—but he couldn’t. Wouldn’t. Not until Zephirin and Haumeric left.

“I apologize for my older brother.”  Augustine interjected. “Thank you, Ser Peulagnon, for looking at his wounds. I pray ask your forgiveness for taking up your time like this.”  Haumeric blinked.

“Ser Augustine, there is no apology needed!”  He said, gesturing. “If anything, this is a friendlier use of our time!”

“Reports have made it to the Vault of voidsent infestations out here in Central Coerthas.” Zephirin added. “His Holiness requested that the matter be investigated.”

“I see.”  Augustine got out. He didn’t dare look at Mathye, but he knew his older brother had gone very still. The other day the priest had dealt with a voidsent rift down at the bottom of Witchdrop with a friend of his, Tristan Galis. While normally such things wouldn’t technically be a problem…Tristan was actually a former Ishgardian paladin whose entire order had been executed by order of the Archbishop for treason and heresy.  He now was a fiend hunter, his former life as a paladin making him especially skilled in dealing with voidsent. How Tristan had gotten back into Coerthas and why he was dealing with the Witchdrop voidsent problem Augustine didn’t know.  Nor did he want to know. Tristian was his friend as well; their paladin orders had been allies. And given everything that had been happening ever since Halone had chosen him as her First Dominant…

"Your wounds have been cleansed, but there is a faint trace of Darkness." Haumeric frowned. "Did you encounter one of the void's denizens, Ser Mathye?"

"There was a aether-rift by the Weeping Saint." Mathye admitted. "I was traveling there to gather some water, and ran into a fiend. It was fairly powerful, and I ended up semi-Priming to fight it." Augustine inhaled, feeling his truthsense briefly flare to life. Mathye was lying--but he was also telling the truth as well.

"I closed the rift afterwards, and just had enough energy to teleport back here before passing out." Zephirin shared a look with Haumeric. Something seemed...off about the other knight, Augustine realized. At first glance the leader of the Heavens' Ward appeared to be normal. But ever so faintly Augustine could...sense something. Smell it, now that he was focusing on it...

Decay? Halone was in his thoughts, sharing his senses. She'd sensed the strangeness too. The smell was gone--but for a moment Augustine could have sworn that he'd picked up on the sickly-sweet smell of rot. As if the wind had brought the scent of a decomposing body. And it had been coming from Zephirin.

What the... Augustine's eyes flicked to Haumeric. The conjurer also had that feeling of wrongness, and again that brief flare coming from him--the smell of rot. What in the name...what is that?!

I don't know. Halone answered. But I think...I've sensed this energy before.

Where? Augustine thought.

From the Vault.

[mosthuggableffxiv]

Round 2: Asahi sas Brutus vs Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin

"Simps for Zenos *and* intentionally triggers his sister abuse-related PTSD"

"He kills Haurchefant and then runs away; based on the Singularity Reactor and the DRK storyline, the developers agree he's good for being treated like a pinata."

[aroseyetbloomedwrites]

To a Brighter Future [ A Zephirin de Valhourdin/Francel de Haillenarte fanfiction.]

Title: To a Brighter Future.

Fandom: Final Fantasy XIV

Rating: Gen to T

Category: M/M

Relationships: Zephirin de Valhourdin/Francel de Haillenarte

Summary:

“I had come in hopes of assisting with whatever ails you.” Francel laughs, much like a breeze through chimes, and he will lean forward between them. “Do not sound so petulant, Ser, it is unbecoming.”

Notes: Part of an ongoing series, currently the third part of it. The rest can be found on my Ao3. An accumulation of encounters. I've been working on this for quite some time, and thankfully due to the slow nature of work on holidays, was able to finally finish it!

Ao3 Link: HERE

Sneak peek:

          Never one to guard anything jealously, it is with a glad heart, and easy mind, he hears tell of lord Francel from young Ser Adelphel. Ser Janlenoux, presiding over their tea previously, comes to sit with them (more beside Adelphel) with his own cup. Neither of them will immediately drink, as the dark brown and amber of it still steams, swirling fresh and unsweetened in their cups, perfect to dissolve sugar, and then to cool with a splash of cream… And yet, they are nearly distracted, all of the same thought in their minds; tidings of lord Francel. These two, (Ser Adelphel, and Ser Janlenoux) have recently seen him, where Ser Zephirin has not, and so with boundless curiosity he will lend his ear, to hear anything, perhaps a little selfishly in this one instance.

          “He is nigh sleepless.” Ser Adelphel will complain, something of a low whine.

          Janlenoux will intone in turn, “When we came to him, though dressed for it, his bed remained made, and while his gaze was steady in the light of the fire, there was no mistaking the dark circles.” Adelphel nods emphatically. 

          They will grow quiet, and turn looks upon each other as Ser Zephirin, finally remembering his tea, brings it to his lips, composed, but hiding his worry behind a near mindless action. The tea, not nearly as hot as it could be now, does little to distract. Lord Francel–he is hardly new to ideas of responsibility, his tenure at Skyfire more than just a figurehead, as it had been, may not have been enough to prepare him for his new role. But, it should not be so strange to him, that he would be unable to balance it, as successful as the operation has been this far. So, why then does he over-evert himself?

          “So you say, the sun has barely risen, to see him still awake? That he may be visited thus, so early?”

          “Aye, Ser.” Adelphel chimes in. “That is, he may be especially amenable to a visit from you. If you should call upon him.”

          Ser Zephirin must needs find his unbridled courage again, for had Francel not said he would come should he call? He doubts not his word, but as he thinks, wonders if a summons should only exacerbate his existing and natural anxieties and worries.

          “I do…’ Zephirin murmurs low, ‘I do wish to see him.”

         Ser Adelphel, and Ser Janelenoux, as is common, share a look, small smiles alight, for if anyone might restore their confidence, and their happiness, it would be Francel.

          Fair skies this morning, clear, crisp, such that the great expanse above can share its speckled stars, as of great waves of them, lights which may flicker and yet never go out. There is comfort in them in ways that even the unceasing cold cannot abate, it is a time where questioning eyes are least like to find him, Ser Zephirin, reduced to a meander down dark pathways with only stars for company, but for the hope, the idea, that there could be more.

          Where does such trepidation as he has, come from? When so clearly he is aware of where the rest of the others stand, does he think he should be any different? But then the not-so-true aim of his spear… He has caused harm in a way the others had not, and so perhaps then, these feelings are selfish indeed, and he should only cause lord Francel more pain.

           Ah, but he has come so far, the Last Vigil at his fore, and the glow of the aethernet a guide in the dim light of the few lamp posts, and his steady star companions, and to his right, just ahead, the Haillenarte manor. He will pause to look at it, and see that while most lights have indeed been dim, some few windows remain lit, and he will wonder, having never been here, who they should belong to.

          It is the steady rose knight Bartelot who will greet him at the entrance to the manor. Bizarre in that he is only mildly curious at his approach, for there would be no mistaking his identity. That he seems so nonplussed but his presence is something of a relief, afforded only a cursory glance to the basket under arm, and to remain even then, at attention, eyes pointed over Ser Zephirin’s shoulder.

         Whilst no longer donning, or rather, feeling he no longer has the right, or should, for the sake of the people, to wear the colors of Heavens’ward, dressed only warmly for a night brimming with chill; his brown, fur lined coat, does not disguise who he is, he cannot hide behind occupied hands. There is a new cold, not just in the tips of his fingers, but more in the cavity of his chest. His heart. To be recognized, and yet not regarded–indifference ought to be a blessing, rather than his assumed hostility. But then, to this Knight, he has surely seen some few of them now, as has been spoken of to him. So then, for the House, and one if it’s beloved children, will look upon all his visitors with some measure of respect.

          “Very Reverend–”

          Bartelot will begin, but he will be summarily cut off by Ser Zephirin raising his hand, the one not supporting his basket, and Bartelot will click his teeth together. Ah, that may have been too harsh, his grimace will show through undisguised, as he cannot bear to hear his old title. Just even a mention of it discomforts him, of which he feels undeserving of to have allowed himself to have fallen so low. After all, he had been privy to… responsible for…

          “Please. Just, Ser.” 

          There is resignation to the finality of his tone. If he were to be offered respect, then let it be with something he had truly earned, and make no mistake, he was indeed accomplished, in this, at least. And Bartelot will only steadily blink, for he has dealt with those visiting knights of similar caliber, yet Ser Zephirin was, of those few, more polite, yet clearly troubled.

          “Of course, Ser Zephirin. State your business with the Haillenarte’s.”

          Now is not the time to falter, though he thinks he should have sent a missive ahead, too late now…

          “I come not on business, ‘tis personal.”

          Bartelot already knows this, his resistance is formaily only.

          “I have become aware lord Francel keeps odd working hours, and thus concerned, wished to ensure other aspects of his health.”

          These occurrences, known only to the House respectfully, and apparently, his knightly companions, were to remain secret only to they, so Bartelot is appreciative of  the way Ser Zephirin speaks low, and has come at such a time in the morning (or is this still the night?) no matter… He will gesture to the basket, and Ser Zephirin will bring it forth, holding up, and out. The knight comes closer so he may flip one of the hinged lids to peer closely within. It is well organized, pierced in divided sections, such things as he knows his lord will enjoy; food stuffs, none of it heavy. Bartelot closes the lid, satisfied by what he has seen, and knowing honor as it crossed him, puts his trust in these visiting knights to care for his lord where they cannot. Bartelot allows him in, and even assists with the door.

          The foyer is, at first, devoid of occupancy, and he has a moment to himself. Inside the manor is marginally warmer, there is no fireplace here, and the wall lanterns are not lit, but for one, or two. Their glow just enough to navigate by, he can see the polished stone flooring, they are light, perhaps a white or cream, directly beneath his feet a rug runs the length of the foyer. It is a deep color, mixed reds and greens and lines of black and other smaller shapes of white. Something imported from a long time ago, diamond patterns and interlocking leaves, mayhaps riviera themed. It is somewhat worn where he stands. The walls are a warm stone composite, with beams of red wood in spaced intervals supporting its sides, and overhead, from one such beam, or rather several, chandeliers hang down to the other end of the foyer, they are unlit, and seem mostly decorative. There are some sideboards against the wall, stained a similar red as the beams, their drawers are empty, and their tabletops occupied (some), such as with bases made by House artisans, or gifted sculptures from other Houses before animosity had festered… Their details flicker in the minutiae candlelight. There are even some gilded picture frames, but these do not seem particularly personal. Little knick knacks favored by the House as a whole, not an overt demonstration of wealth. Simply the desire to create a space more welcoming than most. There are doors down either side of the foyer which are closed to him.

          From the other end of the hallway, double doors will open, and an older manservant will appear. He seems quite alert, having perhaps been well awake at this time, as it would pertain to the orderly inner workings of the manor–to run all facets of its life. Ser Zephirin wonders at what would be considered their normalcy, as their staff caters lovingly to the eccentricities of its children, for never has a poor word been whispers from it. As it would seem true, one does not serve House Haillenarte for glory, but out of love. Something resonates within his breast to think it.

          “Good morning, my lord. My name is Foncrineau, I serve lord Francel personally and will take you to him, now.”

          There is a moment where at first, Zephirin thought to question how he knows, having only stated his business to the guard posted outside. However, Foncrineau smiles serenely, to notice the way Ser Zephirin’s jaw had tightened, and means only to placate him.

          “There is no cause for concern, I have been with my lord for a very long time, there is much I would know which include such visitations. However, I shall not be so loosely lipped, ‘tis his, and yours business. If this is the company he keeps, I will trust him.” 

          Ser Zephirin wonders then, just how much he knows.

          “Master Foncrineau, I shall not take your acceptance for granted.”

          The steady manservant watches him but a moment longer before pivoting and gesturing to the doors behind him. He will follow as bid, to see what else he could of the rest of the manor.

          This room seemed to be more directly linked to entertaining, the composite is covered with stylized wallpaper, unsurprisingly green in nature with gold leaf patterns of flora and fauna, no few of which were roses. There is a grand stonework fireplace, a corner bar, shelves only somewhat stocked with liquors. There are also a few sofa chairs and long couches which had been overly plush in their youth, now worn and used comfortably.

          They make a direct line even through this room, to another set of doors that open into a room with a wide staircase. The stairs are sturdy, well traversed, and worn  in some places, yet make hardly a sound. The upper levels are clearly meant only for close visitors, somewhat bare, returning to the plain composite with a sprinkle of a lamp here and there. The door he is lead to up here is a single door, the crack beneath has a dim glow, it’s occupant yet to put out the lamps. Zephirin wonders if he had looked upon Francel’s window from without.

          Perhaps, under normal circumstances, Foncrineau would have announced Ser Zephirin’s arrival, but with a rather knowing smile, will leave him at the door instead, a comfortable lapse in propriety, as they become used to these knightly phantoms. Ser Zephirin realizes then he must gather himself, there are none here to hold his hand, courage must thusly be summoned, knuckle to door, he knocks. He is not a coward, never, this twist in his gut is to be fought.

          Behind the door, lord Francel will look up in surprise, briefly looking to his window to see it is still dak outside. He, Curiously, peers at the silent door, where normally there would have been some announcement, or introduction, so then he assumes, rightfully, the visitor is not from his House.

          “Lord Francel?” Zephirin will call out tentatively, a rare fumble to forget to introduce his presence. “It is I, Zephirin…”

          And momentarily, Francel is stunned, but it is only a brief moment as the knight's awkwardness only endears him. He was used to command, confidence, courage. In that moment though, none can see he will hide a laugh, and a smile behind his hand.

          “Ah!” he recovered, “Ser Zephirin, I am afraid I am improper, you shall have to come to me.” He calls out.

          His back will straighten, his arm flexes around his basket, and he will reach for the knob with the knowledge Francel is dressed down, (and feeling warm about it) will squeeze through a crack he makes in the door, even though he had been alone in the hallway.

          Between he and the bed, obstructing him from Francel is a seating area, fireplace to the side, flame burning low, the room somewhat cooling as it dwindled away. But Francel, as he gazes over the top of a sofa, is sat in bed, pillows fluffed at his back, night shift hanging from narrow shoulders, looking at him. His smile is small, and he looks… well, not disappointed. Ser Zephirin will come further into the room, its other details lost to him as he only has eyes in that moment for Francel, the young man lit further by the flickering lamp at his bedside. Around the sitting area, to the bedside, to look down at Francel, sheets and feather comforter pooled around his hips… There is a cooled cup of tea at his bedside, and carefully placed face down over his covered lap is a book. Francel will flip it over, slide a bookmark from the back of the cover and into the pages he had been on, which was not too far into it.

          “So even still you are up, lest you have only just awoken?” Ser Zephirin knows the truth of it, but does not want to be accusatory, nor presumptuous.

          “I am afraid ‘tis the first, Ser.”

          There is a pause of silence between the two, regarding each other, and, with some curiosity, Francel has his eyes on the basket unabashed, for it is clear to see that Ser Zephirin had devised something or other.

          “So I have been told,’ Zephirin finally admits, ‘that, for some reason you are sleepless, and perhaps, not eating as well.” A tale told by Ser Adelphel, Ser Janlenoux, and Ser Ignasse, what little he had heard of the shared meal, the lancer quite content to keep his silence with a knowing smile.

          Lord Francel flushes to be known in those moments of intimacy, an ordeal in itself, notwithstanding when they had all been together before. Ser Zephirin hums to see him this way, but makes no further effort to embarrass him. He is tender, and proper and they are lucky to be accompanied by him in any capacity.

          “It was troubling to me, and so, I did not want you to be alone, perhaps it is selfish to think I could assuage you, but I could stay away no longer.”

          Upon admittance, Zephirin is granted a beatific smile, because Francel is touched, as they show, each in their own way, how they have come steadily to regard and care for him. Then Francel will shuffle to the side in his bed beneath the covers, making room at its edge for another man, book set on the other side of him. Zephirin understands the hint, and toes off his boots so he can sit on the edge, and then swing his legs up onto the bed, he sits with his shoulder touching Francel’s, who does not shy away.

          “Will you share with me?”

         Ser Zephirin keeps his tone even, as well as can be, but to broach to some extent, some hopefulness. But, Francel is not in any mind to turn the knight away, and so blessed him with a reassuring smile. Nosily, curiously, he will reach between them to flip the lid of the basket, and Zephirin allows it. To peek within and see the contents appeal to something of his little sweet tooth. When lifting a cloth within, reveals several crepes, speckled brown and soft and smooth. Cups of chopped fruits; halved and pitted cherries, strawberries, and bananas. There are cups of dutifully whipped cream, airy and luxurious and fluffed. It would be light, juicy, sweet. And, it was prepared with care, so surely he could stomach it.

          “You have come to know me well.”

          Francel will praise, as these treats, while sweet, would be tart and mild in the same manner, and they would be light so that he could surely finish several. And not appearing perturbed the knowledge was obtained mostly second hand, Zephirin would be relieved, even if it does not necessarily show.

          “May I?” Zephirin asks, and Francel will gesture to the basket with that breezy smile before folding his hands into his lap.

          Zephirin will first remove a hand-towel from the basket, laying it over his lap. The plain crepes, or, the one he places on it, fits in its center with nothing hanging over the sides. He will also take out a silverware; a blunt knife for butter, so that he may scoop out a dollop of whipped cream to spread over the crepe. Then, his next utensil of choice, a silver fork so that he may lay line after line of cherry, banana, and strawberry. When he has made his layers, he will set these aside so he can roll the crepe in such a fashion as to be closed on one end, but open on the other, and the fruit and cream would be visible, if somewhat protruding though not messily so.

          Zephirin will hold it outward, but Francel does not so much as move to take it. His smile never abates, something in it is mischievous, yet knowing and patient. There is a pause between them, where Zephirin will not know what to do, and Francel, knowing dejection is but a step away, will quietly laugh, lean somewhat forward, and part his lips with a playful and soft, ‘Ah…’ With understanding dawning, this gentle game which they play, he will take comfort in knowing the young lord wished for this level of familiarity… and intimacy. Even still, as if unsure, there is some hesitancy when Zephirin raises the filled crepe to Francel’s lips, in that he is somewhat clumsy in the experience, not that the two do not connect, Francel, despite getting a noseful of crepe then, muffles a chuckle within his bite, and minds not the cream which smears his nose.

          “Ah! My apologies, my lord.”

         Francel hardly looks perturbed, even as Zephirin turns away from him to fish out some fabric, gently applying it to his nose, and Francel, he will smile in such a way that the corners of his eyes crease, Zephirin’s humility will diminish. Then, Francel will lean closer to him, over his lap, to steal another bite, Zephirin feels like his guard is constantly being berated, as lord Francel abandons the modicum of propriety he had exhibited just to further tease him. There is cream on the bow of his upper lip, and the cherry juice has tinted them another shade of pink. Zephirin has nearly frozen, but Francel is ever patient, becoming a guiding force in that moment, he will touch Zephirin’s hand, and then take the delicate crepe from his grasp, if only to proffer it in return. Dainty, long fingers are lain of Zephirin’s thigh, and he will swallow dryly as Francel comes even further into his space, crepe held aloft, turned to that side which Francel had bitten from.

          “Go on, do you not want a taste?”

          That tone is knowing, and he is predictable in that his gaze draws to a sweet treat indeed, but not the one which Francel holds; the cream on his lip. They curl, and Zephirin wonders what devilishness they have released. He is supposed to be attending to Francel, and here he is being  tempted by him…

          To realize then, it is not what he wants, this indirect kiss he takes, hesitancy afoot in the slow rolling motion, lean forward, bite, chew. His eyes draw up, meet blue, and before he can look away, Francel has shot up his hand to grasp his jaw and turn back his face. No! He is no coward, he will not suffer the temptation to avert his gaze, though that Francel shines so brightly, indeed.

          “Is there a weight heavier than the guilt you currently feel, I wonder?”

          It would have been telling, had he allowed the surprise to color his face, the way Francel strikes the proverbial nail on the head. His eyes need not widen, his mouth furl, for the young lord to know his aim was true, and his strike heavy handed-the silence stretches for malms it felt like. Francel will tilt his head questingly and Zephirin will clear his throat, cream and sugar near to becoming cloying.

          “Ser, I am not omnipotent.” Francel smiles gently as he says it.

          “I do not understand from whence such benevolence stems, how you can still look upon us so, with kindness, with lo…”

          Francel will gently shush him, releasing his jaw and placing his finger upon Zephirin’s lips. He does not know if he is ready for some of those words to be spoken, where Zephrin’s questionings would have surely lead him to.

          “I am not wholly ignorant to the path you had been led astray down, though that does not absolve you of the sins of your actions.”

          Of course, Zephirin thinks, the Warrior…

          “And perhaps, in you, there had been an inkling of that belief as well, to serve unquestioningly before the chance to dissent was taken from you. But… Had I not lived something similar of a life, before? As they went for friends, family of my House, me , where had my voice been?”

          Even knowing where Francel means to take this, no matter how vehemently he disagrees, he does not stop Francel.

          “The silence makes me just as guilty, just as responsible.”

          “Nay my lord. It is not so, for when have you ever condemned a man?”

          “Do you mean to say to death? Certainly not in the same way you have.” Zephirin withholds a wince, but there is no poison in Francel’s words. “But by my inaction, make no mistake, life was lost. Mine own, a breadth away but by those with the courage to question, where mine had failed.”

          “Our silence makes us just as complicit, there are wrongs now for which we must set right, and wallowing will not help us move forward in this new future. We must atone for that which we have, or have  not, done.” 

          And perhaps he looks a little silly, breakfast on his face, as he gently pushes the crepe held to him away, askance in voice and in eyes.

          “Am I meant to have such a future?”

          Francel softens, crepe still held between them.

          “Mayhaps. Or not. I do not believe you would be here otherwise. Even still, you should ever strive onwards, for a future we can all believe in.”

           Only then, with hesitancy, does Zephirin lean forward to take another thoughtful bite. Perhaps somewhat soothed, if a little unsatisfied by their topic of discussion. 

          “I had come in hopes of assisting with whatever ails you .”

          Francel laughs, much like a breeze through chimes, and he will lean forward between them.

          “Do not sound so petulant, Ser, it is unbecoming.” 

          Zephirin, finally has the courage to close the distance then, and lick the cream from the curl of Francel’s upper lip. The young lord does not demure this time. Together they taste of fruit and cream.

         “Come with me.” Francel asks softly. “The Firmament is a place of new beginnings, that will help me.”

          Ser Zephirin, courage found, gives a resolute nod. While not absolved of sin, will endeavor to move forward from it. Now to build, rather than dismantle those myriad of lives. They would not have to do this alone, he, nor Francel. The prospect of a life given meaning again, his own, Ishgard’s people…

          “I will not allow you to overwork yourself any longer.”

          “Then, I look forward to your chastisement and guidance.”

[speargifted]

#27!

send a number for me to talk about one of the following topics! 27. an old muse

//this is Zephirin de Valhourdin, or Ser Zephirin the Just; mostly known as the one who killed Haurchefant. He's the leader of the Heavens' Ward and my bastard little fucked up son

He's so fascinating to me because he is a Dark Knight. He is the leader of the Heavens' Ward and the natural enemy of the Dark Knights while being a Dark Knight himself. He chose a greatsword because he was very short when he was younger and wanted to make up for it. He was a temple knight alongside Aymeric and was almost Lord Commander before Aymeric got chosen

His position makes him a high up in the clergy, his title literally is Father even if they never use it for him

He was really fun to develop into a muse i love him

[dxvotionis]

Name | Zephirin de Valhourdin Titles | Zephirin the Just, Ser Zephirin, Father Zephirin Occupation | The Very Reverend Archimandrite of the Heavens’ Ward Age | 29 Gender | Male; He/Him Species | Elezen; Wildwood Height | 5'6 Loyal to | Ishgard, The Holy See, The Archbishop, The Heavens' Ward

Zephirin's mother died in childbirth, and his father followed her when Zephirin was seven. His father had been the Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, and his busy life had meant he had limited time to spend with his son but Zephirin still idolised him. His father had many friends that helped look after Zephirin in his childhood years, but after his father had passed Zephirin spent a lot of time training in swordwork. He wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, but also because his home felt incredibly lonely. He was a small child and was a lot smaller than all those he saw training, and in his young mind, he desired to be seen as stronger. He found a greatsword in his home, along with a small maroon crystal. He didn't understand then what the Dark Knights were, or why Ishgard hated them. When he was met with criticism for his weapon choice, he pushed back with a deep seated stubbornness. With his greatsword in hand, Zephirin entered the Temple Knights' grand tourney at the age of fifteen and won. He joined the Temple Knights and due to his steadfast and unflinching self, began to be known as Zephirin the Just. At one time, he was the favoured candidate for the position of Lord Commander of the Temple Knights, but instead the title was given to Ser Aymeric de Borel, who had been the one person Zephirin had considered a friend. He did not want his disappointment to sully Aymeric's victory and so he did what he could to smile but ended up falling into a deep depression, as his singular goal in life was no longer accessible. His saving grace was Ser Vellguine of the Heavens' Ward, who did not wish his talent to be wasted among the Temple Knights and offered Zephirin a position within the Heavens' Ward and Zephirin accepted. He flourished within the Ward and when Ser Vaindreau 'retired', and Ser Vellguine turned down the position of Very Reverened Archimandrite, Zephirin was given the honour and became the leader of the Ward.

Verse | Main Set before and during the Heavensward expansion up until The Singularity Reactor Zephirin leads the Heavens' Ward - Ishgard's finest, tasked with protecting the Archbishop Thordan. They are aware and complicit in his plans to become an all powerful primal, allowing and encouraging Ishgard to fall into chaos so that Ishgard may survive. The ends justify the means. (Note - Zephirin was not tempered. All he did was truly of his own free will)

Verse | Survival The sole survivor of their battle, Zephirin awakens later on the cusp of death surrounded by the bodies of his men. The battle had taken its toll and Zephirin found himself unable to manipulate aether and so unable to teleport. It took a long time for him to get home, found collapsed in the snow not far from the gates one day. The frostbite had set in, the injuries lingering from the fight and then further hurting himself traveling, he had a long ways to recovery and so he was taken to Ser Vaindreau's Grace. Even after recovering, he will be disabled for the rest of his life. Mostly by his own request he is stripped of his knighthood and his position in the clergy, and now spends his time in his estate. (Note - I am just straight up ignoring the EW caster quests)

[lyrieuxsicons]

Who? // : Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin From? // : Final Fantasy XIV Amount? // : 381 Size? // : 100 x100 px

DOWNLOAD LINK.

If you enjoyed or have used these icons, please consider donating to my KoFi!

[paintedscales]

Nomin's killed a number of people. The first one is pretty much ingrained in her memories because it was the first one, but also because one of those two people were responsible for her brother's death. She was blinded by rage when she was within Jhungid custody, so was fully convicted to the idea that he deserved it. So much so that she still believes that to this day.

More graphic stuff below the read more.

It was with a bow and arrow, and Nomin shot it hoping to hit his head. It instead hit his neck, and he choked on his own blood as he fell from his horse. She tried to hit the next person, but her arrow shot elsewhere -- anywhere but where she intended it to go.

The next significant kill was Ser Zephirin de Valhourdin (that I've considered thus far, though have yet to write). She would not rest until she had her revenge on him for what he did to Haurchefant. It was during the confrontation with Thordan and his Knights of the Round that she held him down, hands wrapped around his neck, nails digging into his skin. She wanted to watch the light leave his eyes with his last breath just as she watched Haurchefant's.

Admittedly, I haven't thought of too many. I have a lot of bullet points for myself outside of what I've already written and produced. Those two were the ones that stand out the most though. At least until I can replay parts, refine, and hash out other details.

FFXIV Daily Question n°98 : Has your character ever killed someone ? By poison, with a weapon or engaging people to do it ? How do they deal with it ? Was it to defense themselves, a free murder ... were they even condemned for it ? Do people know ?

If they never did, has they ever considered killing someone seriously ? What stops them ? Morality, trust in the justice or maybe someone ?

[knights-of-ishgard]

uuuh yea... i'm back i guess :') long time no see!

have a few pics!

[the-righteous-heart]

Day 9 - City State 

[veliara]

Junelezen2024 day 6 - Travel

-Be careful out there, child. Pay attention to your surroundings. -Charibert, I'm going away only for four days. -Exactly. Should I remind you what happened when you were left alone for 20 minutes? -Yeah, right… -Bye kiddo! -I`m not a kid, Guerrique ! >.<

-Yay! Four days of freedom!

Mother Miounne: -What a strange child you are.. -I`m not! A bit later: -Great! I can finally take this earring off!

At ther same time in Ishgard: -Huh... -Hm? What is it Charibert? -Why do I have a feeling, that Ciel getting into trouble again.. -Not again... -Yeah, again

Wow that was one long post xD

[lenthes]

[pixieberrydream]

One fateful day, while tending to their Island, the Warrior of Light senses an eerie presence. Upon investigating they find that an old enemy, Zephirin, has returned as a ghost. The two seem unfathomably linked in some way. Will they find out the truth behind his untimely return? Or will they be stuck together forever?

AKA Zephirin is a ghost and the Warrior of Light must help him out. This visual novel features THREE different endings depending on the choices you make: a good, a neutral, and a bad ending.

Trigger Warning: Blood, Major Character Death

This is written with no gendered words and ambiguous race and classes.

[bigeyedweirdo0]

Been doing a lot of limited color palette pieces as of late!

[buoyfriend]

17 - It's A Sin to Live So Well

Aymeric POV: The price of Zepherin's death finally comes due

"Oh, come. You have become curt. The common language lacks the elegance of our mother tongue. It follows that the Eorzeans speak indelicately. As you prefer, I will speak to you so." his face spread with what I have learned to call 'a shit eating grin'.

"It is no secret that I resent you and your republic. I have long wondered how the young Lord of House Borel, a bastard at that, could be seen in place of Zepherin. He was a man of good stock, one in a long line of Temple Knights. Each bead in our rosary, ripped off the string. Replaced by less worthy men, and now roi des cons", he spat onto the floor next to my feet.

I've carried much shame in my life. Inherited shame, of Archbishop Thordan, of my nation's failure to act during the 7th Calamity. The greatest to date, one I could never hope to redeem myself from, was the way that I left her.

I wrote to her daily. Some messages simply information about the progress of the housing district, others longer describing the things I would do next we met. Those failed to illicit a response, and I wondered if our distance had given her pause.

I had neglected my duties. My travels to alliance meetings extended by an extra hour, another day. I would return to the aetherite plaza with tousled hair and loose armor, citing aetherite sickness. I had begun keeping her things with me. Incense burning in my office, her paintings displayed in frames. Missives sent past their due date in favor of admiring the brushstrokes, my late arrival to meetings as I laid in her bed to smell her sweat before the scent faded away.

Many trusted me, electing me to the newest and highest office. A smaller number, no smaller in their strength, doubted my worthiness of the position. I was no stranger to this. What sort of man becomes Lord Commander of the Temple Knights? One who comes from good stock. I did not, yet there I was. I had become shrewd and measured, I was asked to be more than any other man if I wanted to hold my place.

--

It began subtly, so subtly that I missed every warning. Emmanellain suffered indignities among his peers, snide comments about the quality of his house's integrity. Questions about our previous support to Revenant's Toll, about our soldiers' commitment to Ala Mhigo's war came to light. My initiatives failed, by one vote more each time. A number of adventurers were expelled from our city, citing a conclusion to their work on the Firmament and a lack of documentation for residency beyond their temporary labor.

Before I could grasp the gravity of it, a visitor arrived at the Congregation.

--

As I stood to greet him, Ser Valhourdin made his way to my desk. He refused to meet my eyes, instead taking interest in the framed painting I kept with me. He held it indelicately, twirling it between his fingers until he stopped to gaze at Rhalgr. He scowled, placing it back.

"Merde! To be taken in by unreliable allies and left to lead a city without your father's guidance. It is all a shame."

"I beg your pardon?", I had enjoyed the straightforwardness of my friends for many moons, I bristled at the backhandedness that was once familiar to me.

"Oh, come. You have become curt. The common language lacks the elegance of our mother tongue. It follows that the Eorzeans speak indelicately. As you prefer, I will speak to you so." his face spread with what I have learned to call 'a shit eating grin'.

"It is no secret that I resent you and your republic. I have long wondered how the young Lord of house Borel, a bastard at that, could be seen in place of Zepherin. He was a man of good stock, one in a long line of Temple Knights. Each bead in our rosary, ripped off the string. Replaced by less worthy men, and now roi des cons", he spat onto the floor next to my feet.

I held my silence. Zepherin had taken much from me. I remembered every insult, every indignity. I would not allow his father to take more.

"You have allowed the words of a foreign whore to cloud your mind. From her lips to your ears, and unto the Holy See. It will not be condoned. Though the Brotherhood of the True Faith may have failed, the intent in their actions grows within the hearts of your countrymen."

I tensed my body, fists clenched at my sides. I struggled to keep my silence at his cruelty, I would not let him have my emotions. He reached across my desk to place a firm hand on my shoulder and whispered into my ear, "If you cannot be killed in the Vault or on the streets, I will kill you in all the ways that truly matter."

--

Requests came, each of which I wholeheartedly refused. My vote to reduce our military commitment to our allies and a reinstatement of our isolationist policies. When all was finished, there would be no housing for adventurers, reduced trade to other city-states' retainers, and no citizenship for those born outside of Ishgard.

I questioned the nature of the requests. I had taken a dagger to the ribs for those who disagreed with my politics, but I had won many changed hearts in return. Could there truly be so many who regretted our course? When the truth of it was revealed to me, my scar ached as if the knife tore through my flesh once more.

The next I saw Ser Valhourdin, it was not within the Congregation but my own home.

"A visitor, my Lord. He is quite insistent." Mielle called from beyond the doors of my study.

Valhourdin found his own way in as Mielle eyed me with concern. I nodded to her silent plea to leave the horrid man's presence. My scar ached as I felt the dagger approaching once more.

"Lavette, you have disappointed me so!" he shouted against the slamming of the heavy oaken door. "You could have given our requests an onze of consideration."

"They were not worth a moment."

"Still, you insist. I will speak plain once more given your love of indelicate words. You have played both Lord Commander and politician for too long, your silly game costing much. You will be allowed to stay on so long as a course correction is in place."

"A course correction?"

I could feel the blade readying in his mind, preparing to find its' way to my core. "Your interests within the Holy See have been determined. You will present initiatives for vote, the prepared documents will arrive to you tomorrow. There will be no argument against them, I assure you."

"As I have seen, you seem to have bought my colleague's silence with the same methods your Zepherin would have used."

Valhourdin errupted, closing the distance between us as splitting pain broke out across my face. He lowered his open hand, "You will not speak his name. You will never hold my son's name in your mouth. You have played your silly game for long enough, you will pay for all we have lost and much more."

His eyes were wild with grief, giving way to delight. He held the knife above me, ready to strike. "You are not wrong, roi des cons. Torture is the surest method. But truly, there is no more potent torture than uncertainty. To not know the safety of your loved ones? Your colleagues have taken this to heart."

"If this torture has succeeded with the Houses, what is in store for me if I choose not to comply?"

"Ah- impatient once again. Let me finish. I concede, the beast of Garlemald has been awoken and Ishgard has been seen among the fools eager to rouse it. I am not ignorant to the fact that Garlemald has designs on Coerthas, and they would arrive on our doorstep at some time. However, we must compensate for the early war you have wrought. You will be allowed to continue your role among the Alliance as seen fit by the Holy See."

"Your communications will be monitored. If your putain de lumière is seen to assist you in this matter or your foreign allies become aware of the situation, you may find yourself uncertain of their safety. Your Lua is fond of fullflower mead, is she not?"

The dagger flew, meeting its' mark. Valhourdin grabbed me by my collar, gazed directly into my eyes as he said "For the vulgarity of her language, it was rather sweet how she put it in her missives. 'to pass from nature into eternity'. The knives above everyone you love, within and without the Holy See, dangle above them waiting to drop if you fail."

He let go of my scruff as I breathed shallow breaths. He had intercepted her missives, what else could he know? There was no secret I could hold, no safety I could offer in ignorance of his reach.

"Has my grand speech won your compliance?"

I held my silence.

"A grimace is not an answer, boy."

"I will do what I must."

--

I weighed my options. If I continued this dreadful course, I could hold my commitment to our allies. I could refuse, warn my allies of the interference and seek their support. Even if I could reach them without my messages being interfered, could I reach them before a plan for retaliation had begun?

Lua's face entered my mind. I tried to imagine her loving me still if I had robbed Ala Mhigo and Doma of aid. I could not fathom that she would let me hold her face nor kiss my hands as I told her that her friends' bodies lay broken in the fields of Gyr Abania because I had failed. What I could imagine, in cruel detail, was her own body broken. Passing from nature into eternity, frightened and confused from an assassin's poison. She had been poisoned before, simply to punish her for her part in my work. She was more careful now, but were they all? Did Alphinaud or Alisae consume whatever drink offered them among friends? Did Lyse or Tataru accept meals gratefully without question in their travels?

I could not bear the vision in my mind's eye to come to pass, I could not give it any chance.

--

My movements and my missives were monitored as promised. I had not been allowed any time, no passage to Othard to say any words to her myself. No time to ask for her presence for the last intimate discussion we might have. My last letter to her, vague and cruel. I fought the dark images in my mind, picturing instead her body below the weight of mine, coming out of doubt and to life with pleasure.

I thought of her swiftly cutting through the Heaven's Ward beside me in the vault, dancing atop a table at the Forgotten Knight. Helpless to her own laughter, clutching me to stay upright in the Pillars at night. I passed the envelope to the post moogle, praying to Halone that I would see her alive again.