#erleaux lenoud

[furys-mercy]

- | Adroit | -

a·droit /əˈdroit/ adjective clever or skillful in using the hands or mind.

Erleaux Lenoud had trained many a young lad in the art of swordplay, most of whom had gone on to happily blend into the sea of shields that fought for the glory and honor of Ishgard, long forgotten by the aging Master at Arms. Sebastian de Vairemont, on the other hand, was difficult to forget. The boy had walked into the training ring a runt and emerged a whirling dervish of black leather that only the most accomplished of swordsmen could hope to best, something his current opponent either did not know or did not believe.

“Is that all?” Sebastian taunted; his heels dug into the dirt of the sparring ring as he spun gracefully around his opponent, dodging each sloppy hack with ease.

The Master at Arms leaned against the surrounding fence, taking in the display, noting each break of form, each glaring mistake. He’d counted no less than six openings Sebastian could have used to end the boy’s misery. And yet, he hadn’t. Was he slipping or was this just another of his games? “Keep that shield up, boy! If you don’t, you’re like to lose an eye!”

Sebastian’s head whipped towards his old mentor. A sly grin grew as he deftly parried another flimsy jab. “If you have something to say, my old friend, surely the best way to say it is with your blade?” His opponent, believing this momentary distraction to be an opening, lunged forward. Sebastian’s blade caught his and with a quick flick of his wrist, the boy’s sword tumbled from his hand to the dirt. “Unless, of course, your aching bones would stop you.”

“Fury save you, boy.” Erleaux’s lips quirked upward into a smirk that nearly matched that of his pupil. “Tell me…” He hopped the fence with ease, strolling over the take the spot recently vacated by the young swordsman still scrambling to reclaim his fallen sword. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Can a student not long to see his master?” The Bastard of Vairemont tossed his rapier from his right hand to his left before reaching to draw the parrying blade sheathed at his hip.

Erleaux let out a deep chuckle. At least he was to be given the honor of a proper duel. He, too, drew his weapons in mirror image of his protégé, favoring his right hand over his left. “If your heart so ached to see me, you could have simply invited yourself to tea.”

Sebastian slid gracefully into his stance, both blades pointed at his new opponent. “Has it been so long that you now think me dull, Erleaux?”

The tip of the master’s blade met that of his student. “I think you old enough to not need these games. Now do be a good little lord and tell me why it is you’ve disturbed my peaceful afternoon with grand fantasies of publicly shaming old men.”

Sebastian lunged. The clang of steel on steel echoed through the stone-lined ring. Erleaux parried each strike with ease, gaining ground and pushing Sebastian onto his back foot.

“Did you think me that old? That easy? I trained you, boy. I know your tricks, your games. I can spot them a from a yalm away.” Another jab deftly parried. “Now, I ask again. What game are you playing?”

The Bastard huffed through gritted teeth. “Mercer.” The name was punctuated by the sound of his parrying blade catching his master’s rapier.

A shock of recognition flashed across the elder Elezen’s face. His feet faltered, his advance halted. “And what do you want with a long-dead heretic?"

“Dead? You are certain?” Sebastian’s assaults stopped abruptly. His brow furrowed; his lips pulled taut in a thin line. Those who had gathered to watch the spectacle looked on in confusion.

“Declan Mercer, you mean? I am quite sure. It was all a rather messy affair. I took his sword to his widow myself.” He pushed a long strand of nearly white hair from his face as he took in the sagging shoulders and shifting demeanor of his favorite student.

Sebastian perked up slightly, blades still at rest in his hands. “A widow? He had a family?”

“A daughter and a son. The girl was about ten. The boy…” He stopped as the memory of that little boy, fighting back tears as he stepped up to take his father’s sword, played over and over in his mind. The sheer strength in his eyes as he’d pushed his black hair from his face and squared his shoulders to better bear the weight of the news.

Erleaux tried his best to blink back the memories but suddenly found it difficult not to see that little boy in Sebastian. Standing right in front of him, fighting tooth and nail to keep from breaking beneath his new reality. "No. Certainly, you don't mean to suggest…"

Sebastian sheathed his blades and pushed a strand of black hair from his face. He managed a pained smirk. “Do you know where I might find them?”